Chapter Text
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2011
Unknown
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20 : 19
Your fingers flexed around the cigarette in your hand as you stood amongst the chaos you had sewn. You weren’t sure if you were bored or just plain exhausted as you lent back against a nearby wall, your staff propped next to you as if you had eternity to spare, when in fact you had only 20 minutes.
It wasn’t your fault the site harboured lethal explosives–you had just been lucky, and you had been in the mood to gamble.
For the last five minutes, you had been waiting for the woman in front of you to wake up, or to at least stir. You knew she was alive, you weren’t stupid–if she was trying to play dead she was doing a terrible job of trying to convince you otherwise.
19 : 49
Her blonde hair had been pulled from its bun in the midst of your fight, curtaining her bruised face. You had to admit that you had grown quite petty when your strikes didn’t land the way they were supposed to–if you were going to die before the downfall of Hydra, you were determined to make the fight as messy as possible. You were already too much of a lost cause to have it go any other way.
Of course, initially, you didn’t mean to mess her up as much as you did, but she had been… difficult. You knew she was different the moment she threw her first punch. When she had moved, you could have sworn you felt the heavens tremble. When she swung, the earth split to make room for the blow. Grace twisted into catastrophe when those hits landed–and they landed alright. You were sure you'd feel the bruises for the rest of your life.
The lights above you flicker, struggling to stay on. The room you had holed yourself in with your temporary hostage had been a victim of collateral damage, wrecked beyond repair–with cracked walls and shattered windows, even the plumbing didn’t stand a chance. The whole building had almost been leveled beneath the intensity of your fight.
Your suit would need repairs, that was for sure—you were just thankful that your own visor hadn’t been smashed back into your face.
17:38
You breathe in the smoke of your cigarette with a steadying sigh, your eyes briefly flickering up; catching on the subtle glint of a… camera. Small, discrete; undetectable if one weren’t paying attention. You couldn’t tell if it was in working condition–yet the thought of someone out there watching all of this unfold… it made your chest flutter, a twisted spark of hope settling just behind your gaze.
You lift your visor up to rest just above your brow, smoke coiling loosely from your lips as the cigarette butt drops from your fingers.
Tonight had just gotten a little more interesting.
༻❁༺
present time
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Your fingers were trembling when you came around, your eyes glassy, your vision blurred. There had been a sharp whistling sound in your ear, one that had you flinching off to the side a bit–as if you had been burned.
Bucky is the first thing that materializes after your world had stopped blurring together–the last person you wanted to see. Encased, frozen–quiet.
Guilt nagged at you in the midst of silence, holding space amongst the myriad of thoughts accusing you of being a bad person.
Your past was just as sorted as Bucky’s–yet you no longer had an excuse to hide behind. You could feel the blood on your hands.
Your hands–the ones that once grasped righteousness with kind, gentle fingers–-now stripped of the comfort that intent made you any different.
“She had been easy to break.”
Bucky’s words had just about shattered you.
With a steadying breath, you muster calmness to hide the tension in your brow and the tightness in your shoulders.
Shuri’s voice is the first thing to drag you from your train of thoughts. She hovered just beside you, checking you over to make sure you were alright, “That was quick, are you alright?”
It’s only when you blink that you realize that your eyes were glassy–on the verge of tears. With hasty hands you almost slap yourself in the face with how quickly you had wiped away the dampness threatening to make waterfalls out of your eyes. “Yes,” you muster a smile, keeping your tone leveled, “I was just taken back by how bright it is in here.” For good measure, you laugh–albeit rather dryly.
You lift yourself from the chair, shaking off the trembling in your legs. “He saw enough today...”
Shuri’s eyes drift from you to Zuberi, as if unsure if she should press further. It’s only with your luck that she doesn’t.
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“Even for me, this is just too much heat, Novaris.”
Your gaze flickers up towards Zuberi from where you lay, having momentarily forgotten that he was there. He didn’t look all too impressed, dressed out of his armour; down to just his pants and the beaded mantle that he had refused to part with. He indeed looked like he was suffering, leaning back against his hands, his eyes closed in concentration, just barely tolerating the heat of the studio. “It’s always hot outside… is that not–” he exhales deeply, trying to get comfortable amongst his own sweat, “enough for you?”
“It would help if you took off that mantle,” you mutter, your eyes flitting back up to the studio ceiling. He had already opened two windows, which was just one too many. But you’d bear it—leaving him outside was out of the question, “what’s the point of taking off your armour and shirt if you’re just going to wear it?”
He’s silent for a moment, his deep breaths being the only thing you could hear for a while. It had only been 10 minutes.
“My kid made it for me.”
Your brows furrow, surprise flitting across your features, “You have a kid?”
Zuberi makes a sound of confirmation, hidden just beneath a loud exhale, his head tilting back. Although it shouldn’t have been all too surprising, Zuberi looked ambiguous in terms of his age–everyone in Wakanda did–but that didn’t stop you from feeling a little taken back.
“What’s their name?”
Zuberi is silent for a moment–you wouldn’t push him to reveal information he didn’t want to give, especially with the state he was in–but after a moment, he murmurs so softly that it borders on reverently fearful: “Malaika.”
You glance up towards him, noting the way he had lowered himself down onto his back.
“It’s a pretty name,” you murmur, finally sitting up–deciding to take mercy on Zuberi, “Angel.”
You scoot closer to Zuberi, your eyes noticing the distant haze in his eyes–his breathing deep yet slowed. “Let’s get you out of here, I think you're–”
“You remind me of her sometimes,” he says suddenly, causing you to pause. His eyes closed for a moment, his nostrils flaring, “stubborn… angry… never listens… lost in her own head–”
“Gee, thanks…” you murmur, eyes narrowing.
“But smart,” he sighs, “and so very strong…”
You shake your head, your features softening, “Alright, I think you’ve had enough of the studio for today. It’s not for everyone, I guess.”
But he doesn’t stop, even as you help him to stand. Your stomach twisted as he rambled out praises, his head hanging as he practically rag-dolled against you.
“Scarily independent, aware, observant–”
You felt worse the more he spoke, leaving him to stand on his own as you turned off the heat before grabbing your drink bottle. You didn’t want to hear it, you wanted him to go back to being silent.
“Stop.” You suddenly snap, your voice louder than expected, but you weren’t done vomiting out your words: “I’ve killed people.” Zuberi pauses, immediately sobering up once he notices the way your eyes have glazed over, tears threatening to fall. You had intended to take everything you did in America to the grave, fearing how others would look at you. You weren’t a victim anymore.
You were a murderer.
You thought that your moment with Okoye–releasing the feathers, doing the vigil–would give you the strength to do better, to focus on what was important. But, as expected, nothing good could last in your hands. Bucky would always be there to remind you of your guilt, your pain… the only thing worse was he didn’t remember a single thing about you–as if you were a mere speck in the midst of his trauma.
“In Ame–America,” you clear your throat when your breath catches, holding your palm in front of your eyes and turning your face away. You squeezed the water bottle in your hand, your tears finally managing to escape, beading down the length of your cheeks “I found… traces of Eltorian magic in the weaponry they had over there. I… I followed it. I faced gangs and black market distributors that held that same trace and–”
You hear Zuberi step across the distance, sensing the way his hand hovered just above your shoulder, giving you the choice to either step into him or walk away.
Surprising the both of you–you stepped into his vicinity, allowing him to gather you into his arms.
The contact feels foreign to you, your mind not entirely used to hugging someone who was closer to an acquaintance rather than a friend.
“I’m sorry…” you murmured, “I’m not like your daughter... and you’re lucky that she’s not like me.”
Zuberi pulls away. You don’t have the courage to look him in the eye. But he isn’t having any of it, his fingers moving to tilt your chin up.
“I’m not lucky she wasn't like you,” he says, his hand lowering once he was sure that you wouldn’t look away, “I’m lucky she didn't have to be. My daughter was kind because the world had been kind enough to let her be. That–that’s not some kind of moral victory, it’s circumstance.”
When your eyes stray, he draws you back with the call of your name. Not Novaris, not doc, or any other nickname you had been dubbed in your life. Just your name, murmured just as softly and as reverently as he had said Malaika. “You were forged in loss. In anger. In grief that had nowhere to go, and still you stand here worrying that you might taint someone else just by comparison.”
You stood frozen, tears streaming more freely–he spoke with such conviction that your need to lower your gaze had been forgotten. “I didn’t compare you to her to stain her, I did it because I recognized that same fire. That same refusal to lie down and disappear… just–” his breath catches, his hands squeezing around your shoulders as if to remind himself that you were still here; still looking at him, “don’t disappear.”
You didn’t know what to say, you weren’t even sure if you could move or tear your gaze away. When Zuberi dragged you back for another sweaty hug, an instinct so old and so heavily locked away allows you to melt further into his arms.
“Thank you, Zuberi.”