[ by the time daisy darkens the doorway of the space they're calling home, tired has become more than just an adjective. it's a state of mind, a part of her personality; it hangs from her bones like so much weight, exhaustion evident in the dirt that's ground itself into her skin, exposing every laugh line and each dash of crow's feet across her face.
wanda, called out in between coat shuffling to the floor, pooling at the bottom of the coathanger as it has so many times before. there's no immediate answer, so daisy moves on. her satchel finds its home on the couch, tucked into a corner where it's immediately swallowed up in the pile of pillows serving as a backrest; belt and shoes too are deposited, discarded somewhere in the length of the hallway.
she considers calling out again. it's late, though — late enough that the sky's long since given out on keeping any sort of light in it, thick clouds muddling any remaining starlight and leaving the world draped in inky blackness. the girl's probably asleep, daisy assumes; might as well crawl into bed, too.
perhaps it's that assumption that prevents her from bothering to turn on the light. whoops? don't shoot, wanda, don't shoot. ]
[ wanda is twitchy enough to shoot, but it's tempered by grief -- so much grief. she doesn't even realize she didn't turn any of the lights on in the apartment, small bathroom off the bedroom illuminated only by the phone in her lap and little floating orbs of red light.
she finally hears daisy as she slips into the room, trying to shake herself out of grief to call out, flicking a wrist to turn the bathroom light on as the red lights dissolve. ]
Daisy. [ it's a croak. ] In here.
[ wanda should move, but instead she stays draped in the bathtub, legs dangling over the side, empty bag of doritos on the floor in front of her next to the half empty bottle of red wine. ]
[ that explains the coldness of the sheets, at least. if the scene wasn't so sad — as so many scenes have felt these days, blue painting over everything in the loss of so many — she might be reassured by the stretch of skin dangled over the side of the tub.
daisy settles herself on the floor, the thin cotton fabric of her camisole serving as a barrier between bare back and the freezing porcelain of the tub; with a soft huff, she takes a swig from the bottle of red, half-empty and room temperature. better than nothing. god, she's tired of nothing. ]
How long have you been in here, [ not that she blames her. they're both just tired. emotionally, obviously; physically, too. daisy's spent the better part of eighteen hours on the ground, boots pounding into dirt scouring the city for survivors and those in need of help. ] Have you eaten anything?
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take all your troubles, put them to bed.
wanda, called out in between coat shuffling to the floor, pooling at the bottom of the coathanger as it has so many times before. there's no immediate answer, so daisy moves on. her satchel finds its home on the couch, tucked into a corner where it's immediately swallowed up in the pile of pillows serving as a backrest; belt and shoes too are deposited, discarded somewhere in the length of the hallway.
she considers calling out again. it's late, though — late enough that the sky's long since given out on keeping any sort of light in it, thick clouds muddling any remaining starlight and leaving the world draped in inky blackness. the girl's probably asleep, daisy assumes; might as well crawl into bed, too.
perhaps it's that assumption that prevents her from bothering to turn on the light. whoops? don't shoot, wanda, don't shoot. ]
no subject
she finally hears daisy as she slips into the room, trying to shake herself out of grief to call out, flicking a wrist to turn the bathroom light on as the red lights dissolve. ]
Daisy. [ it's a croak. ] In here.
[ wanda should move, but instead she stays draped in the bathtub, legs dangling over the side, empty bag of doritos on the floor in front of her next to the half empty bottle of red wine. ]
no subject
daisy settles herself on the floor, the thin cotton fabric of her camisole serving as a barrier between bare back and the freezing porcelain of the tub; with a soft huff, she takes a swig from the bottle of red, half-empty and room temperature. better than nothing. god, she's tired of nothing. ]
How long have you been in here, [ not that she blames her. they're both just tired. emotionally, obviously; physically, too. daisy's spent the better part of eighteen hours on the ground, boots pounding into dirt scouring the city for survivors and those in need of help. ] Have you eaten anything?
[ besides the chips. ]