I just do not understand why this is so offensive to you. That I cannot wait on the sofa while I read or watch television. And if I happen to fall asleep, still waiting for you, why is that so bad?
because purposefully sleeping on the couch or the floor is very different than accidentally falling asleep watching tv and between the two of us, you're not the one who accidentally falls asleep
[ he was going to have a sandwich from some street vendor. it would probably not be a good sandwich but he was going to eat and then go sit on the sofa and stare at the television without turning it on, probably. ]
[ he was man with many hidden depths. and he was currently stretched out on the sofa (with his feet hanging off the end because no sofa was meant for a man his size) while the television blared on about something or other. a historical documentary that he'd been following a little earlier. ]
Yes, [ though she tries to stifle the pride in her voice. they'd accomplished what they meant to, a difficult task even in good circumstances, and she'd gotten out well before midnight. that was something to be happy about.
and yet, here they were, both bristling from a non-argument over text about something that didn't even matter. all that energy just coursing through her system, needing an out one way or another. ]
[ he had no crick in his neck nor were any of limbs cramping. perhaps it wouldn't be a great spot to sleep for any lengthy amount of time but he was fine for now. he probably would have been fine if he had fallen asleep. ]
[ and she's always in a state of disbelief, because it's always bullshit. he might be functionally capable of laying on that couch, but it sure as hell wasn't as comfortable as the bed. laying with your feet hanging off and your head tipped upwards at a strange angle was not comfortable.
daisy can't quite shake the urge to scream. she could go for a run, but turning and walking back out the door so soon after arriving seems a little too rude. so she just stands in the kitchen, feeling her whole body vibrate with all that pent-up energy, staring at him as if waiting for anything at all to happen. ]
Why are you staring at me? [ it's easy to feel the tension flitting between them, back and forth like a volleyball that neither of them wants to keep for too long. she's standing there staring and he's laying there, refusing to move. ]
I am always fine. [ he's glad they agree. he stares at her a moment longer, wondering if she wanted to say something or do something but eventually moves his gaze back to the ridiculous documentary that's been on for what seems like hours. ]
[ a huff under her breath as she turns to the kitchen counter, various takeout boxes splayed out in front of her. clearly, he's not hungry. she's not even really hungry anymore, either. maybe she should just put it all in the fridge for tomorrow. ]
On the fucking couch, I swear. Like you're crowdsurfing or something.
[ he'd been willing to leave it alone, let it lie, agree to disagree on this whole sofa thing but then she starts muttering and while only hears the first part, he knows she's still going on with her mumble.
he stares after her, brow furrowed and mutters something sharp in russian because it's just a sofa. he just laying on the sofa, waiting for her to come back and what is so bad about that? ]
I'm going to sleep.
[ he could argue further but maybe that was what she wanted. so, he does the opposite and stands up, straightening his shirt and eyeing her for a long second before turning to head to the bedroom.
[ oh. well. whatever's in the food containers gets no more than a second of thought as soon as illya turns tail for the bedroom; daisy almost immediately yanks the fridge door open, sweeping everything inside and closing the door again with a satisfying thump.
to his back, she mutters a bitter curse. ] Coward. [ and then flings herself on the couch now vacated, willing herself not to be emotional. she's just... annoyed, that's all. flight or fight urge repressed into nothing — totally logical to feel frustrated about it. ]
[ oh well. he'd been planning on going to bed but that one words stops him in his tracks. his spine straightens and he stiffens, standing there like a wall's just been rolled in front of him.
eventually, he turns back around and comes into view, staring down at her. ]
[ snippy, rude; as if daring him to say something of it. even from her seated position on the couch, there's an undeniable tension. a readiness to throw down, even verbally.
they could make it physical, if they wanted to. ]
Go to bed. You can't even stand to talk to me anyway.
What is your problem? All of this over a sofa? Over the fact that I was on the sofa, waiting for you?
[ is she really getting this angry and this defensiver over his choice of furniture? it is ridiculous and absolutely insane. he has no idea what has happened tonight. ]
You are being ridiculous. [ you were, daisy. his opinion is always right. ] If this is how you want it, fine. I'll go to bed.
[ he'd stomp to bed the bedroom is what he'd do. ]
Stop, [ practically screamed out as soon as the words stop spilling from his mouth, before he can completely manage to turn away. she feels a little ... overworked, yelling like that, but it seems to stop him. does the trick, anyway. ] You don't get to act like this is all my fault!
[ she's not the one who keeps shutting down, ending conversations by refusing to reply or walking away or just outright ignoring her when she speaks. she tries. ]
You don't get to just walk away like a fucking coward every time we disagree about something! You can't do that! [ it's not fair. it leaves her alone to process all her emotions, shaking and upset and in desperate need of an outlet that doesn't exist; half the time, she winds up having one too many drinks or going on too long of a run too late at night or just feeling miserable for the whole day if she can't manage to get a spar in between briefings and agent duty.
the last time they'd argued via text, she'd spent the entire day snapping at everyone in her wake until she'd had a chance to punch the metaphorical daylights out of a reinforced punching bag. ]
I am not a coward. [ it takes quite the row to get him to raise his voice but this time, it happens. it's not much louder than he usually is but he doesn't think he needs to be. he gets the point across just fine. but that doesn't stop him from stepping closer to her, using his height to loom a bit though his hands stay at his sides. ]
So, I am supposed to just stand there and let you tell me the things I do are stupid? No. Do not call me a coward again.
[ he does not know how but the warning comes out anyway while he breathes loudly, glaring down at her like he's the one who wants to scream. ] Don't. I'm asking you politely. I won't do that again.
[ she ought to be afraid. maybe she is. or maybe she wants to fight — craves that outlet for this godawful nervous energy that refuses to quit, the kind that makes her voice and her hands shaky and unsteady, the kind that makes her jaw tight as she glares right back at him. ]
I wouldn't have to, if you didn't — [ each word bitten off, crystal clear and intentional ] — do stupid, arrogant, cowardly shit, Illya.
[ an uncomfortable pause drags on for a half minute, and daisy gets up, squaring her shoulders even as she stands a foot and change shorter. she's angry enough to make up the difference. ]
[ no, he wasn't going to hit her. that thought doesn't even come close to crossing his mind. he's breathing hard, chest heaving and adrenaline pumping. he wants to lunge forward and crowd her, he wants to grab her and throw her back down on the sofa where he can climb over her but he does none of that.
instead he curses, spitting russian words as he closes the gap between them with two steps. he stops then, making sure this was what he wanted to do. the decision is an easy one. yes, this is what he wants to do. ]
Fuck you.
[ it is the rare american curse word, something that he perhaps uses once a year. this situation feels like an opportune time but he doesn't stand around to revel in it. no, he grabs for her shoulders and shoves hers backwards, backing her into a wall and letting his body follow hers, bending down to cover her lips with his in a rough, almost bruising kiss. ]
[ the russian doesn't phase her. it's a regular occurrence, whether in anger or frustration or just plain boredom, and daisy so rarely thinks about whether or not she understands the words. she can read the context just fine — and right now, she's not surprised that he's angry.
she is surprised, though, when he curses in words she understands. that is rare; her face snaps up to stare at him, eyes going wide; her mouth opens to question him, but it's cut off by his own slamming into hers, demanding and greedy and filled with that same heated energy that's been burning a hole in her chest all evening.
fuck you, he says, and daisy can't really disagree.
not when the sudden slam of her back hitting the living room wall earns a groan that rolls into a low whine of appreciation, her own hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. it's not a fight, but they'll make it one — or daisy will, in any case, her teeth catching along his bottom lip the second they part for air, tugging hard enough to elicit a hiss of pain in the process. ]
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then sleep in your own bed and stop sleeping on the couch like you're some exiled boyfriend
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[ she was so going to find him on the couch tonight when she arrived. ]
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and that's really going to put a kink in my plans for after work
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[ it doesn't sound bad to him. ]
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and between the two of us, you're not the one who accidentally falls asleep
[ IT'S HER, REMEMBER ]
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[ he does sleep, daisy. ]
You are making a lot of incorrect assumptions here.
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the problem's that i work late and you won't sleep in our bed if i'm not there?
you realize how absolutely stupid that sounds, right?
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[ he was going to have a sandwich from some street vendor. it would probably not be a good sandwich but he was going to eat and then go sit on the sofa and stare at the television without turning it on, probably. ]
There is no problem. I'll see you later.
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so instead of answering, she just goes back to work, gets the pick-up order (she already paid for it, might as well), and then goes home.
she's a little less pleased to see him on the couch than she might normally be. ]
You are, without a doubt, the most obnoxious man I've ever met. [ and yet... ] And somehow, the only one I've ever been willing to live with.
[ lucky for him? ]
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Did you have a productive night at work?
[ at least he wasn't asleep? ]
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and yet, here they were, both bristling from a non-argument over text about something that didn't even matter. all that energy just coursing through her system, needing an out one way or another. ]
Are you comfortable?
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[ he had no crick in his neck nor were any of limbs cramping. perhaps it wouldn't be a great spot to sleep for any lengthy amount of time but he was fine for now. he probably would have been fine if he had fallen asleep. ]
I'm fine.
[ always fine. ]
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[ and she's always in a state of disbelief, because it's always bullshit. he might be functionally capable of laying on that couch, but it sure as hell wasn't as comfortable as the bed. laying with your feet hanging off and your head tipped upwards at a strange angle was not comfortable.
daisy can't quite shake the urge to scream. she could go for a run, but turning and walking back out the door so soon after arriving seems a little too rude. so she just stands in the kitchen, feeling her whole body vibrate with all that pent-up energy, staring at him as if waiting for anything at all to happen. ]
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I am always fine. [ he's glad they agree. he stares at her a moment longer, wondering if she wanted to say something or do something but eventually moves his gaze back to the ridiculous documentary that's been on for what seems like hours. ]
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[ a huff under her breath as she turns to the kitchen counter, various takeout boxes splayed out in front of her. clearly, he's not hungry. she's not even really hungry anymore, either. maybe she should just put it all in the fridge for tomorrow. ]
On the fucking couch, I swear. Like you're crowdsurfing or something.
[ she's mostly mumbling to herself. ]
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he stares after her, brow furrowed and mutters something sharp in russian because it's just a sofa. he just laying on the sofa, waiting for her to come back and what is so bad about that? ]
I'm going to sleep.
[ he could argue further but maybe that was what she wanted. so, he does the opposite and stands up, straightening his shirt and eyeing her for a long second before turning to head to the bedroom.
and the bed. finally. ]
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to his back, she mutters a bitter curse. ] Coward. [ and then flings herself on the couch now vacated, willing herself not to be emotional. she's just... annoyed, that's all. flight or fight urge repressed into nothing — totally logical to feel frustrated about it. ]
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eventually, he turns back around and comes into view, staring down at her. ]
What.
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[ snippy, rude; as if daring him to say something of it. even from her seated position on the couch, there's an undeniable tension. a readiness to throw down, even verbally.
they could make it physical, if they wanted to. ]
Go to bed. You can't even stand to talk to me anyway.
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[ is she really getting this angry and this defensiver over his choice of furniture? it is ridiculous and absolutely insane. he has no idea what has happened tonight. ]
You are being ridiculous. [ you were, daisy. his opinion is always right. ] If this is how you want it, fine. I'll go to bed.
[ he'd stomp to bed the bedroom is what he'd do. ]
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[ she's not the one who keeps shutting down, ending conversations by refusing to reply or walking away or just outright ignoring her when she speaks. she tries. ]
You don't get to just walk away like a fucking coward every time we disagree about something! You can't do that! [ it's not fair. it leaves her alone to process all her emotions, shaking and upset and in desperate need of an outlet that doesn't exist; half the time, she winds up having one too many drinks or going on too long of a run too late at night or just feeling miserable for the whole day if she can't manage to get a spar in between briefings and agent duty.
the last time they'd argued via text, she'd spent the entire day snapping at everyone in her wake until she'd had a chance to punch the metaphorical daylights out of a reinforced punching bag. ]
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So, I am supposed to just stand there and let you tell me the things I do are stupid? No. Do not call me a coward again.
[ he does not know how but the warning comes out anyway while he breathes loudly, glaring down at her like he's the one who wants to scream. ] Don't. I'm asking you politely. I won't do that again.
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I wouldn't have to, if you didn't — [ each word bitten off, crystal clear and intentional ] — do stupid, arrogant, cowardly shit, Illya.
[ an uncomfortable pause drags on for a half minute, and daisy gets up, squaring her shoulders even as she stands a foot and change shorter. she's angry enough to make up the difference. ]
What are you going to do, then? Hit me?
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instead he curses, spitting russian words as he closes the gap between them with two steps. he stops then, making sure this was what he wanted to do. the decision is an easy one. yes, this is what he wants to do. ]
Fuck you.
[ it is the rare american curse word, something that he perhaps uses once a year. this situation feels like an opportune time but he doesn't stand around to revel in it. no, he grabs for her shoulders and shoves hers backwards, backing her into a wall and letting his body follow hers, bending down to cover her lips with his in a rough, almost bruising kiss. ]
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she is surprised, though, when he curses in words she understands. that is rare; her face snaps up to stare at him, eyes going wide; her mouth opens to question him, but it's cut off by his own slamming into hers, demanding and greedy and filled with that same heated energy that's been burning a hole in her chest all evening.
fuck you, he says, and daisy can't really disagree.
not when the sudden slam of her back hitting the living room wall earns a groan that rolls into a low whine of appreciation, her own hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. it's not a fight, but they'll make it one — or daisy will, in any case, her teeth catching along his bottom lip the second they part for air, tugging hard enough to elicit a hiss of pain in the process. ]
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