this bitter taste of victory

Summary: It's half past five in the morning and Henrietta Lange really needs that Bourbon. Drabble – post-ep to the season 7 finale.

Warning: drabble.

Set: directly after the final episode of season 7 – Talion.

Disclaimer: Standards apply. Hints at two quotes (Goethe/Frost). Whoever finds them might get a cookie.

She couldn't love these people more if they were her own children.

Sometimes Henrietta Lange is convinced they are her children: her beautiful, dangerous, intelligent, quick-witted, naïve, childish, grown-up, sarcastic, tame, wild sons and daughters. Two in Ops, four (five) out in the field. Almost seven years she has spent watching over them, seven years full of action and trouble, problems and pain. But also seven years full of laughter, of precious moments, gym-stalking, Christmas eggnog, tea, after-mission talks and pranks she played on them. Seven years of sending them out there to risk their lives for the code she lives by and has taught them, a code they now live by, as well. Seven years of waiting for them to return. Seven years of watching them from the shadows, proudly, watching their achievements and their teamwork and their growth. And if she has learned one thing from those years, it is the fact that she will always worry for them, now and forever. She might send them out to fight the never-ending darkness, she might trick them into facing their own fears and might push them from the cliffs so they can spread their wings and learn to fly and grow roots and wings all that beautiful, empty talk. But she will forever fear that one day, they won't return.

It is ironic, because for that reason exactly she never even considered the thought of having children of her own.

Oh, well. What can she do? Accept with grace and all that.

Owen looks as beat as she feels. The Bourbon's scent – sixty years and counting, and the taste is still as warm and comforting as it was the first time a grey, aged instructor poured it out to her and said one day, you'll keep your own stock in a drawer and wonder how you got that old while everyone around you is leaving already – is familiar. As are Miss Jones' and Mister Beale's faces, eager and smiling and kind. The lipstick on Mister Beale's face is clearly visible. Owen is looking as grim as always, even though she can feel the amusement bubbling behind his mask, and Hetty suppresses a tired smile of her own.

Mister Beale really, really needs to stop talking right now.

On most days, she finds it amusing. It is amusing, of course. It's always wonderful to see the people she cares so much about get along with each other, even if getting along does not quite describe the progress of Miss Blye's and Mister Deeks' relationship and apparently neither the one of the two in front of her, anymore. Well, she always liked playing matchmaker, especially since the events on the set of Death on the Nile in Assuan in '78. But today she is exhausted, and the conversation with SecNav still echoes painfully clear in her mind. (So many years, so many memories. This is her curse, she guesses.) What price will she have to pay for what she has done? What will they want her to do, this time? Or will it be worse? She might be old, but she is by no means stupid. Henrietta knows that everything comes with a price. She has extracted them more than once herself, after all.

The only thing she fears is that the price won't be taken from her, but from the ones that are so dear to her.

"We will be going now."

Miss Jones gently nudges her partner out of the HQ, the blush in her cheeks a tell-tale sign of her own feelings.

The Assistant Director and Henrietta remain in the almost-darkness.

Owen shares a glance with her. There is exasperation in it, but also something else. The long-suffering patience mingles with a fondness she always suspected to be there but never had been able to prove to herself. If these two hadn't managed to melt even the Assistant Director's heart a little bit, she thinks fondly, she would have been worried.

Owen's smile turns into a glare.

"Don't say anything, Henrietta."

She smiles, takes a sip of her drink. As it is, it seems like she is not the only parent-by-choice in the building.

Silence falls again.

Henrietta Lange can picture her team right now: arriving at OPS one by one, tired, exhilarated. Joking to hide the remaining tension. Laughing to vent the feeling of hell this could have turned out really, really badly. Debriefing can wait, this one time, she thinks. Mister Hanna will want to meet his wife. Henrietta'll give Michelle a call. She has known the former SEAL for quite some time now and is pretty sure that he hasn't shared all the details of the nightly events with his lovely partner. But Michelle needs to know, if only to make the necessary arrangements with her own agency to provide a better security for her family. They'll probably head home for breakfast, Mister Hanna and his son, and if she is not very mistaken they will take Mister Callen with them. Grischa. Is it wrong to feel a loss at his gain? He has met his father. He's not an orphan anymore. (He doesn't need you anymore, Henrietta.) She pushes away the thought quickly. Miss Blye and Mister Deeks might go out for breakfast, as well, and maybe Miss Blye will watch the LAPD liaison officer breach the waves on a beautiful, early Saturday morning. Maybe she'll play tag with that mutt of theirs or read a book and enjoy the sun, and the three of them will walk back home together and fall asleep there. But whatever they will do, she wishes them all a beautiful day. Herself, she will–

The phone rings.

Henrietta Lange takes a deep breath and accepts the call.

She knows the price won't ever be too high if it means that, in return, her children are safe.