"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference."
-Serenity prayer
7:30 PM, July 15, 2004
Langley, VA
Helena glared at her computer screen, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. She felt oddly out of place in her familiar surroundings, called by her own name, working at a safe distance from the threat that she investigated. Life as a data analyst had never really suited her craving for action and involvement.
She frowned and continued to type her report, shaking her head to clear it of the increasingly insistent memories that appeared as bright, technicolor plays behind her eyes.
Glancing down at the nicotine patch on her arm, she fought the impulse to duck out of the oppressive CIA offices for the gratify the urge that she had been fighting since her return.
Helena Blythe was bored. Bored field agents, she knew, were more of a liability than an asset, and she itched to ask for another assignment.
They wouldn't give it to you. You're officially a headcase now.
The psychological evaluation upon her return to Langley had not gone as well as she had hoped.
"Hypervigilant, prone to bouts of suicidal rashness, secretive, suppressing intense grief and trauma. Subject should by no means be returned to field duty until her issues are resolved."
Well fuck you too, Dr. Hill. At least I'm not divorcing yet another wife and sleeping with my receptionist.
She hadn't quite said it out loud, but she had been sorely tempted to.
Arkady's deportation had been put into effect a full month ago and Helena now had no way of knowing where he was, though she checked her sources constantly.
"Relax, my dear," Simon had assured soothingly from his London office, "Even in Russia, Arkady will be put in prison. Your evidence was solid; it would be a diplomatic catastrophe for them if they didn't put him away."
But neither of them truly believed that a man like Arkady Volkoff would be imprisoned for long. She felt a deep pit in her stomach when she thought of Vasil and Nina. She had told Volkoff that they were her informants, never thinking that he would be free long enough to act on the information.
Logically, she knew that he would have discovered it anyway; Vasil was set to testify at the trials of several of the high-ranking members of the syndicate. That knowledge, however, had no power to assuage the pit of guilt and fear that remained in her stomach as a personal fixture. Witness Protection was far from a guarantee of her informant's safety.
"Hey Blythe, are you going to stay here all night?"
She glanced around to see her supervisor, Brianna Winters, watching her closely.
"Signs point to 'yes,'" she said ruefully. "I really ought to get this report done tonight."
"That's bull," Winters informed her with all her customary bluntness. "I've seen your inbox. You're well ahead of schedule, you freakish workaholic."
"That's because I stay here all night."
"Come on, join us for drinks just this once. Doctor's orders."
"You do realize that a Ph.D. in international affairs doesn't even remotely equate to a medical license, right?"
"Damn straight it doesn't. It's way better."
"I really shouldn't drink."
"You absolutely should drink. That's what grounded field agents do."
"Can't you just let me sulk?"
"Sure, but that's better done with a stiff bourbon in your hand. Come on."
Washington D.C.
As usual, Helena found herself glad that she had heeded the imperious Dr. Winters. Lounging at the bar, joking with her colleagues, Helena sipped her whiskey with relish, feeling the alcohol blunt the edges of her anxiety. So pleasantly intoxicated was she that she did not notice when Winters discreetly jerked her head at the other agents, so that they slipped away to the far side of the bar.
"So," began Brianna, turning to eye Helena critically, "did you remember that it's your birthday today?"
Helena's eyebrows shot up. July 15th. Normally Samson had reminded her of her birthdays by taking her to the opera and making croque-madames. Without the ritual, she had forgotten entirely.
"You're turning 24, right?" continued her supervisor, scrutinizing her face. Helena nodded, fixing her eyes on the liquid in her glass. Winters whistled, shaking her head. "I keep forgetting that you're still a kid. You started so young."
"The CIA started paying my tuition when I was 16," Helena volunteered, still not looking at Winters. "The Agency has been a pretty decent sugar daddy, as those things go."
Winters chuckled and drained her glass, shaking back her silver-flecked dark hair.
"You should get the hell out while you still have a life ahead of you, Blythe."
The statement took Helena so completely by surprise that she choked on her next mouthful of whiskey, turning to look incredulously at her unfathomable boss.
"Oh, don't look so shocked," the brunette continued. "I know have a reputation as an Agency automaton, but that doesn't mean that I enjoy watching my subordinates fall to pieces right in front of me. Do you even remember who you were five years ago, Blythe? Do you remember being able to stand with your back to a door? Getting a full night's sleep without waking up in a cold sweat when the neighbor's cat yowls?"
Helena considered as she studied the older woman's expression; the harsh, angular beauty of Winters's face had softened slightly, and her normally impassive brow had furrowed.
It was, indeed, true that the CIA had dominated her life since her troubled adolescence; she had pledged herself to the CIA at the age of 16 in exchange for a college education, and since then she had known nothing apart from the exigencies of the Agency. Everything about her, from her academic achievements to her marriage, had been built around a budding career as an analyst and field operative; the CIA had formed her identity to suit their needs, casting away the parts of her that did not suit them.
"I've been an analyst since I was 19, ma'am. I started my first undercover mission on the day after my honeymoon. I don't think I could go back to civilian life now."
"Blythe, do you realize that you didn't even take time to grieve your husband before coming back to work? I don't think I've heard you mention him once since you got back. All you talk about is your damn mission and Arkady fucking Volkoff."
"There's nothing I can do for Sam. There's still a possibility of recovering Volkoff."
"My point," continued Winters determinedly, "is that I've seen agents on your trajectory. The ones who seem intent upon sublimating their own humanity. And the Agency if more than happy to let them, because they make fantastic operatives until they go up in flames.
"Look, Blythe, I don't pretend to know what you're running away from. What happened in that Gramercy Park penthouse when you were a kid. God knows there are enough rumors. But you can start over now. You're young, you're smart, you could have the world at your feet. I'm sick of watching you waste away at Langley."
"I wouldn't be wasting away if you would put me out in the field again," Helena snapped. Winters's allusion to her childhood had piqued her.
"As far as the CIA is concerned, Helena, you're too compromised to return to the field. But from what I've seen, desk work is just as damaging."
"So what am I supposed to do? Work in a flower shop? With my skill set, the only other job that I'm fully qualified for is high-class whore."
"Don't be melodramatic. You have plenty of options, and almost any of them would be better for you than what you're doing right now. But let me be clear: I don't think the BAU is the right choice."
Again, Helena choked in the middle of a long swig. I hate spies.
"Could you at least pretend not to know everything?" she sighed when she had stopped coughing. Winters appeared scandalized.
"Goodness, no. That would be disingenuous," she chided Helena, drawing genuine laughter from her.
"Look, the BAU application was a long shot. I saw David Rossi speak once or twice when I was at UPenn and developed a bit of a fascination with profiling-"
"... and when you met Aaron Hotchner and saw how they operate, you got curious again. I understand, Blythe. It would be a good assignment for you if you weren't such a wreck."
"It's better than being sentenced to desk work for the rest of my career."
"I don't think that's true."
"Oh come on, Winters. You were the Agency's best undercover operative for thirty years. You're not in a great position to lecture me on the dangers of field work."
"Alright, Blythe. Here it is: if you stay with the CIA, you're going to be warming the bench for a long time. If the BAU is what you want, I'll support your transfer and make sure that it goes smoothly. I've worked with Jason Gideon before, and he's an excellent man, if a bit autocratic.
"But please take a few days to consider whether work like that will reopen old wounds for you. Because if there's one thing I know about the BAU, it's that every one of their agents falls apart eventually."
"You know, a friend of mine suggested that I give up the CIA and cigarettes."
"I'd say that it was good advice, except that it came from the same friend who told you to apply to the BAU."
Helena shot Winters a reproachful look.
"You know, at some point 'well-informed' becomes indistinguishable from 'creepy,'" she said petulantly.
"I'll keep it in mind. Also, you should buy more milk. You're running a bit low."
August 13, 2004
Langley, VA
Helena had spent the last month in a haze of ennui. Her panic attacks and nightmares become gradually less frequent, but they had been replaced by a persistent feeling of exhaustion. She made a concerted effort to spend at least one evening per week out with her coworkers, beating Winters at billiards and the others at poker. Every night, in the apartment that felt to her like a mausoleum, she buried herself in one of the few books she had kept and a large glass of Scotch, warding away the creeping anxiety and insomnia with liquor and science fiction.
There had still been no word of Volkoff's trial, and even Simon was unable to ascertain whether he was to be tried at all.
What's the point of being the honorary god-daughter of the mastermind of MI-6 if he can't even find me one Russian mobster? she sulked to herself, typing swiftly at her desk.
"Blythe, Winters wants you in her office ten minutes ago."
Helena glanced up at the speckled, youthful face of Tommy French, the youngest and most outlandishly brilliant of the CIA's technical analysts.
"Thanks, Junior. Nice tie, by the way," she said as she rose from her desk, gesturing at the Spider Man cravat the teenaged genius wore over his short-sleeved button-down shirt. The boy scowled at the epithet, but blushed at her half-facetious compliment, clearly in turmoil.
Helena brushed past the boy, making her way to Winters's handsome wood-paneled office. Brianna had once explained to her that anyone who complimented the pretentious decor immediately identified themselves as either a sycophant or an aspiring egomaniac.
In front of Brianna's enormous oak desk stood two men. One was an enormously tall, strapping man in his early sixties, gray-haired, weatherbeaten. His black suit contrasted oddly with his rumpled hair and the stubble on his cleft chin and brutally square jaw. He appraised her critically through steely gray eyes, brows drawn together. The other was a broad-shouldered middle-aged man with close-cropped dark hair, a craggy, rugged face, and the air of a college mathematics professor. He shot her a kindly smile, but it was belied by the watchful gaze of his wary black eyes.
"Ms. Blythe," he began, holding out his hand to her as she turned to face him, "I'm SSA Jason Gideon with the BAU. This is my associate, SSA Jack Flynn."
"Agent Gideon," she said, forcing a smile and shaking the proffered hand, "it's an honor to meet you in person. And Agent Flynn," she continued, offering her hand to him, "Aaron Hotchner has only good things to say about your work with obsessional crime."
Flynn grinned wolfishly.
"Funny, he told me that you're the best liar he's ever met," he replied, provoking a genuine smile from her this time.
"I didn't say that's all he told me about you."
Winters cleared her throat, snapping Blythe's attention back to her instantly.
"Agent Gideon is here to discuss the possibility of transferring you to the BAU."
Blythe's eyes widened, but she remained silent and waited for Winters to continue.
"You already know my thoughts on the matter, Blythe, but I stand by my word. If you take the offer, you are to start in Quantico on Monday."
"Understood, ma'am."
"These gentlemen believe that they are well-equipped to make use of your talents and keep you stable. I disagree, but I won't stop you if this is what you want."
"It is, ma'am."
"That's the spirit," interjected Agent Flynn, his sallow face breaking into another grin. He clapped Helena on the shoulder with nearly enough force to knock her sideways. Winters winced.
"Please don't bruise her until she's under your roof, boys. I need her in working order at least until 7."
"Sorry, Brie," Gideon said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm working on getting him a shock collar."
"Blythe, I've sent you a list of tasks that I need finished before you leave tonight. Hand your report off to Donaldson."
Helena acknowledged her superior with a deferential "yes ma'am," thanked Gideon and Flynn with a giddy smile, and retired back to her desk to wrap up her life. She reeled at the abruptness with which her tenure at the CIA had ended after years of single-minded dedication.
The evening, she glanced around her desk, realizing that she had no personal effects to take except for a standard-issue Agency mug. She washed it out and left it near the espresso machine before leaving the building for the last time.
For most of the night, she wandered the streets of D.C., lost, empty, and free.