It starts when Hunter yells for both of them, loudly, from across the room–which shouldn't be suspicious. Daisy has watched him down more than a few beers as the night has progressed and drunk-Hunter and loud-Hunter are a two-for-one deal.
Except it is a Christmas party, and she and Lincoln have agreed to go together in a strictly Best-Friends-Against-Going-Stag capacity, and subsequently she has made very careful note of every place mistletoe is precariously hung immediately upon entering the friend-of-a-friend's crowded apartment–making careful note of where not to step.
Hunter is standing directly behind one of the strict no-passing zones, crookedly mischievous grin planted slyly across his lips.
She catches Lincoln's wrist when he makes a move towards him, making a small upwards gesture with her chin towards the mistletoe hanging in front of their friend.
"Does he want to make out with us or is he trying to get us to make out?" He asks when he catches on, glancing down at her with a smirk.
Daisy rolls her eyes, biting back a grin.
"He's drunk off his ass. Who knows."
She regards the mistletoe a moment longer before sharing her plan.
"Go to the bathroom or something. I'll handle this."
They've only been reconvened a solid 5 minutes when Jemma pokes Daisy's shoulder and urges her to follow her.
"…why?"
She pauses, eyes flitting conspicuously between Daisy and Lincoln.
Jemma is a shit liar.
"Fitz and I wanted to show you something," she finally comes up with, far too brightly–motioning off somewhere towards the left.
Daisy's eyes narrow.
"I was just going to get us refills," she responds evenly, regardless of the fact that Lincoln's drink is still filled to the top. "Show Lincoln, I'll find you guys later."
She finds Lincoln later, startling him when she grabs his sleeve and tugs him away from the main crowded room, scanning for a door and fumbling with the handle of the first she finds–shoving him in and following with the closing door behind him.
It is a tiny linens closet, which retrospectively is the last place she should be with him, but she brushes it off as her eyes adjust, listening against the door to make sure no one is outside.
"They are trying to set us up," she says under her breath when she is satisfied with the quiet outside the door, searching for the glint of his eyes in the darkness. She is almost certain he is rolling them.
"Miraculously, I caught on to that," he responds sarcastically, and she feels blindly into the darkness till she finds his chest before drawing back and landing him a soft shove.
"We're in this together, asshat. A team of secret agents is trying to get us to make out. I don't think you understand the severity of the situation," she pauses, glaring in the general direction she thinks his face is in. "I think Bobbi is in on this, Lincoln. Bobbi never loses."
He is silent a moment.
"You did just drag me forcefully into a closet. If they are trying to make us out as horny teenagers, Bobbi is sort of winning already."
She wishes he could see the fierceness of her glare through the darkness.
"That analogy you nail," she mutters resentfully under her breath. Then, "we need a game plan. Take turns making excuses as to why we can't both be under the mistletoe at the same time… we already used drinks and bathroom, but I guess they both could be plausibly used agai–"
"Or we could just make out and get it over with so we can enjoy the rest of the party," he suggests unhelpfully, and she can't tell whether he is serious or not.
"That better be the best joke you have ever told in your life, Campbell."
Her voice is raising a little above what it should be, considering their current location. She imagines he is probably shrugging.
"It works in the movies," he defends halfheartedly, and she lets out a long disbelieving breath.
"Yes," she agrees, "it does. It consistently works, in rom coms, where the best friends proceed to fall in love Lincoln what the fuck."
The silence that falls is particularly imposing after her harsh whisper. After a longer pause still, he speaks.
"Alright, so we do it your way."
He sounds genuinely put out, and she rolls her eyes.
"Go. I'll leave in a few minutes in case someone is watching."
It is entirely his fault when Bobbi suggests they try out the apparently immensely comfy (and coincidentally mistletoe laden) corner spot on the couch and she suddenly finds herself imagining what exactly it might be like to kiss him–and is too distracted to mutter out an excuse.
"Go get drinks," she mumbles as they move towards the couch, and he stares helplessly at her.
"Daisy, I literally just refilled your cup. Exactly how drunk are you trying to get tonight?"
She stops, hand on his wrist urging him to do the same.
"Let's just not go to the couch," she suggests, "The chair in the corner looks fine. How much longer do we have of this?"
He wiggles his wrist from her iron grasp to glance at his watch.
"It isn't even 10."
"Shit."
She glances at the couch again, mentally sizing up their options, and lets out a long breath before staring back up at Lincoln who is watching her for his next cue.
"Make it good. No fucking romcom, got it?"
He blinks, confused, but she doesn't wait to make sure he has actually got it before shifting more fully in front of him, drawing her body close to his and sliding her hands to his shoulders–looking up from his chest to his eyes just as he begins to catch on.
"I thought this was supposed to be the best joke I ever told in my life?" he murmurs under his breath–but he responds to her movements, ducking his forehead close enough to hers that she can feel his breathing and drawing her closer with a hand to the small of her back.
She can tell by the tone she knows well that he intends to get his revenge, and he intends to get it well, but his eyes shift a shade darker when she brushes her lips just barely across his.
It has to be her drunkenness that makes her own eyes drift shut at the sensation.
"Stop talking and kiss me," she says in the same low tone.
He hesitates, and she can feel him draw almost imperceptibly back.
"You're drunk," he says softly, "I don't think–"
She kisses him again, harder.
"It is us fucking with them now, or vice versa later," she murmurs impatiently. "I think we both prefer to be winners."
He kisses her.
She thinks that they kiss like they argue–trying to one up each other, both fighting for the coveted upper hand, trying to outdo the other. They instinctively know what makes the other tick and they exploit it to their advantage. It is a give and a take–she digs her nails into his chest, he tangles his fingers in her hair, her teeth scrape his bottom lip, he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
There is something satisfying in how he tastes–the sweet tang of soda entirely untainted by alcohol, the assurance that whatever this is, it is entirely him–uninfluenced by any outside factor aside from her insistence he put on a show. She knows she shouldn't like it as much as she does, knows she shouldn't hold him tighter and kiss him harder entirely because it is probably the first and last time this will happen–but she is drunk, and she likes kissing him, and she is only a little ashamed.
He pulls back first, reluctantly—and it takes her a moment to stop following his lips away from her—drawing away and pressing her forehead hard to his as she tries to calm the burning in her veins. His eyes are on her parted lips, and he grudgingly tears them away, staring at something past her shoulder as he slowly untangles himself from her.
She catches his wrist as he draws back, sliding her fingers down his palm and into his.
"Realism," she mutters in explanation, wishing her voice came out less breathless.
He nods, just barely—shifting a bit and beginning to guide her to the outskirts of the room.
"She saw," he adds quietly, and Daisy forces a noise of confirmation past her tingling lips, realizing a beat too late she is still staring at his.
He squeezes her hand, but it doesn't have the calming affect that it should, that he intends.
"Alright?" He asks her, and she allows herself to meet his concerned eyes slowly, numb feet slowing to a stop and pulling him after her.
"That was a terrible idea," she responds after a belated moment, shaking her head in disbelief, "that was a terrible idea. You have terrible ideas."
Hunter passes after another moment of silence, wolf whistling obnoxiously.
"Okay, but terrible or not, clearly it worked," he defends, tiny smirk tugging at the edges of his lips that she just can't seem to keep her eyes off of.
She scowls at him.
"It isn't my fault you kiss like that."
His eyes narrow, amusement edging at his smirk.
"That…" a pause, as he studies her expression carefully, biting at his smirk. "that is, um, not what I meant."
She realizes what it was he meant at least three beats too late and feels her cheeks burn red as she pushes away from him.
"Fuck," she mutters. Then louder, "fuck. Lincoln. We are never, ever going with your plan again. Ever."
"Okay."
"Shit."
She pulls away from him, moving towards the couch and falling weakly down onto it, glaring at him hard when he makes a move to follow her. She still isn't entirely sure the full capacity of what she has just said, and she needs a moment to muddle through it. A long moment. And probably at least one drink for each hand.
Part of her craves pepsi, and when she realizes why, she shakes the thought out of her head, hard—ideally, with all other memories of his lips on hers. The soda craving fades; except the second part doesn't go anywhere.
He is still standing uneasily where she left him, shifting from foot to foot like he is unsure of what to do next—purposefully keeping his eyes focused anywhere but her.
She swallows.
He is waiting on her next move.
She stands back up, too quickly, and squeezes her eyes shut when it takes a moment for her blood to pulse back into her spinning head. She takes a moment longer after that, fighting the urge to bolt.
She forces herself to step back towards him.
The party has officially hit its full swing, and she has to shove a few people aside to get back to him—which she does with ease—and he looks sufficiently surprised when he looks down to see her.
"We kissed," she notes matter-of-factly before she can back out.
He nods once, slowly, studying her expression carefully.
"Yeah, so do we need to talk about that?"
It is the reason she has subjected herself to facing him again after her slip up, but she finds herself hesitating now—searching for anything she could actually say.
"Maybe…" She pauses. "Maybe, we just… see what happens?"
He lets out a breath, eyes again wandering off of her and out to the party bustling around her. It is a long moment before his attention returns rather reluctantly to her.
"That's it, then? Nothing to go off of? Just…we see what happens?"
She shrugs, not particularly trusting herself to speak again.
"Help me out here, Daisy," he pleads. "I'm walking on eggshells here. Are we still anti-rom com?"
It is kind of in the way he waits on bated breath for her next move after his pleas that she thinks she might need to make out with him again.
"First of all, we're always anti-rom com," she says, except she is maybe looking at his lips instead of him. "second of all, congrats on two solid analogies tonight—Simmons is a good influence on you. Also, ask me again when I'm sober because…"
Because whatever this is, it isn't an impulsive one night stand.
She is still staring at his lips.
(She wakes up in her bunk the next day with a pounding headache and a need to see him—and he doesn't even complain when she pounds on his door at 8AM on a day off, standing there in his worn pajama shirt and tousled hair—eyes going immediately brighter when he registers her.
"You turned us into a rom com, asshole," she tells him begrudgingly.
Then she kisses him.)