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From their very first encounter, Darling had known that Zachariah Trench was something special. It was something in the way he carried himself, his quiet competence and dedication to his duties. He directed his people with easy confidence and strict adherence to procedure. He seemed to have no desire to boast of his power over others, and more than anything, it was this trait which marked him as special.
Not that his immensely striking, silver-grey wings hurt in that department, either.
As Darling held a considerable interest in parautilitarians, he had naturally cornered this winged field agent to barrage him with questions about the topic. Had he had wings even as a child? When did his parautilitarian abilities begin to manifest? How powerful was he?
“I’ve always had wings. Many in my family have, but like most of the population, did not understand what it meant. I did not reveal any other signs of signs of unusual skills until I was serving overseas.” At that point, Trench gave a faint, wry chuckle. “As for power, I don’t trust it. Not even my own. And I don’t have much of it, either. Nothing worth studying.”
Darling had, naturally, disagreed with this assessment. Any parautilitarian was worth studying. And this one, perhaps, even more than most.
They had only grown closer over time, their lives increasingly entangled with one another’s until they were inseparable. Friends, closest allies, and partners now that Trench was the Director. And through all that time, and all that closeness, Darling had never ceased to be fascinated by Trench.
As a devoted scientist, fascination with anything—even or perhaps especially his partner—led to continued study. Darling had fully mapped out Trench’s paranatural abilities. Trench’s sharply targeted and thus effective melee strikes which could easily incapacitate an enemy in combat. His skill with the Service Weapon, a skill honed both on the target range and battlefield. And, of course, his talent for soothing Control Points and containing Altered Items.
His wings, too, had been the subject of study. How high he could fly, and how long. His aerial maneuvers in and out of combat. His ability to remain unbothered by even the fiercest winds, a skill which seemed to be connected to his innate paranatural abilities.
At present, while they sat in the Executive Sector cafeteria having lunch, Darling was once again observing Trench’s wings. Trench held them tightly against his back as he picked his way through dinner, posture as tense as ever. He hated to have his wings touched, at least by anyone who wasn’t Darling, and did his best to keep them thoroughly out of anyone’s path.
He also seemed to have been trying his best to pull out as many of his feathers as possible. His usually sleek wings looked almost tattered from this close, indeed rather frayed. Some of the feathers seemed thin compared to usual, as if Trench had removed any barbs which were even the slightest bit out of alignment. That countered with the appearance of the rest of his wings, with feathers badly misaligned. He hadn’t given his wings a good shake recently, which was also indicative of stress.
Darling, who always studied Trench, took a notebook from his lab coat and jotted this down. Trench gave him a look and put down his fork, plate still nearly full. “Darling.”
“Mhm?”
“What are you doing?”
“Observing.” Darling finished making his notes, then glanced around. No one was sitting near their usual corner spot in the cafeteria, and thus, no one would overhear a conversation. “You, on the other hand, are failing to finish your dinner. And, evidently, over-preening.”
Trench’s hand had drifted towards his feathers as soon as he stopped eating. Now, with seeming effort, he folded his hands on the table. “I’m fine.”
“The state of your feathers suggests otherwise.” This was a behavior which Darling had observed before. When Trench grew too stressed—all through Susanna’s illness and the horrible time after, for instance—he obsessively preened his wings to the point of absolute destruction. “For you, this is a symptoms of distress. In this case, caused by severe overwork. I suspect that if you spread your wings fully right now, a number of bald spots would be visible.”
Trench folded his hands more tightly. His expression went very, very carefully neutral. “It’s against Bureau regulations for a parautilitarian to spread their wings in a crowded part of the Oldest House. Barring extenuating circumstances.”
“That is quite thoroughly beside the point.” As Darling had finished a decent proportion of his own food, he pushed his plate aside. “Zach, I’m part of your management team, as well as your partner. It’s my duty to report anything I notice which may compromise Bureau operations. And although I am perfectly aware that you have a truly remarkable amount of willpower when it comes to continuing under adverse conditions, perhaps it would be wiser to deal with the problem rather than simply plucking out all your own feathers?”
Trench gave a soft, humorless laugh. “My ‘problem’, as you put it, is that I’m the Director. And I will be, for the foreseeable future. There is no one else.”
“I know.” Darling offered a small smile, his heart aching with love for this man who had not wanted power, yet still stepped up when a crisis struck. “However, while I am aware of your responsibilities, and just how busy you are, I believe some reduction of your stress is essential if you’re to avoid, well. A nervous breakdown.”
“The Director doesn’t get to have nervous breakdowns,” Trench muttered, pulling his glasses off. He pressed his hand across his eyes, taking a few weary breaths, and then dropped his hand again. “Yes. I am stressed. Too stressed. But I don’t know how to reduce it.”
Darling had a great many ideas for that, such as Trench actually taking an occasional day off, delegating more of his work to his team, and generally feeling less personally responsible for everything wrong with the entire fucking universe. However, such suggestions were not likely to be met with success, but rather a look of utter horror.
“Why don’t we go home on time tonight?” Darling suggested instead. That still earned him a look of utter horror. “Zach. Do you really want to continue overworking at your current rate until you mangle your feathers so badly that you’re incapable of flight?”
“No.” Trench sighed heavily and put his glasses back on. Seemingly without realizing it, he pulled a wing around himself and began methodically tugging at his feathers in a way that soon resulted in small bits of grey drifting to the concrete floor. “I suppose at the end of the day, the Director cannot go around with disorderly wings. It would be bad for morale.”
“Yes,” Darling agreed, reaching across the table to touch Trench’s hand and still his current destructive efforts. “And also bad for you.”
Trench gave him a baffled look, as if it had never occurred to him that it would matter if something was bad for him. Based on Darling’s long observations of him, that was precisely the case.
Regardless, Trench yielded to the plea to leave on time rather than staying to work late, as he usually did. They returned to Darling’s apartment, Trench fussing with his wings the entire time they were in the car. And in the elevator. And inside Darling’s apartment.
“Okay!” Darling said, pulling out his notebook again. “It’s evident that your stress must be reduced. However, as that will not happen overnight, I suggest we start with occupying your hands so they have something to do other than obsessively straighten and preen your feathers.”
Trench froze in the middle of worrying at a flight feather. He sighed again. “I-I don’t even realize I’m doing it. At least, part of the time. The rest of the time, I can’t quite seem to get my wings perfect. So I keep going.”
“Mhm. Well, in the interests of preventing further damage, I suggest that we give you something to do while we watch a movie.” Darling snatched a box off his cluttered desk and thrust it towards Trench. “I do have another idea as well. However, in general, I highly suggest any of these as possible options for fidgeting with instead of your feathers. I believe you might like the worry beads. At least, more than the slinky or the yo-yo.”
Trench snorted and took the worry beads. He fidgeted restlessly with them, casting a glance at his feathers as he did. Then he looked at the floor. “I’m getting pieces of feathers on your carpet. And everywhere in the House. Aren’t I?”
“I’m sure Ahti doesn’t mind sweeping up the occasional bit of fluff.” Darling caught Trench by the arm and steered him to the couch. “Now. As for my other idea. How would you like to wrap me in your wings, and we can hold hands while we watch our movie? That should, I believe, improve the situation.”
The clouds on Trench’s face lifted, giving way to an affectionate smile. “In more ways than one. Thank you, Casper.”
After they were settled on the couch precisely as suggested, Darling still found himself paying much more attention to Trench than to the movie. Trench was, after all, his favorite research subject, and truly something special. With further observation, as well as further experiments, Darling was quite certain that he could find ways to manage Trench’s stress and thus restore the striking appearance of his wings.