Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's a cot in the storage room at the back of the archives where Jon has taken somewhat of a permanent residence. It rests in the corner of the room, nestled between two walls and cardboard boxes filled to the brim with paperwork that rarely anyone goes by these days. It holds little else but two worn-out blankets, a single pillow, and his own weight after he kills the lights well into the early hours and turns in for the day. 

This Daisy knows because it was the same cot that Basira had insisted she lay on for the first few days after they’d reached the surface.

She could barely stand on her own. The muscle atrophy had forced her to cling onto the other figure that pulled them both lest she fall face-first on the floor. It was deep rooted, up to the point where breathing felt painful. They’d hurried to carry and let her down on the thin mattress. Then they had taken turns keeping guard through the days that followed.

They didn't have to. She was too exhausted to do much other than let herself fall into a fitful slumber, wake up choking on stale air, and force her eyes shut once more; holding onto the relief that there was air to breathe. She couldn't move, and she's not sure she would have tried to.

The stillness had gotten ahold of her, and even though she had fought against it initially, she eventually gave in. She had been safe, then. Finally, for the moment, she was safe on that cot.

Basira had been there for the longest, or so she assumed. Her face was the one Daisy had woken up to the most, at least. She'd had neither the way nor the desire to keep track of time in the beginning. By the time Jon had showed up more than once, she'd been certain it was a long time.

She still hasn't asked how long she was rendered to the cot, sleeping away the numbness. Truth be told, she's not interested in figuring it out. She'd rather forget it ever happened, but it's not as simple as that.

Basira goes back to her apartment on some nights. Something about the right precautions being taken and needing a change of scenery. At first when the physical therapy was mandatory, she'd brought a pair of sleeping bags and they'd throw them underneath the desks. Daisy couldn't move, and her partner wouldn't risk relocating her without Daisy having at least the possibility of being able to push her own weight on a wheelchair for longer than a minute; so they’d stayed inside the Institute while they made it happen. Daisy can walk now – perhaps not for hours on end just yet, but she no longer needs someone to move around with her at the risk of her knees giving out. She's healing at a faster rate than a normal person would, but still despite Basira's insistence, she has no intention of leaving the premises of the institution (let alone the archival section) for any period of time longer than strictly necessary for the purposes of her recovery.

One of the sleeping bags comes and goes. The other one remains under the desk of one of the former assistants. Of which one she's not sure.Everyone has a place–or rather, a spot–to spend the night. Jon's is the cot in the storage room behind the archive.

This she knows (has known for quite a while, in fact) when she pads her way towards it with less than steady legs and opens the door, quietly but resolutely. She thinks that since she's been lurking around him so often these days that he’d be silly to feign surprise at her presence in his vicinity.The room is dark, but she can still make out the shape of Jon rising from the cot and facing her way as the door closes.

“Daisy? Is everything alright?” His voice, though tired, sounds too clear for him to have just been woken up. That on its own puts her at ease. 

“I couldn't sleep,” is all she says as she steps forward and across the room, closer to the cot. Her own voice is quiet and shaky in a way that she still hasn't gotten used to. She knows she will one of these days, but it hasn't happened yet.

She catches him sitting up straight, and she thinks she wouldn't really be surprised to realize that his eyes do hold a faint glow and it’s not just her imagination. “Would you like to talk about it?” He asks, moving aside to make room for her. She lets herself drop onto the too-small mattress beside him. 

She shakes her head this time, mindful of answering “No,” in a whisper. “I’d just like to get some sleep.” She grabs the blankets and settles herself underneath them. She lay down on her side without another word, eyes fixed on the man who hasn't moved yet. She’s willing to bet he's sporting a confused frown by his lack of response.

The beat of silence stretches between them, but he makes no attempt to push her away or say something that would. It's a little awkward, although it's not precisely uncomfortable. She just waits, wrapping the covers a tad higher to cover her shoulders, and continues to scrutinize him in case any alerts ring off. When still nothing happens she reaches out carefully, as if not to startle him, and wraps her fingers around his arm. She pulls him down, guiding him back onto the cot and under the blankets with as much strength as she can muster (which, she knows, isn't that much), hoping he’ll follow her lead.

He does, albeit far more reluctantly than she'd like to. He's likely still frowning, and she can feel his eyes on her almost as much as she thinks she can see them, but eventually they're both lying down face to face. At last he's close.

Daisy knows this doesn't come from something natural. Not something normal at all. It's all a twisted, messed up consequence of the events that have her presumed dead by the rest of the world and spending the night in the basement of a (most definitely haunted) two-century-old building. She doesn't let go of her hold on him.

“Good night, Jon.” It's another whisper before she closes her eyes. It's an act, truly. She knows it’ll take her a little more than just this to let herself drift away.

Jon stays awake for a little longer. She can tell by the sound of his breathing – steadily slowing down until it's relaxed and quiet like waves dying on the shore. Only then does she allow the tiredness of the day to seep into her mind, clearing itself of any lingering thoughts that would keep her alert otherwise. She focuses on that single other sound and lets it guide her down into what sometimes is blank and peaceful, and sometimes is cramped and scary.

She's got a feeling that nightmares won't take her this time.

She's about to tip over the brink when she feels a distinct pressure wrap itself around her hand, warm and soft with scar tissue. She has enough of a mind to think, ‘bastard,’ before she falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Sims had always been, first and foremost, prey.

He’d been prey from the moment his name had shown up in the investigation regarding the death of Gertrude Robinson, him being her immediate successor. He’d been prey from the second Basira had mentioned that she didn't trust him and that he seemed to be hiding something.

It hadn't only been his connection to the murder of the late Archivist that put Sims in her sights, however. No, it had been something else – something that had less to do with what could be proven in a court of law and more with the reasons why someone would end up sectioned. 

Basira was smart. She was careful, and she wouldn't throw herself into a dangerous situation without thinking it through – not without something to gain.Early on in the investigation, Daisy had let her operate without interference. Even when something hadn't sat right in her stomach when Basira had shared her suspicions and theories, Daisy had let her handle herself freely. She trusted her to. She worried, sure, but she wouldn't stand in her way, because Basira had to know what she was doing. It wasn't until her partner began acting strangely that she chose to interfere. 

Hunches were dangerous things to follow. Many mistakes could be made for the sake of following one’s instincts – mistakes that a system as big and influential as the police force could easily cover up if needed. They were the kind of thing that couldn’t be explained by the rules of logic or reason, and for the most part Daisy tried not to push her luck too far in that regard. 

But there was something in the way he had talked to her when she dropped by to deliver the tapes. Something in how he’d been inconspicuously open about his arrangement with her partner.

It was something that Basira had lost sight of (or perhaps caught too a good look of) when she changed her strategy and decided to help him. There was more than met the eye when it came to Sims. A story perhaps he himself didn't know the start of, but he'd become an inexorable part of it. Still, Daisy chose to tread carefully. It was unwise to act on a hunch right off the bat, and she knew that she needed more than speculation to back her need to dive into a chase.

Time passed and the police had no choice but to shut the investigation down. Sims had been exonerated by the lack of evidence from the CCTV footage, but both Daisy and her partner had spent enough years on the force to know that it hardly mattered. Evidence could easily be manipulated – and by multiple parties, at any rate.

But Daisy didn’t need evidence. What she needed was a purpose.

She'd found the beginnings of one rather quickly with Sims. The way it’d been impossible to restrain herself from handing out details that were strictly confidential simply because he’d prompted her – that couldn't be entirely attributed to being, “in a sharing mood,” as she'd put it back then. There was something wrong about the jittery man who had been accused of murder. While perhaps he hadn't been implicated in that case, that didn't necessarily make him trustworthy or harmless.

Daisy had good instincts – Instincts that usually pointed her towards that which ended as part of the reports filed under Section 31. Daisy had good instincts, but Basira was smart. She had been Daisy’s partner for long enough that she'd witnessed some of the same wicked things that Daisy had. She must have had a plan of sorts.

But the problem was that Basira didn't have her instincts. Basira could have been subject to what Daisy had felt when she had given her statement and be none the wiser. Maybe she had suspected something, but she wouldn't have heard the bells ringing out at something much more subtle – something that could pass off as well intended compliance.

For the time being (and because he hadn't been involved in any other crimes) Daisy knew she couldn't allow herself to go after Sims. She couldn't drop everything to get some answers of her own and take care of him properly. She could be patient, though. She could wait until he found himself slipping again, and the chase would begin.

Chapter Text

She had noticed them a long time ago. Back then, they had urged her forward to the moment they would inevitably clash. When she'd been trapped, they had made her hate him even more. These days, she's not sure what to make of them. She's not sure what to make of a lot of things, regarding Jon.

She supposes it's part of this process; of re-learning how it feels to be herself without the veil of the Hunt clouding her vision. To stop thinking of others in neat little boxes, classifying them as either those who chase or those who are chased. Predators and prey.

Daisy has scars. Quite a number of them, although only a few (the very nasty ones) have a hunting story attached to them. In the relatively short time that she's come to know Jon, he's been piling up on them almost as if he's collecting them. For the longest time it seemed like whenever she ran into him again he’d have a new one. If they had been friends back then, she likes to think she would have joked that he was getting them on purpose, if only to have something new to tell her about. 

They weren't friends back then. Even if that had been remotely possible, she doubts that he would have shared those kinds of stories. She would have given him one, too. That would have been complicated enough.

Jon is a quiet person. He doesn't talk about himself much either. Not unless he's moping or having a bit of an existential crisis. It's almost funny to see sometimes, although Jon can be funny in his own right when he wants to be, what with his fucked up sense of humor and whatnot.

They haven't talked about the sleeping arrangement yet. It's an arrangement now because it's been a couple of days since it first happened and it hasn't precisely stopped. There was no follow up or questionnaire the morning after, and by the end of that day Daisy had gone through the motions of the previous night with no different outcome. In the end they’d both fallen asleep quietly, keeping the same minimalist  points of contact as before and bidding one another good night. By the third and fourth time she'd showed up, Jon had pulled aside the covers and scooted back while she turned around to close the door.

Perhaps neither of them had slept entirely through the night, but the company upon waking up from dreadful memories had been welcomed. So had been the arms that one of them would wrap around the other when that happened – arms that would remain there until they both managed to drift back.

They should probably talk about it soon.

She's thinking of this while he reads. She is standing in his office, pacing around carefully to stretch her legs before she needs to sit down again. She's thinking of this and of the scars that litter him all over, because Jon doesn't talk about himself much.

Daisy likes his quietness. She’s come to appreciate how easy it feels to exist together in the same space without having to talk constantly because the silences between them are hardly ever uncomfortable. She's aware it’s not something that comes easy and that there's a very good reason as to why that is the case with Jon. Still, it's the one good thing that's come out of this mess.

Back when she'd been alone on the cot and unable to move, Basira would try and ask her questions in the in-between minutes that she'd catch her awake. Daisy tried her best to answer through chapped lips, a sore throat, and fits of coughing for as long as she could before she fell back into hysterics from the last nightmare that she had woken up from. When Jon had shown up he barely spoke more than five or six words at the time, and even then it was to tell her to rest and take it easy. She would try and stay awake to keep her eyes on him. She wanted to make sure that he was the last thing she saw before she went back under. These days she's been doing something similar.

Basira and Melanie take turns keeping Daisy company, but more often than not she ends up making her way towards wherever Jon is. She can't really explain it.  Even if she could, she's not sure she would want to. 

She’s pacing around his office when she feels a dull and familiar burst of pain on her back, and she just knows the weather is about to change. It used to bother her, back what feels like a lifetime ago. It was an unpleasant discomfort that distracted her, and so she rubbed on the sore spot trying to focus her mind elsewhere until it went away. Now, Daisy reaches out to apply pressure on it and she finds herself turning her full attention into that pain – it almost feels like a break from the chronic ache of muscles that are learning to move like they once used to.

She finds herself approaching Jon’s desk, leaning against it where he's close enough to reach. “It’s going to rain.” 

Daisy doesn't miss the way he drops the book he’s been reading to turn around and face her, nor the way his burnt hand clenches and flexes. She makes a point to stare intently at it. “That seems to be the case.” 

“Sore spot?” It's an ironic question, one that gets an ironic answer from him. 

“Daisy, I am a walking sore spot.”

It makes her chuckle, a weak and tired sound that brings a small smile to his face in turn. It makes him light up in a way that she's always pleased to see. It shouldn't feel this simple to laugh about something tragic, especially when she knows that she has contributed to some of that pain, but it is.

“Pressure helps.” Daisy offers her hand to him, and his eyes cloud with puzzlement for a second before she speaks up again. “I want to help.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she insists. 

Jon makes a face like he's trying to think better of it, but eventually gives in. His palm finds its place atop hers and Daisy makes quick work of carefully pushing down on the large patch of soft skin. She runs her thumb over the edges of the scar, her other hand joining to rub small circles down the center. It's not much, but it elicits a soft, pleased sigh from his lungs and that makes her happy. 

“It’s nice to be of use, for once.”

It takes Jon a second to process what she's said, his voice taking a serious cadence when he responds. “If this is about what Basira said-”

“It's not.” Daisy cuts him off, but she's careful not to sound mad because she isn't. “But she’s not wrong. I just wish she wouldn't look at me like I’m about to fall apart.”

She's paying close attention to the lines of his palm as she says this. She traces them back and forth, as if the motion could make them visible again. They haven't faded entirely. They remain beneath the scarring, telling a story that she doubts she could understand let alone read out loud. The burned skin had become part of that, writing a different story, one about survival – a story about making it through to tell the tale. It wasn't a tale Daisy would have believed easily, save for the fact that scars don't lie. Evidence can be tampered with, words can be misunderstood and people can pretend to be something they're not, but scars never lie.

Scars can't hide the past. They can try –maybe they're faint to the eye or nearly imperceptible to the touch– but their own existence in the first place causes them to ultimately fail. Scars talk about simple things like clumsiness and bad luck. They talk about changes, harsh circumstances, and escapes from great dangers. They say all of this and more with no words and no distinctions whatsoever. Scars scream silently about occurrences both big and small that leave someone branded by them forever. Happy, sad, or meaningless, there is always a reason behind each – reasons that shape their bearer inside and out.

Daisy had never bothered learning palmistry. She’d missed the hype while most of her classmates in secondary school dove right into it. They’d trade books and pass around notes about the secrets behind each line, trying to decipher what the future had in store for them: how many kids, how many lovers, if they were destined for fame. Daisy had found it silly at the time, and even today it felt like a cheap magic trick. A girl had offered to read her hand once, and while she’d found “the clear signs of two great loves” in her life, there was nothing there about the time it had nearly ended at the hands of her childhood best friend. 

Maybe there was more to it than a bunch of schoolgirls could figure out between classes. They were doing it for fun, but either way it wasn’t something Daisy had ever found herself too eager to understand. She can’t read Jon’s future in the lines on his hand –not like the girls from her secondary school could– but she understands the language of the marks embedded in his skin. Maybe all too well.

Daisy’s admission puts her beyond the point of pretending that this is solely for his sake. His eyes are fixed on her when she looks back up at him – they have been for a while. There is something to be said – a question to be asked, for sure. Daisy feels the urge to brace for it, knowing she won't be able to resist answering even if she wants to. She's not entirely sure she does. The question never comes, although she's sure he's simply filed it away for another time and place when it won't break the delicate peace that encases them as she works his soreness away.

Jon is a quiet person, or at least he has been for the time she's been staying at the Institute. She wonders sometimes if that has always been the case. Their conversations –with counted exceptions– are mostly clipped and meaningless, but she doesn't find them uncomfortable in the slightest. She likes his quietness. He doesn't talk about himself much either, but there's a lot you can learn about someone without them explaining themselves to you. In any case, it can be counterproductive since no one truly knows themselves to a full extent.

Jon was prey from the start. He's also covered in scars, almost as of he’s collecting them (which is a stupid thought). He's fidgety, easy to intimidate, and he's as scared as the rest of them are despite labeling himself a monster. He's painfully human in his reasoning, in the way he used to flinch at her closeness, in the way he doesn't want to put himself or others in harm's way if he can help it. She'd noticed early on that while Jon was prey, he wasn’t the kind that just ran and hid. It had egged her on, knowing that when the time came, when he was pushed far enough, that he would fight back. Daisy also knew that she would come out of it with new scars of her own.

Jon asks no questions, and when he reaches out from Daisy’s grasp to take her hand in his it’s a gentle yet deliberate movement. Her hand fits around the scar and covers the remains of a searing hot handshake in full, and for a moment it appears as if it’d never been there at all. They haven't talked about the sleeping arrangement, and Daisy suspects that they never will in the same way she suspects that Jon wouldn't be one to talk about his scars. 

Daisy had noticed early on that Jon wasn’t the kind of prey that ran and hid. It had egged her on, knowing that when the time came, when he was pushed far enough, that he would fight back. Daisy also knew that she would come out of it with new scars of her own. They never got that chance, but that hardly matters. Daisy has already been branded by him – it's just not the kind of scarring that stings when it's about to rain.

Chapter Text

Daisy hadn't let herself fall quietly into the nothingness.

When the walls crumbled around her and tried to hold her still, she'd been running high on adrenaline and she fought it with everything that she had. She'd pushed and shoved, and she screamed in rage at the silent pressure that enclosed her. 

The dirt was cold and wet where it clung to her skin, but Daisy still willed herself to move. She'd wriggled uncomfortably and persistently though the Buried. She wouldn't let it have her – she refused to be held back, and that thought had been at the forefront of her mind, keeping her sane.

Daisy had no way of telling how time passed in there. There was only ever the notion that she was in motion or the reminder that she had stopped. She would scratch, push, dig, and breathe as much as she was allowed to, only to have to start all over again. She wouldn't let the coffin have her. Never mind the fact that she'd seen someone climb inside and never come back. She would be the first one to return if she had to. She would reach the surface and open the door of that damned coffin with bleeding, soil-covered hands. She would set fire to it upon her escape. She'd burn the ashes just to be sure.

It didn’t matter that she was angry and restless, Daisy wouldn't allow herself to stop. Not when her surroundings caved in and her work was undone. Not when the dirt turned hard and dry and it became nearly impossible to scrape through. Not when solid earth seemed to push back on her just as hard, punching the air out of her lungs and leaving her to suffocate. Not even when her battle cry started to be accompanied by tears.

She wouldn't let it have her. She was a predator, not prey, and hers was still running around behind that rough wooden door, his blood waiting to be spilled.

Chapter Text

Jon used to be scared when he was around her. Daisy isn’t sure if she should be bothered by the fact that he isn't anymore. A primal part of her boils at the image of him sitting so openly when he’s near her, so unconsciously unafraid. She tells that part of her to go to hell.

It's a twisted gut feeling and it's not normal, but this is her normal now so she takes it in stride. It's logical that she wouldn't want to be left alone after such a long period of isolation. It's perhaps a little less logical that she prefers his company.

Daisy knows for a fact that Basira had been the one that she missed the most, and since Basira was her partner and her most trusted friend one would think that Daisy would want to stick by her side. She does, but it’s not like Basira’s words don’t sting no matter how much they ring true. Perhaps she's right about Daisy being dead weight in regards to their current situation. She knows that it hasn't made Basira care any less about her, tough. Daisy is different now, but it's still her. She's still every bit the person she was at her core. Basira is just thinking practically, and Daisy won't hold it against her.

She still feels every bit as cared for when it's Basira who stays nearby. Daisy wants to tell her sometimes that she doesn’t need to try harder, that it's not Basira’s fault that she just ends up orbiting around someone else. It's just difficult to understand, let alone explain.

Jon and Daisy are having lunch together, although one could argue that she’s the only one actually having a meal. Jon has hardly touched his plate, and she's got a feeling the only reason why he picked something is to offer it to her when she's done. They both know it won't satiate her real hunger, but she still has it in her to find it endearing. Jon won't talk down to her when he offers. He likely won't push when she refuses.

He’s having another one of his soliloquies while she eats. Truth be told, she's been growing a bit tired of them but she refuses to comment on it. It's good to hear his voice even if he's not truly talking to her and limiting himself to follow up questions that she can answer with a nod or a shake of the head.

Daisy still listens because sometimes Jon makes a point that she can follow – a remark that she can see herself in. She’s confident that he wouldn't be saying some of the things he says to just anyone willing to lend him an ear. He goes off on tangents that she can understand (even if it's only marginally), because of it. It brings a warmth to her chest she would have laughed off at the mere idea of not so long ago. She's still herself at her core, but she's different. They're both different.

It goes like this:

Daisy panics when she ends up alone. It's easy when there's someone else close to the space that she's occupying, but it's hard as well. She knows that they're all glad she's back, but she also knows that she’s become another burden for them to carry. Now that the Hunt doesn't have the same hold on her that it used to, she can't do much in the way of protecting them.

She panics when she ends up alone, and it's not just because she's weaker. It's not because she can't fend for herself if something came after her, and it's not because she's become prey. It's because it's hard to be scared of being alone when company usually brings something dangerous with their presence.

Daisy panics when she ends up alone, and when Basira or Melanie stand beside her it feels as if she's holding onto them by a thread that she'd rather cut.

Pity.

Because there's nothing else to hold her close to them. Because they can try, but they will ultimately fail to understand. Because they've been through their own paths of hard choices and bad decisions. Because she’ll try to make them see what her eyes see and confuse herself in the process.

Daisy panics when she ends up alone, and while company helps it leaves her feeling hopeless. It leaves her full of questions that she can't find the answers to, no matter how hard she looks. She's changed and perhaps not in the ways that truly matter, but the world kept spinning when she changed into something less bloodthirsty. It kept spinning around and around, shifting and turning until it was something she could neither recognize nor interact with safely anymore. Daisy panics because she has no certainty that she will open her eyes and find herself once again trapped.

Jon is a fixed point in reality. He moves, walks, talks, goes off on pointless tangents about humanity, and the world stays still, solid, and sound around him. He's more physical and real than anything else, and he turns his immediate surroundings real too. 

So Daisy gravitates towards him.

He doesn't need her to explain anything because he's felt it as well. He doesn't need to ask her because he had already made her articulate everything when the dirt held them captive. He only ever asks her if she's comfortable where she stands, but it's hard not to be when he's close and everything else seems a bit clearer.

He used to be terrified of her once, a lifetime ago. He had intrigued her, and she had bided her time in going after him until she had a better understanding of how he operated as another monstrous thing. She had worked alongside him against her will, waiting for the moment to strike when the coast was clear and Basira no longer had a target painted on her back.

He used to be scared of her, but now he barely bats an eyelash when she kicks her feet out under the table, hooks them around one of his ankles, and squeezes. He hadn’t expected her to do that, but he's not startled by it.

She keeps absentmindedly playing footsie as he goes on, and she thinks that this has to be the most absurd thing she's done to get a physical hold of him these days. What is this, the 80’s?

(But then intertwining their fingers over the table feels too personal, too forward. -It's a stupid thought and she knows this, because they've literally been sleeping together for weeks now.)

Jon still makes no comment of it other than when he tries to shake her grip off when she starts cackling at something he's said. “Real mature,” he says in a voice that isn’t flat enough for Daisy to buy that he is actually offended. “Laugh about my trauma like it's not the reason we're all stuck here.”

“You can’t expect me not to laugh when you're telling me that you told Elias that you wouldn't get lost in the tunnels, only to get lost in the tunnels two weeks later.”

He rolls his eyes at her. There's a pull on the side of his lips that fails to mask a smile at her words. She twists her feet around to keep his legs still and he yields without further ado. “It might sound amusing, from an outsider’s perspective.”

Daisy likes to think it's because he feels comfortable around her too, and not just because he has to let her win.

“It's the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks.”

Chapter Text

Daisy didn't need any more reasons to go after Sims. She knew that she would be hot on his tail when cops were called upon by the Magnus Institute for the second time around. Anything involving the Institute was automatically redirected to sectioned officers, as the regular policemen wanted to avoid the risk of finding themselves signing a Section 31. With everything that had happened to her partner in the previous weeks, she pounced at the opportunity as soon as she was notified. There had been another murder. Sims had finally slipped again.

Bouchard’s threats had been empty when she interrogated him (he had no actual way of proving her involvement in Benchley’s disappearance), but that hadn't been the point of them. Daisy knew that she had likely fallen into a game of his own design, but she didn't care. He wouldn't tell her where Sims was, but he wouldn't stop her either. On the contrary, Bouchard had urged her towards finding him before he acted out a third time.

She didn't need more reasons to chase him because he’d given her plenty from the moment they had met and he had pulled secrets from her as easily as if he was plucking the petals from a flower. It became personal when he got Basira involved.

Basira had always been so smart and so damn careful. It made no sense that she had fallen for his tricks. Delivering Sims the tapes as a favour or because she had sympathy for him was one thing. It was another thing entirely for her to do it because she thought he could make for a valuable source. Daisy had a theory that at first Basira thought she was well and truly helping, but that theory quickly fell flat. Sims had creeped Daisy out from the start. Basira wasn’t naïve enough to miss something like that. The possibility that she was using him was more dangerous, but it made more sense when Daisy had stumbled upon it.

Basira had been sectioned for long enough to know how to take care of herself and she had seen more than her fair share of inexplicable things. That didn't make Daisy feel any less uneasy about her plan (if Basira even had one to begin with, which Daisy became less and less inclined to believe). There was still so much that Basira didn’t know about, and Daisy hoped that she would never have to find out any of it. 

Daisy still had to trust that her partner wouldn't do something absurdly reckless without some certainty of a way out. Basira, though sometimes acted on impulse, always had something of a backup plan. She always knew how to step aside right before she got caught in the crossfire, but just like that, her operative on the side became an open secret. She’d been too confident, and so her cover ups progressively turned sloppier. Soon enough one of her commanding officers took notice and Basira’s every move was put under scrutiny. 

She was being followed by other MPS after hours. The chief superintendent began questioning her thoroughly about her whereabouts, and put her on desk duty with no clear reason why. She would get assigned meaningless tasks where she would surely be monitored. Basira wasn't being fired or suspended, but her situation wasn’t anywhere better than that. 

It had been a warning. Basira had to check her priorities and pick very carefully where she stood. It should have been enough. Basira was smart and careful – she should have made the right decision.

A few months later, Callum Brodie’s file had been left on Basira’s desk. She had briefly disappeared before the raid took place, only to return demanding that everyone bring torches with no further explanation. She signed her resignation the morning after, and Daisy was left partnerless for the first time in fifteen years. She had known one way or another that it had been because of him.

Daisy wouldn't say that she had been dreaming about that moment – although truth be told his face had become recurrent in her nightmares. No, she wouldn’t go that far. Having him cornered, however, that had her bloodstream buzzing in the most satisfying of ways.

Admittedly, Sims had left a hard trail to follow. It had taken her a few weeks to locate him, but she had never been more focused on finding her prey before. It shouldn't have been as complicated as was, and Daisy had the nagging suspicion that it had nothing to do with Sims’s ability to stay under the radar. Someone or something had interfered with her usual methods, but it had only caused her to try harder and stretch her resources even thinner as she pursued him. It didn't help that she no longer had the constabulary on her side (thanks to some “anonymous” tip-off about her previous operations).

He had been so delightfully terrified as he tried to reason his way out of her grasp, trying  to go against her and stall with questions meant to twist her mind around. She appreciated a good attempt to fight back –  it only made the final blow feel well earned on his part.

At last he was at her mercy, but right then she had no mercy to spare. She could taste it in the way he’d begged her not to – in the trail of blood running down the column of his neck, in her heartbeat pounding in her ears, and in the way it had synchronized with his, skipping in fright and anticipation. Another body lay quickly forgotten nearby, and while Daisy had felt the thrill of life escaping it, it hadn't satisfied her. Not like she knew this would.

It didn't last nearly as long as it should have.

Chapter Text

She had tried to put some distance between them, at first. It hadn't been difficult while she was rendered immobile, but even then during the few moments that Basira or Melanie had left her in his care, neither of them had spoken beyond minimal pleasantries. He wasn't scared of her then, but he had been scared for her. He wasn't avoiding her, but he hadn't sought her out either.

It had hurt. Daisy had grown used to finding him nearby while she had been falling in and out of consciousness for those first few days. Having him far from reach yet still so close after that had made her anxious. Then it made her mad. Then desperate. Then ashamed. So she stayed away, and it was okay for a while. Until it wasn't.

They're laying together on the cot again, she and Jon. Same as the night before, same as they will tomorrow. He's close enough to touch now, close enough to hold. She won't, though (not yet, not until she can blame it on something bigger than her own selfish reasons), but it is enough. More than so. Daisy had asked him if he pitied her as well. He hadn't given her a straight answer, only saying that he couldn't judge her for whoever she had now chosen to become. He must have regretted his choice of words, then, she thinks. He hasn't outright told her so, but something in him had shifted since then, driving him to prove to her in other ways that that wasn't the case.

Jon doesn't let her follow him so much as he encourages her to stick around. He waits for her, perched on door frames before he leaves a room until she’s caught up with him so that they can relocate in tandem. He brings a second book for her to pick up if she's in the mood for one and asks her what she thinks of it if she does. He memorized her order at the bar three blocks down the road and opened a second tab on the Institute's behalf, solely for when they ended up there.

Daisy is sure that Jon is a long way from figuring out a lot of things. Even now, as they listen to each other's breathing, he may not have realized yet that her invitation to go out for drinks wasn't the start of how things have changed between them. He had sounded so surprised, so conflictingly hopeful from that alone. There was no way he could know.

It's not normal. It's not something that would have happened in another time or place, or under any other circumstances but these. Daisy knows that this is the consequence of something that she couldn't have predicted in a million years, but she doesn't have the strength that she once had to fight it. So she embraces it instead.

There’s a bit of a game that they play within their arrangement: they both close their eyes and pretend to be unconscious, and whoever gives in first loses. They listen for tells and make up their own to trick the other one, contending to be the guard of the other’s slumber. Jon has the lead, but Daisy has always been stubbornly competitive. She celebrates her victories even if they're few and far in between.

Daisy is sure that tonight is shaping up to be another win. Jon has been still and quiet for too long to be pretending, and surely the weight of the day has been dragging him down for hours. He must be slipping over the edge, almost grasping what's behind the veil.

She's startled to hear him let out a frustrated sigh and let go of her hand.

Jon was awake. So very much awake and not even close to where Daisy thought he would be. It shouldn't tug on her heartstrings like it does when she realizes that this couldn’t have been the first time that he lets her think that. There must have been a reason for him to let her know, though, so she opens her eyes.

Jon's eyes are on her. Daisy had expected that much, but she's sure now that they glow. It's faint and nearly imperceptible; eerie, off putting, and more than a little spooky. They shine a dark green – a colour that's not by any means bright but still cuts through the shadows nevertheless. He's smiling at her fondly, and she wishes that that didn't make her heart pound harder than his stare already does.

“Come here.” He doesn't bother whispering. His voice is thick and grave from being quiet, but it's not bleary. Just another confirmation of what she already knows. 

Daisy stays put despite his command. No , not a command – it's an offer. Part of her wants to attribute her stillness to shock, to the newly-discovered betrayal of Jon only pretending to sleep. Deep within, she knows it's only because she's terrified.

He’s moving within a moment. An arm snakes gently but deliberately across her back, and before she can protest he’s pulling her closer. Jon shifts and drags her with the motion, rearranging their position until he’s flat on his back and she's halfway on top of him. His other arm joins around her waist in a loose embrace.

“We were going to end up like this anyway,” he offers as an explanation, cautious amusement lacing his tone. 

He's not wrong. This is exactly what Daisy had wanted from the beginning but had denied herself the permission to ask for. That doesn't make her feel any less frightened because it doesn’t compare to other tiny displays of affection that she had grown accustomed to. It’s not a simple demonstration that she’s welcome to join him at her own pace – it’s a deliberately forward thing for Jon to do. It’s him taking the initiative to bring her even closer to him without being prompted to. 

It’s comfortable in a way that can’t be put into words. To be encased within the safety that Jon radiates, to feel it with every inch of her that’s pressed against him, and to know that she can hold him as well. Everything is still, solid, sound, and warm– so blessedly warm– around her. 

Daisy knows that there's a reason why he hasn't wrapped himself around her any tighter like he does when she wakes up shaking. It's an easy way out, a chance for her to remove herself if she's feeling uncomfortable. It's his polite way of saying, “ This is what I have to offer. Feel free to take it or refuse it .” The thing is, she doesn't want to refuse, but the current situation brings another possibility out in the open that she had failed to consider. Daisy has not needed Jon to lay himself out in order for her to learn to read him between his faded lines and get to know him better. Jon is a quiet person. He doesn't talk about himself much, but neither does Daisy. If that’s the case, then maybe he's figured out a thing or two about her without needing her to explain herself as well. How can he not have when his ungodly patron is the one of knowledge?

It petrifies her. It makes her fight or flight instinct kick in and tell her to do something –to pounce and bite down, to push him away and flee– because otherwise he would. He possibly already has, but Daisy had been too caught up in the comfort his presence brings to notice. Jon had already seen her cards. What was the point in playing now?

His hands start moving once again and Daisy knows that he must have felt her tense up. The weight of his arms starts to lift from where they had been resting on her back. For a moment she’s certain that he’s pulling away and hates that she wants him back, but he doesn't go anywhere. 

Palms and fingertips linger and quietly trace simple patterns along and across her back. It's a soothing motion – a reassurance. He doesn't push her away or pull her any closer. He’s not flinching, Daisy realizes, but waiting. Despite the chance that maybe he already knows how she would react, he’s waiting for her to accept.

Daisy’s breath shakes as little by little, she lays down her weight and lets herself rest on him. She doesn’t know why Jon would wait or why he would give her a choice in the matter if he already knew the outcome. All she knows is that, at best, this is a follow up question – another polite, wordless offering. He’s waiting when he could have dropped the pretense and either let her go or hold onto her tighter, and she suspects that neither will happen until she’s made up her mind. 

This is the way they are now, the way they have been. The difference is that this time it’s Jon who’s made the first move, and now it’s her turn to do something about it. Her own hands slide beneath him and enclose his waist, holding him flush to her. Daisy wants to laugh. She also wants to cry a little.

There's no way that Jon could know, but even if he did he doesn't pity her. He doesn’t have any intentions other than what he's already stated, and he’s right – they’ll end up like this come morning anyway. It’s just easier. It’s what Daisy wants, as well, and it’s something that Jon is willing to oblige. Maybe it’s something that he wants too. 

Daisy looks up at him, resting her chin on his chest and schooling her features into annoyance when he looks back. “How many times have you let me think I won?”

If her voice trembles a bit, Jon makes no sign of noticing. His fingers reach the stretched-out hem of her night shirt and dip under. The skin on skin contact surprises her, but it’s not unwelcomed as it wanders forward gently until he finds the outline of a starburst-shaped scar. He traces it mindlessly before replying, “This isn't a competition.”

She huffs in annoyance. “Answer the damn question, Sims.” It makes him laugh – a small vibration that Daisy can feel beneath her as well hear it.

“Oh, we’re back on a last name basis?” It's a rhetorical question. It's a joke . 

Daisy still finds herself saying, “I am,” without meaning to. It's not so bad, considering what else she could probably have said along those lines.

Jon laughs again and his head falls back into the pillow. Whether he's unaware of what he's done or he just can’t find it in him to punish himself for it is unclear, but Daisy doesn't mind. He doesn’t laugh very often – or smile, for that matter. Daisy likes it when he does. 

And then she decides that this train of thought is pointless and gives up on it. Daisy rests her head near the crook of his neck and squeezes him (perhaps a bit too tight) as retribution. She hopes it comes across that way.

Jon keeps drawing simple figures on her back for another couple of minutes, the silence settling back upon them. It’s not as solemn as it once was. It’s simpler, somehow. More playful. He whispers his response later still, and she knows he's doing it on purpose. It's the last thing Daisy hears before everything fades out, and while she wants to be mad at him about it, she just can't find it in herself to be. 

“You haven’t won once.” 

Chapter Text

It was an image of triumph that kept Daisy moving. Her ascent was slow and painful, but she persisted because she knew that every shove, every scratch, every push would be rewarded. She was getting closer – she was sure of it. The ache of her bones settled itself in the back of his mind as her goal of getting out took preeminence. Daisy would drag herself out inch by inch, and then once the fresh air finally hit her skin she would feast herself on the thrill of the hunt like she never had before. She couldn't let herself give up now. Not when her prize was close enough that she could feel it.

There would be no playing around this time. No letting him slip away by a hair’s breadth. No letting him think he'd gotten away with escaping from her, only to throw him for a loop once she had him cornered. No more Miss Nice Detective (if she ever had been one to begin with). 

Daisy dug fervently for hours on end with no true sign of going forwards or upwards other than her own conviction. She dug like her life depended on it and that it didn't matter. She dug even when she ran out of breath, her limbs were cramped, and she just couldn't bring herself to dig anymore. She dug and she pictured the moment when she would face him again. She pushed and let the thrill run through her at the fantasy of his eyes open wide, glassy, and brimming with tears. She shoved harder and laughed, knowing that he would struggle to break free – that he would scream in agony as her claws sunk into him. She scratched and rejoiced in knowing that she wouldn't hold back, that she would tear him apart like a ragdoll until nothing was left of him. Not even bones.

Daisy was a predator. Sims was her prey. He had played her for long enough. He had put her partner in danger, he had made her fall into the games of someone else – someone who had a bigger plan that Sims was at the very center of, and he had her running around to meet the demands of that same madman against the threat to Basira's life. He had dragged them both to the House of Wax and into the madness of the Unknowing.

He was the reason she was stuck, and once Daisy made it out, she would make him pay.

Chapter Text

Jon is a quiet person. He doesn't talk much about himself, either – not unless he's moping or having a bit of an existential crisis. Or unless he’s absolutely bladdered. 

They don't go out for drinks all that often, not really. After months of physical therapy (which hasn’t stopped being mandatory), Daisy is good to stand on her own two feet and walk around. However, she still doesn't feel that leaving the Institute is a great idea. As for Jon, going out is just not something that he particularly seems to enjoy. He had confessed that he'd only tagged along the first time because he didn’t know how to suggest something different, and he still hasn't come up with a better idea. So, sometimes they do that.

Melanie joins them every once in a blue moon, because while she does enjoy getting herself shitfaced, it inevitably delves into her wanting to get into a fight with whoever's closest (usually Jon, once or twice Daisy). The two of them (specifically Jon, not really Daisy) prefer to avoid that when they're trying to unwind. 

Basira had only come the first time and two hours in she profusely refused to ever subject herself to having to look after them again. 

Daisy can't really think why would she say that. It's not like they ended up doing something stupid or reckless like vandalizing a car, or stealing someone's pet, or (God forbid), calling their exes. The worst of it was that Jon had ended up babbling about his college years like there was no tomorrow.  Apparently, he’d been in a band. Daisy didn’t think much of him being a singer, but she could picture it. She did have some questions about what qualified as a “steampunk pirate”, and how Jon of all people had come up with something like that, but here’s the thing: Jon is a quiet person who doesn't talk about himself much, but he enthusiastically overshares when he's wasted.

Most of what he says can be quite tragic, but he makes it sound hilarious. He had been illustrating that point quite clearly before Basira decided that she had had enough and left them. “-and on top of all that, I’m an orphan! That's the most basic of traits that any hero has in a story. I’m like Batman. I’m Frodo. Hell, I’m Harry fucking Potter!” 

“Y’er a wizard, Jon!” Daisy had answered, right before they both burst into a fit of laughter.

Maybe the reason why Jon had only been drunk once before has something to do with the fact that he can't handle his alcohol. Considering the things that he says in that state, it's perhaps for the best. Daisy figures that he could easily end up crying if she didn’t keep him company or have a sense of humor adjacent to his. Still, it's nice in a way. They stumble past the doors of the archives and it doesn't feel like going out was a bad decision at all. Well, Jon’s stumbling. He keeps dragging Daisy down while she tries to keep him upright.  

He shushes her –or at least tries to shush her amongst his giggles– when Daisy runs into one of the desks. It's dark, but she doesn’t bother with turning the lights on. There's only one switch by the entrance, and Daisy refuses to walk back the distance to turn them off once they reach the storage room where they’ve been sleeping. Jon’s still muttering nonsense when they get there – something about Elias being a pothead and how there must be a hidden greenhouse in the tunnels under the Institute. He can barely finish his sentences with how much he's laughing at his own words.

She manages to single-handedly open the door and pushes him inside, begging to whatever's listening that he stays put for the moment. She lets go of him for just a second, just so she can close the door without slamming it and turn on the lights. The doorknob clicks shut, the lights turn on, and there's a thud on the ground. Daisy bites back a smile of her own and rolls her eyes because of course, of course, Jon is laying on the ground when she looks back. He's got the biggest of grins plastered on his face.

She lets go of a sigh that tries to sound exasperated, but it ends up being closer to a groan and ultimately dissolves into a quiet snicker. Daisy stands beside him, noticing the way his eyes closely follow her movement. She nudges him with her foot. “Bed.” It's a command, yet she’s aware it doesn't sound authoritative enough for him to take it seriously. Daisy’s not even close to being mildly tipsy, so she can't really blame it on the scotch; there’s a different kind of influence that she's under.

Jon has a perpetually tired resting face, if not a bad case of resting bitch face. Perhaps it hadn't always been that way (Daisy struggles to picture an eight-year-old Jon looking as angry as he does now without chuckling), but that’s how she knows him. Maybe it's a facade that had taken him so long to fabricate that it had become a part of himself. Maybe it's not.

Be that as it may, Daisy has come to realize that no matter how serious he looks on a regular basis, Jon cannot for the life of him conceal his amusement or happiness. His smile betrays him. The mask of severity falls apart as his mouth curves upwards and his eyes crinkle, shining with a light of their own. 

It's a rare thing to witness, especially with everything that’s happening. It's not a sight that someone could simply stumble upon or will into existence. Daisy absolutely loves it. She loves how it makes him look younger and closer to his actual age, despite the greying strands that frame his features. She loves how it sounds when he speaks through it. She loves how it never fails to look open and honest, because it is. She loves it, and it makes her want to do anything and everything just to see it a little more often.

Daisy groans again when Jon shakes his head “no”, and thinks that this has to be some sort of karmic punishment for ditching someone else in the same situation, in another life. Jon pats the floor beside him in invitation, and Daisy sits down (though not quite as begrudgingly as she pretends to).

“Bed,” she repeats. Maybe she can negotiate with him. She's never been good at it, but first time for everything, right?

“Floor,” he responds.

“Bed.”

Jon chuckles. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” 

“Keep it up and I’ll make you wish you were.” It's an empty threat, and Daisy knows he knows it, but anything goes in situations like these. So when he laughs in her face for that, she reaches out and pointedly pokes him on the side.

He flinches, yelping at the small jab before calling her out. “Oi, don’t do that.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Why?” Daisy can feel a predatory smirk making its way on her lips. A possibility to get the upper hand presents itself to her. “Are you ticklish, Jon?”

“No, I’m not,” he huffs, equal parts annoyed and bemused. “I just don't appreciate being poked at with no warning.”

Daisy battles with her old instincts on a daily basis. It's a persistent urge that she has to consciously turn away from, lest it pull her back. It's not easy, it's not pretty, and it leaves her feeling weary and unsatisfied. But in this moment, it's not the Hunt that calls her to lunge and pin him down. It's one hundred percent Daisy who sets her knees astride his hips, looms above him, and rises to the challenge when she accuses him. 

“Liar.” 

He doesn't brace for it. He doesn't even move, save for cocking an eyebrow at her. That should have been warning enough. Daisy reaches for the usual soft spots that should have him wriggling around and crying out, but Jon stays still. Unaffected. The smile playing on his lips grows larger once again as she pulls back, horrified. “Told you so.” 

She barely notices she's let herself fall fully on his lap as the realization sinks in. “Jon,” she says, “I know this is a sensitive topic for you, but that's not human.”

He laughs with full force as a response, and Daisy thinks that any hope anyone else in the archives might have had at getting a decent night’s sleep must have flown out of the window. She revels in the sound.

Her attempt at getting him off the floor hadn’t entirely backfired, as Jon starts to push himself up to sit as straight as someone in his state can. “Sorry to disappoint.” He doesn't sound sorry at all. If anything, he sounds smug. 

“Forget about disappointment. What does it feel like to be a godless freak?”

Jon frowns in mock pensivity for a moment, as if considering the question. “Not bad. It makes cuddling easier.” Another chuckle. “Or so I’ve been told. It’s not like I have any base for comparison.”

Daisy doesn't have an answer for that. She simply snorts and closes her eyes. She had drawn her hands close to her chest when the surprise of Jon’s mundane invulnerability had hit her, and as the position they're currently in dawns on her, crossing her arms feels like it had been the safer course of action. 

When she opens her eyes, they’re face-to-face and the green glow of his stare becomes evident even with the lights still on. Other small details that Daisy rarely gets a good glimpse of also become more obvious, like the patches of salt-and-pepper stubble that remains where he’d missed when shaving, or the stark white tuft of hair that cuts through the grey (the one that Daisy suspects has a story of its own), or how Jon’s lashes are long enough to cast shadows on his cheeks. There’s scars on his face too, but they hardly catch her eye when there’s so much more to see. 

Daisy looks back up and finds that he's still looking at her, only now he’s leaned back to better take her in. The way his stare wanders up and down in pointed contemplation makes her feel exposed, like he's quietly judging her; like he's about to tear her apart and isn’t sure where to begin.

He's so close. Close enough that everything else around them is sound, still and solid. Close enough that he grounds her to a place and time that's real. Close enough that her heart and lungs burn with a relief she hasn't been able to find anywhere else. Close enough for Daisy to do something she’ll regret. She should move, because this can't be comfortable for him. She should, but part of her doesn't want to.

She's about to make a comment on it, but it dies on her tongue when a pair of hands settle on her waist. The touch is nowhere near suggestive, despite their current stance. It's innocent in the same way that it is when they cling to one another on their cot, but it's also charged with an energy that makes Daisy want to flee and run for cover.

A weighted silence hangs between them, and Jon shatters it with a single question. “Are you ticklish?”

“Very.”

The word comes out like it's been punched out of her, and before Daisy can do anything, Jon’s hands jump from her waist to squeeze her sides. 

Daisy jumps and shrieks at the sensation. She shoves him hard, but it makes no difference. Jon just laughs again, louder still than before, and lets his hands fall away. “You're adorable,” he says, like it's nothing. Daisy lets out a frustrated noise, but it comes out too fond.

There’s a loud crashing sound, and Melanie’s muffled voice can be heard from somewhere within the archives as she yells at them to “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” It only makes Jon cackle for even longer, though, and Daisy has to cover her mouth to stifle the sound of her joining him.

Once their laughter dies down a bit, Daisy notices that they're pretty much back where they started. Jon is lying on the floor once again, that damned smile of his still in place and so blissfully happy. There are tears clinging to his lashes, and his lips are stretched so wide that one of his cheeks dips into a dimple that Daisy would never have suspected was there. 

Jon spews out pure tragedy when he's drunk, but maybe that’s okay because he smiles a lot as well. It's intoxicating. She never wants to see him any other way than this. (It's a messed up thing to think. It's also a messed up thing for Daisy to wonder how that smile would feel pressed against her lips.) Daisy is smiling too, and it seeps through her tone as she says, “Enough,” and follows it up with an adamant, “Bed.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

It's not normal, because none of this is normal. None of this would ever happen if they were anywhere, at any time, or in any way different than how they are now. Daisy knows that it’s a dangerous thing to believe, and reminds herself of it often. She can't let herself slip into the deep end when it has no base or foundation. But this bit, as messed up as it is, feels like it could be normal.

“Alright, I’ll buy you dinner,” she responds, an idea bubbling up inside her as she speaks.

Jon actually sounds curious at that. “Really?” It piques his interest well enough. 

Daisy feigns offense. How dare he doubt her. “Of course. I promise you, when all of this is over,” she starts, the compulsion allowing her to fantasize a bit for the sake of drama. The words ring true, so she knows that part of her means it. “I’ll pick you up, we’ll dress up in our finest clothes, and we’ll go out. We’ll go to the best place in town – one that’s within our budget, because let's be real, there's no way either of us is going to get a decent job after this – and we'll feast like kings.” 

He's snickering quietly once she’s done. “So, like a date.” He says it like it’s a joke, but it doesn't sound like the joke is at her expense.

“Sure, like a date,” Daisy concedes, keeping up the game. She braces herself and schools her face to stay impassive before she delivers the final blow. “And do you know what we're going to order once we get there, Jon?”

“What are we going to order?” He plays along, stepping right into her trap.

A wolfish grin spreads across Daisy’s face. “Ribs.”

“I hate you.”

Chapter Text

To say that Daisy’s new employment situation wasn't ideal would have been an understatement. She was no stranger to being on the receiving end of orders – she'd made her peace with that when she first joined the police, but this was different.

While the MPS had saddled her with many objectionable tasks in her time, they had never interfered when it came to taking care of her “special targets”. They reckoned that she was the one for the job whenever it came up, and gave her plenty of leeway in her execution. “Full operational discretion” had been the official term. 

The police had encouraged her. They had protected her.

Bouchard, on the other hand, kept Daisy on a leash. He had a single use for her, and it was to use her ability to track down a very specific kind of target. He rarely specified what he wanted her to do upon finding them, but she guessed it went without saying. It was still frustrating, though.

Daisy supposed that it could have been worse. She wasn't being held back, but it was no longer her choice. Not that she wouldn't have hunted them on her own, or that she didn't still enjoy the thrill of the kills, it just left her in an odd state of unfulfillment. Bouchard already knew who to look for and where, so where did that leave Daisy as a hunter?

Nowhere. 

She wasn't his hunter, she was his personal executioner. Basira would be safe so long as Daisy did what she was told, but that didn't make her any less uneasy.

Bouchard may or may not have been lying about the contract being binding in more ways than just legal, but while Daisy suspected that it couldn’t be the end of it she wouldn't take that risk. She had to find a way for the both of them to escape from the Institute’s influence, and she had to do it quickly. Any course of action she took would be on a limited timeframe. There was only so much time she had until the so-called end of the world was upon them, and there was only so long before Basira’s involvement with the damn place had started affecting her. 

That seemed to have been the case with Sims, anyway. 

Daisy had been assigned to look after him, as well – it was the one other thing that Bouchard had demanded of her. Keep him safe, and make sure that he didn’t get harmed while they dug up more information against the enemy. It didn't come as a surprise that he was the only one subjected to protection, as he seemed to be the single other person with inhuman abilities besides the Head of the Institute. It did come as a surprise when Sims had later asked her to keep an eye on the others while he took off. It surprised her even more so when he brought up the beginnings of a plan to take care of Bouchard.

Daisy had found herself at an impasse then. On one hand, there wasn’t much that she could do in the way of ensuring Basira’s safety without putting her at a bigger risk. She could investigate and scheme all she wanted, but acting out without a solid strategy would have been reckless. All she could do was play along and wait until there came a better time to strike. On the other hand, there was the matter of Jonathan Sims.

He hadn't become any less of a threat. Nothing with the sort of capabilities that he possessed could simply stop being a threat, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Circumstances had driven her chase to a halt, but Daisy was decidedly not through with him. She had, however, made some interesting observations about him during their forced proximity.

There was a strange duality about him. He was not physically strong, and seemed to be quite aware of that. Despite that, not only was he obstinate, he was confrontational. He seemed clueless regarding the details of his mission, but he was dead set on accomplishing it to its end. He gave off this sense of detachment like he would be the first to run for the hills if he got the chance, but Daisy had still seen him soldier on and push forward through his obvious fear. He was prey, but he still fought back. 

Sims was not entirely human –that much had been stated– but still he had a mind to care for those around him. It made Daisy wonder if, in another life, he would have been something different. Perhaps if he had been another man, he would have been more like her.

It was an intriguing thought, at least. Daisy didn’t like him and she definitely didn’t trust him, but at that moment they shared a common goal and a common enemy. She figured that it wouldn't hurt to keep him alive for the time being. He wasn’t any less of a threat, but she could allow herself to delay the moment when she went after him once again.

He’d still been the reason why she and Basira had gotten caught up in the strings of Bouchard’s web. He’d been the detonator, unknowingly or not. Sims was not entirely human. Maybe he wasn’t entirely a monster either, but Daisy knew for certain that he was nowhere near innocent.

Chapter Text

Jon never locks his office door, not even when he's recording statements. Anyone can walk in and interrupt him at any given time, and Daisy suspects that everyone who's worked in the archival section of the Magnus Institute has done it at least once. Nobody is keeping score over it, but if anyone was, then it’d be a safe bet to say that Daisy is in the lead. 

It doesn't feel like much of an interruption to her, though. Jon often stays holed up in his office for hours on end and well into the night, but he seems to have gotten fairly used to her stepping in and finding a spot to sit quietly while she watches him work – so much so that he barely addresses her beyond a glance once she's settled in. Jon is a quiet person, and the space where he works reflects that as well. He sometimes mumbles to himself out loud in frustration, but he mostly devours large tomes in silence while he searches for any information that could be useful. Daisy has never outright fallen asleep in there, she’s found herself lost in wandering thoughts more than once due to the peaceful aura that reigns in his office. 

There’s an erratic heartbeat to hardcover books thudding open and closed, time and time again in a vain pursuit for answers across the words that he’s already read. Pages rustle in paper-thin crescendos reminiscent of the crackling wood in a fireplace while Jon sorts them out, looking for something that he swears was in front of him a minute ago. Pens and pencils scribble out like the flow of a muted river, and Daisy finds herself holding her breath during the pause right before he dots his i’s or crosses his t’s.  

Statements are more of an odd occurrence, and Daisy suspects that it's a deliberate choice of his. There’s usually one or two on Jon’s desk, and when she dares to look, Daisy notices that they’re always different from the last time she had checked. They rest on a corner, harder to reach and separate from everything else. Maybe he doesn't feel like it’d be wise to expose her to too much of them. Maybe he's ashamed of the way he entirely disconnects from reality as he reads them out loud. Maybe he fears that it might spook her.

Watching Jon read a statement had definitely been off-putting the few times that Daisy had witnessed it. It had been oddly hypnotic, and the words had drifted her into a state of trance that she could only describe as numbing. Nothing else felt real aside from his voice; not the rustle of the pages, not the ticking of the clock, not even the ground she'd been standing on. He had turned focused and reverent as he recited the words, and for a moment Daisy had feared what would happen if someone had burst in and cut him off, as if it were possible for the terror he was narrating to will itself into that very room unless he finished the tale properly. Jon never locks his office door, but she doubts that it's in anyone's best interest – not even his own.

Jon doesn’t actively try to keep people out. Hardly anyone tries to disturb him these days anyway. Daisy, on the other hand, is probably the only person that actually wants to be in there aside from Jon himself. She still panics when she's alone, but she tells herself that it’s getting better. 

Daisy would still prefer that others be in the same room, but she can ultimately stand to be by herself for a couple of minutes on occasion. She tries not to make a habit of it because it can quickly turn overwhelming, but in a place where people come and go every day, solitude is inevitable. Whether it's because the others are gone in pursuit of new leads or information that can’t be found within the research department, or because they're trying to escape the aura of impending doom that the archives have, Daisy sometimes finds herself wandering alone, usually looking for someone else to keep her company.

It’s getting dark outside and Daisy has been alone in the archives for a few minutes now. Basira is off to meet with one of her sources, and Melanie… well. Melanie didn't seem too keen on sharing where she was headed before she left either. If it hadn’t been so late, Daisy would have assumed that Melanie had left for another one of her therapy sessions, but that seems unlikely.

She doesn’t mind, though. Jon had returned almost two hours ago from his own trip into the outside world. Something about getting supplies for the first floor’s break room/kitchenette that everyone who is basically living in the archives uses but forgets to refill. Daisy is perched on one of the desks outside of his office, and even though she can't see him from where she is, she’s okay as long as she can place him nearby. 

It's an exercise of restraint, of sorts. Daisy doesn't like to think of the basis of her friendship with Jon as one where she follows him around like a puppy, but she also knows that that’s essentially what she's been doing for months now. They’re already the first face that the other sees come morning and the last face they bid goodnight to. It's become the most basic of routines, this trailing after him almost wherever he goes. She doesn't want to put distance between them (it might be just the last thing she wants), but she has to.

Basira and Jon are leaving for Ny-Ålesund a week from today. She needs to be ready for this. It is getting better.

How Daisy feels isn’t normal, and Melanie might be onto something with her getting therapy. She knows that she should get some too, but it's not like she can afford it. One doesn't spend six months inside the Buried and come out any richer – let alone presumed alive. It makes her feel safe. He makes her feel safe. It's also more complicated than that.

Daisy has a daydream that she likes to pick upon every now and then. It’s a little fantasy for her to hold onto and distract herself with when everything feels too loud and uncertain, or for when she's not quite panicking but can't bring herself to focus. She goes back to it and shapes it anew as she relives it, changing minute details to make it a bit better each time.

Once upon a lifetime ago, Daisy had bought a small cabin in Scotland that was a half-hour walk away from a town whose name she couldn’t remember or pronounce properly. She’d gotten it on a whim, loving the view of the Highlands that lay behind it, and decided that it would make for a decent safehouse. It was old and worn down by the weather on the outside, and the paint job on the inside was ancient and chipped. It served its purpose when Daisy needed it to, but she had never bothered furnishing it with more than what was strictly necessary. All that it holds is a twin-sized bed, a springy couch, a mismatched table and  chair, a radio, empty cabinets, a freezer and a rusty kitchen.

Daisy likes to imagine that in another life she quits her job, sells everything but her clothes, and moves into that cabin. She imagines that it's still as battered as it is in the real world, but the only thing that makes her restless is knowing she’ll have to fix it from the ground up.

She likes to imagine it this way because it would be too easy to think of it as an already  beautiful thing. No, the cabin in her fantasy has leaks and a few broken windows. It creaks into the night when it gets colder, and the floors need to be polished if not changed altogether. In her daydream, the ceiling buckles every now and then, and Daisy finds herself praying that it doesn't fall over her head.

She pictures it as a slow and steady process, turning that safehouse into something akin to a home; a work that takes daily trips into the small town nearby to get tools, brushes, and paint, and long evenings of tedious labor. It's tiring and hard, but Daisy is determined to fix every broken bit of the run-down place. She is always exhausted by the time it gets dark, but she always goes to bed feeling satisfied.

Daisy imagines that she is alone in this scenario, but that she's not feeling lonely. She's not sad or scared of having made this decision - of running away. She writes letters to Basira, who is the one connection that she still has to what she's left behind. Daisy can never decide on the kind of things she would say in her letters, or whether she’d send them at all. 

Daisy is not perfect in this daydream. The world around her is perhaps a little more simple and without the wild horrors that chase after people for no reason other than to feed their hunger, but that doesn’t make her life a breeze. She imagines that her counterpart has her own demons, and that while her past may not have been easy, her future is bright.

She finishes painting most of the exterior walls of the cabin by the second month she has lived there, and then decides that it would be a great idea to turn the front lawn into a garden. No sooner than that, she's got shovels, seeds, and a sprinkler. In the weeks that go by, she learns through trial-and-error what it means to keep something alive and see it flourish. She likes to pretend that by the time her garden blooms, she will have managed to save herself. 

It's a lovely fantasy, but it's just that – a fantasy. It’s just a story that she tells herself before bed. Too far removed from the harsh reality of her life. Daisy could never allow herself to drop everything that she's worked for to pursue something like that. She could never leave Basira behind either, even if she's still there in her imagination. She is just a door away from the person whose company she craves most and can barely stay still without shaking. How could she ever make it on her own?

Daisy focuses on the clock that hangs over the entrance to the archives, counting the seconds in time with her breathing. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. She makes it to a full minute and starts again. It’s an exercise in restraint. She needs to get a hold of this. She’s stronger than she looks or feels, even though she is still hungry and bleary after having left her patron behind. Maybe it'd be easier if it was just about Jon existing within her surroundings. Maybe then she wouldn't need to go through breathing techniques to calm down. But it’s not just the proximity, not in the general sense of it. It’s about being close enough to reach him, even if she decides not to, but the more she thinks about it, the more ridiculous it feels. It’s much more complicated than that, and Daisy wonders how she let it get this out of hand. 

In those first few days she spent sleeping away the stillness on the cot, she had been weary and confused. It had taken her a minute or two to understand where she was and why she was there at all. She had recognized everyone that came to look after her, but couldn't make heads or tails as to why they were beside her. Even before, back in the Forever Deep Below Creation, as Jon had called it, Daisy had barely been able to understand her own name.

Nothing felt real after that. She knew that she was out and that she was safe. She knew that she hurt, and ached, and that the physical therapy was mandatory. She knew that Basira had missed her more than anything – she could hear it in her voice. She knew all of this, but she couldn't be certain because none of it felt real. Well, nothing except for Jon. Jon felt real. He was the first thing she'd felt at all after an eternity of nothing in the dirt, and he never locks his office door. There is absolutely nothing keeping her from standing up and crossing the threshold to simply be in his presence.

Daisy said that she wanted to go to Ny-Ålesund. She would have if they had let her. She didn't really want to, but she wanted them to be safe and she had known from the get go that it would be impossible to convince either of them to stay. Basira had been that way for the fifteen years that Daisy had known her, and no matter how much she wanted to trust that Basira wasn't truly careless, she also knew that wasn't always the case. Basira would throw herself into a whirlwind if she were to spot an advantage, and move forward until she made it to the other side even though she had no actual plan to begin with.

As for Jon, Daisy doubted that he had been that way all his life, but it made sense. He had been pushed beyond recognition. He had lost his friends, his sense of humanity, his life, and maybe a bit of his own mind in the process. She had seen it before. He is the kind of prey that fights back and has the scars to prove it – scars that remind him more of what he has lost than of how strong he really is. He needs to have some semblance of control over his own situation even if he knows that it will be dangerous. Perhaps he doesn’t stop to think before he acts not despite but because he can’t really die anymore. Danger doesn’t work for him the same way it used to. 

Jon is a quiet person, and although this is an exercise in restraint, Daisy still perks her ears up to try and catch what he might be doing. There's little if not nothing she can hear from behind his office door. In the end her curiosity gets the best of her. It's been twenty minutes since Melanie left, and while that doesn't sound like much it feels a lot longer. Daisy pushes herself up off the desk and walks the nine steps it takes to reach Jon’s office, telling herself that it's getting better.

Daisy hears something from behind the door the second her hand lands on the knob. It's soft and muffled, but it stops her in her tracks. She brings herself closer, pressing her ear against the wood to listen. It's the sound of choked up weeping, of trying to hold back sobs and tears. It's a sound that has her own throat closing up tightly.

Jon never locks his office's door. It's not in anyone's interest as they can walk in on him at any time. So, she knocks.

“Jon? Can I come in?” There's a gasp and a thud, like he's knocked something over in his startlement. A few seconds go by and his ragged breathing is the one thing to cut through the silence, faint and distant. She can picture him trying to collect himself before he opens his mouth to reply. “I know you're crying,” she says before he can deny it. “I’ve made you cry before. I know how it sounds.”

Daisy meant that as a joke, and there's a shaky, watery chuckle from his end at it. It makes her smile a bit. “It's nothing I haven't seen before,” she adds, trying to keep it light. “It doesn't have to be awkward.”

She leaves it there and waits. She owes him that much. They’re already the first face that the other sees come morning and the last ones they bid goodnight to. She can think of a thousand ways to justify their newfound proximity – a million reasons for why she doesn’t feel like herself unless she’s near or around him. She knows that he would never ask for them, anyway. She knows that he wouldn't judge her if she ever rounds up the courage to explain. 

He has seen Daisy at her weakest. He has seen her hopeless and broken down, and even then he did not judge her. He’s reached for her as well, but he never stopped her from making her own choices. He’s never hesitated in facing her and being brutally honest. Yes, she relies on Melanie and Basira, but Jon is the only person who can look her in the eyes like she’s still herself. One look at him and Daisy knows that Jon does not pity her. 

She wants to open the door and try to figure out how to comfort him, but she doesn’t. This is what she has to offer, and he’s free to take it or refuse.

Daisy hears him take a deep breath, hold it in and let it out a little more quickly than her four-seven-eight. Then, a single word. “Okay.”

Jon looks like he's been crying. Glassy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and an empty stare that doesn't meet hers as she shuts the door. He looks miserable. He looks heartbreaking.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daisy asks, treading carefully as she steps closer. She keeps her hands by her sides, unsure if reaching out would be the right thing to do. More than ever she itches to hold him, not for her own sake but for his. 

She's always touching him. Or at the very least, she’s aware that she can. It's sick and twisted, but it grounds her. It makes everything else feel less fragile and hazy. Maybe Jon knows this or maybe he doesn't, but either way he always concedes. Daisy likes to think that he enjoys it, that he doesn't feel off-put about it, but there's really no telling. Jon is a quiet person. He doesn't talk about himself much.

His chair is pushed back from his desk. He’s curled forwards with his elbows resting on his thighs and his head held in his hands. He looks up to face her as she crouches in front of him. He doesn’t reach out. She doesn’t expect him to. 

“There's no way back from it,” he says. “I knew something had changed after waking up from being brain dead but–” Jon huffs out a mirthless laugh and lets his head drop, tearing his gaze away. “I can't– there's nothing to escape from. The Beholding is a part of me. It's what I am now, it's what I do. Even if I tried, it’s not–”

He goes silent. Daisy knows this isn't the first time that Jon has found himself at an impasse with his humanity. It probably won't be the last, either. It's something he feels that he never cared enough about while he still could. It eats away at him – the missed chances, the awful consequences. Jon loves to talk about choices for a man who doesn't think he has any.

Daisy knows what that feels like. She’s been too far gone before, and she remembers how it made her think and act. She knows what it means, and it's why she can't help but feel frustrated when Jon laments himself like this.

“We're friends, right, Jon?”

It’s a simple question but it still takes him a few seconds to answer. Daisy doesn't want to give that much of a thought. What she asked has virtually nothing to do with what he's said, so she figures that it may take him a moment to process it.

“Of course we are,” he mumbles, still not looking up.

“So, since we're friends,” she continues, hoping that what she's about to say comes across as intended, “if I had something to say about the matter, it would matter to you. Right?” There’s another beat of silence, tense and uneasy. Daisy won't let him get away with it for this one. “Right?”

Jon lets out a defeated sigh as he replies, “Right.”

She knows that the words she’s about to say are dangerous. She knows there's a chance that something else, something that doesn't have a name and something that she can barely understand let alone explain, slips through. She knows there's a chance that he will figure it out (if he hasn’t already) before she does, and that is nothing short of terrifying. Daisy soldiers on.

“Then ask me,” she says. “Ask me why I don't think you're a monster.”

Jon is shaking his head before she has even finished. “I won't do that.”

“I want you to.” Daisy takes a chance and ignores the promise that she had made to herself only moments before, reaching out to tip his head up by the chin. He doesn't fight her movements and Daisy takes that as encouragement. “It's not for me. It's just so you know I mean it.” 

He looks at her intently. His eyes glow in that unnatural green that she’s become used to, and Daisy can feel the weight behind that stare. He is hesitant and guarded, and there isn’t even an inkling of curiosity there. Such is the irony that for once, there is something that the Archivist doesn't want to know.

Jon blinks, and his hands fall to his lap. “Why don’t you think I’m a monster, Daisy?”

Being compelled isn't something that one can easily put in words. Elias had described it as ‘tingly’ and ‘nice’ once, but maybe it worked differently for him as an avatar of the same patron. For Daisy, it didn't feel like something specific. It wasn't a pull, or a guiding hand. It didn't feel like the words were being ripped out of her tongue or like a bad case of word-vomit. The closest Daisy could get was by comparing it to knowing the exact answer to a question, one that you had been waiting to be asked from the minute you’d learned the answer. 

“Because I hated you, Jon.” She wants to laugh and feels herself do so. “I hated you so much, for so long, and for so many reasons. I hated you because my instincts said I should and because Basira has been in danger from the moment she first met you. I hated you because someone told me to and I didn't question that. I hated you because I didn't get to kill you when I had the chance, and even when I had it I couldn't risk it. I hated you because when I found out that it was you –actually you– in the nightmares, it didn't make sense for me not to. I hated you because you took us to the Wax House, and I blamed you when I fell into the coffin even though I knew that I deserved it.”

Jon had opened his mouth to interrupt her somewhere between the third and fourth reason, but Daisy doesn't let him. “I’m not done,” she tuts. Her hand moves almost by its own accord to reach the side of his head and comb through his hair. His eyelids fall momentarily shut at the motion and he doesn't push her away then either. 

“The point is, I hated you as much as anyone can hate someone else. Probably even a little more than that. I wanted you dead, Jon. And I think you knew that. Part of you must have, even before I told you.”

His eyes are on her again, and Daisy can't tell if what's written on them is a guilty affirmation or a pleading denial.

“I know you said that going in there wasn't just for me, and I’m not saying it was, but you had every reason not to come find me and you would be the last person I would have judged for choosing not to. What you did was very brave and very stupid. But you didn't do it because you're brave, and you didn't do it because you're stupid. You did it because you're kind.

“You're not a monster, Jon. A monster doesn’t try to save the world. A monster doesn’t think about saving people that he barely knows. A monster doesn’t save someone who hates him, especially not after she says that she wants him dead.” Daisy swallows hard. Her fingertips and irises trail down to his neck, and she runs her thumb carefully over the ridge of the scar slashed across it. “You're a good, kind person, to whom some really fucked up stuff has happened to, and who's still trying to do the right thing despite that.”

Daisy takes a deep breath, overwhelmed in more ways than she can recognize. That must be the end of it, because she can’t think of anything else she needs him to know. She feels pleasantly dizzy, a little embarrassed, and on the verge of tears. She can't take it back, though, not when she'd insisted in the first place. She doesn't want to.

She starts to pull her hand away from his neck as she stands. Daisy thinks of what that soothing motion could have meant to him in time with her words, and knows that something else entirely had pushed her to do so. She likes to convince herself that it’s getting better – that she doesn't reach for him solely for her own selfish purposes, that maybe he understands that what she's trying to say is too big for words. 

He grabs her wrist to keep her from pulling away and yanks her closer. No less than a second later, Daisy is standing between his legs and Jon has his arms wrapped around her middle and his face buried in her shirt. He’s not crying. There’s no wetness seeping through, but it somehow feels more intimate than it would be if there was. Daisy brings her other hand up and runs her fingers through his hair again. They stay like that for a while. Holding each other. Existing together. 

Jon may be a quiet person, but his actions are loud enough to deafen. There's no way for her to know if Jon believes a single thing she said, even if he can know for sure that she hadn't lied. Maybe this is enough, though. Maybe it's how it is for both of them. Back and forth they play, taking and giving what they can to soothe the pain. This is the game where neither of them loses, and neither of them wins - even if Daisy counts herself lucky each time Jon is this close to her. 

“Hey,” she says, tugging lightly on silvery locks after what feels like forever. “It's getting late. You still want to have dinner?”

Daisy can feel the way her body muffles his laughter. “Tired of this already?” He mumbles, the grip of his limbs relenting as he leans back.

“I mean, we’ll be doing this in the cot in a couple hours anyway.” Shit. “I didn't say you could do that again.”

“Slipped my mind. Didn't hear a word,” he lies, a smile too soft to be smug in place. “I had something on the way here, but I don’t mind if you want to.”

“Good, I’m starving.”

Chapter Text

The misery settled in like a puzzle piece falling into place. All at once, Daisy knew there was no way out. Even if there ever had been one once, there was no point in reaching it. The four of them had been outnumbered and overpowered from the start. The chances that the world she knew had been saved were practically nonexistent. Basira could be dead already. 

Part of Daisy wished that was the case – that it had been quick and painless, and that Basira had crossed the veil with a whisper and the peace of mind that it was finally over. The alternative made her tremble. Perhaps her partner was still alive out there, confused and hurt, being torn apart and put back together again by something strange and inexplicable. Daisy was supposed to keep her safe. She was supposed to get them out and set them free. She had foolishly believed that they still had time, but she had let Basira down and doomed her. She had convinced herself that she could find a way around Elias’s influence while trying to protect a world that was likely not even there anymore. None of that mattered then. There was nowhere to turn, no hope to hold onto, no one left to apologize to.

She hated herself for how stupid she had been before falling into the coffin. She had let herself grow too comfortable and too arrogant in her certainty that she would catch Sims in due time. She had given into the thrill of the chase for too long and let him become something more than a target. The reassurance that he was still hers alone to hunt had made her think that it was possible for her to dig her way back to the surface – if only to see the light in his eyes fade like it should have from the start.

But the clarity of her surrender laid out a simple truth Daisy had chosen to ignore for far too long. At best Sims had either died or ended up facing a torment worse than hers. At worst, he'd gotten away forever.

Daisy had fought and struggled for so long for nothing. She had been a wounded animal, caught in a trap and trying to bite off its own limb in order to flee. In her rage, she ignored that it was too late for that. In that very same anger, she had assumed she was still a predator in chase. It was nothing but a trick of her mind, her own stubbornness turning against her.

Daisy was prey, and the earth encompassing her had never pretended otherwise. It silently mocked the ways she had tried to believe that her position was any different.

The dirt pushed back twice as hard as she ever could. It taunted her and held her down so that she was unable to escape, and only gave way to let her hear the sounds of a haunting melody as well as the others trapped with her. It only let her exist because it wanted to keep her anxious and terrified for when it would crumble down above her and suffocate her. 

It would never let her go.

The worst part was knowing maybe none of it was real. Not truly. There was no way it could be. The world had ended, and no one had been able to stop it. So, how could it be she wasn’t suffering the consequences of that? How could she still exist in this cold, asphyxiating enclosure when she had witnessed the confusing whirlwind and never-ending madness that reality had shifted into? 

Daisy had to be dead. She had probably died the moment she had crossed the threshold into the coffin. Even if there was a distant possibility that the Unknowing had been driven to a halt and aborted (which she doubted), maybe she had been one of the casualties. This wasn’t just a never-ending tunnel or the place where she had seen her first partner disappear into – this was her own personal hell.

This was her punishment for all her bloodshed, for every life she'd taken without any real reason other than to fill her hunger for a kill, for everyone she'd hurt and enjoyed doing so. Daisy had tried to think it wasn't so – she had come with a million excuses and reasons for why it couldn’t be, but deep down she knew that she deserved every excruciating and painful part of it. It was hers alone to suffer, no matter how much she hoped or how loud she begged for someone, anyone to come save her.

Everything else was but a faded memory, washed away and turning blank as time passed – if there was such a thing anymore. There were no names, no faith to believe in, no hunters and no prey. There was nothing real other than the all-encompassing and ever-crushing dirt. 

She was alone.

Chapter Text

There hadn't been much in the way of goodbyes before Basira and Jon took off. Basira had a talk with Daisy in the days before their trip, mainly to ask if she would be okay with only Melanie around. She also told Daisy that she would miss her, and that they would binge the Archers together the second she got back to the Institute. 

As for Jon, Daisy had simply asked him to come back in one piece, even if he couldn't really die anymore. He’d said he would try. It could be way worse. Which is not to say that it hasn't been terrible, because it has. It's just been… complicated. And while it has nothing to do with what Melanie has just sprung on her, that doesn't make it better either.

“Real talk, am I going to end up with a weird crush on Jon as well if I hang around him for long enough?”

Daisy startles at the sudden question. “What?”

Melanie doesn’t look up from her cell phone, nor does she attempt to move from her contorted position across one of the desk chairs. “I said, am I going to-”

“I heard that,” Daisy cuts her off before she can finish repeating herself. “What I mean is where the hell did it come from?”

Melanie lets out a sigh and quits her phone to face her. “It's the one mystery I can't make heads or tails of about this place,” she explains. “How is it possible that there's so many people who end up hung up on Jon? He’s like, the offspring of a stuffy, elderly librarian who’s trapped in the ‘50s and a failed writer-turned-English professor who gets off on failing kids, but with a dash of college dropout dumbass, who speaks in bastard with an asshole accent.”

Daisy only responds by way of a confused look. She doesn't have the strength to put up with this. These have been some uncertain and disconcerting days. Her anxiety is through the roof most of the time, and she is barely keeping it together by sheer force of will. 

“With Georgie I can give her some leeway, maybe he was different back in uni,” Melanie continues despite no indication of being asked to. “With Martin, I figured that maybe he either has an inferiority complex or just a thing for authority figures in general, but it's not like he's around much to ask. And I found out from a dubious source that he had a fling with Tim when they worked together in Research.”

“And what source was that?” Daisy isn't sure why she's even asking, or how it is that she’s still listening to this.

“Tim, duh,” Melanie shrugs. “Unreliable intel, I know, but let's honor his memory and say that he wasn't lying. He’s still gone, so there’s no way for me to verify from him. That leaves you.”

“Me?”

“Listen, you’re not as obvious as Martin I’ll give you that, but you are sleeping with the guy,” she deadpans.

Uncertain and disconcerting days, for sure.

The beginning had been perhaps the worst of it. Daisy had latched onto Melanie like never before, going so far as following her until a bathroom door had been shut in her face. Daisy tried to be mindful of not looking over her shoulder while she texted someone or played with her phone, but she'd been getting restless without any distractions.

It's not that Melanie is hard to talk to. They share some interesting chats here and there, but Melanie can't always be talking to her. Melanie has her own issues and her own struggles to attend to. She can't centre all her attention on Daisy just so she feels better. Melanie is nice to her, and while Daisy is sure that she's been trying her best to accommodate her while the others are gone, Melanie is not them. Daisy feels guilty about this, so she tries to give Melanie space in whichever way she can – as long as it doesn't take leaving the room.

The situation is frustrating enough as it is without this is happening as well.

“Alright, let’s get one thing straight,” Daisy says with every intention of ending this conversation. “That's not what’s happening-”

“I didn't mean it in the biblical sense,” Melanie laughs. 

“-and even if it was,” Daisy raises her voice, as if that could guarantee Melanie will listen, “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

“I’m just curious.” She sounds sincere, even if there’s a teasing undertone. “What is it about him that makes so many people be into him when he's such a tool? What makes you get to know him a bit and go, ‘I want this specific idiot to raw me’?”

Well, that brought on a less than welcome mental image. “Ew.”

“Yeah, well,” Melanie snorts, “it's weird enough as it is, and then you go figure that he doesn't even do that. It makes even less sense if you ask me.”

“It's not weird, Melanie.”

Melanie rolls her eyes, dismissing her. “You gotta admit, it's a little weird.”

“You’d be calling me weird by extension, then.”

Melanie goes quiet at that, and it makes a small swell of pride bubble in Daisy’s chest. Nevermind that it's a bit more intricate than she’s leaving it, but she doesn't owe Melanie an explanation. She never has – not to anyone other than whoever she's personally decided to get in bed with. Besides, she could go without another werewolf joke if she were to elaborate on the specifics of how physical attraction works for her.

After a few seconds of silence, Daisy feels confident enough to let a smug smile tug on her lips. The smile drops when Melanie perks up right after.

“Okay, so… it's puppy love then.” 

“Oh my God.” What had she just said about werewolf jokes?

“Sorry,” Melanie snickers, and Daisy thinks that if the Hunt still had the hold on her it used to have, then this would be the moment when she would rip her throat out. “You haven’t said that it's not it, though.”

Daisy shuts her eyes tightly and takes a deep breath, willing herself not to do something reckless. “I don't have a crush on Jon,” she grits out. “There. Can we be done with this already?” This is the sort of chat two schoolgirls would have. It sounds just as stupid being had by two adults.

When she looks back at Melanie, there's still a tiny smirk on her face. It's not mocking, but it's not entirely comforting either. “You've been crawling up the walls since they left, Daisy.” 

The way she says it makes her stomach turn. There's a chance Melanie isn't trying to sound condescending, but even if her voice is sweet it still feels like she's being talked down to. Daisy can't help but despise it. 

“You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin at any minute. Like you don't trust I’ll still be there when you turn around. It's just as bad as when you first got back.”

“It's not-” Daisy struggles with her words, but gives up the fight before she can even start it. It’s getting better, she wants to say. I’m getting better. 

“Fine.” Melanie holds both hands up, calling for peace. “Maybe not as bad, but it's not like when they were still here. You're on edge all the time, you're anxious, and I bet you're counting down the minutes until they make it back.”

The words are stuck in Daisy’s throat with the weight of uncertainty. I’m getting better. Maybe she was, but there's no way of telling, really. Melanie isn't entirely wrong either, so Daisy says nothing.

It hasn’t been terrible, but it could have been worse. Melanie is always nearby now. She's nice, and Daisy does enjoy the conversations they share, but she can't stand the silences that hang between them when they're not talking.

Daisy had started taking walks around the Institute before Jon and Basira left. It was part of her exercise in building up resistance, learning to be alone without bursting into hysterics. Her walks used to be shorter, but as her wanderings led her further on, she found that she could stand being on her own for over twenty minutes – sometimes even up to an hour when she set her mind to it. Daisy always made her way back to the same place and to the same person. But with Jon’s absence from the Magnus Institute, she no longer felt brave enough to try. 

Also with Jon went the comfort of waking up in someone’s arms after a nightmare. The nightmares had never left – rather, they had changed. Jon was no longer an observer in them anymore (Daisy had made sure of that the second she was able to) but her dreams about the inside of the coffin had been no better than before, when she simply watched her old partner disappear into it. She still sleeps on the cot, even though he isn’t there to hold fast to.

The rational explanation for that would be force of habit, but Daisy knows that the real reason is something else; something that had no name and was too difficult for her to understand let alone explain. With Jon there she could calm down upon the reality of his presence. She could shove away the dread and the feelings of despair – of twisting and turning in the dirt, certain that she was alone and had been locked away forever as punishment. It isn’t the same without him there, but leaving the cot altogether isn’t an option.

“Do you miss him?” Melanie asks. Masculine pronoun, singular. 

“Of course I do.”

“More than Basira?”

“No.” What a stupid question.

“But differently, right?”

Melanie can't force her to answer, so Daisy doesn't respond. She knows by Melanie’s tone that she doesn't need to hear it anyway.

Daisy covers her face with both hands and groans into her palms. She’s fully aware of how ridiculous she must look, but she's a little too exasperated to give a damn. “I don't have a crush on Jon,” she repeats, because it's true. It's not a crush. It doesn't feel like a crush.

“Alright,” says Melanie, playfully. She picks her phone back up and goes back to whatever it is that she had been using it for. “If you say so.”

Daisy looks at her intently through the spaces between her fingers. These have been some uncertain and disconcerting days, but Melanie seems to want to take the prize for what's shaping up to be the strangest one.

Daisy lets her hands fall back. “You don’t like Jon.” It's not a question, but a statement.

“I don't,” Melanie acknowledges, “but I like you. You wouldn't talk about this if he was around, and you're around him 24/7. I figured with him and Basira away that it'd be a good time to bring it up. Besides,” she chuckles, “I meant what I said. I still don't get it, but I hope it’s not the kind of thing where I wake up in the middle of the night and realize that I’m in love with Jon too, because… no. Just, no.”

Melanie is not the force of nature that she once was. Daisy isn’t either, and maybe there's something else to be said about that – something she’ll figure out when everything else stops spinning and she can go back and read between the lines of this entire conversation.

“He’s funny sometimes,” is all Daisy says. She doesn't need to defend Jon, but she doesn't mind doing so. They're friends. That's what you do for them.

The sarcasm is heavy in Melanie’s voice when she replies. “Sure he is. I once walked into him trying to chop his finger off. It was positively hilarious.”

Melanie leaves a few hours later, but not before asking if Daisy can manage for an hour or two on her own while she goes to therapy. Daisy lies and tells her that it will be okay, because she knows that Melanie canceled her last session to keep her company.

Daisy spends a nerve-wracking while forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other to walk around the corridors of the Magnus Institute. She evades other employees as they fly past her, carrying stacks of paperwork left and right. They're few and far between, and as Daisy keeps moving, she wonders why there seems to be less and less of them. The answer becomes readily apparent once she realizes that she’s walking towards the offices of Martin Blackwood and Peter Lukas.

There had been a time when it was hard for Daisy to separate Martin from Jon. Maybe it was because before she worked under Bouchard’s orders, she had only ever interacted with the first one to question him about the second. Maybe it was because it had been easier to think of the meaningless employees of the Archive as Sims’ entourage (with Blackwood being the only one who still respected their boss) rather than each of them as individuals. Maybe it was because of Martin’s very obvious crush on said boss. That still seems to be true, even though Daisy has barely seen Martin at all since she returned from the coffin. 

Jon and Martin are tied to each other. It’s plain as day and it should be the simplest thing in the world, but circumstances keep pushing them apart so they dance around each other – pushing and pulling like the tides. 

Daisy thinks back to her and Melanie’s earlier conversation and replays it. What she feels is not a crush, because it doesn't feel like a crush – not like the way Martin feels about Jon and vice versa. What Daisy feels isn’t a crush: it’s the consequence of terrible things that have happened to her and the miracle of getting out alive. Her feelings are tied to the terror that crawls under her skin and haunts her nightmares, and to the hands that grasped her tightly to pull her back into the light. 

She knows that if she got some therapy that maybe one day she would be able to break these messy emotions apart into little pieces and understand them in their entirety. They would eventually fade into memory. Daisy hoped that in time she would see it as a happy one, not a painful one. Perhaps then the not-quite-paranoia that drives her into these ridiculous situations will make sense, and then she won’t feel ashamed of it and the things she does to keep it in check.  

She thinks this and keeps thinking it as the walls start to close in around her. A lady she hasn't seen before rushes past her with a furrowed brow and fear written across her eyes. A door slams shut a few steps behind her, and Daisy can see a blurry figure standing behind the frosted glass in the middle; a silhouette she'd come to recognize some time ago.

Jon has a crush on Martin, and Daisy wouldn't be surprised to find that maybe Jon’s a little in love with him. When she knocks on Martin’s door, she’s pleading with herself that Jon’s feelings for Martin will be enough to feel his presence a little closer. Daisy may have known that she was twisted before, but with this action, now she has proof. Maybe Jon knows about this, or maybe he doesn’t -and it’s moments like these in which Daisy wishes he doesn’t.

Chapter Text

He was all eyes.

He was there in the nightmares, silently contemplating as Zack submerged himself within the coffin. He was there, quiet and reverent as he witnessed how Daisy found herself unable to reach out for her partner despite how much she wanted to.

She didn't need to turn to see him, because he was there. His presence could be felt like a muted weight. It wrapped itself around the memory, consuming it slowly until she was trapped within his scrutiny and it became a part of him, all eyes everywhere and on her as well.

He was boundless, ethereal, and eternal as he watched from countless vantage points, but his vast self was still encased in a body that she recognized as his, wearing clothes that she recognized as his own. He was all eyes, and the nightmare was all eyes, and the nightmare was no longer Zack disappearing into the unvarnished lid of the coffin because the nightmare was him. 

Then one night something changed. It was a minor detail perhaps, a detail that Daisy would have missed had it not made a reappearance beyond the realm of her dreams. But once it did, she knew that she had made a terrible mistake.

Sims had always been, first and foremost, prey. Daisy hadn't forgotten and wouldn't let herself forget, but she'd let herself believe that he was a lesser threat in the grand scheme of things. Now she knew that there wasn't an inkling of humanity left in him. There never had been.

An apocalypse was upon them and it inched closer still with every passing second. Basira was still under Bouchard’s control. Daisy was running out of time to find a way to take her back. Bouchard’s threats may have been empty, but Daisy would sooner believe him and do his dirty work rather than risk calling his bluff and losing Basira. She had been running around in circles, working for and with monsters, and she seethed in rage against it.

A plan had been set in motion behind the scenes – a way to take care of Bouchard. It had brought Daisy some peace of mind, knowing that he wouldn't go unpunished if they came out victorious, but it had been put in motion by another monster.

Daisy couldn't trust him. She never had, not really, but it forced everything into a new perspective. Sims may have seemed to have good intentions at that moment, but if that wasn't the case... well. Daisy had decided that he wouldn't be around anymore by the time she had to worry about that. She would make sure of it. Time was ticking, and soon enough she'd get her kill.