[ 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.
[ she says...so much more than he expects. he'd been waiting to be rebuked, to be told that if he didn't talk to her, he had to talk to someone about his issues. it wouldn't have been the first time someone had made that suggestion. while his handlers weren't very sympathetic, they did have to follow protocol when certain things happened on missions.
and sometimes that protocol meant meeting with a psychologist. it never lasted long though. he never talked and either the doctor got tired of him or his handlers were able to get him out one way or another.
but, she doesn't rebuke him. for awhile, he thinks they're just going to lay there until she starts talking. and he listens. he doesn't look at her but he listens, breathing steady and body still. it's...she's so young to have gone through so much. and it makes him wonder how she's able to not be so full of rage and fury, to be able to walk through life without that chip on her shoulder.
he wonders how she solved that and he hadn't. because all he feels is rage. all he feels is fury and every time he thinks about why, about how that ball of anger just took root and grew and grew and grew, he only feels worse.
she pulls him closer and he shudders, unsure of what to do. comfort will never be something he does exceedingly well but he does turn his face more towards her, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath.
again. he'd said it again and this time, not even in russian but he knows it had been indecipherable. unable to be heard because of the roughness of his voice and how quietly he'd said it.
he'd thought the first time had been a fluke. doing it again just means one thing: he's gone. he's done for her and it's a lot to realize.
illya swallows while the silence lengthens. it's so quiet in his bedroom. he doesn't know what to do. he opens his mouth but he has no idea what's going to come out when he starts talking. ]
I've been alone for so long.
[ that's pitiful. he grimaces as soon as he says it. the words are not untrue but it's an admittance that he hadn't necessarily meant to make. he'd always presented his solitude as something he liked and, for the most part, he did. but too many nights, when you were facing that gaping maw inside of yourself and unsure how to deal with it, being alone was not a good thing. ]
It does not matter. [ he tries to pull those broken pieces back in, to put himself back together quickly. ] I've survived.
It does matter. [ it breaks her heart a little to hear him say it. not that he's been alone — because she could have guessed as much, from the way he interacts with people, as if still learning how to let them in beyond professional functionality or as opponents to destroy. as if remembering how to be happy, when it was so unfamiliar to him. but to hear him attempt to backpedal, to erase that admission from the air between them, that tugs at something deep in her soul, and daisy shifts, letting herself slip down on the bed so that she's face to face with him rather than so much higher up. ]
You matter, and you're not alone anymore. [ a hand reaches to tip his chin, to try and tip his gaze to meet her own. ] You have me, and you have Prompto, and Rey, and Fitz — you have people here who care about you, who respect you. And you have Gaby, at home, who …
[ she trails off for a moment, a quiet laugh bubbling in her throat. ]
Who made me so jealous the first time I met her, because I could tell how much she cared about you.
[ there had been a brief moment of panic, in that her arrival and living situation would present something she couldn't measure up to. it had disappeared quickly enough, as she got to know the other woman and they became friends, but for a brief moment, it had been a concern she hadn't known how to tell him. now, it didn't matter. even if gaby blinked back into new amsterdam, she knows it wouldn't change anything. ]
You're not alone, Illya. Whatever it is, whatever shit you're holding in, you can tell me. I'm not going anywhere.
[ the revelation about gaby stuns him for a second. he opens his mouth to say something (what, he does not know) but nothing comes out but a puff of air. he hadn't even realized, hadn't even seen it but it had been so early in this whole...thing that he hadn't been looking either. not like that, not in any serious manner.
so, he'd missed it and hearing it now stuns him because she was so confident, so sure of herself so to hear her confess that that hadn't been that cause gives him pause. ]
I care about her too. [ he does. it's not something he'd told gaby but he hopes she'd known. ] But not like this. Not like you.
[ this was on a different level, somewhere he'd never been before. he knows what he should say here but he doesn't. he just blinks at her, stomach churning and mind whirring. ]
When I was ten, my father was sent away. He had foolishly decided that his place in the Communist Party meant that he could embezzle funds from them. It was stupid. It was utterly stupid and he was caught and sent to the gulag in Siberia. I never saw him again.
[ the words take a very slight weight off his shoulders as if he's finally let someone share the load, to help him carry the burden and the pain of what had happened to him. it's selfish, he knows, to ask her to help him with this but she's there and he wants to feel better. ]
He left our family in disgrace. We had nothing. Little food, terrible shelter, and a tarnished reputation. My mother slept with any man she could because apparently that was more important than I was.
[ oh, there it is. that simmering anger, that spark that just seems to ignite every single time he thinks about this. he can feel his muscles tense as if they were readying for a battle that no one is asking him to fight. one hand curls, clenches, fingernails digging hard into his palm. ]
I was alone. They made their choices and I was not a part of them. I was not — I wasn't important to them. Money and men, that's what they replaced me with. That's what I was worth.
[ this is why he'd broken that man's face tonight. because this feeling just unspooled at the very slightest of touches. ]
I made myself better. [ he made himself into a weapon. ] I survived.
[ he doesn't need to reassure her. he does that without saying a word. she knows he cares about her in the way he makes sure she eats something after a long day, knowing that she often gets distracted at work and doesn't bother to stop until it's too late; it's in the way he makes sure to leave a towel for her when she gets in the shower if she forgets to grab one, or in the way he leaves space for her under the covers if she stays up later than he does.
he's made room for her in his life, in small ways and big ways and everything in between, and that's enough for daisy. it's more than enough. ]
To them. [ a soft, gentle correction, but a correction all the same. ] That's what you were worth to them. But they were wrong.
[ she won't try to justify his father's mistakes or his mother's decisions in the wake of them. she doesn't know them, won't ever meet them, and couldn't hope to know enough about them to ever speak to their character or their decisions. but she knows him, and she can see so easily how much this pain has eaten from him. she can feel his body tensing, the way his muscles seize up, fight or flight responses pumping pure adrenaline into his veins. ]
You don't have to keep surviving anymore. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. [ to the kgb, to the soviets, to himself. ] You're already enough.
No, I'm not. [ immediate, firm. the cool, insufferably stoic demeanor he presents is a facade. he's been careful not to pull back the mask and show anyone what's underneath because what lies there is a nest of insecurity, self doubt and self loathing that he can't get rid of. ]
Surviving is all I know how to do. [ still angry but almost tinged with a desperate edge. ] My mother, despite her activities, was still around. We had a house and I had a bedroom but she was not there. I did what I had to do to feed myself. To protect myself. To protect her.
[ and he hadn't always been successful. there had been days without food sometimes, leaving him with a gnawing pain in his stomach that weakened him into a pitiful mess. but what ten year old boy in russia knows how to get food on their own? not him. he'd learned to steal or beg or do whatever it took.
because his mother dragged herself home sometimes and that meant he was technically not an orphan. he had a mother and what a lucky boy he was to have someone who was still standing in the wake of his father's scandal? ]
I will never be enough. [ he had to be better so people didn't leave him. again and again and again. he had to keep reaching the limit of his abilities and pushing past them. ] I have to be more.
[ oh, he wants to scream. he wants to get up and hit something. he wants someone to figure out a way to cut this out of him and make him feel normal. he wants to let this go but he can't. it's a handprint on his heart, on his brain, fingers reaching to all ends of him.
Stop it. [ firm, but not unkind. ] You have always been enough.
[ because fuck soviet russia, fuck his mom (not literally), fuck all of those people that ever told him that he wasn't good enough or strong enough or worthy enough of love and affection or just life. it wasn't true and it wasn't fair and it wasn't an expectation that he should have hanging over his head, and she hates that she can't just make him see that. ]
You're more than enough. You're — [ he's going to look at her. she's going to make him do it. ] You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, don't you know that?
[ he's made her feel like a person worth wanting. something she thought she'd never feel again. after everything that happened with lincoln, after losing him and then leaving shield, only to come back to it in flames and ruins, to lose everyone she loved to the framework only to crawl back through the ashes into a literal hellscape and then lose the one person she'd tried to open up to after all of that? she'd thought she'd be alone — emotionally alone, burned out and broken — for the rest of her life. ]
If you want to fight somebody on that, fight me. But you don't have to be anything for anybody, because you are enough already. You were enough the day I met you.
[ he's already trying to shake his head to disagree when he finds his eyes suddenly on hers. he swallows and then she speaks, words that don't seem to fit when they're directed at him because how could that be? how could he be the best thing for anyone? how? even without the baggage that she was dumping on her right now, he was still not someone most people wanted to be around.
he opens his mouth to argue, to snap off some sharp barb about how he doesn't want to fight because the match would be too easy but again, those words do not come. there is so much boiling inside of him, things he's told her that have festered for so long inwardly that are now festering outwardly as well. there are things he hasn't said that he should but he's trying to fight off the urge to get up and stalk around like some caged animal. ]
No. No.
[ a weak argument but resistance all the same. he can't accept that he's enough. but she's still trying. she's still here despite argument and angry exchanges. despite his inability to open up and let people in easily.
she's still trying to convince him when that shouldn't be her job and his throat closes up a bit. he needs to tell her that she doesn't have to spend so much time on him. he needs to tell her it's okay to walk away. he needs to tell her — ]
I love you.
[ he needs to blurt that out into the air between them, shattering the silence that had grown after she'd quieted down. ]
[ she's not going to let him just stonewall her out. she won't. even if it upsets him, even if they fight, she won't just let him shut down like this.
but she doesn't expect him to say that. she doesn't expect him to think it, let alone blurt it out, a small explosion into the conversation. it leaves her stunned into actual silence for a solid minute, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as she stares at him.
as if waiting for a retraction. waiting for him to try and correct himself, or to add onto the sentence. but he doesn't, and the longer she stares at him, the more awkward the silence feels, until she has to say something. ]
You do?
[ she should probably say it back, and she will, but right now she's just ... in shock? ]
[ yes, that has to be said despite the other thing hanging in the air. he's not going to let her have the last word on what he feels (or what he thinks he feels). he knows what he knows. he's not enough, he never has been and he's had enough people confirm that belief to make him refuse to budge from his opinion. ]
Yes. [ quietly, eyes skittering away from her just in case he sees something there that makes him believe it's not what she wants. he swallows, heart thumping painfully in his chest and body still so keyed up and coiled for some kind of action. ]
I said it once before. [ the truth falls out before he can stop it. ] In Russian.
[ remember this is nice? he hadn't actually been saying that. ]
[ she's actually surprised enough to be quiet. and for a while, that's all she is; daisy leans back, blinking, trying to get a better look at him. for something so intimate, he still looks so tense.
as if he's waiting for her to say something back. ]
[ so, it hadn't been all that long ago that he'd said it to her. a few weeks, maybe. during another emotionally fraught conversation about keys and necklaces and permanence.
and he'd been too much of a coward to tell her then so he'd lied, pretending he'd said something about the situation and not about how he felt.
he is still tense but it's not because of what he's told her. everything from before, the confessions about his family, are still thick in the air and without an outlet, everything's pressing down against him while he fights to put the feelings away. ]
I just wanted you to know. [ this time. ] That I do. That is all.
[ now that he says the words, they do sound familiar. she hadn't really thought that's what he could have said then, but to be fair, daisy's mind hadn't been totally focused on rational thought at the moment. not when he'd been kissing her, not when she'd been breathless and clinging to him. she'd have believed anything he told her in that moment.
but now, she does believe him. it's still a surprise, and she's still admittedly reeling a bit from it, but she believes him when he says it in either language. how he feels doesn't solve every problem, it doesn't answer the question of labels or arrangements or what they are to each other, it doesn't soothe his pains or make the hurt he's nursing go away. but it's true, daisy knows that much, and she feels the weight of it over her like a thick blanket on a cold night.
she realizes, too, that she doesn't balk. she doesn't feel the need to run, or to deflect; he's not throwing himself into harms' way and disappearing before she can say it back, he's not saying it to soothe her or to settle a tab before time runs out. he's saying it now because he wants to, because it's true for him, because he can. a conscious choice, not a reflexive impulse.
it matters more, she realizes, when the words don't come because they have to. ]
That's not all. [ a retort, but a fond one, a soft smile warming her features as she leans back in, a hand lifting to palm against his cheek.
she opts to say it back, but she says it in the words he's given her. his words, the one's he's said to her before. slowly, carefully, overaccenting each syllable — a genuine attempt, not mocking.
because she does. she knows she does. they're not the kind of people to say those words easily, and she wants the first time she says it to mean something to him. ]
his eyes slip closed when she puts a hand on his face. it's a touch he's felt many times before today, at morning, at night, half asleep and wide awake. it feels different this time for some reason. it feels...like something else. he bows his head and lets the touch sink into him.
but then she speaks. russian. the russian words he'd just said to her, that he said to her before once while they sat on his couch are the words that she says to him while they're curled together on his bed, while he tries to push his anger down and she tries to convince him of the impossible.
illya sighs and rubs his cheek against her hand, letting his eyes finally open so he can see her. ]
Your Russian is terrible.
[ he tries to keep a straight face but it becomes impossible after a few seconds and despite the anger still coiling his muscles tight, he laughs, a noise he stifles a moment later. ]
[ she likes the way he laughs. it doesn't happen often enough, but when it does, it's bright and warm and unrestrained, a hint at the warmth that lingers beneath all those layers of stoicism and selflessness. when he laughs, she can't help but smile back, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she shakes her head.
they linger in that warmth for a while, just quiet and comfortable. it's almost serene. eventually, though, daisy breaks the silence again; this time, her voice is still soft, but a little more serious, the teasing tone dropped away. ]
I do, you know. And not just because you said it first. [ she would have liked to have done that! thanks! but she wasn't ready yet and you surprised her so now he said it first and she'll have to suffer that for a while. ] So don't tell yourself you're not enough, because you're enough for me.
It is not...that easy. [ to just completely change his way of thinking. he believes her, though. if there's anything he believes right now, it's that she loves him and she thinks he's enough. but, he still can't think that about himself.
it's a lifted weight to have finally talked a little about his past with someone but it doesn't mean he feels...better. it doesn't mean that the anger's gone, that he can just walk away when someone so much as breathes near the bundle of memories that are his past. ]
I believe you. [ lest she thinks he needs reassurances about what she's told him, what she's confessed. he believes that. ]
But I don't — [ think that way about himself. he can't. doesn't know how. ]
[ speaking about your demons just makes them real. letting another person in, exposing those painful parts that normally get hidden under the front you show other people; daisy knows how difficult it can be, but more importantly, she knows it's just one step. a step in a marathon that lasts a lifetime, a choice to let go of the memories that only bring pain and to focus on making new ones.
she knows he won't wake up tomorrow a new man. she knows saying these things just once won't cure him. but it's a start. it's something. ]
We'll figure it out. When you feel... overwhelmed, when it's too much, I'm right here. You don't have to bottle it all up and keep it to yourself. [ her thumb brushes over his cheekbone, dips to the corner of his mouth where the scruff's grown in a little more ] But I am sorry some jackass said shitty things to you, for what it's worth.
I...don't know if that is a good idea. [ letting it out, he means. keeping it to himself means the anger eats at him but he is the only one who suffers unless there an explosion like tonight.
usually, he can at least temper it to something a little less violent but not always. not tonight. ]
Keeping it to myself means no one else is affected. [ and the last person he wants to explode at is her. not because she can't take it but because the guilt would wrack him in the aftermath. ]
I can handle it. [ stubborn. stern. determined. he could contain this anger. he just had to try harder. ]
Not forever, you can't. [ as evidenced by the reason he'd messaged her in the first place. ] Nobody can.
[ it's like he's trying to prove he doesn't need her help. that he can handle this all on his own. and maybe day-to-day, in between assignments and missions and problems that required all his attention and laser-tight focus, he could. when his life was a series of commands, it might have been easier to ignore the web of tangled emotions that lay just below simple obedience.
but things weren't that simple here. he had choices, freedom — he had a life of complicated morality, being part of a community of people who couldn't (for one reason or another) be totally honest about where they came from, being displaced in a time that didn't feel like home for him. it wasn't as easy as losing himself in his job here. that escape wouldn't work.
she realizes with a little sadness that he may never have had anything else. that she might have to show him, piece by piece, what his options were. ]
It doesn't make you a failure to need help with this. [ a huff of air earns a pause. ] If I was upset about something, would you want me to keep it to myself, or would you want me to feel like I could tell you about it?
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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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and sometimes that protocol meant meeting with a psychologist. it never lasted long though. he never talked and either the doctor got tired of him or his handlers were able to get him out one way or another.
but, she doesn't rebuke him. for awhile, he thinks they're just going to lay there until she starts talking. and he listens. he doesn't look at her but he listens, breathing steady and body still. it's...she's so young to have gone through so much. and it makes him wonder how she's able to not be so full of rage and fury, to be able to walk through life without that chip on her shoulder.
he wonders how she solved that and he hadn't. because all he feels is rage. all he feels is fury and every time he thinks about why, about how that ball of anger just took root and grew and grew and grew, he only feels worse.
she pulls him closer and he shudders, unsure of what to do. comfort will never be something he does exceedingly well but he does turn his face more towards her, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath.
again. he'd said it again and this time, not even in russian but he knows it had been indecipherable. unable to be heard because of the roughness of his voice and how quietly he'd said it.
he'd thought the first time had been a fluke. doing it again just means one thing: he's gone. he's done for her and it's a lot to realize.
illya swallows while the silence lengthens. it's so quiet in his bedroom. he doesn't know what to do. he opens his mouth but he has no idea what's going to come out when he starts talking. ]
I've been alone for so long.
[ that's pitiful. he grimaces as soon as he says it. the words are not untrue but it's an admittance that he hadn't necessarily meant to make. he'd always presented his solitude as something he liked and, for the most part, he did. but too many nights, when you were facing that gaping maw inside of yourself and unsure how to deal with it, being alone was not a good thing. ]
It does not matter. [ he tries to pull those broken pieces back in, to put himself back together quickly. ] I've survived.
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You matter, and you're not alone anymore. [ a hand reaches to tip his chin, to try and tip his gaze to meet her own. ] You have me, and you have Prompto, and Rey, and Fitz — you have people here who care about you, who respect you. And you have Gaby, at home, who …
[ she trails off for a moment, a quiet laugh bubbling in her throat. ]
Who made me so jealous the first time I met her, because I could tell how much she cared about you.
[ there had been a brief moment of panic, in that her arrival and living situation would present something she couldn't measure up to. it had disappeared quickly enough, as she got to know the other woman and they became friends, but for a brief moment, it had been a concern she hadn't known how to tell him. now, it didn't matter. even if gaby blinked back into new amsterdam, she knows it wouldn't change anything. ]
You're not alone, Illya. Whatever it is, whatever shit you're holding in, you can tell me. I'm not going anywhere.
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so, he'd missed it and hearing it now stuns him because she was so confident, so sure of herself so to hear her confess that that hadn't been that cause gives him pause. ]
I care about her too. [ he does. it's not something he'd told gaby but he hopes she'd known. ] But not like this. Not like you.
[ this was on a different level, somewhere he'd never been before. he knows what he should say here but he doesn't. he just blinks at her, stomach churning and mind whirring. ]
When I was ten, my father was sent away. He had foolishly decided that his place in the Communist Party meant that he could embezzle funds from them. It was stupid. It was utterly stupid and he was caught and sent to the gulag in Siberia. I never saw him again.
[ the words take a very slight weight off his shoulders as if he's finally let someone share the load, to help him carry the burden and the pain of what had happened to him. it's selfish, he knows, to ask her to help him with this but she's there and he wants to feel better. ]
He left our family in disgrace. We had nothing. Little food, terrible shelter, and a tarnished reputation. My mother slept with any man she could because apparently that was more important than I was.
[ oh, there it is. that simmering anger, that spark that just seems to ignite every single time he thinks about this. he can feel his muscles tense as if they were readying for a battle that no one is asking him to fight. one hand curls, clenches, fingernails digging hard into his palm. ]
I was alone. They made their choices and I was not a part of them. I was not — I wasn't important to them. Money and men, that's what they replaced me with. That's what I was worth.
[ this is why he'd broken that man's face tonight. because this feeling just unspooled at the very slightest of touches. ]
I made myself better. [ he made himself into a weapon. ] I survived.
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he's made room for her in his life, in small ways and big ways and everything in between, and that's enough for daisy. it's more than enough. ]
To them. [ a soft, gentle correction, but a correction all the same. ] That's what you were worth to them. But they were wrong.
[ she won't try to justify his father's mistakes or his mother's decisions in the wake of them. she doesn't know them, won't ever meet them, and couldn't hope to know enough about them to ever speak to their character or their decisions. but she knows him, and she can see so easily how much this pain has eaten from him. she can feel his body tensing, the way his muscles seize up, fight or flight responses pumping pure adrenaline into his veins. ]
You don't have to keep surviving anymore. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. [ to the kgb, to the soviets, to himself. ] You're already enough.
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Surviving is all I know how to do. [ still angry but almost tinged with a desperate edge. ] My mother, despite her activities, was still around. We had a house and I had a bedroom but she was not there. I did what I had to do to feed myself. To protect myself. To protect her.
[ and he hadn't always been successful. there had been days without food sometimes, leaving him with a gnawing pain in his stomach that weakened him into a pitiful mess. but what ten year old boy in russia knows how to get food on their own? not him. he'd learned to steal or beg or do whatever it took.
because his mother dragged herself home sometimes and that meant he was technically not an orphan. he had a mother and what a lucky boy he was to have someone who was still standing in the wake of his father's scandal? ]
I will never be enough. [ he had to be better so people didn't leave him. again and again and again. he had to keep reaching the limit of his abilities and pushing past them. ] I have to be more.
[ oh, he wants to scream. he wants to get up and hit something. he wants someone to figure out a way to cut this out of him and make him feel normal. he wants to let this go but he can't. it's a handprint on his heart, on his brain, fingers reaching to all ends of him.
it's there and it's forever. ]
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[ because fuck soviet russia, fuck his mom (not literally), fuck all of those people that ever told him that he wasn't good enough or strong enough or worthy enough of love and affection or just life. it wasn't true and it wasn't fair and it wasn't an expectation that he should have hanging over his head, and she hates that she can't just make him see that. ]
You're more than enough. You're — [ he's going to look at her. she's going to make him do it. ] You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, don't you know that?
[ he's made her feel like a person worth wanting. something she thought she'd never feel again. after everything that happened with lincoln, after losing him and then leaving shield, only to come back to it in flames and ruins, to lose everyone she loved to the framework only to crawl back through the ashes into a literal hellscape and then lose the one person she'd tried to open up to after all of that? she'd thought she'd be alone — emotionally alone, burned out and broken — for the rest of her life. ]
If you want to fight somebody on that, fight me. But you don't have to be anything for anybody, because you are enough already. You were enough the day I met you.
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he opens his mouth to argue, to snap off some sharp barb about how he doesn't want to fight because the match would be too easy but again, those words do not come. there is so much boiling inside of him, things he's told her that have festered for so long inwardly that are now festering outwardly as well. there are things he hasn't said that he should but he's trying to fight off the urge to get up and stalk around like some caged animal. ]
No. No.
[ a weak argument but resistance all the same. he can't accept that he's enough. but she's still trying. she's still here despite argument and angry exchanges. despite his inability to open up and let people in easily.
she's still trying to convince him when that shouldn't be her job and his throat closes up a bit. he needs to tell her that she doesn't have to spend so much time on him. he needs to tell her it's okay to walk away. he needs to tell her — ]
I love you.
[ he needs to blurt that out into the air between them, shattering the silence that had grown after she'd quieted down. ]
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[ she's not going to let him just stonewall her out. she won't. even if it upsets him, even if they fight, she won't just let him shut down like this.
but she doesn't expect him to say that. she doesn't expect him to think it, let alone blurt it out, a small explosion into the conversation. it leaves her stunned into actual silence for a solid minute, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as she stares at him.
as if waiting for a retraction. waiting for him to try and correct himself, or to add onto the sentence. but he doesn't, and the longer she stares at him, the more awkward the silence feels, until she has to say something. ]
You do?
[ she should probably say it back, and she will, but right now she's just ... in shock? ]
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[ yes, that has to be said despite the other thing hanging in the air. he's not going to let her have the last word on what he feels (or what he thinks he feels). he knows what he knows. he's not enough, he never has been and he's had enough people confirm that belief to make him refuse to budge from his opinion. ]
Yes. [ quietly, eyes skittering away from her just in case he sees something there that makes him believe it's not what she wants. he swallows, heart thumping painfully in his chest and body still so keyed up and coiled for some kind of action. ]
I said it once before. [ the truth falls out before he can stop it. ] In Russian.
[ remember this is nice? he hadn't actually been saying that. ]
So, yes. [ yes. ]
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[ she's actually surprised enough to be quiet. and for a while, that's all she is; daisy leans back, blinking, trying to get a better look at him. for something so intimate, he still looks so tense.
as if he's waiting for her to say something back. ]
How do you say I love you in Russian?
[ she thinks she'd remember hearing it. ]
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[ so, it hadn't been all that long ago that he'd said it to her. a few weeks, maybe. during another emotionally fraught conversation about keys and necklaces and permanence.
and he'd been too much of a coward to tell her then so he'd lied, pretending he'd said something about the situation and not about how he felt.
he is still tense but it's not because of what he's told her. everything from before, the confessions about his family, are still thick in the air and without an outlet, everything's pressing down against him while he fights to put the feelings away. ]
I just wanted you to know. [ this time. ] That I do. That is all.
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but now, she does believe him. it's still a surprise, and she's still admittedly reeling a bit from it, but she believes him when he says it in either language. how he feels doesn't solve every problem, it doesn't answer the question of labels or arrangements or what they are to each other, it doesn't soothe his pains or make the hurt he's nursing go away. but it's true, daisy knows that much, and she feels the weight of it over her like a thick blanket on a cold night.
she realizes, too, that she doesn't balk. she doesn't feel the need to run, or to deflect; he's not throwing himself into harms' way and disappearing before she can say it back, he's not saying it to soothe her or to settle a tab before time runs out. he's saying it now because he wants to, because it's true for him, because he can. a conscious choice, not a reflexive impulse.
it matters more, she realizes, when the words don't come because they have to. ]
That's not all. [ a retort, but a fond one, a soft smile warming her features as she leans back in, a hand lifting to palm against his cheek.
she opts to say it back, but she says it in the words he's given her. his words, the one's he's said to her before. slowly, carefully, overaccenting each syllable — a genuine attempt, not mocking.
because she does. she knows she does. they're not the kind of people to say those words easily, and she wants the first time she says it to mean something to him. ]
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his eyes slip closed when she puts a hand on his face. it's a touch he's felt many times before today, at morning, at night, half asleep and wide awake. it feels different this time for some reason. it feels...like something else. he bows his head and lets the touch sink into him.
but then she speaks. russian. the russian words he'd just said to her, that he said to her before once while they sat on his couch are the words that she says to him while they're curled together on his bed, while he tries to push his anger down and she tries to convince him of the impossible.
illya sighs and rubs his cheek against her hand, letting his eyes finally open so he can see her. ]
Your Russian is terrible.
[ he tries to keep a straight face but it becomes impossible after a few seconds and despite the anger still coiling his muscles tight, he laughs, a noise he stifles a moment later. ]
Very bad.
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[ she likes the way he laughs. it doesn't happen often enough, but when it does, it's bright and warm and unrestrained, a hint at the warmth that lingers beneath all those layers of stoicism and selflessness. when he laughs, she can't help but smile back, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she shakes her head.
they linger in that warmth for a while, just quiet and comfortable. it's almost serene. eventually, though, daisy breaks the silence again; this time, her voice is still soft, but a little more serious, the teasing tone dropped away. ]
I do, you know. And not just because you said it first. [ she would have liked to have done that! thanks! but she wasn't ready yet and you surprised her so now he said it first and she'll have to suffer that for a while. ] So don't tell yourself you're not enough, because you're enough for me.
[ and that's final, deal with it dot gif ]
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it's a lifted weight to have finally talked a little about his past with someone but it doesn't mean he feels...better. it doesn't mean that the anger's gone, that he can just walk away when someone so much as breathes near the bundle of memories that are his past. ]
I believe you. [ lest she thinks he needs reassurances about what she's told him, what she's confessed. he believes that. ]
But I don't — [ think that way about himself. he can't. doesn't know how. ]
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[ speaking about your demons just makes them real. letting another person in, exposing those painful parts that normally get hidden under the front you show other people; daisy knows how difficult it can be, but more importantly, she knows it's just one step. a step in a marathon that lasts a lifetime, a choice to let go of the memories that only bring pain and to focus on making new ones.
she knows he won't wake up tomorrow a new man. she knows saying these things just once won't cure him. but it's a start. it's something. ]
We'll figure it out. When you feel... overwhelmed, when it's too much, I'm right here. You don't have to bottle it all up and keep it to yourself. [ her thumb brushes over his cheekbone, dips to the corner of his mouth where the scruff's grown in a little more ] But I am sorry some jackass said shitty things to you, for what it's worth.
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usually, he can at least temper it to something a little less violent but not always. not tonight. ]
Keeping it to myself means no one else is affected. [ and the last person he wants to explode at is her. not because she can't take it but because the guilt would wrack him in the aftermath. ]
I can handle it. [ stubborn. stern. determined. he could contain this anger. he just had to try harder. ]
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[ it's like he's trying to prove he doesn't need her help. that he can handle this all on his own. and maybe day-to-day, in between assignments and missions and problems that required all his attention and laser-tight focus, he could. when his life was a series of commands, it might have been easier to ignore the web of tangled emotions that lay just below simple obedience.
but things weren't that simple here. he had choices, freedom — he had a life of complicated morality, being part of a community of people who couldn't (for one reason or another) be totally honest about where they came from, being displaced in a time that didn't feel like home for him. it wasn't as easy as losing himself in his job here. that escape wouldn't work.
she realizes with a little sadness that he may never have had anything else. that she might have to show him, piece by piece, what his options were. ]
It doesn't make you a failure to need help with this. [ a huff of air earns a pause. ] If I was upset about something, would you want me to keep it to myself, or would you want me to feel like I could tell you about it?
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