Chapter Text
There's a cot in the storage room at the back of the archives where Jon has taken somewhat of a permanent residence. It rests in the corner of the room, nestled between two walls and cardboard boxes filled to the brim with paperwork that rarely anyone goes by these days. It holds little else but two worn-out blankets, a single pillow, and his own weight after he kills the lights well into the early hours and turns in for the day.
This Daisy knows because it was the same cot that Basira had insisted she lay on for the first few days after they’d reached the surface.
She could barely stand on her own. The muscle atrophy had forced her to cling onto the other figure that pulled them both lest she fall face-first on the floor. It was deep rooted, up to the point where breathing felt painful. They’d hurried to carry and let her down on the thin mattress. Then they had taken turns keeping guard through the days that followed.
They didn't have to. She was too exhausted to do much other than let herself fall into a fitful slumber, wake up choking on stale air, and force her eyes shut once more; holding onto the relief that there was air to breathe. She couldn't move, and she's not sure she would have tried to.
The stillness had gotten ahold of her, and even though she had fought against it initially, she eventually gave in. She had been safe, then. Finally, for the moment, she was safe on that cot.
Basira had been there for the longest, or so she assumed. Her face was the one Daisy had woken up to the most, at least. She'd had neither the way nor the desire to keep track of time in the beginning. By the time Jon had showed up more than once, she'd been certain it was a long time.
She still hasn't asked how long she was rendered to the cot, sleeping away the numbness. Truth be told, she's not interested in figuring it out. She'd rather forget it ever happened, but it's not as simple as that.
Basira goes back to her apartment on some nights. Something about the right precautions being taken and needing a change of scenery. At first when the physical therapy was mandatory, she'd brought a pair of sleeping bags and they'd throw them underneath the desks. Daisy couldn't move, and her partner wouldn't risk relocating her without Daisy having at least the possibility of being able to push her own weight on a wheelchair for longer than a minute; so they’d stayed inside the Institute while they made it happen. Daisy can walk now – perhaps not for hours on end just yet, but she no longer needs someone to move around with her at the risk of her knees giving out. She's healing at a faster rate than a normal person would, but still despite Basira's insistence, she has no intention of leaving the premises of the institution (let alone the archival section) for any period of time longer than strictly necessary for the purposes of her recovery.
One of the sleeping bags comes and goes. The other one remains under the desk of one of the former assistants. Of which one she's not sure.Everyone has a place–or rather, a spot–to spend the night. Jon's is the cot in the storage room behind the archive.
This she knows (has known for quite a while, in fact) when she pads her way towards it with less than steady legs and opens the door, quietly but resolutely. She thinks that since she's been lurking around him so often these days that he’d be silly to feign surprise at her presence in his vicinity.The room is dark, but she can still make out the shape of Jon rising from the cot and facing her way as the door closes.
“Daisy? Is everything alright?” His voice, though tired, sounds too clear for him to have just been woken up. That on its own puts her at ease.
“I couldn't sleep,” is all she says as she steps forward and across the room, closer to the cot. Her own voice is quiet and shaky in a way that she still hasn't gotten used to. She knows she will one of these days, but it hasn't happened yet.
She catches him sitting up straight, and she thinks she wouldn't really be surprised to realize that his eyes do hold a faint glow and it’s not just her imagination. “Would you like to talk about it?” He asks, moving aside to make room for her. She lets herself drop onto the too-small mattress beside him.
She shakes her head this time, mindful of answering “No,” in a whisper. “I’d just like to get some sleep.” She grabs the blankets and settles herself underneath them. She lay down on her side without another word, eyes fixed on the man who hasn't moved yet. She’s willing to bet he's sporting a confused frown by his lack of response.
The beat of silence stretches between them, but he makes no attempt to push her away or say something that would. It's a little awkward, although it's not precisely uncomfortable. She just waits, wrapping the covers a tad higher to cover her shoulders, and continues to scrutinize him in case any alerts ring off. When still nothing happens she reaches out carefully, as if not to startle him, and wraps her fingers around his arm. She pulls him down, guiding him back onto the cot and under the blankets with as much strength as she can muster (which, she knows, isn't that much), hoping he’ll follow her lead.
He does, albeit far more reluctantly than she'd like to. He's likely still frowning, and she can feel his eyes on her almost as much as she thinks she can see them, but eventually they're both lying down face to face. At last he's close.
Daisy knows this doesn't come from something natural. Not something normal at all. It's all a twisted, messed up consequence of the events that have her presumed dead by the rest of the world and spending the night in the basement of a (most definitely haunted) two-century-old building. She doesn't let go of her hold on him.
“Good night, Jon.” It's another whisper before she closes her eyes. It's an act, truly. She knows it’ll take her a little more than just this to let herself drift away.
Jon stays awake for a little longer. She can tell by the sound of his breathing – steadily slowing down until it's relaxed and quiet like waves dying on the shore. Only then does she allow the tiredness of the day to seep into her mind, clearing itself of any lingering thoughts that would keep her alert otherwise. She focuses on that single other sound and lets it guide her down into what sometimes is blank and peaceful, and sometimes is cramped and scary.
She's got a feeling that nightmares won't take her this time.
She's about to tip over the brink when she feels a distinct pressure wrap itself around her hand, warm and soft with scar tissue. She has enough of a mind to think, ‘bastard,’ before she falls asleep.