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 kühl

the peregrine soliton.

1986. 18th of September.

The clouds by Agent Dickinson’s head roll across the plane’s oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulkner’s eyes. He hasn’t 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, it’s 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.

1986. 18th of September. 

his day begins way before sunrise and it’s 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 he’s used to the sound, he comes to a lot more gentle, a lot more peaceful—the epitome of what he’s trying to become. it’s 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 he—exactly, until when? until he gets bored? until he’s found out? 

truth is, the locals stopped asking him about his origins months ago. the curiosity has evaporated rather quickly, they don’t even ask about his french—his only connection to home, real home, he’s ever had a grasp of—anymore. somewhere down the line, they’ve accepted bernard as their own; he’s no longer the intimidating alien who’s arrived overnight and stayed. people don’t do that here, tourists come and go but the community never grows with the help of the outside. 

Walt Whitman, “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”, Leaves of Grass

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 — 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.

"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 and—well, 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 like—friendship 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 know—final 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 coin—hemingway'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 out—" 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."

Richard Siken, ‘The Long and Short of It’ (via halflunar)

*survives the horrors by being such a silly goofy guy that my presence fundamentally changes the genre*

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 Hemingway’s cheery chat with the austerity of a priest, fingers steepled in a pointed tent at his chest.

“Agent, I hope not. Most of us probably have a mission tomorrow, and our mental faculties must stay sharp,” 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. “Ah, would you like me to remind everyone periodically to consume water? I can set my watch hourly at your call.”

After offering his services, Agent Faulkner nods and smiles — one he workshopped with Hemingway years ago — until it dawns on him that he may not be upholding his end of the deal when he promised Agent Dickinson earlier that he’d loosen his parti pris toward unsupervised gatherings for tonight. So, Faulkner makes it clear for the other agent, “I 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.”

He holds out a glossy paper gift bag toward the other man. Inside, four crystal rocks glasses clink against each other gently.

“Now you can drink more of…” Faulkner eyes the mix in Hemingway’s cup. However, no amount of Agent Training can help Faulkner, a non-drinker, here. “…what you made in these at your leisure, Agent.”

Faulkner’s placid features ripple into enlarged eyes and slightly lifted brows for a flash. Karaoke? Processing what he’s just heard, the agent holds himself back from uttering his momentary shock as the logic stands. It is Hemingway’s 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 won’t ruin the atmosphere with his monotone singing. “Affirmative, 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?”

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. “What 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.”

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 two—they'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 time—he'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 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.

the answer doesn't come immediately and hemingway starts wondering if he should just repeat everything he's just said—he 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 stretch—useless 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 question—the 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 someone—not 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 into—for 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 order—which 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 nothing—and 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 joking—or half-joking because he does take his music very seriously—to 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 asked—he'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 what—don'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 day—annoying, exhausting, and complicated for no reason. "how's gomita doing?" he tries instead.

A. S. Byatt, Possession (via virtucso)

          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 drinking—he 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. "