[ Steve Rogers may not know Daisy Johnson personally, but he has certainly heard of her. Her name is a recurring element in any conversation to do with enhanced individuals and the regulation thereof. Secretary Ross uttered it in the same stiff tone of voice he used for Wanda Maximoff, equal parts fear and resentment that one individual should possess such incredible power. Men like Ross are only ever fond of great power when they stand a chance of controlling it, and people like Wanda and Daisy Johnson are not inclined to let others wield them like human weapons. (He can only guess about Johnson, but her S.H.I.E.L.D. file certainly hinted at a rebellious streak.)
He doesn't know Daisy Johnson yet, but he feels as if he has a responsibility to her. It's all wrapped up in the sense of debt he feels toward everyone who now lives with a target on their back for being Inhuman or otherwise enhanced. Not that Steve believes that a better outcome was ever possible; the Sokovia Accords were fundamentally about restricting the rights and liberties of enhanced individuals, and no amount of negotiation was ever going to change that. But it's hard to not look at the aftermath and wonder if he could have somehow played it smarter.
Just because there was no other way doesn't mean that Steve has to sit back and watch a bad situation roll further downhill. Whether or not he could have prevented all of this is irrelevant; it went down the way that it did and now here they are. He knows only too well that no amount of hoping or wishing can turn back time. The only option is to move forward, and his way forward is making sure that the people he helped put in harm's way have the tools to defend themselves.
One of the perks of being an international fugitive is that the stakes can only get so high; he doesn't worry about ending up on a watchlist because he's already on all of them. As are several people far less deserving of the distinction, which is where Steve comes in. He's spent the past several weeks finding new and creative ways of crippling registration enforcement efforts, usually by targeting surveillance operations. He has kept his distance, working under cover of dark and taking great care to avoid notice. But when the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D. parades Daisy Johnson out on the national stage, Steve instantly recognizes the discomfort in her body language. It reminds him of how he felt before his first USO shows, only he had more or less known what he was getting himself into. He didn't get the sense that Agent Johnson had signed up to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s poster child, a dangerously public position for any Inhuman to hold in the current political climate. If she is being thrust into the spotlight against her will, he needs to help.
He doubts that Johnson will appreciate coming home to find him hiding in the shadows of her living room, but he can't exactly approach her in line at Starbucks. So he is waiting for her when she finally gets home that night, passing the time by brainstorming the least startling way to announce his presence. He sits up straighter when he hears her footsteps rounding the hall. It occurs to him that he's been in her exact position before, only when he opened his door, it was Nick Fury making himself at home in Steve's apartment. Steve isn't thrilled to find himself in Fury's shoes, but it's too late to second guess himself. He can already hear the key turning in the lock, and any second now he'll be introducing himself to the woman whose apartment he broke into. Here goes nothing.
As the door swings open, Steve steps forward into the faint yellow haze from the streetlights, flooding in through the cracks between the window blinds. ]
Agent Johnson. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was hoping we could talk.
[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
don't like the flash, wanna keep us in the dark.
He doesn't know Daisy Johnson yet, but he feels as if he has a responsibility to her. It's all wrapped up in the sense of debt he feels toward everyone who now lives with a target on their back for being Inhuman or otherwise enhanced. Not that Steve believes that a better outcome was ever possible; the Sokovia Accords were fundamentally about restricting the rights and liberties of enhanced individuals, and no amount of negotiation was ever going to change that. But it's hard to not look at the aftermath and wonder if he could have somehow played it smarter.
Just because there was no other way doesn't mean that Steve has to sit back and watch a bad situation roll further downhill. Whether or not he could have prevented all of this is irrelevant; it went down the way that it did and now here they are. He knows only too well that no amount of hoping or wishing can turn back time. The only option is to move forward, and his way forward is making sure that the people he helped put in harm's way have the tools to defend themselves.
One of the perks of being an international fugitive is that the stakes can only get so high; he doesn't worry about ending up on a watchlist because he's already on all of them. As are several people far less deserving of the distinction, which is where Steve comes in. He's spent the past several weeks finding new and creative ways of crippling registration enforcement efforts, usually by targeting surveillance operations. He has kept his distance, working under cover of dark and taking great care to avoid notice. But when the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D. parades Daisy Johnson out on the national stage, Steve instantly recognizes the discomfort in her body language. It reminds him of how he felt before his first USO shows, only he had more or less known what he was getting himself into. He didn't get the sense that Agent Johnson had signed up to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s poster child, a dangerously public position for any Inhuman to hold in the current political climate. If she is being thrust into the spotlight against her will, he needs to help.
He doubts that Johnson will appreciate coming home to find him hiding in the shadows of her living room, but he can't exactly approach her in line at Starbucks. So he is waiting for her when she finally gets home that night, passing the time by brainstorming the least startling way to announce his presence. He sits up straighter when he hears her footsteps rounding the hall. It occurs to him that he's been in her exact position before, only when he opened his door, it was Nick Fury making himself at home in Steve's apartment. Steve isn't thrilled to find himself in Fury's shoes, but it's too late to second guess himself. He can already hear the key turning in the lock, and any second now he'll be introducing himself to the woman whose apartment he broke into. Here goes nothing.
As the door swings open, Steve steps forward into the faint yellow haze from the streetlights, flooding in through the cracks between the window blinds. ]
Agent Johnson. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was hoping we could talk.
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.