Daisy had expected the question. She bit into the apple with easy confidence. "Relax — I'm not. Fury knows about my ability. Dr. Pym knows. You're the third."
She was quietly glossing over James Wesley and the housekeeper.
Hill gave a small nod. "So what exactly can you do? Long-range teleportation?"
Daisy had put serious work into developing her abilities, and almost nobody knew about it. She'd been dying to show someone. Sitting on this was genuine torture — so she grabbed Hill by the wrist and pulled her to the gym without another word.
She gestured for Hill to take a defensive stance. Then she vanished — reappearing behind her, tapping two fingers to Hill's shoulder — then vanished again, this time landing directly in front of her. Three jumps, fluid and instant.
"Well?" Daisy planted her hands on her hips, grinning. "Pretty impressive, right?"
This technique was her own version of the Flying Thunder God Technique — it had taken real effort to develop. Within a short range, she could directly vibrate the strings of space without doing the full mathematical calculations first — like a high-level mage casting without an incantation. The catch was that small-range blinking was capped at six consecutive jumps. Too many rapid oscillations risked consequences she didn't want to think about.
"That's actually incredible," Hill said, curiosity genuine. "It'd be a serious tactical advantage — you could blindside anyone. Is that all your ability does?"
"Of course not."
Daisy planted one foot on the floor. A low tremor moved through the boards.
Hill went still. Something clicked behind her eyes — and then her gaze slid away, evasive.
"The way you treated the scar," she said quietly. "That was the ability, wasn't it?"
"Yeah." Daisy answered without hesitation. She'd already shown Hill the teleportation; no point hiding this part.
Hill exhaled — a long, slow breath, like a weight leaving her shoulders.
Sharing secrets was the oldest shortcut to real closeness there was. Hill knew she wasn't the first to learn this, but the small, warm flicker of being trusted still found its way through.
They drifted back to the living room.
"No wonder it felt so intense at the time…" Hill said, almost to herself. "I kept thinking, there's no way I'm that responsive—"
The half-eaten cake in Daisy's mouth nearly went down the wrong way. She choked, scrambled, managed to swallow. She had absolutely no idea when this woman's filter had gone offline, but apparently "Christmas" was enough of an excuse for her. Was this really appropriate dinner conversation?
Hill's expression said: yes, apparently. With the self-deprecating frankness of someone who'd decided to just own it, she walked Daisy through her own experience in clinical, unhurried detail. Then, at the end of it, she let out a short laugh.
Daisy could only manage a strained chuckle in return. The injustice, she reflected privately, was staggering. Two women could have this conversation without a second thought; two men having the same exchange, and people would be writing entirely different kinds of fan fiction.
"Since it wasn't actually about me, I feel much better," Hill said, smoothly pivoting. "All right — take care of this scar on my leg tonight."
She said it with bravado. But some memory of what had happened that first time still flickered through her composure, and she hadn't quite shaken it.
Daisy nodded and went to close the curtains.
Outside, the city was threaded with light — Christmas lights strung along every block, small children running past on the sidewalk singing carols, staff in Santa suits hired by local shops pressing little gifts into the hands of passersby.
With the curtains shut, the room felt severed from the rest of the world. Whatever the housekeeper had bought, it was doing an impressive job — the curtains blocked almost all light, and seemed to have some acoustic quality too. The noise from outside went soft and distant.
"Should I open them again?" Daisy asked, a little uncertain.
"Leave it." Hill's bravado had been cut roughly in half. Her heart was hammering. The memory of that scene — the embarrassment of it — made her muscles tense involuntarily.
Daisy stared at her, acutely attuned to the vibration. You were the one talking such a big game two minutes ago, and now you're trembling?
Hill unbuckled her belt and stepped out of her jeans.
Hill didn't have thermal underwear in her wardrobe — the indoor climate control usually kept things comfortable year-round. Nick Fury wore that leather coat of his in the height of summer; some people went out in winter with coats on top and skirts on the bottom. Hill, now down to just her underwear, was wearing a plain black pair. Nothing special, nothing theatrical.
The scar sat on the outside of her upper thigh. A bullet graze, by the look of it — the wound had long since healed, but the skin still carried a dark, raised line.
The first time Daisy had treated her, they'd been in the bathroom. The second time, Hill had turned her back. But this scar's position meant that facing away would make it impossible for Daisy to see what she was doing. There was no practical option but to work face-to-face.
Daisy washed her hands thoroughly, dried them, and — at Hill's nod — extended her right hand.
"Wait." Hill stopped her. "I'm worried I won't be able to hold it together again—"
"Want me to put a towel in your mouth?" Daisy offered, scratching her head.
Hill shot her a withering look. This isn't surgery. What would a towel accomplish?
"If you can't hold it, then don't," Daisy said, with more confidence than she actually felt. "We're friends. It's fine."
Hill tried to talk herself down. We're both women. This is perfectly normal. It's fine. It's completely fine.
She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together, and arranged her expression into something that looked remarkably like a prisoner bracing for interrogation.
You're making me feel like the villain here, Daisy thought privately.
A month of training with Pym had sharpened her control considerably. She'd refined her frequency down to the precise minimum needed to break down the damaged cells — conserving energy, and preventing any of the more embarrassing side effects she'd triggered by accident last time.
She set two fingers against Hill's thigh and began — slow, deliberate, measured.
Hill let out the breath she'd been holding. Despite what she'd said, she did care. She knew exactly how much she'd given away last time, and she wasn't keen to repeat it. But this was different. This was manageable. Gentle. The buzz was pleasant, almost like a massage chair. She was going to be fine.
One minute in, she stopped thinking that.
It was too slow.
The first minute had been tolerable — nice, even. But by the second minute, the slow rhythm had become something else entirely. Daisy's vibration worked at the cellular level, and the residual waves stayed in the body, pulsing against her nervous system like a persistent knock on a door that never fully opened.
Hill stared at the ceiling and tried to think about literally anything else.
Daisy remained completely absorbed in her work, oblivious, and occasionally checked in with cheerful questions like "Does this feel okay?" and "Not too much pressure?"
Hill answered in noncommittal sounds. She felt like a volcano trying very hard not to erupt — building and building, never quite reaching the release. Every guideline and moral principle she had was pressed into emergency service, holding the line.
By minute six, she'd had enough.
"That, um — why is it so slow? The other two times were much quicker."
Daisy lit up at the question. "Actually, the frequency you need to break down scar tissue is lower than you'd think. I derived a resonance formula based on tissue density—"
Hill saw her winding up for a full lecture. The volcano gave up trying to be responsible.
"Faster."
"Sorry?"
"I said — faster."