“We are not breaking any laws, don’t worry,” Daisy says, holding up the bag of frozen peas to his eyebrow, amused by his sudden attack of lawfulness.
She is the one who is a stickler for rules these days - comes from becoming boss to a group of people - and he’s the one with the more relaxed and worldly attitude, even since he stepped down as Director for good.
“If it makes you feel any better, we’ll pay for these,” she says. She is flexing the fingers around a bag of frozen blueberries. Her injuries are less obvious than Coulson’s but her hand hurts like hell.
“I don’t like peas,” Coulson replies.
Like that’s the problem. She presses the frozen bag against her knuckles, the worst part of it. She knows this is not conventional, but there wasn’t supposed to be a fight tonight. And they were badly beat but the walk back to the Quinjet seemed long and this grocery store was just in front of them.
“You look like you have done this before,” Coulson comments, a bit of a twinkle in his eye,.
“What? A street fight or tending to my wounds with frozen goods?”
“Any. Both. No, don’t tell me,” he says, chuckling a bit.
“You should see me on Thanksgiving,” she says.
“Depends on the turkey.”
They both laugh and another customer walks buy. they stand close to each other, quickly pretending they are examining the food to purchase. Daisy puts one arm around Coulson’s back, to make it more believable. She imagines them for a moment - they are wearing discreet hoodies and jeans, their meeting-a-contact unofficial uniform - as a humble couple who spends their Friday nights perusing reduced items because they can only afford frozen food, a neighbourhood loser family. It’s a nice fantasy - if it weren’t for the fact that they are bruised all over and also that they work for a secret organization and also that Daisy is basically a superhero.
But, for a moment, it’s fun, imagining how it would be to go shopping and get goofy on the frozen foods aisle with Coulson. She has the feeling he’d be the goofiest of them all.
“I don’t think this is working,” Coulson says, putting the peas down and prodding his wound with one fingertip.
Daisy sighs and, impulsively and out of nowhere (not really, she’s just very good at hiding things, big important beautiful things, from herself) she leans closer and kisses the spot on his temple right above the bruise on his eyebrow. It feels cold to the touch, and damp, and she can smell a faint coppery scent from the blood.
“Better?” she asks.
(No pun intended.)
“Sorry,” she says, terrified this little fun moment might mess things in a very real way. “It was a joke.”
Coulson takes the bag of frozen fruit from her hand and puts it away, back again on the pile in the freezer.
He grabs her wrist with both his hands and bows his head, pressing his lips to Daisy’s bruised knuckles.
Now, pun intended, this is kind of hot.
Coulson smiles up at her, his bottom lip still touching the upside of her hand.
“You taste like blueberries,” he says.