He remembers. He remembers many things, maybe too many. He remembers how it was, when HYDRA locked him up. When the coffin was closed, and all he could see was his own reflection slowly dying in front of him.
Everything was dark when he was under. And the darkness was so strong, so stifling, it was almost palpable. Palpable nightmares that haunted him like ice ghosts, strangling him until he blacked out – died.
Hell.
When he decided to go under, he thought it would be the same. Even if he was safe, even if things were different from before, he was sure that it would be familiar. And most of all, he was convinced that he deserved this.
It never felt like this before. He closed his eyes, and relaxed into a soft embrace. It was still dark, but this darkness was tender, caressing him as if he was lying in black cotton, silk and velvet. And he could hear the monitors, regular beeping around him, created a rhythm which just echoed his beating heart. At each beat, he could see soft and colored light, taking many forms, many colors. Not any ghost, but the sincere sensation that neon flowers were opening in front of him, surrounding him like a closed garden.
Heaven.
~
He could hear the scientists, their footsteps, their conversations, even if he didn’t understand them. But he didn’t care, because everything was so full of life, in him and around him.
Sometimes everything was filled with silence. A peaceful silence, almost holy. When that happened, Bucky just slept. He was never locked up in that silence. He was alive at every sound, every word, but when the silence ruled the place, everything was full of sweet dreams. He didn’t feel trapped, never. Just peaceful. Floating in a strange world, free of space and time itself, unable to tell if he was sleeping for hours, or years.
And yet, he felt so alive.
~
At first, he just heard things in that language that he doesn’t speak. That didn’t bother him. When the scientist were talking around him, it was like poetry, a peaceful melody, little bells ringing in harmony in his garden of dreams.
Then came his voice, the one he recognized almost immediately. Adeep and arch voice, somehow sweet, so full of emotion, so light that he could tell the very moment T’Challa smiled while speaking.
“They say that there is a chance that you can hear us.”
Bucky felt lifted by his voice.
“I hope it’s okay for you down here. They are making progress.”
~
T’Challa came a couple of times.
And it was strange, to have someone who came, just like that, to talk to him. Not to take care of him, but because he cared. Someone asking if he was alright – hoping he was alright. Wondering how his life was before this, wondering why he had chosen to go under again. Someone telling him that he’s sorry for what happened, even for the things that he wasn’t responsible for.
Nobody never felt sorry.
Nobody ever said sorry.
It was strange, but not in a bad way. In an odd way for sure, the kind of way where, when you hear someone talking, you just want to smile, because of the butterflies in your stomach. Because this voice brings peace.
And it was strange, because every time he hears that voice, he wanted nothing more than to open his eyes.
~
T’Challa asked to the doctors to speak English if they could. Better for the patient, he said. Not as an obligation, of course, but a kind suggestion. They agreed that it might be nicer to Bucky, so the ones who could did it willingly. Some of them talked to him as they took care of him – and Bucky was somehow sure they had done it before, even if he hadn’t understood their words. He learned their names and some part of their stories as much as they learned about him, his story and his mind. More and more people spent time talking, to him and around him, laughing sometimes, sighing at others.
But the one voice, his favorite voice, was still there, still visited. Sometimes.
“We’re making progress. Hope it’s okay for you.”
It was. He had never felt so at peace.
~
T’Challa came more and more often. One day, he let slip something about him, something personal, and that was how it started. When he visited, T’Challa would talk about casual things, like they were having an actual conversation. How he spent his days, his routine, his country, his sister, his mother.
“I am told that I shouldn’t be here so often. That talking to you as I do is unusual. One person even said it was creepy.”
Even if Bucky could speak, neither could say that this person was wrong.
T’Challa only talked about the good things, not the bad ones. He was quiet about his struggles, even if Bucky could feel the strain of them sometimes in his tone. Not his enemies, even if Bucky was sure he had some. No, he just talked about his family, his friend, and his accomplishment as a new king.
It was like he strove to stay objective, like a journalist, working to keep Bucky aware of what was happening around him. Trying to remind him that he wasn’t dead.
~
And then came the came when he finally cracked.
“I can’t do this.”
A little fissure appeared in the middle of Bucky’s little paradise, because the voice that fed him was broken. Suddenly his heaven was flawed.It was the first and only time it happened.
But Bucky didn’t forget.
He never did.
~
Bucky never felt alone, even when he was.
T’Challa felt alone, sometimes.
And maybe that’s why he came to visit Bucky as often as he could.
Because he didn’t want him to feel alone.
And because he didn’t want to be alone too.
~
They put music too, sometimes. Bucky listened to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and an entire opera – he never knew he needed it until he listened to it.He was sure that Steve had suggested all the songs from the 30’s that they listened in the dance halls.And this crappy but somehow entertaining modern music – must be Wilson.
~
One time, he heard him cry. One time, the only time, but the worst time.
“I checked for a pulse, and he was gone. Just...gone. I just blinked… and a second after my father was dead. There was nothing I could do.”
He realized that he couldn’t do that too. He couldn’t stay here, in his bubble of glass and peace when the mind and heart of the man who had saved him, and who still cared about him, were at war. Bucky was alone in his frozen sleep, but somehow T’Challa was even more lonely. Bucky couldn’t trust his own mind, but T’Challa’s had his own trust issues.
He couldn’t leave him like that.
He had to wake up.
~
Suddenly, he felt his body. He felt the world around him, tangible, palpable. Everything came back to life. He heard everyone running around him, exclaiming.
The monitoring lost its harmony.
There was chaos around him, and no more peaceful dreams. Just the strong rush of reality – and then cold again.
There was a problem. They weren’t ready for him to wake.
He was unable to breath. It was like his lungs were paralysed, refused to work again. His whole body was petrified.
“We are losing him.
- I can’t fell his pulse !”
The sounds were fading, disappearing into the darkness around him. Bucky was disappearing, utterly lost in this dark paradise he had build.
He heard the door opening. Slamming. An angry voice.
His voice.
“What is happening ?
- Your highness he… He wasn’t supposed to wake up, but something went wrong.”
Then he felt it. A warm and soft palm against his skin.
The air came back.
Bucky took a deep breath – his first for a long time. It was as if we was born again. Everything, his dreams, his garden, began to slowly fade away, letting him go back into the world where he belonged. He couldn’t open his eyes yet, but his heart jolted.
His hand moved, closing his fingers around T’Challa’s wrist. To let him know that he hadn’t left him, that he couldn’t. To let him know that T’Challa had saved him.
It’s okay. I’m here now.
I’m here for you.