x.

The most important thing to know about Daniel is that he's a patient man, always has been.

Even as a baby, he was quiet, rarely fussy, just stared at everything around him with wide, curious eyes, so his grandmother used to say. After she passed a few years later, he was left on his own a lot, and as a result, he learned how to keep himself busy by making up games to play with his imaginary friends. It wasn't a bad childhood, strictly speaking, but he still left town the first chance he got.

Enlisting had seemed like a good idea at the time, though the war turned out to be altogether different from what he'd expected. Despite what the recruiters had told him, it wasn't always action and gunfire and explosions. More often than not, it was exhausting drills and a whistle telling him where to go and what to do and hours spent sitting in the rain and the cold, waiting for something to happen and dreading it in equal measure.

He spent those uncertain nights memorizing times tables, and later, when he was discharged from the hospital with a new leg and a shiny silver crutch, he could do just about any quick calculation in his head without ever breaking a sweat. It proved to be useful when he joined the SSR, starting out in a desk job looking over reports and financial records before working his way up the chain. Once he became a field agent, he ran out of numbers to go over in his head, so instead, he spent his many, long overnight stakeouts studying every inch of the neighborhood streets until he could map them out in his dreams.

All this is to say that patience is a skill that has served Daniel well in his life, but never more so than now.

Because life on the Zephyr is different. It's not that he's bored – that's easily the last word he'd ever use to describe his experiences on this plane – but it's certainly a different routine than the one he left behind. There are no briefings to attend, no meetings with other agencies, no red-tape bureaucracy or higher-ups breathing down his neck. It's just day after day of unstructured time without anyone dictating how he should fill it, so he does what he does best and keeps himself busy.

At first, he feels rather useless. It's been a long time since he's been out of his depth like this, and truth be told, it's humbling to be relegated to the sidelines, more or less a rookie again, incapable of doing anything more complicated than making coffee. But the discomfort doesn't last long. It's hard to care too much about his ego when they're on a mission to save the world, when every time he looks out the window, he's reminded of the vastness of the universe and how impossible it is that he should get to see it like this.

So he spends his mornings catching up on history and making sure the coffee is fresh, and the rest of the time, he spends with Daisy.

It's comfortable, being in her presence, whether they're talking or training together or each doing their own thing in their own corner of the room. After a while, he begins to pick up on all her little mannerisms and habits, both good and bad, and what sticks out the most is the fact that she never asks him for help, not even when she clearly needs it.

At first, he assumes it's because she's still feeling like she owes him for saving her life, but the more time he spends with her, the more he realizes that's not quite it. Not all of it, anyway. There's a perpetually guarded look in her eyes that takes him a few days to recognize, and once he does, he can't believe he didn't see it before. He knows that look well, he's seen it in so many other people before her. It's a look that comes from a lifetime of learning the hard way that the only person you can rely on is yourself.

That explains it.

That explains so much.

Because he's no stranger to that feeling either. He's walked through his life alone for many years of it, but he was lucky, he found his place, first in the army, then at the SSR, at SHIELD, and now here. It's been a long time since he's had to feel guarded, but it's not a feeling he'll ever forget. He understands better than most why she can't bring herself to ask him for anything, and he doesn't take it personally, even as he hopes that she might one day say those words.

Instead, he continues to spend his time with her because he likes it, because he likes her, and even if she never outright asks for his help, she still accepts it every time he offers. For someone like her, that can't come easy, and it may not look like much from the outside, but it's not nothing. It's something, it's a sign that she trusts him, and for now, that's enough.

All this is to say that, after a while, Daniel knows Daisy well enough to know exactly what she needs without ever needing her to ask.

So naturally, that's when she finally does.

The room is still dim when she speaks, with shadows lining the wall that make him wonder if he might still be sleeping, if it might all be a dream. For a moment, he's speechless, not sure how to react, not sure what to say.

He doesn't know it then, but this won't be the first time he's helped her that day, not by a long shot, and he won't remember any of this tomorrow, but he doesn't know that either.

What he does know is that she looks tentative and uncertain, but her voice is clear when she says the words.

What he does know is that he would've waited the rest of his life to hear her say them, but he's glad it didn't take that long.

What he does know is that he didn't expect her to say them, but he's still happy that she did.

Because Daniel is a patient man who's been waiting for this moment, and now that it's here, he knows exactly how to respond.

Of course, he tells her, whatever you need.

What he means is, I thought you'd never ask.

...

The first time Daisy thinks about kissing him is in the bar in 1973.

She's enjoying the irritation on Gideon Malick's face almost as much as she's enjoying the feeling of Sousa's hand around her waist, and she can't help leaning into him, resting her fingers against the soft fabric of his vest. Maybe it's the relaxed atmosphere or the fun decade that they're in, but she feels loose and comfortable, especially when he runs his palm gently down her back.

For a moment, she lets herself imagine what it might be like if they were just an ordinary couple, young and in love, out for a drink and maybe a dance before going to dinner, then a drive, and ending the night with a kiss. It wouldn't be so bad, she thinks wistfully, turning to look at him as he tilts his head towards her. She likes the way he softens his voice when he calls her honey, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and when he pulls her close, but not too close, she's only too happy to let him.

No, it wouldn't be so bad at all.

The second time she thinks of kissing him comes in 1982.

It's a quiet afternoon, and they're in the training room, warming up before another workout. Since she's started feeling better, she's been easing herself back into the routine, trying to push herself up to the level she was before. Most days, Sousa joins her, and she's glad that he does because it's fun, both having a partner to train with and seeing his skills in action, especially with his new leg. He's very good at hand-to-hand combat, and she appreciates that he never pulls his punches.

Her jabs and kicks are still in good form, so she's been working on her defense, and for the past few days, she's been trying and failing at each and every attempt to flip him over her shoulder. It used to be so easy for her, but she can't seem to get the right grip or the right footing anymore, and she's not sure if it's because she's still recovering or if she's overthinking things because it's him.

He advances towards her, and she expects the familiar resistance when she grabs him, but it's not there this time, and she hasn't even realized that she's thrown him until she hears a heavy thud against the mat. She turns around to look, so surprised to see him down on the ground that she doesn't even notice his arm reaching for her ankle until it's too late and she's landed flat on her back. For such a by-the-book kind of guy, he certainly has a few tricks up his sleeve.

She lays there beside him, panting at the impact but laughing too, the kind that makes your throat hoarse and your belly ache, the kind that reminds you what it means to be alive. When was the last time she'd laughed like this, months, maybe years? She can't quite remember, but she knows it's been far too long.

He's propped up on his elbow when she finally gathers herself, and she turns on her side to face him. There's a mischievous glint in his eye when he reminds her never to let her guard down, but he's still grimacing from his own painful landing, so perhaps neither one of them have won this round.

Or perhaps they both have. Because the space between them is merely a sliver, not quite close enough to be lovers but more intimate than friends, and she could reach him in just one breath. Just one kiss. She looks at him, and that twinkle is still there in his eyes, but there's something else too, something softer, and she wonders if he'd been thinking the same thing.

The moment is broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway and she picks herself back up, slowly, regretfully, offering her hand to him as they both get to their feet. Before she lets go, she gives his palm a tiny, imperceptible squeeze, and he tightens his hand around hers in response. Then they walk out of the room together, not too close, but closer.

The third time is a few days later.

She's just watched him die, and when she wakes up and sees him back in the chair, the relief and gratitude are palpable, but those aren't the only things that she feels. She can't take her eyes off him, not when he looks so peaceful there, chest rising and falling, face unlined by the worries of the day. It's hard to leave, harder than any other time before, but she sneaks out as quietly as she can, being careful not to wake him, taking one last look back at him, healthy and whole, lips no longer stained with blood.

She almost touches them, almost presses her own lips to his, just to be safe, just to be sure.

The fourth time comes right after.

It's during their conversation, when he calls her impressive and she leans forward, holding his gaze until he takes a moment to look away. She finds it incredibly endearing, how open his face is, how clearly she can see the hope and the sincerity and the nervousness there. Silence blankets the distance between them, but it's comfortable – warm like a hug, soft like a caress.

While he's still looking down, she lets her eyes linger on his lips, and it occurs to her then that she's going to fall in love with this man, and when he lifts his eyes back to hers, she knows she's going to enjoy every minute of it.

The next time Daisy thinks about kissing him is the first time she actually does.

She hadn't planned it, hadn't expected it, but he's looking at her so earnestly despite his obvious confusion that she wonders what's stopping her before realizing it's herself. And she knows it might not matter because he won't remember it in the morning, but she does it anyway, because she knows that she will.

Later, she'll remember how warm and steady he had felt beneath her hands and against her lips, how he had leaned into her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Later, she'll remember how quietly he had sighed into the kiss, how she had realized then that he must've been waiting for this too.

Later, she'll remember how when they parted, she had kept her eyes closed for a heartbeat longer, imagining the two of them, just an ordinary couple, young and in love and headed for the future.

She'll remember all this tomorrow, the day after, the day after that. And long after she's made new memories, she'll still remember this one.

That was nice, she had smiled.

What she meant was, it was worth the wait.