Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maria first finds out about The List because of a sandwich.

They're in a briefing for an operation she's been assigned to, and it's such a long and boring meeting that one of the interns, or maybe one of the rookies, has brought in sandwiches and cakes from the café on the first floor.

Barton and Romanoff are sprawled by one of the trestle tables, picking through the options, when the archer suddenly lets out a squawk. "Tasha! It's a BLT!" He waves a label in the air victoriously.

Maria is a couple of chairs away, doing some last-minute checks on paperwork, accompanied by a black coffee and a cheese sandwich, the plainest of all. It's the volume of Barton's words that makes her head jerk up, not the meaning.

But she has to admit - she's interested.

"It must be my lucky day," drawls Romanoff, picking up a sandwich of the pre-mentioned flavour and placing it on her plate. Then, to Maria's intrigue, she takes a well-folded piece of paper out of her pocket and scratches something off, before tucking it away again.

"Maybe it's good luck," Barton is saying, as they meander over the tiled floor to take a seat ... directly opposite Maria. She hides a sigh behind her coffee. Of course, she likes all her agents, but, well - some are quite loud.

And then there's the issue of Romanoff, which is a different issue altogether. An issue Maria is firmly resigned to ignore and resolve, just as soon as they finish up this op and save the world.

"Commander Hill," Romanoff smirks from the seat in front of Maria.

"Agent." Maria acknowledges her with a tight smile and a cursory glance. Any brighter, any longer, is dangerous, and quite frankly a distraction. And distractions can be fatal. "Barton."

"Why don't you call us our first names? Everyone else does," he says, through a mouthful of grilled chicken. "Do you have a superiority complex or something? We trained together."

Maria doesn't take her eyes off her paperwork. "So we did, Barton. I'll never forget our first day in the same camp when I kicked your ass in the ring and ran the 20k ten minutes quicker than you."

He groans into his sandwich. Romanoff laughs and elbows him. She hasn't started on her own food yet, almost as if she can tell Maria's itching to ask about it. Well, of course she can tell. She's the Black Widow. She probably knew Maria would care before she did.

"Not a fan of flavour, Hill?" The Russian nods to Maria's half-eaten lunch.

"Commander Hill," Maria corrects lightly, earning another half-smirk, "and sadly, Agent, I don't have time for flavour, not when we'll all be on our asses in the mud if there's one mistake in these orders."

"See, this is why I could never be a leader," Barton says, waving his hand at her. "Too much paperwork. It fries your brain and you go boring, and then you stop appreciating sandwiches."

Maria decides to take the universe's bait and taps the edge of the redhead's plate with her biro. "And you've gone for what, Romanoff?"

"BLT," is the reply that Maria already knew.

"Any particular reason? Barton was very vocal about it." That startles a little laugh out of Romanoff and Maria goes unfortunately warm all over. "It certainly made him live up to his nickname."

"It was on the list." She's deliberately elusive, waiting for Maria to put down her papers and cock an eyebrow before she continues. "The Red Room, and the KGB, aren't exactly the greatest cultural hotspots. I have a list of all the things I missed out on growing up."

"And bacon sandwiches are one of them?"

"Some are just due to this idiot here," Romanoff says, elbowing Barton again and rolling her eyes at his mumbled protest. "Some are the things I should've had, some are just the things I want to do before I die. They are the things I want to do before I go back to them."

"You won't go back." The words should put Maria on alert, should have her calling traitor and paging Nick and calling for guards, but she knows what Romanoff means.

The Widow just smiles. "It pays to have insurance policies, Commander."

Maria clears her throat and pulls her eyes away, returning her gaze to page thirty-two. "So, it's a bucket list?"

"Is that what you Americans call them?" She takes out the page. It's crumpled and shiny from folding, with the various parts of the list written in all kinds of inks and materials - pencil, biro, what Maria guesses is fountain pen, and one as scarlet as Romanoff's hair. As blood, too, but she tries not to think about that.

The list is pushed across the table towards her: an invitation. Sighing, Maria puts down her pen again and peers over at it, ignoring Barton's triumphant whoop (that turns into a cough of breadcrumbs, which Maria is secretly smug about).

One specific item catches her eye. Artisan coffee and doughnuts with girlfriend. Part of it is written in French, so Maria's response is delayed, but once she translates, she can lay her finger on it. "That's easily solved. There's a great coffee place a few blocks from here, and it does good cake."

"Are you asking me out, Hill?" Romanoff's smirk grows and Maria feels it beneath her ribs. She clears her throat.

"Aside from the fact that it would be highly unprofessional, given I'm your superior, I expect your girlfriend would have something to say about that, wouldn't she?"

Romanoff raises an eyebrow. "Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend. What makes you think I do?"

"I assumed that the girlfriend was a prerequisite for that item on your list." Maria shrugs, as if she's not burning inside at the way Romanoff bites her lip in thought.

"A prerequisite? How romantic."

Barton swallows the last part of his sandwich and waggles his eyebrows at Maria, who glares at him. She's known him since they were both twenty-one, her fresh out of the Marines and him working at his old archery school to fund a place to live, both rescued by joining the SHIELD program. She's loathe to admit it, but he knows her far better than any other agent.

To distract both him and herself, Maria hands the list back. "So, how much of it have you done?"

"About a third, I'd say. I've had three years, but most of 2007 was taken up with deprogramming and proving I wasn't about to spill your nuclear codes. Not enough time for a Tamagotchi left after that."

Maria laughs. She's about to reply - look, Hardass Hill holding a conversation - when a bell rings through the room, signalling the end of their break and the return to their briefing.

"Sorry, agents," she says, closing her file and getting to her feet. "Duty calls."

"Yeah, yeah, Commander. Rub it in, why don't you?" Barton grumbles.

"Should've run the 20k a little faster," is all Maria says. She pushes her plate over to him. "You can finish my sandwich as long as you listen carefully. If anyone fucks this up, you won't ever get a chance to be commander."

"They wouldn't place all the blame on this handsome face?"

Maria doesn't smile. "No. It'll be dead."

She turns on her heel and stalks away. The briefing goes smoothly, and she's never optimistic about a mission, but if she was, she'd pick this one. The agents listen carefully, they receive their individual orders, and Fury gives her a succinct, approving nod at the end.

Everything is fine. But Maria can feel Romanoff's eyes burning into the back of her neck every time she faces the screen and not her audience, and damn is it distracting.

The operation goes exactly as planned. They intercept the shipment that was set for an underground organisation that has been a pain in their ass for eighteen months; they even manage to arrest the deputy. Maria watches him be manhandled from the med bay to the cells and doesn't feel sorry.

She takes her own trip to Medical, even though she's only really a bit bruised, but she's trying to set a good example, and after she's swallowed her painkillers and stretched, she climbs into the shower.

Showers are Maria's secret haven. Maybe it's not as secret as she'd like, now Fury only assigns her to safe houses with good water pressure, but so far nobody at her level seems to have found out. She spends a long time under the water, lets the temperature soothe the burn of her muscles.

Everywhere else, Maria has to be constantly alert. In here, behind a double-locked door that she reinforced herself, with a knife behind the shower head and a gun beneath the lip of the sink, she can let herself relax, just a little. Her frown eases out into an exhausted expression, her hands unclench from by her side, and her eyes close.

Yes, the mission was successful. But it was still stressful and tiring and it could've gone wrong. Sometimes the feeling of the water raining down onto her skin is the only thing that will quiet the agent's racing thoughts.

By the time Maria changes into a fresh pair of trackies and a black T-shirt with a silver falcon on the pocket, the sky outside her window is dark and peppered with stars. There's a faint glow of moonlight dancing across the water of East River.

The common room on her floor is empty. There's no curfew at the Triskelion - a curfew is useless when agents can be called upon at all times and any times - but most recruits are asleep by now, snatching whatever hours of rest they can.

"Nice of you to join me, Hill."

Ah. So, not empty, then. Maria flicks on the lights and is met with Romanoff sprawled across the sofa furthest from the door, a bottle of some kind in one hand and the other raised in greeting. Maria doesn't bother trying to guess whether she's drunk, not when it's clear the guess is unwanted.

Instead she crosses the room and opens the fridge. All meals are served in the canteen, but there are snacks here. "Is pissing off your superiors in the dead of night also on your bucket list, Romanoff?"

"Op's over, Hill. You're not my senior anymore." Her accent is a little thicker, voice a little huskier. Is it on purpose? Maria wishes she knew, and then wishes she didn't care so much about knowing.

"I've got four more years of SHIELD experience under my belt than you, Romanoff. I think that makes me your superior." Ah, semi-skimmed milk. Normally she finds it too rich, but she wants the protein - marginal gains and all that.

Romanoff scoffs. "Can you stop showing off at any point? That stick up your ass must be getting painful."

Without replying, Maria pours herself a bowl of cereal and adds some milk, then grabs one of the post-workout smoothies that the low-level agents keep well stocked. Again, not her favourite (she much prefers a fresh smoothie made with a variety of ripe fruit rather than something that reeks of factory) but, post-mission, she's willing to upset her tastebuds in favour of her metabolism still functioning.

She's about to leave, head back to her room and eat this sitting on her bunk and leafing through yesterday's newspaper, but something about the way Romanoff stares at her pulls her back. She leans against the counter instead.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

The redhead takes a swig from the bottle. "Relaxing. Not everybody bounces back from a mission like a superhuman."

"I'm sure you're more enhanced than I am, Romanoff," Maria points out. She sips her smoothie and then curses. It's not even her favourite flavour of the brand.

"Want something stronger than that?" The bottle is waved at her, teasingly, tauntingly. "You should call me Natasha, by the way."

"That's-"

"Hardly appropriate, yeah, yeah, I know." She drops her head onto the sofa arm. "You call Fury by his first name, though. He's more of your superior than I am your inferior."

"Why are you so determined to annoy me?"

Romanoff just grins, two dimples and a trace of crimson lipstick in the low lighting. "All part of the charm, sweetheart." She hums. "Go on, do it. Call me Natasha."

"Is it on your list?"

"What?"

Maria sighs. Probably too aggressively, but she's tired. "As a somewhat senior member of the organisation, I'm mandated to help other agents reach their goals within the foundation, be that in fitness, skill, personal improvement, or other relevant area."

"Ooh, fancy. Do you get off to reciting that to yourself?"

"Is it on the list?"

Romanoff sobers - frighteningly quickly, actually. Her smile drops away and her eyes lose all of their sparkle. "Yeah. Kind of."

"Kind of?" Instead of answering, the Russian sits up and comes to join Maria by the island, pulling out the list from her pocket. "Do you carry that everywhere with you?"

"Pretty much. You never know when opportunity will strike." She places it down on the countertop and points to an item near the start, using a discarded spoon as her pointer.

Make five new friends. The writing is done in wobbly pencil, as if she's leaning on something rough, like the floor of a cell ... oh. Maria swallows back a bitter taste.

"My first year of school was first grade. I was smarter than everyone else there, but I didn't know much English, so they all thought I was stupid. I came home crying the first day and my mother - Melina - told me it would be better once I had friends."

Maria stays quiet. She knows about Ohio; she was one of the first people to see and speak to Romanoff after she was brought in, coming in third after Barton and Nick. Whilst she waited, she read the Widow's file. She knows who Melina was to the Russian. She knows who she is now.

"I told her I didn't know how to make friends and she told me to just tell people my name - to tell five people that my name was Natasha and I liked ballet. And I would make friends."

"Did you?"

Romanoff shrugs. "I guess. I wasn't used to being called Natasha, then. Most of the kids still thought I was weird and dumb, but a couple of the girls were nice to me, I suppose."

"And ... that's how you made friends here?"

A singular, perfunctory nod.

"But ... more than five people know your name, Romanoff. And I'm sure most of them know you like ballet. Hobbies are common conversation." Maria is confused, because her answer is simple, but the item remains uncrossed off the list.

"They know my name because they were told it by Nick Fury. Or because I killed their friends, or because the program is a rumour mill, just like any place of education, or because they saw it on a mission report. I've only ever got to tell, or been allowed to tell, four people."

There's silence between them for a moment, and then Romanoff shrugs and chuckles to herself. Her mask slips back in place as smoothly as a well-oiled machine, and she goes to walk away, when Maria reaches out.

She knows better than to grab her, or even touch her. Romanoff may be deprogrammed, but she's a trained agent. Grabbing anyone is stupid in this building, unless you want a concussion.

"Natasha."

It stops the agent dead in her tracks. Maria must look stupid to her, she reflects, in her old tracksuit with one arm oustretched and the other clutching a bowl of cereal. She tilts her head to the side curiously.

"You left this." Maria holds up the page, offers a small smile. "I think it needs editing, anyway."

Romanoff Natasha walks back over. "You got a pen, Hill?"

"Maria," corrects the brunette, unearthing an old pencil from the pocket of her trousers. "Will this do?"

Natasha takes it and carefully crosses off make five new friends, her breathing heavy. "Do you really mean it? You won't just call me Natasha now, and go back to Romanoff tomorrow?"

"I mean it." Maria takes the pencil back and pretends not to see the slight tremble in Natasha's hands. "That being said, you're still required to call me Hill in any professional setting, and the same goes for me."

"And here I was thinking I'd got rid of that stick." Natasha rolls her eyes and slips the list into her pocket, before fluttering her fingers in a wave and padding off. "Goodnight, Maria."

She leaves the bottle behind and Maria reaches for it grimly, appreciating the burn of what turns out to be vodka as it slides down her throat, but it hardly even takes the edge off the fresh memory of the way Natasha says her name.

Roosevelt Island is a good four miles in perimeter, a little longer if you run around the parks at either end as well. Maria does the journey twice, slowing to a jog as she pulls out her pass to let her through the gates.

It's a sunny day in New York and plenty of agents are making use of their free time, of which the job gives them little, to explore the recreation facilities Fury had put in last month.

One of the green spaces surrounding the building has been converted into a proper sports field, and although there's already a gym at the Triskelion a small equipment shed has been transformed into another. A small section of the water that surrounds the island has been marked off for swimming, safely away from where Fury's secret projects hum and whirr hundreds of feet underneath the waves.

Sweat drips down Maria's brow and she's glad to lapse into a walk as she makes her way up the gravel drive towards the rec gym, where she plans to take a shower before she heads back to her room to change and get ready for work. Unusually, she's not required until 10 a.m today. It seems all the bad guys took a day off.

She wipes her forehead with the bottom off her shirt and strays off the path, catching the breeze ruffling through the trees that provide both shade and security. The cool wind is welcome on her skin.

Maria's pace is slow and dawdling, her eyes moving lazily over the scenery, the agents over by the rec area, a bird swooping down through the blue sky and up over the roof of the Triskelion and then she stops, squints, shades her eyes with one hand.

The landing bay, set at half the height of the tower, isn't usually home to anything except jets, helicopters, and the occasional training class if it's a busy day. Maria can't see it well, but she has a good enough view to see the small crowd of people and some kind of scuffle.

She glances down at her trainers and then sighs and digs an energy gel from her pocket. She always carries them for runs. She throws it back quickly, swigs the last of her water, drops both empty containers on the lawn and sprints off towards the side of the building.

The gel doesn't properly kick in until she's halfway up the fire escape that winds around the back of the building, so it's mostly just years of rigorous training and sheer will that propels Maria up the stairs. They're purposefully rusted and broken in places, and her arms are burning by the time she practically crawls onto the rough ground of the landing bay.

Could she use the lift? Yes. But she's gross after her run and she wants the element of surprise. Plus, this means she can skip her workout later and spend the time catching up on mission reports.

Close up, the situation is easy to assess. Barton is slumped on the floor trying to fight some guy in full uniform, who's punching him repeatedly in the face, although the blood running down the face of the archer's attacker suggests he got a few good hits in. They're being egged on by a circle of other agents, who have Romanoff - Natasha - held back.

Maria suspends her disbelief that Natasha couldn't easily escape and pulls herself to her feet. "What is the meaning of this?" She thunders, drawn up tall, shoulders back, scowl firmly in place.

The circle disbands immediately and Natasha bends over to catch her breath. Maria strides across the bay and grabs the agent, drags him off Barton by the scruff of his neck, and throws him to the ground.

"Stay down," she orders, and then looks up at them. "Badges, now."

All of them hurry over and drop their badges at her feet. She unpins the one hanging from Barton's attacker's jacket and adds it to the pile. The archer groans slightly and then sits up, gingerly feeling his lip.

"I don't know what the damn hell is going on, but you all know that infighting is strictly against SHIELD's rules. You are to report to the Agent Recovery centre immediately. You all face suspension and room arrest charges. Remember, I have your badges."

They scuffle their feet like chastised children and hurry off. Maria watches them go with a snarl and doesn't drop it until the door slides shut. Then she sighs and crosses the bay to kneel beside Barton.

"Either one of you want to tell me what happened?" She asks, pulling some tissues from her pocket and handing them over for his nosebleed. "I'm assuming you weren't the perpetrators."

Natasha stays silent but, through a grunt of pain, Barton sits up. "They were talking shit about 'Tasha and her history and then one of them called her a traitor so I punched him in the face. Got a couple of hits in before his buddy jumped me."

"Was he the one on you when I arrived?"

Barton nods. "I think the dramatic element shocked them more than you did, Hill. Why the fuck did you come up the side of the building?"

"It was quicker," Maria says, hauling him to his feet. "Go to Medical. You're cleared from infighting charges. I'm going to assume Romanoff was uninvolved and clear her as well. If I find out I'm wrong, you'll both be in trouble."

"Understood," Barton wheezes, and gives her a salute. "Yes, ma'am. I'll see you later, 'Tash, okay?"

He disappears slowly, leaving Maria still crouched on the ground, and Natasha cross-legged less than a foot away. She stands, wincing as her hamstrings burn at the movement.

"Natasha, you okay?" She checks, stretching first one arm, then the other. "Do you need to go to Medical as well? They weren't exactly playing nice with you."

That brings the Russian back to herself and she shakes her head. "I am fine."

Maria considers, and then looks at her watch. "I need to go and get ready for work. Report to my office in twenty minutes."

"What for?" Natasha's head jerks up and Maria curses her choice of words. She steps back slightly, just in case the redhead needs space, and shakes her own head swiftly.

"I meant it when I said you're not in trouble, I swear. You're cleared of charges. I just want to show you something - I just need to take a shower first, that's all."

For the first time during the encounter, Natasha smirks a little. "Yeah, you stink."

Maria flips her off as she walks inside, Natasha's laughter echoing behind her. She hops in the lift and takes the quickest shower of her life, then gets dressed, straps a gun on either hip and slips a knife into her inner pocket, just in case. She ties up her hair, locks her door behind her, and goes to her office.

Natasha arrives on the dot of twenty minutes, and if Maria didn't know better she'd think she looked apprehensive. The Black Widow never looks apprehensive, though.

The thing is, Maria has got kind of good at figuring Natasha out. Fury keeps assigning them to the same missions, sometimes with Maria leading, sometimes them leading together, and sometimes with neither of them leading at all. They don't exactly chat, but Maria's learning her.

"So, why am I here?" Natasha leans on her desk and studies the pile of papers Maria's currently leafing through. "Profit and loss on SHIELD merchandise? Y'all do merch?"

"You did not just say y'all. Please stop spending your time with Clint," says Maria. She dog-ears her page and pushes back her chair. "Yes, we do merch."

"Do you do, like, action figures? Can I have a Maria Hill action figure? It would be so cute."

Maria glares at her. "It's mostly low-grade stuff: T-shirts with the logo, socks, eyepatches, posters. I'm not exactly sure why we have the range, but Nick finds it funny."

"You secretly wish there was a Maria Hill action figure, don't you?" Natasha badgers.

"I secretly wish you would fuck off."

The Russian rolls her eyes. "You invite me to your office, bore me to death with profit and loss, and then tell me to fuck off? You sure know how to charm a girl, Hill. One more word and I'll be on my knees for you."

Her voice is innocent enough, as if her last sentence doesn't make Maria's own knees weak. She's glad she hasn't stood up yet. When she does, she's glad of her height advantage that means she can stare Natasha down.

"Just be quiet," is all she says. "I want to show you something."

She leads Natasha down the corridor and into the lift, which she locks to make sure nobody else can enter. She's taking a small risk sharing this with Natasha and she doesn't want anyone else getting their greedy hands on it either.

It's a risk she's not even sure she needs to take, at first. Natasha seems to have recovered perfectly well from her encounter on the roof bay, puncturing their journey with small smirks and little quips, until Maria locks the doors and suddenly the redhead is sagging against the wall.

Maria is too concerned for her to unpack the fact that the Black Widow just let her walls down around her. By the time she figures that out, their trip has come to an end.

"Where are we?" Natasha asks, as they climb out of the lift and into an unpainted grey corridor. "Are you going to murder me, Maria?"

She snorts, opening a door. "I'm not that stupid."

The door takes them into an unfurnished room. Maria opens the roof hatch and pulls down the ladder, then gestures for Natasha to go up. "Are you sure about that?"

"Just go up there already, Natasha."

She does, and Maria follows her. She pulls the ladder up behind her but doesn't close the hatch, as if to try and prove to Natasha that she's not about to kill her. They stand a metre or so apart on the roof of the Triskelion, wind in their hair, staring out at the swooping view of New York below them.

"I didn't know America was so beautiful," Natasha says, awed. She turns to face Maria. "We're on the roof? I didn't even know you could get here. I thought it was all barbed wire and long-range guns."

"Some of it is," Maria admits, "but they're operated remotely. I don't think anybody really knows about the hatch. There was a nest of rats up here a few years ago, and I ended up being the one to find it, and when I was scouting the room I spotted it."

"Does Fury know?"

Maria shrugs. "I presume so. He certainly knows I know about it, because he's never stopped me. I come up here whenever things are bad. A rough mission, or a long day, or when I can't sleep. Figured it might help you as well."

Natasha paces a little circle on the bricks, breathes in the fresh air that smells just a little of petrichor, and allows herself to smile a little. "I think it does. It would."

"Would? You can come up here anytime."

"Do I have clearance?"

Maria frowns. "As far as I know, the roof's not marked out as official SHIELD ground. There's nothing critical up here; the guns are locked away. It's no-man's-land. Clearance doesn't exist up here."

Natasha sits down, stretching out her legs in front of her. She unzips her suit and pushes it down to her waist; underneath she's only wearing a plain T-shirt, and her arms are bare. The wrists are red with tomorrow's bruises, a mark of how roughly she was held. The skin is cracked in places, leaking blood.

She doesn't want to push, Maria truly doesn't. She understands that it's easier to push everything away and focus on the physical injuries, the ones that can be fixed. But she's concerned. She might be Hardass Hill, the Ice Queen, emotionless and empty ... but she's concerned.

"I didn't want to fight them because I knew it was illegal," Natasha says quietly. She's procured some gauze from a pocket and is wrapping her wrists. She lets out a wry chuckle. "The Red Room wasn't as kind as SHIELD is about disobeying rules."

Maria sits down next to her. "I see."

"I know it's good here," Natasha assures her. "Old habits just die hard. And, well, being reminded of the Red Room isn't exactly a walk in the park. It's why Clint punched him, I think. Just to make him shut up."

"You know I was in the Marines before SHIELD?" Maria offers. "Five years of it before I was discharged. Fury approached me pretty sharpish afterwards and told me he could use my skill. No-brainer really." She pauses. "Anyway, I can understand not obeying rules."

Natasha carefully ties up the bandages and brings her knees to her chest to wrap her arms around them. "You joined in 2003, didn't you? And five years ... you joined when you were sixteen?"

"Have you been reading my file, Romanoff?" Maria nudges her lightly and then sighs. "I had to wait until I was seventeen, so I guess it was more like four and a half years, but, yes."

"You didn't go to college? Straight out of high school?"

Maria raises her eyebrows. "Where else was I supposed to go? I couldn't stay with my father any longer, and I figured it was a good idea. I was sporty in school, so I knew I'd pass the fitness test, I was strong, and I wouldn't have to worry about rent or food."

"True." Natasha tips her head back. "It's going to rain. So much for a sunny day, no?" She shakes her head. "It's a nice place you have up here, Hill. Very nice. Good views."

As she says the last few words, the sky opens up on them. They both curse, scrambling to their feet, though the ground is quickly slippery beneath them. Maria darts for the hatch when she hears voices below.

"Fuck's sake," she mutters, slamming it closed. "Fury likes to use the upstairs corridors for secret meetings sometimes. We're stuck here - unless you want to abseil?"

Natasha throws an elbow at her ribs and pulls her suit back up over her shoulders. "Fuck's sake indeed."

They sit back down again, lying by the wall at the edge for whatever vague cover it provides. Maria thinks back to the good weather of her run, the views of only a few minutes ago, and curses again. She adjusts the handle of her knife so it pokes her less and pillows her head on her arms.

By her side, Natasha closes her eyes, one hand thrown over her face to shield it. Maria doesn't mind the rain on her skin; it's sort of refreshing after the heat, but it's not the best experience ever.

After a few minutes, she rolls onto her side. "I don't suppose there's anything on your list that could make this any less miserable?"

Natasha turns to face her, mouth turned up into a thoughtful smile, a real smile, not a smirk or a laugh, just a smile. Maria's insides feel like butter, all churned up and melting. In the rain, Natasha's hair has gone into tendrils, even darker now, and she catches herself wondering what the locks would feel like under her fingertips.

"There is one thing," Natasha says huskily. "I'm not sure you can help, though."

"Oh?" Maria raises an eyebrow, never one to back down from a challenge. "Are you now? Try me."

The Russian grins. "Item thirty-five is to kiss someone in the rain."

Oh. Oh. Shit. Maria's teeth find her lip before she can stop herself, because she knows Natasha isn't asking it to be her, why would she ask Maria, and then - what if she is asking Maria?

The brunette is subtle - she's a fucking SHIELD agent, she knows how to hide her emotions - but it's not a secret (maybe because Clint continuously makes disgusting motions with his thumb and finger and forefinger of the other hand behind Natasha's back, and she has to force herself not to throttle him with his own bow).

And Natasha is the Black Widow. If anyone's figured it out, it's here. If Barton can figure it out, so can she.

"Right." Maria clears her throat. "Are you - do you - you haven't done that one yet? It sure rains a lot in New York."

Natasha props her chin on one hand. "I've kissed people in the rain, certainly. But it has to be a real kiss."

A real kiss. Of course. And Natasha would never have a real kiss with Maria, certainly not here, now, with the rain lashing down on them. Not least because they have a briefing for a mission in three hours, one that makes Maria the redhead's superior. Natasha could have anyone she wanted.

"I see."

"I'm going to go and see if Fury is gone," suggests Natasha, gracefully pulling herself up. She brushes the rainwater out of her eyes and darts across the roof. A moment later, the hatch is up and she's waving her arm. "All clear!"

They split up to shower and change, and by the time the briefing comes around, they're themselves again, and Maria valiantly puts the encounter out of her memory.

(Two days later there's an iced latte on her desk at 8 a.m, with a note pinned to the side: Item 12: go to Starbucks. p.s. I drank some but only a little bit. Maria traces the scrawled handwriting and lets herself smile.)

The weight of her guns throws her off at first, until her training kicks in and she adjusts them to break into a run.

Heading an operation, Maria doesn't usually do field work, and especially not in the frontline. She flies the jet and remains onboard, tracking her agents and their progress. She leads the comms and doesn't join the battle unless completely necessary.

Which happens to be now. They're up against a terrorist group - that's all it seems to be these days - who have intel about upcoming nuclear tests and the location of test sites.

It's all been going smoothly so far. They found the leader with frightening ease, put a tranquiliser bullet in his neck and cuffed him to a chair in the back of the jet. They accessed the files that they needed to be so worried about. They've eliminated a lot of members.

"Romanoff, Barton, status?" Maria says, heading west across the field, away from the main building where most of the group is gathered and towards a small side area, hoping to catch any stragglers, and hoping more that there aren't any stragglers to catch.

"The east wing is secure," replies Clint, voice muffled. "I've got three alive, the rest dead. No sign of any technology or any traps. I'm just doing a final sweep and then I'll bring them out."

"Good. Stay alert. Romanoff?"

A blurred grunt echoes through her comms before Natasha speaks, breathing heavily. "Engaging now. This is the last room in my block."

"Good job, both of you. Once you're safe and they're in the jet, do a sweep for agents remaining on the field. SHIELD casualties stay as low as possible this mission. This won't be the only group with this intel."

They both reply with affirmatives. Maria pulls a gun from one side of her hip and flicks off the safety. The door to the building is hanging open, but it's quiet inside. She sticks close to the wall, gun out in front of her.

She reaches a second door, also open, and on peering through finds a low-level agent kneeling on the floor searching the pockets of an unconscious guard. Bennett, Maria thinks her name is. She jumps up at hearing the brunette's footsteps.

"No gun?" Maria queries, lowering her own. The girl shakes her head.

"I ran out of bullets. These are all no-go. I think they were hired by the group. I've searched them all and hardly any of them carry the badge, and they were all pretty bad fighters. I think this room was just a way to try and kill us."

Maria tosses her the Glock from the other side of her belt. "Good job, Bennett. Head back to the jet now."

She does a last sweep of the room, but Bennett is right, it's empty. They exit the building together and start to cross the field again, ducking low, steps fast and quiet. They're almost there when, from the corner of her eye, Maria sees a figure.

"Shit! Get down!" She practically throws Bennett into the grass and pushes her behind her. Only inches from where their heads were before, a spray of bullets passes over them. Machine guns.

Maria touches her ear. "Romanoff, Barton, bring in all agents, now. We have machine guns in the field."

From beside her, Bennett gulps loudly, clearly afraid and trying not to show it. She only looks about twenty. Maria gives her a hopefully reassuring smile and glances back over to the station. There's another round of bullets, this time lower.

Unsure of how far sound carries out here, Maria taps out a message in Morse code on Bennett's arm. Stay low, move slowly, crawl to the left. Don't talk.

It's admittedly a long message, but it gets through. She receives a nod in response and they start to move. Slowly, painstakingly, they shuffle through the grass. Maria spits out a beetle and keeps moving. The jet is so close, only a minute of crawling away. Bennett speeds up.

Before Maria can do anything, before she can grab her or tell her to slow down, a bang echoes around the field, and as Maria dives forwards she feels the bullet lance into her side.

"Fucking shit!" She yells. She snatches up her gun and fires a round into the sniper's arm, anything to delay him, and then shoves at Bennett. "Go, go! On your feet, run!"

Running, the young agent reaches the jet in moments and scrambles up the ramp safely. Maria rolls over in the grass, groaning, and braces her hand over the wound.

"Hill? What was that?" It's Clint's voice. "I'm in the jet. We just need you and Tasha back and we can take off."

Maria grits her teeth and forces herself to her knees. She got the sniper, but you can operate a gun one-handed if you're skilled. She needs to make it to the jet, and fast.

As soon as she staggers to her feet, she falls again. She knows she can't walk, not for long enough. Her suit is already torn open from a messy encounter earlier, and who knows what kind of dirt is getting into the wound now?

She's Maria Hill, not Captain America. She can't just shake off a bullet wound in a crucial place and go on a jog. She presses her free hand to her ear again. "I'm down. When you've got Romanoff, take off."

"What?"

This time it's Natasha's voice, but it's in real time, like she's actually there, and then she is, crouching down beside Maria and tying something tightly around her wound.

"You dying in my arms isn't on the list, Hill," she says, slipping an arm under her shoulders. Then she drops it, grabs the gun abandoned by Maria's hand and fires off another two shots. There are matching grunts from across the field. "Can you walk?"

"Maybe." Maria pulls herself up, sets her jaw, nods. "Yes. I'm fine."

Natasha doesn't look as if she believes her, but she lets her walk anyway, one arm around her shoulders and the other covering both their heads as they hurry across the grass. Maria stumbles and bites back a noise of pain with every step, but they make it up the ramp and into the jet just as her legs give out.

"You - Leigh - get me a medkit, now." Natasha half-pushes, half-lifts Maria into the little side-room medbay and tactfully says nothing as Maria collapses not-so-gracefully on the bed. "Stay with me, Hill."

"I'm literally fine, Natasha." She struggles up onto her elbows and peers down at her torso, the rudimentary bandage stained an alarming pink colour. "It's just bullet, i's fine."

Natasha rolls her eyes and Maria can feel herself slipping, but she's lucid enough to see that there's real fear in the Widow's eyes. "Lie down. I need to stitch you up."

Maria does so obediently, sighing with relief at the feeling of the pillow beneath her. Her head lolls to the side. Her eyes close again, and then fly open as Natasha grabs her hand and squeezes it hard.

"I said, stay with me, Hill," she repeats, voice harsh. "I need you to stay awake. It's going to hurt."

"Fuck's sake, I know that, 'm a commander," Maria slurs, grunting in pain as something cold touches her abdomen, her already hurting-like-hellfire wound now stinging as well. The pain, at least, keeps her alert for a little while longer. "M'tired."

"Maria, hold on, please-" the rest of Natasha's words tail off as Maria slips away somewhere else - somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, somewhere empty, and the pain ceases.

There are so many things happening when Maria wakes up that she's more than tempted to go straight back to sleep again. There's a dull, burning pain in her side, paired with an ache in her temples. The lights above her are bright and stinging, echoing voices and beeps ring in her ears, and every single one of her muscles complains as she moves.

"Easy there, tiger." A hand lands gently on her torso, stilling her. "You don't want to pull your stitches."

Maria knows the voice before her eyes move to see the face. She doesn't know why the agent is here, or how long she's been here, but she's glad to see her, even if it's just out of duty. "Romanoff."

"Natasha," she's reminded gently.

She squints at her, takes in her clean hair and change of clothes and a patch of nasty purple creeping out from under her neckline. "Have you got that bruise checked out?"

It earns her a small laugh. "Not even a bullet can turn off your commander mode, I see." She shifts in her chair and it grants Maria a view of the cold compress beneath the fabric. "Yes, I got it checked out. You've been out for a while. I got bored."

"Mission debrief?" Maria frowns when she doesn't get a response; Natasha only smooths the comforter beneath her hands. "Mission debrief?" She repeats.

"You must have lost your mind on the way here if you think I'm giving you the mission debrief two hours after you got shot," snaps Natasha, her tone cold enough to make Maria jump.

But they don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing. "Romanoff, I require the regular report, now."

"Quite the poet, aren't you?" Natasha smirks. They stare each other down for a good minute before the Russian sighs and breaks. "Fine." She clears her throat. "Target organisation casualties: sixteen dead, four critically injured, six mildly injured, all ten expected for questioning. SHIELD casualties: zero dead, one critically injured, nine mildly injured, all recovered back to headquarters."

"I suppose that one is me?"

Natasha gives her finger-guns. "Right first time, Commander."

"And the Romanoff rundown?" She isn't offended by the laugh - she got shot two hours ago, she isn't quite as eloquent as she'd like at the moment. Natasha recovers herself.

"Romanoff rundown?"

Maria cocks a brow. "You expect me to believe those bruises are the only injury you got out there?"

"They're my only major injury. Bruises all over, pretty much, and I ache like hell, but I got off lightly. You've got a minor laceration besides the bullet wound, bruising along your ribs for that dive you made, and probably a raging headache from dehydration."

Maria's too stubborn to admit she's right, but she accept the glass of water with a smile of thanks. She drinks half of it and sets it back down. "You can head off now, if you like."

"Are you getting rid of me?"

She stumbles. "No - you're welcome to stay - I just assumed you were here to check I was alright. Fury has a habit of sending other people to do his job. And - well, why would you be here?"

"Because I care, you idiot. You're my friend - and that's something I never thought I'd say." Natasha bites her lip. "If you're freaked out by us being friends, Clint's just out getting snacks. He's been here too."

"Barton has?"

Natasha nods. "Steve dropped in for a bit as well. He said you guys have worked on a couple of ops together?"

"Yeah. Rogers is a good guy." Maria drops her head back onto her pillow.

"And, uh, some level two agent put her head around the door about half an hour ago. Said to tell you thank you, and she was sorry." The redhead plays with the comforter again. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend."

"I don't." It would be impossible to have a girlfriend when Natasha exists. Unless it was Natasha, obviously, but that's not a question she needs answered, not when the answer will be no. "Blonde hair, brown eyes? That was Bennett, the agent I covered earlier."

"Oh. No girlfriend, then?"

Maria shakes her pounding head. "Nope. Still an item to check off my list."

Natasha smiles. "You should rest."

It starts with a text message. Romanoff back from mission. Failed. Target eliminated but casualties high. Do not engage. N. J. F.

And listen, Maria's usually good at following orders, but she's also usually pretty good at figuring out when not to follow them. She checks the time: 21:32. Late enough for her to clock out.

And so, once she's packed up and locked her office, she stops at her room only to drop off her bags and grab a jacket before she's heading for the lift and punching in the code for the top floor.

The roof is a habit, now, the same as early-morning coffee and cereal after missions, and Maria finds her there, sitting close to the edge, a bottle of Smirnoff miserably between her knees.

Natasha doesn't turn. She knows who it is just by the steps, the quiet, caring exhalation, and then eventually the soft, low words. "Straight from the bottle? I thought you had more taste than that."

Her laugh is sad, and Maria sits down beside her. She takes a swig from the bottle herself, sighs in satisfaction, and hands it back. Below them, New York is brightly lit, streetlights and car headlamps and a few dozen street markets and parties. Above them, the sky rolls angrily, grey with stormclouds.

"Been to Medical?" Maria suggests, once her eyes adjust to the darkness and she sees that Natasha's not in her suit. The redhead shrugs, which she takes to mean, no, but I'm fine.

And, weirdly, Maria believes her. At the end of this, Maria actually trusts her. Not just the way she trusts everyone: shallowly, variably, unreliably. She trusts her the way she does Nick. Wholly, and unchangeably, and dangerously.

Maria Hill would take a bullet for anyone who needed her to, but she'd take a bullet for Natasha Romanoff even if she didn't. She'd do it anyway.

"I suppose you want the mission report," Natasha says heavily, at last, after another gulp from the bottle. Maria hums and shrugs, letting her knee gently brush against the Russian's.

"Reports can be submitted up to 48 hours after the end of the mission, so only if it's ready," she replies. "Only if you're ready."

"I wasn't," Natasha says darkly.

"You shouldn't think like that. I know it was a solo mission, but you're still backed by SHIELD as a foundation. Any mistakes made in mission prep aren't on your shoulders."

"I guess."

Maria knows that sometimes words are useless. She lifts a tentative and then sure arm and settles it around Natasha's shoulders. To her surprise but happiness, Natasha seems to collapse, and curls into her.

The Russian isn't big on physical touch, Maria knows that, and neither is she. She doesn't go any further, or start full-on trying to cuddle her, but she hopes the arm is comfort anyway. Natasha presses into her side, the bottle falling loosely from her hand. Maria stands it up to stop a breakage.

"It's weird," Natasha voices. "In the Red Room, this wouldn't have been seen as a failure. I eliminated the target, I did the job. But here, it's different. It's odd."

"It wasn't a failure," Maria assures her. "It didn't go as planned, and certainly it's upsetting, but you still did the job. And we have a relief foundation, we have charities, we have hospitals. Casualties are taken care of."

"There shouldn't be any casualties."

"This job is difficult, you know? We don't want to hurt anyone, but sometimes people get hurt to stop more people getting hurt. It's the way the rules are written, I'm afraid."

"You should be writing these down," Natasha comments, her head halfway to leaning on Maria's shoulder. "Someone's going to have big shoes to fill when you retire. I'm sure they'd appreciate a handbook."

Maria turns to laugh at her, a response on her lips, but it dies immediately when she sees how close she is to Natasha's face. Green encompasses her vision, bright in the darkness, sparkling slightly as Natasha's lips curve up into a smile.

And then she kisses her.

Frankly, it makes sense. Hardass Hill might have over eleven years of field experience and what seems like the bravest soul on the field, but it was never going to be her to take the leap.

Mainly because she never expected there to be a leap for her to take.

Except here she is, kissing Natasha Romanoff. Her eyes flutter closed as one of Natasha's hands steals over her shoulder, cradles her jaw briefly before slipping up into the back of her ponytail, lacing tightly, but not painfully, into her hair, tethering them together. Her lips taste like vodka and the faintest traces of blood from a carelessly cleaned nosebleed, and it's that which brings Maria back to reality.

"Nat," she whispers, trying to pull back, although there's limited space because of the way Natasha's holding her. "Are you sure-"

"Shh," Natasha murmurs, reeling her back in. "Everything's okay, I promise."

And Maria lets herself believe her. She closes her eyes again and kisses back, lets Natasha's arm mold around her and bring her impossibly closer, lets her own hand slide down and tuck into the Widow's pocket.

There, of course, is the list, the paper soft with age against Maria's fingertips. She smiles at the feeling and Natasha smiles with her.

It's a drop of water that parts them, landing impertinently on Maria's forehead and tracing down her nose, over her cheek and onto Natasha's neck. She frowns, and then glances up at the sky. The grey clouds stare back.

"Want to go inside?" Natasha's eyes track over Maria's face, the loose set of her jaw, the half-smile that grows as another few drops patter down on them. A growl of wind sweeps their hair sideways, but Maria is still smiling. "Maria?"

The brunette kisses her suddenly, a little harder than before, and this time she means it with everything in her. Months of crossing off random items and grading mission reports and coffees appearing on her desk, months of smirks and warm-voiced quips and spar sessions, months of everything and nothing all culminating into this kiss.

"There." Maria pulls away for breath and wipes the rain off her face with her sleeve.

"There?" Natasha questions, a little dizzy from the kiss and more eager to get another one like that than anything else. She had no idea that Maria Hill could kiss like that. "What do you mean?"

"You wanted a real kiss in the rain, there you go," Maria says, almost defiantly. "At least, it was real from me. It's up to you to decide whether to cross it off your list."

"You ... it was real from you?" Natasha says wonderingly. Maria nods. Her bravado seems to seep away all in one second and she retreats, leans back. "Oh, Maria."

And there's a pen in her hand and the list on her knee, carefully sheltered from the rain by her torso, and she scans the paper for item thirty-five and slants a definite, gorgeous cross through the number.

"Now that's settled," she says, tucking the list away, and her next words are low and honey-sweet, dripping with seduction, "want to come inside and see my other list?"

Maria rolls her eyes and elbows her and pulls her back in all in the same movement. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Romanoff."

They don't kiss again for another three weeks. There's coffee on Maria's desk most mornings, with R x written down the side, and when Natasha smiles at her it's more than she smiles at anyone else. She gets a kiss pressed to the side of her face after the briefing for a mission they're leading together, half on her cheek and half on the corner of her mouth.

But it's not a real kiss, and Maria lies awake at night aching for answers.

It's one of those nights when the knock on her door comes - late evening, at least. She's sprawled out on her bunk, a book propped up on her chest keeping her place. She doesn't remember what happened in the last ten pages because all she can think about is Romanoff.

Whoever it is knocks twice: quietly, quickly. It echoes around her quarters. Maria frowns.

Male agents aren't allowed in the female block, and vice versa. Fury would never come to her rooms. She doesn't really have anyone close enough to her to knock on her door anyway.

Bad guys don't usually announce their presence with pleasantries, but Maria grabs her gun off the bedside table just in case. It hangs at her side, slightly hidden, just in case.

"I know it's late," a voice says, as she's halfway through opening the door, and Maria drops the gun on the hallway dresser as soon as she hears it. Natasha is holding a duffel bag in one hand, and her fingers twitch nervously on the handle.

"Romanoff," Maria greets, and then steps back a little. "Natasha."

The redhead smiles sadly. It's in a braid, her hair, and in the crappy corridor lighting it looks hurried. "I've come to say goodbye, Maria."

"Goodbye?" She checks, frowning.

"Goodbye," Natasha repeats. Maria waits a moment and then steps back further.

"You should come in."

She bolts the door behind them and takes the gun with her as Natasha follows her down the passage and into her room. The weapon is abandoned back on the table and Maria sits down on her bunk, gesturing for the Russian to take a seat as well. She doesn't.

"I've been assigned a mission," she says softly. "Honeypot, at least two months, Fury reckons. Natalie Rushman, at your service." She bows grandly and she's going for cheerful, but her voice is breaking.

"Who is it for?" Maria asks, ready to storm to Fury's office in her pyjamas if it's some arms dealer or dangerous target because Natasha is supposed to be done with that.

Natasha smiles, because she knows. "Tony Stark. Iron Man, you know. Fury wants him on our side - something about him being smart? I don't really see it. I'm assigned to watch over him, make sure he doesn't get involved with anything bad, and get him out of sticky situations."

"Mm, he's racing in the Historic, isn't he?" Maria remembers seeing an article about it. "He seems like the kind of guy do to something stupid. No wonder Fury assigned the best of the best."

Hesitating, Natasha pulls a small plastic box out of her pocket and offers it across. "I wanted to give you this."

Maria takes it warily and pops the lid to reveal a burner phone nestled in a pile of tissue paper. It's got a case on it, which is unusual, so she flips it over and takes the protective screen off. A slip of paper falls out, with two addresses on it.

"I've got two safehouses to live in for the duration of the mission," Natasha explains. "Not even Fury will know which one I'm in at any given time, but if you wanted - if you needed them-" She breaks off.

The brunette turns the phone back over. "I haven't been assigned to this operation. I won't be the one doing your check-in calls, and I won't be your point of contact in danger."

"I know. It's - it's not for that." Natasha swallows. "I'm going to miss you, and I thought - I only had one spare, so."

"Not even one for Barton?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not as good with words as you are, Maria. Sometimes I still feel like I don't know English, but you ... you make me feel things, things I don't know the word for, maybe there isn't a word. But nobody else makes me feel like that."

Maria studies her carefully, checks her face for tells, scans her posture and body language, even though she already knows she isn't lying. Somehow, she just knows. Gently, she slides the case back onto the phone, tucks the addresses into the secret space.

"I'm going to miss you too, Natasha," she says quietly.

The Russian moves quickly, but not surprisingly, and Maria finds she can guess every movement made as it happens. Natasha's hand lands on her knee, the other rests on her hip where the scar is still healing. Her lips drift over Maria's jaw.

"When do you leave?" Maria asks. She lifts her hand wonderingly to cradle the back of Natasha's neck. Her fingers brush escaping wisps of scarlet hair, and sure enough it's as soft as she's always imagined.

Natasha makes a soft, regretful sound. "I report to the landing bay at 0600 hours."

Out of the corner of her eye, the clock shows 10:52. It's not enough time. But, then, maybe they'll never have enough time. Natasha's lips brush hers.

"You should sleep before your mission, agent," Maria points out, once they separate. Natasha shrugs. The very corner of her mouth quirks upwards into the same smirk that felled Maria all those years ago.

"I'm the Black Widow. I don't need sleep," she replies.

"What are you going to do, then? You've got seven hours."

Natasha just smiles and kisses her again. "I'm going to do," she says, against Maria's lips, "exactly what I want, and that is this."

Maria is picking up basic essentials for the annual safehouse restock when it catches her eye. The box sits innocently just below the counter on a rack of five; she scans through them until she finds one with a red case.

"I didn't know people still bought these," the guy working the till comments, as he scans the Tamagotchi and adds up her total.

"It's for a friend," is all Maria says, safe in the knowledge that she's more. She parcels it up and sends it to the first address that falls out of the back of her phone. Two days later, she gets a text.

N.A.R.

I got your parcel. I'm calling it Clint. tell him I say hi.

Maria deliberates over replying for a while, deleting several useless drafts before she settles on something.

Clint says hi back and wants to know if you can get an Iron Man action figure for Cooper.

I say hi too.

The texts are sporadic after that. They come in at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes Natasha texts ten times every day and sometimes she doesn't text for an entire week.

N.A.R.

how are things your end?

That stupid stunt Vanko pulled at the Historic got me roped into the op, but I'm good otherwise.

I miss you.

For once, Natasha's reply is instantaneous. Maria hardly has time to send her email before the phone buzzes from the back of her desk and she scrambles for it, almost slicing her hand open on the blade she keeps in there.

N.A.R.

going soft on me, Commander Hill?

I miss you too. turns out I actually have to be Stark's assistant and I could really use your help with the paperwork.

"So, Ms Hill, what can you tell us about Tony Stark's future involvement with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?" The reporter in front of her is like any other.

This is Maria's least favourite part of the job. Admittedly, it's satisfying when it goes right, and it's good publicity for SHIELD, but Christ is it boring. And the dress she had picked out is really digging into her.

She smiles. "Mr Stark is a useful asset in all kinds of ways, and we all look forward to seeing how we can work with him in the near future. Hopefully, such ... extreme demonstrations of loyalty to our country will not be necessary again."

"And if they are? Is he expected to be contracted to SHIELD?"

"SHIELD doesn't work by contracts; it's a voluntary agency that supports the government and the world in keeping the human race safe. Whatever Mr Stark chooses to do in the future, SHIELD will support him as best as we can."

In the inside pocket of her dress, one pocket away from the two-inch knife and two pockets away from the emergency earpiece, she feels something move against her leg.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I think our time is up." She pushes back from the desk and stands, ignoring their protests. "Any further questions can be asked via our usual publicity program."

Then she's off, before they've even finished stammering out their thank you for your time, Ms Hill. As soon as she's in the lift she retrieves her phone.

Romanoff arriving back any minute. Required for debrief. Cut the press session short if necessary. N.F.J.

Maria keeps plainclothes in the back of her car for emergency disguises, so she activates the blackout and quickly changes, sighing with relief once the dress is unzipped and off. She really needs to talk to Fury about whoever runs their debrief.

"Hill, Maria C," she says to the guard at the gates of the Triskelion, flashing her pass impatiently. She's not above honking her horn when the gates take a while to open.

"Next time don't accost my staff at the gates?" Fury says, as she strides into his office two minutes later. "How were the reporters?"

"Eejits, as usual. Is she back yet?"

He leans back in his chair. "No. She's due any minute now. You can head out to the landing bay; I'll stay back and prepare for the debrief."

"Sir." She nods and then heads out. She can hear the roar of an engine coming into land, maybe her, maybe not her. The doors slide open and Maria exits out onto the bay just as the jet touches down.

Its own door slides open. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the woman herself. Maria Hill, come to meet me."

She folds her arms, refusing to be swayed, even as Nat smirks up at her. "Welcome back, Agent Romanoff."

"God, your authority is such a turn-on. Can you call me that when we're alone?"

Maria's eyes roll in a way they haven't for a good seven months, despite Clint's best efforts, and she stretches out her hand. Nat shakes it, slips a small squeeze in there as well.

She's pulled away for debriefing and Maria has to go back to her admin and her emails and sorting out the new training program. It's not until much later than Nat sneaks into her room and climbs onto her bunk beside her.

"I missed you," the Russian says softly, resting her head carefully on Maria's shoulder. Her hand slips under the brunette's shirt, just far enough to trace the wrinkled scar. "It's healed well."

"Nick didn't let me on missions for three months. It was a pretty light wound anyway." The top of Nat's head is close enough for Maria to kiss, so she does, red hair soft beneath her lips.

"It didn't seem very light when you passed out practically in my arms," Nat says from her neck. She brushes a kiss once, twice, three times against the skin there.

"Like you didn't refuse as much medical treatment as possible before you half bled out underneath a cliff in Odessa," Maria snipes back. Nat snorts out a laugh and shakes her head.

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

Maria turns her head and tips her chin up and kisses her properly. "Yes. And I'd like it to stay that way, please. Any injuries I should know about?"

"It was only one fight, basically. I'm good." Rolling over, Nat yawns. "Just need to sleep, really."

It's Maria who drifts off first, and she's alone when she wakes up in the morning, just as she expected. The blankets have been tucked over her and the curtains drawn and, most notably, there's a bit of paper on her nightstand.

Couldn't sleep. Stole some of your paperwork so you don't have to start until 10. You said something ages ago about a coffee place two blocks from here? Yrs N x