Chapter Text
Salt and the sea.
New England is a welcome change after years of endless concrete and glass. Warm halogen lights instead of a harsh, ethereal glow that seems to permeate everything around for ever and ever.
No more Patterning. No more Hiss. No more Darling.
Only salt. Only the sea.
In coastal Maine, the sun is pale and orange on the horizon when Dylan walks to the shore to check on the crab traps. Ranger comes along, trotting softly ahead of him on the trail, paws sinking into the mud one after the other as the rain comes down.
A scruffy little mutt from a shelter down in Rockland, Ranger seems to be more than content with spending his golden years with Dylan on Vinalhaven, where he has plenty of space to run around and lounge about whenever he wants; sometimes in his own bed, almost always on the couch next to his owner. It’s a certain kind of therapy, having Ranger around after everything he’s been through. The two of them are kindred spirits, in a sense. A couple of wayward souls trying to find some semblance of peace and quiet after years of turmoil.
Still, Dylan does have that, too—real therapy. It was Pope’s idea, but he thinks the epiphany likely had Zoe’s fingerprints all over it. Many things in his life do, and he supposes they always have, at least ever since he got it back. He knows he’ll never stop thanking her for that.
There’s an elderly woman that reminds him a lot of Dr. Underhill, who sees him once a week in Rockland (biweekly in the summer months), helping him unravel the tangled threads of his past and all the pinpricks along the way, so that there might come a day when he doesn’t flinch at the name Roberts anymore, or shudder at the sound of bending metal.
He keeps the details vague, of course, but the essence of his story is the same. Dylan used to be in pain and now he isn’t anymore.
It’s going to hurt to figure out the rest.
Luckily, he has help. Good people; good music. Zoe calls whenever her schedule allows, asking about his day, his week his month, while fitting a thousand new stories in between. It’s always hectic at the Oldest House, so it stands to reason she’s got her hands full day in and day out. Pope is a tremendous Acting Director, though, so it’s nothing the Bureau can’t handle.
It’s a relief, for sure, knowing everyone will be alright without him for a while. Besides, if some otherworldly calamity were to befall Manhattan again (and Dylan sincerely hopes it won’t) he’s only a phone call away. That’s what he tells Pope and Zoe.
It’s what he tells Jesse, too, every time he visits, and he tries his best to do so often.
The door in the basement proves useful for that; the one that looks like the ones in Manhattan that he can walk through and phase through worlds.
It wasn’t in the house when he first moved in (neither was the basement), but perhaps the Oldest House has roots far longer than anyone can comprehend, if they were able to follow him across state lines. Naturally, Pope nearly combusts with glee upon the discovery, demanding Dylan send ample data as per her instructions at regular intervals. He obliges, partly out of curiosity but mostly because the work will keep Pope from agonizing over Jesse’s fate 24/7—a respite she desperately needs.
The board followed him, too, not just the door and the not-basement. To be fair, however, that was all his own doing. With the volatile nature of the Aberrant, it’s only right that Dylan brought it along. He is bound to it, after all, and the Board seems strangely attached to him, even after everything. Maybe they love a renegade more than they’re willing to admit, or maybe they’re just bored. Either way, they travel with him to Maine, humming strange songs in his head every evening as the stars are climbing out, speaking his thoughts back to him when he’s caught off guard, like the strangest kind of inner monologue.
Sometimes they complain about not being back in the Oldest House, but then Dylan takes Ranger hiking and the Board quiets down, like they’re calmed by green pines and yellowing foliage. They’ll never admit it, but the soft trill echoing in his head gives everything away. It’s there, too, when Ranger breaks into a jog with his favorite stick in his mouth, his age failing to catch up with his enthusiasm, and so he stumbles on the trail, tumbling forward with a whimper, and then Dylan is rushing to his side, and something in the back of his mind is whimpering too.
It’s just a jumbled echo at first.
< ??? >
Then:
< Faden’s creature hurt/destroyed/out of commission? >
Huh. So they do care. Dylan feels an ounce of vindication at that.
“No,” he mutters. “We’re good.” Dusts himself off. “Ranger’s fine.”
The thrum inside his head quiets down enough for the gratitude to set in, and as the dying rays of a golden sun break through the clouds, his heart swells with something new and beautiful.
Yeah. Maybe Maine can give him something new and good. He just has to give it a chance.
Although the island of Vinalhaven is a relatively small and remote community, Dylan finds ways to keep himself occupied.
Most people spend their time outdoors, hiking or fishing when they find the time, and shucking shellfish for the fishmongers in the bay. Dylan helps out where he can and keeps to himself the rest of the time. There aren’t a lot of jobs his Bureau resumé is optimal for; no one in coastal Maine has come along asking for a parautilitarian with PTSD and trembling hands.
Drawing is good for that—steadying one’s hands. He still paints, too. Or maybe, paints again; finds love for it anew in the cracks of his past. It’s a sound way to get his mind off all the worst things he’s ever done, letting all the clutter sink away into the ether in favor of calm colors and the soft edge of a paintbrush.
Sunsets are his favorite thing to paint. Those and Ranger. Dylan takes polaroids of him and draws what he sees, and it always turns out great. Maybe it’s the love bleeding through, he thinks, then pauses, backtracking, or whatever thing I can feel that’s close enough to the real thing.
Ironically, they’ve worked on that with Dr. Collier—his tendency to doubt himself. It’s residue from his time in the Prime Candidate Program like everything else, struck to him like glue even years after the fact. There may have been a time when Dylan couldn’t conjure such sincerity from within himself that would’ve allowed him to feel affection or love for any other living thing, especially after Dr. Darling and his team of the planet’s most unethical scientists wrung the last bits of humanity out of him.
So yes, perhaps he can love and perhaps that is where the best brushstrokes come from. And if not, there’s time to hone that skill. After all, he has learned worse things.
Zoe affirms as much, and she does so every chance she gets, taking the time to nurture his artistic sensibilities whenever they speak. She sends him CDs full of song recommendations every few weeks, and he picks out all his favorite ones. He sends back some of his own, too, with a few new sounds mixed in. Maybe it’s the change of scenery or the salty ocean air, but something about the slow life seeps into his music, too. Not all of it, of course, and not all the time, but it’s there, wedging sun-dripped melodies into the gaps where there used to be nothing, bringing his heart rate down, helping him draw deeper breaths.
She does that, too, Dylan thinks, or maybe realizes, one starry night while sitting on the dock with Ranger. Zoe makes his heart sing too.
Something hums in his occipital lobe.
< Harboring hopes/delusions/feelings? >
Something close to a laugh reverberates in his mind after that. It’s almost enough to make him laugh, too. Leave it to the Board to chastise his vulnerability. And perhaps Ranger picks up on some of it because he begins pawing at Dylan’s side, nudging his muzzle into his open hand, perhaps agreeing, or maybe just asking to go home.
< You miss/want/remember your girl/marksman/friend >
Dylan grumbles in response, pressing cool fingers against warm skin on his temple, trying his best to alleviate the pressure behind his eyes. “Shut up,” he pleads, to no one in particular, breathing mist into the night air.
Still, a shadow of static buzzes inside his skull on the trip home, lasting all throughout dinner and the hike to the crab traps too, only waning in the small hours of the evening, when he gets a good pencil in his hand and lets the day melt away into graphite.
Perhaps it helps that he’s drawing Zoe, too, but Dylan thinks it best not to dwell on that for now. Besides, it isn’t like he can do much about any of it, anyway. His years spent under Dr. Darling’s tutelage didn’t exactly prepare him for adult emotional intimacy of this caliber or any other.
Hm. As Zoe would say, fuck Dr. Darling.
< Doctor Darling/Monster/Devil. You/We want him dead/gone/disintegrated >
This time, Dylan lets himself laugh, and under his shaking hand, graphite smudges against his palm and against where Zoe’s mouth used to be. He spends the rest of the night thinking about that and about how things might be different (better) if he could touch her without paper and graphite as conduits, and then she could tell him how it felt and he could speak it all back to her; echo to echo, mouth to mouth.
Suddenly, softly, without making a fuss or demanding attention, new opportunities for connection arrive at his doorstep just in time for the year’s first snowfall.
In the latter days of fall, weeks after the tourists have cleared out of Knox County, Dylan is standing in the kitchen trying his best to scrape an egg out of the pan without breaking the yolk when his phone rings.
Ranger is barking from his spot in the corner of the living room and the TV is still on, quietly churning out noise that sounds vaguely like the news, or maybe a commercial for another product Dylan isn’t sure anyone has ever needed.
Zoe’s voice comes through the speaker, and although it feels a little inappropriate, he finds his heart lurching just a little.
“Crazy hypothetical,” she starts, sounding out of breath, “but if someone you knew was forced out of their job because they worked for a gazillion days without breaks, would you take time out of your day to spend time with them?”
“Hold on— Zoe, what? Did you get fired?”
“No, not fired.” She takes a breath before going on: “I was… strongly advised to take some time off. But like, only a weekend, so it’s manageable.”
He senses a caveat. “And?”
“And, I might be on a ferry.” There’s a brief pause. Waves. Wind howling into the receiver. Then, a revelation: “In Maine. To you.”
He stops in his tracks, and Ranger stills in the next room. Dylan doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’s coming here now? Unannounced? When he’s so unprepared to see her face to face?
< You are afraid/enamored/infatuated. So devoted/attached/indebted to your girl/marksman/friend >
God. Talk about awkward timing.
< Faden/loverboy/deserter is in a bind/tied up/confused. To love/commemorate/worship or not to love/eulogize/revere? >
And from somewhere else, crackling in his ear: “Hello? Earth to Faden. You there?”
A nervous swallow. “Yeah, sorry. Bad service,” Dylan hedges. Goes on after the embarrassment dissipates, says, “Alright,” trying his hardest to quell the restless rhythm of his heart. “What’s your ETA?”
“Twenty minutes, give or take.” There’s wind again. “Sorry for the intrusion.”
He’s fighting a smile and trembling hands. “Just get here in once piece, okay?” It works partway.
On the other end of the line, Zoe seems to relax. Her eyes are warm—he knows it. “Copy that.”
Yeah, Dylan thinks wistfully. Copy that. He can do this. They can do this, whatever it is. Whatever this wonderful, frightening prospect clawing its way to the surface is, Dylan can face it. He can look Zoe in the eye and say I missed you and not have it tear a chasm into his chest. He can let her into his space and watch it mold around her the way he secretly used to hope it would. He’ll know all the best things to say when she shows up at his door, and if not, there’s room to get it wrong.
After all, he has made worse mistakes.