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There is a line that Kate crosses, sometime after it's safe to come home and before she gets used to sleeping in a bed that remembers the shape of her.
When America starts to visit more than once every other time she kicks into the universe, and when there's an almost fondness in her voice as she calls her princess, Kate allows herself the assumption that maybe they've entered into a realm of something like friendship.
So maybe they were friends before, but Kate's begun to notice a difference in the kind born from hightailing it against a world destroyer together and the sometimes-we-hang-out-just-because thing that they've still got going. (Kate's also begun to develop a preference.)
The last time America visits, it goes like this:
There are boys who think they're thugs and there is a girl who escapes, who doesn't remind Kate of herself, at all. (She takes a silent victory in this, tucks the thought away to share the next time she sees Jessica.) Kate realizes that she's missed the sound of America cracking her knuckles, the sight of that wicked grin she gets when she's about to break bad boy bones. America towers above them and Kate considers letting her take care of things. (She is a guest, after all. It's only polite.)
The thought lasts half a second. Fists connect with flesh and America looks over her shoulder, ignoring the tire iron that snaps as it comes down across her neck. "Get over here," she says, and it's all Kate needs to hear before she joins in the brawl, feeling a welcome heat fill her body with life.
They stumble into Clint's/Kate's/occasionally Natasha's apartment as Kate tries to come back down from her adrenaline high. Her fingers tremble as the key clicks and their footsteps and huffs of breath fill the room with sound. Kate spies Clint passed out on the couch and notices Lucky's dog bed without Lucky in it, a note on the fridge from Nat about needing him for her cover. Lucky boy.
(Ha.)
America's cheeks are caked in dirt and someone else's blood and her shirt's torn in not unflattering places and maybe Kate's beginning to realize when she's looking at her that way. Huh.
"Your dad ever tell you it's rude to stare?" America says, playful and promising and there's no malice there.
She leaves, often for months at a time. America tears a hole in the universe and slips away, but she always seems to find her way back, and Kate decides that she likes the second part of that arrangement.
Kate goes through the measures of educating America on the beauty of Dog Cops and the way her mouth twists in ignorant disapproval validates the effort and then some. She'll make a superfan of her yet.
"Yeah right." America stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth. "This is ridiculous."
"It's art, Chavez."
America raises a brow at her that says something along the lines of, you're an idiot and I don't know why we're friends (look, Kate's really good at deciphering America's brow raises) and Kate considers a retort to the not-comment but instead decides to test a liberty.
She takes the bowl of popcorn next to Chavez and, before she can protest, throws her legs across America's lap and sits with her back against the arm of the sofa. Kate puts the popcorn on her lap so it's basically like the bowl never moved, and America doesn't complain. She shuffles underneath Kate, settling with an arm across the back of the couch and an arm draped over Kate's shins.
This is nice, Kate thinks.
Eventually, America's hand drifts to her knee, thumb idly stroking crescents near a scar that's just about healed. Raised and red around the edges, tingles a little when America notices and hovers her hand over it. "A stupid gift from a stupid cat burglar." Kate makes a mental note to look that one up. Maybe Clint knows about the etymology behind criminal labels off the top of his head.
"Looks deep," she says, in a new tone that Kate's still trying to decipher. She suspects it might be concern or something like it, and Kate tries to brush it all off as not a big deal, because it really isn't a big deal. Kate's faced an interdimensional parasite. She can handle pervs with hunting knives.
"You should see how he went down." America rests her palm on Kate's knee, a warm and welcome pressure. "It was awesome."
It involved a boomerang arrow. Clint high-fived her for the feat and gave her one of those I'm a proud mentor type pats on the back. Awesome.
America frowns in a way that makes Kate wonder if she's just now realizing that people are breakable. Specifically, that's Kate's breakable, which is totally true but also she's ignoring the slick takedown so, rude. A dip forms between her brows and America's frown deepens as she spots a healing bruise along her outer thigh. Briefly, Kate lets herself wonder what America would do if she reached out to smooth the lines around the corner of her mouth.
"Hey," she says instead, waiting for America to look at her. "Occupational hazard. I'm fine."
America hums, unconvinced. She looks back toward the TV, but the frown doesn't go away until Kate makes a fresh batch of popcorn and offers to order them pizza.
There is another line Kate crosses.
This one she can pinpoint to the very moment, when she follows America into the kitchen, takes a half-step into her space and kisses her. She's just out of comfortable reach and the angle is a little awkward. Kate blames it on her own hesitation and her neck strains a little with the extra effort, but the kiss is nice.
America never misses a beat and makes it better by pushing in closer, closer. She kisses back with a quiet hum at the back of her throat, holds Kate at the waist as her fingertips press into the fabric of her t-shirt, a barely there pressure that warms her to the touch and Kate nearly smiles at the irony in how gentle it all is.
Instead, she pushes up on her toes, licks into America's mouth and wraps her arms around her neck.
(This angle is much better.)
America kicks in and out of the universe like always because people need her wherever it is she goes where people are needy. Her visits start to grow more consistent and she lets Kate make her watch more Dog Cops , so Kate calls that a total win.
This time, though, Kate nurses a couple fractured body parts and a mild concussion that forces a night in and a lack of all fun activity so, less of a win. A half-win.
The visit starts like this:
Kate slips into the apartment with broken (probably? she's not sure) ribs and a bruised ego, with some gauze and Neosporin and a bottle of bottom-shelf liquor for the effort. Lucky doesn't meet her at the door like he usually does, because he's sat across America's lap. She'd think it was cute if she wasn't also thinking, traitor. He whines a little, but stays put atop America.
America, whose face drops the moment she sees the state of her, and Kate isn't sure how she feels about it. America's never looked at her like that. What is that?
She doesn't linger too long on the sentiment either way, tries instead to make a joke of the fight, but god her whole body hurts.
She can't manage anything witty (stupid, concussed brain) before America gets to her, hovering a hand over a cut on her face that Kate almost leans into before America thinks better of it. Instead, she uses the hand that should have been cupping her cheek to take the plastic bag and the alcohol and motions for Kate to follow her into the bathroom.
America mends what she can, letting Kate incoherently try to flirt and kissing her when she leans in expectantly. America tastes like the rum she took away from her because "you can't drink with a concussion" and because America hates fun, and the rum tastes like America and America's peppermint chapstick. Kate grumbles when she tries to pull away, and she rolls her eyes, but leans back in anyway.
"You need to be more careful," America says when she pulls away a second time. Stupid words.
Kate hums, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against America's shoulder. "I never bite off more than I can chew, Chavez."
"That's a total lie."
"Hey, that's not supportive girlfriending," Kate murmurs, and immediately realizes that they've never really had that talk. She can't see America's expression, thinks that in hindsight, she probably should have saved that for when she wasn't cloudy and distracted by aching organs.
After an impossibly long silence, Kate feels America take a step back, feels America lift her chin. She's smiling - and this one, she recognizes. Reminds her of a New Year's party and a portal opened too soon.
"So what do you call this," she says, gesturing to all of the heaping mess that is Kate Bishop. Her eyes lazily trail up the length of Kate, lingering a little on her mouth. Kate momentarily forgets the question.
She leans in again, and America tastes less like rum, but kisses her back and doesn't pull away until Kate does. "I call this liking me a lot."
America huffs, but doesn't disagree.
"Does the girlfriend get a kiss goodbye?"
"Depends." Kate shuffles in bed, watching as America laces her boots. America looks back at her from over her shoulder. "Is the girlfriend coming back anytime soon?"
Her eyes begin to glow and a portal tears itself into existence and wow, that will never not be cool.
"Count on it, princess."
Kate smiles.
She likes the sound of that.