She remembers the way he used to say her name.
Like he was breathing it.
Now he doesn’t say it that way. Her new name.
It’s more like he pushes it out, away, like everything else.
That he has to be reminded that this person named Daisy exists.
It’s hard not to resent him wanting to call her Skye. A little.
When he told her that Lola story, and said he would love her no matter how she changed.
It’s her name. The one her parents gave her.
And she lost them.
She starts to wonder if she’s lost him, too. Pieces of themselves that have been stolen away by forces they can't understand.
Ugh, that sounds so dramatic.
He concentrates, pouring the coffee with his new hand and she watches him try to manage his grip.
This is how he deals with loss. This is how he copes.
He turns inward, like he did before.
There’s no one left for her to share her burdens with.
Andrew, but, it’s not the same. Dr. Garner has a role, he’s not just there to listen.
There are consequences to what she says to him. It goes in a file.
If he would just say her name, once, the way he used to.
“Good morning. Phil.”
He stares back at her and she takes the coffee pot from him, like she hasn’t watched him or noticed him struggle at all, gets herself a cup.
It’s what he wants. To not be anyone’s burden. To not be hers.
If he can’t call her Daisy, she’ll just call him Phil. Fair trade. First name learning curve.
She pours herself a cup of coffee rather than hunt down Mack for a latte, because she can’t give away that she came here for him.
That she heard the sound of his voice in the hall.
He said, “Dammit’ probably not intending it to come out. That’s how she knew he was here, and she walked towards the sound like it was a homing beacon, without even thinking about it.
He says it this time slowly, like he wants to get it right.
“You don’t mind if I call you Phil, right? Since we’re on a first-name basis.”
He narrows his eyes a little, like he’s looking for a way out, but also a little amused at the trap she’s set for him.
“Sure,” he says, raising his eyebrows like it’s nothing, taking a careful sip of his coffee.
She notices the way he looks her over, like she’s something new for him to take in.
Normally, she’d be flattered by his attentions, but she’s sure he doesn’t mean it like that.
Besides, she just finished her morning workout and she’s sweaty and her hair is still sticking to her face.
Her fingers push a strand away from her chin and she takes a sip of the coffee and meets his eyes.
It’s enough to set him in motion, and he walks towards the steps that lead up to his office.
Of course it’s not like that.
She probably just wanted to imagine it was.
He didn’t think it was possible, but somehow she’s even more beautiful.
Her hair cut shorter. A new beginning for her. A new name.
It’s kind of serious, but it suits her.
And he’s discovered her shoulders. She had them before, it’s just…
Like she’s taking more on, because she has, and will.
Daisy Johnson will be Director of SHIELD someday.
He knows this.
But right now, he’s in his office and looking at the woman across from him and wondering if he’d seen her for the first time…somewhere else.
Of course he’d never talk to someone so much younger.
But he would’ve looked. He would’ve noticed her and those shoulders.
Between this and the name, he’s going to be distracted.
He sighs and Daisy sits up in the chair a little straighter.
“What?” she asks him.
Then he realizes he’s been staring. Dammit.
“You said that out loud. You realize that, right?”
“Yes,” he admits, gruff, and sits back in his chair, frustrated. “I say it a lot lately.”
She looks at his left hand, briefly, and he sees the flash of guilt.
He wants to tell her it’s not her fault, but he’s afraid that he’ll end up telling her everything.
“Is there anything else? Because I won’t keep you.”
She stands as she says it, and he lets his eyes focus on some distant point instead of her.
Yes, there’s something else. There’s always been something else.
“No,” he lies, looking back up at her.
He can tell by the way she’s holding her mouth she wants to say more, that she doesn’t believe him at all.
But then she turns around and walks away, and he can’t blame her at this point.
Her hair is shorter in the back, and he can see the nape of her neck.
Basically, he’s screwed.
His hands don’t stop. It’s like if he touches her for too long or holds on too tight, that this might end.
She doesn’t want this fearful edge with what they’re doing. It’s also a bit of a rush.
To see him so vulnerable like this is pretty rare of late.
“C’mon, Phil,” she says, leaning over him so that her hair brushes against his face, framing his.
She wants to kiss him again, but not just yet. He needs to commit to this.
His eyes are searching hers like he wants her to give him permission. She’s not going to make it that easy for him this time.
Instead she touches her index to his bottom lip and draws over it.
He finally takes a hold of her hips, greedy, and pulls her down against him.
“Is that what you want?” she asks, settling down over him. He’s hard underneath her, she can tell even through the jeans.
“Yes,” he answers, and his fingers squeeze her thighs, even though he’s more careful with the pressure from his prosthetic.
She kisses him, settling her weight on her elbows, taking her time and pulling on that bottom lip with her teeth.
He groans and pushes his hips up against hers, and then wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, keeping her close to him as his tongue slides into her mouth.
If she knew he was this good of a kisser, she would’ve slowed things down.
No. Wait. This has already taken way too long to happen. Years. She’s not going slow down now.
Sitting back for a moment, she pulls her sweater up over her head.
“Touch me,” she tells him, after he looks for too long.
He swallows, then follows orders and draws his right hand up over her stomach, like he’s looking for scars that should be there.
“Phil,” she warns him, and his eyes meet hers again, and his fingers move higher, over her ribs until they’re touching her breast through the fabric of her bra.
“You like lace,” he says, with a small smile, like he didn’t expect it.
“I like lace,” she confirms, closing her eyes when his hand cups her breast.
She’s thought about this before. Him doing this in his office, only putting his hand under her shirt while they kissed. Unexpectedly, of course.
Him wanting her that way. So much that he just had to touch her like this.
What? No hugs?
She remembers saying that. Wanting more than a hug at that point.
Trying to provoke him to touch her. To let her in.
“Daisy.” He says it in a warning way, to keep her from getting lost in her head, too.
Trying to provoke her with the lilt in his voice.
It sounds super sexy. It works.
“This is moving far too slow,” she announces, then leans down and presses a hard kiss against his mouth.
She feels his smile touch hers.
And then they’re moving together again.
Everything in Daisy’s shower smells like it came from a drug store.
Except her shampoo.
She splurges on that.
This brand, whatever it is-he hasn’t heard of it-smells like honey and flowers.
It makes him think of sunshine and a meadow, and a perfect place for a daisy and a nap.
It’s funny the things you find out about someone in their private spaces.
Daisy is also messy, but it’s controlled chaos.
Surprisingly, he finds himself enjoying it. It relaxes him to be in a place that feels so lived-in, instead of orderly, protocols.
He decides that since they just had sex, she’s probably not going to be upset if he uses her expensive shampoo.
He just had sex with Daisy.
It hits him again. It probably will for a while.
He knows he’s been in love with her for so long, he just never thought that this would happen. Was so sure it was over for him.
Then they found each other again. After all of that.
It’s almost unbelievable how good this feels. Staggering, really.
“Hey,” she says, getting into the shower with him. “Make some room. You don’t mind?”
“No,” he says, turning his face away for a moment, putting down her expensive shampoo.
“You can use that,” she says, pressing her mouth against his shoulder, her hands on him again. “I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’t.” He finds himself smiling and puts his face into the stream of water to wash away the tears that were forming there.
“Phil,” she says, pulling his body up against hers, so that he can feel her breasts press into his back. “Are you okay?”
The heat is pressing in around his eyes again, and he nods, then turns around and takes her face in his hand, kisses her before he can start to cry.
“Yes.” He has to swallow it down.
“You know that I love you, right?” she tells him, caressing his face.
Daisy just told him that she loves him. In her shower.
It’s all he can manage as he pulls her tightly against him in a hug and kisses the side of her face as she sputters a little bit in the water flow.
“Sorry,” he says, drawing back to wipe away the water. “I love you, too.”
She laughs a little, blissful, awkward.
He loves it.
“Thanks.” It comes with a sweet kiss, and then another, while she watches his smile widen.
Then she bends down and picks up the shampoo and pops open the cap.
“Turn,” she tells him, and he does as he hears the sound of it being poured out into her hand.
Her fingers move in his hair, and the scent of it fills the shower.
He finds himself humming as she massages his scalp and he tilts his head down against his chest.
“I like the way it smells. Like you.”
It’s one of those instances where he has to look out for her.
Evil undead Inhumans, she can handle.
But a cold?
“Omigod, Phil, I love you,” she says, as he hands her the warm bowl of soup.
She sips the broth first, as he set the spoon down on her nightstand.
“Chicken noodle?” she asks. “And what else?”
“I added some ginger. Just for you,” he says, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Can you taste it?”
“A little,” she answers. “Is this one of your mom’s secret things?”
“No,” he scoffs. “I looked it up on the internet. Just because you’re sleeping with me, don’t think I’m giving up family secrets so easily.”
The smile reaches all the way to her eyes this time, even though it hurts a little to smile.
She watches as he bends around to reach for the spoon for her.
“Even if I marry you?” she asks, clearing her throat, because she can’t exactly breathe through her nose.
He looks at her so fast she thinks it might make her dizzy.
Then he just stays there, frozen, waiting for her to say something.
“What?” she asks. “I’m allowed to marry you if I want.”
He’s still not talking.
She puts her hand out for the spoon and that gets him back into motion.
But she wasn’t joking. This isn’t a joke at all.
“You’re not joking,” he says a moment later, like he was reading her mind.
“Why would I joke about that?” she asks, a little offended, curling her toes under the sheets, because her feet feel cold.
“I’ll get you some socks,” he says, standing up and going for her dresser.
He’s always trying to get her to wear socks to bed because of her feet.
It’s woken him up before, and he’s so grouchy like that.
“I promise, from this day forward," she announces. "To wear socks to bed, and that-“
“Very funny,” he says, interrupting her by shutting the drawer.
He sits down at the end and pushes the covers up and takes one of her bare feet in his hand.
“Like ice,” he reminds her with a frown, putting the sock over one and looking up at her.
“I would,” she says, taking a bite of the soup, watching him fuss over her. “Marry you.”
Now that her feet are warmer, and she’s eaten something, she’s feeling more like herself.
He moves forward to brush a hand against her forehead, like he’s checking for a fever, then leans in to kiss her.
“Don’t,” she tells him, turning her face a bit. “You’ll get sick.”
“I don’t get sick,” he says, following her face to kiss her lightly. “You’ve never seen me with a cold even once.” Another.
Okay. She hasn’t. She kisses him back until it’s too hard to breathe.
“Hey,” she asks, narrowing her eyes, tasting it on him. “Where are the donuts?”
He laughs at her.
“Those were for dessert," he says, sliding them out from his back pocket, hidden beneath the jacket.
"And, I do.”