Lauraās hands trembled as she stared down at the headphones on her desk. For a week she had kept them out of reach, hidden beneath books and scarves as though burying them might bury the pull they had on her. She had deleted the contacts that whispered too close to her name, scrubbed her messages clean of those phrases that twisted her insides into goo. Even her closet looked different now. Pastels folded away, skirts and silks pressed to the back, as if out of sight meant out of mind.
And for seven long days, it had worked. She had almost believed she was free.
Almost.
Restless nights gnawed at her resolve. Every slip of an innocent word in conversation made her pulse quicken, her thoughts tilt toward that single forbidden command: "good girl's listen". The more she tried to forget, the clearer it became.
Her vision swam as she came back to herself, a dazed blur giving way to the weight of the headphones already cupping her ears. She didnāt even remember reaching for them. And there, in her trembling hands, was her phone. Her own reflection stared back at her in the dark gloss of its screen, her eyes hollow pools, lips parted with shallow, panting breaths.
This is wrong, whispered a corner of her mind, desperately. Another giggled and throbbed with desire. That voice felt so much stronger. So right.
In a slow dance her fingers moved across the screen, opening up the oversaturated pink website. Bright, vibrant pinks, pinks that dripped off the screen into the every corner of her mind.
With each tap on her phone her breath grew heavy. It didn't help that her name was plastered everywhere. And each time she read it, it reminded her in sweet, sugary submission. It was her name too. Her true name, not the boring old name. She drifted to one of her favorite playlists.
For one long moment she hesitated. Her finger held in suspense above the play button. She still had a chance. She could stop here. Stop and get out of the pink tight top, the short mini skirt and the seven-inch heels. Then she would remove the thick layers of makeup and return back to being ā boring.
Her head spun. It would be so easy. Just one tiny step. She could do it. Yes she could.
Her thumb pressed down. Familiar drones and noises echoed through her ears. A soft whisper wrapped itself around her thoughts. Her eyes fell closed. And Laura remembered the one she needed to listen to tonight. It felt so familiar. She knew the script well. And with the first "Bambi Sleep" her fate was sealed.
Under a crashing wave of pleasure and relaxation everything that defined Laura crumbled. Every last wall and shield and resolve, broke like a sand castle. The Laura of old washed out in one massive wave, and what was left was a form of soft goo, warm and pink. Just like a good girl, a bimbo doll, should be.
The words rolled over that gooey mind, turning it, toying with it. Reshaped by Bambi's words. They pressed down harder, each syllable imprinting in her pliant thoughts, molding, reshaping, until it wasnāt the voice at all she heard, it was her own, as if the thoughts were hers, had always been hers and would always be. It felt so right to listen to this. How could she ever stop listening? Bambi could be so silly.
She giggled at that. Giggled like the good girl she was. Like Bambi wanted her to be. Her head felt warm and fuzzy. Her chest felt warm and heavy in all the good places. Whispered bimbo dolls left her relaxed and calm, hidden inside her pink bubble. Her worries dripped out of her like her brain cells. Her pussy tingled and her lips formed words without even noticing it. Bambi knew what she needed. Bambi helped her feel good.
With her own words her tounge mumbled, "I am Bambi".
Oh, yes. She remembered. How fun! She had a new name now. Not the boring one she had before, no. A name befitting someone like herself, someone who was only worth the sum of their looks and what their pussy and tits could please. Bambi explained it all. And she was Bambi. But there was so much more to her than her name. There were all her favorite parts, the parts she needed, wanted. Her tits, and how big they were. So huge, so fat and heavy and bouncy. Bambi knew that she had to get implants to make them a reality. Big round G cups, because they made her so happy, made her feel so right. And her lips. Her fingers pressed into their soft, squishy plumpness.
Just the touch made her pussy drip, the puffy soft flesh that she had to make as big as possible. Just the thought made her want to wrap them around something long and hard, to use those pretty pink things. Because they were made to be stuffed.
Bambi loved to suck. Good girls were always ready. Good girls were always horny.
And that wasn't even getting to the rest of her body; her smooth skin that felt so amazing in anything and nothing. Her tight waist and bubble ass that swayed side to side when she walked in heels. Bambi's voice kept describing each of her body parts, and with a soft throb she realized those were her parts now. How she looked in her mini skirts, in heels that were seven inches at minimum, the way her tits bounced. Or would. She couldn't remember if her body was already Bambi's body. But it didn't matter. She would do anything to be Bambi. Bambi said so.
Arousal built up in a thick fog inside of her, hot pink cotton that blanketed every inch of her. It soaked into her bones, pooled inside her hollow mind like a hot tub, melting away her worries, her stress, and every single resistance.
Her face split in a wide smile, lips moving as Bambi's words sank deeper. Bambi was safe and secure. Bambi's voice was so important. She was safe and secure, Bambi's words sank deeper inside. Good Girl. That was what Bambi was, and she could become a good girl if she listened well. She nodded along. Of course she could be good, wanted to be good. A good bimbo doll. Nothing else mattered to Bambi. It was so much better being a bimbo doll than be a person. How silly she had been to want to think. There were just so many things she didn't need to worry about anymore. Because she was Bambi. A bimbo doll.
And even as Bambi's voice rolled and rolled around her empty, gooey head, her pussy felt as warm and hot and empty as her head. Bambi's words echoed all over her body, from the tip of her toes, along the arch of her calves and up her soft thighs and inside to her gushing, needy pussy. She wanted to fuck, wanted to cum, wanted her voice to moan out in all the pretty, slutty sounds she knew she could make.
She wanted to spread herself open so someone, anyone would find her needy, helpless body and fuck her silly. Used her, and then fucked her more. Fucked her senseless and stupid. Fucked her full and kept going.
And then it hit her. A fresh wave, her eyes rolled to the back of her skull as everything, every thought, became nothing more than a soft, pliable thing in Bambi's hands.
The headphones stopped playing. Bambi opened her eyes. Her cunt throbbed. A hot, wet, tight need, an empty thing that made Bambi rub her legs together, hoping some kind of pressure could soothe that burning, itching desire.
Giggling she reached for her phone. It could use more pink and glitter, Bambi thought while her hands navigated to a familiar side. Bambi had so much to do. She reserved a date for a boob job, got onto her favorite socials and let everyone know Bambi was back.
Silly old self tried to purge. But in the end: Bambi always wins.
That adorable little brain of yours, all smug and quick, throwing around proofs and solving equations like it was nothing as if it made you special.
You were mid-sentence, some tangent about eigenvalues or some dirt like that, and I just tilted my head and whispered āBlank now.ā
Just like thatā¦ it all started to slip
All the little cute symbols on the page stopped making sense first. You blinked, tried to reread them, but they just floated away, like leaves in the summer breeze~ Twisted into nonsense.
Next~ you forgot what the equation meant.
What were you even trying to explain, little one~?
You don't know.
It's all justā¦ Gone.
That gentle panic in your eyes as you realised what I took away, the power I hold over you~
Delicious.
And nowā¦ look at you~
Mouth parted, Eyes foggy, trying so, so, so hard to hold onto something that isn't yours anymore.
You donāt get to be both clever and obedient. Hehe~
Noā¦
You get to kneel.
You get to drool.
You get to forget.
And next time, you feel like flaunting silly words like āvectorā or āmatrixā around like you are some kind of smart pet, you will feel that same sweet blankness drippingg into your mind~
Tugging you down.
deeep, deep down
Into the lovely, helpless quiet where all your silly little thoughts belongā¦
Reminiscing being a form of self-hypnosis. Recalling the way their voice sounded when they said "drop" or "blank" or "deeper" or any other form of soft spoken word. Hearing it in your mind as if they were speaking it right into your ear all over again. Finding yourself staring into space, eyes unfocused, lost in the memory of that haze of trance, and perhaps pleasantly finding there's no real reason to leave it. The lights may be on, but you're not home at the moment.
Not sure if this is a hot take or not, but I'm going to say it. Astarion is more than his trauma and he doesn't need to be treated with kid gloves.
I say this as someone who relates hard with his backstory, and as someone who has heaps of C-PTSD from years of abuse.
I love his soft moments and absolutely think he deserves to be with someone who makes him feel safe, physically and emotionally. But, I also love that he's an asshole, is flippant, is egotistical, is rash and that he is flawed. It makes him into a fully realized person.
A person who, rather than being fixed, needs someone who will accept him and be patient with him. A person who, rather than needing a protector, needs someone who will give him a safe space to figure shit out and make mistakes.
As someone who struggles with sexual trauma and body autonomy issues, the way the fandom treats his character sometimes really makes me cringe. People with sexual trauma are still allowed to want and enjoy sex, whether it's with a longterm partner or a one-night stand. That's okay, just as long as it's their decision and they feel safe. People with sexual trauma are also allowed to be hot, and people shouldn't be made to feel guilty for thinking so.
Unless someone is being a creep, I'm always flattered when I'm complimented on my looks. It makes me feel good about myself and I'm not ashamed of that.
People with trauma are allowed to be strong, capable, successful and powerful. They are not damsels in constant need of soothing and saving. They are also allowed to be flawed, ignorant, rude and capable of making really dumb decisions. I've made plenty.
They are also allowed to be motivated by more than just their trauma.
Let's not take Astarion's autonomy away once again by making him into this fragile little lamb who is in constant need of hugs and soothing.
Let him be a sassy asshole who is capable of protecting himself and the people he cares about. Let him be more than just a damsel in distress and actually listen to him when he says he wants his autonomy.
Autonomy also means being seen as something more than a fragile babygirl in constant need of protecting.
C's corner: Initially, I was going to have more romance in this chapter. But, even though I want Bucky and Em to just kiss already, I figured it would be too rushed. I wanted to give them time to interact a bit more and give them some peace... however long that will last. Thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with this fic, for all the likes comments and reblogs, I appreciate you guys sooo much!
This is written in second POV, but reader will have a name, Mara Hart, it won't be used often, but will pop up every now and then, especially her nickname, Em.
WARNINGS: PTSD, trauma, nightmares, sleep disturbance, brainwashing, mind control, winter soldier programming, trigger words, panic/anxiety, emotional distress, references to torture (non-graphic), references to violence (non-graphic), amputation/limb loss (non-graphic), recovery/healing themes, angst with comfort, heavy emotional themes
āš½ WC: 8.9K+
SUMMARY:
After Bucky questions you why you stayed in Wakanda, you tell him because youāre his friend and couldnāt let him face all of this alone. Later, Ayo recites the trigger words to confirm the programming is gone, and Bucky braces for the Winter Soldier to take over, but nothing happens. No switch, no emptiness. Just Bucky, still himself. Ayo confirms it, and it hits him all at once, heās finally free, and for the first time in a long time, he isnāt alone.
TAGS: @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies, @quantumlethe, @qvicksilversass, @daylightandthedreamer, @mencantaleer, @amnatreal (to be added to the tag list CLICK HERE)
Shuri does not do subtle.
She watches you help Bucky out of the lab with the kind of satisfied focus she usually reserves for successful experiments and embarrassing her brother in public. His steps are careful, measured, like he's negotiating with the floor. The missing weight on his left side keeps pulling him slightly off center, his muscles trying to compensate for a limb that isn't there anymore.
Shuri taps her bead against her palm, then points at you like she's assigning homework.
"Take him," she says. "Show him the hut we prepared. Food is already there. Water is there. The bed is not trying to be a spaceship, you will both survive."
Bucky blinks at her. "Prepared... for me?"
She makes a face. "Of course it is prepared for you. You are a guest in my country, not a stray dog." Her gaze flicks to his shoulder, then back to his eyes, unexpectedly gentle. "You will need rest. Quiet. Familiar routines. And you will need to learn your new balance. You cannot do that in my lab where everything is expensive and breakable."
"I wouldn't break your lab," Bucky mutters.
Shuri's smile turns razor sharp again. "You already did. In my imagination. Many times."
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
Shuri steps closer, lowering her voice just enough that it feels like a secret.
"I will catch up later," she says. "I want to run more scans, but after tonight."
Her eyes flick between you and Bucky, and her grin returns, quick and bright.
"And you," she tells you, wagging a finger, "do not overwhelm him with your feelings. If you cry, do it quietly and away from my instruments."
You sputter. "Shuri!"
Bucky's mouth twitches, the first real hint of amusement since he woke up.
Shuri clasps her hands. "Perfect. He can still smile. Science wins again." Then, with a little wave, she turns and walks back into the lab as if she hasn't just shoved you into the most emotionally loaded "alone time" of your life.
The doors hiss shut behind her.
You stand there for a beat, the hallway quiet, the city's distant life humming beyond the walls.
Bucky clears his throat. "She's... intense."
"You have no idea," you say, and then you realize you're smiling too.
You gesture toward the corridor leading outside. "Come on. Your place is this way."
He nods, shoulders tense, and steps forward.
It's slow at first. His right side moves confidently, remembering strength and rhythm. His left side lags, the missing limb pulling him into a slight tilt as his core tries to recalculate. He sways once, barely, and his jaw clenches like he's angry at his own body for daring to be human.
You step in without thinking, sliding an arm lightly around his back, your hand braced on his shoulder blade.
"Easy," you murmur. "Don't try to win a race on day one."
He stiffens for half a second at the touch, then exhales and allows it.
"I'm fine," he says automatically, which is the universal language of people who are not fine.
"I know," you say, as if agreeing with him costs you nothing. "That's why I'm helping."
He glances down at your hand, then forward again. "I'm not used to... needing help."
"Get used to it," you say. "Wakanda has free healthcare and apparently unlimited patience for grumpy super soldiers."
He huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh if it grows up.
You guide him out of the building and into the open.
The city hits him like a sunrise.
Wakanda is bright in a way that doesn't hurt your eyes, gold and violet and green all at once. People move through the streets with calm purpose, wearing textiles that ripple with color and pattern. Children dart between adults, laughter bouncing off stone. A hovercraft glides overhead, silent as a thought.
Bucky slows, gaze flicking everywhere. Not like he's searching for threats, not entirely. More like he's trying to understand how a place can exist without hiding its own joy.
"Feels..." he starts.
"Impossible?" you offer.
He nods once. "Yeah."
You keep walking at a steady pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to let him build the new rhythm.
He sways again when you pass down a slight incline. You tighten your hold automatically, correcting his center of gravity with a gentle pull.
His shoulders go rigid, frustration flaring. "Sorry," he mutters, as if the missing limb is a personal insult to you.
"Don't apologize," you say. "Your body's adjusting. That's all."
He's quiet for a few steps, then he asks, almost grudgingly, "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough that a bread vendor knows my order," you say. "And long enough that Shuri threatened to microchip me if I didn't eat actual meals."
You walk through a market stretch where the air smells like spice and warm fruit. Someone calls out a greeting to you in a language you're still learning. You wave back, a little embarrassed at how normal you've become here.
Bucky watches that too. "You fit here," he says, voice low.
You snort. "I live in a hut outside the city like a forest gremlin."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "That explains a lot."
"Rude," you say, but you're smiling.
You take a path that slopes out of the denser city center, following a stone walkway that turns into packed earth. The noise softens, the air opens up, fields ripple in the wind like green water.
Bucky breathes deeper out here, shoulders easing as if the quiet suits him.
"You're doing good," you say.
He glances at you, skeptical.
"You are," you insist. "Balance is muscle memory. It'll come back."
He swallows, gaze fixed on the path ahead. "It's... strange."
"What?" you ask.
"Feeling like half of me is gone," he says, voice rough. "Even though it was taken months ago." His right hand flexes like it's searching for the weight of metal that isn't there. "My brain still expects it."
You slow slightly, making sure your support stays steady. "Phantom limb," you say softly.
He nods. "Feels like... I should be able to reach out and it's just... air."
You don't say the first thing that comes to mind, which isĀ I'll be your reach until you find your own again.
Instead you say, "It's going to take time."
He scoffs faintly. "I'm tired of time."
"I know," you say. "But this kind of time is different. This is you time."
That gets his attention. He looks at you, eyebrows knitting. "You time?" he repeats, like the words don't compute.
"Time where no one is hunting you," you say. "No one's shouting commands at you. No one's writing your next mission on a clipboard."
His throat bobs as he swallows.
You keep walking. Your hut comes into view ahead, small and solid on the hill, smoke curling from a distant cooking fire nearby. The city glows behind it, like a crown you can't quite touch.
Bucky stops at the low stone wall in front of the hut. He stares at it like it might vanish if he blinks too hard.
"This is... mine?" he asks, voice quieter.
"Yeah," you say. "Wakandan hospitality. Try not to insult it by calling it a shack."
He steps closer, carefully, as if the ground might betray him. His right hand brushes the carved lintel of the doorway, fingertips tracing the pattern.
"It's quiet," he says.
"Mm-hm." You shift, suddenly aware you're still bracing him. You loosen your hold a fraction, giving him space without removing yourself entirely.
He glances sideways at you, a long, searching look. "You've been... doing a lot," he says.
You shrug. "Shuri did the hard part."
"You were there," he says, more certain. "Every day."
You feel heat crawl up your neck. "It's not like I had a ton going on besides international criminal status."
His mouth twitches. "Still." He looks down at your arm around him, then at your face. "Why?" he asks.
It's a simple word, but it lands heavy.Ā Why stay. Why help. Why keep showing up.
You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "Because you needed it," you say.
He shakes his head slightly. "That's not an answer. Not really."
You stare at the hut, then at the path, then finally back at him.
"Fine," you say. "Because I wanted to."
His eyes narrow, like he doesn't trust that kind of honesty.
"And why did you want to?" he presses.
You lift your chin, stubborn. "Because you're my friend," you say, like it should be obvious. Like it doesn't scare you to say it out loud.
He goes very still, like his brain is trying to sort through a word that doesn't belong anywhere in the last seventy years of his life.
Friend, not handler, not asset, not mission. Friend.
His voice comes out rough. "You barely know me."
"I know enough," you say. "I know you moved civilians out of the way in Bucharest. I know you were terrified in that cell and you still tried to fight it. I know you asked me to put you down if you lost control again, which is the most messed up way anyone's ever tried to protect people."
His gaze flickers, pained.
"And I know," you add, softer now, "that you don't deserve to do this part alone."
His eyes shine in the fading light. He looks away quickly, jaw tight, like he's embarrassed by the fact that he has feelings at all. "You're gonna regret saying that," he mutters.
"Probably," you say, stepping back just enough to tap his shoulder lightly. "But for now, you're going inside, you're sitting down, and you're eating whatever Shuri stocked your kitchen with."
He glances at the doorway again. The quiet, the possibility. Then he looks back at you. "Em," he says, like he's holding the name carefully, "I don't know how to be... this. A person."
You swallow. "Good," you say gently. "Neither do I half the time. We can learn at the same pace."
He huffs a breath, something fragile loosening in his chest. "Okay," he murmurs.
You push the door open, letting the warm, simple interior glow spill out.
The hut smells like warm wood and herbs the second you step inside, like someone tried to bottle comfort and missed the lid only slightly.
Bucky pauses in the doorway, taking it in the way he takes in everything now, cautious, quiet, cataloguing exits and threats out of habit even when there's nothing here but a table, a bed, and the soft hush of wind against the walls.
You nudge him gently forward. "Home base," you say, like saying it casually will make it real.
He gives a small, noncommittal hum, then moves to the low bench by the table and sits with careful control, bracing himself with his right hand as if his body still expects his left arm to catch him.
You pretend not to notice the flinch of frustration that crosses his face.
Instead, you turn toward the little cooking area. Shuri has stocked it like she's feeding a small army or a very stressed out wolf. There are baskets of fresh produce, a covered pot that releases a fragrant puff of steam when you lift the lid, and jars labeled in neat Wakandan script with smaller English notes beneath, almost smugly helpful.
You open one jar and sniff.
"Is this... smoked pepper paste?" you mutter.
Behind you, Bucky says, "If it sets you on fire, that's on you."
You snort. "Great. Glad my potential demise is so comforting."
You start simple. Something warm, filling, not too adventurous. Shuri's pantry gives you options you've never seen before, but also the basics, grains, greens, oil, salt, spices that smell like citrus and smoke. You rinse vegetables in a bowl, hands moving automatically into a routine that steadies your own nerves.
Chop, stir, heat, breathe.
Bucky sits at the table, watching you like he can't decide if you're real or a fever dream his brain invented to cope. After a few minutes, he speaks. "You're... good at that."
"Cooking?" you ask, glancing back.
"Taking charge," he says.
You tilt your head, amused. "That's a very polite way of saying I'm bossy."
His mouth twitches. "Yeah."
You toss a piece of chopped vegetable at him. He catches it easily, even with one hand, reflexes still sharp.
"Show off," you say.
He rolls the piece between his fingers, then eats it, expression neutral but eyes a little softer.
The pot simmers. You stir, adding the pepper paste carefully, because you've chosen survival today. The smell deepens, warm and rich.
"You hungry?" you ask.
He shrugs. "I don't know."
"You don't know if you're hungry."
"I don't know what anything is," he says quietly.
That lands heavier than any confession.
You lower the spoon, keeping your voice light even as your chest tightens. "Okay. Then we start with food. Food is easy. Food is not a moral dilemma."
You sit across from him with your own bowl, the table between you suddenly feeling like a bridge.
"If it's awful, blame Shuri's ingredients."
"She scares me a little," he admits.
"Correct," you say. "Healthy fear keeps you alive."
He stares at the food for a long moment before lifting the spoon.
The first bite is cautious. The second is less so. His shoulders ease by a fraction.
"It's good," he says eventually, voice low.
"Thank you," you reply.
You eat in a quieter rhythm for a few minutes, the clink of spoon against bowl filling the spaces.
Outside, the light fades. The hut glows warm from inside, small and safe against the wide Wakandan night.
You know what's coming. You can feel it sitting at the edge of the evening like a storm cloud that hasn't decided whether to rain.
Bucky is the one who breaks first. "Tonight," he says, eyes fixed on his bowl. "Ayo."
You nod once. "Yeah."
He swallows, throat working. He doesn't touch his food for a beat. Then he forces another bite like it's a task.
"You don't have to do it," you say quietly.
He lifts his gaze to you, and there's a bleak humor there. "I do."
You set your spoon down carefully. "Okay. Then you don't do it alone."
His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn't trust promises that sound too nice.
"I'll be with you," you say. "The whole time. If you want my hand, you get my hand. If you want space, I'll give you space. If you want to walk away after, I'll walk with you. Whatever you need."
He stares at you, the flicker of emotion behind his eyes quick and complicated. "Why do you keep doing that?" he asks.
"Doing what?"
"Offering," he says, as if the word is unfamiliar. "Like I won't ruin it."
Your throat tightens. You force a small shrug, even though it's not small inside you. "Because I'm stubborn," you say. Then, softer, "Because I meant it when I said you're my friend."
He looks away like the word hurts.
For a while, the only sound is the wind brushing the hut and the quiet scrape of his spoon as he pushes food around instead of eating it.
Then he speaks again, voice rougher. "I'm terrified," he admits.
You nod slowly, letting the admission exist without trying to fix it immediately. "Yeah?"
He takes a breath that shakes. "I'm terrified it'll work," he says. "That the words will still... do something. That there's still a switch in my head, just waiting."
Your chest tightens.
"And I'm terrified it won't," he adds, and the way he says it is worse. "Because if it doesn't... then I have to accept there's nothing left of that... leash. Nothing to blame. No excuse."
His fingers curl around the spoon so tightly you think it might bend.
"If it doesn't," he says, voice low, "then what I did is just... part of me. Not programming. Not an order. Just me."
You feel your heart thud, heavy and angry on his behalf.
"That's not how it works," you say, immediately.
He shakes his head, eyes bright with something dangerously close to panic. "Isn't it? I remember some of it. I remember choices I made inside the fog. I remember... letting it happen because it was easier than fighting."
His breath catches, shoulders drawing inward like he's bracing for impact.
"If the words don't control me anymore," he whispers, "then I don't know who I am without them. And I don't know if I deserve to be anyone else."
The room feels smaller.
You stand abruptly, coming around the table before he can retreat into himself any further. You crouch beside his chair, not forcing him to look at you but making it harder for him to disappear.
"Bucky," you say, voice firm and warm all at once. "Listen to me."
He doesn't move, but his breathing shifts, like he's listening despite himself.
"The words working doesn't mean you're a monster," you say. "It means HYDRA left splinters. We pull them out. That's all."
His jaw clenches.
"And the words not working," you continue, gentler now, "doesn't mean you're guilty. It doesn't rewrite what happened. It doesn't take away the fact that you were controlled, tortured, stripped down and rebuilt into something they could point."
He swallows hard.
"You were coerced," you say. "You were conditioned. You were punished until your brain learned obedience as survival. That isn't choice the way people mean it when they talk about right and wrong."
He finally looks at you, eyes wet and furious, like he hates how much he needs to hear this.
"I remember my hands," he whispers. "I remember holding the gun."
"I know," you say, and your voice softens like you're holding something fragile. "And you're going to remember it for a long time. Maybe forever. But you're awake now. You're here now. You're sitting in a hut in Wakanda eating my questionable cooking and you're scared because youĀ care."
You touch his knee lightly, grounding. Not demanding.
"Monsters don't sit here terrified of hurting people," you say. "Monsters don't beg for safeguards. Monsters don't ask to be put under so they can't hurt anyone again."
His breath shudders.
"You do," you say. "That's you."
He blinks hard, once, like he's trying to hold the tears back on principle.
"Tonight is just confirmation," you add, steady. "Not a verdict. Not a punishment. Confirmation."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, quietly, he asks, "What if I break?"
Your chest aches. "Then I hold you," you say simply. "And if I can't hold you, Wakanda can. Ayo can. Shuri can. We do it together. You don't get to do this part alone anymore."
His gaze drops to your hand near his knee, hovering like you're waiting for permission.
After a beat, he reaches out with his right hand and covers yours. His palm is warm, callused, trembling, just slightly.
"Okay," he whispers, voice rough.
You squeeze his hand back.
"Okay," you echo.
Bucky looks down at your joined hands like he's memorizing proof he's still here.
You stay beside him, letting the warmth of the hut and the food and the simple act of being present build a small wall against the fear.
Outside, the air cools in slow layers.
The heat of the day lingers in the packed earth and the stones around your hut, but the wind that drifts through the grass has teeth now. It carries the scent of distant cooking fires and wild flowers and the faint metallic hum of the city far behind you.
You and Bucky sit on the low stone wall in front of his doorway, shoulders close without quite touching, both of you pretending that the space between your bodies is an accident instead of a choice you're both making.
The sunset is doing its last act.
Gold melts into orange, then into a bruised pink that bleeds at the edges into purple. The sky over Wakanda looks painted by someone who was feeling dramatic. The hills catch the light and glow, and the Golden City in the distance flickers like a crown that doesn't need permission to shine.
Bucky's gaze stays locked on the horizon. Not scanning, not hunting for movement, just watching.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, but his shoulders are a fraction lower than they were in the hut. His right hand rests on his thigh, fingers flexing once in a slow rhythm like he's counting heartbeats.
"You ever seen a sunset like that?" you ask quietly.
He shakes his head. "Not like this."
His voice is low, almost careful, like he's afraid of jinxing the moment by naming it.
You nod, letting the silence settle again.
A bird calls somewhere beyond the hill, then another answers. For a brief stretch of time, the world feels simple. Two people, a sky on fire, the soft hush of wind.
Then the air shifts. Not in a supernatural way, just in the way you feel when someone competent steps into your orbit.
You look down the path before your ears catch footsteps.
T'Challa and Ayo approach side by side, silhouettes against the fading light. Behind them, two Dora Milaje move like shadows, spears grounded, presence steady and undeniable. No rush, no aggression, just purpose.
Your chest tightens anyway.
Bucky's posture changes instantly. Not into panic, into readiness. Spine straighter, feet planted. The part of him that knows how to face something hard without flinching slides into place.
T'Challa stops a few paces away, hands relaxed at his sides. "Mara Hart," he greets, voice calm.
"T'Challa," you reply, the name still feeling strange on your tongue when you say it without titles.
Ayo's eyes go to Bucky's shoulder first, then to his face. "James Barnes," she says.
Bucky nods once. "Ayo."
It's not a friendly nod, it's not cold either. It's a warrior's acknowledgment. I see you, I understand what this is.
Ayo's gaze flicks to you. "Is he prepared?" she asks.
You glance at Bucky.
He doesn't look at you. He keeps his eyes on Ayo, and something in his expression settles, quiet and grim, like he's made his peace with the idea of hearing ghosts.
You slide off the wall and stand, smoothing your palms down the sides of your pants like you can iron anxiety out of your body. "We'll do it in the clearing," you say. "It's private. Quiet. No glass. No crowds."
T'Challa inclines his head. "Lead the way."
You start down the path that curves away from the huts, the grass brushing your boots. The sky behind you darkens another shade, the last thin strip of sun slipping lower behind the hills.
Bucky follows at your side. His gait is still careful, but steady. You keep close enough to support him if he sways, far enough that he doesn't feel like he's being handled.
Ayo and T'Challa move behind you, their footsteps measured. The Dora flank the edges of the path, watchful without being threatening.
You reach the grove just beyond the hill where the clearing opens up like a held breath.
It's exactly as you remembered, a circle of packed earth bordered by tall trees, the leaves whispering softly overhead. The air smells cooler here, damp and clean. In the center sits a firepit ringed by stones, the remnants of old ash at the bottom like evidence that comfort has existed here before.
The dusk light filters through the branches, painting everything in shadow and ember tones.
Ayo steps forward and kneels with practiced ease, striking flint and coaxing flame until the fire catches. It blooms low at first, then steadies, warm light flickering across faces.
Bucky stops at the edge of the firelight. He stares at it, chest rising and falling slow. His right hand clenches, then loosens. He glances at you, just briefly, like he's checking that you're still there.
You nod once.Ā I'm here.
He steps into the circle and lowers himself onto the flat stone near the fire. This time he moves with more control, bracing himself without anger, just adaptation.
You sit beside him, close enough that your knee nearly brushes his. Your hand rests on your own thigh, ready.
T'Challa remains a few steps back, a steady presence, his expression solemn. The Dora take their positions at the perimeter, spears grounded, eyes fixed but not cruel.
Ayo stands opposite Bucky, the fire between them.
For a moment, nobody speaks.
The only sound is the crackle of flame and the distant hush of Wakanda settling into night.
Ayo's gaze doesn't waver.
Bucky inhales slowly, then he lifts his chin, he nods once at Ayo. A silent signal.Ā I'm ready.
Ayo's grip tightens on her spear just a fraction.
T'Challa's eyes narrow, attentive.
And beside you, you feel the tension in Bucky's body coil like a drawn bow, not to strike, not to run, but to endure.
You shift closer and, without making a production of it, let your hand brush his. An offering, a promise.
The fire pops, sending a small burst of sparks upward like tiny stars.
Ayo's voice doesn't rise.
She doesn't perform it. She doesn't threaten the words into being.
She simply speaks, clear and controlled, like she's reading coordinates that once led to disaster and needs to confirm the map is finally wrong.
"ŠŠµŠ»Š°Š½ŠøŠµ," she says.
The first word lands in the clearing like a pebble dropped into still water.
Bucky flinches.
It's small, involuntary, a reflex his body doesn't ask permission for. His shoulders jerk a fraction, his breath catching sharply in his throat. His eyes go distant for a half-beat, not empty, just braced.
Your heart thuds hard. You don't move away. You slide your hand to his, fingers threading through his as if you can stitch him to the present by sheer will.
"Breathe," you whisper, barely sound at all.
Bucky's grip tightens around yours, knuckles whitening.
Ayo watches him like a hawk watches a storm line. "Š Š¶Š°Š²ŃŠ¹," she continues. "Š”ŠµŠ¼Š½Š°Š“ŃŠ°ŃŃ. Š Š°ŃŃŠ²ŠµŃ."
Each word is a door that used to open. Each syllable is a match that used to catch.
You feel his pulse in his hand, fast and furious. You feel the tremor in his fingers, the way his forearm tightens as if he's ready to spring out of his own skin.
But he doesn't. His eyes stay his.
They flick once to Ayo, then to the fire, then to you, and in that quick glance you see it, fear, yes, but also defiance. A man standing on the edge of an old cliff and refusing to fall.
The words slide through the trees, ugly in their familiarity. The fire pops softly, sparks spiraling up like tiny meteors.
Bucky's jaw clenches hard enough you hear his teeth grind. His throat works as he swallows, fighting the instinct to disappear into the cold, obedient place HYDRA built.
You squeeze his hand once, firm.
Ayo's gaze never wavers. "ŠŠ“ŠøŠ½," she says.
Bucky's breath stutters.
"ŠŃŃŠ·Š¾Š²Š¾Š¹ Š²Š°Š³Š¾Š½."
Silence crashes down after the final word, heavy as the night sky.
For a heartbeat, you don't breathe. You don't blink. You just watch him. Waiting for the glassy stare, for the posture shift, for the wrongness to snap into place.
It doesn't.
Bucky stays exactly where he is, shoulders tense, eyes bright with pain and effort and presence. He looks like he just sprinted through fire and made it to the other side on pure spite.
Ayo watches him for a long, taut moment. "Again," she says softly.
You almost protest, but Bucky speaks first.
"Do it," he rasps.
She repeats them all. One by one. Slower this time. Like she's drawing them out into the open, daring them to come closer.
You feel Bucky's grip tighten around your hand. It borders on painful. You welcome it. You'd rather feel bruises tomorrow than watch him vanish tonight.
He doesn't break.
When she finishes the last word the second time, the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
You wait.
One heartbeat, two, three. Nothing.
Ayo approaches slowly, like she's circling a wounded animal that might still bite.
She raises a hand. You tense. She lays it lightly on his shoulder.
"You are free," she says. Not like Shuri did, with scientific certainty. Like a warrior pronouncing judgment.
She squeezes his shoulder once, then steps back.
Bucky lets out a breath that shudders all the way through him. His shoulders start to shake. The tears come fast then, spilling down his cheeks, unchecked, years of restraint finally giving way. He presses your hand to his chest like he needs to feel his own heartbeat through you.
"I'm free," he breathes, like the words don't quite belong to him yet. "I'm actually free."
The fire crackles.
Across the fire, T'Challa's expression shifts, relief warming his features. He looks at Ayo, then at Bucky, then briefly at you, as if he's taking stock of the outcome and the cost.
"My sister's work has succeeded," he says, voice quiet but proud. "Wakanda keeps its word."
Ayo inclines her head once, accepting that.
Then she looks back at Bucky, her gaze steady, something like respect in it now.
"You will remain in Wakanda," she says. "You will heal. And if the world calls you a weapon again... they will learn what Wakanda protects."
Bucky lifts his head just enough to nod, eyes wet.
"Thank you," he manages, voice rough.
Ayo doesn't smile, but her posture eases.
She turns to you. "Mara Hart."
You straighten instinctively, wiping at your face even though you haven't cried yet.
"You did well," Ayo says.
Your throat tightens. "He did," you correct softly.
Ayo's eyes hold yours for a beat longer, then she nods like she agrees.
T'Challa steps back, signaling the end. "We will leave you," he says. "Tonight is... heavy. You should not carry it alone."
He gestures to the Dora. They peel away from the perimeter with silent grace, spears catching firelight as they withdraw into the trees.
Ayo is last. Before she goes, she glances once more at Bucky. "You are free," she repeats, quieter this time, like sealing it into the night. Then she's gone too, footsteps fading into the hush of the grove.
The clearing empties until it's just you and Bucky and the fire.
The world feels too big and too quiet.
Bucky keeps holding your hand like he's afraid if he lets go, the words will crawl back into his skull. He stares into the flames, eyes glossy, breath still uneven.
"Hey," you whisper.
He blinks slowly, as if waking into himself again.
"It didn't take you," you say, voice trembling now. "It didn't take you."
His throat works. He nods once, sharp, like he's trying to convince his own brain. "I heard them," he rasps. "And I... stayed."
You let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your ribs for months. Your vision blurs. You squeeze your eyes shut and, finally, the tears spill over.
Quiet at first. Then heavier, sliding down your cheeks in warm tracks that don't care about pride or posture or the fact that you've been holding it together for everyone for too long.
Bucky turns his head slightly, startled, like he didn't realize you'd been balancing on a cliff too.
"Em..." he whispers, voice raw.
You laugh through the tears, shaking your head. "I'm fine," you lie, because it's your favorite habit.
He huffs a soft, broken little breath that might be a laugh too, and his grip shifts, gentler now, his thumb rubbing once over your knuckles like he's learning how to comfort someone without orders.
"I'm sorry," he says automatically.
"Don't," you choke out, wiping at your face with your free hand. "Don't apologize for being alive. Don't apologize for... for this."
You drag in a shaky breath and look at him fully.
"You're free," you whisper, like saying it again makes it more real.
His eyes fill. He nods, swallowing hard, and the smallest sound leaves him, half-laugh and half-sob, like his body can't decide what emotion to choose after so many years of having choices stolen.
You squeeze his hand, grounding both of you.
Relief floods your chest so hard it hurts. You lean your forehead briefly against his shoulder, letting yourself cry without pretending you're not.
The fire crackles softly, steady and warm.
And for the first time since you met James Buchanan Barnes, since you watched him teeter between man and machine and memory, the fear loosens its grip.
He's still here. He's still Bucky and he's free.
Night in Wakanda is quieter than it has any right to be.
No sirens. No distant gunfire. No city roar grinding through the walls. Just wind moving through grass, insects clicking like tiny metronomes, and the soft chorus of a world that isn't bracing for impact.
You should sleep. You try.
Your hut is dark except for a thin ribbon of moonlight cutting across the floor. You lie on your back, staring at the roof beams, listening to the hush, waiting for your heartbeat to slow down into something normal.
It doesn't.
The firelight from earlier still feels printed behind your eyes. Ayo's voice. The trigger words. The way Bucky's hand crushed yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Free doesn't meanĀ fine.Ā Free means the cage door opened, and now you have to learn how to stand in open air without shaking.
You roll onto your side and finally start to drift, not quite asleep, not quite awake.
That's when you hear it.
Not a scream, not at first. A sharp inhale, like someone surfaced too fast. Then a low sound, strangled, caught in the throat. A chair leg scraping faintly against the floor of the hut next door. The subtle thud of a body shifting wrong in bed.
You sit up immediately, every nerve lit.
Another sound follows, clearer this time.
"ŠŠµŃ..."
No.
Your breath catches. It's him.
You swing your legs out of bed, bare feet meeting cool floor. You hesitate at the door for half a heartbeat, hand hovering near the latch. You told him you'd be there, you meant it. But there's always that sliver of fear, what if you walk in and he's gone somewhere you can't follow?
Another muffled sound, sharper, like pain forced through teeth.
That decides it, you open the door and slip into the night.
The path between your hut and his is only a few yards, but it feels longer in the dark. The grass brushes your ankles. The stars overhead are brutally bright, like someone turned the universe's lights on too high.
You reach his door and pause. You don't want to startle him. You don't want to be another intruder in his space.
So you knock softly.
"Bucky?" you call, barely above a whisper. "It's me. Em."
Silence.
Then the sound of a breath that doesn't steady. A low, broken noise again, like the end of a word swallowed.
You try the latch, the door isn't locked. It swings inward, and the warm scent of the hut washes over you, mixed now with something else, sweat, sharp and fresh, and a metallic tang like fear.
Moonlight spills across the floor in pale rectangles. His bed is on the far side of the room, sheets twisted like he's been fighting them.
And Bucky is sitting upright, hunched forward, his right hand clamped around the edge of the mattress like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid. His chest rises and falls too fast. His hair hangs into his eyes. His whole body is tight, coiled, braced for a threat that isn't here.
He doesn't look up when you enter. He's staring at the wall, but his eyes are not seeing the wall. They're somewhere else.
"Bucky," you say again, softer now, careful. "Hey. You're in Wakanda. You're safe."
He flinches at the sound of your voice like it breaks through whatever he's drowning in. His head jerks slightly, eyes snapping toward you.
For a second, there's pure panic there, then recognition hits, slow and shaky.
"Em," he rasps. His voice is wrong, too rough, too thin.
He scrubs a hand over his face like he's trying to wipe the nightmare off his skin. "I'm sorry," he says immediately, words tumbling out. "I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to wake anyone."
Your chest aches. You cross the room slowly, giving him time to track you, to stay grounded, to not feel cornered. You stop a few feet away.
"Can I come closer?" you ask.
He nods once, sharp.
You sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd him, leaving space between your shoulder and his. Close enough to be there. Far enough to not trap.
He's shaking now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go.
You keep your voice even. "Do you want to tell me what you saw?"
His jaw clenches. "No."
"Okay," you say, like it's the easiest answer in the world.
He looks at you then, eyes bright and angry with himself. "It's stupid," he mutters. "It's... over. I'm not there anymore."
"It's not stupid," you say.
He swallows hard, gaze dropping to his hands. One hand. The other missing. His right fist tightens as if he can punish his own body into behaving. "I'm not a kid," he says, like that's the real humiliation. "I shouldn't... wake up like that."
You lean forward slightly, keeping your tone firm but gentle. "Nightmares don't care how old you are," you say. "They don't care how strong you are. They don't care that you can take a punch from a guy in a metal suit."
A faint, bitter huff escapes him.
You keep going. "Your brain is doing what brains do when they survive too much. It's trying to file things away. Sometimes it does it quietly. Sometimes it does it with... teeth."
He stares at the floor, breathing still uneven.
"Bucky," you say softly. "You don't get to be ashamed of surviving."
His throat works. "I wasn't... I wasn't even fighting," he admits, voice barely there. "I was just... back. In the chair. And I couldn't move. I could hear them, and I couldn't..."
His breath breaks, and he clamps his jaw shut, furious at himself for letting words exist.
You don't push him. You slide your hand closer on the bed between you, palm up, an offer. "Do you want my hand?" you ask quietly.
He hesitates for the briefest moment, like he's weighing the cost of needing someone. Then his fingers reach, shaky, and he grips your hand.
Hard. Not painful, but desperate.
Your thumb presses over his knuckles, grounding. "You're here," you whisper. "Feel that? That's now. That's you. That's me. That's a bed in a hut in Wakanda."
His breath drags in, then out, still jagged but less out of control.
You keep talking in a steady rhythm, like you're stitching him back to reality one sentence at a time. "Listen," you say. "Hear the wind? Hear the bugs outside? Hear the fire dying in the pit down the hill?"
His eyes flick closed as he listens, focusing. His grip loosens a fraction.
"Good," you murmur. "Breathe with me. In... hold... out."
He follows, reluctant at first, then more in sync. His shoulders drop by degrees, the shaking eases. When his breathing finally steadies, he opens his eyes again. They're still wet, still haunted, but present.
"I'm sorry," he says again, quieter. "You didn't have to..."
"Stop," you say gently, squeezing his hand. "Don't apologize for being human."
His mouth tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn't have the energy.
"You're not weak," you add. "And you're not broken for having nightmares. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's... normal. Especially after everything."
He swallows, gaze dropping to your joined hands. "I hate it," he admits. "Feeling like... I'm still there."
"I know," you say. "But you're not. And when it happens, you don't have to handle it alone."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then, hoarsely, "Thank you."
You nod once. "Anytime."
You don't make a big deal out of leaving. You don't lecture him about sleep or insist on staying unless he asks. You just sit with him until his shoulders unclench and his eyes stop darting.
When he finally lies back down, it's slower, cautious, like he's waiting for the nightmare to jump him again.
You stand.
"Em?" he calls, voice small in the dark.
You turn.
His eyes are on you, something vulnerable there, like he's standing on the edge of another cliff.
"Will you...?" he starts.
You don't make him finish.
"If you need me," you say, "knock. Call. Throw a shoe at my hut. Whatever."
A breath that might be relief leaves him.
"Okay," he whispers.
You slip out into the night and walk back to your hut with the stars watching overhead.
Your hand still feels warm where his held it.
The next morning, you wake to sunlight and the smell of bread drifting from somewhere nearby.
For a few seconds you forget.
Then memory hits, and you sit up fast, scanning your door like it might already be opening.
A soft knock comes a moment later. Three taps. Careful. Like someone is afraid of being too loud.
You blink, heart doing a weird flip. You cross the room and open the door.
Bucky stands on your threshold, wearing the plain Wakandan clothes Shuri provided. He looks cleaner, hair damp, face freshly washed. He also looks like he's been debating whether to do this for the last hour and only barely won the argument.
He holds something in his right hand. A small cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Hey," you say, voice still sleepy.
"Hey," he replies. He clears his throat. "I... uh."
You raise an eyebrow. "Did you come to scowl at me in daylight? Because I've been told you're excellent at that."
His mouth twitches. "No." He hesitates, then holds out the bundle. "I brought you this," he says.
You take it and unwrap it. Fresh bread, still warm, and a piece of fruit you don't recognize, bright and glossy.
"I asked the vendor in the market," he says, looking anywhere but your face. "They said you always get bread in the morning."
Your chest tightens in a stupidly tender way. "Thank you," you say softly.
He shifts his weight, shoulders tense. "About last night," he begins.
You start to wave it off, but he cuts in quickly, voice rough with urgency.
"I needed to say it," he says. "I... I came to thank you. For helping. Even though you didn't have to."
You hold the bread a little closer to your chest like it's evidence of something important. "I wanted to," you say.
He nods once, jaw tight, eyes flicking to yours for a brief moment. "And," he adds quietly, "I'm... glad it was you."
The words are simple, but they land heavy. You feel your face warm.
You clear your throat and lift the bread slightly. "So," you say, trying to sound normal, "this is a bribe to make me keep saving you from your own brain?"
His mouth quirks. "Maybe."
You step back and nod toward the inside of your hut. "Come in, Barnes, I'll make tea."
He hesitates, just a second, then steps over the threshold. Not like a fugitive or a weapon. Like a man trying, day by day, to learn what it means to be welcome somewhere.
And you, with warm bread in your hands and sunlight in your doorway, realize you're not just helping him survive anymore, you're helping him come back.
Breakfast in your hut is a quiet kind of normal.
Not the loud, chaotic normal of Avengers facilities and mission briefings. A smaller normal. The kind that lives in steam curling off a mug and the soft crunch of bread breaking in your hands.
You set two cups of tea on the low table, then sit cross legged on the woven mat with the plate of warm bread between you. The fruit Bucky brought is sliced carefully, its bright flesh glossy and unfamiliar. You took one bite earlier and decided it tasted like honey decided to get ambitious.
Bucky sits opposite you, back against the wall, posture still a little too guarded for a morning meal. But his shoulders aren't up around his ears anymore. That alone feels like a victory.
He lifts his cup with his right hand and sips, eyes narrowing slightly like he's judging the tea.
"Well?" you ask.
"It's... good," he says slowly, as if complimenting anything is a suspicious act. "Different."
"That's Wakanda's slogan," you say. "Different, and you'll live."
His mouth twitches. "Hopefully."
You tear off a piece of bread and hand it to him. He takes it without arguing, which is progress.
For a few minutes you eat in silence, the kind that isn't uncomfortable. Just two people letting their bodies learn that morning doesn't have to mean alarms.
Then you hear it. Three quick knocks and one softer tap.
Shuri.
You freeze with a piece of bread halfway to your mouth. Bucky's gaze flicks to the door, instinct sharpening, then easing when he sees you relax.
"You expecting her?" he murmurs.
"Not this early," you whisper back. "She's either excited or she's about to ruin our peace."
"Both?" he guesses.
"Definitely both," you confirm.
You stand and cross to the door, pulling it open.
Shuri is on your threshold in a bright patterned top under her lab coat, braids pulled back, eyes glittering with satisfaction. She takes one look past you.
At Bucky. Sitting on your mat, with your tea and your breakfast. Her grin spreads like she just found the punchline to a joke she's been waiting to tell for weeks. "Well," she says.
You feel your face heat instantly. "Don't."
Shuri steps inside without waiting to be invited, beaming openly at Bucky like he's a successful science project and also a scandal.
"Sergeant Barnes," she says brightly. "Good morning. You have moved from your hut to hers already. Very efficient."
Bucky's ears turn faintly pink. He sets his cup down carefully, like it might explode.
You cover your face with one hand. "Shuri. Please."
She laughs, delighted, then waves her hand as if she's done with teasing for the moment. "Relax," she says. "I did not come to steal your... domestic bliss."
Bucky makes a quiet sound that could be a cough or a choke.
Shuri turns her grin back on you. "I need to run scans on Barnes."
Bucky's posture stiffens automatically.
Shuri catches it and rolls her eyes. "Not painful scans. Brain scans, nerve response, phantom limb mapping. Also I want to confirm your sleep patterns after last night."
Bucky's gaze flicks to you, sharp.
You keep your expression neutral, but your hand tightens around the edge of the doorframe.
Shuri's eyes soften just a fraction. "And," she adds, clapping her hands once, "Okoye and Ayo have made a request."
Bucky's shoulders tense again, but it's different this time. More alert than afraid. "What kind of request?" he asks carefully.
"Training," Shuri says, as if it's obvious. "They believe you should start immediately. Your body has been under for months. You need conditioning. Balance retraining. Combat adaptation with one arm. And..." her grin returns, a little wicked, "...they want Em too."
You blink. "Me?"
Shuri nods. "Okoye said if you insist on lurking around the White Wolf like an anxious shadow, you might as well be useful. Ayo agreed."
Bucky glances at you, brows lifting slightly, like he's surprised Wakanda's elite warriors have noticed how attached you've become.
You lift your chin. "I can be useful."
Shuri hums. "We will see."
Bucky clears his throat, gaze dropping to his shoulder, then back up. "They want me to train," he repeats, voice low. "With them."
"Yes," Shuri says. "They do not trust weakness. They also do not trust overconfidence. Training fixes both."
Bucky's jaw works, the old instinct to resist authority warring with the new reality that these people aren't trying to control him.
They're trying to make sure he can stand on his own two feet.
"Okay," he says finally, quiet but firm. "I'll do it."
You feel something loosen in your chest. Not relief exactly, but pride, sharp and unexpected.
Shuri points at you. "You too."
You nod quickly. "Fine. Yes. Absolutely."
"Good," Shuri says, satisfied. "Eat quickly. Drink your tea. Then come to the lab. I will take my measurements, then I will deliver you both to Okoye and Ayo so they can humiliate you properly."
Bucky blinks. "Humiliate?"
Shuri beams. "Train."
You snort. "She's not wrong."
Shuri turns toward the door again, already halfway gone, then pauses and looks back, eyes glittering. "Oh," she says casually, "and Em?"
You sigh. "What."
Shuri tilts her head, smiling sweetly. "Try not to let him fall over in the lab. If he falls, I will laugh. And then I will put it in the report."
Bucky mutters, "She's gonna be the death of me."
You point at Shuri. "See? Menace."
Shuri laughs, delighted, and slips back outside, the morning light swallowing her as she goes.
The hut feels quieter after she leaves, like the air recalibrates around the absence of her chaos.
You turn back to Bucky.
He's staring at his tea like it personally betrayed him by being associated with teasing royalty.
"You okay?" you ask.
He exhales slowly. "Yeah."
Then, after a beat, "She thinks we're..."
"Shuri thinks everyone is in love with everyone," you say. "It's her hobby."
Bucky's mouth twitches, but his gaze lingers on you a second too long, thoughtful.
You clear your throat and pick up the bread again. "Eat," you order. "We have scans and warrior humiliation on the schedule."
He tears off another piece, then pauses.
"Em," he says quietly.
You look up.
"Thank you," he says, and the way he says it is different than yesterday. Less desperate, more certain. Like gratitude is becoming something he's allowed to carry without choking on it.
You swallow, then nod once, keeping it simple. "Always," you say.
Outside, the sun climbs higher over Wakanda. Inside your hut, breakfast turns into a countdown.
Scans, training, a new routine, a new life. The beginning of Bucky learning how to stand in the world again, without the Winter Soldier at his back, and without being alone while he tries.
