Chapter Text
It’s twelve 'til one, the bare bulbs in the warehouse are going strong, and you’re just about done working on this project.
A half-second before the microwave timer hits 00:00, you pop open the door with a practiced tug. You’re good at making as little noise as possible when it comes to this thing — is it completely necessary? Probably not. But the beeping might break your workflow, and you’ve got a good streak going. The only tradeoff is that your leftovers are probably only about halfway heated up, but…
You suppress a yawn, debate sticking the plate back in for another minute, and discard the thought outright. There are worse things out there than cold-ish alfredo. Such as… Well.
Such as Zephyr’s tendency to run his mouth.
Alright. Maybe you’re just being mean. It isn’t like editing his videos is the worst job in the world, although you do object a little bit to how calmly he speaks all the time.
Your hideout chair is ergonomic enough; it only complains a little bit as you settle back with your laptop. Awash in blue light with a fork dangling from your mouth, you are the embodiment of digital competence, shaping and polishing your boss’s rough thoughts until they’re nice and inflammatory . You’re not the thrill seeker here. You get spooked when you accidentally check a curb. But you are good at one thing, and that is producing final video cuts that have your most esteemed client leaning over your shoulder and dealing you satisfied nods.
It’s a little funny, maybe.
For all that he waxes philosophical and raises pandemonium in the streets, Zephyr himself is alarmingly nondescript. Serious brow, dark eyes, cropped hair. Almost , but not quite, striking. He could be anybody; he’s this close to looking like nobody. Part of you might wonder, is that where he gets that itch to be known from? His nondescript physicality? Overcompensating for his plainness?
And you don’t… think so. You might have, early on, but working close with a guy automatically means that you start to know the guy. He talks about fame and freedom the way a Romanticist writes poems about nature and the unknown. Abstract, but vitally important to the human experience. A fact of existence, an unignorable call.
His pupils dilate when he sees a pretty car. That’s not simple ego-chasing. That’s insane hobby obsession. Something’s wrong with him, and it only starts to settle into something right when he’s behind the wheel.
Or so he’d say.
Compared to most people, he doesn’t emote that much. When he’s concentrating, or ruminating — or outright brooding , more like — the corners of his lips will tuck into a frown, or he’ll bite down on the inside of his mouth. You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard him actually laugh in normal conversation, although you’ve never gotten the impression that he’s particularly dour or miserable. He’s just distracted, always, always daydreaming about his asphalt and accelerators until he gets to have it again.
He watches you kick over an empty oil quart with the tip of your sneaker. Not every safehouse is cared for equally, and this one exists on the dusty, neglected end of the spectrum. Needs must, but you aren’t animals.
“This place is a mess, Zeph,” you tell him, watching him drop an affectionate pat on his latest machine’s hood. He’d pulled into the hideout a few minutes after you’d cleaned your plate and hit export on the vid you were doctoring; he lives up to his license plate’s name with how quietly he makes his way over to your side of the warehouse. If you didn’t know better, you’d assume he just got back from a grocery run or an eye exam — but, no, he's positively alight. It's in the small details. The easy swagger to his stride, the way he plays with his keys. He's been burning rubber and the afterglow of exhilaration settles softly over him.
And when he responds to you, it's quiet, sedate, like nothing in the pedestrian world could bother him .
“I’ll get around to it.”
“Not if I do first.”
“You can if you want.”
“Not for free .” Because you’re no maid, but you are interested in a couple Benjamins.
There’s the curious not-smile you've come to expect from him, that shift like he’s biting his cheek. Zephyr exhales what could generously be called a laugh and digs out his wallet.
“You really are bent on robbing me blind.”
That earns him a playful eye-roll. He just came home with a BMW like it was no big deal.
“Come on, you're Zephyr. Anything I can bleed out of you, you can earn back ten times over in a single race. But hey, feel free to replace me any time you want.” It’s something you’d never say most times, but Zephyr has a way of making you really feel the job security, and it feels warm and cozy and demands that you be a little insufferable sometimes. Just to push at his limits a little, like he’s always going on about.
This side gig is a convenient way to make a couple extra bucks on the side. It was a little extra padding, some financial peace of mind. And at first, that was all it was. Zephyr was chill enough, and Zephyr wanted fame, and Zephyr was useless with video editing software, and so you said okay.
And if, sometimes, you went the extra mile, well, he was willing to pony up.
"Thank you , boss," you chirp, rolling the bills between your fingers, then slipping them into your pocket. Nothing like a tip to raise the spirits. "I’ve got your latest upload ready to go whenever, but you should give it a once-over. Oh, and — leftover pasta in the fridge. If you’re hungry.”
It isn’t the first time that you’ve brought along food or shared your lunch with him, but still, his eyebrows raise in surprise. It makes you wonder, a little, what his life is like outside all this. If he lives alone (he probably does), if he spares the time for cooking meals at all (he probably doesn’t), if he's got friends (you're not sure he does). You wonder what’s left if you strip away the theatrics and racing pulse afforded to him by his hobby, and for a second… Yeah, it makes sense. Why he only seems at home at breakneck speeds.
It’s curiosity that you push down when it starts getting a little too out of hand. It lives too close to the musings about what he’s like up close and in his element; what it would be like to take up space in his passenger seat and observe. And that, in turn, cuts a little too far toward the fact that, actually, you genuinely like Zephyr, and would probably like flat-out hanging out with him, too.
He pays you. You don’t have to get weird about it.
So you quell the curiosity, and you angle your laptop so he can see the magic you’ve worked on his audio and raw footage, and Zephyr nods like he does and tells you, his own fork pointed approvingly, that’s what it’s all about …
But beneath it all, you still have to wonder.