1.
The first time James Buchanan Barnes cracked his knuckles in a fight that was not his own was when he was a little boy who barely reached his mother's waist.
His small fists were bloody and sore by the end of the fight, knees scraped raw and lips split open—but it was worth it. The satisfaction of knocking down the neighbourhood teenage bully eased up the pain, making him to forget the endless nagging he would receive once his mother saw his injuries. He turned around, honestly expecting a relieved breath or a simple 'thank you' from the skinny boy whom he just risked the function of his ears for, only to be taken aback at the angry pout that was directed at him.
"I had him in the ropes," the skinny boy grumbled, stomping somewhat menacingly towards James, despite how frail he looked like.
James' brows shot up to his hairline, completely unconvinced.
The skinny boy scowled deeper. "You shouldn't interfere."
Being the wonderful angelic boy his mother raised, James simply smiled to the smaller boy. "Your welcome."
Okay, not really an innocent angel his mother often described, because the apple didn't fall far from tree, thus the sass and sarcasm that were definitely the dominant trait he inherited from Mrs. Barnes could never be infinitely subdued. James knew how to be a sassy little jerk.
As an added measure, James flashed his teeth in a toothy grin, channelling all of his charming innocence.
Skinny boy stuttered, probably not expecting the smile, but the scowl returned to his gaunt face in a split second. Looking like an impersonation of angry kitten—one with fluffy yellow fur matted with blood and teeth bared for an assault as James' hyperactive imagination so helpfully supplied—skinny boy wrapped his bony fingers around James' wrist, pulling the bigger boy to sit on the wet metal of the nearby fire escape.
Bony small fingers inspected the bloodied knuckles with clumsy care, the scowl only got deeper for each second that passed and James would've thought that the little punk would sock him in the face for interfering.
As if angelic James Barnes could ignore a tiny boy being kicked around by the neighbourhood teenage bully.
To his surprise, skinny boy exhaled a deep breath and looked up to meet his eyes, bright blue orbs stared intensely into his own, followed by a tentative tiny smile on that gaunt face.
"Thank you," skinny boy said, not letting go of James' hands just yet.
"Your welc—"
"But it was not your business."
Little punk.
James scowled. "Pot, kettle," he muttered under his breath.
Oddly enough, that comment made skinny boy grin at him, the initial wariness been replaced with tentative friendly curiosity.
"Can't let that jerk running around pulling girls' hair," skinny boy hummed.
"That is not your business either, punk," James spat back, and if he sounded whiny, it was none of your business either.
Skinny boy shrugged, averting his gaze to the main street. "It's the right thing to do," he said matter-of-factually, lips quirked to a smile. "Why did you save me, then?"
James smirked.
"Because it's the right thing to do," he returned the words with extra sass, his smirk grew to a huge grin as he manoeuvred his sore hand to squeeze the bony one in a gentle handshake. "Bucky Barnes."
Skinny boy stared at their intertwined hands for a moment before breaking to a huge grin, even with the split lips and the bruise across his cheek.
"Steve Rogers."
And that was the day the world's most loyal and unbreakable friendship was formed.
2.
The eldest Barnes has gotten into a lot of fights.
How could he not? He befriended Steve-fuckin-Rogers, of course he would have ended up roped into a fight that he didn't even start. All because of that skinny punk who didn't know how to shut his mouth and not got into trouble.
"I could do this all day."
Barnes's palm met his forehead with a soft smack.
Sometimes, he thought that he has developed a special tracking device somewhere in his nerdy mind that would rang his internal alarm every time that punk got into trouble. Heck, he even has developed a habit of lurking around the back alleys around Brooklyn like a creeper, just in case his little punk needed to get that tiny ass hauled out of trouble.
It took all of his strength and patience to not bang his head on the moldy brick walls when he saw the stick frame of his asshole friend swaying with what would be a potential concussion as the punk prepared for another punch against an opponent twice his size.
Steve Asshole Rogers, ladies and gentlemen.
As per usual (it was disturbing on how resigned he was with this because one should not be accustomed to things like this at all), Barnes swooped in like a knight in shining armour and hauled the guy away from his almost-turned-to-pulp-asshole-best-friend.
"Hey," he growled (hoping so hard that the guy would get the message and he could avoid further fight), pulling the jerk away from his punk with just one hand. "Pick on someone your own size."
He socked the guy across the face, gave a gentle kick on the ass—and that was it. The jerk scrammed away.
Turning around to address Steve, it took all of his willpower to not shriek and yell at the smaller man.
"Sometimes, I think you like getting punched," he drawled, lips quirked to a tiny proud smile to himself for being able to not yell at the skinny punk.
"I had him in the ropes," Steve grunted, stubborn angry kitten as he was.
And cue the almost-routine banter that Barnes hoped was the last one because surely Steve Rogers knew how to give up, right? It's logic. The punk was a 90-pounds skinny asshole with a huge basket of illness shackled to his waist. This was what? His sixth fight this week? His fourth, fifth times lying in his enlistment form? Some of these days, Barnes feared that he would have to break Steve out of jail.
It wouldn't be easy. Not when Barnes wouldn't be around much after today.
"You get your orders?" Steve's voice was strong, despite his wounds and bloody nose, the punk still had the audacity to have that longing wanting tone in his voice.
It made things even more difficult for Barnes.
Barnes, who has received his orders and was honest-to-god, freaking out over the fact that today might be the last time he would see his precious mother, his beloved sisters and his endearingly stupid tiny best friend. It was war out there. Barnes knew that when he was drafted, there was a good chance that he was signing up for his own death.
But, it's okay. The war needed to be fought and won to keep his family and the wonderfully annoying son of late Sarah Rogers safe. Steve could never be enlisted—not with his basket of illness and frail body—so, Barnes would be brave for him, would fight for Steve's part to protect their country and future. He would fight to keep his country and the people he loved, safe.
If the war took him, he would have no regrets, knowing that his life was a meagre price for the safety of the people he loved.
Thus, he inhaled deep shaky breath he hoped that Steve would interpret as excitement instead of fear, puffed his chest, chin tilted proudly as he drawled out;
"107th, Sergeant James Barnes shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."
3.
How much of trouble he would be in if he plucked Steve Idiot Roger's eyes out?
No. Really. Sergeant Barnes was asking the real question here.
He could deal with how messed up he felt after Italy. He could ignore how his cracked knuckles healed way faster than it normally should, especially after it collided with the thick asshole skull of Steve Bonehead Rogers. He could deal with the nightmares that plagued him every night and woke him up with wet cheeks as he murmured his name and service number over and over again. He could deal with the way bruises and wounds never stuck around on his skin, making him avoided any fights and brawls even more, fearing that they would notice. He could deal with the phantom pain of torture, pretending that his hands didn't tremble upon the stupidest thing that would remind him of the mind-numbing pain the crazy scientist inflicted on him.
He could deal with those, no problem.
Everyone that has been at the front was a little messed in the heads when they came back, so Sergeant Barnes didn't have to worry about being the oddball out of the whole troop. Sure, he could deal with how messed up his body and sanity now….
…but, he couldn't deal with the bright blue eyes of Steve Moron Rogers.
No, not the pleading wide eyes of Steve Blockhead Rogers, who volunteered to be experimented on like a lab rat by a German scientist, who picked up a fight too big for his skinny ass, who was a reckless idiot with the tendency of suicidal plans. No, not that Steve Dimwit Rogers. He honestly couldn't deal with the way those eyes were looking at him.
Not the way those bright blue eyes stared deep into his pale steely ones, conveying how much the punk would be happy to have Sergeant Barnes in his rag-tag team of suicidal commandos in his quest to get rid of Nazi's HYDRA.
How could one even deal with that?!
Really. Sergeant Barnes was tired. He would never admit that he was terrified to step into the fighting scene again, but he couldn't lie to himself. His mind kept reeling back to the time in Italy, and his mouth would instantly start chanting the series of numbers he has memorized by heart. The number reminded him that he was still himself when he was about to drift away in his own mind—his body was tired; his soul was traumatised.
He was given the choice to be discharged in honour after all the shit Zola put him through.
The army would understand.
Steve would understand.
It was just a simple request, not a demand or an order. Steve would be happy to hug Sergeant Barnes in his new thick arms, would be happy to send Sergeant Barnes home as Bucky. There was no pressure at all.
But, could Sergeant Barnes do it? Could he return home, all the while knowing that his childhood best friend, Steve Reckless Rogers would charge straight into danger without a single fuck given to the burning world?
The answer was simple—he couldn't do it.
(Even though it was the smart thing to do in this situation.)
Those bright blue eyes were the vector of Roger's stupidity and that shit was infectious.
Exhibit A of that infectious disease: Sergeant Barnes was now officially one of the Howling Commando.
"You sure about this?" Steve asked for the twentieth-something times that day—what little senses that remained in that thick skull finally resurfaced after all the alcohol and adrenaline wore off—as he fiddled with his fingers in the nervousness so unlike his stage name. "Buck, I shouldn't have…I mean, you can choose to retire—"
Yeah, he could do this. Follow that moron who never know to give up a fight; watch over his best friend's back and haul the punk out of trouble—same old, same old.
Sergeant Barnes silenced his commanding officer with the shiny barrel of his rifle cocked towards the idiotic moron, lips curled to a smirk;
"If I'm not there, who's gonna watch your six, punk?"
4.
He was a tool—a weapon.
He didn't think. He didn't question, because for every question, there would be punishment. For every sign of humanity, there would be dire consequences. He was a tool, yes, but he understood pain. Every crack of the whips on his sore skin, every burn from the glowing embers, every excruciating zap of the electricity, every bruise from offending fists, every incision to crack his body open, every intrusion that left him raw and sore—he felt all of those pain.
He felt them, yet he could not react. He was too scared of the pain to react or think.
Thus, he remained silent.
Winter Soldier was a ghost who has no voice.
He was created as a weapon. He has no needs to understand the tears of the woman who desperately stood between him and his mission. It was none of his concern that his chest hurt and he remembered a tiny head braided with pink ribbon snuggled against his chest when he was told to fight and kill a bunch of little red-haired girls, allowing only one survivor to live. He didn't understand his own hesitance when he pulled the trigger twice, embedded two bullets in two humans, only to hesitate to pull the third bullet on the young child who merely stared at him in horror.
But he pulled the trigger for the third time, anyway. He wasn't supposed to leave any witness, or else he would pay for that negligence with pain as his currency.
He didn't understand why he still remember 16th December—even after the cyro and continuous wiping—and the sorrow deep within his chest when he completed that mission. That was the first time his mission looked him straight in his eyes and called him with a name that was so strange yet so familiar to him.
"Sergeant Barnes…"
He crushed mission's skull despite the pain in his chest upon meeting those aged eyes.
That was the first time he mourned his mission, cried as the handlers hosed him down with harsh spray of water, the pain in his chest didn't stop even when he was shoved into the frozen embrace of the tank.
But that wasn't the only mission who called him by a strange yet familiar name.
"Bucky?"
The man on the bridge has called him with that name. It stirred something within him, stopped him when he was supposed to attack, because he needed to ask, needed to know why, he needed to ask, want to know—
"Who the hell is Bucky?"
Just one question, one question he so desperately wanted to know—
—and he paid for it with excruciating pain.
"Wipe him."
And he remembered his purpose again.
He was a ghost. A tool. A weapon.
He wasn't supposed to think, wasn't supposed to feel, wasn't supposed to remember. Disobedience would be rewarded with pain. Humanity would be erased before it could grow. Memories been wiped out at the first spark of blurry images.
He was the Winter Soldier and he fought for HYDRA.
5.
He was at peace.
Well, as peaceful as it could be, living in ratty abandoned apartment with scavenged furniture and mismatched decorative clutters from what he could remember out of his broken, jumbled mind.
He still couldn't find comfort in sleeping like normal person, having to bundle his body up with a sleeping bag on top of the ancient mattress he pulled out of the dumpster—the cold climate of Romania brought back bad memories of losing himself in a cramped tank, though the sleeping bag brought back distant memory of huddling in a bundle of wool blanket in the middle of unforgiving cold of snowy land.
But, it was comfort. Despite the ineffectiveness of the blanket against the harsh cold of unforgiving climate, he remembered strong, too warm arms that wrapped around his huddled body, a head leaning against his shoulder, and another head resting against his side with a bowler hat covering his face, laughter echoed in the background. It was one of the few comforts he remembered, and the sleeping bag was the closest he could get to re-enact the comfort.
He remembered a gentle woman with a kind face, humming cheerfully as she arranged the meagre number of utensils they had in a nice jug. The memory came with a scent he couldn't describe, something that made him feel safe as the phantom warmth of cheap fabric of her skirts wrapping around his body. It reminded him of her, so he did the same, placing the jug-with-utensil in his little kitchen, just for the comfort it provided despite his minimal knowledge in the kitchen.
He remembered the very same woman chiding him to set up the plates, threatening to limit his play time with Stevie if he didn't do so. He wasn't so fond of being ordered, not after his time in HYDRA, but remembering her chiding brought a sense of comfort in him. Thus, he scavenged for extra plates and utensils, arranging them on the table every time he ate, despite knowing that he would never have someone over, but it was comfort and that was what that mattered.
He also remembered breaking off candy bar and shared it with a skinny blond boy, the feeling of that memory made his heart swelled with warmth. Therefore, he sought for similar bars, placing it over the fridge on top of his memories, a reminder of that precious warmth he so deeply craved.
This small space was his safe space.
Thus, when Captain America dropped by for a visit, he had this sinking feeling that he was about to lose his safe space.
"Do you know me?" the American symbol, his old friend, asked.
And he lied. Reciting the information he had read in the museum, but omitting the warmth he remembered coming from the arms that wield the shield. He didn't know why he lied. Some part of him resonated in exasperation, blurry images of going into fights he didn't want to instantly flash through his head, and it was a miracle he didn't collapse from the overwhelming sensation. But, his chest was warm and full for each of the blurry memory, so it must have been something that he was okay with, something that he has taken delight in back then—to save someone he cherished and valued over his life.
It was a source of comfort too, but for now, it was not something that he wanted to remember.
He was tired. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted a home.
He didn't want to fight.
Roger's comms crackled, and thanks for his enhanced hearing, he knew that he has to leave this safety, grab his memories and ran as far away as possible from everything. Rogers exhaled a deep sigh, eyes wary as he scaled the apartment, as if it was enough to stop the special force that was climbing up to their position. The special force that was so close he could hear their footsteps just outside his door, ready to bust in.
"It doesn't have to end with a fight, Buck," Rogers said, hope brimming from his voice.
As for Bucky? He was tired, exhausted and resigned. Bucky sighed, counting down the seconds he has left in this safe space he has worked so hard to build.
Fast-forward to the nearest future—as he slumped against T'challa's chest and was stuck in the bizarre high of having the guy who was hell-bent on killing him yesterday now aiding him with gentle kindness in his eyes—he would remember this, and the following events that caused him to fight for his own freedom, yet another form of puppet being manipulated by a villain with hidden agenda.
His fights were always for another's benefits. Maybe HYDRA was right after all. He was indeed a mindless weapon.
Steve trailed just slightly behind them, his footsteps were heavy, his gait marred with injuries though it didn't lessen the suspicious frown on his patriotic forehead as T'challa gently shifted Bucky in his arms. Bucky was sure that only the king's respect to his old veteran dignity that stopped the panther from full on carrying him bridal style. Bucky was basically a dead weight by this point. He was too exhausted to stay awake, too hurt to move, and too worn to desire living.
He was born in 1917 for fuck's sake. He was too old to deal with the world's bullshit.
"Rest, my friend," T'challa murmured once he deposited Bucky on the pull-out gurney of the stolen Quinjet, the panther kindly pulled a blanket over Bucky's prone form. "There shall be no more fighting."
Bucky held back an unconvinced sigh.
He was dragged from his safe space straight to a civil war between the Avengers. Even his fight to live peacefully has caused a major rift among Earth's Mightiest Heroes and started a Civil War. It would never end. He would always have to fight even when he was too tired to do so.
He rested his head over the small folded blanket T'challa has placed underneath his head, his next sigh was heavy with exhaustion and resignation;
"It's always ends with a fight."
+1
T'challa was very sorry.
Bucky tried so hard to hide an amused smile, tried hard to not imagine a fluffy black kitty whimpering in distress, moreover now that the king has his head buried underneath his arms, whimpering soft apologies to the polished table of Shuri's lab. It was so cute.
The one and a half year he spent rebuilding himself and his life among the members of the River Tribe was the best time of the life that he remembered. Six months in the cyro after Steve left gallivanting the world leading his Rogue Avengers—only six months were required for the genius princess of Wakanda to undo everything that HYDRA has spent 70 years to build. Bucky only needed a month out of cyro to adapt with the gaps in his brain when Shuri cleared him to socialize into normal society.
He has started small then. He solidified his social skills with the Dora and the royal family. He spent most of his time with Shuri, smiling in amusement at the joke she cracked whenever T'challa dropped by for his occasional visit.
"Brother, I have adopted this broken white boy as my new brother. You may leave us now. Shoo!"
In respond to that joke, T'challa would smirk and swiftly manoeuvred Bucky from Shuri's side into a one-arm hug, drawling out playfully.
"Funny, former sister. I found the company of warrior brother like him more pleasurable than a snarky know-it-all baby sister."
He wisely remained as amused audience as the royal siblings traded playful jibes to each other, all the while Bucky has to hold back a smile when they played mock tug-o-war with him as the rope.
But in the end, they would still end up in a heap of warm bodies snuggled to one another in the common room—like a bunch of sleepy exhausted kittens with Queen Mother looking down at them from her regal perch on her comfy chair, fondness was in her eyes. It was a short break before they retire to their own beds, but the way T'challa's warmth lined up along his only arm, and the way Shuri took his left and snuggled against the stump of his left arm has reminded Bucky so much of the fractured memories with his sisters—when they piled up on him after a long day, a comfort against the exhaustion in their bones.
Queen Mother sipping her tea and looking at them with a fond smile was the cherry on top of the cake—a strong reminder of the love he remembered from the woman long dead; the queen was so similar like the woman who birthed him.
The Dora, on the other hand, suspicious as they were as he was a stranger in their land, eventually warmed up to him. Ayo was surprisingly the first to extend a friendly hand to him, despite she was the fiercest and the one who showed the most distrust to him. She has approached him when he was wandering cluelessly in the maze of the palace, and instead of scolding him for acting suspicious, she has gently rested her hand on his shoulder, the strength of her armoured arm was grounding across his back—vaguely reminding him of much thicker arm of his rogue friend—as she wordlessly guided him back to the sparring area where Okoye and other Dora were resting after their training.
When Okoye nudged him, playfully asking if his rifle would ever match to their spears—it was the start of endless debate on the pros and cons of long-distance combat against hands-on combat.
And two weeks later, when his physical therapist instructed him to spar with the Dora to maintain his muscle strength, he pretended that he didn't see the knowing smirk on Okoye's and Ayo's faces.
Starting from the royal family, he moved from one tribe to another, even spending a short visit to the Jabari tribe upon receiving an invitation from M'baku. T'challa was concerned with the invite, while Shuri was flat-out worried, grumbling under her breath when she upgraded the Kimoyo beads around Bucky's pale wrist just before he departed into the mountains with only Ayo as his company.
Bucky was no stranger to challenge like this (how could he not? Steve Rogers was his friend!), thus he utilised the limited time he had in Jabari to impress Wakanda's great gorilla.
He returned each jibe with charming jibes of his own, never showing any weaknesses even with a useless stump on his left shoulder—not even when M'baku challenged him for a spar (much to Shuri's chargin when Ayo blabbered to her later). He danced to their tune, combining Winter Soldier's lethal grace and Bucky Barnes' 1940's dance skills in their spar, which ended with not-surprising win of M'baku. With only one functional arm and the unfamiliar fighting style of the isolated tribe, there was no way he could win against M'baku.
He honestly wasn't expecting the gruff invitation for next visit from the man himself.
After one Shuri rant later (she was still pissed because M'baku made Bucky fight), it was decided that he should utilise the therapeutic environment around the River Tribe to heal himself, so he was relocated there. Bucky was given his own hut by the river, giving him the privilege of being the first to see the breath-taking beauty of Wakanda's sunrise. The village welcomed him with a gift of a pair of healthy goats, a gift he so cherished. He spent his days taking care of them and watering his tiny plot of plants, the times as Winter Soldier felt like a far-fetched blurry dream now.
He felt at peace, engulfed in the warm soothing embrace of Wakanda. He repricorated by polishing his knowledge of their language—the time in the Army and as Winter Soldier made it easier to pick up the language—and embraced their culture, till Xhosa flowed more easily from his mouth instead of English and his tongue craved Wakanda's traditional fruit pastry instead of American's apple pie.
Whenever the special bead with star design at the centre on his wrist beeped, he would talk with Steve, and then all of his American part came out to play. It was just like normal phone calls as they never mentioned any fighting, despite both of them knowing that Steve was practically the world's most wanted now. No mention of fights at all as Steve kept on encouraging him to tell about his life in Wakanda.
Thus, he talked.
He talked about the children of the River Tribe who found the wavy texture of his hair was so fun to braid with, and also the elder members of the tribe who found pleasure in dressing him up in their bright colourful clothing—all were hand-weaved and made Bucky remembered a knitted sweater made out of love in one of his once upon a memory
He talked about his crops and the annoying way the Dora made it a game if he would ever notice that they have helped him harvest his crops—most often a good portion of his fruit jam would suspiciously disappear when that happened. And don't even let Bucky started about whenever M'baku visited unannounced—the man would take Bucky's harvest like he owned the place, only to leave and left Bucky to discover the full-course vegetarian dishes in his hut.
He talked about the way T'challa and Shuri never stumbled on each other when they visited him to rant about the other whenever they had their amusing royal spat—the moment one leave, the other would arrive not long after. Steve has laughed at that, reminding Bucky of forgotten memory when he used to be the mediator between two of his younger sisters.
He talked about his mischievous goats too. The one that snuck out of its pen to lay by Bucky's side in the colder night. The goats had an offspring a few weeks back, and he told Steve about it, about how much of a life-changing experience it was for him when the newborn billy nuzzled to his palm with so much trust it almost made him cry.
Throughout his whole life, he was so used to kill or destroy.
Sure, he first started out by protecting Steve from bullies, but his hand changed purposes. From killing for military under the name of duty, or to kill enemies so that Steve wouldn't get hurt or fighting a useless fight against government who wanted him dead and lastly, he was finally being used as a weapon by HYDRA—his hands were so used to fight and hurt.
But, his hands have changed purpose yet again.
Sure. He only has one hand now, but this one now grew and nurture plants instead of destroying life. This hand soothed the royal siblings out of their exhaustion when they pulled him into a hug. This hand was the one who held the firstborn child of one of the tribe's girl when she unexpectedly went into labour near his hut. This hand was trusted by the animals—be it the ones he cared for or the wild ones that dropped by to snuggle with him whenever he slept under the starlights.
His hand has changed purpose.
It now nurture, grow, sooth and protect.
He didn't want to fight again, but Wakanda gave him a place to call home and people to call family. Steve was no longer the only one in his priority list. No, the list has grown to the whole Wakanda, the colourful thread of their warmth and culture has interwoven their way into the patriotic colours of Steve in Bucky's personal life. They were equally important as his old friend—something he would die to protect.
And if last night he dreamt of meeting a giant panther who spoke to him with voice so gentle and loving like a mother calling for her son, what more he needed as the confirmation that his feelings to Wakanda was reciprocated?
You're one of my child, the giant panther has purred to him, glowing blue eyes looked down at him with love. My little white wolf.
Bucky has woken up to the squeal of the children as King T'challa and Okoye made their way to his hut with a call to fight.
And now, here in Shuri's lab where it was only the two of them and T'challa allowed himself to be his brother instead of his king, Bucky reached his arms out to pull T'challa into a comforting hug, the vibranium of his new arm gleamed underneath the lights.
"I'm sorry, brother," T'challa choked, speaking in Xhosa before switching into English, "I wouldn't ask if we have another way—"
"Wakanda is my home," Bucky said. It's a part of me and I'm a part of her, he left unspoken.
He was not going to let yet another misguided villain hurting him. Not after HYDRA, after SHIELDS, after Zemo. Not again. Thanos could go and fuck himself because Bucky was not going to let another evil laid a hand on him and tore the life that he has re-built from him.
Wakanda forever.
Bucky looked straight in T'challa's eyes and cracked a fierce protective smile as he retreated, slinging the custom-made rifle over his shoulder. He crossed his arms in the Wakanda salute and spoke in clear, unaccented Xhosa, his voice strong;
"This time, I'm fighting for me."