Chapter 3
Sometimes, when Bucky looks at Steve, he doesn’t believe it’s real. He watches Steve pour the coffee, tucked away in their temporary corner of the world, and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. What if this life isn’t his? He’s been fooled by his own mind before, and by false realities, and he’s struggling to trust what he sees.
Steve catches him staring and asks what it’s about and Bucky realizes he doesn’t quite have to words to explain.
Gentle light floods the kitchen by the rising sun; they’re both early birds, always have been. Even a century ago.
There’s so much that Steve doesn’t know, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t know about the years— the decades spent alone, begging gods he didn’t even believe in to free him from that hell. He doesn’t know what it feels like to wake up chained to a chair with a splitting headache and a deep terror that ran deeper than anything he’d ever felt. He doesn’t know what it’s like to finally be freed from those chains only to find that the demons they introduced to him follow him everywhere.
“Are you okay?” Steve asks. Bucky has to blink the memories away.
“Yeah.”
He hands him his coffee, with sugar and cream just how he’s always liked it, and Bucky wonders how he got so lucky to end up here next to Steve, again. How they must’ve won the lottery, after all they’ve been through.
There’s so much that Steve doesn’t know but Bucky thinks it might be better this way. It might be better just to bury the past and try to move on by himself, alone in the fight just like he’s always been. The thought of it makes his chest tight, though, and he wonders if bottling his emotions up is the right choice.
—
It’s easy for Steve to say that Bucky’s being too hard on himself, and that actually, the fact that he’s even here at all is a testament to his resilience. Few people could survive what he survived, and the fact that the old Bucky shines through despite the dark patches of mistrust and turmoil shows just how strong he is.
But it’s easier to see all that from the outside.
Glittering lights outline the skyline of the futuristic city in the valley, and they glow gently on Bucky’s frame as he sits on the balcony with his back against the wall. Steve stands inside, on the other side of the glass, and for a moment he feels unsure about what to do. Bucky’s always been one to hide his problems, but Steve is afraid it’ll eat him up from the inside out.
He slides the glass balcony door, and Bucky doesn’t flinch.
“Hey,” says Steve quietly. Bucky swallows.
“Hey.”
“Do you want to hear something funny?” Steve asks. Bucky nods.
“I asked Sam when we might be able to go back to New York, and he said— he said, ‘what, you’re tired of the costumes?’” Steve grinned lopsidedly. “You know, ‘cause of t’Challa’s panther getup. He thought they just all dress like that here.”
Steve looks to his side, at Bucky’s side profile as he tries to smother his smile and glances down.
“I mean, could you imagine?” Steve laughs.
“Well, what did he say?”
Steve pauses. “Um, it was pretty vague. They’ll have to adjust the accords if we want to go back home.”
“I’m guessing that’ll be a while.”
“Probably, yeah.”
Bucky leans back against the glass. “I’m not sure that home even exists anymore.”
—
They talk for a while and Bucky, despite living in Wakanda for months, starts to realize that this new world is going to be difficult to grasp.
On the one hand, it’s exciting, knowing that there will be so much to learn and experience. On the other hand, he’s terrified.
The airport in Kenya is packed full, and as Bucky stares at the lines of people he gets a buzzing feeling in his stomach that he tries to repress.
—
Unlike American airports, the TSA in Kenya is manned by armed military, and the massive automatic rifles by their sides is the first thing Bucky sees when they are ushered into the next room.
Suddenly, he feels helpless, and the traumas of his past start to cloud his thinking.
“Steve,” he whispers tightly, gripping his suitcase.
Steve is busy pulling out their information— temporary passports and boarding passes— and doesn’t hear him.
Bucky surveys the room, chest tightening when he sees that the door they entered through has been shut. More soldiers stand guard behind them.
He doesn’t have any weapons on him, and he knows he’s defenseless, and fear starts to rise in him like the rising tide.
Meanwhile, Steve hands the agent the passes, chatting lightly for a moment, and then turns back to say something to Bucky.
But Bucky’s staring straight ahead, at the one single door at the end of this long room, past the big, complex machinery and gated-off walkways. He’s got a strange look in his eye, and Steve is suspicious.
“Buck?”
Bucky doesn’t look at him, and instead does another full scan of the room, and Steve narrows his eyes when he realizes who he’s looking at.
“They’re just guards,” Steve says.
Bucky gives him a sharp look, giving a telescopic shake of his head.
While he’s calm on the surface, standing tall and looking focused, it hides the anxiety and wariness underneath.
The facade is crumbling, though, and Bucky wills himself to hold it together.
Logically, he knows they’re in no danger here. But there‘s something about this long, fluorescent-lit room littered with armed soldiers and government agents that made him feel sick.
He hears the security agent behind the desk say something to Steve, but he can’t make out the words through the rush of blood in his ears. His heart pounds.
You’re not in danger.
Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to believe it.
The thing is, he doesn’t know anything about airport security. If something goes wrong, how would he know when it was time to fight? He looks at Steve, analyzing his posture and expression, trying to piece together this puzzle that isn’t even a puzzle. Would Steve give him a cue if this all goes awry?
Six automatic rifles, seven guards, and a TSA agent. He looks closely at the weapons— expanded mags and silencers are modifiers he can see, and he calculates their chances of getting out of this box. In record time, he’s already plotted out his fight path.
All of the sudden, he gets a strange, dark feeling. It’s not unfamiliar to him, but right now it’s the last thing he needs.
Where am I? he thinks desperately, head suddenly clouded by all of the lives he’s lived. It’s a fleeting moment of confusion and derealization, but it’s enough to knock him off his feet.
“Bucky,” Steve says, for the fourth time, louder. Bucky’s eyes snap up, meeting his. “Weren’t you listening? You have to follow them to another room, on account of your arm.”
“Why?” his voice is rough.
“It’s metal. They’ve got to search you manually.”
“Search me?” Bucky says, struggling to focus.
“Yes. Look, we don’t have much time. Would you just go with them?”
Bucky turns around and faces two large men, both holding weapons by their sides. Magazines are strapped to their chest. In his panic-induced confusion, he shakes his head slowly, backing away.
“Bucky, quit it,” Steve says, and looks around, at the officials that have now stopped what they were doing to look at the two white men in the room. He notices the way that the few guards in the back have adjusted their guns.
“Is he okay?” says the agent, in a tone that’s both concerned and suspicious. Steve doesn’t blame her— airport security is her job.
“Y-yeah, he—“ he swallows. “He has PTSD. Hey, Buck, look at me.”
Bucky’s rigid, and he rips his eyes away from the two guards and towards Steve.
“You good?” Steve asks, willing him to say yes. If they don’t get a move on now, they might not have enough time to make it to their flight.
“I’m not— I can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
Right now, Bucky isn’t in an airport security room in Kenya, he’s back in Russia, and all he sees are the blacked-out militant uniforms and heavy duty automatic weapons.
“We have to get out,” he whispers to Steve.
“Hey, no,” Steve mutters. “This,” he gestures to the room, “this is normal. They’re going to let us through, if you just go with them.”
Bucky’s eyes are glazed over when he looks at Steve. “We have to go,” he whispers, with an edge. “It’s a trap.”
Steve presses his lips together in frustration. He looks up at the guards, and then to the agent. “Can you just search him in here?”
They all exchange looks, and then agree. Both guards take a step forward, but Bucky’s in his own world right now and steps backwards again, giving Steve a desperate and angry look.
“Come on, Bucky, it’ll be fine,” Steve says, turning back to the desk as the agent hands back their passports.
Bucky, tense and rigid, glares at the guards that move towards him, and as he tries to find his voice to tell them to fuck off, a hand grips his arm.
Panic shoots through him like fireworks, and he thrusts an elbow back and feels it collide with a thick bulletproof vest. A half a second later he swings his right arm around, and adrenaline surges, packing as much power as he can into his right fist.
Just as he turns, though, he realizes what he’s doing.
He pulls the punch a split second too late and his fist collides with the guard’s jaw. There’s shouting everywhere, and now there’s hands yanking at his shirt and gripping his arms tight behind his back.
“Bucky!” Steve yelled, rushing forward.
There’s a wild look in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve knows for a fact that there are about five different guns pointed at them right now. Bucky’s arms are held behind his back by the second guard, and he’s still struggling, chest heaving.
“Bucky, don’t move,” Steve says. “Look at me.”
Behind him, the front desk agent is on the phone, probably with the police.
Bucky slows his struggling, though, to Steve’s relief.
The guard who got punched is rubbing his jaw, but the damage doesn’t seem bad and Steve looks back at Bucky.
“I pulled my punch,” Bucky gasps, chest heaving, as he looks up at Steve. “I swear.”
“I know,” Steve says. “You’re not going to fight again.”
Bucky swallows.
“You can’t do that. Not here.”
Bucky’s still bound by the other guard, and panic clouds his vision and he can feel his heartbeat shake his chest.
“You’re going to have to talk to the police now,” Steve says. “You’re not going to fight again, right?”
“I won’t,” he confirms between quick, unsteady gasps. Steve turns to the guard.
“See, he won’t do it again. It was an accident,” Steve explains. “He’s fine now.”
The guards eye each other and then shake their heads no.
Steve sighs. “Look, he— he has post-traumatic stress, it was an accident. He’s done now, he’s fine. You don’t need to hold him down.”
“You sure?” Says the guard, to Bucky, who’s stopped resisting.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m— I’m good.”
“The NPS will be here soon,” says the front desk agent.
“Yeah, thanks,” says Steve, but it’s dismissive. He’s focused on Bucky, on edge because he clearly isn’t calm right now. His chest still heaves, and frantic eyes flick from one soldier to the next. They haven’t lowered their weapons.
“Listen, don’t look at them. Look at me,” Steve says. “This is going to be fine. You’re going to apologize, and explain yourself to the officials, and we’ll— we’ll be fine.”
Bucky’s heart rate isn’t slowing, though, and neither is his breathing, and Steve can tell.
“Hey, you’re okay. I’m fine, you’re fine, everyone’s fine.”
“I’m, like— there’s something—“ Bucky stumbles over his words, gestures vaguely at himself. “My chest is too tight.”
“I— okay. I’m tellin’ you, we’re not in danger right now. They’re not going to hurt us, so long as you don’t punch anybody else.”
“I told you, I pulled it,” Bucky gasps. He leans back against the table.
“Yeah, buddy, I know.” If Bucky’s punch had landed at full force, there would probably be paramedics in here by now.
Steve watches as Bucky breathes deeply, forcing a rhythm.
Steve sighs, and glances around, grimacing at the five guards with their rifles pointed at them. Another guard has his hand on a pistol.
“Look, he— he’s not going to hurt anybody. We don’t have— we don’t have any weapons, and he’s not going to do anything. He’s sorry, it was an accident. We’re sorry.” Steve’s voice is calm and apologetic. “So could you please lower those?“
The guards don’t move.
“I told you, it’s— it was a stress response, and he’s not going to do it again.”
He understands if they don’t lower the guns— Bucky’s tall and strong and if they know who he is then they know his record. They know his capabilities.
But right now, he just needs Bucky to relax.
“Please,” he says, giving an imploring look.
“Let’s hear it from him,” says one of the guards, giving a nod at Bucky.
Steve looks at him, relieved to see him breathing evenly and standing still.
“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing up. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He lifts his hands up slowly, above his head, giving a full turn. “No weapons.”
After a minute, the guards seem wary but satisfied and flip the safeties back on, dropping the rifles to their sides.
“Thank you,” says Steve. He then pulls out his phone to call Shuri.
“Mr. Rogers,” she answers, after a moment.
“Shuri, thank God you answered. I think we’re going to need a favor.”
—
The police talk on the phone with Shuri for a few minutes, and as they wait Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” Bucky whispers.
“I know.”
Bucky looks over to him, giving a weak grimace. “I saw the guns and I panicked and then— then he grabbed me from behind, and I just— it just happened so fast.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t think, it’s like I was somewhere else.”
Steve sighs, concern fluttering in his stomach, but knowing that right now isn’t the time to dwell. They have to cooperate with the police, and for that Bucky needs to be calm and level.
“Are you okay right now?” he asks.
Bucky nods slowly. “I’m okay.”
“You’re lucky that young cadet is okay, too,” says the police officer behind them. They both turn quickly.
The officer has his face hidden behind dark sunglasses and a classic cop hat. He has a notepad in hand.
“It’s ‘cause I pulled the punch,” Bucky mutters, and Steve shoots him a disapproving look.
“Hello, officer. Officer… Ouma. We’re very sorry about this,” Steve says, holding a hand out. The officer takes it, but gives a long look at Bucky.
“You’re the white wolf,” says Ouma. His English is heavily accented. “You’re traveling to South Africa, I hear,” he continues. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Bucky shifts, casting his eyes down. Steve can’t help but notice that the room has gone quiet.
“They wanted to search me because I couldn’t go through the metal detector.” Bucky looks up, meeting the officer’s eyes. “They— they came at me too quick, and I— I landed a punch or two. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Then why did you?” asks the cop.
Bucky stares for a second, knowing that there are a few too many people in this room listening in. He swallows his pride.
“PTSD,” he mutters. “It’s not an excuse. But I get flashbacks, and— I’ve had to fight my way out of everywhere. That’s what I was used to. But I swear, I tried to pull back, just too late.”
“Dr. Shuri tells me you’ve only been here for a few months.”
“That’s right.”
“Where were you before?”
“Budapest,” he says.
“And before that?”
“Germany.”
“You’re American, no?”
“Yeah, maybe ten lifetimes ago,” Bucky breathes.
“And the metal arm. Wow. You, sir, are full of mysteries.” His tone is friendlier now, and his heavy Kenyan accent is clear. Bucky’s guilty— he can see now that none of these people had it out for him.
“Tell me about it,” Bucky huffs.
The cop looks down at his notepad. “I’m issuing a warning, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So they’re going to search you and then let you through.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Steve, sticking his hand out again to give a firm shake.
—
When they get inside the airport, their original flight had long taken off, and the next one they can get on is a red-eye that leaves in four hours.
They find an empty bench, and when Bucky finally sits down he buries his face in his hands.
“Look, Bucky, it’s okay.“
“I can’t be doing that,” Bucky says, pulling his hands down. “I can’t be punching armed men.”
“It was pretty stupid,” Steve agrees.
“I’ve been getting real sick of this,” Bucky says, and the look that he gives Steve is troubled.
“Of what?”
“It’s like I’m all wired up,” Bucky mutters. “Constantly, like, pushing down this feeling of fear, of being watched and hunted. I’m telling you, Steve, I was convinced that I was being taken back.”
“Back?”
“I don’t know. It— it reminded me of Russia. The guards that used to hunt us down.”
“Oh.”
“I try to keep it all inside,” Bucky murmurs. “When I get that scared, fight-or-flight feeling. But I don’t know if that’s what I should do.”
“It’ll eat away at you,” Steve says, sitting down on the bench next to him. They look out though the glass at the tarmac.
“It’s just that I don’t want to scare you. Because it— it’s a lot. And every day, when the memories come I just keep it tucked away.”
“I know,” Steve says softly. “But I’m your best friend. You can tell me.”
Bucky flashes a tired smile.
“And besides, I can try to help. I could’ve— if I had known you were having a flashback, we could have told them to wait.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I was rushing us,” Steve murmurs. “I should’ve been more careful.”
“No. Next time, I’ll tell you.“
They sit and watch the planes land, the buzz of the people in the airport fading into the background.
Steve hated seeing Bucky like this. He hated that Bucky would have to have a next time, but they both know recovery is a long and slow process. It’s a hard uphill battle, even for someone as strong as Bucky.
“I’m not going to give up, you know,” Steve says. “I’ll always be right here.”
Bucky is quiet for a while, and only when he lifts a hand up to wipe his face does Steve look up.
“Hey, Buck, it’s alright.”
Bucky nods, squinting through blurry eyes.
“It’s been a rocky start. But you’re here.”
“I know.” He pulls the collar of his t-shirt up to his eyes, catching the tears. “I’m scared that— that I won’t be able to adapt to this.”
“Adapt?”
“I’m always ready for the next fight,” he explains, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I’ve been on the run for so long. And I don’t trust anyone, not anymore. But that’s not how this world works.”
Steve stays quiet, and nods along.
“What if it’s just too late for me?” He shuts his eyes, pressing the fabric of his T-shirt collar against his cheeks. “What happens to me if I really hurt someone?”
“US custody,” Steve answers, knowing that Bucky deserves honesty. “You’d become property of the state. But it won’t happen.”
“I can’t,” Bucky whispers, strained. The thought of being some form of a prisoner again makes him sick to his stomach. After a life of imprisonment, he can’t lose what he’s found. It’s not an option.
Steve bites his cheek. “It won’t happen. I won’t let it.”
Bucky pulls his collar down from over his face and runs his sleeve over his cheeks, taking a shaky breath.
“Shuri fixed you up. Nobody is coming after you.”
“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice is unsteady. Steve hates how defeated he sounds.
“And hey,” Steve says, forcing positivity into his voice. “Have you ever been to South Africa?”
Bucky shakes his head.
“Me neither,” says Steve. “We have a hotel on the beach, did you know that?”
He shakes his head again.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” Steve continues. “Maybe you’ll even pick up an accent.”
Bucky feels the ghost of a smile on his lips, and he runs his hands under his eyes again.
“Me and you, drinking cream liquor on the beach. How does that sound?”
“It sure sounds great,” Bucky whispers.
“Yeah, it does,” he agrees, grinning. “So cheer up.”
“Okay, okay,” says Bucky softly, leaning back. His face is relaxed, for the first time all day, and Steve can’t help but think that it looks good on him.
They sit in quiet for a while, staring through the window, and for once Bucky doesn’t feel so alone, because, for the first time in several lifetimes, he has somebody watching his back.
Before this, he never really understood Steve’s patience or why he gave up everything to save his life, but for a moment, sitting there in the Kenyan airport, he thinks he might get it. Because he knew that if the roles were reversed, and it was Steve in his shoes now, Bucky wouldn’t dream of walking away; he’d sit with him through hell and back, through the pain and shame and everything in between.
He thinks about that day on the train, the last time he was really Bucky Barnes, and instead of the anguish that normally comes with the memories of that day, he feels something like hope. But seventy years late is better than nothing at all.