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The first time Lance Hunter meets Bobbi Morse, she’s huddled in an alley bleeding from a gunshot wound that’s ripped through at least one artery.
“You must be the famous Mockingbird,” he says as he crouches down, rummaging through his bag for medical supplies. “I’ve heard you were good at flying below the radar, but I guess everyone gets grounded.” Bobbi grits her teeth.
“It’s Morse,” she snaps. “Quit trying to flirt with me and fix my leg before I die.”
Hunter wraps some bandages around her skin and supplies pressure to her wound before lifting her up and supporting her with his shoulder, helping her hobble out of the alley and into a far too nice hotel room.
“You certainly have a knack of getting yourself caught in tight places,” Hunter notes as he cleans her wound, blood soaking into the too-expensive sheets, and Bobbi think she should probably care more about both the man helping her and the fact that she’s killing expensive upholstery. But she really can’t find the energy to give two shits.
“I told you, stop flirting with me,” Bobbi groans, one hand wiping sweat from ashen skin. Hunter looks up and grins.
“If you thought I was bloody flirting with you, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
This is what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter: Expert intelligence agent. Favors his right knee after an op gone wrong four years ago in Belize. Masters in engineering with a side of Royal Navy Officer training. Good with a knife, better with a gun.
This is also what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter: Cuts in line at the cafeteria in SHIELD headquarters. Has a temper that most people would roll their eyes at. Spends too much of his off time at the gym. Is generally a snarky asshole -- except when he isn’t.
This is what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter: she would never in a million years want to be in a relationship with someone like him, because one master assassin marksman with a sarcastic side was enough.
The next time they meet, it’s in Jakarta. She’s undercover, trailing a man who is supposed to be handing off an illegal weapons trade, and is carefully biding her time at a small outdoor cafe when someone sits down across from her, throwing her out of her thoughts.
“Sorry, is this seat taken?” Hunter asks with a barely-there smile and Bobbi shifts slightly, just enough to allow herself to keep an eye on her surroundings.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses the words sharply, her lips barely moving and Hunter grins, slipping on dark sunglasses.
“Caught your trail a few days back. Thought you could use a hand.”
“A hand.” Bobbi sits back slowly, the words percolating in her mind. “Are you stalking me?”
“Darling, it’s not stalking if they give me your coordinates,” Hunter responds, pushing a paper across the table. Bobbi reaches out carefully, grabbing it with the tips of two manicured fingers.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters to herself, crumpling it in her palm. “You really are as annoying as they told me.”
“Personally, I’d like to think that I’m downright bloody pleasant,” Hunter says, picking up her half-filled cup of coffee. “And you better look forward to getting to know me...Mockingbird.”
This is what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: Skilled martial artist, gymnast, and excels at hand-to-hand combat. Has a doctoral degree in biology, but is overly proficient in the field. Likes guns, prefers battle staves.
This is also what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: Spends too much time training. Works most of the time and when she’s not working, is in the lab or at home. Generally pushes people in the field -- except when she’s on her own.
This is what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: he would never in a million years want to be a relationship with someone like her, because he hates people who try to tell him what to do.
The first time they fuck is in Singapore, and it’s by accident.
It comes down to boredom, really, and when Bobbi reflects on that, she doesn’t know if it makes the situation better or worse. She’s lying on the big bed and Hunter is in the bathroom, cleaning up from a mission that’s left him bruised and slightly battered, with cuts all over his face and bruises all over his body.
“Antiseptic and neosporin are in the cabinet,” Bobbi calls out without moving or opening her eyes, and then there’s the sound of shuffling feet across the carpet.
“I’d soon prefer an ice pack and plastic surgery.” Bobbi cracks open one eye, feeling her lips turn up slightly.
“It’s not that bad,” she lies, staring at the black and blue colors starting to form under his left cheek and the large scrape down the side of his jaw. “I’ve seen worse.”
“The hell you have,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “Although sadly, I do believe that. So what now?”
“Seriously?” Bobbi sits up, angling herself onto her elbows. “We wait for our next call. Take a nap or something.”
“That sounds utterly boring,” Hunter complains, and Bobbi raises an eyebrow in his direction.
“Please define the word boring.”
“Darling, trust me. You do not want to start with this right now,” and Bobbi takes a breath, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.
“Maybe I do," and Hunter turns and looks at her, his face a mixture of surprise and wonder.
“You can’t be serious.”
This is what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: when he thinks she’s out of her mind, that’s when she absolutely, one hundred percent wants to do things you never thought she’d ask.
There are code names: Havana and Moscow and London. She calls him from Italy and tells him not to die, and he calls her from California and tells her to watch her six. She never knows if that means he’s going to show up unannounced and surprise her when she least expects it, or if it means that she should get a hotel somewhere and wait for him to arrive two days later, looking like someone put him through the wringer.
This is what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter: He’s unpredictable, but he’ll always have your back in the end.
Cambodia is, by all accounts, a disaster.
They lose their mark early on and Bobbi spends most of their trip in frustration, while Hunter cleans his gun over and over again as they stake out a rooftop.
“If you had let me go after him like I wanted to --”
“Bloody hell, Morse, I’m not about to just let you kill a guy with no warning --”
“-- well, if you had, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now, I can tell you that much.”
“Knock it off, alright? At least we’re in this together.” Hunter blows out a breath. “Look, you’d be right to want to take the shot, but give it a rest.”
Bobbi glares at him. “I did give it a rest. And we lost our target.”
“And of course, you blame me for that.” His lips tick upwards. “You know, isn’t this what they sold you on when you joined SHIELD?”
“Oh, clearly,” Bobbi spits out, rolling her eyes, but there’s a shared grin, because he knows she can’t help it. (That measure of letting down her guard stopped in Turkey.) “Travel to exotic, distant lands. Meet exciting, unusual people.”
Hunter scoffs. “Kill them.”
When their mark shows up again, four hours later, Bobbi takes him out with one bullet and Hunter tells her it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
The first time Bobbi tells Hunter, “don’t die out there,” she thinks she sounds stupid.
But when Hunter tells Bobbi, “don’t die out there,” she begins to take it to heart.
“Truth or dare.” They’re freezing to death, or so Bobbi thinks, she can’t really be sure. All she’s aware of at the moment, and all she cares about, is Hunter’s arm around her shoulder and his back pressed into hers as they share body heat and the promise of extraction that they’ve been told will occur.
“Truth,” Bobbi says. She doesn’t want to admit anything Hunter will probably ask her about, but she also doesn’t really want to move, so she figures it’s the lesser of the two evils. Besides, there was always lying.
(This is what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter: he’s amazingly good at calling you on your bullshit.)
“What really happened with your marriage to that carnie kid? How the bloody hell does a SHIELD agent end up with an Avenger?”
Bobbi sucks in a breath, fighting down the urge to visibly react. Her and Clint might have gone their separate ways but hell if Bobbi was ever going to let anyone who didn’t truly know him except as a superhero judge his character worth.
“What happened is that it didn’t work out, because sometimes, as much as you like someone, you’re just not meant to be together,” Bobbi responds curtly. “Means nothing about him as a person. He was a good kid. Guy,” she corrects, because as much as Clint had been childish at times, he was certainly more mature than she’d probably admit to...not to mention physically older than her. Hunter frowns.
“Would you get married again?”
“That’s more than one question,” Bobbi snaps, flinching slightly. “And it’s my turn. Truth or dare.”
“Ah.” Hunter sounds playful, despite the fact that Bobbi can feel him shaking against her. “Truth, obviously.”
(This is what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: she doesn’t pull her punches.)
“What would you do if you couldn’t run around with SHIELD?” And Hunter falls silent for so long that Bobbi starts thinks he might actually be taking the question seriously.
“Not sure,” he says finally. “Travel to exotic places, see the world, right?”
“Apparently,” Bobbi mutters, but his answer has intrigued her enough to poke at it. “Really? No other career goals?”
“Oh, I dunno. Might have been a fisherman or something,” Hunter says casually and Bobbi sincerely can’t tell if he’s lying or not which frustrates her more than she wants to admit.
“I hate you.”
“Morse, you bloody love me.”
(She won’t say it out loud, or for that matter, believe it for another year, but she does.)
“Were you serious?” Bobbi asks from her hospital bed when she can finally speak without feeling drained, and Hunter looks over.
“About what?”
She wants to remind him about truth or dare. She wants to remind him about Cambodia. But those were in the past, and this was the present, and the present meant that she almost died for real, and suddenly those conversations don’t seem so significant. So she doesn’t ask about those, and instead, asks the other question on her mind.
“When you told me that taking a bullet for you was stupid.”
“It was,” Hunter says, clipping his words. “The stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Right.” Bobbi swallows painfully, because everything still hurts too much to feel normal. “Moreso than walking into a trap that you knew was a trap?”
“You were in danger,” Hunter protests, and Bobbi feels her lips lift slightly.
“You also told me not to die out there.”
“And I made damn well sure you didn’t.” He leans forward, taking her hand. “Join SHIELD, right? Travel to exotic, distant lands? Meet exciting, unusual people?”
“Get shot,” Bobbi mutters under her breath, and Hunter smiles.
“I’m thinking maybe we can leverage your little stunt to get Coulson take us up on that exotic, distant lands offer, actually. Minus the shooting part.”
Bobbi shakes her head as gently as she can. “Physical therapy on the beach, then?”
“Ah, well.” Hunter moves his chair closer, and puts his thumb over her palm. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve also heard Spain’s great this time of year.”
(This is what Bobbi Morse knows about Lance Hunter, and this is what Lance Hunter knows about Bobbi Morse: the world will always be set to fire against them, but they find that the future looks more promising when they can navigate it together.)