Tickets, Please (AmeriKate)
The first thing Kate notices about America—after aliens and shooting, and more aliens and Loki and kicking holes in the freaking multiverse and finally away from the aliens—is her thighs.
Like, Kate isn’t proud of this. But America’s got these insanely muscular thighs, and she rocks those short-shorts, and Noh-Varr is cute and all but America is made pretty solidly of damn.
Then she starts calling Kate Princess, which, no. Please stop.
.
Kate grew up thinking she was abnormal for not having a soulmark.
(then she found out about aliens)
Aliens that have soulmarks don’t always have first words, like humans do. Case in point: Billy and Teddy don’t have words, they have designs—Kate’s only ever seen glimpses.
She’s not jaded enough to not have that rekindle hope.
.
Another mayfly universe, another alien menace intent on killing them.
Kate covers her team as they retreat into another universe, shot after shot—
“C’mon Princess!” America hollers, stars glowing on her body, eyes glowing. “Let’s go!”
America snags Kate’s hand just as she reaches back for another arrow, and drags her through the hole in the multiverse.
“Ow, ow, what the hell?” Kate shakes her hand out once the hole closes behind them. “Is that supposed to burn? Does that burn every time you do that? That sucks—what?”
Everyone is staring at her, which—
“Oh, that’s cool,” Kate says, staring down at the arm America grabbed. Her palm doesn’t burn anymore, but there's a star in the middle of it is still glowing, dozens of smaller stars scattered past her elbow. Kate flexes her arm and it's so weird, glowing spots on her-
“Princess,” America says after a minute, clearing her throat. “I’m gonna need some of those back, eventually.”
“What? Oh.”
All of America’s stars have—migrated to Kate? That’s weird. That’s—wait.
“I introduced you to your soulmate!” Loki yells from where he’s hiding behind Teddy. “That means you don’t punch me anymore.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, chico.”
“He kind of has a point,” Kate cuts in. “I mean, I’m not complaining.”
“I knew you weren’t that—“ America starts, so Kate drags her close and kisses her, just to shut her up.
There’s a bright burst of light when their lips touch, so bright that Kate has to squeeze her eyes shut against it (and America tastes like stars, bright and sharp, like adventure).
“Wow,” America manages.
(score five million points for Hawkeye)
America’s stars have returned to her, except one that seems pretty content on Kate’s hand.
(she hadn’t realized how independent those tattoos were, or that, apparently, they’re not tattoos?)
“Come on,” America says to the star on Kate’s hand. “We gotta keep moving.”
The star wiggles, but stays put.
America rubs at her palm, where that particular star used to be, and—
Kate snatches at America’s hand, flips it over.
“Ha!” she shouts.
There’s a purple arrow there, from the tip of America’s middle finger to the base of her palm.
“We don’t have time for this,” America growls, lacing her fingers through Kate’s, pressing their palms together, star-to-arrow. “We can figure it out later—this might feel weird.”
Kicking holes in the universe is pretty cool, power and light snapping through you for an instant—
“How do we close it?”
And with a completely straight face, America says, “Think happy thoughts.”
Kate bursts into laughter, and the hole snaps shut.
“That was pretty cool.”
“Princess, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”