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Daisy’s phone screen has just clicked over to 9am and her ‘Playing Nice & Shy Is Insulting My IQ’ shirt has already plastered disgustingly to her spine. “Enlighten me again as to why July’s the perfect month to move to New York? Because I have to tell you? Feeling like I’m breathing through a wet towel? Not how I define nirvana. Like, at all.” Letting the cardboard monstrosity that she’s lugging crash - she definitely doesn’t plan for the noise to be that loud; she’s only catching the ‘KITCHEN’ label now - she cringes. “Can I rescind my vote and lobby for December instead? Kicking somebody’s ass while it’s snowing kind of acclimates you – even if that’s been your only significant contact with the stuff. California was never this gross.” She unsticks her braid from the back of her neck. “Neither was space." Off Daniel’s skeptical stare, she concedes: “Not this early, anyway.”
Combining the belongings that she’s abandoned with his own load, Daniel loops his free arm around her waist - a ‘buck up, soldier’ bedazzled for a wife. “At least we have actual, installed air conditioning!”
Daisy’s jaw might drop but, honestly? She’s super proud of the breezy ‘Were we ever not going to?’ that her brain puts together following its internal shriek of ‘What the ever-loving hell, sir?’
“In the forties? The best we could hope for were shoddy window units that did a bang-up impression of a gruesome murder whenever they turned over - and they only did that reliably a handful of times.”
“Uh huh. Yep.” Daisy nods, confirming her stance as it's imparted. “I would’ve been one of those hooligans who pried open fire hydrants.”
“Sounds about right.” Daniel tilts her chin up and bends so his mouth touches hers, suddenly swapping the annoying atmospheric heat for a much more appealing type. Although their current activity always gets included on to-do lists, there happen to be several items of equally high priority on today’s. Which Daniel reminds her when he steps back. “Boxes or baby?”
“I’ll grab her.” Heading back toward their car, Daisy spins and pushes her sunglasses into her hair. “How is she almost five? How is that even possible?”
Daniel laughs. “When I figure that one out for myself, you’ll be the first to know.”
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The next morning, Daisy watches Shea inspect herself critically for seven minutes straight. She doesn’t make measuring her daughter’s processing speed a habit but - when Shea’s typically wired attention stays locked after minute three - she’s sort of invested in how long this endurance game will be lasting.
“It’s empty. No stickers?”
Daisy snorts, sloshing coffee over the edge of her mug and - courtesy of the mouthful that’s just sprayed up her nose - spluttering. This revelation's definitely made the wait worthwhile. “Badges, Shea Jay. They’re like presents for the awesome work you do and the neat information you learn.”
“I’d like money better.” Another winner. Mercifully, Daisy’s not drinking during this delivery. God, having a kid is so fun.
“Ain’t that the truth. You’ll enjoy these too, though, I promise. They’re pretty. Also? If a blank canvas cramps your style - ” she flaps the ends of the blue vest “ - you can leave this home. Summer camp doesn’t have a dress code like the meetings. I don’t think.” She pauses, considering. “Up to you.”
Shea promptly peels the fabric off and launches the crumpled ball she creates toward the fridge.
“My little rebel!” Daisy raises both her arms, channeling a football official declaring an extra point valid. In the process, her phone dislodges from her pocket and she notices the time. “Shi - Is that really right?”
“The numbers on the microwave match your phone, so - ” Shea bobs her head apologetically.
Daisy dumps their cereal bowls in the sink, finds her keys, shoulders her bag, and passes Shea hers. Running for the stairs, they lock eyes and yell: “Ms. Kensington says fashionably late was an hour ago!”
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At three that afternoon, Daisy - having spent her solo hours continuing to unpack, replying to prospective client emails, and then returning to corral the chaos she’d unleashed into some semblance of order; stacking themed piles in different sections of the living room, while entertaining, isn’t exactly effective - stands outside the Park Slope YMCA.
Spotting a familiar pair of lollipop Converse in the crowd of kids streaming out the front door, Daisy grins. As Shea comes closer, though, she struggles to keep her smile from slipping off or - even worse - morphing into the panicked grimace that would derive great pleasure from subsuming her entire expression.
In place of her daughter’s adorable features, Daisy finds herself facing down a trifold dizzyingly decorated with Peggy Carter’s image. Peggy Carter is a hero - a woman who deserves every accolade and award that’s ever been attributed to her - and if Shea chooses to celebrate that? Daisy couldn’t be happier. Peggy Carter doesn’t present a problem.
At the moment, Daisy has an almost overwhelming urge to upchuck on a public street in a city she barely knows for one reason. Glued unassailably beside the legendary founder of SHIELD? Her husband, straight off of PebbleGo and a Ricoh printer tray.
“Can you take this, please?” Shea transfers her project to Daisy before she’s completely finished walking. Daisy - a fully capable adult, entrepreneur, wife, mother, and sporadic superhero - resolutely stomps on the instinct to recoil from the poster-board. She reassures her screaming mind that paper won’t physically harm her, and somehow still ends up gripping the top corner as though the material's smoldering. Maybe, she mentally soothes, Shea hasn’t made any connections.
“Doesn’t he - ” Shea reaches up to tap Daniel’s photocopied eyebrow “ - look so much like Daddy? It’s weird, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, honey? You want to - ” Daisy’s attempt to redirect blows up with reverberating force. There’ll be no stopping her whirlwind until she's released all of her discoveries.
“Look! My book - ” Shea hurls her backpack on the ground and digs through the collection inside - which threatens a more daring escape the longer she searches - until she comes to the one she needs; she flips the copy of WHO WAS … PEGGY CARTER? and points to a string of bold letters on the back cover; Daisy’s vision swims slightly, but she still knows what they spell “ - says they have the same name too!”
Daisy gives Shea back her masterpiece, instructs her to hold up her source and - with a sunny ‘Smile!’ – snaps a picture. Which she includes with the SOS! CODE TARDIS!!! she frantically texts Daniel two seconds later.
He calls her immediately and, when she answers, he asks: “Is TARDIS the new 0-8-4?”
“I wish,” she laughs, handing Shea the phone so he'll be treated to the undiluted experience.