A Day in the Life of Maria Hill

by a-really-angry-sorceress

Deputy Director Maria Hill single-handedly runs S.H.I.E.L.D. That's a fact, not an opinion, and everyone knows it. As if Fury does much apart from stomp about with dramatic one-liners. She handles more deadly secrets everyday than most people could deal with in a lifetime. But everyone, even ice-cold, ex-assassins have a breaking point. And this has been building for a long time...

3. Patriotism Can Feel A Lot Like Bruises

Hello wonderful people of the world! I come bearing another chapter after however many millennia ago the last one was posted!

I just thought I should mention the fact that in this weird fic-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-oneshot-but-got-expanded-upon-thingy, I'm ignoring Cap2 (not that it wasn't the best movie, because GIRL POWER!) but it just doesn't fit so… Oh, and not that it's relevant right now but imagine Thor2 kinda happened but everyone already knows Loki is still alive and kicking… And Coulson being alive is already widely known…obviously.

Thanks to my beta, run-robin-run! Head over and check her out! I meant her writing! Sheesh...

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be canon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!

Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, French, military slang, vague mention of strangulation, vague mentions of child abuse.

Do you know what I love? High heels. Coffee too, but right now I'm talking about heels. Are they impractical: absolutely. But it what other kind of shoes can you strut down a hallway in, knowing you could be on your way to grab a Starbucks or crush the patriarchy beneath your well-shod feet?

Click click motherfuckers.

I turn my attention back to the call I'm currently engaged on. "Yes, Professor, thank you for warning us. PR is already covering it up, and I'll get Director Fury to ring you back. Be warned, he'll be in a terrible mood." I listen in silence for a second, and then forcefully have to suppress an amused smile. "Yes, I do agree he's always in a terrible mood, but really, it's to be expected. Hill out."

"Deputy Director! The Avengers have been spotted!" A young female agent dashes up, snapping a sharp salute with perfect posture despite the fact she's probably run here from quite far away. The calibre of our agents never fails to impress me.

"Where exactly Agent Yousif? Report!" I demand quickly from her, numerous apocalyptic scenes running through my mind. I kind of desperately need to know their location after all, they've been AWOL for the last four weeks.

"They're…um…they're waiting for you on The Bridge." she stutters half hesitantly, obviously a little scared of my temper after my explosion last month.

And I'll admit, that makes me pissed. Those cocky little self-entitled shits. I draw myself up to my full height and take a deep breath. "Thank you Agent Yousif." I rap out sharply. "If you'll excuse me… Actually, can you do something for me?"

"Of course Deputy Director."

"Good. Go and secure me a debriefing room, I think I'm going to need somewhere a little more private than The Bridge to rip off the Avengers' heads." Agent Yousif nods, turns to stride off, and then does a double take, looking back at me with a confused look on her face. "Well? Go on then, comm me when you've done."

Yousif only sighs in a long suffering manner and rolls her eyes, before hurrying off to do what I asked. If she was any lower than the Level 7 clearance she is, she wouldn't have dared roll her eyes at me. But as it is, she can keep her life. For a little while anyway.

I click my way through the halls, eyes calculating as I try my best to work out what the hell caused the Avengers to pick up and leave without word to anyone, including Pepper, just as I've been doing for the last four motherfucking weeks. They could've been dead, or kidnapped, or mind-controlled, or lost, or accidentally teleported to a hostile Realm (yeah, don't even ask, it's happened before). They could've been anywhere, doing anything.

Maybe it was Loki. He's out of Asgard's frankly appalling jail cells and is causing mischief again, for the supposedly all-powerful Allfather, Odin makes a shit father and an even worse enforcer of his stupid archaic laws. Seriously, when a S.H.I.E.L.D team representing Midguard went to Asgard the bastard tried to make me, as a women, wear a dress. Do you know how much dresses hinder kicking ass? It was ridiculous, though unfortunately due to diplomacy I couldn't tell him so. Or perhaps it was Red Skull, he came back with the last rise of Hydra in Mongolia of all places, I'm sure he'd be interested in kidnapping 'Ze Avengerz'. Although it doesn't take four weeks for anyone with half a brain to take down that 'pathetic tomato' as he has been so lovingly dubbed, so it's probably not him. I can still hear Stark's ketchup jokes now.

I've been running over these thoughts all month, and all I've managed so far is to go round in circles. It's just not worth the effort.

"-and I don't give a single fuck if you thought you had the best reason in the entire goddamn world to go prancing around who-knows-where on your magical mystery tour-" Fury is screaming at them, I can hear it all the way down the hall. It doesn't sound pretty.

"Sir, with all due respect-"

"Don't you give me that bullshit Romanoff, if you had any respect for me or the goddamn organisation that has saved your ass more times than I can count, you would not go running off with your new-found friends for a whole motherfucking month without word! All I needed was a 'Hi Fury, we're alive and taking a fucking vacation, #YOLO little picture of a fucking kitten'!"

"Pfft." Tony scoffs. "If we were sending you sarcastic messages there would've at least been a two-fingered salute in there somewhere."

"Tony, shut your mouth!" Steve reprimands much more sharply than usual, as if he's on the end of his rope. "What have we said about making bad situations worse with your smart mouth?"

I step out into The Bridge and carefully take stock of the situation. Knowing the Avengers, I'm very sure I'm going to find something I don't like. Barton and Romanoff are leaning on the wall across from a steaming mad Fury, looks of zen-like calm on their faces. Heaven knows they've gone AWOL often enough that the reprimands don't bother them anymore, but they could have at least have the decency to pretend to be a little bit worried. Stark is wandering around the room, leaning over agents' shoulders to peer at their monitors and blatantly paying no attention whatsoever, while Thor, Banner, Rogers and a stranger are sat around the show table, so called because no-one has ever had a conversation around that table that wasn't for the sole purpose of showing off to the S.H.I.E.L.D agents down below.

I fix my attention on the stranger, whose arm is suffering from a Captain America death grip. If he were a danger he'd be in the cells already, not on The Bridge from where he could probably sink the heli-carrier. At least, that's protocol, but since when have the Avengers ever followed protocol? I examine the strange man carefully, seeing if I can solidify the odd feeling of familiarity I feel towards him.

Straggly brown hair tied back from his face, haunted, slightly wild eyes that flick around the room but always stop to rest on the Captain as if looking for reassurance, obviously well-muscled and well-trained, probably an assassin from the restless, tightly wound way he is sitting…

Suddenly, the pieces click together in glorious, horrifying synchronisation. I grab my gun in slightly shaking hands (knowing it will be of little use) and point it at the 'stranger's' head. "Put your hands in the air!" I yell, perhaps a little unnecessarily. It sinks in why all of the Intelligence workers look so uncomfortable sat in front of their computers, and why there are a suspicious number of high level field agents around, armed and ready.

The man raises his hands slowly, and the second I see his left hand poking out from his jacket, I know my deduction was right. Shining, plated metal, the bionic arm that has ended so many lives. "The Winter Soldier." I whisper.

"Hill, put the gun down." Barton murmurs, making stand down gestures with his hands.

Instead of doing as he says, I turn and wave the gun in his direction. "Oh don't you start. You were on your last warning former-Agent Barton, and you blew it. You have literally no influence here, actually I'm surprised Fury hasn't tossed you in the cells already. So shut your face, back off and sit your ass down at the table." Clint blinks, eyebrows drawn together, but does as I say. Even Stark struts over at the tone of my voice, obnoxiously choosing to sit on the damn table, but still.

"Director," I say, turning to Fury, "permission to take over this debriefing. Professor Xavier wishes to speak with you."

"Xavier can shove it." Fury mutters childishly. I know he's been looking forward to ripping all of the Avengers a new one as much as I have, but Xavier needs help cleaning up the damage his X-men have caused across the country, again. Honestly, they seem to do more damage than the Avengers and the Fantastic Four put together, and they have the Thing and the Hulk! The last poker night between those two was not fun. Seriously, never, ever again. The Senate passed a law to prevent it.

"Director. I know you hate his telepathic ass, but Xavier is on our side, rather fortunately for us. If you'd like, I'll get around to setting up a proper liaison between the mutants and S.H.I.E.L.D so neither of us constantly have to deal with them."

"See that you do that Hill." Fury grunts unhappily, stalking across the room towards the entrance I am still inhabiting with my gun raised. "Telepathic? More like tele-pathetic." he grumps, causing quite a few snorts of laughter that are quickly covered up among the S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Even some of our most hardened field agents are smothering grins. As Fury passes though my doorway, he leans in and quietly mutters "Make it a good one." to me before exiting with a last flick of his leather coat. I almost smile.

My comm beeps. "Your debriefing room is ready Deputy Director, it's Room 7 on Level 1."

"Thank you Agent Yousif. Please continue with your day." I glare my way around the room. "Alright you stupid sons of bitches, as of right now, you're all under military arrest until we can get to the bottom of what has been going on here. I'm assuming you'll be coming quietly?" I raise an eyebrow threateningly and knock the safety of my gun.

Stark opens his mouth but Bruce gently touches the back of his hand in warning with a pointed look that coveys something I can't understand. Stark, albeit unhappily, closes his mouth. Oh the miracles. "We'll come quietly." Steve answers for all of them, handing each member of his team a warning look.

"Excellent." I don't put away my gun. "Everyone leave your weapons on the table."

I get a whole host of filthy looks from the Avengers, but one by one they obey. Bruce goes first, surprisingly pulling a covered syringe from his sock and laying it on the table. "It's for my anger." he admits, blushing, "but I thought it might count as a weapon so…" No-one points out that he himself is by far the most dangerous weapon here.

Steve smiles at Banner encouragingly and puts his famed shield on the table, followed by a knife from his shoe. Stark sighs overdramatically and drops his silver cuffs on the table. "And I hope your not expecting me to pull out the Arc Reactor." he mutters churlishly.

Attention turns to Thor, who carefully places Mjolnir on the table, followed by, very surprisingly, a flat brown disk from a string around his neck and a glowing green vial of liquid. "Do not touch those objects." he instructs. No other explanations are forthcoming.

Steve nudges the Winter Soldier, on whom my gun is still trained as well as the attention of every field agent in the room, who swallows nervously. "Agent Romanoff already confiscated my, uh…weaponry but I could disconnect my h-hand. Maybe. It'd really hurt though." he whispers the last sentence with a slight shudder and I feel a wave of pity. He looks just like another kid who's been through too much. That pity gets quickly eradicated on the grounds that he is perhaps the world's deadliest killer. The Avengers have all obviously gone soft for him, I can't afford to do so too.

"I vouch for him." Steve jumps in, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "He won't hurt anyone."

"I second that." Romanoff asserts in a cool voice.

"You both have prior associations with the Winter Soldier and are therefore biased. And who says I give a shit about your opinions anyway?" I turn back to the wide-eyed assassin. "You start attacking anyone and the first bullet goes through Captain Roger's skull, understood?"

The way Steve narrows his eyes and the soldier nods hastily shows me I'm right, they know each other. Well of course I'm right, we knew this was coming for a long time. I compiled the damn file for god's sake.

"All right then. Romanoff, Barton, weapons please." They scowl, unmoving. "You two are technically under arrest too, so just play along for god's sake. You're in deep enough trouble with the damned Council as it is."

With a role of his blue eyes Barton goes first, dropping his bow and quiver on the table, soon followed by Natasha who removes her Widow's Bites and her handguns with a filthy look.

"All of your weapons." I demand.

With twin mutinous looks the duo pull knives from their shoes, their thighs, the inside of their forearms, the outside of their upper arms and then they turn around so that the other can pull a knife from the middle of their backs. The knives piled up on the table and Stark whistles. "That is a hell of a lot of knives, you two planning to stock a kitchen or something?"

I tap my foot, unimpressed. "Stop wasting my time you two. I said all of them and I mean all of them."

The Avengers all blink; surely they can't have anymore weapons? But I know better. The assassins' disdainful looks could burn through steel at this point, but they comply. Barton pulls a gun from his waistband and the ammo from his pockets, a set of lock picks from behind his shoulder blades, a tiny dagger from the sole of his shoe, a sheathed hunting knife from, I'm reasonably sure, his underwear, and another set of lock picks from under a fake skin patch on his elbow. Romanoff delivers a knife from her bra, lock picks from her hair, an array of electric disks from various places around her person, a taser from her hip and a pocket lipstick laser.

"Thank you, it wasn't that hard." The narrow-eyed glares and the clenched fists suggest it was. I'm 9000% sure they both have more weapons on them, but that will do for now. Knowing my luck someone will attack the heli-carrier while all the Avengers are unarmed and I'll never hear the end of it, so it's probably better that the human members of the team have some way to defend themselves.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do. Rogers, Thor, Banner, Stark, you four will be escorting the Winter Soldier to the interrogation room on Level 2 with Agents Imran, Desai, Petrovich and Woodford" I point out each of the agents in turn, who all nod their assent and walk up to join us on the platform, "to make sure you don't do another runner. Then, head to Room 7 on Level 1 for debriefing. Avengers, do not try anything. Agents, you have full permission to use any and all necessary force. Romanoff, Barton, you're with me."

"Yes ma'am."

The two groups split our different ways, the ragtag group of superheroes and one mysterious assassin surrounded by the S.H.I.E.L.D agents who support a variety of very lethal-looking weapons heading in the opposite direction. Considering the ruckus between the four agents to be the two marching along behind the heroes, I am inclined to think that a large proportion of their attention will be focused on Captain Roger's ass, despite the fact that I know that between the three female and one male agent, the man is straight and one of the women is a lesbian. Apparently Roger's ass is irresistible to all.

"So," Barton pipes up from my left, "where are we going, Ice Queen?"

"To find the Cavalry." I reply bluntly, finally putting my handgun back on safety and stuffing it in its holster.

"Why do you need Agent Mei?" Romanoff queries slowly, her eyebrows drawing together in thought.

"Because only she has the code for Coulson's cell."

Both members of Strike Team Delta immediately stop walking and give me half confused, half horrified looks. "Come again?" Barton chokes out.

"You went AWOL, a-fucking-gain. You must've known there would be consequences, even if you are rather dim." Barton sputters in indignation. I raise a dangerous eyebrow. "Just because you know you're far too irreplaceable to fire, despite the fact that you just blew your last chance, doesn't mean other people won't have to suffer the fallout. Fury got blasted by the World Security Council. I got a great big stack of paperwork. Coulson got a 6-by-6 cell." Lethal looks encourage me to elaborate. "It was the Council's orders, they reckoned Coulson had gone too far when he looked the other way when you all scarpered, especially when he wouldn't tell us where you were. They knew Fury or I would just let him out on the sly, so they entrusted the task of keeping him in his cell to Agent Mei. Poor woman's being getting death stared all month, not that she gives a shit."

"Fucking Council." Barton growls. "I thought they'd just hand me a 3 month mission ban or something, not pin the blame on my goddamn fucking perfect Handler!"

"Clint." Natasha places a calming hand on her partner's shoulder, just stopping him from punching a hole in the wall. That's all she needs to say.

Barton takes deep, calming breaths, pointing an unwavering finger in my direction. "And you had nothing to do with sticking Coulson in a fucking cell?"

I cross my arms. "Believe me, I'm more unimpressed than you are. At least I wasn't the cause of it." Both assassins grimace slightly.

"Anyway," Natasha adds after a slight, angst-filled pause, "let's go find Agent Mei."

A spark of genius suddenly strikes me; maybe Stark left a tiny piece of his genius floating around and it landed on my head or something. "Hold on actually, I have an idea."

I whip my tablet out and slide open a few files. Instead of the usual neatly constructed voice note, I simply send one word out over the intercom. "Cavalry!"

A very, very faint "Don't call me that!" echoes in the distance. Found her.

Before rescuing Coulson, I need to have one last word with my most capable, rule-breaking, terrifying, mischievous, we-do-what-we-want agents/spies/assassins. I quickly put my tablet away and turn to face them, hands on hips. "You two do understand that you are in so much fucking trouble, from Fury and I especially." I get two sharp nods and slightly lowered eyes. For once I actually think that the remorse isn't all faked, which is a small miracle in itself. "And not because you ran off." Two pairs of surprised eyes meet mine. "If it bothered us, as in Management, that much every time you run away, you'd be fired and/or dead by now. Believe me, we're used to it, we even have protocols for this very situation. But for god's sake next time take Coulson with you! For one, it's nice to know that the Avengers have at least one sensible adult making sure you don't all kill each other or blow up the planet or create wormholes to another dimension, and for another, I won't have to put my best friend and partner in a fucking cell! Understood?!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. Now get your sorry asses to the debriefing room, you know the way." I turn sharply on my heel to leave but am stopped by a calloused hand on my shoulder.

"Can we…can we see Coulson? Y'know, to apologise?" Barton pleads quietly.

"If he wants to see you, he'll come to the debriefing room. If I were him, I'd rip your heads off and use your skulls for my morning coffee, but he's nicer and more forgiving than me as we are very much aware, so we'll see. It's completely up to Coulson." Barton looks disappointed that no concrete answer is forthcoming, but he sighs in resignation and drops his hand from my shoulder.

"Sure. Okay." he mutters, and with a round of nods Barton and Romanoff march off, S.H.I.E.L.D agents parting before them, their spines straight and their strides confident, but their heads just a little lower than before. Good. They should be fucking ashamed.

I hurry off down the hall to find Agent Mei and get that damn password, only to find her leaning calmly on the wall around the next corner, ankles crossed and posture relaxed. She raises an eyebrow. "I got your call, I'm assuming the Avengers are back in town?"

"Yeah, they finally decided to show up, which means-"

"You need the password for Coulson's cell. So predictable Maria." I frown at her and, so fast I almost miss it, she winks. "Well thank god for that, I was getting real fed up of sneaking Coulson the newspaper and check ups for all his agents."

I blink, uncomprehending.

Mei, immovable, unbreakable, emotionless Mei, rolls her eyes as if disappointed. "I was one of Coulson's pet agents as well you know, and contrary to popular belief I hate the Council as much as everyone else. But you catch more flies with honey than vinegar so…" she shrugs. "It's always useful to pretend to mindlessly follow orders. No-one ever suspects a thing."

I'm speechless. Literally speechless. I open my mouth to talk but nothing comes out. I suppose I should've known better as a spy not to make assumptions about people but it appears to be unavoidable. But Mei, disobeying the Council? What?

"Yeah, um… okay, great idea." I stutter out, before regaining my wits. "Wait, so you put up with all the hateful looks and snide comments for a whole month for imprisoning Coulson when you were actually doing your best to help him out?"

Mei shrugs, completely blasé. "Can't have everyone knowing my secrets."

"I'd hug you if that wasn't a disgustingly mushy way of showing emotion."

Mei nods. "Agreed. Don't hug me, it's just nasty."

After a momentary pause of contemplating how very weird most people are with their hugging and kissing and hand holding and just ugh, I get back on track. "So, Coulson's cell? I don't think he'd appreciate us standing around here gossiping."

Mei smirks vampirically. "The code is cavalry. In binary."

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "But you hate that name?"

"Exactly." Mei strides past me, gently patting my shoulder on her way past. "No-one would ever have guessed that, now would they?" She lets out a last snicker, and then disappears like a puff of smoke before I can even turn around.

Stupid freaking ninjas.

When I reach the outside of the cellblock, I'm met by suspicious, squinty eyed looks. "Identity please ma'am."

I could deck them, I really could. Like they don't know who I am, those stupid, pompous, ego-inflated morons of the highest proportions. I should demote the whole damn lot of them. I won't, because they're good at their jobs, but it's a nice thought. Sucking in a whistling breath through my teeth, I hand over my ID card and watch as it is carefully scanned in every possible way to make sure it's genuine.

"You can go through, ma'am, but you need to leave any and all weapons and technology here, for your own safety."

Great, well isn't this just karma. I strip the Avengers of their weapons, and now I have to give up mine. Oh the irony. Sighing in annoyance I drop my two handguns, a knife from my shoe and another from my right thigh, a lipstick taser and my tablet. I keep the knife in my bra though. I'm not walking around completely defenceless, and besides, I'm busting out Coulson for heavens sake. He better not even think about going in my bra, even for a knife. The mere thought of that freaks me out, and not in a fun way.

Hurrying up to the only occupied cell (a rarity, for S.H.I.E.L.D), I type in the onerously long code into the glowing keypad. 01100011 01100001 01110110 01100001 01110010 01111001. My brain hurts after translating that. Why binary? Why not Spanish, or Latin or something? Binary sucks.

My eyes land on an unshaven and bored looking Coulson lounging on his bed, hands crossed on his chest and eyes closed. He doesn't even look up to check the door, his head remaining stubbornly on his pillow. "Well it's about time Mei-"

I lean against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed and a hip cocked. "Well, what a way to greet a jailbreak. I'm wounded, truly I am."

Phil jolts up into a sitting position, eyes wide open as though he's been shocked. "Maria?"

"Hey Phil." I say quietly, stepping into the room and sitting on the bed next to him, leaving the door open behind me. "How are you?"

"Better, for seeing you. I've missed that stupid face of yours, but at this point I'm so bored I can't say I'd mind some paperwork." Coulson grins cheekily, eyes sparkling, but he sobers almost immediately. "Is this an actual jailbreak or are you just being overdramatic?"

"Nah, you're getting out of here. The Avengers and co. decided to finally show up, along with a guest."

"A guest?" Coulson asks with real surprise. "Who?"

"So you really didn't know what they were up to." I muse.

"Of course I didn't!" Phil exclaims. "They just asked me to trust them that going AWOL was necessary, and I did. Contrary to popular belief, they are actually responsible adults when it really matters. So, who's this guest?"

"The Winter Soldier." I say flatly, carefully watching Phil's reaction. He doesn't disappoint.

He whips around to check my face for a joke with wide eyes, and when he doesn't find one he looks reasonably horrified. "Well shit." he whispers quietly, almost to himself. He turns back to me as a thought strikes him. "So they know? Steve knows?"

"We can only assume so." I sigh. "I don't know how they managed to work it out though. The file I wrote is buried so deep in the paper trails it'd take several armies to track it down, there's no digital information on it, not so much as a pixel for Stark to get hold of…it must have been Barton or Romanoff. They must have made a connection between the Winter Soldier they fought beside, and against, and Captain Rogers' 'dead' best friend. Maybe they saw one of his drawings, or went to the museum…Whatever happened, I'd quite like to damn it to the deepest, darkest depths of hell, because it's made my life a great big pain in the ass."

"I wouldn't damn it at all." Coulson argues passionately. "Quite the opposite actually. You know that I always though we should tell Steve the truth, it wasn't fair to leave him in the dark that there was still hope to rescue the only man he failed, god, you could see the pain in his eyes every time he mistakenly called one of the other Avengers Bucky. And the Winter Soldier needed help too, or at least stopping. I still think we should have told Rogers the truth sooner."

"And you know why we didn't." I snap, with perhaps more force than necessary, but I'm not in the mood for a debate about morality. "Honestly Phil, grow up. This is the perfect world of your fanboy dreams. Yes, it's ended happily, whoop de doo. But we made our decisions, they might not have been moral ones, but they were right, and I stand by them. You should too. And somehow by god's name they don't know what we covered up, and I'm hoping it stays that way so we don't have WW3 on our hands and the Avengers after our scalps. So, we didn't know anything, it was a pleasant surprise for us, understood?" There is an underlying tone of warning and threat in my tone which Coulson doesn't look happy about, but he nods his agreement anyway. "Excellent. Now for Christ's sake man let's go get you a razor and a suit, you look awful."

Coulson rubs a hand across his stubble-covered chin ruefully, and looks down at his shamefully baggy tracksuit-style prison-garb monstrosity. "That would be wonderful."

"Great!" I enthuse, jumping up and offering a hand to pull Coulson to his feet. "Let's go then."

On our way to Coulson's quarters the corridors are full of gossiping agents of all ranks, who, upon seeing Coulson, respectfully scoot out of our way and line the walls, applauding enthusiastically. Coulson alternates between blushing, waving back like the shameless attention whore he is, and looking at me with shining eyes as if to say 'Can you believe this?' And I certainly can believe it, I was almost expecting it to happen. S.H.I.E.L.D needs me, it fears Fury, but everyone adores Coulson. No exceptions.

Soon enough, we reach our quarters, and I lounge around on Phil's sofa as he changes from prison scruff to impeccable agent in record time. Cradling hot cups of decent coffee (something everyone on this rust bucket rarely enjoys), we make our way back towards the Avengers and our little problem.

I turn to Phil. "So, who do you want?" I ask, "the Avengers or old snowflake?"

"The Avengers, definitely the Avengers." Phil says immediately. "You know more about our beloved guest, and you're far better at interrogation than I am. But be nice Hill," he warns, "whatever he did in the past, he might not even remember it. Remember what they did to Natasha, it's exactly the same, except he never had an escape route, he never had a Clint to recue him."

"Great." I grumble half-heartedly, not really meaning it, "Now I have to pretend to be nice, and kind, and understanding, and helpful…ugh."

Phil claps me on the back with a grin. "Have fun Maria! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and make some hardened warriors cry for my forgiveness. See you later!" and then off he goes, the slight bounce in his stride showing how glad he is to be out of that cell, and how much fun he's planning to have making the Avengers apologise. I can't help but sigh fondly. Only Phil.

Arriving at the Interrogation block I hand over all of my tech and weapons, but this time I hand in my comm and the knife in my bra as well. I'm not taking any chance where the Winter Soldier is concerned; he's far too dangerous and has killed far too many good agents for that.

I turn to the guard on the right of the door. "Agent Raza, please go and lock the door to the observation room for this cell, turn off the cameras and don't let anyone in. Anyone. Without my express permission."

"Yes Deputy Director." he nods, and strides off. Well, that's one less thing to worry about. I might be a spy, but I hate being spied on. Paranoid, who me?

I stride into the room and take a seat on one side of the cold, hard metal table, with the infamous assassin already sat on the other. We stare at each other for a long, silent minute, contemplating, calculating, appraising. His fingers sit laced together on the table between us, metal digits and flesh folded together in a menacing pattern, colder, calmer, and with none of the uncertainty he showed upstairs. His eyes meet mine, unblinking, unwavering, his expression flat and blank and empty. It's an intimidation tactic, a power play, the same ones I myself am constantly employing. Everyone knows it pays to be scary.

The removal of his emotional crutch (à la Captain Rogers) has made him stronger, or weaker depending on how you see it. Rogers obviously makes him feel safe and protected, and that made him feel as though he could show his weaknesses and insecurities without being ripped apart. But down here, where he's alone, defenceless and isolated, his shields have gone up, his weaknesses almost surgically removed. He is far more afraid now than before, he's just concealing it far better.

"So," I ask, breaking the silence once I have the information I need (I dread whatever he just discovered about me), "what will I be calling you?"

"I've spent the last month being told that I am Lt. James 'Bucky' Barnes. But for seventy years before that, I was only ever the Winter Soldier." There is the smallest hint of a question in his words, the poor soul is obviously having an identity crisis, and who can blame him? What would you do if you spent seventy years as a weapon, only to discover you were a person before, and a good person at that?

I smile as kindly as I can, it's only a small smile with no teeth, but it's a sincere-ish one. "I'll be calling you Lt. Barnes then, okay?"

He nods, only once, a strand of hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He brushes it back impatiently, and that is how I know he isn't lying; that one small action of eagerness to get through this, in tact and trusted, speaks volumes where words cannot.

"So Lt. Barnes. What is your purpose." I leave the question open to interpretation intentionally, watching intently for what he has to say. Hopefully, it will tell me more about him, about his morals and his psyche.

He doesn't disappoint. "America and the rest of the world always had their heroes and their supersoldiers and their technology-fuelled armies to protect them. But Russia? She only ever had her Winter."

"That's a nice idea. It's…poetic." I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. "But I'm asking you, not whoever force fed you that speech. Let's try something else, shall we? Why are you here?"

"Because I want to be me, with my own memories, making my own choices. Because Steve and Natasha are two of so few people I've known that aren't dead, because they're trying to help me with no visible ulterior motives. Because if I'm going to escape my masters I need S.H.I.E.L.D's protection. Because I want to be able to answer 'who am I?' without grasping at threads for something to say." His answers are rapid fire and seemingly heartfelt, his brown eyes blazing with conviction in what he is saying in a complete contrast to his last, dead-eyed answer.

"You want your memories, control of your own life, and people you can trust to have your back? We can do that." I say confidently, and the slight crinkling around Barnes' eyes shows he is pleased by that. "Next question. Who are you loyal to?"

"Myself." he replies immediately, then pauses for thought. "Steve. I suppose I owe the Avengers a debt." He trains his brown eyes on me shrewdly. "If S.H.I.E.L.D gives me a chance to prove myself, I may become loyal to you."

"Excellent. And who do you trust?"

"No-one." He is utterly sure in his answer. "Especially not myself."

"That is understandable, given your particular situation. How much do you remember of your past?"

Barnes smiles, the tiniest, most self-depreciating, drastically unhappy smile anyone has ever seen. "I'd tell you all I can recall as a show of trust, but I really don't think you care about any of it that isn't of strategic value, and that's what I remember least of all."

Actually, I'm intrigued, but like I'd give him that kind of power over me. As of right know, he's still an unknown variable, and I don't trust 'Bucky' as far as I could shift the Hulk. Which, needless to say, is nowhere at all. "And why wouldn't I care Lt. Barnes?"

"You are a blank, emotionless, faceless, careless government issue agent. You aren't here for me, or for the Avengers, you're here for knowledge. You don't want to hear about my happy clappy childhood or my friendships or anything about me, you want information that you can use."

"Then give me something I can use Lieutenant, give me any of your missions you can remember that I can corroborate and prove you aren't lying to me." I ask, shooting him full of intense looks and ratcheting up the pressure in the atmosphere around us.

"Romanoff and I." he pauses, ostensibly to collect his thoughts, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's for dramatic effect, "We shared a mission, once upon a time. Our old masters, whom she eventually murdered brutally and without a shred of mercy by the way, thought it would be amusing to give us a little challenge." Venom drips from his words. "They gave us two codenames, Storm and Snowflake, and told us to fight over who would get which."

"She won." I say, and his head whips up from where it had drooped to look at his fingers. "She won by sticking your hand in a light socket, and she that's why she still calls you snowflake."

"How did you…" he trails off expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"I know a lot of things, I have very loyal agents." I pause, a minute smile pulling at my lips. "And I read the mission transcripts."

He huffs with brief amusement, turning away to look over my shoulder. He freezes, going as still as death, and flicks his eyes to me, then back to the spot over my shoulder, then back to me. "I-I know you." he whispers.

"You do." I say gently. "We…well I suppose 'met' isn't quite correct, but…"

"When?" he asks, his confusion clear, "Where? Why?"

"1997, at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility known as the Treehouse. You were sent to kill Director Fury. We were getting a little too close to your bosses' operations for comfort, so you got sent to take out the man at the top to send us into disarray. I was there."

"I-I think I remember…flashes…unconnected images. The shadows sitting on your face, out of the corner of my eye…it must have triggered my memories." He sounds lost and confused, the smooth façade of the Winter Soldier not just cracked or broken but completely gone, leaving a wild, shaking, scared young man in his place.

"Would you like me to tell you what I know?" There's sympathy in my voice, and try as I might I can't stamp it out. Well, if he's acting, he's so damn good he practically deserves to bring down S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Yes." he says eagerly, looking painfully hopeful. Then: "Please." he tacks on the end, probably some old 40's gallantry resurfacing.

"It seemed as though you had just teleported into Management, you arrived so silently, not tripping a single alarm or alerting a single guard. It took us five years to work out how you did it, and we were impressed to say the least. You strode through the door, dropping a dead assistant from your metal hand as you did so. We had heard the rumours of the Winter Soldier just like everyone else, everyone in the underworld had, but when we couldn't prove it we wrote you off as just another Russian myth. Obviously, we were wrong. Your right hand held a pistol, and with it you put a bullet through the hearts of all 10 extremely dangerous, highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D agents in the room, with the only exception being Director Fury. And, of course, myself. You missed." Barnes flinches like it's a shameful thing, and I hurry to reassure him. "And I am very, very grateful for that fact. I was the first person you aimed at, and I was in the process of sitting in my chair when you stormed in, so I froze. You, of course, assumed I would carry on sitting down, so you aimed accordingly. You hit me here," I say, pointing at a spot just below my collar bones, "and damn, did it hurt like a bitch. I collapsed to the floor, and I assume you thought I was dead. Shielded from your view by my desk, I dragged myself up the wall as you shot up the rest of the room. You pointed your gun at Fury and said 'I've been told to create a message for S.H.I.E.L.D to fear for centuries Director.' Fury must've caught sight of me raising my gun, or maybe he really is that much of an arrogant bastard, even in the face of death. He crossed his arms impatiently and said 'Well, get on with it then. If you wait any longer I'll have to get on with my paperwork.' Do you remember what happened next?"

"My back, there's a scar there." Barnes says after a moments thought. "I have no memory of it, the kind that comes with a deep memory wipe. Usually, the painful memories stay with me the most, but in this case, that's all I remember. Extreme pain, right between the shoulders. Now you've retold the story, I've got a couple of blurred snapshots, but that's it." Barnes winces slightly, rolling his shoulders as if reliving the old wound.

"You're right. I, perhaps over-excitedly, shot you right between the shoulder blades. My sincerest apologies." Actually, I think it was quite funny, but I can't admit that. Usually, laughing at their pain tends to piss people off.

Barnes, perhaps despite himself, smirks and huffs out a laugh. I'm glad he sees the humour in the situation too. "Apology accepted Deputy Director Hill. No permanent harm was done anyway."

The sense of humour immediately drops from the room, and I feel ashamed for being able to keep looking him in the eyes. Brainwashed or not, Barnes still has the Winter Soldier's skills, and he notices the change instantly. "No permanent harm was done…right?"

I sigh sadly. "You need to know."

"Need to know what Agent?" His big brown eyes bore into me, looking open and confused and lost.

"That you can't trust us. We're not the good guys."

"But you're S.H.I.E.L.D… you protect people. You save the world. The Avengers work for you. I-I'm afraid I don't understand."

"When we…when I shot you, you dropped to the floor, unmoving. But, obviously, you survived, despite the odds. We kept you alive, but unconscious, because it was decided you were too indoctrinated and dangerous to wake up for questioning. Instead, I conducted my research…" I pause, realise I'm not looking Lt. Barnes in the eyes, and turn back to him. "I am very, very good at my research."

Looking at the clenched fist of his metal hand, I suddenly reconsider not bringing any weapons to defend myself. I am, having made the very stupid decision of turning off the security, practically defenceless. However, in balance, me having a comforting safety blanket is not worth S.H.I.E.L.D's secrets becoming common knowledge, nor presenting the Winter Soldier with an easily accessible weapon. Still, I am very close to terrified.

"What are you saying?" he says slowly.

"I always knew who the Winter Soldier was. Who you were. I knew Lt. Barnes of the Howling Commandos had somehow survived his fall from the train, that the Russian KGB bought your still breathing corpse to see if you contained any trace of the supersolider serum, and when you didn't, they cut off your utterly mangled left arm and replaced it with a bionic one. I knew you weren't killing of your own volition. I knew what 'treatments' you were likely suffering from. I knew everything. And I sent you back to Russia without ever trying to help you. I can't say I'm sorry, because I'm not. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D, I do what is necessary. But I wanted you to know the truth, that's the best I can do."

Barnes is calm, deceptively so. He gives me a hard look which is not so much forgiving as it is understanding, but when he opens his mouth to speak a loud ruckus by the door brings him up short. We both jump from our seats and slip into defensive stances facing the door on instinct. All we have time for is to exchange a look that reads 'Is this about you or me?' before the door flies off its hinges.

Before I can so much as register…well, anything really, I'm knocked off my feet and pinned to the wall by the means of a forearm crushing my throat. Instinctively I scrabble at the arm with my nails, and then punch at a rock hard stomach with my fists, but all that accomplishes is making my knuckles hurt. Then, overriding my monkey brain despite my complete lack of oxygen, I start analysing my rather perilous situation.

My attacker has blond hair. Blue eyes. Tanned skin. Chiselled features. An angry snarl plastered across his face.

Fucking hell it's Captain America.

"HOW COULD YOU?" he yells, and Christ is he mad. I don't understand how he heard what I said to Barnes when he's supposed to be at a debriefing on the other side of the ship, but he did and I'm suffering for it. "HOW COULD YOU ABANDON HIM? HOW COULD YOU LIE TO MY FACE WHEN I WAS MOURNING HIS DEATH? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST TELL ME HE WAS ALIVE? I COULD'VE RESCUED HIM NEARLY A YEAR AGO! WHY DIDN'T YOU RESCUE HIM? WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE HIM A CHANCE? WHY DIDN'T YOU TRUST ME?"

I scrabble desperately against the wall, kicking and punching as black spots swarm all over my vision from lack of oxygen, my feet not even touching the floor. I might say I'm fighting for my life, but 'fighting' suggests I even think I have a chance of winning. Which I don't.

Rogers is bearing down on me, most of his considerable weight braced by his forearm on my increasingly endangered neck. I can't fight, I can't plead, I can't explain, I can't escape, I can't breathe…frankly, I'm royally screwed. This is a FUBAR situation if ever I've seen one.

"Steve." says Barnes calmly, laying a hand on his incensed friend's shoulder, "Agent Hill isn't going to be able to explain anything with you crushing her airways. Besides, I'm fine now. So step back, and leave her be." Thank the heavens for Lt. Barnes. But the irony in him saving my life…I'd be swallowing my guilt if I was able to swallow. Maybe I'd even breathe out an apology if I could, y'know, breathe.

"Fine." Steve spits, stepping back and leaving me to collapse to the floor on my knees, huddled down as far away as I can get from the supersolider in a final self-preservation instinct. I start choking and gasping and heaving up the lunch I didn't have on the floor, gently massaging the feeling back into my red and throbbing neck with both hands.

Above me, Steve grabs Bucky tightly by his metal hand and pulls him close to his side as if afraid I'll find some way to make the Winter soldier disappear once again. "C'mon Bucky." he commands, dragging his friend out of the room, "We're getting you outta here and away from S.H.I.E.L.D in case they decide to hand you back over to your handlers again because it's too difficult to save you." He snarls the last words as he disappears down the corridor, Barnes being towed behind him.

Only death rattles are escaping my lips, and I know what that means and I'm scared, I'm so very scared. Breaths crawl their way up my throat, but it's not enough. I try to scrabble my way over to the door of the Interrogation room so I can alert the agents in the corridor to my predicament, but my oxygen deprived brain is fuzzy and I overshoot, smashing my head against the corner of my metal chair leg. I hear a crack, I register pain, and everything goes black.

(**I*I**)

After a heart-warming video chat in the medical wing with Coulson on the much favoured topic of 'What the fuck were you thinking?', which has been very popular among all S.H.I.E.L.D agents and handlers in every S.H.I.E.L.D facility since the dawn of our organisation, I sign myself out from the dreaded medical wing (thank god for the privileges of Deputy Director) and hurry back out into the heli-carrier to see what I missed while I was unconscious.

Except, disconcertingly, it seems I'm not on the heli-carrier anymore. Spinning around, I take stock of my situation, analyzing the walls, floors, windows and agents surrounding me, quickly realising that I am in fact in the New York ground base. Obviously, Coulson decided to change my location to make it harder for the apparently not-so-chivalrous Captain to find me if he decides he wants to get some revenge, considering I seem to be the focus for his ire. I am seriously excellent at making powerful enemies, let me tell you, a little too excellent for comfort actually.

"Deputy Director!" comes a familiar voice from down the hall. I look up, and register Agent Yousif power-walking towards me, files and folders clutched in her hands.

"Agent Yousif. I thought you were up on the heli-carrier these days."

She haphazardly blows a strand of hair out of her face, coming to a stop in front of me and shifting us both out of the flow of agents and into a smaller side corridor. "I am based up there yes, but I was shipping out for a mission when Coulson comes running around, flapping about how you'd been hurt and 'where is that damn cloning device when you need to be in two places at once?' So I volunteered to stick around for an extra day, keep you company and help you out and whatnot while Coulson deals with the fallout over at Avengers' Tower."

I swallow. "Do you know…how bad is the fallout?"

Her gaze flicks down to my neck, and she pulls out a pocket mirror. "See for yourself."

I snatch the mirror up and examine myself. My hair is a bird's nest, but I smooth it down and it doesn't look too bad…oh who am I kidding, it looks fucking awful, but then again I've been asleep for I-don't-even-know-how-long so it's to be expected really. My forehead has a mass of black stitches covering my right temple, but my neck. Oh Lord Jesus Christ my neck.

I haven't seen it up until now and my mouth hangs open slightly at the sight of it. If I saw another agent in this state I'd forcibly consign them to bed rest for a week, no exceptions. No wonder my voice sounds scratchy and my breaths are raspy.

There's no other way to put it: it's a disaster zone. My entire neck, almost all the way back to my ears, is one mottled black and red and purple bruise that makes me wince just looking at it. It's like no other strangulation mark I've ever seen before, usually they're bad, yes, but they're done by normal people's hands, not the entire weight of an angry supersoldier's body.

I look up at Yousif's concerned face and smile weakly. "Um…thank god for turtlenecks?"

"I'm afraid it's being consigned to your quarters or normal uniform Agent Hill." The pretty black woman admits sheepishly. "Fury's orders."

"Ah." Great, looks like Fury is going for the 'remind everyone just how dangerous the Avengers could be' angle again, he knows I'll be working come hell or high water and this way every other agent will see my injury and start to spread the word. Which, I would definitely approve of, if it didn't stir up pity in some agents and make others think that, since I was 'weak', they can pull a fast one on me. They can't, but then I have to track down and beat the shit out of more agents than usual, which might put a strain on my throat with all that yelling.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I can get Coulson to send someone else on that mission and stick around as your assistant so you can hide in your office for a while?"

"That's sweet Agent Yousif, but you don't need to miss out on an exciting mission to fetch and carry for me instead. I'd grab myself a rookie assistant if I needed one, but as it is I can manage by myself. Besides, I spent a good half an hour planning that mission out for you, we wouldn't want that to go to waste now would we?" I wink and she smirks. "Dubai, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to go to Romanoff but then Intelligence found out the target is a racist asshole who only beds black chicks, on top of kidnapping rich kids for ransom and letting his men have them however they want until the parents cough up practically all their money." We both shudder. In my opinion, the worst crimes are always against children, they should be protected and cherished and showered in love. And I'm not even the sentimental type.

"See? You don't want to miss out on taking that guy down. If you're promotion-hunting you'd probably be better of being nice to Coulson, just to let you know."

"Promotion?" Agent Yousif snorts, "Ha, and end up doing paperwork for the rest of my career? No thank you, that is not for me. If I have my way I'm staying as good old Level Seven, Special Agent Raven until the day I die. If it seems like I'm ever sucking up to you, it's because I don't want a promotion. Ever."

"Fair enough. I'll promote you the next time you piss me off." I grin, and after a half-hearted angry glare, she grins back.

"Has anyone seen Agent Hill?" the question is faint, obviously quite far away, but when Yousif sticks her head out into the corridor to take a look she turns back to me with wide eyes.

"It's him."

I bite down my comment of 'no shit I heard him too' and snap into mission mode. Nothing like the threat of your own imminent death to get the adrenaline flowing. "How far away?" I forcibly beat down the internal panicking and the 'How the hell did he find me?' screaming.

She sticks her head back into the hallway again and then returns back to me. "200ft. he's armed, but not fuming. More…worried and resentful. About 50/50 that he's dangerous. We need to move."

And then suddenly, my decision is made. "No." I snap. Yousif turns back to me with a surprised look. "We're not running. Supersolider or not, no-one is turning my safe places into prisons. S.H.I.E.L.D is my home, not his, so if he has a problem with me he can just fuck off."

"He might kill you y'know." she warns.

"I know. That's where you come in. If you run, it should take you five minutes to get to the Weapons Vault and grab the contingency plan for a rogue Captain America. The electrified nets should subdue him, and if he really is out to kill me or bring down S.H.I.E.L.D or whatever else he might hypothetically be doing in his hypothetical grief-induced madness, I should, bar my agents deciding to help him rather than me, be able to escape in your direction and we can meet up faster."

"Right." Yousif nods and gets ready to take off running. Feeling slightly guilty, (what is with me lately?), I lay a hand on her shoulder.

"You know helping me out here probably means you'll be working against the living legend of Captain America himself?"

She rolls her eyes. "While you've saved my ass out in the field numerous times, he hasn't done anything yet to commandeer my direct loyalty. After I save your ass, we can be on first name basis, Maria. Besides," she winks, "I was never interested in dating him anyway. Too…patriotic." She fakes a gag. "And as a Brit, it's sickening." And with that, she's gone.

I crinkle my nose slightly in confusion. Looks like someone around here can resist that ass after all. Who would've guessed?

"Has anyone seen Agent Hill?" Rogers' voice is louder now, and I hide behind my corner, steadying myself. Last chance to back out now.

A very young-looking agent stops directly in front of where I'm standing, looking entirely normal except for an obviously forced calm breathing rate. "Hey kid," Rogers himself says and oh god he's so close he's right there, "have you seen Agent Hill?"

"N-no sir." she stutters, even though I know she must be able to see me in her peripheral vision. Brave kid. I make a mental note to find out who she is and give her a reward for her loyalty under pressure. And some training, her nervous shaking can probably be seen from 50 states away.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I square my shoulders, lift my chin into a haughty tilt and step out into the hallway. "Thank you Agent, but you can leave now. I'll handle this." I position myself slightly in front of her and fold my hands behind my back, showing her the military sign equivalent of 'Fucking run!'. By the quick shuffling of rapidly retreating footsteps, I think she got the message.

"Maria…uh, Agent Hill. Deputy Director?" he stutters out nervously, eyes locked on my exposed throat. My throat throbs, and too late I remember the bruising. Hopefully it will make him feel guilty and not urge him to try and finish the job.

"What do you want Captain?" I snap out, desperately holding my rigid posture to try and hide my shaking. I've never really realised just how tall or well-muscled Rogers is until suddenly he's on the other side and I'm squaring off against him. "I'm already behind schedule what with my unexpected trip to the hospital and all."

"I wanted to apologise for my behaviour yesterday. I was beyond angry, but my conduct towards you was unacceptable. I uh…" he awkwardly scratches at his throat, "I hope that doesn't hurt too much."

I suck in a breath through my teeth. 'I hope that doesn't hurt too much?' What the hell? He tried to fucking strangle me to death, to crush my windpipe and basically suffocate me, and that's all he can come out with? "That was a shit apology. Absolutely shit. I could've died you complete and utter asshole."

He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms across his chest as if physically holding in his temper. "You abandoned Bucky. In what universe wouldn't I be furious?"

"And that is between myself and Lt. Barnes, who has every right to be angry and distrustful of me and of S.H.I.E.L.D as a whole. But that's none of your business Rogers, so I suggest you suck it up and get over yourself. You haven't exactly been brimming with morals yourself lately."

"But that's exactly what I don't get!" Steve throws his arms out wide in exasperation, like I'm too stupid to get his point. "You're Maria Hill, right? And this is S.H.I.E.L.D."

I forcefully have to stop myself rolling my eyes. Congratulations Captain Obvious, have a gold star.

"And you're the good guys." He continues, blue eyes wide and searching. "You protect the world, save people, make sure that everything's as it should be. But you failed Bucky. You failed him, and you just don't seem fazed by it. You all just moved on without a second thought or a care in the world while he suffered and killed and faded away on the inside. I just don't get it, that's what's making me so mad! You are S.H.I.E.L.D. You are supposed to help, but you damned him to hell. Why?"

"Oh for gods sake you idealistic sack of shit," I spit out, "do I have to spell it out for you? We. Are. Not. Good. People. We aren't an inherently good organisation, we employ spies and assassins and traitors and double agents and not a single person here, from the janitors to the kitchen staff to the agents themselves, hasn't done something that they will regret for the rest of their often very short lives. We kill one man to save hundreds, destroy innocent people because they pose too great a threat, let drug lords run rampant because they're better than the alternative, we steal and lie and betray and do everything Mommy made you promise to never, ever do. And we do it because it is necessary. Newsflash Captain! What we do isn't pretty, or righteous, or even good, no, we do bad things to keep even worse things from happening. S.H.I.E.L.D is the grey area that holds up your white and keeps the black down. The ends justify the means, Captain, that's what Niccolo Machiavelli said, and that's the principle S.H.I.E.L.D is built on. So go ahead, tear us apart, but don't come crying to me when there's nothing left standing between you and everything bad in the world, because getting rid of S.H.I.E.L.D to get rid of evil deeds is just putting out a goddamned fire with gasoline."

I hadn't noticed the crowd that had gathered around us during my speech, passionate as I was, so the low smattering of applause that begins after I finish makes me start in surprise. Arrayed all around me in a semi-circle, every rank and type of S.H.I.E.L.D agent is represented, watching with wide and impressed eyes. The applause swells rapidly, agents grinning proudly at me, and it's all I can do to stop overwhelmed tears falling as I turn slowly from side to side, my lips parting in awe.

I don't think I've ever been prouder of myself than I am in this moment. I just stood up to Captain America to defend the actions of the agency I and so many others have devoted their lives too, and it looks like I've won. I crack out a smile and turn back to Rogers with renewed confidence and my hands on my hips, bruised throat proudly raised.

"So I suggest that until you can reconcile yourself with the way things are, you get the hell out of my agency until you can look me in the eyes and say 'I understand'. Because to work as a hero in this modern day world where all the lines are blurred, you have to be strong, but you more importantly you have to be able to bend. Morals are of no use to a dead man, and dead men can't save the world. Ask Barton. Ask Romanoff. Ask Carter or Coulson or Fury or any of the agents you see around you. But don't blame us for what we have to do. Everyone has done things they regret, but you wouldn't judge them by that. So don't judge us, either."

Rogers stares at me blankly, his blue eyes a maelstrom of emotions, tanned arms hanging loosely by his sides. After what seems like an eternity, he nods once, slowly, and turns to leave, the S.H.I.E.L.D agents parting to give him a clear exit. And just like that, he's gone, the threat he posed eradicated, for now anyway.

Almost immediately I turn my attention back to the surrounding agents. "What do you lot think you're doing? The show's over and there isn't gonna be an encore so get back to work!" With either hasty nods or rolling eyes the agents disperse, leaving only Agent Yousif behind.

The deadly black woman grins broadly. "Huh, looks like you saved your own ass and didn't need me after all. I'll be off on my mission then, if you've got no other commands for me?"

"Just one." I say, and her smile drops. "When you get back off your mission go to Firefly on second street in downtown New York, 2000 hours. I'll pay for drinks."

She tips back her head and laughs loudly. "You really had me going there for a second…can I keep the electric nets?"

"No. Put them back where they belong for god's sake, today's evidence of why we need contingency plans if ever there was one. But thanks, for being prepared to save my ass and everything." I rub the back of my neck awkwardly. I hate apologising.

"You'd do the same, otherwise I probably wouldn't have bothered. I mean, have you seen his ass? Phwoar. Anyway, toodles!" And with that, the irrepressible Level 7 Agent Rawan Yousif, codenamed Raven, skips off down the corridor like a ten year old girl high on sugar. I can't help but shake my head. S.H.I.E.L.D agents, Mei and Yousif alike, never fail to surprise me.

So, a recap. The Avengers have come back, along with the dead-but-not-really-dead-and-how-many-times-has-he-even-'died'-at-this-point-really Winter Soldier, I rescued Coulson, I had a heart to heart with perhaps the world's oldest assassin, Rogers found out we are all liars (or at least compulsive omitters of the truth) and took revenge on my neck, and then I woke up and saved the world with a really bad attitude and an even cheesier inspirational speech, which, incidentally, just shot to Number Two on S.H.I.E.L.D's unofficial Top Ten Videos List.

All in all, I feel pretty pleased with myself.

In hindsight, I had no idea what was coming next.

Dun dun duuuuuuuh! What slightly ominous event could that rather vague ending be referring to? To be honest, you have as much an idea as I do…actually, I have a bit more of an idea considering I'm the author, but whatever.

I'm assuming everyone knows what Lt. and FUBAR stand for, but just in case: Lt. = Lieutenant and FUBAR = fucked up beyond all repair/reason

I apologise profusely for how late this has been but I've been rather distracted over the summer because for some reason my teachers decided that OH THEY'RE IN GCSE's NEXT YEAR LET'S PILE ON THE HOMEWORK like? No, this is my summer, I want to write! I bet a lot of you thought I wasn't gonna continue this considering how long I've been gone, and the sporadic updates ain't gonna get any better what with an entire year of studying for exams and coursework coming up, but if you hang on in here I promise I'll try and make it worth it!

Y'know when you're just irrationally proud of one single line or whatever? In Hill's speech where she goes 'Morals are of no use to a dead man, and dead men can't save the world.' I just… Tell me what you thought!

Anyway, next chapter. I can't make up my mind so I'm going to ask any and all of you to vote. The choices are:

Loki Fucks Up (or maybe SHE doesn't) or Coulson's Revenge Ends In A Fury-ous Explosion.

The first one is probably gonna be longer and more of a story, the second one shorter and more of a scene. That's it, that's all I'm telling you to avoid spoilers. So, votes please!

Thank you for reading and please, please review for me!

23 word pages…23! No wonder it took so long, jeez!

Au revoir mes petits amis!