Present Day

Samantha walked into the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre's Belgian base and was greeted with applause. She winced at it, desperate to shy away from it. She didn't deserve the applause, she'd barely done anything. Were it not for T'Challa, Zemo probably would have escaped and they wouldn't be applauding at all. Steve and Bucky had managed to escape too so she'd done nothing to truly earn the congratulations everyone was forcing upon her. Reluctantly, she smiled, keeping her head down, and headed into Everett Ross's office.

It wasn't much of an office, more like a desk, a phone and a computer in a very grey room. There was nothing personal about it – no photos, no university degrees. Only a gold nameplate with 'Everett K. Ross' engraved on it gave it away as his. She'd wondered why that was in the few days she'd known him. Normally, people only did that sort of thing if they were ashamed of their past or thought their position temporary. She pushed it all to the side, deciding she needed to remain strong – at least for the next few moments "I'm out. Today was the last straw. I'm not going to be your damned puppet anymore," she announced.

He looked at her, analysing her, trying to figure out whether or not she was serious. "I can't let you do that," he told her, running his hand through grey-silvery hair. When she was a teenager, he would have been just her type. She'd always had a thing for older men. Now, she knew better.

"Need I remind you that you kidnapped me to get me here and that sort of extraordinary rendition is illegal. I don't think you'd want the world to know that you held the British Prime Minister's Press Secretary hostage," she bluffed, already able to guess his next move.

"And I don't think you want the British public to know that their new Prime Minister's Press Secretary is really a fugitive," he retorted and she smirked in response.

"I was absolved of that if you recall so see if I care. Tell the world whatever the hell you want, I don't care," she stated angrily before storming out of the room, slamming it behind her. She wasn't sure if he was bluffing but she sure as hell wasn't.

Samantha had gotten the first flight out she could, ensuring that she used the British Passport MI6 had provided her with, the one registered under the name Olivia Potter. She'd left a note by way of a quick goodbye to her father and dashed off. Now, she was driving up the long driveway to Prime Minister Reid's house, it had acted as a version of 10 Downing Street in the aftermath of the bombing until the actual building was rebuilt to a standard that meant it could actually be used. She had to pre-empt whatever strike Everett Ross and the JCTC might attempt to hit her with which implied that she had to tell Reid the truth.

It was mid-afternoon when she arrived and she was glad for the bright morning sun even if it did make it difficult to see anything. Still, it was warm – by British standards – and that was something to be thankful for. Entering through the back, as she always did, Samantha quietly made her way into Reid's office. She stood in the back as Reid issued directives left, right and centre. The room cleared and she stood, awkwardly leant against the back wall. "Ah, Olivia. How is my favourite Press Secretary?"

"I'm your only Press Secretary sir," she responded, a grin on her face.

"I've told you before don't call me sir, it makes me sound like some kind of hoity-toity asshole," he said in his Scouse accent and she smiled, she'd get used to it eventually. "The temp we had in your place is a little too hostile with the press for my liking. The headlines haven't exactly been favourable while he's been on the podium," he said and she smiled again but it didn't quite reach her eyes. He noticed it too, it was something she liked about Prime Minister Reid – he made sure that he noticed everything about his employees, even the person who made him his tea. He was a self-made man, everything he had had been something he'd earned. He believed in that whole Enlightenment ideal of merit over birth right, it made him incredibly likeable "What's wrong?" he asked and she bit her lip. It wasn't exactly a difficult question and yet it was at the same time.

"There's… something you should know about me," she began unsure which was the best way to continue.

He stopped her "Is this about the fact that you're really an MI6 agent named Samantha Stark who sought asylum here after being falsely accused of terrorism?" he said it so casually that she almost laughed, she did that when she was caught off guard. At the same time, it was – at least to her mind – rather comical. She nodded. "Whatever it is, I'll stand by you 100%, you have a job here," he said and she smiled graciously, thankful for that one little bit of consolation.

"When I was away, I wasn't really away as such. Umm Everett Ross and the JCTC had me taken in regarding what happened at Downing Street. Some people I knew were, wrongly, accused of being involved. Anyway, I refused to continue doing their bidding and, well, Ross is threatening to reveal everything he has on me which is a lot," she explained and waited, with bated breath, for a response.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking her dead in the eye with concern.

"It doesn't matter whether I'm okay or not, what matters is that this reflects badly on you. You're only Prime Minister by the mere technicality of the fact that your predecessor died. That puts you on shaky ground as it is when it comes round to election time. The people don't take well to being dumped with a leader. What Everett Ross wants to reveal about me would be a cannonball, no a nuclear missile to any campaign you may hope to have before it even begins. They'll make you out to be guilty by association,"

He looked at her, an almost mischievous glint in his eyes "You've known me for two weeks now, do you honestly think I care more about getting elected than I do about what I'm able to do while I'm here? I have this office – or what's left of it – until a point in time when my now dead predecessor would have been forced to run again. What's one little setback at the beginning when we have all kinds of good to do in the long-term?"

Samantha smiled, he was so optimistic it was almost infectious. He was right though and she was beginning to know it too "I suppose I should explain at the next press conference, hopefully I'll be able to pre-empt whatever Everett Ross has in store for me. It'll look better coming from my mouth,"

"There's the girl I let MI6 force on me," he said with a chuckle.

Samantha remembered the first time she'd ever been in charge of a press conference. Her father hadn't long been stabbed and she had barely had a wink of sleep since then. She'd fainted immediately afterwards but this one, she thought, was different. She had a guaranteed job waiting for her, a flat to go home to and no one close to her was on the brink of death.

She smiled from her place behind the podium on the grass. They'd chosen this as the location for all press conferences and briefings because of the fact that it gave off enough of a distance between the press and the government while still making them feel included. Plus, it was pretty out there in the summer. "Ladies, Gentlemen settle down please," she said in her well-honed fake English accent. "At 12.30pm local time, Baron Zemo – a Sokovian national and spy – was arrested in Siberia regarding the bombings of both 10 Downing Street and the UN headquarters in Brussels. After further questioning, it was revealed that he and he alone was responsible for those two events. Our previous suspect, a Mr James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes, was innocent. Any questions?"

Hands shot up from all directions as she held their gaze. She pointed to one of the journalists – a girl with black rimmed rectangular glasses and ebony hair "Is anything known about a motive yet?"

"It would appear that Mr Zemo's family was killed during the Battle of Sokovia against Ultron. It seems to have been an act of revenge against the Avengers,"

"Why choose to disguise himself as Bucky Barnes though?"

Samantha sighed, wondering whether the truth would be of any use. It didn't matter now, she decided. If Steve wanted to paint her as disloyal, she'd act disloyal just to prove how disloyal she really could be "Bucky Barnes goes by another name, The Winter Soldier. During World War Two, Bucky Barnes, a friend of Captain America himself, fell from a railway track high up, the Soviets were there to rescue him and took him back to their lab. There, they fixed up his arm with a metal one that worked almost exactly the same way as a human one. They froze him and every few years, they'd wake him for a mission – including the murder of Howard and Maria Stark," she heard the gasps of shock and horror "Zemo knew that should Captain America discover Bucky alive again, he would immediately go after him and attempt to save him. Essentially, Zemo's revenge was to cause a revolution within the Avengers," silently she added the words 'and he succeeded'. She wasn't certain whether or not the Avengers could come back from their civil war, she wasn't even certain whether or not the United Nations would let them after what happened in Germany.

She pointed to another journalist who asked "Where is Zemo now?"

"Currently, he is being held by the Joint Counter Terrorism Centre in an as yet undisclosed location. He will remain there until his trial before a United Nations select committee and a judge at the Hague,"

Another journalist's hand shot up, it belonged to someone who was more boy than man. Surely, he couldn't be older than sixteen. Samantha nodded his way and he smiled gleefully in response prior to asking his question "Do we know anything more about Zemo?"

At this point, no. Any new details will be given to you as they appear," she responded and looked out across the pack of journalists. She gripped onto the podium until her knuckles were white. She thought about how she ought to structure what she said next. "I have one other thing to add. In a few hours-time, a story will break about me that may cast some doubt upon your opinion of me. I learnt long ago that it is better, sometimes, to be early to the party rather than late," she breathed deep and switched out of her faked English accent and into her normal American one "My name is not Olivia Potter as I led you to believe when I first came to hold the office of Press Secretary only a few short weeks ago. It is, in fact, Samantha Stark. I am daughter of Tony Stark and I was a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. That is until a few months ago when my own government started to persecute me. Due to the fact that my mother, it turns out, was a British citizen, I was able to gain refuge in this country," she announced. She watched as hands were raised but she waved them away with a simple 'that will be all', choosing to turn around and leave the situation.

She dashed off to her makeshift office, sat at her desk and allowed her face to fall into her hands. She felt almost hopeless, as though – all of a sudden – her entire world had caved in on itself. She heard a swift knock on the door and looked up to see the Prime Minister standing in her doorway, a kind if maybe too jovial smile on his face "Well done," he said "We'll make a Thespian of you yet," she nodded in response, unable to take on his joke as what it was "What's wrong?" he asked for the second time that day. She'd get sick of the question eventually, she knew it, but it wasn't as if she cared in that moment anyway.

"I've finally managed to gain a life for myself here and I've just thrown it all away because Everett Ross may or may not reveal the truth about me," she said with a sigh. It was a difficult position she'd just placed herself in. She knew she was about to be hounded by the press for days, by the very journalists she had – for a short while – held under her domain.

"It'll die down eventually,"

"That sounds like wishful thinking," she responded cynically.

"There's a story likely to break tomorrow. We got wind of it while you were in Siberia. It regards my… sexuality," she gawped at that. The British tendency to avoid the subject of sex and sexual attraction as much as possible both infuriated and entertained her. "It would appear that Geoffrey, an ex of mine from university, is speaking to the press. I don't think Britain is quite ready for a gay prime minister…" he trailed off and Samantha saw his awkward attempt at hiding the anguish in his eyes. She felt sorry for him, she didn't want to but she did.

Normally, she would have told him to just come out but this was a British politician without a title or even a degree from Oxford or Cambridge (he'd gone to London School of Economics but in the eyes of most that didn't seem to matter) – he wasn't exactly the normal person you'd elect as Prime Minister of Great Britain. She thought a moment, trying to come up with a contingency plan. "Given that your relationship occurred when you were in university, you could claim it as experimentation, trying to work out who you are, that sort of thing. However, after that, we'd have to set you up on a bunch of fake dates with women, you'd look like a cad for a while but it wouldn't be too much of an issue,"

He smiled a moment "If you think that's best,"

"Right, well then, you'll need a woman. Someone with a fair amount of discretion. Intelligent too and ambitious – with a career of her own. A pretty woman with a good taste in clothes, voters will get behind the two of you that way,"

"You do realise you've just described yourself, right?"

"That wasn't my intention, honestly, I'm not the woman you want as your beard," she responded nervously.

"I know but it would be ideal, you already know and you can't deny that it might make you look better," he said by way of explanation.

"Yes, at best I'm an opportunist, at worst a power hungry slut," she answered and Reid smiled, almost laughingly, the lines around his eyes crinkled with some kind of joy. Samantha knew that, were she in his shoes, she would not be that calm. Heck, she was stressed just realising what was unfurling.

"Are you really that concerned with what everyone else thinks?" he asked and she smirked.

"It's what the government pays me to be concerned with," she quipped back.

"Come on, I've been provided with two tickets to the ballet. I had planned for my friend to come with me – he has a thing for dancers – but if you come with me then – "

"You're saved from a night of watching your friend flirt with leggy blondes half the night," she finished for him.

"So, you'll go?"

"Well, I've never seen a ballet before,"