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!

CW: For Racial Slur

Recommended Listening: Who Are You, Really by Mikky Ekko; Zombie by The Cranberries


Chapter 10: Walking the Razor's Edge

He was awake and working on the roof by the time Ramirez came into the barn for the morning feed. She addressed him briefly as she fed the horses, leaving them in their stalls for the day. "I'll be back this afternoon." She concluded before walking back up to the house without another word.

She was on her way to Tim's wake. What struck him was that she fully expected him to be there when she returned. An assumption. What would she do when she arrived home and found him gone? Would she wonder? Would she figure out who he was? Would she simply move on with her life without a second thought after he was gone?

Why are you thinking about this? You've gone soft. A vicious voice in the back of his head snarled. You won't survive if you keep thinking like that. Attachment is weakness, or did Hydra teach you nothing? But he knew that the voice was wrong. Attachment wasn't weakness. It wasn't his weakness. It was their weakness. It was a weakness in there hold on him on their ability to control and manipulate him. Then why aren't you staying? Why not reach out to Rogers? They were back to this line of reasoning.

There was a difference, he decided, between not wanting to people to get hurt and being willing to turn yourself over to the custody of someone you maybe, possibly, might have known. He didn't want to hurt these people, and so he was going to do what he knew would prevent that from occurring, which was leaving.

He finished up the roof around mid-afternoon and returned the tools, ladder, and extra supplies to the tool shed. Then he returned to the barn and swept the floor, clearing away the sawdust and wood chips that collected in the barn while he worked. He was stalling, he realized. Trying to find something else to do, something else to fill the time before the inevitable happened. You have to leave. You have to go before Hydra finds you. Stowing the broom, he turned to the issue of packing. He folded everything down tight, slipping the pen and notebook Ramirez had given him into the front pocket.

He froze at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the drive. It wasn't Ramirez's truck or Suzanne's. The vehicle stopped, and the doors opened as people stepped out. He strained to listen, focusing on the voices which were all indistinct and unfamiliar. Then he heard it, heard him.

"The wetback bitch shouldn't be back for some time. Let's get going boys and torch the place."

Roberts. What the hell was he doing? You need to get out of here. You could slip away unnoticed. No one would be the wiser. He glanced up and around at the barn. The smell and sound and heat of massive bodies occupying the space overwhelmed his senses. They'll burn the barn down with the horses in it. Guilt twisted in his stomach. You're an idiot.

He stood and walked to the barn entryway and found four men in addition to Roberts, hauling electrical equipment from the back of the truck.

"Can I help you with something?" He asked shortly.

They all froze and looked up. Setting down their various tools and equipment, all of the men rounded the truck lining up behind Roberts. "Well, well. Matt, isn't it?"

"Can I help you with something?" He repeated again, his voice sharper. Watching as the four other men started spreading out, closing distance between them and him.

"This isn't any of your concern." Roberts sneered.

"I rather think it is."

"Oh! Really? And what are you going to do about it, Matt?"

"I'm asking you to leave before I have to hurt you." He answered flatly. He didn't want to fight them. He'd rather hoped his presence would be enough to chase them off, but that obviously wasn't the case this time. He'd have to make good on his threat.

"Well, now isn't that a novel idea." Roberts chuckled in an attempt at being sinister.

Two of the four men approached one with a baton, the other with fists raised. Then something in his brain flipped, and all of a sudden, he wasn't in control anymore. He ducked and weaved, avoiding the baton and knocking the man wielding it to the ground, the second, and then the third and fourth came at him as well. He took them down quickly, faltering only when one of them managed to jab their taser into his left arm. Snatching the taser, he tossed it away, before sending the aggressor to the ground. All of this in one fluid, continuous movement, unbroken, and without thought. He stopped only as he realized he had someone by the throat.

He looked up and found Roberts writhing and struggling in his grasp. It would be easy. Dispatch him before he can tell anyone your location. End him now before he compromises you. The thought startled him. He knew he was capable of it, but the ease of which the instincts had overtaken his control. He dropped the man. Stepping back, just in time for Roberts to pull a knife and stab him in the right shoulder.

He looked up, making eye contact with the men and took several purposeful steps toward them. That was all it took. Scrabbling back into the truck, the men sped back down the drive toward the main road tires kicking up rocks.

His gaze followed the vehicle, his jaw clenched, a buzzing sensation emanating from prosthesis grew and quickly spreading through his spine and into the rest of his body. Sharp shooting pain accompanied the buzzing, and as he tried to flex the metal hand found it inert. It had been on it's way out, and now it looked like the taser had issued the final blow. When the Roberts disappeared from view, he looked down at the knife protruding from his shoulder. Assess damage. Administer necessary repairs. Keep moving. His training screamed. Assess damage, administer repairs, keep on moving.

Grabbing the soldering kit from the tool shed, he charged to the outbuilding. Slamming the door behind him, he yanked the first aid kit from the wall and sat down on the long bench. Fumbling with the closing mechanism on the first aid kit, he opened it to find a suture kit, iodine, and enough gauze to be able to keep from bleeding out. Opening the suture kit, he removed the scissors and started cutting away his shirt from the bottom up, his hand clumsy, ignoring the shooting pain, the left hand and arm hung limply in his lap. It had been too easy. He could've killed those men, and it wouldn't have taken any effort at all. His mind raced as he tried to focus on what he was doing.

His attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps, and he rose, staggering to his feet as the door swung open. His body tensed, preparing itself to fend off further attack. "Matt?" Ramirez stammered, standing in the open doorway. Her expression cycled through confusion, shock, horror, and disbelief in rapid succession as she surveyed him.

She's a threat, neutralize the threat. She's a threat, neutralize the threat now! His mind screamed. He wanted to leave, he wanted to escape. The air was choked with the smell of blood, and mildew and it caught in his chest. He wanted to push past her, wanted to escape before she could call someone. Before she got him caught. Before she compromised him. Before he could hurt her in an act of self-preservation.

Then, in the deafening silence came Ramirez's cell phone. They flinched, his gaze flickering between her and her bag where the ringing was coming from. She met his gaze uncertainly, her hand frozen mid-motion, reaching for the pocket.

Who could it be? Would she raise the alarm? Would it be worse if she didn't answer? Would Roberts send someone out here? His mind spun. "Answer it." He ordered.

Ramirez nodded and removed it from her bag. Clearing her throat, she answered. "Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking!" Her voice chipper and bright, with no hint of what she saw before her. She paused, glancing at him as the person on the other end of the line started speaking. "Yes, Officer, this is she. What can I do for you today?" She asked pleasantly.

Fuck. It was the police. Roberts and his men must've called them after their little altercation. You have to leave, you have to go now. You can't let them take you. It would be easy to push past her; she was distracted. She was so much smaller than him, even wounded, it wouldn't take much for him to pacify her.

Her voice pulled him back. "Huh." She continued, her facial expressions shifting as her tone did. "That's strange, I just got home from a wake, and everything here is fine. I don't know what vagrant Roberts is talking about. You're more than welcome to come out and take a look, but everything out here is quiet." Her whole body's language was mirroring her tone. A masterful performance, but a performance none the less.

She was lying to a cop. She was lying to a cop for him. He could hardly believe it. Why? He didn't know.

"No. No. I appreciate the call. It's good to know that Roberts was out here trespassing. No. I don't want to press charges… Thank you... Yes, thank you. I'll be sure to let you know if I see anything strange. Yes Sir. Thank you. Bye Bye." She hung up and turned the phone off, slipping it back into her bag.

There were several beats of silence as they both surveyed one another. She looked perfectly at ease. Nothing about her tone, posture, or expression gave him any indication that she was alarmed or otherwise put off by what she was seeing. "You're hurt." She said.

"You lied to him." He replied.

"Am I assume that if he had come by for a wellness check, you would've gone quietly?" She asked sarcasm dripping from her words.

Well, she wasn't wrong. He didn't say anything. His eyes still darting, trying to plot his escape, calculating his chances of making it past her, and how far he'd be able to get. The numbers weren't great.

As if sensing this, she took a step into the outbuilding, stepping out of the doorway and leaving a clear path for him to take if he wanted to. Her dark eyes worked, running an evaluation of her own. "I take it Roberts didn't come by to offer his condolences."

"Not exactly." He said.

"Party favor?" She motioned to the knife in his shoulder.

"Something like that."

"Thank you for not killing any of them, that would've been difficult to explain," Ramirez said appreciatively. Pausing, she took a deep breath as if summoning the will to do whatever would come next. "You're hurt. Let me help you."

"Why?" He snapped, voice shaking. He took a step back, back nearly against the wall of the bathroom stall, hand wrapped around the scissors.

"Well." She began slowly. "I don't think either of us has much choice. Proper medical attention isn't an option for you, but I can't in good conscience let a man who's done nothing but good since he arrived here walk out of here with a knife sticking from his shoulder."

You have to leave. You have to go. You're wasting time, and she's stalling. She's going to get you captured.

"It's the arm," Ramirez continued when he didn't respond. He looked up, meeting her direct and open gaze. "Isn't it?" Something is wrong with it. That's why you're not already out of here. If it were fully operational, you wouldn't have waited around, stab wound, or not."

She knew. She had to know. Her calm demeanor, her no-nonsense. It all seemed fake now. It was difficult to surprise anyone who knowingly let the Winter Soldier sleep in their barn. How long had she known? Had she called Wilson and Rogers? That was her game. Stall him long enough for Rogers and Wilson to arrive. Is that why she had lied to the cop?

"How long?"

"Suspected? About two days. Known for certain? Just about now." She answered, honestly. "But I think you know who I am, that I know Sam Wilson, the Falcon. I haven't called him. Frankly, when he asked if I'd see anything weird, I thought he was stupid for even suggesting that you'd stop somewhere like here. But here we are."

Wilson was looking for him up here. That meant Hydra couldn't be too far behind either. He was losing time. He had to leave, he had to get out, but there was no way that he'd be able to treat his own wounds on the run. He couldn't even administer necessary repairs right now with the relative supplies, which left him with few options.

"Look," Ramirez said slowly. "Let me help you. Talk me through the repairs I'm a fair hand with a soldering iron, and I have some more advanced first aid training. I can get you patched up so you can get out of here."

She wasn't wrong. He knew she wasn't wrong. He didn't have a choice, but then again, neither did she. She'd already lied to the police, Wilson was looking for her, and Hydra was on his tail. If he didn't leave soon, both their lives would get exceedingly more complicated than they already were. What did he have to lose by letting her help him? They'd come this far, they'd go a little bit further before it was all over.

"Okay." He nodded.

"Okay." Ramirez agreed. "I'm going to wash my hands and put on gloves, so I don't come into contact with your bodily fluids. Can you sit down on the bench, please." She instructed firmly.

He complied wordlessly, watching as she closed the outbuilding door, and crossed the room to sink. She set about her task, setting down her bag, and pulling off her blazer. Rolling up her sleeves, she went to the sink. There she scrubbed down her hands and forearms in water so hot it raised steam and turned her hands a pinkish color. Her expression was flat as she moved, pulling on gloves and grabbing and arranging the proper supplies. She paused only momentarily to stand in front of him, her eyes giving him a once over before she extended her hand to him, open-palmed. "Scissors, please."

He handed them over cautiously, placing them in her palm. "Okay." She said lightly. "I'm going to cut away your shirt and jacket. Fortunately for you, I have replacements that should fit." She commented. "Is that okay?" Ramirez paused, waiting for his response.

He nodded, and only then did she approach.

"I'm going to start with the bottom and work my way up. cutting all of this into four pieces, to begin with, and then trimming around the stab wound." She explained. "Is that okay?" She asked again.

Again he nodded, and she set to work. Ramirez worked quickly, humming to herself as she cut, her motions sure and steady. She showed no sign of fear or uncertainty, as if she had done this for a living, and had no problem performing next to light surgery on someone like him. And what is that exactly? His brain sneered. A murder? A terrorist? A threat?

"How we doing?" She asked as she finished the first cut up the front and around the stab wound.

"Fine."

"Good. I'm going to move behind you so I can cut down the back." She explained. "Would you like to turn and face the mirror so you can see what I'm doing?"

This question made him pause. She had been narrating and telling him what she was doing. That made sense. That was practical, and tactically made sense. This question. This question was about his comfort. She was right, though. He didn't want her behind him with a sharp implement. The very thought made his heart pound and his skin itch. And she'd thought to ask. She's doing you a favor, and she's still thinking about your comfort. It was almost too much to believe.

"I'll turn." He said shortly, swallowing hard. She took a step back, allowing him to position himself, waiting for him to nod before she resumed work.

"Your hair is hanging down on your collar. May I brush it away so I can avoid giving you a really bad haircut?" She asked lightly.

"Yes." He braced, nearly flinching as her gloved fingers made contact with his skin. One hand holding his hair out of the way while the other manipulated to scissors, diligently cutting away his clothes.

"Okay, and we're done with the back seam. How we doing?" She announced, letting go of his hair.

"Fine." He glanced up at her as she moved around front.

"I'm going to cut away your right sleeve and then your left. Is that okay?"

Again, she was asking for his consent. Was it because she was afraid of him? That if she didn't, he might hurt her? No. That didn't seem to be it. Which, again, meant she was thinking about his comfort. He nodded, and she started cutting his sleeve, working from the cuff up toward the collar. She resumed humming as she worked, and he watched her. She should be terrified. She should be afraid of me, of what I might do. He remembered Hydra, before his last wipe, administering repairs, armed to the teeth, weapons trained on him, ready to put him down should he make a false move. Yet here she was, still dressed for a funeral, humming as she worked.

"You're taking all of this exceedingly well," He commented dryly.

"Well." Ramirez sighed, pausing, she scratched her forehead with her wrist. "I'm burying my friend tomorrow, my ranch is weeks from foreclosure, and Jack Roberts is up to his usual fuckery. This may as well just happen." She said, her drawl thick.

There it was. The resignation. The desperation. The inevitability of the whole situation, summed up in a simple, concise phrase: this may as well happen.

She clipped the last bit of fabric of the sleeve and gently pulled away the right side of his jacket and shirt. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him, pausing as her eyes settled on the metal hand of the prosthesis.

Her expression bore no immediate reaction, and her face remained smooth and unaffected. What was she thinking? Certainly, she was having some kind of response to seeing it, to seeing that kind of tech.

"How much mobility do you have with your prosthesis presently?" She asked, looking up and addressing him directly. He must have given her a puzzled look because she continued. "If it's dead weight, I need your permission to touch manipulate the prosthesis." She explained.

His stomach twisted, and he could feel them, hear them, the so-called doctors and handles with cold, rough hands, ready with a tranquilizer if he resisted.

"Hey." her voice called gently, and he blinked, looking back up at her. "Hey," Ramirez repeated, she'd taken a step back, her hands in clear view, her voice soft. "I don't want to hurt you. Let me know what you need me to do."

He exhaled a shaking breath. "It's unresponsive. I can't move it." He said shortly.

"Would you like me to try to pull the sleeve off rather than cutting it away? I won't have to touch your prosthesis that way if it makes you uncomfortable to have other people touching or moving it." She explained tentatively.

He shook his head. His skin itched, his whole body throbbing, even as white-hot sparks of pain shot through his spine and throughout the rest of his body. "You're going to have to cut it." He paused, looking into her concerned features. She was concerned for him? "This may as well happen." He added dryly. It was the best he could do to cut some of the tension in the room. Even as he fought himself second to second to keep from pushing her away and making his escape. He wanted to claw at the metal seam, claw, and scratch and tear at the flesh as if that would somehow ease the burning sensation, and make the buzzing in his spine stop.

"Okay." She nodded. "I'm going to sit down. That way I can support and move the prosthesis a little bit easier. Is that okay?"

He nodded and moved over, allowing her space to straddle the bench, her body facing him. "Let me know if I need to stop for any reason." She said. Supporting the prosthesis with one hand, she cut up the sleeve with the other.

Ramirez worked diligently, and he watched her as she pulled the fabric away from the metal prosthesis, which glinted in the flickering fluorescent lights, gauging her reaction. "They really didn't do you any favors with this, did they?" She commented, her expression grave as she cut around the curve of the elbow.

He didn't comment and instead evaluated her expression critically. Was it anger that he saw in her eyes? And anger at whom? Hydra? On his behalf? Why?

"I'm sorry you got caught up in all of this." She continued after a moment. "This whole thing with Roberts."

He didn't know what to say. Did she hear herself speaking? She knew he was the winter soldier, probably knew he was Hydra or former Hydra, and she was apologizing to him? Did she know what he'd done? No. She had no clue. She couldn't know.

She cut the shoulder seam, and the rest of his shirt and jacket fell away, leaving him naked from the waist up. Gently setting the prosthesis back down, she returned the scissors to their place, and rose, standing squarely in front of him. She did a quick physical inventory, her dark eyes working fast as she tried to evaluate her next move.

"Repairs to the prosthesis take priority." He bit out shortly. He needed the arm functional. He needed it to work so he could escape. He needed it to survive. Everything else was secondary.

"But-" She cut herself off when she saw his expression. "Okay." She raised her hands in surrender. "Okay. I'm going to plug in the soldering iron. You're going to have to talk me through what I'm doing. I'm a fair hand at soldering, but your prosthesis is a little more advanced than anything I've worked on."

He turned his head away and down, blinking, his heart pounding even louder and faster in his ears. He could feel the dread settling in his stomach. The sensation of cold, sterile hands on him was near, he could practically feel them on him. The pain swelled, making his head spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. Sargent Barnes. The slimy, slippery voice of Zola whispered in his ears.

"Hey," Ramirez called. "Hey, I need you to stay with me. You're wounded and hurting. I know this is scary, but I'm going to help you. I'm going to make it stop hurting. But you have to stay with me. "She started talking through a breathing exercise, just like she had a few days before, her voice rooting in him in reality even as his brain tried to tell him otherwise. Eventually, he opened his eyes, and the outbuilding came swimming back into focus. "Hey," She said gently. "What's your name? What do you want me to call you? If we're going to get through this together, I need your name." He frowned, looking up into her concerned features. "Come on. We both know Matt isn't your real name." She ribbed gently with a soft smile.

How did she know? What did she know? How had she guessed Matt was a fake name? Panic set in, before somehow better sense stepped in. It didn't matter. She already knew what he was, a name was just a name. She's helping you, she's done nothing but help you. You owe her this at the very least. "James." He said slowly. Even saying the name felt strange, but it was the only name he could give her that was anything close to the truth of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, James," She said, "I wish it were under better circumstances."

James. She'd called him James. It was familiar, somehow, almost comforting. He blinked slowly, trying to focus on what was going to get him out of here. "Scalpel. You'll use it to pry open the panels on the side of the arm." He instructed.

"Okay. Okay, that sounds good. Do you know which one or just all of them?" She asked, grabbing the first aid kit, she removed the scalpel from its sterile packaging before sitting down beside him and the prosthesis again.

"No." He shook his head, jaw clenched, body tense, as if the tension was the only thing keeping him upright.

"All right. So it'll be a process of elimination here I take it." Ramirez commented, sticking the scalpel into the panel's edge. "Let me know if I'm hurting you, James." She said, popping open the first panel.

"Anything?"

"Everything seems to be intact on this one. Would you like me to close it up or keep it open until we find the problem child?"

"Open."

"Okay." She nodded and continued. "I'm not hurting you with this, am I?" She asked as she worked, popping open three more panels.

"No." He shook his head.

"Okay. Well, let me know if I do something that hurts you, James." She said, "I don't want to hurt you. And if it is hurting you, we can stop and figure out what to do to make it hurt less."

He didn't know what to do or say. It hurt, everything hurt, but she wasn't hurting him. And yet he wanted to push her away, tell her to get her hands off him, to leave him alone. He glanced down at his right shoulder, blood seeping slowly from the wound, an overwhelming urge to remove the knife from his shoulder. It was two, maybe three inches deep. It hadn't hit anything significant. Even if it had, he'd walked off worse. He'd survived Hydra and would survive this.

"Absolutely not. One thing at a time." She said shortly.

He glanced up at her. She hadn't even looked up. "It's a natural instinct, and it's probably the worst thing you can do for yourself right now." Ramirez paused as she popped open another panel. "Okay. I think we found our problem. Let's take a look at what we got here." She leaned in toward the arm to get a closer look, and he stiffened even more than he thought already possible but stopped short of outright flinching. She moved away again at looked up into his face. "Okay. Talk me through what's going on," She prompted.

"I." He faltered. He didn't know to say. It was hard to explain, mainly because he never had in the past. Hydra hadn't asked. "I-I don't know." He stammered. Just fix it. Just fix it. He wanted to scream. His control over the pain wavered moment to moment, and he might just lose it completely.

"That's okay." She said gently. "I'm going to repair what I can see is damaged, and if that doesn't help or resolve what's going on, we can problem-solve to work through the rest of it." She rose and grabbed the soldering iron and coil, and returned to the bench. "Let me know if I'm hurting you, James, or when it seems to be working."

She worked quickly. Her hands were steady, and as she completed each repair, she spoke to him in low tones, like she was soothing a spooked horse. Mostly whispering that he was doing well, asking if she was hurting him, asking him how he was feeling if the arm was getting any better, and it was, bit by bit. It buzzed like a limb that had fallen asleep, but the pain had subsided substantially. She finished the one panel and had moved onto to discover another two panels with similar damage.

"How are we doing, James?" She asked, finishing up the last panel. She blew on it gently, raising goosebumps on his rib cage.

He exhaled a shaky breath. "I'm fully operational." He managed.

She hesitated, opening her mouth to say something. She must've thought better of it because she closed her mouth, closed and secured all the panels, and turned off the soldering iron. "Done." She said, and moved away. He turned his attention to the arm and hand, flexing the hand experimentally. It wasn't perfect, but it would work. Ramirez was watching him, and he looked up to meet her gaze.

"Better?" She asked uncertainly.

"Yes." He glanced at the knife, still sticking out of his shoulder.

"Yes, now we can take it out." She said, tearing open a pack of gauze pads.

Without hesitating, he reached up with the prosthesis and yanked the knife out. "Not!" She started before she pushed the gauze against the wound as it blossomed with blood. "Like that." She glowered, applying even pressure on his shoulder with both hands.

"He didn't hit anything major, and it wasn't very deep," He replied.

"Hand me another pack of gauze." She ordered shortly.

He nodded, fishing another package of gauze out of the first aid kit, ripped open the package with his teeth, and extended it to her. She took it, adding it on top of the first pack. "You've done this before."

"EMT training," She answered shortly, pushing down even harder.

He flinched, the only momentary lapse in his control over his pain.

"Sorry." She apologized. "More gauze."

They did this until the bleeding stymied. "Sew me up, your hands are steadier than mine at the moment." He ordered.

"Okay. Put pressure on it while I get the suture kit out and ready." She instructed.

He moved to put the left hand on the gauze pad, catching her watching him and it curiously. "That's a mean piece of tech. It doesn't seem very well suited for wearer comfort." She commented, opening the bottle of iodine.

He braced, waiting for the comments and questions to come. She probably had a million things she wanted to know. They didn't come. Instead, she peeled back the layers of gauze and poured some of the iodine over the wound. He exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Sorry. It's probably a little cold." She apologized, sealing the bottle, and sopping up the extra. She removed the suture kit from the first aid box and started setting up. "And while I know you won't, let me know if I'm hurting you, and if I need to stop, James." She said and set to work, right hand firmly grasping the forceps the left manipulating the thread, scissors, and tweezers.

She was all business, working efficiently, her stitches tidy and neat. Her hands were steady and didn't falter. "Breathe, James," Ramirez commented softly, and he glanced down to find both hands balled into fists. His whole body was tense beneath her touch. "We're almost done."

"I'm fine." He snapped.

"You're doing great." She replied pleasantly, ignoring his snipe.

He watched her in the mirror, her whole being was focused on her task. She had been nothing but kind to him. She had fed, clothed, and protected him. Now she was providing medical aid and emergency repairs on his prosthesis. Hydra, no doubt, was on his tail now. They would follow him to the ends of the earth, and he'd lead them right to her. He inhaled sharply before he spoke. "You need to call your friend. You're in danger."

"Hydra's coming after you. Aren't they?" She said slowly.

"Yes." He replied.

"Sam said you defected."

"They're not going to just let me go."

"I gathered." Ramirez tied off another knot. Her hands paused in their motion. "I don't know Captain America, but I know Sam Wilson. He's a good man, he'll help you if you let him."

She was trying to get him to stay. Trying to convince him not to keep running. "They can't help me, and neither can you. You should be more concerned about yourself." He said sharply.

"I appreciate your concern." She replied, tying off the last knot, "But whatever you're running from, you're not going to be able to run forever."

He didn't say anything in response. She wasn't wrong. He couldn't run forever, but he would run for as long as he could. He wasn't going to just roll over and let Hydra take him.

Ramirez ran an iodine wipe over the surface of the wound before applying a layer of gauze and tape. "And I'd say take it easy, but I get the feeling that's out of the question." Standing up, she turned back to face him squarely. "How'd we do?"

He nodded in response. Rising to his feet, he glanced around. "You mentioned clothes."

"There are some long sleeve shirts in the bottom drawer, and a jacket hanging on the back of the door. It's fairly versatile." She explained as she started cleaning up the bench.

He said nothing, removing items from the various drawers and dressed. Then he took the coat from the back of the door and paused, standing in the threshold, looked up at her.

"One more thing," Ramirez said, pulling off her gloves and throwing them in the trash, she picked up her satchel removing a roll of bills from a front pocket. Crossing the distance between them, She extended the roll toward him. "It's not much. But wherever you're going, you'll need some cash. It should get you out of town."

She was right. He knew she was right, he did need the cash, but she had just admitted she was weeks away from foreclosure. He couldn't take the money from her. Not after everything she'd done for him, and everything that was about to happen to her before this was all over. "You should call your friend. You don't have much time." He said shortly.

"I'd be more worried about yourself." She replied.

He paused. He wanted to say something. Wanted to say thank you. Wanted to say good luck or be safe or something. But he couldn't. What could he possibly say that would be sufficient in the circumstances? Instead, he nodded and turned away toward the barn. He had to get moving. He was losing light fast, and he had a lot of ground to cover.

You're making a mistake. You can't leave her alone against Hydra. His brain screamed, but he ignored it. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk capture by Hydra. He'd told her to call Wilson. Wilson and Steve Rogers could protect her, he had to get as far away from this place as possible as quickly as possible. He had to leave, leave before Hydra could get their hands on him. That was the best thing he could do for her. That was the only thing he could do for her.


I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to R&R (Please feed the plot bunnies)!

As a fun aside! I first finished a draft of this chapter (or bits of this chapter) All the way back in late November early December of 2016 (yanno in the wake of CA: CW). While a lot has changed about this fic, this was always one of the most central and pivotal scenes (since I started this bad boy way back in 2014). Next up! Maggie dealing with the fall out from all this stuff!