Disclaimer: Old rich men own the Marvel universe and its characters. I'm a hot young she-thang, so I guess that means I only own Hal.

.13.

Hal sat in the back, like luggage.

She didn't complain.

Despite her rest at Roger's safe house, she felt bone weary, exhausted by the soul-sucking void of struggle without a goal.

She'd barely spoken to Wilson or Rogers before she left. The Widow led her downstairs, and the two men were there waiting. A tension that bespoke old issues and new problems simmered between the Widow and the safe house's residents.

Apparently, Rogers still thought she needed saving.

"You sure you're ready to go?"

"Like I said, I'm fine."

Rogers frowned. "Yeah, well, in my experience, when women say they're fine, they usually mean something else."

"It's your choice," Wilson said. "But if you need us, just call." He wasn't paying attention to either of the Avengers in the room. His attention was all Hal's. It brought on a rush of gratitude that nearly culminated in tears.

"Thanks," she murmured. "I'll keep in touch."

Steve tried to smile, but it looked pinched. "Make sure you do."

And they left.

A short drive brought them to the field where Agent Romanoff had put down the quinjet.

Boarded. Locked. Loaded. Ready to roll.

Hal had taken showers longer than it took Agent Romanoff to get her mission airborne. Made her a little insecure about her personal hygiene habits, actually.

Once they'd reached cruising altitude, Agent Romanoff put the craft on autopilot and slipped through the open door into Hal's Shipping Center. The redhead cleared her throat, but Hal chose to pick at her harness rather than be dragged into an uncomfortable conversation.

"You did good, you know."

Under the cover of her hair, Hal rolled her eyes. Yeah. Sure. She wasn't dead. That was her only real job description. Well, that and Don't Tell Anyone Anything.

The Black Widow pressed on, beating relentlessly against Hal's stony silence. "If you don't believe me, fine. But you deserve to hear that, at least once."

Keeping quiet now would just be rude. Hal swallowed her pride and gave a tentative little cringe with her face, aiming for what she hoped was a thankful expression. "Thanks."

"I mean it." The Black Widow crossed her legs, lending her an air of professionalism. Seductive professionalism, but still. "Someone else might've cracked. The Winter Soldier is… something else." She touched her shoulder, lightly, and if Hal squinted, she could just make out the faintest lump of bandaging under the catsuit. "What you have gives you power. All that information? It would've made sense to trade a few secrets for your own survival."

"How do you know I didn't?"

"No offense, but you're an easy read. And you take your job seriously. If you'd broken Fury's trust, you'd feel guilty, and I would see it."

Hal fell into an outright sulk. "I'm really that easy to read, aren't I?"

A smile fluttered over the agent's face. "Yeah." She shrugged. "It's not necessarily a bad thing."

After that, Agent Romanoff, satisfied with her work, meandered back to the front, donning a headset to communicate with ground control and adjusting a few levers.

They only flew another hour or so before Hal felt the jet tilt into a gradual descent. She watched the harnesses across from her swing empty, lifeless, and wished she had a window to stare out of. The Black Widow had been a bit patronizing. But nice. And everyone patronized Hal. She absorbed information, but, like a child, no one expected her to make any use of it.

And yet – she'd been the one to get through to the Winter Soldier. It was an epiphany, and the empty seats around her disappeared as her library opened. Tomes fell into her hand, eager to be read. Records of the Soldier's face from their first meeting in one alley, to their latest in another. His voice. Questions. Touch.

A couple days, and she'd touched him. Quite literally. He was still terrible damaged, but no longer isolated in his suffering. When he demanded the Compendium, he'd been locked inside his mind, aware, perhaps, of how easily an outside force could destroy the fragile awareness he was coming to grasp. He hadn't gone to Steven Rogers, even though he was the only clear and living link to his past. He hadn't gone back to Hydra. He hadn't gone to SHIELD. He'd taken a vulnerable source of information off the street, expecting answers, and even though she hadn't been able to give him everything he wanted, that shred of vulnerability, that expectation, had cracked the armor cutting off the world around him. Little by little, understanding bled through.

If he went to her apartment and waited for her to contact him, she'd know for sure that she was right.

Closing her library and drawing back into her actual body, she smiled.

An easy read.

Not necessarily a bad thing.

.O.O.O.

Hal had no idea where they'd landed. The view through the open loading ramp didn't give her much help. Agent Romanoff stepped up beside her and cocked an eyebrow, tilting her head to see more through the hatch.

The agent cleared her throat. "Homey."

Cement walls and a few looped cables. A barebones hangar. Hal gave the agent her most dispassionate look.

"I'm sure the guest quarters are much nicer."

Yes, because a couple flat pillows could make her forget about the locked doors and security cameras.

"Oh, yeah. This is just the garage."

Hal jumped at the voice. As she got a grip – and realized the Widow hadn't so much as blinked – a young woman appeared, strolling into view around the side of the quinjet. The newcomer stopped at the foot of the ramp, popping her fists on her hips and grinning like this was the most fun she'd had in weeks.

"Agent Skye."

The rookie was stretching her wings.

Rather than blanch, stammer, or act like Hal had grown a second head, Skye beamed just a little brighter. "You know who I am?"

"She knows all SHIELD personnel," said Romanoff

Skype gawped, taking in the second visitor. "The Black Widow?"

"In the flesh." Agent Romanoff didn't seem too tickled with the fanfare. In her line of work, recognition equated a death sentence. A thriving fanbase probably wasn't on her wish list. Hal had seen action figures of her after the Battle of New York. According to her file, that was one reason she'd started straightening her hair.

"Oh… my gosh. No way. You're the Black Widow."

"I think we've confirmed that."

Hal decided to intervene on her… colleague's… behalf. "Fury sent me here so I could be debriefed as soon as possible." She glanced around the empty hangar. "Should we get started, or…?"

"Right!" Skye clapped. "Sorry." She cringed, offering both women an apologetic smile before she held out her hand for a shake. "Like you said, I'm Skye. The Director -," she said the title with pride, "- said we were getting an important guest, but he didn't have a name. So you are…?"

She hadn't had so many people ask her name since that one time she tried to order a coffee from every Starbucks in D.C. in the same week. After she gave the new Director everything he needed, she would take some quality time and find a hermitage in northern Canada or something. Too many eyes. Too much attention. Not enough space. But for now – she took Skye's hand and did her best to look friendly. "Hal."

"Nice to meet you." Skye gave her arm a pump and stepped back. "This way. I'll take you to C – the Director."

Hal glanced back at the Widow. "Thanks for the ride and… the back-up."

Agent Romanoff gave another sharp smile, slow and sensuous as a naked blade. "Don't forget. Call the boys if you get in trouble again."

No need to ask what she meant.

"Will do."

She stepped out after Skye, and the ramp closed behind her. The engines roared to life as Hal followed her guide deeper into the hanger, past a large jet plane, and through a door on the opposite side of the hangar.

Skye hadn't lied. The rest of the base was nicer than the "garage." The soft pastel color scheme reminded Hal just a little too much of a hospital, but drywall and some (misguided) attempts at décor made her more comfortable. It was all very bland and healthful. No personality. No conflict. Ironic, considering the type of people who made up SHIELD.

Voices filtered through a few doors as they passed, but no one met them in the hall, and Hal got the idea SHIELD's new base of operations was run by a few good men. Few being the operative word. Just how much was the new Director working with? How many operatives were Hydra plants? Were SHIELD's other bases in the same shape as the Triskellion? Weapons? Tech? Resources? What was left?

Her files needed thorough updating.

Skye chose a seemingly random door and tossed it open, swinging it wide so Hal could see in. A bed. A desk. A closet. Same ghastly decorating scheme.

"I wanted to show you your room first," Skye said, twisting back and forth from her knees in an unconscious nervous habit. "So you could drop off your bags and all, but," her hands fluttered in a vague gesture toward Hal's feet, "clearly you don't have any. But it's always nice to know where your space is. At least, I always think it's nice. So… the Director's this way." She pivoted on the ball of her foot and marched down the hall. Her arms hung stiff at her sides, hands in fists.

Hal made the effort to catch up with her and smirked. This was the kind of awkward she could understand.

"Thanks."

Her gratitude melted the tension from Skye's shoulders, and the young agent immediately stepped along with renewed energy. "You're welcome." They shared a more companionable silence after that. Until Skye said, "Sorry. Kinda nervous. The Director has me on welcome wagon duty. Says I'm good with people." A shrug. "I guess I just want to do well. Not too good at… protocol. Or orders. Or… official…ness." She tried to pass it all off as a big joke. "New management and all."

"I have your file," Hal said. "You are good with people. The Director obviously thinks so, too. So maybe you should just – I don't know – be yourself? Worked so far, right?"

Skye smiled again, and Hal could easily see what the Director saw in the unconventional recruit. She naturally put people at ease.

"Make sure to write a good customer review."

They stopped in front of a door – totally indistinguishable from the others – and Skye knocked.

A voice came through the door. "Come in."

Skye turned the knob but stepped aside, ushering Hal through. "I'll see you around." Once Hal passed over the threshold, Skye soundlessly closed the door behind her, leaving Hal alone with the new Director of SHIELD. Hal met a pair of merrily crinkled eyes across the room and felt a bubble of warmth rise in her chest.

Phil Coulson.

She'd always liked him. Polite. Honest. A genuinely good person. Never met him. But she had that sort of relationship with a lot of people. And if anyone could take her quirks in stride, it was this man.

"Director."

He glanced away, and Hal saw a blush threaten to flood his cheeks. But Coulson had excellent control, and the flush was gone before it had a chance to crest over his face.

"Miss Renold." He extended a hand for her to take, and after a quick grasp, they assumed chairs on opposing sides of his desk. "Just Coulson, please."

"Fine. I'm Hal."

"Hal."

She'd never met anyone with twinkling eyes. She'd always assumed it was a turn of phrase. But there Coulson sat. Twinkling away. How was it possible for a man brought back from the dead to be so damn… polished?

"I'm sure you're eager to debrief, but we both know it will be a lengthy process, and you just escaped a hostage situation."

Clearing her throat, Hal peeped down at her hands, folding them like origami in her lap. "More like 'released.'"

Unfazed, Coulson nodded. "We will need to discuss that, too. But I'd like to start with any immediate threats Fury might have taught you, or any allies who might, in light of recent events, need immediate extraction."

"Honestly, sir, I'm not even sure what happened yet." It stung, to be so far out of the loop when she was supposed to be the fount of all knowledge.

"I'll have my people fill you in, but for I'll trust our judgment." He smiled wryly. "Worst case scenario. What are we dealing with?"

For the next two hours, Hal sat in Coulson's office, speaking, sketching, explaining. He was a good listener – knew when to wait and when to ask for clarification. He repeated important names and recorded coordinates for future reference. As she explained each file, he worked on his computer, searching simultaneously for any recent activity. Hal had never worked with someone in this way, and the easy tandem felt good. They breezed through what equated to stacks of files, and if Hal's stomach hadn't growled, they might have kept going all night.

But it did, and Coulson caught it.

"When was the last time you had a chance to eat?"

Hal thought of the apple, munched – about a day ago – in a warehouse, eyeing the Winter Soldier as he stared back with his usual impassivity.

"Uh… a while?"

"We can fix that."

He pushed back from the desk and strode toward the door. Hal all but tripped over herself to follow.

"I thought you wanted…"

Coulson stopped, turned to her, and leveled his best Director Look. He'd better practice that. He'd be using it a lot.

"You've given me enough to keep the few people I have available busy for days. The world won't end because you have dinner."

Dinner. Food. A real meal. Her first full meal in – what – three days? She could kill for a sandwich. Maybe literally. She imagined herself tackling the Winter Soldier for a Happy Meal.

Yeah. Pretty accurate.

She'd reached that point.

But…

As Coulson grabbed the knob, Hal set her hand flat against the door, holding it closed. She held Coulson's questioning gaze long enough to let him know she was in earnest, and then, more hesitantly than she'd have liked, made her demands.

"I'm happy to give you and SHIELD whatever you need. I won't endanger lives, and I'll fulfill the mission Fury left me, but if I'm going to be staying here for a while, I need a few favors."

To his credit, Coulson didn't even bat an eye. That might change once he heard what she wanted. "Of course. What do you need?"

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. "A room without security cameras. I've had more attention these past few days than I've had in… well, in years. And it's freaking me out. I need to be alone and know I don't have Big Brother peeking over my shoulder. I just need some solitude right now."

"Not a problem." Coulson cocked his head, smirking. "Billy might have a coronary, but I can handle that. Anything else?"

Now they'd reached the crux of the matter. "I want to keep a private record – call it a video diary – while I'm here. A regular session alone in my space. And I want to send that information to a private server I have access to outside of SHIELD."

"Without prescreening and approval, I assume."

"That's the idea."

Coulson held her gaze like he could ride down the path to her eyes and dive straight into her brain. It took a minute before he found whatever he was looking for. "No SHIELD intel. Nothing that could compromise my team. And if someone is forcing you to do this, all you have to do is ask for help, and we'll eliminate the threat."

Hal shook her head. "It's voluntary." She tried not to feel offended. It didn't quite work. "And of course I won't put anyone in danger. You said you trusted my judgment before. Trust that I won't screw things up now. I'm good at keeping secrets, remember?"

"I never forgot," he assured her. He waited, eyebrows raised, like he expected more demands. "If that's all… I really think we should get some food in you before you fall over."

"I think that's an excellent idea."

Coulson smiled.

"Great. I've got some people you should meet."

"Your team? I have their files already."

"Hal." He dropped a hand on her shoulder, warm, anchoring. "You're going to learn there's a big difference between knowing a file and knowing a person."

Two rights and a sharp left later, Coulson eased open yet another identical door.

To reveal a small crowd.

As far as crowds went, it really was quite small. Only four people. But the crowd was staring at her, and Hal felt like she was on stage. Her knees locked, and even with the gentle pressure of Coulson's hand at her back, it took her almost a full minute to stumble two steps forward.

Coulson looked around the room, beaming with all his usual benevolence.

"This is Hal Renold. She knows everything there is to know about SHIELD. Including your files. No need for introductions. If you don't believe me, just ask her." Patting Hal on the shoulder, he turned to leave. "I have some new data to sort through. Take care of our guest, would you?"

The door clicked shut behind him. Hal stood paralyzed, looking at all the people watching her. She inventoried them: Skye, Melinda May, Jemma Simmons, AntoineTriplett. Didn't Coulson have Ward and Fitz on his team? Where they on a mission? Watch? Potato-peeling duty?

Before she could ask, Simmons popped to her feet and rushed forward with a hand ready to shake. Hal barely lifted hers before Simmons grabbed it for a two-handed pump.

"Skye was telling us about you. It is true you have all SHIELD's files in your head? Would you consent to a few scans?"

Hal reeled back. Too far too fast. "Um, I, uh… Maybe later?"

"Oh! Of course! Sorry, no, not right this second." Simmons took a few steps away, rebounding from her initial assault. "You've been with Director Coulson for hours. I'm sure you must be hungry. I know you didn't have a chance to eat when you arrived. When was your last meal?"

This was going to be fun. "I remember an apple yesterday morning."

"Tripp," Skye said, also scrambling to her feet, "this is an emergency. Break out the pizza rolls. This woman is under fed."

"Yes, ma'am." The only man in the room offered Hal a nod and a wink before he marched off to fulfill his orders.

Simmons gestured to the empty seat next to hers, and Hal sank into it, happy to be even a little less conspicuous.

Hal found her eyes slipping to Agent May, partly because her stare was the most focused, partly because she was the most likely to give Hal a thorough explanation of everything following Hydra's unmasking. After all, May had the highest clearance ranking of Coulson's agents.

As if reading her mind, May gave the slightest shake of her head. "Recover first. Eat. Sleep. I'll bring you up to speed before you continue debriefing with Coulson tomorrow."

Hal accepted the instructions. Nodded. Skye and Jemma looked at her like she was an alien.

"You guys have some freaky telepathic link going on?" Skye asked. "Or are you just secret twins?"

"We're both well-trained," May said, sarcasm drawing her words into a drawl.

"Well, I hope that training made you hungry." Agent Triplett emerged from the side room – where Hal assumed the kitchen resided – balancing a tray. "Because this pizza needs work. Hope you like pepperoni."

"That was fast," Skye said, eyeing the pie with distrust. "Sure it isn't still frozen?"

Triplett rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course. Because I totally forgot the one step in making frozen pizza."

"Better safe than sorry." Despite her mumblings, Skye reached for the first slice.

Jemma batted the hand away, though, pouting at her colleague. "Guests first."

Tentatively, Hal pinched the crust and dragged a slice into her palm. The dough felt suspiciously cold, and she decided she should've given Skye's dramatics more credence. A note for the future. She raised the triangle to her lips and took one very chilly bite. Not frozen. So at least she didn't break any teeth. That was the bright side.

Everyone was watching, so she forced a smile. "It's good."

Skye grabbed the next piece and stuffed it in her mouth. With an exaggerated flourish, she tore it back out again. "Nope. She's just too polite for her own good. This thing is what would happen if Elsa tried to bake a pizza." She grabbed Hal's slice and tossed it back down with the others. "I've got this." Hefting the tray, she rushed the entire pie back to the kitchen.

Awkward silence reigned.

Until, eventually, Jemma tried to apologize.

"It's not always like this," she said. "Tripp doesn't always cook."

"Excuse me?"

.O.O.O.

He only stayed the first night because the apartment had three clear means of egress. The door. The fire escape by the sitting room window. And the roof, accessible by a ledge just above the window in the bedroom.

He stayed the second because no one came for him.

He stayed the third because he had food.

He stayed the fourth because the mission's first email arrived. He opened the message, but the body remained blank. The Soldier had been made to learn how to operate basic technology for the purpose of espionage and data retrieval, but it took him a few moments to realize the message came with an attachment. He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding as a fresh window sprang open and the mission's face appeared.

A video message.

"Hey." The mission – Hal – smoothed her hair – clean, combed, she'd showered recently – over her shoulder. She tried to smile – her anxiety made his normal.

"Hope you get this. And you're well."

She stopped, chewed the inside of her cheek.

Strange, having a conversation with a woman who wasn't in the room, to whom he could not even reply. This was, he reminded himself, only a recording. She wasn't even in this moment with him.

Her voice sounded a little rougher than he remembered. Did she always sound this way? Fear often altered vocal range.

"Your friend's an asshole."

The confession stirred a flutter in his stomach, and the sensation rose up his throat, threatening to spill out his mouth. The Soldier had vomited before. This felt much the same. But it was the most pleasant kind of sickness he'd ever experienced.

Embarrassed by her vulgarity, the mission tried to smooth her hair a second time. "I'm working on him, but it will probably take a while. Just… be patient. It's a lot to ask, I know. But give me a week, and I think I can get what you need." She peered off screen. At what? A visitor? A clock? Notes? Her eyes returned to the lens – it felt like she was looking at him. "It's getting late. I'll send you daily reports. Sorry I couldn't message you sooner. Debriefing sucks."

She smiled. Hesitated. Lost the smile. Tried to revive it.

"Goodnight. I guess. Take care of yourself."

The screen went black, and the message with the attachment returned.

The Soldier wrestled with the idea of playing the recording again.

But he couldn't think of a way to validate such an effort, so he closed the laptop.

A/N: Day late and a dollar short, but what can you do? This chapter wound up being 4000 words (twice my usual minimum). Not everything I wanted, but I kept writing stuff for later chapters. Especially the next one. So the next chapter's going to be quite long, too. Silver lining?

For those who've asked about my family: thank you for your support. Right now the lady in question is in hospice care, which means the doctors have decided she can't be fixed, and everyone's just trying to make her comfortable. We're all having private breakdowns in our separate corners right now. We'll make it. It just sucks.

Replies to Anons:

(Chapter 11)

GhostyGuest: Awww... *Mad Blushing*. Thank you, and you're welcome! I like flawed characters, too. Things are just too easy with perfect characters. And they're annoying as CRAP. Thanks again!

littlewolf: Thank you very much! I've had a lot of fun chewing on this plot, so I'm glad you're having fun, too. Bucky is so much fun, but so difficult. Glad I've been getting him right! Thanks again!

Guest: Thanks for the review! Hey, I sound awkward when I speak, but I never shut up. Never let that stop you. You have a VERY good grip on Bucky's character, and I'm very glad you like where I'm taking him. The road to recovery is long, and you know no one ever comes back from the journey the same way they left. Hope you continue to enjoy the story, regardless of whether or not you review!

Guest (Sah): Thankies much! I salute you for mastering your cell phone. I have a Not-So-Smart-Phone, and even though it has internet access, it's effectively useless. Hal's interactions with Steve aren't over yet, but that's all I can say about that... for now. Thank you, thank you, and thank you for all your tremendous reviews!

Keeley: Thank you oh so much! I'm all kinds of flattered. Pardon me while I go deflate my ego. Thanks again!

(Chapter 12)

Sah: You guessed! Congrats! Hope you liked the introductions (or lack thereof). I want Hal to be happy, too, however as a writer, it's my prerogative to throw as many obstacles in her path as possible. Alas, poor Hal. Thanks again! Good luck with your room!

Inkwriter: INKYYY! That's your official nickname. So let it be written. So let it be done. Anyway - FRIGGIN' TECH! Yes, the gremlins get me, too. My sincerest sympathies. Hope you liked the dose of Widow in this chapter! Thanks again!