Bucky hadn't moved from his place just outside the med bay. The corridor was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of Wakandan interface panels and the pulse of lights that kept time with the machines inside. Inside, Charlie was hooked up to enough tech to make a spaceship jealous. Monitors tracked the rhythms of a broken body fighting to heal. A mind fighting to hold on.

She hadn't opened her eyes. Not yet.

But she was still alive.
Still breathing. And he stayed.

He hadn't changed out of the torn uniform he'd worn during the extraction. Blood—hers and his—dried into the seams. His knuckles were raw from where he'd punched the wall after they'd taken her away. His throat felt like sandpaper. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her crawling toward him, begging him to do the unthinkable. And the worst part—the part that haunted him—was how ready she had been. Like somewhere deep inside, she'd always known it would come to that. Footsteps echoed soft on the polished floor behind him. Not guards. Not Sam. Not the doctor who kept trying to get him to rest. No, this was different—lighter. Purposeful. Familiar.

He didn't turn. He didn't have to.

"White Wolf," Shuri said gently. "May I sit?"

Bucky nodded without looking at her, jaw flexing. She sank down beside him, legs crossed, back straight, hands clasped in her lap.

"She's strong," Shuri said after a pause.

"She shouldn't have had to be," he replied, voice like gravel.

"I know." Her tone held no argument. Just truth. "But she is. And because of that, she is still here."

They were quiet for a beat. The only sound was the slow beep of Charlie's vitals inside the room.

Then Shuri said, "I've reviewed everything you sent. The footage. The audio. The data you pulled from the facility. It's extensive."

"It's sick," Bucky muttered.

"Yes," she agreed. "But not without precedent."

He finally turned his head toward her, eyes red-rimmed. "Can you help her?"

Shuri took a moment to breathe, then nodded slowly.

"I believe so. But it will not be simple. Or fast. The programming they used—what they did to her—was… advanced. More layered than what was done to you."

His heart sank.

"But," she said firmly, "I see the threads. I understand them. And with time, I can cut them."

He exhaled, almost too softly to hear.

"We will need to isolate her triggers—both conscious and subconscious. You remember the process we used with you?"

"Too well."

"It will be painful. Disorienting. She may lose some memories. Or she may gain the ones they tried to take. Either way… she will need someone with her."

"I'm not going anywhere," Bucky said immediately.

Shuri gave a small smile. "I didn't think you would."

Then her smile faded, and she turned more serious. "There is one more thing. A failsafe like the one they used… often has a buried command. A final directive. Something that activates only under extreme stress or override."

"She already collapsed from one," Bucky murmured.

"Yes. And that may not be the last of it."

She touched his arm gently, grounding him. "If it happens again, and she slips… you have to keep her here. With you. Talk to her. Anchor her."

"I already tried," he said quietly. "She still begged me to end it."

"She came back," Shuri replied. "That matters more than anything else. Let that guide you."

Inside the room, one of the monitors blipped—nothing alarming. Just a small flicker. A reaction.

"She's coming back to us," Shuri said, rising to her feet. "Piece by piece."

Bucky nodded but said nothing.

He just turned back toward the glass, eyes fixed on Charlie's face, and whispered,

"Come back to me, doll. I'm right here."

The clock on the wall had ticked through another hour, but Bucky hadn't moved. He was still seated beside her bed, one gloved hand wrapped around hers. A slight tremor moved through his fingers, though whether from exhaustion or emotion, he couldn't tell anymore. His body was still stained with blood, grime, and smoke. His uniform, stiff with dried sweat, clung to him like a second skin. Charlie hadn't stirred. But her vitals had stabilized. That alone was a mercy. He hadn't let go of her since they brought her in. He hadn't blinked long enough to risk missing the moment her eyes opened. The sound of footsteps stirred him.

Bucky didn't look until he felt the warm press of a hand on his shoulder.

Sam.

"You're gonna kill yourself sittin' here like this, man," Sam said gently. "Come on. Just take a minute. Go shower. Eat something."

Bucky shook his head once, barely a twitch. "I'm fine."

Sam let out a low sigh and pulled up a chair beside him, lowering himself into it with a soft groan. "You look like hell."

"I feel worse."

"I know," Sam replied, voice lower now. "But you're not doing her any good like this."

Bucky's eyes stayed fixed on Charlie's face. She was still so pale. So still. And there was something about the way her fingers had curled ever so slightly in his grasp—it kept him anchored.

Sam waited a beat before continuing. "I'll stay with her. Just for a while. You go clean up. Get some air. I'll come get you the second anything changes."

"She shouldn't be alone."

"She won't be," Sam said firmly. "I've got her."

Bucky swallowed hard, jaw working. "What if she wakes up scared? What if she doesn't remember me?"

Sam looked at him, eyes steady. "Then I'll remind her. I'll tell her you never left her side. That you fought like hell to bring her back."

Still, Bucky hesitated.

Sam added, quieter now, "She'd want you to take care of yourself too, Buck. You know she would."

That broke something.

Bucky slowly pulled his hand from hers and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her knuckles like it might burn the memory into her skin. Then he stood, body groaning with the effort, and took one last look at her face.

"Don't let her wake up alone," he said.

"I won't."

Bucky nodded once, then walked out of the med bay like he was leaving a piece of himself behind. And Sam settled in, eyes on the woman who had somehow cracked Bucky Barnes wide open.

The door to his quarters clicked shut behind him, muffling the world outside.

For a second, Bucky just stood there. The silence felt louder than anything he'd heard in hours. His body felt like it was moving through molasses—each movement a reminder of what they'd just been through.

He peeled off the shirt first. It clung to him like old skin, stiff with dried blood—hers, his, someone else's. He let it fall to the floor, then reached for the belt and holsters, shedding the layers like armor, piece by piece, until he was bare and freezing, standing under the bright lights with his skin a mosaic of bruises, ash, and red smears.

When the water finally hit him, it was almost too hot.

It scalded his shoulders, poured down his back, and clung to his lashes like tears. Bucky pressed his hands against the shower wall, letting the water run through his hair, down his spine, across the metal arm.

He closed his eyes.

Images flooded his mind like blood from an open wound.
Charlie, limp in the chair. Charlie screaming. Charlie looking at him with eyes that didn't know him.

And then—Charlie whispering "I found you."

He breathed hard through his nose, jaw clenched.

They were going to fix this. Shuri had said there was a way. He believed her.

He had to believe her.

Because Charlie was everything. And he'd burn the world to keep her.

By the time he stepped out, the mirror was fogged over, the room heavy with steam. He didn't bother wiping it down. He just dressed quickly—dark jeans, black t-shirt, hoodie—and combed his fingers through damp hair as he laced his boots.

Before he left the room, he made one stop at the kitchen station.

Two coffees. One for her, even though she couldn't drink it yet.

He carried them both like promises.

The med bay was quieter now, bathed in soft white light. Monitors hummed low, steady. Her heart rate was calm. That alone made something in his chest ease.

Charlie had been cleaned up while he was gone and Sam patted him on the shoulder as they traded dried blood and ash were gone from her skin. Her face was still bruised, and there were faint lines across her cheek from the restraints. But her hair had been gently combed back, her arms tucked beneath a soft blanket, and someone had even wiped her lip where it had split.

Bucky stared for a second, breath caught in his throat.

She looked like herself again.

He sank into the chair beside her and set the second coffee down on the nightstand, even though it would probably go cold.

Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the cup still in his hands.

"I'm back," he murmured, voice low and hoarse. "Took me longer than I thought. You'd think I'd remember how to clean blood off faster."

He chuckled once under his breath, but it was broken.

He reached for her hand again. Still warm.

"Shuri's working on something. A way to help. Sam thinks we'll know more soon. But I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"

A beat.

"I'll stay right here, Charlie. As long as it takes."

The hallway outside the med bay was lined with sleek Wakandan metal and soft lights. The hum of the technology, the occasional gentle chirp from consoles embedded in the walls—it was a kind of peace Sam hadn't felt in days.

But even Wakanda's brilliance couldn't erase the weight of what had happened.

Shuri met him near one of the diagnostic panels, her lab coat crisp, her posture tight. She glanced toward the window of the med bay, where Bucky sat unmoving beside Charlie's bed.

Sam folded his arms. "How is she?"

Shuri gave a shallow breath. "Alive. For now. Her vitals are stable, but the neural activity is… complicated."

Sam's brows drew down. "Complicated how?"

"She's not in a coma," Shuri said. "Not exactly. Parts of her brain are still firing, but not all of them are working in sync. It's as if she's locked inside herself—like her mind is... fractured."

Sam's throat tightened. "Because of the code?"

"Yes." Shuri's voice dropped. "It was more than just a trigger. Whoever designed her programming was building off what they did to Bucky, but with far more advanced tech. Neural mapping, memory suppression, behavioral reinforcements. And now with that failsafe—whatever he activated—it nearly destroyed her."

"But she's fighting it," Sam said, hopeful but cautious. "She broke through once already."

Shuri nodded. "Which means there's something inside her—some part of her identity—that's resisting. That's good. It means she can be reached."

Sam exhaled slowly. "So what's the plan?"

Shuri hesitated before pulling up a holographic interface. A rotating model of Charlie's brain appeared in the air between them, lit with shifting threads of color and light.

"We're going to attempt what we did for Bucky—unravel the code, remove the triggers—but it's going to be harder. The program is deeper, and the tech is more dangerous."

Sam studied the model. "Can you do it?"

"With enough time, yes." Shuri's eyes didn't waver. "But it may not be without consequences. There is a chance she loses more than her programming."

Sam's mouth went dry. "Like what?"

"Memories. Identity. Even parts of her personality. If we cut too deep, she may not be the same."

He swallowed hard, glancing through the glass again at Bucky, still unmoving at Charlie's bedside.

"Does he know?"

Shuri shook her head. "Not yet. He's been through enough. When we're ready, we'll tell him together."

Sam looked back at her, then nodded. "Just... promise me you won't stop fighting for her."

Shuri gave a small, fierce smile. "I promise."

In the days that follow, Charlie remains unconscious—held in a fragile limbo while Wakandan doctors monitor her vitals and study the code buried deep within her neural pathways. The failsafe nearly destroyed her. Even Shuri admits that she's never seen programming this complex, this volatile.

Bucky barely leaves her side.

He sleeps in the chair, refusing offers to rest elsewhere. Every few hours, someone checks on him—Sam, Shuri, one of the medics—but he doesn't move unless it's to help. He keeps her hand in his. Talks to her. Reads to her. Once, late at night, he brushes her hair back and tells her about the way she looked the first time he saw her.

They adjust her medication. Run quiet scans. The swelling in her brain begins to recede. Her vitals stabilize. The tremors in her muscles settle.

Still, she doesn't wake.

On the third night, Bucky falls asleep with his head resting on the edge of her bed, her hand still clasped in his. He dreams of her voice calling to him—soft, broken, and real.

When he wakes with a start, her hand is gripping his.

Hard.

Her fingers twitch in his palm, and her eyes—glass-gray and trembling—blink slowly open against the brightness of the med bay ceiling. She winces, tries to lift her head, then flinches at the pain.

Bucky is already leaning over her.

"Charlie," he breathes, like it's a prayer.

She looks at him, disoriented—lips cracked, eyes full of fog and ache—but she knows him.

"Bucky…" Her voice is dry, paper-thin.

He exhales, shaking, brushing her hair from her face.

"You're safe," he whispers. "You're home."

And in the next second, she's crying—silent tears slipping down her temples as her fingers curl tighter around his.

She doesn't know where she's been.

But she knows who she's with.

And right now, that's enough.