Chapter Text
“Unsupervised communication with your outie is prohibited. Each exit/entrance to the Severed floor has been fitted with the latest in code-detecting technologies. It is best to think of this technology as a metal detector, but instead of metal it is for written symbols.
Remember: Your outie requested to join the Severance Program, so it’s important that you respect their choice. Please help preserve their work/life balance.”
– The Macrodata Refiner’s Orientation Booklet, page 18
In hindsight, Dylan G. feels like kind of a dumbass for not knowing that he had three kids. It explains why his outie is always so fucking sticky.
Not in a super-gross way, or anything. Dylan thinks his outie is clearly a sharp dresser, with a keen fashion sense and an impeccable sense of hygiene far beyond any of his fellow refiners. Even so, at least a few times a week, Dylan’s outie shows up to work with little bits of jam and syrup on his hands and arms.
(Dylan had determined that the stickiness was something sweet—maple syrup, he was pretty fucking sure— through a few covert sniffs and some highly surreptitious licks, not that he would ever admit this to the rest of the MDR floor.)
Until now, Dylan never gave the little sticky patches much thought. They were little signs of life that flew under the radar of the elevator’s code-detectors, leaving Dylan to scrub off the residue in MDR’s tiny kitchen sink. Dylan figured that his outie just really loved pancakes, or something. But kids make a lot more sense. Because a few times, he’d actually been sticky on the back of his neck. And like, what the fuck, right?
But thinking back…that was probably because of the baby. His baby. The baby that he has with Gretchen G.
Dylan hasn’t met Merrick in real life, but he’s seen the photos that Gretchen brought, and studied the baby’s chubby little hands. Kids are sticky, right? That’s a normal thing for kids to be. So parents are probably sticky, too. And Dylan is a parent, now.
(He has been the whole time, but now he knows it.)
The jam and syrup aren’t the only things that are starting to make sense. Actually, kind of a lot of stuff has gotten through the elevator detectors, now that Dylan really thinks about it. Because another clue should have been the glitter. There are tiny traces of glitter on his pants, like, once a week. On his fucking shoes, even. Mr. Milchick had never said anything about it, and Dylan had never pointed it out to his fellow refiners, because he didn’t feel like it fit in with his outie’s bad-ass image. He’d worked hard to cultivate that image, constantly speculating that his outie was a seductive, smooth Casanova type.
Still, that shit is hard to get off. It had been fucking annoying, actually.
Now that he’s met Gretchen, he’s starting to develop a whole new perspective on the glitter situation.
Dylan wonders which of his kids loves arts and crafts, or maybe if all of them do. Jim is in first grade, Gretchen said, and Ruth is four. Is first grade just like, a fucking glitter factory? Does Jim have time to learn important shit in between all this art that he’s probably making? Is Ruth a little glitter demon? Are they getting glitter on the baby? His and Gretchen’s baby? The baby they had together, when they had sex, in their house, where they live?
Dylan decides the answers are as follows: Yes, Jim does have time to learn important shit, and he’s probably a genius and the smartest kid in his class; no, Ruth isn’t a glitter demon, she’s probably some kind of artistic savant; and maybe, maybe Jim and Ruth do get glitter on the baby, but only every so often, but only because that’s what siblings do, he’s pretty sure. And he and Gretchen probably take great care of all three of them, because Gretchen seems like a really great mom.
(Dylan doesn’t know this, but his guesses are about half-right. Jim is gifted, extremely bright, but a little behind in reading, with a recent dyslexia diagnosis they’re still adapting to as a family. Ruth absolutely is a glitter demon, but Dylan’s right that she loves art projects more than anything. And despite their best efforts, the kids do get glitter on the baby, constantly. That’s just how it goes.)
Even if he is kind of a fuck-up out there, Dylan tries to remember how excited Jim was to give him a hug—the one time he ever met his son, sitting on the floor of that closet with Mr. Milchick. Jim ran into that closet with a lot of enthusiasm, right? And gave Dylan that big hug? So he can’t be that much of a fuck-up. Because Jim wouldn’t get that excited for a dad who was a total dud.
—
(Dylan George is not, in fact, a total dud.)
–
Once, last year, Dylan left the office on a Friday afternoon and came back on a Monday morning, only to find out from Petey that his outie been gone a whole week.
Petey, trying to hide his grin, had fake-solemnly handed Dylan a squeezy bottle of Lumon-brand aloe vera gel.
“Mr. Milchick has asked me to inform you that your outie fell asleep in the sun while on a trip of an undisclosed nature,” Petey said. “Your outie has requested that you apply this gel to your forehead and neck periodically throughout the day, so as to avoid undue discomfort.”
Dylan had examined the bottle with some skepticism until he heard Mark snicker from his cubicle.
“Mark, are you laughing at me?” Dylan asked. “Don’t be a fuck.”
“Your skin is peeling all down your forehead,” Mark had said, grinning. “And your nose is bright red. It’s kind of ridiculous.”
“That’s probably the fashion out there,” Dylan said. “You’re just jealous that my outie spent the week outside with some hot babe, on a beach, riding dolphins or something.”
“Mock not thy fellow laborer, lest ye yourself be subject to ridicule,” Irving had said, his voice floating out from behind his cubicle wall.
“Great point, Irv, thank you,” Dylan said. “Mark, Kier thinks you should go fuck yourself.”
“Kier would never even begin to imply such a thing,” Irv said, sighing. “But we all benefit from his wisdom. Just as you, Dylan, will benefit from that lubricated gel.”
“Whatever,” Dylan said.
–
(The truth is this: Dylan and Gretchen had gone on vacation to the lake in order to give the kids some Excellent Childhood Experiences, ideally without blowing their extremely limited vacation budget. Between the two of them and Gretchen’s sister, the adults had successfully managed to keep all three kids sunscreened-up and cheerful for the entire week.
In between blowing up Ruth’s water wings, keeping Jim entertained with fart sounds, and making sure Merrick, still a newborn, was out of the sun, Dylan hadn’t bothered to apply sunscreen to himself. "I’m fine, my innie can deal with it," he’d told Gretchen. She’d rolled her eyes.)
–
The aloe vera gel did actually really help.
(Irv was smug about it.)