Steve was jolted awake by the sound of his cell phone. He sat up on the floor and grabbed the phone. It was next to his makeshift bed, plugged into the wall. He answered it, unhooking it from the cord.
"Sam?"
"Steve, there's been an incident with Bucky."
His stomach dropped. He was afraid something like this would happen. "What happened? Is he okay?"
The lawyers are getting a copy of the security footage, but all I know right now is he became combative in his cell and tried to break free. He tore off the collar.
"What collar?" Steve was on his feet.
"It's was a security collar. It had GPS and….well, in case he tried to escape, it could potentially disable him long enough for them to, you know."
Steve closed his eyes and clenched his free hand into a fist. "Damnit."
"The lawyers already filed a motion about it. I didn't want to tell you because…" Sam's voice trailed off.
"You were trying to spare me. I understand, Sam. Thanks. Don't worry about sparing me any details. I need to know them all."
"Understood."
Steve took a breath and dropped into the chair. "How is he? Is he okay?"
"He's being looked at. I know he suffered some minor injuries to his neck when he took the collar off. He slammed into the clear wall, so they're also checking him out for a concussion, the usual. From what I'm told, he's behaving himself now, but he hasn't said a word to anyone since the incident."
"I need to see him."
"They aren't letting anyone other than the lawyers in. I've tried, Steve."
"I know you have." Steve pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you for that, but I think maybe I need to try this time."
-0- -0- -0-
"We got you five minutes, Cap." The attorney with the white hair extended her hand. "I'm Melissa Zeedan, part of Barnes' representation."
Steve shook her hand as he prepared to enter the detention room. "Thank you for getting this done."
"Well, being Captain Steve Rogers definitely lets you pull some strings. Plus, if you can take on Thanos, we're all pretty sure you could break out your friend, if you really wanted to. I think the powers that be figure it's best to play nice for the time being."
He managed a smile, but it faded quickly. "How is he?"
Her face grew serious. "He's had a rough go. I managed to get a little bit out of him—enough to find out that the Russians had put a collar around his neck. Other than that, he hasn't been in the talking mood. I know he's suffered from nightmares in the past. Apparently, he had a doozy of one, triggered by the collar, and, well… the guards are a little on edge given his history and capabilities."
Steve tried to quench the anger in his gut. Bucky didn't belong in a prison cell. What he needed was help continuing his recovery. "Can we go in now?"
She nodded and led the way to the metal door. An armed guard outside opened it for her. Steve followed her through the doorway. Another armed guard inside nodded at her, then left the room. The metal door closed with a solid thunk behind the guard.
Steve's eyes went to the lone figure in the modest cell on the other side of the partition. Bucky was seated on the floor, his back resting against the partition. Steve couldn't tell whether Bucky was asleep or awake, but he was relieved to see there was no collar around his friend's neck.
"James, you have a visitor," Melissa said.
Bucky didn't acknowledge her.
Steve stepped forward, stopping a few inches from the glass. "Bucky."
Bucky twisted around to look up at Steve. Surprise and relief flooded his face. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the partition. The edges of his eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles hung beneath. Healing scabs circled his neck like macabre beads. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Steve," Bucky's lips turned upward into the barest hint of a smile, "how do you like this timeline so far?"
"I like what you did to ours better." Steve put his hand on the glass. "How are you doing?"
Bucky tilted his head. "This joint is better than most places I've stayed in."
"I heard about what happened." Steve lowered his hand and studied his friend's face.
Bucky's eyes darted away, and he swallowed hard. "Just a nightmare. It's not the first, and it won't be the last."
"A lot of people are working to get you out of here, Bucky. We're making good progress. Hang in there a little longer."
"Piece of cake." Bucky shrugged a shoulder. "Don't worry about me, man. I've been through a lot worse."
"I know." He knew enough of it, and that was more than enough.
Bucky had lived it, and the things Steve didn't know about Bucky's time under Hydra's control made him both grateful for his ignorance and sick to his stomach.
"Is there anything you need that you're not getting in here?" Steve asked.
Bucky managed a small smile. "Some 40s music would be nice…and maybe a bit of that 50s stuff, too."
Steve glanced at Melissa.
"On it," she grinned at him.
"How's Sam?" Bucky asked.
Knowing that making sure Sam was in the clear was at least half of Bucky's reasons for coming back, Steve was glad to be able to give him good news. "He's doing well. Turning you in really took the heat off him, but he's more worried about you."
"Tell him thank you for me…and I'm fine. I can handle this."
"The thing is," Steve swallowed, "you shouldn't have to." He intentionally echoed the words Bucky had said to him what felt like both a lifetime ago and only yesterday.
The door opened, and a guard entered. "Time's up, Captain Rogers."
Steve looked back at Bucky. "Goodbye for now, pal. I'll see you soon."
Bucky smiled gently at him. "Don't do anything stupid."
Steve tried to return the smile, but he didn't think it made it to his face. "Too late."
"One more thing before I go," Melissa said as she pulled out her cell phone and held it up to Bucky. "With your permission, I'd like to take photos of your neck."
Bucky glanced at her, looking slightly uncomfortable, but nodded.
She wasted no time snapping a few photos, then pocketed her cell phone again. Steve followed her out of the room.
When the door closed behind them, she turned to him and said, "Well, you got more out of him than anyone else has, myself included. I've been asking him if he needs anything since Day One, and all I've ever gotten is a terse 'no.' He didn't even mention the food situation. We figured that out our own rather quickly, though. The first thing we did once we were retained was conduct a full review of his conditions and correlate those conditions to what we know of supersoldier physiology. We've been working on getting that collar off him, but it's been a tricky situation given his capabilities."
"Will it stay off?" Steve asked.
"Well, it should until his neck is healed. After that, we'll see." She patted her jacket pocket. "These photos should help. I took some during the previous visit, but he was hunched on the floor in the corner of his cell and I couldn't get a good shot. Like I said, he was minimally responsive. We're still waiting on them getting us the security footage so we can see exactly what happened. I think they're intentionally dragging their feet, but since it hasn't even been 36 hours yet, and it's Friday, we're probably going to realistically have to wait a bit longer before raising a fuss."
He wasn't sure how he felt about her matter-of-fact explanation for what amounted to torture, but he figured, given the type of clients she had, she was probably used to dealing with all sorts of unique and disturbing legal situations. For her, this was another day at the office. For Bucky, it was his life.
She must have seen something in his face, because she said, "I know you're worried about your friend. Believe me when I say, we've got some of the best legal minds in the world on his case. We've become a thorn in the government's side, and we're looking at everything under a microscope. He's given us permission to discuss his case with both you and Wilson. We've filed multiple motions, a lawsuit, and we've been carefully gathering and documenting information in the event any of this goes to trial or we need to coordinate with an outside firm on the PR aspects of his case. We've asked the court to consider ordering a psychiatric evaluation prior to any transfers or further legal proceedings."
Steve felt marginally better listening to her reassurances. He knew Bucky wasn't much into PR. He wasn't, either, frankly, though he'd had to become more familiar with it than he liked as Captain America. In Bucky's case, however, some good PR was proving necessary. He also had his doubts that any court-appointed psychiatrist would be of much help to Bucky, but he knew they had to work within the process for the time being.
-0- -0- -0-
Sam's phone rang, and he lifted it to see the incoming video message request. Quickly, he answered it. His sister's face greeted him.
"Sarah?" He heard yelling in the background, honks, a chaotic symphony of noise. Her face filled most of the screen, but he could see a crowd behind her. "What's going on there?"
She smiled at him. "Hang on." He saw her finger come up and tap the screen, then the camera shifted to the rear view. She turned around slowly, and he saw a large crowd of people in front of the Louisiana State Capitol Building. Many held signs. He could make out a few of them.
One had big, bold letters and read, "Free Bucky!"
Another declared, "Do it for Tony!"
Another, several feet away and part of what looked to be a different crowd, proclaimed, "Winter Soldier=Gun! We support Gun Control!"
He shook his head. The one good thing about Bucky being in a cell is, hopefully, he wasn't seeing any of this.
"You're in Baton Rouge?" he asked Sarah.
She nodded. "Yep! Lots of protestors. Everyone I know. We carpooled. We put it out on social media. Our 'Pardon Bucky' crowd is twice as big as the other crowd."
AJ and Cass jumped into view. "Hi, Uncle Sam!"
Sam couldn't believe his eyes. "You brought the boys?"
"Yeah, why the hell not?" The camera flipped back around to her face. "They gotta learn all about their civil rights. The First Amendment. We're keeping it peaceful."
"What if the other side doesn't?"
"Well," she gave him that look, "we outnumber them, and the media is here, so I'm pretty sure the cops will behave themselves."
He hoped so. He didn't like the idea of the boys being in the middle of that, but at least they were getting a first-hand lesson in the Constitution.
-0- -0- -0-
"Mr. President, it's two O'clock," the Aide popped her head into the oval office. "King T'Challa is on the line."
The President sighed and looked at the blinking light on desk phone. He wanted this headache to go away. The Germans had dropped their extradition request, leaving the Wakandans breathing down his neck. The world had just gotten a reboot, and he had so many more pressing matters to deal with rather than spend time figuring out what to do with a 100-plus-year-old-supersoldier-former-brainwashed assassin-buddy to both Captain Americas.
If Barnes was released—and there were really no federal charges at this point—he'd have to deal with the backlash from the anti-Barnes protesters. But keeping him locked up just meant dealing with other protests, letters, emails and really bad international PR….like those damn wounds around his neck that had Barnes' lawyers threatening another lawsuit. They'd been 'leaked' to the press. Those unfortunate photos even had the ACLU and Amnesty International all over his back…and his approval ratings were taking a hit.
He needed the Louisiana Governor to either follow through and take Barnes into the state's jurisdiction or cut him loose and get him the hell out of everyone's hair. After T'Challa, the Governor would be his very next phone call.
The President picked up the line and hit the blinking button. "Good afternoon, King T'Challa…"
-0- -0- -0-
"Barnes, on your feet."
Bucky pushed himself off the floor and turned to face the guard. His body ached with fatigue, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but he didn't dare sleep. Not after the last time. He knew it was unrealistic to stay awake forever, and eventually his brain would shut down on its own. For the time being, however, he wanted to remain in control, and that meant remaining awake.
Two guards entered behind the one who had spoken. Bucky's breath quickened. This was…new. New worried him, as did the anxious expression on the guards' faces.
One of the men took a step forward. He was older, maybe about 50, with dark eyes and a square jaw. He looked less nervous than the others, but he held his gun just as firmly.
"It's your lucky day," the older man told him. "You're being transferred."
A buzzer sounded.
"Turn around and put your hands on the wall," the guard commanded him.
Bucky took a breath and turned around, moving to the far wall and facing it. He lifted both hands and placed his palms flat against the wall. He knew they were afraid of him. He didn't blame them. He could kill all of them. They knew that. They'd no doubt seen the footage of him on the helicarrier…on the bridge…in Bucharest.
He heard the door slide open. Footsteps clanked on the floor behind him. Thick metal wrapped around his waist. Hands pulled his arms down, tethering them to restraints on the metal belt. The thick metal cuff around his wrist was tight, digging into the flesh of his right hand. He didn't bother telling them he could probably break free of the restraints.
Shackles closed around his ankles. He figured it was a bad time to tell them that he'd need to use the bathroom soon.
Two guards came on either side of him. Their hands grabbed his arms on either side, then turned him around. They marched him out of the cell and through the doorway. He walked down the long corridor with them, his steps short due to the restriction of the shackles.
Then he was in an elevator with four of them, traveling upward. They exited, going through another door, then up a short staircase and out another door. His bare feet smacked against a rough cement floor.
When he realized he was on the roof and it was the middle of the night, his heart beat faster. The cool air whipped against his face, and it felt good after being in the cell, but everything else about the situation set off his internal alarms. He tensed, and he felt the guards tense in response on either side of him.
"What's happening?" He asked, doing his best to keep his tone level and nonthreatening.
"You're being transferred," one of them answered.
"Where?"
"Out of the country."
He took a breath. His lawyers had told him that Germany had dropped its extradition request. Had that changed?
He heard a subtle hum, and a small, sleek aircraft lowered to the edge of the roof. The blades of a chopper roared in the distance. The aircraft's door opened.
The older guard held up a collar and snapped it around Bucky's neck.
"Hey," one of the younger guards spoke up, "I thought we weren't allowed to use that, anymore?"
The older man shot a glare at the younger one. "This guy put a bullet in my cousin's head ten years ago. He was one of the men trying to help Rogers stop the helicarriers. You want it off, you get to take the plane with him alone and hope for the best. But, I'm not risking not making it home to my wife and kids." He held up the remote.
The younger man shifted on his feet and looked away from the other officer. He made brief eye contact with Bucky, looking both apologetic and terrified at the same time, then the other guards pushed Bucky into the plane.
The older man shoved Bucky into a seat against the wall, then fastened a harness over his chest that kept him secured and even more immobile than he already was. Two guards remained inside with him, and the younger one closed the door behind him.
The older guard took the seat directly across from Bucky. The younger guard sat down on the opposite end, farther away. Bucky eyed the older man's nametag.
Hogan.
It meant nothing to him, but then again, he wouldn't expect a cousin to share the same last name. Bucky had killed a number of men that day. He'd resurrected them all in the alternate timeline—but not in this one.
He wondered if the man that had almost gotten away in the aircraft was Hogan's cousin. Bucky had jumped on top of the quinjet and put a single bullet into the man's head before dropping into the cockpit himself and lifting off. He didn't think there was any way he could ease Hogan's pain or anger, but he could try.
"I resurrected all those men," Bucky said, as the plane's hum grew to a roar and his stomach dropped as it lifted into the air.
"What?" Hogan's hand twitched around the remote to the collar.
"In the alternate timeline," Bucky said. "When I had the infinity stones. I resurrected every man the Winter Soldier…I…killed that day."
The guard studied him for several seconds. His eyes and face remained unyielding, hard. Finally, he said, "He's still dead here."
Bucky nodded solemnly. "I can't change that."
He wished he could. He wished he could change a lot of things about this timeline, but it didn't seem to want to budge no matter what he did.
"No," the man glared at him, "you can't."
-0- -0- -0-
Steve was anxious and impatient. He tried to project a steady calm as he stood next to T'Challa and Sam on the Wakandan landing pad, but inside, he was worried. Things hadn't gone according to plan in getting Bucky to Wakanda. The lawyers had been working on arranging a private release and transport when, the next thing Steve had heard, Bucky was already in the air, under federal guard, on his way to Wakanda.
He shouldn't have even been under guard. He was technically a free man. The ink was still wet, but it was official. They had no legal reason to keep him in custody. The lawyers threatened another lawsuit, the Governor had issued an unimpressively canned apology, and there was talk about intercepting the plane or turning it around. The Wakandans had tried to ping the geolocation sensor in Bucky's arm, but Steve informed them that the Shuri from his timeline had deactivated it.
So, the Wakandans had stepped in and offered the transport plane an escort once it entered international airspace. What they were really doing was using their sophisticated sensors—courtesy of a Kimoyo Bead attached mid-air onto the hull of the aircraft—to keep an eye on the jet's occupants and, especially, one slightly rough-around-the-edges serum-enhanced centenarian.
Steve watched the two aircraft descend onto the large landing pad. The Wakandan vessel was first, and it immediately opened. Ayo and another Dora Milaje exited, both carrying spears. They immediately approached the U.S. jet moments after it touched down.
Steve couldn't wait any longer. He walked briskly toward the aircraft, his gaze glued to the hatch-style door on the side. Its engine cut out, bathing the area in silence. Steve came to a stop next to Ayo. He sensed Sam and T'Challa behind him. He heard Shuri's light footsteps and knew she'd arrived, too. They were all anxious to see Bucky.
The hatch slid open and a short set of stairs unfolded from the doorway. A young guard hopped out. He looked nervously at them, his gaze hovering over Steve for several seconds. Then, two more figures emerged.
Steve sucked in a breath as Bucky stopped in the doorway of the jet. He was dressed in the same gray shirt and pants he'd been wearing in his cell, and his feet were still bare. It was sight of the restraints and the collar that caused the anger to swell in Steve's chest—that, and the confused, apprehensive expression in Bucky's eyes as looked around as though he had expected to be somewhere else.
Bucky's ankles were shackled, restricting the range of motion of his legs. He eyed the steps for a moment, then simply hopped over them and landed with a soft thud on the ground, his feet together and the metal of his restraints clanking with the motion. The guard behind him trotted down the steps after him.
When Bucky's gaze locked with his, Steve saw the tension leave his shoulders. The confused apprehension in his eyes melted to relief, but then his gaze instantly went to a point behind Steve—T'Challa, Steve realized—and the apprehension returned. Bucky swallowed hard as the older guard moved him forward.
"What's going on here?" Bucky asked.
Steve was in front of him in seconds. "You're a free man." Steve gave a hard look at the older guard behind Bucky. "Get him out of these restraints and that collar immediately."
The older guard held Steve's gaze firmly, almost challenging, then raised the remote and clicked a button. The collar sprang open and clattered to the ground. Steve eyed the healing but freshly irritated red marks around Bucky's neck.
"Jesus Christ," Sam said from behind Steve. "Bucky, are you okay?"
Bucky's gaze went to Sam, and he gave a quick nod.
The younger guard moved forward, keys in hand, and undid the rest of the restraints around Bucky. He shot Steve a quick glance. "Sorry, Cap. I was just following orders."
Steve looked at the young man. "Sometimes, the right thing to do is to question orders."
The young man straightened and nodded, then backed away toward the older guard.
T'Challa walked forward, his steady gaze hovering over the two men. "You may take your leave now."
The two guards turned swiftly and headed back into the transport plane. Within moments, it was lifting into the air and heading out through the force field.
Steve saw Bucky's metal fingers rubbing his right wrist and noticed the angry red marks from the shackle. Bucky hadn't said a word, and Steve could tell he was hovering between overwhelmed and confused.
"T'Challa." Bucky nodded at the Black Panther, then at Ayo as she marched up and took a position next to the King. "Thank you." His eyes hovered over Ayo, and he took a breath. "I know I'm not welcome here right now." Bucky then looked uncertainly at Steve. "What's next?"
T'Challa walked up to Bucky and put a hand on his right shoulder. "You are welcome to stay here as long as you need to, White Wolf." T'Challa dropped his arm and raised his chin as he barked an order into the air. "Someone get this man some shoes and fresh clothes!"
Bucky's eyes glistened visibly, on the verge of tears, and Steve heard the quick, shallow breaths that told him his friend was struggling to keep control. Steve slipped an arm around Bucky's shoulders and gently guided him away from T'Challa to spare him from having to try to formulate a reply at that particular moment.
Steve leaned in close to his friend and said, low in his ear, "You're okay, Bucky. You're free. Everything's been dropped. I'm sorry about how they brought you here. It wasn't supposed to go down that way."
Sam moved into step alongside them. "We've got quite the spread as a sort of welcome home for you planned, once you get cleaned up and have a chance to relax and crash, if you want. Depends on whether you're more tired or hungry. Whatever you want, man. You've earned a breather."
Bucky's feet stopped moving, and Steve came to a stop alongside him, sliding his arm down slightly but keeping a supportive hand on Bucky's shoulder.
"Thank you, Sam." Bucky looked over at Steve. "You, too." He shook head and took a slow breath. "I'm not sure how you managed any of this."
Steve smiled, but the shell-shocked expression on Bucky's face worried him. He wondered just how much sleep his friend had gotten during his incarceration. Bucky had been through a lot, and now that it was over, the toll of the it all seemed to be catching up to him.
Ayo walked up to Bucky, stopping to stand a couple of feet in front of him. Bucky met her gaze, looking uncertain. Steve remembered what had happened between them, and how Bucky had said he wasn't welcome in Wakanda after the fight over Zemo. It was obvious from Bucky's expression that he still wasn't sure how things stood between him and Ayo.
She nodded her head at him. "I am pleased to see you, White Wolf."
Shuri was there, suddenly, as well, a bright smile on her face. "I've have had plenty of time to review the information provided by the version of me from the alternative timeline. The other me was very thorough." She waved and spun around. "If you follow me, we'll get you set up in my lab and check you out, get those marks on your neck taken care of, and give you a good once over."
Bucky kept his feet planted for a few seconds, his gaze drifting from Ayo, to Shuri, then to T'Challa, Steve, Sam and back again as though he wasn't sure who to thank or where to look. Steve nudged him forward. He wanted to get Bucky in Shuri's lab and give him some time to decompress and process everything. He knew that was something he'd discussed with his Shuri before the trip. Bucky was great at rolling with the punches. It was when the punches stopped that the real work began. The space in between those battles left a void that would be filled only by the flood of his past trauma and brutal conditioning, and Bucky's response to that had always been to simply shut down.
Steve felt he understood this the post Winter Soldier version Bucky a little better thanks to Shuri. At the very least, he knew—so much more keenly than the other version of himself obviously had—that he couldn't just tell Bucky it would be okay and expect that to happen…not after everything Hydra had put him through. Bucky needed a support system. Steve would be part of that support system until it was time for him to return to his own timeline. By then, Steve hoped the rest of that support system would fall into place to help Bucky continue his recovery.
He knew Sam would be part of that system every step of the way.
"Come on, pal," Steve prodded Bucky gently. "We'll let Shuri give you a once-over and then go from there."
Bucky allowed himself to be nudged forward, and he started walking again. Steve and Sam were on either side of him. Ayo and Shuri walked ahead, and T'Challa strolled behind.
Steve was aware of the King's slow steps and low voice as he spoke to one of the Dora Milaje. He knew the political strings T'Challa had played to get Bucky safe in Wakanda, and he also knew that T'Challa had managed that on top of everything else he had to deal with in a post-Blip Wakanda. He'd be forever grateful to the man.
They entered the building, and Shuri led them to her lab. It felt like only yesterday that he'd been here, but it was over five years ago.
"I have to go to the bathroom," Bucky said giving a shy smile.
Shuri nodded with a smile and gestured to a doorway. Bucky padded stiffly through it. He re-emerged a few minutes later, and Shuri gestured to an exam table. Bucky hopped up wordlessly, his bare feet dangling above the floor.
Steve exchanged glances with Sam and recognized the concern in the other man's eyes. He'd noticed the way Sam's gaze had hovered over the marks on Bucky's neck. Sam had seen the leaked photograph. The wounds had looked nastier back then, fresher. Now, they were almost healed…other than being recently irritated by another few hours' worth of contact with the metal electrodes.
Shuri came up to Bucky, a device in her hand that Steve remembered seeing her use once before when she'd patched Bucky up after the fight with Tony in the Bunker. She held the device up to the healing wounds on Bucky's neck. His enhanced physiology was already doing its job, but Shuri's tissue regeneration scanner would kick that process into even higher gear.
The device let out a low hum as she slowly worked it around the entire circumference of his neck. He sat still, his shoulder hunched and his eyes focused at some point on the far wall as she did her work.
Steve wasn't sure what was going through Bucky's head. This should be a happy occasion. It concerned him that Bucky didn't seem to be finding any joy in his freedom.
Steve nodded at Sam and walked with him to the far wall. He leaned back, eyeing Bucky a moment longer before turning to Sam and asking, "Any thoughts about what's going through his head?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. He looks exhausted, frankly. Maybe that's all it is. I know he wasn't getting much sleep in his cell, and when he did fall asleep…"
Steve nodded. "The nightmares. We know how at least one of those went."
"Being locked up, having the collar on…it had to have brought up a lot of shit for him."
Steve watched as Shuri spoke softly to Bucky and gestured to the table. He brought his legs up and laid flat on his back, his gaze on the ceiling. She muttered something to him, and he nodded, then she reached into a case on a nearby table and pulled out a disc. It looked very much like the one she'd used on him before, back in Steve's timeline. She set it on temple, and a tiny blue light turned on in the center of the disc. On a transparent panel near the head of the bed, a display rose with Wakandan script and a series of what looked like EEG waves.
Bucky's eyelids drifted closed. The waves shifted from close and short to long and tall. Shuri moved to a short cabinet and pulled out a folded, white blanket. She let it fall open and then gently draped it over Bucky, adjusting it over his bare feet and tucking it carefully beneath his arms. Then, she turned and walked up Steve and Sam.
"He's in good condition, other than having a significant sleep deficit and being slightly dehydrated. There's some evidence that he sustained a mild concussion recently—my guess is when he ran into the barrier of his cell during the nightmare episode you told me about. The scans were able to pick up only a faint trace of the biomarkers for the injury. As for his sleep deficit and nightmares, I've used a sleep modulator. It will help prolong the period of time when his brain is in a deep sleep mode, what your science would refer to as Stage IV sleep. It will also monitor the various stages of sleep and help regulate unpleasant dreams. Based on prior scans of his brain, and the information the other version of myself included in the Kimoya Bead you provided, I am able to use the existing map we have of his neural network to identify and intercept traumatic memories that surface during his sleep stages and stimulate other neural pathways to encourage more pleasant dreams. He should awake feeling more refreshed, and the restorative sleep will help his body heal faster."
Steve gave a relieved smile. "Thank you, Shuri, for helping him. You've been a huge help—in both timelines."
She smiled brightly at him. "I spent a great deal of time fixing him. I have no intention of seeing my effort go to waste."
"How long will he be out?" Sam asked.
"Anywhere from four to seven hours is my guess, given his enhanced system. If he were an average human, it'd be much longer considering how little sleep he's gotten. He's not average, however."
"So we have time to kill." Sam looked at Steve. "You wanna hang around here, though, I take it?"
Steve smiled at him. "At least for a little while longer."
Sam nodded and slapped him on the arm. "I'll go round us up some food."
"You are not eating in my lab," Shuri told him sternly.
"Okay then," Sam clapped his hands, "I'll go round me up some food." He cocked his head at Steve. "You can fend for yourself. I'll be back."
Steve gave a soft chuckle and waved him off.
-0- -0- -0-
Bucky eyed the explosion of brown wrapping paper and ribbons that littered the floor of the apartment. His mom was fussing over a new sweater for Becca, buttoning it up and testing how the shoulder's fit. His other sisters were running around squealing, play fighting and bartering with each other's presents. The smell of cinnamon filled the air, and his stomach was full with eggs and bacon.
It was Christmas, the time of year for which his folks saved and scrimped to be able to splurge on a mini feast and modest gifts for all of them. He smiled and opened the ice box, his hand grabbing the brown bottle.
"Jimmy, don't you dare!"
"Aww, shucks, Ma, come on," he grinned back at her. "Prohibition's over, and I'll be 18 in three months! And stop calling me Jimmy. I'm not a kid, anymore"
"When you're 18, then you can have a beer." She shot him a meaningful look. "And, I'm your mother. I gave birth to you. I named you. I'll call you whatever I want."
"Not fair at all." He closed the refrigerator and opened the oven.
"Stop it!" she chided.
"I'm just gonna grab a few for Steve his mom. I have to head on over to exchange presents."
She sighed. "All right. Go bring him and Sarah some of my banana bread, too. And make sure to take Sarah that paper on the counter. It's the recipe she asked for."
He spotted it and snatched it off the counter, stuffing it into his pocket. Then he grabbed a plate and spatula and finessed a half dozen cookies off one of the baking sheets, setting the gooey disks of dough on the plate to further cook and cool until they started coalescing into actual cookies.
It smelled like goddamn heaven.
He lifted the plate and moved into the living room, setting the plate down on the cabinet near the front door as he slipped into his gloves and jacket. He swooped to pick up the two colorfully-wrapped linen presents for Steve and Sarah—mom always made sure to use the good stuff for others—and opened the door.
"The cookies!" Becca hopped up to him, and he turned just as she snatched one off the plate, blowing on it as she tossed it from hand to hand. It broke and crumbled, but she didn't seem to care.
"Cut it out, Becca!" he berated, grabbing the plate, then flashing her a playful smile. "And thanks for the reminder."
She waved at him. "Don't slip on the ice."
"I won't." He turned to leave.
"Jimmy, does it ever snow in Wakanda?"
"What?" He turned back to her.
She was standing in the room, looking at him with a curious grin on her face. His parents and siblings were engaged with one another, inspecting their presents and chatting. Becca was the only one focused on him.
"Wakanda?" She rolled her eyes. "Does it ever snow there?"
"Only on some of the tallest mountains." He knew that, and suddenly it seemed normal, like they always talked about Wakanda and his hut on the hillside with the goats.
He turned to walk through the door, and as he stepped outside, Brooklyn and the snow disappeared. He was standing on the hill, outside his hut. The air was warm. Goats munched on the grass.
"This is nice."
He looked down to see Becca beside him. He still held the plate of cookies in one hand and the presents in the other.
But his left hand—the one carrying the plate—was vibranium.
"Let's eat the cookies before they get cold," Becca suggested.
"They're for Steve and his mom," he said.
"They're back in Brooklyn," Becca told him.
Oh, right.
Suddenly, it was night, and he and Becca were sitting around a campfire beneath a canopy of twinkling lights and a sliver of a moon. The plate of cookies sat between them. He had a beer in his hand. Becca had a glass of milk in hers.
"Mom makes the best chocolate walnut cookies," Becca said.
He grabbed one from the plate and bit into it. It was still warm and melted in his mouth. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation.
"Yeah," he swallowed the disintegrating bits, "she does." Then he took a swig of his beer.
"You're not 18 yet," she said.
"I'm 106."
She laughed.
"Does your arm hurt?" She asked him.
"What?"
She pointed to his vibranium one. "Does it hurt?"
"No. The old one used to, but this one doesn't."
"It's pretty."
He set his beer down and moved his fingers as though he were seeing the arm for the first time. "Thanks, I guess."
"Mom took your death hard."
He looked at her. "How do you know about that?"
He was confused all of a sudden. He hadn't officially died yet. He wasn't even in the army.
I'm dreaming, he realized with sudden clarity. He stared at the fire. He knew it was a dream—lucid dreaming, Shuri had told him once as part of a strategy to help him cope with nightmares, but this dream felt different than some of the other lucid dreams she'd helped him achieve.
Becca's presence was so real beside him. The smell of the cookies was physical. He could feel the heat from the fire.
The orange flames blurred, and he felt warm tears on his cheeks. "I'm sorry about Mom. I figured she would. Was she okay, though?"
Becca nodded. "Eventually. I took it hard, too. We all did."
He looked over at her, gazing into her blue eyes, studying her face. "I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault. You were doing your job. You made us proud."
He looked back into the fire. "Until I became the Winter Soldier."
"Mom never saw that."
"You did, didn't you?"
She sighed. "I guess so. I was pretty old, right?"
"Yes, still are."
She smiled at him and nudged him. "So are you."
He laughed, and more tears spilled.
"They got your letter."
"What?" He looked down at her again. "Steve delivered it, on his trip back."
"He did?" He'd forgotten about that. He'd have to ask Steve about it when he woke up.
"They don't know he delivered it, though. It was after. It was just left at the door. Mom cried. Even Dad cried. I found out later."
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. For a dream, she felt solid and warm.
"I love you, Becca."
"I love you, too, Jimmy."
"Did you have a good life?"
"Except for losing my big brother in the war, yeah." She tilted her chin up at him. "You have nieces and nephews, you know. You should get to know them."
He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"They know who you are, I'm sure. They would want to meet you."
"They know what I did. I don't want it to be awkward for them."
"They're your family," she whispered.
"They've never even met me. I'd just be pushing myself into their lives, and I'm too much of a mess to do that to anyone…Steve is really the only family I have left."
"He can't stay," she said the quiet thing aloud.
Bucky felt more tears flow and he stared at the blurry whips of orange flames. "I know."
"Take Sam along. I'm sure they would love to meet the new Captain America, too."
He smiled. "I'm sure they would."
"What are you afraid of?" she asked him.
He took a deep breath, but he didn't know how to answer that question. He looked back down at her. "Are you my subconscious, or something?"
She shrugged. "Or something, I guess. It's your dream."
"I have one of those doohickies on my temple." He rubbed at his temple, but it wasn't there, not in his dream world. He knew it was, in fact, on his head, as he slept in Shuri's lab. "It must be doing this—making the dream more vivid."
"Do you like it?"
He smiled and nodded. "It's a nice dream. One of the best I've had in a long time." He reached down and grabbed another cookie.
"Hey, you two!" His mother popped her head out of the hut and yelled at them, and suddenly it was like she'd been in there the whole time, and he knew his sisters were in there, and his Dad was sitting somewhere inside with his feet up.
"What is it, Mom?" Becca yelled back.
"Don't eat all those cookies! Save some for your sisters."
"There's more in the oven," Becca yelled back.
"Don't sass me!"
Bucky laughed. "You're in trouble."
Becca elbowed him gently in the side. "What else is new?"
"Everything." He said, and his smile faded for a brief moment. "But this is nice. Familiar."
"Safe?" she added.
He nodded. "Safe."
"You can't stay here forever, though."
"No," He tilted his head and let the fire mesmerize him, "but it's my dream, and I can stay for a while."
"Come on in you two," his mother called from the doorway of the hut. "Dinner's ready."
Bucky stood up, and Becca followed him into he hut. Once he stepped through the doorway, he was back in his folks' Brooklyn apartment. It was warm, cozy, and a little messy from the girls. A familiar dish sat on the modest dining room table—a large chicken divan casserole. A loaf of bread rested next to it. Six chairs were around the table. His father and mother sat at either end of the table and his sisters took up the chairs along the sides.
Becca ran past him and snagged the seat closest to her father. Bucky grinned and dropped himself into the chair closest to his mother, across from his two other sisters. He closed his eyes and inhaled the familiar aroma. He couldn't ever remember smelling anything so vivid in a dream before…or perhaps he wasn't really smelling his mother's cooking. Perhaps his brain just thought he was. Either way, he didn't care.
"Go on, eat up," his mother said.
He opened his eyes to see a large portion of the casserole on his dish next to a sizeable hunk of bred. A glass of iced tea sat next to his plate. He picked up his fork and dug in. It tasted just like he remembered.
His sisters chatted about school and friends. Margaret teased Ruth about a crush on a boy. Becca hated her history class. His mother asked his father about the leaky faucet in the bathroom.
Bucky ate in silence as he listened to their conversations. He remembered this. He hadn't truly appreciated it back then. He'd been a teenager, stupid like every teenager. Every chance he'd gotten, he'd spent it out on the streets, hanging with Steve, taking a lady dancing, convincing her to bring a friend for Steve.
He never thought his time with his folks and his sisters would be so short…not until the war and his number came up.
"Well," his mother rose and began clearing the table.
Bucky got to his feet. "Ma, sit. I'll do the cleanup."
She grinned at him. "Really?" She sank back into her chair. "Thank you, Jimmy."
He cleaned up the table, washed the dishes, and listened as everyone padded off into the living room. When he was all done, his mother and father rose.
"Well, Winnie, we better be going," his father said.
"What?" He turned to them. "What do you mean? This is your apartment."
They headed toward the door, and the girls followed his parents outside.
"Mom, Dad…" He trotted after them. As he passed through the doorway, he was back on the Wakandan hillside. It was still night. The campfire was fading to a low smolder.
His parents and three siblings walked down the slope. A creak snaked along the countryside. It had never been there before—and he wondered where it had come from.
His mother and father turned to him just before crossing the stream.
"Goodbye, my little man." She smiled at him, then reached out a hand and ruffled her fingers through his hair.
His father gave him a salute. "Make us proud, son."
His mother pulled away from him, and he grabbed her arm, enveloping it in his flesh one. He looked into her blue eyes, and he felt like a little boy again.
"Don't go," he begged, his voice shaky. Salty tears ran into his mouth, touching the tip of his tongue.
She hugged him, smelling of jasmine and rose—her favorite perfume. "You'll always be my Jimmy. Nothing will ever change that," she whispered into his ear, then pulled away, turned her back to him, and followed his father toward the creek.
"Wait!" He ran after them, but they were suddenly much farther ahead. His vision blurred as he watched them cross the stream.
He walked up to the stream, intending to follow, but his feet stopped. He knew he couldn't cross. The stream was the divide. This world and the other one. He didn't know how he knew that. He just did—in that weird dream way.
His siblings followed, trudging through the small creak after his parents—all except Becca. She stopped just before setting foot in the stream.
Bucky gently grabbed her arm. "Becca… " His voice caught on a sob. "Please just stay a little longer."
She looked up at him. "You have abandonment issues." A sadness filled her eyes. "I'm not going, not yet. But soon."
He knelt in front of her. He couldn't stop the tears. He didn't care. He just wanted a little more time in this world. Why couldn't he control what was happening in his own dream?
She raised one of her small hands and placed it firmly on the side of his face. He could actually feel the warmth of her palm on his cheek, but her hand felt so much bigger, as though it were cupping the entire side of his face. A thumb wiped away tears on his right cheek.
"Time to wake up," she told him, her voice gentle, encouraging.
-0- -0- -0-
Steve looked up from Bucky's anguished, sleeping face and studied Shuri as she hovered in front of the neural display. Bucky had been asleep for over four hours, most of it peaceful until the last 30 minutes. Sam was off somewhere with Ayo, getting a tour of the city.
"He's having a nightmare." Steve told Shuri.
She shook her head as she studied the map of neurons. "The pathways here indicate older memories. These portions here," she pointed to a section of lit neurons on the transparent panel, "are indicative of emotions—joy, sadness, but there are no fear-based pathways that we'd see with post-traumatic episodes."
Steve looked back down at Bucky's face—tears snaked from beneath his closed eyelids and dropped downward along the side of his face. His brow was furrowed, and his chest hitched with each breath. Whatever the dream was, it wasn't pleasant.
"Come on, Bucky." Steve reached out a hand and cupped the side of his friend's wet face. His thumb wiped fresh tears from Bucky's cheek. "Time to wake up."
Bucky's eyelids sprang open, and his blue eyes took a moment to focus, sliding around to take in the surrounding lab before settling on Steve's face.
"You okay?" Steve asked him.
Bucky sat up, and the blanket covering him slipped to the floor. He brought his right hand up to his temple and, with shaking fingers, rubbed at the sensor. Steve could tell the emotions from the dream were still quite raw. Shuri walked up and gently removed the sensor from Bucky's head, then shifted gracefully away, casting a sympathetic glance at Steve.
"Hey," Steve placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked again.
Bucky looked up at him. His eyes were red and wet. "I…I was dreaming about my folks…" his voice quivered, "my sisters…Becca." Then he gave into a deep, shuddering sob and crumpled forward.
Steve caught Bucky and reached up tentatively to wrap his arms around his friend's sobbing, trembling form, still mindful of how guarded Bucky was after Hydra, but when Bucky leaned into him, Steve took the invitation to tighten his embrace.
Bucky was finally grieving his family. It was heartbreaking…and beautiful. Steve caught Shuri's gaze. Her dark eyes conveyed a sense of somber relief.