Chapter Text
"Mr. Barnes.”
Pick up the gun.
“James.”
Do it one more time.
“Hey!” Christina Raynor snaps her fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry.” He looks up blearily. His eyelids ache. “Sorry, yeah. What were you saying?”
“Never mind what I was saying. What is going on with you?”
“Nothing.” He jiggles the empty paper cup in his hand. “Coffee hasn’t kicked in. I’m good.”
“Oh, come on.” She gives him what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile. It comes out kind of undercooked. “Work with me here, okay? I’m trying to help you.”
She says that a lot. I’m trying to help you, James. You have to talk to me.
We’re trying to help you, Sergeant Barnes. Don’t be afraid.
We’re going to help you. Open your mouth .
She shuts her notebook with a frustrated huff. "Look, if you're just going to ignore me, we might as well call this -"
Sometimes, he wonders if she would be disappointed if he really started pouring out his heart to her, if he simply complied like a good soldier, a model patient. It would deprive her of the opportunity to scold him, to not-very-subtly imply that his cooperation is a condition of his pardon, which means that one phone call from her, and Bucky Barnes, pardoned civilian, goes back to being Bucky Barnes, hunted fugitive.
"I'm gathering my thoughts, okay? Jeez, Doc. Did you skip the class on bedside manner?"
Her nostrils flare a little but, as usual, she denies him even the small satisfaction of seeing her get openly pissed off. "You think you'll have them gathered sometime in the next half hour? I have another patient after you."
“I had a dream,” he mutters, and it’s almost funny, the way that makes her perk right up. “It was about the day I got - popped back, blipped back, whatever they're calling it…"
"Returned. Well, I’m not surprised that’s coming up for you. There are a lot of people struggling to process that experience.”
“No shit. Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” Her lips twitch, showing the thinnest shred of amusement. “It’s a bitch to deal with. And you came back right into the heat of the battle at the Avengers Compound, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly. Not right away. See, when I was - when Thanos, you know, did the thing, the -”
“When you got Snapped.”
“When I got Snapped,” he confirms. “I was in Wakanda. We were trying to stop him. So I, uh. I was in the middle of a fight.”
It was the worst one of his life, and that’s saying something. He remembers the hideous things , half-dog, half-reptile, that just wouldn’t stop coming, not caring if they lived or died, waves and waves of rippling alien flesh and dripping knifelike teeth. The way one of them sprang at him, taking his gunshot at close range like it was a spitball, and clawed him to the ground, snarling and spraying rancid saliva. Its hot breath scalding his face, smelling like old meat and fresh blood, as the creature tried to tear out his throat.
“It wasn’t going very well.” He remembers the horror on General Okoye’s face. The desperation on Steve’s. And that was even before Thanos showed up. “We were - we were losing. ” He swallows hard. “And the next thing I knew…”
Numbness and nausea, swift and spreading. Terrible weakness sweeping through his entire body, a sensation of dislocated but pervasive physical illness. "Steve," he called out weakly, staggering through the brush on legs like crumbling stilts. They’re using gas or something, Steve , he wanted to say, some kind of poison, cover your face, tell the others but his throat stopped working. His knees collapsed beneath him, and he pitched forward, his gun tumbling from nerveless fingers. The last thing he saw was Steve’s face, bloodied and horrified, his mouth opening on the first syllable of Bucky’s name.
“The next thing you knew?” Raynor edges forward in her chair, pen poised over paper.
He smiles bleakly. “The next thing I knew, the fight was over.”
* * *
He landed flat on his face, and immediately felt better.
So it couldn’t have been poison gas, not if the symptoms had passed so quickly - but Jesus, had he just fainted , like some green kid after his first time seeing blood? There was no time for that, Thanos was all over them. Steve was counting on him. He groped blindly to retrieve his gun from where he thought it had landed.
It wasn’t there. There was a crazy moment when he wondered if that weird fucking talking space raccoon thing could actually have snatched his weapon in the short time that he was unconscious, which would have been even worse than passing out in the first place.
“Steve,” he coughed, getting up and spitting dirt out of his mouth, “are you - ”
But Steve wasn’t there.
Nobody was there. Not Steve, not Thor, not Thanos or any of his otherworldly minions. No Avengers, no Dora, no Jabari. There were no signs of recent battle at all. The sky was still, blue, and empty. The grass around him was very tall. He was alone.
And then, the back of his head throbbed with a sickeningly familiar feeling. The sinking, sucking sense of time having been lost, erased, redacted. Phantom droplets of icy condensation drying on his skin, and the vacuum in his memory rapidly filling up with just one thought, one question.
What did I do?
He began to run toward the city, tripping over roots and ground vines on terrain that was no longer familiar, panting with fear, praying only that he hadn’t hurt anyone this time. Please, God, please, please . If he could just have that, it would be enough, and then he would ask them to put him back in cryo and never take him out again. Please, please. Ayo was wrong, Shuri was wrong, there wasn’t enough science in the world to fix him, to make him free. Please. It wasn’t worth the risk to let him walk around like a normal human being, it wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t worth any of it.
A loud, crashing noise came from behind him, and a riderless white rhinoceros came hurtling through the trees, honking in distress. He barely swerved out of its path, flattening himself against a beech trunk at the last second. Breathing hard, he craned his neck around the tree to see where the animal had come from, and his eye was caught by a flash of red appearing through a gap in the foliage. From another direction, he heard the soft clank and slap of weapons against armor, a heavy footfall and a soft grunt as someone kicked through the dense undergrowth. And suddenly, the silent forest came alive with the sound of a hundred exhalations, and when he stepped out from behind the tree, he saw them all: Dora Milaje in their shining uniforms, the Royal Guard in their golden breastplates, Jabari fighters in their furs.
But, Christ, there were fewer than half as many as there had been. His tentative relief changed to dread: why did so many of them seem so disoriented? Had they lost? Where did Thanos and his army go? Why couldn’t he see anyone he knew?
He had to find Steve. Steve, or T’Challa, or Okoye, someone who could tell him what was going on, and what he should do next. So he kept running until the settlement on the outskirts of Birnin Zana came into view. A crowd had gathered there, and they were shouting excitedly about something, voices pitched high in astonishment or terror, he couldn't tell which, and then, as he got closer, he heard someone cry out, “Abafileyo! Abafileyo bayavuka!”
The dead are rising.
He couldn't have heard that right. He must have misunderstood the meaning of the words. He spun around, searching for someone whom he could ask for help, and then, he saw something that stopped him cold, his boots skidding in the dust.
A swirling eddy of what looked like flakes of decaying wood appeared out of thin air and formed a shape that quickly coalesced into a baby goat. It landed on its feet, wobbling a little, and raised its small white head to cautiously sniff the air. When it was satisfied that it was safe, the little goat shook itself off, and turned to trot away, only to let out a piercing shriek when it was startled by an enormous dragonfly that had materialized out of nowhere.
Bucky reeled back, dizzy, and lifted his face to the sky. A small brown cloud disgorged a flapping, purple-feathered starling. Something moved by his foot, and he glanced down just in time to see a fading shadow, and a meerkat hastily burrowing into the ground. Out of the corner of his vision, he spotted another disappearing puff of those odd dirt-like particles, and then another, as though the earth itself was exploding with movement and life.
An elderly woman ran heavily past him, tears streaming down her face, her hands outstretched to embrace a member of the Royal Guard. Two Dora Milaje, one in spotless armor, the other in gear still spattered with extraterrestrial viscera, collapsed into one another's arms, laughing and sobbing at the same time. A dog came sprinting toward a Jabari warrior, sweeping his legs out from under him and madly licking at his face before he even hit the ground.
"Steve, do you copy? Come in. Goddammit, Cap, are you there?”
Never in his life would Bucky have imagined that he could be so happy to see Sam Wilson. Sam's usual cool and calm was nowhere to be seen, as he frantically stabbed at the comms controls on his wrist panel, barking pointlessly into his earpiece, practically oblivious to the madness unfolding around him.
"Sam!"
"Barnes!" He never would have guessed Sam could look this happy to see him either. "Man, what the hell is going on?! I must have gotten knocked out, last thing I remember is that purple motherfucker beating the crap out of us. And when I came to, everyone was gone. Have you seen Steve?"
"No." Bucky shook his head slowly. “Sam, I'm starting to think something weird is going on."
"Something weird is definitely going on, we’re fighting a bunch of aliens from outer space, but where the hell did everybody go? Where's T'Challa?"
"I don't know. Look, this might sound crazy." But if there was one thing he knew, it was what it felt like to have had a chunk of your life cut away. And that was what this felt like. "I think Thanos did something to us. Something - I don't know, but everything looks different, people are acting like they haven't seen each other in years, and there are all these -" He glanced around, but the strange brown flurries were all gone. "Sam, I think whatever happened to us was a long time ago. Longer than we think."
Sam stared at him, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. “Man, you know what, you're right. That does sound crazy." He backed away and started tapping at his wrist panel again. "Check, check, does anyone read me? Damn it, somebody come in…"
" 'Kumkani wam ," someone gasped nearby. Bucky turned around, and there was T'Challa, still in his battle-stained Black Panther suit, his sister by his side, surrounded by Dora Milaje. He was talking intently to an unfamiliar man in a long dark crimson robe, and futilely gesturing at Shuri to stop interrupting.
"Come on." Bucky grabbed Sam's arm and tugged him along as he made his way toward the king. It was a clear sign of Sam's compromised mental state that he allowed himself to be tugged.
A small, tired smile appeared on T'Challa's face when he saw them. "White Wolf. Sam. It is good to see you both."
"T'Challa," Bucky asked, "what happened? How long has -"
"Where's Steve?" Sam interrupted urgently. "Where's Natasha? Where are all the -" He waved his arms to indicate either Thanos's army or a flock of very angry ostriches.
T’Challa held up a steadying hand. "In a moment. We do not have much time." He glanced at Bucky's hands, and then turned to a nearby Dora Milaje. "Get this man a gun." She rapped the butt of her spear smartly against the ground, then dashed off.
Bucky turned back to T'Challa, but before he could speak, the king raised his hand again, forestalling the next question.
"Steve Rogers is alive." T'Challa looked from Bucky to Sam, and back. "But he needs our help more than ever before."
"But where is he," Sam began, at the same time as Bucky said, "Did we lose?"
"We did," T'Challa replied gravely. "Very badly. But we have another chance at victory now." He inclined his head respectfully toward the man in the long robe. "Master Shahin, please. You will explain it better than I could."
The man introduced himself as a Master of the Mystic Arts, and briefed them briskly, with an economy of detail that didn’t quite obscure the horror of the past five years. Five years. Half of all life extinguished. Packed churches and empty cities. Five years of grief and hopelessness. And then, a desperate Hail Mary plan that actually, miraculously, worked, only for Thanos to somehow piggyback on Tony Stark's time tunnel and return from the dead, vengeful and determined to annihilate their entire universe.
It was almost unbelievable. But Bucky had lost the last of his capacity for disbelief somewhere around the time a raccoon was screaming "GET SOME" while using his left arm as a gun turret.
"Is there anything more I can tell you?" Master Shahin asked, when he was done.
"My sister," Sam said anxiously. "My nephews. Did they - are they -"
"As I understand, everyone who was affected has been returned safely. Their continued survival, of course, depends entirely on the outcome of the battle to come."
"Right. Right. Sure. It's just that - hold on, let me just make sure I understand. You're telling us that we are fighting a Thanos from before the last time we fought Thanos, even though the Thanos from the last time we fought Thanos was killed five years ago in a galaxy far, far away?”
“I cannot speak to the remoteness of the galaxy, but you are otherwise correct.”
"And he came back to Earth through a time machine?"
"In a manner of speaking. Yes."
“So time travel is real?” Sam exclaimed, his eyebrows hovering near his hairline.
“Yes,” the Master of the Mystic Arts said calmly. “It always was.”
“So, is it true that if you go back in time and date your mom, you disappear?”
“Sam,” T’Challa interjected patiently, “do you have any questions pressing to the matter at hand?”
“Just one.” Sam pointed to his earpiece. “Can anyone help me get this thing working?”
Shuri's hand shot up. "I can take a look," the princess offered brightly, obviously eager to do something other than politely listen to old people telling each other things she already knew. While she communed with Sam’s device, T'Challa turned to Bucky, who had been listening quietly while Master Shahin spoke.
"What about you? Do you have questions?"
Bucky shook his head. "No." He had heard everything he needed to know. There was another fight, so he would go. Steve needed him to fight, so he would do it. He wasn't sure how quickly they could get to New York from Wakanda, but T’Challa seemed to have a plan, so he would follow it. "Just tell me where you want me, I'll take it from there."
"Good," T'Challa said succinctly, and began to lay out their positioning, anticipated maneuvers, and chains of command. Around them, his once-scattered warriors were already reassembling into an army, checking weapons and adjusting armor, fresh forces rapidly arriving to form ranks alongside the recently reappeared.
The young Dora came running back with an automatic weapon, a twin to the one Bucky had dropped. She handed it to T'Challa with a clipped, graceful bow. Master Shahin moved his arm in a wide arc. Flames flew from his fingers, and the air crackled and split, forming a burning circle, wide enough for a man to step through, fringed in orange and yellow sparks.
"We must go now," T’Challa said. He held the machine gun out to Bucky. “Our friends are waiting for us, White Wolf."
Bucky took the gun, and walked into the fire.
* * *
"Explain something to me," says Raynor. "What part of this dream did you find most disturbing?"
"I mean, all of it, you know?" he hedges. "That day isn't exactly my fondest memory. People died, you know?"
"But you didn't dream of the battle at the Compound, did you? You only spoke about the time shortly after you were Returned."
"I mean, sure, but, you know, I was all confused at first, and then I found out Earth was being attacked again , and then I met a sorcerer - have you ever met a sorcerer? They're intense - and he made, like, a bunch of portal holes right in the middle of the air, and we walked through them. It was, you know, it was a lot."
"Hmm." Raynor scrutinizes him a little too long, then checks her notes. "Sam Wilson was the first person you spoke to after you came back?"
“Yeah. Why?”
“Have you stayed in touch with him?”
Bucky shrugs. “We email sometimes. He sends a lot of - what do you call them - me-me’s ? They’re mostly pictures of cats with words on them, and the words say what the cat is supposed to be thinking. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She ignores that. “He’s the one Steve Rogers gave his shield to, right? The new Captain America?”
“I guess. I think he still goes by Falcon. He loves the whole bird thing, don’t ask me why. But yeah, Steve gave him the shield.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“How does it make me feel ?” He scoffs. It's a stupid fucking question. "Listen, you wouldn't ask, if you'd known Steve. That shield meant more to him than anything in the world. So, if Steve trusted Sam enough to give that shield to him, then how it makes me feel is how it should make everyone feel, which is pretty damn good."
"Hmm." Raynor purses her lips and seems like she wants to keep digging, but then, mercifully, her eyes flick to the clock on the wall. Their time is up. As he departs her office, she watches him go like she suspects him of stealing one of her pens. Or like she thinks he lied about something.
Well, he didn't. Everything he told her, it was exactly how it happened.
In real life.
In his dream, when he came out of the forest, the portal was already open and ablaze, blistered and smoldering at the edges, as though God had touched reality with the tip of a burning cigarette. Standing in front of it was a fair-haired man in a well-cut gray wool suit, smiling like he had sold God the match.
He held out a gun, just like the one Bucky had dropped. Unable to resist, Bucky reached to take it, and caught a glimpse of his own hands. The left one was silver.
Alexander Pierce looked at Bucky like he truly saw him. All of him, his past and his future, even the parts that had been scrapped or scraped away. Like he knew Bucky the way a creator knows his creation. And when he spoke, it was the soft command of a father to a child who knows better than to disobey.
"I need you to do it one more time."