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Daisy growls, a low sound, from deep within her throat. It doesn’t sound human, has she ever really, though? Probably not. Shunned by her peers as long as she can remember, too rough, too violent. The Hunt really did get her from a young age, didn’t it. She belongs to it, always will.
It took her a while to realize it, even longer to come to terms with it. The Hunt wasn’t going to let her go, no matter how badly she starved herself of it. Jon helped, and wow that’s a statement she never thought she’d believe but. But it’s true. Having that familiarity, a fellow monster, helped, genuinely.
Jon runs his hands down her knobby back, tracing the curves of each vertebrae. A reverence akin to how he would run his finger down the spine of a book he loved. Loved. Her eyes flutter shut. She knows Jon can’t hurt her, not truly. Then she snickers, because the idea of Jon being able to even do any damage is incredibly amusing.
“What? What’s so funny?” He sounds indignant as ever, Daisy can see through that, though. His prickly exterior had never been hard for her to read, she recognized it, she dawns the same spiky coat, the warmth that’s settled over her for years.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Then why are you laughing?”
“M’not.”
Jon’s hands pause, and she frowns.
“Fine, why were you laughing?”
He pulls at the thread, always hungry for more knowledge, always willing to pull a loose thread til it unravels the whole jumper. It’s light-hearted, but Jon approaches what he perceives as a secret with the same determination with which he approaches literally everything. And that– the idea that Jon is just as eager to know why she’s laughing as he is to learn all the secrets of the institute– forces another chuckle out of her.
Jon pouts at her, she doesn’t have to turn around to see to know it. She can feel his gaze burning into her back. He could just Know it if he really wanted, but Daisy trusts him not to. He knows she’d wring his scrawny little neck if he did.
“Guess.”
“Guess? I’m a terrible guesser.”
“You’re a researcher, you guess things all the time.”
“I was a researcher, and they’re not guesses, they’re educated inferences!”
“Fine. Educately infer, then.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Then stay curious.”
She can feel him weighing his options, before eventually giving in.
“Were you thinking of something funny?”
“It’s not 20 questions, Jon, that’s way too vague.”
“So that’s a yes, then.”
Daisy says nothing, and Jon places his hands back on her. She doesn’t startle, Jon, in spite of everything, is very touchy. It’s just not very traditional, but she can feel his affection when he hangs on her arm, uses her as a crutch. When he leans against her at the pub after he’s had too many beers, complaining about the aftertaste. When he sits practically in her lap when they listen to the Archers, eyes narrowed at the radio as if it was the reason the characters made the dumb decisions they did. She barely heard any of the actual show because of Jon talking on and on about how stupid everyone in it is. When he holds her hand when they’re in public because the crowds make both of them nervous. How sometimes he’ll grab her by the arm and drag her to see whatever silly thing he finds in the corner shop.
Her shirt is off, has been for, God, 4 hours now? She doesn’t know when this started, this ritual between the two of them. Maybe a year ago? Fairly soon after Jon pulled her from the dirt, helped her find her way, it rained. She felt it, an ache in her bones as her throat closed up. She felt like she was choking, like she was in that god-forsaken hell. She was growling and snarling without even realizing, and everyone had steered clear of her except for Jon. He had been speaking in low, soothing tones, not dissimilar to how he talked to the Admiral. At some point she must have grabbed him, because she could feel him, once she came back to herself trembling in her lap as he rubbed circles into her waist.
She can feel him thinking behind her, can practically hear the gears turning in his head.
“Figure it out yet?”
“No.” He’s frowning and she can hear it so clearly. He’s such an open book.
She finally turns her head to face him, and she finds that, obviously, she was right. He is frowning. It suits his face.
“Guess you’ll never know.”
She leans back into him, he smells like cigarettes and shame, and as she headbutts his jaw she can feel his heartbeat tick up slightly. She’s so close to his neck, and the scar she inflicted is in stark contrast with his skin.
Jon doesn’t pull away though. He might never stop being afraid of her, he certainly should be. Just like she’ll never stop being afraid of him completely.
After all, who isn’t afraid of monsters?