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!

Recommended Listening: Volver, Volver by Vicente Fernandez, Vamonos by Ana Gabriel, La Llorona by Angela Aguilar, All my Ex Live in Texas by George Strait, Mad World Gary Jules

For this chapter there are mentions of death, depression, assassination, and intrusive thoughts.


Chapter 18: Day of the Dead

Steve didn't know what he was getting himself into.

"A 'Day of the Dead" celebration," was all he had been told, and neither Sam nor Ramirez has been particularly forthcoming with details.

'It's a celebration of those you've lost, and commemorating their memory.' Ramirez had supplied.

'Dude, Mags makes the best tamales and Mexican sweet bread.' Sam had urged.

Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going it alone. He didn't mind it, exactly. He'd asked her multiple times what he could bring, to which she'd waved him off. So he'd turned to the Wikipedia article on 'Dia de Muertos.' It had been instructive on what the holiday was but hadn't given much in the way of what one should bring to such an occasion. Eventually, he'd selected some wine that he hoped would pair nicely with whatever she was serving.

Tamales are what the Wikipedia article had said were traditionally served, along with different types of sweet bread and beverages. It had also said that offerings were left out for the deceased; generally, their favorite food and drinks to entice them to come for a visit. It wasn't a wholly foreign concept. He was just unsure of how he fit in, and why Ramirez was so insistent that he come and celebrate with her.

That was another thing. When she'd first invited him over for A Day of the Dead celebration, it had been him and Sam. Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going alone. He didn't mind it, exactly. It was she knew he and Sam were dating. She'd taken it fine, according to Sam, but this would be the first time they'd be one on one since she'd found out. Steve knew Ramirez would be perfectly civil. He just didn't know what to expect from her in this particular situation.

He paused outside the apartment door, hand raised, poised to knock, his brain arguing that it wasn't too late, that he could still make a run for it, and she would never know. Then he heard it, ballad-like music in Spanish seeping into the hallway from the apartment, her voice singing along. It struck Steve as he listened a moment how sad and mournful the song sounded, even though he couldn't understand all of the words, and how rich, and strong, and sure her voice was as she sang along.

I can't leave her to celebrate alone.

Steve knocked and listened as the singing and music stopped on the other side of the door. The door swung open, and he was greeted by Ramirez, who stood in the doorway, smiling broadly, "Steve!" Ramirez went up on tiptoes to hug him.

Steve stooped to return her embrace. "Hi." He managed.

"I'm so glad you could make it! Ramirez stepped back, breaking the embrace, "I wasn't sure you'd come!"

There was the slight twinge of guilt that twisted momentarily in his stomach. "I was told you're an excellent cook. I wouldn't miss out on an opportunity to see what Sam is talking about."

"Oh, Sam." Ramirez laughed, rolling her eyes with a wry smile. "Good to know he has his priorities straight. Come in, come in." She ushered Steve inside the apartment, moving them effortlessly from the entryway into the interior of the open concept kitchen. He stopped as he was hit with the rich scent of hundred of flowers mixed with the smell of sugar and warm bread, which also mingled with the steaming tamales, beans, and rice.

Not much had changed since she'd first moved in back in May. He'd been in her apartment with relative frequency. They held weekly briefings and even more frequent mini-meetings, and in that entire time, she'd never personalized any of the furnishings or decorations of the sterile, minimalist apartment, outside of the craigslist couch in the office.

Now, for the first time, the apartment seemed to resemble something close to what Steve could describe as Ramirez's home, something indicative of who she was as a person.

Massive bouquets of marigolds and roses filled vases that covered almost every flat surface in the apartment. She'd set up a table with photographs in frames displayed in tiers. Plates and glasses filled with food and drink were positioned carefully before each of the photographs. There were also Pan de Muerto and Calaveras set out around the makeshift altar. Each Calavera was about the size of his fist and heavily decorated with a name painted or piped onto the forehead of the skull. There was a multitude of fake candles placed around the altar, that flickered and cast a warm glow around the whole thing.

Steve glanced over at Ramirez, who stood beside him, watching quietly as he took in the whole scene, and was struck by how her appearance had also altered dramatically. She was wearing an apron tied around her waist, but under rather than her usual leggings and baggy t-shirt she wore a gauzy black dress with floral embroidery on the yoke. Her hair was in a low bun, and there was a marigold and a rose stuck into the base, near the nape of her neck. Her feet were bare, but she'd painted her toes a rose red. She looked more at ease, more relaxed, more quintessentially Magdalene Ramirez than she had the entire time he'd known her.

"You look a little lost Steve, do you want an explanation?" Ramirez's voice broke the silence.

"No. No." He shook his head, his gaze returning to the array of portraits on the altar. These weren't the same photographs Sam had gone into the house for. Steve could still hear Ramirez screaming, begging Sam to save her Ofrenda. She'd been delirious, as she'd clung to consciousness, but had been adamant about saving them. Sam had only been able to retrieve a few of the things from the burning house. "How many did Sam save?" He asked softly without looking over at her.

"In the end, he was only able to save my grandmother's Our Lady of Guadalupe Statue, my grandfather's rosary, and Riley's dog tag. Everything else was too burnt to salvage. Fortunately, everything I had on the altar at home was digitized and stored safely in the firebox that Sam was able to get since he's the executor of my estate." She answered slowly, her words tinged with an audible pain. She stared at the Ofrenda a moment, before shaking her head and clearing her throat. She looked up at him with a small thin smile. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

"Yes. Please." He nodded.

"Let me take the wine, and we can let it breathe a moment, while I introduce you to the clan, then we can eat." She said, taking the bottle from his unresisting hand.

Steve followed her to the kitchen, watching as she rounded the island and removed a corkscrew from the drawer. Her left hand grasped the neck of the bottle. She'd had her cast removed almost three weeks prior, and the white surgical scars on her left hand and wrist were garish in the kitchen light.

He took a step forward and opened his mouth. "Let me have my dignity on this, Steve. If I want help, I'll ask." Ramirez said shortly before he could say anything.

"Okay." He put his hands up and stepped away.

"Thank you, Steven," Her eyes were focused down on the bottle, and after a moment she removed the cork.

"I hope it goes with Tamales," Steve said uncertainly as she sniffed the cork.

"A bottle of wine shared with friends pairs perfectly with any dish." She smiled up at him. "Now. We'll let the wine breathe, and I can introduce you to everyone." Ramirez took his hand and led him over to the altar. "All right." She said slowly, her eyes first scanning him before she turned her attention to the photos.

First, there was Riley, a formal photo in his military dress uniform, and his parents, Francine and Edward Underdhal, in a candid photo. Then there were her maternal grandparents, Tomas and Ignacia Valdez in an old black and white wedding photograph. There was also her mother and brother, Maria and Antonio Ramirez, represented by a candid of her mother, and her brother's graduation photo. There were also several other photos, former clients and friends. She explained quickly who everyone was, and each of their corresponding food and drink.

In Steve's view, it verged on being downright morbid. Yet watching Ramirez's expression and tone, there wasn't anything particularly pained. If anything, there was a depthless tenderness to her features as she spoke.

It was...well endearing felt condescending for the situation but comforting to see that she trusted him enough to invite him over and share this tradition with him.

If not with me, then who?

She didn't have anyone else. He noted that. Grandparents, mother, brother, husband, husband's parents, friends, all of them dead and gone. He'd noticed that her father wasn't on the Ofrenda, but he wasn't going to venture to ask. Of course, there was also the complication of her being "dead." Would she still have celebrated if both he and Sam had been out of town? Would she have carried on without anyone here but her? He didn't know for sure, but he had a hunch.

"Well. Enough with my dead relatives and friends. I think the wine has breathed long enough, and the rice and beans and mole for the tamales should be ready!" Ramirez announced as she concluded the Ofrenda introduction and started back to the kitchen.

Steve turned to follow but paused, glancing back at the altar, and at the faces that looked back at him. Some smiling, some serious, some candid, some staged. Each of them was a person she'd loved and lost. He could only imagine the size of the altar he would need to display photos of all those he'd lost, and all those he would likely lose sooner than later. How could she do it? Carry on after all that loss? He glanced up at the photograph of Riley, meeting the man's distant gaze. I'm sorry. He wanted to say. Sorry that he was here and that Riley was gone. Sorry that Ramirez and Sam were here without him when everything he'd heard about their relationship had sounded idyllic. Can I ever live up to that? Can I ever fill shoes as large as those you left? He couldn't help but wonder.

"You coming, Steve?" Ramirez called from the kitchen. "I need to know how much you're going to want!"

"Yeah. Sorry." He answered, shaking his head as if trying to shake himself awake, he followed her into the kitchen.

She served dinner, he poured the wine, and they sat down and ate at the kitchen bar in silence, The formal dining room table was currently occupied by the Ofrenda.

She had turned the music back on, but it wasn't the same thing she'd been listening to, and singing along with before. It was a softer piano edging on smooth jazz. Was she worried about what he would think? Embarrassed? Concerned he wouldn't or didn't like it?

"What were we listening to before?" He asked as innocently as he could manage.

"Oh." She replied shortly. "That was Mariachi music. I can turn it back on. It can just be a little hard to talk over."

"You were singing."

Ramirez blushed, "You heard that?"

"It was very good." He rushed.

"Thanks. I hope I wasn't too loud. Wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors."

"What were you singing?"

"Vamanos."

"Let's go?"

"Yeah. That's right. A love song. Most of them are." She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. "I used to know a lot of them by heart. Although I was too young at the time to really know or understand what they were about." She paused, surveying his expression. "They're love ballads of the less happy variety. Not quite break up songs, but not exactly the most optimistic or happy of songs either."

"Why'd you know them?"

"Little known fact, but I was in a mariachi group from the time I could hold a guitar until..." She glanced over at the Ofrenda. "Up until the time my brother died."

"You play guitar?"

"Uhh. Yeah. Used to." She glanced down to her left hand.

"Oh."

"My brother, Antonio, was an amazing guitarist. He had a real knack for it. He was the reason I got involved in the first place. He wanted to play in a mariachi group, and I was signed up along with him so my parents only had to drive us one place."

Antonio, her brother, the boy no more than seventeen on the Ofrenda. Steve wondered what had happened, how the young man had died, but he didn't have the heart to ask. He cleared his throat, "You have a lovely singing voice."

She laughed. "You haven't heard me sing anything other than through the door."

"Will you?"

"Sing? Perhaps."

"Come on. I know Bec's been showing you all of my old drawings."

"Not as many as you think. You are more than welcome to scour the internet for home videos of me as a young mariachi singer. I know they're out there. I think my last chance Ranch volunteers posted some of them on the website for part of my funeral services."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say.

"Do you listen to much in the way of Mariachi music?" Ramirez asked.

"No." Steve shook his head, taking a sip of the wine.

"Know much about Mexican folklore?" She continued.

"Sorry, no."

Ramirez nodded, taking a bite of a tamale. Her expression was thoughtful as she chewed and then swallowed. "I'm going to go on a tangent here, but I promise it does relate back. First, I'd like to say that my family wasn't very superstitious, but I was told my fair share of ghost stories as a child, namely the story of La Llorona. The story goes that a woman's husband abandons her and their two sons. In a fit of anger and grief, she drowns her sons and then kills herself. When she arrived at the gates of heaven, she was denied entry unless she can find the bodies of her sons. Unable to do so she wanders the earth for all eternity, looking for her children, kidnapping children she mistakes as her own and drowning them." She paused, looking up at him. "Grim. I know. It was something told to little children to keep them from staying out after dark, namely away from water at night. It fascinated me as a kid."

"Murder-suicide?"

"Ghost Stories. Folk-Lore. Something Riley and I shared, but that Sam absolutely couldn't stand." She explained, shaking her head with a chuckle. "It inspired me to learn the song about La Llorona. It's one of the few that I know by heart still." Ramirez chewed on her lip before meeting his gaze. "If you want to hear me sing something that eight-year-old Maggie wouldn't have dreamed of, that would be the one."

"I'd be honored."

Ramirez nodded, setting down the glass of wine and pushed back from the bar. She paused the music playing overhead and cleared her throat. Then, she began to sing.

Goosebumps covered his arms and ran up his spine as her voice spun a haunting melody that echoed around the apartment. Her eyes were closed, and every bit of her seemed to be focused and concentrated on what she was doing. He could see her hands moving as she sang as if she was playing an invisible guitar.

Used to. She'd said. Steve could imagine that working the frets of the guitar, the pressure and dexterity needed would be difficult for her to manage with her left hand in the condition it was in presently.

The song ended, and she opened her eyes as the last note finally faded away. "And now you need to show me your sketches." She grinned, before taking another bite of the lonely tamale left on her plate.

"That...That was beautiful." He managed after a moment.

"Thanks. I'm out of practice, but it's good to know I've still got it."

"You know you can turn back on what you were listening to before I showed up." Steve continued. "Since that is how we got off on this tangent."

"It is, isn't it. All right, but let me know if and when you want me to change it." She resumed the music, but at a low level.

"Did you always celebrate Day of the Dead?" Steve asked after a moment.

"It was something my family did growing up, but something that I didn't really pick up until after my grandfather died, and then it really kicked into gear after Riley was killed." She explained.

"It's a beautiful tradition," Steve said his gaze focusing back on the Ofrenda and the splendid array of marigolds and roses, the sweets, and the offerings all lined up in front of row upon row of photographs.

"You really think so?" She looked genuinely surprised and pleased.

Her enthusiasm and excitement took him aback. "Of course." He nodded.

"I think Sam finds it a bit macabre, but I've never had the heart to ask," Ramirez explained quickly.

"What did Riley think?"

"Oh. He was supportive in his quiet way. I know he enjoyed the food aspect of it to be sure. He understood it was important to me, but I don't think he understood why. Of course, the significance only multiplied tenfold after he died." She took a sip of her wine, and looked contemplatively down at her plate, humming along with the song that was playing.

"Sam doesn't talk about him," Steve said after a moment.

"Well, I may be wrong, but talking about your ex-boyfriends doesn't exactly make the best pillow talk." She said.

"True." Steve nodded. "Do you guys still talk about him much?"

"No. Not really." Ramirez shook her head.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I just...I thought." He stammered into silence.

"Sam and I don't talk about much anymore, not since Riley passed." She smiled, but it was sad, mournful almost. "It's a strange feeling, yanno? Someone so central and important in your life being relegated to the past tense. It's almost like he died, while not actually dying. We used to be close. We had plans together."

Steve didn't say anything. They were entering dangerous territory. He was dating Sam, but Ramirez was his friend or a friend of sorts. Even beyond the bounds of the mission to find Bucky, they would be interacting regularly. If he didn't proceed with caution and care, things could end badly and would create more complications in an already complicated situation.

"I know you have a question, Steve," Her voice bridged the silence between them, and he looked up into her earnest expression.

"Huh? No. I don't. Just thinking."

"You're a terrible liar." She chuckled, taking the bottle of wine and pouring herself a generous glass. "Seriously. Steve. Whatever you want to know. I'm an open book. I think it's important to have open communication. Particularly in a situation like this where we're all working and living in close proximity. Sam and I had a wonderful relationship with a man we loved very much. Now that person is gone. That shouldn't make you uneasy or wary about having a relationship with Sam. He's a wonderful human being, and you're lucky to have him. Seriously. Anything you wanna know. I'm happy to put your mind at ease."

He hesitated. He wanted to know about Riley, but that was unfair to Sam. If Sam wanted to share what Riley had been like, that was up to him, and he shouldn't ask Ramirez. More pressing was the mystery of what had ruined the friendship between her and Sam. He'd seen the way they interacted. It wasn't exactly tense, but there was tension between them, and he needed to know why, so he could help defuse it or avoid exacerbating it further. "What happened?" Steve began slowly. "Between the two of you? That caused you two to fall out."

"Oh," Ramirez said slowly, raising the wine glass to her lips took a thoughtful drink before she set the glass back down and continued. "It wasn't so much a falling out as parting of ways. He finished with his tour and then had something things to look after with his mom and sisters in D.C. 'Should just be a few weeks Mags,' he said. Then he found the temp gig down at the VA. 'It'll just be a few months, just to get my feet under me Mags,' He'd said. Then he bought a house. And what had been a few weeks became months, which turned into years. I guess it came down to he couldn't bear the thought of coming back to the ranch, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving for the same reason." She shook her head, sniffling. "It hurt. It really hurt. Feeling abandoned by Sam after Riley died. We'd planned a life together, and then it all just went up in smoke."

"You ever tell him that?"

"No. No. he felt guilty about what had happened. I wasn't about to add to that. I was the painful reminder of what he'd lost, of what we'd lost. I wasn't going to force him to sacrifice his well being for me." She said.

"What about you?"

She frowned thinking a moment. "I dunno. I had the ranch. I had people, depending on me. If Sam needed space, then I was going to help give him that. I'm a big girl, I could bear it on my own. At any rate, it wasn't the first time and I doubt it'll be the last."

"Last to be what?"

"Oh. Left alone." She paused. "I'm glad you two found one another." She smiled. "It's good to see him moving on, and I know that Riley would be glad to see Sam happy again, too."

Steve would've asked, What about you? But he knew the answer. She would smile and say something about being married to her work, or just focusing on her health. Something, anything really to deflect. He knew because he understood. Sam was a good change of pace. A reminder to slow down. A reminder to stop and look around. Sam grounded him, gave him purpose, a sense of direction. For Maggie, losing Riley and then by extension Sam, it must've felt like she was lost out in the vast ocean, alone.

They sat in silence a moment, listening to the music as it played over the apartment's speakers. "If you don't mind, I may change the music while I clear up dishes." She announced after a moment.

"I don't mind, but I'm doing the dishes," Steve said, rising he collected the dinner dishes before she could open her mouth to protest.

"Steven Grant Rogers. I didn't invite you over so you could do the dishes for me." She sputtered as she started to rise.

"No. But I was raised to help my host clean up after they provide a meal for me." He answered as he started rinsing off the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He couldn't help but revel in the look of indignation spread across her usually even features.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but much to Steve's satisfaction, she sat back down in her seat. "But I don't have to like it."

"No one said you had to." He chuckled. "Besides, from what I read tamales are incredibly time-intensive, as are the Calaveras and the Pan de Muerto."

Her face lit up with a broad grin. "You've been doing your homework."

"I wanted to know what I was getting myself into."

Ramirez chuckled. "I didn't realize you were 'getting' into anything."

"It seemed important to you, and I didn't want to come in blind." He reasoned.

"All right. Fair." She said, taking a sip of wine.

"And you were going to change the music."

"Right." She said, returning to her phone, "You don't mind a little country and western do you?"

"I have absolutely no preference."

"I guess having a seventy-year gap in your pop culture knowledge would do that to you." She commented as she scrolled through her music selection.

Steve stopped what he was doing and looked over at her. There was no pity in her voice, which was what he usually got from people when they started talking about anything before 2012. There also wasn't any attempt to educate, which he also appreciated. While he'd received some excellent recommendations from people about what he should check out next, it got a little condescending at times. It had been a simple comment, a statement of fact. He could feel a tension slip from his shoulders, a tension that he hadn't realized was there, and he returned to rinsing off the dishes.

He was pulled back into the kitchen by Ramirez chuckling to herself.

"What?"

"Oh. It's been a while since I've listened to George Strait. He was one of my mother's favorites. She used his music to teach my brother and me how to dance." She explained as the music started in the background.

Steve paused, listening to the sound of guitar and fiddle play. "Huh."

"What?"

"I think I've heard this one before." He admitted.

"All my Ex's live in Texas is a classic." She smiled. "What honky-tonk bars is Sam taking you to?" Her smile broadened and was accompanied by a giggle.

"Natasha, actually."

"What?!" Her face lit up with both amusement and disbelief.

"Yeah. Undercover mission."

"Oh, Jeeze. That sounds simultaneously amazing and terrible. Did she teach you to two-step?"

"A bit," Steve admitted. He could feel the tips of his ears starting to burn.

"You can't be any worse than Sam. I swear that man has two left feet." Ramirez slid from the barstool and rounded the island to square with him. "Humor me, Steve?"

"Huh?" He switched off the water and turned to her.

"Come on, Steve, let's go for a spin! Show me your moves, It's been forever since I've danced!" She laughed, extending her hand to him.

"Oh. No. No. I don't think that's a good idea." He stammered, taking a step back and wiping his wet hands on his shirt front.

Her smile disappeared, and she nodded, scanning him. "I understand."

Steve opened and closed his mouth. He hadn't said anything, but his expression must've spoken volumes. "It's not you. I-I I made a promise." Steve managed.

Ramirez put up both hands, "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"I'm sorry, I just can't."

She nodded thoughtfully, returning to the bar, she slid up onto the chair and took a drink of her wine. "Sometimes, the most difficult thing is remembering."

"What?" He looked over at her. She was looking at the Ofrenda, the warm golden colors of the flowers, and the lights she'd placed around the altar reflected and flickered in the dark, glassy depths of her eyes.

Ramirez chuckled to herself, taking another drink. "I don't do this because it's fun. There is an element of joy and celebration to this holiday, but I think after every one that I've lost, it's become something else." She turned and met his gaze. "My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's when I was in high school and passed away when I was finishing up my master's degree. Watching him and what the disease did to him made me realize that forgetting is easy. Anyone can forget. You can forget things you desperately want to hold onto. You can forget parts of yourself and lose yourself in the act of forgetting. Remembering, then, is the bravest thing any of us can do. Part of that is doing this. Not just remembering those I've lost, but reminding myself of what they left behind, the good, the bad, and everything in between." She smiled sadly. "How you remember and how you commemorate what you've lost is important, but it's also tremendously personal. So when I say you don't have to explain anything to me, I mean it, because I do understand."

Steve didn't know how to respond. She wasn't wrong, but there was still no way that she could understand, not entirely. How could she know what it was like to lose absolutely everything you ever knew, and then have two of the most important people in your life not remember you? Did she know about Peggy, or was it only coincidence that she'd brought up her grandfather having Alzheimer's? It really didn't matter, because she wasn't exactly wrong. Remembering was an act of bravery, but what about survival? Surely she knew about that too.

Ramirez was watching him, waiting for a response, but there wasn't anything malicious in her expression. "Thank you, Ramirez." He said simply.

"Any time, Steve." She replied with a small, demure smile. "You know, you can call me Maggie if you want." She commented after a pause. "I feel like we've crossed that threshold."

"That's fair." He chuckled nodding.

"Now. Dishes are done. We've nearly polished off this bottle of wine. Would you like to watch 'The Book of Life?' I was able to snag a copy for Stark's screening room. Just came out, I haven't seen it yet."

Steve was about to answer when his phone buzzed. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he strangled a sigh before looking up to meet Ramirez's inquisitive gaze. "I gotta go. Avengers stuff."

"Hydra?"

"Yeah."

"Any sign of Barnes?"

"Don't think so. Just Hydra."

Ramirez nodded. "It was a pleasure to have you over for dinner, thank you for coming."

Steve hesitated, looking her over. While still hallowed in the dim apartment light, the vibrant warmth in her features had seeped away, her shoulders looked tense and hunched, the flowers in her hair wilted. "Thank you again, Maggie. For everything. Dinner was wonderful, we'll have to watch the movie when I get back."

"Sounds like a plan."

Steve nodded. He wished there was something he could do to ease the sadness in her features. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed again.

"Be safe, Steve." She said, rising up on her tiptoes to hug him

"Have a good evening, Maggie." He replied as they pulled apart.

"I'll walk you to the door." She said.

He followed her to the door, and they exchanged goodbyes to a chorus of buzzing and ringing from his phone before he finally left. As he walked away, he could hear Maggie turn on music. This time, as she started to sing along it sounded sad, mournful, as he caught only one word, 'Volver,' or 'return' in Spanish.


His whole body throbbed like a gigantic bruise, and he blinked as the ceiling started coming into view. He stifled a moan and squeezed his eyes shut rolling onto his side, his head pounding. He should check the time, it was important to know how long he'd been out. Know how long he'd been vulnerable to Hydra, and the world in general.

The first time it had happened, he'd been afraid. It had happened in a back alley, and he'd awoken a few minutes later surrounded by a circle of well-meaning homeless people. They'd been kind enough, but the whole experience had been frightening enough that he'd taken to listening and waiting for the signs of an oncoming seizure so that he could plan accordingly. Now he was just angry. Angry at his body for betraying him. Angry at Hydra. Angry at the world for the larger truth that the seizures revealed. His body and his mind were still not his own. Not just with the prosthesis Hydra had inset into his chest cavity or the programming they'd shoved into his brain, but now with all of the nasty side effects. The seizures being only one of them. Your mind and your body are not your own.

He shivered.

Reaching out with the prosthesis, he groped blindly until the hand came into contact with the fleece blanket laying a few feet away on the floor. The fabric caught and snagged on plates and joints, sending a buzzing sensation up into the base of his neck, but he'd rather that comparatively minor discomfort to being cold. He hated being cold almost as much as he hated how disoriented he felt coming out of a seizure. The combination of the two was nearly unbearable. It was too close and familiar for comfort.

Clutching the blanket to him, he took stock. His head was pounding, and his body ached, but that was normal. There were no broken bones, no cracked ribs or teeth. He hadn't bit his tongue or the inside of his mouth. Mostly he was just exhausted, but he was no stranger to that either. He hadn't slept solidly since Kiev. That had been too close. He'd had to fight his way out of there, and had killed probably half a dozen Hydra agents. If they'd leave me alone, they wouldn't have to worry about me snapping their necks. He couldn't help but think bitterly.

That wasn't entirely true. He'd still be trying to track down those Hydra agents involved in the Winter Soldier and the Red Room Programs, for answers, if nothing else.

He was exhausted, everything hurt, but he didn't have time to sleep, didn't have time to let his aching muscle rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn't let this little set back make him vulnerable to whatever was going to happen next. He opened his eyes and pushed himself into an upright position. His right hand brushed the journal that had slipped from his bag as he'd started losing consciousness.

Pulling it onto his lap, he flipped absently through the pages, as the events of the afternoon started slowly returning to him. He'd been making lunch. Then something had triggered a memory. A relatively pleasant memory, something that the woman had made him, the smell had come back to him. He'd done his best to ignore those memories. He'd avoided doing research on her. It was still so new, so fresh. But the memory of the green chili stew had been too strong. He'd stopped everything he'd been doing, and immediately gone to the library to do as much research as he could stomach.

The Last Chance Ranch website had been useful. As he'd reasoned, the volunteers, or those who remained, had been doing the upkeep on the website since Ramirez's death. While crude, the website had been updated for Dia De Muertos with a 'virtual Ofrenda.' It had the photos and information of all of the clients and volunteers who had died, including Tim and Alice, but that paled in comparison to the pages that had been constructed for Riley Underdhal and Magdalene Ramirez. The page for Ramirez had featured over a hundred photos, from childhood all the way to the last cookout she'd hosted. There had been home videos, again ranging from childhood when she'd apparently been in a Mariachi group, through adulthood. It had a detailed biography and did it's best to flesh out the person Ramirez had been, but it didn't answer his most pressing question. What sort of person would protect him, even after she found who he was? Sure, it was apparent she'd been a caring and generous soul, with a soft spot for broken things, but that didn't answer how that pertained to him, and why she'd been willing to sacrifice it all for someone as wholly unworthy as himself.

He'd continued searching, looking into all the open records he could access. Until he'd come across a photo. A family photo. Ramirez's family, brother, mother, father, and her as a small toddler. They'd all been smiling demurely, except the toddler, who looked like she was giggling. It looked like a happy, almost perfect family. Then, like someone had flipped a switch, he was back, not on Last Chance, but back inside the head of the Winter Soldier. Watching like a third party spectator, a pain groaning at his temples, auras dancing in-front of his eyes.

Somehow he'd made it home, he couldn't quite recall how. But he could see them. How could he have forgotten? It was recent in comparison to the other things he'd done. He'd been in Mexico, aiding the cartels. Assassinating politicians who were a threat to Hydra's operations near the border. Fuentes had been one of them.

He could hear them screaming. Fuentes had been shot in the neck, giving the mans' wife and two sons a chance to scream for help. The target had been Fuentes, Fuentes only. The wife and children weren't supposed to be there. He'd been told his target would be alone. Everything had gone according to plan, but then he'd seen her, trying to get her sons to safety.

No witnesses.

That's what he'd been told. It was imperative to the success of the mission objective that there were no witnesses. It was supposed to look like a cartel hit. So he'd killed them. His handlers had praised him. He'd remained silent. He'd done his job. They were collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time, it had been the only way to achieve his mission objective, and it was better to obey than to question. Better to obey than defy.

What exactly had triggered this latest seizure, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he could hear them. All of them. They were sharper now than they had been in the past months, more defined. He could pick out atrocity from atrocity, assassination from assassination, mission from mission rather than seeing them as a collective mass of memory. He could see the faces of those he'd killed. Their expressions moments before he pulled the trigger, see them frozen in the seconds before he ended their lives.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaking breath, tears streaking his face and dripping from his chin. He ran his fingers over the filled pages of his journal, a testament to everything he'd remembered, everything he'd learned about who and what he was, and of what he had been. It was of little comfort, but it was still a comfort of sorts. The knowing. Knowing and remembering would enable him to survive. Plus, having all that he knew, all that he remembered, on paper meant that if he forgot, the information wouldn't be lost forever.

He didn't want to remember. At first, when he'd first gone on the run, he'd wanted to remember everything, down to the last detail. He'd reasoned it was the only way he could escape Hydra permanently, but now, over six months on, he wasn't so sure anymore. It wasn't like he had a choice, the memories came unbidden, and without warning, much like the seizures. Perhaps someday the memories wouldn't come back quite as frequently, or as violently as they did. Eventually, he might not have seizures anymore. He didn't know, but in the meantime, he'd have to figure out how best to mitigate the worst of it, and prepare for the unknown.

After a moment, he wiped his face with his hand and looked down at the journal. Picking up the pen from the floor, he continued writing. He would move in the morning. For now, he would write everything he could remember. This was too important to forget.


I hope you all enjoyed! Once again, thank you for your patience between chapters and I hope that the wait was worth it! I wasn't sure with everything going on that you'd appreciate this chapter (just because of the darker themes), still, I hope it was a break from the craziness. I'd love to hear what you thought.

Please do note, I do hear and consider your comments when creating content. Thank you to all who have commented!