Archive of Our Own

She woke up to find the other woman already awake, and looking at her.

“Hey.” That was said with a shy smile, muffled by the pillow on which her face rested.

Clearly she was expected to say something, but panic at having to speak stole the thoughts from her head. Her mouth opened, and closed just as quickly, when her brain failed to supply the words necessary to put thought (who was she kidding – what thought?) into greeting.

A look of puzzlement crossed over her companion’s face, half hidden against crumpled pillow sheets. “Is there anybody home?”

Again, her brain came up empty. In fact, her brain felt like it had gone on strike, dissatisfied with horrible working conditions. Still, muscle memory made her mouth move. Her lips parted, and her bedmate’s brows lifted in anticipation of what she was about to say. This placed upon her an undue obligation to actually respond – to actually say something. 

You know words. You can do words. You know many words. Some of them are even good words. Words are easy. Say something.

What came out was quite indescribable. It sounded like a cross between the snore of a whale and the barking of a pig, made even more incomprehensible by the fact that whales do not snore (since they do not breathe while sleeping – oh thank you for that absolutely useless piece of information, stupid brain, and welcome back) and pigs certainly do not bark. 

The look of puzzlement on the face opposite hers deepened. “Are you okay?” 

She felt as though she had been reduced into phenomenal particles of dismay. She would later swear that she had caught a glimpse of Sanity’s buttcrack as reason and intellect promptly and completely turned their backs to her. 

“Kate?”

It was official. Kate Bishop – neurotic, borderline hysterical (“Oh my god are we gonna kiss we are so gonna kiss this is happening we are totally gonna mmphh – ” before Yelena’s lips met hers) Kate Bishop had finally lost her mind. She always knew that it was bound to happen. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been signs of impending insanity. Like shooting down a historic bell tower, stealing and putting on a vigilante’s suit, teaming up with an Avenger, fighting an assassin hell bent on getting revenge on said Avenger turned best friend slash father figure, going out on precisely two dates with said assassin several months after said assassin had spared said Avenger turned best friend slash father figure.

And now she could add sleeping with said assassin after a successful third date to the list of questionable behavior to mark her undoubted descent into madness. 

“Are you all right, Kate Bishop?” Puzzlement had shifted to concern, as Yelena partially sat up, the covers falling from her chest.

Kate felt – literally felt – her mind completely shutting down at that sight. 

The phrases “I’m okay” and “You’re beautiful” waged a silent war in her head. Her brain short circuited temporarily as she sought to find a compromise between both. 

Which meant that in her rush to speak, what actually came out of her mouth were the words “I’m beautiful.”

Yelena stared at her, a look of uncertainty (bordering on incredulity, really) on her face. “I know. But that is still odd first thing to say in the morning, Kate Bishop.” 

She shrugged the blanket off, and Kate, who was already scaling the perilous cliff face known as Embarrassment, now decided to do a backwards vault into the abyss, a little known modern dance routine called Swan Dive Into The Ground In The Hopes That It Opens Up And Swallows Me Whole.  

Yelena was halfway out of bed when she realized that Kate had not stopped staring. Had not in fact moved an inch, and was still staring at her with wide eyes, mouth open.

She had finally dragged herself out of bed, and had somehow managed, in her state of mental disarray, not just to put a robe on, but also to navigate the perilous pathways that led from her bedroom to the kitchen. 

Where Yelena, now fortunately (or unfortunately) clad in an oversized shirt and shorts, was sitting at the table, looking through her phone. 

Sunlight filtered in through the window, perhaps in the same way as water filtered in through coffee beans (or perhaps not – Kate Bishop was, after all, in the throes of incipient madness, and her knowledge of physics and coffee making were incomplete if not nonexistent), to frame Yelena’s blonde hair, lighting up her face as she scrolled through her phone. 

Kate felt about Yelena’s looks the way leftists thought about money: that it was incredibly unfair and completely outrageous for just one person to possess so much.

By now, some form of coherent thought had finally asserted itself in Kate’s head, and she was finally able to assess the problem at hand. It went something like this:

One  - Kate Bishop was a person who worked well within clearly defined boundaries and roles. Like with Clint – partner/protégé/unwilling best friend. 

Two  - Kate Bishop and Yelena Belova had never actually called their dates a date. 

Three  - They had slept together. On the third date. Which may or may not have been a date. None of them had actually, up to know, called any of it a date. But they had held hands and drunk a little too much wine and Yelena may have leaned forward to kiss her and before she knew it they were rolling in bed doing all sorts of unspeakably pleasurable things to one another. 

Four  - They had woken up together, and Yelena was making coffee for her and sitting at her table and Kate Bishop was feeling all sorts of things for Yelena Belova, chief among them being the fact that she wanted nothing more than to ensure that Yelena Belova would never ever leave her side. Ever. 

Kate Bishop’s default state now bore a remarkable similarity to teenage angst – utterly heavy, incredibly intense, and completely bereft of anything remotely resembling reason. 

“Good morning again, Kate Bishop.” 

“Hey!” It was loud and unnecessarily chirpy, as if her brain was seeking to make amends for her insipid performance earlier at the start of the opera by turning up the enthusiasm dial by a full three hundred and sixty degrees. 

“Here.” A mug was placed in front of her. “Drink, Kate Bishop.”

Coffee touched her lips, entered her mouth, and swam down her throat, sending warm soothing touches through her chest. She was grateful for it, not least because with the cup at her lips, she did not have to speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing. 

Lucky wandered up, giving her a look. Kate Bishop did not acknowledge it, refusing to be judged by a one eyed dog. 

“So, last night was fun.”

Kate almost choked on her coffee. Almost drowned in it. Actually, drowning in her coffee would probably not be a bad way to go. It would certainly get her out of having this conversation, which she knew they had to have, certainly, but probably could have been avoided had they not (just last night) had the sort of conversation that was littered with variations of “Oh yes, just like that” and “oh fuck Kate” and “don’t stop Yelena”.

“Y-yes. Fun. Yes.” Did she sound weird? She sounded weird. Yeah, she definitely sounded weird. Did her voice squeak at the end, right there? She couldn’t tell. She may have squeaked. Yelena would definitely have picked up on it. Possibly even remembered it, because she knew that last night she had positively squeaked when Yelena had done that thing that she did with her thumb and…. 

“But maybe just not only fun, yes?”

“Yes?” Her mind struggled to break that line down. Had it not been fun? Did Yelena mean that she was not fun? Did ‘fun’ have a different meaning in Russian? Oh God – was Yelena saying that the sex was bad? But she had said that last night was fun – but what did fun mean? Were there different standards of fun? 

“Kate?”

“It was…fun. For me. And for you. I had fun. We had fun. At least I hope we had fun. I mean – it was fun, right? Like, I thought it would be weird. Not that I think you’re weird, but like, I had been thinking about it – but, I mean – we – that is, you and me – and this thing – like…we…that you and me…not like that, but yeah, sometimes like that, but it’s not like I’m only here for that, you know…and…” her sentence, ashamed of itself, hung its head and floated away into nothingness. Kate felt as baffled as Yelena looked. 

She cleared her throat. Mustered what little brain cells had not died of embarrassment a few seconds ago. “What I’m saying is – “ I really like you a lot and I’ve liked you for a while now and I think about you a lot and even without last night all I want to do is spend time with you and also I think we should totally date because nothing would make me happier than to call you my girlfriend “– that last night was a lot of fun, for me.”

“Fun.” Yelena’s voice was flat.  

“Yes.”

“Just…fun?” There was no disguising the hopeful sound in her voice, no matter how harsh the accent was. 

“No?” Her brain caught up with what she had been hearing. “I mean, the plan was to go out and have fun, right? And we had fun. I mean – that was the plan, wasn’t it?” Kate you are a genuine idiot just use your words and tell her she’s there tell her tell her tell her. 

She caught the look on Yelena’s face, and bit her lip before her mouth could say anything more.

“There was no plan. I did not ‘plan’ what happened last night.” There was a strange sincerity in Yelena’s voice. Kate could tell by the falter in her words. She was almost bemused, her face wearing a mystified expression, the words coming out soft, precise, and deliberate – as if each one had been weighed to precision. 

The way Yelena said “last night” made the words seem like a euphemism of rapture. Two words – two very simple words – yet they carried with them a world of memories and sensations, intimacy and want and desire and need. The way Yelena said “last night” made last night sound like one of the most terrifying, exciting and exhilarating things she had ever experienced. 

“Kate.”

The way she said Kate, all softness and tenderness, made the combination of those four letters sound like they were the most important letters in the entire world. 

“I am not good with words,” Yelena started. “So I take what I feel here…” she pointed to her chest, “…and I try to write them down. And I wanted to tell you during dinner last night, but it was not easy, Kate Bishop. It was hard, and I was so nervous, and I have been thinking about it so much and I did not know how to say it. And then I saw you and I could not help myself and I just had to kiss you, Kate Bishop, or else I would have died.

And then we did…that…” a faint flush appeared on Yelena’s cheeks, “but that was not the plan. I do not want to just do ‘that’ and only ‘that’.” She looked visibly flustered now, yet she kept her eyes on Kate’s face.

“My Daddy says that I should just tell you what’s in my heart but it’s not easy for me because for so long I did not even have a heart, and now that I have my heart back it is not easier at all. In fact it is harder, Kate Bishop, because now that I know how it feels to have my heart back, it is so hard to give it away.” She paused, looking at Kate, who could only listen.

“But I do, Kate Bishop. Want to give my heart away. To you.”

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

“I like you, Kate Bishop.”

Kate Bishop wanted to tear this moment out of the fabric of space, wipe glue on its back and stick it in a hardcover binder. She wanted to commence a torrid love affair with this moment, to wine and dine this moment, take this moment back home where she would do all that was necessary to bear this moment’s children. 

Kate said nothing for a time, just ran her fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped space that had grown inside her, taking – in time – the shape and form of Yelena Belova. 

“You’re a horrible liar, Yelena Belova.”

“What?” 

“You said that you weren’t good with words,” Kate said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. “You lied.” She reached out, holding Yelena’s hand. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Ever. And I’ve heard a lot. And it’s not fair because talking is my thing and your thing is making fun of me and you have no right to say something as beautiful as that because now I feel like anything I say would just be a lame copy of what you said. You took all the best words and you’ve left me with nothing.”

“Does that mean…?” The hopeful look on Yelena’s face was the most precious thing that Kate had ever seen in her life. 

“Yes, Yelena. I like you too.” 

“Oh.” The blonde seemed nonplussed for a moment. “Good.” And then her brow furrowed, and she glared, in mock offense, at Kate. “I did not leave you with nothing, Kate Bishop. I am far too romantic for that.”

“Oh really?” And Kate was on the verge of breaking down in tears. Happy tears. “What did you leave me with then?”

“My heart, Kate Bishop.”

“Oh yeah.” She leaned forward. “Then I guess I should leave you mine, so that you won’t have to go without.”