He Who Fights With Monsters
4. Enter Bucky
Wakanda continued to be a place of contradictions. The ivory-hued hallways and marble floors would not have been out of place in some affluent Western establishment such as a bank or a multinational's headquarters. Everything was clean, and modern, minimalistic in a way. And yet, there were stark reminders that this country was a far cry from America's shores.
The pale walls were adorned every few paces with paintings and tapestries, scenes of Wakandans at work and at play—more of them showing hunts of elephants, tigers and something that looked like a small, brown giraffe.
("It's an okapi," Ms. Akindele said, when she saw Drew's gaze lingering over the creature. "Several hundred years ago, one of the Wakandan kings had several imported from other parts of Africa, to develop stock for hunting. Today they are protected, as are all the animals you see depicted in these barbaric scenes.")
Drew swiftly understood why Yewande's psychology paper had focused so much on her people's warrior spirit: scenes of hunts weren't the only things hanging on the walls. Weapons, encased in glass, sat watch over all who passed down the corridors. Spears and bolas and bows and knives… every hunting weapon Drew could imagine, and some which were beyond his imagination, were suspended on the walls for all to see. And he would not have been surprised to see a break glass in case of emergency sign beneath them.
"Do you find the items displayed here unsettling?" Ms. Akindele asked. She watched him from the corner of her eye as she kept pace beside him. Her graceful movements reminded him of Schrödinger, and he sent a silent prayer that the Hoskins' kids wouldn't feed the cat too much tuna while he was out of town.
"More fascinating than unsettling," he admitted. "Please forgive my curiosity; I have an interest in anthropology. What's the cultural significance of displaying the items like this? I feel like I'm walking down the halls of a museum, but I can't imagine you get many tourists out here."
"They are to remind us of who we were, and where we have come from. The glories of our past, as well as our darker moments. When the thirty tribes were unified over five-hundred years ago, every warrior pledged to put down his weapon, and pick it up again only in defence of his land or his King. These are those weapons, and although our warriors today are better equipped than their predecessors, the oath still stands."
A hint of incense curling through the air completed the fusion of modern and ancient, and Drew couldn't help but wonder what effect these artifacts might have had on Mr. Barnes' mind.
The answer to his pondering came quickly, and as a relief. Ms. Akindele took him into the lower east wing, where the walls were bare and the incense a little less potent. When a scratch on one wall caught his attention, he stepped towards it and ran his fingers down the shallow gouge in the plaster.
"Somebody's been having a party?" he asked.
Ms. Akindele's expression soured. "Nothing so fun. When the King made it known that Mr. Barnes was to be housed in this area, the Dora Milaje had everything removed from the walls. I told them he was not dangerous, but they insisted, and scratched the wall in the process. They feared he might become the Winter Soldier and make an attempt on the King's life."
"The Dora what?"
"Milaje. They are the King's bodyguards. Warrior-women, one from each tribe. Eventually, the King will select one to be his bride. Until the day that he dies, they will protect his life with theirs."
A fascinating culture, indeed. But he was not here to indulge his curiosity. He had a job to do.
"You disagree with their assessment that Mr. Barnes might revert back to the Winter Soldier?" he prompted.
The woman's expression softened. Drew suspected Barnes' plight had touched her heart, even though she hadn't had any direct interaction with him.
"By all accounts, it takes very specific trigger-words, spoken in a specific order, to bring forth the Winter Soldier. And when he's in that state, the mind does everything it can to return to an equilibrium. The Soldier is, in my opinion, an imperfect program. That is why HYDRA had to continuously erase his memories and reprogram him each time they brought him out of cryostasis. Simply put, the Winter Soldier itself does not want to be. And Mr. Barnes is a fighter, and a good man. His personality exerts itself if the Winter Soldier is left to his own devices for too long." She shook her head, her smile fading completely. "A life on so short a leash is no life at all."
Her assumptions were bold, but he suspected she was thinking along the right tracks. According to the reports Drew had read, Mr. Rogers had more than once been able to break through the Winter Soldier's programming and bring Mr. Barnes back from the edge of the abyss. HYDRA's own actions towards Mr. Barnes suggested that the Soldier's programming was flawed at a very basic level. Perhaps they didn't have the ability to erase an entire mind. Or perhaps turning a mind into a carte blanche destroyed too much autonomy. Without the memories of Mr. Barnes, would the Winter Soldier have forgotten how to drive a car? Would it, like a newborn babe, have been incapable of even swallowing a mouthful of solid food?
"This is your room," said Ms. Akindele, interrupting the flow of his thoughts as she stopped beside a door. "I will have refreshments sent up to you. Please, take as much time as you need to rest before your first consultation. Mr. Rogers has gone to advise Mr. Barnes of your arrival, and neither of them are going anywhere."
"Thank you, Ms. Akindele, for your welcome, as well as the informative tour of Wakanda's history."
"It was my pleasure. And please, call me Yewande. Only my students and clients call me 'Ms. Akindele.'"
"In which case, you can call me Drew," he offered.
Her smile returned. "When your schedule permits, I look forward to talking with you in more detail, Drew."
He purposely didn't watch her saunter gracefully down the corridor. Instead, he turned to his door, and reached for the… handle?
"Oh, I completely forgot!" Yewande called. She hurried back to his side and pulled something like a cellphone from her pocket. "Please hold out your hand."
He did, and she ran the device over his palm, then turned it over and tapped the touch-screen a few times. The door made a sort of humming sound, followed by the click of an opening lock.
"Our biometric system has now been configured to detect your presence," Yewande explained. "Your bedroom door will open for you alone. As well, you will have access to all the general areas the rest of our guests can access. We take the privacy of our visitors very seriously."
"I can tell." And it was certainly a relief to know he wouldn't have to worry about losing his room key. He was the key!
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
An hour later, Drew was refreshed and invigorated. The view from his window was a spectacular vista of emerald green beneath an azure sky, and the songs of the birds nesting in the trees below the window were both exotic and musical. He didn't want to engage in vanity by believing Yewande had arranged the impressive room for him… but a small part of him did wonder.
As for the furniture… the bed was comfortable, the built-in television was cinema-sized, and the tables and chairs—they were fit for a king. During a psychology conference, Drew had once stayed in New York's Four Seasons hotel, but that place paled in comparison to Wakanda's palace.
He didn't know what the Wakandans put in their tea, but whatever it was had left him feeling like he'd just had a solid night's sleep. Like he could run a marathon… or at least make it to the hundred metre line before his body started complaining at doing something more strenuous than teaching.
Before reaching for the call button built into the door panel, he took a few minutes to sit on the sofa, close his eyes, and centre himself. He had an uphill battle ahead of him. A man with a shattered past of torture and violence, who would be difficult to help if he even accepted it. Perhaps this would be a good time to start keeping a reflective journal again. He hadn't done that since Melinda. Since it became too painful to put his feelings on paper. To make them real enough to read.
He pushed aside the thoughts of his ex-wife, and all the emotional turmoil that came with them. He would deal with them later, at a more appropriate time. This wasn't the place to be thinking about his own feelings. It was time to go to work.
A minute after pushing the call button, another Wakandan—this one a man wearing a muted blue tunic—appeared at his door.
"Could you please show me to the consultation room that Ms. Akindele has prepared?" Drew asked.
"Of course." The man's accent was heavier than Yewande's and T'Keni's'; more difficult to understand. "It is right this way."
Yewande had done a good job with the consultation room. It was plainly decorated and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, with a computer, printer, and other modern amenities. The corner-sofa looked comfortable without being lavish, and two equally comfortable armchairs sat at angles opposite each other across a small coffee table. The coffee machine on the sideboard bubbled quietly, spewing delicious aromas into the air—Yewande must've filled it up and switched it on after leaving Drew at his room—but there were small tins of tea and bottles of plain drinking water too, as well as a fridge-freezer in the sideboard's cupboard, complete with a ready supply of ice.
The view from the window was nice, without being distracting. A garden, Drew suspected, though there was nobody walking the undulating limestone paths right now. There were no paintings of landscapes or portraits adorning the walls, and not a single piece of art present. The room was about as neutral as a room could get, and there was a smaller, break-out room through an inconspicuous door. A room with only an armchair, and no windows. The perfect place to sit quietly and regroup.
"Ms. Akindele instructed me to provide you with anything you should require," the man offered, as if reading Drew's thoughts.
"In that case, I'll need about a half-dozen plants of differing shapes and sizes," Drew instructed. "In pots, of course. And do you have goldfish here?" The man nodded. "I'd like a goldfish in a small, rectangular tank"—round bowls were cruel to the fish—"and some of that incense I smelled burning after I left the hangar."
Drew learnt a valuable lesson about Wakandan efficiency, that day. After issuing the instructions, he sat himself behind the desk and managed to figure out how to logon to the fancy computer. Some virtual assistant directed him to the ACA's website, where he sent the organisation's 24-page Code of Ethics to the desktop printer.
In the time it took him to perform that relatively simple task, a slew of Wakandans appeared carrying potted plants of varying sizes, shapes and colours. Each one was presented to Drew for selection, and whilst he was busy trying to form opinions about plant species he'd never seen before in his life, two pairs of Wakandans arrived carrying a six-foot aquarium with a solid mahogany base. Drew sent it back with the instruction, "smaller." He only wanted one goldfish, not an entire Sea Life Centre.
By the time he was finished, the room was less clinical, more welcoming. The goldfish bobbed happily in his small tank, accompanied by one of those novelty divers attached to an airline, and the plants were positioned to make the most of the sun streaming in through the open blinds. When presented with a selection of several hundred flavours of incense, Drew went for plain old ylang ylang. But he didn't set it burning just yet.
This was, he decided, as he stood in the centre surveying the Wakandans' handiwork, about as un-HYDRA as a room could possibly get. With his redecoration finally complete, he sent for Mr. Barnes.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
If Yewande reminded Drew of a graceful housecat, the Dora Milaje put him in mind of a pride of lionesses. He saw two of them through the open door of the consultation room; they stalked past, eyes glancing casually around his room, taking in the plants, the fish, the furniture, and then they took up waiting positions on either side of his door. From each step of their feet to the way their gazes assessed the threat Drew posed, no movement was wasted, no action superfluous. Working with SHIELD, he was no stranger to people who employed violence to achieve their goals, but never before had he been so close to somebody who breathed it, bathed in it, lived it, draped it around themselves as a cloak to be carried wherever they travelled.
Their presence almost made a joke of the man who followed them. Dressed plainly in a jogging suit with the left arm of the grey sweatshirt pinned up above the elbow, James Buchanan Barnes oozed fear and uncertainty, from the way he crept slowly forward to the way his wide grey eyes darted around the room in the search for danger.
Drew beckoned him forward. "Come on in, Mr. Barnes."
And he did. Slowly. Hesitantly. As if waiting for somebody to jump out and shout 'boo.' One pace. Two. Three.
"You can close the door," Drew told him, when he was far enough into the room.
Mr. Barnes sprang his first surprise. Drew had expected him to close the door on the warrior women with a heavy measure of relief; the way they watched him suggested they weren't going to hesitate about employing some of that violence they'd shrouded themselves in. Instead, Mr. Barnes seemed… reluctant? He glanced back at them, and asked softly, "Are you sure?"
"My door is always open to you, Mr. Barnes," Drew said. "But when you're in here, the rest of the world must stay outside. And that includes your… escorts."
Barnes snorted quietly. "They keep me honest." But he closed the door anyway, then stood stiffly before Andrew, like he was in some military inspection line. Had that been the case, he would not have passed muster. With a week or more's worth of scruff on his face, dark circles beneath his eyes, and a weary slump to his shoulders, he looked less like a Soldier and more like a victim of war. Which, when it came down to it, he was.
"So," said Barnes, his gaze switching from the goldfish to Andrew's most casual nice suit, "you're the guy who's gonna fix me?"
Andrew smiled. "No, but if you want, I can introduce you to the man who is."
Barnes returned to studying the room. "Alright. Bring him out."
"Before we get started, there's something I want to give you." He turned to the desk and picked up the Code of Ethics he'd printed earlier. One of Mr. Barnes' eyebrows rose.
"Homework?"
"In a way. This is what's called a Code of Ethics. It lays out the sort of treatment you can expect from me, and the ways in which you as a person and a client will be both protected and respected during our sessions." He held out the papers, and saw the hesitation in Barnes' eyes before he accepted them. "I'd like you to read this before we go any further. Study it. Absorb it. And if you have any questions, you can ask me. Or you can go online and do your own research. Once you've read the Code, and if you'd like to proceed, we can arrange our first official appointment. Until then, you're under no obligation to tell me anything. You don't even have to say 'hello' if you see me in the corridors."
"Nobody told me there'd be homework," said Barnes.
"If you'd prefer not to read it—"
"No." Barnes snatched the printout towards his chest, as if worried Drew might take it back. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find reading materials in English around here? Besides, I promised Steve I'd at least consider this whole therapy thing." His dark eyebrows lowered, his gaze turning inward. "I owe him that, at least. He gave up everything for me."
Drew nodded, and made a mental note to discuss that particular guilt somewhere down the line.
"There's not gonna be a test afterwards, is there?" asked Barnes, holding up the document.
"No," said Drew, chuckling. "You can keep that for as long as you like. It's how you'll know whether I'm doing right by you."
Mr Barnes lifted his chin, and his grey eyes became colder, more challenging, though not threatening. "And if I decide your Code isn't good enough? If I don't wanna do this thing?"
"Then I'll take a few days to enjoy the Wakandan culture before heading on home. It's been some time since I last had a vacation, and my students won't be returning until after summer break." When he sensed Barnes wavering with indecision, he added, "I can't help you unless you want to be helped. Ultimately, that is the decision you have to make."
It was like flipping a switch. Gone was the defiance, replaced by a downcast gaze and a further slump of the shoulders. "What if I don't deserve to be helped?"
"In terms of counselling, you either believe that nobody deserves to be helped, or you believe that everybody does. Personally, I'm an everybody sort of guy. And regardless of what you've done or didn't do, it's time for you to start deciding who you want to be, Mr. Barnes. You can't control what you did yesterday, but you can change who you'll be tomorrow. Why don't you take some time to read through the Code, and see how you feel about it in the morning?"
Barnes nodded and turned for the door. The two Dora Milaje hadn't moved a muscle, and as Barnes walked off down the corridor, they fell into line behind him. They might have been a guard of honour, were it not for their focused stares. Drew just hoped he could prove to them, and to the rest of the world, that Mr. Barnes was not the monster they thought him to be.
Author's note: Okay, so, here's the 4-1-1 on how counselling really works as a profession. In the U.S., practitioners of counselling or psychotherapy are required by law to be licensed by the State in which they are practising. Elsewhere, counselling is self-regulated by professional bodies (and there are billions of acronyms out there: ACA, BCPC, CPCAB, PACFA, APCP, NCA, BACP – pick your flavour based on where you live). These professional bodies impose ethical frameworks and codes of conduct which govern the counsellor/client relationship, and lay out ground rules for appropriate conduct. They offer support and advice to counsellors (for example, What To Do If You Breach The Terms Of The Ethical Framework By Engaging In An Inappropriate Relationship With Your Client, And Exactly How Screwed That Makes You) and require a minimum number of mandatory CPD hours per annum to ensure members stay apprised of regulation changes and to encourage Best Practice. Counsellors themselves are always encouraged and often required to undertake regular 'supervision' sessions, in which they are in turn aided by their appointed supervisor/mentor and can bring up any issues which might arise during client appointments (whilst preserving client confidentiality, of course). Supervision (in the counselling sense) is not as common with U.S. practitioners, though as mentioned, there are strict licensing laws. Yewande will be serving in the supervisory-type role in this fic.
Be a part of Bucky's story by going to the American Counseling Association's website and reading the Code of Ethics. It's a great insight into the code by which counsellors should (and most do) conduct themselves whilst practising. Don't worry, I'll give you time to do that before updating again!
n.b.: I'm not a qualified counsellor. Everything in this story is from the depths of my imagination, tempered with a heavy dose of How Counselling Really Works, as outlined above. I'm also playing fast and loose with the history of Wakanda and the Dora Milaje—don't expect me to follow canon too much here, because I'm not really familiar with the Black Panther lore.
P.P.P.P.S: A quick check of the Four Seasons Hotel gives me a November price of $895 per night for the most basic room. If I win the lottery, I'm spending a month there, and I'm imbibing the entire mini-bar.
