[ If most anyone else looked at her like that, she would probably be annoyed by it. Coulson would get a pass, of course, but even Simmons' concern would be shrugged off in her current state. There's something about Dream, though. Instead of irritation, she feels endearment toward the man (can he technically be called that?) who seems genuinely concerned about her.
It feels nice to have someone worry about Daisy the person and not Daisy the superhero who has to keep saving them all. Seems like that doesn't happen very often these days. ]
I'll be fine. [ It's her usual answer, but it's true this time, and spoken with intent. Reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket, she pulls out a little white bottle. ] These will help.
[ Giving it a shake to let him hear the pills rattling inside, she pops the cap and puts the bottle to her lips. A few tablets hit her tongue and she swallows them dry before closing the bottle and shoving it back in her pocket. ]
⟪ it’s a good thing that dream doesn’t need saving then. or does he. she is no superhero in his eyes. she’s human, and no, not just, like she believes herself to be. the uniqueness of human beings both fascinates and frustrates him, a beautifully wrapped cluster of so much potential that is, unfortunately, too often wasted. perfect imperfections, the lot of them, and daisy stands out for reasons he knows and ignores, the urge to untangle everything that makes her her simmering beneath his skin. it’s been a while since he felt that kind of warmth, but where his heart’s learnt to beat irregular, he won’t allow it to bloom. it’s nothing conscious, at least for the moment. it’s just there, underneath all of his reservations, his doubts, his yearnings, shielded by a hefty dose of caution. he’s been burnt too many times, and a scalded cat will always fear cold water.
sometimes, dream of the endless is a little too human for his own good.
the white bottle doesn’t ring any bell; drugs, most likely. he acknowledges her response with a nod, watching her swallow as the woman named bev comes with daisy’s order. he waits until she’s gone to speak again, one palm flat against the hard surface of the table, the other lightly curled around his still-full cup. ⟫
Humanity shall rest peacefully tonight. ⟪ which includes her, no nightmares involved. a little frown appears between his brows, forcing him to amend: ⟫ Perhaps until a fully identifiable threat reveals itself to me. ⟪ but not too long. nightmares do serve a purpose, and he can’t keep them at bay forever.
his gaze falls to the empty cup of coffee, remembering daisy’s question. ⟫ My associate has a keen interest in the occult, and she has served me well. As did her ancestor. I’ve no doubt that she will successfully elucidate this matter. ⟪ hopefully before it's too late. ⟫
[ Even if he did know more about human medicine, he wouldn't recognize the pills she's just taken. They're a SHIELD specialty designed to help bones heal faster, and she's taken hundreds of them since receiving her power. For most missions, she wears the gauntlets that help protect her arms from damage, but for the times when she isn't able to properly suit up, she's more than happy to rely on a little pharmacological assistance.
Bev deposits the omelet in front of Daisy along with a fresh mug that she fills nearly to the brim. The other woman has seen the SHIELD agent come in at all hours of the night and knows just how she likes her coffee: black and steaming hot.
Yet even though she prefers taking her semi-crappy diner coffee black, she still reaches over to the little container of sugar packets at the side of the table, plucking three out with an easy motion that goes into unwrapping her roll of silverware. The sugar packets are lined up along the edge of the table before she grabs fork and knife to dig into her meal. ]
Not sure how I'll put even half of this into a report without sounding insane or causing a panic, but I'll figure it out tomorrow. [ She's already been ordered to take the day off. Chewing her bite of omelet, she swallows and then sighs heavily. ]
God, it'd be nice to actually sleep for once. [ It's said mostly to herself, tone implying doubt that it'll happen, before she drink a gulp of coffee, trying to fight off the exhaustion that's already trying to make her feel sick. All she needs is some caffeine and she'll be just fine. ]
⟪ three packets of sugar. three. left obsolete along the edge of the table, almost like it’s nothing more than a mechanical gesture without real intent. dream watches her silent as she eats and drinks, briefly observing his own “meal” before deciding that he isn’t thirsty. he doesn’t need sustenance. most of what he eats or drinks is made of dream stuff, and even then, it’s nothing necessary. daisy savors her food with worn enthusiasm, and dream just sort of stares — anothing thing that fascinates him.
but despite what he just assured, she seems to doubt. ⟫
You will. ⟪ sleep, that is. there’s no trace of impatience in his voice, a raspy promise, a note of hazy fondness and mild satisfaction. if she looks up and peers long enough, she’ll see the vague shape of twin stars in his eyes, the beginning of galaxies swirling bright and glimmering.
his hand glides across the table, his gaze following suit; one sugar packet pinched between the tip of his fingers, dream studies its captive content with unfocused interest. ⟫
I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you had met your fair share of oddities. ⟪ he peeks up, curiosity in the arch of his brow. has she not written beyond bizarre reports before? ⟫
[ He sounds so certain, she almost believes him. Daisy honestly can't remember a time when her nights haven't been plagued by nightmares. Of course, her childhood fears and torments were very different things than what she suffers from now, but they'd been no less traumatic. The idea of being able to sleep through a night and get actual rest... It sounds a bit like a dream itself, to be honest.
She realizes after a few bites of food that he's watching her so intently in a way that should be disconcerting — but she doesn't actually mind it. He doesn't feel like he's watching her for a weakness; rather, he's studying her as if trying to solve a puzzle out of interest. Her eyes lift from her plate to meet his, and what she sees there is. Well. It's definitely not in her imagination.
Holy shit.
Her attention is pulled away from those mesmerizing eyes when she catches movement at the corner of her vision. His elegant fingers pick up one of the sugar packets she'd purposefully placed along the edge of the table and she tenses, her fingers gripping the fork tight as she forces her breathing to remain steady.
It's just a stupid sugar packet. It doesn't need to mean anything. And yet she can't keep the echo of distress off her face as she watches his hand. ]
Could you put it back, please?
[ He can't possibly understand how much it takes for her to make that quiet, strained request. She's willingly baring her vulnerability to him, allowing him to see the weakness he'd unknowingly uncovered, and it hurts in a way she could never hope to explain. ]
⟪ the odd thing is, dream usually keeps his hands to himself. touch is complicated, and holding the entire collective unconscious at his core more or less forces him to remain implacable. he isn’t, truly. his capacity to feel is as potent as the wildest figment of any dream, its terrible depths and its fantasies, and that is exactly why he can’t afford to let his emotions bubble to the surface, a threat not only to himself but to all dreamers. it’s the reason why he usually appears so collected despite his struggles, so distant, lest he be consumed. and it’s an every day fight.
for some reason, he allowed his guard to lower here, reaching out for something of hers. there was no need to touch, and he’s paying the price of his distraction — she is, anyway, pale anguish twisting her expression, her voice strained under the assault of unknown troubles.
dream withdraws immediately, always gentle in the way he moves, gestures ethereal. and he searches her gaze for an answer he doesn’t find. he struck a nerve, that much is certain, but why. two hours ago she had no qualms about getting all up in his space, and dream catching one corner of the sugar packet between his fingers has visibly upset her. ⟫
My apologies. ⟪ there’s an ugly thing here, underneath her brave façade, something she battles every second of her waking life. dream doesn’t pry, knowing all too well what it’s like to be prodded when you feel uncomfortable. what’s more, she’s already been defensive once before, and clearly he’s stepped where he doesn’t belong. his mouth thins, pursed pensive. the chair scrapes the floor as he prepares to rise, a vague shadow of regret in his gaze. ⟫
I bid you farewell— ⟪ and then he stops, his lips holding the shape of his last word as he finally thinks to ask — considerate for the first time tonight, maybe. ⟫ You have many names. What do you wish to be called?
[ No. What did she just do? She allowed him to see a part of her she always keeps buried deep, showing the world a mask instead of the fragile girl inside, and look where it's gotten her. He's leaving, just like everyone always does when she doesn't meet their expectations, and it's breaking something inside her that she's had to repair so many times before.
Cold floods through her as she watches his chest instead of his face, trying so hard to keep her expression blank when some part of her wants to break apart right there in this place she's come to think of as safe. She doesn't want to speak, she might not be able to keep her voice steady, but he asks her a question that is so important that she can't let it go unanswered. ]
Daisy. [ It's whispered like a vow, or perhaps a plea, and then she looks down at the tabletop where his hand had been just a few moments ago. ]
I'm sorry, I didn't mean— [ The apology rushes out of her and she has to bite it off, forcing herself to remember they only just met. If he leaves now and she never sees him again, she'll be fine. She's always fine when someone leaves. ] Call me Daisy.
⟪ softly spoken, each syllable deliberately articulated like he was just given the key to a treasure she’s long hidden from the world. he knows of its significance, of what it must mean to her — or he thinks he does, but he has already assumed a number of things he probably shouldn’t have, so. still, the name pleasantly rolls off the tongue, and dream thanks her silently, a nod wreathed in subtle reverence. ⟫
You need not apologize. ⟪ none of this — whatever this is — is her fault. he misread her, plain and simple. he didn’t think, and her previous statement from a few hours ago rings even heavier now. ⟫
You claim that I do not know you… ⟪ if he vaguely agreed earlier, he fully accepts her verdict now; the ghost of a smile touches his lips, though it’s more tentative than anything else, barely there — maybe even a trifle timid. ⟫ …and I fear you may be right. ⟪ despite his reluctance to admit his failure, there’s intent in the way he speaks, in the unspoken promise that he still means, genuinely, to remedy it. that he’s willing to learn. he doesn’t mean to leave out of disappointment — or forever for that matter. he’s just wary of himself now, and the boundaries he overstepped. ⟫
But the threat is contained, for now. And I must return to the Dreaming.
[ The way he says her name... He treats it like she's given him a gift, and she has to wonder if he understands how much it means to her. To grow up not knowing anything about herself, and to finally find those pieces of who she was supposed to be — her name, her birthday, the place she was born... Does he know how important such simple things can be to a person like her?
That smile on his lips is nothing like it should be. She's never seen a brilliant grin light up his face, but she knows it's what he deserves to wear. And as crazy as it seems, she wants to be the one to give it to him, to make up for the mistakes she's made today.
That unspoken promise feels like too much to hope for. Why would he want to fix it? He's... something she can't fully comprehend, and she's just Daisy Johnson. Why would he want to expend the energy to get to know her like that? (But she wants him to. It makes no sense whatsoever, but she wants him to come back and try again.) ]
When will I see you again? [ It's another vulnerability, letting him see that she wants to see him again, but after everything else tonight, might as well go all in. There's not much else to lose. ]
⟪ dream, per the definition of his function, is always more appealing than reality. it might explain his overall magnetism, and perhaps the reason why daisy wants him to come back again. he knows his purpose, and what he is; hope and desires. fantasies and fears. ideas and stories and ambitions. he’s used to his dreamers basking in every single thing he encompasses, but being wanted by the fully awakened object of his fascination strikes a chord he’d long forgotten, buried deep where he tends to repress all the things that threaten to drive him mad.
they surge all at once, stirred alive; daisy wants to see him again, the hesitance in her voice a hint of concern that she might not, and dream has to reach deep within the confines of his self-imposed inexorability to rein himself in, overwhelmed in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. for what feels like a small eternity, he simply stares, a wary glint in his eyes that soon dissolves into the reflection of all that warmth spreading through his chest, new galaxies bursting to life.
get it together.
his chest rises full, his nostrils flare, and then the tempest abates, leaving in its wake an agonizing little thing in the space between each heartbeat. he exhales soft, slowly coming back to his senses, but it’s already painted his expression more hopeful than it should be, ⟫
Look for me, when next you close your eyes. ⟪ and he wonders, not without a modicum of quiet excitement, what her dream will be like.
he rises at last, a bow of his head. and he leaves, in desperate need of a distraction. ⟫
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It feels nice to have someone worry about Daisy the person and not Daisy the superhero who has to keep saving them all. Seems like that doesn't happen very often these days. ]
I'll be fine. [ It's her usual answer, but it's true this time, and spoken with intent. Reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket, she pulls out a little white bottle. ] These will help.
[ Giving it a shake to let him hear the pills rattling inside, she pops the cap and puts the bottle to her lips. A few tablets hit her tongue and she swallows them dry before closing the bottle and shoving it back in her pocket. ]
no subject
⟪ it’s a good thing that dream doesn’t need saving then. or does he. she is no superhero in his eyes. she’s human, and no, not just, like she believes herself to be. the uniqueness of human beings both fascinates and frustrates him, a beautifully wrapped cluster of so much potential that is, unfortunately, too often wasted. perfect imperfections, the lot of them, and daisy stands out for reasons he knows and ignores, the urge to untangle everything that makes her her simmering beneath his skin. it’s been a while since he felt that kind of warmth, but where his heart’s learnt to beat irregular, he won’t allow it to bloom. it’s nothing conscious, at least for the moment. it’s just there, underneath all of his reservations, his doubts, his yearnings, shielded by a hefty dose of caution. he’s been burnt too many times, and a scalded cat will always fear cold water.
sometimes, dream of the endless is a little too human for his own good.
the white bottle doesn’t ring any bell; drugs, most likely. he acknowledges her response with a nod, watching her swallow as the woman named bev comes with daisy’s order. he waits until she’s gone to speak again, one palm flat against the hard surface of the table, the other lightly curled around his still-full cup. ⟫
Humanity shall rest peacefully tonight. ⟪ which includes her, no nightmares involved. a little frown appears between his brows, forcing him to amend: ⟫ Perhaps until a fully identifiable threat reveals itself to me. ⟪ but not too long. nightmares do serve a purpose, and he can’t keep them at bay forever.
his gaze falls to the empty cup of coffee, remembering daisy’s question. ⟫ My associate has a keen interest in the occult, and she has served me well. As did her ancestor. I’ve no doubt that she will successfully elucidate this matter. ⟪ hopefully before it's too late. ⟫
no subject
Bev deposits the omelet in front of Daisy along with a fresh mug that she fills nearly to the brim. The other woman has seen the SHIELD agent come in at all hours of the night and knows just how she likes her coffee: black and steaming hot.
Yet even though she prefers taking her semi-crappy diner coffee black, she still reaches over to the little container of sugar packets at the side of the table, plucking three out with an easy motion that goes into unwrapping her roll of silverware. The sugar packets are lined up along the edge of the table before she grabs fork and knife to dig into her meal. ]
Not sure how I'll put even half of this into a report without sounding insane or causing a panic, but I'll figure it out tomorrow. [ She's already been ordered to take the day off. Chewing her bite of omelet, she swallows and then sighs heavily. ]
God, it'd be nice to actually sleep for once. [ It's said mostly to herself, tone implying doubt that it'll happen, before she drink a gulp of coffee, trying to fight off the exhaustion that's already trying to make her feel sick. All she needs is some caffeine and she'll be just fine. ]
no subject
⟪ three packets of sugar. three. left obsolete along the edge of the table, almost like it’s nothing more than a mechanical gesture without real intent. dream watches her silent as she eats and drinks, briefly observing his own “meal” before deciding that he isn’t thirsty. he doesn’t need sustenance. most of what he eats or drinks is made of dream stuff, and even then, it’s nothing necessary. daisy savors her food with worn enthusiasm, and dream just sort of stares — anothing thing that fascinates him.
but despite what he just assured, she seems to doubt. ⟫
You will. ⟪ sleep, that is. there’s no trace of impatience in his voice, a raspy promise, a note of hazy fondness and mild satisfaction. if she looks up and peers long enough, she’ll see the vague shape of twin stars in his eyes, the beginning of galaxies swirling bright and glimmering.
his hand glides across the table, his gaze following suit; one sugar packet pinched between the tip of his fingers, dream studies its captive content with unfocused interest. ⟫
I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you had met your fair share of oddities. ⟪ he peeks up, curiosity in the arch of his brow. has she not written beyond bizarre reports before? ⟫
no subject
She realizes after a few bites of food that he's watching her so intently in a way that should be disconcerting — but she doesn't actually mind it. He doesn't feel like he's watching her for a weakness; rather, he's studying her as if trying to solve a puzzle out of interest. Her eyes lift from her plate to meet his, and what she sees there is. Well. It's definitely not in her imagination.
Holy shit.
Her attention is pulled away from those mesmerizing eyes when she catches movement at the corner of her vision. His elegant fingers pick up one of the sugar packets she'd purposefully placed along the edge of the table and she tenses, her fingers gripping the fork tight as she forces her breathing to remain steady.
It's just a stupid sugar packet. It doesn't need to mean anything. And yet she can't keep the echo of distress off her face as she watches his hand. ]
Could you put it back, please?
[ He can't possibly understand how much it takes for her to make that quiet, strained request. She's willingly baring her vulnerability to him, allowing him to see the weakness he'd unknowingly uncovered, and it hurts in a way she could never hope to explain. ]
no subject
⟪ the odd thing is, dream usually keeps his hands to himself. touch is complicated, and holding the entire collective unconscious at his core more or less forces him to remain implacable. he isn’t, truly. his capacity to feel is as potent as the wildest figment of any dream, its terrible depths and its fantasies, and that is exactly why he can’t afford to let his emotions bubble to the surface, a threat not only to himself but to all dreamers. it’s the reason why he usually appears so collected despite his struggles, so distant, lest he be consumed. and it’s an every day fight.
for some reason, he allowed his guard to lower here, reaching out for something of hers. there was no need to touch, and he’s paying the price of his distraction — she is, anyway, pale anguish twisting her expression, her voice strained under the assault of unknown troubles.
dream withdraws immediately, always gentle in the way he moves, gestures ethereal. and he searches her gaze for an answer he doesn’t find. he struck a nerve, that much is certain, but why. two hours ago she had no qualms about getting all up in his space, and dream catching one corner of the sugar packet between his fingers has visibly upset her. ⟫
My apologies. ⟪ there’s an ugly thing here, underneath her brave façade, something she battles every second of her waking life. dream doesn’t pry, knowing all too well what it’s like to be prodded when you feel uncomfortable. what’s more, she’s already been defensive once before, and clearly he’s stepped where he doesn’t belong. his mouth thins, pursed pensive. the chair scrapes the floor as he prepares to rise, a vague shadow of regret in his gaze. ⟫
I bid you farewell— ⟪ and then he stops, his lips holding the shape of his last word as he finally thinks to ask — considerate for the first time tonight, maybe. ⟫ You have many names. What do you wish to be called?
no subject
Cold floods through her as she watches his chest instead of his face, trying so hard to keep her expression blank when some part of her wants to break apart right there in this place she's come to think of as safe. She doesn't want to speak, she might not be able to keep her voice steady, but he asks her a question that is so important that she can't let it go unanswered. ]
Daisy. [ It's whispered like a vow, or perhaps a plea, and then she looks down at the tabletop where his hand had been just a few moments ago. ]
I'm sorry, I didn't mean— [ The apology rushes out of her and she has to bite it off, forcing herself to remember they only just met. If he leaves now and she never sees him again, she'll be fine. She's always fine when someone leaves. ] Call me Daisy.
no subject
⟪ softly spoken, each syllable deliberately articulated like he was just given the key to a treasure she’s long hidden from the world. he knows of its significance, of what it must mean to her — or he thinks he does, but he has already assumed a number of things he probably shouldn’t have, so. still, the name pleasantly rolls off the tongue, and dream thanks her silently, a nod wreathed in subtle reverence. ⟫
You need not apologize. ⟪ none of this — whatever this is — is her fault. he misread her, plain and simple. he didn’t think, and her previous statement from a few hours ago rings even heavier now. ⟫
You claim that I do not know you… ⟪ if he vaguely agreed earlier, he fully accepts her verdict now; the ghost of a smile touches his lips, though it’s more tentative than anything else, barely there — maybe even a trifle timid. ⟫ …and I fear you may be right. ⟪ despite his reluctance to admit his failure, there’s intent in the way he speaks, in the unspoken promise that he still means, genuinely, to remedy it. that he’s willing to learn. he doesn’t mean to leave out of disappointment — or forever for that matter. he’s just wary of himself now, and the boundaries he overstepped. ⟫
But the threat is contained, for now. And I must return to the Dreaming.
no subject
That smile on his lips is nothing like it should be. She's never seen a brilliant grin light up his face, but she knows it's what he deserves to wear. And as crazy as it seems, she wants to be the one to give it to him, to make up for the mistakes she's made today.
That unspoken promise feels like too much to hope for. Why would he want to fix it? He's... something she can't fully comprehend, and she's just Daisy Johnson. Why would he want to expend the energy to get to know her like that? (But she wants him to. It makes no sense whatsoever, but she wants him to come back and try again.) ]
When will I see you again? [ It's another vulnerability, letting him see that she wants to see him again, but after everything else tonight, might as well go all in. There's not much else to lose. ]
no subject
⟪ dream, per the definition of his function, is always more appealing than reality. it might explain his overall magnetism, and perhaps the reason why daisy wants him to come back again. he knows his purpose, and what he is; hope and desires. fantasies and fears. ideas and stories and ambitions. he’s used to his dreamers basking in every single thing he encompasses, but being wanted by the fully awakened object of his fascination strikes a chord he’d long forgotten, buried deep where he tends to repress all the things that threaten to drive him mad.
they surge all at once, stirred alive; daisy wants to see him again, the hesitance in her voice a hint of concern that she might not, and dream has to reach deep within the confines of his self-imposed inexorability to rein himself in, overwhelmed in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. for what feels like a small eternity, he simply stares, a wary glint in his eyes that soon dissolves into the reflection of all that warmth spreading through his chest, new galaxies bursting to life.
get it together.
his chest rises full, his nostrils flare, and then the tempest abates, leaving in its wake an agonizing little thing in the space between each heartbeat. he exhales soft, slowly coming back to his senses, but it’s already painted his expression more hopeful than it should be, ⟫
Look for me, when next you close your eyes. ⟪ and he wonders, not without a modicum of quiet excitement, what her dream will be like.
he rises at last, a bow of his head. and he leaves, in desperate need of a distraction. ⟫