Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 2: Blend In

He tilts his head, eyes soft with concern. "Then don't do it alone," he murmurs. "If it gets too much, tell me. I can pull you out before you spiral."

You scoff lightly and look away. "I don't spiral."

Evan gives you that annoyingly perceptive half-smile. "Right. You just 'intensely survive the moment.'"

A reluctant tug pulls at the corner of your mouth. "Shut up."

"Gladly," he says, amused, "as long as you breathe."

Despite everything pressing on your ribs, something in your chest loosens, just a little. Just enough.

The elevator dings, spilling dispatch chaos into the space: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, radios buzzing with frantic voices, someone shouting about an incident downtown. Before the noise can swallow you, Evan slips a tablet into your hands. "You've got a light load this morning," he announces proudly. "Two ongoing incidents. I covered the messy ones before you got here."

Warmth flickers in your chest, small, unexpected, too rare. "You're a lifesaver," you murmur.

"I try," he says, glow warming like a quiet sunrise. As you step onto the dispatch floor, he drifts a little closer, close enough that you feel the soft radiance of his heat, like gentle sunlight.

"Oh- also?" he says, voice dropping to something shy. "Congratulations on day thirty-one. I know that's... hard. For humans. I'm proud of you."

You freeze mid-step.

In a building full of beings who can tear metal or bend time, Evan is the only one who sees you. Who remembers. Who cares.

You nudge his shoulder gently. "Thanks, Evan."

He beams, bright, earnest, glowing. "Anytime."

---

Ah, yes, break time, your favourite part of the day. Evan had been called out by Blonde Blazer, the company's poster-girl hero, to handle another suburban mess. Reliable as ever.

Good thing Chase is around for some goddamn sanity-checking.

"So, Blondie is going through the villain candidates again?" you ask, watching him shovel food onto his plate with all the enthusiasm of a man contemplating mortality.

"Yeah," he mutters, slamming a fist lightly on the table, making the cutlery jump. "Another round of fuckheads. Why the ever-living shit do we still do this bullshit?"

"I ask myself that every day, Chase," you sigh, taking a long sip of your fourth coffee, letting it anchor you. "Every. Single. Day."

He smirks, crooked and wicked. "You know what? You should get some actual light in your miserable life. Go sit in the sun or stand under one of those UV lamps, fry that sad little brain of yours into something useful."

"Huh?"

"You've been a gloomy-ass storm cloud since you walked in," he says, eyes narrowing. "I swear, I've never seen you crack a smile... except that one time that slime kid got a chair rammed up his ass. Literally."

You snort, a small laugh escaping. "Heh... oh yeah. That was... hilarious."

"Point is, you need to sort your shit out. Talk to someone, vent, scream into a pillow, whatever. You look like death's cousin every damn time I see you."

"Well... thirty-one days sober tends to do that to a person," you mutter, swirling your coffee like it is some sacrificial potion.

"Ah, got it. Congrats, I guess. Now I know why your ass looks like a corpse. Seriously, kid, you're a mess." He smirks, but there is a flicker of concern in his eyes that betrays the joke.