[ she doesn't need an apartment. the fourth floor walk-up isn't the height of luxury, but a thousand square feet is ten times the floor space of her van — though if daisy's honest, she could probably do with half of it. she doesn't cook, barely remembers she has a couch at all; when she's home (if she's home at all), it's to crash on a bed she didn't even pick out, to crawl in between sheets stiff from disuse, and to sleep for as many uninterrupted hours as her schedule will allow.
maybe it's the fact that she's almost never here that lets her discount home security. she could have rigged up intrusion alarms, hidden cameras, trip wires — the dark web was filled with options, but so was the local home improvement store, and if she'd really been set on it, she's sure fitz could have helped her rig something up. but, honestly? she's never home, and she doesn't own anything that she'd mind losing that she leaves at home, so fuck it. security cameras and deadbolts were for boomer yuppies that had actual home furnishings. daisy's still counting herself lucky to sleep on an actual mattress.
tonight, she comes home distracted. key in the lock, hand on the doorbell, but her mind's elsewhere; it's arguing with mace over some stupid policy presentation, about dressing her up in yet another pseudo-patriotic pantsuit to sweet talk people who would rather see her dead or behind bars, mumbling irritated catchphrases under her breath as her bag drops to the empty box she keeps by the door for just this purpose. sure, it's tacky, but it works.
she's fully planning on riding this irritation train straight to bed. it would be nice. but that's not going to happen, because she's greeted with the absolutely terrifying surprise of some deep voice and the face behind it coming out of fucking nowhere with 'agent johnson' like that's normal. ]
What the fuck! [ thank god for training, honestly, because it's literally only muscle memory that prompts daisy to pull the smith and wesson from her belt. it's certainly not her logical, fully aware of her surroundings brain.
and then, after a beat, in which recognition dawns and daisy simultaneously clutches the gun a little tighter and hopes to god this isn't a test: ] You better have a damn good reason to break into my apartment, Captain.
no subject
maybe it's the fact that she's almost never here that lets her discount home security. she could have rigged up intrusion alarms, hidden cameras, trip wires — the dark web was filled with options, but so was the local home improvement store, and if she'd really been set on it, she's sure fitz could have helped her rig something up. but, honestly? she's never home, and she doesn't own anything that she'd mind losing that she leaves at home, so fuck it. security cameras and deadbolts were for boomer yuppies that had actual home furnishings. daisy's still counting herself lucky to sleep on an actual mattress.
tonight, she comes home distracted. key in the lock, hand on the doorbell, but her mind's elsewhere; it's arguing with mace over some stupid policy presentation, about dressing her up in yet another pseudo-patriotic pantsuit to sweet talk people who would rather see her dead or behind bars, mumbling irritated catchphrases under her breath as her bag drops to the empty box she keeps by the door for just this purpose. sure, it's tacky, but it works.
she's fully planning on riding this irritation train straight to bed. it would be nice. but that's not going to happen, because she's greeted with the absolutely terrifying surprise of some deep voice and the face behind it coming out of fucking nowhere with 'agent johnson' like that's normal. ]
What the fuck! [ thank god for training, honestly, because it's literally only muscle memory that prompts daisy to pull the smith and wesson from her belt. it's certainly not her logical, fully aware of her surroundings brain.
and then, after a beat, in which recognition dawns and daisy simultaneously clutches the gun a little tighter and hopes to god this isn't a test: ] You better have a damn good reason to break into my apartment, Captain.