A/N: Oooookay! I apologize for the delay on this chapter. I think I rewrote this sucker four times. I wanted it to be perfect because it's over two years later in the fic and a lot has taken place in between those two years-but all filler stuff that needn't be included in the actual story line, only referred to in the present time. On top of that, there's a lot going on in this chapter. Like a ton.

Just a reminder that I'm putting my own timeline into MCU's weird timeline. This fic takes place between 1987-2016, and I will not promise a sequel.

Thank you, SwiftyTheWriter, Color o life, FaeBreeze, KmyD, Arcane Charmcaster, meldz, Littlemissmoffey, and Honestly don't you two read for the reviews.

Thank you followers of the fic, as well.

Thank you, readers. Do enjoy Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Day Sleeper

Outskirts of Zabol, Late 2005

2:33 A.M.

Peering through the infrared binoculars, she gazes across the border. It's not as guarded as it could be. She could cross by driving up the crack several miles and hop the border relatively undetected. Relatively being stressed, but it's not the border patrol making her nervous. She hasn't even decided if she'll get herself into Afghanistan the old-fashioned way. Her wrist is free, and she's more than ready to break more rules.

But she's got one teeny, tiny little problem, and she can't get rid of it. Not yet.

Hermione lowers the binoculars and looks at the man next to her. He hasn't budged or fidgeted or twitched in the slightest in the last three minutes.

"I need your help," she says in Russian.

The Winter Soldier slowly slides his gaze to her, his face completely void of expression. "I don't serve you," he dully supplies in English.

"I'm HYDRA, dumbass."

"I don't serve you."

"Then why are you still standing here?"

His blue eyes drop to the side, like he's actually thinking and then locks with hers again. "My mission," he replies firmly.

"Our missions happen to be in the same place." She sets the binoculars down on the hood of the Humvee. "Which doesn't explain why you're still here. I gave you the coordinates, like, twenty minutes ago."

He stares.

For a while.

He's short-circuiting which explains the abrupt change to American English. He's been out of cryo-freeze too long. He didn't bolt when she gave him the location of Cruz-Gesenko, and he hasn't tried to murder her in the last ten minutes. HYDRA is scouting for him, no doubt, but if he's not going to leave her side, she might as well make use of him before handing him back over.

The last time she saw him dragged away from her and thrown in that chair, she had felt for him. She had doubted HYDRA because of it. Now she doesn't feel anything for him, the bastard. He shot Natalia, and the only doubt for HYDRA she has at the moment is the concern they didn't zap him hard enough. He disobeyed orders. Natalia was not the target, goddammit, and now she could be dead. This could all be for not. Just a trick. A trick in an already unfair game. All to lure her back to Kabul. She hadn't counted on Natalia being fatally hurt.

She side-glances nervously in the border's direction. They need to get going. The clock's ticking.

"I don't have transportation. Kabul is far from here."

"You are leaning on a fucking car!" she hissed.

"Kabul is far from here," he repeats.

"Will you take off your mask. I can't understand a damned thing you're saying."

He pauses and then gingerly removes the black mask covering half his face. The goggles remain. "There is a small distance between me and my mission always. I don't know what to do."

"I will give you something to do."

"You have no authority over me."

Hermione removes her gun from its holster and points it at his face, flicking off the safety. "You were saying?"

"I don't want to hurt you," he tells her.

He really has been out and about too long. His body's rigid, but he hasn't attacked. There's somebody threatening the outcome of his mission and life, and he's mildly disturbed and giving her an out.

"Do you recognize me, Soldier?" she inquires. "We've met before today. Do you remember?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He lingers on her for a long time and then shifts his face off to the side. "Yes."

She huffs and takes a step forward. "How about Natalia? Did you recognize her?"

"Who?"

"The woman you shot in Odessa!"

"What woman?"

"The one who got in between you and Cruz-Gesenko."

He's quiet for a moment. "Agent Natasha Romanoff. Former KGB and enemy of HYDRA."

"She's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," she stresses. "You weren't supposed to shoot her."

"She saw me and blockaded me from my mission." A metal finger touches his pinna. "I was instructed to take the shot. My target was kneeling, and she stood in front of him. I got her. The target is still alive, but others came before I could finish him. I was told to retreat back to Iran and wait for further instruction, but you came first."

"Did you see her die?"

He appears puzzled by the question. "Who?"

"Romanoff! Did you kill her? I need to know now."

He lowers his gaze slightly, focusing below her face, but he seems to be in a daze. "I…avoided her head and chest. I thought the bullet would exit through her torso and hit my target. It didn't."

Hermione lets out an impatiently shaky breath. She rubs her forehead and pinches her eyes closed. "Who gave you the order to shoot?"

"What?"

"You had a com in your ear. Someone told you to take the shot. Who was it?"

"I don't know."

"Was it the same person who sent you out on this mission?"

The Soldier shakes his head no. "I know no names. Only HYDRA and sometimes my targets."

That makes her pause. He…doesn't know the names? The sympathy is starting to creep up again regardless that he shot Natalia. The doubt is showing its ugly face again, too, and she wonders why him and why so long condemn him to this miserable existence. Was it a personal and pathetic 'fuck you' to the dead man responsible for Schmidt's failure? It couldn't possibly be that James Buchanan Barnes was in anyway special. The only thing he had going for him was the he might've been a Sharp Shooter.

Hermione recalls how Barnes begged her to kill him seven years ago. She read his mind and felt his desperation to be finished. She hadn't then for several reasons, but now those reasons don't bother her so much. They don't scare her. HYDRA would never replace her to be the Winter Soldier, and she and him are about to go on dangerous adventure anyway. There's a chance he might die, and no one would second guess it was she who killed him.

She flicks the safety back on the gun and holsters it.

"We should get going." She opens the driver's side door. "If you want to complete your mission."


24 Hours Earlier

Washington D.C.

"What the hell happened, Agent?"

Hermione pauses at the threshold of Nicholas Fury's office. Said man stands in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He's facing the wall, plasma screen mounted to it, the channel on E!News is on. Tony Stark, behind designer shades, coming out of his corporate building in Los Angeles. He salutes the paparazzi from his Astin Martin before climbing in and disappearing from view. A few moments later, a strawberry-blonde haired woman runs out of the building and waving after him, a peeved expression on her face.

"I didn't get the job," she replies. "We knew it was a possibility I wouldn't."

He turns to look at her. "You were supposed to get. The job. By any means necessary."

"If I would've known I was allowed to play nasty with other candidates, I would've sabotaged Virginia Potts. You weren't specific enough, and I did what you expected of me." Hermione clasps her own hands behind her back and walks towards Fury, eyeing the screen. "So I slept with him. Thinking if I gave him the best fuck of his life, he'd keep me." She smiles wide and carelessly. "Apparently, a good lay doesn't make up what an utter asshole he is, and even with my skills-all of my skills-I couldn't pretend I cared at all for his well-being or his enterprise."

Fury stares at her, murderously bemused.

"I learned something." She cocks her head to the side and smirks. "About him. Well...a few things."

"I'm not interested in his fetishes-"

"I learned that when dealing with him, give him what he needs and not what he wants. Of course by that point, I was back on a plane to Atlanta. "

"Is that how Potts outshined you?"

"I think so." Hermione nods. "They'll do good work together. She's good for him."

Fury lets out a long, exasperated. "This was a mission, Agent, and you failed it. You failed me. You're supposed to have a good read on people. This should've been cake."

Hermione sobers. "I know," she says gently. "But I've had a month to accept I screwed it up. You're behind the times, sir."

"I've been away these past few weeks working on some other things. I only got word last night of what happened. I read your report." He gives her a meaningful look. "And when I say by any means necessary, I don't mean sleep with the guy. I would never expect that from you or Natasha or any of field agents for that matter. S.H.I.E.L.D. is not the KGB."

"Understood. How should I proceed in remedying my mistake?"

"Let's not forget the rebels in Afghanistan have gotten their hands on Stark's weapons, and it was up to you to find out how. And as of yesterday morning," Fury removes several photos from his drawer and spreads them out in front of Hermione, "bombshells found in the debris that hit northern Sokovia. It confirms again someone in Stark Enterprises is dealing under the table. It was your job to find out who."

"Sokovia?" Hermione studies the pictures, and sure enough, Stark's name is on the shells are scattered amongst broken and scattered buildings. There are mangled bodies and hurt civilians in the photos, as well.

"Ever been there?"

"Can't say I have though not too far from home." She glances at Fury. "I know it's not Stark dealing. That much I know."

"I know."

"I can go back in. Not as his assistant but—"

"We've already placed another agent inside. He's taken Pott's old job in accounting and will be keeping a close eye on the company's money transfers."

"…I see."

"It's a job beneath your skills, so I didn't consider you. Truth is, I didn't demand your ass here just to lecture you. I have another job for you. It's a proposition, not an operation. Not an undercover operation, anyway."

"If this is about Hand's offer about me being a liaison for the CIA, it's a hard pass." She swallows a wad of thick bile, and her palms feel clammy now. And like Murphy's Law, her pager buzzes. She silences it with a press of her button and tries not to vomit.

Fury rests his one eye on her, carefully studying her. "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Agent?"

"No, Director."

"You spent eighteen months in the Middle East, shuttling back and forth between countries. Your file doesn't explain a whole lot about your time there, and taking up the CIA gig would put you back in the thick of it. I'm sure you made some enemies."

"Well, I certainly didn't make friends," she retorts. "Not many, at least." And those she did, she killed.

Fury leans forward, eye narrowed. "Are you all right, Abegglen?"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine. I'm just—"

"Tired," he interjects, bemused.

"Stressed."

"About?"

"Personal matters."

"Right." Fury goes over to his desk. "Two weeks ago—the mission formulated by Pierce in Barcelona where you accompanied the Beta S.T.R.I.K.E. team to apprehend and question Garcia, Agent Sitwell made a note in the mission report how you and Agent Brock Rumlow engaged in a heated confrontation—."

"Which in no way shape or form ailed the mission. The argument I had with Rumlow took place after the arrest and was in, what I thought, a private setting. And this is all beside the point because he's not the or a personal matter I'm stressing over. I think we're done here, so if you any more belated or pointless issues to discuss, be sure to notify Sitwell. He'll send you a report. Excuse me."

Hermione storms out of Fury's office, her pager on the lapel of her blazer buzzing all the while. She gets to elevator and hits the down button several times. When the door opens, Baron is there because of course he is because today is not her day.

"Milas, what a surprise? You're stationed on the Lemurian, aren't you?"

"Mr. Von Strucker, hello." She can be cordial. Professional. She can be those things and push down her desire to be beat the shit out of him.

"You're still so beautiful," he whispers to her in reverence. He extends his hand to her, and she ignores it. "And still so upset. Milas, there was nothing I could do. I had orders." He looks behind himself, worried. "We shouldn't have this conversation here, and I may have some good new you may want to here."

She reluctantly follows him into an empty conference room and watches him remove a pen from his pocket, twisting the cap. "We have a few minutes. You heard about the bombings in Sokovia, I assume."

She nods.

"We have to take precautions. Pierce wishes to still keep the facility despite the unrest. It'll be a place for research and science. Experiments."

"Hm." She glances at her watch.

"In our meeting, he also let me know is that the culprit responsible for the depletion of HYDRA's funds. The reason why my program got eliminated in the first place."

That gets her attention. She flicks her gaze up at him, expectant.

"Seville Cruz-Gesenko. He is the one responsible for what happened. He stole over a hundred million from Malick and thought he could hide himself from us, but we found him. He will pay for his crimes against HYDRA. The asset will see to it."

"The soldier?" Hermione crosses her arm. Now there's a man she hasn't thought about it a long time. Never mind him, though. Baron thinks he can talk his way out of what he did. "It's changes nothing, Baron."

"There was nothing I could do-"

"You could've done what I told you. Invest your own money. Malick's not the only one nesting an impressive load. Those kids were supposed to be HYDRA's future, and they were wasted. Like me. You let it happen, and you're a coward for it."

The besotted mask of gentleness he sports dissolves into a flushed and irate snarl. "I'm the coward." He grabs her wrist and bunches up her sleeve, displaying her bracelet for both of them to see. "You still wear this, and I'm the coward?"

Her cheeks warm, but she doesn't look away.

"If you're so brave, girl, then take it off. Defy HYDRA. Betray the ones who gave you a life worth living instead of a pathetic, confined existence in a mental heath hospital because that is where you would be without this greater purpose. We must always focus on that, so when I was asked to get rid of the children, I complied. It was necessary after what Cruz-Gesenko did. You berate me for not investing my own funds into the program. Milas, Project Insight has been postponed. Cruz-Gesenko's treachery set us back five years. We'll be lucky to launch in 2012."

Hermione steps back, appalled. "That's absurd. How could the council be so careless to let that happen? 2012?"

"If even that." He shakes his head. "We must look at the bright side in all this. Technology will be in more use and better reveal all those who could possibly threaten everything we our people have sacrificed. I'm am now the main benefactor of Project Insight until Malick is able to replenish the amount taken. That above all else proceeds my program."

Her angers dwindles. "You should've told me. I would've understood-"

"You forget your place, Milas," he chided. "Even Sitwell doesn't know. Only a handful in the higher ranks know, and it will stay that way for the time being. You will not tell anybody, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Her gaze lowers and then snaps back to his face, narrowed. "You say Cruz-Vesenko will die."

He smirks and pats her cheek. "The Soldier will handle them."

"Them?" She frowns.

"That's all I can say. Everything else is classified." He squeezes her arms. "Dare I ask for your company this afternoon before my flight?"

He's withholding something massive from her. It's interesting, this new development. She can sense when someone's hiding something from her. There's a shift which comes off people. It's heady and distracting. Especially in places like the Triskelion where the foundation and the walls are made of the most damning and malicious secrets. Baron's secret buzzes at the front of his brain, but her bracelet's frequency is strong. She can't breech his mind, nor is she allowed to. She bites her lip, painting a coy expression on her features. "I have plans, but I could cancel. If you tell me what else you're hiding."

There's a twinkle of consideration in his eyes. He pinches her chin and kisses her forehead, whispering into her skin. "Pity. Do tell Mr. Rumlow hello from me. He was always my favorite 48. Goodbye, Milas."

She leaves the room after him and takes the stairs down to the main level, pausing when seeing the seasonal and festive décor. In all the of the twenty minutes since she saw it the first time, she forgot the Christmas party taking place in the atrium. She almost considers making a b-line to the parking garage where her rental car waits for her when she sees Sitwell loitering at the punch bowl.

It's like he's asking for it.

"Hey, Abegglen." He simpers into his cup when seeing her coming towards him. "How'd your meeting with the boss go?"

"Oh, you know." She cups the back of his head and shoves his face into the pink, icy slosh. "It went so great."

He gurgles and jerks and people stare. There are mostly computer techs and lab rats who come to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party, anyway. Hardly any of them are field trained and are smart enough not to get in her business when drowning a fellow employee.

"You reported what happened with Rumlow, so I'm going to kill you."

Her pager buzzes, and she happily ignores it in favor of torturing Sitwell. When his jerking starts slowing and onlookers really start getting concerned enough to creep over like they want to say something, she releases her former S.O. and then slaps his sopped cheek hard enough to make him sway. She then grabs him by his tie and hisses in his ear. "In Barcelona, you divulged classified details of the Stark mission to the beta S.T.R.I.K.E. unit to make yourself look good, knowing completely not everyone on the team would appreciate the information. When Rumlow confronted me in private, you eavesdropped and made a report to Fury, again, to make yourself look good. Watch yourself, Sitwell."

He scrambles away form her. "Is that a threat?"

"Watch yourself," she repeats, stalking off to the parking garage where her rental is. She checks her phone and tosses it aside on the passenger seat, releasing a ragged breath. She squeezes her steering wheel and lets out a feral growl because she's not sure how long of this she can take. Not only is it getting harder and harder to hide what's going on, but she's quickly coming to the brink of madness. He's catapulting her there and knows he doesn't have to push her over. She'll jump. She'll jump, and he'll be waiting.

This is so far beyond 'ignore him, and he'll go away.'

Distraction. She needs a distraction and she hadn't been lying to Baron. She does have plans this late afternoon. Starting the car, she rolls out of the building and down the road-salted bridge, circling the Potomac . The roundabout is bustling and swollen with vehicles as are the freeways. It takes her over an hour to get to her destination, and there's no parking for visitors, so that's nice. She parks a few blocks down the way and is lucky to catch the complex entrance door as someone leaves. The lift is crowded, and she has to wait eight floors before getting off and marching to H13 and knocking. The door opens a crack, and Brock peeks out to glare at her.

"What the hell do you want, kid?"

"The Baron sends his best."

Slam!

All right. That was a bit uncalled for on her part, but she couldn't resist. She knocks again, this time harder, "Open up, sweetie. You can't ignore me forever."

No answer or acknowledgement.

She bangs the flat of her palm on the door. She'll kick the door down if she has to. There's no leaving D.C. until this thing they've got going is resolved. She's done seven missions this year with the Beta S.T.I.K.E. unit, and she'll do that many and likely more the next year. Their professional relationship needs to be in tiptop shape, or Sitwell will file another report, and Brock will lose his position because they're not going to dismiss Hermione. She's the best goddamned interrogator S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ever seen. Wherever she goes Beta follows and vise versa.

The abuse to his door carries on for several minutes until one of Brock's neighbors pokes her head out into the hallway and threatens to call the police. Hermione pulls her badge out of her blazer and shows it to her. "I am the police. Return to your unit, ma'am. You don't want to get involved."

The woman pales, and her door shuts. A deadbolt sliding into place is heard.

Putting away her official badge she typically doesn't ever need to show to civilians, she lowers the pulse on her bracelet and palms the space of wood parallel to the door chain. She gets out her key and unlocks deadbolt.

She'd been trying for politeness, but he's really got to get over his pride.

Inside his apartment, Hermione takes off her coat and drapes it over the sofa chair in the sitting area. Brock's got his back to her. He's in the kitchen and busily ignoring her while cooking. Her mouth salivates at the smell. When did she eat last? Early, early this morning in Atlanta at the Starbucks in the airport. A scone. For the rest of the day, she's been getting by with coffee and creamers and lemon water today. She's been so distracted today with her flight to the States and meeting with Fury, not to mention the influx of calls from that bastard, she'd forgotten to eat a proper meal.

Brock's making pasta, and it smells rich and authentic. She remembers he's half Italian. His mother's side. A muttered and divulged detail he shared with her when they were young, and he'd lament to her his cravings for Tuscan cuisine over their canned veggies and pink borscht.

"Feeling nostalgic?" She goes over to the counter and sits on the bar stool. "I do, too, sometimes." He's got a good bottle of wine next to the cutting board, and she grabs it and the corkscrew next to it. She can't get drunk or even tipsy, but she does enjoy the taste of a decent, earthy wine. She stabs the cork with the screw, twisting. "Remember the Souvlaki? You liked it, I recall."

"I'm expecting company," he tells her, throwing a towel over his shoulder, returning to the counter to finish mincing his garlic. "You got something to say, say it."

"Cancel it."

"You don't cancel on Morse. Have you seen her?" He puts down his knife and cups his hands, hovering them over his chest.

Hermione yanks the cork out with a satisfying plthunk! "I field-trained her, you petulant imbecile. When she comes, I'm taking off all my clothes and answering the door and propositioning her for threesome." An idea dawns on Hermione and she takes a swig of wine straight from the bottle and then starts unbuttoning her blouse. "That'll be too rushed, though. I better do it now."

Brock is unaffected. Seemingly. He shrugs at her and goes about his business. "I'm not into Stark's sloppy seconds."

"He got the sloppy seconds." She keeps her bra and underwear on. They're not her sexiest pair. Plain black and high-cut boxer style. They'll do. She rounds the counter, resting her hand on the surface and drumming her nails. "I will not apologize for sleeping with Stark. I had a job. I will apologize for not ripping Sitwell's tongue out the first moment I met him."

Nothing.

She cocks her head, brow raised. "We had an agreement. One you happily agreed to since I'm on the Lemurian, and you're here."

"Our agreement was that we didn't ask or tell. Sitwell running his mouth broke that agreement." He sets down his knife again. "I really, really didn't want to know you whored yourself out to Tony Fucking Stark. Not after hearing about your past with Strucker."

"Let's make it even. Tell me all the women you've fucked while I've been on the ship. Better yet, tell me about every woman you've had a go at. Let's put it all out there."

"It's different."

"Why?" She snaps. "Because you're the man?"

"Because you don't give a shit, Granger," he hisses. "Hell, you'd get off on it." He mutters distastefully, "Propositioning Morse."

She frowns at the use of her father's name, and hates that they both do this. They get so caught up with each other, they forget. Even though they've been who they are now longer than who they used to be. Sometimes it's not even Granger he calls her but Hermione and even though she calls herself her birth name inside her mind, hearing him say it startles her. Scares her.

A part of her loves it. Sometimes she debates the idea of asking him to call her Hermione when it's just them.

But he does not like to be called Robert. Especially in the sack. Which she learned the...inconvenient way.

"Clearly, you're not comfortable with the idea of an open relationship and all the consequences it entails. The best thing for me to do at this point is put my clothes back on, get my stuff, and leave with the expectation we can still work well together during our ops." She steps forward and cups him through his trousers. "But first, there's something I've got to do. Then I'll go."

She lowers his fly and drops to her knees.

He doesn't let her leave, and Morse never did show up which Hermione's not surprised. The woman's flighty and flaky and, honestly, not idiotic enough to get involved with a member of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. They're not good for dating and typically unnecessarily mean, sexist as hell, and married to their jobs. Brock is all of those things, but Hermione doesn't mind. They understand each other and know each other better than anyone. He knows her better than Natalia which is why she's not interested in ending things with him. He fills a space within her where Natalia's not allowed to go.

That space is where her true origins rest. Where her true name is. Something Hermione definitely cannot ask Natalia to call her. Ever.


A little while later...

"Where are you right now?"

She's snaps out of her stupor. A thought had bloomed in her head moments ago when she heard her phone in the other room. A bad thought. A terrifying thought. She lost herself in it, but she knows now she really can't go on with her phone ringing all the time. Even if she changes phones and numbers, it will still ring, and she's got to stop it. Ignoring the situation will only make it worse.

First things first.

She focuses on relaxing and lets herself feel how Brock moves within her. It's good. Really good. But her mind isn't with him. "I'm here," she lies.

"Are you?" He lifts her leg and rests her calve on his shoulder, his thrusts reaching deeper and grazing that spot.

Her eyes flutter shut. That's good. She arches her back and bites her lip because she's close to enjoying herself to the point of forgetting her problems for a few moments.

"Harder."

"Yeah?" He chuckles, slipping out of her and rolling her onto her stomach. Her phone rings in the other room, and she bury's her face into the pillow.

"Is that your phone?"

"Ignore it," she muffles into the pillow. "Yank my hair and hold my head down. Hurt me."

He roughly coils his fingers around her curls, obliging. "It might be work."

"You really want to stop, so I can answer it?"

"God, no!" His free hand slips from her hip to in between her legs.

"Ye-ESSS! Oh, oh! Right there!" Hermione digs her fingernails into the sheets, her climax finally washing over her. She burrows her face further into the pillow and lets out a loud moan, Brock reaching his own peak with out a hiss and spilling inside her. She rolls onto her back, panting a little, and she cups his face. The tips of her fingers comb his damp hair.

"Kiss me," she says. "You haven't at all since I got here."

"I'm still afraid you're going to tear me apart like your promised. Each." Kiss. "And every." Kiss and nip. "Time I do."

"I do tear you apart. You love it."

He drops to kiss her again, but his lips brush her chin and then her chest, lingering at each swell of her breasts and then moving between her ribs. His thumb brushes over her scar above her pelvis, and an inquisitive expression flickers across his face. It's the first time he's even paid any attention to it, and she understands why he ignores it. It's a terrible memory. For both of them.

"I bet this has been an interesting conversation starter." His tone is dark and troubled.

She rolls her eyes. "You have no idea. Most of the time I just hide it."

"It's as big as my palm. How the hell do you do that?"

She sits and touches her bracelet. "This thing stops me from doing my worst, but I can lower the pulse on it." She slips her finger underneath the band and presses one of the two nodules before moving Brock's hand out of the way and covering the scar with her own. A few seconds later, she removes her hand and shows him the seemingly unblemished skin above her pelvis.

"That's..."

"Pathetic," she finishes. "In comparison to how you know first-hand what I'm capable of."

"Birds," he mutters, a far away look on his face.

Her phone goes off again in the other room, and she takes a deep, frustrated breath. She closes her eyes and cups her forehead. "I think I really need to get that. Get some sleep, all right?"

She crawls out from underneath him and grabs at her clothes.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He frowns at her. "You're leaving?"

She pulls on her underwear and slips on her bra. "I've got to get back to base which means I've got to catch a flight which means I have to go."

She puts on her skirt, and Brock shoves on his boxers and follows her out into the sitting room where her discarded boots and purse are. Her phone's ringing inside the purse, and she hesitates to answer, but sees it's Clint Barton. He never calls her. She only has his number because Natalia put it in her phone in case of emergencies.

The ringing stop by the time she's ready to answer but starts back up again immediately. It's not Barton this time. It's him.

"Jesus Christ, Milas," snaps Brock. "What the hell's going on? Who's calling you nonstop? It can't be the end of the world because mine's not going off."

"What?" she strains into the speaker.

"My compound. I will text you the coordinates. I have Natasha Romanoff. You have forty-eight hours to show yourself, or your pretty little spider dies."

To be Continued...