#planetsandmagic

Daisy is scared, Daisy is vulnerable, Daisy is a fragile brittle little thing that Basira could break again with the wrong inflection of voice, and it isn't just the PTSD, she's said, it's the real her, the Daisy without the Hunt. Daisy, the real Daisy, is shy and gentle; she still laughs the same laugh, Basira recognises it, the same wry and shitty humour but it's low and soft now. The dark barking laughter that used to scratch matches against Basira's skin, that's gone, that was the Hunt and not Daisy. She still looks at Basira but it's pleading, idolising, weeping — the heat and the hunger and the shivers Basira would get, the thrill of being singled out and pursued, the feeling she got like Daisy would eat her one day, one way or another, metaphorically or not — that was the Hunt and Basira is wrong to have liked it, wrong to miss it, wrong to want it back. The real Daisy has never wanted to pin Basira against a wall and dig her nails and teeth in her, the real Daisy doesn't want to leave her wrecked and bleeding and pulsing with pain and life, the real Daisy doesn't want to hurt her, and all the dirty fantasies Basira has entertained in the years they've known each other have been about some alien entity giving Daisy unnatural urges that now terrify her. In short, bad.

Something else that's bad too, isn't it: resenting your partner for having survived and needing help rather than being help. It's not like it's Daisy's fault. (Except it is, it's Daisy's fault Basira is stuck here, it's Daisy's fault Basira signed this contract, it's Daisy's fault Basira has been fighting to survive and keep this evil place afloat for the last eight months while Daisy was stuck in a coffin —)

(It's Daisy's fault Basira learned to rely on her so much, and can't anymore, now.)

Basira wants to think she isn't a bad person. She's just. Tired. Doesn't want to be mean. But being good and noble only gets you killed faster, or more miserable. And/or.

Then again, so does being an asshole and going it alone; she's not stupid.

She's just tired, so tired.

She rubs her eyes, tells herself the moisture is just from exhaustion. Goes back to her file, pretends that the words are making any sense.

"Basira..."

She drags her gaze back up; it feels almost physically heavy. Daisy is still standing at the threshold of the office, clearly wanting to but not daring to come in; she has her arms around herself in a position that Basira knows well, but all the defiance and provocation is gone and instead it's self-consciousness, anguish, a cry for comfort. She's looking at her feet, but when she detects the movement of Basira's head, she glances back up too.

Daisy still looks at Basira. It's shy, now, almost tearful, but she still watches and she still wants Basira, that much is obvious, for what it's worth.

"What?" Basira groans.

Daisy shifts, unsure. She's never. Looked unsure. For years Basira had been able to live her life without a worry because Daisy was always sure.

Finally, Daisy says: "You should sleep."

She is not saying what she wants to, no spooky powers required to know that.

"So should you," Basira baits, and Daisy winces, clutches her own arms tighter, scratches herself through her clothes apparently thoughtlessly; Basira wonders, idly, if it hurts, if they're sharp claws, if they're retractible like a cat's or it's an even more supernatural system than that.

"I can't..." Daisy starts, stops again. She's never been especially wordy, but now full sentences from her are very near exceptional. "I, er. Not alone."

Goddamnit, she's cute, Basira thinks, defeated and royally pissed about it. Daisy has never been cute. This is wrong, except apparently it’s what’s right.

Basira gives up.

"Yeah, let's go to bed," she sighs, standing up, and Daisy tucks herself under her arm, plasters herself to Basira's hip, all of a sudden nearly jumpy like a dog being taken out for a walk, her gaunt face illuminated, smiling with her gnawed lips and broken teeth and crooked mouth, and it's such fucking whiplash. If you'd asked her eight months ago, Basira would have said that of course she'd seen Daisy happy before, but she's never seen this.

And it's a miracle, is the thing. She needs to shut down her angry bitter cop brain more, because when that stops, she can remember: Daisy being here is a miracle. Daisy is here, Daisy is alive, she's safe (ish), she’s happy — she's here.

She’s here. She's grinning shyly and shoving her nose against Basira's shoulder, breathing her in. She's warm and clingy, and she stinks a bit, and her body is heavy and her legs tangle uncomfortably with Basira's, and there is absolutely not enough room for the two of them on this cot, but why the hell would they sleep alone? Her hands burrow under Basira's night clothes and, yep, no claws but her nails scratch her skin in passing, and she makes an anxious apologetic noise in the back of the throat and presses her palm on the pained spot. She's not a bloodhound anymore but she is a big goddamn puppy and she won't eat Basira up but she evidently cannot get enough of her still. She is utterly, pathetically useless, can't even sleep alone, can’t do much of anything without Basira, but she's here.