They're coming up to the deadline, and as has become usual since Helly arrived, nobody is working except for Irving. Even then, he can't get much done with how loud they're talking. But it's the only thing keeping him awake.

Dylan bangs on his desk. "My outie gets with chicks all the time! It's indisputable."

"You also can't prove he does," Mark rebuts.

"How do you know your outie likes chicks?" Helly asks.

"What? Of course he does."

"Your outie could have a husband."

Dylan frowns. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Why not?" Mark asks.

"I guess... I don't know. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Like watching Milchick dancing."

"It wouldn't make me uncomfortable. In fact, I hope my outie does have a husband," Mark says, leaning back in his chair.

"Me too," Helly says. "And a wife. Why not? Or even more, and just sever a bunch so you can spend more time with each one?"

"I just wanted to talk about the chick from the mouth wall. Let's work instead. Eugh."

Irving does not judge them. He too hopes his outie is experiencing enough love for the both of them, that it'll seep through somehow and satisfy Irving's own curiosity. The way that Mark comes in with tear-streaked cheeks, ready to start the day with a smile on his face. The way that Petey used to cry and beat his hands against the bathroom tiles, so his outie could live without a care. Symbiosis.

But it will never work. Because in here is Burt G., and out there he's probably never met Burt G. Who else could there be? He and his outie are the same person in many ways, but even in the countless ways they are different Irving cannot imagine himself loving another.

Irving can swim and listen to records and dance and kiss all he likes out there, but it could never fill this void in his chest. Irving knows the void persists. It is too strong not to.

Irving is tired, but he knows that's the key. The whole brain must sleep at once, and at that point he can see through his innie's eyes. He can regain access to the severed floor.

It's hard, though. It doesn't seem like his innie wanders around much. He must respond well to the chain of command, the way Irving did in the Navy before he realized it was all bullshit. The uniforms, the hours spents drilling parade step – just ways to legitimize countless murders. To reinforce the image of the ideal man, project it onto every faceless ensign next to him. Irving saw their faces when they screamed and writhed, and their eyes twitching before they went still. He took it upon himself to tell their lovers when he arrived back home, the ones they gurgled into his ear before they choked on their own blood. Most had two or more. Many of them were not women. They were not Navy standard men, and yet they died alongside them – protecting the world that would only ever beat them down.

Irving did not die, because his father talked him up and he entered as a Junior Lieutenant. Irving sent men older than he was to take the bullets meant for him. He pulled their bodies on top of his and held his breath, cheating over and over and over, and got medals pinned to his chest for his bravery.

Even now, as Irving takes the moments he can to paint Lumon's interiors and document the employees' whereabouts, he is not the one at risk. He is still sending someone else in to do the grueling work while he cuddles his dog and breathes fresh air at the park, savoring the sunlight on his skin.

It is so dark down there. Inky black, blacker than his tubes of paint could possibly capture because they hang the light on their thick ridges. The severed must scurry around like moles in the long, twisting tunnels, files held between their teeth because they need their hands to feel the walls.

There is a small part of Irving that wants to stop resisting. His life out here is good, if lonely. His life inside is normal to his other self. He has never seen the sun, so he cannot miss it.

But in the dreams, Irving hears screaming. The same tortured leg-blown-off screams that only rock n' roll can block out. Irving is approaching the twilight of his life, now, and he will not die the same coward he started as. He must help those poor molepeople escape, reintegrate if possible or if not, find a way to share their body with their other self.

Irving turns up Motörhead, stifling a yawn. Radar glares at him, and wanders off into the bedroom where it's quieter. Irving wishes he could join him, but busies himself painting in case there's something other than that damn door in his mind.

There isn't.

Irving chugs his third cup of coffee in two hours, and goes to the bathroom to empty himself of his second. He is going to fall asleep anyway. It feels inevitable.

This is the third day in a row he's come in tired. The first two, he was able to push through, thinking about Kier, thinking about getting fired (tantamount to death). And now Mark S. has an illegally obtained keycard that his outie snuck in. It's just too much, today.

Irving doesn't want to be a part of their strange scheme. It's not his own punishment that scares him, but Burt's. Surely they've noticed Irving's affection for him. It's hardly been subtle, even though it hasn't quite tipped over the edge into romantic. Irving has a duty to make sure they're not hurting Burt in his stead.

Besides, it's a nice excuse to see him. Far better than Irving needing to stretch his legs, anyway, and the visit ought to wake him up. He wouldn't miss a second spent with Burt.

So Irving dashes along to O&D, and Burt's retiring. Irving does the stupid thing of cursing out Milchick; the anger just boils over and he'd take any punishment they could think of just to speak his mind, say this is unjust! Then Burt steps forward and saves Irving, just for a moment, because now he's all-powerful. He cannot face punitive measures today; he must leave precisely on time with no lasting injuries. So Milchick shrinks back, and focuses on rearranging the crudités.

Irving joins the handshake line, watching Burt's grip closely. Firm, warm (his hands are incredibly warm),and short-lived. In the words of Kier, 'summation replaces the whole, and we are grateful to understand.' Irving gently rolls his wrist and stretches out his fingers, ready to recieve this tiny, world-shattering gesture of affection.

As Burt raises his hand up to shake Irving's, he surreptitiously grabs something from his pocket. He presses it into Irving's palm, and it is cold metal. It is not the handshake he wanted, the one he could savor.

"I think it's from the outside," Burt whispers, and Irving slips it into his own jacket's pocket.

A memento. Of course. It will last the rest of Irving's life, if he's careful to hide it well. Irving traces the subtle, swirling engravings on the object – it's beautifully made. Burt could hardly gift him an entire painting; this should make a fitting replacement.

"Thank you," Irving hushes, trying to take in all the details of Burt's face; Burt's kind eyes doing the same, even though he'll only remember for another hour.

Milchick rips Irving away, and shephards him back to MDR. He doesn't scold Irving, and he doesn't need to. The silence lets Irving stew in the fact that he'll never see Burt again, and the inherent cruelty in this awful place. They never let him even catch a glimpse of Burt, and as soon as he did, they ripped him out of Irving's arms like it all meant nothing.

So, as soon as they're alone in the chasm of MDR, Irving says: "Let's burn this place to the ground."

Helly takes the lead. "Let's talk business. What's happening and when?"

Everyone sits down, desk dividers dropped, and they throw out as many ideas as they can. Suddenly, Irving realizes he can't hear what they're saying, their voices dropped to a low drone. Irving shouts, telling them to speak up, but they don't react. Thick, black goo drips from the ceiling, painting his hands, staining his clothes. He tries to brush it off but it only smears, spreading the goo all over him. It creeps up his neck and covers his mouth – he can't breathe! He claws at his face and gasps for air, lurching forward–

"Irving," Mark says, a hand on his shoulder. Irving inspects Mark's fingernails. They're bitten down as always, but clean. "Did you catch that?"

"No," Irving replies, after he catches his breath.

"We have to wait until the Waffle Party. I'll nominate Dylan, and he'll activate the OCP."

"Sounds good. Maybe it'll give my outie a chance to get some sleep."

"You could try asking them to send a message to your outie," Helly suggests. "He has to be less bitchy than mine."

"Don't you think I've tried that?" Irving nearly shouts. He's sent fifty messages and nothing's changed.

Mark's eyes flash wide. "Woah. Why don't you go take a break, there, buddy? Maybe splash some water on your face?"

Mark's stupid attempt at kindness just enflames Irving more – he shoves his chair, hard, and it clacks against the far wall. Even worse, Mark is probably right, so Irving storms into the bathroom and flicks on the tap. The white noise of the cool, rushing water is immediately grounding. Wellness sessions always have the sound of water playing in the background. He scoops up a handful of the water, and gently wets his face. It feels nice, but barely wakes him up. In the mirror, he keeps seeing himself with the black sludge pasted over his mouth.

He can't do this anymore. Doesn't his outie know he's a person too? Not in the legal respect, of course. But Irving works hard for himself, has done for years. He deserves respect.

Damn and blast the code detectors. Irving needs to get this message through, pronto. Not filtered through Milchick or Cobel – something in his own handwriting, something his outie can't just ignore.

Irving grabs a sheet of printer paper from the supply room and rushes back to the bathroom. With Burt's pen, he scribbles Please sleep in the corner and double underlines it. Without care, he rips off the corner and shoves it into his jacket pocket. It's so small, infinitely thin, yet in the mirror he can almost see it bulging anyway. The danger of doing this washes over him – but it's necessary.

He rehearses what he'll say. He found the note on his desk and thought it was embarrassing, so stuck it quickly in his pocket, meaning to later throw it in recycling. But he was so tired, that his memory lapsed, and he could only remember to focus on data refining. Yes, that's good – steer it back to refining.

The clock strikes five past five, and it's Irving's turn to leave. He holds his breath, and steps into the elevator.

The lights do not turn red. The klaxons do not blare. The doors shut, and he rises up and down, in his new day's suit, fully rested. He smooths his hands over his jacket, in what he hopes is a natural motion, and gasps. The piece of paper is still resting in his pocket.

Irving takes off his dreadfully corporate and equally mandatory suit, and hears a crunch in the pocket. He reaches in and finds a piece of paper – Please Sleep, it reads, in his very own handwriting.

This should not be possible.

Irving can't write to himself. He's tried it before, with an innocuous-seeming grocery list in his pocket. But the code detectors seemingly always found it, so Irving didn't bother trying more than thrice. And his innie never tried marking himself, as far as he knows. The only thing that Irving successfully snuck through was an old tissue, and that's hardly very useful. Even if his innie could remember Morse code, how would he know which pocket corresponded to long or short beeps?

Something drops onto the floor as he hangs up his suit – a fountain pen. It's vintage, silver or pewter, a gift of some sort. Definitely nothing Lumon would produce.

Irving gasps, loud enough that Radar jumps up on the bed to see what's happening. It must be the ink! Fountain pens use a very different type of ink than rollerball pens. Lumon must have thought nobody even owns a fountain pen these days.

Irving's mind brims with a million questions to ask his innie. Where did he get the pen? How could he see to write the note? Why is Please Sleep the most important message for his innie to send through? He could have said anything about the work conditions, or his coworkers, or asked about Irving's life. There must be consequences for falling asleep at work.

Irving's on the right track, though, if his innie is being punished for sleeping. Lumon must know how it unites the mind.

This is good. He can't push it too far, though. Irving's the worst candidate to be testing Lumon's limits – he doesn't have family, so it'd be harder for anyone to know he's missing. But he sees his friends at The Abattoir every week, and they'd squeal if he didn't show up. Squeal to who, he doesn't know, but it's not the kind of press Lumon needs right before they push Province Erie to relax restrictions on severance.

He grabs a scrap of paper, and writes Sorry on the other side, sticking it in the pocket of tomorrow's suit. Tonight, he'll go to bed on time, much to Radar's pleasure.

The elevator dings, and Irving is wide awake. His mouth already tastes like black coffee. The note really must have gotten through. He rushes to MDR's bathroom and checks his pocket – his outie wrote back!

Sorry, it reads. His outie really is kind, even though everyone hears that one. Dylan shares a lot about his Wellness sessions, and Carol and Petey joined in with some of their own details. Not everybody can be truly notably kind; it's just impossible. But Irving is.

The note made it through. That's the more exciting development: contact with the outside world. Not this vain obsession with the other side of himself. Of course he can't help his curiosity, but there's too much potential to waste on Irving, plain old boring 'What's for dinner?' Irving.

Irving meets everyone by the coffee machine, and holds up the scrap of paper.

"Don't swap us all at once, Dylan. I recieved this note from my outie. I can warn him. Use me as a test dummy."

Dylan sneers. "How do we know your outie won't turn us all in?"

"Because he wrote back. He wants to communicate with me."

They are suspicious, especially Helly, but they agree on a new plan. Irving will pretend to have a migraine, and go home early. He's had one before, a few quarters ago. It was the worst time in his life – he was staggering around and nearly upchucked. Milchick had no problem with letting him leave.

Irving whips out Burt's pen and scribbles a new note: I am us 4:30pm.

"That's way too obvious!" Dylan cries, and he rips off the first part of the note, soaking it in coffee and running it through the garbage disposal.

Irving frowns at him, but it is probably better to stay on the safe side. This could be a loyalty test, for all he knows. He can't blow their cover.

Mark calls Milchick over, saying something's wrong, and Burt acts his heart out – he even grips Milchick's shirt collar as he lets his weight flop to the floor. Milchick isn't suspicious for a moment. He even lets Irving sit in the little elevator waiting room.

Even though it doesn't make sense, even though he won't be able to keep it, Irving takes a deep breath as the elevator rises, like he's about to dunk his head underwater. Hopefully he remembers innately how to swim.

"Sorry to hear about your migraine," the security guard says, as Irving steps out of the elevator.

"It's a doozy," Irving replies.

He avoids eye contact with the guard, and tries to walk to his car at a measured pace. He sits behind the wheel and huffs on his hands as he pulls off his gloves – it's more freezing inside, somehow. Gently, he dips a hand into his pocket. It might be reckless of his innie to leave another note so soon, but sure enough, there's a new scrap of paper inside.

4:30pm

Has he arranged for someone to meet Irving? How would that even be possible? Or did he overhear something – Lumon saw the notes and now they're coming to his house. That must be it – surely Irving, in any form, isn't stupid enough to write specifics unless it's an emergency.

Irving speeds home, taking the longer route that's still quicker because there's fewer stoplights and only police patrols on Sundays. He parks his car two streets over and runs home, keeping to back streets and parks.

He checks the cars on his street, but they're all empty. All the windows and doors on his house are still secure – although they probably have a copy of his key.

Irving ducks inside, barricades the front door with a bookshelf and closes all the blinds. He grabs his service pistol and hides in the closet. Radar joins him, a little worried, but he lies down next to Irving. Irving's done this a few times before, after the nightmares that feel too real. This time he can't use logic to claw his way out of the pit of despair. The threat is real and present. He stares at his watch, and the second hand glides past the 6.

Irving is holding a gun. There's a dog next to him, who lifts its head when he shifts. The collar tag glints under the light of this small room, embossed with the word 'Radar.'

Irving smiles. They always told him the truth about his outie. There was never any sense in not believing them, because you have to believe something down there, but there was always the nagging feeling that you could never know whether they were lying, and what about. Or if they weren't lying, but it wasn't the truth either. Words have different meanings in Lumon. Like the Break Room. Irving remembers breaks being restful, restorative, like he feels after a trip to Wellness or the singular Waffle Party he's earned.

There's a large trunk in here, too. It's locked, but Irving has the key in his pocket, so he opens it. He looks through his medals, and what turn out to be his father's medals. They're more concrete and more obscure than finger traps and caricatures. He doesn't know what each one represents. Can there be a percentage completion of war?

There's another medal, in a different style. It's black plastic with a pink triangle in the center. Silence = Death, it proclaims. Irving spoke up about Burt's death, and it didn't help. Maybe if everyone down there swarmed Burt, screamed at him, they could've kept him from stepping into the elevator. That must be what it means. But who or what is his outie's Burt?

Burt.

Is he really going to spend his minutes of freedom thinking about Burt? Irving should be learning about himself, or Lumon, or finding the others.

Finding Burt?

He wouldn't know where to start. There's more and more houses outside, and trees, and some sort of large printer in everyone's driveway. Burt could be anywhere in the world. And Lumon is large, but the world is much, much larger.

He checks the trunk again. Further down inside lies buried paperwork, newspaper clippings about Lumon and severance. Irving was wrong – his outie loves Lumon almost as much as he does. Even more, maybe, enough to break the rules.

There's a map and the names of Lumon employees. He doesn't recognize anyone, until he sees Burt comma Goodman, and he smiles because Burt is a Good Man. It's a stupid last name and Irving adores it. His own address is conveniently printed on some envelopes on the kitchen table. He finds Burt on the other side of town from him and he's stuck, again.

Lights flash through the gap in the curtains. Irving flinches, then peeks through to see what it is. One of the printers is moving, out of the driveway and then turning around. It rolls down the road at speed.

On the kitchen table are another set of keys. Attached to the keyring, a small glyph of a printer. He can drive the printer faster than he can walk. There's a chance Dylan can hold on long enough for him to see Burt.

Burt won't know him, but like all these paintings lining the walls, the ink that seeped into Irving's dreams, something deep inside him must know. Something deeper than recognition, than memory.

Love.

Love untainted by Kier, love allowed out here.

He grips the steering wheel and it's easy enough to figure out the pedals, and then he's driving, driving to Burt. He parks, and scopes out Burt's house.

Burt's with another man, packing their bags for a trip, and Irving's almost crying. He rushes to the door, and starts wailing on it, screaming his throat raw. There's still a chance he can convince Burt to stay, and by Kier, he's going to take that chance.

Irving gasps at his bloody fists, banging on someone's door. He stops. This is not real. He must have fallen asleep – but he blocks his nose and he can't breathe through it. It's not a dream, either.

This must be his innie's doing. Doesn't he know this is the stupidest thing he could possibly do? He's drawing a ridiculous amount of attention to them. The neighbors could call the police, and then Lumon would know where they are.

Unless Lumon was never raiding Irving. The swap was the entirety of it. Irving makes a mental note to ask how – this could help greatly with reintegration.

Timidly, a man opens the door. He's oddly familiar. He's terrified.

"Mr. Bailiff?" he asks, stammering. "I retired. Thought you did, as well," he says, laughing strangely. "Did I leave something on my desk? I'm sure I didn't bring in any personal items."

"I'm sorry. Wrong house," Irving explains.

"You were calling my name. Burt, Burt!"

"I just wanted to... congratulate you on retiring."

"Thank you, sir. Have a nice night."

Mr. Bailiff? This Burt must have been under Irving's supervision. Irving remembers flashes of recitations and whips and Bad Soap, but the faces are a blur. It's good, though, the only way Irving doesn't break down and weep – his eyes are watery, though. His innie was crying. He and Burt must have worked together.

He gets into his car (his innie drove?!) and looks back at the house one last time. Another man hugs Burt, holds him close, kisses his forehead. Irving huffs. They bought Lumon's new progressive story just as much as he did. The only thing properly in the guidebooks is to prevent pregnancy. Everything else is bacchanalian, a free-for-all, to be punished however one sees fit. They do not fit into Kier's vision of the non-sexual heterosexual worker bees. Kier's vision must be preserved.

Irving clears his mind, thinks about Radar's wagging tail. He cannot compare himself to his colleagues, cannot say he didn't punish as much as them when he can recall rapping knuckles and thrashing flesh with a nine-tailed whip, even after his mind was supposedly wiped clean of those transgressions. He cannot fall into the trap of loathing, because there is work to be done.

If his innie can swap into consciousness out here, the first thing to do is leave a message. Irving drives home as fast as he reasonably can, praying his innie isn't suddenly thrust into a car going fifty MPH. He pulls out a notepad, and sits at the kitchen table.

Don't be stupid, Irving writes, but he scrunches up the paper and throws it to the side. That's too aggressive.

Do not take risks. We are safe unless you reveal us.

Irving's pen halts at the last sentence, then he adds: I would like to help you escape.

Then he waits.

Irving has a pen in his hand, and he's sitting in his kitchen. Dylan's hand must have slipped, or cramped up. Or Milchick's trying to pull him away from the machine, and Dylan had to fight him off. Maybe Dylan really is a karate master.

Why did his outie come home? He has to know Burt is important. He's going to leave forever – again.

Irving sniffles, and starts writing.

Irving reads the new note.

Keep Burt

He checks the clock – it's been less than a minute. Something is going very wrong, he imagines. He writes:

How are you doing this?
Can I help?
Who is Burt?

He gives up after nothing happens for an hour.

The elevator dings, and Irving's hand keeps writing across the air.

"Sorry," Dylan explains. "I had to show Helly and Mark in case I get taken out," he whispers. "Like Burt."

Irving knocks his shoulder against Dylan's as he makes his way to his desk. It feels good. It feels like, if he does it enough, it'll bring back Burt, or purge him from Irving's mind forever as he becomes consumed only with bloodlust.

He takes a deep breath, and remembers Kier's scripture.

Violent thoughts can be cured. Violent actions can be punished. But only I have tamed violence and turned it into productivity.

Irving finishes half of an entire file in one day. He is tired, again, but it's better when he does it himself. To feel the energy slowly drain out of him and then arrive the next morning, refreshed – it's like sleeping without the nightmares. Maybe his outie has nightmares, too. They wouldn't say that in a Wellness session, though.

Tonight, Mark is going to feign tummy troubles and give Irving two minutes, hopefully long enough to finish his note. He can ask about the nightmares, too.

2 min 5:30, today's note reads. That's not long enough to justify staying home again. The longer this continues the more chance Lumon will notice the change in Irving's schedule. He'll just have to continue with his evening as planned.

Irving smirks – his innie will not be ready for The Abattoir.

He crosses over the long bridge into Ganz, sighing in relief as the houses he drives past are not all alike. A few are modern, ugly cubes; others, timber shacks that could come crashing down with the next strong breeze. Each one is more beautiful than the design-by-committee Lumon villas that comprise Kier.

He pulls up in front of The Abattoir. The music is loud enough to pierce his car doors, and the lights flash at random, pink to green to blue, washing out the rainbow flags skewered above the door. Irving

It's Seniors' Night, which means the college kids can ask other people all their questions about what it was like back in the day. Irving is not an encyclopedia; he is a real flesh-and-blood human, with a soul. The few who do realize that are usually more interested in his flesh. He suspects they're Lumon plants, sometimes, when their smiles are a little too stiff, trying to earn Irving's trust and praying he lets something slip on Reghabi.

Irving waves to his friends, and sits at the bar while he waits for his drink to arrive.

Irving wakes up surrounded by a Music Dance Experience. A man in a leather vest is leaning in and talking loud over the music, with breath like cleaning chemicals.

"–you think about Ganz?"

"It's fine," Irving responds, after a moment spent engineering the question.

"Better than Kier. You're not gonna find a place like this in Kier, are you?"

"No. I shouldn't think so." Especially since this is a building, and Kier is a man (although he does allude to lingering in the structural beams in the eighteenth passage).

"Are you okay? You seem a little out of it."

"I'm tired," Irving says. He is probably more awake than he's ever been.

"Aww. You can sleep on my shoulder," the man says, and he gently pulls Irving's head to rest on his bare shoulder. Irving shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. His nose brushes the man's neck, taking in the strange soapy cologne and musk. His cheek flushes, pressed equally against sticky skin and leather – the same thing twice, really.

Irving dares to open his eyes and look again, in the peephole between the man's vest collar and his neck. He takes in the lazily flashing lights and loud music, the figures on the dancefloor – all old, for some reason – and he spots someone. Burt.

He's twisting from side to side, more spry than the others dancing. Irving's heart flutters – he curses that O&D and MDR never got to share a Music Dance Experience. How he would love to dance with Burt, watch his body move in the way only Burt could move a body. In the back of his mind, he remembers two people can dance together. Touching.

Irving clutches the man closer, memorizing the hard and soft parts of his body, his ribs and his stomach, and tries to map them onto Burt's physique. Irving's sweating, now, and his shirt is damp against the man's bare chest, where he's sweating too. Burt's fingers were warm against his own, but not hot like this, not burning. Irving wants to burn with Burt.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes it is quiet.

Irving is in the perfectly air-conditioned elevator in a fresh suit, his face clean and clear of sweat and other stickiness. Against regulation, he stays there a while, lingering in the feeling, ruining the five-minute spacing. If Dylan, innie Dylan, knew why he had to wait, he'd gladly sit an hour or more while Irving picked out the details. But it's outie Dylan who's waiting, so Milchick collects Irving from the elevator and walks him to MDR. Irving pretends to not know the way there, a small memory lapse caused by his age. Milchick squints at him, but keeps quiet.

If that is what lies in the outside world, Irving must escape again. There is no other option, no future for him in Lumon.

But he needs Burt to know who he is. To remember the total hour or so they've spent together. He'll need a lot of help and cooperation, not least of all from his outie. Irving rushes straight to the bathroom where he writes a very long and involved note, the most he's ever written by hand in his life.

Irving's innie is in love. It's so sweet and childlike, the way he describes the bond between himself and Burt Goodman. But he is a child, Irving supposes, only being three years old. It's nice to know his innie is queer, too, even though it sounds like any strong bond would be considered such. His friends at The Abattoir often wonder if some crazy senator will try to mandate severing homosexuality, if it's even possible. But by the sounds of his innie's letter, it seems like it's impossible to cordon off love.

Besides, it's not a bad excuse to watch Goodman. As a recent retiree, Lumon employees are going to be watching to make sure he hasn't snuck anything out – Irving should do the same. He pulls out the burner cell from the bottom of his trunk, and texts Reghabi Burt G, rec. retired to claim him as his target. She doesn't text back, which means nobody else is on the job. Perfect.

In Irving's trunk lies his notebook with the known locations of employees. Seems like Burt usually goes to Pip's a few nights per week, with his husband Seamus. It's happy hour, too, so even more reason to check there.

Irving hops in his car, pulls up across the street from Pip's, and curses under his breath. He can't just walk in because his stupid innie blew his cover. Burt's going to know he's being followed, and it'll be impossible to get anything out of him then.

Just then, beyond all luck, Burt and Seamus sit down right next to the front window.

Irving strolls down the back alley of Pip's, conveniently scratching his face as he passes the viewline of the window, and then he doubles back, sticking to the wall. Quickly, he rounds the corner and bends down, fiddling slowly with his shoelace. He tips his ear up and listens as hard as he can.

*"–three days, so are you sure we've done everything?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Stop nagging me."

"And you have the alarm set? We have to be in Ganz one hour before the flight."

"Please. Let's just eat."

"I'm just being careful. You never know what could happen."

"Six p.m flight, get there at five, bags are packed, and I told the gas company to cut everything off before December."

"Thank you."

"Are you alright, sir?" asks a man from above Irving.

Irving nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks up – the Pip's manager, judging by the little blue and white burger pinned to his shirt.

"It's just my shoelace. The arthritis makes it hard," Irving bullshits, stiffly wiggling his fingers.

"Here," the manager says, and he kneels down and ties Irving's shoelace. Irving bites the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting – this is one of the most uniquely embarrassing things that's ever happened to him. Of course it's worth it, given the stakes, but he's never considered himself that decrepit before.

"Thank you. I forgot my wallet," he stammers, and he hobbles back across the road to his car, checking the wing mirror to make sure the manager isn't looking. Once he's inside, Irving speeds off again, repeating the details in his head so he doesn't forget.

It's all set up. Burt's leaving tonight, but the Waffle Party is also tonight. Mark said not to touch anyone in the other departments, but Dylan knows this is a once in a lifetime chance. Even if they can activate the OCP again, there'll never be another chance to see his lost love. All Dylan wants is to return the favor if he ever finds the mouth wall lady somewhere out there.

Irving watches Helly complete her file, and prays that this crazy idea will actually work. Prays not to Kier, but to himself. And to really rub it in, he smashes a deviled egg in the handbook.

*Ricken's Tidbits #94
Incorrect predictions are often referred to as 'egg on the face'. But there's nothing wrong with a free egg.*

Irving smiles as he remembers Ricken's passages; his new gospel. This has all been worth it, anyway. Even if they're forcibly retired tomorrow, or have to endure hundreds of hours of the Break Room. Burt unlocked something in him. What the twisting corridors and desk dividers tried and failed to cut out of his heart. The part of him made for human connection.

It's loud and there's more people than four O&Ds combined, sitting in the long rows of chairs or milling around with bags. In Irving's hand is a printed memo that's dated incorrectly, three hours from now.

He looks around the room, and his eyes find Burt on the other side of the giant glass hall. He gasps, and starts jogging over, waving him down. It's a longer way than he thought, but he just about makes it.

"Burt," Irving pants, nearly doubled over.

Burt's husband elbows him. "Isn't this the guy who was banging our door down in the middle of the night?" he says, not too quietly.

Burt, clearly confused, turns to look at Irving. "Irving? I- I thought I'd never see you again."

Burt takes a step forward, but goes no further. His eyes dart around the huge hall of the airport (that's the word!),and Irving doesn't miss Burt's shoulders shrinking in. It's too overwhelming. He's never been outside before.

"Where are we?" he stammers.

Irving steps forward and takes his hands. "It's an airport."

"Where are we going, then?" he asks, with a shaky smile.

"Excuse me, Mr. Bailiff. What's happening to my husband? It's like he's his innie, or something. He doesn't work for you anymore; you can't keep hassling us."

"I'm not Irving Bailiff, I'm Irving B. And Burt G was the best person I ever met inside Lumon."

"What is this? You're telling me you had an affair together? Burt?" he asks, whipping Burt around by the shoulder.

"I'm not your husband. I imagine he'll be back shortly..." Burt trails off, looking to Irving for the answer and giving him a little eyebrow wiggle at the same time.

"Yes," Irving swears, grinning. "This will only take a few minutes, really."

Burt's husband grumbles, but he sits back down in the rows of plastic chairs.

Burt takes Irving by the arm, and leads him over a few paces. "How did you do this?"

"It was your pen, Burt. Your outie's pen. The ink got past the code detectors. It felt like subconciously you wanted to meet me again. And I had a little help," Irving says sheepishly.

"Your outie did all of this for you? I knew he had to be as handsome as you, of course, but never as kind."

Irving's cheeks start to ache, so he bites his lip to keep from smiling. "I just had to see you again, no matter how impossible it was. I think he knows what that feels like. And of course my friends in MDR."

Burt squints. "Even Dylan?"

"Especially Dylan."

Burt grins wide, bordering on silly, and Irving can't look for too long or he'll ruin his eyes, like the fluorescent lights above their desks. They lean forward and let their foreheads rest together.

"Since we're not inside Lumon," Burt begins, "We aren't subject to their rules."

"That's true," Irving says, holding back a nervous giggle.

"This one can be romantic. If you're ready, of course."

"I'm ready," Irving mouths, barely audible.

Irving tips his jaw forward until his lips meet Burt's. They're soft and warm and they buckle a little under the pressure of his own. It's not far from the burning heat of that leather-clad stranger, even if it's chaste by Kier's standards. Irving pulls back, if only to stop his heart leaping up out of his throat and into Burt's.

"I adore you," Irving says. The words rush out of him like just another breath, something purely instinctual.

"I feel the same way. I wish we could stay together," Burt says, glancing back at the husband he doesn't know.

"We can't."

"Then, I should tell you–"

Irving is holding Burt Goodman's hands. He drops them and steps back, hopefully before Burt fully realizes.

"Mr Bailiff," he stutters.

Irving opts for the truth. "Sorry. I just had to talk to your innie for a moment."

"Are you done?" Seamus asks. His eyes are burning coals.

"Not quite," Irving says. He reaches into his coat, and offers the pen to Burt. "I think this is yours."

His eyes light up – Irving can see how he'd look nice, in the right lighting. "I've been looking all over for this," he fawns. "It was an anniversary present. Thank you."

Burt takes the pen and hugs Seamus, who's still eyeing Irving up and down. Irving heads home, with a glow of giddiness still lingering in his chest. He smiles – he remembers what it was like when he was younger. Arms and legs brushing together, sitting too close, finding excuses to swap clothes with each other. That stolen first kiss, worse than a gut punch by the guy giving off mixed signals. Before he became wise to the world, cynical, torn apart by war. Irving is the luckiest man alive if he gets to feel even a scrap of that innocent, pure love again.

Now more than ever, he's got to get his innie out of Lumon, to let him live out here, guide him through the ups and comfort him through the downs. He is the grandson Irving could never give his father (the son, too, for that matter). Irving calls Reghabi's cellphone, and tells her the potentials of the Overtime Contingency Protocol.