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Daisy is gone.
She's physically here. She occupies space (wide space, because she can't be in places too small).
She's still got that little tattoo Basira got a kick out of the first time they had sex. She still looks like Daisy, albeit one that has been scooped out. She's too thin, hip bones poking uncomfortably between Basira's thighs. Her eyes are bruised blue and purple from sleepless nights.
(sleep is suffocating)
But everything else that has made Daisy who she is has to be caged up. It has to be locked away, and she is gone. She's dead. There's a hunger that burns and stabs and claws. It's begging to be let out. It wants her to live. Sometimes, if she's still enough, quiet enough, she can hear the calls of the Hunt. Soft whispers and howls that haunt her and flow through her veins.
Basira doesn't want that life for her. The beast has to die, or she loses Basira. She loses her humanity. And even knowing that, her teeth scraping along the hollow of her lover's throat, the moans of ecstasy beating inside of her, she wishes that it was the beast that could live.
--
"Don't look at me like that," Daisy mutters as she slides John's tea towards her.
"I was still drinking that."
She hates the way he watches her sometimes. All the time. It's probably because she can see his hunger, throbbing at his temples. She can taste it on the tip of her tongue.
"It's cold."
He sighs, running shaking fingers through his graying hair. They're addicts. She went cold turkey; he's on a diet.
They're a fucking mess.
The tea is cold. It makes her want to cringe but she's already committed to her theft.
"I was, uh. Hm." John stumbles over his words, trying to find his footing in their monster world.
"Eating?" Daisy helpfully provides.
"That is a word for it," he agrees.
Once, she almost ate him. She still remembers his fear, how it was so bright and warm. Does he still fear now or is he more resigned? Would he taste as sweet or would it have the ashy taste of Breekon? Or Hope. Whichever of those twats she consumed.
(very unpleasant)
She wishes she could talk about it. John would be acceptable, but she wishes Basira could be the one.
The Archivist cocks his head a bit, sizing her up with his very hungry gaze. Does she taste good? "Is there something going on?"
"Not a damn thing, Sims." She finishes his tea and slams the cup a little too hard on his desk. "I'm going to find Basira."
Basira, as she tends to be, is surrounded by a pile of books, flipping through pages. Her brow is scrunched up, her nose wrinkled, her lips pursed. Daisy hangs back. Death is not all bad. She gets to have this, these soft moments. She gets to see the way the dim lights play off of her dark skin and the way the Eye folds itself over her like an embrace.
She gets to have Basira.
Daisy raps her knuckles softly against the wall, not wanting to spook her girlfriend enough to spark her cop instincts. Doesn't want to do something that could spark the beast back. "I'm starving," she says.
Basira glances up from her book. "We should get dinner." The smile she wears is soft but cautious, always so cautious. So worried.
Daisy makes her way to her, leaning down for a kiss. Their lips meet. Daisy doesn't close her eyes.
(basira has every right to be)