There wasn't much to say, to be honest.
Steve really didn't have any personal opinions over Commander Hill; he knew she was tough. Strong. Capable. Reliable. Resourceful. She's the kind of character that just… that'd leave a certain impression on you, you know? One that convinced you she's not one you'd like to wrong unless you're ready to face the damage that'll spring forward if you do.
Steve guessed he could always see it since the first time they were introduced.
But like, he didn't―you know―know her, know her. Not really. He knew she and the Widow had mutual respect for one another; that Clint's the only one so far that gives a really obvious impression they've known each other for quite a while; that she's close with Coulson (at what extent however, he'll never know); and that she speaks more than two languages besides from English, and she preferred both of those languages more than her mother tongue. (And he only knew this because of the few missions he'd have the fortunate on working with her.)
So it's weird, yes. Weird that he's draping himself over her couch in her apartment, bleeding, and instead of trying to strategically position his body so the blood wouldn't dirty the fabric, he's peeking through an old forgotten book to stare at a photograph of Maria Hill with a young teenage boy; both harbouring a matching set of grins.
Steve doesn't know the boy―how could he―but he identifies Hill. She's got the same eyes, the same pale (yet oh so sharp) cheeks that he'd always secretly admired from the start. But she looks―different. Like it's not… Hill. It's another version of her. The version that doesn't suit up and write reports and berates junior agents and went around looking like she both hated it and enjoyed it.
So, yeah. Different.
But Steve quickly slipped the picture into the pages they were in and looked around; Sam was nowhere in sight (probably checking out the perimeter) and the image of the last explosion still pounded against his skull though he tried not to show his grimace as much.
And then there's a sound. A soft sound, nearly unnoticeable if it weren't for his enhanced hearings.
He's not surprised to quirk his head only to let his attention fall to a gun pointing right at the space between his eyes. But the person's holding it was one he was aiming to see for the past hours, so he didn't… mind it as much, he supposed. In fact, he was even kind of glad.
"Hey," he tried speaking but knew it came out as nothing but a soft noises against the wind; Maria Hill didn't look impressed.
Her stance didn't waver when she tilted her head slightly one degree to the side, her eyes marvelled down to the pressure he's putting on his bleeding flesh.
He'd put bandages prior, of course, and Sam tried to keep it clean as long as they both could, but it seemed as though the wound won't stop bleeding. Frankly, even for a Super Soldier, Steve's getting pretty tired. Maybe it's because of the blood loss. Maybe it's because he hadn't drank anything that his stomach had gracefully accepted for the last 32 hours. Well, who could really know.
Steve's just mostly glad that Sam, aside from a cracked rib and a few new colourful bruises, were in much better shape than he was.
"You've been sloppy," Hill said suddenly, pulling him sharply from out of his short stance; her hands still gripping on the gun like it's her lifeline. And maybe it was. "There's blood on my front door."
"It was just a drip," he tried putting the words as though it was a joke―though privately didn't know he'd even left such a trace behind. But he was excessively bleeding out, so you couldn't actually blame him when he was too busy trying to keep himself alive rather than check for any drop of blood he'd managed to spill.
"I'll wipe it," she said with a click of conviction, finally lowering her gun and securing it behind. Steve allowed his head to thud back against the couch, relieved, and Hill stepped forward. "Injured?"
"Looks worse than it feels."
"May I?" She asked, tone dropped lower while her eyes glanced over her now-stained-with-blood couch. He thought of her question, just for a second, squinted his eyes at Hill's mostly-unreadable expression, and noted down the touch of professionalism there. So polite. So formal.
He tried not to make it a big deal. It probably wasn't.
"I have medical supplies. More than I should need." She began to sit on the space where he didn't take on the small couch, her hip nearly slipping off onto the floor before he summoned his strength to place himself just enough to fit her along. "It should be enough to treat this," she pressed on, tone firm, when her fingers skilfully tugged the buttons loose one-by-one. He watched her. Carefully. Intently.
"That sounds good," came his reply.
"Where's Wilson?" She asked next, when enough buttons of his shirt was no longer intact, and pulled the fabric to reveal the torn skin under. He let go of his hold there for a moment, letting her see the bloodied bandages, or whatever's left of it to be honest.
"Will be here in a few minutes." He promised, because after months spending time with Sam, he couldn't imagine proceeding into tracking Bucky without him.
"Hm," she hummed as an acknowledgement, eyes focused in splendid concentration as she slowly analysed his wounds. Her palm pressed against his flesh, and he winced at the sudden intrusion of coldness. It had been raining, he realised, and her hair was a little damp, her fingers perhaps colder than ice itself. Maybe he should have expected that.
She didn't say apologise even though Steve knew she saw him winced at her contact; instead informed, "You're warm. More so than you should."
"How is he?" Another voice came filling in, and Hill didn't even turn her head to know who it was. Steve broke out a small smile, glad that his companion was here, and slowly shut his eyes. Sam.
"Fever. Fetch me a water to drink, and the medical supply under the sink in the bathroom. I'll have him dancing in no time," Hill ordered, and he wondered back to the last time he'd heard used that tone, the tone that defied her ranking in the organisation, and wondered momentarily if she missed using them. Sam strode off from view, with a small chuckle escaping his lips, muttering something about Captain America dancing.
She looked at him this time, blue eyes met her greyish-green ones, appearing unamused. "Stark's been searching for you."
"I didn't realise he'd miss me." Maybe he's smirking, maybe he wasn't. At this point, Steve's not very sure. "We don't really get along."
She let out this… type of unladylike snort, which was new and refreshing, and made him feel giddy for no absolute reason whatsoever before he allowed himself to press his head harder against the cushion of the couch, asking: "So… how was work?"
She gave him a bored expression, "Don't be my not-husband when you're experiencing fever."
"Oh, asking you how's work is being your husband?"
"How I imagine a typical husband would be," she finally stretched out her hands, then cracked her neck. "But then again," she leered her attention to his wounded area, the frown on her face deepened as a sign of her disapproval of the situation. "A typical husband won't greet his wife with his flesh nearly ripped open and head gushing out blood. Have you seen Nightmares on Elms Street?"
He wanted to shake his head no, confused bled from his expression he'd imagine, when Sam walked in back, bringing the exact things she told him to. Hill mumbled out a quiet yet simple thanks, granted him access to her television (as long as he kept it low) and began her work on him. For the most part, he stayed silent, and nearly went into sleep, until she'd voiced it out in between, "Don't fall asleep."
He wondered more about Commander Hill: about what happened to her, when she was younger, teenager, what she's been through, but he's just too tired to speak; for a moment the heavy load of his work, his purposes during this whole trip, Sam, Nick, Natasha, Bucky was too much, and he let the silence filled through.
She fixed them soups next; well he got the soup, while Sam and her dug everything they could out of her kitchenette and made themselves some proper dinner. Sam cooked of course, and Hill tried to help. He fell asleep when Hill and Sam argued about RoboCop and thought he dreamt of Bucky, not for the first time, back in the old days: when they were just children, and Bucky was laughing and near and there were soot across Steve's face. He thought he saw Maria in there too, walking with Sam and Natasha, and Sam had smiled at him in his dream, in acknowledgement, while Natasha longingly caressed Bucky's face, thumb slanted over Bucky's young lips.
And then they were just running, Bucky and him, just laughing.
He woke with his fever ceasing, and he found out he could walk again. Properly now. Hill was on the counter in her kitchenette, furiously typing over her laptop while Sam stood opposite of her, flipping through the papers she must have had printed. There's the worn book from the picture he remembered peering the night before, but he didn't point it out.
"Sam informed me what you need," Hill said, reminding him of the reason why they decided to pay her a visit in the first place. She's got resources, and she's got debt, or at least she thought she had to him. And he figured, she must be itching to work off something besides from what Stark ordered her to.
"You're set to sail." She said again, not even lifting her eyes up to him when Sam offered him a coffee, asking him if he was better. "I've stacked up what you'll need. Basic things, mostly: clothes, food, water."
"Money," Sam's eyes glinted when Steve raised an eyebrow, and Hill didn't hide the slight upward tilt to her lips.
"Pepper helped. She knows you're here. Stark doesn't. Not yet anyway." She continued on, turning away now to grab up her toast, and bit it in. "We're going to tell him once we know you're out of range. So he doesn't, you know. Do what he does."
"I understand," he murmured, worried that he might have put her into a difficult place with Stark. He knew the billionaire, knew despite their disagreeing and confrontations, how he cared deeply for the Avengers' and its members' well being, even if his method of showing it weren't… the most encouraging.
"I've had a few stacks of guns in my bedroom, if you'd like."
"We could use that," Sam nodded his head, humming delightfully and joyfully skipped his steps right to where her bedroom must've lied. Hill watched with a gentle flick of amusement swimming in her silver orbs, the morning light reflecting warmly against her expressions in a way that Steve didn't think it could.
Still, he moved forward; observed as she dove back into the computer while he tried, "You shouldn't have."
"I'm helping." She told him, sipping on coffee. "Let me help."
He didn't want to argue with that, knowing just how many lengths she could go through just to stamp out the fact she's correct in this matter, and instead focused on: "Your book. It has a picture in it." Her eyes held a portion of shocked, but her composure remained intact. "You with a boy."
"Going through my stuff, Captain?"
"I didn't mean to, initially―"
"Of course you didn't," Steve was aware of the small (the smallest) smile she held over her face; the softest one too, when she flipped through the pages, and found the photo neatly stacked like he'd put it, before. "It's my nephew. Well, not biologically, considering he's my late adoptive brother's son."
"Your brother passed away?"
You were adopted?
"Murdered, to be exact." There's a strain in her voice when she told him that, and he would've said his sorry if she hadn't held her hand up seconds before as though she's expected that of him (which she probably did), shaking her head, and offering him another smile―not too wide, not too small either. "Not your fault. Things happened. Dominic's fine now. My nephew. Safe."
Steve took a while to respond, because he really hadn't expect her to say anything, let alone revealing this. "How old is he?"
"Seventeen." She nodded her head, facing him. "He wrote to me a lot. By letters."
"Letters?"
"Yes." She continued on, "He knew I was working with SHIELD. Well, formerly. He's going to Harvard. Study law. But I think he's gonna join the army." She did this thing where she clicked her tongue, and Steve can't read well of her thoughts when she's making that face. "He thinks I have no idea about it, but."
"You know."
She made that snort again. "Of course I know."
And he kind of smiled. Kind of. Because, of course she does.
"He wanted to protect me in return, he said to me once." She flicked her eyes downwards, just for that moment a kind of longing that he's all too familiar with (remember Peggy?) flickered over her movements, shaping her brows and mouth. "S'fucking stupid."
"Why?"
"Because―" She interrupted quickly, before realising what she might be answering to, and―paused. Hesitated. Steve suddenly felt a breath halting itself in his throat, his lungs squeezing out air like it's toxic. She pursed her lips gradually, picking up her cool like plucking out grass from a meadow. Easily. Smoothly. "Because he should know he shouldn't have to."
"Do you… do you not need protecting?"
She looked annoyed immediately. "Do I look like I need a goddamn superhero to sweep me off my feet, Rogers? No offence."
"No. No, of course not." He quickly corrected himself, feeling ashamed, before―I'm not a superhero. I wish I was. "But…"
"Rogers." Her voice warned. "Don't. Please. Sorry. Shit. I didn't mean―"
"You love him." He deducted, finally taking a seat on the stool.
"He's the only family I've got left." She responded back, and stared at him. There's strange softness there, to her movements, when she proceeded by just staring at him, having chin toppled against the base of her palm. It seemed as though she's considering him, all of him. At long last, she breathed out, "That's going to leave a scar."
She must be referring to his head, and he smiled gently. "Well, one I can live with."
She nodded her head, as though understood, when Sam finally leaped back into the living room. "Well," he said, when he stashed whatever weapon he's gotten secured, "We gotta go now, Steve. Maria's got a good lead somewhere South, and we need to head there before the sun sets. Plus, Stark's going suspect things if she came a few hours later, right?" His last question was directed to Hill, and she nodded.
"Pepper's covering for me, but yes, he's correct. I need to be there in thirty minutes, or he'll know." They're all getting ready now, to part again, and Sam went on by thanking her for the bed, the television and the food. Said he really missed on quite a lot of Law & Order. Hill rolled her eyes.
"Thank you," Steve said, simply, gripping softly on his scarred side.
"Just be careful." She said in return, glancing once at his covered-up wound, before tilting her head up and stared at him. "Will I see you again?"
Sam's already on the move when she blurted it out, and he spun his head a little to the sideway just to catch her gaze, still firm and professional, but much less so, since she's only in a tank top and loose pants. Her eyes were expectant, and her shoulders rigid. A posture of a soldier, one that fitted her more than it should.
He smiled.
"I'll… I'll greet you like a typical husband when you do."