Okay, quick trigger warning. Not sure how this story line's gonna go yet, but there is most likely gonna be mentions of depression, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, and possibly a few other things. And this is my first every angsty story, so please don't harass me about how they should react. I am trying. And I only own noncanon characters and this plot. Slightly inspired by a that I love from a different website.

The clock ticks audibly, and makes it one of the only sounds to be heard in the dark and dingy motel room. Anything else that's heard would be soft breathing and the soft scratching of rats. Disgusting, Harley Stone thinks to herself, but she refuses to complain. After all, it'll be stupid of her to think that she can go into hiding, yet do so in nice hotels.

Instead, she's bouncing from city to city, town to town, staying in lack luster motels that commonly are infested with rats, roaches, and termites. She had also gotten used to the stale mattresses with spring digging into her body and stiff blankets. The shower water with a sickening odor and questionable stains that seem to smear multiple areas. Not to mention the ever flickering lights and lack of proper heating or air conditioning.

These motels are normally found in areas where life was as beaten as the motels. Hookers lining the corners. Painfully skinny strays. Homelessness. Bad place to live. Perfect place to hide.

Several months before the fall of SHIELD and Hydra, this has become her life. She knew too much and had to disappear. And disappear she did. It was painful, but Harley had to do it. Had to forcibly cut ties with her family and friends, never telling them why. All she did was feed them a lot of bullshit about how she was sick of them and another whole slew of hateful things that would make them glad that she left. That made her cry once she knew she was too far to look back.

She emptied her bank accounts, destroyed any form of contact anyone could have with her, and left with only bare necessities and the clothes on her back. Anything else she needed, she brought from rest stops or stole.

It's not easy, being a woman on the road. It definitely has its dangers. Prowling men, hygienic issues, among other things. A person wouldn't believe how many times she's been offered a bed in exchange for sharing it with multiple strangers. Obviously, she never accepted, but she might have no choice if she gets in a bad situation.

Rising from her bed, Harley steps over her clutter of empty beer cans and bottles and into the connected bathroom. It may be around 3 am for all she knows, but can hardly sleep in her almost drunk restlessness. Mostly due to the fact her 'neighbor' drunkenly escorted a pair of prostitutes into his room and been having a fuck-fest ever since. They must really be going at it if the sounds of pleasured screaming and constant wall banging is any indication. She turns the faucet and stares blankly as the groans in protest before spatting out a glob of a rust colored substance. Gross.

She sighs and glances in the dirty mirror to see her reflection. What greets her first is a pair of dead, bloodshot, brown eyes that look almost sunken when seen with the dark circles and bags under her eyes. Her once warmly brown skin faded to make her look almost pale and her long black hair has seen better days. Once upon a time, she would proudly say she looks like her favorite Disney princess, Pocahontas. Now, she'll be considered nothing more than a stray in human clothing. With all that, and her crusty clothes, she's a certified mess that no longer gives a fuck.

Not about anything. Or anyone. Not even herself.

8 months ago, she'd eye just about everyone with suspicion, not wanting to be killed or captured. Now? She'd hand you the gun and let you pull the trigger as many times as you see fit. She'd do it herself, but she had accepted years ago that she's a coward. Cowardice got her in Hydra. Cowardice made her leave. Cowardice is why she's still running. Waiting for someone to end her while she runs from her mistakes. Her sins. Death would be the ultimate escape, but granting herself that privilege is something she could never do. So she lives, hoping to die.

Solitude can do that to a person. Especially when you spend that loneliness with nothing but your own self-insulting thoughts. She ruined lives, so why should hers be all fine and dandy?

Somehow, in her daze, she stumbled back into the main room and tripped over an empty bottle, landing on the floor with a thud, which she barely tries to prevent. She hardly felt any pain, only a thud against her body. She doesn't move to get up. Just lays there with no motivation to do anything.

Then, Harley registers something. A barely audible click. Not from the almost hypnotic clock on the wall, but from the door. She looks up and sees the vague silouette of a man entering the room. Probably the manager wanting to kick her out for over staying. She only paid for two days, but has been in the motel for nearly a week now.

The man stops just short of her fallen figure and looks down at her dull eyes with his hard eyes. Harley knows he looks familiar, but it's hard to tell from her position on the floor, and the flickering light bulb that swings leisurely. The man glares at her and speaks in an almost gruff tone. "Harley Stone?" The woman stays silent, the only indication that she even heard the question was slow blink in an attempt to clear her eyes that are dancing on the edge of fuzziness.

However, despite her less than acceptable appearance and negative outlook on life, she's smart. Smart enough for her slightly drunk mind to know this man isn't part of the motel staff. And he knows exactly who she is, and didn't need to ask. Either Hydra or SHIELD. He's here to kill her.

"I... need your... help." He forces out and clenched his fists. Then he kneels in front of her, giving Harley a better view of her 'visitor'. She sees his face more clearly up close. His face is peeking on the edge of her memory, yet he's a complete stranger. His scruffy face. Dirty hair. Dirty clothes. He's a good agent to go this far undercover just to track down someone like her.

"I'm not going back to Hydra. And I refuse to go to SHIELD." Her voice raps out weakly. She doesn't mind being left for dead, but she never wants to be used to harm others. Ever again.

The man scowls and his eyes flash with a strained sense of lost danger. "I have nothing to do with them." He hisses out. "I came for me."

She should be scared. His face is bordering on menacing. But she doesn't care. It doesn't matter. "What do you want?" She asks dully. Before he answers, she hears something that makes her feel her heart beat for the first time in ages. A familiar, mechanical whir that shuttered slightly.

It can't be, she thinks to herself. With a new sense of motivation, she brings herself to her knees and reaches for his left arm, with no regard to whether he felt comfortable with being touched. She may have forgotten what physical contact was like when it isn't to deliver or deflect pain. She feels his eyes drilling into her as she practically forces his sleeve up, revealing a metal arm.

Harley freezes. She knows this arm. She knows this man. His eyes are the same as she remembers, but his appearance is more disheveled, a contrast to the deadly look he adorned when she last saw him. But there's no mistake. In front of her is the greatest project she's ever worked on. And her greatest sin. The itching fear she's been running from for months now.

"Winter Soldier?"

Please review!