Work Text:
/
Everything hurts. Or… no, everything is heavy. You’ve gone swimming with your clothes on before — this is like that, but if you were wearing a big coat. A big coat with a fur collar; this is like that, but if that coat had weights in its hem and stones in its pockets. And the stones were in your lungs and behind your eyes and your bones were stones and everything was cold and awful. Even your heart, though you’d sworn — yes, even your heart.
/
Everything hurts but it’s okay because you are having a really excellent dream. In your dream, Billy Dunne is singing for you. Not with you — he sings with you all the time, and you with him; it’s a literal obligation. And not to you — because he’s not angry, but sad, actually. Gentle, even, or even, if you dare, hopeful. No, he’s singing for you. He wants nothing in return.
/
Everything hurts and someone is holding you. This is bad, almost as bad as the pain, because if someone is holding you that means the dream wasn’t real. If someone is holding you it must be Nicky, and if Nicky is there, Billy is far away. And you know this shouldn’t be bad, it should be good, because you hate Billy Dunne and you hate that he ever dared to touch you. But everything hurts, and you never were a fucking liar.
/
Everything hurts and someone is holding you. This is also bad because you can tell, from the way you’re being held, that you are lying down and that Nicky is sitting up. He’s awake, which means you’re going to have to be awake too. You’re going to have to dance. Because, see, Nicky wants the Daisy who sparkles. Nicky wants the Daisy who’s fun. Not the Daisy for whom everything hurts. Not the Daisy with the pain! It’s in your eyes and your lungs and your bones but it can’t be, it just can’t, if you are ever, ever going to be loved.
/
You open your eyes. Curls — long curls. That jaw — the shape of it, the sharpness. Oh, you’re not a fucking liar, are you, you’re a dreamer. A wonderful fucking dreamer. Billy Dunne turns to you, and you can tell from his face, the purest you’ve ever seen it, tear-streaked and worn, you can tell from the way you’re being held that — you can tell you’re magic, because your dreams came true.
“It’s you.”
His hand comes to your face, and then you know you can go back to them, your dreams. You’re safe. They’ll be there when you wake up. He’ll be there, he’s there. It’s just him. It’s really him.
/
And it really is him, isn’t it, because only Billy would refuse you even a second of rest.
“Daisy. Daisy! Daisy.”
You hum a bit. You would answer, to shut him up if nothing else, but unfortunately his presence isn’t quite enough to stop everything from hurting, from heavy, and you’re tired.
“Daisy, please. Open your eyes again. Please.”
He taps your face, and you think you twitch away from it. You’re not sure exactly where your body is, what it’s doing, and especially not beyond the fact of Billy’s hands on you; your anchors. For all you know, the rest of you is in outer space.
“Daisy, c’mon, please.”
Outer space is a little scary, though, so you try to come back and check on earth once again. It’s fine. Billy can win this time. You open your eyes to his curls, to the draw of his torturous, beautiful mouth.
“Hey. There you are. Let’s see those — those pretty eyes.” Billy smiles. A lot of people have called your eyes pretty, but it’s honestly nicest to hear it while you’re looking into pretty eyes yourself. If only doing so hadn’t been so hard, if only you weren’t so tired. If only everything didn’t hurt, if only you could keep yourself from sliding, you would keep your eyes open just to see his.
/
You’re dreaming again, this time that you’re flying. Air moves against your face, your wet and plastered hair, your dangling legs. You’re flying, or maybe floating, carried along by the river — but wait, fuck, where does the river go again? Suddenly you can’t remember. Is that bad? Are you supposed to let yourself go? Or are you supposed to swim?
You try it: moving your arms, kicking your legs. But the river just pulls you in closer. It’s a solid river, and it says “Shh.” It says “I’m here.” It carries you to a soft, soft shore.
/
“Daisy, Daisy, wake — can — hear me? The doctor’s — it’s okay, you don’t — anything — safe. He’s just — check on you and — everything’s alright — you’ll feel better. I’m right here, okay? I got you.”
Hands on your wrist, turn it over, a clinical press. Cold. Your chest is cold. You shiver — and then you’re being buried. No. Hands on your shoulders. They keep you. Hands on your wrist again, and then in the crook of your elbow, and then — something pinches — a needle — no, no. But the hands on your shoulders keep you.
“It’s okay. It’s just medicine.”
Medicine, medicine. Have you told yourself that lie before? Is there any chance left that these hands are telling the truth? You wish that they were — you wish that they are. You wish you weren’t so cold, you wish everything didn’t still hurt, you wish you knew what was going on. You wish you could get up and walk out of here, because you are beginning to have both the sneaking suspicion that there are places better than this and the sneaking suspicion that you would like to see them.
/
The next time you come towards consciousness, it’s not so bad. You can open your eyes, look around, and take stock of the situation beyond Billy, all without passing out again.
You’re in your hotel bed, sheets twisted over you, duvet kicked away. The room is dark, save for a single lamp, which casts its warm light over the figure of Billy, who’s sitting on the floor, leaning back into the wall. He seems to be nodding off, hasn’t noticed you’re awake yourself. You call to him.
“Billy.” Your voice sounds beyond hoarse. Completely shot, actually. Do you have a show — tonight? Tomorrow? What time is it? What day is it?
Before you can ask yourself more stupid questions, Billy looks up, and when he sees you, quickly stands and crosses the room.
“Hey.” He sits down on the bed beside you, leaving a few inches’ gap, but depressing the mattress so that your body tilts towards him anyway. He picks up his hand, lets it hover for a second, and sets it back down in his lap. “How do you feel?”
You just gaze at him. The look on your face must ask the question you don’t want to ask, because he sighs and says, “You took too much.”
Sounds about right.
“You stopped breathing. I found you — when I found you, you weren’t breathing. I thought you were going to die.”
Oh. Oh. Your mind races to find another metaphor, another way to couch this situation, to muddy it, to keep you from feeling the things you’re really feeling, because of course you’re feeling them. You’re Daisy Jones, but you’re still — you’re still —
You’re still fucking terrified. You still don’t want to die. No, no, you don’t want to die. You’re young, still, aren’t you, wouldn’t it still be a tragedy? And yes, you’ve thought about it before, but you’re sorry, you’re so sorry you ever did, because you don’t want to die. You really don’t want to die. You —
“Hey, hey, Daisy. You need to breathe.” Billy’s voice cuts through the noise. You’d almost forgotten he was there.
He moves, now, to place one of his hands gently but insistently on your sternum. With the other he cradles your chin, turning your face towards him. Once you’ve made eye contact, he takes your own hand and brings to his chest. “Breathe with me, Daisy. Nice and slow. There you go.” He’s so warm. He’s so bad, until he isn’t.
He pulls away from you once your breathing evens out, and you miss him so suddenly and so strongly that it almost astonishes you.
“No,” you say.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Your voice is trembling, maybe because it’s gone, maybe because you are. “I just — please don’t go.”
Billy looks at you with everything. Your hand is still outstretched, your head buried in the pillow. Tears are soaking into it, bleeding from all your corners.
“Will you stay here? With me? I’m — Billy, I’m scared. I don’t wanna be like this anymore. I don’t wanna be bad anymore. I’m sorry, I just, I just —"
“Okay,” he says. He’s so much, so complicated, so convoluted, so messy. Until he isn’t. “I wasn’t leaving. I just have to stay awake. But I can sit here instead of over there.”
“Why d’you have to? Stay awake?”
“Your vitals.” He nods down at you, and then slowly, as if not to startle you, brings his hand towards you again, to your neck. Two fingers against the pulse point there. Your heart is beating madly. “I have to make sure you’re okay.”
“Am I?” You know he probably thinks you’re self-pitying, fishing for his attention, selfish. But in that moment, you’re really not so sure. You’re mostly there, but a part of you is still in outer space. Who’s to say you’ll ever get it back?
“Yes, Daisy, you’re okay.” He says it not unkindly, pushes himself back on the bed so he’s beside you, leans against the headboard. Watches over you. “You’re okay.”
You’re okay.
/
Sometime later you wake again, sweat on your brow, nauseated. Billy must have felt you startle, because as soon as you remember where you are, there’s a hand on your bare shoulder. The outer half of your show outfit is off, you realize then, but you’re still in your slip. He’d helped you without undressing you. He’d taken care to not violate you. It’s probably pathetic that you think so highly of that, but you can’t help but see it, the sweetness in him.
You turn over. He hasn’t moved. “You’re still here?”
He doesn’t answer, just looks at you sadly. You don’t want to upset him even more, but now you’ve been reminded of something: “Where’s Nicky?”
Now he looks angry. “He left, Daisy. I don’t know where he is.”
And now you start to cry again, embarrassingly, but not because you’ve made Billy angry or sad, or because you really want Nicky to have stayed. It’s just — fuck, wouldn’t it have been nice for him not to leave?
Your face is sticky and gross, but Billy puts his thumb on the point of your cheekbone. He wipes away your tears, and when they stop, moves on to your hair, combing through its endless tangles with the pattern of a running river. Away and then there again, away and then there again, away and then —
/
In the morning you open your eyes to him once more. He’s asleep beside you, and in between you, sunlight lays. Oh, oh. For the rest of your life.