for Daisy

[statement_ends]

January 19th, very early:

John supposes he could try to sleep, just as a way to pass the time. But, aside from his general avoidance of sleeping during normal hours for his victims' sakes, he just doesn't want to, and isn't even sure he could. He's still too — Christ, it feels childish, but there's probably no more apt term — giddy to imagine lying down and, and settling.

And (speaking of childish): it's hard to fully squash the fear that sleeping would give this all the opportunity to be a mere dream. Never mind that he hasn't had a good dream since he woke up in hospital. Trust this to be the first, and only because of the misery it would induce upon waking. Just a touch of the Spiral to make things interesting — or the Lonely, more like.

So when Martin eventually drops off, John spends a few antsy minutes wondering what to do with himself before giving in and texting Daisy. He feels a bit bad for waking her, but when he manages to coax her over with a promise of coffee, his regret dissipates. It'll be good to see her in person. There's just something so solidly real about Daisy.

She's a fast runner, but it's a fair distance across town, so John tries to take his time tidying up a little (he doesn't want to sweep away all the evidence of the day Martin spent here, but he's not soppy enough to let dirty mugs sit around because of who used them last). Then he bundles himself up against the cold night air and goes outside to wait for her arrival.

Might be nice to have a smoke about now, but he knows Martin doesn't approve, and that matters a little more now than it used to. Instead, he wanders to the edge of the light spilled by the Bramford's entryway and looks up at the stars.

Comments

[hear_the_blood]

It's quiet on the streets, and Daisy doesn't sprint over, no matter how much she wants to not be alone right now. She keeps at a quick jog and makes her way from Candlewood to the Bramford. She'd only barely remembered her jacket: it's cold, the wind cutting through her leggings and making her nose and cheeks pink. But by the time she gets to John's building and sees him out front, she's over-warm from the jog, and she pulls her coat off even though they're still outside.

She's wearing a sweater underneath, so it's fine.

"Christ, look at you. Getting poetic already?" she says, voice warm despite the gentle jibe.

[statement_ends]

John drops his gaze when he hears Daisy approach, and then drops it even further at her pointed greeting, tucking his grin into his scarf. At least the darkness goes a long way towards hiding his blush.

"That's Martin's purview," he replies with all the loftiness he can muster. It isn't until he's made the comment that he actually pauses to think about it, and the realization that there is a non-zero chance that Martin might start (or, Christ, resume) writing poetry about him is both mildly embarrassing and far more intriguing than he'd ever care to admit.

He lifts his chin enough to reveal his smile, then leans over to give Daisy a friendly nudge. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the ability to stand outside without having to worry about getting jumped by a murderer."

[hear_the_blood]

Daisy rolls her eyes, meeting the nudge. "Isn't this building supposed to be haunted?" she asks, one eyebrow lifted pointedly. She jerks her chin towards the door, because she'd been promised coffee and she intends to collect.

[statement_ends]

"Yes, but the ghosts don't try to murder me," John replies airily, before amending, "for the most part." Edith has been outright helpful on at least one occasion. It's the thing in the basement he's less sure about, though he's reasonably certain that however ill its intentions, it couldn't do him any lasting harm.

"Good run?" he asks as he lets Daisy into his flat and heads for the kitchen and gets the coffee going. He almost offers her water or something while she waits, but she's been here often enough and knows her way around the tiny kitchen, and there's no need to stand on ceremony. Instead, he just makes sure to stay out of the way of the fridge and the cupboard where the glasses are kept, in case she's so inclined to fetch herself anything.

[hear_the_blood]

She does, making herself right at home as she pours herself a water, then hoists herself up to sit on an empty bit of countertop.

"Fine," she answers with a shrug. "Quiet, at least. Nothing to catch my attention, or at least, nothing more important than four AM coffee." She smirks a little, and although she's still fighting that slightly-too-thin, slightly-too-tired look she's had since coming here, it's not as bad as it had been, and it's not as fresh as to imply that she'd been sleeping poorly or woken up harshly.

[statement_ends]

John hums in response as he spoons some ground coffee into the filter, the sharp, earthy scent of it permeating the kitchen. That's probably a good sign; he gathers that if anything overtly supernatural was in the area, Daisy would pick up on it. And a little quiet sounds like a welcome respite to him, especially now that his focus is firmly fixed elsewhere.

"Nothing fancy, I should warn you," he comments as he starts it brewing. He shifts to lean back against the counter beside her, a distant part of him still faintly surprised that such close proximity to Daisy has become such an easy, comfortable thing. "Though I do have some cinnamon, if you want to make it gourmet." He punctuates the word with a twiddle of his fingers.

[hear_the_blood]

"Ooh, please," she says. "And one of those fancy milk drawings on top, hey? Really liven it up, make it worth the run over here." She's got a small, slightly sarcastic smile on her face, but she knows even if she'd been deadpan that John would know she was only fucking with him.

She drains her water and sets the glass to the side, turning her head to watch him a bit. He looks... happy. Daisy isn't sure she's ever seen that on him before. There's a certain ease to the tension that's normally around his eyes and in his jaw, and maybe a part of it is being here, in this city, where the Entities can't seem to reach them as well. But she knows the real reason, now, and she smiles small.

"I'm happy for you," she murmurs.

[statement_ends]

"Might be a bit abstract," John warns with a small, wry smile, "but I could probably manage something Pollock-esque." Well, if he had any means of steaming milk properly, which he doesn't.

He doesn't meet Daisy's assessing gaze directly, but he's aware of her scrutiny, and it brings a faint flush to his cheeks. The blush only deepens when Daisy says she's happy for him — for both of them, probably — and John ducks his head, lifting a hand to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck.

"Thank you," he says, his voice uncharacteristically small. Risking a glance over at her, he adds, "I mean, it's all—it's all new, and..." he trails off, not quite able to voice any doubts, though they're already starting to coil in his gut and crawl up his throat: it won't last and who are you kidding, old, familiar refrains. He looks away, his gaze skittering nervously across the floor as he tries to swallow them back down.

[hear_the_blood]

"Sure," she says, responding as much to his unspoken fears as his spoken acknowledgement. "But it's good, isn't it? You're together, and that's..." She trails off and nods, silently affirming something. "You both deserve at least a little happiness." She smiles over at him, a small thing that's mostly in her eyes. She really is happy for him — for them.

"And," she adds after a moment, eyes glinting, "if anything tries anything to get in the way of you two being happy, I'll tear it to shreds."

[statement_ends]

He knows she can hear it, all the unspoken doubts he's harboring. She was good at that, after the coffin: lots of other things besides the quiet to listen to when you're not listening to the blood, he supposes. At least it saves him the embarrassment of having to voice anything, to say anything as baldly self-pitying as 'these things don't tend to work out for me' and weather the scorn that would certainly follow.

Maybe he can just take her word for it that happiness is something he might actually deserve.

Still, he can't resist a quiet snort and a dry, "I suppose my own psyche better watch its step, then," as he turns toward the coffee maker and starts to prepare her a cup.

[hear_the_blood]

"Damned right, it should," she quips.

She decides that's it sorted, and while John prepares her a cup, she hops off the counter and makes herself at home on his couch. It's not like either of them take up an especially large surface area, each being as thin as they are, and it's also not like John's couch is especially small. But when John decides the coffee is satisfactory and joins her, she relaxes herself, and lets her knee rest against his thigh.

[statement_ends]

John settles himself beside her, smiling into his cup when she relaxes into a comfortable sprawl, her leg bumping against his. He's never been good at relaxing quite so visibly as Daisy does, but he matches the gentle pressure without conscious thought. They used to spend hours in his office like this, companionably quiet, one casual point of contact that had grown from something bewildering and strange to something easy and comfortable.

Well. Maybe it was never that strange — not after the Buried, when their voices and their tightly clutched hands were all they had.

"Thank you," he says after a few moments. "For, erm... snapping me out of it." He's been prone to spiraling for years, now, and no one's ever shut it down quite as bluntly as Daisy does. It had been a little insulting the first few times she'd done it, but now, he just appreciates it.

[hear_the_blood]

"Oh, shut it," she says, the smallest of smiles in her eyes. She bumps her let a little more firmly against his, then sips her coffee and breathes out a soft sigh.

"You know. This is going to mean more vacation days for you at the office." She glances over at him, a smirk blooming. "If only to save the rest of us from your more obvious mooning."

[statement_ends]

John snorts quietly, a smile playing about his lips as he leans into the press of her leg against his. There's a comfort in not being taken too seriously, even here, where their lives are broadly less fraught than they were back home.

"Oi," he objects, giving her a protesting bonk with his knee. "I'll have you know that we are both professionals. There won't be any mooning on the clock, thank you very much."