𝘊𝘐𝘙𝘊𝘓𝘌 𝘖𝘍 𝘍𝘐𝘍𝘛𝘏𝘚.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

once he orders three meals worth of food and gets his drink, hemingway's almost ready to admit that he's done thinking about work and how he's questioning himself and how tired he is of everything even thought it's just the beginning. almost.

thank god for fitz's energy because hemingway really needs it right now.

" — rob a bank as a team-bonding exercise," hemingway says, trying to match whatever outrageous idea the other is gonna serve him with. and yeah, there it is, matching tattoos. worst part is, hemingway's is willing to actually, seriously consider it. unlike the bank robbery because that's never happening.

"you know we could do something less permanent, right?" hemingway says, a comfortable smile on his face as he teases. "i don't know. buy matching ties or something." not that hemingway wears ties very often—twice a month, tops. way too uncomfortable and just very not his style. unless it's a novelty one, like the ones he always gets for christmas. "oh, that would be so ridiculous. we should do it."

"besides, what would we even get? it's a big commitment, i need ideas, something pretty. i'm not about to put just anything on my body. better give me something good," he says and—yeah, he really does sound like he could be convinced.

"i still don't think that's what faulkner had in mind, you know. he probably assumed we were—i don't know. going for a change of scenery to brainstorm." and he wouldn't really blame faulkner, especially with the amount of overtime's hemingway's been doing; it's not completely unusual but there's been a rather noticeable increase. this is not oh, i'll stay behind tonight so i don't have as much to do on friday, this is oh, this case is about to eat me whole. so it's really not that wild of a guess that hemingway would leave work ... to do more working. man, he really needs a break from that.

in theory, sure, hemingway was an exceptional agent; it made sense he took the mentor role to new and wayward agents alike — agreeable, capable, smooth. a good example. and he's all those things in real life too, but as fitz watches him soak up cher in the car ride over and order enough food to turn this diner run into a feast, he remembers that hemingway still holds onto something that most agents lose over their time with the bureau.

vibrancy — the word fills in the blank, and that feels right. fitz grins.

it's his turn to laugh out loud — bark, rather — at the thought of hemingway robbing a bank and fitz realizes it wouldn't take much for him to be convinced. take the stolen cash, hop to another timeline, join that jazz band he's always talking about. they could easily go rogue.

all the cool agents were doing it.

"it is ridiculous, which is exactly why we're gonna have to go with my matching tattoos idea. and while i'm normally on the 'it has to be pretty' train, i'm also a bigger believer in just ... figuring it out when we get there. embrace the fun in the risk, that's all i'm saying. it's never too late to make dumb decisions."

fitz nods and raises his own glass to hemingway's words, "you and i both know i'm the last person who's going to disagree on any of those points for the rest of tonight. i'd argue that i don't talk about any of that enough, which is probably what got you stuck with me in the first place," fitz shrugs.

he had apologized to hemingway before, when he was first told that they'd be partners — again, clearly a miscalculation made on the bureau's end. fitz thought of himself as too far gone to be a truly productive field agent. if things ever got bad in the field, well, he'd only be slowing hemingway down, and — it's just best to move past the point.

he doesn't finish the thought, just rolls his eyes at the other agent and laughs. "hey, no funny business," hemingway puts on a fake-serious voice, an expression to match and lifts up a warning finger; it doesn't hold up for long, his face splits into another grin barely two seconds later and his laughter booms across the floor. it's louder than he expected it to be so when he looks around to check if he's being a nuisance for the others (and surprisingly there are others, even this late, though maybe he shouldn't be so shocked, considering the circumstances), it's with an apologetic smile, an unspoken oops, my bad.

but then again, this is hardly a first. hemingway being loud, never heard that one before.

"nice theatrics, though a bit stiff," hemingway attempts another serious comment but the underlying mirth is impossible to miss. all of a sudden, he doesn't feel all that goddamn tired and ... well, there's plenty words to call it, disappointed? dejected? really fucking lost, that's a good one. he's allowed himself to feel that way for a short while, taken a break from the everything will turn out fine mantra he's always repeating in his head but it's starting to be too overwhelming. hemingway will not say it out loud, but spending what's left of the day with fitz should work some magic. well, now he can't wait.

yeah, it's true. the bureau could use more people like hemingway.

when the other agent walks back over to his own desk, fitz's eyebrows lift and how easily he agrees to leave right now. skipping out on the rest of work to go fuck around in the city? as much as fitz knew the bureau expected him to learn something from hemingway, maybe the opposite was proving to be true. he scoffs & grabs his keys, "i may be a lot of things, but a bad driver isn't one of them. that's just silly & embarrassing for no reason." he pulls his coat over his shoulder as they step out into the night.

after a pretty uneventful car ride — from fitz's pov at least — they make it to the spot hemingway suggests. although they've only just put in their orders, fitz is already completely satisfied to be someplace else that's not the bureau grounds. they could've been anywhere, honestly. burger joints are burger joints — he knows it's really all about the company he keeps. and hemingway's definitely one of the easiest to be around.

that's important, fitz thinks.

with a drink already in his hand, he looks at the agent his partner from across the table & shakes his head, "— okay, but @faulknxr said tonight should be dynamic & high-yielding for the operation. he's expecting us to bring him something big tomorrow. which, you know that means, right? we're going to have to ..."

he gives hemingway his best serious face, although he knows his eyes give it away every time. he waits for the agent to finish his sentence before overlapping him.

          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 ?     "

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.

          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  ?     "

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.

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.

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:

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

friend: ????