July
July was very slow to come.
When Steve landed in Wakanda, the stifling tropical heat almost knocked him back into the aircraft. T’Challa, waiting for him on the tarmac, looked supremely unbothered in his black three-piece suit.
“Welcome back,” he said.
“Thank you for your welcome,” Steve answered in clumsy Wakandan. He’d been studying it in his downtime—it was the least he could do. The spark dancing in T’Challa’s eyes suggested that Steve’s delivery was not perfect, but Steve was happy to amuse him.
They walked side by side into the medical facility, which was blessedly cool. Steve asked T’Challa a few questions about the political situation he faced as a newly crowned king; the answers he got made him very glad he’d never been thrown into that particular snake pit.
The elevator was a smooth-edged bubble of glass glued to the face of the building, like a drop of water sliding down a window. T’Challa stepped inside and shifted back to English. “Maybe it is too early yet—but we should also discuss the matter of your friend’s arm.”
Steve’s blood went cold. “What about it?”
He was bracing himself for complications—surgery—further amputation—and absolutely did not expect T’Challa to say, “He will be in need of a new one. The first one was made of a vibranium alloy—I was very surprised when my ring reacted to it. I don’t know where it came from, but we should be able to repair it without any complications. When he is ready.”
Steve looked at him.
Then he extended his hand and brushed the touchpad; the elevator smoothly stopped half-way, suspended over the fog.
T’Challa didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even look at him, but Steve could tell his poise had shifted from friendly ease to corded tension.
“Why are you so generous to us?” Steve asked bluntly. “I know you feel like you owe Bucky a debt. But I also know the value of vibranium. What you’re offering now is priceless—and you’ve been sustaining me and my own in France, for months.”
Their exposed position over the jungle prickled at him, but he’d left these matters unsaid for too long. “Eleven Wakandans lost their lives in Nigeria. It was my fault. You wanted me to sign the Accords in retribution, and I didn’t.”
T’Challa finally turned his head and looked at him.
“I did want that,” he said. “And my own reckless actions should have reinforced my belief in the need for supervision. Is that what you think?”
Steve shifted a bit on his feet. He’d been too polite to say this, but T’Challa was no fool.
“I did not err because I refused to listen to Ross,” T’Challa said, his accent like sandpaper over finely grained dark wood. “I did because I would not listen to you. Barnes was innocent and Zemo was guilty. You tried to warn us from the start.”
“You all knew I was biased. Stark had the high ground.”
“I am not certain Stark’s personal feelings were left entirely out of the equation,” T’Challa said, which had to be the biggest euphemism Steve had ever heard. “And regardless—he betrayed his own ideals when he went to Siberia to fight by your side. Not even a week after he’d signed the Accords. But you never wavered. You never compromised.”
“Because I was stubborn.”
“Because you were right. I do not know anyone in politics who never changed sides. Not even my father. Not even myself.” His eyes were calm and unmoving. “Except for you. And that is because the path to follow was clear to you from the start.”
“I actually do wish we could be supervised,” Steve said, vaguely wondering why the hell he was insisting on playing devil’s advocate right now.
“So do I. And in an ideal world we could allow it. But look at what happened in Berlin and tell me: who can we trust to direct us but ourselves?”
Steve couldn’t answer that. If he could, he would have signed the Accords, and everything would have been very different.
“A king is always in dire need of advisors like you,” T’Challa said. “People who can steer a ship true, no matter the storm. I do not think you realize how rare that is.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “And you also underestimate what it means to have you for an ally—to say nothing of Ms. Maximoff. So rest assured.” He reached out to get the elevator moving again. “My generosity does not spring from thin air.”
*
Steve’s head was still full of politics when Bucky’s chamber opened, billowing steam rushing out. It was a relief to gather him in his arms and feel his heartbeat, this simple, straightforward gift. He was alive. Never mind anything else, he was alive.
“Steve?” Bucky asked, his voice weak and uncertain.
He was always so vulnerable right out of the ice. There was a physical ache in Steve’s chest when he imagined him in such a state, dragged across cold rooms by unforgiving hands, welcomed only by rough restraints and the chair.
“Yeah. It’s me.” Steve wished his embrace could have meant something more than fleeting comfort. He wished he was here to take Bucky home. “I got you, Buck.”
Bucky exhaled and his head lolled forward. “M’ glad you’re here.”
Steve’s traitorous heart seized up again. Jesus. He’d hoped it would be easier this time.
“Are you back with us?” Hsari said, walking in.
Bucky nodded his assent and moved away from Steve, though not by much. He was still slightly shivering as she listed the tests he would endure this time around.
“…a full meal, another attempt at sleep, the usual brain scans, and a physical.”
“Okay,” Bucky said quietly.
The word pushed past Steve’s lips before he realized it. “No.”
They both looked at him.
“You don’t have to do that every time,” Steve went on, following only his instinct—and his instinct told him not to let this happen. “Let’s take a breather.”
“Steve…”
“What,” Steve challenged, “you got somewhere to be?”
For a second, Bucky just stared. But then, miraculously, his lips twitched with the shadow of a smile.
“Can’t say I do.” He glanced at Hsari. “But maybe she does.”
Steve turned to her. “Ma’am, I know I keep interfering with your work, but you won’t let that interfere with your care. As far as Bucky’s concerned, he’s just been through forty-eight hours of tests without interruption. We’re taking a break.”
For a second, Hsari’s flinty stare was more disapproving than ever. But then she looked at Bucky with something softer in her expression. “Do you have any objection to such a setback?”
Bucky looked like he hadn’t expected her to ask him. “Uh… I—no.”
“Then I agree with Captain Rogers.” She glared at him. “Though it pains me to say it.”
*
“You charmer,” Bucky said after she was gone.
“I just—” Steve shrugged a little helplessly. “You’ve spent all of your time in here, except for that walk in the gardens one time. I thought… I’m sorry if I forced your hand.”
“You’re not sorry at all,” Bucky said with a faint huff of breath.
But he was looking at Steve with soft, smiling eyes. There was a quiet moment when neither of them spoke.
Eventually, Bucky glanced away. “Well, we’ve got the day to ourselves. Was there anything you wanted to do?”
Steve took a deep breath. “How about getting out of here, for a start?”
*
Wakanda was a small country; the mountain range comprising the western border wasn’t far. Steve landed the Quinjet next to an opaque green river, and they set about hiking to the top.
As they climbed up the dirt track, the thick July air cleared into something cooler and lighter. When they were a mile up, the trees grew scarcer until they vanished completely, leaving only sharp obsidian rocks protruding out of the earth and thick grass under their feet.
Steve took off his shoes for the last stretch, and after a little while Bucky did the same.
When they reached the top, the rolling canopy was like a dark green sea stretching as far as they could see, melting into a foggy blue on the horizon. The sky above was cloudless, and so pure it was almost without color.
Bucky gazed at the view in silence. His dark hair was moving gently in the breeze.
Did you forget you were free? Steve wanted to ask. He ached with the thought. He ached when he wondered if Bucky’s obedience to Hsari sprang from habit, fatigue, or resignation—or a mixture of the three. He couldn’t know; he wouldn’t ask. But he could give him this.
Eventually, Bucky turned round. The look on his face was difficult to read, but what he chose to give away was a smile.
“Thanks, Steve.”
Steve swallowed hard. “That’s nothing. You should see our house.” He walked closer. “I… brought pictures if you’re interested.”
Bucky looked away again.
“Next time,” he said. “Be nice to look forward to that.”
They both knew that next time Wanda would come along and forage through Bucky’s brain—the thought cut through Steve like a blade, and for a second the air was suffocatingly thin.
“Sure,” he managed. “Next time.”