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 Four

"You've been quiet," she observed one afternoon. Distracting him from his very important - albeit silent discussion - with the empty booth across from him at the diner. Not thinking of anything in particular as the peeling red vinyl stood out like a particularly ugly metaphor to his life.

"Got a lot on my mind," he wrote back, wincing at the weakness of the reply but grateful when she didn't immediately call him on it like she usually did.

The coffee left in his cup was luke-warm and bitter when he raised it to his lips. Grimacing in distaste as he set it down again. Creating a matching coffee-ring stain on the papers in front of him. Ideas for his next paper – fluff pieces mostly – enough to keep the Dean of his department happy while he focused on his own research.

"Like what? You can tell me you know, I'm pretty sure that's what I'm here for."

He expelled a breath sharply through his nose. Forgetting to signal for the check for the third time as the waitress bustled passed. High heels thowack-thowack-thowacking across the cheap linoleum.

There were a hundred different things he could have said.

But the funny thing was, he ended up telling her the truth.

"Sometimes I don't know how to connect. So I disconnect," he answered honestly. Not sure if it was a drawback or a bonus that he didn't have to look her in the face afterwards. Wondering off-handedly where she was and what she was doing right this very moment as she watched his words appear, and slowly fade, from her skin.

"Weirdly enough, I think I know the answer for this one," she eventually replied. Letters slow and careful like she was taking her time. Like she cared. Like she knew.

The waitress blew past with the check he hadn't asked for. And he decided to take it as his cue to leave as he gathered his papers and tossed a couple bills on the table. Grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder as he squinted into the afternoon sun.

The next time he looked, her answer was there – slow but determined – like leaves skittering to ground on the onset of fall.

"Sometimes you end up giving the right people – the right person - the wrong pieces of you, you know?"


It wasn't until later – much later – when he was staring at his ceiling. Halfway between being awake and asleep that he finally pulled his head far enough out of his ass to wonder how she'd known exactly what to say. Suddenly far too awake as the idea that he wasn't the only one who was a little wounded broke new ground in his head space.

Huh.

Funny how he liked the thought of it less when she was involved.

She didn't deserve that.

He didn't even have to ask to know that.

Then again, maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised.

That was what having a soulmate meant, wasn't it?

They were supposed to be the one person you could connect with.

It was just the details that made things a bit crappier than they should've been.

At least in his opinion.


He was wrist-deep in a zebra carcass when he caught a flash of color spreading across his arm.

Ugh, not that stupid purple pen again.

"Quick, what's a good word for being petty, or fighting over things that don't really matter – but in a professional way?" she asked.

"I'm not your thesaurus," he returned blandly, tapping his finger on the autopsy table as he waited for her response. After all there was no use in putting on a fresh pair of gloves if she was just going to make him take them off again.

"Stop being an asshole for one minute and humor me? Please? I've been up since three am trying to finish this stupid piece of crap."

His mouth twitched, head ducking into his chin like it was second nature to hide the smile.

"What are you going for? Polished or pretentious?" he asked, watching red leak down from the side of the incision. Staining the brilliant white and black hide with a thin, encroaching tide of crimson. Inching down towards the metal drain in the center as that same funny little sensation tingled across the inside of his arm.

"Both?" she answered, both a question and a statement in a way that was so like her he was in danger of smiling again.

"Pettifoggery," he scribbled back. He had fond memories of that word. Having once verbally eviscerated a particularly annoying, short-sighted department head using it - amongst a few others.

"Oooh…I like that. Perfect!" she returned, the taste of her relief almost tangible as he snagged a pair of fresh gloves and prepared to pick up where he'd left off.

"I'm going back to work now," he warned, more to stave off any other sleep deprived chatter than anything else as he looked back down at the carcass. Wondering why anyone would need the word "pettifoggery" for anything – no less use it successfully in a sentence.

He still had no idea what she did for a living. Every time she tried to tell him, no matter how creatively, his skin remained blank. Same as when he tried. She'd theorized more than once that it must mean something. That perhaps their jobs were going to be the thing that brought them together someday. Privately, he wasn't unconvinced it wasn't the universe finding a brand new way to screw with him.

"You're a life saver, thanks! Have a good one!"

He snorted, looking down at the split open carcass and the mysteries it was still clinging to with a deeply-lined frown. Because frankly, he had a young, fully grown male zebra with no apparent health issues and absolutely nothing in the way of answers.

Crap.


He was politely pretending not to hear his one night stand sneak out of his hotel room - a red head from the same conference he was at, who hadn't cared how he used his mouth unless it was firmly engaged at all times, preferably between her legs - when a flood of green ink hazed across the inner of his arm.

"Hey, you awake?"

He waited until the door softly clicked before levering himself up out of the sheets and stretching for the pen in the breast pocket of his crumpled suit jacket.

"Yeah," he wrote back, awkward and slanted as he penned it above his head in the nest of pillows. Glasses hiding somewhere he hadn't bothered to discover yet.

"What are you thinking about?"

It occurred to him as he glanced at the clock, all six fucking fifteen am of it, that somewhere she was probably doing the same thing. Barely awake, soft, eyes still blurry with sleep. It was a nice image. Maybe even comforting. But mostly it just highlighted her absence. What neither of them had yet. Each other.

"That you're not a red head," he said honestly, deliberately lacking a filter because there was a part of him that still couldn't help testing her. Trying to chip away at the fairy-tale facade for the truth. Whatever that was. Part of him still expecting that someday all this was going to crumble. That she was too good to be true and that true to form - sooner or later - he'd do something, say something to drive her away. Just like he did with everyone else. Everyone important. Everyone who was worth it.

Connie, the red head - an expert in the field of Forensic Podiatry, or so she'd said - had been a knock out. Intelligent, argumentative, driven and with looks and style to match. But when it was all over and she was breathing deep and slow into the crook of his chest, he'd felt a whole lot like he'd eaten a meal but still wasn't full.

She'd been lovely, but not right.

If that made any sense.

As much as he felt like most of the soulmate crap was out to lunch, meaning even scientific studies were playing more into the romantic exoticism of it than anything, he'd read one thing recently that'd resonated. Something that'd felt familiar, applicable and possible, without all that other bullshit attached.

The article talked about how meeting your soul mate was a lot like walking into a familiar house. A place where you recognized the pictures on the wall, the furniture, the way the cupboards were organized, everything. It was a place you already knew without having to be there. A place where you automatically felt at home.

He weathered the pause that stretched through the in-between. Calm but strangely nervous as she processed the meaning. Checking his phone as he deleted half a dozen emails he didn't need any more before she finally replied.

"Yeah, I've had a few of those since- well, since we started talking."

He frowned, eyebrows in danger of going places as he tried and failed to figure out how he felt about that. And most importantly, if he had any right to have feelings on the subject at all – this time for more than a few reasons. One of them being the woman probably taking the elevator down to the lobby, still trying to sort out her bra straps.

Then-

"I was thinking about you too."

Oh.


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