The knock echoed again.
Pretend she wasn't in? The thought surfaced and Hill killed it instantly. Even in this mortifying situation, her mind stayed sharp.
Half the crew had seen her on the carrier today.
Daisy's teleportation was an open secret among the senior staff. She came and went as she pleased—zero discipline, zero structure. Fury had given up trying to track her and simply pretended not to notice. So Daisy vanishing for a while wouldn't raise an eyebrow.
Hill was different. If she failed to appear where she was expected, there'd be questions she couldn't answer.
She tilted her chin toward the floor, signaling Daisy: Clean up. Now. She'd figure out how to stall for time.
Gravity surged. Underwear, blouse, slacks, lab coat—everything yanked itself into a tangled bundle.
"Shoes! The shoes by the door!" Hill hissed.
Daisy pulled those back too.
But when Hill reached for her clothes, she discovered a new problem. Their garments had been churned together by the telekinetic grab, knotted beyond any quick separation.
"Hide somewhere. I'll get rid of Sharon." Hill gestured and mouthed the words. Daisy understood perfectly—but there was no wardrobe, no space under the bed. She bundled both sets of clothing and shoes into her arms and burrowed under the covers.
S.H.I.E.L.D. used voice-activated doors. Hill spoke the command, and the door swung open.
Sharon had visited before and knew the layout. A flicker of curiosity crossed her face. Women were sensitive to scent. As a well-rounded agent—no glaring weaknesses, no standout specialty—Sharon's senses were reliable enough to register that something in the air was off. There was another note mixed in, something she couldn't quite place. But she didn't pursue it. This was deeply personal territory, and she had no right to pry.
Especially when she saw Hill wrapped in a blanket with only her head poking out. That confirmed her suspicion. Say what you came to say and leave. That was Sharon's immediate plan.
"Have you seen Daisy?" The question made Hill stiffen, but what followed wasn't as alarming as she'd feared.
"Daisy's been promoted to Level 8. You've probably heard by now?"
Hill nodded, expression strained. "Yeah. She's climbed fast." As she spoke, she discreetly kicked a certain someone under the covers, who retaliated by scratching the sole of her foot.
Sharon was too preoccupied to notice the brief flicker on Hill's face. "I just made Level 6, and you only recently hit Level 7. We're both falling way behind her."
"I've heard she's on good terms with Mrs. Lance on the Council. Daisy Johnson is a very capable person." Sharon's intelligence network was as sharp as ever—even something as closely guarded as Daisy's dealings with the World Security Council had reached her ears.
"Yes. Very capable." Hill put unmistakable emphasis on the word, her tone edged with something fierce.
"Honestly, her taking that seat isn't a bad thing. That position means dealing with every kind of political creature imaginable. With your personality, it would've been a nightmare." Sharon was proving herself a true friend. After learning about Daisy's promotion, she'd done her own reconnaissance among the senior staff. Nothing was set in stone yet, but the consensus was already forming.
Even without Fury making an official statement, the upper echelons viewed Daisy Johnson as the only viable candidate. She had the skills; the brass thought her vulnerabilities made her manageable, and—most critically—she was actively courting the power structure above her.
No one inside S.H.I.E.L.D. could credibly challenge her for the position. Jumping straight to Director was impossible, but word was circulating about creating a Deputy Director role within the existing framework.
That was a far cry from Hill's former title of adjutant. An adjutant answered to the Director alone. A Deputy Director answered to the entire organization. The difference in authority and accountability was enormous.
Sharon had caught wind of the shift and returned to headquarters specifically to counsel Hill: don't escalate the rivalry. With their friendship as a foundation, the three of them banding together would constitute a formidable power bloc inside S.H.I.E.L.D.
Hill's thoughts drifted. She didn't discuss this with Daisy, but that didn't mean she never thought about it.
Late at night, alone, she sometimes asked herself where the gap between them really lay. Superpowers weren't the deciding factor. The real difference was philosophical—how they each defined what it meant to be an agent.
Hill believed agents should operate in the shadows. Agents should be willing to sacrifice. Agents should resist the corrupting pull of power, or at minimum refuse to be complicit.
Daisy was her polar opposite. Loud, glory-seeking, faster than anyone to chase an opportunity, and fundamentally unprincipled.
That was the true fault line between them.
Hill didn't know about a certain passive ability called "a transmigrator's bottom line." She could only chalk it up to different upbringings. She had principles; Daisy was better at adapting on the fly.
Now the principled one had been outmaneuvered by the unprincipled one. That was simply the reality.
"What about you? You really don't want it at all?" Hill had temporarily forgotten that her current wrapped-in-a-blanket look wasn't exactly ideal for a strategic conversation.
Sharon's answer came with genuine conviction and a laugh. "Me? Absolutely not. That position means haggling with politicians all day. I'd end up pulling my gun and shooting one of them! Ha!"
"Anyway... you, uh, carry on. I'll get out of your hair." Sharon had the good sense to read the room. Today wasn't the time for a deep talk. She made a hasty exit toward the door—and walked straight into Nick Fury, who had just arrived with the apparent intention of finding Hill himself.
"Agent Carter?" That single eye held a flicker of curiosity, nothing more. He'd only caught the tail end of their laughter and was mildly wondering what Sharon was doing here. But the spy-master's suspicion was reflexive. He also wanted to know what they'd been discussing.
He'd seemed casual enough approaching, but the moment he stepped inside and registered Hill's blanket-wrapped silhouette, everything clicked. His expression didn't change by a millimeter, but his peripheral vision began cataloging every micro-expression between the two women.
A man of his years and experience could still detect the fading traces of what had happened in this room. Sharon's hasty departure plus Hill's current state assembled themselves into a single, unmistakable conclusion.
They were involved. And he'd had no idea.
Sharon realized the same chain of inference was happening in real time. God as her witness, she was innocent. She liked strong, capable men.
But there was no way to say that. The moment she opened her mouth to explain, she'd throw Hill under the bus. They'd agreed to form a tight alliance barely thirty seconds ago—pushing her new ally into the river already seemed poor form. Yet staying silent meant accepting this spectacular misunderstanding as her new reality, and that wasn't the kind of "tight alliance" she'd signed up for.
She couldn't clarify the relationship. She couldn't clarify the visit's purpose, either—she couldn't exactly announce that she'd come to convince Hill to stop competing and join forces. None of it could be said. The blonde stood frozen, utterly at a loss for words.