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“You what?”
Jon shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, but Daisy was never very inclined to take other people’s comfort into consideration. He swallowed. “I… had some free time.” He was looking away from her now, picking at the dirt under his nails, idly tracing one of his many scars, anything to avoid her eyes.
“When I say I had some free time, I mean I had a pint at a pub, or maybe even went to the cinema.” Daisy was still having trouble processing what she was about to say. “What I never mean is I listened to nineteen thousand episodes of a radio soap over the weekend!”
“It was interesting.”
Daisy wanted to scream, but she didn’t. “What it was is literally impossible!” She’d been so tired lately. The coffee helped some, though it was more due to how bad Jon always seemed to ruin it more so than the caffeine. But she was herself, and that was worth every moment of the marrow-deep exhaustion that had become her daily life. This conversation was only making the exhaustion worse. “There isn’t enough time! Even if you didn’t sleep you’d probably only get through a hundred or so.”
“I’m good at listening.” he said, still not meeting Daisy’s gaze. And then it dawned on her.
“You… used your powers. To listen to a radio soap.”
“Possibly.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Why?”
With that question, whatever tension was holding Jon together lapsed, and his body almost visibly deflated. “I needed a distraction.”
And then Daisy understood. Thirty seconds later she was pushing a paper cup filled with his undrinkable coffee across his desk towards his hand. “It’s still hot.”
He murmured a quiet thanks and took a sip, his face almost immediately screwing up. “God, this is awful.”
“That’s the bit that helps.” Daisy couldn’t help but chuckle. Here, surrounded by filing cabinets and folders strewn haphazardly, she felt genuinely content watching this strange man be repulsed by his own coffee. “It keeps me grounded, at least.”
He tensed again, but after another sip of the brew Jon let out a deep sigh. “Thank you. Legitimately.” A minute or two passed before he spoke again. “It’s tough, isn’t it. Resisting your instincts.”
Daisy nods. She can always feel it, snarling and gnashing and genuinely joyful just on the other side of the door. Waiting for the time when she’ll let it back in, when she’ll allow herself to get lost in the pursuit again, smelling her prey’s fear, becoming intoxicated by the mixture of adrenaline and triumph. “If you have the urge to… hunt. You can call me.”
Jon finally meets her eyes. She stares back at this man, more held together by scar tissue than anything else, face pockmarked with holes where worms once burrowed, scalding coffee dribbling down a had she’d bet can’t feel heat anymore from the severity of the burns. Eyes that met hers when they were in a world of dark and pressure and not enough air and terror. “I’ll do that.”
They sip that awful coffee in silence for a few more minutes before Daisy breaks it. “I can’t believe you’ve listened to more episodes of the Archers than I have.”
And Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, begins to laugh. A genuine, human laugh. Daisy joins him, and for this one moment together, they’re happy.