Chapter Text
Asking America to live with you wasn’t something you had exactly planned.
It sort of just happened.
Billy and Teddy were fighting, which has become nearly a daily occurrence with Loki’s instigating. A heated discussion between the two of them wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Teddy weren't so restless. He’ll say his part, then storm to another room in a frustrated huff, making Billy’s only option to follow along after him. Eventually their fights will loop the entire makeshift headquarters twice over. Somewhere between the third door slam and an accusation of reality manipulation, America caught you eye, her hand reaching out for her jacket. Without a second’s hesitation, you followed her to the door. Stepping into the night air felt like a escaping from a prison cell. The boys mean a lot to you, they know that, but it’s suffocating at times. There are too many elbows to knock against, never enough food around, and you’re so sick of putting the toilet seat down.
America hasn’t said a word, walking by your side down a random city street.
You have an idea as to what’s going on in her head and ask, “Are you hungry?"
She gives you a sideways glance and nods to the neon diner sign across the street, “Way ahead of you, princess.”
You laugh because you hadn’t realized that she had an actual destination in mind, or that you had been following her lead the entire time. You can’t say that it doesn’t feel nice, not needing to think for a moment. Not needing to be constantly aware of everything going on around you, constantly in fear of making a mistake and having one of your friends pay the price. No, letting America take the lead is feels very nice. And so does her hand, wrapping around your upper arm as a taxi speeds by in front of you. The confident grip both confuses and excites you while you cross the road. She doesn’t let go until you’ve stepped onto the sidewalk. Surprisingly, you’re able to keep that curious smile off your face, acting like it didn’t even happen. Like she didn’t just escort you across a street.
America is more focused on food than an analysis of her own actions. A bell chimes overhead as the door opens. You smell wondrous things, hear the sizzle of a short order grill, and see the most delicious looking apple pies on display. It’s a cute little diner, the floor is a checkered blue and white tile that matches the color of the counters and booths. The waitress, an adorably greying woman, looks very impressed when America orders a monstrous burger that you wouldn’t think she could finish if you didn’t know she could eat three in one sitting. You ask for a piece of apple pie and a chocolate milkshake, keeping it simple and sweet.
“How long do you think it will be before it’s safe to go back?”
America shrugs, chewing as thoughtfully as a person can, “This shits been going on for a week already. I’m not even sure I want to go back.”
Your lips frown around your straw.
She holds up her hand to stop your next question, “I’m not saying I wanna quit the team or anything, but being on a team doesn’t mean we all have to live together.”
You know that’s true. The Avengers live their own lives and come together when it matters. It would be nice to be able to breathe again, have a sense of privacy. You really miss privacy.
“Have you been on a team like this before?”
America pulls an indecisive face, “It wasn’t really like this. We worked under the radar and were always on the move. I don’t think we stayed in the same state for more than two days at a time.”
You’re about to ask more when she continues.
“You know I was on that team when I first met Loki?” America tosses a napkin onto her empty plate. “The prick tosses me into dimension of dead people—but not just dead people, these guys were the depressing ass leftovers of dead people—”
“Like ghosts?”
Her hand twists back and forth at the wrist as she tries to think of the right word, “More of a... lost-soul slash zombie-wannabe kinda situation. These guys were fricken bleak.”
“Oh,” you stack you plate on top of hers and slide them to the end of the booth, “that really sucks.”
“Girl, please. That was just the scenery,” she closes her eyes and slouches in the booth, crossing her arms. Star spangled boots settle on the seat next to your thigh, crossed at the ankle. “I had to fight this giant meathead who kicked my ass to hell and back. Then I had to rally the dead guys into some creepy séance shit before I could finally take him out, and even that was gross because—what are you smiling about?”
You’re smiling at her. The story and the way she tells it. How her hand waved around when she mentioned the séance incident, and the line that appeared between her eyebrows when she admitted to getting her ass kicked. Her implied resourcefulness makes you proud in some odd way. You really want to ask more about how she managed to get out of there. Mostly, you’re smiling at the way she’s frowning at you.
America doesn’t open up much. She rarely talks about what her life was like before joining the team. You know it’s a blessing to hear this story. She trusts you to hear about Loki’s involvement, to realize it's not something that should be overlooked, and to be discreet about it with the rest of the team. That trust really means a lot to you, so you're smiling because you're lucky to have it. There’s a spark of hesitation behind her eyes and you know it’s because sometimes America takes offense to smiles. You would try to explain that you didn’t mean anything by it, you were just enjoying her story, but you’re not sure if that would help.
Instead you say, “I’m getting my own apartment, you should come with me.”
You’ve never seen her look so surprised, her eyebrows almost get lost in her dark curls. You want to laugh, not because it’s funny but because you really enjoy seeing those small moments of genuine breaks in her guard. Maybe if you get her away from the boys for longer periods of time you’ll see more of them. Maybe you can find the America Chavez behind the brash attitude and left hooks.
“Are you serious, Bishop?” America’s surprise has evolved into skepticism.
“Yes,” you hold her eyes and cross your fingers under the table. “I mean it.”
She studies you for a long while and just when you’re about to say something awkward to reassure her there were no hard feelings if she declined, she nods.
“Alright, I’m in.”
This time you don’t hold back your smile, “Awesome.”
--
Apartment hunting is fairly easy. You figure out very quickly that America isn’t particular about the details. As you look around thinking about the available space and surrounding neighborhood, America will wonder off to look out the windows. Privately, you guess she’s worried about if she’ll be able to fly out of them or not. You wouldn’t mind a place with roof access either. When you finish your tours you usually find her sitting somewhere in the kitchen, the only room America thinks is worth inspecting. You’ll see the entire apartment while she touches countertops and measures fridge space.
That girl’s entire world revolves around her stomach.
“Did you want to see the rest of the place?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
You know her well enough to know that she doesn’t approve of something, “What don’t you like?”
She puts her hands in her pockets and leans against the counter top, “The stove.”
“What’s wrong with it?” you inspect the appliance. “It looks brand new.”
“It’s electric.”
You don’t say anything because you don’t really get the difference or why she’s talking about the stove like it’s insulted her. When she realizes you’re clueless she mumbles foreign obscenities under her breath and pinches the space between her eyes, "You can't get decent temperature control on electric stoves. It's like, fucking scorching or barely sizzling and there's nothing you can do about it."
“No way, you can cook?” you blurt out. The look she gives you makes you back pedal, “Of course, I meant that in a I’m very impressed sort of way, not in a I’m totally shocked kind of way.”
“I’m so sure,” America rolls her eyes, lightheartedly affronted. “Yeah, I can cook, but not on that piece of crap.”
“How come you haven’t said anything about cooking?” you wonder out loud. “The team goes out to eat nearly every night.”
“Just because I can doesn’t mean I want to cook for six people.”
“Ah,” you nod, understanding, “when you put it like that, it’s a secret worth keeping.”
“I mean,” she shrugs evasively, her sneaker tracing the lined kitchen tile, “two people, that’s fine. I don’t mind cooking for two people.”
When America looks up from her shoe and sees the smile on your face she scoffs like you’re the most ridiculous thing on the planet. And you're totally fine with that because she wouldn’t mind cooking for two and you’re moving in together and she’s trying to say that she wouldn’t mind cooking for you and something about that makes you smile big and ridiculous and that’s fine.
She shoves her hands in her pockets and walks off, grumbling about good old fashion gas stoves.
You’re still smiling when you follow along.
--
After three days of searching you find a place that even America likes.
At first you think she’s sold on the skylight windows—then she sees the kitchen. Her fingers drum along the counter top as she walks, her eyes examine cupboards and drawers. She stops in front of the stove, which she considers the heart of a household as far as you’ve been able to gather. The stovetop is iron clad and something that reminds you of medieval dungeons. America isn’t the most expressive person in the entire world, you’ve accepted that, but you see the tilt of her eyebrows and know she’s impressed.
That’s really all you need to know about the place.
Papers are signed, handshakes are made, and you’re all set to move in at the end of the week. That’s relatively easy for America, who can fit everything she owns in a faded military issue duffle bag. Your move is a little more comprehensive, America helps you with boxes and bringing in furniture. That night, the first you spend under this roof, she takes care of dinner. She makes a stir-fry that fills the whole apartment with spice and warmth. You sit on the countertop a little bit away and watch her turn off the stove top and slide the pan onto a cool burner.
“I’m going to get you and apron,” you announce, passing her an empty plate.
America’s eyes slide to you with little amusement and a whole lot of skepticism.
“Don’t worry,” you wave off her concerns, “it’ll totally match the rest of your wardrobe.”
She shakes her head and hands you a plate of food, “Eat that. We don’t need any more ideas from you until all the boxes around this place are empty.”
You glance at the... smallish gathering of boxes that still needs to be unpacked, “Oh, we’ll get to that. Besides, I think my ideas are actually pretty awesome. Got us here, didn’t they?”
America catches your eye and offers you a fork. It’s the closest thing to an agreement as you’re ever going to get and that’s alright with you. She talks in her own way. She carried your stuff up three flights of stairs without complaint, she went out for groceries while you unpacked your clothes, and she made dinner, all to say thank you.
Then you take a bite of the food and realize it’s the best thank you ever.
“Christ, America, this is really good.”
You catch a bit of her smile before she ducks her head and turns to the iron stove burners, “Can’t beat a good flame.”
--
“So how’s living with Miss A?”
Teddy slides into the seat next to you and pushes a chocolate milkshake in front of you.
You thank him for the milkshake and try to hide your smile behind your straw, “It’s great actually.”
Together you look across the arcade, spotting America through the flashing lights and groups of teenagers. She’s been playing on the same game for about twenty minutes now, you think it’s her favorite because it’s the only one you’ve ever seen her play. Apparently it’s a popular one, as two boys are standing off her shoulder looking impatient.
One of them leans on the side of the game cabinet. His lips move but you can’t hear what he’s saying over all the bells and whistles of the arcade noise. America just might be pretending she has the same problem because she completely ignores him and continues to jam away at the game buttons. He repeats himself, reaching for her arm—you’re already cringing.
She doesn’t even look away from the screen; her hand snapping from the buttons, catching the boy at the wrist, and twisting hard. You might not have been able to hear what he said to her but you hear his yelp loud and clear. America uses his own warped arm to push him away from her game. His friend scampers along with him. She keeps playing and you don’t think her score suffered at all.
Teddy turns back to you with incredulous look, “I’m guessing she doesn’t like you touching her things.”
“I tried to fold her laundry once,” you give him this exasperated little grin. “That will never happen again.”
He laughs around a mouthful of nachos.
“But seriously,” you glance over at America again, just to see her biting her lip as she focuses entirely on her game. “She’s great. Did you know she cooks? Because she can cook like, really well, and she’s always hungry so she’s doing it all the time. I’m telling you, it’s all amazing food.”
“Always a plus,” Teddy agrees.
America’s awesomeness as a roommate is not something you expected to want to talk—or brag—about, but you tell him about how she always takes the time to pick up things needed around the apartment while she’s out. You laugh about the times you’ve actually been able to convince her to wear the apron you bought her.
“That stays between us,” you warn him just as Billy walks over to the table.
Teddy nods his understanding and pulls the chair out for Billy as he walks up. They sort of fall into their own world, like couples usually do, and your attention slides across the arcade. America is still playing that same game, only this time she’s not alone and something tells you this company is welcome.
She’s really pretty, that’s the first thing you notice about the girl leaning against America’s arcade game. She’s pretty and she’s laughing, tossing blonde hair and electric blue highlights over her shoulder. The smile on America’s face is tiny, faint in comparison. Her eyes cut away from the screen in front of her just to watch that laugh. You think her smile is not only sincere, it’s sort of proud. America made this girl laugh and she’s thrilled about it.
Sipping on your milkshake, you watch them talk. America keeps most of her attention on her game, hands working buttons and joystick with a confident ease, every few moments replying to something the girl says. You wish you knew what they were talking about. You wish you knew what put that smirk on America’s face and is making her foot balance on the toe of her shoe like that.
The blonde slides closer to your roommate and takes a step over the line for you. It’s not the proximity, not really, it’s the hand slipping around America’s arm. You touch your own arm, remembering America’s hand there once on a late night walk across a street. You finally understand that this girl is interested in your friend for more than her skill on Metroid.
“Hey, you alright, Kate?”
“Hm?” you glance over at the boys, who finally decided to include you in their conversation. “Yeah, I’m just—hungry. I’ll be right back.”
You’re standing from the table before they can say anything else and heading for the snack bar. There’s a plan in your head somewhere, something silly and spontaneous. The server pushes a huge basket of chili cheese fries your way and you take it with a generous smile.
When you turn the corner around the line of game cabinets and find your target without any trouble at all. She looks very nice today, with the game’s display light glowing against her skin and a charmingly casual attitude in her eyes. You’re not sure if she notices someone coming up next to her or if the smell of greasy food catches her attention and makes her look your way.
“Hey,” you think her eyes are very pretty when they’re trying to focus after staring at a bright screen for too long.
“Kate,” she blinks a few times, “what’s up?”
You give the blonde a polite smile and turn to America to make your offer, “So I ordered small and salt-less and they gave me a smothering pile of saturated fat.”
America’s attention, split between your face and your basket of chili fries, strays long enough to kill off her poor little character in the game. She just died in a game she’s dedicated the better part of an hour to and she doesn’t even notice. The corner of your mouth curls into a sly grin because you’ve got her. Even the blonde knows it, her hand gliding off America’s arm like it was never supposed to be there in the first place.
You tap America’s foot with your own, “Come over to the table and help me with these chili fries, will you?”
“Yeah, alright,” America lets go of the joystick and takes the basket of fries. Like an afterthought she glances at the blonde and asks, “You wanna take over here?”
“Sure,” she steps in front of the game cabinet and takes over the controls, giving America one last look.
You feel her eyes drilling a hole in the back of your skull as soon as you turn towards the boys.
You think it feels pretty great.
“I was kicking that game’s ass,” America tells you, already starting on the chili fries.
“I bet you were, but maybe we could pretend that you actually enjoy being social for once.”
She rolls her eyes at that, “They chose the place. Who hangs out at an arcade just to sit at a table and gossip?”
“People who were given free chili fries?” you suggest casually.
“So this is a bribe?” America gives you a sidelong glance, a smile in her eyes.
You feel a blush come over your face. You’re glad she thinks hanging out with the team was your only motivation.
“Something like that.”
“Well I don’t know how long these fries are going to last.”
“One more hour,” you promise, “then we can get out of here.”
“No, I don’t think so, chica,” she points a fry at you, making a proposition of her own. “How about we sit until I’m done eating and then I get to kick your ass at air hockey.”
“You’ll be done with that basket in like, five minutes.”
America seems excited by that prospective, “Less if you help me.”
Playfully you make a counter offer, “Forty minutes and you have to make an effort to join the conversation.”
“Effort? You know how much effort I put into not punching something every time they flip their Justin Bieber bangs or when you guys talk about that stupid How I Met Your Mother show?”
Your jaw falls open, mortally offended and completely confused, “How I Met Your Mother is awesome! You’ve watched nearly an entire season with me this week.”
America rolls her eyes so hard her head tilts back, “Are you kidding me? I only watch it because you like it.”
Stopping just far away enough from the table to be out of earshot, you’re kind of still processing when you ask, “You really don’t like that show?”
She shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “No, I don’t, but whatever, it makes you laugh. Besides, it’s not like you make me shut off Animal Cops even though that shit makes you cry like a little—”
“I do not cry,” your denial isn’t even remotely convincing and a blush spreads over your face.
America chuckles softly. She likes teasing you sometimes. She likes rattling your confidence and making you flush. So you tear up a little, who cares? It’s more like a misting and it’s totally normal for people who actually have a heart. The fact that she’s only bringing this up now, with that silly bantering attitude of hers, means she really doesn’t think any less of you for it. If she wanted to be malicious she could have been when you were sniveling about abandoned puppy dogs. If she wanted to, she could have told you what she really thought of your favorite TV show before watching an entire season solely because it makes you laugh.
America is one of the most genuine people you know.
If she didn’t want to live with you, to be a part of your life, she wouldn’t be.
“Okay, new deal. If you can commit to half an hour of niceness with the boys,” there’s a challenge in your voice when you lay down your final offer, “I’ll play air hockey with you and I promise to never make you watch more than two episodes of How I Met Your Mother in a row ever again.”
America chews on a fry and thinks it over. The serious expression on her face brings an unavoidable smile to yours. It’s nice to realize that she’s no longer put off by your smiles, she’s grown used to them. She trusts your smiles and that makes you feel warmer than the basket of chili cheese fries.
Finally, she brushes by your shoulder to get to the table, “You got a deal, Bishop.”