The Wisdom of the Winter Wind

February 26, 2017:

Jessica Jones goes to speak to Bucky Barnes directly about his role in Wong's I Ching reading. She discovers he has plenty to teach about grace in the face of unfair and unwanted things.

Brighton Beach, NY

A beautiful neighborhood with a sudden arson issue.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Jane Foster, Daredevil, John Constantine, Zatanna Zatara, Steve Rogers


Mood Music: [* The Roof is On Fire]

Fade In…

James Buchanan Barnes isn't always the easiest man to find. If he's not at home, then there's any number of places in the city he could be, and he's not always the best at answering calls or texts. The most reliable way to find him when he's off the grid is to ask Jane Foster: she usually knows where he is, and can get an answer from him when no one else could.

So that makes it natural for Jessica's first stop to be Jane. Who seems to be in the middle of going out, herself, but without the company of one James Barnes. She knows where Bucky is, though she seems a little cagey about what exactly he's doing. Just go wait around here, she'd said, giving Jessica the address for a corner in Brighton Beach. He's out there. He's busy. But he'll see you.

It's a quiet area, right by the ocean. Mostly residential, and pretty nondescript. There's really no indication of what would draw Bucky out to this location. Perhaps he's revisiting his past in some way. It's common knowledge he grew up in Brooklyn, but not so common knowledge as to which neighborhood he lived in. Where he liked to go.

The address places Jessica at an intersection in the midst of a few apartment buildings, rearing up several stories tall… and then, down the street, a significantly shorter row of small detached homes. All seems very peaceful, the image a veritable slice of Americana. And then smoke starts to billow from the house at the very end of the row.

Jessica's phone vibrates a few moments afterwards. It's from Bucky. 'I see you. Head two blocks west and three north.'


Jessica's eyebrows had lifted, but she hadn't asked. She trusts Jane. She trusts Bucky. It's all a little weird, but she adapts. Really, she's just glad to have a sign post if she's going to need to hunt around. The hunt for the Dark Dude (The Devil Dude?) isn't going worth a shit. Really that's the downside of all this cloak and dagger and masks. If she knew who was behind the mask she could just call him and she'd have had the info she needed a week ago.

But hey, tonight that's not her aim, at least not yet. Tonight she needs to see Bucky, which apparently means a nice walk on a nice night by the ocean. She frowns about at the residential buildings and asks herself an important question.

Is Bucky out here killing someone tonight?

And then she sees smoke.

Yep. He sure is.

Does it concern her? Well…yes and no. It sort of lands in that mental grey area. If they're the people who hurt him, or affiliates, and they're not controlled themselves? They're monsters, and she has no feeling for monsters. She assumes that's what it must be. On the other hand, what does arson in the dead of night say about whether everything is well with Bucky Barnes? She's no shrink— heaven forbid, really— but it does tell her that maybe that stoic surface of his is hiding a bit.

Well. Maybe it was fate that steered her into a convenience store for a pack of Marlboros. She hasn't touched them yet, though she's tempted…she's been denying herself one vice, and the other is offering itself as a helpful alternative. Everyone smoked in the 40s. Maybe they were really for Bucky all along. Maybe she can just stand there and inhale second hand smoke and get a bit of a fix without actually cheating.

She gets her text, and she immediately and obediently turns, heading two blocks west and three north. Her mind composes her answer if she ever has to answer questions about a fire she saw once in this neighborhood. Golly gee, what a mysterious fire, whatever could have caused it?


It's easy to fall into a very comfortable space with James Buchanan Barnes when he is 'Bucky Barnes.' Easy to relate to him when he's paternal and kind and a little sad. It's easy to see only the part of him that cares for Steve, that still looks after him as an elder brother would, that worries about struggling young folk starving to death, and that struggles himself to select rice at the grocery while reminiscing about how it wasn't this hard decades ago.

But the Winter Soldier is still there in him, too. The Winter Soldier, who perceives Jessica almost instantly on her arrival— despite not expecting her, despite being busy a street away— and delivers a quiet message to steer her away from any implication in what's been done here tonight.

The Winter Soldier, who has probably killed tonight, or at the least done something pretty damned illegal.

His directions take her to a more secluded area, a small park that— given the time of night— is empty. Trees shade away prying eyes. As she enters, a shape detaches from the dark and resolves into Bucky's familiar lean form. He's not as fully kitted as the Winter Soldier once would have been— he's only carrying sidearms that she can perceive, no heavier weaponry than that— but there's no doubt that he is out for the purpose of work. From his carriage and the look in his eyes, he is still geared into that particular mindset as well.

"You must have spoken to Jane," he says by way of greeting. There is no other way he can fathom that Jessica would have known where and what he was doing. His voice is brief and clinical. He smells like smoke.


"I did," Jessica replies. She digs in her leather jacket and retrieves the cigarettes, offering him one. The clothes are new; Bucky might be able to pick out their bulletproof nature, which is at least an improvement over doing all of her work in clothes pulled off the rack from some kind of big box store— really not suitable for the activities she's been up to.

She considers what she's going to say. She could leap right into business. That's normally what she would do. But something about this entire scenario stops her. Maybe it's the sense that the winter wind is blowing right through the trees of this tiny park.

She wants to be there for him. She has no idea how. There is, as she observed with Jane just the other morning, a difference between her normal interactions with people, where the goal is to get in, get out, and get what she wants while getting a job done, and the new way of dealing with people, where she actually cares what happens to them mentally and emotionally at the end of that interaction.

She offers the cigarette, and she fishes out a plain red Bic lighter, which she holds up briefly, silently offering to light it for him if he wants. Her mien is that of a supportive comrade.

At last she finds the question, the one she thinks is the best one to ask in this particular moment, the one where she both offers that support without pushing herself where she's not wanted. Thinks…or hopes.

Two things that are one in the same.

"Did it help any?"


Bucky accepts the cigarette without comment, leaning closer to light up, then leaning back with a wordless inhale. He has a particular way of holding it that shields most of it with his hand, no doubt to guard it from sudden sharp winds— or to hide the glow from enemy eyes. His own take in Jessica's attire, though he doesn't say anything about that either. It is a good thing if she is wearing clothes more suited to the dangers of her day to day life. There's not much more to be said on that front.

There doesn't seem to be a lot he does want to say, when in this mood and mindset.

Did it help any? Jessica eventually broaches.

He blinks and glances back in the vague direction of the rising smoke. The distant sound of sirens is already audible. If nothing else, he seems to have arranged things to ensure a contained fire and a quick response. "Yeah," he says eventually around the cigarette. "I suppose it did. My hands are tired of this work, but more tiring to me is a world that has them in it."

His distant gaze is briefly far too reminiscent of what she saw the first time she ever met eyes with him: cold and machine-like. "They spent decades refining me. Seems like a waste to just box it up."

A moment passes. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth, ashing it with a sigh, and with a force of effort he… shifts demeanor, trying to shake himself back into some state of mind that is more presentable. "Jane said there was progress on finding John and Zatanna."


Jessica listens to him without judgment, and without fear. The Winter Soldier is part of him now. As she'd told Jane, to deny that he's a different person after all that is lunacy. He'll never just be Bucky. To her mind…the challenge will be to make the Winter Soldier his. And if that means taking some of those horrible bastards down, she has but one thing to say on that front.

"I just hope you remember to call me if you need me. I'm sure you hear that all the time from most of the people in your life, but…doesn't make it any less true." Not that he necessarily does…and she's not exactly unhappy to be kept out of arson that would just look like arson to anyone investigating crimes…but at the same time, she's made a commitment, and the commitment bears reiterating.

She stands directly in the path of any secondhand smoke, inhaling it deeply, enjoying it very much. Guilt-free nicotine, Hell yes.

He asks her about John and Zee, and she nods. "Yeah. How much did she tell you?" It's possible Jane gave him everything, at which point she won't insult him by trying to repeat ground he's already been over. It's also possible Jane decided to let Jessica have that conversation with him herself. Either is fine by Jess— she just needs to know where to go from here. She tucks her lighter away and slides her hands into her pockets, leaning against a nearby tree, her attention fully upon him. That sense of just being present with him that she's exhibited before radiates off her. If he wants to talk, she'll talk; if he wants to talk shop, she'll talk shop, if he wants to stand there with her, she'll do that too. And if he wants to walk off and not talk to her at all, she'll accept it. That's all she can ultimately do in the hopes of easing some of his hurts.

Really, if she'd thought about it, she'd have already known he had more shit going on than was evident beneath the surface, just because…how could he not? But he'd been so stoic, and she'd accepted that. It had been easy to focus on the fun stuff…the movies, the rice, to be happy that he was able to experience some happiness. And if she's blown away in awe that he's not a quivering mess, like she'd been after so much less, if she's inwardly rocked by awe that he can let it out in such a controlled way, by the simple act of making the world a little safer, none of these things preclude understanding that the pain, no matter how good he is at handling it in ways that put her to shame, must be immense.

And just because she doesn't know how to make it better, to alleviate that suffering in any way she can, doesn't mean that she won't try.


The fact that he is now as much Winter Soldier as Bucky Barnes is one that he seems to have resigned himself to a long time ago. The trouble, now, will be integrating all the pieces of him back into some coherent whole. Making sense of the mess that his life has become. Making the Winter Soldier an identity that is his own, rather than one that was forced upon him.

It will be a long road, but he seems to have begun on it already. And as Jessica reminds him— it does not necessarily have to be one walked alone.

"I remember," he says. "Maybe if something bigger comes along. For most of this stuff, though, I really don't need someone else." There is a certain implication to his tone like that is meant both in terms of firepower, and in terms of privacy. It is not meant harshly and not said that way, but he is quite plain with his speech.

His shoulders are squared, his head up and posture erect, but the smoke in the distance speaks volumes enough about how the surface strength is just that: surface. A presented image of stoicism interspersed with a few moments of actual happiness, reclaimed with great difficulty from the mire of his life. Perhaps it is amazing that he is not felled by everything he went through, that he can suppress and channel it in such a laser-focused way… but then again, that was what he was brought up to do. He is not from a culture that permitted him to cope in any way but to be strong.

But he is not walking away. That in itself speaks to the fact her presence and her offered efforts are appreciated.

Perhaps purposefully, in view of that, he shifts the conversational topic to business. She asks how much he was told; his eyes flicker, before he answers, "Some of it. That you two spoke about some… prophecy."


'I don't really need someone else.'

Jessica merely nods to that, inhaling more of his second hand smoke, watching him. "I respect that," she says. "Respect you, too." It's her way of backing way the hell off from that, whether he spoke harshly or not. There's also the fact that she wants to make clear that she's not after barging in where she's not wanted…or perhaps where he just can't allow someone else to go.

"I Ching reading," Jessica agrees. "Red procured it from one of John's contacts. The markers have been decent so far. It mentions you twice. Once seems basic enough…basically all of us probably going to beat up some gangsters as soon as I fucking find them, because they are going to have the direct line to whomever hired them to do the weird shit they did that might have served as the spell component to send our friends to Hell. But the other…"

Jessica sighs and quotes it. "Only the winter wind is fearsome enough to drive answers from the mouthpiece of midnight."

She paces a little bit, pushing off the tree, venting uneasy energy. Jessica can't do stoicism. Even the caustic cynism that had marked her every waking interaction when Zee had first found her, the snarliness that is still her easiest fall-back, go-to mechanism was never stoic. It was raw emotion twisted into its most painful forms, a double edged sword for both her and the person on the receiving end of it.

She would love to be stoic.

She would love to feel very little. But she feels and feels deeply. It's why she had to medicate herself with bottle after bottle of booze, because feeling can be physically painful, and she just couldn't take the pain. Now her emotions are more nuanced, nurtured into a broader range by the people she's been fortunate enough to bring into her life, one of whom is standing here, being relentlessly strong. But that, and the fact that she's trying so desperately (day 17, now) to not revert back to bottom-of-the-bottle therapy, just means that she's feeling them, for better or worse, as she never has before, being forced to deal with feeling things.

Right now that thing is uneasiness, and lots of it, worry, and lots of it, both for the friends in the Hell below and the friend in his Hell right here on the surface of God's green earth.

"It sounds like you're going to have to put your professional hurt on some asshole with answers. I'm no prophet, but…this thing hasn't exactly been a rocket science prophecy, just a little poetic. And— " How can she say this? How can she broach this territory without maybe hurting him? Will she insult him?

She takes a deep breath and dives right in. "It made me feel concerned for you. Not that you can't handle being hurt, but that it would hurt you all the same. To hear it, to be thrust into that role, to have it named by some perfect stranger in the back of some Chinese fucking restaurant. And— Bucky, look, we can find another way if you don't want to wear that mantle for this, you know? It's just the easy road. Easy road isn't always the best road. There might be all sorts of other ways to get answers so…whatever you do…know that nobody would blame you for saying 'fuck that noise', least of all me."

She grimaces and turns back to face him. She feels compelled to add: "I'm really clumsy at this. I'm sorry. For being clumsy but also for just…" she lifts a hand and lets it drop again, at a loss for words, at a loss to even name what it is, entirely, that's making her sorry. She can't even identify it herself, only that this time it's not her normal knee-jerk 'everything that ever happens is my fault' reaction. It's something else, something to do with her utter helplessness to do anything other than offer him cigarettes and shit news.


Bucky glances at Jessica when she emphasizes that she will respect his decision. Perhaps some hint of her fear to barge in where she's unwanted shows, because his demeanor gentles markedly. "Promise," he says, "I'm not gonna forget calling is an option."

He lapses into silence as she starts to speak about the information. I Ching, she says. He smokes silently, pensive. He does not know what that is, specifically, but he can guess 'divination reading' and that's more than enough to get him oriented. She says the first mention of him is straightforward enough, but the second…

She quotes it. His expression does not change. His features remain studiedly blank as she parses out that it probably means he'll have to put his talents to work on some asshole with answers. They remain blank as she dives into her concerns: that it might hurt for him to have to do this again, to be put back into this role, to have some perfect stranger dictating that he pull the Winter Soldier back out and lose himself in that horror again. To have to once again wear the mantle of the monster whose ugly deeds he can still feel in his hands.

So, she says, no one would blame him for just saying 'fuck that, let's find another way.'

What Jessica probably did not account for is the fact she is speaking to a card-carrying member of a generation who did the exact opposite of saying 'fuck that' and checking out of the hard but necessary things.

"It won't be the first time I have done this," he eventually says, ashing his cigarette again, "and it probably won't be the last."

A rueful smile comes and goes on his face. "I understand what you're getting at, and I appreciate the thought. But if it's what is necessary… I don't shirk. And I do have the experience."


"Honestly I didn't think you would, but it shouldn't…it shouldn't be on your plate at all," Jessica says, finally grumping back to lean against the tree. Maybe it's because he's so responsible in every way, so carrying of that old world grace and authority, that she often finds herself feeling like a child around him, though not entirely in a bad way. He's just wise, perhaps because he is actually old. He just lifts the burden onto his shoulders, adjusts like he's adjusting the straps of a backpack and…moves on.

She finds herself looking up at him with her brow furrowing, with admiration and even a little envy in her gaze.

"How the Hell do you do that?" she asks quietly. "Things get shitty and unfair, you just…you…it's like I just told you the woodpile was twice as large as we thought it would be, and you just kind of went…'wood needs to get chopped' and kept on with it. Like you just…oh, did I shove my hand on some barbed wire? Yeah later I'll bandage that but the sheep need to be put in or whatever. Sorry for all the farm metaphors but…that's just what it reminds me of is all."

This is not frustration. It's not her bid to get him to open up. This is someone who sees something she wants and needs for herself.

"If you get nightmares or get scared or feel panicky or have flashbacks…I mean how can you not? But you just…it's not even like you give them the finger. It's like they're beneath you. Are you really doing that or are you seriously just the best at fronting I've ever seen?"

Here she is teaching Jane about street names and stars, but Bucky didn't need a therapist to just…to just cope. To just deal with it. And while Jessica Jones understands and appreciates that none of this means he's well, that none of it means he's whole or healed or "okay" inside…the grace he just…radiates…

Now that she's identified it, really identified it, she can't help but ask him about it, to try to understand it, to try to make some portion of it hers, however she can.


"It shouldn't be," he agrees, "but it is."

The way she looks up at him after, however, gives him pause. Bucky recognizes the furrow to her brow, the look of someone staring at a puzzle they're trying to figure out, but he's not sure exactly what it is she's trying to discover about him up until she just… says it outright.

How does he do it? How does he just shoulder up and deal? Is it just the best front ever, or is it truly that deep a grace? How can he just seem to… disregard the nightmares or the panic or the flashbacks… which she's sure he gets, because how could he not—

She might notice, of a sudden, that his jawline is tight. "The nightmares come," he confirms quietly. But that's not what she wants to know. She wants to know how he does what he does.

"The first big, pitched battle I was really in," he says eventually, "was the Allied landing at Oran, on the coast of Algeria. We were told to assume little to no resistance. What we got was a swarm of Vichy French bent on blowing us away. We didn't have the choice to back off or take some other route. The problem was twice as big as we thought, and our only option was to deal with it. That was constant, through the war. You got where you were going and things were twice, thrice as bad as you thought. You adjusted."

He sighs a stream of smoke, takes the cigarette from his mouth, looks at it. "You hit a point where so goddamned much has happened to you that it's not surprising anymore when things get shitty and unfair."


'The nightmares come.'

Actually, she'd wanted to know that too. Because if he could go through 70 years of torture without getting any at all, then the production of such things at the end of a paltry 8 months of Hell would reveal in herself the worst forms of weakness. There's just no such thing as a non-douchey way to ask him that question until he just goes right ahead and confirms that he suffers those very human consequences of trauma after all. Something actually flees from her when he says it…a shadow of fear on her face, a fear that might have shown up on the face of a very young soldier wondering if he was a coward after all.

The honest to god WWII war story startles her briefly, but then she absorbs it, listening intently to every word, filing it away. She can understand some of that…even identify points where really, lately, there has been no choice but to push forward and deal.

She just hasn't felt particularly good at it.

'You hit a point where so goddamned much has happened to you that it's not surprising anymore when things get shitty or unfair.'


God! Is she actually surprised by these things? Is she really? Her? The idea reveals fault lines in her own self-image. She'd thought that she had a pretty damned good handle on the fact that things were almost always shitty, but maybe the real problem was that at the end of the day, she was still allowing herself to be surprised…and outraged…by this fact. Hurt by it. Surprised by it. Maybe she wasn't really as deep-down jaded as she'd imagined herself to be, because if she were, she'd have hit that point too, wouldn't she have? But she hasn't. The shitty and the unfair still make her so angry.

Angry and sad.

"So it's…productive pessimism and lots of practice?"


Bucky does not at first recognize she was fishing for confirmation that he feels fear, gets nightmares, experiences the effects of seventy years of trauma… but he certainly recognizes it once his admission makes a hint of fear leave her face. It is a sudden sense of familiarity, a reminder of the many times— over the course of the war— fresh new soldiers looked silently to him, a sergeant, for some affirmation that they weren't weak or cowardly to feel afraid.

His features gentle. "That I cope because there's no other choice, that I don't find it surprising when things aren't fair," he notes, "doesn't mean it doesn't make me angry."

In the distance, smoke has stopped rising, the distant periodic wail of sirens the only thing left to herald a fire being successfully fought down.

So it's productive pessimism and practice?

"Practice," he allows. He gazes off past her, gaze distant. "Patience and awareness that what must be done, must be done."


To be fair, maybe Jessica herself hadn't realized she was fishing until she'd gotten what she was fishing for. Such things are funny that way, sometimes.

Patience. She gives a rueful smile. She could be described in many different ways, but…was patient one of them? Maybe not. Still…the conversation seems to have given her a little piece of the puzzle that she needs. Awareness that what must be done, must be done.

The sirens actually make her start.

She'd forgotten about the fire, had just sort of pushed it out of her mind and left it alone. The sudden electronic screams splitting the air reminds her about it.

She studies him, really seeing him deeply. In his way, he really is as inspiring as Steve is. One is the sunshine, the other is the shadow, but their nobility is the same.

Of course. She now has proof positive that Steve Rogers is a giant dork, which does a great deal to ground her away from the idea that she can't possibly ever live up to these examples.

"Right then," she says, unconsciously echoing one of John's turns of phrase. "Well. I guess I got some wood to chop. Gotta go find myself a god-fearing devil."

He is not Jane, to necessarily need or want hugs, for all that Jessica feels the urge to offer one. So she offers a fist bump instead.

Seconds later she realizes he might not know what the hell those are about, so she explains. "You just tap your fist with mine," she says solemnly. "It means…well, in this case, a combination of 'you're awesome, bro' and 'let's kick some ass and take some names.' It's appropriate to this moment though, I promise." He can teach her about chopping woods, and she can teach him about fist bumps.

It's not a fair trade.

It's what she has.

With her other hand she offers the cigarettes and the lighter, because really, she's pretty sure they were always for him.


Jessica flashes that rueful little smile, thinking about his answer as to just… how he deals with everything. Bucky contemplates it askance, finishing his cigarette soberly, wondering whether he's truly given her answers or been of any sort of help. He thinks he used to be better at this, used to be a better friend and counselor and guide, but the course of his life might just have beaten all that out of him. Left him barren of the ability to truly connect with other people anymore.

Considering what she's thinking when she studies him, the thoughts are quite ironic: no more than the tired worries of a man unable, for all his grace and poise in other matters, to see past his own damage to recognize that a great deal about him remains essentially unchanged.

There was a reason he and Steve were and still are best friends. There was a reason that being twisted into a creature like the Winter Soldier was exceptionally tragic for a man like James Buchanan Barnes. At the core, his character was always unimpeachable. Where some would have abandoned their friend or been lost to jealousy in the wake of Steve's sudden success, from Bucky there was never anything but the same quiet support and staunch love that made him Steve's childhood pillar and protector in the first place.

I hope," he makes explicit eventually, with a rueful half-smile and the brevity of one not accustomed to speaking so directly about these things, "anything I said was helpful."

She offers him a fist, then. He stares at it politely for a few seconds until she realizes he has no idea what she is doing, and helpfully proffers an explanation: whereupon he lifts his head and his brows, a wordless 'ah,' gesture, and completes the gesture.

"There's something new to learn every day," he observes, taking the cigarettes when she offers them— but not the lighter. He produces his own by way of explanation— an old-fashioned black crackle Zippo lighter, which he clicks with a brief impish gleam to his eyes. "But some things, I stick with what I know."


"It helped more than you know," Jessica says to him.

Seeing that impish gleam makes a real smile, albeit a tired one, flash onto her lips. Maybe she's helped him too, if he can flash that, though she can't fathom how, really, as she mostly just stood around here and said a bunch of not very helpful stuff before throwing herself on his strength and guidance, letting him be a rock for her when originally the idea was for her to do that for him. Then again…she'd seen it before, hadn't he? He felt better when he got to protect or help, not when he delved into the darkness of what he felt.

In that, well, actually she was pretty much the same, wasn't she? She's learned that lesson. Doing good makes the demons shut up for a bit.

"You'd have to stick to what you know sometimes," she says, a teasing hint of impishness entering her own voice. "Otherwise you'd be stuck eating— what was it? Organic stone washed processed GMO-free rice flour or something? And really, the world doesn't want to see our Grandpa Bucky pissed off and hangry cause he tried to work his way through a bowl of organic stone washed processed GMO-free rice flour bullshit."

Humor, she can do.


Bucky relaxes a little when Jessica assures it did help. Enough to show a bit of playfulness in his response to her offered gifts. Moments after flashing the Zippo, he uses it to light a second cigarette, tucking the pack away afterwards.

It seems whatever she did helped him too, in some way. Bucky always felt most at home protecting and guiding other people. Less so in discussing his own vulnerabilities and seeking help for his own frailties. This was a man, after all, who felt the effects of the experimentation upon him take hold in random fits and starts over the course of a year— slowly and sickeningly, given it was but an imperfect imitation of what Steve had— and yet hid the fact and never complained. Never once asked for help, because Steve needed him and the men needed him and there would be time to worry about what was going on later—

He blinks away the memories. Jessica's teasing him, and he frowns a little— did she say 'hangry,' what in the hell is that— as she expounds on organic stone-washed processed GMO-free rice flour.

"Fuck that," he dismisses. "How do you even 'stone-wash' that shit, I'd like to know."

He sobers a little afterwards, however. "Any rate. I'll do whatever we have to to get those two back. All right? You call me." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'm packing, I ought to go before somebody notices that."


"You got it," Jessica replies.

She walks away.

But she's pulled out her phone. She's texting. Often, she texts Jane Foster the corniest science jokes she can find. Bucky gets YouTube links. "Hangry Moments from Jack Link's Beef Jerky," different scenarios where eagles or lions or bears or wolves pop out of people's clothes because they're hungry, which makes them angry, therefore angry. And a few of those "have a Snickers, you're not yourself when you're hungry, better? Better!" commercials.

Doin' her part to get him educated about life in the 21st century. Hell yeah.

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