A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 23
The garage door closed, Maria turned off the engine and got out. Steve was already holding the kitchen door open. The small light over the workbench cast just enough illumination into the kitchen for them to find their way without tripping.
Steve reached for the inside light switch, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm. The deep breathing of a sleeping male came from the living room sofa. Tiptoeing across the wood floor, she expected to see Dooney curled up with the sheet over his head and one foot sticking out.
Clint lay on his back, arms and legs splayed. His chest was bare, and to her relief, Maria spied the waistband of his pajamas above the edge of the sheet, proving that he hadn't gone to bed commando. Thank God for small favors.
She felt a tug, Steve pulling her toward the stairs. From his manner, he expected this to be good night, a kiss, and both off to their separate bedrooms. While that was the ultimate objective, she wasn't ready to end their evening just yet.
Maria opened the den door and pulled Steve in after her. He moved into the center of the room and turned around as she pressed her back against the door. Their eyes locked for a few seconds then they both dissolved into silent laughter.
"Good thing the cops didn't recognize me, or I'd never hear the end of it from Stark and Barton."
Taking a few steps until they were mere inches apart, Maria shook her head, grinning. "I can see the headlines now, 'Captain America and unnamed female companion caught in flagrante delicto in the back seat of a car.'"
"We weren't doing what the cops thought we were doing."
"That's not how the public would see it. And the story would be exaggerated with every telling." He helped her off with her jacket, removed his own and tossed both in the armchair in the corner, then joined her on the sofa. She kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet under, leaning against his side. His arm draped around her shoulders, the fingers on her bicep sliding up under the short sleeve of her top and down again, the back of his fingers grazing the side of her breast. That part of her body reacted though Steve either didn't notice or was gentleman enough not to mention it.
He kissed her forehead. Maria untucked her feet and swung around so that she was now over Steve's lap and he grabbed onto her waist to keep her from falling. "What are you doing?"
Maria brushed her fingers through his short hair, nipping at the strands and inching closer until their lips were almost touching. "I promised you third base. Or are you taking yourself out of the game?"
Both hands came up to cradle her face, the rough pads of his thumbs rubbing over her cheeks. "Why would I do that? Haven't even been up to bat yet."
He claimed a kiss, and she returned the favor, amazed that in just a few short weeks, Steve had gone from a man who had only kissed before to one who now knew what he wanted from and to give to a woman, and wasn't shy about asking for it. Steve wrapped his left arm around her waist, turned and tipped her onto her back, all without their mouths losing contact.
As his body settled next to her, Maria skimmed the backs of her fingers lightly over Steve's cheek, down the side of his neck and around to trace the collar of his t-shirt, eliciting a small groan. To stoke the fires even more, she wiggled her hand in between them to unbutton his plaid shirt. He moved back to give her room, and Steve fell off the sofa Maria landing on top of him. They froze in place, hardly daring to breathe as they waited for Clint to knock on the door. The archer was a notoriously light sleeper. They both exhaled the breath they were holding when nothing happened.
Maria eased her grip on his shoulders and his hold softened as his palms splayed over her ribs. Lifting up so she could look into his face, they both chuckled silently. "Can't catch a break, can we?"
One of Steve's eyebrows went up and a smirk was added. "I'm okay with the floor, if you are."
"For what I have planned," one eyebrow raised, "it's a better bet than the sofa."
~~O~~
Sometime, later, Maria made her way upstairs where she changed into her pajamas, brushed, flossed and replaced the bandage on her hand. It was even more swollen now than earlier in the day. She swallowed one of the pills Dooney had given her, hoping it would help her sleep. Then, tomorrow, she'd go to one of those urgent care facilities to have it checked.
The Next Day
All of Maria's plans went out the window when she received a text from Coulson requesting a meeting ASAP. She packed a bag and left a note shoved under Steve's door telling him she would be back in a few days. It was unlikely that Coulson would agree to a video chat with Clint and Steve. There was no way he'd do a face to face. Not with SHIELD in its present state. As the director, he was vulnerable to assassination attempts, not only from HYDRA and other anti-government groups, but from within the organization itself. Still, he insisted on venturing beyond the confines of the base and refused to stay aboard the quinjet when he did go out.
Crossing her knees, she tried to relax until they touched down. A few minutes after that, she was escorted to Coulson's office only to find that he'd had to leave and would speak to her via video conference. Their meeting lasted for most of the day as he filled her in on the latest developments regarding the Skye/Daisy dilemma in addition to a laundry list of other issues that wouldn't be solved with SHIELD in its current incarnation. From what he did and didn't say, Coulson had a plan though he wouldn't say what that was. Maria knew better than to press for answers. He also requested that she oversee a small project that would take a few days, and naturally, she agreed.
On the trip back to New York, Maria felt warm and her hand throbbed so badly she could barely move. Forget trying to use it. She closed her eyes, and dozed off.
A Safe House
Somewhere in Vermont
Natasha bolted upright in bed, searching for what whatever had jolted her out of a dreamless sleep. Nothing moved in the darkness lit only by the small amount of moonlight coming through a gap in the curtains. She pushed a hand through her hair and exhaled the breath she'd been holding. Flopping onto her pillow, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and turned onto her side. Her eyes had barely closed when a guttural scream filled the air.
Tossing the sheet aside, Natasha ran into the hall. At Barnes' door, she turned her head to the side, listening to the harsh breaths rasping in and out of his lungs. She rapped lightly on the door. "Barnes? You okay?"
There was no answer aside from moaning. She eased the door open and stepped inside. Here, the curtains had a bigger gap, letting in more of the moonlight. It shone on the floor at an angle, elongating the reflection of the window, one corner touching the bed. One bare foot stuck out from under the covers, twitching every few seconds. Barnes moved his head and an arm in a manner that suggested he was trying to avoid being touched.
Kneeling next to the bed, Natasha brushed the hair from his forehead, speaking to him in Russian, "Sh. I'm with you, malyutka." She hummed then began to softly sing the same song as at the hospital. Barnes slowly calmed until he was no longer thrashing around. Tugging the sheet from under his foot, she brought the covers up, stopping at his waist.
He was bare-chested, the entirety of his biomechanical arm visible for the first time. Or rather, this is the first time she had the time to examine it closely. The skin was heavily scarred, puckered and red. It had the look of multiple surgeries over the years. The arm had probably been replaced on several occasions as technology advanced, most recently within two to three years was her guess.
A metallic clicking drew her attention to his left arm, the hand lying on his stomach just above his navel. The forearm appeared to move. Natasha circled the bed, pulling the curtain aside for better light.
The plates in his forearm seemed to ripple, clicking against each other over and over. What purpose it served, Natasha couldn't tell. An involuntary response to images in his subconscious or a maintenance access? She dragged a finger over the seams. There was no give, and the plates didn't slide. Gently, so as not to disturb him, she carefully turned his palm over for a closer look.
Without warning, Barnes growled and swung the arm, the back catching her on the cheek below her left eye. Natasha slammed against the closet door. The impact shook the wall, rattling the knick-knacks on the small table in the corner. The framed photo on the wall fell with a crash, shattering the glass. Natasha landed on the floor, her knee catching the table on the way down, knocking it over. A small figurine broke as well, shards of white ceramic landing in her hair.
Rolling onto her hands and knees, she pushed to her feet, prepared for the attack to continue, but Barnes hadn't moved. Had it been an involuntary reaction to touching the arm in that particular spot, a power surge brought on by his dreams? Or was it something more sinister like a virus or failsafe program HYDRA had inserted in case he stopped obeying orders? If that was the case, then why hadn't it been activated before now?
Natasha fingered the spot on her cheek where he struck her. She'd have a black eye in the morning. Though she was tempted to leave the clean-up for later, Natasha didn't want Barnes to step in the glass. She went into the kitchen to get a broom and dustpan. As quietly as possible, she swept up the glass and ceramic and carried the pieces to the kitchen trash. The broom and dustpan were replaced in the pantry.
Taking a hand towel from the drawer next to the sink, she opened the freezer and filled it with ice. She tied the corners together using a rubber band, and applied the make-shift ice pack to her cheek on the way back to bed. She lay down and pulled the sheet up to her chin. Then, when her eyelids began to droop, she set the ice pack on the bedside table and went to sleep.
~~O~~
Morning arrived, and with it, the sounds of the woods, trees rustling in the wind, birds chirping, small-and not so small-animals scampering through the underbrush and in the treetops.
Tossing the covers aside, Natasha got to her feet and stretched every muscle in her body. A slight pull along her right hip reminded her of what happened during the night. Turning to the side, she pulled down the side of her pajama pants and found a bruise the size of a tennis ball.
"At least it matches the black eye," she huffed at her reflection. Without make-up, there would be no way to hide it from Barnes. Besides, lying to him about how it happened would do them both a disservice. He deserved better. They both did. When she'd taken on this personal mission, her purpose had been clear. Find Barnes, convince him to come in, to let them help. Now, that goal seemed far away. How long it took to achieve it mattered less than her life though hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. Barnes needed someone who understood what had happened to him. The brainwashing, the training, the killing. Surgery without consent.
Best case, neither of them died, and they both came away from the experience physically and mentally whole, and to live long, happy and productive lives. Worst case, they both died. End of the line. No sequel. Fini. Ka-nyets.
Considering past experience, Natasha expected reality to be somewhere in the middle. Stepping into the hall, she heard music and found Barnes performing the same Tai Chi routine from the night before. She waited for him to finish then crossed to the kitchen to make coffee. The music shut off and he came to join her.
Barnes was almost like a puppy, following her around, then withdrawing when she reached out to him. Food worked as a motivator, but it wouldn't always. They needed to work on his social and interpersonal skills. HYDRA thought they had eliminated the good man he'd been in the forties, though Natasha sensed that Bucky Barnes was still in there somewhere. If only she could touch that part of him for even a few moments she was certain he would start to remember. He remembered on a subconscious level or he wouldn't have saved Steve from drowning, her at the hospital or any of the dozen or so people and animals he'd rescued in one way or another since he'd come to Brooklyn. There had to be a way to get closer to him without scaring him off. He trusted her, but only up to a point. And he seemed to go back and forth on that issue without warning.
The coffee maker finished the brewing cycle, and when she reached for the cups in the sink drainer, Barnes was already there. She filled both cups, and when she turned to hand one to him, she saw when he noticed the black eye.
"What happened?"
Unconsciously, she touched the edge. "It's nothing. I've been hurt worse sparring with Barton." Hoping to convey the message that the subject was closed, Natasha turned away to open the cupboard. She took down two bowls and a box of cereal that promised to be healthy as well as tasty when combined with milk. "You hungry? We could go for a hike after we eat, if you like."
So quickly she couldn't mount a defense if she'd wanted to, Barnes was at her side, turning her to face him, his eyes examining the bruise. One finger came up to lightly trace the edge down over her cheek and up to her eyebrow. His touch was gentle, more so than expected. He curled his hand into a ball and dropped it to his side. "Did I do this?"
No lies. Only truth. She stepped back, removing herself from his personal space. "It was an accident. You were having a bad dream and I got in the way."
"I'm sorry."
Smiling so he would know it wasn't an issue, Natasha went to the refrigerator for milk. "Let's eat, finish our coffee, pack a lunch, and go for a hike. Okay with you, Barnes?"
He nodded and took a seat at the table with his coffee. Natasha set a bowl in front of him, filled it with cereal, handed him a spoon and poured the milk. Then, she did the same for herself, sitting across from him. She took a bite and chewed, watching him do the same. Soon, he would have to start doing for himself. It would be a slow process, but she could afford to be patient.
~~O~~
The closet in the hall yielded a treasure trove of equipment, and not just of the camping nature, tents, fishing poles, waders, knives, tackle boxes, etc. A hidden panel revealed a keypad with DNA scanner of the same type used at SHIELD. As a senior agent, her information would be included in the database. She didn't have to open the panel to know the contents. Weapons. Lots of them. Enough to fend off a small army. She grabbed two backpacks and several knives, and carried them to the kitchen.
Barnes was still sitting at the table with his empty cereal bowl, spoon and cup in front of him. Natasha pointed her chin at the dishes. "Rinse those and leave them in the sink. I'll wash them later."
He did so without acknowledging what amounted to an order and returned to his seat. She could feel Barnes' eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen getting their packs ready, starting with fresh fruit; an apple for him and an orange for her.
She took out several packages of trail mix, two for each. From the refrigerator, she brought out four bottles of water and two of the electrolyte enriched drinks. That should hold them for a late lunch. She unzipped one of the backpacks, shoved everything inside and closed it up again. Barnes was still watching her. Staring back without blinking, one of her plays to unnerve a potential mark, Natasha waited for him to get it, and finally, he did. As he'd seen her do, he placed the items in the pack and zipped it closed.
Her smile of approval softened the lines of wariness around his eyes and mouth, though he didn't smile back. "Go change, and we'll get started. I bought us hiking boots just in case."
Again, Barnes didn't say anything. His bare feet making no sound on the wood floor, he went into his room and shut the door. By the time Natasha came out, he was standing on the front porch with his backpack on, eyes closed and turned toward the sun. The breeze lifted the neck length hair away from his face, and though his dress was modern and rugged, her mind's eye could see the man he was so long ago. Carefree, happy, loyal to those he cared about, always with a smile on his face. And with her help, maybe he could be that man again. Or something close to it.
She shrugged into her backpack, shut the front door and walked past her companion. "Daylight's burnin', Barnes. Let's hit the trails."
Somewhere Over North America
"Flight, this is 0-6-1, returning to base. We have a medical emergency. Over." The pilot glanced over his shoulder to where his co-pilot was tending to Commander Hill. Thirty minutes into their flight to New York, they heard a thud, and found her passed out in the rear compartment near the head. The co-pilot, a woman with short blonde hair, applied a wet cloth to Hill's face to cool the fever.
"Roger, 0-6-1. What's your emergency? Over."
"Commander Hill passed out and is unresponsive. She's feverish, shallow respirations and rapid pulse. Over."
There was a pause while flight relayed the information, then she was back on the line. "You're cleared for emergency landing on 2-7 north. Medical is on-site. Over."
Breathing a sigh of relief, the pilot, nodded to the co-pilot. "Roger that, flight. Wheels down in ten. Over and out."
~~O~~
Coulson entered the helicarrier's medical bay, going directly to the window that looked into the room where Hill was hooked up to a variety of machines. A doctor prepared a bag of fluid, hung it on the pole and connected it to the IV in Hill's right hand.
He rapped on the window, nodding when the doctor turned around. The man made notes on the tablet, and stepped out of the room, removing his mask, gown and gloves, and tossing them in the red biohazard bin.
"How is she?"
"Not good, Director. We're pumping her full of fluids and antibiotics. They're helping, but not enough. Commander Hill is beginning to show the classic signs of organ failure. There are a few experimental drugs that haven't been approved for human testing yet. I know that's never stopped us before. However, I'd like to use them as a last resort."
Taking in everything the doctor had told him previously and now, Coulson could think of one way to cure Hill. "What about GH.325? I was dead and it brought me back."
The doctor was already shaking his head. "That was the first thing we thought of. Currently, we have none on-site, and with the Guest House now a hole in the ground…"
"It's still in my blood and Skye's. What about a transfusion?"
The doctor shook a finger at Coulson on his way to wash his hands, talking over his shoulder. "No, for two reasons. Your blood types are incompatible, and even if they were, she'd need more than either of you, alone or together, could give. And before you ask, no, the 325 can't be filtered out like platelets."
When the doctor turned around, Coulson held out a towel. He took it, drying his hands as he walked around the room, examining test results and entering information into the computer.
"What are her chances for survival?"
The doctor shed his lab coat and hung it on an old fashioned coat rack. "Slim at best. Her organs are severely compromised by the infection. If she'd gone to the ER for treatment instead of letting an untrained Good Samaritan stitch the wound, we wouldn't be having this conversation and Commander Hill would be enjoying semi-retirement on a beach tossing back Mimosas like they were water and ogling the cabana boys." He sighed and sat heavily in a chair. "I've increased the antibiotics to the maximum dosages. She's also getting the highest safe dose of pain meds to relieve pain. We've made her as comfortable as possible. All we can do now is pray for a miracle. If she has any next of kin, I'd give them a call."
~~O~~
A master of multi-tasking, Coulson kept one eye on the closed circuit feed from the med bay while working on a special project. He'd tried to contact Hill's father, but the man refused to take his calls. Or rather, his personal assistant relayed the message, none too politely either.
Through the grapevine, Coulson had heard about the budding romance between Hill and Rogers, making Captain America the closest thing to next of kin. He could've delegated this task, but it was his responsibility as Hill's friend and boss.
Opening the drawer to his right, Coulson sent a message to Steve Rogers' phone and received an immediate affirmative response. Taking a deep breath, he activated the video chat. "Good to see you again, Captain Rogers."
~~O~~
The SHIELD logo popped up on Steve's phone with the message: Please stand by for the Director
Curious as to why the director would call him and not Barton, Steve kept his expression neutral until he saw the familiar face. Stunned at first, he could only stare. Phil Coulson, the man he'd seen killed by Loki and whose funeral he attended was looking back at him. Eventually, he found his voice. "If this is a joke, it isn't funny. Who are you really?"
"I am who I appear to be, Captain Rogers. Phil Coulson, director of SHIELD."
The voice sounded the same, and they looked remarkably similar, but it just couldn't be. "Coulson died two years ago. Stabbed through the heart. You don't walk that off."
Involuntarily, the other man rubbed the center of his chest. "Still aches in cold weather."
"But how…"
His manner changed, became serious. "We can go into the details later. At the moment, I have a more pressing issue. It's my understanding that you and Commander Hill are in a romantic relationship."
Unsure how to characterize the relationship he had with Maria, Steve shrugged. "That a problem?"
"There are no regulations against personal entanglements within the ranks of SHIELD. It's not encouraged, but neither is it discouraged." His eyes slanted to the side as if someone had come into the room. "Commander Hill is in the helicarrier's medical bay."
A sliver of concern wound its way in. "Was she in an accident?"
Coulson folded his hands together on the desk. "The diagnosis is septicemia via the wound on her hand." He looked away for a moment, nodded then returned his attention to the screen. "She doesn't have much time left, Steve. If you want to see her, you need to come now."
TBC