Hey everyone, this is a filler fic for Captain America: Civil War. I know it's been done before, actually it was cairistiona7's story that made me write about CA in the first place (so take a look at hers if you haven't done so yet). This is Bucky's POV about what happened in Wakanda.

Lyrics in italics: "A deep slow panic", AFI

Inspired by the song above, Bruce Springsteen and millions of Pinterest posts.

Warnings: language (Steve apologizes on Bucky's behalf), mention of self-harm/suicide

Huge thanks to Cairistiona for being my beta for this story!

1. Consuming me

Slowly, it's consuming me
Deliberate and deep
I can't take this deeper panic

The room was plain, but comfortable. A bed, a table with a chair, a sofa with a smaller table, a closet and a large window that gave a spectacular view – it was more than Bucky had ever expected to get and probably more than he deserved.

Stop it.

He chided himself for the last thought, reminding himself that apparently he did deserve it. Steve said he did, T'Challa said he did, so why couldn't he believe it?

"You alright, Buck?"

He flinched when he heard Steve's voice. Buck. Sometimes it still felt strange to hear that name, uttered with such warmth and affection, spoken to him. There were times when he didn't react at all, because he felt like whoever the name belonged to wasn't him. Then again he knew that deep down he still was this man, this Bucky; he knew it from the hundreds of scribbled lines and thousands of fragments of memory that came and went as they wanted to. It was one of the few things he was certain of.

Just a tiny fraction of these memories was pleasant.

He blinked rapidly and turned his head to face Steve.

"Guess so." Bucky shrugged with his good arm. He tried not to look at the stump where the other arm, the metal one, used to be. His shoulder ached and he thought he could still feel the arm where it had been ripped off, which was ridiculous of course and he wouldn't tell Steve. The Captain didn't look too convinced. Bucky had learned to read some of his facial expressions by now. The way he creased his forehead and narrowed his eyes, his firmly set jaw and the pressed lips gave him away. Bucky groaned inwardly. He knew Steve wanted him to talk, to have a heart-to-heart, but God knew the sheer thought of it made him shake. He had been so high on adrenaline throughout the fight– an automatic reaction of his serum-enhanced body to deal with the pain, he supposed – that his mind had shut down, but afterwards the energy had ebbed away. He had dozed off multiple times during the flight and conversation had mostly consisted of one-liners. You doin' okay? – Yes. Need anything? – No. In Wakanda he had refused medication, knowing that his injuries would heal over time and also, admittedly, being unable to trust the white-coats. Finally he had allowed them to take care of his arm, and he was grateful for what they had done, but still… He felt the absence of his arm with every breath and he knew it shouldn't bother him so much, but all the things that had happened were taking their toll on him.

"They'll find a way to help you, you know that, right?" Steve said from where he was standing in the doorway. He filled out the doorframe almost completely, never taking his eyes off Bucky as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

Bucky huffed and forced himself to a weak smile.

"They've already done a great deal just by taking me in, everything else is just a bonus. If all else fails, just put me into the ice again and wait till some genius figures it out."

It was meant as a joke, but as soon as he said it the idea took on a life of its own. He had seen the labs on his way to the medical check; he had noticed the too-familiar chambers. Steve had quickly dragged him on and Bucky remembered the way his stomach had lurched upon seeing them. But would it be that bad? He couldn't hurt anyone when he was in cryo, and by God he wanted the hurting to stop. He wasn't sure if he was thinking of hurting others or hurting himself, so he shoved that thought to the back of his head. Cryo was painless, he remembered that. The waking – not so much. He shivered. Surely the Wakandan doctors knew how to work this technique. It was only then that he noticed that Steve hadn't reacted. He looked up at the taller man and felt his insides knotting themselves. Steve's face was grey, his eyes shining suspiciously, and all in all he looked as if he didn't know whether to vomit, cry or punch someone.

"Sorry," Bucky added lamely, scolding himself for the tactless remark. Steve had done so much, he didn't deserve this.

You don't deserve it.

Shut up.

"We'll figure something out," Steve answered through clenched teeth. "Get some rest. The doctors will check on you again tomorrow."

Bucky nodded while inside he was cursing. He hated to see Steve looking like that. Even though there were many things he was unsure of these days, he knew, deep down, that it wasn't alright for the Captain to look like that. Briefly, images flickered through his mind; he could see a scrawny kid laughing at a circus clown and a not-so-scrawny soldier grinning like an idiot in a shabby bar. He couldn't make out the details and they probably weren't important, but the quintessence of these and other flashbacks was that the man wasn't supposed to be so grim.

"I can't wait," he replied and forced himself to another smile. Steve relaxed a little.

He wasn't looking forward to meeting more doctors soon. Part of him understood that it was probably standard protocol when you were a wanted assassin seeking refuge in Wakanda – was there even such a thing as standard protocol for a situation like this? – but the prospect of facing white coats soon set his teeth on edge. His injuries were already healing, they always did, the upside of being a genetically-modified super-soldier. The doctors wouldn't have much to examine concerning that. But they wouldn't stop there; they'd ask questions, they'd try to look inside his head and Heaven knew what they would find when even Bucky himself had no idea what was stuffed away in the dark corners he hadn't yet been able to access.

He wasn't sure whether or not he was brave enough to face those demons just yet.

"I'll be next door if you need me. And Bucky? Don't bother knocking."

After a last concerned glance Steve closed the door. The silence that followed was overwhelming. Bucky let himself sink onto the mattress and closed his eyes for a moment. Wakanda. He wondered how he could ever repay T'Challa for what he had done in order to help him.

Start with not going berserk and killing his people.

Shut up.

He was allowed to roam freely on this level of the building. Both he and Steve had been given instructions and it was with an apologetic shrug that one of T'Challa's officials had ordered Bucky to stay within this floor. For safety reasons, he had said, and Bucky wasn't one hundred percent sure whose safety he was referring to. There were armed people everywhere, the King himself was a deadly soldier; if the Winter Soldier tried to break free he'd be dead before he could get to the ground level.

Would make things easier.

Shut up.

He hated the voice. For some time he had managed to ignore it, but with everything that had happened Bucky had let his guard down once too often. It was hard to try to remember the past and keep the unwelcome parts locked away. But he had to remember. Damn, he missed his backpack and the notebooks. He would eventually find a way to deal with his missing arm, but these books were something else entirely. What if he forgot everything all over again? What if everything became a blur again, what if –

He took a shuddering breath and buried his face in his hand. This wasn't good. He wasn't supposed to think like that. Steve needed him to not think like that. And he owed him big time.

Bucky lost track of time as he sat on the bed, letting his mind drift. He replayed everything that had happened ever since that moment when everything went downhill. To think that he had only wanted to buy some goddamn plums. He snorted and sank back against the pillow. How could he ever have thought to get away with his violent past? There was no escape from the things he'd done.

He could hear Steve telling him that it hadn't been him him, but the Soldier. Steve had sounded so sure about it.

He doesn't know. It will kill him when he finds out what you did… what they did to you to make you do it… it will break your poor Captain's heart.

Shut up, please.

Bucky almost said it out loud, only stopping himself at the last second. Arguing with the voices in your head was for crazy people. He wasn't crazy. Damaged, yes, broken, probably, both physically – damn, he missed that bloody arm! – and mentally, but not insane.

Keep telling yourself that.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

He let out a frustrated growl and willed the Soldier to hide away in those shadowy parts that he didn't dare to approach. Just for a while, just to get some peace. But the odds were against him, he knew that much. No sleep this night, he decided. At least not yet. It wasn't something he could keep up forever, though, even his super powers needed to regenerate.

The ceiling was white but for an almost invisible, thin crack. Bucky caught himself thinking that it would just take one swing with his high-tech arm to bring it down. Oh, right. He didn't have that anymore. Probably for the better. The high frequency noise of the AC hurt his ears. Did he even hear it, or was it his imagination?

The ceiling came closer. The crack widened. He could see him glimpsing through, leering, judging, waiting.

No.

Abruptly, Bucky got off the bed. His stomach protested against the sudden movement. He made it to the bathroom just as the bile rose in his throat. For a moment he feared that he'd throw up – man up, goddammit – but all he felt was the bitter taste that crawled up towards his tongue and the shaking of his hand. Cold sweat covered his face as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

God, he looked awful.

He remembered the day at the Smithsonian when he had first seen himself on that wall, that face that resembled his but belonged to a stranger. James Buchanan Barnes. He had written the name down, memorized it, but as hard as he tried, there was only blackness and question marks when he recalled the name. Even now as he tried to recognize that man in the reflection staring at him from the mirror, all Bucky felt was the rising frustration that had become so familiar. The shabby hair that kept falling into shadowed eyes, the fatigue written all over his pale and bruised face – none of this was Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes from the museum. Maybe he was there, somewhere, hiding in the shadows, too, but he couldn't approach him there, he couldn't go there, not yet, not ever.

He's mine now. Your buddy wants him back so badly, but you and I both know a lost cause when we see one.

For God's sake, shut up, please.

The face in the mirror smiled mockingly, the cold eyes boring into his mind.

He's with me. He sends his regards, by the way.

"Shut up!