A/N: I have a more explanatory note at the bottom but just wanted to post the basic stuff up here. It would seem anti-climactic afterwards. Anyway...so this story will be four, possibly five, chapters. It is nearly complete, when you read the note at the bottom you will better understand why. Probably post once a week so I can work out the difficult parts more slowly.

Also, I am now on a site called Dream Width under the same name. Lady Scribe of Avendell recommended it so I'm giving it a try. It's kinda like a blog, but I mostly post Captain Hill-ish stuff I find around the internet, including videos...yes, someone is shipping them on YouTube. Only two so far but I'll take what I can get. And I'll also be posting various thoughts about my stories as I write them and think them up.

The title of this story was taken from a line in a song by some group or person called Soja. I'm not really up on popular music. I like what I like and have to ask my kids who's singing it. :D Anyway, the song has nothing to do with the stories, or vice-versa, but the line was perfect.

Five-year-old Steven Rogers sat in the front pew of the church and leaned into his mother's embrace. He glanced up at Sarah Rogers as the words of the minister flowed over his head. Her eyes and face were wet with quiet tears, but she held her shoulders and head high, unbeaten by the tragedy. He could see her strength, even under the weight of the sorrow at the loss of her husband.

"There's me lad," the weak voice said, as Steve walked into the bedroom.

Joseph Rogers reached a trembling hand out to his son to invite him closer. Steve swallowed down his fear and confusion and stepped forward.

His father looked at the face behind Steve and said, "See, he's a strong lad. Best for him t' see his pap one more time afore the angels come, than t' be sheltered as ye say."

Steve glanced back and saw his grandmother, his mother's mother, cast a not so kind look at his father. Looking back to the frail man on the bed, strengthened by his words, Steve stepped up to him and let his father lay a hand on his head.

Across the bed from him Steve saw his mother. She gave him a tight smile and a proud nod through eyes wet with sorrow, and Steve found the courage to listen to his father's last words to him. His father told him about a blessing from the Bible and how the father would place his hand on his son's head to give it.

"Yer a strong boy, Steven," he wheezed out with great effort. "And brave, and kind."

He paused as the coughing wracked his body and Sarah Rogers reached over for a bottle of medicine, but Joseph only waved her off, shaking his head.

"Nay, love," he said. "I wanna be lucid when they come t' carry me home."

Turning back to Steve, he continued.

"Ye and yer mam'll be just fine," he said. "Yer both strong, and ye have each other."

Then Joseph smiled a proud smile at his son.

"One day, lad, ye'll do great things," he told him. "Because yer strength is from yer heart, it's who ye are."

Little Steven stood straight and tall next to his mother at the graveside. The spring day was pleasant and the sun streamed through the clouds. As if heaven was shining down on them, his mother told him. As the funeral party dispersed, the people came and offered their condolences. Some offered words of advice, and Steve thought those made his mother more weary than her sorrow. When they were gone, and Steve and his mother made their way back to their small apartment, she told him that he never had to worry because they would be fine. She'd find work and, while life wouldn't be easy, they'd find a way to make it good.

And she had been right. It was a difficult life, but together they had always found a way to find the good. Even when they had to move to a smaller apartment., even when Steve went to bed hungry, his life was good because he saw the strength in his mother's face no matter their circumstances.

Five-year-old Maria Hill sat perfectly still in the chair next to her mother. She knew better than to fidget or wiggle, it wasn't worth the beating. The one the previous night had been bad enough, she'd barely been able to sit in her seat at school this morning, and all because her teacher had called and requested a meeting. Her mother had flown into a rage, wanting to know what the little bitch, as she always referred to Maria, had done now.

Now she sat, fearful of anything her teacher would say and what the consequences would be. She honestly didn't understand what the woman was telling her mother. Words like "gifted" and "bright" and "intelligent" were words she'd never heard anyone use to describe her.

"Your daughter is such a delight to have in my classroom," the old woman said, her brown eyes smiled as she glanced down at Maria. "Always so pleasant and patient."

"Well, she'd better be," her mother huffed. "She knows the consequences of stepping out of line."

Maria saw a look flash across her teacher's face, it was a look she'd seen before, and suddenly Maria was terrified. That look was the one the social workers usually gave before they took her away. But they always gave her back, and then Maria would have to move, again. She didn't want to move again. They'd only moved here one week ago. She liked going to her new school. She liked learning things. She liked her friends and her teacher.

But her mother didn't move them, not right away.

On the last day of school all of Maria's friends were happy and talking about what they were going to do during the summer. They talked about magical places Maria had only heard of and couldn't even imagine: Disneyland, the beach, Grandpa's farm. When they asked her, Maria said she was moving. Of course, they wanted to know where, but Maria didn't know. Her mother had only informed her of the move that morning, after Maria had told her she was getting an award from Mrs. Welch. She'd been so happy before that news.

Now, she stood and slowly walked to the front of the class after hearing Mrs. Welch call her name. Her friends sat with their parents or grandparents and everyone smiled, except Maria. She was too busy trying to force back the tears at the thought she'd never see any of these people again. When she looked up she was surprised to find her teacher had tears in her own eyes.

"Maria Hill," Mrs. Welch said, her voice thick with emotion. "You have been such a blessing to get to know. I will miss you very much. I am sad to hear that you are moving away."

She handed Maria a piece of paper and told her what her award was for.

"Your reward is for being strong," she said.

Maria was surprised, but even more when Mrs. Welch leaned down and took Maria in her arms. She stiffened at first. No teacher had ever touched her before, her mother always told everyone that Maria hated being touched, and so they didn't. It had been so long since anyone had touched her nicely that she wasn't sure what to do. But Mrs. Welch didn't pull away and Maria tentatively reached up her small arms to return the affection.

That afternoon, Maria had tried to hide her award. It was something she loved, therefore, she knew her mother would destroy it. She'd destroyed the gifts the aid agencies brought around at Christmas. She'd destroyed the pretty necklace her last foster family bought her for her birthday. But Maria could never get anything past her mother. She would suppose later that her mother could tell anytime Maria was happy and conceive some plan to destroy that.

Her mother found the paper inside Maria's pillowcase. When she read it she'd laughed so hard she'd dropped to the ground.

"You?" she breathed out between fits of laughter. "Strong?"

Maria worked to hide her pain as she watched her mother take away her award. She walked over to the kitchen sink with it and Maria wondered what the woman would do. Then Maria saw the lighter in her mother's hand.

Without thinking she screamed at her mother to stop. Too late she realized that she had just doomed herself to another beating. That night the pain seemed worse as she breathed in the smoke from the burned paper as she cried.

20 years later, when Maria graduated top of her class for SHIELD recruit training, after her summa cum laude at Georgetown, she used the resources now available to her to find Mrs. Welch. She discovered the woman had died ten years earlier, but Maria went to her grave in Indiana. She showed none of the fierce emotions she was feeling inside as she laid the paper down on top of the headstone, and a rock on top of that to keep it from blowing away. It was nothing really, just a children's award she had picked up at a school supply store in town. Maria had filled in the blanks to say,

"To Mrs. Welch

for Being Right

From Maria Hill"

A/N: This whole story is the darkest thing I've ever written. I can guarantee I will never write anything this dark again. It sounded so much easier when I came up with the idea, but once I got into it...Anyway, what I had hoped to do with this story is to give more background, especially of Maria since as far as the movies go, we don't know much. Steve's history in my story is, so far, his original 1940s history. I'm not sure how true I will stay to that as it would change Cap1, since in the original Captain America comics Steve didn't meet Bucky until *after* he was Captain America. (You can thank Castle for that info since that's where I learned that I needed to do research. ;0)) Maria's history I started way back in the first story. At that time I had only read about her in fanfic and I had a variety of histories for her in my head. I went with her mother as her main parent, quite honestly, because that was my own personal history so it was easier to write as I could relate. But Maria's mother will eventually make mine look like mother of the year, and that's when the writing began to get difficult, because who would do that sort of thing to a child? (Maria's history in the comics seems to be equally dark, only at the hands of her father.)

Mrs. Welch was my first grade teacher, I give her honor along with all the other teachers who saw more in me than my own family. If you are a teacher reading this, you have no idea how incredibly important you might be to one child.