Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sir? You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, Hill. You're making my neck ache."

Newly-sworn sheriff's deputy Maria Hill, to her credit, didn't hesitate before sliding onto the plastic bench of the Waffle House's corner booth. Out of a healthy wariness regarding the cleanliness of the booth's surface, she refrained from imitating her boss's relaxed, elbows-on-the-table posture. When the waitress appeared, she ordered coffee, black. Sheriff Fury frowned at her.

"You're going to regret that," he said. "The coffee here is awful."

"Then why are you drinking it?" she asked. Fury raised the eyebrow over his eye patch.

"The coffee's awful. The sugar and the cream aren't too bad."

The waitress returned. Hill tried the coffee. When Fury saw her face, he got up, grabbed a pot of cream, and set it in front of her.

"Thanks."

"Just protecting my investment," he said. His single dark eye sharpened. "Usually the Staties poach my officers, not the other way around."

Hill's gut tightened, and it was only a half because of the coffee. Fury noticed and leaned back into the booth, making the plastic creak.

"I'm sure you have your reasons. I'm just pleased to have a decorated officer like yourself joining the department."

The restaurant's door jingled, and fast steps approached them. Hill let go of her cup before she stopped herself from drawing the Glock 19 at her hip, telling herself that Fury had the sightline to the door. Fury's eye flicked to her hands before moving to the man who'd come in. Fury was a man who noticed things and didn't say anything about it. She had a feeling that was going to annoy the hell out of her.

"Sheriff."

"Coulson," Fury said. "How was court?"

"All charges were dismissed." The bland-as-Walmart-mayo man in the suit looked calm. "Half the jury was shaking hands with them, after."

Fury didn't seem surprised. "Coulson, meet Hill," he said. "Lately of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Four commendations for bravery, eighty-seven percent close rate, and graduated top of her class from Cornell. She's taking over the Avengers investigation."

Taking over? Hill watched Coulson warily, ready to see a senior (white guy) investigator throw a tantrum over having his case transferred to a young Latina officer literally on her first day, but Coulson just lifted his chin, which was apparently a signal to Fury to scoot over. The waitress showed up and delivered coffee. Coulson stared into its inky depths as she poured.

"May said we could probably get a discount on our department insurance if you would just stop having meetings here," he said, without looking at Fury.

"I like the ambiance."

Coulson sighed and looked up at the waitress. "Short stack, bacon on the side." When she left, he looked over at Fury. "If I'm going to die, I'd rather the cause be bacon than coffee."

Hill shifted in her seat. Before she could come up with a polite way of saying would you two stop flirting and get to the point, a loud rumble from the other side of the plate glass window drew her attention—less because of the sound than because of the two men's reactions. Coulson managed not to point like a bird dog, but it was a close thing; Fury's eye narrowed.

Hill turned her head slowly and took in the parking lot from the corner of her eye. Six motorcycles followed by an Audi Turbo pulled into the parking spaces nearest the door.

"Tony Stark," Coulson said, voice low, as a wiry man with a goatee wearing welding goggles stepped off a bike that had so many custom parts Hill was hard-pressed to identify what manufacturer it had started out as. "AKA 'Iron Man.' Mechanical genius, bike designer, alcoholic fuckup. Got about two speeding tickets a week until he built some kind of device that scrambles our radar. Builds motorcycles, crashes them, puts them back together faster."

A muscle-wrapped giant with a blond mullet that would have made Fabio jealous swung his leg over a Triumph and walked over to the Audi. His black shirt looked in danger of exploding at the seams. "Thor Odinson," Coulson said.

"Thor?" Hill interrupted. Coulson turned a bland-glare on her. She shut up.

"Thor Odinson," he repeated. "Drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, assault, assault with a deadly, criminal mischief. Likes to get drunk and pick fights. Put a guy in a coma with a hammer once."

The window of the Audi rolled down. Thor leaned in to talk to the driver. The light glanced off the windshield, making it impossible to see who he was talking to. A guy in wraparound shades and a leather jacket joined Stark.

"Clint Barton, AKA 'The Amazing Hawkeye.'"

Coulson paused. Hill looked at him. Apparently she was supposed to comment this time.

"The Amazing Hawkeye?"

"He was a sideshow act when he was a kid. Shot apples off people's heads. Also made wallets disappear out of people's pockets. He's got a record in forty-eight of the fifty states."

He didn't look amazing. He looked like he was wearing yesterday's stubble and last week's jeans. Hill was willing to bet that those shades hid eyes that were blackened, reddened, or both. She looked at Coulson.

"Nebraska and Vermont," he supplied.

"Hm," she said.

The next man to join Stark and Barton—nodded at by the latter, hugged by the former, though it obviously made the man uncomfortable—didn't look like he belonged in their company. He wore an olive jacket from LL Bean, pressed khaki pants, and a pair of brown leather shoes that could have shown their toes in church with a little polish.

"Dr. Bruce Banner," Coulson said, and snorted. "The others call him 'the Hulk.' For obvious reasons."

The only one in the group shorter than Banner was Stark.

"What's he a doctor of?" Hill asked.

"Professor. Some bio-physics specialization. Don't let the pocket protector fool you, though. Guy's put three drunk assholes in the hospital."

Hill raised her eyebrow at Coulson. He shrugged.

"Let's just say you wouldn't like him when he's angry."

All of the bikes but one were American or British make. The exception was a Japanese sport-bike, the rider a woman, her scarlet curls glinting gold in the sun. The jeans under her black jacket looked like they'd been painted on.

"Natasha Romanoff. Ballerina."

Hill couldn't keep her cop face on. She covered the slip by taking a sip of coffee. Tactical error. "What's her story?" she choked.

"Born in Russia, came over when she was five, naturalized citizen. Danced internationally from six to twenty-two, then retired."

Romanoff moved with liquid grace. The men accepted her into their circle without hesitation. An equal. Interesting, Hill thought.

"We suspect she's involved in the largest cyber-fraud ring in the northeast, an operation run by someone called Black Widow," Fury said blandly. Hill looked sharply at him. "She's good, though. Ever since she and Barton met a few years ago, we haven't been able to get either of them on so much as a kited check."

"Are they together?" Hill asked.

"Professionally, yes. Personally, we don't know. They maintain separate addresses, but we had a CI who told us they signed paperwork naming each other as medical proxies."

Hill looked at Coulson. "Had?"

Deputy Bland's face darkened. "Later."

The last rider stepped off his Harley and made a beeline for the passenger side of the Audi. Something in his walk said military.

"Steve Rogers." There was a note of admiration in Coulson's voice. "Also known as 'Captain America'—"

"Wait, that Captain America?" Hill interrupted. She caught Coulson's dreamy nod from the corner of her eye.

"Bronze Star. Two Purple Hearts. Distinguished Conduct—"

"And a general discharge after he avoided being court-martialed," Hill interrupted. For the first time, Coulson really looked at her, and she got an idea of what Deputy Bland looked like when he was pissed.

"He took a fall," Coulson said. Hill was tempted to poke him a little more, see what else she could find out about the man whose investigation Fury was handing over, but the passenger door of the Audi opened and a man in a suit that didn't fit got out.

It wasn't that the suit was too large or small; it was that the man didn't seem like the kind to wear a suit. Her impression was confirmed when he peeled off his jacket and tossed it into the car, then slammed the door. Metal gleamed on his hand as he yanked off his tie. Near shoulder-length hair was untidily collected in a man-bun. Rogers talked to him, but the man wouldn't meet his eyes.

"James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky. Reason Rogers was nearly court-martialed in the first place," Fury filled in. "Best friends since they were kids, went into the service together. Barnes went missing on a mission, was presumed dead. Five years later, Rogers heard a rumor he wasn't. Led a couple of their squadmates on a rescue mission, got Barnes out."

Hill frowned. "That wasn't—"

"Both the original mission and the rescue took place in countries where the US officially has no presence," Fury said. Disdain filled his voice. "Rogers got in trouble for making certain alphabet agencies look like fools."

"The charges the public knew about were a deal," Coulson blurted out. "An attempt to smear his image, since they couldn't talk about the real reason without opening a can of political worms."

He reeled himself in quickly. From the indulgent look on Fury's face, she suspected that the injustice done to Steve Rogers was a favorite subject with Coulson. She made a note to herself not to bring it up.

"So why's Barnes in the suit? Obviously, it's not his usual," Hill commented, watching the man stalk across the parking lot, Rogers following.

"Today was his court date."

Hill took her eye off the parking lot and put Coulson's earlier words and Barnes together. "He got off. What were the charges?"

"Trespassing, harassment, some other bullshit," Fury interjected. He leaned on the edge of the table easily. "Coulson. Tell Hill about Alexander Pierce."

"Businessman out of DC. He's investing in property locally."

Coulson's face was too bland. Hill looked at Fury and thought about what Coulson had said when he walked in.

"He's not popular around here?"

"Ever heard of Hydra?" Coulson asked. Hill let her lip curl.

"I've heard. Neo-Nazi down-with-the-government types. But some of them are squeakier than squeaky clean, like to hide in plain sight." Her mouth flattened. "Pierce?"

Coulson nodded. "The very same. Except he's been using intimidation tactics as well as the usual Hydra cut-taxes-and-starve-the-beast bullshit. One of his scumbags—guy named Rumlow—has been visiting homeowners that don't want to sell to Pierce. He reminds them of Pierce's offer, then comes back the next night with his Hydra buddies. They start with slashed tires and broken windows and work their way up."

"How far up?" Hill asked.

Fury and Coulson looked at each other, then at her. Bad enough that they didn't want to talk about it here. Great.

"Barnes visited Pierce's local base of operations," Fury said, his voice determinedly neutral. "Uninvited."

Hill took what Coulson had said, what Fury had said, and the sight of Rogers and Barnes in the parking lot. She couldn't see their faces, but there was an intense conversation going on. The rest of the gang stood by their bikes, their body language saying that they were trying to overhear Barnes and Rogers without looking like they were eavesdropping. All except Thor—who stood back from the Audi with a disgruntled look. The window rolled up, but not before Hill caught a glimpse of a pale, handsome face.

"Who's in the Audi?"

"Lawyer," Coulson said. "Loki Laufeyson."

He didn't add anything else. Hill risked a sidelong glance. Coulson looked like Laufeyson had stolen his ice cream.

"What's Barnes doing now that he's out of the service?" she asked, deciding to come at it sideways.

"Not a whole hell of a lot," Fury said. "Gets disability and a pension, lives with Rogers." He saw the question in Hill's eyes. "Laufeyson's related to Odinson. He does their legal work."

"Slippery son of a bitch," Coulson said, voice so low that Hill wasn't sure she was supposed to hear it. She decided to pretend not. Coulson's pancakes arrived, and he dug in with an angry stab of his fork.

Hill looked back at the parking lot. Rogers and Barnes were walking back to the group. Banner had his hands in his pockets and was watching Stark explain something to Barton's unmoving sunglasses with a great deal of gesticulating. Odinson was grinning like a yellow Lab at Romanoff, while Romanoff managed to smile and look unimpressed at the same time.

"Deputy Hill, meet the Avengers Motorcycle Club. Criminals, disgraced military, and fucking insane sons of bitches," Fury said. Hill couldn't help noticing that Fury's one eye was narrowed in Stark's direction on the last words. As Rogers and Barnes neared the group, they began walking toward the doors. "You'll be taking over the investigation from Deputy Coulson."

Every instinct she had told Hill not to turn her back on the door. She did anyway, because what Fury was saying didn't make sense. It made even less sense when she saw Coulson's face: unconcerned, stuffed full of pancake.

"Sir?" she said. "You seem confident in Coulson's handling of this case—why hand it over to me? I'm new here. I don't know the town, the people, the players—"

"That's exactly why I'm handing this investigation over to you, Hill," Fury said. Was she imagining a note of satisfaction in the sheriff's voice? Probably. "I need fresh eyes on this. Someone who can put aside the past and see clearly. Someone who won't be distracted by local ties or local politics. An outsider."

Hill blinked. Something wasn't right here. She looked from Coulson—still calmly eating his pancakes—to Fury, his coffee untouched. Bastard, she thought absent-mindedly; he'd never intended to drink it at all.

"So the Avengers investigation . . ." she said.

"The official files are back at the station," Coulson said, pausing with a bite of pancake on his fork. "I'll show you when we return."

"Right." Hill paused. She had the distinct impression that the two men were waiting for her. To say something? To ask a question? She turned over what she'd heard in her head.

Given what Fury and Coulson had told her, the Avengers were a rough bunch. But their crimes—with the exception of Barnes's trespassing—were all in the past. The only violent criminal activity that Fury and Coulson had brought up hadn't been associated with the Avengers; it had been Pierce.

She got a peek at the shape of the thing, and she didn't like it. She glared at Fury and Coulson, equally noncommittal. It would serve them right if she quit right now and walked out. It didn't matter what they thought they'd hired her for; this was shaping up to be a snake pit of a job.

Then again, she was being handed her own investigation. The first day on the job.

Might as well figure out if this was what it sounded like, she thought. She looked down at the syrup-sticky table, then up at Fury.

"I'm not investigating them, am I. I'm investigating him."

Fury's mouth twitched upward at the corner. Coulson looked approving. She sighed. "What kind of resources am I looking at?"

Fury looked over her shoulder.

She turned, like an idiot, just in time to see every single one of the Avengers staring back at her.

"Sheriff. Deputy," Rogers said. His deep voice sounded even better in person than it had on CNN.

"Captain," Fury responded. "I'd like you to meet my new deputy, Maria Hill."

She debated whether to stand or keep sitting for five seconds before Rogers was standing in front of her, offering her his hand. She shook it.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"Pleasure's all mine," she said, and was mildly horrified by the flirtatious way the words came out of her mouth. She did her best to make her expression forbidding in compensation. Rogers didn't look like he'd been affected one way or another; he just nodded to her, then to Fury and Coulson.

"Officers," he said, then backed away, joining the rest of the Avengers as they took over a pair of tables on the opposite side of the restaurant. Hill made herself turn her back on the group.

Fury had his wallet out. "Phil. See you back at the office?"

"Yes, sir," Coulson said. "I've got it, sir—"

"Son, you try to pay for those pancakes and I'll bust you down to festival duty," Fury said. Coulson flinched and slid across the bench so that Fury could get out. "Hill. Keep Coulson company in case the bacon does him in."

"Yes, sir," Hill said, and watched Fury go. When she turned back to Coulson, he was eating a strip of bacon with his fingers, looking thoughtful.

He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't incompetent. He had the almost-ageless face some white guys managed to pull off, the kind that stuck on a particular blend of wrinkles and freckles around age 38 and stayed that way for the next twenty years, but she was willing to bet that even if he was closer to fifty than forty, he wasn't retiring any time soon. Even in a suit, he carried himself like patrol: eyes open, head up, ears pricked for trouble.

"So what are you doing while I'm working your case?" Hill asked, because she'd learned a long time ago that direct questions from a female officer sometimes shook more loose than you'd expect. Coulson looked back at her, unperturbed. He'd relaxed a little with Fury gone.

"Other investigations," he said. "Don't worry about me. I'll stay busy. Bacon?"

"No, thanks," she said. "I value my arteries."

"Suit yourself," he said, and bit into it with a crunch. "So. BCI?"

And here it came, finally. "Six years. Some homicide, some organized criminal activity, some joint ops. Good people, but a lot of stress. Decided it was time to make a change."

The words she'd rehearsed came out smooth, if a little stilted. Coulson's gray eyes didn't blink. He finished chewing his bacon, taking a little longer than he really needed. She waited. She wasn't afraid of silence.

Behind her, a laugh boomed out over the chatter of conversation. Odinson, she thought, and the awareness that she'd been trying to suppress came flooding in. The acoustics of the restaurant sucked for eavesdropping—part of the reason Fury had brought them here, she thought—but she could pick out Rogers and Romanoff easily, as well as a machine-gun chatter that she'd bet was Stark or Barton. The Avengers.

"They're not an OMG," Hill said. Coulson shook his head.

"Technically and practically, no. While the Avengers participate in a certain amount of criminal activity—Romanoff and Barton, in particular—the group itself isn't a conduit for organized activity per the Justice Department's definition. They're not exactly disliked locally, either, although there's a few bars in town that Odinson's not allowed into any more."

"Must make it hard to find witnesses willing to talk," she said. Coulson shrugged.

"Not everyone's a fan. The mayor, for example. He's up for reelection next fall. Running on a law-and-order platform."

Politics. Christ. Why was it always politics? For a moment, Hill thought seriously about telling Coulson he could keep his damned Avengers investigation. She could go back to the BCI; Victoria Hand had made it clear that she'd take Hill back in a heartbeat—both professionally and personally.

Hill set aside the wrench of pain that followed that thought and made herself focus. She didn't second-guess herself, and she didn't do regret. Life wasn't that long.

Before she could dig further into the Avengers, Coulson looked over her shoulder. Fuck Fury, the next time I meet someone in this shithole, I'm taking the seat with a view of the door, Hill thought, and turned around in time to watch one of the most gorgeous men she'd ever seen walk through the door.

"Yo, Phil, me and Riley are bored as hell. When you gonna shoot up some bad guys for us?"

He strode toward their booth with the confidence of a star forward, his dark biceps straining at the sleeves of his paramedic's uniform, his grin wide and white under his wraparound sunglasses. A tall woman of Korean descent followed him, the tail of her black-and-pink French braid just brushing the collar of her uniform.

"Fury said I'm not allowed to do that anymore," Coulson said, his smile wide. "Sam, this deputy Maria Hill. Hill, this is Sam Wilson and his partner Riley Harper. Best first-responders in the county."

"In the state," Wilson corrected him, and held out his hand. He had a good grip. "At your service, ma'am. You plug 'em, we patch 'em."

"Ignore this joker," Harper drawled. She shook hands with Hill. "He jumps out of planes for fun. You can't trust anything he says."

"Nice to meet you," Hill said, and meant it. Most of her work at the BCI had involved first responders in one way or another; she'd learned quickly that knowing names (and personalities) could be the difference between getting information fast or going through channels. "Hopefully, we won't be working together too much . . ."

"Damn straight," Harper muttered. She met Hill's eyes, and a flash of understanding passed between them. Hill traded nods, Coulson talked some good-natured shit with Wilson, and the paramedics moved off to take up seats at the counter.

"You ready?" Coulson asked, already sliding out of the bench seat. Hill didn't move.

"I don't know, is there anything else you want to tell me that you can't say at the station?"

Coulson could have bristled. He didn't. He just smiled: an expression both tired and warm. "Not yet."

Christ. This was exactly the kind of bullshit she'd wanted to leave behind with the BCI. She sighed.

"Fine. I'll follow you."

Chapter Text

The sheriff's department was located in a deceptively boring-looking office building from the eighties. Coulson brought her in through the back. Hill quickly oriented herself, matching up what she'd seen of the place during her interview, but came to a dead halt when she saw who was sitting behind the glass of the dispatcher's desk.

"That's—that's—"

"Melinda May, yes." Coulson's eyes twinkled with the glee of someone seeing an old prank work on a new victim. "Know her?"

"Do I know the Cavalry—" Hill said, incredulous, and was cut off.

"Don't call her that," Coulson said, suddenly serious. "She doesn't like being reminded of that episode in her career."

"Right," Hill muttered, and wrenched her eyes away from the calm, dark-haired woman wearing the headset. The calm, dark-haired living legend. Hill was suddenly suspicious. There was no way Hand hadn't known May was here, but she hadn't breathed a word of it. Thanks a lot, Vic, she thought.

A young woman in decidedly non-regulation jeans, high-top sneakers, and a flannel shirt charged out of a nearby office, holding a tablet computer. "Hey, AC, I got some hits on that thing you asked me to look into—" she said, and drew up short when she saw Hill. "Hey." She looked at Coulson. "This the new girl?"

Hill swallowed the oh-so-tempting impulse to shoot back who are you calling girl? and said, flatly, "Maria Hill. I'm the new deputy."

"Deputy Hill's coming to us from the BCI," Coulson said. "Hill, this is Skye, our IT part-timer."

"I prefer computer goddess, Mistress of All She Networks, but Skye works," the kid said. She promptly ignored Hill to shove her tablet at Coulson. "Phil. It's the thing."

"Later, Skye," Coulson said in a voice with definite dad overtones. Skye sighed heavily and turned to Hill, tilting her head.

"Let me know when you wanna set up your computer. I'll be in the tech cave," she said, then flounced off. Hill decided she hated her on principle.

"She'll grow on you," Coulson said, seeing her expression.

"Uh-huh," Hill said, and Coulson was smart enough to let it go.

"Let me show you your work space—" he started to say, and was interrupted by a loud buzz and the bang of a door hitting a wall. He spun toward the sound, Hill only a second behind him.

"Let me go, you asshole." The voice was a child, and despite the defiant edge, there was real fear beneath it. Hill moved forward, operating on instinct, and wasn't surprised to find Coulson right next to her.

"You need to learn some respect." The man's words were followed by the metal/plastic clatter of someone—the child, probably—being shoved into a chair. Hill and Coulson arrived in the station lobby in time to see a uniformed deputy lifting his hand from a ten- or eleven-year-old boy in a ripped t-shirt and jeans, his gold-highlighted brown hair a tangled shaggy mess that didn't quite hide the boy's glare.

"Deputy Ward," Coulson said sharply. "What's going on here?"

Ward straightened, looking like he'd stepped straight out of an encyclopedia illustration for sheriff's deputy: square-jawed, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, sun-tanned, spit-shined malice in his eyes. His attention went to Coulson first, then to her, and the flicker of reaction in his face made her palm itch for the grip of her Glock.

"Sir," Ward said. "Ms. Keener here decided that she didn't feel like going to school today, which is too bad, because attending school is part of her probation."

Ward turned his head toward the boy—girl?—halfway through his explanation, delivering the second half of his announcement with a bully's satisfaction. Keener flinched at his (her?) name, then again when Ward raised his voice, but didn't look up from the floor. Hill checked Coulson's reaction, and found Deputy Bland working hard to keep his mask of indifference in place.

"Deputy Ward. Sheriff Fury has talked about correct pronoun use."

Some of Ward's cheer disappeared at Coulson's words, but not as if Ward felt chastised or surprised; calculation flashed in the man's eyes, as if some thought of his had been confirmed by Coulson's response. "You're right, sir. Sorry, sir."

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, Ward."

The deputy pressed his lips together, then turned his head toward the boy without moving his body. "My apologies, Mr. Keener."

The boy's nostrils flared and his lower lip puffed out, almost comically sulking, but he didn't look up or speak. Hill scanned the boy's arms and cheeks. If he was being hit or grabbed—by Ward or by anyone else—the perp had been careful not to leave marks anywhere but on the kid's psyche. Coulson stepped closer and turned his shoulders, not looming, but giving the boy a direction to look that excluded Ward.

"Harley. What were you doing out of school? We agreed you were going to give it a shot."

The boy looked up at Coulson, still sulking. "School sucks."

"Have other students been harassing you?"

His eyes slid sideways. "I'm not learning anything. I learn more when—"

Ward's mouth curled when the boy cut himself off—as if the boy had implicated himself somehow. Or implicated someone else, Hill thought. "I found him on Roberts Road. Walking east," Ward added. Coulson straightened and sighed.

"Harley, is your mom at work?"

The kid's eyes went big, and for the first time, he actually looked chastened. "Yeah. Until four."

"All right. I'm going to ask Ms. May to order you some lunch. You let her know what you want, then hang out in the conference room. I'm going to call the school and let them know where you are, and at four, we're going to go home and talk to your mom."

Ward's face had gotten steadily darker as Coulson spoke, losing any trace of smugness. When the boy nodded at Coulson and rose, Hill saw him open his mouth, but something in Coulson's expression stopped him from talking until the Keener boy had walked past Hill—eyes downcast—on his way, presumably, to the dispatch desk and Melinda May.

"Sir—"

"Use. The correct. Pronoun," Coulson said, his voice low and full of more threat than Hill had yet heard out of him. "Understood, Deputy Ward?"

"Sir—"

"Understood?"

Ward's jaw jutted. The pout on his lips was considerably less cute than the Keener boy's version of the same expression. "Yes, sir," he said. "But Stark—"

"Harley was walking east on Roberts Road. Correct? He was not in Stark's presence, in his vehicle, or on his property," Coulson said, delivering his words with the precision of a man who intended to bury you with them. "I will report his truancy to his caseworker and his mother, and if his caseworker recommends additional actions, I will ensure they are taken. Understood?"

Hill had endured enough pissing matches to know when the participants had decided who had the biggest dick. She'd also had enough of being ignored.

"Gentlemen," she said, and walked into conversational distance before offering her hand. "Maria Hill."

Deputy spit-shine hesitated a second, reluctant to break from his staring match with Coulson, then turned to her. "Grant Ward," he said, and shook.

"Deputy Hill is joining the department," Coulson said. Hill spoke before Coulson could continue or Ward could adjust to the topic change.

"I'll be taking over the Avengers investigation as of today. What's the connection between Stark and Keener?"

Ward had decent control of his face; enough control that, if she hadn't been watching him talk to Coulson, she might have missed the flicker of rage in his eyes.

"Harley Keener sees Stark as a father figure," he answered. "Follows him around, particularly when school's in session." His voice didn't actually turn smooth as melted chocolate, but it warmed considerably compared to the way he'd spoken to Coulson. "I'd be happy to give you some background on the investigation."

 "I'd appreciate that."

Ward checked his watch, then looked up at her. "My shift's over at five—"

"If you're on duty tomorrow, maybe then? I'm still settling in and I've got the cable guy coming after work." Hill made the expression—the one she'd worked on in the mirror—that said I'm a woman and I am telling you to do what I want and not what you want, I apologize for the impertinence. It was not a face she used often, and she wasn't very good at it. Ward hesitated, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing or what he thought it meant, then said, "Sure. I can do that."

Hill offered her hand again. "Nice meeting you."

"Same," Ward said, and shook. He and Coulson exchanged hostile eyefucks and monosyllables, then he turned and left. Coulson watched him, lips pressed together, then looked at Hill, suspicious. She didn't rise to the bait.

"I'm going to check on Harley," he said. Hill made the grunt that said I understand what you're doing, go do it already, and stood there. Coulson waited a moment more before turning his back on her. She watched him go and thought, lacing inferences between observations and letting the design develop.

Keener was a transboy. Single mother, harassed at school, came into Stark's orbit somehow and attached himself as a kind of apprentice to the inventor—she was almost certain that the boy had started to say that he learned more from Stark than in school. The school district was all right, from the little she'd heard of it, but—like most public schools any more—she doubted it had much to offer beyond standardized instruction; certainly nothing for a clever and mechanically inclined kid. Coulson—in contrast to Fury's evident frustration with Stark—didn't seem particularly concerned by this, despite Fury's earlier mention of Stark's alcoholism and irresponsibility, which either meant that Coulson didn't give a damn or Coulson thought the kid might as well spend his afternoons tinkering with a mechanical genius as spend his time being harassed by middle-school sociopaths who hadn't been taught the difference between sex and gender by their conservatively hamstrung and overworked teachers.

Coulson was more concerned with protecting the kid than following the law. He should have called the caseworker, searched the kid, and put him in detention if necessary—not let him walk and told him he'd get him a sandwich. It might have been the wrong move—God knows she'd met enough demonic little shits with angelic faces who'd scammed the system with the speed of the well-practiced and the amoral—but Hill liked him for it.

She didn't like Ward. Sexist, transphobic, and an authority addict, with the bonus of potential racism. He wanted the Avengers investigation and there was more than just barked pride behind his rage. Maybe it was justification, maybe it was something else: Fury and Coulson had been careful to talk about the real target of the Avengers investigation away from the station. She wasn't ready to condemn the man entirely, but Maria Hill had had her life saved by her intuition before, and her intuition said the man was trouble.

She sighed.

Because the only thing more fun than investigating crooked pols was working side by side with bigoted cops.

---

The rest of Hill's first day on the job was eaten up by the kinds of things you expect to encounter on the first day of a new job: introductions, paperwork, lining up passwords and timesheets and going over personnel policies. Hill was shown her new office which, shockingly, was an actual office, complete with a door that locked. It was a windowless converted supply closet that would be claustrophobic if she didn't leave the door open, but it was a space all her own, which was unexpected. At the BCI, she'd spent the first two years hot-desking four desks with seven other investigators, and the last four she'd shared a tiny office (not much bigger than this, honestly) with her partner.

At the end of the day, after she'd noted down her last username/PIN combination and initialed her last HR form, she returned to survey her territory.

L-bracket bookshelves, three, containing a dead houseplant of uncertain genus. Olive four-drawer metal filing cabinet, one, shoved into the corner and covered with bits of scotch tape that made her fingers itch with the desire to peel it clean. Oak-veneer-topped metal desk, one, hard against the filing cabinet, topped with a dusty LCD monitor that connected to a wheezingly ancient-looking tower in the knee well. Desk phone with cryptic scribbles next to the direct-dial buttons. Corkboard on the wall behind the desk. A couple hooks for jackets.

She stepped inside and closed the door. The buzzing fluorescent over her head cast everything in a sickly light; she'd need to get a desk lamp or something.

The keys to lock the filing cabinet were in the upper desk drawer, along with a handful of dull pencils, dry pens, and rusty paperclips. She sat down at the desk, perspiring a little in the closeness, and booted the computer.

The operating system that awakened was two generations newer than Hill had expected, a generation ahead of what the BCI used and one behind the one on her personal computer. Unusual for a sheriff's department, especially one that was responsible for a largely-rural area. Maybe Fury's got clout, she thought, then set aside the question of Fury's political ability for later and started navigating through the department's shared files, looking for Avengers material. Coulson had prepared a summary document and attached it to a message in her new department email; she ignored it for now, going straight for complaints and arrest sheets.

Two hours in, someone knocked on the door. She'd taken the Glock out of the holster and set it in a drawer a few minutes after she'd sat down; now she looked at the drawer pull and thought about opening it. Stop it, she told herself, heart beating faster, and made herself look away.

"Yes?" she said.

The door opened. Fury was behind it.

"Already bucking for overtime, huh, Hill?" he said, hands on hips.

"Just familiarizing myself with the Avengers investigation," she said. She thought she saw a spark of approval in Fury's eye.

"Plenty of time to start on that tomorrow. Don't you have cable to install?"

Coulson had told him about meeting Ward. Interesting. She kept her face impassive. "I'm not here to watch TV, Sheriff."

Fury didn't respond.

He'd never asked her why she left the BCI—not this morning, not during any of her interviews. He should have asked—even if she hadn't been taking what was, in the eyes of most cops, a voluntary demotion, that kind of information was basic to evaluating a possible new hire. Was she running from internal discipline or moving closer to family? Leaving a level of intensity that she couldn't hack or escaping a dead-end assignment?

Hill thought about Vic and Anne and all the recon she'd done before she applied, making sure she wasn't joining a department that was more interested in fulfilling a diversity quotient than hiring an officer. The gossip had been that Nick Fury saw more with one eye than some chiefs saw with two; that he had a background in Army intelligence and he wasn't afraid to use it in his current job.

Fury knew exactly why she was here, in both the immediate sense—why she was sitting in this closet of an office at seven PM on her first day—and in the larger picture.

Hill realized her jaw had shifted into a stubborn jut and tried to make her face relax. Judging from her new boss's expression, she didn't do a very good job of it.

"This case'll be a long haul, Deputy Hill," he said finally. "Don't burn yourself out in the first week. Go home. Get a pizza or something."

"Yes, sir," she said, not mistaking the words for anything but what they were: an order. She powered down the computer under Fury's watchful eye, then retrieved her gun, turned off the overhead light, and carefully closed and locked the door of her office behind her. Fury walked her out the back door, then stopped on the concrete steps. Hill turned when she realized he wasn't following her, putting her back to the half-empty lot and the buzz of the just-starting-to-glow security lights. "Sir?"

"Good night, Deputy Hill," he said, then walked back inside, as if the tone of his voice by itself wouldn't have shut down most questioners. Hill watched the door lock behind him.

"Good night, sir," she said under her breath, then turned and walked to her car.

As it turned out, Fury would be proven wrong. The Avengers case wasn't solved by painstaking police work and careful accumulation of evidence—what Fury had meant when he said called it a long haul.

No, from the moment Maria Hill had arrived in town—from the moment Maria Hill's resume had arrived on Fury's desk—the Avengers case had been set on a different course, one that few people could have predicted, and it was anything but long, painstaking, or careful.

It was, however, damn exciting.

Chapter Text

Hill didn't sleep well that night, for the usual reasons—new noises to get used to in a new apartment, thinking about the people she'd met, worrying about the job—but she rose early the next morning anyway, stepped outside the gates of her apartment complex, and covered five miles of foggy asphalt and occasional headlights at an easy lope. She used the time to set her thoughts in order, so that by the time she pulled into the sheriff's department lot, her plan for the day was fresh in her mind and detailed enough that she covered the ground between her car and the door with brisk strides. Halfway there, she registered the blonde leaning against the wall near the back door, Coach purse over her shoulder. Hill slowed her steps—she didn't want to blow off one of her new coworkers, but she wasn't interested in socializing over a cloud of cigarette smoke—before the woman stepped toward her.

She was waiting for me. Hill's heart gave an adrenaline-spiked pound, then the woman was offering her open hand, smiling broadly.

"Detective Hill? Christine Everhart, from the Free Press. Welcome to Greenville; I wonder if I could get a moment of your time?"

Her hand wasn't empty; she was holding a business card. Hill took it and glanced at the front—Greenville Free Press, Everhart's name, and her phone and email contacts—before returning her attention to the woman in front of her. Her hair fell in looked-effortless-but-wasn't waves to her shoulders. Hill was tired, her thoughts pulled between the Avengers case and the hint of cleavage showing just beneath Everhart's sorority necklace, so she didn't immediately pick up on the intense focus in the reporter's eyes. "Sure," she said. "I don't have a card yet, but if you call the non-emergency line for the department—"

"I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes right now," Everhart said, still smiling. "Just a few questions about your background—I'm sure it seems very small-town to you, but getting a new sheriff's deputy is a big deal in a place like Greenville, especially someone . . . like you."

Hill's mouth flattened. Small town. Right. She should have guessed that the sheriff's department hiring a Latina woman would be news.

She thought about repeating—or rather, finishing—the request for Everhart to make an appointment, but blowing off a reporter, even a small-time one like Everhart, was rarely wise, and claiming she was on an important investigation risked tipping her hand to the Avengers. Hill let the pause drag on a little longer, but Everhart's bleached-white smile didn't crack. Hill shifted her weight, settling in, and Everhart's smile widened for a second.

"Five minutes," Hill said. "If you need more than that, you can make an appointment."

"Mind if I record this?" Everhart asked, pulling a tape recorder out of her purse's outside pocket. "For accuracy," she added. Hill nodded.

"Christine Everhart interviewing Detective Maria Hill," the reporter said, then held the microphone in Hill's direction. "Detective Hill, could you tell me a little about your education and background in law enforcement?"

Hill answered, bullet-point brief; Everhart followed up by asking about the purpose of the BCI—a softball question, meant to educate readers whose TV habits left them more familiar with police procedures in Hawaii and Nevada than New York state. In the middle of answering Everhart's third question—another softball about her duties at the BCI—Hill started to relax. The reporter was keeping it professional, it seemed, avoiding mention of Hill's gender or ethnicity. The approach was as welcome as it was unexpected.

"One more question," Everhart said, her smile turning wheedling. The reporter had used up her five minutes—and no doubt knew it—but Hill was willing to let her push her boundaries this time. Hopefully it'd make up for her earlier brusqueness.

"One quick one," Hill said. Some emotion flickered in Everhart's eyes, too fast to identify, and she lifted the microphone closer to Hill.

"Your former partner at the BCI, Jasper Sitwell, was shot and killed in the line of duty last year. The investigation into his death is still officially open. What do you have to say to the allegation that Sitwell committed suicide because he was under investigation by his own department as a dirty cop?"

Hill stopped breathing. She could see satisfaction in Everhart's brown eyes as she recognized the effect her words had. Hill's oatmeal and coffee threatened to make an encore appearance. "No comment," she said, and stepped forward so quickly that Everhart had to dodge out of the way.

"How about the allegation that the investigation into his death is still open because you killed him, Detective Hill?"

She stopped halfway to the back door, her head swimming. She was torn between puking, breaking Everhart's button nose, and getting in her car to drive straight back to Albany.

Instead, she turned. Everhart swayed backward at the look on Hill's face but didn't retreat, holding the recorder in front of her like a fencing foil. "Jasper Sitwell was a good man. He was a husband, and a father, and a friend. It was an honor to serve with him. I have no further comment," Hill finished. She turned her back on Everhart and nearly groaned aloud. Faces were visible in the windows on either side of the back door.

"Detective Hill," Everhart called. Hill ignored her and entered through the back door with the department code, then walked briskly through the building to her office. She fumbled her keys at the door, dropping them with a clatter, then took three tries to get the key into the lock, her hands shaking. But the door opened before any of her new coworkers could interrupt her with greetings or questions, and Hill flicked the light on, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. As soon as it latched, she leaned against it.

Her heart was racing as fast as if she'd just faced off with an armed bank robber. Small-town reporter, her ass—either Everhart was a stringer for a bigger paper, or she wanted to be. Hill closed her eyes and let the back of her head rest against the door.

Memory painted the inside of her eyelids red, and her eyes snapped open. She didn't need the crime-scene photos on her laptop to see Jasper Sitwell's dying-place; it was burned into her like a scar. Her stomach churned. It didn't have to be like that, she thought at him for the thousandth time since he died. You could have talked to me. You could have let me in.

But he couldn't, and that was what kept her awake. What drove her away, ultimately, after a year of being reminded of him by every corner they'd staked out, every shitty burger they'd eaten together, every repeat-offender they'd dragged into the interview room: knowing that he couldn't talk to her, and that was why he'd ended up dead.

Damn Jasper. And damn Everhart, too.

Hill stayed in the office until she'd pulled herself together. It didn't take long; she'd had a lot of practice in the last year. For the rest of the morning, she waited for the oh-so-casually dropped "Everhart, huh? What'd she want with you?" but no one asked during the beginning-of-shift meeting, and after that, she closeted herself with Coulson in an empty conference room and went over the Avengers casefiles.

When they broke for lunch (ordering in dal and chicken tikki masala from the one place in town that did decent Indian, despite the fact that it was located in the food court of Greenville's sorry excuse for a mall), Hill leaned back in her chair to stretch and asked Coulson the question that had been bothering her since the previous day.

"What's the deal with the Keener kid?"

Coulson looked up from the spoonful of spiced lentils halfway to his mouth. "Harley? From yesterday?"

Hill nodded. She appreciated Coulson's attempt to make sure she knew Greenville's culinary offerings extended beyond shitty coffee and greasy spoon pancakes, but her stomach was still unsettled from her encounter with Everhart, and her chicken sat before her, largely untouched. "Sounded like a straightforward violation."

Coulson's face darkened immediately. Youth cases were rarely straightforward, in Hill's limited experience, but she'd wanted to get a rise out of Coulson. He put his spoon down, obliging.

"Harley Keener tests at a genius level," he said quietly. "Reads with high-school-level comprehension, and he's light-years ahead of his classmates in the sciences. But his mother's a waitress who works sixty hours a week, and he was designated female at birth. There's nothing for him at home, and worse than nothing at school." Coulson's gaze was intense—just this side of challenging. "He was treated in the emergency room three times for cuts requiring stitches and once for a concussion before a local parent brought charges against him. He gave the woman's son a black eye in front of the neighbors. The lawyer talked it up, called Harley a deviant menace, painted Mrs. Keener as an absentee mother . . . it was a miracle that the judge commuted the sentence to time served and probation."

Hill could picture it: hateful parents teaching their kids hate, then turning around and siccing the lawyers on Keener when the boy tried to give his tormentors a taste of their own medicine. Good on the judge for seeing through the bullshit, she thought, but kept her face impassive.

"And Stark?"

Coulson's mouth tightened. He didn't like Stark. "He's helped the boy," the older investigator said grudgingly. "Lets him work in his workshop. He's not exactly the role model I'd choose, but . . ." Coulson shrugged, and finished bluntly " . . . at least in Stark's workshop, he's not in any danger of being beaten or emotionally scarred."

Hill was moderately pleased at the confirmation of yesterday's inferences. She hid her reaction and checked Coulson's cardboard takeout container.

"Seems like a good transition to talking about Stark," she said, and Coulson took the cue, collecting what remained of their lunches and setting them in the office refrigerator.

They spent another hour on the Avengers files before Coulson left her to work on his other active investigations. Fifteen minutes into solitary study of the files, there was a knock on the doorjamb. Hill looked up.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," the blonde in the tan skirt-suit said, her voice confident enough to make her words a courtesy instead of an actual inquiry. Hill's earlier experience with an unexpected blonde made her close the file in front of her instinctively.

"That depends," she said, her voice sharp. "Who are you?"

Skirt-suit—delicate nose, hair in a loose, low bun—stopped halfway through the door, eyes widening slightly at Hill's tone. "Sharon Carter, assistant prosecutor for the county," she said, her voice slowed. Hill winced internally. Good move, Hill.

"Sorry," she said, and circled the table to offer her hand. "Maria Hill. I got ambushed this morning by Christine Everhart. Wasn't really expecting to meet the press on my second day—before my second day on the job."

Carter shook Hill's hand and took a seat when the detective offered. "Understood," she said. "I don't know why she hasn't moved to Albany or Buffalo already. She's ambitious. Fair, but ambitious," she added.

"So I gather," Hill said. She sat in the next rolling chair over and turned it to face Carter, putting just enough space between them that her knees were in no danger of meeting Carter's pointed kitten heels. "So. What can I do for you, Madam Prosecutor?"

Carter made a face and relaxed into the chair. "Well, for starters, you can call me Sharon. Then you can give me a gift-wrapped RICO case against the Avengers. My birthday's in November," she added.

Hill took a moment to absorb the actual words the other woman had delivered so flippantly, then gave a short bark of a laugh. "Sure, Sharon. Just give me time to get a card."

Carter smiled—a genuine, warm smile that lifted her whole face. "That's the attitude I like to see," she said, then uncrossed her leg and leaned forward, smile fading. "Jokes aside, I didn't come here to find out what you could do for me; I came to ask what I could do for you. Shutting down the Avengers is a priority for Mayor Garrett, but it won't be easy. I wanted to let you know—in person—that my office is committed to providing whatever support you need to bring this outlaw gang to justice. We might not have the kind of budget you're used to at the BCI, but we're creative."

Unease and reluctant admiration stirred in Hill's chest. Carter was good; she projected sincerity and warmth so strongly that even Hill thought she meant what exactly what she said about the Avengers. It was the kind of presence that made defense attorneys seem shifty and untrustworthy; the kind of personal conviction that reassured juries into guilty verdicts on less-than-perfect evidence.

The problem was, Hill didn't agree with her about the Avengers.

"Thank you," Hill said slowly. "I'm sure I'll be speaking to your office soon. At the moment, I'm trying to get a sense of the players—who they are, what their lives are like. The complete picture."

Carter smiled, slow and wry. She rested her elbows on the arms of the chair and leaned back. "I might be able to help you with that. Background, I mean." She glanced at the table. "Got a notepad here somewhere?"

Hill did, on the other side of the table. She retrieved it, opened it to a blank page, and handed it to Carter, who had taken her cell phone out of her pocket. She referenced the screen as she wrote down a number with a silver Cross pen, then slid the notepad to Hill. It was a phone number.

Hill looked from the pad to Carter. "Informant?" she asked, dropping her voice. But why the hell would the assistant prosecutor have an informant that the detective assigned to the case didn't?  she thought, tension coiling in her spine. Carter let out a short, throaty laugh, oblivious to Hill's anxiety.

"Not exactly," she said. "That's Peggy Carter, my great-aunt." She tapped the page lightly. "She's . . . well, she's Steve Rogers' godmother, according to the baptismal certificate, and half the other Avengers might as well be her godchildren." She caught the expression on Hill's face and interpreted it as disbelief, correctly. "It's a small county," she said, her voice weary and amused at the same time. "And she's the most stubborn old woman in creation."

Hill blinked. "So how—"

Carter pointed a finger at Hill. "Stubborn, but gossipy. She stopped talking to me about the Avengers a long time ago, but she might talk to you. Almost certainly won't be anything you could prosecute them with—and she'd lie anyway if you tried to put her on the witness stand—but if you want background, Peggy will have it. She likes sweets," Carter added, and stood up. Hill followed suit, still confused, and shook Carter's hand when she offered it.

"Good to meet you, Detective Hill," Carter said.

Hill had the presence of mind to blurt "Maria. Please," before Carter could continue, and was rewarded by that lazy-warm smile.

"Good to meet you, Maria," she purred. "Remember, November. And I don't mind early gifts."

Hill said something that must have come out appropriate and relatively ungarbled, because Carter shone a parting smile in her direction before leaving, runner's calves flexing as she strode away. Hill did some quick math as she stood in the doorway. Four months since the last time she'd gotten laid.

Right. Sure. That explained it.

She resisted the urge to run her hands through her hair in frustration and gave herself a shake instead before sitting down at the table again, putting Sharon Carter and her warm smile and perfect legs firmly out of her mind.

It wasn't hard once Hill sat back and started thinking about what Carter had said. Most cases put together under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act were assembled by teams of law enforcement officers, often working across agencies; they were built over years. Carter had been making a joke with her mention of November, and there were certainly smaller charges she could probably make stick against the individual Avengers—enough, at least, to give the mayor a few victories to campaign on—but the fact remained that the Avengers investigation was big. Too big for one person. Too big to close in a few months, or even a few years.

Hill took a deep breath, then rose, closed the conference room door, and sat back down. She took her cell phone from her pocket and touched the name at the top of her frequently-called list, then leaned back in her chair, a wary eye on the door.

"Hand."

"Vic. It's me."

Chapter Text

There was a pause. "Wait one," Victoria Hand said, then there were a few seconds of silence before the line came alive again with the sound of a door clicking shut. The faint background-noise voices Hill had heard when Victoria answered had disappeared.

"Maria. I heard about Everhart. She's got nothing but the official press releases and some whispers out of the coroner's office. As long as you don't give her anything, she won't have anything."

Victoria's rip-the-bandaid-off briskness was comfortingly familar, until the words sank in. Hill flattened a hand on the table, heartbeat racing. Christ. How had Vic found out about Everhart so fast? Did she have a contact in the department that she hadn't told Hill about? Or had Everhart gone to her next? Before? Hill forced her thoughts away from the reporter.

"That's not why I called."

"Oh."

As she had done frequently in the sixteen months they'd spent sleeping together—and even more frequently in the five months since they'd broken up—Hill struggled to parse the wealth of emotional complexity that Victoria Hand could impart to a one-syllable word. Was this annoyance at being denied the conversational upper hand? Disappointment that Hill hadn't called her to tell her about Everhart? Irritation at being interrupted in the middle of the working day with a question that she couldn't answer in thirty seconds or less?

A team of Internal Affairs investigators could spend a year on fifteen minutes of Victoria Hand's conversations and come away with nothing but a newfound commitment to alcoholism. Certainly Hill nearly had.

"Melinda May's here." She'd meant to ask a practical question—about Fury, or Pierce, or Rogers, or Romanoff—but Vic's oh had pissed her off.

"You called to talk about May?"

No fake surprise. No apology for not telling Hill May'd be there. Just right back at her, calling Hill out for wasting her time.

Maybe she was wasting time, being angry. Maybe Vic had moved on. Maybe Maria was the inappropriate one for expecting Vic to ask if she was okay—Vic might have closed her door, but she was still at the office, where their relationship had been far enough out of regs that it could still get Vic in trouble.

"No."

She stopped. Her head was spinning. She shouldn't have called Vic without a set list of questions; she knew Vic could upend her train of thought with a word, that was the way it had always been between Vic and Maria. Without a plan, Maria never stood a chance. But Maria had reached for the phone without thinking, expecting . . . God only knew what. Comfort? Support? From the woman she had broken up with?

"Maria."

There was a world of warning and question in the way Vic said her name, and somewhere in it was concern for Hill's welfare. She didn't have time to go looking.

She closed her eyes. "Nick Fury. I need to know if he's on the level."

Vic let the dead air stretch until a woman who didn't know her would have said "hello?" to check if the line was still live.

"He's on the level. I wouldn't have let you go if he wasn't."

Hill squeezed her eyes closed tighter at the multifaceted reproof Vic managed to squeeze into two sentences. She could feel a headache starting, pushing against the backs of her eyes.

"Maria?"

Be a professional. "You still have connections in DC?"

A short breath on the line, like Vic had either suppressed a snort or started to say something and stopped herself. "Yes."

"Anything you can find about Alexander Pierce. And Hydra." Her eyeballs were going to explode. She jammed the heel of her free hand into her eyesocket. "Thanks. Gotta go."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and jabbed her thumb against the end-call button before her mouth could get her into any more trouble. Be a professional. God. This was why you didn't sleep with people you worked with. Stupid clitoris.

She dropped her phone to the table and rubbed her eyes. Did she still have Excedrin in her purse? Maybe. Did she want to ask where the department supply of headache-killers was if she didn't have Excedrin in her purse? Probably not.

Hill was contemplating the walk back to her office when there was a rap at the door. She lifted her hands from her eyes just as the door opened. Grant Ward stood behind it, head tilted. Hell, she thought.

"Hey," he said. "I thought I'd see if you wanted to talk about the Avengers investigation, but . . . looks like you're in the middle of something."

He'd softened his voice as soon as he saw her face and delivered her an out from her earlier invitation in a moderately more diplomatic way than she would have expected from him. She put together a tired-but-game smile in response and made an effort to sit straighter. Nice or not, she wasn't going to show weakness in front of Ward.

"Just trying to hit the ground running. Still up for dinner?"

"Sure, but—"

He was still in his patrol uniform. She lifted her chin at it. "You going to change, or are we heading to a cop bar?"

He paused, thinking. "Yeah. Unless you're hungry—"

The thought of food made her a little ill. "I can wait," she said. Ward nodded, the gears behind his eyes turning, said he'd be back in a few minutes, and left. Hill bolted for her office where—thank God—she did have Excedrin in her purse. She returned to gather the Avengers files from the conference room and stowed them in her office in lieu of tracking down Coulson to ask where they properly belonged.

When he reappeared, Ward's choice of off-duty wardrobe surprised her: cargo shorts that showed off well-turned calves, scuffed-and-paint-dabbled sneakers, and a too-tight t-shirt that advertised a two-years-past breast cancer 5k. "Sorry," he said, smiling apologetically. "I wasn't sure if you were going to take me up on that dinner offer . . ."

You are fucking shitting me, she thought, then immediately doubted herself. It was summer and Ward was technically off-duty; shorts and a t-shirt, even if they seemed calculated to show off his body, weren't exactly unusual choices for attire. And plenty of cops she knew ran in charity races. Hell, she had been pretty transparent yesterday with that dumb excuse about the cable guy—Ward could just be a decent guy who actually did read nonverbal signals and wasn't sure if Hill really wanted to have dinner with him.

Or he could be trying very damned hard to improve her first impression of him.

"Ms. Hill?"

"Maria," she said. You're getting paranoid, Hill. "Casual works for me."

Ward smiled, and dammit, it was a good-looking smile. "Grant," he said. "We can drive or walk—one of the few advantages of living in a small town."

For a second, Hill's head spun with factors—was Everhart likely to ambush her again? Did she want to be seen walking around with Ward? What if she needed to make a quick exit?—before she forced herself to simplify. Did she want to have the "who's driving?' conversation with Ward, or not?

"Let's walk," she said. "I've been stuck inside all day, I could use the air."

As soon as she said it, she realized it was true, and she calmed a little. Purse on shoulder, jacket unbuttoned, she let Ward lead her out the front of the station and onto the sidewalk. Ward wasn't carrying, unless he had a knife stashed in a pocket; Hill wondered if he was trying to keep from scaring her off, or he genuinely didn't think he needed it.

Small town, she reminded herself. Maybe he didn't.

"So, what do you think of Greenville so far, Maria?" Ward asked, falling into an easy pace beside her. The sun was still high enough to make Hill's skin dampen; as she walked, she felt the liquid bead and slide down her chest.

"Not sure yet," she said. "Nice enough place, I guess."

Cars lined the street, parked against the curb under signs that warned against rush-hour parking. Hill was irrationally relieved to have Ward between her and the black shadows the cars cast. She glanced into a store's plate-glass window—an insurance office, the view obscured by blinds—and caught a glimpse of the two of them: tall, relaxed Ward and her own tense, half-a-head-shorter profile, hand clenched on her purse.

Ward was talking about some kind of summer festival coming up that would take place in the park across from the station. She forced herself to listen and tried to make herself relax. This wasn't New York City; it sure as hell wasn't Albany. She could drop her guard.

"You all right?" Ward asked, interrupting her thoughts

"Excuse me?"

Ward had slowed down. "You just seem like you've got a lot on your mind. If you're rather go home . . ."

"No," she said quickly, then paused. "I do. Have a lot on my mind, I mean." She turned her head so that he could see her eyes. "That's why I'd rather not go home."

Ward searched her face, understanding softening the worried lines of his face. "Sure," he said finally, nodding once before he turned his attention back to the street ahead of them. He couldn't help his curiosity, though, and looked at her sideways.

"Look, I don't want to push. And I know I might . . . not have come off as the most sensitive guy in the room." He paused. Hill waited for him to continue. "But if you ever need to talk, I'm around. Any time."

Fat fucking chance, Hill thought, and nodded. "Sure," she said, and some of her dismissiveness must have come out, because Ward drew away.

"Anyway—aw, dammit," he said, coming to a stop. They'd walked two blocks from the station; ahead of them was an older brick storefront converted into a restaurant. Tinted glass suggested crowded tables and neon signs. Ward looked genuinely annoyed when Hill checked on him. "It's trivia night," he said, his mouth twisting sourly. "I should have realized when I saw all the cars. I'm sorry, if you want—"

"Trivia night?" Hill repeated. Ward looked at her again, assessing this time.

"Yeah. It's—a lot of it's the university crowd. They play some Trivial Pursuit, Thirsty Sam's gives out gift cards, everyone's home by nine so they can get up for class the next day." He paused. "There's usually empty tables, but they make a lot of noise—"

"We're here, we might as well," Hill said, and when she realized how brusque she sounded, she hastened to add, "Harder to eavesdrop in a crowd, anyway."

A flash of interest crossed Ward's face before he nodded. Hill let him lead the way into the bar, which turned out to be a polished-oak-and-exposed-brick kind of place—nicer than she'd expected from the outside, though the chalkboard specials came mostly out of the fryer. The crowd skewed young, late teens to early forties; neither her suit jacket nor Ward's t-shirt and cargo shorts stuck out among the mix of students and after-work professionals.

Ward led them around the edge of the room, avoiding the full tables near the front of the room—the trivia-players—in favor of a four-top across from the bar. Hill slid into the seat facing the front door. She was not repeating the goddamned diner mess.

Ward didn't comment on the choice, though he couldn't hide the fact that he'd noticed. The arrival of the waitress provided a welcome distraction. Hill ordered a light beer, a glass of water, and a burger; Ward did the same, then balanced his elbows on the edge of the table, his eyes thoughtful.

"Stark's a drunk. So was my old man."

She stilled. He'd spoken matter-of-factly, without pity, as if he was picking up a conversation they'd been having moments ago. Yesterday, Hill thought. The Keener kid.

"I see Harley, I see myself," he said, confirming the direction of her thoughts. His eyes shifted. "I see a lot of kids around here, I see myself." His eye contact shifted back to her. "And not in a good way."

He paused like he wanted her to respond—commiserate, question, comment. She didn't say anything. He fidgeted in his seat, though his expression didn't flicker.

"I know it might not have looked like I cared. But I do. Harley's smart. If sh—" He caught himself. "He. Wants to get out of here, the way to do that is through school. Not hanging around a gunrunner like Stark."

Correcting his pronouns. It was an effort, she supposed. "I thought Stark was out," she said, deliberately flattening her voice.

"People like Stark are never really out," Ward said. Hill didn't disagree, but the certainty in his voice made her hackles rise.

Their drinks arrived. Hill sipped her beer while Ward talked to the waitress—they'd been high school classmates, it sounded like. She acknowledged her introduction and smiled when it was appropriate, her thoughts distracted by the pair of dark-haired women who'd just walked through the bar's front door.

Skye? she thought, and felt the name click. Yes. It was the chatty computer girl she'd met in passing yesterday. She was talking eagerly to her companion, who was paler, her black glasses and her red lipstick fighting for the right to be her most prominent facial feature. They searched the room for a second, then squeezed themselves around a table already occupied by a brunette wearing a flannel shirt, another black-haired woman in a cardigan, and a redhead. Now that she was looking at all three women more closely—not just skimming faces—she thought they looked familiar.

When the waitress left, Hill spun her glass between her fingers. "Stark hasn't gotten busted since his partner disappeared. Whatsisface, Stane?" Obadiah Stane, aka "the Iron Monger," and a person of interest in three execution-style murders. She sipped. Ward looked annoyed.

"Odds are, Stark crossed off Stane." Ward's voice had dropped low, until she was reading his lips for half of what he said. His eyes challenged her. "You read the file. Stane made a grab for the business. Stark took him out. You really think he turns his back on the trade after that?"

"Allegedly took him out," she said, and raised the beer to her lips. "Though it could have been the girlfriend."

Memory clicked. It was all Hill could do to finish bringing her glass to her lips to drink without looking over at the table. Ward scowled.

"Potts?" he said, lip curling, then caught himself. Your misogyny's showing, Hill thought. "Sure. Maybe. Regardless—"

She held up a finger. "Hold that thought. Back in a sec."

She slipped out of her chair. The redhead at the table with Skye had turned her face away. Fuck, Hill thought, then continued toward the bathroom. When she returned, the trivia presenter was warming up and the redhead was looking at her, her face in perfect profile.

Virginia "Pepper" Potts. Sitting at the same table with the sheriff department's IT girl.

Either this was one small fucking town or they had a potential leak. Whichever it was, Hill was now damned curious to know who the other women at that table were.

Hill slipped back into her seat and smiled apologetically at Ward. "Downside of staying hydrated."

He smiled tightly. She touched her beer to her lips. Easy, she reminded herself. She was out of practice at interrogation. It had been easier when she had Sitwell's tired warmth to bounce off of, his long-suffering sigh and carefully flourished glasses—

The beer caught in her throat. She coughed. Ward looked alarmed until she waved her hand at him.

"Sorry," she muttered, then cleared her throat. "Went down the wrong way."

Just then, their order arrived, giving Hill time to collect herself. Redirect, she thought. Stark and Ward were clearly a thing; not unlike Stark and Coulson. She wondered what the man had done to piss the two of them off so badly, other than being a conduit for illegal arms sales for most of a five-county area.

"You grow up here?" she asked, taking a bite of her fry. Perfectly crisp. She hummed happily to herself, too low for Ward to hear.

"Mostly," Ward said, swallowing the bite he'd been chewing. "Moved here with my mom when I was eight. Worked my way through Greenville State, part-time, was a deputy in Hardin County for a year before I came back."

"Home's where the heart is?"

"Greenville's where the development is," Ward corrected her, his eyes brightening. "Might not look like it, but we're on track to double in size over the next five years. More people, more peace officers."

This was the most animated—and open—Hill had seen him since yesterday. "Where're the jobs coming from?" she asked, trying to keep the sharpest edge of her doubt out of her voice.

"Oil and gas exploration's some of it," he said, but his expression turned unexpectedly cagey. "The college. Lots of students looking for affordable education."

She hmm'd in response, thinking that those were hardly employment sectors to build a doubling population on. Ward covered by giving her the town booster speech—great place to raise a family, low crime, etcetera. She downed half her burger while Ward worked his way back around to the Avengers.

"This is a good town," he insisted. "You see why Garrett wants the Avengers out."

Garrett? Right. The mayor. "I don't know," she said, wiping her mouth. "I mean, let me play devil's advocate for a second: Stark hasn't been traced as a source of arms for months." She held up her hand and started adding fingers. "Barton and Romanoff are dealing in cybercrime, no local victims. Odinson's a violent drunk. Banner's a domestic court problem. Rogers has a clean civilian rap sheet, and Barnes was trespassing." She folded her arms and shrugged. "Sure, they're undesirables, but we can't exactly kick them out of town for that."

Ward leaned in, his eyes lit with a darker intensity than earlier. "But that's just it. Individually, they're undesirables. Together, they're a blight. Fury's been obstructing the investigation for months—"

"Fury?" she interrupted. Ward checked for listeners, then leaned in.

"Think about what you just said. Stark's cleaned up his act—apparently. Barton and Romanoff keep their activities outside the city limits. Barnes—" He laughed shortly, in the dry way of a man laughing with anger. "Trespassing's the lightest charge Fury could get away with, and the jury still wouldn't convict him. People are intimidated. If Odinson and Banner haven't been brought up lately, it's not because they're behaving. It's because no one wants to confront them."

Hill thought of the second of the leggy blondes she'd met that day and leveled her gaze at Ward in her best bullshit-me-not stare. "You're saying Fury's what—dirty? So what does that make Carter? Or Coulson? Takes a village to cover up corruption."

Hill had a second to read Ward's hesitation in answering; a second for her hamburger to go cold in her stomach. "Does it really, Agent Hill?"

He knew.

He fucking knew about the rumors.

How the fuck did he know?

She couldn't feel her hands. Her lips were numb. She wanted to chug the rest of her beer, and she didn't trust her grip. "Pretend I don't think you're full of shit. Pretend I'm an even slightly appropriate person to talk to about this. What's Fury's angle? What's the angle for any of them?"

Her voice had started to rise on the last words. She locked her jaw before she could start shouting, panicked. Fucking keep it together, Hill.

Ward managed to keep the satisfaction off his face. Barely. "When Fury became sheriff, there was one full-time deputy and two part-timers. People called the sheriff at his house if they needed law enforcement after seven o'clock. Now he's got a seven million dollar budget, full-time dispatch, fifteen full-timers plus part-time guys and specialists, a dedicated building, and more." He ignored his sandwich to lean closer to Hill. "Fury's like you. He played in the big leagues—Army Investigative Service, Department of the Treasury, FBI—then he showed up in Greenville."

Hill's jaw twitched. "Maybe he came for the parks," she said. Ward smiled, and she vowed that if she ever got the opportunity to punch him in the face, she'd take it.

"Fury's here for one of two reasons," he said, and held up his hand, mirroring her earlier finger-counting gesture. "Because he's running. Or because this is where he can do what he wants."

The trivia crowd erupted into loud chatter and yelling that made it impossible to speak for a few seconds. Ward didn't look away from her. She didn't flinch. When the noise dropped to background levels, Ward dropped his arm and leaned on the table.

"Coulson has been investigating the Avengers for months. Now you come in, and everything Coulson's done gets handed over to you. You fuck up the investigation in six months, what happened with the BCI gets dragged in, Fury gets rid of you, gives it back to Coulson, Coulson buys another six months of the department sitting on its hands when it comes to the Avengers. Or."

Was it cruelty in his eyes? She couldn't tell. She was too focused on not punching him.

"Fury thinks you're his kind of cop. You're loyal to him because no one else would be interested. You—"

"Ward."

He stopped talking, mouth still hanging open, and god damn did it take a lot of willpower not to put her fist through his face.

"You keep talking about this, we're going to have a problem." She let her anger and her fear turn cold and hard in her eyes. "A real. Fucking. Problem."

Ward flinched, and turned it into a mostly-casual lean back into his chair. "Sure. Fine. You wanna change the subject? We can change the subject."

He tried to smirk. She didn't move her eyes. The smirk wilted, turning into a disgruntled curl of his lip. She stood up, found two twenties in her purse, and dropped them on the table.

"Dinner's on me. Enjoy the rest of your beer."

He opened his mouth, but she was already turning away, into the chaos of a room full of nerds groaning all at once. Hill threaded herself fast and hard through pulled-out chairs and kicked-out legs, focusing so tightly on the door that it nearly hit her in the face when it opened just as she was reaching for it. The woman on the other side was instantly recognizable.

Natasha Romanoff.

Fuck this, Hill thought, and wasn't sure if she meant the bar or the night or the job as she muttered an apology and dove past the redhead. She didn't bother looking back once she was outside; just walked fast and hard to her car.

Fucking small towns.

Chapter Text

Jasper Sitwell had been a good man. A good partner; a good cop.

He would have lived longer if he had been a little less good.

He'd been her second partner. Halfway to retirement, he'd taken on her on and taken her under his wing. She knew where to sit on his deck so the six-o'clock light didn't fall in her eyes; she could still slide her fingers over the place on her back where his damned couch's broken spring tried to take out her kidney. She knew his ex-wife's birthday, that his daughter liked mustard but not ketchup, and where he kept his backup gun.

She hadn't known about the case that killed him.

He'd wanted to keep her clean. Never mind that he'd only been playing the role of a dirty cop, pretending to offer up info on CIs and busts and investigations in order to climb the ladder toward the biggest scum in the pond; he wouldn't let her be tainted. Not even by rumor.

So he'd played the double game by himself, getting more and more haggard as he spun further and further out, lying to her and his family and the gangs. Sure, there'd been a task force watching from the distance—but it wasn't the task force who had to come up with right answer or get shot. It wasn't the task force pretending to buddy up with paranoid dealers, pretending nothing was wrong to the rest of the squad.

The night it all went bad, he was wearing a wire. He went to a park, nine-thirty PM, past close. She'd texted him. What the hell is going on, J? She didn't know if he'd intended to come clean or spin her a new line of bullshit or if some supernatural sense of danger warned him what was coming, but he'd told her to come. Meet him at the park.

She thought the first shot was the echo of her car door closing. The second and third carried strangely through the air, so that she had to hunt for him, running in the dark past benches and trees and the bright plastic shapes of the children's playground, heart hammering in her chest, until she found him.

The adult human body holds around five quarts of blood, give or take. Two of Jasper's five were on the ground when she reached him.

The wire kept working, after he was shot. And they kept recording. There was a recording of him dying. A recording of her coming up to him, pulling out her phone, calling for EMS, giving his status, then hanging up. And screaming.

She'd never had the courage to listen.

Afterwards, they'd explained it all to her in very small words. How they hadn't meant Jasper to get hurt. How the man who'd killed him had agreed to work with them. How they were going to use Jasper's death as leverage against their new snitch, who'd promised to deliver the rest of the chain. Except that they couldn't just not investigate his death. And they couldn't tell the truth. So they had come up with a story that absolutely no one would give officially, that would be the real truth, the one they "couldn't" tell: Jasper was dirty. Hill had found out. Jasper had killed himself before Hill could bring him in.

And that would have been plenty enough to churn her stomach and make her hate herself for her complicity, but then there'd been the photograph. Her, standing at the edge of the parking lot, hollowed out inside, blood literally on her hands from trying to resuscitate Jasper.

Which fed an even juicier rumor: Hill had killed him. Whether he was the corrupt one or she was or they both were varied in the telling. That one took hold in the department as well as the press. Hill became a pariah. She didn't give much of a damn, at first; she was too deep in depression and self-loathing to think critically. On the other side of a three-month black spell, she'd come out enough to start asking questions.

The answers led her to Hand. Her supervisor. Jasper's supervisor. Her lover.

"Sitwell wasn't supposed to get hurt," Vic had answered, the last morning she and Hill were together. It was seven am on Saturday, and though Hill was the one in the suit while Vic was wearing sweats, there was no doubt who was prepared for this moment. "But he did. So we used it." Those extraordinary violet eyes had never wavered. "Just like that photo of you wasn't supposed to leak."

Hand had ordered Jasper undercover. Then, when he died, instead of prosecuting the man who'd killed him, she'd turned him. And to protect her new snitch, she'd let the rest of the department believe that she'd stopped the investigation because either Jasper had killed himself, or Hill had killed him.

It made sense. It was logical. It was, by some definitions of the word, the right move.

Hill had never gone back to Vic's apartment.

She'd applied to join the sheriff's department six months later.