Sometimes, getting too close to emotions with Daisy will spook her, send her running into a place Fever can't reach. It's been something she's accepted over the course of knowing her, years of understanding the delicate balance between saying too much or not enough, slowly building all that. But sometimes, delicacy isn't called for. Sometimes, someone just needs to act, instead of worrying about what happens when or where or what will occur in the aftermath.
So Fever does, without thinking too hard about it. She moves closer, arms out, and gathers Daisy into an embrace to just hold her. Like this, she can hide her face, and if she needs to weep, it'll be in safety. She doesn't have to know anything. Not what to do, or what to feel, or how to keep moving. She doesn't have to know any of it beyond what her heart feels.
A flash of tension comes and goes, reflex and instinct, but Daisy doesn't try to escape the embrace—no shoving hands, no jerking back, no panicked struggling. Even as she struggles to breathe, she stays.
Seconds pass. Her breathing steadies, slowly.
And then her arms wrap back around Fever and she breaks down into heaving sobs.
Fever closes her eyes, keeping her hold secure, feeling Daisy's body wracked with sorrow. She's warm, and she's not letting go, and she's not moving away. Here, she doesn't have to be fierce or strong or hold up. If it wants to drown her, then they'll float together, until the tide finally lets up again. Here, with Fever tucking her head a little closer, letting her blouse soak up the tears without a second thought.
Her heart aches, and her eyes prickle for a second in sympathy. There's no murmurs of it's okay or telling Daisy to shhh. No. No trying to lessen this or make it end before she's ready. To cry when you really need to, after so long of not, is like tearing your own chest open to let your lungs breathe. Infinitely painful, but it's the only way through.
Parts of her reignited by Blood rail against the display of weakness, against the idea of any of this mattering at all (nothing would matter if she didn't keep caring, didn't keep letting people in—). Parts of her that make her snarl through the tears—turning the violent sound into something wet and pitiful; make her want to lash out and tear and hurt—but she won't, she won't, turns her claws in on her own palms before she'd ever turn them on Fever. She'll heal.
She hates being unable to breathe right. Hates being unable to fill her lungs without sputtering, sobbing, smothering herself. Can't help it. Can't control the way crying chokes her almost as readily as the Choke itself. Can't get out from the weight of all of these things together, pressing down upon her, keeping her in place.
She snarls and chokes and curls her claws into her fists, and Fever's grip does not loosen. One hand on Daisy's back slowly rubs, that innate instinctive gesture to bring comfort and peace, and Fever knows with a dim certainty that even if Daisy were to shift into a beast and sink in her teeth, vent her anguish as rage, Fever still wouldn't let go. It's okay. It's okay to feel it all, and gods how she knows how difficult it can be.
This is the price of caring. This is the price of love. There will always be the risk of loss, a void in the world that is shaped by what-is-not, places that feel so deeply empty that one has to learn to move around and through. And with such things, the question of if it's worth it always springs to mind. But she's seen the eyes of someone who didn't care, and she thinks that's answer enough to say that it is.
Can't keep it up forever. The body isn't weak, but her emotional capacity is spread thin over so wide a space it's difficult to cling without it slipping through her fingers. The tears slow, the sobs reduce to heavy breathing, the skin of her palms heals.
She's still here. The tide's gone back out. She survived the weeping, and no one thinks less of her for it. Fever doesn't think Daisy'll go so far as to sleep like this, but she does know that feeling of being utterly scraped raw from the inside out. It's exhausting emotionally, with a heaviness that only really sinks in afterwards.
It's okay. Daisy survived.
Only when the silence is extended does Fever murmur something very, very softly.
"Do you want water?"
That means Fever would have to get up, but it might be needed.
Daisy has to think about that for a long moment. Her body's signals and needs aren't exactly normal at the best of times, especially when it comes to food and hydration. "I-I don't— I don't think so."
Maybe it'll catch up with her later, she doesn't know. But for now she doesn't think it'll help much.
Not into another room, not even off this bed. She'll be here until Daisy decides she needs or wants something - to speak, to move, to drink water, to call Basira again.
Daisy doesn't say anything, but she breathes, and she settles, head tucked against the crook of Fever's neck and her eyes closed. Not asleep, just... trying to be as close to at peace as she can be. Her heart is still racing and she still doesn't seem to like being in one position without subtle shift for too long, but it's close enough.
She asks as a matter of courtesy. But she knows, she'd fled through that part of the world, felt it on her own back. Kill or be killed. Hunt or be prey. Overbearing, all encompassing. To Daisy, it must have felt like being plunged straight back into her own nightmares?
A tight nod against Fever's shoulder. A slow breath in, and out, as she tries to cling to the silence between the pounding blood. The quiet hasn't been so hard to find in... in a long time, now.
"The second. I stepped into it. It had me. I couldn't— I couldn't—" Inhale, exhale. Claws into palm. "I-I still needed it."
She's far from the only person who had those overwhelming presences take over, far from the only one who fell. But after so long fighting, to be thrown right back - her hand goes up to her friend's hair, gently stroking it. It's quieter here. She promises.
Don't blame yourself, she wants to say. How is one soul supposed to withstand something like that? When it already tore itself a passageway through her flesh and blood? When she could not have even begin to brace herself for it? But of course she blamed herself. Because it would seem so terribly easy, that she should have just tried harder.
"...I think if I hadn't done everything I did before, that Slaughter would have done the same to me. Wholly, immediately. And it still gripped in these..stretches of time. It felt like coming home. The most beautiful thing you can imagine."
Another deep, shaking breath. "I-It was— it was disgusting. And amazing. And I needed it and—"
Teeth in tongue. Taste the iron. Quiet the rush. Swallow and breathe and try to remember what it means to be her, not It. The Hunt chose her and she chose it and it will not let her revoke that choice, even from worlds away. It will always find her.
(It was never supposed to be here.)
"If 'Sira hadn't— hadn't done. What she did." Gave away her own humanity. Let the Eye take her. "I-I don't think... I don't think I'd be me. Anymore."
Still. Still, the threat was there. Those forces changed people, ripped them apart - put them back together in strange and unnatural ways. And understanding that these were things Daisy knew had made Fever's heart ache, when it all came together. Is it truly any wonder Daisy understood how deep her former chains ran?
Not to chastise, not to try and convince her that somehow this self-hatred is irrational, but to say the words that have been in the bedrock of their friendship from the start. I know. I know, because I would do the same. Did do the same. Still do the same.
Daisy presses her face deeper into Fever's shoulder and stands upon the bedrock, finds reassurance in its existence. They both know. They both know all too well.
"Made it. So long. Not hurting people. And now—" Inhale, exhale. "Don't feel safe. Going into town."
Not a fear of her own safety, no. A fear of others safety.
The nod is more felt than seen, a soft movement on her side.
"...Then get it out of your system. Hurt me until you don't feel like you'll be a threat to others anymore."
To Daisy, it might seem like it's a bizarre sacrifice coming out of nowhere. But Fever's going somewhere with this - a place a different friend took her before, when she was uncertain and fearful and hurting badly.
She pulls back enough to look her in the face, red eyes fixed and steady.
"You're in control, Daisy. Maybe you weren't then, maybe there will be times you aren't. But right now, no one can make you do anything you don't want to. I'm here, close enough that if you were a danger, if you were that much of a risk of hurting others, I'd already be dead. This is a choice you're making."
To prove her point, she reaches out, wiping away the remaining tear tracks with a gloved hand.
"Not saying you have to force yourself to act like nothing happened. Just that you're not as close to the edge as you feel like you are."
Choice, again. It always circles back to that: the power of choices, those you know you're making and those you don't.
"I—" she starts, then clamps her mouth shut, whatever she was going to say dying on her tongue. She's not even sure what it was. "...you're not scared of me."
Hard to say if that's meant to be a point of argument or a point of recognition.
Daisy snorts weakly. "...you stink worse now. Just so you know."
Everyone does. Every mark that reflected the Fears without ever having truly touched them is now ignited and alive the way the marks on those from her own world were and are. Like the plastic wrap's been taken off.
She chuckles at the idea of stinking worse - thinks of a clever joke about perfume, and shelves it. Instead, she nods at what else is said, and Daisy can see it this time.
"You've got a pretty fair team to help your fight. Doesn't matter how long it takes."
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hadnoright) wrote2022-11-01 01:56 am
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So Fever does, without thinking too hard about it. She moves closer, arms out, and gathers Daisy into an embrace to just hold her. Like this, she can hide her face, and if she needs to weep, it'll be in safety. She doesn't have to know anything. Not what to do, or what to feel, or how to keep moving. She doesn't have to know any of it beyond what her heart feels.
no subject
A flash of tension comes and goes, reflex and instinct, but Daisy doesn't try to escape the embrace—no shoving hands, no jerking back, no panicked struggling. Even as she struggles to breathe, she stays.
Seconds pass. Her breathing steadies, slowly.
And then her arms wrap back around Fever and she breaks down into heaving sobs.
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Her heart aches, and her eyes prickle for a second in sympathy. There's no murmurs of it's okay or telling Daisy to shhh. No. No trying to lessen this or make it end before she's ready. To cry when you really need to, after so long of not, is like tearing your own chest open to let your lungs breathe. Infinitely painful, but it's the only way through.
cw: self-harm
Parts of her reignited by Blood rail against the display of weakness, against the idea of any of this mattering at all (nothing would matter if she didn't keep caring, didn't keep letting people in—). Parts of her that make her snarl through the tears—turning the violent sound into something wet and pitiful; make her want to lash out and tear and hurt—but she won't, she won't, turns her claws in on her own palms before she'd ever turn them on Fever. She'll heal.
She hates being unable to breathe right. Hates being unable to fill her lungs without sputtering, sobbing, smothering herself. Can't help it. Can't control the way crying chokes her almost as readily as the Choke itself. Can't get out from the weight of all of these things together, pressing down upon her, keeping her in place.
Grief and fear like roots.
no subject
This is the price of caring. This is the price of love. There will always be the risk of loss, a void in the world that is shaped by what-is-not, places that feel so deeply empty that one has to learn to move around and through. And with such things, the question of if it's worth it always springs to mind. But she's seen the eyes of someone who didn't care, and she thinks that's answer enough to say that it is.
The love doesn't go away, even if the people do.
no subject
Can't keep it up forever. The body isn't weak, but her emotional capacity is spread thin over so wide a space it's difficult to cling without it slipping through her fingers. The tears slow, the sobs reduce to heavy breathing, the skin of her palms heals.
She still doesn't try to get away.
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It's okay. Daisy survived.
Only when the silence is extended does Fever murmur something very, very softly.
"Do you want water?"
That means Fever would have to get up, but it might be needed.
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Daisy has to think about that for a long moment. Her body's signals and needs aren't exactly normal at the best of times, especially when it comes to food and hydration. "I-I don't— I don't think so."
Maybe it'll catch up with her later, she doesn't know. But for now she doesn't think it'll help much.
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Not into another room, not even off this bed. She'll be here until Daisy decides she needs or wants something - to speak, to move, to drink water, to call Basira again.
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Daisy doesn't say anything, but she breathes, and she settles, head tucked against the crook of Fever's neck and her eyes closed. Not asleep, just... trying to be as close to at peace as she can be. Her heart is still racing and she still doesn't seem to like being in one position without subtle shift for too long, but it's close enough.
Eventually, she murmurs, "I couldn't. Resist it."
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She asks as a matter of courtesy. But she knows, she'd fled through that part of the world, felt it on her own back. Kill or be killed. Hunt or be prey. Overbearing, all encompassing. To Daisy, it must have felt like being plunged straight back into her own nightmares?
cw: self-harm
A tight nod against Fever's shoulder. A slow breath in, and out, as she tries to cling to the silence between the pounding blood. The quiet hasn't been so hard to find in... in a long time, now.
"The second. I stepped into it. It had me. I couldn't— I couldn't—" Inhale, exhale. Claws into palm. "I-I still needed it."
no subject
She's far from the only person who had those overwhelming presences take over, far from the only one who fell. But after so long fighting, to be thrown right back - her hand goes up to her friend's hair, gently stroking it. It's quieter here. She promises.
Don't blame yourself, she wants to say. How is one soul supposed to withstand something like that? When it already tore itself a passageway through her flesh and blood? When she could not have even begin to brace herself for it? But of course she blamed herself. Because it would seem so terribly easy, that she should have just tried harder.
"...I think if I hadn't done everything I did before, that Slaughter would have done the same to me. Wholly, immediately. And it still gripped in these..stretches of time. It felt like coming home. The most beautiful thing you can imagine."
It's not your fault. It's not.
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Another deep, shaking breath. "I-It was— it was disgusting. And amazing. And I needed it and—"
Teeth in tongue. Taste the iron. Quiet the rush. Swallow and breathe and try to remember what it means to be her, not It. The Hunt chose her and she chose it and it will not let her revoke that choice, even from worlds away. It will always find her.
(It was never supposed to be here.)
"If 'Sira hadn't— hadn't done. What she did." Gave away her own humanity. Let the Eye take her. "I-I don't think... I don't think I'd be me. Anymore."
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Still. Still, the threat was there. Those forces changed people, ripped them apart - put them back together in strange and unnatural ways. And understanding that these were things Daisy knew had made Fever's heart ache, when it all came together. Is it truly any wonder Daisy understood how deep her former chains ran?
"...how much do you hate yourself for it?"
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All she says, the rough edge of distress on every syllable: "Completely."
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Not to chastise, not to try and convince her that somehow this self-hatred is irrational, but to say the words that have been in the bedrock of their friendship from the start. I know. I know, because I would do the same. Did do the same. Still do the same.
no subject
Daisy presses her face deeper into Fever's shoulder and stands upon the bedrock, finds reassurance in its existence. They both know. They both know all too well.
"Made it. So long. Not hurting people. And now—" Inhale, exhale. "Don't feel safe. Going into town."
Not a fear of her own safety, no. A fear of others safety.
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"...Then get it out of your system. Hurt me until you don't feel like you'll be a threat to others anymore."
To Daisy, it might seem like it's a bizarre sacrifice coming out of nowhere. But Fever's going somewhere with this - a place a different friend took her before, when she was uncertain and fearful and hurting badly.
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"What?" There's an immediate shift in her voice, firmer where the shock impacts. "No! I'm not going to— no."
Even as the blood still pounds, so goddamn loud it hurts.
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She pulls back enough to look her in the face, red eyes fixed and steady.
"You're in control, Daisy. Maybe you weren't then, maybe there will be times you aren't. But right now, no one can make you do anything you don't want to. I'm here, close enough that if you were a danger, if you were that much of a risk of hurting others, I'd already be dead. This is a choice you're making."
To prove her point, she reaches out, wiping away the remaining tear tracks with a gloved hand.
"Not saying you have to force yourself to act like nothing happened. Just that you're not as close to the edge as you feel like you are."
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Choice, again. It always circles back to that: the power of choices, those you know you're making and those you don't.
"I—" she starts, then clamps her mouth shut, whatever she was going to say dying on her tongue. She's not even sure what it was. "...you're not scared of me."
Hard to say if that's meant to be a point of argument or a point of recognition.
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Not even if she'd seen her in the heart of the Hunt, contorted into its beast with a beating heart.
"You only scared me a little when I couldn't figure out why you had that look on your face when you saw me."
And then she had learned it was the scent, and nothing to do with herself.
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Daisy snorts weakly. "...you stink worse now. Just so you know."
Everyone does. Every mark that reflected the Fears without ever having truly touched them is now ignited and alive the way the marks on those from her own world were and are. Like the plastic wrap's been taken off.
"It's— it's hard." Not an argument. Just truth.
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"You've got a pretty fair team to help your fight. Doesn't matter how long it takes."
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