#happy holidays...? from hawkeye

[nocontext4077th]

[canlifechillforasecond]

L'Shanah tova to Hawkeye Pierce specifically

[togrowoldinv]

The Sweetest Treat

Kate Bishop x Female Reader

Kate invites the Barton’s to New York for Halloween and you spend the night watching her shine with happiness

Note: Woohoo flufftober! Here’s another soft one!

Flufftober Masterlist, Main Masterlist

When Kate said that her Avenger friend, Hawkeye, was going to bring his kids to New York for Halloween, you weren’t sure what to expect.

She had only just started dating you when she met Clint and all of her life began to change. It wasn’t easy on her to lose her mother to prison, but her relationship with Clint and his wife helped her feel better.

You just know that you’re grateful to them and can’t wait to meet them today. Kate has her apartment decorated for the holiday and is practically bouncing off the walls excited for them to arrive.

“Do you think we bought enough candy?” Kate asks as she waits by the door.

“I think we have enough for all of New York,” you joke. She nods seriously. “Kate, baby, don’t worry. There’s plenty for Clint’s kids and plenty for trick or treaters.”

“You’re right,” Kate says. “I just want to make sure they’re happy. I had a great time meeting them at Christmas, but what if things aren’t as good this time?”

“It’s going to be amazing, Kate Bishop. You’re amazing and there’s nothing that’s gonna change that,” you encourage her.

She smiles and hugs you. Your head falls perfectly against her chest as you soak up the warm affection.

“I love you. Did you know that?” Kate asks.

“Mhm, I sure did. I love you too,” you say.

You stay in each others arms until you’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Kate opens the door.

The youngest kid practically barges in before he’s held back by his mother.

“Hi everyone,” Kate says, her smile beaming. “Come on in.”

“Thank you, Kate,” Laura says. You recognize her from photos that Kate brought home after Christmas. She hugs Kate and looks to you. “And you must be, y/n.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Laura says. Her attention is stolen by her young son running around the apartment already. “Excuse me.”

“Hey Kate,” Clint greets her now. He looks at her almost softly. You know she values his place in her life.

“Hawkeye,” she greets him with a laugh that he shares.

“Lila’s been excited to see you again,” Clint says quietly so only you and Kate and can hear him. “She thinks you’re cool. Her words, not mine.”

Kate’s eyes shine at his words. You can already see the impact this family has on her.

Lila and Cooper had made themselves comfortable on the couch. Kate leads you over to the teenagers.

“Hey guys,” Kate says. “This is my girlfriend, y/n. Y/n, this is Cooper and Lila.”

“Hey, nice to meet you both!” You say. “Kate told me all about the card games y’all played at Christmas. If we ever play, just know you’re all going down.”

“We’ll see about that,” Lila says. You like her already.

“What have you been up to?” Kate asks Lila.

They catch up on life and you love watching them interact. Kate seems lighter already. A few hours pass and it’s time for the kids to get ready to go trick or treating.

Nate is dressed up and so is Cooper. He doesn’t seem like he wanted to but his little brother wanted to wear matching costumes.

“Do I have to go?” Lila asks her parents. She’s not wearing a costume, but they still want her to go walk around with them.

“She can stay with us,” Kate jumps in. “We’re going to pass out candy.”

“Please Mom, can I?” Lila pleads.

“Alright,” Laura agrees. “Be good.”

“I’m always good,” Lila says.

“I know,” her mom says. “All three of you be good.”

You all nod and see the rest of the Barton’s out of the apartment. Kate turns on a fun Halloween playlist and you give out candy as the trick or treaters come. You love watching her interact with the kids. She always compliments their costumes.

The night is winding down and Kate is giving out candy to the last few kids in the building. You sit on the couch and sip on a warm apple cider.

“Can I ask you something?” Lila suddenly turns to you and asks.

“Sure,” you say, sitting upright a bit more. Her tone seems serious.

“How did you know you were in love with Kate?” Lila asks. She looks away like she’s scared of the answer.

“Oh, well it was a really interesting sensation. I just kind of looked at her one day and I thought yeah I love this girl,” you say. “It wasn’t some epiphany as much as it was just something that felt right.”

Lila nods and her eyes tell you she wants to say more.

“Why do you ask?” You press.

“No reason,” she shrugs. “I just- I might be at that point with someone and I was just curious.”

“Ah, I see,” you say. The girl smiles nervously. “Follow your heart, Lila. And you just might find that it leads you to the place you’ve always belonged.”

“Thank you, y/n,” Lila says. She hugs you.

“Of course,” you reply, hugging her back.

“Aw man,” you hear Kate’s voice. “I’m going to replaced by you now.”

“No one could ever replace you Kate,” Lila says. Kate sits next to her on the couch and wraps her arm around her shoulder. “Y/n is cool though.”

“Isn’t she?” Kate asks. “I got the best treat of all.”

“You’re an absolute cheeseball,” you tease her.

Kate smiles softly. You end up turning on a movie and relaxing until the rest of the Barton’s get back to the apartment. You enjoy hearing about Nate’s night.

Kate lays down with you that night so content that it makes you emotional. You kiss her softly and fall into a deep sleep.

She’s the sweetest treat indeed.

[remyfire]

First off, happy holidays if you celebrate! Second: I don't know if you're interested, but I had a head cannon I had to yell at someone, and since you enjoy MASH, I thought I'd share :)

So, throughout the series, we see Hawkeye and Margaret's relationship growing from total animosity and antagonism to definitely dear friends by the end. And there's also sparks of attraction there, too (and not just Hawkeye making bawdy comments)! Realistically, I don't know that I could see a full-on relationship either during or after the war. They both seem to want totally different things in life.

But... what I like to think is that they kept up correspondence after the war and maintained their very close friendship (that is akin to friends with benefits but kind of more? Like very emotional too?). They are the one person the other can lean on in times of sadness, anger, and frustration, but also joy and happiness and delight. Also, but... they totally are so passionate when they're together.

For example: Margaret gets married again. Things don't work out. She retreats to Maine to get away, and when they're together, Hawkeye totally takes care of her (if you know what I mean 😉 ).

Maybe alternately, Hawkeye has a bad breakup or something sad happens in his life. Margaret is there for him and they're soft and tender with each other.

So, tldr: Hawkeye & Margaret are besties that have a physical relationship when they need someone to hold, and they love each other dearly!

OUGH, this is such a dear series of thoughts and I'm so tender about all of them!!! ;v;

Honestly this is the way I most often see their relationship going postwar, that deep queerplatonic love for one another, colored warmly by them no longer being afraid of their mutual attraction. It's true, they might want different things in life, but they were two of the few people who were in that hellscape together from the very beginning. They've witnessed each other's growth in ways that they never could've fathomed happening when they first met. It's impossible for them to pretend that there isn't a part of their souls that are intrinsically linked now after surviving all of those horrors.

I really do believe that regardless of where either of them might settle down after the war, their orbits will inevitably make them meet up over and over again. They can be catty and playful with each other in a way that is difficult for them to find with anybody else. And god knows them entering into the era of free love will provide many delightful opportunities for them to hook up without as many judgmental eyes on them for doing so.

Anyway, sorry, I'm rambling, but I am tender :) Thank you for sharing!!

[hard-core-super-star]

i think i love you still [K.Bishop]

pairing: kate bishop x reader

summary: you've spent four years trying to understand the complicated mess of thoughts that make up kate bishop. after dealing with the pain of her absence, and the more significant pain of her return, you finally get it right.

warnings: none; light angst with happy ending; childhood best friends to idiots in love who are too stubborn to admit it; my writing style changing ever other paragraph

wordcount: 2.8k

a/n: this very loosely follows the events of hawkeye up until the day before the christmas party. it's also heavily inspired by babyblue by xana. you don't have to listen to it for the fic but it's an incredible song and i can't recommend it enough. enjoy! <3

* * * * * * *

People say absence makes the heart grow fonder but you call absolute bullshit on that.

Although to be fair, the problem isn’t the saying. The problem is Kate Bishop.

You’re definitely not the first person to think that, and you certainly won’t be the last considering the kind of person Kate is, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be upset about it. Especially considering the years that have passed.

You’ve always given her the benefit of the doubt, not because you think she deserves it but because you would have driven yourself crazy from the amount of unanswered questions Kate left behind. Or more specifically, from the fact that she left you behind with no explanation.

Kate deciding to leave you and Bishop Security behind to go to university outside of the city wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was her refusing to tell you about her decision until the day she had to leave, making sure to tell you how unambitious she thought you were for taking the job her mom offered you as her secretary.

You still didn’t know what hurt more, her disappearing from your life or the insults she hurled your way before she left. Kate Bishop has many flaws and being an overachiever is definitely near the top of the list. Hence the amount of effort she put into shoving you out of her life.

It should have made working with her mom incredibly uncomfortable but Eleanor seemed to understand your pain better than you could have imagined. Being left behind by the young archer wasn’t an experience that was unique to just you and yet it didn’t make you miss her any less. You're usually good at ignoring the pain her absence left inside you but tonight is different. You look around the bustling party, the smallest of frowns on your face.

This was definitely the worst part of your job. You didn’t mind the long meetings, the stacks of reports you had to look through every day or even the miscellaneous tasks that Eleanor assigns you because you’re the only one who won’t complain about having to bring her another cup of coffee every few hours.

All of that was nothing compared to having to go to stupid galas with even stupider people. You’ll never understand why your boss insists on you accompanying her to every Bishop Security gala considering the lack of something to do. You have a sneaking suspicion it’s her way of trying to get you to interact with more people to hopefully find a way to get over Kate but you’ve never questioned her about it.

You catch sight of your boss while scanning the room for something to take your mind off a certain purple archer and she calls you over to her. You force a smile onto your face as you approach her. “Is everything okay?”

“You don’t have to sound so formal, y/n,” Eleanor says with a small smile. “We’re out of the office.”

“Right. My question still stands though.”

She affectionately rolls her eyes at your insistence. “Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted you to hear the news from me. Kate is home for the holidays…and she’s coming tonight.”

You force yourself not to react even though your first instinct is to run as far away as possible from the party. You try to be calm but your voice comes out a tad harsher than intended. “And I’m supposed to be interested in that information because?”

“Because she’s been looking your way since I called you over.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise and even though you really shouldn't do it, you lift your head up and scan the room for Kate Bishop. You don’t have to search for long. Even with the years gone by, your eyes are immediately drawn to her tall, suit-clad frame. She meets your eyes from across the room and you swear everyone else disappears until only the two of you remain. You notice the clench in her jaw even from this distance and you hate yourself for finding it extremely attractive.

Some things never change.

“You should go talk to her.”

You tear your gaze away from Kate to stare incredulously at Eleanor for even suggesting that. “I’d rather get fired than spend five minutes with her.”

“Then you’re lucky we’re not at work,” she says with a playful glare. “Come on, y/n, how long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

She already knows the answer. She was the one you called to pick you up from Grand Central Station after Kate left you behind to chase after…whatever it is she was hoping to find out there. You’re not sure if you’re hoping she found it or not.

“That doesn’t matter. She’s visited New York how many times since she started college?” You let the question hang in the air for a few seconds to avoid sounding as bitter as you feel. “And how many times did she come to see me?”

The older Bishop woman raises her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I get it. I won’t push. Just think about it?”

She walks away from you with a small smile, probably going off to find Jack to tell him all about yet another failed attempt at getting you and Kate back on speaking terms again.

When you turn back, Kate’s gone and you do your best to ignore the ache her absence leaves inside you.

You decide to go back to your apartment a few minutes later which means you successfully miss the drama that unfolds. What you don’t miss is the news report recounting the events or the text from Eleanor telling you you don’t have to go to the office for the next few days. You find it strange but you’re not about to say no to some much-needed time off.

That does mean you miss Kate’s surprising return to Bishop Security which leaves you completely unprepared when she shows up at your door with a ridiculous request and an even more ridiculous outfit.

“I need you to take care of my dog for a few hours.”

That’s the first thing she says when you open your door. No greeting. No apology. No explanation as to why she has the audacity to ask you for a favor after avoiding you like the plague for almost four full years.

Unfortunately for you, your anger is momentarily forgotten at the sight of the adorable golden retriever standing happily at the brunette’s side. “Since when do you have a dog?”

“Since last night,” she replies with a shrug. “I saw him outside of the party yesterday and my heart wouldn’t let me leave him behind.”

You have no doubt that she was trying to be cute with that reply but all it does is make you remember all the reasons why you should slam the door in her face. She seems to read your mind just from the shift in your facial expressions because she ‘accidentally’ lets go of the dog’s leash and lets him run straight into your apartment.

“Listen, I can explain, and I will, just not right now. But I promise you it’s important.”

Of course.

You were kidding yourself if you thought Kate had actually changed. It’s always been this way with her. There’s always something to chase that’s infinitely more important than you. So important, in fact, that she can’t even stop for five seconds to explain what the hell is going on.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Kate.” There’s a flash of something in her eyes, maybe it’s regret or maybe it’s disappointment, but it’s gone just as fast as it came. She opens her mouth to say something but you interrupt her before she can dig herself into a deeper hole. Yet another habit that you’re sure she hasn’t learned to break. “It’s fine, just go.”

She hesitates for a second before giving you a small nod and walking away. You watch her go just like all the other times before. Except this time there’s an excitable dog waiting inside your apartment. You try not to think about how badly you wish the furry companion by your side was Kate instead as you go about your day.

To no one’s surprise, you don’t hear from the archer for the rest of the day. You would be disappointed if you weren’t so used to it. At least this time, Kate’s broken promises only result in you having to take care of the golden retriever, who you’ve affectionately started calling Lucky, and nothing else…or so you think.

It’s not until late morning the next day that your door receives another urgent knock. Lucky immediately reacts, jumping down from the couch and running over to the door, his tail wagging rapidly as if he can tell his new owner is waiting on the other side. You chuckle despite yourself before following after him. “I don’t think you’re getting this dog back, Kate.”

The smile on your face disappears once you take in her appearance. Her face is littered with small cuts and you can see the outline of a bruise forming on the side of her jaw. Your eyebrows furrow the longer you look at her but the answer is given to you by the purple costume she’s wearing. Even without a bow in her hand, it’s obvious what her outfit represents and you can literally feel your heart sink into the depths of your stomach.

“y/n-”

“No. Save it.” There’s a mix of concern and frustration in your tone but you don’t have nearly enough time to figure out which feeling is stronger. “Just take your dog and go.”

“I can’t,” she says, tinges of desperation painting her voice. “I owe you an explanation.”

You scoff. “Oh, you owe me much more than that. You have no idea what the last four years have been like for me.”

The brunette takes a step forward, clearly asking a silent question. “Then tell me what I’m missing. Help me make it right.”

“I’m not a stupid Avengers mission, Kate!” You hate the way your voice breaks under the weight of your repressed emotions. “If you're looking for someone to save, you're in the wrong place. I don't need you. Not anymore.”

You're ready for that to be the end of the conversation and you reach out to grab hold of Lucky’s leash. You're about to hand the leash over to Kate when her next words stop you in your tracks.

“What if I need you?”

You stare at her with wide eyes almost not believing what you've just heard. Four years of silence and absence. That's what it took to hear those words you've desperately longed for.

But it's not enough.

“You're a little too late.”

She wants to fight back against your words. You know her well enough to recognize that spark of determination in her eyes. Despite what you've just said, a part of you hopes that's what she's going to do. That this time she’ll fight for you.

Instead, all you get is a mumbled apology as she snatches Lucky’s leash and walks away again. You shouldn't have expected anything different…but you did. You expected whatever mess she seems to be in to be more than enough motivation to fix what happened between the two of you.

Kate Bishop is many things but predictable isn’t one of them.

The next few days go by far too slowly for your liking. Eleanor denies your request to go back to work (multiple times) and without a place to travel to for the holidays, you’re stuck in the one place you’d rather not be. You don’t think there’s a single corner of New York that won’t remind you of the one person you don’t want to spend any more time thinking about.

It’s not until the day before the Christmas party, a party you helped arrange even though it’s definitely not a part of your job description, that you run into the purple archer once again. Or more specifically, she runs into you.

You’re on your way out of your apartment despite the heavy rain that falls outside. You open your door expecting to be met with an empty hall only to find a soaking-wet Kate Bishop standing on your doorstep, looking like the world’s largest golden retriever. You do your best to ignore the way your heart skips a beat just from the mere sight of her. It takes a few seconds for you to get over your shock but you manage to find your voice. “Kate? What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I know I’m the last person you want to see right now.”

You briefly consider slamming the door shut in her face but decide against it. For the moment. “That didn’t answer the question, Bishop.”

“I just…” She sighs. “I had to see you again.”

“So you decided to walk here in the pouring rain?” You’re stuck between wanting to call her an idiot and wanting to admit how cute she looks. Yeah, you’re still a sucker for her puppy dog eyes.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance after everything I’ve done but please. I can’t keep this inside any longer. I need to talk to you.”

A long moment of silence goes by before you make up your mind. You might be signing yourself up for more disappointment but you have too many unanswered questions to let her walk away again.

“Come in before you catch a cold,” you say as you open the door wider for her.

She wastes no time in complying and you’re almost certain the shakiness of her hands has less to do with the rain and more to do with her nerves. You take a deep breath to calm your racing heart before shutting the door and following after her.

She stands awkwardly in the middle of your living room, her eyes scanning every picture frame and random poster that adorns your walls. You can tell the realization she comes to by the subtle slouch of her shoulders. There’s not a single thing in your living room that carries the memory of her. No pictures, no posters, no trace of the role she played in your life at some point.

“Let me get you a towel or something.” You start to walk away but a hand on your wrist stops you. You let her turn you around, not putting up any sort of fight as she pulls you in closer to her.

You wait for her to say something but all she does is stare into your y/e/c eyes, her grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly. You can practically see every thought that flickers through her mind and you want nothing more than to spend the rest of the day deciphering the walking contradiction of feelings that make up who she is.

“y/n…” Her voice trails off as her blue eyes travel down your face. You’ve never seen that look before but you’re almost certain you know what it means. And it makes your head spin. “I shouldn’t have walked away. Not the first time, not the last time. But I…I’m so afraid of hurting you. Again. I thought dealing with my feelings would be easier if I was away from you but I was wrong. All it did was make you a stranger and you have no idea how much I regret that. How badly I want to make things right between us because I…I love you. I always have. And I can't go another second without you knowing that.”

You’re stuck between who you’ve been and who you want to be.

You’ve spent the better part of four years cursing Kate for leaving you, regretting the love you couldn’t help but foster for her, wishing she had never stepped foot into your life. But now…with her standing in front of you, looking at you with sincere eyes strong enough to make any other girl weak in the knees, you accept the truth you’ve been pushing away for so long.

You don’t blame Kate for leaving. You don’t regret the years you spent by her side. You don’t wish you never met her. You don’t hate her.

You love her.

It’s been that way since the day you met her and no amount of stupid mistakes or misunderstandings can ever change that. Hell, not even both of your stubborn personalities could change it.

“Say something,” she whispers. “Please.”

She leans in toward you. It’s a small move but you pick up on it immediately. Your breath catches in your throat before you do the only thing you can think of.

You close your eyes and take a leap, trusting Kate to catch you.

And she does. For the first time, you embrace the uncertainty that makes up your strained relationship and she doesn’t leave you hanging. She meets you halfway and the feeling of her lips against yours holds a promise you know she’ll fight tooth and nail to keep. She's not leaving.

This time, and every time from here on out, she's staying. And that's all that matters.

[girlonthefireescape]

Cookies & Christmas Memories (Kate/Yelena)

Thought I'd share a Christmassy snippet from my current WIP (Brought a Knife to a Gunfight). I'd originally planned to post the full story before the end of the year, but I've still got a few edits left and then it goes to my beta.

This scene is from chapter one and rated G. (The full story is rated M.) It takes place on Christmas Day.

Full fic summary for context: "What do you mean you’ve brought the woman who tried to kill you home for the holidays?"

Set post-Hawkeye. After clashing over the number of forks a single person should own (as well as a bunch of other things), Kate and Yelena crash the Barton family Christmas.

(Comes with a dash of angst and a sprinkle of holiday cheer!)

- - -

Cookies & Christmas Memories

Once Yelena’s gotten the hang of it, she's bizarrely adept at sliding a knife under the dough and picking up even the most delicate shapes without tearing them.

"How are you so good at this?" Kate's trees and stars stick to the wood no matter how much flour she sprinkles on the table.

"I'm good with knives. How are you so bad at this?" Yelena cuts out a snowflake. "You need to add more flour."

"I already did that."

"You need to add more flour to your dough, not the table," Lila explains. "It's too greasy."

Kate still struggles, but the extra flour helps. The first batch goes into the oven, and within minutes, the room fills with the sugary aroma of her childhood. December afternoons spent in the kitchen. Her dad's booming laugh when he found her drawing stick figures in the melted chocolate she'd spilled on the counter.

"Aunt Nat said that one summer you kept pestering her so much about Christmas that she put on Christmas music and sang carols with you in July."

If Kate wasn't surreptitiously watching Yelena, she would've missed the subtle flinch at Lila's mention of Natasha. For a split second, Yelena looks lost, a barely-there frown on her face.

"I don't remember that."

Before Lila can ask a follow-up question, Laura gently cuts in. "You were so young, it's unlikely that you would."

Yelena glances at Laura and returns her focus to the task in front of her. She fidgets with the butter knife—they only have one spatula—scoops up her reindeer, and places it on the baking sheet, right next to Kate's snowman.

They mess around with icing and decorations until the sun slowly dips behind the horizon. The kids are still hunched over the table, busy decorating the last of the cookies, when Kate sets the stainless steel bowl on the drying rack.

"Nate, no!" Lila squeaks as a deluge of rainbow sprinkles whooshes onto the table. "Quick! Catch it before it goes on the floor."

They both dissolve into giggles.

The lock of the dishwasher clicks into place. Laura straightens and stretches her arms above her head. She points at Yelena. "I've got something for you."

She disappears into the living room and comes back with a book. "Nat loved this one. I thought you might like to have it."

Yelena stares at the paperback for a good few seconds before she accepts it. "Thank you."

- - -

The full story should be up on my ao3 early in the new year. Happy holidays!

(Photos are mine. Please don't reuse.)

[hawkeyejrhuntress]

Goodbye 4 Now! Bishova Holiday Challenge!

Bishova Holiday Challenge future:

As of today, the Bishova Holiday Challenge Is over. Week 5 voting is done, and winners will be announced shortly. Week 6 voting and best writer voting will also go up shortly as well. Both polls will be run simultaneously.

 So, for the elephant in the room, last week I went on a rant because I was noticing the stories did not have a lot of the holiday part which to me is a big part of the challenge…. I mean look at the name. First and foremost, this was not geared towards any one story… I know some people assume it was, but it wasn’t. Another thing I think people thought was voter fraud. I will say when the voting numbers jumped, I did look at the stories closely to see if the stories were really being read and even reach out to the writers and ask what the stats for their stories were. And the reports I got were comments were low, but hits and kudos were high which led me to interpret that the voting was legit and no problems there.

So back to the rant why did I go off my rocker? You see when Hawkeye came out it was marketed as a winter tv series. I mean it came out November, the final episodes had a massive tree, it had the trope of Clint potentially missing Christmas with his family and so on. And yet it was still an Avengers series, kickass fights, humor, and putty arrows. Here is where many in the Bishova Community fell in love with the idea of Kate and Yelena. Two badass independent strong women who would be part of the future of the MCU.

So, when I created the challenge last year my two goals were to get more Bishova stories as well more stories that gave the same holiday feeling we got from the series. That was my goal this year as well. I am happy to say thanks to some awesome writers that the first goal was achieved, the 2nd one fell short this year. I think for me that why I went off the deep end. I was chasing a fantasy. Also, I think there was some confusion that the challenge had to include Christmas. The reason it was called Holiday challenge was I did not want just Christmas, writers could have reconned our characters to celebrate Hannukah, Kwanza or something else. The only stipulation was it was a winter holiday. It could have also been something where the characters ruin the holiday because they hate it. I think that was lost in translation. Regardless, it does not excuse my rant last week. So, I apologize to all the fabulous writers who participated. Without yall this challenge would be dead in the water like them great whites sharks that keep getting murked by killer whales.

I do not know if this challenge will be back next year. I am not sure if people even want it back after my tantrum last week which is fair. If it does come back, it will be different how I do not know, but it will be. I think I will still list some holiday prompts if the challenge is not back cause my mind is a scary place and I need an outlet. So, for next year I do not know what the future holds. Plus, I think right now since we have not seen Kate and Yelena on screen together in years the fandom is in a lull, so hopefully that changes. Anyway Happy Holidays to all, be on the lookout for the last two polls and everyone be safe. Also special thanks to the following Writers who participated….. YALL ARE THE ROCKSTARS!

CelticKitten25

Writer_At_ Heart

Chi_Raven

DoomTheShroom

19harmony

LostParkMih

Gayasawindow

Zarkosaur

pepperbrook_99

ooga_94_booga

[swan-of-sunrise]

Hawkeye (Part III)

Summary: On Christmas Eve, (Y/N) and Steve receive some shocking updates from Clint and after the archers’ fight against Kingpin, the Tracksuits and a Black Widow assassin out for blood at Rockefeller Center, the exhausted duo accepts their hospitality.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Hi guys! I'm feeling a bit better now, so I've returned with a longer chapter filled with holiday fluffiness! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Hawkeye (Part III) December 24th, 2024 Holy Cross Cemetery, Brooklyn (Previous Chapter)

“I still can’t believe that people really used to decorate their Christmas trees – their very dead, very dried-out Christmas trees – with lit candles.” (Y/N) shook her head in amazement as they slowly walked past the crumbling gravestones and carefully avoided the piles of snow resting atop the frozen grass on the way down the slope to their parked car. “I mean, weren’t they afraid that they’d accidentally burn their houses down in exchange for a little holiday cheer?”

Steve nonchalantly shrugged and hitched Carina higher up on his waist. “Arsenic was in practically everything, cocaine was prescribed by doctors as medicine, and people guzzled down pure wood alcohol throughout the entirety of Prohibition; trust me, candles on Christmas trees were the least of our worries. Our tree caught fire once when I was ten or eleven and after Ma put it out, she scraped together enough money to buy a secondhand strand of lights and we never put candles on our tree again.” After taking note of her stunned silence, a mischievous smile broke out across Steve’s face. “If you think that sounds crazy, then you probably don’t wanna know why we had to stop putting strings of popcorn and cranberries on the tree…”

“And you’d be absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent correct, sweetheart.”

The morning of Christmas Eve saw the Rogers-(Y/L/N) family visiting the graves of Sarah and Joseph Rogers at Holy Cross Cemetery, Brooklyn’s sole Catholic cemetery; they’d brushed clumps of snow and wayward leaves off the two weathered gravestones, laid bouquets of red and white poinsettias and recounted stories of Christmases past in a continuation of Steve and Sarah’s old yuletide tradition. Typically, Steve never cried or showed much outward emotion whenever they’d visited his mother and father’s gravesite, but that morning he couldn’t seem to keep the happy grin off his face as he held his infant daughter in his arms and explained to his parents that they would soon be giving them a second grandchild. Seeing her husband so happy about having another child and being able to experience the entire pregnancy alongside her always succeeded in causing her heart to warm in her chest, but there was something special about watching him tell his parents about the life that so many people believed – including himself – he’d never be able to live. It’s also given me several ideas of what to do with him after we put Cari down for her nap, she thought with a sultry inward smile, ideas that are a little too risqué to voice in the middle of a Catholic cemetery.

(Y/N) was in the middle of strapping a squirming Carina into her car seat when her cell phone rang. “Sweetheart, could you get that for me?”

“Of course.” He jogged around the car and climbed into the passenger’s seat, grabbing her phone out of her purse and humming in interest when he noticed the name on the screen. “It’s Clint.”

Glancing up from the buckle, (Y/N) shot her husband a knowing look and slowly replied, “That can’t be good…”

Steve nodded in agreement before swiping a thumb across the screen and putting the call on speakerphone. “Hey, Clint; (Y/N)’s hands are a little busy, so I’ve got you on speakerphone. What’s up?”

“Are you guys home right now?”

“We spent the morning laying flowers at Steve’s parents’ graves, and we’re just about ready to head home,” (Y/N) explained, a knot of apprehension beginning to fill the pit of her stomach as she detected the uncharacteristic unease in the archer’s voice. “Why do you ask?”

“We got it wrong, (Y/L/N); it was Eleanor Bishop the whole time. Kate’s mom killed Armand, framed Jack for the murder and forged his connection to Sloan Limited. She’s been working for Kingpin for well over a decade, and Kate only just found out.”

(Y/N), who’d just given Carina her pacifier and a kiss on her forehead, sat back and watched her daughter for a moment before sighing to herself, imagining the overwhelming anger, confusion and hurt that the twenty-two-year-old must’ve felt in reaction to the devastating news. “Poor Kate…how’s she holding up?”

“Better than I thought she would,” Clint replied, and there was a hint of pride in his words as he continued. “Eleanor’s turned on Kingpin and he’s gonna send a message to the city by attacking her company’s Christmas Eve gala, so Kate’s focusing on prepping for tonight’s fight. Those LARPers I told you about are giving us a hand, since most of ‘em are first responders when they’re not dressed up in costumes and pretend-fighting each other with fake weapons, and we’re gonna build as many trick arrows as we’ll need to take out an army of Tracksuits.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve’s hand twitch towards the glove box, where they both agreed to stash several weapons in the event that they were ever attacked by any new or former enemies. “Something else is wrong, isn’t it? Did Kingpin find out about-?”

“-No, no, it’s not that. Eleanor hired a Black Widow assassin to kill me; we had a scuffle last night but they retreated before they could finish their assignment. I just learned this morning that the assassin…it’s Yelena.” (Y/N) and Steve’s gazes met and their eyes widened in identical shock. “And this isn’t just an assignment for her. She’s here to avenge Nat’s death by taking out the one person she thinks is responsible.”

“…Clint, you aren’t responsible for the choices that Nat made. You know that, right?”

There was a slight pause on the other end of the call. “I know, Steve. But chances are she’s gonna show up tonight to complete her assignment, so I wanted to give you a heads-up in case she decides to go after you guys next.”

(Y/N) frowned. “You don’t really think that Yelena would-?”

“Nat told her about you, about how you were one of her best friends; if she’s targeting me, then there’s a chance she’ll target you, too. Just be ready for anything, okay? Booby trap the house Home Alone style if you have to, but don’t let your guards down.” The archer cleared his throat. “I’ve lost enough people in my life, and I don’t wanna lose any more of ‘em. You two read me?”

Although Clint couldn’t see them, a stoic-looking Steve nodded once. “Loud and clear. Good luck out there tonight, Clint.”

“And watch each other’s backs,” (Y/N) added, the barest hint of a smile beginning to play on her lips at the thought of the Tracksuits attempting to take on two skilled archers armed with the deadliest and most imaginative arrows in the world. “I’ve only heard stories from Nat about your plethora of trick arrows, so I look forward to seeing their aftermath on tonight’s newscast…but for Scott’s sake, maybe try and avoid using any Pym Particles.”

The archer chuckled. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want Hank to blow another fuse. I’ll be sure to call you guys after the firefight, okay?”

They bid one another goodbye and after Steve ended the call, he looked up at (Y/N) with a glint of determination in his azure eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Biting her lip, (Y/N) backed out of the car’s backseat and closed the door before slipping into the driver’s seat and sighing. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Brienne,” They both recited at the same time.

Brienne, named for the popular character from Game of Thrones, was an A.I. home defense system that Tony bequeathed to them after his death; according to Pepper, he created it shortly after their engagement announcement as a wedding present but after the Accords and what happened in Siberia, he stowed it away in his archives. It was a thoughtful gift that provided them both with a sense of security, but the A.I. – similar to J.A.R.V.I.S. and E.D.I.T.H. – came with not only a distinct voice, but a distinct and booming yell that was triggered by any movement around the perimeter of their home. The one and only time they’d activated Brienne was when they resided in Maine, and the A.I.’s defensive techniques frightened a passing black bear so badly that it scurried up a pine tree and stayed there for hours. But while (Y/N) was still unconvinced that Yelena Belova would target her in revenge for her sister’s death, she was wary of Kingpin and his considerable forces uncovering her family’s involvement in Clint’s latest mission. I suppose that the annoying A.I. is better than nothing, (Y/N) thought to herself as she switched on the ignition and her husband’s hand moved to rest on her knee, the warmth of his touch working to comfort her as they both silently contemplated their friend’s imminent fight against Kingpin, the Tracksuits and a vengeful Black Widow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“-considerable damage to Rockefeller Center, namely its ice public skating rink and the world-famous Christmas tree. But thanks to the bravery and heroism of Avenger Clint Barton, JOAD Olympian Achievement Award recipient Kate Bishop and a group of off-duty first responders, several dozen members of the organized crime syndicate called the Tracksuit Mafia were apprehended by the NYPD and no injuries were reported by any of the gala’s attendees. Additionally, Eleanor Bishop, CEO of Bishop Security and mother of Kate Bishop, was arrested for the murder of Armand Duquesne the Third, and notorious businessman and crime lord Wilson Fisk was rushed to the Rockefeller University Hospital with life-threatening injuries. After the break, we’ll talk with an eyewitness who claims to have spotted the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man swinging near the scene-”

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose.” (Y/N) remarked with a content sigh, reaching for the remote on the empty couch cushion beside her and switching the channel, settling on a broadcast of A Charlie Brown Christmas before continuing. “I just wish that Kate didn’t have to go through the pain of losing her mother on Christmas Eve.”

Steve, who was sitting behind her and gently massaging circles across her baby bump, pressed a comforting kiss onto her shoulder and rested his cheek on the top of her head as she nuzzled closer to him. “Eleanor chose Kingpin over her own daughter, and now she’s gotta answer for that choice. But Kate’s strong, and if she had the strength to throw herself into danger to do the right thing, then she’ll have the strength to recover from this.”

Something in Steve’s tone of voice made (Y/N) crane her neck to meet his gaze. When she saw the conflicted emotions written across his face and the faraway look in his azure eyes as he watched the cartoon playing on television screen before them, she moved her arm back and softly brushed her fingers through his cropped blonde hair to coax him into looking at her; he blinked and after his eyes finally met hers, she smiled but continued to twirl her fingers around the longer strands of his hair. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

Her husband remained silent for a long moment, only answering after (Y/N)’s free hand moved to rest atop one of the hands that was cradling her bump. “Christmas Eve, 2017. Wanda was off visiting Vision and I was alone in a run-down hotel room in Tunis, just waiting for Sam and Nat to come back from a meeting with one of her contacts. While I waited, I was watching this special dubbed in Arabic. I remember sitting there in that room just wishing with everything I had that I could’ve been here with you, and sometimes…sometimes, I try to imagine how different things would’ve been for us if I’d ignored the risks and the mission and come home for Christmas.”

(Y/N)’s smile faltered a little as she realized what he was tentatively referring to; late into December of 2017 was when she’d discovered that she was three months pregnant, and Steve wouldn’t find out about his daughter’s existence until the summer of 2018, when the Black Order invaded and they fought in the Battle of Wakanda. Steve met his daughter that day, only to tragically lose her several hours later in the Snap, and he’d suffered with the grief of her sudden loss alongside (Y/N) for five long years until Bruce’s Snap brought all the Vanished back. “Steve…”

“I know, sunshine, I try not to but I can’t help it-”

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” (Y/N) gently reassured him and when Steve took a shaky breath, she cupped his cheek and traced the smile lines around his eye with the feather-light pad of her thumb. “You know that I don’t blame you for not being there, and you know that I’ll never judge you for wondering how different things might’ve been if you were.” Her hand repositioned his to cradle the top of her bump where the baby was currently shifting about, and she couldn’t help but smile at the tender look in her husband’s azure eyes when he felt their unborn child’s faint movements. “But can you feel that? The universe gave us a second chance, Steve; the important thing is that you’re here now, being a fantastic father to Carina and doing everything a loving, loyal husband is supposed to do for his pregnant wife, and every single day, I wake up and I thank the universe for giving us this second chance.”

The worry line between his brows smoothed out as his expression relaxed and he moved one of his hands to rest on the side of her neck, softly stroking her jawline with his thumb before asking, “Have I told you how much I love you today?”

“Twice, but I could always use another reminder.”

Steve’s lips quirked upwards in amusement at her words. “I love you, baby, with everything I am and more.”

(Y/N) smiled happily up at him. “And I love you too, sweetheart.” Her eyes fluttered closed as she pulled Steve’s face down and he bent around her to capture her lips in a languid yet passionate kiss.

“Lucky, do you really have to go and invade Indy’s personal space like that? I mean, c’mon, you literally just met the guy and you’re already sniffing his business! Boundaries, dude, c’mon.”

Pulling apart, (Y/N) leaned her forehead against Steve’s and let out a breathless chuckle. “I suppose we should be good hosts and check in with our guests. We’ll continue this later, Mr. Rogers.”

Eyes darkening with desire, Steve smirked and lowered his voice before replying, “I look forward to it, Professor (Y/L/N).”

They both stood up from the couch, with (Y/N) doing her best to mask just how much her husband’s use of her title had affected her and with Steve biting back the knowing smile that threatened to break out across his face, and held each other’s hand while they left the living room and strolled into the dining room; Kate Bishop, sporting fresh facial wounds and damp hair from her quick shower, was finishing up her bowl of Kraft Mac & Cheese at the table and giggling to herself while her Golden Retriever and their German Shepard lounged together on the floor by the food and water bowl. The young archer appeared to be in good spirits, despite her near deadly fight with Kingpin himself and aiding the police in arresting her mother for murder, but (Y/N) knew all too well that her cheerful mood would steadily dissipate once the post-battle adrenaline wore off and the reality of her situation set in.

“Did you want some more mac and cheese, Kate, or anything else to drink?”

Glancing up and over at them, Kate adamantly shook her head and flashed them a bright smile. “I’m good, but thank you so much for the offer! Seriously, you guys have already done so much for me and Lucky; you made us a midnight snack, I got a post-battle shower and a fresh change of clothes, and I even got some Grade-A first aid.” The young archer beamed as she gestured to the bandage that stretched across the bridge of her nose. “I mean, who knew that Steve Rogers was good at first aid? I certainly didn’t! You must’ve learned during the war, right?”

“My mother, actually,” Steve corrected, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and giving a surprised Kate an offhand shrug. “I picked a lot of fights with bullies when I was growing up and she was the one who patched me up after each loss.”

“And that never stopped you from confronting the bullies…” Kate looked between them both and shook her head in amazement. “I’m beginning to see why you two get along so well. I, um, I also just want you guys to know that I’m not gonna tell anyone about all this.” Her dark brown eyes met (Y/N)’s, her gaze filled with understanding and an earnest respect. “You were right when you said that there’s things you’ll lose living the life of a superhero; a couple of hours ago, I helped the cops arrest my mom for murder and now I officially have no family. I can’t even imagine the sort of things you two’ve lost along the way, but what you’ve got now? I sure as hell won’t be the one to take this away from you.”

(Y/N) gave the young archer a thankful smile. “We trust you, Kate. And since you’re now privy to some top-secret Avengers intel, I should probably share with you one of the most important lessons I’ve learned as a superhero.” Kate’s brow rose in interest and (Y/N) nodded towards the cluster of framed photographs that were hung above the dining room’s antique sideboard; there was one that showed (Y/N), Steve, Sam and Nat hanging out at a bar, another with (Y/N) and Steve posing next to Tony and Pepper at their engagement party, and one that was taken of the Avengers as they dined on Chinese food takeout and planned their time heist. The last picture was of Sam and Bucky with the Rogers-(Y/L/N) family on the day they broke the news of her second pregnancy to their best friends; Sam was holding Carina on his hip and Bucky tickled her sides to get her to smile for the camera while Steve’s arm was slung around the super-soldier’s shoulders, his other arm wrapped around (Y/N)’s waist and his hand joining hers in cradling her barely-there baby bump. “A family doesn’t always have to be the one you’re born into. Sometimes, it’s something you get to create for yourself.” Kate’s eyes started to prickle with unshed tears, and she immediately began to blink them away and mask her emotional response with a bright smile, which only made (Y/N)’s sympathy for the upset twenty-two-year-old grow. “This little gumball feels a little restless, so I’m gonna make some hot coca. I’d be more than happy to make enough for everyone…���

Steve, instantly catching on to her line of thinking, lifted their joined hands up and gave her knuckles an exaggerated kiss while subtly winking for just her to see. “Mmm, you know how much I love your famous hot coca, sunshine. You use real milk and imported Belgian chocolate, don’t you?”

“Of course, that’s how it becomes so rich and creamy. I even sprinkle a pinch of gingerbread over the whipped cream to give it that seasonal flair.”

“Gosh, I’d just hate for anyone to miss out on the experience of enjoying such a special beverage…”

Watching their staged exchange with a growing smirk, Kate burst into laughter and raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get the hint! I’d love some of your famous hot coca, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) beamed in triumph, giving Steve a chaste kiss on the cheek before releasing his hand and striding into the kitchen; as she assembled her ingredients and put the saucepan of milk on the stove to boil, she listened in on Kate and Steve’s conversation about archery, smiling to herself as she imagined her husband comforting their own children in a similar manner. Steve often doubted himself as a father, a habit he’d once confessed partially stemmed from never having known his own father, but (Y/N) never once doubted that the man who was patiently listening to an impassioned rant about the possibilities of various trick arrows in combat situations and even injecting his own opinions for Kate’s benefit was meant to be a father.

“Oooo, (Y/L/N)’s famous hot coca!” (Y/N), who was mixing the chocolate into the simmering milk, glanced over to see Clint enter the kitchen; the archer was toweling his hair dry, mindful of the steri-strips and bruises that littered his face, and the sight of his fluffed-up hair and eager grin forced her to stifle her chuckles. “Need any help with that?”

“Not with this, but could you grab some mugs from the cabinet for me?” He did as she asked, setting four mugs down onto the counter and nodding when she murmured her thanks. Seeing that he was preoccupied with examining the ‘America’s Ass’ mug that Scott sent Steve for his birthday, she took the opportunity to inspect his many visible wounds and winced in sympathy. “I’m looking at Yelena’s handiwork, aren’t I?”

Clint huffed out a humorless chuckle and nodded. “Yep. Not my first time having my ass kicked by a Black Widow, but I don’t remember it hurting as much as it does now.” He sobered when he caught sight of her concerned frown, slinging the towel he’d been using over his shoulder and giving hers a reassuring pat. “I got through to her in the end, and that’s all that matters. And for what it’s worth, she only really seemed pissed at me, so it’s safe to say that you and Steve are in the clear.”

Switching the burner off, (Y/N) took the saucepan off the stove and carefully began pouring the liquid into each mug. “I know that she just tried to kill you a couple of hours ago, but I still can’t help but hope that I’ll get the chance to meet Yelena someday. I spoke with Alexei and Melina over FaceTime after the Battle of Earth and I helped them arrange for Nat’s plot in Ohio…”

“But you haven’t been able to pass along the holographic puck she recorded Yelena’s message on,” Clint finished and pursed his lips in contemplation. “You told Alexei and Melina about the puck, right?” (Y/N) nodded as she reached into the refrigerator for a can of whipped cream. “It’s safe to say that before tonight, Yelena wasn’t ready to accept that Nat’s gone, but now? It’s possible that she’ll be ready for some closure, so don’t be surprised when you open your door to see her standing on your porch one day.”

While she added a sizable swirl of whipped cream to each mug of hot coca and finished them off with a sprinkle of gingerbread, (Y/N) smiled to herself and snuck a brief glance at Clint. “You know, Nat told me once that she counted herself lucky to have the three best siblings in the world; I’ll never forget just how happy that made me, because that was around the time I finally decided to go no contact with my family. She was my sister, in every sense of the word.”

“I know how you feel; back before Laura and the kids, Nat was the only family I had.” The archer’s voice cracked but he managed to muster up a reassuring smile for her. “I know that I wasn’t there for her when she needed me and that that’s something I’m gonna have to live with…” He peered out into the nearby dining room and watched Kate enthusiastically mime firing trick arrows as she talked to Steve, his smile softening and his blue-grey eyes filling with parental pride. “But I think that she’d be proud of what I accomplished with Kate.”

(Y/N) leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss onto Clint’s cheek before giving him a smile of understanding. “I think she would, too. Now c’mon, Hawkeye, let’s go deliver a little Christmas cheer and learn about all the possible applications of boomerang arrows before your guys’ ride to JFK gets here.”

Loading the mugs onto a tray, (Y/N) and Clint joined Steve and Kate at the dining room table, where they enjoyed their hot coca and engaged in a lively debate about the sort of trick arrows that the archers believed could work in a battle; (Y/N)’s hand absentmindedly rubbed across her bump as she watched Clint and Kate’s playful argument, her lips curving into an amused grin that only widened when she caught Steve’s azure eyes and he scooted his chair closer to hers so that he could drape an arm over her shoulders. Not quite how I pictured our little Rogers-(Y/L/N) Family Christmas going, she silently admitted to herself as she contently rested her head against her husband’s shoulder, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You still haven’t convinced me that boomerang arrows aren’t an excellent idea, Clint.” Kate stubbornly crossed her arms and turned to (Y/N) and Steve with an expectant look on her face. “Be honest, guys, doesn’t it sound like one of the best ideas you’ve ever heard?”

Ever the diplomat, Steve masked his chuckles with a contemplative hum and shrugged. “I’m not too sure how you’d be able to apply it, but it’s not a half-bad idea.”

Kate fist-pumped the air in triumph while an indignant Clint’s jaw dropped and he whipped his head around to stare at Steve. “Seriously, Rogers? You think it’s a good idea that an arrow should be able to fly back at you after you’ve fired it?”

“To be fair, he never said it was good,” (Y/N) pointed out. “What he said was that it wasn’t a half-bad idea.”

“Thank you, sunshine.” The archer rolled his eyes when Steve leaned over to plant a soft kiss onto her cheek and shot him a mischievous smirk. “All I know is that you could’ve taken out a helluva lot more Chitauri during the Battle of New York if your thirty-two arrows could’ve boomeranged back to you, Barton.”

Kate’s hand quickly moved to clamp over her mouth to muffle her laughter and (Y/N) masked hers with an unconvincing cough as Clint gasped in exaggerated outrage and made a rude hand gesture towards a chuckling Steve. “Damn, Clint, need some aloe for that burn?” Kate snickered and reached across the table to fist-bump Steve. “Thanks for the support, man!” The young archer leapt up from the table and hurried over to the duffel bag she’d deposited in the entryway. “And here, I’ve already thought of how I’d design the arrow!”

“Wait, Kate, you’re gonna trip the-”

“UNAUTHORIZED WEAPONRY DRAWN ON THE PREMISES, MY LORD AND LADY!”

Clint’s hand flew towards his hearing aid and Kate yelped in surprise, poking her head back into the dining room with a shell-shocked expression written across her face. “What the hell was that?!”

With a sigh, (Y/N) set her empty mug down onto her coaster and smiled despite herself. “Brienne.”

“Or as I like to call her, the posthumous revenge of Tony Stark,” Steve added, his own grin dimming a little as a wistful gleam filled his azure eyes. “Wherever he is, he’s gotta be laughing his ass off right now…”

“Language!” (Y/N), Clint and Kate’s exclamation broke the tension and even Steve couldn’t stop himself from laughing along with them.

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A/N: Only one more chapter left, guys! (And don't worry, we'll soon find out who was watching (Y/N) in the last chapter) Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ziGMhEsAw833GQ9eV44nR?si=6dfead09c76848d5 

Hawkeye (Part IV)

Stumblin’ In Book VII: “Superhero Snapshots” Masterlist 

Tagging:  @mrs-obrien​​​​​ @lahoete​​​​​ @awkward117 @cminr @natdrunk​​​​ @momc95​​​​​ @savedbystyle​​​​​ @miraculouscloud @awkwardnesshabitat​​​​​ @marinettepotterandplagg​​​​​ @mangosandmimosas @supersouthy @benakenalove​​​​​ @brooke0297​​​​​ @hufflepeople​​​​​ @becausewelie​​​​​ @outoftheregular​​​​​​ @junipermurdock​​​​​ @ladydmalfoy @mads-weasley​​​​​ @username23345@crist1216​​​​​ @capswife​​​​​ @lilmschild​​​​​ @avngrsinitiative @crowleysqueenofhell​​​​​ @y-napotat​​​ @mary1raven​​​​​ @groovyqueer​​​​​ @ljej95​​​​​ @innersublimefury​​​ @prettysbliss​​​​​​  

[chryseis]

two tickets to the rabbit hole, please

I’m sorry I have not responded to your letters, I just wouldn’t know how to tell you what he has done to me. I've been really busy with school. I do not wish to make assumptions about your relationship with my father. I know better than most that he can be an awful difficult person, and I can only imagine how disappointing it was for you when he ended your apprenticeship early. However, I cannot deny (and I hope you understand this) that he cares for you deeply, even if he may not have ever shown it, especially on that last day. I am not making apologies for his behaviour, but I know that you were his most promising student, and I believe that you respect him, despite everything. This is why I am writing to you. I think that he is dying.

A selection of letters exchanged between Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye from 1903 to 1908.

Read on AO3

Happy holidays @waddiwasiwitch! I'm your @fmasecretsanta. I hope you have a wonderful new year!

[littlewitchbee]

@aicasey I need to apologize for absolutely butchering this ask. It’s tumblr’s fault for not letting me edit asks but also my fault for messing up the post in the first place 😅 And thank you so much for these thoughtful questions! I really appreciate them.

I’m so happy you decided to look into him some more! His life was really interesting. I also really enjoyed that video! It was very cool to see those two portraits compared in that way. The Madame X controversy seems so silly by modern standards! Then again, my entire twitter feed today has been people upset about the “cultural value” of modern/abstract art 🙄 I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same lol

In the context of the fan art I’ve made - specifically my fandom studies of Sargent’s portraits - he’s already given me a pretty solid foundation to copy. Roy and Riza are studies of these portaits. I can copy the poses, lighting, and the look of his brushstrokes (certainly not as masterfully or efficiently, but that’s why we study). We also have a pretty solid understanding of how they look and move from the manga and anime, but translating that to a more “realistic” style is hard to do without reference. I rely on features I’ve learned through observation and years and years of life drawing. It’s like the ring in Madame X - it’s just a blob of paint up close but your brain interprets it as a ring. I draw a blonde woman with bangs, a tattoo, and scars on her back and it’s Riza Hawkeye lol

I’d say we’re limited by our skill but that isn’t true. It’s probably cliche, I think we’re more limited by our imaginations. It would definitely be easier if they were real and could sit for a portrait, though. (But I think if that were the case I would be trying to steal Riza from Roy instead of painting them lol)

Thank you so much for all of your kind words and your support! They really mean a lot to me! (And thank you for pointing out the ring on Roy in my other art - I couldn’t resist 😌) I hope you’re having a wonderful holiday and I wish you a happy, fulfilling new year!

[hawkp]

@charleshawk4077 I’m still planning on circling back around and doing your second choice! Also, I don’t know why I chose a holiday?? And food??? And I didn’t proofread at all so proceed with caution???? Definitely could expand on the end if I ever come back and fix it to transfer to AO3.

It was so much fun though! Thanks for the suggestion and I hope you enjoy. :)

Charles says he misses cranberry sauce and it’s all Hawkeye focused on for days. For the past year, every time Hawkeye had the chance to make someone happy, he’s done everything in his power to make them so. Cranberry sauce shouldn’t be too hard to procure two days before Thanksgiving he thinks to himself …right?

He’s on his fifth connection when he finally gets through to the base in Seoul.

“Hi, hello. Greetings! Good holiday spirits and all that jazz.” He pushes the friendly tone. In reality he’d just come off of an eight hour O.R. shift and he’d rather be screaming. “I was hoping you could help me perform an early Christmas miracle. What? Sorry? This is—,” he lowered the timber in his tone, trying to get that southern twang just right, “this is Sherm T.. Potter. Sherman Potter. I’d like to see if I could get a case of cranberry sauce down here to my unit.” He pursed his lips, the way he’d seen the colonel do a hundred times. “PDQ!” He added. “It’d really lift these folks spirits if we had it in time for turkey dinner. You can?” He said excitedly, momentarily slipping back into his own voice. “Hot diggity dog! Private, you’re a real Clarence Odbody.” He spun in the chair, elated that he’d been able to seal the deal so easily. “Thank you. Uhuh, thanks so much. You too, Happy Thanksgiving!”

He dropped the phone back into its holder and clapped his hands together, grinning widely.

“Pierce.” He heard from the office entryway. He froze, then turned in the chair with a sickly sweet smile.

“Colonel!” He chuckled nervously. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“In my office?” He asked, with a brow raised. Hawkeye put an elbow on the table and smoothed his hair back.

“Can I buy you a drink soldier?” He said in the most sultry voice he could manage. Potter laughed, shaking his head as he walked past him and towards his office.

“Oh, Pierce.” He said, holding the door open with a hand. “PDQ was a nice touch.” Hawkeye rolled his eyes and broke out into a full body laugh. An exhausted, but nevertheless completely Hawkeye laugh.

The camp spent the next day brainstorming pseudo holiday treats with the limited ingredients they had on hand. Hawkeye was bursting with holiday cheer, annoyingly so, depending on who you asked. The only person that had been able to handle, as well as match his energy was Francis, and they ended the night drunk and happy in the Officers Club, singing every holiday song they could think of… as well as inventing a few new ones.

Hawkeye was still up before almost everyone else.

“Charlessss. Chuckieeee.” He nudged at Winchester’s side and Charles peered up at him.

“Pierceeee.” He echoed in sleepy irritation. “Go give your jolly’s to Hunnicutt.” Hawkeye shook his head, a wild look in his eyes.

“I’ve got a jolly just for you!” He said excitedly. “I waited as long as I could manage.” He snatched Charles blue robe off tithe hook above him. “C’mon. I’ve got a surprise for you.” Charles narrowed his eyes at him. “A good surprise, something you’ll love!” Hawkeye tried to placate. “Cross my heart.” Charles sighed, hoping that the holiday cheer that was spilling over the man, of which he was putting his trust in, was not a cover for a rotten trick.

“Alright.” He muttered, earning a yelp of elation from Hawkeye. “Alright, alright! Quiet down before you wake the beast.” He said in reference to their bunk mate. He stood and Hawkeye draped the robe over his shoulders as he slid his waiting slipper on. “And we’re going straight to coffee afterwards.”

Hawkeye nodded, holding the door open, his limbs bent in an almost vaudeville like posture. The sight of him made Charles snort.

He was led to colonel Potter’s office and immediately Hawkeye started to dance around a little crate that sat on the desk.

“Came in this morning. I wanted you to do the honors.” Hawkeye told him, wiggling a sturdy letter opener in his hands. Charles brow creased into a questioning line. “No jokes. I promise.”

The sincerity in his eyes was clear as day.

Charles carefully wedged the little knife under the lid and pushed, the pins popping up with a satisfying pop, and looked inside.

It was cranberry sauce, he realized to his heart's delight. But his taste buds dulled as he realized that the sweet, sweet nectar was swimming in broken glass.

“What?” Hawkeye said next to him, whispy like someone had died. “They didn’t pad it?” Charles gave the ruined food one last longing look before turning to Hawkeye.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Pierce. I really—,” he swallowed as he looked up at him as saw tears glistening in the man’s eyes, “Pierce?” Hawkeye had been staring at the glittering burgundy mess but he sniffled sharply and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “It’s just cranberry sauce, my good man.” Hawkeye nodded quickly, trying to right himself. “What on earth is wrong?” The words were uncharacteristically soft and Hawkeye wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to somehow physically guard his heart.

He opened his mouth to speak and ended up just laughing at the fool he’d made of himself. Charles' worry changed to stubbornness and he stood straight and tall, waiting patiently for an answer.

“It’s really not— it’s stupid. Unnecessary.” He flicked a dismissive hand at the office doors, shifting uneasily on his feet as he fought a quivering lip. Charles could see the perfect image of a little seven-year-old Hawkeye in his head. “Go back to bed. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Charles didn’t budge, and Hawkeye caved.

“You said you liked cranberry sauce.” He shrugged, voice wobbling horribly as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. Five-years-old now. “I wanted to make you happy. For the holiday.” He said, barely above a whisper. “It makes me happy… to see people happy.”

It was like a punch to the gut, sympathy and endearment taking his breath away.

“Hawkeye.” He said slowly, surprising even himself at the use of the name. “This is the single kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.” He reached a hand out to Hawkeye’s shoulder. “I don’t care that I can’t eat it.” He shook him slightly, dipping his head so that he could see how serious he was in his words. “I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

A smile started across Hawkeye’s face, blooming into a grin before he wrapped his arms around Charles in a strong hug. They both slapped each other's backs and laughed away any lingering embarrassment.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Pierce.” Charles said, his tone husky with the joy of the holiday.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Charles.” Hawkeye offered back.

And from that point on, Charles knew that this would be the happiest Thanksgiving he’d ever had.

[singlecrow]

Hello! For the ask game, if you'd like!!!

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

Hi Parker! thank you for these!

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

So AS YOU KNOW I love an AU. Daemon and Star Trek AUs, and also general science fiction AUs, apocalypse and Pacific Rim and dystopia AUs. I have occasionally done a lawyers AU too. And roller derby. I did a bakery AU once! I love an AU. Never been quite sure why, either; they just really appeal to me partly because they’re fun, and I think also because translating well-beloved characters so they’re the same but different is the sort of thing that can keep you busy on long train rides.

The other trope I love, and no one ever seems to do as much as I’d like, is “I thought you were dead!” I’ve written it once or twice but I’ve never done anything really substantial with it and I want to. It’s just such an all-purpose brilliant trope! It has angst and introspection and an occasion for one half of a ship/friendship to have a long dark night of the soul, and for the other half to have an adventure (or whatever it is they’re doing while they’re not actually dead) but also a solid happy ending with proper heart-to-hearts. Everything you need.

Worth mentioning “When There’s A Will, There’s a War”, an episode of MASH which I would like more if it committed to the bit. It does do this trope. For five minutes. You’re supposed to pay off this trope with the not-dead person walking through the door, to shock and delight. The episode does not do this.

(I do like it, for many reasons not least Hawkeye and Margaret Make Bad Puns and Throw Things At Each Other. but. hmph. I ask for so little.)

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

CHRISTMAS. On TV I don’t mind it, mostly. The MASH Christmas episodes are doing something specific which I enjoy, and the Doctor Who, Ghosts, Dinnerladies etc Christmas specials are just part of being alive and British at the same time. Actually, Dinnerladies has a lovely cosy Christmas 1999 episode and then the millennium episode has maybe the bleakest scene I’ve ever seen in anything and it’s under the credits. I respect the hell out of that.

Anyway, it’s the schmaltzy fannish Christmas trope I can’t stand, by contrast. The happy little story where all the characters hang up stockings and put up a tree and eat a turkey and the author’s preferred ship kiss under the mistletoe. Partly it’s because I’m a misanthrope par excellence, and partly because it’s so, idk, Western imperialist? And often, clueless imperialist: written by people who have never stepped out of their immediate cultural experience. We do exist, we happy few who don’t do Christmas and nevertheless write in English on the internet, and more to the point, we exist in fiction. This sort of fic always assumes that everyone is with the programme - that Christmas is a religious and/or secular holiday that everyone celebrates. There is one really popular Deep Space Nine fic on the AO3 like this, and putting aside that half of the characters are aliens (!!) it then tramples over Julian Bashir, who has the same British-Sudanese Muslim background that his actor has. And even if you put that aside it flattens characters with (probably) Christian backgrounds, too. You have Benjamin Sisko, who is a Black man from New Orleans and Miles O’Brien, who is a white Irish Catholic from the Gaeltacht. What do they have in cultural common? Maybe not that much! So it’s quite a lot of rage to extract from what are usually quite benign plotless fluff stories, but there we are. Thank you for giving me the first opportunity this year to air this Opinion. <3

[shmaptainwrites]

Angel [Francis Mulcahy]

Pairings: pre-seminary!Francis Mulcahy x Maura Samuel (fem!OC)

Characters: Francis Mulcahy, B.J. Hunnicutt, Maura Samuel, Kathy Mulcahy, Gregory Mulcahy (OC), Sean Mulcahy (OC), Thomas Mulcahy (OC), some other OCs that aren't super important

Summary: Francis Mulcahy has yet to experience many things, but love isn't one of them.

Warnings: MCD, angst, sadness, hurt comfort, abuse mentions, descriptions of injuries (please lemme know if I missed something)

Note: Okay so of course I just had to give my own take on Father Mulcahy's backstory, but I hope this interpretation is sad and angsty enough for you. Maybe some things in the story wouldn't realistically happen, but for the sake of the plot, I think we'll manage. Anyway, happy reading!

Father Mulcahy hated seeing anyone in the camp distressed, but it seemed that was all the war was offering. If it wasn’t the OR it was the conditions in the camp, and if it wasn’t that then it was missing home and one’s loved ones. 

“This is hopeless,” B.J. sighed and shook his head. 

“At least you have your wife to go back to,” Hawkeye grumbled. “I fell in love, actually fell in love and now she’s gone.” 

“I know it’s hard now,” the Father tried to console his two friends, “but I promise you it’s possible to grow around your grief and how much you miss them.” 

“No offence Father, but I don’t think this is something you have much experience in,” Hawkeye said. 

Father Mulcahy chuckled humourlessly and shook his head. “A fair assumption, Hawkeye, but it’s not correct.” 

“It isn’t?” B.J. looked at the priest confused. “But…you’re a priest.” 

“I wasn’t a priest my whole life,” he said. “I didn’t attend the seminary until I was in my mid-twenties.” 

The two surgeons quieted themselves before they said anything else silly and waited for the Father to distract them from their own feelings with his story of love and loss. 

“What was her name?” Hawkeye asked. 

“Maura,” the captains saw a warm smile come across the priest’s face as he unhooked a necklace from around his neck and placed it on the table to show them. “Her name was Maura.”

— 

Philadelphia was always cruel in the winter to those who let it. Francis was not one to let the discomfort of the cold keep him from enjoying the cheer and spirit in the air. 

Even in the evenings when he tucked his younger siblings to bed, each with a gentle kiss to their foreheads and made his way out to the small living room to sleep on the couch in front of the embers of a fire, almost nothing could wipe the small smile on his face. Almost. 

When the door crashed open in the middle of the night and his father stumbled into the small home, Francis knew sleep would be futile. His mother had already drunk herself to sleep and his father would be expecting food, which they had none of, and someone needed to take the blame. 

Francis waited until morning to leave the house. If he left in the middle of the night his siblings would worry and his father would get upset. 

The cold air nipped his skin as he tried to best cover himself with the ratty old coat he’d had for years. There was never enough money to get a new one so he patched up the holes as they came as best as he could, but it seemed there was always another that would pop up. 

He picked a lightly covered area to huddle under, wiping his glasses when they fogged up from his warm breath that he breathed into his hands to keep some sort of feeling in his fingers. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and said a small prayer, hoping for a sign to lead him in the right direction. 

What the right direction was, he didn’t know. 

When he blinked his eyes open, he squinted through his water droplet-covered glasses when his eyes fell on a church. Normally they were open this time of year, the holidays always seemed to amplify everyone’s generous spirit. And even if it was nothing more than a warm place to sit he would be grateful. 

He hobbled over to the large wooden doors and pushed one open with his shoulder. It was a little heavier than expected but he slipped in rather quietly. Just as he had suspected, warm air engulfed him and he instantly began to regain feeling in his extremities. 

Francis took small, careful steps further into the church, examining the way the light from the overcast skies shone against the stained glass windows, a colourful sparkle spreading across the ground. 

He sat in a back pew and out of instinct his hand reached out to take the Bible placed in front of him. His reddened knuckles were quite obvious against his pale skin, made even paler by the frigid temperatures outside. 

“Can I join you?” 

Francis blinked and looked up only to be met with a frightful jump and a hand covering a beautiful face. The lighting of the church seemed to glow around her head like a halo. Francis blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing an angel.

“My goodness, what happened to you?” 

“I-uh got into a fight,” he lied quietly and put the Bible back in its place. He looked away from the girl, not wanting to frighten her more than he already had.

He thought she had turned away to go find somewhere else to sit, but he was convinced otherwise when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

He turned slightly to see the girl had sat down next to him anyway. 

“Does it hurt?” she whispered. 

Francis shook his head, another lie. His whole body ached and stung, but he was a man, he was supposed to be able to handle whatever kind of pain came his way. 

“What’s your name?” she asked, brushing a finger across the cut on his eyebrow. He hissed quietly in pain and she pulled away, “You lied.”

“It hurts when you touch it,” he mumbled. “My name’s Francis.”

His parents called him John, but he preferred not to flinch each time he heard his name. 

“Francis, I like that name,” the girl smiled. “Can I clean you up, Francis?”

He blinked a few times and found himself curling up even more than he already had.

“Alright, that’s okay,” she nodded. “We can just sit here.”

He relaxed a little at that and tried to get another good look to see if he could figure out anything about her. 

Her clothes looked similar to his own, old, possibly hand-me-downs, but better taken care of than his. Her coily hair was twisted back into a low bun, and that along with everything about her exuded an air of modesty. 

Francis only now became aware of his majorly hunched back and decided to try and sit straight. He was, after all, in the presence of a woman.

He picked up the Bible once more and flipped through the pages aimlessly, he used to enjoy coming to church as a child, but now it seemed he found himself less and less among the congregants in the pews. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had attended a confessional. 

He looked over at the girl again and noticed how her eyes seemed to be closed in meditation, he wasn’t even aware of how intently he was staring at her until she called him out on it. 

“How did you-,”

“Just a sense,” she chuckled and opened her eyes. 

Francis tried to brush some of his hair off his forehead, but instead hit a bruise and winced. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to clean you up?” she asked. “Sister Carmen’s got a first aid kit somewhere.”

“Okay,” he nodded carefully, maybe this was the sign that he was looking for and he’d be a fool not to listen to it. 

She offered her hand to him and he took it, his red knuckles warmed and soothed by the warm touch of her soft skin. They came to a room in the basement of the church, it wasn’t cold and dusty like most basements Francis had seen, instead, it was warm, organized, and bright. It seemed to be well used. 

The girl dug around until she found what she was looking for. When she did she pulled up a chair and instructed that Francis sit in it. 

He watched as she rifled through the first aid kit, pulling out what looked like a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton. 

“You never said your name,” Francis said, he spoke a little louder than he had been and she smiled at his newfound confidence. 

“Maura, but everyone calls me Mary.”

“Maura,” he repeated. “You look like a Maura.”

“And what does a Maura look like?” she chuckled. 

He wanted to be cheeky and say you, but he decided instead to be truthful. 

“Kind, caring… peaceful.”

She hummed contentedly at his description before giving him a warning about the antiseptic. 

“Do you fight often, Francis?”

“Huh?”

“You said this happened in a fight,” she recounted. “So does it happen often?”

“Oh, um, I suppose so,” he nodded. It wasn’t a complete lie. Francis often frequented a boxing gym run by a church, the priest there taught them boxing but strictly as a form of exercise and self-defence. He supposed that meant he could use it in a fight against his father, but he was bigger and stronger than Francis, no doubt he’d get the better hand. 

Francis would much rather not talk about himself, so instead he decided to fill the silence with questions before Maura could do the same for him.

“Are you a nun?”

“A nun,” she laughed. “No, why do you ask?”

“We’re in a church, I thought it would be safe to check,” he shrugged. 

“I’m not a nun,” she reiterated, “but the sisters here raised me. I grew up around the church. Where did you grow up?”

“Nearby.”

“You’re a man of few words, Francis…”

“Mulcahy,” he filled in the blank that she promoted him with. 

Maura continued to clean his wounds, when she finished she stood up and told Francis to wait a moment while she went and grabbed something. 

She came back with what looked like an ice pack and sat back down in her chair. She placed it in her lap and carefully took off his glasses and raised the cold pack under his eye where a bruise had already formed. She held it there for a moment until Francis’ hand replaced her own.

His vision was blurry without the glasses, but even through the fuzzy glassy look through his own eyes, he could see how even the light in the basement seemed to all point towards her. Even without his glasses, he could see her clearly.

“You’d make a good nurse,” Francis said. “You’re much better at cleaning me up than I am. Or my little sister for that matter.”

“Thanks,” Maura chuckled. “How old’s your sister?”

“Fourteen,” he thought back to all of his siblings sitting at home and he swallowed his guilt knowing he’d be back soon. 

“Do you have many siblings?” 

“A few, I have some younger brothers as well. I’m the oldest.”

“Same. Oldest and only,” she teased. “Alright, I think that’s all I can do.”

Francis removed the ice pack from his face and handed it back to her. 

“Thank you,” he said while standing up and Maura followed. 

“Of course and thank you for trusting me,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and she let out a small giggle watching them turn bright red. “Just a little good luck to help you heal.”

That brought the smile back to his face and before he turned around to leave the church he asked. 

“Will I see you around Maura…”

“Samuel. And…I’ll make sure of it.”

Francis gave her a wave goodbye before pulling his coat against his chest only to brave the Philadelphia cold once more.

—

“Well as I live and breathe if it isn’t Francis Mulcahy,” Maura grinned while leaning over the railing leading up the stairs of the church. 

“Maura,” he smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” her features became soft, perhaps it was from seeing him in a better state than he was when she last saw him. “You’re looking well.”

“Trying to stay out of trouble,” he nodded and adjusted his glasses. 

She walked down the stairs and met him at the bottom so they were truly face to face. 

“How are your siblings?” 

“They’re good,” he nodded. “Kathy did well on her school project so I saved up to get her a treat. And my brothers are rambunctious as always.”

“Lovely,” she smiled. 

“C-Could I interest you in a walk?” he asked. “I just came out for a bit of fresh air and to stretch my legs.”

“You want to go on a walk with me?” she furrowed her brows. 

He nodded his head, “Yes, why not?”

“I-um…I may seem optimistic at times, but I’m not naïve,” she said. “The other day we were alone in the church and you hesitated when I touched you and I’m not blind to our differences. I don’t know if you were just trying to be polite in letting me help you, but…”

Francis finally understood what she was referring to and quickly tried to explain himself. 

“A-At the risk of sounding like a priest, I believe the Lord says we are all made from one man, every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth. I believe that wholeheartedly. I hesitated because…well, I’m not used to having someone take care of me. I promise you it was nothing more than that.”

Maura looked down at her shoes, tracing a pattern in the snow. 

“That did kind of make you sound like a priest,” she chuckled and Francis smiled, hoping now that she could trust him. 

“I’d still like to walk with you if you’re up for it,” he offered. 

“Alright, Francis Mulcahy, let’s walk.”

Francis offered his arm to her, an extra show of some sort of solidarity, regardless of their differences he really did want to spend time with her and he didn’t care who saw it. 

Francis learnt more of Maura’s life, growing up in the church and now finally being at an age where she might be able to make it out on her own. 

“It’s a little nerve-wracking, I’ve never lived alone before.”

“If you ever need a hand I live close by,” he said. “I know it’s not the safest neighbourhood, but the sisters at the church will surely still be there when you need them.”

“You’re right,” she nodded, “I shouldn’t worry so much.”

“Do you have a job?” Francis asked. “To help pay for rent and food?”

“Yes, I’ve been working at a restaurant nearby. I’ve saved up enough to hold me over for some time…hopefully. I guess you never really know nowadays do you?”

Francis nodded his head solemnly, he could attest to that. There would be nights when there would be nothing to eat and not enough wood to go in the fireplace. He and his younger siblings would go to bed hungry and cold because his father could never hold down a job. And it seemed like neither could he, otherwise, he’d leave and take all his siblings with him. 

“I can’t wait for this weather to let up,” Maura switched the topic. “I much prefer the sun.”

“I don’t mind the snow,” Francis shrugged. “I think I’m used to it now.”

“You can’t be used to it if your hands look like this,” Maura chuckled, holding up Francis’ hand for him to see the contrast between pale, almost white, and red around the tips of his fingers and knuckles. 

“I guess not,” Francis agreed. 

“Here, let me see if I can warm them up,” she stopped in her tracks and held out her hands and Francis put his on top of hers. She started by trying to rub them, the friction creating a little warmth for him, but when it didn’t seem to be doing enough to her liking, she let her warm breath provide the rest. 

“I’m going to owe you two favours now, you’ve helped me twice.”

“Don’t be silly,” she shook her head. 

“Then what can I do to say thank you?”

“I’ll let you try and come up with that one,” she chuckled and linked her arm back with his as they continued their walk. 

Francis thought long and hard about that, well past their walk and up until he was at the boxing gym, which is where it hit him. 

In the middle of warming up, he paused and his partner looked at him curiously, asking why he stopped. 

“No reason,” he shook his head and continued, but his mind wasn’t on what was in front of him. 

Afterwards his time at the gym, he grabbed his coat and bag and ran out of the building to the nearest pawn shop. He knew it was a long shot, but if it was meant to be then he knew he’d find what he was looking for. 

When Francis opened the door, a small bell rang and the cold wind pushed him quickly into the shop. 

“Hey kid, it’s been a while, got something for me?” the shop’s owner leaned across the desk and Francis shook his head. 

“I’m actually looking for something,” he said. 

“What can I interest you in? Trinkets? Firearms? Jewelry?”

“Jewelry,” he nodded. “Do you have anything to do with saints?”

“A whole pile of em, come on we’ll see if we’ve got what you’re looking for.”

He brought Francis to another table and pulled out a tray, showing him the various rings, and necklaces he had for sale. 

“You looking for anything in particular?” 

He nodded and traced his finger along the inscriptions until he landed on exactly what he was looking for. 

“I-I didn’t actually think you’d have one,” he said, picking it up. 

“Saint Maura? Never heard of her,” he looked over Francis’ shoulder and shrugged. 

“Neither had I until recently,” Francis said. “I-I have a friend she’s named after her.”

He took a moment longer to examine the necklace before looking up and asking, 

“How much?”

“For you kid, a dollar.”

A dollar was a lot, but Francis knew what kind of deal he was getting. The necklace was worth much more than that and he’d gladly pay the price. 

“I’ll take it,” he held out his hand and the owner shook it. They exchanged cash and Francis walked out of the shop clutching the necklace tightly in his hand. 

A few days later, he sat in Maura's minimally furnished apartment, twiddling his fingers, waiting for the right time to bring it up. 

“If I had known you were coming I would have tidied up a bit more or made some food. I-I don’t have much but do you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Francis nodded. “Thank you though.”

“Of course, what’s mine is yours.”

He stood up and came to join her in the kitchen, pulling the necklace out of his pocket. 

“Maura, I have something for you.”

“You do?” she turned around surprised. 

“Yes, a little thank you for helping me out, and for your friendship,” he opened his palm and showed her the necklace and she carefully picked it up and examined it, much like he had when he bought it. 

“Saint Maura of Troyes, w-where did you find this?” 

Francis shrugged, with a small smile on his face, not wanting to reveal where he’d purchased it. 

“Francis, I-I can’t accept this, it’s too much.”

“Please? It would make me happy,” he closed her hand and pushed it back toward her. 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he nodded. 

“Would you help me put it on?” she asked, Francis nodded and took the necklace from her, wrapping it around her neck and clipping it for her. She turned back around so fast her skirt slapped against Francis’ legs and he grinned at her enthusiasm. “Francis, it’s beautiful.”

She kept looking down at the pendant and admiring the way it sparkled. 

“And it reminds me of the sisters, I do miss them so much,” she had a soft reflective smile on her face. “They’re the ones who named me, you know? It’s perfect.”

“I didn’t know that,” he shook his head. 

“I was taken to the church as a little baby, I wasn’t named yet so the nuns had to think of something to call me. I believe in the end it was Sister Carmichael who suggested Maura and everyone loved it. And I supposed it paid that my nickname ended up being Mary.”

“The church means a lot to you,” he noted. 

“Very much,” she leaned against the countertop. “It’s the only home I’ve ever had.”

Francis reflected back, there were many times the church had its doors open to him and gave him one of his passions. 

“Hopefully you can add this place to the list,” Francis patted the kitchen counter. 

“As long as you keep visiting, I’m sure this place will feel like home.” 

Francis always wondered what it was like to have a place feel like home. To him, the place where he lived was just a house, a building that tried to shelter them from the elements, poorly at that sometimes. To Francis, home was sitting with his siblings, reading two of his younger brothers a story as they slowly drifted off to sleep. Home was helping Kathy with her homework, sparring with his brother Gregory, the one closest to him in age. Home was something that brought a warm feeling to his heart and put a smile on his face, and standing with Maura, he felt both. 

—

“Francis, you’re going out again?” Kathy asked, holding her books close to her chest, watching her big brother put on his coat and shoes. 

“I’m going to try and find some odd jobs around,” he told her. “Hopefully I’ll make enough for dinner tonight.” 

“Will you stay after?” she asked. 

“I-,” he stopped himself, he had been absent lately. “Do you want me to stay?” 

“I’d like it,” she nodded. “Thomas and Sean much prefer being put to bed by you.” 

“I’ll stay then,” he gave her a small smile. 

Kathy put her books down and wrapped her arms around her brother and gave him a kiss goodbye on the cheek. 

“Thank you, Francis, for everything you do for us,” she said. “And I promise as soon as summer comes around I’ll start to look for a job.” 

“Alright, but only a summer job, you should focus on your studies during the school year.” 

“I know,” Kathy sighed. “What if I don’t even need to finish school? I could become a nun you know?” 

Francis laughed at that and shook his head, “Finish high school first, Kathy, then we’ll see.” 

He opened the door and slipped out of the house, going to make his usual rounds to see if there was any work he could pick up around the neighbourhood. Sometimes Mr. Johnson needed an extra hand in his shop on the busy days, other times he’d wind up fixing small odds and ends around people's homes, and a few times, as a last resort, he’d find some boxing club where people were making bets. The fighters always got a cut of the entrance fee and on occasion if he was very confident he’d make a bet and try to double his chances. 

Today seemed like one of the slower days. By dinner time he’d made just enough to scrounge up something for dinner back home. A few cans of soup and some bread, it wasn’t much or glamorous by far, but it was food. 

As soon as he got home, Kathy helped him heat up the soup on the stove and Gregory, cut the bread while he got the younger ones washed up. 

“Francis, I already washed my hands,” Thomas whined. 

“When?” Francis raised a brow. 

“This morning,” he huffed. 

“Sorry, buddy,” Francis chuckled, wondering how his little brother thought he could get away with that. Sean gave Francis his usual flick of water in his direction after washing his hands, making him take off his glasses and wipe them dry as he made his way into the kitchen. 

His mother had come out to join them and so he got her a bowl first and served her some soup with a slice of bread. Each of his siblings was next and a bowl was set aside for his father for when he got back home. Whatever was in the pot was for him, often it was less than what he’d served his family members, but his siblings were all still growing and needed as much food as they could spare. 

Kathy noticed her brother didn’t get a slice of bread and placed half of hers on his plate before taking her dishes to the sink. 

“Kathy, I don’t need this,” Francis said. 

“I’m full,” she shrugged and handed the bread back to him. 

Francis knew she was lying, but he couldn’t deny his sister her wish. He was the last one to leave the table and was planning to wash the dishes, but Gregory pushed him out of the way. 

“Come on, Francis, you've been working all day. I’ve got this. Plus, you’ve gotta deal with those two monsters,” he pointed to their younger brothers, running around the living room.

Francis nodded his head with a chuckle and patted Gregory’s shoulder, deciding to take a few moments to himself before trying to settle down Thomas and Sean. When he went to his room, he saw the Bible Maura had gifted him sitting on his bed and figured maybe reading might help him relax. 

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until his mother came knocking on his door. 

“John, it’s past the boys' bedtime; why are they still awake?” 

He quickly shut the book and stood up, coming out of his room. 

“I’m sorry, I must have lost track of time,” he apologized. 

“Pay closer attention,” was all she said before retreating to her room where she spent most of her day. 

“Yes, ma,” he let out a breath he’d been holding before rounding up Thomas and Sean into his room. “You guys have gotta start telling me if I miss your bedtime.” 

“Why would we do that?” they asked and Francis shook his head, they were right, definitely the wrong people to be asking. 

After they had changed into their pyjamas and brushed their teeth, Francis had picked a story to read to them until they fell asleep. Lucky for him, all the running they’d done that evening had worn them out so much that they were asleep within fifteen minutes. 

Coming out of the room quietly and shutting the door behind him, he was going to head to the living room. He thought he was alone, but the lights told him otherwise. He assumed it was Gregory since he usually stayed up the latest of all of them, but when he entered he was Kathy sitting on the couch, flipping through the pages of his Bible. 

“What are you reading there?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the couch. 

“Just wanted to see what you were so engrossed in that you missed bedtime. You never miss bedtime.” 

That was true, Francis was normally quite punctual. 

“Find anything interesting in there?” he asked, coming to join her.

“I like this one you bookmarked,” she pointed. 

“I actually didn’t mark that one,” he admitted. “The book was a gift. The person who gave it to me did that.” 

“Why?” Kathy chuckled. 

“It’s a bit of an inside joke, but I like that passage too,” Francis agreed. 

“How come we don’t go to mass anymore?” 

Francis wasn’t sure he had a good answer to that. It used to be something their mother would do with them, but these days it felt like she was withdrawing more and more from them. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Would you like to go this Sunday?” 

“I think it might be nice. The boys haven’t gone since they were little.” 

“Can you be in charge of making sure everyone’s got their church clothes ready then?” Francis asked. Kathy grinned in response, happy her brother was giving her something to be responsible over. 

“They’ll be washed and ironed before Sunday.” 

“Perfect. Now do you have any more work to finish up?” 

Kathy sighed, “Yeah, but it's math.” 

“Then you’ll be great at it,” he encouraged her. “We can read a bit together before bed once you’re done.” 

“Fine,” she huffed and Francis laughed, bringing his little sister in for a hug and pressing a kiss to her forehead. He watched her fondly as she left, having always been close with Kathy, even when they were little. Their age difference was only six years, but he knew Kathy saw him as a father figure as well as an older brother, as did Thomas and Sean. He didn’t mind, he just found himself more and more missing the time when his parents were happy and he could just be their son. 

Now at times, he wasn’t even sure if he recognized his mother and his father rarely ever had a kind word to say to him. 

A little while after Kathy had gone to do her homework, Francis heard a quiet knock on the door and he got up to go and see who it was only to find that Kathy had beaten him. 

“Sorry, is this the Mulcahy residence?” 

“Yes it is, who are you looking for, it’s kind of late. My mother’s already gone to bed.” 

“She’s looking for me, Kathy,” Francis said, coming to the door and motioning for his sister to go back and continue her work. “Is everything okay, Marua?” 

“Mostly,” she nodded. “I-It’s stupid, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have come and bothered you.” 

She turned to leave, but Francis gently grabbed her arm and stopped her. 

“Mary, what’s going on?” 

“It was just a hard day,” she whispered. “I thought it might be nice to see a familiar face and you said I could find you here if I ever needed anything.” 

“Of course,” he nodded. “Here let me walk you home.” 

He turned around to look at Kathy, the look in his eyes seemed to ask permission to leave and she just smiled and nodded her head. He mouthed thank you before grabbing his coat and stepping outside. 

“Wait, did you walk here by yourself? In the dark?” he asked and she nodded her head. “Maura, it’s not safe here, you could’ve gotten hurt.” 

“I figured I had someone looking out for me, she fiddled with the pendant to her necklace and Francis chuckled lightly. 

“I admire your faith,” he said while offering her his arm and she rested her head against his shoulder. 

“If it makes you feel better maybe you should teach me how to box,” she teased. 

“You know that may just do the trick,” he said while giving her a little nudge and they continued their walk. 

There was a long stretch of comfortable silence before Francis spoke up, 

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” 

Maura shook her head, “I’d much rather just walk in silence with you.” 

So that’s what they did, not a word was exchanged until they reached Maura’s apartment. When Maura caught sight of the clock she looked back at Francis and told him to come inside. 

“Why don’t you stay here,” she said. “It’s so late. You can go home first thing.” 

“Maura, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Francis rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Francis, don’t argue with me on this. You won’t win.” 

He looked down at his watch, she was right it was late, and if he made too much noise when he came back inside he risked waking up his parents and siblings who’d ask him all sorts of questions he didn’t want to answer. 

“Okay, I’ll stay,” he gave in, “but I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“I can live with that,” Maura nodded and opened the door wider for him to come inside. 

She went to grab a spare blanket and gave him a pillow from her bed. 

“Maura,” Francis started, after preparing the couch to sleep on. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why did you come to me and not the Sisters?” 

Maura paused what she was doing and looked down at her feet, asking herself the same question Francis had just brought up. Why did she go to him?

“I think…” she turned to face him. “I think I knew that you’d know exactly what to say.” 

“Which was?” 

She smiled fondly, “Nothing at all.” 

—

Francis always enjoyed the walk to Maura’s apartment, he supposed it was because he knew he’d get to see Maura once it was over. 

He opened her front door, knowing it would be unlocked now that she was back from work. She always left it unlocked until he got there. 

“Maura, I know you hate it when I bring things, but I managed to get my hands on some really…” Francis paused when he saw her leaning over the kitchen sink, she hadn’t uttered a word since he’d entered. “Maura?” 

No response. 

He put his things down and took off his jacket before approaching her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Maura?”

No response. 

This time, Francis carefully turned her around only to feel a lump forming in his throat at the sight of her. 

Her lip was cut and bleeding and her eye looked more puffy and swollen than his had been the last time she patched him up after a bad fight. She had a few scratches on her cheek that made her look like she’d slid across the pavement and Francis couldn’t keep the lump in his throat down any longer. 

“Who did this to you?” he asked. 

No response. 

“Maura, who did this to you?!” he raised his voice. 

No response. 

“Dammit!” he turned away from her. “Maura who the hell did this to you I swear they won’t see the light of day again.”

No response. 

“Maura, talk to me, what happened?!” he asked. 

No response. 

Francis could feel his blood boiling. He didn’t know who thought they had any right to pick on an innocent person, Maura at that. He must have let himself boil over, because before he knew it his ranting and raving wasn’t just in his head. 

“Francis,” Maura’s voice was barely above a whisper and he didn’t hear it over his own, not until she repeated herself, trying to get her voice just a little bit louder. “Francis.”

He looked over at her and stopped in the middle of his tracks. 

The tremble in her lips, the tears budding in her eyes, her shaking hands. 

He came over to her once more, holding her face gently in his hands. 

“Oh Maura, I’m so sorry.”

Her tears spilled over and Francis quickly wiped them away before pulling her in for a proper hug. 

“I don’t-I don’t know why I thought I could do this,” she shook her head. “Surviving on my own. I can’t do this, Francis! I can’t.”

Francis opened his mouth to say something, but he kept it shut. Right now she didn’t need to hear some big speech about how she was doing just fine and her independence was admirable. All Maura needed, and all Francis thought she might want, was someone to hold her while she felt everything she was feeling. 

“I-What’s wrong with me, Francis? What does everyone think is wrong with me?” she whispered into his now tear-stained shirt. 

“Nothing, Maura. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” he pressed a careful kiss to her temple. 

“I wish you were right.” 

Francis took a deep breath before lifting Maura’s face to look at him. He wiped away the new tears from her cheeks and wished so desperately that at that moment she could read his mind so that she could see all that his lips were failing to tell her. 

How easy it was for him to reassure her, but he couldn’t even stop himself from asking those very same questions. Wondering why he wasn’t good enough for his father; for his mother. 

And yet, he had always been good enough for Maura, and she had been good enough for him.

—

“Maura, this is the best meal I’ve had in ages, where did you get this food?” Francis asked while sitting across from her at her small makeshift dining room table. 

“My boss was going to get rid of it so I asked him if I could take it instead,” she explained. “I wasn’t sure if my cooking was going to do it justice, but it seems it turned out just fine.”

“Fine is an understatement, this is delicious,” he grinned. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Only for you, Francis,” she chuckled and reached out to hold his hand. “Plus I knew a special day was coming up for you, I figured this could be a part of your present.”

“Now how did you find that out?” he asked. 

“Your sister. I asked the last time you brought her over.”

“Well, in that case, this is a good enough present for me,” he insisted. “A good meal is more than I could have asked for.”

“And I have extras for you to bring home. Can’t let your siblings miss out on this too.”

“An angel. You are an angel,” he squeezed her hand with a bright smile on his face. 

“I’m just glad we have a chance to spend some time focused on happier things,” Maura admitted. “I think your birthday was just the occasion we needed.”

“If it makes you happy, then I suppose I can tolerate it this year,” he said while turning back to his food. 

“You don’t enjoy your birthday?” she asked and Francis shrugged. 

“I don’t dislike it, but as I got older I just couldn’t see the point of it, the presents, the focus on one person, it’s a little much.”

“What does your ideal birthday look like?” Maura asked, crossing her arms on the table. 

“My ideal birthday,” Francis mused. “I think just spending time with my siblings and you. That would be my ideal birthday.”

“Good, we’ve got half of that right here,” she grinned. 

After they finished eating they moved over to the couch, continuing their chat. 

Over the past year of their friendship, Maura and Francis had found a love for discussing deep and profound topics. Each time they saw each other was another chance to examine philosophy, question the reason for their existence, and maybe even come to a conclusion or two about their own lives. 

With Maura, Francis found an escape. He found love like he had never felt with another. She had become his best friend, his confidante. Even when they seemed to be constantly at odds with the world around them, Francis and Maura found solace in each other’s company; so each day when the time came for them to part ways it was never easy. 

“I packed up the food for you and put it by the door. There should be enough for your family,” Maura pointed before clasping her hands behind her back. 

Francis thanked her and they made the walk to the door together, but before he bent down to pick up the food, he pulled Maura into a tight hug, thanking her for everything she’d done. 

“I swear it’s nothing, Francis,” she insisted. “I’m happy to do it. It’s second nature when you care for someone.”

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes and she gave him one of those radiant pearly white smiles that Francis could swear he could see the gates of heaven in. 

“I care for you too, Maura,” he told her. “I-I think more than I could put into words.”

“That’s okay,” she chuckled lightly. “I think we’re both better with actions anyways.”

Francis leaned in, only a few millimetres, his eyes flicking towards her lips before meeting her eyes again. 

“Yes…actions.”

Maura followed his lead and continued to lean in further, nodding her head before she finally let her lips touch his. 

Francis gained his confidence and pulled Maura in closer, kissing her with a reverence he’d only had for a few things in his life. They clung onto each other like tethers holding each other on solid ground. 

When they pulled apart, Francis’ glasses fogged slightly from their warm breath, and Maura simply pushed herself up on her toes and kissed the bridge of his nose where metal met skin. 

Their actions were simple but spoke volumes. 

Francis couldn’t help the content smile that came across his face at the sight of her brightened countenance. 

“You’re my angel, Maura,” he couldn’t help but say. 

She kissed him again, this time shorter and very chaste. 

They held each other close for a moment longer, knowing Francis couldn’t stay there forever before finally pulling apart and allowing themselves to part ways. 

Just as Francis opened up the door to leave, Maura put a hand on his arm, encouraging him to turn around once more. 

“Happy birthday, Francis.”

—

“John! There’s someone at the door for you!” Francis heard his mother’s voice call from the entryway of their home. 

Not knowing what to expect, he took Thomas off of his lap and told him he’d be right back and maybe Gregory could read for him in the meantime. 

Francis jogged over to the front door where he could see his mother’s confused look and he didn’t understand until he saw who was waiting for him there. 

“Sister Carmen, I-I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you. Is something wrong?” he asked, but with just a small look past what she held in her eyes, Francis could feel his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. He turned his head slightly before it turned into a full shake. 

“No,” he said to himself. “No, no, no.” 

“She asked for you, Francis,” she said softly. “I-I have a car waiting down the street. Could you-,” 

He didn’t even let the nun finish before slipping on his shoes and grabbing his ratty and torn coat to help brace him from the wind and snow. 

Kathy helped by explaining to their mother that something had happened to a friend of his and he needed to go see her right away. 

Mrs. Mulcahy had rarely been herself in the past few years, but she recognized that look on her son’s face and she didn’t have the heart to pull him away. 

Sister Carmen placed a hand on Francis’ back as she led him to the car. He sat with her in the back, looking outside the window, wondering if he could even bear to ask what had happened. 

Before he even had a chance to stay anything, Sister Carmen had made the decision for him. 

“It was a freak accident,” she explained, “A car skidded on the ice, there wouldn’t have been anything we could have done to prevent it.” 

Francis closed his eyes and shook his head again. It couldn’t have been an accident that was going to take her away from him. 

The ride to the hospital was made in silence and Francis ran straight through the front desk of the emergency room until he saw the soft features he was looking for. An empty chair sat next to her bed and a few of the other Sisters from the church stood at the foot of the bed, deep in prayer. 

Maura’s eyes were closed, her face spared from the damage endured by the rest of her body. 

Francis fell into the seat next to her and clasped her hand in his. 

“Maura?” his voice was strained, fighting back every emotion that was trying to push its way through. “Maura, it’s me.” 

The light from outside spilled into the emergency room and landed on Maura, enveloping her in brightness. If Francis had thought he had seen an angel the first time he met her, there was no mistaking it now. 

The voices around him slowly seemed to fade, first becoming quieter, then distorted as if his head was stuck underwater until it was silent. Just him and his Maura. 

That feeling in his stomach never having left him, he knew what was happening, but he refused to believe it. 

“Mary please, please,” his voice broke. “Y-You called and I came Mary, just please wake up. Open your eyes, Mary.” 

He looked down at his hands, squeezing onto Maura’s so hard and through his tears he could see red fingertips and white knuckles. 

No one to warm his hands in the cold. 

No one to clean him up when he got hurt. 

No one to sit and pray with, to hope for a better life. 

No one. 

And when Sister Carmen placed her hand on his shoulder he knew it was over. He’d lost his angel. 

His body shook with sobs as he wished he could pray her back to life, go back in time and push her out of the way because he always knew the world was a better place with her in it. 

But just as a year ago he sat by himself, hurt, and in the snow, he now found himself in the same situation. The snow gently made its way down from the heavens as Francis sat hurt and alone and all he could think of was how much he wished the weather would pass.

—

Father Mulcahy fiddled with the pendant of the necklace in front of him. It had been years since he’d talked about Maura with anyone. Well, almost anyone. 

“She really left a mark on you, Father,” Hawkeye noted and Mulcahy nodded. 

“I don’t share this story lightly,” he told the Captains. “One of the biggest feelings with love is pain, but that just means you’re doing something right. It wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t love them.” 

“And how did you get past it?” B.J. asked. 

“I carried it with me for a long time, but I think I realized that she would have wanted me to find a way to experience a different life like how we had imagined for ourselves. I just found it somewhere I didn’t initially expect.” 

“The church,” Hawkeye filled in the blank left by the priest and he confirmed. 

“I think regardless of how you feel now, I know for some of us,” he looked at B.J. “That hurt will stop altogether and others,” he looked at Hawkeye. “Learn to grow in spite of it. Trust me, I know I did.” 

Father Mulcahy stood up and fastened the necklace around his neck once more and as he looked at the sun peeking through the clouds, shimmering against the piece of metal, lighting it up with a sparkle he was all too familiar with. 

She always was his angel. 

Tags: @caffiene-fueled-fuckery @robin-the-enby

[themculibrary]

Clint Barton & Bobbi Morse Masterlist

A Hunter's Flock (ao3) - MysteryGal5 T, 2k

Summary: "If your girlfriend's ex wants to visit from Phoenix, you do not buy him a plane ticket." "That's really specific."

The story of the time Lance bought Bobbi's ex, Clint Barton, a plane ticket while he was a government fugitive.

A Little Bit Rusty (ao3) - one_of_those_crushing_scenes T, 5k

Summary: The adventure is over. Black Widow is alive. And Clint is left with a letter that he doesn't quite know what to make of. Fortunately, he’s got a protégé and an ex-wife who know how to get answers.

Between Us (ao3) - StarsAnon bucky/bobbi T, 708

Summary: “So long as we’re in agreement we don’t tell Barton.”

“Oh, of course not. He’d never let us live it down.”

bomb in a birdcage (ao3) - andibeth82 T, 5k

Summary: “So what’s your story?” Bobbi asks when they’re roughly more than halfway to where Hill’s pointed out they should be tracking coordinates.

OR, the one where Clint is in the military.

but the sky is the same (ao3) - dirty_diana clint/natasha T, 27k

Summary: Takes place one year after Clint makes the unexpected choice to bring Natasha Romanov in from the cold. They've become co-workers and acquaintances, but Natasha is still as much a mystery to Clint as she was on the day he was first sent to target her. A story about making friends and making choices, set against the backdrop of daily life at SHIELD.

Disarm (ao3) - Kangofu_CB bucky/clint T, 23k

Summary: How exactly did Hawkeye recruit the notorious Black Widow?

The answer may surprise you.

graced (ao3) - teco clint/bobbi G, 2k

Summary: Bobbi drops by Clint's apartment with a gift for the holidays.

Hawkeye’s S.H.I.E.L.D Origins (ao3) - Isabellakirch110 T, 59k

Summary: Clint Barton AKA Hawkeye’s origin story and how he went from a contract killer to one of the finest Agents S.H.I.E.L.D ever saw. All of this was thanks to Phil Coulson who had the heart to believe in him.

Heart to Heart (ao30 - Siberianskys clint/phil M, 299

Summary: Prompts: Gay Couple, Divorced, Marriage of Convenience, Father & Son

Huntingbird, A History (ao3) - Sanctuaria lance/bobbi T, 96k

Summary: She hated him because hating him was easier than loving him. But it wasn't always like that. Once...once Bobbi Morse and Lance Hunter had been happy. Story of how things came together and how they fell apart.

I’d Leave It All (ao3) - one_of_those_crushing_scenes background clint/laura M, 18k

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton have been friends for a few years now, but Budapest is the first time that Black Widow and Hawkeye have been partnered in the field. They're both highly skilled professionals, so the mission should be pretty simple. Until they arrive and realize that they'll each need to face some unresolved issues from the past in order to get through these next few days.

Bobbi Morse doesn't trust easily—not since the last few people she trusted made her regret it. Still, she knows she can't take out this kidnapping ring all on her own. Calling for backup was the right choice, but can she deal with the consequences?

In Sickness (ao3) - angelt626 sharon/steve, clint/bobbi G, 3k

Summary: Sharon returns home to find her boyfriend in a much different state than she left him in, one that she's not seen before, and she's not pleased.

Just Katie (ao3) - paperback92 clint/bobbi T, 11k

Summary: Kate wonders what her place is in Clint's already hectic life.

Liminality (ao3) - slipperygaloshes lance/bobbi G, 2k

Summary: A meandering character study of Bobbi Morse and Lance Hunter through the eyes of their family in the aftermath of Russia.

Or, the team packs up Bobbi and Hunter's belongings and learns a bit more about them as they prepare to send them off into the unknown.

pizza for two (and a dog) (ao3) - kadtherine lance/bobbi, clint/laura T, 1k

Summary: "I can't believe you come all this way to give me a pep talk."

"Actually, I came all that way to kick Coulson in the nuts. But May was there and the poor guy looked like a kicked puppy. I don't hit a man when he's already down. I wait for him to get up so I can knock him down again. I'll punch him when he's feeling better."

What It Seems (ao3) - sneakronicity clint/natasha N/R, 4k

Summary: Tensions run high when an old flame enters the picture, but things aren't always what they seem.

you can change right next to me (ao3) - rubys_ramblings G, 12k

Summary: Phil Coulson and Melinda May adopt and raise Skye.

You're Not Doing This Right (ao3) - one_of_those_crushing_scenes T, 2k

Summary: Clint and Bobbi are basically a couple of sex-obsessed thirteen-year-old boys, but they mean well, so Natasha puts up with them.

This is basically a standalone, but it also sets up the relationship dynamics for the next fic I'm working on.

[chaoticgremlinwholikescheese]

To a Sweet New Year

AO3 LINK

Time is an odd thing. It keeps passing, even when you feel stuck in place. Hawkeye knows how long he's been here. He counts every day, every hour, every second, that he's away from home. Yet for some reason the time feels not to pass. He's still in shock when he realizes that Rosh Hashanah is here. The new year has arrived, and he's still stuck in this purgatory. And on top of that, he's not sure how he can celebrate. He's never been very religious, but he still has his traditions.

At home he would be with his father. They would spend the day talking and cooking. Neither of them were very good at cooking, but it wasn't about the food itself. It was the tradition of doing it together. They would use mom's recipes. Hawkeye can remember them word for word. He can picture them in his mind, instructions scrawled on paper in his mother's messy handwriting. The ink is fading and smudged in some places. Years of use have left them less than pristine. It doesn't matter. It's a piece of his mom he can still have.

His memories of his mother are somewhat blurry. He was young when she passed. He remembers when she would bake on holidays. He would stand on a stool, watching her as she worked. Occasionally she would ask him to taste something. Everything was delicious. She would hum as she cooked, swaying back and forth to music only she could hear. Hawkeye dreams about those days sometimes. He swears he can still smell the yeast of rising challah when he wakes up.

They would go to synagogue too. They dressed in their nicest clothes. His father wore a suit, the one he only brought out for special occasions. His mother wore a light blue dress with white buttons. Hawkeye hated wearing fancy clothes, so he made a compromise with his parents that he could wear his worn out boots instead of loafers. The services were nice. What he liked better was the socializing afterwards. He would run with the other boys, playing games as their parents talked.

After his mother died, they didn't go to synagogue anymore.

They still celebrated holidays and kept their traditions. But they never went back to synagogue.

Hawkeye misses those traditions. It's impossible to do them here.

"Hey, Hawk, it looks like you're trying to solve the world's hardest math problem. What's going on up there?"

"It's Rosh Hashanah."

Trapper raises an eyebrow in confusion.

"The Jewish new year. It's not a big deal. It's just making me homesick. It's alright though, once I get some food from the mess hall I'll be too actually sick to be home-sick."

Hawkeye laces his boots and hops up. He leads the way to the mess, Trapper close at his side. The two are never really far apart. Their shoulders brush as they walk. It's a warm day. Soft sunlight falls over everything. There's a lull in the fighting, silence settling across the mountains. It's rare they get a day like this.

The lunch served in the mess tent is far from delicious. It's barely even edible. It makes Hawkeye long for food from back home. Maybe he can convince his dad to mail him some honey cake. If he's lucky, it'll arrive before it rots. If he's even luckier, it'll come with a side of brisket.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all, father. Take a seat."

Mulcahy slips in next to Trapper. He clasps his hands, making a quick prayer before eating. When he's done he takes a piece of what looks like potato. He stares at it for a moment before gingerly putting it in his mouth. The grimace he makes is unsurprising.

"I'm pretty sure these potatoes are just surgical sponges they put in the oven. The least they could do is give us some gauze for dessert," Trapper quips. The priest hums in agreement.

"Oh! Hawkeye! Happy Rosh Hashanah. I believe it's customary to say 'shanah tovah', yes?"

"It is. Thank you, father. I appreciate it."

"Of course. Do you have anything special planned for today?"

"I'm hoping to take advantage of our break. Maybe I'll finally finish the Frankenstein monster I started a couple of weeks ago."

"We don't need another monster around camp. We've already got Frank."

From across the room, Frank scowls at Trapper's remark. The chaplain fights back a smile. That smile is quickly replaced by a concerned look when Radar comes running in.

"Choppers! We've got choppers!"

"We can't get one day off, can we?"

"Maybe we should unionize," Hawkeye mutters.

The choppers come fast after that. The tide of wounded never seems to stop. Each time Hawkeye finishes with one kid, another is put in front of him. The injuries all start to blur together. Shrapnel in the stomach, a gunshot to the chest, an amputated leg. The blood of each one runs together on the floor, a red puddle that grows with each hour. It soaks through the bottoms of Hawkeye's boots.

Hours pass. The choppers become fewer and fewer, until they don't return. By the time the last soldier is sewn up, exhaustion has set in. Hawkeye tosses his blood-soaked scrubs into the laundry bin. They're more red than white now. Despite removing the robes, he can still smell the blood on himself. Maybe it's just his imagination. Maybe the blood has soaked through the fabric and stained his skin, a permanent mark of what was done.

Trapper meets him outside. Hawkeye leans against him heavily. Trapper easily takes the weight.

"C'mon. Let's get back to the Swamp."

Hawkeye doesn't argue. He lets Trapper lead him to their tent. When he opens the door, Radar is sitting on the chair near the still. He hops up when they come in. He has a proud look on his face. He holds up a package with a smile.

"You got it?"

"It took some negotiating, but I got it!"

"Got what?" Hawkeye looks confusedly between Trapper and Radar.

Radar opens the package and pulls out three red apples and a small jar of honey.

"Trapper told me today's special for you. He told me to find some stuff," Radar explains.

"I don't know much about Rosh Hashanah. I asked Father Mulcahy, and he told me to get some apples and honey. I don't know what for, but I thought maybe this would help you feel less homesick."

"This is- thank you. Thank you."

Hawkeye wraps Trapper in a hug. He can't put into words how grateful he is. It's a simple gesture that means so, so much. He smacks a wet kiss on Radar's forehead in thanks, laughing as the boy wipes it off with an annoyed huff. He takes one of the apples. Using a small pocket knife, he cuts it into a couple of slices. He hands one to Trapper and one to Radar. When he opens the honey, he can smell the sweetness before he even tastes it.

He dips the apple into the honey. The two other men follow suit. He holds it up, as if to make a toast.

"To a sweet new year."

The apple is crisp. The sticky honey is like sunlight on his tongue. Hawkeye closes his eyes, letting the taste and the memories wash over him. Though he's thousands of miles from home and years have passed, he's sure he can hear his mother's humming.

Shanah Tovah.

[succore]

⊠    ɪᴅ  .  .  .  ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ    ››    mercy  headquarters  is  pleased  to  officially  introduce  SOCORRO  QUISPE. they  have  been  a part  of  the  organization  for  twenty  years,  serving  as  A  BIOMEDICAL  agent  and  has  been  assigned  the  codename  AGENT  GAUZE.  it's  worth  noting  that  their  file  indicates  they  have  undergone  the  solaris  treatment  and  host  ENHANCED  SPEED.  according  to  our  dossier,  the  agent  exhibits  a  combination  of  GREGARIOUS  and  REFRACTORY  traits,  fitting  for  someone  reminiscent  of  hawkeye  pierce  –  life,  liberty,  and  pursuit  of  happy  hour.  prior  to  embarking  on  any  mission,  they  find  solace  in  listening  to  the  song  “johnny  b.  goode“  by  CHUCK  BERRY.

FULL NAME. socorro ross quispe.

NICKNAMES + ALIASES. agent gauze. doctor quips. rock ‘em sock ‘em.

AGE. sixty. not feeling like it. very much not acting like it.

DATE OF BIRTH. 4 july 1989. the fireworks are always for him, thank you very much.

PLACE OF BIRTH. arequipa, peru.

PRESENT RESIDENCE.  apex city, washington, the good ol’ u.s. of a.

GENDER. cis man.

PRONOUNS. he + him.

ORIENTATION. bisexual.

MARITAL STATUS. divorced.

EDUCATION. graduated from a great university with an avalanche of accolades (a biomedical engineering phd being his first) and a server-squashing amount of voicemails relating to affairs marital and/or martial.

OCCUPATION. biomedical agent for the mercy organisation.

NOTABLE FEATURES. a set of alcohol-stained teeth stiffened into a smirk. windswept hair greying at the temples. dark eyes that never find what they’re looking for. sneakers almost as bruised and battered as their owner. a rope necklace with his name written on in pink crayon. he retouches the text daily at 9am and 9pm sharp.

FACECLAIM. benjamin bratt.

+  TRAITS. conscientious + dutiful + intelligent + passionate + pacifistic.

-  TRAITS. argumentative + blunt + egotistical + neurotic + obsessive.

LIKES. animals + beaches + cheap beer + deadlines + rock music.

DISLIKES. cars + combat sports + doctors + holidays + winter.

HOBBIES. coin collecting + crosswords + needlepoint + sidewalk chalk art + overly competitive jogging.

MBTI. entp-t.

MORAL  ALIGNMENT. chaotic good. at least, that’s what he wants to believe. closer to chaotic neutral.

FATHER. santiago quispe guerrero. a small-town pediatrician whose overprotective nature made him a terrible match for a family of martyrs. died in 2040 at age 82 of shock and awe about certain mercy-related developments.

MOTHER. angela ross. retired photographer. any doomscroller worth their earth salt has seen her series on the 2007 peru earthquake. currently resides in an upstate nursing home where she lays waste to fellow widows in psychological warfare/sunday night bingo using her cutthroat casino tactics and her son’s choice in career.

SISTER. america quispe. an ironically named activist and journalist who would’ve despised her baby brother’s job had the genetic lottery rolled her half as much brain as she did heart. died in 2003 at age 22 of abstruse causes socorro has attributed to his own adolescent cowardice.

EX-WIFE. [redacted]. another woman he disappointed. another coworker he exploited. another love of his life lost to mercy in every manner that matters.

CHILD. he and [redacted] never could decide on a name. they’re old enough to be a junior agent now, though socorro’s done everything he can to stop that from happening, between making

A BRIEF HISTORY. warnings: adultery, alcohol, death, and divorce.

there’s an art to running that most folk don’t figure out until they’re running out of time, blood and bones and flesh full of rotting regrets reaching out for hands that aren’t there, facing the rest of forever by their lonesome on hospice beds that’d be softer had the mayor approved of replacing the mattresses with slabs of concrete. socorro quispe isn’t most folk. he’s been running stitches since the doctors at a clinic that was half debris and half distinguished medical professionals sewed his poor mother’s stomach back into one and a half and running in stitches since his sister taught him how to pick the lock splitting the measured-in-square-inches nursery room. the siblings, after all, were treated like strays by the rest of the family, like scraggly, parasitic denizens of their ancestral palace in arequipa tolerated only for a waning obedience to the elders. olive branches quickly snapped into backhanded scourges as cousins challenged them to climb that volcano, to retrieve that toy, to knock on that neighbour’s door. that volcano would take its cue, coughing out phreatic poisons, confining socorro to bed just in time for the school fair. that toy would be an appendage of violence terribly inappropriate to be caught with right after sunday mass, stuck in territory belonging to their cousins’ tormentors. that neighbour would be an irate fisherman with endangered itching to find new apprentices. so socorro learned how to run from his parents.

it was strange, that how they met was the one topic his mother never breached. his father was reticent from the start, hunched over his rubber mallets and patient reports as though his life was tethered to those he’d met mere seconds ago to assess whether they were healthy or healthier. before, the ever-odious offspring had assumed the rollicking renegade of the cathedral’s shame wall had been killed by expeditions to the distant wilderness to treat now socorro hypothesises it was some fear that sensitivity was contagious on an airborne level rather than a genetic one. his career day stories were ones of turning curtains into splints in the industrial bowels of a chinese province and cracking dislocated joints out the rocks of kilimanjaro, so permission from his wife to lull their little boy to sleep was scarcely appointed. if there had been a goddess of hypocrites, though, she’d blessed mrs quispe from birth. socorro was made to memorise lullabies about doomsday 2000 and other events of mass hysteria by his mother so he’d be prepared for anything. 

why? because he needed to be prepared for anything.

why? because he needed to protect his sister.

why? because his parents wouldn’t always be around to protect them.

why? because his parents weren’t prepared to have him. 

doctor quispe was a man of means, for any medicine dispensers with degrees to back such claims to life were rare in the region, never mind them being handsome, kind, and young. it was routine for parents of his patients to keep their home first aid kits fully empty so they might see mister santiago again, with his sickly tempting sense of style outside the office and sumptuous collection of memories spanning continents. little did they know that one such memory, situated in the recesses of the 80s recession after a sordid interview, had cast him in the leading role of renowned photojournalist angela ross’s life. he didn’t know that, either. therefore, he was content to serve his procreational purpose and marry that irate fisherman’s even crabbier daughter, to father a girl named after the nation he dreamed of returning to every night. angela still visited, though, when her publication company allowed her holidays, and most of her visits ended with the not-so-good doctor paying a hefty sum to the good laundromat. their supposed final meeting was followed not a month later by angela announcing that she’d be moving to peru to raise her child. their child, as he was informed during his daughter’s eighth birthday party. the fisherman’s daughter disappeared and everything was broken water under the bridge.

so socorro learned how to run from his parents. uncovering this information in the cookbooks of his senile grandmother was an experience, to say the least, and from then on it seemed the sun was always beckoning him towards a greater power, towards a greater purpose, towards the prospect of being better than everyone. morals-wise, muscles-wise, who minded the difference? having a half-and-half chance of accuracy in answering questions from teachers or relatives made him a better actor. spitting on the shoes of his asthma diagnosis and lacing up for football team tryouts made him a better sportsman. kicking the ball off the court to figure if he’d broken another player’s knee made him a better doctor. not that anyone ever acknowledged this betterment. the maelstrom within him looked like a light breeze to the rest of civilisation, for expecting recognition as an average sweat-slicked schoolboy who played football and wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps when it came to selecting a future trade was like expecting recognition as a speck of dust in the atmosphere.

better not dwell on the past or the future, young man, as america brought change. literally, as her admission to an ivy league on a full-ride scholarship was a welcome excuse to move into an apartment owned by angela’s parents in the heart of washington. the siblings, formerly locked at the hip, flourished into independence of a sort. while america studied writing as a weapon against empires built on battles they hadn’t fought, socorro studied speaking as a weapon against lives he hadn’t lived. no longer was he a confused jumble of limbs and unrewarded justice-seeking; he was the sole survivor of an earthquake at his old school, he was the documenter of the new decade’s first hurricane in his hometown, he was socrates’s namesake, he was the youngest person to learn cpr, he was annoying as all hell and he was loved by peers at last. before he’d looked to america for instructions when it came to even the easiest tasks. now he looked to her as a leech would lick its six lips upon seeing its next meal. before he was licking wounds that weren’t even his, sympathetic to a fault so large it could’ve cracked wide open into a canyon. now he was apex predator to the concrete jungle, a swaggering raconteur reselling his mother’s articles as his autobiography. the confidence did wonders for his grades, as did the copying of formulae and factoids inscribed into the bottom of his water bottles. four years after the fact he’d graduated to vandalism (and providing his friends with masks when they wanted to make more elaborate art, because it’s safe and responsible crime for them, thank you very much) and relished in the momentary notice he got from his parents, from the police. a slap on the back was schrodinger’s cat–admonishment or applause.

america, meanwhile, began and ended her history with local law enforcement after inviting her pathetic angel of a baby brother to assist in. it seemed logical, given that one of them had inherited their father’s surgical precision while the other had inherited her mother’s premature arthritis. it seemed safe, given that it was a peaceful sit-in. it seemed fun, given that all he’d have to do was cut some pieces of cardboard into catchy slogans and mope about acting all mysterious and brooding and applying snatches of his sister’s concealer to some unfortunately arranged acne. it was, as socorro’s very existence was to be forevermore, tortuous and torturous and in dire need of a tourniquet around the neck so as to induce amnesia. a blackout struck the street and the batons came buzzing after. socorro ran, never to see his sister again.

one in the morning, green day shirt stained by crimson slashes, coffee cup crashing on the ground as his parents finally pay attention to what he’s done, he says his last lie: she ran away.

socorro wasn’t the good kid but he was good enough to graduate, good enough to get into college, good enough to become better. he didn’t just clean up his act, okay? he sterilised it, plunged a syringe into his past until it was shriveled up like a tumour. the people at med school made jokes about it, how he probably spray painted an anatomy lesson on the mural a few blocks away when he was younger, and none of them ever found out how close they were to the truth. for once, forging friendships took a back seat in the already-crashed car. what he lacked in natural aptitude he concocted a cocktail worthy of iv bags worldwide with determination. he attended every lecture, annoyed every lecturer, got mistaken for a raccoon by every librarian in the region. using every dollar his sister had saved for his education, he passed the usmle and got accepted into an august honour society soon afterwards. the only way to be worthy to serve the suffering, he found, was to suffer even more.

obviously, the next step was to get married and have a kid. his extensive networking (read: bothering) thrust him into hands-on experience sharpish, and during preludes to plunging his hands into that chest or lackadaisically conducting that lobectomy, he regressed into the conjurer of charisma that had spent all of med school pounding at his heart’s enclosure. at thirty-six his promotion to clinical professor of thoracic surgery cinched the intrigue of a coworker, and at thirty-seven his bachelor status at last became unconfirmed. he wasn’t there for the birth of his child (heart bypass on an octogenarian over being screamed at for not bringing her pickled lucuma? it wasn’t much of a dilemma) but was determined to be better than his father. he wouldn’t be distant, that much was clear. after a life of arbitrary ambition, socorro needed to save people as much as he needed to control them.

an old student of his had the same idea. sort of. they both wanted to help humanity, that was what mattered. they’d approached him after his father’s funeral–never mind moving to peru and wallowing in mediocrity; with the student’s connections and socorro’s medical expertise, they’d never let the solaris drug fall in the wrong hands. he dithered. again he was in the crackling chaos of the protest. could anyone be prepared for such power?

the student defected. the wife divorced. now all socorro has is mercy and dive bars and stopping the heroes of tomorrow from dying. there's not much glory hound in him anymore. bloodhound's more like it.

PLAYLIST.

WANTED  CONNECTIONS.

that old student’s mission partner pleek. i am on my knees begging for some not-so-amateur sleuthing content

drinking buddies. he will save you from the wall of shame by filling it up by himself i promise

biomedical agents. bffs or rivals or awkward acquaintances i want it all (but also a sort of beefing with your coworker because you think he should be happy with the pension plan and leave connection would be top tier)

frequent patient. his codename is gauze for a reason and it’s not because he’s boring and doesn’t get greek mythology. forget batman’s utility belt he has a first aid kit in his fanny pack 25/7

a sort of mentor/mentee thing could be fun. beware of many batman beyond bruce/terry parallels because his temper can flip like a coin at the slightest of slights