Academy

Photogenic

TW: mentions of abuse, suicide

"Papa asked me to come over for dinner tonight and invited you as well." I said to Paul in greeting. My father had caught me as I was hightailing it out of the Poirot and I guiltily obliged him, knowing it had been a while since we truly spent time together.

"I'd like that. I need a break from this place..."

"What did you and David talk about?"

"Everything. And I believe him, Red. He's innocent." He stopped in front of the dorms. "I've got a few things to do upstairs. Meet you at the house?"

"Of course." I watched his slight figure retreat into the building, shoulders slightly hunched from the weight of the situation.

I very rarely left the campus since the Cat's Cradle incident, knowing I was being closely watched for any hints of further misbehavior. I felt an unfounded sense of guilt as I did so now, giving the Agent in the front booth a cheery wave as I passed.

Dusk was settling in, and the foot traffic was becoming sparse as people returned from work and settled in their abodes. As I headed towards mine, I briefly reflected on the fact that I should be apartment searching as the rest of my classmates were.

San Francisco rents were astronomical, and the Agency did it's best to offer housing where it could, but many of its staff felt it necessary for their home to be as far removed from the job as possible for peace of mind and privacy. But as I turned the key in the lock and the dark, quiet apartment greeted me, I thought how I'd become accustomed to Paul's company and would hate to come home to a scene like this every night.

Maybe he'd want to stay as roommates? I emptied my pockets on the front table and flicked the light switch. I was surprised Papa wasn't home yet, but figured he'd stopped by the supermarche or the patisserie to pick up something sweet for dessert.

I walked to my room and gratefully shed my uniform, changing into a more comfortable one of gray joggers and a matching bodysuit. My hair was still loose around my shoulders. I sprayed it with rice water that was left in a bottle on my dresser, reviving my waves. Finally feeling refreshed, I went back into the living room and settled into the sofa, tucking both legs underneath me as if I were a nesting bird.

Papa had acquired a few new coffee table books - all aviation themed, of course - but what I really wanted to peruse was at the bottom of the neat pile. I pulled the leather bound album towards me, taking a moment to follow the embossed filigree pattern on its spine before opening it.

While flying was my father's first love, photography was his second passion. He never missed an opportunity to frame a moment, whether he was in front of or behind the lens. I started at the beginning of his journey, with the scant coffee-hued pictures of his childhood, watching the golden haired toddler with a toothy grin shift into a young man who stood proudly in his olive flight suit, the unmistakable glimmer of adventure in his eye.

As I turned the pages, the scenery and faces became more familiar. There was him and Wells, dressed in their own navys, arms resting on each other's shoulders paralleling the Twin Towers behind them. Below that was shield day, Papa's being pinned on the right side of his swelling chest by a woman who would break the heart underneath it months later. I joined the narrative a few more sheets in, the initial entry of me being embraced warmly by a Detective whose fair colored hair reached her midsection.

There was a precise tap on the door. I rose with a slight groan, opening it to see Paul standing there shyly.

"It's just me." I assured, widening the entryway to let him in. "I guess Papa is running late. This isn't like him..."