A/N - So this is where my habit of getting additional ideas for stories which I originally intended as a one-shot comes in... I hope you enjoy this not-so brief epilogue and thank you for all of your feedback on the first chapter!

It surprises him, how quickly his jaunts to the medical bay become a nightly habit.

Only a few days after finally settling down and adjusting to life in Wakanda, his old sleeping habits have returned; in that he finds himself sleeping very little, and when he tries, the softness of his mattress makes him feel like he is being swallowed whole. He finds enough opportunity to nap during the day – is perfectly content to slump on a chair following a run and sleep off his exhaustion – but as soon as night rolls around, the prospect of sleep becomes rather unattractive.

At first, it's easy to blame this on the multiple changes in time-zones he's experienced recently. After that he blames it on the mattress, before finally he admits to himself that, considering the only time the palace is silent is in the dead of night, he much prefers being able to sit and think quietly to himself in the medical bay than lying on a bed that seems far too soft.

"I hope you know, I'm only here for my benefit," he tells Bucky on the fifth night this happens, while he adjusts the volume on the speakers T'Challa had kindly provided (he thinks he could simply ask for a firmer mattress as well, but he doesn't want to appear too demanding to someone who's risking so much to keep him safe). He's spent most of the day on a downloading spree, filling his new phone with everything from Marvin Gaye, to Michael Jackson, to David Bowie, to Nina Simone, to The Beatles (because he's sure his Ma would haunt him if he didn't), to Radiohead (because Riley had loved them) to the Hamilton Soundtrack. There's bound to be a lot he's missed, but grabbing enough time to listen to music has been a rarity lately so he'll take what he can get for now.

Besides, the man in the tube - who just happens to be in the same room as him - has missed entire decades worth of music, so if anything seeps into his sleeping mind then Sam thinks he will have done his job.

He finally connects his phone to the speakers, puts his music on shuffle, and takes a seat as Marvin Gaye once again fills the clean space of the med-bay. It's not quite loud enough to drown out the beeping and humming of equipment, but it's enough that he can let the music soothe him into a light doze as he leans back in his chair.

"You know, on top of all the music I'm introducing you to, I should probably get some movies in too," he says aloud one night, trying not to focus on how strange it is to speak to someone who will never answer back. But hey, it beats bickering with Bucky in a tiny car on the way to Leipzig, so he'll take it. "You've probably seen Star Wars by now. Even Steve had by the time I met him. Pissed me off too; I've never been able to see someone react properly to the twist in Empire…"

David Bowie plays quietly in the background, while Sam fixes his gaze on the window that sits just outside the glass walls of the med-bay. He can see the moon still hanging high in the sky; he has a few hours left before the doctors and technicians arrive and break his reverie. He remembers that he hasn't slept in over 24 hours and that exhaustion is starting to cling to his bones, but he knows he cannot sleep. The last time he tried he had woken with a start, having seen Rhodey fall from the sky in much the same way Riley had, and the ugly sensation of tears sliding down his face and sweat clinging to his skin had put him off the prospect of sleep.

He sighs and turns to the cryotube, still unused to the sight even after a week. "The Terminator's a must, obviously. It'll help you understand at least five nicknames I have for you," he continues with a smirk, and for the rest of the night the spectres of nightmares fade away as he lets himself ramble on.

It's a blissfully warm day when he and Wanda take a walk into the city to see the market stalls gathered in the square. They had both admitted over breakfast that they felt the need to escape the relative confines of the palace, even if only for a few hours, and Wanda had finally seemed comfortable with the idea when Sam agreed to tag along with her.

The marketplace is a sight to behold; everywhere Sam turns his view is rich with reds and blues and purples as long dresses and scarves flutter in the light breeze, and children dance to the sounds of music in the square. In the centre of a circle of stalls sits a lone musician playing a Mbira who smiles as curious children edge closer to see him play. Sam turns to see Wanda looking on, entranced, and he smiles. It's nice to see her happy, after he'd had to help remove her from the cruelty of a straightjacket barely a week ago.

They wander awhile, soaking in the sights and sounds of the markets, along with the mouth-watering smells that come from the food stalls. Nobody seems to recognise them, and Sam lets himself bask in the sensation of being invisible amongst the crowds. They stay until the bells ring out at noon, and the street vendors start to pack away their wares, and he feels Wanda tug at the sleeve of his shirt before nodding in the direction of the palace in a silent request to leave.

"There used to be a market at home, every Tuesday morning," she says, as they walk along the long road lined with trees which leads back to the palace. "My brother and I would wake up early every week just to see it. We never had money to buy anything, but it was nice just to look and pretend that one day we could afford anything we wanted."

It hits Sam that this is probably the most she's ever told him about her life from 'before'. They've spent so long training and getting to know each other as team-mates that it hadn't occurred to him before just how little he knew about her life before she became an Avenger.

He doesn't get the chance to press her for more before she speaks again.

"I think I can help your friend."

The statement takes Sam aback for a moment, and the utterance of "Steve?" is barely out of his mouth before Wanda fixes him with a knowing stare and a raised eyebrow. "Oh."

It's strange. Of all the words to describe Bucky, he's not sure he considers the man his friend quite yet. He hasn't had the chance to get that close to him, and most of their interactions have been made up of either intense fighting or childish bickering.

Nevertheless, he cares enough - albeit more due to Steve's feelings towards the other man - that the prospect of him getting any form of help makes Sam feel momentarily hopeful. "What are you thinking?"

Wanda sighs, suddenly indecisive, before replying. "Before, when I was… created, I guess, I was encouraged to invade people's minds and identify their worst fear to use it against them. What do you think Barnes's worst fear is?"

"At a guess?" Sam says, remembering with a shudder the mindless machine the other man had become back in Berlin. "Someone using those words to take control of him again."

Wanda nods and hums thoughtfully, not speaking again for a few moments. Sam starts to think she's let the conversation drop, but one look at her shows her face screwed up in concentration, as if she's choosing her words carefully. "The problem seems to be that those words are buried deeply in his mind. If I could use my abilities to find them and figure out a way to, how would you say, neutralise them, then maybe it would help…" She shrugs, as if dismissing the thought. "I'm not sure I can trust myself to access those fears without hurting him though."

"It's a start," Sam reassures her, and honestly, it's as much of a plan as they've been able to form up to now. It's enough of a spark that the idea of one day being able to wake Bucky up starts to feel more plausible than that of him rotting away in cryo. "We can work on it. Besides, from what I've seen, he's probably willing to try anything to get that shit out of his head."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Wanda says with something approaching a wry smile, but she seems comforted anyway. She turns to face him and the smile instantly becomes warmer, as if the stress of the last few weeks has finally been shed. "Thank you, Sam. Today's been nice."

"Hey, no problem. And next time, I promise to buy you the most expensive thing we can find to make up for all those times you missed out."

"Sam, you don't have any money."

"We're living in a palace, how hard can it be to find money?"

She looks at him disbelievingly for a moment before bursting into laughter, and Sam feels a swell of pride at his achievement as they finally reach the gates of the palace.

"You're not missing much here. Steve's off doing super-secret missions which I imagine are actually just boring diplomatic stuff. He's started calling us the 'Secret Avengers', which makes us sound a little like an 80s-underground band, but I'm starting to like it. Just don't tell Steve that."

He yawns as sleep starts to creep up on him, the strangely comfortable reclining chair not exactly helping matters, but he doesn't want to drift off just yet. It's been a while since he's spent the night in the med-bay. His week has been eaten up by team-meetings regarding both their immediate and distant futures, and intense training sessions in the scorching heat in an attempt not to let his current lifestyle make him soft, and he's generally been exhausted enough that collapsing on his soft bed is sufficient to make him go out like a light.

It's been too long since he's had a chance to vent, however, so he's willing to fight off the clawed hands of sleep in order to get a few hours of unfiltered rambling.

"Wanda's prepared to help you when you wake up. I think Nat's more interested in trying the more conventional methods that helped her when she defected from the KGB, but if that fails we'll literally have to resort to magic." And how the hell has he gotten to the point in his life where that is a sentence he can conceivably say? He laughs under his breath and lets his eyes close for just a moment, as an old Beatles track that his mother had loved plays softly in the background.

For a moment, he can pretend he is a child again, free from the pressures of life so long as he sleeps in his mother's arms with her soft singing providing a soothing lullaby, and the thought is so sweet that it aches.

He wakes a few hours later, the soft orange light of the sunrise starting to spill into the medical bay, and he wipes the remaining sleep from his eyes with a groan. He's still exhausted, and the supposedly comfortable chair seems to have done something unpleasant to his back, but at least his sleep has been dreamless. These days, he can ask for little else.

"We'll have you out of that thing soon enough," he promises his silent companion as he makes his way to the door. "It'll be a shame though. You're much better company when you can't interrupt me."

He doesn't see as much of Steve as he'd like to these days – so caught up is the other man in the important matters that come with being the leader of a band of renegade superheroes – so it's a surprise when he finds him standing outside the entrance to the med-bay, his gaze fixed on its sole, sleeping occupant.

"You're allowed to go in, you know," Sam says, seeming to take the other man by surprise as he approaches him. "At least I assume you are. I've never actually stopped to check."

That gets Steve to smile, albeit briefly. "Nice to see you too, Sam."

Putting aside any plans to go into the med-bay and indulge in his usual spiel of talking out loud and/or listening to nostalgic music for the moment, he wanders over to Steve's side and follows his gaze to the cryotube set up in the centre. The beeps of life-support are audible even through the glass, and Sam has to admit that he's started to find its repetitive rhythm comforting when he's trying to rest.

"He's doing okay," he tells Steve, wondering if that's why he seems so hesitant to move closer; the fear that if he does, something terrible will happen to tear his friend away from him all over again. "I mean, he's the same as always, but he's stable. You don't need to worry about him."

Steve turns to Sam and gives him a grateful smile. Not that it's entirely convincing; Sam knows the man well enough to notice that the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I heard you've been spending a lot of time with him."

Sam merely shrugs, not really wanting to get into his reasoning behind that. He knows that Steve is hardly in a position to judge someone for putting sleep aside, but he's not sure he can deal with his friend's concern right now. "Yeah well, what can I say? I think I actually prefer him like this."

Steve gives a full-bodied laugh at that, and Sam feels a child-like pride at the sight. He wonders when Steve last had the chance to laugh and mean it; there's not exactly been a mountain of possibilities to do so in recent weeks.

The respite is brief however, and that uneasy expression returns to Steve's face far too easily for Sam's liking. He thinks of the barely concealed pain in Steve's voice when he'd first explained what had happened to Bucky and his current reluctance to visit him, even in the knowledge that the other man is safe, and Sam thinks he understands.

"You haven't failed him, you know."

Steve freezes, his jaw clenching minutely, and Sam knows he's hit a nerve. "He shouldn't have had to go back under."

"Maybe not. But it was what he wanted," Sam says, not sure he has the ability to conjure the words that will make Steve feel any better about this. "Hell, the fact that he's even able to make his own choices is mainly thanks to you."

That, at least, seems to have an effect. Steve looks back towards Bucky, separated from him only by a sheet of glass, and Sam tries not to imagine the pain of knowing that someone you care so deeply about thinks that being put to sleep for god knows how long is the only good thing for them. If it had been Riley…

He stops himself there, because that is absolutely not something he can bring himself to think about right now.

"Look, he's not going to be in that thing forever. He'll wake up, probably soon, and when he does, he's going to need you. You're not going to be much help to him if you're too busy caught up in your own guilt."

It's perhaps a little harsh, but the look in Steve's eyes is enough to reassure him that it was what needed to be said. There's a quiet determination there that reminds him of the days before Lagos and Siberia, when their team functioned as a dependable unit and not as individually fractured pieces of an incomplete whole.

Deciding that he'll just call it a night and try to get some sleep in his bed for once, he turns to leave, laying a soft hand on Steve's shoulder as he does so. "Just go in and talk to him. It helps."

Sam's already making his way along the corridor by the time Steve moves, but he does allow himself one look back when he hears the sound of the glass door being pulled open, and he smiles to himself as he sees Steve finally garner the courage to approach his friend.

"It's been four years today. Four years since Riley died."

The words feel heavy when said aloud, as if he's kept them bottled up inside for far too long and they've grown stale. The only response he gets is a soft hum from the equipment, but he can't say he minds the quiet. "I haven't told anyone that, besides you obviously. Not sure I could deal with all that sympathy again. It was bad enough the first time around."

He takes a swig from the small bottle of vodka that has been sitting in the mini-fridge in his room since his arrival. He'd never really planned on getting around to drinking it, but he's grateful for it now. It tastes like crap, but it helps to drown out the noise in his head; the disbelief at the fact that it's been four years since his life shifted irreversibly, and the magnitude of the events that have occurred since.

It isn't enough to erase the image of Riley falling, however. That is something he can still remember with perfect clarity; the deafening blast of the RPG hitting him, the way Sam's heart had lurched as he'd seen his friend start to fall, and the biting wind in his face as he dived to catch him despite the horrific knowledge that he'd never make it in time.

"He was a bit like you, in a way," he continues, trying to ignore the way his words are slurring. "From what Steve told me about you from before anyway. He was always looking out for me, trying to keep me safe in a place where safety didn't really exist. He could make the worst day imaginable feel somewhat bearable, you know?"

"And he was a pain in my ass," he adds with a smirk, because as rosy a picture as he can paint of his best friend, they had always found immense enjoyment in annoying the crap out of each other. Sam finds it strange that this is one of the aspects that he misses most, but he's never really questioned it.

It isn't lost on him, how both he and Steve have had to watch as the people they care about most in the world fall to their deaths right before their eyes. That Steve somehow got Bucky back is a miracle, in spite of the horrific circumstances surrounding that fact, and Sam can't pretend he's not the slightest bit envious.

He would never wish death on Bucky in exchange for his friend, he knows that, and he also knows that he would never want Riley to have experienced the horrors that Bucky went through simply so he could have him back, broken but alive. He can't even imagine how he would cope if he'd had to read the Winter Soldier files knowing it was his friend those words were describing. He's still not entirely sure how Steve bears it.

Then again, he's seen enough evidence first-hand that Steve doesn't exactly find it easy to deal with the reality of what happened to his friend. Sam can hardly blame him for that.

"You're not allowed to die on him again, you hear me?" he says eventually, knowing that the other man likely cannot hear him, but he adds a bitter intensity to his tone anyway. "It was bad enough the first time, but if he finally got you back only to lose you all over again… If I had gotten Riley back and he'd-" The words catch in his throat so he stops, feeling slightly awkward at the way the words hang in the air and deciding to drown his discomfort in another swig from the bottle. "I forbid you to die on Steve again. I will personally drag you kicking and screaming back to the land of the living if you force him to endure that all over again."

There's no response. Of course there isn't.

Sam can't quite shake the feeling of disappointment at the resulting silence though.

Deciding that he's been heavy enough tonight without spending the rest of it in a partly drink-induced rant, he reaches for his phone and scrolls through his playlist. His speakers are currently lying under his bed on the opposite side of the palace so his crappy phone speaker will have to do, but it's better than nothing.

Eventually he settles on Radiohead's 'No Surprises', remembering many a night of Riley's off-tune crooning of it with a smile. He raises his bottle towards Bucky's still form, mutters "To absent friends" and proceeds to down the rest of it.

"Hey there, Robocop," Sam declares as he bursts into the med-bay, momentarily struck but how unfamiliar it looks in bright daylight. Several doctors look towards him with expressions that suggest he's not funny, but the only person he really cares about greets him with a tired smirk.

"Look who's talking, Birdman," Bucky replies, trying to suppress laughter at Sam's mock-offended expression.

It's been a month since Wanda first suggested her idea for getting rid of Hydra's influence on Bucky – a month in which she's grappled over whether she's happy to take such a risk or not – and they have enough of a plan in place that the doctors are happy with waking Bucky up. They won't dive into his head immediately – they'll at least wait until he's back on his feet and adjusted – but the hope is that they'll be able to start work on him reasonably soon, so long as he's happy with that.

It's nice to see him up and awake, even in his groggy state. It turns out that the natural way in which one emerges from cryo is in a deep exhaustion, but Sam doubts Hydra had ever cared much for that. He supposes nothing must have staved off sleep more than intense conditioning and having your memories burned out of your brain.

Now though, Bucky's being encouraged to rest up, although the unfamiliarity of being able to do so seems to be preventing him from indulging in sleep.

Sam watches as the doctors do a final assessment of Bucky's vitals, advise he stay in the med-bay overnight for observation, and then leave him alone, satisfied that their own cryo-tube hasn't done any damage. He tries not to notice the way Bucky spends most of that time looking his way, instead pretending to be interested in the built-in CT Scanner on the other side of the room. He waits until the room is empty besides the two of them before he even bothers to speak.

"So, what's it like to be back in the land of the living?"

Bucky groans, which gives him all the answer he needs. "Like I'm experiencing the worst hangover of my life." He leans back on the bed, clenching his eyes shut against the brightness of the lights. Sam makes his way over to the switch to dim them a little, but stops when Bucky speaks up again. "Why are you here?"

He shrugs, realising too late that Bucky can hardly see that, and ponders his answer as he lowers the intensity of the lights. "Steve's not here right now and I figured it'd be best if you weren't alone when you woke up. Figured a familiar face would be better than nothing."

The answer seems to be more solemn than the other man was expecting, if his responding silence is any indication. Sam looks back to find that Bucky's opened his eyes and seems to be fixated on a particular spot on the ceiling. He wonders if the other man would rather just rest than involve himself in conversation, not that he can blame him if this is the case.

"I'll leave you to your beauty sleep, if you want," Sam says, while making his way over to the door. He starts to think Bucky must had drifted off already before he's stopped by a soft "Sam?"

He turns to see Bucky sitting up, balancing on his remaining arm despite looking like he'd happily collapse back onto the bed, and to Sam's surprise he's giving him a genuine smile.

"Thank you. For everything."

Sam doesn't need to ask what he means. It's a surprise to have confirmation that his nightly hole-ups in the med-bay haven't only been beneficial to himself, but he can't say he minds.

Putting aside the temptation to respond with a teasing remark, he gives Bucky a curt nod and a small smile before leaving him to his rest.

He supposes it's about time to ask T'Challa for a firmer mattress in his room. It's not like he has a reason to venture to the med-bay anymore.