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When he woke, it was cold. A chill, all over. Beneath his skin, in his bones. It made him shiver, his hair standing on end. He's done this before. Over and over and over. Another mission, another target, pain on top of pain before oblivion.
They were thawing him out. Prepping him. The Soldier was needed. Reporting for duty.
He opened his eyes to bright lights and soft voices. He knew this feeling, but the location was different. Too bright, too much white. He's been moved again. Didn't know where he was because he didn't need to know.
Didn't know what was happening because that would come later. After the Words. After his orders.
He clenched his fist. Waiting. Expecting all of it, the whirring of the machines, the electric pain, the Words flipping switches in his head, something.
Nothing came.
"Mr. Barnes?" A voice, soft and gentle, repositioned one of the bright lights overhead, letting him see a face. No, half of one, covered with a blue mask. Dark eyes looking at him, observing, always watching. "Mr. Barnes, can you hear me?"
He nodded, sluggish. It felt like his head was full of soup. Drowning in water, the ice.
There was a distant ringing in his ears, but yes, he could hear. He could listen, which meant they were going to tell him something — he needed to be ready to do what they said. He wondered where the handler was. If they had the Book. If they would activate the Soldier and let Bucky go away. (Bucky?)
"Good. You will feel cold for a bit. We have turned on the heat for you."
He didn't understand. Didn't want to disobey, so he stilled himself, trying to breathe and get his teeth to stop chattering. They turned on the heat. He could feel the lamps. They rarely used those. Usually, let him defrost naturally, make his stand, get his blood flowing. He must have done well on his last mission, had a successful report for the next handler. A good first impression.
He hadn't had a mission in over two years. There were no more missions. There were no more reports to give — he didn't do that anymore.
The face, half face, came back, their voice still so soft, "We've left some supplements for you, the process can be rough, as I'm sure you know." They said, and it made him pause, turning his head over. "Please. Take your time. We are in no hurry."
They didn't look like the Techs. Didn't even look like Hydra. They were wearing the wrong uniform. Speaking the wrong language.
This was strange. He didn't know what to do. How to proceed. The Arm wasn't responding. He was still shivering. Still cold, but it was different. Everything was different.
They were still talking. Quietly. Whispering to each other. They were talking about him. He couldn't hear them, but he knew — they were always talking about him. Giving analysis and statistics as if he wasn't there, listening to every word in case it was bad. In case he had failed. Needed to know what was coming, what to expect if they became angry with him.
He didn't like it. He wanted them to stop. He could never make them stop before.
Wanted them to let him go.
Please… no more. He couldn't—
"Mr. Barnes?" He flinched. The voice was louder now, right beside his head, screaming in his ear.
He couldn't do it again, not again. He thought he was done. He thought it was over.
He didn't want to do this anymore, told himself he wouldn't go back.
"Mr. Barnes — He's spiking, put him back under—"
He thought he was free…
He woke up again (he remembers waking up), and there were faces over him, but they weren't masked. They were… painted?
They were small. Children. Running away, but they were laughing. Smiling and giggling to themselves in their escape, through a curtain door.
Bucky sat up.
He wasn't in a lab, no equipment, no electric hum, no deep chill running through his veins. There was light bleeding through a window, the warmth of the sun all around.
He was dressed in red robes, blue drapes covering the… port. Because the arm was gone, but that was fine… He remembered that. Stark. Steve. Wakanda. Going back to sleep, and waking up and remembering it, but seeing… somewhere else.
He stepped outside, and there was grass. There were other homes, a whole village, with people outside enjoying the sun. They didn't seem worried or scared, just looked up from their work to stare, curious. There was wind, and dirt beneath his bare feet. Nature.
The children were still giggling, running up to a woman. "Are you playing around with that man again?" She grinned, and he knew that voice.
Shuri, smiling down at them as they wrapped their arms around her waist.
He doesn't think — hopes he didn't scare them off, but they scurried away as he approached, running off toward the homes, finding their people.
She was still smiling, warm and bright, "Good morning, Sergeant Barnes."
And that sounded wrong, still felt wrong to hear, especially coming from her. "Bucky." He corrected, and her smile waned, but she nodded. Understanding.
"How are you feeling?" She asked, and didn't sound like a scientist.
Unsure. Worried. Maybe a little scared. But also… okay. "Good." And the word didn't feel heavy to admit, didn't feel like he was lying.
He felt good. Lighter than he had in a long, long time. Didn't feel the need to look over his shoulder, or brace for a blow he knew, logically, wasn't coming. Felt like the fight had passed, and the wounds were being stitched up — starting to itch and mend.
He looked to her, "Thank you." It was too simple. Didn't convey what he wanted it to. All the gratitude, the relief. It wasn't enough. It couldn't possibly be enough to encompass everything. All they've done for him.
He hoped Shuri picked up even a fraction of what he wanted to say.
She was still smiling, genuine. "Come." She said, "Much more for you to learn."
And wasn't that an odd thing to feel weird about, that he still had a chance to do that? That he was still here. Not back in some tube buried somewhere in an icy trench, waiting for his next orders.
He was in Wakanda, looking out on the lake, watching the golden light bounce off the surface.
Bucky smiled, feeling the warmth on his skin, the grass between his toes, his hair in the breeze, the sound of leaves rustling, and people — a community thriving.
It was over.
He was free.