[ Daisy's House, Manhattan, New York ]
Daisy had never cared for Christmas. Not in her past life, and certainly not now, half a year after she crash-landed into this time like a glitch in the Matrix. Holidays were for people with normal lives—families, ugly sweaters, and mistletoe drama. Daisy had been too busy surviving, adapting, and occasionally blackmailing a bald brother named Sitwell to even remember what month it was. But when everyone else decided to take the day off, she figured... why not?
With a modest amount of stolen—ahem, "reallocated"—funds in her name, her first order of business was housing. Rich people always had the weirdest definition of luxury. The richer they were, the further into the boondocks they built. Take Tony Stark for example: a billionaire with a cliffside villa dangling over the Pacific Ocean. One good earthquake and poof—billionaire sushi. And if someone wanted to assassinate him, all they needed was a chopper and a decent playlist.
Daisy wasn't about that wilderness life. She wanted convenience, not panoramic views of sea breeze death traps. City center, close to coffee, with enough insulation to scream into a pillow without the neighbors calling the cops. Manhattan would be perfect, if not for the fact that housing prices here could give heart attacks in any multiverse.
So, she did what any good S.H.I.E.L.D. trainee would do: channeled the shady legacy of budget siphoning from the best. Nick Fury would be proud—if not slightly suspicious. Or maybe not. The one-eyed pirate probably had ten offshore accounts with names like "Director's Snack Fund."
After some digital magic and a few anonymous transfers, Daisy scraped together just over five million dollars. Not bad, but not quite enough for a full-fledged penthouse in Manhattan, especially with the subprime mortgage crisis ready to throw the whole market into a blender next year.
So she settled for a rental. A detached house, modest by Tony Stark standards but luxury compared to sleeping in abandoned safe houses. It came with a maid, too, apparently. Daisy had yet to meet her, but judging by the fully stocked fridge and impossibly spotless floors, she was either superhuman or trained by Hank Pym himself.
The house had two floors. Downstairs held the basics: a living room, dining area, bathroom, and even a gym. Upstairs? Two bedrooms and a powder room. It wasn't exactly royal, but it beat the hell out of hiding in ventilation shafts.
And today was her first night living in it.
She took off her coat and sighed dramatically as if she were entering a sitcom scene. Somewhere out there, the dog tycoon Tony Stark was probably swimming laps in one of his fourteen bathrooms. Daisy rolled her eyes and wandered into the kitchen.
Christmas dinner, according to culture, involved a parade of turkey, cakes, gingerbread men, and clogged arteries. Daisy had neither the time nor patience. To her, Christmas was just a glorified Sunday. She threw together a massive pot of tomato and egg noodles with the casual grace of someone cooking for five and planning to eat for ten.
It wasn't about gluttony. It was about survival. Or that's what she told herself.
What she didn't know was that Grant Ward, the human definition of a red flag, was observing her from a distance. He debated knocking, maybe exchanging a few casual lies over eggnog, but ultimately chickened out.
And good thing too. Because just as he ducked away, a familiar silhouette appeared. He froze, eyes narrowing. Then wisely chose to vanish before being seen.
Back in the house, Daisy was blissfully unaware of the soap opera happening outside her walls. She was halfway through her noodles and watching a rerun of some cheesy holiday special when a knock echoed through the house.
She opened the door, eyebrows raised.
Maria Hill.
Now this was unexpected.
Gone was the sharp, no-nonsense S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. In its place: a white shirt, beige jacket, and perfectly ripped jeans that did unholy things to Daisy's heart rate. Light makeup adorned Hill's face, and she looked... human. And hot. Very, very hot.
Hill held up a bottle of red wine like a truce flag. Her voice held that rare softness: "I don't have many friends in New York, so..."
Daisy's lips curled into a slow, teasing smile. "So you thought you'd crash my anti-Christmas party?"
"That, and you're the only one I could tolerate sharing a turkey with."
Daisy stepped aside, brushing her fingers against Hill's arm as the other woman entered. The contact was casual, but electric.
Suddenly, Daisy panicked. Should she offer food? Was that a thing? Guests didn't eat noodles on Christmas, right?
"Want some noodles?" she asked, genuinely unsure.
Hill's gaze dropped to the nearly empty bowl the size of a small crater. "Did you already eat?"
Daisy floundered. "I mean—not really. It's... pre-dinner."
The bowl mocked her. Hill looked amused.
"You spent Christmas too carelessly," the woman murmured, wandering into the kitchen and opening the fridge. "At least your maid knows how to prepare."
Turns out, the refrigerator was a Christmas miracle. Turkey, veggies, cake—all neatly arranged. Daisy just hadn't bothered.
With a smirk, Hill rolled up her sleeves. "Come on. Let's do this right."
They worked in tandem, Hill handling the turkey with surgical precision while Daisy chopped vegetables like she was training for culinary combat. When Hill bent to check the oven temperature, her shirt shifted, revealing a tantalizing flash of shoulder and bra strap.
Daisy did not look away. She absolutely looked.
"You're staring," Hill said without turning.
"I'm appreciating the chef," Daisy replied, her grin wicked.
"Flattery doesn't get you out of chopping duty."
They bantered. Cooked. Laughed more than either expected.
When dinner was finally ready, Daisy set the table with enough food to feed a small army. Cakes, red wine, and the star of the show—a golden roasted turkey that deserved its own magazine cover.
They sat, raised glasses.
"Merry Christmas," Hill offered, voice low.
"Merry Christmas," Daisy echoed, eyes locked.
They ate. Daisy, who had already demolished a bowl of noodles, still managed to devour most of the turkey. Hill watched in fascinated horror.
Tilting her head, Hill let her shirt slide just a bit further. "Can your stomach even absorb that much?"
Daisy grinned. "Wanna see what else I can do?"
Hill blinked. "That sounded..."
"Magical, I know. Watch closely."
Daisy held out her hand, forming a pale blue vortex that shimmered like starlight. She tossed an apple into it, and a moment later it dropped from another vortex above their heads. She caught it midair with theatrical flair.
Hill's brows lifted. "Are you a mutant?"
That word again. Heavy. Complicated.
Daisy shrugged. "Something like that. I prefer 'gifted badass.'"
Maria didn't smile. Not fully. There was conflict in her eyes—duty, fear, curiosity. But she didn't pull away.
And Daisy took that as a win.
To be continued...
------------------------------xxx
[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]