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After she gets out, after being brought to Basira’s flat (weak, couldn’t even walk on her own), after gently pushing her way out of a tight (too tight- too close- can’t breathe) hug, after murmuring quiet reassurances that she would be okay (and not quite hearing that it was alright if she wasn’t), Daisy showers.
She showers and showers. She showers kneeling on the floor, to weak to even stand on her own. She scrubs the dirt from herself until there’s nothing but clean skin, and then she scrubs some more. Distantly she thinks of how dry her skin is while surrounded by water, how red it is from the heat. The water is warm, comforting. It fogs up the bathroom, moistens the air, heats her from the outside in. She's hot. The water's scalding. The air is stuffy and still, and each breath feels too shallow and useless, and-
Daisy changes the water to cool.
She tilts her head towards the shower-head, letting the water drift across her face, wiping away tears that were distinguishable only by salty taste. She knows that she rarely cried before, never let herself cede control to wallowing emotions, but over the past months, tears had grown less and less important. Her hair tugs on her head, heavy with dirt and water and knots. She never noticed before how heavy it gets when wet. It tugs and tugs. She tries to ignore the pressure. There’s no reason it should bother her. She’s out now. She’s free and she’s safe and Basira is here. Basira loves her. Basira loves her hair; loves to run her fingers through it and braid it back out of the way and comb the knots-
Knots. Knots that tug and tug and tug and-
Daisy reaches for Basira's shampoo. She’d used it many times before. Before, when she would crash at Basira’s place because hers was just too far and they were too tired. She halfheartedly tries to drag it through her hair. She loved Basira, loved the way the scent of her partner would follow her all day when she used her shampoo. She still loves Basira; even with everything that's changed, that will remain constant. She will have a reminder of Basira with her with every turn of her head and swish of her hair. She’s free and she’s safe and Basira loves her. Basira loves her hai- Her fingers get caught in the tangles and tug .
Daisy gives up on washing her hair.
She rests her head on her knees and lets the water run across her body. She can still feel the damn dirt caking her skin, grimy and tight and squeezing, even though she knows that it's gone, that she shouldn't still be feeling it.
She shifts slightly, separating her limbs, giving herself the space she was denied for so long. Her hair slips off her back in one big clump, and it tugs .
This time, the sensation sends a shudder through her. No matter how hard the rational part of her brain futilely tries to separate the two feelings, the pulling, tugging pressure is just too familiar; too close to the squeezing closeness of dirt pressing all around her.
Daisy turns off the shower.
She wrings the water out from her hair. It doesn’t help. It’s still tangled in a clump, and as soon as she lets go, it pulls and tugs and all of a sudden Daisy’s back there and the pressure is all-consuming and she needs to get out, out-
Daisy tries to stand up, tries to stumble her way over to the cabinet, only saves herself from falling by grabbing onto the sink. Every frantic movement of her head just pulls, tugs more. She opens the cabinet. Right where she knew they would be, a pair of scissors.
She collapses on the floor, but she has what she needs now. A choked sob jerks through her body. She cuts and cuts and the pulling goes away. She cuts as much off as she can, and feels the air against her scalp. The air isn’t still, and there isn’t any pressure and she’s out. She’s free and she’s safe and Basira’s here. Basira loves her.
Basira loves her hair. The hair that now lay on the ground, tangled and dirty. Basira loved her hair. But now that hair is gone and Daisy is collapsed on the bathroom floor, shaking with silent sobs, tears running down her face, unable to even stand. Crumpled, pathetic and not right.
A knock. A knock on the door. A soft voice asking if she’s okay. Basira. Basira can’t see her like this, Basira can’t see her weak and crying and uneven. Basira can't see her jagged head and emaciated broad shoulders without realizing how different she was, how she couldn't fight this, how she can't fight at all anymore-
The door pushes open, deaf to Daisy’s silent pleas.
A towel is draped loosely around her shoulders, a hand brushes through the little that's left of her hair.
“Daisy, I-”, a concerned voice cuts through the silence. “I’m here. You’re here. You’re safe. Just breathe.” Daisy sees Basira. Feels her partner's hand resting cautiously on the back of her head. Lovingly, on her shorn, uneven hair.
This time, Daisy initiates the hug. Arms wrap around her, and it isn’t too close or too tight, and the arms don’t tug and finally Daisy can believe it when she tells herself that she’s free and she’s safe and Basira’s here. She can believe that Basira still loves her.
After Basira helps her dry off (“Let me know if you need some space”), after Basira helps her get dressed (“You don't have to stand to still be the strongest person I know”), after Basira smiles at her like Daisy’s her entire world (“I love you”), after the two rest (“We have time”), they head out. Daisy has one of her partner’s scarves wrapped around her head and one of her arms slung across her waist, and knows that if she falls, Basira will be there to catch her.
They buy a nice pair of clippers and Basira gently buzzes Daisy’s hair, bringing it all to an even length as Daisy watches numbly through the mirror.
“What d’you think?” Basira asks cautiously.
Daisy can see the map of scars on her head. Can remember where each one came from. She turns her head. Her hair doesn’t tug. She can feel the air.
“It’s good,” she says. “Badass.” A soft smile spreads across her face, one that never would have been there
before
. But before doesn’t matter, because right now Daisy’s free and safe, and Basira’s here, and they love each other.