"Rogers."

The man's surname emerges from her lips in a quick, authoritative bark. Maria watches the retreating Avengers stop dead at the exit of the conference room, turning to look expectantly in her direction. Steve looks to her with questioning eyes, one eyebrow quirked just slightly as though to ask what he'd done to draw such a tone of voice.

"Deputy Director Hill?"

"I'd like a word, please. Alone."

"Ooh," Tony crows in a sing-song voice, "someone's in trouble."

Steve shoots Tony a withering look before addressing his team. "Head on out. I'll catch up."

"You don't want us to wait up?" Clint asks, his gaze flickering quickly to Maria before resting on Steve.

Steve shakes his head. "I don't know how long I'll be. And besides, Bruce, you look fit to collapse."

"Oh, maybe just a little," Bruce says airily as he's being mostly held up between Natasha and Clint.

Maria watches their interaction carefully. Who would have thought they would one day come to this point? She knows who, but that's beside the point and she hurriedly pushes the thought away. The point is that they started as very different individuals thrown together in a time of need. They may still be that, but they've grown in a way that makes her reconsider her stance on something someone had once told her; that 'team' is just another word for 'family.'

A few further exchanges and then they're alone. Steve stands on the other side of the table at a parade rest, unable to truly kick his military habits even after all this time.

"Ma'am?" he prompts.

"Sit," Maria says, indicating the chair closest to him.

She sits as he does, folding her hands before her on the conference table. This had seemed like a much better idea yesterday, but she's never been one to back down from something just because it was difficult or uncomfortable.

"Art is a hobby for you," she says.

The statement seems to catch the soldier off-guard because his eyebrows twitch upward and he sits silently as though waiting for some sort of addendum to her statement. When he doesn't get it, he ventures a reply.

"Yes, art is a hobby for me," Steve answers slowly.

"Our files indicate you attended art school following your graduation from high school," Maria presses.

"Well, only for a year," Steve corrects her.

"Regardless, I've been told you're quite talented," Maria says.

"I don't know about that, but it's something I enjoy doing," Steve says. He leans forward in his seat. "Can I ask where this line of questioning is headed?"

Well, it's now or never. It's best, she thinks, if she gets it over with quickly. Just like ripping off a bandage. She inhales deeply and lets it out slowly.

"I was wondering if maybe you could… teach me."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. If they rose any higher, she's sure they'd fly right off his face. Granted, as mortifying as this situation is, she knows the payoff will be worth it, so long as Steve agrees. Plus, getting to see Captain America look positively gobsmacked isn't exactly an everyday occurrence. Steve seems to remember himself and picks his jaw up off the floor before answering.

"I'm… Ma'am is this a joke?" he asks.

"I wish it were," Maria says, unable to keep her tone from turning sour. "I realize approaching you like this is highly unprofessional, not to mention the reason for my doing so is even more-so, but—"

"What's your reason for doing so?" Steve wants to know.

Maria unclasps her hands and looks down at the folder in front of her.

"I may have drawn something on an agent's assessment sheet and another agent may have seen it and he may have commented on it," she says quickly.

"Can I see it?" Steve asks.

She looks up, surprised.

"It's just… If I'm going to be giving you lessons, I need to know where your abilities are presently," Steve clarifies.

With great reluctance, she pushes the file towards him. The soldier reaches out, sliding the folder the rest of the way across the table towards him, his fingers brushing hers in the briefest of manners, the touch entirely accidental. She sits silently, awaiting his judgment as he squints at her doodle at the bottom of Agent Ward's assessment sheet. He's silent for a long while, frowning down at what he sees.

"Well?" she prompts.

"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure out what this is," Steve admits. "Because to me it looks like a… well, it's kind of like a…"

"A little poop with knives sticking out of it?" Maria asks flatly.

"I didn't want to say it," Steve says, wincing in sympathy.

"Well, you're not the first to think it," Maria sighs. "He said the same thing."

"Someone I should keep an eye out for?" Steve asks.

Maria quickly smothers the blush she feels creeping up on her cheeks because Steve Rogers did not just subtly offer to have a word with someone who criticized her doodle. Given the man in question, however…

"No, no. He's… a friend," she says.

"Alright," Steve answers. He taps his index finger on the page before him. "So. Let's talk about when and where you want to do this."

When and where happens to be a week later at Avengers Tower. It's hardly the most conspicuous choice and there is the downside of Tony Stark living there, but Steve's floor is quiet and private and he assures her they won't be bothered. He starts her with something that he says is simple, but even an hour in she's almost ready to pull her hair out, rubbing the eraser across her page with far more force than necessary.

"Careful," Steve warns her, "or you'll rip the page."

"At this point, I'm not seeing the downside," she admits.

"Come on, it's not that bad," Steve assures her.

She looks at his sketchpad full of smooth, easy lines of varying weight, to her sketchpad with the lumpy, misshapen wretch in the center framed by copious eraser shavings and indents in the paper where she'd pressed too hard.

"Please don't hold back to spare my feelings," Maria says.

"I'm not. It looks a lot better than it did an hour ago," Steve says with a laugh.

She frowns. "What? Why is that funny?"

"It's not," Steve answers with a smile. "It's just that I was thinking. You're used to things coming easily to you, aren't you?"

Maria opens her mouth, ready with a reply, but stops. She shuts her mouth when she thinks about what he's just said. He's not exactly wrong. She'd had to fight tooth and nail for her position within S.H.I.E.L.D., certainly, but as for her skills? She'd always excelled in anything she bothered to put her mind to, be it academics or athletics. This is something new to her. For once, she's not picking up on something right out of the gate.

"I'm not saying you don't work hard. It's very clear that you do," Steve amends quickly. "I just mean that you're very talented and maybe you've finally found something that you don't have a natural talent for."

"So what you're saying is that this is a hopeless cause," Maria extrapolates.

"No, I'm saying that you should take that natural talent for working hard and apply it here," Steve says. "Practice. Draw a little every day, even if you don't want to or you hate it. Go outside your comfort zone. Do those things and you'll see an improvement."

Maria looks again to the sad lump of lines on the page before her.

"Alright," she says. "That I can do."

"We can keep up with this," Steve says, gesturing between them. "If you'd like."

She checks her mental calendar. "When are you free next week?"

Maria should be bothered by the fact that she's finding herself to be a regular installment at Avengers Tower, but she can't bring herself to do it. Not even after it becomes readily known that she's not there on business. She knows it's wrong to spend this much time with Steve outside of their work and trying to convince herself that they're just lessons only does so much. It's dangerous getting this close, she reminds herself time and again, and yet each week she's at his door with two coffees and a sketch pad like clockwork.

She should be bothered by the fact that she happened to see a particularly attractive leather-bound sketchbook and thought of Steve. Or by the fact that she couldn't help buying it for him. It should bother her that they begin venturing out to the park or to small cafes for her lessons and that those lessons feel more like dates than anything else. All of these things do bother her but it's so much easier to lie to herself and continue to pretend as though it's all for the sake of getting back at Phil.

Several weeks pass, during which time the soldier says he sees some definite improvement. Usually she's impeccable when it comes to reading people, but she's having a hard time telling if he really means it or if he's just humoring her. Looking at her own work, she's inclined to think the latter but his earnest smile says otherwise.

Still, she should have known it wouldn't last.

"I'm just going to take a quick shower. Would you mind waiting?" Steve asks.

"Not at all," Maria answers. "You look like you could use one."

Steve looks down at himself, still in uniform and covered head to toe in dirt and grime and something that looks like blue Jell-O. "I smell like I could use one."

"Thankfully I'm not close enough to agree with you," Maria quips. "You're sure you wouldn't rather do this another time?"

"No, not at all. I mean, so long as you don't mind waiting," Steve says.

Maria shakes her head. "Take your time."

"Thanks," he says. "Make yourself at home."

For the first few minutes, she tries not to snoop. After all, this is Steve's home—well, it's Stark's technically, but considering the billionaire built each of his super powered friends their own floor there's not much difference—and she can't just go spying on him. But she is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. so in the end instinct wins out. Mostly she just inspects his art supplies.

There's a nice little corner set up with a desk and an easel and a canvas. There's a tarp laid out on the floor that's smeared with paint and the area in general looks well used. Eventually she wanders to the desk and finds the sketchbook she'd bough him lying there. She hovers for a minute or two, wondering what he's filled it with; he never uses it when they're together. Curiosity wins out and she opens it.

The pages are full of people. She sees faces she recognizes from photographs in records—people like Peggy Carter and Bucky Barnes and Howard Stark. It's like a pencil and paper memorial. It's as she flips to the front that she has to stop. For reasons she can't be certain of, there's a sketch of Phil there. And one on the next page. And the page after that.

"That's private."

She doesn't jump at the sound of Steve's voice, but instead turns to meet him. He doesn't look happy as he walks towards her, but he doesn't seem unhappy with her.

"It was lying out," she says.

"That was my mistake," Steve sighs, reaching out for the sketchbook.

She hands it to him readily and he observes the page she had been looking at. He taps his index finger on the corner of the page, shaking his head.

"You know, I can never seem to get him quite right," he admits to her. "Every time, no matter what I fix, it always seems there's something missing. It feels like I just can't do him justice."

"For what it's worth," Maria says, "I know he'd be flattered."

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at that. "You knew him well?"

"He was a friend," she answers.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Then it's quiet and the moment she was hoping would and wouldn't come suddenly arrives. He looks down at the pages before him and taps his finger against them and from the crease in his brow and the set to his shoulders and the softness of his baby blue eyes, she knows he's going to ask her for something she can never give him. She likes Steve, has grown fond of him in these past few months. She can even see herself growing to love him. But she would never be able to lie beside him knowing she was lying every second of every minute they're together.

"I was wondering if—"

"We can't."

He seems startled when she cuts him off.

"I just wanted to ask you to dinner," Steve says slowly.

She shakes her head. "You and I both know it could never be just dinner, Steve."

"No, I don't suppose it could," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. He's silent for several seconds before looking to her with an apology in his eyes. "Did I read the situation incorrectly?"

"No," she says with a slow, heavy sigh, "you didn't."

"Then why?" he asks.

"Because this can only end with you being hurt," Maria tells him. "And I'd rather be wielding a pin than a dagger."

He doesn't look happy, but she hadn't expected him to.

"So what now, then?" he asks her.

"I think… we should stop."

He takes a deep breath. "If that's what you want."

"It's for the best," she says.

It's not what she wants. It's what's for the best. It's what she has to do. Because there will come a time when the secrets she has to hide from him will come spilling out and he will hate her. She knows this, has reminded herself of it time and again, just as she has to remind herself now that the pain will be much worse if she allows herself to have this. She can't knowingly put herself in a position of trust when that trust has been broken before he's even granted it to her.

She takes up her things and he walks her to the door where they linger silently. They're on the precipice of something, some great and terrible chasm, and all she can do is jump.

"For what it's worth," Maria finds herself saying. "I wish it could be different."

"So do I," Steve says. "Maybe someday it could be."

It would be so easy to agree, to say that maybe someday it could be different. But it would just be another lie, wouldn't it? She's teetering on the edge now, no room for hesitation. So she cuts the last chord and lets herself fall.

"It won't be."

Phil laughs when she slaps the piece of paper on the table in front of him.

"A porcupine," he says with a chuckle. "This is actually pretty good. Oh, can I make copies of this? I want to post one in Ward's locker. Maybe frame it and put it on the bus."

"That's right; a porcupine. Not a little poop with knives sticking out of it," Maria says. "Put it as many places as you like."

"You're still sore over that comment?" Phil asks, looking vaguely amused by the implication. "Please tell me you didn't take drawing lessons to get back at me for that."

She narrows her eyes. "I took them for my own enjoyment."

"Okay, you took them for your own enjoyment," Phil says with an indulgent tone. "Did you enjoy them?"

At that she shifts slightly where she stands. She still feels raw, laid out by the whole thing. It's bothering her more than she'd thought if she can't even discuss the lessons themselves.

"Maria?" Phil says questioningly.

"What?" she asks, snapping herself out of her daze.

"I asked if you enjoyed them," he repeats.

"Yes," she says softly. "I did."

"Then why is your face telling me otherwise?" he prods, not unkindly.

His tone is gentle, implying that she can take the question or leave it and that there's no pressure for her to say two words to him. Phil has always been easy to talk to, has always been one of those people that you can't help but want to pour your heart out to. In that moment, she almost hates him for it. He's concerned for her and she wishes he wouldn't be because she can't tell him what's bothering her.

She has to lie to Steve about Phil. She has to lie to Phil about himself. When the lies can no longer sustain themselves, where will she be?

Maria drops a file on the desk in front of him.

"You have a new mission you need to debrief your team on," she says crisply. "Pack a go-bag and get going."

He looks about ready to argue, but thinks better and simply nods in acceptance. It's for the best, she reminds herself as she exits the room. It has to be done.

She stops practicing. She puts her art supplies in a box and tapes it shut. It gathers dust in the back of her closet as the months wear on. She can't bring herself to get rid of it but neither can she bring herself to touch it, so she hides it away in the dark where no one can see it, just like all of her secrets.

It's for the best.