chuju | the shield across time

Doing something is better than doing nothing, which is why the present circumstances have left Daisy nothing short of miserable. There isn't anything she can do without risking the timeline or the possibility of ever seeing her team again.

"It was," she acknowledges with a nod, turning slightly in her seat to better face him, leaning an elbow against the bartop. It might not be the proper pose for a woman of this time period but she'll play the uncultured American card if she has to. "I'm kind of cooling my heels right now, though, which hasn't been easy. I'm used to always doing things and the waiting has been... pretty terrible, honestly."

That definitely wasn't a very lady-like thing she did, definitely didn't quite fit, but Steve was figuring that was just the way this woman was and now that he knew she was SSR he just attributed it to the work. A lot of people who worked for the organization were a bit off, himself included. Someone probably had to be a little bit on the strange side to even believe the kinds of things they encountered. Again, Steve included.

He'd always say he was the most unbelievable thing he'd ever seen.

"This might not be the best place to spend your down time if you're cooling your heels," he noted, glancing toward the door as another rowdy group of servicemen came in, already a little too drunk to be be making a good impression of themselves. "A woman alone here, tonight? Someone might think you're looking for trouble."

Not Steve, of course; he wasn't the sort to make assumptions just because a girl was on her own, but he also knew how most people thought. And dissuading any unwanted advances seemed as good a reason as any to keep sitting with her.

The same could definitely be said for SHIELD agents in the future. Sure, there were a few straight-laced no-nonsense boring types here and there, but they were definitely the minority. The rest of them were weird, either by virtue of being tech nerds or ridiculously smart, highly skilled at dealing with the strange and unusual or being one of the strange and unusual. Daisy herself checked a couple of those boxes.

She glances toward the door as well, eyeing a few of the men before turning her attention back to Steve with a dismissive single-shouldered shrug. "If anyone decides to think that, then I'll make sure they find some of that trouble they're assuming I'm looking for."

There's no hesitation or worry in her voice, not even a hint of either in her expression. She's at ease, confident, and completely unconcerned at the prospect of any of those drunk apes bothering her.

"Not to make light of your skills, Miss, but you don't look like you could do much to anyone."

Which absolutely did not mean that he didn't think she'd try anyway if she needed to. Nor that he would say anything about it if she did. He couldn't even begin to count the number of hopeless fights he'd been in, some for a whole lot less than fending off a couple of jerks. And maybe there was more to her than there looked; it was pretty clear she thought there was if nothing else. Fearless, he'd say she was if he knew her any better or judged only by the look on her face.

It struck him that what interested him so much about her was how alike they seemed to be. He'd approached her without knowing it, or even knowing why he was doing it at all, but every little bit he learned while they talked was like talking to a prettier version of himself. The story was different, but the heart was the same. In as much as it could gather in a noisy bar within a few minutes.

The look she gives him could be described as offended if it weren't for the amusement in her eyes. Seriously? Captain America is telling Quake he doesn't think she can throw a punch? "Ouch."

That amusement grows as she takes another sip of her beer, a smile blooming into existence. She almost wishes she could show him just how wrong he is about her. Hell, she wishes May was here to help correct his opinion. The two of them sparring would blow his 1940s mind.

Maybe it's the turn of the conversation or the company, but she can feel her spirits lifting, miraculously. So, she leans into it, letting good-natured humor and a little flirtation slip into her tone just for the hell of it. "Really, Captain. You, of all people, should know better than to judge a book by its cover."

Steve, dummy he's always been known to be, wouldn't recognize flirting if it kicked him in the nose. But it was nice to see her smile, a bit of the sadness gone from her eyes. Maybe he was successful in drawing out a bit of who she normally was, without the grief and loneliness haunting her. Someone who, if he didn't know better, could have been the right sort of person for him.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled softly, one hand raising in surrender. "There's more to you than meets the eye." That was always the case, and normally it came back to bite him. He definitely wasn't going to go putting her word to the test, and not just because she was a woman either.

"Seems like you've got me at quite the disadvantage, you know. I haven't even asked your name." Which, okay, was remiss of him, definitely less than completely polite, but she seemed to know a lot more than just the rank that was pinned to his shoulders. Of course she would; SSR agents were likely all up to date on his entire unit.

At least he's a cute dummy, very much worthy of the adoration of millions for generations to come. With every minute they spend together, she understands more and more what Coulson was always talking about. Steve Rogers was a hero for his actions but he was also a genuinely good man, something which the world is in short supply of in her time. Perhaps in his too, judging by some of the other bar patrons.

"No, you haven't," she acknowledges, the barest hint of playful chiding in the words. "But you know, Captain Rogers, names are important. They can't just be freely given."

Especially for someone like her, who spent a lifetime searching for her own name and has had a dozen others along the way. But she can't exactly tell him all of that, not without divulging secrets that are too dangerous to be let loose in this part of the timeline. Still, she can have a little more fun...

"I've had a few. Make me an offer and maybe I'll tell you one."

"Worried I'm going to do something with it once I have it?" There was a fair amount of teasing in his voice, in his eyes and the tiny quirk of a smile he didn't completely hide. "Are there some sort of Faerie rumors floating around about me?"

It might be a surprise to some, or to most, that Steve actually not only believed in Faeries but was a bit on the superstitious side about them. They were the stories he'd grown up with but it wasn't something about himself that came up too often. Just about only when he purposefully avoided a stone circle on a mission or when he got to crack a joke.

"And does that mean you'd be against me buying another round?" He gestured with his glass, all but empty at this point.

The comment about faeries goes right over Daisy's head. Aside from the very obvious pop culture references, all she can think of are the string of teen books featuring Hot Faeries that seem to be really popular in her time. But since she's pretty sure that's not the sort of thing he's referencing, she's going to guess it's something like the whole Rumplestiltskin thing — which she also doesn't know the details of but she does know it involves names.

Despite not totally getting the joke, she still smiles in response, appreciating the effort he's making, and the fact that he's sitting here with her at all, really. And then he goes and makes that offer and...

"I think another round might just earn you a name," she allows, actually feeling a little charmed by the whole exchange. (How the hell had he managed that?) Holding her hand out to shake his, she finally introduces herself. "Daisy."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Daisy," he offered kindly, taking her hand in a brief, firm handshake before waving down the bartender for a couple more drinks. A promise, even one not expressed as such, was a promise.

"So, where are you from?" That was a thing people talked about, and it was a kinder thing to ask after than what Steve really wanted to know. He wanted to ask how she'd wound up in the SSR, what had brought her to London, how her family had gotten caught up with Hydra. But he'd successfully distracted her from her grief and the loneliness he'd found her in, it would be cruel to throw her right back into it.

Maybe they'd run into each other another night and he could get the answers he was really after.

It hits her hard just how much she'd missed the touch of another person's hand. She's always been a tactile person with those she cares about, offering friendly or comforting touches whenever they were needed, either by herself or the receiver. These past days without her team, her family, have been full of more loss than even she'd realized.

The handshake now is too brief and she finds her skin cold when she wraps her hand around her glass, lifting it to down the last of her drink. She's definitely going to need another.

"I've kind of been all over the place for the last ten years or so," she answers, again choosing her words carefully while purposefully keeping her tone easy and casual. The spy's life has always come easily to her. "But I grew up in New York City."

"You don't say?" He wouldn't have pegged her as from the City. The same city he'd grown up in, though if anyone was to ask him Brooklyn was a unique spot, shouldn't be lumped in with the rest of the boroughs. "What part?"

It was too much of a coincidence that they'd come from the same place, or had been neighbors as it were. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd be suspicious. A woman who happened to be so much like him, had the same hometown, who had done something kind for the men he served with to catch his attention. It seemed too good to be true. But Daisy hadn't given any reason for him to doubt her sincerity. No tell of lying or trying to coax him in, not as far as he could see at any rate.

If any of his guys were still with him, he knew they'd be telling him he was too naïve, too trusting, and that any woman that seemed too good to be true was. But on his own, Steve would never have more than a passing thought about it. Rather, he was genuinely interested and probably too trusting.

He really was far too trusting. She's lying to him with every breath and he's just being a charming good guy, trying to help a total stranger through a moment of grief. It makes her feel even guiltier about those lies she's expertly weaving with the truth, but all it takes is a reminder of what's at stake to have her pushing that guilt aside.

It's only one conversation. One single night that he'll likely forget entirely with everything that's to come. She just needs to get through this without messing up too much and everything will be fine.

"Lower Manhattan," she answers, having no idea if it was referred to as Hell's Kitchen in this time. He's from Brooklyn, she knows that from all of Coulson's fanboy history lessons, so it's best not to risk saying something too out of character. "At least, that's where the orphanage was. I kind of bounced around the city a lot, going from one foster home to another; I was never in one place for very long."

It was words like orphanage and foster that really struck Steve, ticked yet another box toward her being too good to be true. Orphaned as well, though obviously long before Steve had been, he'd been adult enough to be on his own, and probably grew up just as poor as he had. Manhattan had an image of being the fancy part of the city, a stereotype he'd believe under any circumstance. But Daisy had, maybe, lived a life not so different from his own youth.

"I would've expected the Bronx, I won't hold being from Manhattan against you," he allowed. "But I'll be honest here; my opinion of you's definitely damaged." He was joking, of course, but there was a definite disconnect between all the parts of the city. And those prejudices carried even into a warzone. But all things considered, Daisy had turned out alright despite her origins as far as he could tell. She definitely wasn't the haughty sort of girl he'd have expected.

He's joking, she knows he is. There's the inflection to his tone, an edge of humor in his expression. She knows he's just poking fun the way everyone in the city does — but it still hurts. It's stupid and irrational and beyond ridiculous, but those words sting her heart and irritate old wounds she'd tried so hard to move past.

"I've had people think worse of me for a lot less," she shoots back with a smile, trying to play the words off as the easy-going response she hopes them to be. If he's paying attention, though, he might notice there's more to it than that. Buried under the act of a woman who doesn't care what others think is a woman who cares too much about that very thing. All her life, she's fought against a desperate need to be accepted, to be liked by others so that maybe this time she won't be thrown away again. He doesn't need to see that side of her; no one does. "A boy from Brooklyn's not going to hurt my feelings."

It was clear as anything, despite her smile, that the joke hadn't landed well, but there was no going back on it and Steve just made a note to be a little more careful with his words. Not so sharp that he can piece together the why, Steve at least knew to take a step back, remember that the friendly jibes he so often had with his friends didn't always work with other people.

"You know, that's good; my opinion doesn't matter." About her origins or about a lot of other stuff actually. The luxury of thinking it didn't wasn't something he'd ever gotten much of. Besides, he wasn't self-centered enough to think anyone really cared what some nobody turned science experiment thought of them. Especially not someone he'd just met, who was good-looking and probably plenty competent. She did work for the SSR after all.

Even if his opinion of her actions was the entire reason he was sitting with her.

"You, uh, going to be around London for a while?" A not so smooth change in subject, but genuine curiosity in it. Steve travelled in and out between missions and he may have designs on someone else entirely but Daisy was interesting.

His opinion matters so much more than he might ever realize, even in the future. He's Steve Rogers, a man so truly good that the world doesn't deserve him. His belief in someone can change lives, and his condemnation shapes the world. It's not what he'd signed up for but it's what life hands to him. There will never be another Steve Rogers; she reminds herself that the universe is giving her a strange gift in this meeting.

"I hope not," she answers bluntly, letting a bit of her genuine frustration show through as she looks around the room again. "I'd rather be back in the field, but I don't really have much say in the matter."

It's the closest she can get to the truth. Waiting is all she can do now, cool her heels and spend every minute hoping for a sign that the Zephyr is back, that her team is back in the same time as her again. The waiting is almost as maddening as the worrying that haunts her, hoping that they're okay and fearing that they're not.

But now isn't the time for that. Turning back to him, she tilts her head and smiles playfully, amusement covering up the sadness that still clings to her. "Why, are you sick of me already, soldier?"

"Sick of you," Steve echoed with a surprised laugh. "No, no. The opposite, actually." He was intrigued, thought they could potentially be good friends if given the chance. But at the same time he knew that the way of things meant it was entirely possible they would never cross paths again. She could be reassigned, he could be delayed, the worst could happen to one of them though it was far from likely to be him.

"I was thinking it might be nice to get together now and then. For a drink or something." Drinks definitely did not equate to dating, he didn't want to give her the wrong impression. He was offering friendship, if she'd have it. It might be nice to have a lady friend. If nothing else, she smelled better than the Commandos.

Not that that was hard to do.

"At least until we've got orders somewhere?" He understood wanting to get back to action, he'd be packed up and gone at the slightest hint he was needed somewhere. Steve didn't have a lot of information about Daisy as a person but he'd put money on her being the same.

The opposite, actually. Shit. This wasn't part of the plan. It was supposed to be one night, not making a lasting impression, just sharing a drink and a moment of human connection and then... Nothing. It's not like they ever met in the future. Their lives are completely separate after this and that is not something she's allowed to feel sad about, damnit.

But then he poses that idea and—

"That'd be nice." The words slip out before she can properly think through the situation, her need to have someone in this timeline care about her existence outweighing any ounce of logic. She should make an excuse, claim to have a fiance who wouldn't approve or some other ridiculously old-fashioned reason for not sharing an occasional drink with a nice guy. But she can't. It's stupid and going to come back to bite her on the ass, she just knows it, but she can't just walk away.

Still, she can rationalize that there's every possibility that they might not see each other after this. The Zephyr could show up in an hour and then she'll just disappear from his life forever.

She's not allowed to feel bad about that, either.

"Yeah?" Steve was genuinely surprised by the response. He'd definitely banked on her saying no, he'd been prepared for it, but he was glad she'd gone the other way. "Well, alright. To friends, then." He lifted his glass to her with a smile.

For a second, though, his attention drifted to the side where there was some looks and chatter being sent their way from a few of the rowdy drunks. It was a split second decision to ignore it for now, until someone gave him good reason not to. He was willing to forgive some of what came out of a group of men, definitely too drunk together, so long as it didn't go too far.

The problem, often, and one Steve would never actually recognize as a problem, was that his threshold of too far was pretty low.

She lifts her glass as well, taking note of the surprise in his voice. He hadn't been expecting her to say yes, which makes her heart ache for him. It occurs to her to wonder — how lonely has his life been? And how lonely is it in the future when he loses the friends he does have here? The Avengers have to fill some of that void, but how much? Does it take years for him to feel like he truly belongs, the way it had for her? Or does he never feel that way...

That chatter catches her attention too, though she doesn't pay it any real attention. This is far from the first time she's had people mistake her for Japanese since her arrival in the 1940s, and while it pisses her off to no end that they would assume horrible things about someone just because of their ethnicity, it's no different than what so many people face in her own time.

"To friends," she echoes with her own slightly forced smile before taking a sip of her drink. To distract them both, she decides to pose a change in topic. "So, how did you spend your free time back before the—"

Suddenly, one of those drunken idiots raises his voice, clearly intending for his words to be overheard by everyone in the vicinity. "What self-respecting man would want to have drinks with a lousy Jap?"

Daisy stiffens at the words, having to remind herself yet again: ripples, not waves. Back in her time, those assholes would already be on the ground after a very painful meeting with her fist, but this isn't her time and she can't do a damn thing about it without drawing too much attention to herself.

He should have seen it coming. Steve knew the way people were and though he wouldn't have assumed Daisy was anything but American - she did have a look about her but it wasn't obvious and even if it had been, Morita had taught the whole unit well - he couldn't really be surprised others did. He wasn't even that surprised that some drunken soldier had decided to say something about it.

But he was most definitely disappointed. For a half second he thought of not responding, but one look at Daisy and he was turning around in his chair, searching out the fiery gaze directed at her surrounded by snickering friends. Not a damn one had the good sense to look embarrassed by the man they were with, and that made Steve's blood boil. She didn't deserve that sort of treatment. They may have just met, but he'd pegged her as a good person and no one deserved to be treated that way until they did.

"Hey." His voice was even, the lightness he'd been talking to Daisy with was gone, carrying across the room. Many of the men fell silent, all eyes on him. "You owe the lady an apology." He wasn't at all concerned about what the guys thought of him or what kind of man he was. Steve knew the kind of man he was.

No apology was forthcoming, though. Just attitude and more inappropriate commentary, a couple other men chiming in their thoughts, and Steve very deliberately set his glass down on the bar. He cast a quick glance in Daisy's direction.

"I think it's best if you head on home now," he advised as the jerks laughed at yet another off-color joke at her expense, pleasantness gone as he slid out of his seat.

She should have expected it. Of course, Steve Rogers wouldn't be able to just sit back and let something like this happen on his watch. From everything she's ever heard about him, this is exactly the sort of thing he was known for back in his time. Righting wrongs and fighting injustices wherever he went, regardless of his size at the time. But it still catches her off-guard, stunning her into silence while the alcohol-fueled prejudice continued being lobbed her way.

Steve standing is what snaps her out of her ill-timed stupor. She slides off her own seat, crossing the short distance to his side to wrap her hands around his arm. Her grip is firm but gentle, fingers clutching at the fabric of his sleeve, and she lets her expression shift to something desperate and pleading.

"Don't, Steve," she whispers, not wanting to give those assholes the satisfaction of hearing her. "Please. It's not the first time it's happened and it won't be last, so just please let it go."

It grates on her soul to say those words, to be urging him to stand down when she'd love nothing more than to see him put those assholes in their place. (Well, what she'd really love is to be doing it herself, but short of that...) But she doesn't have any other choice.

A sensible man would have listened to her plea, would have stopped and instead of getting into it would have calmly escorted her from the building, maybe taken her somewhere nice where they could keep talking. Steve was not a sensible man. He was the sort of man who couldn't just stand by and let someone take heat they didn't deserve. He had to say something and when saying something didn't work, he had to take matters into hand.

It had gotten him into plenty of trouble in the past, more than once he'd needed to be scraped off the cement in some alley, but there was a lot more to him now and the fight he was walking into this time, he wasn't likely to lose.

"You'd better go," he reiterated, gave a small smile in her direction that he hoped was reassuring, he'd be fine and she didn't need to worry; the worst that was likely to come his way was a reprimand for fighting in the first place.

Carefully extracting his sleeve from her grip, he made his way over to the offending table to demand another apology for the lady that he once again didn't get. Instead he got a pretty clear challenge. That he naturally met with a very solid punch to the man's jaw. Things devolved pretty quickly. The other men at the table rose in protest, some trying to retaliate and getting an introduction to Steve's fists as well. It didn't take long until a good half of the men in the pub were involved, many trying to pull comrades away from the commotion.

Only a few minutes after it had all started, Steve was left standing over a half dozen injured men, his own uniform in disarray and hair fallen out of place. The latter he pushed back off his forehead before turning back toward the bar to offer an apology to the bartender. Really should have taken it outside.

Being told to head on home and essentially let the man take care of her fight leaves her in a sour mood that turns downright foul as she waits outside the bar. She'd love nothing more than to be the one doing the punching she can hear coming from inside, and now Steve himself is among the ones she'd like to introduce to her fist.

It feels wrong to want to beat the crap out of Captain America but, well, that's where they are now.

Standing a few yards from the door to avoid anyone else exiting the building, she waits however long it takes for Steve to finally leave as well, absolutely fuming by the time she sees that rumpled uniform. Her heels don't slow her down one bit as she storms over, having to consciously keep her power in check so she didn't set off a low-level earthquake in the middle of London.

"What the hell, Rogers?" If he has any sense left in him, he should probably be a little afraid right now.

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