Fixin' Stuff 63 Ways

It took him awhile to come to the decision, but once he has, he will allow nothing to stop him from finally living some sort of life.

Bucky stows his gear in the bay of the ship T’Challa has graciously gifted him: only the best for Captain Rogers’ friend. It’s a sleek little lady that Bucky falls instantly in love with, equipped with cloaking technology and a modest artillery array. It’s powered by some arcane device the Wakandans use like batteries that never need to be changed, that shines a little like Toni’s arc reactors, a deep, calming blue undulation.

I don’t care, you killed my mom, Toni says, tired and sad.

I didn’t know it was her, Steve protests, lying through his teeth.

He freezes in place, throat convulsing, then deliberately shuts the hatch and walks down the gangway, shielding his eyes briefly as he passes from the shadowed interior of the Royal Talon into the bright Wakandan afternoon, trying not to hyperventilate as he fills his lungs with fresh, clean air. His legs don’t want to work much past the ramp, and he thumps down on his ass, leaning tiredly against the sun-warmed metal of the side of the ship.

What the hell is he doing? Running to a soulmate whose parents he killed? Falling through the cracks in society, always on the run? Turning himself in to the authorities while Stevie’s got his back turned? Just what the fuck does he think he’s doing?

Ease up, Manchurian candidate.

Toni’s voice teases him from the depths of his memory, flashes him the wry grin and mischievous sparkle in her eyes that even the gravity of the situation and the black eye she didn’t bother to hide with makeup can’t diminish. Fatal weakness, her kind of fun-loving and fire-bearing. That should have been his first sign, words be damned.

“Fuck,” he breathes, more a prayer than an epithet, and lets his head roll back against the side of the ship so he can stare at the clouds scudding across the sky. His arm, missing twice over now, aches again, but the pain is different. It’s no longer sharp, no longer breath-stealing. Now, it’s like a deep bruise, long-gone words throbbing instead of searing into his non-existent flesh. The pain is cleaner, smoother. Maybe… healing?

Despite himself, some strange pressure settles into his chest, tight and warm and alarming. He bears it for a long couple of heartbeats, wide-eyed and lost, before he recognizes it as hope. “Fuck,” he says again, very small and almost a sob, and angrily dashes the moisture from his eyes before it can spill over. If that happens, he’s fucking done. And there’s still too much to do, including getting his ass out of Wakanda before Steve comes back.

“Get on your feet, Barnes,” he growls at himself, and forces himself upright before he really does break down. “Get on the ship. Get the hell out of here. You can do this.” He feels self-conscious, but his own verbal self-pep talk does the trick. His legs firm up of their own accord and walk him directly to the flight deck. He pauses just for a moment, before he shuts the door, but decides against his last-minute impulse to go bid farewell to T’Challa and palms the controls to raise the ramp.

“Sit down in the chair. Run through the pre-flight check.” The steady chatter is both embarrassing and unsettling, but it’s working and besides, there’s no one here to overhear him. “You can do this. And maybe she—“ The words choke in his throat, and he swallows them down instead of forcing them out. He doesn’t know what to do if he actually gives voice to them, allows himself to think for the best, and it blows up in his face. Better to keep those words locked away, where they can’t hurt him.