The air was still. The scent of smoke and damp earth lingered in the clearing where a small fire crackled, its glow licking the sides of a blackened iron pot. Stars had begun to bloom in the sky, one by one.

You sat by a fire, fingers idly tracing the rim of your mug. Behind you, the tall grasses rustled. At first, you assumed it was one of the guards or maybe Shuri returning, but then, something about the steps made you still.

He stepped into the light. Bucky. His eyes were red. He’d been crying recently. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His gaze swept the fire, then flicked up and landed on you. He moved forward, slowly, unsure if his legs trusted him.

“…You okay?” you asked softly, not expecting an answer.

He blinked hard, as if the words reached some hidden nerve.

“They… said the words,” he murmured, voice raw, shredded, almost. “And I didn’t… I didn’t become him.”

His jaw clenched, the firelight catching the wet shimmer in his eyes again. You watched, silent, as he swallowed down whatever storm threatened to rise. Then he sat beside you. Not close, but not far. Close enough that the heat of the fire reached you both.

“I didn’t become him,” he said again, quieter.

You said nothing. Just let the silence hold him, like warm cloth over an open wound.

In the darkness of Wakanda, the Winter Soldier didn’t exist. Just James Buchanan Barnes.