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: mention of suicide, mention of death, suicidal ideation, disordered eating,
This is, I would argue, the heaviest darkest chapter of the entire fic thus far, please proceed with caution.
Recommended Listening: "Soldier" by Fleurie; "The War Was in Color" by Carbon Leaf; and "One" by Metallica.
Something was wrong with Matt. Maggie had watched the interaction between him and James, and when James had come into the barn, Matt had seemed to be okay. One minute he'd been on the roof working like usual, then the next he'd disappeared. She hadn't noted the exact time or what the circumstances of his departure from the roof had been. She'd been more than a little occupied with James, Steph, and Molly.
It had been a rough few years for James and his family, so when he'd pulled into the drive unannounced, she'd been more than a little concerned. Thankfully it hadn't been anything pressing. They'd pulled Molly from school for a mental health day, and had gone for a drive. When they'd ended up in the area their cellphones had lost signal, and so they'd stopped by unannounced. All of that was fine. In fact, she encouraged clients and volunteers to stop by. There were always things that they could do to help out if they wanted, and the horses could always use more face time with people.
The problem at the moment was Scary Matt. Maggie knew she shouldn't call him that, but he was scary. Only, over the past few days, they'd been getting better. He'd started calling her Ramirez rather than ma'am or nothing at all. They'd even had what could be classified as a conversation in the barn. Progress was being made.
Only he's not your client, and you're playing with fire, you know he's dangerous.
She knew that. On a basic fundamental level she knew the man was dangerous, but underneath it all, there was something save-able. Why else would he volunteer to fix her roof, or stop Roberts from assaulting her? She'd also been drawing him out of his shell; he hadn't outright rejected the idea of attending the cookout. That was certainly something!
You can't save them all. You can't even save the ranch.
It was an ugly voice in the back of her head, but it wasn't exactly wrong. But maybe this was the start of something good? What if Scary Matt fixing the roof was the break she needed to get everything back on course? What if he has some wealthy relatives who would be grateful she'd found and nursed their brother/son/husband/father/nephew combination back to health and restored him to them? It was unlikely and stupid, but that would be one hell of a thing, wouldn't it?
To be honest, he probably wasn't lying about not having anyone to contact. It wasn't like she had an overabundant emergency contact list. No next of kin to speak of. She wasn't even sure Wilson would pick up the phone if she were in trouble, or if he'd just let it go to voicemail.
Maggie shook her head. It was just her and Matt, and she'd just have to make due. She snorted. Of all the fake names, he'd chosen Matt. It took him a second to answer when she called him that, though to his credit it was the name he'd supplied to Suzanne and she'd probably caught the poor guy off guard.
Speaking of catching off guard. Maggie paused outside the barn. She needed to see what had happened to the best pro bono carpenter to ever stumble into her barn. Maggie slowly entered the barn she peering in headfirst. She glanced around. She didn't see or hear anything, so she proceeded with caution toward stall ten.
You should call back up Mags. This is dangerous.
She stopped just outside the stall peering in she found Matt huddled on the ground, much as she had when she'd found him that first morning. But he was muttering in a language she couldn't quite make out.
Shit. She sunk down outside the stall. He was going through something, though without pre-screening diagnostics, discussion, corroborating diagnoses and the like she couldn't know precisely what was going on, which could be dangerous for both of them.
Talk to him, Mags, let him know he's not alone.
Maggie sighed, taking a deep breath. What was she going to say? What could she say? She didn't know him; he wasn't one of her clients. This could end very badly if she didn't proceed with caution but would end very badly if she didn't do anything at all.
"Hey, Matt." She faltered. "It's me, Maggie Ramirez." She began slowly. "I know you're going through something, I don't know what exactly, but I want you to know you're not alone. I'm here with you, and I'm not going anywhere. Focus on my voice and put your feet on the barn floor." She paused as she heard him adjust, his heavy boots setting firmly on the floor of the barn. "Do you smell it? The hay? It's slightly damp because of the leaks in the roof, and it smells like animals because of the horses." Maggie continued. "The horses would be the first ones to let us know if there was any danger because they're prey animals. I'm not going to let anything happen to you while you're here. I'm going to keep you safe. You've helped me out quite a bit since you've shown up, first with Roberts and now with the roof. I appreciate it. We all appreciate it." She chewed her lip. "You see what's what this place is. It's a haven, a little quiet, safe place away from all the bad shit out there, reminding you that you're not alone. You're not alone. Okay?"
Maggie continued talking until she heard his muttering subside and his breathing relax. The barn fell silent. She exhaled slowly, rising to her feet. "I'll be around in a little while to check on you. I have some things to take care of."
She walked out into the fresh air and toward the pasture gate, leaving the barn and barn dweller behind. All in a day's work. She leaned against the pasture fence. I may not be able to save the world, but I can take care of my people. It was a small sort of comfort. She couldn't do much well in this world, but she could take care of her people. Maggie paused at the thought and then shook her head, chuckling to herself, "Congrats Matt, like it or not, you're my people now."
He lay there in the straw, too exhausted to move. Her voice had pulled him out of it. He wasn't entirely sure how, but her voice had cut through the noise of his mind and pulled him out.
Was this how she was with everyone? Was this why they protected her so ferociously?
He lifted himself into a sitting position, wincing as his head ached, the mechanisms in the prosthesis whirling and grinding as he moved. He felt fragile, brittle almost as if everything he'd been piecing together was made of glass, and now someone had just tossed a brick through the window and shattered the whole thing. Was it a Hydra failsafe? Was it one of their tricks to incapacitate him? No. It was too random. It wasn't something that they could effectively weaponize. This was his brain short-circuiting. This was self-sabotage. It wasn't something he could afford
The memories flooded forth, but this time he was ready for them. James, the convoy, the explosion, the panic and screaming, and blood, that was him. He'd done that. It all felt like a bad dream. Only it wasn't a dream. It was much, much worse than that.
He exhaled, blinking slowly, head feeling fuzzy as he tried to remember how he'd gotten from the roof to the stall, and then what exactly it was that Ramirez had told him. There was a blank spot, a hole, or rather another hole in the fragile patchwork of his mind. Then, of course, there was a question of what he knew versus what he remembered. The Smithsonian had been tremendously useful in helping with the former while doing nothing but muddy the latter. James Barnes had been born in 1917 to George and Winfred Barnes and died in 1945. James Barnes had three sisters, Abigail, Rachel, and Rebecca Barnes, one of whom was still alive. James Barnes had been a straight 'A' student and a gifted athlete. James Barnes was the best friend of Steve Rogers since childhood. He knew that, from the museum exhibits. He'd spent hours reading through the descriptions on the artifacts and listening to the museum's audio and video recordings on the adventures of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes.
He knew all of that, but he didn't remember any of it. He knew Steven Rogers. He knew Steve, small, sickly, frail, with a fighting unrelenting desire to do the right thing. He knew Steve and something inside of him had known enough to recognize that he had to protect him. He knew Steven Rogers in the same way that he knew Ramirez had been talking to him just a moment ago. His brain was just fuzzy enough that when he tried to focus on the specifics, it gave him a headache. It was more like opening and closing your eyes fast. You got the shape of the thing but not much more, a word, a name, a taste, something on the tip of your tongue just beyond enunciation.
He leaned back in the hay, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed a way to sort through all of it, what he knew, what he didn't know, what he remembered, what he wanted to forget. He couldn't trust his brain to organize and process anything more complicated than immediate stimuli and input. He couldn't afford to slip into an old memory while he was on the run, not when he ran the risk of becoming incapacitated because of it. It was his responsibility to keep out of Hydra's hands. He'd already hurt too many people. He wouldn't hurt anyone else, not if he could help it.
"Hey." Ramirez's voice startled him from his light doze, and he jerked into upright positing wincing as he did. "Sorry." She lowered her voice even more. "How are you feeling?"
He surveyed her expression, which was creased with concern, and suddenly he felt shame rise in his chest. "Fine. Thanks." He mumbled, lowering his gaze.
"I've brought you something to eat. Something light." She explained, slowly lowering a plastic bag onto the floor of the stall. "Let me know if I can get you anything."
"Scrap paper." It slipped out before he even registered he was saying it. He winced again.
"Yeah, I can do that. Do you have a writing implement?"
"It's..." He faltered. "It's nothing. You don't have to worry about it."
Ramirez nodded, and for a moment, it looked like she was going to push the issue before she responded with, "Try to get some rest."
She turned away and continued with the evening chores without another word. He snagged the bag and dragged it to him. There was a container of fruit salad, peanuts, some jerky, and some water, and he ate hungrily before collapsing back in the straw.
He didn't dream, for which he was thankful. He wasn't even sure if he slept, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the barn ceiling blurring in and out of focus. Too exhausted to do anything productive but too on edge to ease into sleep.
"Hey, Matt?"
He jerked into an upright position and found that one again, Ramirez was standing at the stall door. Why hadn't he heard her come in? "Ma'am?" He managed weakly.
"Mike and Bill are due any minute." She explained gently, mercifully saying nothing about the fact that he'd just called her ma'am.
"What time is it?"
"9:30."
"Shit." He mumbled, blinking as he staggered to his feet.
"You're all right. Figured you wouldn't appreciate them startling you." She stepped out of the way as he started for the stall door.
"I need to take care of your roof." He said.
"Go wash up first. I made breakfast burritos." Ramirez commented, before walking back outside.
He went to the outbuilding and pulled off his gloves after locking the door. Washing his face, brushing his teeth, and pulling his hair back before shoving the baseball cap back on, he glanced up in the mirror. It was still jarring, seeing his reflection. Sharing faces with James Barnes. But that didn't make him "Bucky." How could he be? How could he be anything more than what Hydra had made him? Choice. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow. That's what Ramirez had told James in the barn only a few days ago. But it can't apply to me. It shouldn't. How could it, after all that he'd done? He was the reason that any of them were here. He'd shaped the century. That's what Pierce had said.
The sound of Mike and Davidson's voice pulled him back and rooted him to the present. Finish the roof, move on, and then you can worry about everything else.
He pulled back on his gloves and returned out into the morning air.
"Oh. Look who's decided to join us from up on high." Davidson commented as he approached the picnic bench where Davidson, Mike, and Ramirez were sitting, drinking coffee, a pile of burritos wrapped in foil in the center of the table.
"Ignore him. He's just being grumpy," Ramirez interjected.
"Happens when you get old." Davidson shot back amiably. "So, you plan to join us on Friday, Matt?"
All eyes turned to him in breathless expectation. Davidson was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to make him commit one way or another. It was a lose-lose scenario, regardless of what he said. "If I'm finished with the roof." He answered.
"Jesus, Ramirez. Turn this poor kid into Cinderella over here? Can't go to the cookout if he doesn't finish his chores?" Davidson asked, turning to Ramirez.
"I dunno? Sounds like a good idea to me when it comes to you fellows. I may have to revoke burrito privileges if you don't get on with what you're supposed to be doing." She drawled.
"Damn. Tough break, Bill." Mike chuckled. "Sit down and join us, Matt. Ramirez's roof can wait a little longer." Mike waved him over.
He sat down on the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the back and forth between Davidson and Ramirez.
"Speaking of revoking privileges, Wilson going to grace us with his presence Friday?" Mike interjected as there was a pause in the banter.
The mood at the picnic table got decidedly cooler as Ramirez's expression hardened. "I wouldn't know what Sam's up to. He doesn't exactly forward me his social calendar."
"All right, all right." Mike put up his hands. "Thought I'd ask since he's an April birthday and all that."
His brain was fuzzy and working slowly, but the name was familiar like he'd seen it somewhere before recently. Wilson...Wilson...now why did that name sound familiar? And how is it connected to her?
"So when's your first appointment?" Davidson asked, interrupting his train of thought and bringing him back into the present.
"Oh." Ramirez looked down. Checking her phone, she frowned. "Huh?"
"What's going on?" Davidson questioned.
"Tim. He's late. That's really weird. He's normally pretty punctual," She answered her brows furrowed.
"You gonna call?" Davidson inquired.
"I'll give him another ten before I do anything." She shrugged, flashing a small smile. He could tell it was more to reassure Davidson than anything else.
"I'm sure it's okay," Davison said, patting her shoulder.
He glanced between Ramirez and Mike as they all went back to their coffee, the tension palpable. Then out of the silence, Ramirez's phone started to buzz on the table. Snatching up the phone, she rose and walked a few feet away before answering. "Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking." She answered in a chirpy, nearly singsong voice.
The person on the other end of the line started speaking, and her easy smile seeped from her face and set in a hard grimace. "Yes, this is she," Ramirez answered, glancing up at them. "Yeah, just a minute." She said as she turned and started toward the barn office.
"Let's go to work." Davidson told Mike shortly, "Matt, don't you have a roof to be looking after?" Davidson asked, making the universal shooing motion.
He nodded, grabbing a burrito, walked around the corner to the ladder on the roof. Climbing up to the top, he focused intently on what was happening on the ground. Something was wrong, but what exactly it was he couldn't say.
"Hey, Bill. Can you come in here a minute?" Ramirez's voice pierced the silence. It was pinched and brittle with a slight waver to it.
Davidson entered the office, closing the door after him. A few minutes later they both exited. Ramirez went up toward the house without a word, and Davidson went to Mike, talking in low tones. He shook his head and returned his focus to his work. It's none of your business, focus on the roof so you can finish it and move on.
"Hey, Matt?"
He looked up to see Ramirez standing at the foot of the ladder. She'd changed from her regular jeans, plaid flannel, and boots to black slacks, a white button-down, and flats, a blazer folded over her arm. She had a grocery bag in hand. "Lunch," She said flatly, "Bill and I have to go to the hospital. I don't know when I'll be back. Suzanne should be by sometime around five to help Mike bring everyone in. I'll leave the bag on the picnic table. Mike will know it's yours." She said quickly, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back toward the picnic bench.
There was some discussion between Mike, Davidson, and Ramirez, and then the sound of a vehicle starting and driving away. An eerie silence descended over the ranch. Someone had turned off the radio that usually blared out music throughout the day, leaving only the sound of his tools and Mike, who worked down in the barn. He would occasionally answer phone calls, but always in a low, hushed tone, even the horses seemed quieter. They worked in this continued silence until Suzanne, and a couple of people he didn't know arrived and brought in the horses for the evening.
Suzanne and her assistants departed as quickly as they'd come, leaving him and mike alone again. He climbed down the ladder as Mike finished up the evening feeding regimen, feeling compelled if not outright obligated to say something to the man before he left for the evening.
"Sleeping in the barn, huh," Mike commented He tensed uncertain of what he should do or say. It wasn't an accusation, so much as just a statement of fact. "Been there done that," Mike said, pulling a card from his wallet extended it to him. "It's a halfway house, my cell number is on the back if you need anything or want to get off that barn floor."
He took the card wordlessly, but his expression must've been bewildered because Mike continued, "We've all been through the shit," Mike paused, glancing around. "Davidson and I were the first, or some of the first, but that was back when Ramirez, Underdahl, and Wilson were the dynamic trio running this place together."
There was a sadness in the man's voice, something nearly nostalgic in his tone. "What happened?" He couldn't help but ask.
Mike chuckled humorlessly. "What happens to all of us? Life." He shook his head but offered no further explanation.
It had been an invasive question at best, rude at the very worst. He nodded.
"Well. Anyway. I gotta get going. Seriously though, call if you need anything or wanna get off that barn floor, it's softer and warmer than the ground, but not by much."
He nodded, watching as the man walked out to his truck and drove away.
Then he turned to the picnic bench where Ramirez had left the grocery bag. Sitting, he opened the bag and found two sandwiches, a bag of chips, two apples, a Gatorade, and a bottle of water. Tucked at the very bottom of the bag were a plain black hardback journal and a couple of rollerball pens. Stuck to the packaging of the journal was a sticky note, which read: 'Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the roof. ~Maggie.'
He found he was struck by the simple kindness of the action. Had she prepped this in advance, or had she thought to make this in the middle of everything going on?
He glanced around. There was tangible anxiety in the air. It had originated with the phone call and had been growing in intensity since her departure with Davidson mid-morning. Davidson and Mike were concerned, and against his better judgment, he found that he was concerned for her, too. Why precisely he couldn't quite enunciate, but he felt uneasy. Something was terribly wrong. Not just today with the phone call, but the pile of envelopes, the rotting barn roof, the dead husband, the exhaustion masked behind her smiles and easy laughs, her seemingly endless selflessness. Something was wrong, and either no one else could see it, or no one wanted to admit to the state of things. There was a light that Magdalen Ramirez brought to her community, to her people, but at what cost?
Maggie dropped Bill off at home around seven and took the long way back to the ranch. The windows rolled down, the radio off, she did her best to focus on the road and getting home safely rather than the events of the day.
Her friend and client, Tim, was dead. As his emergency contact she had been called in to identify the body. It wasn't the first time she'd had to do this, and unfortunately wouldn't be the last. She'd had to identify Riley's body whenever it had returned stateside. She'd been prepared for that, though. She'd had several days to prepare emotionally, psychologically, with Tim it had been so sudden.
She exhaled a shaky breath, blinking profusely as the headlights from oncoming traffic blurred.
I should've seen the signs. I should've known this was coming. Should've been able to do something.
Her brain had been running a mile a minute since the phone call this morning. Fortunately, Bill had been there to talk to her and keep her grounded during the whole process. Now, in the silence of the truck cab, her thoughts were piling up on one another, overflowing like a backed-up sink.
He was doing so much better than when we first started our sessions. Yeah? But then Alice was killed.
Tim had called her when he'd gotten the news. He'd checked himself into a clinic. He'd been afraid he was going to hurt himself. She'd gone and visited him in the hospital, gone with him to the funeral home, and then attended the funeral along with Bill and Mike, and a few of the others from the ranch.
But he'd been healing. He'd been grieving and processing his emotions.
Yeah, but then he'd lost his job, and his vehicle was under threat of repossession, and he couldn't get steady benefits. His extended family all lived so far away, and he'd never been close to them, and both his parents were dead and gone with no siblings to speak of. He hadn't had much of a support network.
I should've seen it coming. I should've reached out to him...been more involved.
Maggie sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve.
You failed him. You could've prevented this. You were supposed to protect your people. That's what you're good at. Why didn't you stop this from happening?
She blinked back tears, her bottom lip trembling. But I tried. She tried to reason with herself.
You weren't enough. You're never enough.
Maggie knew this was the exhaustion talking. It was the emotional and physical weight she'd been carrying around for almost the last three years on her own, and it was crushing her.
I just need to catch a break. I just need to catch my breath.
When? When would it come? It hadn't yet, and it was only going to get worse in the immediate future. She'd spent most of the afternoon running calculations, talking with her bank, talking with the credit card companies, talking with the VA, with the insurance company, talking with anyone and everyone she could think of trying to find a way to pay for her friend's funeral without emptying her already meager savings. In the end, it hadn't mattered. She hadn't had a choice. She hadn't seen an alternative. She needed to bury her friend. She needed to give him a proper funeral. That was her responsibility. She'd failed him in life; she couldn't fail him in death too.
Fundraise.
That's what Bill had told her. It was a good idea, it really was, but she didn't have the time or the energy or the resources to organize an effective fundraiser. She couldn't ask her volunteers or clients. They all had their own debts and financial problems. Everyone she knew was in very nearly the same boat.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. How had it gotten this bad?
She was never supposed to be doing this alone. It was going to be the three of them, The Dream Team, working together, helping the veteran community, giving back.
Maggie pulled into the driveway up by the house and killed the engine. Suzanne had called her and confirmed that the horses had been brought in. Then Mike had texted her to let her know the horses had been bedded down and fed for the evening. She was free to go inside and try to unwind from this horrifying shit show. Until tomorrow came, and it would come, and she would be forced to reckon with her decisions, and with the aftermath of Tim's death in the Last Chance Ranch community.
She slumped against the steering wheel, closing her eyes as the world started to blur and spin.
You're not allowed to cry. You have too much shit to take care of. You have to be the responsible adult in this scenario. You have to keep going for your people. They're counting on you. You have to continue to function for them.
She was vividly aware of the fact that her self-talk wasn't helping the situation, but at this point, she didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. She didn't have strength enough to do anything that might remotely resemble being a "responsible adult." When had she last eaten? When had she last washed her hair or done laundry? She couldn't say. Did it matter? It really didn't.
Leaning against the steering column, Maggie let her hand wander to the silver chain, fingers fumbling with the larger of the two wedding bands she could feel the inscription on the inside. From now, it read, and she knew the smaller band would have until the end of time engraved inside the gold band.
You have to get up you can' t give up now. You have to get up. You can't quit.
Eventually summoning the energy to move, she walked inside, not bothering to lock the door behind her, and started stripping off her layers. Dropping her blazer, she pulled off her white button-down and then the tank top she wore under, before kicking off her flats, and tugging off her slacks. Leaving the clothes where they fell, Maggie staggered to the kitchen, ignoring how her feet stuck to the floor slightly, not sure if the floor was just sticky or if it was just her sweaty feet.
She sighed, opening the fridge and then the freezer, before opening the fridge again. She rubbed her face. Opening the freezer again, she pulled out an unopened pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Setting it on the counter, she rummaged through the pile of dirty dishes that had accumulated trying to find the cleanest spoon. Satisfied she'd scored the best of the bunch, she shoved the spoon in her mouth, grabbed the bottle of red wine from the kitchen island with one hand, and collected the pint of ice cream with the other before walking out to the living room.
The TV was already on, she'd forgotten to turn it off when she'd gone down to the barn for the day, and a trashy novella rerun was on. She sunk on to the single lumpy sofa in the large room, setting the wine and ice cream down on the beat-up antique-ish coffee table, still littered with the empty beer cans and wine bottles, coffee cups, other half-eaten cartons of ice cream, and abandoned bags of chips long gone stale.
"Just another day in paradise, huh?" She commented, grabbing the bottle of wine cracked the seal and twisted the top off. She'd long given up on buying wine with a cork and instead was content with the screw top. Taking a long draw from the bottle, she set it down wincing. Pulling on the hoodie she'd left draped over the back of the couch, she rose and crossed the room to the corkboard wall, or rather A collection of cork boards. It was her daily to-do lists and reminders, people to call, groceries to buy. A whole corkboard was dedicated to the house renovation schedule now three years behind, with a "Coming Home" count down spread in the top right-hand corner likewise abandoned. However, the largest and brightest of these corkboards was covered with photos and drawings, and other things that clients had given her. Molly's drawing, the most recent addition, was tacked on top of the assortment.
Maggie reached out, her fingers brushing each of the stick figures Molly had drawn before she pushed aside the drawing to find what she was looking for. Removing the thumbtack, she took the last snapshot she had of Tim and Alice in hand.
It was a photo that Maggie had taken at one of the cookouts. They'd both looked so happy, both smiling and laughing at a joke Bill was telling. A candid if there was ever a candid photo. Alice's short red hair was falling in her face, her eyes and nose crinkled in the telltale sign of laughter, while Tim watched Alice. There was this look of fondness and love on Tim's face. It was palpable even now that both of them were gone. Wiping her eyes with a thumb, she took the snapshot and wandered to the ladder shelf on the other side of the TV stand.
It wasn't a proper Ofrenda, but she'd never had a chance to build a real one like the one her Abuela and grandpa had in their old house. Her damn uncle had taken it, and she wasn't about to fight him about it, even if he was an utter bastard. There was her maternal grandparent's wedding photo, her brother's graduation photo, a photo of her mother from one of her last birthdays, a photo of Riley's parents and grandparents, and a photo of her, Riley and Sam at the 1940s themed military ball. There were a number of others there as well, clients...or rather former clients. Andrew, he'd died from cancer three years ago, Vietnam Veteran, navy. Michael, killed two years ago in a confrontation with the cops while he was having a PTSD fueled hallucination, two-tour Army veteran. Jason, painkiller overdose a year and a half ago, a three-tour Marine Corps veteran, who'd also done five years for possession and aggravated assault. Now there was Tim and Alice's photo nestled amongst them. All of them either had no family or were estranged from whatever family they had left. It was up to her to remember them, to put them on her Ofrenda. She couldn't let them be forgotten in death, not when she had failed them so utterly and completely in life.
Maggie absently touched the face of her grandmother's Virgin of Guadalupe statue, her finger's pausing a moment on her grandfather's rosary before they trailed down to trace Riley's name, stamped in the metal dog tag. Maggie exhaled slowly, aware that her hands were shaking. Tears that had been welling in her eyes had started to slip down her face.
"Damn it." She muttered, wiping at her face with the hoodie sleeve. Turning off the TV, she fished her phone from the blazer she'd discarded on the floor and headphones from the array of garbage on the coffee table and settled down on the couch as she scrolled through her contacts. With her free hand she grabbed the bottle of wine, taking another swig. She paused, her thumb hovering over the contact labeled "*THAT* bastard," her resolve wavering. Would he want to talk to me? She wondered. No. Probably not. Maggie shook her head.
Exiting her contacts, she opened up her playlists, selecting the one titled "Letters Home from the Dream Team."
Putting her headphones in, Maggie took another drink from the bottle of wine and hit play. There were a few seconds of static before Riley's voice flooded over her.
'Hey, Mags!' Riley began.
'Heeeyyyyy Maaaggggs,' Sam chorused somewhere in the background, making kissy noises.
'Really, Dude? Shut the fuck up! Jeezus Christ!' Riley shot back. Maggie could practically hear him roll his eyes. 'Sorry about that, I hope you're doing alright. I know you wanted us to try to write or call more while we're over here. I figured this would split the difference.'
"Plus, it solves the issue of you being unable to read my handwriting." Maggie quoted along, smiling even as the tears streamed down her face. She opened the pint of ice cream and ate a large spoonful before taking another long draw from the bottle.
'You'll be pleased to know that even over 6,000 miles away from New York, Wilson is still the biggest pain in the ass this side of the Mississippi. I'm afraid I can't tell you much about what we're doing over here, or even where here is. How is the house? And the horses? Last time we talked, you were waiting for Suzanne to get back to you about Mr. McSmush." She could hear Sam snort in the background. "Dude, shut up it's a great name!"
'Yeah? In what alternate universe Underdahl? Mags, you're crazy. Not only did you marry him, but now you're letting him name things? I can't wait to hear the names he picks out for your future kids.' Sam interjected.
'Anyway. I was thinking about the downstairs renovation. Are you still thinking about the textured wallpaper on the powder room ceiling? I mean it sounds like a cool idea, but a pain in the ass to install. Have you gotten the electrical issues sorted out in the kitchen yet? I don't feel comfortable with you YouTubing how to do it yourself. You really should hire someone.' Riley paused, the sound of sirens blaring in the background. 'We gotta go. Love you, Mags baby, I'll talk to you soon. I love you so much. Be safe.'
'Love you, Mags!' Sam managed before Riley shut off the recorder.
Maggie chuckled, eating another large spoonful of ice cream. The next letter started automatically, and she let Riley and Sam's ramblings wash over her.
She laughed and mouthed along as Sam and Riley bickered amicably, while they talked through suggestions for repairs to the house and the property, more name for the horses, and imagined their future together. The three of them. The dream team, together, making good, kicking ass. Inseparable.
It was a moment frozen in time when they'd been a happy family. Sure they'd been a bit unconventional, and at times totally dysfunctional, but they had been happy.
By the end of the fifth letter, Maggie had demolished the bottle of wine and what remained of the ice cream had been left to melt. She'd hoped the wine would make her numb or, at the very least relaxed enough to sleep. Instead, she lay on the couch, listening to the sound of Riley's voice too exhausted to work up a good sob.
'We'll be home soon, Mags baby. I can't wait to see you. I gotta go! Be safe! Love you!' Riley's last audio letter concluded, and Maggie yanked out the headphones letting the phone slip off the couch, dragging the headphone with them.
The house fell silent. It was this time of night that she felt the most dread, and felt the echoes of her old life the most, the life she'd wanted, the life she'd planned together with Riley and Sam. Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes as she lay on the couch, slipping down her cheeks, soaking into the filthy couch cushions under her.
It was at this time of night that she always remembered the day her world had come crashing down around her. The spotless silver sedan that had pulled slowly up the gravel road, their freshly pressed, crisp uniforms, their sober, grave expressions, the feeling of falling, the repeated mantra of I'm going to wake up. Only she hadn't woken up. And now two and half years later, Maggie felt she was in one continuous waking nightmare.
After the immediate shock, she'd then done everything she could to get ahold of Sam, which had been a fiasco. They hadn't seen one another until the day before the funeral. Then only a few times in the two and a half years since. They sent each other birthday and holiday cards, but Sam hadn't been back to the ranch since before their last deployment. Everything about the place reminded Sam of what he'd lost. A little too much of what they had lost. A life together with Riley, gone forever.
The last she'd seen of Sam was on the news, all wrapped up in the Captain America, SHIELD/ Hydra fiasco down in Washington, D.C. Maggie had thought about calling, but what would be the point? What could she possibly have to say that he would want to hear? He'd never dated her. They weren't a couple. They'd been Riley's partners. Now that Riley was gone, she really had no place in his life, and he could choose to live that life any way he wanted. If that meant cowboying around with Captain America, then that was really his prerogative. She had her life, and he had his. That's all there was to it.
We were supposed to be a team. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. It's not fair.
That's what it always came back to. It wasn't fair. But none of this fair. Would she be running a veterans' equine therapy ranch if things were fair? Would she be about to lose the ranch if things were fair? Would she be burying one of her friends and clients at the ripe old age of thirty-seven if things were fair? It wasn't fair. She knew that. But at least I can try to help my people. That had been the balm to soothe the injustice of the entire situation, but soon she might not even be able to do that.
I want my boys.
That's all she could think as she lay prone on the couch, clutching the empty wine bottle to her, hair in her face, staring at the wall, too tired to move, too wired to sleep, and too indifferent to care.
Just make it to tomorrow. She repeated over and over.
If this was as bad as it was going to get then, there was nowhere to go but up. But even as she lay there, Maggie knew there was no reprieve in the immediate future. There was still a ways to go before reaching rock bottom, and then again she'd brought a shovel for when she arrived.
Okay! So, I know that was a tough chapter (It made my partner cry), but now we officially know who Mags is! When is Bucky going to figure it out? Next chapter, we get Sam!
Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please R&R! Let me know what you think. I enjoy reading feedback. It helps feed the plot bunnies!
