( With Thoreau. ) - Blog Posts
he didn't want to get ahead of himself by saying it aloud, but something about being in the office these days felt wrong.
fitz had had his issues with the bureau before, but there was something about his own mission failure on top of feeling unsatisfied with the work on top of being expected to actively engage with this operation to find their fellow agent who was actively unraveling time & space at this exact moment while fitz is expected to sit behind his desk with the other field agents and pretend like he isn't close to losing his shit any day now. did the development team know what they were doing or even know what to look for? and why wasn't the team getting constant updates from the bureau about —
he swings open the door to the rooftop, and someone's there.
of course. of course.
while his mind sees thoreau and nods in her direction, fresh air fills his lungs and fitz uses that moment to quiet his thoughts for just a moment.
the rooftop's wide enough that they don't need to be actively talking if they don't want to, and for once, fitz just wants a tiny little — thoreau's speaking, but he's just going to ignore her while he — okay, clearly she's being cordial, but now there's a question involved and he's expected to answer.
"I'm here for the free air," and braces himself against the balustrade a few feet away. hands. feet. breath.
after a moment, he sighs and faces the agent. "we can't all be like faulkner, or stein, or even you. the bureau suffocates from time to time. and this afternoon just happened to be one of them."
"and since the bureau hasn't been invested in our social and emotional well-being since ... i don't know when," fitz looks over and takes thoreau in for a moment, "i'm doing what i can to keep all my marbles in the pouch." but no, there's no time or room for that kind of conversation to happen right now.
so, instead fitz scans the grounds below and spots a specific spot where the edge of the lake and path towards the parking lot meet. "you see that spot down there? that's a sunset-watching spot. ...if you're actually into that kind of thing."
starter for: @agtfitzs when: september 5, 1996 / early evening where: rooftop of the building
She'd stood at the edge of the rooftop for almost half an hour, now, watching as the staff members exited the building while eating the last of her sandwich. In this new life she'd built for herself, the rooftop was the closest she had to her namesake's Walden Pond in Concord, a place she had frequented, what with her old home being half an hour away. At this vantage point, Midge could imagine that these people were instead various forms of wildlife. Aquatic invertebrates, fish, frogs, and toads. That one suit rushing past? A crayfish. A man, still donning his lab coat despite it being day's end, was a sunfish. In this light, then, she would be a bird with no net ensnaring her, and whatnot. No, no, that was Bronte.
What did it matter? Even in the absence of water, they were all drowning.
Her analogy was delicate as it is without the further disruption of hearing someone swinging the roof door wide open. In the perfect stillness of the rooftop, the disruption almost echoed, like a stone she'd taken from a gravelly path and thrown across the water. Midge did not make a habit of staying on the rooftop after hours. Curious to find her new companion, she finished her sandwich, folded the parchment paper that came with it, and swung around her position by the balustrade to greet —
Ah. "Agent Fitzgerald." A nod. Midge was not nearly discourteous enough to ignore his presence, however unwelcome. But, as is customary with her fellow field agents, and perhaps even more so with Fitzgerald, she let the proverbial curtains that she'd briefly drawn back to indulge in childhood memory fall back into place. Fitzgerald's presence felt like fate's way of dissuading her from any further attempts at enlightenment. Back again to being Thoreau. Back again to the life she had built for the past decade and a half. Back again to the mask of courtesy and patience and stillness. She leaned against the rooftop's ornate glass balustrades, one-half of her sandwich in hand, and wished that she'd brought her pack of cigarettes.
"I see you had the same idea as I did," she began in an attempt to be genial. It was hard to stay frustrated at someone when the world was burning. Over the past decade, and despite his demeanor, Fitzgerald had become close to unreadable. Still, she figured that he was no exception to the rest of the agents, all of whom were, to some degree, discouraged and clearly exhausted. There was no reason to preserve her disdain, for now. "What, you come here to watch the sunset?" In all of her people staring that day, Thoreau had paid no strict attention to the golden hour. That was a luxury she left to the writers and poets — and anyway, the sun had all but gone now, the sky somewhere between the civil and nautical twilight. "I'm afraid you'll only be catching the tail-end."