Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we?

T.W.: HUGE HUGE TW for Self Harm, blood, and self-mutilation in this chapter, not graphic in detail, but present. Alcohol, disordered eating, and vomit as well.

Recommended Listening: Sound of Silence by Disturbed, We'll Meet Again by Johnny Cash, Behind Blue Eyes by Limp Bizkit, Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy, Within by Daft Punk, I Could Live with Dying Tonight by Emma Lee


Ch 23: We'll Meet Again, Don't Know Where Don't Know When

Bucky walked through the front door and was immediately immersed in a hug.

"Bec? What is? What's the matter?"

"Tell me it's not true! Please tell me it's not true!" Becca practically sobbed as she clung to him.

So she 'd found out. When he'd received his draft notice, he'd immediately gone to his mother before he told anyone else, even Steve. They'd resolved that they'd tell the family at a meal together so that they could deal with it as a family. Apparently, Steve had let it slip or mother had told everyone. Either way, he'd have to find a way to calm down his younger sister.

" Hey, Hey." He said, gently stroking her head, and doing his best to avoid mussing her expertly styled hair.

"It is true, isn't it!" She looked up at him, her face tear-stained.

" It is."

She starred in shock, her bottom lip trembling even as she tried her best to put on her brave face. "Bucky-" She began, but he cut her off.

" Our country needs me Bec. I gotta go," he said. It was the best he could do. "Come on." He continued after a moment. "Let's go down to the drug store. I'll buy you a root beer."

"Before dinner?" She stammered.

"We won't be gone too long. We'll make sure to get back in time to help Rachel and Abby set the table."

Becca nodded, wiping her face diligently before collecting her bag and coat.

They walked in silence for a block before Becca spoke up. "You can't go Bucky. It's not fair."

"I've been called up. I can't argue with the U.S. Army."

" But you can, I read that if you can prove-"

"It's a done deal, Becca." He sighed. He'd tried. Filed every petition, tried every loophole, looked for exemptions or waivers, done everything he could to be considered unfit for service, outside of intentionally failing his physical. He'd tried to prove that he was of greater use to his country here than overseas. "Everyone has to do their part," He added, lamely, when he couldn't think of anything else to say

"Oh, yes. Abby, Rachel, and I get to grow Victory Gardens, knit socks, and collect scrap while you go and get shot at."

"Bec, if they let the likes of my sisters in the army, the war would be done and over in half the time." He said, doing his best to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Glancing down at her expression, he cleared his throat.

"It's not fair, why do you have to go."

"Someone has to Bec."

"But why does it have to be you?"

"Doesn't matter, because it is." He wished he had a better answer because then he'd know how to fix this. Funny that, Steve had been trying since Pearl Harbor to enlist and had been rejected repeatedly. Then here he was, the perfect picture of health, three-time welterweight boxing champion, and he was doing everything he could to find a way not to serve. But he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't tell her that he was scared. He was her older brother, and he wasn't a child anymore. These doubts, these fears, they were his to bear, and he would have to bear them alone.

"I still have training, which will take some time. War is unpredictable. It could be over before I get shipped out."

They arrived at the soda fountain, but now they were dressed differently. She was wearing her favorite pale blue dress. He was wearing his dress uniform. It was his last day stateside.

"So you're going to the Science EXPO with Bonnie and Connie and Steve tonight?" Becca asked, sitting across from him, drinking her usual root beer.

"Yeah. But I wanted to take you out one more time before I shipped out."

"You promised Steve you'd write."

There wasn't a question exactly, but he could tell she was fishing. "I'll send letters to ma and dad as often as I can as well."

She nodded satisfied by his answer, taking a long draw of her drink, her eyes were red from crying, although she would never admit it to him, and she blinked to keep more from falling.

"Hey, Bec." He waited until she looked up at him and met his gaze. "It's going to be okay. I'll be back before you know it."

"How can you be so sure?" She asked, a definite tinge of tears on her voice.

"Because I'm a Barnes, and I'm your brother." He winked with a cocky grin. "Now come on, we need to finish our drinks. Steve's coming over with his camera. He wants to take our picture."

"Oh, Steven." She chuckled, rolling her eyes.

They finished their drinks and walked from the drug store, shoulder to shoulder talking about the local gossip, and all the things Becca was going to have to keep him up to date on while he was away.

As they reached the last block before their parent 's place, she charged ahead, waving and calling to get Steve's attention. He wanted to call her back so that he could see her face clearly one last time, but she was already out of earshot and quickly getting further and further away.

He blinked, he'd been daydreaming if that was possible. It was strange really, he hadn't thought about that last day, those final moments before leaving Brooklyn and now for whatever reason, those memories had been the most present over the past few days.

Perhaps it was because his birthday had come and gone, maybe it was because he was remembering more. Whatever the case, he'd been thinking about those last precious moments before he'd become something other than just James Barnes, when he'd belonged to something other than himself and his family. Perhaps, he'd been thinking more about Becca because she was all that was left of his family, beyond Steve Rogers, and now that he could actually remember anything before 1945, it actually meant something to him.

He'd checked on her shortly after his trip to the Smithsonian on his family, on Bucky Barnes's family to find that only Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, Barnes's youngest sister was still alive. He hadn't dug any further. He hadn't had the time or resources. It had occurred to him that he could seek her out and that she'd be able to give him answers. He'd even made it as far as Brooklyn before the withdrawal symptoms had kicked in, and he'd started north. It would've only ended in disaster. Hydra would probably have ambushed him, or Steve would've caught up with him.

For better or worse, it hadn't worked out.

Still, he wondered what kind of person Becca had grown up to be. What kind of woman had she become, and how the Barnes family had moved on after he'd disappeared.

He'd promised to write, and he had for a little while up until his first battle. After that, he hadn't been able to find the words, hadn't been able to summon the courage to tell them what was really going on, what war was actually like outside of the newsreels. So he'd lied, for a bit, fabricated stories and good things to tell his family back home, until he hadn't had the energy to do even that. He wasn't entirely convinced that all of them, or any of them for that matter, had made it back to his folks. He remembered during his time with the howling commandos, Steve had drawn pictures of them and sent them home with the letters. He wondered what happened to those too.

He rose to his feet, pulling on his gloves and jacket. There was no harm in checking up, doing some research. She was, after all, family. It would be informative to know what his sister had done with herself since 1945 and find out what she was up to now.

He walked out the door and down the street to the library. Logging in to one of the guest computers, he typed in Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Brooklyn, NY, USA, and hit enter. His stomach dropped when he saw the top hit.

An obituary.

He swallowed hard and clicked on the link. There she was, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. He printed the article without reading it. He couldn't do that here. Clearing the browser history and collecting his copy, he charged out into the streets and rushed back to the safe house. Locking the door, he sat down on the floor, spreading the printed sheets out in front of him.

She was gone. At 86 years old, cancer, surrounded by her five children James Martinez-Proctor, Mary, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Stephanie Proctor. Proceed in death by her first husband Gabriel Martinez, her second husband Roger Proctor, her sisters Abigail and Rachel Barnes, and parents Winifred and George Barnes. 'She will be remembered as not just a wife, mother, and grandmother but as an activist.' It then went on to list her many accomplishments. She'd gone to college, marched with the anti-war movement in the 60s, women's rights, environmental activism, gay rights. She'd also fostered or adopted over fifty kids.

Setting the paper down, shock melted away, and he could feel grief start to sink in as he sniffled, wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. While he'd made the world a darker, more brutal place, she'd tried to make it better, tried to make a world filled with love and peace and justice for all.

His chest constricted at the thought, and he looked back down at the two photographs: one when she'd been young, her graduation photo from college. He knew that face, that smile. "Oh, Bec." He reached out to touch the grainy print, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He turned to the other photograph. It was a group shot, more recent. They were all wearing 1940s attire, the women in either head wraps or victory rolls, the men in suspenders. It looked like the 4th of July from what he could tell from the spread. The faces were all smiling and bright. Becca sat in the center, surrounded by the massive family she'd accumulated over the years. In one hand, Becca held something clutched to her chest, while the other hand was holding her son's hand, James. He had a nephew, and nieces, and grand nieces and nephews, and even great-grand nieces and nephews. Becca had named her only son after him.

Did they know about him? About the monster lurking in their family lineage, the skeleton from their not too distant past? They hadn't mentioned him alive or dead in the obituary. Did Becca know? Had Steve told her what he'd seen her brother become?

I'll be back before you know it. That's what he'd said, that's what he'd told her. Only he hadn't. He could've, he'd had the choice, he could've gone to see her, gone to explain, gone to apologize. He could've made it back to her, had he tried harder, had he not been afraid, had he not been a coward.

Would she have understood? Would she have forgiven him? Would she have embraced him as her brother? Him? The broken, horrible creature that Hydra had created out of what James Barnes had once been? Or would she have turned away? Repulsed and mortified by the thing he'd become.

He didn't know, and now he would never know.

He'd let his sister die. He'd let his sister die without saying goodbye, without saying he was sorry, without making amends for all that he had done and all that he had become.

He blinked at the tears that were streaming down his face, stinging his cheeks. He was Bucky Barnes, the man who'd fallen from the train, but he was something else now too. A monster, a zombie, an undead thing who couldn't die and who destroyed everything he touched. Hydra had kept him alive, and kept him away from his home, his family, his memories, his soul. One by one, his family had died, not knowing his fate, not knowing what had really happened to him, what he had become. Then he'd been given a chance, an opportunity to atone, and he'd turned away, too frightened, too scared, too cowardly to face the judgment of the one person who could grant clemency for the crimes he'd committed against them.

A frantic sort of terror overcame him, coupled with a compulsion he couldn't fight. He had to fix it, had to undo what Hydra had done to him. He ripped off his gloves, his right hand going to his left shoulder, his fingernails dragging over the skin, digging into the flesh over the metal plate holding the prosthesis in his chest. His skin was hardened by scar tissue but wasn't half so dense as the metal he could feel just underneath.

I have to get it out. I have to get it out. He would've screamed as he dug and clawed at Hydra's handiwork, but every breath he took felt like agony, and any further exertion would've been too much. His mind bent around the singular task, choked by pain and tears, the air felt hot and thick in his lungs, and there was a high pitched buzz in his ears. Yet, he continued, he had to get it out, he had no choice, he had to undo what Hydra had done to him, had to change what he had become.

He dug and clawed, until he could feel the flesh tear away, blood slick and wet on his fingertips, and then like some switch had been flipped, he could feel the pressure in his skull ease, and the itching sensation just under his skin ceased. The pain was near euphoric as he collapsed into himself and onto the floor as his grief, and his pain gave way to exhaustion.


Rebecca Proctor was dead. Steve had sent Natasha a text. She wasn't sure what exactly she was supposed to do with that information, but she knew it meant that he wanted her to go and check on Maggie Ramirez.

Steve and Ramirez weren't on speaking terms at the moment. Ramirez was pissed that Steve had kept Rebecca Proctor's illness and prognosis from her, and Steve was busy running missions and trying to keep himself together. This meant that if Steve had sent Nat a text message to announce the death of Rebecca Proctor, then it was likely that Steve had sent Ramirez a similar one. It wasn't a good move on Steve's part, but he was away on a mission, and a text was better than nothing. Well, it was until it wasn't.

Why am I concerned? That was her first thought. It wasn't in her nature to be overly invested in people. She'd lived most of her life as an assassin, spy, and saboteur; circumstances, and people came and went, and in order to survive, she'd been able to stay above most of it. Then the Avengers had been formed, and then SHIELD had fallen, and ghosts from her past had started clawing their way out of the red in her ledger and back into her life.

Things had changed. They had to. Different tactics had to be developed and adopted to adjust to the new paradigm, a paradigm where she didn't have to do it alone, and in fact, couldn't do it alone.

That was how and why Ramirez had come into her life.

Natasha had been skeptical about Ramirez at first. That was just how she was about people in general, but specifically skeptical about her joining Rogers and Wilson on their mission to track down and bring in Barnes. She'd personally spent considerable time, energy, and resources attempting to track down the Winter Soldier, to little avail. She was intimately familiar with the particular dangers associated with going head to head with the Winter Soldier and Hydra. It was something that could eat you alive if you weren't careful. Was Steve aware of those dangers? Probably? But was Ramirez? No. Probably not. That was why Natasha had been watching Ramirez, keeping her under surveillance. She justified it as protection, after all, you don't just walk away if Hydra wants you dead, and Hydra had several reasons to want Magdalene Ramirez dead.

At first, it had appeared Ramirez would be only handling more surface-level stuff. Up until Steve had started letting her handle and access everything Natasha was giving him. Then, he'd complicated matters further by introducing Ramirez to Barnes's only surviving sibling, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. Natasha could understand why he'd done it. Steve had simply found someone more willing and able to talk about his friend, whom, up until April of 2014, had widely been believed to be dead. But that was dangerous. It had painted an even bigger target on Ramirez and Rebecca Proctor's back, something that Rogers, Ramirez, and Proctor had all seemed blissfully unaware.

That is, up until Hydra had nearly grabbed Ramirez back in August. Natasha had prevented Ramirez from being snatched off the street by Hydra, and it was then that she had witnessed Ramirez's mettle. The woman had been frightened, but stubborn, pushing back against what Steve had told her, pushing back against the limitations that had been put on her—seeking the truth for a purpose, seeking truth so that eventually she could walk away. Natasha could respect and admire that, and so she'd agreed to help Ramirez find out the information she was looking for, help her cover her tracks, and provide her with a clear point of no return. Then slowly, they'd become colleagues, and Natasha would even venture friends of a sort.

Now, well, Nat was invested in Magdalene Ramirez. She was, much to her surprise, rooting for her, rooting for her to be able to leave after all of this was over. Natasha hoped that Ramirez could go back to helping people in her way. Not everyone could be an Avenger, nor should everyone want to be. Ramirez was born to help people or rather born to be around and amongst people. She had a light about her. It was an almost magnetic force drawing people to her light and warmth and humanity. She could see it in the way she made Steve and Sam laugh, the way she tried to put on a brave face for all those around her. Down to the simple fact that she'd gone from running an equine therapy ranch for disabled Veterans to trying to hunt down one of the most lethal people alive without so much as batting an eye. It was one thing Natasha admired about Ramirez. She was so very, very connected to her humanity and the humanity of others around her. She wasn't naive, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was in touch with the basic, fundamental people-ness about people. Natasha was sure it was one of the reasons why she and Rebecca Proctor had gotten along as they had. They were both fundamentally and connected to the humanity of others. Nat couldn't help but feel a little envious of that ability. She'd had most of her humanity ripped away and replaced with the effective weaponry required to survive the red room. It was also one of the reasons why Natasha was concerned about how Ramirez was taking Becca's death.

When Ramirez had gotten the news that Becca was dying, she had been beside herself with grief and anger. Understandable. Natasha had told her to harness that to bringing in Barnes. It was a shallow, vain sort of hope that perhaps they could find him and bring him to Becca before she passed. But to Nat's credit, it had worked. For the last four days, they'd been sparring in the morning, working on translation and decryption on some of the documents Natasha had dug up for her, and then in the evenings cardio, weight lifting and practice down in the shooting gallery. She'd seemed focused and calm, and at the very least starting to get a grip on what was going on. After all, you couldn't fight if you couldn't focus.

Then, since Nat had gotten the text from Steve this morning, she hadn't heard anything out of Ramirez aside from a single text that read: "I'll be in the apartment. We'll try for tomorrow." Which on instinct Natasha knew wasn't a good sign.

Walking down to Ramirez's apartment, Natasha stopped outside, hesitating.

Why are you concerned?

Because Ramirez was alone and shouldn't be, Natasha reasoned. Because Ramirez had taken on this shitty mission so she could go home, but also so she could reunite families, reunite lovers. Because it was the right thing to do, she knew, above all.

Raising her hand to knock, she heard the handle on the other side move. Stepping back, Ramirez appeared in the doorway dressed in her workout clothes and gym shoes.

"Hi, Naaaatttt." She managed a half-cocked smiled as she stumbled through the doorway, tripping over her own feet.

Nat caught her by the elbow before she could fall entirely to the floor. "Going somewhere?"

"IwannaIwannapunchsomething." She explained, her words running together.

Ah. So she'd been drinking. Not unsurprising, all things considered, but the urge to go and punch something while drunk, not a good idea. "Not like that you aren't," Natasha said gently, guiding her back into the apartment before Ramirez could work up a good protest.

"What? Steve send you to check up on me?" She slurred, anger creasing her expression in dramatic lines.

"He sent me a text about Becca, I had a feeling you'd be upset and came to check up on you," Natasha replied, glancing around. The television was on, which was a first for Ramirez, a telenovela was playing. There were three empty pint-sized cartons of ice cream, an empty extra-large pizza box, and three empty bottles of wine strewn over the coffee table. It hadn't been like this yesterday when they'd all been here for a briefing, which meant this had transpired in the six or so hours since Steve had texted them.

"Awww. So the assassin who doesn't care actually does care." She laughed, a harsh, brittle, tinny little laugh as jerked her arm away from Natasha's grip. Ramirez turned to face her, and then the smile faded, a momentary look of panic and horror crossed her expression as she went sheet white before throwing up all over Natasha.

"You okay?" She asked Ramirez, who was double over, hands on her knees still retching.

"I—am—so—so—sorry." Ramirez gasped.

"I'd say it serves you right for being a smart ass, but I'm the one covered in vomit." Nat chuckled gently, retaking her elbow. "Come on. Let's get you to the bathroom."

"I'm fine. I'm fin-" She didn't finish as she staggered to the kitchen sink and vomited again.

"Let me get you some water." Natasha said, pausing, "First, I'm raiding your closet and throwing these in the wash." She said, motioning to her vomit-covered clothes.

Ramirez gave the thumbs up before lowering her head back in the sink.

Natasha could hear the sounds of retching from the bedroom as she pulled off her soiled garments, and selected a pair of leggings, and a soft flannel button-down. Changing, she glanced around the small room. There were a few photographs around her and Sam and Riley, her and Riley, younger photos of her with who Natasha assumed was her brother. There was the Virgin of Guadalupe Statue sitting by the bedside, draped with a rosary and a dog tag. Everything else in the room was devoid of personal effects, aside from the clothing. Ramirez really had lost everything in the fire, and now she'd lost again.

Tossing the clothes in the washing machine, she walked back out to the kitchen to find the water running and Ramirez drinking directly from the tap, swishing the water and spitting to get the taste out of her mouth. "Feeling any better?"

Ramirez's eyes darted up, shooting her a 'look' before returning her focus to the sink. Eventually, she turned off the water and sat up. "I am sorry I vomited on you."

"I've had worse. Let's get you somewhere for you to lie down." Natasha said, slowly approaching her.

She flinched as Natasha reached for her, recoiling. "I'm fine. Romanoff. Just a bit too much to drink," She mumbled, a slight slur in her words as she started toward the couch.

Nat grabbed a two two-liter bottles of water from the fridge and followed behind her, scooping up Ramirez's phones and headphones, set them on the coffee table. "Here, try to drink some water. It'll help you feel better." She extended one of the bottles to Ramirez.

"You don't have to babysit me."

"The way I remember it, you threw up on me, and now I'm waiting for my clothes to finish washing and drying," Nat answered. Pausing, she looked over at Ramirez who was sipping water slowly from the bottle staring blankly at the T.V. Then she turned to the telenovela. "You seen this one before?" Nat inquired hesitantly.

"My mother and my Abuela used to watch them. They'd be on when I'd come home from school when I was little." She said absently. "They'd always have mini burritos waiting for my brother and me after school snacks before we sat down to do homework. It was one of the many reasons I learned and retained Spanish. I wanted to know what it was the grownups were watching, and be able to participate." She shook her head, blinking back tears.

"You must miss them quite a bit," Natasha replied.

"It just reminds me of better times, simpler times." Ramirez shook her head. "You know it's funny, when someone died in my family, growing up I mean, their photograph would go up on the family ofrenda almost as soon as my Abuela found out. When that first October after their passing came around, there'd be a huge ordeal about selecting or changing the photograph. It was something that I continued with, growing up and moving out, and creating an ofrenda of my own." She swallowed hard. "I don't even have a photograph of Becca. Not that I'm sure she or Barnes would want her photograph on my Ofrenda. I'm not sure. I'm not sure what the Jewish faith has to say about being on a Catholic shrine." Maggie swiped at the tears that had started streaming down her face.

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, and I'm sure Barnes wouldn't mind either," Nat said. "I think they'd be touched and honored that you think enough of Becca to put her on your ofrenda."

Ramirez exhaled with a strangled sigh. "I...I...just feel like I failed her. Like I failed them both."

"You didn't fail them." There wasn't any way you were going to find him in time. She would've added, but it wouldn't have had the desired effect, and Ramirez was already beating herself up over something she had little to no control over.

Natasha could feel the pain, the anger, the frustration, and the outright grief coming off of Ramirez in waves. She could feel within herself a sort of sadness, a loss that she couldn't quite put a name to. She knew how much Becca meant to Ramirez, but she also knew how important Becca had been to James. He hadn't remembered her, not by name, but he would sometimes talk about how he had a feeling he had family out there and that perhaps he might get to see them someday.

Regret. That was perhaps the word she was looking for. Regret that she'd never been able to find the time to tell Becca what James had meant to her, and what James had remembered, even in the darkest of days. Regret that she'd never been able to become as close as Ramirez had gotten with Becca, never partaken in the bond of friendship and family that Ramirez had created in the few short months since she'd arrived. But that hadn't been her place, Natasha had decided. Becca didn't need to know that Natasha had known her brother as the Winter Soldier. Didn't need to know what he had done, the atrocities they had committed together in the name of Hydra. No one needed to know. It was one of the many reasons that she hadn't told Steve how and why she knew where to dig up files on the Winter Soldier, and since Steve had never point blanked asked, she didn't necessarily feel inclined to explain.

Yet, sitting beside Ramirez, as she grieved, Natasha could feel a grief of her own, for all that she had lost, and for all that might be lost if they could never find James.

Natasha glanced over at Ramirez, who was dozing off, her eyes puffy and red, her gaze unfocused her right hand was wrapped around the water bottle, her left fiddling with the chain she wore around her neck, strung with two golden bands.

"We have what we have when we have it," Nat said, slowly putting her hand Ramirez's shoulder. "It's not enough, it's never enough, but it's all we have."

Putting her hand on Natasha's, Ramirez nodded wordlessly.

Nothing else needed to be said, nothing else could be said.

She wanted Ramirez to succeed, wanted Ramirez to get to be able to go home, be able to continue her work, but most importantly, Natasha wanted Ramirez to survive all of it. That was what she had been taught, survival, and so that's what she'd help Ramirez to do, whatever that meant, whatever that entailed, whatever Ramirez might require. It was the least Natasha could do, considering all that Ramirez had lost in a battle where she only knew the half of it, and that from what Natasha could see had only just begun.


You all still with me? Everyone take a deep breath. This is the last chapter like this. I'm so sorry (throw rotten fruit I deserve it).

I look forward to hearing what you think. I hope everyone is doing well and is safe with all of the COVID-19 business. I know I'm trapped inside, so you might get updates more frequently. Good luck! Stay Safe and until next time Happy Reading!