"And I will follow the rules," Zane assures, smoothing one if Darling's lapels down, "when we go out and see a film this Sunday. A matinee--I want to feel sunlight again. I want to see if I remember it properly."
Another drag. Zane offers the cigarette back.
"You can choose everything. The movie, the theatre, the dinner. Everything above code and board approved for your sanity, my little pencil pusher."
"This Sunday," he repeats, accepting the cigarette and leaning back again. Trying to pretend he's a lot more calm than he currently is.
"You seem very confident that I can make that work for you that quickly. I may be your handler, but ultimately, The Director has to approve everything. He's not nearly as nice as I am."
Pencil pusher stings, and he rubs at his ear with a sigh. "I'll see what I can do. No promises, but maybe if it's on my dime and not the company's, he won't be as stubborn about it."
"Darling. I have confidence in you," Zane answers, almost affronted that the other would think otherwise. But that little tick as he rubs at his ear, the way the Doctor seems so very worn and not just about the situation...
Tom eases up. Slightly. He presses that bowtie in a similar fashion as he had earlier--good boy--and shifts off of Darling's desk so he can finally get some of that work done.
"It's a good thing the Director's not going, then, it's just you and I."
That little touch to his bowtie, god. Why does that fluster him so much? Zane looking at him so intensely isn't helping, either.
It takes him a moment to recover after he catches himself staring at Tom as he shifts off the desk. "Right, well. I can't promise Sunday. But as soon as I catch a moment to breathe, we can leave the house for a bit. Even if it's just around the corner for a coffee that isn't brewed to motor oil strength."
Darling will never catch a moment to breathe. Zane knows this, probably more than Darling--the man's far too wrapped up in whatever's going on in his own head to be self-aware like that. It's not like Tom is, sure, but he's at least perceptive about this sort of thing. It lends itself to art.
"I'm Finnish. A coffee date will do, too." Zane's smile is a little softer, something tinging the corner of his lips before it's gone in an instant. Doesn't matter. He gets a taste of freedom. He also gets a taste of Darling.
"I don't know many Finns, outside of Ahti." Though knowing Ahti isn't like knowing anyone else at all, so he assumes the man (also questionable) isn't representative of Finnish culture. "Are you big coffee drinkers?"
There's... something, in Zane's request. Something that Darling can't quite place. Not shy, that's not it. Hopeful, maybe? Or maybe he's projecting.
"I will ask, yes. And report back as soon I have an answer that's more than an eyebrow raise."
Zane laughs a little at that remark--coffee is a form of lifeblood to him, though not nearly as much as the significant amount of alcohol he knocks back on a very frequent basis.
"Or..."
He's quiet for a second, picking up a pen, casting a sidelong glance at the younger man.
There's a sigh, and Darling grinds his cigarette out. He has a lot of pull in this place. Trench's golden boy, alleged favourite out of all the department heads. He's free to do quite a lot of things without having to pass it by Trench.
But this? This is... delicate. "You're not part of my department, technically. Or you are, but as a subject, not an employee. Ever since we caught a former employee bringing altered items home and nearly causing a catastrophe, removing paranatural objects from the Oldest House has become a lot more difficult. There are rules in place for what I can and can't take out of here. Thus sleeping in my office.
I'd have to borrow you, essentially. And for that, I need his permission."
Zane's smile is still genial, even if that grip on Darling's pen is awful tight.
"I was thinking about that," he says casually, blue eyes narrowed, watching Darling try to piece together the nicest way to remind him he's here, trapped, and at the whims of others when he's valued freedom over nearly everything for so long.
It's not kind to remind someone they're in a cage. He knows that, and he's not trying to rattle the bars. Just... remind Zane what the circumstances are, and why Darling can't simply take him out any day he pleases.
But the comment pulls him up short, and he frowns slightly. "Oh?" he asks, sitting up straighter in his chair. "And what brought on this observation."
"Our higher callings are art and science, and we're both forced to answer to a man who ultimately doesn't care."
Those narrowed eyes look pointedly at Trench's portrait. The grip on the pen lessens and he reminds himself that Darling's not his enemy. There's no point in pushing buttons in this manner other than the cheap satisfaction of bringing someone down to his current level. Zane sighs and rises.
"Tightrope walking," he recites, moving towards Darling and softly sliding his hand to his chin to force him to make eye contact.
"Would you choose a safety net that traps you and kills the thrill?"
The hand slides up Darling's face, the dark haired man moving his face closer, thumb brushing just below the scientist's lower lip.
"I'm sorry. Thank you for trying." His words are very, very earnest.
His lips part, just a little, at the way Tom tips his chin up. He hasn't been touched with such gentleness and purpose since -- god, what? Grad school? Years, anyway. It tugs at the centre of him in a way he's not sure he can handle, but he lets it happen anyway, because he needs it, even if he can't admit that out loud.
Darling thinks, for a moment, to protest the comment about Trench not caring. But that's not the point right now, is it?
Instead, he offers, "I'm going to talk to him. We'll get to go out, I promise."
"This is why I like you," Zane says softly, smile just as gentle. "Unlike everyone here I feel like you tell the truth."
And unlike everyone here, Darling's curiousity isn't tinged at all with fear. He's seen that mixture in Langston's face. A dismissive hatred in Trench's. Darling? Darling is just sheer, unbridled thirst to understand. That makes such a fundamental difference, and the parautilitarian can't help but cherish it.
There's mild annoyance in Darling, too, but that might be because he does stuff like this: the coffee he has in his hand, when raised to his lips, is a perfect mixed drink. No one said anything about not using powers here.
"Kippis." He looks pointedly down at Darling's own drink.
Less annoyance and more exasperation; just when he thinks he has Tom pinned, he does something like -- well. Like turning his coffee into a cocktail.
"You," he says with a soft laugh, sipping at his mug of what appears to be an Old Fashioned. "Are a dangerous man, Tom Zane." As though he doesn't have an emergency bottle tucked away in the back of his filing cabinet.
"And you can, yes. I encourage it. We're going to be working quite closely together, as it is, we should be honest with each other."
That laugh far better suits Darling, Tom decides, and makes it a poitn to coax more out of him. If not laughter than joy, maybe. The trip outside isn't entirely selfish, after all--he sees the other. He sees the cot. He sees the lonely isolation.
Like recognizes like, after all.
Tom takes a long, slow drink.
"Alright," he decides. Honesty? He can do that. "It drives me crazy, how built you are under all those layers."
His is a very lonely existence. Although he does try, on occasion, to reach out and make connections with his colleagues in the department, his attempts usually fall flat. His jokes don't land, his contributions to conversation aren't always appreciated. It's difficult.
But Tom seems curious, which is novel and interesting. And often infuriating.
And then Zane says that, and that -- was not his intention, but he rather walked into it, didn't he? "Are saying that based on touch, or do you have some sort of x-ray vision that you ought to tell me about?"
"All right, all right." It's an attempt to be dismissive, but he's hiding a smile behind his drink.
"I'm not all work, much as it may seem like that. There's some down time while things are running or processing or whathaveyou. I like to keep my heartrate up rather than just sitting around. So yes, I do work out, when I can fit it in."
"Oh, that's fantastic!" Zane says, smiling serenely. "I like to do that as well."
He's reaching over for one of Darling's cigarettes. If he's drinking, he wants a smoke. It's a social thing. Plus, Darling seems completely distracted from work and deadlines, so Zane considers it a job well done. One step closer to getting him to relax.
"Yes -- by all means." He hands the pack over, successfully distracted from the forms he was trying to fill out. He'll just stay later tonight, it's fine. This is a good thing to encourage, Tom opening up to him. He's such an enigmatic creature, and anything Darling can learn about him he will do so, and eagerly.
"I can't promise going to the gym with me will be any more interesting than watching me work, but you're welcome to it."
Zane feels his mercurial mood swing into something else entirely, a sort of strange giddiness that makes him talk with his hands despite the fact that one holds a drink and the other holds the cigarette that he's pleasantly surprised Darling has just let him have. He feels more like himself than he has in a while.
"I think it will be very interesting," he assures. "Kinetically. Inspiration strikes anywhere, my friend! Oh, but you know that, with that that big brain of yours and all its' breakthroughs."
Well, Tom was generous enough to 'share' his drink, Darling might as well return the favour. It has absolutely nothing to do with the way the other man's long, elegant fingers look holding the cigarette.
"That's very true, actually. I keep a notebook around, always, to jot down ideas as they come. Very useful when something strikes in the middle of the night. Though I don't know that watching me do pushups would give you inspiration for your next groundbreaking film."
Zane actually manages to not flirt with the other with that second remark--does Darling realize they're flirting?--because that piques his interest. Enough that he's leaning a little forward.
"Oh, it's just -- " Darling tries to demure, a little embarrassed. But no one's asked, before. No one had been interested.
It's quite a nice feeling, being interesting.
He hands over the notebook from the pocket of his lab coat, rubbing at his ear again. "Just scribbles, really." Which it is, fragments of ideas. A few words here and there, some circled, some underlined, some with arrows pointing to other clusters of words.
And there are drawings, as well. Resonance patterns, a vague sketch in the shape of the Hedron. Plans for upgraded HRAs, the odd Christmas tree. A rubber duck shows up on a few pages.
Tom Zane sets his drink down and stills the moment he gets the book, surprised that Darling just hands it to him, but pleased in a multitude of ways. He wasn't joking or lying when he said they were similar. As manipulative as he can be, Darling does get a lot of truth out of him naturally. There's no reason to say otherwise, and it's because of things like this.
Zane takes his time. He runs his hand over the cover of the notebook, fully examining it. He looks at it with reverence and respect as he opens it, fingers trailing along paper.
It's art. A different type of art, but art.
"This is beautiful," he says, and it's not just because he considers the drawing to be the rubber duck that floats around here who's a close personal friend. It's the scope. It's the quiet dedication. It's the passion and sincerity.
"I always thought looking at things so personal is a bit like staring into a person's soul."
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Another drag. Zane offers the cigarette back.
"You can choose everything. The movie, the theatre, the dinner. Everything above code and board approved for your sanity, my little pencil pusher."
And, after only a small pause.
"Please?"
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"You seem very confident that I can make that work for you that quickly. I may be your handler, but ultimately, The Director has to approve everything. He's not nearly as nice as I am."
Pencil pusher stings, and he rubs at his ear with a sigh. "I'll see what I can do. No promises, but maybe if it's on my dime and not the company's, he won't be as stubborn about it."
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Tom eases up. Slightly. He presses that bowtie in a similar fashion as he had earlier--good boy--and shifts off of Darling's desk so he can finally get some of that work done.
"It's a good thing the Director's not going, then, it's just you and I."
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It takes him a moment to recover after he catches himself staring at Tom as he shifts off the desk. "Right, well. I can't promise Sunday. But as soon as I catch a moment to breathe, we can leave the house for a bit. Even if it's just around the corner for a coffee that isn't brewed to motor oil strength."
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"I'm Finnish. A coffee date will do, too." Zane's smile is a little softer, something tinging the corner of his lips before it's gone in an instant. Doesn't matter. He gets a taste of freedom. He also gets a taste of Darling.
"..You'll really do it, won't you? Ask?"
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There's... something, in Zane's request. Something that Darling can't quite place. Not shy, that's not it. Hopeful, maybe? Or maybe he's projecting.
"I will ask, yes. And report back as soon I have an answer that's more than an eyebrow raise."
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"Or..."
He's quiet for a second, picking up a pen, casting a sidelong glance at the younger man.
"You could just do it and not let him know?"
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But this? This is... delicate. "You're not part of my department, technically. Or you are, but as a subject, not an employee. Ever since we caught a former employee bringing altered items home and nearly causing a catastrophe, removing paranatural objects from the Oldest House has become a lot more difficult. There are rules in place for what I can and can't take out of here. Thus sleeping in my office.
I'd have to borrow you, essentially. And for that, I need his permission."
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"I was thinking about that," he says casually, blue eyes narrowed, watching Darling try to piece together the nicest way to remind him he's here, trapped, and at the whims of others when he's valued freedom over nearly everything for so long.
"How you and I, maybe, aren't so dissimilar."
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But the comment pulls him up short, and he frowns slightly. "Oh?" he asks, sitting up straighter in his chair. "And what brought on this observation."
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Those narrowed eyes look pointedly at Trench's portrait. The grip on the pen lessens and he reminds himself that Darling's not his enemy. There's no point in pushing buttons in this manner other than the cheap satisfaction of bringing someone down to his current level. Zane sighs and rises.
"Tightrope walking," he recites, moving towards Darling and softly sliding his hand to his chin to force him to make eye contact.
"Would you choose a safety net that traps you and kills the thrill?"
The hand slides up Darling's face, the dark haired man moving his face closer, thumb brushing just below the scientist's lower lip.
"I'm sorry. Thank you for trying." His words are very, very earnest.
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Darling thinks, for a moment, to protest the comment about Trench not caring. But that's not the point right now, is it?
Instead, he offers, "I'm going to talk to him. We'll get to go out, I promise."
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And unlike everyone here, Darling's curiousity isn't tinged at all with fear. He's seen that mixture in Langston's face. A dismissive hatred in Trench's. Darling? Darling is just sheer, unbridled thirst to understand. That makes such a fundamental difference, and the parautilitarian can't help but cherish it.
There's mild annoyance in Darling, too, but that might be because he does stuff like this: the coffee he has in his hand, when raised to his lips, is a perfect mixed drink. No one said anything about not using powers here.
"Kippis." He looks pointedly down at Darling's own drink.
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"You," he says with a soft laugh, sipping at his mug of what appears to be an Old Fashioned. "Are a dangerous man, Tom Zane." As though he doesn't have an emergency bottle tucked away in the back of his filing cabinet.
"And you can, yes. I encourage it. We're going to be working quite closely together, as it is, we should be honest with each other."
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Like recognizes like, after all.
Tom takes a long, slow drink.
"Alright," he decides. Honesty? He can do that. "It drives me crazy, how built you are under all those layers."
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But Tom seems curious, which is novel and interesting. And often infuriating.
And then Zane says that, and that -- was not his intention, but he rather walked into it, didn't he? "Are saying that based on touch, or do you have some sort of x-ray vision that you ought to tell me about?"
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"No, Doctor Darling, I just have eyes."
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"I'm not all work, much as it may seem like that. There's some down time while things are running or processing or whathaveyou. I like to keep my heartrate up rather than just sitting around. So yes, I do work out, when I can fit it in."
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He's reaching over for one of Darling's cigarettes. If he's drinking, he wants a smoke. It's a social thing. Plus, Darling seems completely distracted from work and deadlines, so Zane considers it a job well done. One step closer to getting him to relax.
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"I can't promise going to the gym with me will be any more interesting than watching me work, but you're welcome to it."
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"I think it will be very interesting," he assures. "Kinetically. Inspiration strikes anywhere, my friend! Oh, but you know that, with that that big brain of yours and all its' breakthroughs."
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"That's very true, actually. I keep a notebook around, always, to jot down ideas as they come. Very useful when something strikes in the middle of the night. Though I don't know that watching me do pushups would give you inspiration for your next groundbreaking film."
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Zane actually manages to not flirt with the other with that second remark--does Darling realize they're flirting?--because that piques his interest. Enough that he's leaning a little forward.
"Can I see?" He asks. "Your notebook."
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It's quite a nice feeling, being interesting.
He hands over the notebook from the pocket of his lab coat, rubbing at his ear again. "Just scribbles, really." Which it is, fragments of ideas. A few words here and there, some circled, some underlined, some with arrows pointing to other clusters of words.
And there are drawings, as well. Resonance patterns, a vague sketch in the shape of the Hedron. Plans for upgraded HRAs, the odd Christmas tree. A rubber duck shows up on a few pages.
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Zane takes his time. He runs his hand over the cover of the notebook, fully examining it. He looks at it with reverence and respect as he opens it, fingers trailing along paper.
It's art. A different type of art, but art.
"This is beautiful," he says, and it's not just because he considers the drawing to be the rubber duck that floats around here who's a close personal friend. It's the scope. It's the quiet dedication. It's the passion and sincerity.
"I always thought looking at things so personal is a bit like staring into a person's soul."
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