Going Under
Four days after Steve Rogers left Wakanda, T’Challa entered the clinical, white room where Sergeant Barnes was currently held in stasis, softly resting a hand on the clear chamber before entering a series of commands into the tech pad at its side. A soft hiss of pneumatic presses and gas, and the clear cover slid open, a chill spilling from within to the room around him, which had already been set to high fifties in anticipation of what he was about to do. Barnes twitched slightly, his senses beginning to wake. It would likely be a slow and difficult process for him, but T’Challa had promised him weeks ago that he would do his best to ease it.
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said softly. “You are safe, it is only you and I. I will not hurt you. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he repeated, keeping up the mantra, hoping that it would soften the transition out of cryo.
Nothing about Barnes’ appearance looked any different, though the monitors told T’Challa that he was indeed waking up. His only warning was a slight twitch of the metal shoulder before cold blue eyes opened and Barnes ripped the thin harness off with his flesh hand before pinning T’Challa to the floor.
“Who are you?” Barnes growled, “Who are you working for?” He was breathing heavily, and though his actions so far seemed ferocious, T'Challa could sense the fear underneath. The fear that he was being used again.
“I am your friend, Barnes. I am King T’Challa, and you are here, in my facility. In the Wakandan jungle, as you requested. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and I will not hurt you. You are safe here, my friend. Steve left here last week, and I am waking you, as you asked me to.”
He kept saying the words, until he could see them slowly sinking in, Barnes’ chest rising and falling, his forehead creasing with the effort of putting all the pieces together while also working to get his bio-rhythms up to normal. Whether it was five minutes or five hours, T’Challa didn’t know. But he saw Barnes look at him, eyebrows rising up, and then the man rolled off of him as quickly as he’d pinned him.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, his body shaking now, though whether it was from the cold or nerves, T’Challa couldn’t tell. “I- I’m sorry... I d-didn’t- I-”
T’Challa put a hand up to comfort him. ‘It is all right. I knew waking you would not be easy for me, but I dare say that it was much more difficult for you.”
Barnes closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath. “No suit,” he managed to get out after a few more minutes. “Dangerous. I could- I could have-”
“But you did not,” the king said with finality. “Whatever you could have done, you did not do it. I know you feel guilt over the things you have done. Please, there is no need to feel it over pain you did not cause.”
Barnes looked at him with a heavy stare, then nodded. “I’ll try.”
“That is all any of us can do, is it not?” T’Challa said, smiling softly. “Here,” he added, pushing himself up to standing and offering an arm to the other man. “May I help you up?”
The brunet hesitated, but took the arm, feeling himself wobble as he stood, not used to his body without the weight of the metal arm. “Thanks,” he said, the smallest of smiles coming to his face. “For this. And for not telling Steve.”
T’Challa nodded. “Captain Rogers is a good man. He cares about you deeply, but I could see that you are correct. He is too close to this. Besides,” he added, “this is your recovery. It must be your choice how to handle it. Your choices have been taken from you for a long time... I could not take this one from you.”
He thought back to the meeting Barnes had requested a few weeks earlier, the one his bodyguards had been so reluctant to allow. To meet with the Winter Soldier, alone. But he had not seen the meeting that way. It was not a meeting with the Soldier. It was a meeting with a man who was scared, and lost. A man looking for a way to keep his friend from pain, and to find peace. Which is why he had gone, and why he had agreed to this plan.
To tell Captain Rogers that Barnes was going back under, into cryo, for as long as it took to find a cure, a way to erase the programming that Hydra had implanted. To give the man some peace and rest in the meantime. And once Rogers had left, to wake Barnes again. If Rogers knew that Barnes was awake, he would not leave his side. Even if the world needed him to. T’Challa had seen this to be true. Rogers was rational, except when it came to his best friend. He could also see that Rogers being this close, this involved would not be helpful. Barnes was not the same man he had been before, it was not possible for anyone to be. He needed to be awake and responsive to determine which therapies would be useful certainly, but he also needed to learn who he was on his own.
T’Challa knew Rogers would never have agreed to it, and so did Barnes. Which is why he hadn’t told him. And it was why T’Challa had agreed. Hopefully, someday, Rogers would understand.
He helped Barnes to a waiting chair, and as the other man sat, T’Challa wrapped a soft blanket around his shoulders. “We need to get your core temperature back up to standard, and I am afraid that your meals must be liquid for the first few days,” he said apologetically.
“Not my first time,” Barnes said, “I remember how it goes.” Looking up, he caught the wince that the king tried to hide and he sighed. “I understand. And I know you’re helping me. I- I may not be great at acting like a human... haven’t had much practice,” he said, trying to joke. “But I know you’re not them.”
T’Challa smiled, resting a hand on Barnes’ shoulder. “I am truly sorry for what you have been through... and for the pain that I have caused you. I added to your struggles when I should have stopped, and listened. But perhaps I can share some of your burden now.”
Barnes smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone... not even an enemy. But thanks... that means a lot.”
The next few days were a strange mix of events, familiar to him, and yet jarring. The liquid meals were expected, as was the grainy taste - cryo killed off all the bacteria in his gut, bacteria necessary for human digestion, and he needed to replenish it before he could consume any solid food. The exercise was normal too... except he was allowed to do whatever routines he wanted. He had no direction on which muscles would be crucial for the upcoming mission, or how many sets he was required to perform before he was allowed to rest.
Rest. That was the really weird thing. He was allowed to do that whenever he wanted. As much as he wanted. Wherever he wanted.
The first time, after he had pushed himself through the first half of his standard post-cryo workout, he’d been looking out the glass window into the jungles of Wakanda. The sun had seemed so quiet and peaceful. He’d only stopped for a moment, he thought, just to admire it... and he’d been woken up to the soft press of a hand on his shoulder.
His eyes had flown open, and he’d jumped to attention, stammering out an apology for falling asleep. It was unacceptable, he knew, for such a lapse to happen, and outside of his quarters too. He had tried to apologize, hanging his head, but T’Challa had just held up a hand and given him that soft smile. “It’s quite all right. You are always permitted to grant your body the rest it needs, wherever you feel safe.”
Safe. That was still something more of an abstract concept in his mind. Other people felt safe. Safe was how other people felt about where they slept and where they ate and where they went about their lives. Safe was wherever he wasn’t, because wherever he was wasn’t safe for anyone else.
But he was beginning to grasp how other people felt about safety. Because true to his word, T’Challa hadn’t punished him for falling asleep in the gym. Or at the table where he ate. Or in the lab once, when a tech had been explaining possible options for replacing his metal arm. It was becoming something of a habit for the king to place a blanket around the sleeping soldier’s frame, and he found that it was a nice feeling... that someone saw him vulnerable and wanted to help rather than punish. Weird. Strange. But nice.
He knew there would be more. That the hard stuff was still ahead. The work of figuring out what programming Hydra had left behind, and getting rid of it... and trying not to hurt anyone while doing it. He’d already punched the king twice this week. Not on purpose. The guy was too damn quiet whenever he entered a room. Bucky snorted. Just like me. T’Challa had laughed though, instead of punching back. And he’d refused to accept an apology. “I should know better than to alarm you, the fault is mine.” And, “I will announce myself next time.” And he had. He was still too close though, and Bucky had landed another punch.
Despite the setbacks though, he could feel things happening. Moving forward. Progress. The last time T’Challa had come in after a workout, Bucky had turned sharply, muscles tensed, but he hadn’t moved to strike. This was good. He was getting better at controlling his own body here.
Good. There were always a few rough starts after a period in storage. He knew he could get his body and reflexes under control. Best estimate was probably two, three more days before full physical functionality. Except his arm. That was gone.
Maybe. T’Challa has said something about vibranium... the same stuff Steve’s shield was made from... and the cat suit. He wasn’t sure about it though. Another surgery, feeling the wires and the pinches and the shocks as people in white coats put things on him and in him and through him. Maybe it wouldn’t be like that here. Maybe. He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. Not right now.
No, physical functionality was not his real concern. He knew the real hurdles were the ones inside his head. This would be the worst minefield he had ever faced. He had to do the very thing he had been programmed against. He had to take on the Winter Soldier... and the soldier had to lose.