I painted something special to go along with a scene from this chapter. The complete illustration and other goodies can be found alongside this chapter on Archive of Our Own.
Simply search for: "KLeCrone Ao3 Winter of the White Wolf"
Winter of the White Wolf
Chapter 53 - Perceptual Iridescence
As Shuri led the way down the glass-lined hallway, she and Sam kept a few steps ahead of two Dora Milaje flanking them in a rough "V" formation that had a way of reminding him of years spent doing tandem military maneuvers in the air. He didn't know how soon he'd be flying again, but there was something comforting about the familiarity of the arrangement all the same. Step after careful step, Sam couldn't help but notice that the Wakandan Design Center had taken on yet another personality since he'd last walked these same halls.
Well. Granted, the last time he'd come through, it'd been coming in from the opposite direction by way of a Wakandan Stretcher. Before that? Dragged like a rag-doll by Barnes. But a time or two before that, he had walked both in and out twice without incident, so that counted for something, right?
Regardless of all that, today's walk was, well, different. He was moving on his own two feet, but being suited up had a way of making him not only more self-aware of the attention the red, white, and blue called to him, but also the physical space he took up, and that almost imperceivable weight of the shield riding on his back. Adding to that was the fact he didn't feel anywhere close to 100%. Not physically. Not mentally. And definitely not emotionally. But he knew he had to pad foot-after-foot down that immaculate hallway all the same.
When you were in the line of work he was, you never really had days where nothing hurt anymore. If it wasn't his back, it was a toss up between his right shoulder or his knees. His knees had a way of complaining about each and every quick landing tenfold. Especially as he got older, he felt like there were more days than not where it was easier to jot down what wasn't bothering him over what was, alongside the measure of painkillers that went along with every ache and pain.
So as he walked down that hallway, his first order of business was to maintain his balance and a steady, unhurried stride that obscured the fact that he wasn't operating at full capacity. His next goal was to try to push down the parts of him that claimed he should have been hurting more. And lastly, he made it a point to try and actively ignore all of the specific landmarks along the way that reminded him all-too-clearly that the last time he'd been dragged his way, when he wasn't sure if he was going to survive another minute of the harrowing experience that teetered against questions of life, death, and whatever came after.
Sam thought he was doing an admirable job putting on a good face and keeping it together, but when he turned a very specific corner, his feet moved out of rhythm, and his mind saw fit to latch onto a fresh, painfully-specific memory he would have rather done without. It came and went in the timespan of a single heartbeat. A quick, pointed flash of sensation of an unyielding vibranium hand tightening around his neck. Without a drop of conscious thought, he lifted his hand up to touch his throat.
"Pain? Or pain of memory?" Shuri's voice was so low that Sam doubted even the two Dora Milaje trailing a few steps behind them could have made out her words.
It took him a second to even process she was talking to him, or what she was referring to, "Oh? Oh…" he self-consciously moved his hand back to his hip, "The latter, I guess."
She nodded, and something in her soulful brown eyes had a way of reminding Sam that this wasn't her first rodeo by a long shot, either. That she'd seen the people around her hurt by the same man acting out of sorts over the years, and by the sounds of it: the Soldier had managed to get ahold of her at some point too. So that look she was presently giving him? It wasn't pity. It was that she understood far more than most.
"It takes time, but trust does return," she reasoned in that Shuri way that made her sound wise beyond her years. The Dora a few steps behind them slowed their pace just enough to give the two of them a touch more privacy to talk.
"Usually, though," Shuri added, her voice forthright, "in the aftermath of Events, we were met with someone we knew either right away or a short time later. Enough that there was a clear separation between he who took up arms against us, and the man we knew. James always felt deep regret for being out of control with his actions. But this situation we presently find ourselves in is new to me as well. To all of us. There was once no need to forge bonds with the one who fleetingly acted against us. And now?" She shook her head once, "It poses a unique challenge. Especially to those he acted violently against."
Sam hadn't been aware he'd been holding his breath, but as Shuri finished speaking, he felt himself let out a stream of air through the gap in his front teeth, "Yeah. Feels like I'm starting at a very particular sort of square one again. Part of me's eager to get back out there, to meet with him, but there's that other part of me…" he trailed off because he honestly wasn't sure what came after that. That other part of him, what? Didn't want to face his attacker that'd repeatedly threatened to kill him and nearly ended his life multiple times in the last twenty-four hours? Wanted to pretend this whole mess was a fever dream he'd wake up from at any minute?
He was certain Shuri caught his trepidation, "It will be a work-in-progress for all of us. Barnes included." She turned her head to face him, "But we will take each step together."
While he knew she was doing her best to be encouraging, the timing of her well-intentioned remark happened to be, well, something alright, because stationed in the hallway just beyond her left shoulder stood a member of the Dora Milaje he almost wished he didn't recognize. He didn't know her name, but his addled mind was quick to identify her as one of the three officers that had run into the Propulsion Lab with the intent of stopping Barnes for good before he could hurt anyone else.
The Dora didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. In that brief moment their eyes connected, he knew they recognized one another plain as day. It was uncomfortable, like recognizing your ex when you were out on another date. That being as it was, he was surprised, if not a little relieved that there wasn't any animosity in her gaze. In fact, he didn't see any distaste or ill-will across the faces of the Dora Milaje lining the halls or the scientists busy behind laboratory walls.
But maybe he was a deal less recognizable now, and they hadn't connected the man in spangled red, white, and blue as being the same plain-clothed man who'd been dragged along as part of yesterday's exciting events? The one who'd intervened with the best of intentions on a kill order, but had intervened all the same? If he were being honest: he didn't really know how many people here in Wakanda gave two hoots about the newest Captain America, but even so, the faces that turned to meet him weren't filled with the sort of judgement he was expecting. Or the judgement he felt he deserved.
Other faces were more nebulous. Sam liked to think he was pretty decent at remembering them, but whatever trauma he'd sustained the other day apparently hadn't done him any cognitive favors. Having the Dora operating in matching regalia didn't help matters, either. Like so many military operations he'd been a part of, having matching uniforms was an established method of strengthening group functionality over individuality, but apparently the Dora code didn't come complete with the convenience of name tags, tapes, or plates. The absence of identifiers had a way of distracting him, because a very particular part of his mind desperately wanted to distinguish and put a name to each and every person he passed, as if doing so might acknowledge some small part of what they'd been through together.
It wasn't the time to stop to ask everyone for their names, but he hoped maybe at some point when his head was clearer, he could find a culturally-appropriate way to acknowledge them all the same.
Before his mind could wander any further, Shuri's steps slowed to a stop outside of a door he assumed was M'yra's recovery suite. Frosted smart glass obscured the view inside the room, and Sam stood a few steps back as Shuri did her thing. She addressed him first, "Stay here a moment. I will send word when it is proper for you to enter." She set her shoulders and ran a hand over that bright orange fashion statement of hers, conceivably removing the unseen wrinkles as she prepared herself to face the wrath of M'yra's parents. Her head turned to the Dora flanking Sam's right, "Nailah, if you would join me?"
Nailah? Wasn't that the name of the Dora who'd fetched some of his stuff from their suite in the Diplomatic Quarter, including the suit, shield, and those 'Captain America' socks Shuri was never going to let him hear the end of? Before Sam's brain could get up to speed on that connection, Nailah acknowledged Shuri's request and opened the door for the princess. The guard to Shuri's left saluted with one hand over her chest and took up position in the hallway with Sam while Shuri and then Nailah wordlessly stepped inside.
Sam wasn't sure how long the pleasantries were going to take, but he did his best to keep a cap on his nerves as he stood and waited, well aware that his choice of wardrobe wasn't exactly doing any favors in the incognito department.
Before he could debate on if it was worth pulling out his new Wakandan designer phone so he could work on trying out the adaptive messaging system Shuri'd been raving about, he caught the guard at the door glancing at her wrist. The communication bead along her wrist blinked a very particular pattern, and once it stopped, she pressed it and looked his way. With a flourish of one open hand, she motioned Sam inside to whatever fate or judgement awaited him.
Over the years, Sam'd been in and out of enough hospital rooms that he instantly identified the dynamic within the dressed-up suite. Shuri'd positioned herself with her back to the hallway and Nailah just to her left, forcing the older man and woman Sam assumed to be M'yra's parents to take up position so they were facing Shuri, and their backs were open to the rest of the room. He counted his blessings that the de facto leader of their entourage was clearly experienced in interpersonal politics, because her positioning forced them to choose between watching Sam or the Princess of Wakanda. They couldn't do both at once.
With a diplomatic flair that was impressive even for Shuri, the resident genius briefly acknowledged his entrance with a tilt of her head but nothing more as she smoothly returned to offering M'yra's parents the latest update on their recovery plan.
"– We will be looking into scheduling her next surgery for later this week, but I want to ensure there are no unforeseen issues before we proceed. Once I am satisfied, we will be focusing on re-establishing the fine motor systems that were impacted by the trauma to her lumbar vertebrae. In the meantime, I've scheduled for a physical therapist to work with her throughout the day to try to offset any atrophy. They will continue to work with her after she is again weightbearing."
Sam saw the M'yra's parents briefly turn their heads to glance over their nearest shoulders and confirm who'd entered, but neither went out of their way to acknowledge him. Even though he felt more than a little overdressed, he was relieved that they didn't feel the need to confront him with whatever questions they no-doubt had about Bucky. But if Sam had to guess: it was probably considered poor form to ignore the Wakandan Princess and one of their country's premiere scientists in preference to pinning down an overdressed outsider with questions.
Shuri continued without missing a beat, "A rehabilitation specialist will be by later today to begin the process of helping her adapt to her injuries, including instructing her on the one-handed gestures we discussed for her Kimoyo Beads. I would advise you to make an effort to learn them as well, as we've found that group learning often accelerates the adaptation process. –"
Without a word, Sam held his breath and kept his eyes forward as he made a beeline towards the door on the far side of the room. He raised his hand and rapped gently against the door, hoping that the cushioning provided by the vibranium weave would take the impact and wouldn't bruise or otherwise upset the freshly-made flesh of his fingers.
It didn't take more than a second or two for a woman's voice inside to respond, "Come in."
Sam lost no time in doing just that, and as soon as he stepped inside the adjoining room, he closed the door quietly behind him before he risked losing his nerve entirely.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting the inner sanctum of the recovery suite to look like, but hadn't expected to find Teela standing to the far side of M'yra's bed.
M'yra was sitting up in a bed not unlike the one he'd woken up in, with a grey smock to match. Rather than a standard-issue quilted blanket, she had a vibrant green, yellow, and black woven throw resting over her lap. It gave her a very dignified, and oddly vivacious appearance to see her outside of her Dora's regalia. Now that he had a chance to get a better look at her outside of the heat of battle, it was clear she was probably around his age or thereabouts. Each side of her face was accented with ornate vertical tattoos that ran from below her jaw, up over her cheeks, past the crest of her skull, and back and around the sides of her head in an elegant swoop that reminded him of the elegant curves seen on some muscle cars. It suited her features in a very complimentary way. Her normally bald head was dusted in a fine coating of dark stubble that wasn't far removed from the unshorn shadows on his own face. Sam did everything he could to keep his eyes off the wrapped stump of an arm showing out the bottom of her right sleeve, but it was hard to ignore the silver-crested reminder of just one of the grievous injuries she'd suffered at Barnes's hands only the day before.
The machines surrounding her were ran silently, displaying what he assumed were charts and vitals in Wakandan. Even though they were deep underground, the room looked out into the same mine shaft Shuri's lab did, but instead of being filled with music or even silence, someone had thought to put on an ambient audio track that reminded him of the outdoors. It was subtle, but there was something undeniably calming about the quiet rustle of leaves, the whisper of a flowing stream, and the occasional call of birdsongs he couldn't begin to recognize.
The room smelled… well, it smelled like the inside of a flower shop, which hadn't been something he was expecting, but it had a way of putting his nerves at-ease.
To either side of M'yra's bed were makeshift nightstands festooned with cards, notes, and flowers bundled into glass vases and handmade pots. Rather than the usual assortment of mismatched sympathy colors he might've expected, each of the vases contained stems of black flowers accompanied by one or more colored blooms. The potted plants lacked any dark blossoms, and were instead awash with bright colors that coordinated with the artistry of the designs decorating each clay pot. He'd have to ask Shuri about the significance of everything, but thanks to the pair of dark blooms Nomble had offered him and Bucky what felt like exactly a year ago, he had a fair guess that the black ones had to do with grief, loss, or both.
Even that was only two days before. It was crazy to think how time had a way of dilating of its own accord since they'd left Louisiana, what? Four days ago, depending on how you were countin' the international time zones?
For a moment, he'd been so busy taking in the view of the room and trying to remember where one day ended and the next began, that it took M'yra's voice to pull him back into himself, "I was not aware there was a dress code for today. You must forgive me. If I'd known, I'd have asked for something more… presentable."
Sam was pretty sure the comment must've caused some part of his brain to short circuit. He'd been bracing for something other than… that… but the spot of light humor had a way of putting him at ease and setting the mood in a very particular way.
Teela smiled from just to M'yra's left, "Even the shield?" she remarked, clearly impressed, "If he does any party tricks, you must make sure to send me a recording." It was good to see her to be sure, but before Sam could formulate a suitable reply,, Teela turned her attention to M'yra, "I will check back in a few hours. Until then, I'll leave you two to it." Teela lifted her spear and balled her left hand into a fist, placing it over her chest in a one-handed salute.
M'yra returned the gesture, "Until then. Send the others my regards."
"Of course," Teela agreed as she turned her attention to Sam and inclined her head, adding, with what he was certain was both relief and a bit of mirth, "It is good to see you up and about, Captain Wilson."
"Thanks for the help back there, and for checking in on me by the sounds of it."
"It did my heart good to know that you were well. Is that–" she gestured her free hand at his ensemble, "–because you are off to see him soon?"
Sam caught the implication immediately, "Yeah, with Shuri."
Teela only nodded as she considered her words, "For what it is worth, he asked about you often. Worried for you. I would tell you and our Princess to be careful, but you of all people have no need for such cautions. Instead I will wish you patience and blessings for your quest and the trials ahead of you both."
Sam wasn't certain what expression his face was making at that moment, but he did his best to stay focused and stave off the wave of complex emotions that threatened to pour into his throat, "Thanks. Means a lot."
Teela inclined her head and glanced back to M'yra once more before she wordlessly saw herself out. After the door softly closed behind her, Sam found himself alone with M'yra in the recovery suite that smelled like a flowerbed and sounded like the background of a nature documentary.
Sam tried to tell himself he didn't have any need to be self-conscious about the suit, but it had a way of making him feel overdressed by proxy, likely because it made the sizable disconnect between their paths to recovery all the more apparent. "Thanks for being willing to meet with me. Is it okay if I…" he gestured to a chair sitting just to her left. M'yra glanced at it only briefly before nodding and waiting for him to take a seat. He got the impression she was wading her way through what she wanted to say, so he gave her whatever time she needed as he carefully removed his shield from his back and sat down, resting the etched disc against the side of his chair. The bold colors of the metal shone brightly across the marbled white and grey floor, and Sam found his eye drawn to it, about how pristine it looked cast in the room's pure white light. He caught the undulating reflections of the blue medical readouts arcing across its smooth, sculpted curves too, but in that moment, it seemed as though the shield had decided to take on a presence all its own that was radiant as it was hopeful.
Sam didn't miss that M'yra's gaze went from the shield and then traveled up to his nearest hand, which was topped with fingerless gloves. It was difficult to get a read on her expression, but he wasn't sure if that was credit to the years of experience she had as an esteemed member of the Dora Milaje, or because of the guilt he felt festering in his gut. Either way, she was the first to speak, "I thought after what we have went through together, it would do us both a disservice to continue to only coexist in rumors and fleeting glimpses."
He nodded, "I appreciate that."
M'yra lifted her chin, "King T'Challa relayed your message to me. He said you were sorry for what has happened. Teela says that this man, Barnes, didn't intend for either of us to be in pain. Do you believe his words?"
Sam could appreciate that she was seeing fit to cut to the chase, but caught the 'us' in her statement immediately, "I'd like to," he observed, "But if we're being honest here, there wasn't all that much time between when he did what he did to each of us, and when he was captured and surrendered himself over. I don't know exactly what's going on in that jumbled mind of his, but I didn't get the impression he was even capable of lying." Sam shook his head, "I don't feel right trying to speak for him or defend anything that he did, beyond sayin' that he wasn't acting like the man I know. All I can tell you is that as near as I can tell, Barnes started out seeing me as nothing more than a meatshield, but it was like the longer I was around him, the more I saw something that manifested almost like budding empathy spillover over from what he did to me. I wouldn't be surprised if in his own way, he regrets hurting you, too. I'm sure Teela or Shuri's spoken with you about how his mind wasn't right. Still isn't. I think he was genuinely terrified we were gonna hurt him."
"I just want them to leave me alone," Sam recalled the man with his Partner's face confessing with a voice far more tired than he would have thought possible amid their adrenaline-infused aerial escape.
M'yra drank in his words and sat with them, "But Teela told me he gave himself over so you could receive treatment."
There was a whole different sort of guilt that manifested in Sam's gut at that, "Yeah I… I'm still processing the implications of that unexpected pivot in his modus operandi, but as far as I've been told, it doesn't seem like it was a misdirect. So I have to assume that if he said he didn't intend for either of us to be in pain, that he's being straight about that bit too."
The wounded warrior sitting in the bed nodded once, but her eyes didn't move from his. Sam didn't feel as if she was evaluating him or the candor in his words as much as she was trying to take him in all at once, "You are not what I expected."
"Oh?" Sam had to admit, there was something to be said for her no-bullshit way of skipping the pleasantries altogether and cutting to the chase.
She inclined her head, "I'm not sure what I expected. I heard your name in passing before we fought together against the Mad Titan." She rolled both shoulders in a casual shrug before adding, "So we are blood bonded through our work, but I had not known you were visiting Wakanda, nor that it was you that was taken hostage yesterday." She made a face that he suspected was her own degree of wry humor, "You look much better with a nose."
He snorted lightly, "Shuri was able to help me out with that one. I…" he knew what he wanted to say, but not how to approach the delicate subject hanging silently between them where the rest of her right arm should've been. He lowered his voice, trying to search out the right timbre that expressed how he was feeling without sounding artificially somber or insincerely, "I wish things'd gone differently yesterday. I know we don't know each other much at all, but I wish…"
The words didn't come, but M'yra had enough years of service under her belt to read the room, "...You wish it'd been you instead?" she chanced a guess.
Sam was sure he must've flinched at the truth at the heart of her statement. He gave himself a moment before responding, "Yeah, I suppose in the end, I keep comin' back to that. Keep replaying it in my head, hoping, wishing things'd turned out differently. Particularly for you." He fidgeted uncomfortably with his fingers.
A native bird's mournful cry came twice through the room's speakers before M'yra responded. Her eyes fell to the silver wrapping sticking out from just under the cusp of her right sleeve. It was impossible to see the state of what remained of her arm, but it was clear it had been amputated just below the shoulder. Her voice was soft but firm when she spoke next, "Ayo and Shuri both would challenge you for blame, I think. I do not know who would win. While part of me wishes to find a way to make light of this situation, to imagine others willing to fight to take on these injuries so that I might be free of them and whole again, the truth is that I would not wish this on any of you."
There was something in the way M'yra said that last bit that Sam felt certain she wasn't just lobbing empty words his way. It was clear she'd thought about it, probably even spoken to Shuri and Ayo about it, and had decided their collective and well-meaning guilt about what had happened didn't suit her own worldview.
He didn't know her much at all, but it said a lot about her.
"I still mourn," she admitted, "And am still angry for what has happened, but I do not blame you. Even now, I am not certain what weight should be placed at Barnes's feet after learning more about his complex history and his actions after we crossed spears. There is a saying here, that 'Those who dare to dance with lions must be mindful of tooth and claw,' and it was my choice to engage him with violence. My choice to attempt to maim him and pin him down. To meet violence with violence."
M'yra looked down at Sam's shield and the brilliant red and blue reflections it cast out across the marbled white floor, "All of us find ourselves replaying the day's events wondering what we might have done differently, and how our decisions might have led to a cascade of different outcomes thereafter. But Teela spoke of how strangely docile Barnes was out on that mountain of theirs, where he was met with kindness and bravery from Yama and Nomble. It makes me wonder what might have happened if I had chosen my actions differently. If I had sought some manner of de-escalation rather than immediately raising my spear."
"You did what you had to," Sam reasoned honestly. "And that's coming from someone who tried to use words to get through to him and took the brunt of the outcome. It was a bad situation all around."
The woman sitting across from him didn't look nearly so convinced. She shook her head and took a deep breath as she grounded her thoughts, "I acted first. Not him. Now, I find I regret my choices only so much as the damage that the resulting fallout would have on my body and those around me, but at the time, they felt like the right decisions. I was stationed in the Propulsion Laboratory. I engaged him there. My sisters fell into formation at my request, and no other. I would like to think the choices I made saved lives, but the truth is? I will never know. I will live the rest of my life being reassured by well-meaning individuals that my quick actions saved lives, but I am not yet ready to believe them. Especially when the events surrounding the stolen ship might have ended in much greater tragedy."
"Survivor's guilt," Sam supplied more as a statement of fact rather than an accusation.
M'yra adjusted herself against the pillow propping her up as she considered his words. After a moment, she nodded once before adding observationally, "Same as you."
Sam… hadn't been ready for that solemn assertion to be lobbed back in his direction, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized she wasn't necessarily wrong. "Touché," he admitted. "But for what it's worth, I got no other impression other than you were trying to make the best decisions you could based on the knowledge you had and the cards you'd been dealt. I've seen all of you fight. Seen you put down far more intimidating opponents with more limbs and teeth than I care to recall, and the fact you and your sisters engaged Barnes with a will to subdue rather than stop him outright right away… I know you could've. But you didn't. That counts for something too."
She adjusted her lips as she met his eyes unflinchingly, "It was left up to my discretion. But it did not seem like the right decision in the moment. I did not know him well, but I recognized him enough to know that all of us once fought side-by-side against the Mad Titan. And now…" her words trailed off as she considered her next words, "now I find myself weighing the value of one arm against one life. I find that even knowing what I know now, I would still choose to spare his life." Her expression lightened as she added, "But I warn you: Do not let my mother hear me say these words. She would not choose the same if she could choose for me."
Sam snorted at her attempt to inject humor into the heavy conversation, "Well, I'm biased as all hell, but I'd like to think you made the right call too." He sat back in his chair, trying to find a way to get comfortable with the flightpack acting against his solemn desire to slouch, "It can be… challenging… in the heat of battle to know when to aim to disable, and when to go for the killing blow. Regardless of what you choose: afterwards you're liable to second guess yourself, because it's convenient to imagine simple, straightforward solutions where none really ever existed in the first place. Especially when every second counts. I'm not sure how it is for you, but I always felt like it was worse when I was the one makin' the calls, rather than just following orders. Because at least for the latter, if things went to shit, you could always point the blame upward. But when it's just you? All those 'what ifs' have a way of circling 'round and 'round like sharks to chum."
With everything he had in him, he did his best to channel raw honesty into his voice and expression, "It might not amount to much, but you've got company in this very particular brand of survivor's guilt. And if we're being honest, I dunno if I'd ever stopped to consider the 'blood bonded' bit you said up until now. About the battles out on the field, and I suppose now this mess too."
"If you do nothing, you stand for nothing," M'yra spoke the words as if repeating an oath, "Not everyone is inclined to run towards danger. It is a very particular trait, especially for those of us with naturally frail, but brave bodies."
Sam smiled lightly, "Yeah, I hear that. The words my own mama used to have for my childhood inclinations were… a fair bit less complimentary."
That remark earned him a broad smile from the wounded warrior sitting across from him, "My own parents had hoped it was a phase I would grow out of. Not because they are not proud for my many accomplishments, but I think they still imagine that young girl in our backyard, so intent on teaching herself how to properly wield a carved practice spear without supervision, and the bruises that came from her efforts." Her expression held the memory tight, but her face fell as her eyes drifted back to where her right hand was supposed to be.
"If there's anything I can do," Sam insisted, "let me know. I'm not just sayin' that either.
M'yra regarded him for only a moment before concluding, "I can tell you're not. And thank you. I was expecting for my words to be met with more… resistance. But you are surprisingly easy to talk to, Sam Wilson. Is this part of your role as…" she fluttered the fingers of her left hand, as if miming feathered wings in flight.
He snorted lightly, "No. Not directly anyway. But I was a VA counselor in a past life. Veterans Affairs. So some of that mentality tends to stick with you. That was where it really started to sink in for me that most folks are fightin' private battles of their own, whether they want to acknowledge it or not. At least for me, talkin' about it always helped. Had a way of putting things into perspective rather than just lettin' the raw struff fester."
M'yra inclined her head, "It sounds as though our countries may have similar systems in place. Ours draws lines between those serving, and those who have begun again with new purpose after serving. I know my wounds are still fresh, but I find myself unwilling to resign myself to the latter. Shuri will not hear my request," she admitted. "Not yet at least. But in time, it is a matter I would very much like to discuss with this man with your friend's face. Not because I wish to condemn him, but because I wish to weigh my own future, and decide for myself how I wish to proceed."
"About the arm?" Sam wagered a guess.
"About the arm," M'yra confirmed.
"He'd be the resident expert," Sam agreed, wondering what part of the 'arm' conversation Shuri was specifically objecting to, "But I'm still holding out hope you get the opportunity to meet Buck. The real Buck, I mean."
"I hope to meet your 'White Wolf' as well," M'yra's words were easy, honest. "I can tell by the way those that knew him speak of him, that who I sparred with was not one in the same, and I am curious to see the differences for myself. If and when he is made whole, please tell him that I hold no grudge against him for what has happened. In the meantime? When you see this 'Barnes,' you would do me an honor if you would tell him that I did not intend for him to be in pain either, and that I hope we may meet on better terms."
M'yra leaned forward and met Sam's eyes as she felt compelled to add, "And let him know that he chose honorably to ensure you received the care you needed. For regardless of the state of my own arm and my spine, it brings me relief to know you are faring well, Sam Wilson. It gives me hope for my own recovery, too."
Sam wasn't altogether sure how to respond to that, but he got his mouth working long enough to manage, "Thanks. I'll make sure to let him know."
If Barnes leaned his head just so, he could just barely make out the tip of the distant structure that each Ayo, Yama, and Nomble had separately assured him was where Sam was taken for treatment, and the building from which he would depart when he was suitably mobile.
Its pale spire stood out from rolling green swaths of open and sculpted mountains of red rock and deep forests like a compass pointing skyward. Throughout the day, ships came and went from the towering citadel, but none approached their outpost. While Barnes had no way of knowing if the updates and projected photographs of Sam he was offered were true, some part of him hoped that his instincts were wrong, and that Sam was not simply being subjected to repeated enrichment and reprogramming at the hands of the same people Barnes had willingly surrendered him to.
In some way, the days and weeks after pulling Steve out of the Potomac River seemed more clearcut. He knew that the people after him, after Steve were HYDRA. That they intended to kill Steve and capture their turncoat "Asset" so that they could drag him back into a life of subjugated obedience.
He also knew that neither of these missions could be permitted to succeed.
But now? Now he wasn't sure what to think. Who was a friend? Who was an enemy? What did they really want with him?
Moreover, he couldn't explain why some part of him was so willing to trade his own freedom for a man he barely knew. A man who'd exchange more bullet fire than words with up until yesterday.
But for some inexplicable reason, it mattered.
Barnes wasn't sure what the Wakandans had planned for him, but it was as if some part of him felt compelled to know Sam's fate before he took his next steps. It was entirely possible the Wakandans would continue to come up with excuses for why Sam was still locked away inside that ivory tower, but if Sam returned, and that was a big if… Then what did it mean? What if he was still himself?
What if he wasn't? What would he do then? Would it be feasible to attempt to free him from his captors? It didn't seem right to leave him behind.
Barnes wasn't sure what it all meant, what it could mean, but as the sky continued to change color and dip ever-closer to a crimson-cast sunset, he found his mind tracking back on itself as it struggled to self-catalogue memories and images that simply weren't there a day or two ago. Like the sunsets.
Yesterday, the only sunsets he could remember were those from the week and change he'd spent on the run in Washington D.C. That was it. Everything from before that had been wiped clean, apparently by HYDRA's grand design. But then he'd woken up in that nearby lab, broken out from the lab, and in the aftermath of an arduous and questionably productive half-escape, he'd seen the sunset from the mountaintop here and slept. And when he'd slept, something had happened. Something he couldn't explain. Something he told no one. It was as if while he was asleep, not only did he find a way to dreams and nightmares, but the mere act of being asleep had shown him more. It was as if it had lifted a veil, allowing him to see past a number of mind wipes and forced conditioning procedures. He wasn't sure how far back it went, but the impact of what he saw, heard, was asked to do, was done to him… it was as staggering as it was horrifying.
If that had been it, it might have been enough, but he didn't have any explanation for why when he'd last slept, he'd also seen days forward from where he'd last fallen asleep in Washington D.C. They were days and nights spent checking-in on a still-recovering Steve and Sam as they planned on how they would track-down this ghost operative known as "The Winter Soldier," but someone Steve insisted on referring to as "Bucky." Unbeknownst to the two of them, Barnes kept watch as he searched for cracks, for explanation, for their next move. They spent a lot of their time around the location Barnes pegged as Sam's apartment, and when the two fell into a reliable if monotonous exercise routine that involved an obnoxious amount of running, Barnes saw his opportunity to learn more about their own mission objectives firsthand.
Silently and skillfully, he worked his way to street level, stopping only to try and redirect one of the local strays that seemed intent to follow him since he'd started regularly leaving nourishment out for them on a rooftop some blocks away.
"I don't have any food," he insisted under his breath from beneath what he felt was a reasonably convincing disguise composed of a grey ball cap and layered black and maroon clothing he'd purchased using credit cards he'd taken off the HYDRA agents he'd dumped in the river. "If you're hungry, it's back there."
"Meooowr?" the white cat with the crystal-blue eyes pleasantly trilled.
He did his best to ignore the feline rumbling and weaving herself between his ankles while he picked the lock on the window and let himself inside Sam's apartment without another word. He slid the window closed to ensure the stray didn't follow him inside.
Since when had he started trying to communicate with cats? Maybe the issue was they didn't understand English?
He was clearly malfunctioning.
Once inside, he padded carefully around the apartment, cataloguing as much as he could as he searched for clues or anything out of place.
It didn't take long.
Tucked away for safekeeping was a thick, aged brown folder with a cover printed in Russian text. It claimed to be property of a KGB branch in the Dnepropetrovsk Region of the USSR, and it was dated April 23rd, 1945. In black ink, someone had taken the time to write out details summarizing its contents:
| Управление КГБ по днепропетровской области. KGB Administration for the Dnepropetrovsk region.
| Специальный раздел. Special section.
| Дело №17. Case Number 17.
| Том №2й. Volume Number 2.
| Джейне Гарне - воинский учет обслуживания, развертывания и экспериментов. Jane Garne - Military maintenance, deployment and experimentation records.
Barnes ran a leather gloved finger over the enigmatic cover. He wasn't sure what he thought he might discover inside, but he wasn't prepared for the image stapled prominently inside the front cover.
A blue-tinged full-page photograph of a figure in a cryo tube greeted him, but it was a small black and white identification tag stapled to the upper right corner with a heading that called for his immediate attention:
| Barnes, James {Buchanan}
| Барнс, Джеймс Бьюкенен
Listed directly below the familiar name were key vitals such as height, weight, and hair color, but he found it hard to look at anything other than the mismatched photographs sharing the same open page.
The thick pieces of dog-eared glossy paper were stained with age and the creases of one-too-many curious fingers, but his mind was quick to identify them. The first and largest was a photograph someone had taken of a sleeping figure while he was undergoing a cryogenic freeze. The smaller photograph was barely the size of his palm, and was paperclipped onto the larger image to hold it in place. On it was the sepia-toned face of the soldier he'd seen in the Smithsonian. The one who'd been born a century earlier on March 10th, 1917 and died on February 1st, 1945.
The one called "Bucky."
He ran his thumb along the edge of the smaller of the two photographs, curious if the reverse side held any further clues. When he lifted it, he found an inscription written in a ballpoint pen on the back that stated simply "January 14th, 1943" in clear, cursive English.
There was no date listed on the blue-tinged photo of the frozen figure, but some part of him insisted it had an uncanny resemblance to the face he remembered catching glimpses of in reflections in the times he wasn't outfitted with this respirator mask. It was eerie. Unsettling, in a very primal way he didn't understand at the time.
On the right side of the folder were a mismatched collection of papers and photographs offering a jumbled mix of information that was only passingly chronological and far from complete. There was as much typeset information slotted in on thin sheets of yellow typewriter paper as there were additional handwritten notes in blue, black, and red ink. The mismatched notes were written primarily in Russian, German, and English, though there were news clippings in many more languages. Some notes were even scrawled in what he presumed was a guarded code. There was too much information to decode at once, so he did what he could to commit the pages to memory as he flipped through the strangely unsettling tome, being mindful to keep the misshapen contents in order so the occupants of the house wouldn't suspect the premises had been breached.
He consumed them as rapidly as he could, trying his best to cross-reference what he'd read in the Smithsonian and hone-in on details that weren't captured there. The service records were roughly the same, but there were notable divergences too. Azzano, Italy was mentioned, as was Krausberg, Austria, but they were not framed as capture and "rescues," but as correlations to human trials led by a Doctor Arnim Zola.
Stranger yet, there were periods of time not documented within the pages at all, months and years where, according to the Smithsonian exhibit, "Sergeant James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes" was an active member of the 107th Infantry Regiment and then the Howling Commandos Special Ops. The same force he'd been serving in when he fell to his death and was killed in action during a mission on February 1st, 1945.
That particular date showed up only once in a footnote regarding Zola, who was captured as a prisoner of war, but apparently continued his work in secret with the assistance of undercover allies.
The next date listed within the file was two days later, on February 3rd, 1945. In it, the transcriber noted that the Soviets had been sent to try to locate the body of an American soldier that had fallen off a train in the Alps. The recovery mission was initiated by the request of Armin Zola because he claimed he recognized the soldier as a prior test subject, and insisted that tissue samples were needed so that he could continue his research on perfecting the super soldier serum. The test subject was successfully located and identified by his dog tags three days later on February 6th, but it came as a surprise to those that found him that he was still inexplicably alive with a remarkably slow, but steady heartbeat.
Where the Smithsonian exhibit claimed "James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes's" life ended, the papers in front of Barnes claimed it continued on in a complex in Siberia. But that life was no longer framed as a war hero, but as first a test subject, and then only "the Asset."
…And finally, "The Winter Soldier."
References to "James" and "Bucky" quickly fell away before disappearing entirely, lost in a wash of more recent pockets of information, news clippings, and the occasional photograph detailing unsubstantiated sightings as well as various recorded deaths and assassinations.
He didn't remember them, but he immediately recognized some of the clothing and armaments as his own. The same ones HYDRA has issued him.
He didn't know what to think, or what to believe. He couldn't know if the papers he held between his gloved hands held a drop of truth or only more smoke and mirrors to a past he didn't remember, to a life he hadn't lived. But as Barnes sat on the mountaintop in the wilds of Wakanda, he knew with every part of him that prior to sleeping out here, he didn't remember visiting Sam's apartment, nor the documents, notes, and photographs he'd found within. And even then, when he'd held those papers in his hands, he didn't remember anything he saw. It was like looking at a fresh mission dossier and little more. But now? After he'd slept, certain pages he'd leafed through now resonated with him in a new way that was as uncomfortable and unnerving as they were potentially revealing.
He didn't know what it meant, but meant something. Just like the fact he could now remember other sunsets. Not many, but more than just those smoggy twilight hours he recalled while he laid low in Washington D.C.
But another stood out to him. A memory of a sunset that was decidedly not urban, and one which he felt certain took place here in Wakanda, of all places. But he didn't know when.
And with every ounce of him, he didn't want all of this to be taken away again.
"While still far from the more advanced medical treatment I would much prefer, I am relieved that as of yet, your foot remains uninfected," Yama's nearby voice brought him back to himself as he turned his attention from the orange-cast skyline back to the woman sitting cross-legged in front of him. She calmly put away her medical bead and began re-wrapping his foot with a fresh set of bandages after what sounded like a repeat lecture about standing less, not getting the ball of his foot dirty, and elevating his leg as much as possible to reduce the swelling.
She was nothing if not insistent.
Nomble sat beside her. The woman's attention was focused on his face rather than the wound Yama was presently tending to, "Your thoughts were elsewhere," she observed without accusation, "It is alright. Sometimes I find myself letting Yama's words blend into the natural world as well."
Nomble smiled lightly at her own remark, and Yama returned the comment with a short jab from her nearest elbow, "The sooner I am done, the sooner we can return to our game, or more photos if Barnes prefers."
Barnes was still finding it strange to be asked so regularly about his preferences, though from what he had been able to determine, it was considered a proper social construct to try to seek out the opinions and goodwill of those around you. When he'd asked why, he was told it was a way to show respect for one another's individual interests and to grow bonds.
Case-in-point: The four of them had spent the better part of the day partaking in an assortment of what appeared to be optional activities, including meals, wound maintenance, periods of conversation, shared digital images, and even a board game called mancala which was played on a square wooden board with deep grooves. Barnes didn't recall where he'd first learned the turn-based strategy game, but he kept that fact to himself as he listened to Yama go over the rules and tactics, which were played out by way of small, colorful stones placed in rounded grooves in the board's playing surface. The objective was simple: to capture more stones than your opponents.
He was good, but Ayo and Yama were noticeably more skilled.
While he didn't say much during the gaming sessions, he found he generally enjoyed the challenges the activity posed, as well as the pointed banter between Ayo and Yama which Nomble broadly referred to as "trash talk."
Ayo sat and joined them for games and conversations, but she always stayed beyond the outer bound of the orange energy dome that remained his prison. He did not feel the need to ask why one of his guards always remained outside, even when Teela was with them, because he was certain the figure on the outside was tasked with ensuring that the debilitating electrical node on the back of his shoulder could be toggled on if he showed any aggressive tendencies.
The arrangement was far from ideal, but he found that it longer bothered him as much as it once had. He'd assumed that the node would be readily used to correct him, but instead, none of the women appeared to have any desire to use it as long as he remained compliant. Which he did.
At least for now. Until he knew what became of Sam, or if he had the opportunity to escape.
The choice to put the bulk of the game board and a variety of stones within the dome was… a risky move on their part, as it only increased the number of projectiles he readily had access to. At one point early on, Ayo must have sensed the shift in his thoughts, because she'd felt the need to grip her spear more tightly and look straight at him as she spoke, "You're safe. You do not need to spend time calculating such things."
He'd looked up from the set of colored stones to meet her eyes. He wasn't sure how she'd been able to deduce his thoughts so clearly when the other two women clearly hadn't, but he didn't feel the need to shuck off the accusation.
Instead, he'd settled back and focused on the mechanics of the game, rather than counting the stones and calculating the best methods to utilize them as weapons if the need arose. As if sensing the shift in his own thoughts, he saw Ayo relax.
Throughout the last day, both Yama and Nomble regularly entered and exited the dome with his permission without incident. Though he struggled to understand why, he found he was no longer as apprehensive of Yama's requests and occasional inquiries of him. He also had to acknowledge that the beads around her wrist contained an intriguing variety of photographic content and short videos meant to provide entertainment. While it was certainly possible she still intended ill-will against him, her actions remained clear and straightforward. Apparently, to the point that he'd felt comfortable looking away from her work long enough to gaze at the building in the distance.
He was clearly growing lax.
As Yama secured the wrapping around his foot, she brushed her hands off and observed, "Enough time has passed that it would be suitable to offer you another numbing injection if you desire it. Which would you prefer?"
He was well-aware of the ache in his foot as he considered her question, but he found himself glancing outside the dome to where Ayo sat patiently with her own bad leg extended. Apparently she'd also been looking beyond him to the building he'd been told was called the Wakandan Design Center, but at Yama's question, her attention shifted to regard him. He still wasn't sure what to make of her, but Ayo's nearby presence no longer distressed him as it once did. Though he didn't feel compelled to divulge anything he'd seen in his dreams, some part of him felt certain that the images he'd glimpsed of her and the other Wakandans were grounded in memory, though it was impossible to deduce when they were from, or what exactly they meant. All he knew was in the memory, she had treated him with kindness and consent, and even after she'd said the words, those words, she sent him on no missions, and did not not subject him to anything he could directly identify as mistreatment.
Ayo hadn't denied she was a handler, but she didn't act like any handler he'd ever experienced under HYDRA.
"Yes?" Ayo gently prompted as she took note of his attention on her leg.
He frowned, but reminded himself that questions were permitted as he raised his eyes first to meet first hers, then Yama's, unsure of who to address his question to. Yama, perhaps? "Why do you offer Ayo numbing injections less often than you offer them to me?"
Yama's face pressed together slightly in confusion, and quickly reshaped itself into something that looked very much like one of her smiles, "You are worried she is not being given equitable treatment? That she is in pain?"
Before Barnes could respond, Ayo spoke up. Her voice was firm, and her expression patient, teaching, "Your treatment does not delay my own. The injection Yama gives me is much like one she gives you, though it staves off the pain longer for me."
He wasn't sure what to make of that when Yama quickly thought to add, "Your body, it heals faster than ours does, but it also processes medications more quickly as well. Even painkillers and numbing agents."
"Why?"
He caught the two of them exchange a very particular gaze that even Nomble shared from across their makeshift campsite. The expressions across their faces were layered, and he struggled to understand why such a relatively simple question had generated such a reaction between the three of them. Their smiles had fallen away, only to be replaced by visible discomfort. Was this not a permissible question? Would it result in enrichment?
"You do not need to tense or distress," Nomble's soft voice sought to reassure him from a few feet away where she sat. "It is a fair question, but one without easy answers, for we did not know you many years ago when…" her words faded off, and she chewed her lip, as if trying to figure out what to say next.
"We do not wish to upset you," Ayo spoke up from just outside the orange energy dome, "but this topic is upsetting, like the nails. And like them, the little we know only comes from what we have been told, and once-classified documents. It is not a fully-formed picture. But it is something you discussed with me."
Barnes caught onto the awkward phrasing immediately, and the underlying implication buried beneath her words.
In the hours after he'd woken from strange visions his mind struggled to make sense of, he and Ayo had spoken using one of a number of silent languages he knew that were composed only of hand gestures that took the place of letters and words. Conversation with Ayo was noticeably easier when she spoke in gestures rather than through bold lips he was certain knew the code words. As they sat overnight listening to the natural world and the crackle of the fire, they each chose to remain physically silent, but found new ways to converse and bridge first language and then understanding between them.
The only stray sound made by human lips was the occasional snore from someone whom Barnes was increasingly certain was Yama.
Overnight, Ayo stayed alert watching him, but she didn't press him with questions. Instead, she patiently sat along the edge of the energy dome, waiting for him to engage with her when he so desired. At first, he didn't make many inquiries, but as the night drew on, he felt compelled to seek out her stance on a number of topics. He took each response as a cautious possibility rather than assuming them truths, but the picture they wove together was confusing at best. Amid her claims, was the proposition that he had come to Wakanda of his own free will, and that while he was in Wakanda presently, that he'd left and returned multiple times also of his own free will. She insisted he'd returned only days earlier for treatment to help his memories, though he had no recollection of initiating such a visit.
He didn't feel inclined to tell her he recalled being in Washington D.C. the day before, but when he asked where she believed he was the day before, she'd signed out, "Wakanda. And the day before: Symkaria. Before that: Louisiana."
In those early morning hours, she sought to tell him that it was not clear to her what he did and did not remember, and that this fact made it difficult to know how best to speak of events. Ayo used her hands to insist that she only wished to help him, and one of the few questions she had for him was to ask if there was a better way for her to refer to these periods he did not recall?
The truth was: He didn't know. The implication that his memories were not fully-formed was disconcerting, but at-once undeniable. While he didn't enjoy the possibility of others manipulating him into believing their take on events, he also realized that if he chose to stay in the dark and not even hear them out, that he was no closer to understanding what had happened to him.
Because something had clearly happened, even if he wasn't sure when, where, or by who.
As he regarded Ayo and her claim that the topic they were thinking to broach was upsetting, like the nails, Ayo thought to add, "I do not believe either Nomble or Yama have been privy to the details of what was once told to me. I would repeat the broad strokes that are more relevant to your question about why your body does not behave as mine does. As most others do."
Barnes felt his jaw reposition itself, and his eyes briefly glimpsed to Yama, as if looking for any indication on what Ayo was hinting at. She only regarded him passively, as if waiting for him to offer clear consent to continue the conversation.
He turned his attention back to Ayo, "Is it like what they said about Steve Rogers? In the museum?"
Ayo leaned back as she debated how to respond and the words he didn't know were truths or lies, "Yes and no. The events of that War were before my time, but I can recite what little I know." She adjusted herself on the grass, as if trying to find a position that was comfortable for her leg as well as to locate a starting point or what she wished to say, "Steve Rogers enlisted in the second World War even though at the time, he was aware he had pre-existing ailments that would have otherwise disqualified him from combat. During the early days of his training, a German doctor named Abraham Erskine took interest in him and believed he was a good candidate for a project that had the potential to enhance his mind and body. Steve accepted the offer and volunteered himself to the government to become a super soldier for America. When Erksine was killed, the perfected formula died with him, though the U.S. government took blood from Rogers, hoping to break the code so that they could produce more and win the War and prevent others like it."
Ayo's recount of historical events matched what he'd read about in the Smithsonian up until that last part about the blood. Something about the way she said it made it sound as if there was more to her story she was leaving for another time.
She stepped carefully around her words as she continued, "You joined the war efforts as well, also on behalf of the Americans, but you were captured by the enemy you fought against. And at Azzano, and then in Krausberg, while you were a prisoner of war, you were experimented on by HYDRA against your will. There, you were injected with a serum that HYDRA was trying to perfect. It chemically changed you. Made you stronger. More resilient. Heightened your senses. Enhanced your ability to heal from wounds." Her voice was barely audible over the wind as she added, "Allowed you to survive a fall that would have killed most anyone else."
She continued, keeping her brown eyes leveled on his own as she spoke, "It is why your metabolism is much faster than most. And why after you escaped and were later found again, why HYDRA wished to keep you. They wished to use you, against your will, and to create others like you that they could also control."
Barnes drank in her words like someone dying of thirst. He wanted to remember anything decisive that either confirmed or ran contrary to Ayo's claims, but… there was nothing. Like the visage of the man he glimpsed in the Smithsonian or the papers he'd found in Sam's apartment, it all might as well have been stories about someone else. The only part that resonated, the part that felt like there was a kernel of truth was the proclamation that what was done to him was against his will.
Why then, did he obey their orders?
"Are you alright?" Nomble's soft voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and when he looked up to her, he found her compassionate eyes resting on his.
Barnes didn't know how to answer her as his eyes fell to the cracks and crevices between the plates of his left hand. He swallowed, trying to sort out how Ayo's words connected with what he remembered. But as so many times before: he came up mostly blank, forced to rely on secondhand accounts that could be fabricated right along with everything else. He wasn't able to put dates to most of his life. Before a certain point there was simply… nothing. Only echoes. Like the strange, everchanging shadows he'd glimpsed within the dark rooms in his dream. And now? If even just their declaration of it being ten years later was true, he was beset with only brief ripples of the time between then and now. And only just.
His blue eyes were still focused on the black and gold plates that someone had shaped into a hand, fingers, and a thumb. It wasn't the polished chrome prosthetic he remembered, nor was it the flesh-and-blood arm that the documents in Sam's apartment claimed once belonged to one "Sergeant James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes." He was lost in thought when he felt a gentle pressure rest just below his knee. It was so light, so faint, he almost didn't notice it. As he looked up, he saw a hand resting there, and his eyes met Yama's own.
The part of him that would have normally bristled and guarded himself at the content instead stilled as he took in her eyes, face, expression, and posture, cataloging it against unseen standards in his mind's eye that he felt certain hadn't been present the day before. She looked… disquieted. Patient. Empathetic.
But she didn't look scared.
She'd seen firsthand what he was capable of, and yet in that moment, she wasn't intimidated, nor did she question her resolve. There was so much interwoven in her expression that the complexities made it difficult to parse anything beyond the raw certainty that she was concerned for him, "Barnes?"
There was something in how she said his name. Something personal that went far beyond either a call-sign or title. It was if the single word was reaching out to him in an attempt to connect, to reassure him that others were there. Waiting. Listening.
That he wasn't alone.
He set his jaw, feeling the weight of their combined gaze, but at the same time not knowing how to respond, or why Yama had chosen to place her hand atop his leg, or why the contact was in some way grounding rather than merely accepted. Actively distasteful.
But why?
His eyes returned to the bead around her wrist, the one with the symbol he now identified as a medical inscription, "HYDRA knew about all of this?" He thought he knew the answer, but needed confirmation, even if it was from a source he wouldn't allow himself the convenience of trusting.
"They did," Ayo admitted. Her voice was sad, but also layered with something he was quick to identify as anger, though it wasn't directed at him.
"Why didn't they offer numbing agents for procedures?" he stated simply. He wasn't sure why it was important for him to admit to this fact, and for them to know. But it was. He remembered so many faces that caused him pain and let him languish. Why? He'd been told it served a greater purpose, but what if it hadn't? What if the enjoyment he remembered on faces like Nikoli's had no greater justification?
What then?
He found himself gripping one trembling hand around the other as Ayo spoke, her voice immeasurably raw, "I do not know why," she admitted. "It is as if some simply enjoy seeing others in pain." Barnes got the impression she was doing her best to be forthright in her answer, but that this topic inexplicably caused her pain as well.
"What they did to you was unspeakably cruel," Yama agreed, "but now you no longer need to needlessly suffer if you are in pain. You are deserving of relief." She used her right hand to gesture between them, "The injury to your foot is more grievous than that of Ayo, and your body chemistry metabolizes the numbing agent faster, which is why we offer it to you more frequently. Accepting the relief it grants does not cause Ayo to be in unnecessary pain."
"But you are a good man to ask about such things," Nomble stated with more than a little emotion in her voice as she met his eyes, "and to be concerned about the pain of others."
Barnes looked between the three of them and their complex, layered expressions before turning his attention back to Yama's hand and finally acquiescing to the request for relief, "Okay."
He volunteered nothing more.
Yama inclined her head and removed her hand from below his knee. In one smooth motion, she used her right hand to pull her medical bead free. Without any further delay, she placed the bead along the inside of his calf. The moment it made contact, Barnes felt a quick pinch that was followed by an immediate cascade of relief to his throbbing foot. In the wake of it, Yama offered him something of a lopsided smile, but her eyes were sad, like Ayo and Nomble's.
While they sat in an oddly reflective silence and listened to the natural world around them, a bead along Ayo's wrist blinked, drawing her attention. The others caught the notification and remained silent, waiting to see if the communication might signal an update from the Wakandan Design Center, and Sam with it.
Ayo pressed her fingers against the top of the blinking bead, prompting a text-based projection to appear above it. Barnes couldn't read the contents, but it didn't look as if any image was attached to this correspondence. A pity.
After her eyes scanned the message, Ayo made gestures with her fingers in what Barnes had determined was a manner of composing a silent reply. Once her task was complete, she looked to those assembled around her, addressing them all at once, "Princess Shuri and Sam are on their way to our location now."
He wasn't sure what emotions his own expression betrayed, but something close to relief mingled with apprehension flooded through him at the proposition that it wouldn't be much longer until he saw Sam again, and that when he did, Barnes could hopefully diagnose if the Wakandans had lied to him about their reasons for wanting to reclaim the other man.
Shuri though… she was a trickier prospect. He felt like he knew little more about her from the brief pockets of memory offered up to him while he slept, but like Ayo before him: Shuri's actions in those dreams didn't mark her as a clear antagonist or centerpiece of HYDRA, but they did confirm how dangerous she was. That she was a scientist who knew the power of the words, though he couldn't recall her speaking them.
It didn't mean it hadn't happened.
"You have spoken with her about bringing further medical supplies with her, yes?" Yama was quick to inquire.
Before Barnes could even begin to process if Yama's words foretold a coming storm that risked unraveling him further, Ayo turned her attention to Barnes specifically. She must have sensed the flare of his concerns, because she immediately and firmly met his eyes, "Shuri will do nothing without your consent."
The way in which she met his gaze and held it was so direct that it had a way of quelling at least a fraction of his concerns for the time being.
He found his mind backtracking, trying to remember if her words had been a command for compliance, if he'd unknowingly slipped into a role of subjugation. Instead he found her words empty of demand.
"I did not mean medical supplies for Barnes's foot alone," Yama was quick to clarify, waving her nearest hand towards Ayo's leg. "You are swift to downplay your own injury, which I can presently offer little more than pain management and repeated requests for you to stop standing on it as much as is absolutely necessary. Between the two of you and your stubborn whims, I swear to Bast…"
"You would be wise to be mindful of how you address your superior officer," Ayo's words were firm, but Barnes found her tone empty of threat, like when they "trash talked," as Nomble put it.
Yama replied with one of those casual shrugs of hers, "I speak only the truth, my Chief. And I continue to retain my hold on your esteemed offer of a free pass to use my words 'without judgement or repercussion' for a later time that so suits me," Yama raised her head to Ayo and offered her a small, somewhat conspiratorial smile.
"Yama…" Ayo groaned, making a small gesture with the hand that was not holding her spear. "Come now. We must pack up our game and make ourselves presentable for duty. All three of us must remain alert and vigilant in the time to come. Our Princess and Sam Wilson deserve nothing less."
"My Chief?" Nomble spoke up as she began to gather the colorful stones and place them in small pouches. Barnes watched her and gathered the ones nearest him and handed them to her. Nomble accepted them without hesitation, but her words were for Ayo, "Might I offer you a compliment?"
The question visibly caught Ayo off-guard, "A compliment?" Her expression was confused, but when Nomble said nothing more, Ayo waved the fingers of her left hand a bit, as if seeking to hurry her inquiry along, "Yes?"
"I hope it is not improper," Nomble began, "But it has been good to see you as 'Ayo.' Thank you for the gift of your trust and company."
Ayo's tight expression shifted into a warm smile that was in some way, the most soothing expression Barnes had encountered yet, "Thank you for the bravery of your suggestions," Ayo glanced towards Yama, "Both of you. I am proud to have you as my Lieutenants, and honored to count you as friends as well." She shrugged her shoulders easily, "I do not find such a claim improper among those that share a 'Pack bond.'"
The grin across Yama's face only widened, "In the future, let us find new reasons to visit with one another when times are not so dire, yeah?"
"Preferably somewhere with proper bathrooms," Nomble thoughtfully added.
Ayo snorted, "Agreed." She regarded them with something like pride before offering the two of them a one-handed fist-to-chest salute that lingered, as if accenting the poignant emotion of her claim. Barnes watched them return the gesture, wishing he understood more about the nuances between their interactions, but he found them oddly comforting all the same. Tasteful. Soothing. Like the orange marmalade Ayo had shown him yesterday.
Barnes knew there was levity at the heart of their exchange, but as a lone black ship lifted off from the Design Center and began to head in their direction, he could feel tension and uncertainty return to his body. He didn't strictly believe that Ayo was lying about Sam, but a sense of dread was quick to slip into him as the birdlike ship drew closer with the questions it carried in its wake.
Not a day ago, he'd been certain he would not see another sunset that he would remember. And then? Another sunrise. As the day drew on, he found he'd lost track of the next in a series of unspoken milestones that would culminate in a whisper, before finally pulling him back under into that life of indescribable darkness and servitude.
And now…?
He couldn't know what awaited him on that ship. If others were coming to collect him, or if these Wakandans were being truthful that Sam was aboard of his own free-will.
But one way or another, he was about to find out.
[Shield Chapter Art]
As I mentioned in the last chapter, as I started to write this section of the story, I realized I wanted to ensure various characters had the opportunity to have candid conversations with one another, and the result was… the chapter I had planned got so long that I opted to break it up further.
As a result, the art I had planned keeps getting nudged back (it's been complete since *August* if you'd believe it), but it's just around the corner, and in the meantime, I really wanted something to go along with this section of the story.
Coming off the high of working on an autumn-themed illustration I did for Operation Tender Paws, I decided I wanted to try to do a realistic-stylized version of Sam's shield. I actually considered painting it so that you could see the drones in the reflections (which would have tied into the prior chapter), but I decided there was something compelling about a cleaner design that was just… "hopeful."
So here you have it!
I'm just *really* proud of how it turned out. I hit a groove with the reflections that just made my heart soar. This illustration took me around 9-10 hours to paint in Photoshop.
The complete illustration and other goodies can be found alongside this chapter on Archive of Our Own.
Simply search for: "KLeCrone Ao3 Winter of the White Wolf"
Author's Remarks:
A few hours after we rang in the new year… we noticed water flooding our first floor and, my friends, the long days after have been an absolute *mess* in both a literal and figurative sense. We've been dealing with water damage (including a lot of precious photos, memories, and my early art), boxes, plumbers, contractors, and more just trying to get our feet back under us. As I'm writing this, I'm safe and sound, and our house finally has running water restored for the first time in nearly two weeks… but it still has over 80 holes in the ceilings and walls.
In essence: It's a mess.
So having the opportunity to work on the art and writing for this chapter has been a nice escape from all this madness, and I just wanted to let you know how much it meant to me to come back from my WotWW holiday "hiatus" and to be met with such love for this story. Seriously: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
- Sam and Shuri - While Sam's body is in a significantly better place than it was not 24 hours before, I thought about how traumatic it must be to just… retread those same hallways he'd been dragged through the day before, unsure if he was going to survive the experience or die at the hands of Not-Bucky. Those mental scars are due to take time to heal, and it's a bit of a mixed blessing that he happens to know a certain group of Wakandans that have gone through similar trials as the ones he's struggling with.
- Sam and M'yra - This is one of those conversations that I briefly considered implying occurred "offscreen" (since I know that like Sam, I'm eager to get back to Barnes and check in on him…), but at the end of the day: Having Sam chat with Teela and sit down to talk with M'yra was the right thing to do, and it *is* what Sam would do. While these two have different flavors of Survivor's Guilt, the fact that they are both experienced soldiers and leaders is a similarity that connects the two of them in a very particular way.
- Barnes and Washington D.C. - I love having the opportunity to expand on canon, and the idea that Barnes was around Washington D.C. for longer than Steve and Sam first believed. Also I enjoy the idea of some of the strays suitably adopting him, whether he liked it or not. ;)
- Barnes and the Dora - It was nice to catch-up with what Barnes has been up to with Ayo, Yama, and Nomble while Sam's been away recovering. While Barnes is undoubtedly still waiting for the other shoe to drop, I'd like to think that it's formative to show what he's going through mentally, and how his understanding of the people around him continues to evolve. The fact that he's no longer strictly denying the possibility that things aren't as they seem is huge, but also heartbreaking, because he does not *remember.* Separately, I really enjoy writing about the sense of camaraderie these four share. There is something immeasurably wholesome about how much they care about one-another.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the art, and are ready to get down to business with Barnes and Sam finally confronting one-another in the next chapter…
As always, thank you for all your wonderful comments, questions, thoughts, and words of encouragement on this story. Knowing that others out there are following alongside me on this crazy journey truly keeps me fueled to keep on writing (especially in the wake of a recent major plumbing/flooding disaster in my home!). I can't wait to share all that's ahead!