"You're telling me that you got Captain America-the War Hero, Steve Rogers-to become best friends with a thirteen-year-old kid? What, is this supposed to slowly introduce him to how irritating Generation Z is? Project Training Wheels or something?"
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Two sisters (with a twelve-year age gap between them) moving into a new apartment was a recipe for chaos, and that chaos was multiplied tenfold when those two sisters just happened to have approximately five (5) things to their name in said apartment. Of those five things, two of them were beds, and two of them were toothbrushes. The other one thing that they had was the sorry excuse of brown boxes holding the dozens of clothes they had brought from their home back in New York. It was safe to say that Sharon and Elizabeth Carter definitely should have labeled those brown boxes.
"This is definitely not mine," Lizzie muffled out, walking out of their single bathroom with her toothbrush in her mouth. Hanging by her index finger was a red, lace bra that was one size too big for her growing, sports-bra, puberty boobs.
Sharon glanced up from the brown box, grumbling briefly when she landed on an old softball jersey that looked two sizes too small for both of them. Her eyes lit up briefly, and she moved over to nab the bra from Lizzie's hand with a small exhale in relief. Lizzie raised her brows up and down suggestively, returning back to brushing her teeth slowly. Both of them currently looked like wet dogs running around their heads cut off after realizing they both already slept through their 5:30 a.m. (yes, Lizzie knows and wants to die)wake up time. Accidentally swapping a brief moment of nudity in between trading the shower, both of them were trying to get their lives together with only a pair of pants on and a bra. It was now 5:46 a.m. and their day was supposed to begin at 6 a.m. Death seemed more suitable at the moment.
Stopping momentarily, Lizzie grinned with a foam mouth at her sister. "Gonna wear that for Steve, sis?"
"Shut up," Sharon hissed out, whacking her briefly with the lace bra. Her lip turned up briefly. "And go spit. That's disgusting."
Lizzie's face scrunched up, rolling her eyes as she moved back into the bathroom to quickly spit out the toothpaste. Both of them, unfortunately, still had to keep up with their aliases behind closed doors. When a super soldier could potentially hear every single conversation through the thin walls, their only options for a private conversation were: texting each other, whispering, blasting music with a radio they did not own yet, and Lizzie's favorite option—use the ancient Etch-A-Sketch she found left behind in one of the closets (a joke, obviously, but she still played with it all night between reviewing the briefing file Fury gave her).
