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Maria’s had a lot of WWPCD? (What would Phil Coulson do?) moments since she joined S.H.I.E.L.D, but after the Battle of New York they seem to be rolling in thick and fast.
Fury needs her more than ever and Maria wouldn’t mind except that what he needs her for is babysitting. Cleaning up after grown men and women, superheroes, who should know better.
Maria had actually balked when Fury assigned her as handler.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m sure there are other agents much more suited to the assignment.”
Fury would hear none of it. “Excuse me! Do I look like I’m in the mood for back talk, Agent Hill? We’re in the middle of an intergalactic crisis. The last thing I want is some agent…what do the kids call it these days?...Fangirling over the Avengers. Coulson’s death made them a team. I need your pragmatism to keep them one.”
Maria wants to point out that Coulson did a bit of fangirling too but she knows what it means when Fury turns his back on her. So she squares her shoulders and gets on with it.
It’s not that Maria has a problem with the Avengers per se, but relying on heroes relieves personal responsibility and she would rather not play the damsel in distress. Coulson had a warm smile that belied the steel in his convictions. Maria has a decent right hook and a .45 caliber, which she admits is less effective at getting this particular job done. But she knows them inside out. Every scrap of intel on all of them tucked away in her head. She’s made sure of that.
Tony Stark thinks it’s a game. “Agent Hill, I seem to have misplaced the Mark VII again.”
“Agent Hill, is depreciating armour a deductible?”
“Agent Hill, do you prefer a man in armour or with a hammer?”
Stark calls her the Iron Maiden behind her back. He calls her worse things to her face and feigns disbelief when she snaps back. Maria doesn’t let herself take it personally. She knows this is about the authority her uniform represents and not the woman inside. She recognises the difference between his childish pranks and genuine antagonism. And as much as she doesn’t want to admit it to herself, Maria sees too much of her own abandonment issues in Stark not to be able to handle him.
It’s the man with the shield that she can’t seem to pin down.
When Maria gets Rogers’ request to meet at his apartment her first thought is how to get out of it. He might be the world’s biggest boy scout at heart but Captain America has a way of persuading people to do things they normally wouldn’t, and it’s impossible to blame him because he’s so nice about it.
Maria doesn’t get nice. She gets ruthless and manipulative.
Nice makes her uneasy. Maria’s a soldier and a spy and nice begs all kinds of questions about motive.
It’s curiosity as well as duty that gets her to Rogers' apartment. This is the second one she’s had to procure for him and she’s already tired of being his Realtor.
She passes Agent Carter’s door on the way and for a second she considers knocking and demanding Carter do her job as flirty neighbour so Maria doesn’t have to.
Rogers' supersonic hearing beats her to the punch.
He opens his door before she’s even gotten close.
Not for the first time Maria wishes he wouldn’t dress like such a cliché. Blue is too much his colour and tight is too tempting even for a woman who has always preferred the villain in Disney movies.
“Captain,” Maria says. “How can I help you?”
“You can start off by calling me Steve.”
Maria doesn’t have time for this argument again. She’d accidentally slipped up once and even that small oversight in a moment of adrenaline shifted something in their professional relationship.
She’s no longer Lieutenant Hill said with a salute.
She’s not Maria said with an easy smile either.
She’s Hill, with an evasive flicker of something she’s too uncertain of to probe.
“What is it, Captain?” A quick survey of his apartment deems everything in order. A soldier’s quarters. He continues to hold the door open as though he expects her to enter and she becomes rooted to the spot.
“It’s not a trap, Hill,” he says. There is suppressed laughter in his tone. “I just need some decorating advice.”
“And you couldn’t ask for that over the phone?” Or of someone else? But she’s stepping into the apartment anyway, if only because his torso turns slightly as though he’s about to drag her inside. She shivers as the air conditioning from the wall unit hits her. The metal of his shield is ice cold when she draws her fingertips across it where it’s been laid casually in the hallway.
“I would have waited until you were off duty but, well…” He trails off and Maria finishes his sentence in her head. She’s never off duty is what he’s trying so awkwardly not to say. Off duty is for stars that burn bright and leave supernovas in their wake. Messes for the black holes like her to clean up.
“Would you like something to drink?” Rogers asks.
Maria narrows her eyes at him. “No thank you. Would you mind if we just get on with it? I’ve got invoices to oversee for the damage done to downtown New York after the Chitauri.”
One of these days she’s going to get a formal reprimand for being bitchy to a national treasure. Today she just wants to get out of this apartment because like most enclosed spaces, it’s too small with him in it. Rogers runs a hand through his hair.
“Have I done something to upset you, Hill?”
Maria supposes that his very existence isn’t a good enough explanation. Can she blame him for being too naive in a world that punishes the good? Too earnest in a profession that thrives on subterfuge and arrogance? So selfless that it makes her efforts to keep a healthy distance futile?
No she can’t say any of these things. So she falls back on work as she always does.
“No you haven’t. I just don’t enjoy missions that I’m sorely unqualified for.”
“You haven’t even heard what I’m going to ask!”
She doesn’t need to hear the question before knowing the answer. And she sure as hell doesn’t want to be an accessory to his attempts at making his apartment female friendly.
“You should have asked Natasha.”
The twitch of his cheek tells her he has. Maria can only imagine how that went down. She thinks of her own interactions with Nat and the brutally honest answers she received. In Maria’s head Nat raises an eyebrow at Rogers and says:
“You’re Captain America. No woman you bring back here is going to care how your apartment is decorated as long as you’re fully loaded!”
Maria agrees with the sentiment, though perhaps not the spirit in which it might have been delivered.
"What about Pepper? I imagine she’s had ample experience with redecorating.”
“And risk Stark’s jibes? I want a home, not a bachelor pad.”
She feels the sting of the word home in his voice as sharply as if she’s been slapped. Captain America is many things to many people but the one thing he’ll never be able to do is go home again. That’s when Maria realises it’s not Captain America who is asking for her help but Steve Rogers. She might not care for the star spangled symbol but she can get behind the kid from Brooklyn.
Maria scratches at the base of her tightly wound bun. “For starters, you could get rid of the broken dishwasher.” She points to the unit that’s blocking the entrance to the laundry room. She’s surprised it’s there at all considering the state of the rest of the house.
“I keep meaning to leave it on the curb on trash day but I never seem to be around at the right time.”
It would be hilarious how straight and narrow he is if it weren’t so tragic. “The city isn’t going to dispose of your big appliances, Captain.”
“Then where can I take it?”
“Most people pay to have things like this picked up.” Or they just leave things on the curb anyway for months on end until it becomes a hazard and the city has to deal with it.
“What would you do?” He says this with genuine interest.
For a man born into an era when women’s rights hadn’t been cemented, he has no difficulty deferring to her on matters that he feels are out of his depth. Maria knows he trusts her judgement on a mission. She notices him watching her sometimes with an expression on his face that she can only call admiration. To be admired by Captain America for her ruthless efficiency is one thing, but to feel it from Steve Rogers is dangerous on another level. Maybe that’s why what she suggests is so wholly out of character. Maria’s not sure if it’s Rogers that she’s trying to shake up or herself.
What would she do? The answer is obvious and she suspects he knows it. She wouldn’t have the mess here in the first place. After all, her job is to clean up mess, it’s not to be an interior decorator. So if she’s going to be uncomfortable then she’s not going to make it easy for him either.
“Do you have access to the roof?” She walks over to the window and peers out of the curtains. Her attention is caught by blue and red flickering lights from a police cruiser parked on the street. There’s a crowd gathering. Maria checks her tablet but there’s no code alert and she’s not within her jurisdiction. Her assignment is in this room, trying to grapple with her question.
“Yes but we’re not supposed to…you’re not suggesting we dump the dishwasher on the roof? That’s against building regulations!”
She’s grinning now.
He pins her with blue eyes framed by lashes that are criminally long for a man. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a prankster.”
“I break the rules when I need to,” she shrugs.
“And if we get caught?”
Maria indicates the handgun at her hip. Rogers’ face drains of colour. “You’re not serious?”
“You asked me for advice, Captain. Are you going to take it or am I free to leave?”
They take the lift to the top floor and then Rogers hauls the machine up the flight of stairs leading to the roof.
Maria hates it when best laid plans go awry and this goes bad something fierce when they reach the top of the stairs and two uniformed police are attempting to unlock the door.
From the way they struggle with the knob, and the scraping of steel, it looks as though someone has jammed the lock by breaking off the handle on the other side. Two pairs of frantic eyes sweep over her when she approaches. At first they are filled with concern and then it's replaced with annoyance as they register Rogers behind her with a dishwasher in his arms.
“We’re dealing with a situation, Ma’am,” the younger man says. “Probably best if you go back to your apartment.”
Maria can tell by the way he’s fixated on the dishwasher that he wants to say more but whatever is on the other side takes precedence.
She’s more than happy to oblige but of course Rogers’ superhero senses are tingling.
“What seems to be the problem?” Rogers says. Without the dishwasher covering up half his face, recognition blooms in the police officers.
“Doors jammed, Sir,” the older man with a salt and pepper mustache says.
“What’s on the other side?”
“Potential jumper.”
Rogers’ brow creases. He clears the distance between the landing and the door, attempts to pry the handle loose and when that fails, he levels a kick against the solid wood that cracks it straight in half. The officers race through the opening but before Rogers can follow Maria stops him with a fist balling the cuff of his shirt sleeve. She ignores the bunching of hard muscles against her knuckles.
“I’m sure the officers have the situation under control, Captain.” Voices rise outside. He gives her a glare that transmits his intentions loud and clear.
“I know him,” Rogers says
She lets go and follows him onto the roof, her jaw clenched against the snark that is threatening to spill over. One soul on a roof compared to the tome of civilian casualties she’s had to oversee after New York. Heroism at its finest.
The night is warm and a slight breeze tugs at the necktie of the man standing on the ledge. He’s in his mid forties with dark brown hair greying along his sideburns and eyes wilder than a prairie fire. Alcoholic fumes waft from the broken whiskey bottle shattered at his feet.He sways like a kite.
“Sir,’ Comes a voice amplified by a megaphone from the sidewalk. “Whatever problems you’re having, they’re not worth ending your life.”
On the roof the two officers inch closer to him.
“Get away from me!” The man shouts. “If you come any closer I swear I’m going to jump!” His arms windmill and then he fixes his attention on Rogers. “Oh look! It’s my good friend the Captain!”
Rogers holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Easy now Bill. Why don’t you come away from the ledge?”
This seems to incite the man’s hysteria even further. He throws his arms wide and shouts, “Oh Captain, my Captain…” then his words patter out to incoherent mumbling.
Maria grapples with the extent to which she should reveal her knowledge of William Barkley. How much can she say without Rogers raising questions about her almost encyclopedic intel on his neighbours? A precaution she took when considering the procurement of this apartment for rental. Other agents run standard background checks. In any other context Maria is nothing short of a stalker.
She mentally rifles through Barkley’s file. Data entry clerk for the last fifteen years. Divorced with one daughter whom he rarely sees. Not through choice or lack of effort. Suicidal tendencies notwithstanding, he didn’t have any red flag psychological issues except a recent bout of anxiety. The whole of the country could be diagnosed with anxiety since the events of New York. Whatever has happened to push him to self-harm must have been recent and Maria’s got no time for any more research.
Barkley’s unfocused gaze sweeps over Maria.
“Well would you look at that? The Captain has got himself a lady!”
Maria inadvertently reaches for her gun at the implication and feels Rogers’ hand on her arm. She shakes him off without looking at him and keeps Barkley pinned in her vision.
If she blinks Barkley could be another man, not standing on a ledge, but baring down at her in the playground as she held a boy in a headlock. The reassuring thing is that his file indicates Barkley could be a better father than her own if given the chance.
“What did she say to you?” Maria asks. She’s clutching at straws that might break any second. Plan B is loaded and ready at her side. Always have a plan B. She just wishes it was a better plan than shooting out a man’s kneecaps.
Barkley’s glassy eyes go cold and he glances over the edge. The officers tense but she waves them back. Rogers is beside her and she can feel the warmth radiating from his body as it gears up to propel at a moment’s notice.
“Do you think Rebecca would want to see you on the news tomorrow splattered on the sidewalk?” She could be more delicate with her choice of words but Maria’s never been one to sugar coat and she needs to shock him out of his self pity.
“How do you…?”
“It’s always about a girl.”
“She doesn’t want to speak to me anymore,” Barkley moans. “She doesn’t need me.” He’s swinging around, swiping at something imaginary and Maria knows that he wants another swig of the good stuff.
“A girl always needs her father.” The words burn as they come out. It’s a lie. A girl needs a certain kind of father. Maria has suspicions if not necessarily hopes that Barkley might be that kind of man.
Barkley starts to laugh and then he chokes and spits until he’s sobbing. “She doesn’t care. Her mother has poisoned her against me.” Then he points a finger at Rogers. “The world doesn’t need men like me when it has people like him.”
In her peripheral vision Maria sees Rogers flinch like he’s been sucker punched with a dose of reality.
Maria’s eyes turn glassy at the thought of a man, an ordinary man, who took her under his wing when she was greener than a grass shoot. He’d been more of a father to her than her biological father ever was. She’d give up any of the Avengers, any day, to have Coulson back.
WWPCD?
“You can’t live every day like it’s going to be a Level 7,” Phil had told her when he’d caught her sleeping in the medivac bunks on base to get a jump on her Academy training. “Thankfully those days are rare. It’s the days in between that measure who you are. It’s the little things that count. The small things you do for people.”
“I’m only good at saying things that make people uncomfortable,” Maria had countered. He’d given her that knowing smile then.
“Sometimes the truth is hard for people to swallow. But eventually they’ll appreciate you for it.”
Maria is still waiting for that some day to come. Maybe that day could be today?
“We need men like you more than ever,” Maria says to Barkley. “Good men carry on even when the world around them crumbles. Even when their task is thankless and their effort futile.” She takes a tentative step forward and he doesn’t fly into a rage. He allows her on the ledge without reacting but he watches her with fervent wariness.
“If you honestly believe that your daughter would prefer to live in a world with superheroes over her dad being alive then you should jump and put us all out of our misery.”
She hears the sharp intake of breath from the officers but something stops them from interjecting. Maybe it’s that Barkley isn’t swaying anymore or maybe it’s because a six foot two Avenger is holding them back. Either way Maria is thankful. Still, her fingers lace around the handgun's trigger.
“She won’t talk to me…”
“Maybe not right now. But right now isn’t forever. The question is, do you want to be the asshole who ruins her life by taking the easy way out or do you want to be the man who loves her so much he’s willing to come back from the dead?”
She knows she has him when he begins to loosen his tie. Dead men don’t usually care about being uncomfortable. He stumbles as the officers assist him down. She only allows her hand to drop from the gun when the paramedics arrive to escort him to the hospital.
“We’ll keep him on suicide watch, Ma’am,” the young officer says. Maria nods but she’d already typing up an incident report to file tomorrow as she makes a statement.
When the media arrives, Maria presses herself against the shadowy side of a rusted refrigerator that some other delinquent tenant has left. The cameras take in Rogers’ looming figure standing aside respectfully to let the officers to their job. She is invisible.
Maria remembers just as the police are about to head off. “Oh, Officer! About the dishwasher…”
He smiles and rolls his eyes. “We never saw a thing.”
Back in Rogers’ apartment, Maria’s teeth chatter at the drop in temperature. Is his metabolism so fast that he feels the heat so badly? He’s been quiet since the paramedics arrived and now he’s skirting around her making puppy dog eyes as he replaces the dishwasher where it used to be. She knows he’s thinking about her comments to Barkley, questioning how close to home those words hit.
For a second Maria wonders if he’s so lonely that he'll latch on to every scrap of personal information about her. Then she shakes it off because it’s a line she can’t afford to cross. She’s not going to be defined by her past, just like she won’t be cowed by an uncertain future. Nor is she content with the idea that she’s automatically his lady as soon as a civilian sets eyes on them together.
Maria helps herself to a beer from the fridge with shaky hands. She downs every last drop and then places the bottle in the recycling bin. There’s a pen and note paper beside the landline. She writes down two phone numbers off the top of her head and slides the paper across the counter.
“Call the number on top tomorrow and someone will come for the dishwasher. The second number belongs to the nursing home where Peggy Carter is living. I think it’s about time you paid her a visit. Your apartment is fine, Captain. Except it’s too cold.”
She turns to leave without looking back. Maria’s not sure if it’s her imagination but she thinks he mumbles something suspiciously like I’d keep you warm, under his breath. Fortunately, his words are eaten up by the stomping of her boots as she makes her way out.
Phil would have classed this as a good day. It’s another one that she’s survived without shooting someone.