Secretive - Bucky Barnes

1 || Wakanda

I open my eyes with a shudder, driving through my entire body and stopping my heart for a moment in shock. When I blacked out, it has been on a battle field below Russian ground, the last thing that I saw her beautiful brown-golden eyes drunken in worries and bad conscience. Whyever, because she definitely had no reason to feel guilty. But that is just her way; making herself responsible when finding no one else to blame, at least no one and nothing she could handle right in that second. Always something to do, somewhere to put her energy.

Sitting up straight, my eyes hover around the environment. I am definitely not in the cellar anymore, in general definitely not on the ground. Beige, light color threatens to blind me before my eyes successfully adapt, and in right that second, a stinging headache sets in, like someone decided to put razor wire around my skull and pulled tightly.

But that is not my main problem. Closing my eyes for a few brief seconds, I not only register the soft bed they put me on, but also something that is missing. Like I just woke up with my right arm also having decided to leave my body, or my leg, or an eye. Much more like an eye, because it feels like I lost one of my senses. My favorite sense, actually. 

She is missing. Whatever has happened, I cannot feel her. Cannot know whether she physically is fine, mentally stable. Cannot make sure she is at ease, relatively spoken, what would lead to me being at least a little more at ease. No, there is nothing, half of me having left while I was unconscious; the better half. It starts disturbing me as quickly as a black spot in my vision might would, eating me from the inside without the realization fully setting in. For months had I had the pleasure to always know she is fine, and immediately be able to act whenever she is not. For months had I had the pleasure to know whatever mood she is in, to refeel her feelings, making me actually believe I am worth something to someone in this damned world. They took that from me.

I have to find her. No matter what, I have to find her and rescue her out of their claws. The memories all set in, her sacrificing herself, sacrificing the world just to spare my life. She is insane. Now, Hydra got what they wanted, and if she is going to be playing along, they will win whatever fight they set up. 

Grunting, I shove myself to the edge of the bed. My entire body feels sore from fighting, from being the goal for knives and punches before. Some stabs of them have been as bad, I do not think they all healed entirely by now.

»Take it slow, Buck.« a voice suddenly raises, deep, with their own depression vivid inside every syllable. I glance around the small cabin, finally resting my eyes on the blonde friend of mine that had my back – except for a few small situations – for almost a complete century. Steve's voice always had something soothing, something like balsam for my wounds and for my soul. »You really took in some bad punches. Be careful. Nat's gonna be really mad at you when you rip her stitches.«

I stare at him, blankly. He cannot be serious. But I swallow the comment down, the limp in my dry throat completely ignoring the physical mechanism und threating to slice my neck from the inside instead. The engine around us is not all too loud, meaning we are gliding evenly through the air. Everything that I can see is the white from the clouds outside; almost paradox how pure it seems reminding the red on my blood-soaked fingers. »Where are we going?« I ask instead, not caring to hide the reproach.

Why are we even flying away? What is this supposed to be? Nova is probably still back in Russia. We have to act as long as we know about her whereabouts. »Wakanda.« Steve answers dryly, head tilting for the tiniest amount, eyes inhaling me from head to toe as if fearing they might missed an injury at some point, or one of the sutures actually ripped.

Blinking in utter confusion, I prison his light blue, still as virtuous as they always have been, eyes with mine. He is all cleaned up by now, wearing a white shirt and trousers as beige as the airplane's inside. »Why the hell are we flying to Wakanda?« I cannot imagine King T'Challa being all too fond of that idea. Last time I saw him, he thought I murdered his father. Maybe he knows by now that I did not, but he still is not the first person I would invite to a party. Plus, we have a much bigger problem currently, namely my girlfriend being made a slave of Hydra's.