Work Text:
It's becoming a liability. Wherever Kate Bishop sees stars, she can't help but think of America.
She's mid-skirmish down a deep, dark alley, as these things always go. Kate stopped wearing diamonds months ago, even the sleeper studs she stole from her mother's vanity before her ears were pierced, but apparently she still looks precious enough to jump. She'd picked this dress out specially for brunch with Bobbi, an indigo mini that showed off the curves of her biceps, visual shorthand for yes, Clint and I are working hard. Yes, Clint and I are alive and eating more than just used coffee grinds. Kate knows she looks strong if you know to look for it, but all these boys see is a pretty girl in a pretty dress.
She only takes it out on them a little harshly. She gets in a crotch kick when the first guy lunges then ducks when the other two make a grab. A clean sweep of their ankles buys her time to clamber onto the trashcan, elbow the first guy to recover in the jaw and grab onto the fire escape. Even without projectiles, a Hawkeye likes higher ground.
It's a little embarrassing, then, when she spots the three blue-outlined stars on the back of a lowlife's jacket and her fingers slip on the metal. She reorients herself in the same moment she falters, flipping as she descends, chipping a thug under the jaw and taking the other two out as she slams to the ground, leaving them heaped in a delirious pile beneath her. She says futz, then she says fuck, then she scrambles to her feet. No breakages, light bruising. She might not even need to crack out the peas.
It's not that they're not talking. It's just that America is --- interdimensional, extraterrestrial, certified Woman of Wonder --- and Kate is the best at what she does. But in their circles, what she does is still kind of the definition of mundane.
"Now that's just embarrassing, Katie-Kate," Clint places a steaming cup of coffee under her nose as she fails to complete the Bugle's cryptic crossword. There is a galaxy of stars dotted around the margin, so many that her Bic is starting to run out.
"No nicknames," she thwacks him on the head with the paper. "And in my defense, they put the crossword right next to the astrology section."
Clint looks at her through the steam.
Kate throws her face into her hands. "Shut up, I hear it, okay?"
"I thought you were mad at her," he says mildly, peering over at the crossword. He taps at clue 9. "Seven letters, terrain ruined coach. That's gotta be engine, right? Like coaches on a train?"
"A) I'm not mad at her, we're just seeing some different missions right now." Kate takes a swig of coffee, sighing even though it's bitter and burnt. "And B) engine has six letters."
"Yeah, yeah," Clint steals the pencap and flicks it at the fruit bowl, watching it ding off the porcelain, rebound off the lampshade and settle in Kate's coffee with a splash. "Call your girlfriend, Hawkeye."
"Buy a dictionary, Hawkeye."
When she finds the throwing stars Natasha snuck into a false floorboard in Clint's guest bedroom and promptly begins tossing them at the wall, catching on a water pipe and soaking herself from eight feet across the room, Kate is ready to admit she's a little mad.
They agree on coffee, since that's most of Kate's bloodstream these days. Even Captain Marvel can't get ahold of America half the time, but even now, even at the worst rated Starbucks within five miles of Clint's apartment, she shows up for Kate.
"You rang?" America throws herself sideways into the pleather chair, kicking one leg up over the arm and sipping her caramel macchiato.
"So, I've been avoiding you," Kate says, hiding her mouth behind her cup.
"No shit."
Kate wants to drown in her coffee, just shove her nose into the mug and keep it there, drifting away to the sound of early 2000s adult contemporary.
Instead, she says, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you told me," her eyes zero in on a very suspicious pigeon through the window beside them. "You dated another me whilst still popping by Bed Stuy for girls night."
"Hold up, are you jealous, Princess?"
Kate taps her nails against the table and doesn't meet America's gaze. "It's just… There are a million Kate Bishops out there, but there's only one America. How do I know ---"
"It's you , Princess." America laughs a touch mirthfully, her hands cupping Kate's on the table. "I found the one in a million Kates who might play for my team, and I walked away because she still wasn't you." Her fingertip draws along the rough skin of Kate's callouses, like she's taking in the texture, or maybe just counting them out. "Why do you think I'm always around this goddamn dimension? Because it ain't the food, I'll tell you that."
Kate looks up then, her smile smug. "One in a million, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah, don't let it go to your head, girl, or I'll find a new favourite." America squeezes her hands around Kate's, soft for her, but firm enough that Kate can't help but feel the power there, strength enough to punch through whole realities.
"You still got it wrong, though." Kate says, coy, sliding away from the warmth of America's touch.
America tilts her head. "How so?"
Kate claps her hands around America's cheeks, fingers curving around her upheld jaw. "I've been playing for team America since we met," she says, her breath warm on America's face. "I can just say it out loud now."
"You gonna kiss me, Princess?" America's voice is softer than she can stand.
"You gonna stop me, Chavez?" Kate grins, feeling America's fingers bunch in her hair and reel her in until their lips touch.
Kate sees stars. But then, that happens a lot lately.