Chief Arthur Kirkland of the black division roared through the cubicles, a stormcloud of papers following in his wake. "Francis Bonnefoy is gone!"

"We don't know that yet," Chief Elizabeta Héderváry of the gray division mumbled, holding her index finger over her earpiece. The phone call rang and rang, and they grew more impatient the longer it went unanswered. "Damn it, you loon, pick up."

Ludwig Beilschmidt rose suddenly to his feet from the cubicle across from Alfred, scaring the scheiße out of Alfred and making him choke on his Starbucks—his second Starbucks in less than twenty-four hours. It was six in the morning. "Vargas's camera is down!"

Héderváry grumbled to herself. "We should wait. To make sure we haven't made a mistake. After all, Bonnefoy could just be—"

"We can't wait!" Ludwig protested. "They already have my brother, and Antonio! The gray division is defunct! Bad things could be happening as we speak. Someone needs to go in now. I volunteer myself."

Alfred snorted, throwing off his headphones at last and rising to his feet as well to join the discussion. "Wait just a blessed second. You're not going in. I'm going in." Alfred felt assaulted; Ludwig had only started his position as monitor a few weeks ago, probably due to his brother Gilbert's influence! Also he was gay for his subject. (Like, really gay. Alfred considered himself to be a bit gay, but Ludwig's gayness put that bit of him to shame. And, yeah, sure, the attachment also jeopardized his trustworthiness, but whatever.)

Arthur Kirkland shook his head immediately. "No. Agent Beilschmidt the Younger is correct. With the monitor down, Ludwig will at least have Vargas's last location, while you still have someone to watch."

Toris awkwardly stood, bending his back over the cubicle as if he wasn't sure he was welcome in the conversation. "Um, have you considered… Well, one time, Felicks got mad and threw his phone against the wall and broke it. I had to monitor him through only his laptop for a week. How long has—"

"He's been down since twelve thirty-six this morning," Ludwig supplied with a glance at his screen, grabbing his jacket. "Last location: somewhere north, downtown."

"Francis isn't picking up," Héderváry growled, ripping out the earpiece. "Maybe the gray division really is defunct. Alrighty. What do you say, Chief?"

"I say I'll let him go, Chief," replied Kirkland. "After all, we have nothing on Vargas yet." He turned to Beilschmidt. "But you must keep your personal cam on at all times. If there's even the slightest whisper of trouble, radio in at once."

"Affirmative." Ludwig was already halfway into the elevator.

Alfred huffed loudly, facing his bosses. "Fine! But I'm taking an extra long lunch break!"

Ivan liked to walk around town during his lunch breaks. He and his paper bag full of last night's stroganoff took a stroll down the National Mall, enjoying the summer sunshine. His neck was sweating like crazy—he had never really adjusted to the sweltering DC climate—but he enjoyed watching his scarf billow around him in the occasional gusts of wind. Up on the hill where the Washington Monument stood, it was windier.

Ivan sat against the roots of a tree a respectable distance from the giant obelisk. Its long shadow stretched languidly across the empty earth, bordering The Ellipse northward. He enjoyed the surreal feeling of being here; the closer you got to the Monument, the quieter the city was, and the more menacing seemed the parade circle of American flags surrounding the spire. People seemed afraid to stray onto the wide green, clinging instead to the concrete walking paths as they approached. Ivan had a wide berth between bicyclists on the street and tourists on the hill; he relaxed and dug into his meal.

People-watching was one of Ivan's favorite hobbies, aside from memeing and cooking and knitting and drinking, in that order. Gardening was a dandy profession, but alas, it was lonely. Sometimes he worked alongside volunteers, but often he ended up talking to the plants. He wondered what his FBI agent made of that and blushed at the thought. Then he realized that, in talking to his phone and pretending it was an FBI agent, he was doing the same exact thing.

Food trucks, maintenance crews and tourists passed by down on the street. Ivan occasionally waved to some, who gave him confused smiles and half-waves back. Americans were friendly; at least the ones that didn't look like politicians. Squirrels and ladies in pantsuits were also friendly, but crowds of families all wearing the same color shirt and pigeons were not. Ivan's eyes latched onto one man who was making his way downtown, walking fast. He held one hand up to an earpiece and the other around a bag of Wang Yao's Wok & Roll food truck takeout. Politician or businessman? Ivan couldn't tell just yet. He squinted and leaned in for a closer analysis.

He was somewhat white-looking, but much tanner than Ivan. His blond hair was dirtier blond than Ivan's, and he was tall—but not as tall as Ivan. He wore a dark casual suit and dark sunglasses. Ivan smiled. He was a sucker for guys in shades. Just as the man neared his spot, Ivan lifted a hand to wave.

Their eyes met across a crowded street—or, at least, Ivan presumed they made eye contact, because he couldn't see any eyes behind the sunglasses. However, the guy stopped abruptly in his tracks. When he opened his mouth his voice was loud and befuddled. "Holy guacamole!"

"Oh," said Ivan, unmoving. "Hello."

The man glanced up and down and around the scene. Then, after a few more seconds of staring at Ivan, his expression unreadable, he took a step closer. "Uh, hi."

"Hi," Ivan echoed. "I am wondering. Are you politician or businessperson?"

Another step closer. He was clenching the bag of Chinese food awkwardly tight. "Businessperson," he answered, quickly, tensely.

"Oh, good. I don't like politicians. What kind of business?" Ivan wondered, sitting up straighter.

"Politicians sure do suck ass," the man replied straightforwardly. Instead of answering the second question, he introduced one of his own. "Um, say, what are you eating? It looks good."

Ivan lifted his Tupperware for the man to see, and smiled brightly. "I will let you try if you tell me your name!" (He left the man's question unanswered in turn; Ivan could be stubborn and mysterious, too, if he wanted.)

Maybe it was his imagination, but the man flinched. He shifted his weight, but obviously the culinary appeal was winning him over, as he took a step in even closer. "My name. Right. I'm...My name is...um. You can call me…"

Ivan waited, leaning back on his hands in the grass. "Do not think too hard," he teased. "You can write it down and I can read it if you want."

This made the man break into a sudden grin. "Read. Yes. Well, I'll have you know my name's Alfred, I'm nineteen, and I never fucking learned how to read."

A beat.

Then, Ivan felt his heart swell with pure joy, and a sharp peal of laughter burst out of him from somewhere buried deep inside. He recognized the reference easily. "The Vine!"

"Alfred" looked away. Quietly and quickly, he wheezed out, "Ahhh, I'm sorry, sorry if it's cringey…"

Ivan gave a grin of his own. "It is not cringe. It is dank."

"...Right." Alfred turned back and stared at him for a second, before whipping off his shades and falling to a crouch in front of Ivan's picnic. Ivan was delighted; he wore actual glasses under the sunglasses, and under those, his eyes were as blue as the sky! "Okay. But now you gotta gimme the food, pal. You promised."

"Oh!" Ivan realized he was still holding the plate of beef stroganoff. "I do not have another fork…"

"Oh, hang on a hot second—I got it." Alfred dug around in his takeout bag and victoriously extracted a pair of chopsticks. "Yao has yelled at me before, but I swear this'll work. I mean, as long as it's not poisoned or anything." He made perplexing eye contact with Ivan.

Ivan giggled. He watched as the "businessman" misused the chopsticks struggling to pick up a cluster of cold noodles, and, surprisingly, after a few tries, succeeded. "You know Wang Yao?"

Alfred shrugged and made a vague grunt, his mouth full, sauce covering his face. Adorable?!1!? "We are acquainted, I guess."

Ivan leaned closer. "In business?" Wang Yao's Wok & Roll food truck was a common sight all around town. Ivan would see it on one end of the Mall in the morning, and on the complete other end by the afternoon. He had a theory there were more than one truck, but hadn't been able to prove it yet.

"Sure, if you really wanna call it 'business.' I always buy his food cuz it's damn s'well, and, as a compliment for being a regular customer, he always rips me off and charges me extra." Alfred grinned again, as if he found this hilarious. Ivan laughed a little. "Oh! Hey, wanna read the fortune cookie?"

Ivan was a bit concerned Alfred hadn't said anything about Ivan's own food yet, but was forced to let it pass, since Alfred was already digging in the bag for the cookie. "Okay." He wondered if Alfred was superstitious, as well as hyperactive.

"It says Secret lives destroy lives, aru." Alfred glanced quickly up at Ivan. "Hah. Wow, if that ain't sinister. Um, okay. Our lucky numbers are three and twelve, nine and eleven, and ten thousand thirty-two."

It was getting cold under this shade, Ivan thought. He wanted the sun to come back and burn his face. He would be able to read Alfred's expressions better in the light, too; he decided liked how expressive Alfred was. Ivan was a fan of emojis, but you just didn't get the same kind of interaction online, where no one showed their faces. Not that having online friends was bad. Since Alfred seemed to be somewhat woke in memeculture, Ivan wondered if Alfred was one of his million followers. "Ten thousand thirty-two is very specific."

"No, but I'm like, what's with the nine eleven thing?" Alfred threw the little paper to the ground, crunching off his end of the cookie. With his mouth full, he went on. "If you ask me, it wasn't even Bush. Oh, no, honey. Clearly the attacks were orchestrated by the aliens." Crunch, crunch. "Actually, you'd be surprised by just how much history the aliens were involved in." He said this as if it was pure fact.

Ivan stared at him for a second. Then, slowly, he began to hum the X-Files theme.

Alfred started to guffaw. It was a little obnoxious, and a lot loud, and Ivan never wanted it to end. By thinking this, he cursed himself, because just then Alfred's laughing spiel halted and he sighed out, "Dude, I have to go. I'll be late and my boss is already mad at me. Thanks for letting me eat your food and all."

Ivan inhaled. "Did you like it?"

"Oh, totally." A draft of wind made Alfred's hair stick up, and he brushed it out of the way while he put his shades back on. "It was, as you said, 'dank.'"

Even Ivan cringed finally at that one. He had finally reached approximate fluency in English—or at least Memglish—and wasn't sure "dank" was a good adjective to use to describe food. But it was too late to coach Alfred on his technique, because Alfred was standing up, and he was gathering his food bag, and he was leaving—

"I am glad you talked to me," Ivan said hastily. "If your boss is mad at you just fire them and come talk to me more!"

Alfred stretched out his arms over his head. "Hah. Wish that was how that worked, but...nah. He's a respectable, good guy, but he like, blows a gasket every time I take a coffee break. I really better go."

"...Oh." Ivan was running out of things to say. He had hoped Alfred would explain where his job was and what else he liked to eat and what his phone number was and where he lived and who else he knew in DC, and was just about to begin asking him these questions when Alfred interrupted yet again.

"See you 'round, then, Ivan!" Alfred waved. A "See you 'round," then. So it wasn't over.

Ivan picked up the dropped fortune slip from the ground and stretched out on his back below the tree. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Alfred stroll off eastwardly, in the direction Ivan himself would have to be making his way soon. "Do I look very silly, Mr. FBI?" he asked to the heavens. "I just want a friend, and you are my only friend, but I cannot be seeing you, so it doesn't count."

A lifetime ago, he had thought he had found friends. When everyone on the surface web would only use him for memes, Ivan had directed himself to the deep web, and in turn the dark web, and months later had somehow ended up owing thousands to some nameless corporation interface. Moving to America with what he had left, Ivan had become a grunt worker for the hacker circle. He would hack the government sites whenever he could sneak into the computers. Ivan was never able to read the content he stole, but it obviously had to be of some importance, because he didn't even know the names of his "employers." It was funny Alfred talked about his boss getting mad at him; if Ivan screwed up, the circle would stop shielding him, probably leading Ivan to be locked up by order of more than one country.

Ivan had dreams of a life back in Russia, playing in the forest with his sisters, then sitting before the fire while Katya knitted him scarfs and Natalya read fairy tales aloud. He missed home.

Beep, beep! Ivan sat up, but it was only the sound of the Wok & Roll food truck honking at someone in the street as it migrated after the lunch rush. Ivan smiled to himself. He had caught it on the move, so maybe there was only one. Secret lives destroy lives, aru. It was a message from wise old Wang Yao to him, and he just knew it.

Ivan pictured Alfred again, and his last words. "See you 'round, Ivan!" Something seemed off.

No one ever talked to Ivan, really. Ivan had had to initiate their conversation, and to practically bribe Alfred to keep him talking.

There it was. Ivan had asked for Alfred's name, but Ivan had never given his own name. Ivan had a near-perfect memory; he wouldn't have just forgotten that detail of the conversation, and he knew he would remember having talked to Alfred before. Ivan did not wear a nametag, nor was his name emblazoned anywhere else. "Alfred" had known his name.

Now that he thought about it, "Alfred" kept a pretty secretive life, too.

"Nothing!" Ludwig had returned, throwing his jacket over the cubicle wall and collapsing at his desk in defeat. "Vargas is...he must be innocent. I found absolutely nothing! It was just like Toris said; he dropped his phone in a pot of boiling water. It's useless now. I do not understand!"

Chief Héderváry patted him on the shoulder. "You're doing fine. He's just a tricky one. You'll have to monitor him live. We'll figure it out soon, and your brother and the rest of the gray division will be back here drinking and flirting and sleeping on the job and causing shenanigans like normal in no time!"

Alfred, normally the first to get the popcorn, wasn't even paying attention to the drama anymore. His desk smelled like soy sauce. It was four-fifteen. His laptop was up. Ivan would be on within the hour. Tonight, he was understandably more eager to see what would happen once the face filled the screen.

Gosh darn—Alfred would have to rethink the whole visual now! Ivan had turned out to be much taller irl, and his eyes were most definitely closer to the purple side of blue. He had also acted much friendlier than Alfred had expected, although the creepy undertone wasn't mistaken. Part of the anxiety had been hiding himself; Alfred had tried to think up a fake name and excuse, but found himself impossibly unable to lie when Ivan stared at him so intensely.

"Hello, Mr. FBI!" Right on cue, the man's happy face appeared on the laptop. Alfred sighed. "Wow, have I got some news for you!"

Alfred wondered if Ivan would make a good monitoring agent.

criminal - britney

Wow, I'm really impressed with how much support I got so soon after I published this messy joke of a story! I'll keep it up, then! I have at least a few more chapters planned, but no idea how long this'll end up being. Whatever happens, I hope you'll stay with me and enjoy! ;)(;