milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"Go. Go! Take this journal and write down everything you can remember. It will help, I promise you."

"Princess--"

"Do not argue. Find somewhere quiet, where you won't be bothered."

"The kids aren't a bother."

"They are also not quiet."

* * * * * * *

It's been a long time since he's been here, enough that if pressed he couldn't actually say how long. He hadn't exactly meant to come, either, but he'd been thinking about finding somewhere out of the way when he walked out of Shuri's lab, and there's no question that Milliways fits that description better than anywhere else.

About ten minutes later, Bucky Barnes is settled in at one of the quieter booths in the back, the journal open in front of him. (A close observer might notice that each page is subtly embossed with the logo of the Wakandan Design Group.)

He's holding a pen in his right hand and tapping it against the blank page. From time to time he sets down the pen and picks up the cup of coffee waiting beside him instead. A swallow or two later, he repeats the process, swapping cup for pen.

His left hand is immaterial to the whole process, as it's entirely absent. A series of gauze bandages are barely visible under the collar of his shirt, and his left sleeve is neatly pinned shut over where his arm used to be.

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"The scientists messed with more than my mind," he says, dryly. "Also I spent a lot of those years on ice."

"I think," John says, "we both need another drink so you can tell me all about it."

He waves to a waitrat.

"I'll even take notes."

His stomach tries to revolt at the idea of John taking notes on him, like he's a lab rat --

--again--

--before he shoves it all back. That's not what he's offering. He'd looked at the blank journal and offered to find a way to help get words on the page.

Bucky draws a long breath and lets it out in a sigh.

"Okay."

"Whiskey and coffee," John tells the waitrat, "however Mr. Bucky takes it."

He gestures to the notebook and pen. "May I?"

"Black," he tells the waitrat. "Thanks."

As it scurries off to fill their order, he shoves the pen and empty journal across the table.

"Be my guest."

"Ta."

He gets comfortable in the chair, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. "I'm more of an occult detective than a journalist of any sort, but there are a lot of similarities between the two.

"Now." He uncaps the pen and holds it over the paper, ready to write. "What's the first thing you remember?"

Work backwards, he'd suggested. Start with the most recent and figure it out from there. He blows out a breath.

"Princess Shuri giving me that notebook and pen and shoving me out of her lab," he says.

John smiles and writes it down in the simple handwriting of someone who is used to writing quickly.

"Do princesses often study science where you come from?"

"No," he says, "but she's not where I come from. I'm where she comes from. Her kingdom, not mine."

"I see..."

"What brought up you writing things down?"

He looks like he's bitten into a lemon.

"She says I have to look back to move ahead."

John chuckles. "You make faces, but you still agree with her enough to actually try.

"What's your best memory? One you return to when times are hard, like."

"I..."

He shakes his head, struggling to find the right words. Any words.

Memories flicker past in tatters, too many to count. Baseball games and amusement park rides and hot dogs and movie theaters and laughter, a slight figure from the past overlaid with that of a much stronger man, blond hair and blue eyes and stubborn determination and loyalty all unchanging.

Steve.

He knows if he could focus on one, he could pull it clear and describe it. The problem is, he can't.

"Breathe, mate," John says gently. "Focus on one thing if it's too overwhelming. A color or a sound."

"Damn it."

He sounds weary and utterly defeated as he scrubs his right hand over his face.

"Let's try something simple," John says. "What brought you to Princess Shuri's kingdom?"

"Being an internationally wanted terrorist assassin."

A beat of silence.

"To start."

"Not simple, then," John observes. "Her kingdom obviously isn't your home, so how did it become a place of refuge for you?"

"Her brother felt bad for trying to kill me."

As soon as he says it he shakes his head a little, heaving out a breath.

"No, that's not fair. He's a good guy. He had reason, at the time. I don't blame him for it. Anyway, he's got a real sense of honor."

T'Challa might even, he thinks, become someone he could call friend some day. Maybe. It's complicated.

"What was his reason?"

The page is covered with John's handwriting -- not just Bucky's statements but also John's notes to himself for future questions to ask.

"He thought I killed his father. I didn't," Bucky says, a little more tensely than he means to.

"There was a bomb. In Vienna. But it wasn't me."

"No judgement here, mate," John soothes him. "No matter what you've done or haven't done.

"So he realized the bomber wasn't you, so he took you in when no other country would ... that's a bloke I'd like to meet.

"This bomber, did he try to frame you, or were you blamed because of your past?"

Bucky just nods to the assessment of T'Challa.

"Both."

John mutters, "Bloody hell," as he notes this down.

"What were you doing while all this was going on? Sounds like you'd gotten out of your former life, to a point."

"Hiding," he says, succinctly. "Mostly."

"Did some work on bringing down the organization that fucked me over in the first place."