Clear Skies and Plenty of Pavement (Pietro Maximoff/Kate Bishop)
“No, no,” Hawkeye’s voice cuts through the argument. “Hawkeye’s not cleared—"
“Yeah, well, at the rate I’m going I’m not going to be clear for another ten minutes, Hawkeye,” a strained voice responds. “I jacked my ankle up and my ride isn’t here. Don’t wait on my account.”
“Hawkeye, we’re not going to leave you there.”
Pietro looks at the screen, finding the lone dot in the middle of the city making its way to the outskirts, running his hand over his bandages.
“Pietro, no—" Banner starts, but it’s too late—Pietro is already out of the aircraft and halfway to the town.
He’s feeling more winded than he would normally, still not at full strength, when he reaches the archer, grabbing her and making a sharp turn to get them out of the town.
He’s surprised that she doesn’t fight the strange speedster who’s grabbed her, but he’s not going to look a gift archer in the mouth, as it were, until they’ve cleared the safe-distance perimeter.
The woman shoves away from him the second he sets her down in the forest.
“It’s not all about speed!” she snaps, stumbling a few feet before righting herself and staring at him. Pietro may be doing a fair bit of staring himself. “Oh. You’re not Speed. Um. Sorry.” She looks utterly embarrassed. And lovely, he thinks. Dark hair, slightly sunburned skin, bright blue eyes. And she’s his. Probably. He should probably say something. “You’re the Avenger’s speedster, right?” She tosses him a careless grin as she fits an arrow to the string of her bow. “Hawkeye is, like, mad in love with you. Thank you, by the way.”
He’s just getting ready to speak when a white-and-green blur overshoots and then backs up to them.
“I had you!” he snaps at the woman. “Jeez!”
“Well, I think it’s pretty clear you didn’t. If you want to play chicken with your own life, that’s your issue, but I’d prefer if you didn’t play with mine. It’s not just about being fast.”
An explosion rocks the forest in a truly impressive display of timing.
“She’s right,” Pietro tells the boy, because she is. The next words, though, are for her alone. He’s been waiting most of his life to say them. “It’s about being fast when you need to be, but also knowing when to take it slow.”
He sees her tremble a little, in the way the tips of her hair shift, in the way her bowstring cuts jaggedly through the air.
“For the past few years I’ve just assumed that was a thinly veiled innuendo, but you’re actually talking about—speed.” She looks a little shocked. He thinks it’s in a good way. He hopes it’s in a good way.
“Forgive me,” he says as he pushes back the young man who is getting redder and redder. “I don’t know your name.”
“Um,” she offers him her hand, and he clasps warm skin and warm leather. “In the field you call me Hawkeye. I’ll let you know what you can call me at home when we’re not in the middle of a fight.”
“Home?” The man in green looks a little incredulous.
She rolls her eyes. “I mean, what you can call me when we’re not in the field—"
“Hawkeye,” he cuts her off with a smile. “I don’t have a codename yet.”
“Hmm,” she steps up to him, close, but not quite touching, before she reaches up and flicks a strand of his hair with a finger. “We’ll come up with something.”
“Not us,” Speed says. “We’re the worst at names.”
Hawkeye rolls her eyes.
“Anyone got eyes on Hawkeye?”
“Go for Hawkeye,” she says, taking a step back. “I’m with both the speedsters. Yeah. Copy that. Out.”
She extends her hand to him. “Can I get a lift?”
He grins and swings her onto his back. “Thought you’d never ask.”
None of them are prepared for the lone robot, the straggler in the woods. Its rotund body belies its deadliness, and it’s shooting at them before Pietro realizes it hasn’t been deactivated.
Hawkeye flings herself off of his back, rolling and coming up shooting right back at the metal monstrosity, an arrow with a blinking red light lodging itself in a metal joint.
Pietro flings himself in front of Hawkeye before he can even process what it means.
“Hey, I didn’t even get your name,” Hawkeye smooths his hair with shaking hands. “Can’t go dying on a girl when you didn’t even give her your name.”
Pietro thinks he’s probably in the plane, though it’s hard to tell at this angle. All he can see is Hawkeye, gunmetal gray ceilings, and Wanda.
“Pietro, who is this?” Wanda has her hackles up, and he sees Hawkeye recoil, suddenly unsure.
“Wanda, Wanda, it’s fine,” he feels sluggish as his hand waves through the air. “You don’t recognize her?”
He sees the second Wanda does; the way it changes her whole face. “You found her.”
“I’m sorry,” he looks back at Hawkeye. “I don’t actually know your name.”
“Kate,” she slides her hand in his and shakes. “Kate Bishop.”
“Pietro Maximoff.” He draws her hand up to his cheek and rubs the backs of her fingers against it. “This is my twin sister, Wanda.”
“Nice to meet you, Wanda,” Kate offers her unoccupied hand.
“She leads her own team,” Pietro informs Wanda. “Smart and stunning.”
Kate bites her lower lip, failing to hide a smirk. “Is he always this charming, or just when he’s lost a lot of blood?”
Wanda shrugs. “I don’t know, I have never seen him be charming before. This is very strange.”
She and Kate share a smirk and he has a brief moment of worry before his eyes start to droop.
“Go to sleep, Pietro,” Kate strokes his cheek on her own now. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”
“I like the way you say my name,” he nuzzles her hand.
“Pietro,” she says it again, softer this time. “We’re here. Rest.”
Pietro feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin—not that that’s uncommon, but they keep prodding his chest, testing the strength of his new skin. Something about his metabolism and speed making the graft not take as well, he’s not really focusing.
“No strenuous physical activity for two weeks, Mr. Maximoff,” the doctor is telling him. “Try not to run so much—though I think that’s highly unlikely, so cut back on other physical activities. No lifting, or swimming—no sex,” and the doctor glares at him. “If you can slow down for a week, it might speed up the healing process, but if you can’t, that’s the trade off.”
He thinks the doctor is trying not to laugh at the expression on his face.
Kate and Wanda are talking in one of at least three kitchen spaces that Pietro knows of. Wanda looks fine; tired, with a bruise on her forearm, but nothing major (he asks).
“I think I’ll go rest a while,” Wanda smirks at him, but then actually smiles at Kate.
“Seriously, though, let me know if you need anything,” Kate calls. “Also, I’m serious about the Pixar thing. We’re going to do it. And the shopping thing. I’ll pickpocket Tony’s gold card.”
Wanda nods at her before leaving. Pietro sees the smile she hides.
“Kate,” he says, suddenly unsure.
“Pietro,” she cocks her head to the side, regarding him through half-closed eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Good, I’m good.” He shrugs, then undermines the whole thing by wincing. “Sore.”
“C’mon, sit down, tough guy,” Kate rolls her eyes as she tugs him onto the bar stool next to her.
“And you?” He asks, brushing some hair off of her forehead to further reveal several small bandages holding a gash near her scalp closed.
“Had worse,” she leans a little into his touch before catching herself and sitting upright. “This guy,” she taps her forehead. “And his friend,” she presses the bridge of her nose, the angry-looking cut across it, “Some bruises on my back, some bruised ribs, I think? I stopped paying attention after they said ‘nothing broken, no concussion,” so.” Her eyes drift down and she frowns, brushing her fingertips over his shirt. “Are those bandages? Did the graft not take?”
“They said—something to do with my metabolism, it didn’t take as well,” Kate is frowning in earnest now, something in her expression that he doesn’t like.
“Maybe less shrapnel in the chest next time, okay?” she glances up at him.
“Seems like a solid plan,” he grins before flattening her palm against his chest. “Your words,” he slides her hand toward his side and up, so her fingers curve around his ribs. “Right here.”
“Oh,” her hand twitches against him, her eyes going distant for a moment. “Yours are—" she extends her free arm to him, shaking it a little so her sleeve rucks up. “Here. Push it up.”
He slides the fabric up to her shoulder, revealing his script, a line that starts just below her elbow and extends past the belly of her bicep—and he starts to laugh.
“Never seen anything like that.”
“Me either,” she smiles. “That’s why one of my uniform’s sleeves is longer. I have to cover it up or I get distracted. Sometimes—if I’m having trouble focusing in shooting practice, I’ll sort of follow the words as I take aim. Helps my breathing.”
“Your breathing?” he stares at her speculatively, inching a little closer to her, and sure enough her breathing hitches a little.
He’s going to be suave about it, witty, too, but Kate bites her lower lip and then suddenly her lips are on his and he’s got a lapful of archer.
It’s intense and focused like everything else he’s seen her do so far, like she’s learning the shape of his mouth until she pulls away and he tries to chase her lips with his before he remembers to have some dignity and sits back to look at her.
“What?” she tried to look nonplussed but her bitten-red lips and the slightly dazed look in her eyes sort of undermines it. “You didn’t see that coming?”
“Hawkeye, I think I’m going to be two steps behind you a lot.”
“Guys,” Clint moans from the doorway. “We have individual rooms for a reason.”