Disclaimer: I don't own CBS's "Zoo." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Inspired by a combination of two prompts: "Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mates skin as well." & "what if tattoos just randomly appeared on our skin at key points in our lives and we had to figure out what they meant for ourselves."–Spans all of season one until 2x01 where it is au and Jamie is found safe with the Leopard instead of her tramping off to the frozen north like a beautiful idiot.

Warnings: soulmate au, soulmates, adult language, canon appropriate violence, mild sexual content, follows pre-season one – canon season one until the scene where the group had to leave without Jamie at the wood's house.

Chrysalism

Chapter Three

Things continued along the same vein.

Offhand questions.

Observations.

Full on conversations.

Touching base.

Whatever you wanted to call it, they were doing it.

"Do you like coffee?"

"Yes."

"How do you take it?"

"Did you read this bestseller?"

"No?"

"Then what about this classic?"

"Did you see the news?"

"Yes?"

"What's your opinion on it?"

"Why?"

"Well, here is my counter argument."

It was less empty in his head these days. But other than that, life continued on, more or less normal. Sure there were more long sleeved shirts in his closet these days. More pens lost and found - his apartment, labs, office and classroom - that were designed to write on the skin rather than paper. Something which he'd take to grave considering the only set of ten he could find was in the foreplay section of an online sex store.

Thank god for discrete packaging. Especially in a building with way too many retired, nosy strata people that apparently had nothing better to do than stake out the mailboxes in the lobby and make small talk in the elevator as a guise for trying to read the labels on his mail.

And people had the gall to tell him that he didn't have a life.

Over the next few weeks they talked on and off. She – because she was a she - became a constant. A good thing. A dependable thing. And eventually he was forced to come to grips with the fact that he was starting to look forward to their conversations as the weeks turned into months and so on.

He didn't know exactly how it happened, but she drew him in. She was quick witted, interesting, smart and took even less of his bullshit than other people. She was warm, more than anything else. Everything about her ran hot. There was passion behind the things she talked about and weight behind the things she didn't. Like matching lead weights to the soul, she checked his balance and still managed to come across like a smile.

He hated to put a label on it, but if ever a person could become irreplaceable, she was it.

Which should have been his first clue everything was going to go to shit, really.


She taught him about himself as the months passed. Discovering through her that there was a sensitive inner to the arm. A spot where the sensation of just your fingers brushing across it felt a whole lot like an overdose. Like living with the volume stuck on high. Loud and tingling. Somewhere between too much and not enough. Like the build up to a climax where your nervous system was confused between backing down and going all the way because the feeling was that intense.

Which honestly seemed a whole lot like a metaphor when he thought about it.


"Do you think you know me?" she asked one day, letters slanted like she was distracted or maybe just on the move. Imagining her rocking back and forth on a subway or city bus as he made liberal use of his red pen across the latest batch of awful essays.

"I feel like I would know, you know? Or I should know- but what if I don't?"

"If you knew me in person, believe me, you'd be glad you hadn't put two and two together" he wrote back, mostly serious despite the small smile that seemed to take up residence whenever she was involved. A bad and dangerous little habit he hadn't found it in him to break quite yet. "I'm kind of an asshole."

"Someday you're going to say that and I'm going to believe it," she returned crossly, rehashing an old reply to his equally old self-disparaging remarks. "You know you can't lie to me right?"

"Hell if I can't," he scribbled back, a muscle in his cheek ticking when he realized he'd used the wrong pen on his student's essay. "It all comes down to if you believe me or not."

"Alright- alright. Truce," she returned, flowering the pause with an idle doodle that spanned from the inner of his elbow to the gape of his wrist. Something that almost looked like a vine with leaves and thorns if he tilted his head just right. "You're in a mood. What's up?"

"Currently? Weeping for our planets future and the fate of mankind as we know it," he answered. The line of words going uneven near the end as he got further into the mangled mess of an introductory paragraph he was supposed to be marking.

His imagination supplied her smile again. Lower lip caught between her teeth – half a laugh, half in tease – bare and slightly chapped. Real and honest, just like the rest of her.

"Ouch, marking again huh?"

He leaned back in his chair, stretching until his knees knocked across the underside of the table. Lacing his hands together and resting them behind his head for a fraction of a beat until the little fluttering sensation – like being unexplainable ticklish – alerted him that she'd written again.

"What if-"

He answered her before the rest of the words had a chance to form.

Not actually sure about any of it.

But wanting to be.

For her.

"We'll figure it out when we get there, alright? We're already ahead of the grade curve, remember?"


"Ever wonder what kind of soul mates we are?"

He was partway through a lecture when he caught a glimpse of black ink spreading across his forearm. His sleeves were rolled up and for a fraction of a beat, he lost his place. Eyes skittering across the arena of seats where his students were taking notes. Dicking around on their laptops – phones. Some starting to stir when the natural pause grew damning.

Shit.

He forced himself to ignore the prickling feeling and carry on with the lecture. Crossing over to his laptop with the cover of checking something. Shaking out his sleeves until they covered what was needed before delving back in with a question period. Forcing their attention where he wanted it and nowhere else.

It was only when the last student hurried out that he grabbed his pen and answered.

"What do you mean?"

Her answer was immediate. Like she'd been waiting.

"Oh come on, you know. There are romantic soulmates. Platonic ones. Ones that end up being more like an addition to your family, like a brother or a sister."

"You've been watching too many movies," he replied, rolling his eyes. Shutting down his laptop and stuffing his notes in his bag.

"You know what I think?" she smacked back, edging between coy and teasing as he shut the door and wandered down the hall towards the elevators. "I think I know exactly what kind of soulmates we are."

Something stuttered in his chest.

Thickening his throat with something almost pleasant before he swallowed it down.

Part of him still stubbornly wondering why she'd even bother.

Why she wanted to even think about-

"You'll probably be disappointed," he warned, fighting the mask of a teasing smirk that tried to rise in response as he mashed the button down to the parking garage. Frowning past what felt like just another lie. Another half-truth. Another smoke screen protecting the real thing. Shielding all the damaged parts as he threw himself into his truck and started the engine.

He took the pause as the mercy kill it was as he drove home. Simmering on it until he slumped down the hall and stopped dead. Frowning at the suit standing grimly beside the flaking bronze numbers of his apartment door. He shook the man's hand, weary. Something deep in the pit of his belly sinking when he handed him an orange envelope. Seemingly unaffected when he crinkled the edges in his fist as the man excused himself back towards the elevator.

It was an hour later when the reply finally came. Tired and soft in the slant like she was lying down, half asleep.

"Why? Have three legs and warts?"

He looked down at the legal papers strewn across his kitchen table. Fighting the urge to throw something or maybe just scream as he forced himself to sign every god damned line. Giving his daughter something she deserved. A family. Rather than the broken down mockery of two parents trying, but ultimately failing to do their best.

"Something like that," he wrote back, finding an odd sort of solace amidst the self-hatred that was currently cycling through him like unlit napalm. Knowing that in spite of everything she was still out there. Still his.

Everyone had baggage, it was true.

But honestly, lately, it felt a whole lot like his came with a moving truck.


A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be more to come.