Realistic or Modern — R E D B A L L

[timshel]

 

[timshel]

Mood

Buzzing with anticipation.

Location

Atlanta International Airport, GA.

Outfit

Dark navy blue two-piece suit and tie.

Tag

oxytocin

THEODORE WALKER.

Despite the amount of time he’d spent on planes for his work, something about flying still left Theo restless after all this time.

Perhaps his apprehension in the air had something to do with the very nature of these trips. Many people his age that he’d meet in passing—at the grocery store, at diners, friends of friends—seemed to envy that he’d flown to California and New York City once or twice a month for the past year or so.

“Oh, they’re not vacations. These are work trips,” he'd always quickly correct them. Which usually lead to the polite, expected follow up question of what he did for a living. “I work for the FBI.” Eyes would predictably widen, people leaned in, drawing just the slightest bit closer. Anyone could take a look at him and see that he wasn’t some stud secret agent—so then came a more detailed probe. What is it that you do, then?

“I’m inventing a new field in criminology. I travel to corrective institutions all over the country to interview violent offenders in an attempt to characterize their actions, upbringings, thoughts, et cetera. The ultimate goal is to be able to predict what types of people commit certain crimes in order to assist law enforcement’s investigation efforts.”

His older supervisor, who knew his protege could go all over the place, literally made sure he memorized that blurb after their first round of interviews - but he never really knew what to say afterwards. There was really no way to know how people were going to react, he’d realized over the few years he’d been doing this. Sometimes the most interested people that he could speak to at length had appearances that beguiled their morbid fascinations. Sometimes the most hardened-looking men couldn’t handle even the mention of death.

Theo was especially on edge for this particular trip, again to a destination he’d never been before. For every person that laughed in his face when he described the logic behind criminal profiling and claimed that he was trying in vain to characterize the random actions of disturbed people, there was another who saw the same potential in it that he did. Even if he’d guessed correctly and helped local police departments in Virginia solve relatively unimportant, low-pressure cases with this method, it was very much experimental and in development. Suddenly he was faced with a situation where the stakes were very, very high.

Regardless, the mayor of Atlanta was one of those people who saw its promise. Either that, or he was incredibly desperate—he couldn’t blame him in the slightest, given what was happening. Theo would have had to live under a rock to not notice what was transpiring in that area: ten children had either gone missing or been murdered in a little less than a year’s time. All no older than teenagers, all black, all from the more impoverished areas of downtown Atlanta.

Even if his choice of wording was harsh, perhaps the mayor was right to call the Atlanta Police Department inept—how hadn’t they recognized that there was a pattern? It seemed obvious to him, but the police reports (he combed through every single one that had been made so far) didn’t mention even a hint of speculation about a serial killer.

The young man was buzzing with all the possibilities as he carded through the general case file given to him back in Quantico. He spread the documents, articles, and newspaper clippings out on his tiny seat tray (in plain sight of other passengers, who gave him looks), carefully highlighting and annotating where he saw fit. He followed up by jotting down the things that struck him as most important in a pocket-sized notebook: names of victims, names of their immediate family, locations where they were last seen—things he very much wanted to follow up with as soon as he touched down in Atlanta. It didn’t seem like that kind of work had been done yet, which, frankly, Theo couldn’t fathom why.

He wasn’t going to be alone in his effort to navigate this extensive web of connections and victims and locations, though. Since the very intent of this FBI presence was to be collaborative and helpful, his boss paired him up with a local detective from APD. “You’re not going to know everything about Atlanta the minute you get there,” he was warned the second Theo opened his mouth to question why. “And you can’t go in burning bridges right away. People are dying, Walker. Kids. Don’t lose sight of that.”

The messenger bag slung over his shoulder, nearly bursting at the seams with all the documents and textbooks it held, was almost heavier than his suitcase, packed to last for an indefinite amount of time. Theo tried to not struggle with the weight of both bags, but the sudden onslaught of humidity and doing this in a suit made the effort much more difficult. And the longer he spent trying to find the drop off/pick up zone, he became acutely aware that this was the first time in his life he was so conscious of his own race—he hadn’t been around this many black people before. The realization was a bit humbling.

Finally, he found the lineup of bus drivers, chafferers, and distant relatives holding up signs with names on them. He squinted through the distance, which just teased at the limit of his eyesight, but eventually saw his name neatly printed on one of those signs. The man holding it was approximately his age, rather disheveled-looking for a detective, and less than thrilled to be standing there—even if it made him seem unapproachable, he personally couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Marcus was his name, right? Marcus Sullivan. That was it.

Theo approached the other man with an easy, pleasant expression, flashing a smile. “Hi. You must be Detective Sullivan,” he greeted, extending his hand out to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I wish it was under different circumstances, of course, but I'm looking forward to working with you.”

coded by weldherwings.

 

[oxytocin]

marcus would never consider himself asocial. he’d been popular all throughout his youth, got on well with his coworkers, made a new drinking buddy on every drinking excursion. hell, at the risk of sounding haughty, if asked, marcus would describe himself as a pretty affable man.

that’s why he was so confused as to why his blood boiled as he drove to the airport. he knew they needed help—badly, and that there was undeniable benefit in commissioning assistance from individuals with more experience in matters such as these.

but god, was his ego bruised.

he had to remind himself constantly that finding the perpetrator of these brutal child slaughters was of more importance than his pride. though he had immensely personal reasons to want this case solved as soon as possible—marcus was atlanta born and raised, with nieces and nephews of the same age as those disappearing. beyond the obvious, natural human empathy that should kick in when hearing of missing children, there was a part of him that feared an individual who felt wronged by the apd would go after loved ones.

he knew all of these things, yet he still didn’t take kindly to the fact that he was supposed to go pick up the station’s savior.

on the radio, a baseball game played as white noise. marcus imagined the gentleman he was supposed to be scooping up: some bratty know-it-all who figured himself better because he worked with hotshots.

his grip tightened slightly on the wheel.

perhaps a portion of his loathing was based in the lack of faith the mayor placed in his police department. instead of forcing the chief to get his thumb out of his ass, to treat these tragedies with the severity they required, he went above them. it dealt a massive blow to marcus’s confidence.

he scratched gently at his skull through the thick mass he called hair. he was messier in appearance than would perhaps be suggested for a first meeting, face multiple weeks unshaved, hair in an unkempt ‘fro, but he felt there were more important things to worry about than appearance. (plus, scheduling a barber’s appointment meant he’d be asked relentlessly about when he’d tie himself down, which was a conversation he’d rather die than have).

he pulled into parking, and poured over the sign made so carefully by the station secretary. theodore walker. completely unassuming name, yet it felt like with it carried the entire future of the atlanta police department.

marcus hated that.

he stood in a line with others with tasks similar to his, face set in a near petulantly bored pout, staring out for anyone he may guess to be the man of the hour.

what he saw surprised him. it was a man (white, of course), of his age, clean-kept to the point that it almost made marcus uncomfortable. he was attractive, beyond objectively so, and marcus became acutely aware that his face was perhaps not the friendliest.

he cocked a smile of his own: crooked, easy, loaded with mild humor. he gripped the other’s hand, and gave it a firm shake. “agent walker,” he began, “welcome to atlanta.”​

 

[timshel]

Mood

Eager.

Location

Atlanta International Airport, GA.

Outfit

Dark navy blue two-piece suit and tie.

Tag

oxytocin

THEODORE WALKER.

There was something about this detective he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Even if Theo was admittedly not the best at reading others, Marcus was no doubt in a league of his own; he would have to be totally oblivious to miss the drastic change in his expression. The word turbulent came to mind for some reason as he took just a second to look him over, taking him in.

He could have sworn the handshake lingered just slightly longer than the norm. “… Thank you.” Maybe he was already overthinking it.

But there it was again—that horribly uncomfortable feeling of something forgotten and shriveled and ugly finally stirring again from deep in his chest. Theo had gotten quite good at ignoring it, to the point he was convinced he’d finally starved whatever it was out, but it still reared its desperate head when he had interactions like this with particularly attractive male strangers.

Theo pushed it down once more. He shrugged to move his bag's slipping leather strap back up his shoulder, then followed after Marcus as he headed to his car, staying right on his heels.

“You’ll have to forgive me for cutting right to the chase,” he said as they walked, “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, I’m sure. But I finally got the chance to give these cases some thought on the plane—I just got back from New York last week, and I’d been transcribing that interview when I got assigned here.”

He cleared his throat. “Anyway.” He had to stop himself from trailing on about what had been a very revealing conversation with the Son of Sam. It’ll give you something really interesting to talk about later. “I’m not sure how much interviewing has been done already, but I did come up with a list of people I know I’d love to talk to.”

“I’m really interested in speaking to the mothers of these victims,” Theo continued, glancing to the side in an attempt to make eye contact with the detective. “So we can find out who their friends are—were. Learn more about where they go, what they do for fun, to get extra cash, the like. I think it’ll give us a more definitive answer of where some of them might have been abducted—if that’s even the right word. Who knows? They could have gone willingly.”

Theo again had to consciously stop himself from speculating too much. What little he let slip might have walked that thin line between relevant discussion and harm, anyway. It would have been irresponsible of him to start sharing his unfounded thoughts of who this perpetrator was, especially considering how controversial they were likely going to be; the actual boots on the ground work had to happen first.

He sighed softly, then turned to fully face the other man once they reached the curb. “How does that sound?” Maybe the grin he wore was ill-timed, considering the subject matter, but Theo absolutely loved this kind of work. His enthusiasm was palpable. “You ready to get to work?”

coded by weldherwings.

 

[oxytocin]

the agent was peculiar. marcus noted the feel of the other’s hand in his own (and noted simultaneously how very pleasant the feel was—warm, firm, and weighty), and the beast within him many years repressed clawed its way to the surface to hold that hand long enough to commit that feeling to memory.

a pit formed itself deep in marcus’s abdomen. he had a distinct feeling this partnership may prove dangerous.

he walked perhaps two steps ahead for a time, attempting to steady the rush of his heart rate from his flash of embarrassment. it upset him. he was no longer an adolescent—any odd emotional flair ups should be easily suppressible, or shouldn’t occur at all. he was a grown man, swooning like his niece when elvis played on her radio.

it flooded him with shame.

alongside the roar of his heart in his ears was the excited flurry of words from his new companion that he hadn’t quite tuned in to.

he slowed pace to listen.

against his better judgement, marcus cast a sidelong glance to the agent by his side, in an attempt to see if the man was as handsome as his first glance had suggested. the man was only slightly taller than himself, clean shaven, soft cut jaw. he was a modern rudy vallée—the type that would make housewives and their daughters swoon, that made men like himself jealous. and, based on the way he carried himself? he wasn’t even aware.

but he was overeager. when theodore paused at the curb, marcus let out a low chuckle.

“i’m very grateful you’re so excited to solve this,” he began, voice poorly masking his amusement, “lord knows we need somebody with some fire under their ass. but, unfortunately, i’m under order to bring you straight to the chief.” marcus cocked his eyebrow, and squinted at him. he had to look up, slightly, but he found that he didn’t really mind. “think you can keep all that excitement under wraps until you get some inside info?”​

 

[timshel]

Mood

Stifled.

Location

Atlanta International Airport, GA.

Outfit

Dark navy blue two-piece suit and tie.

Tag

oxytocin

THEODORE WALKER.

Detective Sullivan wouldn’t have had a way of knowing, but his response coupled with the laugh stung just a little.

The comment immediately went to Theo’s head, starting the torturous loop of anxiety and self-doubt. Was that a good-natured laugh or a forced, uncomfortable one, where you had no idea how to dispel the air? He didn’t know this Marcus fellow well enough to say definitively, and the uncertainty ate at him. Again, the feeling that he was wrong persisted.

Why had he treated this like some overeager child? Even if his enthusiasm wasn’t entirely unwarranted—he’d been assigned to the biggest mystery in the country, which made this the career opportunity of a lifetime—he walked that frustratingly thin line between normal and abnormal behavior. In (painful, awkward, agonizing) retrospect, Theo always found himself on the wrong side of that line, and this was the last place he wanted to make a bad impression on a coworker.

And he was going to constantly be with this particular coworker in front of him: they both had done enough of this kind of work by this point to know countless late nights, phone calls, overtime, and painfully early mornings were going to be the norm. The gaze this man met him with was intense, with a still seriousness just beneath this thin veil of amusement. His eyes cut deep. He wanted to shudder.

He swallowed hard, hoping to flush some of the sudden anxious tightness out of his throat.

Theo managed an easy look down at the other man, hoping his expression hadn’t wavered at all. “Oh—of course,” he answered lightly. “I’m sorry. You’d think I would have known by now how this all goes, but…”

He was just a little relieved to break off the eye contact. The man spoke as he moved, taking it upon himself to load his luggage in the back seat. “I guess you could say I’m just more than glad to be out of the office,” he added with a mild laugh.

coded by weldherwings.