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The line between sleep and wakefulness is thin and sharp. McCabe crosses it with ease, they step out of bed, move to the closet, dress themselves in a button up and slacks that’s stiff and heavy with starch, and when they reach for the handle of their bedroom door, the sun not yet up, they realize it’s saturday.
The morning momentum leaves them with a pathetic pop. McCabe gets back in bed, wrinkling their clothes, and pulls the covers back up to their shoulders. They wait for the sun to arrive.
There’s chatter outside their dorm room. The clicks and bangs of lockers, the thud of boots being dropped, it’s easy for them to spend a weekend. It’s easy for McCabe to lay there, belt digging into their side, stewing in jealousy.
It’s nearly nine, now, and they’re hungry. It’s nine and they’re hurting, but getting up means changing, reironing their clothes, whatever unpredictable hello’s the hallway will require and putting on a smile for the pretty receptionist who’s on shift about now. Then deciding breakfast, checking if they can pay for breakfast, paying for breakfast. The thought of it makes them curl up further.
They eye the door as the sound outside quiets, and finally steel themself to stand, opening the door with their wrinkled clothes, swaying with hunger, and tired as hell.
The only figures in the halls are distant. Someone knocks incessantly on a closed door. The envy flares again. Everyday things would be so much easier with someone to knock on their door. McCabe stares as the figure crosses their arms, and settle back on their heels to wait, checking a watch. They knock again, Angier this time. It must take a lot of care to bother with anger.
McCabe takes the elevator downstairs. The receptionist is nowhere to be found.
Their favored coffee shop is on the far side of campus, closer to the offices where they'll be spending their days after graduation. The ones nearby are full of people their age, loud and excited to be there in groups of threes or fours, easily shoving McCabe out of their wake. But on the far end of campus, it's different. Quiet. The Agents there are just as aware, and just as afraid of the IGR as McCabe. It breeds a peaceful atmosphere.
The smell of blueberry welcomes them into the shop, and the ambient chatter of voices who don't want to be overheard. McCabe leans onto the halfwall that separates the line from the dining room. They check their handheld. They can't afford a scone today. Black coffee it is.
The person that stands behind them in line greets them with a curt, "Agent."
"Agent," McCabe replies on instinct, startled but too good to show it.
He doesn't look down at them, staring at the menu without moving his eyes, like he's trying not to forget his order.
McCabe stares for longer than they should. His hair isn't buzzed, they notice. It isn't required, not in any edict, but it is the standard. You'll get looks. McCabe knows because their hair isn't buzzed either.
His eyes slide from the menu and back to them. He cocks an eyebrow.
"I'm actually not an agent," McCabe adds, nervously. "Haven't graduated yet."
"Is that so?" He asks. He gives them a once over now. McCabe turns away, not uncomfortable, just unsure.
"Have you eaten anything?" He asks. The man's pulling the wallet out of his back pocket, counting the bills, which makes McCabe do a double take.
"No," they say suspiciously.
He mumbles something along the lines of "Shelly…..those kids…" and smiles to himself, before he looks up again, "What do you want?"
"I couldn't ask that of you."
"I'm offering."
"Sir—Agent—"
"Park." He says. And then, "Low blood sugar, faintness of any kind,anemia—"
"Agent Park?"
"They can hold you back from graduating for any of those reasons. New agents are fresh meat in the literal sense. You need to eat."
"I can't afford—"
"That's why I offered."
"I couldn't ask—"
"What's your name, Agent?"
"McCabe." They say, and step up a spot in line.
"Let me guess, McCabe," Park says, lowering his voice. "Your record is sparkling, you're high-ranked in your class, you're more then skilled and none of this is an accident."
McCabe tenses, turning to face him. They reach for a gun at their belt that isn't there. Park tracks the movement.
"Quick draw, McCabe." He notes out loud.
Despite themselves, they bristle with pride.
"But being a good agent isn't all there is."
The line ahead of them clears, and Park cuts ahead with long confident strides, ordering two coffees. He turns to McCabe.
"Oh. Um. Medium black and a blueberry scone, uhm. Thank you."
Park nods, pleased.
They stand in the waiting area in silence, McCabe bouncing on their heels. The server puts their order down and calls out for Jin. Park steps up to take it.
"But McCabe," he says, holding their bagged scones, "Take my advice: find a better way to spend a weekend."
Park's out the door before McCabe has time to process he was there at all. They wander outside after him, but don't see the man amid the commuters. McCabe turns back towards their dorm, but stops themself. They walk until they find a bench. And they feed the birds.