#IDK MAN i suddenly had a lot of feelings about jon quitting statements again

[kalgalen]

A dozen of recorders click on at once when Daisy pushes the door open. She takes a moment to roll her eyes at the ceiling; as intimidation tactics go, she's seen better.

"Still bad?" she asks, softly closing the door behind her.

A grunt answers her, and she comes closer to the shape slumped on the desk, careful to keep her steps light and quiet. She takes one of the chairs and sits down; only then Jon opens a bleary eye, staring at her from where he's resting his head atop his crossed arms.

"Hardly see how it could get better," he rasps dryly. "I admit the comparison is rather - fitting, but this is not addiction." Daisy raises an eyebrow, and he amends: "Not an addiction to chemicals, anyway. I don't think going cold turkey will cut it."

"If I'm being honest..." Daisy hesitates, unsure this will help, but she figures Jon deserves to hear it: "I don't think so either."

Jon lifts his head then, straightening up as he squints at her in the semi-darkness of his office. He looks terrible. Or rather, more terrible than she's ever seen him, which is not saying much since "looking terrible" seems to be Jonathan Sims' natural state. The dark circles under his eyes are more marked than ever and only serve to highlight how ravenous his gaze is; his hair is mussed beyond saving, and there's an imprint on his cheek from where he's laid on his sleeve too long.

"Didn't it work for you?" he asks, sounding confused and annoyed and so, so tired.

Daisy shrugs, leans back in her chair. "I wouldn't say it worked. It would imply it's over. And I didn't die like you did, so I guess the struggle isn't as hard in the first place."

It's not that it isn't hard in any way; she can still hear the call, the promise of a thrill if only she accepts her nature. Some days, she's almost convinced giving in would be the best choice; she'd be more useful, for a start. But there's once thing she hates more than Basira not relying on her, and it's the person she was before the Coffin.

"What - am I doing here, then?" he demands, voice tight. The compulsion is notably absent from his tone, and Daisy nods encouragingly at this. He really is trying.

"We will find a solution eventually," she promises. "Basira is looking into it, and so am I. We just need some more time, alright?"

She scoots closer, quietly apologizing when the scrapping of her chair against the antique wooden flooring makes him wince. She reaches out to pat him reassuringly on the arm, and his shoulders drop. He suddenly looks like he's about to cry, and Daisy isn't sure she's got the mental fortitude to deal with this today.

Instead of breaking down, though, Jon takes a few deep breaths. The chains that keep him tethered to his desk rattle when he lifts a hand to run it through his hair.

"I... I am -" Jon starts, then trails off. His eyes go unfocused, looking at a point somewhere left of Daisy's face, and he licks his chapped lips. "I am so hungry, Daisy. I've finished all the statements I could reach," he gestures at the carpet of paper around his desk, at the discarded file boxes. "There's nothing - nothing left here. I only have my own fears to feed on, and it's - it feels like being scooped out bit by bit. Like the inside of my head is being scraped clean. It is - absolute torture. I need something to keep me alive, Daisy."

His eyes hone in on her again, and the greedy shine she sees in them almost makes her snatch her hand back. She remembers all too well the way Elias had cracked her open like it was nothing, extracted the events that had made her what she was without a care in the world. Jon wouldn't do that, though. He is trying.

He also is a monster, and as close to an addict as is possible without actual substances.

Daisy takes a centering breath and slowly leans back in her chair again, folding her hands on her lap. A part of her wonders if the chains would be long enough to allow Jon to reach for her, but she decides that backing further away would do more harm than good. She still trusts him, even if the others don't, because she's the only one to have the slightest idea of what he's going through.

The Archivist stares at her for a long time, and she holds his gaze as well as she can. He doesn't blink much - at all, actually. Daisy realizes he's stopped breathing as well and doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact. An uneasy shiver runs down her spine, and she can hear her own voice in her head, crystal clear: creepy little man.

Then Jon blinks and slumps down again, like a puppet with cut strings. His breathing is loud and erratic, as if he's forgotten how to do it correctly, or as if he's just almost drowned. He hides his face in his hands, refusing to look at Daisy.

"I'm sorry," comes mumbled by his palms. Daisy doesn't know what to answer; none of this is fine, and she won't insult him by lying, but she can't tell him it's not his fault either - because he was the one to let it go that badly in the first place, with all his secrets.

In the end, silence seems to be what Jon needed; he drops his hands after a couple of minutes, eyes rimmed with red and lips pressed in a thin line.

"You should go." He tries sounding gruff, but his voice is hoarse with grief, and wavers a bit when he speaks again: "I won't keep apologizing, because it's no use when I keep -" he huffs, irritated, "fucking up like this. Maybe it would be better if you didn't come again."

"Maybe," Daisy concedes with a one-shouldered shrug. Jon looks like she's just slapped him, and she shakes her head. "No, look - you need friends, Jon. Or at least, a friend. I think it's been proven you can't deal with it alone, and I'm not sure how we're supposed to encourage you to fight for your humanity by isolating you from everyone."

"Basira seems to think it's the best solution," Jon murmurs bitterly, and Daisy makes a disapproving tss noise.

"Basira has a lot on her plate. I don't."

She stands up, making sure not to let her chair drag against the ground. Jon looks up at her, a desperately lost expression on his face. She hesitates - only for a second - before reaching down and combing her fingers through his hair, half an attempt at putting some kind of order back in the messy curls, half a shot at comfort. Her heart feels tight in her chest when he immediately leans into the touch, and she steps away with some regret.

"I'll see if I can get you new statements," she says, cracking the door open. "Take care, Jon."

He nods, crossing his arms back in front of him with a clinking of chains. He looks very small, behind the large oak desk.