Peter Parker/Avengers Oneshots

scare away the nightmares

A man stood in front of the Soldier. A small black object was clenched in his hand; the muzzle, recently removed. There are holes in the Soldier's cheeks from where the bolts held it in, dripping blood onto the floor. Certainly, it will be punished for that later, but it couldn't care less. Its legs were quaking with weakness; this was the longest it had ever gone without a meal.

"Come," the man said, and the Soldier complied. Its black hair swung across its shoulders, matted with blood and sweat. That's another thing that they did after meals, bathed it. Eventually, they came to a stop. "Sit."

A large plate was placed in front of its face. It knew what was happening. It couldn't eat until told, despite being starved. It was a test of strength, of loyalty; a test that it always passed.

It didn't say a word as the man picked the plate up and held it under his face, only stared at the man. It tried to keep the desperate look off of his face, but it knew it was failing. It didn't matter, as it had learned; the look isn't what would keep it from getting punished, it was the giving in.

Eventually, after minutes upon minutes of this torture, the man put the plate down with a smile. "Eat."

It did. It wolfed down every last morsel of the disgusting slop that they called food, savouring the flavour, knowing it wouldn't taste it again for days. The man was grinning madly as it backed away from the empty plate, meal over.

"Good boy."

—

Bucky sits up in bed, panting. It is one of the more tame dreams, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying. Friday is telling him that it wasn't real and what day it was and where he was and who he was, but it doesn't really matter. Bucky knows who he is. He knows that that isn't happening anymore.

He gets up, legs shaking almost as badly as in the dream. He walks to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out with the water from the sink. In the mirror, the scars on the backs of his cheeks show through the facial hair that covers most of his face. He's fine, the wounds are gone. There's no bleeding.

A familiar mop of too-long blonde hair shows up in the doorway. He smiles.

"Hey, punk," he said. "What're you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep. And you?" Bucky doesn't have to reply. Steve knows, and it's obvious. "Ah. What was it about?"

Bucky reaches up and touches his fingers to the scars on his cheeks. That's not exactly what it was about, but it's only a small lie. No big deal.

Finally, Steve reaches out and grabs Bucky's hand. His thumb rubs small circles into the back of his palm.

"You're okay."

"I know."