Timestamp  — October 14th, 3 Pm Sharp. Location  — Bureau Grounds. Description  — Most Agents

& there it is again — what a funny, deceivingly simple word for a place that's supposed to invite feelings of comfort & rest. perhaps nostalgic memories. maybe even love, or something that resembles it and fills in its place.

but an assigned room on bureau grounds? that's just ... well, that's just sad, to say the least. lonely, too, but there isn't enough time in the work day to unpack that right now. maybe later, once he's able to stop thinking so much.

fitz watches baldwin while the agent turns back to the lounge & decides that they should probably talk more, although recent events haven't given them nearly enough time to sit down for a casual chat. and what would that conversation even sound like?

'yo, dr. baldwin, i know you're probably losing sleep over london's disappearance and have had no time to really take care of yourself since the person you were close with is out there altering time & space as we understand it, but i just have to know — listened to any good tunes, lately?' — and even worse, fitz would genuinely be invested in the agent's answer.

"pretty often, actually — i usually spend too much time doing things like disappointing faulkner or stein that by the time i actually get around to working, it's already late in the afternoon." he thinks, before quickly adding, "not that i'm not actively trying to focus on the operation at hand ... it's just," he glances at the cup he was given and carefully picks it up with the handle, "i've been distracted, lately."

fitz blows gently over his cup, peering down into the dark liquid that reflects a rippled version back to him. maybe there's a fitz out there that enjoys coffee & does his job as he's told & much more emotionally stable & not completely insufferable to be around & & & — he steps forward & takes a look around at the empty office around them. he's been cooped up in here for too long.

"clearly i need some fresh air," fitz begins to walk away, but he turns on his heel, "and i'd love the company, if you're interested." he shrugs, with a grin, "and even if you're not, i could use it anyway."

          baldwin catches fitz's stumble in phrasing.  there's something missing between the meaning of home and living quarters that goes right over their head , and it's a distinction they've come to realize others here hold as well. 

          home has always been where they rest for the night , where their cluttered belongings scatter.  it's a place.  that's all.  before the fire , home was their house in lakefield , and after , it was numerous foster homes.  since 1990 , home has been their assigned quarters on bureau grounds , and rarely do they ever leave the facilities.  although , for a long time between then and now , they found themself resting in london's room , or london in theirs.

          their hands clench around the warmth of the ceramic mug.  whatever.  home is where someone lives and any further linguistic dissection will drive them mad.     "     it isn't easier to shut off when you're at home ?     "

          they look over their shoulder at the lounge , then back to fitz.     "     the midnight part is a new habit.  eleven nights over the past two weeks.  no  —  um  —  twelve.     "     shit.  fuck.  pivot.  don't mention the second cup.  turn the question back over.     "     how often are you staying so far past five , anyway ?     "     logically , they know they should have this information already.  they clock everyone the second they walk in , if not by the distinctive sound of their footsteps , then by actually looking in their direction.  baldwin convinces themself that they're preoccupied with much bigger issues , that there is a finite amount of connections that can be made in the human brain , that they are still just human.  the same mantra they've been telling themself for a year now.  denial is a powerful thing.

when normal people clock out for work at their jobs, they go home. but home is such a funny ( odd ) concept these days.

he thinks of the girl from kansas / schoolteacher from harlem, with her little dog, desperate to get back to her own time & place after being dropped in a foreign place & time. and looking around, he imagines he could be dorothy right about now, thinking of home.

but what is home? as he hears footsteps approaching — cutting through the rare silence of this office — he supposes home could be a physical location, but without the people there, places lose their meaning & their power.

and then baldwin's extending a cup to him & that definitely puts things into perspective. fitz accepts, because he doesn't have the heart to tell baldwin he despises coffee, but he carefully finds the nearest surface to let the hot cup rest, keeping his hand loosely around the rim. this needs a disturbing amount of sugar & cream.

when he looks at baldwin, reminded of their circumstance, fitz recalls two things: maybe a home can be found in other people, across time & space, but most importantly —

in this scenario, he's definitely toto.

"progress? well, i ...", fitz pivots at the last moment, given the company, "haven't made much, to be honest. surprise, surprise. i think i'm just hoping my brain will finally shut off long enough so i can get up and go ...," home isn't the right word, so he finds a replacement, "back to my ... living quarters?" he shrugs at how it sounds, but whatever — words can be hard.

after a beat, he nods to the cup in his fellow agent's hand. "how often are you making full cups of coffee after midnight, anyway?"

who  :  anyone where  :  bullpen when  :  september 4, 1996 @ 01:17 am

          two mugs filled to the brim with freshly made coffee sit on the lounge countertop.  he stares at the coffee like he's taking personal offence.

          muscle memory is a funny little thing.  a mission objective slips his mind , but he can absently make a length of surgical knots with his laces until the fog in his head lifts.  he would have missed the meeting on the second if it weren't for every agent headed that way , but his hands went through the motion of making two cups of coffee without any input from his brain.  the one on the left has an absrud amount of sugar and a generous pour of cream , while the right is undefiled.  the person he made this for is no longer here.  he wants to pour the coffee down the sink and smash the mug to smithereens.

          he takes a breath and manages to hold on to a thread of calm that threatens to leave him at any given moment.  agent london always took his coffee bitter , and agent baldwin doesn't think the extra caffeine in his system will do him any good right now.  there was a set of footsteps in the bullpen minutes earlier that he follows, carrying both coffees in his hands.

          "     i made too much.     "     he holds the extra one out to them , a mockery of a peace offering in this tense environment.  it's late.  he's pretty sure neither of them are supposed to be here.  he doesn't comment on that topic ; there's no reason to pry into the business of other insomniacs.     "     are you making progress  ?     "

so. by now, fitz could see that no one else was going to say it, but the obvious had become clear, now that they all had some time to step back & reflect from the recent meeting concerning this operation — london was kind of an idiot. and sure, that's rich coming from fitz, but given the information the bureau's given them so far, it's at least being framed that way — just with with more tact, of course. and for once, fitz is inclined to agree.

only an idiot would jump back to three locations connected to previous missions of theirs, knowing the bureau would be digging through every mission, every conversation, every call, with a fine-toothed comb. only an idiot would potentially wrap themselves in a time loop by doing so, putting their health and safety at risk, paradoxes be damned. only an idiot would steal outdated technology, when fitz's transformer kit had been collecting dust every since his own failure. only an idiot. unless ...?

ah, of course.

london must've known that going back to some of his previous missions was the obvious first move, and so why not lead the bureau down those paths and unearth some once closed cases in the process? and say he did continue on this path of revisiting old missions, altering previous jumps with this version of himself — that's just a big mess that the bureau has to divide brain power & manpower to clean up, in addition to finding him. then there's the outdated tech — a genius play, seeing as the bureau prides itself on innovating and changing ahead of the times. the amount of people who remember the intricacies of that unstable technology are probably slim these days.

okay, change of opinion — agent london is a chaotic visionary, and fitz wants to be the one to find him just so he can shake the agent's hand. honestly, how —

thoughts interrupted by a familiar face & voice, which brings fitz back to reality. without missing a beat, he looks up at hemingway & grins. "wrapping up implies that any real work was getting done at this point in the day," he pushes away from his desk with his foot and stands to stretch, "but sure, i'm always down for ... 'dinner' and a 'drink'", he winks at the fellow agent while using air quotes.

fitz clears his throat and projects a little more for anyone else to hear, "thank you for offering, agent hemingway. i look forward to further working on this case with you and bringing our colleague home safe and sound." after a beat, he leans in, softer this time:

"anyway, i could use something greasy and sloppy — burgers?"

WHEN: september 3rd, 1996 ; late evening WHERE: bureau building ; team offices floor STATUS: open to everyone

he gets off the elevator with an armful of files but the stack is still skinnier than hemingway planned for it to be. he tried to check out a bunch of london's old mission reports, no particular rhyme or reason to his choices, just cases that seemed intriguing enough to research and investigate but he got denied access to some of them. a bunch of them, so he'll just have to make do with whatever he did manage to get. others would probably try to go with some pattern, a code; london's one of those others, hemingway can't really see him choosing the times and places he's been hitting at random and there's probably some rules to those three missions he's went back to fuck up but hemingway's ... not that quick so it's going to take him a bit of time and effort to connect the dots. and if all else fails, he can get someone to brainstorm with him.

he drops the files onto his desk as if it were the start of the work day and not the end of it; he's already passed a lot of the staff on their way out, exchanged all the goodbyes and see you tomorrows. the team's still roaming the floor, most of them in and out even at this time.

so before hemingway sits down to the work that's going to consume his next couple of hours, he strides right across the room to another agent's desk. "so, how are we doing?" he drops the question casually, usual smile on his face as he leans against the edge of their desk. it's a common scene, hemingway's always bouncing between his colleague's bullpens, either being a nuisance or just trying to make some nice conversation, depends on the way you look at it.

right now, he's just mostly stalling the task he's set for himself.

"you wrapping up anytime soon? because if you're still around in a couple of hours, maybe we could go into town? grab dinner and a drink." acting like everything's normal is not going to solve any of their problems but maybe an outing like this could help them clear their heads. trying to crack the code is an important job but they still gotta eat. "you know, we should turn our brains off for a minute. reset. you in?"

holding conversation with faulkner was always a bit of a doozy.

not to say that the agent didn't offer an incredibly valuable point-of-view for which fitz would never truly be able to understand, but more of the idea that faulkner was socially & emotionally impenetrable in just about every way. throughout their years together at the bureau, fitz couldn't ever actually think of time when the other agent lost his cool or shown any other emotion besides the ones it seemed like he practiced in the mirror — and there it was, the smile that didn't always quite reach the eyes.

it would be impressive it wasn't just a little terrifying to think about. maybe that's why fitz had talked his ear off those first few months all those years ago and then stuck to it — part-habit, part-trying to understand what made someone like the agent tick.

fitz stops in his tracks at faulkner's jest, not because he had long identified him as a sock puppet the bureau used to spout their rhetoric, or not because it almost felt out-of-character coming from the impassive paladin the bureau loved to parade around as an example of their accomplishments, but rather —

faulkner attempting jokes is a rare occurrence, and that's something significant to acknowledge. even if the delivery was ominous in ways fitz couldn't quite put his finger on yet, maybe there was a human behind the bureau's talking points after all. but, of course fitz doesn't find the words to say any of that in response to faulkner's jest about confessions & his likely very true statement about threat levels. instead, he offers —

"that's just fucked up." his mind detours for a moment and considers london. did he know he was becoming a threat before someone could ring the alarm? he decides to file that away for a day when he's actually in the mood to engage with the operation.

he joins faulkner in step again, bowing his head to hear something that should sound like good news, but fitz isn't sure how to feel about it yet. he's appreciative, replying with a quick "thank you," but something else feels missing. maybe acknowledgement of previous fuck-ups, perhaps?

"you think they'd actually go for that? i haven't been getting gold stars on my performance, lately. i've been sidelined, given a babysitter — poor hemingway — and no real direction from my superiors. then there's the operation, but ... i don't know, my heart hasn't been in it. it's almost like," fitz shrugs, and realizes he's been doing that a lot, recently.

"what's even the point?"

By the edge of the lakeside, Agent Faulkner considers his conversational partner’s take while he scatters a bit of duck feed onto the lawns. “Due to privacy measures, I cannot inquire about the subject matter and the method of how you presented those subjects during last month’s interviews, Agent Fitzgerald. However, since you did not receive a formal reprimand, I believe your assessment is factual,” he says and then pauses, closing up the snack bag and placing it in his pocket as a band of waterfowl moseys toward the food.

“But it shouldn’t be against our office’s private policy to ask what facial features Dr. Benson expressed in response to your interview?” Faulkner’s lips, usually a barely-there curve, slope gently up that one could characterize as an authorized smile.

To the casual observer working at the Temporal Bureau, they would’ve had a double take at seeing Agent Faulkner not at his office during his oft-stated “Official Office Hours” (9 am - 9 pm) but also walking and engaging with Agent Fitzgerald (of all agents!) on Bureau grounds. They make quite the odd couple; Agent Fitzgerald has charm in spades, and Agent Faulkner could make a birthday party feel like a funeral. They’re the flashy and the fatal. Oil and water.

However, Agent Faulkner would say they’ve had a cordial and honest tête-à-tête throughout the years. Though Faulkner does not entertain the more outlandish theories springing from Agent Fitzgerald’s brilliant and indecipherable mind, he has done his part to support his fellow agent, his fellow trainee, since their graduation in ‘81. Agent Fitzgerald has Faulkner’s trust that he will choose to do what’s right.

“I’m afraid I cannot reveal my confidential proceedings, Agent Fitzgerald. Unless, is this a roundabout confession that it is no longer the case?” Faulkner threads his hands behind his back and slowly steps through the cool, barren earth. He looks back with a tilted head and adds, “I am merely jesting, Agent. If anyone were to be escalated to a higher threat level, they would never know until the time comes.”

Faulkner waits for the other Agent to catch up. When Fitzgerald is close, Faulkner says in his muted undertone, “In unofficial avenues, I have said your services would shine brighter among the specialists of R&D, as we should have more minds on the case of how a disconnected and older model of the USFF can stably time travel. I hope the Science Team will request your assistance and provide stimulation, Agent.”

              ❝ no one ever tells you how dangerous loyalty can be. ❞

“It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.” — f̶i̶t̶z̶g̶e̶r̶a̶l̶d̶; an introduction.

skeleton ( briefing. ) / dossier ( basic info. ) / the full report & connections ( history. ) / inspirations ( pinterest. ) / performance reviews ( headcanons, still writing. ) / vinyl collection. ( playlist, still curating. )

I hate small talk. I want to talk about atoms, death, aliens, sex, intellect, the meaning of life, far away galaxies, music that makes you feel different, memories, the lies you’ve told, your flaws, your favourite scents, your childhood, what keeps you up at night, your insecurities and your fears. I like people with depth, who speak with emotion from a twisted mind. I don’t want to know what’s up.

The idealist (via theslytherinworld)

rubykinn:

me: *points to space* !!!!!!

friend: ????

me: *points to space more violently* !!!!!!!!!

someone: we both said some things we didn't mean

me, thinking about how i was right and absolutely meant everything i said: ......... sure did, pal

i am extremely analytical and everything needs to be explained… hate living in the unknown bitch i have to know everything or i will fall into a coma