"The only reason I know I'll be totally out is because I saw them test it on you," Bucky commented wryly.
"See, not as fun as you thought, being a super soldier," Steve joked back. They both tried to ignore the semi-frantic pace of the heart monitor. "On the upside, not as much risk for complications."
"So I was frequently reminded. At least before the whole serum business I was guaranteed to beat you in a fistfight."
"I gotta keep you on your toes somehow."
It was weird, seeing Steve all done up in scrubs and everything. He would be in the corner of the room the whole time, though mainly as a backup in case the specialized anesthetic wasn't enough. Between the serum, albeit an imperfect version, and all of the stuff he was given over the years, they knew Bucky had to have developed an undetermined tolerance to typical medications. He flexed his right hand nervously, already strapped up with the IV and monitors. Owing to the area of surgery, the prep team left off the hospital gown, keeping his chest bare except for the cardiac leads. Bucky was very aware of the visible reminders of his past experience.
"These are good people, Buck, and they know what they're doing," said Steve, unable to completely mask the anxiety in his own voice. Both of them glanced toward the far corner of the room, at a door neither of them had really paid attention to before. The small surgery unit waited on the other side.
"I know, I just hope I can let them do their job."
"It will be over before you know it," chimed the soft-spoken attendant as she checked over all the connections one more time. Her face was already masked, but nonetheless Bucky could tell she was giving him an encouraging smile. He tried to return it.
"That would be the welcome scenario, anyway."
Two more people approached, one of them Dr. Khan. "We are ready to begin if you are."
"Just remember, whatever happens, I'm right in there with you," Steve reiterated.
Bucky sucked in a tense breath, and nodded. First the other doctor hung a new bag of liquid on the IV pole, then a mask went onto Bucky's face. He felt his bones practically vibrating with nervous energy.
"Keep taking those deep breaths," coached Dr. Khan. The second bag was connected to the IV.
"Steve…" Bucky tried to say, started to reach across the bed. The next moment, it was as if he floated backward into blackness.
. . .
His left shoulder was quite alive with a familiar sensation. Tolerable, though not entirely comfortable. Somehow he knew he would get used to it. A dulled burning surrounded the area. As for the rest of him, he might as well have been digging his way out of a grave. Except his limbs weren't moving. In fact, none of him was. And somewhere far away, there was too much light to be underground. Wait, that wasn't right either. The light was close, just above his head, only dimmed. Everything else was dark. Ugh, none of his thoughts were making sense.
A low moan echoed strangely; it took a few seconds for Bucky to realize that was how his own voice sounded in his drug-fogged head. Muted movement close by startled him, but his reflexes were way below par.
"Hey, it's just me. You're back in the main medical suite for recovery." Steve. That voice belonged to Steve…
"I'sallover…?" Bucky mumbled. His right hand trailed slowly up and across his clammy chest, where his fingers met bandages covering the area where metal usually joined rough flesh. An unseen hand gently pulled his wrist down once more to the blanket.
"Over and done with. They want you to keep it in the sling until your shoulder heals, maybe a few days for you, and then you can really try it out."
None of these details stuck too well in his brain for the moment, whether due to medication or his fixation on the fact that the meds actually made him so groggy. "It…worked…? Didn' even dream…"
"Yeah, it all went without a hitch on this end. You did it."
"Wha' timeisit…"
"About one in the morning, I think. Don't worry about that now. Keep resting, that's all you have to do."
"''Kay…"
He surfaced next to find soft yet distinct light filling the room. Only instead of Steve lounging in the nearby chair, Bucky was greeted by Sam and his overly-expressive eyebrows.
"No offense…not exactly what I had in mind to wake up to…" Bucky groaned, but with a more sardonic note than anger in his voice.
Sam let out a snort of a laugh. "I don't blame you. I told Steve around six that he should get some real rest. He didn't want you waking up alone in the middle of all this."
"I guess it's enough trouble when I freak out with just one arm." Bucky took stock of the aforementioned surroundings. He was already off of oxygen this time. Again no restraints, at least for the time being. A large swath of the new arm was obscured by a dark blue sling, plus the gauze dressing around his shoulder. Still cybernetic, but a more streamlined, less overtly-warfare design, and no Soviet star branding him as someone's puppet. Even more reassuring, someone had thought to go ahead and hang his dog tags where they belonged, around his neck.
"T'Challa's finally back, too," added Sam. "Sira's updating him now. Weird how a guy could go from relentless vengeance to harboring the same fugitives, but hey, whatever works."
Bucky cast his gaze farther, taking in the sunlight across the ceiling, the panther relief on the wall. "I hope I get the chance to thank him in person. Can't say I'd have gotten anywhere this far on the run, even if I had friends with me."
"Okay, okay, let's not go total chick flick here."
"What?"
"Nevermind…"
Further banter was foreshortened by the telltale clank of the main door lock in the other room. This visit, however, consisted only of Dr. Khan and her ever-present assistant. Nurse, technician, all around right-hand partner, Bucky couldn't quite figure out.
"Good morning, James. Our apologies for the abrupt entrance," Dr. Khan said right off the bat. "We were just beginning to consider a stimulant to counteract the remaining anesthetic, in case it proved to be stronger than we anticipated. How are you feeling?"
"A lot less out of it than before, when Steve was here. I didn't cause any trouble, did I?" replied Bucky.
"None at all. The procedure went exactly as we hoped it would. Your vitals are looking very well for under 24 hours post-surgery. We like to see that in any patient, even an enhanced one. And the arm—nothing too uncomfortable, or feeling insecure?"
"To tell the truth, I've been afraid to do much with it. You know, in case I do something by accident that screws it all up, and get in trouble." He cracked a jaunty smile. "Feels pretty much like the old one did, though."
"Good. We will keep you on antibiotics and step down the painkillers for a while. The next step would be some physical therapy, since it is a major surgery, and you have been compensating these past weeks in ways you probably did not even notice. But I imagine that will go quicker than the standard treatment plan as well."
Dr. Khan made notes on the medical chart while her assistant checked under the bandages. The plates on this model were less bulky, almost blended into his shoulder, so the old scarring just about disappeared into a faint band of discoloration. Well, he assumed as much. It was all currently still an angry pink and lots of fine stitches.
"It is a bio-graft method to reduce prosthetic chafing and microdamage from movement. Fine layers of flexible vibranium mesh lock into the fascia as it heals, instead of a hard edge on top of the mounted joint base. The skin is carefully grafted back over it, allowing for an essentially seamless surface," the attendant explained.
"Kind of like how that panther suit is able to take a beating without it being, well, Iron Man?" Sam piped up. The attendant's almond eyes were unreadable as she turned to look at him.
"Engineers developed textile applications first, yes. As I was saying, you want to make sure to give your shoulder adequate time to heal properly, so the interweaving has a chance to take. We will monitor the daily progress, and ease restrictions as the area stabilizes."
Bucky nodded. "Okay." He wanted to make sure to do this right.
. . .
The glowing kitchen clock read 4:27, a beacon in the dark. Bucky could see it from his vantage point lying on the couch, arm tucked protectively in its sling so it draped across the base of his ribs. The sling had a strap that buckled around the torso to keep the shoulder more immobilized, but he had been cleared to go without that part. His dog tags rested over the t-shirt he wore. On the coffee table sat a pen with his latest journal.
For the first time in current memory, he had dreamt of wartime flashbacks—not his imprisonment, but actual battles on the front. Days setting up or tearing down camp. Marching. Fighting alongside Steve, who had doubled in size in Bucky's absence.
Not so pleasant was the vivid recall of falling from the train, which ended in his panicked waking in bed, stifling the scream that threatened to accompany him into the real world. He found some reprieve in scribbling down as much detail as he could hold onto about his army days. In fact, he felt pretty calm now. He just couldn't bring himself to go back to bed.
The doorbell suddenly went off, nearly sending Bucky out of his skin. His mind jumped to unannounced—and always unpleasant—visits in a dank, solitary room, but he stuffed this thought down. My name is James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. I survived 70 years as a prisoner and unwilling soldier of HYDRA. I escaped. The things that I did and were done to me were not my fault. Steve is alive. We're both in Wakanda trying to sort out my scrambled mind…
Light from the entryway pooled around the silhouette of a muscular, dark-skinned man. T'Challa. At the same time, the second door behind Bucky opened to reveal an equally tense Steve, who was further confused at the sight of two people already in the main room.
"Bucky? How'd you get out here so quickly? And what exactly warrants a visit now? It's like 4:30 in the morning," complained the super soldier.
"It just startled me, that's all…I was out here before I knew it," Bucky muttered hastily. "Old soldier's instinct, I guess."
T'Challa glanced in Bucky's direction before answering Steve. "As for my purpose, I have a call from Agent Romanoff. She said she was aware of the time difference, and apologized, but she needed to speak directly to you."
"She's not really sorry…" Steve grumped. "You okay here, Buck? This shouldn't take too long."
"I can keep him company, if you wish," offered T'Challa.
"Come on, guys, it's not like I need a babysitter every second," protested Bucky. However, Steve was through the secure vestibule by the time the words had left Bucky's mouth. He heaved a sigh.
"Does the arm suit you so far?" T'Challa asked after a pause.
"What—oh, yeah, it's doing great now that my shoulder's starting to heal up. It's a truly generous gift, thank you."
"You are most welcome. To not offer when I had the opportunity and means to do so would have been in poor taste on my part as a host." T'Challa stepped toward one of the armchairs. "I do not have to stay if you would prefer to be alone, or wish to go back to bed."
"I'm sorry about that. Mostly it's just Steve being over-protective. I'm probably not going to fall asleep again, anyway, so you're welcome to stay. Have a seat."
"Forgive my candor, I noticed you chose not to tell him that you had been out here for some time when I arrived." T'Challa took the proffered chair. "Has your room not been satisfactory?"
Bucky's cheeks burned in the dark. Sometimes, not often, he forgot that cameras monitored most of the apartment. "No, it's been fine, really. Certainly better than what I had for, well, the majority of my life, I guess. I just found myself wide awake, and figured staying in bed wouldn't be of much use."
"Perhaps a game of chess would interest you?"
"If I can remember how to play," prefaced Bucky, clicking on a lamp and taking the corner seat of the couch while T'Challa pulled the handsome carved-wood set toward them. "I can picture my grandfather teaching me when I was maybe six, but I can't promise how much of it stuck after…everything."
"Oh, you might be surprised what the mind can retain. I will let you start."
They navigated the first few moves, Bucky still feeling clumsy at it. As with so many other tasks, he found the game not completely foreign, and yet just beyond familiarity, like walking through fog. He had an idea of what was out there as he went, only he couldn't quite see it.
"I have found that many times we fail in our goals because we try too hard to focus on them," T'Challa mused as he studied the board. "We believe we must block out distraction in order to accomplish the goal, and we see everything outside of that goal as a distraction. When my father taught me how to play chess, I realized something. The strategy of chess engages my focus without shutting out other thoughts. In fact, at times it helps me make greater sense of those thoughts than if I concentrated solely on them. And chess also provides someone with whom to share those thoughts if desired, perhaps gain a new perspective.
"For example, I have had much to think about over the past months. My father's death affected me in many ways. The personal loss, certainly, because he was my father, as well as the responsibility of my birthright to serve the Wakandan people even as I bore that loss. I have been as they say a man of action, more often than not, while my father was always there to be the pillar of diplomacy and fair resolution. To not only have him taken away, but in a manner of violence deliberately committed against an effort of peace, struck an especially deep blow."
Bucky wasn't sure where this was going, though he couldn't help the pang of guilt for his involvement in the events to which T'Challa alluded, falsely attributed or not. "I am sorry, I…I don't know what to say…"
"The spirit in which I acted was my own, not his, and for that I am sorry. It is important for each of us to be his own man—or woman—in this world, but a person who refuses to listen to anything except their own views is liable to do more harm than good. My actions, in part, placed others in danger, including you."
"Steve told me about the conversations you two had." Bucky straightened in his seat momentarily to adjust his sling. "Still, you never should have had to face that dilemma to begin with."
"You were not the perpetrator, James. You had no part in my father's death. I had no right to pursue you as I did, and even less so when I was presented with arguments of your innocence in the matter. Check."
"But it happened because of me, because of my history. Cross-check. Zemo's sanity might have been loose at best, but his grief was real, and he saw me as the way to strike back at the Avengers even though the summit was aimed at them. Your grief was real, is real, so I don't blame you for coming after the man you thought was responsible. Stark's grief was real too, and I definitely don't blame him for coming after me. I gotta be the least innocent guy in this whole mess!"
T'Challa interlocked his fingers, resting his chin on them. Bucky realized how quickly he had gotten worked up. Around them, the room began to lighten with approaching dawn. Bucky could easily see the rumpled throw blanket next to him, the journal wedged slightly open by the pen stuck in it.
"The nightmares have pretty much always haunted me, as far as I can remember," he confessed haltingly. "I don't know why those faces are the ones to survive the memory wipes best, or maybe I only lost any meaningful connection to them beyond how they pertained to the missions. Since I broke out and started remembering more, however, the dreams have been worse most nights. Especially after waking up here from cryo."
"We will always have to carry the weight of our actions, good or evil," noted T'Challa. "You were a prisoner, James; I do not bring this up lightly. You did not have the choice to decide whether you agreed with those actions. Do not carry the guilt of your captors on top of what was actually done by your hands. I think this is a case where we can speak literally instead of metaphorically."
"Everyone keeps coming back to that…"
"Perhaps because it is what you need to keep hearing, until you believe it for yourself." T'Challa reviewed the chess board again. "And I believe that cross-check of yours leads to checkmate. What matters is that you did break free. The next move is yours, and yours alone. You might have retained more of your true self than you think, consider that."
Sound from the vestibule heralded Steve's return. Sunlight definitely began to filter over the distant jungle horizon now. T'Challa stood. "Thank you for indulging me in a match. You should get back in the habit of playing, James. Steven, good day."
"T'Challa," Steve nodded back. He wandered further into the room as the king left, to where Bucky continued to stare at the game in front of him. "What was that about?"
"Huh? Oh, we just ended up playing a round. I didn't think I'd remember how…"
"Maybe we should play sometime, then. I could use the refresher."
"What did Natasha need? I don't think you've ever left the apartment since I woke up."
"My plan was not to unless it couldn't be helped, but it was a matter she didn't want passed along secondhand. It's all taken care of." Steve was acting odd, and they both knew it, but whatever it was he didn't want to share. Bucky tried to tell himself he either didn't need to know or would find out when the time was right.
A/N: First off, I know this story hasn't garnered many reviews, but I do appreciate the traffic that it has been getting, and want to thank those of you who have stuck with me and my pokey updates. We're coming up on some more action soon, and hopefully I'll have sorted out the section that has been giving me fits by then! Cheers :)
