Darling jumps a little at the very enthusiastic response, studying the look on Tom's face for a moment. He rubs his hand over his chin, trying to formulate a response, but all he can come up with is --
"Why don't you pick out something for us to drink, Mister Zane?"
"Please. Tom is fine. Or Thomas. Whatever you prefer--but not mister."
if Zane looks like he's looking at Darling like a piece of meat, that's very much because he is. He shouldn't, but--well. He can't help it.
"I'll promise not to break your bank," he assures. He knows wine. He knows alcohol, really--yes, he's a binge drinker, and he probably has several problems. If he wasn't a parautilitarian it's very likely his liver would be crying out for help, but it's not, and he's here, and he does have taste. He orders a dry red, something he thinks Darling will like specifically.
"So. Can I finally peak behind that labcoat? Maybe talk to the real Darling?"
Darling is more sneaky about his drinking, usually. Late at night, when he's in the office alone, or when he finally makes it back to his house on the rare occasions when he does go home. But a three in the morning glass of whiskey next to whatever take-out is still open at that time is not something he really wants to own up to.
He is surprised, however, to find that Tom's choice does look rather good.
"Of course you can. I'm an open book." Which isn't entirely true, but he's found that he's willing to be a little more honest with Tom than some of his other colleagues. "What do you want to know?"
"I was just wondering if you enjoy the way you lie to yourself," Zane says casually, and--ooh, breadsticks. He hasn't had them in years, the fat little American dough cylinders. Tom helps himself, leaning on the table with his elbows, gesturing as he continues to speak through his mouthful.
Darling looks like he's been hit in the head with a brick. He murmurs some sort of thanks as the waiter pours their wine, making an affirmative noise when asked if it's to his liking, but his eyes stay on Tom.
Because he hates how deep the question hits him, and hates even more that Tom is the first one to call him out on, maybe even the first to notice the front he puts up. "I am happy," he says, though his tone is. Tense. "I love my job. Maybe I don't get the time off I want, but that's a hazard in every work place, isn't it?"
"Mmm," is Tom sounds noncommital, all languid movements as he reaches for a second piece of bread, eyes never leave Darling's as he does so. This is the closest he's seen Darling get combative with him prying. The real question is if it's because it's private or if it's because Tom's right. He's banking on the latter.
"You're happy you're in a job you like. You're happy with your job." He reaches for the butter, shrugging.
Tom's accusations (because they do feel like accusations) are frighteningly accurate, which is what bothers him. Like the filmmaker had reached into the centre of him and pulled out a secret.
So Darling sips at his wine with a wry smile and an arched eyebrow. Trying not to be bothered about how this man seems to be able to read him with a glance. "Oh? And why am I not happy, Tom? Since you know all my secrets, now."
Tom stops chewing, visibly stilling himself as he stops to genuinely think. Not so much thrown off his guard, but trying to handle this delicately. Like he used to with Cynthia, only Tom is very much interested in Darling and Cynthia had been a tragic means to an end after Barbara's passing.
He weighs his answer for a while.
"Beyond the shadow you settle for, there is a miracle illuminated," he recites. He's not sure Darling wants to hear the reason bluntly.
"Poetry," he sighs. Not dismissive, just... tired. He's tired, and he has been for a long while. He just does a very good job of making himself look held together when he absolutely is not. There are small tells, if anyone cares to look. A regular tie when he doesn't have the energy for a bowtie. His sweater vest on inside out because he dressed in the dark, or in his office in a hurry, or he simply didn't care enough to check.
But no one does care to look. Except Tom, apparently, and that bothers him for reasons he can't quite nail down.
He picks at the corner of his menu, feeling restless. Like he's being observed under a microscope. "I wasn't aware our dinner also included a therapy session. I might have chosen a different restaurant, if I had known."
"My dearest Doctor Darling, we're having an intimate conversation, not a therapy session. I'm fairly certain this would count as a conflict of interest if it was."
It is a date, after all. He leans back, arm slung over his chair casually. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone.
"I'm just curious about you. You can ask something about me if you'd like--and just so you don't fall back on old habits, it can't be about what I can do. This isn't a lab, it's fun."
Darling toys with the stem of his wine glass, contemplating the offer. It's an opportunity, he can see that. So he gives in, and asks something that's been on his mind since he met Tom.
"At the risk of coming off as self-centred -- why me? Other than Ahti, I seem to be the only one you really talk to. You practically demanded I be the one in charge of you, and that I be the one to take you on this little excursion.
The waiter passes near the table, and Darling asks for a few more moments to consider, so he can at least answer Tom's question.
"One of the reasons I'm so interested in what you can do is that I can't. I'm not a parautilitarian, I can't bend reality to my will like so many at the Bureau seem to be able to. So much of my work feels like a child showing a card trick to a bunch of grown ups. It gets polite applause, but in the end, it's nothing they can't already do."
"Darling." Pieces are being put into place. Tom allows himself to lean forward, hands gently clasped.
"I would be lying if I said that I'm only a permanent fixture in your building because I can't leave and the only option is that place. But."
And here his hands move up, sliding to hold Darling's in a firm, assuring way. His thumb slides over the doctor's knuckles.
"You're the only one in the building that's truly, completely genuine. Funnily enough, you aren't with yourself, but to others? To me? You're the only thing worth it in there. It's how easily flustered you get, the look of concentration you have focusing. That smile. You tug at your ear when you're embarrassed, did you know?"
He shrugs.
"I like you. You shimmer. And you don't want to see me in a cell like everyone else does."
"No, I -- " Darling watches Tom's fingers move over his hand, rather than try to meet his gaze. He feels warm, his cheeks and the edges of his ears going a little pink as Tom talks about the little observations he's made about him. Things Darling had never really realized about himself.
"I didn't know," he says softly, setting his hand on top of Tom's, trapping the artist's hand between both of his. "But thank you.
And you're right, I don't want to see you hidden away. You deserve to be able to shine, too."
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"Why don't you pick out something for us to drink, Mister Zane?"
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if Zane looks like he's looking at Darling like a piece of meat, that's very much because he is. He shouldn't, but--well. He can't help it.
"I'll promise not to break your bank," he assures. He knows wine. He knows alcohol, really--yes, he's a binge drinker, and he probably has several problems. If he wasn't a parautilitarian it's very likely his liver would be crying out for help, but it's not, and he's here, and he does have taste. He orders a dry red, something he thinks Darling will like specifically.
"So. Can I finally peak behind that labcoat? Maybe talk to the real Darling?"
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He is surprised, however, to find that Tom's choice does look rather good.
"Of course you can. I'm an open book." Which isn't entirely true, but he's found that he's willing to be a little more honest with Tom than some of his other colleagues. "What do you want to know?"
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"About how happy you really are, I mean."
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Because he hates how deep the question hits him, and hates even more that Tom is the first one to call him out on, maybe even the first to notice the front he puts up. "I am happy," he says, though his tone is. Tense. "I love my job. Maybe I don't get the time off I want, but that's a hazard in every work place, isn't it?"
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"You're happy you're in a job you like. You're happy with your job." He reaches for the butter, shrugging.
"But you're not happy."
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So Darling sips at his wine with a wry smile and an arched eyebrow. Trying not to be bothered about how this man seems to be able to read him with a glance. "Oh? And why am I not happy, Tom? Since you know all my secrets, now."
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He weighs his answer for a while.
"Beyond the shadow you settle for, there is a miracle illuminated," he recites. He's not sure Darling wants to hear the reason bluntly.
Trench.
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But no one does care to look. Except Tom, apparently, and that bothers him for reasons he can't quite nail down.
He picks at the corner of his menu, feeling restless. Like he's being observed under a microscope. "I wasn't aware our dinner also included a therapy session. I might have chosen a different restaurant, if I had known."
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It is a date, after all. He leans back, arm slung over his chair casually. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone.
"I'm just curious about you. You can ask something about me if you'd like--and just so you don't fall back on old habits, it can't be about what I can do. This isn't a lab, it's fun."
He nods. Gestures. "I'm an open book."
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"At the risk of coming off as self-centred -- why me? Other than Ahti, I seem to be the only one you really talk to. You practically demanded I be the one in charge of you, and that I be the one to take you on this little excursion.
But why? I'm not anything special."
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Tom doesn't bother to hide the brief sorrow in his gaze, nor the way his eyes shine slightly as the reality of what Darling's said washes over him.
"Is your opinion of yourself outside of work truly so low that you don't believe you're deserving of it?"
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"One of the reasons I'm so interested in what you can do is that I can't. I'm not a parautilitarian, I can't bend reality to my will like so many at the Bureau seem to be able to. So much of my work feels like a child showing a card trick to a bunch of grown ups. It gets polite applause, but in the end, it's nothing they can't already do."
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"I would be lying if I said that I'm only a permanent fixture in your building because I can't leave and the only option is that place. But."
And here his hands move up, sliding to hold Darling's in a firm, assuring way. His thumb slides over the doctor's knuckles.
"You're the only one in the building that's truly, completely genuine. Funnily enough, you aren't with yourself, but to others? To me? You're the only thing worth it in there. It's how easily flustered you get, the look of concentration you have focusing. That smile. You tug at your ear when you're embarrassed, did you know?"
He shrugs.
"I like you. You shimmer. And you don't want to see me in a cell like everyone else does."
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"I didn't know," he says softly, setting his hand on top of Tom's, trapping the artist's hand between both of his. "But thank you.
And you're right, I don't want to see you hidden away. You deserve to be able to shine, too."
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