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Dylan limped into the Watchtower, the static of Zoe's channel still buzzing quietly in his ear, even though he no longer needed it. The agent herself was leaning over her cluttered desk, the low light painting sharp lines under her eyes.
"Any updates for me?" he asked, his voice rough. He'd spent the last few hours running across Manhattan to address whatever new problem she'd supplied over the radio, but for each one he solved - three more popped up elsewhere.
Zoe glanced up, then visibly did a double-take. Her gaze tracked the blood drying in dark patches across his jacket, the scrapes along his jaw, noting the way he kept his weight off his right leg. A Collider had caught him earlier with one solid, bone-deep hit that had sent him flying into a patterned wall of street. It was just one of the many hits he'd taken, but now that Dylan wasn't actively jumping from fight to fight, the pain had finally started to settle in.
It began as a deep throb in his muscles, then sharpened into something that pulsed with every heartbeat. His leg trembled. He was pretty sure it would give out if he put weight on it. Dylan blinked, startled by how loud the pain suddenly was.
"You... look like shit," Zoe said.
"I'm fine." He shook himself, blinking away the pain. "I've trained for this."
Something complicated flickered across her face - sympathy, frustration, maybe guilt - and settled into a tight line around her mouth.
"Of course you have," she sighed. "Well, for now, go back to the Oldest House. Get some rest."
"I..."
The only bed waiting for Dylan was the narrow mattress in his old containment cell. He hadn't purposefully slept there since waking up - and he didn't want to start now.
She frowned as he didn't move. After a moment, understanding dawned on her face, followed by a grimace. She exhaled through her nose, long and slow.
"Dylan, you need sleep," Zoe said, softer. "Even just a few hours."
After another long period of silence, she sighed and gestured toward the far corner of the room where a small cot sat half-hidden behind a stack of supply crates, a thin blanket folded at the foot. A half-empty water bottle and a worn paperback were scattered on the floor beside it. Clearly Zoe's bed since she'd been stationed at the Watchtower.
"Fine. You can nap there," she decided. "Take your shoes off."
"...who sleeps in a bed with shoes on?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you really telling me that doesn't sound like something the FBC would do? Train you to sleep in your boots so you're ready at a moment's notice?"
Dylan opened his mouth. After a moment, he closed it. She... had a point.
Zoe laughed and turned back to her desk, giving him a semblance of privacy. Dylan stood there a second longer, then he limped over, sat carefully on the edge of the cot, and began unlacing his boots.