Work Text:
“How’d you find me?” Kate asks, or maybe slurs a bit.
“I always find you,” America replies, easy, settling down on the sidewalk beside her in a sinuous slide of limbs. Kate’s not capable of that – she thinks she got down here in more of a crumple.
“I didn’t call,” Kate says, “or, did I call?” Her phone’s… around, screen shattered, another argument, she can’t even remember who with anymore. Everyone, possibly. “Fuck.”
America flicks a fingernail against one of her starred wrists, she’s so unbelievably cool, Kate’s such a fuck-up, a drunk fuck-up with bandaids peeling back off her skin like so many awful afternoons.
“I’m here now, anyway,” America says, gently bumping her shoulder into Kate’s. It’s nice, the shoulder bump. Kate wants to catch it in her hands and maybe sob into it.
“I’m very tired,” Kate admits, burbles, “I’m very tired and I think drunk and I think probably not making good choices.”
America’s laugh is soft as she leans into her, her curls catching against Kate’s cheek. “So what else is new,” she says.
Kate groans, because of the Hawkeyes, she’s supposed to… well, maybe be the one who does this slightly less than the other one, anyway. She’s losing count; who’s keeping score these days?
“Anyway, I got you,” America says, linking their fingers. It’s simple, and complicated, all at once. Are they people who do this? They kiss; do they hold hands?
Kate clings on, and nods, slow. “You got me,” she agrees.