#message transmitted.

ah, actually !   i had this discussion like, a long time ago with a maria hill network that i was in, and when i posed the question on maria’s ethnicity, the answer i got was that:   maria’s ethnicity was never specified throughout her comic appearances.   therefore,   her ethnicity can be interpreted differently to different people.   (although of course, this could be disputed should any canon material arose and i wasn’t aware of this revelation.)

i like this answer,  personally.   i never really minded cobie smulders as maria hill.   in fact,  it was her playing that part that attracted me into looking further into who maria hill is.  

my move in adopting stephanie beatriz as maria hill’s fc wasn’t due to her ethnicity.  wasn’t due to any movement on my part to particularly highlight her background.  those are all important,  of course,  i don’t deny that (and i have tried incorporating cultural significance of being born a latina as best as i could when i made the decision for stephanie to be the faceclaim), but it wasn’t the main focus on why stephanie was chosen instead of cobie.

in truth, i was honestly, genuinely just interested in stephanie as maria due to the performance she gave as rosa diaz (in brooklyn 99) which, in my opinion, operated more similarly to the 616 maria than what the mcu has given. that’s all.

i understand where you came from, and i appreciated that i’m being acknowledged by it, but i do hope my blog doesn’t come across simply as “that portrayal of maria that was latina” — because maria hill is more than that. she’s a woman of colour, yes, (and i am one too, so i’m always gonna be proud of this) but she’s - she’s this enigma, you know? she’s so cold and harsh and brutal and she’s so much more, she cares, she’s been through so much from childhood even after she left chicago, and yet she never once stopped wanting to fight for the world, never stopped wanting what was best for everybody before her own damn self, even if it was never easy.

she’s seen this coming.    and she repeats it to herself like a mantra:   she’s seen this coming.   the notion that just because one anticipates an outcome and therefore,   is ready with it,   is a statement maria is ready to strangle and bury six feet under.    in her line of work,   every ten kind of results are expected.   the good,   the bad,   and the worst.   maria is trained to take everything with stride;   to look danger in the eye and tell it to fuck itself while she prepares strategists and doctors and armies to fight alongside her.    from that routine,   it’s easy to assume she’d be numb by it by now.   used to the procedure,   unaffected   -   almost   -   by the sirens wailing as a warning.   

she isn’t.

but it’s her job,  it’s what she’s good at   -   this career of taking in the worst and somehow working herself through it without a hair out of place.   or even a hair had been tousled,   she’ll come out of it unscathed,   ready for the next battle.    yet,   her throat tightens easily,   and her chest aches.    she’s seen this coming,   but none of those muttered expectations at the back of her skull ever really prepares her for the actual thing.    that is:   ray’s eyes wide and tired.   smile forced and wary.    maria did that,   she looks away,   swallowing.    she ruined a whole person.   worn him down by all of the secrecy and the lies and all of the vague answers and walls so damn high.    she did that.     ❝   walk away,   person.   ❞

this would’ve happened sooner or later,   anyway.   so lick those lips,  hill;   take in your fate with your head held high.   there is no room for your body to cave in,  for your knees to weaken.   this is your decision.   this has always been your decision.

he deserves so much more,   and you know it.

❝   if you’re done with me,   walk away.   ❞

❝   i only said ‘ i love you ’ to three people.    my dad,   my first long-term boyfriend,   and my ex-fiancé.     i've regretted all three.   ❞

a scoff.    a hint of a smile gracing her lips.     ❝  don’t we all ?   ❞   the cold of the bottle pursed against her mouth,   and maria takes a swig.   blinks.   a thought comes by:    you don’t have to do this.    but she does.    so,   she puts the beer bottle down and think some more:     time to face the music.    it’s been nice catching up    -    too nice     -     but maria can’t drag this any longer.      ❝   look,   person.   ❞     when she speaks,   she is not exactly the girl that he knew.   that maria was a stubborn girl with an unchecked temper,   fresh out of chicago and eager to lick the wounds where papa sunk his claws by growing sharper teeth.    this maria,  decades later,   is a woman carrying silent rage,   fresh out of some two-or-three-weeks-long-mission and has learned well to retract her teeth because she learns to shoot with a gun instead.     with person,   it’s  -  easy,  almost.   to pretend she’s another marine-brat-turned-civilian.   she isn’t.   she will never be.

and it’s a new world they’ve stepped in.   new world with gods and men in powered suits.   maria doesn’t have time to play pretend anymore.   she is the bitch of shield    -   maybe it’s time to show it.    (    scare him away.   like she would at any agent who looked her a tad too long.   )     ❝  we can’t do this anymore.   i’m not the person you think i am.   i can’t see you anymore.   ❞

a smirk.   maria thinks maybe she should stop somehow aligning her schedules to make it in time for these meet-at-bars and cheap restaurants with person.    maria and civilian life were never meant to be together.    she’s too workaholic,   and,   eventually,   secrecy and her damned need for security will always overpower any form of normalcy.  and yet.   her mouth wraps easily around the rim of her beer,   and she’s tempted to roll her eyes at his words for effects.   ❝   pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.   ❞     but it isn’t a disagreement.   ray hasn’t changed much  -   not in the way that his laughter is loud,   that his statements are sometimes awfully ridiculous    -    and it’s a rare comfort.

and maria doesn’t often receive any kind of comfort that easily.   she’s almost eager to just stick around longer to know what else she could get    -    but paranoia is nothing if not a second habit at this point.    at every curl of her smile comes a concern.   at ever squint of her eyes from amusement is followed by a trail of gaze filled with suspicion.    maria’s chest is caving in to the weight of,   this is enough.   get out.   don’t rope him into you much longer.   you’re nothing but trouble and cold and a wasteland in a form of a woman.    but maria lets his word washes over her like a medicine.    overdramatic and true  -   two words that will never be her any longer.    and yet,   once more,   there it is:   a rare comfort.     

❝     do me a favour,   person.    knock anybody who tells you to be otherwise.     ❞

❝                  ❞     the silence is loud.   maria usually isn’t the one to wax poetry,   nor has she been known to be a chipper-and-chatty sort of person.    she supposes her line of work doesn’t cater well into those sort of hobby and behaviour;    yet the symbolism stays,    and    -   she wishes,  suddenly,   very rarely,   that there is more to her than curt words so she could profess something polite or something that can echo the distant heartbreak.    maria doesn’t know the whole story;   not yet.   there is still too much to process ever since she’s woken up being pulled to the side of the street with fury frowning down on her.    so,   clint is gone.    she wonders.    maybe it’s wishful thinking,   but she’d been hoping for a short reunion between the three of them.    something quick and meaningful and theirs.   

sure,   she hadn’t felt the five years passing,   but   -   it’d been a while.    surely a moment of silence at the relief that the three of them are together once more could be spared.    she wonders    -    why clint hadn’t strode up yet to tearfully greet her back to life.   oh.   this is why.    maria thinks she can feel her tear ducts at the work,   and there is a stinging there that one would feel at the start of sob.   maria doesn’t sob,  though.   there is a job to do.   and,  anyways,  as she’s learned again and again:    soldiers fall.   heroes,   too.   still,   a tear passes.   she sniffles.   wipes the traitorous dripping water away.      ❝   you both did an excellent job.   ❞    but no,  not really.   not if only one of you came back.     ❝   was it    -    did he   -   ❞    this isn’t time to be emotional.   later,   she negotiates.    just  …   please,  later.      ❝   …    is barney informed ?  ❞ 

   number generated:   nineteen.   clumsy kiss.

it’s a dare.

now usually,   maria doesn’t entertain dares.   then again,   with her position of power,   not a lot of people would be stupid enough to even try to.   those who do usually regret it,   or,   in some unexpected plot twist,    they’re impressed.   either way,   it’s surprising.   to hear it,  firstly,  then to consider that she’s hearing it,   really,   in the safety of her office,   with chinese food on their laps and barton’s grin stretching to his ears,   with rogers’ own take-out balanced in his palms.

maria wishes she could glare   -   but she’s exhausted her quota for today on the paperworks that’s arrived atop her desk about an hour ago   -   so she settles with staring flatly instead.

in the end though,   she isn’t quite sure why she agrees.    barton’s waiting,   and she can’t really look at rogers.   tries not to.   she thinks about the crush that’s budded at the first sight of him all those years ago,   when he’s first started,   about how he looked like anything but papa,   and pushes it aside.    ❝   you can say no,  rogers.  ❞ 

she leans in,   and   -    it’s nice.   not like the ones she would share with strangers after tough missions inside smokey bars and in foreign cities.   it’s a little awkward,   a little silly.   it’s nice.   it’s been a while since she’s smiled into a kiss.   since she’s wanted to.

barton’s snickering when she raises her brows in challenge as soon as it’s finished    -   as though to say,  is that all ?    -   and takes a sip of her beer.    to rogers,   privately,   she nods with an amount of gratefulness she can’t convey properly in the moment.    she keeps it professional,  though.   calm.

❝   not bad,  rogers.   definitely have room for improvement.   you’re ninety-plus,   ‘fter all.    not dead.   ❞ 

she doesn't answer him.

doesn’t even incline her chin in any way to make show that she’s giving him any attention.  no,  her ears are locked into one thing:  that there is a lack of commentary on the agents who have already parachuted out.  and it isn’t that maria’s a sucker for chit chats  —  really,  does she look like the perfect image of a conversationalist ?  —  but gomez, chakrabarti, morales were longtime friends and often paired together for missions.

so it makes sense that, en route to location,  they would spend the whole journey snickering and talking among themselves once the briefing was done.  and now suddenly it’s radio silent ?

it doesn’t take long for maria to move,  punching the button to close the quinjet’s tailgate as she yells upfront to owens on controls.   ‘  it’s an ambush,   we have to get out of here!   ’

her mind is already racing;  but owens is quick.  he doesn’t waste a minute trying to speed and make way for a higher altitude.   what’ll happen to gomez,  chakrabarti and morales ?   she doesn’t know.  fuck.  no,  she can think about that later.   there’ll be extractions,  and she’s already given out several coordinates in case they’ll have to split up.  for now ?

for now,  maria turns to rumlow.

‘   what,   you scared of a lil trap ?   sit the fuck down,  and walk me through who the hell exactly are these people and how the fuck the intel’s you got led us to an ambush?  ’