Sweets considers Daisy to be the best girlfriend he's had. Ever. It's because of her minor in psychology, her excitement for her job, the passion she has. It's because she calls him "Sweet Lancelot" and because of the way she quotes Star Wars when the moments are opportune. It's also because of the first time they slept in the same bed.
"Come on. It's late, Lancelot. I want to get some sleep," Daisy murmured. "Is it alright if I just sleep here?"
Lance froze, and the brief sight of panic in his eyes was hidden. "Of course. Sure. Let me, uh, grab you a t-shirt or something to sleep in."
Daisy raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Oh. I figured we'd sleep naked." She caught the look of, again, panic, in Lance's eyes. She simply couldn't figure out what that look meant. Was Lance afraid of her? Was he repulsed by her? For all her psychology courses, for all her ability to read people, she could not read the person she cared for most.
Lance, though, knew what Daisy was thinking, and the last thing in the world that he would ever think was that Daisy was unattractive; she was beautiful, smart, funny. Honestly, one of the best women he'd had the pleasure of interacting with. He reached out and touched Daisy's hand. "Come on. I'll find you a t-shirt," he whispered. Daisy let him lead her to his bedroom, and he held out a Georgetown t-shirt, purchased from the university bookstore. Daisy took it quietly, and when Lance passed her a pair of his plaid pajama bottoms, she took those too.
Daisy went into the bathroom to change, and while she was in there, Lance swapped his khakis for another pair of pajama bottoms, and he unbuttoned his shirt, removing it and the thin cotton t-shirt he wore beneath it. Daisy opened the door, in the pajamas, before Lance had a chance to pull on another shirt. His back was to the bathroom door, and Daisy's eyes were wide when she saw the scars across her sweet Lancelot's back. An involuntary noise was let loose from her throat, a gasp, a whimper, and Lance whirled around to face Daisy. The look on his face was pure panic; she'd never seen that look on Lance's face before. It made her stomach knot up.
Lance went to grab at a shirt to pull on over his exposed skin, but Daisy moved forward to grab his wrist. "Hey," she whispered. "Don't... don't feel like you have to cover it. Don't feel like you have to tell me, but don't think that you have to cover up." Lance couldn't even meet her eyes, because he was afraid of what he'd see there. Would she pity him? Did she think it was gross? Was she repulsed by him?
He took the chance and looked at Daisy. She stroked her thumb over his wrist bone and smiled at him. She was trying her best to be supportive and soothe Lance, his fears, his nerves. He knew she was; even as distraught as he was, he still read her like a book. He never had trouble reading Daisy.
"Lance," she whispered, and squeezed his hand. Her eyes were only full of support and love, no pity, no disgust. How could he think that she would feel any other way? She stroked her hand over his hand, over his cheek, touched his soft hair. Finally, finally, her hand moved to touch his back. Her fingers traced the scars left behind on Lance's back, silent, counting the scars. She was smart; she knew what those scars were, the whip marks. She wasn't going to ask him, though; she'd prefer to let him just quietly tell her when he was ready. She knew that he wouldn't just tell her, as much as she almost wished that he would.
Lance sat on the edge of the bed; Daisy sat with him, and then crawled up to lean against the headboard of the bed. "Come here," she whispered.
He crawled up and curled himself against her, his head against her shoulder, his arm draped over her side. From her position, Daisy could look down and see the scars on Lance's back. She closed her eyes for a moment, and she could picture a young boy, chubby cheeks and curly, dark hair, trembling in the corner of a room. She opened her eyes, before she could imagine anything else, because her hands would start shaking; she needed to be strong for Lance. She stroked her fingers over his hair, hugging him close with the arm she had looped around his shoulders.
"I've got you," she whispered quietly. "I'm not leaving." She was bright; she was a psychology minor. What he needed most now was probably reassurance that everything was still okay and that Daisy still cared for him the same as she did before. She did care for him the same way that she had, but now she understood him a little better, why he threw himself into his work, why he had such trouble not using his psychology knowledge on people when he wasn't in the office. Daisy pet Lance's hair and whispered, "I'm still here, and I still care for you very much, Lancelot." He remained quiet, but tightened his arm around Daisy's waist, squeezing her gently.
It helped him to know that she wasn't going to just leave him; after his parents had died, just before going to work at the Jeffersonian, Lance told himself each night as he was going to sleep, 'Everyone leaves. No one is constant, everyone leaves you.' He knew better now. Daisy wasn't just going to leave him. Her little hands were warm on his back, soothing as she stroked the pads of her fingers over his scars. He lost the feelings of shame that he'd held onto for so long, and he felt lighter somehow, as if something had been lifted off of his shoulders. He had few secrets left from Daisy now. He liked it that way. It was still early on, but for some reason (which he usually would tell himself was a foolish decision) he implicitly trusted Daisy with the knowledge of his past. He had already quietly confessed his ability to sing, his musical inclination. Daisy hadn't laughed. Daisy just smiled and murmured in his ear that she already knew his talent; he'd sung along to the radio in the car once and she could tell just from that. He felt like he could tell Daisy almost anything; he would censor himself from details of his past for now, simply because he didn't want her to hear the gruesome details of how those scars got onto his back.
Daisy's hands were making him drowsy, the warmth and gentleness of her touch. His eyelids drooped and he glanced up at her with his eyes half-lidded. It was as though Daisy's discovery and his panic took all the energy out of him. Daisy smiled down and kissed Lance's forehead. "Sleep sweet, Lancelot," she whispered.
He pressed a kiss to the hollow of Daisy's throat. "Thank you," he murmured, his lips brushing against her neck as he spoke. "You don't know what this meant to-"
Daisy smiled a little more and leaned down to kiss Lance's lips. "I have every idea. Go to sleep, Lance. I'll be right here."
It was then that Sweets knew how he felt about Daisy, how deep his feelings for her were. He'd never have let anyone else sit there, touch his scars, comfort him, not the way that Daisy did. He'd known from the moment he met her that she was special. He just didn't know how special she really was.