Who: Maria Hill and Clark Kent. What: Pressure washers and tribble carcasses. Where: Maria's house. When: Backdated to Saturday afternoon. Rating: TBD, but there will probably be some swearing. Status: In progress.
As weeks went, this one had been less than ideal. Maria was still recovering from the injuries she'd sustained in the quake, which were worse than even she'd admit to herself. A gash in her arm that had needed stitches, another in her leg, and a third on her temple. The third was the worst despite its small size. It had caused what the doctors had called a small "subdural hematoma", a tiny bleed in her brain that they'd carefully monitored until it was mostly healed. She just called it a permanent headache. And that was to say nothing of the smaller, non-emergency injuries, like the scraping and bruising on her knuckles.
Those weren't from the quake. They were... more recent. Like the night before more recent, not that anyone would notice with all the other things making her look like crap. It hadn't really been a conscious decision– she'd gotten very, very drunk and very, very angry the night before, and had taken it out on her poor wall. Okay, several of her walls and a mirror. Whatever. Then she'd walked outside the next morning to grab the paper and seen a metric ass-ton of furry carcasses and entrails strewn across her driveway and the side of her house, and she'd reached the event horizon of terrible moods.
Maybe that was why she was suspicious of this Clark person. In her experience, most people just weren't that nice without having an ulterior motive. There was only one exception to that– Steve Rogers– and he was Captain goddamn America. The chance of lightning striking twice like that was astronomical. Still, the guy had a pressure washer, she mused as she picked up yet another fuzzy dead thing and threw it in a trash bucket. Even if he was some sort of weird attacker, she could probably overpower him easily, and it'd solve the mess. Win/win, in her opinion.
That didn't mean she wouldn't be keeping a close watch on him. Surprise was an attacker's greatest tool and she had no intention of being caught off-guard.