Work Text:
daisy slides down the wall in the apartment that simmons was supposed to rent, wincing as she leaves a trail of blood behind. she grits her teeth together, reaching instinctively for the bottle of bourbon that she usually always has with her now. it’s already 2/3rds of the way empty, amber liquid glinting in the faint sunlight that just serves as another reminder of the shitty path that she’s fallen down..
“daisy. we agreed, no more self-medication,” comes simmons’ sharp voice, stopping daisy before she can even lift the bottle to pale cracked lips. daisy casts her a look, but dutifully sets the bottle down where it lands on the hardwood floor with a ‘thunk.’ she stares off into space, quiet.
the alcohol has been almost like a safe haven for her. a bad one, sure. but it helps numb the pain in her arms, the pain and the thoughts in her mind. it helps keep her… sane, through all this chaotic shit that makes her want to claw her skin off or let robbie burn her or- or- god, she doesn’t know anymore.
slowly, through the haze of alcohol and pain and… numbness in her mind, she formulates the right words in her mind.
“thanks, simmons. you should g-“
“daisy johnson, if you think i’m leaving you like this, malnourished and dirty and tipsy, you are completely out of your mind. now sit still so i can tend to the rest of those cuts and burns.” jemma’s voice is firm and brokers no argument, so daisy just stays quiet knowing there’s no way that her friend will back off and leave her like this. as jemma rubs alcohol soaked cotton pads along her wounds, she stares off into space, almost unfeeling.
she doesn’t know how to explain any of this. the guilt that’s been eating her up from the inside out for leaving the team. for letting lincoln die. for not telling jemma anything. the way that she’s spiraling lower and lower. the way that she feels like she’s hit rock bottom. the absolute rock bottom.
no more adhd meds. no more bone-restoring pills. no more fucking alcohol because of the promise she made to simmons. no more staying safe now that simmons knows where she is. she’ll be on the road again this time tomorrow, driving her dusty beige van down remote freeways until she parks it in the lot of some sketchy cracker barrel and sets up camp for a few days. rinse and repeat.
rob banks. atone for everything she did, run away from everything she’s ever known, because god, she’s scared of hurting jemma. she’s scared of hurting coulson and may and fitz, the first family she’s ever found and the first people who even gave a single shit about her. she’s absolutely fucking terrifed of hurting them, of making them suffer because of some stupid thing she caused. and so she runs.
and she doesn’t think she’ll go back.