A/N: I learned my lesson last time and am attaching a tissue warning to this particular one-shot. Please make sure you have read through chapter seventeen of "Risen from the Requiem" first. (The chapter is the same name.)
Lost and Found (2016)
A boy in a pet shop.
In his culture, death was not the end. It was more of a stepping-off point. You reached out with both hands, and Bast and Sekhmet led you into the green veldt where you could run forever. His father always held it as a peaceful thought.
But T'Challa was not his father, and all he could see was a boy in a pet shop.
Knee deep in a sea of blood, Steve was still staring down at Bucky where he'd pulled their best friend's head into his lap. Every now and again, he tightened his grip on Bucky's shoulder and shook gently, just to see if maybe this time it would work. It didn't.
Theirs was by no means the only tragedy here today: many lay dead or dying, there were still shrieks and cries of the frightened and the injured, and there was a hole in the ground where one of the greatest Wizarding governments in the world had stood for centuries. Although they had kept Hydra from succeeding in their goal, a heavy price had been paid to do so. Too many Muggles had seen—too many Muggles were dead to brush the situation off with a few Memory Charms and creative tales. Sirens were already wailing in the distance, rapidly approaching so that even more Muggles could bear witness to the remains of the slaughter. It would be a long cleanup; there were so many bodies to be dealt with, their blood leaking out and turning the road to slime. A foul odor rose on the breeze, stinking of death and the torment they would now endure.
Because the Hydra hadn't been the worst part. When T'Challa had received Natasha's Patronus that morning, he had thought their situation could not be grimmer—he had thought that defeating the beast would solve all ills. He had been wrong. He recognized that now, as he stood beside Steve's slumped form and watched while Bucky's lips turned blue. This, as they had once learned, was the worst. This anguish and despair, which they had all taken for granted when Bucky was returned to them once already, was more painful than any physical ailment could be.
Bucky had suffered the same fate as the Hydra agents: his chest was sliced open from Jarvis's spell, oozing blood even when the life had already fled his body. His hair, his face, his pants—everything was saturated in red so dark it was nearly black. The image swam before T'Challa's eyes, blurring back and forth between the grotesque image of grief in the here and now and the little boy he'd met all those years ago in the pet shop. That child hadn't been happy per se—there were few times when he'd truly believed Bucky found complete happiness—but he'd been kind and friendly and content with who he was. When he'd held a tiny kitten in his hands as though she meant more than the world itself, his smile had lit up the room.
They would never see that smile again, nor would they ever find happiness on the face of the boy in the pet shop.
Perhaps none of them would ever find happiness again after this day. It was hard to tell, to see past the pain squeezing his heart in its viselike grip. From the expressions on his friends' faces, it was quite possible that he was correct.
Natasha stood opposite him, her eyes locked on Bucky's face like she was waiting for him to crack an eye and grin at his own little joke on them. There was no emotion on her face, which T'Challa had learned long ago meant there were too many flying through her head. It was a stark contrast to Jarvis's grief, on full display as Skye got him settled on the curb. Tears flowed freely from his reddening eyes as they took in the scene of destruction that he had a large part in creating. It wasn't his fault—that much was certain—but T'Challa could understand how he might feel that it was. Someone had to stop the Hydra, however. It couldn't be allowed to destroy more than it already had. None of them would have been there if they hadn't been willing to pay a price, specifically with their lives. They hadn't considered that it wouldn't be their own that would be at greatest risk if they won.
The rest of their friends were in various stages of shock and grief. Stark had yet to remove the helmet of his suit and was standing idly a few feet away, looking for all the world like some long forgotten robot waiting for its master's improbable return. Clint, Sam, Wanda, Thor, Peggy—they were all there, unable to look yet just as incapable of turning away. They all appeared the worse for wear, not that T'Challa assumed he looked any better, but it was more than bodily weariness that now weighed down their souls. This was a burden they had borne before and hoped never to bear again.
Perhaps it had been arrogant to believe that the bell would not toll for their friend a second time. Perhaps this was their punishment for it.
True to form, Natasha was the first to find her voice as she knelt down beside Steve and put a hand on his shoulder.
"We should get him off the street," she murmured gently, swallowing hard before she could continue. "He doesn't belong with…them."
She may as well have remained silent for all that Steve appeared to hear her or notice her vague gesture towards the fallen Hydra agents surrounding them. The only sign he was aware of her presence at all was the tiny motion of his arms tightening around Bucky's body, frightened that the last remnants of his oldest friend would be torn away from him.
T'Challa could not blame Steve, but when Natasha turned her eyes on him, it was impossible to refuse her silent request. Of their group of friends, they were the two who were most level-headed. They had always been logical, reasonable, collected. To some, he knew that gave them a cold appearance, but it couldn't be further from the truth. They simply knew that whatever their thoughts or feelings on a subject may have been, there was work to be done. There was always work to be done.
So, sighing softly, T'Challa went to his knees on Steve's other side and told him, "The authorities will be here soon. It would be best if he wasn't found amongst those responsible, especially after Pierce told the Prophet that he was working with them."
That jarred Steve enough for his gaze to finally tear away from Bucky, and T'Challa found blue eyes glaring at him for the mere mention of Pierce's name. They were not as frightening as usual, though, missing the fire and determination that comprised Steve Rogers's very soul. But then, it was not so surprising: half of his soul lay at their feet, broken now beyond repair.
"Come," urged T'Challa quietly. "We can clean him up some before…"
Before they take him away.
He didn't have to say it—they all heard the words.
Steve looked back down, nodding numbly as the rational part of him began to slot into place. Blank and empty, he slipped his arms under Bucky's shoulders and knees, cradling him to his chest as he stood to lift him. The others made way but remained close by as Steve carried him over to the sidewalk and gently laid him in one of the few spots left unmarred by rubble or blood.
The sirens were close now; T'Challa could see the reflection of flashing red and blue lights off the windows of the buildings further down the street. He could only assume that they would take all the bodies away to store in a morgue, available for claim at some later date once they had determined the cause of this massacre. It was difficult to think about—the first time Bucky had died, they hadn't seen the body. It hadn't been their responsibility to identify him as their friend and make preparations for his funeral. Now that duty would fall to them, the only family he had left, when T'Challa still wasn't even sure how they were going to tell Steve's mother or the Petrovs.
It did not do to think about it now, however. His grief was still too near to begin formulating plans for closure. That would have to wait.
As emergency vehicles began to flood onto the street, Steve collapsed next to Bucky once more, a human wall between him and the noisy world threatening to disturb his eternal peace. He had the air of a man working on instinct alone as he removed his jacket and used a soft sleeve to gently mop the quickly drying blood from Bucky's face. Taking his example, Clint removed his own sweatshirt with an expression T'Challa hadn't seen since they were sixteen years old and laid it over Bucky's bare torso. The more the blood flaked off Bucky's skin, the more it appeared that he could merely have been sleeping. T'Challa didn't even notice the blue that had begun to color his lips anymore, and the stains of red on his cheeks looked almost inappropriately healthy. If it weren't for the way his chest was still bleeding sluggishly underneath Clint's sweatshirt, T'Challa would have been fooled.
The cough didn't startle any of them at first, just another sound of discomfort amidst the sea of suffering around them. Then T'Challa realized where it was coming from.
Bucky spasmed on the sidewalk, his head bouncing off the concrete as wet, rattling coughs racked his body. A shudder passed through him—a wheeze—a breath—
Based on Steve's incredulous expression when he touched his fingers to Bucky's neck, there was even a pulse.
"Oh, my God," whispered Sam, diving into the small space between Bucky and the wall of the building to press his palms firmly against the wound on Bucky's chest. "A little help here, guys!"
T'Challa would never remember the details of what happened next, only knowing a flurry of motion and hands and muscle spasms and relief and a cry of pain and a fatal wound and a miracle and life.