She doesn’t play by the little rules. And besides, if she had to wait she’d loose her nerve.
So she breaks into Barton’s apartment.
She doesn’t clean anything (he’d hate that) and she doesn’t cook anything (she hates that) but she brings a peace offering of takeout, and makes a fresh pot of coffee.
That feels right, doesn’t it? She waits. The sun gets low in the sky.
She looks at his name in her phone
She flips open a book that was under his couch.
She pours herself a cup of coffee
Coffee’s cold. Sun’s down. She’s halfway through the book feet tucked up under a blanket.
Steps in the hall, keys in the door.
There was only, what, twenty four hours in a day? Right? Then why did it feel like it was at least forty seven? It wasn’t even Avenger stuff, either.
Walk Lucky, eat breakfast, shoot some arrows, get mistaken for Iron Fist while in line for coffee at McDonalds, walk Lucky again, feed Lucky, get cornered by vaguely eastern European Mafia Lackies, connive his way out, get more coffee, maybe some food if he’s lucky, Iron Fist again, a bee sting somewhere in there, and, of all things, step on a Lego.
There wasn’t enough coffee in the entire world to get him through today and the only thing he wanted to do when he turned the key and shouldered open his door was to collapse on the couch. Which he fully intended to do, until he realized it was occupied. He let Lucky off the leash and they seemed to be happy about that, immediately trotting to the kitchen
"Tasha? What- what’re you doin’ here- why does everyone keep breaking in to my place?“
