romanticise a quiet life
True to her word, Kate found a 5’2 Russian assassin (ex-assassin?) frying up some bacon in her kitchen the following morning, humming softly to a tune Kate’s father had loved in the eighties. Lucky the Pizza Dog was standing right at her side, his little grinchy golden retriever feet doing some tappy toes whilst waiting for the blonde to fork over a small piece of bacon.
Without even breaking eye-contact from her fluffy bacon-loving companion, Yelena’s energetic voice carries an elegant cadence when she says, “Good morning Little Hawk! How did you sleep? I am making us some breakfast”. Yet again, Kate is left unsure of whether or not she was imagining the scene in front of her (let’s be real, all the hottest girls are at least a lil delulu) or if it was actually happening. Finally Kate lands on the latter due to the enticing smell of bacon throughout the entire apartment and the fact that the archer is positive her brain doesn’t have the emotional nor imaginative bandwidth to produce hallucinations like this. She rubs her bleary eyes while taking a moment to create a coherent sentence in response to the stunning woman in her apartment ...who is now staring at her again.
“I- I slept really well thanks! How are you? Did you sleep well too? Thanks for making breakfast… how did you know bacon is our second favourite food?”, the brunette asks her usual series of questions, albeit at a less of a manic speed than usual, which is a remarkable feat considering her internal panic increasing tenfold at the sight of Yelena.
“Our? Oh Kate Bishop… please do not tell me you are still only feeding your poor doggie human food”, Yelena’s face contorts into a displeased pout and suddenly Kate wants to repent for absolutely any wrong thing she might have ever done or even thought of doing throughout her entire twenty two years, just so Yelena won’t look at her with such disappointment and chastisement in her eyes again.
“Uhhhh… No! Nope. Um, Lucky has his own kibble, I promise! He just loves bacon.” And pizza. And pancakes. And popcorn... Kate continues the mental list that maybe isn’t as exhaustive as she was currently trying to convince the blonde it was. Of course, being one of the world’s greatest spies, Yelena knows that Kate is trying to downplay the fact that Lucky eats likely just as much food as Kate herself; Yelena then flashes a friendly smile, to let the archer know that she’s just playing with her.
Once she hears Kate sigh in relief and sees her posture relax ever so slightly out of the corner of her eye, Chef Yelena orders, “Please, Hawkling, take a seat. Breakfast will be ready in a few moments”. Sure enough, Kate looks over to her little kitchen table (Yelena also popped the hell off in picking her dining room furniture because this table is SO girlboss) and finds it already set for two, with steaming mugs of coffee that look to be prepared slightly differently at their respective seats. Walking over to her table suddenly feeling more like a guest in her own home, Kate lets her eyes rake over the apartment, bathed in a beautiful mid-morning glow that truly highlights the beauty and serenity of her flat and its decor and a certain blonde currently walking around her kitchen like she bloody owns the place. Kate wants to be annoyed, she really does, but can you blame her when the object of her targeted annoyance is a short, spunky Russian with a bad habit of breaking and entering (or is it just entering if she comes through a window and doesn’t break anything?).
After dismissing the brunette to the table in preparation for her delicious breakfast meal, (if she does say so herself), Yelena’s eyes turn back towards her phone sitting on the kitchen island and she quickly pops the music back on at a low, calming volume. After so long being victim to mind control and having any potential for making her own choices to be stolen from her, Yelena found solace in a number of things that now played a large role in her self-identity but most notably, she had fallen in love with music. Whether it was a slightly unhealthy coping mechanism to blur out the background voices that sounded suspiciously like the Red Room's Pavlov-like conditioning, or if it was for personal enjoyment. She loved listening to music, curating playlists, dancing, and singing more than she ever thought possible. The blonde frequently thinks back to Natasha telling her to find all the ‘beautiful’ parts of life, and Yelena is absolutely positive that she’s found one of these beautiful things in music.
So wrapped up in the music coming through the tinny phone speakers and finishing off the last of the bacon and eggs she was preparing, the assassin was for once blissfully unaware of her surroundings and was thoroughly enjoying this time in her own little world. Kate looks on at her, almost curiously, admiring the fact that Yelena seems so relaxed and so carefree while she sings under her breath and wiggles her body to the tune of the soft rock music while flipping some eggs. The archer is positive that if Yelena were to snap back to reality at present, she would relentlessly tease Kate for practically staring the blonde--which would, with near certainty, cause the brunette to launch into another cyclical blushing fiasco like the night before.
Kate finally manages to break her eyes away from Yelena, instead focusing on the hustle and bustle of the people walking around downtown Manhattan. She’s always loved to people-watch, and frequently played a game with herself where she would observe people on the street and create their backstories, inventing a life for these beautiful strangers that she’s never seen before and will likely never see again. As much as she’d like to deny it, Kate did this when looking at Yelena for the first time, more out of habit than anything else. The only problem with Kate attempting to provide a backstory for the widow was that any possible scenario that the archer could come up with (whether it be a potential ex-sorority girl with a grudge or a loving wife with a family in the suburbs) was simply never good enough; Kate could never create a scenario compelling enough for it to encompass the whole of Yelena. Her intrigue, mysterious nature, and intimidating beauty kept the brunette questioning her fictitious backstory, unlike Kate had ever had to do before. More than anything, Kate’s first interaction with Yelena and the subsequent speculation about her life sparked an undying need to know absolutely everything she can learn about the assassin. Just because I’m intrigued, no other reason, obviously!
Yelena plops down at the table to the right of Kate, gently placing their plates in front of them when she breaks Kate out of her trance by asking, “What is it that you are looking at, Kate Bishop?”. The brunette then turns towards the blonde, her crystal-blue eyes meeting a mosaic of greens, browns, and amber for a long second before she decides to speak. Kate has never told anyone about this little game she plays with herself, as she’s always been scolded by her mother and other authority figures for not paying enough attention to the important things; furthermore, Kate’s not sure that any other person in her life would just get it.. get the desire to observe and speculate and just notice the world around herself. So, doing what she least expected to do, she tells Yelena about her game of people-watching. If you were to ask her what spontaneously inspired her to share one of her incredibly personal forms of escapism with the mysterious woman sitting across from her, she would never be able to say, but there was something so sincere and genuine in those hazel eyes that made Kate want to expose all of her thoughts and feelings to Yelena without hesitation.
To her even greater surprise, Yelena nods. A firm, understanding nod before she speaks, “Yes, I understand Little Hawk, I do this as well. I think because… because I have always wanted a pretty backstory like most of these people on the street have”. She hesitates for a moment before her resolve breaks and her face becomes a little more pained as she adds, “my life… it has not been a pretty one. I never got the chance to make decisions, to go to school, or to birthday parties, or sports games. Sometimes I- I look at these people and wonder what my own life and backstory would be like if I hadn’t been taken to the Red Room when I was six. Would I have had more siblings? Would Natasha become a teacher, as I always thought she would be? Would she be married and would she have kids? Would I?”.
Taking another large breath and trying to will her need to cry to evaporate into thin air, she continues, “I know it does not make any sense to speculate because we cannot change the past, but sometimes…” she trails off.
“... sometimes it’s nice to just imagine,” Kate finishes for her when she sees the blonde struggle to finish her sentence. At this, forlorn light brown eyes tear themselves away from a spot in the distance, choosing to acknowledge the brunette sitting next to her. Yelena offers a genuine but tight-lipped smile, expressing her gratitude to Kate for being a listening ear.
Neither Kate nor Yelena had been expecting to have a deep heart-to-heart again this morning, but the archer’s admission at fabricating stories to escape from her own life was simply too familiar for Yelena to pass up the opportunity to share. Kate, now immensely glad she chose to speak to Yelena about her people-watching, looks at the blonde with a look of respect and of mutual understanding. We’ve had incredibly different experiences in life. I was raised a multi-millionaire on the Upper West Side with a dead father and emotionally unavailable mother, and Yelena was torn away from her family, sent to an assassin academy, and mentally enslaved for a decade or so. But… we’re– so… alike?.
Of course this amount of emotional expression was uncommon and largely uncomfortable (sue me! I can’t afford therapy right now) for both women, so they silently acknowledge the memories and stories they’ve shared within the last thirty-six hours, before lightening things up and digging into their now lukewarm eggs and bacon.
Trying to ignore the fact that the blonde is currently trying to create a fucking tsunami of hot sauce on top of her breakfast, Kate clears her throat before speaking.
“Yelena! This is so delicious! Thank you for making breakfast. How did you make it…so good?”
The previous eye-contact they held was momentarily broken while hazel eyes took an overly-dramatic roll.
“Kate Bishop. This is just eggs and bacon, it is hardly a five-star meal. Please tell me you can cook this for yourself,” Yelena chides at the brunette.
Embarrassed that no, I actually can NOT make this for myself, Kate chuckles and just continues eating until every scrap of food on her plate has been shovelled into her mouth. Okay so it wasn’t graceful, like at all, but I can’t help it if she can make scrambled eggs and cured breakfast meat taste THAT good.
The women take their time finishing up their breakfast, Yelena rolling her eyes at Kate yet again when the archer feeds at least three strips of bacon to the human-food-feind sitting to her side, and sharing lighthearted stories about their recent escapades in vigilanteism and ex-assassining. Kate eventually stands up, taking both empty plates to the dishwasher, when she sees the blonde in her peripheral vision getting her same vibrantly floral puffer jacket on and seemingly ready to head out as she strides towards the window left ajar.
Panicking, Kate is unsure whether she’s going to see the blonde again soon, or if this 24-hour streak of breaking in and being friendly is over.
“...Where–where are you going…?”, she tries to sound slightly less desperate than she feels, obviously not succeeding if the smug smirk on the blonde’s face is anything to go by.
“Fear not, Little Hawk,” Kate again reddens at the use of the nickname, “Hopefully we shall see each other again soon.” And without another word, the assassin has slipped through the cracked window and back into the sunlight-bathed street below.
Descending down the exterior of an apartment building in broad daylight is actually so fucking metal.
Kate stares at the now empty window for a few moments before coming to her senses, shaking herself out of her funk, and trying to get herself put together enough to do all the ridiculous life-admin tasks that apparently come with being an adult. She finally manages to unpack her suitcase from the Bartons' after taking Lucky for a long stroll through Central Park (with a stop at their favourite dog-friendly cafe, of course) and tidies up some loose ends around her apartment. Kate aimed to keep herself busy for as much of the day as she could, fearing that as soon as she was idle, her thoughts would likely return to that of a cheeky smile, petite button nose, and dark blonde hair attached to a perfectly beautiful face. Jesus. Stop being gay for Yelena. The brunette is well aware she’s a walking bisexual stereotype because of course she wouldn't be able to stop thinking about her stunning assassin friend (are they friends now?) without making it all gay and shit.
She’s still lost in her own mind, thinking about the blonde no matter how hard she tries to avoid it, while she sweeps the kitchen floor. Moving to grab some anti-bac spray and a microfibre towel to wipe down the countertops from their spattering of bacon grease this morning, Kate is suddenly brought out of her Yelena-wormhole when she sees a tiny piece of lined paper sitting on her countertop, gently tucked underneath her fruit bowl. Recognising the paper as the same one from the notebook she saw Yelena scribbling in the previous night, the brunette stumbles over herself in her haste to tear the folded note open to reveal what is inside. Written with the same delicate, loopy script she saw the blonde use last night, Kate reads the note out loud, mumbling the contents under her breath as if she can’t quite believe what she’s reading.
(917)-555-8161.
- YB
And of course right below the phone number, an exact copy of the little smiley face that Kate remembers seeing on the framed picture of the two of them, which happily sits permanently next to her bed. Kate doesn’t think she’s ever been this excited before, and she’s even met Hawkeye (don’t tell Clint)! She quickly opens up her phone, adds the number to her contacts, and sets an alarm on her phone for twelve hours from now that reminds her to to text Yelena with the number she provided (it would be so uncool of me to text her right away, right?). She’s trying as hard as she can to be really fucking cool about this, but she realises that perhaps it’s all for naught when a mere seven minutes later, she’s already drafting a text to her favourite Russian.