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

[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."