[ Budapest, Hungary ]
Daisy walked along, scanning the bar's glitzy interior and quickly realized something odd — the entire place was teeming with women, and every single one of them looked like they'd just walked off a fashion runway for 'Dangerously Dazzling Divas.' Skimpy outfits, bold makeup, and killer heels. Was this the Budapest standard? Did foreign bars all double as catwalks?
She blinked. "Why on earth would Dr. Pym frequent this place? Unless he's conducting secret quantum research on glitter and perfume?"
A quick layout scan confirmed it matched the intel—mostly. The decor looked like the designer had an unresolved disco ball obsession.
Trying to play it cool, she walked up to the bar and ordered a whiskey, both to blend in and drown the earlier awkwardness from that synchronized catwalk act she and Hill had unintentionally put on. She sipped and scoped out the place sideways, very spy-like.
Hill joined her, ordered a random drink that looked suspiciously like orange juice, then leaned in to say something. Unfortunately, the speakers were currently trying to summon Thor with their thunderous volume. Plan B: direct communication.
She leaned in slowly, aiming for Daisy's ear to whisper—
Just as Daisy turned her head.
And—boop—lip met lobe.
Daisy froze, brain rebooting. Did Hill just… kiss her ear? The same Hill who treated physical proximity like a contagious disease?
Maria's expression went blank, her lips parted like a frozen NPC. For a moment, both of them were statues in a noise-drenched museum of awkwardness.
After ten seconds of mental buffering, Maria facepalmed herself into coherence and whispered, "Let's split up. I'll chat around, see what I can find. You look for hidden doors or secret rooms."
Without waiting for an answer, she bolted off into the crowd.
Daisy exhaled dramatically. "Finally," she muttered, then turned to her own mission. She started combing the place, still wondering how a quantum physicist with a fondness for ants ended up in a place where half the clientele looked like backup dancers from a Lady Gaga tour.
The investigation began—well, after she declined a suspiciously friendly woman who spoke fluent Hungarian and possibly flirted using perfume alone. Daisy, relying on the universal language of polite dismissal, waved her off.
"No offense, Miss Perfume Bomb, but I don't speak Flirtanese."
A few more attempts to cyber-sleuth via tablet yielded zilch. The bar's system was clean. Either it had been scrubbed or it was just that boring. She switched tactics and pulled up Budapest PD records.
More guests arrived, mostly women, all equally stunning, and Daisy started to wonder if she'd hacked into the wrong kind of bar.
Click-click—Hill returned, high heels echoing like ominous clock ticks.
"The staff said the bar's been booked out for a private party tonight," she reported, hair slightly tousled and expression faintly alarmed. Daisy silently awarded her an invisible badge for surviving Hungary's extreme hospitality.
"So no Pym then? Should we head back?"
"Nah. Stay on mission. There might be regulars who know something," Hill insisted, now in full 'Mission Commander' mode. Daisy wanted to roll her eyes but settled for sipping her drink.
The bar got louder and fuller. It was practically a stylish stampede. Stealth was out, and Daisy knew it. She pocketed her tablet and leaned into small talk.
Honestly, she was intrigued. This was Maria Hill. The woman who had, in various timelines, taken over S.H.I.E.L.D. and saved the world without even smudging her eyeliner.
The music finally shifted to something below 140 decibels, and they could actually talk like humans.
"So," Daisy leaned in over her drink. "You used to be Fury's right hand, right? Must've been intense."
Hill paused, clearly not expecting that direction. Her gaze lingered a moment too long on Daisy's silhouette before she responded. "Very intense. Nicky—er, the Director—is a taskmaster. But... I'm not the adjutant anymore. I got benched."
"Wait, seriously?" Daisy blinked. That didn't track. In all her timelines, Maria Hill was always the steady second-in-command. What the heck changed?
Hill gave a wry smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Apparently, I'm not perfect. Still don't know what I did wrong. Maybe spilled coffee on the Director's favorite coat. Who knows."
Daisy frowned. This was a butterfly effect moment. She didn't like those. If Hill was out, what else might change?
Trying to lighten the mood, Hill added, "Honestly? Missions are simpler. Less paperwork, more punching."
They toasted to that.
Soon the conversation turned personal. Childhoods, parents—or lack thereof.
Hill was born during a record-setting Chicago winter. Her mom died in the hospital, and her dad treated her like she was invisible. No praise. No warmth. Just cold shoulders and colder dinners.
"Honestly, orphan life like yours might've been better," Hill said, not pitying, just reflective.
Daisy snorted. "Please. At least you had someone to legally blame. I had a whole orphanage of screaming kids, broken plumbing, and judgmental nuns."
It turned into a tragicomedy of trauma bonding. Two agents, pouring out pain and whiskey in equal measure.
"Started SHIELD training at sixteen," Hill said. "Never had time to just... live. Never explored New York beyond mission check-ins."
"You're not missing much. Two months ago, I ran into a deranged old lady who wanted my eyeballs as souvenirs."
Hill nearly choked on her drink. "What?!"
"True story. She escaped, though. I reported her to NYPD, then joined SHIELD because, you know, I like keeping my eyes."
They both laughed, real and warm. For once, it wasn't about intel or combat. Just two women, getting to know the human side of each other.
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