marie oz cordova had never been so disgruntled in her living memory.

she'd lived many lives, a happy little girl, an amnesiac stealth operative, a revenge-torn free woman—yet here she was, her eye twitching as if she was unsure whether to pat you on the head, or drop kick you into the washing machine and be rid of you.

she didn’t know if she was thirty or a thousand years old, these days. but she knew she wasn’t the same who had once danced to the bee gees in absurd platform heels. she was still here—unfortunately.

it was probably for the best, given that she’d stumbled across you in the ruins of an old HYDRA lab when she’d been busy turning it into kindling.

you were ten—give or take a few years—in the scrubs only issued to HYDRA experiments—garments she had seen for years, whenever she had dared glance into her reflection in the puddles of condensation. you’d looked at her with that wide-eyed, shellshocked stare that said you didn’t know what a life was, let alone what to do with one.

thus, she decided she’d figure it out for you.

"what the fuck are you doing?" she asked, tone somewhat mortified. she’d stopped using weapons-grade intimidation—or tried to, at least—but she could never quite turn off the part of her that assumed she was going to be jumped if she shut her eyes for more than two seconds.

you were standing in the kitchen, hovering near the microwave like it was a ticking bomb, and clutching a packet of pop tarts like a lifeline. she did not know what you were, no, not at all. you could be a super soldier, or an alien for all she cared. but you were silly enough on your best days to cease her questioning.

oz let out a breath, not quite a sigh—more an exhale of frustration she was learning to manage. "okay, genius," she muttered, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. the line of her jaw was sharp under the kitchen light, mahogany hair falling in messy waves around her face.

"let me guess. you’ve never used one of these before?" her eyebrow arched, disbelieving but resigned. you were such a raccoon.

oz pushed herself off the counter and stepped closer, taking the pop tarts from your hand. "jesus, kid," she muttered, tearing the package open and sticking the iced pastry in the microwave. "you just… put it in, hit the buttons. two minutes, done." she pressed the buttons, attempting an encouraging smile. and probably failing. she and bucky still had that in common. beep. beep. beep.