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

TW: self-harm, self-harm ideation, bad coping mechanisms

Recommended Listening: The Boxer by Mumford and Sons, Show Must Go On by Queen, Thistle Weeds by Mumford and Sons

A/N: I'd also like to say thank you to everyone who commented. You guys are rockstars and your reactions fuel me.


Ch 22: The Show Must Go On

Winter was slowly giving way to spring, and it felt the entire world was out in the streets and parks of the city, basking in the feeble warm light of the sun. He had ventured outdoors and was sitting on a park bench, watching the assorted mass of humanity moving through the public space.

There were, of course, the vendors and tradesmen hawking their wares, everything from peanuts and pretzels, to knock off handbags and watches. There were families with young children in tow, teenagers in droves with that unmistakable air of newfound freedom on their faces. There were couples, young and old, holding hands, sharing sweets, and smiling broadly at one another. There were individuals throwing frisbees or balls with their dogs, or groups of friends just laughing and chatting and having a good time.

All of them blissful and happy and very clearly enjoying themselves, unaware of his watchful gaze. He removed his journal from his backpack and opened it to a blank page.

He'd been thinking more about his life before, about his family, his parents, sisters, and Steve. Days like this, bright, warm days with a cool breeze made it easier to think about the before, and the sensory input made memories crash against him in waves.

The cool grass and clear blue sky filled with puffy white clouds. He could remember lying in the grass elbow to elbow with Steve, watching the clouds float by. He could remember the long strolls and family picnics when the family all managed to get time off at the same time.

The sizzle of meat cooking and the gentle sound of water splashing reminded him of their trips down to the boardwalk the calls and cries of the vendors helped him recall their many trips down to Coney Island.

There was the smell of popcorn, and he could practically taste the movie popcorn when he, Steve and Becca, went to the movies. Steve and Becca would always chat excitedly on their way back home through their favorite parts. They'd gone to see Snow White five times. Steve had been impressed with the animation. He'd talked about the techniques uses to produce the movement and color for months after the fact.

The sounds of pleasant laughter and talking. He'd often walked with Becca to the soda fountain after school. She'd always tell him about her day, what had happened, what she'd learned, and of course, the ever-changing school gossip and teenage drama.

It had all felt so boring, so mundane. He'd felt trapped. Trapped in a routine to which there was no escape. How wrong he'd been.

He looked down at the blank page. What could he say? What was there to say that would even begin to touch what he was feeling, how he was feeling, what he was remembering.

Adjusting the pen in his grip, he wrote. "Today I remembered..." he didn't know how to continue. "What it meant to live?" He concluded with a question mark, which he traced over several times in heavy black ink.

It was corny, and cliche, and downright stupid, but it was true. What he had done over the past seventy years could hardly be considered living. There were aspects of it that did involve living. He'd eaten, slept, on occasion, he'd even developed a few relationships, some more memorable than others. Yet, that was minuscule compared to the rest of it. Hydra had wielded him like a weapon: used him, repaired him, and then stored him for future deployment.

He glanced around. Was he living now? What would living mean after 70 years of being nothing more than a hostage and implement? He wasn't living right now. He was barely surviving. He wasn't even ready to face Steve and come face to face with his past in any way more real than the Smithsonian. What would it mean to go home? Could he go home one day? Reunite with his sister and go back to drinking root beers at the soda fountain? What would that look like? Could he reconcile what he'd spent seventy years doing, with the person Steve and Becca remembered? Could they? He didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

Snapping the journal shut, he shoved it back in his backpack and removed the lunch he'd packed for himself. That was a question to be answered another day. Right now, surviving and living had to be one and the same. Maybe someday it wouldn't have to be, but for today he didn't have a choice.


Maggie was in a briefing. That's what her life was at the moment, a never-ending series of briefings, punctuated with the trappings of living a healthy human-person life. She ate, worked out, practiced her languages, worked on work stuff for Steve, Sam, and Romanoff. Occasionally, she even slept, though, at the moment, it was fitful and often ended in nightmares.

"What do you have for us, Ramirez?"

Maggie blinked, suddenly aware that Sam and Steve were both directing their full attention to her, aware that she'd been drifting. She cleared her throat, rising to her feet. "Argentina." She said shortly, pulling out satellite images, and supporting documents. "I found an old Hydra base in Argentina."

She'd been going through the files that Nat had given her. Most of them were in Russian, but Maggie had been surprised when one of them had contained Russian and Spanish, leading her to the discovery of the old base. "It appears to be a medical and scientific experimentation field laboratory. There was some kind of explosion back in the 1990s. I haven't been able to find anything about the causes of the explosion. However, from what I've gathered, Hydra was operating in Argentina as early as 1945. Then with some increased frequency in the 1970s. I don't think Barnes is headed there, but I do think it might give us some more leads on where he is, or where other Hydra research laboratories might be." She explained.

She showed them what the SAT scans had revealed, and how deep underground the compound went, as well as the historical and political significance of the area to Hydra, the United States, and post-war Germany. When she concluded, she turned her focus back on Steve and Sam, who were both deep in thought.

"Ramirez, I'm going to put you and Wilson on this. You know the language, you'd be able to communicate better with the locals and be able to get updated intel on the area without creating too much suspicion. I'll send your information over to get you the proper paperwork and documents for you to travel out of the states." Steve said firmly. "Wilson. I'd still like you to go to Prague and Warsaw, just to check up on what Romanoff found. So. Two weeks? And then you and Ramirez will go to Argentina. Fly into Buenos Aires and obtain ground transport from there to where you need to go."

"Sounds like a plan, Cap.'" Sam nodded.

"Sounds good." Maggie agreed with a heavy sigh, sinking back down into her office chair.

"All right, meeting's adjourned," Steve announced.

"See y'all tomorrow, same time then unless anything changes." She mumbled, returning her focus to a folder she'd set aside, and started pulling out documents.

It would be nice to get out of the office for a bit—a trip to Argentina to track down a rogue nazi-hydra assassin. Maggie couldn't help but feel a little excited. She was living out a personal spy, international woman of mystery fantasy. But in the back of her mind was a nagging question, unrelenting and unceasing, would it be enough? Would it lead them to Barnes in time?

She could hear Sam and Steve talking by the door, and then Sam walked out of the office and to the kitchen, leaving her and Steve alone.

"Hey, Ramirez." Steve began slowly, and she looked up to find him standing squarely in front of her desk.

He was dressed in his Captain America outfit, posture straight and rigid as a statue. Of course, he'd been kind enough to leave the cowl back upstairs, but she could still tell it was Captain Rogers, rather than Steve that she was speaking to. Over the last week and a half, she had done her best to avoid him, which hadn't been hard considering he'd been in and out of the tower for missions, and she'd downright refused to speak to him if they did run into one another. It was petty, but she knew she didn't have anything productive to say to him, and that she didn't want any distractions from what she was doing. She was going to find Barnes, and she was going to bring him home to say goodbye.

"Can I help you with something?" She asked crisply.

"Sam told me. Can we talk? Please?"

"No," Maggie said flatly.

"Oh. Okay. That's fine." He stammered.

There he was, there was Steve Rogers, under the mask, behind the shield of Captain America. That was the man that Becca knew, that was the man who'd chosen to withhold valuable, time-sensitive information from her. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but frankly, there's nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and presently, there isn't anything that I want to say to you. So until that changes, I feel that it's important that we're able to maintain a professional working relationship."

Steve nodded, "Okay. I understand." He hesitated, "Thank you. For all of your hard work. It means a lot to me, and I know it means a lot to Bec-"

"As I said before, Captain," Maggie interjected, pronouncing his rank so sharply that she might have cut him down where he stood if it had been a knife. "There's nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and there's nothing more that I want to say to you. So unless you have further business matters to discuss, I think we're done here." She said shortly, tears were close to the surface, threatening to choke her, but she kept her voice steady.

"Keep me informed on anything you find. I'll let you know of any status changes."

"Understood." Maggie nodded firmly.

Steve paused a moment, surveying her, opening his mouth, he looked as though he was about to say something, but instead, shut his mouth again and walked from the office and the apartment followed by Sam.

Maggie was alone. "Fu-ck!" She moaned, stretching the word out into at least two syllables. Throwing both arms over her face as she leaned back in the office chair.

Her head pounded, her whole body ached, and she felt dizzy and light-headed. She wanted a nap, a pot of coffee, a long shower, a good orgasm, and a steak, in no particular order. She wanted to stop hurting. She wanted to be able to sleep. She wanted to be able to go down the block to get tacos from the food truck without it becoming a security issue. She wanted the unrelenting pressure behind her eyes to ease, and the persistent crick in her neck to disappear. She wanted to scream, and cry, and throw the biggest temper tantrum any 31-year-old woman could throw. But she knew it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't help her nightmares, it wouldn't help her anxiety, her depression, and it wouldn't stop the ever itching urge to crush a glass bottle in her hand, just to watch herself bleed.

Maggie sat upright, picking up the Captain America Stress doll. Squeezing it as hard as she could, Maggie couldn't help but feel a little satisfaction watching the doll's eyes bulge to the point of nearly popping as she worked the little rubber figurine.

Eyes. She could still see their eyes, watching her, piercing her body and soul with their unrelenting, unstoppable gaze. They stood around her, in silence at first, Her mother, her brother, her grandparents, Riley, Tim, Alice, Suzanne, Bill, Mike, Mitchell, James, and all the other people of Last Chance Ranch, and of course Becca and all of her family alive and dead, staring with dead eyes, watching her, waiting expectantly. Then he was there. Not James Barnes but also not the Winter Soldier. It was Matt. The man she'd found in her barn.

I thought you said you were going to help us? The voice was accusing and cold. I thought you said you were going to help!

Around the circle of faces, the phrase was echoed in a thousand different way in a thousand different iterations, as their faces twisted into horrible, ghoulish caricatures, laughing and mocking her. Their voices echoed as they came closer and closer, until they were on top of her, crushing her, suffocating her with their weight.

She'd woken up nearly every night with an iteration of that dream, gasping for air, and crying. Now, it just didn't feel worth it to sleep. Or at least to willingly go to sleep.

Can't work, can't sleep, so it's time to go and work out.

Maggie rose and went to change. She was too exhausted to handle firearms, and at any rate with the way she was feeling, she shouldn't be trusted with anything sharper than a spork at the moment. So she'd been lifting weights and running more recently. It was the only way she could sleep. Run herself into the ground until the exhaustion overtook her brain's inability to shut off.

The treadmill was set too fast, but Maggie didn't care. It was thrilling, knowing any second she'd be headed for calamity. Strangely, she liked the way her heart pounded, and her lungs ached, even as every part of her screamed at her to stop.

This wasn't healthy. This wasn't a healthy way to be coping. If she'd been talking to one of her guys, she would've suggested upping their visits, going to see a psychiatrist and getting on meds. Seeking help to disrupt the destructive spiral they were in and find a way to start processing their grief and trauma begin the healing process. Only she wasn't talking to one of her guys. She knew she was in a self-destructive spiral. The only question was, so what? What did it matter? Who cared? Or who cared enough to say anything? After all, she was just and only collateral damage. What would it matter if she just fell off the edge of the earth?

As if the universe was listening, Maggie tripped, and the treadmill spat her out onto the gym floor, face down. She'd fallen all right. Just not off the face of the earth as hoped. Maggie lay there a moment, temporary stunned, uncertain if she should laugh or cry.

Slowly, she realized someone was prodding her. Rolling onto her back, she found Nat standing over her. However, rather than the amused expression Maggie expected, there was a line of concern etched between her brows. "You all right?" Romanoff asked.

"Oh. Just peachy. You come to finish me off?" She moaned, pushing herself into a sitting position.

"I could." She nodded, glancing around. "But Stark has this place under pretty good surveillance that with the added hassle of getting rid of a body in uptown manhattan at this time of night on a Saturday, more effort than its worth." A corner of her mouth twitched in what could almost be considered the faintest hint of a smile and extended her hand to Maggie.

"Thanks? I think?" She took Romanoff's hand, and the woman pulled her to her feet with ease.

"You look like you want to punch someone."

"That about sums it up."

"They're worried about you, you know?"

"Sam and Steve?"

"Yeah."

"Well, ain't that special." Maggie drawled, rolling her eyes. So Steve had told Romanoff as well. It seemed like everyone in the tower knew that she was upset. Fantastic. This was absolutely the last thing she needed, coddling.

"So, who do you want to punch?"

"Steve? Sam? Barnes? Anyone of them I could get my hands on at the moment."

"Well." She paused, surveying her. "You're not going to be able to do that in your condition. Come on." She took Maggie by the arm and led her over to the punching bags. "Do you know how to punch?"

"I haven't in a while, but I'm sure the mechanics are the same."

"Do you know how to punch with your hand being like that?" Romanoff amended, motioning to Maggie's left hand, with her chin.

"Don't use the hand Hydra crushed?" Maggie asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Let me show you how. The last thing you wanna do is risk re-injuring yourself. And if you're going to punch anyone, you're going to need to practice." She answered, glancing her up and down. "First, you use gloves."

Maggie watched as Romanoff explained how to wrap her hands before demonstrating. Maggie then spent thirty minutes painstakingly applying tape to both hands before even so much as touching a boxing glove or punching bag.

Then, once she showed her some basic moves and techniques, Maggie went to town on the bag, Romanoff occasionally stopping to correct her form.

"You feel better?" She asked as they sat down on the gym floor for a water break.

"I feel tired and achy." Maggie tried to chuckle.

"Well, that's a start," She commented, passing the water bottle to her.

Maggie took a long drink. She wasn't sure how to feel. Everything hurt, yet she felt numb, she wanted to cry, and yet she knew no tears would come. She glanced over at Romanoff who was just sitting next to her, looking straight ahead at the bag they'd just been boxing with.

"So when are we going to spar?"

She snorted. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"What? Afraid you're going to break me?"

"From the looks of things, that wouldn't be entirely unwelcome."

Maggie sighed, rubbing her forehead with the back of her glove. "Well. I don't think it would matter if you did."

"You're upset."

"No shit," Maggie rolled her eyes standing back up.

"You're not thinking clearly." Romanoff amended.

"Clearly."

"Then there would be no sport in kicking your ass sparring," She said, rising to her feet beside her, paused, "How does your hand feel?"

"Fine. Numb, which is more or less normal at this point." Maggie grimaced as she turned to her. "This isn't going to be a metaphor about how time heals all wounds is it, Romanoff?"

"No. This is a 'your left hand will probably never be as strong as it had been, no matter what you do, and you should be aware and take steps not to re-injure your hand' discussion."

"So the saying is true, what doesn't kill you leaves you with crippling scars. Great. I'll be sure to keep that in mind." She said, returning to punching the bag as hard as physically possible.

"What's going on, Ramirez. You're not actually this pissed at Steve. You know he was only doing what Becca asked. So what is it?"

Maggie turned to look at her. "You a therapist now too?"

"No. But I am good at reading people."

Maggie scoffed, shaking her head. "I have baggage, all right?"

"Well, you're letting it distract you. You can't win a fight if you're not focused. So what's this about?"

"What? Like I'm going to bare my soul to you?"

"If you think it'll help."

Maggie said nothing, punching the bag harder. She wanted to hurt someone, wanted to make them feel the pain she was feeling. She wanted to hurt herself just so she could regain a semblance of control in this absolutely fucked situation, but she couldn't. It wouldn't make things any better or any easier. Above all, it wouldn't give her the control that she desperately wanted.

"Alright, let's get in the ring."

"You just said there was no sport in kicking my ass."

"You wanna punch someone. Come on, let's get in the ring." Romanoff said, picking up the spare set of gloves.

"Now you're mocking me."

"No. I'm giving you what you want."

Maggie watched the other woman a moment as she taped up her hands and pulled on her gloves. Romanoff was winding her up, and now she was about to let her go. To what end, Maggie didn't know, but she was ready to get her ass thoroughly kicked if it meant making some of the emotional anguish ebb even slightly.

"Fine." Maggie bit out, climbing into the ring behind her.

"Remember, your opponent in any given circumstance wants to hurt or kill you. Don't hold back because the other person won't."

"So, what I hear is that you want me to hit you as hard as I can."

"I want you to try to hit me as hard as you can, and as a general reminder, you shouldn't play by the rules. "

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Fine." They squared up. This was a setup. She knew for an absolute fact that she was being set up by Romanoff, but she wasn't going to be able to back down now. She'd gotten into the rink, and she was going to leave it unless The Super-Assassin-Avenger wanted her to.

They circled one another, feinting to the left and the right. She was fast and agile, with the strength, flexibility, and speed of a dancer. Maggie tried to keep her focus, front and forward, and plot the best plan of attack. Still, at the back of her mind, there was the seething, boiling, acidic anger.

And then she was on the floor, in a headlock, Romanoff on top of her.

"You're dead," Nat said flatly, releasing her from the headlock and standing back.

"Thanks for that." Mags groaned as she climbed back to her feet.

"Again."

And again, Maggie squared up, and again they circled and feinted and dodged. "You're distracted," Romanoff said, as Maggie took a swing, before throwing her to the ground.

"Oof," she moaned, hoisting herself off the mat.

"Get up. Again."

Over and over, it was the same thing, she and Romanoff would square up, and inevitably Maggie would end up on the mat.

"Okay. What the fuck?" Maggie snapped after being thrown onto the mat for what felt like the millionth time.

"You're distracted, you're not focused, and you're easy to throw on the ground," she shrugged, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

"You're also a super-assassin, spy, Avenger killer woman. If you're going to break me just goddamn break me," She practically snarled, staggering back up.

"You land a punch, and I'll stop throwing you down."

Maggie snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Focus, and you'll be able to land one."

"One?" She echoed.

"One."

"All right." She exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut she tried to push everything out of her mind.

Clear her mind. Don't be distracted. Everything hurt, her whole body hurt, her brain hurt, her eyes hurt, even her soul, it felt, was aching. She wanted to rage and scream at the universe. She wanted to shout from the highest mountains how unfair all of this bullshit was, but that wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the fact that Becca was dying, it wouldn't change that Steve hadn't told her, it wouldn't change that she was stuck here until further notice. She could be angry, but she had to let that rage drive her, had to be a cause for focus, not a distraction.

Opening her eyes again, she took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's go."

They squared off, starting the same way they had every other time, dodging and feinting and circling. Don't play fair.

"You're dis-"

Maggie lunged, grabbing Romanoff by the waist and with her continued momentum, pushed her to the ground. They rolled, struggling momentarily to end up on top. Then, she was pinned, the other woman straddling her waist, both hands pinning her arms down. "Not bad, but you're never going to be able to do that again, you know," She said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face that had fallen from her top knot.

"Well. You said, fight dirty. I figured I'd only get the one shot." Maggie laughed weakly, trying not to focus on the fact that there was a beautiful, dangerous woman straddling her. "Does that count as landing a punch?"

"You didn't technically land a punch," Romanoff said coyly. "But, you did get me off my feet, so I'll let it stand."

"Are you going to let me stand?"

She chuckled, but nodded, removing her gloves from Maggie's arms, and rising to her feet. Shaking off her gloves, she extended her hand to Maggie, hauling her to her feet. "I know you're angry. I know that you're upset, and you have every right to be. But you have to control it, have to harness it to you will, because you can't afford to let it control you. It's the difference between life and death."

Maggie nodded, pulling off her boxing gloves, extended them to her.

"I'd take a nice long shower and try to let your muscles rest. Put your left hand on ice too, it's going to hurt." Romanoff said, collecting the gloves from her. She paused, "and then I'd get to work. You have a lot to do before you go to Argentina." Then she turned to go.

"Romanoff?" Maggie stopped her.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She shook her head. "No. Don't thank me yet. Come back down tomorrow evening, and we'll work some more on what we started today."

"All right. Sounds good. Have a good evening then."

"You too, Ramirez."

And then she was gone.

She sighed, pulling at the tape on her hands, her left hand throbbed. Her whole body was basically going to be one massive bruise in the morning. Control it, harness it, bend it to your will, because it's the difference between life and death.

It was hard to imagine anything being the difference between life and death, but stranger things had happened, and hanging out with superheroes absolutely anything was possible. For now, she would use her anger to find Barnes, staying alive was a completely different objective altogether.


So This is the second of three really difficult chapters. Hang in there, guys. Thank you for sticking with it! Mags really doesn't deserve any of this shit, but she's also REALLY not being very nice to anyone. We're going to get a bit of Nat POV next time! I promise after chapter 23 things lighten up a bit.