Work Text:
When Dylan Faden initially suggests that he wants to hold a housewarming party, Zoe De Vera thinks that he’s joking.
Not in a cruel way— she’s not suggesting that Dylan doesn’t have enough friends to host a proper party— but because his home is so comically inaccessible to non-parautilitarians that it might as well be at the bottom of the ocean. It makes sense why he’d be given an apartment in the Unknown since it saves a lot of paperwork and money (rent is nonexistent and, somehow, he doesn’t have to pay for utilities, either) but that does also limit who can visit.
It’s hard enough even reaching the Unknown, and ranger teams ending up on different patches of floating land is usually an accident that the researchers still don’t have a good way of explaining.
When she pointed this out to him, he went quiet for slightly too long to feel natural and then admitted he didn’t think of that. Even though he’s keenly aware of the fact that he’s different from the average person, it’s still easy for him to forget that flying (he’s insistent he can’t actually fly, but she thinks it counts) and double jumping aren’t in the skill set of most FBC agents.
“You could always host something here,” She offered, gesturing vaguely to the area around them. The field office isn’t exactly the most cheerful area, but it has plenty of space and, more importantly, isn’t impossible to reach. “I’m sure a lot of the folks here would love the chance to get their mind off of… y’know. Everything.”
Dylan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing up and to the side in an almost comical exaggeration of sheepishness. Sometimes, the fact that he only recently learned how to act semi-normally is extremely obvious. (Still, he’s prone to blank-faced staring that gives away nothing of what he’s feeling. It used to be unnerving, but she’s since grown used to it. He’s made plenty of progress but there’s still a lot to learn about the whole “being a person and not just a lab rat” thing.) “I mean, I guess I could do that. But it kind of defeats the purpose of a house warming party, don’t you think?”
She snorted. “Unless you think you’ll be able to carry everyone you want to invite from the Oldest House’s roof to your place, then I think you’re just going to have to be happy with a symbolic sort of thing.”
That had been a week ago, and Zoe had admittedly forgotten about the conversation soon afterwards. Even if they don’t have to worry about the Hedron destroying reality, there are still plenty of other things they need to be concerned with. The Park is still completely overrun with Mold creatures— not to mention the sustained Hiss presence surrounding them. It’s manageable, but it’s definitely not easy work.
Dylan makes it look easy, though. It’s hard for her to resist the urge to watch him through her telescope. Nothing exciting goes on inside of the watchtower, and she is supposed to be providing overwatch for him.
(It’s different than her being his handler, her superiors were quick to point out. Even if most of her duties are still the same. Probably some HR mandated thing. It just sounds nicer when they make a point out of saying the two of them are now on equal footing. There’s no more emergency MCD trigger, but if she tells him that he’s doing something stupid and that she’s going to kill him if he dies, he’s usually pretty good at listening.)
He moves with a surprising amount of grace for a man that woke up from a seven year coma not even a month ago. Twisting and turning, heaving unwieldy and impossibly heavy weaponry like it weighs nothing. Every time she sees him slam the business end of the Aberrant’s hammer form on the skull of some unsuspecting Hiss, she’s amazed that Dylan is able to pick it up at all.
All of it seems so… effortless. Like fighting is second nature to him. She guesses part of it is because of what he went through during prime candidate training, but she’s hesitant to give Darling all the credit. You can’t teach someone to move the way Dylan does. Something about it has to be natural.
Maybe it’s unprofessional to admit that she enjoys watching him more than she enjoys filling out the paperwork she’s meant to be focusing on. But said paperwork is only part of her job, and she really needs to keep an eye out just in case he needs help. She’s definitely not watching him for any weird reasons.
To be clear— she isn’t watching him in a creepy way. She’s not drilling holes in the walls to watch him go to the bathroom. (Which is something that happened at one point, if the examples provided within the HR-mandated harassment training is anything to go off of.)
Sometimes, she just happens to be looking out through her telescope at Manhattan and Dylan just happens to fall into view.
She works with the paranatural every day, but that doesn’t mean she’s still not impressed and amazed by it. Plus, how many other people can say that their job involves giving advice to one of the most powerful parautilitarians to ever be recorded? Maybe it’s given her a bit of an ego, but there’s nothing wrong with that.
(ONE of them has to have some measure of self esteem and it’s clear that Dylan isn’t doing much to challenge her for the position.)
Right now, he’s somewhere in the field office below. Last she saw, he was talking to Langston about something and the conversation had lasted a good half hour before she decided to not bother checking in on them anymore. (Not that she was watching the entire time, okay?) Langston is an invaluable employee and a welcomed friendly face, but goddamn he can talk for hours at a time if you let him. There’s a good chance he’s been telling Dylan all about the funny things Alfred has been getting up to. That’s usually what he wants to talk about.
It’s nice that Dylan is really starting to interact with people. He was so quiet when they first met— at the time, she’d thought it was a calculated move on his part to seem less antagonistic and aggressive. It seems comical in retrospect. She doesn’t think he has a single scheming bone in his body.
She’s halfway through a stack of paperwork that she’s been putting off for way too long when she hears footsteps approaching. It’s a familiar rhythm and she doesn’t need to look to know who it is.
(A part of her thinks that she’s getting too close to him. Bordering on something just past professional acquaintances. Friends? That’s a comfortable name to give it. They’re friends. Friends recognize each other by small quirks all the time, and there’s nothing in the FBC’s staff regulations handbook about friendships.)
“Was Langston chatting your ear off?” She asks, flipping a page and scribbling lists of numbers and locations.
Dylan gives a soft, huffing laugh in response. “I was just trying to ask him a question. I didn’t know I was signing up for an hour-by-hour itinerary of Alfred’s schedule. You know, I really thought that cats hate water, but apparently Alfred used to get a bath every night. Something about mysterious stains? I realized that I shouldn’t ask for context.”
She can’t help but feel briefly proud of the fact that she perfectly predicted what the two of them were talking about before realizing that Alfred is a universal constant in Langston’s conversations and it’s a near-guarantee that he’ll be brought up if Langston is allowed to ramble for long enough.
“Probably for the best,” She returns. After a moment of silence, she glances back over her shoulder.
Dylan’s standing a few feet away, next to one of the tables currently being used to hold stale doughnuts that she was planning to eat earlier and then completely forgot about. His hands are tucked behind his back and he shifts his weight almost anxiously. He seems slightly startled by her gaze, like he wasn’t expecting her to look at him.
“Did you need something?” She asks, not unkindly. “Or did you just want to chat?”
Dylan clears his throat. “Oh— I’ve just been… thinking about what we talked about the other day. About my housewarming party,” He eventually starts. He’s looking everywhere but her face. “And, uh… it’s probably not realistic to invite a bunch of people over, but I was wondering if… you would want to come? If it’s just the two of us?” He seems less and less sure of himself as he continues, his voice barely above a mumble once he finishes.
It’s… cute. If a grown man can be described as cute.
Something in her chest flutters but she brushes it off as quickly as it appeared. She twists around in her chair, hooking her elbow over the back so that she can get a better look at him. “I mean, if you’re okay with it just being us. I’ve had my fair share of two-person-parties,” She comments.
(Definitely not because she didn’t have a lot of friends. All of said parties were small by choice. She’s never been a fan of huge get-togethers, anyway.)
Then, a small frown tugs on her lips. “But I’d still have to get to your place. You know. The main issue. I’ve been trying to learn how to fly, but… I just don’t think I take to it the way you do,” She continues with a long, dramatic sigh. “And I don’t want to ruin your party by falling to my death. That would be kind of a bummer.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a lopsided smile and she counts it as a win. “That’s what I was going to talk about in the first place,” He says. Slowly, he takes a small step closer, like he thinks she’s going to run away if he moves too fast. If it was anyone else she was talking to, the whole thing would have her on-edge. He’s burying the lede on something and his saving grace is that she knows there’s a good chance he’s acting like this over something completely ordinary. “I’m pretty sure I have an idea for how you can get to my apartment that doesn’t involve any flying.”
A pause. The two of them stare at each other.
“... Are you going to tell me?” She prompts after the silence goes on for just slightly too long to be comfortable.
“If I tell you, then I know you’re not going to agree to it.”
“Getting a real sense of deja vu over here,” She mutters under her breath. At least right now she isn’t standing in front of a giant chasm with zero idea of what’s going on. “How terrible can it be that you think I’m going to immediately veto it? I do want to attend your party, y’know. A little motion sickness or whatever it is you’re worried about isn’t going to make me throw in the towel.”
Sometimes she forgets that he needs to be reassured like this. It’s easy to look at him and see the hero who saved the entire world from a rogue Hedron. The same man who can wipe out entire Hiss hives without breaking a sweat needs to be told that yes, he’s worth other people’s attention and time.
(There’s a sense of undeniable kinship there. She doesn’t have the same excuses that he does. It’s less endearing when she wants the same kind of comfort.)
Dylan stares at her, squinting his eyes as if trying to figure out if he should believe her or not. “I know you’ll complain about it,” He corrects himself. She would complain about his assumption if she didn’t know that he’s probably right. “So I’m not going to tell you. I just wanted to make sure you actually want to visit my place.”
(She doesn’t like it when he uses his newfound freedom against her, but she’s also not cruel enough to punish him for it. Annoyance is a small price to pay in the face of 24 years of captivity.)
There’s definitely a point to be made about her being a stubborn jackass at times. She grumbles a little before giving another heavy sigh. “Alright, alright, I’m willing to put up with whatever this idea of yours is if it means you can have your party,” She eventually resigns. There wasn’t much of a chance she’d refuse, but he doesn't have to know that. He doesn’t need to be aware of how much of a sway he has over her.
(A friendly sway. Not anything untoward or unprofessional.)
The small, pleased smile she gets in return makes her chest grow tight. Which means nothing.
No matter how many times Zoe visits the Unknown, she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it. The sight of a mirrored city a mile above Manhattan isn’t something you see everyday. She’s witnessed plenty of bizarre things while working for the FBC, but what’s happening here easily takes the cake.
If she squints, she can make out the isola Dylan’s claimed as his own. Far enough to dissuade potential visitors from the main structures, but also reasonably close to the roof of the Oldest House. It’s tilted at a slight angle, and staring at it for too long makes her feel like she’s about to start falling upwards.
She doesn’t know how Dylan manages to walk on walls and ceilings constantly without throwing up. Even the thought of it is making her motion sick.
But, other than the obvious issues, it’s not a bad spot at all.
The air isn’t cold, but it’s still chilly. Early fall in New York is usually colder, but it seems like the Patterning has some effect on the weather. She doesn’t mind it all that much. Langston might need to cover himself head to toe, but she’s used to it. It’s better than summer, at least. She hates feeling sweaty and the FBC uniforms clearly weren’t designed with comfort in mind.
She squints against the dusk-orange sunlight, her coat flapping against her in the steady breeze. Dylan had made it clear that he didn’t want her to “get all dressed up,” so she decided to just stick with her usual.
(Which she’s thankful for, seeing as all the clothing stores nearby are closed and the FBC doesn’t look kindly on stealing from civilians. It’s hypocritical but she guesses that even they need to have some level of standards. Plus, she hates wearing dresses so she’s not complaining.)
Tucked under one arm is her housewarming present. Again, all of the nearby shops are closed, so she had to make do with what was available. Langston, to his credit, is surprisingly good at baking with very little. He did most of the hard work, but she was the one who decorated it, so it’s not like she wasn’t involved. When she told him that, regrettably, the housewarming party would only be her and Dylan, he wasn’t upset like she was expecting.
Langston smiled wryly at her, leaning away a little while squinting his eyes. “I see how it is,” He’d said, like it was some sort of conspiracy hiding what was really going on. At times it feels like he’s putting on a show for some invisible audience. “Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt the two of you! No need to worry about little old me ruining your fun!” Then, he winked.
She chose not to think about what he might have been implying. He was looking too deep into it, anyway. Two people are allowed to hang out without it being weird. Men and women can be friends with each other.
(Does she only want to be friends? It doesn’t matter. They don’t have the brick wall of handler-charge dubious ethicality anymore, but that doesn’t mean very much. Dylan deserves the chance to meet people outside of the city— outside of the FBC. Someone who doesn’t know all the details of the worst time in his life.)
What? No! No, she’s not going to stand here and obsess over the details of Dylan’s theoretical love life. The few times she’s brought it up to him were too much already.
Shaking her head, she tries to not get caught up in unimportant details. None of that is going to happen and she should just do her best to not think about it. If she wastes precious energy looking for clues that don’t exist, she’s going to end up making a complete idiot of herself.
Thankfully, she doesn’t end up having to wait for very long and so she doesn’t have the time to get even more in her own head over the whole thing.
Dylan walks up to her in what she assumes is supposed to be a casual stroll, but ends up making him look like there’s something stuck up his ass. “Funny meeting you here,” He says lamely. (Which is a mean thought but it’s still true.) “But— I’m, uh… I’m glad you came. Would’ve been a shitty party if it was only me.”
He looks genuinely relieved to have found her here. A part of her wants to be offended that he assumed she’d ditch without saying anything, but it’s difficult to be mad at him.
Instead of his usual FBC-standard-issue raincoat and sensor uniform, he’s wearing a button-up shirt and plain slacks. The sort of business casual fashion the FBC runs on. She has to bite her tongue to stop herself from commenting on it. He looks… good. Surprisingly normal. She can imagine seeing him in an office cubicle, drinking coffee and typing away at a typewriter. Maybe later she’ll ask where he found it.
“I do want to see your place,” She says with a small shrug. It’s probably for the best that she tries to keep him from getting too sentimental too early into the night. “I’m not seeing an escalator or anything like that, so…” She trails off, glancing over towards Dylan’s apartment. “Are you finally going to tell me what your plan is?”
“I’ll just carry you across,” He responds with such ease and casualness that she almost misses just how completely insane what he’s suggesting is.
Her mouth drops open. For a minute, all she can do is stare at him, half expecting him to start snickering before admitting that he only said that to see what her reaction would be. But he doesn’t say anything and she realizes that she really should say something.
“You’ll carry me?” She parrots.
“Yeah?”
Another pause. She glances towards Dylan’s apartment again. It’s an intimidating gap that, even with his “definitely not flying” abilities, is too far to comfortably jump. Not for the first time, she wishes she could just stroll through the warp doors scattered across the city like Dylan can.
He must be able to recognize her uncertainty. “See that gravity well?” He asks, pointing towards a mass of patterned taxis hovering sideways some fifteen feet above the ground. “If I use that, we’ll be able to just— fall the whole way over.”
Again, she waits for him to admit that all of this is just a joke and that he has some other plan, but he just continues to stare at her with the same vaguely miserable expression he always has no matter what he’s feeling. “You’re going to carry me,” She repeats, as if saying it enough times will make it stop sounding insane. “You think you can— well, I mean, I know you could pick me up, but—“ She looks back to the gap. It’s not any less intimidating when she imagines it as a fall. “Have you ever tried doing something like this before?”
“No,” Dylan answers immediately, and she does have to give him some credit for not bothering to lie or trying to avoid the question. “But it shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve carried stuff before. Why’d a person be any different?”
She gives him a tight-lipped smile. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“If I lied to you, you’d get mad at me.”
He does have a point.
Zoe’s shoulders slump as she lets out a shallow, wheezing sigh. The more she thinks about this, the less she wants to do it. She’s never been particularly scared of heights, but there’s a difference between looking out the window of a skyscraper and falling between floating buildings a mile above Manhattan.
It would be a stupid, if spectacular, way to die.
“Okay,” She eventually mutters. She should probably be concerned about the fact that Dylan can so easily rope her into stuff like this. Isn’t she supposed to be the one that shuts down stupid goddamn schemes like this? She’ll find something else to blame it on later. “But if you drop me, I’m going to haunt your ass for the rest of your life, got it?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Then I just won’t drop you.” He holds his arms out expectantly and, abruptly, she realizes that he means he’s actually going to carry her.
Imagining herself cradled in his arms sparks a mix of embarrassment and something warmer and much more dangerous. She can feel her face growing warm. “Actually, I— uh. How about you just…” She stammers for a second, desperately wracking her brain for any sort of alternative. When she remembers the cake tucked under her arm, she sends a silent thanks to Langston. “How about you hold onto your present, and then I just, like, piggyback on you?”
“Piggyback?”
Right. Of course he wouldn’t know what that is.
She (carefully, since she did put a lot of work into the icing) shoves the box into Dylan’s hands then circles around him, placing both palms on his shoulders and mentally preparing herself for what’s about to happen. The last time she did this, she couldn’t have been any older than ten. Beneath her hands, Dylan is warm and solid. Unnaturally warm, actually. She almost tricks herself into worrying that he might have a fever.
“I’ll just… hold on while you do your thing,” She says, putting every ounce of effort into sounding casual. It’s not like she wants to do this, but at least it’s slightly more respectable than the alternative. When he glances back at her over his shoulder she makes a point out of not meeting his gaze.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to?” He asks. Her gut reaction is to be offended, but it's clear he’s genuinely worried. “I’m not— uh. I’m not trying to call you heavy or anything like that, just to be clear. That wasn’t… what I meant.”
(Somehow, Darling and Trench didn’t manage to beat the kindness out of him entirely. She still thinks it's a miracle he’s as considerate as he is. There’s no way she’d be anywhere near as sociable and kind as him if their positions were swapped. It’s probably for the best that she doesn’t have access to incredibly dangerous and highly volatile paranatural abilities.)
He’s right to be worried, but her pride is just large enough for her to risk her life rather than be bridal carried by someone who was her direct subordinate two weeks ago.
Zoe scoffs and, before she has the chance to psyche herself out, practically leaps onto Dylan’s back. She hooks both legs over his hips, digging her heels into the front of his thighs and crossing her arms over his chest.
It’s awkward and clumsy and she’s really, really lucky that Dylan manages to regain his balance before falling over and squashing her. She’s also extremely lucky that he can’t see her face and so doesn’t get to watch her turn an impressive shade of red. She cranes her neck to keep her face as far away from his head as possible, but she’s not working with a lot of room. The wind blows strands of soft brown hair into her face and, like some sort of cosmic punishment, she catches the scent of the standard-issue shampoo that the Oldest House has a seemingly endless stock of. It’s so carefully neutral that she wouldn’t be able to catch it if she wasn’t forced to use it over the past few months.
(Why can’t they just give nearby store owners I.O.U’s? The Bureau is nothing if not meticulous with its paperwork. All she wants is to smell nice instead of like she just walked out of a decontamination shower. She’s probably lost a good chunk of her smell receptors from just how harsh the chemicals are. Fucking Bureau penny pinchers. The shampoo sucks.)
Through her sweater and Dylan’s shirt, she can still feel just how warm he is. Like if an industrial heater decided to try out being human for a while. She thinks a few of the parautilitarian research logs she was given in preparation for her handler duties mentioned heightened body temperatures.
Not something she’d let herself dwell on normally, but anything that keeps her off of what’s happening is welcomed.
“Just— get it over with,” She says from between gritted teeth, clutching at the material of his shirt. “Before anyone sees this and I change my mind.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh and shifts his weight again, clearly trying to get used to the position. She feels the sound rumbling from deep in his chest– he’s very sturdy for a man that only recently woke up from a seven year coma.
(Why couldn’t he have worn his usual raincoat? They need more distance between them. She can feel his heart pounding against his ribs, the warmth of his skin, the even in-and-out of his breathing. Her brain feels like it’s about to melt out of her ears. She’s supposed to know better than to get this close to him. All the work she’s done to develop a friendly rapport, and now she’s ignoring the warning signs and leaping headfirst into uncharted territory. Maybe she is an idiot.)
She’s almost convinced herself to raincheck this whole thing when the world abruptly shifts– warping sideways, her stomach flipping, as the ground opens up beneath them and they’re falling. The air whips at her face, rushing past her ears in a deafening roar. She squeezes her eyes shut against the urge to throw up on Dylan. Her breath is punched out of her chest when they land– not softly in the slightest. The sound of metal warping beneath them says plenty about just how hard they dropped.
How the hell does he do this constantly?
“Jesus fucking christ!” She wheezes out, clinging tighter onto Dylan as intense, crippling vertigo washes over her.
The side of Dylan’s head bumps against her forehead as he tries to look back at her. “You okay?” He asks, his tone somewhere between amused and genuinely concerned. When she takes a minute to steady herself, he gently nudges her side with his elbow. “That was just the shift to the gravity well. We can go back, if you want?”
(Why couldn’t he be the ruthless, bloodthirsty manic everyone else warned her he was? Her life would be a million times easier if she could brush him off as just another asshole.)
“No,” She squeezes out. The only saving grace of the moment is that, thankfully, doesn’t feel like she’s at risk of falling off Dylan. His gravity manipulation seems to have extended to her as well— but that doesn’t mean her body isn’t keenly aware of the fact that they’re currently standing sideways. She isn’t brave enough to open her eyes and see just how high up they are. “Why couldn’t they have given you an apartment that we could just walk to…”
He snorts and nudges her again.
“I’m fine. I’m— I’ll be okay once we’re right side up,” She eventually continues. At least now she only feels vaguely sick and less like she’s going to ruin the night by losing her lunch. Not much of an improvement, but she’ll take whatever she can get. She pulls in a deep breath, holds onto it, then sighs sharply.
Dylan mutters something that sounds suspiciously like if you’re sure, and before she can even think of calling him a jackass, they’re falling again.
Zoe’s stomach flips. The last time she rode a rollercoaster was when she was twelve, but she thinks this is a similar feeling. The wind bites at her face, whipping the tail of her coat into a frenzy. She thinks she should kick Dylan in the nuts for thinking this was a good idea and that she should slap herself for going along with it.
It takes every ounce of strength she has to not scream, but when they finally land after what feels like an eternity of falling, she does let out an embarrassingly loud grunt. The sudden shift of being right-side-up again doesn’t help to make her feel any better, either. She feels more than hears Dylan say something, but her ears are still filled with the sound of her own heartbeat. One of his hands touches the back of one of hers, and that’s all it takes for her to pull away like she’s been burnt.
Her legs tremble as she tries to find her sense of balance again. Dylan clearly finds it funny, but she’s too queasy to yell at him over it.
It takes Zoe a while to stop feeling like the world is spinning.
She doesn’t have a weak stomach by any means, but she also isn’t used to her entire sense of gravity being flipped. She also definitely doesn’t stumble the entire way from the roof to the entrance of Dylan’s apartment.
The interior is so deceptively normal that it’s easy to forget it’s located on a floating island hovering above New York. Evening sunlight filters through the blinds, casting everything in a warm orange glow. The living room alone is bigger than some of the places Zoe’s lived in— with a couch and an armchair in front of a kitchenette as well as a dining table. It’s surprisingly homey. Was this how his childhood home was decorated? It wouldn’t be a good idea to ask.
The only thing that really stands out is the arcade cabinet tucked against the wall. Shüm III. The best one, if you listen to the opinions of people online.
Or maybe the common sentiment’s changed by now… it hasn’t been that long since they were cut off from the outside world, but she knows perfectly well just how fast opinions on stuff like this shift.
“Someone’s got an eye for interior design,” She teases as she takes a step further inside. Another thing she notes is that it’s decidedly cold inside. Definitely a lower temperature than outside. She toes off her shoes and sets them to the side next to Dylan’s.
“Most of the furniture was already here,” He admits with a shrug. Now that they’re actually in his apartment, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He shifts between crossing his arms and clasping his hands, tucking them in his pockets and rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I did, uh… move a few things around. Uh… So— I was thinking that… maybe we’d eat dinner and then…” He trails off.
Did he not think that he’d get this far?
She gives what she hopes is an encouraging smile. “Dinner sounds nice. Did you cook something?”
“Oh. Well, I tried to, but… it didn’t turn out very edible. I think I still need a lot more practice,” He says with a sheepish laugh. “I just ended up grabbing stuff from some of the local convenience stores.” A pause, then he rushes to explain that he made sure none of the stuff he got was expired. He made sure to check the dates on everything and double-checked for any signs of mold. Normal or paranatural.
It’s technically stealing and she should probably tell him as much, but she’s not going to ruin Dylan’s party-of-two by being a Bureau stick-in-the-mud.
He sets her present down on one end of the dining table then shuffles over to the kitchenette. As she takes off her coat and hangs it near the front door, she can see him open up the fridge and start searching through it. There isn’t much inside— a few different bottles and boxes. She can recognize a few of them as being Bureau MRE kits.
He might be onto something there… maybe they don’t taste as awful cold. It’s at least better than room temperature.
Walking to the table gives her a good look at his bedroom. At least four of his FBC containment cells could fit inside, and the fact that there’s no door blocking the room off initially strikes her as odd. (She could probably psychoanalyze that, but she’s a guest and she does know when to leave topics alone.)
The walls are covered in various posters— some depicting iconic landscapes and others advertisements for movies. She recognizes a few of the titles. Later, she’ll have to try and make a list of ones she thinks Dylan might like… It’ll be filled with ones that she enjoys, of course, but their tastes seem to be pretty similar. He never complained about the songs she showed him, at least. Probably because he knows that she has excellent taste and an acute sense of timing.
His bed is neatly made, and she notes with absolutely zero jealousy at all that he has a queen sized mattress. Shit, if it means having a nice place like this, she’s willing to put up with the risk and nausea of traveling the Unknown.
There’s even a keyboard on the opposite wall. It’s just so incredible normal that she can’t help but find it endearing. Did he play it back in Ordinary? Did he decide to take it up as a hobby recently? When she gets the chance, she should ask if he knows how to play any songs on it.
“You’ve been settling in okay?” She asks as she sits at the table, propping one elbow on the surface and resting her chin in her palm. A vase sits in the center, containing a bundle of flowers. When she reaches up and gently grasps a petal between her thumb and forefinger, she can feel that they’re real.
She watches him pull something out of the fridge, then turn around and start walking towards her. “Pretty big change— having your own place. You don’t even have to worry about people watching you while you sleep!”
The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. “Honestly, it’s still taking a lot of getting used to. It’s a lot… quieter than I expected. I guess it makes sense since I’m the only one here, but I got so used to all the noise inside the Oldest House that silence feels weird. It’s a little lonely at times… But I like it here. I have my own schedule, my own things…”
He sets down two plates, each with a fairly average-looking (if slightly wilted) sandwich on top. Zoe, out of the kindness of her heart, makes the active choice to not comment on it. He sits in the chair across from her, moving it way closer to the edge of the table than is probably necessary. “And I get to watch as much tv as I want. Or— I guess— I’ll be able to watch as much tv as I want once the pattern barrier drops and we can get outside signals again. Right now, I’m kind of limited to any DVDs I can scrounge up.”
The topic seems to remind him of something, as he suddenly leans in closer, a bright gleam in his eyes. “There’s so many of them! Zoe, I have years worth of movies to watch! There’s a— I think it’s a thrift store, or something— it’s not that far from here, and it has a massive wall filled with nothing but DVDs! I have a lot of catching up to do, don’t I?”
Something soft stirs in her chest. How did Darling look at someone like Dylan and think that what he needed was corporal punishment? Constant testing? Isolation from the outside world? Deprivation from everything even remotely resembling kindness?
If that bastard ever shows his face again, she’s going to make sure he regrets it.
“Pretty good timing for you. Most of that stuff’s dirt cheap,” She comments, crossing one leg over the other. “But they’re not really popular anymore, so it’s tricky to find newer stuff. Everyone’s all about streaming now. But once we have internet again, I’ll show you spots where you can watch whatever movie you want. And you’ll be able to do all the research you want.”
“All the research I want?” He repeats with a boyish grin.
“Endless hours of surfing the web, looking at whatever pictures your heart desires, engaging in all sorts of piracy,” She continues, her voice lilting along as she gestures vaguely with her free hand. An idea crosses her mind, and her mouth is, unfortunately, faster than her ability to think through the words she’s saying. “Oh, how about I set you up on some dating websites, too?
(Why the fuck did she say that?)
His smile drops shockingly fast, replaced with an expression she’d expect to see from someone being told they’ve been given the death sentence.
“Oh. Uh… I’m not sure I’d be ready for something like that,” He starts, shifting nervously in his seat. “There’s still a lot of stuff I’m figuring out and, you know… I’m not sure how well I’d do with someone… normal.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back to the whole self-defeating no one will have me routine,” She returns. Why is she saying this? Each word that leaves her mouth leaves behind a bitter, acrid taste. Is she having some sort of episode? “You’re a good guy! You’ve spent most of your life in an empty box, you deserve to get out there and meet new people, make new relationships! I’ll tell you now, the dating prospects inside of the FBC are abysmal.”
As she continues, Dylan seems to sink further and further into his chair, a potent mix of shame and dismay on his face. “I just…” He pauses to glance away briefly. “Really don’t think I want to do stuff like that yet. I have a lot on my plate. I appreciate the thought, but… yeah…” It’s an especially magnanimous response and, blessedly, she’s able to take her foot out of her mouth and stop digging herself into an even deeper hole.
She closes her mouth with an audible click. It’s no secret that she’s never been good at knowing when to shut up, but it’s less of a problem when she’s arguing with her superiors rather than making what’s meant to be a friendly party awkward. After a long bout of terse silence, she sighs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to come off as pushy.”
Dylan’s expression softens. That’s good— she hasn’t completely ruined this. “I know your heart’s in the right place,” He eventually says with a small chuckle. “But— uh. How about dinner?”
(She could kiss him with how relieved she is for the change in subject. But she isn’t going to and is never going to because she doesn’t like him in that way.)
“It’s a very nice-looking sandwich.” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Another absolute stunner. She’s really on a roll, here. Don’t stop Zoe while she’s on a winning streak. The sandwich is, by all accounts, completely average. Cheese, meat, lettuce, etc. She’s certain she’s eaten at least a thousand exactly like it over the course of her life.
Dylan shrugs in response, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite out of it. He appears to thoughtfully consider the taste of it, taking his time chewing with a contemplative look on his face. “The ads said that it’s the best sandwich ever,” He comments after swallowing. “Not sure how true that is.”
“Companies love saying shit like that,” She says with a dismissive wave of her hand. It’s by no means the worst thing she’s ever eaten, but also nowhere near the best. “But— it’s better than the MREs we’ve been given. That’s for sure.”
The rest of dinner passes in not-uncomfortable silence. There’s a strange heaviness in the air that Zoe isn’t sure what to blame on. She doesn’t think he’s still upset about the dating thing… but it feels like she’s just sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop. More than once, she catches him staring at her, only for him to immediately pretend to be very interested in his meal the moment they lock eyes.
Something’s happening. It’s painfully easy to tell. Dylan isn’t a good liar and she knows that there’s something he’s keeping from her.
(It leaves a bad taste in her mouth and an uncomfortable pit in her stomach. When else has he kept a secret from her? She can’t remember. The entire time they’ve known each other, he’s been plainly forthcoming with what she wants to know. When he lies, it’s through omission, and when he tries to actually tell a lie, he suddenly can’t stand still and can’t look her in the eye.)
“Do you think you’re going to keep working for the FBC?” She asks once she’s finished eating. It’s the first thing that comes to mind— something big enough that he’d be nervous to bring it up, but not serious enough to warrant just coming out and saying it.
Dylan blinks, finally meeting her gaze fully. “Oh. Uh…” He seems genuinely shocked at the fact that she’s talking to him. (Did he expect them to just sit in silence for the rest of the night? Actually, he probably wasn’t thinking ahead at all. He’s a great guy and all, but his planning skills tend to leave a lot to be desired.) “Probably? I know you suggested that I could sell my art, but… I don’t really think I’m at that level yet. It’s just something I do for fun.”
He looks off to the side, scratching idly at the surface of the table with one finger. “Plus, I have a pretty… niche set of skills. I don’t think there are a lot of places looking for employees with combat experience.”
“Hey, you never know! Maybe you could be a security guard, or something. All you’d need to do is sit in one of those little booths and look scary so that people don’t try to trespass.” She leans back in her seat, hooking one arm over the back of the chair. “Didn’t they also give you a bunch of administrative training, too? You could be, like… a secretary, or something. Some job with a bunch of paperwork.”
His mouth twists in a frown as he seems to consider it. “No, I think that would be too boring,” He responds. “The more I think about it, the more I’m realizing that the FBC is better than I’d be able to get anywhere else. A fifth grade education and zero not-classified job experience makes things kinda difficult.”
There’s no sense of anger or sadness in his tone, which she supposes she shouldn’t be all that surprised about. Dylan’s had years to come to terms with what’s happened. The FBC has ruined his life, but there’s really no way to go back in time and start over, is there?
It’s not contentment as much as it is acceptance. A step above resigning himself as the Bureau’s eternal boogeyman, but not pretending as if nothing happened. It’s an unsatisfactory middle ground that he doesn’t deserve to be stuck in.
She doesn’t think she’d be anywhere near as forgiving as him. She’d be raising hell until she was given a cushy desk job where she’d make six digits a year doing unimportant busy work.
She’d ask how much he’s making, but she's sure he’d either brush off her question or be unreasonably happy with a salary that’s barely above minimum wage. Maybe she’ll ask Pope. Just to make sure the FBC isn’t still finding a way to take advantage of him. She wouldn’t put it past them to try.
(Even if there are a million better options, she’s still pleased that he’s sticking around. She needs someone she can complain to about work without constantly having to work around the red tape the Bureau requires. He knows the bullshit they work with and they can laugh about it together. Unlike most of her other colleagues, he doesn’t have a massive stick up his ass.)
“Nothing wrong with sticking around,” She says as casually as she can manage. Probably for the best to tread as lightly as possible. “I’m perfectly happy to have you as a coworker. God knows everyone else has a shitty sense of humor.”
In another bout of complete idiocy, she sticks her legs out and nudges at his shin playfully. (What the fuck is her problem? Does she like him or not? It feels like her brain is constantly flipping between the two and she’s struggling to both deny any feelings and rationalize her own actions. Is this her first day on earth? Is she a goddamn alien?) She immediately regrets it and tries her best to not look like she’s about to burst into flames. (Thank god Dylan is emotionally stunted and unaware. If he was even slightly better at reading people, she’s sure he’d already be well on his way to figuring her out by now.)
“So!” She nearly shouts, clapping her hands together and clearly startling Dylan out of whatever he was about to say. “Your present! How about you open your present?”
He blinks at her, his mouth hanging open slightly as he glances between her face and the gap underneath the table.
“Uh… yeah. Yeah, I guess we can do that now,” He mutters, pushing back his chair and standing up. She does the same– awkwardly fiddling with the neatly-wrapped box just so that she has something to do with her hands. They stand a foot or so apart. Despite the distance, she swears she can feel warmth radiating off of him. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything…”
“It’s the whole point of a housewarming party,” She returns with a half-hearted laugh. She pushes the box towards him and then laces her fingers together, bouncing slightly on her feet from the sudden influx of nervous energy flowing through her body. (It reminds her of her first date– in middle school, a boy took her out to Applebee’s and she was so intensely neurotic about the whole thing that she threw up in the bathroom.) “I’d be a terrible guest if I showed up empty-handed! But stop complaining and open it up already! Langston helped me make it, so it’s from both of us.”
“I feel a little bad about not inviting him…” Dylan admits as he starts delicately undoing the ribbons holding the box closed. “But he seems like the kind of person that gets really motion sick and I didn’t want to risk a bad reaction…”
Zoe almost starts to bring up Langston’s odd behavior when she last spoke to him, but decides against it. He was definitely suggesting something weird was going on between her and Dylan, and she doesn’t want to make things any more awkward than they already are. “I’m sure he’ll get over missing a single party.”
As he dips his fingers underneath the edge of the box’s lid, she leans in a little closer, her chest fluttering. It’s hard to remember the last time she had anything worth celebrating. Her last birthday passed quietly– she didn’t mention the date to any of her coworkers, and tried her best to ignore it in the weeks before. Whenever something good happened (and her definition of good tends to be overly specific) she’d usually treat herself with a nice dinner. Parties have never been her style, but she’s more than happy to set aside her own complexes if it means giving him the chance to be normal. To experience things that everyone else takes for granted.
(His birth date is probably tucked away in one of his files. When she gets the chance, she’ll try to find it. Would a surprise party be presumptuous? She’ll have to poke around that to try and check.)
She glances between Dylan’s face and his present. A few strands of hair have fallen in his face and, if she were in a saccharine romance novel, she’d reach over and brush them behind his ear. She doesn’t do that. And she doesn’t notice the slope of his nose, the curl of his mouth, or the softness of his eyes. She forces herself to look away before she says any more stupid shit.
Dylan opens the box. The inside is coated with the icing Zoe spent at least an hour on. The cake itself is upside down. A moment passes where neither of them say anything.
The guilty, grimacing expression he gives her is enough to make her burst into laughter.
There’s an undeniable sting to the fact that her hard work ended up being decimated by multiple free-falls and rotations, but it’s still perfectly edible and admittedly very tasty. Dylan’s “dog that was caught doing something it wasn’t supposed to” face also made it hard to stay annoyed. He apologized multiple times and she told him multiple times that it was completely fine. It was a good lesson– now she knows to never bring any loose food to Dylan’s apartment.
Even if it’s not perfectly pretty anymore, Zoe still doesn’t want Langston’s cake to go to waste. Each of them end up taking a slice, and Dylan decides that they should eat outside. Something about appreciating the view outside.
They sit side-by-side on the roof of the apartment building, their legs dangling off the edge. She has a sneaking suspicion that Dylan intentionally broke part of the railing specifically for this purpose, but she doesn’t say that out loud. The paper plate sits in her lap, and she occasionally takes forkfuls of cake between commenting on the scenery. It’s an excellent view of the main island– she can see chunks of the city floating past in lazy, swirling patterns. She’s pretty sure she can even see a group of Hiss fighting a small Hedron cluster.
Dylan has been unusually quiet, even for him. Everything she says is either responded to with one or two words, or quiet, acknowledging grunts. He’s only taken a single bite of his cake. It’s abundantly clear that there’s something on his mind.
She watches him out of the corner of her eye. Despite the warm lighting, he seems to have gone slightly pale. Maybe even sickly. His jaw clenches repeatedly— like he’s chewing on whatever he’s thinking about saying.
Casually, she sets her plate to the side and leans back, propping her hands behind her. It’s for the best that she doesn’t say anything, she thinks.
She’s supposed to be the one that always knows what’s going on and what to do. Even if she’s not technically his handler anymore, there’s still an undeniable reliance on her knowledge and opinions. Regardless of whatever tangled mess of feelings she’s been suffering through, she needs to stay objective. Before this job, she never had any issue with that. It got her into plenty of trouble but that was unimportant in the long run. She’s good at her job and bad at keeping her mouth shut.
A taxi cab lazily floats past, and she watches it as she chews on her lip. It was easier when she could write Dylan off as the dangerous paranatural entity Arish painted him as. She’s had to work with absolute douchebags her entire life. There’s something nice and simple about exchanging terse pleasantries and nothing else. Not that she’s ever been one for fake small talk.
“Would you consider this a date?”
What?
(What?)
Her train of thought is instantly derailed as every single neuron devotes itself to the six words that just left Dylan Faden’s mouth. It almost feels like the early stages of patterning– stuck on a single thought, repeating it over and over for a good minute at the very least.
Did she mishear him? That has to be the explanation. There’s no way he’d ever just come out and say something like that. She knows him. She knows that he isn’t emotionally literate enough to recognize that their party of two hasn’t resembled a party in the slightest. And she can’t even consider the possibility that he had ulterior motives because this is Dylan Faden and Dylan Faden is painfully literal about nearly everything.
(She thought Langston was seeing things that didn’t exist. Shit. He had a point, didn’t he? Men and women can be friends but plenty of things tonight have pushed that boundary.)
Zoe stares at Dylan fully, partially convinced that the remaining patterning in her brain has caused her to fully hallucinate him saying something. He’s not looking at her at all. His gaze is focused straight ahead, eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The sunlight gleams against the thin, clammy sheen of sweat that covers his face. Briefly, she glances down to see his hands balled into fists, grabbing at the fabric of his pants tightly enough that he risks tearing them.
Did he even mean to say that out loud?
He looks moments away from throwing himself off the side of the island and she thinks that if she was in his position, she’d have already done it by now.
She swallows thickly. Her heart pounds against her ribcage. “Wuh–” She starts, eloquently. “I… Do you want it to be a date?” She asks, stilted and weak. They’re so close to each other. Every inhale brings with it the scent of subtle cologne mixed with the remnants of FBC-standard-issue bodywash. From where she’s sitting, she can see his pulse in his neck. Way too fast. If he still had his MCD, she’s sure she’d be getting warnings about a dangerously elevated heart rate.
Still, he doesn’t look at her. Eyes glazed-over and glassy, he stares ahead. Each breath he pulls in is shallow. A part of her is worried that he’s about to pass out. He licks his lips (and her own gaze definitely doesn’t follow the movement) then mutters out, “Would you be mad if I said yes?”
He sounds, suddenly, very small. Like a child finding themselves warped into an adult overnight, stuck trying to figure out what to do.
A sinking feeling settles in Zoe’s stomach at his words. This is… not unexpected. She’s not going to pretend like she doesn’t understand what the unspoken tension is between them anymore. What did she think was going to happen after spending so much time together, constantly in each other’s ears? This is her fault. She told herself that she was just being friendly, but that’s not true, is it?
The comments on his love life, his dating prospects, the offer of being his wingman. What was she hoping to achieve?
(Attention. She loves being the center of it. Good or bad– it doesn't matter which.)
A pained noise escapes her throat as she forces herself to look away. There’s no one else to blame but herself. When did she completely abandon the goal of staying professional? When did she stop treating him like a job and start seeing him as the human he is? It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Any feelings he thinks he has stem from a mismanaged sense of friendship— the first sympathetic face he’s seen since he was ten.
Anyone else in her position would elicit the same response.
(But that’s not true, is it? She’s not blameless. She knew that she wasn’t keeping a safe distance between the two of them. She risked her career to protect him. Threatened plenty of her colleagues to make his life easier. None of what she did was rational.)
“Dylan, I…” She starts, before realizing that she has no idea what she wants to say. Her mouth feels dry, her tongue limp, dead weight. “You shouldn’t—“
“I shouldn’t what?” He cuts her off, his head snapping to look at her fast enough that it actually startles her. There’s no anger in his voice. She thinks it sounds more like desperation. Like he genuinely wants her to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do. When they meet eyes, his are wide and ringed in red. Bloodshot— like he’s about to start crying.
“I’m pretty much your only friend,” She manages to force out. It’s not a nice thing to say at all, but she thinks it’s a miracle she’s managing to talk in the first place. “You— Dylan, you haven’t even gotten the chance to leave Manhattan yet. You haven’t even met anyone that doesn’t work for the FBC.”
“Dr. Flores wasn’t working for the FBC when I first met her,” He challenges.
Somehow, his smartass comment annoys her enough to briefly make her forget about her impending emotional breakdown. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!” She spits, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. Anger is easier. Familiar. She’s spent plenty of time being angry.
Dylan doesn’t back down. “Then what do you mean?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing as the corners of his mouth curl into a frown. “You’re making it sound like I only like you because you’re the first person that didn’t treat me as a lab rat!”
“Because that’s absolutely what’s happening!” She cries out in frustration. It’s so laughably obvious that she feels crazy for having to point it out. That’s the only reason why someone like him would develop feelings (because it’s not a crush and absolutely not anything as serious as love) for someone like her. She stands up, backing a few steps away from him. “You’ve been out of your cell for, what, three months maybe? You haven’t even seen what else is out there! I don’t— there’s no goddamn reason for you to be acting like this!”
Dylan clambers to his feet. “Why are you making this entirely about me?” He asks, belligerent. “I— I barely even said anything! I was trying to gauge a reaction!”
“And you got one!”
He groans loudly, rubbing at his face with both hands like he’s trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. “You didn’t even respond to my question!” He says with a frustrated huff, tossing his arms out to the side before letting them drop to his sides.
“Because it was a stupid question.” She knows it’s a childish answer, but if they can keep fighting, maybe she can avoid the conversation entirely. “It doesn’t matter how I feel because it’s not going to happen. That’s the only thing I have to say about it, so tough shit.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Saying it out loud doesn’t make her feel any better, but at least it visibly gets on Dylan’s nerves.
He takes a step closer. “So you do feel something.”
Shit. A slip of the tongue. He won’t accept that as an explanation, though. Somehow, despite his usual stunning lack of emotional maturity, he’s seen clear through her.
She takes a step back. “I told you— it doesn’t matter what I feel.”
“But why not?”
Her mouth twists into a snarl. “Because you’re confused and you don’t know the difference between platonic and romantic affection!” A heavy accusation, and one that lands with venom if his flinching is an indication. “You deserve to meet new people. People that haven’t seen you at your lowest. People who can look at you without thinking about all the awful shit that’s happened to you. Jesus, Dylan, I’ve tortured you multiple times! I shouldn’t have to talk you out of this!”
“I’ve spent my entire life doing what other people tell me to do.” Another step forward. Zoe holds her ground. He squares his shoulders and lifts up his chin. “I’m sick and tired of letting everyone else choose for me. I’m taking control of my own life and I’m not going to drop this just because you think I should go travel the world before deciding that I like you.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but he beats her to the punch.
“Zoe, if you tell me that you don’t like me that way, I’ll stop arguing with you about this,” He says, lowering his voice from the screaming match they were having just moments ago. Another step forward. Another. If he reached out his arm, he’d be able to touch her. “I won’t throw a tantrum or– or leave you trapped here, or anything like that. If you don’t have any sort of romantic feelings for me, then just…” A weary sigh escapes his mouth. “Tell me. Please. So that we can pretend this never happened and go back to being friends.”
Zoe De Vera, for the first time in possibly her entire life, is stunned into silence.
The resignation on Dylan’s face twists at her heart– sends waves of nausea through her body. Her limbs buzz with cold dread. This is it, isn’t it? No more plausibly deniable flirting. What did she think was going to happen, all those times she teased and prodded at him? Did she think she could just ignore the feelings budding inside of her?
Yes. Absolutely. She’s done it before and was confident she’d be able to do it again.
She opens and closes her mouth like a dying fish, staring stupidly at Dylan’s face as the seconds tick past. It would be a quick lie– no, I don’t have feelings for you. My concern is purely ethical. She tries to form the words, but nothing happens. The most she’s able to conjure is a weak wheeze. Is she sick? Has Dylan developed some sort of mind-altering paranatural ability and just never bothered to tell her about it?
No. That would be too easy of an answer.
He stands there patiently. So patient. So kind. The type of person who draws pictures of cats having a picnic and mourns the death of a Resonant.
Then, slowly, so she has time to react, he reaches forward and gently takes her hand in his own. His palm is rough and warm, with callouses from where he’s gripped Aberrant.
She sucks in a trembling breath. “I don’t want to fuck up your first relationship,” She eventually says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Then don’t,” He returns.
A weak smile crosses her face. “It’s not fair when you use my words against me.”
Dylan chuckles quietly. It’s a nice sound. She doesn’t think she’s heard it all that often. When he pulls her in closer, she obliges. He presses their foreheads together, noses bumping against each other as they close the distance. He tucks their clasped hands between their chests, giving hers a reassuring squeeze. If she didn’t feel like she was about to explode, she’d ask when he suddenly became a romantic.
“Would it be crazy if I said I’ve been thinking about this since you helped me escape the sinkhole?” He admits, his breath ghosting across her face.
“Then I’d say that we’re in the same boat.”
Zoe De Vera tilts her head upwards and presses her lips against Dylan Faden's. Her eyes flutter shut as the warmth in her chest seems to reach a boiling point. This is what she wanted. A chaste kiss with a man that hasn’t had a crush on anyone since he was ten years old. Both of them have chapped lips and their noses are squished together uncomfortably and she won’t be able to hold this angle for much longer without her neck starting to hurt but there’s nothing else in the world she’d rather be doing. His beard scratches against her face and now he’s squeezing her hand as if it’s some sort of lifeline. She cracks one eye open and sees that his entire face is scrunched up like he’s sucking on a lemon.
It makes her smile. That’s the Dylan she knows.
(And loves.)