Chapter Text
It (probably) wasn’t a coincidence that most of Bobbi’s worst nights involved tequila. Taking Friday night to let loose was Hunter’s idea. The plane had touched down in Fairhaven, Massachusetts to refuel before heading to Portugal. Options for nightlife were limited to a couple of dive bars downtown, though Hunter was never deterred from experiencing the local flavor. He even promised her that they wouldn’t end up in a holding cell, which was good because Coulson most likely wouldn’t bail them out again.
“Ah, now this is the real deal, Bob!” he exclaimed as they approached a wooden storefront covered with neon signs advertising Coors and Busch Light. The inside was dark, the silhouettes of people barely visible through the windows. “A proper pub, not some microbrewery hipster baloney.”
“Yeah, it looks real classy.” The inside was so loud that the jingle of the front doorbell barely registered. The clientele consisted mainly of clumps of middle-aged men wearing moth-eaten t-shirts their wives couldn’t convince them to throw away. A couple were still in their work uniforms, fresh from a shift at the local Stop&Shop. They reminded Bobbi of the men that her Dad would play poker with in the basement of her childhood home. She missed hanging around real people. Most of the agents on the plane were pretty straight-laced.
“What’s your poison, Bob? You thinking beer or liquor?” Hunter squinted at the menu up front through the din. His accent drew a couple of curious glances.
“Surprise me.” This was Bobbi’s first mistake, because ‘surprise me’ usually resulted in shots. Many, many shots.
They chose a spot at the sticky bartop, wedged on both sides between broad-shouldered men chatting loudly with their buddies. The bartender, at Hunter’s behest, delivered them their Jose Cuervo.
“Tequila, Hunter?” she groaned.
“Aw, come on! Don’t you want to feel young again?” He held up his shot glass with a Cheshire smile. Was feeling young equated with being hungover? Because- call her a prophet- she was already imagining what she was going to wake up to tomorrow morning.
“Fuck it.” She took her own shot and clinked it against Hunter’s. They downed them and both proceeded to gag and shiver. “God, that’s terrible.”
“Isn’t it?” Hunter exclaimed cheerfully. And because he was Hunter, after their second round he waltzed over to the pool table and introduced himself to the men playing. Bobbi trailed behind a bit more reluctantly, aware that her boyfriend could make enemies of strangers just as easily as he could make friends. She loved him, but he was a bit of an acquired taste.
“Where’d you pull that accent from, kid?” The stocky man, who introduced himself as Abe, chalked the tip of his cue. It had his name, Abraham, engraved along the side in script.
“I’m from Britain, actually,” Hunter explained. He pulled his own cue stick from the rack on the wall as another man, Thomas, re-racked the balls.
“Did you come all the way ‘across the pond’ for the girl?” Abe raised his eyebrow at Bobbi. She had been careful not to smile yet. She didn’t like the way the man was looking at her- like a piece of meat.
Hunter seemed unaware. “Ah, we actually met in Dubai. It’s a bit of a long story.”
Thomas over at the table made a little grunt, but no actual comment. He stepped back after the balls had been corralled into their triangle. “Alright, ladies. Let’s play. Me and the English kid first, huh?”
“How about we put some skin in the game?” Hunter offered. Bobbi delivered a sharp glare and an elbow to his ribs, but he ignored her.
Thomas raised a thick eyebrow and smirked a little. “You’re on. Fifty for this round. I break first since you’re ‘H.’”
Bobbi ordered a vodka soda and sat back with the spectators. Abe took a seat right next to her, but she ignored him, watching instead as Hunter and Thomas circled the table with their cues.
Abe leaned in, his elbow nearly brushing hers on the tabletop. His voice was low. “So how’s a guy like that get with a girl like you? Is it the accent that does it for you?”
He smelled like a one-man brewery. She didn’t look at him, or even bother responding. This seemed to aggravate him more than if she had just told him to fuck off.
“Ah, so he’s got money then?”
Bobbi continued to sip at her vodka soda. Abe and his buddies erupted in obnoxious cheers when Thomas sunk on the break and proceeded to claim stripes.
Abe wouldn’t give up. “Kind of a prickly one, aren’t you?” He touched her leg then, and she responded by calmly touching the point of the pocket knife from her purse against his hand. When he looked down, his eyes widened and he yelped, retracting his hand and earning a little hairline scratch for his trouble. “You crazy bitch!” he spat.
She flicked the blade back in and twirled the black handle around her middle and pointer fingers, staring at him coolly. Hunter looked up from his shot.
“Is he bothering you, babe?”
Bobbi gave him a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He won’t be anymore.”
“You need to put this one on a leash,” Abe told Hunter, staring at the thin line of blood welling up across the back of his hand. What a baby.
The liquor had ebbed away at Bobbi’s patience. She was so done with scummy men. “And you need to stop putting your hands on random women.”
Hunter, of course, immediately set down his cue. Oh, great. “What the fuck?”
Bobbi really didn’t want to sit in a police station tonight. “Let’s just go, Hunter.”
Again, he ignored her, looking instead at Abe. “Hey man, just because you can’t get laid doesn’t give you the right to make a move on my girlfriend.”
Abe’s face went beet red, and he surged out of his chair toward the younger man. To Hunter’s credit, he didn’t flinch, even when his back was pressed up against the pool table.
“Don’t you dare fucking touch him,” Bobbi seethed, and flipped the blade of her knife back out. The glint of the metal under the low light caused a series of murmurs to erupt from the gathered men. Even the bartender kept a wary eye on her.
Abe looked back over his shoulder and then at Hunter. “The chick really has to rush to your defense? Is she your girlfriend or your boyfriend?”
“The ‘chick’ has a knife,” Bobbi pointed out, and shoved him away from Hunter. Abe reared back like he was going to strike, but caught the eyes of the men watching and decided against it. Hunter frowned at her as she tugged him away. “I know,” she muttered. “But he’s not worth it.”
It was a bit of a walk back to the airstrip, and they passed the first half nearly in complete silence.
“I could’ve handled him, Bob,” Hunter finally said. “You didn’t need to threaten the guy with a knife.”
“I wasn’t actually going to use it.” Well, she already did a little bit. “I told you, I didn’t want to sit in a police station tonight.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “I was trying to defend your honor.”
“Nobody in that bar- except for me- was rooting for you, Hunter. You’ve got to know when to walk away.” She saw him sulking, and her voice softened. “I do appreciate you sticking up for me, though.”
“Men are pigs,” Hunter intoned.
“Amen.”
-----
Bobbi didn’t expect to keep thinking about it. Hunter wouldn’t let it go, of course, but she was the one who tended not to dwell on things that weren’t productive. Usually.
It was the boyfriend thing that she kept running over and over again in her hand, even though it was just an off-handed, sexist remark that Abe probably didn’t think twice about making. ”Is she your girlfriend or your boyfriend?” Bobbi did tend to take on a more dominant role in her and Hunter’s relationship, because she was like that. (A control freak, some had said.) Maybe this was why a tiny, tiny part of herself wanted to tell Abe that yeah, she was Hunter’s boyfriend, and she was going to kick his ass if he hurt him.
Saturday night was the team dinner, hosted by May and Coulson, whose recent activities were not helping them to shirk the whole “Mom and Dad” vibe that Daisy had diagnosed them with. Hunter was itching to recount the whole bar story to the gang. He had this habit of trying to making himself feel less embarrased about something by talking about it constantly, whereas Bobbi preferred to hold it inside of her until she died.
“And then, the bloody bastard said, ‘Oh, what is she, your boyfriend?’”
Everyone laughed, either because Hunter was laughing so hard or because it was genuinely funny, Bobbi couldn’t tell, because she wasn’t amused. But she sat there and smiled as much as she could muster in order to bolster his supposedly crumbling masculinity.
Daisy nudged her. "Hey, you good? Sorry that guy was so creepy.”
Bobbi blinked at her. “Huh? Oh. Thanks. But I’m used to it.” This was unfortunately true. It didn’t matter whether Hunter was with her or not.
-----
She had a dream that night in which the team kept calling her “he” and “him” even though she looked like she always did. This meant nothing, of course. She had her hypothesis about dreams- a simple processing of the day’s events. It didn’t have to mean anything.
“Earth to Bobbi,” Hunter called. They’d landed in Portugal with the sunrise, and it was now up to her and Hunter to head out and scout the facility they’d been tasked with investigating. They were currently changing in her bunk. “I’m thinking an American accent. My attempt at a Spanish one might be offensive.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Hunter. Actually, please don’t. I’m fluent. Pretend you’re my- my mute boyfriend for the time being.”
“Alright, now that is offensive.”
She didn’t disagree. “There’s an extraction team in place in case things go south. The goal is just information-gathering.” She fastened her holster around her hips and pulled a baggy top over it.
“I was there for the briefing, love,” he reminded her gently, touching her shoulder. “You seem agitated.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always think I’m agitated.”
“Well, more so than usual. Are you nervous about the mission?”
In truth, she hadn’t given it much thought. “Yeah, sure. Alright, I’m ready when you are.”
He looked her up and down. “Like, ready ready?”
She frowned. “Yes, I said I am.”
“You’re not going to make me stand around for fifteen minutes while you put your makeup on?”
She didn't know why this made her so annoyed. "I don't always wear makeup, Hunter."
His eyes widened. "A-and I'm not saying you need to! You know I think you're beautiful with or without it."
She couldn’t help but laugh. "Okay, okay. Relax. You’re not in the doghouse. Let’s get this show on the road, huh?”
Hunter looked grateful for the change in subject. “Yes, definitely.”
-----
Hunter’s Spanish actually wasn’t horrible, though it certainly was worse than his Russian or his German. Therefore, though Bobbi told him to minimize his own speech, she couldn’t stop him from being included in the conversation anyway.
Mr. Del Mar elbowed Hunter in the side and waggled his eyebrows, completely ignoring Bobbi’s attempt at an introduction. “Ayyy, hombre afortunado, ¿no?” (Ayyy, lucky man, no?)
Hunter gave a sort of grimace, which may have had something to do with the tightening vice grip that Bobbi had on his hand.
“As I was saying, we would love to see a tour of the facilities-”
“Mira, chica, sin ofender, pero ¿por qué no dejas el negocio a los hombres?” (Look, girl, no offense, but why don't you leave the business to the men?)
Bobbi resisted the urge to deck him right then and there. “En realidad, me ofendo,” she replied dryly. (Actually, I'm offended.) “Mi novio no es el hombre de negocios aquí. Soy yo.” (My boyfriend is not the businessman. I am.)
Mr. Del Mar laughed heartily. “‘El hombre,’ ¿eh? Creo que necesitas practicar tu español.” (The man, huh? I think that you need to practice your Spanish.)
Hunter exchanged an apologetic glance with her before speaking to Mr. Del Mar. “Sorry about my girlfriend, mate. She is a… fiery one. We can certainly talk business.”
Bobbi didn’t speak much for the duration of their visit to Mr. Del Mar’s factory, even when they got back into the car.
“Bobbi.”
She turned her head toward him.
“You know I was just trying to salvage things back there, right? That guy was an ass, but our objective was-”
“-I know what our objective was, Hunter. You did the right thing.”
He paused. “I- I did?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “He was never going to listen to me.”
“How do you say ‘misogynistic jackass’ in Spanish?”
“Cerdo.” (Pig.) It was close enough. “‘Practice my Spanish…’ What a fucking ass.”
“I thought you sounded pretty good to me.”
“I kind of called myself a man, but I wasn’t confused. I was just echoing his own words.”
“I mean, you didn’t wear makeup this morning, so… is there something you need to tell me, Bob?”
Bobbi didn’t laugh, even though she normally would have. “You’re hilarious, Hunter.” She returned to staring out the car window.
-----
It was Bobbi’s turn to lead a training exercise with some of the newer recruits. Unfortunately, things were off to a pretty rocky start.
“Sure thing, Barbara,” one of the twenty-somethings commented under her breath after Bobbi told her to fix her posture at the punching bag. Bobbi stilled and felt her chest go cold. She hadn’t heard that name in years.
Pettiness was not an attractive trait and she knew it, but Bobbi was having a bad day. “You know what? How about we give it a go on the mat?”
The girl’s eyes got wide. “No, that’s okay- I’m good on the bag. I’ll do it like you said.”
Bobbi flashed her a smile, all teeth. “Let me rephrase that, Monroe. Mat. Now.”
Sensing a change in the air, the others in the room turned to stare at their fellow agent who had paled by a few shades. Monroe walked to the mat with the heavily weighted posture of a man at the plank.
Bobbi didn’t want to hurt the kid. But she didn’t go easy on her either. After a couple of minutes of sparring, Monroe was flat on her back like an upturned beetle, panting and no doubt sporting a few fresh bruises. Bobbi hovered over her and offered her a hand. When she lifted the girl back up to her feet, she yanked her in close to mutter in her ear.
“Let’s be clear about something, agent. My name is Bobbi. But to you, I’m Agent Morse. Nothing else. Understand?”
Monroe gave a harried nod and scuttled off as soon as Bobbi let her go.
Later that day, Coulson found her in the cafeteria. She was picking at a banana nut muffin, and he was clutching a mug of tea. Oolong, by the smell. Her boss took a seat next to her.
“Word on the street is you’re a more merciless instructor than May.”
Bobbi rolled her eyes. “Oh, the thing with Agent Monroe? I’m usually nicer. I swear.”
He searched her gaze, humor fading from his expression. “Rough day?”
Her shoulders rose in a self-conscious shrug. “It was fine. She called me…” She hated to even say it. “‘Barbara.’” It left a bad taste on her tongue. “I had to nip that in the bud.”
“Mmm.” He dipped the tea bag up and down by its string. “I understand. You know, you’ve never seemed like a ‘Barbara’ to me.”
“Never felt like one either,” she mumbled.
-----
Though not great, ambivalence was the healthiest perspective for Bobbi to take towards her own body. She was grateful for what her body could do for her- for its strength on missions, to carry her to new places, for pleasure during sex- but that gratitude was eclipsed by a pervasive sense of alienation. When she was a teen she mistook this for a different kind of dissatisfaction, and in an effort to remedy it, undertook a bad habit that nearly killed her. There were things she missed about being ill, even many years after she could look back and recognize the horrifying extent of her cognitive distortions. It was in that emaciated body, in the dead of winter, that she was called “sir” from behind while in line at the supermarket.
Bobbi went back and forth on how she felt about her chest. There were days she didn’t mind it so much, but then there were days like this one where every shirt looked wrong because it wouldn’t lie flat. She kept pressing her hand down, but her effort to smooth things out were of course futile. It was a strange feeling, to wonder what those things were doing there, when they had been there over half of her life. Bobbi pulled on her tightest sports bra and then another one. Things were marginally better then, though the band that dug into her ribs was sure to leave an angry red mark later on.
Bobbi had forgotten about her choice of undergarments by the end of the day, while out on a mission her shoulder had been hit with shrapnel from a homemade explosive device. Simmons took her into the med bay and, once in the private examination room, instructed her to remove her shirt so she could properly tend to the injury.
Bobbi followed the doctor’s orders, though she felt quite foolish once she had tugged her shirt off (it was one of Hunter’s henleys, soft and grey) and wrung it in her hands, staring down at the floor. Simmons immediately leaned in and began cleaning the blood that had dried around the gash, but it was hard to miss the curious furrow in her brow. After about a minute had passed, Simmons leaned backward, fiddling with her first aid kit. Her face reddened before she spoke.
“Forgive me, but isn’t that uncomfortable?”
Bobbi pulled out the elastic band from her ribs slightly, giving her space to take in a long breath. “Sort of,” she admitted.
“Do you feel that you’re not- er- getting enough support?” Simmons could hardly look at her. “I know some different brands of sports bras that you could try...”
Bobbi grimaced. “Oh. No, they’re fine. I just wanted- Um. Sometimes I just want my chest to be a bit flatter, is all. That’s why I wore two.” She had been under the impression that this desire for a flatter chest was a normal, though unvoiced, womanly experience until she saw the look Simmons gave her. Her own cheeks flushed. “What?”
“Nothing!” Simmons unwrapped a length of gauze and spoke slowly. "Have you ever heard of a binder?"
Bobbi frowned. "Like… a binder for papers?"
She cracked a smile. "Different binder. This one is a garment designed for chest compression. It's like a tank top, sort of."
Bobbi blinked. She couldn't comprehend that something like this existed, nevertheless that Simmons was aware of it. "I had no idea. Where- why-?"
"Well, it was originally designed for cis men with gynecomastia or trans men, but I see no reason why you couldn't also find utility in it. They're sold online, mostly. I can send you a link.”
Bobbi had forgotten trans people were a thing, and now she had some trouble breathing. Maybe due to the whole sports bra thing.
"How do you know so much about…. binders?"
"Oh! Um. Someone I'm close to is a trans man, actually."
Bobbi wondered if she was talking about Fitz, but decided it wouldn’t be right to ask. She didn’t know much about transness, but it wasn’t hard to imagine that once someone transitioned, they might not want to be defined by their past.
“Jemma, I-”
Simmons looked at her expectantly, but Bobbi realized she didn’t even know what she was going to say.
“Thank you,” she settled on.
“Of course!” Jemma finished taping the gauze over her wound. “Just make sure to be safe if you do decide to wear a binder. You shouldn’t exercise in it, or wear it for an extended period of time. Certainly don’t sleep in it! It’s better than wearing two sports bras, to my knowledge, but it’s still putting compression on your ribcage.”
Bobbi nodded, feeling overwhelmed. This was something that she could really do? Was she going to do it? What would Hunter think? Would anybody else notice?
“Alright, well, you’re all good to go! Come see me to change your dressings tomorrow. And if you have any… questions… just let me know!”
Bobbi had a lot of questions, but none that she wanted to voice out loud. Not yet.