viii.
All things considered, if Daisy had to guess the latest nonsense they'd be dealing with, a time loop actually makes the most sense.
Surely it was bound to happen eventually since they've started messing with history, and, honestly, it might not be the worst thing that's ever happened to them. At the very least, it means that they have more than one shot to crack this thing, and judging by how many times they've already failed, they're going to need all the chances they can get.
The downside is that she is absolutely exhausted.
She was still in the slow process of recovering even before all of this happened, and since the loops started – or rather, since she began remembering them – she's woken with a jolt each time, adrenaline pumping, ready to get on with it and figure out how to get things right this time around. It has its perks, being able to pick up where she left off, and it's efficient, especially knowing that their number of remaining tries is dwindling. But it also means that she never really feels well-rested since she's been living through one long, continuous day that never seems to end.
Of course, the only occasions when she actually wakes up refreshed are after the loops where she dies, which is not great on its own, but the fact that she also has to re-learn everything again just means more wasted time that they'll never get back. Meanwhile, they're getting closer and closer to the eye of a storm which threatens to erase them from existence.
So, all in all, a pretty typical day at SHIELD.
It's loop 90-something now – or maybe 100? – and she finally feels like she's getting the hang of it, like they're starting to make some real progress. The way to solve this particular problem is not with brute force, but by picking at it slowly and leaving breadcrumbs that she can follow in the future. It's not really her style, not anymore, but she can work with it. Piece by piece, until they solve this puzzle.
Still, there's no getting around the fact that they're running out of time.
The distance between them and the vortex is getting smaller and smaller, and their progress is incremental at best. Her adrenaline is starting to run out too, and it's getting harder to keep repeating the same day over and over again, getting close to something that might be the solution only to blink and end up back underneath glass. It's harder still to keep watching her friends get hurt and die, even if it's only temporary. She's afraid it might not be for much longer.
They have to get it right this time. They have to get that implant out so Simmons can tell them how to fix the time drive so this day can finally end. And they're close, they're so close this time, and she's sure that if they can just...
Wait. Something's different.
The cologne, the drawer, it wasn't like that before. Sousa calls out to her then, and that's different too, him showing up here now. She fills him in on what's happened as succinctly as she can, and he, of course, takes it in stride, even sounding excited when he brings up his SSR days. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later.
But first things first.
Remove the implant. Fix the time drive. Make it to tomorrow.
She reaches down for the scanner, but Sousa stops her before she can grab it. It makes sense when he explains that it's a trap, and she's glad that he realized it even as she's annoyed at herself for missing it. She's getting sloppy now, careless and tired from doing this so many times, and that worries her. The lack of concern he has for his own life worries her too, even if his reasoning is sound.
She's still trying to think through what it all means – who would sabotage them, who would want to kill Simmons, how he could be so willing to sacrifice himself like this. But then he's grabbed it, and oh, he's okay, but oh, no.
No, he's not.
She hears him grunt, sees him looking at her in confusion and pain, and there's only one thought on her mind as she watches blood spill from his mouth – she wishes she had grabbed it instead. It happens so fast that she can barely choke out his name before he's falling, dying in front of her very eyes. The world fades away at the edges, and she's aware of Simmons and Coulson at her side, trying to pull her away, trying to get her back on track, but she can't see anything except the man in front of her. She can't feel anything except his hand growing cold in hers.
Two breaths later, he's gone, and when he goes limp, the last of her adrenaline leaves her as well. The energy drains right out of her, and she slumps against the cabinet, clutching him as if she might will him back to life.
You'd think she'd be used to it by now – all this suffering, all this loss. But it's funny, there always seems to be more to take.
The room is quiet, and she realizes that the others have gone. They must be trying to figure things out on their own, trying to salvage what they can before the next reset. She knows she should join them, that she can't afford to let any more time go to waste, but her body refuses to move.
In her head, she understands that it's only temporary, that in just a little while, she'll wake up again and he'll be sitting in his chair as he's always been. In just a little while, he won't remember any of this. But she will.
She'll never forget it.
It feels as familiar as all those other losses and as new as the very first one and as terrible as the memory of static in her ears and an explosion before her eyes. It's not exactly the same, and she knows this too, but it's close, a different shade of the same color. It's too close for comfort and she's too tired to leave, so she sits there beside him, holding his hand, waiting for it to be over.
Next time, they'll get it right, or maybe the time after that, or maybe it'll take them up until the very last second. Either way, she'll never let it happen exactly like this again.
She sits there with him for another hour until the familiar whirring finally reaches her ears, and it's the first time all day that she's been relieved to hear the sound.
Before she goes, she says his name again, a reminder for the next time, but a promise too.
Sousa, she whispers.
What she means is, I won't lose you again.
...
It's the sound of feet hitting the floor that wakes Daniel up.
Strange, because he's usually awake before she is.
He doesn't know it, but this is the 43rd time that she's woken him, and when the day is finally done, it will have happened four more times, though he doesn't know that yet either. What he does know is that she's looking better, healthier, almost fully recovered. It's a relief, seeing her alert and lucid, seeing the color back in her face.
It wasn't easy getting here. Those first few days back were rough.
She was so still in that healing chamber, so stiff and unmoving, and he kept watching her breathe, afraid that she might stop the second he turned away. He ended up staying with her most of that night, dozing off in fits and bursts and waking with a start at the slightest noise. Her condition was stable by the morning, and it remained that way until the early evening when she finally opened her eyes again.
He had been beside her when it happened, had watched her jerk violently awake, barely conscious but already prepared to fight. It tugged at him, that confused but determined expression on her face, like she couldn't let herself be helpless no matter the circumstances. He found himself wondering where she had learned that, what she had lived through that would make such a response so instinctual, so automatic.
He found himself wondering if she'd ever known peace.
But then he looked down at her wide eyes and furrowed brow, and no, he didn't think she ever had.
Simmons had heard the commotion too and returned to the room then with fresh bandages, and between the two of them, they managed to calm Daisy down enough to clean the wounds she reopened and help her back in the chamber. She'd closed her eyes reluctantly but fell asleep quickly, and Simmons had assured him that she'd be out for a while, that he should take a break.
But Daniel couldn't stop seeing the distress on her face when she'd woken, couldn't stop imagining what nightmares must have startled her awake. So he stayed with her that second night too, and luckily, that ended up being the worst of it. The days got easier after that, one by one, slowly but surely, and after a while, they developed something of a routine.
He'd spend his mornings reading up about everything he'd missed since 1955. In the afternoon, he'd walk around the plane and up and down the stairs with her, breaking in his new leg while she regained her strength. He'd end his day whenever she did, following her into the room, settling into the chair beside her, and staying until she fell asleep before going back to his own bunk for the rest of the night.
Truth be told, it's not how he imagined he'd be spending his time here.
When he made the decision to stay, he had thought he'd be helping out in more strategic ways, like devising a plan to beat the Chronicoms, or at the very least, lending a hand around the plane. But it turned out that his expert investigative skills were of very little use against alien robots from the future, and his understanding of 1950s technology was completely outmatched by the advanced machinery around him.
After numerous failed attempts to provide assistance, he quickly learned that the best way to help the team was by helping Daisy. She's their strongest fighter, and they need her back in the game, so Daniel takes it upon himself to make sure she's back in play sooner rather than later. They switch from walking to training, and it quickly becomes his favorite part of the day, going hand to hand with her, seeing all the different ways she can use her powers.
No, it's not what he imagined. It's better.
He realizes after one particularly tough session that, out of everyone on the team, he's spent the most time with her. Certainly since they got back, but really, since this whole thing began. Of course he'd been drawn to her since the start, but it feels different now. He's no longer being pulled in, she's simply become part of his orbit.
Staying by her side, keeping an eye on her, figuring out what she needs – it's all second nature to him now. It's muscle memory, as natural as breathing, as automatic as blinking.
At a certain point, he learns her habits and patterns. A good day looks like easy smiles and conversation even as she's throwing him over her shoulder onto the mat. A bad day looks like her pulling her punches, picking at her food, and taking an early night. Either way, he makes sure to be there in his chair until she drifts off. He can't stop the nightmares, but he can talk her through them when she wakes up, and he can remind her that she's not alone. It's important to him that she knows it.
And that's how it goes, day in, day out.
Until today.
He's still groggy as he opens his eyes, but when he sees her, he can already tell that something's off. She looks preoccupied and withdrawn, her shoulders hunched as if she's carrying the weight of the world, and he can tell it's going to be one of the bad days. He won't know just how bad until later when it's all over.
She's not saying anything and must be lost in thought, so he calls her attention and asks her what she's doing. When she responds, there's an edge in her voice that he's not sure he's ever heard before. It's not sharp, exactly, but it's pointed, a bit of attitude daring him to answer her question.
He wonders what's changed since yesterday, when they were talking like they always do and she was teasing him about an old phrase he had used. Something's clearly changed for her, but not for him. It's just another day, and he's been looking forward to reading about 1973, but he's been looking forward to spending time with her more.
So he chuckles before responding, wondering how it's possible that they've been through so much together and yet she still doesn't know.
Why does he care?
Isn't it obvious?
Because you don't, he replies with a small smile.
What he means is, because I do.