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The past few days have been... difficult. Any attempts to reconcile his guilt with how (meta)physically good he feels have gone about as well as they ever have, both sensations heightened by just how many bloody people were involved. He eats as little as he can get away with under Martin's concerned gaze — some part of him ought to be hungry — and holes up in either their flat or his office, dreading the possibility, however slim, that he might see someone he preyed on the other night. He hasn't yet decided if being recognized would be worse than the alternative. He is too cowardly to want the answer to that question anytime soon.

The majority of his private moments are spent dwelling on what he witnessed: because he doesn't deserve to forget what he put people through; because he wants to wring every scrap of potential nourishment out of the memories as quickly as possible and render them useless; because, on a base level he hates to acknowledge, it is nourishing. It's the best fucking thing to happen to the Archivist all year.

And 'dwelling' is what he's doing now, sat on the floor next to the coffee table, a barely-touched cup of tea gone stone cold at his elbow. Martin is out on one of his walks — a reluctant step towards the idea of normalcy that John had gently bullied him into. It's better for both of them, really: Martin gets to stretch his legs and get some fresh air, and John gets a temporary reprieve from the twin torments of Martin either trying to make him feel better or being sad that he can't. His gaze has slipped out of focus, but it sharpens when there's an unanticipated knock on the door.

He knows the brisk, implacable rap of Daisy's knuckles by now, and he stares across the flat at the front door for only a beat or two before puffing out a sigh and hauling himself to his feet. He pads over to the door, unlocks it, and eases it open a few inches. "What?" he asks in a low croak, wincing a little at how unfriendly he sounds.

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"You didn't want to, did you," she points out, less a question and more a reminder.

When she'd come back from the Buried — when John had helped her come back — she'd made her decision. She'd gotten to be herself, really be herself, underground like that, in a way she hadn't been in long enough that she hadn't even been sure she knew who she was anymore. Daisy, the Hunt, they were one entity in such a way that she had never been able to excuse her behavior, but once cleanly severed, she'd known: she doesn't want to be the Hunt. Things are different in Darrow. She needs the Hunt, needs to use it, and does. But John still helps her make sure she doesn't lose herself in it.

He'd helped her then, and has helped her now, because she'd asked him to. But he'd never asked for that in return. Whether because he'd thought he was in control, or because he saw the Eye as less invasive than the Hunt, she doesn't know, but he hadn't sought out that same restraint.

He winces faintly at the reminder, a thousand rejoinders clamoring to be aired, none of which are really airable. He could try to argue, 'of course I did,' but that wouldn't be true. After the Coffin, he hadn't considered his own missteps as being on par with hers. He'd entertained the idea that he was suffering his own sort of compulsion, that none of it was a choice he was free to either make or refuse. And Christ, he'd seen what Daisy's decision was doing to her. He can see it on her now, for all that Darrow's influence seems to have arrested its progress.

He hadn't wanted that, and he still doesn't. He couldn't bear the idea of becoming too hungry to function, or too weak to be of any use to anyone. If he ever manages to throw his life away, it'll be in service of Martin's continued survival, not out of any noble intention to go out cleanly, without harming anyone else. He'd made his choice in hospital, and there are aspects of what he's become that aren't optional.

But the taking was optional. He can survive without it, in both theory and practice. And while he wants to imagine this is a one-off, a desperate measure some part of him took out of desperate necessity, he can only call it a stop-gap if some other solution intends to present itself. And so far, it hasn't.

"I don't— I-I can't just... chuck it all out," he replies at length. "Can't stop being the Archivist. But I..." he huffs, gesturing vaguely towards his own head, as if the Archivist is a physical parasite lodged in the back of his skull. "I don't know how to-to stop fucking hunting in my sleep. Since that's apparently a, a thing now."

It's different for him, she knows that. The Hunt has never made Daisy get up in her sleep and go do things. She's never had dreams that sent her into the world to kill monsters. She's always been in control of herself. She can get hungry for the Blood and choose not to do anything and all that'll happen is that she won't do anything. She'll get thinner, again, and she'll get weaker, again, but she won't hurt anyone, or anything, unless she chooses to.

John doesn't have that luxury, and they both know it. That's the scary part, for her. Even if he chooses to stop Looking, to stop Knowing, he'll still take Statements whether he means to or not. This only proves that with a blunt certainty that has left him bruised and small and she wants to rip the Archivist from him to stop him looking like that.

But she can't.

She sighs softly.

"So we find you something so you don't get that hungry again," she says, like it's the simplest fucking thing. She knows it isn't, and reckons it'll piss him off to hear it, but she says it anyway. "Host a bloody giveaway: send us a written record of a weird thing and you'll win a hundred dollars." It's not funny, but she scoffs out a mirthless laugh at the idea.

John cuts her a sharp look, and takes another swig of his drink to keep himself from snapping any of the obvious retorts. The idea of there being some simple solution they've all missed is mostly just an insult, though a small part of him feels a stab of dread over the possibility, however slim, that his latest bender could've been avoided if they'd all been a bit less stupid. So it's almost a relief when Daisy's suggestion fails to strike him as especially promising.

"Oh, that's a brilliant idea," he replies acidly. "Let's ask the whole city if anything terrifying has happened to them recently. Can't imagine what they might come up with." He coughs out some distant cousin of a laugh. "Then we can tell them where to find us, and see how long it takes someone to try and put me in the fucking ground again."

He almost regrets his choice of phrasing, given current company, but he certainly isn't in the mood to apologize for it. The nearest he can get to remorse is just avoiding Daisy's gaze as he takes another sip.

Edited 2023-06-28 00:15 (UTC)

"I wouldn't let them," she says lowly, with the same dark insistence she'd used back in London when she'd stopped Trevor Herbert the day she'd arrived in Darrow. She takes a deep pull from her glass. She refuses to react to even a suggestion of The Buried. Whether he'd meant it to hurt her or not, she won't flinch.

She sighs softly at the way he avoids her gaze, mistaking it for frustration with her, rather than any level of remorse. It's earned, probably. She's too much of a blunt instrument when it comes to looking for solutions. She wants to find the fastest, shortest route, even if it isn't necessarily the simplest. She's too impatient, and she wants to help John feel better, not make it worse. Maybe right now, in this moment, 'finding a solution' is exactly the wrong move to make.

She leans to grab the bottle, topping off their glasses.

"Anyway, don't snap at me," she says without heat. "I brought drinks, remember?"