Hey guys! Thought I wouldn't update this, did you?! Well, guess what, it's exactly 24 hours until Christmas, so I'd say this is right on time.
Anyway, enjoy! And Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!
(Warning: FLUFF)
It's interesting, Daisy mused, how a person's mood can swing so far and hard in a different direction so quickly. One moment she was having the time of her life, pranking Director Mace and decorating the Playground and just goofing off with her two friends. . . Then the next moment, when Fitz mentioned the early weeks on the bus, and she saw his wide, goofy grin (just like he used to give her all the time), she suddenly had vivid flashbacks. . . and realized what had really happened between then and now.
Sitting in her bunk, the visions came again.
She saw Ward first. She saw the truth serum, the punching bag, the battleship board. She heard his voice repeating protocols, disciplining her for stepping out of line. She felt his hands on her arms as he taught her to defend herself. She felt his rare, kind, soft gaze searching her eyes . . .
Then she saw Fitz. She saw his awkward stance, his curly hair, his mismatched shirts and ties. She heard his quick, excited Scottish accent, rambling about his night-night gun, the words slipping and tumbling over each other as if time was running out and they needed to be said.
She saw Jemma next. She saw her button-ups and cardigans and wavy dark hair. She heard her proper, lilting British voice reciting facts like the doctor she was, and the same voice running on top of Fitz's, their mannerisms and sentences intermingling and mimicking each other.
Daisy saw and heard and felt the way things could have been. . . the way they should have stayed.
None of this should have happened.
Ward shouldn't have been Hydra. Fitz shouldn't have had his brain damaged. Simmons shouldn't have had to blame herself for everything.
But it did happen. And the terrifying thing was that it was set. There was no way to change anything.
There's no past, no future, it just. . . is. Fitz's voice echoed in her mind.
Even if she had the resources or even the chance to travel back in time, Fitz's theory (which she was beginning to believe) said that there was absolutely no way in heaven or hell that anything could change.
It felt as if she were stuck. . . stuck in the 'would have's, the 'should have's, and everything in-between. . .
A soft, yet startling knock sounded on her door.
Daisy wiped away the rest of her stray tears and cleared her throat. "Come in!"
The door creaked open and a mismatched bouquet of mistletoe, poinsettias, and popcorn garlands poked through, followed by Fitz's curly head and wide grin, and Jemma's almost-exasperated expression.
Letting out a short, shaky giggle, Daisy scooted back on her bed and beckoned her friends in, patting the area beside her. With the opening of the door, she could still hear "Jingle Bell Rock" echoing from the Director's office. But she thought it had been more than half an hour by then. . .
Fitz saw her confusion. "I extended the loop," he admitted, setting his Christmas bouquet on the bed and flopping onto his stomach next to it.
". . . Which I highly discouraged," Jemma added, sitting cross-legged in front of Daisy. "I don't want the team to suffer."
"A little extra music won't kill them." Fitz grinned.
Daisy silently agreed. "Thanks, guys."
"Anything for a friend." Jemma smiled.
Fingering the Christmas bouquet, Daisy suddenly giggled. "Fitz, are these edible?"
The three had popped popcorn specifically for making garlands but hadn't exactly gotten around to stringing them. . . and most of the popcorn ended up in their stomachs, anyway. He must have made new popcorn specifically for her.
"Yeah, 'course they are."
Daisy took a strand and popped a piece in her mouth. "You're not supposed to butter popcorn for garlands! They'll melt," she laughed.
"We knew you would eat them right away," Jemma argued, her point all too valid.
Daisy smirked and ate another piece. While reaching into the bouquet for another strand, her hand brushed something suspicious. Her smirk growing wider, she snatched it and casually dangled it over Jemma's head, then leaned back and stared at Fitz innocently. He glanced between the two girls, his eyes slowly widening.
"Daisy, what-" Jemma started, then fell silent, finally realizing what it was Daisy had above her head.
Mistletoe.
Blood rushed to her cheeks and she stared intently at the mattress.
"Wait, you- uh, I mean- I- What?" Fitz said, ever the master of language.
"Well, I'm not kissing her," Daisy quipped, her grin spreading even wider.
With far too much red coloring his ears, Fitz sat up and pecked Jemma's cheek, fixing Daisy with a glowering stare. "There, good?"
The mistletoe didn't budge an inch. "Sorry, Fitzy. Christmas tradition."
There was a silent stare-down between Daisy and Fitz for a good minute. Jemma fiddled awkwardly with a leftover string from the popcorn garlands, her cheeks reddening by the second.
Finally, Fitz heaved himself up, sat himself next to Jemma, and with a mumbled "bloody h. . ." placed a thorough, probably-not-Daisy-appropriate kiss on Simmons' lips. When he pulled back, Jemma's eyes darted to Daisy, and back to Fitz. . . The only words to describe the look on her face were pure evil and mischief.
Jemma Simmons practically launched herself at her boyfriend, nearly tipping him off the bed, and they kissed like there was no tomorrow.
"Woah, woah, okay," Daisy backed up, her eyes wider than saucers. "I get it, you're in love. Get a room. Geez."
Both the pairs of eyes glanced at her sideways, the exact same look in each of them, which just radiated, again, evil and mischief. "Aren't we in one?" Fitz challenged with a smirk.
It couldn't have been physically possible for Daisy's eyes to grow any wider, but somehow they did. "Oh my god, Fitz-!"
Jemma was the first to burst out laughing. She didn't think it was still possible to have any laughter left, after earlier that day, but somehow it came out with as much force as it did then. This situation was so utterly ridiculous.
They felt like children again when all three of them, sprawled around on the bed, laughed their hearts out.
It was twelve-forty-six in the morning on December 25th, and Agent Phillip Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mission.
He'd purposefully removed his slippers but left his socks, worn all black fleece (because every spy needs an outfit made entirely of black fleece), and made sure his prosthetic hand was as quiet as possible.
Sneaking around a base full of super-spies was not going to be easy, but Coulson excelled at preparation. . . Maybe not as much as Simmons, but he was learning.
He still wanted to chuckle as he remembered the look on the face of the woman at the Walmart register as she scanned and bagged five yards of black flannel and yarn, a giant package of polyester stuffing, six fluffy Santa hats, ten rolls of red, green, and gold streamer, five sets of black pajamas, ten bottles of rainbow craft glitter, five boxes of specialty chocolate, five different-colored toothbrushes, five rolls of different-colored duct tape, ten garden gnomes, two industrial-sized boxes of black tea, one industrial-sized box of green tea, six dozen glazed donuts, ten boxes of waffle mix, a waffle iron, and a Snicker's bar.
All his loot was stuffed into his makeshift black flannel sack, padded here and there with polyester stuffing, so nothing would make a sound. . . except for the Snicker's bar he currently munched on while trying in vain to keep the wrapper quiet.
Coulson had a map of the base in his mind (a very, very thorough one at that), but the forest of trees and decorations still threw his inner compass off. So, the day before, he had marked his path with streamers.
Now, confident in his base-navigating abilities, he set off.
His first stop: May's bunk. Crouching in front of her door, he reached into his sack and removed the smaller, black bag marked with a small green dot on the top: May's assigned color for the day. Working quickly, he pulled out the roll of green duct tape and tore off a section with his teeth. He wrapped the top of the smaller sack with tape, then stood and plastered it to to the door.
When there was no possible way it could fall off alone, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. . . Then continued down the hallway to the other bunks and left one bag each for Mack, Fitzsimmons, and Daisy.
His loot strapped to each door (Fitzsimmons' door was a bit tricky, there being two sacks and one door), Coulson slipped back to his own bunk for a few hours before Phase 2 began.
Christmas morning was Fitz's favorite time of year as a child. . . and even as an adult. The last few years had left little time for celebrating, however, so he was more than ready to get a little Christmas cheer in this year before work set in again.
As usual, he woke with the sun. There were no windows in the bunks, but somehow every human being's biological clock is programmed to wake up before dawn on December 25th. Of course, Simmons would argue, "There's no logic in that! The circadian rhythm is consistent. . ." blah, blah, blah. But, of course, Fitz would beg to differ.
He had a routine that started at age two. Get up, change into the most obnoxious Christmas sweater he could find, make hot chocolate (usually spiked after he turned 16), wolf down a stack of his mother's chocolate and strawberry waffles, then huddle around the tree and try to be patient as his mum read the Christmas story. Finally when her voice trailed off and her Bible snapped shut, Fitz would launch himself at the tree and the pile of wrapped boxes awaiting him.
These last few years, however, he didn't have such a routine. In their Academy years they were allowed to go home, but in the few years since SHIELD had fallen and their world was turned upside-down, he'd had to fend for himself.
So, at dawn, Fitz crawled out of bed, being careful not to wake Jemma yet. He pulled on that one Christmas sweater he'd kept, shuffled into his slippers, and violently rubbed his tired eyes. But after turning a light on, he remembered that, good god, it was Christmas! And Christmas was no time to be tired or anything of the sort. He grinned to himself, his previous plans for the day crashing into his mind like a ton of bricks. He would make this the best Christmas any of them had even thought of having in a long, long time.
He nearly pranced to the door, pulled it open . . . and wondered why it was heavier than normal, when his eyes caught sight of two huge dark lumps hanging from the door, one wrapped in blue duct tape, the other in yellow. A tag hung off both of them, reading, "Don't have too much fun. It's still a work day. ;)"
Fitz chuckled, tore off the blue and black sack, then closed the door and padded toward the rec room.
Mack was already awake and slumped on the couch, his eyes threatening to flutter shut again. He held a black flannel sack with bright red duct tape between his feet and was thinking about opening it, when Fitz bounced into the rec room like a five-year-old on caffeine.
"Mack!" he crowed, swinging the sack around, onto the couch beside his friend. His clumsy self followed. "So old Saint Nick visited you, too?" he motioned toward the lump of black flannel.
"Yeah, it was hanging on my door."
"So it wasn't you," Fitz muttered. "Could have been May, she's always sneaking about . . . I wonder what's in the things?"
"No better time to find out," Mack grunted, "than the present."
Fitz wondered idly if he'd meant to make that pun, since the man didn't even crack a grin. But he watched as his friend tore off the red duct tape and stretched open the sack.
What poured out was a sight to behold.
Onto the couch rolled, first, a plastic carton of a dozen donuts. Next, a red toothbrush. After that came a set of black fleece pajamas, a fuzzy Santa hat, a box of chocolate, and a handful of polyester stuffing.
The two men's eyes widened further and further as they watched. Mack reached into the bag and pulled out, finally, a little white slip of paper on which was scrawled, "Briefing in the kitchen lounge at 0600. Wear the pajamas and the hat. That's an order."
Mack's eyebrows shot up. "Whoever did this sure has it planned out."
Laughing, Fitz tore open his own sack. Along with the same items (colored blue, of course), was a huge, industrial-sized box of black breakfast tea. "Score," he cried and pumped his fist.
Daisy blinked groggily, checking her clock. It was 5:26 in the morning. Too early . . .
Her eyes snapped fully open. But wait. It was Christmas! The one day in the entire year when waking up at an ungodly hour was mildly acceptable. She flew out of bed, suddenly gaining the energy of a caffeinated hamster on steroids. She threw on the nearest clothing, which happened to be a bathrobe and exercise leggings, and swung open her door, bolting out . . . straight into a swinging wall of black felt wrapped in pink duct tape.
Daisy gasped and backpedaled, her heart rate skyrocketing. Then she focused on it and grinned at the note taped to the top. Grabbing it by the tape, she tore it off the door and swung it onto her bed. She hadn't had a Christmas surprise in years and years.
The nuns at St. Agnes were good about filling every child's stocking with a few chocolates and a toy or two, and her foster parents might have scratched together a box of goodies every now and then, but ever since she aged out of the system, Daisy had not had any special Christmas traditions or surprises. When she lived in her van, she would just fix herself a cup of hot chocolate, stir it with a candy cane, and sit in the back, watching holiday flicks on a hacked TV channel.
Sometimes, if she ever had a bit of extra cash, she would search for orphanages in the area, then buy cases of chocolate, candy canes, and stuffed animals, and spend time with all the kids for as long as she could. Those were the best years.
At SHIELD, however, she hadn't been able to get away long enough for that. Maybe this year, she hoped, as she swung the black bag onto her mattress. An assortment of items fell out, along with a note ordering her to be in the kitchen at 6.
She hurriedly changed into the black pajamas, donned the Santa hat, and stuffed her mouth with a few chocolates, before almost sprinting out the door, forgetting that the floors were cement and her bare feet were freezing. Oh well. Christmas was more important.
It was six O'clock sharp on Christmas morning, and Phil Coulson was ready.
With the scent of fresh waffles behind him, and the forest of garlands and tiny trees ahead, he set off to find his crew. He poked his head around the wall, to see the whole team looking like a black and red fleece army. May looked less than happy to be wearing the red fluffy Santa hat, but wore it nonetheless. Fitzsimmons sat together, Fitz grinning from ear to ear like a child, and Simmons still bleary-eyed from sleep. Mack shifted back and forth on each foot, uneasy but willing, and Daisy . . . Daisy was something else altogether. She bounced around the room, laughing with Fitzsimmons, terrorizing May with tinsel, and hugging Mack every now and then. Coulson had never seen her this giddy in his life, except maybe last night. The disaster night, an inner voice whispered, almost setting him off laughing again.
He strode through the door. "Hey, guys!" All eyes snapped to him, and he grinned. "Merry Christmas!"
The mood instantly lightened, and everyone chuckled, albeit a bit nervously. Daisy, however, screamed the phrase back at Coulson. Apparently whatever she had been high on yesterday had not worn off.
He continued: "I bet you're all wondering why you're gathered-"
But before he could finish, everyone groaned and slumped their shoulders, so he laughed. "Okay, okay. Hold on." Spinning around, he waded through the trees again, quickly returning to the rec room with a rolling cart, stacked high with waffles, chocolate sauce, strawberries, whipped cream, maple syrup, pork sausage, scrambled eggs, fried eggs, coffee, milk, orange juice, sugar cookies, cinnamon rolls, paper plates, cups, and steaming hot chocolate in six different mugs.
Since there was no full-size table that wasn't covered in tinsel and popcorn and pine trees at the moment, Coulson ordered everyone to push the couches away and sit on the floor. He didn't want syrup on the upholstery.
For the first time since they moved into the Playground, the whole team sat down together to eat. Coulson stretched out against the sofa, trying to keep food off the front of his shirt. May sat beside him, silent as always, but with a curve to her lips that betrayed her joy.
Continuing to look confused but content, somehow at the same time, Mack basically inhaled his waffles. Coulson swore he saw the man load his plate with three whole ones to begin with, which had been replaced with two more.
Fitzsimmons sat so close together, Coulson couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. They both had goofy grins plastered on their faces, Fitz shoving waffles down his throat like there was no tomorrow. Jemma kindly wiped a bit of whipped cream off his black fleece pajamas with a napkin. Coulson smiled.
Finally, Daisy, in between Fitz and Coulson, just watched everyone, seeming just a bit more sober for once. She turned to him, her mouth full of pork sausage, her chin nearly dripping with maple syrup.
"Thanks, A.C.," she murmured. "I've never had a real Christmas breakfast."
Coulson almost choked on his eggs. Hold it together, you've heard more shocking things . . . he told himself. But Daisy, who he thought of as the daughter he never had, just dropped a bomb. No Christmas breakfast. Probably no real presents or family to celebrate with.
"I just . . . well, yeah, thanks. I can't believe you did this, did you cook all of it?"
Grinning, Coulson shook his head. "I had help."
Right on cue, the door flew open, crashing against the opposing wall, almost breaking the glass.
Director Mace stormed through, in all his Santa-hat, red-and-green-and-golden glory.
The whole room stilled, and Fitzsimmons and Daisy held their collective breaths.
No one spoke.
Mace stared, expressionless.
Coulson only grinned.
"So," Mace rumbled, his voice lowering a few octaves. "Why . . . did you start eating without me?!"
The breath that the three agents released was audible.
Mace grinned, revealing a carton of eggnog he hid behind his back. "It's spiked." Everyone cheered.
And suddenly, the mood lifted again, and even Mack started to laugh with Fitz, Jemma caught in the middle of their banter but laughing nonetheless.
May snagged the eggnog from the Director, emptying it into her mug, then nodding in approval and passing the drink around the circle. Mace tripped over Daisy's leg on his way to the food cart, caught himself, and exclaimed, "I haven't even had a drink yet!" This brought roars of laughter from Fitz, which then spread around the circle faster than the liquor.
Coulson turned to Daisy again and handed her a glass, which she accepted. "You probably don't need this," he warned as he poured the rum-infused drink, "but it's Christmas. And we all make exceptions."
Laughing, Daisy raised the eggnog. "To a very merry Christmas."
Everyone repeated the phrase, raising their glasses, and for a second, time froze.
Coulson took in everything in that split second: The black-clad agents (not agents, friends, and not friends, but family), the pine trees, the sparkling decorations, the smell of breakfast and chocolate, the cold glass beneath his fingers, the laughing faces, the tired eyes, the red and white and black, the muffled music playing in the distance . . . which sounded vaguely like "Last Christmas" by Wham!
He glanced up at the Director, who only whispered, "Payback."
Everyone clinked their glasses together, and after Fitzsimmons took a sip, they also shared a not-so-chaste kiss.
Daisy groaned like an older sister, and Mack slapped Fitz on the back. Still laughing, Coulson picked up his plate . . . almost.
A whisper met his ear, and a pair of lips pressed to his cheek.
"Merry Christmas," May breathed, squeezing his hand . . . and smiling.
Coulson took a breath, gazed into those bright, dark eyes . . . and kissed her.
Maybe Christmas miracles really did happen.