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Sam and the Wakandans having such a good relationship with one another means so much to me.
Cause not only did they gift him his original suit, but they KEPT giving him other variations too. Like that’s such a big deal because no other outsiders are allowed to carry vibranium weapons outside of Wakanda, but they trust Sam to use it responsibly and the believe in what he does.
His suit also further exemplifies the idea that Captain America is a man of ALL people ACROSS the globe. He does not belong to America, and his suit and who Sam is as a person reflects that beautifully. He puts so much care into how he treats everyone and especially his allies, making sure that he lives up to not only his own expectations of himself, but that his actions continue to honor those who have helped him.
Danny Fenton never asked to be king. High King, actually. Supreme Sovereign Overlord of the Infinite Realms, Master of Time, Space, and Everything Between. Whatever. Clockwork said the job came with responsibilities, like cosmic balance and interdimensional peace and setting a good example for the lesser ghosts, but Danny’s idea of diplomacy was giving Skulker a wedgie and sending him flying into a hellmouth. Which, according to Clockwork, was “not sustainable inter-realm policy.” So now here he was, eighteen years old, king of all things weird and glowy, and being told he needed to “forge political relations” with Earth governments.
“Pick one realm,” Clockwork had said with his usual serene smugness, swirling his time staff like he was a magical baton twirler at the Ghost Macy’s Parade. “Start with a sovereign nation. Establish diplomatic rapport. You are a king now. Act like it.”
Danny considered going to Canada, because he heard they had maple syrup and weren’t really into starting fights, but then Frostbite suggested Wakanda. “A hidden, technologically advanced kingdom,” Frostbite boomed with a fang-filled smile. “They are isolated yet powerful. A worthy first partner.”
And that’s how Danny Phantom, ghost king of the afterlife, showed up in Wakanda in his full royal regalia—ripped jeans, a NASA hoodie, and glowing white hair that he had half-heartedly tried to tame with ectoplasm gel. His crown—which he insisted was optional—hovered behind his head like a haunted hula hoop. The Wakandan guards were not impressed. One of them tried to spear him on sight.
“HI!” Danny shouted, floating three feet off the ground to avoid being stabbed. “I come in peace! And also kind of by accident! I may have ripped a hole in your sky barrier. Sorry!”
They dragged him to Shuri.
Princess Shuri was not having a good week. Some idiot on the Council of Elders tried to propose to her again, a hyena broke into her lab and stole a vibranium gauntlet, and now there was a glowing white boy hovering upside down in her throne room claiming to be the King of Ghosts.
“You,” she said, pointing a very sharp finger at him, “are either the most powerful being in the multiverse or the dumbest man I’ve ever met.”
Danny, still upside down, squinted at her. “I can be both. It’s called multitasking.”
Shuri blinked. Then laughed. Then immediately regretted laughing because Danny took it as a sign they were friends.
He followed her around like a lost ectoplasmic puppy for three days, asking questions like, “Do you believe in ghosts?” and “If your vibranium works on sound frequencies, does that mean you could weaponize my ghost wail and make, like, a portable banshee cannon?” and “Do you wanna ride my haunted dinosaur?”
Shuri didn’t know what to do with him. He was infuriating. He phased through walls. He reorganized her lab equipment by vibe. He called her nanobot swarm “glowy spiders.” He kept summoning ghost animals to show her like a toddler bringing frogs into the kitchen. At one point he tried to court her with a bouquet of screaming flowers from the Nightmare Zone. They bit her. She threw them in the incinerator. He pouted for an hour and sulked on the ceiling.
Somehow, this only made him more endearing.
Because sure, he was a pain in the ass, but he was also… genuine. And weirdly charming. He made her laugh when she wanted to scream. He made her guards nervous, which was hilarious. He helped her reboot a broken AI system by whispering ghost gibberish into its processor. It worked. Nobody knew why. Not even Danny.
And then there was the incident at the United Nations.
Danny, trying to prove he could be a good king and a solid diplomatic partner, insisted on attending a meeting with Shuri in New York. He wore a suit. The suit burst into flames five minutes in because he forgot he couldn’t suppress his ecto-core for more than an hour without leaking nuclear-level ghost juice. He tried to cover it up by summoning a clone to sit in his chair while he phased under the table to cool off in spectral form. Unfortunately, his clone started ranting about how France smelled like bread ghosts and threatened to annex Canada “in the name of spooky justice.”
Shuri had to drag him out of the UN by the collar of his glowing cape.
Back in Wakanda, after the global scandal of the “Ghost King’s Toasted Clone Uprising,” Danny was sulking on a floating chair, eating ice cream straight from the tub and accidentally freezing the spoon with his aura.
“I’m never doing politics again,” he declared, face half-smeared with mint chocolate chip.
“You are literally a king,” Shuri reminded him, arms crossed. “You have to do politics.”
“Then I abdicate. I leave the Ghost Realms to my dog, Cujo. He’ll make treaties with slobbery kisses and head pats.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” Shuri sighed, snatching his spoon and dipping it into the tub. “A glowing, interdimensional, mint-breathed drama queen.”
Danny perked up. “Did you just share my ice cream? Is this a bonding moment?”
“No.”
“It feels like a bonding moment.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m just saying, if I died again right now, I’d die happy.”
“You’re already dead.”
“Exactly. That’s how good this moment is.”
And then came the courtship.
Apparently, in ghost culture, any monarch who shares food with another royal is engaging in “pre-mating ceremonial bonding.” Danny found this out after the ice cream moment and immediately declared that he was now courting Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, Heir of the Panther, Queen of His Afterlife.
Shuri threw a shoe at him.
Danny dodged, declared it a “warrior’s blessing,” and carried the shoe around for two days as a sacred relic.
T’Challa returned from a diplomatic mission to find a literal ghost king holding his sister’s sandal in one hand and trying to explain to Okoye why his haunted llamas needed Wakandan citizenship. The Black Panther stared. Blinked. Then turned around and left without saying a word.
It only got worse when the ghosts started showing up.
You see, Danny forgot to mention that his realm was connected to every plane of existence, including all other universesand timelines. So, one by one, people started noticing strange, glowing portals opening in their showers, under their beds, and once—tragically—during a live interview with Tony Stark, who got slimed with ectoplasm and spent an hour screaming about “interdimensional snot monsters.”
Wanda Maximoff accidentally astral-projected into Danny’s throne room during a meditative nap and got stuck in a four-hour tea ceremony with Princess Dorathea the Dragon Ghost, who tried to set her up with Wulf, the yeti-looking ghost of justice. Doctor Strange kept getting prank-called by Technus, who hacked the Sanctum’s Wi-Fi and kept sending memes with captions like “Ur magical protections are mid. Sincerely, King Danny.”
Eventually, the Avengers invited Danny to a meeting.
He showed up fifteen minutes late, riding a skeleton horse, wearing sunglasses indoors, and drinking bubble tea through a glowing straw. Thor challenged him to a duel for “honor and clarity.” Danny beat him by turning intangible and pantsing him in front of everyone.
Shuri watched from the sidelines, sipping her own bubble tea, absolutely smitten and refusing to admit it.
“Just marry him already,” Okoye muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused.
“I don’t even like him,” Shuri snapped. “He’s a reckless, chaotic disaster. He tried to eat vibranium popcorn and exploded.”
“You saved his ectoplasmic signature in your lab.”
“For scientific research!”
“You painted your gauntlet with his core color.”
“It’s a good aesthetic!”
“You wrote a five-page protocol for ‘dealing with ghost boyfriends.’”
“PREEMPTIVE PLANNING.”
Danny, overhearing all of this from the ceiling, grinned like a haunted gremlin. “So you do like me.”
“Get out of my lab,” Shuri said.
He floated closer. “Make me.”
She did. By launching him into orbit with a vibranium railgun.
He came back the next day with a moon rock and a bouquet of cosmic roses made of stardust and regret. She didn’t smile. Not really. Just a little.
And thus began the weirdest, most politically unstable, gloriously cursed romance in the history of both the Ghost Zone and the multiverse. International relations were a mess, ghost cats roamed Wakandan streets, Thor and Cujo became best friends, and Danny made a habit of whispering “I’m Shuri’s spooky consort” at every formal event while phasing through walls.
Nobody knew if it was true love or mutually assured chaos.
But one thing was certain: Ghost diplomacy would never be the same.
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Bucky turns at the greeting, getting more use to the name given to him as the days go on. He’s not quite sure why they call him that, but anything is better than ‘The Winter Soldier’.
Confusion licks him for only a moment as he takes you in, slender frame under traditional clothing rather than fighting leathers. You look a little different than the last time he saw you - your hair was much curler, not in the braids you have them in now and your face was clearer, not marked with white tribal paint.
“You were with Steve.” He states but it borders on a question.
“I was.” You nod, closing the short distance to stand next to him overlooking the lake.
He looks better, different but better. It had only been a few weeks since he had been released from the cryostasis and you have returned to your homeland. Shuri had been the one to update you on his recovery, after all you had promised Steve to look after his dear friend. She told you the kids took a particular liking to him.
A moment of silence passes between you both, your eyes taken in the African scenery and stealing glances at each other from the corners of your eyes.
“Thank you.” Bucky mutters into the open, small and quiet yet grateful. Bucky recalled how hard it was for you to be on his side, to go against your fiends, your King. In the end it worked out, but at the time it was a choice that was hard to carry.
You can recall the moments yourself, being frozen between fighting against people you’ve come to call friends and doing what you thought was right.
“A friend of Cap is a friend of mine.” You settle it, looking over with a little smile.
It leaves Bucky sort of confused by the sentiment. He spent 70 years not use to kindness, so having it in abundance now messes with his brain chemistry.
—
From that day, you visited more. Just to check on him, maybe to talk, sometimes to play with the children but nights like these are what he’s slowly getting use to. Some would say, he looks forward to it.
It’s late, the last orange rays of the setting sun wash the front of his hut in warm lighting. Your both sitting at the table, abandon stacks of kids drawings laying around and your chair is pulled closer to his.
“Ungubani?” The question comes and Bucky is prepared this time, he had been memorizing the language everyday since these impromptu lessons began. (Who are you?)
“Ingcuka emhlophe.” He replies back, slightly hesitant as if somehow he mixed up his words. You don’t outwardly show it but you’re proud at how quickly he’s picking up the language. For someone that hasn’t learnt IsiXhosa from an infant, it could be very hard to learn but he’s not bad for a white boy. He isn’t great but not horrible either. (The White Wolf)
He catches he’s the slight impressed look on your face and he bites back the small smile threatening to pull at his lips. “Not bad, White Boy.”
He feels like a school boy at your praise, he’s been alive a lot longer than you and he’s never met anyone that has affected him this much in such little time.
Bucky’s curiosity regarding you grows with every moment. He’d never admit it but once or twice he’s questioned the kids about you. He really couldn’t help it, he wants to know your story and it’s easier to talk to them than bribe them with the promise of playing in his hair.
“Mamela, James.” You cut him off, with a steady voice. You’ve taken to calling him James, a name he hasn’t gone by in a very long time and he hasn’t once corrected you. Because he likes it, he likes you giving him that part of himself again. (Listen, James.)
He doesn’t mind one bit at the firmness in your tone, he actually finds it funny how you take it all so seriously. How you help him understand the people and culture better.
“Jong-” You cut him off with a hand pressed to his chest. Whether you notice or not, Bucky realizes he doesn’t flinch when you touch him. His body doesn’t freeze or act on fight mode. He’s surprisingly calm.
“Jonga.” You emphasis the part of word messed up, “Here. Feel it in your chest when you say it.”
The moment is intimate in ways he can’t explain, the warm and steadiness of your palm pressing into his chest. The way your mouth moves with his, eyes focused on his lips as you encourage him to speak.
“Jonga.”
Releasing a hum of approval, you nod before slowly pulling away. The way he’s looking at you, so attentively that you have to look away to stop yourself from crossing a boundary.
Bucky isn’t stupid, he catches the shallowing of your breath, the way you can’t hold eye contact and how you mess around the papers littering the table.
“What does it mean?” He asks after a moment of just watching, and you swear the room feels smaller - warmer even.
He waits for you to answer, patient and quiet. When you look up, his eyes drown you just as yours capture him.
“To see.” And the irony of it is electrifying, because it’s as if the two of you are finally seeing each other.
—
Lowkey inspired by that scene of Jake and Netiryi in Avatar (2009) iykyk
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35
Pairing: James Buchanan Barnes/Bucky x You/x reader (afab) no use of y/n
Word count: 6.4 k
Synopsis: “My most successful subje-" A strange noise came out of the man as the Soldier grabbed him by his throat. The man tried to call out, but the memory guards didn't move.
MINORS and AI dickbags GET OUT. I am not in control of how you interact with my work. My work is not to be used or reused for anything
Warnings PLEASE READ: Details of past trauma, ptsd, reliving memories, botched surgery, torture, losing limbs, ptsd, graphic violence, it's all graphic and there is a lot of trauma still.
Dividers@/cafekitsune
The door slid open, Bucky pushing past it and toppling into the new hallway. How many had it been now? At least a dozen. Endless corridors and hallways. He'd thought his memories were back, that he knew what had happened. That had been a lie. The traumatic ones he remembered, but those didn't hurt like what he'd seen.
He slides to the floor, laminate of some kind, and curls in on himself. The faces of those who hadn't been targets, casualties, or family members. People who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It burnt. The screams of those he cut to pieces to get the needed information. Hearing the wails of people finding their loved ones dead. Bucky knew what he had done, but seeing it was a new level of hell. How many times did he have to relive this nightmare before he was free?
No one was safe if he was tasked with killing them. The brutal efficiency with which he had to finish his mission was what had kept him alive. Handlers were killed when they lost usefulness; scientists, doctors, trainers- it didn't matter. They died by his hand. Bucky had been so good that they couldn't replace him. Even tasked to try and train the next set of soldiers, widows, other military men he had lost the names to. Now he was being forced to see what he did, over and over again.
Something touched his shoulder, and he jerked back. Metal arm pushing back against what had touched him, it hit metal. Looking up, he saw himself, the younger Soldier holding Bucky’s metal hand with his. The muzzle was gone, the black paint smeared like he had tried to wipe it off unsuccessfully. His blue eyes were red from irritation. How long had he been gone for? The Soldier had just been left here. Had been here for so long. Years. Now it was worse, because he knew that he wasn't whole. Knew the handlers weren't coming, that he was trapped in this unending maze of horrors.
Bucky stared at him for a moment before they both moved away from each other. The Soldier sat down across from Bucky, who put his back to the wall.
“Uh,” Bucky swallowed, wiping at his face. “I am sorry we got separated again.”
The other man just nodded, shoulder pulled tight. His arm grinding uncomfortably, he reached over and popped it off. Tossing it away from him, before leaning his head against his hand. Bucky watched him for a moment, feeling the waves of sadness wash over him. Bucky didn’t stop to think about what he was doing and just slid over so that he was beside the trembling man. He still didn’t touch him, afraid that he might not be able to. That they would get separated again.
Bucky had told the Soldier that he was in his own mind, that they were one and the same. Hydra was gone, and he had been walking here for years. It had broken him out of whatever spell he had been under, or maybe this was part of the algorithm. What Shuri was doing. Why Bucky had been seeing so many of his own transgressions. Somehow, this was all part of the mending of his mind. At least he hoped it was. What else could it be? He didn’t want to be going through this, to have to experience this. To have to witness a part of him be so broken and confused. All of it was so unspeakable. For it to be nothing.
“I don’t know what is going on,” Bucky starts, trying to gather as much strength as he could. “I think this all part of healing.” He rubbed his face. “This is so stupid, or sounds stupid. But I just saw some really, really terrible stuff that we did.” Fingers clenched and unclenched, your voice, Steve’s voice. “No, it wasn’t what we did. It was what we were made to do.”
“We did it.” The Soldier whispers, snuffling at his nose. Tears leave trails down his smeared face as he stares blankly at the wall across from him. “I’ve seen.”
Closing his eyes, Bucky leans his head against the wall. The words rang true in his mind, it always had, no matter what he’d been told. No matter how many times he tried to believe what others said, the blood had been on his hands, their last words that echoed in his ears.
“Yeah, you're right, we did a lot of really terrible things. We followed orders. We were told what to do, and we did it. Played the part of the perfect weapon, the perfect soldier.” Bucky felt his throat tighten. “But that doesn’t mean we have to stay here. Stay in this place forever. We were brainwashed, tortured, forced to do terrible things, over and over and over again.” Bucky wipes at his face, letting it out into whatever hell this was. “But we get a chance. A chance that most people don’t get. We get a chance to be free. To have a life that could be ours. Not to be dictated by what they made us do.”
The silence stretches for several moments, Bucky working to catch his breath and calm his mind. This was difficult, trying to convince himself that it was okay to move on. He had to move on, or he would never get out of here. Shuri or not, it was still his mind; part of him knew that. She could cut as much as possible, but he had to accept the change. Accept that he was free.
It didn’t erase what had happened, or what his own hands had done. None of it would remove the scars he would carry for the rest of his life. The memories would always be there, those moments. Nothing could change that. The only thing he could change was what happened next. There was no going back in time or changing the outcome, just what happened next. No longer living in the shadow of his past. His future was in his hands. Both of theirs. Bucky and the Soldier.
“You do,” The Soldier replies. His voice trembles, but there is no malice in the words.
Bucky shakes his head, “Not without you. We are in this together. Think we are more like than you know.”
Moving around the room felt surreal. You could put most of your weight on the joint already; it had been about ten days since surgery. It felt a lot longer than that; your days were spent between bed, shuffling down to sit with James, and physiotherapy. Everything was going as expected for you. James was also progressing, but at a much slower pace. The words were still triggering areas at random. Shuri would run the algorithm to attack the areas, only to find it had little effect.
Despite this, Shuri was not giving up. If anything, it seemed to spur her forward. Her and her team were spending countless hours trying to figure out what was happening. Trying new techniques, adjusting how the attack certain areas. The current method was stimulating the brain with a certain trigger word and immediately using a laser to cut it. It was a painfully slow process, but it seemed to be working.
“Nicely done,” Nurse Kona says with a smile as you manage to sit down on your own after doing several laps of the small room.
“Thanks,” You say, taking a drink of water. “Getting better. I am amazed that I have this much mobility already.”
Kona sits beside you, “You’re pushing hard, but not too hard. Ellen is keeping a close eye on your progress.”
“I have to keep both of you on your toes,” You tease, rubbing at your knee. It had become a habit of yours, fingers tracing over the faint raised scars. There was barely anything. The scar from the stab wound was more raised than any of the others.
Chuckling, Kona stands up and stretches. “I believe your friend, Steve, is back. I’ll bring you back to your room, and you can have lunch.”
You nod and push yourself up, making sure your brace is tightened, before slotting yourself into the crutches. The pads push gently against your forearms, hands wrap around the handles. Ellen had moved you to the forearm crutches relatively quickly. It made you more aware of how much weight you could put on your knee. There was still a bit of a limp, and you often found yourself automatically holding your leg up as you used to before. Habits had been made, and you were having to change them every day.
Down the hallways and a few elevators later, you came into your room, no longer a hospital room, but an apartment in the complex. Steve was pacing the room when Kona dropped you off, promising to come get you to go see James later that day. You hobble over, relishing in the smell of curry before watching your friend. His hair stood on end from his fingers constantly carding it.
He was talking at a rapid pace into the small device, which looked like an old school flip phone. Aside from the blue glow, it could have been something from the early two thousands. You worry at your lip and lean the crutches against the counter, carefully grabbing plates and glasses.
Steve had been gone for several days, talking at a UN hearing over the Accords. He had been working tirelessly, trying to get the Accords overturned or amended at least. This didn’t cover the endless oddities that he had been facing, a lot of them tied back to the Enders. There were others; some groups of ex-hydra militants had joined together to try to resurrect experiments that were going terribly wrong. You weren’t sure how he was handling it. The man was dealing with bureaucratic paperwork on a global scale. Getting permissions from governments and their military was almost impossible. Yet, he was still getting them. A few countries had given them blanket permission, as long as certain parameters were met.
The man would probably make a great politician if he didn’t despise the system so much. Steve had made a face when you’d mentioned it. Natasha had laughed so hard that your cheeks had gone pink. Your heart clenched; you missed the team. It had never been easy, but there were small things, talking with Natasha. Helping show Wanda that tech and medicine weren’t scary but a tool that could be useful. Watching Sam take the lead and Steve set up, as Tony stepped back. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been yours.
“I never thought it would be easier to deal with the Russians than with the English,” Steve grumbles, finally closing the phone, snapping you out of your own mind.
You force a smile on your face as you slide a plate over to him, “Well, it is the English, never been good at sharing.”
He snorts and grabs the plate that looks like the plainest chicken and rice you’ve ever seen. “How are you doing, Doc?”
“Can do five laps of the room without falling over, trying not to use the crutches as much.” You fill him in on the details, trying to hide the twinge in your guts.
The underlying fear that everything was going to fall apart was always there. The two of you sit across from each other, the window open enough that you can smell fresh rain. You try to relax, staring down at the food. James would love the curry; you’d have to find out where they got it.
“Not talkin' about your knee,” Steve replies, tapping the side of his head. “How’s up there? It looked like you’d disappeared for a moment.”
Your tongue pushes against your lower lip. “I didn’t expect to miss the compound so much. Not the actual building, but the people.” Pausing, you push your food around. “I know we were running from one thing to another. Just absolute chaos, but I miss the group. Not sure we will ever get back to what we had.”
Steve nods, his own brows furrowing, “Not sure we will. Doesn’t mean we won’t come to visit. Think once Buck is out of the deep freeze, we will have a little get-together. Nothing Stark-level, but it feels like we should do something.”
“That would be good, really good.” You let yourself smile, the idea of having everyone under one roof is a balm on your heart.
Shuri taps at the screen, her lip caught between her teeth as she flips through different pages and images. You watch her, triggering different areas, lights popping up in different parts of James’ mind. It was less than before, but there were still highlights.
Shuffling over, you reach up to place a hand on the glass. It’s cool under your fingertips; his face is slack. Looking almost peaceful, in a way it never had when he was asleep. However, when you looked at your tablet, you could spot a few of the blips in his readings. There was no clear pattern to them; despite the algorithm running through his mind, they came at random points. You knew that time was different inside his mind; what felt like minutes could be hours here.
“I know you’re stubborn, but it would be really great if you could work with us on this,” You say out loud to him. Watching his heart rate go up a few beats, it always did when you talked to him. “Steve is going to be leaving again, not sure when he is going to be back.” You let yourself sit in a chair, keeping your hand against the glass. “I am moving around almost on my own, got the forearm crutches. Pain is pretty good too, less than it was before. Could probably move the goats with you now. Sure, Marge will be yelling at us for being gone so long.”
Coming over to you, Shuri pulls out her projector, turning it on to show James’ brain. “We are down to two words.” She flips through the list of words, “Rusted, and Nine. If I skip over those, we get no lights. But if we say them-” Flipping through different highlighted areas until she stops on one. “-Even out of order. The whole place lights up.”
You reach up and spin the brain scan around, taking in all the lights. “Two more words.” Sitting back, you look up at James. “I am guessing it’s just going to take more time?”
“I think his mind is fighting against us. Similar to when he and Wanda would go in and try to block off areas. From what I read in your reports, his mind would remove it just as fast as you could get in. It’s trying to protect itself from more damage,” Shuri explains, flipping back to the live scan of his mind. “I think we may have to try something more extreme.”
“Getting him fully unconscious.” You reply, having already wondered if this would be the case.
“We can keep going with what we have been doing,” Shuri continues. “I am not certain of the time, or if it will work as we hope.” She pauses, worrying at her lip. “Or. We could increase his sedation. It would put him on the edge of death, but enough that his mind would be offline. So to speak. Run the algorithm for those two words, and then decrease the sedation. Not enough to wake him up, but enough that we could test those words without worry of causing any damage.”
Running a hand through your hair, you look at your tablet; everything is stable, an occasional blip surfacing and disappearing just as quickly. The sedation he was under was already significantly higher than anything you’d seen before. His body metabolised medication at a rapid rate, meaning that increasing it was dangerous.
“We would have to run tests on how much he could handle. We never got to this point before, but I know it was difficult with how fast his body metabolised drugs. Even the anesthesiologist struggled to keep a nerve block working properly.” You close your eyes, unsure what to do or if this is the right choice.
“We would be using a combination of things. Our pharmacist has been running small tests to see what would work over the last several weeks,” Shuri replies, placing her hand on your shoulder. “He would go on a ventilator instead of the mask we are currently using. We would drop the temperature as low as possible, keeping his heart rate just above flatline. Then run the algorithm, pinpoint the spots that need to be resected, then go in through his skull. It’s complicated and hasn’t been done before.” She sighs, standing beside the cryochamber. “I am not sure there is a better option. We could keep running different programs, but I am certain we won’t be able to rid him of these words without shutting him out. The only option is to actually go in physically, removing larger amounts of tissue.”
“Okay,” You say quietly, wanting to scream at the world. Why could nothing just be simple? Why couldn’t this have worked the way it was planned? “When?”
Shuri’s shoulder dropped. “I will need to do some further testing. Make sure the medication we are using is appropriate. Gather a team together; get us all on the same page. Double-check everything. I will not proceed if I have any doubt, Doc.”
You nod and wipe at the stray tears that have found their way out. Anger pushing at the edges, not at Shuri, or James, or anyone. It was the situation you have been put in, how things keep stacking up. What you would do to have some peace. To have something go the way it was planned.
The lights kept flickering on and off, walls shimmering and changing all around them. They had tried to move, going to any door that would open, passing by memories that never seemed to see them. It had changed since Bucky had last been through here. The memories no longer sucked them in, making them experience them as if they were really there; instead, he and the soldier saw them from the outside. No one inside reacted to them coming and going. Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He was currently too busy trying to keep his younger half with him.
Rounding a corner, they found themselves in another cement corridor. The Soldier froze, body tightening like a coil. Every time they found themselves in a Hydra base memory, he would start shutting down. Bucky would often have to physically drag him away or shake him out of it.
This time, he only froze for a moment, then his shoulder moved away from his ear. He looked at Bucky, then gestured with his head to go down the hallway. Bucky nodded and followed after him.
It was the first time the Soldier had made a move without Bucky leading the way. He was taking charge of this situation; whatever it was, Bucky would back him in it. The younger version of himself had become like a younger sibling, reminding him of his sisters. He needed guidance and comfort, and if the Soldier needed to confront a memory, then Bucky would do that too.
The experience of being in his memories had been disturbing at first. A constant barrage of terrible experiences that he had to relive and be a witness to. Then it evolved. Bucky had seen how his younger self reacted to dangerous situations; he always put himself between the danger and Bucky. The Soldier, despite being so broken he barely spoke, still looked out for others. It had snapped something into place for Bucky. Against everything he had been through, inside him was someone who would still fight to protect those he cared about.
Bucky watched as the Soldier went through a door, he knew where he was going and what would be behind it. Following his lead, Bucky was the one to freeze in the doorway. Dr. Zola stood there, medical tools in his hand. The Soldier walked right up to him, his shoulders square and tight, metal fist clicking as he clenched it tight. Behind Zola, another version of Bucky lay on the metal medical table. His blue eyes fogged like he was dead, arm severed halfway below his elbow.
“My most successful subje-" A strange noise came out of the man as the Soldier grabbed him by his throat. The man tried to call out, but the memory guards didn't move.
The Soldier roared loud enough for it to echo in the room. Bucky stepped in, letting the Soldier slam the man against the metal. He shifted his focus to himself on the table. His hair was short-cropped, his face clean-shaven, military fatigues cut away from his body. There were IVs and tubes running in and out of his body. A crude metal arm sat beside his bloody stump. The Zola seemed to have just started to close up the wound. Bucky shivered, seeing the stump half open. As he moved around the table, he saw that the back left side of his skull had also been opened, crude wires sticking out that ran into what must have been a computer. They had already started to reinforce his body with metal and wires.
His teeth ground together, tearing his eyes from the memory, he looked up to see the Soldier rip Zola's arm out of his socket. The violence of it shocked Bucky for a moment. As the man slid to the floor with a scream, the Soldier threw the arm to the side.
“You did this to me.” The Soldier spoke, his voice calm, despite his frenzied eyes. “You haunt my dreams. You broke me.”
Bucky came over to stand beside his younger self. Reaching up, he touched the man's shoulder. He turned to his older self and hugged him. Bucky freezes for a moment, then embraces him back. The two hold onto one another, clinging to the hope they could be whole again. That by confronting the monster that called himself a doctor would help heal open wounds that had been open for too long.
“He's dead. Zola can't hurt us now,” Bucky says, mostly to himself. “I am proud of you.”
The whole world goes black.
Somewhere outside of his mind, Bucky can faintly hear beeping. There is a tug on his mind. He can still feel the Soldier, the two of them wrapped in an embrace. Zola was dead. Peirce was dead. Hydra was fractured. He was safe; no words could touch him.
Watching them sedate Bucky further was uncomfortable. His heart rate dropped; they then intubated him and hooked him up to several IVs. The theatre was quiet; you had been asked if students could watch. You'd declined. James was always private. He had said yes to being observed in the cryotube, but this was different. It felt so much more intimate now, him lying on the metal table. His hair was carefully parted so that they could cut into his skull and insert tools.
The debate about whether to be here or not had been waged for two weeks. Shuri had been in meetings with other doctors and surgeons. This seemed to be the best outcome. It was the first of its kind, and possibly the only one. The risk was heightened because of his metabolism and healing factor. You know all this, and you knew it inside and out, yet your hands were still shaking.
You rubbed at your knee, the brace keeping it support, your forearm crutches leaning against the chair beside you. Your phone hadn't stopped buzzing since you woke up. People asking if you were okay, if James was okay. The worry had spread through your teammates; it was understandable, considering. It didn’t stop you from muting your phone. Taping your ear, you began to listen to the surgeons, techs, and nurses start to work. The earpiece translated for you. You had learned many languages, but technical language was not something you had full understanding of yet.
An Anesthesiologist stood at their machine, eyes dialled in on the readings. You couldn’t imagine the stress they were under. James’ files had been gone over by everyone; they knew how his body worked as well as you did. Didn’t make it any easier for them. His blood pressure, heart rate, O2 saturation were all dangerously low. As low as they could safely go without lasting damage.
Would he have damage? He’d been out for just under six weeks now. This wasn’t close to the longest he had been under for. During his time in Hydra, it had numbered into the years. It still made you nervous. There was a high chance that he would have some memory loss, but Shuri and her team were certain it would be temporary. But how temporary? Would he remember you? Remember the last two years? Or would it be lost, leaving you to have to start all over again? Would he even want that?
Reaching up, you wipe at the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. How often had you cried in the last fourteen days? Whatever happened, you’d be there, even if it was from afar. Just the idea made you have to sit. James was your whole world, your lifeline, the reason to keep getting up in the morning. Why you had fought so hard to be here. Would you be able to keep going from arm's distance?
Stop.
Your voice echoed in the room.
That’s enough.
A breath leaves you. Spiralling wasn’t going to help. You needed to focus on the here and now. Ground yourself. This was for James. The boundary needed to be drawn, made solid. It didn’t matter what happened or how it affected you personally. What mattered was that James was freed from the words. Free to live as close to a normal, enhanced human life.
Right now, he needs to get through this operation. That was the focus.
Gripping the armrests, you squeeze them until your palms hurt. Another breath before you look out the observation glass.
All his stats were in range; it would have been terrifyingly low in anyone else. The techs adjust things as they move to use a laser to cut a small hole into his scalp, then skull bone, dura mater, and into the brain. Tiny micro-tools are then inserted into the exact area of the brain. The surgeon uses a constantly running scan to place the tool exactly where it is needed. Under normal circumstances, you’d be zooming in with each camera, trying to see exactly what they were doing. Right now, your eyes are just watching all the readings.
The tool retracts, and the area is carefully closed. A small amount of liquid is put into the hole to ensure the skull heals properly. It was so small that it would barely be noticeable. You remember how James would carefully touch his scalp, fingers finding the dozens of scars that had been made. Trying to ignore how your heart lurches at the thought of him now having more.
Six more holes are carefully cut, opened, tools slide in and are retracted. James’ heart jumps up once, his body twitching, but the Anesthesiologist quickly gets it under control. Your fingers dig into the armrests so hard you wonder how you haven’t shattered plastic into pieces.
The one reading you keep flipping to is his EEG, watching his brain activity. Every time the tool was inserted, his Alpha waves would move ever so slightly. Despite being heavily sedated, his mind was still fighting back. You wrote a few notes down on this. Wanting to show it all to Shuri afterwards. It was something that, if studied further, could help others who experience anaesthesia awareness. There was so much information and value in people enhanced by serums that had been missed by those just looking to create weapons.
How much groundbreaking technology has been kept away from the general public in the name of military interest? Your fist clenched, Stark had started to work on it. Trying to help vets, working with colleges and universities, starting programs. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, not really. Billions of dollars that were funnelled into making the next weapon.
James, Steve, Bruce, Natasha, Tony, and so many more. People forced into impossible situations and told to survive.
Your fingers clenched so hard into your palm they felt like they would cut. Somehow, someway, you would work so that this didn’t have to keep happening, even if it was just to help those around you.
Something was choking him, but his arms wouldn’t work. Coughing, sputtering, he wretched up whatever it was. Gasping, someone was speaking, a thing was shoved in his mouth, sucking up the goop inside. He tried to open his eyes, fighting for them to at least show him who he was fighting for. It was all a blur. The lights were like runny paint in his eyes. His hands finally moved, barely dragging at the fabric of the bed.
Bed.
He was in a bed. Was it a hospital? Hydra?
“You need to breathe, Mr. Barnes.” Someone said to his side as his breath came out in short pants.
This wasn’t right. He needed to get out of here. Why couldn’t he remember where he was? He fought against the bedding; there were no straps. His body froze. They hadn’t strapped him in. The bed was comfortable, their voice soft, not demanding. His left arm was gone, no metal, no plates clicking, just gone.
“There you go; I know this is probably confusing.” The voice continued. “You are in Wakanda; we are helping you.”
Wakanda. Where was Wakanda?
“You’re in Africa, eastern Africa.”
“Ultron,” His throat tightened to the point it was hard to breathe.
“He’s dead, well, we hope he’s dead,” The voice replies, tone even and practical. “You just came out of cryo, so your mind is going to be a little altered. Can you relax your arm, please?”
No Ultron, Wakanda, that meant no Hydra. He just couldn’t remember how he knew that. He closed his eyes. Images of hallways came in, so many hallways. Memories. Hallways and memories. His stomach heaved, and he turned his head in time for it to go over into a waiting bucket. It was almost nothing, more fluid than actual vomit.
“Get it out. We will make sure you get some proper food soon.” Looking up, he saw a woman watching him, holding the bucket as if it were a normal day for her. “Cryo is rough on the body, not to mention you had surgery.”
“Hydra?” He coughs out, it had to be.
She gave him a soft smile, not condescending, but comforting. “Not Hydra,” She says, a name, one he should know, again. “Do you want me to send her in?”
He blinks several times, clearing his eyes some more. “Who is she?”
“I can’t tell you details, got to let your brain sort that out on its own.” The kind doctor says as she adjusts a few things on her tablet. “But she is important to you, been waiting for you to wake up.”
“Okay,” He replies, nodding his head. The room is clearer now, it's cosy and comfortable. The space is lit up by dim lights, the wall is made up of wood and sand-like plaster so that it doesn’t feel so sterile.
A memory of a woman falling comes to mind, her body going over an edge. She’d been wearing his shirt; she hadn’t been scared, just determined. Another image of her in his arms, she had been bleeding. Whoever she was, he could feel his heart tighten, reaching for her.
The woman stands and goes to the door, opening it up. He watches her gesture for someone to come inside.
You walk into the room, unsure of what lies past the door. James is sitting up against pillows, propped up, awake, mostly tube-free. He had struggled while waking up; it had been hard to watch. Not knowing if he would be combative or even remember anything. Seven weeks. It felt like a lifetime ago now. They had put James back into cryo after the surgery to do further testing. Despite things coming back positive, Shuri had found no activity to the words that would be concerning; his brain was acting as it should.
Putting on a brave face, you look at him, really look, his blue eyes focus on you. Brows furrowing as he looks you up and down, trying to place you, to understand who you are. It was unnerving seeing him like this, just in a hospital gown, armless. You try to keep your body neutral, moving over to sit beside him. His eyes follow how you move, how you sit, fixating on your knee. It was still wrapped in a brace, but was moving better every day. You didn’t have to use a cane or forearm crutches for most things, unless it was long walks.
Pulling the chair closer, you have to fold your hands over themselves so that you don’t reach for him. Touching him had been normal, but now it was starting at square one. He didn’t remember who you were, not yet. One step at a time; you have to keep reminding yourself.
“Been a while, James,” You say, not sure where to start. Steeling your heart, you give him your name, watching his eyes flick back and forth. “I think Yuri explained some. She's been your primary neurologist since you went under. Helped perform your surgery. Very talented doctor.”
James nods, still staring at you. You can almost hear the wheels turning. His right hand goes over to his left, fingers running over where his left arm used to be. Fingers tracing over the metal plating that's still there. His eyes flicker closed for a moment as he presses against a scar.
“If it hurts, they have figured out a combination of medication that will help,” You explain, carefully reaching to grab the PCA pump. “Just got to press the button.”
You place it beside his right hand, watching as he looks down at it before looking back up at you. He doesn’t grab it, fingers coming down to lie on the sheets. It was hard to let it go, to not want to push things. You just wanted to feel his skin under yours, to know that he was alive, real.
“I am not supposed to explain things to you. Got to let your mind piece things together.” You continue, trying to find a way to fill the space. “I’ve been in your shoes, forgetting things, people. It’s hard. But it will come back.”
Another nod from him. His face almost completely impassive, not giving away anything that was going on in his mind. It was almost comedic; James, when he wasn’t on mission, was incredibly expressive and you could almost read his thoughts just by watching him at meetings. Now he was hidden away again, so far away. Your heart twisted, biting at your lip.
“Steve found this curry place, the food is so good. He just got the spiced rice and plain chicken. I will have to bring you some if you want?” Just talk about anything at this point, you thought to yourself. It felt so awkward, so unnatural.
“Steve?” James’ eyes dart towards the door, then back at you.
That stung. You had to remind yourself that Steve and James had known each other for almost ten times longer than you did. Of course, he would remember Steve first. This was normal. You hadn’t remembered him right away when you had woken up.
“Yeah, Steve Rogers. He is going to be coming to visit in a few days. Probably bring a few friends, Sam, Natasha.” You kept your tone as even as possible, watching to see if there was any recognition there. If there was any, he didn’t show it. “Why don’t I tell you what I can?”
James looked around for a moment, seemingly confused, before continuing. “Okay, I remember some.”
“That’s good. Do you want to tell me? Or should I go first?”
“You.”
“Your name is James Bauchan Barnes, but most people call you Bucky. I’ve always called you James; it felt appropriate at first. Then it just became our thing. Kinda stuck.”
“We are friends.”
“Yes, I like to think so. I haven’t known you as long as Steve. I think he’s known you longer than anyone else.”
“Steve helped me leave Hydra?”
“Yes, he did, made sure you got here too.”
“With you?”
You have to bite your tongue for a moment: “Yes. I had to have my own surgery done.”
His brows furrow, and he fiddles with the tube beside him. “For your knee. It’s better?”
“Yeah, a lot better actually. Can walk without crutches for the most part. I still get tired, but it’s getting better.”
“You were hurt, shot. I saw you fall.” His hand flips over, fingers letting go of the tubing.
Nodding, you keep going, “You’re starting to remember; that’s good.”
“Did I hurt you?” His voice was so low, his eyes glassy as he looked away from you. It was barely a question, as if he had already resigned himself to having done it.
You go to reach for his hand, but stop. “Can I hold your hand?”
He nods his head and lets you take his. “Yes.”
The way your fingers fit together fills you with warmth and courage to keep going. “It wasn't you.” He shakes his head, fingers squeezing yours. A small sigh escapes. “It was your body, your hands, but I knew it wasn't you. The Soldier didn't have a choice. The man that I know didn't have a choice. That's why we are here. So you will always have a choice.”
His hand shakes in yours. “I have a choice?”
Moving just slightly so you're in his eyeline. “Yes. You can choose whatever comes next.”
Something breaks in him, a cog clicking into place, as a muffled sob escapes him.
Part 35
If you can believe it.. happy times are coming, even if its just a for a little while.
