Response #2 to Seasons: The First Summer
Title: The First Summer
Set post-S5.
The first job he can find, after everything, is a straight-laced desk position at Langley, complete with a rented townhouse in suburbia.
The CIA doesn’t question the black spot on his resume, or his family. Or, rather, if anyone did question the details their doubts would be quickly silenced by their superiors.
He’s not too much of a people person, never has been, and he doesn’t talk to his new colleagues much, simply biding his time until things get better. He thinks of returning to field work again but every time he raises his pen to sign the application he throws it away. His time for action is over.
One day in the heat of summer, Dave and Erin, his cubicle neighbors, sit down at his cafeteria table and, after the necessary preliminaries, Dave springs the question he’s been dreading.
“So what did you do before?”
“I worked for the agency in other capacities,” he says, slowly, feeling the air-conditioning chill the back of his neck.
“Spy stuff, like 007?” Erin asks excitedly, and he restrains his urge to smash their faces in.
“No,” he says, forcing thoughts of guns and missions and dangling from the side of a skyscraper in Tokyo with Sydney talking to him over comms out of his head, “More desk stuff. Typing. Cryptography. Some lab analysis; I was a chem major in college.”
Erin looks disappointed and tries to hide it. He smiles loosely and excuses himself, heading back to his office.
When he gets home, after a sweltering car ride spent glued to the leather interior of his new Agency-issue car, she pounces on him immediately, hair frizzed and eyes red-rimmed.
“Did you get the formula? Because if you forgot I swear to God I will use that judo move you showed me last week on your-”
“Relax, Gibson. It’s in the briefcase.” he pulls out the formula mix and hands it to her, pausing to hug her tightly for a moment.
“Oh,” Rachel says, her features softening, “Sorry, Tom. It’s just...it’s so overwhelming, having Isabelle, and everything feels so different. It’s hard, being here all day while you’re at work. I can’t even go out in the heat; she’s more susceptible to heat stroke.”
“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “We’ll survive.”
She hugs him again, leaning her head on his shoulder. The baby starts crying in the nursery upstairs and they disentangle after a moment’s pause.
“We always do.”
Set post-S5.
The first job he can find, after everything, is a straight-laced desk position at Langley, complete with a rented townhouse in suburbia.
The CIA doesn’t question the black spot on his resume, or his family. Or, rather, if anyone did question the details their doubts would be quickly silenced by their superiors.
He’s not too much of a people person, never has been, and he doesn’t talk to his new colleagues much, simply biding his time until things get better. He thinks of returning to field work again but every time he raises his pen to sign the application he throws it away. His time for action is over.
One day in the heat of summer, Dave and Erin, his cubicle neighbors, sit down at his cafeteria table and, after the necessary preliminaries, Dave springs the question he’s been dreading.
“So what did you do before?”
“I worked for the agency in other capacities,” he says, slowly, feeling the air-conditioning chill the back of his neck.
“Spy stuff, like 007?” Erin asks excitedly, and he restrains his urge to smash their faces in.
“No,” he says, forcing thoughts of guns and missions and dangling from the side of a skyscraper in Tokyo with Sydney talking to him over comms out of his head, “More desk stuff. Typing. Cryptography. Some lab analysis; I was a chem major in college.”
Erin looks disappointed and tries to hide it. He smiles loosely and excuses himself, heading back to his office.
When he gets home, after a sweltering car ride spent glued to the leather interior of his new Agency-issue car, she pounces on him immediately, hair frizzed and eyes red-rimmed.
“Did you get the formula? Because if you forgot I swear to God I will use that judo move you showed me last week on your-”
“Relax, Gibson. It’s in the briefcase.” he pulls out the formula mix and hands it to her, pausing to hug her tightly for a moment.
“Oh,” Rachel says, her features softening, “Sorry, Tom. It’s just...it’s so overwhelming, having Isabelle, and everything feels so different. It’s hard, being here all day while you’re at work. I can’t even go out in the heat; she’s more susceptible to heat stroke.”
“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “We’ll survive.”
She hugs him again, leaning her head on his shoulder. The baby starts crying in the nursery upstairs and they disentangle after a moment’s pause.
“We always do.”