2 Weeks Earlier

Working for MI6 wasn't necessarily difficult per se. Then again, all Samantha seemed to do was spend the vast majority of her time filing reports and hacking files. She didn't mind it so much, not really. It was a nice break from spying on people and apprehending Red Room operatives, or that's what she told herself. MI6 had been good to her and Wanda. They'd provided the two young women with a flat, jobs (decent-paying ones at that) and safe passage out of the U.S. The fact that the cost of it all was essential servitude to the British government was not lost on Samantha but she remembered Steve's words over the intercom the day the Triskelion fell "The price of freedom is high, it always has been,"

It had been a long, hard day when she came home to find Steve Rogers standing in her kitchen. For some reason – perhaps the fact that the last time she saw him, she shot him in the knee – the very sight of him petrified her. He shuffled from one foot to the other, awkwardly, nervously even. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice breathy almost like she was panting for some inexplicable reason.

"I need Wanda's assistance on an op," he responded and she felt disappointment settle beneath her skin like a ringworm. For some reason, she'd been hoping he'd come to see her.

She gritted her teeth, trying to avoid revealing her true feelings. Fiddling with the ring on her left ring finger, she stated "You'll have to talk with MI6 about that," For some reason she felt like a child being told off by their parents. "Will S.H.I.E.L.D. even allow it?" she added, concerned for her friend.

"They're going to have to," was Steve's cryptic response. That annoyed the hell out of Samantha. They'd always tried to avoid the cryptic answers. However, she couldn't allow her anger to show.

Sighing, she asked "How's Emma?" Emma, her niece would be turning six and Samantha had a permanent feeling of guilt regarding leaving. The little girl, with her wavy black curls and green eyes that could pierce your soul, had been through a lot – too much for a girl her age – and Samantha felt as though she'd just added to the mile-high pile.

"She's with your dad," Steve replied and Samantha gulped. Her stepmother, Pepper Potts, hadn't long left Tony – insisting on taking their daughter, Sophia, with her – because he was too obsessed with trying to save the world. Suffice to say he wasn't taking it well despite his claim that it was temporary. He hadn't quite turned to alcohol yet but Samantha got the feeling he was close.

Still, she nodded before asking "Why are you really here?" She knew there had to be another reason for his being in her flat. And if she was being honest – and despite what her occupation entailed, she did try to be honest – she knew it couldn't be good.

She watched as his gaze fell to the floor, confirming her suspicions of bad news "You shot me," he said and she bit her lip nervously.

"I was trying to protect you," she said by way of a justification. She'd been telling herself that for three and a half months but it wasn't getting any easier. It wasn't that it was a lie, it was the truth really, but it was a difficult truth for her to keep reminding herself of.

He looked up at her, fire in his eyes, rage turning his face beet red "How do you figure that Samantha?"

She stepped back, worried about what he might do to her. He'd never laid a hand on her before but she'd never seen him this infuriated before. Their arguments had always been verbal but her paranoia was setting in – again.

"The only way I could make sure S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't torture you any more or kill you was to shoot you because then they'd think that you were as much my enemy as they are," she explained, feeling guiltier by the second. Steve seemed to soften at that and Samantha started to feel more comfortable "I-I can't even begin to say how sorry I am for hurting you, for putting you in danger, for-for everything really. I-I mean, I'm starting to think that if I hadn't come along, your life would have been a heck of a lot easier. Possibly close to normal even," she added, unsure whether she was softening or worsening the blow she'd dealt.

He put his hand on her cheek, a gesture – a touch – so gentle that she was caught off guard by it "I wouldn't have it any other way though because as it turns out you're the love of my life,"

"W-we can't ever be normal. I-I can't give you children or-or a normal life. We can't even be in the same country for long periods in time without arousing suspicion the way things are," she argued, unsure why she was even arguing in the first place. Here stood a man – a good, honest, handsome man – who she loved and who loved her in return and she was giving him the exact reasons why he shouldn't love her. She could imagine the legions of 1950s housewives face-palming as she spoke.

"Normal was never really my style and as for kids – we have Emma," and at that he pulled her face towards his and planted his lips on hers and she let go of everything she'd been holding in for months, it made her almost weak at the knees.

It wasn't meant to last, however, as her phone rang out its monotonous tones – there was no personalisation in the encrypted phones of MI6. Breaking away from Steve, she quickly rummaged around until she found the offending device "Hello?" she said uncertainly upon answering.

"Have you seen the news yet?" her boss, Rita Ware, said almost urgently and Samantha was left to wonder what was going on "It doesn't matter, I need you to come into my office immediately," was the instruction Samantha received and she knew she didn't have much time to do what needed to be done.

Hanging up the phone, she told Steve "I uh I have to go. Something's come up at work," before picking up her bag and rushing out the door.

The cab ride to Thames House (her second of the day) had a sombre air to it. The driver didn't even attempt to make conversation, normally a rare luxury within London. The only sounds that filled the air were the car's engine and its radio. 10 Downing Street had been bombed. The Prime Minister had been pronounced dead on arrival at St. Thomas's Hospital. His Press Secretary and Communications Director were also dead. Others had suffered either critical or minor injuries – there was no in between, it seemed. The government was a shambles. It was just starting to dawn on Samantha as to why she was being called back into work. She clambered rather ungracefully out of the cab, paid her fare and headed into the building. Inside, everything was chaotic and messy. She tried to get through it as best she could, trying to avoid bumping into people as she went along until finally she reached Rita's office.

She didn't bother knocking, Rita had told her when they first met that she hated the sound the people knocking on the door and so it was something Samantha didn't do. Instead, she opened the door and strutted inside. Rita looked a little worse for wear, not surprising considering. She was on the phone, her hand seemingly digging into her scalp thus ruining her normally perfect, tight chignon. Strands of black hair had come out of it so that she looked almost wild. "Yes, I realise that," she said into the receiver as she gestured for the younger woman to sit in the chair in front of the desk. "I understand that John. Yes, of course," she said before slamming the phone down on her desk "That man is more odious than half of our enemies I swear," she commented before handing Samantha a file. "That file there has the man we're looking at for the bombing. Thought you might know him, he seems he knows your fiancé at least,"

Samantha opened the file gingerly to see Bucky Barnes' face staring up at her "That's not possible. Bucky Barnes is supposed to be in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. I put him in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody," she said. Bewildered by it all. How on earth could Bucky be responsible for that bombing?

"After you and Wanda were granted asylum, S.H.I.E.L.D. started releasing prisoners – people like Barnes. Between MI6 and a few other organisations, we thought we had it under control, we were able to round up enough of them fairly quickly so we didn't think it was a problem. Clearly, we were wrong," Rita explained and Samantha nodded along.

"I'll see if one of my contacts knows anything. Was there anything else?"

"How's your English accent?" Rita asked and Samantha looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and excitement.

"Not too bad I think," she answered in her best English accent. It was just shy of Downton Abbey which she figured wasn't too terrible.

"Good. You know how undercover work works, yes? Of course you do. Anyway, there's an unwritten agreement between MI6 and Downing Street that one of their employees will be one of our agents. Normally, it's an assistant but the acting Prime Minister already has one so the next best thing we can do is replace the Press Secretary with you,"

Samantha had to do a double take on that one "Why me? I'm hardly qualified and it would look really bad at the moment given the last Press Secretary died only a few hours ago," she argued, for the second time that night wondering why on earth she was so hell-bent on self-sabotaging.

"See, you know these things. You'll be fine. All you have to do is do your job and then phone MI6 if anything suspect seems to be going on." Rita explained and Samantha got a weird feeling she was being set up to fail. Still, she agreed. She'd never been one to shy away from a challenge and clearly she was going to be greeted by one.

She arrived at the Acting Prime Minister's house – if you could call it that, it was more like a castle - the next morning. Steve and Wanda had left in the middle of the night with the idea of getting to Lagos as early as possible. She was sort of used to being alone – it protected her. And she had more important things to worry about like how she was going to make one of England's leading politicians that she was a) English and b) not a spy for MI6.

The house itself was a tall, imposing stately manor with large oak doors and stunning glass windows. She was a liberal at heart and she knew the house was, most likely, the product of a potentially corrupt aristocracy but all of that didn't stop her from admiring its beauty.

Steadying herself, she knocked three times on the door and was greeted by a balding butler with an upturned nose "I'm Olivia Potter, I have an appointment with Acting Prime Minister Reid," she introduced in her English accent, handing her falsified ID to the butler. She didn't know whether he was trained to look for flaws but he still looked from the ID to her and back again. He nodded, handed her her ID back and she made her way inside with a satisfied grin on her face.