I don't — [ have that kind of money, she nearly says, but she's stopped in her tracks by his offer. two hundred dollars for a plane ticket may be a reasonable price point for the rest of the world, but for daisy, that's an absurd luxury she'd never allow herself. not when the roof over her head or the food in her pantry weren't guaranteed, not when she couldn't be sure some emergency wouldn't befall her in between then and now.
but she doesn't know how to explain that to him. she doesn't know how to say, i used to be homeless on the street for two years and then i bought a van and i lived off the money i could make driving people around as an unregistered taxi and whatever i could steal to resell at a pawn shop. she doesn't know how to explain that his expectations of safety come from a place she never knew, an expectation that there was always a more reasonable solution or a more comfortable one, even if it meant stretching a little to get there.
and she doesn't know that he wants to know all of that about her, anyway. why would he? she might be grown up enough now to dress herself in clothes that fit, she may have pocketed enough money in between semesters to buy an imported knockoff smartphone, but she wasn't comfortable. not the way her roommate or her fellow students or her professors were, anyway.
but that's not his fault, and she doesn't want to ruin her chance to talk to him by yelling at him for something he doesn't understand. not tonight. not when she misses him so much it feels like a piece of her's been cut out and taken away, a feeling that she keeps telling herself is way too strong for what's only been a few weeks of casual meetings and rushed sex in offices and back rooms.
no, it's too much. to feel, to explain. she can only blow out a breath, a click and a rustle of fabric echoing the closing and pushing away of her laptop, and lean up against the wall behind her bed, head thumping gently against the chipped paint. ]
That's the only way I could have gone. [ okay, she could have burned her budget for the month, but that's stupid. ] I want to, I do, I just —
[ There's a multitude of words not being said right now, he can almost feel the physical weight of them even just from the tone of her silence. He doesn't have to look at her to know that some complicated mix of emotions is currently playing over her face, even though he can't tell what it is.
It stops him from getting belligerent about this; obviously, there's a reason Daisy is resisting him buying her a plane ticket, and it's not just her being polite. ]
Honey. [ His voice is low, gentle. The way you'd talk to a spooked animal, or a child that's woken up from a nightmare. ] It's okay.
[ He doesn't understand why she can't get a plane ticket, or why she won't entertain the idea of him getting her one. She's right. He doesn't understand her financial baggage, her background, anything like that. She's never brought it up before, and he comes from the sort of comfortable middle-class anglo-saxon lifestyle that means he's had the privilege to never worry about where his next meal came from. Sure, he has a big family, and money was always a little tight, but he was never homeless, never had to worry that he wouldn't be able to find warm clothes when it was cold, never had to try and live off Top Ramen and day-old bread. ]
You don't need to repay me. [ It's only two hundred dollars. At least he's smart enough not to say that out loud. He has a feeling it won't go over well. ] I've got a miles card. I can scrape together enough points for a ticket for you.
[ and, for a second, that's all she says, her mouth otherwise occupied in letting out a shaky exhale, one that's (only somewhat successfully) attempted to be muffled by a sweatshirt-sleeve-clad hand. she just says okay, and resists the urge to explain all the hesitation and anxiety and nervous, self-destructive thoughts that are rattling in her brain.
because, no matter how okay it is, no matter how gently he tells her that he can afford this and he wants to do this and that he wants to bring her along, the sad truth is daisy can't repay him. not in funds, not in favors, not in anything she knows as valuable or worthwhile or important.
sure, she can keep him company. she can make him feel good. she can ease his stress after a long day, make him smile when he's frustrated; she can let him burn off steam when he needs something real under his hands, something pliant and obedient and wanting.
but those things aren't the same. and that's not what he's doing, either. he's not paying her for her company. he's doing this to be nice, and she doesn't know how to repay that. not really. ]
I really wish I could see you right now.
[ not the other way around. she doesn't necessarily think he needs to see her. but she can't really fight down the desire to tuck herself into his space, to find that solid reassurance, familiar now in other contexts. she wants to be held, to be cradled: she wants to feel the way his arms wrap around her when she sits in his lap, strong and steady and sure, the way his chin tucks into her hair, letting her face find purchase against his chest.
she just wants to be with him, and she isn't, and the realization aches like an open wound. ]
[ This is a conversation they clearly should be having face to face, when he can see what expression she's wearing and doesn't have to guess based on the muffled sounds coming from his tinny iPhone speakers. Is she sighing? Is she huffing? Is she rolling over and burying her face in her pillows so whatever noises she wants to make can't get free?
He wants to be able to touch her, to stroke his hand down her arm or to card his fingers through her hair, to hold her close against his chest the way he knows she likes. He likes it too, honestly, he's not just being altruistic when he wraps his arms around her and lets her put her face into his chest. It's been a long time since someone turned to him for comfort, and right now feels like a moment that desperately needs some comfort inserted into it.
How can he tell her that the money doesn't matter to him? Objectively, two hundred dollars matters. Of course it does. He has to pay over two grand every month to repay his student loans, on top of the rent he and Julie pay for their place, on top of all his other expenses. Two hundred dollars matters. But he's willing to tighten his belt in other arenas so that he can afford this one indulgence, so that he can take her out to Chicago with him and he can show her a good time, so they can spend time together that isn't snatched between classes, so that he doesn't have to lock the door behind her or put his palm over her mouth to keep her quiet while he touches her. He wants to not have to look over his shoulder, to smile at her the way she makes him want to, to put his arm around her and kiss her whenever the spirit moves him regardless of who's watching.
She means so much to him, but that's not something he can articulate over the phone. ]
I know, baby. [ He'd almost forgotten how it felt to feel someone else's heart beating against his skin, and he wants. ] It's only two more days, though, then I'll be back in town and you can see me whenever you want. You'll be sick of me in no time.
[ he calls her baby and she chokes out a sound that's somewhere in between a laugh and a sob, her whole brain seemingly short-circuiting on how nice that sounds even through the speakers of her phone. it's not the first time he's called her a pet name, not even in the first time in conversation — but baby is different. baby is soft and affectionate, intimate and gentle; it's not teasing or light the way babe rolls off his tongue or slides into a text.
it's — god, it sounds so good, she just wants to hear him say it again. ]
I'm not gonna get sick of you.
[ she can almost guarantee that it'll be the other way around. he'll get sick of her, he'll get tired of her, he'll learn too much and walk away because that's too much to handle. he'll change his mind or get back with his wife or something. it's too good a dream to even consider that he won't. ]
I want to see you when you get off the plane.
[ like, immediately. in a dream world, she'd pull a scene from a movie and kiss him at the gate. the image flashes and burns into her retinas before she has a chance to shove it down. she can't do that, can she? she can't meet him at the gate like she has a right to his time, like she belongs there, waiting for him. it's a sobering thought. ]
[ He's said something. Either right or wrong, he can't quite tell, but something he said to her just now — probably the baby thing, if he had to guess — prompted her to make that noise, and he can't tell if it was good or bad.
They can keep doing this on the phone in the dark, where he has to guess at what her expression is doing, or they can utilize modern technology to the fullest and just fucking Skype already.
Sitting up, he turns on his bedside lamp and fishes out his laptop again, booting it up quickly and reconnecting to the hotel wifi so he can click on the blue Skype icon. ]
You say that now, [ he mutters darkly, playing it up as an obvious joke as he clicks on her name and listens to the boop-de-boop of Skype's dialing tone. When the screen resolves into an image of her face, he lets out a relieved sigh and smiles at her. ]
I'm coming into La Guardia. If you really want to go all the way there to see me, I'm not going to say no, but that's a bitch of a commute.
[ but she sees his face sliding onto the screen of her phone, sees the way he smiles at her, and all the worry and anxiety just floods out. she repeats the words, almost like a mantra: i would never, she tells him, and this time it really is a laugh, cut short by her mumbling hang on a sec as she drops the phone screenside up onto the bed. he gets a nice view of the ceiling of her room — are those water stains? — for a minute or so, the background noise of her scrambling and huffing a bit, and then,
her face, still smiling, wiping under her eyes with the side of her hand, palm up to her knuckles covered by his sweater. because, yeah, she's still wearing that goddamn sweatshirt and nothing fucking else, and her hair's a tousled mess in a ponytail that's way too loose and she's not wearing any makeup and she knows she looks a goddamn sight — but she doesn't care, not right now, not when her heart is doing stupid loop-de-loops in her chest as he smiles that fond, obnoxiously endearing smile in her direction through the webcam of his laptop.
fuck her, she's ruined. ]
I would go to Newark right now if it meant I got you all to myself.
[ and that, dear reader, is love — six months too early and definitely not invited to any variety of conscious thought, but love all the same. ]
[ Disappointingly, Matthew only gets to enjoy seeing Daisy smile at him for a brief second before his view of her swoops alarmingly, her phone presumably abandoned on the bed as she does something off-camera, the noises of her shuffling around and the occasional flash of her hair or edge of his sweatshirt all he can see before suddenly the shot of her resolves into a proper landscape-oriented view, obviously on her laptop. ]
Hey. [ He can't help the way he almost sighs out the greeting, relieved and pleased in equal measure to see her, even if his eyebrows draw close together at the sight of her swiping her hand over her face, using the cuff of his sweatshirt to dab under her cheeks.
He doesn't care about her tousled hair, or the fact that she's not wearing makeup, or the way that she looks kind of a mess right now. He only cares about the smile she's wearing, and the way she immediately swears to go to New Jersey, of all places, just to see him. He laughs quietly, so soft and fond, his hair tousled and his glasses reflecting the screen back at her until he pulls them off and hooks them in the neck of his shirt. ]
Wow. You must really like me, huh? [ Only fair, to be honest, because his night had been alright up until this point, but seeing her has made everything so much better. ]
Yeah, [ and much like his simple hey, the word comes out breathlessly, impossibly honest and raw and real, the smile on her face threatening to break some known record of illumination before it's interrupted. not by a frown or a sigh, but by the tug of her teeth against the inside of her lip, and then by her lower lip caught between them, a pause in her statement punctuated by that toying, tempting (and yet entirely unintentional, just this once) motion of her mouth. ]
I really do like you.
[ she couldn't take that back if she wanted to — but she does not. she likes him. likes him, likes him; the way she remembers girls giddily whispering in their twin beds inside the dormitory rooms at st agnes, something far beyond friendship or companionship or even simple lust. this isn't just the fact that she likes the way his mouth or his hands (or the rest of him) feel against her body, this isn't about the fact that he's so goddamn handsome he makes her want to tug him into a closet every time she sees his face, this isn't about anything physical at all.
it's about the way that she feels safe when he holds her. it's about the swell of happiness she feels when he smiles at her, the pride in his eyes when she talks about her class work, the gentle way he tucks her hair behind her ears when they're in his office or in a booth at a restaurant. it's about the fact that she wants to see him, every minute of every day, and that she doesn't mind sacrificing some of her own time to make it happen.
she really, really likes him. and she can't pretend like she doesn't. not to his face. ]
[ Sliding down against the headboard, Matt slouches into his pillows and draws his knees up, positioning his lap top in such a way that it feels like she's close to him and they're just murmuring quietly to each other like they're at a sleepover and not hundreds of miles apart. ]
That's handy, [ he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at her, obviously enchanted. ] Because I really like you too. It'd be pretty embarrassing if you felt differently.
[ It's easy to joke about it when he's had confirmation that she agrees; he wouldn't feel nearly so good about teasing her if she hadn't confirmed that she was just as stupid over him as he is over her. Matt may be a lot of things, but entirely secure in himself is not one of those things, and the fact that he truly, deeply cares about her opinion means he'll never be entirely certain he's earned a good one.
Maybe he's an idiot for making such a fool of himself over a girl ten years his junior, but hey. She's looking pretty foolish over him, too. They can be foolish together. ]
[ daisy huffs out a laugh at that, equal parts groaning and amused; she doesn't outright roll her eyes, but she does shake her head at him a little, admonishing without much bite. ]
I don't. [ and he knows she doesn't, but she wants to remind him. wants to tell him one more time, while he's smiling so sweetly at her, that she cares. that she likes him so much it makes her wonder if it's possible to care more. ] You drive me crazy, you know.
[ in the best possible way. in the kind of way that keeps her up at night sometimes, giddy and unable to stop thinking about him; in the kind of way that makes her willing to get up earlier in the morning or sacrifice a nap mid-day just to squeeze in a few more minutes of time; in the kind of way that makes her better just to make it work. ]
[ She can huff and roll her eyes at him all she likes; it's obvious Matt likes it when she does, if the way his smile broadens is any indication.
He likes to see her happy, so sue him. ]
Good. [ It's really too bad they're so far apart. He wants to be able to reach in and run his fingers through his hair, to settle her collar, to thumb her cheek. Any excuse to touch her, really. He's not picky. ] That makes it easier for me to forgive myself for the literally countless times I think about you every day.
[ He's spent this whole weekend thinking of things to tell her, little asides that have him half-turning as if she's already beside him, anecdotes to send her over text, jokes he wants to tell her later just to see her laugh in that way that makes her nose scrunch up adorably. He's been thinking of how she'd look if she came with him, out sunning herself at the pool, dressed up in the hotel bar, lounging naked in his bed.
[ she wouldn't mind. for as many times as he's moved to touch her, daisy's equally drawn to him. there have been more moments than she can count where she's wanted to peer up and gauge his reaction to something, or to reach over and lace her hands in his, or to come climb into his lap in his office chair or on her bed after too long a stint trying to distract herself by working.
it's funny how what should be productivity — time apart, time left to herself, time she had well before he came along — now feels like wasted time. she's still getting her work done, but there's no motivation to finish it. she can be lazy, she can take naps, she can waste hours of her day watching netflix or scrolling through news articles instead of focusing and getting things done in order to do something she wants to do more. (like him.) ]
It's already been two days.
[ more than that, really. an afternoon lost to travel, plus two full conference days — she won't see him again until the day after tomorrow now, late in the evening when his plane touches down. ]
What'd you do to me, Mr Robertson? [ a soft laugh, self-deprecating and almost bashful at the same time. ] You've left me pining for you like one of your poets.
[ The thing is, right, Matt remember this feeling. He's been in love before. He knows the warning signs, and he's ignoring them completely, because it's fucking nice to feel this way again, and he's already in too deep. What's he going to do now, ignore her in an effort to get her to move on from him?
He may be pretty stupid, sometimes, but he's not stupid enough to ghost someone like Daisy, thanks.
His smile softening at her when she confesses to pining, he winks at her through the camera. ] That's Doctor Robertson, thank you. [ He didn't spend all that goddamn money on getting a PhD to not have people address him by his hard-won title.
Actually, that's a lie. Most of the time he feels vaguely uncomfortable when people refer to him as doctor, though exposure therapy has made it so that he's stopped flinching when his students say that to him. It's a pretty good warning signal, honestly, if he can hear someone asking Sharon if Doctor Robertson is in, it usually means someone is going to show up to his office and ask him for an extension.
Sliding down the headboard of his hotel bed, he props the laptop up a little more comfortably on his middle and fits an arm behind his head so he can still see. ]
[ it's a concession, but a teasing one. the words come weaved into laughter and teasing smiles, reflected in the glint of amusement in her eyes visible even through the compression of her laptop camera. ]
It's been okay. [ not great, not terrible. nothing to write home about. she shrugs a little, mostly for effect. ] I was going to go into the library, but it's been gross all day, so I just worked from my room.
[ the library's coding lab is dark and filled with obnoxiously large workstations, each outfitted with multiple monitors and the sort of nerd chic accoutrements that cost more than any reasonable person would spend: keyboards that clack just so, mice that fit comfortably in the palm of a hand for hours, chairs that seem to fit to the user while still breathable. it's somewhere that offers daisy a taste at what many of her fellows have bought for themselves, top of the line gear. ]
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but she doesn't know how to explain that to him. she doesn't know how to say, i used to be homeless on the street for two years and then i bought a van and i lived off the money i could make driving people around as an unregistered taxi and whatever i could steal to resell at a pawn shop. she doesn't know how to explain that his expectations of safety come from a place she never knew, an expectation that there was always a more reasonable solution or a more comfortable one, even if it meant stretching a little to get there.
and she doesn't know that he wants to know all of that about her, anyway. why would he? she might be grown up enough now to dress herself in clothes that fit, she may have pocketed enough money in between semesters to buy an imported knockoff smartphone, but she wasn't comfortable. not the way her roommate or her fellow students or her professors were, anyway.
but that's not his fault, and she doesn't want to ruin her chance to talk to him by yelling at him for something he doesn't understand. not tonight. not when she misses him so much it feels like a piece of her's been cut out and taken away, a feeling that she keeps telling herself is way too strong for what's only been a few weeks of casual meetings and rushed sex in offices and back rooms.
no, it's too much. to feel, to explain. she can only blow out a breath, a click and a rustle of fabric echoing the closing and pushing away of her laptop, and lean up against the wall behind her bed, head thumping gently against the chipped paint. ]
That's the only way I could have gone. [ okay, she could have burned her budget for the month, but that's stupid. ] I want to, I do, I just —
[ god. ]
I can't repay you for that.
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It stops him from getting belligerent about this; obviously, there's a reason Daisy is resisting him buying her a plane ticket, and it's not just her being polite. ]
Honey. [ His voice is low, gentle. The way you'd talk to a spooked animal, or a child that's woken up from a nightmare. ] It's okay.
[ He doesn't understand why she can't get a plane ticket, or why she won't entertain the idea of him getting her one. She's right. He doesn't understand her financial baggage, her background, anything like that. She's never brought it up before, and he comes from the sort of comfortable middle-class anglo-saxon lifestyle that means he's had the privilege to never worry about where his next meal came from. Sure, he has a big family, and money was always a little tight, but he was never homeless, never had to worry that he wouldn't be able to find warm clothes when it was cold, never had to try and live off Top Ramen and day-old bread. ]
You don't need to repay me. [ It's only two hundred dollars. At least he's smart enough not to say that out loud. He has a feeling it won't go over well. ] I've got a miles card. I can scrape together enough points for a ticket for you.
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[ and, for a second, that's all she says, her mouth otherwise occupied in letting out a shaky exhale, one that's (only somewhat successfully) attempted to be muffled by a sweatshirt-sleeve-clad hand. she just says okay, and resists the urge to explain all the hesitation and anxiety and nervous, self-destructive thoughts that are rattling in her brain.
because, no matter how okay it is, no matter how gently he tells her that he can afford this and he wants to do this and that he wants to bring her along, the sad truth is daisy can't repay him. not in funds, not in favors, not in anything she knows as valuable or worthwhile or important.
sure, she can keep him company. she can make him feel good. she can ease his stress after a long day, make him smile when he's frustrated; she can let him burn off steam when he needs something real under his hands, something pliant and obedient and wanting.
but those things aren't the same. and that's not what he's doing, either. he's not paying her for her company. he's doing this to be nice, and she doesn't know how to repay that. not really. ]
I really wish I could see you right now.
[ not the other way around. she doesn't necessarily think he needs to see her. but she can't really fight down the desire to tuck herself into his space, to find that solid reassurance, familiar now in other contexts. she wants to be held, to be cradled: she wants to feel the way his arms wrap around her when she sits in his lap, strong and steady and sure, the way his chin tucks into her hair, letting her face find purchase against his chest.
she just wants to be with him, and she isn't, and the realization aches like an open wound. ]
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He wants to be able to touch her, to stroke his hand down her arm or to card his fingers through her hair, to hold her close against his chest the way he knows she likes. He likes it too, honestly, he's not just being altruistic when he wraps his arms around her and lets her put her face into his chest. It's been a long time since someone turned to him for comfort, and right now feels like a moment that desperately needs some comfort inserted into it.
How can he tell her that the money doesn't matter to him? Objectively, two hundred dollars matters. Of course it does. He has to pay over two grand every month to repay his student loans, on top of the rent he and Julie pay for their place, on top of all his other expenses. Two hundred dollars matters. But he's willing to tighten his belt in other arenas so that he can afford this one indulgence, so that he can take her out to Chicago with him and he can show her a good time, so they can spend time together that isn't snatched between classes, so that he doesn't have to lock the door behind her or put his palm over her mouth to keep her quiet while he touches her. He wants to not have to look over his shoulder, to smile at her the way she makes him want to, to put his arm around her and kiss her whenever the spirit moves him regardless of who's watching.
She means so much to him, but that's not something he can articulate over the phone. ]
I know, baby. [ He'd almost forgotten how it felt to feel someone else's heart beating against his skin, and he wants. ] It's only two more days, though, then I'll be back in town and you can see me whenever you want. You'll be sick of me in no time.
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it's — god, it sounds so good, she just wants to hear him say it again. ]
I'm not gonna get sick of you.
[ she can almost guarantee that it'll be the other way around. he'll get sick of her, he'll get tired of her, he'll learn too much and walk away because that's too much to handle. he'll change his mind or get back with his wife or something. it's too good a dream to even consider that he won't. ]
I want to see you when you get off the plane.
[ like, immediately. in a dream world, she'd pull a scene from a movie and kiss him at the gate. the image flashes and burns into her retinas before she has a chance to shove it down. she can't do that, can she? she can't meet him at the gate like she has a right to his time, like she belongs there, waiting for him. it's a sobering thought. ]
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They can keep doing this on the phone in the dark, where he has to guess at what her expression is doing, or they can utilize modern technology to the fullest and just fucking Skype already.
Sitting up, he turns on his bedside lamp and fishes out his laptop again, booting it up quickly and reconnecting to the hotel wifi so he can click on the blue Skype icon. ]
You say that now, [ he mutters darkly, playing it up as an obvious joke as he clicks on her name and listens to the boop-de-boop of Skype's dialing tone. When the screen resolves into an image of her face, he lets out a relieved sigh and smiles at her. ]
I'm coming into La Guardia. If you really want to go all the way there to see me, I'm not going to say no, but that's a bitch of a commute.
i use this icon so rarely, can you believe
[ but she sees his face sliding onto the screen of her phone, sees the way he smiles at her, and all the worry and anxiety just floods out. she repeats the words, almost like a mantra: i would never, she tells him, and this time it really is a laugh, cut short by her mumbling hang on a sec as she drops the phone screenside up onto the bed. he gets a nice view of the ceiling of her room — are those water stains? — for a minute or so, the background noise of her scrambling and huffing a bit, and then,
her face, still smiling, wiping under her eyes with the side of her hand, palm up to her knuckles covered by his sweater. because, yeah, she's still wearing that goddamn sweatshirt and nothing fucking else, and her hair's a tousled mess in a ponytail that's way too loose and she's not wearing any makeup and she knows she looks a goddamn sight — but she doesn't care, not right now, not when her heart is doing stupid loop-de-loops in her chest as he smiles that fond, obnoxiously endearing smile in her direction through the webcam of his laptop.
fuck her, she's ruined. ]
I would go to Newark right now if it meant I got you all to myself.
[ and that, dear reader, is love — six months too early and definitely not invited to any variety of conscious thought, but love all the same. ]
i cannot believe she is so pretty
Hey. [ He can't help the way he almost sighs out the greeting, relieved and pleased in equal measure to see her, even if his eyebrows draw close together at the sight of her swiping her hand over her face, using the cuff of his sweatshirt to dab under her cheeks.
He doesn't care about her tousled hair, or the fact that she's not wearing makeup, or the way that she looks kind of a mess right now. He only cares about the smile she's wearing, and the way she immediately swears to go to New Jersey, of all places, just to see him. He laughs quietly, so soft and fond, his hair tousled and his glasses reflecting the screen back at her until he pulls them off and hooks them in the neck of his shirt. ]
Wow. You must really like me, huh? [ Only fair, to be honest, because his night had been alright up until this point, but seeing her has made everything so much better. ]
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I really do like you.
[ she couldn't take that back if she wanted to — but she does not. she likes him. likes him, likes him; the way she remembers girls giddily whispering in their twin beds inside the dormitory rooms at st agnes, something far beyond friendship or companionship or even simple lust. this isn't just the fact that she likes the way his mouth or his hands (or the rest of him) feel against her body, this isn't about the fact that he's so goddamn handsome he makes her want to tug him into a closet every time she sees his face, this isn't about anything physical at all.
it's about the way that she feels safe when he holds her. it's about the swell of happiness she feels when he smiles at her, the pride in his eyes when she talks about her class work, the gentle way he tucks her hair behind her ears when they're in his office or in a booth at a restaurant. it's about the fact that she wants to see him, every minute of every day, and that she doesn't mind sacrificing some of her own time to make it happen.
she really, really likes him. and she can't pretend like she doesn't. not to his face. ]
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That's handy, [ he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at her, obviously enchanted. ] Because I really like you too. It'd be pretty embarrassing if you felt differently.
[ It's easy to joke about it when he's had confirmation that she agrees; he wouldn't feel nearly so good about teasing her if she hadn't confirmed that she was just as stupid over him as he is over her. Matt may be a lot of things, but entirely secure in himself is not one of those things, and the fact that he truly, deeply cares about her opinion means he'll never be entirely certain he's earned a good one.
Maybe he's an idiot for making such a fool of himself over a girl ten years his junior, but hey. She's looking pretty foolish over him, too. They can be foolish together. ]
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I don't. [ and he knows she doesn't, but she wants to remind him. wants to tell him one more time, while he's smiling so sweetly at her, that she cares. that she likes him so much it makes her wonder if it's possible to care more. ] You drive me crazy, you know.
[ in the best possible way. in the kind of way that keeps her up at night sometimes, giddy and unable to stop thinking about him; in the kind of way that makes her willing to get up earlier in the morning or sacrifice a nap mid-day just to squeeze in a few more minutes of time; in the kind of way that makes her better just to make it work. ]
I can't wait to see you.
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He likes to see her happy, so sue him. ]
Good. [ It's really too bad they're so far apart. He wants to be able to reach in and run his fingers through his hair, to settle her collar, to thumb her cheek. Any excuse to touch her, really. He's not picky. ] That makes it easier for me to forgive myself for the literally countless times I think about you every day.
[ He's spent this whole weekend thinking of things to tell her, little asides that have him half-turning as if she's already beside him, anecdotes to send her over text, jokes he wants to tell her later just to see her laugh in that way that makes her nose scrunch up adorably. He's been thinking of how she'd look if she came with him, out sunning herself at the pool, dressed up in the hotel bar, lounging naked in his bed.
Two days seems like a long time. ]
Just two days.
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it's funny how what should be productivity — time apart, time left to herself, time she had well before he came along — now feels like wasted time. she's still getting her work done, but there's no motivation to finish it. she can be lazy, she can take naps, she can waste hours of her day watching netflix or scrolling through news articles instead of focusing and getting things done in order to do something she wants to do more. (like him.) ]
It's already been two days.
[ more than that, really. an afternoon lost to travel, plus two full conference days — she won't see him again until the day after tomorrow now, late in the evening when his plane touches down. ]
What'd you do to me, Mr Robertson? [ a soft laugh, self-deprecating and almost bashful at the same time. ] You've left me pining for you like one of your poets.
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He may be pretty stupid, sometimes, but he's not stupid enough to ghost someone like Daisy, thanks.
His smile softening at her when she confesses to pining, he winks at her through the camera. ] That's Doctor Robertson, thank you. [ He didn't spend all that goddamn money on getting a PhD to not have people address him by his hard-won title.
Actually, that's a lie. Most of the time he feels vaguely uncomfortable when people refer to him as doctor, though exposure therapy has made it so that he's stopped flinching when his students say that to him. It's a pretty good warning signal, honestly, if he can hear someone asking Sharon if Doctor Robertson is in, it usually means someone is going to show up to his office and ask him for an extension.
Sliding down the headboard of his hotel bed, he props the laptop up a little more comfortably on his middle and fits an arm behind his head so he can still see. ]
Tell me about your day?
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[ it's a concession, but a teasing one. the words come weaved into laughter and teasing smiles, reflected in the glint of amusement in her eyes visible even through the compression of her laptop camera. ]
It's been okay. [ not great, not terrible. nothing to write home about. she shrugs a little, mostly for effect. ] I was going to go into the library, but it's been gross all day, so I just worked from my room.
[ the library's coding lab is dark and filled with obnoxiously large workstations, each outfitted with multiple monitors and the sort of nerd chic accoutrements that cost more than any reasonable person would spend: keyboards that clack just so, mice that fit comfortably in the palm of a hand for hours, chairs that seem to fit to the user while still breathable. it's somewhere that offers daisy a taste at what many of her fellows have bought for themselves, top of the line gear. ]
I think the rain's finally letting up, though.