closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Stark, Daisy Johnson
WHAT: Hey, what's good.
WHEN: A time.
WHERE: A place. (Tavern.)
NOTES: Attitude.

There are times when familiarity breeds more familiarity, and there are days when it absolutely does not. One day you think you have your shit together, you're getting used to the place, you're developing butt calluses from all the pony riding, and the next day, it's like everything's at a Dutch angle, and you feel like you're on shrooms at a renfaire. There really is a balding guy in the corner playing the lute and warbling through a ballad, and there really is a roast animal being slowly turned over a fire, and your beer is actually ale and really is being served in a giant tankard, foaming and dark and room temperature. Your underwear has no elastic, you have no idea what time it is to the minute, and it's all real and happening to you and it's not gonna end any time soon.

Tony Stark has days like that, anyway. Maybe Daisy can relate. Maybe not.

He plans to find out.

He finds her at a Ye Olde Tavern, picks up tankard off the tray of a corseted server, and winds his way through the crowd. She probably sees him coming, even though he is dressed like a local. A blue shirt under a nice coat, all well made and fitted as opposed to being whatever hand-me-downs he received when he was initially taken in by Riftwatch. He's done something to conceal his chesthole light, but otherwise resembles the man from her contemporary world, down to sharp facial hair styling and duck-ass hair cut.

He sets down the tankard on her table. "Mind if I join?" He is probably gonna regardless, but waits for the yes-and.

Comments

[hacker]

Right. Genius. It would be asking too much for him to be the kind of socially inept genius who couldn't read body language and social cues. No. Had to be Tony Stark.

Faced with two choices — to tell the truth, or lie to his face and hope it paid off — Daisy threads the needle between them.

"It's weird," she admits, canting her head to the side a little. "I mean, this whole thing is weird, but you in particular being here is, like, a whole added layer." The honest reason would be that she's from his future.

Instead, she opts for, "I mean, you're Tony Stark. My boss is like this ... sweaty cosplay uber-fan. Like, do I ask you to autograph a pint glass that I can bring back to him?" For emphasis, she holds up her — well, tankard, not glass. It drops back to the table with a thunk. Peering into it, she shakes her head. "Except I might not see him again."

Because he's dead. And, strictly speaking, it was Cap that Coulson had felt that way about. Daisy had been the one sweating in ironette cosplay, before she'd ever joined SHIELD. It felt like a lifetime ago. A sincere amount of wistful grief muddies her expression for one prolonged, distant moment. For Coulson. For the team. She takes a deep breath. The kind that suggests she's used to pulling herself out of that.

"I'm SHIELD, alright, I'm used to weird. But this is ..." She waves her hand. "Different weird."