"dude, just because you're not doing any work ..." arms crossed and eyebrows slightly raised, he gives fitz a look; there's an ending to this sentence, something about how other people—hemingway—are actually trying to get shit done but that's only ... half-true, at best. yes, hemingway did go into the records room, yes, he spent about two hours in there, yes, he did bring some files back but all of that has just been mostly half-assed, i just wanna feel like i'm actually doing something work, which is ... barely work, really. truth is, he spent that much time checking out files only because he ended up catching up with the clerk for most of it. he did find out that they adopted a dog and now hemingway's jealous.
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.
he takes a look at his desk across the room, the files waiting. yeah, right. "okay, well, fuck the couple hours then," hemingway says as he pushes himself off fitz's desk, stands tall and stretches his shoulders. "burgers sound good. i know a place," he says and then heads back for his desk. the short distance doesn't interrupt the conversation. "but you're driving. and i trust you not to kill us," he says, his voice once again carrying across the entire room. he picks up his stuff, shoves the unread reports into his drawer—a problem for tomorrow—and waits for fitz to join him by the door.