A/N: First foray into this world - small piece of a missing conversation. Also, no proper knowledge from the comics, so I'm basing the characters more on their film/TV counterparts. But damn, I love these guys.

for the soldier

It's eerily quiet as she stalks down the corridor, files and laptop clutched to her chest. Hollowed rooms and lights and mechanical sounds flicker on and off. She pauses at the door before entering, uncharacteristic, because she's Agent Maria Hill and she never pauses, just strides headlong and boldly into whatever hell awaits. Pushing the door open, she warily peeks in, enters, and dumps the remainder of her past life onto the sparse hospital table.

She openly stares at the man lying on top the pristine white sheets; pale, yet a solid and alive presence. And guilt crashes through her, but she stamps it down, not now not now, and pulls up the plastic chair next to the table.

Hours tick over, with only the steady beeps of the monitor to keep her company, and her fingers tapping away on the keyboard in front of her. It's archaic for her standards, but she's not planning to tell Stark and his gloating face anytime soon.

(It's telling that she's slowly attempting to salvage the remainder of, and tie up loose ends on the world's most covert and questionable intelligence agency, in a hospital room currently taken up by America's most squeaky-clean wartime hero.)

And she thinks.

She runs through the list of senior agents within the next hour, trawling through the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, and really, it boils down to whether they have a tick or a cross next to their name.

(Her pragmatism generally wins.)

...

He stirs, and she looks over the top of her computer. Gracefully rising, she reaches over for the jug of water, pours a cup, and passes it over.

"How long have you been here?" He manages to rasp out.

She can't help the slight quirk of her mouth. "Shouldn't you be asking how long you've been out?"

"Now that's just selfish," he says, attempting a grin.

"Five days," she returns. "Which is very fast considering what happened. Thank the super soldier in you."

His grin fades, and he tries to recall the events at the Triskelion and the training base in New Jersey and the three helicarriers. And Bucky.

Swallowing the questions he knows will spill uncontrollably, he focuses instead on the agent in front of him. "Who's left?"

(She assumes there's a Venn diagram with 'alive' and 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' and a small area at the intersection.)

She gestures to the stack of papers and the computer haphazardly splayed across the table. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Wilson's been in and out of here, Fury's… staying low. Romanoff went to rendezvous with Barton and possibly Banner. She's being hauled in front of a Senate subcommittee in the next few days. The S.H.I.E.L.D. database has layers of personnel information that I'm slowly getting through on this ancient laptop, and I'm setting up remaining agents with edited résumés, while trying to get in contact with uncompromised handlers and field agents."

"And yourself?"

She bites back the tired retort on her tongue. "I don't have a choice, Captain. Fury's officially dead, so that makes me the bureaucrats' most wanted. And someone has to salvage whatever the hell is left."

He sees the bitterness warring with the fatigue and calm in her grey-blue eyes, and it hits him.

"Soldiers… leaders look after their men."

And despite the bleak situation, she marvels at his clinging idealism. To save a country, an organisation, an ideal…

"Yes, but I didn't sign up to fight for an agency." The world is filled with much more grey, and she doesn't need to remind him of his temporal displacement, but this is what she's been repeating to herself since the Triskelion fell.

He appraises her carefully, absentmindedly scratching at the swathe of bandages around his midsection. Seventy years hasn't changed the world, he thinks. It's only changed the mindset with which anyone chooses to view it. And it intrigues him that this woman in front of him, with her scepticism and world-weariness and willingness to look after every detail, every agent, would jump on board with the grand idea of a bigger and better picture.

He gives her a weak, cautious smile. "Well, you're alive and here. You did… You're doing what you have to."

She can't stop the flash of guilt across her face. "About the helicarriers. I'm sorry there wasn't another way out."

(He remembers flames and metal and noise and Bucky and a quiet plea of his name.)

"Don't be sorry. I told you to do it, and it worked. We're soldiers; someone has to make the sacrifice play."

She gazes steadily at him. "I know. Doesn't mean that I'm not sorry, though."

And she hates that it's not the first – and unlikely to be the last – time that she's pushed that button. Agents are still people, and being Fury's right hand was not easy nor popular.

He shifts uncomfortably – whether from the admission or the injuries, she can't tell – determined to finish the conversation before letting the sleep overtake his fatigued brain.

"Where are you headed to next?"

"Stark," she smirks. "Of all the places in the world, he's got enough defences and resources to stop any government bureaucrat from pushing too far."

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small stack of papers, handing them over. "I had a few people on the street watching for any sightings of Barnes. Rough sketches and accounts, but hopefully it's a start."

His eyes hold a deep gratitude, no questions asked.

"I… thank you. Will you…?"

Her eyes soften, more cloudy than steel. "No. I can keep a better eye on things from Stark Industries, than out in the field. Most of the intelligence community still want me slaughtered in one way or another, and Congress probably wants to have a field day with me," she smiles crookedly. "But I'll be at the Tower more often. Privatising world security, Tony calls it. You're still a part of that, you know."

"I didn't take you as a supporter of the Avengers Initiative," he remarks.

"No, but it's the best I've got right now, Captain." She stands to tidy the files in front of her, and he lets his gaze sweep over her, admiring the efficiency and competency. He's glad that he's not so jaded yet, that he can still recognise a fellow comrade.

She gives him a slight nod and smile. "Sam'll be here in a moment. And I've got to run – I have a plane to catch."

His cerulean eyes hold hers for a beat. "I'll see you around. Stay safe, Agent."

"You too, Steve."

She leaves as silently as she came, and he slips back into sleep; eddying thoughts of soldiers and allies in a murky new war, and whispered names of friends both lost and found.