[ the first thing he notices is the wellies. maybe that's because he's scottish and lived in them for half his life, or because they look like something meant for an upbeat musical number, not the afterlife. (although this afterlife has elements of a glossy stage number, in fairness.) then, he realises she's pretty. like, stupidly so. a level of pretty that suggests a mismatch may be at work, today. his stomach flips. figures fitz would manage to feel anxious in heaven, of all places. he reckons none of his friends would be surprised by that development.
and, oh boy, do his eyes widen a fraction as he registers her accent. his soulmate is american — not that there's anything wrong with that — it's just he never pictured himself with an american, even after moving to the states. the math is sound, he'd been assured. how sound, michael? is it sound enough that it knows him better than he knows himself? ]
[ a startled laugh. ] Er, no. We could — hug? [ pulling a face. ] No, that's equally unromantic, isn't it? [ he drags a hand across his jaw. after a beat, his smile peaks out, sheepishly amused. ] Knew I should've written up some cue cards about how you're perfect, at least according to Michael's algorithm.
[ according to michael's algorithm, of course. mr leopold fitz had been so very cautious in cushioning the statement with a nerd qualifier, but daisy had never been one to favor wishy-washy language. either he did or he didn't, right? if he did, they could get right to business — whatever business was in heaven.
wait — did people actually have sex in heaven? or was this place too clean for that? wait. was she supposed to have sex with her soulmate? and not other people? wait! was she supposed to want to have sex with her soulmate? and what did it mean if she kind of maybe did?
fuck.
she really was in over her head. her friends back home would lose their shit to hear this kind of internal debate from 'less talking, more action' daisy johnson. ]
[ for at least thirty seconds second, fitz wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole, sending him straight to the bad place. does she really want him to say it again? he doesn't know that she's perfect, couldn't possibly after trading a few sentences, but he believes in the system — in maths and logic — so daisy johnson should be perfect for him and he for her, if heaven's all it's cracked up to be.
then she offers him the most half-hearted assessment back with a g'vna... who says that... and to an obviously british person at that, jesus christ. maybe they are perfect for each other, if they're going to phrase things so bizarrely. he starts laughing, fast and loud despite his attempts to stifle the sound with both hands. ]
Sorry, yes — [ no, fuck, he's laughing again. ] — yes, you are perfect, and I'm not bad. [ another wheeze. ] Glad we're on the same page, soulmate.
[ his laughter is bright and loud, contagious in its surprising volume; after a half-second of rapid blinking confusion, daisy's lost to her own fit of giggles, two hands covering most of her face as they overlap across her mouth to muffle the noise.
they're a right pair, aren't they? the memory of an episode of some baking show pops into her head, one only watched as the after-effect of a night spent babysitting a drunken girlfriend after too many shots at the bar. i'm well chuffed, i am! better than positively gutted, in any case.
and then, mouthing the words, she fucking loses it all over again, laughing so hard she thinks she might fall over. ]
God. [ she's still laughing. she's trying to get it together, but she's still laughing. ] I don't think we're even in the same book, to be totally honest with you.
[ there's just no way. ]
But, I mean. [ a breath, an attempt at Totally Casual Seriousness. ] If you're in the market for a heavenly handjob in the Good Place Tunnel of Love, we can probably work something out.
[ is she serious? or is she just trying to make his eyes pop out of their sockets? WHO KNOWS. it's a mystery. ]
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and, oh boy, do his eyes widen a fraction as he registers her accent. his soulmate is american — not that there's anything wrong with that — it's just he never pictured himself with an american, even after moving to the states. the math is sound, he'd been assured. how sound, michael? is it sound enough that it knows him better than he knows himself? ]
[ a startled laugh. ] Er, no. We could — hug? [ pulling a face. ] No, that's equally unromantic, isn't it? [ he drags a hand across his jaw. after a beat, his smile peaks out, sheepishly amused. ] Knew I should've written up some cue cards about how you're perfect, at least according to Michael's algorithm.
[ jokes!! ]
no subject
You think I'm perfect?
[ according to michael's algorithm, of course. mr leopold fitz had been so very cautious in cushioning the statement with a nerd qualifier, but daisy had never been one to favor wishy-washy language. either he did or he didn't, right? if he did, they could get right to business — whatever business was in heaven.
wait — did people actually have sex in heaven? or was this place too clean for that? wait. was she supposed to have sex with her soulmate? and not other people? wait! was she supposed to want to have sex with her soulmate? and what did it mean if she kind of maybe did?
fuck.
she really was in over her head. her friends back home would lose their shit to hear this kind of internal debate from 'less talking, more action' daisy johnson. ]
You know, you're not so bad yourself, G'vna.
[ kill her. ]
no subject
then she offers him the most half-hearted assessment back with a g'vna... who says that... and to an obviously british person at that, jesus christ. maybe they are perfect for each other, if they're going to phrase things so bizarrely. he starts laughing, fast and loud despite his attempts to stifle the sound with both hands. ]
Sorry, yes — [ no, fuck, he's laughing again. ] — yes, you are perfect, and I'm not bad. [ another wheeze. ] Glad we're on the same page, soulmate.
no subject
they're a right pair, aren't they? the memory of an episode of some baking show pops into her head, one only watched as the after-effect of a night spent babysitting a drunken girlfriend after too many shots at the bar. i'm well chuffed, i am! better than positively gutted, in any case.
and then, mouthing the words, she fucking loses it all over again, laughing so hard she thinks she might fall over. ]
God. [ she's still laughing. she's trying to get it together, but she's still laughing. ] I don't think we're even in the same book, to be totally honest with you.
[ there's just no way. ]
But, I mean. [ a breath, an attempt at Totally Casual Seriousness. ] If you're in the market for a heavenly handjob in the Good Place Tunnel of Love, we can probably work something out.
[ is she serious? or is she just trying to make his eyes pop out of their sockets? WHO KNOWS. it's a mystery. ]