#control resonant

He forced himself inside anyway. It sounded like only person. Whatever. Pick the booth on the opposite end, hope the other guy finished up first. That was the plan, until he stepped into the rows of showers and heard soft cursing.

Smelled something metallic, familiar in a way that immediately made him feel nauseous.

"Hey," Arish called as he approached the only closed shower, "everything good?"

No response. The blood smell got stronger as he got closer. He couldn't see who was inside, not with the curtain closed, but he could see crumpled paper towels on the ground. Bloodied ones. "Fuck." Arish sped up and grabbed the curtain. "Hey, we should get you to medical."

"No, I don't…"

Too late; Arish was too fixated on blood and injury and have to help to register what was being said, or who was saying it. He threw the curtain open was was greeted by the sight of Dylan Faden, shirtless and shoeless, gripping a bloodied paper towel in one hand. He was trying to hide the source by shrinking himself down, but Arish could see at least part of the injury. The back of his upper left arm was scraped and bruised to hell. A bit more damage spread into his side from his back. "What the fuck?!" he demanded. "Do you people knock?!"

"What happened?"

"Why do you…" The spark in Dylan's eyes went out immediately; when he spoke again, his tone was flat, but still a bit shaky. "Rough landing. It's nothing."

That sure as shit doesn't look like nothing. The platform suits were pretty durable, but at the speeds Dylan was going, they wouldn't do much to stop road rash, or other injuries for that matter. "You might've broken something," Arish pointed out.

"I didn't. I'd know."

"Still, you should get that checked out…"

"I don't want to go to medical."

"Don't be a jackass. Get out of the shower."

"Or what? You'll blow my head off?"

Fucking hell. That defiant spark was back in Dylan's eyes, boring holes in Arish's skull. He didn't even have the trigger on him, but he could feel the ghost of it heavy in his pocket. Sometimes it felt like it was the explosive part, not the MCD in Dylan's skull. A mix of emotions suddenly gripped at Arish's throat. He didn't have a word for them individually; as a collective, they were white-hot, snarling things that dragged the worst out of him. Fuck you, asshole, I'm trying to help, why are you so stubborn, what's your fucking problem?! Those words couldn't make it past the blockade. Only two could.

"Whatever, man."

Arish let go of the curtain and stalked off. The thoughts kept racing through his head. Sure. Bleed to death. Puncture your lung, see if I care. His jaw hurt from clenching so tightly. It had all day. Fucking prick…

He caught sight of himself in the mirror.

That gave him some pause.

Arish didn't like looking at his reflection these days. Hadn't for a while. At first, it was just the signs of aging that bothered him, the stark reminder of how much time he'd spent stuck in the Oldest House, clawing and fighting to keep people alive. But as time went on, something else settled into his face. Not extra lines or gray hairs or dark circles, but something mean in the eyes. It had been growing for years as the Lockdown got worse, as people got desperate and stupid and threw blame around, as things got more strained among upper management. He'd tried to fend it off, but, well…then Faden had left. Dropped the A-R Injectors and vanished, just like Darling. Then Lockdown fell, then the AWE, then Dylan showed up, claiming he "wanted to help." Arish tried to be reasonable, he really did, even when he was angry, but something about that guy pushed all his buttons.

Is that fair?

Of course not. Didn't stop him from feeling it.

You didn't always.

That wasn't entirely true. Even the Arish who'd once looked at an unconscious Dylan with something like sympathy had been terrified of him. That fear had festered for years and mutated into something way uglier when Faden left and Dylan replaced her as their "best hope."

Except their best hope shouldn't have been a security threat they needed to strap a bomb to just in case…

Jesse wouldn't have wanted that.

Faden didn't get a say. He was acting Co-Director, wasn't he? He was the one stuck with these decisions, weighing the security of everyone else versus Dylan's hurt feelings over people not trusting him. If she didn't want that to happen, maybe she should've stuck around.

You wouldn't have wanted that once, either.

You didn't want to be a dictator.

…He didn't.

He never had, not even with someone like Dylan.

He knew, objectively, that it was more complicated with Dylan, that there may have been more room for grace. Pope had wanted that. She'd looked betrayed when Arish hadn't. They hadn't brought it up since, though, and he was glad, because he couldn't even explain it.

Why am I so angry at him?

Why am I so angry at all?

He didn't recognize the person staring back at him in the mirror. Didn't recognize himself in the picture on his old photo ID. He was a stranger to himself no matter how you sliced it.

Behind him, Arish heard Dylan hiss sharply in pain. He sounded just like…

Fuck.

Arish walked back to the stall. This time, though, he left the curtain closed, and knocked instead to get Dylan's attention. "Why don't you want to go to medical?" he asked. No response. Arish pushed back the rising wave of emotion, forced himself to wait for an answer. This used to be easier. Damn it. "Come on. Work with me, here."

"…I don't like going in there," Dylan said finally. "Easier to just do it myself."

"Why? Are they denying you care, or…?"

"No."

"Then suck it up."

"No."

"Fucking…will you at least let me look at it, then?" Arish hadn't even planned on offering that. He was just as surprised as Dylan probably was. "I'll trust you that nothing's broken, but there's no way you can reach all of that. You don't want it getting infected."

The pause that followed almost broke him. Arish had to literally bite his tongue to keep from telling Dylan where he could shove his stubborn, shitty attitude. Had to force himself to come up with an alternative instead of just giving up and going to take his probably ice-cold shower. "Do you want me to get De Vera?" he tried. "Because it's her or me."

Dylan yanked the curtain open. A beet-red flush spread over his cheeks at the mention of his handler (or, more probably, the prospect of her seeing him shirtless). "Do not get Zoe," he said desperately.

"So, me, then?"

The silence was accompanied by a stare-off as they sized each other up. Arish wasn't sure what Dylan was looking for; he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. Contrition? Any warning signs that Dylan might get violent? Any signs of younger brother Faden had always talked about? Or of her?

The last thought made him queasy. Fortunately, Dylan's eyes darted away at the same time, fixing on the floor instead, so he probably didn't notice. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Whatever."

Like pulling teeth with this guy, I swear.

They moved to the handicapped stall to give them both room. Dylan stood rigidly still as Arish did a visual scan of the injuries. They covered the space between the bottom of Dylan's shoulder blade and his waist, stopping just before his spine, definitely too far back for him to tend to without help. Nothing looked broken or dislocated, just scraped and bruised to hell. And there was something else, too, something that took Arish a bit longer to register.

Fuck me, he's skinny. Not emaciated, not so impossibly thin that he shouldn't have been standing, but skinny in a way that reminded Arish of boot camp. Him and everyone else had been adults on paper but still teens in many ways, still constantly hungry and lanky. Except Dylan was in his thirties (thirty-four, because Faden was thirty-five and Dylan was one year and one hour younger than her exactly), a physically active special agent shaped to take over the Bureau. On paper, he should've had more weight to him.

In person, he was just enough desperate muscle and minimal fat to get the job done. A lanky kid stretched out and shoved into adulthood, like he'd stopped aging one day in that House and never caught up.

Arish shook the thought away and surveyed the supplies Dylan had brought with him. It wasn't much, mostly looked like it had been salvaged from random first aid kits. The random bottle of Midol was a surprise, but Arish decided he didn't want to know. Soap and water to start. Figure out the rest later. "This is gonna sting like a motherfucker," he warned as he prepped another towel and approached Dylan carefully. "Don't hit me."

Dylan scoffed quietly, a sound that quickly turned into a strangled whine when Arish started cleaning. He probably wouldn't have blamed Dylan if he had started swinging on pure instinct, but the other man stayed still. The only movement was his skin twitching violently at each touch. Lucky for Dylan, there wasn't much in the way of foreign matter, so Arish didn't have to get deep in there. For whatever that's worth.

"Has anyone on the medical staff said anything to you?" The question came out stilted, more from instinct than genuine curiosity. He was still, deep down somewhere, a security man. He handled concerns. Looked after people. I used to, anyway. "You said you didn't like it in there."

"It's nothing," Dylan said. His answers were just as stilted, dutiful, rehearsed. "No one's denying me medical attention, no one's said anything."

"So, what, you're a masochist who likes digging around his own injuries?"

"Yep. Sure."

"Don't do that."

"I'll stop when you stop pretending you care."

"I…" Arish cut himself off. Focused on making sure the anger stayed trapped behind a clenched jaw and didn't travel down to his hands and turn his ministrations unnecessarily rough. I never would've worried about that before. Never. He didn't recognize his own hands sometimes, either. "I do care."

"Why?"

"Because we need you alive and you're the Director's brother…"

"Dylan is the Director's brother."

"You are Dylan."

"No, no, I'm not. I'm not Dylan. Not FBC. Not even fucking human. You made that very clear."

Arish didn't have a rebuttal. Not even the man he'd turned into could defend that one. Those words had been dragged out of the same wildfire that burned in him even now. It never really went away; at its best, it was smoldering embers, just waiting for something to devour. Dylan was always easy tinder, and Arish still didn't know why. Objectively, logically, the man was a victim of the same careless bullshit Arish had been fighting for years before the Hiss. Subjectively, emotionally, Arish couldn't see that.

Why am I doing this to him?

Dylan glanced over his shoulder, but Arish didn't see him when their eyes met. He saw someone else.

Why am I doing this to her?

Dylan's lips parted just for a second, before he looked back ahead. "What?" Arish said, for once his tone not harsh.

"Nothing."

"The trigger's not on me," Arish said without thinking, "if that's what you're worried about. Speak your mind." The sentence didn't feel reassuring. It felt like poison. Like something that would've been unthinkable seven years ago.

What am I doing?

"Are you gonna take this thing off me?" Dylan asked flatly.

Arish's mind stalled. Most of him resisted the thought. Dylan being allowed to walk away with no safeguards scared him more than anything else out there. But a small part of him rebelled, kicked and pushed against the box he'd shoved it in during lockdown. Screamed that was a human being. A person they'd done that to.

Jesse's baby brother.

But that wasn't enough to make him answer yes.

Dylan huffed quietly at Arish's hesitation. "Then I don't have anything to say to you," he said. He folded in on himself more, shoulders hunching, right hand clutching at his right arm, fingers worrying away at the edge of his scrapes. "Can we just get this done?"

The flames were the lowest they'd ever been. Arish couldn't even muster up enough sparks to be defensive. He just went back to cleaning without a word. Dylan remained frozen, except for the constant scratch, scratch, scratch of his index finger against a scab. Nails worn down from biting struggled to find purchase, but always slipped before they could. He was just as eerily compliant as Arish bandaged him up. "You'll have to replace these eventually," Arish said. "You should really go to medical for that." Dylan hummed noncommittally. "You're sure nothing's broken?" A nod. "Well, be more careful from now on. Seriously."

Another nod. Dylan's voice, when he finally spoke, was so quiet that Arish had to strain to hear it: "Can I go now, please?"

He even sounds like a kid sometimes.

The thought couldn't be shaken off; it clung to his mind like toxic sludge. "Yeah, go ahead. Get some rest." Arish went to pass Dylan's things to him, but the other man beat him to it, scooping everything up and moving towards the door as fast as he could without actually running. Now, it was Arish's turn to stay frozen in place, listening to the sounds of movement, locker door being opened and closed, slight pained noises as Dylan presumably put the rest of his clothes back on, the entrance opening and closing.

Arish's ears started ringing in the silence. They hadn't really stopped since the Lockdown had lifted. A few shallow puddles of blood-stained water spotted the shower floor. He turned the water on to wash them away. The blood spun down the drain. The smell lingered.

His shower was tepid at best, but he barely noticed. Arish avoided making eye contact with the mirrors as he left. He knew exactly who'd be staring back at him.