Are you drunk?
"Are you drunk?" Hunter demands, and Coulson scowls at the younger man.
"Of course I'm not drunk," he says irritably. "It's eight in the morning, and I'm the Director of SHIELD."
The Brit frowns. "Then what's with the – " He gestures at Coulson's bare feet which are resting on the coffee table in front of the couch in the common room. His bare feet with the toenails painted blue and little bits of foam holding the toes separate from one another.
"It's none of your business," Coulson tells him curtly. "Go and find someone else to bother."
Hunter opens his mouth to retort, but Daisy comes hurrying around the corner, already talking, "I found the yellow one, Phil," she's saying, but she cuts herself off when she spots Hunter, who's got the look of most unholy glee on his face as he sees the small bottle of nail polish she's carrying.
"Don't," Coulson grits out, glaring daggers at the other man.
"Hunter," Daisy says in a very repressive tone. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugs. "Besides wondering what you two love birds are doing?"
Coulson has to admit that Daisy's glares are second-to-none – she turns one on the British agent now, and he sees Hunter actually visibly wilting under the strength of that glare.
"It's none of your business," she says, her tone very repressive. "Go away, Hunter." She frowns suddenly. "Don't you have inventory for Billy today?"
Hunter scowls, then turns on his heel and stalks away, muttering loudly about bossy young agents, and Daisy smirks at his departing back, then turns back to Coulson, and her smirk broadens into a full-blown grin.
"I guess you do look a little strange," she suggests, her tone gently teasing.
He pouts, and she chuckles as she comes over to sit on the coffee table, carefully lifting his right foot to rest on her knee. "I've got to admit, I think this is one of my better ideas," she says, and he chuckles too.
"Yeah. Painting daisies on my toenails so I remember your name's now Daisy – very good idea."
She flashes a smirk at him, then goes back to her task, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth as she works.
Coulson watches her, fascinated by her absorption and total concentration – he's only ever before seen her in this concentrated state when she's been hacking or prepping a mission – and it's a little strange, but also strangely flattering, to have himself be the focus of her fierce attention.
Once both feet are finished, she puts away the bottles of nail polish, then she gets to her feet. "Coffee?"
He nods. "Please."
She squeezes his knee (his feet are still planted on a cushion on the coffee table while his nails finish drying), then heads in the direction of the kitchen, and Coulson gazes idly at his painted toenails, remembering the time his mom had let him paint hers. He wonders if Skye – No, Daisy! he scolds himself, glaring at his nails as if he's offended that they didn't remind him – Daisy would like him to paint her nails. And if he dares to suggest it to her. It's Sunday morning, after all, and they don't have any ops today.
When Daisy returns, carrying not just two mugs of coffee, but a tray holding the coffee, and a plate of croissants, he finds himself enjoying the unexpected sheer domesticity of the moment, and he accepts the mug of coffee she passes him with considerable pleasure. Things could be worse, Hunter's weird behaviour notwithstanding: after all, they both could've died just a few weeks ago.
"Thank you, Daisy," he says with particular emphasis on her correct name.
She smirks. "You're welcome, Phil."
He chuckles. "You're quite right," he says. "You should call me Phil now."
She beams, and he can't help thinking how easy it is to please her, and he can't help wishing he could always do things that please her. She deserves so much. (She deserves the world.) And she certainly deserves to have him remember to use her chosen name when he talks with her. Hopefully his new toenail design will help with that, even if he doesn't walk around barefoot.
She sits down beside him, the plate of croissants balanced on her thigh, and she presses her shoulder against his, and he wishes he could safely rely on his new fake left hand not to drop his mug of coffee because then he'd be able to wrap his right arm around her. As it is he'll just have to settle for pressing his shoulder back against hers.
And perhaps, one day soon, he'll finally find the nerve to tell her just how he feels about her.