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dxckinson · 7 months

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Dickinson mutely watched Agent Baldwin from beneath the frayed brim of his cap as they brought the ceramic mug up to their mouth. There was nothing in the other agent’s body language that could give him a proper read on what they were thinking as they took slow sips of the coffee but Dickinson needed to get at least a hint on where Baldwin stood in all this; on whether or not the sting of being left behind could trump their loyalty to—their—London.

Dickinson would hope that Artemus had a strong enough sense of personal pride to sway the answer in the bureau’s favor but he knew all too well how powerful of an influence—love—affection—loyalty could be. (After all, had Dickinson not returned after running for six months, tail tucked between his legs, at Faulkner’s behest? Would he not also pathetically trot back to Faulkner’s side if the other man extended a hand towards him and asked him to heel despite the fresh wound of knowing In-su had already replaced him?)

Straining his ears, Dickinson tried to pick up anything that Artemus might be whispering into the mug, but the only sounds that reached his ears were the soft scratching of a pencil gliding across the paper, muffled music bleeding from someone’s headphones, and the soft gulps coming from Baldwin. After the third or fourth mouthful of coffee Baldwin swallowed, Dickinson began to feel antsy. His question stayed unanswered as the silence between them stretched unopposed towards the endless horizon.

He had said something to Artie, right? Or had he just imagined speaking to them? His last maladaptive daydream stitched together so seamlessly with the fabric of reality that he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began? Maybe the inquiry had been lost among his struggling synapse never escaping from the confines of his lips.

Eyes still trained on Baldwin, Dickinson brought the cup still grasped tightly in his trembling left hand to his mouth. He was seconds away from drinking when the heat radiating from the coffee sparked renewed pain across his scaled tongue. Gael paused and stared down at the dark liquid, noting the distinct lack of cinnamon and cocoa in the scent that billowed up from the still-steaming coffee. His heart clenched painfully in his chest.

Dickinson idly wondered how many little reminders of London Baldwin had to fend off throughout the day; if the drink in his hand was not an olive branch as Gael had initially presumed but the remnants of a routine so ingrained in Artemus' daily life that it might as well be stitched onto his soul. A habit born from years of companionship that would remain even if London never returned for him.

How ironic that the person Gael could relate the most to was one of the ones he wanted to talk to the least. The rift between them had only continued to expand since March of 1994; they might as well be standing on opposite sides of diverting tectonic plates at this point, passively watching the other become a speck in the distance, unable or unwilling to bridge the gap. The only link that remained unbroken between them was London, the corroded chain holding true despite all odds, their destinies enmeshed together despite their best efforts to create distance. Tied by a mutual love that had destroyed them both.

When Baldwin finally spoke, their soft, rumbling voice caught him by surprise. ( Gael couldn’t even remember the last time he had spoken to Artie 1-on-1. A year ago? coming up on 2? It felt like a lifetime ago, no, it was a lifetime ago. ) Stuffing his free hand into the pockets of his coat, Dickinson gave Baldwin a wobbly crooked smile, the muscles in his face mutinying against him as he tried to feign cordiality; not that it mattered very much, Baldwin wasn’t looking at him. He let the smile drop and lifted his chin.

“Sending people out into the field will only complicate things,” He replied curtly. “Especially when we don’t know if London is the only traitor.”

Placing the full mug down onto the table nearest to him, Dickinson paused before hopping up to sit on the desk and plucked a dark-colored fountain pen to spin around between his fingers (whose desk was this?). “He picked those dates for a very specific reason. Nothing anyone ever does is truly random, we just don’t have all the data points yet. That’s why we have no choice but to wait for him to strike again.”

Dickinson’s eyes were drawn to the sudden twitch of Baldwin’s free hand. His eyes traced over the length of their long fingers as Baldwin continued to flex. Delicate blue-green veins were partially visible through the expanse of unblemished, pale skin. Subconsciously, Dickinson ran his right thumb in circles over the flat, calloused pad on his index finger to the raised scars that crisscrossed across his first two knuckles.

Dickinson had marveled at how someone who specialized in close-ranged assassinations like Baldwin could be so untouched by the violence needed to perform their job. He had admired the refined elegance Artemus carried himself with and commended his insistence on taking missions alone to minimize the potential risk to others while in the field. Now, however, Dickinson understood what had driven Baldwin was not altruism but unchecked arrogance, and a surgeon's neurotic obsession with maintaining their hands.

For what other than egomania could compel a person to still refuse backup despite the profound personal cost his negligence had caused to another agent? To keep his former career on the back burner just in case he ever got bored of the bureau?

As he fought to maintain his composure in front of Artemus, they asked him another surprising question. ‘Did he seem off to you? Before it happened?’ they asked. Dickinson wanted to laugh in their face, wanted to scream. He couldn’t tell if it was a genuine question or if they were testing him.

“The last time I saw him was six months ago, Agent Baldwin. I doubt anything I can remember about him would be useful to the person who knows him the best.”

baldwin's hands are stained with blood. he came to terms with this fact a very long time ago. rarely , if ever , does he regret any of his actions , but there are three people who died because of his actions for whom he can't help but want to show contrition : his mother , his father , and agent dickinson. he can run his hands under the faucet and stand under the shower after particularly vivid nightmares and pretend like the water and soap is washing the memory and the blood away. it doesn't , no matter how many times he tries. he remembers the words people spoke and the emergency vehicles and the lectures in perfect detail.

figures that when he wants to forget , he can't , but when he doesn't want to , it all slips away like sand through a sieve.

dickinson flinches , backs up , and baldwin can't do anything but watch. guilt churns in his stomach , ugly and rotting and permanent. did he apologize ? he must have apologized. would i'm sorry even have done anything ?

he washes away an incoming headache with a scalding sip of coffee. his tongue burns so bad that he can't taste the sweetness of the second sip. a third and fourth , and he leans back against the desk behind him. they stare in dickinson's direction , but never at him , always a few inches off , like if they don't look at him , nothing ever happened.

" i don't think we're going about this the right away. " they're distantly proud of themself for not fucking up on the delivery , the same way a ghost watches the body it leaves behind. only threads are keeping them going , baseless connections they make on the endless trek from the office to their apartment to the office to their apartment to the office. every journal they've ever written , every item he has ever touched is collected in an organized mess on their living room floor. they're unraveling at an exponential pace , and to their horror , dickinson doesn't seem too far behind. " our unique situations aside , going through mission files won't give us anything we didn't know. the reports are written objectively. there's no determining motive. maybe , if we're lucky , we'll stumble across where— " baldwin frowns. takes a too large sip of the coffee and flexes his free hand in a dexterity exercise born out of anxiety. " the chance of finding the next point that will be changed... it's just unlikely. "

a pause that stretches on too long. " did he seem off to you ? before it happened ? " there. question asked. bandage ripped off. wound still bleeding. they think they're the last one that saw him , but they can't be entirely sure. besides , a less ... personal view of him would probably yield better results. a view that isn't colored with memories that they can't determine are real or made up.

#~`*agt. baldwin #~`*artie_file_01 #(i am sorry that this is so late i had 1000 ways this scene could have gone down o7)

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dxckinson · 8 months

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my shirt that says “not a danger to myself and others” getting me asked a lot of questions already answered by my shirt

#~`*musing

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dxckinson · 8 months

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Empty Houses / Empty Stomachs

Sources: Kitty Horrorshow, "Anatomy" 🏚 Josh Quissy 🏚 Wikipedia (Abandonment - Legal) 🏚 Ashe Vernon, "Love Disorders and Other Heartaches" 🏚 @/churchrummagesale 🏚 Kitty Horrorshow, Anatomy (Transcribed by @/a-missing-ache) 🏚 Kitty Horrorshow, Anatomy 🏚 @/churchrummagesale 🏚 Wikipedia (Desire) 🏚@/churchrummagesale 🏚 Wikipedia (Hunger - Physiology) 🏚 Wikipedia (Desire) 🏚Emma Rebholz, “No Good Bloodsuckers" from The Misanthropy 🏚 @/zegalba

#~`*musing #(you embody the inherent tragedy of an abandoned house)#(once loved and filled with purpose you are now left cold and alone)#(you are haunted by the living and wish they would come back to you and mend the parts of you that fell into disarray)#(but they'll never come back and you will never be the same)#(you sit grieve for people who are still alive / who left you to rot)#(rooted to the spot you are incapable of moving on as they charge ahead without you)

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dxckinson · 8 months

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Slumping lower in the chair, Dickinson let out a series of rumbly giggles in response to the indignation in Thoreau’s voice. “I’m just doing my part to ease the tension. Plus, I have it on good authority that nicknames ‘increase feelings of comradery' and 'boost the overall morale of the team,’” He hummed, curling his fingers in air quotes. Eyes crinkled with affection, he tracked her movements in the reflection of the glass wall as she walked across the patio. An amused snort escaped his lips when she stopped at the railing behind him, flipping their original positions so she was now in the most strategically advantageous spot.

Turning his focus back to the herd of employees huddled together in small groups behind the glass, he surveyed their collogues with clinical detachment. His eyes paused on familiar faces before shifting on to the next person. “I’ve seen cheerier crowds at funerals,” he muttered. The comparison felt particularly apt at that moment. After all, the likelihood that the bureau would treat a betrayal of this magnitude with anything less than the harshest of punishment was impossible; London’s upcoming court-martial and execution was a reality hanging over all their heads. The clock was ticking, and it was only a matter of time.

He let out a puff of joyless laughter after Thoreau answered his earlier question. “’Scrambling’ is a good way to put it,” he said under his breath. The warm scent of tobacco filled the air, deffused by the smoke escaping the end of her cigarette. It stung his nose in a way he had once found unpleasant but now made his hands itch for the pack of Marlboros tucked in the innermost pocket of his jacket. He wondered how Midge would react to knowing he smoked now. Watching the thin wisp of smoke as it continued its journey into the ether, he sighed deeply. “The fact that none of us saw this coming means he had to be preparing this for a long time. He’s got something big planned.”

It was the most sound and logical assumption anyone could make, given all the facts; a man like London wouldn't commit treason against his country on a whim. Every choice London made was the result of long and careful consideration. And it was that very fact that made this whole ordeal that much more painful, though he couldn't say which was worse: the knowledge that London had left him to be the fall guy even if that would mean certain death for Gael or that London had accurately pegged him as the weakest link among their collogues—which had been more gravely wounded? His heart or his pride? What Dickinson was sure about—knew with absolute certainty— was that London’s plan had already been in motion for at least a year and a half, if not longer.

But he couldn’t tell Thoreau how he knew that without disclousing the role he had played in London's plan. Besides, Woody and the Doc had made abundantly clear that information about his own unauthorized jumps was still highly classified, so telling Midge the truth now would only cause her to fall under unwarranted suspicion. And, more selfishly, his heart wouldn't be able to take it if she too turned her back on him once she knew just how much he had fucked up. Because the signs that something was brewing in London had been there in topics discussed during their private talks, Dick had just been too caught up in his own conspiracy theories to notice who was really pulling the strings and unraveling his life.

The sudden movement of the cigarette’s butt flying through the air pulled him out of his thoughts. He watched the brown plastic on its arch across the air and whooped when it landed neatly in the metal tin. Tilting his head slightly to glance at Thoreau as she took a seat next to him, Dickinson wondered what she was thinking. He wanted to know how she was coping with everything, but the question would inevitably be turned back on him. How could he explain why his feelings kept oscillating between soul-wrenching grief and white-hot rage without raising more questions he had no intention of answering?

But if he avoided talking about London, Thoreau would probably think he brought up Faulkner on purpose. It was a lose-lose situation. Dodging one would lead him down the path of sidestepping the other which would lead him back to square one, rinse, repeat, the loop continues into perpetuity. Dickinson’s gaze dipped down to the empty tray of food on his lap, the cream sauce pooling on the metal surface was congealing into unappealing clumps, he felt sick.

As if sensing the drop in his mood, Midge mercifully presented him an out. He just hoped she wouldn’t judge him too much for leaping on it. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone besides you, me, and Hemmie care about the plight of the Assistant to the Assistant Staff Manager,” He tsked, shaking his head. Back in the dining hall, Weston was wringing his hands and looking back and forth between the doors and the crowd. Gael felt his eyebrows furrow upwards in genuine sympathy.

Depositing his tray on a nearby patio table, Dickinson turned his head to give Midge a wide toothy grin at the mention of Hemingway. Crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbow on his knee, Dickinson propped his chin on his right hand and looked up at her through his lashes. “Hey, since Hemingway is transferring West the funds as we speak, do you think I could have some of that pasta to take home, too? I know your roomie eats like a horse, but that’s still way too much for just the two of you.”

He batted his eyes at her cheekily, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he relaxed into their usual rhythm. Midge’s pragmatic nature had always been grounding in a way he couldn’t fully articulate and, perhaps presumptuously, he had grown to think of her as something like an older sister. (The strict sticklers to the rules had always been the ones closest to his heart, it seemed.)

Dickinson’s smile dropped in an instant when Thoreau surprised him by circling back around to Faulkner. ‘Of course, she wouldn’t just let it go,’ he thought, irritated. But this, too, was an aspect of having an older sister, or so he’d been told (his actual older sister was only a fading fuzzy memory of a girl with long, wavy black hair who’d call Gael her baby and carry him around even when he had gotten too big to sit comfortably on her hip. In actuality he wasn’t even sure of the accuracy of these memories. Perhaps at some point, the image of his sister had merged with those of Miriam and of the feeling of being safely tucked underneath her wing).

Shifting from his sitting position to slouch back into the chair, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave her an annoyed frown, “Faulkner doesn’t do anything that’s unnecessary, even if it doesn’t seem that way to everyone else. So, if Westley expected to get reimbursed but forgot to do the proper paperwork, that’s on him. ‘Sides, what kind of penny-pincher even cares if they get their money back when the bureau pays so well?”

Dickinson inclined his head in the direction of his abandoned tray, “Honestly, it was a little rich but that just means they used the expensive cheese for the sauce. But yeah, if you want to do your civic duty, I salute you,” He placed a hand at his temple for added effect. “You think West is feeling desperate enough to let me get seconds?”

Dickinson was obscured in his corner, just a few ways away, that it almost felt like he was not only attempting to blend into the crowd but also to retreat further into himself. Turning on her heel, she walked a few feet towards his side of the veranda and leaned back against the railing just behind him. “Hemmie? Who the fuck is–” Midge cut her words short as she came to the realization that Dickinson’s time away had unfortunately not dissuaded him from the irritating habit of giving every agent a nickname. “You can’t see me, but I hope you know that I’m rolling my eyes very aggressively right now.” True to her word, she does precisely that.

The nicotine and the fresh air had made her fairly agreeable that night. But in truth, Thoreau was still getting used to having him back, in all senses of the word. In the past two weeks that Agent London had prompted everyone back into action, she found very few opportunities to reconnect with Dickinson. That she should find her old friend back, alone, should count as something very much like a new opportunity, but her heart was instead filled with dread. She had imagined a better reunion for both of them. She had imagined a better life for both of them.

Thoreau took a long drag of her cigarette and, as she exhaled, allowed those stray thoughts to die away in the air. The mention of his former partner took her off-guard, but just as he was careful not to dwell on his slip of the tongue, she made no move to probe on it. In any case, there was no use in digging up old skeletons right now. At present, digging up old skeletons was primarily Agent London’s doing. Or undoing.

Evidently, Dickinson ran along a similar line of thought and made a quick–hm, too quick–move to change the subject. “Honestly, I don’t have a read on it at all,” the words cut across the air, pointed, bitter, and grating even to her own ears. “If London has a long-term goal, I don’t quite see it. And I don’t think anyone else does, either, if everyone’s scrambling for answers.”

As the cigarette stick inched closer and closer to her lips, Thoreau put out the light of her cigarette against the railing and threw the stick, at an angle, into the nearest trash bin. She’d just about withheld the petty urge to cheer as the stick landed perfectly on the round, stainless steel ashtray atop of it. Closing the distance between them, she sat on the folding seat next to his, affording her with a similar vantage point to the dining hall, and to poor little Weston. “And I doubt London’s thought about Weston over there, the poor thing.” She resumed her pointed stare, though her initial concern now faded into something more like detached curiosity, assured of the mechanisms—in this case, their fellow agents with bleeding hearts—set in place that the man would be fairly compensated.

“Hemingway would probably buy the entire thing off Weston’s hands…” By extent, Thoreau would have about a month’s worth of gourmet pasta to look forward to. “Faulkner, I think, would not be so upfront. He’d probably have Weston do another few dozen bureaucratic processes before he gets properly compensated.” A callous and inaccurate statement, perhaps, but one designed to push Dickinson’s buttons.

“Did you enjoy your food, at least? Maybe I'll try it myself, see if it’s worthy enough to sign the damned thing, and save the agents a whole lot of trouble.” Ah, her heroic deed for the day.

#(i am sorry that this is so late 🥺)#~`*agt. thoreau #~`*midge file 01 #~`*thread: pasta & pleasantries

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dxckinson · 8 months

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#~`*musing

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dxckinson · 8 months

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#~`*musing

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dxckinson · 8 months

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In the near silence of the virtually empty bullpen, the hypnotic ticking of an office clock slowly dulled the hotly simmering fury inside Agent Dickinson’s 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 London’s 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 wasn’t 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 ”The Incident” six months ago. He should have known better, had known better the moment he was ushered away to that cute little mandatory ‘welcome home’ 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.

“That’s just how the cookie crumbles,” he thought bitterly. There was nothing he could do about it now, though; the hindsight was meaningless when the Dickinson from six months ago didn’t 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.

MISSION FILE #█████ 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴 : ███████████ 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 : █████ 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 : ███████████ TEXAS 𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 : ███████████████ 𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚄𝙰𝙻𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂 : ONE █████████████████ 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵 : 𝚄𝙽𝙰𝚅𝙰𝙸𝙻𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴

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 “infinite wisdom,” 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 wasn’t stupid, he could read the writing on the wall that kept everyone’s 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. He’d 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 wouldn’t 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 JJ’s 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 Hemingway’s 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 agent’s 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 wasn’t a problem to fix, or at least he wasn’t JJ’s 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 Faulkner’s 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 maybe—

Dickinson’s 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 Hemingway’s 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.

“Sorry, Waymie, I feel like I just got r—,” 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, “...Put through the wringer.”

Sighing deeply, Dickinson removed his hands from his face and leaned back in his desk chair. “Actually, turning off my brain sounds great right about now. You know the pizza place on Fifth and Oak?” 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 haven’t cleared my budget for personal spending yet." Dickinson said, pointing a finger gun at Hemingway, a rueful smile slowly stretching across his face. "You don’t mind paying for me, right?"

WHEN: september 3rd, 1996 ; late evening WHERE: bureau building ; team offices floor STATUS: open to everyone

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.

"you wrapping up anytime soon? because if you're still around in a couple of hours, maybe we could go into town? grab dinner and a drink." acting like everything's normal is not going to solve any of their problems but maybe an outing like this could help them clear their heads. trying to crack the code is an important job but they still gotta eat. "you know, we should turn our brains off for a minute. reset. you in?"

#~`*agt. hemingway #~`*jj_file_01 #(i am sorry that this is so long and if you need me to change anything lmk!)#(also jj my angel my love i'm so sorry that this bitch is being manic and shady around you he's projecting)

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dxckinson · 9 months

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who : agent faulkner, @faulknxr

where : agent dickinson's living quarters

when : march 13, 1994, 6:35 AM

The golden light from the spring sun gently spilled into Agent Dickinson’s quarters through a pair of partially closed curtains. In the still darkened expanse of the bedroom, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls, the light shifting between the warm rays of natural light and the prismatic hues not normally seen by the naked eye. The ribbons of colors shimmered and twirled as if dancing, distorted through a crystal glass wind chime that hung across from the apartment’s central cooling vent. The gentle whooshing of the climate-controlled air and the soft tinkling of the translucent glass beads that swayed in the breeze were both drowned out by the incessant treble of a shrieking radio alarm clock that sat atop a cluttered bedside table.

In the queen-sized mattress next to the nightstand, Agent Dickinson let out a strained curse before he pressed his face deeper into the mattress; the pillow that had been his head rest the night before was folded in half to cover both ears in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. While turning off the alarm would be easier than pretending it didn’t exist, the pounding in his head made the very act of reaching out to shut it off seem utterly impossible.

But he knew he needed to get up; he was running late, and Faulkner was waiting.

Dickinson’s heart clenched behind its cage of flesh and bone, erratically thumping out of rhythm, haunted by some peculiar, misplaced pseudesthesia. The fuzzy remnants of a dream—a nightmare, really—clung to the edges of his subconscious. Stubborn and sticky like the seedpods of the burdock plants that grew in the walking trails he and—In-su—Faulkner frequented in the summertime; those barbed spurs that left a penetrating, stinging itch hours after the intrusion had been removed. The burning sensation of the nearly invisible puncture was the only evidence of a wound. A laughable phantom injury that still hurt regardless.

Chuckling cheerlessly, Dickinson squinted at the time displayed on the green digital screen of the alarm clock. 6:38. He was over thirty minutes late. His chest seized up in a bewildering sob that petered off into an equally mystifying series of sniffles. He couldn’t even remember what it had been that had upset him so much, the fragments of the dream vanishing like wisps of smoke, like fog, when he tried to bring them into focus; leaving behind only the heartache and drying tear tracks as proof that anything had terrorized his sleeping mind.

The only thing he could recall with any certainly were the sound of someone crying, bright white lights, and a cacophony of noises in the distance. But that in itself offered very little insight when it came to narrowing down the memory. All things considered.

“¡Ya! cállate,” Dickinson hissed, eyes closed, as he extended his arm to slam the ‘off’ button of the clock but only managed to bump his fingers into cool glass. He bit back another curse, opened his eyes, and lifted himself on his elbows to reach around the obstruction that had been left on his bedside table. Once the shrill wailing had been silenced, once and for all, Dickinson rolled onto his back and stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

The last vestiges of the nightmare had been blown away by the torrential winds of his waking mind, so it would be pointless for him to continue to dwell on it now. But there was something gnawing at the deepest alcoves in his psyche. An animallike dread made his skin break out into gooseflesh and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A ghostly chill, a creeping horror that had dug its claws into the core of his being. Dickinson wondered idly who had emerged to haunt his subconscious last night. Which one of the many ghosts that trailed behind him had come seeking their toll for the years he had stolen from them?

The thought sent another pang of melancholy through him. Dickinson pressed his hands to his face in response, trying to clear his mind. If this was the penitence he had to pay for letting Agent Fitzgerald goad him into another drinking contest, then maybe this would finally teach him to stop letting things get this far. Everyone knew Dickinson was a terrible drunk; a lightweight who’d get overly emotional—and then embarrassingly clingy. So if he had to bet, Dickinson would suppose the Fitz got a kick out of seeing him turn into a weepy mess, teary face pressed into the side of one of his usual victims (Faulkner, Whitman, or Hemingway) whose side he’d cling to for the rest of the night.

‘It was Faulkner last night,’ Dickinson thought sluggishly. It was usually Faulkner as of late. And since Dickinson had woken up in his own place instead of being deposited onto someone’s couch, it was the only logical conclusion; his long-term mission partner was the only one Dickinson trusted enough with a key to his apartment, after all. Whitman would probably try to pull a prank (or two) and Hemingway’s susceptibility to peer pressure made him a liability even if Whitman didn’t have a key.

Grumbling with no real heat behind the sound, Dickinson recalled the glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand, another hint that pointed towards his partner. Sitting up he squinted at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom before he shifted his gaze to the glass and noticed that there was a square of paper placed over it, and two white circular tablets of medicine atop of that. Dickinson snorted as he carefully pinched the aspirin pills between his thumb, index, and middle finger so he could snatch up the handwritten letter between his final two. Popping the medication into his mouth, he brought the note to eye level and blindly pawed for the cup. Sipping on the water, he scanned the note, which read:

Good morning, Agent Dickinson: I hope you slept alright. Please take these pills with food and water. There is a bowl of caldo de pollo in the fridge. Two minutes in the Radarange should suffice. Our meeting time at Briefing Room A is 700 hours. I shall get you by 645 hours if I do not receive a page back by 630 hours. Cordially, Agent Faulkner. P.S. Please do not worry about my suit jacket from last night. I properly rinsed the discharge.㋡

Dickinson choked on his drink, dribbling water onto his chin and chest. Coughing and pounding at his sternum, he placed the glass back onto the bedside table and looked at the time.

6:43.

Faulkner was probably already unlocking the door.

#~`*agt. faulkner #~`*in-su_file_01 #~`*thread: odds and ends #~`*records‚ reports‚ and other little reminders #(if i mentioned your character and you would like me to change anything lmk!!)

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