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Agent Zoe de Vera flips through the same stack of heavily redacted reports for the fifth time today and sighs. You'd think that with all the bullshittery going on in Manhattan, the Co-Directors wouldn't take black sharpies to much. Surely it'd be better if Zoe and her fellow agents knew more about the Patterning, the Resonants, and the Hiss rather than less, right? Especially Zoe! How the hell's she supposed to run tactical for anyone—much less the FBC's pet parautilitarian—without knowing the whos, whats, hows, and whys?
God. Maybe she should've stayed in college.
"Wonder if Pope realizes we can just… guess what's under all those black lines," she mutters, scribbling more notes in the margins of one such redacted report. "If I'm gonna do my job, I should probably know what the fuck these actually say."
Zoe's several requests to get unredacted versions of the docs coming out of the Oldest House had all been denied. Some shit about clearance levels and chains of command.
Though… As she skims the page again, Zoe wonders if she even wants to know what any of it once said in full. Arish thought it "pertinent" that Zoe be briefed on her charge, but fuck, what hadn't Research done to him?
"P6 resisted training again today. He refused to cooperate with the [REDACTED] test, stating that his head hurt and complaining that it felt as though [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] attempted to coerce him to comply, but P6 [REDACTED]. P6 was then [REDACTED] with [REDACTED] until he–"
"Hey, Zoe."
Her head jerks up and toward the entrance to her office where Dylan slouches, half-leaned against the doorframe like without it he'd fall over. Zoe's eyes narrow as she looks him over. If she had to pick a word to describe the sight of him, it'd definitely be exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, hair that's fallen out of the half-up style he seems to favor, bruising down his left cheekbone, yet more tears forming in his FBC-branded poncho, still damp from the constant rain in the Evacuation Zone… God, how long's it been since he slept? Surely since he'd gotten out of the Sinkhole, right?
Zoe's pretty sure the static on the other end of the radio all those hours is going to haunt her for a while.
Her silence earns her a confused look from him. "Is this a bad time?"
"No-!" Zoe waves a hand in front of her as she crosses the room toward Dylan. The decreased distance doesn't help his appearance much. "You just… You look like shit."
He rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth perking up in some semblance of a smile. "Gee, thanks."
"I'm responsible for you, Dylan. Not sure Arish would be happy if I let an–" she holds up air quotes, "FBC asset get damaged in the field, even if it was you. Here, lemme–"
Zoe reaches a hand up to the side of his face, burying the pit that forms in her stomach when Dylan subtly flinches away. The second her fingers ghost over the bruising, she hears him let out a soft gasp, piercing gaze trained directly on her.
He's warmer than she thought.
And that thought gets beaten, hogtied, and dragged back into a mental vault with the rest. It's fuller now than it used to be.
"Damn. They really got you, huh?" The warmth of Dylan's skin becomes burning to her own, and Zoe reluctantly pulls her hand back. "What happened?"
His nose wrinkles a bit, like a kid who's just been reminded to do his homework. "Not sure I wanna talk about it right now."
"Sucks to suck. Spill."
He gives her a sigh. "Saw some rangers that needed help. Was jumping down to handle the Hiss coming up behind them when I got hit by one of those flying ones. Slammed me into a building… Didn't make it to one of the rangers in time."
"Goddamn. You okay?" More warmth creeps into Zoe's tone than she'd prefer, but she can barely help it, not when he looks all sad and dripping wet like this. It conjures in her mind the image of a puppy in the rain, curled up and whimpering in a soaked cardboard box labeled "free."
"'m fine."
She rolls her eyes. "Real convincing," Zoe says flatly. Inspecting him again, she notices his right arm hiding in his still-damp poncho, bent protectively across his torso. She doesn't wait for Dylan's permission—and technically, as his commanding officer, she doesn't even need it—before pulling up the waterproof material and finding his hand pressed against his side.
"Hey, what's this–?"
"Zoe–"
Despite the warning in his tone, Dylan lets her tug his hand away to rest limp and burning hot in one of her own. Her other pulls up the fabric of his shirt, revealing a fresh, dark bruise where his hand had been pressed. It's easily larger than Zoe's entire palm and fingers, spreading diagonally up his side. It says a lot about how bad it looks that Zoe barely notices how close they're standing, how his breath hitches with her touch, and how much that stupid, unhelpful part of her wants to get even closer.
"Fucking hell, Faden…" she breathes, "Got some painkillers if you want any 'til we can get you to–"
He cuts her off, somehow sounding even more worn down than he looks. "Think all I want's to sit down."
"Okay, yeah." Zoe lets go of his hand, and, stepping back, sticks her own into the pockets of her overcoat. "Don't got much in the way of chairs, but floor's open. I'm not gonna make you hike all the way back to the Oldest House."
"You sure?"
Again, this question. He's asked it plenty of times before, and Zoe's certain it'll take a while before she's beaten it out of him. God forbid the man they're all relying on to survive this dare to take up space.
Her eyebrows raise. "I offered it, didn't I?"
"That you did," he admits with a sheepish nod. Through the hair that's fallen in front of his face, Zoe swears she sees him blush.
Or maybe she's just imagining things.
Regardless, with that settled—and the warmth in her gut spreading dangerously into her chest and extremeties—Zoe heads back to her desk. She's quick to busy herself with pretending to be busy as Dylan limps to an empty corner in her "office" and settles himself on the floor with a hiss—ha—between his teeth. Just how hard did he get hit?
Before her brain's registered any of it, Zoe's kneeling in front of him with a sealed water bottle and a couple tylenol in an outstretched hand. A couple heartbeats pass between them, Dylan's eyes flicking between the oblong white pills and Zoe's face.
"What, never taken a pill before?" she asks.
His brow furrows. "Course I have, it's just– I–"
After a couple seconds of watching him struggle to find the right word, Zoe's neurons finally connect and the ensuing realization has her kicking herself. Of fucking course the lifelong unethical science guinea pig would be wary of random ass pills pushed his way. As naturally as she can, she balls her fist around the pills, using her thumb and index finger to unscrew the water bottle. She sips just enough water to swallow one, then offers the rest to Dylan.
Thankfully, the play works. It's obvious that the terrifyingly powerful parautilitarian sitting in front of her hates swallowing pills, but he does so, settling back against the wall with a quiet thank you.
"Don't mention it." Zoe rises back to her feet, turning halfway back toward the desk. "And you're welcome to stay here 'til they need us again. I'll make sure it stays quiet."
Dylan nods in reply, eyelids already starting to droop. If he falls asleep here, she won't hold it against him. Much. She prefers the sight of him passed out in the corner than the fear that she'd never see him again, anyway.
…Which is a completely normal thing to think about one's coworker, thank you very much.