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: I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel, Don't Worry 'Bout Me by Frank Sinatra, Hey You, Pink Floyd, A Million Years Ago by Adele, You'll never Walk Alone by Judy Garland, You'll Never Walk alone by Johnny Cash, Auld Lang Syne by Dougie Maclean


Ch 28- New Year's Update

It was New Year's Eve. It was the first New Years Eve in a while that he could remember where he was in a place he intended to stay more than a week, or even a month. He'd been in Romania since November. It had initially been a temporary thing, but he found that he liked Romania, the people, the food, the location, the general culture of keeping your nose out of other people's business, by in large.

He'd spent a better part of the day hauling cinderblocks up the twenty flights of stairs to build shelves. They'd also make good weapons if it came to that.

He paused, glancing around at the efficiency apartment. It was a shitty apartment, peeling yellowed wallpaper, water stains, chipped and missing tiles, crumbling plaster, leaky faucets with questionable hot water, and cabinets with doors hung crooked. Yet, he found he was content. It wasn't fancy, but it was the closest to home he'd felt since he'd left Brooklyn in 1942. He'd papered the windows, that had been day one. For both privacy and security. He'd also spent much of the first few days mapping out escape routes, and trajectories from the various floors to the next roof over, should he have to make a quick escape. But then he'd started collecting kitchen items. A pot, knife, bowl, spoon, and cutting board had been his first purchases. He'd thrifted them for basically pennies, but they'd been selected by him. He'd made soup or rather had attempted to make soup.

Then he'd found an old mattress. He'd settled for sleeping on the floor with the sleeping bag. But the mattress would serve well as a shield if need be, and anyway his back was giving him hell because of the prosthesis, so the extra padding, while he slept, was a welcome relief.

Little by little, he'd collected things: plates, bowls, and utensils, a table and chair, a lamp. Each piece making him feel more human, more like a person rather than a fugitive on the run.

Most of it had been salvaged or thrifted. It really was amazing to him what people were willing to throw away, but was ultimately quite beneficial to his ends. He'd been looking for a shelf of some kind when he'd found the pile of discarded cinderblocks and plywood, and he'd figured it would do better than anything else he could find.

He winced. His shoulder and back were twinging and throbbing. He'd overused the arm, and his body was paying the price. But it had been worth it, at least to his mind, building, constructing, creating rather than the alternative. It felt nice if such a word could be applied. It was familiar and comforting in a way, which was rare in and of itself.

The late afternoon into the early evening had been occupied with how exactly he wanted to set up the cinderblock shelves, arranging and rearranging them like a child playing with blocks and Lincoln logs. Now with the shelves completed, he had moved on to packing away his go bag in the floorboards by the door to the balcony.

He'd chosen a good day. He couldn't own to having put that much thought into the day or what it would mean, but the streets below were crowded and noisy, and the sound echoed up to his perch high above. People up and down the street and all in the apartment building were celebrating New Years. It was the perfect time for him to rip up floorboards and make more noise than he would otherwise be comfortable making.

Creating a narrow gap in the floorboards to slip his go back into, he then turned to the bag. He had accumulated an impressive array of...well...trash if he was honest, but it was well-intentioned garbage. A leaf or a flower pressed between the pages of his journal, print outs from his research, the Smithsonian brochure, newspaper clippings, receipts with notes scribbled on the back, a small stone from the banks of the Vistula, the pink scrunchies now snagged and ratty, and any other number of odds and ends that he'd collected and stuffed in the bottom of his bag.

Unzipping the largest of the compartments, he grimaced as the zipper caught. Pulling off his left glove with his teeth, he tried to manipulate the fabric and the zipper. The zipper gave way under one of his tugs, and the contents of the bag spilled across the counter and onto the floor.

"Damn it," he muttered crouching down to pick up the papers and journal that had fallen onto the floor.

Picking up the first few pieces of paper, he paused as he flipped over Becca's obituary, the group photo.

It felt like a gut punch, and he sunk the rest of the way to the floor. He hadn't looked at it since the night he'd found out that she'd died, and he had done his best not to think about it much since. But he'd kept it, and tucked it into the pages of his journal. He had carried it with him, though what sort of comfort it was supposed to bring, he didn't know. Perhaps it was carrying a little piece of her, a small reminder of someone who had loved him long before 1945 and now, long after. He surveyed the grainy print out carefully, marking each face, and how they smiled brightly at the camera. Had she known then? Had any of them known that Becca was dying? If they had, none of the faces showed it. They all looked happy and content. Pleased with themselves, all dressed in 1940s attire, a mere echo of the past, but a definite embodiment of the present and everything that he had missed.

He stopped, a face in the crowd catching his eye.

No. It can't be. How could he have missed it before?

Riffling through the papers, he'd dropped and then his journal, he removed a single scrap of paper and placed it beside the group photo from the obituary.

It was her. It was Magdalen Ramirez, standing in a family photograph with his sister. She was standing toward the back, near the end of the row, her hand and arm in a cast and sling. She wasn't wearing her hair in the normal braids, but victory rolls as she smiled broadly. It was her.

He exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. She was dead. Suzanne and Bill, he'd seen it in their eyes. There was the virtual ofrenda the volunteers of Last Chance had constructed for Ramirez. They'd mourned her. He'd mourned her. She was dead. She was dead, and it was his fault.

He opened his eyes again, focusing down on the two photographs. She was dead, yet here she was in Becca's family photograph.

Equal parts of relief and anger washed over him. How could he have been so blind? Why hadn't he realized before that she was alive? He'd mourned for her, carried her around with him as one of the many victims of the Winter Soldier. One of his victims.

Wilson. It was the only explanation. Ramirez had listened to him, called Wilson after he'd left, and then Wilson and Rogers had saved her and declared her dead to keep Hydra from coming after her. He glanced down back at the photograph, at the sling she wore. Of course not before Hydra had managed to torture her and burn her house to the ground.

It just means that's you have one less death on your conscience.

Somehow, selfishly, this felt worse. Her presence in the photograph didn't just mean that Ramirez was alive, it meant that Ramirez was alive and had known his sister. Not only that but had likely been introduced to his sister after she'd been tortured and declared dead.

How had Rogers managed that one? "Here's the woman your brother left for dead, why don't you two have a chat?"

Why introduce them at all? The logical explanation was that Ramirez was helping Rogers track him down. But that didn't explain her presence in the photograph, in a family photograph none the less. It indicated something more than a passing acquaintance, that they had been friendly with one another, or perhaps even friends. What had she told Becca about him? Surely Steve hadn't let this woman break his sister's heart. Certainly Rogers had had more sense than to allow her to tell Becca all of the horrifying, terrible things that he'd done.

She doesn't know what I am. That had been one of the few things that he'd found solace in, those days right after he'd found out Becca had passed. She'd died ignorant of what he'd become. Or at least he'd hoped.

He could remember her watching him with those wide and trusting eyes, knowing that he would never lead her astray. Or if he did, he'd be there to get her out of it again. She'd trusted him, wholly, completely, and without hesitation. Now she was gone. Now the only thing that remained was the whispers of what he had been and the realities of what he had become. Had it been so wrong of him to think that perhaps his sister had been spared that? The realities of what he was? Was it wrong of him to have drawn comfort from that fact, only now to have that one consolation, that one glimmer of a silver lining to this whole situation be torn away?

No. You don't get to think like that. You don't deserve to hope. You don't get a say in how your sister remembers you. You forfeited that right when you decided to go north. When you decided not to go home to her.

It was a choice he had made, and a choice he now had to live with. If Ramirez had told his sister that he'd left her to die at the hands of Hydra, if Steve had told her that he'd nearly killed him that would be the truth, and that's what his sister deserved. That's the only thing he'd left for her to find, the only thing left of him to remember.

"Damn it." He muttered wiping at his face and the tears that streaked his face before turning back down to the photograph.

There she was smiling, like she hadn't her life destroyed, like she hadn't been declared dead, like she wasn't having her picture taken with the sister, with the family of the man who was the cause of all of it. What had she told Becca? What did her presence in the photograph mean about his sister's relationship with Ramirez? What did any of it mean? He didn't know. He could barely stand the thought.

Wordlessly he picked his journal out of the pile of debris and turned to the pages he'd written for her. He'd written down what he'd learned about her, written down what he'd remembered about her, written down what he felt about her. It all felt so personal, and now that he knew she was alive, it felt wrong, invasive, nearly a violation. He moved to rip them out but stopped as he saw the sticky note she'd left initially for him on the first page. 'Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the roof. ~Maggie.'

The yellow post-it was dirty and showing signs of wear, the glue that secured the sticky note to the page was hardly adhesive anymore. Her handwriting smeared by dirt, grime, and exposure was still visible. This was something he didn't want to keep in his head, it was better that they remained on the page, frozen forever in ink. Picking up a pen, he scratched out the date of birth and date of death, scrawling 'Status: Alive' in the margins. Tucking the obituaries back in their respective places he shut the journal and leaned back against the counter with a heavy sigh.

Why was this affecting him like this? What did it matter that she wasn't dead? What was one life weighed against the scores of others he'd taken as the winter soldier? Hadn't he destroyed her life anyway? He couldn't help but think of the online ofrenda, and the distraught faces of Bill and Suzanne on the news. Hadn't he destroyed the lives of the people of Last Chance Ranch?

It doesn't matter.

Stuffing the journal in the backpack, he placed the bag in the hole he'd created in the floor and replaced the board on top. He sat silently on the floor, watching the fireworks through the papered windows, wincing at the sound of rocket fire.


Sam, Steve, and Nat were on a training exercise with the rest of the Avengers. Just as well, she didn't much feel like celebrating. That really had been the mood since Becca had passed. They hadn't celebrated Steve's birthday, Maggie hadn't bothered with putting up the ofrenda, and certainly hadn't done anything for her birthday. She'd made something of an effort for thanksgiving, but all the winter holidays had been a wash, even though there had been some feeble attempt at Hanukah, considering there were now several practicing and non-practicing Jewish people residing in the Avengers compound. However, training and missions had completely ruined all plans.

For her part, Maggie had been keeping busy, doing her work with Steve and Sam to track down Barnes with absolutely no success. She'd also been working with Natasha learning, preparing, and waiting for what felt like was inevitable. It was part of the reason she was packing her go-bag.

Passports and other identification, cash, water bottle and water purifying system, gloves, hat, lightweight jacket, first aid kid, hygienic products, knife, multi-tool, machete, flashlight with spare batteries, burner phone, duct tape, paracord, amongst other things. She'd also packed away her photos, her grandmother's our lady of Guadalupe statue, her grandfather's rosary, and Riley's dog tags.

Maggie paused, sitting down at the desk, started rifling through her papers. Her journals were stacked neatly in a pile and would be going in the go-bag as well. Reaching into a drawer, she stopped, withdrawing a worn envelope, still sealed.

To Magdalene Ramirez, was written in Becca's careful scrawl on the front.

"Fuck" Maggie breathed, setting the envelope reverentially on the desk in front of her, combing her hands through her hair. She'd completely forgotten about the envelope that Steve had given her from James Martinez-Proctor. Between Argentina and moving from the tower to the compound on top of everything else, it had been shoved into a box and left for later.

What could it be? Maggie felt her stomach twist and her heartache. Even her throat felt tight as tears started to form preemptively.

Picking up the envelope, she broke the seal and removed the contents: a handwritten note and a flash drive. Unfolding the letter, Maggie found that it was from Becca's son, James. It read:

Dear Magdalene,

Mother wanted me to give you the jump drive. It has some photos and things she thought you might like. I also wanted to personally say thank you. You got our mom talking about her past and about our family in a way we could never have imagined possible. She spoke fondly of you and the friendship you shared, and it gave her tremendous comfort and strength in her final days.

You will always be a part of our family and will always be welcome here. Thank you again for everything you did for her and the entirety of our family. We are forever in your debt.

Yours,

James

Maggie put aside the note, her hands shaking she plugged the flash drive into the computer and waited for the folder to load. Opening the driver, a video titled "Play me First" popped up.

She clicked on it, and Becca appeared on the screen.

"Hello, Maggie dearest," Becca began, and Maggie could feel her throat start to seize with tears. "It's strange to think that you'll be watching this after I've gone, weeks, months, maybe even years after the fact. I hope you don't wait that long, but I do hope that this finds you in a moment of doubt or uncertainty and that I can provide you with the comfort and support you seek." Becca paused, "I'd like you to close your eyes, Maggie, and imagine that you're sitting on my couch in my apartment in Brooklyn. Go ahead, close your eyes." Maggie did as instructed, wiping at the tears that had started to stream.

"All right." Becca continued. "What's there to be said that hasn't been said before? We've passed a many wonderful hours together, talking, and laughing, and I think grieving. I suppose first and foremost, I should acknowledge the enormous pressure you've put on yourself, on both my behalf and on Steven's. I know you feel responsible for finding my brother or not finding my brother. I appreciate the time and effort and energy that you've spent. But I have to tell you, if you haven't figured out for yourself by now, no one could ever make Bucky do anything he didn't want to do. He's stubborn, the two of you have that in common. Don't beat yourself up, he'll find his way home in his own time, you both will. You don't have to carry this weight, this burden that you've placed on yourself. Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further. You don't have an obligation to Steve or to me or to anyone to do anything you don't want to do. Your determination, your strength, your capacity for love, and kindness in a world that should have made you hard and bitter, it's part of what makes you who you are. But Magdalene, dearest, you have to learn to let go. You have to let these old wounds heal. It's not a betrayal, it's not forgetting it's allowing yourself not to be trapped in your past. It's allowing yourself to live. You have so much left to live for, don't waste it waiting for someone to come home.

I love you, my dear. I know you're hurting, but someday it won't as much, and I hope you can look back at our time fondly and remember the good times. Take care, good luck. Love you very much...goodbye."

The recording ended, and Maggie opened her eyes as she exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. Tears slipped down her cheeks, the screen blurring in and out of focus as she tried to look at the contents of the files.

There were photos, scanned photos from the family album, the picture of Becca and Bucky on the front steps amongst other family portraits and candids of Steve and Bucky and Becca together. There were also digital photographs that had been taken throughout her and Becca's time together: the 4th of July family picnic, during Maggie's birthday celebration, and Hanukkah. She could see it now, see the slow but steady decline in Becca's health in the photographs. How had she not seen it then? She'd been too close, unwilling to see what was happening right in front of her.

Sniffling, and wiping at the tears Maggie selected a handful, printing them out on the photo printer, she shoved them into the corresponding pages, yanking the flash drive and placing it in her backpack along with her journals. She couldn't help but think of Becca's words.

Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further...you have to learn to let go.

Let go. Learn to let go. There would come an inevitable point where she would know it was time, time to let go, time to run away when she'd been fighting so valiantly to bring Barnes home. But she didn't want to let go, she was afraid to let go. Could she do it? Could she let go of what had consumed her life for the past two years and just disappear into the night like a wisp of smoke? Maggie didn't know, but then again, she might not have a choice. Her very survival might depend on it. Wasn't that why she was here, packing a go-bag by herself New Year's Eve? Wasn't that why she'd spent the last six months learning survival techniques and training?

Fundamentally it didn't matter. It didn't matter if she could do something, it was a matter of what she was willing to do to survive, the world wasn't going to give her a choice.

Maggie wrapped her self up in her cardigan, head on her knees, squeezing her Captain America stress doll. Her left hand ached, her heart ached, her whole body ached, and she just sat in her desk chair, as tears slipped down her face and she hummed Auld Lang Syne to herself. There were no fireworks, no glasses of champagne, no parties, no kisses at midnight. Just her, here in this office, in this place that she couldn't entirely call home or work. She sighed as the clock chimed midnight, rising to her feet she set the stress doll down and turned off the desk lamp. Picking up her go-bag, she slipped it into the front hall closet before wandering back to her bedroom. Sliding between the cool sheets in the cold, dark room, she stared at the ceiling, feeling too awake to sleep and too emotionally exhausted to think about doing anything else for the rest of the night. She was happy to see 2015 go, and she could only hope and pray that whatever 2016 was to bring, it would be better than all of this.


A/N: SO BUCKY KNOW THAT MAGS IS ALIVE! This was such a huge plot point. Can I share a secret? Originally I wasn't going to have him figure it out either much much later (or at the same time he found out about Becca), but this felt so much better when I wrote it out this way. (And a bit nicer to poor Bucky). Also, OH MY GOD. I honestly don't know what I'd do if I were in Mag's place with that video letter from Becca. Anyway, now that I'm done screaming, I'd love to hear what y'all think!