Maria brought a bottle of wine, because that seemed to be something that was done, and if she'd absorbed nothing else from being raised in the Italian-American neighborhood of Chicago, it was that a good table wine went with everything from actual food to moving in to a new place to a funeral.
At least this wasn't the former or the latter; she liked Coulson, and was more than a little curious to see if someone could actually live off-base, in a city, without going a little crazy. She'd be the first to admit that she'd been a little crazy when she grew up in Chicago, but maybe that was just her and Chicago; maybe Coulson would be okay in the Big Apple.
He certainly looked normal, she thought with amusement as she knocked and was brought into the apartment. There was indeed the pleather couch, and generally, it looked normal. But then, as Coulson was about the only one of them that could claim normality in his life, even if he was the consummate agent.
"Nice place," she had to say, not only because that was the expected comment. "Oh, look. Prints on the wall and everything. Coulson," she said with a grin towards him, "you're so domestic."