Soul Stealer ~ (A Bucky Barnes Love Story)

Better Days

I woke the next morning feeling more rested than I had in what felt like a lifetime. It was still early if the sun barely shining through the tiny, circle window was any indication. I stretched, yawning lazily, debating the merits of trying to go back to sleep. A desperate moan drew my attention and I frowned, leaning over the edge of the bed.

Bucky was on the floor, body thrashing and twitching, his mind trapped in a dreadful dream. The thin blanket was twisted around his legs, trapping him, making his anxiety skyrocket exponentially. Sweat was coating his forehead, his face tense, metal plates on his arm grinding nonstop.

"No, no, stop, please," he pleaded, rolling away from me, trying to free his trapped legs. "No!"

Reaching down I laid my hand on his head. His skin was cold and clammy, and my heart quite literally broke. Closing my eyes I focused on our bond, calming my own feelings and mind. He tensed slightly when I touched him, still mumbling incoherently, but didn't pull away. Taking a slow, deep breath I pushed a warm, peaceful feeling through the link connecting us.

Memories of my childhood, of the safety I'd felt with my mom and Uncle Howard popped into my mind. It'd been ages since I felt such security, but I remembered the feeling, like the two of them had their arms around me and were protecting me from the world. I sent that feeling, those memories to him, and his body stilled.

"Shhh, you're safe my Soldier, rest," I whispered, running my fingers through his long hair.

The muscles in his body relaxed one at a time and his breathing finally evened out. He looked much younger when he was relaxed and sleeping. Gone were the hard lines and piercing gaze that made him one of the most feared men of this century.

I didn't dare move for a few more minutes save continuing to play with his hair. He may be a super soldier, but he was still human. He needed sleep. This was the first time I could remember him sleeping for any significant period of time since we fled the bank. Most night his attempts at sleep were met with nightmares or fear of nightmares which caused him to flee our room. He spent his nights roaming the ship, checking and rechecking our escape plan, ensuring the crew wasn't a threat, anything to drive away the invisible ghosts.

We both called our dreams nightmares, but that wasn't what they were. They were memories. Our minds weren't constructing false scenarios that haunted us in our waking hours. No, we dreamed of the awful things we'd done at the behest of HYDRA. We saw the people we'd murdered, and the unlucky people we spared only to torture mercilessly. I couldn't blame Bucky for avoiding sleep because it was in our dreamscape that we paid for our crimes and the price was something neither of us could afford.

When I was sure he was asleep I quietly swung my legs to the floor, slipping into my boots and shrugging on one of his hoodies. The sweatshirt was enormous on me, the sleeves hanging a few inches past the ends of my fingertips and the hem falling to mid-thigh, but it was warm, comfy, and smelled like Bucky. The last thought made me pause, a strange sensation manifesting in my stomach I couldn't identify. I burred my nose in the arm of the sweatshirt, closing my eyes as I inhaled deep.

I didn't understand why it made me feel safe. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Deciding the healthy thing to do was to completely ignore the strange feelings I tip-toed across the room, smiling slightly when Bucky rolled onto his back, snoring softly. Before I left I retrieved a small notebook and pen from his bag, setting it down beside the sleeping man.

Bucky's mind was a jumbled mess of memories, lies, and horrors. He'd taken to writing everything he remembered, good or bad, in journals. Our hope was he would eventually remember his life before HYDRA. So far he'd only remembered Steve which seemed to confuse and agitate him. It was difficult for the Soldier to let go of his last mission and hard for Bucky to understand the glimpses of their shared history.