Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Depression, Disordered Eating, Loss, Self-Harm-Implied/Referenced, Suicide-Implied/Referenced, Character Death-Implied/Referenced


Chapter Two: Canned Speeches and Recollections

He awoke to nature's call, which was an unexpected surprise considering he'd been mostly sweating and vomiting. Standing up, he staggered from the barn, looking for the best place to relieve himself. He was so distracted he nearly stumbled into Ramirez, who wore an unmistakable expression of surprise. "You're up!"

"Bathroom?" He somehow managed despite the spinning, pounding, and the overly full bladder.

"There's the outbuilding." She pointed past him to a decent sized building. "There's a bathroom and shower, toiletries, and spare clothes if you'd like." She explained quickly.

"Thanks." He mumbled, moving past her and up the hill toward the building. Hesitating in the doorway, he flipped on the lights and did a quick survey to make sure the building was abandoned. Entering the building, he locked the door behind him before going to one of the bathroom stalls.

Once his bladder was sufficiently emptied, he went to the sink to wash his hands...hand. He glanced around, double-checking that the door was locked before pulling off the left glove. Fumbling with the knob of the water faucet, he put both hands under the tap, allowing the water to flow over them. Washing his hands, he glanced up into the bathroom mirror, and although he wanted to look away, he found himself practically mesmerized by what he saw there.

The soldier hadn't been allowed mirrors. He'd certainly caught his reflection in windows and the various reflective materials in his everyday existence. Still, it had always been in bits and pieces blurred and warped and distorted, never in its entirety and never in such clarity. The face he saw there wasn't his face. It was grave and shallow and sunken. The eyes were hollow and dull.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes

He'd been to the museum, seen the man that Steven Rogers claimed he was. That man was vibrant and full of life. Even in death, Bucky Barnes was more alive than he was than the soldier ever could be.

He looked down, both hands gripping the edge of the metal sink.

Bucky!...End of the line pal...Taking all the stupid with you...I'm following him...yanno it's kinda growin' on me...

Images flashed in front of his eyes, memories, his memories? They weren't any more than flashes, bits, and pieces, almost incoherent noise in the maelstrom raging in his head. He turned off the water and combed both hands through his hair. He was achy, everything hurt, but for the first time in the past week and a half, it was almost bearable. He stood up straight and glanced around. The woman, Ramirez, had mentioned a shower, and now that he wasn't frantically searching for a bathroom, he could look around and take in his surroundings a bit.

It was a sturdy structure, well insulated, and set on a concrete slab. It had two rows of flickering fluorescent lights, a set of six rusty lockers set along the right side of the wall. Each locker was labeled: foodstuffs, towels, toiletries, socks and underwear, blankets, and gloves. Then there were a number of clear plastic bins on the floor beside the lockers, each likewise labeled: Pants, T-Shirts, and Hoodies. She's done this before. He thought.

Beyond the lockers were a series of hooks. To the right was a set of three sinks and mirrors, each with their light above them, none of which appeared to work. There was a slightly off-center was a wooden bench bolted to the concrete floor. Beyond the bench and sinks was a set of three stalls and a curved shower curtain rod in the back corner. On the wall near the back was a small window with a faux stain glass sticker on the glass.

Grabbing what he needed from the lockers, and double-checking that the door and window were secure, he peeled off his clothes and walked into the shower. Pulling the curtain around him, he turned on the water. It came out cold, and he flinched as the water stung his skin, but he scrubbed his body with the bar of soap only vaguely aware as the water temperature changed from frigid to nearly scalding. It took a moment before he realized that it hurt, and adjusted the knob accordingly.

It all felt simultaneously foreign and familiar, this simple act of bathing. He tilted his head up and allowed the water to flow over him. Through his hair and down his shoulders and back, allowing the warmth to soak into his twisted and knotted muscles and maybe ease the pressure in his spine. He hurt. Every movement hurt, but his head didn't feel quite so fuzzy. He didn't have to fight moment by moment through a fog for each thought.

The water had started to run cold by the time he finally decided to get out of the shower. Drying and dressing, he pulled on his gloves and started into the yard where he got a good look at his surroundings for the first time.

There was the barn. To the right of the barn was a tool shed a woodshed and an old smokehouse, there was a massive windmill standing amongst rusted derelict farm equipment beside the gravel road that led from the barn to the main road. To the left was a small round enclosure, and then even further than that was the white fence that made up the pasture with ill-fitting gates, chipping paint, and rotted rails. Walking some distance from the outbuilding, he turned around. Past the outbuilding about another fifty yards was a set of narrow stone steps, which led up to a large colonial-style house in the same disrepair like the rest of the property. The place had basically gone to rot. Why was it that this woman wanted to hold onto it? She was all alone, or so she had said. Roberts, Roberts, had called her Mrs. Underdahl. Her husband's name? She hadn't said ex-husband, so one could assume that he either was dead or he was just not in the picture.

"Hey!" He turned to see the woman approaching him from the house.

"Hi." He nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awake." It was the only honest answer he could give.

"Not sure if your stomach is ready for anything too heavy, but I brought you something to eat," She extended the green Thermos and a gallon-sized plastic bag to him.

He nodded, taking them from her without a word.

Ramirez surveyed him a moment, her expression firm but not unkind. "Is there anyone who you'd want to call to let them know you're alright? Spouse? Family? Friends?" She asked.

Barnes had one sister alive in New York, and of course, Steve Rogers would love to know where he was at, so would Hydra and a hundred other interested parties who would like nothing more than to bring him into their fold. "No," he answered shortly.

She nodded. "Well, whatever the case. You can stay in the barn as long as you need."

"Why?"

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no indication that his tone had shocked or otherwise offended her. "Because you just saved my ass from Jack-ass Roberts and because it doesn't look like you have anywhere else to go that isn't jail or a ditch on the side of the road." She shrugged. "I have people who are going to be in and out today. No one should bother you in the barn. Let me know if you need anything." She then walked off without another word.

His gaze followed her out to the secondary paddock, where a single grey speckled horse was being held. She climbed on top of the fence and sat there, observing the creature as it paced the length of the paddock. The woman was talking to the horse, but he couldn't exactly make out what was being said.

Shaking his head, he retreated inside to barn this time, closing the stall door behind him. Sinking onto the floor, he opened the Ziploc bag, and the scent of warm flour rose to greet him. Unfolding the paper towels, he removed a warm flour tortilla. He sniffed it uncertainly before taking a bite. Chewing and swallowing he turned to the thermos and opening it he found bits of onion and corn bobbing in the broth. Disturbing the fluid gently, he could feel the larger particulate that had settled at the bottom of the container, chunks of pork and potatoes and corn.

He frowned, taking another bite of tortilla and a large sip of the broth. This woman wasn't frightened of him, or at the very least, didn't appear to be so. She should be, She should call the cops, or call someone. Instead, she was feeding him and clothing him and giving him a place to stay. Again the question was, why? Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to protect him? He finished the broth and settled back down into the stall, his eyes focused on the stall door even as they started to pull closed.

"Ghost." Magdalen Ramirez addressed the grey speckled stallion flatly from her perch atop the paddock fence. "Can I ask you a question?" She sighed. Reaching instinctively for the silver chain around her neck, strung with two gold bands, she rolled the chain between her finger and thumb. "What the fuck am I doing?" Unsurprisingly the horse didn't answer. "Yup." The woman nodded, climbing down into the paddock she pulled on her work gloves. "I don't know either."

She walked in large circles around the paddock, watching the horse eye her warily. He was doing better since Suzanne had brought him to Last Chance Ranch back in March and had let her work with the starved, abused, tortured creature. Glancing back at the barn, she stopped and shook her head."Damn it, Ramirez." She muttered, continuing her walk through the paddock. "You have a goddamn soft spot for starved, abused, and tortured creatures, don't you?" And the man currently occupying stall ten was probably one of the tougher cases she'd ever had stumble into her barn tripping balls and half emaciated.

His eyes. Ramirez couldn't get that look in his eyes out of her head. First, when she'd come upon him in the barn and then again when he'd appeared in the barn doorway when Roberts had grabbed her. There was something savage and almost animalistic in those eyes. Like a wounded beast trapped in a corner, prepared to kill anything that threatened him, anything or anyone.

"I should call the cops. I should fucking call the cops." She muttered. Because that's not escalating the situation AT ALL. If she called the cops someone was going to get hurt, and she was pretty certain it wasn't going to be death on two legs in there.

How did this shit always seem to happen to her? This wasn't the first vagrant she'd had in her barn, and likely not the last, but he was the first to give her the bone-chilling once over. The guy had a presence; there was no denying that. It was now up to her to make the next move.

You told the guy he could stay as long as he needed to you damn moron. She silently scolded herself. If he's like the rest of them, he'll be out of here as soon as he's able. She reasoned. And if he's not? The ever-responsible "adult" voice in the back of her head nagged I dunno? I'll improvise. It was a bullshit copout from the nagging twinge in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't just kick him out. He'd just admitted that he didn't have anyone to call. There are services for that Mags. And of the system is just sooooo good at helping cases like him, isn't it? That's why she was here, wasn't it? That's why she was doing what she was doing. That's why her facility was called Last Chance Ranch. This was where people came when they'd run out of options; only this guy hadn't filled out an application and made an appointment.

So what's the plan then genius? Plan? Well, there wasn't really a plan now was there? Planning hadn't exactly been in the cards for her in at least two years. The plan, the best she could reason, was to get him on his feet and on his way. He wasn't her client or her responsibility beyond that. He needs help, professional help. That wasn't her place. If he reached out for help if he asked her for help, then sure she could get him the help he needed, but there was no way in hell she was going to call in the cops. He wasn't posing any threat to himself or others, and until such time she would just plod on and provide shelter and food for the poor bastard.

It was yet again another one of her copouts, but it was the best she could do in the present circumstance. She stopped pulling some hay from the large round bale and extended it to the horse, who was now watching her carefully rather than fearfully. Ghost approached just close enough to take the hay from her hand. She smiled, "Atta boy." Over a month and a half of working daily with this poor creature had led to this moment. It took everything she had not to laugh and cry simultaneously.

When the horse had eaten the whole clump of hay from her hand and then realized there was no more, he trotted away back over to the trough where his oats would be this evening to investigate if any had manifested. She laughed, lowering her hand and arm. "Little victories, huh, Ghost?"

She turned at the sound of a vehicle coming up the gravel driveway. Checking the time, she shook her head. "Always on time." Climbing out of the paddock, she approached the silver sedan now stopped on the drive, waiting as its passengers stepped from the vehicle.

It was James Baker, his wife Steff, and their little girl Molly. "I'll be just a minute, Ramirez," James called over his shoulder, before returning to the hushed conversation with Steff.

"Not a problem, Lieutenant." She replied, taking a few respectful steps away to allow them to converse.

"Miss Maggie! Miss Maggie!" Molly's voice caught her attention, and she knelt to receive the girl's embrace as the six-year-old rushed to her, a well-loved paper in hand.

"Molly, sweetheart. You can't just run off like that!" Steff started to approach. "I'm sorry, Maggie. Molly, you know better than that."

"She's alright," Maggie smiled, returning her attention to the little girl who was doing her best to shove the paper into her hands. "What's this?" She asked, glancing between the paper and the drawing.

"For you," Molly said.

The drawing was a family portrait with three stick figures expertly drawn with Mommy, Daddy, and Me, all clearly labeled. There was also a blue house with a green tree out front. Beside the tree was a brownish creature with long legs and an unwieldy tale that was labeled Ms. McSmush. Beside the horse was another stick figure carefully drawn with brown rather than black crayon with a mass of long hair rather than the afros she'd drawn for herself and her parents, labeled my friend Ms. Maggie. Maggie smiled. "For me? It's beautiful. Thank you."

"My mommy put my hair up just like yours!" Molly announced proudly.

Maggie looked down and found that yes, the child indeed had her hair in a similar style, done up in a halo twist. Although because the girl's hair was far shorter than hers, there were a few more pins holding the braids in place. It was frankly adorable. "You look beautiful! I love them!" Maggie smiled. "How has school been?"

Molly shrugged, making a noncommittal sound as her parents approached. Maggie looked at the little girl and smiled. "I gotta get to work, alright? Thank you very much for your drawing, it's going to get put up on my fridge." She folded the drawing up and put it in her back pocket.

"Come on, Molly. We need to let Ms. Maggie and your dad get to work, we'll see them in a little while." Stephanie called.

"Bye, Ms. Maggie!" Molly gave her a quick hug before running up to her dad to do the same.

"Lieutenant, ma'am," She nodded, standing up.

This earned a good-humored eye roll from the adults and a widening grin from Maggie. "You two have fun," She smiled.

"We'll see you in a little while." Steff took Molly by the hand and walked back toward the car.

She and James waited until the car had disappeared back down the drive before either of them spoke. James sighed heavily. It was one of those sighs that meant they were in for a difficult session. They hadn't had one for a while, but James was due one. "Come on, James," Maggie pat him on the back, "Ms. McShmush is waiting for you."

James nodded, following behind her. They didn't bother with the small talk. Instead, Maggie hummed as they walked up to the small sandy arena where the small sandy brown mare Ms. McSmush was lumbering around the perimeter. They entered the arena, and Maggie turned to her client. "Alright. Let's start with a couple of deep breaths, James."

He nodded, running his hand over the short hair growth curled on his scalp, took large exaggerated breaths, just to let her know that he was at least attempting. "Whenever you're ready, bring Ms. McShmush over here to the fence, she needs a good brushing."

Still, he said nothing. After a moment, James sighed, marching over to Ms. McSmush. The horse moved away from him as he approached, eyeing him warily. He stopped shaking his head, muttering under his breath.

"It's okay. She's just a little uncertain. That's alright. Think about how you're approaching her and what type of energy you are bringing into your exchange." Maggie coaxed, watching his body language. His whole body was tense, his shoulders, however, were hunched, and he flexed his hand and fingers tightly into a fist. He wasn't on the verge of a panic attack, but was frustrated and angry, and exhausted. He hadn't had this much trouble approaching McSmush in a while.

James muttered something under his breath, turning he marched from the arena and toward the barn. Right exactly where she didn't want anyone.

"Oh shit," Maggie swore under her breath, charging after him. This was the last thing in the world she needed to happen.

He lay on the floor of the barn listening to the sounds outside the barn. A family had arrived, then the car had gone, and now it was only the woman and the man, she'd called him James. He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were approaching the barn. Scrabbling up, he pressed his back against the door of the stall door, listening as Ramirez and the man identified as James entered the barn. They both stopped in the middle, neither party speaking or saying anything.

What the hell is this? He strained to listen for any indication of what was happening only feet away. His palm itched, he needed to move, he needed to get out before he was discovered. He paused as the woman, Ramirez, spoke. "I'm going to sit. If that's okay, been on my feet all day, I could take a load off." He heard her sit on the wood floor of the barn. She paused. "You can join me if you like."

"I'm fine." The man, James, answered tersely.

"You're good," She replied. There was something reassuring in her voice, the easiness with which she spoke... yet the tension coming off the other person told a different story. "What's going on? Let's talk through it."

Let's talk through it? He couldn't believe his own ears. This man didn't want to talk. Everything about him was coiled and ready to strike. He didn't even have to see the man to know that was the case.

There was the sound of someone much larger than Ramirez, pacing the length of the barn before they stopped near where Ramirez had sat down. "Molly."

His daughter? It was such a tiny thing, a man saying his daughter's name, but there was terror in his voice. Why? He couldn't help but wonder.

"Your daughter."

"Yeah," James answered after a moment, an audible lump in his throat. "I—I uhhh—I Just, it just." He stammered into silence.

"It's okay. Take your time. Slow, deep breaths." She instructed gently, this incredible tenderness in her voice.

"Molly." The name came out as nearly a phantom as the man repeated his daughter's name. "She's getting big, Ramirez."

The woman made a general noise of encouragement

"It's scary. When they're first born, they're helpless and tiny, and you can't really imagine how this could possibly be a human, and now...now she's talking and walking, and she's so damn smart and curious about the world." He paused, exhaling a shaking breath. "How do I know I'm not going to mess up? With all this shit that can go wrong in a normal circumstance, how am I supposed to be a parent...the way that I am? I don't want her to turn out like me. It's so, so hard to come back after all that and try to be the person that I was. But I have to. I have to do it for Molly and Stephanie. Christ, that woman's been through hell because of me. How can I possibly do anything right after what I've done?" He sniffled.

Ramirez gave him a moment before she spoke again. "It's hard to adjust to civilian life after being out there, hard to take off the armor you forged to keep yourself alive out there. It takes practice, and it takes time, but the fact that you're here putting in the time and effort to realize you're wearing the armor in the first place means that you don't want to have to carry around this weight for the rest of your life," She said.

"God. That's so fucking frightening." He hissed through his teeth.

"It is." She agreed. "But you start with the small stuff, with the choices you make, the words that you use, how you treat yourself and your fellow humans," She paused. "No one wakes up a villain or a hero, a good parent, or a bad parent, a good person, or a bad person. It's the choices we make that define us, each and every day. So start small. When the world is violent, try to be gentle. When you're frustrated, try to be patient. When you could lie, try to be honest. When you're angry, try to be understanding. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow."

There was a long pause. James snorted, "That's a nice canned speech, Ramirez, but not all of us can be you, yanno?"

"I wouldn't want you to be. I can honestly say I fail more often than I succeed at following my own advice." She chuckled. "But the take away should be choice, a'right? Nothing is set in stone. That's why you're here, remember?"

James sniffled slightly.

"And just because I may have practiced that speech in a mirror for just this moment, it doesn't make it any less true." She added.

There was a long pause, and he wasn't sure what was going to happen next. The air was thick and heavy. "Come on. Let's get back to it." James said after a moment.

"Alright. That's good. You go on ahead. I'll be right behind you." Ramirez instructed as she stood up.

The larger pair of footsteps left the barn and headed back toward the arena and paddock. Ramirez's footsteps instead approached his stall. She stopped, looking down through the stall window at him, he met her gaze, it was only for half a second, maybe even less before he looked down and away again. Wordlessly she walked from the barn, leaving him alone again in the silence.

He waited until her footsteps had disappeared completely before he felt that he could breathe again. He exhaled sharply, looking down he found that he was shaking. Why? Why was he reacting this way? After all that he'd endured, all that he'd seen and done, why was he now reacting like this? It had been a close call, that much was true. It was also that he knew he'd invaded on an intimate and deeply personal moment. Ramirez's quick glance had told him as much. It wasn't so much a threat of violence as a warning, perhaps almost a reminder. These people are under MY protection.

He shook his head, wincing. The left shoulder was flaring up again. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth, biting down into the thick leather. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wait out the pain, Make it stop, please make it stop.

He wracked his brain, searing for something, anything to take his mind from the pain.

Her eyes. They were the first thing that came to mind. Her expression when she'd looked down at him. The ferocity of it all. It wasn't anger or hatred in her eyes, it was a warning, like a lioness protecting her pride. I have allowed you into my pride, but I will not tolerate anyone who might hurt them.

He had seen her stand up to Roberts, but he had been a fraction of his size. Did she really think she'd be able to inflict real harm? No, that wasn't the message in her expression. It was a warning, not a threat.

What the hell is this place anyway? A training facility of some kind? A therapy facility? What did the horses have to do with it?

Another wave of pain watched over him, and he clamped down harder on the glove.

Hydra, Hydra had done this to him. They'd turned him into this. They'd turned him into this, and this was the cost. 'I'll kill them. I'll kill them all for that they did to me, for what they made him do.'

No. He couldn't let them find him, couldn't let them turn him back into their weapon. What he wanted was inconsequential. He couldn't allow them to turn him into a weapon again. He wouldn't kill or hurt or maim for them ever again. He couldn't let that happen. He faded in and out, aware of the sounds of vehicles and people coming and going, but as the woman said, no one bothered him, leaving him with his thoughts and the ever-looming threat of nightmares.


A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Comments are always welcome!