Toasters. Erin hated toasters. They were simple enough, really. Put the bread in the slot. Push the button. Wait a few minutes, and enjoy crispy hot bread. But for her? They never worked. For her, the sequence was a little different. Put the bread in the slot. Push the button. Wait a few seconds, and enjoy the impromptu mini fireworks display, then begin browsing where to buy a replacement toaster. Or, if she was lucky, all she had to do was throw away the mangled, burnt remnants of what might had been bread. Or, if she was luckier, nothing at all would happen.
Logically thinking, Erin always managed to be the person for whom a defect burned spectacularly. She was the statistical one to a million. But of course, her own theory was slightly different. Erin firmly believed that toasters were conspiring against her. Somehow. She wasn't exactly sure how, really, but oh, yes. They were. Mocking her every time she wanted toast.
The only time Erin could really have toast was when her girlfriend was home. Which, regrettably, wasn't often. Natasha was a busy woman. To be fair, so was Erin, but while her work with a diagnostic lab in Queens was fairly steady, Nat's jobs took her all over the world at the drop of a hat. It was stressful, really. Erin was aware of the general terms of Natasha's job, but the redhead would never discuss specifics. And Erin never pressed. The often-unexplained scabs and bruises were disturbing, but Erin trusted Natasha. If she didn't want to talk about it, she probably had a reason.
But back to toast.
"Nat!" Erin whined, picking out the black scraps of bread from the shiny, brand new (as of last Thursday) toaster. No matter how often she failed at using the simple machine, Erin was always ready to try again, doggedly believing that someday, she would succeed. "I need your help."
"Just pour some cereal," Natasha sighed in response, her spoon clinking softly against the clear glass bowl of, of course, cereal as she ate her own breakfast, perched on the edge of the sleek granite countertop, glancing at the morning news program muted on the television screen. "Stop torturing the toaster."
But of course, that would be admitting defeat.
"No look," the brunette pressed, pulling two new slices of bread from the clear plastic bag. "I'll put it in. You just need to press the lever. It always works when you do it."
Liquid green eyes glanced up at her, one graceful brow arching in exasperation. They had this same conversation every morning Natasha was home. She couldn't understand why Erin didn't just have cereal. It was so much simpler. But Natasha wouldn't complain. These conversations felt so... domestic. The sensation was oddly welcome, when the rest of her life was the exact opposite of domestic. Case and point, displayed on the news: the Triskellion burning in Washington. Two weeks ago, actually. The events leading up to the climactic exposure of SHIELD had been confusing, terrifying, even. Natasha's eyes drifted to her pajama-clad lover, brooding silently. Erin was a constant in her chaotic life. She kept Natasha sane.
The Russian brought the bowl to her lips and drank the milk, sweetened by the cereal, before setting it down to the side. She slipped off the countertop, landing easily on her feet, and drew closer to her lover. Natasha wrapped her arms around the blonde's waist, pressing her lips to the pale curve of Erin's shoulder, her cheek brushing against the spaghetti strap of Erin's tank top.
"What time do you need to be at work, today?" she murmured, tipping her chin up to rest it against the crook of Erin's neck.
Erin settled easily back into Natasha's hold, smiling. The redhead wasn't shy about carrying out any ideas that popped into her head. Not that Erin minded. She enjoyed physical contact.
"Nine," she replied, dropping one hand to curl her fingers around the slightly-shorter woman's hands. "Same as every day."
"So we have time."
Erin found herself with her back to the counter, chest to chest with Natasha. The other woman's hand caressed Erin's smooth thigh, gliding down to cup under her knee, to pull it up to Natasha's own hip. The brunette rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.
"Seriously, Nat? I already took a shower. Can't get dirty again." The soft, halfhearted protests were nullified by the way Erin responded, draping one arm loosely around Natasha's neck, tipping up her face to brush her own soft lips to those of her girlfriend. Natasha gave the blonde a knowing smirk, more than willing to intensify the gentle half-kiss.
But duty called. Natasha's cell phone lit up to the left, buzzing insistently. A capital A hovered a few inches above the phone's screen, courtesy of Tony's upgrades. Natasha's eyes flitted over to the screen, before meeting Erin's eyes with an apologetic look. The other woman sighed, offering a halfhearted smile in return.
"I know; I know. Duty calls."
Erin slid down, diving Natasha a gentle nudge towards the bedroom to change from the, well, very little she wore to sleep, into one of the catsuits that seemed to be her uniforms. Natasha darted out of sight, silently gearing up with a swiftness born of practice. The brunette frowned softly, eyes drifting over to the television where the news station was now depicting the weather for the day. Storms were predicted. Awesome. She found herself a mug and microwaved water for tea. Coffee was good, especially in the morning, but Erin needed to relax. Her heart rate skyrocketed in a way that wasn't good whenever Natasha was given the call to 'assemble'. There was never a guarantee that things would turn out alright.
So Erin made her tea. It wasn't exactly her favorite drink, but it did help to soothe her. She gave the toaster a longing glance after setting a mug of water into the microwave, before giving in a pulling a cereal bowl from the cabinet. She would retrieve the untoasted bread from the toaster in a moment.
She hated cereal. It always tasted stale, to her. Overly sweet. And she wasn't a fan of milk. Natasha knew that. Erin knew, too, that she was being immature about the whole subject of milk and cereal, but she just couldn't bring herself to enjoy it. The plastic bag inside the cereal box rustled softly as she opened it, but a firm hand on hers distracted Erin from her task.
"I'll come back," Natasha promised, pressing her lips to Erin's cheek as she reached around, and pressed the button on the toaster. The other woman dipped her head in acknowledgement, a small smile lifting the the corners of her lips.
"I know. You always do."
Erin left the apartment an hour later, in casual clothing acceptable for the lab. No open-toed shoes, no pants that ended above the calf, and no long sleeves. The doorman smiled and wished her a nice day as she strode out, and Erin tossed a similar greeting over her shoulder before setting to work with hailing a cab. Within the hour, Erin was at the diagnostics lab in Queens, washing her hands and snapping on the lavender nitrile gloves to begin her work.
Nine to six, was her work day. Sometimes it was interesting. Sometimes it was bland. Sometimes it was simply depressing. At least two out of every five cultures sent her way for identification were drug resistant of some kind. It was frustrating, to be honest. She was able to identify them easily, but damn, she was sure some of the people from whom the cultures had been collected were on medication that was ineffective. In some cases, it was merely a nuisance, to change medication after a few days. For others? Maybe it was a matter of life and death.
Noon rolled around, and she paused for lunch in the break room. Then six o'clock showed up, and she hung up her lab coat and headed back out the door.
Typically Erin would hang around in a nearby cafe until the tail end of rush hour traffic died down. Today was no different. From the cafe, she would take the cab again, back to her home. The doorman would greet her on the way in, as he always did. The receptionist wouldn't even glance up. The elevator took forever, as usual, and when Erin walked in the door, she kicked off her shoes and wandered into the kitchen space in her socks, eager to put on a pot of coffee. As the drink percolated through the coffee machine, Erin drifted into the bedroom she shared with Natasha, to grab the book the had been reading the night before, before falling asleep. The thin, pale curtains were still drawn against the sunlight from that morning, so Erin passed by the windows and flicked them opening, reveling in the East River view for a moment, before snatching her well-worn paperback from the bedside table. She thumbed through the pages idly as she padded back into the main space, unbothered by the silence of the apartment, which was only broken by the gentle burbling of the coffee maker.
What did bother her, though, was the shimmering blue light that blinder her without warning.
It shimmered and danced like a cool blue flame, filling her vision as though she were looking straight into the sun. The deep whoosh of a sudden burst of flame on a film of pure alcohol accompanied the strange light, conflictingly gentle compared to the raw intensity of the light.
"Jesus Christ!" she spat, jerking back from the light reflexively the moment it appeared. She collided with a lamp table, sending the bud vase adorning it topping to the floor to shatter gracelessly as she dropped her book, covering her smarting eyes.
The scent of something burning caught Erin's attention within a few moments, and she forced her hands down, blinking to clear the spots from her vision as she sought out the source of the smoke.
It was easy to find, actually. Smoke curled up in a sensuous dance from a perfectly round circle of soot in the hardwood flooring. A cube, shimmering with the colors of an autumn sky, rested perfectly unharmed within the circle. Erin wasn't entirely certain what she was looking at. That the apparition of a blue box in her living room was abnormal, she was certain. She stared blankly, for a moment, trying and failing to comprehend, before stepping cautiously closer.
It didn't matter, that she was currently doing exactly what she had criticized countless SciFi characters for doing. It didn't matter, that logic dictated she call someone who might know what the hell the cube was. At the moment, as she neared the blue box, Erin only had an inexplicable, overwhelming desire to touch it.