O DEATHLESS SEA / irene by simon harsent / the invading surf by frederick judd waugh / the mediterranean in the ancient world by fernand braudel (trans. siân reynolds) / stormy sea by ivan konstantinovich aivazovsky / dancing in odessa by ilya kaminsky / i lived the beloved name by odysseus elytis (trans. olga broumas & t. begley) / strong winds and high tides battered a coastal road close to newtownards, northern ireland by peter morrison / shipwreck off the cliffs of dover at night with dover castle in the distance by eugène lepoittevin / the odyssey, book 13 by homer (trans. emily wilson) / seebild by ingo kßhl
closed starter ft. @agenthemingway, mentions of @dxckinson.
setting: multiple locations.
timeframe: various times.
summary: the recruitment of a new agent. the beginning of a friendship. the premature end to a mission.
content warnings: none for this part. future content may include depictions of depression, period-typical homophobia, suicidal ideation, etc., triggers will be updated within the tags.
1986. 18th of September.
The clouds by Agent Dickinsonâs head roll across the planeâs oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulknerâs eyes. He hasnât seen the wisps of cirrus clouds rush by like busy traffic since almost a decade ago when this agent last took to the air. And never has he witnessed them in something as dandy as business class. But for his snoozing partner seated by the window, itâs his first time leaving the country on a plane (and boarding a plane in general). From a technical point of view, it is more efficient and discreet to have their trip to and back from France to be as comfortable for them and their guest.
Careful not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Faulkner slides out the files from his briefcase and reviews them again. He reminds himself to breathe out through his nose after his chest lightly pangs due to a lack of oxygen. His fingers do not tremble, but his vision does, blurring the name on the brief before focusing back into clarity. Dark, dark brown eyes linger on the photo in the file.
He is so young here to the point of unrecognition.
Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.
Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.
The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."
Their contact meets them when the two agents exit AĂŠroport Nice CĂ´te d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray CitroĂŤn GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, ÂŤ Savez-vous tous oĂš aller? Âť
Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, ÂŤ Ăc, nâai una foura, monsieur. MercĂŠs a ouf. Âť
The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, ÂŤ Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. Âť
Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat â to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks â and goes to place their luggage in the trunk â to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, âNo, let me help.â But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.
Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driverâs seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partnerâs doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. Itâs only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.
According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.
Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.
In the Mediterranean Seaâs grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The seaâs name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare MediterrÄneum, which means the sea âin the middle of land,â or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words âmiddleâ medius, âlandâ terra, and âqualitative natureâ -Äneus.
Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.
âAgent, be careful,â Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinsonâs deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.
âIs this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you canât look, but there are nets all over the water over there. Iâve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe theyâre clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.â
Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.
Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, âAy, nâombre⌠Yâknow, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.â
Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.
It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-CĂ´te dâAzur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small townâs precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.
The rural town hasnât changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. Itâll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.
If they had more time, Faulkner wouldâve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-SĂŠbastien.
The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. Câest lâheure du dĂŠjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.
He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, âAgent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.â
âI donât mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcaseâs left side inner pocket, but donât open the other side âcause thatâs where my unmentionables are.â Dickinson says.
Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, âBut you mentioned it, so they arenât âunmentionable,â Agent.â But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.
The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesnât mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesnât want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.
Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.
Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission â assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.
The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustnât he.
He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, weâll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.
Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.
Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.
There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to â Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. âHey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old manâuh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didnât take any noncombat missions, so Iâm out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldnât have sent youâus out here if they didnât think we could do this. So letâs just, yâknow, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like heâs not biting, then⌠I donât know, we can talk from the heart?â
Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.
âThatâs him over there, isnât it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four⌠What are they feeding you guys in the army that weâre not getting in the other branches?â Agent Dickinson whispers.
Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.
ÂŤ Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? Âť Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, itâd be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulknerâs shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulknerâs features dissolve into content placidity.
This time in English, he asks, âHello, nice to meet you. I am Agent Faulkner. My associate here is Agent Dickinson. Mr. Jamal Bernard Jackson, correct? May we have a bit of your time?â
his day begins way before sunrise and itâs the church bells that wake jamal. it was insufferable in the beginning, all he wanted was some good rest but instead, he got interrupted bursts of sleep, migraines and dreams abruptly ending just before the good parts. now that heâs used to the sound, he comes to a lot more gentle, a lot more peacefulâthe epitome of what heâs trying to become. itâs been a year and then some of this, a year of monsieur bernard greeting the handful of devoted parishioners whenever they show up for prayer, making sure the flowers are always fresh in eglise de sainte agnès, a year of making peace with the fact that this is his life now and that it will continue to be like this until heâexactly, until when? until he gets bored? until heâs found out?Â
truth is, the locals stopped asking him about his origins months ago. the curiosity has evaporated rather quickly, they donât even ask about his frenchâhis only connection to home, real home, heâs ever had a grasp ofâanymore. somewhere down the line, theyâve accepted bernard as their own; heâs no longer the intimidating alien whoâs arrived overnight and stayed. people donât do that here, tourists come and go but the community never grows with the help of the outside.Â
la volontĂŠ de dieu. godâs will, the priest at saint agnès told him after his first week here. everything happens for a reason. if only he knew the reason why jamalâs so far from home. but then again home has always been a tricky concept for him, so tricky that at some point, heâs just decided to give up on it. home is wherever he ends up at. home can be that roadside ditch he had to sleep in the summer before last because he didnât make it into town in time.Â
home can and will be the french village of five hundred and something people. le fugitif amĂŠricain included.
he rides his bike down to the coast and the sun begins to rise during the final stretch. he usually makes it to the beach while itâs still dark but thereâs something off about todayâjamalâs feeling a bit slow, a bit groggy. thereâs a heaviness around his heart he hasnât felt in a very long time and he canât wait to hear the water because he knows that itâs going to make this feeling go away.Â
the sight brings comfort. no end and no beginning, a body always at work. just like him.Â
his first night here, his first night as monsieur bernard, he walked the whole way to the coastline and when he dropped down onto the sand, he cried like a child, for the first time in years. heâd never felt like this before, so lost and so free at the same time. a moment of tranquility arrived when he bathed under moonlight, the salty tracks of his tears disappearing with a dive into the waves and then he felt it. home is wherever he ends up at. here is home.Â
the sight, smell and sound of the lapping water works like magic and the day doesnât feel so daunting anymore. heâll come back, open for the first mass, weed the grass by the back entrance. then heâll visit the marceaus as promised so they can feed him a late breakfast as a thank you for fixing their leaky roof. heâs meant to tend to the chapel today, he can do that around lunchtime. after that, itâs free time until five and the afternoon mass. he might do some mending on the vestments, père marcel said something about a nasty tear. then itâs evening prayer, dinner and the dayâs gone by just like that.Â
he loves it, really. jamal keeps busy but itâs the kind of busy that doesnât leave you exhausted and dreading the next morning. when he crawls into bed, he rests happy, content. well, mostly.Â
sometimes heâs homesick for his old life. maybe not as much for the life itself but for the people in it. heâs made a life for himself here but the past stings when he least expects it. he sees his friendsâ faces in the townsfolk here; michel, the grocer, sometimes laughs the way one of his squadron members used to; madeleine, the mother of three he sometimes babysits for, has the same stern look on her face whenever she disciplines her children as captain thomson used to whenever she needed them to stop fucking around. the nostalgia for these people always comes when heâs softly treading between dreams and the lasts of his consciousness but he never actually dreams of them. heâs not sure he dreams at all and if he does, he canât remember anything come morning.Â
heâs a bit more settled when he arrives at the chapel. he says a quick prayerâa habit he picked up to blend in better that heâs decided to stick with. there isnât much religious conviction behind it anymore, at least not in the traditional sense. itâs more spiritual, untethered. and then itâs just plain funny. sebastian, patron saint of soldiers; agnes, patron saint of chastity. the prayers sometimes feel like an inside joke among the three of them.
jamal looks around, makes a mental checklist of the chores ahead and with a sigh, he bends down to pick up the dried out flowers. he hasnât brought any to replace them with but thatâs only because, as usual, there will be plenty of fresh blooms left int he stone trough outside tomorrow before the afternoon service. heâs still not sure whoâs the one leaving them here and father marcel is no help in answering the question either. jamal figures the parishioners must be on rotation for this or something.Â
sweeping the place is the last thing he has to do before he can go back for lunch. maybe heâll take a nap, heâs unusually tired today. he gets on with the task, mindlessly going through the motions because heâs not really in the mood to have fun with it right now; thereâs usually some whistling, humming and quiet singing involved, something to make the labor not feel as taxing but thereâs no room for it today. especially when he feels raindrops on his faceâbetter take care of it quickly and get back. thereâs time and place for romantic bike rides in the rain but not today.Â
when two figures that look severely out of place approach jamal, his entire body tenses up. his grip on the poor broom is so tight, he might actually break it. his first thought is that the armyâs finally caught up to himâeven though itâs been almost two years and he figured that maybe theyâve just given up on trying to find him, a part of him has always been prepared for this possibility. at first, his plan was to run. fight his way out of it if he has to but run and donât let them catch you. but that was then. now, jamal doesn't really have it in him. whatever they want from him, heâll face the consequences. doesnât mean that this encounter isnât about to be any less unbearable, though. his skinâs gone all cold and clammy, he hasnât been this nervous in months.Â
one of them smiles and if the circumstances were different, jamal wouldâve found it incredibly disarming. but right now, all it does is stress him out further. he stands tall, distrustful of the two newcomers and even though they donât reveal themselves to be an immediate threat, jamalâs ever sense is on guard, looking for danger.Â
he doesnât reply at first, neither in french nor english, instead just sizes the two men up, his face still as a stone. but if he doesnât engage, he wonât find out whatâs going on. the word agent catches his attention. âdid they send fbi after me or what?â is the first thing that comes out jamalâs mouth. it doesnât really make sense to him, he wasnât that important but at this point, he wouldnât put anything past them. âtook yâall long enough.â
he leans the broom against the nearest wall, makes sure to keep the two men in his line of sight as he does. he keeps his moves slow and open because god knows what the agentsâ goal here is. shoot on sight if heâs acting too suspicious?
âso what happens now?â he asks, gives both of the agents another set of distrustful looks. jamal glances aroundâtheyâre definitely alone here, not a single soul around for at least a couple miles. the drizzle is slowly picking up as well. feels like heâs in a movie. and scenes like this never really end well. âtaking me back? prison?â the words roll off his tongue without a strain but they feel heavy; the idea that one day heâll get punished for deserting has always existed in the back of his head but heâs grown very skilled in ignoring it. by the time heâs arrived in saint-agnès, jamalâs grown mostly convinced that heâs in the safe zone. âjustâno bullshit. whatâs going on?â
did the bureau know what was ahead of them by pairing hemingway with fitzgerald? had this been a miscalculation on someone's part, thinking that this would be the solution to setting fitz on a different path? this kind of decision seemed like it had faulkner's influence written all over it, especially with how the agent saw them out tonight.
in theory, sure, hemingway was an exceptional agent; it made sense he took the mentor role to new and wayward agents alike â 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 â the word fills in the blank, and that feels right. fitz grins.
it's his turn to laugh out loud â bark, rather â 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 â 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 â it's just best to move past the point.
"but anyway, i'm still waiting on you tell me the secret on how you're able to be so nice to everyone, all the time. people suck, hemingway."
he lets himself entertain the idea somewhat seriously, mostly because he knows it will make fitz happy andâwell, hemingway would be lying if he said that the image of the two of them actually going through with it didn't make him all cheery, all smiles. case in point, you couldn't wipe the grin off his face even if you tried.
"i can't believe i'm actually thinking about it," he chuckles, drowns the closing notes of his laughter in his drink. "if we do this, are these gonna be likeâfriendship bracelets? permanent too, so good luck ever getting rid of me."
"you say stuck as if it's a bad thing," hemingway rolls his eyes but keeps his tone light and the corners of his mouth curled upwards. fitz can be a piece of work sometimes, fact, but it's nothing hemingway can't handle. he never really understood why fitz felt the need to apologize for the bureau's decision because to hemingway, there's nothing to apologize for. he just wants to help and he always tries to get fitz to see that. "circumstances may have not been ideal but, you knowâfinal product's alright. we're a good team," he says, gives fitz a genuine smile.
then their food arrives and hemingway reminded of how his fake-starving brain made the order. "feel free to steal my food. i eat a lot as it is but this might've been an overkill," he says as he picks up his first burger.
he laughs at the question; it takes him by surprise but it's not something he's never heard before. "well, yeah, they do. but why should i?" he shrugs, licks two fingers clean in between his words because table manners don't exist here. "i just like making people feel comfortable. being nice is the easiest way to do it." there's also the other side of this coinâhemingway's compulsive need for everyone to like him. being nice is the easiest way to do it. "someone once told me i have a ... sensitive soul. so i guess that's my secret," hemingway says, fights tooth and nail so that his smile doesn't turn sad, prompted by the memory from all the way back when he was first in love. not the time. "i just don't know how not to be nice to people."
"but then i guess it evens out when i'm outâ" hemingway pauses his thought about how having to use brute force when he's on an assignment hardly qualifies as nice, because he realizes he's about to break his own rule. "was gonna talk about banned things. so nevermind that. well, maybe i'm nice all the time so you don't have to be. balance," he jokes. "this is why we're a great team."
Of course, I wonder if they love me back, which is, really, besides the point. I donât do it to be adored, I do it because my love keeps getting bigger and thatâs what happens.
Richard Siken, âThe Long and Short of Itâ (via halflunar)
Separated from his mission partner since their arrival together at the private quarters of the party hosts, Agent Faulkner stands by his lonesome at the food table. He pulls a homemade Red Velvet cake topped with ermine frosting, chocolate, and strawberries from an unmarked white box and places it on a stand. As he completes his task, he wanders back to the dining area, where the birthday boy is mixing up some alcoholic concoction. Faulkner listens to Hemingwayâs cheery chat with the austerity of a priest, fingers steepled in a pointed tent at his chest.
âAgent, I hope not. Most of us probably have a mission tomorrow, and our mental faculties must stay sharp,â says Faulkner, wondering why the other agent would want such a troublesome thing to befall their group. He minds himself to bring an extra bottle of migraine pills for the staff. âAh, would you like me to remind everyone periodically to consume water? I can set my watch hourly at your call.â
After offering his services, Agent Faulkner nods and smiles â one he workshopped with Hemingway years ago â until it dawns on him that he may not be upholding his end of the deal when he promised Agent Dickinson earlier that heâd loosen his parti pris toward unsupervised gatherings for tonight. So, Faulkner makes it clear for the other agent, âI believe it is the utmost pleasure for many to be in attendance. Thank you again for your invitation, Agent Hemingway. Please, this is for you. Happy birthday.â
He holds out a glossy paper gift bag toward the other man. Inside, four crystal rocks glasses clink against each other gently.
âNow you can drink more ofâŚâ Faulkner eyes the mix in Hemingwayâs cup. However, no amount of Agent Training can help Faulkner, a non-drinker, here. ââŚwhat you made in these at your leisure, Agent.â
Faulknerâs placid features ripple into enlarged eyes and slightly lifted brows for a flash. Karaoke? Processing what heâs just heard, the agent holds himself back from uttering his momentary shock as the logic stands. It is Hemingwayâs birthday party. By that reasoning, Hemingway is the de facto leader.
Faulkner salutes to the new party order. If commanded, he will pick something unobtrusive. Perhaps Agent Dickinson will grace him with a duet so that Faulkner wonât ruin the atmosphere with his monotone singing. âAffirmative, Agent Hemingway. As you wish. And might I add that your cadence is harmonious. You would do Gore proud. Would you like to be the prime example to start us off?â
At the mention of Agent London, Faulkner cocks his head slightly, wondering whether or not to give the agent a heads-up of his newly assigned task so that he may prepare. Faulkner looks to Hemingway for guidance. âWhat are your recommendations, Agent Hemingway? I Drove All Night? Time After Time? True Colors? In my professional opinion, Agent London would be a suitable candidate for All Through the Night, although it is technically not a Lauper original.â
this is exactly the kind of answer he was expecting to hear and, to be fair, this is the energy hemingway probably should be sharing. supposedly, he's one of the responsible ones so instead of playing bartender, he should be telling everyone to watch it, maybe keep tabs on who's just got their first drink down and who's about to get cut off. and any other day, he probably would but it's his birthday and so hemingway's allowed a little leeway. a night off from all the babysitting that nobody even asked for.
"you could try but i'm not sure how enthusiastic everyone's gonna be about the reminders. maybe we're better off being sneaky about it. just put water bottles everywhere," he says, only half-joking. "or we can just leave them to their own devices. it's a party after all."
when faulkner acknowledges the elephant in the room, namely the giftbag hemingway noticed the second the other agent walked into the kitchen, his smile grows even brighter. he did say that gifts aren't necessary when he invited everyone but who doesn't love a birthday present, come on. "ah, shit, you really didn't have to," he still says as he takes the glasses out of the bag. "these are beautiful, thank you." and just like that, he's starting to feel like he might shed a tear or twoâthey'd be happy tears, obviously, but he feels like any sort of crying would ruin the whole thing. so he looks up, blinks the tears away. works well enough.
hemingway gives faulkner another smile, just one more way of saying thank you and then clears his throat. "what are you drinking, though?" he asks as he sets the glasses down in the sink so he can rinse them. "i can make you a non-alcoholic something or just ... well, water."
"why, thank you. in another life, i'm a world famous performer. sold-out shows, all the time," he jokes as he dries the gifted glasses. "or me and fitz start that jazz band he's always talking about." hemingway looks over faulkner's shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they land on fitzgerald, deep in conversation with another one of their teammates; hemingway smiles and then turns his attention back to faulkner. "but either way, the audience here is worth more than any music career could get me. i'll give you guys the opening act."
"oh, you're onto something here," he laughs. hemingway's still talking to faulkner and tending to his gift at the same timeâhe's finally arrived at the last step, which is pouring his drink into the crystal glass in one, swift motion. there. he gives faulkner a self-satisfied smile. "glad that you didn't suggest girls just wanna have fun, that's my song. and for true colors we should do an ensemble. and i will cry."
In the near silence of the virtually empty bullpen, the hypnotic ticking of an office clock slowly dulled the hotly simmering fury inside Agent Dickinsonâs heart into a sedated, detached placidity. He had been staring blankly at the small handful of documents fanned out on his desk for the better half of an hour, give or take. It was hard to tell, but since no one had bothered him about going home yet, it was unlikely he had been doing it for too long.
Under normal circumstances, Dickinson would have never been caught dead wasting valuable time like this, but as it stood, zoning out was as good of a use of his time as anything else. The bureau might as well have given him a folder full of black construction paper and told him to go fuck himself. The few documents deemed safe enough for him to have could offer little insight into Agent Londonâs intentions, the vast majority of the information stricken out with bars of black ink. He was an agent only in name; his clearance basically level reduced to that of an entry-level position upon his reinstatement.
Dickinson wasnât sure why he had expected anything different, wishful thinking perhaps, the foolish notion that all his years of loyalty to the cause would amount to anything despite âThe Incidentâ six months ago. He should have known better, had known better the moment he was ushered away to that cute little mandatory âwelcome homeâ interview. The conclusion had been obvious.
The only reason he had been brought back in the first place was because the bureau needed to check all their bases and ensure their last problem child wasn't involved with the current one. Logically, it made sense that the higher-ups might think he was sympathetic to London, but the very thought that the dignitaries would dare to insinuate that Dickinson would ally himself with the lunatic actively destroying years of his own hard work burned Dickinson up inside. But it was his own fault, in the end. He had trusted the wrong people and ended up being the fool left holding the bag.
âThatâs just how the cookie crumbles,â he thought bitterly. There was nothing he could do about it now, though; the hindsight was meaningless when the Dickinson from six months ago didnât envision ever coming back to the bureau (alive, at least). All he could do now was prove himself again.
Dickinson's eyes dipped down to scan the last file he had been looking over, searching for absolution in the face of his own miscalculations.
But he could find no salvation in the fragmented annals, it was just a wild goose chase. A puzzle with the majority of the pieces purposely hidden by the very people asking him to solve it. Dickinson clicked his tongue, irritation boiling over. What the hell did the Temporal Bureau, in all their âinfinite wisdom,â expect him to do with granules of information? Happily sit around twiddling his thumbs while London was running loose and ruining the timeline? It was unbearable. The forced inaction was slowly driving him insane. The fact that everyone else seemed all too willing to comply and continue with the facade that their leadership had their shit together only agitated him further.
While sure, there had been murmurs of disapproval and a couple of pairs of eyes found his in the meeting room after the pencil pushers went over their lackluster game plan, none had stepped up to openly object. While Dickinson had expected blind obedience from the likes of Faulkner and Stein, he found the lack of pushback from the others demoralizing. But Dickinson wasnât stupid, he could read the writing on the wall that kept everyoneâs tongue in check, the reason why this overly cautious approach was necessary.
There was no way of knowing if there were any more traitors in their midst. And once the focus was off of him, and if Baldwin was cleared as well, the others would not be spared from suspicion.
The sound of shoes on the tile floor pulled Dickinson out of his thoughts. Looking up, he matched gazes with Agent Hemingway, the other man smiling down at him with an expression Dickinson used to find charming. He found it distinctly obnoxious at that very moment as he watched the other man prop himself against the desk.
In the back of his mind, Dickinson realized he was being unfair. Heâd known the other agent for years, and knew mediation came second nature to JJ; so it must have been hard watching one of the longest-running partnerships in the bureau fall apart to the point where Dickinson and Faulkner wouldnât speak anymore. And in classic JJ fashion, and like the proverbial moth to the flame, Hemingway had showed up where there was a problem. Dickinson might have found comfort in it in the past, but now he was finding it increasingly difficult to view JJâs natural inclinations with nothing less than cold cynicism.
Perhaps it was the way Hemingway had worded the question, open-ended enough to give JJ room to pivot depending on how Dickinson answered. Or maybe it was the way Hemingwayâs mannerisms felt so practiced, so formulaic; just another performance for the sake of keeping up the veneer of normalcy. Whatever the case, the sympathetic look in the other agentâs eyes felt condescending; it made Dickinson feel like some pitiful, wounded animal, cornered and baring his teeth. Like he was someone who had to be handled with kid gloves lest he have a public meltdown.
Dickinson wondered if that was exactly how JJ saw him these days. Though it annoyed Dickinson to admit, it would only make sense when he had come back to the bureau a completely different man. But he wasnât a problem to fix, or at least he wasnât JJâs problem to fix. There was nothing that a third party could do to change what had happened between Dickinson and Faulkner, and so nothing anyone could do for Gael. His partnership with In-su had just reached its natural, doomed, unavoidable, pathetic end after Gael had thrown them both over the event horizon. The gravitational collapse caused by the shock of Faulknerâs dereliction after years of mutual adoration devouring everything they had built as their relationship imploded, leaving nothing but a supermassive black hole in its wake.
The only thing that could change things would be if Gael had been born in the U.S. instead of Guatemala and he and In-su had met in the military as comrades, like In-su and JJ did. Maybe if they had an established rapport when they ran into each other as trainees at the bureau, Gael would be privy to the secret that In-su held the closest, the one only JJ seemed to know, for some reason. If he and In-su had known each other sooner, for longer, then maybeâ
Dickinsonâs eyebrows furrowed as his thoughts came to an abrupt stop, his face felt hot. His right hand flew up to press against his forehead. Belatedly, he realized he had taken way too long to answer Hemingwayâs questions. Ducking his head slightly to look up at the other man from around his fingers, Dickinson gave him what he hoped was a passable friendly smile.
âSorry, Waymie, I feel like I just got râ,â Dickinson clamped his mouth shut so quickly he almost bit off his own tongue. His left hand joined the other to cover his face as he let out a muffled groan. Dragging his palms down his face, he tried again, weakly muttering, â...Put through the wringer.â
Sighing deeply, Dickinson removed his hands from his face and leaned back in his desk chair. âActually, turning off my brain sounds great right about now. You know the pizza place on Fifth and Oak?â he asked, shooting the other man a warm, tired smile. "Well, it's not really a place, more like a stall on the side of the road, but I promise the food is fantastic. I know the guy there, Toni with an 'i'. He's great, you'll love Toni."
Yawning, Dickinson slowly got up and went through the motions of his usual tidying routine before stuffing the files back into the manila folder he had gotten them in and placing them in his satchel. He then began patting himself down, making sure his keys and wallet were in one of his multiple pockets.
"Ah, wait... I just remembered. The bigwigs havenât cleared my budget for personal spending yet." Dickinson said, pointing a finger gun at Hemingway, a rueful smile slowly stretching across his face. "You donât mind paying for me, right?"
the answer doesn't come immediately and hemingway starts wondering if he should just repeat everything he's just saidâhe wouldn't mind and he wouldn't be surprised if he had to. they're all tired and distracted at this point, their workdays ( probably unnecessarily ) extended past their regular working hours. hemingway's been meaning to go home for a while now, knowing full well that he needs to get some rest, but the obsessive, fixer part of him kept him busy anyway. well, busy might be a stretchâuseless work probably, most of it. if he sees the words restricted access anywhere else, he might just go insane.
"no, it's fine. i get it," he says as he watches dickinson displaying just how all over the place he is. hemingway wonders if this is already the time to drop his favorite questionâthe how are you, how are you doing, are you alright. it's been easy to just know when to ask with everyone else but he finds it difficult, borderline impossible, when it comes to gael because ... well, that's the thing. hemingway doesn't even know.
somewhere between dickinson coming back and london disappearing, hemingway's lost the ability to read gael, to figure out what he's thinking. and these days, it seems like something got reversed and now jj feels like gael's the one who's always trying to get a read on him. for once in his life, hemingway chooses to be careful with his words around someoneânot that he has anything to hide but because he wants to make a good impression, make it look like he's got everything under control.
which probably makes it seem like he has something to hide.
this is probably not the time to ask yet; it's a larger conversation hemingway would rather have outside the office because with gael, london's not the only thing jj wants to ask about. dickinson's return, considering the timing and circumstances, is also a hot topic hemingway would love to dig intoâfor genuine and strictly personal reasons. he just wants his friends to be fine.
"i don't know that place but you got me interested. ready to inhale my weight in toni's pizza," he says as he clasps his hands and rubs them together, a bright grin splitting his face in half. he follows in gael's footsteps and moves to his desk, mimics his teammate's actions while putting his desk in orderâwhich ends up looking just as messy as it did in the beginning. hemingway's good with mess, though. as long as he's got it under control.
"my treat, man, no problem," he says, waves it off like it's nothingâand it is. he could probably buy gael lunch everyday for the rest of his life and barely make a dent in the money the bureau's thrown at him in the last decade. the money's just sort of there because it's not like hemingway has anything to spend it on. maybe he should get into some expensive hobby. or buy another house. for what? he'll probably just end up visiting it once a year and that will be it. "i'll poke at them tomorrow, get your money right," he tells dickinson, adds the promise to the to-do list that seems to be neverending these days. good. better to keep busy than end up overthinking everything. which hemingway probably subconsciously does while busy anyway.
"i can drive us. you get dj privileges and i hope you understand how big of an honor this is," hemingway says as the head out, taking the elevator down to the parking lot. he's jokingâor half-joking because he does take his music very seriouslyâto keep the atmosphere light. he's decided to save the questions poking at dickinson's wellbeing for later, after they've been fed and as far from the office as tonight will allow them for.
"managed anything productive tonight?" he asks on the way down, fully expecting a big no, similar to what he would've said if asked the same question. maybe he shouldn't have askedâhe'll just get himself riled up all over again about these stupid restrictions and nobody telling them anything. hemingway's been trying not to think about it too much these past few hours. he's running around in circles, no wonder. "you know whatâdon't even have to answer that. i said turn off our brains and that's ... definitely not gonna help," he says, makes a face that pretty much sums up this entire dayâannoying, exhausting, and complicated for no reason. "how's gomita doing?" he tries instead.
     baldwin doesn't understand birthdays. or parties, for that matter. they do, however, understand the importance of showing up, and even if they don't consider hemingway a friend, he's still someone they hold in high regard.
     the acronym fomo won't be invented until the overwhelming surge of social networking sites in 2004, but they suppose that the term covers their reasoning for being here well enough. monday morning hangovers or not, they'd be remiss to not at least skulk around and eavesdrop.
     hemingway's comment gets their attention pretty quickly for two reasons: for one, he's the man of honor, and two, absolutely not.   "please.  no. don't give him ideas. i'll do it if it means you won't make him do it. remember last new years? i can't have a repeat of that. i can't."
" oh, come on, " hemingway sighs, disappointed by the pushback against his absolutely brilliant idea. because it is great, no matter what baldwin says. " and i do remember last new years very well, contrary to popular belief. " talk about a hangover; he definitely overdid it with the drinkingâhe doesn't do that very often but he did then and was painfully reminded of the fact that he's pushing forty.
" i thought everyone loves getting serenaded with sinatra. voice of an angel, that one, " hemingway says, trying to keep his bubbling laughter back. he fails, obviously. it's like he can hear london's screeching as he speaks. he even scans the room to see if he's imagining things but no, he's over there just talking to thoreau. " i wish someone had taped it. what a performance. but okay, fine. he's the only one excused. no one else. what's your pick? i think i wanna do dolly parton. "
WHEN : oct 15th, 1995 ; hemingway's birthday party <3
WHERE : thoreau & whitman's apartment
STATUS : open to everyone
"man, i love a sunday party. hope all of us show up with a raging hangover tomorrow," hemingway chuckles as he finishes making his drinkâa very unsophisticated mix of vodka and some disgustingly sweet soda. it's great. about ten more of these and maybe he'll start feeling them.
"thanks for being here, by the way. i really appreciate it," he grins at them, warm and genuine. he's only learned to enjoy his birthday in the last ... five ? six years ? ( does it even matter ? considering ... ) before then, it felt like an uncomfortable burden; a rock stuck in your shoe you can never get rid of. who knew you just needed the right people to make it better ?
"i'm making everyone sing karaoke. it's my party and y'all sing if i want you to," he sings the words to the tune of the lesley gore song, then bursts out laughing. "i think london should do cyndi lauper."
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