A/N: hey, writers who decided to make Zack be Gormagon's apprentice! See this? *points at face* This is a disapproving look. I watched "The Pain in the Heart" again because I'm a sucker for punishment and decided there was no way that Zack could just decide that a cannibalistic serial killer's logic was 'sound', not after a career of putting serial killers away and getting justice for their victims. So here! A fix-it. Sort of.
"You know, most people would feel remorse over the fact that they killed a human being, not the fact that they got taken in by a line of crap," Dr. Lance Sweets informed his patient in a voice laden with barely-masked exasperation. Philomena, sitting on the table beside his elbow, twitched her whiskers in a way which meant she was distinctly amused but wasn't going to show it by laughing. He resisted the urge to tweak her ears.
"I don't understand what that means," Zack Addy replied, sitting opposite him with his gloved hands resting on the table, wearing a dressing gown over his hospital whites. His hair had grown out in the months he'd been in the asylum, and now the shaggy curls were almost long enough to begin obscuring his vision.
"Malarkey, phooey, hokum, blarney," the psychiatrist explained.
"Well, I realise now that it was malarkey, phooey, hokum, blarney, but at the time it seemed to be sound logic."
Sweets sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Like talking to a brick wall, he thought, and felt another swell of mirth from Philomena, knowing that the squint was getting the better of him. The urge to tweak her ear came back, and he gave her an annoyed glance out of the corner of his eye before straightening up and returning his attention to Zack, still staring at him expectantly. "Alright. Let's change subjects for a moment, talk about something else."
"That would be acceptable. We have been discussing the matter of my remorse for several sessions now, and it has become quite repetitive."
"Yeah—"
"Einstein's definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."
"Okay, Zack, I get it." He paused for a moment, studying the other man's face closely, watching for any change in expression. "Why don't we discuss the fact that you hide your dæmon?"
To the casual observer, Zack's expression wouldn't have changed. But Sweets had been in enough sessions with him, not to mention worked cases with him at the Jeffersonian, to see the wall that came down behind his eyes like shutters closing, the way his shoulders tensed slightly and his gloved hands twitched, fingers flexing.
It had always been a point of intrigue, at least to Sweets, that Zack's dæmon was so rarely seen that she was considered a myth by those who didn't work closely with the anthropologist/engineer. In all the time before Zack's incarceration, Sweets had never once seen her, neither had Philomena, until the trial. Then, when the young man was called in front of the judge, in a nice suit that jarred with his bandaged hands, a surprisingly small, sleek otter was present on his shoulder. Both looked uncomfortable with the arrangement, and since then, Sweets hadn't seen her. The rest of the Jeffersonian team no longer saw it as unusual, but then again, they also handled human remains with an unnervingly blasé attitude, so...
"I mean, it is quite unusual. For most people, their dæmons act as a second set of eyes and ears, let them know things they might've missed. It's a way to interact with other people's dæmons as well, perhaps even make friends that way," Sweets went on, despite the fact that Zack was still giving him that hard-eyed glare Dr. Brennan sometimes used when he used psychology on her. "And yet you don't. You keep her hidden, to the point where some have even speculated that you lack a dæmon entirely. Doesn't that worry you at all? That some people think you don't have a soul?"
Zack didn't reply.
Acting as though he had answered, Sweets went on, reaching out to gently run a hand down Philomena's back, smoothing down her ears. She twitched her whiskers at him and closed her eyes in satisfaction. In most sessions, she would analyze the reactions of their patients' dæmon whilst the people talked, then give him hints as to what issues were most sensitive. In this case, however, she was unable to do so and instead simply sat near him and listened. And occasionally laughed at him when the squint frustrated him. "I have heard of soldiers that come back with PTSD will attempt to do the same thing, given that their dæmons' settled form is small enough to allow such a thing. I know you served in Iraq for a time, but this behaviour was present a long time before that, even before I began working with Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan. I believe—"
"Dutch rabbit, also known as the Hollander or Brabander rabbit. As pets, they are easy to train, generally calm, easy-going, and friendly, making them ideal domestic animals. Rabbits herald the coming of springtime, fertility, courtship, and love. They are symbols of swiftness as well as good luck and peace. They also have a powerful reproductive drive and are also symbols of lust and sexuality, exemplified by the common term of 'breeding like rabbits'," Zack cut him off sharply, speaking in that rapid, flat voice he did whenever listing off information; Philomena's ears flicked forward in surprise as Sweets' hand stilled on her back. "Therefore the assumption can be drawn that you are a calm and easy-going person, likable and quick to make friends. You dislike violence and prefer peaceful settlement of issues. Given the fact that you have been caught mid-coitus with Ms. Wick on three separate occasions within the past month, your sex drive can also be considered prolific."
Sweets felt his ears burn; Hodgins must've told Zack about that.
"I knew all of this, with the exception of your sex drive, not because I am good at reading people, because I am not, nor because I am your friend. I knew these things from the form of your dæmon. The connection between one's character and the settled form of one's dæmon is all largely founded in the study of psychology. As an empiricist, I hold very little faith in psychology. However, it cannot be denied that there have been recurring patterns which suggest there is some degree of correlation," Zack explained. "I did extensive research on this at the time of our settling, and upon the discovery of this correlation, I realised that I was not comfortable with the idea of someone being able to know so much about me simply by looking at my dæmon. It is a vulnerability that I will not encourage."
The psychologist was quiet for a moment as he turned that over in his mind. He'd looked into the same subjects, of course. Sometimes recognising the kind of personality typically went with the settled forms of dæmon could provide an insight as to how to best approach that person. Yes, it was true that the field of dæmonic research was largely limited by the taboo and other restrictions, and yes, there were some gaps in the theory, but the basis was still present. "So you see your dæmon as a vulnerability?"
"No."
"That's essentially what you just told me, Zack, that you see her as a vulnerability, a weakness."
"No."
And we're back to the world of one-world answers. Joy. "Then what did you mean, Zack? Explain it to me."
"You are the psychologist, Dr. Sweets. Aren't you supposed to tell me what it means?"
Sweets resisted the urge to beat his head against the table but was interrupted by an orderly rapping on the door window with his knuckles. Visiting hours must've ended; their hour was up. "We'll talk about this some more at my next visit, alright?" he said, pushing back from the table. Normally, he might've shaken hands as a goodbye but decided against it.
Zack didn't reply.
With Philomena bounding at his heels, he walked to the door and swiped his card. The door lock, however, buzzed and didn't open. "Oh, great," he muttered, then knocked on the glass. "Hey, my card isn't working!"
The orderly opened the door from the outside, a large man with a garden snake dæmon curled around his neck. "It looks like your pass has expired, Dr. Sweets. You'll need to see the front desk to get it renewed."
"Right, thanks. See you next week, Zack."
Zack watched Dr. Sweets leave, then waited patiently for Jim to come back and take him to his room. A moment later, the door opened again, and Jim filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and powerful build, his dæmon still curled snugly around his neck, her tongue flickering out at regular intervals. "Alright, let's go, Dr. Addy," he said firmly, but not unkindly; he was the only orderly in McKinley that bothered to address Zack as 'Dr.' instead of 'Mr.'
He stood up and allowed himself to be walked back to his room, sitting on his bed as the door locked behind him. Once the sound of Jim's footsteps faded down the hall, Zack asked, "Did you get it?"
Daya wriggled out of the pocket of his dressing gown and crawled up his arm to perch on his shoulder, clasping his library card in her clever, hand-like paws. "Yes, of course," she replied, handing him the card.
Zack turned the card over clumsily in his gloved hands, then leant down and tucked it between his mattress and bedframe. He had no doubt that at some point he would need to get out of McKinley and ensured that he would be able to do so quickly and efficiently, before anyone could realise that he was gone. Gingerly and wincing as he did, he managed to pull his gloves off using his teeth, carefully flexing his fingers. The scarred tissue stretched uncomfortably, ugly and red and shiny, terribly sensitive yet to touch. Daya slid down his arm and gently nuzzled the palm of his left hand; the tingling rush of direct contact with his dæmon was enough to mask the stinging pain that came from the touch.
It was true that they didn't like people being able to see her, to know so much about them just by looking at Daya, but that wasn't all there was to it. As a child, Zack had a brief fascination with magic. Of course, true magic was impossible, but the art of misdirection and illusion could be construed as a magic all of its own. The first rule of magic was to always be the smartest person in the room. The second was to always make the audience look closely. Because the closer one looks, the less one will see. Make them watch my left hand as my right hand switches the cards.
Or, in this case, the magnetic strip on the cards.
So long as everyone kept looking at him, nobody would see her. Hodgins had been watching him and hadn't seen Daya switch the chemicals. Sweets had been watching him and hadn't seen Daya steal his visitor pass.
Misdirection had also been something Gormagon excelled at. Only when they were alone could Zack stop calling him 'The Master' and address him by the proper name. What he had told Dr. Brennan was for the most part, a lie. Usually, he was quite incapable of lying to her or anyone else, but fear of seeing her die combined with the burning in his hands and the painkillers slowly trickling into his veins had allowed him to do so. At the trial, he'd continuously clenched his hands in fists, using the pain to keep himself focused.
The fact that he had been approached at a seminar was true, but what followed after had been false. He had always seen the flaws in Gormagon's logic, though it was easiest to convince Dr. Brennan that he had believed the logic, because he knew she'd believe that lie. He had refused Gormagon's offer, stridently, and had full intention of informing Agent Booth, until the apprentice stopped him. They had never learned his name, just as they had never learned Gormagon's name. But there was something...wrong with the apprentice. Not physically, but mentally. Psychology was not and never would be Zack's strong suit, but he could tell when he was in the presence of a genuinely disturbed individual. The apprentice had informed Zack of what he was to do in order to set himself up, to lead the rest of the Jeffersonian team to Zack as the apprentice. The consequences for revealing the truth would be the death of every member of the team as well as their families and his own.
The apprentice had described in full and colourful detail what he would do if Zack failed. He would begin by killing Parker Booth and mailing the pieces to his father.
Zack and Daya were willing to trade their own freedom and quite possibly their own sanity to prevent that from happening. The memory of the apprentice's empty face and dead eyes still made the fine hairs on his arms stand up, the man's black mamba dæmon always coming far too close to touching Zack than comfortable. There was no doubt that the apprentice would do everything he said he would if Zack failed, and that knowledge had allowed him to betray the team, to destroy his own hands, to confess to murdering the lobbyist.
The pain and betrayal in the eyes of Dr. Brennan hurt more than any explosion, but at least she was alive to feel betrayed.
"Do you believe they will ever find out about the apprentice?" Daya asked softly, still gently nuzzling his scarred hands.
"Doubtful," Zack replied. "They are watching us, not him, and are looking too closely. We are the smartest ones in the room."
She hummed softly and bounded up his arm to stand on his shoulder once more, gently rubbing her sleek, streamlined head beneath his chin. Zack rubbed behind her small ears with one fingertip. He glanced around the small room with its stark white walls and chicken-wire embedded windows, the room that was to be his prison. It was, however, far more acceptable a view than the gravestones of his team.
Daya sighed as she leant against his neck. "Dr. Sweets' next visit should be quite entertaining, shouldn't it?"
"I am incapable of using sarcasm, Daya, therefore you are, too," he reminded, though his lips quirked in a faint smile.
"That does not prevent me from trying."
"It should."