A/N: again thanks to all the guest reviewers, and bluetigress, I did see your story idea and will tuck it away for future exploration. Thanks for the suggestion! Also, to the guest reviewer concerned with my using the Lord's name in vain: it's always a fine line, but I have to write true to how I see the character, and he does cuss. A lot. Outright in the MCU and a lot of "#*(&#!" in the comics when the curses are beyond what the comic book audience should see. I don't use the Lord's name in vain myself, but this is an adult story about Bucky, not me. Hopefully you won't be too put off by it but I understand if you decide to stop reading. Each person must make their own choices.
Onward now to the chapter…
-o0o-
As the door shut softly behind Steve, worry and doubt started to cast shadows across Bucky's mind. He had allowed the survival instincts that he'd been honing from the darkest hours after DC to go quiet, but now, alone with T'Challa for the first time, they roared back to life with gut-twisting fury. But he kept his tone light as he said, "Maybe you should bring Ayo back in. Just in case."
T'Challa stayed where he was. "Do you think the Soldier will come out of hibernation?"
"I honestly don't know." Only a partial truth. The Soldier might stay dormant, but he couldn't guarantee that James Buchanan Barnes wouldn't tear into T'Challa if the king gave any indication he wasn't an ally, that this was anything other than a friendly meeting.
"Will it set your mind at ease if I promise to say nothing in Russian?"
"You speak Russian?"
"I studied many languages at Oxford."
From what Steve had told him about Wakanda, Bucky figured that the only things that had ever drawn T'Challa out of his own country were the bombing in Lagos and the signing of the Accords. Guess not. Bucky wasn't exactly up on how many languages Oxford offered to students, but it was probably at least as many as HYDRA had stuffed in his own head. Not that it mattered. T'Challa might stumble on a trigger word or eight in English or Urdu or sign language, for all he knew. But short of never allowing anyone to ever speak to him again, there wasn't much he could do about it. "Let the interrogation begin, then." Might as well call a spade a spade from the outset.
"Is that what you think this is, an interrogation?"
Bucky shrugged. He couldn't decide if his sudden fear was justified or an overreaction triggered by the fact that nearly every meeting in the last few days had turned combative. From the way Steve questioned him in his Bucharest apartment to Zemo's treachery in Berlin to the moment he woke up with his arm clamped in a machine in a warehouse, they all started with hard questions and ended with pain. "It always ends in a fight…"
Why should this be any different? Because he and T'Challa had shared a heartfelt moment in Siberia? Because T'Challa appeared to be an ally? Because Steve trusted him? HYDRA had taught Bucky all about hiding agendas beneath a facade of friendship and peace. Steve himself had been duped right along with all of SHIELD; he might not have learned the lesson to question everything.
Damn it, he wanted to believe T'Challa had been honest about friendship, but he realized he had no idea what might have happened between then and now. Stark might have talked T'Challa back into taking his side of this shit show. T'Challa's own advisers might be getting cold feet, might be telling him to hand the Winter Soldier back to SHIELD or the UN or whoever the hell were supposed to be the good guys now. Bucky knew how much stock to put today in what men said yesterday, and it wasn't enough to buy a bowl of soup in 1935.
T'Challa took off his suit coat and carefully draped it across the foot of the bed, then he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He left the tooth necklace on but removed some very expensive-looking cuff links and dropped them in his pants pocket. Rolled up both sleeves to mid forearm.
His handler pulled off his suit coat. Didn't wait to roll up his sleeves before backhanding Bucky hard against his right cheek and jaw. Bucky's head jerked to the side. He saw stars and tasted blood…
Bucky swallowed. Was T'Challa going to skip the verbal part, go straight to punches? That's how it usually went…
Stop it, Barnes. T'Challa's not going to do that.
But what if he was? What if all of this was an elaborate ruse to capture Bucky, get him in better shape, sell him back to the Russians or whatever was left of HYDRA…
Bucky lowered his head a little. He cautiously moved his elbow back. Tensed his core muscles. Planted his feet.
Push off against the chair in a swift lunge to my feet, sweep the chair up and at T'Challa. Three steps to the door. Deal with Ayo the best I can…
T'Challa tilted his head, frowning a little, and put both hands deep in his pockets as he leaned against the bed. As a move of non-aggression, it could have tamed the wildest panther. But Bucky was no panther. He knew how adept men were at lying. He deliberately slowed his breathing. His hand tightened on the arm of the chair.
"I am not going to hurt you, Sergeant Barnes. No one here will hurt you or betray you. If you wish to leave, you may."
Bucky wanted to believe him, but instinct was taking over. He struggled to think like the cold sniper he was, to calmly assess, breathe quietly, control his heart rate. Trouble was, his heart was having none of it. It continued hammering like it was trying to beat itself silly against his sternum.
T'Challa crossed his feet at the ankles. Lowered his shoulders. Assumed as non-combative a stance as any man could. Given the whole Black Panther thing, Bucky half expected him to start purring.
He searched T'Challa's eyes. Saw nothing but the same look of kindness he had given Bucky back in Russia.
Maybe…
Come on, Barnes. Steve trusts him. Yeah, the punk got duped by HYDRA, but surely he's wiser now because of it. You can trust Steve, so you can trust T'Challa. Hell, you called him a friend yourself not two days ago. Now you're gonna let yourself go all paranoid and attack him?
God, Bucky hated his brain.
He loosened his grip on the arm of the chair. "I'm sorry."
T'Challa nodded. "It is understandable that you would be fearful, given your history and of course the majority of our interactions. I realize it will take more time to overcome your suspicions and build a trusting relationship between us, but I am being as truthful as I know how when I say that I am here to help you. I will not hurt you, nor allow any of my people to hurt you. Unless, of course, you become the aggressor."
"I… don't plan to."
"I am glad to hear it." He waved toward what Bucky was starting to think of as Steve's chair. "May I?"
Bucky nodded.
He sat down and crossed his left leg over his right knee. He smiled. "As I said, Sergeant Barnes, this is no interrogation. This is simply two friends—two acquaintances, perhaps is more accurate—sitting down to get to know one another better."
Sitting so close to the elegantly dressed man, Bucky became more aware than ever of his bare feet. He tried to tuck them under his chair, which felt ridiculous. So he put his left on top of his right. Even more ridiculous. He finally straightened them both flat on the cool tile.
T'Challa observed all his fidgeting, then asked, "Do you mind if I slip off my shoes as well?"
Bucky was too startled to answer.
"I will take that as permission," T'Challa said. He uncrossed his leg, bent over and untied both shoes. He toed them off and kicked them over toward the bed. "I despise dress shoes. They are necessary, but I do believe one of my first acts as king may be issuing a decree that all such shoes must have padded insoles." He wiggled his black-socked toes. "You have the right idea, my friend." He pulled out his cell phone. "My next question: would you like some dinner? I haven't eaten all day."
"Dr. Ifede said—"
"I am not asking what the good doctor ordered you to eat. I am asking if you'd like some dinner. Real food. Not the bowl of barely-flavored hot water that overly cautious doctors serve up as a post-surgical first meal. I am confident you and your super-soldier stomach can handle real Wakandan fare, despite what Dr. Ifede may say. Mind you, she is the best doctor in Wakanda and likely the entire world, and caution has its place, but she is unaccustomed to super soldiers' appetites."
Bucky slowly smiled as the last coiled spring of tension in the pit of his stomach relaxed. "In her defense, she did let me have some chocolate chip cookies."
"You jest!"
"Nope."
"She is obviously getting soft in her old age. I remember breaking my arm as a young boy; she did not allow me so much as a stick of candy."
Bucky tilted his head and shrugged his good shoulder. "One of my superpowers must be my puppy-dog eyes." He made his eyes as large and sad as he knew how.
T'Challa roared with laughter. "If that is the look you gave her, I am amazed she stood firm on the matter of soup. Now tell me, and you needn't inflict that gaze on me again, now or ever, what you would like to eat."
Bucky grinned. "Whatever you're having is fine."
T'Challa tapped in a number, rattled off something in Wakandan, then said in English, "Yes. The royal care suite. No, no, no. I am fine, truly. My friend is here, recovering from surgery. Yes, that friend. No, I do not think he is allergic to anything…" He cocked an eyebrow at Bucky.
Bucky shook his head.
"No, no allergies." T'Challa said into the phone. He listened for a bit, hummed some affirmative noises, then flicked a warm glance at Bucky. "He seems to be doing well, yes, thank you for asking. And yes, he enjoyed the biscuits immensely." After a few more words in Wakandan, he hung up. "A repast fit for a king will be arriving shortly. And my chef wishes you the best."
"Tell him thanks."
"I will. Knowing him, he will be up here delivering the food himself, in order to meet you. He likes to know for whom he is preparing meals. And he has a love of all things American."
"Not sure I'm still American."
"I trust that you are, at your core. You will discover it yourself more each day as you remember your old life. Your real life."
Bucky nodded.
"So." T'Challa laced his fingers together over his stomach. "I am not one for politics, nor am I one for idle small talk, so I suggest we dispense with discussing whether it will rain or not tonight. I have some questions for you, and I am sure you have questions of your own for me. With your permission, I would like to take first turn."
"Go ahead."
"You may feel free to decline to answer, of course."
Bucky nodded.
"How much of your old life do you remember?"
The king didn't beat around the bush, Bucky'd give him that. "I don't really know how much. I mean, I might say I remember half of it, but then if I remember a bunch more of it tomorrow, then it might turn out that 'half' was really more like 'a third' or something."
"That is a fair point. I could not, after all, say what percentage of my own childhood I remember. Let me rephrase, then: do you remember any of your childhood?"
"Some. It's all in glimpses. Little snatches here and there. I remember some stuff about Brooklyn. The smells of the building we lived in. Some of the neighbors. The time I slid down the bannister rail and fell off and knocked my front tooth out when I was seven. I remember sitting at the table for dinner every night. That I had three sisters, one of them named Becca. Can't remember the other two's names. Can't put a face to my father, though I can remember what my mother looked like, a little. Mostly I remember her voice, still hear her yelling at me if I'm about to do something I shouldn't."
T'Challa smiled, but he didn't interrupt.
"I remember the day Steve's family moved in. Becoming his friend. Helping him steal pies and climb trees. Protecting him when bullies picked on him or when he bit off more than he could chew tryin' to protect a girl from jerks. Takin' care of him when he got sick, which was a lot back then." He took a deep breath. "We did everything together. My ma used to say if she didn't know any better, she'd swear Steve really was my little brother."
"So you are older than Steven?"
"By about a year, little more. I was born in March of 1917, Steve in July of 1918."
"Remarkable. One wonders what the odds are that two such close friends would end up still alive and young some 70 years after last seeing one another."
Bucky studied his hand. He missed not having his metal hand. Not that he was a hand wringer, but… he was a hand wringer. He stuffed his right hand under his leg. "Yeah. Crazy odds, except…"
"Yes?"
"HYDRA targeted me, had to have, probably from the very beginning of Project Rebirth. They were watching for me, maybe even hunting me, I don't know. My first capture was pretty much bad luck. They got a big chunk of my whole unit, after all. I mighta stayed under their radar, but I got sick shortly after they rounded us up. Some kinda chest infection, maybe pneumonia. They dragged me off to the isolation ward." He paused, buried the panicky feeling the memory stirred up. "That's when they learned my name. Maybe if I'd known Steve was Captain America, I mighta ditched my dog tags, gave a fake name, but at that point, I didn't have any reason to think I had any kinda special connection with Captain America. I thought Steve was back in Brooklyn, safe. But I'm sure they had a dossier on him, probably memorized every fact about him. They'd know James Buchanan Barnes was practically his brother."
T'Challa shifted, leaned forward, listening intently. "And of course they would try to exploit that."
Bucky nodded. "My guess is when they figured out who I was, it musta been like Christmas for them. I remember…" He cleared his throat. "I remember at first, they didn't single me out. They tossed me in with all the other sick prisoners, just another American GI. They hadn't even bothered looking at my dog tags. Probably were supposed to, but they were lazy, I guess. Arnim Zola, the scientist who did all the experiments on prisoners, would come through each day, point at some of the guys that were still sort of on their feet, and they'd take them away to some other part of the prison. We'd never see 'em again. The rest of 'em, the ones like me that were too sick to do anything but lie there, they just let die. No food, very little water, no medicine. I figured my ticket was punched, you know? But then the third day I was there, Zola stopped at my cot. Stared at me for the longest time, like he thought I looked familiar. Then asked me for my name and since I didn't have a reason why not, I told him." He shivered, remembering the little man's absolutely terrifying glee.
"Name, prisoner."
Bucky barely had the breath to speak, but he mumbled, "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038…"
"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes! So it is you after all. I am so very glad to see you."
"What?"
"We have been hoping to find you, Sergeant Barnes, and here you are."
Light glinted off the little man's glasses, making it impossible for Bucky to read his eyes, but he saw the odd smile on the man's face, and it shook him to the core. Still, he glared up at him. "Go to hell."
"You need not continue," T'Challa said softly.
Bucky blinked. "No, it's… I'm okay. The guards hauled me off to the other part of the prison. Zola stuffed me full of medicine and I got better real quick, too quick probably. Dunno what the stuff was, but it worked. But then he started puttin' other stuff in me, experimenting, I guess, with different kinds of serum like Steve's. He also used some kinda shock thing, this helmet that fit over my head, covered half my face. Sent electricity through my brain. Hurt like hell, scrambled up all my thoughts, made me lose sight of who I was. Of course, later on, after my second capture, they used something like it to wipe me after they dragged me outta cryo to get ready for a mission. But Zola started it."
T'Challa looked both horrified and furious. "Man's inhumanity... it sickens me. I am truly sorry for what you went through. You need not go on if you it is too painful for you."
"No, I'm fine, really. Kinda helps, telling you about it, to be honest." He took a couple of breaths, then continued. "That was pretty much all, the first time around, because Steve showed up and rescued me—rescued my whole unit. I didn't know until Steve dragged me off Zola's table that he was Captain America. I thought for a minute I was hallucinating, seeing my buddy so much bigger and taller. Anyway, we escaped, barely, and I knew something about me was different, but I kept it hidden. Didn't want Steve to send me stateside, which was the worst damn decision I ever made. I stayed and then fell from the train. Shoulda died in the fall, but Zola had done just enough to me to somehow let me survive the fall. Let them finally turn Captain America's best guy into his worst enemy." He fell silent. He didn't like thinking about it. Didn't like thinking that his friendship with Steve left him vulnerable. Left Steve vulnerable. Left the entire damn world vulnerable.
After a thoughtful pause, T'Challa said, "I have a friend from childhood, a boy from my tribe, the son of my father's close friend. There have been times when attempts have been made on his life because he was important to me, and so therefore important to my father. It is a risky thing, to be a friend of the king, the king's son, or Captain America."
"Did you ever want to break off the friendship, for his safety's sake?"
"No. It was his choice to make, friendship or safety. He has chosen friendship, and for that I am eternally grateful."
"I wish…"
"Yes?"
"I wish none of it had ever happened. If I'd died, it woulda been better for the world and a hell of a lot easier on Steve. I did so many terrible things. After the DC fiasco, once I made sure Steve survived my attacks on him, I just wanted to hide, keep away from him. Keep away from everybody. I'm just… I'm not worth all this."
"Have you asked Captain Rogers what he thinks about that?"
Bucky shook his head. "Don't need to."
"He has already told you?"
"Yeah. Said I wasn't responsible for everything I did under HYDRA. That it wasn't me."
"And do you agree?"
"No. It sure as hell was me. What little that was still me might have been nothing more than a helpless passenger, but I did it. All of it."
"I think perhaps you should listen to your friend. I saw the change in your demeanor after Zemo spoke the trigger words. Saw the change in your fighting style. The look in your eyes. You became another person entirely from the man I chased through Bucharest. That man running across the rooftops and through the streets, stealing a motorcycle—he was afraid. That man did not wish to fight, but did so because he had no choice. I fought that same man at the airport, saw in his eyes the normal fear and determination of a good soldier who is simply trying to protect his captain and fight for a cause larger than himself." He paused, looking inward for a moment. "The man in Berlin, on the other hand…" He shook his head. "No, that man was not the same person. I saw in his eyes only coldness. No evidence of fear, almost no evidence of humanity at all."
Bucky winced.
"I am sorry to have to say that, but I respect you enough to be completely honest. If there was a human inside you at that point, he was hardly a man who could make his own choices."
Bucky said nothing. He didn't have the words to explain how it felt to be a prisoner in your own mind, helplessly watching this… other being take control of your body and make it do reprehensible things, to realize that this evil thing that had taken over was made from something he must have always had lurking inside him. He had no words to describe the horror that even now turned his insides cold and made him want to vomit.
T'Challa must have noticed his unease, for he suddenly leaned forward, his eyes full of kindness. He reached a hand. "May I?"
Bucky nodded.
T'Challa gently placed his hand on Bucky's right knee. "I am only a king, and a new one at that, but I will help you find, and keep, yourself, with whatever power I can muster."
"Why?"
"Because you are a good man."
Bucky shook his head. "I'm not. I can't be. If I was, they never would've been able to make me willingly do any of those things."
"I fear you misunderstand the meaning of the word 'willingly'."
Bucky stared at the floor, not arguing because there was no point. T'Challa simply didn't understand. No one did.
"Let me ask this: do you not hear your own story? Would you, a man who is human again at last, not wish a free life for those Winter Soldiers who had been murdered?"
"They were soulless killers even before becoming Soldiers."
"All right, that may be a poor example. But had they been like you, once fighting for good but captured and turned, would you refuse to allow them a chance to find themselves again? Would you refuse them mercy?"
Bucky's eyes prickled. "No," he whispered.
"Listen, then, to your own story. And also consider this: your friend Steven needs you. I have only known him a short time, but I see that he is himself a man lost, in many ways. A man out of his time. You are his one remaining link to the world he knew. My baba… excuse me, my father… once told me that when the last connection to one's childhood is severed, it brings a burden of grief that should be borne only by the very old, for they alone are strong enough to bear it. A young person who suffers that fate can too easily lose hope in a good future. Steven needs a friend like you beside him, so he will not lose hope. Please try, for his sake if not your own, to allow yourself the gift of mercy."
"I'd do anything for Steve, but I don't know if I can."
The hand on his knee tightened. "It is a journey, Sergeant Barnes. Full of valleys and shadows, but also filled with mountaintops and light. Today, you need only take the first step forward."
"You sound like Dr. Ifede."
"She is wise, so thank you. That is high praise." He gave Bucky's knee a small squeeze, then let go.
Bucky rubbed his face. Relaxed back in his seat. "You're gonna make one helluva king, your highness."
T'Challa smiled a little sadly. "I hope so. The shoes I must fill...they were very large."
"Aw, shit," he winced. "Sorry, I keep forgetting my manners half the time. I shoulda said it already, but I'm sorry for your loss. I really am."
"Thank you. It is a tragedy with which I am still coming to terms. It will take time, or so everyone assures me every time I turn around." He looked like he'd like to shut them the hell up. With his fist.
"Were you close, you and your father?"
"Very."
Silence fell. Bucky wished he had the wisdom to come up with some pithy words of comfort, but it sounded like T'Challa was done with well-meaning platitudes. "Life sure is shitty sometimes," he said instead. "Ain't no gettin' around it."
T'Challa lifted an eyebrow. "Very succinct. And probably the wisest thing anyone's said to me about it, to be honest. I believe with all my heart that my baba runs free now, but my heart also misses him terribly. I grow weary of sad-eyed pats on the shoulder and mumbled assurances that time will ease my pain."
Bucky smiled a little. "If we were back in Brooklyn, I'd take you to the nearest bar to get roaring drunk, maybe pick a fight with some idiot who needed his ass kicked."
"Are you suggesting I actually do such a thing?"
Bucky shrugged. "I'd take you now, but I don't know how easy it is to find a dive bar in Wakanda."
"It is not easy, and still less so for a king to slip away to find one."
"Sometimes it must really suck to be king."
T'Challa's eyes lit with mirth. "Sometimes. But it has its perks, as you Americans say, perhaps the best being the friends you make along the way."
Bucky laughed. "Bucky Barnes, friend to the king. Who the hell would have seen that coming?"
"Who, indeed."
Bucky sobered. "Thank you. For all this. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"Perhaps someday, when you are well and I can slip away, I will come to New York and we can find a dive bar and get roaring drunk together."
"That's a damn promise, your highness."
tbc...