"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."
The reverence with which Tom takes and holds his notebook, turning the pages and scanning his thoughts with such care. It feels like an intimate moment, which he hadn't expected. Hadn't known to expect.
There's a blush creeping over his cheeks and the edges of his ears, but he looks genuinely pleased at the comment. "Thank you, then. For, um. For thinking my soul is beautiful. That's not a compliment I ever thought I'd receive."
Zane's not sure what he likes more: the genuine compliment, the surprise in Darling's voice as he's caught off guard, or the absolutely charming way the other's whole face is a beautiful shade of pink. It matches well with his olive undertones. Zane smiles, gently closes the book.
"I may not understand it, but I know creativity when I see it, darling. Keep it, this piece of you. Keep it close to your heart and away from jackals and wolves. Well--maybe continue to show it to one wolf."
He slides the book back, grins slightly as he takes his cigarette, picks up his negroni, and swishes his hips in an affected gesture, winking.
"I'll see you for our matinee, Doctor. Ahti and I have an ongoing Afrikan tähti match that I simply must attend. And please. Try to get some sleep."
As Zane leaves to the office to navigate the hallways if the House, he throws his head back and howls as loudly as possible. There's an audible thunk as one of Darling's assistants jumps, startled, and drops what they'd been carrying. Zane's laughter seems to float on the air.
When Zane says his name again, he genuinely can't tell if he is using his name, or simply calling him darling. What has he gotten himself into?
But when he hears Zane howl and sees Hubert rush into his office looking frightened afterwards, he can't help but laugh as well. Maybe this could be good for him, after all. It will certainly be an adventure, no matter how it turns out.
The meeting with Trench goes slightly better than he'd expected it to; after explaining that it wasn't an escape attempt, that Zane was crawling the walls and he didn't want to be responsible for losing another powerful parautilitarian, Trench was willing to come around to the idea.
So on Sunday morning, Darling knocks on the door of the office that Tom Zane has claimed as his. Self consciously adjusting his bow tie a little while he waits.
Darling looks great. More than great--he looks fantastic. That's evident in the way his entire face lights up the moment he opens the door.
Thanks to Darling, he's allowed a little leeway in his little office-turned-den: it's practically his hotel room. The fluorescent lighting has been cut and instead lamps with scarves and bits of fabric hang for better mood lighting. There's a few chairs, a macrame owl in the corner, a comfortable bed that looks like it's been stolen straight from Langston's sector in the corner, and of course, almost all of the bureau's film equipment. Zane himself is in nothing but standard FBC boxers, hair mussed and messy. A sticky sweet odour from a stick of incense mingles with an earthy, skunky smell.
"Doctor," he gasps. "A cardigan? Very sharp. What's the occasion?"
"Oh! Goodness, that's -- " Darling pushes Tom further into the room with a hand to the chest, following him in and shutting the door behind them. Which, in hindsight, was not the smoothest way to handle the situation, but here they are.
"Mister Zane. I know you're not the shiest person when it comes to -- " He gestures at the general lack of clothing. "All this. But this is still an office, and we do have a dress code."
"Oh," Zane says, because it sounds to him like Darling might perhaps be having an aneurism. His brows knit, looking at the closed door and then at Darling's flustered appearance. Darling looks great in this light. Or maybe it's the soft haze of the weed he bought off of an intern. Either way.
"Yes, yes, and I see you've very much made yourself at home. Which is great! It is, however. Please just -- "
He's staring at Zane's collarbones, he realizes, a beat too late, and busies himself with taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his sweater while he talks. "Be aware that your office also opens into a very public hallway. And perhaps you might not want to answer the door in just underwear, in the future."
A slow, pleased smile is slowly creeping up Tom's face as he realizes what's happening. Darling is flustered. Darling is staring. The scientist is fairly easy to read, but this truly takes the cake.
Tom could be nice and throw a robe on--he's stolen a silk kimono from somewhere around the building and it's tossed messily onto the floor--but this is too good. Instead, Zane takes a step forward, reaching out to touch the other's cardigan.
One of the worst things about Tom Zane is how physical he is. Even just at their first meeting, Zane had insisted on touching his chest, his arms. And god, the memory of those long, elegant fingers sliding around his wrist lingers still.
And now here he is, practically naked in the dim light of his office, rubbing his fingers over the material of Darling's sweater.
"It's just a little unprofessional," he manages to say, finally, after too long a pause. "And I can't take you out like this, certainly."
Tom's eyes are very close to starting to roll--yes, yes, Darling, he's unprofessional, what else is new--when the last half of the sentence comes through those very pretty, very pert lips.
"Hmmm?" His voice is casual, but that too intense gaze is back, index finger looping through a button hole of that cardigan and tugging him playfully closer.
"Tests, again? I don't need pants to get blood drawn, but I won't pass a drug test right now. Just being honest."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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The reverence with which Tom takes and holds his notebook, turning the pages and scanning his thoughts with such care. It feels like an intimate moment, which he hadn't expected. Hadn't known to expect.
There's a blush creeping over his cheeks and the edges of his ears, but he looks genuinely pleased at the comment. "Thank you, then. For, um. For thinking my soul is beautiful. That's not a compliment I ever thought I'd receive."
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"I may not understand it, but I know creativity when I see it, darling. Keep it, this piece of you. Keep it close to your heart and away from jackals and wolves. Well--maybe continue to show it to one wolf."
He slides the book back, grins slightly as he takes his cigarette, picks up his negroni, and swishes his hips in an affected gesture, winking.
"I'll see you for our matinee, Doctor. Ahti and I have an ongoing Afrikan tähti match that I simply must attend. And please. Try to get some sleep."
As Zane leaves to the office to navigate the hallways if the House, he throws his head back and howls as loudly as possible. There's an audible thunk as one of Darling's assistants jumps, startled, and drops what they'd been carrying. Zane's laughter seems to float on the air.
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But when he hears Zane howl and sees Hubert rush into his office looking frightened afterwards, he can't help but laugh as well. Maybe this could be good for him, after all. It will certainly be an adventure, no matter how it turns out.
The meeting with Trench goes slightly better than he'd expected it to; after explaining that it wasn't an escape attempt, that Zane was crawling the walls and he didn't want to be responsible for losing another powerful parautilitarian, Trench was willing to come around to the idea.
So on Sunday morning, Darling knocks on the door of the office that Tom Zane has claimed as his. Self consciously adjusting his bow tie a little while he waits.
no subject
Thanks to Darling, he's allowed a little leeway in his little office-turned-den: it's practically his hotel room. The fluorescent lighting has been cut and instead lamps with scarves and bits of fabric hang for better mood lighting. There's a few chairs, a macrame owl in the corner, a comfortable bed that looks like it's been stolen straight from Langston's sector in the corner, and of course, almost all of the bureau's film equipment. Zane himself is in nothing but standard FBC boxers, hair mussed and messy. A sticky sweet odour from a stick of incense mingles with an earthy, skunky smell.
"Doctor," he gasps. "A cardigan? Very sharp. What's the occasion?"
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"Mister Zane. I know you're not the shiest person when it comes to -- " He gestures at the general lack of clothing. "All this. But this is still an office, and we do have a dress code."
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"But this is my office. What does that matter?"
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He's staring at Zane's collarbones, he realizes, a beat too late, and busies himself with taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his sweater while he talks. "Be aware that your office also opens into a very public hallway. And perhaps you might not want to answer the door in just underwear, in the future."
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Tom could be nice and throw a robe on--he's stolen a silk kimono from somewhere around the building and it's tossed messily onto the floor--but this is too good. Instead, Zane takes a step forward, reaching out to touch the other's cardigan.
"Does that bother you? Your face is awful pink."
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And now here he is, practically naked in the dim light of his office, rubbing his fingers over the material of Darling's sweater.
"It's just a little unprofessional," he manages to say, finally, after too long a pause. "And I can't take you out like this, certainly."
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"Hmmm?" His voice is casual, but that too intense gaze is back, index finger looping through a button hole of that cardigan and tugging him playfully closer.
"Tests, again? I don't need pants to get blood drawn, but I won't pass a drug test right now. Just being honest."
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