ㅤㅤ𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐖𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 as the owner of the small apartment made her way inside, it closing behind with a thud in the wake of her footsteps. She tossed the keys on the counter — three hanging on the chain, one for her aunt and uncle's apartment in Queens, one for bike, and one for her own apartment with a keychain that carried symbols of a spider, an arrow, and a spade, the last one being a sentimental gift from one Mrs. Laura Barton which somehow was well-loved by the spy despite how permanently stoic she may seem on the surface — and throwing her dusty boots kicked across the floor. Her coat was back on the rack and her bag on the table in the still dark apartment as she tied her chocolate hair in a messy bun and took out the last staple item of her daily life which she knew she wouldn't be needing anymore while in the walls of her almost safe almost home. A gun. A Desert Eagle Mark I to be precise.
ㅤㅤShe passed by the mess she called a kitchenette, the misshapen pan, and plates next to spare throwing knives and small chocolate caked baked at the courtesy of everyone's favorite Aunt May. She'd never bothered to make any attempts at organizing the place, hell, she barely knew how to cook a proper meal, just a few things could help her in case she was, let's say, on a ship that sank and causing her to swim to a shore or on an abandoned island because of parachuting from a plane at unknown coordinates. According to her supervising officers, there could be a hundred reasons for her to learn how to cook but since she barely bothered to stock up on food, Paige was often left with making pancakes or toast in the morning, lunch at whatever place she was stationed at, and left with take-out for dinner or maybe a treat if Barton could loan a Quinnjet and fly them to his house on the countryside and treat themselves to an amazing meal prepared by his lovely wife.
ㅤㅤThe brunette opened the yellow-cream fridge mostly filled with things she really needed — beer, jerky, chocolate, beer — bathing in its yellow-cream light as she searched for a beer which she was certain was in there as it had been stocked up just a day before. Her hands fell on one cold-surfaced bottle she pulled out until a voice so rudely interrupted her comfortable silence, "Grab two."
ㅤㅤThe only sound except the shattering of a perfectly good bottle of beer was the cocking of an FN Five-seven. She carried more than one weapon. The gun remained on a searching target as the almost-target stepped out of the shadows in the dark apartment, his face half-visible from the yellow-cream light of the fridge.
