Wakanda, 2016
Wakanda, Africa
July 29th, 2016
It was warm.
She registered that before anything else. For the first time in a long time, she was warm.
Every other physical sensation took a little longer to come back to her. Her fingers danced over the soft coverlet that was drawn up to her chest, turned her cheek into the plushness of a pillow, caught the faint lush scent of greenery and rain.
Something a little like disappointment coloured her dull confusion – because if this was death, then there must be a catch. She should not be so comfortable. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her eyes – half-expecting to see a shadowy figure awaiting her, ready to punish her, ready to cruelly rip her from this pleasant state.
The well-lit room took shape around her. The walls were industrial; smooth, clean metal lines, encasing and surrounding a myriad of screens alit with the latest in holo-technology. The ceiling was high, and the way the beams overlapped and climbed forced the eye upward, heavenwards. It tapered into a point, almost like a tent, but she did not linger on the practicalities of such architecture. No – her eyes had been caught by the view.
Directly opposite her bed – and it was a bed, narrow but comfortable – a large window stretched most of the length of the room. And beyond-
And beyond…
She had never seen such a thing in her life.
The city seemed endless, and yet neatly contained. The buildings were marvels, smooth and sleek, and yet somehow reflective of the immense jungle that surrounded everything. There were jets, flitting about, dancing with the occasional flock of bright tropical birds. Thin roads looped in impossible graceful shapes over and through the city, and the people were tiny pinpricks of jewel toned cloth. A large river wound its way through the city, glittering with equal intensity as the gold-toned glass on the outside of the buildings, and the landscape was dotted with the rich green of trees.
She moved on silent feet, slipping from the soft sheets, and padding to the window, drawn by fascination. She hovered there, a few centimetres from the glass, and watched. What was this Utopia?
“It’s really something, isn’t it?”
She startled, badly, whirling far quicker than she should have – her side alighting with pain. As she met the wide blue eyes of Steven Grant Rogers, the crushing weight of the last hours settled back into her consciousness with enough force to make her sway.
He was already on his way to her, hands outstretched with a now-familiar concern. She held up a hand, hissing a faint breath as she forced herself to stand straight. “James.” She cursed herself for her inattention, and then a sickening fear made her stomach roil. She stared at Steve, who had paused midstride. “Is he-?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question.
Steve blinked at her for a moment. “Wh- oh- Oh! No! No, he’s alright. Well. Mostly-”
“Take me to him.” She demanded, interrupting his rambling. Mostly. She could work with mostly. Who knew how much time they had before Stark and his minions were upon them. She could walk, which meant she could run – and they would need to run if they wanted to escape. “How long have we been…here?”
Steve had made no move to lead her where she wanted to go, and she held back a curse at his slowness. They needed to go- “We’ve been in Wakanda for three days now.”
Wakanda-
Three days-
She drew herself up short, shaking her head. That was… “Impossible…” she breathed, turning to look back at the beautiful city. In the dim reflection of herself in the glass, she lifted the white shift she was wearing to expose the site of her wound. It was covered by a thin bandage, and she ripped it off impatiently. There was no sign of a healing, crusting stab wound – just a thin, angry pink looking line. Gingerly, she touched the still-healing scar. It was tender to the touch. “Impossible.” She repeated. “Wakanda is an undeveloped county in East Africa. Not, not,” She gestured hopelessly at the architectural and natural wonder before them.
Steve huffed a laugh. “That’s what I said.” He moved again, this time with purpose, and she watched his approach in the glass. He settled beside her. “I know you might not believe it, but we’re safe here. King T’Challa has offered you and Bucky sanctuary. Nothing can get through their borders.”
When she looked at him, he was looking at her. There was a tremulous something swirling in his eyes. She couldn’t remember much after she had fallen in Siberia, but she had the oddest sensory snatch of the scent of his blood and sweat, the hard line of his shoulder carrying her up and away- She clenched her jaw and extended her hand. “Thank you, Steven.” Her voice shook with the weight of her gratitude, and he took her hand with equal gravity. “I will repay your sacrifice.” She bowed her head low over their connected hands and hoped he knew that she meant it.
“Oh, now. That’s-” he sounded supremely uncomfortable, and she was unsurprised when he withdrew his hand from hers in favour of patting her gingerly on the shoulder. “Let’s- do you want to go see him?”
She straightened. Of course, she did.
He saw Steve first, and smiled, because that was what he had been doing whenever he saw his friend – mostly to reassure the other man – and then she stepped through the wide double doors, and he felt it slip from his face.
When he was not occupied by the young girl’s endless tests, he had kept vigil by her bedside. The doctors had said she was lucky, that so much blood-loss paired with her over-exertion should have killed her. It had somewhat soured the hours he spent beside her; she looked past life lying there, too pale and too thin and far too still.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had smiled at him, the way life had leeched from her eyes, and the way she had seemed so happy about it.
He hadn’t realised he had risen until she was close enough to him that he could see the frost of her lashes and the silvery-raised lines of the scars at her temple. There was a hush over the room, though he wasn’t sure how much was his imagination and how much was the medical staff and Steve trying to be quiet. She was looking him over, working her way from his feet to his face, and he watched the way her eyes lingered on the bound stump of his left arm. It had finally stopped hurting; the girl had finished her careful surgical exploration of the connection site, removed the last of the wiring connecting flesh to machine. Still – he shifted self-consciously – he was a cripple now. At his movement, her eyes darted to his, and he wasn’t fast enough to hide his expression.
Her face was as it normally was, cold and unreadable, but her eyes sparked with a warmth he knew and craved.
They moved together, in natural harmony still, and it felt so good to sway into her, to curl his one arm gently around her rib-cage, to have her hands skate over his chest and shoulder, to clutch at the base of his skull and hold him. She twitched slightly when he ran his finger over the place he had watched his knife disappear, and he swallowed thickly at the memory.
They were so close that he could feel her lips move against his throat when she spoke. “Мы в безопасности.”
They were secure now. For now. He amended, unable to help but think about the future, about the endless list of people with vendettas, the shadows of a past that still sought to carry them back into darkness.
And he was suddenly furious at the thought of it.
He held her a little tighter, felt the natural and unnatural knobs of her spine and implants, and breathed in her cool scent. “I have something I need you to know.”
James – Sergeant, Soldier, Bucky – did not expect anything in return. But he was tired of pretending that he didn’t need her as much as he did, and he was tired of not saying it.
She did not speak, but he felt her fingers rub a soothing pattern into the nape of his neck.
“I love you.” He told her, so quietly that the words were for them alone, quiet like the very first time they had admitted such dangerous emotion – a world away this time, and years apart. “Я люблю тебя.” He repeated himself.
She was very still and though he had told himself he wouldn’t care what her response was, it still made his chest tighten. And then she took a shuddering breath. “Say it again.”
“Волим те. Je t'aime. Volim te. Te amo. Ti amo. Seni seviyorum. I love you, I love you, I love you,” It came out a shivering rush, and she was shaking, but not with tears, but with laughter. He couldn’t help but smile too and duck his head so that they were eye to eye again. She was so beautiful when she smiled. He told her, whispered it into the space between their lips. She kissed him hard enough to hurt, and when they parted and he got his breath back, he started all over again.
He knew a lot of languages, but he was ready and willing to tell her in every way he could.
It was late when Steve came to her again.
Her partner was asleep in the cot beside her own – the medical staff were reluctant to release either of them from the Care Unit, and so this had been to compromise. Her partner had told her briefly about the surgeries undertaken by the youngest doctor he’d seen, and the de-programming he had begun. It was clearly more tiring than he admitted; he had passed out near immediately after the lights had been turned off, and even her own movements around the room had not roused him.
She was by the window again when Steve appeared. He came to stand beside her, the blue and gold lights making him look like a piece of Impressionist art. She caught the edge of that almost guilty look again, and waited. He did not speak for a very long time, long enough that she thought he must have lost his nerve.
“Are you in much pain?” He asked finally, voice polite and gently curious.
“No.” She answered truthfully. There was a little restriction in how far she could twist her torso, and moving too quickly made her side ache, but there was no pain she couldn’t handle. He nodded, shifting. He had his fingers interlaced behind his back, and they were twisting nervously. “Steven,” she began, as delicately as she could, “what I said earlier, I meant it.”
He looked guilty again. “You’ve only just woken, and you’re still healing. Besides – it’s dangerous to leave at the moment, you’re-”
She interrupted his pre-emptive excuses. “Ask me, Captain.” She turned to him, and forced him to meet her gaze. “What would you have me do?”
He swallowed visibly, and cast a look over his shoulder at her partner, still sleeping – blissfully unaware. “The others…” He looked pained, “they’re in prison because of me. I can’t leave them there.” There was a faint note of pleading in his voice.
Ghost felt a distant thrill of anticipation. “Then we will go and collect them.”
Steve smiled slowly, gratefully.
July 31st, 2016
The Raft, UNKNOWN
It was different to working with her partner.
The Captain was equal parts less subtle and less aggressive than the Soldier. At first, it was clear he was mourning the loss of his shield – he seemed unsuited, unused to combat without it, and she found herself shadowing him far closer than she ever would her partner, in order to pull him out of mortal danger when he forgot himself.
They fell into a better rhythm as they approached the bowels of the Raft. Though she had not been to the prison before, there was something intrinsically familiar about the artificial light and ever-present dark, the rows of hard, cold cells, and the men willing to kill in the name of order. She did not deny herself the satisfaction of putting them out of commission.
Ahead of her, the Captain was engaged with the final guard occupying the post in front of the large blast doors that sequestered the high-security prisoners from the others. They had paused at a control centre to find the people they were after, and seeing Wanda in chains had leant them both an unspoken urgency. She was just a child…
She let the man she was holding fall to the ground in a heap, the thud of his body against the floor drawing the Captain’s attention. His own opponent was similarly prone; half-slumped against the door.
“After you,” the Captain said, stepping aside for her.
She phased through the heavy doors, holding herself in the Grey as one of the three guardsmen begun another loop of the circular room. There was no privacy in here, the bright fluorescent lights painting the scene in vivid clarity. She spared the prisoners brief looks; all of them in various stages of repose in blue jumpsuits. Only one was up and pacing; Wilson, in the smallest and most central cell. He was uncowed by one of the guards sneering something at him, gazing through the man as if he wasn’t even there.
Ghost turned, and hit the lights.
The room descended into darkness, lit only by the internal lights of the cells, and so she had a perfect view of the way Wilson’s eyes went round and surprised as the guardsmen began to drop. She supposed it would look strange to the uninitiated, but already Wilson was searching the empty air for her, coming quite close to her position a few times.
The last man standing was reaching for his belt, for the communications unit there, and she dove for him. They went thudding into the bars of Wilson’s cell, and she slipped from the Grey. The guardsman screamed at the sight of her, trying to wrestle his gun from his hip, but she was far stronger and far faster, and wrapped her fingers near lovingly around his throat and squeezed the sound and breath from him. When he fell unconscious, she released him, and he dropped like a stone.
When she looked back at Wilson, he was… smiling.
It surprised her into smiling back, and though the gesture was probably a little frightening, his expression didn’t change.
“Guess it’s your turn, then.” He said, as she reached for the control panel. “I promise you can trust me.” He was joking, but she wasn’t.
“I know I can.” She told him seriously, and stepped aside as the Captain entered the room. Wilson’s smile only grew, and she moved to the other cells as the Captain and Wilson met in the centre of the room.
Barton gave her a serious nod, pausing in his cell to collect something from beneath his bunk. She almost laughed at the sight of the shiv he had somehow managed to fashion. Lang gave a loud cry of joy, and reached for her hand to shake it vigorously.
It was Wanda, however, that surprised her the most.
“Wanda,” She crouched before the girl, who was not looking at her, who was not looking at anything. The small collar around her neck blinked with a red light, and she reached for it. Wanda jerked back violently, throwing herself out of reach.
“Leave me here.” Wanda’s voice was croaky with disuse, and her eyes were dim. “I am a danger.”
Ghost pursed her lips, and moved closer to the girl. Wanda’s lips were trembling, but she was still very pointedly looking over her shoulder. “Little one,” Ghost spoke in Sokovian, and reached for her again, this time to cradle her cheeks between her palms, and force Wanda’s eyes to meet her own. “You are no danger to me. Won’t you let me help you?” Instinct she didn’t recognise drove her to smooth her thumbs over the girl’s cheeks, and brush back a few greasy strands of hair from her face.
All at once, as if she had been keeping it in, Wanda began to cry. She did not sob, she did not wail, but tears ran down her face and pain crumpled her features. Ghost’s heart ached. Wanda buckled slightly, folding towards her, held taunt by the heavy straitjacket. Ghost moved for her, awkwardly curling herself around the smaller, younger woman, and hiding her face. As Wanda cried against her, she ran her fingers down the fastenings of the jacket, and snapped the clasp of the collar. The faint noise made the girl stiffen, as if bracing for a blow. Ghost stilled with her. After a long moment, she drew back from the girl, taking the collar with her. Wanda’s face was blotchy, eyes wide and fearful. Ghost offered her a smile. “You see? No danger.”
A faint spark of red lit up the dark blue of Wanda’s irises, and the girl shuddered, something like bliss and relief flitting across her features. “Thank you.” She whispered, and Ghost shook her head.
“Come now.”
She offered her hand to the girl, and Wanda curled her fingers around her own. Red magic danced across their point of connection, and Wanda blushed suddenly, embarrassed. Ghost just smiled.
Freedom was in reach, and though she might not have deserved it, she would turn her face into the sun.