A/N: changed the prologue to LH, to something that centers on Mia instead of T'Challa since it's a scene from the film and he doesn't actually stay in the fic for much longer after this arc lmao. I'll be moving that to the one shots for posterity

Happy Hanukkah!

Chapter Thirty-Two
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"Easy, easy!" His hands held me down as I tried to escape the shadows at the edge of my vision. "It's just me, monkey, it's just me. There's no one else here! You're safe now."

The shadows, echoes of memories, started to fade. All that was left was my racing heart, my thoughts racing even as I swayed in my lightheadedness. Somehow I managed to get to a sitting position and Dad had my wrist in a vice grip, keeping me from ripping out my IV.

Tears were already streaming down my face, though it hadn't yet occurred to me why I wanted to cry. The emotions dragged behind, only the fear present in the moment.

"Where — where am I?" My voice scraped hoarse and dry from my throat as I looked around, uncomprehending at the room we were in, unlike any hospital I'd ever seen.

"Wakanda, we're in Wakanda, we're safe," Dad still had a hold of me, and it was then I finally looked at him, saw him, saw how terrible he looked. That gaunt mess, the bags under his eyes, first the superficial things; then the rest, the healing cuts and bruises, the bandaging that peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt. "Zemo's in prison. The Madbomb is destroyed.

"The Madbomb?" I asked, taken aback. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. And then the details started to slip in. Like a punch to the gut, all the air escaped me, and I slumped forward into his arms. My voice, muffled by Dad's shirt. "It's over?"

"Yeah, monkey," his arms came around me, gentle, so gentle. Like I was a porcelain statue, hugging so carefully, like I might shatter if he held on too tightly. "It's over. I'll make sure of it this time."

There was an underlying edge to his voice, some deeper meaning that I was too exhausted to dive into, to understand. All I knew was that he meant it; whatever he was going to do, he'd do it. No room for failure. I hugged him tighter, one arm — discovering, belatedly, that the other was in a cast. I vaguely remembered a powerful hand snapping my wrist.

"Everyone else?" I asked, wincing at the vague image of Steve, broken and bleeding, lying beneath me. Raising a shield over my head. Ready to kill him.

"They're okay," Dad said, then hesitated. "Well, mostly. No one's dead. No one you need to worry about."

At once a relief, and at the same time, the sense that wasn't entirely true. But if I had hurt someone, if they had died, I couldn't believe that Dad would attempt to hide it and pretend everything was okay. Let me believe in a lie, even for a little while.

An ache started to build behind my eyes, a growing exhaustion, even as I pulled back. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel him watching me closely, carefully. Probably searching for any sign that something wasn't right. That the Soldatka might still be there.

At length, Dad finally asked, "How much do you remember?"

I pulled away, head falling back against my pillow. Lying still there, for a moment, it was hard to breathe, but when I could finally look at him again, I was able to speak.

"All of it."

~ o ~

Darkness gave way to light.

Cold, to warmth.

Silence, to sound.

But the color never came back.

For the first couple days of consciousness, the world seemed stripped and empty and devoid of some element I couldn't decipher. Not right away.

Not when Dad was there. Not when Steve was still alive. That alone had rested two of the biggest, immediate worries that had occurred to me within minutes of waking up, and realizing what had happened.

They were okay. So were the other Avengers, and my friends and family. Maybe not all in ideal positions, perhaps. But alive. And relatively safe.

Better than what would have happened if Zemo had won.

The Wakandan hospital, or clinic, or wherever I was — in its stark cleanliness and smooth organic lines, was both haven and containment. It had been jarring to wake up in a completely alien space. Getting my diagnosis from unfamiliar but kind faces, who must have known who I was that entire time, but in those initial hazy days all I could think about was how lucky I'd been to have such a caring and competent team looking after me.

Not once did anyone bring up what had actually happened.

The world fell back into place. But the color never seeped in.

I saw very little of Wakanda, not being able to leave the room. Mostly due to my own physical weakness, but I was glad for the window, to at least feel like I wasn't trapped in a cage. The city beyond the glass was utterly beautiful, almost otherworldly, with architecture I'd never seen before, flying ships and rail cars and rooftops overflowing with greenery, a river running through the center of the metropolis. Like an oasis people can only dream about. Right there, just out of reach.

A part of me yearned to be out there. The other part was glad to stay in bed. To stay in hospital pajamas in soft, breathable fabric, even if the smell of antiseptic stung my nose. Some things never changed.

Dad never left my side. All I knew was this room, and him, there at my bedside every night. Even if he had his own bed not twenty feet away, there he was. Slumped over in his chair, leaning against the bed frame but not on it, so as not o crowd what little room I had — I probably would've hated it if I was in any other mental state.

The only thing that made it unbearable was my own sleeplessness, and the knowledge that I couldn't hide it from Dad. My heartbeat would give me away every time, no matter how much I faked it. I knew he could tell.

But Dad never said a thing.

He refused to tell me how he got hurt, which only confirmed my theory that I was the one that did it — before I could remember exactly what happened. The memories didn't come instantly, nor did they arrive in sequential order. Mostly in random, painful snippets, out of context, bizarre and terrifying. But if I forced myself to concentrate, to remember the last thing that happened, remember in reverse order… it started to piece itself together.

It hurt less, not to try.

It all came so vividly. So helplessly. If I let myself think on it for too long, I was afraid I'd lose myself to it entirely. And my grip on reality already felt so tenuous to begin with.

To look myself in the mirror, to see my blood-filled sclera and bruises around my neck. I was healing, slowly but surely, yet the signs remained, a reminder of everything I had done. And had been done to me.

The only visitor I received was Steve — everyone else was either in prison or deftly avoiding the authorities, it seemed. Steve looked a little better than Dad; better than I remembered him, at least. There was a weariness to his smile when he walked in, seeing me awake. "Heard the good news. We really gotta stop meeting like this, kid."

I laughed despite myself — weakly, it hurt. Dad threw him a look; he'd somehow managed to look more exhausted now than when I first woke up. "Don't do that, she's still healing."

Steve threw up his hands as he sat down opposite Dad, stool sliding beneath him. "My bad, my bad. Thought I'd lighten the mood. Anyways, I'm here to hold down the fort like I promised. So you can take that shower you were complaining about earlier."

"I wasn't complaining," Dad grumbled under his breath, now looking like he didn't want to take that shower at all. Then he cut a suspicious look between us, as if something had just occurred to him. "If that was an injoke, I want to know what it is."

"Only after you take a shower," I said. I was in no position to be bargaining, but I was feeling well enough to try today. "Besides, you're starting to smell."

"Gee, thanks," Dad rolled his eyes, but it was good natured, and there was no hiding that smile. That comment he'd make when he'd be out of earshot, saying, That's the first time she's laughed. With a melodramatic flick of a hand, he got up and retreated, "Don't spare my feelings or anything."

"Wash that hair!" Steve called after him, and laughed at the middle finger he received. To me, he said, "He's been doing a lot better since you woke up."

"You came around before?" I asked, surprised.

"Every day. You were unconscious, or asleep." Steve said, with a shrug. "Buck would kill me if I tried to wake you. But he needs his breaks, too."

I nodded; while I couldn't get much sleep at night, the insomnia double-backed in the form of fits of sleep during the daytime, and a general exhaustion I couldn't shake. Usually for a few hours at a time, interspersed by meals and bathroom trips. The first day I could barely walk on my own. The trip to the en suite bath left me winded. And no matter the time, day or night, Dad would be there to help me. Despite my lack of sleep, I was fairly certain he was getting even less rest than I was.

"How have you been, then?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "You… don't look as bad."

"Yeah, well, you roughed up your old man pretty bad back there," Steve said, half a smile before it suddenly vanished. As if remembering himself, he coughed, cleared his throat, and continued, "Er, well, you know. He had my back. I would've been a lot worse without him."

"Dad said Rumlow is dead."

"Yeah," Steve said, and the look he fixed me with, wary and searching, made me wonder if he knew I knew. "You don't have to worry about him anymore."

"I hope so," I said. After my grenade blew up in his face.

As far as the things I remembered went, that had been the only highlight to the whole morbid affair.

What stood out to me more was the obvious elephant in the room and how badly Steve was dancing around it. I wondered what else he and Dad talked about; maybe Dad asked Steve not to mention or discuss anything I was directly involved in. Anything I could remember.

"And Zemo?" I asked, deciding to let that matter lie for now. It wasn't like I really wanted to share my experience with anyone right now. At least, not with Steve. "Any updates?"

"T'Challa's been interrogating him," Steve replied, and at my confused expression, he added, "Right, the King. He'll probably be around again eventually. He's been handling Zemo personally. Part of our deal; we don't want any other parties interacting with him if we don't have to. Too dangerous. There will be a trial eventually, but he's not going anywhere in the meantime. Did Buck tell you about our guest rules?"

"No weapons, no violence," I shrugged, blinking sluggishly. The guidelines for us keeping hospitality were neither outrageous nor uncomfortable, really. "No arguments from me."

"Didn't think there'd be an issue but just wanted to make sure," Steve replied with a small smile. "You'll get your shield back, too, eventually."

"Okay," I knew I didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, maybe not even grateful. It wasn't that I didn't want it back; that shield had some good memories, as well as bad. But right now it wouldn't serve me much at all in any way. I was in no rush to get it back. "I'm sorry."

The words blurted out before I could think of why I was saying it. I already knew why. I already knew I wanted to say it — just didn't know when. Just said it when I had nothing left to say.

Steve blinked, and shook his head. Glanced away for a moment, before saying, "We've had this conversation before, Mia. After DC. I knew less then than I do now, but my response is still the same: I'm not angry at you. I don't blame you for anything that happened. Zemo was always a time bomb; he was just waiting for the right moment to go off."

I vaguely recalled one of Zemo's many soliloquies; ruminating on the decades he spent building his little empire, all the time and the effort. How he finally got to put it in motion when Captain America suddenly returned. How it had been both a surprise, and something like destiny.

I wondered what Zemo thought of it now. Did it still feel like destiny, locked in a cage?

"We're working on dismantling whatever system he's built, his supporters," Steve continued as I slipped into a reverie. "And working on a way of breaking everyone out of the Raft. T'Challa is an Avenger now, I should add; I think I can safely say we got off pretty lucky."

Lucky wasn't the half of it. But I didn't argue the point. I was about to say something, but movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.

A silhouette, half hidden behind the doorway, a pair of dark eyes watching us. A girl, I thought, judging by her slight frame, a teenager, maybe a little younger than me. Hard to tell at this distance. Steve, noticing my distraction, glanced over his shoulder, and then back at me.

"That's the Princess," Steve told me, lowering his voice just a tad. "She's usually in her lab, but I've seen her lurking around here from time to time."

That might have been underselling it, in my opinion. When I next looked up, the girl was gone, but I'd see her again out of the corner of my eye some hours later, peering in again when me and Dad were sharing dinner.

Dad's back was to the door, but even though he couldn't see her, he still said, "You don't see her."

"What?" I blinked at him, and once more, when I looked back, she was gone again.

"Don't approach her," was all Dad said. "She lost her father."

"Oh," I said, ducking my head. That was the roundabout way to say that I'd killed him.

I could still recall the day of the bombing, clearly and in sharp color. The only time when my memory felt reliable and stitched together was before the Soldatka. Running through the streets of Bucharest. Even now, I still didn't quite understand how it had happened, or what role I had played. But Dad had confirmed to me earlier in the week that before Berlin, one of Zemo's little trips had been to Vienna, months before the UN council had taken place. That the false image of Dad planting that bomb, had actually been me in disguise.

I couldn't remember that far back yet. But if it was true, I wasn't entirely surprised.

Little wonder now why the daughter of the late Wakandan king was doing a little stalking. I'd probably do the same thing in her position.

But that didn't mean I wanted to confront her. Speak to her in any way. Sometimes it was hard just talking to Dad, about the things we both knew what happened, both understood why it went the way it did. He understood. And it still hurt too much.

So I did as Dad advised and pretended I didn't notice her. Give her no reason to confront me. Even with all the time I had, I still had no idea what I'd say to the Princess.

She didn't wait for me to come up with something first.

While the princess may not have escaped my notice, she was still clever in her timing; waiting until both Dad and Steve were gone, both called to some meeting with the King. The only reason Dad even went at all was me insisting I'd be fine on my own for a couple hours. His constant hovering was starting to aggravate me, to the point where I only found privacy in the bathroom. So it was nice to just breathe and be alone in the moment, for a little while.

Until she appeared.

I heard her approach, while I was fiddling with the tablet given to me, trying to figure out the unfamiliar OS system. The first couple moments, I thought maybe she was just curious, maybe thought I hadn't noticed and wanted a closer look. But then she was stepping into the room, getting closer and closer until she was ten feet from my bed and impossible to ignore further.

Just standing there, waiting for me to acknowledge her.

Dad did not give me instructions for this scenario. Wasn't like I had any place to hide. So, very reluctantly, very slowly, I looked up. Our gazes met.

The Princess wore a pale sheath dress, largely unadorned except for a pair of earrings she wore, braided hair coiled atop her head. On the face of it, she did not immediately appear royal, not in her dress; but the way she carried herself, upright, shoulders back, head high — a combination of self-confidence and probably some etiquette training. English wasn't her first language as indicated by her accent, but she spoke sharply and with precise diction, the same kind of austerity one would expect from any royalty.

That and, of course, the pair of Dora Milaje that followed her everywhere, just out of sight. Their heightened heartbeats matched mine; this was unusual, unexpected, but they hadn't intervened, so I had to hope this wouldn't get bad.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other, neither saying a word.

The Princess broke the silence first. "You're the girl my brother saved."

I waited for a question, but there was none. So I nodded.

"Your father is the Winter Soldier."

Again, I nodded.

"You fought my brother in Paris," She said, again all statements. Rhetorical. Facts. "You killed those soldiers in the bunker."

Once more, I dipped my chin, and idly wondered if I should avert my gaze or hold hers. If there was some royal etiquette involved, the Princess did not feel the need to tell me.

Her expression was indecipherable; carefully neutral, cold, yet something gleamed in her eyes, some kind of intensity, a desire for something. For… information? For a confrontation?

"And were you there," She asked, the first question of the lot. "In Vienna? That day the bomb went off?"

My brow furrowed slightly. I already knew where she was going with this, but this was not how I thought she'd lead into this. "No."

Apparently, this was not the answer the Princess expected, either. She frowned, and stepped closer, with a kind of momentum that had me flinching back a little. But the Princess either didn't notice or didn't care as she closed the distance, saying, "While my brother was off chasing murderers, I could only sit here and cry and wait and wonder. I filled my time with forensics, going over and over the sequence of events, again and again. How did my father die. The placement of the bomb, its composition and manufacturing. All the flaws in security that allowed all this to happen to begin with. And not once did I find anything about you. Only about your father."

I didn't know what evidence she had, what she had looked at. I could hazard a guess why my actual name and face was left out of it. "It was a trap for my dad. And for Captain America. Zemo wants them dead."

The Princess fixed me with a piercing look. "What do you remember?"

The question had my chest squeezing. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

When I didn't answer, the Princess forged onward. "Because in all my calculations, even with you added to the equation, it doesn't make sense. Did you build the bomb?"

I swallowed. "No."

"Did you set it off?"

"N-no." My voice started to shake a little. My fingers going cold.

"Then why were you there?" She demanded, leaning in closer. "The bomb was planted months in advance, yes?

"Yes, but I-I don't know—" I began; it wasn't like Zemo divulged all of his intentions to me.

"How can you not know?!" She snapped, her hand hitting the metal bed frame so hard it rang. I jolted, the sound reverberating in my ears. "You're the only one left!"

"He didn't tell me!"

"So you do remember," The Princess said, glaring at me. "You just won't tell me."

My heart pounded in my chest, as I scrambled to think back, to recall the moment Zemo pushed the small box in my hands. The aching, the smells, the cold sweat dripping down my back. "He just gave me the bomb! He told me where to put it! And I did it! I didn't have a choice!"

"Yes, yes, I know about that!" The Princess rolled her eyes, flicking a hand as if to dismiss an annoying fly. "You were somehow coerced into obedience, whatever that means. Do not think that absolves you. Zemo put you in disguise — to frame your father, right?"

The Princess stared at me, unblinking, perhaps waiting for any sign of deception. I clenched my fists to stop them from shaking, my teeth clenched. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he killed Zemo's father!" I threw out my hands. Hell knows Zemo wouldn't shut up about it, avenging his father like it was some noble deed; like he was Hamlet, some tragic hero burdened with great purpose, the way he kept monologuing.

"No, not that!" The Princess huffed, shaking her head in annoyance. "Why you?"

To emphasize her point, she jabbed me in the chest. "He could've done that himself. He could've sent anyone, he could've disguised himself and it would've been more convincing, less video editing, to make himself appear as your father. But no — Zemo made you do it. He put the bomb in your hands. Wanted to kill my father, through you."

It was getting harder to breathe. My thoughts spun, wondering just as the Princess was, why me. Why me why me why me. I couldn't summon the will to speak, so caught up in it.

"And now my brother thinks you're worth protecting, for reasons he won't tell me." The Princess leaned in, until our faces were inches apart. "Why. You."

"I don't know!" My words came out too sharp, too high-pitched, betraying my own fear. The Princess had my back against the wall, literally, as I tried in vain to put distance between us. Trapped. Cornered. Nowhere to go. I didn't trust what my hands might do next, my breath coming out fast and uneven. "P-Please, leave me alone!"

"Leave?" The Princess gaped, offended. "This is my home, you are the unwanted one here —!"

"SHURI." A voice boomed across the walls. At once, the blood drained from the Princess' face, as she whipped around at the regal figure of who could only be the Queen, her mother, in the doorway, glaring at both of us.

Only to watch as I, now with the Princess' gaze off me, flew off the bed, kicking up the sheets in my wake. Didn't even feel it as the IV was yanked from my arm. Several voices shouted at once, but no one was fast enough to stop me from escaping through the only route that remained.

Out the window, and into the air.