Wakanda, August 11, 2016  

"No..."

A concerned voice reached Bucky at his weak whisper, but he couldn't make out the words. He heard nothing but the further breaking of his heart.

"Please, no."

Somebody touched his shoulder, but he couldn't see who it was. The only thing his eyes saw were the written words before him. 

"No, God, no."

It was all he could say. All he could pray for. Hope for. 

No, no, Evelyn would never have allowed that. She would never... She...

A numbing wave crashed over Bucky. The journal fell from his trembling hand. The sound it made when it hit the ground resonated through him, shaking him to the very core of his being. Something clicked. Memories played in his mind like the reel of a moving picture. Memories not his own, yet still part of him. 
Not his bedroom in Brooklyn, but a medical room in HYDRA's lair. His body slamming against hers, fingers digging into her hips. Her whimpering moans as she bit down on her lip until it bled. The tears and anguish brimming in her eyes.

"No, no, NO!"

Bucky cried out, thrashing against whoever was holding him down. He pushed them off, not caring if he hurt them. His own pain was too much to bear. It stripped all numbness and made him feel again. All-consuming agony stabbed at him, twisting his insides until the innocent boy from his childhood and the flawed, love-sick man from before the war were gone. Only a fractured, monstrous creature remained. It had to die. He had to die.
Pushed by this one desire, Bucky scrambled up and frantically searched his surroundings. There had to be something he could use. Anything! His eyes then fell on the window. He punched through it with a guttural grunt. The glass instantly burst, casting broken pieces out on the streets fifty feet below. One foot was on the ledge. 

"Barnes, no!" 

Someone jumped at Bucky, locking their arms and legs around him. He stumbled back into the room, losing his balance from the extra weight. Desperate to be free from this heart-wrenching ache, he struggled against the unyielding grip. When they still refused to let go, he deliberately dropped himself to the floor.
A crack. A sharp wheeze. The grip loosened around his lower body, but the pressure build around his throat. It was getting harder to breathe. His vision slowly blurred, but then, a glistening caught Bucky's attention — a jagged shard. 

"Barnes, don't you dare!"

His fingers briefly touched the broken piece of glass before his adversary jerked him further up their own body, pulling him out of reach. Bucky elbowed them in their side. They yelped. Their hold slackened. He reached again and snatched up the shard. Blood flowed from his palm and fingers as the sharp edges cut his flesh. It didn't hurt. Nothing could. He had already moved beyond physical pain. 
Bucky's arm went up, ready to plunge the glass into his own throat, and then... he froze. No matter what he tried, Bucky's arm remained stagnant in mid-air. Something had taken hold. Not the other person, but something invisible, something inside of him. 
A fist collided with Bucky's head. His ears rang. Another punch, the same spot. A red haze fell over him as he stared at the blood dripping onto the floor. One more punch. His arm dropped. His eyes closed. A single thought, a single name, lingered as he succumbed to darkness. 

Evelyn... 

***

Steve and Sam hurried up to the medical wing. They'd been on the verge of taking off to LA when Shuri called them over comms, telling them Natasha and Bucky were taken to the infirmary after being found unconscious and wounded. But when the two men finally arrived, they quickly saw the pair hadn't just gotten into fisticuffs. 

"Oh, my God," uttered Steve, dismayed at the sight greeting them.

Natasha was in the nearest bed, shirt off and bruised skin exposed. The right side of her body was red, black, and blue. Her bloodied left hand was being wrapped up by a nurse, whilst a surgeon carefully looked over the imaging of her chest. At first glance, Steve counted seven broken ribs. He met Sam's concerned gaze. If one of those broken ribs perforated Natasha's lung, she was damn lucky to still be alive.
Steve then turned his attention to the still figure on the bed next to hers. Bucky lay strapped down by his ankles, waist, and chest. A doctor was stitching up the cuts running criss-cross over his fingers and palm. Blood stuck to his arm. There was some on the left side of his head as well, probably from when Natasha punched him. To think of the force she must've needed to knock a super-soldier out... Apart from Steve himself, Hulk, and possibly Thor and Black Panther, no other would have been able to do that.

"Captain, Sam." The two turned at the sound of Shuri's voice behind them. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"How are they?" asked Steve. 

"Sergeant Barnes' injuries are minor compared to Agent Romanoff's," said the Wakandan Princess, tapping away on her tablet. "A broken rib usually heals by itself and merely needs pain management, but she has several, so we are not taking any chances. The surgeon will fasten them together with plates and screws and repair any damage to internal organs, nerves, or blood vessels. Apart from that, her left hand suffered some hairline fractures as well. She will need time and plenty of rest to recover."

"And Bucky?"

"I am confident the super-soldier serum will aid in the healing process, but his physical injuries are not what worries me."

Shuri beckoned Steve and Sam outside, closing the door to the infirmary behind her so they wouldn't disturb the patients and staff. Her expression stood grave as she continued, "I would like to put Sergeant Barnes back in the cryo-pod."

"What? Shuri, no, we can't. We need him," argued Steve. "Look, if you're worried about the Winter Soldier, I can handle him. I'll stay here and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else, and Sam can go to —"

"Forgive me, Captain," she interrupted, "but the Winter Soldier is not the problem. At least, not immediately. Agent Romanoff sustained her injuries trying to keep Sergeant Barnes from committing suicide."

Steve stared back at her, mouth agape, believing he must've misunderstood. Sam stood equally perplexed. Shuri sighed and passed her tablet. The two men inched closer, so they could watch the security feed together. With each passing frame, Steve felt himself grow cold. Icy, even. His already heavy heart threatened to weigh his body down, but he remained standing, utterly paralyzed.
Sam averted, having seen more than he could bear. Steve didn't. He couldn't. His eyes were transfixed on the screen, witnessing how his best friend hurt himself and another dear friend. Only one thought crossed Steve's mind then — was this on him? By forcing Bucky to continue Evelyn's journal, without rest and so soon after killing Nemesis, was he responsible for this?
Steve knew Bucky had a tendency to bottle things up. Layer after layer of unspoken feelings and thoughts packed together until they exploded like a cataclysmic bomb. He took every hit, bore every ache, all so another wouldn't need to. Everyone thought him strong because of that. And he was — so very strong. But he undoubtedly was the one most in need of help, too. 

"As you can see," said Shuri, "he is a danger to himself and others. We would normally place him into a secure recovery ward, and have a seventy-two hour security watch and psych consult, but there is something that alarmed me. You notice this here, at the end? His arm freezes mid-air, as if he wants to stop himself from sticking the shard in his neck. This completely contradicts his other actions, not to mention that he appears surprised at it happening. It's as if... something took possession of him."

The implication lingered between the trio. Steve, still impressed by the security footage, slowly raised his head at Shuri when he grasped her meaning. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to it. 

"Whoa, back up a sec here," he said. "Are you suggesting the Winter Soldier kept Bucky from killing himself? That he's somehow in control? I thought Natasha undid whatever hocus pocus Nemesis did by playing that song."

"He does not appear to be in full control, as he was in the holding cell," answered Shuri, "but he holds enough grasp over Bucky's being to prevent him from doing anything that would harm the body they share."

"Okay, so we'll just keep him tied up so that can't happen again. If Bucky can't do anything, neither can the Winter Soldier, right?"

"There can be other triggers. We were already taken by surprise by the words Nemesis used, and now this, too. I'm sorry, but as a scientist and Princess of Wakanda, I must act according to the facts I have for the safety of all. Until we fully understand HYDRA's programming and have a way to reverse it, Bucky should go back to cryo."

They both turned to Steve, who'd been following the discussion silently. Their expectant gaze added to the crushing load on Steve's body. Shuri's reasons for wanting to put Bucky on ice again were valid. Heck, they were the same reasons Bucky himself had put forward when they arrived in Wakanda weeks ago. But there were too many questions left unanswered.

"Can you place him under the seventy-two hour watch first?" asked Steve. "Please, Shuri, give me at least that to get to the bottom of things. If I don't find anything that can help by then, we put him back in cryo."

She licked and pressed her lips together. Her eyes met Sam's and then Steve's again. Eventually, she conceded, "Seventy-two hours in a secured ward. But you are to remain with him, Captain. No exceptions."

"Yes, agreed, thank you. I'm gonna need my sister's diary and all the research Romanoff did on her letters before I go into the ward, though."

"Very well. I will let the guards and clean-up crew know you're on your way to retrieve some things."

She went back into the infirmary, leaving Steve and Sam alone in the corridor. In the brief moment before the door shut, Steve spotted the nurses wheeling Natasha away to surgery. He prayed fervently for her to be okay. 

"You want me to transport Nemesis' body back to Lucas?" asked Sam. 

Steve weighed his options, but it didn't seem like he had much of a choice. "Yeah, if ya wouldn't mind. I wanted to meet with Lucas in person to tell him what happened, but I don't wanna keep Nemesis here in the morgue for any longer than we absolutely have to. She deserves to rest in peace, near somebody who loved her and who can visit her grave."

"What about you?"

"Bucky's out cold. He won't be a problem for the first few hours. I'll keep busy with the letters and journal."

"That ain't what I meant, and you know it," reacted Sam sharply. "You've been working non-stop since Nemesis died. When are you going to take a moment to grieve, huh?"

"When all this is over."

"Cap —"

"Sam, please... don't. Just take Nemesis home for me. And tell Lucas," he paused, "tell him I'm sorry I failed them."

Sam's dark eyes narrowed, but then softened. He nodded and patted Steve's shoulder as he left to return to the flight deck. After taking one last look at the closed door of the infirmary, Steve went into the opposite corridor to retrieve what he needed from the lab. But as he walked, he felt his legs wobbling more with every step. He stopped and leaned back against the wall. 
It was as if his strength then abandoned him completely. Tears sprang into his eyes, and Steve slid down to the floor. The last words he'd spoken to Bucky rang through his head. They echoed, booming louder with each thud of his heart.

"I lost my sister 'cause of you. I lost my daughter. God only knows what you did to both of them, but you're damn well gonna do right by them! You're not leaving this room until you finish that goddamn journal, and we find out what happened to Evelyn and how Nemesis fits into all of this. And you better pray there isn't anything else that'll make me regret picking you over Stark."

If Bucky really tried to kill himself, it was because he learned something new. Something horrible. Something he believed Steve wouldn't forgive. And from the way he'd descended into madness, it didn't look like Bucky would ever forgive himself either. Steve was determined to find out what it was, for everyone's sake. If that meant reading Evelyn's diary for himself... so be it.

I'm sorry, Evy. I know you wrote your journal for Bucky, but he can't go on like this. He needs help. And I need answers.  

Steve took a deep breath and pushed himself back up. He continued on his way to the lab, turning the last corner... and froze at the sound of someone whistling. Not a short, sharp-toned whistle from someone trying to catch his attention. Nor a merry tune from someone at work. The whistle was a song — the song.
Steve peered up and down the hallway, but saw no one. He hastened into the room Natasha and Bucky had been in, but it, too, was empty. Before anything got lost, Steve caught the papers that were carried up by the breeze through the broken window. He then noticed the whistling had stopped. Had he imagined it? Maybe he did need to rest first. 

The room had already been cleaned up. There was almost no trace of the struggle left. Evelyn's diary had been placed on the table near the letters. Steve went to gather his sister's belongings. His jaw clenched when he noticed red droplets on the cover of the diary. Carefully, he wiped the blood off. He couldn't allow his sister's memory to be literally stained with blood. Too much of it had already been spilled, both in the past and in recent days. 
Just when Steve was about to gather Evelyn's letters and Natasha's work on them, he heard it again. The melodic whistle reached him as another breeze swept through the room. He hurried to the window right as it stopped. They were several feet up and there were no other open windows nearby. The sound couldn't have come from outside.

God, I really am losing my mind, he thought. Come on, Rogers, focus. Ya can't let your cheese slide off your cracker now. Evy and Bucky are counting on you. 

He turned around to gather the journal, papers, and tablet from the table, but he barely took one step before falling back. His eyes widened at the young white woman walking past the open door. Her vintage blue wrap dress billowed in the gale, and her caramel blonde hair, perhaps a few shades lighter than his, danced around her. 
Time was messing with Steve. One moment, he seemed caught in a slow-motion scene, and the next, several seconds had jumped and the woman was gone. He ran out into the corridor. Where did—there! 

"Hey!" yelled Steve. "Stop!"

But the woman kept on walking, soundless, on bare feet. He wanted to pursue her, but his body didn't feel inclined to work with him on this. Why couldn't he move? 

"Stop! Who are you?"

She halted. Her lithe figure turned just enough to throw a glance at him over her shoulder. Steve's breath caught. Those delicate facial features... Was it...? 
Her violet-blue eyes, devoid of any make-up, then captured Steve's full attention. He knew those eyes. But the last time he'd seen them had been in Europe... in 1945. 

"Evy?"