Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!
Recommended Listening: "Big Iron" by Johnny Cash, "The Winter Soldier" by Henry Jackman, "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, "Run" by AWOL Nation, It's a Good Day by Peggy Lee, "Jukebox Saturday Night" by Glen Miller, "September" by Earth Wind and Fire, "Wake me Up When September Ends" by Green Day.
Honorable (or not so you make your judgment on that) Mention Recommendation: "Candyman" by Christina Aguilera
Chapter 17: Finding the Point of No Return
This wasn't how he'd wanted this day to go. By his standards, he'd been having a relatively normal day, and normal was the best he could hope for on the best of days. He'd bought groceries, he'd eaten breakfast, and then he'd done research at the library. He'd remembered a bit more about his life before Hydra, a little bit about his family, his parents and his sisters, and a little bit about Rogers. He'd remembered how much he really hated eating boiled anything, but that he had a particularly strong hatred for boiled spinach. He'd remembered saving his pennies and buying candy bars to split with his sisters and Steve.
Unfortunately, with the good also came the bad. He'd spent the day remembering far more than he cared to about his time with Hydra. The cold. The hunger. The pain. The blood. But he'd also remembered more about her, the red woman, the Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, or Natalia as he had known her back then.
She was now working with the Avengers, and with Steven Rogers to track him down and bring him in. Yet, he couldn't find it within himself to be angry or even frustrated by her interference. It was because of their unsanctioned relationship in the Red Room that he'd been able to avoid her and Hydra this long. He'd slowly remembered her, remembered them, and the network of safe houses, dead drops, and contacts they'd established as operatives for Hydra together. As a result, it meant that she knew all the locations where he might be, and where he'd head next. Or where he would be if he were acting as the Winter Soldier, as the man, the operative, the asset that had worked for Hydra all those years.
So he'd done his best to avoid all those places, all those safe houses, dead drops, and contacts. However, certain things couldn't be helped. Kyiv had information that he needed, and so he'd slowly made his way through Ukraine, aware that he was being followed, and doing his best to shake his tail. He thought he'd managed it. He'd moved quietly, erratically, at first not staying any one place more than a few days, then sometimes a week, trying to measure how close behind him they were. Now he'd been in Kyiv for almost two weeks.
Then, today, he'd seen them.
Rather, Hydra had let him spot them as he was leaving the library on his way home. When he'd seen the tag team, he known what he had to do, he hadn't even had to think about it. It was like a reflex, as natural and innate to him as breathing. He'd done it without question, a simple truth driving him. He wasn't going to let them take him alive, but he also would make the most out of the opportunity. He needed intel.
He'd managed to take one alive, removing the cyanide capsule from the man's back tooth before he could martyr himself.
He remembered that about Hydra agents. The precautions they took to avoid capture and information extraction. He and the Black Widow had trained together and trained other operatives on how to avoid detection and capture. He remembered watching some of the field agents have their cyanide capsule installed, as a last option should they be intercepted. He and Widow had never been given one, they were too valuable, and besides, when had they ever been caught? It was his observation that only mid-range operatives were given the capsule. Low-level operatives were ostensibly cannon fodder. They were expendable and often didn't know enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They didn't warrant a suicide pill. Middle-level operatives, however, like the unfortunate soul now zip-tied to a chair, knew enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They knew enough to be useful to him.
The one-room safe house they were currently occupying was dingy but was suitable for his purposes. The room was lit by a single bulb on a string suspended from the ceiling, and the bulb cast an eerie glow on the faded and peeling wallpaper. Making the man slumped in the chair in front of him look more waxy and inhuman than he thought possible. There was a small camp bed, the chair with the Hydra agent tied to it, a small table, the kitchenette, and a small fridge. The chair faced the bed, which is where he was sitting watching the man as he fought his way back to consciousness.
What exactly he was going to do to the agent when he awoke, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about it, because he knew what he would have to do, and could feel the forces beyond his control, pushing him forward at a terminal and unstoppable velocity. Was it the training? Conditioning? Or just his nature? He knew what was going to come next, and he knew that he wouldn't turn away wouldn't flinch in the face of what had to happen.
You don't have a choice. You have to do this. This is who and what you are.
But he didn't want it to be. He didn't want to be here, in this room, with this person, prepared to torture and kill for information. Yet here he was.
He's not a man. He's a Hydra Agent. They've done worse to you. They will do worse to you if you let them capture you.
The man was stirring, straining against the restraints, making muffled noises through his gag, looking at him with an expression of anger and hatred, which only barely masked the fear.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked, his voice low and rough from disuse, the Russian words too familiar on his tongue.
The man gave a single firm nod.
"Good."
Fear overtook the anger and hatred on the man's face, but he didn't scream, didn't cry out, didn't plead. He was a professional, he was Hydra, and he would not disgrace himself in that way, which was a shame really because it might have inspired something other than hatred if he had.
"I am going to ask you questions. And it would be in your best interest to cooperate." The words were ragged as they passed his lips and died as they entered the soundproofed room. There was no echo, no menace, just the truth. "Do you understand me?"
Again, the Hydra Agent nodded.
He didn't want to do this, but he didn't have a choice. They'd hunted and tracked him like a wild animal, and if they got a hold of him, they would do far worse than just wipe his memory. They'd already done worse while trying to re-obtain him. He didn't want to think of the lengths they would go to bring him back into the ranks, or the consequences of when they did.
He couldn't delay any longer. There was nothing else for it. He was wasting valuable time. He would have to move again, but only after he extracted what he needed from the agent.
He removed his gloves, pausing to look at the metal prosthesis glinting in the dim light of the single bulb.
Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow...no one wakes up a good or a bad person.
Her voice rang out so clearly in his head it almost sucked his breath away. He stopped, blinking as he tried to expel the voice with a shaking breath. He couldn't think about her, not here, not now. Yet there she was.
She'd been a good person. The thought rang loud and clear. And she'd died because of it.
He didn't plan on dying, not today.
He shoved the gloves in his pocket. Rising, he pulled the gag from the agent's mouth.
The man took a couple of deep, panting breaths, looking up squarely at him. The fear dissolved into hatred. "Who is your commanding officer?"
"You cannot escape us. There's nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide where we will not find you." He said, his breathing, "You will never be rid of us." He knew he was going to die. These were the last brave words of a dead man.
He wasn't going to dignify that with a direct response and so he continued without pause. "How many Hydra cells are currently operating in Eastern Europe?"
"You should just kill me, it would be easier for both of us, or has the soldier had a change of heart?" He practically laughed, and there was something nearly sing-song to his voice as he continued. "I bet that little Mexican bitch made you think you could be something more than what we made you to be, didn't she, Soldat?"
His stomach lurched, and he made a move to grab the man by his collar, but stopped at the smirk on the man's face, reality dropping in around him like a ton of bricks. I've made a mistake.
He dropped to the floor as a spray of bullets pierced the wall. The man, the tag team, they'd been bait, a distraction, and now they'd sent even more people to come and take him back to whoever was in charge. As he waited for the hail of bullets to stop, he could feel instinct and training take over, as his desire to survive overwhelmed any discussion of morality. He'd made a mistake, and he would not make another. There was no choice in this, only the absolute need to get away from Hydra, at whatever cost.
He glanced at the mangled blood body of what had once been his captive, and couldn't help but feel a momentary pang of pity and regret. You were going to gut him like a fish, and he would've done the same to you in a heartbeat. He tried to remind himself. Yes, but it might have meant something if he'd managed to get intel off him. Well, there was more where he'd come from.
Cut off one head, and two more would take its place. Or at least that's what he'd been told. So, for now, he'd keep running, and keep cutting and cutting until he found what he was looking for.
First, he'd have to make it out and to the next place without being captured. For now, all that mattered was survival, namely his own. That was the only thing that could matter.
She was walking down a bustling street in Brooklyn. It was familiar, but distant like she 'd seen it all in photographs before. She was sure she had seen it in photographs. She was also vaguely aware that she was still her but different. Wearing clothing like she'd seen her grandmother and great-grandmother wear during the 1930s and 40s.
" Maggie! Maggie!"
She turned around on the bustling street to see none other than Becca Barnes, no more than fifteen or sixteen, running toward her.
" Becca! Becca slow down!"
Maggie looked further down to see Steve following behind her, weaving through the crowds, an exasperated expression on his face.
" Steve and I were going to meet Bucky for a soda! You should come with us!" Becca said, grabbing Maggie's hand with her own.
Maggie glanced over Becca's shoulder at Steve, who had finally fought his way through the crowd.
"Ms. Ramirez." Steve nodded. He was small, like in all the photos she'd seen of him before the war. Features gaunt, small, and frail as anything, but his eyes were bright, something truly mischievous and lively to them.
" Mr. Rogers." She returned the nod, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
" Well, come on! Bucky's going to think we've forgotten." Becca grabbed Steve's arm with her free hand and locked arms with both of them.
" I don't see what the big deal is, Bec." Steve practically rolled his eyes. "It's not like Buck hasn't met a hundred of your friends before."
Becca rolled her eyes, sticking out her tongue. "Ignore him." She told Maggie.
Maggie laughed, "Steve has a point." She began, but Becca shot her a look. "Lead the way then."
They proceeded down the street with ease, despite walking three across, and before Maggie could make a comment of this, they were there, and Becca was leading the charge inside. Steve unlocked his arm with Becca, holding the door open for them. Maggie hesitated in the doorway.
"Not nervous, are you?" Steve grinned devilishly.
"Shouldn't I be, after everything that I've heard about the famous James Barnes."
"Don't worry. You're in no danger, I promise." Steve chuckled, patting her amicably on the shoulder.
" Thanks, Rogers."
"Any time, Ramirez."
They walked into the soda counter where Becca was talking with a man at the bar in low tones, edging on an argument. "I don't need you to pick up girls for me, Bec."
" Is that what's happening? It would explain why I was virtually kidnapped and whisked away without so much as an explanation." Maggie cut in sliding onto one of the stools at the counter a few seats away from where the argument between Becca and her older brother was taking place.
" A root beer, please." She removed the correct coinage from her handbag and handed it to the clerk, trying her damndest to ignore the conversation happening a few stools away.
"That her?" Barnes mumbled, motioning not too inconspicuously to her with his head.
Becca nodded, "Maggie. I'd like to introduce you to my know it all idiot older brother, James Barnes."
" Call me Bucky."
Maggie looked up into the face of James "Bucky" Barnes. He was clean-shaven, hair slightly mussed from having hands repeatedly run through the chestnuts tresses. There was a sparkle in his eyes, playful and yet even then there was the smallest hint of uncertainty in his jaunty expression. His face was handsome and young. The cares of adult life were set on his face but had yet to harden. Maggie found that she wanted to make that face laugh, make that mouth turn up in a smile.
" A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes," Maggie said dryly as the soda jerk set the frosty glass of root beer in front of her.
"The pleasure's all mine, Miss..." Bucky continued.
"Ms. Ramirez." She supplied firmly.
"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ramirez." He pushed an errant lock of hair out of his face as casually as he could manage in the given circumstances. "So, how do you know my little sis?"
" Steven introduced us!" Becca supplied helpfully.
"Oh. Did he? " He said as he glanced between Steve and Becca, looking for further explanation.
Steve shrugged as he mounted one of the bar stools, ordering a coke.
" Well, as you said, Mr. Barnes. You don't need your kid sister picking up girls for you."
"Bucky's just fine doll."
" Doll?" Maggie laughed, taking a sip of her root beer. "I'm not your doll, Barnes."
Bucky exchanged a private glance with Steve that she couldn't read before he turned back to her. "I'd like to buy you a drink. To apologize for my behavior earlier."
" I'm sure you would."
" Another root beer, perhaps?" He suggested, moving onto the stool beside her.
Maggie looked back up at that face and into those eyes and that mouth. "A scoop of ice cream for this one...perhaps." She said, taking another sip through the straw.
" Done." He said, corner of his mouth quirking up in a playful smile. She watched as he pulled his wallet from his trousers, noting his arms, which were muscular and well-toned under the sleeves of his button-down collared shirt, the sleeves rolled and cuffed just above the elbow, the was his forearms narrowed to his wrists which looked somehow delicate.
Steve cleared his throat and Maggie could feel herself hide the hint of a blush as she looked for somewhere else to focus her attention. The scoop of ice cream arrived, and Barnes motioned for her glass, which she pushed toward him, wordlessly watching as he delicately added the ice cream to her glass of root beer.
"I'm sorry about earlier." He commented as he carefully spooned the ice cream into her glass. "My sister can be a bit..."
"Enthusiastic?" She offered.
"Yeah." He nodded, looking up at her as he slid her glass back to her.
"So I couldn't help but notice." She took the spoon from his outstretched hand and maneuvered it into the frosted glass.
"How do you know Steve?" He continued after a moment.
"We work together."
"Ah. That makes sense. Funny, he hasn't mentioned you is all."
"Well, I'm fairly new, and you can't honestly expect Steve to tell you about all the dames and dolls he works with, can you?" She teased with a soft chuckle.
"Perhaps then just the ones as beautiful as you are, Ms. Ramirez."
Maggie could feel herself blush, and she took a sip of the root beer float to buy herself time to simmer down. "So what about you? You work at the shipyard, don't you?" She asked. It was banal but would divert attention away from herself.
" When I can. Pays not half so bad when you can get steady work, but I take work where I can." He shrugged.
" Anything in particular?" Maggie asked.
" Oh, the odd job here and there. I've done carpentry, plumbing, electrical, a little bit of masonry." A wicked smile spread over his face. "You could say I'm pretty good with my hands."
" I'm sure you are Mr. Barnes." She said as sweetly as she could manage."I am sorry for the intrusion. I'm sure you were looking forward to having a drink with your sister and friend."
" Well. We're friends, aren't we?" He asked.
" Are we Mr. Barnes?"
" I think that depends on you, Ms. Ramirez?"
Maggie found herself lost in those eyes, watching her intently, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Everything about him was so earnest and sincere, and she just wanted to cup his face in her hands. Bucky put his hand on top of hers. It was warm and completely enveloped hers, and she could see a look of tremendous satisfaction cross his expression
"Your hands are cold, doll." He chuckled, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
" I think it's the ice cream, Mr. Barnes." She stammered, pulling her hand away.
His smile faded, and he looked at her with a grave expression. "You need to wake up, doll. They're looking for you." His voice seemed to echo. "Wake up."
Maggie woke with a start, her heart pounding as her phone buzzed by her head. The motion-activated lights had turned off, and the only light in the room was from her monitor, which had sprung to life when she had. It was 5:00 am.
It had been all hands on deck, they'd had an honest to god Winter Soldier sighting, in the aftermath of some kind of an altercation with Hydra goons. There had been at least sixteen people killed, with lord knows how many who'd been able to crawl away before Sam, Steve, and Romanoff arrived.
She checked her phone. 'Finally made it back in. Have some stuff for you from Romanoff. Be by as soon as I've had a chance to shower and grab a quick nap.'
Maggie sighed, setting the phone back down. They hadn't found him, at least not yet. Sam had flown back, while Steve and Romanoff had continued to follow the trail. They were only a few hours behind him. Though as she hadn't heard anything, Maggie had a sinking suspicion that Barnes was in the wind yet again. They would have to wait for another chance encounter before he'd appear on their radar again.
She wanted to be hopeful, wanted to believe that this might be it. That they might have finally caught the break they'd been waiting for since May, that in a matter of hours they might have their guy and that she might be one step closer to going home.
It was a vain, shallow hope that she could still go home. They hadn't even found the guy yet. Even then, what would they do once they found him? What was the chance that he would come quietly? He was obviously in no rush to reunite with Steve and was doing his damndest to stay off Hydra's radar. Their radar too.
Becca's question persisted. How much of the James Barnes that Steve and Becca knew was left to bring home? Did he remember Steve? Did he remember anything before the fall in 1945? It was a valid question. The man had spent nearly seventy years in Hydra's clutches. That tended to change people.
Yeah, it made him dangerous.
Romanoff's warning had stayed with Maggie, and with it a growing anxiety, a growing need to shove it all away and ignore the reality of her situation. The deeper she got into this, the more of a target became, and being in the crosshairs of someone like either the Winter Soldier or those who wanted to acquire him for their own wasn't something she wanted any part of.
The spy had helped teach her coding and encryption, and from there, Maggie had started playing with ciphers, and other methods of data protection. She'd gotten comfortable enough that she'd been able to create her own ciphers and had entirely rewritten her journal to more sufficiently safeguards what she knew. Romanoff wasn't wrong, and she didn't want just anyone to know what she'd found out about Barnes. He was dangerous too, and Hydra was far too eager to get him back in their clutches for her to take any more chances or stupid risks.
So she had Becca's question and Natasha's warning along with all of the information and data, and stories, and photographs she could ever wish for and never wanted battling for dominance in her brain. How exactly she was supposed to navigate that whole minefield, Maggie wasn't sure. Her subconscious had, thus far, taken the most creative route with how to output the information she was processing.
The dream.
Maggie was almost entirely sure that was due to her time with Becca. Becca had filled their hours together with stories of her older brother, her sisters, and of course, Steve Rogers. She'd shown Maggie all of the old family albums and talked about her husbands, Gabriel Martinez and Robert Proctor, and of course, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, by both blood and by association. It was a welcome break from the monotonous daily life in the tower.
This inundation of information had led to dreams, dreams about Barnes in increasingly cutesy 1930s or 40s settings. He was a charmer, or at least that's what she'd gathered from Becca. James Barnes was funny and handsome, and always popular with women, and men from the sounds of everything. And with all of that, he was appearing in her dreams and trying to sweep her off her feet.
Yeah, he also just killed sixteen people, and we're calling that a mild day.
Well, not exactly people? It should've surprised her how easily she'd made that leap. But it didn't. After all, they were Hydra Agents, the same Nazi organization that had knocked down her door, tortured her, and set her house ablaze. Of course, this was the same very same organization that had imprisoned and tortured and made Barnes their operative for seventy years. She should've felt pity, felt sorry for those lives that had been taken. But she didn't.
She sighed, turning her thoughts back to the apparition of 1940s James Barnes that had started gracing what little sleep she'd been getting. The dreams had been happening more frequently since July 4th and showed no sign of stopping. While a little off-putting, the 1940s James Barnes dreams were a nice break from her reoccurring falling nightmare. The one that had plagued her since Riley's passing and had only increased in frequency since the ranch had burned down because of Hydra. So far as weird and obsessive things currently plaguing her, dreaming about meeting the guy at a soda fountain ranked pretty far down on worrying obsessive behavior.
She'd been "dead" now almost six months.
She didn't like to think of that. Didn't want to think of how long she'd been away from her clients, her house, her friends, her life. That she'd been gone for that long. She didn't like to imagine what it had done to the community, to the people of last chance. She tried not to think about the fact that she'd put all of her client's names on a google alert to get push notifications if their names appeared in the local newspapers or TV. And there was only one reason why they'd show up. Maggie tried to ignore the sheer dread and terror that she felt every time any alert appeared on her phone. Thankfully, she'd never gotten any of those notifications, not yet.
Maggie rose to her feet and brushed haphazardly at the Dorito dust and crumbs clinging to her leggings and baggy t-shirt. Leaning over, she ran her fingers through her greasy hair, winding the mass into a bun, securing the ends with Bobby pins, too exhausted to fiddle one-handed with a hairband or a scrunchy.
You'll be getting your cast off soon, that'll be good! She tried to be positive, but it was difficult when she knew that there would be PT after that, and only then would they know the extent of the damage that Hydra had done with Great Aunt Millie's marble rolling pin.
Pausing, she looked up at the large map, spread across the wall, and riddled with pins, a majority of them black-headed—dead ends.
If I was running from Hydra and my best friend, and I was trying to stay off the grid, where would I go? She couldn't help but wonder as her eyes scanned all the places they'd looked, all of the leads they'd followed without avail.
No. She'd been thinking about this all wrong. It wasn't where. It was why. Why would these locations be of interest? What was he looking for? Why was he risking moving at all if he could just dig in somewhere and avoid detection?
Maggie turned to her desk, yanking open the drawers she grabbed out a ball of red yarn, pins, and several files. Dragging over a chair to the map, she wrapped the loose end of the yarn around the pin that marked Last Chance Ranch and started to work. Her head pounded, and heart raced as she focused on what she was doing, wrapping the yarn around strategic pins, adding documents and photographs, and linking them here and there. Something was starting to come into focus, something just out of her reach, just beyond the point of enunciation.
"Mags. Mags you okay?"
"Huh?" She turned with a start to the doorway of the office where Sam was standing, watching her uncertainly. "Oh. Hey. I didn't hear you come in." She stammered, glancing back at the map and documents all connected with a messy, knotted mass of red yarn. The moment of inspiration passed, and reality crashed in around her. Damn. And she'd actually thought she'd had something.
"You okay?" Sam asked. "It looks like a serial killer's lair in here."
Maggie turned fully to Sam and nodded, "Yeah, I had a thought... it...it's a work in progress. You up for some coffee, or have you had a nap already?" She didn't know how long she'd been working on the serial killer flow chart, or how long it had been since Sam had texted her. Still, she could feel the sleepless days that had proceeded weighing down on her, and that even if he didn't want a cup of coffee, she'd need at least two to three pots to herself remain functional for the next six to twelve hours.
"Nap wasn't happening, figured you'd be up, and we could go get breakfast."
"Appreciate it, Sammie, but I don't think I'm in any condition to leave the apartment at the moment. Not without some serious assistance first," She said.
"I can make breakfast here, or we can order in." Sam countered quickly.
"All right. Breakfast here sounds good. You have something for me from Romanoff?"
"Yeah." Sam nodded, producing a large Manila envelope, with a note rubber banned to it. The note had her name on it, very clearly in the agent's handwriting.
"Set it on my desk. I'll get to it later." Maggie said her gaze not breaking from the bulky envelope in Sam's hand, aware that a tight knot had started forming in her chest, making her voice warble uncertainly. She'd received any number of files from Romanoff. This one, however, had particular menace.
"You okay?" Sam asked for the third time in the last five minutes. She broke her stare on the envelope and met his curious expression, his brow furrowed as he surveyed her.
"Yeah. Fine. Haven't been sleeping well." She mumbled, rubbing her eyes as if way of an explanation.
"Well, go get the coffee going, I'll be in right behind you," Sam said.
Maggie nodded, padding from the office in socked feet, she started about the mindless task of making coffee.
Is Sam concerned? The thought crossed her mind unbidden, and it took her a moment to both to absorb and wrap her brain around the idea. It was strange to think he was concerned for her. What was there to be concerned about when it came to her? She wasn't the two tour combat veteran who was currently paling around with Captain America trying to track down a guy who just plowed down sixteen people and had still managed to disappear without a trace. Sure, Maggie knew Sam cared about her, and what happened to her, but concern just didn't seem-didn't seem like something that he should expend on her.
"So, what are we feeling? Bacon and eggs? French toast? Waffles? Pancakes? Or do we want something fancier?" Sam's voice broke through the thick fog of thoughts that had been swirling around her as he entered the kitchen and grabbed the apron hanging from the hook that she still hadn't used since she'd moved in.
"Oh. Umm." She stammered, her brain trying and failing to focus on the task at hand. "Yeah, whatever you want."
Sam stopped, turning squarely to face her. "What's going on, Mags?"
"I'm fine, Sam, just got a little lost in my head there a moment." She focused back down on the stovetop percolator that was just beginning to bubble.
"You wanna talk about it?" He asked slowly.
What was there to talk about? There was nothing he could say that she was really interested in hearing, and there was nothing she could say that would convince him that she was a whole and functional human being at present. "When's Steve supposed to be back?"
"It'll be in the next 36 to 48 hours depending. Nat said she'd go on without him as for as long as 72 hours, but they weren't very optimistic about uncovering anything that would lead them to Barnes."
"I'm sure you and Steve be glad to be back in the same time zone together for the first time in a while." She said as casually as she could manage.
"Yeah," Sam hesitated. "Mags, about that. Steve-Steve and I."
"You don't have to divulge your private life to me, Sam." She cut him off as she reached up into the cabinet for two coffee mugs.
"Steve and I are dating. I thought you should know." Sam said, powering through, his voice even and slow. "I didn't want to make it awkward around the office."
"I appreciate the heads up, but I sorta worked it out myself," Maggie replied, setting both mugs down, she met Sam's expectant gaze.
Sam was waiting, waiting for her comment, her scorn, her anger. Something. Anything. What did he want her to say? What was there to say? What could she say? They weren't partners. They'd never dated. They'd be two parts of one man's life. Now that man was gone, and they were left to pick up the pieces.
"I'm happy for you, Sam." Maggie smiled, turning to the coffee mugs and the now bubbling percolator.
"Are you?"
His question hung in the air. She was, on a basic fundamental level, happy for Sam. Riley had loved Sam, and in her own way, Maggie had loved Sam too. Riley would want Sam to be happy, wouldn't want him to feel guilty, or spend the rest of his life miserable, and Maggie didn't want that for him either. Yet, Maggie knew she would be lying to herself if she didn't at least recognize there was a part of her that was jealous, and angry, and upset. Not so much at anyone in particular, but just at the situation itself. Sam was moving on, and she just couldn't.
"Of course, I am. Steve's a great guy, and you seem happy. I'm happy that you're happy." She meant every word, and she felt them in her heart and soul. But the words sounded brittle, almost tinny in her ears, and probably sounded disingenuous, at best, to Sam. "Seriously. I don't begrudge you dating again. Even when Riley was around, we weren't in a closed relationship. He'd be happy for you, and I am too."
Sam nodded, "He'd want you to be happy too, Mags."
"I know Sammie. I just don't think that's in the cards for me right now. Not until we find Barnes and I can get back to the ranch."
Sam winced, but said nothing, turning to the fridge.
"What, Sam?" She sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
"It's nothing you want to hear, Mags." He shook his head.
"Just say it."
"It's gone, Mags. The house, the ranch, the people that made it your home is gone. He's gone, and there's nothing any of us can do to change that."
And who's fault is that? She wanted to scream. You were the one who re-upped with him. You were the one who was with him when he died. You were the one who never came back to the ranch back to our home to make it work after he died. You were the one who painted a target on my back by teaming up with Captain America. You're the reason I'm here, and you're the reason why there's no home to go back to.
Maggie couldn't say it. She wouldn't say it. She wanted to, but what would be the point? It wasn't true, and it was unfair to Sam and to everything he'd done to help his healing process after everything that had happened. It wasn't his fault she was trapped here. It wasn't his fault she'd volunteered to help rather than take the witness protection offer. He was one of her only friends, never mind the only person from her old life who knew she was alive. She really didn't have many options here.
Maggie shook her head and cleared her throat. "So, did we decide on what we were eating?"
"You're really going to shut me out like that, huh?"
She couldn't meet his gaze. "I don't know what you want me to say, Sam." She said wearily, picking up the coffee percolator and filling the two mugs.
"You don't have to do this, Mags."
Maggie looked back up at the ceiling, blinking as she realized tears were starting to form in her eyes. She squeezed both eyes shut, and took several long breaths before opening them again. "I'm tired, Sammie." She answered after a moment, the slightest warble in her voice. "But if I stop now, I don't think I'll have the strength to get back up and keep going. So I'm going to do my bit and help you and Steve and Romanoff bring Barnes in. Then I'll get to go back to my house, and my horses, and my life, and then maybe, after all of that, I'll be able to catch a break. I'll be able to rest and recover and heal from all the shit that's happened to me. But right now. I just need to focus on getting through this, and if that means being a little delusional and thinking that maybe there will be something left going back to when this is all over, then that's what I'm going to do."
"You're not alone. You know that, right?" Sam said slowly.
Maggie tried to laugh, but it came out as a harsh choked sound, watery from the tears that were silently slipping down her cheeks. "I dunno, I feel pretty damn alone." She shook her head, wiping her face with her sleeve. "But I guess that can't be helped at the moment. All things considered."
Sam nodded. Wordlessly turning back to the fridge, he began rummaging around in the shelves. He grit his jaw as he worked, and Maggie knew he was trying to come up with something to say. That was the problem, though, wasn't it? What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound like the same hollow empty platitudes she'd received immediately after Riley had died, or when her grandfather, or mother, or brother had passed away? 'We're here for you if you need anything.' It was an empty, meaningless statement. Well-intentioned, but it required no work, no effort, nothing on the part of the person saying it, and they could pat themselves on the back with a job well done. They had, after all, offered their assistance. It would be on the recipient to take them up on their open offer of anything. Whatever the hell that meant.
"It's enough that you're here with me right now." She managed, dumping several spoons of sugar and a splash of milk into her coffee before taking a long, scalding draw from the mug.
"Is it? Enough?" Sam asked without glancing up at her.
"I think it has to be, Sammie." Maggie cleared her throat. "So, what are you making us today?" She smiled, though it felt grim and forced.
"Just figured bacon and eggs and toast. If you'd like, I can make some freshly squeezed orange juice too."
"That sounds wonderful. Mind if I put on some music?"
"Not at all."
Maggie turned on some Earth Wind and Fire, and they fell into a rhythm, not talking except to ask one another for kitchen implements or to sing along with the music. Soon enough they were sitting around the kitchen island eating contentedly in relative silence.
"So any plans for today? You going to see Becca Proctor?" Sam asked, clearing away the dishes.
"No. She had to cancel our lunch date. Doctor's appointment and her son James is in town. I think I convinced Becca to go through some of the family albums with him." She replied. "They're also getting ready for Rosh Hashanah, I think. So I won't see much of the Proctors until October."
"So, what are you going to do?"
"Probably go through the files you gave me from Romanoff, shower, wash my hair. That sort of thing," She shrugged.
"We could go grab dinner if you'd like. It's been a while since we've had a chance to go out together." Sam suggested.
"I'd like-"
Maggie was cut off by the sound of Sam's phone buzzing. Turning off the sink's faucet, Sam grabbed his phone and swore under his breath. "Sorry, Mags. I gotta take this." He said quickly, walking into the other room.
She tried her very best not to sigh and roll her eyes. They'd been so close to having a moment, and then duty called. It always called. But that was the life, wasn't it? It was something she'd learned as a military wife and partner, and she had been constantly reminded of that since she'd come to Avengers Tower. There was part of her that understood. There was another part of her, the angry, bitter, jealous part of her that hated it and hated everything to do with the concept of duty, honor, and sacrifice. Those things never brought peace, they brought pain, and she knew plenty about that.
Sam walked back into the kitchen a few moments later, a hesitant expression on his face. "Steve and Nat have some things they need me to check out. I have to go," Sam said. "We'll have to do a rain check on dinner."
Naturally. She thought sourly.
Maggie nodded. "Totally understand. Gotta do what you gotta do." She said as pleasantly as she could manage as she rounded the kitchen island to stand squarely in front of him. "Be safe. I'll cash that rain check when you get back." Maggie went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
Sam put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her forehead before they parted. "Be good. I'll see you soon."
"Don't do anything stupid, Samuel Wilson." She smiled as they walked to the front door.
"I'll do my best. No promises, though." He chuckled.
They hugged, and then he left without another word.
Maggie sighed as Earth Wind and Fire belted out the lyrics to 'September.' She wasn't quite feeling that level of energy at the moment.
"Music off!" Maggie called, and the apartment went quiet.
And here she was, alone again. Maggie glanced into the office at the desk where the files sat from Romanoff.
Well, not quite alone.
She walked over to the desk, folding herself into the chair, and pulled the note rubber-banded Manila envelope. It was addressed to her, encoded, and in Romanoff's handwriting.
Once Maggie managed to decipher the note, it read: 'This is the point we talked about. Proceed with caution. If you chose to proceed, I hope you find the answers you're looking for.'
Maggie exhaled, her gaze turning to the large envelope in front of her. There could be anything in there. She could feel her stomach twist at the thought, her anxiety skyrocketing, her hands shaking. And then a single thought pierced through the din.
I can have the truth, or I can go home. There is no in-between.
She leaned back in the office chair, rubbing her hand over her face.
The more she knew, the more of a target she would become. Was she prepared for that, Emotionally? Physically? Was she ready to deal with the consequences of everything that meant? If I don't look through those files, I might miss something that could help lead us to Barnes.
Maggie shook her head. No. That wasn't quite right. Romanoff had looked through those files. Romanoff knew what was in them. If there were something in them that warranted immediate attention, she would've shown Sam or Steve. No. This was about their conversation, about Barnes being dangerous, about Steve not telling her and Becca the whole truth. This wasn't just helping someone find their best friend. This was about who that best friend had become.
Maggie thought about the dream. Her in pin curls and Barnes in suspenders drinking a root beer float at a soda counter. Would it be so bad to continue to live in her ignorance? To think of this person in a way contrary to reality? In the way his little sister had seen him some seventy years before? Maggie had seen who he'd become, the end result of seventy years of captivity and torture and coercion. It had cost her her life and livelihood. Did she really need to know how he had gotten to that point?
If she looked at these files, if she continued, there would be consequences. She would never be able to go home. That's what Romanoff had said. She couldn't stop, she couldn't walk away, so she would just keep plodding along as she had been for almost six months. Just keep trucking along, helping Sam and Steve as she had been for the past six months. She'd help them bring in Barnes, and be able to catch her break. She didn't need to know the truth. It was probably better, she knew, if she didn't. She could keep thinking of Barnes as an abstraction as a distant memory as a sweet 1940s flavored dream if that meant at the end of all of this, she got to go back to her life.
Maggie rose to her feet, opening the bottom drawer of her desk, and slid the large parcel into the drawer before shutting and locking it. She wouldn't pass the point of no return, not now, perhaps not ever. For the moment, for now, all that mattered was survival, namely her own. That was the only thing that could matter.
What did we think? I hope you all enjoyed! We got a little bit of Winter Soldier! Bucky, a little bit of VintageDream!Bucky this chapter. I'd love to know what you all think! We also got to see a bit more of the Mags/Sam interactions. Which of course I love.
