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agent-thirteen:

“No, it’s obvious that the Winter Soldier pulled that trigger.”

The words trip out contrary, sharp-edged and serrated and it might sound like splitting hairs but Sharon doesn’t care, she’s so far past caring it’d be obvious to her what’s going on here if she could see past the end of her own nose.  But not now, not with - tunnel vision, frankly, hers and Maria’s - the walls are closing in, their whole universe collapsing down to a fixed point and it’s here, it’s right now, and there’s something that feels almost unavoidable about this.

“We have nothing to pin Barnes to that sniper’s nest, Hill, you know that just as well as I do.  No prints, no biometrics, nothing, and we are not that sloppy.”

We.  The pair of them.  S.H.I.E.L.D.  The goddamned United Nations.  Does it really matter who she’s talking about, right now?

Sharon’s heard this tone from Maria a hundred times, and every single time she’s been beside her, behind her, shoulder-to-shoulder and ready to go down swinging, because that tone from Maria Hill’s mouth means I win, it means we’ve won, it means don’t bother coming back, it means try me again, see what happens.

Sharon never could leave well enough alone.

“What’s funny,” her palms hit the edge of Maria’s desk and the lean in seems to take her whole center of gravity with it, there’s nothing outside her, not anymore, just this, just the fucking look on Maria’s face and how could she, how could she, they’re supposed to be a team, right, and here comes Hill, ready to throw Barnes under the bus, ready to toss Sharon right after because the one person Sharon always thought she could count on to hear her out can’t be fucking bothered.

(Does it hurt more, or less, if she’s willing to admit that in someplace deep and ugly, she expected this?

Or, more accurately — she expected this again.  The first time she didn’t, and remember where that landed her? A cell in Afghanistan, not even big enough for a fucking dog.)

“Is that you’d insinuate that I’m the one who’s somehow compromised here, Director, when you seem to be the one spoiling to cash in on something that sounds an awful lot like a grudge.”

Is there a difference?

Is there really, truly, a difference between the man the world knows as the Winter Soldier and the one that Sharon holds near and dear as Bucky Barnes.

Her lip curls and she can feel the muscles in her shoulders tightening, creeping upward toward her ears as she tenses up, coiling like a spring. The ballistics report had been pretty condemning, in her professional opinion- which apparently doesn’t matter to Carter over here, staunchly digging in her heels against the possibility that Barnes might not be all that he seems ( a glorified weapon- ).

When Sharon moves it’s swift, a jolt of electric energy that permeates the room kept unequivocally still by the presence of its main occupant. The only reaction that Maria affords is a flutter of her lashes, several blinks that indicate she’s aware of the shift in position. If she were a little less angry, she might be not enjoy this as much. Maria Hill is a woman who errs on the side of not taking things personally, but on the rare occasion that she does, it’s much like a tender wound that that makes you hiss on contact.

The muscle at the base of her jaw tics- once, then twice.

            She doesn’t care.

( This is something she’s worn out as a mantra over too many years- )

           Sharon’s chosen her side, that much is clear.

Her voice is steady ( ice cold- she can’t afford to let even her colleague know that she’s struck something a nerve ), the pad of her thumb tracing a slow circle on the inner part of her ring finger.

“Like I said, I’m following evidence. Morse’s report makes it clear. The fact that Barnes has turned on us before only gives me probable cause.”

Maria tilts her head back slightly, adjusting the angle of her gaze, lids slightly hooded. It’s important that she broadcast just how little this actually affects her.

                        “If you want to go to bat for a known criminal, Sharon, so be it. I’ll get started on the order for your investigation- you’re familiar with the protocol.”

no one is now what they were before the war | maria & sharon

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worldsgreatestmarksman:

His head dips the slightest bit in acknowledgment.  “Nothing new and different there –– ”

Clint falls into step with Maria for the short distance from the bank of registers to the end of the counter.  He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head.  “Nice.”  Clint sucks crumbs off of his thumb and raises his eyebrows at Maria.  “Consider this my resignation, in that case.”

Another joke –– mostly.  The Directorship certainly isn’t something he wants to get used to.

            There’s a tilt to her mouth that has her looking away- an old agreement that’s long been decided upon. 

“No can do. There’s paperwork for that,” Maria replies succinctly, brows flicking to punctuate the statement that may or may not be ( but most likely is ) true, holding the humor at the back of her throat. 

                       Her drink comes up quickly, almost as though they’d seen her coming. Fingertips close around the lid of the cup and pull it toward her, tipping her head toward Clint. “Don’t know how I’d fill the position if you did that.”

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bothhavesharpteeth:

{{ @centcomm }}

It’s been nearly a week since the Memorial, since Pierce’s very public elimination ––––––––––––– 

( Unkind, perhaps, to use that word, but then that’s what happens to men like him.

It’s no less than he’d deserved. )

Still, Natasha can only imagine the ripple effect such a display would have, and coupled with the fact that she’s heard less than nothing from Maria or Sharon since the funerals, well… she’s taking matters into her own hands.  

Again.

A sharp rap against the door announces her arrival, the fair measure of her weight leant against the frame signaling that this is a social call.  As social as any of their calls can really be.

���Will you open up if I promise the only thing I brought was wine?”

Her attention’s been half-hooked between the current news cycle for the past hour, the volume low and murmuring against the quiet of the otherwise empty apartment. The outlets are still consistently rehashing what had happened at the Memorial and each time they come forth with a new supposed photograph of the suspect, enlarged and grainy from a photo of the crowd, the rest of the stations follow and attempt to one-up their competitors. 

She’s tired. 

If they were speaking she’d be texting Sharon about it, but as it stands---

Maria’s state of half-thought catches her standing between rooms, eyes glazed while she stares at the television. She’d been gravitating toward making a cup of tea when the sharp knocks shake her smartly to attention. Brows hardly have time to pinch at the center of her forehead before Natasha’s voice filters through the wood paneling. 

Several locks scrape and pins tumble before she opens the door, greeting the redhead with an apologetic half-smile ( it seems it’s always like this ). She shifts to the side, clearing a path for Natasha to slide past.

     “As opposed to--?”

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brucegbanner:

Maria folds into him and he leans back, two pillars pressing against each other, their contact the keystone of their stability. 

        Bruce loves her – - the realization comes in a rush of clarity, and he hasn’t felt this way in years; and even then, it hadn’t been quite like this. This time the one looking back carries her strength like a medallion; determination too hard a habit to quit, but vulnerability and sensitivity wiry and alive if one had the good fortune of being permitted to see it; a formidable adversary and a matching partner, the strength of her confidence and independence making the expressions of their dependency all the sweeter, all the more special.  A love born in the present, the circumstances of here and now, and the inevitability of the future. 

                      “Sushi?” he suggests with his head in the clouds and his face tipped down to hers, lips brushing along the edge of hers with the suggestion.   It’s no accident that the suggestion harkens back to one of the first glimmers of their potentiality, two souls in the heart of Tokyo making amends after a string of unfortunate events ( they’d only barely gotten started, before he’d been taken away and replaced by an imposter; and she’d been so determined to cut her losses and leave - only to find themselves here, now, together   still - ). 

She punctuates the question with a kiss, fingertips curling against the fabric of his shirt, the answer translating in the affirmative curve of her mouth, residual, as she pulls away. “Okay,” comes out soft against his jaw before she’s fully settled onto her back foot, shifting her bag from her hand to one of the two kitchen chairs. The suggestion harkens back to a neon-dipped midnight, a time when their inner clocks were both turned inside out and she’d been taking a lunch break in the middle of the night, bringing Bruce along for the ride. A calculated risk on her end, but one that’d ended up being favorable. ( More than favorable, really, because here they were, after all this time, and she’s left with a warm feeling in the pit of her chest-- )

       “I can order online,” Maria’s already pulling out her phone, tapping against the screen and pulling up the website. “And we can walk to pick it up.” The idea arrests the rest of her movements- the habitual range of motion that’d take her through removing her coat and shoes, and she tilts her head, one brow arced. 

                     “Your usual?” A few slow steps take her closer, the clip of her mouth reading a bit sly ( she’s pleased, there’s no point in hiding it here ), and a hand slides over his hip.

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worldsgreatestmarksman:

Clint considers her question.  

He’s fairly confident that if they move fast enough, they can each incapacitate one guy before the others even realize what’s happening.  He doesn’t doubt that between the two of them they would be able to take all of these guys down, but the real question is whether or not they could accomplish that without one of them sustaining any injuries.  

The potential of that is higher given the crammed confines of the back of the van.  They can’t really afford for one of them to be hurt.  Not if they’re going to get out of the current predicament and potentially salvage the rest of the mission.

          “No lo sé.”

He is still armed – the gun is a comforting weight at the small of his back, the knife still tucked into his boot.  

         “Sí.”

She’ll know exactly what he’s carrying without him having to clarify – it’s the preferred assortment of weapons he always carries if his bow isn’t an available option.

But firing a weapon in here is certainly out.  And even with a knife, again their biggest hurdle is the close proximity to their captors.  That and the way the van bounces down the street, a combination of the pot holes and a suspension that could use some tender loving care.  He casts a quick, furtive glance at their companions before he meets Maria’s gaze again.

Not ideal.

City sounds fade the further they get from the center, snaking outward in a semi-circular fashion through winding roads and Maria reads the posture of the men in the van, finding a shred of comfort in the way their shoulders begin to slope. Slate gray irises snap toward Clint at his precise response, her expression maintaining its neutral hold pattern, simply nodding in response. They’re in no position to act now, she knows this, and so she returns to running her teeth along the inside of her lower lip, eyes half narrowed, right up until the van slows and stops. 

She stiffens, hands that had once rested casually between her knees now poised to dive into her boots should that be necessary. The men at the front of the van tumble out, their Slavic tones grating but not at all argumentative ( from what she could discern- they seemed to be on this side of jocular, maybe? ), and the back double doors pop open, inciting their companions to shift and grumble. Maria and Clint are largely ignored, which is strange, and she manages to position herself near him once they’re outside, standing on gravel at what appears to be a dilapidated factory. It’s repurposed, she can only assume, judging by the row of motorcycles parked outside not unlike those at the strange bar they’d stumbled into. 

The gang seems happy, upbeat even, and they mill about for a few moments before heading toward a door at the base of a rusted-over metal silo. Maria turns toward Clint, frowning, a shrug manifesting in the rise of her shoulders. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but a nicotine-worn voice carries over to them-

        “You! Come.”

Alternatively, they could bolt. 

The men turn, expectant. Maria doesn’t miss the suggestive positioning of hands near the edges of their jackets. Or maybe she’s just imagining the threat-

        “You with us now.”

A sigh, a few steps forward, she finds herself more curious than not. Besides, all the keys to those bikes have got to be inside. Maria looks up at Barton while they move. 

“Dibs on the black one,” she says lowly, redirecting her gaze to the motorcycles.

a study in murphy’s law ; barton + hill

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habeas-oscorpus:

               “Sure is.“

    [ Harry murmurs to confirm his status, almost whimsically; swirlig around the glass between his circling fingertips in such a way that the dimmed lights of the place are refracted in sequence around the liquid that sloshes around crystal contours. His gaze wanders, almost misted over with vaguery as he casts it over a group of guys playing pool in the corner of the bar, his head tilting in a sudden relaxed slump of a motion as he watched them… ]

                   [ He’s quiet as she points out what fels like the obvious to him, and yet it strikes him as some kind of revelation. Nevertheless there’s a ringing sense that he should be reverting with some kind of genre-savvy quote about how it sure was something to hear that from Director Hill: supposedly his prime contender for the title of Supreme Loner…    The thought for the rebuttal is there, but it never manifests. Rots in his head, like some withering fungus of a conversation point… ]

                 [ Instead, his fingers merely tighten around the circumference of his glass. A small sonorous clink of glass on wood as the base of it sets against the counter. Alllowing his hand to rest against the scratched, abused wood as he now turned his focus to its subtle definition. Maintaining a semblance of fading focus…        Meaning that when she ventures, and asks; he’s surprisingly pliant. Even moreso forthcoming. ]

                 “All these people…   People I–…”

                             [ He swallows tightly, lifts his hand off his glass and waves his fingers around. Trying to throw off the gravity of his own words. ]

                                   “They all look at me like I’m someone else. Ever since this stupid Accords stuff… and I mean none of them support it, so.  –So everyone just fucking left… ”

                                  [ He dips his head again, a natural pause as he bobs slightly… and then fails to complete his own train of thought. Losing the desire to just as quickly. ]

[ An expelled sigh, her patience is withering rapidly with each sip at the glass- not that she doesn’t harbor a certain amount of affection for Harry, but rather in spite of it. Her patience for his self-pity wanes, and Maria finds herself reaching for the bottle more quickly than she would have liked to. Clear liquid sloshes against the interior of the glass before she rights the bottle, the gesture accompanied by the slightest shake of her head.

            Maria Hill’s no stranger to going up against people who might not see eye to eye. 

It’s never been the end of the world.

                                                  ( But then, he is young- ) ]

       “So you’re going to sit here and be upset with yourself for supporting something you believe in?”

[ So much for sugarcoating anything- not that she has ever been in the habit of doing so. Maria knocks back half of the replenished glass before reaching for the glass of water that’s been sweating on the lacquered surface for the past quarter-hour. She brings it to her mouth, sipping slowly and looking over the bowed head of her companion. ]

                 “Since when has anyone’s opinion mattered to you, Osborn?”

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Fury: I need you to come meet me, and I need you to come alone.

Hill: And I need you to be less vague and less weird.

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Maria Hill being flawless [5/?]

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I intend to leave this life so shattered there’s gonna have to be a thousand separate heavens for all of my flying parts.

Andrea Gibson (via rarararambles)

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Maria Hill by David Mack

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brucegbanner:

The obviousness of the reason for his special attention to this dinner doesn’t seem to go amiss, but he’s content to let it remain unvoiced, satisfied with the knowledge that Maria knows. He follows the movement and steps with her as they survey the array of pots and pans ( it’s only 3 burners, and one is just there to stay warm ) - 

He follows her to the table, drifting in her wake, the soft press of her presence: 

       “Fancy shoes, dessert, and a hand-knit sweater; I don’t know if what I got will hold up…” 

A glance towards the small box, the first verbal reference to its presence, still hovering at her side, hand trailing around the small of her back, caught up in her presence and unwilling to step away. 

   “I’ll leave Sharon’s handiwork to you then,” he consents, with a smile; but if they want to eat he has to get started on the steaks and shrimp, “ - wine?” 

The offer forces him away, a lingering hand playing across her lower back until he’s too far; the steaks have been marinating, and he tosses the mix of shrimp and scallops into a separate pan before laying down the two steaks in the warmed pan gently. They sizzle almost instantly, and he’s got about a minute and a half before he needs to flip them.

He fills two glasses, hands one off to Maria, lingering near her while the food starts to cook.  

Maria hums, amused, and accepts the glass. A rocking step takes her away from the table, notching into his side while taking a sip. It’s one of her favorite reds- a passing comment made probably weeks ago, and though it hadn’t been designed to function as a hint, he’d clearly made use of the information and capitalized on it. 

     He moves away to take care of the food, leaving her standing in the center of the small kitchen, elbow tucked into her ribs, wine glass hovering near her mouth. Her eyes linger on the curve of his neck, the way his hair brushes the collar of his shirt, tempering the surge of feeling that rises in her chest. It’s hard to fight the smile that threatens to unfurl, so she doesn’t, and instead surges forward, abandoning the glass of wine on the sliver of countertop next to the stove. Her arms slide around Bruce’s waist, the rest of her body following in the next step and a half. Lips press into the slope of his shoulder before she juts her chin over the top of it. 

                             “All of this- definitely holds up, don’t worry,” she hums. 

          Her phone has been suspiciously silent- Maria has a feeling that someone’s covering for her ( or at the very least rerouting anything less than important ), and for that she’s immensely grateful. 

              She shifts her weight, fingers latched at his front and effectively keeping him in place ( though should he need to move, he’s more than free to- she just wants a moment ), exhaling contentedly. 

                            “Bruce, thank you-”

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this is the most expressive panel ive ever seen

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brucegbanner:

The cold he feels is superficial, Maria’s warmth, the hot tea, and the heating of the restaurant quickly tipping him back into a comfortable place. The pass on Christmas is a relief; he hadn’t thought it would weigh heavily on her priorities, and the reassurance is easing - though the guilt doesn’t completely disappear. 

      He warps his hand around the cup, letting it warm his skin, watching the elegant movement of Maria bringing the cup to her lips – 

  Bruce’s expression pinches at her answer, concern flaring up at the thought of her having left so early ( he’s not sure exactly when, but it can’t have been anything other than early ) and gone so long without any nutrients ( he doesn’t doubt coffee was on the docket, but will firmly maintain that it doesn’t count ) - 

           “Maria -” he starts with a downward inflection, putting a pause on his concern when he realizes how it sounds; they’re here, here and now, after all. Instead, he lets the topic lie with a good-natured sigh, leaning over to kiss her cheek and let his forehead rest at her temple for a moment.  But he can’t help wonder how often it happens - too often, is his inkling. 

“I would’ve come for hot dogs, if you wanted,” he tells her, pulling away and sliding the menu closer to read it. “You’ll be home later?” It’s an extrapolation from their brief text/phone call - he could’ve put another afternoon at the lab on hold, but a brunch date tips the scales towards a safeguard against meeting again within the comfort of bed. 

          She’s far too deep in the menu to notice the look that passes across his face, but the drop in tone suggests she might not need to look up to get the gist of it, anyway. On the list of things to fret about, missing breakfast is far down toward the bottom of it. The cup feels warm against her palm and she lets it hover near her mouth while her eyes drift down the menu columns a little lazily, holding her attention until she slowly ( slyly ), looks over at him. 

“I’ll remember that, now, the next time the Cubs are in town and I feel like playing hooky.” 

Increasing the pressure of her knee against his, Maria sips at her cup when someone else opens the door and sends a fresh wash of cold air pouring inward, nipping at the exposed skin of everyone’s ankles. She lets the corner of the menu dip in order to see him better, replaces the cup on the tabletop and exchanges it for the phone that’s been buzzing in her pocket. A quick look at her schedule confirms what she’d thought. 

“I’ve got a late call tonight. Tomorrow?” Hopeful, but in a way that it’s not outright. Their schedules have been something of a mess lately, and she appreciates his patience while they attempt to untangle them. 

She’s looking at him now, the menu falling to the table, and notes the stubble at the curve of his jaw, the shadow that haunts his cheekbones. She worries, the hours he’s keeping, the time spent with Stark poring over that shell of a body they’d recovered. The concern ebbs and she pauses when the waiter comes by to take their order, brows still pinched by the time he goes away. A hand drifts and she runs the backs of her fingers along the top of his knee. 

     “You feeling okay?”

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connorcourtesy:

[ He smiles, for politeness sake mixed with a hint of lingering gratitude, but still. ]

        “I think so, yeah.                   Coffee place? I was, uh, interrupting you.”

“Everyone does, at some point.                    I wouldn’t take it personally.”

[ The return smile is something in between a grimace and something real. She shifts, not uneasy but maybe in a hurry. ]

                                         “Funny coincidence, though.”

[ Is it? They are a long way from that coffee shop, and New York’s an awful big place- ]

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𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐈𝐜𝐞

𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞

𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞

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diplomaticfields:

Antheia gave Hill a warm smile as she shook her hand. The Director’s reputation proceeded her and she was a bit relieved that woman hadn’t reacted hostilely to her presence. “Of course, Director. I thought it polite to stop by. I’m hoping to be as hands on as I’m allowed to be.” 

Maria’s ensuing smile is tight, personable and yet not. She only has so much patience reserved for these sorts of interactions- the kinds that become blips in an otherwise routine sort of day. A brisk rotation, the gesture in her wrist suggests that the young woman follow ( she does, after all, have things to do besides carry on a stagnant conversation ). 

                “That’s a relief, I suppose, considering the person who had your position before you was largely unmemorable.”