Bucky cautiously sniffed the bowl of chicken water. Smelled like chicken, so that was good. Might have some onion in it. But mostly it just smelled bland. He sighed and tried a spoonful. It tasted about how he expected, maybe slightly better, but it needed salt and pepper. He patted around the tray, lifting the napkin and scooting the cup of coffee out of the way, searching for little packets.
Nothing. No salt or pepper.
Damn it. How can salt and pepper be bad for the digestion? It's just salt and pepper. Not like he wanted to add hot sauce and jalapeños to it.
Steve returned as Bucky listlessly lifted up another spoonful, this one including a little cube of carrot. Steve's grim expression was enough to halt Bucky's hand only halfway to his mouth. He very carefully lowered the spoon back into the bowl. "It's bad."
Steve blinked, then looked at the bowl. "Really? That surprises me."
"Not the soup. Whatever news T'Challa had. It's bad. I can tell by the look on your face."
"Oh. Well," Steve paused and scratched hard at his scalp, then ran his hand over his hair to smooth it back down. "Yes and no."
Bucky waited.
"The team's alive. All of them."
"That's good news," Bucky said cautiously. He knew there was a 'but' coming.
"They're also in the Raft."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"What do we do?"
"'We' don't do anything. Or at least, you don't. You stay here and continue to recuperate. I'll be going to get them out."
Bucky narrowed his eyes. "By yourself."
Steve nodded.
"Alone."
Another nod.
"Without any back-up?"
A shrug.
Bucky bit back not without me you flagless, shieldless idiot and settled for a terse, "How?"
"Haven't figured that out yet. Gonna meet with King T'Challa again in about two hours. He's meeting me here, in fact, partly to see you."
The pterodactyls suddenly fluttered, but Bucky didn't say anything.
"He only had enough time to give me the bare basics of the situation before he had to attend to his nation's business. Wakanda understandably takes priority."
"I can see where it would." Bucky stirred his soup. Took another bite. The carrots were a disappointment. Easily digestible apparently meant they were cooked down to mushy orange cubes of sadness.
Steve threw himself into the chair, pulled a flash drive out of his pocket and plugged it into a tablet computer he pulled from underneath the book he'd been reading. Within moments he was lost in whatever information was on the drive.
Bucky took another mouthful of soup, watching him. He swallowed, carefully wiped his mouth, and pushed the bed table back so he could sit on the side of the bed. "So. About you doing this alone..."
Steve didn't even look up. "No, Bucky."
"Look, at least hear me out."
"No."
"But I can help wi—"
"No."
"Damn it, I'm not an invalid. I can still—"
He finally fixed a stern gaze on him. "Bucky. No. You're in no kind of shape for a mission like this."
Bucky scowled. "Fine. Okay. I get it, the only thing that puts me anywhere close to your superhero strength is probably mounted on the wall in Tony Stark's office now, but—"
"You pack a lethal punch without it. Don't sell yourself short."
"Okay then, if it's the surgery, the incisions will likely be healed by the time we leave. Definitely by the time we get to the Raft."
"Bucky—"
"They will. I may not heal as fast as you, but—"
Steve's voice could have cut steel. "Bucky! It's not the arm, all right?"
Bucky gaped at him for a full five seconds, then dropped his gaze down to his feet. A knot, cold and hard and furious, tightened in his chest.
Damn you, HYDRA. Damn you, Barnes, for being weak and stupid and useless…
"Damn it," Steve murmured, finally breaking the heavy silence. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound so—"
"No. It's not you… I mean, you're right. I, um…" He cleared his throat. Took a deep breath and buried his fury down where Steve wouldn't see it and think it was aimed at him. God knew it wasn't aimed at Steve. He wasn't sure who it was aimed at. HYDRA? Himself? Fate? All three, but definitely not Steve. Never Steve. "I, uh, I don't trust my mind, either." He let out a hollow laugh. "For all I know, SHIELD, HYDRA, and that flock of white birds we saw know those trigger words and two dozen more besides. Somebody shuttin' me down with a word or phrase, right in the middle of a fight… yeah. It'd go pear-shaped at the worst time, probably. You're right." God, he wanted… needed… to punch something.
"I'm still sorry."
Bucky blinked a few times, then risked a quick glance at Steve before studying his feet once more. "So, uh, I guess the question is what can I do, besides say, 'There, there, it'll be all right'? Not that I won't do that." He finally looked Steve in the eye. "You let me slobber all over your shirt, figure it's the least I can do in return."
"Hey, don't knock the power of a good 'there, there'. I'm not exactly the paragon of virtue and heroism I was when I went into the ice." He grinned, but it was more than a little rueful. "I can use all the sympathy I can get these days."
"There, there, then. Here, have a cracker." He tossed a saltine at him and just like that, the tension eased and it was okay. It was good. For now, at least.
Steve bit into the cracker, moodily chewing as he stared into space.
"You sure you have to do this all by yourself?"
"I'm not letting any of T'Challa's people assist me in a crime of this magnitude."
Bucky couldn't fault him for that. "T'Challa gonna let the team hide out here?"
"Yeah, he assured me he would offer them asylum."
"Good."
Steve nodded, but continued staring into space. Bucky could almost hear the wheels and gears turning as the Man With No Plan tried to figure out one.
Out of any other ideas to offer, Bucky stood up and slowly walked to the bathroom. If they were going to entertain a king, he better make himself a little more presentable. He was still a little unsteady on his feet; why, he wasn't sure, but he suspected it was blood loss during surgery. Or lack of food. A few bites of bland chicken water with sad mushy carrots was not a proper meal for a fugitive super soldier. He felt all right otherwise, though. Just a lot more sore and feeble than he was used to. Glitchy brain aside, he was too weak to help Steve, probably. He again chased away the dark thought that he'd never be a help to anyone.
He flipped on the light as he shut the door. Nothing about it had changed from his last visit when he had pissed and farted per the doc's orders. Still just a standard bathroom: white porcelain tile walls and floor, a toilet, sink, shower stall, mirror, chrome fittings. Faint aroma of bleach. A chain hung from the wall near the toilet. Beside it hung a little sign that told him he could pull on it if he needed assistance. He grimaced. He might be too messed up to help Steve, but he was pretty sure he could still wipe his own ass.
Last trip in here he'd avoided looking in the mirror, but this time he studied his reflection. He had a cut across the bridge of his nose, a large abrasion and bruising on the side of his face where Stark had kicked him, a cut on his left eyebrow and another up by his hairline, all in various stages of healing. Pale skin, and such dark shadows under his eyes he thought for a minute he was wearing his camouflage paint. He rubbed his jaw. Needed a shave pretty badly, too.
He turned away from his image and sniffed his armpit. "God almighty," he muttered. He smelled like a locker room that hadn't been cleaned in fourteen years. He looked at the showerhead longingly, but he wasn't sure he was allowed. He hadn't thought to ask and he knew you weren't supposed to get sutures wet. He wasn't sure how deeply internal the internal sutures were.
So no shower.
Still, he couldn't stop staring at the washcloth, towel and a bar of soap sitting so enticingly on a ledge in the shower stall.
He could probably just take a sponge bath at the sink, but a weak, piddly-ass sponge bath wouldn't begin to touch the grime he felt caking his skin.
Screw it. He was taking a shower. The showerhead was the kind that had the long hose, so surely he could keep it aimed away from his left arm.
He turned on the tap, taking a guess at how far to move the lever to get hot water, and while he waited for the water to warm up, he took a good look at what was left of the metal arm. The skin was swollen where it joined the metal, but Dr. Ifede had been pleased with it, so he had to assume it was just bruised from the surgery. He felt around the edges of the black cap and tried lifting one edge, just to peek under it. Unfortunately the whole thing popped off instead. "Shit," he muttered and tried to put it back on, but every time he'd get one side on, the other would come off. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."
He'd just have to be extra careful in the shower. Keep the water on his right, hope no water splashed into the dim recesses of his arm and into his body. He wondered what would happen if he got soapy shower water inside of him in places where it shouldn't be. He couldn't imagine good things would come of it.
With the cap was off, he saw that all the jagged, burnt bits were filed smooth and shining. He tried to raise what was left of the arm so he look inside it in the mirror. A few of the plates shifted, but the arm itself didn't raise up. He had to settle on going by feel. He carefully ran his fingers over the opening. Best as he could tell, all the wiring inside the arm was capped off like Steve had done, but neatly coiled and tucked in so they didn't dangle. He carefully poked his finger past the wires as far as it would reach, but felt only emptiness. For all he knew, if he could reach back far enough he'd poke himself in the lung.
Definitely be careful with the shower hose.
He hung the arm cap on a hook on the back of the door, then tested the water temperature. Just right. He stripped down and, as much as he wanted to immediately step under the spray, he limited himself to lathering up and scrubbing himself down while still standing outside the shower stall. His face he carefully washed while looking in the mirror. Didn't want to loosen up any of the scabs.
His hair, though, was a problem. It was lank and greasy and probably still had dried blood throughout it. Much as he wanted to shampoo it, he wasn't sure he could do it without getting the arm wet. Maybe a nurse could help him with it or something. Or Steve could do it while he was staring into space trying to come up with his plan.
He grabbed the shower hose, took it down and stepped into the little enclosure. Rinsing went quickly, even with taking care not to get his left shoulder and arm wet. He re-inserted the hose in its holder, keeping his left side out of the spray while he rinsed his right arm and side.
Then he simply stood and enjoyed the warm water against his skin.
There was a little stool in the corner, so he again pulled off the hose and sat down. He tilted his head back against the wall, aimed the water at his stomach and basked in the steam and warm water flowing down his lower body and legs. He shut his eyes.
So warm… Soldat had always been cold, horribly cold. Warmth was something he had yet to take for granted.
He stretched out his legs. Let out a deep sigh.
Wouldn't mind staying here forever...
...
...
...
His hand slackened and the shower head fell to the floor, landing between his legs, where it woke him up by blasting its spray of water straight into his face. "Shit," he spluttered and kicked the sprayer to the side as he reached out to slap the tap off.
"Bucky, you okay in there?"
"Yeah," he called, wincing a little. That sudden jerk had tweaked his sore ribs, but a careful deep breath assured him it was just a twinge and nothing worse. He checked the metal arm. It was a little wet on the outside, but from what he could tell, no water had gotten inside it. His hair was soaked, though.
Might as well finish the job.
He grabbed the shampoo bottle (that also included conditioner, he was pleased to see) and pried open the top with his teeth. It smelled faintly of pine trees, which seemed odd for a country surrounded by jungle. He squeezed shampoo all over his head, put the bottle back on the ledge and then worked the shampoo into a lather. At least he was used to washing his hair with just one hand; he never liked getting hair caught in the metal joints of his left hand. He dug his fingers into his scalp, scratching all the itchy spots and loosening a surprising amount of dried blood and who the hell knew what else.
When he figured his hair and scalp were as clean as they were going to get, he carefully took the shower hose, held it between his knees so it pointed toward his feet, then slapped the water lever back on. Blazing hot water blasted his toes, making him flinch and come perilously close to repeating the water-in-the-face act all over again, but he grabbed the falling hose just in time. He pushed the faucet back toward cold. Once the water wasn't boiling nor frigid, he bent over and twisted so his left shoulder was facing up to allow the water to drip harmlessly down his right shoulder as he ran the hose all over his head. It was awkward as hell, hurt his ribs, and, by the time he finished, made him well and truly dizzy from holding his head upside down and sideways. But he finally had a clean head of hair, and he didn't think any shampoo had dripped through the arm into any internal organs.
A win for Barnes.
He stood up, shut off the water and jerked his head to flip his hair out of his face and down his back.
Bad move. White tile spun around him like a ceramic centrifuge. He fell against the wall as he blindly grabbed the faucet handle to hang onto until everything slowed and stopped. When the vertigo finally passed, it left him with shaking knees and a stomach that threatened to toss those three spoonfuls of chicken water right back up where they came from. He groaned a little and carefully lowered himself onto the little stool.
He felt like crap. So much for the win.
Time passed. Risk of a chicken water redux retreated.
He started to shiver, sitting all wet in the rapidly cooling bathroom, so he grabbed the towel and dried himself off. When he was finished, he stayed where he was until he caught his breath. It took far longer than he liked.
Yeah, if a shower exhausted him this badly, he had no business going with Steve.
"Damn it," he sighed. He dragged himself to his feet, dried the parts he'd been sitting on, and struggled back into his clothes. He admitted defeat, though, at the prospect of wrestling on the shoes. Hopefully greeting a king while shoeless wasn't some huge breach of Wakandan etiquette. A final swipe of the brush through his hair (god, his face; he was so pale he looked green) and that was as good as it was gonna get. He grabbed the arm cap as he opened the door.
He emerged feeling a new man.
Okay, that was a bald-faced lie. A new man wouldn't feel like such a steaming pile of shit.
Steve smiled as he shuffled into the room. "Now there's an improvement."
Dear god, what must he have looked like before? He handed Steve the cap. "Do me a favor, put this on for me?"
Steve slipped it over the arm. "There you go."
"Thanks."
Steve put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a little pale. Everything okay?"
"I'm okay. Just a little tired." Determined not to let Steve see how close he was to collapse, he walked to the window and parted the curtain. Dusk was falling and a few lights were blinking on in the buildings below. He didn't look toward the panther statue. He let the curtain fall shut and then eased himself into the room's other chair. Sitting down, he started to feel a little better. "You got a plan yet?"
"I've got about 12 percent of a plan."
Bucky frowned. "12 percent? How the hell you figure you got 12 percent of a plan?"
"I don't. It's an inside joke, something between Tony and Pepper…" His voice trailed away.
"Who's Pepper?"
"Tony's girlfriend. Or maybe former girlfriend. It's complicated."
Bucky couldn't care less about Tony Stark's love life, complicated or otherwise. "So does this 12 percent tell you how you're going to actually get into the prison? Last I knew, you being a super soldier didn't give you gills. Unless you got an upgrade you haven't told me about." He leaned forward and grabbed Steve's ear to look behind it.
Steve swiped his hand away. "Knock it off, jerk. I don't have gills. But I do have security codes." He tapped the flash drive. "Nat hacked them, slipped them to Sharon who slipped them to T'Challa, all on this flash drive. Also got the Raft's specs on it: floor plan, alarm systems, personnel and prisoner lists… all the information I'm likely to need, hopefully."
"They both okay? Didn't get fired? Or arrested?"
"No, they're fine. Nat's gone to ground somewhere and Sharon was able to keep her part in all of this completely off Ross' radar. She's good at what she does. Really good."
Bucky gave him a sly smile. "So you gonna ask her out for an egg cream?"
Steve laughed, but his ears turned red. "You remember that?"
"Elma Davenport."
"Who ditched me for you and your bug eyes."
Bucky batted his eyelashes at him. "I believe her description was 'dreamy', not 'bug'."
"No, I'm pretty sure she called you a bug-eyed creep."
Bucky frowned. "Really? Was I a creep?" Maybe he had been a real cad back then and just didn't remember. He was starting to doubt everything he thought he knew about himself when he noticed Steve's shit-eating grin. "Making fun of a brain-damaged amnesiac's inability to remember, seriously? Asshole move, Rogers."
He just grinned wider. "Aw, c'mon, Buck. You don't really want me to put on the kid gloves and wrap you in bubble wrap, do you?"
He wasn't sure what bubble wrap was, but it must be something protective. "Yes." But he couldn't keep up the indignant act. "You're still a damned punk, Rogers. Even after all this time."
"Yeah, well, you're still a je—"
The door opened before he could finish and a very tall, very fierce woman in a tight-fitting dress and very high heels strode in. Her icy gaze swept the room. She barely glanced at Steve, but her glare stopped on Bucky and left him feeling like a bug pinned to a board. Steve scrambled to his feet, but Bucky was afraid if he so much as twitched she'd break him in half. Then he saw T'Challa come in right behind her. He was dressed in a sober navy suit with white shirt and a dark silk tie, and draped over the tie and lapels was a necklace of some sort of teeth. He looked every bit the king of a powerful nation who could also rip your head off. Bucky was glad he'd taken a shower, but he was acutely aware he was dressed only in white pants and a t-shirt and had dripping wet hair and bare feet. For some reason, the phrase 'prince and the pauper' flashed through his head.
T'Challa nodded to Steve, smiled at Bucky, then murmured in the woman's ear. She held Bucky's gaze for a moment longer, then nodded curtly and left.
Bucky regained the use of his lungs in an embarrassingly shaky sigh.
T'Challa laughed. "I apologize, Sergeant Barnes. Ayo does not yet trust that the Winter Soldier hibernates."
"Oh. Uh. Okay." Bucky wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.
T'Challa seemed to sense his unease, because he smiled. "I have no such qualms," he said as he came over with his hand extended. Bucky shook it. T'Challa had a firm grip, and he didn't immediately release Bucky's hand. "How are you?"
"I, uh, I'm fine."
"Do not lie to a king."
"I'm… better."
"That is honest. Thank you." He released Bucky's hand and turned to Steve. "Have you briefed him?"
"As much as I know, he knows. Which isn't really much. I'm still studying the plans." He waved a hand at the computer tablet sitting on the table.
"Will he go with you?"
Bucky said, "Yes" at the same time as Steve emphatically said, "No!"
T'Challa looked amused. "There seems to be a difference of opinion."
"He's not coming with me." A glare silenced Bucky's protest. "He won't have recovered that soon."
T'Challa turned to Bucky. "Is this accurate?"
Bucky grimaced, but he nodded. "Yeah. I want to, but I can't trust my mind yet." Weak and stupid and useless…
"Hopefully we can help you with that, so you can assist your friend on future missions. But do not fret because you are unable to go on this one. Captain Rogers will have help." He nodded to Steve. "I will send Aneka with you. She is the head trainer of the Dora Milaje and a worthy warrior."
"I can't ask her to come. What I'm about to do is illegal in just about every nation on the planet."
"Incarceration without due process is illegal in this nation and should be everywhere. She will accompany you."
"I don't wish to argue with you, but I'll do this better on my own."
"Thanks, Buck, but I can get by on my own…"
Bucky rolled his eyes. Still as stubborn as always. "Steve. This ain't me asking you to sleep on my couch. Take the king's help."
T'Challa smiled. "Again, I am impressed by your friend's wisdom, Captain Rogers. I suggest you heed his words."
Steve didn't look happy, but he nodded. "All right. Where do I find her?"
"She is waiting for you in the lobby downstairs. Please go to her now, for I would have a few words alone with your friend here."
"Of course," Steve said. He shook the king's hand, gave Bucky a reassuring nod and left him alone with the king of Wakanda.
Damn, he wished he'd put his shoes on…
tbc…
-o0o-
Author's note: Again, many thanks to all guest reviewers, and for those of you in the US, have a happy Thanksgiving!
Ayo is, of course, in CACW and the comics, and Aneka is a character in the current Black Panther comic run. That comic run's storyline is beyond the scope of this one, however, and events from it will not necessarily translate into this story (and who knows if they'll make it into the Black Panther movie). Which is all I'll say because spoilers for the comics.