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Daisy wakes up to cold. She’s numb. She’s in pain.
Everything aches. Phantom needles pierce too deep, take too much. She’s been hollowed out. Her body was cut open again, stolen from again, and she feels like a crime scene — bloody and full of ghosts.
Memories come in a haze, like a toxic miasma. Latex gloves, a bloody apron, and cold, assessing eyes. She remembers the same phrase repeating over and over in her mind like a mantra as Nathaniel hunted through her blood and bones: They’re doing it to me, too.
Jemma helps her out of the healing chamber and onto a medical cot. She tries to keep busy, to focus on the physical tasks she can accomplish: she checks Daisy’s vitals, cleans her wounds and changes the bandages, goes down the list of questions that are routine after something like this.
Can you tell me your name? What date is… we’ll just skip that one. What do you remember? Can you describe your pain?
Daisy is stained glass, shattered on the ground, and she can’t remember what picture she was meant to paint.
She is a tree, lightning-struck, layers and layers of her skin scraped away in a single burning moment, leaving raw flesh to fester in the open air.
She --
“Feels like I was black-out drunk and got in a fight with Edward Scissorhands.”
Jemma can only offer her a small, sad smile.
“You’re healing well,” she says, her soft voice lilting over the words. “Your hand,” she says, looking down at it. Daisy follows her gaze to see her left hand wrapped tightly in crisp white bandages. Pain radiates from it like aftershocks. “It will take the longest to heal -- it’s a delicate appendage. But hopefully no lasting nerve damage.” Jemma looks back up to meet Daisy’s eyes. Her eyebrows pull together slightly, but she’s still fighting to keep that smile on her face. “Knowing you, you’ll be in fighting shape in no time.”
It’s meant to be encouraging. Daisy doesn’t know how she feels.
She sees her friend hesitate, words catching in her throat. Then Jemma asks, “Your powers… Can you still…” Daisy looks down at her ruined hand again.
Jemma’s just trying to cover their bases, figure out where they all stand, she knows. Take stock of the situation, as is her way. But still, Daisy feels something sink in her chest.
She is an asset. An opportunity. The strongest weapon in SHIELD’s arsenal. But only because of her powers.
“Still got ‘em,” she answers.
“How do you —”
“I can hear the vibrations.” The ever-present buzzing of the material world surrounds Daisy. It’s really more of a touch than a sound — the metallic thrum of the Zephyr, the shifting swirls of saline in the IV bag, Jemma’s steady thump thump thump of a heartbeat, muffled under layers of flesh and a skeletal cage. When she’d first transformed, she hadn’t been able to make sense of it all. It’d just been frantic background noise, like static obscuring a radio station.
She’s since learned to understand them. She can pick them out like players in a symphony, now.
Jemma lets out a small breath. “That’s a relief. Agent Sousa told us what happened. It seems your powers were too much for Malick to control.” Daisy flicks her eyes up, away from her hand, to look Jemma in the eyes. She seems to remember that Daisy doesn’t know that part of the story yet. “They overtook him — his bones began to break and he dropped the building on himself.”
Daisy looks back down at her hands. “Sounds familiar.”
Jemma reaches down and gently grabs Daisy’s good hand. She feels her friend’s fluttering pulse as Jemma tries to think of what she could possibly say.
“He was a monster,” she whispers.
Daisy stops herself from asking if Fitz was a monster, too.
==========
The ship is half-empty. Hollowed out, just like her.
Mack is gone. Deke is gone. Coulson is gone. Again.
Daisy thinks the only thing she knows how to do is lose people. Her only talent is shaking the earth around her, turning cement to sand, crumbling any stable footing she can possibly find.
May comes to her.
Daisy’s had as many mothers as she’s had names. None of them have stuck around as long as May, though. Of all the times Daisy has made a mother angry, or scared, or disappointed, or sad…. May’s the only one who didn’t count her losses and walk away.
She stands in Daisy’s doorway, looking blankly down at where she sits on her bed. There’s no pity. No empathy. No love . But still, May’s here.
“I’m fine,” Daisy finally says, after almost a minute of silence.
“You’re not.” It cuts through any argument, surgical and precise.
Another silence that drags on too long. Daisy doesn’t look up from her bandaged hands in her lap. She wonders what May’s waiting for - what she’s looking for.
Eventually, May walks to Daisy’s bed and sits next to her, far enough away that they don’t touch. Curious, Daisy turns her head slightly in May’s direction, though she still doesn’t look up.
She sees a hand slowly lift and reach towards her own. Daisy feels her heart rate spike, out of tempo with May’s steady pulse. May’s hand pauses in the space above Daisy’s, waiting. Daisy doesn’t move. Taking it as a sign of permission, May lowers her hand, feather light on top of her own.
She hears May’s heart beat frantically as her strange new powers activate. May lets out a shuddering breath and Daisy finally looks up.
Her mother’s eyes are full of tears, Daisy’s own shattered despair staring back at her. It stops the breath in her throat, a hard knot forming there. May gasps again, like she’s fighting back a sob. Her other hand moves to grab Daisy’s wrist, anchoring her, steady and warm.
“Daisy…”
She wants to break down and sob. She wants to crawl into May’s arms and be held, she wants to be whole -
A tear crests over the edge of May’s eye, and Daisy flees the room before it’s even finished rolling down her cheek.
==========
She manages about an hour of solitude in the ship’s hangar, seated on the raised walkway. She’s staring down with unfocused eyes.
She misses her van. Privacy. The ability to hide from the world behind its metal shell and her computer screen.
She misses having nothing. At least no one could take anything from her, then.
The team must’ve had a group discussion and decided it was best to not leave her by herself, because eventually she hears the doors slide open. She swipes at her cheeks, the medical gauze soaking up her tears.
Sousa’s telltale gait echoes through the room. She isn’t surprised - she wonders why. Daisy doesn’t move as he limps his way to her side. He has to use the railing for support, and fights back a groan as he lowers himself down, but eventually he’s there beside her. He stretches out his leg and massages where Daisy knows his limb ends and the prosthetic begins.
She glances up to see two beer bottles glinting in his free hand. She lets out a small huff of breath, almost amused.
“This is not doctor-approved,” he says, still catching his breath, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.” Sousa holds out a bottle to her. Daisy stares at him a moment. There’s no expectation on his face, no worry… just patience. He’s waiting to see if she’ll meet him halfway.
Daisy takes the bottle, and he pulls a multi-tool from his pocket. Soon enough the bottle caps are pried off. They sit there, drinking in silence. Daisy counts out the beats of his slowing heart.
“Heard you carried me out,” she says between sips.
He seems surprised to hear her voice. But just as he always does, he readjusts.
“No soldier left behind,” he says simply.
“What, are we war buddies now?” She’s finally looking at him properly, a ghost of a smirk on her face.
“Aren’t we?” He’s too sincere. It catches her off guard.
All Daisy can do is stare at him. He meets her halfway, staring back. Waiting to follow her lead.
She breaks eye contact, looking forward again. He doesn’t push.
“Thanks.” It’s practically a whisper. Sousa only nods.
There’s another long moment of quiet companionship. She focuses on what she can hear - the beer swirling in their bottles whenever either of them drinks. Sousa’s steady breathing. The hum of the ship flying through space. The buzz of the fluorescent lights. Anything to distract her from the pain that arcs through her palm, her back, her chest, her neck, whenever she moves.
“You mentioned a name,” Sousa says, breaking the silence. His voice is slow - cautious. “This…” he cocks his wrist, gesturing vaguely with his bottle. “ It… happened before.”
Every muscle in Daisy’s body stills.
“I didn’t mean to pry —“
“Right now,” Daisy says, the words forcing their way out of her mouth. Her hands are shaking. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sousa pause. “Right now there’s a woman named Jiaying living in China. She’s got a gift — she can heal herself. She doesn’t age. She’s… bright.”
"My daughter,” Jiaying murmurs, so much love in her voice that it breaks her heart.
“And warm.”
She steps forward and brings a tender hand to brush Skye’s cheek. Skye thinks she can look into Jiaying’s eyes and count every year that was stolen, every shared memory they never had.
“So beautiful.”
“And serene.”
Then her mother’s eyes change, turning sharp and sterile as surgeon’s tools.
“So strong,” she hisses. Her hands grab at Skye’s neck, claiming her daughter’s strength for herself.
“She looks at you and... you’re not afraid of yourself. She makes you feel like the missing pieces you have are just… part of your design.”
“She sounds like someone special.” Sousa’s voice is soft.
There’s a painful lump in Daisy’s throat. Silence hangs between them for a moment.
“In 1988 Daniel Whitehall will find her again. He’ll butcher her. Cut her to pieces and leave her in a ditch. She’ll keep her powers. Whitehall will take everything else.”
“Were you close?”
Skye clutches Jiaying’s arms, desperately sending vibrations through her body. Her vision starts to fade as Jiaying steals her life away, but Skye can still see crimson lines drawing themselves across her face. She is ripping through the seams of Jiaying’s body, long-healed wounds that Whitehall carved into her.
“...No. But we could’ve been.” Daisy sniffs, not sure when her nose started to run. She takes another swig of beer.
Sousa doesn’t seem to react. She knows him well enough - since when? - to recognize that he’s processing. Trying to figure out the appropriate course of action.
“I’m sorry,” he finally offers. Daisy just shrugs, eliciting a pulse of pain. A tear streaks its way down her face. She lifts her bottle to her lips again, if only for something to do. But it’s empty.
Figures.
“I could…” Sousa sits up, and Daisy’s thankful he chooses to look at the bottle instead of her face, “get another? If you want.” It’s an offer for privacy - so she can grieve in solitude.
And suddenly Daisy can only think of how desperately she doesn’t want that.
“No.” The word is small and broken. She isn’t sure how or when her hand ended up on his arm, gripping him weakly. He’s frozen in place. Daisy pulls her hand back, tries to pretend she isn’t about to fall apart at the seams. Her eyes are glued to her bottle to avoid looking at him.
But she hears his simple “Ok.”
Daisy feels Sousa settle back down in his seat, planting himself next to her.