Chapter 1
Steve.
“Steve.”
The name feels almost foreign on Bucky’s tongue as he says it out loud, lying alone and awake in a Wakandan hotel, trying and failing to process the events of the past week.
His head feels clear for the first time in far, far too long. It makes him upset to dwell on that, so he simply doesn’t.
Instead, he just revels in the fact that he is, somehow, safe and alive and himself in this exotic country that feels too perfect to be real. A part of him is wary of it all, but he can’t dwell on that either, because he’s sure hope is his only source of sanity. He can’t lose his hope.
When Shuri, the young, intelligent scientist, told him that Steve was on his way to Wakanda, he almost felt sick to his stomach for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
Because when he closes his eyes and thinks about the person who is supposed to be his closest friend, all he sees is Steve’s battered face under his own hands, and behind the barrel of his gun. Bruised and bloody and… broken.
Bucky caused so much damage, and he couldn’t remotely understand why Steve would still want to see him, and why he would even be interested.
But Steve saved him. He put his life in danger to keep him from the government, effectively outlawing himself in Bucky’s name.
Unease swirls in his stomach. It’s a familiar feeling.
—
Bucky looks himself in the mirror the next morning, not quite recognizing his own face. He figures it’d been so long since he looked in the mirror and truly saw himself.
Even though he hadn’t been the soldier, that year in Bucharest doesn’t count as Bucky. He was just an empty shell that year, not quite the soldier but not quite Bucky, just somewhere uncomfortably in between. A blank slate.
He doesn’t feel like that person anymore.
His eyes look darker blue than he remembers them being, and he figures maybe time does that. Or maybe his memory is shot. His hair is also longer— much longer. He tries to brush it out of his eyes, but a few strands fall back into place.
The new metal arm is made of a type of black vibranium, and Bucky thinks it looks a lot more sleek than the HYDRA one did. He likes it, he thinks. But he’s still getting used to forming his own opinions again, and of being an individual and not a pawn in somebody else’s game. He’s still wary of his own independence.
—
Wakanda is beautiful, like a city out of a fantasy book, with skylines that glint and gleam in the bright African sun, and countrysides as peaceful as his grandparents farm upstate when he was young.
They let him explore when he’s not in Shuri’s lab, and he’s both wary and in awe of the trust that Wakandan officials place in him. They still track him, and he knows they’ve got eyes on him most of the time, but as long as he can’t see it, it doesn’t matter. If they wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.
He’s spent the week getting to know the place, the language, and the culture of this new, foreign country that has taken him in. He starts to relax sometimes when he’s on his own, and it’s so refreshing he thinks he might want to stay here forever.
He’s staring out at the water, standing on a bridge that connects the rural part of the city to the urban district, watching the way the sun reflects off the slowly moving river. He thinks he could watch it for hours.
But then he jumps at a buzz in his pocket, momentarily forgetting about the 21st century and all its new technology. He pulls out the phone, seeing Shuri’s name on the screen. He answers.
“Yes?”
“How are you today, James?” She asks, voice light like honey, with an accent different enough from the ones he’s used to that makes him feel safe in a new kind of way.
He swallows. “Fine,” he answers, knowing where this conversation is going. Steve should be arriving today.
“Your friend is almost here,” she says, as if reading his mind.
“I know,” he sighs.
“You are nervous, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He’s grown to like the young scientist, not only for her intelligence and willingness to learn how to help him, but for her kindness and empathy for him, too.
“I hurt him,” Bucky murmurs. “He should be angry.”
“But he also saved you.”
“I know, it’s just…”
“You have a hard time trusting people who want to help you,” Shuri says, finishing his thought.
Bucky’s silent for that one, trying to remember the last time someone tried to help him, besides Shuri and Steve and his friends. He can’t recall, but mostly because his memories are still foggy. It’s not like he can just remember his past, because these days they still come to him in waves.
He hears Shuri sigh. “This will be difficult for you. But he wants to see you. Are you okay with that?”
“Of course,” he says, because he owes Steve at least that much.
—
He closes the door to the lab behind him, nerves riding high. He fixes his eyes on the floor until he’s fully turned around in the hallway, and then slowly looks up.
Steve’s wearing normal clothes, just jeans and a zip-up jacket. He’s standing down the hall, and when he comes closer Bucky can see both hope and concern in his eyes. He’s shocked to see no malice.
“How are you?” Steve asks tentatively. The air is thick with anticipation.
But Bucky is lost in thought, studying Steve’s posture, the way his hands are loosely in his pockets and the way he stands like he’s waiting for the cue to come closer. Bucky’s still cautious, though, and swallows thickly.
“Can you take your hands out of your pockets?” He asks, voice low and quiet.
“Of course,” Steve answers quickly, and Bucky wills himself to not jump when Steve moves suddenly. But his hands are empty, and Bucky can tell he has no concealed weapons.
Steve’s expression has changed from hopeful to concerned and calculated, like he’d trying to figure out what Bucky is thinking. He figures he’ll make it easier for him.
“I’m nervous,” he says, pushing down the negative feeling of vulnerability. He figures he owes him honesty, at the very least. “Why did you help me, after all I did?”
“Because you’re my friend, Buck,” Steve says simply. Bucky doesn’t know how he feels about that old nickname, but it brings back memories of his life before all of everything happened.
“That was lifetimes ago,” he whispers. Images flash in his mind, of old New York, of Steve and him as children playing in the hazy afternoon, of the difficulties of the depression but the joy and culture that sprung from it. As if on cue, Steve has an answer.
“Somewhere in there is the Bucky I once knew.”
Bucky swallows. “You don’t know that.”
“I know that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try to find him.”
—
Shuri gave Steve and Bucky some time to talk. They didn’t speak about much, though, because Bucky let Steve do most of the talking, settling comfortably back into being a listener. He’s pretty sure this is normal, though— or whatever normal used to be before the two of them went on ice. Steve was the talker, and Bucky was the listener. That’s how things were, and Bucky can tell that Steve is satisfied, at least.
Steve told Bucky everything that he might have missed about the events of the past few weeks. About why the news and United Nations targeted him, about why Tony turned on them, about the Avengers initiative and who everybody was. It was useful information, and Bucky made sure take note of what he was hearing.
Less tangible was the way the conversation reminded him of Steve’s endless optimism, a trait he’d thought he’d long forgotten about. The way he always believes the best in people, no matter the circumstance. He can sense it in the way he speaks about Tony, who Bucky’s only known from the other side of the battlefield. He speaks about him with respect, at the very least, despite all that’s happened.
It’s pleasant, at least for that afternoon.
But after a while Bucky starts to get antsy, like he was almost waiting for Steve to snap and to turn on him. And he doesn’t think he has the energy to fight back, so instead he starts to shut off— not on purpose, but in the way he always has when things become too much.
When Steve leaves the room for a moment— they’ve stayed in the lounge of the lab for the past few hours— Shuri steps in.
“Would you like me to tell him you’re done, just for today?” She asks.
He looks at her for a moment, thinking. He takes a deep breath to test his nerves. Finally, he nods, looking away.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Do not worry about it. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Were you listening to us?” Bucky asks, not accusatory, but curious.
She shrugs. “I have to monitor you. It’s part of my job.”
He understands and shows it with a slight nod.
He doesn’t blame her or the Wakandan king and government for their caution. Bucky’s a lethal weapon, one that can be hijacked at any moment with a simple spell— he’d keep a close eye on him if he were in their position, too.
—
Hurt swirls in Steve’s chest as he listens to Shuri tell him that Bucky had to leave. He understands, objectively— he doesn’t know the trauma his friend had endured, and he knows that the week they spent on the run was blurry to the both of them. He’d have to wait until the dust settled to really get a picture of how Bucky was doing, or even who he is now.
The early snapshot he got this afternoon wasn’t comforting, though. There was a look in Bucky’s eye, a cold, calculated stare that thinly masked fear and distrust towards Steve. He’d prepared himself for that, of course, but he didn’t expect the distrust to last the entire afternoon, and he was worried that it might never leave, no matter Steve’s intentions.
“Why?” he demands, keeping his voice level.
Shuri looks at him for a moment, and he appreciates her calm temperament and gentle determination as she tries to explain.
“He’s tired,” she offers. “And… talking to you again is a lot, after what he’s been through. It will just take time.”
Steve wants to press on, and ask more unreasonable questions, but he keeps his mouth shut for a moment.
“So what’s the deal with him and Wakanda?” He asks finally. “What… I mean, he’s dangerous with the serum still activated.”
“You mean, what is the policy with half-brainwashed super soldiers?” She asks lightly, and when Steve looks up she’s cracking a tiny smile. “I am working on a reversal. Do not worry. But it, too, will take time.“
“How much time do you have?”
She sighs. “I have not told James this. T’challa is giving me one month.”
Steve understands; Bucky is a target, wanted by most UN nations. Letting him walk around for longer than necessary could be dangerous.
“And if you don’t find the cure in time?”
“First of all, have some faith,” she says, eyes glinting with dry humor. “But I would have to put him back on ice.”
Steve swallows, remembering the feeling of waking up from the ice, disoriented and unstable. He knows what it’s like.
He nods, and moves like he’s going to walk away. But something nags at him, and he turns around again. Shuri looks up at him as if she were expecting this.
“What happened to him?” He asks swiftly, failing to mask the hurt and fear he feels. “What— what did they do? Do you know?”
“That’s something you will have to ask him yourself,” she murmurs.
“Just tell me something. Anything.”
She hesitates for a moment. “I can’t.”
“I need to know, to be prepared,” Steve presses. “How am I supposed to help when I don’t know anything?”
“Okay, fine,” she mutters, giving in. “I don’t know everything. He’s reluctant to talk to me, too. But…”
“Christ, just say it,” Steve snaps.
“Evidence of sleep deprivation torture,” she says quietly. “And high-voltage shock administration, by the scars on his temples. Bullets and shrapnel left in his body…”
Steve closes his eyes as he feels his stomach drop. He knows this is just the tip of the iceberg. “You removed those?”
“Of course.” She hesitates. “But— it’s not what he faced as much as how long he did it, Steve.”
“What does that mean?”
“Decades, at least,” she says. “He was tortured for decades, put to work as a mindless assassin for half of it. You don’t know what that does to a person. I don’t know, either.”
“Well, right now, you know him better than I do,” he mutters, but something dark seems to swirl in his stomach, threatening to bubble up his throat. “He’s still… I mean, he’s in there, right?”
“You mean, he’s still human?” She smiles tightly. “By the grace of God, somehow.”
Steve takes a deep breath despite the hopeful note. He doesn’t want to hear any more.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, and turns away.
—
Bucky falls asleep quickly that night, drained by the tension and unease of meeting with Steve. He can find glimmers of hope and happiness, and knows there’s a part of him so grateful to hear Steve’s voice again, but he spent so long without hope that it might take a while for the rest of him to catch up. So for now he moves slowly and gives himself time. Because that’s all he can do.
His dreams are restless, though, filled with the darkness he was once so accustomed to.
What he’s not quite used to is what happened next.
His dreams don’t often make much sense, and usually he can’t remember them very well. And during the past week, he’d woken up with a knot in his stomach, like a twisted feeling that something isn’t right, and it would take him a while to shake.
But this time, in his dreams he hears the sequence, that string of words he wishes he would never hear or think about again. The string of words that makes his stomach drop and his heart race, and he prepares himself for the worst.
He prepared himself for that mental fog, for watching his body from the outside as something else took hold. He prepared himself for pain, but also… he tries to fight back.
He thinks they almost get to the last word before he bolts out of his sleep, his own scream waking him up. Even the silence afterwards is deafening.
He doesn’t have time to find it shocking, though, because his stomach seems to be flipping in somersaults, and he can feel his heart race out of time, and the dread and panic low in his stomach isn’t going away, no matter how much he’s willing it to leave.
His breath comes fast, and he grips the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white and he can hear vibranium grinding on vibranium.
“Stop,” he says breathlessly. After a minute he moves his hands to his forehead, shutting his eyes tight as he tries to block out that sick, twisted feeling, and his heart rate slows. “Please, Jesus, stop.”
He tells himself that he’s still him, that he’s okay. That he’s not trapped in the winter soldier’s body, not this time. He focuses on the room around him, the color of the walls, the way the drapes hang down over the windows, the shape of the lamp next to him. How it’s all real. It’s a tactic he used at HYDRA, whenever they brought him back from the Soldier’s captivity.
Even after the panic passes, he still feels sort of sick, and he doesn’t fall back asleep again.
—
The super-serum heals injuries, and almost always reduces scars from cuts and burns that would normally leave one. So the fact that Steve can still see the fine, light-colored dots and redness that have scarred on Bucky’s temples is shocking. Steve can’t believe he didn’t notice them earlier.
Bucky’s sipping a coffee, sitting across the table and staring out into the urban district. The sky is cloudier today, but the air is warm and peaceful.
“This place is like a dream,” Steve murmurs.
Bucky nods.
“Reminds me of the compound, upstate,” Steve continues, carefully watching Bucky. “When we weren’t busy, of course.”
“The compound?” Bucky asks, and hope flutters in Steve’s chest. He can see the effort he’s making to learn about Steve’s life, despite how guarded he’s been.
“It was our training facility,” he explains. “Acres and acres of land, with these giant buildings— I mean, you wouldn’t believe the size of those arenas.”
“Something like this?” Bucky says, nodding out at the massive city ahead of them. His eyes glint with soft humor.
“Not quite,” Steve chuckles. Bucky doesn’t continue the conversation, and Steve tries to catch himself before disappointment sets in. He reminds himself that this is how it was before, too. Bucky is just quieter, and he always has been one to only speak when he has something important to say. So Steve continues on.
“But… I think the community was the best part. You wouldn’t believe it, but there was a time when we were almost like a family, Tony and the team and I.”
Bucky looks over at him then, and Steve plays it off like he doesn’t notice. But he can tell the way he’s studying him, picking apart every micro-detail. Steve doesn’t mind. The Bucky he knew used to be an expert at reading people, at understanding things that even the one he was watching might not know. He wonders for a moment what’s going on behind those eyes. It hurts him a little to think he might not ever know again.
“We were, too,” Steve says quietly. “Like you said, lifetimes ago.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, and Steve notices the way he stiffens.
But he doesn’t push it, doesn’t press any further, he just lets the words hang in the air like something almost tangible.
—
Bucky’s opened up significantly in the past couple days since Steve has been in Wakanda. The first few days were slow, but the more time they spend the more Bucky reveals to Steve.
It’s a slow system, but it’s working, and Steve doesn’t mind the time. Besides, Wakanda is a perfect refuge for him, as well, because he knows the UN won’t stop looking for him, and eventually, out there in the public world, they’ll find him. So for now he bides his time in this hidden utopian paradise.
Still, though, despite the clear effort Bucky’s making to relax and accept help, Steve can tell that there are days where Bucky doesn’t trust him at all.
Today seemed to be one of those days.
They’re walking by a lake in the rural district, and Steve takes in the way the light dances on the water, trying to ignore the fact that Bucky’s so closed off.
But Steve continues talking, telling stories about the Avengers team, painting descriptions off all of them in case Bucky ever meets them.
But today, he knows Bucky’s hardly listening. And despite his usual calm perseverance, it’s bothering him more than it should.
He stops walking, finally, letting Bucky continue on ahead. Once he realizes Steve’s not following, he turns and stares.
“I can leave if you want,” Steve mutters. “If you don’t want me here.”
Bucky stiffens again, and by now Steve’s learned that he does that when he’s remembering something. Frustration swirls in his stomach, though, and despite his better judgement, he lashes out again.
“Don’t you realize I’m trying to help you?” The words are bitter.
“Yes,” Bucky mutters, but he’s on edge.
“Then what’s wrong? Why are so you guarded? It’s like you don’t even remember me.”
“Steve, that’s not—“
“Come on, Buck,” Steve snaps. “I mean, you trusted me last week when we were running from the UN. Christ, you saved me from Tony. I just don’t understand what changed.”
“That was different,” Bucky protests, but Steve can tell his resolve is shrinking.
“Why?” Steve demands, frustration taking hold of his words and of the situation. “What was so god damn different?”
“That was survival,” Bucky snarls. “I don’t know if you can understand this, but I did what I had to, to stay alive.”
A flame burns dark in Steve’s chest, and it overtakes any uneasiness and fear that might come with it.
“Then I’ll go,” Steve mutters. “If that was all just survival. And then who will you have?”
He lets to words hang in the air, and watches Bucky as his face shifts from thinly-veiled anger to something more like regret.
“Stop,” he whispers after a moment. “Steve, I—“ he falters for a moment, and Steve can tell he’s remembering something else. “I’m sorry.”
Steve swallows, trying to clear his head. “You don’t have to—“
“Sometimes, I dream about the sequence,” Bucky says flatly, not letting Steve finish. “I dream about somebody reading them, and you know I can’t let that happen. Not ever again.”
Steve keeps his mouth shut. And Bucky continues, trying like hell to control the emotion in his voice.
“I’m sorry I can’t trust you, not all the time, not yet. Because those words are still there,” he says, pointing to his forehead, “bouncing around in the back of my mind, and I’m afraid that you, or somebody else… you’re going to use them on me, and I’ll be back in that hell all over again.”
Steve feels his anger dissipating into something more solemn.
“Because what you don’t understand is that it was my life, Steve. I was nothing. I was used by everyone who got their hands on that little spell, and there was nothing I could do about it.” Steve can hear the tremor in Bucky’s voice. “And I can’t let it happen again. Because if it does… more people will die.”
Steve takes a moment to process it all, but after a while he’s acutely aware of a swirling sickness in the pit of his stomach. Bucky has lived too many lives, and none of them have been easy.
“I’ll promise you this,” Steve murmurs, stepping closer. “I’ll never use the sequence on you. Never.”
Bucky bites his cheek, glancing to the side before responding. “Here’s the thing,” he says, trying to hide the tremor. “What you’re saying… those are just words. And I— god, you know I can’t trust words.”
“Then you have to let me prove it to you,” Steve presses. “What can I do?”
Bucky’s silent for a minute, and Steve can practically see the turmoil behind his eyes.
He looks at Bucky, and for a moment he’s back in 1945, sitting in some bar in Brooklyn, back from a tour. It was the last time they were together, as the old versions of themselves. Back then, Bucky’s face was lit up by laughter, cold beer in hand, talking about nothing in particular, and Steve feels that unfamiliar warmth for a moment. Because neither of them could’ve guessed how their futures would turn out, or the pain and horrors they would come to endure.
And then Bucky lifts his hands, pushing back his hair until the palms of his temples rested in his forehead, and turns out towards the lake. “I’m trying,” he whispers, and it sounds more like a broken whimper. “I’m fucking trying, Steve. Because there’s a part of me that knows you, that knows you would never hurt me.” He swallows, running his hands through his hair again. “But I’ve been on my own for so long, and— and I can’t trust my own mind anymore.”
That one hits Steve like a train. He shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened to you, that it all turned out like this.”
“Don’t.” Bucky shakes his head, looking away.
“I’m serious. If I could trade places with you, if I could make it all better… you know I would do anything.”
“Steve,” Bucky warns shakily, and he can hear the way his voice cracks.
“But— but this isn’t the end of the story. There’s still life to live, and—“ but he breaks off his sentence as Bucky leans foreword against the fence, hands covering his face. He can see the way his shoulders shake.
Shock thrums through Steve.
“Bucky…” he steps closer, until they’re only a few feet apart. But he’s unsure what to do, if he should step closer and be of comfort or if he should let Bucky deal with it by himself. But something nags at him; he’s been alone for seventy years.
“You’re not on your own anymore,” Steve says, taking another step forward until he rests his elbows on the wooden fence as well. “I’ll be here whenever you need me, I promise. And I’ll make up for all those lost decades. You won’t be alone again.”
Bucky keeps his face hidden as he drops his arms to fold on top of the fence. His shoulders still shake, the only sound being little, sharp gasps for air that seem to stab Steve in the chest with each passing second. But he doesn’t back away.
“Do you know how long I hated myself, for not going after you on the train?” Steve whispers. He feels the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. “And then when I came off the ice, I— I tried to look for you, for any record of you, just in case. But, I don’t know, I guess I didn’t look hard enough—“
“Steve, stop it,” Bucky mumbles, and when Steve looks over, Bucky’s staring back at him.
Blurry eyes meet blurry eyes, and Steve thinks that in that moment, all debts were forgiven.
And in one swift movement, Bucky rushes forward and wraps his arms around Steve and holds tight. He’s surprised, at first, but then grateful, and he wraps his arms around Bucky, too. He can feel the way Bucky trembles, and yet still stands strong, and for a moment he’s in awe of his resilience. After all he’s lived, and all he’s seen, he still has the courage to trust.
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, eyes shut.
“Don’t,” Bucky mumbles again. And in that moment, Steve can feel him relax, finally, like he was letting go of a breath he’d been holding for far too long.
And for the first time since he saw him on that battle-torn highway, Steve is sure that in there somewhere is the Bucky from Brooklyn.