Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).
Pairings: Developing Steve/Maria, featuring Clint/Maria/Bucky trio.
Word(s): 10,333 words.
Note: So, my brain is having this kind of "problem" where it kept dragging this story until I'm not sure when I can stop it (and by dragging, I do mean there might be a series out of this, which meant it would be separated into three stories with each having their own collection of chapters linking up together and I just don't know, man). Though, I could primarily assure you that the next chapter will, hopefully, will be the last. (I'm still not sure if I will allow a series) Reviews, as usual, are extremely encouraging and dropping one would definitely make my day.

Shout-out to Lynn, my magnificent beta, for taking time out of her super busy schedule to clean up whatever English words I've butchered. May she have the best summer.

See the end of the chapter for more notes.

Part III

Blood, dust and just a hint of cigarette.

Maria had knocked down three men and shot six, and the Soldier was nowhere to be found. The hall was deserted when she peered around one corner, when there's a soft drop of feet against the ground and Maria turned, her trusty companion, her gun, aimed at her target only to be met with familiar smoky dark eyes. The Soldier.

"You okay there, Hill?" Barton's voice coming through her comm, and Maria pulled herself out of her shock, lowering her guard as the Soldier began to take his position, tip-toeing through the halls.

"I'm alive," Maria hissed back.

"Barnes there with you?"

Maria didn't answer with a yes or no. "He seems to know the place."

The archer grunted. "I would be surprised if he didn't." Barton was currently on the rooftop of a building a distance away where he could shoot with a view only he's accustomed to. He's safe where he was, Maria knew, and she will be, once she got Rogers and Wilson out of here.

Are you sure this isn't a trap? She could almost Barton thinking, and Maria clenched her jaw, her steps deliberate when she moved forward, following where the Soldier was leading.

If it's a trap, you'll know what to do.

They always do.

...

Maria's head was slammed in the span of three minutes and it hurt more than it should. The large man that was currently swinging his arms around, placing his feet in front of the other, rushed, big and stupid, fat fingers reaching out to her, smelt distinctly of a man Maria knew named Artie. Artie was Dad's friend. He was skinny, lanky, with bright orange-y hair and even brighter, nastier yellow-y teeth. Between dodging the large man's swings and punching him hard in the ribs, Maria remembered of how Artie tried to touch her when she was nine. Nine. She grunted at the memory, proceeded to break the large man's kneecap, watched him dropped and thud against the floor, and felt satisfaction as he went down, rolled over and cry out in pain.

The large man quickly slipped into unconsciousness when Maria broke his wrists and ensured he wouldn't be moving anytime in the near future; and for that one quick moment, she forgot the true reason she was there.

(She had not forgotten Artie. But she had buried that memory deep down in the spaces between her more-than-once cracked ribs and kept it there until certain circumstances ― sometimes circumstances like this ― forced it to resurface. She didn't bother remembering back to the hot, burning pain of Dad's hand across her back when he yelled, in shame, in embarrassment ― of the situation; of her ― after she kicked Artie square in the crotch and sent the orange-y haired man on his way, saying something about a deal breaking off, making Dad mad, angry, furious, which made the pain near-unbearable, torturous, when he slammed his palm across her spine, and― no. Maria won't remember that.)

There's blood trickling down from one of her ears as she limped to a lab down the hall to where she had last spotted the Soldier, only to walk through the door and discover a scene she didn't think she could ever get out of her mind: men were dead everywhere in the room, a mixture of blood, chemicals, and what might even be piss, splattered like dysfunctional art across the floor. The Soldier was standing in the middle of the room, his back to her, his front facing the only other soul alive in the room. She supposed she'd seen worse, but something horrible will continue to be something horrible, be it a bombed site when in the army, or the wreckage in New York a couple years ago, or simply a room filled with dead bodies in a lab― Maria recognized bad, and this was certainly not something good.

"Yes! Yes!" A doctor, Maria noted, or a scientist, clad in a white lab coat, cried out. Panic dawned in his wrinkled face, exposing his fright, and Maria's mouth curled ― in disgust, in anxiety? She barely had any idea ― but she stepped forward anyway, felt agitation tug on her skin as she did, just as the man blurted out: "I know where they are!"

German, Maria thought, when the doctor continued, blabbering on and slipping a few foreign words in and Maria finally became aware of the posture the Soldier was in: gun raised, shoulders squared, and in his other hand was an abandoned shield, one Maria knew so well― the familiar colors of red, blue and the eye-dazzlingly white star smacked in the middle of it ― and there was only one thought Maria managed to conjure up: no.

Before: We need to get out of here.

"Soldier," she called, finally moving.

He was not Bucky, not at the moment, Maria recognized this by now, approaching closer. And the gun clicked in his hand, "Tell me."

German words spilled out and the doctor was praying, crying, begging, and Maria swallowed, because one wrong move, and the Soldier might be shooting her instead of the doctor. There is just something nauseating about dying with the last image of the Winter Soldier holding Captain America's shield to himself, putting his mark on it, claiming the damn thing as his own. And Maria knew, though she'd probably choke herself from admitting it first, that she'd rather slit her own throat than accept anybody else holding the shield other than Rogers ― she won't die seeing the Soldier holding Captain America's shield. She's refused to.

"Be specific," the Soldier demanded of the doctor, and it was not a surprise to learn that he understood German.

"It's in―" the doctor swallowed, shaking, trembling like a pathetic leaves. "In the computer. Recent entry."

The Soldier's eyes narrowed, so did hers. "Go," and Maria realized the Soldier was ordering her. Wordlessly, she went, but the Soldier did not break his stance, and the doctor did not stop shaking. There was too much blood, she thought, too many dead bodies creating a stench. Some of the blood was even smearing on her shoes, and she briefly mused on the fact she'd only gotten the boots two months ago. They were new. To Maria, two-month old anything was new.

Thankfully, the computers were not damaged, and Maria worked quickly (was there any other way?) when the Soldier's next question came through, in a deep monotone, direct and harsh, "Is this the truth?"

"I will n-not lie!" The doctor yelped helplessly, throwing his hands up. "I swear." The smell of piss became stronger, but Maria refrained from cringing when the screen lit up and bunch of familiar codes tangled themselves together, greeting her like a lost lover. Gotcha. Her fingers tracked over the keyboard, gleefully satisfied.

"Please." The doctor said again, "Just let me go."

She could feel the Soldier's stare on her, but Maria didn't make the mistake of flinching.

"Got it." She exclaimed, hooking up a flash drive (they always kept one everywhere they went, Barton and her, just in case things like this occurred), and watching as it made its connection. She turned to look at him, over her shoulder, hoping the news could break him out of his Winter Soldier lapse, and for a moment, it seemed that it had. "I got it," she said again, confirming, swallowing, when the computer gave her a green light. All of the information they needed was where she needed it to be. Good. "Soldier, we need to―"

BANG!

The doctor could barely cry out when the bullet went in between his brows, striking his brain and then ― BANG! BANG! ― two more hit him straight in the chest, right where her heart lied, silencing the older man as his body dropped, sliding against the wall, the life that was within him flickering away in his worn, bespectacled, grey eyes― his gaze roaming just seconds before he was utterly dead, staring at her, accusing her for the blood that wasn't in his veins and the brain that was probably splattering all over in his skull.

Maria stilled.

The Soldier watched, barely breathing.

"Hill?" Barton's voice managed through, and Maria brought herself out of her stupor, shaking her head inwardly. There was almost no doubt in Maria's beating heart that she'll be having dreams of the man's dead eyes, nightmares if you will, but this wasn't the time to prepare for that. With the smell of piss mixing with blood and the distinct odor of sulphur wafting through the lab, Maria tucked the flash drive in the small pocket designed specifically for it, and had her gun up and aiming. The Soldier could still very well kill her, but she would at least put up a fight. "Soldier."

He did not move.

"Jesus," she muttered. "Barnes."

"That is not my name." He flinched, growled, and finally, slid a direct look towards her. He did not aim his gun, didn't twitch a muscle but it was enough of a pose to make something at the back of her spine crawled in unfamiliar fear.

"Don't move," she told him, somewhere a part of her body was swelling and throbbing dramatically, but she did not wince. Couldn't. "Drop the weapon and the shield. Step away." She cocked her gun when he growled further, one foot sliding just slightly behind himself. "Damnit Barnes, don't make me repeat myself."

"You cannot kill me," he told her, in perfect Russian.

That much was true, she knew, but― "I could try." And then, knowing she'd much prefer to see another day, she inquired, just for the heck of it, "Do you know who you are?"

"Do you?" He asked in English, mocking now, twirling the gun and balancing the shield, nearly smirking.

"Yes," she answered him tonelessly, first in Russian, then, catching her mistake, she switched to English, holding her chin higher, "You're Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky. Don't you remember that?"

His face immediately faltered, and his gun raised. "That is not―"

"We got him, Soldier― Rogers." She interrupted him, licking her upper lip in the fraction of a second. "We got Rogers. And Wilson. We've got their location. Now, are you in or are you out?" He was beginning to mutter to himself in Russian, wincing and gritting his teeth in pain as Maria realized he must be going through another one of his horrible headaches, shaking his head repeatedly to just focus his gaze on her. "Soldier," she called, "Damnit, Soldier. Don't give up on him now. The Captain is―"

"Steve?" the Soldier finally exclaimed, and something went swoosh amid the chaos, and the tension vanished. Maria observed that he'd just lowered his gun, so swiftly the wind sung when it did, his expression even more confused than it was a minute ago. "He's..."

"He needs your help." She spoke with each word carefully enunciated, and he looked up. "Steve Rogers need your help."

"Is he okay?" Barton's voice was stoic through the comm, but Maria had known him long enough to know better. She didn't answer him.

"I remember you," the Soldier spoke with sad eyes, pondering the shield, chapped mouth set in a thin line. Maria wasn't sure if he was talking to the shield or her, but either way, she could easily concluded he was less likely to send a bullet through her skull. Well. "Is he―?"

"I secured their location. Wilson and Rogers." She informed him, not once wavering her aim; she didn't proceed to beg ―wasn't sure what to beg for if she was forced to really, because it's either she would die here or she won't, and Maria accepted that― but she held her stare, kept up her voice. There's no point in stuttering, no point in succumbing to the fate she couldn't determine. She won't let the Soldier defeat her, after all of the strength and dignity and respect she collected for herself, she won't die scurrying away just because an assassin from the 40s was having a mental breakdown. So, she didn't waver, and the gun continued to point.

...

After awhile, it was her who led them both out; once picking themselves up far enough and well enough to be secured, Barton came out of the shadows with a black eye but less beaten-up than either of them, and reached out to take the shield. The Soldier didn't resist. "Christ," he said to the other man. "Don't ever scare anyone like that again."

The Soldier didn't answer, Maria doubted he was able to, and kept it to herself when she thought: we'll see.

...

They drove for the next six hours straight, and, by the time they found a run-down motel that was secluded and quiet enough that no one would ask the obvious questions, the Soldier was already in a death-like sleep. They knew he wasn't dead because the Soldier's chest rose and fell in a very rhythmic manner, but they knew he was totally out because Barton "poked him about a thousand times", or so he claimed, and the Soldier had yet to carve the archer's eyes out with his metal fingers.

Maria was almost completely worn out.

But she stayed up for the next three hours, because there were messages to decode and a location to find, and phone calls to make (or else Tony panicked, and the last thing she wanted was for Iron Man to come along, because - just please, God - No) and she slept just as dawn arrived and it wasn't quite a two-hour nap when she woke up with the Soldier screaming and Barton throwing ice packs and freezing-cold water from the basin where the sink was leaking.

"What the fuck, Barton?" Her eyes were red and her head throbbed and the sunlight was too bright as it was reflecting off Barton's blond hair.

"I'm sorry," the Soldier said, dropping his chin, looking half-dead, face strewn in absolute remorse, stupid regret. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shut up," Maria found herself saying, pinching her temple.

"He saw the shield," Barton offered as an explanation, now holding the Soldier down with his knees securing the other man's wrists, and one hand clutching the Soldier's throat, his body straddling the guy's chest. "Had an episode," he elaborated.

"Fuck," was all Maria could offer back, because, of course he had an episode. Why wouldn't he? And why not at this friggin' hour of the morning? She shook her head. "Is he okay?"

"I'm fine," the Soldier growled, his dark hair now a mess of now wet and dripping strands. Maria could barely stomach the sight.

She pushed her own hair back, cursing privately. "I need a stick."

"Don't," the Soldier surprisingly interrupted. "The smoke. It's one of my..."

Triggers. Once again, she thought: of course. Why wouldn't it be a trigger, right. "For God's sake, Clint," she exhaled harshly, frustrated now and in pain, very much in pain. "Get off of him."

"You're one crazy town, my friend," the archer remarked, tugging recklessly on the Soldier's hair, letting out a lopsided grin when the former Sergeant glared heatedly in response. Maria hastily noted how the Soldier didn't correct Barton when he referred to him as friend. Maybe it was because it was too early, or everyone was just as messed-up, or maybe it was because the moment was too quick, it passed too soon, because before they knew it, Clint was crossing the room to change his pants, and Maria was rolling back in her bed pondering on how she really needed a damn stick.

They got out of the motel, stole another car, and drove for four hours until they reached the next seedy-looking motel.

...

"You're smoking," his voice was gruff when he greeted them.

Both Maria and Barton didn't flinch, or show surprise when the Soldier joined them on the small verandah, looking up at the stars now decorating the night sky. The cigarette between her teeth suddenly tasted a little too bitter, but she didn't cough, instead she inhaled another drag of the toxic smoke and felt it trickled down her trachea to strangle the clean air out of her lungs. Barton, working on a sudoku puzzle he got from a paper he had found on the floor when they entered the room (of course, he wasn't even near close to finishing it really because for a highly trained agent, he was surprisingly talentless at solving puzzles), merely observed, "You aren't supposed to be out."

Maria, out of habit, let her gaze dropped to the wrists that was bound-free, no cuff in sight.

She guessed, somewhere along the way, although it was reckless as fuck, that all three of them were getting tired of seeing the Soldier in with such limited movements (not that it wasn't bad, mind anyone). Barton had finally convinced her to let him loose, and take the hideous, home-wrecking leap of faith to see if it'll kill them. It's only been two days since they had, let the Soldier loose she meant, and there hadn't been an incident where he tried to murder them again, so Maria supposed the blind leap they were taking was going well so far.

The Soldier did appear to look more relaxed, less guarded now, even if she did try to deny it.

"There's a question..." The Soldier started, eyes flicking down unsurely, posture rigid but not in the way that would've alarmed both the agents. Maria took note of the way he tried to avoid the smoke she was now puffing out.

"A question?" Maria repeated, lips quirking in interest.

Barton tapped his pen against the puzzle he would probably never solve, glancing at the Soldier who was now shifting uncomfortably in place. Maria knew the archer was about to mention something along the line of, "What? You need help figuring out how to use a bathroom?" or "Did you just break another sink?" because there's that annoying twinkle in his eyes when she passed him a glance, but the Soldier was quick to blurt out:

"You're not really Steve's girlfriend, are you?"

Barton stopped thudding the pen against the paper, shocked no doubt. Maria, though taken aback, didn't let it get to her ― well, not too obviously ― as she continued to drag the cancer stick from between her teeth to the edge of her lips, releasing the smoke carefully, deliberately, as though she'd suspected the question all along. "Smoke is one of your triggers, Soldier," she'd said instead, blinking once-twice at the Soldier, slipping on her Deputy Director mask.

"I'll handle it."

Maria pursed her lips.

Barton cleared his throat, moving his chair to include the Soldier, patting another rusted one by his side. "Sit."

The other man blinked, then obliged without a word, and Maria rubbed her nose with her index finger, the one that's helping to hold the cigarette in place. Through her thick lashes, she saw the hint of fire, burning the stick away. She sighed, sniffling a bit. "Let me tell you a story―" she began, rolling her shoulders, stretching her neck. The Soldier stilled, face mostly blank, but eyes wide like a child's expecting to be told a fairytale; one that might follow the child into sleep. But this was no child, and Maria certainly did not tell fairytales.

She took another drag, hesitating for a second, before her shoulders relaxed, her chest more-or-less lightened. It's just words, she convinced herself, rocking on the balls of her feet.

"There is a girl back home. Her name is Sharon. Don't know much about her, but she once worked with us. A good agent― strong-minded, stubborn, knows how to take care of herself. Blonde, sharp eyes; pretty― you know the type." She licked her lips, brushing her other hand to her cheek, swiping off invisible dust, eyes now focus on the dull scenery. Maria blinked. "For the past two years she was with SHIELD, she was assigned to... guard Rogers at his apartment, posing as a nurse, a friendly neighbor. Just, watch, you know? Keep an eye out, because an organization like ours practices paranoia, and you just never know with a super soldier, now do you?"

There was a bitter joke there at the end, one she did not allow neither Barton nor the Soldier to point out as she continued quickly, exhaling, "Anyway, every month she'd submit her report, just like she was ordered to, pretending to be this nurse living right next door to this, I suppose, living legend. SHIELD wasn't blind. The infatuation was silly, but these things do happen. And underneath the tough exterior, she was just another girl. We are allowed to feel human." Experience emotions. Maria briefly promised herself she wouldn't gag, sinking her teeth momentarily into her inner cheeks before continuing. "When SHIELD went down, and Rogers and Wilson went MIA, I went to her. She's with CIA and would be able to get information quicker than I could on my own. I needed to be sure before I confronted Tony about Wilson and Rogers' status. All I had to do was give her one look, and I knew."

Maria's chest suddenly felt heavy, but she dragged her gaze away before Barton could catch on what was going through her head― not that it mattered, because Maria was Maria. She'll be okay. She'll force herself to be okay― she always does. "The hope that was in her eyes when she gave me the information, the faith I saw in her expression when she told me to go after Rogers and Wilson... that wasn't simply nothing. I think..." Maria speculated, flicking her eyes down, her mind secretly whirling when her lips were pressed together, "I think, that is something worth coming back home to. To Rogers, at least." Her eyes rested on the Soldier, at long last, determine and strong, firm and true, "You are something worth coming back home to."

Confusion bled across the Soldier's poor, dirty face; his brows furrowing in and out of concentration before he tipped his head back up and let his now sharp eyes travel to hers, "So who are you in all of this? Who are you to―" He swallowed, and his focus wavered but wasn't broken, "―to the Captain?"

Maria exhaled through her nostrils, dropping her cigarette down to the cement slab and taking her boot to step on it, extinguishing the flame once and for all. The smoke left a thin trail up into the atmosphere, reminding Maria of the lungs that suffered from it, now writhing from within her ribcage. The fear of death crept in but it did not threaten. Not anymore.

"Well, Barton's Cap's friend." She said, one shoulder shrugging in a reluctant manner; she passed a quick look to meet the Soldier's eyes, and her poise did not waver, her eyes didn't blink. She replied, "I'm just the person who'll be making sure he does come home."

Maria didn't say that her teeth tasted just a bit staler at her own words.

(She, as usual, blamed the cigarettes.)

...

Maria didn't quite smoke anymore after that.

...

Turned out, the location was a fake.

And they found this out from Tony four days later.

Barton went out for a whole night of drinking after failing to contact Natasha - yet again - and came back smelling like cheap beers and vomit. The Soldier growled as he entered, sidled to the middle of the room to avoid getting near him, and Maria hissed when the archer slurred, before he threw his phone straight through the glass, face red and frustrated. "Clint," Maria called, clenching her jaw. "Calm down."

She watched as Barton stole a glance towards the Soldier, and almost on automatic, the Soldier blurted out― "The shattered glass won't trigger me."

They didn't know that. She frowned.

Maria allowed the archer to shower and sleep for the next hour, before she forced the Soldier to haul him into the truck they stole and drove away. "Will he be alright?" The Soldier asked, posture wary and careful, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt on trying to stay focused, accent twisting from Russian to English and sometimes even German or Danish.

"He's an idiot," Maria retorted her usual mantra, hiding the wince as a headache ate at the back of her skull. Chancing a sideways glance, noticing how the Soldier's shoulders only tensed in response, she managed a nod while she drove them towards no where in particular: "He'll be fine. It's just one of those bad days. We'll live through it."

"And Natasha? She is―"

"A friend." Maria answered, tone cutting and direct.

"Friend?" The Soldier sounded mostly confused, as though the concept of it was alien to him, and Maria could see the pieces of his memory broken and battered, bent and abused, laid out in front of her, surprisingly exposed and fragile. There was an ache in her chest, because if there was anyone who was supposed to be familiar with the topic, it was him. Maria didn't grow up having a best friend― she has allies, people she trusts, a dead husband and enemies, but not friends. Barton's been so long in SHIELD that friends became an absolutely grey subject; too many people turning their backs on him, leaving unnecessary scars, evil truths; it was amazing how he was still in one piece - how everyone present right then was still in one piece. But the Soldier ― Barnes, Bucky, or whatever ― friends weren't supposed to sound so awkward and new.

She took a moment to wonder how Rogers might have reacted to this.

"An ally." She rephrased, using a better word, hoping it'll untie the knot of confusion now tangling itself behind his eyes. "We trust her," she said as a further explanation, clearing the air. "We don't know where she is."

"Can't Stark track her?" The Soldier didn't know Stark, but they had come across a video clip of him when they went into a diner the day before, and he knew that Barton and her were somewhat reporting to him, though they made it perfectly clear that the billionaire was not, in any way, in charge of them. (He was her boss, sure ― but not in this case.)

"When she doesn't want to be found," it wasn't much of a question, more of a snarky retort as the sentence rolled off her tongue. She didn't give him a glance when she as a sharp turn, cursing inwardly in between, "No."

The Soldier was quiet for a while, tapping his metal finger against the window gently, releasing a continuous tap-tap-tap that Maria, shockingly, didn't find to be annoying. "Will we find―" the Soldier began, voice suddenly stuck in his throat and from the corner of Maria's eyes, she watched him swallow unsurely, regressing back to the lost boy when he was neither Bucky Barnes nor the Winter Soldier, simply a man who was confused, on edge. and paranoid. Scared too, if he'd allow it. "― the Captain?"

"We will." Maria answered with such conviction; she herself was momentarily caught off guard by it. But she didn't retract it, didn't sag her shoulders when she could, didn't undermine the utter confidence welling in her chest, because Maria, as stupid as it sounded, didn't want to think of other possibilities than finding Rogers alive and breathing. Wilson too, because Maria spent a good deal of time with the man when they were bringing HYDRA down, and needless to say, she didn't outright hate him. Not immediately, not afterwards.

"Tired," the Soldier muttered, surprisingly in Japanese.

Maria clicked her tongue, "We all are."

...

The third time Clint pulled the ridiculous stunt of getting majorly drunk and stupid, Maria nearly drew a knife right against his throat.

Instead, she took all three of them out to an empty piece of property and had them spar until the day grew dark and the sun left the sky. She was out of breath when they were done, twisted in Barton's grip while the Soldier's ribs shook with laughter, the relief in just punching and kicking without any killing must have gotten into him, and for the first time in a long time, Maria wasn't afraid to join in. She didn't laugh of course, but the grin on her face was apparent and clear. It didn't quite match Barton's who had his lips stretched so wide, Maria wasn't sure if his face wouldn't split― while the Soldier smiled with his lips and in his eyes, brightening the shadows that Maria and Barton saw so many times ghosting over the lines on his expression.

"You, my man," Clint said, still gasping oxygen for his desperate lungs, eyes glinting mischievously, watching the Soldier, grinning, "―are a killing machine."

Maria wasn't sure if it was a pun, but when Hawkeye proceeded to laugh and clasped an arm around the Winter Soldier's shoulders, before he finally noticed it and growled, she didn't miss the somber flick of emotion flashing across the Soldier's eyes. But the smile never vanished. Not completely. "I believe we're all killing machines," the Soldier countered, as they all limped back to the truck, now watching the stars shimmering in the distance.

Maria snorted as Barton passed her a water bottle, but didn't roll her eyes: "Nowadays," she replied. "Who isn't?"

She didn't get an answer, but the night was undoubtedly (shockingly noticeably) beautiful, and Barton was, at long last, sober after what seemed like too long. It was, she decided later as they hitched back to their motel, better than most days.

...

They found Rogers on a Tuesday.

...

But that was it. Just Rogers. Battered and worn-down, spirit broken and maybe half-blind (according to Barton anyway, before both Maria and the Soldier swatted him across the back of his head for being such a freaking idiot), but it wasn't until Thursday that they set their plan in motion. The Soldier was anxious, Barton was thrilled, and Maria was more forgiving than she was ready to lash out. It was terribly heart breaking to monitor the Captain but not be able to reach out, having to watch a super-soldier being tied down and beaten so raw that he barely moved in the days since they confirmed his location.

"Still no sign of Wilson?" Barton asked, cleaning his arrows for perhaps, the tenth time that hour.

Maria blinked, didn't bother shaking her head. "He's not here. He might have been. Someone must have taken him."

"Is it HYDRA?"

"I think it was," The Soldier suddenly spoke up, sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a fitted uniform gifted from Stark (that was originally meant for Barton on this trip), flexing his metal fingers in order. "I have no idea what their plan is, but I do not like it."

"Does anybody ever?" Barton murmured under his breath while Maria picked herself up and readied the guns and rifles (also prepared especially by Stark, although nothing was ever complete if Maria didn't bring one or two of her own). Who would've thought it, huh, a bitter side of her snarled, annoyed and not, tired and awake― someone's actually selling Captain America. Speaking of extreme human trafficking.

She checked her gun magazine. "Whatever happens, stick to the plan," she ordered, sliding it back into her pistol.

"I would prefer if everybody actually manages to come out alive." Barton quipped dryly, wiggling his fingers.

"I will carry the shield?" The Soldier asked, eyes dark but composed. No sign of being triggered, which was good. It was always good. Maria stole a glance at Captain America's proud shield now lying amongst Barton's equipment, and her mind whirled before she could stop it. She passed a cool nod, brushing her growing bangs behind.

"But follow the plan, Soldier." The shield will be Rogers' by the end of the day, no matter what. That was the ultimate deal.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded swiftly, shoulders squaring in a posture from the past; of Sergeant James Barnes, one of the war heroes; of Bucky, who's ready to fight for the only thing he's sure of, although of course, no, the Soldier didn't know what he was fighting for. Not particularly. But his objectives were clear ― secure the Captain, secure himself ― and so Maria didn't dwell on the major breakthrough in how he answered her.

"Good." His eyes were sharp; hers were sharper. "Let's go get our good ole Captain back."

...

Maria couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken in Arabic, but she greeted the language like an old friend when it glided over her tongue and passed her lips. She felt different when the fabric of her clothes stuck to her flesh like a second skin, the make-up shading her cheeks into a personality that she was not. This moment she was Diana, "The Jasmine", a.k.a. the buyer of none other than Captain America. This was not, by any means, her first time going in undercover, so Maria strapped on her heels and put on her best show, because, though she hated being anyone but herself, this really wasn't about her.

When they brought Rogers out, Maria felt her heart leap to her throat, and her chest constrict at the mere sight of him.

He didn't look up― too tired, too worn-down? She couldn't be sure ― but Bucky, now dressed like one of the guards in the room, was by Roger's side, steady and cool, and Maria managed a sigh of satisfaction, her head turning seductively, addressing the man in charge, tongue cheeky in the foreign language Maria secretly admired. "May I?"

The man nodded, gesturing.

Her heels clicked with each step she took, and the nearer she got, it seemed the more the Captain tried to look down, chin now pressed against the hollow skin where his collarbones met. Something twisted dangerously, drastically, in her stomach, tempting the hideous anger Maria solely inherited from her father to flare and consume her. The Soldier met her eyes only for a second, just enough for Maria to give a subtle nod. They worked silently as she walked by, bracing herself to face Rogers, even though yes, he still wasn't lifting his chin up.

Now so close, Maria couldn't help feeling that they were the farthest apart as they've ever been.

And that was saying a lot considering Maria was never close to the man in the first place. Stupid.

"Captain," she dared herself to whisper, slim fingers grasping his unshaven jaw, but he still wasn't looking up. He didn't know her, Maria realized, a moment after, as her thumb traced a cut that would probably heal in less than two hours. Maria wasn't sure if she should compliment her undercover job or feel devastatingly sad that he, well, didn't recognize her. She didn't let herself meditate on it as she placed her mouth close and blew gently across his golden lashes, urging him to open his eyes. He did, glaring at first, before his striking blue eyes drank her in and―

Allowing a small smirk to grace her features, Maria mouthed: "Got you."

The kiss they shared afterwards was chaste and appropriate, if only because Maria knew how disastrous it would be if Captain freaking America managed to blow their covers, if recognition lit up his face, or her name, her title, threatened to fall off the tip of his tongue oh-so-obviously. So she kissed him. To make sure that he somehow didn't make the glorious mistake of out rightly recognizing her, and only because it's something Diana "The Jasmine" would've done. (Barton called her character as The Hot Babe That Isn't Afraid to Kiss and Tell and Kick Some Asses, "which," he bravely added a second later, "I suppose, kind of like you are Hill, except Diana isn't afraid to beg when she wants some―" and the rest, as they say, is history.)

Maria, of course, had kissed better ― Rogers too, she hadn't a doubt ― but to say that the kiss was just as mechanical as it was supposed to be, then she'd be lying.

She wondered if he could taste the orange juice she had had that morning.

And then, as easily as it begun, everything resolved into complete chaos.

Everything was happening too fast for Maria to keep track. Before she knew it, she gave the signal and the Winter Soldier proceeded to destroy most of the men inside of the building before Maria felt a blow to her side and she fell, fell like a little girl who'd just learned how to walk, and saw Rogers being dragged into the shadows. She tried to reach out, kicked a few guys that were in her way, but her vision was filling with black spots and she was gasping for air; and suddenly, it was like her lungs had decided they were tired of being lungs, and her insides twisted as though they didn't want to stay inside of her any longer and so she cried out for the Soldier before she could fall again - fall for good this time. Remember, the alarm in her head insisted, stick to the plan ― just as Barton came in, shooting arrows and bullets, passing the almighty shield to the Soldier so the plan could fall into place.

The Soldier clasped the shield, didn't admire it, glanced at her, and knew what he had to do.

"I'll be fine", she gritted through gritted teeth, still fighting away the pain.

He nodded and went into the shadows, just as she was quick enough to clutch her gun, and shoot two guards that were coming for her, or her body, and then her head thudded against the floor and the dark consumed her and Maria's last thought rang tiredly: well, at least it wasn't in the car.

Everything fell silent and still.

...

Maria couldn't remember the last time she had a solid dream.

She had nightmares, too many of them, trailing behind her like footsteps visible enough for her to trace back and draw dad's sad-but-always-angry eyes. (Maria couldn't draw them of course ― she couldn't draw to save her life ― but she remembered them like the scars along the back of her spine, under her armpits, behind her calves. Maria remembered them like her own name, like a memory of a child – her tiny self running and not-crying, sniffling and not-silently screaming for help, like a secret she vowed to keep; she remembered and remembered and remembered―)

But a dream.

She hadn't had one of those in forever. It was little feet running and searching and finding, and breathless chest and wide eyes and a young heart but an old soul, and Maria standing by the sideline as she watched herself grew from nothing into whatever pieces she managed to glue herself to be. She saw an Uncle that picked her up when she was at her lowest when she hadn't expected him to, the teacher that told her the future could be anything and everything she wished it could be, the boy that was convinced she was stronger than she believed, the girl that she couldn't save but had saved her instead, and finally, she saw herself, facing the Avengers, alive and laughing.

It took them a while before everyone finally directed their attention to her, and Nick Fury stepped forward from out of nowhere. She didn't recall any greetings being passed, but she recognized the routine, the nod of acknowledgement passing in comfortable silence. She stood like she was meant to be there, facing the world head-on and fearless.

"It feels like falling, don't it?" A happy, guttural, all-too-familiar voice chuckled, and Maria's eyes twitched upwards, as though expecting her Uncle, the one who'd said the exact same thing to her once upon a time, to be looking down, eyes glinting behind the dark shades he used to wear. "When you're smack in the middle of things, going at it like the universe is there to back you up."

One thing was for sure― her Uncle wasn't around. But that was definitely his voice, his words. Maria would know it anywhere.

"Falling is not an apt description," she said what she hadn't told Uncle before, mouth set in a grim line, eyes somewhat glaring at Fury and the lot of them, as though her life's burden was their doing. "It feels like," her tongue clicked, her mind reeled: "Like flying."

"Flying's a fantasy, Hill." Barton surprisingly interrupted, and Maria was quick to catch Rogers glancing the archer's way, genuine concern shaping his usually clear expression.

"Falling..." Her Uncle's voice continued, and Maria closed her eyes, imagined one old shoulder shrugging. "Well," there's humor to his tone, but it's not visible on his none-existent face, "Everything meets its end. Falling, eventually, will have you meeting the ground. And aren't you content with meeting the ground?"

Meeting her end?

Maria blinked, just as Romanoff took two quiet steps towards her, eyes frowning. "Say no, Maria."

But Uncle's right, was all she could think off, meeting the famous Widow's stare.

"He's right," Romanoff nodded, looking to the side, to nothing, nodding absent-mindedly at her apparent agreement. She locked her gaze on Maria again, and something in her green eyes glinted. "But this isn't the end just yet. You know it."

I do, she nodded, shifting her posture sideways. "But what if I'm tired of falling? What if I want to meet my end?"

"You don't." Rogers suddenly spoke up, and Maria caught his blue eyes under the flickering lights ― she saw Coulson instead, and the mum she never met, the husband that died way too soon, and all of their lives, as they flickered before her eyes, until all she saw was one corner of a mouth turned into a small, amusing smile, and Maria found herself facing Captain America, his mask off, his face dirtied and worn. "You're not done catching my fall, Hill, you aren't done saving me."

Maria resisted a fuck you, Rogers because really, fuck him, Captain America can very damn well save himself without her help whatsoever, and then Maria's back to the first moment SHIELD had found her, Phil Coulson's smile sticking like a post-it note behind her head with Thor and Stark's laughter echoing on repeat, Bruce's shy grins an image shimmering in the sun.

"He's right, you know." The Soldier ― no, Barnes' ― dipped his head in a low nod, his hair slicked back and short like she remembered from Rogers' file, and from the many pictures of him. He smirked in her direction, and Maria cocked an irritated scowl, confused, but not, because while he shouldn't be here, dressing like he did, there he was, fitter and smaller and cleaner than the Soldier he became. "Wake up, Maria. You're not done falling just yet."

And what do you know? She wasn't.

...

"Fuck it, Maria." Barton laughed when she came to, and she frowned at his abrupt outburst. "You didn't die. You didn't die. Jesus Christ, you didn't― Oh, thank God! 'Cause Pepper and Nat would have my head if you'd― fuck."

Shut up, was what Maria contemplated saying, but receiving an awful jab in her side as she tried to move, Maria winced instead, coughing horribly in the way that reminded her again how all of the smoking she'd done wasn't, in any way, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself, good for her health. "What happened?" She managed.

Barton was still laughing as she asked him, his hand holding the left side of her ribs in a steady manner, the corner of his eyes stinging with tears. They were on a roof somewhere, she realized, and it was near nightfall. The sky was fading into grey, but the stars were twinkling, bright and clear and proud. She wondered how many hours since she'd been out.

"Well," the archer managed, "There was an explosion."

Wasn't there always? Barton seemed to be scoffing too, perhaps thinking of the exact same thing. She'd finally noticed how, lying down, Barton's apparent contact on her ribcage was necessary ― he was keeping her still, from moving about. Her wound must largely be confined to there, although as she was now, her whole body seemed to be pulsating and throbbing, like every part of her was electrocuted and dissected. "Cap got his shield back, kicked some ass. You know how it goes. Then Soldier brought him out just seconds before the building went ka-boom! And though I know the plan was to secure the primary targets, which was Cap and our favorite Russian lunatic, but… I turned back for you."

"I was out?"

"For most of it, yeah." The blond didn't look particularly annoyed, but there were the gestures he's making that could easily contradict itself to that statement. "Something knocked you, and they hit you pretty good. Add to the already-devastating events, you were bleeding out. And a building was about to collapse on you. Wanna add that to your perfect record, Commander?"

Maria resisted an eye-roll. "Shut up."

He let out a string of hollow chuckles. "Fuck it, Hill. You were as good as dead."

"Yet you turned back and got me." She quoted, and knew he wouldn't miss the irritation heavily dripping in her tone.

"I wasn't about to leave you. We go a long way back," he mentioned casually, lifting the hand that was holding her in place to comb through his now-scruffy hair, messy and ashen with white matter. "Plus, I got too many things haunting me. I'll be damned if I'll add you as another ghost."

Her bones vibrated, and, before she knew it, despite the pain, her whole chest choked up with strangled laughter rumbling straight from her stomach, one birthed from extreme relief, gladness, over the sure knowledge that, numb and all, she was alive. Well and okay, if she's lucky, with all of her limbs attached. "Goddamn, Clint," she forced her right hand to move, brushing over the eyes that were filling up with solid, genuine, ugly tears. "You're such a fucking idiot."

"Says the bitch," the blond sputtered, with a helpless grin spread across his near-torn up face, and Maria's eyes glanced over the blood smearing from under his jaw to his neck. He chuckled, and she hid a wider smile. "Now come on. If Soldier follows the plan―"

"They're near."

"That is," Clint said as he slid one hand on her ribs, the other reaching to her back to help her sit up. "If he doesn't blow his top just yet."

Let's hope he doesn't, Maria huffed, grunted and pulled herself up.

...

By the time they arrived at the motel where they promised to meet, Barton's hand that was grasping Maria's ribs were soaked in her hideous, stinking blood. Not that the archer in any way complained, and not that Maria was saying anything either, considering the guy smelled like he hadn't showered for a month. They've been in worse situations, she reasoned, and that was enough for both of them to overlook whatever situation they're entangled in right now.

They didn't even reach the door when the Soldier swung it open, eyes wide and brighter than Maria's ever seen them, jaw tight and mouth a perfect flat line across his face. "Hill. Barton." He breathed, and their names sounded like a prayer against his tongue, holy and sacred. Maria didn't find herself cringing.

Barton chuckled out breathlessly, mouth breaking into a wide, exhausted grin. "Crazy Town," he quipped, and against Maria's side, the archer's shoulders sagged, relieved.

"The Captain is bleeding." The Soldier sounded panicky, but his hands extended to reach for Maria, and she, without thinking twice, offered one arm to him, stumbling only slightly.

"He's not the only one," Barton exchanged, licking his lips as they three fell into step, Maria now leaning equally on both of them, her side throbbing mercilessly.

"Clint? Hill?" A familiar-but-distant voice came from inside of the motel just as they stepped in. Barton turned a little to the side to get the door closed, securing it afterwards. Just as the Soldier was settling Maria on the nearest chair, he muttered, "The Captain has been shot," right as Rogers walked in, one hand holding a bloodied area on his right chest, near his armpit.

"Fantastic," Maria's voice laced with dangerous sarcasm, and for a moment Captain America appeared rattled, unsteady.

"Cap," Clint now stood in the middle of the room, having both of his hands up. "You okay?"

Rogers rolled his head, and tilted one corner of his mouth up ridiculously and not entirely sincerely, "Never better."

Sarcastic little― Maria gritted her teeth, stomped down her annoyance when she hissed, louder than she intended to, as she grabbed her bleeding side, reminding herself maybe the sudden move to snap herself into Hardass Hill was probably not be the best idea she had ever had. "Bathroom. Now," she bit out, and the three men marched behind her like it was just natural to do so.

They worked in a primarily sufficient quietness when Barton pulled out a knife in his boots and cuts off Rogers' shirt when Maria signaled the larger man to have a seat. He didn't object, but flinched when the tip of the knife nearly tore at perfectly good, firm skin. Maria's eyes definitely did not linger.

Apparently, Barton had her stitched up on the damaged area (except of course, she managed to open up the clumsy stitches― hence, the excessive bleeding) and Maria skillfully stitched it up with meticulous concentration, while Barton worked to pull out the damn bullet from Rogers' chest, the man wincing and flinching in between breaths. She cleaned up and bandaged herself tightly just when the bullet thudded against the sink as Barton secured it, prompting Maria to glance towards the men's way and noticed the way Rogers' blood was creating a trail down to his stomach, thin and messy.

Maria stood and walked to them, fully aware that she was only in her sports bra, bandaged torso and boyshorts and not knowing that it mattered until Rogers took one look at her and bashfully looked away, cheeks reddening by the second. Barton, glancing once over his shoulder, looked unfazed and Maria coolly blinked: "Okay?"

"We're good to go."

The archer nodded.

The Soldier walked in, face blank, paused and let his eyes trail carefully over her bandaged side and new bruises without a second thought, which caused a look of horror to pass over Rogers' chiefly innocent face, warning, "Bucky."

The Soldier's eyes snapped.

Perhaps it was the name, or, the name and Rogers. Then, because things just couldn't continue in peace (for once), the combination of the name, Rogers and blood (to which they discovered was the next thing on his list of triggers) had his head "haywire" (Barton's words) and his whole body malfunctioned when the Soldier failed to take a step back, both hands pressing on his temples, mouth opening and closing and murmuring in brutal Russian.

Barton was quick to turn on the shower, all the way on cold, and both of them hauled the Soldier under the spray with Maria using just enough force to pin him there, thrashing about and struggling. It wasn't long before the Soldier dropped his chin and gave in, and breathlessly, with his eyes closed, muttered in perfect, good old American English: "I'm okay, I'm fine."

"Bucky?" Rogers' tone was just shy of a quiver, and Maria snapped him a terrifying look.

"I've got Soldier," Barton announced, helping the dark-headed man up to his feet, pulling out a worn towel out or two that they'd put aside earlier. "Can you help Cap?"

Frankly, Maria was still pretty pissed at the Captain but, "Sure," because she really didn't need to step out into the cold half-naked and have some kind of heart-to-heart with the Winter-freaking-Soldier, and she guessed there were things she needed to find out from the Golden Boy. So, Maria watched Barton flip the towel over the Soldier's face, and watched the dark-headed man glared as the blonde grudgingly led them both out.

The door shut.

Rogers shifted.

Maria held in a sigh, biting her inner cheek, recalling back that oh, that's right― you've never exactly been the best of buddies with this man, wow Maria, smart, that's an excellent quick thinking right there. She rejected the snarky noise, pushed a dark strand of hair away, and moved quickly to snatch a clean-enough t-shirt that should cover her top quite nicely, since, you know, she was half-wet from the damn shower. She pulled her hair behind to catch it in a ponytail just as she caught his wondering gaze in the reflection of the cracked mirror. "Sit. I'll stitch it up for you," and he did, because there wasn't much else to say or do.

He could have done it by himself. Sure, she could allow that, but― she won't.

Maria pulled out the kit and rubbed the side of her face, pondering, before she found her pace once again and pulled out the necessary tools. The soldier wasn't particularly looking at her when she turned to begin. Instead, he had his gaze focused on the floor, frowning, probably from the recent drastic events. "He's going to be okay," Maria assured him, and found herself immediately regretting ever saying anything, because, once again, a heart-to-heart or whatever? Definitely not her style.

She swallowed, and his blue eyes finally met her face.

"Chin up," she instructed and he tilted his chin upwards, thrusting his chest up for her to assess. Okay.

"Sam's gone," he told her, even before she could blurt the words out.

She nodded professionally, sterilizing the needle. "Killed?"

"Taken." His face paled a little, eyes wide and heavy with blind panic at her implication, before it slumped in a sort of rejection, disappointed and guilty. "One minute he was there, the next..." He swallowed, shaking his head. "I don't know what happened. They... the guards, they injected me with a serum that deflated my abilities, all of them. I could barely breathe. It was like... it was like I was the Steve before the serum. Except it was worse, and there wasn't―" and his brows furrowed, Maria could see, hard. "There wasn't anybody strong enough to pull me out of it."

Lucky you aren't dead, she nearly quipped before she held her tongue, gritting her teeth. "You have no idea of his location?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything. Well, they did. They just..." his mouth pursed, "They made fun of me. I think. I don't... we didn't really have a way of communicating."

Ah. Language problem.

Maria offered another nod. "So we have no idea if he's really... alive?"

"Don't say tha―" Rogers paused, mouth agape, face as lost as he was over two years ago, back when he was just defrosted. Something in Maria twisted at that sight of him; eyes glassy, hands quivering, nose red. "He's alive."

"Rogers."

"No." He defended, "A man came one day. I can't... I don't really remember his face, I was under the influence, but he told me―" He gasped, his chest expanded in search of air, as though the oxygen in the room wasn't enough and he needed more. He simply needed more. "He told me Sam's alive, and they've got plans for him but... that's about it. I couldn't, I wasn't―" He stuttered, posture cracking as the minute lengthened, "And then you came. And Clint and..."

You're going into shock, she didn't say.

"Captain?"

"This..." he began, uncertain, nose crinkling from thinking too hard. "Has this happened before? To Bu... to..." and Maria finally understood that he was referring to the Soldier's latest episode, shoulders slumping. God, Maria realized, stomach sinking, he can't even say the guy's name.

"Has it happened before? More times than I care to remember." She sharply answered, hoping that that would shut him up.

Rogers blinked, golden lashes fluttering, once-twice, and then: "He doesn't even call me Steve."

Maria's eyes watched his face, her face grim. "It's better than nothing."

Their eyes locked, but Maria made a point of keeping her eyes up because it would not be in her nature to look away, like she's embarrassed or something, because she undoubtedly wasn't, not even when the blue eyes were starting to get too intense for her whole mental state to take, but he dragged his gaze down a few seconds later, a sigh escaping his lips as Maria punctured his flesh and tidied up the stitches. "I guess," he murmured, brushing a dark blond eyebrow before fingers tangled messily with long strands of dyed brown hair.

"Frankly speaking, Captain." She forced out before her brain could calibrate on what a mistake that was, and clenched her jaw. "Better than nothing is all you can expect right now. I'd suggest you don't give up. I mean. You can't anyway." Not when they practically have the Soldier in custody, almost.

Rogers twisted his lips to form what resembled a smile but wasn't quite, eyes squinting ever so slightly at her in a thoughtful manner, like he's just seeing her for the first time and it was a sight that he couldn't digest immediately. "I wasn't planning to."

"And Wilson." She finished the stitches, dropping the needle and thread in the sink. "We'll find him. Strategically and with a plan, preferably, if you may."

He nodded his head, rubbed at his mouth. "No arguments here, ma'am."

She scowled; his lips curled into more of a smile. "Okay," she decided, putting the kit away.

"Hill?"

"Captain?" Her gaze was cool when she whirled her head to him, a hum rested at the end of her response.

"Thank you."

She doesn't ask for what, wasn't sure if she would like the answer since there was a fuckton of things Rogers should be thanking her for, and there's more to come, no doubt, which kind of put her in the position to be receiving a whole lot of thank you's in the future. Lord knew Maria didn't need that, especially not from a certain super soldier, America's Proudest Protector and Living Legend. You want to thank? Buy her a goddamn drink. You don't sit there with your puppy blue eyes and a half-sad expression and say thank you. Like, who even does that?

"Just take a goddamn shower already, Rogers." She ground out without flinching her disgust, without even as much as a nod, which seemed to satisfy everybody in the room because he must know that that was all she could offer back, and that there wasn't much left to say and it's always been like that between them, she supposed, because she's just the errand girl carrying her part in the equation, to get him back home, and he's Captain goddamn America and, by the end of the day, they're just two separate individuals stuck in the same situation whilst doing their job. There's nothing more. There shouldn't be.

Plus, to add, she's never excelled at handling any form of gratitude more than it was necessary. She's detached like that, and she's okay with it.

Rogers didn't argue.

She shut the bathroom door and let the sound of it echoed until she heard nothing except the dull repetition of thud-thud-thud carrying through the door even when the shower started to run.

...

IMPORTANT NOTE:

Though I am grateful for Lynn, my beta, for always being there when I needed her the most, I realise that with summer picking up and with tons of things life could offer to get in one's way, she can no longer be the only beta I have available. With this, I'm reaching out to any of you who are interested in becoming my beta: just PM me, or reach out to my tumblr [puckering-gustin], which you could find the link on my FFNET profile.

Thank you, and may you have an excellent day.