A/N: All right, we are finally getting to some of my more favorite parts of the story. I also want to give everyone a big thanks for sticking with me through this. I'm thinking we're about midway through the story. Also, I kind of want to apologize for the last chapter but not really. It's kind of a filler, I know. I actually wrote this chapter first, but I felt like I needed to give you guys a peek between '97 and '03 on what she's been doing and how she's handling her bracelet which I'm thinking all of you hate. Am I right?
***I need to point out and break down my timeline a bit. I think it's crucial. So I'm doing my best to go by Kevin Feige's weirdbutt timeline-which I may add, is an abomination in itself-but a major MCU god has spoken, so I gotta comply which means all the main showdowns we know and love are happening in 2008, not 2008-2012. The Battle of New York is happening sooner than you think, and *crosses fingers* I can't wait for, and you'll see why.
I stand by what I mentioned, that this will evolve into a Hermione/Bucky situation. It'll be a while before it happens, though, because not everyone gets the real deal in their twenties, and I'm wanting to stay loyal to the MCU films as much as I can.
Okay now, on with the chapter! Thanks again to all my followers and reviewers. Please enjoy and r&r!
Chapter 14: The Traitors Among Us Part I
Moscow 2003
Hot water pounds on her back, her head resting against the wall of the shower. She wants to sit down. Lay down. And let the water pour over her until she's clean from the Middle East. Sand, dirt, blood, and the merciless sun have scorched and seeped her every pore. Eighteen months of deep-cover in Kabul, Deh Rawood, Terahn, Kuwait City, and Dubai will do that.
A year and a half of deep-cover and she fucking hardly made a dent in Al Qaeda's wall having got caught up in The Taliban's mess the last several months . She got pulled out in the thick of it—it was only going to get thicker—because the U.S. finally arrived, and FSB doesn't feel it necessary to have so many operatives in the area anymore. Hermione and three others were yanked from the Middle East. There are still some of her comrades there, but not her.
If it were up to HYDRA, they'd leave her there until her cover got blown and then they might extract her. If convenient. The political direction of The Taliban and the hostility of Al Qaeda. They are no friends of HYDRA. Not as a whole, anyway. Some of the uppers have oil company connections and business arrangements with some of the leaders in Pakistan and Afghanistan which soured since 9/11 but were still intact for the most part.
During her bout in the Middle East, her mission differed month-to-month. Week-to-week, even. There were times she was an American, Russian, British, or Australian reporter trying to get the story on what was happening, what could happen, etc. Twice, she got captured doing that, and both times, she had to kill everyone involved before they put her in front of a goddamned camera to make a point.
Other times, she had more gritty, indelicate jobs. One, she got so far in as being a part of the slave trade—a university student from Jerusalem—her master actually claimed to love her after 3 weeks of being in his…care.
Hermione idly wonders if he still loves her since she was the one who put a bullet each into the heads of his father and mother and older brother. She would've killed Abid, too, if the property's security guards hadn't been shooting at her, so she left him unconscious with a broken back on the kitchen floor. He may never walk or use his prick again, but she's all right with that.
Her last assignment, though, had been the hardest despite being the shortest.
She pumps two-year old shampoo into her hands and scrubs at her springy, shorn locks. Chopped hair and breast-binding to transform herself into a man. A short and slight man. A soldier of the Taliban for a week and no one suspected a thing, though, some of the others called her unsavory names behind her back. It still astounds her no one even suspected. Maybe because only an idiot-woman would try such a thing.
Sooner or later, she has to leave the shower and decides it's time when the water is ice-cold. She hops out and towels off, grateful they are clean. Baron and Natalia have been keeping her flat in tip-top shape, and Hermione counts herself lucky neither one of them know about each other. They hadn't incidentally crossed paths while visiting in her absence.
Hermione sees traces of Natalia in the bathroom. The type of soap and shampoo she uses and the lotions and body-sprays she prefers on the shelf. There's her toothbrush behind the mirror-cabinet as well as her preferred choice of panty-liners. There's also a box of condoms which means Hermione's going to have a talk with Natalia. She distinctly said no plus-ones in her apartment. There's only one bed. Her bed.
An unsettling thought springs into her mind that maybe the condoms are Baron's. He wouldn't…would he? He wouldn't dare bring a girl to the flat he gave her. They're not really together like a normal couple. Their relationship is open, but this is her place.
She scowls at the box and then shakes her head. No, they're not his size, and he'd never buy flavored or scented. Definitely Natalia's box.
Closing the cabinet, she wipes down the fog on the mirror and checks her reflection. Tanned, freckled face and rosy cheeks. Hair an atrocity. She finds a pair of nail scissors and evens up her butchered job. Baron will hate the new do but, oh, well. There are loads of wretched things he's done she went along with. Her least favorite, the bracelet. Which miraculously survived the last eighteen months. She thought for sure she'd lose it when in the sex ring. She means…they took everything else from her. If they had, though, she probably wouldn't have been able to help herself from using her powers against those responsible in hoarding women and children like cattle.
"Pixie cuts are kind of in, aren't they," she tells her reflection before pulling on a robe and padding into the kitchen to poke her head into the fridge. She grins tiredly when seeing a bottle of chardonnay and a plastic carton housing the most delicious piece of chocolate cake Hermione's ever seen.
On the bottle, there's a tag wrapped around it, and she reads:
My darling Milas. I'm sorry I could not be there to greet you in your return home. A work-matter has come to my attention, but do enjoy these delicacies.
With every ounce of affection in my heart,
Your Baron.
P.S. I'm thinking something adventurous for our six-year anniversary later this year. What do you think about an African Safari?
Hermione snorts and rolls her eyes. He's such a sentimental sod. Like calling what they have is something worth anniversaries. They're not married. They're…lovers. He's still married. By his choice. The man is caught up in a prenup. He divorces Mrs. Von Strucker, he loses half his fortune. He apologizes endlessly to Hermione about this. Like he thinks she's going to start hounding him for a ring. Like he's worried she'll never be his wife.
She thinks he forgets who and what she is, and what she was designed to be. What he helped to design her to be.
It was certainly not a wife, and she's not interested in receiving anymore jewelry from him. He laid off on the ample gift-giving when she came forward during her interrogation with Sitwell about their affair. Baron is no longer her S.O but just a man she spreads her legs for to get free vacations and her rent paid. Sitwell. He's her…unofficial S.O due to still being a junior officer. But she hasn't seen him since before 9/11.
Settling herself at the table with the chardonnay and cake, she's about to dig in when her private cellphone rings. The one Baron and sometimes Natalia calls her on. Hermione gets up and goes to her room, her phone charging on the nightstand.
"Hello?"
"Milas, you need to get out of there now!" Barons hisses. He sounds distraught.
Hermione flicks her gaze around her room and then darts into the closet, setting her phone on speaker and sets it on the dresser, so she can strip off her robe and scrambles to put on anything she can get her hands on.
"Talk to me. What's going on?" she asks, yanking on a pair of Natalia's low-rises and a sports bra.
"They're coming for you!"
"Who?" She puts on a football jersey and shoves her feet into a pair of Nike's. Too tight! Damn laces.
There's banging on the door, and adrenaline hits her like a truck.
"Who?" she asks, stooping down to hurry and fumble with the shoe laces. She clocks her nightstand and pictures the two pistols inside the drawer waiting to come out and play.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
Hermione pauses and looks incredulously at her phone. "Excuse me?!"
The sound of her door broken from its hinges rattles the tiny apartment.
"They're here," she says.
"Romanova," says Baron. "She betrayed you. I'm sorry, Milas, it's too late. Do not engage with the unit. Comply with them. I'll get you out of this, I promise. Destroy the phone."
The line goes dead, and Hermione goes numb. She sprints to the bathroom and runs water and bleach and whatever else she can over the phone. When the men come into her room dressed in their full tactical gear, it's like they arrive in slow motion. She sinks to the ground, and they're saying words, but she can't absorb them.
Natalia sold her out.
To S.H.I.E.L.D.
Hermione would snicker because, oh, the irony, but she can't. The betrayal cuts her deep. After everything they went through together. The Red Room and the few dozen team missions. Natalia once took a bullet in the leg for her; Hermione doesn't understand.
For the first time since she was a child, she allows herself to feel true sadness. Unshed tears of rage and promise of retribution burn her eyes. S.H.I.E.L.D. won't hold her for long. She is HYDRA. She fucking owns S.H.I.E.L.D and when she's released, she's going after Natalia and God have mercy because Hermione certainly will not. Taru...Taru, she handled. Hermione can't handle this. She can't forgive this.
Her forehead is coaxed to the floor, and her wrists are cuffed behind her back. She could break them, and not just the cuffs. There are four men, and she could probably kill three of them before being peppered with the survivor's bullets. She's quick and tough as hell, but she's not bulletproof. But some of these men may be on HYDRA's side, and she needs to do what Baron said. They're not going to kill her, so there's no reason to kill them. Like she said to herself before, she'll be released in due time.
The man behind her who put the cuffs on is surprisingly gentle when he helps her to her feet. His grip is firm on her upper arm, though, when he and the rest of his unit guide her out of the apartment and down the stairs to the awaiting black SUV. She climbs into the back seat and sits in the middle, two men on each side of her while the other two occupy the front seats.
"This will be over soon," says the man on her right. He's staring out the window, and she takes in his dark hair, bronzed skin, and five o' clock shadow.
He's handsome.
He grew up handsome.
"I imagine it will be," she replies.
He looks away from the window and at her. "The U.S. government just wants to ask you a few questions, is all."
"Agent, stop talking to the suspect. Remember what Romanova said."
Her eyes are still locked with his, but he has to pull away before the other's notice the way his rest on her. The way they spell mischief for what's to come and finally and are the last things she sees before he places a black bag over her head. The vehicle gets shifted into gear, and they start to move.
The bag is removed. She's in an interrogation room. A hot interrogation room. The heater is cranked way up. Sweat gathers at the base of her skull and in her arm pits. She wipes her forehead with her cuffed hands which have been chained to the floor through the table. The give on the chain is about a foot long but nowhere near long enough to reach the glass and pitcher of water at the end of the table on her right.
The man who removed the bag from her head is making gestures at the mirror. He taps his ear and then nods, leaving the room but not before shutting off the light, drowning her in the dark. She hears a heavy deadlock slide into place.
The heat for discomfort. The darkness for fear. Basic tactics to ware her down so when the interrogation starts, she'll be ready to say and do anything.
Child's play.
Okay.
All right.
She'll give S.H.I.E.L.D. an applause. They certainly know how to make a guest feel special.
Hermione drinks the last of the water, head resting against the concrete of the wall. She escaped the cuffs hours and hours ago. Maybe even day or two has passed, and she's down to her underwear. She's managed not needing to use the bathroom thanks to sweating like she's in a sauna, but the time has come where she really needs a toilet.
And a meal.
Putting her forearm against the wall, she rests her head against it. S.H.I.E.L.D. made their point. Where the hell are they? She's ready. She's not loyal to Russia. Hell, she'll point to every single FSB and SVR base on the map. They want a few Al Qaeda safehouses? Done. Hey, she'll even let them know Iranian leaders are hiring contract nuclear physicists and even provide names. She'll roll over like a dog and show her belly because she's not the real enemy here, and she's pissed at HYDRA for allowing them to take it this far with her.
She turns her head to the far upper corner where sometimes a red light flashes and says in a hoarse voice, "You've made your point. I'm ready to talk."
The lights flash on, and she has to bury her eyes into her arm at the abrupt change. The whirring of the heater silences, and she hears the deadlock of the door slide. The door opens, and Hermione lethargically looks over her shoulder at a man entering. He's got thinning, sandy blond hair and is pushing a food cart. Atop of the cart is a metal platter with a lid which he removes and reveals a dish of Baltic Sprat.
"Hungry?" he asks. He sets down the lid and places the platter on the table. "I've been told it's one of your favorites."
Natalia.
Hermione wants to march over to him and break the food cart—bash his head in with the broken pieces. Murder drenches her face, but the man merely smiles at her and casually sits down at the table, gesturing to the empty one on the opposite side.
"I think you should sit, Agent Abegglen."
"I need to use the bathroom."
"Eat. Then we'll talk negotiations."
"I'll go right now. Right here," she threatens.
"I think that'll be more humiliating for you than me." He points to the platter of food. "I've been told of your appetite. You must be famished. But, ah," he gets up from the chair and crosses the room to her in long, purposeful strides, his hand extended. "Where are my manners? Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
To be Continued...
