"Than stop!" She cried softly, sliding down the wall and curling in on herself. He swallowed, ran a hand through his hair and turned as if to walk away. he meant to, he really did, but he just couldn't. There were all these people in his head and all of them were screaming at him not to leave. (Well, except for that guy, but he didn't matter, anyway.) He knelt down next to her and inwardly smacked himself for killing all those people.
"There are forty-nine guys inside my head, Daize, and every single one of them loves you more than life itself. Don't tell me not to love you, because I can't do that. I can't." He reached out a hand and took it as good when she didn't flinch back. He paused, and when she stayed still ran his fingers down her hair to rest over hers. "Please."
"Just-" He leaned forward to hear, she was so quiet. "Just please try not to kill anybody I happen to like, okay?" She sniffed and he moved his hand down to her waist. She tentatively reached out herself, running one hand through his hair and down to his cheek, the other wrpping gently (always so gentle, she was always so soft, so sweet) around his waist to rest up vertically across his back. She smiled softly and added, "My name's not really Daisy, anyway." He chuckled and asked,
"Well, not Daisy. Or Charlie. I think..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "I think it's Olivia."
"Olivia." He tested it across his tongue, and several voices assured him it sounded nice. a few others disagreed and said it didn't suit her at all, and one or two merely shrugged and said that as long as she was with them and safe, they'd not be killing anyone, let alone anyone she liked. She smirked. "I like it."
"How are the others?" She sniffled a bit more, and he held her closer. One of the doctors wondered if it was a cold. (Of course not, she was healthy, and if she wasn't he'd take care of her.)
"I think the voices like you." He laughed, "Especially the serial killers." She snorted and rolled her eyes.
"Oh good, I've no idea what I'd do otherwise." She smiled, laughed a little, and he kissed her. It was nice. Not the awkward, one-sided fascination he had had with Echo, not the fabricated romances he had had with Whiskey and others. It was real. She was real. He loved her, more than anything, and she felt the same.
All was well.
He had no idea what he'd have done otherwise.
(I still say she's too pale.
I think she's quite nice.
Well you're a mild-mannered English schoolteacher, what else would you think of her?
ALL OF YOU.)