nerves_of_ice | [Virginia AU] we rose up from the falling waters

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virginia au

[Virginia AU] we rose up from the falling waters

A little over a week goes by, and as it does Bucky falls into a pattern, slow but sure. He wakes with Sharon in the mornings, shares coffee and something that suffices for breakfast, then works a little on searches and checking contacts and sources from other time zones and locations. Mid-morning finds him at the Task Force offices with Riley and his team. Early afternoon finds him meeting with Ross, if there's any reason to; mid-afternoon he checks in with Steve, with Tony, or with Natasha before he goes back to tracing rumors and hints.

Today's different, though. Today is Sharon's first day back at work after her suspension, and Bucky's determined not to do a single damn thing that might possibly make it difficult for her.

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"In a moment," T'Challa says, lifting one hand.

But his expressions softens when he adds: "I hope Agent Carter is feeling much better. Is she recuperating well?"

“She is,” he confirms, even as misgiving sinks into his bones. “I’d have said it was impossible. You saved her life.”

Bucky draws a slow breath, then lets it out. “So, thank you. I owe you pretty much anything you want of me, for that.”

"You are welcome, but you owe me nothing," T'Challa assures him. "She saved Nakia's life. It was only right I repay her in kind."

He considers the other man, the way he stands, the way he holds himself. "I was hoping to speak with you for a few moments. Would you do me the courtesy?"

“Still.”

At T’Challa’s request, a stillness settles over him. A part of him has been waiting for this, been wondering, since Shuri had asked about his past.

“Sure. Here, or somewhere else?”

"Here will be fine," T'Challa tells him, and makes his way with easy grace to one of the armchairs, gesturing for the Sergeant to join him in one of the others.

"It will not surprise you, I think," he begins, settling down and steepling his fingers, "to hear that I am curious about you and your past, Sergeant. Few men have your speed and strength and resilience, even discounting your unusual arm. Nor will you be surprised to hear that Shuri has shown me some evidence of a... complicated past."

“No, I’m not surprised.” He manages to sound calm, unaware of the weariness that seeps into his eyes.

“If you’re asking if it’s true, it is. I was the Winter Soldier. A terrorist, and an assassin. For seventy years.”

T'Challa nods, betraying no thoughts on his face.

"Is this the hell you spoke of?" he asks. "The one you said Agent Carter pulled you from?"

“No. That was later, when a man named Zemo tried to send me back to it,” he says. “Steve was the one who pulled me out, in D.C.”

He makes himself meet T’Challa’s eyes. “I told you I served with him, during the war. World War II. He thought I died on a mission. He didn’t know I survived. No one did. Until D.C.”

"I see."

He presses his steepled fingers to his lips, then relaxes his hands to his lap. "I did a little research on you, Sergeant," he says. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Missing, presumed killed during the war. Appeared again a few years ago, seemingly with no memory of his prior life."

T'Challa considers the man. "I find it difficult to believe the man you once were and the one I have just met would willingly take part in decades of terrorism."

“Not willingly, no,” Bucky says, quiet yet clear. “But I still did it.”

He takes a deep breath. “How much do you know about HYDRA?”

"Some," T'Challa tells him. "But I would be interested to hear what you consider important to know about them."

“Nazi science division,” he summarizes. “Led by Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, and his right-hand guy: Arnim Zola.” Looks like he’ll never be able to say his name without acid bleeding through, he realizes. “People thought they were defeated after the war was over. They weren’t. They went underground. Infiltrated some places, set up secret labs in others. They were behind the attack in D.C., among other things. A lot of other things.”

He wants to pace, but controls the urge. “Back during the war, one of the things they were working on was trying to duplicate the super soldier serum that turned Steve into Captain America. There was a battle, and most of my unit died. Those of us who were left were taken to be slave labor in one of HYDRA’s weapons factories. Some of us got sent to Zola’s lab for experiments. I survived. No one else did. But it changed me.”

"Giving you your abilities," T'Challa surmises.

"That would make you a very valuable man indeed."

“I didn’t know,” Bucky tells him, quietly. “I didn’t look different. Didn’t really feel - that’s not important. Anyway, if you looked me up, you know what happened. Mission in the Alps. I fell from a train, off the side of a mountain. Nobody should have lived, but I’m a lot harder to kill than I used to be. Lost the arm, but a couple of Russian soldiers found me at the bottom of the pass. They dragged me to the nearest outpost. Eventually, to another lab. Zola was waiting.”

There’s no humor in the grim flicker of a sardonic smile. He taps his left arm. “They gave me this. And a set of implanted controls in my mind. Made me a weapon to wield. For a long time. I did some pretty awful things, your highness. I won’t lie to you.”

"I appreciate your honesty, Sergeant," T'Challa tells him. "And I respect your candor. What you have told me aligns with what little I know about you... and with what I can surmise, based on your position as an Avenger and work with the Task Force. Tell me, Sergeant..."

He studies the other man with keen, compassionate eyes. "Are you attempting to find some sort of absolution, by performing positive actions in order to make up for those into which you were forced?"

He’s never really thought about it quite that way. He takes a moment to consider it before answering.

“It’s not that simple,” he says, slowly. “Maybe. But it’s not… it doesn’t make up for the rest. I know that.”

"An honest answer for a complicated question."

T'Challa leans back in his seat, watching the other man. "This compulsion they put you under. Are you now free of it?"

“It’s blocked.” He keeps his voice steady. “It’s still there, but as long as the block’s in place, I can’t be activated. You don’t have to worry about that.”

"I am not," T'Challa assures him. Were the Winter Soldier to be activated and set against Wakanda, perhaps he would be concerned, but in his estimation, the combination of Black Panther and Dora Milajie would prove a worthy barricade. "I only wish to learn what I can about those I have allowed beyond Wakanda's borders. But I do not fear you, Sergeant. And I believe you would never wish to revisit those days or actions."

“Not as long as I’m in control of my own mind,” he says, but he can’t leave it at that. This man deserves to know the truth about him. “If I were activated it wouldn’t matter. It’s happened twice since D.C., before the block.”

He swallows. “The second time, I nearly killed Sharon.”

He thinks of this man's desperation when the woman was injured, and imagines the horror of Nakia looking at him in fear, a thought which sends ice clawing down his spine. "And yet, yesterday, you protected her," he points out. "And insisted she be saved. I can easily see how you are not yourself when... activated."

“You have the right to know.” He holds T’Challa’s gaze. “It doesn’t excuse anything.”

How cynical he must be; how jaded, this man who has been beaten and brainwashed and tortured into becoming a mindless weapon who would attack even those he cares for most. "I do not condone excuses," T'Challa tells him.

"Reason is something else entirely. How can I blame you for the things which were not your choice? If you were to be activated again, how could I blame you for the destruction which would follow? We all have stains on our pasts, Sergeant. Most of us chose ours, for better or worse. You did not."

Bucky stares at him, momentarily speechless. “You really need to meet Steve,” he manages, finally.

"Hm," T'Challa muses. "Yes. Perhaps he will bring his shield."

A faint twinkle in his eye suggests he's teasing.

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