1963-12-01 - Popping Up, Daisy
Summary: Daisy is sunshine on an increasingly cloudy day.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
liv wanda skye 

SHIELD headquarters, exactly the uncoolest place on Earth after the Namib Desert. Tensions are high, tempers scorching, and the particular mood somber. Any agent with reason to go outside does, abruptly entering the field to check on that creepy house or that weird grey man in South Dakota. Anyone stuck by superiors to their desk may wish headphones were an invention available to them; failing that, not a few souls have stuffed regulation grade earplugs in, and buried themselves in so much paperwork they might as well be put in a seven foot long pine box.

Wanda Maximoff does not like paperwork or desks. She technically has a spot she has yet to actually sit at, over by Ava's rarely visited desk. Check in consists of peering into an empty mailbox, dodging an assignment list, and annoying the frantic fluttering when she walks by. Office gossip might have confirmed she is the reason, somehow, that every used coffee cup in the office ended up on Clint Barton's desk. For a week; that week isn't up. Carol Danvers had something to do with it. Don't ask.


Not far from Clint Barton's desk: Liv Sigrunsdottir's desk, perhaps placed there so that Hawkeye can keep close watch on the agency's resident Asgardian. Who has looked, for the last several days, troubled. When she first joined the agency, she had been friendly and warm, making an effort to get to know her new coworkers. But ever since Ed Sullivan, and Dallas…

Now the suit-clad Asgardian sits quietly at her desk, keeping her head down while she types up a report. Liv has still been performing her duties, including that recent mission to Turkey that brought home one (1) heavily-damaged Dum-Dum Dugan and a mysterious crystal. But her heart just hasn't seemed like it was in it.


So, did anyone ever tell anyone the story of how Agent Fury left Daisy Johnson to fend for herself in Dubai? His words were.. "Find your own way home. Gotta go."

Such a shit situation. But Daisy returns, a bronze tint to her skin, her bookbag upon her back, coal lined eyes almost dreary. Being out in the field with the man didn't afford her a desk, but one in the corner, far away from any life and civilization, bag flopped upon the empty desk as she looks up towards the two women, her fingers pointing towards the coffee cups.. lips opening but nothing comes out.

She'll fend for herself.


Those piles of coffee cups are still there. For reasons of their own, they end up stacked, spilling no coffee, but forming an impressive pyramid. Wanda doesn't even look that way, though she halts on her way to her desk. Her desk's general vicinity, anyways, putting her hands back in her pockets. A look about could constitute uncertainty or trepidation, but not exactly accurate. She rotates rapidly on her heel and turns back towards Hawkeye's coffee klatch palace, and then steps around the white mountain of ceramics.

"Hello." Her introduction to Liv is impressively suave. Must deal with the heavy diplomatic missions, this one. Her silence speaks for itself when she glances over her shoulder, ever alert and wary, catching sight of Daisy. That stranger fails to register, and she looks too long to be polite. "Does she speak English?" It's not a rude question asked of the Asgardian; it could well be a hope, someone else challenged by the language of the land. Right?


Super suave. The greeting is enough to get Liv's attention and she looks up at Wanda, her brow furrowing slightly in question — before she leans back in her chair to follow her gaze, towards Daisy. Ahhh. "You could always try asking her," she replies to Wanda with a very small smile, apparently feeling just herself enough that teasing is an option.

Without waiting, though, Liv offers Daisy a wave, and a lopsided grin as she gestures to the coffee cups. "I have learned that it is sometimes better not to ask."


Daisy has no idea what they were talking about. Her ears weren't that great, there was still a bit of sand stuck within her ears. But, the wave! Daisy got that..

"HI!" She blurts out loudly, and.. feeling embarrassed about that, she slowly sinks down into her seat to rub her fingers against her brow line.

She was such an idiot..


"Hello." Formality is a greeting that Wanda can do, especially when it involves responding to an especially cheerful grin or enthusiasm. Her hand rises in a light wave. It might be lost behind the mound of embarrassment that Daisy decides to be. "Who are you?" Nothing like fabled charm, right?

Her expression isn't frozen into anything other than a politely neutral mask, and her wave at least has some energy in it. To Liv, she said, "I did not want to make her feel badly."


At least Liv seems to find Daisy charming? Her grin widens a bit at the too-loud greeting and she raises her eyebrows, gesturing towards one of her own ears. "Rough day?" she hazards. There are only so many reasons people lose track of their own volume. One of them is damage.

She glances up at Wanda and chuckles quietly, shaking her head. "I suppose. But you'll never get answers to questions you don't ask," she notes lightly. "And if you cause offense, you apologize and, one hopes, move on."


Who is she?
She's Daisy Muther-fuckin Johnson! Protege of Nick Fury! Catcher of Sweet sweet pu-..

(Mind you, while she thinks of 'who' she is, her eyes seemingly glaze over before she snaps out of it.)

"Oh. I'm Daisy. Daisy Johnson." She does not have a codename yet, but she was fine with that. "Or Skye. Which ever.." An ill-placed laugh has her drawing away from the desk, attempting to approach the two but.. thinking better of it.

Cut off gloves point briefly, then towards the kitchen, then back to the women as she lets out a grunt. "I.. I think I need to get some water." She starts to back away, aiming finger-guns towards the women. Pew pew!

"Need anything? Yes.. no? Maybe.."

Stumblestumble over the garbage can! Eep!

"..sorry!" And then she disappears into the hallway..


Who is she? Indeed, someone.

Wanda waits with less than baited breath, the faint trace of roses and oud in her vicinity a trace, but something certainly detectable. She inclines her head. This strange bird is someone unknown to her, naturally. "Daisy," she repeats. "Daisy Johnson." Ever get the impression of someone repeating a name for memory? That applies readily to the solemn brunette with her hands in her pockets, the long fall of her highly unusual red leather coat barely impacted as a result.

With Daisy all but running away, her mild gaze returns to the poorer Trickster of Asgard. Liv receives her full regard. "I see." Let's put that statement into action, then, and take for face value, as she says, "You were unhappy at the end of the meeting."


Liv does not laugh at Daisy. She is far, far too sympathetic to do that. She winces when the other woman clips the garbage can, half-rising out of her seat as if to check on her, but no — she seems fine. Okay. Good. Anything from the kitchen for her? "No, but thank you for asking!"

Poor kid. The nerves will surely wear off eventually. Right?

Making a bit of a face, Liv settles back down into her seat and looks up at Wanda. She considers it a moment, then simply nods. "I am concerned," she says, keeping her voice low. The director's been on a tear lately and she doesn't want her overhearing. She probably will anyway.


The director's probably got every corner of the office bugged, and parabolic microphones from here to the far side of Portland. That doesn't mean free speech is fully dead, even inside a proto spy agency. "I am new to these meetings. Is this common?" This earns a slight handwave in the direction of the nearest pile of paper. "It seemed not everyone speaks or looks happy at news. Is it better to speak later about concerns?"

She loiters close without getting directly in Liv's personal space, and her own is fairly hard to measure. Though woe to anyone who sneaks up behind them, for she has little patience for people skulking about. The underlying paranoia is never far from the surface.


"It was my first full staff meeting, so I couldn't tell you," Liv replies with an apologetic wince, leaning back in her chair and loosely folding her arms. She gives Wanda a thoughtful look, weighing something — paranoia is everywhere these days, it seems — before some of the tension leaves the Asgardian's shoulders.

Of course, some of the humor leaves Liv's face, too. "Something just doesn't feel right," she murmurs lowly, drumming her fingers against her arms. "…hell. None of this feels right."


The very nature of Wanda's life represents the net sum of suspicion and paranoia, raised to an inhuman magnitude. Her hands remain in her pockets, stance casual. Bystanders have nothing to gain by eavesdropping, not unless they want to make Clint's Mont Blanc look like a foothill. Garnets at her temples glitter when she tilts her head, her headband doing a fine heroic job of keeping back the plundered weight of her dark hair from falling into her face.

"You went to Istanbul. Did the orders seem wrong, or was it only when you had the gift?" Whatever one wants to call the payload. She has a restriction on her vocabulary as no other, her Slavic accent rolling around the syllables and washing her words away. "Building a jail with things we do not know is…" She pauses and then shrugs. A different tangent can still reach the same destination. "It does not build trust."


"The gift?" Liv echoes, sounding uncertain. But she puts it together quickly enough. "The crystal. No, no, the orders were fine," she says with a slight wave of a hand and a glance at her typewriter. She's still working on her report. "But running into Kree sentries was… unexpected. And altered ones, at that. They hit much harder than they should have," she grumbles, sounding almost annoyed.

She gives a short shake of her head before looking up at Wanda again. "I'm worried about the Director," Liv admits with a sigh. "I know that times are… uniquely stressful." To put it mildly. "But everything I was told about her says that the way she is acting now is… is wrong."


"Every time has its crisis." Wanda shrugs her shoulders slightly. She does not elaborate further, but any number of historical events could surely apply. She compresses her lips, expression shuttered against any sudden appearances of emotion. "I met her coming here. She took us in, personally. This angry woman is not like her. Baby does not make a woman this way." She curls her fingers around one another. "Is this our director?"

Such a simple question is an utterly damning one, given what SHIELD does know of things. And what they don't…


Something that Wanda says seems to strike Liv almost like a physical blow. She just stops and stares up at her, some of the color draining from her face. Quickly, she looks away, her brow creasing as her mind begins to race.

Abruptly, Liv rises to her feet. "I need to speak to — I need to — sorry," she says awkwardly, sweeping her suit jacket from the back of her chair to begin pulling it on. "I have to find Fitz."


"Wait!" The word is out for her mouth, immediately. "Please, wait." There is something in the edge of her voice that strays into a territory of imperative, the faintest widening of her eyes revealing the iridescent sheen to them that no normal mortal would ever have. There's a sun burning at its lowest temperature there, motes floating over her pupils. "I see things others do not. Let me help. You may need a hand in the end."

Her sunset-stricken gaze, once honey-brown, sparkles as she narrows her eyes, though nothing dramatic; it gives a reason for why the hell her code name is what it is, even if absolutely no one uses it.


As the Asgardian rushes to pull her jacket on, she's begun to look downright harried. But Liv does not ignore the request to wait. As she settles the jacket against her shoulders, she stares down at Wanda for a moment, and it is clear that her mind is continuing to race behind those too-blue eyes.

"Find Heather MacNeil," Liv finally says, reaching out to try and briefly lay a hand on Wanda's shoulder. The gesture is very easily avoided. "Tell her that I need one of the director's mugs, unwashed."


An eyebrow arches, and then the witch says simply, "I can give you one if I can see it." She turns slightly and looks towards the bullpen, the fall of her dark hair shielding her shoulder and the profile of her face. "Seeing her might distinguish if she's human." That might put the fear of nothing into an Asgardian's heart, but her hands remain in her pockets. Her pupils sink into the spectra of the invisible and unseen.


Considering the fact that Liv's expression does not so much as twitch when the witch suggests it? That fear was there already.

"Whatever you can do without bringing suspicion upon yourself," Liv says quietly, casting a quick look around the bullpen. "Heather frequently fetches the director her drinks, so I figure she could replace a mug without attracting any undue notice. But I need to speak with Fitz." She drags a hand down over her face and makes a rumbly, tired-sounding noise into her palm. Ugh.

"This has been a terrible month."


Go for broke. "Fitz?" It also helps to be aware of whom the players are in the scheme of things, an advantage Liv has over the Transian sorceress. All the same, her smile is a thin sickle, barely visible. Wanda nods to the explanation. "Indeed. Possible to lift more than one." There are rare days she appreciates her horrific upbringing; those weird lessons that few girls get outside the school of hard knocks with their heads intact. "Can we meet after? Somewhere in the village, maybe, somewhere else. Coffee." Yes, it's the oldest trick in the book. Slipping something from her pocket, she holds out a small object; it's a subway token, blue wax in a steel frame, marked with the face of Mercury. They were far more common in the Forties. Still tender of some kind, though. "Take this. I will do what I can."


It was a quiet return really, during the conversation that Liv and Wanda has, Daisy meanders back into the bullpen quiet as kept. In her hand is a sandwich, with the name Bob on it. And the drink that was possibly taken from the same place. The quiet conversation was noted, but Daisy doesn't dip her spoon into the crockpot of gossip. No.

She just settles into her desk, quiet as a little bee, a bee that hums and unwraps her sandwich, which was sniffed, and taken a bite of.



"He's an engineer. I think he might be able to help." Curious, Liv reaches out to accept the subway token, peering at it before she looks to Wanda again. Now she looks almost wary… but she does, all the same, quietly slide the token into her pocket. What's the worst that could happen? "There are some good cafes in Greenwich," she replies with a nod, and a brief smile. "I was planning to stop on my way home anyway."

At least Liv doesn't startle when she realizes Daisy's come back. How long had she been — nope, not worrying about it! Carefully, she slips out from behind her desk. "I have a meeting at the Baxter Building in a few hours, but I'm going to swing by the lab first and see if he's in. But. Coffee this evening, for sure."


Wanda nods, putting her hand back into her pocket. Her casual stance speaks to nothing of the whirlwind of ideas in her mind, and she is no doubt planning on jotting off as fast as she can for another kind of revelation of her own. Her expression doesn't warm in the least. "Good. Keep your eyes open." As much a suggestion as a benediction, it may be absurd to offer to an Asgardian, and perhaps not. All the same, she slouches away from Liv's desk to go find the woman who arranges for safehouses and rent. Nothing at all strange about that…


The one word catches her attention. Baxter. It wasn't too hard to hear the syllables in that name, they were well pronounced.

Daisy stops eating mid-stride, her gaze lifting and directed towards Liv and Wanda..

"Nfhrey!" She says, mouth full, a bit of crumb falling from between her lips.

Slowly she puts her sandwich down, carefully wiping around her lips as she stands and stumbles, knocking a chair this way, foot lashing out to kick it back into place as she rushes the two.. one of which who was departing..

Daisy was still unawares of what was going on. She had only arrived in town this morning.

"If you're going there, mind picking me up a rental application?" Yes. She was doing -that-.

"I don't want to sleep here forever. Sometimes the labs talk at night. And the garage downstairs.. there's this drip-drip-drip-drip that I really.. couldn't.. uh.." She takes a slight step back, then abruptly turns to settle into her seat.

This is what happens when Fury ditches you in a foreign country for damn near a year.. make that two.. She was seventeen for shits-sake!


Boohoo, seventeen and abandoned in a foreign country. Try being made to run through wartorn cities as an obvious foreigner, and thus a prime target, with nothing but the shirt on your back at age 9.


Liv makes it three whole steps down the aisle between desks before Daisy calls out to her, and once again, she stops. So polite, this one. She turns to look back Daisy's way and quirks her eyebrows curiously.

Was this… a sane request? Liv actually blinks once before she cracks an odd smile. "Oh, of course. Sure. If you see Heather around — red hair, about yea tall — I believe she's been living there for a while," she notes helpfully. "If you had questions about the building, you could always pick her brain."


You hush your mouth Wanda! You hush it good!

Liv's response gains a slow nod in her direction, her shoulders slowly lifting as she quietly eats. It.. was awkward to say the least. Everyone's new. Everyone's different, people seem.. guarded.

It makes one want to ask.. 'What the fuck just happened here?' But Daisy is a wise Daisy for now. She keeps it quiet.


No one makes the request out of Wanda, so she blitzes over to an office in search of answers. Or the bullpen. Or in fact, anything that potentially constitutes a place where the one red lipstick lacquered cup shows up. It might as well constitute a cat and mouse hunt without looking too absurd to any bystander, all of whom are, as noted, pretending they don't exist here.

"You are…" What is Daisy? "… We look for the same person, then."


With that, Liv spins on her heel and heads deeper into headquarters, a new subway token in her pocket and a surge of panic being firmly kept at bay under her heel.

Hopefully, she is worrying over nothing.


Daisy looks almost startled, lifting up just a touch as she pulls her sandwich from her mouth, her fingers pressed against the side of her lips as she swallows rather quickly with a slight cough.

"Skye.. or Daisy. I'm.. not particular." She slowly stands, her hand reaching out to offer Wanda a shake.

"This Heather person? Yes. I was just wanting a place to live. That's all." She frowns a little, then takes a step forward. "What's going on here? It's.. cold. Where's Chief Sousa?"


"Wanda," says the brunette girl, her voice giving it the most un-American inflection ever. Nonetheless, she is understandable, merely refined within the space of her native tongue. "The room is cold?" Pfft, Americans and their 'cold.' Try being born on a freaking mountain. She empathises with the horrible dampness. "I do not know Chief Sousa. I have not seen him here before. Should he be?"

This is why newbies are the very worst for information gathering. She buttons up her coat. "I am looking for Heather. The red haired Heather."


Daisy looks rather uncomfortable, drawing her hand back which wasn't shaken to stuff into her pocket. "No. I mean, it's uncomfortable. There is tension here. Like something is going wrong." Daisy looks around suspiciously, but offers up a shrug. "Probably my imagination."

Her lips poke out a bit, as she begins to describe him. "Oh, he's about this high.." She demonstrates. "..hair slicked to the back. Walks with a limp and a cane, hispanic man? Suits?" If she was looking for Heather, she supposes she was too. "Uh.. I don't know her. Do you know what she looks like?"


Comforts are relative; wearing a corset and leather pants define a different measure of comfort. Her gorgeous buttery leather jacket likewise keeps her body heat trapped somewhat. Social matters are another barometer altogether, requiring a familiarity with the culture entered and those social cues. Niceties that a native picks up on easily can be bewildering for a foreigner, or worse, invisible without some touchstone.

"No." She looks around at everyone with their heads down, the many empty desks. "They look like death came through." Perhaps it did, albeit not as a hooded spectre, but a very cranky woman approaching the final term of pregnancy. Daisy's description of Sousa helps, however. "Yes, the man with a pained leg. He was at the meeting. All agents were called in. He looks very intelligent. Heather, the other woman, assists the Director. She is too happy. Always smiling, red hair, slim." Like every damn redhead around, it would seem, minus one or two. Still, her tone implies familiarity.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License