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: We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, and Me) by The Ink Spots; I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra; Circle by Slipknot


Chapter 33-Don't Shoot the Messenger

Magdalen Ramirez had been in Wakanda for three days. Steve had been gone for about 24 hours.

"Maggie wants to talk to you." Steve had announced when he'd returned from the capital after she'd been pulled from Juarez.

Steve hadn't supplied further information, as if waiting for some kind of response before he continued. "Did she say why?" He'd asked after a moment.

"Wanted to tie up loose ends."

Well, that could mean anything.

"I'll take care of it." Steve had replied when he hadn't said anything further.

Take care of it? Take care of what? This wasn't a fight your way out of it type situation. Although exactly what type of this situation was remained to be seen.

She'd taken the news well, according to Steve. Though, what "well" meant in this context, Bucky didn't know.

Whatever "well" meant, she hadn't been happy about the prospect. Though Bucky couldn't imagine anyone being happy told that they were being confined because they were a security threat. How Steve had expected her to take everything, he didn't know. The guy still didn't think things all the way through. Leap first, make sure you have a goddamn parachute while you're plummeting toward the ground.

"I'll take care of it," Steve had repeated when he'd been packing to head back out to rendezvous with Wilson.

"You really don't have to Steve. I'm more than capable of handling it." He'd assured Steve.

After all, Steve had said she only wanted to talk.

Yeah, the woman who's life you ruined just wants to talk.

So what were his options? He could avoid her until they absolutely couldn't anymore. Or he could try to set up a meeting to where they could talk.

Thus far, his only solution had been to put it off, which felt an awful lot more like option one than he cared to admit.

Are you frightened of her?

Physically? No. But this was someone who was stuck here indefinitely and had also enjoyed unlimited and likely unrestricted access to information about his past, including being directly involved with not one, but three key people from his past. There was a lot she likely knew, and Bucky wasn't sure how he felt about it.

What he did know is if he didn't resolve this soon, it wasn't going to end well for anyone involved.

"Breathe, Mr. Barnes." Princess Shuri's voice pulled him back.

He was lying on her examination table. Just above his head, he could hear The Princess working, the bangles around her wrists jingling together as she moved her hands, manipulating the real-time holographic projection of his brain.

"Sorry, Princess." He said, taking an exaggerated breath in part to make a show of willing, but also because he had been holding his breath.

"You were very deep in thought," She commented as she continued working. "How are you feeling? What are you sensing?"

Bucky paused, running his tongue over his teeth. "You're making me taste mint, aren't you?" He asked after a moment.

"It was either that or pine smell," The Princess replied. "But that means your primary olfactory cortex is working like it's supposed to."

"How does it look?" He asked uncertainly. He'd done this several times now since he'd come out of cryo. But every time he was always worried that something new would present itself and send them back to square one. Thus far, no such calamity had occurred, but there was always a first time for everything.

"Your brain? It looks excellent, very wrinkly and grey and fatty," She answered. "Would you like to see?"

"I trust your judgment." He paused.

"What?" She asked, putting her hands on her hips, extended her head into his field of vision so that he could just see your eyes. "I know you have something to say."

He paused, licking his lips. "Just a hunch. But you knew about Ramirez from my memories."

"Yes?"

"So, you saw my time at the ranch?"

"Not as such. I do know, however, that those memories are coded positively in your base memory. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. They were positively coded. Did that mean that she could see what he was feeling in the display overhead? If he looked up, would he be able to see his own array of emotions?

"What's going on?" She asked, in the universal tone of younger siblings up to no good.

Bucky sighed. There were no secrets from The Princess, even if he wanted there to be. It would be better to get it done and over with than to drag this thing out any more than he already had. "Steve mentioned before he left that Ramirez wanted to speak with me. I don't know how to get ahold of her. Is there any way you could...you know..."

"Broker an introduction? Facilitate a rendezvous?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Set up a meeting so we can speak," He said shortly.

"Facilitate a rendezvous sounds so much more exciting."

"I thought you warned me to stay away from too much excitement." He replied.

"Stimuli, yes, excitement no. You could use a bit of excitement in your life."

"I don't think Ramirez is going to bring the kind of excitement into my life that you're thinking of, Princess."

Excitement was really the last thing either of them needed presently. He'd had enough excitement to last a lifetime, more than two lifetimes if he was honest. As for Ramirez, there was no telling what she had endured in Juarez, never mind during the two years she'd worked to hunt him down.

His mind and memory returned to the photograph, the photograph in the obituary. Ramirez had known his sister well enough to be included in a family picture. They were friends. Your sister loved her. Maggie took Becca's death hard.

After the last two and a half years they'd both had, they didn't need excitement, they needed closure, and he needed answers.

What had Ramirez told Becca? What had Becca told her? Beyond just that, she'd also been heavily involved in tracking him down. What had she learned? How much did she know? Did she know about his time training the Black Widows in the red room? His relationship with Romanoff? Did she know about everything that he'd done and had been done to him?

Furthermore, what did knowing all of that do to a person like Ramirez? Do to someone who set out to fix the world? What would she think of him if she knew all that?

"How is your memory and remembering coming along?" She inquired, oh so very non-conspicuously changing the subject.

"Fine." He answered shortly. There were still gaps, large ones. Princess Shuri had warned him that there might be some parts of his memory that he would never get back, but as far as he was concerned, it was a small price to pay in exchange for his freedom from Hydra.

"So, do really want me to set up a meeting for you?" She ventured slowly.

Bucky sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. Did he want to? No. Not really. But did he need to? Yes. He absolutely owed her the courtesy of a face to face meeting, where she could do whatever she needed to do and say what she needed to say to tie up loose ends, as Steve had said. Would that give him the answers he was looking for? Would he be able to ask that of her when the time came? He didn't know. But unfortunately, he also knew nothing would happen if he didn't ask The Princess to reach out to her and make a plan to meet.

"Yeah. Ask her when she's available."

"She's staying in the village with Jelani and Teela. She should have pretty open availability."

"The horse breeders? Omondi's friend?"

"Omondi is friends with everyone, but yes, the Jelani that breeds horses."

So their paths were going to cross. More frequently than previously anticipated. This, unfortunately, made their meeting all the more imperative. The longer he waited, the more awkward it was going to be when he showed up on feed delivery day.

"Just let me know what she says."

"Of course." The Princess paused, with a thoughtful, almost mischievous air.

"What? Princess?" Bucky cracked one eye open and raised an eyebrow.

"You should not be so nervous about speaking with her."

"It's been a long time, and I did leave her for dead," Bucky said flatly, doing his best not to sound totally dramatic.

"A lot has happened since then."

This was fundamentally true, although Bucky would argue that nothing good had happened to her since then and that most of her misfortune had been in some way or another explicitly linked to him. However, that ultimately wasn't up to him to decide. Whatever Ramirez thought of him or wanted of him was neither here nor there. The only thing he could do right now was arrange to meet her at her earliest convenience so that whatever needed to be said or done between them could be resolved quickly.

"All right! You're all done. Same date and time next month?" She announced happily.

"Sounds like a plan." He groaned, wincing as he sat up on the examination table.

"Unless something changes."

"Unless something changes." He agreed, adjusting his scarf before combing his fingers through his hair, swinging his legs over the edge of the table.

"Good. Have a good day, Bucky, and try not to worry too much. Magdalene Ramirez does not wish you any harm."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, thank you, Princess, for everything."

"Of course, white boy. Now get back to your goats, I will let you know what she says when I get word from her about when she can meet." She said before shooing him out of the lab.

Try not to worry too much.

How did she know? Well, she had seen the inside of his head. She knew his mind probably better than he did. But he was concerned, worried, anxious. Was he cueing off of Steve's anxiety about the whole thing? Or was there some deeper reason that he was anxious to come face to face with Magdalene Ramirez? He wasn't sure.

What could he honestly expect from her? What did he want to say to her when they finally were face to face after two years? For a majority of that time, he'd thought she was dead. He had mourned for her, done research on her, and knew a lot more about her than he really felt comfortable admitting. How could he possibly enunciate all of that? Could he, in fact, say any of that? Would she want to hear any of it? Should he even bring it up? The possibilities raced through his already aching head until he felt like his whole world was spinning.

Relief, however, came Before he could make it back to the village, The Princess messaged him, letting him know that Ramirez had agreed to meet with him at 10:00 am, at her place, just outside the horse village.

He responded that he would be there. Then it was done. He had a meeting set, and there was nothing more to do than sit and wait, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his goats for the rest of the long afternoon into the evening.

What could she possibly mean by tie up loose ends? He couldn't help but wonder, and would this interaction bring them closure? Or would it only invite more questions, complications, and difficulty?

The following morning he arrived on the outskirts of the village ten minutes early and found Ramirez outside one of the dwellings on a low stool, with a cup of coffee in hand and a journal open on her lap. She looked as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Like she had always been living in this remote and highly secretive African nation. As if she had always been apart of this village. Her hair was up, braided, and wrapped around her head. She was wearing a plain light-colored button-down shirt, and dark trousers tucked into boots. They weren't the western style boots she'd worn On Last Chance, but the effect was the still the same. She looked like she'd walked directly from one of his memories. Yet, there was something sharper, more severe about her features, a weathered, aged expression on her face as she read the contents of the journal on her lap.

"You're early Mr. Barnes, would you like some coffee? I made a whole pot." She commented without looking up.

"No, thank you, Ms. Ramirez." He replied.

At this, she looked up, surveying him with those dark eyes that had haunted his dreams and floated in his memories. She took stock of him, what she was learning, he could only guess, but satisfied with her findings, she nodded, closed the journal and rose, turning to face him. "I'm glad to see you're doing well." She cut herself off, "Better than the last time I saw you anyway." She amended. "Been a bit of a wild ride since then for me. I can only imagine you've gone through some shit since we last saw one another." Her gaze drifted, only momentarily to his left shoulder, where the prosthesis should have been.

Pausing, she drew in a deep breath. "I don't know what Steve told you or what you've worked out on your own, but I worked with him, Samuel Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff to track you down after I left the ranch." She paused, her fingers fiddling with the pages of the journal she was holding. "I also had the incredible experience of getting to know and becoming friends with your sister before she passed away." She reached behind her, and collected a further two journals, holding the stack of three of them in both hands. "I kept very detailed records. They're in a code Natasha taught me, but I think you'll be able to decipher and understand, but I included a cheat sheet just in case. I thought it was only fair that you should have them. That way, you know what I know. Know what I found out while I was helping them track you down." She took several steps toward him to close the gap between them, and then when she was arm's distance away, extended the set to him.

He took them wordlessly, his eyes flickering to her left hand, the hand that had been in a cast in the group photo, and couldn't help but notice the scarring on the appendage. Hydra. He could feel his stomach twinge. So it had been torture then.

"Thank you." He managed after a moment, looking up to meet her silent and watchful gaze. "Is there anything else?" His voice felt harsh as he said it, but if Ramirez took notice, she didn't show it.

"No." She shook her head. "That's all."

He nodded, uncertain of what to say. Wasn't there something? Anything? That she wanted to say to him? Was this all she'd meant by tie up loose ends? Wasn't there something more than this that she wanted to say or do after everything that had happened?

"I'm sure we'll see one another around. Princess Shuri tells me you're working with Elder Omondi in the village over, minding goats." She said quickly, as she returned to her seat, and her coffee.

"I'm also bagging and transporting feed." He added. "Elder Jelani has a standing order every Tuesday." He said, more out of a need for transparency than actually wanting to make conversation.

"So, we'll be running into one another with some regularity, then." She commented. Her expression and tone were decidedly neutral.

"You're out here with the horses."

"Yes, although I haven't officially received my a position yet. Have you enjoyed your time out here so far?"

"It's nice out here. Peaceful," was the only thing he could think of to say.

"I'm sure it'll be a nice change of pace." She agreed.

Bucky didn't know what to say, and they drifted off into a tense silence.

He wanted to say something, wanted to apologize, wanted to say thank you for protecting him, for helping Steve, for being a friend to his sister when he hadn't had the courage to go to her. He wanted to, but the worlds felt hollow in his mind, even as he formulated them. He wanted closure, he needed closure, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he chickened out. "I'll let you get back to your coffee." He managed finally. "Thank you again, for the journals."

"No problem. I hope they help. See you around."

"Yeah, see you around."

And that was that. He walked away, journals in hand, feeling more bewildered and confused than he'd been before, with even more questions, and feeling somehow even more like a coward than he had before.

He should've said something. He should've said sorry. He should've asked about Becca, or asked for her forgiveness. He should've done something other than just stood there like a moron.

Bucky wound through the Wakandan countryside, confused and perplexed, and feeling oddly let down. Shouldn't there have been something said about the fact that he'd ruined her life? Wasn't this supposed to bring closure? That's what this had been about, right? Closure, for both of them.

Perhaps the answers he was looking were in the journals. Perhaps she didn't want anything to do with him, and so the best way was to hand over the journals so he could see the full extent of what she thought of him without the mess of a conversation.

Yet, she'd been so cordial. Well, of course, she would be, if not for Steve, then because they would be in close contact with one another for the foreseeable future. Still, he couldn't help but feel that something was terribly terribly wrong about that entire interaction. That something had been off about the entire thing.

Bucky didn't know.

When he arrived back to his hut and sat down, setting the journals out in front of him, Ramirez had labeled them 1,2,3, and he opened the first one hesitantly, uncertain of what he was going to find. Inside the front cover was a letter. Unfolding it, he found it was in plain English, her tidy handwriting curling out and unfurling before him. It read:

Dear James,

Let me start by saying sorry if the informality is unwelcome or unwarranted, but honestly, I have no idea how I 'd address you. Matt seemed silly, even though it was the name I knew you by, and Bucky likewise seems too informal, considering you and I haven't met, not really. Therefore I reason, since James is the name you gave me that day in the outbuilding, it is the name that I will use to address you here.

What follows in these three journals is a complete record of my journey to track you down. As we are just now truly meeting for the first time, the content of these journals may seem strange, invasive, and perhaps downright unsettling. I understand, and I apologize for any discomfort they might cause. Over the past two years, I have heard many stories and uncovered many highly classified documents detailing your life both before 1945 and the long journey you 've taken since. All of these accounts have varied in degree of intimacy, often divulging highly personal and sensitive information.

I had two reasons for this when I first started this journal. Primarily I was doing all that I could to help Steve find you, and I had little thought of what the practical consequences of learning as much about you as possible would be. But then, at the time, I reasoned that I needed to know the man I was searching for. I needed to make him more than a name on paper or a face in a photograph. Through that, I built an idea of who I thought you were, which in retrospect, was both unwise and unfair for all parties involved.

Since your discovery in Romania back in June, I 've had some time to think about how best to proceed with both the knowledge I possess and how that concerns us. I came to the following conclusion. Who I am to Steve and who I was to your sister exists outside of what I am to you. You don't owe me anything, not your time, your friendship, your gratitude, anything unless you feel it is deserved or warranted. So much of your life, from how I've come to understand it, has been practically devoid of choice, so I wanted to give you this choice.

Finally, it must be stated that, above all, I am a receptacle of knowledge and memory, and that is what you will find in these journals. If my entries or annotations are inadequate or insufficient, I am happy to provide an explanation or elaboration upon request.

Respectfully,

Magdalene I. Ramirez

Bucky set the letter aside, uncertain of what he should be feeling. It was an unemotional, practically clinical summation of their situation.
You don't owe me anything.

So she didn't want anything from him. She only wanted to be honest about their situation. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse. It was a blank check, without a hint of good or bad, just there.

His focus then returned to the journals set before him. So. The question now remained, what did she know? He turned to the first page, and it was indeed in the code he and Natalia had developed while they were in Hydra together, and now it seemed Ramirez was fluent as well. Skimming through Ramirez's iteration of the code, he turned his full attention to the first journal.

The first pages were an evaluation of him, of their time together on the ranch. It continued to her first weeks working with Steve and Wilson. Every day was entered faithfully and included where they were looking, what documents she had found, and her progression with her Russian language training. There was the day she'd met his sister. "Asked Steve to tell me about Barnes, introduced me to Rebecca Barnes-Proctor," and then the entry listed everything they'd talked about, almost like a grocery list.

Through the journal, he was able to trace his journey alongside hers. It was a thorough and detailed account of her activities and what she was discovering about him, both as James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. It was jarring to see the two worlds, two perspectives, presented side by side, nearly oblivious to how starkly they contrasted one another.

Then. There was an entry in plain English, scratched through heavily, but he was still able to make it out. It read simply. "Becca is dying. Where the fuck are you, Barnes?" It was the only ounce of emotion he could squeeze out of the pages and pages of writing, and he could feel the visceral anger seeping from the pages into his skull. The entries continued, until again there was another entry in plain English, stating simply, Becca Barnes-Proctor 1929-2015. After that, there was a complete shift in entries. There were no longer "Bucky Barnes" factoids. Instead, it was information about the Winter Soldier. Not just what he had done, but also what had been done to him, in cold and unfeeling detail: The memory wipe, the prosthesis, the mind control (although without any key information). Eventually, the journal became more about Romanoff's lessons, with infrequent notes and entries about the continued search for his location.

Then, the journal ended abruptly with a single sentence. 'Barnes Found in Romania.'

And that was it.

He knew what she knew, which was both massive in scope and content. Yet, he still felt on edge. There was no hint of personal feelings about what she was writing or what she had learned. With the single exception of the crossed-out lines asking where he was when she'd found out Becca was dying, there was no emotion in her words.

In his own journals, Bucky recalled, there had been no emotion in what he'd written about what he'd remembered. He'd written at length about her and the other of the Winter Soldier's victims, and he'd done his best to keep editorialization down to a minimum. Just fact, just raw data.

But this...He glanced down at the journals spread across his lap...this was something else. When he'd been researching, he'd been looking for his past, but with Ramirez, it was like she had reached into his brain, into his memories into his past, and put it on display. He didn't know how to feel, or furthermore what he was supposed to do.

What did Ramirez think of everything she had learned? He didn't know and had gotten little help from anything she'd written or said. What had finding all of that outdone to her? What did that information do to people? He didn't even fully grasp what it had done...was doing to him, and he'd lived it.

He flipped through the journals again, slowly, and he examined the photographs that she had stuffed between the pages, the photo of him and Becca sitting on the front porch of his parent's house. She was wearing her favorite blue dress. He was in his dress uniform. He reached out and picked up the picture, surveying it carefully. Was that the man that Becca had remembered? He didn't know, nothing in the journals revealed anything beyond what Ramirez knew.

He returned that one to its place and flipped to the next photograph. It was one much more recently, November 11, 2014, Ramirez's birthday. Ramirez was smiling, addressing the camera directly, while Becca looked at her with this look of adoration on her face.

They were friends. Your sister loved her. Maggie took Becca's death hard.

Yet, Ramirez hadn't said anything about Becca at all to him, not in the letter nor in their conversation outside of her dwelling. With the single exception of, "Who I am to Steve and who I was to your sister exists outside of what I am to you."

But that didn't mean anything.

Bucky frowned. Perhaps he'd missed something. Perhaps there was more to uncover. Spreading the letter and the journals and photos tucked inside out on a low table, he picked up a pencil and his own journal and started again.


So they're finally in the same room together [so to speak], and it only took over 100,000 words to get them there! *Screams* I promise I won't wait that long again. I can't wait to show you what I have in store for them! I hope you enjoyed it! I look forward to hearing what you think! Reviews are always welcome and deeply appreciated. Thanks for sticking in there with me Peeps!