Chapter Text
October 6 | New York City
It was a crisp Thursday in early October — the kind of day that made New Yorkers pull their coats tighter and their coffee orders larger.
Inside the FBI field office, however, things were heating up.
Not because of a case.
Because Isobel Castille had decided that today — Jubal Valentine’s birthday — required a certain… mood.
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10:12 AM — JOC Briefing Room
Jubal’s phone buzzed again under the table. Four times in two minutes.
He checked it discreetly.
Isobel: Happy early birthday. This is Option A. You’ll get the full set tonight.
(Attached: a cropped photo. Black lace. Tasteful. Absolutely not Bureau-issue.)
He nearly choked on his coffee.
Buzz.
Isobel: Option B has red lace and less structural integrity. Choose wisely.
She walked into the room giving intel like nothing was amiss — not even the faintest smile.
It was professional warfare.
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10:40 AM — Tactical Assignment Split
Isobel (reading the board): “Jubal, go with Scola to Jersey — Newark warehouse. Maggie and OA on the Bronx lead. Intel suggests a mobile operation, possibly mid-move.”
She handed Jubal the file. Their fingers brushed — barely — but it was enough.
Isobel (low): “Don’t get hurt. I have plans.”
Jubal (dry): “Sending me in the field on my birthday feels personal.”
Isobel (smirking): “It isn't. We're short-handed and you're here. Should've taken the day off, Valentine.”
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12:15 PM — En Route to Newark
Scola drove. Jubal sat passenger, trying not to combust.
His phone buzzed again.
Isobel: I’m wearing a silk slip under this blazer. Guess the colour.
Jubal flipped the phone face-down and stared out the window.
Scola (glancing over): “You good? You look like someone just got a text that broke them.”
Jubal: “Just… birthday messages.”
Scola (grinning): “Aw. From your kids?”
Jubal (flat): “Not exactly.”
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1:07 PM — Newark Warehouse Lot
The lot was mostly empty — pallets, crates, fresh tire tracks. Then: an unmarked white box truck, engine warm, rear doors slightly open.
Scola (moving toward it): “Still warm. Could be mid-move.”
They climbed in. Crates. Tags. Suspect names. The right place.
Scola (lifting a clipboard): “This crate's scheduled for shipment today. We might be right on their—”
CLANG.
The rear doors slammed shut.
CHUNK.
Locked. From outside.
A beat.
Jubal (flat): “Tell me you did that.”
Scola (trying the handle): “Nope. We’re officially the freight now.”
Outside, the engine roared to life. The truck lurched forward.
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1:13 PM — Inside the Truck
The truck rattled. Scola lost his balance and landed on a box labelled Bluetooth Meat Thermometer.
Scola (grunting): “Well, I’m 80% sure this isn’t weapons trafficking.”
Jubal: “Only 80%?”
Scola (kicking open another parcel): “Unless someone’s hiding suppressors in ‘Organic Weighted Sleep Blankets,’ we’re in the wrong truck.”
Jubal put his head in his hands. “I did not plan to spend my birthday trapped in a moving van with you, a thousand mason jars, and what smells like too many scented candles.”
Scola grinned and produced a novelty mug from a half-squashed box.
Mug reads: Happy Birthday! You’re Not Dead Yet!
Scola: “It’s like the truck knows.”
Jubal: “This is my rock bottom.”
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1:20 PM — Call to the JOC
Jubal (call): Pretty sure we’re in an Amazon delivery truck. NOT the weapons target. Repeat: NOT THE CRATE YOU’RE LOOKING FOR. Current cargo: air fryers, bulk Himalayan salt, and a disturbing number of adult colouring books.
Scola (over his shoulder): “Don’t forget the llama slippers. There’s like five boxes of those.”
Isobel stared at her phone. Agents sniggered. OA commented. She was trying very hard to hold it together.
Maggie: “What do you want to do?”
Isobel: “You and OA stay on the weapons trail. Bronx lead still has heat. I’ll deal with the kidnapped morons.”
Scola (cheerful into the phone): “Permission to open one parcel for stress-management purposes.”
Jubal (deadpan, to himself): “Held hostage by a man who named a shipping box his ‘emotional support appliance.’ Not how I pictured today.”
Isobel: “We’ve called Jersey PD. They’ll pull the truck once located.”
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1:35 PM — Still in the Truck
Scola had built a throne from delivery boxes and was playing with a narwhal stress ball.
Scola: “I’ve accepted my new life. I’m a logistics goblin now.”
Jubal: “I survived hostage crises, shootouts, and two divorces. But this breaks me.”
Scola: “You say that now, but tell me this birthday isn’t memorable.”
Jubal: “Only if I live to forget it.”
1:43 PM — Texts Between Isobel & Jubal
Isobel: I’ve dispatched local PD to intercept. They’re… not fast.
Jubal: Not shocked. It’s hot in here!
Isobel: Are you still in the truck? Is it still moving?
Jubal: Yes. Scola’s building a fort — I think he’s nesting. Unpacking boxes, judging contents.
Isobel: Tell him if he opens one more box, I’ll file a supply-chain incident report with his name on it.
Jubal: Understood. He gave me a mug. It pairs nicely with the panic. (sends pic)
Isobel: Shall I send a better pic?
Jubal: (photo: a cropped shot — the edge of black lace and a hint of skin.) “Jesus, Iz. You’re not helping.”
Scola peered over: “Was that a lace strap or the world’s fanciest cargo manifest?” Jubal glowered and texted Isobel: Get us out of here!
Scola (reclaiming his throne): “So… you and the boss lady still a thing then?”
Jubal: “Not something I discuss with someone on a pile of discounted air fryers.”
Scola: “We’ve known since Valentine’s. You showed up with glitter on your neck and a grin that said someone wore lingerie and didn’t hate you. Plus you called her Izzy in the JOC.”
Jubal (sighs): “Damn it.”
Scola: “It’s romantic. Slow-burn. Strategic lace deployment. A Shonda Rhimes subplot.”
Jubal: “Are you done?”
Scola: “Not even close. But I’ll pause if you text her a winky face.”
Jubal (texting Isobel): If I die in this truck, bury me with the mug. Also, stop weaponizing lace.
Isobel: Consider it a pre-strike. You’ll need recovery time.
Scola: “You’re blushing.”
Jubal: “I’m re-evaluating my entire life.”
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3:16 PM — Just Outside Philadelphia, Commercial Delivery Lot
The truck came to a stop behind a suburban mall — wedged between Party City and a mattress store. The back doors creaked open, revealing fluorescent light, forklifts… and two rumpled FBI agents.
Jubal stepped down first, brushing glitter off his jacket. His tie was loose; his patience looser.
Scola carried the novelty mug like treasure.
A security guard stared.
Guard: “…Y’all okay?”
Jubal: “We're fine.”
Scola: “Delivery delayed. But good news — llama slippers intact.”
A faded sign read: Welcome to Philadelphia — Brotherly Love, Terrible Traffic, and Regret Since 1682.
Jubal: “We left for Jersey at 12:30. How are we in Pennsylvania?”
Scola: “Great question. Adding it to my post-mortem.”
Jubal (to himself): “We’ve been in that truck longer than most of my last relationship.”
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3:27 PM — Phone Call to JOC
Jubal (speaker): “We’re in Philly. Let that sink in.”
Isobel: “I sent you to Newark. You ended up in another state.”
Scola: “But emotionally, we’ve grown.”
Jubal: “Please stop talking.”
Isobel: “Are you injured?”
Jubal: “No.”
Isobel: “Did Scola break anything?”
Jubal: “Three boxes, one mug, and my spirit.”
Scola (lifting the mug): “Still drinkable.”
Isobel (muted, likely swearing): “There’s a Bureau vehicle en route. Do not speak to the local press. Do not mention Amazon. And for the love of God, do not open another box.”
3:45 PM — Pickup Arrives
The Bureau SUV pulled up as Scola tried to give the security guard a discount code from a box.
Guard: “You Valentine?”
Jubal: (nods) “Unfortunately.”
They climbed into the back seat, moving like men who had been through psychological warfare. And bubble wrap.
Scola: “We could’ve just lied. Said we were chasing a lead across state lines.”
Jubal: “Could’ve. But then you’d brag about the mug.”
Scola: “You love the mug.”
Jubal: “I’m going to shove that mug… into evidence.”
Scola (soft, cradling it): “You don’t mean that.”
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5:17 PM — FBI Field Office, New York
The elevator doors pinged open.
Jubal stepped out first — tie tightened, jacket mostly lint-free, expression grim and determined to look professional.
Scola followed, sipping from the same novelty mug — now washed, filled with Bureau coffee. The words NOT DEAD YET faced outward like a battle medal.
They walked side by side through the bullpen like men returning from war. Every agent watched them.
OA (quietly, to Maggie): “They’re walking like they escaped from a team-building retreat in hell.”
Maggie: “Two hours in a truck with Scola? I’d file for witness protection.”
Kelly (whispering): “Did Scola seriously try to declare cardboard trauma as a field injury?”
Elise: “I heard they crossed state lines and came back with bath bomb residue and a mug.”
Jubal and Scola entered the glass-walled conference room like it was a Senate hearing.
Jubal (clearing throat): “Afternoon. Field team returning from Jersey warehouse sweep.”
Scola (nodding solemnly): “Mobile surveillance was... eventful.”
Isobel stood at the head of the table — arms crossed, expression somewhere between amused and contemplating arson.
Isobel (evenly): “Would you care to explain how a weapons operation led to a two-hour detour through Philadelphia?”
Jubal (deadpan): “Misdirection. Suspect vehicle used deceptive logistics. We assessed, tracked, and intercepted accordingly.”
Isobel: “You were in an Amazon truck.”
Scola: “Classic cover. Very low-profile. No one suspects the scented candle shipments.”
Jubal (straight-faced): “Operational improvisation was necessary under the circumstances.”
OA (murmuring): “I cannot believe he’s briefing this like it was tactical genius.”
Maggie (sipping coffee): “I give it thirty seconds before Isobel throws the mug.”
Isobel (calmly): “And the only recovered item was…?”
Scola (holding up the mug): “This. Morale booster.”
Isobel (to Jubal): “Would you like to add anything?”
Jubal (resigned): “Only that I’m filing a formal request to never work logistics again. Especially on my birthday.”
Isobel (dry): “Approved. With conditions.”
Scola: “Please don’t say ‘no more mugs.’ I’ve grown attached.”
Isobel (eyeing the mug): “That mug now qualifies as contraband. Log it and tag it for psychological processing.”
As they exited, the JOC fell into the kind of knowing silence only a room full of overachievers and gossip experts could maintain.
OA (as they pass): “Welcome back. Heard Philly’s beautiful this time of year.”
Maggie (smiling): “Next time, just say you wanted a day trip.”