( With: Baldwin. ) - Blog Posts

& 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  ?     "