Chapter Text
Bucky woke with a scream and struggled upright, fighting against the sheets that had tangled around his legs. “Fuck,” he panted, running a hand down his face. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out of his chest.
He didn’t blame it. If he could escape from himself, he’d run too. It didn’t matter what Steve said. It didn’t matter that Stark had (apparently) forgiven him. It didn’t matter that the court had found him not guilty. Bucky remembered everything he’d done under fucking Hydra. And any time he managed to think he was finding some peace with it, here the goddamn nightmares came again to remind him what a weak piece of shit he was.
The clock by the bed read 2:13 am in accusing red letters. There was no getting back to sleep. There never was, after one of these nightmares. Bucky swore and got out of bed, heading for the shower. He couldn’t wash away his sins, but he could warm his bones and wash away the sweat at least. The apartment’s shitty water heater made its usual noisy protest when he turned the shower on, and he wondered again whether he should have taken Stark up on his offer to move into Avengers tower with the others. Bucky had been there to visit, and from what he’d seen the place was pretty swanky. And convenient. As it was, if they needed him for a mission they had to detour to Brooklyn to pick him up.
Bucky sighed and stood with his face turned up into the water flow. He’d have to move eventually, he knew, if only to put a stop to Steve’s goddamn pleading puppy eyes. But not yet. He wasn’t quite ready to give up his independence after so long as fucking Hydra’s puppet. And truth be told, Stark still made him uneasy no matter how much the man swore he’d gotten over Siberia. Their relationship had unfrozen enough that Bucky trusted him in a fight, at least, but to live in close proximity? He shuddered and turned the hot water up.
Eventually the hot water gave out, and Bucky was forced out of the shower. He dried off and dressed in jeans and a Henley, then studied himself in the mirror for a moment, wondering if he ought to get his hair cut again. It was heading down to his shoulders, and he was surprised Steve wasn’t nagging at him about it. He shrugged. It was his hair, and he rather liked it long. A trim, maybe, but he wasn’t chopping it all off.
It was mid-September and bound to be at least somewhat chilly at this time of night, so Bucky snatched up his black leather jacket on his way out the door, shrugging it on and pulling the leather gloves out of the pockets. The vibranium arm T’Challa’s people had built him was beautiful, a work of art as well as a technological wonder, but he still preferred to keep it hidden. He locked the door behind him and headed out into the night, letting his feet determine the destination.
It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to go wandering Brooklyn at night when he couldn’t sleep. The alternative was staring at the peeling wallpaper in his apartment or maybe the TV, feeling like he was about to twitch out of his skin. He’d tried that route, and wound up with a few holes punched in the damn walls. No fucking thanks.
Bucky crossed a street and wondered if maybe he ought to give in and get a therapist like everyone kept saying he should. He was skeptical. How the hell was talking supposed to help him? But damn, he was starting to get desperate enough to try it. He wasn’t sleeping enough, and was having trouble eating. He couldn’t keep this up forever. He’d slip out of fighting shape, and knowing his fucking luck, that would be when some asshole would strike.
Which would be another reason to live in the tower. The security was state of the art, and he’d have a whole team there if Hydra decided to try to reclaim their asset, or someone else decided the Winter Soldier would make a dandy tool in their toolbox. You will be the new fist of Hydra, a voice whispered in his brain, and Bucky stumbled. Just a memory, he told himself, grabbing onto a nearly lamppost. Just a fucking memory. Shit. Shit. Breathe, goddamn it. Spots swam in front of his eyes, and he could hear himself gasping.
An eternity later, Bucky finally managed to get his heart rate under control and himself firmly centered in the here and now. Yeah, okay. Therapist. Anything was worth a try. He’d get Natasha to help vet potentials. And insist Steve see one too. Stubborn punk had his own nightmares, Bucky knew, and refused to do anything about it either. So he’d make a deal. He’d get his ass to therapy if the punk would do the same. Win-win.
He hoped.
Bucky took a deep breath of the crisp night air then let it out, letting go of the lamp post, which now bore a nice set of finger marks from his metal arm. Oh well. It was still standing. He resumed his walk, realizing he was heading for the park he went to sometimes.
A cry of pain sliced through the night air, and for a moment Bucky wondered whether he was back in his own memories. But no, that cry had been real. He hastened his steps into the park, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Another cry reached his ears, and his eyes lit upon a group of men standing in a circle near a clump of trees. In the middle of the circle lay a crumpled female figure.
What happened next was inevitable. Steve Rogers wasn’t the only one who didn’t like bullies, after all.