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Jon lies on the cot in his office, knees curled up to his chest like he’s fallen into icy water. Trying to hold onto whatever warmth remains in him.
His watch ticks.
Loud. Sharp. Metronomic.
He could probably reposition it, or himself, to soften the regular impact on his ears, and for a moment he considers it. The ticking is a frustrating, constant reminder of the passage of time, of how long he’s been stuck in here, of how long it’s going to take for anyone to bring him a statement.
It won’t help much, the paper statement someone will bring by in the morning. But it will soften the hunger, just a bit.
He’s so hungry.
A few days ago, he might have said his head was pounding, his stomach cramping, his muscles aching as though he really were starving, as if he were digesting himself from the inside out.
He supposes he is being digested, in a way.
Feed your god, or it will feed on you.
The particular pains he could have once singled out have long since passed into a blur, mingling with the dizziness and nausea and weakness and ‘general malaise’ to form a buzzing, thrumming cocoon of undelineated misery.
He doesn’t move the watch, in the end. However obnoxious the ticking, it’s something to hold onto. Cutting himself off from this small reminder of passing time would do nothing to alter the passage of time itself. He just wouldn’t be able to track it.
That’s worse.
He does check the watch, though, grateful he has the kind that glows in the dark with the press of a button.
12:43.
Jon is trying to calculate how much time is left until someone probably comes by with a statement at 8:30 or so (which should be much, much easier than it is) when a sound in the corridor outside interrupts him.
He goes perfectly still and listens.
Footsteps.
Coming closer.
A chill even colder than the one that’s become a constant companion sinks through Jon’s body, and he feels his guts begin to twist in fear.
No one should be this close to his office at this time of night.
Who’s there? he frantically wonders, and some part of his mind—or something that wants to be, at any rate—immediately responds.
Daisy.
The fear quickly morphs into confusion.
Jon is trying to puzzle out what Daisy could be doing here when the footsteps stop outside his door.
A key turns in the lock, and the door swings open.
He could probably feel it before, but now that she’s in here with him it’s overwhelming. The fear, the pain, the memories simmering under her skin.
“Jon?”
He means to tell her to leave. To warn her that he’s dangerous, that he’ll hurt her.
What comes out instead is a crackling, staticky “why are you here?”
“Because you’re the last thing left between me and sending a bullet through my brain,” Daisy replies, instantly and matter-of-factly. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know. It’s my fault, I’m—”
“Probably for the best, anyway. Now I won’t have to dance around it.” Daisy sighs and pulls the chair out from under Jon’s desk, collapsing into it with a soft sound of discomfort. Jon drags himself up to a sitting position, still on his cot. The bright agony of moving shoots through his head as he changes position, and for a moment he squeezes his eyes shut and bites back a whimper.
When the spike recedes to something he can tolerate, Jon looks up at Daisy, who is watching him intently.
Suddenly, Jon feels rather like a rabbit being watched by a fox.
Then, the moment fades, and Daisy simply looks…
Sick. Overwhelmed.
Scared.
“I’ve been trying not to give the Hunt anything,” she says. “You know that. And I haven’t slipped up so far. But—” She swallows. “It’s too much. I thought it would fade if I just held out long enough, like, like some kind of withdrawal, but instead... I am. Fading, I mean.” She makes a soft, frustrated sound. “It’s just getting worse. And I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”
Not trusting himself to say anything, Jon just nods.
“And I know you’re feeling it too. I—well, I don’t know you as well as I might like. But I know you put yourself through hell for me after I’d tried to kill you, when you had no reason to think I wouldn’t try again, when no one expected you to, just because you weren’t gonna leave me to suffer. That’s who you are. And whatever the Eye wants, I don’t think the real Jon Sims wants to hurt innocent people. So for you to do... what you did, it must’ve been bad. Must be bad.”
Jon looks away. She’s right, of course, but...
“And I don’t want to assume, but it’s pretty clear you’re barely hanging on. I don’t want you to hurt people, either, and I don’t want you to die. And I don’t want to die. And... I can think of one way we might be able to avoid any of that happening.”
Jon’s had a feeling for a while that he knows where this is going, but he has to be sure. “Are you... it sounds to me like you’re proposing a sort of... exchange.”
“Yeah. I give you a statement, and then...” Daisy winces. “I don’t want to let the Hunt take over again. But I figure... maybe if we can make it a game. Plan in advance that I’m not gonna kill you, just... make it about the chase. That was always the fun part, anyway—I mean—”
“I understand.” He does. “Basira doesn’t know about this, does she.”
“No, and I really hope she never finds out.” Daisy looks down. “I don’t like this. Hiding things from her again. But...”
“Yeah.” Jon takes a deep breath. “Do you... would it help if you planned to... cut me? Not seriously, just... to have an end in mind. The sight of blood. Give the Hunt something to focus on.”
“I don’t—”
“I heal fast. It won’t hurt me for long. Especially if—” Jon hesitates, chewing on his lip. “If I’ve recently fed.”
Daisy nods. “I can do that. And... Jon?”
Jon leans forward, waiting in strained quiet for whatever Daisy needs to say.
“I haven’t let the Hunt back in the driver’s seat since... before. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back. And if I can’t... do whatever you need to do, alright? Weird mind tricks or whatever, if I’m not snapping out of it and you think something you can do might help... it’s okay. I’m... giving you permission.” Daisy taps her fingers on the back of the chair. “For that, and whatever you need to do to get my statement, obviously.”
Jon swallows hard and forces himself to speak without compulsion. “I... I need to know you’re sure.”
“Would I have shown up here in the middle of the night if I wasn’t?” she huffs. “You heard what I said, Jon. You’re—this is my last chance.”
Jon wants to accept, he wants to so badly.
He knows he shouldn’t. This little solution Daisy worked out goes entirely against the point of keeping him here. His coworkers are... they’re trying to do the right thing. Jon knows that. And Daisy... he knows she’s telling the truth about her plans if this falls through, but she’d previously expressed a willingness to die rather than let the Hunt have her. He should respect that, the choice made by a truer Daisy in a less desperate moment. He shouldn’t get in the way, shouldn’t let his hunger overcome his better judgment. Shouldn’t let the monsters win.
If there’s even a distinction between them and the monsters anymore.
On his desk, a tape recorder clicks on, and that’s when Jon knows.
He’s going to do this.
“Statement of Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner,” Jon says. “Regarding—”
“Her time in the Buried,” Daisy says immediately.
“Regarding her time in the Buried,” Jon repeats, the words feeling warm and right in his mouth even as he knows how wrong this is. He wasn’t sure if she'd give him that, right off. After all that time as a Section 31 officer, she’s got to have plenty of statements to give. But she’s giving him this. He can almost feel it, almost taste her fear already. Maybe he can.
“Statement taken direct from subject, August twenty-ninth, two thousand and eighteen.” Jon feels it, and he lets himself fall into it. “Statement begins.”
...
Daisy stares out the windshield of her van, headlights illuminating the road in front of her.
Giving her statement was... more difficult than she’d anticipated. Probably the Archivist’s powers. She wasn’t entirely taken off guard by it, but that doesn’t mean she was prepared for the extent of it, either.
It doesn’t matter. She helped Jon feed his... patron? Captor?
Whatever. Now he’s going to help her feed hers.
She’ll feel better soon. She already does, a bit.
It’s going to stop hurting.
She gave him a few moments, after her statement finished, to gain some of his strength back and check in to make sure she was all right—at least, that was her excuse for taking a moment to breathe. She pushed down the discomfort and reassured him, telling him, truthfully, that she’d be much better out of the Institute and under the sky.
(She also left a note for Basira on Jon’s desk. Telling her that if she’s reading this, Jon is dead and Daisy is gone. Asking her to track down and kill the monster she’s no doubt become.)
(She didn’t show the note to Jon, and he didn’t look, but she’s fairly certain from the look he gave her once she was done writing that he knows what it says all the same.)
(He didn’t say anything, though. She’s glad about that.)
Once she was satisfied that he’d regained enough of his strength to be... to be suitable for her purpose, she asked him how well he could run in the shoes he had with him.
When he replied that he hadn’t worn shoes that weren’t good for running to work since the incident with the worms, she grabbed his arm and dragged him away to her van.
He didn’t struggle, and Daisy was torn between gratitude and a sick wish that he would. She could already feel it, the rush of blood in her ears, the familiar excitement bubbling up inside her at the knowledge of what was to happen tonight. It terrified her, made her sick.
It felt like home.
She could feel the fear emanating from Jon even then, when all she’d done was bind him roughly with rope, tie a blindfold over his eyes, and stuff a gag in his mouth.
Genuinely, she can see why every monster in the area (among which Daisy is including herself) seems to have taken an interest in him. His fear is delicious, to a degree that more than makes up for his current frustrating pliance. If he were actually trying to get away, he’d be perfect—
That’s the Hunt’s opinion, anyway.
She shouldn’t be thinking this way. She should try to keep it separate from herself, not let it—
Oh, who is she kidding?
If she’s going to do this, she needs to just do it.
It’s been half an hour since then. Daisy has spent that time doubling back, taking side roads and various detours, just to build the anticipation. The fear Jon feels is building steadily, and, while Daisy can’t read minds like he can, she’s fairly certain she felt the exact moment he started to wonder if she was taking him to her spot.
She isn’t, although the place they are going isn’t too far away. Nice and remote, wooded, plenty of places for prey to hide.
Honestly, she kind of wonders if he’ll find it. She can’t tell whether the thought is sickening or intoxicating.
Probably both. There’s always a price to pay for escape.
She knows these woods like she knows her own heartbeat. No matter how well Jon does, this is only going to end one way.
It’s what happens after that Daisy isn’t sure about.
...
Over the past few years, Jon has found himself in quite a few bizarre situations. If he tried to count on his fingers every time he’d been kidnapped, he’d need to use both hands, and being bound, gagged, and blindfolded in the back of Daisy’s murder van is, sadly, not even a first.
Still. This one is perhaps unique in that he consented to it, with at least a pretty solid awareness of what he was doing.
Although he’s starting to wonder how much Daisy hasn’t told him.
They’re doubling back a lot, taking what’s clearly a circuitous route, but Jon’s still fairly certain he knows where they’re going.
Daisy’s spot. Where she once brought monsters—human or otherwise—to kill.
Jon’s been there before. When she tried to kill him.
She... she’s not going to kill him, is she? She said she wouldn’t, and he’s not even sure what it would take to kill him properly anymore, but any attempt on her part would undoubtedly be unpleasant. And, even if he doesn’t think she’d go back on her word... he knows how easy it is to get carried away with this sort of thing.
The uncertainty is the point, he supposes. This won’t work if he feels safe.
So, instead of reminding himself that he trusts Daisy, that he chose to trust her—not least by letting her do this—he deliberately stokes the fear higher.
She gave him her worst experience, let him make it his own. Let him inflict it on her all over again just to soak in her misery.
Sure, he’s uncomfortable—the ropes are digging into his body, his arms are going numb, the gag in his mouth is disgustingly soaked with saliva, and not being able to see is driving him up the wall—but, honestly, he feels better than he has in days.
Daisy fed him. She made the pain stop.
He can give her this.
He’s going to be hunted. Through Daisy’s woods, at night, when there could be any number of other things out there.
This is Daisy’s domain. She’s going to chase him through it. And when she catches him—not if, when— she’s going to hurt him.
Jon feels his heart race, and tries to breathe steadily through his nose.
This is all right. This is good.
This is for Daisy.
...
Daisy smiles as she gets out of the van and goes around to the back to let Jon out.
She’s parked in a spot not too far from her usual. Quick and easy route into some dense woods, without the risk of an actual trail. Not that anyone is likely to be hiking at this time of night, but, well. She’s seen weirder things.
She opens the doors abruptly, and grabs Jon almost before he’s completed the flinch the sound provokes. She takes the gag out first, then unties him.
She leaves the blindfold for last.
Soon, Jon is blinking at her, genuine nervousness in his eyes. It’s not real terror—not yet—but to see it so soon is gratifying to that part of her, waking up after so long in forced hibernation, that wants nothing more than to chase, to track, to bite and tear and kill.
It’s something to work with.
Daisy grins at Jon, baring her teeth. His eyes fix on them, and her smile somehow grows even wider. “Thirty minutes,” she whispers. “Then I’m coming after you. Go.”
Jon doesn’t need to be told twice.
He turns, and then he’s sprinting away into the forest.
Daisy can hear the crashing noises as Jon navigates the brush and the sound of his ragged breathing long after he’s out of sight. Hopefully he’ll quiet down once he gets a little more used to the situation. Otherwise this will be far too easy.
Daisy is pretty sure from listening to Jon record statements that he doesn’t need to breathe. She wonders when he’s going to realize that.
Oh well. She’s certainly not going to tell him.
...
Jon is making far too much noise, and he knows it.
He’s gotten pretty far into the woods by now, but not far enough, and Daisy will have no problem tracking him if he keeps being so loud.
Almost reflexively, Jon tries to Know how to move more quietly.
To his surprise, the answer is immediate and, once he’s gotten the hang of it, surprisingly helpful.
Maybe the Eye is enjoying this game, too. A chance for the Archivist to apply his abilities to a new setting. An experience he hasn’t had before.
He’s not going to be able to evade Daisy for long on her terms, he knows. This forest is her territory. This is the Hunt’s domain.
Daisy is comfortable here. He isn’t.
She’s going to catch him eventually. There’s no question about that.
Still. If he’s going to make a respectable go of it, he’s going to need to use every advantage he has.
Jon searches his memory for anything that might be helpful, not coming up with much, until he suddenly does.
He stops short and doubles over, hand pressed to his head.
He wasn’t expecting much in the way of help from the Eye, and he definitely wasn’t expecting the full text of “The Most Dangerous Game” slamming into his head all at once. All seven thousand, nine hundred and eighty-six words of it, the Eye unhelpfully informs him.
Jon has to stop for a moment just to breathe through it, trying to sort out the helpful bits from the rest.
Okay.
Jon pushes down his irritation at being given half an hour of head start when Rainsford got three. It makes sense—they’re on a time limit. They have to get back to the Institute before anyone wakes up. Which means this has to be over by... probably about four-thirty in the morning, accounting for unexpected delays.
Jon checks his watch. It’s 1:37 now.
He probably doesn’t have time to make any of the traps described—and, even if he did, he doesn’t want to do Daisy any serious harm. She said she wouldn’t seriously harm him, after all. He wants to believe her.
He’s choosing to believe her.
Even as his skin prickles and his stomach lurches with the feeling that, under the influence of the Hunt, her definition of ‘serious harm’ might be rather different from a reasonable person’s.
Either way, he’s not killing Daisy, or even doing anything to her that would kill a normal human. Which means the traps in that story are right out, even if he did have time to set one.
However.
It should have been common sense, but Jon has been largely forgetting to use techniques that make his trail harder to follow. He can do that, at least. Maybe climb a tree at some point, if he finds one that looks climbable? He might be able to ask the Eye where to find one, if it’s as invested in this game as he thinks it is...
As he loops and winds his way through the trees, Jon tries not to think about how the story he’s been given ends.
...
When Daisy comes across the place where Jon apparently remembered his brain, she almost laughs out loud.
She doesn’t. Better to keep that energy inside, driving her, bubbling up and animating her every movement with its coiled brightness.
The trail follows a straight, easy-to-follow line for the first quarter mile or so. After that, the tracks get softer, less violently obvious, but still glaringly direct.
Then, they swerve off to the left, only to disappear by a fallen log.
Daisy smiles.
Sure enough, the tracks move up onto the log and along it, impressions left in the moss still clearly visible, though it looks like he was at least trying to step on the less mossy areas.
She has to give him some credit. To a less experienced tracker, or one with human eyes in this light, that might have been a clever move.
The moonlight filtering through the trees is plenty for Daisy to see by. She’s not sure if Jon is the same way, but he’s of the Eye. She’d bet good money on it.
Either way, she wouldn’t have let him bring any artificial light with him. Not only would it make him easier to find… she doesn’t want that out here.
A breeze blows past, and Daisy sniffs it, wondering if she can catch his scent. The fact that he hasn’t bathed in days might help, so she’s optimistic, but apparently he’s either too far away or not upwind. Which makes sense, the wind is blowing perpendicular to the rough direction of the trail.
Her disappointment is calmed somewhat by the smell of the forest, all rotting wood and tree sap and clean night air. The closeness of the trees is comfortable, nothing at all like... anything else. And the patches of sky she can see through the branches overhead are dotted with stars, this far from city lights.
This place is hers.
She follows the trail as quickly as she can, scanning ahead for loops small enough that she can see the other side and darting across them, careful not to lose the trail altogether. In addition to knowing the forest, Daisy has the advantage of not needing to worry about noise. She’ll hear Jon before he hears her, she’s sure, which means that, while she’s still far away, she can move faster, since she’s not trying to be as quiet.
At one point, the trail makes a larger loop than she was anticipating, and she realizes she doesn’t know anymore which direction will take her to him most directly.
Humming with delight at the pleasant surprise, she continues following the trail.
When she catches up, she decides, she’ll run him in a circle. Nice and big, so he doesn’t realize, but get him heading back to the place where they started. The closer they are to the van when she catches him, the better. They might not have much time for walking back, not if she takes as long as she wants to. And they need to leave time for any unforeseen delays.
Daisy shakes her head faintly to clear it. Planning logistics isn’t what this is about.
Within moments, she’s back out of her head and into the forest, every sense on high alert.
In the end, she feels him before she hears him.
He’s properly afraid now. Good.
The trail ends at the base of a tree, with fairly low branches that seem quite climbable.
Daisy smirks, then leans against the tree for a moment.
“A-hunting we shall go,” she sings. “A-hunting we shall go...”
She can smell him now, fear and that sour-sweat stench that comes from illness overpowering whatever he smells like naturally.
She pulls out her pocketknife and starts playing with it, making sure the blade catches the moonlight in a way that will be visible from up in the tree.
The spike in the fear she feels from above her is delightful, and she revels in it.
Eventually, she decides she’s allowed this long enough.
“Jon, I’m going to walk away now. If you don’t come down from there within a minute, I’ll climb up and throw you down myself.”
She does walk away, and it isn’t too long before she hears the rustle of branches and the quiet thump of Jon hitting the ground.
She positions herself so Jon is between her and the van, then starts walking towards him, nice and slow, making no effort to disguise her movements.
Jon takes off at a run, and she follows suit.
He’s fast. He’s faster than she expected, and it’s another lovely surprise. She puts a bit of an arc in their path—hopefully not enough for Jon to notice, just enough to make their path to the van a bit longer. Draw out the sweetness.
If this were a human, she’d give them a break about now. It’s no fun if their heart gives out and they’re dead before she even gets to them.
But Jon’s heart will do no such thing.
This plaything isn’t fragile. She can run him as hard as she likes, and he’ll survive.
Daisy whoops with joy, then puts on a burst of speed and reaches out, letting her fingers brush Jon’s back.
The ragged cry of terror he lets out makes her feel like she’s lit up from the inside with a warm glow.
She slows down a bit, lets him gain some ground, and feels the fierce love of her patron all around and within her.
She laughs as she puts on another burst of speed.
She’s no longer contained within the woman called Daisy. She’s everywhere in this place—in the woods, in the sky, in the chase itself.
Owned completely, and she’s never been so free.
...
Jon hurts.
It’s not the hurt of a few hours ago, an unvarying, unceasing blur.
Instead, every corner of his body is protesting in its own sharp, distinct way.
His throat is raw and bloody, the metallic, slightly rotten taste of his abused windpipe suffusing the back of his mouth. His lungs burn, his leg muscles are screaming, his side is cramping badly, and his feet probably have several blisters.
The fact that it’s still an improvement is probably a bad sign.
Jon doesn’t have much energy to spare for that thought, though, because the pain has become secondary to the fear.
Daisy is right behind him.
He doesn’t like admitting it even to himself, but he’s having a hard time remembering that it’s Daisy. His body only knows the feeling of being chased, the knowledge that whatever is coming after him is faster and stronger and knows this place better.
More than that, even, he’s having a hard time believing that she only wants to hurt him enough to make it real.
She’s enjoying every minute of this. He can hear it in her voice. And... even if her initial intent was only to make a point, Jon knows how easy it is to get... carried away with this sort of thing.
Jon’s sick of pain, and the thought of feeling more of it—more than he’s already feeling, more than he’s been feeling—
Something touches his back, and he cries out as a flash of terror overtakes him.
The rapid footsteps behind him slow.
She’s toying with him. That was part of the plan, he knows that, he understands that. He wouldn’t undo this, if he could.
He still hates it.
He can’t slow down. She’ll catch him if he does.
Somewhere behind him, Daisy laughs.
Her footsteps are coming closer. Jon tries to put on another burst of speed, but his body physically won’t go any faster.
She slams into him, and he’s on the ground before he’s aware of falling.
Daisy is pinning him, looming over him, grinning. “Got you, Archivist.”
Jon looks up at her wild expression and reminds himself that whatever happens next will be over fairly quickly, at least. They have to be back soon, or the others will be upset.
That thought isn’t touching the icy knot of dread in his chest.
He doesn’t want this to happen at all.
It’s for Daisy. She needs this. It’s fine.
Daisy drags him over to a tree and props him up so he’s sitting with his back to it.
Jon gets a sudden, vivid memory of a different man, slumped against a tree in a different forest, with his throat ripped out.
It’s all right. Daisy needs his fear to feed the god keeping her prisoner so it doesn’t feed on her.
Whatever happens, he can do it for Daisy.
She’s straddling his thighs, using her own legs to keep him pinned down. Quickly, efficiently, she moves his hands behind his back, pushed painfully up against the tree, and shifts both his wrists to her left hand.
He tugs experimentally, but only confirms what he already knows.
Daisy’s good at this. At this angle, he’s not getting away.
With her right hand, she flicks open her pocketknife and, to his surprise, sets it on the ground.
His surprise turns to concern when she starts one-handedly unbuttoning his shirt.
Something horrible occurs to him then. A different kind of fear.
He doesn’t want to do this to Daisy, especially not after she already gave him a statement. But he needs, he really needs to know if this is going where he’s afraid it might be.
He doesn’t ask out loud. He could, but that would be tremendously embarrassing for Daisy no matter the answer, and he doesn’t really want to do that—and, honestly, if she's deeper into this than he thinks she is, he doesn't want to risk giving her any ideas. He'll ask out loud if he has to, but he’ll try another way first. If all goes well, she’ll never have to know.
All right. It isn’t really any less of an invasion of privacy, but then, she’s got his shirt mostly open by now and he thinks that, under the circumstances, he’s entitled to a little information.
He reaches out, trying to See Daisy’s intentions. It’s a long shot, and he doesn’t expect much more for his trouble than a headache and having to ask.
A moment later, he’s hit with more information about Daisy’s sexual habits and history than he ever wanted to know.
After sorting through the mess, though, he has his answer.
Daisy doesn’t do sex, and she won’t use it as a weapon for the same reason people don’t generally pick up a sword by the blade end to use the handle as a club.
It’s more of a relief than Jon wants to admit.
The relief fades a bit when Daisy picks up her knife and places the tip on his collarbone.
Jon takes a deep breath in and braces.
It hurts. Of course it hurts. The drag of the knife is slow and deliberate, and it cuts deep. The cut isn’t overly long, but it’s enough that blood spills out immediately and copiously, running down his chest and soaking into his shirt.
Daisy hesitates for a moment, looking almost... confused? Conflicted?
Apparently, though, the Hunt’s euphoria is stronger than any reservations Daisy might have, because it’s barely two seconds before she leans down and starts to drink.
She’s licking the blood, mostly, as it wells from the cut. Her tongue feels unpleasant, stinging as it digs in. It’s a deep cut, and Jon wonders if she can taste fat, muscle, bone. If those things all taste different in a living human—well, a mostly living humanoid—or if the taste of blood overwrites everything else.
Either way, Daisy doesn’t seem to mind.
Oddly enough, this part isn’t so bad. He’s honestly less troubled by the pain at this point than by the wet, hot, sticky tickle of blood soaking into the fabric of his shirt. It still hurts, but now Jon is fairly certain the worst is over. He knows what’s going to happen from here on out—or at least, he’s pretty sure he does. She’s not going to do anything he can’t handle.
If this is part of Daisy’s ritual, it’s fine. It’s probably her way of delineating, of marking the end of the feeding process. Cementing her victory.
If this is Daisy’s equivalent of ‘statement ends,’ he can deal with it.
It’s not long at all before Jon feels the cut knitting itself back together.
It’s not a comfortable process, made less comfortable by Daisy’s continued attempts to lick the healing wound, but it’s not horrible, and the relief as the cut closes and the pain fades is nearly tangible.
Jon briefly turns his attention to the rest of his body, and finds that his strained muscles and blistered feet have healed as well.
For the first time in far too long, nothing hurts.
He slumps back against the tree as Daisy lets go of his hands, taking a moment to soak in the marvelous absence of misery.
Then, he looks into her face.
Jon isn’t sure if Daisy is capable of blushing, and it’s too dark to see properly, but he’s fairly certain her face is turning red. For reasons other than the blood still smeared on her nose and chin.
“Shit,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s...” Jon falters. ‘It’s okay’ would sound false, even though it is, really. From his perspective, nothing terrible happened.
He doubts Daisy is going to see it that way.
Daisy takes a breath and rolls off him, then stands, offering him a hand up.
He takes it, and she pulls, faster than Jon expected. He almost unbalances and falls over again, but it does the job, and in the end he’s able to stay standing.
“C’mon,” says Daisy in a voice she’s clearly straining to keep level. “Van’s this way.”
...
Daisy lets the silence settle around them as she and Jon make their way to the van.
He’s gotten completely turned around, of course. He could probably just use his powers to find the van, but for the moment he seems content to let her lead.
Which also means she can’t see his face.
She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but the fact that he also can’t see her face definitely is. Or at least a thing she’s grateful for.
She... hadn’t planned to do that. She was caught up in the moment, swept away by the power of the Hunt. Exactly like she was afraid she would be.
Okay, not exactly. She was afraid of losing herself completely, of never coming back, of coming back to find Jon’s lifeless body in pieces and his blood all over her.
She didn’t do that, at least.
Who is she kidding? Not murdering someone who agreed to help her is a painfully low bar. She’s still fucked up a perfectly good...
Alliance? Friendship?
Jon gave up two ribs for her. It’s probably fine to call it a friendship.
Or, it would have been, before she completely, irrevocably fucked it up.
What’s worse... maybe she didn’t completely lose it this time. But it went well enough that they might be tempted to do it again. She is feeling better, astonishingly better. She knows Jon’s feeling the same way. It’s such a relief.
It won’t last.
And if they do try this again, and the Hunt has gained more of a foothold—
The van comes into view, and Jon picks up his pace.
When he reaches the van, he stands by the back doors.
For a moment, Daisy isn’t sure why he’s doing that, before the realization hits.
He thinks he’s going to have to ride in the back again.
Wow, she really fucked this up.
“You can ride up front, you know,” Daisy snaps, and Jon quickly walks around to the passenger door, which Daisy unlocks before going around to the driver’s side.
The clock on the dashboard reads 4:42 as Daisy pulls into the road.
“There should be a t-shirt in the back, if you want it,” she says casually, without looking over at Jon.
Her peripheral vision catches him twisting to look behind his seat, grabbing the shirt, holding it up, and visually inspecting it before starting to remove his blood-soaked one.
Daisy is about to make some remark or other about how Jon’s hesitation is fair, really, when she notices (still out of the corner of her eye) how slowly Jon is moving.
She flicks her eyes sideways, wondering if he’s been injured in some way she doesn’t know about, some way that isn’t healing.
She doesn’t see any evidence of injury. But she does see the way he’s twisting his body away from her, seemingly trying to hide from her view.
Daisy frowns. She knows Jon is on the shy side, but she hadn’t thought he was—
Oh, shit.
That... didn’t even occur to her, honestly. That he might have read what she did as sexual in some way.
In fairness to him... well, she sat on his thighs, took off his shirt, and put her mouth on his chest.
Yeah. Okay. She needs to clear this up.
Especially since she’s heard (admittedly, she heard it from Basira, who heard it from Melanie, who heard it from the host of the What the Ghost podcast, who is apparently Jon’s ex-girlfriend) that Jon is... well, the grapevine wasn’t clear if he’s just uninterested in that sort of thing or actively opposed, but it doesn’t really matter. Having... that just sprung on you...
She knows how much she would hate it.
Daisy doesn’t feel that bad about the cutting. She warned him about that. But actually putting her mouth on him, drinking his blood...
Yeah. She shouldn’t have done that. At the very least, she should have talked to him about it first.
It was such a spur-of-the-moment thing. She hadn’t known she wanted to until she saw the blood start to flow, so alive and shiny in the moonlight.
The Hunt doesn’t want her to ask. The Hunt wants her to take.
Even in her head, Daisy winces as she realizes how that sounds.
There are few lines Daisy won’t cross, even fewer that she never has. Sexual assault is one of them.
It was until tonight, a nasty voice in her head whispers, and the worst thing is that it’s not entirely wrong.
She needs to clear this up. Needs to find out if Jon actually interpreted what happened that way, and get that idea right out of his head if he did.
She waits until Jon gets the shirt on. It takes her a few tries to speak.
“Don’t you dare read into that, by the way,” she finally manages. It’s not exactly what she meant to say, but it should get the point across.
“The blood thing?” Jon asks.
“Yeah.”
“Oh. I... I didn’t... well, I... for a moment I was worried, but...” Jon sighs. “I checked.”
“You checked?” Daisy doesn’t remember being compelled to give him that information. She hopes she would, but knows better than to trust that hope.
“I... I’m sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done that, but... I got nervous. I had to know.” Jon is staring out the window with the kind of intensity that tells Daisy he’s trying to avoid looking at even her reflection in the glass. “And then... I knew, and it was fine. So don’t worry about it. I’m not going to make any... assumptions, or anything.”
“Good. I don’t—”
“Neither do I.”
The silence sits in the car like a living being, growing steadily deeper and more awkward to break.
Finally, Daisy takes a deep breath. “I’m... sorry I scared you.”
She instantly realizes the absurdity of her phrasing.
Jon chokes on a suppressed nervous laugh. “That is... sort of the point of this whole endeavor.”
“Yeah, I know. I mean... I’m sorry I scared you in a way I didn’t intend to?” Daisy winces. “I’m sorry I made you think I might molest you.”
“I’m sorry I thought that about you.” Jon’s voice is soft and oddly sincere.
“No, you had... you had plenty of reason. I...” Daisy turns her head away. “We can’t do that again.”
“Daisy.” Jon’s voice is louder now, purposeful. “You didn’t hurt me any more than we agreed on. You didn’t set out to give that impression, it just—Lord knows sometimes these things don’t occur to me either. You snapped out of it without any serious trouble, and you didn’t violate our agreement in any way. And it worked. I mean—you are feeling better?”
“Yeah,” Daisy mumbles.
“Good.” Jon takes a deep breath, in and then out. “Then... I’d take this as a win.”
“But—”
“Before tonight I thought our options were to feed the way we’d been doing or die. And I don’t want to die.” His voice is strained, and Daisy realizes he’s trying not to cry. “I don’t want to hurt innocent people either, but... I’ve already proven I’m willing to, if it comes to it. I don’t want to be that way. I don’t want to go back. But if I’m going to fight this, if I’m going to stay anything resembling human, I need a way to do that without starving myself and I need someone on my side.”
Jon looks extremely uncomfortable, but at least he’s facing forward now instead of directly out the window.
“What if it’s worse next time?” The sun is rising, and the light feels almost too much after the deep night, faint though it still is. “What if letting it have me just makes it stronger? What if I can’t come back?”
When Jon speaks, his voice is almost too quiet to hear. “I’d get you back.”
She believes him. Fuck.
There are two people in the world Daisy cares about now, which means she just doubled her chances of getting hurt.
Oh well. If she’s going to be utterly stupid, might as well do it properly.
“Please don’t misinterpret this either, but I know a coffee shop on our way that opens at five.”
“I don’t like coffee,” Jon says absently.
Daisy sighs slightly. “You don’t have to get coffee. You can get tea, or... whatever.”
“If this is you trying to make up for drinking my blood...”
Daisy laughs, short and humorless. “No. I mean, maybe. Sort of. But mostly...” She grits her teeth. Her thoughts on this are... vague, fuzzy. And even if she could shape them into words, she doubts she could get them out.
She sees one option if she wants to make herself understood. She doesn’t have to like it, but... after the rest of tonight, what the hell. “Just ask me.”
“Are... I need you to be sure, if I’m going to do that.”
“I’m sure. Ask me what I’m thinking.”
“You definitely don’t want me to do that.” Jon makes a face. “If I phrase a question that way, people tend to start thinking about whatever is in their head that they least want someone else to know about.” He winces. “Trust me. I learned that the hard way.”
“Okay then, ask me why I want to get coffee with you. Or... a different beverage, it really doesn’t matter.”
Jon nods. “Daisy, why do you want to get coffee with me?”
The words sink heavily into Daisy’s ears, and the answering words are falling out before she’s conscious of thinking them. “I want to see what it’s like just hanging out with you for once, in as close as we can get to ordinary circumstances. I want to be friends, real friends, or if you don’t want that at least friendly enough to be reasonably assured of staying on each other’s good side, because I don’t want to be on your bad side and I know you don’t want to be on mine. I want to know if whatever the hell I am gets on with whatever the hell you are, when we’re not both trying to feed our powers with the other. Also, you’re the second person in the world I love and I want to know more about who that person is, because I haven’t actually talked to you much between all the rescuing and attempted murder.”
When the import of what she’s just said hits, Daisy’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t even think I—I wouldn’t have said that.”
“I know.” It’s oddly reassuring.
Daisy takes a deep breath. “So, coffee?”
Jon’s fingers twist, hands tangling up into knots before untangling and finding a different configuration.
“All right,” he finally says. “Sounds good.”
...
Jon downs the last dregs of his tea as Daisy’s van approaches the Institute, trying not to think about any of the reasons the flavor registers as just a bit wrong.
“Do you have another shirt in your office?” asks Daisy as they get out of the car.
“Yeah,” Jon replies. “It’s not clean, but...”
“They might notice if it was,” Daisy interjects. “I’ll lock you in—and, ah, get that note." She looks down. "You’ll have to pretend to still be hungry, when they come by to bring you a statement.” Her eyes snap back up to meet Jon's. “We can’t let them know. Basira would be furious, and...”
“Yeah, I get the picture,” says Jon, throat tight. “I won’t tell.”
Daisy nods. “I won’t either.”
Jon leans forward, barely breathing. “So... we’re doing this again?”
After a painful but mercifully brief pause, Daisy shrugs. “There’s plenty of shit in my head where that came from. As long as you don’t get tired of me chasing you through the woods... I think we’re both set for a while.”
Jon smiles. “Thank you.”
Daisy holds up her phone. “Text me when it gets bad.”
“I will,” says Jon. “And... same goes for you.”
Daisy gives him a weak smile as they walk towards the door that leads into the Institute. “Take care of yourself, Sims.”
Jon’s hand twitches. By sheer force of habit, he forces it to be still.
But... maybe he doesn't have to.
Finally, he reaches out, takes Daisy's hand in his, and squeezes.
She squeezes back.
“Yeah,” Jon says. “You too.”