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Chapter Text

1998
Eltoris, Swiss Alps, West Central Europe
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W/NOVARIS

Your village had been marked for death. That much had been clear as you crouched amongst the wreckage that had been left behind from the storm. Only this storm hadn’t come from the sky. There were no lingering grey clouds. No thunder. No lightning. Just a downpour of bullets and the glint of a metal arm slicing through the smoke.

You were colder than you had ever been in your life, huddling barefoot in the snow, wrapped in nothing but a pair of fledgling wings and a drenched nightie. Your father’s staff is clutched loosely in your trembling hands, the splintered wood biting into your palms like a final tether. Even as a ten year old, you had come to understand the story that was written for you; as well as its inevitable end. Cold, alone, forgotten and afraid. 

Your legacy would be to die at the hands of the elements that once cradled you; before you could even figure out the meaning of such a word.

The wind sings against your ears, rattling the wreckage around you. The howling tune that once welcomed you to this plane of living–now was here to watch as you drew your final breath. Their sweet whisperings tempted you to give into the exhaustion, drawing you to the warmth that existed on the other side. It only takes you seconds to comply as the wintry chill burns your skin.

You close your eyes, not to hope that mercy would somehow find you, but only to make the waiting easier.

You don’t hear it at first–but you felt it. You registered the feeling of the snow in front of you compressing beneath someone's deliberate weight. It causes you to stir, your eyes fluttering open as if expecting to find the face of your savior. Instead, a figure towers before you, his metal arm gleaming against the pale sun like a weapon drawn from light. 

Time seems to stop.

The corners of your vision blurred as if the snowfall had thickened into a lazily rolling fog. You could hear the gentle voice of your mother, beckoning you home from the river.  You could feel a touch of warmth against your shivering body as you recall the distant crackle of nights spent by the fire, wrapped in your father’s arms as he entertained you with childish tales. You remember how his laughter rumbled like a gentle storm as he lifted you high into the air, your fledgling wings fluttering with joy.

Each and every memory from this lifetime all seemed to filter into this one defining moment, shaping itself into the imposing figure that stood before you. 

Here in human form, death stood, his hand wrapped around the pistol grip of an assault rifle rather than the handle of a scythe.

You were too tired to plead for the little amount of life held within this already dying body; much too weak to stop the metal-armed invader from reloading his rifle.
In your mind, his decision had already been made. You would not be named a prisoner today… but neither would you be named a survivor. You barely notice when your eyes fall shut; your father’s staff slipping from your fingertips, rolling lazily against the snow. Surrender had never tasted this sweet.

It feels like an eternity before you feel the air around him shift. Your eyes blink slowly in the midst of waiting for your lifeline to be cut. However, that moment never really arrives.  Instead, something heavy drapes across your shaking shoulders, covering most of your body.
It’s a jacket.

Snapping out of your barely kindled thoughts, you immediately wrap yourself in its leftover warmth, shuddering violently as you rocked for comfort. The snowfall had since ceased before you had half the mind to peer up at him–only to realize quickly that he had since disappeared and was nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t even leave footprints.

༻❁༺
 18 years later  
2016
Wakanda, East Africa
༻❁༺

One…
Two… 
Three…
Your muscles tense, strain engulfing your body as you cling to your position, your hands turning clammy as you clutch around the base of your left ankle. The heel of your left foot rests high against the railings in front of you, your cheek pressed between your arms. Your breathing slowed, your mind measuring each breath as you worked through the ache.

“I thought I would find you here…” A voice calls from the studio entrance, momentarily breaking your concentration.

Fifteen…
Sixteen…
Seventeen…

“Back from Vienna so soon?” You breathe out through your nose before cautiously lowering your foot down from the railings. You were less than an hour into your morning workout before being interrupted by your friend–now-turned-King–T’Challa. 

He steps further into the studio with a playful smile, his arms outstretched as if offering to go a round in the ring. He knew you weren’t exactly a touchy person–your mission days since over. “I’m not in the mood.” You mutter beneath your breath.

You turn to lean back against the railings, your bare shoulder blades brushing across the mirror behind it. T’Challa doesn’t lose his grin as he bumped his arm against yours as a way of greeting, settling himself next to you against the railings. “I’m sorry… about your Father.” You bid, your tone softening beneath the weight of his loss.

“He was your Father too to some degree,”  T’Challa breathes, acknowledging the grief you shared. King T’Chaka was a good man. 

You have no witty retort or sarcastic joke to fill the silence, you didn’t exactly have your mind on consolation. Instead, your selfish mind drums with a question you don’t yet have the courage to ask.

You knew why T’Challa had decided to stay in Austria, why his coronation had been put off for a few weeks to make space for his absence. Vengeance had been on his mind just as it had been on yours. Only you found that you didn’t possess the words to outright ask.

Briefly T’Challa’s gaze falls, his eyes respectfully roving over the golden lines peeking over your left shoulder. “How are your wings?” you don’t meet his gaze, your arms moving to cross over your chest. 

“The same as they were before you left,” you sigh grimly. “The same as last year… and the year before that…” you shrug your shoulders as you feel the weight of them, weighing you down from the inside out. They felt heavier today,  “Shuri said that she can only do so much to help me.”

The silence hangs thickly in the air–until your burning question becomes too much of a burden to bear.

“Is he dead?”
Your tone sounded harsher than what you intended, yet you were too prideful to double down with an apology.
T’Challa’s silence was more of an answer than if he were to verbally respond. Your fingers flex involuntarily, “...he got away?”

“No…” 

Finally, your gaze lifts to meet T’Challa’s. In your mind, the Winter Soldier was either missing or dead. You only hoped that T’Challa’s answer would suggest the latter of those two options.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”

You didn’t like where this was going.

Chapter Text

You needed a whole lifetime to digest T’Challa’s favor–instead, you were given an hour to pull yourself together.
He had been deceptively convincing about the whole situation, and despite the hollow ache that clawed at your insides, you were still tethered to something stubbornly human.

“I need you to rehabilitate the Winter Soldier.” His request had almost broken you. And yet… you agreed. After what felt like a lifetime of convincing.

You left the studio to gather yourself–your wings feeling heavier than ever; as if they were going to burst from your back on their own accord. During the whole process of stumbling into your bedroom you must’ve switched to autopilot as you immediately went to shower. You didn’t wait for the water to heat, drowning your still-clothed body with freezing water that made you want to scream. It heats up eventually, much to your relief.

Slowly, you wriggle free of your now-damp clothes, kicking them from the shower before shutting the glass door behind you.

You showered beneath scalding hot water as if that would soothe the tremors that wracked your body. “This feels like 2012 all over again,” You cursed, pressing your forehead against the tile, your breath fogging against the smooth porcelain. The steam seemed to offer a small sense of comfort, your mind spinning from the lack of cool air. You wallow in the heat until it eventually becomes too much for you to bear, your hand slamming against the shower tap.

You dressed as if preparing for a battle, your uniform consisting of a black backless turtleneck, a pencil skirt, stockings and a white coat. They hugged your form cleanly despite the mess of thoughts swirling inside your mind.

You fidgeted, your hands smoothing down your skirt once. Twice. Three times. There was no doubt in your mind that today would be hard, but–the next few months would be absolute agony. So, to compensate, you would force yourself to dress like you were untouchable. You would be respectful, polite–even if it meant biting down on your tongue to stop your thoughts of vitriol from being voiced out loud.

Briefly, your gaze finds your reflection. You can’t help but stare at it a little longer than necessary, your expression unmovable, as if it had been carved from stone.

You were a good doctor.

You would die on that hill.

You would not fall apart.

Flattening out any straying strands of hair, you glared at your reflection in the mirror–as if doing it now would prevent you from doing it later.
On your way out of your bedroom, you grab your black slip-on shoes as well as your watch and phone before hauling yourself through the door.

Your shoes hit the ground with a collective click and clack, your feet moving to slip into them as if it were any other morning, but nothing about this day could even compare to your version of normal.

You walked through the guest halls of the citadel, the heels of your shoes clicking sharply against the smooth stone flooring. Vibranium could be felt in every square inch of this place, sewn beneath the floor and soaked into the walls. It supported the high, arched ceilings, and powered the overhead chandeliers. 

Usually, you’d stop to talk to the staff, but you weren’t exactly in a talking mood today. You shove your hands into the pockets of your coat, wanting to hide the subtle tremor in your fingers.
You weren’t scared. Not exactly. You were anxious. Anxious to finally put a face and name to the metal arm that haunted your dreams. Anxious to know how you would go about surviving the next few months.

T’Challa already had your entire roster cleared, leaving little room for any distractions or any additional patients.

It would be just you and the Winter Soldier.

Lucky you.

The path to the med-bay was unfortunately deeply engraved into your mind–eliminating any excuse to be late. As usual, it’s busy, except not in the organized chaos that you were used to. Your coworkers were better off talking freely if they had the time to neglect their patients. They whispered in hushed tones, their attentions fluttering around the topic of the new arrival like moths to an exposed flame. Your ears catch on to specific words like ‘--Soldier" "Captain” & “King.”

Your presence clears the people loitering at the front desk, the sea of bodies parting just enough for you to spot Minine on the other side of the counter. She grants you a sympathetic smile as if she had been told of your situation. “I take it you heard the news?” she greets softly, sliding a file across the counter, “you gotta be gentle with this one, doc.”

“I’ll try,” You huff, taking the file in your hands, “seems like I’m working with little to nothing,” you muttered beneath your breath as you flipped through the provided file, your features turning sour, “James Buchanan Barnes…. male… 99 years old…” you skim through the lack of information splayed across the pale pages, your frown only deepening, “he couldn’t have chosen anyone else? I’m the one who has to try rehabilitating a 99 year old?”

Minine laughs, a look of understanding crossing her features. Her presence seemed to be the only thing keeping you grounded today, her sympathy acting as a balm against the heaviness in your back. “No one else has magic like yours…” you merely roll your eyes in response. Shuri would have far better luck, and much more sympathy than you could ever think to scrounge up–“The King wants you to meet him in front of room 5A.” Minine knocks her knuckles twice against the counter. A notion of good luck.

You knock back once in acknowledgement before leaving, laughing dryly as your hand moves to smooth across your forehead, “Ooo, fancy, upstairs,” you wave your hand in a silent farewell, “I’ll see you at lunch, Mi.” 

You caught a glimpse of her salute before starting up the stairs.

You slowed your pace as you ascended, skimming the file over until you grew tired of rereading over the gaps and guesswork. You would be the one in charge of compiling what you could of his medical history–though you weren’t so confident that it would make his file any bigger depending on what he remembered. His file was less a record and more a chasm of confusion.

Eventually, your slow pace leads you up to floor A. It’s spacious; meant for the more… long term patients. Immediately, your eyes catch on T’Challa’s silhouette, standing just outside of room 5A. His back was turned to you, the clean cut lines of his suit almost aggressively neat compared to the man that stood beside him. On closer inspection, you realize that he wasn’t with a random member of faculty, or a wandering ambassador of a foreign country–but Captain America himself, dressed down but unmistakable from where you stood.

Flustered by his appearance, you almost had it in you to turn tail and walk away. But you couldn’t. Not when you’d do just about anything for T’Challa. You owed his family for your survival, and unfortunately, today you had come to pay for it tenfold.

“I hope I haven’t kept you two waiting long,” you greet, ignoring the way your heart practically dropped into your stomach as the two men turned their attention to you. You certainly sounded stronger than what you felt inside.

“No, not long, I’m grateful you showed up,” T’Challa smiles, moving his hand to squeeze your shoulder. It’s meant to come off as reassuring, but instead it only heightens your anxiety–it takes discipline not to flinch away from him, “I’d like you to meet–”

You stuck your hand out towards Captain America, ripping away the bandaid. “Captain America? big fan.” It sounded forced, primarily because it wasn’t really true. You’ve heard of him, and his team of Avengers that had split quicker than sand filtering between unsteady fingers. You simply had no opinion on the star spangled man that stood before you. 

“Please, call me Steve,” he says politely, grasping your hand firmly. He looked a little worn for wear, sporting a split lip and a blackened eye, “Doctor Novaris, is it? T’Challa was just talking about you.” From here, you could spot bruises blooming across his knuckles; disappearing beneath his sleeve.

“That can’t be good,” you sigh, throwing T’Challa a half-hearted glare, “so I understand that you have a patient that requires… rehabilitating?”

Steve nodded, his eyes darting to the door behind you, “Yes, I assume you’ve been brought up to speed?” he asks. 

You take a steadying breath, “Yes,” you respond tightly, “it certainly won’t be easy. But… I will see what I can do. I’ll need about half an hour alone with the patient, if that's alright with you?”

Steve nodded once more in agreement while T’Challa offered you a long searching look, silently asking if you’ll be alright on your own. “Be careful with him.” He bids as you turn to the door. Your heart was beating so loud that you could barely make out his words as coherent.

“I’m always careful,” You mutter as your hand slides against the panel next to the door. It opens with a soft hiss.

Your eyes immediately fell forward as you stepped inside, the file clutched tightly in your hands as your vision narrowed to a pair of deep blue eyes and long disheveled hair.
The sound of the door automatically sliding shut behind you fills the already quiet room–your objective clear. Get in, get out.
You were used to the sterile sting of antiseptic, but the air felt different here. It felt heavy and diluted, faintly threaded with the smell of blood and metal.

He sat atop the examination table, his metal arm missing and his face betraying his exhaustion.
This was not the man that relentlessly haunted you in your dreams. And somehow, it only made you angrier. It seemed that reality was a weak match for memory, and yet it tasted just as bitter.

He sat there, like a ghost awaiting its own burial. “James Buchanan Barnes?” You ask, your tone clipped as you dropped the file onto the desk. There was a deep cut crossing over the end of his brow–something you would have to tend to before you could carry out any proper examination.

“Bucky.” He corrects, blinking slowly as he watches you cross the room towards the desk. You picked up a tablet, your fingers sliding across the screen as you input his name. His voice was deep–rough like sandpaper sliding against a harsh surface. At least one of your expectations didn’t fall flat.

“Alright. Bucky…I’m doctor Novaris, I’ll be the one overseeing your rehabilitation during your amnesty in Wakanda. If you have any concerns regarding your health… you can come to me.” your words taste like pure vinegar as you move towards him. You pretend not to notice the slight trembling in your hands as you set the tablet down on the side table.

His gaze slides lazily over your face—neither defiant nor apologetic, “Yeah,” he murmurs beneath his breath, “good luck with that,” he casts his gaze away, choosing to stare out towards the large glass walls that showcased Wakanda’s prettiest assets–from the sun peering playfully over the horizon, to the peaceful glow that smoothed over the planes of the land.

You swallow your pride, biting back anything remotely sharp or demeaning; maintaining an air of professionalism as you continued:

“I’ll clean and cover the cut on your brow and then we’ll get started with the examination.” His lack of response leaves room for your anger to fester in silence. You knew he didn’t trust you, and you were OK with that. You didn’t trust him either.

Your head buzzed with questions you dared not voice out loud, your hands stiff as you retrieved gauze, saline and a small handful of plasters. By the time you’ve retrieved everything and set everything out onto the adjoining side table, he still hadn’t moved, his eyes set on the high hanging sun in the distance.

Clearing your throat, you ask him to: “Look forward, please.” He does so, but only with a type of broken compliance that makes you pause from making any sudden movements.
Momentarily, you distract yourself by putting on a pair of gloves from the bottom drawer of the side table. The latex tears slightly at your wrist as you put them on, the sound of them snapping against your skin causing the man before you to subtly flinch.

You hated how broken he looked, how the tiredness in his gaze humanized him. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to comfort him like you would any other patient, your voice subtly straining as you say, “tilt your head slightly upwards, towards me.”

His slight breath of annoyance proves to you that even devils needed oxygen as you cut a strip of gauze from the roll. 

You take a moment to collect your thoughts and focus, loosely grasping the saline bottle in your hand. In the proceeding moment, the solution begins to hum as your magic spills lazily into the air in golden streaks; loosely winding around the bottle before filtering through the glass; disappearing into the solution.

This move doesn’t escape your patient’s notice as he immediately tenses, “What are you doing?” He was watching you more closely now, his eyes tracking the movement of your hands as he tilted himself back.

You barely respond as you pour the altered solution onto the gauze. “Relax, it won’t hurt,” you say stiffly, unable to provide him any means of reassurance as you raise the gauze to his brow. It evidently proves to be your first mistake as he recoils, his hand moving to catch your wrist.

Pain flourishes up the length of your arm, but you refuse to flinch–let alone blink. It was a flash of instinct rather than an act of thought on his part. You had seen patients like this before–having tended to those who would lash out not to hurt but to survive.

Momentarily, your world narrows down to the sharp pain in your wrist, and the look of terror in his eyes. There was no fury, no defiance, just pure panic.

“Let. Go. Of. Me… now.” Briefly, your mask of professionalism slips and is replaced by a seething glare that matches his own. For a moment, you could feel your heart hammering against the inside of your chest—not out of fear, but from pure anger. You didn’t try to yank your hand free, or struggle. Instead, you remained calm and still. Only one thing was for certain, his grip would certainly leave a bruise, “if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it the moment I stepped through the door.”

It was as if your words needed a moment to properly sink into his brain, his eyes flickering down to his hand around your wrist, squeezing so hard that it was close to breaking. Eventually, his gaze really focuses, his pupils dilating as if suddenly realizing what he had just done.

The tension crackles between the both of you. It felt like time had suspended itself for a moment before his grip on your wrist loosened. Immediately, you wrenched your hand away, dropping the gauze in the process. You didn’t dare look down at your wrist to check over the damages, instead, you flexed your hand from behind your back; keeping your expression schooled.

“Sorry.” You knew your apology was a lie, forgiveness couldn’t have been farther from the room–because in this room, it was only a cold, hollow word. You didn’t care that he didn’t respond. You weren’t exactly looking for lively conversation anyway.
You treated the Winter soldier without another word, your mind beating with a mantra that sung between yours ears:

“I am a good doctor.

I will not fall apart.

Not today."

Chapter Text

You left Bucky’s examination with more questions than answers, your brows tightly knitted together as the door slides shut behind you. Your back aches in unison with the pain in your wrist. You would need to soothe both problems sooner rather than later, but not now, you were still on the clock.

T’Challa was nowhere to be seen, he had a Kingdom to run and a ceremony to prepare for in the coming weeks. You couldn’t say the same for Captain America, who loiters in the hall, waiting for you to re-emerge.

“You do know we have a waiting room further down the hall right?” You awkwardly point out, tugging your coat sleeve further down to hide your reddened wrist. “It beats standing here, you must be exhausted.”

His head hung slightly, a breath of dry laughter exiting through his perfectly sculpted nose, “How is he?” he questions, pushing himself off the opposing wall.

You take a moment to respond, a joyless grin crossing your features. You were trying to figure out how to respond without sounding snarky or disrespectful, “Well… he’s not bad.” He’s worse. 

You weren’t looking forward to his psych evaluation, that was for certain.

Steve’s face falls slightly, a deep sigh falling from his lips, “You can tell me the truth, I wanna know.”

-
“Do you remember your date of birth?” you watched Bucky closely, noticing the way his eyes fell from your face to the floor.

“No.” He finally reveals.
-

You clasp your hands out in front of you to prevent yourself from fidgeting, “... Not good.” You admit finally. Majority of your questions went unanswered, left for the silence to answer. “He spaced out quite frequently, and couldn’t answer most of the questions I asked. I wouldn’t be surprised if today was the day he learned that his first name is James,” you realize too late that you had focused too closely on the bad and not enough on the nonexistent good, “but… on a good note, I healed the cut on his brow. He seems physically healthy, normal blood pressure; healthy heart. But eventually, I will have to take a look at the scarring around his left shoulder.”

Steve raised a few fingers to the bridge of his nose, flinching as his thumb accidentally crossed over the bruising around his eye, “I’m sorry. This isn’t exactly going to be easy for either of you.” 

Alright, Captain obvious.

“It’s ok.” It’s really not. “I’ll find a way. One way or another–” 

Your eyes kept drifting back to the untreated wounds across Steve’s face. The split on his lip looked raw and painful, The bruising around his eye looked just as bad. It was like you were unconsciously trying to change the subject by latching onto anything that bothered you, “I’m sorry, your injuries are concerning me, why haven’t you been treated yet?”

His features spelled sheepish, yet your mind wagered on intentional. “I was adamant that Bucky be treated first,” he admitted. You admired him for his thoughtfulness but not for his negligence, that was for sure, “I wanted to make sure he got seen before I did anything else.”

Your hands fall away from one another as you smooth out your skirt, “You’re a good friend, I’ll give you that,” you don’t hear the way he sheepishly thanks you, your eyes too busy following the expanse of his neck, noticing the faint bruising that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. God only knew how many hits this man had taken over the past week, “I’m free at the moment, I’ll take a look at you.”

You brushed past him, heading towards the stairs. Despite your offer, the star-spangled man hesitated, his gaze averting from your paused figure to the room where Bucky was being kept. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

You stifle a fat eye roll, taking a step down the stairs, “The walls are double reinforced with glass and vibranium. The door’s locked. If it’s opened by force, I’ll get an alert–along with med-bay security. He will be fine.” You voice flatly. 

Steve’s gaze returned back to you, a look of brief contemplation crossing his face before his steps began to fill the silence that stands between you, “You’re right, lead the way.” He relents finally.

There’s an awkward silence that sits between the both of you as you lead Steve back down to the main floor. You throw Minine a quick nod before claiming one of the curtained bays. You pretend you don’t hear your coworkers whispering outside as you retrieve the needed supplies. Gauze, saline–the basic utilities.

Your fingers don’t tremble as much when you slide on the gloves, your movements clear and instinctive rather than cautious and pre-determined.

“It seems to me that the two of you have had a rough couple of days,” you say, subtly flexing your injured wrist as if that would make the throbbing stop.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, tilting his head back slightly, “yet it feels like just another Tuesday.”

His answer would have been less concerning if it was Tuesday… and not Wednesday.

“May have a mild concussion there, Cap,” you scrounge for a flashlight, “look towards me?” he complies, straightening his gaze to meet your eyes. 

The flashlight turns on with a muted click before you raise it to be parallel with his eyes. There’s a subtle size difference between both of his pupils. You’re able to tell by watching one pupil react to the light while the other stays the same.

“I’ll heal within a matter of hours, it’s really no trouble.” Right, super soldier serum. However, you weren’t entirely satisfied as you grabbed the bottle of saline from the side tray.

“I'll trust the serum in your blood to take care of your concussion,” you pause before altering the solution in your hand. You weren’t exactly a fan of getting grabbed a second time, “and just a disclaimer, I’m going to heal everything else with–” you allow your magic to spill into the air, a pleasant hum greeting your ears as it seeps and absorbs into the saline, “this.”

“Ah,” he nods, smiling with acceptance, definitely a better reaction than the result of James' panic, “T’Challa told me you were enhanced.” Could have warned James while he was at it.

You poured the altered solution onto a ripped piece of gauze before gently dabbing it against the cut on his upper lip. You clean away the bits of dried blood before discarding the dirtied gauze. It didn’t look as deep as before thanks to the serum in his blood doing its job, but you’d take it from here. He’s silent as you tear one of the bandaids to match the size of his cut. It takes only a drop more of saline before you plaster it over the gash. “You can take it off in a few minutes.” You advised simply..

“This might feel a bit odd,” you warn absentmindedly, discarding your gloves into the nearby trash bin. 

Steve merely hums in acknowledgement, watching as you washed and dried your hands in the nearby basin. “Couldn’t be anything I haven’t felt before.” He mused.

“Mhm, you say that now…” your fingers move to trail across the length of your right palm, sensing it when your magic whirs to life. The golden markings beneath your coat hum to life, directing the innate energy of your being to bloom evidently below the skin of your palms. It feels familiar, comforting almost.

“On the other hand, I can't say I’ve seen that before..” Steve laughs dryly; yet he’s anything but nervous as he willingly tilts his head up towards you; his eyes slipping closed.

You’re almost hesitant to touch him, lifting a hand to hover over his cheek. Lightly, you trail your thumb over the expanse of his bruised eye. You pretend not to hear it when his breath hitches as your magic spreads over his skin. Steve’s brows knit tightly together as it absorbs just beneath the bruise, a healthy hue of color blooming atop the purple and green.

“Are you alright?” you ask, your other hand moving to tap lightly against the side of his neck; taking care of the bruise that peaks just above his collar.

Steve’s chest rumbles with a faint hum, “It actually feels kind of… nice?” you snort at that, dragging your eyes over the discoloration on his knuckles.

“That’s a new one…” you murmur, picking up one of his hands, smoothing your fingers over the skin on his knuckles. The bruising disappears in a matter of seconds. “Then again… it does feel different for everyone.” You perform the same motions for his other hand before moving to remove the gauze from his upper lip, “no other problems I have to worry about?”

He looked… much better; to your relief–as if he hadn’t been bruised and battered in the first place. “Nothing that I know of,” he blinks, contorting his features slightly, testing to see if he could still feel the pain.

Briefly, you step away to grab a hand held mirror from one of the above head compartments, “There,” you say, lifting the mirror up to his face, “good as new.”

Steve smiles, both appreciative and impressed by the results. “Not bad… thank you.” 

You’re unphased by his thanks, your brows lifting and lowering in acknowledgement, “I’ll have someone come in to take your vitals and then you’ll be free to check in on James if that’s what you wish.”  

His features betray his silent need to ask questions, a small flicker of worry edging into his gaze–but you’ve already managed to disappear before he can get a single word out.

The curtain falls shut behind you with a screech and a woosh. A silent, deep breath falls from your lips as you briefly glance down, peeling back the fabric of your sleeve. Your features coil into a deep scowl, “Son of bitch.” 

It felt sprained, and had blemished quite quickly; outlining the shape of James’ hand. If you weren’t careful with him next time, you should fully expect to see more of them.

Maybe next time around your neck.

-

“I did tell you to be gentle with this one, did I not?” Minine scolds softly. She raises a dark brow, her hands grasping just beneath the leftover handprint on your wrist, “divine power or no, he could seriously hurt you if you’re not careful.”

You don’t look up from your files, your eyes are too busy assessing the progress of your other patients… well, ex-patients now. 

“You don’t think I can get away with changing Selam’s doctor to someone who isn’t a total idiot?” You mutter—your hands sifting through the messily assorted notes with barely restrained irritation, “Someone like  Farah? Or maybe Njeri–”

“Give me those,” Minine scoffs, dropping your wrist to snatch the files away from you, “I gave them to you for some peace of mind, not to let you cry over who got what.” 

You simply roll your eyes, bending your upper body over the lunch table. “I don’t think I can go back there.” You admit, voice quieter now. Minine moves to grab your wrist once again. You don’t even flinch when she massages a fast healing oil into your skin. The marking disappears in an instant; leaving one less thing to worry about.

Next, Minine drops an apple into your palm, “Come on, sit up,” she says as she moves to grasp your shoulder, guiding you upwards, “look, I get it, really. So, if it bothers you this much, I’ll ask Farah to do his evaluation for you.” 

A deep sigh passes through your nose as you straighten up, meeting Minine’s wild green eyes. If you had to describe an angel in human form, you’d list every feature and characteristic of the woman before you. She carried the stars in her eyes and the sun in her stride; the epitome of Wakandan beauty. She moved with a type of efficiency and certainty that almost made you envious. Though you loved her all the same.

You’d die for her if it ever came down to it. Though you’d never say that aloud–you knew she’d make fun of you for it.

“I hate how nice you are sometimes,” you grumble, biting into the apple. She merely responds with a white-toothed smile. “I’ll manage.”

“You know,” Minine begins, her voice tilting into something a little more thoughtful, “It wouldn’t be all too bad if you… I don’t know? Took James to the gardens during his psyche eval.” 

You almost choke on a wayward piece of apple at her suggestion, “Take who now? To where now?” You say hoarsely, clearing your throat. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that.”

Minine shrugs innocently, the amusement dancing in her eyes unmistakable. “All I’m thinking about is how this man is probably sick of being inside,” she reasons, “he’s probably sick of being asked questions and needs a little air before you put him through the wringer.”

Your fingers flex against the fruit in your hand. She had a point. A very sinkable, very annoying point. There were many ways where this could fall sideways. 

But there was one way where it might not. “I’ll think about it.” You mutter.

Minine hums with approval, swinging her arm around your shoulder. Your scowl deepens at the contact–though you let it slide for Minine’s sake. “That’s my girl.” She cheers.

You take another bite of the apple, your head dipping slightly. You tried not to picture James among the flowers, looking like he belonged–like he deserved his penny of peace. Trying to reason against that part of you that claimed he deserved it too.

Chapter Text

You had tugged on a few strings and stepped on a few panther tails in order to gain clearance for Bucky to be allowed inside the Royal gardens–only at the expense of accepting responsibility in the event of him snapping.

Whether you liked it or not, Minine had a point. And while the loosened restrictions came with its own expected precautions, you hadn’t hesitated in accepting them.

Now, you walked side-by-side with the starring lead of your nightmares, your steps tracing along the terrace walkways in the emptied gardens of the citadel. There’s a sizable distance that stands between you both, the silence heavy as you worked up the courage to start.

Steve followed a fair distance behind, keeping a vigilant eye out while affording you both the illusion of privacy.

The air hummed with a pleasant warmth, coalescing with the sweet scent of bioluminescent flora and fauna. From where you stood, you could hear the faint whir of the climate regulators blending with the soft rushing of water spilling from the nearby fountain. Varying hues of gold and deep indigo greet your eyes in the form of basalt-based figures, solemnly emerging from the earth, their bases framed by native wildflowers that hummed with the land’s natural aura.

It would take a few days to finish the evaluation, and regardless of your feelings on the matter–you would have to be more careful. Gentle. The citadel gardens were a perfect place to start, if there ever was one.

Your hands clutched tightly onto the notebook in your grasp, finally piecing together the right opening words. However, much to your surprise, James is the one to beat you to it. 

“I’m sorry,” his words were flat, yet there's a twinge of sheepishness to his behavior as he avoids your gaze, “about grabbing you before.”

Another silence settled into the air. You weren’t exactly expecting him to speak, much less without being prompted. 

“It’s… don’t worry about that.” Your expression remains guarded, your gaze locked forward.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Outwardly, his question brushed over your features like water against a duck’s feathers. Internally, it had hit you like a stone being thrown at your chest. Had you really made it that obvious? 

“What gave you that impression?” 

His humorless laugh fills the air, it's lifeless and borderline bitter. You could feel his eyes on you now, yet you continued to look forward. “Intuition.” 

“Well, I didn’t take charge of your rehabilitation to make friends with you,” you said, the tightness in your shoulders betraying the ease in your voice. Talking with him made you feel heavier, as if your wings were about to tear free from beneath your skin just to carry you away. Yet you knew you wouldn’t be able to get that far–with the current state of them.

“Why’d you take the job in the first place?” 

Since when did this all become about me? 

You scoffed quietly, your grip tightening around the notebook in your hand, “You’re lucky I even took it in the first place,” you muttered, your head turning to meet his gaze, “there aren’t exactly a lot of doctors lining up to treat you—” you stop yourself short, your face burning slightly. That was too much.

The two of you were locked in a silent standoff, your stares tethered together like drawn wires waiting to snap apart. Your pride, as big as it was, begged you not to blink–but your professionalism won out in the end. Swallowing your pride, you break eye contact first; your gaze falling to the notebook in your hands. “Moving on.”

You lead James towards one of the verandas stationed atop a flowering hillside. It gently arches out from the main path, elevated only slightly above the garden floor. It offered a broad view of the nearby displays, tucked into a position where the landscape could be seen clearly from all sides. The delicate song of river-glass wind chimes greets you both, the tinkling tune smoothing through the breeze; providing a satisfying disturbance to the silence.

A table sits beneath the shade of the flowering canopy, vibranium chess pieces arranged in a picture perfect formation. Ready for strategy, ready for war. You have no reservations in taking a seat, your gaze meeting James’. He simply stares at the chair across from you.

“You play?” you ask, motioning for him to sit.

He stands there awkwardly, “Not so much these days.” he says curtly; still refusing to sit.

“You can sit, you know?” you say, crossing one leg over the other, “I don’t bite.”

“That’s debatable.”  He mutters.

Your lips twitch faintly, yet you pretend you don’t hear his murmured response as he finally takes a seat.

Your eyes skim over him, observing the tenseness in his shoulders to the restlessness in his gaze. He looked just as irritated with this situation as you were. “How about we start off… easy?”

A sharp breath passes through his nose as he looked off towards the garden landscape, “Depends on what you mean by ‘easy.’”

“Have you ever worked with a therapist or psychiatrist before?” your notebook lies open against your lap, a pen poised between your fingers as you wait for his answer.

“No,” he says, after a moment, “at least not like this.”

-
“Barnes exhibits an almost immediate resistance to the therapeutic setting presented. Likely, this response stems from a longstanding issue with autonomy and institutionalization. When presented with a question, his tone was flat, and his answers curt. Yet, there appeared to be no visible aggression or pushback–just a few long pauses. His answers indicate mistrust and discomfort with the idea of perceived vulnerability.”
-

You left work that day feeling more exhausted than you had ever been. Your evaluation with James had stirred up a storm of conflict in your mind. He wasn’t at all who you thought him to be. He wasn’t some ruthless killer… at least not anymore. You didn’t know why seeing him so lifeless made you so angry, why every second spent in his presence made you want to scream. All your life you had wanted the man responsible for the eradication of Eltoris to suffer… and yet, he had been suffering all this time. Just not in the way that you had come to expect.

Your shoulders tremble, a hiss of pain whistling between your teeth as you stumble into your bedroom. The door slams shut behind you, your hands quickly moving to shrug off your coat. Your cries are muffled as you kneel over the side of your bed, your hands grasping at the covers as the markings on your back begin to shine. The once darkened bedroom ebbs with divine light, the air whirring with life as the energy you kept so tightly locked inside spills from your back in explosive streaks.

You had grown used to keeping your wings contained, locked just beneath the skin on your back. However, sometimes it seemed as if they had a mind of their own in terms of wanting to be out and about. 

Sweat beads at your brow as you tremble. They burst from your back with a woosh, feathers of white and gold flying in every conceivable direction. Relief finds you eventually, your body slowly unfurling as your wings hang limply at your back. With a soft sigh, you pick yourself up; your gaze catching on your vanity mirror.

There were many reasons why you chose to keep them contained. They weren’t exactly practical for your current line of work, and as important as the feathers were culture-wise, they shed a lot. Another reason–it pained you to even look. While the wing on your right remained beautiful and healthy, the left one had been impaired. Most of the primary feathers were missing, while the secondary feathers were barely strong enough to hold on. They wilted as fast as they grew.

You winced upon seeing the state of them, turning away from the butchered reflection of your left wing. You lean down to grab your coat off the floor, smoothing your hands over the fabric before tossing it over the mirror; obscuring your reflection from view.

You had no interest in sleeping–you couldn’t take the possibility of seeing him the moment you closed your eyes. James–Who looked so broken down, so exhausted; compared to his counterpart, who flourished in the fires of Eltoris. Who cursed you to walk this earth alone–without your people… without your parents. Instead, you take your time in collecting the stray feathers that had flown about the place; wiping away the tears threatening to fall.

-

You rouse from slumber to the sound of someone banging at your bedroom door. You had your one good wing wrapped around your curled form, while the other one sprawled limply across the length of your bed. You’d slept soundly for about an hour, yet not deeply enough to summon any nightly horrors.

Lifting your head, you force yourself upright, only to be met with another harsh string of banging.

“Alright! Alright–” You huff, scrambling from bed. You take care not to trip over your own feet upon hastily shuffling to open the door, “what!?” you bark, wrenching it open. 

Shuri stands on the other side, her brow raised. You wave your hand dismissively, breathing out a murmured apology.

“Did I wake you?” She teases, noting how you kept one eye shut in order to adjust to the light in the hall. “I can come back later, when you’re less feral, maybe? I just figured you would want to hear this.”

You blink hard until your vision finally adjusts, “No… I was meaning to stop by your lab when I woke up–”

“Oh, so you are sleeping again?” She cuts in, practically inviting herself inside; flicking the light on as she went. Immediately her eyes zero in on the woven basket full of collected feathers, “Or not. How are they?” Shuri can’t help but turn; her eyes watching the way your wings hang lifelessly from your back. 

You tense, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. Shuri had known you long enough to remember how you held them when you were much younger. You didn’t hide them beneath skin and gold. Like your chin; you held them high. But those days were gone. “I’m going to sound like a broken record every time someone asks,” you tense your shoulders, wincing the moment you tried to bring them back in. They had been stubborn all night; refusing to disappear, “they just… won’t go back in.” 

“You are forcing it too much,” she scolds gently. “You need to relax yourself.” 

You scoff tiredly, rolling your shoulders in frustration, “Did you really come all this way to tell me to relax?”

Shuri clicks her tongue before moving to land back against your mattress, “I was reading through Sergeant Barnes’ files–” 

A deep breath falls from your lips, your head tilting forward slightly, “Shuri…”

“--his vitals, your notes from his exam…” She continues.

“I beg of you,” you yawn, collapsing against your desk chair, “please get to the point.”

She flicks her hand, before reaching into her back pocket. She produced a small red book. “T’Challa gave it to me to sift through. I thought it would be imperative for you to read it as well… being Sergeant Barnes’ primary attendant and all.”

She presents it to you, leaning across the small distance to deliver it to your awaiting palm. A beat of silence passes between you both, your eyes trailing over the star on the cover. You flicked through it with narrowed eyes, your teeth coming to chew against the inside of your cheek, “I’m sure I would be a lot more shocked if I knew how to read Russian.”  

Shuri rolls her eyes, leaning closer, “It’s a handbook, on the winter soldier program,” she explains, “instructions. Conditioning. Right there–” Shuri reaches over, her fingers following a particular line of writing. It had been highlighted; made to stand out to the eye, “are the words they used to bring him back under.” 

Her words hit you harder than you expected them to. Slowly you close the book. “Knowing you–” your gaze lifts to meet with Shuri’s searching stare, “and that glint in your eye, I assume you have a plan?”

You raise a hand to your lips, grazing your teeth against your nails. Shuri continues: “We may need to put him in Cryo for a few weeks in order for it to work.” The tension seems to melt from your shoulders, your wings fluttering as they slowly begin to shrink back beneath your skin.

Cryo meant you would have a few weeks to plan and digest. Cryo meant time.

Chapter Text

The plan, as explained by Shuri, would take place after you finished James’ psych evaluation. It had been explained to both Steve and T’Challa later on that very morning–though Steve, understandably, required a bit more time to accept the terms presented.

James would be frozen for a span of four weeks; during this time, both you and Shuri would work together to erase the trigger words embedded in his mind. Of course, a plan like this wouldn’t come without its own complications. You would have to use your God-given abilities to infiltrate his mind. A very risky decision based on James’ reaction to it the day prior. Healing a cut on his brow was one thing, diving into his mind was another.

Of course, you would only be willing if he was. Regardless of what you felt about James as a whole, you valued his consent. Professional or not.

T’Challa was the first to approach you after Shuri’ briefing, though it didn’t take much to notice Steve’s lingering gaze from across the room. He had something to say–but it would wait until the end of your conversation with the King.

“You are taking this surprisingly well,” he starts, his eyes catching on the subtle frown that flashes across your features.

“Oh, mhm,” you hum, clasping your hands out in front of you, your grip causing your knuckles to pale, “I just love spending time with James. He's just soo…” you pause, looking for a word to pour all your irritation into, “funny.”

Shuri’s head peeks out from over T’Challa’s shoulder, noticing the tenseness in the way you held yourself. “Careful brother, haven’t seen that expression on her before.”

Forcing yourself to relax only made you feel worse, you could feel it pulsing at your temples and itching beneath your fingers. “What expression?” you muttered, turning on your heel. But before you can take a step, T’Challa gently grabs your arm before pulling you into a hug.

You feel your muscles grow taut, your anger quickly dissipating as his cologne infiltrates your senses. You had hugged this man many times in your life–and yet you still didn’t know how to go about hugging him back. Fortunately, T'Challa understood that little quirk about you–and never expected you to give more than what you could.

“You’re doing great.” T’Challa’s words don’t fail to soften you to some extent as he moves to firmly grasp your shoulders, squeezing there for reassurance.

“You really suck at cheering me up,” you say finally. 

T’Challa scoffs playfully, gently tapping his palm against your arm; letting you go in the same breath. He knew your words were empty. “And you, my friend, are what the Americans call a hardass.” 

You tried not to smile. Really, you did. But a short involuntary laugh manages to slip past your lips anyway. But even that was a small sign of victory in T’Challa’s eyes.

“I hope you got that on tape,” he says to Shuri, “finally, a crack in the wall.”

Immediately, your urge to laugh and smile evaporates as you turn on your heel, exiting Shuri’s lab with an annoyed huff.

Steve was waiting for you at the end of the hall, his gaze locked on one of the display paintings that depicted King T’Chaka in his youth. He’s wearing his Black Panther suit, as well as a cloak made from a material you personally recognized as Eltorian feathers. 

It had been a gift from your people to the Wakandan royal family. Embroidered with blue gemstones and tiny white beads. The feathers hang loosely from the hem, layering over one another in rows until the whole cloak had been feathered from top to bottom. Magic once existed in the feathers that adorned it, one could feel it from a mile away. But since Eltoris’ eradication, the garment had become nothing more than a relic of what once was.

T’Chaka had once tried to return it to you. But you had immediately declined–you couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as it. It was akin to seeing the lifeless bodies of your loved ones.

“If this is the right way to go, let me talk to him first,” your head turns to Steve, meeting his gaze, “I know I can convince him.” His voice was low, deliberate. It sounded hard for him to say the words out loud–yet he hid it well, considering where he stood on the matter. He was only just barely grazing the fenceline; understandably apprehensive. 

“Of course,” You say, your words surprisingly soft. “But… it will inevitably be his choice in the end. I wouldn’t let any of my patients go through a procedure that they are unsure of. James won’t be an exception. It’s his path to recovery after all.” Your own words had you feeling mentally displaced. You simply blamed it on your job–and the fact that the mighty captain America looked like a kicked puppy. You couldn’t help but feel… bad.

-

You wait anxiously outside of room 5A, wringing your fingers and tapping your foot against the polished flooring of the upstairs medbay. Steve had been inside the exam room for the past 20 minutes, briefing James on the steps ahead. You’d sent him in with a consent form, trusting him to be the one to get James to sign. Still, you chose to keep your expectations low.

When it edges past the half-hour mark, Steve exits the room. Your gaze immediately lifts as the door clicks closed behind him. 

“So?” You ask, pushing yourself from the opposing wall, “how’d he take it?”

Steve breathes through a loose smile. He looked almost apologetic, “He’s… on the fence about it,” he began, “doesn’t have a problem with going under… however, he does have a problem with–” your shoulders sink with a sigh. You didn’t need to hear the rest of Steve’s sentence to know that James would not be comfortable with you snooping through his mind. “He has questions.”

You chew against the inside of your cheek. Questions were manageable. You could work with questions.

“Thank you, Steve.” You say stiffly, not knowing how to make it sound genuine when your mind was just so preoccupied, racing ahead like it always does.

Eventually, you step past Steve towards the exam room. And there it was again, that tenseness–the muscles in your shoulders tightening the moment you stepped inside. It was like experiencing Deja vu, seeing him sat atop the examination table–his metal arm missing; his expression–the same as Yesterdays–tired, almost lost.

“James,” you greet, schooling your tone to be softer, “how are you feeling–”

“I know about the plan,” he interrupts, bypassing the small talk entirely. He didn’t seem mad, just confused… and a bit guarded.

You clear your throat before settling into the chair across from him. You crossed one leg over the other, your hands coming to clasp at your knee, “How do you feel about it?” your eyes watching for any sudden movements; trying to grasp onto even a fraction of what he could be thinking. “Steve mentioned you had questions.”

“He said you can go into my mind,” his gaze fixated on you, searching, restless. “You haven’t… been doing that already, have you?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” you respond immediately, forcing your gaze away. Yet the weight of his stare remains.

“Then explain it to me,” he says, his tone slightly on edge, almost accusatory. “How exactly does it work?”

You inhale slowly, subconsciously rolling your shoulders. “No, I haven't been reading your mind. There are limitations to what I can do,” you murmur tightly, your fingers subtly flexing against your knee, “my energy can bend to my will, and depending on… I guess, my creativity–it can do a lot. I can move things, make things, heal things–I’m no telepath, but I can manipulate the energy I have to replicate such abilities.” You take a breath before continuing, your hands beginning to fidget, “Of course, this kind of power has its limitations–its rules. It’s divine power afterall, so I can’t hurt anyone with it, or kill.”

James shifted himself against the table, the fabric of his shirt wrinkling with the motion. He opens his mouth to say something, but you’re quick to beat him to it.

“It’s completely your choice,” you continue, “you have my word that, should you agree, I won’t dig, I won’t do anything you would not agree with and I will be extra careful. I just need to find your trigger words.” You let the silence sit between you, watching the way his face falls slightly. He looked… torn. Like he had never been given the right to choose before.

“You really think this will work?”

You don’t respond immediately; you don’t look away either–holding his gaze. “It’s your best shot.”

You don’t mention the consent form that lies against the adjoining table, waiting to be signed. But eventually, his eyes find it without prompt. You don’t say anything when he signs it with shaky fingers, discarding the pen back onto the table.

You breathe out through your nose, the weight in your shoulders beginning to lift. For the time being.

“Now what?” he mutters, swiping a few stubborn strands back from his brow.

You lift yourself from the chair, “Well, there are a few things we need to do before cryo,” your mind falls through the list of questions you couldn’t ask him yesterday. Time and emotional fatigue appeared to be your number one enemy. “But on another note–” your eyes drift towards the titanium plating on his left shoulder, a black cloth covering the space where his arm used to attach. “I need to look at your arm.”

He instantly stiffens. “My arm is fine.” He states flatly.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you respond before pausing, your cheeks heating slightly.. “You… you'll need to, uhm… lift your shirt.”

You couldn’t deny that you were minorly embarrassed by the slight stutter in your words. You’d done this countless times–on patients, with T’Challa. You hadn’t batted an eye back then–it was your job. It shouldn’t have been different. But somehow, it did.

You move towards his left side; not missing the way he had subtly recoiled. You stop yourself short, reminding yourself to be more empathetic before continuing. “Bucky–” you start softly, keeping your hands at your sides, “I only need to see it.”

“It’s ugly.” He says as if to dissuade you. You’d never admit that it genuinely hurt to hear it.

“I’m not here to judge.”

The silence is heavy as you wait for him to do something. To protest, to make it difficult–but instead, he complies. 

You’re quiet as he wrestles his shirt off with one hand, letting it drop to the side.

What greets you on the other side of the fabric was harsh: scar tissue clinging to the titanium plating, angry red marks of past attempts to claw himself free. You’re unable to take your eyes off the damage, instinct guiding your hand to hover over the skin there. But, you’re quick to catch yourself before you do anything that makes him uncomfortable.

“Do you find the plating uncomfortable?” You ask gently, circling around him to get a look at his back.

“I used to,” he says, his voice rough, “but… not anymore.”

“May I?” You ask, stepping back in front of him.

He takes a moment, meeting your gaze as if trying to decipher any true intentions that would result in his harm. You figured he found none when he grunts out I murmured ‘Ok.’

You swallow thickly as your hands gently touch against the marred skin on his shoulder. He’s quick to flinch. You pretend it’s because of your cold hands, not his fear. 

You barely even need to think as your magic whirs to life, the markings beneath your clothes beginning to feel heavy beneath the weight of your divine energy. Golden light seeps from the tips of your fingers, bleeding over the scar tissue on James’ shoulder. He recoils again, his muscles tensing as if bracing himself for pain. But it never comes.

Slowly, he comes around, his shoulders lowering and his eyes falling shut. 

“Does that feel ok?” You murmur.

You knew these scars wouldn’t be able to heal. The weight of them felt heavier than physical, as if they were a part of him. 

“Uh, yeah,” he exhales, his head dipping forward as your hands move over the expanse of his skin until you reach his shoulder blade. “It actually feels–” You wait, listening more intently to his words, your hands moving back over his shoulder and towards the side of his chest. But just when you thought you could see a crack forming against the walls around him, he clears his throat and opens his eyes, “It’s fine.”

You’re about to pull away when he grabs your wrist.

Your breath catches in your throat. You had been close to reacting, to ripping yourself away in order to see the damage he had inflicted; only to realize that he was merely holding your hand against his shoulder–as if chasing the feeling you provided. It’s not tight, or aggressive. It’s just there. Your usual aversion to touch seemed a bit meaningless as you allowed him this brief moment. It wasn't the type of breakthrough you were expecting–but could easily be dismissed.

“I’m sorry,” He mutters, releasing your wrist without looking.

You drop your hands quickly, smoothing your restless fingers over your skirt. “I…” you clear your throat, your shoulders rising and falling, “I have a few things to take care of… I’ll see you after lunch.” You say curtly. He doesn’t reply, and you don’t expect him to.

You take the consent form on your way out, your eyes flitting over his signature.

Messy, uneven but unmistakable:

B.U.C.K.Y.

Chapter Text

“Barnes has reported pervasive numbness, punctuated by episodes of anxiety and hypervigilance. The symptoms presented are consistent with chronic PTSD. Occasional dissociative detachment could be observed during today’s session, especially when the topic of conversation steered towards self perception.”

-

It was quiet where you stood, elbows pressed against the cool balcony railings. Night had fallen over the land quicker than you expected. Then again, time flew fast when you were having fun overworking yourself into distraction. The city lights glimmered below, dancing in the wind-churned haze while hovering vehicles weaved through buildings both big and small.

You tried your hardest not to think about flying. About soaring through the winds and crashing through the clouds. You knew you’d cry if you did. And you knew you’d cry hard.

Instead, you focus your attention to the lighter in your hand, a nearly crushed box of cigarettes in the other.

Your thumb fiddled absentmindedly with the spark wheel, your eyes watching as the flame danced and flickered against the steady breeze. Too quickly had you grown tired of hating James, tired of having to deal with the emotional whiplash that came with his presence. Two days. It had only been two days. Your temples throbbed at the thought of having to deal with this for next few months.

This was agony.

With a sharp breath, you take a cigarette from the box and slotted it between your lips, chucking the rest back into your coat pocket. You wouldn’t dare carry it around on your person during the day. Minine would be on you in an instant.

Again, the lighter flares, your free hand moving to protect the open flame from the uncaring winds. Inhaling felt like defeat, yet the spinning in your head made you feel whole as you drew the smoke deeper into your lungs.

Eventually, you begin to cough, the taste burning your eyes and congesting your throat.

A smooth voice cuts through the silence behind you.

“Smoking again, are we?” Your head swivels back towards the balcony doors, your eyes wide. Ramonda is the last person you expect to see.

Immediately, your hand dips just out of sight as if you hadn’t just been caught red-handed. “Queen mother…” your voice cracks slightly under the weight of guilt, “I didn’t expect to see you today.” Your voice betrays your shame, your head hanging slightly. You couldn’t meet her eyes. Not yet. You could handle Minine’s scolding. But Ramonda’s quiet disappointment? That was something else entirely.

She stepped closer, her eyes searching. You wanted to shrink into yourself beneath her gaze. “You look tired, child.” You dare not move, even when her hand comes to brush against your cheek, her thumb smoothing beneath your right eye.

You swallowed hard, wetting your lips, “I’m fine,” you say between a dry laugh, “I’ve just been a little… stressed.” When you finally meet her gaze, you force yourself to smile, your lips subtly trembling.

Ramonda clicks her tongue, her hand falling from your face. Your words wouldn’t have convinced a child–let alone Ramonda of all people. Her hand moves to yours, gently taking the cigarette you had tried in vain to hide. You didn’t protest. “You’ve gotten very bad at lying,” she smiles loosely as she puts the cigarette out, smooshing the butt against the railings. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the Americans here in Wakanda?” 

Your head tilts forward, a tired sigh falling from your lips. “No…”

“Don’t give me that,” she chided, lightly tapping your arm. There’s no animosity in her actions, just concern. “I know who he is.” 

You didn’t have to ask who she meant. Everyone close to you had known long before he stepped foot over Wakanda’s borders.

James. Bucky. The Winter soldier. Or at least, what was left of him.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t hide anything from Ramonda–not your history, not your pain. She had treated you like a daughter from the start, acting as a lantern of hope even after each meltdown, every lash out, each and every ugly moment. She had seen her fair share of tears from both you and her actual children. Now would be no different. 

You were too embarrassed to face her as the water works began their productions. You hated crying.

“I’m just so… angry,” you whispered, your voice strangled, “I’ve been angry for so long that it just comes to me naturally–” a sharp, stuttery sob is what triggers the tears to start falling uncontrollably. You’d feel embarrassed if you weren’t so distracted with trying to get the words out. Ramonda is quick to grasp your arms, keeping you upright when your knees felt like buckling. 

“When I see him… and how tortured he looks–I just don’t know what to do with all this… resentment. It hurts, Ma.”

You don’t stiffen or protest when Ramonda wraps her arms around you. She made it frightfully easy to fall apart, yet she was always there to help you pull yourself together.

“Do you forgive him?” She asks softly, threading her fingers through your hair as your head falls against her shoulder.

The question weighs in your mind like a burden. If you had been asked two days ago if you could forgive the Winter soldier, your answer would have been immediate and final. When hell freezes over.

But now… now you've seen him. Not the weapon, but the real him that had been buried beneath metal and trauma. It had complicated things.

“I should… it’s clear that he had no choice in what he did,” you push your face away, not wanting to soil Ramonda’s clothes with your tears. “But… there’s just this part of me that won’t let go. I just can’t.”

“And that’s OK, child,” she coos, brushing a few loose strands from your face, “you don’t owe him your forgiveness… but, I fear, he does have the right to know what he has done–” you’re about to protest, but Ramonda is quick to silence you with a firm look, “maybe not today, or tomorrow… but when you are both ready to confront this. I have watched this eat you up from the inside ever since T’Chaka brought you here… your parents would want you to have closure. They would want you to know peace.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Eltoris had been a village of pacifists. Peace was in your blood. But  it felt like that part of you had been left to freeze in the alps of Switzerland 18 years ago.

“You need sleep,” Ramonda chuckles, her hand gently tapping against your cheek, “I’m serious.”

You wet your lips, breathing out through your nose as Ramonda wipes away your tears. After a moment, you nod your head, “Ok… ok…” you sigh, “I’ll… I’ll get some sleep.” You affirm quietly.

You turned to leave, only to pause when she called your name. Turning back, you found her standing with her hand outstretched towards you, an expectant look on her face. 

Damn. Caught again. 

With a resigned huff, you reached into your coat pocket, handing over your stash of cigarettes… along with your lighter.

“Goodnight…” You bid softly before turning to leave.

-

The following morning, you had woken up before the crack of dawn. You had achieved about four hours of sleep that night, which was a lot compared to the amount you usually get. 

Ramonda’s words had lingered with you all night, and in turn–your mind had declared war on itself. Telling James about Eltoris would, without question, set him back. It was only the start of day three and you were already unravelling at the thought. Screaming, crying–the whole damn mess. You’d carried this for 18 years. A little longer wouldn’t kill you. Even if it felt like it might.

Instead of going to the dining hall for breakfast, you decided to wait in favor of going to the studio instead. You’d dressed down into a black tank top and a matching pair of shorts, the cool morning air nipping at your skin as you stepped inside. Kicking off your shoes, you dropped your water bottle onto the floor before moving to turn the temperature dial up–105 degrees. The lukewarm space whirred to life.

Still heavy with sleep, you swiped a yoga mat hanging from the back wall. You lay it out across the ground before collapsing against it. You didn’t have the energy or intention to exercise right now. You just needed the heat. 

The cold had never been kind to you–which made your yearly return to Eltoris a kind of quiet torture.

A deep sigh rumbles through your chest, your eyes drifting shut. Sprawled out, limbs loose, you let yourself go slack. There was something you were forgetting. You didn’t care enough to remember.

It felt like only thirty minutes had passed before your thoughts began to grow too fuzzy and absent minded to hold onto. Time passed in a fog, your limbs suddenly feeling too heavy to move. You had noticed it–but distantly. Then, the studio door clicks, the sound of your name filling the void of nothingness you had fallen into.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” you hear, feeling your wrist being pulled. Your eyes flutter slightly, the sound of your name growing louder, and the temperature of the room slowly dropping. “Come on,” it sounded like Minine, her voice cracked, worried, frantic as you're pulled into a sitting position. 

“How many times have I told you to crack a damn window open when you do this?!” 

Ah, that’s what you forgot.

You barely registered it when she pulls your arm around her neck; lifting you to your feet. “Need to get you to the medbay–” That's the last thing you hear before your world ebbs away into darkness.

-

Minine was almost in tears as she dragged you across the citadel to the medbay. A few members of staff had stopped to help, forming a small crowd of concerned faces who had since recognized this scene. It had happened before.

What felt like half an hour to you had actually been over an hour.

Upon entering the medbay, it had turned into a flurry of chaos–but Farah is the first to step up as she motions Minine into an empty bay. 

“She relapsed?” Farah questions softly, running through the usual ABCs with swift precision and calm. 

Minine doesn’t answer, shakily grabbing a few ice packs, “she’s going to be fine, Mi,” Farah reassures gently, “we know the drill.”

“It’s him,” Minine says finally, placing two ice packs on either side of your neck. “Treating him might just be the death of her.” She had tried to be optimistic, had tried so hard to be understanding of James’ situation. Captain America himself had explained it to her. But now, seeing your body, limp with heat stroke and exhaustion, Minine was ready to beg the king for another doctor to take the job.

Farah sighed as she lowers the bay’s temperature. “You need to trust her more. Trust that this time was an accident,” Farah busies herself by preparing an IV, “or at least talk to her about your concerns and let her decide whether she’s strong enough to keep going.”

Minine’s thoughts were in a frenzy as she wets a cloth. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking as she brushed the damp fabric across your forehead. You were drenched in sweat, yet your features remained peaceful and unmoved. It felt like 2012 all over again.

When all the steps required had been taken, and your body temperature had successfully been lowered, Farah dismissed herself. Minine barely acknowledges her departure as she sits silently at your bedside. Her fingers fidget restlessly against her lap as the seconds ticked by. It had been a while since she had been here, in this situation–yet, the weight of it hadn’t changed.

Eventually, she’s drawn from her thoughts by the sound of the curtain being slid open. She didn’t need to look up to know it’s T’Challa.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes, closing the curtain behind him, “how is she?”

“Stable…” Minine didn’t have a mean bone in her body. People knew her as the ‘good cop’ to your bad. Yet, here, Minine didn’t have the energy to play nice as she stood from her seat, “we need to talk.” She says firmly, brushing past him.

T’Challa’s worried eyes linger on you for a moment before he follows Minine out of your designated bay.

“She needs to be reassigned,” Minine says after moving to a more secluded space, “I’ve tried to be understanding–but he needs another doctor that doesn’t have a conflict of interest.”

“Minine–”

“I can’t–she can’t do this,” Minine snapped, stepping closer. “She’s not ready. Why would you ever think that this was a good idea?!”

T’Challa is silent, allowing her to vent, remaining patient as the once sweet medbay receptionist turns into someone unrecognizable. He understood, seeing you in that hospital bed had shaken him too–it was like looking at a vengeful ghost of past events. 

When Minine finally runs out of words, T’Challa is deliberately slow to respond. He waits for her to calm down a bit before speaking, “I know you’re worried,” he murmurs, reaching across the distance to squeeze her shoulders, “but… she needs this.”

“This?!” Minine’s voice raises slightly, her hand motioning towards the curtained bay, “were we looking at the same person back there? Or have you lost your mind?”

“I know,” T’Challa manages to keep his words even, calm, “but, she has been looking for closure her whole life, I wanted to give her a chance to confront him–to understand.”

“She was getting better before he came!” Minine protests.

“No,” T’Challa says firmly, his voice dropping, “we both know that’s not true.”

Minine begins shaking her head, her eyes turning glassy as a new line of tears prepared to fall. "She was,” she whispered, “she was–” her voice breaks, her hands coming to press over her forehead. Minine was holding onto denial with her whole body, trying to trick herself into believing that you were getting better before James’ arrival. But the past memories Minine had tried to brush under the rug had come back to haunt her. 

The faint smell of cigarettes, the overworking and over exercising, the moods–the fact that you never let your wings breathe anymore. Whether Minine could admit it or not, even if James hadn’t been brought to Wakanda–you were falling apart. It was only a matter of time before you broke down again.

“I know it’s hard to watch,” T’Challa takes another step closer, his hands falling to her arms, “but she is strong. She can do this, it will get better.”

Minine looks away when the tears start to fall. It was hard to trust that this would work, that you would work at it until you found closure. It would be even harder to watch you suffer. It only takes Minine a minute to realize that you didn’t need to suffer through it alone.

“I’ll–” Minine clears her throat, swallowing the shakiness in her voice, “I’ll have Farah conduct Sergeant Barnes’ psych eval for today. She’ll be mad if anyone else were to touch her notes… I hope you know what you’re doing.”

T’Challa nods, his eyes unbearably soft as he drops his hands, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

W/BARNES

You were late.

That’s the only thing going through Bucky’s mind as he sits inside the garden’s veranda, his eyes fixated on the vibranium chess pieces splayed out before him.

Steve sits in the opposing chair, evidently more relaxed compared to Bucky–who was a mess of thoughts and feelings. It wasn’t that Bucky was particularly worried or irritated by your lack of punctuality–he just wanted to get everything over and done with; unfortunately, that couldn’t happen if you weren’t here. 

He would be lying if his opinion on you hadn’t lifted somewhat after that stunt you pulled on his arm the day prior. It was small, incremental, but he kept thinking about it. About the feeling of your hands—how it hovered dangerously close to relief.

For some reason, neither he nor Steve were allowed to enter the medbay that morning and were directed into the citadel gardens to wait. Not that he was complaining, Bucky hated sitting inside the exam room, waiting to be poked, prodded and questioned. He’d already had a centuries worth of experience with that kind of stuff. The gardens were a nice change of pace. But that was all that they were, a change of scenery; not a change of mind.

“You’re overthinking again.” Steve murmurs, his arms coming to cross over his chest.

Bucky scoffs, turning his gaze away, “Not overthinking, I’m just wondering what’s taking her so damn long.”

Steve’s response comes out in a chuckle, his head slightly shaking from side to side, “You’re worried?”

“Try sick and tired–” Bucky’s head tilts towards the veranda’s entrance when he hears a pair of approaching footsteps. He was unbothered by the possibility of it being you, yet he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed when it turns out to be someone else entirely. It’s another doctor who stands in your place, accompanied by a member of the Dora Milaje. 

Steve sits up a little straighter, brows knitting together with confusion.

“Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers…” the woman greets politely with a bow of her head, “I’m doctor Mekonnen, I will be handling your evaluation for today.”

“What happened to Doctor Novaris?” Steve asks before Bucky could even think to get the words out.

Dr. Mekonnen hesitates. She glances at the Dora beside her, who remains to be a picture of calm and collected. Wetting her lips and clearing her throat, Dr. Mekonnen continues, “Doctor Novaris had a few important matters to attend to and will be unavailable for the rest of the day. But I assure you that this is only temporary.”

A short silence falls over the veranda, filled only by the gentle ring of the wind chimes swaying in the breeze. Steve looks to Bucky, gauging his reaction. 

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw ticks, eyes subtly narrowing. Then he shrugs, his shoulders stiff, tight. 

With that, Steve stands to his feet, lingering for a few seconds longer. His hand briefly touches against Bucky’s shoulder. “Be nice,” he murmurs before excusing himself.

༻❁༺

W/NOVARIS

You’re in the cold again. Scared and alone. Shaking.

This was a scene you remembered all too well, you didn’t need to have your eyes open to recall what happens here. The snow, the wind–your bare feet cut raw from the ice. The winds howl against your ears, causing you to wince involuntarily as the cold slaps harshly across your skin. It wasn’t real, you knew that–yet it always felt so tangible. 

The wreckage groans around you like a voice half-swallowed by the wind, the sound shaping itself to the sound of your name–welcoming you home. 

As you approach what was left of the village square, you stop yourself short. You brace yourself to see the Winter soldier–but he isn’t here.

Instead, James stands in his place.

No rifle. No mask. No arm. Just a man–tired, grieving, guilty.

You swallow thickly, feeling colder than ever; watching him closely as his figure steps closer. You’re quick to mirror his movements by taking a step back, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet. Your movements prompt him to pause, his features falling ever so slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, uttering softly, “I’m sorry.”

The sky roars to life with thunder and lightning, the ground beneath your feet beginning to shake as his apology repeats like a mantra between your ears. You’re quick to cover them, your knees buckling as you're overwhelmed with a symphony of sorrys.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.

“Stop it!” you scream,  “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

༻❁༺

“Stop!”

You jolt upright, colliding into someone’s arms before your mind could catch up. Instinct takes over–your body thrashing all on its own, fighting to breathe, to survive.

You only stop when the sound of your name cuts through the noise. Accents of  sweet jasmine and grounded myrrh filling your senses, indicating that you weren’t alone here with a stranger.

“You’re alright–” Minine soothes, her fingers brushing away the damp strands of hair that stick stubbornly to your forehead, “-you’re OK.” Your eyes flutter slightly, your hands coming to grasp weakly against her arm as if needing something to hold onto, something real. As you cling to her, your eyes rove over your surroundings. White cabinets, cream coloured walls, large windows.

The medbay. Your stomach sinks.

“What…?” You push yourself away, your brows knitting together, “what happened?” your eyes land on the IV sticking out of your arm. You yank it out with a subtle wince. You’re about to stand, but Minine is quick to pull you back. Her touch is firm. Her eyes, sharper now.

“I found you in the studio…” she says. Her voice was soft, but it carries the weight of something cracked. “Tell me that it was an accident, that you forgot to open a window…” she briefly hesitates, “ and look me in the eye when you do.”

You hesitantly lift your gaze, moving your hands so that they’re holding Minine’s upper arms. She looked like she had been crying, with her eyes all puffy and red, stubborn stray coils of hair sticking out from her bun. No one made Minine worry like you did, that was for sure. “It was an accident,” you say softly, “ I forgot to open a window… I’m sorry.”

Minine sniffles, her head bobbing slightly as she listens to your words. “It’s ok…” she breathes, swiping the sides of her palms beneath her eyes in order to ward away any oncoming water works, “but… for my own peace of mind, I’ve asked T’Challa to put you under watch–”

“What? Mi! Are you–” 

Minine holds up her hand to stop you from talking, loose tears beginning to fall despite the steel firmness in her voice. “I’m not taking any chances with you,” she says, lowering her hand, “until I can be more than sure that you can take care of yourself properly… I have extended your stay in the citadel for a few more months. I will be with you outside of work and a guard will be with you during work… as well as standing post outside your room while you sleep.”

You fall back into the bed with a groan, your eyes held to the ceiling. It’s like your progress over the past few years had slipped from your fingers like sand–pushing you back down to square one. You’d be old, angry and gray before you could be trusted to live on your own again. 

If you weren’t in charge of rehabilitating the Winter soldier, you’d be back in rehab yourself before you could even open your mouth to argue; not that arguing had helped your case in the past anyway. “Ok…” you murmur, not even trying to hide your dejection as your gaze moves towards the window. You’re not surprised to see that it’s dark out. You’re even less surprised about missing James’ evaluation. At least one good thing came from this shit-show of a day.

-

When you return to your room that night, it’s under the watchful eyes of Minine. A few citadel guards had been stationed in the guest halls; more so than you expected–about six of them to be exact. You don’t care enough to question it, simply content that this time, they would be outside your bedroom rather than inside. You’d have at least some semblance of privacy at least.

When Minine bids you goodnight, you can only manage a dismissive wave; immediately regretting shutting the door in her face. She’s worrying herself sick over you–and you couldn’t even say thank you without choking on your own pride.

You’re still wearing the same clothes from this morning, your hair slightly damp with sweat and grease. Your mind begged for you to collapse into bed. Instead, your feet carry you into the bathroom.

An hour goes by in slow, mechanical motions. Shower. Face. Moisturizer. Singlet. Shorts. You feel almost human after it all, cleaner than you deserve. It makes you feel a little less like shit when you start rummaging through your drawers in search of a stray cigarette. Ramonda may have taken your stash, but you do recall that you had at least one more box. You practically hear the singing of angels when it turns out to be true–the only downside, there were only two left, but hey, at least it came with a lighter stashed inside.

With a breath of relief, you step out onto your bedroom balcony. The warm air greets you kindly, the city landscape beaming with life. From here, you could see where the distant farmlands framed the city outskirts, the rivers bleeding across the terrain.

Slipping the cigarette between your lips, you move to light it. Your head spins with euphoria as you breathe the smoke deep into your lungs, the burn in your chest tethering you back in place. The upper half of your body leans forward against the railings, elbows pressed to the metal, eyes unfocused. God, you were savouring every little detail.

You’re halfway through your cigarette when you feel it–eyes on you. Smoke coils out through your nose as you peer towards your left.

“Now this is just getting ridiculous.” Now you knew why there were so many guards stationed outside.

Two balconies over, two rooms down–James.

You freeze. The cigarette nearly slips from your fingers.

He waves. It’s awkward, and a little sheepish.

You stare dumbly, your lips twitching slightly. Eventually, you turn away, breathing in a final puff of smoke before smooshing the rest out against the railings. You don’t meet his eyes as you retreat inside, suddenly hyper-aware of your clothes that barely covered enough skin to be considered casual.

The stub lands in the trash. You shut the balcony door quietly behind you.

Chapter Text

W/BUCKY

Bucky had been given a new room in the guest wing of the citadel. It was a significant step up from the patient quarters–quiet, private, warm. But the place felt too large, too curated, too extravagant for someone like him.

The high-arched windows were framed with dark wood and etched with brass. The rug beneath his feet was handwoven, its geometric motifs stitched in rich, earthy tones. Even the air smelled expensive–floral and faintly metallic.

Awkwardly, Bucky moves to sit down against the bed, the mattress immediately dipping beneath his weight. It’s soft, comfortable. Unfortunately, Bucky wasn’t a man used to comfort. He’s on his feet before the tenseness can melt from his shoulders, immediately moving towards the balcony doors and slipping outside.

The cold breeze offers Bucky more comfort than any bed could as he shuts the door behind him. Slowly, his eyes drift across the golden city below, the streets glimmering with accents of soft amber and violet luminescence. Towers curved like ancient sculptures, woven with vibranium and bio-integrated tech.

Bucky found himself to be taken aback by the view, watching the skylanes glint as hovercrafts glide soundlessly between spires. It all feels like a choreography of peace, a near silent symphony that he could only reach for but never touch.

Bucky rested his hand against the railings, his jaw tightening. It felt as if he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t demand a plan to survive or a motive to kill. He knew how to endure. By god, he was trying to atone, to learn. But the only thing he couldn’t wrap his head around? Was what to do with these little moments of peace he found himself in. With his mind so clear, and the air so fresh. It bothered him to some degree.

Then he heard it–the sound of a door sliding open.

Two balconies over. Two rooms down.

It was you.

You looked different here. No coat, no pen or clipboard; no guarded expression. It was just you and your lowered shoulders and drawn expression. He watches as you step barefoot onto the balcony, a cigarette poised between your fingers, the curve of golden tattoos catching against the low light–like starlight.

It felt wrong–hell, it was wrong, watching you like this–intimate in a way he hadn’t earned. He shouldn’t be looking in the first place. But for some reason, it was hard to look away. There was just something about watching the tenseness melt from your shoulders as you inhaled your first puff of nicotine.

He must’ve been staring too hard.

You noticed.

Sam Wilson had complained about his staring. A lot. Bucky was always so quick to brush him off. But now, as you froze mid-drag, the cigarette close to falling from your fingers, he felt it–shame, embarrassment.

And what does he do? 

He waves. 

Like an idiot.

Bucky felt like kicking himself, yet he refused to express that outwardly as you turned away. You take one last drag before smooshing out the rest against the railings and leaving.

Bucky’s hand falls, breathing out a soft sigh. He honestly wasn’t all that surprised. Yet for some reason it hurt more than it should have.

-

W/NOVARIS

That following morning you woke extra early, hoping to avoid running into James in the halls. You figured sneaking out of your room before sunrise would buy you a few more moments to yourself. Unfortunately, the second you cracked open the door–shoes in hand–Minine was already there, as if she had been waiting for you to open the door.

You don’t ask how she knew that you’d be up this early, after your most recent incident you weren’t all too surprised that she was sticking close.

She already looked visibly exhausted, dressed in her workout gear; her face having fallen into a half-hearted glare. You’d wager that Minine would eventually give up on shadowing you after realizing that she wasn’t built to be a morning person.

“You okay Mi?” you ask, smiling almost sympathetically, “you want to go back to bed?”

“You just had to be a morning person,” she grumbled sourly as you slipped your shoes on, “got me waking up before the ass crack of dawn–” she mumbles, tightly folding her arms over her chest.

You straighten yourself, raising a brow, “Technically, I’m not a morning or night person,” you respond, quickly tying your hair into a tight pony-tail, “besides, you’re the one who insisted on shadowing me when I’m not working or sleeping… not that I’m complaining… anymore.” It was hard to complain when Minine looked ready to strangle you with your own ponytail. 

“I need coffee,” she groans as you both start down the hall. You pass James’ door without comment, but your eyes linger for just a moment too long, “and you… you need to get better at hiding that cigarette stench.”

Your head whips towards her so fast that you almost give yourself whiplash. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please.” She yawns, stretching her arms overhead as you both pass by the guards who had since been switched out overnight, “I’ve known for months that you didn’t actually quit when you said you did. If America did one thing, it made you terrible at lying.”

Damn. Maybe you’d be the one to fold first. 

And fold you almost did.

Barely half an hour into working out with Minine and you were ready to call it quits. You’d forget quite often that she was a soldier first and medical receptionist second. Even after years of being out of the armour, she hadn’t lost her edge. 

You on the other hand, your skills had since rusted through to its core. Sure, you were still relatively quite flexible and had solid endurance–hot yoga and jogging kept you from falling apart–but compared to Minine, you were clearly lacking.

After nearly an hour, you’re practically trembling from exhaustion, trying to complete one final set of dead-lifts.  Minine on the other hand seemed to be glowing, drenched in sweat but still exceedingly energetic. 

“Ready to spar?”

A sharp breath shoots from your lips as you drop the weight-loaded barbell onto the padded ground, your back straightening as you choke out a breathless, “No.” 

“Oh, come on,” Minine hums, watching as you collapse against the ground, limbs splayed. “You used to beg people to spar with you. The challenge was getting you to stop.”

You grumble quietly, dragging the back of your hand against your sweaty forehead, “That was when I was young and embarrassing.” 

“You’re only twenty-eight,” Minine chuckles, clearly amused as she sits cross legged next to you, “you’re still young, and you were never embarrassing… maybe a little annoying but never embarrassing.”

A silence passes over the both of you, a faint smile curling at your lip.

“Thanks for that, Mi...”

“So… wanna spar?”

You laugh. It’s a tired sound, but nonetheless real. “No.”

-

By the time you’ve limped your way into the medbay, you’re full from breakfast and aching all over. Minine had guilted you into eating a bit more food than usual to balance out the workout–which, in your opinion, bordered on the fence of actual torture.

She’d given you an hour and a half to recover and get dressed, warning that if you weren’t in by eight, she’d have your personally assigned guard knock down your bedroom door. It sounded like a joke at the time–delivered with her usual sweet smile–you however weren't too eager to find out if she meant it or not.

Upon entering, you’re quick to notice the change in atmosphere. It was… calmer, softer even. Every colleague who passes you offers a you either a careful smile, or a too gentle greeting; their eyes shining with sympathy.

It irritates the living hell out of you, but you're inclined to politely nod back in acknowledgement. 

Of course. They knew.

Word must have spread about Yesterday’s incident. Yet it was left to waft through the air like a steadily rolling fog, rather than a straightforward hail. You must’ve looked like death, you sure felt like it–having flirted with it a little too closely. Now, everyone was walking on eggshells around you, as if you might collapse again at any moment. You hated it. The pity, the concern, the implication that you were anywhere near fragile. 

Minine is where she usually is, stationed at the front desk, dealing with citadel patients. 

“Must’ve really enjoyed that hour and a half, hm?” Minine murmurs as you approach the counter. James’ file is already waiting on the counter, a bit thicker than the last time you saw it. “I had Farah conduct yesterday’s evaluation. She took care of the worst of it, there shouldn’t be much left.”

Your fingers flip through the newly added notes, relieved to find that Farah had followed your formatting preferences to a T. Neat handwriting, organized categories, footnotes that complimented your own. It would certainly make everything a lot more easier.

That said, James clearly didn’t make it easy for her.

“Initial attempts to ask about sleep were met with minimal verbal response, only ever shrugging and averting his gaze–”

You frown, chewing against the inside of your cheek as the notes continue. It looked like he had given Farah the same stone wall he had given you.

“Oh,” Minine hums, rapping her knuckles against the counter to grab your attention, “this is Zuberi, he’s your assigned personal guard, Shuri picked him out.” 

You glance over to find the guard standing quietly nearby. He’s tall, with an almost statuesque stillness, dressed in the standard armour–but his high collared mantle is different: not vibranium, but a woven lattice of close-knit beads that shimer softly in the light. He looks ceremonial, deliberate. Watchful.

“Miss Novaris,” Zuberi greets, bowing his head with impeccable politeness.

You’re at a loss for words. This was certainly the last straw. You could quietly handle Minine babying you. You could quietly handle your coworker’s pity. But a personal guard?

"I thought you were joking about that..." You slowly turn to Minine, your features unreadable, “All this is going to make me jump out a window.” You whisper.

“Unless you plan of flying, Zuberi will be right there to drag you back.” Minine says, not missing a beat as she raised a brow, motioning you both off with a tilt of her head.

You laugh sarcastically, smoothing your hand across your forehead. You give the front counter a firm and decisive knock before brushing past Zuberi with a huff, muttering, “Perfect. Just what I need.”

Zuberi remains quiet. He just follows along, silent and steady.

Guess you could quietly deal with having a personal guard too.

Chapter Text

To say the most, Zuberi was certainly an intimidating presence to be around. He moved soundlessly and with purpose, his features monotonously set as to give nothing away. He was a man who had little else to say unless it could be condensed into a curt nod of understanding. Not that you were complaining. You suspected he’d been chosen specifically because he was so quiet.

When you reached James' usual exam room, you paused. “Wait out here,” you told Zuberi. 

He nodded once, not needing to be asked twice as he stepped aside, taking position at the door like a stone sentinel.

You take a steadying breath, squaring your shoulders before entering. 

Your eyes find James automatically. He’s sitting on one of the free chairs instead of on the exam table. He’s next to the window this time, too preoccupied by the view to acknowledge the second presence in the room. The rain casts a dim glow across the room, washing everything in soft muted shadows.

You swallow thickly, wetting your lips before starting. “Good morning, James.” Your voice grabs his attention immediately, breaking him out of whatever thought had taken hold, his gaze swivelling to meet yours, “how are we feeling today?” you ask, pulling up a chair across from him.

“...I’m alright,” he says, his gaze falling away from your face, “ but.. I’m sorry about last night…” 

You blink slowly. Last night? On the balcony? You hardly thought of it as a moment to apologize for. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up at all, let alone lead with it.

He opens his mouth to elaborate–as if you even needed a reminder–you’re quick to interrupt with a firm tone, “Barnes–” he closes his mouth, tilting back slightly–bracing almost, “you didn't do anything wrong.”

He drinks in your words quietly, his expression betraying hints of confusion. 

“If anything…” you exhale through the words, hesitating. You couldn’t believe you were going to say this. “I should-” you stutter, swallowing thickly, “I should be the one to apologize. For, uhm… brushing you off. I reacted poorly.” 

The words taste like vinegar. You knew how to recognize when you were in the wrong–accepting James' apology would’ve been just that. But knowing it didn’t make it go down any easier.

Sure, being caught smoking a shameful cigarette on your balcony was embarrassing, but it wasn’t something Bucky needed to be sorry for witnessing.

“Anyhow,” You breathe, crossing one leg over the other as his file falls flat against your lap, “we have a few more things to go through. Tomorrow should just be prepping you for cryo so let’s just get it all over and done with–”

“Easier said than done.” James mutters.

You ignore the comment, once again flipping through his file, “I might need to go over a few of your answers from yesterday…” you murmur mostly to yourself, “you didn’t exactly make it easy for Farah, that was for sure.”

James scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Well, you try being asked a million different questions that you don’t know how to answer. It gets annoying after the first thirty.”

You pause. He had a point. You knew what it felt like, sitting in that chair. You had been in his position before. Your silence lingers a little too long, and then an idea forms. A Stupid, reckless, possibly catastrophic idea.

“I understand this is all quite difficult for you,” you begin carefully, ignoring the displeased huff that follows, “but maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re not going anywhere near my head until I’ve gone under.” James defends flatly, barely missing a beat.

Your lips twitch in annoyance, your hand coming to snap his file shut, “I never said anything about reading minds. I was thinking–if I ask you a question, and you provide me with a good answer that suggests you really are trying, then… you’re free to ask me a question in return.”

That seemed to catch his attention almost immediately, his brows subtly rising in surprise. You try not to think about how bad of an idea this was as you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“Within reason,” you add quickly, your tone sharp.

Your gaze was locked tight with his–the tensions daring the other to look away first. It felt like a game, yet less playful and more solemn. Unfortunately, you would have to lose for the sake of professionalism–it wasn’t exactly ethical to stare your patients down into submitting.

“Well?” you huff, glancing away first.

“Alright.” 

You should’ve been more worried. More guarded. But you were so caught up in getting everything finalized for cryo that you were willing to wager your sanity. If he had questions about you, about your past–you’d have to dance around the subject. Say enough to sound truthful, without ever painting the whole picture.

“How would you describe yourself in your own words?” you ask, scrounging for a pen and spare scrap of paper in a nearby drawer. You click your pen into readiness.

James’ features remain unchanged, yet his eyes blink slowly as if silently scoffing at the question. He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing as he adjusts himself. For a second, he looks anywhere but at you.

“I…” he hesitates, his features darkening as he attempts to string together a response, “I guess I used to be a soldier… Now–well, now, I’m just… I’m just trying to not be what they made me to be. It’s hard to think about.”

You blink, stunned by the clarity of his answer. Sure it was short, but it was something you could work with, “Alright…” you hesitated, scribbling down his answer.

His next words are quieter.

“Are you afraid of me snapping?”

You look up. His features are calm, his voice leveled. But something flickers beneath his gaze as if he had already anticipated your answer. You wondered if it was a question he thought about often as he talked with Steve and interacted with you. 

You wet your lips before uttering a soft, “No.” 

That was your first lie.

“I wouldn't still be here if I was afraid.”

Another lie. The only reason you’re here is out of duty–and your respect for T’Challa. You couldn’t think of it any other way.

Taking a breath, you pivot from the topic at hand, “Have you ever felt like there’s more than one version of you?” 

You routinely wait through the silence with him as he collects his thoughts. He seemed to be still processing your answer–almost surprised that you weren’t afraid of him… at least not outwardly. He briefly thinks back to when he had grabbed your wrist the other day. You didn’t tremble or cry, you stood your ground and used your words. 

“Barnes?” you prompt when the quiet starts to drag.

James clears his throat, “What was the question again?”

“Have you ever felt like there’s more than one version of you?”

He nods slowly, tilting his head back slightly like he’s trying to find the words on the ceiling, “There's this part of me that remembers Brooklyn… just bits and pieces that feel–warm, and devastatingly familiar…” he briefly hesitates, his features flickering, “then there’s my memories from Hydra, and what I did… that part of me lives on my skin. The toll seems so high that it feels like my hands will forever be soaked in blood.”

You’re so caught up with listening that you forget to actually write it down. You’d spent so long bracing for his questions–preparing your own guarded answers–that you hadn’t accounted for how deeply his answers might hit you. You could hear the way he soaked each syllable with remorse, how it coincided with how fondly he spoke about Brooklyn.

You take a shuddering breath disguised as a weak cough, straightening yourself out, 

“I won’t say the road to recovery will be easy,” you sigh, ignoring the subtle urge to reach out and comfort. You were forgetting who he was. What that part of him was responsible for, “but trust me when I say that it’s possible. It'll just take a bit of time.”

James didn’t respond. He didn’t believe you.

“What is it you see when you look at me?”

Lightning strikes in the distance, and for a fleeting moment–you’re ten years old, dying in the snow. 

For a brief second, it’s not James in front of you, but the Winter soldier.

You clasp your fingers together to prevent yourself from trembling or looking away. The rain was beginning to fall harder now, drumming against the glass beside you.

“I see a man who was rebuilt too many times by people who never cared if he survived the process,” you say coldly. It comes out harsher than you intended–yet it was too late to take back now, your pride wouldn’t let you, “but… I also see someone who doesn’t know how to exist outside of war.”

You clasp your hands tighter together, noticing how the tremble in your fingers was beginning to spread, creeping its way up your arms and towards your shoulders. Your back aches from how tense you’ve gotten–like if you hold still enough, you wouldn’t fall apart so easily. You had only asked two questions, and yet–you needed to leave. He had answered with more words than his previous sessions–and you weren’t sure that you could handle it.

“Let’s take five–” you breathe, standing abruptly. You don’t wait to see or hear his reaction as you practically stumble from the room and into the hall.

You don’t notice Zuberi following behind in your wake as you speed towards the bathroom, “Doctor?”

Zuberi’s voice doesn’t sway you to stop as you lock yourself inside. A question for a question had been what you had expected–a terribly, stupid, compromising idea.

You barely managed to get your coat off before your non-injured wing rips through the back with a painful snap.

“Shit!”

You peel off the wrecked material with an angry huff, dropping it to the ground with a hiss of frustration.

 “Great idea, Novaris,” you mutter bitterly to your reflection. “Just great!”

To be continued | 19.06.2025