that's like saying world war ii was a bad time. it's technically true, but it doesn't actually tell the story.
[ she huffs a bit, grateful he can't see her. the dressing room is abandoned; though she doesn't say so, she starts to walk back towards the tram station, where she'll (in theory) catch a ride back towards his apartment. maybe. if he doesn't irritate her first. ]
it's fine. you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. i just thought we weren't keeping secrets from each other.
[ he doesn't answer for a very long time. he needs the time to actually figure out if he wants to open this part of himself with her. ]
Early on, I told you what I didn't want to speak about when we talked about my control. Well, this man decided to speak about it. Very loudly and in my face. I didn't like it.
[ and this hadn't even been solo and his information. that had been worse. he'd been ready to kill solo. ]
[ it takes him long enough to answer that by the time the message rolls through her interface, daisy's already boarded a tram. she'll head in that direction, but until he actually replies, she hadn't decided whether she'd actually go.
now, though, she knows she will. she won't leave him alone to deal with the wake of that kind of anger alone. ]
i remember.
[ how sharply he'd redirected her, how quick to cut off that line of questioning he'd been. she knew the emotion must be raw or repressed to trigger that kind of reaction — but she didn't know which was worse. ]
i'm sorry.
[ i'm sorry i wasn't there, she almost says, but it's not the point. her presence probably wouldn't have mattered — as far as daisy knows, anyway. ]
[ about how control was important. about how she wanted to help him master it. about how it worried her when he let go like that, anger unrestrained and unchecked. ]
i hate when you do this.
[ goddamnit. she doesn't mean to hit send, but. well. emotions get the better of her sometimes. ]
[ she doesn't know how to answer at first. it doesn't feel like the kind of thing she should say over a message like this, but she can't just sit in digital silence either.
[ he'd answered the question! he doesn't know what more she wants. he's standing in his bathroom, breathing noisily and trying to figure out what to say. ]
Some of what this...man said was true. About her. He does not know her but I do. Did. And it was not something I wanted to hear. Not from anyone. It reminds me of that time when I was weak. My partner looked up my file before we started working together. He knew everything.
[ it does not take an actual rocket scientist or even a particularly intelligent person to wonder what a fighter who lost in the ring might say about someone else's mom as trash talk. she doesn't know if he means that those sorts of comments are true or just that he doesn't want to hear someone talk about his mother that way, but she can appreciate the sore spot that family can be. she can sympathize with the blind rage it might pull from someone who hasn't had opportunity to actually deal with their emotions. ]
having emotions doesn't make you weak, illya. it just makes you human. if someone talked shit about my parents, i'd want to punch them too. you're not alone in those feelings. you can talk to me about them.
[ he's never talked about this. ever. not with anyone. he knows what his file says and he knows others are aware but he has kept that part of his life in the darkness for decades. ]
say how you feel. or what you feel, if that's easier. why does hearing someone trash talk someone they've never met or even heard of upset you? why did solo reading your file upset you?
you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. but i think it would help.
[ and she is. or will be. becomes? by the time he's out of the shower and dried, daisy's found her way inside. there's a ritual to this: she sheds her clothes, pulls on a shirt, and finds a comfortable spot (the same one, always the same spot) on the bed to wait. ]
[ the truth is that he's weak. she can tell him he isn't but he knows he is. he was weak as a child and after that, he'd vowed to never to let anyone see anything but the stoic, stern man that the kgb had made him into.
but he's weak and he hasn't thought about that locked away past as much in the past few years as he has today. it's staggered him a bit. so, after he dries off and slips into a pair of shorts, he walks into the bedroom and sees here there and, well.
the normal thing would be walk around, put his towel away, kiss her hello, get some water. he does none of those things. he tosses the towel onto the dresser, uncaring if it slid off before crossing over to the bed, climbing on and laying himself on his side so he could shift closer and press his face against her hip, breathe her in, hide from the world and the words for a bit. ]
[ she doesn't expect him to start talking right away. honestly, she doesn't really expect him to talk at all. maybe another time, another day, after he's had a chance to sort his thoughts and figure out what he wants to say, they can talk about it.
she doesn't expect him to burrow into her, either, but she rolls with it. her body shifts to accommodate him, a hand carding into his hair, the other smoothing out across his bare shoulder and upper back in a gentle motion. just enough that he'll feel her touch, but not so much that it's a push to do anything but lay there and breathe. ]
Hey, [ soft, quiet; her nails scratch against his scalp, a gentle trail of her fingertips through his hair. ] It's okay.
[ about his family, his past, a time he'd locked away and called unimportant. he'd been but a boy then, a slave to his emotions and unable to control himself. he'd learned how to live and survive, how to kill and maim and that had made him strong.
perhaps he was starting to learn that that wasn't exactly true. he presses his fae a little more tightly against her side, allowing himself to be weak, to hide from the world for at least a few more moments. ]
[ not with her, not right now. she wants him to be able to talk about this, but if it's easier to do so with a professional or after he's had a chance to sort his mind, she won't begrudge him that. ]
But you can. [ she's not going anywhere. that much, she can reassure him of. ] I'll listen, if you want me to. Or you can just lay here for a while, if that makes you feel better. Up to you.
[ so, couldn't he just do that? keep it all buried? it's what he's been doing for the majority of his life, after all, and he's only had...a few explosions. not many. less than twenty that were really bad.
even opening himself up that tiny bit has him feeling exposed and vulnerable in ways he's not used to. he can't protect himself when he's talking about this. ]
I'm better at this. [ keeping quiet. listening. letting it simmer. he's very good at that.
Okay. [ and it is. it's not passive-aggressive or disappointed, it's simply acknowledgement, quiet understanding. she lets him lay there as his breathing steadies, her hand carding through his hair, fingertips dragging patterns along his scalp.
they lay in silence for a while, companionable and comfortable. when daisy speaks, it's soft; not a push for him to speak too, but an attempt to soothe. to share a little, in the wake of his small admission, to ease the pain of that exposure of sore memories by sharing some of her own. ]
When I was little, the nuns at St Agnes used to tell us that our parents would come back for us some day. No one's ever did, but I think they thought it would make us feel better. That we weren't abandoned because someone didn't want us, but because someone loved us so much they tried to give us a better life. That when things were better, they'd come back for us and we could be together again.
[ daisy's never had. no one's parents ever came back, but daisy always took it personally. always wondered if it was a flaw in her code, something she'd done or said, that kept them away. if she'd failed somehow. ]
I went through so many foster homes. Six in six years, more before and after, never for more than a few months. I stopped unpacking after a while — didn't see the point. I'd get comfortable, get my hopes up, and wind up back in St Agnes' again anyway. "Not a good fit", they used to say.
I guess after a while, I stopped wanting a foster mom. I just wanted mine, you know? I wanted to find my family, because I knew they had to be out there. So I left.
[ she goes on to tell him about rising tide, about how she'd hacked into shield, about how coulson had convinced her to stay rather than turning her in. the end of her quest... only to find herself on it again later. ]
Honestly, I probably should have just let myself believe they were gone. Because finding them, after two decades of desperately wanting to know, wound up being worse than knowing nothing at all. Realizing that they weren't good people, that they'd done terrible things …
[ she pauses, fingertips lifting to fish out her necklace from under her shirt, gaze dropping to skim over the two coins and the key that now hung from the red cord. ]
My mother tried to kill everyone I cared about, and when I stopped her, she tried to kill me. [ a beat. ] She would have succeeded, if my father hadn't killed her first.
[ she's never, not once, told a single soul that before. not even coulson, not even may. she's never told anyone what happened between her, cal, and jiaying that day. only that jiaying had died, and that cal deserved something better than prison. ]
My father's memories were wiped. He doesn't know who I am, or who he used to be. He thinks he's — he's a vet now, under a fake name. I don't know if that's better or worse.
[ as if she's run out of steam, daisy stops, shoulders sagging a bit as she pulls him to her just that much closer, his weight heavy against her. ]
I worry sometimes, you know? That I'm going to wind up like her someday. Or like him. That I'm going to lose my shit someday and just … destroy something, somebody, because I can't control myself. [ she swallows, throat tight. ] I don't want you to carry that kind of fear, Illya. I don't want you to have to keep all of that inside you, because I tried to and it nearly killed me. I don't want it to do that to you.
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[ she huffs a bit, grateful he can't see her. the dressing room is abandoned; though she doesn't say so, she starts to walk back towards the tram station, where she'll (in theory) catch a ride back towards his apartment. maybe. if he doesn't irritate her first. ]
it's fine. you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.
i just thought we weren't keeping secrets from each other.
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Early on, I told you what I didn't want to speak about when we talked about my control. Well, this man decided to speak about it. Very loudly and in my face. I didn't like it.
[ and this hadn't even been solo and his information. that had been worse. he'd been ready to kill solo. ]
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now, though, she knows she will. she won't leave him alone to deal with the wake of that kind of anger alone. ]
i remember.
[ how sharply he'd redirected her, how quick to cut off that line of questioning he'd been. she knew the emotion must be raw or repressed to trigger that kind of reaction — but she didn't know which was worse. ]
i'm sorry.
[ i'm sorry i wasn't there, she almost says, but it's not the point. her presence probably wouldn't have mattered — as far as daisy knows, anyway. ]
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[ he'd be breathing funny too. ]
I am going to take a shower but you can let yourself in if you decide to come by.
[ he'd already taken a shower. he needs another one to cool down. ]
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[ about how control was important. about how she wanted to help him master it. about how it worried her when he let go like that, anger unrestrained and unchecked. ]
i hate when you do this.
[ goddamnit. she doesn't mean to hit send, but. well. emotions get the better of her sometimes. ]
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Do what?
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that would be worse. ]
don't shut me out.
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[ he thinks that's the truth. he knows he's not an open individual but he doesn't think he's shutting her out. ]
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[ don't say "it's fine". it's not fine. you probably busted a guy's face open for throwing around made up trash talk about your mom. IT'S NOT FINE. ]
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[ does she want to know about his feelings? his family? his diagnosed anger issues? all of the above? none the above? ]
I feel fine now.
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[ illya, please. you're not an actual moron. you know what she meant. ]
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[ wrong place, wrong time, wrong topic, wrong man. put them all together and mix it up and you get one loss of control special. ]
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there are four stops left on this tram.
give me an actual answer, or i'll take the hint and leave you alone for the night.
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Some of what this...man said was true. About her. He does not know her but I do. Did. And it was not something I wanted to hear. Not from anyone. It reminds me of that time when I was weak. My partner looked up my file before we started working together. He knew everything.
I was ready to kill him.
[ hadn't but...the thought was there. ]
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[ it does not take an actual rocket scientist or even a particularly intelligent person to wonder what a fighter who lost in the ring might say about someone else's mom as trash talk. she doesn't know if he means that those sorts of comments are true or just that he doesn't want to hear someone talk about his mother that way, but she can appreciate the sore spot that family can be. she can sympathize with the blind rage it might pull from someone who hasn't had opportunity to actually deal with their emotions. ]
having emotions doesn't make you weak, illya.
it just makes you human.
if someone talked shit about my parents, i'd want to punch them too. you're not alone in those feelings.
you can talk to me about them.
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[ he's never talked about this. ever. not with anyone. he knows what his file says and he knows others are aware but he has kept that part of his life in the darkness for decades. ]
I do not know what to say.
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why does hearing someone trash talk someone they've never met or even heard of upset you? why did solo reading your file upset you?
you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. but i think it would help.
[ a beat. ]
i'll be home soon, okay?
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[ home. a good word. he wishes he were more observant to really let that word hit him but he's not. ]
I am going to shower. I'm not trying to shut you out. I just need to shower and then I will...try.
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[ and she is. or will be. becomes? by the time he's out of the shower and dried, daisy's found her way inside. there's a ritual to this: she sheds her clothes, pulls on a shirt, and finds a comfortable spot (the same one, always the same spot) on the bed to wait. ]
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but he's weak and he hasn't thought about that locked away past as much in the past few years as he has today. it's staggered him a bit. so, after he dries off and slips into a pair of shorts, he walks into the bedroom and sees here there and, well.
the normal thing would be walk around, put his towel away, kiss her hello, get some water. he does none of those things. he tosses the towel onto the dresser, uncaring if it slid off before crossing over to the bed, climbing on and laying himself on his side so he could shift closer and press his face against her hip, breathe her in, hide from the world and the words for a bit. ]
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she doesn't expect him to burrow into her, either, but she rolls with it. her body shifts to accommodate him, a hand carding into his hair, the other smoothing out across his bare shoulder and upper back in a gentle motion. just enough that he'll feel her touch, but not so much that it's a push to do anything but lay there and breathe. ]
Hey, [ soft, quiet; her nails scratch against his scalp, a gentle trail of her fingertips through his hair. ] It's okay.
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[ about his family, his past, a time he'd locked away and called unimportant. he'd been but a boy then, a slave to his emotions and unable to control himself. he'd learned how to live and survive, how to kill and maim and that had made him strong.
perhaps he was starting to learn that that wasn't exactly true. he presses his fae a little more tightly against her side, allowing himself to be weak, to hide from the world for at least a few more moments. ]
I put it away decades ago.
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[ not with her, not right now. she wants him to be able to talk about this, but if it's easier to do so with a professional or after he's had a chance to sort his mind, she won't begrudge him that. ]
But you can. [ she's not going anywhere. that much, she can reassure him of. ] I'll listen, if you want me to. Or you can just lay here for a while, if that makes you feel better. Up to you.
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[ so, couldn't he just do that? keep it all buried? it's what he's been doing for the majority of his life, after all, and he's only had...a few explosions. not many. less than twenty that were really bad.
even opening himself up that tiny bit has him feeling exposed and vulnerable in ways he's not used to. he can't protect himself when he's talking about this. ]
I'm better at this. [ keeping quiet. listening. letting it simmer. he's very good at that.
sometimes. ]
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they lay in silence for a while, companionable and comfortable. when daisy speaks, it's soft; not a push for him to speak too, but an attempt to soothe. to share a little, in the wake of his small admission, to ease the pain of that exposure of sore memories by sharing some of her own. ]
When I was little, the nuns at St Agnes used to tell us that our parents would come back for us some day. No one's ever did, but I think they thought it would make us feel better. That we weren't abandoned because someone didn't want us, but because someone loved us so much they tried to give us a better life. That when things were better, they'd come back for us and we could be together again.
[ daisy's never had. no one's parents ever came back, but daisy always took it personally. always wondered if it was a flaw in her code, something she'd done or said, that kept them away. if she'd failed somehow. ]
I went through so many foster homes. Six in six years, more before and after, never for more than a few months. I stopped unpacking after a while — didn't see the point. I'd get comfortable, get my hopes up, and wind up back in St Agnes' again anyway. "Not a good fit", they used to say.
I guess after a while, I stopped wanting a foster mom. I just wanted mine, you know? I wanted to find my family, because I knew they had to be out there. So I left.
[ she goes on to tell him about rising tide, about how she'd hacked into shield, about how coulson had convinced her to stay rather than turning her in. the end of her quest... only to find herself on it again later. ]
Honestly, I probably should have just let myself believe they were gone. Because finding them, after two decades of desperately wanting to know, wound up being worse than knowing nothing at all. Realizing that they weren't good people, that they'd done terrible things …
[ she pauses, fingertips lifting to fish out her necklace from under her shirt, gaze dropping to skim over the two coins and the key that now hung from the red cord. ]
My mother tried to kill everyone I cared about, and when I stopped her, she tried to kill me. [ a beat. ] She would have succeeded, if my father hadn't killed her first.
[ she's never, not once, told a single soul that before. not even coulson, not even may. she's never told anyone what happened between her, cal, and jiaying that day. only that jiaying had died, and that cal deserved something better than prison. ]
My father's memories were wiped. He doesn't know who I am, or who he used to be. He thinks he's — he's a vet now, under a fake name. I don't know if that's better or worse.
[ as if she's run out of steam, daisy stops, shoulders sagging a bit as she pulls him to her just that much closer, his weight heavy against her. ]
I worry sometimes, you know? That I'm going to wind up like her someday. Or like him. That I'm going to lose my shit someday and just … destroy something, somebody, because I can't control myself. [ she swallows, throat tight. ] I don't want you to carry that kind of fear, Illya. I don't want you to have to keep all of that inside you, because I tried to and it nearly killed me. I don't want it to do that to you.
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