Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

4

"Everything is prepared. It is time."

Bucky wasn't sure if there was a time where he hated that phrase more.

All he could think about, as he sat in a secluded, rural area of Wakanda, on a log in front of a fire, was being forced out of the driver's seat of his own body and wreaking havoc on the little slice of peace he'd been allowed to have.

He imagined the children he'd seen racing, the women he'd seen laughing, the men he'd seen fishing, all running. From him.

"You sure about this?" He asked; one more time, just to be sure. It wasn't like Uxolo's answer would change, anyway.

She reassured him one last time, taking her position across from the fire with her wooden — joke of a — spear staked into the ground. "I know you would not hurt anyone."

"And you've got the skills to make sure that doesn't happen?"

Despite the snark in his voice, the obvious jab at her ranking, stature, presence; whatever Bucky could throw that he felt would stick and hurt; she maintained her smile.

Whether it had pity now, Bucky did not care to acknowledge.

"It is time, James. I am truly sorry." She said, with sincerity so sickening Bucky didn't even try to stop her.

And so she began.

"Longing."

Bucky wished, with everything in him, to not have to prepare himself to harm someone. He wished that he didn't feel the tensing of his shoulders, the spasming in his fingertips, the sharpening of his senses; all tell-tale signs of impending doom.

"Rusted. Seventeen."

Darkness. Hunger. Pain. Blood.

All other things had left him; speech and thought and every baser need, gone.

Just hunger amidst the never-ending darkness were brief flashes of bright light. But pain and blood followed, always. Satiation for only moments before the hunger surged through him again.

Trapped in his body, his body that only craved. His body that only pained him. Blood, the only answer, but far too brief and harder to achieve each time.

" 's not gonna work!" He shouted in warning; trying to hold it back, as if that had ever worked. Only images of the woman in front of him, on the ground, surrounded by puddles of her own blood, filled him.

Brightness, but for so long, this time. So sudden and... and fear. Fear had been gone for so long, it was difficult to name.

"Daybreak."

Again, there was pain, but brief, before being soothed by a cool touch, the barest caress.

"Furnace."

Colors. He'd forgotten colors after so long in the dark, being locked in his own head, inside looking out with no way to escape.

"Nine."

Horror; at himself, at the things that he'd done, at the thing he'd become, at where he had come from.

"Benign."

Sound. Sharp and sudden. Ringing through his ears and nearly deafening after so long. Voices. Stern and rumbling. Loud and barking. But now... soft and lilting. Gentle and calming.

"Homecoming."

Decisions. Not his own, but him nonetheless. Something was happening to him. Something else he could not control.

A struggle. Hands gripping him tightly, shouts of frustration, sudden warmth. Blood. Soothing and horrific. Familiar. Terrible.

That voice again. Low, calming, almost gentle. No. Coaxing.

Like he was a wild thing.

He was a wild thing.

But he was free from his own head again. Able to think. Able to feel. Able to... not speak. Not yet, but almost.

"One."

He returned again and again. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Flattened nose and angular cheeks and... Soft hands. Gentle hands. Long fingers that stroked through his hair, that washed away the blood and the grime.

It hurt, but only briefly. He did not struggle, only endured until Dark Eyes was finished.

Swimming through his own head was harder than he remembered. He used to do it without thinking, without effort or care. Quick and smooth and deadly.

But now it was difficult. He listed to one side, heavy and awkward and frustrated. Gentle Hands righted him again and again, patient and kind.

"Freight car."

Bucky whispered the last word with her, unable to keep from crying as he, his warmth and past and present, filled his body. As he was allowed to stay where he wanted, keep his feet where they were and remain in control of his own body.

Then came Uxolo's brief and proud acknowledgement that made it all the more true.

"You are free."