On The Run

Nightmares

Chapter 13: Nightmares
Longing...

Rusted...

Seventeen...

Bucky grit his teeth, trying to block it out. He had to stop listening, had to stay in control of his own mind...Stop it stop it stop it.

Daybreak...

Furnace...

Nine...

Benign...

He slammed his head back against the headrest of his chair, eagerly welcoming the pain...anything to make the words stop, anything to distract his mind from what they said. An electric shock coursed through his body, ripping a scream from his already sore throat, but he didn't care. He didn't have another choice. He could not let himself turn. He had to fight it-or he would do something terrible again. The more it happened, the worse he got. It wouldn't be long before he did something he really regretted-something he couldn't take back.

But the words kept on coming, faster and faster as they got closer and closer to the end. His brain grew more and more muddled, memories falling away from him even as he tried to grip on for dear life.

Homecoming...

One...

Freight car...

He screamed again, in one last agonized attempt to regain control-but even he could tell it wouldn't be enough. The buzzing inside his head grew louder and louder until it consumed him, inside and out-snatching away all reasonable thought, all hope for escape. And just like that, the Winter Soldier knew that Bucky was gone again. Who knew when he would come back?

"Soldier?"

The words tasted like lead on his tongue, leaving behind the scent of betrayal even as he said, quietly, "Ready to comply."

It was another mission, just like all the others he'd been on over the last fifty years or so. This time, he had to infiltrate a party and kill five guests: five guests who posed a threat to the organization. It wasn't something he hadn't done a thousand times before. He knew how to scout the room's perimeter, how to pinpoint his targets even as he slipped through the shadows that hugged the edges of the room like a metallic ghost. He knew how to press a small blade to the side of the first target's neck, severing the artery quickly and quietly, looking on expressionlessly as blood stained his brown jacket and the man crumpled to the floor in a broken heap. Bucky was about to move on like he was supposed to-until he saw his victim's face and saw Sam looking back at him through glassy eyes.

He went cold with terror and nearly crashed into a table of hors d'oeuvres behind him, breathing so hard his chest hurt. No...He looked around frantically for some hint this might have been a mistake; maybe the light was playing tricks on him. But no; this close, there was no mistaking it. It was Sam. He'd killed Sam.

A sick feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach as he glanced around the ballroom, crowded with people and waitstaff who all went about their business dancing, laughing, and drinking like he wasn't even there-and saw his four other targets. Scott and Clint stood by the window, taking in the night sky and conversing quietly in low tones. Wanda was perched on a leather couch in one corner of the room, talking animatedly to a group of other women in black evening gowns. And Steve...Steve was standing directly across the buffet table from him, blue eyes pleading. You're better than this. Don't do it.