Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Primary Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Sam Wilson, Ayo, Shuri, The Winter Soldier, Yama (Dora Milaje), Nomble (Dora Milaje), King T'Challa, Okoye, Steve Rogers, Redwing
Minor Characters: Sarah Wilson, Cass Wilson, AJ Wilson, Joaquín Torres
Referenced Characters: Thanos, Zemo, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, Sharon Carter, John Walker, Tony Stark, Stephen Strange, Ramonda, King T'Chaka, Riley, Lemar Hoskins, Karli Morgenthau, Vision, Wanda Maximoff, Groot
Rating: T - For Canon-Typical Language and Violence
Genres: Friendship, Banter, Humor, Found Family, Angst, Drama, Adventure
Timeframe: The main story takes place between the events of "The Falcon and the Winter Soldier" and "Wakanda Forever," but there are a wide variety of juicy flashbacks too.

[ID: A painting of Bucky standing within a dark, dream-like place. He is shirtless, dressed in a pair of blue jeans, and has a pair of dog tags hanging from around his neck. A strand of Wakandan Kimoyo Beads hangs around his right wrist. He is looking at an obscured, flat silver item in his right hand. His left arm is a Wakandan-made prosthetic that is gunmetal silver with glowing gold seams. The objects behind him in the half-light are faint, but appear to include plums, a Starbucks cup, a book, papers, a notebook, and a HYDRA emblem. End ID]

(Above: Illustration by Shade)

“Cass! AJ! Breakfast!” Sarah belted in the direction of the stairwell before turning her attention back to the guest at their table. She offered Bucky a smile and inquired, “Sleep well?” as she slid a thick plate heaping with country ham, gravy, grits, and home fries on the table in front of him and then her brother.

Bucky hadn’t missed that she’d made it a habit to serve him first. Though he’d initially purely struck it up to Southern hospitality, he also didn’t miss the decided side-eye Sam gave him from across the table. The man could really pull off a downright intimidating brotherly glare when he wanted to, regardless of whether anything was going on or not. When Sam leaned back and crossed his arms warningly, Bucky decided to mime the gesture and do the same. He made it a point to thrum his fingers along the top of his vibranium hand as he sat and regarded Sam with what he hoped was a suitably satisfied grin.

Sarah had about as much interest in having either of them help around the kitchen as she did having them feign being skilled mechanics when it came to the intricacies of their family boat. Over the course of the past few weeks, Bucky had finally stopped asking if she needed help with cooking, and instead resolved to set the table and fetch the drinks with Sam like it was a gentleman’s race. Undeterred to do his part, Bucky laid claim to handling the cleanup of pots, pans, and dishes as his solemn responsibility as a guest, though he sometimes wondered how so many managed to get dirty all at once. In the meantime, he found new ways to irritate Sam. Sarah seemed to appreciate that bit too.

“Thanks. Everything smells delicious as usual. And yeah, slept well.” The words came easy to him, even though that last bit wasn’t entirely true. Sam raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the statement. That man had an uncanny ability to tell if he was lying, but at least he had enough respect not to press him in front of Sarah.

Factually speaking, the nightmares had gotten better. He supposed it was unrealistic to assume that crossing off all the names he’d written in Steve’s book and handing it off to Doctor Raynor to close out their therapy sessions together would have prompted the nightmares to go away entirely. The difference seemed to be that now, sometimes he didn’t remember his dreams at all or the dreams he did have weren’t always moored in a past that was altogether familiar. They weren’t violent, just disconcerting, like they were the dreams of someone else.

In rarer cases, he sometimes even found himself awash in dreams that felt like possible futures, sparkling with bits of peace and even now and then: hope. After so many years of nightmares focused on the War and his violent memories as the Winter Soldier, it seemed surreal that he could allow himself to look forward to a tentative future where he could define his own next steps, even if he was still at a loss at what exactly that looked like.

For the moment though, as he sat in that inviting family kitchen, it felt like enough.

He just wished the whispers from his most recent dream would stop doing their best to call for his attention during his waking hours.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on the savory smells of a rich breakfast to ground himself in the present. “Thanks as always for the hospitality,” Bucky added as Sarah dropped off the second round of plates and shot him a smile.

From across the table, Sam piped up, cutting off anything Bucky might’ve considered adding, “I slept well too, Sarah. Thanks for asking.”

Sarah waved a hand in Sam’s direction. “Course you did.” She turned back conspiratorially to Bucky as she seated herself at the head of the table between them. “You see how he hung that costume of his up in his bedroom?”

“Uniform,” Sam tried to correct her, knowing it wasn’t going to help his case.

Sarah chose to ignore her brother. “He put it right at the end of the bed. Has’ta be the last thing he sees when he goes to bed at night and first thing he sees when he wakes up in the mornin’.”

“I just had to air it out,” Sam defended.

“I’m sure,” Bucky replied before turning his attention back to Sarah. He leaned towards her sympathetically. “If he starts wearing it around the house, just let me know and I’ll have a talk with him. It’s up to the two of us to make sure we keep that giant ego of his in check.”

“I’m right here.”

Sarah’s lit up with a conspiratorial smile as the sound of feet pounded down the stairs and AJ and Cass ran through the kitchen, making tracks to their mother for their complimentary morning hug before they found their seats and quickly dug into their food.

“Morning, Bucky!” The eldest of the two announced. Cass spoke for both his brother and himself between bites, “You and Uncle Sam up to any superhero stuff today?”

“Nothing quite so exciting,” Bucky apologized. “Just the normal variety boring adult stuff after the usual morning routine.”

“Will you be here after we get home from school?” AJ inquired hopefully over a forkful of steaming home fries. The question was squarely directed at Bucky.

“Yeah, of course,” he quickly responded. “I’ll be around for a few more days yet. Your mom wants to make sure to put me to work on the boat before I head back.”

He’d once made the mistake of heading back to Brooklyn without making a point of saying goodbye to the two of them beforehand and he hadn’t been able to live it down since. To be fair, he’d been distracted about several pressing matters at the time — among them Karli and the Flag Smashers — but things like that didn’t amount to much in the eyes of a child. Bucky told himself he’d do better in the future.

“Speaking of which,” Sarah spoke up, “while you two are out today, why not look into getting that couch replaced with something newer that folds out? I can’t stand seeing you on that lumpy old thing.”

“That’s very kind of you, Sarah, but the couch is fine,” Bucky insisted. “You don’t have to replace it on my account.” He decided it was best not to remark that his apartment back home didn’t have any padded furniture at all.

“Yeah, Sarah,” Sam mimed Bucky’s tone, perhaps a little too well.

She tilted her head to acknowledge her brother beside her, “Captain America there can afford a new couch. That one’s the better part of twenty years old.”

She had expert timing, catching Sam with a mouthful of biscuit. He held up a single finger to get their attention and used his other hand to down half a glass of orange juice in record time in a valiant attempt to beat Bucky to the punch.

Bucky was faster. He twirled his fork in his right hand and quickly waved it in mock surrender, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out. Promise.” He had no doubt that the next time Sam got him alone, Sam would be giving him another earful of those discussions.

The two Wilson siblings had been trying in no subtle manner to convince him to consider moving out to Louisiana permanently. Not into their house certainly, but their current arrangement of open-ended, extended visits was something of a steppingstone that had become surprisingly comfortable. There wasn’t much privacy, but he had to admit that although aspects of life in Brooklyn were familiar and reminded him of an earlier era in his artificially long life, they didn’t evoke nearly the same feeling of family and belonging that this house and the people around him did.

Not that he would ever admit that sort of thing to Sam outright, of course.

Even then… now and again he’d catch himself glancing out the kitchen window, looking towards the calm waterfront and docks. If the light was just right, sometimes a flicker of memory would by chance remind him of another time, another place, and a quiet lake in Wakanda that was an ocean away.

Chapter Text

Once breakfast was over and the kids were off to school, the adults of the household got things in order and went their separate ways in what was becoming an increasingly predictable routine.

After Sarah headed out to the boat, Bucky feigned competency with domestic matters and tended to the mass of dishes while Sam started on his morning run.

There was something freeing about the act of simply going for a jog and being alone with his own thoughts for awhile, where he could push himself just a little bit harder each time, just a little bit faster. There was no one around to watch him trace his way along the edge of the lake, but he'd felt those loaded, judgmental stares and he knew only more of that was due to be directed his way in time. He may not have been a super soldier like Steve, but he was damned if he wasn't going to use this as an excuse to get in the best shape of his life.

After what must have been a solid half hour, he heard feet padding up behind him on the trail and he instinctively moved his right to make space for the only other person that would be out this way at this hour.

Bucky easily caught up to him and matched his pace, "Your laps are getting faster," he remarked before turning around so he was jogging backwards, "I mean, if you consider this fast."

"Oh? That's how it's gonna be? Well it's nice to see your humor has aged as well as you have."

"All things considered, I think I'm in pretty good shape for 106, actually."

"That wasn't supposed to be a compliment."

"Well it was."

Sam waved a hand dismissively, but in truth: he was appreciative for the company. Bucky might have that serum running through him and that metal arm of his, but now and then, it was almost easy to forget about them. Whereas Steve made it a point to push himself to his limits, Bucky was intimately aware of just what he was capable of, and far as Sam could tell, he preferred to downplay it most of the time.

"I still don't get how you stay so fit. Do you ever go out and like, swing trees around or something while we're asleep?" Sam inquired. He was only half-joking.

Bucky glanced at him with one of his usual easy shrugs, "The metabolism is part of the package, but yeah, I guess you could say I do my own thing sometimes too, but usually it's more about control than stamina or raw strength."

"So those trees Carlos needed taken off his property, you're telling me that wasn't you, Buck?"

The smirk at the corner of Bucky's lip was telling.

"Man, I knew it. During that last cookout I bet you were doin' that cyborg thing and listening for any heavy items you could throw around when people weren't looking."

"You spent the better part of the time posing so locals could get photos of their Louisiana Hero," Bucky retorted, his voice playful.

"Aw man, don't start that," Sam laughed.

Bucky looked up at the trees spread above them as they jogged, and Sam sensed his thoughts drifting to broader topics, "It's going to be interesting seeing how things comes back together. It's hard to believe it's only been a few months since all that." He made a circular gesture with one hand, and Sam got the reference immediately: since the portals. Since Thanos.

"Last I heard, they're still working on the new Avengers compound," Sam offered, "I think they're hoping to have it done by the Fall, but I'm honestly not sure what happens then. Not like we can just ring Strange and ask for his help planning a trans-dimensional cookout."

His words were playful, but deep down, he was still trying to define what being Captain America meant for him. He'd long-since concluded that he'd have to find his own way. Steve and Tony had arguably been the core leadership of that team, and with them gone, he not only wasn't sure what things would be like if and when the Avengers were needed again, but he was stalwartly certain he didn't want to try to take over that leadership mantle out of obligation to the shield and the man that bore it before him. There were stronger persons and personalities on that team than his black ass, that was for sure.

But even as it was: it meant a lot that Bucky was in his court, whatever came next: aliens, androids, wizards, or even more damn super soldiers.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Bucky agreed.

Sam came to a rolling stop outside the front porch and glanced to the nearby trees that were still lined with padding to protect them. Sarah's feelings towards them changed on a daily basis, rotating between eyesore and testament to a local landmark of where the new Captain America lived and trained. For the moment, she let them be, blissfully unaware of the front window he and Bucky had gotten replaced after one particularly lively training session.

Once Sam caught his breath, the two of them headed inside to grab a drink before they changed gears to practicing tandem maneuvers. Sam passed a glass of lemonade to Bucky and poured himself a glass before he pulled a scrappy hand towel under some cold water and ran it over his face and head, "Man, it's a hundred degrees out, humidity has to be in the 90s, and you barely even broke a sweat. It's hardly fair."

Bucky accepted the glass and sat down across from him, "Well, I spent two years in Wakanda."

"That's a dry heat," Sam countered, still grumbling as he ran the wet towel across his forehead. "Anyway. Now that Sarah's off and doing her thing, you have any interest elaborating on why you made that face when she asked how you slept?"

"So it's Captain America, Sam Wilson: Therapist Edition now?" Bucky groaned.

"You're the one who decided to cut your therapist lose. I'm just asking as a friend and fellow vet that has a sixth sense when you're lying."

"Oh, we've been upgraded to 'friends' now?"

"You're deflecting," Sam deadpanned, sliding his empty glass to one side so there was nothing between them. "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, I'm not going to force you, you know that. If there's some stuff you're internalizing and you're making headway with your way by journaling or macramé or whatever: glad to hear it. You've got my full-support. But sometimes when you are deep in your own head, it's hard to tell if you're just being normal, respectable "man out of time" melancholy, vet stuff, or if it's some of that other stuff."

Bucky chose to keep his eyes focused on his vibranium fingers as he strummed them over the wooden tabletop. It was clear he was deliberating on how to best respond, "I mean, yeah, it's that stuff. Not nightmares, well, at least not as often as before, but you know how we had that talk about closure?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I did what you said. It was good advice. I tried to stop avenging. I did what I could to make amends and help other people get closure. Some of it was rough, but it helped, and it was the right thing to do." He ran his fingers together, and Sam stayed silent to keep him talking.

"But I remember thinking I'd done the work when I handed in Steve's book. That things were just going to get better from there. And they have gotten better, I'm not trying to complain. But this might sound ridiculous, but you don't know how many times I just wanted to add another name to the list, but I just couldn't."

"Whose?" Sam asked, certain he already knew the answer.

Bucky's hands went still as only his eyes flickered up to meet Sam's own, "The Winter Soldier."

Chapter Text

The uncomfortable silence that followed was one where Bucky knew that, strictly speaking, he was meant to continue talking. He was supposed to elaborate on what he'd said, but putting that out there in the open wasn't exactly something he'd planned on telling, well, anyone really. Logically, the statement, true as it was, didn't make a drop of sense.

The best way he'd found to compartmentalize things in his head was to separate himself, James "Bucky" Barnes, from the mess of atrocities Hydra'd programmed into him during his time as the Winter Soldier. The problem was that deep down, the distinctions weren't always quite so clear-cut, and it was those grey areas that continued to bother him. He'd hoped if he simply ignored them and put more distance between himself and that life, that they would fade in time, but here he was.

To Sam's credit, he kept a steady counselor's expression that didn't hold a flicker of teasing or even that damned expression Doctor Raynor used to have that told him he was some sort of broken thing that needed fixed. She'd only seen a fraction of the person in front of her, as much as he was willing to show her, anyway. While he couldn't fault her for it, by contrast, Sam had met the Winter Soldier first.

Bucky felt his lip twitch at the memory.

In the aftermath of that particular mess, Bucky'd never know what conversations the Sam and Steve had privately shared on the topic, but even when Steve had managed to pull him out of hiding some two years later, there was Zemo and his bullshit trigger words. And after that? Well, it wasn't surprising that Sam was only mildly tolerant of him out of respect for Steve. Then, just as quickly, Bucky'd been shipped off to Wakanda and Steve went on the run with Sam until, well, Thanos. If the mad titan hadn't gone after those stones, just how long would they have been dealing with that particular fallout? All because Steve believed Bucky was worth saving.

He'd never brought it up, and neither had Sam. It just was.

They'd moved past it, and Bucky remained appreciative for everything Sam'd done on his behalf, but they also just… didn't talk about this stuff. Sam was good for a quick check-in or a offhanded cyborg joke, but he if he was curious: he didn't pry. To be honest: Bucky was fine with that arrangement most of the time, but sometimes he found himself wondering what the subtle differences might be between what Steve told Sam, what Sam believed for himself, and the strange life Bucky'd experienced firsthand.

Without saying a word, Sam got up, refilled their glasses with fresh lemonade and sat back down. For a moment, Bucky'd even forgotten what he'd last said, and Sam must have picked up on the fact his mind was wandering, "You were sayin' about the list."

"Ah, yeah," Bucky recovered, "I'm not sure I even know where to start with that." He ran a vibranium fingertip around the rim of the glass, watching the condensation shift to the metal as he did. "I'm not even trying to be intentionally obtuse here. I literally don't even know where to start."

"Have you talked with anyone about it?"

He poured the question over in his mind, "Ayo? Kinda? A bit here and there with Shuri, but she was always so intense. I mean, brilliant-intense. I'm not complaining, but talking with her had a way of making me feel absolutely ancient, no matter the topic."

"Wait, wasn't that—" Sam began.

"Yeah, Ayo was with the Dora Milaje that tracked down Zemo while we were in Latvia."

"So you two have history?"

He wasn't sure what combination of emotions rolled over his face at the question, but his hand reflexively went to his left arm, remembering in vivid clarity the moment she'd so cleanly disabled it from him. Part of him was still betrayed that someone he had been through so much with had thought it necessary to put a failsafe in there, but that was something to ruminate over another time. "Yeah. You could say that." He paused, debating if he wanted to say the next part out loud. But it felt important for Sam to understand she wasn't just another face from Wakanda, so he breathed out the words before he could reconsider, "She was the Winter Soldier's last handler, if you want to get technical about it."

That statement was clearly not something Sam had seen coming. He regarded Bucky, as if trying to look for cracks or see if he'd been joking, but when Bucky said nothing, Sam took a deep breath followed by a quick sip of the lemonade in front of him.

"Won't find that in a museum," Bucky added with a shrug, trying to inject humor anywhere into the conversation where he could.

"I'd honestly never thought about it," Sam admitted. "I mean, after Siberia, when Steve said he'd dropped you off I guess I just assumed they just…" he made a gesture with one hand, miming a wand and magic trick.

"Yeah. It was, well, it was a process," Bucky admitted, "There were all sorts of trigger words and fail safes they had to dig out of there. The Winter Soldier wasn't one to go down without a fight, and Hydra just loves their contingencies." He raised his glass in a mock-salute and took another sip of his drink, "Here's to bruises and wild times."

"That sounds awful, man." Sam shook his head, letting out a breath he must have been holding. "And as I said before: We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

Bucky shrugged, gesturing to his shoulder, "I mean, I got a fancy parting gift and new nickname as part of the all-inclusive vacation package. And the Wakandans did a nice job with your new get-up, so I'd say all-in-all we're on pretty good terms, considering."

"So you went straight from that into…?"

Into the fights to stop Thanos. Bucky silently concluded, "Yeah, pretty much."

Bucky had expected more pity in Sam's expression, but instead his friend's face showed only profound sympathy, "I had no idea. I remember feeling, well, a little not myself that it sounded like you were getting some resort–style package in Wakanda while Steve and I were on the run dealing with the fallout of the Sokovia Accords. I didn't really know you then, but none of that was on you. If I ever came across that way, I'm sorry."

Bucky regarded the acknowledgement with a purse of his lips and little nod of his head, "I wasn't exactly myself, either." It was more than that, though. Part of him back then had been jealous that Sam got to spend time around Steve letting that friendship flourish while he was stuck in Wakanda with strangers from what felt like a science fiction novel who swore their only noble goal was to deprogram him.

He'd hated feeling so helpless. So ungrounded. But knowing Sam as he did now, he was glad that he and Steve had been there to watch each other's backs. Sam was a good man. Annoying as all hell sometimes, but a good man.

"I suppose I always expected that once things got cleared up, that things could be like old times. Like before the War old times. But I've just had to accept that hey? That's just not how any of this stuff works. If you'd told me some of this stuff before I was enlisted, I'm not sure what I would have believed least: Hydra, aliens, wizards, talking raccoons, time travel, or the snap? The whole lot of it is just something else."

Sam shifted his weight and Bucky caught it, "Okay, what's that look about?"

His friend made a face, visibly debating if he wanted to respond with an honest reply or deflect. Sam spit it out, "The time travel bit. I guess I always wondered if you knew the plan, and if you did, why you didn't go back too?"

Bucky took a sip of the lemonade as he bought himself time to formulate a reply, "Yeah. We'd discussed it," he admitted, the words slow in coming. "If I'm being honest, it was tempting too. But at the end of the day, it felt like doing that would have been going backward. I didn't have the same unfinished business Steve did, and…" He tapped his vibranium fingers on the table lightly for emphasis, "the Winter Soldier would have still been there." He clicked his tongue, "If time travel worked more like some of the books I read, where you could go back and change things and have the effects all roll forward, I probably would have gone, honestly. It would have been worth it just to stop him. Whatever it took."

He avoided Sam's eyes a moment as he shrugged, shaking his head at the bizarreness of it all, "That aside, I don't know how any of the rest of it would have played out, but it just didn't feel like the right call. I would have just been setting myself up for some really weird stuff that's way beyond my understanding." He looked back up at Sam, "I may not be a man of the times, but I really am trying to move forward."

"I think a lot of people would agree that you're starting to fit in pretty well in Delacroix," Sam pointedly observed.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, "Is this about the couch now?"

Sam offered him a small smile, "Nah. We can table that one for later. If you think I'm going to be responsible for picking out a couch that somehow coordinates with that room, Sarah has another thing coming."

Bucky snorted, but he knew what Sam was doing: he was trying to get back to the topic at-hand. He took a deep breath while he ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, remembering, "I'm not sure about you, but when I enlisted originally, it was all about the War. All about doing the right thing and defending our way of life. Going overseas, kicking Nazi asses, the whole deal. The pamphlet made it sound a lot more compelling."

"Don't they always," Sam agreed.

Bucky nodded, "Well I had an eye for ballistics from early on, and I remember my commanding officer telling me in no minced words that I was soft when I'd take my shots because I was more comfortable shooting to wound rather than to kill."

The man across the table from him silently nodded, no doubt pulling from his own life experiences.

"He told me if I kept taking those shots, it just meant the Nazis would be back another day to take down our own guys. And what do you know: some did. After that, I started aiming for kill shots. Got really good at it too. To the point where I could think of those people on the other side as targets rather than people."

"War's definitely messy like that," Sam agreed in a way that made Bucky certain he'd been there in his own way.

"Yeah. And I'm not saying I would have done anything differently knowing what I know now. I still feel like we were on the right side of history. But here's the thing that I'm still struggling with: I think the Winter Soldier felt like he was too."

Sam cocked his head at that, "Wait, feel? I thought it was more, I dunno, more" he made a robotic motion with one hands, "…programmed in a literal sense?"

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, "It's hard to explain, but it wasn't that clean-cut."

"Have you thought about talking to Banner about any of this?" Sam offered, not a drop of teasing in his tone.

The seeming randomness of the inquiry got the smallest smile out of Bucky, "Nah. I read up on his condition, but it's not like that for me. There's not another consciousness lying in wait under the surface like that." He tilted his head, "After the Wakandans did their thing, all that's left are more like echoes. Shadows where he used to be. Dreams and what-not. And with all respect to Bruce: I think I'd prefer going back into cryo over meeting the Winter Soldier halfway and calling it a day."

"So which list did you consider adding him to?"

Bucky had to give Sam credit for picking up on the vernacular, and not referring to the Winter Soldier and him as the same person. It was easier to talk about this way, "Both, I suppose?" He shook his head and spread his arms wide as he leaned back in his chair for emphasis, "See? Utterly. Ridiculous."

"Both," Sam repeated, testing the word in his mouth as if he was trying to understand it. "I get wanting to avenge what he did. But you're telling me that some part of you wishes you could give the guy closure? That guy. The specific guy that tore my steering wheel straight outta of my car and led me to one of the most awkward insurance calls of my life?"

Bucky titled his head, appreciating the interjection of humor to diffuse the seriousness of the moment, "among other things," he acquiesced, "I didn't say it made sense, I just said I considered it."

The man across from him puckered his lips and breathed out, "Well, you're right: that is solidly some next-level stuff," Sam admitted, "but I'll try to see if I can think of anything that might help."

"You're serious," Bucky stated plainly with more than a little surprise.

"Of course I'm serious, Buck," Sam retorted, feigning insult before a small smile formed at one side of his mouth. Without a moment's pause, he added, "Would Captain America lie to you?"

"Smartass." Bucky felt a smile come over his face and he got to his feet. He picked up the empty glass in one hand and used his other hand to gently rap Sam on the shoulder in a show of friendship and solidarity, "C'mon, Cap. The day's still young, and I'm certain I heard some trees outside talking smack about your aim."

Sam barked out a laugh, "I'll grab the wings and meet you outside."

Chapter Text

"You can toss it harder. I'm not made of glass here," Sam insisted over his coms as he tracked Bucky a distance below. The wings the Wakandan Design Group had given him may have borne a passing resemblance to his old EXO-7s, but they had a heck of a lot more power and all-around tech that he was still getting used to. Not that he was complaining. He felt like there were probably a whole lotta features he hadn't even discovered yet.

Between the sensors on his suit and drones, his overhead display showed a teal and orange outline of where Bucky was running, hidden beneath a sea of lazy green branches of Loblolly pines. The man was clocking just over 70 MPH, and Sam found himself shaking his head, knowing that, knowing him, that probably equated to a healthy jog rather than a sprint. Super soldiers, man.

"If it ends up in the river, you're getting it out, not me," came Bucky's reply into his earbud, followed promptly by an, "Alley-Oop!"

A streak of red, blue, and polished vibranium silver blazed the air a sort distance in front of him, and Sam had to reorient himself on the fly, jerking himself to one side as he triggered his thrusters to catch up to the quickly-moving disk. He pivoted, landing the catch, but underestimated the force behind it. He felt himself waver and then stabilize in midair, and all he could think was that if his arms were sore the next day: he'd only have himself and his damn ego to blame.

"Back-atcha," Sam slung the shield back towards the ground below, continuing their makeshift game of tag, or whatever teambuilding exercise this could be called between the two of them. Neither had explicitly tried to put a name to any of this. Well. Bucky'd tried and Sam had brushed it off, downgrading the inquiry of "partners" to "coworkers." But deep down, he had to admit that first one was likely more accurate, though it also carried a profoundly different weight and responsibility. He was no stranger to either, but he also knew what it felt like to lose a partner, and most days, he didn't want to risk ever feeling like that ever again.

Even still: words had power.

That stuff Bucky'd said to him inside the house had a way of swirling around his head, too. He'd made a lot more assumptions about the man than he'd realized, and if anything, the added clarity just made him feel more kinship and sympathy towards him.

Sam pulled himself low over the treetops, appreciating the view over the horizon, but was abruptly jolted back to the present when he heard the proximity alarm go off. He had to bank and roll to avoid taking the brunt of the impact, but he quickly recovered and chased after the shield as it streaked high, reflecting the light like a rogue planetary body. He increased the speed of his burners to compensate and jetted towards it, catching it cleanly with a flourish. "That almost felt intentional," he remarked into his coms.

"Hard to see you through the trees," came the non-committal reply.

"Your vision really that bad, or that good?"

"Well, I've never met a super soldier with glasses. You?"

Sam barked a laugh, "Touché." His earpiece chirped, and his heads-up display showed an incoming caller: Torres. He hadn't heard from him in weeks. Something must be up if he was making a point to reach out of the blue.

With a quick turn, he coasted low, coming up a short distance behind Bucky on the jogging trail. His feet hit the ground at a jog and he came to a rolling stop as he lifted his arm to put the call through to the onboard speaker system. Bucky turned at the noise and trotted back, putting things together as he leaned against a nearby tree to listen in.

"Wilson here," Sam said smoothly, "I'm here with Sergent Barnes. What's up, Torres. How you doing?"

"Didn't mean to intrude," the figure on the display apologized, "But I wanted to make sure you heard the news. The full report hasn't been released yet. It's on a need-to-know basis."

"News?"

"Yeah. About an hour ago, there was a series of hits in Symkaria that led to the deaths of a number of high-profile individuals. There's a lot of details still coming in, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as I heard the news, because one of the nearby security cameras also picked up this." Bucky stepped closer to get a clear view of the display as it changed to a timestamped playback of what appeared to be a busy, but otherwise typical street view. "Watch the top corner." Torres instructed, "Right there!" The remote playback paused, and a red circle annotation appeared around the area in question. "See it?"

Sam squinted, all business, "Play it back again, Torres. On a loop, please."

When he did, it was apparent that a shadowed figure managed a leap across the better part of half a city block. There were few people that could make a leap like that, and one of them was standing right next to him, "So you think this is our guy?"

Torres's face appeared in the corner of the display, "Could be. It's a few blocks away from one of the murders, but we don't have much to go on. It seemed like this situation might be up your alley." Torres's eyes glanced to Bucky, and his voice hushed with moderated enthusiasm, "Could be one of the big four."

Bucky groaned, "It's four now?"

"Androids, aliens, wizards, and metahumans."

Bucky offered Sam a dramatic roll of his eyes accented with a shrug, "It's sorcerer, not wizard," he made it a point to project his voice so Torres could hear, "That's what Strange calls himself, and he's kinda an expert on the matter."

"Oh, he does?" Torres considered.

"Anyway," Sam interjected before the conversation could be derailed any further, "How soon can you pick us up?"

"I'm already on my way to the Joint Reserve Base." Torres looked off-screen and turned back to the camera, "Should be on the ground by fourteen hundred."

"We'll meet you there. Thanks Torres."

"Anytime, Cap!" There was enthusiasm in his voice, like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to say the key word.

Sam smiled. The moniker was still going to take some time to get used to, but it didn't feel quite so much like it was someone else's when Torres said it. He nodded his head in acknowledgement and ended the call.

"So. Symkaria," Bucky considered aloud.

"You been there?"

"Yep. You?"

"Not on the ground, no. You can tell me about it while we pack."

"Who says I'm coming?" Bucky's tone was smug but playful as he pivoted and started walking back in the direction of the house, "You know Sarah's making mac and cheese tonight."

Sam smirked and sent a look his way as he walked beside his friend on the dirt trail, "I wasn't aware your busy schedule was already booked."

Bucky politely resigned himself with his right hand, "What can I say? Your sister makes some pretty amazing mac and cheese." He rolled his vibranium hand to his other side, making a show of flexing it as he considered aloud, "But if Captain America needs me…"

"Were you always this annoying?"

The man beside him grinned, clapping Sam on his nearest shoulder, "You know what they say: the serum amplifies whatever's inside."

"So enhanced annoying. Got it."

Bucky snorted once but just kept that same smile on his face as he kept pace beside Sam.

Chapter Text

[ID: A cropped painting by Sam (Hail-Hawk-Eye) showing the bright and airy interior of a European hotel room with a beautiful daytime view of the city through a window on the far side of the room. Closer to us, Sam and Bucky are sitting atop a bed while two of Sam’s Wakandan drones patrol the room. Sam is smiling and sitting with his legs dangling off the bed and wearing a tan shirt, green and black jacket, and blue jeans and is using his hands to talk. Bucky is sitting cross-legged beside him atop the bed. Bucky is leaning onto his gunmetal silver and gold prosthetic arm and looks decidedly unimpressed. He is wearing a maroon t-shirt and black pants and is doing his best to ignore the curious red, silver, and blue drone that is observing him from just over his left shoulder while a second drone zooms around in the background of the room. End ID]

From what Bucky overheard during the flight to Symkaria, Sarah wasn't exactly thrilled about the two of them missing dinner, but she understood all the same. Sam had a way of downplaying the whole thing, not the least of which being the lack of details on what they were doing, where they were going, or how long they'd be gone. "Maybe the boys and I will see you on the news," Sarah'd offered encouragingly.

Somehow, Sam managed one of his disarming smiles to the video display on his phone alongside a non-committal, "Ha. Maybe. I'll let you know how it all goes. We'll talk soon though. Love ya."

"Back at-cha," Sarah concluded.

Seeing how much those two stubborn and strong-willed individuals cared about one another while also navigating the dance of not overstepping into each other's personal lives was something Bucky felt was a sheer art form unto itself. It was impressive, honestly, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered about his own sister, Rebecka.

She'd passed away before he'd made it out of Hydra's grip, but he'd always wondered how things had turned out for her. How they might've been as adults. He'd never know. She'd lived her life thinking he'd died back in 1945, and honestly: it was probably for the best. But it wasn't like that kept him from wondering now and then how things might've been different.

Sam caught his eye as he put his phone to one side and got comfortable for the rest of their long haul, "You good?"

"Good enough. It's just nice the both of you have each other."

"Makin' up for lost time on account of the blip," Sam offered, letting Bucky's inner-thoughts stay his own. "We used to bicker like you wouldn't believe, but we're good now, yeah. Still not really sure she gets what I do for a living, but that's fine by me." He stretched his legs, "I think she'd hoping I end up on a cereal box or something so she can brag to her friends."

Bucky managed a smile at that before a spot of turbulence made him grab at the netting behind him. The plane evened out quickly, but the motion of it was an abrupt reminder that they were in the center of a steel shell hurtling hundreds of miles per hour, tens of thousands of feet in the air. It wasn't that he was strictly afraid of flying, but it wasn't something you'd catch him doing unless it was strictly necessary. "Just so we're clear, we're not rendezvousing with anyone when we touch down in Symkaria?"

"Correct. Their government, well, since they're part of the United Nations, they'd need to be alerted if anything we're aiming to do would impact the Sokovia Accords. You know how it is since we signed. But they have their own forensics on the ground, and we'll just… sight-seeing… to see if we can uncover anything they might've missed. Could be nothing more than a political hit that's out of our jurisdiction, but would be nice to know if our guy's related to any of it or not. Symkaria doesn't exactly have a neighborhood Spider-Man."

Sam leaned back, "So, we're not representing our government in any official capacity. Currently. So it would be good if we can keep things…quiet."

"I like quiet," Bucky offered agreeably.

"I thought you might. Think of it as a vacation from the mosquitoes back home."

Bucky tilted his head, "Not sure what you've heard of Symkaria, but I can think of better vacationing spots, especially this time of year."

"I'm sure we'll be back on the Bayou before we know it," Sam said with a smile as he put on his headphones and leaned back to indulge in some classic Motown and soul music for the long flight ahead of them.

The music was just loud enough that Bucky could hear the tinny rhythm tinker in his peripheral. Only a few months ago, it probably would have annoyed him, but now he found there was something soothing knowing that Sam was lounging just a few feet away.

He still wasn't great at human connection, he might never be, but moments of quiet companionship like this: they were enough.

The flight to Symkaria was about as uneventful as they could have hoped for, save for a few scatterings of turbulence that made Bucky's stomach suddenly drop out from under him.

Sam managed to sleep through the bulk of the trip in a show of super human skill that perplexed every base instinct in Bucky that told him to stay vigilant. Try as he might to push away the tension, it rode along with him the whole time, piquing at every creak and noise the lumbering plane made along its route.

For his part, he spent the bulk of the sixteen hour flight trying to fill his time pouring over his phone with research on Symkaria in an attempt to jog his memory of the place and to catch-up on recent events. Hours later, he found himself browsing a Wikipedia article on the Simarillion without any clear memory on how he'd gotten there. When his battery finally gave out, he considered getting up and asking Torres if he had a charger, but he didn't want to risk waking Sam in the process, so he decided his web-surfing could wait.

He managed to be alone with his thoughts for what felt like an agonizing hour before he prodded at his phone again, hoping it had magically managed to charge itself when he wasn't looking. No luck. He slowly shifted to one side and laid horizontally across the seats, thinking maybe he'd give that sleep thing another try, only to be nearly thrown on his ass from another jolt of turbulence.

Eventually, he concluded sleep could wait until he had his feet planted firmly on the ground.

It was a noble sentiment, but it also meant that by the time they landed, caught a taxi, and tossed their luggage into their hotel room, he'd been up for just over twenty-five hours and was already clearly feeling the error of his ways.

By comparison, Sam was bright and chipper, as if he'd just experienced the best sleep of his life. He'd already unpacked his toiletries and was presently storing his bulletproof vest and firearms while Bucky took a moment to run a cold washcloth over his face in a feeble attempt to wake himself up.

"You've really got to start learning to catch a little shuteye on flights, Buck. You sure you don't want to crash for a bit before we head out?" Sam's voice was reasonable.

"Nah, I can make due. Better to see if we can find out anything while the trail's still hot. It's only another five or so hours until sundown, besides," he did his best to stifle the start of a yawn, but Sam raised a judgmental eyebrow as he caught the tail-end of it.

"If you say so," Sam acquiesced as he tapped his wrist communicator before putting on the finishing touches of what he called his "incognito getup." Bucky thought the blue jeans, white shirt, and brown leather jacket made him look like a fashionable tourist, but he would have felt better if he worse the vest just in case. By contrast, Sam insisted that being seen packing heat while wearing a vest sent the wrong energy to the wrong people. Bucky hoped he was right. He was a lot more comfortable about the idea of a well-coordinated sting operation over someone playing target practice with them out on some foreign streets he only half-recalled.

Bucky followed-suit by tossing on a dark grey shirt, black leather jacket, and gloves. After a few months in Louisiana off and on, he was surprised how peculiar it felt to have to hide the hand again. Even still, it was the right call to draw less attention, especially since the Winter Soldier had once been active here.

All-in-all, it was certainly preferable to that ridiculous approach they'd taken in Madripoor. Sharon had promised she'd take care of any cellphone videos that surfaced from that mess, but the thought of anyone seeing any of it continued to be a pit in Bucky's stomach. Until he'd seen what happened with Walker, well, he wasn't sure the people that oversaw his pardon would be nearly so understanding of how he'd gone along and played dress up at Zemo's request.

To be fair: If you looked at it from far enough away, most any portion of the entire Zemo situation was likely enough to stifle and reconsider his pardon, and he had to wonder how the Wakandans had negotiated any of the politics he'd uprooted along the way and across international borders. He was certain that wasn't and wouldn't be the end of that.

A nearby chirping sound pulled him back to the present. God, he was tired.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, using one finger to key in something to the communicator on his opposite wrist. After a moment he turned to the window and lifted it a few inches. Seconds later, two of his remote drones slipped inside and circled once around the room before taking position over the bed. Sam went and opened the chest for his wingsuit, pulling out the harness of the flight suit so they could eventually dock and recharge. "Redwing's finished collecting data of a three mile vicinity surrounding us which should cover our initial areas of interest. I sent the intel to our phones and watches and let Sharon know what we're up to just in case she catches wind of anything."

Bucky nodded an affirmation but his attention was on the drones. Shuri'd done a damn good job crafting her take on, what had she called it? "Primitive" Stark tech. It'd actually been her idea to draft up a pair of them as a tactical contingency and add in a number of impressive bells and whistles. Just looking at them, you'd have no idea of the amount of Wakandan tech in those damn things, and that was probably for the best. He'd take their work over the military's any day. "Which one's Redwing?" Bucky asked.

Sam sent an accusatory look his way. The look of a teacher that thinks a problem student isn't paying attention.

"I was listening," Bucky defended as he leaned against the wall. "I'm just asking."

"You asking to name it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Because that definitely sounded like you wanted to name it."

"No," Bucky cleanly defended as if he'd never heard of something so ridiculous, "It's a reconnaissance drone, not a pet. What's next? You think I'm going to name the arm?"

Even still, by the way Sam regarded the drones, it was clear this was a topic he'd given serious consideration to, bless his sweet southern heart. Why in god's name did it matter, and how could he even tell them apart?

"That one," Sam said, gesturing to the one nearest him, "That's Redwing." Bucky was sure the damn thing even bobbed when it heard its name. Sam swung his arm to acknowledge the second one, which dipped and hovered casually out of striking distance of Bucky's nearest hand, "And I think I'm going to call that one JB."

Bucky was tired enough that he wasn't following the reference, "JB?"

"James Barnes," Sam deadpanned. "He's the slower of the two. I'll put a little wolf sticker or something on him so you can tell him apart."

Bucky groaned as he regarded the thing as it made a show of proudly doing a stationary barrel roll, "Please don't."

With a wide grin and a tap on his wrist, Sam recalled the drones for charging and slipped the case away for safekeeping, toggling the cloaking shield Shuri'd put on it as he did: she really did think of everything. "Come on. Let's get some coffee in you on the way to the square," Sam suggested as he headed to the door.

"The caffeine won't help much," Bucky reminded him, "metabolism, remember?"

"Okay, well. We'll get some because I think fancy-ass coffee is delicious and will help us get to know the locals."

[ID: A painting by Sam (Hail-Hawk-Eye) showing the bright and airy interior of a European hotel room with a beautiful daytime view of the city through a window on the far side of the room. Closer to us, Sam and Bucky are sitting atop a bed while two of Sam’s Wakandan drones patrol the room. Sam is smiling and sitting with his legs dangling off the bed and wearing a tan shirt, green and black jacket, and blue jeans and is using his hands to talk. Bucky is sitting cross-legged beside him atop the bed. Bucky is leaning onto his gunmetal silver and gold prosthetic arm and looks decidedly unimpressed. He is wearing a maroon t-shirt and black pants and is doing his best to ignore the curious red, silver, and blue drone that is observing him from just over his left shoulder while a second drone zooms around in the background of the room. End ID]

Sam was also kind enough to lend his creative talent to illustrate a drone-infused scene from this chapter, when Sam offered to let Bucky name one of the drones, and when Bucky decided to be a smartass about it… Sam decided to name the second one JB (“James Barnes”). I especially love their expressions. Bucky is just so DONE with this drone baloney. XD

Please check out Sam’s Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr accounts to see more of his fun, character-infused art! I love his comic style and how he brings his characters to life, and you should absolutely check out his other work!

Once again: Immeasurable thanks to Sam for capturing this adorable scene with Redwing, JB, Sam, and Bucky.

Chapter Text

Roughly a day earlier...

In his dream, he was running for his life.

His feet hit the pavement in a stumble of motion as he propelled himself forward. He didn't know where he was running to, but his heart was pounding and every instinct in him told him he had to keep moving.

His free hand clutched his empty shoulder socket and chanced a glance behind him at a wall of water that towered over the nearest buildings and stretched over the horizon. Where was he? Did he recognize these streets? He felt like he should have, but it didn't matter because that surreal tsunami was bearing down on him, casting horrific shadows over everything in its path. He knew it was coming, and when it did, it'd consume everything it touched.

The busy street around him was full of people milling about their daily business, but their faces were blank. Not simply lacking expression: truly, eerily, blank – with no eyes, noses, or mouths to lay the cornerstones for familiarity no less emotion. Some turned his way as he ran, but most of them simply ignored him as if he didn't exist. He opened his mouth to cry out, to warn them of what was coming, but no sound came. His free hand went to his throat, as if somehow the act of touching it might allow him to scream for their attention, but still: nothing came. Didn't they see it? Why weren't they running? They should be running.

He tripped and fell to one knee, chancing a glance behind him as his head snapped up to see that the wall of stormy water was already swallowing the block behind him. His eyes widened in horror as cars, people, everything the liquid touched was snapped up and pulled in like some unfathomable tornado of vengeful water, yet only a few feet in front of the nearest wave: people walked about as if nothing was wrong. How could they not see it? It was right there!

He tried to push himself up to his feet, and fumbled for a moment when he remembered he only had one arm for leverage. What had happened to the other one? A bellow of guttural fury behind him urged him to his feet and he stumbled forward again. The crowds of faceless people seemed to be thicker now as they lumbered in tightly-knit groups. He did what he could to weave his way through them, but hands grabbed for his wrists, his ankles, as their looming forms turned towards him and tried to slow his progress. He spun, trying to dislodge them, but the firm fingers crept back over his skin. All the while, the wall of water was gaining on him. He could feel the sharp spray of the droplets on his back, and the wail of its cry ringing in his ears. The sounds of the destruction it brought were getting closer, yet no one around him was acting as if they saw it at all, even though the shadows loomed over them.

When he opened his mouth to cry out, he felt the waves overtake him, sending him end-over-end into the murky abyss. He choked on water, flailing in a blind panic as he spiraled into the shadows, his vision fading into darkness as it did.

Bucky bolted upright.

Sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes flashed around him in a panic before recognition began to ebb into him. He gulped down a few breaths of air and tried to focus in what was in front of him, just like he'd been told to do.

He swung his legs over the side of the grey couch and put his good hand on the cushions beside him, grounding himself: He was at the Wilson's. In Louisiana. He was James Buchanan Barnes. It was 2024. He was safe. It'd just been a dream. A nightmare, but a dream.

He rubbed his fingers together as his good hand went to his left shoulder, assuring himself the other arm was still in fact there, right where it should be. It was. He kept his eyes open but downcast as he tried to focus on his senses: the quiet ticking of the clock in the front room. The smell of yesterday's bar-b-q and the waft of cornbread somewhere off in the kitchen. He was safe.

He wasn't sure what time it was, but he was relieved that the household didn't seem to be up yet. By his estimations, that made it a perfectly acceptable time to get up and go on a run before breakfast so he could clear his head. He wasn't sure what any of that'd been about, but he told himself it was better than most of his nightmares, so that was saying something. Not reliving dreams about the atrocities he'd committed as the Winter Soldier was progress, right?

No one was around to see the face he made as he looked down at his hands and flexed each of them experimentally. He used to journal. Back then. Back when he was on the run from Hydra and was trying to work things out. He'd written down everything he could think of in what must've been a dozen mismatched notebooks. Just a hodge-podge of scattered bits and pieces of anything and everything he could remember. It felt like trying to piece together a cryptic puzzle without a guide and with too many pieces that never quite fit together as they should. He'd been certain, so certain, that Hydra was bound to find him again and that he'd lose every memory he'd earned back that he poured himself into those damn journals with everything he had, sometimes going so far as to rip pages out and tape them in place to make the order of them make even a drop more sense, but even still: it was a mess. You couldn't make sense of a life like that. Couldn't understand what it was like, which was precisely why he'd never told anyone about the journals. Not Steve. Not Doctor Raynor. Not Sam.

While he still had a deep well of only marginally-resolved feelings over Zemo and that book he'd drummed up, literally the only thing positive he could say about the entire situation was that at least he hadn't fallen back into Hydra's hands again, only have his mind scrambled and wiped to an obedient blank once more.

He wanted to think that after Wakanda, everything was better, but somewhere deep down: part of him remained terrified of the idea of losing his memory again. He'd poured himself into those journals because they were supposed to be there to help him remember if worst came to worst, and he had no idea where that rag-tag backpack and everything in it had ever ended up since Bucharest. By now, it'd been what? Seven years and change? He felt certain he'd never know. He told himself they didn't matter, but the not knowing part still bothered him, like maybe there was something in them he'd missed.

That felt like a lifetime ago. But he'd be lying to himself if he didn't wonder what those precious pages had in them. Had there been more dreams like this? Had he forgotten things when Zemo had said the trigger words or when he'd worked with Ayo and Shuri to get the twisted wiring in his brain sorted out? He couldn't be sure, but there was an unsettling familiarity in even dreams like this that he couldn't place, and the not-knowing bothered him in a completely different way from the decidedly more pointed and violent nightmares that were a direct mirror to his troubled and complicated past.

He told himself he'd feel better after that run. So without any further delay, he stood up, adjusted his dog tags, folded and put away the sheets, blankets, and pillows, put on his shoes, and headed out into the arms of another misty Delacroix morning.

Chapter Text

[ID: A close-up of an illustration by Ghostbite showing an exterior view of a European city. It's late afternoon and Bucky and Sam are standing outside. Bucky is seen in profile from the chest-up and is looking to the left. He is talking and appears distressed and is wearing a blue jacket. Sam is standing a short distance away. He has his arms crossed and looks worried. He is wearing a tan shirt and green and black jacket. End ID]

Bucky hadn't been kidding about Symkaria not being the sort of spot you travel to for a vacation. Even though it was broad daylight out, the country had all the surface-level appeal of Madripoor, only without any of the bright neon lights, drugs, loud music, piercings, or guns. Actually, on second thought, the only thing it really had in common with Madripoor was the idea that he was glad he wasn't carrying anything valuable, because he was pretty sure one of the petty thieves tucked around the corners would have been able to sniff it out from a mile away.

Ego be damned: he was terrible at this undercover stuff.

The streets of Aniana, the capitol city, felt decidedly European, with the sort of crumbling grace that comes when a place has spent more time than not trying to figure out who it wants to be in the face of repeated attempts at occupation and the push and pull of one too many wars. The streets were busy with the sort of people that knew where they were going and had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with two individuals who, Sam admitted, clearly looked like out-of-place tourists. Well, he did at least. Bucky could probably pass if he needed to since he spoke not only the regional dialect, but Hungarian as well. Watching him flip it on and off like that was something. It was like seeing him become a different person for a sentence or two, and then boom: back to that old man who accidentally slipped into a hint of his Brooklyn drawl when he wasn't paying attention.

That being as it was: he was still damn glad to have Bucky there playing a guide of sorts rather than being forced to wander through Aniana as someone who stood out like a cicada on a wedding cake. Better they assumed he was a tourist than Captain America: incognito edition, too. He took a sip of his drink – which was not nearly as fancy as he'd hoped – and tilted his head to regard an aged bronze statue that dominated an intersection of the town's central hub. A stalwart figure of a man holding Symkaria's flag was poised with his chin up and hand-to-breast beside a regal lion with a broken tail that had clearly seen better days. One of the rulers of the old monarchy, perhaps? "Anyone you knew?" he asked man beside him, whose eyes were presently searching the nearby crowds for potential threats.

Bucky looked first at Sam, then at the statue and back, as if trying to figure out if the remark was meant as a joke or not. He clearly wasn't certain one way or the other, and eventually offered only a passive, "Not sure. Hard to tell by the likeness."

There was something in his tone and posture that Sam immediately caught wind of: the decided "I'm over here in my private world brooding about things"-Bucky that used to be the norm rather than the exception, complete with his penchant for that stare. Sam quickly pivoted, hoping to avoid dredging up anything further, "Hey man. I was mostly kidding."

Bucky glanced back his way with a small shrug and a lot less emotion on his face than Sam would have liked. It was like over the past hour, all the joy had been sucked right out of it, leaving his expression empty and unreadable. "Come on," he offered as his way of telling Sam he was fine even though Sam damn well knew better.

Sam managed his best You okay? expression with his face, and apparently that was just enough to draw the smallest bit of the White Wolf out of his self-imposed personal cave of horrors.

"All good," Bucky said in a tone that was meant to reassure. It wasn't entirely convincing, but it was close enough. Self-awareness was half the battle after all, right? "Just feeling bad I told Cass and AJ we'd be there when they got back from school."

Sam raised an eyebrow at the deflection. Even if somewhere in that man's brain he was feeling like he'd issued some grand betrayal for missing dinner, he had no right to make it sound so damn dire. "They're kids, man. They get it. They just like havin' you around."

Bucky didn't say anything to that, but Sam felt certain he saw his shoulder relax, if just a little so he continued, "You should hear the two of them askin' about you when you're back in Brooklyn." He did his best impression of AJ, complete with his signature pleading eyes, "Uncle Sam, where's Bucky? When's he gonna be back? I remembered somethin' I wanted to show him."

This got the smallest pull of humanity out of those cold blue eyes of his, "Fine fine. I just don't like lying to your nephews."

"You weren't lying." Sam emphasized, "And you didn't break no promises neither. The moment we're headed back, there's bound to be cornbread, slaw, and a load of dishes waiting for us back home like no time's passed at all."

Bucky turned to meet his eyes then, and regarded him with that intense, soul-gazing stare of his. His eyes were focused on Sam's as if he was trying to piece apart what parts Sam was saying only to be nice, versus what were the real bits. He coulda' stared all day for as much as Sam cared, because he was speaking his truth, and he hoped maybe one day Bucky would realize that deep down, he wasn't a damn burden to any of them.

The old man squinted his face, grumbling something to himself as he broke away from the stare. Good. Hopefully he got the message.

They'd taken the long way around the government building the murders were said to had taken place. The local paper they'd picked up at the coffee shop held a bit more information on the killings, assuming the news was to be believed. Bucky'd quietly translated and summarized the reports, clarifying that three members of the royal family as well as some of their staff and security guards had been killed the day before by one or more unknown assailants. The local military police were still looking for leads as well as anyone who had information on the case. The papers said nothing about that mysterious figure Torres had gotten reports on nearby.

As they walked, Sam let Bucky have his silence and shifted his gaze to the tops of the nearby buildings which maxed-out at about five stories tall and had the steeply-sloped rooves of a place that braced itself each year for many months of heavy snows. Whoever or whatever had managed to run across them must have by his account a damn good sense of balance. The buildings were a far-cry from somewhere like the flat-topped structures of New York, that was for sure.

Bucky was apparently not far enough gone in his own world to miss what Sam was looking up at, "Those are… steep," he observed.

"Doable?" Sam asked, trying to keep the specifics of the question between the two of them all-the-while resisting the urge to make a cyborg quip while Bucky visually calculated the distance.

"Not exactly my specialty, but yeah," he admitted. His voice was even, attentive, but Sam couldn't help but feel there was a whole hell of a lot more going on that brain of his.

There was one of those awkward silences between them, where Sam wasn't trying to press and Bucky seemed to be waffling on if he wanted to say something. If they hadn't been standing to the side of a street in the middle of foreign soil, he might've pressed him, but it didn't feel like the right thing to do. For someone who'd claimed he'd been here, back then, he was keeping things awfully close to the chest, and Sam had a damn good suspicion why.

It was Bucky that broke the silence first, "I think I might recognize things better…" he gestured up. Up there.

"Oh. Okay let's get going then."

Bucky nodded, but his eyes remained cast up as he scanned the buildings high above them.

Going out onto the slopes of the rooves was definitely not going to be a thing in broad daylight or especially without his wings, but there was a certain renewed intensity in Bucky's gait as they finally navigated their way out to a four story balcony a block away, courtesy of a fire escape whose latch Bucky had made quick and silent work out of.

When they made it as high as they could, Bucky gazed out over the view of the city while Sam took the opportunity to make sure no one was home to see two folks from out of town borrowing their balcony for bit. Convinced they were in the clear, he stepped back to the ledge to Bucky's right where the other man was silently observing things with that vacant stare of his that told him there was a lot more going on. That stuff. Winter Soldier stuff.

He tried the easy approach, "Doesn't seem like the sort of thing we'd see from one of the Flag Smashers."

"Yeah. It doesn't fit their style at all." Bucky said it in a way that told Sam he already had a working theory. Did he really have to pull it out of him?

But before Sam could ask, Bucky found his voice. Tired as it was, there was more emotion in it than Sam would have thought he would have been able to drum up, all things considered. "It feels like there's something I should be able to remember, but it's just out of my periphery. I don't think I was here just once, but I can't even figure out when. Usually I can at least pinpoint the when. Something about the mission. Anything."

The straightforwardness of his admittance was enough to catch Sam's immediate attention, and he leaned forward a little, hoping to catch Bucky's line of sight, but this wasn't one of those sorts of talks.

Sam didn't know if in their entire time of knowing each other if he'd ever heard him use the word "mission," but he respected the very particular, very acute weight it carried. By contrast, Sam used the word liberally. It was just part of his soldier's vocabulary, but it hadn't taken much for him to put together why Bucky found a way to dance around the term in pleasant company like it was a curse word.

He also observed: he could see the way Bucky set his jaw, the way his hands tensed anxiously, like he was trying to remain hypervigilant of his own strength even as his mind wandered over itself trying to sort things out. He had moody moments, certainly: but not like this. Never like this. Bucky had a way of hiding his demons and keeping them locked away. If something was bothering him, he was quick to deflect or change the subject, and in the rare times they spoke about things, it was in the broadest of strokes, in a manner so detached it almost made it sound like he was talking about someone else. He could never quite tell if it was just how Bucky was, or if the only way he'd managed to wrestle with his demons was to keep their names and the power they held over him all to himself for so long. He knew he liked to put up a front that he'd sorted things out and he was okay, but right then, something was obviously twisting and snarling through his mind, and before it risked spiraling further, Sam found himself slipping seamlessly into counselor mode.

"Is it a flashback?" Sam said with what he hoped was the right balance of compassion and sensitivity.

He honestly thought Bucky might shut him out, but instead the man beside him shook his head dismissively as he licked his lips and quickly found his voice, "No it's not that at all. I mean, I'm not exactly new to any of this PTSD stuff. I'm practically an expert in the field, but this isn't that at all. It's like there should be memories there, but there aren't." he emphasized the plural, stopping only momentarily to catch his breath. He still was keeping his eyes locked forward, though his face twisted in frustration, "I used to log this stuff, try to sort out the order and the timing, how it all fit together, but I'm just," he sounded so defeated, and far closer to the edge of real emotion than Sam was used to hearing from his friend. It was damn heartbreaking, "It's just not there."

"It's okay Buck, I'm here." Sam slowly extended a hand and rested it lightly on top Bucky's shoulder. While the man initially flinched at the unexpected contact, he used the moment to take a deep breath and close his eyes as he visibly grounded himself. When his lips moved and no sound came out, and it took a moment for Sam to realize Bucky was silently counting to first ten, then twenty. By thirty, his lips stopped trembling. He wasn't used to seeing his friend like this, and part of him twisted inside to think of some of the off-color "jokes" he'd lobbed at him over the years. Jabs borne out of his own frustrations and misplaced resentment. Man hadn't deserved that.

He wasn't altogether sure what he expected Bucky to say next, but he wasn't prepared for the rapid change of subject, "Anyway. If I had to guess? It's possible Hydra is involved. They're all about power moves on heavy-hitters like this, and if that's the case, this might not just be about Symkaria."

Sam blinked. How on earth was this man able to squash his emotions just like that? It couldn't be healthy. "As good a guess as any," he offered, gesturing his chin up, as if implying their unknown, potential assassin, "but I'm not sure where that puts us."

That very particular tone came back to Bucky's voice as he looked out over the square below, still doing everything he could to avoid Sam's concerned gaze, "There's someone that might. But it's a long shot."

"Who?" Sam asked, genuinely not sure where Bucky's current string of logic could be leading him.

"Ayo," Bucky concluded aloud.

His voice was void of expression as he said it, but there was a very particular weight in the single syllable that told Sam he was only keeping pace with the smallest fraction of whatever was going on inside Bucky's head, and he wasn't sure if he was going to like it.

[ID: An illustration by Ghostbite showing an exterior view of a European city. It's late afternoon and Bucky and Sam are standing outside on a balcony. Bucky is seen in profile from the knees-up and is leaning onto his arms atop a wooden porch rail. He is talking and looking to the left and appears distressed. He's wearing a blue jacket, dark brown pants, and warm brown gloves. Sam is standing a short distance away with his back against a rail. He has his arms crossed and looks worried. Sam is wearing a tan shirt, green and black jacket, and blue jeans. End ID]

[ID: An alternative illustration by Ghostbite showing an exterior view of a European city. It's late afternoon and Bucky and Sam are standing outside on a balcony. Bucky is seen in profile from the knees-up and is leaning onto his arms atop a wooden porch rail. He is talking and looking to the left and appears distressed. He's wearing a blue jacket, dark brown pants, and warm brown gloves. Sam is standing a short distance away with his back against a rail. He has his arms crossed and looks worried. Sam is wearing a tan shirt, green and black jacket, and blue jeans. Crackles branch across the composition, centered around Bucky. They break open a fractured view of the same scene, but viewed in wintertime. The scenery behind is awash with deep blues, purples, magentas, and reds, and rigid icicles punctuate the disconcerting view. End ID]

January 2023 Update:

This uncomfortable character moment between Bucky and Sam wherein Bucky confesses about his missing memories has always been a really pivotal scene for me, and I'm thrilled that Ghostbite (https://ghostbite0.tumblr.com/) was willing to lend her skill to create an all-new illustration to bring a powerful moment from this chapter to life.

Mal was the one that came up with the idea of having an alternative version of the illustration with added graphical elements that really called attention to Bucky's inner struggle and mental state, and I am just *thrilled* with how everything turned out! There is such thought and intention behind her decisions, and it all wrapped-up together to create a really powerful piece. I love her unique approach, which really added to the gravitas and emotion of the scene.

Please check out Ghostbite’s Tumblr and Twitter accounts to see more of her beautiful and emotive character work!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to her for lending her time and skill to capture such a poignant moment between Sam and Bucky.

Chapter Text

Neither of them said much of anything as they made their way back down the fire escape and saw fit to navigate the afternoon crowds towards their hotel. If he was going to do this, really going to do this, he needed to be able to focus, and that meant getting away from the sprawling city and its plethora of uneasy questions it was dredging up in him.

Bucky led the way, but it was mostly because he knew if Sam did, the man would be turning back to look at him every few steps just to make sure he hadn't wandered off or something. He was tired, perhaps a little hungry, but he wasn't that tired.

By the time they approached the hotel room and Bucky stepped through, it took him a moment to realize Sam was no longer following him, and he turned to see the man lingering in the hallway wearing one of those concerned looks of his. "Is this call a you thing, or something you want me to stick around for?"

To be honest: Bucky hadn't considered one way or the other, he was so deep into spinning his gears trying to figure out how the conversation might go that he hadn't even thought about Sam. It was nice of Sam to offer him the out, but a quick gut-check confirmed that it was likely he could stay on-topic easier if he knew Sam was listening-in. "It's fine. There might be something useful, and besides: I've overheard enough of your conversations between you and Sarah and the kids." That last bit, while factually true, was also not anything like the conversation he was bracing himself to have with Ayo. Maybe the mere fact Sam was there would keep him from chickening out. His friend stepped inside, locking the door behind him as he did and stepped over to his bed while he waited on Bucky to take lead on whatever he had planned.

This was hardly the first time Bucky'd wanted to broach the subject with Ayo, but most times he could just squelch things, shove 'em down, and tell himself it was better to look forward than being tempted to look back at what was. Some of it still felt surprisingly fresh thanks to the snap, or the decimation as the Wakandans called it, but she had another five years of life experiences in there, and as far as he was concerned: a lot more important matters to attend to.

Like Zemo. Man, he wasn't sure if they'd ever be on great terms again after that one.

Sam was continuing to look at him with those Do you want to talk about it? eyes but Bucky ignored it for the moment as he went for the Kimoyo beads he had stored in one pack, making it a point to get up and close the shades outside before he rolled the strands over one wrist.

Sam couldn't help himself, "Wakandan friendship bracelet?"

"Something like that," Bucky said with a casual shrug. He adjusted his neck, hoping it might shuck off some of the tension that was rising in him. Before he could change his mind, he lifted his hand palm-up and touched the nearest bead, which resonated a deep purple. "Ayo," he said succinctly and waited while the message was transmitted. Maybe she wouldn't even pick u—

A moment later, the grains of one runed vibranium bead shifted to the palm of his hand and projected the head and torso of a familiar armored figure in front of him: Ayo.

Even though Sam had literal hands-on experience with Wakandan tech, Bucky caught him make an "oh wow," with this mouth out of the corner of his eye, but chose to ignore it.

"White Wolf," Ayo acknowledged him. She must be in a good mood if she was opening with that.

"Ayo." Into the fray he went, "I'm here with Sam and—"

"Proper thanks for your help with the new suit and wings, Ayo." Sam interrupted in the most respectful, upbeat, Captain America tone possible, "Everything's incredible. Really above and beyond. Thank you again to you and everyone who had a hand in it."

Right. Bucky was so far up his own head that he'd completely forgotten that little thing in the moment. But it made sense to open with that, so good on Sam. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten that Ayo wasn't available when they'd done a low-tech video call in to thank Shuri a few weeks back. Now he felt like an asshole. Wouldn't be the last time.

Ayo wasn't one to smile often, not really, but she looked pleased, and her eyes flicked back to Bucky's, well aware of whom the favor had been passed down from, "It was our pleasure to be able to help a friend of Wakanda."

Bucky wasn't sure if that "friend" was supposed to refer to he or Sam, but he decided there wasn't a need for clarity in the moment, so he nodded and decided to get straight to business before he lost his nerve entirely, "We have a case we're looking into here in Symkaria. I'm not sure you've heard the news, but there was a string of high profile murders of some of the royal family here. We're trying to investigate if there's any connection to an individual one of our informants caught sight of that … might be powered in some way. We're not sure." The tone of his voice was remarkably even, considering how much his stomach was lunging around inside, trying to figure out the right way to approach the question he wanted to ask.

"We're not strictly on the books with this one," Sam added helpfully. "Just doing our due diligence."

Smart. Ayo clearly heard Sam's comment, but she remained focused on Bucky, "The news had found its way to us." Right. Shuri. She must have intercepted some of the transmissions. Of course she had. Ayo regarded him with focused intention: the focus of someone who knows there's more, "But you called upon me, not Shuri. Not Okoye."

She had him there. "Look, I know the Winter Soldier was active around here before," spit it out, Bucky, spit it out, "but… I'm… the details aren't there. Nor the when. Just shadows where it feels like memories should be." Did his voice sound as shaky as it felt? He was trying to hold it together. This wasn't the time. "I was hoping maybe there was a chance you might've remembered me saying anything about it. Anything that might help." He found himself still talking, "What happened here recently could be completely unrelated. Very possibly is. But … if it's Hydra…" His voice trailed off because he realized he hadn't taken a breath the whole time he'd been talking.

"The stakes could affect many more," the figure in front of him agreed. For a moment, Ayo didn't say anything further and Bucky worried the transmission might have frozen, but then he saw the way her face shifted, and something he couldn't place ran over it. Did she know something? "We should talk," she concluded pointedly at Bucky, her thick accent rolling off her tongue with intention.

"I can send our coordinates—" Bucky began.

"We have them," Ayo said succinctly. Of course they did. They probably even had tracking beacons on everything, including the wings and his damn arm. "I'll send a jet to pick you up Southeast of Aniana." It wasn't phrased as a question.

"Wait, we're going there?" Sam asked, obviously playing catch-up to the sudden pivot of plans. "To Wakanda?"

Bucky immediately caught the unspoken question on Ayo's face. It was that silent look she gave when something was due to be uncomfortable and she wanted to make sure he was still with her. How had Shuri put it? Something about there could be no trust without consent. It was also uncomfortably close to the way she looked at him before she'd said the words. Those words. He dismissed the thought just as quickly, telling himself that whatever Sam'd seen firsthand or heard from Steve was enough for him to know what this was about, "We're good. He's with me."

She acknowledged his answer with an almost imperceivable tilt of her head, "Then we will talk then, White Wolf."

He nodded and ended the call, watching as the grains of vibranium seamlessly reformed themselves into the bead on his wrist.

"Huh." Sam said, shattering the silence that lingered in the room, "You weren't kidding about the White Wolf thing."

Bucky turned to him, trying to force himself to relax, to let himself think about anything other than whatever Ayo wanted to show him in Wakanda that she couldn't just relay over the call, "What? You thought I made that up?"

"It crossed my mind," Sam admitted. "Last time I saw you two squaring off back in Latvia, I sure as hell couldn't understand much of what was said between you, but I definitely heard 'James.'" He'd already started to pack. "She had a way of sayin' it like when my Ti Ti used to holler after me when I'd gotten up to whatever kids get up to." He adjusted the timbre of his voice to what must've been a fair approximation of the woman, "Samuel Thomas Wilson! You git' your tail down here right this minute before I ring up your mama and tell her what trouble you been up to!"

Bucky managed the smallest of smiles at that, which he was certain was Sam's intent, "Yeah. Different tone: Same implication."

"You been back recently?"

Bucky thumbed the beads along his wrist, debating if he should take it off, "Nah. Not since—" He made a gesture with one hand, miming one of the sorcerer portals. "I'd considered it, but after Zemo…"

"…Yeah. I can see how that follows. I did warn you they hadn't forgotten, though."

That wasn't the full story, of course. Like how he knew he couldn't get back out in the world if he just stayed hidden away at that hut and its picturesque lake. Or that staying there just kept that list running in limbo in his mind. Or how once he'd been cured, how part of him longed to be around people that didn't know, if only to see if they would recognize the wolf among them. He'd yearned to simply be around people that didn't look at him like they were scouring over him for cracks in his armor.

He felt himself start to go down that route and pulled himself back, "At least she didn't take back the arm." He meant it to be a humorous way to diffuse the growing tension in him, but the tone fell flat.

Sam didn't miss it. He paused a beat in packing up his remaining toiletries to gesture squarely at him with a toothbrush, "From one grown-ass adult to another: I'm thinkin' you should probably talk to her about that bit. I'm damn thankful for what the Wakanda Design Group put together for me, but after all the stuff we've seen over the years, you can bet I want to know what they can and can't do remotely with my gear too. Last thing I want to be worrying about when I'm up there is if someone could be bothered to press a button and detach the wings or turn Redwing or JB around on me."

Bucky ignored the JB bit, but he honestly hadn't heard the rest of that coming, "I can't imagine—" he began.

Sam shrugged easily. Too easily as he waggled the toothbrush back and forth, "I don't want to either. But even clean tech can be hacked, and you can be damn well sure I'm going to ask. All I can do from there is hope they're being straight with me."

It was a fair and honest perspective. A very Sam perspective. "Yeah," he acquiesced.

Sam rose up and clapped him on the shoulder, apparently seeing fit to take the reins of planning their next steps on account of the fact Bucky was still lagging more than a few steps behind. God. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

"Anyway, enough of that for now," Sam concluded, "Once we check out, we can grab something on the way, and maybe you can even catch a little shut-eye on the taxi ride." He had a little light in his eyes as he added, "It'll be nice to head back there when we aren't bracing for the end of the world."

Chapter Text

[Banner Art]

[ID: A cropped painting by MuggyLee showing a waist-down view of two individuals. On the left is a member of the Dora Milaje who is holding a spear, and on the right is a man wearing blue pants and thick boots. They are standing in dynamic poses in the midst of a forest, and bright embers from a fire are visible along the bottom of the painting. End ID]

Wakanda
Six years and many months ago…

A series of singular words heightened his focus, and when the final one was spoken, the soldier felt something shift inside him, casting new light upon their hidden meaning.

миссия скомпрометирована. Mission compromised.

нейтрализовать ложного обработчика. Не оставляйте свидетелей. Neutralize false handler. Leave no witnesses.

His eyes sparked to life as he sprung towards the source of the original words and the person who bore them.

The lightly armored figure was only a few steps away, and he intended to lift a hand to go for her throat and… Came up blank. What had happened to his arm? No matter. She pivoted, but he managed to catch her shoulder with his free hand and used the momentum to bowl her over.

He quickly took inventory of his present location as they grappled with one another, looking for anything he could use to his advantage. Dirt. Leaves. Sticks. Fire. In a rush of motion, he shifted his weight and used one foot to kick a piece of burning lumber towards her face. She blocked it with one wrist, hissing something at him ferally as she did. For a moment, it looked like she was about to say more, but he knew he couldn't allow her to further compromise the mission. She had to be silenced. With killing intensity, he lurched forward and shoved his fingers between the rings around her neck and the soft flesh of her throat. He didn't have another arm to complete the choke hold, so he wrapped his legs around her for leverage. Not ideal, but effective.

Then came the spear. He could feel the muscles of her heck strain under his fingers as the weapon whirled wide, and there was an audible crack as it struck him hard in the side. Probably his ribs. No matter. The second time, the sharp edge went for his head and he faltered the hold as he was forced to reposition to dodge the brunt of the strike. He was already at a disadvantage. He couldn't let his opponent maim him further. It would put everything at risk.

The figure gasped and used one hand to clutch at her neck while the other hand made a show of spinning the spear in what must have been an intimidation tactic to buy her time. No matter. His eyes calculated the spin, and when the moment was right, he swung his body towards her and spun, catching the staff of it with one steadfast hand. The woman hissed something at him in a language he didn't recognize. There was a fierceness in her brown eyes, but her strength wasn't substantial, and it was clear she wasn't going for killing blows: they must have wanted to take him alive.

He wouldn't give them the chance.

He heard another voice, but his focus stayed on the figure in front of him. She was the only potential threat, and after she was eliminated, he could alert his prior handlers. When he saw her try to use her catlike agility by launching herself towards him, he threw off her momentum by suddenly twisting and shoving the spear back in her direction, punctuating the move with a kick. She flew backwards and slammed into a tree. Hard. She cursed something under her breath as she rolled onto her hands, spitting blood as she collected herself and prepared for another go.

He was quicker. He launched himself towards her and felt his hand make contact with flesh and then that other voice… there was a word, and then… blackness.

The soldier blinked awake.

He was on a metal table.

There were figures around him, and the moment he felt everything click into place again, he tried to grab the nearest one by the throat… but found his hand restrained at the wrist.

He lurched his body towards her, managing to butt her in the side of the head as tried to pry himself upright, but found similar restraints across his neck, torso, shoulders, legs, and ankles. He strained against them, and he could hear voices around him yelling and scrambling. He must have been captured.

But how?

It didn't matter. He'd eliminate them soon enough, starting with the false handler.

Then there was a word, and the blackness returned.

When the soldier blinked away again, he realized he was still on the same table, and by the strange groggy sensation he felt, he realized he must have been drugged or sedated. He struggled against the restraints, bidding his time until his body cleared itself of whatever they'd given him so he could finish his mission.

His wild eyes regarded the room around him with calculated intensity as he sized up his targets. He would eliminate the one nearest him first, then the false handler, then the other ones with those spears. In such close quarters, he had the advantage.

"We should put him back into cryo until we can clear the poisoned commands."

"The failsafe must be preventing the reset," Another voice. The one nearer to him. The one he would kill first. If she came a little closer, he was certain he could wrest the device from her hand. "Cryo or not, I can't do my work when he's in this state. I don't have a baseline to root it out."

The false handler spat something pointedly in that other language.

More of that language, but at an increasing volume. Were they issuing coded commands? No matter, he'd be free soon enough. He'd managed to dislocate his thumb and the rest of his hand would follow through the restraint shortly.

"Bast damn it," the false handler spat as she turned her eyes on him with a sour intensity, her voice hoarse as she switched to Russian, "Желание." Longing.

"Ржавый." Rusted.

The countdown! They were trying to wrest control! He snarled, lunging his head towards her before he slammed it back into the metal table. He bridged his body, trying to find a weakness he could leverage. He heard the sound of pins beginning to give way.

"Семнадцать." Seventeen.

He found his voice, bellowing, "останавливаться! Я знаю, что ты делаешь!" Stop! I know what you're doing!

For a moment, the false handler actually did stop speaking. She exchanged a look with the other woman, but then resumed her hoarse words, keeping her eyes focused on him as she did.

"Рассвет." Daybreak.

"Печь." Furnace.

"Я убью тебя!" I'll kill you! He snarled as he finally managed to pull his wrist free. His hand went for the nearer figure.

"Девять." Nine.

She stepped back, dodging the grab by the smallest of fractions as the other women with the spears rushed towards him.

"Добросердечный." Benign. The false handler continued in her rough voice.

"Возвращение на родину." Homecoming.

He recoiled in a scream as one of the spears slammed into his hand.

"Один." One.

Then another.

"Товарный вагон." Freightcar.

The soldier felt something shift in him and his head jolted upright as he immediately took inventory of the faces surrounding him, quickly identifying the one who had spoken. For a moment, no one said anything, then…

"Солдат?" Soldier? The figure asked.

"Я жду приказаний." Ready to comply. He focused on his handler and waited for instructions.

A woman nearby said something in another language and his handler spat something back.

"Put your hand back in the restraint," she said. He did as ordered, and was casually aware but unconcerned as other hands secured it. It was not his place to question.

"Most recent Mission Report?" his handler asked. "In English."

He opened his mouth, intending to comply… but there was something wrong. He frowned, struggling. This was unacceptable. "Unclear. I… may have sustained damage."

His handler regarded him critically but said something else in that language of theirs.

"Remain still," his handler instructed, so he did.

They put something over his head that obscured his view of the room, but he laid there patiently as he awaited his next order.

Moments later, a command came, followed by a series of flashing lights that swirled around his vision, disorienting him.

His last conscious thought was a fleeting image of a face he thought remembered, but couldn't place.

The darkness swallowed him once more.

When he came to, he jolted awake in a bright room. Where was he? He flinched, but he wasn't sure if it was from the light, or the intense pain radiating from his side. How had he gotten here? Where was here? Hadn't it been dark? He thought it'd been dark. He went to shield his eyes, but when he went to pull his hand up, he found it was strapped to the table. The skin along his arm was swelled purple with deep bruises and his thumb looked to be broken.

"You're awake," the voice was female.

Shuri's.

It's was Shuri's voice. She stepped into view just out of reach of him, beyond the edge of the metal table. She had a raised welt along on the nearest side of her face. He squinted as he forced his eyes to focus and was immediately aware of the sea of red, silver, and gold-clad Dora Milaje flanking her, their spears poised ready at their sides. One of them had a focus on him that was so intense it was almost predatory.

Ayo.

"What happened?" He couldn't remember much, but he was beginning to piece enough together to at least have a fair guess. His throat felt dry as he spoke, "Did I hurt anyone?"

Shuri looked significantly to Ayo, and the warrior woman raised her chin as she regarded him. Her face was bruised, and a bloody lip broke her otherwise symmetrical face. She addressed him in a combination of Wakandan followed by Russian "Ungubani? Thetha igama lakho, солдат." It was a command.

He frowned, parsing the languages and the words, trying to make sense of them. He looked back to the strap over his right wrist… his empty left shoulder. His mind slowly filled in the request: Who are you? Speak your name, soldier.

Confusion continued to ensnare him, and he found that he didn't have an answer he felt certain of, so he laid there and tried to think it through. The longer he lay there, the more it became apparent that he wasn't getting anywhere. A fresh wave of emotion rolled over him and he found himself repeating, "Did I hurt anyone?" This felt important.

"Nothing that I can't fix," Shuri assured him, her voice even as she glanced up at what must have been a readout somewhere behind him. "How are you feeling, Sergent Barnes?" Ayo sent her a significant look, but said nothing.

Yes. That was it. That was his name. Wasn't it? It used to be.

"I can't remember what happened. But something happened," he felt his eyes start to well up with tears. When he tried to lift his hand up to clear them, he felt the pull of the strap holding it back. He closed his eyes, as if that might drown out the world and all the confusion flooding through him.

There was a sound of footsteps, and then the next thing he knew, he felt the strap around his wrist loosen. He opened his eyes to see Shuri standing there looking down on him, Ayo not a step beside her, and other Dora Milaje somewhere just out of view. He felt so lost, but somehow he managed to croak out, "I think it's Bucky." His face twisted, "But I'm not sure."

He looked up at the faces around him, as if pleading for an answer that would never come, "Why am I not sure?" Panic rose in him, "I thought I was getting better?"

And then something broke inside and he put his hand over his face and wept. Out of fear, out of confusion, out of pain and hopelessness. He didn't have the strength to fight it. Every emotion he had in him poured out at once.

Then, he felt a hand brush against his right shoulder and squeeze it softly. It continued to rest there. Silent. Wordless. But present. A moment later, he felt another hand come to rest against the side of his left clavicle, just above where his other shoulder used to be. Those strong, but gentle fingers grasped him and stood guard over him as he continued to weep.

No one said a word as he cried himself dry, but in that moment, those hands grounded him and reminded him he wasn't alone, even if everything inside his head insisted otherwise.

[ID: A painting by MuggyLee showing Ayo and Bucky in dynamic action poses in the Wakandan forest. Ayo is standing on the left and looks to be alarmed. She is using her left hand to shield her head, and is holding her spear defensively in her right hand as she steps back away from Bucky, who is not himself. He has all the Soldier’s intense focus, and is lunging forward to thrust his fingers into her throat to prevent Ayo from speaking code words against him. Bucky has no prosthetic left arm. He is wearing blue pants, thick brown boots, a tan t-shirt, and a russet, blue, and tan shawl over his absent shoulder. He has a strand of Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist, and has a beard and chin length hair, that flails wildly behind him in the heat of the moment. The light of a fire is visible in the foreground, kicking up sparks, embers, and smoke in this tense life-or-death altercation. End ID]

[ID: A cropped close-up of a painting by MuggyLee Ayo and Bucky in dynamic action poses in the Wakandan forest. Ayo is standing on the left and looks to be alarmed. She is using her left hand to shield her head, and is holding her spear defensively in her right hand as she steps back away from Bucky, who is not himself. He has all the Soldier’s intense focus, and is lunging forward to thrust his fingers into her throat to prevent Ayo from speaking code words against him. Bucky has no prosthetic left arm. He is wearing blue pants, thick brown boots, a tan t-shirt, and a russet, blue, and tan shawl over his absent shoulder. He has a strand of Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist, and has a beard and chin length hair that flails wildly behind him in the heat of the moment. The light of a fire is visible in the foreground, kicking up sparks, embers, and smoke in this tense life-or-death altercation. End ID]

November 2022 Update:

When I originally wrote this chapter back in May of 2021, I remember it being one that I was looking forward to, because I wanted to start to unveil that those two years in Wakanda between 2016 and 2018? They hadn’t been easy. In fact, some portions were especially challenging, particularly where Ayo and Bucky were concerned, but we’ll get into that as the story progresses...

This scene in particular really stuck with me (and it isn’t the last time we’ll explore it and the fallout it caused), and I am humbled that MuggyLee (https://twitter.com/MuggyLee) was willing to lend his incredible artistic prowess to help bring this poignant scene to life in all its subtle nuances. Truly, it’s amazing to write a scene, and to later see it brought to life with all the tension and brooding peril I originally envisioned, and then some.

The details, expressions, everything just top-to-bottom leaves me breathless.

Please check out MuggyLee’s Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram accounts to see more of his incredible art! His color palettes are a feast for the eyes!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to him for offering to lend his skill to capture such a key story beat between these two.

Chapter Text

There were times when his nightmares crashed like waves hitting the shore, breaking with an urgency so sudden that the transition to consciousness was sharp and painful in its abruptness.

But there were other times when dreams crept, taking their time as they slowly made way to the waking world, leaving a lingering haze on the boundaries between one realm and the next. Those dreams, those middle places of limbo between time, between memories, between promises, and lives: they were almost worse than the nightmares, because their haunting gaze stayed with him for long after his waking moments.

This was one of those times.

As Bucky woke, the first thing he became aware of was his body: of the absence of the restraints and the warm hands on his shoulders and the subdued rigidity of the table beneath him. He opened his eyes to see a dim, claustrophobic view that took him a moment to piece together: black and grey – not the flat white ceiling in a lab, but of a vehicle – a jet. Blue and orange lighting. A quiet hum reverberated through him like a nostalgic lullaby.

He looked down, still fully expecting to see his arm swollen with bruises and the rest of him suitably restrained, but instead he saw he was wearing a black leather jacket, and after a moment – longer than he would have liked – he recognized it as his own.

Slowly, he slid his right hand over his torso and let it rest over first his left clavicle, then the other shoulder, and then the arm. There it was. He took another breath – deeper this time – and as he breathed out, he tried to shake off the dream and reason out the threads that separated what he'd just experienced from what he was seeing now.

"You awake?" It was Sam's voice from somewhere in front of him. The tone was soft, private, concerned.

He answered and closed his eyes again, hoping the next time that he opened them that the separation between the dream and the present would be more clear-cut, "Yeah, I will be. Just need a minute." He forced himself to rotate his body and sit upright, running his hands over his face experimentally.

From somewhere out of his periphery, he heard movement as someone – probably Sam – stepped across the galley and took a seat somewhere a little further down the bench, towards the rear of the plane. That's right: they were on route to Wakanda. He must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way.

When he opened his eyes this time, he forced himself to focus on details. A glance to his left and he saw the front of the jet and the bright blue and orange heads-up display and quickly took note of the absence of a traditional cockpit that confirmed that yes: they were in a Wakandan jet. There was a woman sitting cross-legged in front of the helm and it took him a moment again to separate himself from the dream to identify her as not Ayo, but Nomble: another one of the Dora Miljae from Latvia.

He remembered being relieved, perhaps shamefully even, that Ayo herself hadn't come for them so that he could buy himself just a little more time to figure out what exactly he wanted to say to her. Instead, he kept remembering her eyes from that dream and the feral intensity of them as he tried to compare and contrast them to the most recent time they'd sparred in Zemo's apartment, if you could call it that sparring. He hadn't been trying to fight her, but something in her eyes blazed when they clashed and remained even after she'd toggled that failsafe in the arm.

For not the first time, he tried to push that thought aside, and looked over his left shoulder, to the view outside of the plane. He wasn't ready to look at Sam just yet.

The view outside was pitch black and he caught the time, in Wakandan, towards the center of the holographic display: 10:17pm. The sun must have set hours ago while they were up in the air. He'd been hoping to catch a glimpse of the glowing sunset out the cabin, but he must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way. He tried to do math in his head to calculate how soon they might be landing, but quickly surrendered the attempt. Math could wait. He ran his hand through his short hair again, feeling that familiar sweat deep at the roots.

There was rummaging again to his right, and then Sam's voice again, "Water?"

He looked to his right to see his friend extending and politely wiggling a chilled bottle of water in his direction. His eyes briefly met Sam's, but just as quickly retreated as he accepted the bottle with one obedient hand. He was thirsty, and if he was drinking, that also meant he wasn't talking. That seemed like a fair arrangement.

Sam stayed quiet as he sat and presumably watched Bucky finish the bottle, but by that point, Bucky couldn't help his own damn curiosity, "Did I say anything?"

"A little." A pause, "But none of it was in English."

That was probably the least surprising thing he'd heard today, but it still elicited a bitter sigh all the same. There was a part of him, the smallest, but potent part of him that wanted to reassure Sam that it hadn't been one of those dreams, the dreams where he stepped out of himself and systematically executed people around him with practiced efficiency. That no one had died by his hand in this dream, as if somehow that made the nightmare any more palatable.

It didn't.

In fact, it made it worse because he knew these people, and they'd been trying to help him. And he'd been trying with every ounce of his strength to kill them: just like he'd pointedly tried to do to Steve on more than one occasion.

That guilt drummed itself back up in him as he glanced to Sam again, finally daring to read his expression, which was sympathetic, but also profoundly concerned. On more than one occasion, he'd tried to kill him too. Well, the Winter Soldier had, but at the present moment, he was feeling a whole lot less distinction than he would have liked between the two.

"I'll shake it off, I'm just tired." His hoarse voice certainly sounded tired. It felt like gravel: like he'd been screaming.

He saw Sam look towards the front of the plane, as if calculating the distance and how well the two of them might be overheard by their pilot, and how much that mattered.

What Bucky wanted to say, well, maybe not wanted to say, but at least for a fraction of a second considered saying was that Nomble'd seen a whole host of the those nightmares too, just from her own perspective.

Which also didn't make him feel any better.

Yeah, he didn't want to talk about this.

So he did the mature thing and crossed his arms, looked back up at the ceiling, and shoved it all down. "You should ask Nomble to show you the navigation array. I'm sure she'd be glad to give you a quick tour of the interface."

He didn't need to see Sam's face firsthand to imagine that pointed look of: Are you seriously changing the subject?

There was a Sam-sized pause before he deadpanned, "I can't read Wakandan."

Which was followed closely by Nomble's throaty voice from the far side of the craft, "I can change the language display." Of course she was listening. At least she was playing along too. "We'll be landing soon."

Sam muttered something and stood up, making it a point to walk close enough to Bucky that he could catch his eyes and personally deliver a we're talking about this later-look before he stepped towards the front of the cabin.

Bucky let the two pilots talk shop for a few minutes while he gave himself a little more time for his head to clear up as much as it was going to. He drowned out the nearby conversation, not because he wasn't interested in hearing about what upgrades the jets had gotten in the last five years since The Decimation, but because he just didn't have the focus for that sort of thing at the moment. He remembered when Ayo and Okoye had started to train him on the old interface, back when it seemed entirely possible he'd be sticking around for to assist the Wakandan special forces and pay off some of his sizable debt to them. It was strange to think how fresh that thought had been only months ago to him, but how it was years to the other half the population. Had those huts out by the lake survived all this time?

Only when he felt the tell-tale sign of the elevation starting to dip did he force himself to his feet and walk over to join the two of them at the helm.

Their conversation broke as he approached. Sam stood on Nomble's right, and she acknowledged Bucky with the smallest of nods as he filled in the space on her left. The outside world was almost entirely black, though a rich cascade of stars shown in the sky overhead. The heads-up display, which was indeed now shown in English, offered a real-time overlay of the unseen lands below as well as the distant 3D grids that formed the outlines of the towering buildings of Birnin Zana, the Golden City.

"Has it changed much? Since The Decimation?"

Nomble glanced sideways at him, as if she was surprised he could speak at all. "It has," she confirmed after a moment, "But Wakanda stood firm while myself and others glimpsed the realm of our ancestors."

Sam nodded, "Yeah, Buck and I felt that one too."

There was a moment of what felt something like silent kinship between them as the lights of the towering city sparked into view with a grandeur that was exotic as it was beautiful. Even from this distance, the monorails were visible, their organic paths weaving through the rounded and twisting spires that accented the skyline. For a moment, he found himself wondering who might be there to greet them, and on what terms. He had to imagine King T'Challa, Ramonda, Shuri, and probably Okoye were there waiting, at least that's what he thought until he saw the overlays on the screen shift away from the city proper.

He waited a moment until he spoke up, "Where are we landing?"

"The Wakanda Design Group," Nomble answered simply as she shifted one hand to guide the craft towards a distant plateau whose dominant side had been shaped into the massive form of a snarling vibranium panther. It crouched protectively over the widest entrance to the mines below. Familiar blue light illuminated the opening in the mountain, matched only by the intensity of the lights that crested and reflected off the twisting spire of glass and metal that reached skywards out of the gaping hole in the ground that nested in the center of the main entrance.

Bucky ruminated to himself as the jet approached, but said nothing. His best guess was that either Shuri was working late or perhaps she'd discovered something she wanted to make sure to show them right away before they settled in for the night. Regardless: It would be good to see her. He'd missed being around someone with that sort of zest for life as well as all things technological. She was always so eager to jump in and help, and he appreciated that she was willing to share whatever she'd learned of Symkaria.

When the jet finally turned and settled, the back hatch popped open and a wave of sweet warm air rolled in. It was welcoming in its familiarity, though the temperature change was enough to make his leather jacket feel like overkill, so he peeled it off and laid it to one side while he waited for the rest of them to get situated. Nomble was the first to her feet, and she made a point of gesturing to their traveling gear before they departed for the Wakandan Design Group, "You can leave that here. We'll be back after."

Sam nodded and motioned to the case, that case, "What about…?"

Nomble managed a genuine smile at that, "You should probably bring it. I'm sure Princess Shuri will want to hear your thoughts."

That got a grin from Sam that Bucky was welcome to see across his friend's face. He didn't miss the fact that Sam grabbed the shield as well. Full ensemble it was.

As the rear of the craft opened, he saw three figures standing a distance away on the landing pad. The first hurried up to them, while the Dora Milaje to either side followed close in her wake.

Shuri had a smile on her face as she greeted… Sam first, "Sam! How is the suit? I want to hear all about it."

Bucky found himself trying to catch her attention with a small wave, but when she glanced his way, he could feel something cool in her gaze and forced in her smile. Ouch. I guess it was unrealistic to assume she would have taken the news about Zemo lightly on account of the man was pointedly responsible for her own father's death.

Yep. He probably deserved that.

He glanced to either side of her, nodding to first Ayo and then Yama before he heard Nomble fall into step behind him. The last time he'd spoken with Ayo over the Kimoyo beads, she'd seemed… different somehow. There was something in her expression now that he couldn't quite parse, but maybe he was just reading too much into things when he still felt half-awake at-best. He kept finding himself thinking about the fierceness in her eyes from that dream, and wishing he could find the right words to set things right between them.

He inclined his head respectfully to each of them as he approached, "Ayo. Yama." Yama nodded back, but her eyes went to Ayo as she did. Ayo said nothing as Yama went to Shuri's side and she stepped in front of him, putting herself between them.

Bucky was casually aware that somewhere in front of them, Shuri and Sam were talking about the wings and the density of the mesh as they walked, but after what felt like a solid five minutes of silence, he finally glanced to Ayo genuinely not following what felt like a sudden shift in her mood from when they'd spoken only a few hours previously, "Is there something going on I'm missing? I know you said it would be good to make myself scarce in Wakanda. If you didn't want to help, you didn't need to have us come here. I wasn't trying to overstep."

She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw, and in that moment, he felt like there was a chasm between them there he wasn't following. Her tone was cold, direct, "We will do what we can to help, because it is the right and honorable thing to do."

He frowned, feeling like there was a double-meaning he was missing, but unsure if he should press her. Nomble walked to his left, saying nothing, pretending to be oblivious to the exchange as they made their way towards the next level of the Wakandan Design Group.

"Look, I'm not sure what this is about—" he began.

"Don't play the part of a fool," she spat in a snarl so low it was practically a whisper.

"Is this about Zemo? Because I genuinely thought that…" he's started that thought off without knowing where he was even going with it, and when Ayo came to a sudden stop to regard him, he still wasn't sure exactly what he was trying to say.

"You thought what?" She raised her chin towards him, and attracting the attention of another Dora Milaje nearby who glanced their way.

Great. Bucky opened and closed his mouth once, trying to formulate the correct sequence of words to prevent this from escalating, whatever this was. What he wanted to say was that he respected her, and that he was sorry for doing things behind their back and upsetting people he cared about in the process. That he'd just gotten so blinded to the idea of there being more super soldiers out there that he'd wanted to cut things off before things could spiral further out of control. He wanted to confess that that shit with Walker and the shield had impacted his judgement, but that he'd never meant to hurt them. They'd done so much for him, for so long, and he hadn't forgotten it.

Instead, what his stupid mouth said was, "I thought I was doing the right thing."

And then Ayo, who barely ever spoke over a whisper, turned her eyes on him and though a harried breath, bore down on him like lion, "When I came to you in Latvia, I was angry." She paused, correcting, "We were angry," Bucky didn't miss the fact that Shuri, Sam, and Yama were no longer walking, and had turned back to regard whatever confrontation was presently transpiring behind them. "I couldn't believe what I heard, believe that you did what you did without a moment of thought about how we would feel."

Bucky thought about saying something to that, but he stayed silent as Ayo continued, "You said that monster was a means to an end. And because I trusted you at your word, I did not even ask what you planned for him. I gave you eight more hours without question, did I not?"

He nodded uncomfortably, finding it hard to continue to meet those eyes of hers as she spoke, "You did."

"And I believed, that if I had instead told you I wanted to take him right then, that you would have delivered him without delay."

"Of course, Ayo I—"

She cut him off with her hand, "So hours later, when your time is up, we came for him." Her brown eyes were seared into him now, "And did you hand him over to us?"

"I mean —"

"Did you hand him over?"

"That's not what —"

There was something else in her eyes then, a fire he wasn't accustomed to. He half expected her to strike out at him, but instead she stepped closer to him, bearing down on him, "You did not. You stood and watched as that man insulted us, and then goaded him on." She made a sound with her throat and mimicked Bucky's passing remark, "Looking strong, John."

When she put it that way, it…

"You did not join us, we who were supposed to be your allies. You stood and watched it like a lazy leopard watching a butterfly. And worse yet: You didn't even ensure Zemo remained under guarded watch."

This fresh perspective on that entire interaction made Bucky's expression tighten the longer she spoke, "And then, then when we were finally ready to disarm that ridiculous American man, you stepped in and took up arms against us."

This was one of the few times Bucky felt remotely justified in his response, "I was worried for a moment you might actually kill him, Ayo, that's the only reason I—"

"Oh, don't you dare, James." Her tone was a rattlesnake's warning, "I know when I mean to disarm, and when I mean to kill. Are you so certain you remember the difference?"

Now in that moment, as she stood with her face inches away from Bucky's, he found that the actual words she said quickly evaporated the moment they left her lips, but the meaning, the intent, and profound hurt she clearly felt reached right into him and twisted. In all his years beside her, he'd never seen her this angry, and yet, try as he did to justify each step of his actions, he could see very real betrayal in her eyes as she bore down upon him.

When she was either satisfied Bucky'd gotten the crux of her message or unsure if she wanted to say more, she snarled something under her breath and whirled, marching straight past Yama, Shuri, and Sam as through the next set of doors into one of the facility's many research labs.

For a moment, Bucky was too stunned to move. Every word she'd said was true, and frankly awful when held up to light as she had. The longer he stood there, the more shamed he was by his actions and inactions, but he also didn't have a clue what he was supposed to do to make it right. He hadn't meant to hurt her, she had to know that. But it was abundantly clear that intent hardly made him innocent of doing just that, and to a level he clearly was only just beginning to grasp.

He stood there, just trying to collect his thoughts as Sam and Shuri looked back his way. Sam's expression was compassionate, but tinged with an understandable amount of guilt for his role as a bystander as well, and Shuri… she just looked so heartbroken. So profoundly disappointed in someone she'd come to trust as well.

"Come," Nomble instructed from somewhere to his left. He didn't feel like he had the energy to lift his head and see her expression, so he just sighed as he got his feet moving again. Sam'd definitely been right that the Wakandans not having forgotten about what Zemo'd done, but what they hadn't seen coming was that Bucky would singlehandedly find a way to be so self-absorbed in his own head that he would be damn-near oblivious to when he was actively hurting the people around him who he was supposed to care about. Those same people, some of which had literally put their lives on the line to help deprogram him and get him sorted out. He'd stood by and watched from the sidelines when they'd come to collect the man that had murdered their King, and he'd done absolutely nothing to help. Worse yet: he hadn't even realized the full extent of what he'd done until Ayo had poured it out for him to see.

No one said a word as they stepped into Shuri's immaculately white lab, no one said anything. While the room pulsed with the familiar hum of latent technology, the usual bustle of assistants were nowhere to be seen. Usually a few stuck around after hours as they burned the midnight oil on their latest projects, but perhaps they'd all gone home for the day once their shifts were complete?

Part of Bucky was relieved that the room wasn't the same one from the dream, the same one he'd spent so much time in, but there was still part of him that was leery of spaces like this because they reminded him of times he would have mostly preferred to forget, and at the moment, it felt like it was drumming up yet another wave of uncomfortable memories and laced with guilt.

Bucky watched Sam's eyes momentarily widen in wonder as he looked out over the strange technology spread across the room, but he was quick to pull his attention back to Bucky. He certainly didn't look comfortable about all this, but he made it a point to casually wander back over when he deduced that they were apparently coming to a stop in this particular room. Sam took up position a few steps to one side of him in what was no-doubt a valiant attempt to let Bucky know he wasn't going to let him take this all on his own. It was a noble gesture, but Bucky also didn't want any of whatever he'd done sullying Sam, or Captain America for that matter. This whole thing was about his own personal history with the Wakandans: not Sam's.

Sam did his best to look nonchalant as he placed the suitcase to one side and leaned the shield against it.

Bucky didn't say anything, but he hoped Sam could read the I'm so sorry for getting us into this mess-in his expression.

Ayo stood at the other end of the lab with her back to them as she gazed stoically out through the windows that looked out into the blue glow of the vibranium mines. He didn't know what she was thinking, but Bucky wanted to say something, anything to express the depths of just how sorry he was to her in particular. His thoughts of penance were cut short when Shuri cleared her throat for their attention.

"We do want to help," she began, speaking with more slow purpose than he remembered, "That hasn't changed. But we feel it's important to discuss the matter, because if we do not, I fear it will only fester."

Bucky caught something change in Sam's expression a moment later. It was like watching realization dawn on someone while Bucky was still a few steps behind, trying to figure out where this was all headed.

Shuri made a very particular face as she pressed a sequence of keystrokes into her palm, which prompted a nearby display came to life… and with it, hand-held footage of a bar fight in Madripoor.

Chapter Text

The first thought Sam had was that this, this right here might very well be the closest he'd ever been to an out of body experience, and that included the moment he'd been dusted.

He'd managed to stay a step ahead of Shuri's comment by mere seconds, but by the look on Bucky's face, he hadn't seen this coming. They should have, but the days after that bar fight had become so much of a blur that it was easy to just forge ahead and hand-wave away their time in Madripoor because it was altogether convenient. It's not like it made news like the atrocity of what John had done with the shield.

For as long as he lived, that blood-slicked image was sure to remain embedded alongside the other horrors he'd witnessed.

But as Sam watched the video feed hovering in front of him shift between the views of multiple cell phones and security cameras, he had to admit the distinction was a lot less apparent than he was comfortable with, all things considered.

He felt like someone else was talking when he managed to find his voice what felt like a lifetime later, "Before… anyone says anything, can someone tell me how… wide this has gone? I want ta' know if I need to call my sister to let her know she and the boys might need lay low or something if this blows up."

It was Shuri that glanced to him. Her expression was pained, certainly, but there was also a touch of kind understanding at the corner of her mouth as she spoke, "Not wide, currently. It seems someone did a rather thorough job destroying most of the originals, and what's left I only decrypted from a remote server a few hours ago."

Bucky glanced to Sam as they both no-doubt thought Sharon at the same time but said nothing. No reason to bring her into their mess. Bucky opened his mouth, as if he was about to add something, but then shifted uncomfortably and lowered his head as he watched the footage.

Seeing the footage play out was surreal in a very particular way. Sam prided himself of being an all-in kind of guy, and moment-to-moment in the air or on the ground, he'd spent years negotiating with his nerves to stay focused so that he could trust his instincts to keep him alert and alive.

Going into Madripoor had been something else entirely. He wasn't an actor or an "undercover" sort of personality, and being forced to accompany none other than Helmut Zemo into a shady-as-shit foreign city he didn't know with only Bucky as backup was, frankly: incredibly underwhelming and nerve-wracking.

He and Bucky also weren't friends back then, not even close. The furthest he was probably willing to extrapolate was the man had been a friend of a mutual friend, and as far as he'd been concerned: probably had years of unresolved therapy ahead of him before he could be considered fit to hold a conversation no less active duty. He didn't trust the man to have his back, and even then, there was not a world he lived in where he would have thought it was reasonable or remotely advisable to bring the whole Winter Soldier bit into purposeful focus again.

So upon further review of the footage, what Sam saw in his digitized expression was first a moment of realizing they were in way, way over their respective heads, followed by a wave of genuine panic when he thought for a moment, just a moment, that Zemo had actually maybe even just possibly actually managed to somehow trigger that scary-ass Winter Soldier mode of Bucky's, which was promptly followed by a mix of horror and relief that no: Bucky was just trying to act the part, but that that might still escalate into something truly, deeply, awful, and get all of them killed.

You couldn't see much of Bucky's expression as he systematically hurled, punched, and kick-slammed people with well-honed efficiency (Sam hadn't even caught that Zemo had pulled more than one extra body into the fray for sublime punishment: damn that slimy bastard…), but emblazoned into Sam's mind was how dead Bucky's eyes looked as he moved, how absolutely vacant of emotion his whole face was. Part of him had drummed up the reasoning that he was just a far better actor than Sam, but the wiser part of Sam knew that he was probably tapping into things that were better off staying buried.

Sam in that moment then didn't want to see Bucky lose himself completely, but there was a stroke of selfishness preservation wrapped up in there. Watching the video now, though, added layers of context on the man which made the whole outing seem not only absolutely ludicrous in hindsight, but fundamentally damaging in ways he hadn't taken nearly enough time to consider or speak up about, not only to others (including quite notably: the Wakandans), but to Bucky himself. Friends were supposed to look out for each other, and it seemed obvious enough to him that he had done a shit-poor job of doing just that. Bucky'd been willing to do whatever was necessary, even if it was at great cost to himself, just to make sure no one out there could make more super soldiers and, presumably, have happen to them what'd happened to him… or even Isaiah. The fact that he'd been willing to work alongside Zemo was at once, wholly unsettling, but it was also testament that Bucky had been more than willing to hurt himself if it meant doing what he thought was right.

If Sam knew Bucky then even half well as he knew him now, even a fraction: he would like to think he would have squelched that whole damn idea the moment Zemo's poisoned lips dreamt it up.

And the expression on the tapes of that Sokovian Baron's murderous face showed how much he'd enjoyed it. It sickened him to his core.

Ayo still had her back turned to them: Apparently the footage was nothing new to her, and the Dora Milaje around them remained similarly stoic: Yep, they'd seen it too. It was Shuri that was regarding them with the intensity of someone that truly hoped they might be able to explain this away like it was all a misunderstanding.

Sam shifted his weight from one leg to the other, trying to get a read on what was going through Bucky's head, but found his expression painfully blank. His eyes stayed focused on the looping feed of glimpses into their little adventure in Madripoor, and it wasn't altogether clear what exactly was running through his head beyond the obvious sentiment of someone being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Except in this case: the cookie jar was a jar full of snakes and razor blades.

Bucky just stood there, silent. Doing that staring thing he did when he was on the verge of shutting down.

Sam looked to Shuri, as if hoping she might have some sympathy in her to try to make this a dialogue they could work their way out of. She met his eyes briefly, but returned her attention to Bucky as if she was in no hurry. He had to wonder if she had experience waiting him out.

"Would you have told us if we hadn't found it?" It was Ayo.

There was a long pause, but then Bucky found his voice, "Probably not," he admitted, his voice barely audible over the hum of nearby machines.

It was an honest answer, but it was also clearly not the right answer.

Ayo whirled on him, stalking back their way with a pace so quick that it made even Sam take a step back, "I can't believe your blatant stupidity. After all we went through, after everything, that you would parade around with that –" she cursed something in Wakandan and picked up right where she left off "–with him and feign to be his puppet, for what? The promise of a petal of intel? Were you truly so miserable and self-absorbed that you would intentionally try to walk along the blade's edge just to see what might happen if something pushed you too far?"

Bucky flinched as if visibly struck by her words, "I didn't do it because I enjoyed it. Especially not for Zemo."

"But you did do it," Shuri interjected. "You called upon Zemo's aide without even reaching out to us."

Ouch.

Shuri continued, "No one could have known the footprint The Decimation would leave upon us, but you knew, you knew we had more work ahead of us before Thanos came of us in the Battle for Wakanda. I assumed after The Decimation, you needed time to adjust, to grieve and find new purpose." Her eyes were leveled on Bucky's guilty expression, "But in the weeks and months after, you didn't even have the decency to answer our calls to let us know how you were doing." Her voice showed genuine emotion, "We were worried for you. We wanted you to know you still had a home here, if you wanted it."

That bit… Sam hadn't known. He was well-acquainted to the fact that Bucky'd made an early habit of dodging his own calls and leaving voicemails and text messages unanswered, but he hadn't stopped to think that he wasn't the only one who had tried to get through to him in the wake of those back-to-back fights and Steve… well, Steve being gone.

There was a part of Sam that wanted to come to Bucky's defense, to tell the assembled that it wasn't personal: as the man had done the same to him while he was getting things worked out in his own head, no thanks to an awful government issued therapist that came attached to his pardon. He had no doubt there was a vast mountain of context and subtext he was missing all around, the least of which being why Bucky hadn't mentioned any of this to him either.

Bucky may not have been saying anything out loud, but it was clear a lot was running through his head, and Sam was pretty sure his eyes were getting glossier by the moment as he struggled to keep himself together. It was a painful thing to see, and it finally reached a point where Sam heard himself coming to his friend's defense, "Look, I don't know a little about a lot of this," he tried to keep his voice even as he spoke, even Bucky'd managed to take his eyes off that damn display long enough to see what counselor Sam was trying to negotiate. God. The hurt in those eyes of his, though. Sam pushed on, "And I respect the two of you have spent a lot more time around Bucky than I have. There's a lotta things going on here I can't begin to understand. I get that. And there's been some painfully awful decided lapses in judgement that I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being a part of. And for that I'm sorry. Truly."

Ayo regarded him with those intense eyes of hers. There wasn't anger there, not exactly, but there was still certainly frustration. The two of them were obviously well-aware that wasn't the real Smiling Tiger in that footage, but he suspected neither of them believed the scheme had been Sam's idea. That sickening smile captured on Zemo's face alone confirmed that. "I do believe you are," Ayo stated plainly to Sam, before turning her attention back to Bucky, "But he knew his actions represented Wakanda, and," she gestured to the screen, though her words were for Bucky alone, "That. That was who you chose to be. Who you chose to represent. How many people were hurt or died that night by your actions?"

"I didn't kill anyone," Bucky was able to mumble out, but Ayo had already closed the distance between them

"And what of Zemo? He killed dozens when he bombed the U.N., our King T'Chaka with them." She circled him like a shark, "And how many fell by your own hands when he'd cornered you with the trigger words?"

Bucky's eyes were pained as he regarded her, his voice hoarse, "That's not fair, you know I didn't have a choi—"

Her expression flickered something darker, "So while Zemo was under your watch, poor as we've concluded that watch was: How many more were hurt, killed?" She was inches away from his face as she pointedly added, "Make no mistake: Their blood is on your hands too, James."

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, and Sam felt the strain in his expression. No matter which way you looked at it: the number wasn't zero.

"And then when he escaped, you left the matter in our care to pursue. Do you not see how dishonorable that is? You were supposed to be better than this," the Dora Milaje standing over Bucky practically spat before she adding something pointed in Wakandan.

"Yeka ukundifihla!" Ayo commanded as she bore her eyes into Bucky. Stop hiding from me!

He forced his eyes open to meet her gaze, trying to change his approach for all the good it might do him, "Ayo, andazi nokuba ndiqale ngaphi. Uxolo ndikonile. Kuya kufuneka uyazi, akukho nanye kwezi yayingezonjongo zam." Ayo, I don't even know where to start. I'm sorry I wounded you. You have to know, none of this was my intention.

"Iinjongo azithethi nto ukuba uyaqhubeka nokuphila ubomi bakho uyimfama kwindlela ezenzeka ngayo izinto eziphembelela abo bakungqongileyo." Intentions mean nothing if you continue to live your life blind to how the cascade of your actions impacts those around you. Her face twisted into a pained sneer, "Sikuncedile, wopha kuwe, sibeka ubomi bethu emgceni wokuba ubuyekezwe ngoluhlobo? Ngaba ukungakhathali kuya kuhoywa? Kukungazi?" We helped you, bled for you, put our very lives on the line for you to be repaid like this? With callous disregard? With feigned ignorance?

He was hoping that speaking in her native tongue, the language she herself had taught him might somehow get through how profoundly sorry he was, but instead it made her emotions more raw and closer to the surface than he'd ever glimpsed as she continued, "Ucinga ukuba yasenza saziva njani, ukuyibona loo nto?" How do you think it made us feel, to see that? She gestured a hand at the looping display. "Ndenziwe ndaziva? Kwaye uShuri? Ngaba ubenomdla wokulahla ixesha lakho apha ngenxa yokuba singasakulungelanga? Iluncedo?" Made me feel? And Shuri? Were you so eager to throw away your time here simply because we are no longer convenient? Useful?

Bucky wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Ayo so close to the verge of tears. It was a foreign look on the face of the normally stoic woman's face. Her eyes were a potent mix of so much pain and betrayal and he found his own eyes tight as he held back waves of his own feelings in a desperate attempt to connect with her. "Ndiyaxolisa. Andazi ukuba ndizilungisa njani izinto, kodwa kufuneka undikholelwe, ndiyafuna." I'm sorry. I don't know how to make things right, but you have to believe me, I want to. He looked between Ayo, Shuri, Nomble, and Yama, hoping they could feel the sincerity in his words. He meant them with everything in him. "Ndixelele nje into ekufuneka ndiyenzile. Nantoni na." Just tell me what I need to do. Anything.

Shuri met his eyes with a tired and profoundly disappointed sigh and hung her head as she turned and nodded something to Ayo that was apparently hanging unspoken between the two women.

Ayo continued, "Ufunge ukwenza konke onokukwenza ukukhusela iimfuno zikaWakanda, kodwa ndiyabona ngoku ukuba izithembiso ezinjalo ziyakhawuleza ukuphela xa zinganyanzeliswa kwimbono yakho ebuhlungu." You swore an oath to do everything you could to protect Wakanda's best interests, but I see now that such promises are quick to fade when they are not forced into your painfully insular view.

"Bendicinga ngcono ngawe, James. Sikholelwe ngcono kuwe. Ngoku andazi nokuba ngubani na ome phambi kwam, kodwa andimazi. Kwaye andisacingi ukuba ndiyafuna." I thought better of you, James. We believed better of you. Now I don't even know who stands before me, but I do not recognize him. And I no longer think I want to.

At that, Bucky felt his heart break. His legs give out as he found himself on his knees in a desperate attempt to communicate how sorry he was, but she was no longer hearing any of it. When he opened his mouth to speak and lifted a hand towards her in surrender, she used the base of her spear to slap it away without a second thought before spinning it and leveling the point of it squarely at his face.

Bucky was passingly aware that Sam had taken a step closer, obviously unable to understand the words of the exchange, but his concern was palpable. Shuri stilled him with a touch on his shoulder.

When Ayo spoke next, it was in slow, weighty English, "That vibranium arm was crafted for an honorable man who was to be our White Wolf. But I see now that it was not only premature, but that we have been poor judges of character." She regarded him with purpose, "It is no longer yours to wield and do with as you please," Her eyes leveled at him with profound emotion as she concluded in perfect, pointed Russian, "солдат." Soldier.

Bucky squinted his eyes closed as fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. He didn't move as he felt pressure at his shoulder and a sudden shift in weight as his vibranium arm was freed, reclaimed by hands that had once sought to strengthen and comfort him when all felt lost.

But this feeling now, the one that felt like it was crushing him from the inside out: This somehow felt worse.

My friend Kami recently surprised me with a piece of amazing art that corresponds with the closing events of Chapter 11, when Ayo retrieved Bucky’s arm. I just… I’m at a loss for *words* at the imagery and emotion they wove into this piece. Especially those hands. They are all so graceful and emotive and just, gaaahh! So beautiful!

It’s so absolutely incredible, and I am so thankful to have them surprise me with such a treasure (and much love to them and all of my other friends on Discord for being the best sorts of supporters and enablers, especially during these wild periods of rolling overtime that sometimes left me exhausted or wanting to scream into the void. You, your humor, your support, and the ongoing declarations for self-care are truly the best, and have been a continued source of light and levity in these wild times).

Kami is a creative powerhouse, and you should *absolutely* check out their art on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram as well!

Chapter Text

[ID: A horizontally cropped illustration by Ri showing Bucky leaning forward. He is wearing a grey t-shirt and is absent his prosthetic arm. His face isn't visible, but a tear is falling from behind his obscured face. End ID]

Sam Wilson didn’t consider himself a worldly man. He hadn’t managed to scrounge up a life as fancy as Sharon had (Seriously wow. Sharon. Wow), and he could speak Arabic, sure, but he couldn’t speak more than a handful of languages fluently, assuming you considered Cajun English something akin to a second language.

Over the years, he’d picked up a smattering of this and that on the job, but Wakandan was certainly not one of them, so when Ayo and Bucky had switched their mouths to hurry out that throaty, rhythmic language, it took Sam a split second to adjust to the sudden pivot in conversation.

In his experience, those sort of things usually happened for one of two reasons, the first being that the folks arguing wanted a private fight where they didn’t want to have to bother to have their thoughts overheard by someone else. The second reason was the one he’d seen an awful lot more of in his life: when two people would start out an argument trying to be reasonable, and then the longer the water was left in the kettle to boil, the hotter it went, and the less likely you were able to keep a lid on your tone, your inflection, and the better you got at throwing out whatever you were feeling in your gut right out into the open in as raw and pure a form as possible.

He’d seen those sorts of fights more times than he could count firsthand. Hell, he’d had those fights with Sarah, and one wasn’t even all that long ago where the two of them went at each other seeing who could press each other's buttons the hardest, cleverest, most pointed way possible (Sarah had an unmatched natural skill for it, too). And while he couldn’t understand a damn word Ayo, Bucky, or even Shuri were saying, he was doing everything he could to try and decipher their tone and body language as they went back and forth like gulls trying to have the last word.

That was until Ayo switched back to English and spoke her truth, and concluded with a word so pointed and full of accusation that Sam couldn’t believe she’d actually gone and said the quiet part out loud.

That word. He knew that word. Knew the harsh meaning of that particular word to Bucky, of all people.

And right before him on the black and white tile floor, he watched his friend simply break.

It happened right as she said the word, before she’d even loosened the arm from his shoulder as he just sat there on his knees willing her to it if it might earn him a drop of forgiveness, compassion, or understanding. It hurt to watch in a way that momentarily incapacitated Sam too. Even if he couldn’t begin to know the history that crossed between them, even if they’d felt betrayed, there had to have been --

His eyes caught the flicker of movement from a nearby display as the violent part of that stupid the Winter Soldier vacationing in Madripoor featuring Baron Zemo and the Smiling Tiger-loop reached its peak. The precise moment where it looked like Bucky might have been about to take things too far and where Sam felt it necessary to intervene, to insert himself to remind Bucky that this had escalated well beyond his personal comfort zone, and that he, James “Bucky” Barnes, was more than a puppet on Zemo’s manipulative leash.

But what he hadn’t realized until the umpteenth viewing was how emotionless that dead look was on Bucky’s face, and the fact that he didn’t lift his eyes from his prey until he heard Zemo’s stupid face offer him praise for his obedience, “молодец, солдат.” He didn’t know the exact meaning of the first part, didn’t need to, but he certainly recognized that last bit: Soldier.

Goddamn it.

The timing of the loop was enough to prompt Ayo to glance to the display, vibranium arm-in-hand as she did. She met Shuri’s eyes and something unspoken passed between them. Ayo pointedly avoided meeting Sam’s eyes, but he didn’t miss the tension on the warrior woman’s face, nor the closely-guarded tears waging war in her own eyes that she sought to hide as she marched back the way they came, leaving Bucky languishing in surrender in her wake.

Shuri, for her part, at least had the decency to meet him halfway as she discreetly turned off the video feed. Even still, Sam felt himself reach out to her with his eyes as he tilted his head towards Bucky in what he hoped was a bridge of communication to convey Seriously? I didn’t understand half of that, but that last bit was too far and you know it. Coupled with a side of I know this all looks bad, but you have no damn idea how hard that man’s been working to try to be a better version of himself.

Sam didn’t know Shuri well at all, but there was part of him that wanted to feel like he would have had the fortitude to speak at least some of that out loud if there wasn’t this weird ambrosia salad of mixed fruit including:

One - Some of the accusations (at least the ones poured out in a language he understood) that were lobbed their way were fact and fair enough to be at least somewhat justified.

Two - Bucky was still laying on his knees hurting something fierce.

Three - There was clearly a lot of subtext and context he couldn’t begin to navigate.

And Four - Oh, and Shuri just happened to be a Wakandan Princess and brilliant scientist... who was not only a steadfast ally, but had also made his own damn suit.

Arugh!

That last bit wouldn’t have stopped him from speaking up, but it did mean he wanted to make certain of his words before he said them. And right then, he wasn’t feeling quite so trusting of his southern tongue.

Frustrated as he was in the moment, and oh, he was frustrated, he also wished he knew Shuri better so he could get a read on her expression right then too. There was definitely pain and regret in those brown eyes of hers, but there wasn’t nearly so much anger as Ayo’s. When her head turned back towards Bucky, Sam sensed something else, too. It was how she held her hands, rolled so the fingers rubbed against one another humanized her in that moment, and he realized that after all that had happened, all that had transpired, all the miscommunications and lapses of judgement and flavors of betrayal hung out like a mixin’ of tattered laundry on the line: what that in that moment, what Shuri instinctually wanted to do most was to comfort Bucky, but she also knew it wasn’t her place to do so. At least not right then.

He hadn’t expected that.

In that precise moment, Sam suddenly felt like he’d gained a fraction of a superpower when he was able to translate that spark of the message in her eyes: Please help. He needs someone, and I can’t be that someone right now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.

Sam wasn’t sure what his face said just then, but he gave her a quick nod as he stepped over to Bucky, putting himself between him and the rest of the judgmental world and sending Shuri a silent I’ll take this from here.

She bobbed her head appreciatively and stepped away from them, making slow, quiet tracks down the corridor, stopping at the far end to glance back behind her, as if making sure Sam had received her plea. They met each other's eyes for a moment before she turned and disappeared through the next set of sliding doors. Yama and Nomble stayed behind, but even they had the decency to take up position a ways further down the hall, giving the he and the sobbing shape of Bucky some space. He supposed it was too much to ask to leave them unguarded in the lab, but it would have been nice.

He focused his attention back on Bucky. Aside from the awful sound he was making, the only sign that he’d managed to move at all was the fact that in the last ten seconds or so, he’d lost desire to keep his body curled upright, and instead had let himself half-collapse forward onto his good arm the moment Shuri left them be.

He knew Bucky was an amputee, it wasn’t like it hadn’t been blatantly apparent for as long as he’d known him, but in all that time, he’d never looked like one, so it was easy to just.. forget. To see him as a whole person and gloss over the private struggles those intimate parts of his life had wrought upon him. But in that moment, it seemed like someone had yanked the veil free, and that and so many other vulnerabilities he normally hid in plain sight were laid out in the open for all to see. It was downright uncomfortable, but Sam wasn’t about to leave the man to cobble the pieces together on his own.

There were all sorts of things Sam thought to say, the sorts of things you say with the best intentions when you want to comfort someone that’s really hurting, all the while knowing the words are bound to fall flat because they can’t themselves offer any magic salve. Instead, he forced himself to remember back to the last time he’d been anywhere close to this kind of pain, and he pushed past the discomfort of that isolating, personal hell, and focused on what he would have wanted someone to do.

His mind immediately flashed back to Riley and Afghanistan and the aftermath of that awful, awful night mission. After the initial shock came the condolences tossed his way like flowers. Next were people trying to make him feel better but sharing equally horrendous stories of loss that were probably supposed to make him feel a sense of shared camaraderie, but in no way actually made him feel better at all. If it wasn’t that, it was all the people just talking at him trying to tell him about how the man had lived a good life, died doing what he loved (the actual hell?), and trying to find a way to use a mortar and pestle to grind out some silver linings out of sun-bleached sand that would make him stop feeling one way and push him to feel another way that was easier for them to stomach or relate to.

It took him only a fraction of a moment to decide what he wanted to do next.

He kept his voice low as he spoke to Bucky, hoping he might hear him through the static running in the man’s ailing mind, “It’s okay, Buck. I’m here. I’m gonna just sit beside you, alright? We don’t have to talk.”

When Bucky didn’t respond one way or the other, Sam took a step carefully to his left: his vulnerable side. It was weird seeing the empty space where his arm used to be, but this wasn’t about that. He wanted Bucky to know he had his back, and slowly, he lowered himself to the cold tile floor and sat a few inches away from him at what he hoped was a distance that wasn’t stifling or intrusive. Bucky remained where he was, half-keeled over on the tile floor of the lab, hand clawed protectively over the side of his face as he continued to make those ugly sobs. It wasn’t clear if he even realized Sam was there, but something in his haggard breathing told Sam some part of it had gotten through, and that was enough.

Sam sat, trying to keep his own voice even though inside it was breaking him to see Bucky hurting as he was, “Ayo and Shuri already took off,” he offered. “I’m just going to stay right here for as long as you need.”

Because that’s what partners do.

With silent grace, Sam carefully rested the palm of hand on the crest of Bucky’s back and did just that.

[ID: An illustration by Ri showing Bucky and Sam both sitting on the floor. Bucky is leaning forward and wearing a dark grey t-shirt and medium grey pants. He is absent his prosthetic arm and his face isn't visible, but a tear is falling from behind his obscured face. Sam is seated next to him wearing a light grey shirt and dark grey pants. Sam looks concerned and has his hand resting on Bucky's back, as if he's offering him support. End ID]

March 2023 Update:

This has always been such a poignant moment between Bucky and Sam for me, and I was so humbled to receive this piece of gift art from Ri (partly_cloudie - https://www.instagram.com/partly_cloudie/) that drives home the quiet show of support between them.

This is such an emotionally loaded scene, and I love how much gravitas she was able to capture of the moment. Their poses, and little details like Bucky's tense hand and fingers and their body language, it’s all so wonderfully handled and evocative, and you can really feel the emotion just bleeding through her illustration.

Please check out her Instagram account to see more of her beautiful and vivacious art. Her characters have such wonderful life and personality to them!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to Ri for capturing such a poignant moment between these two.

Chapter Text

Sam wasn’t sure how long they stayed there on the tile floor, but eventually there came a point were Bucky’s breathing transitioned from short gasps to long breaths, and he managed to exhale out a request that was only a hair louder than the hum of the nearby electronics, “I think I’d like to get out of here.”

The sound was so faint it took Sam a moment to even register it “Okay. You need help up?”

Bucky shook his head and didn’t say anything as he used his remaining hand to push himself first to his knees, and then, with a deal less grace, the rest of the way to his feet. He wobbled for a moment but kept his head down as he did. Once he was up, he just stood here, holding his arm over his belly and rubbing his fingers harshly together, as if waiting for Sam to take the lead from there.

The next half hour or so was one of the most uncomfortable extended silences Sam’d experienced in his entire life, including the aftermath of those fiery spats he’d had with Sarah over the years. The group retreated back with all the gravitas of leading someone to their last rites, and even though Sam told himself he was being over dramatic to compare the two, the sullen, lifeless expression on Bucky’s face made it seem not far off the mark. Seeing him stripped of his arm like that, willing or not, cut deep even if Sam didn’t have a damn clue what had been said between the two leading up to it.

Nomble silently led the way to the way as they worked their way back to the jet with Yama trailing behind Bucky, spear in-hand. Sam didn’t miss the curious glances the Dora Milaje scattered around the complex sent their way, but none said a word. They’d likely already seen Ayo pass through with the arm, and seeing Bucky with his head down in Sam’s wake was likely enough for them to put enough of the story together for themselves. Most of these people were just faces to Sam, but he found himself wondering how many more Bucky knew, and how many of those had seen what had gone down in Madripoor.

No one said a word as they finally entered the jet and the Wakandans walked to the front while Bucky split off to cram himself in the rear of the jet like a scared cat. Sam situated himself nearby while Nomble took the helm and got the jet airborne.

Sam wasn’t altogether sure what the Wakandans were thinking about the whole encounter, but whatever they were feeling was infinitely more subtle than Ayo. Yama’s posture was still the rigid attention of a soldier that was on-duty, but she kept finding reason to glance back towards Bucky. It wasn't the concern of a guard watching a prisoner, or the look you give someone when you’re relishing the opportunity to see them suffering: it was something else. Something quiet and coated in private history that Sam was clearly realizing there was a heavy heaping of going around.

The flight was blessedly quick and confrontation-free, and when they finally landed and the back of the jet opened, Sam was relieved to see that no one stood out on the tarmac waiting for them. He was all for the presence of a meet and greet, but not after what’d just happened. He was pretty sure the only reason Bucky was even remotely functional at the moment was that people’d taken a break from slinging more words his way.

Nomble departed the plane first, walking at attention with her staff as she went. Sam got to his feet and glanced back at Bucky, whose head was lowered down again in that way he did when he was on the verge of shutting down. His eyes were crunched together and his mouth was trembling something fierce, but it took Sam a moment to start to even piece together what he’d missed in the timespan of just a few seconds of looking away. Then he saw it: the way Bucky was clutching that duffle bag of his like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in the present. By the way he was leaning, he must have gone and grabbed his duffle bag with one hand and aimed to maneuver the rolling suitcase with the other… only to, well…

Only one hand.

Damn.

Sam hurried to adjust his things to free up a hand, but Yama beat him to it, silently stepping forward and using her free hand to grasp and gently guide Bucky’s rolling bag, pulling it to the side of the cabin. Bucky didn’t say anything audible, but he gave off something near-to a whimper as he gripped his duffle bag protectively in one arm and used his elbow to push himself to his feet. Then he just stood there with his head down, as if he no longer trusted himself enough to even decide if it was time to deplane.

That painful silence continued as they made their way down to the guest quarters, Bucky trailing a few steps behind Sam like a lost puppy. Once they arrived, Nomble remained outside, but Yama made it a point to roll Bucky’s luggage inside. When she stepped back, she caught Sam’s eye and nodded. Sam wasn’t altogether sure what was custom or what she was trying to communicate, but it felt right to nod back so he went with his gut and did that. That seemed to be the right thing, and the two Dora Milaje stepped away as he closed the door. Part of him wondered if they’d be standing guard outside overnight, but he decided it wasn’t worth concerning himself with such things: there were more pressing matters.

The luxurious suite, frankly, put the accommodations at the old Avenger’s compound to shame, yet Bucky’d already managed to locate a not-altogether inconspicuous spot on the floor of the far side of the room, and had apparently decided that was all the space and comfort he deserved.

He leaned against the wall and used his hand to rub at the raised glyphs cresting over the spot where his other arm should have been while his eyes remained distant and ungrounded, his expression a blank canvas of rolling pain and anguish.

It was better than half an hour ago, but only barely.

Sam was midway through trying to figure out the best approach when Bucky found his voice and spoke confessionally, “...I didn’t even think about putting them on the list. It didn’t even cross my mind.”

Sam cringed, putting his luggage, suitcase, and shield to the side as he stepped across the room towards Bucky, “Well, I mean, you put together that list to make amends for stuff you did when you were the Winter Soldier.” he reasoned, “That wasn’t really the case here, right?”

Bucky didn’t respond, but his face twisted painfully in a way that said a lot.

Oh. Oh shit…

His friend was making that choking breathing thing again and Sam stepped over, seating himself across from Bucky on the floor. At first Bucky didn’t say anything more, but for the briefest of seconds he glanced up, as if daring to risk seeing Sam’s expression, to see if it was filled with judgement as well. His blue eyes cut back away quickly, as if he couldn’t stand the contact.

“Yeah. They definitely knew him too.”

“Oh.” Sam wasn’t sure what to say to that. He was feeling like he was still lacking an awful lot of context, but he had some damn good guesses, and they were more than a little grim.

Bucky’s voice was ragged as he spoke, his eyes going back down to his hand, “I got… really close to killing her. Ayo, I mean.” He shifted uncomfortably, remembering, “I’m pretty sure she would have died elsewhere it wasn’t for Shuri’s tech.” He shook his head, trying to clear the thought before rubbing his hands over his face, “I mean, sometimes I can try to separate myself from all that, but… other times it just doesn’t feel fair trying to hold a conversation with someone when, at one point I---”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Sam reminded him, his voice low and serious.

Bucky made a non-committal face, “But you can’t tell me you don’t remember it.” Sam was so deep in trying to imagine what must have happened here in Wakanda that he wasn’t ready for Bucky’s eyes to be back on him, talking about him.

This was the last thing they needed to get into now, “Hey, we’re good,” Sam said, meeting his friend’s eyes, hoping the sincerity in his words might make it through the fog.

“I --” Bucky began.

Sam cut him off. Neither of them needed a play-by-play of the past, “You don’t need to lay out the details, Buck. I was there. That wasn’t you.”

Bucky grumbled something, but went back to stewing into that quiet, personal hell of his.

Every word Sam had said was sincere. When he saw Bucky now, he saw a man that was struggling with a profound amount of trauma as a direct result to being a victim of HYDRA in the truest sense. And in those times when the curtains of all that were pulled back and he actually allowed himself to feel the sun on his skin and the fact that, yes: people around him actually cared about him and moreover, that he was worth caring about, sometimes you’d get one of those genuine ear-to-ear smiles of his that lit up a room. The kind of smiles where he was wholly in the present, just allowing himself to be who he was rather than having to wrestle with the fall-out or the way HYDRA and even assholes like Zemo had manipulated his life for so long.

That being as it was: Bucky was also not wholly wrong.

There was a time, and if Sam were being honest: not even altogether long ago when Sam looked at Bucky and the first thing he initially thought of was the other guy. The one that’d repeatedly shot at him with an intent to kill, ripped off one of his wings and hurled his ass off the side of a helicarrier, flung him head over tail across a room without any concern for if he died or ended of paralyzed: that guy. While he wanted to believe better of Bucky on account of what Steve had told him, that was who he always saw first when he used to look at Bucky. It wasn’t conscious, it was just his default. He’d spent years fine-tuning his nerves to react to threats, and having a grand total of two massive, chaotic fights versus Thanos where Bucky didn’t turn his gun on him wasn’t exactly enough to convince his nerves that they could stand down and this guy was an ally rather than a threat.*

But as pissed as he’d later been about Bucky trying to insert himself and his raw feelings about the shield to the Flag Smashers case, it’d honestly been the shake up the two of them needed to start to see each other as actual people beyond their respective ties to Steve.

It just didn’t help that it was practically second-nature for the man to do that staring thing that drained his face of real human-looking feelings. Hell, maybe now that he was thinking about it, maybe that was why the staring thing bothered him so much sometimes: that it reminded him of the Winter Soldier with not enough “Bucky” clearly visible in there to get a clean read on what he was actually feeling.

He’d have to give that some thought some other time, but the thoughts made something click together in his head, “Wait, was that why you used to dodge my calls?” He elaborated, “You thought maybe I still had a grudge against you for that other stuff?”

That got a little reaction out of Bucky, who glimpsed up at Sam with one eye, “Maybe? I dunno. I wasn’t in a good place. I didn’t even listen to the voicemails. I’d just delete them.” he cringed at the admittance, sitting and thinking as he continued to rub his fingers together, “I guess I thought if I just stopped responding, then you guys wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. It’s not like you owed me anything.” His face distorted as he added, “And I guess I felt like they’d done enough.”

The Wakandans.

Bucky grumbled something that was barely audible, “I’m sorry I got you involved in any of this. If I’d had any idea… or that they’d seen what I did in Madripoor... I wouldn’t have asked you to come along.”

“Oh come on, man. I was there too. I’m not exactly blameless here. Madripoor wasn’t a good look for either of us.”

Bucky’s lip faltered, “Zemo wasn’t your idea. And you --” he started making that awful choking noise again. “I can’t even argue with anything Ayo or Shuri said. I don’t have any good excuse. And the only one I have is even worse.”

Sam cocked his head, “Worse?”

Bucky nodded once and licked his lips before he dared to raise his eyes to Sam’s, as if this was important, “That I got so caught up in the Mission that I just… didn’t care about any of the collateral damage. Any of the people I was hurting were just a means to an end. Did you see what I did in that bar? I was just--”

“You--” Sam started, but Bucky forcibly raised his voice just enough to cut him off cold.

“I stabbed someone, Sam. I broke at least one of those guy’s arms, and I’m not altogether sure if I saw the one that I kicked through the table get up.” His eyes were still on Sam’s but they were wild, unfocused, “I want to think I could’ve stopped. I would’ve stopped, before --” he choked out something, “But I was just so focused on just... making it look real. That I just…” His eyes met Sam’s, “How’s that different from what Walker did?”

Now that bit caught Sam entirely off-guard, and for a second it felt like his brain was trying to catch-up, “Hey, no. Not the same thing. Very much not the same thing.”

“So because he gave into his anger, that makes him better or worse than what I did?”

He was biased, but the answer was blatantly obvious to Sam, “Worse. He ran down a man who wasn’t fighting back, and instead of arresting him, he executed him, horrendously I might add, all the while knowing he wasn’t even the one that killed Lemar.”

Bucky’s face twinged again, with one of those very particular I’m ruminating on yet more awful- thoughts, “Yeah, well. After that explosion at Nagel’s lab, while we were trying to get away, I impaled someone through the shoulder with a piece of metal pipe.” He just… lobbed the comment out there, like he was almost hoping to get a reaction out of Sam.

Sam grasped for control over whatever expression his face instinctually wanted to make. Okay, that was an awful mental image, “Wait, were they shooting at you?”

“Well, yeah...”

“Okay, and I’m going to repeat: Not. The. Same. Thing.” It wasn’t. Sam’d been in that fight too. The people that’d come for them were definitely the sort that preferred dropping bodies over taking prisoners.

“I could have blocked the bullets,” Bucky insisted, because apparently his head was fixated on the idea that hindsight was great and all when you weren’t in the middle of a firefight.

“Heat of combat, man. You think you’re the only one that second-guesses decisions you made when the bullets stop flying?”

That got Bucky to stop for a moment, at least. For emphasis, Sam added, “You’re not.”

Bucky leaned to one side, as if trying to become one with the wall for all the good it would do him, “Yeah, but that was something he would have done.”

He knew exactly who that was meant to refer to, and Sam did his best to keep his voice level and reasonable as he spoke, channeling all those years he’d worked as a counselor at the VA, “Okay. Let’s even say that’s true. I’m not agreeing but let’s pretend: Do you think it’s reasonable to believe that it’s gonna take time to work through? I saw you out there in Munich, you know. You, you,” Sam emphasized. “When we first brawled with those Flag Smashers out on the transports, I was pretty sure you could’ve taken ‘em all yourself. But you didn’t. And I’m stubborn enough to believe it’s because you, like me and everyone else out there, are trying to navigate the way forward to be the best version of yourself, and in your particular case, you didn’t know who they were or what they were fighting for or against, but you knew it wasn’t bound to be an even playing field on account of the serum and such. But rather than brazen right through it without a care, I see you, man. I see you trying to temper things and go for those disabling moves when you can rather than a quick kill. Doing that takes a lot more conscious effort and focus, too.”

It was a solid monologue, but Sam wasn’t sure how much had actually gotten through to Bucky. He just looked so defeated as he said there against the wall, shifting between staring at his fingers and staring off into space.

For a moment, Sam thought things might’ve been starting to settle in his friend’s mind, but suddenly, the mood shifted and Bucky choked something out and his head went back into his hand as he started sobbing again, words seeping their way out between breaths, “I thought. I was. Doing. The right. Thing.”

Sam felt his own face twinge in pain at the honesty of the words, and he shifted his position around so he could sit beside Bucky so his back was sharing that rigid wall of his. Bucky was so lost in himself, in the emotion of the waves washing over him and drowning him that it wasn’t clear if he’d even noticed Sam move. So with all manner of care, Sam reached an arm around Bucky and just hugged him, letting him know he was still there. That he wasn’t alone in the heart of the darkness. That someone was listening.

Bucky accepted the contact with the torn enthusiasm of an abused dog that wanted so much to trust people, but had spent too many years on the streets learning that it was wise self-preservation to be timid of even the most gentle touch. Bucky didn't pull away from the hug, but he didn't lean into it either. Sam felt certain that some part of his damn cyborg brain was still stuck calculating if he deserved even that meager amount of sympathy or human companionship. It was heartbreaking.

After enough time passed that Bucky’s breathing had calmed and he was willing to lift his head up from the view of the ground again, Sam found his voice, “The way to Hell’s paved with good intentions and all that,” he commiserated. “And we did what we had to. Did the best we could. Can’t fix the world in a week and change, you know? But we did a lot of good.” His thoughts drifted to Karli, who he’d still been hoping so much he could save. He shifted his focus back to the present, “And it sounds like there were blind spots and I’m guessing by Ayo’s tone, missteps along the way, but now you’ve gotta ask yourself who you want to be. Do you want to be the person that prefers a clean start? To walk away because seeing what they’re feeling hurts too much and feels like they’re holding up a mirror to something you don’t like, or,” Sam rolled a hand face up and did his best to meet Bucky’s eyes as he spoke, “Or, do you feel like you’re the sort of person that can stomach some tough love because you see those other people out there as being worth your time, because somewhere deep down, you actually do want them in your life, despite them seeing some of the shadows along the way?”

Bucky's chest had stopped heaving: he was listening, so Sam continued.

“Look. One of the things we learn as we get older is we don’t owe anyone anything. We don’t owe someone friendship just because of something in the past or because someone shares a mutual friend. It’s gotta come from a good place and for the right reasons. That’s the only way it’s genuine. So don’t make the same mistake I did and assume the Wakandans were just doing Steve a favor. What I saw tonight was not that, and I think you know that.”

Bucky chewed on his lip and they slipped back into silence for a few minutes while he went back to that dark place of his. Eventually, he came up for air, “You ever read about feral children?”

Again: the tangents this man’s mind went off on. At least this one didn’t seem like a deflection.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Feral children,” Bucky went on, “I read about some of them on the internet.”

For a moment, Sam had to push down a part of him that wanted to make a quick joke about Bucky and technology to lighten the mood, but he pushed it down. Bucky must have picked up on it anyway, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he got a glimpse of his friend’s particular brand of humor, which also had a few drops of pride in his voice, “Yes, I use the internet. And I’m probably better with most tech than you are besides. Also: Wakanda.” He paused, lifting his jaw, “Anyway, feral children are kids where something awful happened to them early in life where their development got stunted. Like kids raised by wolves, that sort of idea, but in reality, the circumstances are usually pretty dire and abusive. Kids spending years locked in a room, that sort of thing.”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably before he continued, “So when these kids get rescued they’re all out of sorts. Mentally, physically, the whole deal. And I guess some people would assume things just, well… get better from there. That they get nice homes that care about them and get a fairytale ending after all that pain. But the thing is, even after years of teaching and trying to reintegrate into normal society, some still can’t talk. Others aren’t really functional or barely want to interact with the people around them. Some hit a spot somewhere in the middle, where they aren’t truly feral, but their wiring also only lets them get so far, and they just... don’t fit in.”

Bucky cringed as he spoke, “Sometimes... I feel a whiff of that. Like I wonder if all that HYDRA did to me, all the programming and the torture and the wipes and freezing and thawing, and the blender they made of my brain for years and years, if they just… if whatever part of people helps them with things in how they relate to other people… what if I…just... can’t?”

There were a whole series of words there that Sam’d never heard Bucky say out loud, and it took him a moment to even process, no less consider what he wanted to say next, but it was cut short by a sudden knock on the door.

The sound was enough that Bucky jolted, looking up with renewed panic spread across his face.

“Stay here,” Sam instructed, getting to his feet. He couldn’t imagine who it might be, but Bucky had endured enough for the night. If anyone felt a need to hash things out with him, he told himself they’d have to come back another day. He wasn’t just going to stand there and let his friend get kicked while he was down.

He walked to the door and upon realizing there were apparently no peep-holes on Wakandan doors, asked, “Hey. Who is it?”

A pause, “Ayo.”

Goddamn it. Not more of this.

For a half second he debated simply pretending he hadn’t heard her, but he decided it was important to be the better man and pulled the door part way open. Hopefully he could convince her if she wanted a round two on grievances, she’d need to come back another day.

But the first thing he noticed when he opened the door was that she… wasn’t wearing her customary Dora Milaje ensemble, nor was she holding a vibranium spear, or the arm. She was dressed in a long red and purple top with ornate silver patterning with coordinating brown and red leggings that made her almost unrecognizable as “Ayo” for a moment. Did this amount to off-duty civies?

She regarded Sam calmly, but her searching eyes were clearly trying to travel behind him to see if Bucky was in view.

“He’s on the other side of the bed,” Sam offered helpfully, tone clearly no-nonsense, “On the floor. This isn’t a good time.” He was hoping she’d get the message.

When her eyes flicked back to him, he felt certain he had. Something in her terse expression softened, like a wave something like compassion crossing her face.

“I am still angry,” she said, loud enough that Bucky would have been able to hear her, “And I feel that much of it is justified.”

Oh no, here we go.

She set her jaw and continued, “But that didn’t make it right for me to say the last word I did. I thought better of myself than to stoop to that level.” Her eyes were cast not on Sam, but deep into the room, “I know I cannot take back the sting from a lash that has already been dealt, but that letting it linger in the air serves no purpose other than to feign enjoyment or disregard in letting the pain fester.” Her voice was clear as she spoke, her eyes coming back to rest on Sam’s. The intensity of her expression and resolve were still there, but there were other layers on her complexion he found himself unable to parse, “I would appreciate it if you would let James know that I regret it, and will mind my tongue so it doesn’t happen again.”

Sam took in her words for a moment, trying to read her eyes before he nodded, “I’ll let him know.”

She might have considered saying something more, but instead she dipped her head in acknowledgement as something in her expression shifted again. With not another word, she turned away and headed back down the hallway at a soldier’s gait.

It wasn’t much, but Sam appreciated that even though sometimes it seemed like they came from different worlds, even Wakandans weren’t above trying to avoid going to bed angry.

Chapter Text

There came a point somewhere between the deep of evening and the threat of sunrise that Bucky surrendered to the passing concept that maybe sleep could offer some resemblance of escape or better perspective on all… all this.

He’d spent what felt like an eternity just… struggling to even begin to process how profoundly his actions had hurt the people around him. He felt his arm quake as he took turns leaning into the wall for the support or crumbling into his knees as he forced himself to try to reconcile everything at once, on how he’d gone from feeling like he had things under control, that his life was going in the right direction and he was surrounded by smiling people that welcomed him to their close-knit community to… well, to this. To the stark realization that he’d not only pushed other people away, but that he’d betrayed their trust in him. Maybe part of the problem was he was still so prone to relying on his own flawed judgement on what was a big deal to him, that he’d barely stopped to consider if other people might feel differently. Intentional or not: every moment he took to retrace his steps found him seeping waist-deep in guilt for little things like not returning calls or tucking away the Kimoyo Beads so he couldn’t be reached, to bigger things like Zemo, or realizing his apparent willingness to play the part of the Winter Soldier reflected back at all sorts of angles that he clearly hadn’t stopped to consider.

In the moment, it felt like it was just about him. About his willingness to put himself out there in a profoundly dehumanizing manner because it showed that tracking down their lead was more important than his feelings on the matter. That was the reason, right? Because now he was starting to wonder if he felt he’d taken any of those steps because he felt had something to prove to Zemo. He’d put him on the list, right? That meant he’d been planning to track him down eventually, so maybe this had just been a convenient excuse? He wasn’t even sure anymore. But he sure as hell hadn’t thought about how it would look to see Zemo ordering him around like a weapon like that. Or how the Wakandans would feel seeing him play the part. That part.

Especially Ayo.

Bucky kept his eyes closed as he leaned down, unable to shake the look of fire and profound hurt and disappointment in her expression.

"Sikuncedile, wopha kuwe, sibeka ubomi bethu emgceni wokuba ubuyekezwe ngoluhlobo? Ngaba ukungakhathali kuya kuhoywa? Kukungazi?" We helped you, bled for you, put our very lives on the line for you to be repaid like this? With callous disregard? With feigned ignorance?

There was something in how she’d spat the word bled that hit a particularly raw spot in him. In that moment, he felt certain he could read her mind, could see the precise memory that churned up in her mind’s eye. The spray of blood. Her broken bones jutting through flesh. The twisted spine that the Winter Soldier had dealt with of her own spear when a safeguarded failsafe unknowingly sprung to life hours later, courtesy of a particularly cruel and pointed time delay.

Neither of them had seen it coming. The shift had been so sudden. The retaliation, so swift that… if Shuri hadn’t just happened to be working late, hadn’t been in the same room to catch sight of the spike in his vitals, hadn’t had the fortitude of mind to remotely blare a shutdown codeword override from Ayo’s comms... Ayo would certainly have bled out in minutes. And Bucky? Bucky stopped himself from thinking about how many people might’ve died that night, starting with the children and adults in those nearby huts.

He remembered them too.

He didn’t have anything to say for himself, so his mind just continued to spin aimlessly between violent memories of the past, and the look of utter pain and betrayal in her eyes.

It was just too much.

He buried his head deeper into his knees in a feeble attempt to drown out the world, and he could feel his hand trembling as he cupped it around the crest of his head and tried to catch his breath.

He was briefly aware of a ruffle of motion nearby, and then Sam’s voice softly stepped into the silence as a hand came to gently rest on his shoulder, pulling him out of the depths of the mire of his mind, “You want an energy bar or something? I know you’re probably not hungry, but we missed dinner and, well... super metabolism and all.”

Bucky glanced up with one hazy blue eye and found an energy bar hanging a few inches away. The end of the wrapper had already been peeled open by some helpful hands that apparently wanted to ensure that there was as little barrier to politely declining the request as possible. While Bucky’s stomach remained firmly knotted in tension for completely not-food related reasons, a voice too dry and hoarse to be his own acquiesced, “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam nodded and stepped away to open his own field ration. He was obviously doing his best to look nonchalant as he took measured bites of it and made it a point to stare up and around the room, as if he hadn’t already spent the last few hours memorizing every end table and geometric pattern on the wall. By the look of things, it was still dark outside, but a lamp across the room and the subtle blue glow of some Wakandan accent lighting offered the room a tempered atmosphere for ruminating. That being as it was, Bucky was well aware the man’s ears were still focused squarely on him and how he was doing, and the truth of it was: he wasn’t doing well at all, but he also didn’t like feeling like other people had to worry about him and the mess he’d clearly made of things.

How long had it been? He strained to one side, but realized he couldn’t see the clock from the floor. Oh well. His watch was off on the bed somewhere, tossed aside when he was feeling like anything around his wrist was too constricting, too reminiscent of those restraints.

He felt like he’d spent the better part of the last few hours wavering between drowning in emotions so potent and new that they didn’t even feel human, and finding himself reaching out to understand, to find something to keep him afloat. Some way forward.

He found that every now and then, he’d try to see if he could get a read on Sam’s expression in the half light, to see the judgement and disappointment on his face, like Ayo and Shuri’s. But instead, he just looked concerned, and that sent Bucky right back into feeling guilty about inadvertently dragging him along on not only Madripoor, but all this. And some part of him likewise insisted that once they were out of Wakanda, Sam’d probably rightfully reevaluate his thoughts about Bucky and the burden he clearly was, and that he’d cut him loose. Part of his brain insisted it was a foregone conclusion, that Sam was just counting his minutes until he could be back home and away from the absolute mess Bucky had clearly made of things.

But right then, Bucky watched as a bottle of water and second energy bar were laid near his hand, and then Sam settled himself nearby on the floor, leaning his back against the side of the bed like they were on two sides of an L-shaped couch. Bucky briefly regarded the offerings, sending Sam a question with his eyes that his friend returned with a casual shrug.

He made quick work of the second bar, and acknowledged that water may actually help his parched throat. He grasped the bottle in one hand and for a moment, just the barest of moments, he felt himself instinctually reach for his other hand to help him twist open the top of the water bottle. Before he reached the crest of that desire and the complex emotions that were about to start pouring out on behalf of the other arm not being there, and moreover why the arm was no longer there, the cap easily fell free in his fingers: apparently Sam had already loosened it for him. He made a face to himself, but didn’t say anything as he put the opening of the bottle to his mouth and downed the cool liquid in not insubstantial gulps. Sometimes the silence felt too heavy, but he was appreciative for the space Sam let him have to himself right them. He just didn’t have anything left to offer him.

But Sam also knew when he needed to part that fragile silence too.

“Are you feeling like you might be able to get some rest? Or you want to stay up longer?”

Bucky crumpled the remains of the wrapper and used his fingers to shove it into the empty water bottle. The way the half-light reflected on the folds of the metallic sheen of the wrapper reminded him of the fireflies AJ and Cass caught back in Delacroix. He wondered if there was a long list of ways he’d hurt them and Sarah too. Or maybe that was just the sort of thing they had to look forward to if they spent more time around him. He could hear himself saying words, but his mind remained fixated elsewhere, “It’s late. You can head to bed, I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Sam responded pointedly.

Bucky made a face before Sam added, “You didn’t sleep on the flight over to Symkaria, and I’m betting whatever shuteye you managed on route to Wakanda wasn’t the least bit restful, so if you think I’m not perfectly capable of outlasting your stubborn ass: try me.”

He grumbled something just to let Sam know he’d heard him and started to roll over into the wall where he was, “Fine. Sleep then.”

“Wait,” Sam crisply objected, “No c’mon man. There are two perfectly good beds here. Just pick one.”

Bucky made it a point to use his hand to slap the side of the nearest one, as if laying claim to it by proxy, “This one. See? Easy.” He spent a moment debating if he wanted to spend the energy taking off his shirt or if he should just lay there in the clothes he had on. You know what? This was just fine. The other options were clearly too much effort.

“Buck, c’mon. I dunno what this is about, but laying on the ground and probably guaranteeing yourself an awful night’s sleep isn’t going to make you feel any better come tomorrow.”

“I’m fine. It’s comfortable.” Okay, that second part was a lie.

“There’s a sofa by the window too.”

“Floor’s fine. I don’t even own a bed.” He said it for emphasis because he wanted Sam to just leave him be and not make this a thing. He was a grown-ass 106 year-old man. If he wanted to wallow and rot away right here on the floor, he was well within his rights to do so.

There was that silence again.

“Wait. In Brooklyn?”

Oh. His apartment’s prominent lack of interior design and his general disinterest in furniture just… hadn’t come up, “Yeah, look it’s okay. I’m fine. This is fine. The floor’s fine.” He was definitely avoiding looking to see whatever expression Sam had on his face.

Then there was another rustle of movement off to his right and he felt someone toss a blanket over his legs. When he looked up to object, a pillow landed near his head. Not close enough to hit him, but clearly within range of his hand and the bottle he was still fiddling with. He’d expected a snappy reply, but instead the silence continued to linger.

Sam’s tone softened and shifted as if he was remembering something, “Okay. I get that.” Another pause, “Floor it is.”

And then the man chucked a second pillow like a frisbee, sending it so that it lightly bounced off the couch by the window and settled immaculately on the floor about six feet to Bucky’s left. Then Captain America himself gathered up a blanket in his arms and walked over and neatly tossed it out in formation, folded it once over like a sleeping bag, and used one hand to pull the tag on the lamp before he just… laid down right then and there. Even as Bucky’s eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out Sam kicking off his shoes, taking off his shirt, and then resting face-up with his hands beneath his head, elbows stretched to either side like triangles for wings as he wiggled to get comfortable.

You’ve gotta be kidding…

“Sam…” Bucky complained. He tried to put force into that objection, too.

“I used rocks for pillows in Afghanistan,” Sam stated evenly, “If this is what you need, then this is how we’re doin’ things.” He fluffed his pillow once for emphasis, “No point arguing.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Conflicted, mostly. Guilty too. But also more than a little confused about why Sam felt like he was worth all of this. He shifted himself around and decided it wouldn’t be the worst idea for him to take off his boots too, so he squirmed and did just that. Loosening them with one hand was a challenge, but he eventually got them off and shoved them against one side of the bed.

Once that was in order, he slid so his back was fully on the floor and laid the pillow under his head. He worked his neck to adjust himself enough that if he was leaning just a little to one side, he could almost forget about the arm. Almost. He wasn’t ready to explore his feelings on that particular Pandora’s box tonight.

From this point of view, the room looked massive. The vertical supports accenting the walls of the room stretched up and out like trees opening their branches to reveal the sky above. The faint blue of the accent lighting hit the bumps on the ceiling in uneven patterns, and something in the quiet calm of the moment made him think back to that place by the lake, and how the night sky there looked nothing like it did anywhere on Earth that he’d seen before or since. The sight of it had made him feel so small and insignificant compared to all that open space and the overwhelming majesty of the stars dappling the sky above with their secrets.

This view from the floor reminded him of that. And he realized part of him missed that.

“You good?” Sam asked from the darkness a few feet away.

Bucky felt his voice go dry with the beginnings of emotions he did his best to shove down again but he managed a, “MmHmm.”

He laid in silence looking up and trying to make Wakandan constellations out of the bumps in the ceiling and slowly, he felt the tension he was holding in his chest loosen. He debated saying the next part out loud, but he felt compelled to make a request of the darkness, “Can you wake me up if you hear me... saying anything in… not English?”

The reply was immediate, “Of course.”

Silence slipped in and enveloped the room again, thought it didn’t feel quite as stifling as it did even ten minutes ago.

“Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

He was finding words difficult, but this was too important to keep to himself, “Thanks.”

He could practically imagine the gentle smile on Sam’s face as he easily replied from somewhere off to his left, “Anytime, Buck. You know I’ve always got your six.”

There was still a sea of doubt, unresolved threads, and problems that needed solving swirling around Bucky’s head, but something clear in those simple words made him believe Sam truly meant what he said.

And in that moment: that mattered.

Chapter Text

As the first fringes of sunrise crept in through the edges of the curtains, Bucky found himself laying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the room came into focus and he tried to wrap his mind around what were dreams, what were echoes of memory, and what remained.

The view from the floor filled his vision: tall walls bespoke with bright geometric patterns that sung clearly to the interior design aesthetics of Wakanda, and for a moment, just a flicker of a heartbeat, he felt himself instinctually calm in response. Something deep within him still connected the place and the people living there with a feeling of peace.

And seconds later, harsh reality shattered down upon him.

He took a deep breath, working to calm his nerves as he reached a tentative hand to confirm that yes, the other arm wasn’t there. He kept his hand in place over the empty socket, drinking in the absence of it and the vast venn diagram of reasons for it. He remembered feeling such a profound sense of betrayal back in Latvia about the failsafe. Now, as he laid there on the floor, he realized he was probably lucky Ayo hadn’t taken it right then and there. He’d caught that curse on her lips, “Bast damn you, James,” and he’d been so focused on his own feelings of betrayal at the moment that then, even then, he hadn’t stopped to really consider her feelings on any of it.

He tried to turn his neck, but found whole body ached in a way that was stifling, and his throat was so dry that he was surprised there was any moisture left to lick his chapped lips. He tasted the familiar hint of metal: his lips must still be cracked and bleeding. If they hadn’t healed overnight on account of the serum running through his veins, that was saying something to how dehydrated he truly was.

“You up?”

Oh right. Sam.

He narrowed his eyes as he calculated the trajectory for the origin of the voice, and looked to his left to see the man with his head propped up on his pillow as he put aside the phone he must have been buying time with. He really had spent the night on the floor there beside him? God, he really was that stubborn?

“Getting there.” Bucky managed, “You been up long?”

“Half an hour maybe. Sarah texted me.”

He felt a pang of concern rise up in him, “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah. Just forgot to check-in with her and the boys last night and she wanted to make sure we were doing okay. Were excited to hear we were visiting Wakanda,” Sam reflected, “I think they imagine it’s some kinda country club for black folks, except with lots of exotic wild animals.”

Bucky managed a hint of a smile at that and used his free hand to push himself up so his back was against the wall, “I mean, they’re not that far off the mark. Just less National Geographic and more science fiction.”

Sam lifted one eyebrow in his direction as if he was taken by surprise at Bucky’s familiarity to the reference, “Wait National Geographic? Like the channel?”

“The magazine’s been around for over a hundred thirty years,” Bucky defended with a groan before he found himself stepping to his earliest memories of those yellow-edged tomes, “My parents had a collection stored on these massive wooden bookcases long before I was even born.” He stopped himself from thinking too much about the two of them and they fact they’d been dead for nearly what? Ninety of those years? Somehow that old hurt was preferable to the present. He forced himself to refocus on the topic at-hand.

“Delivered by carrier pigeons or was it stagecoaches?” Sam gently teased.

“Ha. Ha,” Bucky feigned a laugh before adding, “But anyway, yeah I used to eat that stuff up. To be fair, the newsreels back then were in black and white, just like most of the pages in those early magazines,” he acquiesced, “But the view of the world was pretty limited back then too.”

Sam shook his head in a friendly gesture, “Still have trouble imagining you as anything near-to a bookworm, even as a kid.”

“Wasn’t just me,” Bucky found himself clarifying, “Steve was an enabler too. When you don’t have much growing up, things like public libraries and museums were a welcome sanctuary from, well, everything else.” He looked back up at the ceiling, allowing himself to reminisce about things that didn’t ache so freshly, “I think he always liked the museums more, though. He’d bring this little notebook along and make pen or pencil sketches and stuff while I went around reading all the captions. I always thought maybe he’d get into that. Art I mean. He studied it over at Auburndale Art School. Well, before the War came back around.”

“Huh. Learn something new every day.” Sam saw fit to rotate his torso and reposition himself so he was facing Bucky. By the expression on his face, he was working to piece things together, “I remember reading he went to college, but I don’t think I’d ever crossed my mind it was an art school.”

A question bore itself up in Bucky’s mind and he found himself asking, “He ever do any of that with you? Museums and such?”

The man beside him considered the question for a moment but shook his head, “The occasional field trip here and there, but honestly? The man I knew didn’t take much time for himself even in the best of times.”

There was a momentary dead spot in the conversation as Bucky felt certain Sam was reflecting on the time they’d both no-doubt spent trying to track him down after the Winter Soldier’s missions to eliminate first Director Fury, and then Steve Rogers. After flickers of memory had begun to surface, ones he didn’t want HYDRA to risk taking away from him again, he’d gotten really, really good at laying low.

“But now that you mention it,” Sam added, blissfully keeping the winding conversation on track, “I remember him keeping some sketches on his desk back at the complex. I always assumed they were gifts or something. One was a little monkey riding a unicycle with a shield, on a tightrope, I think?”

Bucky felt a genuine smile briefly pass over his face as he focused on the memory it drummed up, “Surprised he was able to find that one again. He did it way back, out in the field. When they were trying to get him to just travel around and perform charity acts.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He considered saying more, but the next line of thought led directly from Steve working an unauthorized rescue attempt on his own, straight to Bucky’s first test-run being strapped to a lab table courtesy of HYDRA. Nope. He didn’t feel the need to go into any of that. Back to safer topics.

Sam to the rescue once again.

“What about you?” He regarded Bucky with a smooth gesture of his hand, and the expression that said he wasn’t digging around trying to strike raw pain.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well you said you thought he might’ve gotten into art if it wasn’t for the War. What about you? Did you have any plans?”

His mouth opened, and then closed. Had anyone ever asked him that? He imagined that when he and Steve were younger, they’d discussed what they’d be doing with their lives when they stepped into the cusp of adulthood, but truth to be told: he didn’t have an answer.

“I’m not sure,” Bucky admitted. “I finished High School and just… immediately started working to pay the bills. Then the War was at our doorstep and I enlisted. You?”

“Always wanted to be in the Air Force,” Sam responded without a moment’s hesitation, “Loved the idea of flying free up there. Boots off the ground and all.” There was more of that sweet, thoughtful silence of his, “You know, if there’s other stuff you’d like to do, it’s never too late.”

Bucky cast Sam what he hoped was a suitably obnoxious side-eye, “Like what?”

Sam shrugged, “I’m just saying: It’s something to consider.”

“Combat training is literally one of the only notable skills I have.” Saying that out loud didn’t feel nearly so good as he thought it would, but he was glad he’d resisted the urge to list off some of the specialized skills his experience entailed.

“Is it?” Sam offered one of those easygoing shrugs of his, "There's a hell of a lot more you have to offer than just that. Just because you’ve done a lot of a thing doesn’t mean that it’s a foregone conclusion that’s what you have to spend the rest of your working years doing.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m not saying you have to reconsider your trajectory if it’s what you enjoy doing. I obviously like having your annoying ass around well enough, and know I can trust you to have my back. That’s more than I can say about a lot of folks. I just don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you’re not living life on your own terms, you know? You deserve to. Just something to consider,” Sam concluded with a casual shrug for what was very much not a small topic.

Bucky stayed silent, putting the consideration aside for another time.

“Anyway, I checked in with Torres earlier, and he doesn’t have any updates for us, but he said he’d keep his ear to the wire and let us know if that changes. Speaking of: The wireless signals they have here are truly something else. Damn-near instant and didn’t even require a password.”

“Living in the future,” Bucky confirmed, reflecting, “Hard to believe we were back in Symkaria not half a day ago,” he stretched and went to rub the sleep out of his eyes and had another one of those moments where he caught himself missing the arm. Sam must have seen something in his expression, because he immediately had those therapist eyes focused on him again. “And before you ask, I did manage a little shut-eye here and there, but I still have no idea what I need to do about any of that from yesterday.”

Sam did one of his casual “We’ll figure it out” shrugs, “You remember Ayo coming by though, right?”

He made a face, “Yeah. About how she was still angry with me.”

“And also sorry for that last bit she said.”

“Mmm,” Bucky half-acknowledged. He thought about pointing out that she hadn’t actually said those words, but Sam was right about the intention. He’d had all variety of insults lobbed his way, including ones from back when Sam was probably still raw about what the Winter Soldier had repeatedly done, or attempted to do to him. Bucky thought he’d developed a pretty thick skin when he brushed off anything from “We’re not assassins,” to “They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he killed almost everybody he’s met.” He liked to think he didn’t even hold it against Sam back then, either: it felt like Sam was just willing to say what everyone else was thinking when they looked at him.

But Ayo was different. They’d spent over two years seeing each other on a near-daily basis, and yet she’d never made a single remark at his expense.

Not until yesterday.

It felt like she’d taken a knife to him with that one word, said with so much venom and pain and shared history between the two of them.

He pivoted away from that dark pit he’d dug himself, “I’m just glad they didn’t take back your suit,” he admitted to the room, because that seemed like a statement they could both agree on.

Sam gave him a side-eye that told Bucky he hadn’t been the only one to feel relief at that, even if Sam wasn’t about to speak the words aloud.

“So there’s that silver lining,” Bucky concluded with a flourish of his hand.

The other man offered him only a little sigh of acknowledgement, “Well if you have enough energy to be a bit of a smartass: You want to do the honors and get the morning routine going so we can both freshen up and get some breakfast in us? You’re probably at least six thousand calories behind where you should be, and I want to find out what actual Wakandan food tastes like.”

Sam wasn’t wrong about the calories, but he also wasn’t feeling the usual morning routine they’d sorted out: the one where Bucky went and did his thing while Sam made phone calls before he’d take his turn using the bathroom. “Nah, you can go first. I’m still waking up.” A half-truth.

His friend didn’t see fit to debate the change of plans, and got up, putting his things aside onto the nearby couch before grabbing his toiletries and heading into the bathroom. “You better be here when I’m out,” he said with no threat to his voice.

While Sam brushed his teeth and cleaned up, Bucky stayed right where he was. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but his mind had already started to spiral back to that dark place by the time Sam stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Bucky didn’t realize he’d been holding his hand over his far shoulder until he caught Sam’s sympathetic expression meet his eyes. He pushed the feeling down and got to his feet, peeling off his socks as he did. He tried to look casual and unconcerned as he used his free hand to heft his duffle bag and suitcase onto his bed so he could grab his toiletries and some of his clothes, and then without a word, he went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

He leaned against the door as he did, feeling those unresolved emotions he didn’t have use for prying their way back up in him. He didn’t have time for this and did everything he could to just focus on the routine and the checklist. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Brush your teeth. He caught his reflection in the steamed-up mirror and decided he didn’t want to look too closely. The person looking back at him looked ragged and almost unrecognizable, and reeked of that very particular primal musk that, in his experience, was a tell-tale sign of anxiety and stress. He decided he didn’t need a mirror to brush his teeth so he turned and faced the wall.

He felt like he was doing a pretty good job being stable and such until it came time for the shower.

It was awkward to bathe himself with only one arm, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t had nearly two years with experience doing just that. So it wasn’t about the arm. But it also was about the arm. It was about everything it represented and the fact he’d been too dense to get it, without needing Ayo and Shuri to spell it out for him.

It was that he was standing there, naked in the shower with water pouring over him and yet no matter how hot he turned the water, he didn’t feel clean. As he stood there with the steam making his vision blurry, he forced his head back under the stream. Part of him almost wished the water would scald him, because the hurt inside was almost suffocating, and he didn’t know how he could possibly find a way out of it.

And then slowly, slowly, he lowered himself to the tile floor and just let everything out.

He’d thought he had nothing left in him, but apparently, for not the first time, he was wrong. All those emotions just came flooding back and they snarled into him and pulled him under, back into the fog. Without a conscious thought, he wrapped his arm around himself and just sat there in a fetal position, letting his trembling fingers crest over the attachment points where the arm used to be.

A sudden knock at the door pulled his attention away from his broken body. “Everything okay?”

Sam. Bucky took a breath and tried to steady his nerves and project his voice in an attempt to make it sound something like normal, “Yeah.” he lied, “Almost done.”

“Okay. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

He wasn’t sure how much longer he spent wallowing on the floor of the shower before he finally struggled his way back to his shaky feet. He stood there until he gathered his nerves and enough focus to turn off the water, and then he carefully opened the shower door and stepped out.

He tried to just separate himself from last night and think back to how he had to navigate life here when he’d only had one arm. He focused on that and slung the towel over one shoulder and wrapped his hand around to hold both ends as he dried off. Next came deodorant, then his boxers and pants. Those weren’t too bad. It was like his mind still remembered all the little tricks he’d picked-up along the way, and there was something comforting in the rote familiarity. It allowed him to just focus on what he needed to do next, not how he was feeling.

By the time he’d stepped out of the bathroom, he felt like he’d managed to get his head suitably under control, and he tried to feign what he hoped was a casual smile.

Sam had already gotten dressed, and he picked up on the lack of sincerity in that smile immediately. Initially, he didn’t say much of anything as Bucky stepped out and made quick tracks to dig up a shirt from his duffle bag, which someone had conveniently saw fit to unzip for him. He dodged Sam’s expression expertly, or at least he thought he did.

“You know,” Sam observed from somewhere behind him, “I’m sure we could ping Banner and see if he could help with another prosthetic. It won’t be vibranium, but it’s not like we don’t have the tech.”

It was well-meaning, and Sam was clearly doing what he could to problem-solve, but the idea fell flat on Bucky without a second thought, “I mean, yeah, I guess I could, but this isn’t about that. Not really.”

Bucky made the mistake of catching Sam’s eyes as he turned in preparation of trying to put on a loose grey shirt he felt did the best job of obscuring the socket where the missing arm was supposed to be. But that moment, it was like Sam also caught sight of someone else. He saw a vulnerable amputee who was laid bare, and he saw Sam flinch reflexively at the sight, as if he was trying to figure out what to say with this much truth on full-display.

“Look, I’m sure it looks worse than it is. But I’m okay. Really. This is nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I’ve only had the arm back for what? Five months or something if we aren’t counting blipped time.”

“Whoa whoa,” Sam interrupted, “Months? That math doesn’t follow.”

“I didn’t even have the arm when I was here,” Bucky stated as if it was obvious.

Apparently it wasn’t.

“Hold up, wait,” Sam put a hand up, “Wait. You lost me. I distinctly remember you having that chrome arm when we were back at the airport in Germany. I assumed the Wakandans just… gave you an upgrade.”

Bucky grimaced, “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that arm… kinda fell out of warranty on account of Tony.”

Realization. “Oh.” A pause, “Oh.” They’d discussed the significance of the date Zemo’d been digging for information about after he’d said the goddamn words. Sam heard the same as Steve when Bucky’d been pinned down courtesy of a hydraulic press back at that old warehouse they’d dragged his unconscious, murderous ass to in order to interrogate him. Sam knew how it related to Tony, specifically.

“Yeah. Anyway. In the past. I get it. But when Steve dropped me off here it was just… easier for us to work on what we needed to without one.” He made a face, reflecting, “It’s hard to describe, but it was more his arm than mine anyway. It always felt like he was more left handed, or at least borderline ambidextrous.” He offered Sam an honest expression, “But basically yeah: the whole time I was here, things were like this,” he made a gesture with his hand, as if implying how he was now. “After a certain point, that was just the norm, and less of a big deal than you’d think. Safer, too, when we were working out the programming.”

Sam shook his head, taking everything in, “None of that had even crossed my mind,” he admitted before curiosity got the better of him, “So when did you get the other one?”

Bucky found himself reflexively cringing at the memory, “Right before the Battle of Wakanda. It felt like some sort of a consolation prize, since we all knew my training here wasn’t complete, but with Thanos bearing down on us to try to get the last Infinity Stone, it made sense to let me do what I do best, I guess. Then the Decimation happened, we get a round two, and somewhere after that, I headed back to Brooklyn and stopped returning their calls. I’m not proud of that last part, by the way,” he clarified pointedly before he worked to slip into his t-shirt starting with the hole for his head.

“Training?” Sam asked, but Bucky waved a hand to dismiss the inquiry once he’d managed to get the shirt on.

“Some other time. Not now, okay?” He was a master of deflection.

Sam acknowledged the request, and Bucky could practically see him shuffle the question away for the future.

Bucky felt the absence of something on his wrist and turned to regard the watch he’d slung onto the bed the night before with some degree of trepidation. The buckles on that were very much not one-hand-friendly. Then he found his eyes drawn back to his duffle and he set his jaw as he debated the Kimoyo Beads tucked away within.

While there was no obvious reason to try to read-in so much sentimentality between the two, as he stood there, he felt like his choice, whatever it was, said a lot more about him beyond his (clearly lacking) sense of fashion. He huffed out a breath and tried to step into that empathy place he’d been so painfully lax in and just try to see it from the Wakandan perspective.

If he wore the watch: they probably wouldn’t care. It’d been what he’d been wearing when he came in, besides.

But if he wore the Kimoyo Beads, though, it said something. He couldn’t be certain what it said after what had gone down the night before, but he hoped maybe the gesture would be better than his words. Words only went so far with the Wakandans: actions mattered far more.

Sam’s sage words ran through his head, “Now you’ve gotta ask yourself who you want to be. Do you want to be the person that prefers a clean start? To walk away because seeing what they’re feeling hurts too much and feels like they’re holding up a mirror to something you don’t like, or do you feel like you’re the sort of person that can stomach some tough love because you see those other people out there as being worth your time, because somewhere deep down, you actually do want them in your life, despite them seeing some of the shadows along the way?”

He felt the shift in him as a new wave of resolve firmly settled into place: He was tired of walking away and hiding from his problems. That wasn’t the person he wanted to be. He might not have a damn clue what he could do to make things better between them, or if he even could, but he wasn’t going to throw in the towel just because the Wakandans had chosen to be straightforward with him. They mattered to him, and they’d collectively gone through too much together for him to feign that none of this made a difference to him, of all people.

And so Bucky stepped forward and dug into his duffle bag with one hand and pulled out the Kimoyo Beads. He regarded the strand of polished, rune-etched orbs in his hand with new eyes before using his thumb to snap the strand open. He settled his wrist over it, and a few seconds later, it snapped closed around his wrist again, settling back into place like nothing had happened. He made a gesture with his hand and the beads responded, remembering the one-handed protocols Shuri had programmed into them. Bucky focused as he worked the gestures with muscle-memory.

“Okay, I let them know we’re up and are gonna go get breakfast,” he offered Sam, adding, “And I turned on the comms and tracker so they can find us whenever they’re free.”

Bucky’d been so deep in his own head that he realized he hadn’t even chanced to glance up at Sam recently. When he did, he found the man with his arms crossed proudly over his chest, damn near grinning at him without a lick of shame.

“Good plan,” Sam offered as he stepped forward to tap Bucky on his good shoulder and headed out into the fray.

Chapter Text

While the hallway outside was the same as it was the night before, it felt completely different to Sam in the morning’s warm light.

It could have been that the illumination was different or that there were more people strolling by at this early hour, but he was pretty sure it was because he could actually spare a few moments to look around him and just take everything in rather than worrying if Bucky was still upright and trailing behind him.

The hallway felt strangely timeless. The closest thing Sam could compare the hallway to was if someone had taken part of a world-class hotel and decided to theme it out with an aesthetic that pulled from hundreds of years of tribal motifs, but handled in an expertly-designed, respectful way that was anything but garish. It wasn’t the look of a cheap gift shop or the faux-grandeur of places like the themed hotels along the strip in Las Vegas. Instead, it felt like they were quite literally walking in halls of hallowed history that had been respectfully updated over the years to account for changing tastes, while still finding ways to infuse references to a complex past. Colorful wallpapers, tapestries, paintings, photographs, and relics hung throughout the halls, hinting at stories of a people he was realizing he knew factually little about.

The realization settled strangely over him. He felt like he grew up with his eyes open to what struggles continued to wage in the present, as well as those that trailed only years before that too many were quick to kick under the rug as a bygone era. He knew better. People like Isaiah Bradley and others were testament to that.

He tried to stay informed, stay timely, and learn about the painful waves of history he’d seen around him that stretched back beyond slavery to the atrocities that had taken place across the in Africa and elsewhere. Had Wakanda been able to keep itself safe and hidden from all of that horror? He wasn’t sure, but he was certain places like the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC didn’t mention them the last time he’d visited, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Regardless of that, he found his searching eyes wanted to know more about the significance of the people in the photos they were passing, though. He’d have to drum up a tactful way to ask when things weren’t so well, so sideways.

Bucky took it upon himself to lead in their little mealtime adventuring party, and the one-armed man was presently heading towards a Dora Milaje who he was pretty sure was Yama a distance further down the hall. While Sam hadn’t gotten the impression either of them were prisoners, he had to admit that having a pair of Dora Milaje stationed just outside their door wasn’t exactly his idea of a lullaby. Seeing Yama further down the hall made him wonder if she was standing guard out of a sense of duty, or if there was something else goin' on here.

He caught the subtle bow Bucky offered her as he approached, as well as how her eyes flicked to that friendship bracelet on his right wrist. He didn’t know Yama well-enough to read her expression, which she kept zipped to a soldier’s tight neutral, but if he had to guess: she didn’t seem unhappy to see them.

That was a start.

“I hope you slept well,” Bucky began, his voice low and candid, as if he was still trying to keep his emotions closely in-check, “Thanks for helping with my luggage the other night. And sorry for… all of... well, all of the other stuff too.”

Yama regarded him for a long moment, as if trying to evaluate him against some unknown metric. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually heard her speak aloud when she replied in a rich Wakandan accent, “I took no pleasure in your suffering,” she let the words hang in the air with meaning Sam was certain was layers deep before adding, “But it is not for me to determine the buoyancy of your words.” She shifted her weight from one side to the other, as if she debated saying more. Bucky stayed silent: he must have sensed it too.

Her eyes flicked to Sam and back to Bucky before she added, “But you are welcome.”

Bucky acknowledged the statement with another subtle nod of his head.

That was encouraging.

“Are we on our own or…?” Bucky inquired.

“Birnin Zana has changed much since the Decimation. Ayo thought it best you had a guide.” There was another one of those pauses where it seemed like she might say nothing more, and the both of them waited her out, “I volunteered.”

Interesting. So this wasn’t just a security detail.

Sam raised an eyebrow and asked the obvious, “You gotten breakfast yet?”

Sam kept pace by Bucky’s left as his two companions flipped conversationally into Wakandan and then back to English before Yama stepped in front of them, making way so a group going the other direction could easily pass with space to spare.

“Yama said the place I mentioned survived the Decimation,” Bucky said with such relief, that the news of this small saving grace prompted one of those little genuine smiles out of him, which he glanced over to share with Sam. “I think you’ll like it. Sort of the Wakanda-equivalent of home-cooking.”

The smile lasted for approximately ten seconds before they rounded the next corner and Sam caught the sudden shift in friend’s expression slip to that neutral staring-thing coupled by a hearty side of worry.

Standing not fifteen feet in front of them was King T’Challa, who was flanked by General Okoye and four members of the King’s Guard. It was abundantly clear they’d been waiting for them to arrive.

Bucky’s feet initially stopped cold, but he had to take an extra step forward to still his momentum in something that became awfully close to a full-blown stumble. Sam stopped a moment later, and immediately took a quick read on the situation and the body language and expressions of the group assembled before them. He couldn’t imagine any of them were oblivious to what had transpired the night before, but he was really, really hoping that they had more decorum than to pull Bucky into a second round of grievances and complaints out here in the open.

Sam regarded the King first. T’Challa’s expression was surprisingly neutral, warmed with the gentle charisma of a leader who was accustomed to political maneuvering around tricky topics. He wore a black and silver-trimmed suit and stood with his wrists crossed as they rested leisurely over his stomach. Beside him, Okoye regarded Sam with only passing interest before turning her full attention back to Bucky, her spear gripped firmly in one hand. There was an attention in her eyes that was alert and calculating, like a jungle cat waiting to see if their prey would make the first move, and if they dared: she remained ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

The person to make the first move was none-other than King T’Challa himself. A warm smile crossed over his face as he stepped forward and reached out a hand to clasp first Bucky’s forearm in greeting, “White Wolf,” then he made it a point to acknowledge Sam and offer him the same forward greeting, “and Sam Wilson. Or Captain America, so I’ve heard.”

“Just doing my best,” Sam offered succinctly, chancing a glance over to Bucky. His white-knuckled hand was clenched protectively over his stomach, and his expression was anything but easy-going. For a moment, he considered speaking on Bucky’s behalf, but it didn’t seem like the right tactical move, all things considered.

Bucky swallowed and his lip trembled as he clearly tried to parse through what he should say next. He went for a succinct three-parter Sam definitely didn’t see coming, “It’s good to see you. And I… I’m sorry for... everything.” His voice grew even quieter, “And for not returning any of your messages awhile back.”

Wait, Bucky’d ghosted the freaking King of Wakanda as well? Wow. That was impressive, even for him.

“It was a busy time for all of us when the dust settled,” T’Challa said much more reasonably than Sam would have been able to.

Bucky nervously licked and then bit his lip, “I take it you’ve spoken with Shuri and Ayo?”

T’Challa’s response had a manner of being easygoing on the surface, but it was clear he’d had some time to prepare his words, “Of course, and I consider my sister and our security chief as both supremely good judges of character.” He took a moment to consider his next words carefully, “So I’ve decided it is sensible to defer to their wisdom in this particular matter,” his tone remained even, but his words were for Bucky alone, “I suspect there is not much I could add that has not already been said.”

The amputee beside Sam was struggling to control the face he was making, and was only barely holding it together, “If there’s more you need to say, you can say it. I understand.”

Sam understood, but he also hated how much Bucky sounded like a puppy that was willing to be kicked if it held even a chance of making the other person feel better.

King T’Challa shook his head, “There is value in many things. Intent is one of them. If I believed that your intent was to harm Wakanda, we would be having a very different conversation. But I would like to think you were blinded to the harm your choices would bring on others around you, and that now that your eyes have been opened: that you can begin to learn and make right those mistakes.”

Bucky numbly nodded, and that was probably for the best because Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of saying much of anything at that moment. His eyes were already getting glossy and the muscles in his jaw were strained tight across his face.

T’Challa wasn’t focused on anyone in particular as he added, “I’m disappointed, certainly, but both of us have made decisions fueled from the fires of passion rather than honed with tempered logic.” The King in that moment looked more thoughtful, more human, as his gaze softened as it returned to Bucky, “I am not unaware that my own lapse of judgement would have meant the death of an innocent man. One who I maintain deserves peace after being a victim for too long.” His voice was for Bucky alone, “That has not changed.”

There was a moment of reflective quiet before T’Challa appeared to remember there were more people gathered around them, and his voice returned to his calm, diplomatic timbre that was gracious as it was genuine, “If and when both my sister and Ayo are satisfied, then I will be as well.” At this, he glanced to Okoye beside him, adding pointedly with the smallest of private smiles, “I can speak only for myself, of course.”

Okoye didn’t say anything, but it was abundantly clear she didn’t need to. Yep. There’s going to be a round two versus Okoye at some point. Sam silently confirmed.

“That being as it is,” T’Challa glanced between Sam and Bucky, “Wakanda is open to you, and if we can be of any assistance in the matters you are investigating, we will.” T’Challa turned and made a gesture to one of his King’s Guards, who promptly passed him a folded blue bundle of cloth. The King smiled and stepped forward to hand it gracefully to Bucky, who seemed almost confused at what was happening. “A gift,” T’Challa said simply, “To remind you that you are among friends and allies.”

Bucky’s voice was barely audible as he managed to all-but whisper a reply, and then a promise, “Thank you. I’ll do better.”

The expression on T’Challa’s face was layered in emotions Sam didn’t have a chance at reading, but he was certain he saw genuine care among them, “I do hope so.” He stepped back beside Okoye, “I have other matters I must attend to, but I’m certain we will talk again soon.”

Bucky nodded, and Sam stepped in with what he hoped was a helpful, “Thanks. We appreciate the help.”

T’Challa nodded and acknowledged Okoye before the two of them stepped past them with the King’s Guard trailing silently in their wake.

Once they were far enough down the hall to be out of easy earshot, Sam looked back to Bucky, who remained focused on the folded triangle of fabric in his hand. Yama had turned and was watching him as well, but something in her confident expression made it clear she’d long-since grasped the relevance.

The dark blue fabric was lightly textured and woven with undulating curves of black and gold that interlocked into prominent geometric patterns. It reminded Sam of a number of things, not the least of which was the patterning on the absent vibranium arm as well as Bucky’s standing penchant for dark colors.

“What is it?” Sam ventured.

It took Bucky a few long seconds to formulate a reply, but eventually he found his voice, stating simply, “A reminder,” He tugged the tucked-corner free and let the rectangle of fabric fall open. The care put into the textile was even more apparent when it was open like that, “Can you hold the end there?”

Sam did as he was instructed, and watched as Bucky used his free hand to tie the ends of the fabric together in a fisherman’s knot. The man did it faster than anyone had right to. Once the pair of knots were set and was pulled taunt, he regarded it for a moment before he slipped the opening over his head and settled the wrap so that the wider end wrapped around his left side, falling just below his waist.

The waves of fabric had a strange way of obscuring Bucky’s injury, making it into an almost ornamental fashion statement, and one that Sam felt pretty certain had a whole heaping of history he was yet again lacking. It was like bearing witness to yet another layer of someone he thought he’d had at least partially figured out.

You could never really know a person in and out, not really. Especially someone like James Buchanan Barnes, but not even twenty-four hours earlier, Sam thought he’d had all the broad-strokes pegged, or at least roughed-in. But after everything yesterday and and the talks from this morning, and the little pieces and breadcrumbs and bits from not only different continents but different time periods: right then as he stood there watching Bucky process what had just happened, Sam realized he really did know next-to-nothing about this part of Bucky’s life. He’d previously just… written it off as two more years of cryo and that was that.

But there was history here. Sizable history. Not just surface-level stuff, but deep history, and even though Bucky’d barely said a word about it until yesterday, it was growing abundantly clearer by the minute that part of his past here in Wakanda meant an awful lot to him. Probably significantly more than he realized.

T’Challa may not have given Bucky the arm back, but it was clear the gesture held a promise of hope for reconciliation. Sam was certain it wouldn’t be an easy road ahead of them, but after all that the man beside him had done to help give him the steadfast (if not sometimes extremely annoying and often overbearing) encouragement to take up the shield, he could be damn well sure he’d spitball that stubborn support right back his way.

As Bucky stood and silently ran his fingers across and between the folds of the fabric, Sam saw fit to toss out an observation, “He called you White Wolf.”

Bucky’s expression remained understandably confused and inconclusive, but he hadn’t missed it either. He kept his eyes focused on his hand until he was apparently satisfied enough to pull it away from the fabric, “Yeah.” He looked back up to meet Sam’s eyes, and Sam was certain he saw a flicker of hope lingering somewhere in the periphery, “Yeah, I guess he did.”

They stood in a comfortable silence a moment more before Sam saw fit to keenly observe, “...I still think White Panther would have made more sense thematically.”

“Americans and your primitive humor,” Yama muttered in mock-distaste from somewhere ahead of him as she got moving again.

Even Bucky managed a hint of smile at that.

Chapter Text

[ID: A cropped painting by Kaite_xyxy showing Bucky and Sam seated in a Wakandan cafe. Sam and Bucky are both holding pieces of food in their hands, and plates of delicious regional food can be seen in the foreground. Sam is wearing his watch, a red shirt, tan jacket, and blue jeans. Bucky is wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans, and has a blue, black, and gold shawl that hangs across his shoulders and over his left shoulder, which is absent his prosthetic arm. Bucky has Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist. Their table has heapings of various regional foods and dipping sauces. In the distance, the bright city of Birnin Zana can be seen outside. End ID]

So Wakanda.

Upon careful calculation, Sam realized that over the course of his life, he’d technically been conscious and somewhere inside Wakanda’s borders for a grand total of probably eighteen hours, give-or-take. Probably less. That time included the flight last night, the preparation for and Battle of Wakanda five years earlier for half the population (and a few months ago for he and the other half), and a few conscious hours this morning.

All-in-all, he felt like he’d been able to put near-enough together about the place and how it cross-compared to other places he’d been in around the globe. The buildings were different, certainly, but it shared that same warm, muted look that so many African countries did, the one where it seemed like the colors and pockets of shade trees and shrubbery were an extension of the land itself.

But within two blocks out, right around the time he looked up and saw a monorail that was literally levitating through raised hoops about three stories up, well, right about then he was beginning to see just how little he actually knew about the place and the people there. It was stunning as it was humbling.

And oh: it was humbling.

He found his mind struggling to formulate comparisons between anything remotely close, and falling short with each twist and turn. It wasn’t just the seeming mismatch of globally advanced tech and the people rambling about on the ground: it was more than that.

Birnin Zana, the Golden City, was vibrant and alive in a way he’d never seen outside of crowds of Mardi Gras back in New Orleans. There were people spilled over everywhere, just smiling and carrying on as they went about their business. Some peddled gadgets, street food, or the latest fashion trends, but everything was just so... clean and bright and inviting. It was like stepping into a painting.

There was music everywhere, voices everywhere, smiles and laughter and just… joy spread all over from people that looked just like him, and it was at once the most bizarre and inviting thing he could remember, so much so that it didn’t seem like it could possibly be real.

What was more, was that the entire tone of the streets was different than most anywhere he’d ever stepped-foot in. It was like the people here didn’t find themselves accustomed to keep a wary eye over their shoulders in fear of their neighbor or authority figures. Were there police here in Wakanda? He couldn’t imagine there was no crime at all, but if you looked out over the streets, it certainly didn’t seem like anyone was concerned about the passing possibility. Were the Dora Milaje their version of the police? Even that comparison didn’t land for him. The people he saw that glanced Yama’s way didn’t have that cautious fear in their eyes Sam was used to seeing from people so hollowly accustomed to the latest horror on the news, that they spent their private moments telling their kids how to talk nice and slow and de-escalate so they wouldn’t accidentally get shot too.

The people here had to have heard about such things, but they didn’t live it day-in-and day out. It hadn’t sunk its teeth into them so deeply that they’d allowed fear to guide how they interacted with the people around them.

It was just… it was honestly beautiful. It felt like something near-to sacred to just walk among people that maybe hadn’t been sullied by the particular brand of prejudice he’d seen and experienced firsthand so often in his life.

Yama strode her soldier’s walk a few steps in front of them and Bucky kept pace a step beside Sam’s right. Sam was pretty sure Bucky was walking a little taller on account of some combination of the shawl, daylight, and welcome sights. His friend had such a look of wonder about him. It was a good look on him.

“I take it a lot looks familiar?” Sam inquired.

“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed. “I mean, some of it has evolved since the Decimation, like that building there,” he pointed to a spiraling platform a few blocks away, “I don’t remember a monorail stop there before, and some of the shops have changed hands, but it still feels the same. It’s just a little tricky to get my bearings since I didn’t usually head to the cafe from this direction.”

“Mmm?” Sam asked, trying his best to multitask on his half of the conversation when there was just so much to take in. He would have to ask Shuri about some of those projected displays he was seeing: he’d never seen anything like 'em. How could you get something near-to that resolution in full-color and still have it be visible in broad daylight? It was truly something else.

“Well I didn’t live on site in the Diplomatic Quarter,” Bucky stated as if it was clear-as-day.

“You didn’t?”

Bucky made a face like the idea was on the verge of insanity, “You thought I was in a suite. Like that. For two years?”

“I mean, honestly?” Sam defended, “Up until half a day ago, I assumed you spent it in a cryo tube. So this alternative history seemed a lot more reasonable and pleasant all-around.”

Of all people, it was Yama who interjected a quip from somewhere just ahead of them without even missing a step, “You should tell him about the goats.”

“The what?”

“You don’t lead with the goats,” Bucky defended, sending Yama something of a decided look.

Sam was definitely missing something, but he didn’t miss the hint of a smile that crossed Yama’s face when she glanced back at Bucky before offering Sam a casual, if apologetic shrug.

“I lived outside of the city,” Bucky explained, gesturing off in a direction that had absolutely no meaning to Sam, “Between here and the Border Tribes. Not remotely the same accommodations, glorified camping in some cases, but it was honestly just nice to be out there in nature, away from the distractions.” Bucky’s tone of voice held a very particular spot of almost calm that Sam wasn’t used to hearing from him, “Peaceful.” Then a little something shifted in his expression and it went distant again as he added, “A nice change from places where the Winter Soldier was sent on missions at one point or another.”

Sam was still trying to wrap his head about the idea of Bucky pitching a tent in a nature safari park when his friend saw fit to continue, “But anyway,” Bucky added, trying to steer the conversation back on-track, “I don’t know if it’s still there, but maybe I can show you it sometime. It’s probably the closest thing I’ve had to a home since…” his voice faded off as emotion began to weave its way between his words.

Sam looked over his shoulder to his friend and saw he’d gone back to doing the thing where he lowered his head and looked at his hand as if having focus on that alone was excuse enough for him to be dodging eye contact. He hadn’t missed the word, though. It wasn’t a word he was altogether certain existed in Bucky’s vocabulary up until this point.

Home.

It’d never crossed his mind that Wakanda could’ve been that to Bucky. Not once. Maybe it was the part of his brain that leaned into the surface-level differences like his skin color or the clear cultural disconnect between the rest of the world and the absolutely bizarre mis-match of tribal custom and highly advanced technology.

Sam’d barely even heard Bucky mention Wakanda up until last night. If that was where he’d felt so much peace, why hadn’t he just… gone back?

The logical part of Sam started to try and connect the dots, but the moment he started trying, he became ever-more aware that none of this was bound to be an easy, straightforward answer: If it was, Bucky would have already acted on it. Oversimplifying this would be about as valuable as the man’s initial outrage on why Sam hadn’t taken up the shield. It had been a simple question, hadn’t it? But it wasn’t something you could just… explain away to someone outright and hope they’d understand. It required a far greater context and history, as well as a hefty dose of profoundly uncomfortable introspection.

And Bucky’d held fast all the while. Even goin’ so far as to do his own work to meet Sam in the middle, to understand, as much as he could hope to, and to also accept that there were nuances he’d never be able to fully grasp because he hadn’t lived them firsthand.

Maybe this… maybe this was like that for Bucky?

Sam sighed as he looked over the faces of the people around him. Part of him even wondered if he had his own prejudices he hadn’t spent nearly enough time digging into. As Bucky did that thing with his lips and stared at his hand like he might be able to tell his future by the lines in his palm, Sam tried to think back to how he used to think about Bucky, back when the Winter Soldier was right there just beneath the surface. Just lingering.

Okay. So the man had come from an era that wasn’t particularly screaming with the value of diversity, but Steve had been as well, and he couldn’t very well hold that against either of them. It was the time after that that got dicey, where Steve’d been on ice and Bucky’d spent the better part of those seventy years acting as an agent of HYDRA that were arguably literal Nazis, and all the hate and not-so-subtle racism that went along with it whether it was bolded in their pamphlet or not.

He wasn’t proud of the thought, but maybe somewhere not so deep down, he’d initially kept watch to see if any of that bile had seeped and settled into Bucky unchecked? It sounded awful to put it that way, and Sam wasn’t particularly proud of the thought, but the cautionary logic checked-out.

And he hated that it did.

Maybe that’s part of why he’d initially been so upset when he’d learned about Isaiah Bradley and the fact that Buck’d hid him from Steve as well. It felt like it was just another example of a white man trying to obscure a history that wasn’t to their particular taste.

But he’d gotten it, eventually. That Bucky was acting from a place of empathy and respect for what the man had been through. Maybe that was always part of Buck way back before Sam knew him, or maybe some new spark had taken root out here in Wakanda. He wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t sure if it mattered, either.

As he looked out over the lively, crowded streets with its sea of smiling people, Sam felt certain this was about as far a cry as you could get from hanging out with a bunch of white folks who’d long-since determined what religions and pantones could be in their little club. And there was something a little strange, but also kind of sweet imagining Bucky walking among them as not an outsider, but just another smiling face in the crowd. He liked the idea of that. He liked the idea of this being what Buck associated with a feeling of home.

“It’s just up ahead,” Yama spoke up helpfully, her rich voice at a respectful level that was just loud enough for them to hear over the chatter of the nearby crowds.

“Sorry,” Bucky apologized, but it wasn’t clear who or what the apology was meant for, “This is just a lot at once.”

“You’ll feel better after you eat,” Yama replied as she looked back and gestured for Bucky to take the lead the last bit of the way to wherever they were heading, “You’re probably far behind where you should be for someone who usually eats the lion’s share.”

And for not the first time, Sam raised an eyebrow as he realized Yama: the same warrior who hadn’t said a single word when she’d promptly whooped his ass and put him in his place in Zemo’s condo in Latveria, that even she was no stranger to Bucky’s metabolistic whims. He’d just… he’d assumed she was one of Ayo’s lieutenants, not that even she had known Bucky way back when.

Huh.

Something in his surprise must have shown on his face, because as Bucky stepped in front of her, the ornamented Dora Milaje spared a moment to look back at Sam. Her face evaluated him by some unseen metric before she stepped into line to follow behind Bucky.

Sam couldn’t hope to read the signage on the tan and blue building, but he could certainly make out it was a makeshift cafe on account of not only the colorful patio seating that spilled into the street, but the smell of something rich and lofty on the air that immediately reminded him of his Nana’s kitchen.

People all around them were chattering right on, but Bucky’d managed to weave his way around a decorative placard that displayed what Sam assumed were the daily specials. He’d hardly had a moment to glance at the projected pictures of plated food when a sturdy woman dressed in red and black that looked to be about five or ten years his senior belted something out in Wakandan, dropped what she’d been carrying on the nearest table, and rushed towards Bucky.

One moment Bucky was standing there looking cautious and pensive, and the next, he was being bearhugged by someone who was holding him so tightly you’d have to assume they were family. She used her hands to cup the sides of his face as she continued chattering at him with a wide smile, hollering something behind her that got the attention of a slender woman in the back who promptly hurried out and took Bucky’s hand in hers, as if unsure he was really there. The newcomer swooped her free hand in Yama’s direction, urging them forward, and the Dora Milaje nodded to Sam for him to follow.

They herded the group to a round table near the rear of the restaurant, and it was then that Sam caught the dialogue switch to welcome English.

“Oh, from the States?” The first woman said, turning to address Sam specifically, “My manners, my manners!” She led with a bright, radiant smile and quick hug before she pulled Sam back to get a better look at him and introduce herself, “I’m Majeema. Most folks just call me Mamma on accounts that they only wished their Mamma cooked like me.”

“Still humble as a lamb,” the taller woman laughed as she wrapped an elbow around Bucky’s own in an apparent excuse to be free to elbow him at-will, “Five years without her missus and she still thinks it’s her solemn duty to keep the whole city fed.”

“Well we can’t have ‘em eattin’ any of that imported rubbish,” Mamma insisted from beside Sam, “Some of the kids these days, they don’t hardly know the differences between spices and soil.” She made a gesture to him, “I can tell you’re a man of refined tastes who can tell up from down.”

“He and his sister actually have own family fishing business,” Bucky was able to interject, “and by the way, Ch’toa, Sam Wilson. Sam Wilson, Ch’toa.”

Before Sam could even fit in a word, the woman beside him saw fit to offer a soft whistle, “Oh that’s marvelous! And ah: I knew you looked familiar! A mighty-fine looking Captain America if I ever saw one, too.”

“Uh, thanks?” Sam managed to slip in, taking note of a few nearby patrons glancing his way at the declaration. He decided to just try to blend in with the locals.

Mamma rolled her eyes, “You’ll have to excuse her. Finds it a spot of fun to make gentlefolk self-conscious if she gets the chance.”

“Oh, you like it well-enough,” Ch’toa shot back playfully, “Wouldn’a married me otherwise.”

Bucky was smiling from ear-to-ear with one of those genuine grins he often wore during cookouts, and it looked just as natural here. He took a seat first, and then Yama and the others followed-suit.

Ch’toa apparently wasn’t done and leaned conspiratorially close to Bucky, “Didn’t you name one of those goats “Sam?””

Yama appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face: the Dora Milaje was rapidly failing.

“Wait, you named a goat after me?”

“I named goats after a lot of people,” Bucky defended as if that made things any better.

“I didn’t get a goat named after me,” this was Yama. Wow.

“Look, Shuri had a whole deal about the power of choice, and I never claimed I was good with names. I just named them, I don’t know, people I guess. You don’t need to make it weird.”

“I also didn’t receive a namesake,” Ch’toa commiserated with Yama.

“I still can’t believe your hair!” Mamma went in for a change of topic, “So handsome! I nearly didn’t recognize you. That blue looks mighty good on you too,” Mamma observed, gesturing to the patterned shawl slung around his neck that was draped over the far side of his torso, “matches your eyes.”

“Thanks...?” Bucky acknowledged uncertainly. It was like the man’s face didn’t know how to accept a compliment.

Wait… did this mean these two hadn’t even seen him any other way than without the arm?

Mamma got to her feet, “But we can’t sit around chatting while you and our other guests starve. Give us a few and we’ll whip something up. White Wolf over there said this is your first time out and about in the city, so we’d best be setting the bar so high that you’ll be too spoiled to even look at other food.”

“Simply ruined for the rest of your days to dream of what you tasted here in our kitchen,” Ch’toa agreed.

Bucky’s face held-fast in a grin, “They’re not wrong.” He regarded Sam with all the air of a mock-apology, “I hope you enjoyed other foods while they lasted.”

Sam never caught a whiff of a menu, and apparently they didn’t need to, because about five minutes later, a jug of water and wide, etched gold and black bowl were passed around for them to wash their hands, and then food just… started coming out from the kitchen a few feet away.

It started in a little trickle. First came a series of small, savory pastries that were filled with some sort of rich curry and tucked away in brightly-colored baskets like some regional equivalent of Dim Sum. The contents of each of the woven baskets had a particular flavor, but the only stuffing he thought he recognized was okra, but it was prepared in such a way that it tasted almost closer to grilled sweet peppers.

Then came a spicy cup of some sort of hearty red soup that was accompanied by something that reminded him of fried plantains, but only just. Each were arranged with care in little handmade clay pots and accented with leaves and a spring of berries.

The steady rhythm of street musicians filled in the gaps between the conversation as plated vegetables were passed around, served family-style with hot, steaming bowls of rice that came out with grains in a host of colors, including black and purple. They had the air of butter, garlic, and spices he couldn’t begin to identify, and he found something soothing about the feeling of dipping his fingers of his right hand into it to combine with some of the other bits of this and that around him.

Across from him, Bucky was doing the same, sparing a moment between bites to victoriously meet eyes with Sam, as if to say I told you it was going to be life-changing.

When they were out in public, sometimes Bucky had this habit of looking to Sam as a gauge to determine how much and how quickly he should be eating in what Sam assumed was an attempt to downplay the whole super-metabolism thing, as if he was self-conscious about how much he could put down given the chance. That wasn’t the case at all here, and it was readily apparent that their signature chefs were portioning out extra helpings of food with him in mind. Sam’d have to bring that up with Sarah when he got back so they could take a page from this particular playbook.

Stewed and grilled meat came next, the latter of which was glazed with something that was too rich and not nearly ketchupy-enough to be considered barbecue, but the dipping sauce that came along with it was twinged with molasses so sweet it reminded him of wildflower honey. A little tower of thin crepes offered a way to roll the meat together with other savory items like some Wakandan version of a taco. Or burrito? Sam wasn’t sure, but there was something comforting about them all just sitting around a table eating and conversing, even if he wasn’t always certain what he was eating. It had all the feelings of a safe space, and neither Bucky nor the women hadn’t been wrong: the food was utterly incredible.

While they ate, sparks of conversation abounded, often led by one of the two owners, who saw fit to take turns stopping by between directing the other waitstaff and serving nearby patrons. Their interest and engagement was as genuine as it came, and they had a warm manner about asking questions and occasionally shared stories about Bucky.

Apparently their earliest memories of him placed him as not very easy going around food, so they’d seen fit to turn that right around and encourage him to understand the ingredients, but also learn a little cooking (Which whoa: Where had that Bucky been hiding if he could cook anything remotely like this?). It was news to Sam. He recalled Bucky politely asking both he and Sarah if they'd wanted help cooking back at the house, but they'd shot down his offers without a second thought. Why'd they been so quick to dismiss them, though? It wasn't like the man had a history of burning things. The nearest Sam could reason was he'd inadvertently painted Bucky with the same broad strokes as Steve, whose cuisine capabilities maxed out somewhere between boiling water and microwave meals.

The two smiling women took turns asking questions of Bucky, including wanting to learn know more about how he'd been these last few months. It was strange and a little sad to hear Bucky’s own take on recent events, “I mean. The world’s changed, so I guess I’m still getting used to that,” he confessed, but his eyes were also briefly on Sam, with that look of We should probably avoid the elephant in the room that is Zemo, “Still figuring things out. I got an apartment in Brooklyn, though, and visit Sam and his family in Louisiana when I can.”

Sam was about to speak up, but Mamma beat him to it, “Brooklyn?” she seemed genuinely surprised, “There something for you there? I would’ve thought you would’a come back here.”

Bucky’s face was doing that uncomfortable thing again, “I mean. There was. Sort of. I got a pardon for all that other stuff, but the government insisted I complete some court-mandated therapy to go along with it,” he dipped his fingers back into some rice before adding, “I went, but I wasn’t really in a good headspace.”

“And that therapist was awful, man,” Sam backed him up as he pulled off some chunks of tender meat and popped it in his mouth. Did they have chickens in Wakdana? It tasted like chicken, but the cut of meat looked bigger. Maybe it wasn’t poultry at all? He decided he didn’t care what animal it belonged to. Bless that mystery animal: it was downright delicious.

Ch’toa's tone was compassionate as she turned back to Bucky, “Have you talked to Ayo about it?”

And right then, Sam watched that tension flood right back into Bucky’s face. He wasn’t the only one that caught it.

“...Oh. Did... you two have a falling out?” Ch’toa tenderly inquired as Mamma slid into place beside her to listen, “You were always so close.”

The man seated across the table from Sam took a deep breath as he tried to still whatever was going on inside his head, and nearby, Yama silently watched and listened as she ate, “Yeah. I… I made some bad calls. The kinda ones I’m not sure I can ever really come back from. I want to try to make it up to her and others, but it’s gonna take a lot. And even then, I don’t know.”

Mamma nodded sagely, taking in his words before she ventured a reply she accented with a gesture of something that looked like a spear of asparagus, “The fall-out from the Decimation hit us all differently, Ayo included. You know, she used to come by and talk with me about her worries for the future? If she would ever see King T’Challa, Shuri, Nomble, or the others again.” Her eyes raised sympathetically to meet Bucky’s, “And she worried for you too. She hoped she’d see you again. She was so proud of you, of how far you’d come. It kept her focused on even the hardest days.”

And right then, Sam couldn’t help but think that the next time she’d see Bucky after Thanos… it would be not a welcome homecoming, but in her role as Wakanda’s security chief as she set out to track down how Zemo had managed to escape a high security prison in Berlin.

Damn...

Across the way: Sam was certain Bucky was sharing the same awful, somber thought, but he managed a tight nod, as if he didn’t trust his voice in that moment.

It was Ch’toa’s turn to chime in, and she did so as she rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, “We’re all born into this world alone. Some are lucky enough to be blessed by a family that loves us. That wants what’s best for us. Wants to see us flourish.” She leaned down so her warm brown eyes were close to Bucky’s glossy ones, “But the luckiest of us, the very luckiest, are blessed by Bast to discover the richness of found families,” she used her free hand to squeeze her wife’s hand, “And those bonds, the ones tempered with time and understanding: they are not as frail as you may think them to be, White Wolf.”

Bucky nodded, but his eyes looked to Yama next, who sat diagonally across from him and said nothing: what Sam would have given to read their minds in that moment.

“I’m going to try to make things right,” Bucky said finally. He was saying it aloud, but Sam had the distinct impression he was also saying it to Yama specifically, “I know apologies only go so far. Actions are more important. And I want to make my actions count.”

Initially, Yama regarded him with that neutral expression of hers, but then she gave Bucky a small nod of acknowledgement before she returned to her soup.

It took until that very moment for Sam to really grasp that what he was seeing here before him wasn’t simply a foreigner trying to fit in like he would have assumed not even weeks ago, but someone trying to come to terms with the fact that Bucky had all-but the makings of a family here in Wakanda, and he wasn’t even sure the man even realized it.

Speaking of: Maybe that was even why he got along great in Louisiana? He’d never stopped to consider how Bucky’d managed to just… slip right into things there like he’d always been around, but maybe all his time in Wakanda had nestled itself into him in ways he hadn’t even begun to unpack?

The therapist part of him confirmed: This was a lot.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Ch’toa offered with genuine conviction as she squeezed Bucky’s shoulder, “And when you do, you make sure to come by with her so we can celebrate.”

That got the smallest of hopeful smiles out of Bucky, “Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”

“Let me see what we have in the back to hold you over, since we should have our own little homecoming, too,” at that, Ch’toa shot Bucky one of her signature smiles and hurried off.

Not a minute later, later she returned with what looked like some sort of small white and black-speckled cake. Wait. Were those…? Did they have actual Oreos in Wakanda? The chocolate-dipped cookies arranged around the edges looked even more decadent, and the light in Bucky’s eyes told Sam he was the only one at the table who wasn’t properly braced for what was coming.

Mamma immediately got to work cutting slices and Ch’toa handed them around with the first actual cutlery Sam’d seen yet.

As he bit into that heavenly slice of moist and delicious cake, he realized that Bucky Barnes hadn’t been wrong: This experience was indeed going to ruin his relationship with food, potentially for the rest of his life.

And he also realized that was just fine by him.

[ID: A horizontal painting by Kaite_xyxy showing Yama, Bucky, and Sam seated in a Wakandan cafe while a woman brings another heaping of food to them. Yama sits on the left side of the table, smiling and holding a drink in her right hand, while Sam and Bucky sit across from her. Sam and Bucky are both holding pieces of food in their left hands, and are also smiling and engaged in conversation over heaping plates of delicious regional food. Yama is wearing Dora Milaje regalia while Sam is wearing a red shirt, tan jacket, and blue jeans. Bucky is wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans, and has a blue, black, and gold shawl that hangs across his shoulders and over his left shoulder, which is absent his prosthetic arm. Bucky has Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist. Their table has heapings of various regional foods and dipping sauces. On the right side of the illustration, a woman wearing a red dress and beautiful jewelry carries a bowl of food to the table where they are sitting. In the distance, the bright city of Birnin Zana can be seen outside End ID]

[ID: A cropped square close-up of a painting by Kaite_xyxy showing Yama’s arm and Bucky, and Sam seated in a Wakandan cafe. Yama sits on the left side of the table, holding a drink in her right hand, while Sam and Bucky sit across from her. Sam and Bucky are both holding pieces of food in their left hands, and are also smiling and engaged in conversation over heaping plates of delicious regional food. Yama is wearing Dora Milaje regalia while Sam is wearing a red shirt, tan jacket, and blue jeans. Bucky is wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans, and has a blue, black, and gold shawl that hangs across his shoulders and over his left shoulder, which is absent his prosthetic arm. Bucky has Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist. Their table has heapings of various regional foods and dipping sauces. In the distance, the bright city of Birnin Zana can be seen outside. End ID]

December 2022 Update:

Back when I originally wrote this chapter, I remember loving having the opportunity to explore what Wakandan food might be like (long before there was an actual, official Wakanda Cookbook) and to have a moment of downtime with Sam, Bucky, and Yama, and to start to get to know Yama a little better.

I had a lot of fun writing it, and I’m over the moon that Kaite_xyxy (https://twitter.com/kaite_xyxy) was interested in illustrating this cozy scene and all its delicious splendor! It’s incredible to see it brought to life in such loving detail, and how the bonds of friendship shine through, even in difficult times. Being able to reflect back on it now feels even more gratifying in context.

I truly can’t thank Kaite_xyxy enough for capturing this scene (and all those amazing foods! The details!)

Please check out Kaite_xyxy’s Twitter and Instagram accounts to see more of her beautiful and emotive art. Her style is so wonderfully lush and alive!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to her for lending her artistic talents to capture this key scene that really helped set the stage for a lot of threads in this story, and for infusing such care into every square inch of this illustration. There is such soul in it.

Chapter Text

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d spent talking to Mamma and Ch’toa over breakfast, but when they’d finally saw fit to be on their way and try to walk off some portion of the calories they’d put down, both women had absolutely refused even the slightest mention of payment.

When Sam had gone in for an attempt at negotiation, Mamma’d just waved him off with one broad hand, practically singing at him how the meal was their solemn pleasure, and he’d best come back soon and bring his sister and nephews with him next time. Ch’toa held fast beside her that his money was no good here, and besides: They were better off spending it on clothes, that she went so far as to insist, “Have an actual lick of personal style to them.”

He was certain he saw Yama crack a smile at that remark, too. Apparently they must’ve all become fashion critics while he was away. He couldn’t speak for Sam, but Bucky felt certain they could spot the fact he’d taken to the convenience of mail-order clothing so he didn’t have to actually go clothes shopping.

“We packed for a different climate altogether,” Bucky found himself defending.

“A much colder climate,” Sam saw fit to specify.

Ch’toa waved the reasoning away, “Grown men should know better than to dress themselves bland if they don’t want people pointn’ it out.”

“Bland,” Bucky repeated as he turned to Sam beside him, “She just called Captain America and his stash of blue jeans and identical red shirts bland.”

“They’re not identical, and you of anyone have no place to talk, mister goth-wannabe wardrobe.”

That got a bark of a laugh out of Mamma who slung a motherly arm around Bucky’s elbow and leaned-in conspiratorially, “Oh, he’s a feisty one!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Bucky forced a groan, even though he could feel a smile somewhere underneath. There was something nice about just… standing around chatting and enjoying each other’s company like this. Neither Mamma nor Ch’toa had seen fit to give him sass over not stopping by sooner. They were both just so happy to see him, to meet Sam, to catch up like nothing’d happened because that’s just who they were. And if Ayo hadn’t called him back here to Wakanda… well. He wasn’t sure how long he might’ve gone without seeing them again.

He let himself clutch to a reflective moment while Mamma and Ch’toa saw fit to give Sam a more detailed round of fashion advice befitting Captain America and Yama looked on from nearby.

The air was still heady with the warm afterglow of the cafe's rich, signature spices. Nearby patrons and passerbys chatted with people around them, their voices blending seamlessly into the rhythm and eclectic mix of street musicians and hand-drums. While the ambiance remained a familiar, welcome sight, Bucky let himself try to imagine it over those absent years.

He tried to picture half the people just… gone. Their faces, stripped of those smiles and replaced with worry for the people they’d lost in the Battle of Wakanda and the Decimation it brought. His eyes looked back towards the tables, and tried to strip out half the people there too: instead of families and pairs: empty seats and the quiet silence of those reflecting on missing people that most had rightfully assumed were dead and gone with the snap.

And he imagined Ayo sitting alone at one of those tables, so stubborn she wasn’t able to accept things and move on either.

He didn’t have to think hard to imagine her throwing herself into her work, or keeping her chin up as she focused on her duty alongside Okoye, Yama, and whatever other Doras and allies survived the snap. It was easy to imagine her out there fighting, but it was harder yet more vividly painful to imagine her here in Mamma and Ch’toa’s patio just… existing. Wondering about the people she cared about.

And apparently, he'd been among them.

That singular image, of that strong woman sitting alone in silence out here on one of these very same patio chairs had a way of making Bucky feel more guilty than he had in hours.

And to think: the next time they’d spoken at any length, it would be in that Latvian alleyway. About Zemo.

God. What a mess.

His attention was drawn back to the present as a set of strong arms and the scent of fresh bread wrapped their way around him.

“No use letting yourself focus on a past none of us can very-well change,” Mamma’s words were soft and meant for him alone as she slipped into her rich Wakandan accent, “Uya kuyifumana. Uhlala usenza njalo. Kwaye uhlala unosapho lwakho apha.” You’ll figure it out. You always do. And you've always got your family here.

Bucky looked up to meet her brown eyes, and found they remained steadfast in their conviction. He nodded quickly and hugged her back with one arm, leaning into the comfort of her embrace before she risked seeing his eyes misting up.

After a solid ten minutes of further hugging and reassurances that they’d make sure to stop by before they headed out, Bucky, Sam and Yama waved goodbye and stepped back out into the busy city street and its sea of colorful people.

Now that Bucky had his bearings, he also knew precisely where he wanted to go next. This particular spot was the closest thing he could think of as a way of thanking Sam for just… being Sam through these last twenty-four hours. Not only would he love it, but he wouldn’t see it coming.

Bucky glanced down at the Kimoyo Beads around his wrist and up at the nearest clock readout: Shuri’d responded to his message saying she’d catch up with them in two hours, which left about an hour or so to kill. Ayo hadn’t responded, but he wasn’t sure if that was on account of her being otherwise occupied, or if she was seeing fit to see how that silent treatment he’d given her for months felt when it was flipped back around at him.

He hoped it was the former.

“Well that was. Wow,” Sam kept pace to Bucky’s left.

“Told you it was going to ruin you.”

“I’m more just thrown for a loop that you kept all that to yourself.”

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly and smiled as he stepped to the right to make way for one of the numerous slow-moving public transports that criss-crossed the busy city streets, “Something else, huh?”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about the food,” Sam clarified, “Though you’re obviously damn right about about that bit.”

Bucky swiveled his head to look over the patterned blue shawl at Sam, not following, “Huh?”

Sam waved a hand back in the direction of the cafe, “Those people back there. That wasn’t just a restaurant. Those were were your people, man. Can see it plain as day.” His expression shifted, like he was doing his best to read what was going on in Bucky’s head, “You really don’t see that?”

He did what he could to come to his own lukewarm defense, “I mean. Sort of. I guess.” He settled on, “It’s complicated.”

His friend’s eyebrow was raised so high it risked floating away, “I’m thinking it’s a lot less complicated then your cyborg brain is making it out to be, Buck.” He paused a breath, as if he was being particularly selective with how he was choosing his next words, “You have all the makings of a family out here, and it seems to me you’re being dense if you’re reading that back there as anything but.”

The thought had certainly crossed his mind now and again, but Bucky found himself quick to dismiss it because that felt easier than ruminating over the emotions it drummed up along with the consequences of his actions, “Maybe. But certainly not anymore.” And there he went again: shoving those uncomfortable feelings down for not the first time that day.

Sam rolled his eyes back dramatically and shook his head. He chose to drop the subject for the time being, but Bucky was sure it’d come back around soon enough. “So where’re we headin’ next?” he supplied as a blissful if intentional change of subject.

“Just another little place I wanted to show you since we have about an hour to kill before we meet up with Shuri.”

“Well after that culinary majesty back there? I’m game, even if you’re making it a point to be all needlessly vague and annoying.”

Bucky just grinned.

They didn’t have much further to go, and while they could have hopped on one of the transports and cut their time a bit, Bucky found something grounding about just being out among the crowds and their unhurried pace, the little flickers of lively conversation, and the strange familiarity of the place. As he walked, sometimes it was hard to even remember time had passed at all, that it wasn’t just... another day in Birnin Zana. Before Thanos. Before Steve being gone. And before his world turned upside down yet again.

If he wasn’t focusing on it, sometimes he even forgot about the arm. He’d felt the absence of it so acutely last night and in the morning hours, but right now, the wound it left didn’t feel so raw.

Maybe it was the fact that Sam’d seen fit to maintain a steady presence to his vulnerable side, or the familiarity of the patterned shawl, or maybe it was even T’Challa’s words lingering in his wake: the ones were he made clear his hope for reconciliation and that after all that Bucky’d done, that he still found it in himself to wish peace for him above all else.

He was a good man. Of that, Bucky had no doubt.

Regardless, he was also certain the two would have more to discuss. He just wasn’t sure if it was the sort of thing he wanted to sign up for another round of in public. Speaking of which...

“Yama?”

The Dora Milaje walking to his right turned her head to signal he had her attention.

“Thanks for coming along and--” he realized he’d said her name before he’d finished figuring out how to complete his thought in a way that fit what he was trying to express. What he wanted to say was Thanks for not bringing up Zemo or Madripoor with Mamma and Ch’toa. What he said instead was, “--that back there meant a lot. Thank you.” Part of him wanted to stop, but Yama kept her eyes on his as they walked, as if she was waiting for him to continue, “I guess sometimes it’s easy to forget the way time passed differently for some of us. For you and Mamma and Ayo, I mean.”

“And Okoye,” Yama supplied not a little too helpfully.

Bucky cringed without meaning to: The general was one woman he wasn’t looking forward to having a confrontation about Zemo and Madripoor with, but he knew that conversation would come back around his way eventually, “Yeah, and Okoye.” He paused, trying to recall what he’d been wanting to say, “Anyway. Separate from all the other stuff, I shouldn’t have ghosted you either. You were always really kind to me and that was shitty on my part. I could have at least replied so you knew I was okay. I hadn’t really stopped to consider how much worse it would feel for those of you that were left behind.”

Yama actually stopped walking, and Bucky followed suit. She shook her head, regarding his eyes with an intensity that reminded him of Ayo, “I am still trying to understand who stands before me, because those actions you speak of were not the actions of the man I remember.” She gestured back towards the cafe, “The one I saw with my own eyes back there just now, like a mirage from the time before.”

Bucky lowered head shamefully, but did what he could to keep his eyes focused on hers, “Yeah. I realize that now and I’m working on it. I’m not expecting you to feel that things are suddenly okay between us. I just wanted you to know I’m going to try to do better.”

Yama’s voice was even as she responded, “Then you’d do well to search your heart on why you found yourself set on following those actions to their ends, because apologies will mean little if that rotten core remains.” With that, she stepped forward and started walking again.

All things considered: that was fair. He’d take that.

“For that it’s worth,” Sam added to the conversation, his tone candid as he caught up to Yama, “It wasn’t just you. Buck was fully-committed to equal-opportunity ghosting. Only decided to show up in my business when America decided to start up tryouts for their new poster boy.”

Before Bucky could interject a word, Yama glanced across him to Sam for clarification, confusion apparent on her face, “You didn’t give the shield to that pathetic man?”

Sam barked out a laugh at the very idea, “Hell no. I donated it to the Smithsonian before they went and loaned it out to Captain Asshole.”

Yama chuffed, “Of course they would.”

Apparently Sam saw this as his opening to air a follow-up thought, “While we’ve suitably established that numerous mistakes were made, and we also clearly should have stepped in to assist the three of you in Latvia rather than standing by or getting in your way, may I just say how much of an absolute pleasure it was to watch you solidly whoop that man’s condescending, sorry ass? Right before you’d stepped in, he’d been strutting about, trying to pick a fight with me for no honest-to-god reason. I don’t know if he wanted to prove he was more deserving of the shield or whatever but… man. I still get goosebumps just thinking about the three of you just shutting him down at each and every turn.” He held out his arm, showing her, “See? Goosebumps. Swear to god.”

This got the smallest of smiles out of Yama. “Our work is not always so… rewarding. But…” she let a fraction of her inner thoughts slip to the surface, “...If you only could have seen the look of pale disbelief on that man’s face when I clutched the shield before him. Like a small child aching for their favorite bottle.”

Sam spread his hands wide, “I’m telling you: Goosebumps. And with all respect to the shield: Rather you than him,” he confessed seriously.

That smile of Yama’s grew more pronounced as she calmly observed, “I wouldn’t have minded seeing how it handled, but it suits you more.”

That got a grin of appreciation out of Sam that Bucky saw fit to temper, “I mean, Sam’s alright. The windows, though--”

He was the prompt recipient of a playful elbow jab just as they approached their destination: a massive, curved building shaped with glass and tiered red stone that spiraled skywards. The glass windows reflected the blue skies above, giving it an almost half-ethereal appearance. The central structure was capped off by a pair of towering precipices that jutted out like scalloped castle towers.

Bucky watched as his friend regarded the structure curiously, but remained perplexed on why he’d been brought to this particular location beyond the standing appreciation for Wakandan architecture, “It’s a... nice building?” Sam ventured.

“Yeah,” Bucky supplied helpfully, “But it’s about what’s inside the building, Sam.”

“And what’s that, Buck? You know I can’t read the damn signs,” Sam parroted right back tone-for-tone.

Bucky shrugged, doing his best to look nonchalant as he stepped towards the set of giant vibranium front doors, “I know you’re not from around here, but I think you’ll catch on pretty quick.”

“Oku kungenxa yokukhunjulwa.” This is due to be memorable, Yama said for Bucky’s benefit alone as she stepped aside and watched Bucky open one of the doors while Sam stepped forward into the unknown.

“Umntu akanalo nofifi.” Man doesn't have a clue, Bucky confirmed, letting that grin he’d been suppressing finally take over the whole of his face in one fell swoop.

Chapter Text

[ID: A close-up of a painting by KLeCrone showing Bucky's right arm and hand. Around his wrist is a set of Kimoyo Beads. He has on a grey shirt and a blue, black, and gold shawl. He is standing against a grey background. End ID]

Bucky watched Sam make it exactly six steps inside before his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and a wave of concentrated enthrallment washed over him. His feet came to a sudden stop mid-step, nearly causing the group trailing him inside to collide with him.

Yama and Bucky did the honors of politely ushering the family around the awestruck figure, which was good, because he wasn’t sure how soon Sam’d remember his feet were capable of movement.

About twenty feet inside and four feet off the marble floor flickered the predatory outline of a massive blask and silver Wakandan jet that was suspended majestically in the open lobby before them. A plethora of projection-mapped displays rolled over it as various rudders and stabilizers moved in symphony with one another, like it alive and ready to take flight at any moment.

To either side of the sleek black jet were a series of animated holographic displays in a variety of different languages that welcomed visitors to the Wakandan National Aeronautics Museum.

Sam was standing so still that Bucky wasn’t sure if the man was even breathing.

“If you aren’t interested, we probably still have time to find a petting zoo or--” Bucky feigned.

A boneless hand waved in Bucky’s general direction, “They have an Air and Space museum? Holy--” Sam managed to turn around and catch Bucky’s attention, as if he needed confirmation he wasn’t seeing things, “A whole museum?”

Bucky’s grin widened as he walked past Sam and plucked a Kimoyo bead from the dispenser below the English display and tossed it underhanded to him, “If you keep that on you, it will automatically swap the nearest displays and playbacks to English. You’re in for some surprises in how everything in here compares to basically anything you’ve ever read about the history of flight for the rest of the world. The short version is: Most anything you’re thinking about right now: If Wakandans had any interest in it - the Wakandans did it first.”

Captain America over there was clearly trying to process the implications of Bucky’s statement, and was so overwhelmed he nearly fumbled the catch of the Kimoyo bead Bucky tossed him, but his mouth worked out a way to form words again, “...I’d never even thought about there being a museum.”

“Well do you want to just keep standing there looking weepy or do you want to see it, flyboy?” Bucky supplied, smoothly gesturing to one of the adjoining rooms.

“You’re still an ass,” Sam managed with something akin to genuine affection in his voice before he stepped towards the nearest hallway, whose signage promptly changed languages to display “The History of Flight.”

As they made their way into the next room, Yama saw fit to step away and give them a little space and privacy to enjoy the museum.

The History of Flight began in a narrow hall that outlined the Wakandan’s earliest experimentations with flight, starting with simple wooden airplanes that progressively made way to more ornate lightweight crafts that were either pulled along by a string like a kite, or meant to throw and stay aloft for a short period of time like overgrown paper airplanes.

Displays below the models and replicas showed-off still photographs as well as interactive teaching aids outlining of the evolution of these initial designs as well as the men and women that continued to test to see how far they could be propelled off anything ranging from the savannah itself, to buildings and massive cliff-tops.

“...Some of these photos are from the 1700s,” Sam slowly observed, his face still awash with wonder, “That’s… over a hundred years before photography was even invented elsewhere.”

“They beat us to manned flight and space too,” Bucky pointed out. “Wait till you see their first planes.”

Sam’s eyes were wide as he shook his head, clearly overwhelmed, “I’d never even stopped to consider…”

“Right?” Bucky found himself smiling as he leaned on one of the railings in front of a display showcasing more examples of early flight, including a short clip of a child who couldn’t have been more than ten smiling and running through the grassland while she pulled along a four-winged “plane” about the size of an East African Crane above her. It was painted in a pattern of grey, white, and black stripes with the red outline of a bird with outstretched wings added as a maker’s mark along on the side of it. “Me neither. I remember when I first saw this place it was just… so much. I managed to make it to the Smithsonian in DC a few years before that. Back before the UN, I mean. I don’t even remember why I went there to begin with, but I guess I was just hoping I’d remember… anything really. My mind was a mess back then,” he admitted, “just a jumble of damaged goods.”

He caught Sam glimpse his way with what he’d come to know as his I’m listening expression, so he continued, “I went there a lot. I hadn’t really expected to see all those displays about Steve and the War. I guess I hoped it’d spark some memories or something, but not really. I saw the displays about Cap’s best friend, but it was always like reading about someone else. I must have seen those placards and newsreels a hundred times just hoping I’d remember something that would make sense of anything. Instead the most I got was this weird sort of comfort knowing that Steve probably walked around that museum at some point too, even though I couldn’t really remember him.”

“Most of those museums weren’t around way back when we were growing up, so concepts like the space race and the moon landing were new to me. It was just kind of nice to have something else to focus on that was raw information and didn’t relate to me. Though being around crowds like that was sometimes unnerving since I had to try to stay one step ahead of HYDRA, because...” he let out a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and just let the thought sit. “Anyway. When I arrived to Wakanda, the museums here definitely confused the hell out of my understanding of global history since they conflicted with the other stuff I’d read, but it was nice just being able to step outside myself and learn about other people that’d come before, you know?”

Sam nodded, observing the nearest display with passing interest before glancing to Bucky and back, in what clearly read as one of Sam’s I was considering asking for clarification about something, but…

“What is it?” Bucky asked, apparently not able to help himself from indulging Sam’s curiosity.

“We always wondered what’d happened to you after HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D, and the helicarriers. Steve insisted you were the one that pulled him to shore and called in the SOS, but he had a one hell of a concussion so we wasn’t sure exactly how much of that was grounded in reality and how much were just hopes and dreams.”

Bucky was certain he must have made some sort of face, but he did his best to keep it as neutral as possible. This was one of those periods he and Sam, and honestly even he and Steve had just never really elaborated on: One of many grey areas of his life that he’d lived firsthand, yet wasn’t entirely alive for. A confused passenger in a world he didn’t understand.

“That wasn’t really me,” Bucky admitted awkwardly, “Back then, I mean. But yeah, whoever that was, he stuck around DC for awhile until Steve recovered and HYDRA picked up the trail.”

“Huh. Had no idea,” Sam admitted, turning back to the display.

“That’s for the best, trust me. You probably wouldn’t have found it comforting to know one or both of you were being observed through the business end of a sniper rifle most nights.” He did what he could to loosen the growing tension he felt in his jaw, “And besides: I-- he, whatever -- wasn’t close to a whole person then, and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be. I just knew I didn’t want HYDRA to find me and put my brain back in a blender again.” And then, he wasn’t watching himself and said the quiet part out loud, “I am pretty sure I would have been willing to end things myself to prevent that.”

He wasn’t intending to share that last bit with anyone, Sam included, but the man immediately caught the morbid implication and swiveled his head around with a shocked, sympathetic look. Bucky saw fit to do them both the courtesy of turning his attention back to a display showcasing some early Wakandan glider designs as he silently counted to ten and tried to put distance between himself and that era in his life that sometimes seemed like a lifetime ago, but now and then, crept far too close for comfort. He didn’t need to elaborate on the contingencies he’d made back then. There’d been so many contingencies.

Eventually Sam’s soft voice broke the long silence that stood between them, and he felt a hand compassionately squeeze his shoulder, “I can’t even imagine, Buck. I don’t know what to say to that besides I’m sorry. That’s truly awful.”

Bucky felt his face twinge as he pushed down the flickers of memories from that time, preferring instead to distract himself with more treasured relics of technological wonder, “C’mon, the first powered aircraft is just around the corner.”

Bucky appreciated that Sam let him have as much of his reflective silence as he needed as the two stepped into the next room, whose entrance was lined with a display about some of Wakanda’s earliest motors and engines and the advancements thereof.

In addition to some artifacts nestled in well-lit cases, row of hands-on examples offered visitors the opportunity to turn cranks to bring the gears and pistons of model engines to life. As a child about six years old rotated the nearest wheel around, a secondary display initiated, forming a three-dimensional projection that provided a detailed x-ray view of how the numerous parts worked together in tandem to convert energy to power.

As the kid stood and listened, Bucky nudged Sam to pull out his Kimoyo bead. Once Sam’d dug into his pocket for it, Bucky reached over and rolled his thumb over it, prompting the programming inside to come to life with the English version of the audio feed directly inside the bead itself. He was sure Sam was already well-acquainted with how motors worked, but he’d probably want to catch the follow-up bit about how the Wakandans had learned to leverage vibranium as a fuel source in their early engine designs.

Bucky stepped past Sam, the kid, and his family to check if any of the other displays had been updated since he’d last been through this way a little more than five years earlier. Aside from a few new hands-on displays, the rest of the exhibit appeared mostly unchanged, and Bucky slipped around the corner to the next room to wait for Sam to catch up at his convenience.

The circular room had a domed central ceiling with a rotating display that flashed to life as Bucky approached. Set in the center behind a protective barrier of transparent vibranium glass was something that generally resembled a larger version of one of the ornate kites from earlier. The silvery form was about twenty feet across and had two pairs of wings that were offset at different heights on either side. Each of the larger forward wings was set with a large propeller that’d been etched with the names of each of the four brilliant individuals who had collaborated to piece together how humans could learn to take flight.

He’d stood and regarded the “Ilanga Khozi,” the “Sun Eagle,” countless times over the years, and each time, it felt like an almost holy experience to just imagine all the incredible innovation that it’d taken to get to this point. The trials and failures and focus that had led those inventors and those before them to come together and make something so beautiful and profound, and so unlike anything the world had ever seen.

Bucky was aware of Sam approaching from behind him, and he took up position to Bucky’s left, leaning in to silently listen to the video presentation that was already well underway. Bucky made a gesture with one hand to start it from the beginning for Sam’s benefit and settled in to listen to the presentation.

After a solid five minutes of detailed accounts of how the “Ilanga Khozi” came to be, Sam chimed in, “...The Wright Brothers were 1903, weren’t they…?”

“At Kitty Hawk, yeah,” Bucky confirmed, already well-aware of where this was headed.

“But they got this… this got off the ground near-to when… when the United States was founded, in 1793.” Sam was reeling as he re-read the dedication date of the aircraft, “Oh my god. They probably had satellites in the air by the time we were making stone tools over here.”

“Not quite,” Bucky reasoned with a short laugh, “But if I recall, they developed cloaking tech at least sixty years before we’d even figured out radar.”

“Oh. My. God.” Sam repeated, obviously still trying to align the dates together in his head as the holographic display projected the next advancements made to the craft that allowed it to stay aloft for progressively longer periods of time. His voice was low as he leaned into Bucky, “You know, if this was literally anywhere else in the world, I’d tell you they were full of shit.”

“Wild, huh?”

“Beyond,” Sam confirmed. “Absolutely beyond. It completely redefines global history.”

“They’ll have to make a lot of room at the Smithsonian if they want to keep displaying some of their now historic runner-ups.”

Sam sent Bucky a short laugh, “I’d almost say that sounds a hint un-American, but then I recall they respect that fine establishment showed my red, white, and blue donation so...”

“I’m sure you’ll be whistling a different tune as soon as they decide to start displaying your old clothes there too, Cap.” Bucky saw fit to add.

“Please no,” Sam insisted, but Bucky was certain he saw a hint of something like pride in his friend’s expression at the passing thought. Sam moved around the center of the room and stopped at the next set of displays, putting his elbows up on the railing while he listened to a recording that outlined the next evolutionary leaps forward that came soon after the Wakandans had first gotten airborne so many years ago.

Bucky grinned and leaned forward, planting his elbow on the railing next to Sam and cupping his chin in his hand while he listened to the familiar playback of the recording which outlined further advancements in propulsion and aerodynamics. Documentary video footage played along with it, complete with an expertly-crafted English played back and a crisp closed-captioned overlay. There was even a recording of the incredible celebration the royal family had thrown to share the news with the surrounding tribes and their own scientists and inventors. “They’ve gotten even more visitor friendly over the years,” Bucky observed, “I remember back when the audio was only available in Wakandan, Yoruba, Hausa, and some regional African dialects. I tell you what though: it made for a great way to learn the local languages.”

Sam nodded, continuing to regard the aircraft in front of him with a hefty amount of solemn focus and almost religious respect.

“Place feels almost sacred, doesn’t it?” Sam observed, as the family passed by them and moved into the next room. “I grew up reading about the Tuskegee Airmen and all they went through. Along the way, I remember tellin' myself if I worked hard enough, trained hard enough, maybe one day I could get my wings like they did.”

His voice was soft, private, meant only for the man beside him, “And now you’re telling me that the first people to soar weren’t some brothers from the East Coast, but four black visionaries from Africa?” He shook his head, reflecting, “That… that is something I’m going to be feeling in my bones in ways I haven’t even begun to process.” He turned to regard Bucky seriously, “Thanks for showing me all this. It’s absolutely incredible.”

Bucky shrugged easily, but he was glad the detour had been so well-received, “It’s the least I can do. I’m just sorry for dragging you into all the other stuff.” He paused a moment before adding, “And if you want to head back, like back back so you don’t have to be in the middle of the fallout, I completely understand. I’m sure Nomble would be happy to arrange a transport.”

Apparently that earned him a solid shove comboed with a glower of pure disbelief, “Do you honestly listen to yourself sometimes?”

“What?” Bucky defended, rubbing his rib. He was honestly confused at what he’d done to deserve that reaction. He thought he was doing Sam a courtesy by offering him an out.

He caught Sam’s steadfast expression as his friend turned to address him, “Your friendship’s not a burden, man. Period. You need to stop making that your default.” He made it a point to cross his arms like a bouncer ready to defend his statement if need-be. “And when are we going to talk about why you never mentioned much of any of this? Or why you never went back to Wakanda till now?”

The directness of the question caught Bucky off guard, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming, he just… still didn’t have a good answer. “It’s complicated,” Bucky admitted, hoping that might be sufficient for the moment.

“Yep. Got that. And?”

Bucky frowned, “I don’t know I just…” He chewed on his thoughts, trying to pinpoint the crux of things, “I felt like a burden, I guess. I still do,” he admitted.

“To who? The Wakandans?”

“Of course,” Bucky said as if that much was blatantly obvious, “But that’s not what I meant. It’s...” he made a face, glancing around the room and seeing they were alone, he added, “...You really sure you want to go full counselor mode about this?”

Sam stepped over and put one elbow on the nearest handrail and leaned into it, unintimidated, “I’ll follow your lead, Buck. Sometimes it just seems like your default approach is to try and squash whatever you’re feeling in the hope it will just magically resolve itself.” He had a way of being on the nose without being accusatory when he observed, “That’s never worked for me, but how’s it working out for you so far?”

Bucky chewed on his lip, trying to get a read on what he was even feeling then. He wasn’t particularly sad, or even emotional, just… hollow. Like the very act of being in the museum was reminding him of things he hadn’t quite connected before.

And he didn’t like how those connections felt with the added perspective of the last day, no less the last few months.

And then Sam broke the silence that lingered in the air between them, “...Is this about Steve?”

Bucky’s mouth flinched uncomfortably. God, how was that his first guess? Was it that obvious?

“Kinda? It’s over simplified. I don’t think it’s fair for me to try and deflect responsibility for stuff like not returning calls on him.”

“But?”

Bucky thought it was a good time to look anywhere else but at Sam, “But… I mean. He just... up and left after Thanos, you know?” He felt his tone of voice shift as he quickly went right in to defend Steve’s solemn honor, “I wanted him to be happy, of course. I knew how important it was for him to go back and try to have the life that he’d always wanted, that was taken away from him. I never wanted to be the one to hold him back. I felt like he’d done enough on my account.”

He was struggling to keep the emotion of his voice in check as he continued, but it felt important that Sam understand where he was coming from, “And it might sound selfish, it probably does, but we went through all that and I lose my best friend in the process. Okay. Fine. I’m not the only one who lost someone. I get it. I’m not asking for pity, but….” his eyes went to Sam’s, either waiting for condemnation or hoping maybe he, of anyone might grasp some fraction of the complex hurricane of mixed emotions he was standing in the middle of, “But Steve didn’t even give me the chance to show him who I’d worked so hard to become.” He felt his lips quivering, but he had to throw the rest of it out there in the open before he lost his nerve, “I’d spent years, years, just trying to push forward, to sort shit out, to be better. And he didn’t even want to stick around for a few months and get to know me.”

He forced his eyes back up at an animated display of various alternative wing and rudder designs that trailed across the ceiling, as if the act of repositioning his head alone might hold back the tears that were threatening the corners of his eyes, “And then he left. You got his shield. I got handed his notebook. And … I just didn’t have anything left but nightmares and a therapist who found a hundred different ways to tell me how I should be thankful for the pardon, because I was still damaged goods. So sure, I considered going back to Wakanda, but I felt like one way or another, either when my training was done or they learned Steve wasn’t around anymore to be my advocate, that they’d abandon me just like he did.”

“So I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought it was easier to just stay one step ahead and avoid being in that kinda pain ever again,” he flailed a trembling hand somewhere in what he hoped was Sam’s direction, “I figured you were just pretending to be concerned on account of Steve and that you’d cut me loose as soon as you could, too. So I didn’t see a point in feigning we were actual friends.”

Sam started to say something, but Bucky cut him off, choking down a gulp of air as he continued, “I don’t feel that way now, obviously, but back then I didn’t see the point in anyone needing to be bothered pretending they didn’t see the Winter Soldier when they looked at me, yourself included. Some days, that’s still the first person I see in the mirror too.” Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and made some noise he didn’t even recognize.

“Christ, man. C’mere.”

The next thing he knew, Sam had stepped forward and pulled him into a tight hug, and all the tears Bucky’d managed to valiantly hold back for months about Steve, and his plan, and his leaving just came out in a torrent of pain as he clutched his arm around Sam and clung onto him like a lifeline.

He squeezed his eyes together and allowed himself to fold over Sam’s shoulder as one of his friend’s hands ran in soothing circles about his back, comforting him wordlessly as he tried to catch this breath. It was so hard to breathe. How was it so hard to just breathe?

It was as if the simple act of him being there gave him permission to keep talking and release whatever horrors were pent up inside. He wasn’t even sure if Sam could understand his trembling words, but it was like he couldn’t stop himself from talking, he just wanted someone to understand. He’d had all these plans, all these hopes and dreams that he’d never spoken aloud because he worried doing so might jinx them, but now they amounted to nothing and everything at the same time.

“I wanted to show him Wakanda, to meet the people and places here and get to know them like I did, but he just always had other priorities. And I got that. But he didn’t even visit. Not once. I told myself he’d been patient for how many years? So I could be too. But then, when the dust settled, he just left.” His voice cracked with a fresh wave of emotion, “He chose to leave. And then he had the gall to give me that book and tell me it’d help to get me back in the world and it was all going to be okay, but none of that was a substitute for him. I had so much I wanted to ask, so much to catch up on. I thought after all we’d been through --” He made a harsh noise and added “--but I’ll never get answers, because he’s gone.”

He kept his eyes squeezed shut as he blubbered over Sam’s shoulder, “I didn’t care about trying to catch up on seventy years of cinema or music or whatever history facts and pop-culture garbage people recommended to him. I just wanted my best friend. I wanted someone who remembered who I was before all that. Before the torture, the experiments, the missions. Whoever that was. When Steve left, he took all of that with him, too.”

“And I hate feeling this way about him,” Bucky heard his own voice confess, “It kills me. I know he cared, and I want to remember the best parts of him, but it still hurts so much, Sam.” He choked back a sob, “And I thought I was doing the right thing by --” he tried to take in a pocket of air in one gulp, “--and I just transferred that hurt to people here.” He found himself backtracking as a different sort of guilt took hold, “And now I just keep thinking how I shouldn’t even be saying any of this to you, of all people, because I don’t want to tarnish Steve’s legacy or make you think less of him or damage our friendship because I can’t get over--”

And Sam cut right in and interrupted him from inches away from his ear. His voice was soft and compassionate, but had more emotion on the edges than Bucky would have expected, “First off: We’re good. Don’t let whatever your head is trying to tell you make you think otherwise. Secondly: It’s okay to struggle with the concept that one Steve Rogers could have been both a great guy, but also a flawed person. You can be both things at the same time. It’s called being human. You hear me, Buck? The man can be both. He was both.”

Sam continued, “He could care the world about people, and still make shitty decisions that hurt those same people. Man was far from flawless, and you got a damn raw deal. You think I wasn’t angry that he pulled that shit?”

Bucky pulled himself back enough that he could see Sam’s face, and as he caught his breath, he used the brief break in the conversation to run the top of his sleeve over his face in a feeble attempt to try and clear the most egregious of the emotion from it.

But when he dared to regard his friend’s face, he was surprised to see there were tears of frustration showing in Sam’s brown eyes as well, “He did you the courtesy of warning you, but he just up and handed that shield over to me without even asking if I was interested in the weight of it. Just sprung it on me. What was I supposed to say to him? Tell him no? So yeah, I was angry at him for my own reasons, and I was pissed seeing you standing there like you just had to smile and suck it up and deal with the fallout of his decision like some obedient puppy-dog, too.” Sam kept his eyes focused on Bucky’s as he added, “And If we’re both being honest, somewhere not-so-deep-down, I think I’m probably still angry with him for all that. I’m furious that he got to walk away scott-free and feeling like he got to dust his hands off and tie up loose ends and live in the fantasy that the people that cared the most about him weren’t rightfully hurt by his actions.”

“So yeah, Buck, I think he could’ve stood to have a conversation with me about the shield and tell me about his plans. And so we’re clear, I’m not mad at you about that at all, because I’m sure his stupid, selfish ass swore you to secrecy about the whole deal and thought it’d be downright entertaining to see my reaction firsthand like I was being handed some carnival prize. But what the actual hell? We worked together for years, and I thought he respected me enough to owe me some courtesy and choice in the matter on something that big.”

Bucky stood in stunned silence and sucked in a breath. He’d eventually come around to realize the burden they’d placed on Sam regarding the shield, but he honestly hadn’t stopped to consider just how much it’d hurt Sam in the process, or that he had his own reasons for being upset with Steve.

Sam took a deep breath in and out, gathering himself before he continued, “And you? Man, you deserved to have your damn idyllic homecoming, to show him this incredible museum and every single person and place in Wakanda that meant something to you. He could’a spared a few weeks, or hell: a few months. You got a raw damn deal, and you have every right to feel however that makes you feel.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say to that, but he managed a little nod before Sam met his eyes and placed his hands on either side of his shoulders, “Like I said before, it doesn’t matter what Steve thought, but I know he would have been proud of the person you’ve worked so hard to become. I didn’t even need to know you when you were younger to know you’re a worthwhile person and great friend here in the present, okay? And there’s no one else I’d rather have as my partner. No one.”

Sam said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment, Bucky thought maybe he was just being nice, but those steadfast eyes remained focused on him with solemn solidarity: he meant every word he’d said.

Partners. He remembered when he’d thought to try out the phrase back in Louisiana, and Sam’d quickly downgraded them to coworkers. Something’d changed, and there was nothing but conviction in his voice now.

“So you’ve got shit you’re still trying to work out? Angry at someone who left you with the best of intentions? Join the club. But not only do you not have to go it alone, I’m here to remind you that I’m apparently one of a number of people that find your stubborn ass endearing to the point of being not only willing to put up with you and your quirks, but feel like you’re damn worth the aggravation of fighting for.”

Bucky had… no idea what to say to that. So he just swallowed and stood there like a statue.

Sam kept on going, keeping his eyes leveled at Bucky’s own, “And you know what I want? There is nothing more that I want right now in the here and now than for you, specifically you, to lead me around this blissful hall of technological wonders and tell me as much or as little about the displays or your time here in Wakanda or whatever you want to talk about. Because I’m all ears. And unlike our mutual friend: I’m not going anywhere, Buck. You got that?”

And with that, Sam gave his shoulders a compassionate squeeze and moved to stand beside him, slinging his hand over Bucky’s shoulder as if he’d spoken his truth, that was all he had to say about that.

Bucky had to take a deep breath and choke something down. He was finding it difficult to stay focused, because somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept hearing the echo of the phrase I’m with you till the end of the line, replay in his head. There was a time the words and all they represented gave him comfort, but there was a more recent time where the sudden absence of the sentiment behind them left him with a feeling of endless, icy cold hurt.

But as he felt the weight of Sam’s arm across his shoulders and chanced a glance to his left, he felt the man’s conviction in those words, and for the first time since the helicarriers and the mission and the fight with Steve and solemn, singular fantasy of The end of the line... he actually allowed himself to believe that someone in the here and now meant it.

About, of all people: him.

Bucky felt like the moment deserved something more profound, but he was finding words slippery at the moment, so he settled with a simple, if hoarse, “Thanks, partner.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because it got one of those personable ear-to-ear smiles out of Sam, who promptly clapped him twice on his good shoulder before he looked back up at the jet suspended before them, “Where to next, Buck? ‘Ode to Innovation’ or ‘Hall of Heroes?’ Or do you want to hang out here a little longer? No rush either way: I’m goin’ wherever you’re going.”

[ID: A painting by KLeCrone showing Bucky standing and smiling as he looks past the viewer. He is shown from the hips up, and is wearing a pair of blue jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a blue, black, and gold shawl is tied with two friendship knots and is hanging around his neck and is draped over his absent left shoulder. He is wearing a strand of Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist and is standing against a grey background with a repeating triangular tribal motif. End ID]

[ID: A close-up of a painting by KLeCrone showing Bucky standing and smiling as he looks past the viewer. He is shown from the chest up, and is wearing a grey t-shirt, and a blue, black, and gold shawl is tied with two friendship knots and is hanging around his neck and is draped over his absent left shoulder. He is standing against a grey background. End ID]

December 2022 Update:

I created the original version of this painting in September of 2021 to accompany this chapter, but I was in a bit of a time crunch at the time, so I didn't get to put as much time and polish into it as I'd hoped, so I decided to revisit it and pour more time and TLC into it over my 2022 holiday break into order to make it more like I originally envisioned. :) I hope you enjoy the result!

Chapter Text

Sam was relieved to see that once they’d gotten moving again, Bucky appeared to be more grounded and present in the moment. The two of them walked beside one another while Bucky’s blue eyes scanned over displays about advances in aviation, carefully reading text and inscriptions as they went rather than staring off unfocused into the depths of ceilings or reflections as he’d been doing only a few short minutes earlier. It was progress to be sure. Good progress.

There was a tangible change in the air between the two of them as well. As if somehow, during all that, they’d managed to soulgaze and came out the other side wiser for the strange bond it drummed up in its wake.

It also probably hadn’t hurt that Sam’d finally felt the presence of mind to inform one James Buchanan Barnes that he’d finally accepted his half of their official, unofficial blood pact. There’d been only one other person in his life that he’d dared to call a partner, and not even Steve’d been that to him, though they’d certainly been close.

He missed Riley. He always would. You could never replace someone like that. Never.

But he also realized he couldn’t continue to let the fear of feeling that sort of harrowing loss again prevent him acknowledging what was abundantly clear was right in front of him. He hadn’t said the words because of some debt or obligation to Steve or because Bucky clearly held out hope that their odd-couple-like friendship was more than a passing blip on life’s winding radar. No, he’d said it because he meant it with every part of him -- That he knew Bucky had his back just as fiercely as he had his. That in this crazy world of gods, aliens, wizards, and enhanced people of all colors, shapes, sizes: that when they had nothing else, they had each other to rely on.

And that was just how that was going to be from here on out.

Partners.

Beyond that solemn statement of fact, it wasn’t as if either of them had outright avoided mentioning Steve by name, but they’d both done an impressive circuit around actually talking about the man in question these last few months. Rogers was a trickier topic than most, and Sam’d actually concluded he was set to go to his grave and never say a stray word about Steven Rogers. The last person he’d thought appropriate to broach the topic with was the man’s childhood best friend, but it’d been the right thing to do in that moment. Both for him and Bucky as well.

Much as it made that latent frustration surrounding Steve rise up in him anew, it felt surprisingly freeing to just be honest about someone, rather than treating them like a solemn saint because they weren’t around to defend themselves. It wasn’t about diminishing the memory of him or who he was to a lot of people, but finding a sort of peace with who he was in life: warts and all.

The thing that’d surprised Sam most was that he thought he’d been able to shuck off a lot of his feelings after the fiasco with the shield, yet apparently he still had a pit of anger in him for the man, though it was a peculiar kind that probably no one outside of Bucky would ever be able to really grasp with two hands.

It was easy to be blindly angry at someone, but it was an altogether different story to be angry at someone, while maintaining with every part of you that you still loved them like a brother, and that if they were still around, you’d probably be right back to working with them again whether you could help yourself or not. Steve was just that kinda guy.

It was maddening.

“Did you see how they layered in air pressure regulation in the early flight suits?” Bucky observed, pointing to the second in a row of five Wakandan flight uniforms, each more colorful and streamlined than the next with animated labels that explained how this particular set was developed in coordination with the nearby tribes. “You can see where the attachment latches onto the helmets along the side there.”

Thank god for Bucky Barnes and his excellent sense of timing.

“I’m surprised they even needed it that early in their little alternative history lesson here,” Sam remarked, “I didn’t think they would have been able to get much altitude gain.”

“Compared to the Wright Flyer? Have you seen the cliffs here?”

“Obviously, but only from a distance.”

Bucky whistled lightly. The gesture was an easygoing one as he glanced around the room, apparently trying to locate a photograph that captured the sort of towering vista he was speaking to. He moved across the room in and flicked a finger through a virtual rolodex of photographs and stopped on one in particular. To Sam’s eyes, the closest frame of reference he had was if the Grand Canyon was not only multiple times deeper and wider, but also sprawling with lush greenery. “You’ve gotta take the wings out there at some point. Near Mount Kanda, though there are other great ones too. You’d love it. The city view has height to spare for sure, but the natural formations are something else. There are a lot of native birds and other wildlife up there, and you could play tag with eagles or whatever till your heart’s content.”

Sam honestly hadn’t spared a moment to think about this as some sort of scenic vacation, but there was something appealing about even the passing thought of getting the wings out and just breathing in some fresh air. The sky had a way of making everything seem smaller: worries included, “Maybe we can run some tandems at some point if you want to.”

There was a hint of that charming smile of his, “Here I thought you were going to offer to carry me. Last time I go through the trouble of arranging a fancy new surprise like that without trying it out myself first.”

Sam snorted, “Believe me: I would have liked to have seen you try more than most.”

“Not that I would have been able to get enough of it on to call it a suit. You being so delicate and aerodynamic and all.”

“Delicate?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I most certainly do not.” Sam crossed his arms, but his voice was all play, “So what’s that supposed to make you, huh?”

Bucky waffled, “Whatever the opposite of that is, because you’re certainly not seeing me wearing a glorified vibranium spandex wingsuit. Besides: while I got regular updates to my flight training over the years, specialized stuff like that wasn’t exactly on the menu.”

“I didn’t realize you flew,” it was meant as a statement, but he caught the slight change in Bucky’s expression the moment he’d said it.

Maybe it was the conversation from earlier, maybe it was the fact they were walking in an aeronautics museum in a foreign country, or maybe something in Bucky’s mind was feeling more receptive to sharing. But whatever the reason, the man beside him remarked, unhindered, “He did. Russian. German. American, mostly. I had some training with some of the styles they use here courtesy of Ayo and Okoye mostly, which yes: before you ask, can be operated one-handed.” There was a pause as he gestured for Sam to follow him into the next room of wonders, “I… had something of a reputation.”

Sam raised an eyebrow as he kept pace beside him, curious, “Oh?”

There was a little smile on the corner of Bucky’s mouth, the sort of smile that had stories to spare that went along with it, “I never broke anything, technically, but--”

“--But you most certainly enjoyed pushing our designs to extremes most others wisely shied away from.”

Shuri.

It felt like the tone of the open room suddenly dropped out beneath them as Bucky’s expression vanished back into itself and his head swiveled in her direction.

The Wakandan princess had stepped out from around an unmanned transport display with a rather satisfied smile settled across her face. She was dressed in what probably could be considered street-clothes, but Shuri’s take was so fashion forward that the vibrant purple, navy blue, umber, and gold vest she was wearing looked more like it belonged in a museum display. Her hair was woven into an ornate knotwork of beaded twists that trailed off into a fine strand that ran behind her shoulders. She was flanked to either side by one of the royal family’s signature accompaniments of Dora Milaje, which in this case Sam was unsurprised included Yama and Ayo.

It was clear from Yama’s expression that she was back on-duty, but Sam watched her observant eyes glance between Bucky, Ayo, and Shuri specifically. He was impressed how neutral she was able to keep her expression all things considered, because Ayo’s face remained narrowed with an intensity that reminded him of an even stricter version of Okoye, if that was somehow possible. He remembered a time not long ago when the Doras seemed more like a blur of faces than actual people, and he was finding it intriguing starting to get to know them as individuals.

For instance: He’d developed an understanding that was Ayo’s I’m still bonafide pissed at that man, but I’m going to shove it down because I’m working - look.

He recognized that one from Latvia.

Shuri offered he and Bucky a little tilt of her head as if to acknowledge the elephant in the room, and she went in for, “Good afternoon. I hope you both slept well.” Sam noted that it wasn’t a question, “I take it you’re enjoying our museum?”

Beside him, Bucky was doing his best to try to make a human expression with his face, but his hyper-vigilant eyes kept darting between Ayo and Shuri and back again, as if he was bracing for what might come his way next. Sam felt pretty sure no one was about to have it out for him in the middle of a damn museum, but he also respected that wasn’t due to make this any less awkward after what’d been seen and said the night before.

Sam decided it was on him to respond, “The first two halls, yeah.” He made a gesture with one hand as he looked out into the massive hanger they’d just stepped into, “I don’t even know where to begin. It’s sizably incredible, and bigger than most of the ones back home.”

Shuri smiled graciously, a pleasant blending of a diplomat’s warmth with her own unique brand of scientific enthusiasm that rippled just under the surface, “We stand on the shoulders of visionaries and dreamers that came before us. Come, you should at least see the newest exhibit before we head out. Her alert eyes traveled back to Bucky’s own, “It was added since you were last here.”

There was something sweet and almost tender that Shuri was mindful of such things. The fact that even after Sam and Bucky's trespass with Zemo, she was still trying to reach out to Bucky in her own way. It had a twisted way of making Sam freshly angry about Steve and the fallout from his decisions all over again, but Sam did what he could to quiet that thin thread of discontent as he waited, intentionally forcing Bucky to take the lead rather than letting him slip into that dynamic where he followed along like a soggy puppy dog.

Bucky caught the delay in Sam’s step and sent him an I see what you’re doing, Wilson - look before he moved forward to close the distance between himself and Shuri. His initial steps were timid, as if he remained subconsciously nervous that being too close to either she or Ayo, and the possibility that their proximity might insight more pain, but it was clear from where Sam was standing that at least Shuri wasn’t presently interested in rehashing from the night before. Ayo was a deal harder to read, but it was abundantly clear she still had words for Bucky somewhere not-so-deep down in those focused brown eyes of hers.

“Don’t look so worried,” Shuri said quietly as Bucky came up a few steps behind her. Her voice was calm and gracious, “We’ll talk about those other things another time, not now. We’re not about to have a sporting match.”

Least she can read the room. Now c’mon, Bucky, say something. Don’t go all silent on her. She’s obviously trying.

“Thanks. I do want to talk sometime later, though. I don’t want to leave things like we did.”

There were a lot of subtle emotions spread on Shuri’s face all at once, but Sam was certain he saw that same glimmer of hope he saw in Yama’s eyes earlier. The one that said she hadn’t given up on Bucky entirely yet, “Of course. Now come on, you’re going to want to see this.” She made an appreciative gesture to him, adding, “The shawl suits you. Matches your eyes.”

That was a start.

It was all Sam could do to keep his feet moving as Shuri led them past towering monuments of vibranium wonder when every part of him was screaming there was knowledge rampant all around him if he’d only just slow down and stop and read. He knew it wasn’t the time, but holy hell: he’d absolutely be back. He could easily spend a whole day here, if not more. They hadn’t seen more than a glimpse inside the first level of the main hanger, and there were at least two more floors as well as a whole wing on space exploration they hadn’t even stepped foot in. There was so much that was identifiable as one thing or another: a plane, a jet, a suit, a rocket, but there was so much more that was pulled from a completely foreign encyclopedia of visual history, and he was aching to know more about those as well. There was even a whole section about the evolution of their drones.

Shuri tapped something into the air above her wrist as they strolled forward, apparently the Wakandan version of texting and walking, but when they were about ten feet past some sort of Voltron-looking upright jet (what!?), something sparked her attention and she pivoted, pointing to Bucky’s wrist. “Oh! I’d nearly forgotten. Your Kimoyo Beads: Give them here.”

For a moment Bucky clutched them, tepid as if he was fearful Shuri might be taking them away from him just like Ayo’d done with the arm. The genius before him made an impatient grasping motion with her hand, “I’m not keeping them. You probably hadn’t updated them here since the Decimation, have you?”

Bucky twisted his face but complied, miming a diagonal motion with two fingers that set the beads free so they detached and fell into his palm, “No?”

“Of course you haven’t.” She smoothly plucked them from his hand and placed them in her own palm as she flickered over readings over the lighted strands around her wrist and continued walking. “Your tech is at least five years out-of-date, but this will bring it back to the current update. When the dusted tech came back online after we returned, it caused problems with a lot of systems, including the storage. The Design Group added in a protocol so it wouldn’t backdate or overwrite any of the data automatically, but the merging was another issue altogether.”

Sam was doing his best to follow, but Shuri had a way of talking levels above him as far as tech went. She wasn’t doing it to show off or be the least bit condescending: this was just part of who she was and how she operated, on some distant plane with other people that thought in code and had to actively translate from there to communicate with the rest of the world. Even Banner was dwarfed by the gap in her brilliant way of thinking, and that was saying something.

Even when she made a decided effort to try to relay concepts with people on Sam’s level, the difference between their working knowledge and understanding of core concepts sometimes felt like he was seeing the world drawn in crayon, whereas she could not only peer into the full spectrum of science and wonder of the world, but she could wield their natural forces as easily as he walked.

It was something incredible, and wings aside: the world was better for it.

“Onboard storage or cloud storage?” Bucky asked. Apparently he was still following. That made exactly one of them. Good for him.

Shuri waved a hand as she continued walking without looking up as she carefully inspected the black beaded strand with expert eyes that could clearly see things they could not, “Storage within the nanites themselves as well as a sync with the cloud storage that was running before, during, and after the Decimation.”

Sam found himself asking, “The what now?”

Shuri sent Sam a wide grin that had a playful, mock-condescending edge to it as she finished whatever she was doing and, satisfied, handed the beaded strand back to Bucky. He offered a quiet, “Thanks,” as he replaced the Kimoyo Beads onto his wrist in an apparent attempt to not distract from Sam’s inquiry, but Sam was pretty sure his friend was at least two or more steps ahead of him.

She patiently addressed Sam, “When the Decimation happened, information that was usually held or transmitted to those on the other end obviously stopped working properly while half of us rested with our ancestors. Rather than let that stand, some from the Wakanda Design Group decided it would be apt to continue to collect existing and all new data so that if at such a time the other half returned, then the systems would be able to blend and properly merge the three streams of data seamlessly together rather than risk them not working at all or having the merging conflicts irrevocably impact the data. Corrupted data. Overwritten data. Seemingly infinite lines of code that the scientists could only guess at because there was little way to test such contingencies without having access to the devices or their behavior from beyond the veil of the ancestors.”

“Why not just overwrite that with the latest version? Isn’t that what you just did?” Sam asked, not following.

Shuri gave him that same smile he was sure he gave his nephews when they asked him a basic arithmetic question, “It is far more complex than that. Kimoyo Beads are not simply archaic cell phones, Sam, but it’s cute to think of them as such.”

Bucky cleared his throat, “They had cell phones before--” he started to supply helpfully.

“--Probably before we had electricity or something. I get it,” Sam muttered with what he hoped sounded like respect.

Yeah, Shuri was definitely smiling at that.

Bucky regarded the beads around his wrist curiously, imploring Shuri for clarification, “So while half of us were gone, the other half captured everything and stored all the supplementary telemetry data too?”

Shuri nodded, appreciative of someone who was able to follow her line-of-thought, “As well as one-way, for those who were left behind.”

“...Oh. Oh wow.”

Sam had to imagine the storage requirements for that kinda data must have been a herculean feat to be sure, but that still didn’t begin to explain the peculiar expression that settled over Bucky’s face just then. His friend nervously rubbed his fingers together before rolling his hand palm-up and made a gesture with his fingers that pulled up a floating overhead display.

The nuance of that particular user interface wasn’t one Sam recognized, but as Bucky swiped his thumb from one side to the next, he watched as pages and pages of thumbnails appeared across consecutive date-stamped albums. Photos. Movies. Videos. Faces of not only people he recognized, but many more he didn’t. Certain faces popped up frequently: Ayo, Yama, Mamma, Okoye, as well as younger faces, including children about Cass and A.J.’s age, and still others.

There were pages upon pages of silent recordings and snapshots, ranging from photos of food, faces, pets, scenic shots, and even the occasional goat selfie: Yes, that was absolutely Yama taking a goat selfie.

Bucky might as well have been in another world, because Shuri was saying something, and even Sam wasn’t listening anymore as he watched Bucky just… flip through page after page as he sorted things through years of time, and ever-closer to the present day. Slowly, the uploads got less frequent as interest in sending messages to an unseen void apparently tapered out, the people no-doubt finding a way to move on with their lives and let grief run its natural course. But even though there were greater jumps between entries and messages, one face continued to appear when all others had finally ceased.

Ayo.

Even in the midst of the fifth year of the Blip, she continued unwaveringly to leave Bucky messages.

Bucky didn’t allow any of the audio on the messages to play back, but the moment of realization was clear on his face. Only a few steps away, the woman in question did an impressive job of impersonating a solemn statue, as she kept her head tilted at an angle that allowed her to watch the proceedings without needing to do so much as turn her head.

Nearby, Yama’s face was all quiet compassion, but her gaze remained focused particularly on Ayo: she must have caught sight of the faces too.

When the date flicked over to the day Bruce had brought the vanished back and Tony made his final sacrifice so the world could be set right, a flood of new and old faces returned to Bucky’s feed: Shuri, T’Challa, Ch’toa, Nomble, and others.

He slowly, shakily lowered the display and turned it off.

And then he just stood there, numbly looking at his wrist.

“You would have already received those last ones from after the Decimation once your beads reconnected the global system,” Shuri offered compassionately.

“If he’d cared to watch them,” Ayo supplied cooly, speaking the first words she’d said since the night before.

Ouch.

Shuri looked between the two of them in what Sam clearly interpreted as an Not now, Ayo - request, but the Dora Milaje just shrugged, unconcerned.

Sam wasn’t sure Bucky was breathing, but he really didn’t think this was the time or place for all this to turn into a thing right then and there, so he saw fit to step in, “Thanks. I’m sure Bucky appreciates the updates and being able to get caught up with all that stuff he missed.” Not somewhere that far away in his own mind: he felt a renewed pang in his chest for what Sarah must’ve gone through those years as well. He probably owed her more than he’d given her on that front, and he made note to have a talk with her the next time he was back home.

A foot or so to his right, Bucky looked like he was trying to catch Ayo’s eye and decide between the virtues of staying upright versus just allowing his body to slink back to a fetal position somewhere in the center of the floor, but Sam wasn’t going to have any of that. Time to take charge! Channel that eagle and pine-needle-infused Captain America energy or whatever. Your move, Wilson.

Based on Shuri’s expression, he felt convinced he had an ally in wanting to avoid Bucky going back to that dark, sunken place, so he looked to the princess in a very specific plead for camaraderie, “You said we only have time for one more stop before we have to go for today. What did you have in mind?”

What Shuri had in mind was something called “The Roswell Rescue.”

Yes, that Roswell.

“So… it was real?” Sam heard himself say before his brain had fully clicked into gear and caught up with the rest of him. Bucky was doing that following thing again, but at least he was staying upright just off to Sam’s side. Now and then, he was even glancing up to look at the exhibit.

Mostly: he kept looking over to Ayo, who walked to Shuri’s side and was doing a rather elegant job of giving him the silent treatment.

“One of our jets was on a reconnaissance mission when it malfunctioned and lost altitude,” Shuri explained, “The pilot and crew survived the impact, but it quickly became a search and rescue mission. Much of the world had just stepped out from wartime, so it made the international rescue… complicated. We couldn’t well allow the Americans to be aware of Wakanda or our technology, so a decision was made that it would be be more plausible to play it off as something a bit more… fantastical.”

Sam open and closed his mouth as they made their way around a Wakandan craft that had apparently crash-landed in July of 1947 in Roswell, New Mexico, and became something of a popular point of science fiction in his part of the world, and, he was learning, a topic of great consternation here in Wakanda. Nearby, there was a scale model of the stripped-down dummy “ship” as well as some examples of the extreme lengths that the Wakandans had gone in order to set-dress the whole crash site with curious objects that were planted there shortly after the crew was rescued.

“But…”

Bucky was looking over the display with a mix of expressions, but apparently the sight was enough to get his mouth working again, “I remember you telling me about this way back, but I don’t think I’d realized your folks literally pulled a switch-aro with the one that crash landed there.”

Shuri smiled, “It wasn’t easy, but the cloaking tech didn’t hurt. Considering what’d happened in recent wars of the time, the King thought it prudent to try to obscure the actual event with a false trail. No one expected anyone would actually buy into it wholeheartedly, and for so many years after.”

“Until aliens were suddenly real.”

The corner of Shuri’s mouth perked upwards, “Until aliens were suddenly real,” she agreed, leading Sam around the room with an ever-present Ayo to one side and Yama to the other.

“You folks singlehandedly prompted the creation of entire branches of government investigation. Entire facilities,” Sam observed, dumbfounded.

There were other visitors in the room as they walked, but Shuri made it a point to give the other guests space to wander at their leisure, obviously preferring to take a subtle approach over trying to throw her status around. Sam liked that about the Wakandans.

Bucky, for his part, had seen fit to shuffle himself off to one side of the main room and had apparently decided to take up renewed interest in his Kimoyo Beads. He stood playing with the heads-up display as he made quick gestures with his thumb and forefinger.

It took Sam longer than he would have liked to piece together what was happening, but eventually he keyed into the fact that one of the beads along Ayo’s wrist lit up a moment after Bucky’s fingers paused their movements. She discreetly toggled off the illuminated notification and chose to ignore it in favor of accompanying her charge. Eventually, curiosity must have gotten the best of her, because she spared a moment to glance down to her wrist, read something, and then looked back to where Bucky was patiently standing. Her expression was narrowed, but not full of the rage Sam remembered from the night before.

Sam and Shuri would walk a few steps as she gave a more detailed overview on events surrounding Roswell and Wakanda’s international exploits of the era, while all the while Ayo and Yama kept watch for trouble.

Now and again, Ayo would make a few gestures with her slim fingers with practiced, almost supernatural ease and return her full attention to her post. It happened so quickly it was easy to miss.

It was like the Wakandan version of two students secretly passing notes in class, and Sam couldn’t help but find it a bit endearing, mostly because sure: They looked to be knee-deep in staggered conversation with one another, but whatever was being said was apparently getting them to talk. Albeit, it was in a round-about manner, but it was still talking, and Bucky wasn’t looking like he was on the verge of shutting down either, so that was a net win as far as he was concerned.

Shuri was clearly aware of the game that was transpiring not far from the two of them, but the conspiratorial expression she shared with Sam told him she was content to let it play out. Sam hadn’t spent a lot of time around her, but it was clear why Bucky thought so highly of her: Not only was she brilliant factually speaking, but she had a certain empathy about her that was an even more important quality in a person.

When he looked at her now, he was finding he wasn’t defaulting to “Foreign Diplomat,” or “Wakandan Royalty” or “That brilliant woman that gifted me the wings,” but it was almost like he was getting the opportunity to get to know some of Bucky’s extended family, albeit: In the middle of a downright mess, but that wasn’t unique to any one family either.

You could learn a lot about people in times like those, too.

So he kept on walking and talking with Shuri and her boundless enthusiasm about Roswell and aviation and American and Wakandan history while the two of them bought Bucky and Ayo a little time to do their own thing.

Besides: there was still a lot left to see in the exhibit, and Sam was going to drink up every moment he could of this incredible place.

[Kimoyo Bead Text Messages Between Bucky and Ayo]:

Chapter Text

The remainder of the visit to the Wakandan National Aeronautics Museum was blissfully uneventful. It was only when the group wrapped up and stepped back into the afternoon sun that the lingering dread began to creep back into Bucky’s periphery. Ayo and Yama strode on either side of Shuri as the Wakandans led them back to the nearest landing dock where Nomble was waiting to rendezvous with them.

Sam kept his eyes up as they walked, continuing to drink in the sights of the busy city with a palpable enthusiasm that made Bucky glad he’d offered to come along. Seeing his friend -- his partner -- he corrected, still trying to adjust to the term and the strange new weight it carried, well, seeing Sam have a spot of enjoyment in all this was a nice type of levity. It didn’t counterbalance the guilt he had getting him involved in all this, but it was something.

Mostly: He really didn’t want a repeat of last night. Things had gotten so bad there for awhile that he’d be lying to himself if he hadn’t at least considered the fleeting possibility of getting on the first plane back to the States and never looking back. He wasn’t proud of the fact that the thought had occurred to him, but he guessed it was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t really great with dealing with strong emotions in general. It was just so much easier to push them aside.

Which was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Score one for Bucky Barnes and his propensity for digging the hole deeper.

That being as it was, as he kept pace beside Sam on the tarmac, he also knew that while the group of them were cautiously on speaking terms again, it wasn’t as if there’d been much resolution to speak of, particularly between he and Ayo. To be honest: he wasn’t entirely sure how much could be expected from words alone, but if the morning’s events had done nothing else, they only solidified his desire to try to make amends however he could.

He absentmindedly regarded the Kimoyo beads around his wrist as they boarded the plane and took their seats. Sam lounged beside him while Shuri sat across from them with Ayo on one side and Yama on the other as Nomble stepped back to the front of the craft and prepared to get it airborne.

Bucky tried to push the anxiety away, but as the hatch closed behind them, he could feel that aching tension steadily latch into him like someone had secured a cage door while he was caught wandering too close to a pride of lions.

The comparison was probably a little too on-the-nose considering.

Across the way, Shuri was being her usual pleasant self and apparently decided she didn’t want to take the short trip in silence when she could instead be indulging Sam in all manner of inquiries about the museum and tech on display inside. This in-turn led to discussions about his suit, wings, Redwing, JB (dammit Sam…), and their components. Bucky felt no inclination to interject himself into the conversation, and instead casually followed along while trying to figure out where he could even begin to plead his case once they landed. Where could he even start?

Last night had gone fantastically sideways in part because he’d been caught unaware of the sheer scope of what they were walking into. But now that they’d not only beheld the profoundly disconcerting Madripoor footage and he’d learned a great deal more about just how much he’d managed to wound them, it wasn’t as if the added perspective made anything they’d done somehow more palatable. If anything: Bucky just felt more glaringly aware of how tremendously he’d messed up at a string of critical junctures, one more painful than the next.

He’d dug the hole so deep he wasn’t sure if there was any way out, and if he were being honest: He wasn’t sure he deserved the chance. He felt like he was one wrong word away from Ayo being done with him entirely, and he wasn’t used to feeling like he was on the razor’s edge with her. They’d been through so much, and he was ashamed to think how he’d just run with the assumption that her steadfast presence was a given. That she was strong and understanding, and just… Ayo.

He could still clearly remember sitting back on the floor in his apartment in Brooklyn missing Steve and feeling sorry for himself when he saw the beads blinking, letting him know he had messages. He’d been so absolutely convinced that the relationships he’d once held so dear were just figments of his imagination. That his time in Wakanda was just yet another example of him being a burden on other people that they only put up with on account of Steve.

So he’d done the childish thing and put the strands on silent before he stuffed them away where he couldn’t see them, because ignoring them was easier to face than the alternative.

And now?

Now he came to learn that not only had a number of the Wakandans cared enough to try to get in touch as soon as the world had been set right again, but some of them had made a decided effort to regularly leave him messages while was freaking dusted.

While a part of his brain was prone to self-sabotage, there wasn’t any logical part of him that could view those actions as anything other than the actions of people that genuinely cared about him.

Which, in turn: just made him feel worse, and a completely new layer of guilt that was so deep, so profoundly awful, that he felt certain it wasn’t even listed among the tumultuous tiers of Dante’s Inferno.

He was casually alerted to movement to one side of him, and Sam saying his name so he belatedly tuned back into the conversation, “--So yeah, Buck and I got the shield back from Walker after that video you mentioned, but he made it a point to tear apart the old wings in the process because he’s just that kind of guy.”

“That kind of Asshole,” Bucky automatically corrected, because he couldn’t help himself.

Sam shot him a look that may have very well been a language reprimand on account of either perceived feminine sensibilities or royalty being present, or both, but Bucky knew well enough that Shuri’s own tongue wasn’t always always so measured nor golden. She just tended to curse in colorful languages other than English. Or descriptive hand gestures.

Sure: Walker may have stepped up in the end to fight the Flag Smashers when they were set against letting the GRC ratify the Patch Act, but just because he’d managed to change his tune for a few beats certainly didn’t mean Bucky was obligated to sugarcoat the guy.

Shuri made a light snort in response to Bucky’s remark before looking back to Sam for clarification, “Weren’t your old wings carbon fiber? I’m surprised they were that fragile.”

Sam cringed, “They weren’t. By that point, Walker’d seen fit to take the serum he’d squandered from the Flag Smashers, so...”

“I still say he took it as an enema,” Bucky grumbled under his breath. He received a sharp jab from Sam’s elbow in response, but he stood by his solemn statement. When he glanced up and across from him, though, it was apparent that something one of them had said was news to the Wakandans.

“Wait. That man. ‘John’ from Latvia?” This was Ayo.

“One in the same,” Bucky confirmed. For a moment, he considered offering accolades that the Dora’s juggling had been so decidedly swift that it’d clearly prompted the man to feel he needed an edge, but Bucky was certain that not only was that the wrong thing to say, but he didn’t want to imply there was any causality to speak of. What Walker’d done was his own choice, he just needed the excuse to push him over and make it justified. It certainly hadn’t made him any more stable, that was for sure.

That said: Bucky knew the Doras could still royally juggle his ass, serum or no. And that was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again if the opportunity presented itself.

That was a thought for another time, “Zemo destroyed the other vials, but he must have missed at least one, and I guess Walker found it and thought it was his time and his calling.”

“That’s what we were investigating,” Sam clarified, “At the start of things, I mean. We’d gotten word some Flag Smashers were strong, too strong, and Redwing was able to track them down in Munich. When we got there, we realized there were eight new super soldiers out in the field, and we didn’t know where they were coming from or how many more there were.”

The expressions of the women across from them had grown ever-more focused, and any humor Shuri had faded away at the news. Ayo’s eyes pressed squarely into Bucky as she visibly waited for him to take over from where Sam left off. Even Sam picked-up on the unspoken prompt.

Bucky cleared his throat and found his words were for Ayo specifically, “I should have gotten in touch with you and Shuri as soon as we found out. Right then. I don’t have any good excuse why I didn’t, other than it felt important to try to cut to the chase as quickly as we could. I’m not defending what we did. It was my idea. But I’ve seen what people can do with that stuff. I didn’t want it to escalate.”

Ayo’s expression was as tight as her grip on her spear, but she was listening. Yama glanced between Shuri and Ayo, as if she considered saying something or asking a question, but decided it wasn’t the place or time.

Apparently they were doing this now, and it was Bucky’s opportunity to try and break some of this down into more digestible parts. For a moment, he started to lose his nerve and found himself staring at the beads around his wrist again, but Sam being Sam just lightly nudged him with his leg, as if prompting him to keep going with what he was saying.

Bucky met his friend’s encouraging eyes briefly before he took another harried breath and found his voice again. He forced himself to level with Ayo’s unwavering brown eyes, “I can promise you with every part of my being that when we went to see Zemo, which again: was my idea, not Sam’s -- I had no intention at all of procuring a way for him to break out. I’m sure somewhere deep down I just wanted to come face-to-face with him again after all that he’d done. Remember how we used to talk about that? About what I’d do if I saw him again?”

He realized he was rapidly leading himself down a trap of his own making, because among their prior discussions, there certainly weren’t steps like “Meet with Zemo,” “Break Zemo out of jail,” “Take a flight with Zemo and discuss music,” “Pretend to be his pet assassin,” “Go clubbing,” and something about Turkish delight.

God. The more he thought about it, the worse it all sounded.

Ayo didn’t say anything, but her eyes remained burning embers of discontent and Bucky had to push himself to continue, “Anyway. I don’t think I even knew what to expect. Maybe that it’d feel good to see him locked up in there after all he’d done, all the countless people he’d hurt, all the people he’d had me hurt. But first thing he did was to lead with the words, those words, because he’s a gentleman like that.” Bucky kept going, “But somewhere in there, I actually started believing that he might have an actual lead we could use to put a stop to things, and since he was our only lead, I thought that if he could be a means to an end to help uncover where the serum was coming from, then I could tell myself it was all about the greater good or something. I don’t know. I’m not trying to justify it to you because it was obviously a bad call, but I just want you to know I wasn’t thinking straight and it wasn’t part of some well thought-out plan. I just got scared.” That last part felt like it bore a lot more weight than he realized when he’d said it out loud.

“...Because you thought they could be making more willing, or potentially unwilling test subjects,” Shuri observed, meeting his eyes.

Now it was Sam’s turn to give Bucky a significant look. It was an expression that said he’d been along for every step of the ride firsthand, but that last bit… even he apparently hadn’t put together that some of Bucky’s deepest fears had been drawn from a very particular brand of nightmare that involved the serum being used on others without their consent.

“Shit,” Sam managed, looking at Bucky with a whole new layer of understanding, and then quickly to Shuri as a belated apology to his language, “Wait, you thought they could be making more of what they did to you? I hadn’t even considered. You never said--”

“--We didn’t know one way or the other,” Bucky reasoned, “But I had to know. I just... “ his eyes went back to Shuri, Yama, Ayo, but he made sure to speak loud enough so Nomble could continue to follow as well, “I didn’t know. I thought if there was even the smallest chance Zemo could be useful, it was somehow worth it to prevent that sort of thing from spiraling further. I wasn’t oblivious: I’m not going to sit here and pretend I didn’t at least consider contacting you to let you know. But by that point, I’d already been dodging your messages for months, and somewhere in there, I just convinced myself it was more important we act quickly to get to the bottom of things. In hindsight, the only thing I can tell you is I panicked and was thinking about the mission before anything else. Including how all of you would feel.” He waved his hand in Sam’s direction, “I didn’t run the impromptu prison break by Sam ahead of time either. I came up with it spur-of-the-moment and dropped it on him.”

Before Sam could interject, Bucky turned to him, meeting his eyes seriously, “If I’m thinking about getting involved in something that could land one or both of us in jail or shot at, it would have been considerate for me to at least consult you. So I’m sorry for that too.”

Sam crossed his arms and let out a resigned sigh as if he’d already long-since forgiven Bucky for that particular trespass, “Yeah, but I went along with it, so I’m not exactly blameless here either.”

Bucky was casually aware of the plane settling as it came to a soft landing, but that the hatch remained closed after the thrusters quieted. As Nomble put some of the systems on standby, Ayo made a gesture to her to come sit beside her, and the Dora did just that, catching Bucky’s eye evaluating as she did. Apparently, they were doing this here. Now.

There could be worse places, Bucky reasoned.

While Shuri certainly held the highest rank among them and was anything but meek, it was obvious she was deferring to Ayo to speak up next, and it didn’t take her long to do just that. Her voice was low and pointed, “And how soon after that did you travel to Madripoor?”

God, we were going right into that?

Okay then. Madripoor.

“Not long after,” Bucky admitted, “Zemo, well, apparently Zemo was a Baron. Is a Baron? Whatever, he had access to people and resources, including ones on shadier end of the spectrum. He felt certain he would be able to leverage one of his contacts in Madripoor to get a lead on where the serum was coming from.”

“And you believed him?”

The question was more of an accusation which felt like it contained more venom than it should have, but he saw what she was getting at: That Bucky’d chosen to place his trust in a murderer and master manipulator over those that were supposed to be his allies. He sighed as the weight of his guilty conscience bared down upon him, “Yeah, I bought into the whole thing. Even the disguises.”

The word felt like the right word to use when Bucky’s said it, but the flare in Ayo’s eyes told him he’d severely misstepped. Her response was swift enough that he half-expected her spear to turn on him, “Ngaba uyibhengeza ngokungafihlisiyo, James? Uyakhumbula na ukuba yintoni into enjalo?” You brazenly declare it a disguise, James? Do you even remember what such a thing is?

She hotly continued, “Xa thina okanye Hatut Zeraze sifuna ukufihla ubukho bethu, asizenzi ngathi singababulali ukuze nje "sidibane," kwaye ngokuqinisekileyo ngekhe sifune ukuyenza le ndima ngokungathandabuzekiyo, njengenja eqeqeshiweyo efuna ukubuyela ehokweni. Umdlalo.” When we or the Hatut Zeraze need to mask our presence, we do not feign at being murderers simply to “blend in,” and we certainly wouldn’t seek to act the part so convincingly, like a trained dog eager to return to a cage match.

Bucky wasn’t sure what he could say to that.

He let her words sink in for a moment, feeling painfully close to that precipice of no return with her if he said the wrong thing. Why had he done it? Why had he agreed, when everything in him was screaming it was a terrible plan that was liable to get them all killed. Why?

He felt his lips tremble as he tried to steady his breath and address her, because somewhere not-too-deep-down, he already knew the answer, even if he hadn’t spoken it aloud to anyone: Sam included, “I already told you I wasn’t thinking clearly. At all. But I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I think I was just… I was willing to do whatever it took if it meant we could get to the bottom of where the serum was coming from. If that meant I had to put myself in an uncomfortable position, where I had to pretend at-length to be someone I’m ashamed of, someone who did countless horrific acts on command and left me with multiple lifetimes worth of unresolved nightmares... Ayo, I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t do it again if it had the chance to prevent just one person from going through what I did. Just one.”

Bucky was struggling to keep focused on those fierce eyes of hers, “I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but you told me to always be honest with you, and I’m being honest with you now. I clearly went about it the wrong way, but I also didn’t mean to hurt you, any of you. And I know I did. I’m sorry. I thought the only person I was hurting by putting on the act was myself,” he admitted, as if that somehow made his actions more palatable to his audience.

He considered saying something more, but Ayo spat something under her breath that he didn’t feel the need to translate for Sam, “Andikholelwa ukuba usisidenge. Ndibambe ithemba iminyaka emihlanu yokudibana nolu hlambi lomgxobhozo lwezizathu ezibambekayo.” I can't believe you're such a fool. I held out hope for five years to be met with this swamp wash of belated excuses.

Bucky flinched at the pointed candor in her words, but he kept going because he didn’t want things to risk spiraling like they did the night prior, and his heart rate was already telling him that was becoming a distinct possibility, “Look, I can’t change what happened. I wish I could go back and do things differently, because as I’m saying all of this out loud I’m realizing more and more how it sounds like I trusted Zemo, Zemo, more than I trusted you, but that’s not how I feel at all.”

Bucky knew Ayo well enough to be able to pick up on the fact she was straining to control her breathing. Her jaw was clenched as she considered her next words carefully. Her fierce grip on her vibranium spear was… telling. Not in a good way.

Had they reached that point of no return?

Sam’s voice slipped seamlessly into the conversation, “To be clear, neither of us actually trusted Zemo and his shit.” Thank god for Sam. “We were well-aware he was probably trying to play us to his advantage, but after spending a few days with the man I can tell you that as messed up as it is: He really does seem to genuinely consider preventing the creation of more super soldiers to be a warped calling and his life’s work. And Madripoor was a bad look on all of us, like decidedly bad, but it did actually end up being a lead.”

Sam put his hands up, as if surrendering to the bizarreness of the fact, “I’m not defending any of what went down either, Baron Zemo least of them. He played things up in Madripoor for sure, even had sick enjoyment watching us squirm, but gross as it says to say this out loud, I’m also not entirely sure we would have been able to crack the case without him. As Buck said though: We clearly went about it all-sorts of backwards, and should’ve reached out and gotten you involved rather than having you put together a reunion tour on account of seeing that particular footage.”

Something about the weight of the conversation suddenly shifted, and Ayo’s gaze moved between Sam and then back to Bucky. It was Shuri that spoke next, her voice even, “We didn’t summon you to Wakanda because of the Madripoor videos.”

Bucky lifted his head in confusion at that, “Wait, you didn’t?”

Shuri shook her head, as if that was obvious from where she was sitting, “No. I discovered the first of them when you were already enroute here.”

...Which explained why Ayo was pleasant and “White Wolf” enough on their call back in Symkaria, and why his name had been swiftly downgraded to “James” upon their arrival in Wakanda alongside the sudden, unexplained shift in her mood.

Even still, Bucky wasn’t entirely following, “I’m confused. Why’d you summon us here then, if not for that? Zemo?”

At this question, there was a whole mood that rolled over the Wakandans in front of him. They clearly knew something he didn’t, and that moreover: He was feeling inclined to believe it wasn’t necessarily something he was going to like.

“What is it?” Bucky asked again, his voice softer and more probing as he tried to remember back to what exact question he’d asked Ayo back in Symkaria. “About the murders and the royal family? I was hoping maybe you’d remembered me saying anything about the area at some point, even if it was in passing.” That was it, right? That was why he’d finally been prompted to reach out to Ayo?

Shuri still had that certain inscrutable look on her face, and Bucky found his pulse rise as he tried to remember where he remembered repeatedly seeing it over the years, because it wasn’t a new expression. It was a quiet, almost grave countenance that said she had news to deliver, and not necessarily the good kind.

Ayo spoke up next, “I don’t remember you saying anything about Symkaria, specifically,” she admitted, and even her tone had that hauntingly familiar weight to it. Whatever frustration she had about Zemo and Madripoor vanished utterly in that moment, and for just a fraction of a second, just a beat of a hummingbird’s wings: Bucky felt like she was reaching out across the years to speak with him candidly. Like they used to, when it was just the two of them.

He felt small in that moment as he focused his undivided attention on her and how she kept her eyes on him as she spoke. There was no anger to be found there, no reprimand, no push of guilt, “You left before we could finish your training,” she explained in carefully measured tones, “I called you back so we could talk about if there is a way to help you search out the memories you seek.”

Her words hung in the open air of the jet like a fog rolling over his mind, slowly obscuring his thoughts with a weight he thought he’d already managed to shuck off. He swallowed, unsure of what he should be feeling, or even say.

He knew the two of them weren’t on the best of terms, that there was an ocean between them in so many ways. Yet as he looked across to her, he could see that strong woman that’d been through his side through so much, and that unspoken resolve that even now, even after all he’d done, all the missteps and betrayal: if there was some way she could help him, she would.

“Come. We should talk,” Ayo concluded with pointed intention as she got to her feet, leaving the other matters to rest for the time being.

Chapter Text

Sam couldn’t help but compare their silent, somber march through the Wakanda Design Group to something of a funeral procession. The glass and vibranium building was as active as any military base, with scientists, Doras, and staff everywhere he looked, each preoccupied with whatever afternoon tasks they were assigned to for the remainder of their workday.

Their own group opted to shuck off the need for small talk in preference to making their way to wherever Shuri was leading them as efficiently as possible. From what he could tell: it looked as though they were headed in the same direction of that lab from the night prior where they’d all been given a firsthand recap of Madripoor.

The building’s interior had a very different feel in the daytime than at night, due in part to the fact that so much of it was lined with glass (or was it transparent vibranium?) that looked out onto the vibrant natural world outside. Seeing the manned and unmanned vessels maneuvering effortlessly outside reminded him about Bucky’s comment about the wings earlier: that yes, he would absolutely love to stretch them out and see the view from way up there, where there was nothing between him and the sky itself.

But those were thoughts for another day. Right now he needed to ground himself to the present.

While there was no doubt from the immaculate labs and assorted scientific equipment (those that Sam could recognize, anyway) that this was a research facility, it was also dripping with an uncharacteristic amount of culture that he just wasn’t used to seeing in places like this.

In his experience, the bases and labs he’d spent any time in were made to look intentionally sterile, because somewhere along the way, that’d been deemed to be tantamount to efficiency. You could visit the same base ten times over ten years and about the only decor that was liable to change were the safety diagrams on the walls, and if you were lucky, maybe the paint color’d been overhauled from silver to French grey, or maybe pewter if someone was feeling particularly daring on challenging the building codes.

But everywhere Sam looked around him had this amazing ability to blend the look of a professional lab with… with art. With culture and design. There were entire murals painted on walls and alcoves that wouldn’t have been out-of-place beside street art in Baltimore, and yet they didn’t stand out here: they belonged. It was a very specific cultural hit that made him feel a lot of things at once, seeing people so proud and unintimidated to put their heritage on display like it was just the status-quo.

For them, it probably was.

And that made him feel a certain way, and that led him to thinking about Isaiah Bradley and the starkly different life he’d led and the choices that’d been taken away from him, never to truly be able to be repaid.

Sam focused his attention back on the present, pulling his mind away from letting his mind linger too far from their current objective.

Bucky walked beside him, and though neither of them had spoken a word since Ayo’d suggested they should talk, the concern on his face was plain-as-day. Sam couldn’t blame him, especially since he’d been given so little in the way of explanation, but at least he suspected they’d be getting to that shortly. It wasn’t like there was footage worse than Madripoor for them to drum up.

“You good?” Sam inquired softly as they kept pace behind Ayo, Shuri, and Nomble while Yama trailed behind them.

Bucky glanced over to Sam with those troubled blue eyes of his, “Not really. I feel like my brain’s going a thousand miles a minute here. I just keep thinking about worst-case scenarios.”

Sam had a few guesses on what those might entail, but he didn’t want to give the thoughts any more oxygen than absolutely necessary, “Whatever it is: We’ll figure it out.”

“I was kinda hoping I was past the point of having to figure more of this stuff out,” Bucky admitted, frustration apparent in his voice.

Yeah, Sam could feel that one too. The man had already been through so much.

As they stepped through the next set of automated doors, Sam squeezed Bucky’s shoulder in a quick show of camaraderie. Around them, the three Doras fanned out and the group came to a stop in the lab. Shuri immediately stepped over to attend to a nearby console while Yama and Nomble quietly spoke to some of the scientists and staff present in the room. By all appearances, they politely asked them to go on a break and step outside for a little while so Shuri could have the room. One of the perks of being a genius princess.

None of the staff put up any debate, but Sam could feel their eyes upon him, and particularly on Bucky. They might not have recognized Sam without the suit and shield, but it was clear they recognized Bucky, and were probably trying to sort out why he was here, or possibly: what’d happened to the arm, if they remembered him having it at all.

Once Shuri was satisfied with whatever logistics she was attending to, she turned back around wearing that very particular expression of hers that Sam still didn’t feel he had the language to properly parse. There was something heavy under the surface there for sure, but he didn’t feel like it was the bombshell Bucky was bracing for. He couldn’t imagined any of them, Shuri included, would have been able to fake those smiles back at the museum if they had news that was truly dire.

That still didn’t mean it was good news, granted.

He was certain it was definitely not good news.

Shuri made a temple out of her fingers and nodded her head to Sam in acknowledgement, but her words were for Bucky, “Before we get started, I think it’s important for you to be aware that I’d like to discuss some topics that you may consider private, as they concern your time here in Wakanda as well as your continued recovery. You can do as much or as little with the information as you choose, and I will as ever respect your wishes on who is made aware of it, with the exception being my brother and our King.”

Sam immediately caught the weight of the term “continued recovery” but it took him a moment to process the subtext of what she was saying.

Bucky caught on immediately. He anxiously rubbed his fingers together as he regarded Yama, Nomble, and Ayo. His voice was almost fragile as he pulled up the courage to speak, “They’re fine. I trust them. They’ve seen it all and worse.”

He looked to Sam next, and Sam could feel something heavy in his friend’s expression. At first, he thought maybe Bucky was evaluating if he was comfortable sharing this vulnerable part of himself with him, but the longer Sam looked, the more he saw not apprehension, but that familiar, lingering shame and fear that followed Bucky about his past. It was the look of someone who knew they had skeletons in their closet that they’d gone to extremes to learn to lock away rather than address. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Bucky said candidly for not the first time that day. Because his default remained that he wanted to ensure that people around him were free to dodge away from anything remotely uncomfortable.

“Do you want me here?” Sam asked seriously, “Because if you want me here, this is where I want to be.”

The gravity and resolve in that statement was too much truth for Bucky Barnes to debate. He responded by taking a gulp of air and managing a barely audible, “Yeah. I would.” His eyes were so unsettled and frightened they were almost alien.

“Okay then I’m staying, Buck. So don’t worry about me.” He tilted his chin in Shuri’s direction, acknowledging that the decision had been made. He was in on whatever this little club of theirs had to offer, skeletons included.

Shuri nodded, and Sam was pretty sure he saw the empathy of relief in her expression, “Okay. Let me try and offer a brief overview since these and related topics are fresher for some and many years-old for others.”

She rolled her hand across a display that projected a 3D hologram of what Sam was rather certain was a scan of some of Bucky’s old biometric data. The read-out displayed the outline of his head and upper-torso, including what looked like a torn-off version of his signature chrome arm. The view was semi-transparent, showing not only his skeleton, brain, and nervous system, but the strange ways in which his original prosthetic had been well... surgically grafted onto him. He’d never stopped to consider how the arm was attached, but the pale view he saw of screws tapped into bone and wires running into his nervous system was frankly: incredibly, terribly unsettling, not to mention downright painful to look at. That was not how prosthetics were supposed to look or be attached.

Sam remembered asking Steve once if the serum made him immune or dull to pain, and he’d actually laughed at the question, insisting that while it’d made him more durable and quicker to recover, when he got injured, it still hurt just as much as he remembered.

Seeing all the wires and metal in Bucky’s old shoulder though... god. It was amazing he would have been able to focus on anything other than the constant, agonizing pain.

“Years ago, when you were dropped on our doorstep, we had very little to go on beyond the fact that you were reactive to various words and auditory responses that HYDRA spent years embedding. We quickly realized that their methods included tangential and supplementary stimuli responses, such as through the precise application of various frequencies and patterns of flashing lights, tactical responses, electrical stimulation, and so-on.”

Sam felt his stomach shift as he took in Shuri’s words and ran them through the basics, which appeared to include that HYDRA hadn’t just put words of obedience in his friend’s mind, but a… a lot more than that. He’d always assumed a torture and experimentation had likely been involved in equal measure, but it was one thing suspecting and another thing having someone lay it out in the open like that. The fact that Bucky wasn’t saying anything to counter Shuri’s statement was chilling. He couldn’t imagine how-on-earth they’d even begun to work out what Bucky was responsive to without an instruction manual to go-by.

He didn’t want to think through the details of how HYDRA went about breaking Bucky originally, no less what trial-and-error was needed for Shuri to sort out not only what’d been done to him, but how to hopefully un-do it.

“It took years of work, but slowly, steadily, we made progress to identify the rogue programming and find ways to navigate around it.”

Bucky’s expression turned hard, “Around it?” His attention shifted to Ayo, and confusion showed in his voice as he spoke to her, “You told me the Winter Soldier programming was removed. That I was free.”

Ayo’s face shifted and she glanced to Shuri, as if asking permission to speak. Shuri nodded, and Ayo addressed Bucky, her rhythmic voice soft and empathetic in a way Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from her, “You were, and you are free,” she confirmed, “Nothing there has changed. We have no revelation that will force you back to that life.”

Shuri’s tone and expression were all compassion as she sought to clarify, “Ayo is correct, but the programming cannot ever truly be removed, not in the way you mean. We explained that to you. The best option we could manage with the least lasting damage was to make it benign by ensuring that none of the processes could be remotely activated.”

Bucky’s expression went unreadable as he processed her words.

Sam was feeling like he was starting to get lost at the nuance of some of the talk that was going around, and if he expected that he might be quizzed or expected to understand any of this, he wanted to ensure he wasn’t left behind, “I’m trying to get caught up here,” He held up a hand for the group so he could get their attention, “Bucky’d told me he was cured here in Wakanda. That the trigger words that used to work on him don’t anymore. Is that not the case?” He heard concern rising in his own voice.

“There are no words that anyone can speak that will activate those embedded processes,” Shuri confirmed, though Sam noted she didn’t lead with a decided yes or no, which was… troubling. “The topic is an immensely nuanced one. Here, let me try to take a step further back.”

She waved a hand and a series of five more readouts popped up in the air in front of her. She made a quick gesture with three fingers and the data displayed under them swapped to English before they came to life, cycling through a time capsule of about thirty seconds of captured data. Listed under each scan was a date and time the readings were taken, as well as various biometric data such as Bucky’s heart rate, temperature, oxygen level, weight, and so on, as well as handwritten notes that included observations such as his mood, stress levels, and further information about if the readings were taken during or in relation to what was simply listed as an “event.” These events were numbered in the double-digits, which… which was not a particularly settling thing.

While the figures were recognizable enough, it was easy to pick up on subtle differences between them. The most obvious differences ranged from the various states of Bucky’s arm, or lack thereof, through the very different ways that various colors and patterns of light flickered through his brain and nervous system. Sam might not have specialized as a neurologist, but his years as a pararescue allowed him to at least grasp the basics of the medical chart in front of him. But even then: only barely. The three readouts that listed an “Active Event” were notably different from not only the other three readouts, but even from one-another. They each had all sorts of colored lights firing rapidly, but they were isolated in different areas, like the big finale of a firework performance.

“So there are a number of assumptions that you may inadvertently be making based on what you’ve seen and your life’s experiences,” Shuri observed, “We all do this, but it’s important for us to break it down so we are speaking on the same plateau.”

“There is an assumption to be made that HYDRA inserted a rogue personality, a sleeper agent inside of James, and that that personality was instructed to lay dormant until code words were spoken. The end result of such an endeavor would likely be a type of dissociative identity disorder, that colloquially may be known as multiple personalities. While some of what we saw, and I suspect you saw, verges on that appearance at first glance, it was insufficient to explain the complexities of what we saw in James’s particular case.”

“There were not simply two or more latent personalities and a switch that permitted one or the other to surface. Frankly: That was what I expected to find at first as well, and things may have been altogether simpler if that was the case, but that is neither here nor there.”

Beside him, Sam could tell that Bucky was practically squirming. This couldn’t be easy to listen to from the outside when you’d lived it, “I remember you saying something to that effect too. But it feels more like that. Felt like,” he automatically corrected.

“How long’s it been?” Sam heard himself ask before it’d even gotten past him to consider if this was the place or time for such a personal question.

The face Bucky made was… it was not a good face. It wasn’t an expression that declared that Sam had overstepped or he was upset for being put on the spot. Rather: what made it so profoundly unsettling was it was apparent Bucky didn’t know.

Apparently Ayo was to the rescue and didn’t see the need to string the question out, “The last few failsafes we had to root out were not like the scripted trigger words Zemo used against James. They were insidious, evil things,” her eyes glanced back to Bucky, with that same expression she had before, that one that said there was a lot of history between them and she was doing her best to step with compassion and grace as she spoke, “And in some cases, discovered in highly problematic orders. They rarely presented the same, and caused complications in their wake. The final one was perhaps, what? Three months before the Battle of Wakanda?”

The question was for Shuri, but Sam found himself staggered: It’d been only months since that for he, Bucky, and anyone else who’d been dusted. “But you… don’t remember it,” Sam half-stated, half-asked, trying to keep pace with the conversation.

Bucky flinched as he responded, “Our best guess is HYDRA had very specific data they were trying to capture when it came to things like missions. The other stuff… it was more…”

“--Reactive,” Shuri offered, simply. Sam caught Yama nodding in agreement from beside her. “The whole point of the failsafes were to protect how their asset was being used and by who. This helped ensure that if he were captured, sensitive information couldn’t be pulled without the required input codes.”

Sam caught something of a shift in Bucky’s expression, but it was Ayo that interjected, smoothly correcting Shuri, “The soldier, not the asset.” Ayo’s eyes went back to Bucky, and Sam became distinctly aware that this woman, this woman who had a god-given right to be cross for the various trespasses Bucky’d made in the last few months… that she was actively burying her own frustrations so she could be present and attentive for him.

It was good to see for sure, but he was also finding it readily apparent just how deep their history must go if Ayo felt the need to correct Princess Shuri, of all people, on behalf of Bucky’s silent feelings.

“Of course,” Shuri tipped her head in acknowledgement and steered the conversation back to the displays. “In time, we found that what James was experiencing was not a rogue personality in the form of a sleeper agent or fully-formed, multiple personalities. Our first clue was that we saw a great deal of variation as well as overlaps in the readouts, including during active events as well as in the time between them. Here, look.”

She spread her fingers apart over one of the animated scans of Bucky’s brain, which prompted the image to enlarge until the outline of the brain was easily two feet across, allowing for a detailed view of the cycle of colorful fireworks that trailed through his nervous system.

“Consider for a moment that the human mind does not exist in a static state. It’s dynamic and alive, constantly evolving how it operates, much like an advanced computer. Artificial intelligence in its purest form is an assembly of data, and one could say that our very personality is formulated from a complex assortment of ever-changing memories, life experiences, as well as more nebulous learned muscle, nerve, and synapse-memory. The difference is that in Jame’s case: the normal linear progression has been disrupted countless times by attempts from outside forces to reroute the natural process, subvert it with programmed reactions and causal training, as well as attempts to compartmentalize certain types of stored information so that they are only active when certain conditions are met. Much like how the instances and events that transpired during failsafe events, let alone their code words, aren’t recorded and stored in a way that can be readily accessed after the fact. That’s not to mention the wipes they put him through trying to reduce the emergence of the human element.”

Bucky sighed, seeing fit to try to forcibly interject some levity in what was becoming a downright uncomfortable situation, “I’d almost forgotten how elegant you made this stuff sound.”

Shuri’s private smile was for him alone, “If we think of it like pure data and lines of code, it can be easier to speak about.”

“Wait, wipes?” Sam heard himself say as he struggled to catch-up to the conversation, “They could do that?”

“Well, it was more like being fried from the inside out,” Bucky admitted with far more ease than the man ought to have been able to, “Eventually things just... short out. Or your heart stops. And they have to restart you.” He looked to Shuri, adding, “You know, if you think about it like a computer, you’re right: It’s marginally less awful. I’d never considered that was HYDRA’s version of ‘Just turn it off and back on again.’”

Sam wasn’t sure how wide his eyes got at that. He’d never… he’d just never thought to ask. And the fact that Bucky dared to make a joke at his own expense about it, “Christ, man.”

Bucky shrugged and chewed his lip, and Sam took a deep breath in and out before his partner clarified, “Don’t worry about it. We didn’t do any of that in Wakanda.”

“We certainly didn’t,” Ayo saw fit to add.

Sam found his voice again, buried somewhere in the back of whatever pantry he stored topics like torture and people inflicting near-death experiences on people he cared about, “I still feel like I’m not quite following. If you’re saying the Winter Soldier wasn’t a separate personality, then…?” he began, though he wasn’t even sure where he was going with the thought.

“Comparisons like that will be prone to experience bias because you innately draw similarities and differences to yourself,” Shuri offered. “Instead, try to focus on something more morally neutral.” She considered a second before holding up a finger, “Think of it more like your drone, Redwing, was it?”

Sam’s attention perked at this. The two had discussed the history of drones and AI back at the museum, so the topic and her enthusiasm for it were still fresh in his mind.

She continued, “Consider the difference between your prior drone, as compared to your new ones. Then how they responded when they were first initiated, as compared to their responses after weeks and months of development.”

“They’re learning,” Sam observed, feeling like he was beginning to grasp what the genius was getting at.

“Yes! Though he’s still running the same core programming, the AI steadily adapts and evolves.” She scaled the nearest display of Bucky’s brain back down again so that it was poster-sized like the others. “And if you tracked it over time, you would see changes in how it thinks and behaves as well.”

“In the same way, for all the periods where the Soldier was out of cryo, his mind continued to adapt and evolve as well. When those processes were called again, they could reference old pockets of code, like programmed obedience of the trigger words, but even that was done in addition to leveraging current information, and the years of life experiences that the Soldier had both before and during his time with HYDRA. They had to. Situational awareness was as important as adaptability. He needed to be able to respond to handlers as well as threats at a moment’s notice. You can’t program the mind to cover all possible contingencies: you have to allow it to adapt and make decisions. Some of them are so minor, we take them for granted: How to breathe, walk, swallow, and talk. Others are infinitely more complex. And what HYDRA was trying to do, it seems, was to create their own manner of thinking, living AI, that had free-thought, but only to a controlled point.”

Sam considered her words, “So you’re saying what we’ve seen, what we’ve always seen, are just… an-ever evolving blend that’s pulling from different parts and experiences? Like…” he searched for a comparison he could more readily relate to, because the intricacies of coding and artificial intelligence certainly weren’t it, “Like building with Legos?”

Shuri rolled the simile over in her mind’s eye, “A bit primitive, but if you mean that each ‘build’ would contain different colored bricks in the shape of a human mind, then yes, something like that. And that in time, more bricks would be added to the initial pool of life experiences, stimulus and response, memories, and so on, and that the resulting assemblies would each form a subtly different, loose version of what one might call ‘personality.’ Using this comparison, the Winter Soldier programming was set up to repress very specific building blocks, keystone landmarks.” She glanced to Bucky as if seeing how the comparison landed for him.

From beside Sam, Bucky offered only a halfhearted shrug in reply, as if portions of this topic were hardly new territory, and undoubtedly: All this focus on him was getting to be a bit much considering his normal preferences towards introversion and avoidance, “All I know is that that whatever way you want to cut it, HYDRA made it a point to find ways to leverage some bricks and intentionally exclude others, and that certain combinations were especially devoid of anything I’d consider ‘choice’ or ‘free will.’”

“Wait, more than what I saw?” Asked Sam, because he very clearly thought what he’d seen firsthand was the Winter Soldier’s standard operating procedure.”

“Worse,” Bucky admitted, “Or so I’m told. I don’t remember a lot of the details.”

“Some had intention and little else to speak of at all,” confirmed Ayo.

The heavy silence that followed told Sam he was clearly missing the context of the reference.

Bucky caught the inquiry pooling on Sam’s face, “Recovery wasn’t… remotely a straight line. Some of the trigger words and fail-safes were…” he faded off as he searched for a suitable term.

“Dangerous, and dehumanizing setbacks,” Ayo supplied.

Bucky cringed, shifting his weight to his other foot, “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” His attention shifted to Ayo, “...I’m sorry you got the brunt of it.”

Ayo shrugged easily, too easily, her expression returned to once again being tight and guarded, “I knew what I agreed to. It would not have been my place to shuck off the responsibility to someone else.”

The silence continued to linger in the room, and for a moment, Sam looked to Shuri as if waiting for her to continue, but both she, Yama, and Nomble were apparently biding their time as Bucky and Ayo awkwardly regarded one another.

“...I know I’ve said it before, but thank you,” Bucky’s voice was small, but it conveyed more gravity than Sam thought he’d ever heard those two words project, “All of you quite literally saved my life, in some cases, nearly at the cost of your own. I may not remember all of it it, but--”

Ayo’s focused brown eyes stayed steady on him, but there was a crack in her armor, and she swiftly cut him off with a voice that was tempered with a very particular type of no-nonsense compassion Sam still wasn’t used-to hearing from her, “You are welcome. We only ever wanted to see you free and whole.”

The two of them regarded each other for a long, respectful moment before Bucky turned his attention back to Shuri, obviously searching for the words he wanted to ask next. “But if you’re saying the programming is benign, it follows that it’s still there. And therefore the parts that are made up of him are still there, too?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Shuri confessed, “But try to think of it this way: Were I even to pretend I could look into your mind and selectively choose which parts to keep and which to shuck away, what would you have me do?”

“I mean… all those years. I don’t need them. I don’t want them,” Bucky said without a moment’s hesitation.

“But you see, we don’t get to choose like that, Bucky. Much as I’m sure there is part of you that wishes you could go back to the person you were before the train, before Azzano, before the War, those experiences changed you. There’s a delicate beauty in the concept of pure innocence, particularly when you were a victim for so long, but those years and those experiences have shaped who you are now. I wish that I had the skill to cherry-pick out the worst of those memories and give you peace and reprieve from them, but it’s impossible to cleanly separate out parts you call the Winter Soldier from young Bucky Barnes to who you are now because they all share a great deal of common material.”

“We’ve spoken of this at-length over the years, but HYDRA did what they could to repeatedly wipe and experiment on you. Even if I were willing, would you want more of the same? Even if you could: It would risk removing the core of who you were prior to that as well. And then what are you left with? You can’t selectively erase only a portion of someone’s memories like some blissfully simplified children’s science fiction movie.”

Shuri sighed, “I know it is easier to try to think of things in black and white. Of good and bad. Of viewing this as a tumor that is either present or cut free, but it’s not that simple. You have come so far, and your future is finally your own.”

“Then why did you call me back here? Why are you telling me this now?”

“Your training,” Shuri said in a measured tone, “We weren’t done, you know that. So much of your life has been fraught with periods that were a blend of many things: Of memories, of wants and needs, of questions of identity. You’ve done an incredible job of pushing forward through so very much adversity. But as you’ve done so, it became apparent that your mind was not healing as we’d hoped it might once HYDRA ceased its efforts to repeatedly wipe and repress what we’ll call your baseline personality.”

“Your mind’s been able to heal and form new connections, but always struggled with the shadows of memories from various times in your life. When I was reviewing some of the last sets of data I captured from you, it made me concerned that there might be other trends we weren’t initially seeing because the code words and similar were acting as a sort of soft event reset. I’m overly simplifying a number of complex, compounding issues, but there were still other trends I only picked up on in earnest as my work with artificial intelligence deepened after Vision, after the Decimation. As I learned more, it became evermore apparent that the further we got from one of your events, that data, memories, and experiences that weren’t readily referenced might be evermore susceptible to inadvertently getting locked away like those behind the old failsafes.”

Sam was following, generously, maybe twenty percent of that, but he understood enough: Shuri was worried Bucky could start losing his memory, or at least portions of it. That was, if he hadn’t already. Damn.

Bucky’s voice was pale, “...So you’re saying you’re worried that because of what HYDRA did to me, that my mind could be filing things away that I wouldn’t want locked away?”

“I am,” Shuri confirmed, face ever-compassionate as she spoke, “And that the further away we get from an event, the worse it could become. This is uncharted territory for all of us. There were early instances of memory loss I thought were outliers, fall-out from the damage that was done to you by their hands, but I think it’s more complicated and less self-resolving than we’d hoped.”

Shuri leaned down slightly to try to catch Bucky’s eye, “I believe there is more we can do to help, but only if you want to. If you are content with how things are now, we never need to speak of this again. I only worry about the possibility of you losing access to more with time, and worse: Perhaps not even being aware it’s happening.”

Silence pervaded the lab, followed by a quiet, reserved version of Bucky’s voice, “You told me I was free,” he repeated to no one in particular, his voice hoarse as he let the statement envelop the lab.

The words and the raw emotion in them hit Sam hard, and he was certain he saw Ayo start to take a small step forward before she caught herself and she slipped back into that silent guardian pose of hers. Yama and Nomble watched quietly from nearby, though Yama’s expression was far more troubled.

“You are free, James,” Shuri insisted “There are no words anyone can say to force him back to that place… back to the obedience and the horrors. But much of your memories may be shaded behind nearby doors, and in theory, you can access them if that’s what you want. I have no reason to believe they aren’t still there.”

“But how?” his friend’s voice was hollow, confused.

“I don’t know. Not exactly,” Shuri admitted, “That is what we need to work together to find out. If you are willing. If that’s what you want.”

Bucky lowered his head as he numbly responded with a bitter laugh that made Sam’s heart ache in shared sympathy, “What other choice do I have?”

Chapter Text

“Something is still in there,” Zemo had said back in Berlin.

And Zemo… Zemo had apparently been right.

Not in the way he intended, perhaps. Bucky was only willing to give the manipulative sleazebag so much credit.

But he also hadn’t been entirely wrong.

And Bucky hated it.

Hated it.

He sat obediently along the edge of the examination table feigning patience while Shuri set up nearby machines that hadn’t seen use for this particular purpose in over five years.

A quick glance to his forearm confirmed that the IV was still right where it just was fifteen seconds earlier, connected to a line ran up to a hanging saline bag. He regarded it with a certain calloused familiarity that came only from too many years of medical procedures.

Usually one of Shuri’s medical assistants would have done the IV, but apparently Yama had gotten some additional medical training in the last few years, enough that she’d seen fit to volunteer to do the honors so that they didn’t need to call anyone else in to assist. Truth to be told, her hands had been more gentle than he expected, and she’d actually done a pretty decent job of finding a vein. Well, once she realized threading a needle into enhanced skin took a fair bit more effort than regular skin.

Because of course: nothing could be easy.

Her initial curse in Wakandan had startled Sam into motion, but she quickly recovered her composure and connected the line, muttering something about “Steel Wolf” under her breath.

Once that fiasco was over, Sam saw fit to keep no more than a few protective feet away from Bucky while they waited on Shuri and watched her move about the lab like a purposeful whirlwind of activity while she went about setting things up. He was pretty sure she hadn’t expected him to agree to the scans in the same conversation as the one where she’d confessed her concerns, but he also didn’t think waiting would do him a drop of good. So: here he was. Back to being a lab rat.

He did his best not to let familiar fears sink back into him, but it was difficult not to when it seemed like so much was still unknown. He’d known he had shadows in his memories regarding his time when he was serving HYDRA, but the thought that there could be more he was missing, and that that could continue to worsen over time was frankly terrifying. Especially if he was unaware it was happening.

He’d known people with dementia and alzheimers, and that wasn’t a life he wanted for himself.

So yeah, Shuri’s offer of assistance versus letting him walk away was a fair one, but he also knew he’d be an idiot if he didn’t at least see if she could do her Shuri thing and figure out more about what was going on, and moreover: if there was anything they could do to help.

He remembered Ayo noting it would be prudent he make himself scarce in Wakanda after Zemo, and he counted himself as lucky that apparently their concern for his well-being trumped their disappointment over his poor decisions.

Bucky tried to take solace in the fact that the Wakandans insisted all of the programming had been, how had they put it? That they’d made it benign? But the thought of it still there in any form made him sick, like the idea that he had a dormant tumor lying in wait inside him, ready to turn cancerous and murderous at a moment’s notice.

He did his best to convince himself he was overreacting. Not only had Ayo said the full plethora of words multiple times, but Okoye had done the same just to make sure there was no mistake, that he was truly in the clear after Shuri’d dug the other bits out. In particular, he’d grown so used to the feel of how the countdown procedure took hold over him that it was still surreal to hear those words and just… be able to maintain his focus. His hold on himself. It was a damn gift after so long.

And now? Now he’d come to learn that even after all that, HYDRA’s legacy apparently lived on inside him, the damage they’d done lingering in countless ways that apparently included the very real possibility that his damaged mind was slowly seeping away memories, leeching them back into some unreachable void he couldn’t access.

Sam remained beside him with his arms crossed in what amounted to his version of going full mother hen mode with no outlet for his anxious energy. Bucky was pretty sure he was taking it as a personal failing that he hadn’t thought to bring along some sort of Super Soldier snack pack for their little outing, “Is there anything else I can be doing?” Sam asked, because what else was he going to ask under the circumstances?

“Not really,” Bucky admitted, “It’s just a series of scans.” He took a deep breath and did what he could to remind himself that the procedure was nothing to be anxious about. It was Shuri, not HYDRA. But that being as it was: sitting on a examination table while hooked-up to an IV and diodes wasn’t exactly his idea of a casual afternoon, and even after so many scans and tests here in Wakanda, some part of him was always a little too close to remembering any one of the dozens of procedures HYDRA subjected him to years earlier. One of the scientists used to call them ‘enrichment.’ Cute.

He turned his attention away from that slippery slope and back to Sam, “Honestly? The silence is driving me crazy. If you have literally anything you want to talk about or ask about,” he made a subtle gesture with his hand on account of the IV, “I’m all ears.”

Sam snorted lightly, but his expression was sympathetic. He kept his eyes focused on Bucky’s, and did his best to avoid looking at the empty spot where his arm was supposed to be. It was weird how having even that blue shawl made the absence more manageable, and how without it, he was left feeling bare and vulnerable. But every now and then, Bucky felt his friend’s eyes linger. He couldn’t blame him. This just… it just wasn’t the sort of thing they talked about. The closest they’d gotten was once when Sam’d asked if vibranium got hot if it was out in the sun too long.

“We’ve done an impressive job dodging talking about, you know, this stuff,” Sam observed.

Bucky acknowledged the observation with a tilt of his head and slight shrug of his shoulders, “That’s on me, Counselor,” he noted, “I’m starting to think that taking a page from your playbook might have been preferable to outright avoidance.”

“An understatement,” Yama saw fit to casually remark from where she stood nearby.

“Wow, Yama. Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Bucky responded before turning his attention back to Sam, “So? Come on, you’ve gotta have something.”

Sam scoffed, “I mean, obviously, but I’m also trying to be supportive here, not play 20 questions just because I have a captive audience who may or may not be drugged.”

“It’s just saline, ”Bucky countered, “And your partner told you how you could help, ” he did his best to feign dejection.

Sam practically sputtered at that, which was just the reaction Bucky was hoping for to distract him from the silence he was presently swimming with. “Okay then, if we’re going to play it that way: Fine.” He kept one of his arms folded and used the other to gesture to Bucky, “So let’s say I graciously understood, with all respect to those present, maybe twenty percent of what Shuri said. Do you think you could give it a go explaining the part specifically about the Winter Soldier and whatever it was dealing with locked-away memories, because frankly: that went a bit over your partner’s head.”

Bucky felt the corner of his mouth quirk into just the hint of a smile, “I’ll give it a go, but Ayo’s had, uh, she’s had a very particular type of firsthand experience that probably fills in a lot of the blanks.”

The security chief in question was a few steps beyond Sam and turned to face them with an expression of quiet regard when she’d heard her name. He was relieved to see that the anger had steadily drained from her eyes in the passing hour or so. Were it years ago when Sam wasn’t around, Bucky was acutely aware that she would have been the one standing nearby and making small chat with him while they waited on Shuri to finish her prep. He regarded Ayo for a thoughtful moment before adding, “You know you don’t have to stand that far away. I mean. You can if you want to of course, but you’re welcome to be part of the conversation, too.”

As her intense eyes evaluated him, he worried he might’ve been too direct, but then the Dora gestured for Nomble and Yama to pivot their attention to ensure Shuri was properly guarded, and Ayo took two decided steps forward to form a social triangle with him and Sam. Ayo’s grip on her staff was alert but casual: a good start.

Bucky inclined his head to her before he addressed Sam’s specific question, “So some of it’s understandably foggy, but basically HYDRA was big on secrecy, and that included a lot of what went on with the Winter Soldiers. The premise seemed to be that HYDRA wanted to be able to have control over information about all the missions that took place, and they didn’t want that information falling into the wrong hands.”

“With you so far,” Sam confirmed, listening.

“So the closest way I can describe it to you from the inside, was that as mission objectives were completed, many details about them just… sort of slipped away like the memories were in quicksand. While they were really fresh, I could recall them, like when you and Steve talked to me in Munich right after Zemo, but after a little more time, the details just… a lot just sort of fade to the background and become a muffled jumble.”

“We think that was programmed with intention,” Ayo offered, “So that the Soldiers wouldn’t risk having their thoughts linger on the past for too long. Such an approach also prevented them from divulging sensitive information if they were captured.”

“Right,” Bucky agreed, “And it also allowed for an additional way for HYDRA to control how the information was used. Because even if the details of particular missions sunk away, knowledgeable handlers were able to use trigger words in order to put the Soldiers into a state where they were not only obedient, but it allowed them to access those past memories and mission information with HYDRA’s express permission.”

Sam cocked his head, “Sort of like a cheat code?”

Bucky rolled the comparison over in his mind before acquiescing, “Kind of. It wasn’t like if they said it, suddenly you just remembered everything, but it they asked about specifics, then it was like a key unlocked certain doors for a time. Long enough to answer their questions.”

He considered a moment before adding, “I… I never got to talk to Steve about some of this stuff, so I’m not sure if it was the same for him on account of his brand of serum or not, but at least for me, the serum gave me… I don’t think I’d call it an Eidetic Memory, but it definitely improved aspects of my memory. So handlers could say the magic words and inquire about missions that were seventy years ago or whatever and I’d be able to tell you everything about it, down to the color of shoes of the person I--” He stopped himself from letting the thought draw out to its predictable conclusion.

He continued, “Anyway: I could remember all sorts of details. But if you asked me at any other time, even if I was on another mission or once I got away and stopped getting wiped, I wouldn’t necessarily remember much about it.”

Sam followed along, but this information was apparently offering insight to other unspoken questions he’d had over the years, “So is that why you went on the run after the helicarriers? Because you did remember, or because you didn’t remember?”

That one was hard to answer, even on the best of days, “I honestly didn’t know who I was. I just knew I didn’t want to go back to HYDRA and get wiped again. I felt like I recognized Steve enough to want to make sure he recovered okay in D.C. like I told you, but I’m not sure I have the vocabulary to describe what it was like during that time for me. It wasn’t true amnesia, not really. It was just like everything was a jumble and I needed time to try and sort things out. To try at least.”

He knew what he wanted to say, but the next part he’d never told anyone, including Steve. But somehow with Sam and Ayo standing there listening to him and Shuri somewhere nearby, it felt like if he was ever going to share this private bit about his past and his strange and ever-changing relationship with memories: these were the people he’d share it with.

“I spent a lot of time journaling. Back then, I mean. When I was on the run after the helicarriers. I wrote down everything I could think of in what must've been a dozen second-hand notebooks. Just a massive hodge-podge of scattered bits and pieces of anything and everything he could remember. It was like this massive puzzle with too many pieces, none of which really fit together, and I didn’t have any sort of box-cover to use as a guide. I didn’t have some near-religious moment of remembering ‘James Barnes,’ or something, so I didn’t have the sort of emotion-filled loss of identity I think you’re imagining. It was more… clinical? More detached. I would just have these flickers of images, and I didn’t understand the context of most of them, but I felt compelled to document as much as I could.”

A few steps to Sam’s side, Ayo’s expression had gone somber. He might not have discussed the journals with her, but she certainly remembered their talks on similar topics over the years, and how hard it had been for him when the emotional impact of those memories finally hit him full-force.

“Did it help at all?” Sam’s voice was ever-compassionate.

It took Bucky a second to try to figure out how he wanted to answer that, “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he admitted. “Starting out, I didn’t write things down because I thought I’d be able to put things together and figure my life out: you couldn’t make sense of a life like that. I did it because I didn’t want to be back to square one again if HYDRA found me and wiped and scrambled everything again. I was just… I was so sure they’d find me that sometimes I just poured myself into those journals with everything I had, ripping and taping bits in place if I could do something to reorder them and make them make even a drop more sense. Making notes for my future-self. But with so many of those memories just… slowly slipping into the quicksand with time. It felt like those journals were my lifeline: there to act as surrogate memories and be there to help me remember if and when HYDRA found me and worse came to worst.”

Ayo shifted her weight to her other foot, “I remember you making personal recordings when you came to Wakanda, but you never mentioned the journals. What became of them?”

Bucky shrugged, “I kept most of them hidden away in a backpack I tucked away under the floorboards. It was confiscated, what? Seven years ago or so back in Bucharest when Steve, Sam, T’Challa, S.H.I.E.L.D., the U.N., and pretty much the whole military put a target on my back after Zemo bombed the U.N. But that was years ago. I have no idea what happened to any of it.”

“Wait, that bag you chucked out the window when you were on the run?” Sam inquired.

“The very same,” Bucky confirmed.

“Huh. I always assumed it was gear like… knives or weapons or something.”

That got the smallest of reactions out of Bucky, “Guess I can’t fault you for presuming.”

Sam shrugged, “Considering I don’t think I’d heard you say more than five words up to that point, it's not really a stretch to say I didn’t really picture you sittin' around writing an autobiography.”

Bucky snorted, “Well, they confiscated the bag and everything in it when they took your wings and Steve’s shield. Could’ve ended up on eBay for all I know. I think what still bothers me is not knowing what was in them. Like I’m sure there has to be stuff that didn’t make sense to me then that would now. Or at least I’d like to think so.” He took a deep breath and shrugged helplessly, “Story of my life.”

Sam frowned, “But I thought you said you couldn’t remember a lot of it, back then?”

“I couldn’t. Just fragments. I got a lot of images from the dreams too, but even back then, it was hard to tell what were memories, nightmares, or neither. Even now, well, it’s gotten better, but I guess it’s unrealistic to expect it to go away entirely.”

Ayo regarded him thoughtfully, “Do you still meditate, like we taught you?”

Bucky considered the question before answering her honestly, “Not recently, no. I tried here and there, but I fell out of the habit. I guess part of me wanted to think that since I was cured, I didn’t need to do that sort of thing anymore.”

He half-expected the comment to raise her ire, but didn’t find judgement in her expression. There was a quiet patience there, a patience he once remembered looking to for guidance, “There is no point in our lives where taking time for self-reflection breathes a sign of weakness, James.”

He found himself searching her eyes, thinking back to the times the two of them had spent in reflective silence while the sounds of the natural world and outside voices faded away. Shuri was many things, but quiet and reflective was not at the forefront of her virtues. It was the Dora Milaje, and Ayo in particular that had taught him the value of stepping into silence and willing it to you, wielding it like it was its own unsung super power.

And like so many things: He’d apparently tossed that lesson aside too.

Her mouth started to move to say something, stopped, then started again with decided purpose, “Perhaps at some point I could show you again. I’ve learned new techniques in the years since we spoke that might benefit you as well.”

And that right there: That was an olive branch so precious and unexpected that it took Bucky a moment to even remember he was presently still sitting in a lab on a table with diodes and an IV plugged to him.

He struggled to control the tightness in his throat as he responded, “I’d really appreciate that, Ayo,” he said with what he hoped was as much sincerity as he was feeling.

Sam looked as though he was trying not to move a muscle for fear of upsetting their moment, but Bucky could tell he grasped the shift in Ayo as well. Whether it was a fleeting moment or lasting change had yet to be seen, but it was something.

Seeing Sam standing there also made Bucky acutely aware that the two people in front of him… really hadn’t gotten a chance to become acquainted outside of, well, The Battle of Wakanda, The Battle of Earth, Zemo in Latvia, and then this mess of the last day or so here. While he still wasn’t entirely sure where his own relationship with Ayo stood, it seemed important he try to offer a little more encouragement between the two of them than, frankly, Steve had given him and Sam.

Shuri was a social butterfly enough that she and Sam already exchanged the occasional video call, but Ayo was… she was Ayo. She was someone who spent so much of her time holed up in the persona that she believed her duty to Wakanda necessitated that sometimes it was challenging to separate that out from who she was outside of work. If Bucky had to guess: the Decimation hadn’t made that any easier on her, and he had no way of knowing if Ayo might be willing to get to know Sam better or show that side of herself to someone else, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. The fact she’d gone and showed up outside their suite when she was off-duty said something. He wasn’t sure exactly what it said, but it was something.

So James Buchanan Barnes decided that there was never going to be a great time to introduce these two and their very, very different personalities, but they were individually so important to him, that it seemed a downright tragedy if he didn’t even try. He went straight for it, “So I know you both have met, but none of it was really the best timing and anyway, I probably should have done introductions before this point but: Ayo, Sam Wilson. Sam, Ayo.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic, and his curious look was a fair approximation of the expression Ayo offered Bucky. The difference was that Sam couldn’t help his tongue, “Sometimes you are just fifteen flavors of awkward, Buck.” He turned to Ayo conspiratorially, “Was he always this bad?”

That got the smallest smile out of her, “Sometimes worse. But it is good to meet you under calmer circumstances, Sam Wilson.”

Sam grinned at that, and automatically extended his hand in a formal gesture of greeting.

Now this… this was an interesting moment, because that Doras just… they didn’t shake. Perhaps if they were playing it up under cover, but it wasn’t a part of how greetings were handled, particularly with one of the top-ranking Dora Milaje who was arguably still on-duty. It wasn’t considered an outright offensive gesture, certainly, it was just a very Western greeting that necessitated the Dora remove her spear from her hand to receive it, which --

Ayo calmly regarded Sam, and before his friend could even process that his well-intentioned greeting wasn’t up to Wakandan code, Ayo smoothly pivoted her spear to her offhand and used her free hand to reach past Sam’s proffered hand, clasping his forearm in a single firm shake before quickly returning her spear to her right hand.

Sam was utterly oblivious to why this gesture was honestly a very big deal, but Bucky sat there looking dumbfounded as his mind scrambled to figure out what exactly had just happened. Had Wakanda being more open to the rest of the world changed things? Or the Decimation? He leaned to the side to see if Yama’d caught it, and her shocked expression confirmed that this was definitely not a regular Ayo thing by any stretch. She actually went so far as to mouth, “Wow…” in Bucky’s direction.

“It’s good to finally, formally meet you too, Ayo.” Sam slipped right into that charming voice of his that was as charismatic as it was genuine, “Buck said you were in-part responsible for the new wings and suit as well, so thanks for that, and more importantly, for helping him out. Means a lot to both of us.”

The Dora inclined her head to him, and for the first time since, well, the first time since ever: Bucky had this strange feeling of seeing two important parts of his life just… overlap and coexist. And it was kinda beautiful. Like watching Mamma and Ch’toa sass Sam over breakfast, or AJ and Cass play with the shield, or Shuri enthusiastically overshare all about her next great innovation: there was something in connections, in people, that Bucky’d started to forget. All of this was like a strange reminder of why it was so important to fight for the important things rather than to just let them fade away like glimmers of forgotten memories.

Shuri must’ve caught the exchange too, because she wore one of those endearing private smiles on her face as she finally stepped over to Bucky. Now he was wondering if she’d actually held off her work for a few minutes longer in order to allow the three of them to percolate and sort some things out.

He wouldn’t have put it past her.

Sam and Ayo took a few steps back to give Shuri space as she approached, “How are you feeling?” she inquired, “Are you ready for the first scan?”

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded a confirmation, “Feeling as well as can be expected, but there’s no time like the present, right? How did you put it: Clarity in the purity of data?”

She smiled kindly at that, “Indeed. Here, follow me.”

Bucky followed, and it was Ayo that smoothly stepped into his wake to roll the wheeled IV stand close behind him until they came to a stop about ten feet away at a grey and white examination table that had been set up as an imaging station. He pulled himself up on the table and laid down, passingly aware of the rhythmic cycling of chirps that the system made once he was settled and in position.

Sam slowly moved so he was standing a few feet away from Bucky’s feet, and he stood there with his arms crossed like he was on vigil. As anxious as Bucky was deep down, there was something comforting about Sam’s stalwart presence.

It wasn’t like he had any passing reason to worry about the Wakandans doing anything nefarious, but in some way, he’d always found this part of his life just… too difficult to talk about outright. As if any attempt to even try would mean he’d get it all wrong, and Sam would be liable to misunderstand. The thought of getting it wrong was somehow even worse than not talking about it at all.

Now here he was: laying on a high tech table in a remote lab, about to have a genius Wakandan princess scan his brain and vitals to see what residual damage a notorious foreign power had done to him while he’d been under their control.

Yep: Sometimes seeing things first hand was definitely easier than explaining.

“We’ll be doing five scans that are a minute each, with a thirty-second rest between them,” Shuri instructed, “I’ll let you know before we start each one, alright?”

“Ready,” Bucky confirmed.

“Okay, first one starting in ten seconds.”

Everyone in the room stayed silent as Shuri keyed-into her commands and let the machines run and collect their data. The silence was numbing, but Bucky did his best to try and think back to the meditation Ayo had once taught him. The details were faded now, but he remembered to close his eyes and focus on his breathing.

After the final test ran its course, Shuri spoke up again, “You can stay there or sit up, whatever’s most comfortable,” her attention was split, however, as her eyes were already evaluating the series of new scans as she flipped between them and the prior data she’d collected.

He knew it was unrealistic to expect her to have answers so quickly, but he could tell by her expression that she was mulling over possibilities, “...Anything... standing out?” he inquired.

She glanced over to him, as if pulled away from her thoughts just long enough to remember the owner of the scans was still present, “I’ll need some time to go over them, but I think it would be helpful to supplement these conscious scans with…” she rolled her fingers vertically with a casual grace, and he picked up on the implication immediately.

With scans when he was in a less-than conscious state.

Which in this case, implied partial cryo.

Damn.

He frowned, but even as he did, he knew she wouldn’t force the issue if he was unwilling, “I take it the lab version would offer a better glimpse at the data you need?”

“It would,” she admitted, her voice apologetic, “The less interruptions and more controlled the environment, the better the data.” She paused before adding, “It’s unfortunate we need to work around your body’s unique chemistry.”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky sighed, suddenly reminded that the two of them weren’t alone in the room, and that one Sam Wilson was standing a few feet away giving him that look that he’d clearly gotten lost somewhere, “Shuri can’t put me under the same way they do with normal people. My body burns off even Shuri’s homespun anesthesia too quickly, and we don’t know if a high dose would be safe, so…”

Shuri stepped in to explain, “The best method we’ve found is to slow the body itself down through partial cryo.”

“....Partial…?” Sam inquired, though the tone of his voice spoke to him already putting enough together.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Bucky admitted, “Enough cold to slow down my system and keep me under so the drugs can do their thing and I can hit the three stages of Non-REM sleep, as well as REM itself.”

“And that’s important in this case, because…?” Sam drew out.

Oh. Right. He hadn’t talked about this with Sam either.

“Our minds operate differently when we are asleep, particularly when we dream,” Shuri offered. “In Sergeant Barne’s case, we found that some of his memories are often much closer to the surface, including those that are normally repressed by HYDRA’s programming.”

Bucky saw fit to step in his unique brand of personal experience, “They tended to keep us on ice most of the time. When you’re on ice like that, in full cryo, you don’t dream. I’m guessing that was intentional, because it also meant we were forced to stay focused on the present and on-mission. Then, when the mission was complete, back into cryo we went until we were needed again. But every now and then, they’d need us for a follow-up task, and if we were compliant and didn’t ask any questions, sometimes they’d strap us in and keep us locked-up overnight until they needed us the next morning. I don’t know about the others, but sometimes I’d actually dream. I rarely understood anything I was seeing, but I quickly learned that if I asked about anything I saw, I’d get ‘corrected’ or wiped.”

“...So you’re saying for… for the better part of seventy years, HYDRA even kept you from something so simple as dreaming?” Sam’s voice was an all-new flavor of horrified.

“I guess if you look at it that way, yeah.”

“That’s just awful, man,” Sam declared, as if speaking for the group.

“Particularly vivid dreams also normally only find their way to the surface during REM sleep,” Ayo offered. Her tone wasn’t the least bit condescending, and it was clear she wanted to ensure Sam was able to follow what they intended to do, “It normally takes around ninety minutes to approach that mark, but Princess Shuri has been able to control the rate in a lab environment.”

And then Sam just stood there, processing as he looked back to Bucky for confirmation, “Wait, so when you take short naps, Buck, the quick ones: Were you doing that because you prefer them, or because it means you were intentionally dodging the possibility of dreaming?”

“...I think you now know the answer,” Bucky offered as a half-hearted reply.

“Are you--? My god, I never even--. I thought that was just you being you. One of your quirks. I’d never even considered that was some sort of coping mechanism. Shit. You never told me.”

To be honest: He’d never actually considered it an outright coping mechanism, but he supposed trying to plan his wake-up alarms and sleep schedule around the possibility of if he was willing to risk one of those nightmares on any given day, well… he acknowledge that probably wasn’t how most other people lived, but then most other people didn’t have to live through what he had either.

“I’ve got a system that works well enough,” his voice wasn’t even convincing to himself, so he wasn’t sure how on-earth it was supposed to convince Sam.

The expression on Sam’s face was sympathetic as he shook his head, but he wasn’t inclined to argue, “It...explains a lot,” he offered simply. If he had something else he wanted to say, he kept it to himself.

Shuri inclined her head to Bucky, “Shall we?”

“No time like the present,” he admitted as he promptly got to his feet and stepped towards the familiar cryo chamber on the far end of the room. He tried to formulate some resemblance of small talk as they approached, “I’d almost thought I might’ve seen the last of the inside of it.”

“At least this time it will be more fleeting, and under better circumstances,” she added.

Bucky didn’t have to wonder at the reference. He knew well-enough that in the times when the Winter Soldier’s programming was activated, sometimes one of the few things they could do with him was to put him in stasis while they worked out what to do next. They could never pull him out of that mental state while he was on ice, certainly, but he was often more compliant and less of a threat when he was coming out of a full thaw.

He ran his hand along the hem of his t-shirt at the thought of the chill that awaited him. There were certain things that were worse about partial cryo rather than full cryo. If it was a full freeze and he was all the way under, everything just… stopped, like someone pressed the pause button until he was suddenly coming out of it days, weeks, months, or even years later. A partial put him just under just enough that he’d feel his senses dampen and fade out, but not enough that the blackness swallowed him entirely, not until Shuri’s cocktail of special meds kicked in, at least.

He decided not to make this a big production, and after Yama replaced the IV lines, he stepped inside the capsule without delay, leaning back and allowing his head to settle into the custom cradle they’d made for him so long ago. He was faintly aware that without his longer hair to shield the back of his neck, he felt a draft on his exposed skin.

No one said a word as Ayo secured the straps around his chest and legs that would keep him upright where he stood, and he found he didn’t have the strength to meet Sam’s concerned eyes just then. But he did see Ayo’s. Her gaze was strong and steadfast, and while she didn’t say anything out loud, her expression held a precious gift: that she permitted some of her emotions out enough for him to see.

She was worried for him, that much was clear, but there was hope there too, and he tried to focus on that as he closed his eyes and waited for what inevitably came next.

“You should be under no longer than a couple hours, if that,” Shuri’s voice reassured him from a few feet away. “We’ll be here with you the whole time,” he felt her hand take his and squeeze it reassuringly. “Yama’s doing to start the infusion now, so you might feel a sting as it settles in.”

A ‘sting’ was putting it lightly. It felt more like someone was forcing uncomfortably hot water into his veins, but he controlled his breathing and reminded himself this was nothing new, and in less than a minute, the unnatural heat would be the least of his complaints.

“How are you doing?” Shuri inquired.

“Doing fine. As enjoyable as I remember.”

Yama noted, “The first dose is complete.”

He could feel his system identify the foreign substance and his heart rate jumped as his body worked to neutralize it, but he was already starting to feel hazy when he was casually aware of Shuri’s voice somewhere off in the distance, “Okay, we’ll see you in a couple hours, James. Can you give me a count down from a hundred?”

He could hear the clear tube slide into place, muffling the sounds of the outside world.

“One hundred...”

The familiar hiss of chilled air escaped into the tight space around him. He kept his eyes closed as he spoke, his voice echoing within the claustrophobic chamber.

“...Ninety-nine...”

The pressure increased and he felt the temperature start to rapidly drop.

“...Ninety-eight...”

There was the familiar chitter and whine of crystals forming on the vibranium enclosure.

“...Ninety-seven…”

It hit the point where the chill overtook him and the heat in his veins was the least of his concerns. He was rapidly losing feeling in his extremities.

“...Nine---six…”

The cold’s grip was so quick and deep that it penetrated right down to his bones, numbing his senses. Some part of him warned that he was on the verge of freezing to death, and he had to control the primal instincts in him that told him he should try to escape while he still could.

“...N--...”

He found himself unable to remember the word he wanted to say or who he was saying it to, but he stopped trying to fight it.

He surrendered to the quiet, to the cold and the nothingness as he did so many times before.

He willed it to take him without even knowing why.

Chapter Text

Many years ago…

Slowly, the blackness morphed into streams of undulating colors.

Initially, every movement was formless, like looking out through the stained glass of a twisting kaleidoscope. As he focused, his mind began to make sense of the way the light moved, and in time, evaluated the churning pockets of color and turned them into tangible shapes.

It took longer-yet for him to identify the closest three-dimensional object to him and put a word to it, then its purpose.

Bowl: A round dish. Often used to contain liquids or foods.

The words were rote and without form, but he felt certain they were correct, and given enough time, he hoped he could put an image to “dish,” “liquids,” and “foods.”

His mind struggled to make sense of the world around him, yet the familiarity of the feeling was ever-more daunting and overwhelming. Was this what it was always like? He wasn’t sure.

The woman sitting across from him regarded him with intense focus. He identified her first as “Handler” and then as simply “Ayo.” He recognized her, but she made no requests of him. Was his mind lagging? Did he have another handler now?

He seemed to recall her speaking to him, suggesting they come to a location here because she hoped it would be familiar. There’d been an event. He was foggy on what that entailed, but he was certain it wasn’t a good thing. He felt like he should be able to remember.

“The confusion should pass soon,” his handler’s tone was reassuring, “Be patient. You’re safe.”

He wasn’t what exactly he was feeling right then. Was he supposed to feel anything at all? He felt like he should, but even the shapes of the world around him were confusing, like ribbons of movement that didn’t coalesce into objects his mind could readily identify.

“Close your eyes if it’s too overwhelming,” her voice continued. “Slow, deep breaths. Like I showed you.”

He would do as his handler suggested. She would know best, after all. It was not his place to question.

He breathed in and out, slowly focusing on the sensation of the air flowing from his chest out through his mouth and back, and not the weight of the confusion swirling about him.

Another voice spoke up from nearby. A woman’s voice. It was one he recognized but couldn’t place, “He looks pale.”

“Another setback,” his handler stated plainly. “This one took from him, like a kickback from a mule. We might... be here awhile.”

“Awful business,” the other voice commiserated, “And never you mind. Take as long as you need. I’ll put out some things to tide you both over. Familiar things.”

“Thanks, Mamma.”

He couldn’t piece together the implication of their words, but he suspected it was about him. Had he done something wrong?

He risked cracking open his eyes again, and this time he was able to piece together a bit more of what he was seeing.

His eyes focused first on a figure across the table from him: Handler. Ayo. She was leaning forward towards him, and he took note that she appeared unarmed. This felt at-odds with a recent memory of her, but he couldn’t be sure. Between her hands rested a ceramic bowl much like his, and beyond her were tables and chairs. A figure with a silver spear stood nearby, and the moment he saw her, he felt his mind start to quickly slip into gear and begin calculating the proper level of threat assessment for the situation.

He kept his head still as his eyes regarded nearby objects that could be used if--

His handler’s voice was plain and direct, with a hint of a reprimand to stand down, “We’ll not be needing any of that. You’re safe, and none of us need protecting.”

He felt his muscles relax in reaction to her statement and he drew his focus away from the thought of the manner in which the nearest chair to his right could be used as a weapon if the need arose. He was casually aware of a peculiar scent on the air, but it wasn’t one he could readily identify. It was not unpleasant.

“What is your name?” his handler asked. Her voice was patient but direct.

He rolled the question over in his mind, and came up with more than one answer, which was confusing, and wasn’t what she asked. It was important he answer precisely what she asked: nothing more, nothing less, “I have conflicting responses. Would you prefer them in chronological or alphabetical order starting from ‘Asset’?”

She waved a hand dismissively, “Nevermind my question. Are you aware your will is your own? You have no active handler.”

The statement was unexpected, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. It wasn’t his place to question. But if she was not his handler, then who?

“Let me try then. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You are in Wakanda at a favorite cafe. You are here because we are trying to help you. Others once sought to force you to act against your will. We are doing what we can to wrest that programming from your mind. We’ve made great progress, but…” her voice faded momentarily, “...but yesterday we had a setback, and I had to speak the countdown words to ensure you couldn’t hurt anyone. Do you remember now?”

He didn’t, not really. Just flickers of motion. Pain. Tumbling. Colors. A flash of pain on his side. Pressure on his wrists. Darkness.

“I am not your handler. I am your friend. Your will is your own. You don’t need my permission to speak or to act. Do you understand?”

He understood her words, but it still didn’t align with the ongoing jumble inside of his head.

“Do you recognize where we are?”

He looked up and around him regarding his current vantage point, if it could be called that. Some part of him thought he recognized flickers of his surroundings, but he couldn’t place when he’d last been here. It didn’t seem like it related to a mission. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he?

His previous handler appeared to be waiting for a reply from across the table from him, so he responded, “Not clearly.”

She shifted her weight to her other elbow, “What do you like to eat?”

It was a strange question, but one he felt capable of answering without delay, “Whatever nutrients I am supplied with. Most common by frequency: Intravenous parenteral nutrition, pre-prepared purees, semi-solid protein supplements--”

His prior handler tilted her head and her face shifted. He couldn’t deduce the implication, but it felt significant and she held up a hand to cut off his report, “Okay. That gives me a frame of reference. But I didn’t ask what you have been offered for nutrition, but what you like to eat,” she specified. “Your preference.”

Preference? What a strange question. Did she mean the consistency of the nutritional load? He didn’t usually consider such things. He ate what he was given without question.

She saw fit to clarify, “You can start simple: Sweet. Savory. Salty. You don’t have to be specific if it’s not coming to you immediately.”

He rolled the question over in his mind, trying to focus on any memories of flavor, of taste. The purees had the most range. He rarely knew what components were in them, but he felt like he consumed the sweeter ones quickest. Did that constitute preference? Close enough. “Sweet?” He inquired, but he didn’t like that it came out as a question. He didn’t want to be reprimanded for being insubordinate.

“Okay, sweet,” his prior handler seemed satisfied with the answer, and pushed a small tan bowl across the table towards him. It was much smaller than the bowl nearest him, and this one contained a thick semi-translucent substance with darker chunks within the lumpy globules. “Orange marmalade. Taste it. You can use your finger.”

He reached a tentative finger forward and did as instructed. When the tip of his finger made contact with the substance, he processed the odd consistency of the thick, chunky gel on his finger before he retracted it and pressed it evaluatingly to the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure what response Ayo was searching for, but when the substance made contact, he felt a rush of… something. He wasn’t sure. But it was familiarity. Preference. Yes: he was certain he liked orange marmalade, even if he couldn’t recall what either “orange” or “marmalade” meant separately, nor when he’d last had it.

“What do you think?” her words were encouraging, searching.

“I don’t remember this taste while--” his words faded off momentarily, “--while I was given nutritional supplements. It might be from… another period of consciousness?”

“It is,” Ayo confirmed. “Multiple, actually. It is a taste you told me you enjoyed in your early life in Brooklyn, when you lived with your family and made yourself sandwiches of white bread and creamy peanut butter. But it is also a spread you use here on Mamma and Ch’toa’s crepes and fresh pastries.”

He didn’t remember either of those things, but something about the way Ayo said it made it sound like it was an accepted fact and not up for debate. As he dipped his finger back in the marmalade and pressed it to his tongue again. He felt like he could almost picture those little triangular sandwiches that were cut twice diagonally. And other set of small hands. Where had that image come from? Was it a memory of some sort? Was he malfunctioning? Should he tell her?

A moment later, he realized he’d taken more of the marmalade without seeking or being granted permission. Was that the free will Ayo spoke of? It felt scandalous.

Fueled by a renewed sense of curiosity, he dared to take another taste.

The woman across from him did something else with her face that he identified as smiling, but he wasn’t certain why. He took the positive expression as a form of permission that he was welcome to continue and was not on the verge of reprimand.

With graceful fingers, she reached towards her own food and silently began to eat. At first he simply observed, watching for patterns in her movements.

After an adequate time spent evaluating her gestures, he strove to mime her. Certain substances were apparently meant to be portioned into other substances, but not the other way around. Liquids could be layered onto solids, but not the reverse. The complex ritual of the experience was quite different from the ones he remembered, especially when it came time to segment nutritional material into his mouth to eat.

Quite unexpectedly, he found there was something satisfying about the act of chewing, of maneuvering food of various consistencies around his mouth and letting it dissolve on his tongue. There were different manners in which he could order and combine the foods, and he explored potential patterns with focused curiosity. Each was as fascinating as the next.

The flavors and textures were overwhelming at first, and he reduced his consumption rate to match that of Ayo across from him. With intense focus, he allowed himself to sample freely from the bowls and plated food items surrounding him. At first, he was unable to do more than identify colors and guess at implied consistency, but soon he connected them to broad categories: rice, vegetables, fruits, meat, crepes, and more. Then he found himself able to categorize them into further specifics: plantains, beans, berries, and more.

Next came food profiles: spicy, savory, salty. Still longer, he found himself comparing and contrasting them to not only one another, but previous times he’d had these and similar foods. Though the memories were not discrete or fully formed, he was certain he remembered. That food was not just a bland form of sustenance, but it was connected with other parts of his memories he was having difficulty sorting out. People. Expressions. Places. Experiences.

Emotions. Yes: food was connected to emotions.

He wasn’t sure how long it was until he looked across the table to Ayo again, but when he saw her this time, it was as if he was seeing a completely different person. This was a person he knew, and someone he trusted. They had shared history and had sat many times together at this exact table. She was no longer a prior handler in his mind’s eye, but a compatriot in shared experiences like orange marmalade. He remembered the full range of emotions that he’d seen play over her face since he’d first encountered it: that steady intensity, frustration, sadness, fear, joy, and even laughter. He was certain there was laughter there too, and that it was rare, but just as potent and wonderful as the marmalade.

“You’re starting to remember,” Ayo observed, and James, yes, that was what she called him. He could identify hope and relief on her features as well.

“A little,” James admitted, but his voice was no longer so tentative and demure. He was free to speak. He didn’t need to ask permission, though he was certain she would have granted it regardless, “It’s still foggy, but I can see a wider view of things now. Like memories are trickling back in.”

He regarded the marmalade and slid it back across the table to her so she might enjoy it as well. He felt certain he remembered her being fond of it too. Had he been the one to introduce it to her?

Ayo accepted the dish with a nod of her head and proceeded to dip a corner of her crepe in it, “I’m relieved to hear it.”

Behind her, a similarly dressed figure with a spear also appeared to be smiling: Yama. He felt his own face return the expression, as if it was second nature to do such things when other people smiled. He liked that custom.

Ayo spoke, “Do you have any questions for me, or do you just want to finish eating?” She offered him the power of choice.

He considered the decision, “I think I’m still hungry,” he admitted.

“Then eat. We can stay as long as we like,” her voice was filled with a warmth he found strangely comforting, like a salve over his nerves.

She let him continue his food explorations in a quiet shared silence that held its own type of peace and mutual understanding.

As his efforts slowed, he spent time drinking in the world around him and regarded his instinctual responses to everything, but particularly her. In a sea of people, of colors and movement. Of smells and sounds. Rhythm and voices. The woman sitting across from him was unique. He recognized her in a way that was as decided as it was profound: She was his oasis. In a sea of confusion, in a world barren of connection and meaning, she helped guide him back so he could come into himself again and drink from the well of his own experiences.

He knew this wasn’t the first time she’d helped him find his way back, and after some consideration, he found himself compelled to understand, “Why do you do this? For me, I mean.”

The question apparently caught her off-guard, which somewhere in his mind, he knew was an accomplishment of sorts. She considered the inquiry carefully as she cleaned off the fingers of her right hand and regarded him, “I do it because it is the right thing to do. Because we should judge ourselves by how we treat others, and if we are capable of helping, then I believe we should.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if the slight change in perspective offered a subtly different point of view, “That is why I offered aid when this all began. For duty, and because it was right. But in the years since, I find it is more than that. You have endured more than most, and you have every right to be angry, to not trust. To let your past define you, and yet... you persevere.”

“I wish to see you free from this strange curse of yours, certainly, but that even in the trying times, even in the moments where you seem furthest from yourself, I still see a spark of that gentle wonder in you, James. And it would give me no greater pleasure than to see you at once able to embrace the man you want to become on your own terms. For that is someone I would very much like to meet, and I am honored to feel in some ways I already have.”

With that, she sat back in her seat, and he regarded her in-turn.

She’d said the words with a conviction that was staggering, but he felt disappointed in himself that he didn’t remember them, “I’ve asked that before, haven’t I?”

Ayo shook her head, “You haven’t, actually. On more than one occasion, you’ve tried to convince me you’re not worth the effort, though.”

He made a face, “And what did you say to that?”

“That I can see your worth as clear as the sky above. And that I’m too stubborn for my own good to not see important things through.”

James swirled a finger around the rim of his bowl, and a hint of one of his signature wicked smiles touched the corners of his mouth, “The stubbornness?” he casually observed, “That part I remember.”

Not only did Yama snort at the boldness of the declaration, but after Ayo recovered from a moment of complete shock at the unexpected remark, her face lit up as she threw back her head in a resounding laugh that filled the space around them with a wave of utter joy and mirth.

He remembered that sound: it was even more wonderful than the marmalade.

Yes. This was his oasis.

He was certain of it.

[ID: A horizontal painting by Kaite_xyxy showing a scene inside a Wakandan cafe. The horizon is tilted at a slight angle and we are positioned behind Ayo who is wearing traditional Dora Milaje regalia and is seated across the table from Bucky. He has long hair, a beard, and only one arm, which he is using to tentatively taste orange marmalade from his outstretched pointer finger. He is wearing a medium blue shirt with African embroidery around the edges and has a blue and red shawl draped over his absent shoulder. A large variety of mostly untouched, very diverse food is spread out on the table between them. A distance behind Bucky, Nomble can be seen standing guard with her spear. The painting is awash with warm, inviting lighting, and there is a plethora of red-patterned Wakandan designs and lush green plants. End ID]

[ID: A horizontal painting by Kaite_xyxy showing a reverse-shot of a scene inside a Wakandan cafe. We are positioned behind Bucky, who is seated across the table from Ayo, who is wearing traditional Dora Milaje regalia. Bucky has a beard and long hair, part of which is up in a beard. He also has only one arm, which he is using to make a conversational gesture. He is wearing a medium blue shirt with African embroidery around the edges and has a blue and red shawl draped over his absent shoulder. A large variety of half-eaten, very diverse food is spread out on the table between them. Ayo has one arm across the other and is gently smiling. A distance behind Ayo, Yama can be seen snickering and standing guard with her spear. The painting is awash with warm, inviting lighting, and there is a plethora of red-patterned Wakandan designs and lush green plants. End ID]

June 2023 Update:

Back when I wrote this chapter, I remember being really eager to start to peel back the layers on the unique relationship between Bucky and Ayo, and to show that those missing years in Wakanda were rough in some ways, but that they were formative and nourishing in other ways.

This scene in particular always stuck with me, and I am incredibly humbled that Kaite_xyxy (https://twitter.com/kaite_xyxy) was interested in lending her beautiful artistic style to illustrate this meaningful scene. It means the world to me to see how she captured everyone in such impactful, gorgeous detail.

This story is about a lot, but the bonds of friendship between these two is one of the cornerstones, and Kaite_xyxy captured that so powerfully here.

Please check out Kaite_xyxy’s Twitter and Instagram accounts to see more of her beautiful and emotive art (especially if you are a fan of Moon Knight)! Her style is so vibrant and alive!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to her for lending her artistic talents to capture these peaceful scenes in her lovely style.

Chapter Text

Upon closer examination, Sam was rapidly realizing that the closest thing he’d seen to actual “cryo” was that scene in the Empire Strikes Back where Han was frozen solid in a block of carbonite.

The comparison was a stretch, but it was the closest thing he had. Of course, that was a movie, though it seemed like with each passing year, there was less and less of a difference between certain films and their present reality.

When had his life gotten so weird?

Even though he’d read about how Steve spent years as a capsicle and had later learned how his childhood best friend was no stranger to being on ice: This… this process on display in front of him was truly awful to see firsthand.

Sure: there was a part of him that was morbidly curious about how stuff like this worked because… wasn’t everyone? It was human nature to wonder if what you pictured in your head was at all close to the real thing.

But in this case? The greater part of Sam swiftly realized that while he was genuinely glad to be able to be here for Bucky in spirit, he’d also be carrying uncomfortable thoughts and mental images of all this around for a long, long time to come. He’d have very much preferred to keep on imagining it like the block of carbonite and leave it like that.

The acoustics of the room were alive like the inside of a hospital’s intensive care unit, complete with an assortment of ticks and beeps that kept pace with the passing of time like a grandfather clock that was running slow. It didn’t have the same astringent smell of the medical labs he knew, but the sound of the oxygenated air pumping into Bucky’s capsule reminded him a bit too much of the pitch of the life support machines that moved air in and out of a patient’s lungs when they were no longer capable of breathing for themselves.

Behind the cryo chamber’s frosted panel, his friend’s face and exposed skin were pale. Not pale-grey like a corpse, but too-light and twinged a sickly blue around his lips, nose, eyes, and fingers, like he was already deep in the process of actively freezing to death. Though his eyes remained closed, now and then his fingers and eyes would twitch reflexively, like some twisted version of cadaveric spasms. Or how a fish out of water would tremble and finally settle after its body was nearly ready to give up the fight.

A pair of grey fabric restraints crossed his chest and and just above his knees like seatbelts keeping his body upright and in place during his medically-induced slumber, but Sam was keenly aware of the other restraints that weren’t being used. Unlike their cloth counterparts, those open restraints gleamed a deep vibranium ebony, and were laid out like a trail of telling constellations around Bucky’s ankles, legs, waist, arms, and wrists.

He didn’t need to ask why they’d seen fit to install those.

At a glance, you really couldn’t tell the pale figure inside was alive at all, though the readouts nearby continued to show he had a slow but shallow pulse and what Shuri insisted from nearby, was an oxygen saturation was on-par for this type of procedure. She was so focused on monitoring data from the tests that she’d reverted back to her genius-speak, and Sam thought it best for Bucky’s sake to not to interrupt her further.

But saying the ‘oxygen saturation was on-par for this type of procedure?’ The clinical way she said that and more made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end: nothing about this was remotely standard, and he was finding it very, very difficult to quiet his years of paramedic training that were screaming at him to do something, to intervene, because the man in the tube there, his partner, was clearly on the verge of death.

The struggle must have shown on his face, because Ayo spoke up from beside him, “Partial cryo is harder on him than full cryo, but everything is stable.”

He broke eye contact from searching for signs of life in Bucky’s still form long enough to glance to Ayo and back. He didn’t want to risk looking away from his friend for too long, even though it pained him to see him in this state. It felt like being on a death vigil. The logical part of him knew that watching him suffer did nothing, but it felt like if he looked away for too long, his friend might slip away entirely, “Man, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, well not better, but you know what I mean, but… I’m just not used to seeing him like this. It’s downright unnatural.”

He still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Ayo, though Bucky’s attempt at a belated introduction had at least been an ice-breaker of sorts. It was just like… it was like trying to hold a conversation with a tiger when you’d seen firsthand that they were perfectly capable of splitting an antelope in two with those same jaws that were able to gingerly lift a cub without a scratch.

He’d seen her fight. He’d seen her lay waste to Outriders in quick, expert movements of deadly force like they were overgrown puppy dogs. He’d even gotten a firsthand look at the simmering ferocity in her when she came something close to losing her temper with Bucky.

But up until the last hour or so: he’d never actually seen a hint of that other side of her Bucky must’ve connected with. It humanized her in a peculiar way, but it also made him ever-more aware of the gap of history between them: Both worldly history on account of the Decimation, as well as the firsthand experience she and the women here had with Bucky while he was recovering.

There weren’t many people that were still alive that had seen what he’d been capable of doing with the right motivation from HYDRA, and Sam was suddenly very acutely aware he was standing next to one of them. Maybe more. And if they’d seen anything, then they’d also seen completely different things from what he had.

Six of Bucky’s artificially slowed heartbeats played on the monitor before he spoke again, “So this is what it was like? Back then?”

Another two beats passed, “At times,” Ayo admitted, the words rolling off her tongue with measured care. She kept her eyes forward to the frosted glass as she spoke, “We had to develop many new procedures because things were not so straight-forward as we hoped. We were bold to assume that our country’s advanced technologies would swiftly quiet and remove the dated programming that was initially placed in Sergeant Barnes by HYDRA. But there were many, many additional layers of programming and conditioning that were added or modified in the years after, like the toxic threads of spider’s web. All of us underestimated the traps that awaited us.” She shifted her weight to her other side, “That is not to say that there were not periods that were calm, fruitful, and productive. But others were…”

The silence hung long enough that Yama sought to fill it, “Painful. Disheartening.” Sam had almost forgotten the other Dora was there for a moment, and when he turned in her direction, he saw compassion in her eyes, and that she stood facing the capsule in silent vigil as well.

“I take it all of you worked with Buck?”

He saw the corners of Ayo’s mouth tighten at that question, and he immediately recognized the gravity close beneath the surface. “We did. And others. Not all were as lucky to survive both the War for Wakanda and the War for Earth.”

That stilled Sam’s incessant need to ask questions.

“You are not wrong to ask,” Ayo added quickly, her voice steady and without reprimand, though she kept her eyes forward on Bucky’s pale form, “Wakanda was not the only nation to lose sisters and brothers while defending the world we hold dear.”

At this, Nomble summoned her voice from a few feet behind Shuri, “But he did not return to Wakanda to mourn with us. To mourn those that bled for him.” Her voice had a fresh layer of emotion Sam hadn’t ever heard from Nomble previously, “I sent him messages--”

Ayo turned to Nomble and made a *ssht!* sound with her lips to silence her lieutenant, and even Shuri momentarily raised her head to regard the exchange between the two Doras.

It was Ayo that spoke next, her voice measured, clear, but without heavy reproach, “There is not one language for grief. And the dead would not have us raise ire with one another in how we each chose to mourn their passing.”

Sam frowned: he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Bucky’s decision to hide away his Kimoyo beads might have meant he missed out on funerals of people he knew here. The thought of that… it was not a great thought. Did he even know?

Ayo kept her attention focused on Nomble for a moment longer before her gaze returned to Sam, not that he had anything he felt inclined to add after that revelation. She spoke in measured tones, “But yes, all of us worked closely with James during his time in Wakanda.”

“Ayo most of all,” Shuri interjected. Apparently the genius was capable of multitasking well-enough to join the conversation if the need arose.

The warrior sent Shuri a message with just her eyes that Sam couldn’t get an exact read on, but Shuri shrugged it off easily, as if she had long-since grown invulnerable to Ayo’s expressions, “It’s true.” She waved a slender finger in their direction, though the princess kept her attention focused on the ever changing display of colorful readouts in front of her, “Times were trying, yes. Testing, yes. But not always so dire.”

Shuri looked up from her holographic display long enough to offer Ayo a casual tilt of her head that had more than a bit of unspoken history wrapped up in it. The expression reminded Sam of the sort of look Sarah gave him when she was trying to get the last word, “If memory serves, James was also one of the few people who could, on occasion, even make our esteemed security chief laugh.”

That got a reaction. The Dora in question immediately shot Shuri a look of warning, but the princess was already head-down in her work and casually shrugged, as if she knew the daggers that were being sent her way.

Shuri could say what she liked, but Sam definitely couldn’t imagine Ayo laughing.

The princess shucked off Ayo’s annoyance and saw fit to add, “Feigning he was merely a project serves no purpose if we wish to help him and bridge the gaps between us.”

“He was never a project,” Ayo’s words were steadfast, but also a tactical dodge.

“Not to us, but to some he was,” Shuri gently corrected. “There were those that sought to stop our work when they felt the risks to Wakanda outweighed the value of one life.”

Even Ayo stilled at that, and Sam could feel Shuri’s statement settle in the room amid the artificially slow rhythm of his friend’s strained heartbeats.

“Wait,” Sam’s voice didn’t feel nearly so steady as he considered the possibility, “You’re saying some people in Wakanda wanted to just… what? Give up?”

Shuri’s eyes went back to Sam’s with that familiar look of sympathy where it seemed she wished she could make him understand through will alone, “Some in Wakanda, as well as James himself. There was talk of putting him under cryo in perpetuity, or until at such time there was a certain cure.”

That stilled Sam.

Shuri continued, “It isn’t with pride that I share the shame of those sentiments, but it doesn’t make them any less true,” Sam got the distinct impression her words were meant for not just him, but the other women as well.

He regarded his friend’s pale, emotionless face, and though it hurt, he found he could at least grasp the concept after a certain point. That the people of Wakanda would have had every right to question the need for them to follow through helping this outsider, but Bucky? What could have gotten him to the point where that option would have been desirable over seeking out some other cure?

Oh… if he… oh... ...Oh god...

Sam’s face contorted and he licked his lips before he spoke, “...Did...he…?” Sam’s voice began unsteadily.

Had he killed people here?

Shuri immediately caught the subtext of his question, “No. He didn’t,” she stated simply and without delay. “But he came very, very close on more than one occasion when he was not himself.” Just her eyes moved off her readout to Ayo, and Sam read the exchange loud and clear. Bucky hadn’t explicitly told him he’d apparently nearly killed Ayo, but his prior apology for her getting “the brunt of it” suddenly made a lot more sense in context.

Ayo didn’t take her steadfast gaze off Bucky’s semi-frozen form, but the empathy in Shuri’s expression said everything he needed to know. It hadn’t just been a close call or brush with death: Apparently he’d nearly finished the job.

And yet… here she was: continuing to help the man that’d apparently gone full Winter Soldier on her, probably on more than one occasion.

The knot in his stomach prompted him to break the uncomfortable silence, “For what it’s worth: I’ve been on the other side of that in my own way. Multiple times. It’s ugly.”

Ayo didn’t turn her head, but her eyes briefly flicked to his and back. She said nothing. He got the distinct impression it wasn’t personal, but she was doin’ that same thing Buck did when he pushed the uncomfortable stuff deep, deep down.

Shuri’s attention returned to Sam, “I do not know what James has told you, but what we did didn’t come without great personal risk to all involved. As someone who has faced similar risks firsthand, I suspect you know how it can change you. How it can mold the relationships with those around you.”

“I do,” Sam admitted. And he did.

“Then know this: I care for him in a way that I have for few people I’ve known, and none outside of Wakanda. I will do everything in my power to help him in whatever ways I can, regardless of what isidenge* decisions he’s made these last few months. But also know that I cannot guarantee any outcomes, or that he will get better rather than worse. What the four of us have seen but perhaps not spoken aloud is that the path of his recovery has been winding as the marula tree and fraught with deadly risks as well as setbacks. And I cannot in any good conscience tell you that we should not brace for more of the same. I say this not to deter you, because I feel certain you are a good man and that you intend to stay by Jame’s side through the trials ahead, but because I do not know if even James himself is fully aware of the cruel toll it takes on those around him. How could he?”

He let himself sit with Shuri’s words as he glanced at Bucky’s eerie blue-tinged face and listened to the artificially slow beats of his friend’s heart over the nearby monitors. “I don’t know if I can speak for him, not really, but I think in his own way he’s painfully aware of the toll it took. Man has a ways to go in sorting out his worth as a person, but it’s pretty clear to me he was and still is worried he’s a burden. I think I’m beginning to understand why, even though it’s no reflection on any of you.”

Four more slow beats of Bucky’s heart broadcast through the room before Sam found his voice again and felt his expression tighten in renewed concern, “When you say we might need to brace for more of the same, what are you worried could happen?”

The genius pursed her lips as she regarded him, but took her time before answering him candidly, “That in the pursuit of the myth of perfection, of flawless healing, that even with the best intentions: we could inadvertently make things worse.” She waved a hand at where Bucky was still propped up, standing stationary in partial cryo, “Not from the scans, certainly, but from whatever comes next, should he choose to pursue it.”

Sam felt his stomach twist and sink, “I take it you’ve found something?”

Shuri inclined her head, “I have more data I need to collect and want to spend some time focused on cross-comparing the scan data from the last two and a half -- or seven and a half years depending on how you want to calculate it -- but… yes. There are initial correlations and trends between the scans that could be cause for concern.”

Her eyes lifted to Ayo, but the Dora Milaje stayed facing the cryo chamber. Shuri looked back to Sam and he felt the weight of her gaze, “And I say this as a friend, as someone that cares for him, that whatever decisions he makes will be his alone and with as much transparency as I have to offer, but that he will look to those he trusts for guidance, so do not underestimate the impact of your history and words.”

The room fell into a hospital’s strained ambiance again, and Sam found Ayo’s deep brown eyes regarding him with a very particular sort of expression that he wasn’t sure he was capable of parsing. He felt frustratingly incapable of transcoding whatever she was thinking unless she opened herself up to it intentionally. Which… apparently she wasn’t presently finding herself inclined to do.

He couldn’t blame her: He was scared too.

Sam didn’t think it was his place to pry, so he posed another question to the assembled women that he’d always wondered, but mostly to Ayo, “I remember Steve once telling me that the serum amplifies everything that’s inside. So good becomes great. Bad becomes worse. The whole deal.”

Ayo was listening.

He pushed his voice to continue before he lost his nerve, “It sounds like you saw a lot of sides of Buck over the years. Some I’m sure he isn’t proud of, but I get the impression there were good times too. I was just curious if you ever… if the question ever crossed your mind, on what you thought HYDRA’s off-brand serum amplified for him, if it hypothetically amplified anything at all?”

Though she kept her attention focused on her readouts, Shuri’s voice was first to respond. There was a little warmth in her tone and expression as she spoke, as if this was certainly not the first time the topic had been broached among them, “We discussed it here and there. Just a theory, certainly,” she used her nearest hand to make a quick gesture to Ayo, acknowledging the woman as the originator of the theory in question.

The Dora Milaje regarded Sam intently, as if she was choosing her words carefully. Her eyes were steady, but had the weight of someone who was not used to speaking private things aloud. For a moment, Sam was actually reminded of, of all people: Bucky. “Because of the amount of time we spent together and the many sides of James I saw, I did see patterns in the twisting sands.”

Two artificially slow heartbeats passed before she continued, “I don’t know if he has spoken to you of Azzano, but that is his story to tell, not mine. But were I to venture a guess? I suspect HYDRA hoped for another Steve Rogers. That they might produce a strong American soldier they could bend to their will. Instead, they unwittingly chose someone they could never fully control, because I believe one of James Barne’s most fundamental, basic instincts is to protect.”

Sam thought he was following well enough before that last word, “So you’re saying you think the serum amplified his desire to protect. What? People?”

Ayo nodded, “Or causes HYDRA manipulated him into believing in. But yes.”

To Protect? That… Sam would have to ruminate on that one.

He thought of the Winter Soldier breaking through his own programming enough to rescue Steve Rogers from drowning and ensure he got help. And apparently thereafter: even though he didn’t really remember Steve, to stick around nearby long enough to make sure he made a full recovery.

Wait… had there... been more to that story Bucky’d glossed over beyond the fact he’d apparently ‘observed them through the business end of a sniper rifle most nights?’

The pale, half-frozen face in front of him wasn’t available for inquiries, not right then, but it made Sam wonder.

He thought about how when the man had first learned of the threat of the Flag Smashers, that his first instinct was to insist he was coming along with Sam. (Comparatively: Sam had reflected more than once after the fact that he had been too stubborn about his own perceived self-sufficiency that he hadn’t even considered the possibility Bucky would have been willing to literally jump out a goddamn plane without a parachute to join the mission. At the time, it seemed amusing enough, but in the context of hindsight? He remembered how Steve had said he’d believed Bucky had fallen to his death off a train into a ravine during one of his nine lives, so yeah: Sam’d accepted the asshole-level of sensitivity points he’d earned in spades on that charming exchange in the skies above Munich).

Now Sam was wondering if he’d unconsciously done it as a power play because he didn’t think Bucky would actually make the jump, or because he hoped he would, and that somehow the act of that horrifying freefall might remind him of when he, well, not Bucky, but when the Winter Soldier had torn off one of his wings and hurled his ass head over tail from the side of a helicarrier.

Either way you skinned it: It was not a proud moment in the early stages of their blossoming friendship.

And yet once they were on the move on the ground: Bucky’d just brushed it off. Swallowed that whole thing down like it didn’t matter in the grand scheme because the two of them had work to do.

Damn.

Beyond that? It was clear (as damnably frustrating as it was at the time) that Bucky’d tempered his own strength when he fought the Flag Smashers. Probably because he didn’t know what they were about and didn’t want to risk hurting them.

He’d protected Isaiah Bradley’s secret, hadn’t he?

Even his willingness to sacrifice his own relationship with the Wakandans in the hopes he could keep the serum from falling into the wrong hands and hurting people.

And that didn’t even begin to cover all the ways Bucky made it a point to protect Sam. To put himself between him and harm’s way, regardless of whether or not the stubborn super soldier was wearing even so much as a bulletproof vest at the time.

It was easy to see Bucky in so many lights, especially the ones that placed him as a victim in his own story, but the more he thought about it, the more examples he came up with of the subtle, or sometimes not-so-subtle ways one James Buchanan Barnes went out of his way to put other people before his own well-being.

So yeah, Ayo had a remarkably solid hypothesis there.

Damn.

The whole thing just made him wonder if this was what he’d seen, then what had the Wakandans witnessed here to even strike up their passing hypothesis?

He wasn’t sure how long Ayo’d been looking at him, but when her voice broke the silence, Sam looked from Bucky’s still form back to her, “Did you see any similar indications, or do you have your own theory?” Ayo asked, apparently curious for Sam’s unique perspective.

“Honestly now that you mention it, your theory follows better than most I’ve ever had,” he admitted, “But in the grand scheme, you have years of history, whereas my friendship with him is technically only a few months out from a profoundly ugly duckling stage.”

Ayo shifted her weight as she considered his words. He was certain they were meant for him, specifically, “While I maintain… frustrations… regarding a number of decisions from those same months, I find myself... relieved to learn James did not lose himself during them entirely, and that they were apparently not void of joy and companionship.”

It was a compliment. It was an awkward compliment, but Sam was certain it was still Ayo’s version of a compliment.

He shifted his body so he could get a better look at her as she stood guard, turned half to Sam and half to their shared vigil over Bucky’s chamber. And as the slow rhythm of Bucky’s heartbeats played out over the room, they regarded one another. It wasn’t a staring contest. Or even that soul gazing therapy Doctor Raynor’d gone on about.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, and it didn’t make Sam want to break his eyes away. It was like the both of them had questions and concerns, and a variable well of unsung emotions about Bucky’s tumultuous past, present, and future, but they’d recognized they might’ve actually found someone else who understood.

That right there was powerful medicine.

Sam kept his eyes on hers as he summoned his voice, “For what it’s worth: I’m miles past the point of realizing that the fact I have him as a partner at all is due in no small part to all of you.”

He made it a point to turn his attention to Nomble, “And everyone else who ever saw fit to offer help.”

His gaze lifted to Yama, then to Shuri, then back to Ayo, “So thanks for that. And feel free to sign me up for whatever you need to help Buck and this fine black sisterhood of yours.”

It wasn’t anything close to a laugh, but the last bit actually managed to get just a hint of a smile out of Wakanda’s Chief of Security.

As far as Sam was concerned? If no other drop of good came from this late afternoon: he’d take the win.

Chapter Text

Within Bucky’s mind, the sound of Ayo’s laughter shifted pitch, blending the ambiance of the busy cafe into a cacophony of rowdy voices that murmured in drunken conversation. They grew in volume and made way for a light piano accompaniment somewhere off in the distance.

Bucky found himself keying into the upbeat melody that acted as the establishment’s newest heartbeat. 30’s jazz. “I Cover the Waterfront” if he was being specific. The tempo was off and the rendition a little lax, but it was identifiable enough.

Some nights, he didn’t mind taking a turn tickling the ivories, but tonight was definitely not one of them. The tinny, playful music went along just fine with the upbeat and near-celebratory ambiance of the voices in the adjoining rooms, but it had a way of making his nerves hitch. Rather than finding comfort in the steadfast companionship of his fellow freedom fighters like he usually did, tonight the presence of those voices came adjoined with an almost stifling, claustrophobic weight.

He’d tried to shuck it off. Really, he did. It was customary to spend time most evenings with the other soldiers and P.O.W.s that had survived Azzano, but sometimes there was already enough going on in his head that he didn’t need the added distraction of any other voices. At least that’s what he reasoned when he managed to politely excuse himself from the crowded tables and had chosen to take up an extended residence from a perch at the far end of the bar.

He felt like he’d done an admirable job playing off the lingering discomfort. Well, to everyone except him.

“Everything okay?” Steve’s familiar voice posed the question from somewhere just to his left.

Bucky raised an eyebrow and summoned his best older brother impersonation as he replied, perhaps a bit too quickly, “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” He focused on maintaining a pleasant, nonchalant expression as he casually glanced from Steve’s face to that damn olive green Army uniform of his. He didn’t know if he could ever truly get used to seeing him like this, that was for sure. His face was familiar, but the rest of him was just so… foreign. Like someone had switched out the heads between two very different dolls.

The Steve he’d always known was, frankly: borderline sickly. It was like someone had dropped a medical bingo card on him with everything from asthma and scarlet fever through to high blood pressure, rheumatic fever, and heart trouble. As kids, they didn’t talk much about the details, but Bucky overheard enough between Steve’s mom and the doctors that made house visits to put things together and extrapolate.

It was just part of Steve being Steve, and it made it all the easier to appreciate the times when he didn’t have a cold or a fever and his health was in the clear enough to get out of the house and go do things together. When it wasn’t? They could hang back and read or play board games.

Maybe he was still trying to sort out the disconnect between going from that Steve, the pale, gaunt boy laying in bed under a mass of mismatched blankets with a mess of sweat-laden dirty blond hair, with the chiseled figure in front of him. He just couldn’t get over the fact that in their whole lives, that spunky little punk hadn’t ever been anywhere close to more fit than he was, but taller and broad shouldered. It still didn’t seem real.

That being as it was: his best friend’s newfound moxie and take-charge attitude looked good on him. It fit him. Suited him in a way that made it seem like it’d been there all along. Maybe it had? Maybe it was just that now, he had the physique to go along with it, so when he stepped in to take charge, people were inclined to listen rather than laugh.

Bucky trusted him with his life. Trusted that spunky kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid and self-assured to back down, but it was still all sorts of backwards to not recognize his friend’s silhouette and have to focus on his face to see Steve.

Bucky shifted his attention back to the pockets of soldiers and civilians gathered around the room as he took another sip of his drink, well aware that Steve was still evaluating him with that steady expression of his. He was looking for cracks, but Bucky was confident he wouldn’t find any. He was a reigning champion at this game.

The two of them had something about a gentleman’s agreement on how Bucky knew if he didn’t ask Steve too many questions, then Steve would be inclined to return the favor. Steve’s whole, well, the whole transformation bit wasn’t exactly common knowledge. Bucky was pretty sure the fantasy of the Army’s newest elite combat unit being led by Captain America and his star-spangled red, white, and blue was more appealing than the reality that it wasn’t that long ago that he was an asthmatic who was a hundred-pounds soaking wet.

Even that was probably being generous.

So Steve continued to regard the side of Bucky’s unconcerned face with that steady understanding of someone that knew better than to press too hard.

Bucky took another sip of his drink, “I said I’m okay.”

“Just worried about you is all. After...”

After Azzano. Bucky silently finished.

Yeah. He’d been reading Steve’s concerns loud and clear since the bold, one-man rescue mission to HYDRA’s weapons facility in the Austrian Alps. In the aftermath, Bucky’d quickly decided that he wasn’t going to give his friend any handholds of concerns to worry about even if Bucky had some of his own.

“There’s nothing to worry about. Really,” Bucky insisted as he turned his head to challenge Steve’s evaluative gaze. Part of him briefly wondered if whatever they’d done to Steve gave him some sort of supernatural ability to tell if someone was telling the truth, like a living lie-detector. He didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t put it past him. At this point: anything was fair game so far as the blurry lines between real life and science fiction. Hovering cars? Vita Rays? Plasma cannons? This decade was something else.

Steve’s blue eyes remained focused on his, “If you say so, Buck.” He knew his best friend well-enough to know he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he acquiesced for not the first time that day.

Bucky adjusted his shoulders, trying to take pride in the victory, in the perception of “normal” when somewhere not so deep down, he was realizing there was something of a schism developing between the two of them. It wasn’t like they’d had a fight or falling out, and it wasn’t as if he wasn’t thrilled at the sight of a familiar face he knew he could trust, but the War… it had already started to change the reliable dynamics they’d comfortably settled into for years.

To start the silent accusations rolling: It wasn’t like Steve offered up the whole Super Soldier thing in his letters. Hell: He hadn’t even mentioned he’d gone and joined the Army to begin with. Who did that? Bucky wanted to think his own letters had been more honest, but he knew better too. Steve’s parents had both served in the military, and his father had been killed in wartime. He wasn’t any stranger to the risks and realities of serving the call of the greater good.

But that being as it was: Bucky didn’t feel the need to go into any marginal amount of graphic detail about the things he’d seen firsthand out in the field and how he felt like it was slowly changing him, hardening him. He’d just… tried to keep his replies simple, phrased in a way that Steve wouldn’t have to worry about him any more than he already did.

And now here they were: sitting beside one another, continuing to stuff things down because it was the sensible thing to do under the circumstances, and because ignoring emotions was easier than talking about them.

He hated it, but he also didn’t see any way around it. He didn’t want his friend worrying about him anymore than he already did, and he didn’t need his pity. He certainly didn’t need to know about the torture or the nightmares: It wasn’t like Steve could do anything about them anyway. It’d just make him look at Bucky differently. Neither of them needed that. They had bigger things to focus on, like winning the War.

He was proud of Steve. Downright thrilled science had found it prudent to step in and help him embrace the calling he’d always been so eager to pursue, but damn if it didn’t have a way of changing their longtime dynamic. He knew it was on him to get with the change of program, but it was hard when he had questions of his own.

“I think I might head out in a few,” Bucky observed as if reflecting on the time, “You should go and do the whole--” He mimed a shielded salute, “‘Captain America’-thing. Maybe even sell some war bonds. I hear there’s a sweet song and dance if you tip well-enough,” he saw fit to add.

Steve gave him a measured look, but the corner of his mouth had a hint of that smile he grew up with, “I think my dancing days are behind me.”

“Pity,” Bucky commiserated, “I would have spent a lot of my hard-earned greenbacks on war bonds just to see that.” He toasted the air, as if saluting a fallen ideal.

Steve rolled his eyes, but his face went back to that empathetic look of his. The one that knew to check in on him when things at home weren’t doing so great, “You sure you don’t want to stick around awhile longer? Or if you’re not feeling the crowds, I can head back with you. I don’t mind.”

On any other day, Bucky would have considered the offer, but he shrugged them off, “Nah. I was going to get a little reading in before the gang comes back and sees fit to obliterate the whole makeshift library ambiance I’ve worked so hard to build.” While it wasn’t technically a lie, he also didn’t see fit to volunteer the fact that was barely even getting a buzz from the watered-down alcohol, his head was killing him, and the longer he sat there talking to Steve, the harder it was for him to pretend like any of this was normal. No less the other stuff which he was definitely not interested in talking about.

“You are such a nerd. You know that, right?”

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky deflected as he downed the last of his drink and swung to his feet. He ran his hands over his uniform, flattening out the wrinkles and dipping a little deeper into a Brooklyn accent, “Word is you’re paying the tab too? Awful kind an’ considerate of ya, Cap.”

Steve gave him another one of his signature toothy smiles as he shook his head lightly, “Nice to know some things haven’t changed.”

“Think of it as payback for all the times I had to sneak you into the nightclubs because they thought you were underage.”

“You really are awful sometimes, Buck,” Steve said with genuine affection.

“That’s not what I recall you saying back then,” Bucky retorted with a wink as he gave Steve’s shoulder a playful shove. “I’ll see you in a bit. You’d just better hold the troops off long enough for me to get at least another chapter or two in. You have no idea how much I had to trade and barter to get an English copy of “The Incomplete Enchanter” all the way out here that wasn’t missing pages.”

Steve snorted lightly, getting to his feet, “Fine, fine. Mission accepted.”

Bucky started to turn to go, but Steve was quicker.

It wasn’t that they didn’t hug before the War, it was just that there wasn’t usually much reason to. But ever since the rescue, ever since Azzano, it was like somewhere deep down, Steve had started to treat every parting like it could be their last: including benign ones like this that clearly weren’t a soldier’s send-off into the unknown fray.

Maybe the War’d gone and made Steve sentimental. Maybe he was still trying to find a way without those slippery words to convey how much he’d missed him, or what he’d feared might’ve happened if he hadn’t found him sooner. Whatever it was: For as respectfully brief as the hug was, it was still filled with a heap of genuine emotion, and it did have a way of making Bucky feel a little bit better. Guilty, but better.

“Don’t go getting all soft on me now,” Bucky teased, offering Steve what he hoped was a suitable smile.

Steve returned the smile with a quiet, familiar, “Jerk.”

Bucky just grinned. Yeah: He’d follow this punk till the end of the line. After all: Someone had to watch out for him.

He kept that steady smile plastered across his face until the door closed behind him and he stepped outside into the half-darkness of the night time street. It was only then he let his expression fall back to a brooding neutral. It felt good to not have to put on the dog and pony show of an upbeat expression for the world that he wasn’t precisely feeling.

The sky overhead was cloudy and muted, hiding its usual cascade of distant stars that on any other night, were a veritable astronomer's dream compared to the hazy, overlit Brooklyn skyline.

His over-alert eyes glanced around as they adjusted to the low light. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was another one of those things that wasn’t quite right, but he had no way of proving outright, and speaking it out loud wasn’t going to help anyone. At best? It’d make him sound crazy. At worst? He wasn’t even sure what was the worst case scenario. Maybe that one of the assholes that experimented on him would realize that unlike those other test subjects, he’d survived, and they’d track him down to see what’d become of their work.

But yeah: It sounded pretty crazy to even think that whatever they’d done had somehow made him able to see just a little bit better, just a little clearer, just a little bit further… even at night.

It wasn’t natural.

It sounded just as crazy if not more crazy to try to figure out the other things that were going on with his body. They were subtle, not like Steve and his… whatever Steve got, but he was certain whatever Nazi vile they’d shoved into him were slowly changing him.

He rubbed one of his wrists and found himself glancing down to take a better look at it, remembering the tight restraints and the swath of welts and bruises they’d left behind looked like only days before.

The first thing he’d picked up on was the healing. He’d participated in and witnessed enough of both his own and Steve’s fist fights to be a bonafide expert when it came to bruises. When you got a bad set, it was not only sore for a number of days, but it took time to run through the whole rainbow of colors. After a day or so, you’d start with a smart red mark that would shift to blue or black. Then maybe a week or so later, you were looking at an ugly greenish or yellowish mess that was still a little sensitive, but starting on its way out. After another few days, it would brown out and finally fade. It was a natural cycle, a predictable cycle.

Well, it had been until after Azzano. The bruises he’d gotten from the needles and restraints, as well as the earlier ones he’d gotten when he was working in the factory or being slammed by fat head guards had stopped hurting after less than a day, and they’d faded completely within about three. And the pneumonia that had led him to be dragged out and experimented on because he was no longer fit to work and very likely on his way? That had gone away at much the same time. Not only that: but aside from the headaches, he felt better than he had in years. Stronger. More focused. Like his mind had been sharpened in the same fell swoop.

Unlike the nebulousness of healing or the thought that maybe whatever they’d given him here in the med tents had kicked his immune system into high gear, the strength part was not only obvious to him, but it took a great deal of focus to keep it nice and under the radar.

The subtle stuff was where it started to pop up first. Holding, pushing, or pulling things with what was frankly his usual amount of effort, but the result was anything but. Torn zippers and buttons were early victims, followed closely by broken switches, overturned-handles, and bent hinges. He’d been able to play it off, but it didn’t take long for him to figure out the correlation, especially when he saw his weight suddenly spiked. That made even less sense considering their poor rations in HYDRA’s weapons facility.

The quiet time he’d usually put aside for evening reading and letter-writing had turned into a mixed bag of self-made experiments he’d concocted in a poor man’s attempt to figure out not only what was happening, but how to keep it in check.

He knew he had to keep it in check.

He was relieved to find the tent empty by the time he made it back to the barracks, and slowly, carefully, he turned the knob on one of the nearby lamps to summon it to life. Another knob had already fallen victim to his golden touch the previous night.

Another thing that had found its way into a trashcan in the adjoining camp were about a dozen eggs. Regardless of how gentle he tried to be, he hadn’t managed to lift a single one without at least cracking the shell, though most had suffered worse fates. He’d managed to make a damn mess of things over his wool blanket, and some of the yolk had even attempted an escape onto his books, which was like adding insult to painful injury. He’d be smelling that for weeks.

All of that led to more scheming, which was what prompted tonight’s follow-up attempt that he hoped would be a deal less slimy and unpleasant. At least that was the theory of it, but as he sat on the edge of his cot, frowning into an open container of blueberries, raspberries, and plums, he was having second thoughts.

The raspberries probably weren’t the best idea, seeing they were prone to staining, but they were the most delicate of the produce available.

He honed his focus as he dipped his pointer finger and thumb around the nearest raspberry and slowly closed them until they appeared to meet the flesh of the raspberry…

...which promptly bled red juice.

Too much pressure.

He didn’t crush it outright, and that was progress for sure, but he was still getting the force all wrong.

He tried again.

The same result. Fingers? Yep. Already stained.

He wiped off his fingers and switched to blueberries. Though he remembered them being hardier than raspberries, he managed to flatten one outright when he tried to reposition one between his thumb and middle finger.

Plums it was.

The thick skin of the plums wasn’t the same challenge as either of the more tender berries, but it also meant he had to be aware of the force of his whole hand rather than just his fingers. He considered it a sign of progress that he could hold it, even toss it lightly and still catch it without breaking the skin, even though he was certain the contact was generating unseen bruises.

Close enough.

He swapped the plum to his left hand while he used his other to dig into a knapsack and pull out some stainless steel cutlery he’d “borrowed” from the mess hall earlier. He regarded the bread knife, threading and it between his fingers. Focusing on keeping his left hand soft and steady, he put force into the fingers on his right, and with seemingly no resistance at all: he bent the knife in half.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but he glanced to his left hand and was relieved to see the plum was looking a little bruised and not exactly round, but was still intact. Progress! He dug back into the knapsack and pulled free a more challenging prospect: a small combat knife.

The blade gleamed a warm silver in the lamplight, and he put the bruised plum back with its kin briefly to regard the blade, running a cautious finger along its sharp edge in some feeble attempt to ascertain just how strong his skin really was. It wasn’t a test he saw fit to pursue tonight, but he knew for sure that if it’d been any other day, that the blade’s edge should have at least shown faint marks on his skin, but instead it showed only pressure.

He could still bleed, he knew that much.

He plucked another plum free with his left hand and held it gingerly as he repositioned the combat knife horizontally with his right hand. Slowly, carefully, he tightened his grip, using his fingers to leverage the handle and the blade so they might bend together like the cutlery.

For a moment, he was actually genuinely relieved when the combat knife held firm and unwavering. It was as if the clouds briefly opened up and the stars shone overhead and saw fit to reassure him that maybe, just maybe this was all in his head.

That lasted for about five seconds, until he stopped being quite so tentative and really put force behind the motion.

As soon as he did, his left fist collapsed around the plum so hard that it cracked and shattered the seed inside, and the combat knife in his right had crumpled and folded in half in one smooth motion that made it seem as if it might as well have been made of hollow tin.

Bucky didn’t move as he regarded the both of them with wild eyes. Once he came to his senses, he quickly grabbed a rag to clean the pulpy shreds of plum off his hand, tossing the remainder of it in a nearby waste bin as a way to hide the evidence. But the knife…

The combat knife was bent clear in half like it was a children’s toy, and the force of it was frighteningly inhuman. He regarded his trembling hands cautiously, not with excitement, but with a palpable mix of horror and concern. What was happening? What had they done to him?

He looked at the remains of the plum in the waste bin, and his mind went to darker places: What if he accidentally hurt someone without even meaning to?

He tabled the concern when he looked back to the knives. He couldn’t very well leave the cutlery or combat knife looking like that, so he used both hands to bend first the butter knife, and then sharper blade back, as if somehow the act of resetting them to their natural form might wipe his worries and conscience clean.

He couldn’t tell Steve. He had to figure this out on his own and protect Steve so he didn’t have even more on his plate to worry about.

His mind spun around at a million miles a minute and was focused on anything but the knife as the blade separated from the hilt and snapped free in his hands, searing his fingers with a fresh jolt of pain.

“Soldier! Mission report!”

His eyes rolled back and fluttered open as a surge of electricity ran through him, pulling him to the present.

The first thing he saw was the ground and a pair of mismatched hands. One set was silver, pressed into deep grooves of a worn concrete floor. The other was flesh, bloodied, and the thumb was pinned under a black object. When a finger reflexively twitched, he identified it as his own.

His mind surged forward, working to piece together what had happened and where he was. He was numbly aware that his own weight was likely what was pinning his thumb, and his eyes quickly pieced together that his right hand was still tightly gripped around the broken and bent firing mechanism of what looked to be a heavy assault rifle.

He was curled over on his hands and knees, and he rolled his weight to his left hand to free his right, but the other arm immediately screamed objection to the movement. The metallic plates shifted as the added weight of his body settled, and he felt his breath hitch when residual jolts of pain shot straight through his shoulder and ribcage, where fresh incision points of the newly grafted arm pressed against angry, confused flesh.

The world around him came into form in bits and pieces: A tan and olive brown clothed figure at the far side of the room, bleeding and whimpering. The pistol on the floor at the figure’s feet. The armed soldiers around him, with their weapons pointed at his own head. The acrid smell of munitions, blood, and burnt flesh.

“Soldier!” The first voice repeated, his intonation a hard command, a warning, “Mission report, now!”

Another jolt of electricity arched through him. His chin lifted upright as his eyes flashed open, responsive.

“The mission…” He tried to roll the events over in his mind, “To… eliminate the Target.”

He found himself looking up, trying to remember what had happened, and when he did, he met the man’s wild, frightened eyes. Blood cascaded from a bullet wound on his left shoulder as he made strange mewling noises the Soldier couldn’t readily identify, “Miséricorde, pitié s'il vous plaît…” Mercy, mercy please…

He identified him only as the Target.

The officer standing over him kicked the heavy assault rifle he’d been holding away, “You missed. From this close range?”

He had. He wasn’t sure why, but he had, “I… the trigger.”

“Broken through your carelessness after you chose a coward’s shot.” The officer above him bent down and gripped his jaw within gloved hands, forcing him to look at the Target. “Now you make him suffer like a wounded stag. For what purpose? What did you hope to accomplish?”

He honestly wasn’t sure. He remembered it now. The training mission and its purpose. How he was instructed that based on the clothing of those he faced, he was to consider some allies and others mere obstacles subject to use of deadly force.

He remembered seeing the man on the far side of the room when they’d turned the last corner. He’d raised the weapon towards him, towards the guards close behind, but the Soldier was quicker. Why hadn’t he gone for a killing blow?

“I don’t know,” he admitted out loud, and he didn’t. It was like the decision had been so baseline, so instinctual that he took the shot without a second thought.

“That’s not good enough, Soldier.” The man pulled him up by his throat and he felt his legs scramble forward so his feet could catch him.

The commanding officer made a gesture to a nearby guard, “Give him your pistol.”

“But…” the guard started.

“Now.”

The soldier watched as the grip of the guard’s revolver was handed to him, and he took it in his right hand. The guards around shifted and kept their weapons focused on him as he did. The metal was still warm. He regarded it cautiously, fearful that he might break the device as he had inadvertently done with the assault rifle’s trigger.

“Other hand,” the officer commanded. He obeyed, switching the weapon to the chrome hand.

There was no tactile response to the hand, so he watched carefully as he wrapped chrome fingers around the grip and held it with what he hoped was a suitable amount of strength. It was hard to tell when all that remained was a phantom of a sensation. A shudder from his shoulder ran down his arm and the hand trembled as the plates shifted in reply. He would need to train more so it would be more properly responsive. It was a liability otherwise. A weakness.

“Leaving a wounded dog to suffer is not only cruel and unnecessary, but it’s a danger to you and everyone around you. They’re liable to snap back when you least expect it, and you know what happens then.”

He felt something inside of him shift. He did. It’d cost lives. Lives he could have saved.

The Target continued to speak as he pressed a hand to the oozing wound on his shoulder, “S'il vous plaît, ayez pitié. Je me rends. Je ne faisais qu'obéir aux ordres.” Please have mercy. I surrender. I was just obeying orders.

“Finish your mission, Soldier.” his officer commanded.

He could have saved them.

He could have saved him.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The Soldier raised the pistol in his left hand and without another conscious thought, in one smooth motion, he flipped the safety and pulled the trigger. The shot rang true as it found its mark and the Target dropped lifelessly to the ground.

His ears flooded with a buzz of static as a medley of electricity, strobing lights, and sharp pain seared into him, blurring his vision and numbing his mind.

“Eyes open,” a man’s thick German accent tisked.

He obeyed, forcing his eyes open though they continued to fight him. Light and shadow swam around his vision, and the bursts of patterned light left echoes in their place like faded stars. It was hard to focus on much at all beyond the blinding bursts of light, and he struggled to imagine them as something tangible. Maybe the problem was that he was trying to think about anything at all?

He was strapped in place on a metal examination chair that was tilted back at an angle while a series of heavy instruments and gauges attached to mechanical arms rested over his hands, head, and shoulders. Though he could feel them rather than see them, he knew his body was safely locked in place with a series of alternating fabric and metal restraints. He was reminded they were there for his own safety.

His mind swiveled back to the other people in the room as the pain momentarily subsided and the headpiece was cleared from his vision. From his other side, someone stepped forward to remove the bite guard from his mouth. His vision swam with the residual after images of the lights. They were so like stars. When had he last seen actual stars?

The closest people to him were a team of three immaculately dressed scientists that regarded him with curious intensity of judges at a state fair. The nearest held a clipboard and pen, while the furthest casually held a syringe off to one side.

Behind the figures was a row of armed soldiers with the muzzles of their rifles and electrical cannons focused squarely on him. The sight of them didn’t bother him, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what the muzzle of each felt like when they were fired in his direction.

The thing was, he was having a harder and harder time remembering why he’d once felt an inclination to give them reason to turn their weapons against him.

Everything was so murky.

The instinct to fight and stay alert was still there, but not at all times. Now it just sat in his gut, like a reminder that he needed to remain vigilant.

“What is your name?”

“Soldier,” his gravelly reply was instantaneous. There was a correct answer for most questions, and offering up anything less meant “enrichment.” He seemed to recall other answers he used to have, but they were beginning to fade away, replaced by the ‘correct’ responses. Somewhere deep down he remembered once answering this question with other names but he was no longer certain why, or exactly what those syllables meant. Soldier was not only the correct answer, but it felt like the proper answer.

“Good. And who do you serve?”

“HYDRA.” Another straightforward response. Another response that once had another answer, but not the correct one.

“Why?”

His face adjusted. This was a new question. It required reasoning. He focused on it, slowly working it out in his mind. Why? How had he gotten here? Where was here? Everything was so foggy. “I sustained damage?” He didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but he wanted to make it clear that if the answer was incorrect, he would willingly accept the correction.

“You did,” the German scientist in front of him confirmed.

“And HYDRA found me.”

Another affirmative nod.

“They seek to repair and augment me, so I can prevent others from getting hurt.”

“By who?”

He thought over the question, but the answer was obvious to him, “By anyone that would stand against HYDRA.”

“Very good, Soldier,” the praise settled into him: He’d given the right answers.

His tired eyes drooped as they caught a glimpse at where the angry, stapled flesh of his shoulder met the gleaming metal of his prosthetic arm. The screws and attachment points where the two met internally continued to sear with every breath he took, so he tried to keep the movements of his chest shallow, measured.

The nearby doctor took notice of his attention, but the Soldier said nothing. Asking questions out of turn led to corrections. “Do you like it?” the man mused.

The question was confusing, because it implied he had a preference. He did not think he did. Was that the correct answer? He tried it out, “Preference is irrelevant.” The Soldier attempted to move the chrome-plated fingers and they responded in quick, jutted motion. He would need more training. More control. He seemed to recall it was not always this way, that both hands and both arms once matched and were made of soft flesh.

“Yes, of course, of course," The doctor mused, and something in his tone made the Soldier feel he'd given the correct answer, "But the arm is a precious gift, for you are to be the new Fist of HYDRA.” The doctor rolled a seat closer so he could sit down and take notes, “Do you remember what happened? What came before?”

“Before…” the Soldier found himself struggling at the concept. There were images of a rounded shield. A blaring impact. The feeling of free-fall and a sudden snap of bone and impact into white. Then red. Everything was pain, white, and so much red. His body trembled as it tried to sort out the past from the present. Where had these images come from?

“We saved you,” the man reminded him, “There was a fight, and the Americans sought to kill you.”

He tried to remember, but it was all a blur. He asked the question before even thinking, “...Steve…?”

The question manifested of its own volition, and from the reaction it got: he immediately regretted asking it.

It was a word. A presence. There was no longer a figure or face that accompanied it, but only a sense of loss coupled with shame. Failure.

He reflexively flinched, expecting the painful surge of corrective electricity, but instead the nearest scientist held up a hand and clucked his tongue, “Steve Rogers is dead.” He drew his comments out slowly, “He died because you chose to wound his captors rather than shoot to kill.”

Oh.

Right.

He’d forgotten.

He’d failed to protect him.

He frowned, but the scientist in front of him used a finger to lift his chin, “You must try harder, Soldier. If you do not, more will continue to die, and you will be decommissioned and replaced with someone more fit for the task. HYDRA needs you at your best and nothing less. Do you understand?”

He did.

At least he thought he did. Some part of him fought the remark, but he no longer understood why. He pushed it down so it could rest with other things he did not need. The questions. The fear. The loss. The shame. Emotions did a soldier no good. He needed to focus on protecting those that depended on him, “Yes. I understand. It won’t happen again.”

“Prep him,” the scientist said to someone off to his left before looking back at him and declaring, “Hail HYDRA.”

“Hail HYDRA,” the Soldier recited as someone slipped the mouth guard back between his teeth and pulled the weighty array in place over his head.

The last thing he saw was the doctor’s lips parting as they revealed a set of gleaming white teeth. He felt certain he used to know what that expression meant, but he no longer did. He pushed the thought aside as the machine whirred to life and the lights began anew, accompanied by a cascade of fresh pain that coursed through his body. His eyelids were heavy, but he kept them open as ordered.

He couldn’t fail again.

Only then did a single, richly accented word peek over the static in his mind. He focused on each syllable as the starry lights overtook his vision, blinding him into a sea of dappled white.

"Желание." The voice repeated, "Желание." Longing.

Chapter Text

[ID: A cropped painting by MuggyLee showing Sam Wilson and Ayo standing in Shuri’s lab while Bucky remains in a cryogenic stasis in the background. Sam is listening intently while Ayo speaks. Sam is wearing a red shirt, and Ayo is wearing her Dora Milaje regalia and is holding her spear in her right hand and is gesturing with her palm up with her left hand. They both appear to be deeply engaged in conversation with one another, and are seen from the chest up. Bucky’s form is visible in the background. He is wearing a charcoal grey shirt and blue jeans, and a strand of Kimoyo Beads is visible around his right wrist. His left arm (the prosthetic one) is absent. Bucky is enclosed within a cryogenic tube that is attached to an IV. A variety of medical and scientific charts and scans are seen on the displays in the background, including a full-body neurological scan, and brain scan. End ID]

The richness in language is that it is ever changing, evolving.

Sometimes the changes are so slow they are miniscule: A new greeting bourne from a low-brow food advertisement, or a new hybrid baked good formed from two longtime staples. Other times, language shifts dramatically as wars are fought and borders are built or crumble to ruin.

At times it is enough to speak broadly, to say “red” and mean nothing more precise than neither yellow nor blue. But the power of language remains its intrinsic ability to say more, to make the nebulous more specific and form bridges across people and cultures so that they can not only communicate, but feel truly heard.

The impact of the Decimation brought about such a wave of new language that many of the terms it prompted still lived only in their mother tongues. As Ayo stood and kept her chin towards the semi-frosted capsule that housed someone she feared she would never see again, many of those terms slipped into her mind, and she realized they had no English equivalents she could adequately express.

Some words existed only in Wakandan, others in Yoruba, Hausa, or smatterings of foreign tongues. These linguistic evolutions grew from a primal need to express very specific things or emotions that in most cases, few or none had needed to before the Decimation.

There was a term in Japanese, for instance, that remarked on the beauty and health of the natural world, while at the same time acknowledging it was the lack of people that had allowed portions of nature to rebound. It was a bittersweet term. A term that she recalled first used to describe whales, and later, a wealth of other vibrant species that sought to regain their natural habitats when they were at once released of the pressure from being so long under mankind’s thoughtless thumb.

The French had coined a different term, one that spoke to the duality of how the air had grown cleaner, and how the many inlets and outlets of rivers became ever-more pristine with time the further out the world stepped from that life changing event. In one fragile word, it acknowledged a very particular sort of beauty laced with melancholy and profound loss.

After the dust first settled and half the voices were silenced, there was a surge of confusion to even begin to describe what had happened. There were many terms, then: The Snap, The Great Vanishing, The Blip, but at some point, many in Wakanda had colloquially settled on The Decimation. There had never been any reason that term was chosen above the others, it was simply the one those left behind put to common use enough that it slowly became the proper shorthand for the event.

That was the power of language.

Next came terms for those that were once present, but no longer were: The vanished, the missing, the lost. Some terms implied hope, while others rightfully assumed them dead and in the arms of the ancestors. And the way people chose how they wielded those powerful, loaded words impacted those around them and their own expressions and grief. New genres of music were born, new media, shows, books, and more. They became evolving languages of their own as those left behind struggled to contextualize their past, present, and future.

Still other terms followed with the need to give context to the now-vacant houses of those lost, the surviving pets and their absent owners. It felt like there were entire chapters of words added that described in one or two words specific losses: a sister, a brother, a parent, a child, a friend. There were no words like that in English that Ayo knew beyond “widow,” and even that implied the finality of death, not the strange, lingering state of unknowing they’d suffered for so many years.

She felt sometimes that when the missing had returned, they brought with them the expectation that the world and people were as they were, and that all should move forward as one once again.

In short order, there were new words for that too: a word for those that were blinded, through no fault of their own, to the suffering of those left behind, as well as another term for those whose grief was not resolved when the other half returned.

You could teach these new words to someone: But you could necessarily make them understand.

That was the power, and the limitation of language.

In the last twenty-four hours, Ayo felt certain she had lived every emotion possible about the man in front of her, and still she found new emotions that connected to terms that had not existed prior to the Decimation.

One was a very specific feeling of melancholy and deja-vu that recalled something from the time before, and that the emotions it churned up were complicated, beyond simple relief for the present, because the sight of it also reminded you of the pain of all those missing years.

That was the emotion Ayo felt then, looking at a pale but familiar version of James as his body remained strained and chilled inside the frigid, pressurized capsule.

It was a sight she had seen many times before, under better and worse conditions, but also a sight she hadn’t seen for over five years, and one she wasn’t sure she’d see again. And like the term the Japanese had crafted to apply to their rebounding population of thriving whales: What she saw before her was bittersweet, because on one hand, seeing James in the capsule meant he was alive, meant he had survived, and that made her heart soar in relief, but it also meant he was still not well.

And the moment she stopped to reflect on much else that he’d gone and done after the Decimation, she found she had to stop herself because the potency of those musings still seethed with unresolved emotions that transcended any bittersweet beauty she could find in the moment. It made them even harder to bear, because she never thought, not in a thousand lifetimes, that those harsh, raw and wounded feelings would ever apply to her relationship with him, of all people.

She purposefully shifted her attention away from the capsule and the emotions it drummed up inside of her to take silent inventory of the room around her.

Her eyes scanned the laboratory for changes, anything that would put the Princess's life in danger, and as before: she noted none. She knew this deep in the Wakandan Design Group, they were unlikely to be met with any threats, but her years of training told her that the first sign of weakness was a lax mind that assumed ongoing safety. Shuri’s safety, not James, remained her first order of business, her primary charge, even though she’d temporarily shifted that responsibility for Nomble to focus on at the present.

James asking her over to join his conversation was a breach in protocol that he was well-aware of, but it was also excessive to think that Wakanda’s Chief of Security and two Lieutenants were needed to defend Shuri this deep in not only Wakanda, but the design center specifically, especially since there were easily another thirty Dora Milaje in the same building.

She could also not tell herself they were present to simply guard their guests. She knew that the closest thing to what they did here also had a term for it, and one that only context provided if it was meant as a favorable thing or not. It was a term that implied your focus was split, and your emotions were compromised enough that your watch was no longer purely duty.

It was a term that was often used for old guards who had watched over someone for years enough to become closer than simply a guard and the guarded. It was Okoye and T’Challa, herself and Shuri. “Ibhondi Yomgcini” the Bodyguard’s Bond, some called it.

And language spoke that the same term was used both ways.

But this that they had with James was also not that. Perhaps Sam Wilson’s offhanded compliment of joining a “black sisterhood” was closer to the truth, and that it was a truth she danced around because these life experiences they’d shared were not broad like the Decimation, but immensely personal, and that made them evermore hard to describe or pin down.

There was not a single term to adequately describe caring immensely for the well-being of someone who walked with demons of another’s making. There were no words for the joy of seeing a face clear headed enough to experience laughter when that same face had on more than one occasion sought to not only harm, but to kill yourself and some of those closest to you.

Sam Wilson’s presence, strange and foreign as it was, had actually acted as a lightning rod for her to see things with new eyes. It had begun to break down the complex reality that the situation had not made them simply a special pocket of Dora Milaje and a royal genius charged with a political request to fix a broken white man from another continent, but something altogether different and more complex.

She had no word for it, for what they were, or even how they related to one another differently because of it. And she found, strangely, that her mind no longer sought to fight against it. To normalize it. To pretend what they did was simply duty, when each of them clearly knew it was far more, far deeper than that.

She’d seen it in Sam Wilson’s eyes, too. That wordless, but familiar bond. The one that had once glimpsed the darkness inside James and sought to understand it rather than turn from it or condemn him for it. If she knew the word, she would use it to describe their bond as well.

She found she envied him, in a way. Envied that James had sought out connection with him, this war-bonded of Steve’s. She still did not begin to understand why James had chosen to turn away from his own bonds in Wakanda, but she hoped one day it would not feel like the dagger in her heart that it did.

Like the heat of a desert mirage, Ayo saw glimpses of the James she once knew, or thought she knew. The sightings were welcome to someone who’d spent the better part of five years in drought surviving on hope alone, but they were still only grains of dry sand, devoid of any life.

She wanted to believe it would be possible to build trust between them again, but it was hard to imagine from words alone. How could he possibly show that he was willing to put the best interests of Wakanda ahead of his own, when he’d shown time and again in the last few months that he was barely cognizant that there were people on the other end of his decisions?

“The last scan is finishing up now,” Shuri offered to the room, “Another five minutes or so and then I’ll start the reviving procedure.”

Ayo caught the way Sam’s expression and body shifted uncomfortably at that. To be fair: She and the other Dora Milaje were trained to stand at attention at length, and so their two hour vigil was not any more a test of physical endurance than any other day. It suitably impressed her that Sam Wilson had remained steadfast and attentive with them.

Ayo thought it prudent to offer what clarity she could for him while Shuri continued her work. It’d been five years, but she still remembered the multi-step thawing procedure they’d developed after numerous trials, “When all is done, Shuri will begin to lower the pressure and raise the temperature inside the capsule, and when appropriate, Yama will administer a medication that will help counteract the anesthesia. It is…” she searched for the words, “It can be a cautious time between sleep and waking, when instincts are engaged and little else.”

Sam shifted his weight, grasping the implications of her message immediately, “I’ve worked with soldiers with PTSD and nightmares, so I think I catch your drift.”

She felt certain he did, but she made it a point to be specific, “When coming out of cryo, his senses take time to acclimate, so it’s good not to speak too loudly, and to not make any sudden movements or physical contact until his eyes are open and he appears fully present.”

The expression on Sam’s face shifted into a full-blown frown, but he nodded.

“Have you had to aid him when he was severely wounded or unable to walk?”

Sam raised his chin at that, “Not specifically no. Steve half-carried, half-dragged him the last time we needed to.”

“He is… heavier than he looks,” Ayo remarked.

“A dense molecular structure,” Shuri supplied helpfully.

Sam raised an eyebrow and Ayo caught a hint of amusement in his voice as he spoke, “I helped the doctors move Steve more than once when he was recovering, so yeah I get it: standard Super Soldier mass. Recipe for comedy when a particularly bold nurse isn’t expecting it, though.”

Ayo nodded, “He will be extremely stiff and far colder than you expect. Keep your hands free from any exposed metal, as your skin will adhere to it.” She paused, “You may find the process... difficult to watch.”

“It does not get easier with time,” Nomble observed from her unofficial post diagonal of Shuri.

Ayo shot her a look, reminding her that her attention was supposed to be focused on guarding the princess, and Nomble responded with a small shrug of apology.

“I take it, you had to do this often?” Sam ventured.

Ayo turned her attention back to Sam as she considered the question, “The frequency varied. It was not so much a scheduled procedure as much as a necessary one in the aftermath of Events.”

“Both if you’ve used that term enough that I feel like I should understand it plainly, but I’m missing years of context,” he admitted, “Can you define it for me? Feel free to use small words and pretend I don’t understand near-enough about any of this, but that I’d genuinely like to.”

Ayo met his honest expression: he really did want to understand. It was hard to remember this was all new to him. At least back before the Decimation, most anyone who helped James in this manner were Doras from her guard or skilled scientists who’d familiarized themselves with James’s unique case and sought to learn. “Shuri can probably answer it better than I,” Ayo deferred.

“I can, but I’d like to hear your take,” Shuri immediately responded from a short distance away. Her tone was not a tease, but it was indeed curious, “Your brevity serves his question more than my specifics.”

Ayo had known Shuri since she was merely a promise in Ramonda’s belly, and she wasn’t fool enough not to see what the princess was doing. She normally appreciated Shuri for her youthful directness, but Ayo was unaccustomed to having such unabashed meddling directed back at her.

It was not as if she and Shuri hadn’t talked privately of this, of James and his trespasses and of Sam Wilson and the complex mantle he bore, but it was Shuri specifically who’d called attention to what she felt was the need for Sam Wilson to know he had more than just words of support from a foreign nation who shared a similar skin tone to his own.

“Their ways are not ours. It is not unreasonable for you to know him outside his connection to James,” Shuri had observed months ago while she’d toiled on his new flight suit, “Perhaps that is precisely why you should seek to know him: because you have both glimpsed shadows, but chose not to turn away from him. That is a rare common language few alive share. A strength of character.”

“So who do you make this suit for? As a favor to the White Wolf? Or a Black American man with no armor of his own?” Ayo asked, well aware this was a question that stretched well-beyond words a Dora Milaje, even a Security Chief and Okoye’s Second-in-Command, would have normally dared ask a royal charge.

But the two of them and their unspoken Bodyguard’s Bond meant that Shuri would seek to indulge her just the same.

Shuri stopped what she was doing a moment and considered the question before she replied, spinning her chair around to face Ayo, “Both and neither. I know in my heart that it is the right thing to do, and so I do it. And I would be remiss if I didn’t. Duty without purpose is empty as purpose without reason.”

Ayo let just a hint of playfulness slip into her voice, “So you are hopeful to see your designs and hard work shared on the American television then?”

Shuri had laughed and waved her hand dismissively at that, but her expression held her usual brand of pleasant confidence, “It is not wrong to be proud of ingenuity and fashionable work, Ayo, but you know I certainly do not do it for their praise.”

“He has a difficult path before him,” Ayo observed, not needing to speak aloud the gravity of the observation.

“He does,” Shuri agreed as she paused to regard the early stages of the suit at her fingertips, “and he will need friends and allies.”

“I’m sure Sam Wilson has plenty,” Ayo said with all assurance, “He has the Avengers.”

Shuri shook her head, “Do you know for certain they are one in the same? Or do you presume, like outsiders that have glimpsed our culture and ways?” She’d gone back to working on the flight suit on her table as she’d waved a hand dismissively in Ayo’s direction, “You should speak with him at some point. Don’t make me order you to, because then you will make that face.”

Ayo would willingly fight for the princess, give her very life for her, but that didn’t make Shuri any less infuriating at times.

Ayo’s focus returned to the present. What Shuri had just said was “Your brevity serves his question more than my specifics,” but what she’d meant was “The two of you should have reason to talk candidly, so Sam can see beneath the armor you seek to surround yourself with, Ayo.”

Like James in the cryo chamber: Shuri’s words had a way of making her feel many frustrating emotions at once, the least of which was that she didn’t need the princess implying she should be better at making friends. Such a childish claim.

Sam glanced between them, but his attention returned back to Ayo.

Ayo forced herself to consider Shuri’s actual words rather than the social subtext. Trying to simplify anything dealing with James and his HYDRA-mutilated brain was anything but straightforward. Perhaps a metaphor would be easier for the airman. She thought on this before she spoke up between quiet beeps of a nearby heart monitor, “Imagine our conscious thoughts are a river, or an airstream. They flow in a certain direction, at a certain speed. Even when we dream, when we wake, the river continues to flow as it did the night before. When we say ‘Event,’ that is the closest word we have for another term we have in Wakandan that normally would not be used in this context. It only really applies to James.”

“What’s the closest straight translation?” Sam asked, “I don’t know a drop of Wakandan, but I’m open to try.”

Sam’s childlike eagerness to understand was a welcome change from many foreigners she’d met, but she knew the rhythm of the words would not be any more palatable to an American tongue. That being as it was, Ayo considered his question as she thought how best to translate the term they’d once coined as a group, “It is a slang astronomy term, “Umsitho womngxunya omnyama:” a ‘Black Hole Event.’ It is the idea that if that same river of consciousness is flowing, in that same direction, and then something happens: If the old HYDRA trigger words were said, or a certain pattern of hypnotic flashing lights: There is something that happens in his mind that briefly blocks or swallows up the normal flow of his thoughts, like a beaver’s dam.”

“Following you so far,” Sam supplied.

“But once the peak of that moment clears, and the bulk of the twigs and debris are removed, his consciousness didn’t always return to flowing precisely in the way it was before. Sometimes it did. Sometimes the waters were tumultuous or slow for a time before they returned to their usual speed. But sometimes the flow shifted in strange ways, at least for a time. It was still James but…” she searched for the proper words, but found the language of it insufficient, “but it was not all of him. Only parts.”

Sam appeared to chew on that information for a moment, “I think I might’ve seen something like that, but only once. He’d hit his head pretty hard after spending probably a half hour as Zemo’s murder puppet, and when he came to, he was fixated on stuff from way back when he and Steve were kids. Eventually he came around, but it probably took the better part of another half hour or so. Even then… I hadn’t exactly had a conversation right before, but it was obvious things were still foggy.”

“We would call that an ‘Event,’” Ayo confirmed, “And Shuri would run tests to compare how his mind operated during them, as well as in the aftermath of such things.”

Shuri saw fit to chime in, since apparently Ayo’d satisfactorily met her social quota with Sam Wilson, “It was important to search out trends on why his mind would settle in certain ways based on various stimuli, intentional or not. We needed to not only be able to clear the programming from being able to take control of or disable James, but to ensure that once the Event passed, that he was still himself, or that we knew what to do to return him to that point, or as close as we could.”

“Because he wasn’t always fully himself,” Sam finished, mulling it over. “I… yeah, I never really thought about any of this that way. The things I saw were pretty limited, and made me assume he was either fully ‘Winter Soldier’ mode or ‘Bucky.’”

“It was a great deal more nuanced,” Shuri spoke, her words a profound understatement as far as Ayo was concerned, “As I said before: he is not one person with two minds.”

The room fell to the silence between heartbeats before he spoke again.

“So…” Sam began, drawing the question out, “You’re gonna tell me that’s why he spent two years without a second arm?”

Ayo regarded him quizzically. It was a change of topic, and there was something of an unspoken accusation in the tone, but... it was a fair question: The sort of question she’d hoped James might have explained to him. Had he really been so profoundly and unnecessarily secretive about his time here?

Shuri was focused on her console, back to pretending she hadn’t heard the question, but Ayo felt Sam’s eyes remain upon Ayo’s own, waiting.

“Well, it wasn’t forced upon him, if that’s the nature of your query. It was a mutual decision,” her tone sounded more defensive than she intended, but perhaps it was because her own mind was slipping to think of the vibranium arm she’d recently reclaimed.

Sam folded his arms across his chest, “Okay, well, let’s say I go along with the idea that having a high-powered arm attached to a skilled and potentially unstable super soldier is a risky proposition at the best of times. There are more traditional prosthetics that could have been helpful to him.”

Ayo was struck again by how little they must have discussed of this time, but she felt it prudent to explain on James’s own behalf, “Yes, but James also felt that arm was tainted. That it was a symbol of the atrocities HYDRA forced upon him. He was often awake and without any sort of local anesthetic during the multitude of surgeries brought upon him over the years. He lived in a state of near-constant pain, and when he first came to Wakanda with a severed limb, the decision was made that the kindest, most humane thing we could do was to remove the hardware, all of it, so that his broken body could at once begin to truly heal for the first time in so many years. But even that required numerous surgeries, as there was a frightful amount of underlying material as well as scar tissue and nerve damage. They were butchers,” Ayo emphasized, vile in her voice for those that had done this to him.

She continued, acquiescing, “So yes, the lack of a limb served a boon in the times when his mind reverted to sharpened intent, but those times were infrequent, and the continued absence of it was through his own choice, much as it was his own decision to eventually request a suitable replacement. And that meant more pain, more surgeries, and more physical therapy, as he prefered an approach that would be a more permanent mounting, like the originals. The intent was that once he was fully healed and ready, he would receive a suitable prosthetic, but Thanos and the Battle for Wakanda advanced that timeline. It was not what any of us wanted, him least of all. He barely had hours to train with what we had for him, which is why he chose to stay at range with a firing weapon rather than join the fray.”

That information appeared to still Sam at least, though Ayo could tell by the intensity of his expression that he still remained not-so-subtly upset about the current status of James’s arm, and she waited for the inevitable follow-up question.

“Okay. Fair enough then,” Sam supplied, meeting her gaze, “So an amputee not having an arm for the better part of two years was at his own request.”

“It was,” she confirmed, because it was the truth.

Sam regarded her, with those steady eyes that sought to see through her armor as the sound of Bucky’s artificially slow heartbeats continued to play through the monitors, “So this is what I’m going to say to that. A lot of this,” He used one hand to gesture around him, “Frankly isn’t my place. I get that. I can respect that. But I’ve also met enough people that have lived through all manner of awful injuries and amputations enough to tell you that it doesn’t sit right by me to see something like that taken back, no matter the justifications you have.”

Sam continued, “And believe me: I’m not saying you don’t have valid justifications, I’m just saying pulling away a piece of someone’s bodily autonomy as a punishment doesn’t settle well with me, even if the both of you can round-robin about how that’s how it was for so long, so it shouldn’t be an altogether big deal now.” He gestured a hand toward the capsule where Bucky remained in stasis, “He can be infuriatingly stubborn beyond belief, so maybe he won’t say a damn word because he hopes that by keeping quiet about it, he can play along with the idea that an arm is some sort of reward to be earned for good behavior, and taken away for bad behavior. But is that really the message you’re trying to send home for after all he’s gone through?”

Ayo remained steadfast, keeping her voice flat, but above a warning, “It was a symbol of Wakanda. And he knowingly abused and misused it.” She could see Shuri leaning her head out to follow their exchange, to make sure it did not escalate. Ayo would not let it, and Yama and Nomble knew better than to speak.

“It is, but it’s also an arm. His arm.” Sam waved a hand before Ayo could respond, “Look, I’m not trying to get into it with you. Genuinely I’m not. I have an incredible amount of respect for you as a person and everything all of you’ve done for Buck. This is all way out of my wheelhouse and a little much on my frayed nerves if we’re being honest here. My partner is a couple feet away looking like he’s at the brink of death and he’s looking to me for support about, frankly: a lot of stuff I still don’t begin to understand, but he’s looking for support from all of you too. I guess all I’m trying to say is if you feel like you need to punish him, just realize he’s probably gonna go along with it and take it because he’s a veritable expert at shoving down whatever he’s feeling, especially if he thinks he deserves it. And I’m not playing at saying he’s owed some Masserati of Wakandan ingenuity. I’m not the judge of that and I don’t pretend to be. But in my opinion, making sure he at least has a secondhand Buick of an arm to use while he’s here gettin’ things sorted out with his mind would go a long way to clarify what exact message you’re trying to send.”

Sam held up his hands in early surrender, “That’s it. That’s all I have, Ayo. I wouldn’t be sayin’ any of this if I didn’t care and didn’t think you did too.”

Ayo felt her grip tighten around her spear. She wanted to snap back at him, and some primal part of her felt a need to put him in his place, to tell him to watch his tone and that he couldn’t possibly grasp the depths of just how out-of-line James’s actions had been. To defend that he had given it up freely, willingly, with consent.

But instead as she stood there glaring at Sam, letting her frustration show in her eyes, he met them with understanding and didn’t budge. She wanted to be cross with him, to find fault, anything she could latch onto to topple his statements, but instead she felt the fight slip out of her as she saw the genuine care and concern that were laid bare and unflinching in his eyes.

His emotions sat there, plain as day, hovering out in the open without any ill-will. Without condemnation. Without any accusations that she did what she did out of callousness, or that under it all: she didn’t care. He told her because he knew she did. And the act of him telling her, for being willing to speak up on Bucky’s behalf, actually made her respect him more, not less.

Like Shuri and her meddling: it was infuriating.

And she knew she’d have to sit with it, too.

She also knew it was on her to respond, to accept the words as they were or counter them with her own. The best she could offer through a tight jaw was, “I appreciate your candor, Sam Wilson” and she did. She also didn’t even need to look at Shuri to know the expression she bore would be one of understanding and mutual respect, perhaps even with a hint of “I told you so” in regards to Sam’s quiet accusation that James would silently suffer whatever punishment they thought suitable for the crimes he’d committed.

Sam responded simply by offering his own dove of peace, “Likewise. Thanks for hearing me out.”

Once six of Bucky’s slowed heartbeats played through the monitors and it was clear their conversation was concluded, Shuri spoke up, “I’m lowering the pressure inside the cryogenics chamber now. Yama, you can proceed with the injection once the reading reaches 31 inches of mercury. I’m going to have to monitor and adjust the temperature and cross compare it to his vitals by hand because someone saw fit to adjust the parameters of some of my automated settings,” she complained to herself.

“Such things will happen when years pass and you are not around to teach curious hands to be mindful, or to make and use their own profiles,” Yama supplied.

“You could have told them,” Shuri stated, her voice an easy tease.

“You think Ayo would have seen me critique your scientists?” Yama’s voice was almost amused, but Ayo sent her lieutenant a very particular look that spoke that now was not the time for needless chatter: she was on-duty. Well, on duty of a sort. Yama’s interest in taking up some amount of basic medical training meant she was presently performing outside of a Dora’s typical role, which made this, as much else, a bit of a grey area. A Dora or King’s Guard that were on-duty were meant to be seen and not heard unless there was good reason.

Were they outside, Ayo would have tapped the shoe of her spear to reclaim Yama’s attention, but that hardly seemed appropriate when the other Dora had a needle in-hand. That was likely why she thought she could get away with it.

“Focus, on your task,” Ayo stated plainly, her message directed to Yama. She put just enough warning into her voice to make it clear that she felt this was not the time for such things.

Shuri glanced to Ayo as if she considered making her own smart remark, but the genius opted to hold her tongue. Good.

“Starting the injection now,” Yama supplied.

“Vitals are currently trending at the anticipated rates,” Shuri observed, cross-comparing them to prior data.

Four more heartbeats sounded over the monitors as the group watched and waited. The predictable tempo was broken by a quiet buzz from Sam’s pocket.

Ayo’s natural state was irritation, but she forced her expression back to neutral as she watched him hurriedly rush to silence the device and pull it out onto his palm so he could regard the caller’s number. He frowned, putting the device to his ear and pivoting in place as he took a few steps away, as if that might offer a buffer between his conversation and the sensitive medical procedure going on nearby, “Oh hey, Sarah. Yeah. Anything up, or just calling to check in and say hi?” Only his side of the conversation was audible in the quiet room. And it was audible.

“Of course I’m not trying to hurry you off the phone. Sorry. Everything okay?”

“Yeah? That’s good.”

Did he really have to take the call now? Ayo felt her irritation rear up, and she focused on keeping her expression neutral, her eyes towards the capsule. Sam Wilson did not deserve to earn her ire simply for accepting a phone call from his sister.

“No, I’m not trying to be short with you. You said you appreciated if I picked up more often rather than letting it go to voicemail, so here’s me picking up.”

“I don’t have a tone. It’s just been a day, okay?” He sighed, “Yes, of course everything’s fine.”

“Oh. No I hadn’t heard.”

“Another one? Christ.” Ayo caught the shift in his tone and glanced across to Shuri: she heard it too. The tempered fear in his voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. God.”

“Yeah, this stuff never ends. Anyone we knew?”

“No?” cautious relief slipped into his voice, but only so much, “How are the boys taking it?”

“I hate that you even have to give ‘em talks like that, but I understand.”

“Yeah, of course I know they’re not all bad, but they’re the ones that keep gettin’ on the news because they shoot first and ask questions later.”

His voice was apologetic, “I’m sorry I’m not there too. You should take the afternoon off. You don’t need to be working.”

“Oh, they wanted to talk to Bucky?” Sam turned and looked back at the capsule and caught Ayo’s eye before turning back away, “Maybe later, he’s busy at the moment.” A pause, “Wakanda stuff. We’ll give you a call later though, promise.”

Whatever messages Shuri had for Yama and the continuing procedure, she saw prudent to send via her Kimoyo Beads instead.

“Yeah, I’ll let him know.”

“I love you too. You sure you don’t need anything else? I’m always here to talk if you need me, you know that.”

“Okay, well say hi to the boys for me, and tell them I love them and it’s okay to be upset. This stuff hits everyone differently and it isn’t fair.”

“That goes both ways, you know. You’re a royal pain in my ass too, but I still love you.”

He ended the call and stayed facing away from them for a few more broadcast heartbeats while he ran his fingers over his phone like Ayo’d seen sages press their thumb along worry stones in an attempt to center themselves. He used his free hand to rub his temple with three trembling fingers before he pocketed the phone, heaved his shoulders, and looked back to the women regarding him with genuine concern. He caught Ayo’s eyes first, “Sorry about that. My sister...”

“Are Sarah and your nephews alright?” Shuri cut to the question that was on everyone’s mind.

Sam nodded, “Yeah just… back home, there was another officer-involved shooting with a kid in a nearby parish and…there’s just always one more, you know?” his voice faded off.

Ayo held up a hand, cutting him off from the need to elaborate further on their account. She made an effort to keep her voice soft, compassionate, “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain more.”

Sam nodded appreciatively and took another steadying breath.

“We have about another minute before it would be prudent for us to open the cryogenics chamber so that James does not risk waking with it still closed,” Shuri’s voice was all apology.

“Yeah, of course,” Sam replied, stepping back to stand behind Ayo and Yama near the chamber.

It was obvious his attention was split, and Ayo thought it a kindness to remind him what steps were expected next, “Try to stay still and quiet as he comes too. Once awareness dawns, we’ll move him to the chair there so he can recover, okay?” she gestured to the gently reclined, padded chair Shuri’d prepared about ten feet away. James’s patterned blue, black, and gold shawl had been folded and placed on a nearby table, the fragile material saved from the icy grip of the chamber.

Ayo continued, “It usually takes just a few minutes, and there’ll be a timer so we know how much time has elapsed. We try to get him seated as soon as possible since he finds being restrained distressing, even if it’s simply to keep him upright,” she questioned if sharing that final part was necessary, but she could not walk it back.

“Okay,” was all Sam had the strength and attention to reply. It was clear he was trying, and Ayo appreciated his effort.

“Remember: Don’t touch the exposed metal near his shoulder. It’s chilled and might stick to your skin,” Ayo advised, noting that the monitors that broadcast Bucky’s heartbeats were now chirping at a faster pace.

Yama saw fit to add, “His muscles might spasm a little. It’s completely normal. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Sam flinched at that but nodded, and Ayo tilted her head to acknowledge the wisdom in Yama’s observation. Hopefully if Sam knew what to expect, what he’d see would be less… distressing.

Shuri’s voice was soft as she noted, “The pressure’s stabilized and the temperature is less than eight degrees from room temperature. I’m going to open the release in ten seconds, and I’ll put up the timers so we can track each of the milestones.” She flicked her fingers, and a number of nearly displays began counting upwards from -10 in unison.

The princess looked around the room to ensure that everyone present had heard her, and once she was satisfied, she made a gesture on her console and looked to Ayo as if to say, “The next steps are yours.”

Ayo tipped her head and positioned herself about three feet from the capsule with her spear in-hand. Though the memories of this were no longer fresh, she knew how far she needed to be to be out of reach, and she was pleased to see Yama automatically take up her spear and step back to usher Sam so he was slightly behind her.

The countdown was silent and the seconds felt long, but after ten of them, the outer shell retracted. Chilled air poured out, revealing James’ rigid figure within the frosty enclosure.

At first, there was no change beyond the slow pings as the monitors read the gradual shift in his vitals. Ayo stood still, momentarily berating herself when her eyes sought to glimpse the socket of his missing arm. After Sam’s words, the sight of its absence felt different to her. Not necessarily guilty, but less justified.

None of this was new to Ayo, but after five years, she found the sight as uncomfortable as any time before. James was pale, almost ashen, with a light coating of frost dappling his dark hair and profoundly American clothes. His chest moved, but only barely, as if the effort to raise and lower it remained a personal struggle. She’d learned that the easiest way to see hints of life was to focus on the slight tremble of his lips and fingers, which slowly seeped away their blue undertones as the seconds passed and his skin began to warm.

His breath hitched, and Ayo had to put a hand up to block Sam’s natural inclination to step forward and offer aid. His soulful, worried brown eyes met hers, and she silently mouthed ”He’s okay.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but remained alert and still.

It took a little over two and a half painfully long minutes for the first sign of movement under Bucky’s eyelids, but even then: Ayo knew not to rush things. Doing so would only run the risk of triggering the sleeping wolf’s instincts if they did.

There came a point where she was certain she’d seen the first signs of his frosted eyelids starting separate and flutter, and she kept her voice soft and barely above a whisper as she spoke, easily slipping back into the familiar patterns they’d established what felt like half a lifetime ago. She remained just out of range of his hands in case he was reactive, “It is Ayo. You are just coming out from partial cryo in Wakanda, James. You are safe and among friends. Can you hear me?”

He made something of a noise, but it wasn’t yet words. His throat must still be too chilled.

“It’s okay. You do not need to speak,” she spoke slowly, quietly, trying to tune out the sounds of the medical machinery and focus solely on him, “Can you open your eyes for me? When you can. Take your time. There’s no rush.”

The response was far from immediate, but after another forty seconds, James rotated his head in her direction and appeared to strain his face in an attempt to force his eyes open. Initially they were rolled back and unfocused, but eventually they found her. When they did, she felt like it was in some strange way: the most precious and miraculous thing in the world. To see her friend she worried for, for so long, at once awake and alive.

They’d done this reviving procedure many times before, a dozen, easily. Probably more. Though his body was strong and resilient and had arguably dealt with much worse, each successful time stepping through the process itself was cause for relief.

But as much as the procedure was hardly new or outside of the norm, she felt tears she did not understand mist her eyes.

There was no reason to be emotional. She’d seen him alive and well only hours earlier, and times before that too.

Yet something struck her differently this time. It was like the part of her that had been frozen with worry during the years of the Decimation was, like him, finally starting to thaw. And when she saw him, with those blue eyes of his looking back at her, she felt a very particular sort of… relief. Not that things were well, but that there was hope again. That the strange connection between them, strained as it was, had not been irreparably broken as she’d feared.

Until that moment, she was not aware how much that mattered: but it did.

She had to temper her voice to keep it steady, “Are you ready for us to help get you to the recovery area? Yama and Sam have offered to help too,” she said encouragingly to the man in front of her.

Bucky’s eyes slowly blinked away the frost on his eyelashes and he glanced past Ayo to Sam, then Yama and the others. Though his lips trembled, he gave a weak, almost imperceivable nod he understood her words. Moments later, his whole body twitched, and his frozen expression flinched as he closed his eyes in response to a sudden surge of nerve pain as his body’s systems came online and sought to stabilize themselves.

When his fingers spasmed reflexively, Ayo automatically switched her spear to her left hand so she could quickly slip her right hand into his to silence its shaking. It was ice cold, but she felt his weak grip attempt to return the contact. When his eyes opened again, they remained steady and focused on hers as if they were his lifeline, or perhaps as if he was trying to use them to communicate his thoughts without relying on the pesky nebulousness of language alone. She swore she saw apology and tears at the corners of those soulful, emotive blue eyes of his.

“Let us get you out of there and warmed up, then,” Ayo spoke with measured grace as she stepped forward to take some of his weight and gestured for Sam to do the same so Yama could unbuckle the cloth restraints around his chest and legs.

While Shuri watched and Nomble stood fast under the pretense of guard duty, Ayo, Sam, and Yama slowly, carefully, guided Bucky’s stiff form towards the recovery chair Shuri set for him nearby.

All the while: Bucky kept his trembling fingers clenched carefully around Ayo’s hand. She let it rest where it was, squeezing it once to reassure him, and to let him know she was still there, regardless of how raw and confused his chilled senses were.

For the first time in so many years, Ayo allowed herself to believe in the possibility that a dear friend she had not glimpsed in so long might not be so truly lost as she’d once feared.

And like so much that the Decimation had wrought upon them: she had no language to encapsulate all she felt. Yet in that moment: that was okay.

It was enough to believe.

[ID: A painting by MuggyLee showing Sam Wilson and Ayo standing in Shuri’s lab while Bucky remains in a cryogenic stasis in the background. Sam is listening intently while Ayo speaks. Sam is wearing a red shirt, blue jeans, and a watch around his left wrist. Ayo is wearing her Dora Milaje regalia and is holding her spear in her right hand and is gesturing with her palm up with her left hand. They both appear to be deeply engaged in conversation with one another, and are seen from the thighs up. Bucky’s form is visible in the background. He is wearing a charcoal grey shirt and blue jeans, and a strand of Kimoyo Beads is visible around his right wrist. His left arm (the prosthetic one) is absent. Bucky is enclosed within a cryogenic tube that is attached to an IV. A variety of medical and scientific charts and scans are seen on the displays in the background, including a full-body neurological scan, and brain scan. End ID]

[ID: A cropped close-up of a painting by MuggyLee showing Sam Wilson and Ayo standing in Shuri’s lab while Bucky remains in a cryogenic stasis in the background. Sam is listening intently while Ayo speaks. Sam is wearing a red shirt, and Ayo is wearing her Dora Milaje regalia and is holding her spear in her right hand and is gesturing with her palm up with her left hand. They both appear to be deeply engaged in conversation with one another, and are seen from the chest up. Bucky’s form is visible in the background. He is wearing a charcoal grey shirt and blue jeans, and a strand of Kimoyo Beads is visible around his right wrist. His left arm (the prosthetic one) is absent. Bucky is enclosed within a cryogenic tube that is attached to an IV. A variety of medical and scientific charts and scans are seen on the displays in the background, including a full-body neurological scan, and brain scan. End ID]

October 2022 Update:

When I originally wrote this chapter back in June of 2021, I remember really looking forward to the opportunity to step into Ayo’s PoV after exclusively ping-ponging back and forth between Sam and Bucky PoVs up until this point. It offered not only a refreshing view of events such as the fallout of the Decimation, but also an opportunity to, I’d hoped, get to know her better, and to start to understand her complicated perspective on all that had happened.

The process of writing and editing it made me ever-more aware that this was/is her story just as much as theirs, and it felt great to carve out space for her and Sam to have a heart-to-heart of sorts prior to when Bucky finally exits cryo. In particular, that conversation about the arm was a long time in coming.

The scene really stuck with me, and I am incredibly touched that MuggyLee (https://twitter.com/MuggyLee) was willing to lend his incredible artistic prowess to help bring this poignant scene to life with his skilled hands.

This is a highly complex and emotionally loaded scene, and I just love everything he was able to capture here end-to-end. The rendering, the lighting, the little details in the readouts (including some written in the Wakandan Alphabet!), it’s just all so lovingly handled, and it’s like you can feel the heaviness in the room.

It’s truly incredible.

Please check out his Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram accounts to see more of his incredible art! His color palettes are a feast for the eyes!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to him for offering to lend his skill to capture such a poignant moment and key story beat.

Chapter Text

Dreams and nightmares made way to chilled, semi-conscious thoughts, and soon those familiar waves broke over Bucky again and again. They pulled and pushed his mind like a churning tide, threatening to pull him back under, into the suffocation of the resounding blackness that surrounded him.

Eventually, recognition dawned enough that he understood what was going on in this purgatory between the dreaming and the waking world, but even that breadcrumb of a realization didn’t offer any relief.

Bucky had a wealth of life experiences to draw from: Everything from mildly uncomfortable irritations through to downright horrifying decades of existence lived without choice, and right up there in the top ten, maybe even top five, was coming out of cryo.

It didn’t matter if it was a deep freeze or a partial freeze: the whole process from top to bottom was not only agonizing, but unnerving on a deeply primal level.

The first sensation was always a resounding numbness and pain that accompanied the nothingness. It was so far beyond cold that his body didn’t even register the sensations as anything connected to temperature. This was always accompanied by an instinct to try and wake himself, to open his eyes, but as each and every time before: it failed because his body remained too immobilized to respond to his silent pleas.

The paralysis was frightening as it was disorienting. It meant he not only couldn’t sense what was going on around him, but who and what his consciousness was drawing him ever-closer to.

The second sensation that slipped through him was a sudden, blinding awareness of a sea of bitter cold that gripped his body and mind with tight and prickly claws. He knew somewhere deep down that his body was fighting hard against it, trying to push through and live, but he felt like a passive observer in the struggle, unable to do anything but wait out the excruciating, all-encompassing pain.

His mind was too foggy to remember what came directly before, and so all it could do was lay in anxious wait to see what came next. He focused on his senses, on anything that might clue him in to where he was or what had last happened to him. His muffled ears rang, offering no clues to the outside world. The only sound he felt certain of was his own heartbeat, thrumming dully in his head.

Was he being revived because his heart had stopped beating, or in spite of it? He couldn’t remember.

He was vulnerable. Exposed. Frozen.

And there was only cold, darkness, and pain.

The world outside was still dark, but slowly it shifted from pure black to dim and dappled behind his eyelids. He tried to force his eyes open, but he couldn’t summon up the will to do so. Fear and confusion gripped his mind, coupled with a full-body paralysis he fought but couldn’t shake.

Bucky felt his breath suddenly hitch as his diaphragm jolted, filling his lungs with a gasp of icy air. At the motion, he was dully aware that the shadows in front of him shifted ever-so slightly. Were they people? Handlers?

He couldn’t remember.

He was just so cold.

With valiant effort, he continued to struggle to open his eyes, but even when they felt like they moved, he only saw more blurs. Hints of color seeped into the brightest parts, though no amount of focus allowed him to identify what or who they were.

Somewhere in the distance, he could make out a muffled voice speaking slowly, “It is Ayo. You are just coming out from partial cryo in Wakanda, James. You are safe and among friends. Can you hear me?”

The tightness in his chest immediately loosened.

Ayo.

Wakanda.

Safe.

He rolled the words over in his head, trying to digest them as he fought to stay buoyant against the sharp pain and continued paralysis. He tried to focus on the promise of safety, even if he couldn’t sense it yet.

With sizable effort, he tried to summon a reply, but his throat betrayed him with a wordless, inaudible murmur.

Ayo’s calm, muffled voice returned, “It’s okay. You do not need to speak. Can you open your eyes for me? When you can. Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He wanted so desperately for her to know he heard her, but his body was unwilling to listen to his pleas.

Everything was just so tight and so bitter cold.

Bucky put all of his energy into trying to turn his head towards where he’d last heard her voice, and focused on the taunt muscles of his face. Eventually, he felt his eyelids separate, but the world around him was over-bright and still without form. His eyes struggled to focus, to search for anything that would confirm the words Ayo, Wakanda, and safe.

What started as a blur of light, shadow, and over-blown color eventually settled into focus, and he saw her.

She was older than the Ayo he’d last seen in the dream, but the recognition was instant. Her steadfast, familiar countenance was an immediate balm to his chilled and exhausted mind. He focused on her as he struggled to breathe, willing the cold away so he could understand why it seemed as though there was so much emotion in her eyes. Had something gone wrong? Had he tried to hurt her or someone else?

He concentrated fully on her expression and the openness of it.

It was at once relief, joy, and marmalade.

“Are you ready for us to help get you to the recovery area? Yama and Sam have offered to help too.”

Others were here too? His mind tried to sort things out as his unfocused eyes searched for them. Though they were blurry, he felt certain he could identify the blue and red-clad figures of Sam and Yama, and beyond them: Shuri and Nomble. Yes, they’d been there when he’d been placed in partial cryo. Shuri wanted scans. He’d agreed.

He did his best to summon energy to speak or acknowledge them, but still nothing came. When he put force into the effort, his body spasmed with another jolt of excruciating pain as his frozen nerves sought to surge back to life in unison.

The next thing he knew, a warm hand had slipped into his, steadying him, grounding him. When his eyes opened again, he just saw Ayo. He was confused. Wasn’t she still cross with him? Part of him was certain that was where they’d left off, but in that moment, she didn’t seem angry. Her glassy brown eyes spoke to many emotions he couldn’t pinpoint, but her grip on his hand remained firm.

As the events of the last twenty-four hours rolled through his mind in fresh waves, he wished so much that he had a better way to express just how profoundly sorry he was to have hurt her, of all people. It went far beyond simply wanting to make amends and check off a name in a book. He wanted so much to tell her he’d been too much in his own head, but as repugnant as his actions had been, he’d never forgotten all they’d done for him, all she’d done for him.

He tried to speak again, but as before: nothing came.

So he just kept looking at her, hoping she could somehow sense the apology in his thoughts while cold continued to grip him with sharp icy claws. He focused on her, on her solemn expression and the warmth of her hand that continued to ground him.

“Let us get you out of there and warmed up, then,” she moved beside him and slowly, carefully wrapped his arm over her shoulder. Though he couldn’t easily turn his head, he was dully aware of another body that took up position on his other side: Sam. Still another worked to undo the restraints that held him upright: Yama. Once they were free, he felt the three of them heft him up and lift him out of the cryo chamber.

He tried to move his legs to help, but was dead weight for all intents and purposes. Somehow the three of them kept him mostly upright as they made their way to the recovery chair a short distance away.

His head pounded and pain continued to radiate with each movement, but every time it seemed like it was too much, that the cold agony would send him back to the void, he focused on the people around him, and that hand in his that kept him steady and safe.

When they finally got to the chair, it took all three of them to slowly recline him so he didn’t simply collapse under his own weight. Once his body settled, he felt someone wrap a heated blanket around him while someone undid his shoes and slid them off.

“The socks too,” it was Ayo’s calm but commanding voice, “And make sure to continue to check the blanket. It’s easy to let it get too hot. Yama, can you show him how we fold it around the side there, so the metal doesn’t get too warm?”

It was difficult to focus, but he took comfort in the familiarity of her voice.

Yama’s voice spoke up next, “Like this, Sam,” Bucky couldn’t make out either of their faces, but he knew they were there. “See? You can keep your hand here where the two touch so you can monitor them both.”

Ayo’s voice, “It’s okay.”

Bucky wasn’t following what they were talking about until he felt the side of the heated blanket curl around his left side and shoulder, and then another warm hand slipped beneath the material and came to rest at the crest of his shoulder, right where the metal mounting met his skin. The area was sensitive, scarred, and one no one outside of him and the Wakandans had touched it since the last time he’d been pulled out of cryo and sat at this very same chair.

He didn’t prickle at Sam being the one to make sure the metal mounting around his torso didn’t overheat and burn him, he just… he’d forgotten how vulnerable the whole thing made him feel, how beholden he was to other people tending to him because he wasn’t able to even do so much as pull the blanket around himself or make sure the metal didn’t roast him from the inside out. Bucky tried to turn his head to look at Sam, to read his expression, but he couldn’t turn his neck enough.

He was still just so cold.

“How long does this usually take?” Sam’s voice. Close-by his left ear. It sounded shaky. Frightened. “He’s ice-cold.”

“Usually about five minutes to start to stabilize,” Shuri offered from somewhere nearby. “And another twenty to thirty after to get close to his normal vitals. It varies. We have to go slow so we don’t risk burning him or sending his system into fight or flight-mode.”

He felt his body momentarily seize and the hand on his shoulder and the one still gripping his hand responded by squeezing back.

“I know it hurts, but try to keep your eyes open, James. We don’t want you to slip back to sleep.”

Logic told him this was normal, under control, but that didn’t mean much when the heated blanket felt like it was burning through his skin. He let his head roll back so he could finally see Sam. He hadn’t assumed Ayo would pull him into this.

When he found Sam’s face, it was pinned down with a tight mask of concern. Bucky tried his voice again, “~---ey.” Close enough.

Bucky saw Sam’s eyes immediately move from his own, across him to Ayo, and back to his. “It’s okay, Buck, we’re here. You don’t need to do anything, just keep your eyes open and they said the blankets and IV Yama’s giving you will do their thing.”

Bucky was finding it a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he did what he could, trying to force his throat to work, “~--orry--~”

Sam’s expression shifted to confusion. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke, “About what, Buck?”

“~--This--~”

Sam snorted derisively, though his tone was gentle, “Seen worse. Pararescue, remember?”

Bucky groaned, “~--Show--off.--~” every part of his body hurt at once, but it was nice to have something else to focus on.

Shuri approached from his left side, her eyes were kind, but she wore a scientist's expression, “How are you feeling, James?”

“~--Forgot.--How much.--Fun.--This is.--~”

He saw a smile crack the corner of the young genius’s mouth, “Good to know your humor survived the thaw.”

He tried to summon the strength to shift his legs, but they pointedly ignored his request, “~--You get.--What.--You needed?--~”

Shuri’s face fell back to neutral, and he frowned inwardly when he saw it: It said more than words, “I did, and I see some possible trends, but I need time to go over the data and cross-compare it to your other scans.”

“~--Guess.--It was.--too much.--To hope.--The second snap.--Fixed things.--~”

The princess nodded, “It would have been a welcome boon, but let us not get ahead of ourselves and assume that anything is truly dire. You’ve done your part, and I will spend the evening and if needed, all of the week doing mine if that’s what it takes. But I’m not going to do any of us the disservice of entertaining anyone’s curiosity with half-formed calculations.”

He accepted her statement and justification with as much grace as he could manage as a human popsicle. He made the mistake of trying to take a deeper breath of air in a feeble attempt to warm himself from the inside out, but all that managed to do was cause another sudden wave of pain to peak and jolt through him.

“You doing okay?” he felt Sam’s steady hand on his shoulder.

“~-Yeah.--Forgot how when.--You’re really cold it.--Seems like the blanket.--Is burning my skin.-~”

Bucky was casually aware of Yama preparing to feed another injection into his IV.

Closeby, Ayo spoke, “It should pass soon. You are over halfway to the next milestone.” She squeezed his hand once before she carefully slipped it under the blanket and placed it over his chest. Wordlessly, she tucked the blanket around him and moved towards his feet where she and Yama inspected their progress. Bucky was pretty sure they were still mostly numb, but he was dully aware of gentle hands making contact with his toes. The fact that he could feel them was a good sign.

“Do you remember any of your dreams?” This was Shuri.

He rolled the question over in his mind, “~Yeah.-I think so.~”

“Do you think them simple dreams, or possible memories?”

He didn’t have to consider this question for long. They were too grounded in reality to have been anything but memories. They were too clear. Too specific. Too vivid. The Nazi serum that’d honed aspects of his recall insisted these were distinct echos from the past, “~Can’t be sure, but.-Probably memories.~”

Shuri’s eyes stayed steady on his, but she’d already begun to log the answers to his question in a display along her wrist. “Were they ones you recalled prior to being under?”

That was a decidedly harder question. The memories were still so fresh and clear in his mind that it was difficult to recall if they’d been there, or if they’d only lived as broad strokes from a time before. His jaw still ached, but he found it easier to speak, “I’m honestly not sure. They’re clear now, really clear, but I… I don’t remember how much was there before I was under.”

“It would be good to log them,” Shuri’s voice was gentle, but not insistent.

Yeah, he knew that was coming next but... He was also not-so-subtly aware of Sam’s quiet presence standing over his left shoulder, “Yeah, I know.”

And right on cue, “Swear to god, Buck, if the next thing out of your mouth is you apologizing to me…”

Bucky tilted his head to meet Sam’s steadfast gaze.

It was easy for Sam to say that, but the truth was that they’d never really talked about what either of them dreamed. Bucky knew Sam had nightmares sometimes too, and they’d developed a sort of social shorthand for it, for the idea of being there for each other whenever their respective minds had a bad time of things. But they’d also never gone into details. It hadn’t been necessary. It wasn’t as if talking about the specifics made them go away.

But there was a decided difference between the idea of just talking about dreams for the sake of conversation, for ruminating over symbolism, what seeing a pair of animals meant to your subconsciousness of whatever, and what Shuri was trying to do. Her questions weren’t for the simple sake of curiosity, but to try to add to the catalog of dreams and memories they’d discussed previously. In addition to trying to take a ballpark at carbon dating when the memories were from, they’d learned there were sometimes valuable breadcrumbs of data in there, too. Not always, but sometimes. He used to log some of them in his Kimoyo Beads until he’d gotten lazy about such things, preferring not to recount what he’d seen unless someone nudged him into doing so.

But the crispness of the memories also tended to fade quickly, which was why Shuri had wasted no time in asking him about them.

“I get it: ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’” Bucky admitted to Sam through teeth a hair beyond a chatter. There were other things he considered saying, about how speaking this stuff out loud had a way of making the events seem more real, but Sam beat him to it.

“They’re uncomfortable and highly personal. If they only live in your head, then no one else needs to deal with ‘em, or the details only you know.” Sam just looked at him with those steady eyes of his, and Bucky met his expression: he got it.

Sometimes it was easy to forget Sam had his own demons and nightmares. He was just better at keeping them at-bay.

“It’s that, yeah, but I guess… this is going to sound stupid but…” Bucky tried to figure out what he wanted to say into words, “You remember how you told me you used to assume I just came to Wakanda and just got into a cryo tube and was magically cured? How you just didn’t know any differently, so your mind took a stab at a theory and went with it until you were told otherwise?”

“Yeah?”

Bucky did what he could to fight down the emotions he felt building up somewhere in him, “I guess this is a little like that. I mean, you met him, it’s not like you’re naive, I’m not playing at that. I just… I guess there’s a part of me that still thinks that whatever you’re imagining is still infinitely kinder than a lot of what actually happened.”

He didn’t know how he’d managed to get all of that out, but Sam just kept his eyes on him as he frowned, “And that it’ll make me see you differently?”

“I mean yeah, I guess.”

“And then what?” Sam pressed.

Bucky did his best impersonation of a shrug from beneath the blankets, “I don’t know.” He honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. “That you’ll pity me or something?”

Ayo spoke up at that, “Even I do not pity you.”

Both Sam and Bucky looked to the Dora Milaje stationed with spear in-hand at Bucky’s right side, “I have seen more than most, and I do not pity you. I think you too easily confuse pity with empathy, and in doing so: shy away from emotions that could serve you.”

Ayo didn’t pity him? After all she’d seen? That stilled the crux of Bucky’s argument dead in the water.

Ayo saw fit to add, “If you continue to pick and choose what parts of yourself you share with those around you, you will continue to do both yourself and those relationships a disservice. It does not shield them as you believe it does.” There were layers to her observation that Bucky was certain his cold-chilled mind still didn’t fully-grasp, but he got the drift.

Shuri saw fit to speak up and play devil’s advocate, “But as always: It’s up to you. We don’t have to log them here, or you can do it on your own.”

Bucky made a face and bit his lip, acquiescing, “Nah, let's get it over with. It’s better when you log them anyway. You pick up on more details than I do, and stuff usually starts to fade pretty quickly.” He felt Sam gently squeeze his shoulder in solidarity. That or he was checking if he was still doing alright with whatever defrost setting Ayo’d set the heated blanket on. It still felt like it was burning him.

“I can step out, too,” Sam offered diplomatically, “I’m not offended. Doctor patient confidentiality and all.”

Bucky saw fit to try and mime a snort that only succeeded in hurting one of the frozen muscles beneath his sternum, “It’s not that,” he admitted, “It’s the stuff you and Ayo said.”

He was realizing it went deeper than even that, though.

There was a fantasy to his recovery that went something like this:

Back after the Decimation, after Steve and his time-travel bon voyage, Bucky remembered for a brief moment, considering going back to the Wakandans. A string of bad decisions and avoidance aside, he’d always felt like they’d just seen a little too much of his many sides to see him as anything other than a project. To just see him as a person first, not him.

So in his not unsubstantial stubbornness and probably more than a little unsung grief, he’d decided he’d try that “fresh start” ideal and see how that shoe fit.

There was a certain appeal to the idea of living in Brooklyn and putting on some long-sleeved shirts and gloves and just trying to blend in and play along that there was nothing altogether interesting about him and his past beyond having circulation issues with his hands.

In some ways, it had honestly been a refreshing change. For people to just treat him like anyone else, and not think anything more of it.

The problem was: It also meant he couldn’t get too close to people or it risked destroying that fragile fantasy he’d wrapped himself up in. The one where he felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing trying to explain away even little things like his age, past, hobbies, music tastes, or what he did for work because the real answers he’d deemed inappropriate for polite company. For “normal” people.

So in his efforts to play along, to blend in and pretend like he was someone else, he later respected that he’d also managed to pull away from people when he’d probably needed them most.

And so, because he was too stubborn to try to figure out a way to fix things, he’d just sunk deeper and deeper, until Walker and that damn shield had finally rattled him enough to draw him out of his self-imposed cave of misery.

So therein he had a solid test case of how the virtues of trying to pretend to be someone else hadn’t actually gifted him the hand of peace and friendship he’d hoped it might.

Add to that, he suddenly had an astoundingly fresh recollection on how much good it’d done when he’d hidden away things from Steve with the best of intentions for years. Part of him was impressed he’d managed to pull it off, to not have Steve suspect anything after Azzano, but looking back at what he knew now, he didn’t know why he’d felt the need to buy into that whole ruse to begin with. All the lies and misdirection certainly didn’t bring the two of them closer together. Add to that: if Steve’d known Bucky had that HYDRA serum running through his veins when he’d been blown off the train, maybe he would have come looking for him?

Maybe the fact they’d found him at all was his own damn fault?

His body shuddered as he rapidly shook the thought away. That was nearly eighty years ago. He couldn’t change the past. He knew that.

But he also wasn’t going to make that same mistake again and again and expect or hope for a different outcome. If he was going to treat Sam like a partner, a real partner, it started with not simply keeping him in the dark when suited Bucky’s own internal dialogue.

He looked back to Sam’s concerned face and solidified his resolve, “No, I’d like you to stay.” he found he meant every word he said, hard as they were to say, “I have enough skeletons in my closet to fill at least a dozen natural history museums and a few of those Halloween stores, probably more, but I think I’m past the point of believing that keeping people out has ever done me any genuine good.” He found his eyes glancing at Ayo’s, and they rested there for a moment. His words were for her too.

Sam acknowledged the statement with an affirmative, “Well, you know you’ve got my support, Buck. Whatever you need.”

Bucky took a glance back to Sam and offered him as best of an approximation as his face could manage of a smile. He hoped it looked like a smile, at least. It felt like a grimace, “Thanks.” He took a deep breath and focused his attention back to Shuri and her steadfast expression. She’d already taken up position in front of him with Nomble a few steps behind her. Yama flanked the Princess’s other side, and kept her eyes steady on Bucky, encouraging him with silent compassion.

Shuri silently gestured for him to begin, and he did what he could to push away the pain and chill deep inside his core as he focused on his words, “Well, there were three separate strands of memories that I remember…”

And he told them. He kept his eyes unfocused on the ceiling above as he recounted the memories that’d surfaced about Mamma and Ch’toa’s Cafe where Ayo had patiently helped him come back into himself. About the confusion that had made way to marmalade and a renewed feeling of self. He even shared the part about the laughter, because in the moment, that felt just as important as the rest of it.

He told them about the memory with Steve and the private shame he had as he tried to figure out what was happening to him, all the while choosing to keep it to himself to protect Steve so he didn’t have to worry on his account. About the eggs and the berries and the plums and the knives.

When he was done with that, he tried to remind himself where he was, and that he was safe in Wakanda, among friends, and free from HYDRA as he recounted just a few early notes in the sheer symphony of horrors they’d played out upon his mind and body and slowly broke him bit-by-bit.

He’d somehow managed to detach himself enough from the events to keep from drowning in the emotion of it all, on how it felt to reflect on feeling like he was a failure for not being stronger, for cracking under the yoke of their torture and manipulation. And somewhere in there, he was able to confess how they’d been able to fold his mind up like an origami crane and convince him he’d been responsible for Steve’s death, and that playing into their obedience was supposed to stop the same thing from happening again to other people.

There was so much that barely made sense in his own mind, but when he’d finally stopped speaking, the room was quiet. Shuri’d long-since silenced the steady beeps of nearby monitors that tracked the recovery of his own vitals. He found he didn’t need them, then, because he could hear his heartbeat rapidly thumping inside his chest as well as his own head.

Everything still hurt.

He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to look away from the ceiling.

Ayo’s voice was the first to speak. Her voice smooth, steadfast, “As we have said many times before: You are not to blame for what happened. Any of it. Your past and your memories do not define you, nor the man you are capable of becoming.”

His glossy eyes came off the ceiling long enough to chance a glimpse in her direction, and he found her expression lacked the judgement he was certain he’d find there. There was no pity, either: only a resounding empathy from someone who’d seen a lot more, and knew him a lot better, than he’d given her credit for as of late.

Which had a way of only making him feel more guilty.

He felt Sam squeeze the crest of his left shoulder, and he caught his friend’s expression. It was obvious he was at a loss for exactly the words to say after what felt like something of a winding confessional from Bucky. He wore that counselor’s expression of his, the genuine one, and offered simply, “Ayo’s right, HYDRA are still assholes, and Buck?” Sam’s eyes rested seriously on his, “You don’t need to go through any of this alone inside your own head anymore. You got that? You weren’t a burden then, and you’re not a burden now.”

Bucky closed his eyes and steadied his breath, trying to keep his emotions in check, “Work in progress on that.”

“We all are,” Sam observed candidly. “The person that tells you they’ve got themselves all figured-out is just lying to you, themselves, or both.”

“If you say so,” Bucky said, not entirely convinced, but unwilling to make an argument out of it as he continued to wait out the cold that surrounded him.

He found the chill wasn’t as biting anymore.

It took another half-hour until Bucky’s vitals were at a point where Shuri thought it appropriate for him to reclaim his socks and shoes and get to his feet to test his balance and reflexes.

Once she was satisfied he was recovered and in good order, Shuri insisted the two of them hurry along and get some dinner so she could focus on her work, “There’s nothing more for you to do here tonight,” she’d insisted, “But I will give you an update on where things stand after lunchtime tomorrow. It might take a few hours or a few days. It’s too early to tell, but there’s no use hovering here like nosey wild dogs while I work. You should go eat, it’s past dinnertime.”

Ayo nodded her understanding, using her spear to gesture to Yama, “Yama and I shall stay.” She turned to address Nomble, “Show them the way to the cafeteria, then the evening is yours.”

Yama and Nomble each nodded in acknowledgement before Ayo continued, “I will send message to you with tomorrow’s plans when we see how late the princess finds herself in the design center tonight.”

Shuri was already head-down into her data, but she was perfectly capable of multitasking, “I would think it ill-advised to see if you can outlast me,” she teased, “My youth gives me an edge you lack.”

“Not if the bistro is out of that awful, syrupy flavored espresso you favor,” Ayo smoothly countered without missing a beat.

Shuri waved a hand dismissively, “I cannot be responsible for your perpetual poor taste.” Her attention returned to Sam and then Bucky, “But we will talk again tomorrow. Cryo is very hard on your body, make sure you eat enough calories.”

“Yes, princess,” Bucky remarked with as much of a Brooklyn accent as he could interject into the two words.

“Don’t you start that,” Shuri warned, but her expression was soft. She shooed them off with another wave of her slender fingers, “Now let me work.”

Bucky was sure he caught a hint of a smirk on the side of Ayo’s face, but it fell away the moment she glanced back to regard Bucky. He had a feeling they still had words for one another, but that tonight was not that night. If nothing else, he was relieved to no longer see that latent anger in her eyes, though her usual armor was back up. It was hard to watch when he'd recently glimpsed the Ayo in his memories, and how open she once was with him before he’d gone and messed things up. Even now as he struggled to focus on the memories, he could feel the details of the dream start to slip away, fading back to somewhere unreachable.

The Ayo in front of him looked as though she was going to say something, but instead she glanced back at the blue, black, and gold shawl that was folded up on a nearby table. While still holding her spear in-hand, she strode over and took the edge of it and fanned it out before grabbing the far corner and tying the ends together with a few well-placed knots. Satisfied, she wordlessly handed it to Bucky before tapping the shoe of her spear on the ground twice to let the other Doras know they were dismissed to their respective tasks.

Ayo and Yama moved to wordlessly stand guard on either side of Shuri and her console, their expressions a matched pair of two straight-faced on-duty Doras. Nearby, Nomble stepped in front of Bucky and Sam to lead the way out of the lab towards the design center’s on-site cafeteria.

Bucky regarded the shawl for only a moment before he threaded his head through the opening and adjusted the longer edge to rest over his absent shoulder.

Sam fell into place beside him as they started off behind Nomble. As they passed by Ayo, Shuri, and Yama, Bucky mouthed a quick “thank you” in Ayo’s direction. Her expression didn’t change, but her attentive brown eyes watched him go.

Ayo was many things, but insincere was not among them. He knew it wasn’t up to chance that she’d specifically chosen to tie, of all things, a double friendship knot into the shawl.

He knew all was not well, not by a long shot. In his periphery, he was aware they’d been boots-down in Symkaria only twenty-four hours ago and still had an international case to try and crack, even if the concerns felt like a lifetime ago. Beyond that? He still didn’t know what was going on with his mind, his memories, or his broken bonds with the Wakandans.

But with Sam close by his side, as he looked down to regard the two firm knots Ayo tied in the shawl: It felt like a start.

Chapter Text

[ID: A cropped painting by Kaite_xyxy showing a landscape view from the top of Mount Bashenga. Nearest the viewer is a field of wild grass, and a distance away is the Wakandan Design Center. In the far distance are a set of rolling mountains. The painting is awash with cool blues and purples, but the horizon is a warm red, as if the sun recently set beyond the mountains. End ID]

Sam was certain that somewhere in the middle of the day, probably back at the Aeronautics Museum, that he’d hit his capacity on being able to soak in any more new experiences like some sort of human sponge.

Everything since that point was like trying to find room for just one more bite of peach cobbler when your stomach was already loudly protesting that you were utterly full.

Somewhere in there, he’d managed to push through the discomfort and summon up enough spare capacity to be there for Bucky, but with all the whirlwind that’d gone on, sometimes it felt like trying to use a dull spoon to cut a ribeye into more bite-sized pieces. He was still trying to process a fraction of Shuri’s tech-speak right alongside coming to terms with the horrors of the whole top-to-bottom cryo process when he entered the Wakandan Design Center’s cafeteria. But as soon as he’d stepped in, he immediately told himself he simply had no capacity to spare to process nor appreciate yet another ridiculous helping of Wakandan innovation. It would just have to wait for another day. Any other day. Not today.

So he did what he could to turn his curious brain off. To try to pay no heed to the elegant way some brilliant Wakandan interior designer had seen fit to weave marbled black with stainless steel, blue lighting, and tribal wall motifs together into something so striking it might very well have fit into any number of museums.

He made it a point to avoid picking out each and every nuance that made the setup of the sprawling, window-lined cafeteria seem like it was straight out of a sci-fi movie. Not the levitating displays, the completely automated serving lines, and certainly not the drones.

Yes: there were drones.

Inside the cafeteria.

Drones.

He told himself it was all completely normal enough to ignore, and some other day he could spend time and attention trying to wrap his mind around the sheer alienness of it all.

But… Drones.

Nomble was in her Dora’s stride as she led the way and gestured to the entrance of the nearest corral. She didn’t say anything, but Sam watched her watching Bucky. It was clear-as-day to him that she was doing close to the same thing he was: making sure Bucky was faring okay after all of that.

If he wouldn’t have known better, he would have assumed the man in question was just tired. Granted: he had every right to be, but his slow pace and careful steps spoke to a present state that was well-beyond simple exhaustion. Bucky hadn’t said a lot on the way to the cafeteria beyond the observation that cryo took a lot out of him. He reassured Sam that once he got some calories in him he’d, how had he put it? “Look and feel a lot less like death warmed over.”

Sam was pretty sure it’d been a narrow attempt at humor, but he’d also seen too much in the last few hours to not immediately go back to imagining his friend with that frighteningly pale skin and quiet blue accents.

He was certain that regardless of the fact Bucky was alive and well in front of him, he’d be replaying some of the worst parts in his dreams in the coming weeks.

That being as it was, Bucky was twitchy and his fingers still trembled now and then, but he appeared stable enough to manage something so simple as walking, and hopefully in short order: getting some food in him.

The man in question glanced back over his shoulder to confirm Sam was still with him as he grabbed the nearest metal tray and passed it back before taking his own. “If you have the option, try to grab things we can take to-go,” he advised as he stepped forward and picked up a foil-wrapped hot sandwich, then debated and placed two more on his tray. “After…all that, even just being inside feels claustrophobic. If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer some fresh air.”

“No argument here,” Sam agreed. He considered adding he wouldn’t have minded never seeing the inside of that particular lab again, but he was certain they’d be back before they knew it.

He made the mistake of looking down the lane at the sheer variety of food options ahead of him, and it made him feel like his mind was on the verge of shorting out again, so he decided he would just take one of whatever Bucky’d chosen. Based on what he’d had for breakfast this morning, it seemed altogether unlikely anything served here could be truly inedible.

Bucky moved up a few steps and proceeded to place another pre-prepared hot sandwich of some sort on his tray. When Sam approached, he caught the nearest projected menu swap to English. Strange. It hadn’t done that to Bucky, “Wait, why did it…?”

His friend glanced back and it took him a moment to parse Sam’s question, “You forget to turn in the English Kimoyo Translation Bead from the Aeronautics Museum?”

“Shit,” Sam cursed under his breath.

“It’s no big deal,” Bucky reassured him, “That’s what they’re there for. Accessibility is king and all. I’m guessing they’ve been having a lot more international guests in the last few years since we were last here if the food’s any indication. I mean, burritos? Seriously?”

His comment didn’t stop him from adding another foil-wrapped bundle to his tray.

There were entire sections of the corrals that Bucky skipped in favor of jumping ahead to specific kiosks and machines. Beyond the bottled drinks, even the drink bar was automated from top to bottom, including some sort of voice-controlled barista that was emblazoned with an actual, honest-to-god, Starbucks logo.

Yep! He didn’t have the spare capacity for any of this right now.

Bucky strung out an order for a warm beverage that was at least six words longer than any drink order ought to be, and Sam’d followed by requesting his own respectably simple and straightforward tea order. The last thing he needed was some sugar-filled frou-frou junk when his head was still spinning.

Oh god. Another drone. This one had a little claw that--

He forced the thought down with a prompt Not now, Wilson!

By the time they’d gotten to… whatever you’d consider the Wakandan equivalent of a check-out, the drinks they’d just ordered minutes earlier had already just… showed up. Sam wasn’t sure how they’d gotten there, if it’d been a conveyor belt, robot, flesh-and-blood human, or flown-in by drone, but there was still something highly surreal about the efficiency of it all. The custom beverages were even served in little air-tight stainless steel (or was that vibranium?) canisters to prevent spills and keep them at the proper temperature.

“They encourage people to bring their own bottles,” Bucky explained, because of course Sam must have been looking at the canisters like they were from another planet altogether. “Environmentally friendly and all.”

Would the wonders ever cease?

“You better try not to name the drones,” Bucky warned halfheartedly.

Sam rolled his eyes, but was appreciative for the spot of humor, all things considered.

Nomble did the honors of helping the two of them get checked out and trade their trays for to-go bags before the Dora wordlessly gestured with her vibranium spear and led the way outside.

Sam wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected to see when they stepped outside, because as far as his tired mind went: It could have been daytime, night time, or anywhere in-between and he would have accepted it as a completely valid fact.

It wasn’t completely dark out, but the sun had already slipped below the distant horizon a ways off, leaving a warm glow over the surrounding mountains.

Bucky’s voice came from beside him, “Did you want to sit with us while we eat?” It took Sam a moment to realize Bucky was addressing Nomble.

The Dora Milaje appeared to consider the inquiry only briefly before she politely declined with a tilt of her head, “Thank you, but no. I have other matters to attend to, but you can summon me when you’re done and I will take you back to the city.” She smoothly gestured the tip of her staff to the Kimoyo Beads around Bucky’s wrist, and Sam found himself trying to remember if she’d actually said a word specifically to Bucky up until this point.

Bucky nodded, but Sam could tell by his expression he’d honestly been hoping Nomble might accept the offer. You couldn’t force an olive branch, though.

Nomble met his own eyes briefly as she spun on her heel and wordlessly headed back to the Design Center. Bucky silently stood and watched her retreat, still holding the to-go back in his hand. Once it was abundantly clear she held no second-thoughts about her decision, he made a gesture with the bag of food in his hand for Sam to follow.

He led them away from the tarmac, out and around the exterior of the Wakandan Design Center towards the drop-off and the overlook that the center was built into. The sun must’ve set at least a half-hour ago, because the warm afterglow was still visible on the furthest reaches of the horizon, but if you looked hard enough, the first hint of stars were already working to make themselves known overhead.

Once they’d made their way a short distance from the overlook to a spot Bucky must’ve considered an appropriate location for a make-shift picnic, he gently sat the bag of food and drinks down beside him and used his hand to lower himself onto the grass. He glanced behind him once to confirm Sam was still following, and wasn’t about to wander off the edge.

Initially, Sam stayed on his feet as he took in the view and the feel of the wind coming off the open canyon below. It had a way of making him miss his wings, and the very specific feelings of freedom they afforded him. “It looks a lot different up-close. I bet this is even more incredible during the day,” he remarked before taking a seat beside Bucky’s right so he could be tactically close to that goodie bag of his.

“The sunsets here are something else,” Bucky confirmed, “Pity we missed this one. Another time.”

“Does this area have a name?” Sam asked, pitching in another round of small talk that didn’t involve the nightmares of cryo.

“Mount Bashenga,” Bucky confirmed. “You wouldn’t know it now, but there was actually a sizable battle between some of the tribes here that took place only a week or so after I originally arrived. Crazy to think about it now.”

Sam acknowledged the small-talk with a nod as he made a point of casually reaching a hand into Bucky’s bag and pulling out the largest of the three drink bottles. He loosened the lid and sat it in the grass temptingly close beside Bucky’s hand. His friend caught the motion as well as the intent of what he was up-to, but it was apparent he wasn’t interested in putting up any logic-based argument against it.

“Thanks,” he offered as he took the warm beverage and promptly pulled it to his lips. It was hard to miss the fact that his friend’s hand was still trembling, and the sight of it reminded Sam of too many moments from the last few hours. It was clear Bucky didn’t even know where to start with any sort of conversation regarding what’d taken place over those hours either.

That made two of them.

Sam decided there was time enough for check-ins and probing “how you doing?”-type questions after they both got some calories in them, so he opted to unwrap one of Bucky’s hot sandwiches and sit it conveniently on top of the foil before he did the same with his own. He was so far past the point of caring about mundane things like eating right now that he found he didn’t even spare a passing thought about what was in the sandwich. All that mattered was it was food and it was warm, and his partner was alive and well and looking all healthy-flesh-colored rather than frosted and twinged blue beside him.

The two of them ate together in shared silence for a while, just sitting and watching the red slowly fade out of the distant horizon. It wasn’t a strained or uneasy stillness, but one of those fragile tranquilities where you knew that it wouldn’t last, and that the moment it was broken, the worries of the world would come back in full-force.

So instead, they both just sat and watched and listened.

It must have been after-hours for the Design Center, because all of the surrounding jets and transport ships at their back remained grounded. Some graceful ships far in the distance, back towards Birnin Zana, went about their business, but most of what Sam could hear were natural sounds: the light wind playing through the grass while birds, frogs, and a building symphony of crickets greeted the coming nightfall with open arms.

It was peaceful up here, unhurried. Aside from the far-off view of the Golden City, if he closed his eyes, it reminded him more than a little bit of home, only with less humidity and without the constant threat of mosquitoes. The temperature was as close as you could get to idyllic: lukewarm and cozy, like a full-body blanket. It was warmer than the inside of the Design Center by at least a few degrees, and somewhere in the back of his mind he found the idea of fresh air agreeable to his hopes that it would be a boon to Bucky’s continued recovery. He’d never touched the skin of a living person that was so terribly, frighteningly cold.

Bit by bit, the longer they sat, the more the tight knot in his chest slowly loosened, and the ever-more aware he became of just how utterly exhausted he was after the events of the last twenty-four hours. It felt like he’d been running on nothing but adrenaline non-stop, and now that he was sitting and not having to do anything, not having to absorb anything, it was all catching up with him at once.

That being as it was, as the warm breeze continued to gather around him like rising thermals on the wing, just as fast as the worries started to rise up in him, he found the quiet wind saw fit to carry at least some of them away, leaving him feeling at least a little lighter than before.

“This is nice,” he observed, looking out over the lights of the distant city as he unwrapped another one of Bucky’s sandwiches the moment he took notice that the only remnant of the first one was its residual foil wrapper.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed from just to his left. He folded one knee under his other leg and after discarding the wrappings into one side of the bag, he casually threaded his still trembling fingers through the wild grass surrounding them.

Bucky had every right to that distant expression of his, but wasn’t expecting him to ask what he did next.

“How are you holding up?” He turned the side of his head towards Sam so that his nearest eye could critically evaluate Sam’s response.

Sam offered him a sidelong glance and even a little bit of what he hoped looked like a smile of disbelief as he shook his head, “It’s been a day, man. Without trying to hog any spotlight: it’s been a long day.” He took a sip of his hot tea before he continued, “Definitely not the sort of thing I expected when Ayo called you back to Wakanda. Speaking of which, with due all respect: after seeing what I have today, you really ought to craft some better shorthand for her rather than ‘your prior handler.’ It’s dehumanizing as hell to you, and I can’t begin to tell you how much it undersells--” he gestured a hand around him, “--all of this, and each of them as well. I… I just had no idea.”

Bucky bit the side of his lip but nodded agreement, “The last day’s been a long-overdue wake-up call across the board.” He paused before adding, “But you also didn’t answer my question, Counselor Wilson. How are you holding up?”

Sam shot Bucky side-eye at that, but his friend deflected it with an expert shrug, “Just because I’m an hour shy of a thaw doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be concerned about my partner. You’ve gotta give me a little more credit than that.”

“Fair enough,” Sam took the opportunity to lay back on the grass, as if somehow this conversation might be made easier if he was talking aloud to the sky above rather than looking at Bucky and his expressive blue eyes as he did. “Rough seeing you have to go through all that, especially knowing it was hardly the first time, and maybe not the last. Rougher hearing you talk about some of those memories, of course. But ridiculous as it is, it made me even a little bit more irritated about Steve. Logistics and branches of time and whatever aside: I wish there was some way I could’ve taken a turn with that stupid time machine and gone back and helped you somehow.”

The grass rustled beside him as Bucky pivoted around in place so he was facing Sam before he laid down on his back so they were laying opposite one another. His voice was softer and fringed with a hint of very particular emotion when he finally responded, “I appreciate that. Some of that was on me, though.”

“Enough blame to go around,” Sam acknowledged, “But I guess I’d also never thought how it would be to just not… understand things like what was going on with your own body, either.” He wondered out loud, “Is the touch stuff you talked from way back then still like that for you now?”

Bucky held out his hand experimentally in front of him, “The details of that particular dream are already starting to fade,” he admitted, his tone laced with melancholy and a hint of frustration, “But yeah, that’s just my normal, so much that it’s hard to remember back to when it wasn’t this way. You just get used to it, I suppose. Just being careful at all times. It’s like living in a world where everything that matters is fragile, made out of porcelain. Doesn’t matter what century I’m in, I have to be hypervigilant so I don’t hurt other people or myself.”

“Yourself?” Sam heard himself ask the question before he quickly added, “Nevermind, you don’t have to answer—.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky said from somewhere beside him, “I honestly just… I’ve never been able to talk about this stuff. I mean, some with the Wakandans, obviously. But it’s different, but it’s not a bad thing.” There was a brief silence while Bucky appeared to consider the question, “I guess the most straightforward example I can think of is if you make a fist or grab onto something, you can squeeze it as tight as you can but it only goes so far. After a certain point, you only have so much strength and your body knows to stop when the pressure of it or the pain reaches a certain point, right?”

“Right. You’re saying it’s not like that for you?”

“Not anymore. Not since the serum.” Bucky admitted, “The pain is mostly what keeps me vigilant from applying too much force and breaking my own hand, or at least bruising it. It’s not so bad now, though. I’ve learned to be careful. I’ve had to be.”

“Had no idea,” Sam confirmed, finding himself wondering if things’d been that way for Steve and the other super soldiers as well, or if it was just due to Bucky’s unique strain of the serum. “And I’m sure that wasn’t the way you would have preferred to broach some of this more… personal stuff, but for what it’s worth? It’s helped fill in some missing pieces. Makes me feel like I know you, the whole picture of you, a little bit better. And far as the Wakanda side of things goes, it’s honestly pretty incredible seeing even a glimpse into the life you used to have with the people here.” Sam debated saying more, but the peace of the sweet mountain air saw fit to keep him talking, “For all intents and purposes: they’re family. Your family. And you even saw fit to try to welcome me into the fold. You realize that, right? That attempt at an introduction with Ayo was awkward as anything, but it meant something both ways. It’s obvious how much you all care about each other when you’re not swimmin’ in your own heads.”

Bucky remained silent, but Sam could hear him shift in the grass beside him, “I guess so. You were always so open and eager to introduce me to everyone in Delacroix. I just assumed I didn’t have anything to offer in return.”

“You were definitely holding back on Mamma and Ch’toa’s cooking,” Sam pointed out, “And did I hear right that they even taught you some of that while you were here?”

“I mean, not restaurant quality, but some. You know I did offer to cook for you and Sarah multiple times. You both turned it down at every turn.” Bucky defended.

“We assumed you just knew how to boil water and maybe had a white boy recipe for potato salad with raisins or something.”

Bucky Managed to swing just a hint of something of a Wakandan accent into his reply, “I’d be downright offended if I wasn’t confident that Mamma’s potato salad recipe is better than anything you have in your sweet, southern arsenal.”

Sam laughed aloud, the sheer release of the emotion seeing fit to loosen his frail nerves, “Wow, Buck. Shots fired. Next thing I know, you're gonna go after the mac’n cheese, and that’s downright sacred around our parts.”

“I said what I said,” Bucky defended, “Speaking of which: Did you hear from Sarah and the boys today?”

Sam felt the joy drop out of his expression in an instant, “She called when you were in cryo. They’re all doing fine, and I said we’d call them later, but Sarah said there was another officer-involved shooting a county over. All of them were pretty spooked.”

The breeze stilled, and for a moment, all he could hear was the sound of the crickets. Even they seemed to hush a little in respect to the weight of his words.

“...God... another one?” Buck’s voice was soft and sympathetic. It wasn’t the empty sympathy of someone who only cared because the news sought to teach them right from wrong, but because he had personal stakes and interest in the good fight. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need to head back?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed Sam’s mind, not until that moment at least. He rapidly dismissed it. If he flew back every time something like that happened... “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said quickly before he could give the thought any more time to manifest, “Torres checked in, too. No updates on that front, and no additional sightings, but he’s keeping his ear to the ground while the official investigation is underway.”

He’d take work-talk over the other stuff right now. He just didn’t have any capacity to spare.

Bucky softly grunted an affirmative before slowly adding, “...I don’t know how much use I’m going to be without the arm, though.”

Sam hadn’t honestly thought that far ahead, but his expression tightened. Laying there in the half-darkness it was easy to momentarily forget… that… but it sure hadn’t been earlier when the current state of Bucky’s absent arm had been on full display while he was under. He was glad he’d had the courage to broach the subject with Ayo, but he wasn’t sure where that left Bucky. They’d been so busy with the fallout from the last twenty-four hours that he hadn’t even stopped to consider where that left him in terms of being mission-ready.

Right now, that was the least of Sam’s concerns, but the tactician in him knew it was too important a consideration to be ignored outright.

“Let’s leave that worry for another day, okay Buck?”

“Fair,” he admitted, before the two of them slipped back into silence.

The whole topic of the shoulder, about Bucky’s time in Wakanda wasn’t as easy for his mind to dismiss, though. Bucky’d gotten less gun-shy about having the arm, or at least parts of it on display these last few months, about not seeing the need to hide it like he did after the trial, and the pardon, and the brief renewed surge of interest in The Winter Soldier. Yet aside from the passing moments where he was in or out of the bathroom or changing clothes, he kept the part that’d been surgically grafted onto him remarkably private.

The truth was, Sam’d never really stopped to consider the whole long process it must have been to remove the bits HYDRA had shoved in him like some teddy bear stuffed with twisted wire and used car parts, nor the idea it would have taken multiple surgeries and long recovery periods to get back to something close to square-one. He knew Bucky healed faster than most but he just hadn’t stopped to consider the sweeping logistics and grueling work all of this must’ve entailed, especially when Bucky had apparently set his sights on a surgically grafted replacement.

Even then, the whole idea of it felt like it was mostly a distant theoretical. Well, up until the moment Ayo sought to intervene and make it real.

He’d never know exactly what went through her mind to decide he should be the one to monitor the heated blanket on Bucky’s left side when he was coming out of cryo, but the moment she’d guided his hand to the spot where the vibranium mounting met the flesh of his shoulder, it was like she’d saw fit to open his eyes to the harsh reality they’d all faced.

He could tell by her expression that she hadn’t done it as a delayed punishment for asking about the arm, but as something of a way to bring him into the fold and acknowledge his genuine desire to help, even with the tough stuff.

Sam hadn’t needed to see the rough, welted layers of scar tissue to know they were there, but being prompted to rest his hand atop them had been a very particular type of intimacy. The buckled flesh trail formed a story that divided Bucky’s deeply chilled skin with the smooth vibranium shell of Wakandan innovation. It was apparent why they’d learned it was necessary to monitor the area, because Ayo was spot on that the metal warmed a lot more quickly than he would have expected, and it meant Sam had to make little adjustments all the while to ensure the skin had the opportunity to warm, but the metal didn’t get too hot.

Was this a struggle he dealt with when they were out in the heat normally? He’d have to ask.

Still, the whole thing was just… just utterly surreal.

As if reading his damn mind, Bucky spoke up from beside him, “Really though: thanks for sticking by through all of this. Means a lot. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, either.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to say to that. Leave it to Bucky to manage to slip a “thank you” right up against a genuine acknowledgement of how much he valued Sam’s own emotional well-being. It was entirely unfair, because it meant he couldn’t dodge one without deflecting the other.

The man was getting clever in his old age.

“It hasn’t,” Sam admitted, “But I’m holding up. Just worried about you.”

There was a short silence filled with more of Wakanda’s nighttime serenade before Bucky spoke again, though this time Sam had a feeling he wasn’t dodging the subject so much as allowing himself to speak his actual thoughts aloud, “I was kinda hoping Nomble might’ve been willing to sit out here with us for dinner. She’s the silent-type when she’s on-duty, but I think you two would get along outside of that. She’s been quieter than usual, though.”

After a moment he saw fit to clarify, “And before you say anything smart-ass: I am in no way implying you should flirt with any of the Doras. If you think seeing Walker get his ass handed to him was entertaining, you would have simply reveled at the sight of me getting promptly put in my place this one time I decided it would be amusing to toss what I thought was some good old-fashioned charm back at Ayo as a joke. When the bruises she gave me from that trespass finally cleared, she delivered a matching set just to make sure to drive the message home. I tell you what: There’s a reason you won’t hear anyone cat-calling Doras or anyone else in Wakanda.”

“Wait, you cat-called Ayo?” Sam remarked in utter disbelief.

“That wasn’t what I said!” Bucky defended, “Were you listening at all?”

“I heard enough. What’d you even say?”

“I don’t remember the context--”

“--That’s all-around suspicious when it seems as though you remembered it well-enough moments ago. Blaming the serum when it serves you--”

“--now you’re just going to use that against me--” Bucky countered.

“--because it sounds like you--”

“--you really are awful.” Bucky concluded with an audible groan, “It was Shuri’s fault anyway! We were talking about slang from when I was growing up in Brooklyn, and the first thing out of my mouth was something to the effect of,” he slipped into a deep Brooklyn accent, “‘Hey, dollface…’ and the next thing I know, that merciless spear of Ayo’s buckled in the back of my knees and laid me out in no-time flat. Ayo just stood over me, fuming, and Shuri sat nearby trying to play all innocent like she hadn’t been the one to suggest it. She’s not nearly as innocent as she looks, Sam.”

Sam burst out laughing at the mental image, “--Oh. My GOD.”

Bucky waved his hand in the air, “Just trust me that it’s a whole lot funnier when it’s happening to someone else.”

“I would not have minded seeing that play out in real-time.” Sam admitted, “Just don't give Sarah any ideas.”

Bucky snorted.

As the humor of the moment was carried off by the warm wind, Sam added, “Speaking of which, at some point it’d probably be good to listen to some of the more recent voicemails from the Wakandans.”

“Oh?” Bucky inquired, “When we were at the museum earlier, I told Ayo earlier I would see if I could get through the recordings tonight, but… I know it’s going to be rough. I’m not sure what I’ll find. I’m just so ashamed of the whole deal, but I know continuing to avoid those messages is just burning a slow hole in me wondering. After Steve left, I really managed to do a number on everything. I was just so convinced, that I didn’t mean nearly as much to Wakandans as they did to me. And now? It’s like someone’s pulled back a curtain and shined a spotlight on the fact that the reality I was so convinced of, the one where I didn’t mean anything real to them, couldn’t be further from the truth, and I feel like an absolute idiot for ever thinking otherwise.”

“You haven’t lost them, though,” Sam observed.

Bucky groaned in polite disagreement, but Sam saw fit to continue, “I’ve been here with you this whole time, including while you were under, and I’m telling you: They’re justifiably upset to various degrees and probably for subtly different reasons, but you haven’t lost them.”

“Nomble was dusted like we were, though,” Bucky observed, thinking aloud.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “But it sounds like she left you some recordings after the Decimation.”

“It can’t be worse than Madripoor. Or some of the other stuff I’ve seen today,” Bucky said out loud, but his voice wasn’t entirely certain of his claim, “...can it?”

“I mean…” Sam started, but he felt his own voice fade off because he knew more than he was letting on, on account of overhearing what Nomble’d said to Ayo when Bucky’s been under.

Before Sam could say anything more, Bucky was already holding his wrist close to him so he could use his fingers to toggle on the Kimoyo Beads and their blue-cast user interface. He flipped through a number of dated recordings, settling on one with Nomble’s face dated from a few months earlier. His thumb hovered nervously over the playback prompt for a moment before curiosity got the better of him.

There was a momentary delay before a projection of Nomble’s shoulders and head alighted inches above Bucky’s palm. She wore a black top and matching scarf, and her expression was disheartened, almost hollow. Her eyes glossy and cast pink as if she’d recently been crying. “I just don’t understand why you won’t even pick up. We’re all worried about you. Yama thought you’d at least show up for this funeral, but I don’t even know what’s worse: The thought of you not listening to these messages at all, or listening, and then ignoring them still.” Her voice was raw, pained. “I can’t believe you of all people wouldn’t want to be here to see my own brother off. He was practically your kin.” She started to say something else, but abruptly ended the recording.

Bucky cursed something in a language Sam was pretty sure was Wakandan and pulled up the recordings again, quickly scanning backwards. He hit play on another one. Nomble’s face was more collected in this one, but only just, “I haven’t heard back from you so I thought I’d call you again to remind you M'Bahi’s funeral is later today. I’ve saved you a seat with us. You don’t need to speak if you don’t want to, but… I could really use your company. They keep looking at me to be strong, but I cannot. I am breaking inside. Please… please call.”

Bucky continued wordlessly parsing Nomble’s recordings further and further back. It was like reaching through time and watching someone unravel in reverse. One of them must have been soon after after she’d learned that someone named Tasdi as well as her brother, M’Bahi had perished in the Battle of Earth. In the recording she was holding her spear and still dressed in a Dora Milaje’s full ensemble, trailed with tell-tale splatterings of blue Outrider blood, she begged, pled for him to pick up, “Please… please pick up.”

After many painfully long minutes, eventually Bucky turned off the recordings and let his arm fall limply into the grass beside him. It was too dark to see his face, but Sam was certain he heard a choking sound from beside him.

Like so much of the last few hours, that… that was all even worse than whatever Sam’d imagined in his head.

Long minutes passed before Bucky finally spoke, his rough voice betraying the horror of realization, “I… didn’t listen to any of these. I didn’t know.”

Before Sam could say anything, Bucky added, “That doesn’t excuse it, but I didn’t know. God. We saw her in Latvia, on the trip in from Symkaria, and even today she didn’t say anything. How do I even…? I had no idea her brother...and Tasdi… Tasdi was here in Wakanda with us. I’d just… I’d assumed she’d gotten another post… oh God....”

“You turned the beads off that early?” Sam tried to keep his voice even. He wanted to understand how things had gone the way they did, not to put a dagger into his friend to make him feel worse.

“I silenced them when I saw what’d happened to Tony. It seemed like the respectful thing to do,” Bucky spoke to the sky above him, “I didn’t even think. That whole day. Everything after. I just stuck by Steve to deal with the immediate fallout. I didn’t know what else to do. My head was all over the place. The last time I’d spoken with Tony, he was trying to kill me, and I thought for a minute there in Siberia he wouldn’t have minded taking out Steve as the next-best thing. You weren’t there, Sam, but he was… there was just rage. I understood, I still do, but I always thought maybe there could be some closure between us, but then… the battle was over and he was just… dead.”

“I know there were a few days between that and his funeral, but even that was a blur. By then, Steve’d already made his mind up about going back with the stones and his plans for the shield and the idiot told me right before Tony’s funeral. I’ll never know why he thought that was appropriate timing to give me an early heads up that I had countdown timer on the days remaining with my supposed best friend, but he practically had to drag me out.”

“Wait, you both knew then?” Now it was Sam’s turn to be dumbstruck.

“Yep!” Bucky said with bitterness in his voice, “He pulled the whole card about how it was important for me to show up to support Pepper and the other Avengers. You got a special shout-out, too.” His voice was carved with raw frustration, “God. He really did think that a damn funeral was a good way to get the bonding process rolling between us. Remember how he just kinda got the two of us and Wanda together and then politely excused himself?”

“Christ. I knew you looked upset, but I thought it was because you hadn’t gotten to have any closure with Tony. I had no idea Steve’d laid the awful weight of his secret plan of his all squarely on you. And right before the funeral? Seriously? Bucky, I--”

“I thought at first he told me in the hopes I could convince him out of it,” Bucky admitted to the sky above, his voice pained at the memory and the fallout it would later cause, “I tried so hard, Sam. I don’t think in my whole life I’d ever raised my voice with him, but I did then. And he just… It was clear he’d already made up his mind. No turning back. It was like he was just giving me a heads up, hoping I’d come around to the supreme wisdom of it. Just be happy for him and swallow whatever else I was feeling. And I did my best, I really did. I kept it to myself, just like he asked. Kept it secret, just like he asked.”

“--Instead, it just meant he gave you a jump-start on the grieving process, all the while the man in question was still around,” Sam finished for him.

Once more: Sam found himself finding yet another reason to want to belatedly shake Steve Rogers. He remembered thinking it seemed like Tony’s death had hit Bucky hard, but he hadn’t stopped for one moment to consider it was because he was having to act presentable around the future recipient of the shield, around a crowd, around T’Challa, Okoye, and Shuri, all the while knowing he’d be grieving Steve soon after.

Holy. Shit. Goddamn it, Steve.

But Bucky couldn’t hear Sam’s internal monologue, so he just kept on talking, “It doesn’t excuse me ignoring the Wakandans, but… I just wasn’t thinking straight.” He laughed bitterly, “So the only funeral I ended up actually attending was for someone who justifiably hated me and wanted to kill me, and I only came at the request of someone who already had one foot out of our century. All the while, apparently I had people in Wakanda, people who were planning to stick around, and all they were asking of me was to come and grieve together with them, and I didn’t even know.” He choked back something and added, “How can I even begin to make it up to them?”

“Talk to ‘em,” Sam offered, his voice soft and honest, “Rather than leaving them wondering what happened: talk to them. Look, that whole era of the world was a mess of chaos and emotions for everyone. You can’t change what happened then, but it’s not like grief magically evaporates the moment a funeral is over and everyone goes home.”

He debated the next part. It was a topic he kept safely locked away in that lockbox of his own making. A box that he’d spent years clearly labeling as being a topic so thoroughly reviewed and dealt with that he continued to try to convince himself that it didn’t require any further attention, focus, or emotional energy.

His mind insisted otherwise.

He’d said the name around Bucky once, but his observant friend hadn’t pressed for details, and he didn’t offer up any on own. But he was realizing now that it was unfair for him to expect Bucky to be open with him about the tough stuff if he wasn’t willing to do the same.

So with great effort, he looked up at the stars overhead, took a deep, steadying breath and opened that lockbox he’d kept close to his chest for so many years.

“Grief is… grief is complicated. I don’t think I’ve said much about my wing-man, Riley. Probably haven’t said enough, honestly. He was the first and only partner I had up till you. Great guy. Smartass. Had one of those bright personalities that could light up a room.”

Sam heard Bucky’s breathing quiet, so he continued.

“We were in the 58th Rescue Squadron together, but had gone all the way up through basic training. The two of us were tapped to be test pilots for the EXO-7’s way back, and we’d been on countless missions and rescue ops together. More’n I can count. Hundreds. Then one night we find ourselves over in Afghanistan, trying to get in under an area where they were sending up RPGs and preventing our ‘copters from getting in. One minute, everything is smooth and under control and going fine, and the next thing I know, there’s an explosion and look to my left to see whatever was left of Riley plummeting out of the sky like some sort of charred phoenix.”

Bucky’d managed to lean up on his elbow so he could turn his head to regard Sam as he continued to speak from gut to mouth, “I can still see it, clear as the night it happened. Hear it. Like it’ll always be stuck on replay in this awful loop where I’m helpless to do anything but watch. If that wasn’t bad enough, I got a free second helping back in Germany when Vision aimed for my thrusters and accidentally took out the power on Rhodey’s suit. I remember just… watching him drop like a lead weight, doing everything I could to get to him in time, and... just hearing that awful, deadening impact. Then he just didn’t move. I… know he’s okay now, but for a moment there….”

“I’m...” Bucky breathed more than spoke. His hand reached across and found Sam’s shoulder. He gently squeezed it in shared sympathy, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“Thanks,” he laid there, taking a deep, grounding breath as he looked up at the star-speckled sky above them, wishing the sight could somehow numb the raw, aching pain in his chest, “I just wish you could've known him, you know? I think that’s one of the hardest parts about this stuff, is that it’s the people that are left behind that carry the weight of it. It’s more than just survivor’s guilt. It’s the memories. The nightmares. The wishin’ things were different.”

Sam continued, “I had people I knew for the better part of ten years miss Riley’s funeral too. I got all sorts of excuses tossed my way: Anything from ‘They had other plans,’ through to ‘They were uncomfortable seeing other people upset.’ Just… a whole gambit.”

“And it absolutely hurt, but grief doesn’t end there. People tend to be really good about checking in when the grief is still fresh and new, but not so much in the months after. I think most people that haven’t waded through it assume that given enough time, you’re fine. They see you managing, maybe even catch you crack a smile and think it’s all resolved. Dealt with. In the past. But that hasn’t been my experience.”

He kept his eyes upward because he could feel them getting glossy, “So if you want my suggestion? You should go talk with Nomble. Sometimes just knowing someone cares does a lot of good. And even belated condolences are still heads and tails above no condolences at all.”

“I can see that now,” Bucky admitted, his voice soft and compassionate, “Thanks for sharing all of that. About Riley. I had no idea.”

“How would you? I may give you shit about keeping stuff to yourself, but it’s not like I’ve been a shining example of openness about some of the heavier stuff, myself.”

“Was that why you were initially so quick to dismiss my ‘partner’ comment back in Louisiana?” Bucky wondered into the night air.

“Not consciously, but about ten minutes after I downgraded us to ‘coworkers’ I put it together,” Sam found himself admitting out loud for the first time in his life, “I’d told myself I never wanted to hurt like that ever again. Easiest way to do that was to just stick to the solo act and help out where I was needed. No official commitments. No responsibilities. No ties. Seemed to work fine enough for me until I saw fit to realize you and I were basically partners, I was just seeing fit to dance around the term because of the fear of loss it drummed up.”

“I could tell the word meant something particular to you back in the museum,” Bucky admitted, “But I guess I didn’t realize it was like that. Steve and I never used that term either. Partners, I mean. We were best friends, we had each other’s backs, but it just… it wasn’t the same thing.”

“I get that,” Sam agreed, making an effort to try to lighten his tone as he added, “And maybe somewhere deep down that’s why I fought it for months. Maybe I also didn’t want to think that being gifted the shield came with a free grumpy 106-year-old man.”

“You’re an ass,” the man beside him deadpanned, seeing fit to try to pull some much-needed James Barnes factual humor into the heavy conversation.

“You didn’t let me finish!” Sam countered, thankful for Bucky’s picking up on his plea for a little levity. He needed it in spades about now, “Like I was saying: Maybe I was a bit too preoccupied with that, with the idea of being Captain American 2.0 and thinking you were just falling in line out of obligation.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Captain America 3.0,” Bucky corrected him, his voice edging on a gentle tease, “If this was ever just about an obligation to the shield, then you would have seen me ambling after Walker. And I’m sorry but some of us have standards.”

“I know that now,” Sam agreed, waving a hand to dismiss the very idea of Bucky trailing behind that walking personification of everything wrong with America, “And really, you’re going with 3.0 because of Walker?”

“I don’t make the rules, Cap,” Bucky commiserated in feigned seriousness.

Sam rolled his eyes. He probably deserved that.

The whole talk, from top to bottom, back to front, actually had a strange way of making Sam’s chest feel lighter. He hadn’t realized how tight it’d been. He listened to the continued serenade of nighttime wildlife and focused his attention back up at the sky above them. Now that the remaining light of the sun had finally slipped away, the pinpoints of light were even more numerous and shined bright and even more beautiful. The clarity and contrast was really something, even compared to back home.

In no time, the two of them fell back into that easy silence again as they laid out under the night sky.

“They have different constellations, you know,” Bucky offered as a safe conversation topic, “And a whole load of mythos around them. Unsurprisingly: lots of big cats, but there are other animals too, famous figures from their history and legends too.”

Sam shook his head from where he lay resting beside him, “Every ten minutes or so, for just this brief moment, I start to think I’ve got you figured out, Buck, and then you go and say something like that.”

“Like what?” Bucky countered, not following.

Sam waved a hand as if it was blatantly obvious, “Just the idea of you, sitting out here, having some wise old Wakandans teaching you about their history, what they named their stars and their constellations. It’s remarkably humanizing. Genuinely. I meant it as a compliment.”

“Is that the sweet sound of jealousy I hear?”

Sam snorted, “I’d be lying if I said otherwise. That museum alone, man.”

“Museums,” Bucky emphasized the plural.

“Now you’re just being a show-off,” Sam factually observed, but he felt the much-needed smile resting across his face, “But I feel like sometimes as we get older, life just gets so busy that we forget to tune-in to this sort of stuff. Stars. Constellations. What people before us spun tales about, you know? Just bask in the sheer wonder of the cosmos and all. I can’t think of the last time I just… laid out under the stars like this. It’s nice. Peaceful.”

“It is,” Bucky agreed.

They laid looking up at the stars for a few moments until Bucky tentatively added, “...I just wish I could quiet the nagging part of me that’s scared about whatever Shuri might uncover.”

The candor in Bucky’s words sat with Sam as he tried to navigate the best response.

Society seemed intent to teach boys and men alike that it was unacceptable to show weakness, and the confession must’ve come harder than most to people like Bucky who were bonafide experts and pushing down whatever they were feeling. Hell: They’d both spent the better part of their lives being ingrained in the machismo of wartime culture, but Bucky’d gotten a whole new bucket of awful when literal Nazis saw fit to try and to wash away any useful emotions he had beyond manipulated obedience.

So Sam decided the best thing he could do was to say what he was actually thinking.

“I’m scared too,” Sam admitted, because it was the truth, and Bucky deserved nothing less than that from him. “Could be something. Could be nothing. But whatever it is: we’ll figure it out together, okay?” He made it a point to meet Bucky’s eyes when he firmly added, “Partners.”

Bucky met Sam’s steady gaze and agreed without hesitation, “Partners.”

[ID: A vertical painting by Kaite_xyxy showing a landscape view from the top of Mount Bashenga. Nearest the viewer is a field of wild grass in which Sam and Bucky are situated as they admire the beautiful constellations high above them. On the left, Sam is seated and wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. He is looking up, and his hands are on his lap. Just to his right stands Bucky, who has on a grey t-shirt, blue jeans, and a blue, black, and gold shawl that hands across his shoulders and over his left shoulder, which is absent his prosthetic arm. Bucky has Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist and has his hand raised as he points to the stars above. His mouth is open in a smile as he speaks with Sam. A distance away is the Wakandan Design Center, and beyond that are a set of rolling mountains. The painting is awash with cool blues and purples, but the horizon is a warm red, as if the sun recently set beyond the mountains, and is casting light into the bottoms of the clouds above before the sky transitions to night. End ID]

[ID: A cropped close-up painting by Kaite_xyxy showing a landscape view from the top of Mount Bashenga. Nearest the viewer is a field of wild grass in which Sam and Bucky are situated as they admire the beautiful constellations high above them. On the left, Sam is seated and wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. He is looking up, and his hands are on his lap. Just to his right stands Bucky, who has on a grey t-shirt, blue jeans, and a blue, black, and gold shawl that hands across his shoulders and over his left shoulder, which is absent his prosthetic arm. Bucky has Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist and has his hand raised as he points to the stars above. His mouth is open in a smile as he speaks with Sam. A distance away is the Wakandan Design Center, and beyond that are a set of rolling mountains. The painting is awash with cool blues and purples, but the horizon is a warm red, as if the sun recently set beyond the mountains, and is casting light into the bottoms of the clouds above before the sky transitions to night. End ID]

November 2022 Update:

When I originally wrote this chapter back in July of 2021, I remember looking forward to having this heart-to-heart scene between Sam and Bucky, and how it offered them a moment of respite amid a lot of heavy stuff, and how it had a way of solidifying their bond of being “Partners.”

This peaceful scene in particular really stuck with me, and I am humbled that Kaite_xyxy (https://twitter.com/kaite_xyxy) was interested in lending her beautiful artistic style to illustrate this peaceful scene. It means so much to me to see it captured in such gorgeous detail.

This story is about a lot, but friendship, and the bond between these two is certainly a core part of it. And Kaite_xyxy captured that in spades.

Please check out Kaite_xyxy’s Twitter and Instagram accounts to see more of her beautiful and emotive art (especially if you are a fan of Moon Knight)! Her style is so vibrant and alive!

Once again: A *huge* thank you to her for lending her artistic talents to capture this peaceful scene between these two in her lovely style.

Chapter Text

[ID: A cropped painting by Sam (Hail.Hawkeye) showing Bucky sitting indoors on a tan chair next to a fire. He has a strand of Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist and a silver necklace is visible around his neck and has his right hand against his chin. An empty chair and row of books can be seen in the background. End ID]

Bucky wasn’t sure how long they stayed out there stargazing along the trailing edge of Mount Bashenga, but eventually he realized it was not only getting late, but that Nomble was still waiting on them so she could take them back to their lodgings.

In short order, he’d sent a message to her, and within about another fifteen minutes, the three of them were on their way for an uneventful return flight.

While it was commonplace for as long as Bucky could remember for Nomble to be damn-near silent while she was on-duty, he found it immensely difficult to push the words, the tone, the sheer pain of her recordings out of his mind, even though he knew this was very much not the appropriate time to broach delicate topics with her.

Once they landed, she did the honors of guiding them from the tarmac to the door of their suite to ensure they didn’t get lost in the winding hallways of the Diplomatic Quarter. When they arrived, she waited patiently to ensure Sam got the door open, but as soon as he did, she offered only a quick nod to let them, specifically Bucky, know her duty was done and she was dismissing herself.

As she briefly met his eyes, her expression remained a Dora’s even gaze. The sheer absence of emotion on her face was hard to stomach after the contrast he’d just seen on those raw and emotive recordings, especially considering the entire time he’d known her, he’d never seen her come close to crying. Now he had, but it was belated and distanced months beyond the actual event. Just the fact she was able to stuff that down enough to still be willing to help him… it meant a lot, but it was also unsettling to think about, because it wasn’t at all fair to her.

He wanted to say something, but it would have to wait, “Thanks for the help today. Means a lot.”

She tilted her head up to him and kept her brown eyes level on his. Still: they betrayed far less emotion than he would have hoped to see there. That fact alone was heartbreaking. He found he would have almost preferred the rage and disappointment he’d once seen on Ayo’s eyes to the hollowness of Nomble’s own.

He didn’t know what else to say, and apparently neither did she, because she offered him only a nod of acknowledgement before she pivoted and strode a soldier’s walk down the hallway, striding past the other Doras posted along the way without even a passing glance.

Bucky frowned and silently watched her until she disappeared around the far corner.

“I think I’m going to go out for a little while,” Bucky declared about ten minutes later.

Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow in his direction, “Want company?”

“Appreciate the offer, but not this time. I won’t go far.”

His friend crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his eyes as he evaluated Bucky, “You certainly don’t need my good graces, but I’d like to point out you came out of a hell of a thaw not two hours ago. So the look I’m giving you is the same look I’d give to someone who was recently released from the hospital and thought it prudent to go for an unsupervised evening stroll.”

Bucky read the well-meaning concern on Sam’s expression and did his best to put himself in his friend’s place. Usually Bucky was just fine after a round of cryo. Well, as much as could be expected after putting his body into and out-of-a near-death state thanks to a lovely merging of technology, chemicals, and plain old-fashioned below-freezing temperatures. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been issues with the process or the aftermath now and again. He certainly didn’t miss coming out from cryo and going straight into a seizure, for instance.

He likewise had to respect the fact that all of this was new, and no-doubt unsettling for Sam. He’d seen a lot more than most, but that didn’t make him invulnerable to worry, “Fair point. What if I connect the live data stream from my beads to the comms on your suit’s wrist panel? They’re currently set to monitor my vitals and location and send that info over to Shuri. Would that make you feel more at ease?”

Sam’s eyebrows crinkled, “The beads, the bracelet is doing all that right now? Man, I need to stop looking at these things like they're jewelry rather than the most covert version of a smart watch anyone’s ever seen.”

Bucky snorted, “Just remember our vitals are different, so don’t get freaked out if the blood pressure or whatever seems low.”

“How about the temperature?” Apparently Sam wasn’t beating around the bush.

Bucky tilted his head, “That runs low too. It’s been that way since, well.”

“I mean, how are you feeling now, though?” Sam cut in.

He was certain he made some sort of guilty face at that, but it was a fair question, “Still cold,” he admitted, the words slow in coming. “It honestly takes at least a day or so for things to normalize. This isn’t out of the ordinary.”

Sam put his hand out palm up and Bucky interpreted the gesture and sighed as he extended his own hand and put it in Sam’s so he could get a firsthand read on the relative temperature of it.

The warmth of the skin-to-skin contact was immediate, and Bucky felt himself relax into it. It was hard to remember how cold he still was without any basis for comparison.

His friend made a face, scrutinizing his outstretched hand as if if were a viable medical diagnosis, “You’re right. It’s still cold, but it’s not like ice anymore,” he paused before adding, “I can feel it trembling though. Is that normal?”

“That won’t go away until tomorrow,” Bucky admitted self-consciously, “That’s holdover from the meds, not the cold. It takes my body a little while to break the chemicals down and get them out of my system. Really though,” he turned his attention back to Sam, “I’m okay. I’ll be back within an hour or so, tops. If I’m not, you have my full permission to send Redwing after me.”

Sam looked him in the eyes as if he was searching for cracks. Finding none, he gave Bucky’s hand a firm squeeze before letting it go, “Okay. Just set-up those magic beads of yours before you go. And don’t blame me if by the time you’re back, I’ve taught Redwing and JB to do some of the maneuvers I saw the drones in the cafeteria were up to.”

“I can guarantee the AI in the two of them are more advanced than anything you saw, so if you teach either of them to be baristas, I’m returning them both to Shuri with a note of profound apology, Wilson,” Bucky deadpanned.

“Hey? They might have dreams and aspirations too, man. We don’t know.”

“I’m fine not knowing. Have you not read any science fiction?”

“Hard to read it when you’re busy living it,” Sam observed with a casual shrug.

“Fair point,” Bucky conceded.

Birnin Zana was beautiful at night as it was during the day. Unlike some cities Bucky’d been to over the years, it had a welcoming nighttime ambiance that was likely due in part to the wash of generous lighting that kept away the shadows and dark alleyways other cities had in spades.

The after-hours chatter was even more prominent in the evening when residents returned from work and sought to meet up with friends and family over drinks, a good meal, or one of the many social hubs that opened their doors to welcome guests in to catch the latest film, television show, or sports game. The city became a living, breathing extension of the people in it, and much as he didn’t have any interest in slipping into any of the loud and crowded venues, there was something soothing about knowing that not feet away from him, people were just... living and enjoying their lives.

After spending the last day and change mostly stuck on claustrophobic jets or under the watchful eyes of one or more of the Doras, it was borderline exhilarating to spend some time on his own.

The downside was the same as the upside: it meant he had all the more reason to sit in his own head, regardless of his desire to or not.

The city had changed since he’d last been out on his own, but it was still recognizable. Though the streets remained vibrant and welcoming, it took him a moment now and then to parse the curious expressions on those that gave him a second glance. His first impression in nearly any other city in the world would have been that they thought they saw The Winter Soldier. But here? It was a familiar expression: the look of strangers that assumed he was an outsider to Wakanda simply because of the color of his skin. It was a strain of self-consciousness he’d never experienced until coming to this place. In the wake of it, it made him ever-more aware of how Sam and others must feel when they visited countries and places where they stood out from the local color palette.

By the time he’d made it to his first stop of the evening, he was unsurprised that the woman at the market stall greeted him in English, “Ah! Looking for flowers for someone special?” Braids cascaded around her face, framing a warm smile.

“Yes, but I was interested in the bouquet over there with the Night Caps and Queen of the Night Lilies,” he used his hand to gesture to the bundles of black flowers that were kept in water in the rear corner of the stall. He pulled his hand back down when he realized it was trembling, and discreetly rubbed his fingers together, as if that act alone might generate some much-needed heat.

She looked at the dark flowers, and her expression shifted, “Oh, they are…”

“Iintyatyambo zokukhumbula, zokuzila. Ndiyazi.” Flowers of remembrance, of mourning. I know. Bucky finished for her.

Her eyes glanced up to his, surprised by his easygoing, fluent response in Wakandan, as well as no-doubt his knowledge of the specific meaning behind those particular flowers.

He swapped back to English, “I don’t have any local currency on me, but would you take Euros or American bills? I have a credit card too, but I haven’t been back here in years so I’m not sure if that’s any more useful.”

“Your accent is very good,” she observed. “You spent time here, yeah?”

“I did,” he admitted, “A little over two years.”

The woman nodded and pulled the bouquet of black flowers down, running her hand along the outside of the bundle as she wrapped the base of the stems so they didn’t drip. The protruding anthers of the lilies shone a bright red, which matched the crimson fabric she chose to encircle the bundle, “We used to go through many of these. So many that some days it felt like I sold nothing else. Other days, the most I could spare was a single stem for those in need.”

“I got dusted, so I wasn’t around for some of that,” Bucky admitted as he watched her tenderly prepare the bouquet for him, “I’m trying to be present now, though.”

“That’s good,” she nodded, “Grief is not so easily captured and released.” Once the ribbon was tied, she handed the bouquet across the counter towards him.

“What do I owe you?” Bucky held up his hand and then dug into his pocket for his wallet. Before he could retrieve it, he felt the woman’s fingers gently tap his forearm.

“No, they are yours,” she pushed the flowers into his hand the moment it retreated from his pocket.

“Are you sure?” He asked, confused at her unnecessary kindness.

Her expression was even, thoughtful, “I have seen enough mourning for many lifetimes,” she admitted, “I do not wish to profit from it. If you insist on paying me, you can come by another time and buy other flowers with your American plastic.”

Bucky found himself able to manage a small, appreciative smile, “I’ll do that,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

The woman tilted her head in acknowledgement, adding, “Iintsikelelo zokhokho bakho kunye nabo babelana ngentlungu yakho.” Ancestors blessings upon you and those you who share your grief.

“Ndiyabulela ngesipho somoya wakho.” Thank you for the gift of your spirit. Bucky returned, crossing his arm over his heart as he spoke the words.

As Bucky walked with an armful of remembrance flowers, he was reminded of the last time he’d done anything close to this, and even then: it was not a perfect comparison.

Making amends for things he’d done as the Winter Soldier was hard, but it was different. When he’d finally drummed up the courage to speak with Yori*, it had only been after months of slowly befriending him, growing ever-closer in some feeble attempt to hope that when he finally saw fit to rip the bandaid off, that it would lessen the sting.

He’d never know if that was the case, if what he’d done had been any kinder than telling Yori the truth of his son’s death, his murder, soon after he’d originally tracked him down, but he hoped somehow his cowardice had served some purpose.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever shake the nightmares of not only the killing itself, but the way Yori had simply broken before him when learning the news.

This with Nomble was different. She and he had years of history, and now neither of them were oblivious to the pain he’d caused her by his own poor decisions. In some ways, it made it hurt worse, but it also didn’t make him feel inclined to believe that space and time would do either of them any favors. It was squarely on him to make amends.

He had no way of knowing if she still lived where she did before the Decimation, but as he rang the doorbell and held his breath, he hoped she did. If not, well… he supposed he could ask one of the other Doras where she lived, but he figured that was a last resort since he wasn’t doing any of this as some performance to look good on their account.

He wasn’t sure if it was super-hearing or regular hearing that allowed him to overhear someone pause on the other side of the door, but eventually the wooden door swung open to reveal Nomble. She was dressed in casual clothing meant for a comfy evening at home, composed of white and black leggings and a geometric-patterned purple top. While one hand remained on the doorknob, the other was pressed together in a loose fist, almost as if she was unaccustomed to being without her spear.

Her normally stoic, tattooed face betrayed some amount of surprise at his unexpected appearance as well as that of the flowers. She recognized their very specific meaning, and he could sense something in her shift as she evaluated him.

“I know it’s a little out of the norm to just show up, but I… I wanted to talk. To apologize.”

She regarded at his face and gestured for him to step inside, “Come,” she said simply, “It’s warmer inside.”

Bucky did as requested, dipping his head as he entered her home and offering her the bouquet of flowers after she’d closed the door behind them. She regarded the black flowers with a calm intensity he recognized immediately: the look of someone who was intent to keep their emotions in-check. She did not say anything as she accepted the flowers, but she did accept them.

The front room was arranged just like he remembered it, with shelves of books and an assortment of colorful, overstuffed chairs surrounding a central fireplace. Her vibranium spear stood at the ready nearby, a visual reminder of her chosen calling. The fireplace was off when he entered, but as he bent down to slip his shoes off, Nomble made a point to press the ignition switch as she stepped into the kitchen to retrieve a vase.

Though the heat of the fire was overkill considering the current temperature outside, it was clear Nomble must’ve thought it would be a boon to his continued recovery.

That was simply how she operated.

Bucky took her departure as a prompt for him to take a seat by the fire. As he settled into the chair closest to the welcoming heat, he found his mind wandering back to all the other times he’d visited. Framed art hung proudly on the tan walls next to photographs of Nomble’s brother, M'Bahi, poised with a wide smile next to his wife Jado and their two boys. There were older photographs of a younger Nomble and M’Bahi and their parents, and still others with Nomble and other members of the Dora Milaje. They did not smile in those warrior glamour photos, as it was deemed disrespectful to do so, but the eyes of each and every one of those women shone with immense pride and purpose.

What Bucky was not expecting to see was a framed photo of him standing out by that lake by his old hut. He was flanked on either side by Ayo, Nomble, Tasdi, and Yama, the latter of which was holding the brown and white goat he’d named “Steve.” Yama had a hint of a devious smile on her face, and without even meaning to, he found himself starting to sink into that picture. Into that time in his life where things felt altogether simpler. Who’d even taken it? Shuri, perhaps?

By the time Nomble stepped back into the room with the vase of black and red flowers, she managed to catch his gaze, and the weight of her expression made him feel like he’d been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, “I… I don’t even know where to start, Nomble,” he confessed.

She placed the flowers on the table between them and carefully removed a leatherbound book from the nearest cushion so she didn’t sit on it: Apparently he’d interrupted her reading.

Another thing they had in common.

She seated herself across from him, “Well, you are here. That is a start.”

“I didn’t get your messages until today. I had no idea,” he said, trying to steady his voice, “I’m not saying that makes it better, but I didn’t know. If I’d known, I’d like to think I would have come.”

She evaluated his eyes, and he saw some of her Dora’s armor slowly loosen.

“Why did you not answer?”

“I had it on silent. For months. It wasn’t just you. I shut down and ignored pretty much everyone I knew before the Decimation hit.” He was trying to figure out the next words to say when she found her voice.

“I needed you,” her voice was soft, pained.

“I know. And I wasn’t there. And I should have been.” He lowered his head, but forced his head back up so he could continue to meet her eyes, “I’m so sorry. I was too deep in my own head to feel like I had anything to offer anyone. It was like living without being alive.”

“Was it because of Steve?”

Bucky’s head pivoted up so rapidly he was certain he’d be feeling the whiplash in his neck for days to come. Of all the words she could have said then, of all the questions: he hadn’t heard that particular one coming.

She must have seen the surprise in his expression, because she saw fit to add, “Okoye told us he was not taken by the Decimation, but she had no answers for what became of him long after the Battle of Earth. I thought perhaps, hoped, you’d at least gotten to see one another after. You always spoke so highly of him.”

Bucky let out what felt like every bit of air in his lungs, “I’d hoped to introduce him to all of you after I was done with my training here, but that... didn’t end up happening. He was gone within a few days of the Battle of Earth.”

Nomble wasn’t the sort of person to press for details, and what she did or didn’t know about Steve’s time-travel shenanigans were clearly not as important as piecing together how the cascading impact had led Bucky to forgo his relationships with she and the other Wakandans. Very slowly, she found her voice, “We would have grieved with you.”

It was hard to hear the emotion and candor in her words, “I know you would have,” Bucky spoke with all sincerity, “I tried to tackle it on my own. And… it was a bad call. I single handedly sabotaged all of my relationships without even realizing what I was doing.” He shook his head clear, “This isn’t about me, though. I just… I know it might not amount to much, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. All of you. I wish I could take it back, but I don’t know what else I can do now other than to say I’m sorry and to try and be more present. I know actions matter more than words. That’s why I came as soon as I heard your messages.”

The room slipped into the quiet crackling of the fire again as he found the strength of will to ask, “I don’t know what the proper social grace is here. I have so many questions, but it feels unfair for me to ask anything of you when what I really want to do is to understand so I can help you in whatever ways I can. But I don’t know if the time for even that has passed.” He felt his eyes lower back to the fire.

“Why do you wish to offer aid now?” Her voice was measured, but not cruel.

He was going to say something, but he caught his tongue as he realized she wasn’t trying to be smart about it. That wasn’t the sort of person Nomble was. She wasn’t one for riddles or games. She took the direct approach. He appreciated that about her, “Because it’s the right thing to do, and because I care about all of you.”

She tilted her head as if the answer met some of her inquiry but not the full subtext she was prodding at, “And what then?”

He wasn’t following, “What then?”

She nodded, “So we talk. We confide and share our grief. I speak words to you that make you feel as if all is forgiven, or enough. What then?”

He… honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. It must have shown on his face.

“The thought of sharing grief with you is not an empty sentiment, but it is hollow if you only choose to be present when it is convenient for you.”

In that moment, the way she kept her eyes steady on him reminded Bucky so much of his little sister, Rebecca. The intensity of her expression was unyielding and so direct it was almost uncomfortable. But he got what Nomble was getting at, “This is your way of pointing out you don’t have interest in a fair-weather, or one-way friendship.”

She nodded and leaned back in her chair, “It is,” she agreed.

Bucky needed a moment to chew on that, not because it wasn’t a fair request, but it was a statement that carried weight. He found himself glancing back around the room at the various art and photos on the walls. They hadn’t changed much at all over the last few years, and it made him wonder who’d taken up residence there while Nomble’d been caught up in being dusted as well. He wanted to imagine maybe it was one of her family members. It didn’t seem like more than a few months ago that he was sitting in this same chair, keeping a close eye on her brother’s two children as they ran circles around the couches, tables, and chairs while the adults chatted nearby. Nomble always made it a point to invite him and others over when she’d host little gatherings like that. It was her way of opening her life and interests to those around her, including those that grew accustomed to the work persona she proudly wore as a badge of honor.

This home was a safe place where even Doras could lay down their burdens, smile, and relax.

Men haunted by firsthand nightmares of the Winter Soldier could as well.

“I don’t want a one-sided friendship with you either,” Bucky finally said after clearing a lump from his throat, “That’s not fair to you.”

“So you plan to keep in touch even when you are not inside Wakanda’s borders?”

“That’s the plan going forward,” he admitted, “I’m a work in progress. Might always be. But I’m trying. All of you were always there for me even when I wasn’t at my best, and I’d like to do the same in return. I guess for awhile there I thought all of you were simply doing it out of a sense of duty but--”

“--If you think any of us continue to stand by you for a sense of duty alone, you are not only sorely mistaken, but impressively dense,” she casually observed.

He snorted softly as he regarded the fire and the warmth it afforded him, “You aren’t the first person to point that out to me today. Might not even be the second.” He glanced back to her, trying to be mindful of her posture and expression. She’d unraveled her legs from the chair and regarded him with evaluating eyes. He knew not to press, but he could feel the tangible weight of her gaze upon him as she determined if his words were spoken with truth and intention or not.

“I will get us some hot tea,” she said conclusively as she got to her feet and padded silently to the kitchen.

She returned with an ornate gold and black serving tray laden with seven handless clay teacups and a matching teapot decorated with a golden panther. With great care, she laid five of the cups out on the table and poured tea into each of them before pouring tea for Bucky. Next, she placed the teapot between them so he could return the favor and pour tea into her cup.

As they went through the ceremony of the movements like a dance, Bucky could sense the conscious change in her, the way she’d willed herself to remove her armor so the two could speak again as friends rather than a guard and the guarded. While he respected her as a strong and steadfast warrior, this was the side of her he preferred by far.

When she was done, she settled herself cross legged in her chair with her tea cup in her lap. She stared into it, obviously at a loss for where to begin.

It felt wrong to watch her and say nothing, so Bucky spoke first, eyeing the five teacups on the table, “Who was the first?” He tried to keep his voice respectful, gentle.

“Tasdi passed during the Battle of Wakanda,” Nomble said softly, speaking of the Dora Milaje she’d served beside and sparing a moment to glance up and rest her attention on the nearest group photo. Bucky followed her gaze and regarded Tasdi and the intense, focused expression he’d come to expect from her. When she hadn’t showed up in the recordings taken during the Decimation, he’d assumed, wrongly apparently, that she’d simply been dusted as well.

Nomble kept her eyes on the photograph as she spoke, “The living grieved her, but it is strange to think many years would pass before myself and others like yourself would learn of the loss. They made a term for it, you know? ‘Ukuzila okwesibini.’”

The Second Mourning.

“During the Decimation, they erected Memorials to the Fallen and to the Vanished. Our names may have been struck from the dust of those lists when we returned, but the dead did not return with us.”

“I didn’t know about Tasdi…” Bucky began, deciding he didn’t have the energy to process that by the sound of it, the Wakandans had thought to add his name among their Vanished, “It’s hard to believe the Battle of Wakanda was over five years ago for the other half.”

Nomble nodded agreement, “Many lost their lives that day. Hers, like so many, was a warrior’s death, but it does not make the loss any lighter to carry. It is easy to think ourselves immortal for a time when battles wage only in the distance.” Her eyes moved from Tasdi’s image back to Bucky, “What do you remember most about her?”

He took a deep, pained breath as he turned his attention back to the photograph where Tasdi stood proud among the other Dora Milaje. She was the second-tallest among them, and the ornate tattoos across her cheeks had always reminded him a bit of warpaint, which fit her personality perfectly. “I was always struck by how no-nonsense she was, but how she was able to tune that to whatever the situation required. If it was time to focus, she was fully present, and would make sure everyone around her was too,”

“Even Yama,” Nomble added helpfully.

“Even Yama,” Bucky agreed, “But she had a certain empathy about her, an energy that allowed her to also key into the times where some of us could use a little levity, and she allowed us that without making it feel like a point of weakness. It was like when you saw her relax her shoulders, you knew it was not only okay to breathe, but that she wanted you to. Like part of her gift was that quiet presence of hers. It took awhile for me to realize she made that work for her regardless of if she was on-duty or not. I know at first, I thought it odd she spoke so little when I thought she was off-duty. It took me a bit to key into the fact that was her natural state. That she preferred to listen. But if she had something to say, oh! Do you remember how the room would just go silent in anticipation?”

“She wielded a powerful economy of language,” Nomble confirmed, “each word counted tenfold, perhaps more.”

“Tasdi could have been a sage with some of those one-liners she said over the years. Especially to Ayo. She even got in a few impressive ones on Shuri. Never on-duty, though. It was like she’d save them up for just the right moment.” He exhaled, reminded again that he’d hear any of those quips again, “I miss her. When I didn’t see her with you in Riga, I’d thought maybe she’d just gotten another assignment.”

Nomble bowed her head slightly, “She had aspirations, certainly, but like so many others, they were cut short.”

The fire continued to crackle nearby as they both took a sip of their tea and looked back to the small cups of tea Nomble had arranged nearby. After a respectful silence, she found her voice again, “My umama* survived the Decimation, but her health grew frail during it. She breathed her last before I returned from the realm of our ancestors. I still carry guilt for not being at her bedside, even though I know the logic of it makes no sense, for I could not have done otherwise.”

Bucky’s face dropped as he looked over to a family photo and the shorter woman with the braided bundles of hair and warm smile. He remembered taking that photo, “My condolences. Your mother was a wonderful, giving woman. Always had a way of lighting up a room and making me feel welcome, even back when I was furthest from myself. Was your brother…?”

“He was with her, I’m told,” Nomble stated softly, “And the thought of that is kindness to my heart, but it still aches even though the world insists that was three years ago. For me, it is not. It is still fresh and new and the color of that pain does not wash from my hands, no matter how much I will it to.”

The fire crackled nearby, and they each took a sip of their tea.

Nomble took a deep breath and collected herself before she continued, “And M'Bahi, Blade of the Royal Guard, protector of Golden Tribe, esteemed of Wakanda... my only brother survived the Decimation only to fall in the Battle of Earth. A hero’s death, they say, but death all the same.” Her lower lip trembled as she spoke, “The loss hit Jado hard, and she and my nephews moved back to be closer to their grandmother in Nigeria a few months ago.”

...Meaning that Nomble had fought in the Battle of Wakanda, entered and exited the Decimation, and fought in the Battle of Earth... only to learn that in the timespan of those five missing years, she’d lost all of her closest remaining family members.

“It was hard,” she admitted to her tea, “Very hard. There were many to grieve all at once. So many beyond even those closest to me. The others were supportive through their own pain, but it’s not the same thing. We of the Dora Milaje, we spend much of our days shuttering our voices and emotions for the role we must play, which leaves holes when those same emotions seek to swallow us whole. And they consumed me for a time.”

Bucky was about to say something, but Nomble continued, keeping her eyes on the teacup in her lap. She was not crying, but her voice was full of emotion as she spoke, “No time had passed for me, and so I’d reached out to you for comfort, and because I suppose I’d come to view you as a…” she searched for the word in English but could not find a suitable substitute, ‘isalamane sentliziyo.’” Kin of the Heart. Bucky felt his face tighten with emotion he struggled to keep in-check.

Nomble continued, “So when you did not did not respond, did not return to Wakanda or come to the funerals... it made me feel as if I truly lost the very last of my family.” He saw her eyes flick up towards his, as if she was worried she’d said too much.

He swallowed, trying to absorb the candor in her words. He was familiar with the term, an ‘adopted sibling.’ But it was not just that, it was more profound. It implied a bond of brother or sisterhood made by conscious choice. In Wakanda, such bonds were viewed as being strong and deep as a biological family, “I...I’d never considered you’d viewed me in that way,” Bucky admitted, quickly adding, “And I mean that respectfully. You and your family always treated me with kindness, I just… I guess I viewed myself as more of an exchange student. A passing curiosity in your lives until I was cured. I realize now that it was a shallow story in my own head.”

He regarded the five teacups that sat on the table, “It brings me so much shame to think that in your time of need, you reached out to an ‘isalamane sentliziyo’ and were met with only silence. I’m deeply sorry, Nomble. I don’t know if that is a title I deserve.”

He tried to keep talking, because he was worried if he didn’t, he’d break, “The last of my own family passed away while HYDRA had me on ice. My sister, Rebecca. It’s… it’s hard. I don’t talk about this stuff because it doesn’t seem like it will do much good. And honestly? After everything they did to my head, I can barely remember her. Some days I don’t know if that’s better or worse.” He confessed, trying to pivot the conversation back away from him towards the topic at-hand, “But I certainly remember your brother. He was so talkative that sometimes it seemed suspect you two were related at all.”

That got the smallest of smiles out of her, “That’s because you did not see him much when he was working. He liked you, though. Even if the nicknames he came up with were all dreadful.”

“Remember when he started up with ‘Black Wolf’ for a few weeks just to see how people would react?”

“He only stopped when umama overheard his boys repeating it that one time at dinner,” Nomble recalled, “She was in a suitable uproar over that one and made him apologize, but he wasn’t permitted dessert for the better part of a month.” Her eyes settled onto Bucky’s own, “What is your fondest memory of him?”

Bucky paused for a moment, but he found he didn’t have to think long about that one, “Probably when I’d mentioned I’d asked one of you about being trained with a spear for the Dora Milaje. He was not only horrified at the sheer impropriety of the idea, but that if given the choice, I would consider that over the Royal Guard. For hours afterwards, he kept coming back around to the topic, as if making sure he hadn’t misheard, do you remember?”

Nomble did her best impersonation of her late brother, “‘But you would have to shave your lovely head! You would catch a cold within minutes!’” she chuckled lightly, “He truly didn’t let up on that one for quite some time. Even in private, he would bemoan that you would have preferred our training over his own.”

Bucky smiled at the memory, but his face fell as he thought about how neither of them would again be treated to M’Bahi’s jovial teasing and playful humor.

They both quieted and listened to the crackling of the fire as they took another sip of tea and took turns refilling one another’s cups.

Bucky turned his attention back to the five cups of tea on the table, “Who are the other two for?”

Nomble motioned to the cup nearest to him and spoke softly, “Steve Rogers,” her hand swapt over the second one, “and for everyone else lost and remembered.”

Bucky’s expression faltered at the sentiment of the gesture, “I wasn’t coming here to make this about me,” he insisted.

The woman across from him offered only a small shrug, “I know. And I did not pour that cup out of obligation, but because I wish to be present for the grief of my isalamane sentliziyo.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what to say to that, especially because he had no plans to dive into anything about Steve tonight, but it felt wrong to shut her out completely, not when he’d just promised he’d try to be more open with her, “That’s a hard one,” he admitted, “Steve... made some decisions towards the end there that were... probably done with the best of intentions. But it made things complicated. Even grief. Especially grief.” This next part he’d never admitted aloud, but it felt right to be forthright with her, “Looking back, I think I was probably depressed. My pardon, the one I was granted in some gesture to wipe away all the atrocities I’d had a hand in as the Winter Soldier? It had a stipulation of me seeing this awful therapist. I tried to go into it with the best of intentions. I know all of you here in Wakanda put a big emphasis on the value of mental health alongside physical health, but... I felt like I spent each session just lying to her about how I was doing, because the moment I said anything real, she’d find a way to twist it or pick it apart.”

Bucky focused his attention back on the fire, “After awhile, I just… went through the motions. It took me a while to start to claw my way out of the hole I made for myself, and in the last twenty-four hours, I feel like someone shined a light on the fact I’d dug it even deeper than I’d initially realized.”

“I understand. I was there in my own way,” Nomble quietly admitted to the row of teacups, “I fear some part of me still is.”

Bucky found he understood that too.

“But seeing you again, talking. It is hard because you were not here when I wished to grieve with you, but knowing it was not done out of callousness or intention… it quiets the sharpness of the bite. It is a good thing.”

Her eyes wandered back to the photographs, “When people pass from our lives, one of the hardest parts few speak of is that you cannot make new memories with them, or share in their lives with others around you. Their legacy lives on only in the people they knew in life, and it is a heavy burden as much as it is a gift. And seeing you tonight, sharing memories with you… it is a gift I did not expect, but one I find myself thankful for.”

Bucky dipped his head in acknowledgement, “I’m glad you feel that way. I do too.”

Right as he said the last word, the Kimoyo Bead on the inside of his wrist blinked a soft blue to let him know he had a message. He briefly glanced up at Nomble and she made a gesture with her hand to let him know she would not be offended if he responded to it.

[Text Messages Between Bucky and Sam]:

“I see you still remember the shorthand gestures,” Nomble observed as he turned off the overhead display.

“Two years of muscle memory sticks around, apparently. Speaking of: I’m going to make it a point to be better about replies.” He quickly added, “If you ever send me a message, I mean. There might be a delay if I’m out in the field, but I never want anything like this to come between us again. I made Sam the same promise because I dodged all his calls, voicemails, and messages too.”

“Good to know,” Nomble stated placidly, “But do not expect chatter from me when I am on-duty. I am not so tolerant as Ayo.”

Bucky hazarded a guess, “Yama told you about that from the museum? I’d also like to point out that you used ‘Ayo’ and ‘tolerant’ in the same sentence. Might be a world first.”

That remark did pull a smile out of Nomble, “If she were here, I suspect you would be gilded with a bruise for that remark. But…” She acquiesced, “she is not here, and my own spear is out of reach.”

Her expression shifted as subtle humor made way for curiosity, “Have you spoken with her yet? Like this?” She gestured between them.

Bucky shook his head, “No, just you. I’m sure she and I will talk at-length at some point, but it will take time. Right now it’s still touch and go,” he made a discreet gesture to his missing arm as if that was evidence enough. “I didn’t realize until today that anyone had left me messages during the Decimation either. I’m hoping to get through as many recordings as I can tonight, since I don’t know what tomorrow holds.”

Nomble frowned but nodded, “You and she have a different bond. It is not “Isalamane Sentliziyo” nor “Ibhondi Yomgcini*.” I do not have a name for it, if such a name even exists, but it is clear that it has not been washed away. You are both stubborn, but I feel certain you will find the language for it in time.”

“I hope so,” Bucky admitted before focusing his attention back on his host, “This is nice, though. I’d forgotten how easy it is to talk with you when you’re not working.”

“I could say the same,” she offered simply as she sat cross legged and listened to the fire. “This did my heart good this night. Thank you for seeking to draw me out.”

With careful, ceremonious grace, she extended her hands to the row of five teacups, and one-by-one, she reverently poured the lukewarm liquids back into the teapot. When the cups were again empty, she took the black and gold kettle in her hand and sat quietly, reflecting.

Her voice was soft when she found it again, “These people we love, our parents and grandparents, our brother and sister, our bonded and friends, they may have stepped away to be with our ancestors, but they are not forgotten. Their legacies live on in us. Like droplets of pooled water, the memories we carry from each of them will remain forever intertwined with our own lives.”

Nomble took the teapot and delicately poured the mixture of teas into Bucky’s cup. Once she was done, Bucky laid his cup to one side so he could take the teapot from her and pour the tea into hers. He wasn’t sure if this was a Wakandan ceremony he’d never bore witness to, something new from the Decimation, or a private ritual of Nomble’s own making, but the symbolism of it was immensely moving. The idea of physically manifesting cups of memories, of grief, to be combined together and shared with one another… the power of the act was staggering.

He waited until Nomble took a slow, thoughtful drink of her tea before he put his lips to his own cup and drank deeply of it.

They fell back into an easy silence before he found his voice again, “At some point, do you think you could tell me more about the Memorial of the Fallen and if there is any etiquette I should be aware of before visiting so I can show my respects?”

“Of course. I can take you there when next I visit,” she promised. “It would do us both good to have company, I think. It is a heavy but healing place.”

Bucky inclined his head in appreciation, “I’d appreciate that. He debated a moment before adding, “...Would it be okay for me to give you a hug? If it’s not--”

“I would like that very much,” Nomble spoke without hesitation as she got to her feet and used one hand to gesture him forward.

The embrace was wordless, but had a way of saying so much at once. It was a hug of reuniting, grief, and the quiet spaces in between. Bucky felt himself relax into it, and the moment he did, he had to fight the tears he felt forming in the corners of his eyes. He could feel Nomble’s hands trembling as she pressed them against his back and quietly held them there as if she was grounding herself. She kept her face hidden against the inside of his good shoulder as she worked to steady her breath.

He let her stay there for as long as she needed.

When they finally parted, her eyes were red, but the emotion on her face was raw and genuine, “Thank you,” she said simply before she reached for a tissue and dabbed at her nose.

Her hand idly trailed along a nearby shelf and came to rest on a book she pulled free from its surrounding tomes, “This book, “The Dragon Who Learned to Code,” was written during the Decimation. It is to your taste.” She extended it to him, but when he reached his hand out to take it from her, she briefly pulled it back, “It is the only copy I have, so it is a loan, not a gift. Like a library, you must visit and return it here once you’re done with it. And then we must discuss it.”

Bucky smiled, accepting the book, “Deal. I’m surprised you still get physical copies.”

“It is a different experience holding a book,” Nomble admitted as she waited for him to slip on his shoes, “The old ways are still more satisfying to me than tablets or projections.” As she spoke, she leaned over to the vase and pulled out two Queen of the Night Lilies and handed them to Bucky. “One for each you and Samuel. For your own time of remembrance.”

“Thanks,” he replied quietly, accepting the stems. She simply nodded in reply as she led the way to the front door.

“I know you have an uncertain road ahead of you, but I have faith Shuri will figure something out. When I say my prayers tonight, I will say one for you as well.” She lifted her head to face him, “I hope good dreams find you tonight. You deserve that.”

“I’m not sure that’s necessarily in the cards for tonight,” Bucky admitted.

Nomble shrugged as she opened the door for him, “Then I shall believe for you. Good night, White Wolf,” she spoke with a small smile that conveyed exactly what she meant.

He snorted softly, returning the smile before tipping his head slightly to acknowledge he’d caught the name, “Good night, Nomble. Until tomorrow.”

[ID: A painting by Sam (Hail.Hawkeye) showing Bucky sitting indoors on a tan chair. He is wearing grey socks, blue jeans, and a dark grey t-shirt with a dark blue, black, and gold shawl over his left shoulder. He has a strand of Kimoyo Beads around his right wrist and a silver necklace is visible around his neck and has his right hand against his chin as he looks down at a Wakandan tea set. Across from him sits Nomble, a member of the Dora Milaje who is wearing civilian clothing and has her legs crossed in a tan chair. She is wearing a purple shirt with geometric patterns and black pants with prominent white embroidery. She looks pensively at Bucky from within a cozy Wakandan living room featuring a 360 degree fire pit, bookshelf, and numerous wooden display cases filled with momentos and framed photographs as well as hanging tapestries. Two chairs are empty, and one has an overturned book laying atop it. In the corner is a Dora Milaje spear, and on a table between the two figures is a small coffee table with a teapot, four tea cups, and a vase with black and purple flowers. The dim firelight offers warmth to the room, and accents an otherwise somber scene. End ID]

August 2024 Update:

There's many scenes that have a deep personal meaning to me in this story. One scene in particular that sticks with me takes place in this chapter, when Bucky goes to Nomble’s house to apologize to her after finding out what happened during and after the Decimation. It's always been a favorite scene of mine that was heavy, but also very, very real. I often see topics like grief brushed over in many types of media (Marvel included), and it was really nice to carve out space for it in this story and to let these characters sit with one another and discuss emotionally messy topics in what I hoped was a really compelling way.

Years after it was written, I reached out to Sam (https://www.instagram.com/hail.hawkeye/) on a whim to see if he might be interested in creating an illustration for Chapter 30: Remembrance. To say what he created was astounding and full of raw emotion is an immense understatement. There's so many precious details, and so much gravitas in it, and I’m just so utterly touched by his creation and his willingness to push himself out of his comfort zone with such a poignant piece of art. I cherish the conversations he and I shared about grief we’d individually experienced, and I truly can't thank him enough for what he created here. As such, one of the people I'd like to dedicate this chapter to is his beloved “Maggy.”

One of the things I love about fandom in general is the ability to explore fictional characters and themes and to remix them with all sorts of interests and emotions, and this scene in particular has always meant a lot to me. It was waiting for the right impetus and artist to really do it justice and create a scene that the viewer could really sink into. I so deeply appreciate Sam being open to chasing it, and for being open to taking the time to really bring it to life through-and-through.

Please check out Sam’s Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr accounts to see more of his incredible art!

Grief is complicated, and I’d also like to dedicate this chapter to anyone who’s suffered loss, as well as to my late friends Caroline Muchmore, Kevin Kenai Griffith, and Matthew M. Robinson, my grandmother, and those lost during the ongoing pandemic.

- [Blog with Art and Photos] Of Dragons and Demons: The Art and Legacy of Kevin Kanai Griffith

- [Blog with Art and Photos] Of Hummingbirds and Memories: The Art and Legacy of Caroline Muchmore

* - [Story] Closure for Yori Nakajima - I wrote an extended scene for Episode 6 of TFATWS where Bucky goes and seeks closure with Yori for murdering his son. I imagine the Bucky I’m writing for here experienced that extended series of events. That standalone story is about three pages in length and linked in my profile if you’re interested in reading it.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t as if waiting up for Bucky caused Sam any undue anxiety. It was just that after seeing him pale and half-frozen for a chunk of the afternoon, part of Sam insisted that seeing his friend alive and well would have been a nice reassurance that his recovery was heading in the right direction, and that he wasn’t passed out in some alleyway in the Golden City.

Sight unseen, he felt mostly certain Bucky was doing fine. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been checking-in on his vitals every few minutes like some sort of overprotective mother hen since he’d gone out. And he certainly hadn’t logged a fair number of the readings onto his laptop so he was able to chart how the numbers were trending over time. But that being as it was, he’d have been lying to himself if he didn’t feel at least a little bit better when he noticed Bucky’s location tracker finally started heading back towards his direction at an easy pace.

Of course Sam made sure to discreetly relocate his wrist comms so it was nestled back inside the case with the rest of his suit, and not sitting on his lap like it’d been for the better part of an hour and a half. He also turned on the television and flipped the channel to something science-y to give the room some low-key ambiance that made it seem like he’d been doing something other than sitting in damn-near silence worrying, well not worrying - being proper vigilant - while he took turns rotating between reading a plethora of Wakanda’s homespun Wikipedia articles that Bucky’d set up on his laptop and glancing at that tracker.

He felt his whole body relax when a knock finally came at the door. He might have even mouthed a silent thanks to the almighty he hopped off the couch and crossed the room to answer it. Not too fast, though. He didn’t want Bucky getting it in his mind that he’d been hovering at the door like an overprotective parent on prom night.

Sam had his suspicions about what Bucky might’ve been up to while he was out, but when the door opened to reveal his friend looking all healthy-colored and holding, of all things, a leather-bound book in the crook of his elbow and two flowers in his hand, he felt himself raise an eyebrow.

Bucky not only looked himself, but for lack of a better term, more at-ease than Sam’d seen all day.

“Can I come in, or is there a reason you’re standing there doing the staring thing?” Bucky inquired.

“I wasn’t doing the staring thing,” Sam deflected, stepping back so Bucky could enter. He closed the door behind him and made it a point to smoothly turn off the television like it was no big deal, “Just glad to see you’re looking okay. What’s with the flowers?”

“Flowers of remembrance,” Bucky said simply as he handed a single stem to Sam, “courtesy of Nomble. It’s a Queen of the Night lily if you want to get specific.”

Sam was sure he must have made a very particular expression with his face at that as he eyed the black flower with its red tips, but Bucky was quick to elaborate, “It’s a custom here. They’re given to people who are in mourning. I gave Nomble a bouquet of them, and then she turned around and gave us each a stem as a gesture of support for our own grief.”

“That was very nice of her,” Sam managed to use his words as he regarded the flower. He wasn’t altogether sure in that moment if anyone had ever actually given him a flower. There was a connection way in the back of his mind that flowers were, well, gendered things. Or at-best, the sort of things you gave as a token of romance or affection. Flipping that symbolism around was more than a little foreign, but it wasn’t completely alien. Holding it had a way of making him reflective, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that. He’d barely said more than a few sentences to Nomble in the time he’d been around her, yet she’d thought to ask Bucky to pass a flower along to him? Huh. “How did things go?”

“Better than expected,” Bucky admitted as he placed his own stem down on the nearest dresser and laid the book he was carrying beside it. Sam couldn’t read the title on account of it probably being in Wakandan by the looks of it, but the cover had a dragon wrapped around what looked like a keyboard. He didn’t have words for just how much of an absolute nerd this guy was.

Super Serum-ed Bookworm continued, “I’m not sure what I was hoping for other than the opportunity for her to hear me out. Nomble is… she can be pretty guarded about what she’s feeling, but she’s also one of the most direct people I’ve ever met. So if she’s not working and you can get her talking, it’s pretty easy to know where you stand with her. It was a bit touch and go at first, but by the end it felt like we got to a good place. A healing place. That was more than I expected out of tonight for sure.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Those recordings were… rough.”

Bucky nodded and took it upon himself to locate a glass and he stepped into the bathroom for a moment to fill it with water, returning it to the dresser and placing his flower’s stem in it. He sat on the furthest bed, the one that was up against his little nest on the floor, as he regarded the flower thoughtfully, “I’m glad you said something. About those messages, I mean. I’m assuming she… mentioned them when I was under?”

“Sort of,” Sam admitted, placing his own flower in the makeshift vase, “She doesn’t say much, but she said something about you not coming back to Wakanda to mourn with them. Seemed too important to remain unsaid between you two.”

“I wish I’d found out earlier,” Bucky admitted with a sigh, “but we both know that’s squarely on me.” He shook his head, “I just had no idea what-all she’d gone through. She lost her mother and brother, the last of her immediate family, and one of her closest friends within the timespan of the Decimation, give or take a couple days. Can you imagine?”

Sam didn’t want to, but he could.

“That’s awful,” Sam admitted, “I got lucky that Sarah and the boys were still around when we got out. Older, which was weird, but around.”

He realized that he might’ve had all sorts of misconceptions about Bucky’s time in Wakanda before the Snap, but it wasn’t as if Bucky had a clear view into his life then either, so he saw fit to volunteer, “I’d been on the run for the better part of two years before that, so I hadn’t even seen her leading-up to the Battle for Wakanda. So for her, it was seven years. Seven long years. She’d later tell me the only reason she thought to know I was doin’ okay was that the news would keep up with if I was imprisoned or on the run.”

Bucky frowned, “I still feel bad you got caught up in all that.”

Sam offered an easygoing shrug that certainly didn’t convey the whole story of those long years, but he also didn’t need Bucky going down some hole of guilt that any of that was his fault, “Zemo started that shit, not you. Getting involved was the right thing to do. You know better than me that the stuff with the other Winter Soldiers could have gone all-sorts of sideways. I just wish Ross was less of an asshole and that we’d been able to get pardons sooner.” He caught a glance at the black lilies and forced himself back to what he’d been meaning to say before his tangent, “Anyway, I can’t imagine what it would have been like to get dusted and come back to find your family and friends are just… gone. The kind you don’t come back from.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, sighing as he swung his feet up on the bed and repositioned himself so he was leaning against the headboard. It was obvious as anything to Sam that he still had more he was searching to say, so he gave him the time he needed to continue, “Nomble said she’d come to consider me her adopted brother. That’s not the sort of thing you say lightly out here, so I’m still sort of… processing that.” he clarified. “In any other circumstance, that might’ve been an incredibly moving thing to be told, but given the circumstances, it just made me feel like such an idiot. Like there I was, over in Brooklyn feeling sorry for myself and dodging them and telling myself they’d only helped me out of obligation to Steve, when apparently Nomble viewed me as actual kin?” He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling, “I’m a real piece of work.”

“But you two talked though, right? I mean, I’m assuming Nomble actually talks.”

Bucky snorted, “Yeah, she talks. She just draws a clean line between who she is at work, and who she is outside of that. I don’t know if I’d call her chatty, that’s more Shuri’s realm, but if you get Nomble talking about a topic she’s interested in, off she goes! She does a lot of reading, but also made it a point to host a lot of gatherings and get-togethers. Sometimes they were family affairs, other times she’d invite other Doras, members of the King’s Guard, or people she or her brother knew. Just the thought of her going from that busy house to being on her own in the timespan of a few snaps is just… staggering.”

Sam was having trouble imagining much of that based on what he’d seen firsthand, but he went along with the picture of a person Bucky was making an effort to weave, “So the book’s from her too?”

“Yeah. A loaner,” a smile crooked the corner of Bucky’s mouth, “She got me back into reading. I’d fallen out of the habit for obvious reasons, but even once I was away from HYDRA and out here, it’s like it took a bit for my brain to process stories in the same way that I used to. I could read the text, obviously, but the part where you step past the prose and into the story, using that part of your brain that imagines scenes and things: I couldn’t do that initially. Nomble made it a personal mission to try and push through. Once she did, I felt like I was making up for lost time.”

Bucky looked thoughtful as he continued, “I read a lot growing up, but it was mostly Western stuff. I was only fluent in English, and passable in Hebrew and a little Yiddish. Suddenly I came out of all those years and I was up to a little over two dozen languages, give or take. Add to that Wakandan, Yoruba, Hausa, and some other regional African dialects and suddenly it was like I was some walking Rosetta Stone. It was incredible. I could read and understand all sorts of texts in their original forms. Music too.”

Now on one hand: None of this was factually-new information to Sam. He knew Bucky spoke more than one language, and he’d heard the man say that those other Winter Soldiers were fluent in more than thirty languages. Yet he’d never put two-and-two together that it meant that all those years being under HYDRA’s heel would have granted him a fraction of a boon towards a hobby he genuinely enjoyed.

Bucky continued, “The moment Nomble put that together, we might as well have had an unofficial book club, because she had a whole treasure-trove of books she insisted were required reading. I returned the favor by sharing some of my favorites from way-back. Once we got past those, we just kept going, trying to one-up each other with new finds or books we thought especially suitable to each other’s tastes.” He snorted lightly, “I know she doesn’t talk much when she’s working, but she’s fluent in at least half the languages I was in my prime.”

“Was?” Sam caught the past-tense.

Bucky’s tone shifted from pleasant and reflective to something more tentative, “Some of that’s faded too,” he admitted, “Part of me wants to chalk it up to ‘use it or lose it,’ you know? But then sometimes I have one of those dreams and for a while after it’s all still there, so I don’t know anymore. It might be related to this stuff Shuri’s looking into. Anyway...” He redirected the conversation away from tomorrow’s worries before he could dwell on them any longer, “I promised Nomble I’d be better about keeping in touch. I was thinking on the way back here about how you spend a little time most evenings keeping tabs on Sarah, the boys, Torres, and some of the Avengers. I think I’m going to try to take your example and do that too.”

That got a reaction out of Sam. It wasn’t that Bucky was bad with tech by any means, but the thought of him making a decided effort to regularly leverage his phone, or beads, or whatever to reach out on his own… that was a big deal, “You’re serious.” Sam observed.

“Of course I’m serious,” Bucky countered, slightly offended, “It isn’t my thing, you know?” He rotated his torso so he was leaning his good shoulder against the headboard as he faced Sam. “Look, when I was growing up, yes phones were invented, yes we had paper mail, but most times if you wanted to talk to someone, you’d just… go walk over and see them. Even when I was here, there wasn’t much reason to try to have any long correspondence with someone I could just go talk to in person when we were both free. But I’m obviously realizing now that if I want to be better about this stuff, particularly with people on different continents, It’s on me to put in the effort, even if I’d prefer to converse in person rather than using tech as a go-between. Speaking of which: did you do your nightly circuit while I was out?”

Sam resisted the urge to make light of Bucky’s renewed desire to not be a dead-end where tech communication was concerned, “I saved Sarah and the boys for when you got back. I texted her earlier to let her know we’d give her a ring before we went to bed. The time zones are a mess anyway, and this time of day, the later it is here the better it is for her, relatively speaking.”

Bucky’s face scrunched a little and he bit his lip, “I’m not saying to lie to your sister but… do you think we could keep my stuff on the downlow for a bit until we know more? I don’t want her worrying over what could amount to nothing.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam agreed. He’d already assumed that would be their default approach. If Sarah knew about even a tenth of the dangers their job entailed, it wouldn’t do anything but add undue stress she could do nothing about. “The medical stuff’s your business. I’m not bringing it up to her or any of the Avengers either, or… whatever it is we’re calling ourselves now.”

Bucky offered him a nod as if he was satisfied by the answer, “Thanks. I was thinking I’d start going through some of those recordings from the Decimation for a bit before bed. Did you want to…?” he started.

“I can put on my headphones and do my own thing in the other room if you’d like some privacy,” Sam offered.

Apparently that wasn’t what Bucky was getting at, because his friend’s face twisted a bit as he clarified, “...I’d honestly appreciate the company. If you are up for it, I mean.” He swallowed, his voice wavering as he spoke, “I’m realizing some of the people that left me messages… you’re never going to have the opportunity to meet them. And… it would mean a lot if you…” his words slowed to a halt and Sam saw fit to step in and spare him from having to explain any further.

“Of course, Buck.”

The man in question resorted to breathing in and out a few times in a feeble attempt to catch his breath and stave off the emotion of it all. Sam knew this wasn’t going to be an easy watch, but it meant a lot that Bucky was willing to share this part of his life with him. It was clear as anything that this place and its people were a lot more important to Bucky than either of them had given them credit for, and this in particular was immensely personal.

Sam volunteered his own perspective, “I can honestly say up until the last day or so that I probably didn’t spend nearly enough time thinking about the Decimation and how it impacted the people we know, Sarah and my nephews included. It's important for me to try to bridge the gap and understand what they went through too. Because frankly? I’m probably just as blind to it.”

Bucky nodded and glanced back to the makeshift vase and the two dark flowers sticking out of it before he saw fit to shuffle over to one side of the bed. He propped up a pillow vertically beside him, as if inviting Sam to take a seat beside him.

It was better than the floor, at least.

Sam stepped off his bed and situated himself next to Bucky’s right on top of the comforter so that the projection would be between them. Bucky, for his part, was doing a damn good job of using those blue eyes of his to try and communicate telepathically with the Kimoyo Beads and their secrets that lay hidden around his wrist.

“For what it’s worth,” Sam volunteered, “I think you should be proud of yourself for trying to face this stuff head-on. I know it isn’t easy.”

“It isn’t,” he confirmed, “But I’ve spent enough of my life fighting other people, fighting to do the right thing, or just fighting to survive. It would be a waste to give up now and not fight for people that matter, especially when they didn’t give up on me.”

Sam nodded and sat back against the pillow to get comfortable, “How are you planning to go through them? The messages, I mean.”

“I was thinking chronological. I can put on the translations for you since I’m assuming not all of the recordings are in English. Would you prefer audio or subtitles?”

“How about subtitles?” Sam offered. He appreciated Bucky’s willingness for him to understand, but it seemed wrong to cover over the actual voices of these people with an English dub just for his benefit.

“Okay,” Bucky said as he held up his wrist palm-up and made some quick gestures with his fingers and thumb to toggle the UI on and enter a projected menu that showed an assortment of different animated thumbnails and a varied cast of solemn faces. He took a deep breath, and Sam caught that his fingers were still trembling.

This time, it probably wasn’t from the cold.

“You got this,” Sam said, squeezing his friend’s shoulder reassuringly.

Bucky swallowed and took another breath, “No time like the present,” and pressed play on a recording left days after the first Snap.

The first face they were met with was Ayo. She was dressed in the garb of a Dora Milaje and by the looks of it, was somewhere inside the Wakandan Design Center. Her face was hard, but her eyes were strangely emotive, “The scientists, they say they’ve set up storage to receive these recordings, but it is strange to know the signals remain in the ether with all of Vanished. I… I know it would be good for me to imagine I am simply leaving you a message, but it is hard knowing you and the others are not there.”

“We are joining the rest of the world in a census, but it seems Thanos delivered on his vile promise and took away half of all sentient life. We do not know what became of them, for it was not death. Hearing the threat of such a thing was certainly enough to spurn us into motion, but seeing it first hand… it is… unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” She glanced around her, but continued, “We aren’t sure what to believe. There is argument if you and the others are dead, or if what was done can be undone. I choose to believe the latter. I choose to imagine you are with T’Challa, Shuri, Nomble, and the others and that we will find a way to reunite in time.”

“There has already been so much death. So much mourning. They have people now whose only job is to try to arrange the timing of funerals because there are too many at once, and in some cases, those that would help see to arranging them are gone or with the ancestors as well.”

Her face trembled with underlying emotion as she spoke, “The Dora Milaje and King’s Guard have seen to our own, Tasdi among them. It was a beautiful ceremony, but it felt so very empty with so many missing faces. Yama took some photos of the setting and said she will share them with you so that you and the others can feel you were present once you’re back with us.”

Ayo took a long breath to ground herself before she continued, “Okoye has her hands overflowing since King T’Challa was taken with the other Vanished. The General and the remaining King’s Guard watch over Queen Ramonda until we know what to do next. Even M’Baku has said this is the time for understanding what has happened, not another challenge. The other tribes agree this unprecedented event is not proof that our king is dead.”

There was a long silence before she added, “I hope this message finds you, White Wolf. You are not forgotten.”

Bucky kept his head facing forward as he immediately played the next message. It began with Yama in plain clothes sitting out in a field somewhere as she did her best to recount Tsadi’s recent funeral. As she spoke, she shared a few photos she’d taken of either the set-up or aftermath of the event. They were spared candid photos, but there were a few photos of people lined up as they posed for the camera looking immensely somber.

Yama was obviously uncomfortable, and midway through her firsthand account she candidly added, “This may be the longest I have gone without crying this week. It is not that I am not sad, I simply have nothing left. All of us are drained dry. There is nothing I wish more than to wake up and find this is all a dream.” She started to say something else, but put her hand over her face and ended the message.

“Christ,” Sam muttered under his breath.

Bucky made a gesture with his hand to toss the projection a few feet further in front of them and lowered his hand back to his side as the next recording automatically played. It was Ayo again, but she was wearing casual clothing and looked to be sitting out in the dark in what looked to be a more natural setting. “General Okoye, Queen Ramonda, and Yama send their regards. With both you and Shuri among the Vanished, I search for new purpose as well. I only wish there was more I could do to find out what became of you and how to reverse it. Okoye speaks of combining affairs with the Avengers that remain in order to search for a cure for what has happened. When we sought to open Wakanda to the world, we did not know this would be what awaited us.”

Other recordings came and went until one appeared with someone Sam didn’t recognize. Before the man could say a word, Bucky quietly breathed, “M’Bahi. Nomble’s late brother.” Sam felt his chest tighten as the man began speaking in Wakandan, and he followed along with the subtitles.

“Ah, Brother Wolf. It has been a terrible month. I hope you will not judge me but have only now started to leave messages for you, Nomble, and others. I simply do not know what to say. My natural way is to try to bring levity with my words, but it seems inappropriate after all that has happened. I’m not sure I’ve seen a single smile except on the faces of babies and lucky younglings that are too small to understand. The rest of us? We persist, because it is all we can do.”

“The streets of the city are quiet, and our home is filled with the absence of joy, for both of our little ones were taken to the Vanished Lands with you. I hope you are watching over one-another. Sitting and telling stories. It brings me some amount of peace to know they are not alone. We will do all we can to reunite with you, yes? Stay strong.”

Sam hadn’t heard Bucky speak for the better part of thirty minutes, so the sound of his raw voice nearly startled him, “He died in the Battle of Earth. He probably didn’t even get to see his kids again.”

Sam didn’t have anything to say to that, other than it made him feel awfully reflective and more than a little emotional about Sarah and his own nephews. It had been easy for him, well, relatively speaking, to jump back into the fray the moment he’d come to after the second snap.

It was like no time had passed at all.

The first person he’d seen was Bucky, who looked just as confused as he was about where everyone had gotten off to and what’d happened to the rifle he’d just been holding. King T’Challa caught sight of the two of them and had hollered for their attention and they’d called out for the others. By the time they managed to find a justifiably distressed Wanda, Groot, and the others, some wizard stepped through a genuine magic portal and insisted that they had to get a move on because Thanos was back and the Avengers needed their help. Now.

Within minutes, they’d hurried over and met back up with the forces that’d been dusted along with them at the Battle of Wakanda. Then reinforcements started arriving. It all happened so fast, and there was so much confusion, but the basics were clear: Thanos had apparently won round one, five years had passed, and they were about to get a second shot. They couldn’t fail.

This was the endgame.

So sure, people like Sam and Bucky, T’Challa, Wanda, and Nomble had all gone swiftly from one fight into another, because that was just what needed done. But Sam had never stopped to think, to really think about how there’d been people like Nomble’s brother who’d answered the call out of the blue and had jumped into action to help, even if it meant they were denied the opportunity to even see the faces of the people they were fighting for.

It was a staggeringly awful, awful thought.

Speaking of which: Wanda hadn’t been returning any of his messages since Tony’s funeral either. He made a mental note to send her another check-in. Hopefully she was just taking the time she needed and was holding up okay, after, well, that.

Bucky didn’t say anything more as another recording with Ayo followed, detailing updates about what was happening with the rest of the world, as well as what Okoye had told her about the Avengers that had survived what they were now calling the Great Decimation. “They send their regards,” Ayo noted, “Each and every one, including your Steve, feel it was their failing. They’ve made a word for this that we are in: grieving without certainty of death.”

The recording that followed that was from Okoye herself. She spoke with frustration that some of the Avengers had located the Mad Titan, only to have discovered he’d already destroyed the Infinity Stones. Apparently Thor had decapitated him (a detail Sam found he definitely didn’t need), and the end result had simply been that… for some, for many, that was the end of their fight. That hope went away with the stones themselves. “I do not know what awaits us,” Okoye spoke candidly in the recording, “But it is not yet time to believe that all hope is lost.”

Next came recordings of Mamma, who took “Bucky” on a tour of the kitchens and shared videos of the foods she’d been making, as well as a brief tour of the nearby streets, which were painfully bare. “Food is a language we need more than ever,” she said, “Too many stay hidden in their homes, suffering in silence. Our home is quiet too without Ch'toa, but I’ve started making little care packages of meals and pastries and visiting people nearby to talk together. It has been good medicine. I think of you whenever I prepare that marmalade you always favored.”

There were kids Sam didn’t recognize that updated Bucky about their latest lessons and hijinks in fluent English, as well as numerous recordings of Yama, who came to use the recordings less as a confessional journal, and more of a way to share things she thought Bucky might enjoy. There were updates about her favorite restaurants from Wakanda as well as her travels to nearby countries, videos of dogs, cats, and even a tame rhinoceros that ate an apple right out of her hand. She shared snapshots of stunning sunsets, animals doing tricks, and a plethora of short videos about a cast of goats with resoundingly English names.

“I notice ‘Sam’ is the black goat,” Human Sam coolly observed.

“I didn’t name him that because of his color,” Bucky insisted, “Do you see how high he is in that tree? That jerk would climb so far up we practically had to bribe him to come down. It was like he was training us. Like it was some game. One time we spent the better part of an hour getting him down, and as soon as he had all four hooves on the ground, he headbutted me, the ingrate.”

The recordings continued as unseen months passed. Ayo offered ongoing updates, while others made the occasional appearance when something reminded them of Bucky, or when certain anniversaries or important dates came around.

M’Bahi’s appearances became more frequent as his mother’s health declined, and he confided in Bucky that he wasn’t sure what to do without Nomble there to guide him. Sam didn’t see a lot of their mother, but the few times he did, he got a feeling deep in his gut that she’d been the sort of person he’d have gotten along well with, had they had the opportunity to meet.

From beside him, he could hear Bucky making quiet choking noises as the story of her life came to a close, and Sam took Bucky’s hand and squeezed it in shared compassion.

M’Bahi did what he could to convey fond memories of their time together long distance. Some of the stories were lighthearted, even sweet, but his eyes were red as he spoke, “She asked about you, you know? She said she missed playing piano with her second right-hand.” M’Bahi sighed as he added, “She is at peace now, though. I don’t know if you will see her, and I don’t wish you to, but I hope you, Nomble, and the boys are doing okay. You are missed so very much, Black Wolf.” His face held a bit of a sad smile in it, as if it was an inside joke between the two.

Time continued to pass and updates became less frequent until certain faces stopped showing up altogether. Sam found he could tell when it was coming, though, because usually the last update they offered was something of a sweet goodbye tendered with apologies that it was time for them to step away and grieve and accept the inevitable truth.

Yama’s final message was particularly touching as she sat surrounded by the goats Bucky’d named, the nearest one looked over her shoulder at the camera, “I am too stubborn to believe there is no hope, but I know it will not be me that finds a way to undo the Decimation. But what I can do is to try to be useful, so I’ve decided to start training as I can to learn more about our sciences and medicines.” There was solemn resolve in her voice as she spoke, “It would be good to understand more, as Shuri did, and I would like to aid others. Hopefully when you are back, I can be one to help see to your needs. That way that dull assistant of Shuri’s can stop making you suffer each time he tries to find your veins.” Yama sighed as she regarded the camera with the weight of someone who wasn’t sure if this was to be goodbye, “I will check in with the Screaming Avengers as I can, and will have many photos waiting for all of you.” She leaned her wrist out as far as she could to capture a wide shot of herself waving at the camera and as many goats as possible before she ended the recording.

Even after Yama signed off, Ayo’s messages continued. They were journal-like in their detail and candor, and as each one would come to a close, she’d repeat how she still had hope, even if those around her had finally given up and chosen it was time instead to grieve and move on, “I do not judge them, or I try not to,” Ayo said as she sat alone at what very much could have been Mamma and Ch’toa’s restaurant, “but it is not time yet for me to grieve, not when there is language yet for hope. For ‘ithemba elingunaphakade. Hope eternal. I hope this message reaches through the unknown and finds you safe. You are not forgotten, White Wolf.”

The recordings came to a stop and returned to the main menu with the thumbnails, “That’s the last recording taken during the Decimation,” Bucky managed, his voice barely a whisper.

“That was also less than a week before the Battle for Earth,” Sam observed from beside him.

“...I think that’s all I have in me for tonight,” Bucky confessed hollowly as he closed down the holographic overlay and promptly hopped off the bed and made tracks straight towards the bathroom, “I’m… I’m gonna go wash my face.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam dully responded. What he actually wanted to say was he wasn’t sure if at any point in his life, that he wanted so much to simply rush home and hug Sarah, Cass, and AJ until his arms gave out.

When Bucky closed the door behind him, Sam put his own head in his hands and just let himself feel. He’d imagined what it might’ve been like for them, but nothing like this. The clock said it’d only been three hours and change, but he felt like he’d aged five years in that time, and in some ways: he had.

He could still hear the water running in the other room as he found a tissue and blew his nose. He was pretty sure the water was only on in a feeble attempt to drown out whatever awful sobbing noises Bucky was making in there. God. That was… that was a lot.

After the better part of ten or fifteen minutes, he reappeared. When he did, Bucky’s eyes were red and raw with emotion and Sam was sure his own were a matching set. He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to say, and by the looks of it, Bucky was numbed by the same problem. He just stood there, a few steps out from the doorway, staring at the book and those black flowers with that emotive face of his.

“I didn’t get it,” he spoke out loud to the room, “I thought I understood near as much as I could, but I didn’t even come close. How can we?”

“It’s not just you, Buck,” Sam had the wherewithal to confess. “Believe me: It’s not just you.”

Bucky silently nodded and walked over and sat on the floor, back in that stupid, sorry brooding spot of his. He rested his back against the wall and kept his eyes on the ceiling as he spoke, “I want to do right by them, Sam, but I don’t know how to repay all that. Especially Ayo.”

Sam was thinking the same thing about Sarah and others he probably hadn’t said ‘thank you’ to near-enough. Shit: Half the damn population had gone through something close to that? It put a lot more in perspective, that was for damn sure.

And bless Bucky Barnes for whatever was running through him, because the next thing Sam knew, his friend was fiddling with the Kimoyo Beads along his wrist. For a moment, he was pretty sure he was sending a message, which: good on him, he was sure the Wakandans would appreciate him reaching out to bridge the gap.

But instead Sam watched the light of the beads blink and illuminate the room for a moment. After three blinks, the vibranium pooled into Bucky’s outstretched palm and formed into the head and torso of none-other than Ayo, who was still wearing her Dora Milaje ensemble even though it was well past midnight. Sam wasn’t an expert at reading her expression, but his best guess was that she had been taken by surprise by Bucky’s call.

“Ayo,” Bucky started, tumbling over his words, and then coming to a sudden stall in whatever he’d planned to say, “Wait, are you still working?”

“I am here with Shuri,” Wakanda's Chief of Security stated evenly.

Sam could overhear Shuri from somewhere in the background, “You can tell James that when I said we would talk tomorrow, I did not mean when the day turned over.”

“I wasn’t calling to bug Shuri,” Bucky clarified, though by Ayo’s expression, it was clear she believed him, “And I know you’re working and need to focus, I thought maybe you were off but, I just… I watched the videos from the Decimation. All of them. I… I don’t even know what to say because I know words only do so much when trust has been broken.”

Bucky managed to take a breath somewhere in there as he spoke directly from gut to mouth, “I took all of you for granted. And I just wanted to say it means more than you can possibly imagine that you didn’t give up on me then or now. I still have hope for us too. If it takes five years, ten, more: I’ll keep trying to get through to you and make things right between us.”

Sam’s eyes were definitely misty in the corners at some combination of his guilt about Sarah and the powerful truth and overflowing conviction from Bucky’s own words. Even the weird vibranium assembly of Ayo’s expression conveyed that his plea didn’t fall on deaf ears. She kept her face measured, even, but there was emotion in those eyes of hers, and it wasn’t anger. She took a slow breath before replying, “We can talk more tomorrow when I am not guarding our royal princess.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky said quickly, getting her drift, “I just… I needed you to know.”

“I have heard you,” Ayo reassured him before adding with a Dora’s precise candor, “And I have hope as well.” Her tone shifted to something almost maternal, “Now go and get some rest. Your body still needs to recover from the cryo”

Shuri’s voice reappeared from the background once more, “Do not take the short naps you do to dodge dreams as well as a full night’s sleep! Your body needs it. All the way through. If Sam is there, tell him that if he sees you try to set alarms so that you take only brief naps, that he should message me, and I will take the matter into my own hands.”

“Fine fine, message received,” Bucky defended.

By his tone, it was clear-as-day to Sam that it had actually been Bucky’s original plan.

“We will talk again in the morning,” Ayo’s figure stated with a tip of her head, “Rest well, Ingcuka Eneenkani.”

Bucky made a quizzical face at that last part, but responded, “Thanks again to you both for staying up late on my account. I hope you sleep well when you do,” Bucky closed down the call and took a deep breath before he spoke aloud to the room, “Sorry, I had to make that call before I lost my nerve completely.”

“No need to apologize. What was that last bit Ayo said?” Sam inquired.

“She called me ‘Stubborn Wolf,’” Bucky clarified from his spot on the ground.

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s progress,” Bucky confirmed. “She used to call me that when she was trying to teach me a lesson.” He paused, rolling the statement around in his head, “I suppose that sentiment applies here too.”

Bucky looked up from where he sat on the ground, “You think it’s still an okay time to check in with the family?”

There was something altogether sweet about the fact that Bucky’s head had gone straight from one adopted family of his to the next.

Considering how late it was here in the land of lions and gazelles and cafeteria drones, it would still be a fine early evening sprawl back in Delacroix, “Yeah, we’re good. Sarah said she spent the afternoon doin’ some science experiments with the kids to take their minds off that stuff from earlier. I’m gonna let them take the lead on what they want to talk about.”

“Absolutely,” Bucky agreed without hesitation.

“And it’s fine if we’re sleeping on the floor again tonight if that’s what suits you, but you better get your tail back up here because I’m staying right where I am for the call. This is the comfiest spot I’ve been all day.”

Bucky snorted and hopped back into the bed and tucked a pillow between his back and the headboard.

“--And I’ll totally tattle on you if I see you so much as set an alarm to interrupt your beauty rest,” Sam added for good measure as he reached for his phone and called his sister.

The moment Sarah picked up and he saw her face, he couldn’t help but think it was one of the more genuinely wonderful things he’d seen in his life. He found himself smiling as he led the conversation with, “Missed you, Sis. We are both so happy to see you…”

Chapter Text

Whether it was thanks to sheer exhaustion or his body still busily burning off Shuri’s homebrew chemical concoction from the cryo, Bucky felt more than a little thankful that when he finally woke up, he didn’t remember anything his tired mind had thought to dream up.

Sam was already awake by the time Bucky finally saw fit to open his eyes and squint at the bright noonday light that saw fit to try and sneak in around the edges of the curtains. His partner was silently lying on the floor atop his makeshift bed with one hand holding his phone while the other intently scrolled through whatever website he was soaking in stories or memes from.

Was it “memes” or “me-mes?” He kept meaning to ask, but he was sure Sam would take it as an opening for an old man joke. It wasn’t like he was any more up-to-date with all these new-fangled terms and weirdly spelled social media sites, though.

Maybe he could ask AJ on the downlow?

“What time is it?” Bucky groaned from his spot on the floor.

“A bit before noon, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam offered as he laid his phone aside and rolled towards Bucky. He casually propped up his torso with one elbow, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you sleep that deep. You were completely out.”

“Did I say anything?”

“Not a word,” Sam confirmed, seeing fit to add, “And I can’t believe I never put two-and-two together on why you’d take all those cat naps rather than letting yourself sleep through the night. That seriously can’t be healthy long-term.”

“Sometimes it’s just not worth the risk, especially if it’s been a rough day,” Bucky admitted.

“I thought you said the nightmares were getting less frequent?”

“Less is...still a lot,” Bucky admitted. He looked up at the ceiling, “How about you?”

Sam snorted at the redirection but laid back down, coming to a point of acceptance that his well-being was up for discussion too, “Yeah, I get nightmares too. I don’t know if they ever really go away, they just kinda change over time.” He let out a deep breath, “These days it’s less about the past and more about worries for the future, you know? Letting people down. Not livin’ up to things. Not doing enough. I knew taking up the shield would have a very particular weight to it, but I guess I thought when I put it down for a bit, it’d be easier to separate Sam Wilson from Captain America. But it’s not nearly that easy,” he confided.

Sam continued, “Ridiculous as it sounds, and with all respect for what you’re going through here, Wakanda’s been a nice break from the same-old back home. It feels like no one here is seeing fit trying to look for cracks. Set me up for interviews just so they can pick me apart like vultures. Trying to get a rise out of me like some of those morning show idiots that were on the edge of their damn seats hoping to get me to say something controversial.” His voice was measured, but heavy, “Just hoping to get a glimpse of an angry black man so they could spin that into something news-worthy. I just don’t have that privilege.”

Bucky sat with that statement and the solemn truth in it. He hated it was the way of things, but he’d seen enough of it firsthand to know it wasn’t a mirage, “I hadn’t thought about it quite that way, but that’s awful. You might consider talking to T’Challa about some of it,” Bucky offered, “I’m sure he gets that more than most and he certainly has a unique perspective. My own life experiences are… different. But I can sort of understand the ‘emotion’ thing in my own way.”

Sam went back to rolling over in Bucky’s direction with that inquisitive expression of his, “In your ‘own way?’”

“Well… I guess I feel like it’s just… easier to not let myself go to any extremes. Just live in the middle. Like if I’m ‘too happy,’ isn’t that being disrespectful to all the people I’ve hurt along the way? Or if my tone’s deemed ‘too aggressive’ then it could just turn into some spin about how I’m not really reformed at all?” he sighed, “Like I said, not nearly the same as your struggles, but I get how it’s unnecessarily complicated when you know people are looking for any excuse to jump in and judge you.” He pivoted the conversation back around, because it was important Sam knew Bucky was there for him as well, even if he still felt altogether awkward about talking about some of this out loud, “But if you ever have stuff, you know you can talk to me about it, right?”

“I know, and I appreciate it. Genuinely.” A pause, “But I’m still not callin’ you White Wolf.”

Bucky snorted and tossed a spare pillow at Sam as he pulled himself so his back was against the wall, “That doesn’t sound nearly as good without the accent.” He stretched and yawned, “Man, the last twenty-four hours might as well have been two months for how long they felt.* You heard from Shuri or any of the Doras?”

“Shuri sent me a message earlier. She was worried about waking you. That, or she wanted to check from a third-party source that you weren’t doin’ that broken-up nap thing. It sounds like she and Ayo tapped out just after sunrise, and the plan is for everyone to meet up back at the Design Center after lunch.”

Bucky caught a certain flicker of an expression over Sam’s face, as if there was a piece of the story he saw fit to omit by casual intention, “...and?”

Sam sighed, his expression falling, “Torres messaged me. There were two other hits overnight. Same M.O. This one’s got more eyes on it, though. The last surviving members of the royal family, which has turned up the heat on things. Torres also got wind that there's supposed to be an emergency meeting with one of the UN subcommittees later today. He thinks it’s related, and that it’s going to turn into an official summons to get some outside help on the books. Symkaria’s reps want to find the killer, but now other countries are worried if they need to lockdown their people too. I let Shuri know, since, well.”

“Shit,” Bucky breathed, “The whole family?”

“And a fair number of their local representatives. They’ve gotten most of the remaining ones into safe houses or out of the country, but this has become an international incident now, especially since one of the family members was apparently outside of Symkaria when they got taken out.”

Bucky made a face at that, “And Torres thinks they’re going to ask us to get involved, on the books?”

Sam nodded his head, “Both of us, but specifically you because their running assumption is it’s another super soldier, and you’re the resident expert on the subject.”

Bucky groaned, “Always nice to know they don’t just keep me around for my charming personality.” He glanced at his empty shoulder. Sam caught the motion, “We… might need to let them know I’m not going to be operating at peak performance here.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Sam reassured him, “And if you need to hang back here and deal with this other stuff, I can cover for you.”

The words were supposed to make him feel better, but instead they just had a way of making Bucky increasingly self-aware that the fragile pieces of his life were risking slipping apart, “I’d still go, even without the arm.”

“I wasn’t talking about the arm,” Sam stated in a very clear, non-nonsense tone, “I have no doubt you could be useful, even fight without the arm if you needed to, I just want to make sure you’re taking care of you, too. There’s always going to be the next international hoop-la, but there’s only one of you.”

“I get it, I get it,” Bucky deflected, trying to push down the thought of how he’d feel if Sam went off to that international adventure and got hurt while he was over in Wakanda having Shuri poke at his damaged brain. “Did Torres get the impression they’re trying to put together a task force?”

“No word yet. Personally? I’m hoping we have another round at the subtle approach now that we’ll be able to connect with the authorities and ask questions without risking someone crying foul about the Sokovia Accords. If I never see Ross again, it will be too soon.” Sam leaned to Bucky, “I ever tell you what he ‘convicted’ me for without trial before he went and tossed away the key?”

“What?”

“Assaulting the King of Wakanda. Can you believe that shit?”

Bucky made a disgusted face, “There’s no way T’Challa had any idea they were keeping you for that long under that pretense.”

“Oh I know,” Sam reasoned, before he added with a casual shrug, “Just because we’re technically playing for the same team as Ross now doesn’t mean I haven’t had my fantasies about flying out to the Raft just so I can haul him out over the water and drop his ass a respectable distance away.”

Bucky flourished his hand like a ringmaster, “Our new Captain America, ladies and gentleman!”

Sam was grinning from ear-to-ear when he chucked a pillow frisbee-style in his direction, “C’mon, let’s get some grub. I’m starving.”

Lunch was a blissfully straightforward affair. It was just as much of an excuse to see Mamma after seeing the numerous messages she’d left for him during the Decimation, but it was a valid way to introduce Sam to the cafe’s zesty and everchanging lunch menu.

Mostly, it was probably an excuse to hug Mamma and Ch’toa.

The two brightly adorned women were over the moon to see the both of them again so soon, and when Bucky mentioned the dream he’d recalled with Ayo from the day before, Mamma launched into sharing a host of her own experiences about Bucky that managed to walk the line between being sweet and entertaining without being uncomfortable or two personal. She was skilled like that.

Bucky had a whole list of things he was certain he’d feel shame and guilt about for the rest of his life, no matter what amends he sought, and he realized one of them was the mere fact that so many people in Wakanda had, for lack of a better explanation: not seen him at his best. He remained quietly ashamed of that fact, and while it had been a contributing factor to why he’d sought out the appeal of a fresh start in Brooklyn, he was beginning to realize that the people here didn’t hold it against him in nearly the same way he continued to hold it against himself.

That was at-one refreshing, but it also had a way of making him feel guilty all over again about repeatedly dodging their calls.

The more he listened to their stories, really listened and tried to pretend they were talking about someone else, the more picked up on the joy they had in their voices as they spoke. None of it was ever mocking or made light of what he’d gone through. It was almost as if they had a spot of pride to bear witness to seeing him come into himself and shuck off the weights that had burdened him for so long. Even their unique view of the setbacks he faced along the way had a very particular point of view.

For one: Bucky started to pick up on the fact that Mamma and Ch’toa never spoke of such things framed around the idea that when things had gone wrong, that they were a setback for him specifically, but rather that it was a setback for the communal “we.” Like there was a community rallying behind him every step of the way, whether he had been conscious of it or not.

The more he picked up on the “us” and the “we” and the “our,” the more Bucky realized he’d somehow been a part of their stories as well, rather than them simply being a part of his.

It made him feel a lot of things at once, but it also made him aware that even after Ayo suggested he make himself scarce for a while after Zemo, she’d been willing to grant him a favor to help Sam step up into that complicated mantle of his. And after that? When he’d reached out to her to ask if she’d remembered him ever saying anything about Symkaria, she’d responded by promptly summoning him back to Wakanda. If she hadn’t, he might’ve missed out on the opportunity to realize just how much the people and this place meant to him, and that the sentiment truly went both ways.

Things may be rough around the edges, but he had an awful lot to be thankful for.

Mamma had on one of those toothy smiles of hers as she went on about how refreshing it had been to teach a “lost soul” about food when he came at it with caution, but without preconceptions. “Usually people turn up their noses at delicious if they weren’t raised around a certain strain,” Mamma said, “But our White Wolf here was so curious about everything. And if somethin’ went wrong with that stuff Shuri was up to and it rolled back his opinions, he’d be just as content to try it again a second time. And seein’ that excitement of discovery again had a way of makin’ the colors of the world seem a little brighter all around. A little sweeter.”

The sincere fondness in her voice as she spoke had a way of making his bubbling concerns feel a little more distant as well.

The meal was fantastic as always, but the company was what made it filling.

When they’d finally finished-up, paid their bill, and gotten a second or third round of hugs, Ch’toa chatted with Sam and Mamma took Bucky by the shoulders and regarded him seriously. She kept her deep brown eyes on his in a way that made him self-conscious enough to worry she’d somehow learned to mind read during the Decimation, “I can tell you have weight and worry bearing down on you,” she spoke in her rich Wakandan accent, “But just remember you don’t need to make that burden yours alone. Usapho lwakho lulapha ngenxa yakho.” Your family is here for you.

Bucky nodded and used his hand to pull her into a warm hug, the one he’d been waiting to give her since he’d seen those recordings from the night before, “Ndiyaxolisa ukuba kuthathe de kwavuka isiQinisekiso sokuba ndiqonde into wena nabanye eniyibone ngokucacileyo ixesha elide.” I’m sorry it took until the wake of the Decimation for me to understand what you and the others saw clearly for so long.

She gave him a tight squeeze, “You are stubborn and we are patient,” she offered as a way of simple explanation.

Nomble was already waiting with her spear in-hand as Bucky and Sam approached the nearest tarmac where they’d agreed to meet up after lunch. Her expression may have been a Dora’s neutral, but her eyes were calmer and more collected than they’d been the day before. It was welcome relief to see.

“I hope you slept well,” Bucky offered as she led them into the back of the black jet.

“I did,” she confirmed.

“Thanks for the flower,” Sam added, and Bucky caught just the hint of a smile at the side of her mouth as she bobbed her head in acknowledgement and stepped into the pilot's seat, crossing her legs as she settled into place and adjusted the holographic arrays that acted as the ship’s controls.

“The others are already there,” Nomble offered as explanation as the two men took a seat. Once they saw all was in order, she moved her hands and the jet smoothly lifted off.

“Did they say anything?”

Nomble looked back at him briefly, as if she was weighing the scales between her desire to remain quiet while on the job, and her willingness to indulge his question, “When I took first shift this morning, Shuri was still reviewing data.”

Bucky let out a breath it felt like he’d been holding since the night before, “Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” he admitted. “After a certain number of trips to the Design Center, it seems like I should be at least somewhat acclimated to the anxiety, but this time feels different. Probably on account of the fact I convinced myself I was cured.”

He caught her glance back in Sam’s direction and Bucky thought to offer her an out, “...You don’t have to respond if you’re working.”

“Do not be insufferable,” Nomble remarked, keeping her eyes forward, but her expression was sisterly rather than cross. “I am not presently tasked with guarding either of you and I do not need my words to pilot a jet. I can spare some for you.”

He snorted lightly as he turned back to Sam so his friend was aware he was talking to both of them. Sam offered his best ‘huh, she can talk’ expression as Bucky elaborated, “I think it’s just nervous energy. Worst-case scenarios.”

Sam frowned, but before he could say anything, Nomble spoke up again, “You speak of ‘cured’ as if it is a destination. I do not think it is. Do you remember when the trigger words were made benign, yet they still caused you distress for months after?”

“Yeah, I do,” he admitted. “It was... frustrating.”

“Then perhaps consider this may be another leaf of the same tree that may require regular tending. You cannot simply ask a plant or cub to cease their growing simply because you are content with how they are. Perhaps you should stop seeking to ask the same of your mind.”

“I like her,” Sam said approvingly from Bucky’s right.

“Don’t encourage her,” Bucky quipped back as he caught Nomble glancing back at the two of them, “But you have a fair point. I have been thinking about it more like a destination, and maybe that’s why it’s so easy to slip into worst-case scenarios when it doesn’t work out.”

“You are quick to give Shuri credit for all her innovations, Ayo for her patience, but I think you do not spend enough time offering yourself and your mind accolades for how far you’ve come. All of the tireless tending you’ve done along the way continues to be energy well-spent, not an indication of a trajectory towards eventual failure.”

Bucky wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, but he decided it couldn’t hurt to chew on it.

By the time they landed and made their way through the Wakandan Design Group, they found Shuri in the rear of her lab. The genius princess was flanked by Ayo and Yama who both appeared to be on guard duty. The fact that there were no other scientists present told Bucky there was news she planned to share after the formalities.

Nomble took up watch over the entrance to the lab and Shuri popped her head up as he and Sam approached. He did what he could to get a quick read on her expression, but she didn’t give him a lot to work with because she was wearing that pleasant politician’s smile she’d learned along the way, “Ah! Good morning! I hope both of you slept well.”

Bucky wanted so much to cut through the pleasantries and hurry to the point, to the findings, but he knew Shuri wouldn’t drag things out unnecessarily. If she’d stayed up past sunrise on his account, he could manage his need to know for a little longer, “We did. Did the three of you manage any?”

When Ayo and Yama turned their attention to him, Bucky felt his concerns about the findings momentarily still. Seeing Yama’s face in the wake of those recordings was… it was something… he felt like he owed her a wealth of belated conversations about all she’d shared with him: the food, the photos, the videos, the bits and pieces of her life that she saw fit to share with a friend on the other side of some unreachable void just because that was who she was.

He wanted to tell her he had a heaping amount of respect for her for her desire to learn more about science and medicine, and that he was proud of her for taking it seriously.

He wasn’t sure what exact expression his face was making, but he felt certain Yama knew he’d watched those videos. Whether it was because Ayo’d told her or because she’d been present for that scene in the museum the day before, something in her eyes looked almost… satisfied. Like they were closer to being on the same page. Maybe he could ask her if she’d take them to see the ‘Screaming Avengers’ later in the afternoon? Hopefully at least some of the goats from way back were still around. How long did they live, anyway?

In comparison, Ayo’s expression was not hard, but it was evidently distracted. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, especially since he’d thought the two of them ended things on fair terms the night before.

In response to Bucky’s question about how they’d slept, Yama casually shrugged, Ayo remained silent, and Shuri simply offered, “Enough. But before we talk of the data…” Shuri looked significantly to Ayo, who did a peculiar thing with her face.

Ayo tilted her head to Yama which Bucky had long-since learned to interpret as ‘You are now tasked with the responsibility of guarding our princess,’ before she stepped off to one side of the lab to procure a medium-sized black and gold chest Bucky immediately recognized. That chest.

She placed it on the table between them and met his eyes with measured intention as she carefully articulated, “I have spoken with my General, King, Princess, and Queen Mother. I still feel in my heart that this gift of Wakanda was misused in an unspeakably shameful, dishonorable way, but…” her eyes glanced to Sam before she continued. Interesting. “I also feel it was reclaimed with permission but in haste, and without sufficient consideration for the boons it provided as a tool rather than a weapon.” She turned her attention back to Bucky, “So we have agreed to allow you to continue to use it until we fashion you a suitable substitute. It is unfair to presume others should find themselves capable of crafting something that blends seamlessly to our technology, and it would be cruel to leave you without, or to think it humane to have that which is grafted onto your flesh, stripped away. That is not our intent.”

Her voice shifted then to something darker, a feral tone Bucky remembered straight from Latvia, “But if you ever seek to raise a weapon against us, against me, I will not hesitate to disable it and put you in your place.” The “again” was silent, but Bucky felt that in his gut too.

Bucky swallowed, hoping she could see the blend of apology, appreciation, and candor in his eyes, “Message received. Loud and clear,” Bucky confirmed, “...and thank you. That’s very kind of both of you.”

Ayo might’ve said something under her breath, but even Bucky’s super-hearing couldn’t make it out. That being as it was, Shuri offered him a hint of a smile as Ayo lifted open the chest and revealed the familiar shape of his vibranium arm. The last time he’d seen it presented like this it had been out of the blue and under very different setting and circumstances. This time, even with all that had happened, it felt more like a step forward. He didn’t feel like he’d truly earned it, not really, but he hoped there might still be a path to even that. He was certainly going to try.

“I cleaned it and upgraded the firmware,” Shuri volunteered cheerily from a few steps behind Ayo. Yama’s face twitched as she evidently tried to repress a smile.

Ayo shot Shuri a discreet look, but the princess shrugged it off, “The code was ancient, from 2018,” she offered as way of an explanation, “And there was a discreet foreign tracker that I removed. It was transmitting your location to an unknown satellite. I was unable to complete the trace before the signal was cut remotely.”

Bucky frowned, “On the arm? I didn’t know anything about that one.”

“It was very sly,” Shuri specified, “slipped between the plates. No maker’s mark.”

“We have separate trackers for when we’re doing government work,” Sam volunteered, “But we know about those. ‘Least, I’d like to think we do. The original deal we signed with the Accords was they had to be on at all times, but they got a little more lenient after the whole ‘saving the world’ bit.”

Ayo made a disgusted face at that, “During the Decimation, the Accords continued, but the supplementary trackers you speak of were also misused, as many things with grand intentions often are.” She watched as Bucky gently pulled the vibranium arm free from the case and regarded it. He knew both the arm and Sam’s suit had Wakandan trackers in them. They’d made no secret about it, either, but it was to be expected when you were outfitted with what amounted to probably millions of dollars worth of tech that came with a lifetime of free software updates, so all-in-all he considered it a fair tradeoff.

He still wasn’t so thrilled about them not telling him about the failsafe they’d thought to put into the arm, but he felt like this clearly wasn’t the right time to approach that particular topic. It could wait.

He pulled the trailing end of the blue shawl out of the way and cleared the opening of his t-shirt as he angled the vibranium arm, pressing it together until he heard the keys align and heard it audibly click back into place. Warm yellow light briefly illuminated the golden inner sections beneath the plates, flowing like a Japanese kintsugi piece come to life. There was a very particular sensation and fleeting hum as it drew power and initialized. It was easy to imagine the plates singing out in thanks as they shifted and settled into position, doing their best to mimic the dynamic muscles of a real arm.

After being without it for only a day and a half, he had a renewed appreciation for everything about it, and then some.

He wheeled his arm around once, resetting the position and then used his other hand to pull the sleeve of his T-shirt and then the blue, black, and gold shawl back over the shoulder. He didn’t know what the protocol was here, but he was guessing continuing to view the gift from T’Challa as a sign that he was still a work-in-progress so far as the amends and reconciliation went wasn’t a bad take. Ayo’s expression alone told him he’d made the right move.

Something felt different about the arm, though, and just as he was opening his mouth to ask Shuri about it, the princess tossed a metal orb the size of a tennis ball his way with an easy, underhanded motion.

He caught it smoothly in his right hand and she rolled her eyes, “Hold it in your other hand,” she instructed with her usual amount of patience.

He wasn’t sure what she was going for, but he did as requested. The moment he transferred the silver orb to his vibranium hand, he realized he could feel it.

It wasn’t the same as his other hand, certainly, but there was some ghost of a sensation there that his mind equated to something like weight and pressure. That was new. “Whoa…”

Shuri was all smiles, though Ayo didn’t look quite as pleased, likely on account of her recent monologue about the very same offending arm. The one that was a placeholder. A foot away from the chief of security, the princess bubbled with enthusiasm and probably more than a little caffeine, “You can sense the updates, yes? I modified a number of the pressure pads to communicate two-ways to the receptors so you have the perception of feedback on your grip strength, weight, and relative positioning.”

“That’s… that’s incredible, Shuri.” He found himself trying to pace his words so they didn’t risk dropping into emotions he clearly didn’t have the time or space for right now.

HYDRA’s operations had been so blunt and numerous that the sensations he had with their chrome monstrosity was limited to the ongoing and constant pain it bore into whatever remained of his shoulder blade and clavicle. That damn thing was heavy too. It definitely hadn’t come with any bells and whistles, unless you thought the star decal that matched the flourish on the stupid instruction manual was a nice touch.

This… this was something else. It wasn’t the sensation of having a second arm, but there was some sensation alright. He hadn’t thought anything of the sort was even possible after everything that’d been done to him. His best hope was just… less nerve pain. Not this. Not a hint of sensation.

“We will talk more about it later,” Shuri assured him, “but that is not why we have gathered.”

Her expression shifted into that thoughtful manner she got when she was trying to simplify complex ideas down to something more readily digestible. The fact that she was still so animated told Bucky she’d not only discovered something, but hopefully had a game plan of how to approach it rather than simply a dead end.

That was encouraging, at least.

“The scans we took yesterday provided a wealth of useful information because they added a series of unique data points we hadn't bore witness to previously.” She stopped and shook her head, “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

She flicked a hand over her wrist and it popped up a holographic array of columns and rows of small, colored boxes. It took Bucky a moment to realize he was looking at a calendar of sorts that spanned a little under three years' time, which, judging by the date, started from when he first arrived in Wakanda.

“We once spoke at-length about how HYDRA managed your periods of consciousness. That beyond the initial experiments, once they considered the Winter Soldier ready for active deployment, at minimum, they permitted you out of full cryo from anywhere around two days to four weeks per cycle.”

They were apparently jumping into this discussion feet-first, which was fine by him, but a pivot away from that surreal ghost of a sensation of that metal ball in his left hand. Bucky adjusted himself so he was leaning against the nearest pillar. “Yeah,” he agreed, “because by about that time, things they didn’t want would start to resurface. Fragments of memories and such. Or I’d start asking questions. Which is when I’d get wiped and fried so they could start over or toss me into cold storage for safe-keeping until they needed me next.”

“Right,” Shuri agreed, “We obviously don’t have the data they had on the project, and their goals were very different from ours, but we have to assume they were attempting to create a very particular rhythm, and that in time, they refined it to their specific purpose, which was to keep you compliant and extraneous memories buried.” She gestured back to the holographic calendar of hers, “We obviously didn’t do any wipes here in Wakanda, but we do have ongoing data from once we started to view patterns in the aftermath of Events.”

“Our first priority was obviously to ensure that you could become non-responsive to the various stimuli HYDRA embedded in your mind. Trigger words, various ocular frequencies, patterns of flashing lights, tactile responses, electrical stimulation, and so on. When by intention or accident we stumbled over these occurrences, I began to log the Events. But it is only recently that I began to pay closer attention to the time between events. What I see now is that when there were longer spans of time between them, particularly a month or more, there were greater changes between the scans, the greatest yet being the most recent from before and after the Decimation, which span almost a nine-month period if we do not account for the time lost to the Decimation itself.”

Shuri flicked a few specific scans up for comparison. They were taken at different dates, but the colors and brain activity shown them appeared remarkably similar, “The good news I see is that when we review the scans made just a few days after most Events, once your mind settled, it appears the Events themselves appeared to act as an effective reset of sorts. What I see here is we are not looking at an uncontrolled decline over time. This is a very encouraging discovery!” She put force into that declaration, though Bucky was waiting for the eventual “But…” There always seemed to be one of those attached to any good news.

Shuri continued, “Likewise, it appears your brain’s ability to add new memories to its collective archive is not innately restricted. The memories themselves may just not be accessible long after they were initially recorded. But the fact they are still there is very important. The memory we took yesterday, the one from the cafe is proof that such things are still intact, only hidden.”

He made a bit of a face of that, “I can barely remember it now,” he admitted.

The enthusiasm in Shuri’s face became tempered with sympathy, as if she was seeing fit to remember they were talking about his own mind and not simply a hypothetical, “I suspected as much. It appears that the further we get from an Event, the ability for your brain to access memories grows more and more restricted, as does the pool of available memories. It is not atrophy so much as perhaps imagining doors closing so that the memories remain hidden, like the secrets HYDRA sought to keep.”

“None of this sounds particularly encouraging, Shuri,” Bucky stated honestly to her and the room at-large.

“I realize that,” she acknowledged before clarifying, “But I have to believe we can find a method that will…” she faded off a moment as she searched for a suitable way to express herself in common-speak.

“That is short of turning my brain off and on again with a wipe, which we aren’t doing, or triggering an Event, which is no longer an option on account of the trigger words no longer working on me.”

Shuri made a very specific expression when he said that last part, and it was uncomfortable enough that he didn’t want to stand there and wonder what was going on in that genius brain of hers, “...What’s that about?”

“It is only the fallback plan if all else fails,” she admitted, “But it is not what I wish to do.”

“And what’s that?” Bucky was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“If you felt it necessary to force an Event in order to preserve access to certain collections of memories, it might be possible for me to reactivate select trigger words. This is clearly not a path I wish to pursue,” she quickly clarified, “But as a last resort I feel it is important for you to know the option may exist, should it be necessary.”

Bucky felt his stomach fall out from him and he had to use his free hand to steady him against the pillar. That… not in a million years would he have imagined those words coming out of Shuri’s mouth. He knew she didn’t say them lightly, but the fact she’d even taken the time to consider that option told him this whole thing was definitely serious. He could feel Sam’s steady presence beside him, squeezing his arm as he caught his breath and tried to think. It was hard when part of him just wanted to go hide under a rock and pretend that everything was okay.

Everything did not feel okay.

Shuri. Shuri had said a contingency plan for this mess was to potentially reconnect some of the words. Those words.

That was.

That was a lot to process.

When he finally had the courage to pull his eyes back to Shuri, he first caught Ayo’s expression. It was calm and sympathetic, and it had a way of saying without words that she understood his frustration, but that they’d figure it out together.

“I do not wish to spend more time on this dire and dehumanizing option when others might exist,” Shuri specified, adding, “It is the last I will speak of it unless there comes a time to revisit it.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost timid as his mind returned to that dark place where he could only glimpse the fantasy of being even partially ‘cured,’ when in actuality, the curse of HYDRA’s meddling remained, “So what are you proposing?”

“I would like to see if we can focus on accessing the memories themselves, as the process may offer insight into how we might simulate and select positive effects of an Event without the negative.”

Bucky practically snorted at the ridiculousness of that one, “The ‘positive’?”

“Yes,” Shuri insisted, her tone patient, instructional, “Under certain circumstances, a handler was able to ask you to recall very specific memories, even those that came before your time with HYDRA, and you were able to access them. If we can figure out the way that access is granted, it may allow you further freedom to recall memories at will, rather than the current status that is a blend of conscious thought where some are spotty and inaccessible, and others only make themselves known in an uncontrolled dreaming state.”

Bucky couldn’t help the fact that his eyes drifted to Ayo’s own when Shuri spoke. There was a sort of… very specific intimacy that came from the fact she’d been tasked on more than one occasion to ask him all variety of questions about HYDRA and the Winter Soldier program like some sort of walking instruction manual. Apparently HYDRA’d put in a failsafe for asking too much about the wrong sorts of questions, too, because that ordeal had triggered some sort of violence he didn’t even recall. He just knew it happened on account of all the blood later.

Both his blood and Ayo’s, because when the Soldier hadn’t been able to take her down, he’d considered the next-best alternative.

Apparently, that’s what you got for asking too many questions up against HYDRA’s programming.

In contrast, Bucky sometimes made requests of her to ask questions that had nothing to do with HYDRA. Of memories he thought he once knew but could no longer remember, usually from the time before. She’d recorded those interactions at his request, and though they were a hard watch, they helped him fill in the blanks. He hadn’t watched those recordings in at least a year, maybe more. It’d been like watching the Winter Soldier and that stupid Russian accent of his factually recount parts of a long-forgotten past while dressed up in his own clothes. Ayo had to do a lot of heavy coaxing to get much of anything useful out of him because his tendency was for straightforward efficiency rather than any remote emotional depth. It was like listening to someone passively read the story of his early life from the back of a cereal box. Hollow and lifeless, yet he hung on every word in an effort to just remember himself, rather than have to rely on others for the opportunity.

The fact that it was the Winter Soldier that seemingly had those bits and pieces locked away was like adding insult to injury.

It was backwards as all-hell. And he hadn’t even spared a moment to consider that without those trigger words and how they squeezed his brain in a very particular way, they had no way to pull anything out of him, even stuff he yearned to remember. He hadn’t even stopped to consider it a tradeoff. He just knew he couldn’t really live if had to be in fear of him being turned into a weapon against his own will again.

He took a deep breath and found himself looking back to Ayo, who let some of her own emotions slip through that armor of hers. Her brown eyes were a wash of an immense amount of sympathy for his ongoing, and by the feel of it, never-ending plight.

It was Yama that spoke up next, her calm words were intended to be encouraging, so much so that Ayo didn’t even spare a glare of reprimand for speaking out-of-turn while guarding Shuri, “Do not forget there have been advances during the time of the Decimation as well.”

Shuri nodded, “There have. What work we’ve done here blends more with research on Artificial Intelligence than it ever has. I choose to believe we will find a method that serves our purpose.”

“And if we did, you’re saying maybe I’d have to come back every month or so to keep things tuned-up? Assuming HYDRA did their due-diligence and figured out an ideal cycle?”

“Perhaps,” Shuri’s words were offhanded, “Or perhaps it could be something you manage yourself. We do not know. There are those around the world that rely on the application of medicines and machinery to persist. It is not unimaginable that a solution we decide on might require upkeep and diligence. Such things are not bespoke of weakness.” He could practically hear the silent “James” as she waved a hand towards the arm, as if it was a clear example of her message.

“I take it there isn’t a point for me to ask you about a timeline of how long you think this might take?” Bucky saw fit to inquire, trying not to let his tone slip into that familiar hopeless, dire place.

Shuri offered him an understanding smile, “You would be correct. This is untread territory for all of us, and while there is a certain sense of urgency that comes from not knowing and wanting to seek a resolution as quickly as possible, taking a thorough, methodical approach continues to be ideal. The quiet urgency is that we have data as of yet that shows that as far as we know, Events allowed for a soft reset beyond four to six weeks without any ill effects, but we do not know if there is a point where that is no longer true. Therefore, my recommendation would be that you make time as you can, as we do not know how long it might take until we can reliably simulate the benefit of an Event that is not a true Black Hole Event.”

“Well… we’re still in a holding pattern concerning Symkaria, so my schedule’s currently wide-open. Did you have something specific in-mind that you wanted to start with, or are you still in the investigation phase?” His voice betrayed that he was honestly hoping it was the latter.

“I did have some initial experiments I wanted to run, but they are lightweight and should be neither painful nor invasive.”

“Has anyone complimented you on your bedside manner lately?”

“You would be the first,” Shuri smirked and gestured him over to the recovery chair they’d used the day prior, “Come, let us get started.”

Shuri was a whirlwind of motion as she moved around the lab, “I was thinking we could limit today’s experiments to an hour, give or take. The mind fatigues quickly, and I would prefer to approach this chapter of our study as a marathon and not a sprint.”

“Won’t argue with you there,” Bucky agreed, looking up at Sam, who stood a few feet away: just far enough to not block Shuri from her work, but close enough to give the sensation he was in that protective, vigilant mode of his. Bucky regarded his partner, “At least if we get deployed back to Symkaria, we won’t have to bring up the arm. That’s a silver lining, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes, seeing fit to inject a heavy dose of sarcasm into his voice as he saw fit to add, “You don’t have to think about work all the time, Buck.”

“Pot. Kettle, Cap.”

“Smartass,” Sam muttered with a significant roll of his eyes.

“Maybe after Shuri does her thing, I can take you out to see where I used to live?” His eyes glanced to Yama, who he knew was focused on guarding Shuri, so he tried his best to be respectful of the Doras and their posts as he spoke, “Depending on how the day’s scheduled, it would be great if some of our friends could join us. There’s a lot of beautiful natural spots out that way too. Might be worth grabbing the wings, too.”

Bucky didn’t miss the discreet but knowing glances of the troop of Dora Milaje stationed in the lab: yeah, they caught it too.

“I am so ready to be a tourist for a while,” Sam confirmed as he folded his hands over his chest and kept an ever-watchful eye on things. “How’re you holding up there?”

Bucky shrugged, “About as well as you’d expect, but I’m trying to look on the bright side that it doesn’t sound like my brain’s deteriorating. Just that it apparently needs a jump-start of some sort every month or so it can stay under warranty.”

Sam snorted, but Shuri saw fit to wave a hand in his direction, as if the simplistic way he’d referred to his mind might’ve been a tangential insult to the subject of her work, “Most brains would be unable to recover even partial function from the that degree of butchery. The amount of scar tissue generated was horrific. For most, it would have limited any possibility of recovery, yet both your white matter and grey matter continue to show improvement over time, particularly in the grey matter density of the hippocampus.”

Blessed Sam asked for clarification, “...What does that part control again?”

That teacher’s smile returned to her face, “It plays an important role in the limbic system. Key to learning and memory, particularly the formation of new memories, and in structures associated with self-awareness, compassion, and introspection,” Shuri supplied, seeing fit to add, “Your American Universities would do well to cover such basic concepts.”

“If you think this is bad, you should see what they choose to cover in our history books,” Sam remarked offhandedly before he turned back to the topic at-hand, “But you’re saying what you’re seeing bodes well for Bucky’s recovery?”

“I am,” she confirmed, “The fact that his brain continues to attempt to shuck off scar tissue and form new connections this long after the initial injuries means that it is still in the process of healing, which is no small feat.” As her bustling slowed, she stepped in front of Bucky with that expression of hers, the one that sung consent and transparency above all-else and the very particular caveat she’d had for so long, “As ever, we are treading on new territory, and I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that I can’t be certain of any outcomes, though I would like to think the risks of today’s explorations are minimal.”

“If there was a waiver, I signed it away years ago,” Bucky admitted, perhaps a bit more sadly than he intended, “But I trust you. I know you’re doing your best to help with the mess inside of my head, and I’d like to think we’re past the worst of it.”

“I’d like to believe that as well,” Shuri agreed as she began the process of applying a series of wireless diodes to his brow and temple, “but it still bears mentioning.”

“The alternative of ignoring it altogether sounds worse.”

“It does.” Shuri didn’t say anything more as she applied a mild adhesive to a second pair of sensors and parted his hair behind his temples so she could place them directly against his scalp.

While it’d been years since anyone with HYDRA had laid a hand on him like this, even now, even this many years later, he could feel that strange tension shoot through his body. The one that instructed him to remain still, compliant, even though the hands that made contact with him now were remarkably gentle, and a far-cry from how he’d been manhandled like a piece of meat in the past.

The first time they’d done anything like this here in Wakanda, Ayo’d insisted on using restraints because while she trusted the intention of his words, each of them remained on-edge about the possibility of eliciting an instinctual reaction from the Winter Soldier.

It was fair reasoning even if deep down he knew it was unlikely to be necessary for completely different, but related reasons.

The morbid part of it was: If it was a medical procedure, he could keep himself remarkably still because most of what’d been done to him was done without any sort of anesthetic. It was hardly a fact he was proud of, and a shitty parlor trick or bragging right to be able to say he’d had people drill into his skull multiple times while he was fully conscious. And as Shuri carefully parted his hair and placed the diodes, he knew she could see the scars he’d earned over the course of years at hands of at least a half-dozen different “scientists” and “doctors.” Sure: the holes in his skull were healed and scarred over now, but you didn’t just forget about that, even if the memories themselves were faded.

The body had a way of remembering.

As she touched him, he remembered those other hands.

“I would like to start with small goals,” Shuri said as she stepped back to regard him after placing the last sensor, “Simple goals. The first is for us to see if we can find a way for you to use conscious choice to pull memories that are currently in shadow. Even just a part of one, like pulling on a loose thread. I will be taking scans as we work, as I would like to see how your brain responds to the various discrete methods of stimuli we will be testing today. You will be in full control,” she reassured him.

The approach she’d come up with was simple enough: Shuri had a list of memories she’d logged over the years, and once they got to a relatively recent one he wasn’t having any luck recollecting in the slightest, that became the specific puzzle piece they were going to focus on. “I’m not going to tell you all of the details I have here, because that would erase the purpose of this exercise, but it’s from your time here in Wakanda, so it is not too old, and it is not distressing. It should be a good memory to reconnect with, a desirable memory.”

The fact that it wasn’t too old and yet he couldn’t remember a damn thing about it was actually more distressing than he was probably letting on, but, well: that’s why he was here in the lab, in the recovery chair they’d made custom for him, that someone had thought to keep around even during the damn Decimation, just in case he might have need of it again. “So the clues we’re running with are: it’s a positive memory from Wakanda that involves snow and at least one person from here.” He frowned, adding, “...I honestly don’t remember ever seeing snow while I was here.” He debated saying the second part, but figured it could only help this ridiculous cause of theirs, “And I know I was stationed out of Siberia for a while but… I’m having a hard time remembering much of that either.”

Shuri nodded confirmation, seeing fit to retrieve the metal orb from him, “Our minds sometimes seek to shield us from the trauma of painful memories. We know many of yours have related to the cold, so there is little wonder why some of it remains buried, even ones that are not themselves harmful or troubling. In theory, more recent memories that were formed after your time with HYDRA should be easier for us to access.”

Bucky did his best to take comfort in Shuri’s steadfast, encouraging expression, but Sam’s face was another matter entirely. It was as if his friend had somehow found a way to channel Bucky’s own fears and let them rest in uncomfortable honesty across his face.

“You will be in full control,” Shuri repeated.

Bucky’d spent so many years being without control, without choice that he knew her words were meant to be encouraging, but there was a part of him that reflected back to the poor decisions he’d made about Zemo, the messages, and more that made him feel not nearly as confident in his own decision-making as he probably ought to be, “Let’s get to it, then.”

Whatever Bucky’d woke up expecting Shuri might put him up to today, this hadn’t been it.

It was a relief, really. The next hour felt more like some sort of extended guided Wakandan meditation session than anything else, which was weird, but hardly terrible. It reminded Bucky a little bit of the work he and Ayo’d done together in the wake of getting the trigger words removed so that his mind had time to process that bucket of trauma and not slip into a dark place just on accounts of hearing them out of context again.

What had she called it? Exposure-response therapy?

What Shuri did now was a shade similar to that, only a lot less distressing. She’d have him close his eyes and talk him through imagining certain things, certain sensations, trying to hone-in on whatever the snowy Wakandan memory was that was just out of reach. She wasn’t so much trying to form it for him as to try to keep him focused on what they were trying to accomplish. It was helpful, honestly, because anytime there was too much silence, his mind had a way of veering off to think about a whole truckload of things that had nothing to do with pulling up the veil on that specific memory.

Other times, she’d ask him to tell her what he was seeing, which wasn’t altogether much. He didn’t really see pictures in his head in the same way she implied he might, but he did his best to try.

After an initial set of attempts with no success, Shuri set up some sort of slow-fire strobes that he was supposed to track with his eyes while his eyes remained closed. That didn’t seem to make much of a difference in any memory-recollecting, but it was actually nice to have something to focus on besides just her voice and the nothingness.

“We’re almost done for today, but I’d like to try one more approach. I want to remotely stimulate rapid eye movement, as you would normally have during deep REM sleep. Try to relax your eyes. It may be disorienting at first, but keep your eyes closed and let me know if it is at all uncomfortable. The intent is to generate the desired effect without making you conscious of the electrical pulses.”

“Okay,” he thought he followed enough of what she was saying, and he braced for whatever jolt of electricity was coming his way.

“It will be mild,” Shuri gently chided, “You do not need to be so stiff.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bucky grumbled.

From somewhere off to his right, he heard Ayo speak up, “Our princess tested them on herself earlier this morning.” She added, “Against my wishes.”

Bucky cocked a smile at the thought of how well that must have went over, “Okay, just give me a countdown, I guess?”

Shuri sighed, exasperated, “Of course I was going to give you a countdown. I felt it appropriate to explain its purpose first. Now: three, two, one…”

He felt the initial trickle of current, so faint it was almost a flicker in his periphery. It was as if his eyes were moving around slightly without him consciously asking them to, which was strange, certainly, but not painful. As he kept his eyes closed and tried to resist the urge to force control over the way his eyes were subtly moving under his eyelids, he could feel a strange shift in his thoughts.

“That’s... different...” he said out loud.

“Good? Bad? In what way?” Shuri asked, all-business. “Is it too strong?”

“No, it’s not too strong. It doesn’t hurt. Just different. Hard to explain. Almost like stepping into water.”

“I would like to tune it.” A pause, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. The sensation is stronger now. Deeper?”

“Do you see anything?”

“No, but it’s like I’m aware of things in the shadows…”

“Describe it to me.”

He felt oddly present, though a void of nothingness surrounded him.

It was almost like stepping into the place between dreams. He was mindful to keep his eyes closed, but in this strange place, when he imagined himself reaching out to look at his own hands, he saw no change.

He simply was.

He found he didn’t have any emotional reaction to this strange sensation beyond a subtle curiosity to understand where he was and what he was seeing. Was this realm something of substance, or simply the dark behind his eyes? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling this was something, something new and hidden. Something that called-out to be explored.

But whatever it was, there was a whole lot of nothing, and no landmarks to go by.

He heard Shuri’s voice from somewhere far off, “If you can’t see anything, can you feel anything with your senses?”

Considering he couldn’t see his hands, it seemed like a strange question, but as he reached out, he felt his hand brush against something. He couldn’t piece together the sensation, so he reached out with his other hand and began to move in the darkness, like trying to navigate around a room with the lights out. He found there was a strange pressure against his hands as he moved them, almost as if they were being met with resistance. Not a lot of it, but enough.

Was he under water?

“Can you feel anything?” Shuri’s voice repeated.

“Sort of, but I don’t know what to make of it. Like I’m in liquid?”

“Describe it for me.”

“There are objects around me, I think. It’s as if I can tell they’re there for how the pitch of the space changes when I move and turn my head. I can feel them, but I can’t see them. I’m not sure what they are, but there’s a lot of them.”

“But can you guess based on their size and shape?”

He considered her words, and tried to push away the innate discontent he felt from not being able to see what was around him. Instead he tried to imagine it was dark out and he was having to navigate by touch alone. He told himself this was a safe place, a place of his own making. There was nothing to be afraid of.

He extended one hand outward, and when it brushed against something. Had it moved, or was the motion from his hand? He shifted his hand to the side and found it again, running his fingers over it in a feeble attempt to understand the strange shape of it. It was neither a geometric shape or something he could readily identify. Something organic, perhaps? But what?

He gave it a testing tug, but the strange mass wouldn’t break free. Was it welded on, like some sort of metal-fused contemporary art sculpture?

Why couldn’t even his damn mind behave more sensibly?

He ran his hands over the object-not object, concentrating. The sensation wasn’t entirely substantive. It was as if when he pressed his fingers into the shape, it gave way a little in his hands, only to rebound the moment he stopped applying pressure. It felt slightly cooler than the other objects, but then it didn’t seem like anything here really made any damn sense at all. It felt like he’d wandered into some flooded hoarder’s house while being blindfolded.

He took a few careful steps, and it was then that he could sense a temperature shift. It was colder, but only just. He moved cautiously in that direction, trying to get a read on what direction the chill was coming from. It was less of a breeze, and more as if he was surrounded by liquid, trying to track where a cold water jet was leaking into the pool.

“I can’t identify that object,” he admitted, “But I can sense it’s colder in one direction down here. I think.”

“Do not go too far,” Shuri’s voice cautioned from somewhere in the distance. “Remember we are trying to recollect a recent memory from the snows of Wakanda. Are there any things around you that remind you of that?”

His hand ran over jumbles of objects he tried to envision with his mind’s eye as he continued towards the origin of the cold, as if it was calling to him. The further he went, the more it slowed him, until it was as if he reached a thick wall of almost impenetrable liquid. He could push his hand into the strange barrier, but somehow he knew better than to force his way through. His whole body was screaming at him to remain on this side of the strange division, and he did.

He stepped back and away and focused his attention on the unseen objects piled nearby.

Certain shapes he could almost make out, though the associations to them were dim and dull. A bowl, something like a ladle, a book, perhaps? He felt like he should have some sort of emotional reaction to them, but they were only just out of reach, and when he pressed his fingers into them, they would give way like sand, as if intent to obscure their true forms.

“Does anything you sense connect you to a memory from the snows of Wakanda?” Shuri’s voice was more distant. “Remember that you are in control. You are safe. You are not merely a passenger in what you see.”

There was something comforting in that. Empowering.

When his palm searched and settled over a smooth, pointed shape, he felt a chill run through him. It was solid, and there was some sort of connection with it he was seeking out. It was a strange sensation, like walking along the bottom of the pool and reaching out your hand to find a long-lost trinket unexpectedly lying just a little out of reach. He felt like he was having to stretch himself to make contact with it, but he strained to do just that. Bucky heard Shuri saying something to him, but he didn’t catch it because he was so focused trying to lean into the strange sensation playing at his fingertips.

He leveraged the fingers of his other hand to cup the rear side of the precious object. It felt right, purposeful, solid. This was something he’d been searching for with intent. He was certain of it.

He pulled, strained, and the object broke free in his hands.

When his eyelids bolted open, he was momentarily blinded by bright light. His unfocused eyes darted around, and he had to concentrate to force them to obey him and take quick inventory of his surroundings. As they did, he felt his body coil and tighten at the sudden realization that he didn’t recognize where he was.

How had he gotten here?

When had he been captured?

He sprung forward without another thought.

There would be time for questions later.

Chapter Text

By the time Sam’d gotten with the program, every single person in the whole damn room was already at least five to ten steps ahead of him. Maybe more.

A lifetime in the military honed a very particular set of his reflexes to the point that they ran on pure instinct. But none of them, not one of them, got a jump on this.

It all happened faster than he could process. One moment Bucky’d been lying there with his eyes closed as he played Marco Polo with Shuri describing whatever he was seeing in his head. The next moment, Ayo’d pivoted her spear towards Bucky and barked a command in another language that had an immediate domino effect on everyone in the room except Sam.

Yama responded instantly by stepping in front of Shuri and using her left hand to push the princess back behind her and away from where Bucky rested on the recovery chair. The Dora Milaje’s expression went cold as she planted her feet and brandished her spear, pointing it squarely at Bucky’s throat. Across from her, Ayo did a commander’s quick math when she apparently realized they had not one, but two unarmed bodies in need of protection.

One of those bodies was Sam.

His brain still hadn’t caught up with what exactly was happening when a vibranium spear flashed silver and flourished in front of him, and he felt more than saw Ayo close the short distance between herself and Bucky.

It wasn’t Bucky though.

It looked like him, but it was definitely not the man he knew.

Near as he could tell by that intense, blank expression, it was the other guy.

The one that was supposed to be buried and benign behind Shuri’s handiwork.

Sam didn’t have time to think, no less react, because the world might as well have been a wind-up toy for all the sense that the next ten seconds made.

Everything happened at once.

The Soldier lunged straight for Ayo, reaching out his newly-upgraded vibranium arm to grip the shaft of her staff. It was clear her next move had been to reach forward and disable the arm, but when she got close, he anticipated it, countering by slamming his other forearm against hers. There was an audible crack and a visible spark in the air as the Kimoyo Beads on his wrist struck the vibranium plating on her arm. At the same time, he fiercely twisted the hilt of her spear with his metal arm, making his combatant choose between reflexively loosening her grip or allowing him to potentially break her wrist from the sudden burst of force.

She leaned her weight into him, rolling to one side to dodge a follow-up blow from his right fist. Ayo was fluid on her feet as she worked to keep him off-balance and herded him back towards the chair with a sweep of her leg. His hip slammed into the side of the armrest and the unexpected contact momentarily staggered him, but he quickly recovered his balance, lowering his head like a predator bracing to strike. The Soldier didn’t even flinch, didn’t give any indication on his next move as he cruelly swiveled Ayo’s spear around on her.

The pivot was clean, smooth, and lightning fast. The sort of move that spoke to experience and had too much speed and force to be completely human. It was like watching a rattlesnake strike, only without the early indicators of where it was planning to land the blow.

The efficiency was wholly frightening.

It wasn’t Bucky.

Shit!

Not only was it not Bucky, but this wasn’t the Ayo he saw in Latvia either. This wasn’t the performance and showmanship of putting Walker in his place and teaching him to have some firsthand respect for the Dora Milaje and all that they represented. This was like watching a puma fight for her life while trying to subdue a gator who was intent to make a kill.

As Sam tried to get his brain with the program and how he could possibly help, Nomble’d joined the fray from somewhere to his right. She came in quick on her feet and had the sense to protectively push Sam back and away from the surreal confrontation taking place a few feet in front of him, inserting herself between the two of them and coming swiftly to Ayo’s aid. Her spear clashed audibly with the one Bucky gripped in his left hand, and Nomble stepped forward to force Bucky to choose between retaining his grip on the shaft or allowing his face to come within striking distance of the tip of Nomble’s spear. Ayo was able to use the brief distraction to reclaim control of her own spear, leveraging the momentum of the swing like a reverse trebuchet as the two of them struggled to try and keep Bucky contained near the recovery chair.

There were a lot of things screaming through Sam’s head during a flash that amounted to probably no more than five seconds of real time, but, the loudest of which was that he was unarmed and decidedly out of his element here. No one had thought to talk to him about a possible “What if…?” scenario, which told him no one here thought this - whatever this was - was even a remote possibility.

Across the way from him, on the other side of the sprawl, Shuri’s head was darting all around her, probably thinking the same thing he was in the hopes of finding something to diffuse whatever this was. Yama kept herself positioned between the princess and the fight, and Sam was pretty sure when Ayo’d snapped something aloud, that her words were intended for Yama, who immediately responded by forcing Shuri further back and away, regardless of Shuri’s own thoughts on the matter.

Sam got that, understood the priorities of the room, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to step in and help.

Because he was too much of an idiot to know when he was clearly in over his head.

He didn’t see anything that looked like a gun on the countertops surrounding him, which wasn’t surprising, and to be honest: he wasn’t sure what he would have done with one if he’d had one. He’d like to think he could have gone for a disabling shot, but the idea of doing even that to Bucky was hard to stomach, regardless of if he was going full Winter Soldier on two Dora Milaje or not.

The lab was well-kept enough that there simply weren’t useful things lying about. The nearest object his mind identified as potentially useful was the metal tray a few steps away that Shuri’d carried those diodes in on. He made a move to it and with a sweep of his hand, cleared off the paper towels from it and took it up in one hand as he tried to reimagine it as some sort of shield.

When he turned back to the fight, he saw Nomble adjust her positioning in an attempt to get behind the Soldier so he had to choose between two targets rather than face them together. When the Soldier turned his attention to Ayo, Nomble was able to twist her arms around him to plant the shaft of the weapon under his chin and against his throat. The move was clearly meant to keep her out of range of getting grappled while she and Ayo could subdue him.

That’s not at all what happened.

As Sam rushed in with his medical-grade shield of destiny, the Soldier visibly held his breath and twisted sideways in place, landing a pony-kick on Ayo’s nearest knee that would have snapped it clear in half had she been even an inch or two closer to take the full brunt of it. Sam had seen that kick before and the deadly force behind it. He watched helplessly as Ayo staggered backwards and grimaced as she took a limping step onto left leg. She recovered, snarling something under her breath as she adjusted her weight onto her good leg to compensate.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Sam wasn’t entirely sure what his play was other than to try and intervene so the Wakandans could get things under control, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware Ayo’d switched over to shouting something in what he was pretty sure was Russian. He didn’t have a damn clue what it was, but the force she put behind those words made his blood run cold. They were commands. He knew that much.

And they weren't doing shit.

“Buck, stop! This isn’t you!” He heard himself shout above the deafening clash of metal striking metal when Bucky’s left arm took a calculated swing at him. He caught the momentum in the center of the makeshift shield, but the inhuman force of the impact left a massive dent in the tray and sent him staggering backwards a good five feet and onto one hand.

The moment that Ayo and he were no longer on the Soldier, he twisted in place again and turned his full attention back to Nomble. One instant she was standing behind him trying to use her spear to choke him out and subdue him, the next, there was a horrific impact of flesh and bone slamming against metal as Bucky - as the Soldier - caught wind of Nomble’s play and hurled her and her spear full-force end over end across the room.

Sam’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her body fly backwards and strike hard against the vibranium glass about fifteen feet away and a good six feet off the ground. His panicked mind flashed to Lamar Hoskins’ final moments, and he hoped, prayed that when her body hit the floor, it wouldn’t be with the same unspeakable finality of Battlestar’s limp and lifeless form, crumpled over to one side like a used-up ragdoll.

Instead, Nomble grunted at the impact and groaned softly as she hit the floor with one hand and one elbow under her, saving her face from striking the tile by mere inches. She was disheveled but alive as she worked to get her bearings, but it was obvious the impact had taken the wind out of her. She pushed herself to all fours as the Soldier’s eyes flashed to Sam and the man with Bucky’s icy blue eyes saw his opening.

It was easy not to think of Bucky as a Super Soldier sometimes. For one, he didn’t have that same bulky build and chiseled features Steve did. He was strong, sure, but he didn’t flaunt it.

But right then, the Soldier pushed himself, simply launched himself at Sam at an inhuman speed so swift, so precise, that one moment Sam was standing there with his stupid tray in one hand, and the next he was flat on his back, being not just hauled to his feet, but lifted to his feet by the Soldier, who had his vibranium arm slung around his neck like he was a literal toy.

The Soldier’s grip around him was tight and firm enough that he struggled to take a single breath, and when he raised the hand with the metal tray in a brief burst of defiance, it was quickly wrested from him and tossed like a misshapen rectangular frisbee squarely in Ayo’s direction. The Dora Milaje managed to deflect it at the last moment with her spear, but only just. It went flying across the room from the force of the impact, and Sam had to tell himself that what he’d just seen wasn’t true: that Bucky hadn’t just gone and tried to aim for her neck in retaliation. If it had hit her...

He pushed the morbid thought away, using his hands to instinctively claw at that metal arm wrapped around his neck like a constrictor, but it wasn’t giving way.

And then, a husky voice he hadn’t heard since that fight on the highway overpass spoke up not an inch from the head. The tone was flat, merciless, and deadly-serious, “Drop the weapons, now. If you come any closer, I’ll kill him.”

Sam might not have been able to see the Soldier, but he had a damn good look at the rest of the people in the room. A distance to their left, Nomble was still working to get to her feet again, but she was inclined to leave her spear on the ground where it’d landed after the impact. Nomble looked to Ayo for guidance, who had a forward position closest to Sam. A short distance behind her, Yama defensively protected princess Shuri behind her.

Shuri’s expression held the most emotion of any of them, and her eyes glanced past Sam, presumably to Bucky, before they rested back on Sam’s own. There was terror there in those brown eyes of hers, and she made a slow calming gesture with her hands, as if to communicate that he shouldn’t try anything brave or hasty.

Ayo’s own countenance was fierce and no-nonsense. She kept her eyes locked on the Soldier, as if she was worried what he might do if she looked away for even a moment. Initially, she held fast and didn’t move a muscle, but slowly, carefully, she pivoted the spear’s tip away from Bucky and lowered it.

The fact that she truly believed his threat was a terrifying prospect.

“We do not wish to fight you,” Ayo spoke slowly as she placed the spear on the ground so it rested beside her. Her movements reminded Sam of how he used to approach the wounded strays he used to see around town when he was growing up. The ones that you couldn’t read, that you couldn’t be sure if they’d be more inclined to run or lash out and turn feral. Either way, Sam had to give Ayo credit for trying diplomacy. Considering how hard she was breathing and how she was favoring her right leg, he was amazed she was able to pull off the calm grace she infused into her voice, “You’re confused.” She pressed, “We’re trying to help. What is your name?”

The Soldier didn’t respond but he used his free hand, the flesh one, to pin Sam’s hands behind his back before he clutched both wrists in one steel grip and locked them there, hard. It wasn’t enough to break his wrists, but the torque and pressure holding them firmly in place took away any remaining struggle out of him in an instant.

Sam’d had enough hostage de-escalation training to know that the difference between if people lived or died could be a wire-thin line. The only reason he wasn’t freaking out half as much as he probably had every right to was the fact he could tell himself that whoever’d grabbed him was someone else, not Bucky. But with that vibranium arm wrapped tight and business-like around his throat, it was hard to picture it being anyone else, and that frightened him in a way he’d never experienced before. The last time he’d come face-to-face with this guy, he hadn’t known Bucky.

He’d read all those files Nat had handed off to Steve, and between that and the data dump from HYDRA, and he sure as hell didn’t recall any instances where the Winter Soldier had taken a hostage and allowed them to live after they’d proved useful.

That was part of what allowed him to exist out of sight from the public eye and even intelligence agencies for so long: He left no witnesses.

The Soldier walked him backwards at a predator’s prowl, dragging Sam along with him as he navigated the two of them back-first towards the entrance to the lab. The man wasn’t even winded. True-to-form, Ayo didn’t intervene or pursue, but the fact that she didn’t told Sam that she believed the Soldier had every intention of acting on his threat if it came to it. Once they were about ten feet away, Sam caught her attentive eyes flicker to his, and he swore he saw her lips tremble, but it could have been his imagination.

He hoped it was his imagination.

No one in the room moved a muscle or said a word as they slowly retreated. The Soldier adjusted his grip, and Sam found his head pinned tight enough that his view was mostly limited to the ceiling. He could just barely make out Yama in the rear of the room, glancing longingly to the spear at her feet, and Shuri coming up beside her to lay a hand on her shoulder, as if telling her not to consider whatever was on her mind. Yama relented, but her apologetic eyes met Sam’s as he was dragged backwards out of the lab.

“Walk,” the command was for Sam.

“Havin’ trouble breathing,” Sam confessed, and he was. He wasn’t on the verge of passing out, but the Soldier was half-carrying him by the throat, and it made it awfully hard to get his feet under him. They scrambled, doing their best to keep up, but each step had a way of making him feel like he was walking the green mile backwards until the lab and the Wakandans were both out of sight.

He tried his best not to imagine that the last thing he might feel in this world could be his friend’s hands clenched brutally around his neck.

He tried to imagine it was someone else. Anyone else.

This wasn’t how he wanted to die.

The moment that Sam and Bucky disappeared behind the sliding glass doors and far corner of the distant hallway, the lab sprang back into motion again, though this time it was a very different sort.

Yama and Shuri rushed over to Nomble’s side as Ayo remained still and attentive, watching and listening as she faced the hallway Bucky had just pulled Sam into, like a lion dragging a kill back to his den.

Ayo shook away the thought, waiting until the moment she felt the coast was clear for her to bring up her Kimoyo Beads. With trembling fingers, she punched in a security code followed by a message that would be broadcast to any Dora Milaje within the Wakandan Design Center. She focused on her role as Chief of Security for Wakanda, pushing down the surge of worries that ran counter to that solemn purpose before they sought to overwhelm her:

-~- Unexplained Event and Hostage Situation Originating in Lab B-4-05. -~-
-~- White Male Patient - Unarmed, Violent, and Dangerous. -~-
-~- Lockdown All Staff. Clear Path to Allow for Uninterrupted Retreat to Main Entrance. -~-
-~- DO NOT ENGAGE. -~-
-~- REPEAT - DO NOT ENGAGE. -~-

“What was--?” Yama began.

Ayo made a *tssst!* noise to silence her lieutenant, using her free hand to make a gesture to her ear followed by a lowering motion: a reminder to speak softly if they didn’t want to be overheard by the hidden figure’s enhanced hearing.

“What was that we just bore witness to?” Yama repeated more quietly, her tone verging closer to annoyance than Ayo would have preferred, but she understood what drew out her lieutenant's emotions. This was unheard of. Shouldn’t have been possible.

Yama’s question was for any who would answer, but Ayo had none. She picked up her spear from the tile floor and pointed it down the long hallway before she rotated her body so she could monitor both the entrance to the lab and Shuri’s face as she and Yama quickly checked-over Nomble. The princess’s face was lost in thought as she obviously struggled between being present and coming to an understanding of what had just happened and why.

“Are you alright?” Shuri asked, voice tempered with concern.

“I am fine,” Nomble insisted, “The vibranium weave took the worst of the impact.”

“Not all of you is protected by vibranium weave.” Yama tilted Nomble’s head up towards the overhead lighting, observing, “Your eyes are dilated. You likely have a concussion.”

“I have suffered far worse.”

Shuri was still lost in thought, but before she could step away, Nomble grabbed the princess’s wrist, halting her progress. “The other Doras do not know him as we do.” Her eyes went to Ayo, “And he does not know them.”

Ayo frowned but nodded in understanding as she switched her Kimoyo Beads to an emergency channel. General Okoye’s face appeared without delay and Ayo launched into the purpose of her call. There would be time for salutations later, “General. Princess Shuri is safe and unharmed, but support is needed at the Design Center. Something has gone amiss and White Wolf has glimpsed a Black Hole Event. He is violent and not himself and has taken Samuel Wilson hostage. They retreat towards the main entrance.” The next part hurt to speak out loud, but it was critical Okoye understood the dire nature of the situation they faced, “I think he means to run, but I do not know if he sees the value of another's life in his current state.”

Ayo didn’t need to say more. She saw the look in her General’s face at the flash of a memory of when Killmonger took Xoliswa hostage on this same mountain before he drew her life out with a cruel pull of his blade.

Okoye’s face was grim, but before she could say a word to Ayo, her attention shifted as she shouted a code word to someone nearby. The projection of her torso cut-off abruptly as the General switched her signal to audio-only so her hands were free. By the sounds of it, she was already moving, “You will have our support, but I am not close. Did you already give him the arm?”

Ayo found herself glimpse to Shuri at that, “Yes yes. We did not know. Please hurry.”

Okoye swore something under her breath and cut the transmission.

Shuri shook her head rapidly, her fingers flickering over her palm as she reviewed the last scans she’d collected when she’d been speaking with Bucky, “I do not understand what has happened,” She admitted, “the readings… they are not showing as a Black Hole Event.”

“Then what?”

“I do not know,” Shuri repeated, her voice apologetic, “It makes no sense!”

“Could you have missed a trigger word?”

“I do not know,” the princess’s voice was exasperated, on the verge of panic that was not directed at Ayo, but was also enough to draw out Ayo’s emotions as well.

“He anticipated the failsafe,” Ayo spat out in frustration.

“He did?”

“He did,” Ayo confirmed, “I saw it in his eyes. He saw the move coming. Countered it.”

“That makes no sense.” Shuri’s face crinkled as she ran calculations and possibilities through her mind, “Are you certain? The Soldier should not know.”

“I am certain,” Ayo confirmed, and she was.

“But James knew,” Yama reasoned aloud.

“That was not James,” Ayo countered, perhaps a bit more defensively than she intended. She turned her attention back to the room, “But it is no matter because we have seconds before Nomble and I must move to try and cut them off at the surface.” She gestured her hand to Yama, the only uninjured Dora among them, and therefore clearly the best-suited to protect their royal charge, “You will stay and guard our princess.”

“I’m coming with,” Shuri objected without hesitation. Yama did not contest her commander’s order, but her eyes shared the same intense desire for disobedience as the princess.

“You will do as you are told and seal the room once we leave.”

“I will do no such thing!” Shuri countered.

She could be so frustrating! Like a child throwing a tantrum. Ayo retorted, voice hot and no-nonsense, “We do not understand what has happened. I will not put your life at risk for your stubbornness.” Ayo did everything she could to temper her tone, “I cannot guard you while I seek to de-escalate and try to get Samuel to safety.”

“Then tell the other Dora Milaje to guard me, for I am coming. This is my choice, not yours.” Shuri’s tone held firm.

Infuriating!

Ayo could have howled at her for her insubordination, but knew the Princess was her charge, not her lieutenant to command. She tried to appeal to her sense of logic, “You have no weapon, no armor.”

“I will have both,” Shuri was already moving to the nearest chest of drawers, pulling them open in rapid succession as she searched for something among her creations. She tossed a small dome-shaped device the size of a thumbnail to Ayo, “For your knee, it will numb the nerves enough until we have time for proper treatment.”

Ayo said nothing as she caught the device and did her best not to flinch as she pressed it against the outside of her knee. Immediately she could feel the prick as a small needle push itself between the vibranium weave and into her flesh, allowing nanites to penetrate her skin and offer momentary relief to the area. She shifted her weight onto it. It was still painful, but it was now manageable. She would be able to walk, but she was not sure if she would be able to run.

It would not be the first time.

There was no time: It had to be enough.

Shuri waved a hand between Ayo and Yama, “Where did some isidenge* see fit to move my tools to while I kept the ancestors company?”

“We must hurry,” Nomble offered by way of encouragement as she regarded a readout from her Kimoyo Beads, “The others report they have already made it to the next floor. Sam is still with him, appearing conscious and yet unharmed.”

“I am hurrying, I am hurrying!” This was Shuri, who pulled a handful of items into her pocket, as if she either didn’t have time or the patience to sort them out now, or wasn’t at all certain what might come in useful for whatever they might face next. Ayo didn’t know either. They would have time to talk once they made way to the hidden exit. Their best hope was that they might be able to overpower the Soldier before he took Sam Wilson’s life, or anyone else’s.

She knew in her heart she was willing to lay down her life for Shuri, for T’Challa, for Wakanda. She truly wanted to think herself capable of making a call between James’s life and the lives of those around her and Samuel’s own, but she could not be certain in that moment if she would be capable of making that final strike, even if it was wholly necessary.

She had to hope others could be strong if she could not.

For a moment, she let herself take comfort in the belief that Okoye would not hesitate if the situation was so dire.

But Ayo hoped, prayed to Bast it would not come to that.

Years of careful training heightened his reflexes to razor-sharp focus, but they hadn’t prepared the soldier for this, whatever this was.

His attention ran a constant cycle between situational awareness, ongoing threat assessment, the positioning of the man shielded in front of him, and the not-so-subtle discomfort that he was both unable to piece together where he was or how he’d gotten here.

The latter was something he felt a pressing need to understand, but it could wait.

His best guess was that he was deep within one of HYDRA’s many bases of operation, or perhaps he’d been taken and rented out to one of their allies. Either way: he hadn’t missed the sight of the cryo chamber nestled within the center of the lab: a telltale sign of a participant in the Winter Soldier program.

The stark black, white, and glass-lined corridors offered a surprising amount of visibility into adjoining rooms where labcoat-laden staff pressed themselves against far walls, flanked by bald, female soldiers who brandished what appeared to be matching spears rather than handheld munitions. Strange. They watched him warily from a distance with a predatory intensity he recognized, but they did not move to intervene. There were a surprising number of them too, perhaps one for every ten or fifteen scientists.

The soldier pivoted the man in front of him like a full-body shield when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The woman froze, removing her hand from a bracelet around her wrist that wasn’t unlike the one on his own. He regarded her intently as he pulled the hostage around a corner and to another intersection.

He stopped, listening for anything. Any sound of doors, footsteps, or voices. When he felt certain they weren’t being followed, he pivoted around to face an approaching intersection. The soldier let his grip loosen just enough so that he would be able to work his vocal cords, “Which way?”

The man he was holding squirmed his head right then left, then back again, “Right, I think?”

The soldier kept his voice low, sinking his intent into the words, “If it’s the wrong direction, you’ll be the first to die.” He had no patience for trying to read this man’s intentions. His heart was racing so fast it was impossible to even guess if he was lying or not. He could smell the primal reek of fear about him, though.

Pathetic.

“I’ve been here a grand total of three times in my whole life,” the man responded as they entered a section that wasn’t surrounded by glass, “The last two times, I wasn’t paying close attention on account that someone led us back out.”

The soldier caught the ‘us’ and scowled inwardly, debating on believing the suggestion or going against it, “Do you have any weapons on you?”

The response was a flat, “No, I do not have any weapons on me.”

“I’m going to let go of your wrists for a moment. If you try anything--”

“You’ll kill me. I get it,” the man in front of him deadpanned, “No desire to be a hero, man. You tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do it. I’ve got a family. Sarah, AJ--”

“Stop talking.” The soldier tightened the hold of his left arm around the man’s neck while he used his other hand to first pick off whatever was itching his scalp. He pulled something off of his temple and regarded it critically. A device of some kind? A bug, perhaps? He dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his heel. One-by-one, he removed the others and destroyed them as well. Did they have something to do with what was done to his hair? If so: why?

He turned his attention back to the man obediently standing in front of him with his hands behind his back. The soldier used his free hand to pat him down carefully. Part of him was actually hoping the man might be lying and had something on him: a knife, a gun, anything. But the only thing he found was a wallet and what felt like a cell phone in his pocket. The soldier fished them out and slipped them both into his back pocket to review later.

Satisfied he was unarmed and telling the truth, he took the man’s wrists again and prompted him to step down into the hallway on the right. The soldier pivoted, brandishing the man like a shield when he caught sight of another one of those strange women with the spears standing guard behind a glass door a short distance away. She watched them intensely as they slowly made their way past, but she did not move to intercept them.

Part of him almost wished she had.

She probably had some spare weapons on her.

The soldier kept his voice low as he kept the man moving in front of him. He felt like he should know more about this place, something he could use, “Where are we?”

The man struggled to speak beneath the metal of his forearm. He relented the tension just enough so he could speak, “Wakanda.”

He found didn’t have much of a frame of reference for the place beyond that it was a country in Africa. It explained the locals but little else.

But it didn’t explain any number of questions he had about the strange gaping hole in his memory and how he’d ended up in that lab, with, of all things: a different arm and these ridiculous clothes.

“Buck, c’mon, you know me,” The man mewled softly against his forearm. He debated tightening his grip again, but part of him was curious where he was going. What his play was.

He wasn’t going to admit that he did in fact recognize the man he’d taken hostage. He just didn’t understand how Sam Wilson was connected to that lab. None of the possible scenarios added up.

“What are they waiting for?”

“They probably don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Sam paused, adjusting his voice in an apparent attempt to garner his sympathies, “You really don’t remember me?”

He ignored the question and shoved him forward, “Where’s the armory?”

“The armory? This isn’t a military base. It’s a research center.”

Having a hostage was leverage, but the soldier knew it wouldn’t get him far, not with this many armed combatants nearby. True, it was possible he could be overwhelmed, but in tight hallways like this, he felt confident he could use the space to his advantage, especially since it was abundantly clear they wanted him alive.

If the prior skirmish was any indication, he still had the upper hand.

And unlike them: he also had no qualms in using lethal force if it suited his purposes.

He would not be taken alive.

Too much about this wasn’t adding up, though. Why were they allowing him to retreat in the first place? His only explanation was that Sam Wilson was a far more valuable target than he first expected.

Was it because he was still acting as an undercover agent in America?

The soldier shook his head once quickly to clear it, solidifying his focus. He didn’t have time for this now. All he knew was he’d chosen a high-value target, and if they made it out alive, he could find a way to get Sam Wilson to talk.

He had training enough for that too.

Chapter Text

“His diodes just went offline,” Shuri announced from a few feet behind Ayo as they hurried up the concealed emergency stairwell, “But the Kimoyo Beads are still transmitting his vitals and location.”

Ayo didn’t need to turn around to know that Shuri no-doubt already had a map of the Design Center projected above her wrist so they could continue to track James’ progress through the deep, multi-tiered structure. The four of them moved at a quickened pace that respected the urgency of the matter and the fact that they had many stories of stairs yet to climb until they would arrive at the surface of Mount Basheng. “Where is he now?

“They are approaching the Propulsion Laboratory. He’s sticking to the main hallways as we hoped, and the lock-down protocols are being affected in his wake. The elevators have been sealed off so that he does not gain access to the main shafts or other floors.”

Things were bad enough without having to imagine what might happen if the Soldier were able to arm himself with any of their prototype designs. Ayo thanked Bast that none of Shuri’s tinkering had been out on display in her lab. She did not want to think what might have happened if the Soldier laid claim to any unrestricted sonic emitters. It was Shuri’s own forward-thinking that ensured that the Dora Milaje variation of their spears were coded to only respond to authorized users, but not all weapons had such contingencies.

The Princess’s tone remained hot and frustrated at the situation before them, “If it wasn’t for the fact he drew Sam with him, we would have many more viable options.”

“Trapping the Soldier within locked glass while he holds another’s life is too high a risk,” Ayo agreed. The Soldier didn’t act without reason, and while she didn’t know why he’d chosen to take Sam as a hostage, she chose to believe that as long as he viewed it as a tactical advantage, there was a chance he would keep him alive. The moment that he was no longer useful, however...

“We should come out ahead of them at the surface if we keep this rate,” Yama observed from a few steps behind Shuri.

Ayo’s own leg ached, and she grimaced self-consciously at the thought that she might be slowing them down, but she pushed past the pain as she led them topside. It was not the first time the leg screamed at her. It had never been quite the same after the close call where the Soldier had nearly severed the back of her knee clean through with her own spear. Shuri’d repaired the damage so not even a scar remained from the horrific encounter, but her nerves remembered the distant memory.

She found herself wondering if the Soldier’s recent disabling move had been done by chance, or if part of him remembered their past encounter as well.

She wasn’t sure which was worse.

She had forgotten what it was like to look into eyes that did not know her as anything other than an obstacle to be cleared.

Ayo turned her attention back to the present and the set of tall, spiraling stairs they had yet to scale. A part of her thought to remark on the fact that Shuri felt the need to have her lab so deep in the mountain, but she thought better of her tongue. This was not the time, and Shuri carried enough guilt for what had drawn them to this course of action.

“I still do not understand what has happened or why,” Shuri spoke aloud. Ayo appreciated the princess’s candor, but hearing the admittance from Wakanda’s brightest mind and Head of Science and Technological Development had a way of stroking old fears.

Shuri muttered into her readouts and the data, struggling to bear sense into the incident, “James should have been in control. Yet some data presents as an Event while other sections do not.” Shuri’s tone was set with impassioned annoyance at her own inability to make sense of the data before her, “It makes it impossible to know how best to help. If he’d only stayed in the lab…”

“I do not think he will return willingly,” Ayo observed as they reached another floor marker. It would not be long until they reached the surface, and they still had little idea of what they might do to help diffuse the Soldier and rescue Sam.

Ayo did her best to focus on the task before them as she spoke up, “We will not have time to talk once we reach the surface, so if any of you feel you have bore witness to anything that might aid us, you do not need to hold your tongues for a better time to let your thoughts be known.”

Her most reserved lieutenant was first to speak, “I do not think it is the Soldier, at least not entirely,” Nomble volunteered. “It is only months for me since I glimpsed him, and what I saw was not the same cloth as before.”

Ayo would hear her, “Not the Soldier? In what way?”

“For one, he did not treat us with lethal intent.”

“Did you glimpse the same fight I did?” Ayo spoke in disbelief.

“I did,” Nomble insisted, but her voice held firm in its resolve, “and I felt the force behind him, but it was not the same as with other times. It was as if he was reactive and mimicked what force he saw from us.” She paused before adding in a quieter voice, “Seeing what we have seen, knowing what we know, do you think he truly fought with the intention we have seen him fight with before? Would either of us be walking now if he had?”

Ayo read the dark implication in her words and spared a moment’s glance over her shoulder to Nomble. Her lieutenant’s memories of their times they fought together against the fallout of the code words and the fail safes were five years fresher than her own, and she trusted her observations. She did not know what to make of them, but she trusted them.

“But why?”

“I do not know.” Nomble admitted, “But the Soldier does not run,” she observed factually, “Would not have run then, when the odds favored him.”

Part of Ayo wanted to defend the honor of she and her lieutenants, but she was not fool enough to feel confident in her resolve in that moment. Nomble did not speak these words lightly, and she did not do it to belittle herself or her commander. She spoke the words because she knew them to be true.

“He was trained not to leave witnesses,” Shuri spoke as if by agreement, “Why now?”

“He either means to leave us alive,” Yama observed from behind them, “Or he means to prepare for a second strike. We must not assume that his only goal is to escape or that his plan has but one prong.”

Ayo frowned, but nodded agreement, “I have already sent word ahead of us to ensure the Dragon Fliers and other jets as our own are cleared from the tarmac. I do not know if he is capable of piloting them or using their tactical arrays, but I do not seek to tempt him.” Ayo turned her attention to Shuri, “Beyond the support of the other Dora, what other options do you see ahead of us?”

“Not any that strike with confidence,” the princess admitted, “But I am still thinking. It may come down to brute force and the sonic burst emitters in your spears, because most of what I had on-hand would not be terribly useful against the Soldier when he still retains a hostage. The potential disables I have devised are limited, brief distractions, but they might buy us the time we need to get Sam to safety.”

Shuri continued to speak aloud as they continued up the endless flight of stairs, “The surest option is also the one I am also most cautious about. Using an EMP bead this close to the Design Center and our technology is not only risky, but it will cripple his arm as well as the shoulder coupling, which would require further surgery to repair. We should only consider it as a last, well-coordinated option, but it is an option if the situation calls for it.”

“I know we wish not to speak of it, but that is not the last option,” Ayo’s own voice was grim, but she could not let this remain unspoken between them, “In the past, we have been able to rely on code words to subdue the Soldier, but we have seen they have no effect on him now. I do not wish us to have to choose between trading one life for another, but we cannot feign it is not a possibility. If you feel it necessary to wound him, even gravely to prevent him from taking a life, you must not hesitate.”

“Do you fear the other Dora will be too...eager?” Nomble asked, her voice quiet.

“I think they will look to us for guidance,” Ayo offered with as much honesty as she could, “and if and when Okoye arrives, we must rely on her clear vision. We cannot let our own hopes cloud our actions, for they will determine many lives today besides our own.”

Ayo became aware that Shuri remained silent, and she spared a glance behind her to the princess. Her head was initially downcast, but she met Ayo’s eyes and she could see the pain there, the shame, the unease and resounding sense of responsibility for what had happened. “Do not blame yourself. You did not know,” Ayo reassured her.

Shuri responded by simply sighing, as if she was unwilling to let go of the burden she laid at her own feet, “I fear we must chance to think further ahead. Without being able to leverage words, we are not only unable to subdue, but moreover we have no way to reset the sequence.”

“We know this,” Ayo spoke, but she felt she was still missing the crux of Shuri’s message.

“We do not know what transpires with his mind,” Shuri clarified, “We have no way to push him back to where he was, and we have no way of knowing if he will come into himself or not.” Her voice was strained with palpable worry that Ayo wasn’t used to hearing from her longtime charge, whose tenacious mind was not inclined to surrender. “If we simply treat him as a wild animal and drag him back to the lab against his wishes, we will likely wound any possibility of reaching him, if such a possibility exists at all.”

Ayo felt something deep within her tighten, “What are you saying beneath?” she pressed, “What is the true depth of your worry?”

Shuri’s anxious eyes met her own, bearing witness to a frightful possibility Ayo had not yet let allowed herself consider, “That I cannot be sure this is the only James we may know from here forward, and no other.”

Being hauled through the Wakandan Design Center as a hostage was stressful for any number of reasons: the predatory gait of their death-march towards the surface, the vibranium arm tight and businesslike around his throat, and the subtle worry that one wrong move, one accidental contact from his scrambling feet against Bucky’s shins or a misplaced comment might end his life before he’d even had suitable time to even process the end was nigh. One minute he could be breathing, the next, he’d have his neck snapped sideways like an unsuspecting chicken.

If worst came to worst, he reasoned, because that was about all he was capable of doing at the moment, at least Shuri’d find a way to contact Sarah to let her know what happened.

He just hoped she’d have the decency to lie about the particulars.

Sam had certainly been on any number of live-ops rescue missions over the years, but it’d been awhile since he’d been in the hot-seat, himself. The last time was probably back in the military when he used to run through hostage training drills where participants were forced to take turns being on the business end of drills with live ammunition. Even then, a long list of procedures guided the process from start to finish.

For one: nine times out of ten, the captors were framed as some manner of armed terrorist, which placed the goal of the operation as freeing the hostage, with little concern of taking the captors alive.

Apparently learning how to differentiate between taking a shot at an armed combatant versus a hostage was deemed mandatory training, while training for the nuances of being a hostage or crisis negotiator was framed as an elective. That said a lot to Sam about certain priorities, especially since sometimes the role of the “negotiator” was simply to help line up a clean shot for one of their own snipers.

That being as it was, he knew what to expect if he was back home. That was part of the problem.

It was why his nerves were jumpy every moment they turned a corner, because part of him was half-expecting to hear a shot ring through the hall and drop the man behind him like a sack of sweet potatoes.

But here in Wakanda? He didn’t have a clue what their standard procedure was for this sort of thing, especially in a case like this where Bucky’d not only taken a hostage, but hurt some of their own people. Bucky was supposed to be in control. It wasn’t like they’d taken the time to step through a possible hostage situation between the Winter Soldier, the Dora Milaje, and Captain America’s damn-near useless doppelganger.

So as Sam was marched through the heart of the Wakandan Design Group and all of its technological marvels, he found himself looking into those glass-lined rooms where Doras stood guard like poised statues in front of wide-eyed scientists. Ayo must’ve called-ahead, because the trained soldier watched, but didn’t intervene. Sam hoped, prayed that no one might decide it was high-time to be a hero, because he didn’t want one or both of them to end up dead for their enthusiasm.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he was hoping for, though. He supposed he was still trying to place his bets on getting through to Bucky somehow, because he’d had a firsthand glimpse of what the Soldier was capable of, and he could live the rest of his life without seeing another single drop of that. While he wanted to believe a troop of Dora Milaje would be able to take him in a fair fight, being the warm body caught in the middle of that mess was not only immensely unappealing, but he had the feeling he’d end up being wielded like the human equivalent of a pincushion if the business end of those spears got too close.

Not only that, but just because the Doras aimed to subdue Bucky, that didn’t mean that the man behind him would get with the program, because he clearly had no qualms with killing even if it was simply more convenient than the alternative.

“Hey, I --” Sam started up another round of trying to get through to Bucky, but before he got any further, the metal arm adjusted and tightened around his throat.

That voice, the one that was Bucky but not commanded, “Stop. Talking.”

Sam frowned. He kept hoping, praying there was some way to get through to him. That’s how Steve’d said it’d been, right? Sam’d try to slip in his name now and then, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good at all. Maybe there was a step to the dance of remembering he was missing, like getting a good look at each other face-to-face? The prospect of that was more than a little unsettling, though. Part of him wished he’d taken the time to ask Steve more about this stuff, but then, why would he have needed to pry when the assumption was that all was well-and-good, the past behind them, and Bucky was a cured, free man?

More than that: for not the first time in the last ten minutes, Sam wished, really wished he could just give Steve a call and see if he could talk Bucky down. Hell: He hadn’t even gotten around to removing his name from his contacts list, because somehow that made the loss even more final than it already was.

The harsh reality of the situation he found himself in was all-sorts of awful and out of his depth. He didn’t have a clue how any of this worked, but if Bucky didn’t recognize him, the Wakandans, or even his own damn name… if the only way to sort out whatever was going on in Bucky’s head was going to take a wake-up heart-to-heart with someone he knew prior to his tenure with HYDRA and their murder brigade, oh Lord have mercy: they were in for a mess of trouble.

For just a moment, Sam caught sight of their combined shadow against the glass and he forced himself to look away, to look through the glass rather than let his eyes focus on the recognizable figures walking in cruel tandem. Something about the shimmering shadow reminded him how Bucky had once thought about adding the Winter Soldier to that list of his. The one written up for avenging, for amends, for closure.

This certainly wasn’t what either of them had in mind back when they were taking turns drinking home brewed lemonade back in Delacroix. He missed the simplicity of that memory. The smell of the cornbread and leftover barbecue, not the salty taste of his own sweat dripping into the corner of his mouth.

The continued death-march was all-kinds of awful, and the Soldier was making a point of pivoting him back and forth like a ragdoll to put him between any of the distant Doras on the other side of the glass. The best Sam could do was to go with the motion and try to keep his feet up underneath him as they moved.

He was doing his best to stay vigilant, and when the Soldier’s pace shifted, Sam searched his instincts to reason out the sudden change. The Soldier's movements became slower, more cautious, calculating, as if he was taking additional time to carefully observe what was within the surrounding rooms.

It was the pace of an assassin taking inventory.

The rooms on either side were wide and deep, with cavernous sculpted ceilings that housed all manner of test ships and the plethora of intricate parts that went into them.

The Propulsion Laboratory.

Sam hadn’t been lying when he’d told the Soldier this was a research center and not a military base, but if you took a good, long look into that room, it certainly blurred the implied differences between the two.

Slick monotone drones hovered in midair a distance away, stilled by obvious intent. Nearby, robust clawed “helper” machines used for heavy lifting and assembly waited patiently for their next command. At first Sam didn’t see the figures, but pockets of scientists stood motionless in the furthest reaches of the room as if they were trying to blend into the surrounding scenery.

There were vacuum-formed molds, something that looked like a truck-sized 3D printer, and in the far corner, an indoor firing range spread out beyond an assortment of what looked a hell of a lot like mounted weaponry.

The man behind him didn’t need to say a damn word for Sam to imagine him thinking ‘I thought you said they didn’t have an Armory…’

The silence in the air was deafening.

The only sound was their asynchronous footsteps. Their breathing. The subtle jingle of Bucky’s dog tags around the Soldier’s neck, and the scrape of his own tags against Bucky’s metal arm. It was like they were screaming.

Once they were past the last set of glass windows, Sam was forcefully directed into an adjoining hallway. There was no one else in sight, and the lack of any friendly eyes made him incredibly aware of how isolated he truly was.

It had all the feeling of being drawn into a dark alley in the wrong part of town.

A low voice a few inches from his ear broke the strained silence, “Is he here too?”

Sam almost jumped at the voice, but he got his nerves about him as quickly as he could, “Who?” he worried what was coming next, because if it was... it could be the point of no return.

“Your mission,” Not-Bucky’s voice was cold, “Is he in this facility too?”

Shit.

Not even a heartbeat later, the man clutching his throat added, “I can tell if you’re lying.”

Now one: Could Bucky actually do that? Because if that was a real honest-to-god thing, it would mean he should take note of some very particularly incriminating conversations they’d had in the past. And two: If he had some super-lie-detector jazz going on in that serumed brain of his, it meant Sam wouldn’t be liable to figure out a way to let him down easy, because the truth of all this was truly stranger than fiction.

He decided to be a coward and buy himself a few more seconds among the living.

“I’m being straight with you. I’m not on a mission and I genuinely don’t know what mission you’re talking about.” That would pass HYDRA’s living lie-detector, right? He wasn’t sure, but he had a gues--

The Soldier’s voice was flat, pointed, “Steve Rogers.”

Oh Shit. This asshole remembered Steve? There went that whole premise.

Wait, did he, though? Or was that a mission objective too?

...But why would the Soldier think Steve was Sam’s mission?

This brain stuff was way over his pay grade. He really should have been paying more attention to Shuri and her--

The arm around him tightened: Oh right, he’d been asked a question by Murder McGee. The best he could manage was a factual, if high-pitched, “Steve’s not here.”

Please don’t let the next question be--

“Where is he?”

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Sam wasn’t trying to play coy, wasn’t meaning to delay, he just had no actual answer to that that he could give that would make any damn sense given the circumstances. What was he supposed to say? “Hey? So it sounds like HYDRA might’ve sent you on a mission to kill Steve Rogers. Wouldn’t be the first time, right? But anyway: you’re in luck because it’s 2024 and a few months back, he pulled some time-travel shenanigans, got all old and wrinkly, and is already gone! You don’t need to worry your little cyborg brain another minute because it’s your lucky day: the mission conveniently completed itself!”

But before Sam could start to wrangle his words about him and wring out the nonsense that was running through his nerves like a basket full of field mice, the Soldier turned on him. One moment Sam’s head was cradled in the nook of an unyielding vibranium elbow, and the next, that same hand grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against a nearby wall without a drop of pomp and circumstance. His feet dangled helplessly a few inches above the tile like a flesh and blood marionette with tangled strings.

That metal hand crushed down on his windpipe, forcing any hope of a breath out of him as those vibranium fingers spoke without words that the Soldier wasn’t playing. Sam’s own hands reflexively clawed at the black and gold plates, as if somehow that would do a damn thing.

“I said.” Bucky-not-Bucky repeated, “Where is he?”

Now up until this point, Sam hadn’t gotten to get a real good look at Bucky, and frankly? He’d been just dandy with that. It was easier to simply try to disassociate whatever the hell was happening if he tried to imagine it was someone else marching him through the halls, someone else threatening his life, someone else trouncing two top-tier Dora Milaje without breaking a sweat like it was no big thing.

But as that hand tightened around his neck and the Soldier stared into him with Bucky’s blue eyes, he felt part of him unravel at the sight. At the wrongness on bold display in front of him.

It was like there was nothing there. There wasn’t hate. Anger. It was like someone had taken Bucky’s face and wiped it clear of everything except that annoying-ass stare he used to do, and even then: the old stare usually had a layer of quiet annoyance to it. This expression didn’t even have that. He just saw the assassin. How he held his body tall and firm like a riled grizzly bear, like a living weapon.

Because that’s what he was.

That’s what HYDRA had molded him into.

The next thing Sam knew, his limbs started instinctively flailing. It wasn’t meant to be a fighting moment, it was his body’s way of screaming out that it could only spend a fraction longer without drawing in some oxygen before things started to shut down entirely.

Sam was so focused on those blue eyes across from his that he didn’t even realize what was happening when the Soldier briefly adjusted the pressure of the vibranium hand around his neck and leaned in to use his free hand to pin down Sam’s own hands that were still scrambling against the unyielding black and gold metal. For a split second, he thought maybe the move was simply to still his fingers, like someone seeing fit to quiet an anxious leg or nervous, drumming fingers.

But a moment later, it felt like someone had shoved both his hands into a trash compactor and flipped a switch.

He didn’t just yell, he howled as an audible crackle and pop filled the air just inches below his chin. It felt like every precious bone in his hands was being crushed together in unison.

“Where is he?” The Soldier with Bucky’s voice repeated in the same unnervingly calm tone. The one that transcended even the need for veiled threats.

“He died,” Sam managed to choke the words he’d never had the courage to admit out loud. He was certain there were tears at the corner of his eyes from the unbearable pain in his hands, his throat, the back of his head, and something deep inside of him that had imagined a lot of ways he might go, but never this.

Everything had somehow led to this horrific finale of his life. It wasn’t a firefight or falling from the air. It was to be one where the last thing he saw was his Partner's brainwashed face bearing down on him without a care in the world. Without an emotion to speak of.

Empty.

Sam used the last of his energy to softly whimper two words with the final breath of air he had in his burning lungs, “~-...in…-~-....2023...-~”

Something shifted cold behind the icy blue eyes of the man in front of him.

Chapter Text

It was not the first time the soldier had been told Steve Rogers was dead.

It wasn’t even the second time.

But he’d also seen him alive only days earlier, which made the statement stall in his mind.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed as they carefully assessed the man in front of him. The soldier focused, rapidly running through a series of quick checks he cross-compared to his internal rubric on tells between if someone was lying or telling the truth.

Eyes - Focused. Vision stable. Pupils responsive.

Pulse - Approximately 140 beats per minute. Nominal change compared to rate taken prior to statement.

Breathing pattern - Labored due to constricted airway. Data deemed unremarkable for determining possibility of verbal manipulation.

Perspiration - Increased. Potentially connected with concern for self-preservation. Data also deemed similarly unremarkable.

The results could never be conclusive, especially when evaluating a trained agent, but Sam Wilson didn’t appear to have any obvious tells that he was intentionally lying.

But it also didn’t make his statement true.

The soldier took notice that the fight had long-since faded from the man underneath his hands. Sam was approaching the point where he risked going unconscious from continued lack of oxygen, so he loosened his grip but continued to hold him aloft against the wall. As his black metal hand held the man’s throat, he found himself pushing aside the strange ghost of a sensation he felt. It was almost as if the change in pressure and position registered through his left arm. When had that modification been added? And why did the assembly seem lighter and less irritating?

He pushed the thoughts aside for later investigation. The man in front of him wouldn’t be of any use to him if he were dead, and he was certain if the people here believed he might be, then their unofficial stalemate was likely to come to an immediate halt.

Sam Wilson’s body shuddered as he choked out a gasp but kept his eyes focused on his own. He couldn’t read his expression, but he felt like he should. It was very distinct. There was something in the eyes he couldn’t place. The only thing the soldier felt certain of was that the man in front of him believed his words.

That Steve was dead.

It didn’t make the words true, but Sam Wilson believed them.

What was his play here? Perhaps he’d been given false information in order to gauge a reaction?

But if that was the case, what was Sam’s mission?

“In 2023?” he found himself asking. The better part of him knew this wasn’t the time for further interrogation, but he felt compelled to find out if Sam had misspoken in haste or due to oxygen deprivation.

The soldier could feel Sam’s hands tremble beneath his palm and the firm pressure he applied to them. The man’s whole body shuddered as a renewed flutter of pain radiating from the breaks in his hands, “~-It’s 2024 now,-~” he clarified, voice weak and winded.

The soldier couldn’t know if any of it was true, but the man panting weakly under his fingers seemed to believe the words spilling out of his mouth.

He squinted at that proclamation, running the numbers through his head and cross-comparing it to the last date he felt reasonably certain of. If it was true, how had so many years passed without his knowing? Had they wiped him immediately after he’d come out of cryo? But if they’d wiped him, why did he remember?

He wasn’t supposed to remember.

Perhaps this group of scientists had another goal altogether? But if they selectively wiped years from his memories, why those ones in particular?

None of it made any sense.

Facts he’d initially pieced together remained at irreparable odds with one another: If Sam’s current mission objective was Steve Rogers, he couldn’t also believe his target to be dead the year prior. Could he?

But 2024? It seemed unlikely, but the man in front of him appeared to believe the claim.

The soldier adjusted his grip and Sam managed to squawk out, “~-Wallet.-~”

His instincts firmly insisted he should get moving and this wasn’t the time for paltry examination, but there was a curiosity to the strange demand he decided to indulge.

The soldier kept his eyes locked on Sam’s while he lifted his right hand from Sam’s hands and slipped it into his side pocket so he could retrieve the man’s wallet. He wasn’t sure what he was getting at, especially since documents and IDs were easy to fake, but he opened the tri-fold brown leather wallet and eyed the contents. He lifted the wallet high enough that he could continue to keep an eye on his surroundings, and stay alert in case this was simply a play to stall for time.

Which it probably was.

He examined the Military ID first. Samuel Thomas Wilson. Armed Forces of the United States. Air Force. Rank: E7. The issue date was listed as 09/23/2023 alongside an expiration date of 09/23/2028. Blipped: Yes.

Whatever that meant.

He thumbed through insurance cards and pulled out the corner of the nearest credit card with a stylized logo he recognized. The expiration date on the first one listed 11/2024 and the one behind it was stamped with 06/2026. Sam silently watched him peel back a few loose bills in the far back. The topmost twenty-dollar bill was stamped Series 2023, but the figurehead and design were different from what he remembered.

Odd.

It didn’t prove anything of course, but it corroborated his story.

If the dates were true, if that much time had passed, had he been under cryo this whole time?

And was Steve Rogers dead?

Inconclusive.

“~-Yours is.-~-Your back pocket.-~” Sam offered. The soldier regarded him critically. This was a play, he was certain of it.

Before he could decide how to proceed and if he wanted to feign interest in Sam’s continued attempts to manipulate him, a sudden vibration in his rear pocket drew his attention.

He tightened his grip and kept his eyes steady on his hostage as he pocketed Sam’s wallet and slipped his hand into his rear pocket. His fingers slid along the leather of the wallet Sam mentioned, and then slipped to the device that was vibrating against it.

In a smooth motion, he pulled a thin, silver-backed cell phone from his rear pocket. His eyes flicked to Sam’s as he observed the device with passing curiosity. It listed an incoming call from “J. Rhodes” below a smiling photo of a man posing in an armored suit.

War Machine, his memory clarified from old intelligence reports.

His hand remained motionless as he allowed the phone to vibrate until it fell silent. Once it did, the home screen returned to a photo that looked to be an orange-cast sunrise or sunset over a body of water.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it or why it was passingly familiar.

Probably another misdirection.

He returned the phone to his rear pocket as he tried to piece together how that particular military officer played into all of this. Was he an undercover agent as well?

A moment later, his side pocket vibrated and he narrowed his eyes accusingly at Sam: because it was his phone that was vibrating this time.

Sam didn’t say anything as the soldier pulled the phone free: Same caller. That was Interesting. The soldier was of two minds: He could ignore the phone and keep moving, or perhaps he could use it as a way to glean more information about his current situation.

He kept his eyes on Sam, watching him for signs he was considering anything clever at all as he slowly lowered him to the ground. Once his feet caught the floor and the soldier felt certain Sam wasn’t planning on struggling, he clearly stated his intentions, “You’re going to take this call. If there’s any misbehavior, a single word, he’ll get to hear you bleed out on speakerphone.”

The smallest wave of relief shot through Sam the moment his feet were on the floor again and his legs could support his weight rather than the straining muscles of his neck. He wasn’t sure who the caller was at first, but the better part of him was relieved as anything when he saw Not-Bucky pivot the phone in his direction and caught that the portrait of the caller wasn’t Sarah. Thank god have mercy: He wasn’t sure his heart could have handled that particular conversation just then.

That being as it was: Rhodey wasn’t exactly the social call he wanted right now either.

For the first time in his blissful life, he found himself wishing it was a telemarketer, someone claiming his car was in need of an extended warranty, anything. Hell: he would have taken some teens taking dares prank-calling Captain America over this.

Damn it.

Instinctively, he started to reach out one clawed hand to try and take the device, only to have HYDRA’s off-brand take on the Terminator-1000 reflexively snap the phone away from him.

It was probably for the best.

Sam was doing what he could to ignore how the nerves in his hands and fingers were screaming at him in protest with what felt like each and every heartbeat. They looked more like dark, misshapen mittens than the hands and fingers he remembered. It wasn’t hard to piece together the grim reality that he was still useful as a hostage even if he couldn’t hold a damn thing.

He was certainly not going to be throwing that shield or doing much at all for awhile if he survived this.

He really did want to survive this.

He told himself if he could just… just wake Bucky up, they’d find a way through whatever this was. He could forgive him, right? He’d done it before. This wasn’t him. Wasn’t his choice.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he also tried to swat away the passing thought that if this could happen again, would he really be comfortable sleeping in such close proximity to him? Or leaving him alone in the house with Sarah and his nephews?

...Yeah...

He didn’t have time for thoughts like those as the assassin, clad in black, blue, and lines of gold, held out the business end of a cell phone in his direction.

“No funny business,” Sam promised, because he wasn’t sure what else he was going to say besides the fact that he wanted this to be the world’s shortest phone call. Beyond the searing pain in his hands, he was finding it rather hard to concentrate on feigning things were a drop okay for any audience about now, especially with those frightful blue eyes piercing through him and that vibranium hand of his resting tight and threatening over his clavicle.

Now that he thought about it: he probably didn’t need intact ribs or clavicles to be a useful hostage either.

He was damn sure the man looming in front of him already knew that, though. Knew the proper order to twist and break bones to draw things out if needed. He had seventy years of training under some of the biggest assholes on the planet, after all.

Sam pushed that bucket of awful aside and did his best to focus on taking the first full breaths of air he’d been permitted in what felt like the better part of half an hour. He wasn’t altogether sure how much time had passed, either. A fleeting glimpse to his watch didn’t help any, because the dome had apparently been cracked to hell by Bucky’s hand too.

Damn he’d forgotten how strong he really was when he wasn’t keeping it all tempered and bottled up.

Which was more than a little unsettling and a whole lot of frightening under the circumstances.

As the super Soldier flicked the slider on the phone to accept the incoming call from Rhodey and set it to speaker phone, Sam tried to tune out the narrow hallway, the assassin glowering in front of him, and the cacophony of pain radiating from all over his body. He did his best to channel whatever paltry theatre electives he’d taken back in High School and summoned up what he hoped was an altogether convincing, “Rhodey, Brother! How you doing?” He could feel his voice shaking. Could Rhodey hear it too?

“Same old, same old,” Rhodey pleasantly rolled from the other end of the call, “You know how it is: a bottomless buffet of neverending paperwork these days. Hey, I gave Barnes a ring but he didn’t pick up so I wanted to try your cell. They have a developing situation in Symkaria I’m sure Torres has already been feeding you intel about, but the UN’s officially asking for some outside help now. They’ve authorized Barnes since they suspect a Super Soldier might be responsible for the hits, but I also wanted to reach out to you to see if you wanted to get involved too. I wasn’t sure if Captain America came as part of a package deal, or if you preferred to sit this one out.”

Rhodes had said a lot of words, and Sam was doing his best to focus on them, but he was also finding himself unable to keep his full attention on the call when his eyes were also searching the man’s expression in front of him, hoping for some tell of a reaction, or perhaps fearing retaliation. It took him a beat longer than he would have liked to get his senses about him, but a firm press against his clavicle brought him back to the immediate present. The actual hell was he supposed to say, though? Sorry Rhodey, Buck couldn’t come to the phone because he was seeing fit to use me as a shield and was busy mangling my hands during a brief but very pointed round of Q&A. You have any interest trying to get a word in with him about what happened to Steve? Because I sure as hell don’t want to broach it. In fact: Now that I think about it, there are a pair of black flowers sittin’ in water back in our suite that are a whole hell of a lot closer to that solemn topic than I’m wanting to be about now.

The pressure on his clavicle tightened and Sam scrambled to get his words under him, “Ah yeah. Well Bucky’s not with me at the moment,” he half-lied because he was looking right at Not-Bucky, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to run it by him before I make a call either way. Partners and all.”

Sam kept hoping he’d see some reaction, but it was like looking into a statue of the man he knew. Same features: no change. A painful amount of nothing.

“Understood,” Rhodey acquiesced, voice shifting back to pleasantries now that official business was out of the way, “Torres told me you needed to make a detour to Wakanda. How is it? I keep meaning to make it back, but I haven’t managed to carve out the time. Always one more thing that needs handled, you know?”

Sam was torn between wanting the call over now, or letting it air out so he could continue to catch a few more welcome sips of fresh air before that hand returned to his neck. He didn’t have a solemn clue what the Frosty the Murder Snowflake was hoping to glean from the conversation, but apparently he was willing to let the conversation play out a little longer, “The food alone’s something else, and I’m pretty sure you could spent two full days in their Aeronautics museum and not see everything. You know the Wakandans beat us to manned flight?”

“For real?”

“For real. You’ll find yourself taking a whole hell of a lotta humble pie, especially once you compare their dates to the ones in our noble Air and Space Museum.” Sam felt pressure increase against his sternum. He got the message: wrap it up, “Anyway, I should probably get going. But we’ll catch up soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Stay safe out there and let Barnes know his voicemail’s full, will you?

“Heh, yeah. Sounds about right. I’ll let him know. Talk soon,” Sam concluded. He hoped the performance was sufficient, because right now? He felt like he was on the verge of throwing up his lunch with how much his nerves were bouncing all over the place at once.

The Soldier used his thumb to end the call and regarded Sam with that eerie, vacant expression of his. He just kept expecting there to be some reaction behind those eyes, but if news that Steve was gone wasn’t enough, or that Sam was now Captain America, he wasn’t sure what was.

But he sensed a pause happening here. Not a moment, but it was clear the gears were turning in that man in front of him with Bucky’s face. Sam only wished he would put the important pieces together. What he wasn’t expecting was for his next question to be --

“What’re you after in Symkaria?”

Of literally all the pieces the cyborg assassin could have latched onto, that was his question? He figured honesty was the only real play here. Besides: If he was talking, he was alive and breathing, “The last of the royal family was taken out by an unknown assassin that can leap between buildings.” He decided to risk supplying an additional statement of fact, “You and I were in Aniana two days ago investigating.”

The man looking back at him kept that same creepy neutral expression on his face as he deadpanned one of the first potentially useful things he’d said so far, “That wasn’t where either of us were two days ago.”

Us?

The pressure against Sam’s clavicle stayed firm as the solemn fact in that statement, but the hand didn’t press harder. It was at that moment that Sam got the distinct impression that maybe there was a lot more going on in the Soldier’s head than he was letting on or that Sam was giving him credit for. Maybe his read on all this wasn’t nearly as straightforward as he originally thought?

Who was this guy?

Sam wasn’t sure what all this pointed to, but he felt like he had maybe one more question he could risk asking till this moment of theirs came to a sudden close and they’d be back to that hand tight around his throat and business as usual. Bucky hadn’t reacted to his name, to him, to the Wakandans, to the date, or even the news about Steve. He didn’t blink an eye about the remark about Captain America or ‘Partners,’ but he’d latched onto Symkaria, why?

He could’ve asked a question about that, should’ve, probably, but instead his stupid mouth went back to try to search out some common ground that might wake him up.

So what did he say? He tried to steal a line Steve’d told him like it was his own, like that could make all the difference, “You used to tell Steve, ‘Till the end of the lin--’”

He didn’t see the swing coming.

One second he was flapping his lips, the next, he heard his nose crack open and the world went searing black.

And then there was nothing.

Ayo thought it no accident that the Soldier had managed to locate a spot just out of sight from the Wakandan Design Group’s security cameras, but the Chief of Security pressed on as she led the way up the last few stories of the emergency stairwell. None of them knew what his plan was, but when he’d suddenly stopped moving, a growing panic rose in Shuri and she’d had to slow her steps so she could try and deduce what was happening just out of sight.

“His vitals barely fluctuate,” She complained to no one in particular before suddenly adding, “Oh! I think he’s moving again.” She nearly stumbled on one of the stairs as she focused her attention on trying to pull up additional camera feeds of the area the Soldier had just stepped into. Her tone dropped, “Oh… oh no…”

Ayo quickly turned her head around. From this angle, she couldn’t get a good look at what Shuri saw in the live feeds, but the princess’s expression was far more troubled than it had been only moments before, “What is it?”

“Sam is no longer walking,” Shuri’s strained voice supplied, “The Soldier is dragging him by his chest, but I cannot tell if he is merely unconscious or…” her voice faded off.

Or dead. Ayo silently finished.

“There is a trail of blood in their wake,” the princess’s voice added unsteadily as she watched the footage. The Soldier’s arm crossed Sam’s chest, supporting his weight while his feet dragged behind him on the floor. His body was limp and lifeless, his head rolled over to one side like a worn stuffed toy.

Moments later, Ayo’s Kimoyo Beads shimmered with a new message from Nailah, one of her Doras stationed just inside the cafeteria:

[Text Messages Between Ayo and Nailah]:

Ayo didn’t have to ask who had given Sam such injuries, but she did not know why. Had the Soldier been trying to get information from him? If so, what? Had he not been willing?

The Chief of Security had been so deep in her thoughts that for a moment, she had forgotten those around her were looking to her for information. She did what she could to ground herself before she spoke, “It appears the Soldier has grievously injured Sam. Nailah is uncertain if he yet lives, but we have to assume he does.” She did what she could to detach herself from the situation before her as she bore into her years of training, “It would not make sense for the Soldier to continue to carry him otherwise.”

“We’ve not known the Soldier to lay claim to trophies,” Yama saw fit to add.

Shuri cringed and shook her head rapidly, as if trying to clear her head. Her eyes went to Ayo as the group of them got moving again.

“He must have been trying to draw information out of Sam,” Nomble offered, “Why else would the Soldier seek to injure him?”

“I do not know,” Ayo spoke aloud, quickening her pace to scale the final flight of stairs to the surface, “But I do not think it happenstance that he did so away from where our cameras could see him.”

“What are we to do when we reach the surface?” Nomble saw fit to ask.

It was a fair question, but one Ayo was uncertain how to answer. Yet all the same, it was her role to know what tactic they and the other Dora should take.

Her next words carried with them the weight of many lives, so she did not speak them lightly, even if no clear path presented itself.

They could not simply wait and do nothing.

“We need to lure him away from the building and the central chasm. We have seen him fight, we know how far he can throw or kick if agitated, and I do not want to put any of us in a position where we might find ourselves at the bottom of the mine’s shaft. Once we are clear, Shuri can see what might be done to disable him.”

“Do we seek an opportunity to use our words before we show our teeth?” Nomble asked, her question clear but without judgement for whatever Ayo believed they must do.

Ayo understood the crux of her inquiry, but did not feel confident the option was open to them any longer.

It did not mean she would not try.

Ayo retracted her spear until it was but a cylinder in her hand. It was all the conviction Ayo could offer her lieutenant.

“What if…” Nomble spoke as she twisted her face in thought and retracted her own spear in silent solidarity, “if the central core is like the memories we carbon date?”

As they reached the final platform and door leading to the topside of Mount Bashenga, the group’s attention turned to Shuri to weigh in on Nomble’s inquiry, “Speak quickly,” Ayo insisted, for they were running out of time.

Shuri caught on to Nomble’s inquiry, “...That it could be an echo of a certain Soldier we see before us,” her face twisted as she evaluated the new theory, “or a blend. But which?”

“One that knows Sam,” Yama volunteered without hesitation, before quickly clarifying, “at least in some way.”

When Ayo turned her attention to question her lieutenant, Yama offered one of her easygoing shrugs, “He had opportunity to try to take captive either of you. He chose Sam. I watched him. It was like seeing a lion select a gazelle. There was intention.”

Before either of them could speak another word, Ayo caught sight of her communication bead blink along her wrist. She toggled it quickly, expecting a report from another of her Doras. Instead, what she saw was notification of an incoming call that was not from a set of Kimoyo Beads, but a cell phone: James’ cell phone.

*Tssszt!* Ayo made a noise with her lips, drawing those gathered around her to silence, “It is a call from him.”

“He’s just past the cafeteria,” Shuri quickly supplied, pulling up a live video feed of a hallway that showed the Soldier holding a lifeless Sam in one arm while he calmly, and quite unexpectedly, regarded the lens of the security camera observing him.

The Soldier was hunched over like a predator in wait as he gripped the man beneath him with superhuman ease. A trail of blood streaked the front of Sam’s shirt, trailing down the front and into a messy path on the marbled greytone floor below.

It was chilling. Unsettling for any number of reasons, including the memories it drew up in Ayo’s mind that she did not have time for now.

Ayo nodded to herself, took a short breath, and accepted the call.

She chose to speak first, reminding herself for not the first time that the man on the other end did not know her, but it would not stop her from trying to find a way through to him, “White Wolf?” she breathed the name, as if trying to summon him forward through sheer will alone.

The voice that answered was not his, “Don’t play games with me. I know your people are keeping watch. All of you need to back off or else I’ll kill Wilson.”

Shuri mouthed ‘He knows Sam?’ and Ayo frowned. It seemed perhaps Yama’s instincts were correct, “We don’t want a confrontation,” Ayo assured him, trying to keep her voice as calm as she could, “We only wish to talk.”

“Not interested,” the man on the other end said flatly, but with a palpable menace to his tone, “and if you decide to say one more word in Russian, это будет последнее слово, которое вы скажете, точка.” That will be the last word you say, period.

Ayo’s blood ran cold. She struggled to separate herself from the situation, to think of this an opportunity to try to get through to the other James she wanted to believe was still somewhere in there, “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You are in Wakanda because--”

The voice on the other end managed something of a feral snarl as it interrupted her, “You don’t get to say that name.” The Soldier’s tone shifted back to its original threatening poise, “Last warning. If I come out the doors up ahead and anyone tries to stop me or follow me, Wilson will be the first to die. I’ll come for you next.” The line abruptly dropped and Ayo was left staring at the Kimoyo Beads around her wrist.

Before she could say anything, Nomble found her voice, “He claims Sam is alive, but… that was… not the Soldier we have fought so often, Ayo.”

“It is not,” Ayo agreed, “But who? Did you hear how his tone shifted once I spoke his name?”

“He recognized it,” Shuri observed, “But that it was vile on your tongue.”

“Perhaps he believes we are at odds,” Yama said as she saw fit to retract her spear so it was but a vibranium cylinder in her hand.

“We have been at odds many times,” Ayo admitted, “Could it be his memory has latched onto that and warped it into a truth?”

Shuri shook her head, “I still do not know. This is not like we have seen before.” Her expression grew frustrated, with a layer of profound, personal guilt that pained Ayo to bear witness to, “If only we were in the lab so I could better understand--”

“What if we are looking at it wrong?” Nomble interjected, stepping over Princess Shuri’s words. The whole group of them regarded her then, for it was both remarkably improper and out of character for her to speak over Shuri. Nomble immediately caught the misstep and quieted, looking for permission for Shuri to speak. The princess waved a hand, urging her to continue, but to hurry while Shuri monitored the Soldier’s location through his tracker and the cameras within the compound.

Nomble continued, “What if instead of simply seeking a destination, he sought to escape from the lab. From what the lab represents?”

“From that it represents?” Shuri required clarification.

Nomble nodded, “As when he was coming out of cryo, in a daze. When he is reactive because his senses are confused and his mind cannot yet tell friend from foe.”

“...that his chilled instincts react as if we mean to do harm, even if he is not in the throws of an Event,” Ayo concluded.

“It is only a theory,” Nomble admitted, careful to find her place in the hierarchy around her.

“But it is a worthwhile theory,” Shuri corrected, adding, “But what of Sam?”

“The Soldier must believe him to be valuable quarry,” Yama returned, “but why?”

When Shuri’s eyes lifted to Ayo’s, she saw a new horror latch into in her charge’s expression, at the host of unknowns and frightening possibilities laid out before them like a wash of pebbles cast into a bottomless lake, “What if we are wrong and it is not the Soldier at all?”

Here's a quick little Soldier/Sam sketch I did earlier this week. I didn't want to delay posting this chapter, so I kept it nice and loose, but I might update it if I continue to work on it! :)

Chapter Text

The soldier spared a moment to glower at the security camera across the hallway before he forcibly hauled Sam’s unconscious form a few steps further and around the next corner. Why were these people so set on trying to manipulate him? Was this a test of his cognition? His awareness? Were the incoming calls from Rhodes part of the same ploy? How did his operations in Symkaria play into this, or were such conversations merely there to try and confuse him further and distract him from his mission?

He carefully leaned around one of the shining metal support columns to get a better visual on the next section of the compound he had to contend with. Unlike the prior areas of the building and their glass-lined hallways, there were no tribal-clad women in sight but he knew even if he couldn’t see them, they were still there. They were almost certainly on the other side of what he assumed was one-way glass a short distance away, while others observed his movements through the security feed of the cameras high overhead.

He would have been content to utilize the slim phones as projectiles to take out the cameras, but the option seemed purposeless when they were the only two readily available objects he had on-hand that could potentially be used as offensive weapons. They weren’t knives, certainly, but he was confident he could throw them with enough force to serve the same purpose if needed.

The opening to the next room was a little over two stories high, and judging by the wide layout and spiraling black and silver metal sculptures surrounding the outer walls, the room likely acted as a lobby of some sort. His instincts insisted he was getting close to the front of the building and whatever awaited him outside, though he was unclear why he felt so certain that was the case. Had he been briefed on this location previously? He didn’t recall seeing blueprints of the interior layout, yet he maintained a latent level of familiarity with it that he couldn’t explain. Those instincts appeared to be all-but confirmed when he caught sight of a sprawl of warm light up ahead that held all the promise of daylight.

That being as it was, he still didn’t have much of an idea of where he was, specifically. By what the locals and Sam were wearing, he assumed it wasn’t a cold climate, but that offered little in the way of details. If what Sam and Ayo had said about their present location was true, if they were in Africa, in Wakanda, he could only extrapolate on what would greet him outside.

Why had the woman’s contact information been in that phone Sam claimed was his, anyway? He recognized her from her contact photo, but he felt like it was deeper than that, though he couldn't place where. Based on the words she’d spat at him in Russian, he suspected she was either a prior handler, or one in-training. He didn’t pretend to know the details, but he was certain she intended him to respond to her commands, and was aggravated when that approach had been ineffective.

And he wasn’t altogether certain why he hadn’t. Was there a nuance in the pronunciation she somehow misspoke? How did any of that work, anyway? He felt like he should know, but he didn’t. He just knew it was dangerous to his mission.

The soldier knew if she tried again, one of the phones in his pocket would end up embedded in her forehead before she realized what was happening.

He anticipated opposition, certainly. But HYDRA wasn’t going to let him escape simply because he’d gotten lucky and taken a high value target hostage. He was still perplexed at Rhodes’ implication that Sam was somehow acting as Captain America now. When had that happened? It was no wonder they wanted their precious agent back alive.

He only wished he knew more about the layout of the surrounding buildings so he could better account for where their snipers and defenses would be holed-up and lying in wait on rooftops and windows of nearby structures. He had to assume that their approach would be twofold. The first wave would be intended to wound and disable him and thereby rescue Sam. The second wave would ensure they could get a handler close enough to ensure further compliance.

At least in the next skirmish, he’d be sure to secure a weapon. It had been a tactical oversight to assume Sam Wilson was armed. It was ridiculous he wasn’t.

Amateur.

Once he felt confident the coast was clear, he pulled himself back around the corner so he could prepare out of sight of his unseen aggressors.

The soldier spared a glance to Sam Wilson’s limp form as he slumped the man haphazardly against a wall. He had intended to keep him conscious as both a protective measure and to ensure he was capable of answering further inquiries, but he would have to modify his approach now. By the amount of blood on Sam’s face and the way the bones around his nasal cavity, orbital, and upper jaw were crushed in, he was uncertain if he’d obtained brain damage that would make further attempts at speech an impossibility, but at least he had stopped asking those incessant questions with their manipulative undertones. The way Sam had regarded him was strange and disconcerting. It was as if he was playing a game of his own, but he was making no attempt to obfuscate his maneuvering: only his ultimate goals remained unclear.

Considering their most recent confrontations, animosity or aggression would have been the most likely reaction. So why this instead?

What was he missing?

And why had he been so quick to strike out at Sam? His reaction had been guttural, not calculated. It was surprising the hostage hadn’t died from the impact alone, because he certainly hadn’t concerned himself with the relative strength of the blow when it happened.

Why had he held back without even realizing it? Had HYDRA embedded something in him that weakened his resolve around his captors?

He regarded his hands briefly, taking note that his knuckles were bruised and bloodied, likely from where they’d connected with one of Sam’s zygomatic bones. He didn’t think it was his own blood, and he didn’t much care. What he did care about was the fact the fingers on his right hand trembled slightly. There could be many reasons to explain the subtle movement, but there was a latent familiarity to it that told him without words that he’d recently come out of cryofreeze.

That explained a lot.

After the soldier confirmed Sam was unconscious but still breathing, his attention returned to the lingering weight in his back pocket. He deliberated for a moment before he pulled the silver-plated device out again, regarding it with narrowed eyes.

He’d claimed a similar device not days before, but it was smaller, with a cracked screen and a reverse side layered with an assortment of colorful geometric stickers. He wasn’t certain what to make of this particular phone, however. Most he’d been given for missions were meant to be burners, not high-tech smart devices like this.

The right side of the phone’s gunmetal silver casing was smooth and pristine, while the left side was covered in faint scuffs and scratches. He looked to his left hand and the strange new black and gold-etched fingers, wondering if it was to blame for the asymmetrical blemishes.

The phone’s contact list had an active call and messaging history as well as portraits and contact listings for a number of people, including three from the lab. Strange. He scrolled through the names and faces, trying to make sense of how everything fit together and coming up with only vague guesses at best. He put names to faces, and in other cases he simply documented them for future consideration: Ayo, Banner, J. Rhodes, Sam, Sarah, Shuri...

One in particular caught his attention.

It said simply: Steve

His target.

He regarded the man’s face and was uncertain what reaction if any it solicited.

He felt like he should remember it: but he didn’t.

It was like a shadow of someone he once knew. Or thought he did.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the face this week, not by a long shot. But the expression in the small circular photo was one he’d only seen sparingly, and never directed at him.

The expressions he’d seen directed at him were… they were more like those of his hostage, he realized.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

The soldier couldn’t be sure why he’d retrieved his target from the water. Why he’d gone against his better instincts and every bit of training and mission-prioritization he had and stuck around nearby thereafter to ensure he was retrieved by someone other than HYDRA.

It wasn’t as if someone would have just found him, he reasoned. If he wanted to be able to interrogate him at any point in the future, it was important he survived, and his chances with those grave, seeping wounds were low at best. Without outside assistance, his target was likely to succumb to pneumonia or sepsis, which would have allowed him to complete his mission. That had been his objective, hadn’t it?

He didn’t understand why he’d been able to change his mission parameters, but the pivot felt significant. Correct. Yet he remained just as certain that these actions would not be deemed permissible by his handlers.

So of course when no one initially came for his target, he'd obtained a cell phone and jacket from someone that looked to be of comparable height, mass, and build who was eating a wrapped nutrient bundle on a bench nearby.

The soldier called 9-1-1 himself, directing the dispatcher to the emergency situation nearby.

After the ambulance arrived and he felt confident they were not agents, he maintained ongoing surveillance of the transport vehicle by motorcycle and then by a way of a series of buildings across from the hospital to ensure an optimal chance for recovery.

Sam Wilson stayed overnight at the hospital that first night, back when he assumed he and the soldier’s target were allies. Late on the second day, his target had regained consciousness and made expressions similar to the one on the portrait in the cell phone. That same night, after Sam had left, the soldier had spotted some armed men staging nearby to finish the job. So he intervened, collected their belongings, and dumped their bodies in the river before returning to his post.

He intervened the consecutive nights until they stopped coming for his target and started coming after him.

The agents HYDRA sent after him were different. They relied on the element of surprise, which was a viable approach if their senses and training were at least as good as his were.

They weren’t.

The trained handlers deployed in his wake no doubt intended to bring him in for further enrichment. But he’d spotted them long before they were able to get within range to subdue him.

He’d shot them in the throat just to make sure they couldn’t speak any words of compliance against him or anyone else, and dumped their bodies in the river too.

On more than one occasion, the soldier snuck into the hospital room after hours when his target was asleep, just to get a closer look at the status of his recovery and retrieve medical supplies with which he could tend to his own wounds. This was of paramount importance since he could no longer rely on his handlers to manage his ongoing collection of wounds. If he was impaired, he could not protect his target.

So he retrieved medical books as well, and summarily returned them once they’d served their intended purpose.

He sometimes regarded the sleeping face of his target, curious to see if the visual elicited anything in him like it had in the days prior. Strangely, it was as if as his target’s face healed, the more that unexplained connection and passing recognition faded.

It found it curious how his target’s wounds appeared to heal at a similar rate to his own.

He maintained a rolling perimeter of approximately six city blocks until his target was finally discharged five days later. Three days after that, the soldier deemed him sufficiently capable of fending for himself.

And that was the last time he’d seen him, this figure called Steve Rogers who was a presence but nothing more.

He didn’t know if they would cross paths again, but it was unsettling to consider the opportunity might have passed without his knowledge.

He remembered a little over a week ago when his mission objective had been to eliminate Steve Rogers.

And then his mission priority had been modified to protect Steve Rogers until he sufficiently recovered.

He had a different mission now, but he did not want to be made to forget either mission.

Why had they permitted him to remember? Had it been an oversight?

The soldier’s thumb hovered over the “mobile” symbol, debating, all the while his nerves insisted this wasn’t the time to indulge paltry curiosities that were likely staged at-best.

As he lingered, he caught a glimpse of his own warped reflection along a metal support column. It wasn’t clear or mirror-like, but the frosted clarity of the blurred figure was enough to draw his attention. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Someone had obviously cut his hair, changed his clothes, and even replaced his left arm, but why? Why were these changes desirable upgrades?

Then he saw them: a pair of silver tags dangling from a chain necklace around his neck.

He knew he didn’t have time for any of this, that he should keep moving, focus on his plan and the necessary contingencies, but he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t put aside the curiosity of pulling the nearest slip of metal up to his eyeline to inspect it and run his ever-so-slightly trembling thumb over the embossing:

JAMES B BARNES
12557038 T41 42 O
R. BARNES
3092 STOCKTON RD
SHELBYVILLE IN P

He knew what they were, but he couldn’t connect why he had them, or how he’d gotten them. He hadn’t been wearing them before. He was certain of that much.

The soldier couldn’t shake the feeling that the words and numbers were supposed to mean something beyond the rubric of raw data they represented, but he couldn’t connect with them.

The strange blue, black, and gold cape he was wearing was another oddity he was uncertain about. Like the dog tags, he knew he had not been wearing it previously, but he also didn’t find himself inclined to discard it either. He wasn’t able to identify the reason for the judgement, but he didn’t fight it.

Why would they have dressed him with such things? He didn’t understand much about clothing. Such decisions had always been made for him, with concrete function and maneuverability deemed paramount. Straps allowed others to adjust his clothing for optimum weight distribution and to conceal his neck as well as the vulnerable seam that divided the flesh of his shoulder from his tactically superior arm. They also ensured armaments and ammunition remained close against the body for easy access while engaged in combat.

To be placed into clothing with only four lower pockets was wholly unoptimized. Did the cape serve a secondary purpose he was yet unaware of?

What benefit did the reduced length of his hair serve to close-range or long-range warfare?

So many questions.

The soldier tucked the dog tags back inside his thin, pitifully unprotective charcoal grey shirt and returned his attention to the phone and that blond-haired face and the expression on his prior target he recognized, but didn’t understand. It was the same expression he’d recently observed on various placards and displays in the Smithsonian exhibit as well.

He concluded if he ended up needing to use the phones as projectiles, which seemed likely given his limited options, then this might be his only opportunity to inspect the digital contents of the phones. Therefore, it would do more harm than good to delay the inquiry further.

With focused intention, he carefully pressed the “mobile” symbol and then moved his finger to hover over the “end call” the moment he heard anyone on the other side pick up.

Instead, all he heard was a series of three tones proceeding with a woman’s pre-recorded voice, “We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed, and please try again.”

The tones repeated, as did the voice’s instructions while the soldier stared into the device.

He ended the call.

Inconclusive.

He went to the calendar app in the phone and regarded the month and day with nearly as much confusion as the year: 2024. Like Sam’s claim.

He pocketed the phone and pulled out the black leather wallet from his back pocket and folded it open. He was met with a face that he subtly recognized as the one from back at the Smithsonian, though the hair was different. The one that bore a striking resemblance to his face, but not. The soldier that died on February 1, 1945. That regardless of his certainty surrounding the current date, he knew was moored in the distant past.

He examined the Military ID first. James Buchanan Barnes. Armed Forces of the United States. Army. Rank: E7. Issue date: 03/10/2024. Expiration Date: 03/10/2029. Blipped: Yes.

DOB: 03/10/1917

Inconclusive.

His trembling thumb shuffled through the insurance cards, credit cards, and the cash, noting they shared the same pattern of dates as the ones in Sam’s wallet, but the name of JAMES B BARNES instead. Any connections his mind sought to make were quickly overturned as not only unlikely, but impossible.

Weren’t they?

When he was nearly ready to put the compilation of plastic and paper documentation away, he spotted a small slip of folded white paper at the bottom of one of the divided sections and he pulled it free. The thin, printed strip was about half the length of his finger and its clean, typed font read:

--- Your difficulties will strengthen you. ---
--- Lucky Numbers: 4, 9, 14, 22, 26, 28 ---

He regarded the words and numbers quizzically for a moment before slipping the paper back where he’d found it and pocketed the wallet. Like the phone, he was certain it was not the same wallet he had previously, the one that contained cards, identifications, and cash from other wallets and purses he’d tactically compiled over the last few days.

He looked back at Sam’s unconscious form and frowned. Could he be telling the truth about any of it? The implications of even part of it being true were cause for concern.

The sight and smell of fresh blood reminded him that needed to get moving, to finish planning out his next steps as well as his contingencies. He flexed the fingers of each hand, testing their responsiveness, and honing his solemn focus.

The renewed promise of combat on the horizon stirred something deep within him, dragging up even more questions he didn’t have answers to alongside a very particular sensation in the pit of his stomach that sat with him like an anxious passenger. It was as if his original clarity of purpose had been washed away and where it once stood, a gaping void remained. An emptiness. Yet some part of him knew it was still better than the alternative HYDRA planned for him.

The soldier knew he couldn’t allow this train of thought to fester and override his primary mission.

He had to escape at any cost. If that meant Sam Wilson died or that he was forced to end his own life: so be it.

He would not, could not, allow HYDRA to reclaim and reset their asset.

This time, he vowed he would not hesitate to kill anyone that stood in his way.

Chapter Text

Shuri was certainly more than capable of multitasking.

It was arguably her default modus operandi. She could be deep and present in conversation as she casually ran open-ended formulas and complex equations through the periphery of her mind.

Or perhaps it was the other way around?

Either way, she could do many things at once and not sacrifice or waste a moment of her attention. There were always things that needed solved, refined, improved.

That being as it was, she was finding it more than a little difficult to split her attention in so very many ways at once. Those things that called for her undivided attention were urgent, pressing. They could not be further from when she’d postulated on the existence of more robust sequential Artificial Intelligence equations while listening to her Brother’s honored guests and paltry diplomats drone on endlessly about the latest politics. It had not even been a challenge to carry on entire conversations while calculating such things.

But this task before her required a very different mark of focus and concentration. One that forced her to push aside the immense guilt and acute responsibility that weighed upon her for what had happened.

Shuri stood among the sweet, billowing grass a short distance downhill from the apex of the Wakandan Design Center. She was tangentially aware that time was passing only by the movement of the clouds high in the sky above and shadows that rolled over them, though her attention remained on the seven revolving holographic displays open over her palm. With a flick of her fingers, she closed one window and opened another, eyeing charts of data for trends that might help the urgency of their cause.

Nearby, Ayo issued commands to a small group Dora Milaje that organized themselves atop Mount Bashenga while they awaited further orders. Ayo thought it best to have the first individuals the Soldier saw upon reaching the exit of the Design Center to be those he had the most history with: herself, Shuri, Yama, and Nomble. Just behind them was to be a smaller wave of Doras as support, and undoubtedly for Ayo: additional protection for her royal charge. Whether they spoke it aloud or not, Ayo showed decided preference to those that had met James previously, keeping them close by in what she assumed was an effort to ensure they were not over eager to mortally wound him unless it was absolutely necessary.

Beyond those clusters, a final, wide arc of Doras were to stand guard further away and would be tasked to slow or at least deter any attempts to escape down the mountain. The Dora Milaje were strong, fierce, immensely capable warriors, but Shuri did not miss that Ayo made it clear that if any of her charges found themselves facing off against the “White Male Patient” alone, they were to favor self-preservation rather than needlessly trading in their lives against him.

Shuri knew the admittance did not come easy for her. They were not trained to back down without cause.

The Doras were obedient without question, but many of them hadn’t borne witness to an Event firsthand. Some had heard stories of the Winter Soldier, certainly. The Doras were not without their gossip chains. But as any web of rumors, it did not mean what they had heard was true or accurate. Nor did most take into account the shuttered will and complex history of the man underneath.

“Is he to be treated as a hostile, my Chief?” a Dora’s voice behind Shuri inquired.

“He is to be treated as we would someone who is unwell and may be willing to harm others or themselves,” Ayo specified, which Shuri noted wasn’t exactly a clear direction. She couldn’t blame her and saw no need to weigh in. Neither of them wanted to allow words to leave their lips that implied his life was less valuable than any one of theirs, though Shuri felt certain of where the nearby conversation was heading.

“Your priority is Princess Shuri’s safety,” Ayo specified, “If there comes a moment where you must choose, that is what you must choose.”

Ah, there is was. The other inescapable burden that only made the guilt in her fester.

“And then?”

There was only a moment’s hesitation before Ayo responded, “His hostage, Sam Wilson.”

“Understood.” The woman’s voice paused considerately before asking, “Will it truly take this many to subdue but one man?”

“He has strength and stamina to rival that of the Black Panther, but far less restraint. I have sent word to our General as well, but Okoye is unlikely to arrive by the time he breaks way to the surface. We must assume those around us to be our only warriors for this stand we make.”

Ayo continued to speak, and Shuri did what she could to tune some portion of it out, to focus, but she was finding it rather difficult when there was yet more significant data she did not yet understand pouring out from inside the Wakandan Design Center itself. Specifically: What in the Orisha’s will was the Soldier doing as he stood facing a corner with his back to the best camera angles she had access to? Shuri muttered something under her breath and flicked to another view and back to the first one, which at least offered a partially-obscured view of the side of his stoic face.

It was obvious to her that the Soldier was working to at least partially obscure his motions, as if he remained aware of the cameras and those that sought to observe his movements. That being as it was, it was clear he saw fit to carefully take inventory of a few particular items on his person while Sam’s limp form lay slumped against a nearby pillar. Shuri did what she could to watch both figures at once, though her attention was drawn to Sam to see if he still lived.

At first there was no visible movement at all where he lay. Shuri’s breath caught in her throat and she felt her mind seize to a halt as she watched, prayed Sam still lived. Then a swell of hope caught at her trembling lips when she saw his chest slowly, almost imperceivably rise and fall.

Relief flooded through her like water: Praise Bast, he was still alive!

Her attention flicked back to the Soldier. His attention was not on Sam at his feet, but palm-sized objects in his hands.

Shuri’s fingers flew over the menus on her Kimoyo Beads as she did what she could to try to draw out audio from any nearby feeds, but nothing rang through with enough force to be discernible. She cursed again, taking manual control of the nearest camera and prompting it to zoom in further. Why had they not installed lenses with better optical zoom? She forced herself to table the concern for another time and did her best to focus on what the digitally zoomed image could muster from such a distance.

The Soldier’s face was masked in shadow as he swapped one pocketed item for another. Shuri remained unsure what he was searching for, or if he was searching at all. Part of her was quick to assume he was simply interested in deducing what items might have combat usage, but her instincts told her this was not the whole story. Not even close. While the holographic charts above her fingers relayed his current vitals, her eyes tried to draw out any sense or comparisons between scans she’d taken over the years with the last set of slightly more in-depth readings she’d managed while he was stepping through dream-like imagery less than a half-hour ago. Why didn’t they match more closely with other scans she’d taken over the years?

What was different? Why?

Her attention shifted back to the Soldier. His movements were methodical. Intentioned. Carefully surveying first a phone then wallet with almost reverent regard. As he pulled items out and inspected pieces within the wallet, he placed them back where they came, as if he were showing awareness for the established status quo.

But why?

She tried to lean into the theory that this was perhaps not the Soldier, and that as Nomble observed: his intentions may be explained as reactionary rather than with dire intention. But they’d all seen so many sides of James over the years that it was difficult to sort out how these experiences all wove together, since often Events presented so very differently.

Her scientist’s mind caught the usage of the term and she gently corrected herself: Some data before her presented as an Event, while other sections did not.

It made no sense.

He was clearly conscious, so he should have maintained full control. But what was this, then? What could it even be called? The last scan she’d managed in the lab didn’t show this to be a waking dream either. If she hadn’t seen the last half hour with her own eyes and had been handed unmarked scans to review, what would she have seen with her trained eyes?

She focused on that. On the purity of data.

She regarded the last reasonable scan she’d gotten of his brain: Infratentorial unremarkable. Midline comparable with prior scans showing increased sensory messages in isolated areas. Supratentoial… she squinted her nose at the scan and her eyes moved to regard specific lobes: Frontal, Parietal, Temporal… they showed the most changes from James’ recent scans.

Her fingers alighted over her readouts as she flipped back through other scans, focusing on those areas, the ones surrounding personality characteristics and movement, identifying objects and spatial relationships, pain, memory, speech, sense of smell. Nothing was a close enough match, but certain scans from his early years in Wakanda and triggered Events showed fleeting similarities in those areas. Was his brain behaving as if its connections were artificially stunted?

It was almost… no she needed to find usable data to compare the scans to. This was not enough. Only mere postulations. Guesses would not do.

This would all have been so much easier back in her lab!

...She could of course not tell Ayo that, for that is precisely where she’d wanted Shuri to remain for her own safety.

So frustrating!

She was aware Ayo was speaking to someone else close by, but Shuri tried yet again to split her focus between the scans and the camera feeds in front of her, as if some combination might offer her clues that could stop this situation before them from spiralling further out of control.

Her scientific mind focused on specific details that were outliers from behaviors she’d seen James display any number of times when he’d been activated by code words.

The Soldier’s movements were delicate. Calculated. Whether conscious or not, he was aware of his own strength, and had control over it enough not to crush the phone’s casing or cards in his hands. He had shown similar restraint in his initial brawl if Nomble’s observations were correct.

He exhibited interest in his appearance, and specifically the dog tags around his neck. Did that imply familiarity with such things, or was he contrasting it against his own expectations? He noted the beads around his wrist with only passing interest, as if he was content to keep them as they were. But why didn’t he see fit to inspect them further? He was reactive to Ayo’s statement of his full name, but did that mean he was aware at least subconsciously of his bond to that name?

She shook her head, putting aside the superfluity of thoughts because it felt like yet more questions and dead-ends and there was little time before they would confront him once more.

He showed no interest in speaking with them, but why?

Shuri waved a hand and remoted into one of the shared systems in her lab, tapping into the camera’s security feed and using her fingers to rewind the timecode. It was not the first time she’d regarded the footage, but she tried to evaluate it with fresh eyes. With the idea that this was perhaps not the Soldier, as ridiculous as the claim seemed at first. She found the moment where Sam had been taken captive and she rewound feed further, focusing on identifying the key moment James suddenly became truly reactive. Her eyes searched for breadcrumbs, any hints or precursors at all, but found none.

What was she missing?

She looped the first ten seconds, allowing it to play back as guilt rattled through her and she forced it aside to contend with later. She did not have time for such things now, not while they still lived and their futures hung precariously in the balance.

She tried to step into his mind and follow Nomble’s inquiry, which resonated through her mind, calling for attention: What did the lab represent in that moment, specifically?

There were a trove of unsettling memories to be found buried there. Trials when James was not himself, and when they were forced to make him reactive with his permission so they might uncover the controls that wrapped themselves around his mind like a tightly veiled parasite. Those times were not without immense discomfort and pain, for much as they sought to work with gentle hands and as much kindness as possible, HYDRA had not been so concerned with what it might take to free the man they ensnared beneath their grasp.

Then Shuri saw it.

There was a moment in the playback where the Soldier glanced over his left shoulder and his vision remained there for just a moment before his intentions appeared to shift. She originally thought it was because he’d spotted Nomble movements off-screen, but by the angle, it was not that at all.

He’d spotted the cryogenics chamber!

“What if instead of simply seeking a destination, he sought to escape from the lab. From what the lab represents?” Nomble’s query rang through her mind.

“He thinks we are HYDRA,” Shuri concluded aloud. Her focus flickered to the multitude of projected charts, graphs, and video feeds, as if this critical clue might offer new insight into the data nestled within them as well. In her periphery she saw nearby heads pivot and turn her way.

“HYDRA?” This was Ayo. Her tone spoke to the ludicrousness of the claim, that the people of Wakanda of all places, could have ever been involved in such atrocities, such unspeakable widespread horrors.

Shuri nodded quickly, pointing to the Soldier’s locator, which had begun to move again. Her words flowed out of her with the urgency of a hummingbird’s wings, “I suspect he recognized the significance of the cryogenic chamber. It would be why he sought escape above all else, and now paints us with a brush that marks us as his captors. As his aggressors. For we stood idly by in the same laboratory, and Sam as well.”

Ayo stepped towards Shuri, and she did not miss the slight limp in her left leg as she did. Wakanda’s Chief of Security frowned as she drew over the new information and spared a moment to follow the Soldier’s location as he grew ever-closer to the building’s main exit, “Then his mind perhaps leans on a time after his initial escape. If you are right, it will be difficult to find reason with him if he believes us to have ill intentions. He would have little reason to trust us.”

“He believes our intentions are to reclaim him and return him to a state other than his own,” Shuri observed.

“He is not wrong,” Ayo noted. Shuri did not even need to bear witness to her face to know the somber expression no doubt cast over it.

“He is not wrong,” Shuri agreed, troubled, “If we act against his wishes, we are only playing further into his fears. His trust will be broken.”

“Is it not already?”

“I do not know,” Shuri admitted, “He shows curiosity for his belongings, for his name, I think. James’ curiosity.” She caught the corner of Ayo’s mouth reflexively twitch at her chosen use of his proper name. Was it fair for them to continue to refer to this man as the Soldier when it seemed clear to her it was not one in the same, even in its most basic form? There was power in names, and were they not doing them all a disservice to view the man before them through such a narrow lens? “We have answers to his questions, if he would hear us.”

“How do we convince him we are not his enemies when he does not know us?”

“We must hope some part of him will see reason.”

“And if he does not?” Ayo spoke aloud, “What then?”

Shuri looked back to the video feed, where the man dragged Sam forward, leaving behind a tell-tale trail of crimson blood in his wake, “Then for his own good,” Shuri’s voice lowered, admitting to the painful reality they faced before them, “we must subdue him and reclaim him like the monsters he believes us to be.”

Shallow awareness was accompanied by a potent intermingling of pain and pressure surrounding Sam’s body like a vise. The sensation was so all-encompassing, so stifling, that he initially fought the urge to even open his eyes.

Well, until curiosity got the best of him.

With more than a little effort, he squinted open his puffy eyes to find he was being carried forward like someone strapped him to the front of a steadily-moving train. The metal arm that supported him was wrapped firmly under his ribcage, and that arm, that one, single arm supported all of his weight without even straining.

To say ‘everything hurt’ would have been a vast understatement. He’d certainly taken some punches over the years, and it wasn’t as if he was a complete stranger to being inside a hospital ward a time or two. But even in those cases, there was a logical progression that led him to ending up there. He wasn’t just standing around, exchanging a few words with a stranger with his friend’s face and then suddenly having his hands mangled and face-parts rearranged in a single swing like a damn Mr. Potato Head doll.

If that wasn’t enough it was altogether disconcerting that he couldn’t see much of his nose and his mouth tasted of an acrid mix of blood and bile. He didn’t know if he’d thrown up, but he wouldn’t have been surprised, either. It was taking everything in him to keep from coughing and giving his awareness away to his captor.

Sam kept his eyes lidded because one: they were swollen and it was just too damn bright, two: his nerves were screaming at him that unconsciousness was a preferable option to the alternative, and three: he appreciated the fleeting moments of not having a hand wrapped around his throat.

“I know you’re awake,” Elsa’s Evil Brother breathed low and threatening from just behind his right ear.

The sound of that voice, that tone set goosebumps straight up his spine like a spider scurrying beneath his T-shirt.

Goddamn Super Soldiers and their goddamn super senses.

He gave up the ghost and let out the cough he’d been holding in, because he rather liked things like breathing and unhindered airways. It didn’t clear out the steady trickle of blood down the back of his windpipe, but he swallowed hard, hoping it might stifle the awful sensation that made him feel like he was slowly drowning in his own fluids.

He wanted to say something smart, but the pain and blood loss negotiated it wasn't a bright idea under the circumstances. The last time he’d gone with his gut over his head, he’d been walloped in the face for trying to squeeze out a single drop of anything close to emotion in the person wearing Bucky’s face.

At least he had something close to anger. Anger was an emotion? Right. He didn’t have a damn clue why it was directed at him, though, but he could work with that. He could respect that. Maybe he remembered to back when they two of them exchanged gunfire ten damn years ago when Not-Bucky was functioning as a murder puppet on HYDRA’s payroll?

God, why was his life so weird?

“Can you walk?” Johnny 5 growled.

Thanks, I’m doing great. Really appreciate the loose teeth, asshole. “I’m not sure,” Sam grumbled, trying to watch his tone so it didn’t drip to being accusatory, “Feeling faint and my vision’s blurry.” He coughed again, dribbling blood onto himself, onto one of those few “fancy” shirts he owned, he noted. He debated saying the next part, but it wouldn’t matter much if he kept choking on the blood draining from what was left of his nose. “Can I at least try to put a stop to some of the bleeding? I’m having trouble breathing. We both know I’m not exactly a flight risk, here.”

Initially, the Soldier didn’t show any sign he’d even heard his plea, but after they reached the far end of the lobby, his predator’s prowl slowed and came to a stop. Sam found himself lowered to the ground and promptly swiveled around so his back was leaning into a nearby corner like a discarded mannequin.

Not-Bucky saw fit to reposition himself so he was standing directly in front of him, a wall of grim muscle preventing any hope of escape, not that Sam had any desire to prove otherwise. He was brave, not suicidal. He’d already played a stupid game, and won a fistful of retribution for a prize. He was certain he wouldn’t survive another go around.

“Two minutes,” the man with his Partner’s face clarified.

The truth of the matter was: Sam couldn’t see much. His eyelids felt like marshmallows. Like he’d gotten stung by a swarm of angry yellow jackets that’d left him for dead. Credit to the radiating pain and sharpness in his nose, he was fairly certain the cartilage and probably the nasal bones had been shattered and forced back into one or both airways. “I’m putting my hands up now, nice and slow,” Sam stated nice and softly, using the same calming tone he would if he were trying to negotiate with a jumpy stray. He hated how close it felt to when he’d watched Sarah rehearse with his nephews on how to deal with over-eager police. That primal fear of being at the solemn mercy of someone in authority wasn’t something you grew out of even when you were a grown-ass man.

He’d just have never imagined a world where he needed to take that same slow, careful pace to prevent potentially riling up the man in front of him.

Not-Bucky didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle, but Sam thought it best to avoid meeting his eyes. He didn’t think he had it in him, besides. All of this was just too much. As time droned on and that same man ignored all his repeated attempts to reach out, to connect, to be woken up so he could come back into himself, there was a part of Sam that dreaded the possibility that maybe something had gone so wrong, so terrible, that they might not be able to be put back the way things were.

And that fear shook him to his core. Ungrounded him in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

After all Bucky’d been though: Was this to be all that remained?

Some Wakandan vacation, huh?

Sam pushed away the fatalist thoughts and squinted, turning his attention to his hands. He got a pretty good look at those dark, twisted mittens of his as he raised each of them close to his face. It was more difficult than it should have been to try and discern if one was less damaged than the other based on the dark purple bruising and cruel misalignment of the bones along each finger. The breaks went all the way through to the center of his palms, and it was all he could do to keep from howling when he felt a cough coming and instinctively put one clawed hand up to politely cover his mouth.

The fresh wave of pain that seared through him was surreal. It was enough that he was worried he was liable to spend those two precious minutes of his just standing around trying not to scream, hurl up his insides, or pass out. But somewhere in there, he found the small miracle that a single thumb and forefinger were working well enough to be useful in surveying the broken landscape of his face.

With gentle, but not probing pressure, he ran his fingers over his lumpy, misshapen skin, taking note of the spots where the flesh was open and oozing, and more than one location where the feel of slick muscle and bone were apparent beneath his swollen fingertips. His nose and the orbital under his left eye was clearly broken, and the top of his jaw was shattered and pushed in, like someone’d seen fit to reshape his face wholesale. He thought about feeling for his teeth, but decided he just didn’t want to know the damage.

There was… a lot of blood. The bulk of which seemed to be coming from the spot his nose was supposed to be. By the taste of things and the steady trickle that kept making him want to suppress another cough, the rest of it was draining directly into his throat.

He tried to ignore the cruel blue eyes that stayed focused on him as he tried to figure out what could be done to slow the bleeding so he didn’t just bleed out right here now. He was already way past the point of feeling faint. It was becoming an outright struggle just to stay conscious.

Before Sam could even sort himself out to consider what he had on-hand in the way of makeshift medical supplies, the same asshole that gave him the damn injury in the first place had the sheer nerve to run his mouth all calm and helpful-like, “You’re supposed to lean forward and squeeze the bridge to stop the bleeding.”

Now first.

First off.

The fuck did he just say?

Really?

Robocop here was giving out free medical advice now?

Sam’s tongue wanted to clip in with something smart, but he pushed that instinct down. Deep down. Back to that sunken place. It’d feel good to snap back at him, ask him where that solemn bridge of his nose even was these days now that the other man had seen fit to turn his face into some sort of crushed nesting doll, but it wasn’t going to do him a lick of good. He just had to pretend it was some well-meaning idiot out on the field chirping in with his two-cents like Sam hadn’t had years of training for this shit.

He opened his mouth to say something, and he closed it again as he leaned forward, cringed, and used his two remotely passable fingers to tighten around the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t do it because the Soldier was right, he did it because that’s what he was planning on doing anyway.

Asshole.

He kept doing that damn staring thing, though. Holy shit was it annoying.

The pain and the silence was killing him so he channeled that Wilson family need for small-talk to cut through the tension, “Where’d you learn this?”

He honestly hadn’t expected an answer, but he was damned if he didn’t hear Doctor Robotnik himself reply, “In a book.”

Goddamn it, Sam’s head, his hands, throat, face, back of his head. Hell: his whole body hurt too much for this shit. He read books too? This guy?

The absolute Hell?

They went back to that uncomfortable silence where Sam was verging on asking things that made for risky inquiries of the ‘I don’t want to get pummeled’ variety, so he swallowed them down and focused on pinching his nose and wondering which of those stupid questions might slip out if he wasn’t being careful.

The other guy broke the silence for him, “Were you working for them the whole time?”

Sam blinked, trying his best to follow, “Look, my head’s killing me and I don’t want to get punched again, so you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“HYDRA,” the syllables were low and threatening in the Soldier’s throat.

Sam couldn’t help it: His eyes flicked up and met those icy blue orbs in front of him. For a moment, he swore could see it there, a flicker of genuine emotion in his expression. Wasn’t that who this asshole worked for? “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I don’t work for HYDRA. Never have.” He debated saying the next part out loud, he really did, but part of him had to know, “Do you remember us fighting or something? Is that what this is about?”

That got the smallest reaction out of him. Not an ‘I’m about to finish the job,’ sort of reaction, but something more subtle. Personal. Like he was chewing through Sam’s words like a mouthful of gristle.

The Soldier didn’t acknowledge the question, not directly, but he saw fit to counter it with one of his own, “Who gave you your mission?”

“Like I told you, I’m not on a mission now.” Sam paused, “Or do you mean back when we fought?” He was doing his best to keep his nerves about him as he traded words with the goddamn Winter Soldier and tried to get clarity without overstepping, “When we traded fire and you tore off one of my wings?”

Was that too accusatory? Possibly.

Damn his stupid mouth.

The Soldier didn’t answer, but he also didn’t react. Was that a ‘yes?’ Sam went with brazen honesty, because at least if it didn’t save him, he could keep the story straight with the pounding in his head, “If that’s when you mean, it was Steve’s play or close enough. The goal was to take out the helicarriers when we learned HYDRA had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and planned to turn them against anyone that stood in their way, or might’ve in the future. Project Insight, HYDRA called it. They wanted to kill millions of innocent people. Our goal was to stop them before they could.” He paused, adding, “That was ten years ago. I didn’t work for HYDRA then. And I certainly don’t now.”

The Soldier’s expression remained painfully neutral, but his blue eyes were probing as they evaluated him for chinks in the armor of his story. There was a lot Sam wanted to say, a whole second heaping of things, but if he was learning things one step at a time here, it was that he had to tread nice and careful. He still didn’t understand near-enough about what was going on in the other man’s head, and what topics the figure in front of him considered forbidden fruit.

But, you know what? If the bionic staring machine was going to continue to inquire about his allegiance for god knows what reason, Sam figured it couldn’t hurt to make his stance on the topic abundantly clear for all the good it would do him, “Far as I’m concerned, HYDRA are a bunch of righteous assholes who have hurt a lot of people over the years, including one of my best friends.”

He wanted to say Bucky’s name. To just put it out there in the open like blowing on a dandelion’s cotton, but those blue eyes of his were dangerous, predatory. Everything in Sam was hurting something fierce, so he tried to put force into saying it with his eyes instead.

The Soldier didn’t say anything. But he didn’t strike him again either. He just stood there with that same creepy, stolen face of his, and just….watched.

The soldier remained uncertain what to make of Sam Wilson, but he permitted him enough time to tear off the seam of his sleeve and stuff the shredded strips of fabric into his nostrils like makeshift gauze. By his own calculations, appearing with a conscious hostage remained preferable over the alternative. If these people believed Sam to be dead, they might not hesitate to fire upon them.

That would be less than optimal.

Like his lack of pockets. It still made no sense to him why he would have been dressed without consideration for accounting for potential contingencies. Even his prior handlers knew the value of having medical supplies readily available for field operations.

Not that he would have necessarily offered Sam any of his own supplies had he had them on-hand.

Sam should have come better prepared.

When Sam’d gotten himself in order, he’d turned around and put his arms to his sides, obediently waiting for further instruction. He didn’t struggle or resist as the soldier crossed an arm over his chest and laid it over his far shoulder, and he was sufficiently compliant when ordered to, “Get moving.”

The soldier’s mind sought to sort out the clever play that his hostage was trying to get him to believe, but he did what he could to push the investigation and further questions aside for a later time. They were quickly approaching the exit to the building, and he couldn’t afford to allow his focus to falter.

He slid along the right wall with Sam shielded in front of him as he approached the glass doors ahead. His first realization that anything was wrong was the sheer amount of warm light pouring in from outside, and the fact that the view was not obscured by the foundations of nearby buildings. For the first twenty feet or so, there were dark grey tiles, but beyond that? There was simply grass. Not patches of tended ornamental grass: a sweeping vista of tall grass, rocks, and open air for as far as he could see.

And he didn’t have any clue what to make of it.

“Where are we?” he growled.

Sam’s voice was stuffy, muffled by the blood-soaked cloth in his nostrils, “Wakanda, like I said. Design Center. Mount...crap. I don’t remember. Might’ve began with a--”

The soldier tightened his grip just enough to stop the man from talking. None of this was useful information to him. This wasn’t what he was expecting to see outside. It would require adjustments to his working plan. Improvisation.

He couldn’t get a good look on what was on either side, but he could see a mass of rocks and shrubbery a distance off beyond the facility to his left. It would make sufficient cover, but the distance between the outer doors and the nearest trees was separated by open landscape. There were undoubtedly snipers on the roof waiting for him to lean into that option.

Insufficient.

Between the exit and that thick forest of bushes and trees were three organized formations of those tribal women. The furthest row stood in an evenly-spaced arc while they held those spears of theirs at their sides like statues. He counted nine of them. They were too far apart to be able to converge on him if he ran fast enough. Though none of them held visible firearms, something in him felt certain the spears were capable of ballistics, but he did not understand why he felt so conclusive of that fact.

Was their clothing also absent of pockets? Surreal.

Closest to him, about twenty-five feet away, were the four figures he recognized from the lab, but strangely: they sat cross legged on the ground with no weapons visible. The one who shouted Russian at him, the one called ‘Ayo’ from the phone’s contact list sat closest to him, while the two in matching clothing and armored plates sat a few feet back diagonally to either side. Another five feet further back, directly behind Ayo, sat the one the contact list called ‘Shuri.’ She was dressed differently from any of the figures he saw outside, clad in spotted geometric patterns of white and purple with no visible armor. The soldier concluded this was an important observation, especially when there were another six seated figures wrapped around her in an almost protective, secondary arc. None of them appeared to have any weapons, though the soldier knew this to be a ploy. Those closest saw him. Watched him.

“What are they doing?” the soldier pressured his hostage.

“I have no honest idea. Maybe they want to talk?”

More talk. More attempts at manipulation.

“Who is the woman in white and purple?”

“Shuri.”

“Who is she?” he growled. He would not repeat the question a third time.

He felt the man beneath his grip shift, as if he was deliberating how to respond. The soldier made the decision easier on him and squeezed.

“--Princess! Wakandan Princess,--” Sam choked out before the vibranium arm around his throat loosened. His hostage started coughing again, splattering a fine mist of bloody droplets on the nearby glass.

Royalty?

Potentially useful.

The soldier narrowed his eyes and breathed in, deliberating on his next tactical move while he slipped his free hand into the pocket with Sam’s belongings and drew out his cell phone. He felt the weight of it in his hand, the smooth rectangular shape as he eyed the distance between the exit and Ayo’s forehead. He watched the grass blow gently outside. It wouldn’t be difficult to account for the wind direction, he’d just have to make sure she didn’t see it coming, because there was enough distance she might be able to dodge it. Perhaps he could lure her closer? Either way, he was confident he’d be able to land the throw and remove the lingering threat of her poisonous words from the equation.

But that would leave him with just one cell phone until he secured a better weapon.

Timing would be critical.

He pressed closer to the glass doors so he could try and see around either side of the exit. There wasn’t great visibility, but based on the second set of reflections he could see in the glass, there didn’t appear to be anyone waiting just out of sight around the nearest corners.

They were undoubtedly there, though, just further back.

Directly to his left was a steep drop-off that fell back into the center of the facility. To his far right, beyond the tiled platform, appeared to be a short span of rocky terrain that led to the edge of the supposed mountain Sam claimed they were on.

He debated on how to proceed. He felt certain returning back into the research facility would prove futile, but it was unclear how many of the figures outside might be handlers beyond the one called Ayo. He gripped the smooth shape of the phone in his hand and narrowed his eyes as he ordered his hostage ahead, “We’re going to walk forward through the right door. You’re going to open it when we get close.”

“My hands are broken, man. I don’t think I--”

“I don’t care what you use. Your face will suffice if you can’t figure out a better option.”

The man in front of him whimpered, “You don’t need to threaten me, I’m trying to work with y--”

The soldier tightened his grip on the man’s throat again and he watched as both of his hands went up in a sign of surrender.

Good.

With slow, measured steps, he moved the two of them forward, making sure to leverage Sam as a shield facing the nearest group of four seated figures. Sure enough, his hostage figured out a way to prop the door open with his elbows, and the soldier let the two of them stand in the doorway in case they needed to make a hasty escape. He was certain he heard the scuffle of movement from a ways behind him, but the sounds didn’t draw closer.

Undoubtedly, they intended to flank and surround him.

He regarded the seated figures intently, trying to deduce their plan. He was fairly certain it was to lure him out of the complex into a false sense of security.

When no one said anything, the soldier saw fit to speak. His eyes stayed focused on the woman closest to him, Ayo, the handler, “If you say a single word, he dies.”

An expression he couldn’t parse fell over her face as she regarded him, and he didn’t miss the exchanges the women nearby made with one another. But Ayo’s vision didn’t waver. She stayed focused on him, set her jaw, and nodded once.

The woman positioned directly behind her, the one dressed in white and purples, the one called ‘Shuri,’ was the first to speak. Her voice was rhythmic, but her expression was tense beneath the calm facade. He could see it in her throat and how she held her shoulders, “We mean you no harm. What do you want?”

They wanted to feign interest in negotiation?

He deliberated how he wished to answer the question. He was certain it was all a ploy, that he couldn’t believe a word she spoke. Still... perhaps there might be a way to get useful information from her in the meantime? “How long was I in a deep freeze?”

Shuri blinked, but wasted no time in answering, “You were in partial cryo yesterday for a little over two hours.”

“And before that?”

She considered his question, “I would have to look up the date, but around five years and nine months ago? It would have been another partial freeze when we worked to remove some of HYDRA’s residual programming from you. We are not HYDRA, nor allies of theirs.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment.

“We’re your friends, Buck,” the hostage beneath his arm whispered softly before the soldier swiftly tightened his grip again and he felt Sam’s body tense in response.

So set on manipulating him.

He didn't believe that either, but the motion caused a number of those tribal women beyond Shuri to flinch and grip the silver cylinders in their hands more tightly.

Interesting. Those must be their concealed weapons.

“What do you wish us to do?” Shuri spoke as she met his eyes.

He knew exactly what he wanted, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

He no longer wanted to talk, to play into this little game of theirs, so he tried to focus on his senses. Something wasn’t right, and he knew it. He was certain this was a setup of some kind to lure him into a false sense of security. But what was their ultimate play?

He rotated his head slightly, taking count of the tribal women again, watching for anything out of order. Any telling movement. When he saw nothing, he sought to draw out their plan by feigning as if he meant to consider snapping his hostage’s neck.

He leaned into the motion, pulling his arm back in what he hoped was a convincing gesture, and as he did, he watched Shuri’s fingers shift.

There it was. Their Plan.

The tell was quick but effective. And while he couldn’t calculate the exact position of the hidden instrument, he could just barely make out the change in pitch as it drew nearer.

He was ready.

The soldier’s instincts flared, and all the distractions, all the questions fell away as he listened to his senses and leaned into every ounce of his training.

He became force incarnate.

The cell phone was already hurtling towards the nearest group of four women by the time his invisible opponent fired. Acting on instinct alone, the soldier snapped his hand back: expertly catching the bead-like orb midair and sending it back in the direction from which it came in the blink of an eye. The impact was instantaneous, sparking a blast of bright blue lighting across a cloaked, mechanical form no larger than a kite that shuttered in midair and became visible as it crashed into the rocky terrain below, exploding on impact.

There was yelling in a language he couldn’t quite make out, and a flurry of motion as the tribal women nearby churned into motion.

The soldier had already snatched up Sam in one arm and sprinted forward as he glanced to take inventory if the phone had met its intended mark. He was unsurprised to find that the travel distance meant that Ayo had managed to throw herself between she and her Princess, but he was surprised that the phone had not cut deeply into either of their flesh. It was as if the phone had struck their leathered armor and splintered from the impact. Not only that, but Shuri was no longer wearing the white and purple outfit she’d had on only moments before, but was instead clad in a black bodysuit of some sort.

He didn’t have an explanation for that.

The soldier didn’t have time to consider further details as he watched some of the tribal women summon their spears and turn them in his direction as they got to their feet and adjusted their positions to bulk up their ranks between he and the Princess.

Good. His feign was working.

They were not yet aware that she wasn’t his actual target.

Voices called out from all around him, seeking to disorient and distract him from his solemn purpose, from his mission, but he was able to ignore them.

All but one.

"Ilya horyas men carë úvië ná i carë lúmenen yan me ná antaina!" one of the warrior women with a tattooed face nearest to him yelled out, as if for his attention. He spared a moment to glance back her way, confused at the meaning behind the words, no less the mother tongue that spoke it.

Even still, even with the battle waging before him, his mind momentarily sought to parse her solemn expression and the words that translated to the phrase: 'All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.'

Where had he heard it before?

Was it something from a book he’d read?

The soldier tossed the thought aside as he feigned a turn towards the distant treeline and quickly changed direction so he could pivot closer to the inside edge of the central shaft of the facility. Sam Wilson apparently thought it was his grand moment for a hero play, so he bore down a foot to try to force the two of them to stumble. When that proved unsuccessful, he aimed for a solid kick to the shins, which bounced easily off the soldier’s legs without slowing him a single step. His hostage twisted fiercely with a renewed vigor that might have actually been impressive if the soldier wasn’t able to shut it down with one quick, but pointed squeeze of the man’s shattered hands. The motion produced an audible cacophony of pain.

Sam Wilson howled, momentarily surrendering the fight and going rigid at just the precise instant the soldier was hoping for. With calculated precision, he took inventory of his velocity in relation to the travel distance of his stride, and used all of his momentum and the leverage of one well-planted foot to launch himself diagonally across the hole…

...directly towards the inner opening of the Propulsion Laboratory four stories down.

Chapter Text

The thing with flying, is it’s an awful lot like falling.

Regardless of how many hours of flight time you’ve got logged under your wings, when the world suddenly drops out from under you and you’re left in a momentary state of freefall, you never really shake the way your stomach gives up the ghost and swiftly surrenders to the call of gravity.

Like the first steep drop on a rollercoaster, that initial plunge is a surge of pure, liquid adrenaline. There’s a very particular sensation that kicks in a few heartbeats later. The one where your eyes see the rails stretching out far below and convince your most basic, primal instincts that it’s okay to give into the sensation, to even relish the thrill of it because things are under control.

Flying at its best, is a lot like that. The feeling of the air beneath you and sky above, and calling those forces to you, guiding and weaving with them with motion and intent like a dance.

But there’s a very different sort of thing that happens in your brain when there’s air all around you and it’s partnered with the harsh reality that you’re not in control, and neither is anyone else. The ground’s simply approaching too fast, and there’s no prayer left in the world that could slow it down enough to make a lick of difference.

Case-in-point: Sam didn’t have a clue what the White Witch of Brooklyn had planned, but one moment they were running along the edge of the shaft in the middle of the Wakandan Design Center, and the next thing he knew, he’d been pulled into that giant hole in the ground.

And they were rapidly falling to their deaths.

Well, at least Sam was. Maybe the Winter Soldier could survive that kind of drop. Might even be payback for Munich. Their cruising altitude back then had been what, 200 feet? That was at least 18 stories more than was altogether reasonable to expect a man to jump out of a plane.

Somewhere in the back of Sam’s mind, he wondered why his near-death brain insisted on pulling in guilt about that whole fiasco with Bucky about now.

Right: He was the one falling without a parachute.

The view straight down told him he’d at least have a few more seconds to see his untimely demise approaching face-first, and that, well: It wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d envisioned dying to gravity’s call. Shouldn’t there be something comfortable about reliving familiar nightmares that led to this grand finale of his short life?

As they were free falling, Sam forced his thoughts to shift to Sarah and the boys. Around the time he wondered how much of the truth Shuri’d see fit to share with them, and how much of his body might even be left after a fall from this height, Sam felt his weight shift. Next thing he knew, he was looking sideways, watching the inside floors of the Design Center flash by like strobes of light and bands of greyscale sedimentary rocks.

He did his best to ignore the immense pain radiating out of what used to be his hands and felt himself getting faint and lightheaded as their churning momentum rotated him face up.

In the blink of an eye, he was gazing at a bright blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds overhead. While part of his brain screamed that it was preferable to be face-down so he could see his fate approaching in real-time, he found his lazy head pushed away the thought as it took in the view. He couldn’t begin to make shapes out of the clouds considering how much everything hurt, but it was nice.

If the last thing he saw was the open sky, that’d be alright by him. He could think of worse ways to go.

He’d take the sight over the thought that the last thing he saw in this life might be those cruel blue eyes of someone he used to know.

He felt himself fade towards the edge of unconsciousness as the arms around him tightened.

Hopefully he’d just fade out before they crushed him.

The jolt from the impact came sooner than expected. It resonated through him with the force of a high speed car crash, yet something cushioned his back and cradled his head from the brunt of the blow as he went tumbling end-over-end like an escaped tire.

When his body came to a stop and the world stopped spinning long enough to register he still had a body to speak of, he felt the ground heaving under him and realized he wasn’t looking up at the blue sky anymore, but an array of bright lights.

A rumble close to his ear groaned in pain, and then those firm arms around him slid apart so they could discard Sam to one side.

As Sam felt his body settle limply onto the hard, chilled floor, everything about him was screaming how broken he was, how he needed help, there was this...this moment almost, where he managed to summon up the energy to turn his head to one side, as if he needed his eyes to draw out clarity on what had just happened. Sam wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected to see, but Not-Bucky was laying there face-up beside him with a new assortment of bruises visible across his forehead and all along the crest of his nearest arm. After a second of glancing past the man beside him to the distance they’d dropped down the central shaft of the Design Center, Sam’s mind made no hesitation in registering that whoever that man was beside him, he must’ve intentionally chosen to take the brunt of the impact, even though it would have been altogether easier to have just let go of Sam and let gravity take care of the rest.