AN: Okay, I don't want to get too ahead of myself since Infinity War won't be coming out until May. But until that movie comes out I have about three more chapters that'll at least give closure to the first part of this story.
Also: If people are still interested by the tentative "end" of When in Romania, I do have some one-shots lined up that will capture some missing moments in Romania, as well as some "what if" type things (like pre-Black Panther and post-Infinity War adventures).
When in Romania
"You're lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over or has it just begun?"
—Queensryche, "Silent Lucidity"
IX: Home Remedies
"Are you even holding up your end, or am I doing all the work?" Sam grits out. His muscles are visibly straining under the weight of the large metal beam on his shoulder.
Bucky rolls his eyes and begrudgingly lifts his side of the beam higher, effortlessly with his bionic arm while Wanda quickly moves tools and debris out of their way. Red energy collects rocks and dust and shoves it all to the side, allowing the men to bring in the last support column they need for the hospital lobby.
"Thought you were busy helpin' Cap prep for the roof," Sam calls over his shoulder. Wanda stands in the doorway with her hands poised, a slight grin on her face.
"We finished." More red energy envelopes the beam and lifts it off the men's shoulders, depositing it firmly into a hole in the foundation.
"We could have the ceiling framing done by today," Bucky notes. Sam slaps him amiably in the back, earning a deadpan look.
"Dude, it ain't even lunch yet. We could have the roof up by five."
"Not if we don't want it to collapse during the next storm," Bucky says while arming an impact power drill. A Wakandan from T'Challa's construction team hands him a wide plastic box filled with different screws and bolts, and Bucky thanks him.
"We go slow enough, we make sure it's right the first time," he finishes.
"So, former assassin, and construction expert?" Sam remarks, but also reaches for a drill and pretends to know what kind of drill bit goes into the front part. He's worked with power tools before, but his dad hadn't known the names of parts. Or at least, not much more than flathead screwdrivers and "that there star-lookin' one."
"Did you spend two years building apartments?" Wanda asks pointedly.
"Nah, but I helped my dad fix plenty of fences and my granddad's porch."
"I'd say this project's a little bigger than a porch," Steve says from the doorway. His shirt and jeans are nearly soaked through with sweat, but he smiles big at seeing their progress. Even without a roof or solid walls, the front and back doorways the safest entrances. They'll all be glad once the roof is up though, with the heat and humidity slowly baking them to a crisp.
"Wow, guys. Doin' good," Steve says honestly. They're ahead of schedule, even more than they figured with Wanda helping them do some of the heavy lifting.
"You done napping?" Bucky asks, smirking when the blonde tosses him an amused grin.
"You call cutting over fifty slabs of wood napping?"
"It is if it took you two hours to do it. Let's go, super soldier," Sam teases. Steve rolls his eyes and turns to Bucky, who's unofficially been considered task master of their group. But all of them defer to Kato, the Construction Manager and regarded highly by T'Challa as Wakanda's best constructionist, and one of his best engineers.
"What's next?" Steve asks.
"If you and Wanda could bring in those wooden beams, I'll check in with Kato about starting on the ceiling," Bucky says. It feels weird, giving people orders for once. It's especially weird telling Steve what to do, since the man hardly ever used to do anything he said (even when he was small). Really, he has T'Challa to thank for a long list of unnecessary favors, most of which he can't repay. And the list just seems to just keep on growing.
.
.
"I see," T'Challa nods. His smile seems pleased, but surprised.
"Well, unfortunately there is some work to do outside these walls." The man remains in thought for a few moments, with his hand pressed to his chin. He seems to be debating over something in his mind, maybe whether it's something he can let Bucky help with.
"There is a village, north of here. It was largely destroyed by a brush fire."
Having Bucky's rapt attention, T'Challa continues.
"We've already made sure the survivors were taken care of, accommodated in the nearest village or here in the city," he says. On a nearby table, he brings up a display of his country's map, then focuses on a small village visibly reduced to rubble. The technology itself is amazing to watch, and Bucky wonders just what else there is to discover here.
"Construction is currently taking place for my people to return to their homes."
Bucky meets the man's dark eyes squarely.
"When can I start?"
.
.
When Steve heard the plan, he was all for it. The prospect of getting outside and actually doing something, especially helpingpeople, was too tempting an offer. And that predictably led to Sam joining in, right before Wanda volunteered. Her abilities definitely made things run considerably easier, and by the end of nearly three weeks, they now have the foundation and the bare bones of the supports set for the entire building, not to mention several houses completely rebuilt.
Sunset marks the end of the day, and it comes right on time for them to finish the ceiling framing. On the ride back with Sam and Wanda bickering and Steve silently shaking with laughter at Bucky's side, Bucky considers the ache in his muscles and the fatigue in the rest of him a good feeling. It's brutal work in the heat that reminds him of all the time he spent working construction in Romania (and started in the dead of summer). That had just been a job. A means to eat and hide in a beautiful, but dangerous city. This is something else.
The satisfaction grows with every finished house, every time he imagines another family that will get to come back to their home that maybe isn't the same, but will be there, waiting for them.
Bucky just doesn't have high hopes for the "appointment" waiting for him back in the palace.
The office is relatively small, but the large window in the back wall gives it a considerable view of the jungle surrounding the palace. If Bucky craned his head to the right, he could see the large statue from here.
Instead, he reluctantly sits down across from the casual, but neatly dressed man in front of him. Even while seated, Bucky can tell he's a short man, smiling and looking up at him through thick glasses as he sits relaxed against his leather chair. The elder Wakandan shifts, leaning forward slightly and folding his hands on the wooden desk. Bucky notes the thick band of silver on his left hand.
"Like I said, it is a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice, while a bit coarse, is as welcoming and seemingly genuine as it had been a few minutes ago outside the office. Dr. Tau Bahari had greeted both Steve and Milena with equal respect. Bucky kept his word and entered the room alone.
"But, I must admit," the Wakandan strokes his chin. "I am curious as to why you are here."
You're not the only one, pal, Bucky thinks, holding back a sigh.
"T'Challa told you I was coming." It's more of a question than a statement. Discomfort getting the best of him, Bucky shifts in his seat and discreetly stills his hands by gripping his thighs under the safety of the desk.
"My king spoke to me, yes. But I would like to hear it from you, if possible."
"You're not a psychiatrist," Bucky says, instead of answering. The other man inclines his head in acknowledgement.
"No. But of my degrees, even a doctorate in behavioral science is not what qualifies me most to give you counsel."
That gets Bucky to look up from where he'd been staring down at the mahogany wood in front of him. There's a hard honesty in the older man's black eyes, in his presence, that puts Bucky a little more at ease.
"Before King T'Challa took up his father's mantle, I was one of few who advised T'Chaka, as counselor and friend." Buhari eyes become heavier, but his posture never weakens. "Many decades of mutual kinship forms a kind of trust, one that I have heard resembles your bond with Captain Rogers. Am I right to say so?"
Bucky blinks at the question, but eventually nods. Buhari smiles.
"I understand my king recommended you speak with someone about your troubles," he says, his head tilting with curiosity. "Why not confide in your friend, or your partner?"
Bucky does sigh this time, running his hand through his long hair out of habit.
"Steve offered, but…he thought it would be better if I spoke to someone…objective," he says. Buhari smiles again.
"I believe that was wise of him," he says. "It can be hard to separate objective opinion from personal feelings."
"You were friends with T'Challa's father," Bucky points out. Buhari holds up a finger.
"Which is why I was not the only one to give my advice," he says, his expression nostalgic. "I didn't say it was not difficult, but I always did my best not to mince words."
.
.
Buhari watches Bucky look down at the desk again. His discomfort is clear as day, even if his emotions are expertly locked under a former assassin's blank look. From what Buhari's learned of the Winter Soldier program and of James Barnes, there is probably considerable trauma hidden under the blankness. But, there is incredible strength there as well…and the capability for gentleness.
He saw it in the way Bucky held the girl's hand, and watched her with amusement when she shook hands with Buhari, her smile bright and disarming. It reminded him of his late wife.
He saw it again with the brief, but meaningful grip Steve Rogers had on Bucky's shoulder before he left, tossing "Play nice" over his shoulder. Bucky's flat look in return was also fond, somehow.
"Do you believe you need rehabilitation?" Buhari asks. When the young man looks up, emotion bleeds into blue-gray eyes.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Bucky falters then. Despite how the thought of "therapy sessions" makes his skin crawl, he knows he should want this. But as honest as Buhari seems, Bucky just…can't do this yet.
"I understand, my friend," Buhari says, surprising Bucky out of his thoughts. "It is hard enough to recall your past, and what you fear. Why should you bear your soul to me, as much a stranger to you as your surroundings?"
Buhari leans back in his chair, letting his hands fall onto the armrests.
"No. You do not have to speak with me," he says. "But from my own observations, it seems you have a deep respect for the ones who hold you in such high regard. Yes?"
Bucky nods.
"Good. That is something we have in common, then," Buhari smiles. His smile is the kind of smile that's just enough for the easygoing man, just enough to make the people around him relax.
"Would you like to know more about myself?" he asks. After a moment, Bucky nods and replies softly, "Sure."
"You are so tense," she murmurs. Bucky hums distractedly in response. Not only is there a movie playing on her laptop in front of them, but Milena's hands on his neck and shoulders are working wonders on his still aching muscles. Luckily, his bed is wide enough for him to be half sprawled over her lap while she sits up against the headboard.
"It's been a long day," he says, his voice half muffled by her thigh. Milena shakes her head and pulls another pillow behind her back; it was starting to hurt against the metal, but she'd rather just stuff a bunch of pillows back there instead of making Bucky move. Despite his tenseness, he really does seem relaxed. Even his emotions are calm and content.
"So, you and Dr. Buhari had a good talk then?" Bucky hesitates briefly before shrugging.
"Guess so."
The corner of her mouth pulls upwards, but she doesn't stop her careful massaging at the pressure points in his back and shoulders.
"You guess so, huh?"
"He just…told me a bunch of stuff," Bucky says. "About himself. He uh…didn't make me talk."
"I knew I liked him," Milena muses. She smiles genuinely as she applies pressure up the back of his neck and runs her fingers through his hair. Bucky shivers a little at the sensation, unable to suppress a low moan that she feels against her thigh. He can't even pretend to be paying attention to the movie now.
"I'm proud of you, you know," she says, continuing to card through the impossibly soft strands of dark brown hair. She's kind of jealous, if she's honest with herself. He hasn't had a haircut in months but it's is so thick, not to mention shiny now that it's washed and air-dried.
He barely even has any split ends! she thinks.
"For what?" Bucky asks, bringing her back to the conversation. What was I saying? Oh yes, proud. Very proud.
"The work you're doing…I can tell it means something to you," Milena says. "And it'll give so many people back their lives…but, I may have to start charging you for these massages."
Bucky snorts a bit. "Oh yeah? By the hour?"
"Per half hour, actually. Hard cash only." She's almost grateful that he can't see her cheeky smile. He'll want to retaliate when he's not a boneless puddle in her arms.
"Sure you only take cash?" he asks innocently, but she feels his smirk against her leg.
"Unless you have something better to offer," she suggests, shrugging mildly. Bucky chuckles deeply, making her skin nearly vibrate under his head. His metal hand reaches out for the remote and he pauses the movie.
She giggles when he reaches for her face and kisses her, chastely at first, but her wandering hands push him to deepen it. His metal fingers tangle in her hair and pull her closer while his other hand disappears under her shirt.
"You've been working all day," she pants between kisses, her brown eyes teasing. "Sure you have enough energy?"
Bucky notices that she doesn't stop running her hands all over his body and lighting a fire wherever she touches. Yeah, he's tired, but suddenly his exhaustion is far away and all he wants to do is figure out how to repay his girl for the most amazing massage he can remember.
"We'll find out."
An hour later, sleep hits him like a freight train. Ironically enough, that's what he dreams of.
Trains and snow, and a long way down that seems to take forever and no time at all. Even in a dream, the landing is hazy. What isn't is the uniformed men that drag his limp body through the freezing snow and haul him onto a stretcher.
The halls blur past, fading in and out so many times that he doesn't realize he's in a room surrounded by lab coats and stoic faces until there's a scalpel cutting into mutilated flesh. He's already screaming by the time metal reaches bone, but agony shoots up his nerves into his neck so painfully that it chokes the air out of his lungs—
"—ky, wake up…Bucky!"
He recognizes her touch before her voice, smells her floral soap. Then he feels calm rushing to his head and following to his limbs, and his vision finally focuses on her face. She looks worried, but unafraid even with his tense grip on her waist. Her hands are at his temples, soft like her glowing eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers shakily. Milena shakes her head, but manages a weak smile.
"Don't apologize," she says, wiping the sweat from his brow. He lets her voice wash over him like a balm. He loves the way her native speaking flows off her tongue. He thinks her accented English is charming. But while the Russian of his past has been caustic and harsh—commands that chipped away parts of his soul, she makes it beautiful somehow.
"Let me help you," she offers. Bucky shakes his head.
"I don't want you to see it."
"You need to rest," Milena says stubbornly. "Odds are, whatever it is I've seen it before."
Bucky sighs heavily, but sheer exhausting makes him relent. He closes his eyes and lets her dull the intense memories swirling at the forefront of his mind before she pulls him back down to the bed. She fixes the sheets around them, grabs the pillows that fell onto the floor, and wraps her arms around his shoulders.
"I don't care about being woken up. If you need me, I'm here," she tells him. Her gaze is unwavering, and he still doesn't get why she does this for him. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, then her lips.
"Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me either."
"Yeah, I do."
What he really needs to do is stop this. Bucky knows he deserves restless nights for the rest of his life, but he can't keep bringing her down with him either. He still has reservations about going through with biweekly sessions with Buhari, but Bucky doesn't see any alternative.
He'll have to go to fucking therapy.
A few days later, Milena finds herself in a predictable place at the kitchen's bar seating, nursing a rum and coke.
"Look, I can't tell you what to do. Why're you talkin' to me about it?"
"I'm not asking you to. I'm just…venting."
"You think you feel useless? They've still got me pussy-footing around here when I could be out there with everybody else, fightin' tigers and shit."
"Tigers live in Asia," Milena flatly points out. Clint just points at her with a greasy spatula.
"Can't say I give a shit," he says. "Point is, I could be out there building houses. Instead they've got me doing bullshit crunches."
"Physical therapy is important—" she starts to say, but he cuts her off with an idle wave of his hand while he flips a burger on the stove.
"Clint, two inches to the right and you wouldn't have a stomach," she says. "You would've died of hemorrhaging."
He gives her a deadpan look. When he worked for SHIELD, he would've walked this off in two weeks, tops.
"I'm used to it."
Milena sighs, rubbing her face.
"Why do I even talk to you?"
"I'm the only one here, you've got no choice."
"Where the hell is Scott?" she asks.
"He's consulting on some secret engineering thing for Cat Man downstairs, somewhere." Milena shoots him a chiding look.
"You really could show some more respect. The man saved our lives."
"Technically that was Cap, but I get your point." Clint rolls his eyes at her unimpressed expression.
"What? You're acting like I'll let it slip to his face."
"No, I suppose a master assassin has better tact than that," she sighs dryly.
"Look, it's obvious you're feeling lonely with the Tin Soldier gone all day," Clint says. Flipping the burgers for the last time, he crosses the kitchen in search of plates. "Pick a hobby. Any hobby."
"It's not just him being gone, it's everyone," Milena blushes a little. "But I don't want or need another excuse to sit on my ass. I've read almost twenty books since we've been here, and I've spent hours watching nearly every classic movie from the past four decades."
Really, she doesn't want to complain about being lonely, of all the stupid things. She doesn't have a right to. Clint and Scott have it so much worse than her, not even being able to see their families at all.
And she would never mention it to Bucky. He's been working so hard because it's something he wants to do, and she can see how working with his hands and doing something good is slowly lightening the weight on his shoulders; he smiles more, even laughs more and jokes with Steve, and trades more good-natured barbs with Sam more readily than before. It's a good start, she thinks.
"So what the hell do you want?" Clint asks. He shovels a patty onto a bun and drops a slice of cheese on it, followed by lettuce, pickles, ketchup, and mustard.
"I want to do…something," she admits, and looks down at the plate he sets in front of her with interest. It looks much better than the breakfast he tried to serve a few weeks ago, and with her, Wanda and Sam giving him tips, he's become marginally better at cooking. Milena suspects his wife did most of the cooking while he was at home.
"Good. Do that," he says around a thick bite of burger.
She sighs. "But I…"
Clint looks over at her, sees her downcast, uncertain face and drooping shoulders, and he holds in a sigh of his own.
"What did you do before all this?" he asks. She smiles humorlessly.
"Nothing that'll be useful here, I'm afraid."
"Well…" Clint hesitates. He's usually not the guy people come to for advice. He doesn't even know much about Mila, other than she's a decent cook and maybe a little too soft-hearted.
"Think about what you're good at," he says. In his case, the answer had been very specific. "What makes the most sense for you."
She just looks up at him, a little sadly. "I don't know."
Milena finds herself in the palace library, because where there's a luxurious palace, there's an equally luxurious library. At least that's what she's gotten from every historical fiction she's ever read.
The Wakandans' collection is extensive, to say the least. With three floors of books in several languages and genres, finding something specific might be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But lucky for her she's not looking for anything in particular, and the place is virtually empty.
An hour later and she is elbow-deep in a pile of old fiction novels she's set aside around her, resulting in her own little corner of chaos on the second floor. She has read most of them before, but it's kind of like finding a familiar face somewhere unexpected.
"Have you found something interesting?" comes a coarse voice from her right. Milena jumps from where she sits on the floor, startled until she sees another somewhat familiar face smiling apologetically.
"Oh! H-Hello, Dr. Buhari," she greets, and starts to get up so she can shake his hand. He raises placating hands and bids her to sit back down. He holds a packet of files in his arms.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," he says. He gestures to the stacks surrounding her, then the dusty book in her lap. "You seemed very captivated."
She blushes a little with embarrassment at being so caught off guard. "Oh, well, I used to work at a library. This is more or less how I used to restock the shelves."
His smile pulls with amusement, and he glances down with squinting eyes at the open pages of her book.
"Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, have no delight to pass away the time," he reads, "unless to see my shadow in the sun and descant on mine own deformity."
At his raised brows, she admits, "It's, erm, Shakespeare."
"Yes," he nods. "King Richard III. Not exactly what I'd call leisurely reading."
"Neither would I, but um…" I have nothing better to do. "I find the history behind it fascinating."
"The history behind a hunchback tyrant king who killed his own nephews?" he asks with good humor.
"Well, that's the thing," Milena smiles a little. "This play, it shows how Britain was taught to see Richard III, based on rumors and slander. Supporters of King Henry VII encouraged it after he took the English throne. In reality, he was a rather average-looking man who made good laws and tried to be a fair ruler."
"And the two princes," Buhari asks, "his nephews, who he supposedly had murdered to remain unchallenged for the crown?"
"No one knows for sure what happened to them, or how they died," she says with a shrug. "It's a bit sad, really. He was probably a good man, but even now most of the world still thinks he was a monster."
"Except for the few who know the truth," he offers. Milena nods and sits back against the large book shelf behind her.
"If a monster is what they really wanted, they should've seen Ivan the Terrible."
The older man smiles, though she senses a tinge of knowing in his emotions that piques her curiosity. "You seem to know your history."
"Well," she quirks a small smile as she looks down at the dusty book of poetry and plays. "I think…it helped me understand things. Why certain people—why a regime like HYDRA could come to power. What put them there…"
What it takes for regimes to fall, when others take their place.
"I understand," Buhari says, and he sets a hand down on a nearby chair. "May I?"
"Y-Yes, of course," Milena nods. She watches him take a seat and can't help but wonder why he's here. But there's something else that she's even more curious about, even though she knows she probably shouldn't ask.
"So," she says, inwardly cringing at her own awkwardness. Buhari only smiles at her.
"James is doing well," he says. "There is still the matter of trust that needs to be bridged, but I have only ever been honest in my observations and forthcoming with any questions he asks."
Milena breathes a relieved sigh that ends in a small smile.
"That's good. I'm glad…he had positive things to say about you," she says.
"And he of you," Buhari smiles. "He seems to have a deep respect for you."
Milena can't help the blush that stains her cheeks and the involuntary smile that tugs at her mouth.
"However," he says, the smile fading from his face, "may I ask a question? It may seem rather…forward, but I believe it to be an important one."
She nods, but her brows furrow at the change in tone.
"Why is it that you speak with him in the manner of his captors?" Buhari's expression is earnest while Milena's eyes widen in surprise.
"Surely you see the danger in this."
Too stunned to speak for a moment, Milena closes the book and rises hesitantly to her feet. She finds another chair close by and seats herself across from the man.
"In the beginning, when I first met him, he expressed himself more easily that way," she says slowly.
"After that, did you make an effort to speak with him in English?"
"Of course," she says, but she has to do her best to shove down her irritation.
"I don't mean to offend," Buhari says. "But I believe it is for the sake of his health, as well as his safety that you don't encourage him further in the language. As you know, HYDRA implemented verbal codes, only one of which that we know of."
"Are you accusing me of making it worse for him?" Milena asks incredulously. Buhari sighs and folds his hands on the table.
"I will say that his brain still associates certain words with his programming," he says. "Who is to say that that aspect of his captivity wouldn't cause trauma in other ways?"
"Is this all you wanted to talk about?" Milena asks tersely. At least now she knows why he likely sought her out. Her lips press in a thin line as she wrestles with all the things she wants to say but won't let herself. She watches Buhari sigh again, and lean back in his chair.
"There is one other thing."
Even with his ear buds in, Clint hears the gym door burst open and whips his head over. He can't help but stare as Milena makes her way to the nearest punching bag. She glares at it for a while, but finally she punches it a little. He can tell she doesn't really know how to throw a punch. She hasn't even taped up her hands or put on any gloves.
"Mila?" She doesn't answer him, just huffs.
One attempt to really hit the thing makes her cry out in pain clutching her hand as the bag continues to bump her in the side. "Motherfuck—mmph."
"What the hell're you doing?" Clint sighs. When she turns around, still holding her hand close, he deflates at the sight of her pathetic teary eyes.
"Can you teach me how to use this damn thing?"
