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Chapter Text

If there is something Daisy can’t understand is how can there still be people on this world who don’t understand that headphones on is an universal signal to convey “don’t talk to me”.

To be fair, there are a lot of things she doesn’t understand; this one is just the more pressing at this place and time, with this- unfairly pretty, overly-enthusiastic- girl waving a flyer in front of her face, undeterred by Daisy’s lack of response. Daisy sighs; she still has a quarter hour of waiting before the building opens- that’s why she doesn’t make a habit of getting to class early-, she might as well listen to what the girl is even trying to tell her: that might even set her free earlier.

“- and that’s why we believe that is key to-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, english. You might not have noticed it, but I wasn't listening to a word you said. You might want to start over.”

Daisy was expecting a glare at the very least, but this girl just beams at her and launches herself at top speed onto a speech about women in science, gender inequality and her voluntarism group for GEMS programs.

“I will stop you right there, because I am fully aware of what you are talking about.” Wow, apparently there was a way to render this girl speechless after all. She moves her backpack to the front, and points at the black and white button that reads Code like a girl . “So, no need to try to convert me; I’m sold.”

The girl is blushing, and Daisy thinks that her plot-twist wasn’t that awe-inspiring, until she realizes that the other girl- Jemma, Daisy remembers she has introduced herself at the start of the second take of her speech- is staring at the other button on her backpack; the one that is blue, pink and purple and reads Bi 2 . Daisy blushes too; she is not ashamed, not when she knows exactly who she is and likes to wear it on her sleeve- or her backpack- for anyone to see, but it always is a little bewildering to see people’s reactions first hand.

“That only makes it harder, you know.”

She doesn’t like to play the victim, because she isn’t a victim; but certain things that are a reality and if this girl- Jemma- wants to lessen the hardships for the next generations, she needs to be aware of which those hardships are.

Jemma nods, but still looks like is physically difficult for her to tore her eyes apart from the button; Daisy squirms, a little bit uncomfortable.

“I know.”

She said I know, not I can imagine , and Daisy feels a small, tiny, insignificant speck of hope flaring on her chest. She is the last person to try to judge people on looks alone, but she knows which is the one Bi she can only hope that feels relatable to Jemma.

The other girl bites her lower lip and Daisy blushes harder; this one meeting with a seemingly unpleasant person isn’t going at all like she expected.

“Does this mean that I can count you in for saturday’s meeting?”

She should say no. She totally should. She has her plate full with school and training and the bare minimum one needs to do in order to at least maintain the facade of having a social life. She should say no. So, of course, she says:

“I will be there.”

(She can’t be held accountable for doing what she shouldn’t do if that means she gets to see that smile again, okay?)

Jemma moves her weight from one foot to another, and Daisy is about to mumble something about having to get to class when Jemma takes back the flyer from between Daisy’s hands. Daisy frowns at her; how did she manage to already screw this?

But Jemma takes a pen out from behind her ear and scribbles something on the flyer before giving it back, red as the sun.

“That’s my personal number.”

Daisy can't help but grinning.

“Okay.”

Jemma waves a vague hand between them.

“In case you need it for-”

“- any question I may have.”

“- for personal reasons.”

Jemma smiles and with a nod leaves to go shove her flyer onto someone else’s face.

Maybe she should start making a habit out of arriving early to class.

Chapter Text

Not matter what Hunter implies- and also what Hunter very explicitly says; and believe him, Hunter can get very explicit-, there are a ton of reasons why this could end in disaster, including but not limited to:

1. His feelings for Jemma are vox populi, and even though everyone proclaims that they want nothing more than to help him get over them, when the moment of words turning into practical help comes, nobody is actually willing to do what needs to be done.
2. He has no knowledge about whether Mack is or isn’t into guys, and he is not counting Hunter commentary as factual proof.
3. He is, well, himself, and everything he does turns into a messy mess quicker than he can snap his fingers (and he is getting better and better at snapping his fingers).

And when all evidence points to a disaster, well, you just don’t put the theory into practice. That’s just science, that’s just a fact, and Fitz is very very good at shielding himself against “scientific excuses” to not do what he really wants to do.

Of course, science doesn’t take into account one Lance Hunter.

He has been stood up. He understands, of course, the importance and the instability of their line of work, but still, if the mission were as important as Hunter assures it is on his hastily left note, Fitz would have found out in some other way besides Hunter. His money is on Hunter ditching him to go make out with Bobbi in a dark corner; it wouldn’t be the first time and probably it won’t be the last either.

It’s okay, he can handle it; he will just have a beer or two, mop a little around the lounge and then go to bed. It won’t be the worst night he has ever had.

Until he realizes that he has not been stood up; he has been set up.   

“Hey, Turbo. Wanna grab a bite with me?”

He freezes at the sigh of Mack with his lopsided smile and his after-work attire, looking like something straight out of a dream. It’s not the end of the world, he tries to convince himself to stop hyperventilating; they have done this before, even if not without Hunter working as a buffer of some sorts; they are friends and teammates, there is no need to make this awkward. They can have one dinner together without him spilling the beans. You can keep it in your pants for this long, Leopold. Or, in this case, in your mind.  

“Sure.” He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, he just doesn’t trust himself with intrincated sentences with many words.

“I have heard that you like sandwiches, so let’s go with that, yeah?”

The words make him blush; he wonders if Mack is trying to reference The Sandwich, or if he is just talking about Fitz’s well-known voracious appetite. He is not going to ask to find out.  

“Whatever you do is fine.”

Mack chuckles, and the sounds resonates in the entirety of Fitz’s ribcage.

“You are a lot more accomodating in the kitchen than you are in the lab.”

He doesn’t have a coherent reply to that- how can he convey because watching you do anything is a treat enough without sounding like a pervert or like a joke or both-, and instead he remains silent.

It’s a pleasure to watch Mack cook, almost as much as it is to watch him work; he claims that he doesn’t know what he is doing the way Fitz does around a lab, but Fitz is calling bullshit on that; there is no way such grace and such precision are only practice and not actual skill.

After a couple minutes of companionable silence and Fitz picking his nails, Mack places the plate with the sandwich and an open beer in front of him, and Fitz would like to thank him, but the actual words die on his throat.

“There you go, Turbo.” He closes his eyes while Mack pats his head, trying to not feel like a child being coddled. Only when Mack’s hand lingers on his head a second longer than what he would have expected, he raises his chin to look him in the eyes. Mack retreats his hand almost as if it were on fire, but doesn’t move away, still towering over Fitz, a slightly guilty expression on his face.

Fitz smiles at him, all teeth and gratitude, and the corner of Mack’s lips twitch in return.

“Thank you, Mack.” He bats his eyelashes, fully conscious of what he is doing, and watches closely for Mack swallowing hard. “Are you gonna eat too?”

“Right. Yeah.” It’s hard to tell, but he is pretty sure that Mack is blushing, and he almost feels like kicking his feet in glee when the other man turns around to pick up his own plate. It’s not a statement of interest, but it’s something, and Fitz doesn’t need more.

He knows how to play the long game.

Chapter Text

In retrospective, he should have seen this coming.

It was too good to be true, the sheets fresh and the sun warm over his skin- and really, how did Bobbi manage to get probably the only room in base with an exterior view; he doesn’t know, and he is not sure he wants to ask-, and a leisurely free saturday in front of them. And Bobbi Morse, 5’ 9’’ of absolute magnificence, golden hair cascading down her shoulders and an enticing smile on her lips.

“Hey, buddy, how about you wake up?”

“No-ooh.” Fitz made grabby hands at her, and Bobbi grinned, but didn’t move one inch closer back to the bed. “You come back here.”

“If you wake up now,” she raised her arms to tie her hair in a ponytail, and that’s the exact moment Fitz lost this fight, because he can not concentrate while she is showing off like that. “I promise I will make it worth your while.”

And that’s how he ended here, lying face up and panting for exertion, and looking at Bobbi’s face over him, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Come on, Fitz, get up.”

“No.” Bobbi ignores his reply and tugs on his arm until he gets up. “I can’t believe you are making me work out on a saturday.”

“You know, it’s great for your stamina.” And she has the bloody nerve to wink at him, the cheeky beggar. “Come on, one more round and then we can go take a shower.”  

His breathing is ragged, even after the seconds he spent resting on the floor; he doesn’t have any grace left on his body, and when he tries to sweep at her, it only takes Bobbi one small movement to her left to send him reeling back to the floor. She towers over him again, smiling, and Fitz covers his eyes with his arms as a sign of ultimate surrender.  

“You fight like my sister.”

“Wow. Really?” He uncovers his eyes to glare at her, and Bobbi laughs unabashedly while she sits down cross legged by his side. He might be offended, but not offended enough to not stretch an arm and softly caress her knee.   

“Of course. Pure heart, no technique. Which is better than nothing, and great in this case because I already have experience in polishing someone with that beginning traits.” She strokes a line from his elbow to the knuckle of his middle finger with her own, and shivers run through all Fitz’s body. “I might make a man out of you, after all.”

Fitz groans and once again, Bobbi laughs at him; he is noticing a pattern in this relationship already, and he can not really say that he regrets it at all.    

Chapter Text

“Can you please stop doing that?”

Jemma turns around to look at Fitz with raised eyebrows; she won’t tolerate him using that irritated tone of voice with her, but she was very focused on her thoughts, so it’s entirely possible that he has been talking to her for a while and she hasn’t heard him.

“Stop doing what?” She uses for it the same tone of voice she’d use to say ugh, Fitz, just so he knows that she is not happy about the way he is talking to her.

“That.” He makes a vaguely circular motion with his hand, and only when Jemma rolls her eyes he clarifies. “Worrying. I can hear your worrying all across the lab.”

Ah, that. She worries her lower lip between her teeth as to not smile; he might be a little rough about the way he confronts the issue, but he knows her so well that she cannot help being touched by it.

Maybe this is exactly what she needs, another mind on the issue that so far she has been feeling like an irresoluble problem; Fitz has always been her safest bet for a second pair of eyes in the lab, why things would be any different with her personal life?

“It’s just that, um, Daisy has had trouble sleeping since, well, since everything.” Fitz nods; Jemma knows that he has been doing his little part in trying to help her, with warm cocoa and impromptu video game sessions at midnight. “But she says that the nightmares had been fewer since we have been sleeping together.” She blushes, and Fitz rolls his eyes. “And tonight, while we are on this mission, will be the first time I won’t be there for her since we got together. And I worry.”

Fitz is looking at her with a look so warm that it could melt ice, and she wiggles in discomfort a bit; it’s still sometimes a little weird, to share this kind of information with him.     

“Do you remember Gadget?”

She looks at him with her lips pursued; why the sudden change of subject?

“‘Course I remember Gadget, Fitz! You have only told me about a million stories featuring him, and the poor thing suffered through hundreds of study hours with us.”

He has been nodding all the way while she was talking, but once she stops, he begins shaking his head.

“Yeah, but I haven’t told you how I got him, have I?”

She searches her memory for a story about Gadget’s- Fitz’s stuffed monkey- origins, but she comes back blank, so she just shakes her head. Fitz shoves his hands inside the pockets of his trousers, and shifts on his position till he is closer but perpendicular to her, and she can not see his face clearly.

“After dad left,” his voice is quiet and collected, but she knows him well enough to know that is out of pure will and not actual indifference. “Mom had to start working double shifts. And every time she had a night shift, I had nightmares about, um, him returning and also him before he-, anyway.” She squeezes his forearm, but his eyes are still glazy and unfocused. “The point is that one day she gave me Gadget, and every night before she left, she sprayed him with her perfume, so I had something to hold onto until she came back. And it helped.” He inhales deeply, attempts a shaky smile. “So there is that. Just an idea.”

She ponders for a moment over touching him or not; he doesn’t handle physical contact that well when he is emotional, so instead she goes for the praise.

“Fitz, you are a genius.” And just like that, she turns on her heels to go towards the bunks section.

His shout follows her out of the lab, “I know!”

Daisy furrows her brow when someone knocks on her door, and even more when after the polite knock she hears the enter code being punched in; she was keeping her distance till saying goodbye because Jemma was supposed to be extra busy with mission preparation.

“Hey, you.”

She is trying to look normal, but her breathing is ragged and she is hiding her hands behind her back; Daisy’s concern deepens. 

“I thought you had no more time to spare?”

“Technically, I don’t.” She makes a grimace and Daisy stands up so they are facing each other. “That is, not according to Coulson. But I wanted to see you for a minute and Fitz is covering for me.”

“Okay?” Daisy tilts her head, confused. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the visit, because I do, but I don’t-”

“Here. Got something for you.” And Jemma is shoving a stuffed owl on her hands, or better said: her own stuffed owl. “I want you to hold onto this for me, okay?”

Daisy squeezes the well-known soft material of the toy with her hands, looking carefully over Jemma’s features, which are a mix of nerves and excitement.

“But, Simmons, this is yours. It’s a memento from your childhood, why would you give it to me?”

“Because I will be gone. And I want you to remember that I will always come back to you. But in the meantime, Minerva will step up on my place to sleep with you.”

“Jem, I’m not a child.”

She shakes her head, and leans over to place a quick peck on Daisy’s lips to try to soften the discomfort on her face, Daisy supposes.

“Believe me, I’m well aware.” She snickers a little, and Daisy can’t help a half-smile. “But comfort is not only for children, Daisy.” She takes a step forward, wraps her arms around Daisy’s waist to hold her tight. “I want you well rested when I come back.” She is teasing her, what with her lips leaving butterfly kisses behind her ear, and Daisy is totally sold on this persuasion method. “And for that, I need you to be able to sleep while I’m not here.”

She feels touched instead of ashamed, and she places her hand that is not holding the owl on Jemma’s neck to pull her face apart enough from her own neck to kiss her.

Kissing her has stopped being a novelty a while ago, but that is not a bad thing; now it’s thrilling for a whole lot of other reasons, like feeling bold enough to hold her so tight against her own body that she can feel Jemma’s breathing as her own, or the fact that now Jemma knows every single trick to make her whimper and melt.

When they break apart, Jemma’s eyes are shining, and Daisy loves her, loves her, loves her. Sometimes it’s difficult, still, to do things that are healthy for herself, but for Jemma she will do them, and that’s a start.

“I’m sorry, babe, but I need to go now.”

“I know.” It’s difficult to see Jemma go on a mission without her, but they need to get used to it, and this kind of thing helps; life is hard, but they can make it less hard for each other. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

Jemma blows her one last kiss from the door, and Daisy goes back to her desk. Only when she is sitting once again, she takes the stuffed animal against her lips, to kiss its head as she would its owner's, and she notices that it smells like Jemma’s perfume, and her heart rate slows down while she holds it against her chest. 

Chapter Text

“We’re out of ice cream.”

“Okay.” His reply is a reflex, he knows, but what else is he supposed to say about a fact that he was already aware of?

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” Fitz is close to whining now, and that finally gets Hunter to put down the controller and look at him. Now we’re talking.

“Should I? Because I don’t want ice cream, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t get anything out of putting on clothes and going outside in this crazy weather to get you some.”

He is going to do it, there is no doubt about it. But teasing Fitz never gets old, and maybe he can even get a little something out if it too.

Fitz pouts at him, “You will get my never-ending gratitude?”

Hunter chuckles.

“Wrong answer, love.”

Fitz crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look threatening, and it’s one of the most adorable things Hunter has ever seen.

“I will keep hostage all your beers if you don’t?”

Hunter takes a step towards him and tilts his head.

“Are you sure this is your final answer?”

Fitz huffs, and makes a big show out of putting down his arms and grabbing Hunter’s shoulders to bring him down into a kiss, like it is a great hardship. Hunter smiles ias soon as their lips touch, and when Fitz tries to break it to keep his moody act, he tangles his fingers on Fitz’s hair and deepens the kiss until he gets a soft moan out of Fitz’s throat. When they finally break apart, Fitz’s keeps his eyes closed for a second longer, lips trembling, and Hunter grins.  

“That is more like it.”

Chapter Text

“I’m not doing that.”

“Come on, you can not tell me that you find me that hideous.” She is trying to play it cool, like she doesn’t care, but in reality she so cares, at least enough to flex her arms slightly for good measure.

The other girl- Jemma, Jemma, Daisy remembers, and the memory alone of how the double bilabial sounds makes her lips tingle- blushes, and Daisy grins at her. Score.

“It’s not that. It’s just that it doesn’t feel very hygienic, you know?”

Daisy can not help laughing at that, “Hygienic? Girl, my belly button is the last thing you should be concerned about if you are worried about hygiene. Have you never been to a college party?”

Jemma deviates her eyes, and takes a hand up to rub her neck. “Um, I finished college at fourteen so, um, no, not really?”

Daisy gapes. Smart and this pretty? Hot damn, it is like she won the freaking jackpot. But that is a conversation for another moment- like a date. Right now she takes Jemma’s hand in hers and pulls her closer, waving the tequila bottle on her other hand.  

“Come on, I can teach you how it’s done by doing one on you?”

“Um, okay.” Jemma doesn’t look that convinced, so Daisy scrubs the table with the sleeve of her flannel for her benefit, and Jemma smiles timidly at her before lying down.

Once she is settled, Daisy moves her t-shirt carefully up, leaving exposed her belly and so many constellations of freckles that she wants to learn thoroughly and in depth.

“Here it comes, okay? Stay still.”

She pours barely enough for a shot on her belly button, because suddenly she is not that interested in getting wasted as she was fifteen minutes earlier, before meeting this girl.

She leans down and places her lips over Jemma’s soft skin, feeling her tremble. Jemma doesn’t even bother hiding a soft sigh when Daisy’s tongue peaks out to lick at the edge of her belly button. 

There are definitely a ton of reason as to why she should stay sober tonight.

Chapter Text

Hunter knows something is wrong the moment she gets through the door and doesn’t even say hello, but instead heads straight (lol) to their bedroom, takes off her contacts and her make out, puts her hair up in a messy bun, and ditches the pencil skirt and silk blouse for the biggest, most threadbare Star Wars t-shirt she owns, and a pair of sweatpants that belonged to him and are too short on her ankles, but pretty good at hiding her hips.

Bad gender day, he can only assume.

He goes looking for their button pronouns, the ones they use around close friends, when they are feeling low in energy to explain and need people to get quickly what is that they need.

"Hey.” Bobbi turns around to look at him, and the look on their face is enough to make his heart clench. If there were anything he could do to not make them go through whatever triggers this kind of state he would do it, but sadly, he can only provide the safest space there can be at home. “This one or this one?”

He shows them the “he/him” and the “they/them” buttons, and just the sight of them makes Bobbi smile. Hunter can not help feeling a tiny bit proud about himself. Bobbi stretches their hand and takes the second one. He imagined, since they don’t usually go with the he/him convo, and that’s why when he noticed something was off, he did the switch immediately in his mind. It’s always better to ask, though.

“This one.”

“Cool. Do you want to cuddle on the couch while we eat ice-cream?”

They squirm a little, and Hunter tilts his head, trying to imagine what it is that they want. Comfort clothes, check. Makeup and feminine hairstyle gone, check. Better pronouns, check. Thick-framed glasses, check. If they are not saying yes immediately to comfort food and cuddles, it’s because there is something else they need to do in order to feel a little more like themself inside their own body.

Bobbi crosses their arms over their chest, looking uncomfortable, and something clicks inside his head. He gets closer to them, and places a soothing hand on their elbow.

“Do you want me to get you your binder?” They nod forcefully, and Hunter places a kiss on their cheek before leaving for their bedroom. “I got you, love.”

It’s not after Bobbi has binded and he has fed them the most unhealthy things they have in the house, and they are huddled under the covers together watching The Empire strikes back, that Hunter dares ask.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Bobbi tosses and turns against his chest, and Hunter holds them, letting them know that whatever their answer is, he will be okay with it. Finally, they settle on, “Let’s say that it was a hard day.”

“Okay.”

Hunter nods, and waits for them to say anything else. Bobbi has been struggling with gender even since he met them- not for nothing they have always prefered Bobbi over their given name-, and a couple years prior they have discovered that coming out as nonbinary to the people closer to them and sometimes switching pronouns… helps. But still, there are things that are out of their control, mostly about how people, especially at work, react to them. They are okay with femininity as a performance, especially since they usually feel closer to that end of the spectrum anyway, and that is what their job requires, but when people associate their presentation with their gender without a second though, or without asking, it can lead to a meltdown, or exacerbated dysphoria, or just plain old discomfort.

He lets them process what they want to say and how, his hand drawing gentle circles on their belly. He has tried very hard to not fetishize them, either on their more feminine presentation or when they feel more comfortable like this; still, it has been a little bit of a journey for him to accompany them through finding what feels best and what represents best the way they feel inside at different moments in time. He wonders sometimes if he would have freaked out if he didn’t know that he was not straight before meeting Bobbi.

Finally, they speak again, “I was just telling someone about our plans for Pride, and I got a lot of  judgemental glances, to put it nicely.”

Now, Bobbi is more than capable of kicking the teeth out of any asshole that dares snicker at them just because they- both they as a person and both of them as a couple- are straight-passing, or so they say; which is ridiculous, because neither of them is straight, and Bobbi is not cisgender. It’s not the first time it has happened, and sadly it probably won’t be the last. Bobbi presents themself leaning to feminine more often than not, and since they are assumed to be a woman, Hunter is assumed to be straight (which, both of them could still not be straight even if they were a cis-man in a relationship with a cis-woman, but he digresses). Assumptions made by strangers based on superficial perceptions and prejudices can kiss his ass.

He holds them tighter, because as vitriolic as he feels, it doesn’t change the fact that there are people like that on the world, and probably there always will be some. Educating them is not their obligation, nor they vocation. They can only take care of themselves and each other, and be prideful of who they are, no matter what the rest of the world keeps on saying about them.

“It’s just because they know that our body paint will be on point and they are jealous, love.”

They laugh, and it makes Hunter’s ribcage reverberate with the sound, and he places his cheek against their soft hair, smiling. Bigots are always gonna be bigots, but they got each other, and they will be okay.

Chapter Text

When Antoine Triplett signed up for SHIELD’s Academy of Operations, he knew that he was signing up for being, quite literally, the shield of the world. He doesn’t like showing off his heritage, because to him, it has never been as much a matter of blood: it was more a matter of the life example his Grandpa and his comrades have set for him. He knew what entailed being an Operations specialist, and he had been trained for it; that’s why the way Jemma acts in the field came as that much of a surprise to him.

He found about it from stories first; Skye was very keen on making him feel welcomed into the team, and that included telling him all the crazy missions they had been on before he met them. Trip has always been good at listening to stories, but damn, how could he not listen to those stories? Ever since Garrett told him about Coulson’s unit, Trip always thought of it as something like a splurge Fury did in benefit of a loyal Agent that had seen it rough, rougher than most, but somehow got to tell the tale.

He couldn't have been more wrong. 

Because Jemma jumping in mid-air with no parachute to prevent the plane to blow up? Jemma jumping in front of a grenade to save Skye and Fitz? He has always had mad respect for the Science Division, which tried to save the world in a very different, but no less important way than he did, but that anecdote immediately takes him back to a story his Grandpa used to tell about Captain America, and damn, girl got guts.

It takes him little time to realize that self-sacrifice for the greater good seems to be a constant of this team, and that is one of the many reasons why he’d follow these people to the grave, but the soft need to protect Jemma- five foot nothing, not field training whatsoever, two PhDs and a tendency to jump in front of grenades for people she loves- never truly fades.

He knows he became particularly protective of her, ever since that time they got trapped together at the Hub, but by the time they get involved, there is no way to actually deny it. Then they get assigned to a mission together, and he goes out of his way to follow her everywhere, though she is not under any more risk than any of the others. He can’t help it. He knows she is capable, but he also knows that she is reckless, and sometimes she is too prideful to notice the difference.

She comes after him like a hawk after that, and okay, she can be terrifying when she wants.

“What is the matter with you, Antoine?”

Uh oh. He has heard Fitz complaining about her using the first-name treatment when she is mad, but he hadn’t known it would be this intimidating.

“Nothing, girl. What are you talking about?”

She presses an accusatory finger against his chest, and she doesn’t even swoon at the firmness there, which means he is royally screwed.

“You were assigned to stay with Agent Davis. Meaning: Not. With. Me.” She punctuates every word with another poke, until he takes her cold, roughed up hand in between his. Maybe he can not sweet-talk his way out of this one, but he can always tell her the truth.

“I’m sorry, Jemma. You know I worry about you. Not that I don’t think you are capable of taking care of yourself. But it is… difficult, for me.”

She bites her lip at that, but her face doesn’t lose any harshness.

“Then we can not get assigned to missions together.”

He tilts his head. These are hard times: they are at war, and maybe taking his biggest weakness into battle with him is not the best course of action.

“You are right. I promise that if a mission plan ever makes me think I’ll go nervous like that again, I’ll call off of it.”

“Thank you.” Her face finally softens, and she even smiles a little. Trip beams at her, because how can he not? “But, actually, there is something else you can do about this.”

“What?”

She is not gonna call them off, right? He is been trying to play the casual card when he actually doesn’t feel casual at all, but she is not gonna call him out on it, is she?     

“Teach me.”

“What?”

“If you are concerned about my safety in the field, then train me.”

That’s… that’s actually a great idea. No wonder she is a certified genius.

He strokes her cheek with one thumb and looks carefully into her expectant eyes.

“One condition, though.” She nods, and he waits till he has built some anticipation to continue. “You will let me kiss any booboos you might get during training."

She laughs, and the sound is so exquisite Trip can only lean over and kiss her.

“Deal.”    

Chapter Text

In this universe, Hunter’s last words to Fitz aren’t a Star Wars reference, and he doesn’t promise to look after Polly and Robin to ease Fitz’s mind- he will do it anyway, because that’s who he is in every universe.

In this universe, he is worried and sad too, but mostly he is mad and desperate, and those feelings don’t let him fade away in the background and let Fitz carry the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.

In this universe, he says excuse me, mates, and drags Fitz by the collar of his t-shirt to the nearest closet he can find. His hands are shaking, and he shoves them inside his pockets so Fitz won’t notice, and masks with hard eyes his borderline hysteria at the world crumbling under his feet.

“Have you gone out of your mind?” His voice is shrill even to his own ears, and Fitz is looking at him with his eyebrows raised.

“No? I mean s-sure, my mind is not what it used to be, but-”

“Shut up, just shut up.” He sounds harsher than he intended, and he regrets his knee-jerk reaction as soon as it happens; it doesn’t make him proud to witness the expression of surprised hurt on Fitz’s face. “I’m not talking about your brain injury, or, or about that bloody Framework thing. I think you are perfect despite that and because of that. I’m talking about this nonsense, Fitz!”

Fitz takes a step back, a wall forming behind his eyes, and Hunter doesn’t know how to properly convey that he is drowning in desperation, clutching at straws to prevent his teammate, his friend, his love, to go after certain death out of guilt.

“If you think I will let them-”

“I’m not saying you should-”

“-don’t understand that it’s my fault-”

“- if you are dead you won’t-”

“-none of your damn business-”

It’s in the middle of the screaming match that Hunter gets a flash, clear as a vision and powerful as a thunder, of the reason why Robin doesn’t speak; why bother bringing up pain and sorrow that are to come, when there is nothing we can do to prevent them, and they will come anyway? Knowing only accentuates the pain. He discards the thought as quickly as it comes; he can not think that the future is unchangeable, because otherwise all he can do is sit and cry and wait and hurt.

Lance Hunter does not deal well with sitting or crying or waiting or hurting. If on top of that you consider that he has been aching all this time to kiss Fitz to his heart’s content, and there never will be enough kissing to fill his heart, well, it’s only understandable that he snaps.

He lurches forward, his hands splayed wide on Fitz’s cheeks, and though he interrupts him in the middle of a very passionate sentence, Fitz opens up his eyes in surprise but does not protest the kiss, his body settling against Hunter’s like no time at all has passed since the last time they did this.

There is comfort how they can so easily find all the ways they fit against one another; there is comfort, but there is also sorrow.

Fitz’s hands are trembling, but his lips are firm, and his tongue warm in the folds of his mouth; there is, nonetheless, a chilling stream running between them.

When they break apart, there is tenderness on Fitz’s lips and determination in his eyes. They break apart and Hunter is already mourning the battle he knows he lost.

“You can’t tell me to give up like everything is meaningless.”

Hunter knows what he should reply, that’s not what I’m saying, I mean that we need to be rational about this. I know we need to rescue the team, but freezing yourself for 74 years to go wandering in the middle of bloody outer nowhere on something that is barely short of being suicidal is not the way to go.

What he says is, “They are also my team, and I love them too.”

He doesn’t say, either, I love them, but I don’t know if I love them enough to risk losing you over a hair-thin chance of getting them back.

Fitz smiles, sad, and squeezes his shoulder. Hunter places his hand on top and holds onto it for dear life.

“I know.”

Fitz leaves, probably to go set up that bloody chamber, and Hunter stays back a little longer, schooling his features so the last image of him Fitz will take to the future is not stained with tears.       

In another universe, he tells Fitz that he loves him, and means it. In this one instead, he just peers down at Fitz, smiles and swallows it down. He will have another chance to tell him when he gets back. He has to believe that.

Chapter Text

He is not being a grumpy-pants just because he doesn’t join on her impromptu matutine sing-alongs, no matter what she says.

In fact, he is a patient person. Sure, he does have un caracter de mierda, as his abuela used to tell him all the time, but one does not raise a little brother the way he raised Gabriel without patience.

And don’t ever get him started on the kind of patience it takes to get a rusty, old car to purr under his hands like a contented kitten.

But he just can not cope with Daisy Johnson and her cheerful ass. He can understand being happy when there are reasons , but work is work, and despite being grateful for having one, that is that for Robbie. For him, there is no reason to sing Backstreet Boys songs under her breath while making inventory.

“Could you just please stop?” He has been mulling over it for weeks, and now with an imminent headache beating behind his eyes, he just can not keep it to himself any longer.

She looks at him, with her mouth hanging slightly open, bewildered. She is attractive always and cute even like this, and that makes Robbie’s anger boil harder.

“Stop what?”

“With, with the singing !” he spits the verb like it has personally offended him. Now that he is finally talking about it, he is gaining impulse with every second. “And while we are at it, with the smiles too! And the cheerfulness in general! And all the ‘Robbie, hope you had a wonderful weekend!’ crap!”

He feels guilty as soon as the words leave his mouth; he is running on three hours of sleep and as many cups of coffee, and he just found out that Gabe’s medical bill is going to be a bit higher than he expected this month, and they are barely scraping by as it is. He knows that nothing of that is her fault, and that is not fair that he is taking it out with her, but, well.

He does indeed have un caracter de mierda .

He was already resigned to get slapped or to have her crying, or at the very least, scoff at him. Instead, Daisy Johnson stands there and looks at him with her curious eyes and her head slightly tilted.

“I’m sorry you don’t have a reason to be happy at work, Reyes.” She pats him on the shoulder a couple times, and Robbie looks at her hand with disbelief. “Because I do have one.”

She punches him softly for good measure and leaves with a slight sway of her hips, her head high. Robbie watches her go, still trying to decipher qué carajos está pasando.    

Until he replays on his head the way she, well, the way she smiles at him, and always starts a conversation, and hums contentedly while she is working. With him.

Mira que hay que ser negado, Reyes.   

“Hey, Johnson!”

Chapter Text

“Hey, sorry to wake you up.”

“Wha’?”

He opens one eye, and rubs at it, but still the image makes no sense to him, because Fitz is smiling at him from his right and above, instead of being asleep to his left.

“Do you know where my sneakers are? I can’t find them and Bobbi says that I absolutely can not,” he pulls a face, and Hunter blinks, because he is still not toally convinced that he is not dreaming, “go running without them.”

That makes him sit up on the bed because, Fitz and running are two words that just… don’t go together in the same sentence.

“Why are you going running, love?”

“So Bobbi doesn’t have to go alone and you don’t have to wake up, either.” Fitz pouts. “But well, that is ruined now.”

Hunter beacons him to come closer, and when Fitz sits on the edge of the bed, he scoots closer until he can cuddle against Fitz’s side.

“Aw, you would endure running just so I can get more sleep? That is love.”

Fitz kisses the top of his head, and smiles softly after. Hunter just closes his eyes and lets himself be engulfed in his warmth and scent, the way he so rightfully deserves.

“It sure is, Hunter.”

“Hey, Hunter, let go of my running partner.”

“Sod off, Barbara, you know he is mine during the mornings.” He makes grabby hands for her despite his words, and she sighs but sits on the other side of him anyway.

“Well, not today.”

“Come on, Fitz, ditch her, I’m already awake so you don’t need to go.”

“Sorry, Hunter, but I promised.”

Hunter then turns to Bobbi, and pokes her in the nose.

“You see, going running with you just to keep you company. That is love.”

Bobbi smiles, and stretches a hand across Hunter’s chest to stroke at Fitz’s cheek.

“I know. He’s a babe.”

Hunter pushes at both their waists to get them both to get up.

“Your sneakers are under the bed, Fitz. Now go before I throw up from such sickeningly sweet demonstrations this early in the morning.”

Fitz just laughs, but Bobbi leans over to kiss him on the cheek and at the same time punch him on the shoulder.

“We expect pancakes when we come back.”

He pouts, more to get them both to kiss him one last time than for anything else.

“Now you are just doing it to ruin the surprise!”

Chapter Text

In her defense, she was having a pretty crappy day before this asshole decided that it was okay to park this old piece of junk he probably calls ‘baby’ on her spot.

Now, she knows she doesn’t have any legal right to that spot. She knows. But it is the perfect parking place on all her block- close enough to her building, but away enough from the trees so birds won’t crap on it too much, and away from the corner teens use to hang out-, and in the last six months since she moved here, she has not found it occupied once.

Until today.

She parks behind it a little viciously, and if she touches the rear bumper of the other car a little more than it is strictly necessary, well, who can’t blame her, right?

“Hey! That’s my car!”

She comes down of the car stomping and screaming, and okay, she feels like a little child throwing a tantrum, but she did have a fucking awful day, okay?

“And that’s my spot!”

In two seconds flat there is a handsome man all donned in black leather standing in front of her, and somehow the fact that his freckles are so attractive makes her go even madder.

“Street parking is for everyone, you crazy woman!” He kneels to evaluate the damage from up close, and only then- that his face is not distracting her, ahem- Daisy sees the small black dog with a tiny red sweater he is holding under his arm, and she realizes he came out running of the pet store near her building.

“What are you even doing here, hm? Getting new clothes for your dog? Dogs don’t wear clothes, dumbass!” It all comes out of her mouth in a rushed explosion, and after she yells herself hoarse, she feels much better, like she has cleansed the negativity out of her body. Also, a little dumb, because she is yelling at a stranger on the street about his dog’s clothes.

He stands up, his nostrils flaring and looks her up and down in distaste.

“What can you know, chiflada?”

And that way he marches away, the dog still waving under his arm. Daisy exhales and takes a minute to fully calm herself down with her back against the door of her card. This was it, disaster averted.

Until, of course, she notices him entering her apartment building.

Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

He had it all planned to a T: the flowers, the music, the homemade dinner, even his notes for what to say in case the proposal seemed like the right way to go.

And yet, somehow, there is something he managed to miss: to make sure that his partners would be there for the occasion.

After two hours of waiting, fifteen texts and five calls going straight to voicemail, Hunter fridges the food and goes to bed, trying to not let his hurt feelings get the best of him; this is the kind of lives they lead, it has happened to him too, and it makes no sense to be mad at them, even though he can not help nursing his bruised expectations a bit, that make him send one last text to them both,

I didn’t think you two could get any less romantic, and yet.

He wakes up three hours later, with the weight of other body making the mattress sink. Hunter knows it is Fitz based on body length and the scratch of his beard against his cheek even before he is completely awake.

“I’m sorry, love.” Fitz hides his nose on the hollow of Hunter’s neck and places a soft kiss against the curve of his jaw. “Bobbi got called in for an urgent mission, and I’m running point for her so she can be back as soon as possible.”

“Mmmkay.” It’s the only response his thick tongue can produce, and he turns around to draw Fitz closer, but by the time he manages it, Fitz is already gone. “Whatcha doing?”

He rubs his eyes to clear his vision, and barely manages to catch a glimpse of Fitz at their bedroom room smiling ruefully before falling back asleep.

“Sorry, Hunter. Gotta go and bring our girl back home.”

By the time he wakes up, he is pretty sure he has dreamed the entire thing.

Except when he gets to the kitchen, grumpy and worried, he is welcomed by the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes, Fitz taking care of the food while wearing an apron and Bobbi- looking like she needs a good night of sleep, but beautiful as ever- spraying with water the flowers to make them perk up.

“What are you doing?”

Fitz waves at him from the stove, but then turns back to his task. Bobbi rolls her eyes, but gestures for him to come closer.

“Happy anniversary, Drama King.”

Hunter embraces her, and Bobbi places a careful kiss on his hair.

“You remembered.”

“Excuse me, we are better than you with dates. We just run into a couple of setbacks to be here on time, that’s all. There was no need for that dramatic text.” She lowers her voice, enough to pretend that she doesn’t want to be heard, but not enough to actually left Fitz out of their conversation. “You made Fitz here feel very guilty. You see, he likes to pretend that he is this big romantic expert and everything.”

“Hey! Keep that up and there will be no pancakes for you, Barbara!”

Hunter laughs, still holding her tight, and looks at Fitz from over Bobbi’s shoulder.

“As if you could deny her anything.”

Fitz lets out a long-suffering sigh but walks closer to them until he can kiss the tip of Hunter’s nose and the nape of Bobbi’s neck.

“No, you are right, I couldn’t.”

Chapter Text

Daisy lays down on the floor with every intention of not getting up ever again.

“I’m dead. I’m sorry, Simmons, but I’m dead. You should go on without me, babe.”

Simmons rolls her eyes at the view- because of course she does- and finishes adjusting her ponytail.

“Of course you would do this when I leave you alone for just one minute. I’m never buying IKEA furniture again if it turns you into a whiny baby, babe.”

Daisy closes her eyes and wiggles her hips against the tiles. It’s cold, but not uncomfortably cold, and she can deal with it. She can deal with everything except that desk set made of pure evil.

“It looked cool on the pictures, though.”

“Nothing worth having comes easy, Daisy.”

She should be offended, really, that Jemma is trying to use such a line with her. But she has to choose her battles, and right now, she really wants to win the stay-on-the-floor-forever battle, so she has to let the battle over Jemma’s quotes go. What can help her win that particular battle? Oh, yes. Bringing up someone more qualified than her will probably help.   

“Why is not Fitz here doing this? He is, like, a genius with his hands. And I’m saying genius in a literal way, you know.”

Simmons sighs and Daisy, with her eyes still closed, can imagine exactly her exasperated features, and that makes her smile.

“Because Fitz is not my boyfriend and I’m not moving in with him.”

“Let’s face it, Simmons, Fitz is kind of your platonic boyfriend.”

“Emphasis on platonic.”

“Damn right.”

“Okay, let’s do this.” And that’s her let’s get down to business voice, so Daisy opens one eye to find her sitting on the floor with her legs crossed. “I’m offering one kiss for every piece that is put on the right place, a special prize when it’s finished, and a bonus if it is finished before I’m done with the library.” A flow of warmth runs along Daisy’s entire sternum and down and down till her belly button. “Do you want me to put an ad with the terms of this agreement, find someone that can put this together for me?”

Damn her and her power to make her hot and bothered without even laying a finger on her, with just a promise and a few carefully chosen words.

She sits up and tries not to look at Jemma’s satisfied grin while she cracks her neck.

“Okay, let’s do this, so we can be done with this furniture from hell and get to the really interesting part, aka trying our new mattress.” She gets up and offers both hands to Jemma to get her up too. “But I’m going to need something before.” And she takes advantage of their proximity to surround Jemma’s waist with her arms, and pull her even closer. “How about an advance now? You know, so I know that my work will be worth it.”

She is already teasing Jemma’s cheek with her nose, and it’s a very strong confidence boost to know that she can too make Jemma breathless with something as simple as an embrace. Jemma’s eyes flutter closed, and Daisy starts kissing a path from her temple to her mouth. Simmons wets her lips before talking, and her voice sounds low and distracted.

“I think we can manage that.” 

Chapter Text

Gabe told him to “get lost”- Robbie did not take it personally, he would be pissed too if he had to be accompanied by his brother on a date-, but he is too damn overprotective for his own good, and kept on lurking on the line till he was sure Gabe and Mandy had made it safely inside. He is turning around to go take a nap in the car while he waits for them to be done when he sees the Rider.

Okay, obviously, not the Rider, but somewhere who is wearing a costume- it is called ‘cosplay’, Robbie, por dios, Gabe’s voice reminds him- that hits the Rider’s outfit square on the teeth: black leather jacket with white lines, black pants, and a chain on their hands; they even have orange and red hair and face paint to mimic the skull. He lowers his head and tries to not let himself be consumed by panic while he looks for a quick exit, because that is 75% of what he is wearing now, and that is only because he is counting the flaming skull as something he doesn’t have.   

“Hey, you!” It is a female voice, but Robbie doesn’t turn around, cool chills running down his spine, and he jolts apart when a hand grabs his shoulder. “Whoa, sorry, dude. Didn’t want to spook you.”

Of course, it is the woman with the costume- cosplay - and only then he notices it is a woman, what with all the face paint and short hair; he is only grateful that she didn’t do a “sexy” version of the costume. Robbie scrutinizes her features, looking for any sign of danger. There is not much he can do in an open road full of people looking at them curiously, but hombre precavido vale por dos *. She looks friendly enough even while being the biggest threat Robbie has faced besides mob assassins and drug warlords; under all the paint resembling a skull he can only see warm brown eyes and full smiling lips. He tugs on the collar of his jacket, that feels suddenly too warm for the October weather.  

“What do you want?” His voice is gravelly and rough, and honestly, it is like he isn’t even trying to look chill.

She raises her hands in the air, palms to him, in a ‘no harm’ gesture. It doesn’t look too sincere with the chain still around her wrist.

“Just wanted to let you know that your jacket looks so cool, dude. I had to paint my own myself, but yours looks much better.” Robbie looks down, y que se lo lleve el diablo**- again- if he is not burning this thing down to its very ashes once he gets home. “You are a fan too, uhm?”

It is the word what triggers him, ‘fan’. Like the Rider is something to follow, something to be proud of, something to look up to. Something dark boils in his stomach, and he is not sure if it is his own anger or the Rider’s outrage.

“No. I just happen to like this jacket.” He inhales and exhales, and so far so good, but he can not bite down his tongue any longer. “I don’t see the appeal on being the fan of a murderer.”

It was a gut reaction on his part, and he was expecting a gut reaction from her too: maybe for her to kick his shin, or to slap him, or at the very last to break down into tears. She was not expecting her to start laughing.

“I am a fan of the way the people of this city has collectively found this character to stand for themselves against big bad guys.” He gapes, and she shrugs. “They are an urban myth, okay? And urban myths are cool.”   

“He is not.” He bites down his tongue the moment the words are out, and her eyes widen.

“So typically manly; there is an anthropomorphic creature and you immediately assume it is a man, no matter the skull face and the flaming head.”

Robbie restrains himself from barking back at her; he needs to keep a clear head, because as much as he wants to correct her- and he wants it kind of really bad-, he can’t do so without outing himself. He has to count his victories, and her feminist tirade at least hid the fact that he was confirming the Rider as a real thing instead of taking advantage of people believing him to be a myth, which is what he should be doing.    

“You know what? You are right. I am a delusional man, and cheers on you for the, um, cosplay, m’ija.”

He is turning on his heels to leave como alma que lleva el diablo***- honestly, he would consider himself hilarious if he wasn’t so busy cringing internally-, but the woman is stretching her hand towards him.

“I’m Daisy. Wanna wait in line with me and I can tell you all the reasons why I believe they are an urban myth?”

He should say no. It is the smart move to make, forget everything about her, and not put his identity anymore at risk. Instead, he says, “Alright.”

He does it to have a better assessment of what people know about the Rider, he tells himself. He does it to reinforce that idea she has so she can spread it that way to other people. It has nothing to do with the warmth of her brown eyes and the pristine quality of her laughter.

Never let anyone say that the Devil can be convinced by a pretty face.  

* A saying equivalent to “forewarned is forearmed”.

** “Might the devil take him”   

*** “Like a bat out of hell”, but, literally, “like a soul carried by the devil”.    

Chapter Text

Of all the ways he imagined getting to know May’s parents’ bedroom, this is definitely not his favorite one. Not even a contender, really.

“Hey.”

May’s first instinct is to wipe off her face, and Hunter’s stomach churns at the sight. Her shoulders relax when she realizes it is him and not another nosy relative, and that makes him feel a bit better.

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

May fixes him with a stare, and though her eyes are red and her cheeks wet, she still nails the unamused glare.

“Ever since when Lance Hunter asks permission to enter anywhere?”

He shrugs, but steps inside and closes the door anyway.

“I do not care about useless boundaries, but I respect your boundaries. I respect you.” She nods and tilts her head to the side. Hunter takes the invitation for what it is and sits down next to her. “Nice place.”

May shrugs, and because sadness and the black attire make her look more her age than usual, the gesture looks childish on her.

“It is just a bedroom, Hunter.”

“It is.” He looks around, taking in the open spaces and the soft colors. It looks like the place of a man who was in peace, and he likes the feeling it gives him. “But I like it.” May doesn’t reply, eyes fixed on the jewel box on her hands, and Hunter nudges her gently on the side. “I think it suits your dad.”

He was waiting on it to happen, but it still is a bit shocking when the word opens the dam and Melinda starts crying. He touches her shoulder gently and waits for a signal of confirmation that she wants further physical contact. It is not always the case, and as he said, he does respect her boundaries. But May grabs the hand he placed on her shoulder, and Hunter surrounds her with his other arm.

It is counterintuitive the way she feels in his arms, so fragile and light, sleek bones under fine skin. He knows she is objectively small, of course, but he never thinks about it because she is always bursting around the seams of what one would expect of someone who looks the way she looks; she never looks her size, not when she is riding him into next week, not when she is beating to the floor a man that weighs twice as much as her. But now she is just a handful of lustrous hair over trembling shoulders, and Hunter would like to punch the teeth out of whoever made her cry like this and then make them swallow their own teeth down, but sadly he can not beat Death.

Right now, he can only hold her and be the beacon of certainty in her sea of pain.

She composes herself quickly, and he can feel her steeling even while still on his arms. It wounds him a little, knowing that she doesn’t allow herself the proper time to mend, but he met her like this and he loves her like this; it wouldn’t be necessarily fair pretending her to change. Her face is still hidden behind her hair and against his chest, and he is not sure if it is because he gives her comfort or because May doesn’t want him to see her like this. He’d rather not think too hard about it.

“We all know that our parents are bound to die one day, and yet when they do we make this big deal,” she muses, voice wet, and Hunter bites down hard on his lip to not start crying himself.

Instead, true to himself, he cracks a joke, “Well, that is no surprise: most people’s parents don’t die while they are on their twenties.” May doesn’t dignify it with a reply, she just punches him hard on the arm. Hunter makes an outraged face. “What? You don’t look one day older than twenty-nine! You are telling me you have been lying to me this entire time?”

May rolls her eyes but just being able to see her face counts as a victory for him.

“You are ridiculous.”

“That I am, love. That I am.”

She buttheads him softly on the chin- he has come to take it as a sign of affection- and stands up. She looks around the room, stroking it lovingly with her eyes, and Hunter wonders if him being here is added value or not. She moves towards the dresser, still clutching the jewel box on her hands; she considers the plain surface for a moment but seems to think better of it, and finally pockets the item.

“Let’s go.”

Hunter hesitates, “You sure you don’t want-”

“No.” And she is looking at him, eyes sad but soft, her hand stretched towards him, and that is more of a temptation than what he can resist. “Life goes on for me.”

He tugs on her hand to draw her closer and place a kiss on the top of her head while they close the room.

“With me, I hope.”

May smirks up at him.

“If you are lucky.”  

Chapter Text

If she thought the Bellas sounded sad the first time she listened to them, that got nothing on what it is like to hear Jemma crying on one of the bathroom’s cubicles.

“Jemma?”

She gets no reply, but the sobbing stops to a halt. Daisy waits a couple of seconds, and then knocks, gently.

“Go-go away!”

Now, she could do that. She could leave this bathroom, this club, even this school, and never look back. She could, but that is not who she is, nor who she wants to be.

Besides, there is Jemma in there, and Daisy knows full well that the tachycardia she gets during rehearsals doesn’t come exactly from cardio.

“Okay,” she says, but sits on the floor. She needs to remember to burn these leggings to the ground, but their loss is so worth the sharp intake of breath she can hear from Jemma.

“What, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to come around.”

“To your way of doing things?”

It is amazing how she can manage to sound sharp even with a watery voice. Daisy rests her head against the cubicle door and sighs.

“No. To talk. Nothing else.”

There is a pause, and Daisy taps her fingers against her thigh.

“... we can talk from here.”

“Okay.” She tries to not sound exasperated. When Jemma doesn’t start speaking, Daisy launches into the apologies herself. “I am sorry, okay? I didn’t want that to happen. It just… run way out of my control.”

Jemma scoffs.

“Right. Because you don’t want to take over the Bellas.”

“No!” She doesn’t even have to pretend her refusal. “I want the group to be the best version of itself it can be. I don’t want to, to, um, to depose you.”

Her breath catches in her throat for a second. She just implied that Jemma is a sort of Queen of some kind, and she is not sure how that will be taken.

But then, Jemma starts giggling.

“You say that like being the leader of an a capella group is your worst nightmare.”

Daisy, encouraged by the improvement in the mood, carries on.

“Close. I could never do with them what you did, Jemma. What you do.”

“And yet they followed you into a mutiny.”

“Yeah.” She does not know what to say to that. “Yeah. Maybe… dunno. Look, if they didn’t like you or the group, they’d have left already. But they didn’t. They stay. Them wanting something different doesn’t mean that they don’t love you.”

The silence stretches thick between them after that. Daisy is already raising to leave when Jemma finally speaks again.

“You wanna hear the worst part? I actually like your music.”  

A soft rumble begins on her chest at that; she feels proud and happy and mellow, and those feelings almost make her be stupid. She could say because you are smart- and mean it-, but she doesn’t want to be neither patronizing not derailing, so instead she says, “Wanna know why I stayed, even though we don’t agree on music? Because I love the Bellas.” Jemma makes a small distrusting sound. “No, really. Not because of the music, because Jemma, you are great, but we do need to update your music library a little bit.” She pulls a face, feels glad for the first time that Jemma is not looking at her. “I love them for their sportsmanship. For their team spirit.” She makes a pause, and when Jemma doesn’t interrupt, delivers the cherry on top. “They are a good team, and you built that, Jemma. And that’s way more important than what they sing.”

“Have you, um. Have you,” Jemma needs to clear her throat before continuing, and that’s good because Daisy feels pretty choked herself. “Have you chosen any songs for us to try yet?”

The question takes her by surprise, but she eases into it quickly; she gets it, it is not easy to show a vulnerable side of yourself, even when you got caught crying in a bathroom cubicle, and the boat of pride looks like it has already sailed.  

“Um, actually, yes. There is this upbeat, hopeful song that I think will sound sick on Bobbi’s beautiful voice. ”  

The door creaks and Daisy jumps to the side while Jemma peers outside shyly.

“Show me?”

Daisy smiles so hard that her cheeks start to hurt. She doesn’t care.

“Sure.” She rummages on her coat’s pocket until she fishes out her iPhone and a pair of earphones. Also timid herself, she extends one to Jemma. “Here.”

Jemma sits down by her side and puts on the right earphone; Daisy places the left one on her own ear and presses play. The music comes out slow and sweet, and grows strong quickly; Jemma is humming by the chorus. She didn’t plan to start singing herself, but the melody of Jemma’s voice drags her like a flood.

By the time the song end, their voices linger together on the air like a layer of smoke, and Jemma looks for her right hand to hold while Daisy plays the song again.

Chapter Text

May opens the door without knocking. Hunter, who is laying in his bed facing the wall, doesn’t even twitch a muscle, and May suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

“Scoot away, Hunter,” she asks while she takes off her shoes. 

“No.”

“Don’t be a bed-hogger, crybaby.” She pokes him on the leg with her socked foot, and he moves an inch closer to the wall. That’s enough, she is small and she can bully him into giving her more space once they are pressed together. “Take off your shirt.”

“No.”

“Hunter.” There is an implicit ‘don’t be difficult’ in her voice, and to emphasize her point, she throws her own shirt over his head. If asking nicely won’t get him to do stuff, maybe thirst will.

To not disappoint, Hunter mumbles grumpily but moves his hand to the back of his neck and tugs on his t-shirt. Both his and hers end in a heap on the floor, and May kicks them aside before climbing into bed.

“You should be there with her,” he mutters quietly while May places her head over his arm, her right arm secured tightly on his waist. This time is not an act, it’s a genuine act of despair and contrition.

“She would tell me to be here with you,” she remarks, and a wave that can only be a sob runs through his ribcage. May holds onto him tighter.

“I am not the one lying unconscious on a bed with my life hanging on a thread, and yet you think I’m the one who needs help?”

“Bobbi is getting the help she needs.” She doesn’t want to use her Supervising Officer on him, but he sure as hell is trying on her sometimes. “I came to give you the one you need.”

He laughs then, an ashen sound that reverberates on May’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. She slips her other arm under him, places both her hands splayed wide on his chest and pushes gently against her back. He can not be expected to be rational after what Ward did to Bobbi, and she understands- her long debt with the bastard is only getting longer- but right now she needs him to not lose it. Both because she can not go running after him like a nanny if he decides to go off, and because she is not sure she could keep it together herself without him. Having him here and being sure that he doesn’t do something crazy and that he doesn’t manage to get his head ripped off by Jemma is a good way as any to keep her own sanity.

Eventually, his breathing evens under the pressure of her hands. It’s a long time before either of them speak, and when he does, is again in that hushed, guilty voice, “I don’t think I could live with myself if she doesn’t make it.”

She won’t lie to him and say that is something that is not going to happen, that he can’t think about that. In the lives they lead, it’s almost healthy to be prepared for the unspeakable.

“I know.”

There are tears falling on her hands, and Hunter moves his own to grasp May’s fingers tightly. Her nails are digging on his chest now, but he doesn’t seem to mind. She wanted to give him warmth and skin as a reminder of life, but she can’t say that she has never used pain before herself. 

Hunter starts to cry in earnest, in that ugly way that true, unrestricted crying wreaks the composure of someone. May holds him through the worst of it, and by the time the sobs are starting to subdue, she gently pushes on his shoulder to make him turn around. 

His face and chest are wet with tears, his skin reddened and his eyes swollen. May takes a paper tissue from the box on top of his nightstand, and Hunter closes his eyes while she cleans his cheeks with short strokes. When he opens them again, his gaze gains a shade of pity that May doesn’t care to see.

“I’m sorry, love.” He moves a hand to her cheek, and May closes her own eyes to not break. She has powered through the first wave of information and she hasn’t devoted a single though to blaming herself for not destroying Kara’s mask, and for not killing Ward any and each time she had an opportunity. She has focused only on finding out what she could do to help Bobbi’s situation and take care of Hunter. Her feelings on the matter? Not really a priority.

“Not your fault,” she whispers, and she can feel the way Hunter leans his forehead against hers, his warm breath against her cheek. He is making this whole business of keeping it together really difficult. “You didn’t shoot her.” She opens her eyes again, wants to drive home the idea that though Bobbi was trying to protect him since he didn’t concoct the perverse plan, it wasn’t his fault.

“Yeah, but you needed me and I was so busy feeling sorry for myself to be there. What a jerk.” He is baiting her with the insult, but she lets it pass, choosing instead to peck his lips lightly. He moves his hands to pet her gently on the back, and May tangles her feet with his ankles.

“We have each other now, and that is what matters.” She makes a pause, pats the pocket of her jean where she is carrying the pager that Jemma promised on her life will contact at the minimum change on Bobbi’s situation. “And we also have her.”

“Yeah, we do.”   

Chapter Text

“Put down the makeup: we are not going.”

It is amazing how May’s hand doesn’t even tremble while she applies her eyeliner, and only when she is done with both eyes she turns around to see Bobbi standing under the doorway, pouting, barefooted, and with a bird's nest on top of her head. May does not cringe at the sight, not even a bit; the eyeliner is still fresh and she will be damned before messing it up.

“Not that I don’t care why you are saying that, but we are going.”

Bobbi crosses her arms in front of her chest, and May refrains from telling her all the good that does to her cleavage in that blue dress. She knows that she can’t give Bobbi not even the tiniest out, or she will end up entangled in a distraction faster than she can say “ploy”.

“I can’t get this stupid hair to cooperate, so no, we are not.”

Ah. May was a bit worried it was a jealousy thing, but it’s a nerves thing, and she can totally deal with that. Bobbi has the kind of long luscious hair that looks fine with just some brushing, but if she is nervous and maybe self-conscious, May will indulge her in some pampering.

“Come here.”

Bobbi sits on the edge of the bed, and May chooses from her dresser a brush and a comb. The blue and silver brooch she is looking for is a bit trickier because May hasn’t used it in a long time, but it ends up being in the exact place it should be. Hmm. How did she not notice Bobbi was so nervous when she has been doing this, arranging all their stuff like a sample lab? Armed with her tools, May sits down next to Bobbi and starts brushing her hair.

There is something calming about having a loved one touching your hair, May knows. A restful kind of intimacy combined with some soothing physical contact can have a powerful effect on the spirit, which is what she is aiming for. Besides, her girlfriend looks gorgeous in every style, but May knows just the ones to make her shine like something straight out of a fantasy.

She waits till she has left the long cascade of hair smooth and shiny from the brushing to begin the questioning.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” Her voice is already calmer, and May smiles with satisfaction while she separates the hair in portions to begin the braiding. She doesn’t reply to the question: Bobbi is not really asking anything to May, but to herself. “I am just having a lot of emotions, you know. It’s not every day that you get to go to your ex-husband’s second wedding.”

May does know. She didn’t have to watch Andrew remarrying, but she can easily extrapolate how she would feel from the general kind of feelings she has around him. Hunter will always be an important part of Bobbi’s life, as entangled with her as the different locks on her braid. Bobbi does want the best for him, and she is well aware that that is Fitz, but the transition between new kinds of love and all the points where they overlap are not always easy.

“But you do want to be there.”

“I do.” Her voice is soft now, and May can imagine her eyes closed, the calm starting to settle deep in her features. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

May nods. The occasion is special for Bobbi because it’s Hunter, but their team in general has grown so much as a family- even if a broken and dysfunctional one at times- that the event is touching for all of them. May is already dreading Phil’s heartfelt but cheesy speech. She can not wait. 

She pins the brooch at the end of Bobbi’s braid and takes a little distance to admire her handiwork. The brooch has always been a little heavy to leave it hanging for too long, but May thinks that the reminder of her and of the real world tethering her down will do Bobbi good. She runs her hand down Bobbi’s side to her wrist, smoothing down the dress and checking that her heart rate has slowed down back to normal.

“You are done.”

“Thank you,” Bobbi whispers, and there is too much gratitude in the two words for a simple french braid. 

May gives her a chaste kiss on her bare shoulder. There are certain processes Bobbi needs to go through alone, and the sort of grief of seeing an ex redoing their life- even if you are happy for them, even if you have your own life- is one of them. That doesn’t mean May won’t be there for her through the whole thing.

“For what? Now the best-looking person on the whole wedding will be by my side. Pure selfish reasons.” It’s not often that May makes that kind of superficial joke, and Bobbi turns around to look at her curiously. She looks stunning, and the braid helps, but it’s mostly the loving look in her eyes.

“Thank you for being here,” Bobbi continues as if May hadn’t just made a joke. She could get offended, except that it would ruin her flawless makeup, and they can’t be having any of that. “Always.”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

There are pins and needles crawling all over her legs, but Daisy refuses to stand up and shake them off.

Standing up means leaving, and leaving means accepting that there are certain things she can not fight back with her bare hands and sheer force of will. It means accepting that certain things are not meant to be, and how is she supposed to live with that? She can’t. Her legs might be numb and her heart might be heavy, but she can decide on her right to stay, and she stays.

It takes Robbie a long time to show up, and when he does he doesn’t offer an explanation, nor Daisy asks for one. Articulating reasons into words requires a certain level of acquired clarity with the situation, and neither of them is willing to do that. They are both stubborn as mules, and they refuse to acknowledge the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, wanting is not enough. 

Robbie sits right by her side on the edge of the building’s rooftop, and they watch down the street together. There is an eerie air to this hour of the night when it’s neither too late nor too early, or it’s both, Daisy is not sure. She can only be sure of this while she takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. Robbie’s hands are rough from his day job and sad from his night one and Daisy- who knows a lot about how painful suffering hands can be- strokes his wrist with her thumb gently. She knows it’s not much, but it’s what they have.

“We can’t keep on doing this,” Robbie whispers not to her but to the night, a faint cloud of white smoke coming out of his mouth along with the words. It comes, Daisy knows, from the difference of temperature, but somehow it feels like it comes from them slowly breaking apart. 

It’s not the first time he says it. She is almost sure it’s probably not the first time he had said it to himself this day alone, because she has been saying it to herself constantly, and yet here they are.

“I know,” she replies, and tightens her hold on his hand. There is, still, a big difference between ‘can’t’ and ‘won’t’, and they have walked around all the edges less gracefully than Daisy would have liked. 

Robbie is being too quiet, even for his taciturn personality, and it makes Daisy’s skin ache. The fact that they are standing on opposite sides of the ‘fighting crime’ spectrum- with whole debates on moral stances and praxis philosophy behind them- has always been something that weighs them down, but so far it has not been enough to thwart their interest in being together. She knew, rationally, that there would come a time when the distance was too big or the love too thin to keep on going but, emotionally, she had chosen to believe that would never happen to them. It was a matter of loving or not loving, in her head. She never thought that time could be the worst enemy one can have.  

“Hey, you.” Robbie is rubbing her arms up and down vigorously. Only then Daisy notices she has started to shake uncontrollably. “Are you cold?”

The answer is yes, but it’s not something that can be solved with wool mittens and a hot cup of cocoa. It’s a cold that comes from within, from the grieving of a realization too long rejected that is settling on her bones like an open wound. She looks at him, and the tiny smile on his lips breaks her heart. How can he being caring and trustworthy and good not be enough? How can loving him this much not be enough?

“Would you hold me?” she asks instead of replying to his question. Even without a clear answer on the topic, Robbie takes off his jacket and places it on her shoulders, his arms around her waist helping in securing it on her smaller frame. The jacket smells like leather and motor oil and ashes, and Daisy bites hard on the inside of her chin to not start crying.

They don’t have much time and they should be taking advantage of what little they have, she knows. They have deadlines and duties, and a world at their feet that seems on the verge of setting itself on fire all the time. They don’t have enough time and they have too much want to hold inside their bodies, and Daisy presses her fingernails deep on Robbie’s forearms. He doesn’t complain, just holds her tight enough to leave bruises on her hips, and they both will appreciate the reminder for later, she knows. Even if it hurts- or maybe because it hurts-, even if it’s only that: a reminder of something that was and now isn’t.

The sky is starting to clear on the horizon, and there is a new day full of new and old responsibilities they need to face off, and they won’t wait just because they are dragging their feet with a bone-deep exhaustion that can only come from the soul. They don’t have time, they can’t keep on doing this, they don’t, they can’t, they can’t, but Daisy still holds onto him for a little longer while they watch the sun come out. This is what they have, after all, and she doesn’t know anything else.

Chapter Text

Life doesn’t prepare you for certain things, Lance Hunter finds out. Among those, there is the experience of waking up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water and instead run into your boyfriend sitting down creepily in a chair just outside your bedroom. 

When he woke up and saw that Fitz wasn’t in the bed with him, Hunter wasn’t surprised. Fitz has a big presentation coming up, and has been spending more and more time in the workshop and honing his speech- Hunter thinks it’s so polished that it shines, but saying so always earns him a killing glare from Fitz, so he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not unusual for Hunter to go to bed alone and wake up alone too, and though it’s a bit disheartening, he understands. The pros and cons of dating a certified genius, he likes to think.

Now, Fitz sitting just outside the bedroom, just sitting with his eyes fixed on the door, that is new. Hunter looks at him, waits for an explanation of any kind while he scratches his belly, and when it’s obvious that he will be getting none, he places a gentle hand on top of Fitz’s forearm.

“What are you doing here, love?” Fitz tilts his head slightly to the side but doesn’t reply, and Hunter’s skin crawls. Is this a nightmare where his normal life turns into a scary movie very quickly? “You were too exhausted to make it to the bed, eh?” He tries to be funny, but he is a bit spooked and it shows.

“Hunter, I was waiting for you.” When Fitz finally speaks, his voice is thick with sleep, which confuses Hunter a little, especially when he stands up and starts tugging on Hunter’s hand for him to follow.

His steps are slow but not exactly certain, and Hunter allows himself to be dragged to the front door without much resistance. He doesn’t understand what is going on, exactly, still a bit too sleepy himself, but he knows better than to contradict Fitz when his mind is set on something.

Fitz takes both their coats from the hanger and folds them on the hollow of his elbow, but by the time he is starting to fumble with the keys, Hunter feels the need to intervene.

“Fitz? What are you doing?”

Fitz turns around, and realization dawns on Hunter when he sees his unfocused eyes and the creases of the pillow still lingering on his cheek. Fitz is wearing pajamas and barefooted, and the lights of the flat are off, and that means Fitz must have gone to bed and is just now out-of-bed. It has been a while since Fitz has gone on an episode of sleepwalking- at least one that Hunter has found out about-, but it’s not surprising with the amount of stress he has been under. Hunter facepalms himself.

“Open the door, we are going out.” Fitz extends his arm towards Hunter, but it’s the one with the coats and not the one with the keys. Hunter takes his hand nonetheless, and Fitz steps apart waiting for him to follow his command.

“Fitz,” Hunter begins, but doesn't know how to better address the issue, “let’s go back to bed.”

“No,” Fitz protests, but allows Hunter to walk him slowly back to their bedroom, keys still clutched in his hand. “Wanna spend time with you. Want you to have your boyfriend back.”

Hunter melts at the reasoning; so Fitz feels bad because he is not spending enough time with him, and the guilt follows him even in his sleep. He doesn’t want Fitz to feel guilty or hurt about their relationship ever, but to know that this is important to him too is endearing nonetheless.

“We can cuddle together on the bed, love, how does that sound?”

Hunter pushes the chair apart from their bedroom door and places on it the coats and the keys. They can deal with that tomorrow.

“Mmkay.”

Fitz walks behind him obediently, and Hunter tucks him in, despite Fitz’s efforts to drag Hunter down to the bed with him. 

“Down, boy. Give me a second.”

“Mmkay.” 

It’s clear that the return to the bed has pushed Fitz closer to the true sleeping state of being, and Hunter finally indulges him and falls down on the bed with him. Fitz molds his body to Hunter’s chest and immediately closes his eyes, his breathing slowing. Hunter threads his fingers lightly on his hair, watching fondly the peacefulness on his features; he has been so tense lately that this is truly a sight to behold and cherish. Fitz looks younger like this, without the weight of crazy daily life on his shoulders, and Hunter wishes he could keep him like this forever, but he can’t. What he can do is hold him and love him and wake him up with a good pancake breakfast. Fitz won’t remember his nocturnal stroll, but Hunter will make sure he remembers the love they share.

Chapter Text

“Mom, can I get a muñeca instead of a truck?”

Lenny looks a bit uncertain while he asks her the question, and Daisy makes sure to down herself to his level and looks him in the eye reassuringly before replying.

“Of course, kiddo. You can get whatever you want. If you want un muñeca, we will choose the best muñeca.”

She wasn’t expecting a big show of gratitude or anything, but she is a bit baffled when Lenny starts laughing at her.

“Mommy, it’s una muñeca!”  

Of course, stupid Spanish and its stupid gendered nouns. She dismisses the correction with a hand gesture.

“Start picking your toy instead of my grammar, mister,” she tells her son but gives him also a wink so he knows that she is cool with him correcting her. It makes her proud to exhilaration to watch this little person that she is pouring soul and body into raising being better than her. “We need to get home on time for dinner if we don’t want your mum murdering both of us.”

Lenny runs down the toyshop’s corridor excitedly, speaking a mile a minute about what doll he is going to get, and Daisy follows him with her heart full to the brim.

The small anecdote stays with her, and she mulls it over all the way through dinner along with Elena’s fantastic stew. It’s not the first time she messes up a Spanish word- and it was not, by far, her most embarrassing one-, but now that Lenny is getting older she is starting to feel her ignorance like a weight heavy on her shoulders. With the passing of time, she has picked up a lot from Elena, her family, and her friends, of course; she is a long shot from the younger Daisy who couldn’t recognize a Spanish word if it bit her on the nose, but she has never devoted serious time and attention to it. She loves that Elena can talk her mother tongue with her child, but raising a bilingual child is proving to be very a lot harder than learning a couple of selected words to use in the middle of sex or a few sentences to impress your in-laws.      

“You are quiet,” Elena calls from the kitchen door after putting Lenny down to sleep, and Daisy realizes she had stopped rinsing the dishes while she was thinking. “That’s not very like you.”

She moves her head to one side, and Elena follows her nonverbal request to come closer and hug her. Once she has her wife’s arms around her waist, Daisy replies, “I was thinking-”

“Oh, that is a first,” Elena teases her with her head on Daisy’s shoulder, and Daisy pokes her on the shin with her foot in retaliation.

“Shut up, you bully!” She breathes in and out and restarts the serious part of the conversation. “I want you to teach me Spanish. For real. With awful awful grammar and all those irregular verbs and, dear god, gendered nouns.”

Elena goes completely still, and Daisy side-eyes her to measure her reaction.

“I’m not saying no, but what brought up this sudden desire?”

Daisy turns off the faucet and dries her hands. The only successful conversations she has had while washing the dishes have been with herself.

“Lenny.”

“Ah.” Elena doesn’t actually look surprised while they sit down at the kitchen table again and Daisy grabs her hand. “What happened to expect everyone to speak in English?

Daisy pulls a face.  

“What, now past me is not allowed to be a moron?”

“Yes, but present me is allowed to tease you about it.”

“Fair enough.” Daisy moves their joined hands up to her lips to kiss; she will never get tired of the spark that brings out in Elena’s eyes. “Luckily for you and for me, past me is not present me.”

“Yeah. Lucky me.” The softness in her wife’s face fills her chest with exploding bubbles, and Daisy clears her throat just to force herself out of her daydream.  “I just find it interesting that you didn’t do it when you were a super-spy but you’re going to do it now that you are a civilian.”

Daisy runs her thumb up and down Elena’s knuckles. “Do you think that is dumb?”

“No. I think it’s sweet. That you wouldn’t do it for profit but you do it for love.”

Daisy leans on the table and pulls her close with her free hand and gives her a kiss square on the mouth. Elena rolls her eyes but lets herself be kissed.  

“That means you will help me?”

“Of course. You will learn my language for our son. I can’t say no to that.” She flips her hair away, and Daisy hides her face on the nook of her neck. “Besides, I will get to boss you around, and you know I live for that.” 

Daisy gives her a salute. “Sí, señor.”

“Señora.”

“Ugh. Gender is dumb.”

“You are not wrong there, mi amor.”

Chapter Text

He might have had one- maybe two- too-many drinks before coming, but Fitz was over-nervous about his first time, and Hunter couldn’t leave his mate to battle the jitters alone. 

But now that they are here and that Fitz got reunited with Mack, Hunter dares move more freely: Fitz doesn’t need him by his side anymore, and even probably would prefer him to back off, so he does. One-too-many drinks is not a bad state for Pride: it makes everything brighter and fuzzier around the edges, the people nicer and more attractive, and if it makes him turn around in circles smiling like a lunatic, well. No place better to make a fool out of yourself than a place where you feel free to be fully yourself.

One-too-many drinks might be a good mood to smile at cute strangers and to dance carefree to any music he passes, but it might not be the best idea when it comes to meeting someone.

He has been ogling this cute chick a bit to his left for a little while, all tight jeans and a purple top, and when a Gaga song starts by his side, he sways to her side and almost screams on her ear to make himself be heard over the music, “Dance with me!”

She looks down at him- and when he says down, he means down - in all her glory of ice-blue eyes and blonde pixie cut, and raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow in disbelief. He is smiling furiously, dancing ridiculously to the music, and something of the infectious glee of Pride must get into her because she shrugs and takes the hand he is offering. She is tall, but she got moves and by the time the song is over, Hunter feels like he has sweated all the extra energy from his one-too-many drinks.

“I’m Hunter,” he introduces himself, and though they were holding hands to dance not two seconds ago, he still stretches his hand.

“Bobbi.”

“Because of Barbara?”

Her smile goes tight around the corners. “Just Bobbi.”

Only then Hunter realizes that the purple top she is wearing has an inscription in bold, yellow letters: 

NOT A GIRL

NOT A BOY

To cement further the point, she is also wearing a ‘they/them’ button. They. They are also wearing a ‘they/them’ button. Gladly one-too-many drinks are enough for him to make a fool of himself only inside his head and not out loud.

“Are you alone?” he asks in a screaming tone. The music has stopped for a while, but somehow the screaming fits this meeting. They nod at him. “I got a couple of lovebirds doing the rounds trying to escape from me. Wanna help me annoy them?”

They smile at him, and Hunter’s face melts down to his boots out of sheer adoration.

“Sure!”

He steals a purple and yellow flower crown from someone who is giving them away and places it delicately on top of their head before grabbing their hand.

“Come on, they won’t know what hit them!”       

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you are already going to chicken out of this.”

“For me to chicken out, I would have to have agreed to this first, which I didn’t!”

Bobbi stops her stretching to turn around and look at Trip. Despite his protests, he is also stretching, which means he is not going to actually stand her up. She turns around to hide her smile from him and presses her elbow against her chest with her other arm.

She didn’t actually think he was going to quit- despite his easy-going nature, Trip is quite competitive and ambitious. He has to be, in order to survive on the Academy and SHIELD at large and this world at all, to be honest. She liked that in him from the very beginning, how he wanted but without letting himself be consumed by that want. How it is stock for his fire but not an anchor holding him down. Bobbi can see the same things in herself and does appreciate them in other people.

Only Opposites Attract purists can bite her ass. 

“I mean, if you do quit now, I am guaranteed to come at the top of the class in physical resistance, so.”

Trip smiles. She is not looking at him but she knows it. His smile is like a warm aura that irradiates from him, seeps into his voice, twists around her ankles, climbs up her legs, and makes her knees go weak.

“I thought you were guaranteed to be top of the class either way?”

“Shut up,” she says, but she is smiling too. Trip laces an arm around her waist and drags her closer. It is chilly at 6 am outside despite them both wearing thermal wear, and the warm-up was not enough to actually turn her muscle’s temperature up, but Trip’s arms are.

“Are you trying to coax me out of running with kissing, Mr. Triplett?” she murmurs against his cheek, and despite her words, she is the first one to kiss him on the corner of his lips, a tender contact that leaves them united with a thin line of white vapor.

“I don’t know, is it working?” Bobbi slips her hands inside the pocket of his hoodie and presses her palms against his stomach. She tries to kiss him again out of pure instinct, but Trip cranes his neck to avoid her lips. “Uh-oh. Answer the question, Barbara.”

Truth is, the longer she looks at his smiling face with that soft eyes of his, the less appealing the morning run sounds. Walking back inside and peeling the thick clothes off him while the coffee brews, though…

“No.” Trip maintains eye-contact until Bobbi breaks, a huge smile sprouting on her lips. “Maybe!”

Trip lifts her up then and if the light stretching wasn’t enough to warm her up, the way he spins her around definitely is. Once he puts her down, he bops her nose, and Bobbi would pout if he didn’t have the uncanny ability to do it in such a charming way.

“And I didn’t even have to give you one kiss.” Only after that, he kisses her on the juncture of her neck and her jaw, a slow, sensual kiss that leaves her skin glowing despite being exposed to the freezing air. “Who will be top of the class again?”

“Shut up!” Bobbi slaps his arm and takes advantage of his feigned pain to untwine herself from his arms before she starts running. “Last one to the coffee shop pays!”

Trip laughs too hard to have any chance of making a recovery and give her an actual competition, but that’s okay. Bobbi will let him try again tomorrow.