two days ago
the dream starts like it always does. The building in front of him, glassy and pristine, stood tall against the darkening sky. The structure was glimmering, the orange lighting inside spilling its bright hues over the concrete, contrasting sharply with the darkening night. He shifted forward, a sharp sense of anticipation making his stomach its home. The edges of his vision grew fuzzy, like always, as he made his way towards one of the back doors.
before he fully registered what was happening, he reached to his side, retrieving his gun. the weight of the cold metal felt familiar in his hands, and he felt some of the anticipation and fear that had gripped him slip away. in some disjointed way, this was comfortable. Real life felt foreign and dangerous, somehow. He had no one, not even Steve anymore; he was lost at sea. In the real world, he was alone, left adrift. But in here, in his own head? His nightmares were horrendous, just as this one promised to be, but.. some part of him, a small part, was more comfortable here that it was in the waking world. This was comfort, this was familiar, there was nothing to worry about except his mission. No past, no future, just the mission. With a shake of his head, he continued on his mission with practiced ease and grace, letting the small moment of clarity slip away.
His world shifted on its heel, tilting downwards, vision blurring; he tried to catch himself, before he realized—remembered?—that he couldn't move at all. Ice cold fear pulsed through his blood at the idea of not being in control, and he watched his own actions as if through a kaleidoscope. The scene, the sights and smells and sounds shifted around him, then he saw his boots, the gun, his gun, and then darkness. He smashed through a wall, fingers gripping around a throat, shoving the figure forward, only to pounce out after them. Flashes of actions flooded his fuzzy vision, followed seamlessly by fluid dodges and throwing knives with deadly precision; these images spun around eachother, and he felt dizzy watching it all.
The feeling of dread only grew, mixing with a murky sense of regret and grief. His vision cleared, and he watched himself let go of a man who he'd just finished strangling to death. He turned, slow, his horror at his own actions growing. He saw a young man standing beside the nearest door, trying desperately to unlock it with shaking hands, pure horror scrawled all over his face. Bucky watched, its all he could do, as he walked towards the man, a blank look in his own eyes. "Please," the man met not-buckys eyes, "i-i-i, i didn't see anything," he spoke softly, but his voice shook; he struggling to breathe. "I didnt see anything," his voice cracked, not-bucky stopped, reaching for his pistol, and aimed it at the man. "I didn't see anything-" he begged, his voice trailing off to a shakey whisper. bucky could feel the younger guys terror, curled tightly in his gut, as if it were his own. With a flash, the gun fired. Bucky felt bile clawing at the back of his throat as the gun sounded, and his head swam; screwing his eyes shut, he let the deep sense of horror and guilt wash over him.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and watched the man lurch back, and then slowly sink. Blood, bright red and shiny in the yellow-orange light, gushed out of the wound and down his face. Feeling completely detached and out of his own body, out of his own head, Bucky glanced down at his hands. Jolting with shock, he set his jaw to try and quell the rising panic. His hands, flesh and metal, were covered in deep red blood; the scent, and even the damn taste, of the copper liquid flooded his senses and quickly started to overwhelm him. Bucky longed for this dream to end a different way. Or atleast, for it to end. But, it always ends here. The young man dead, the blood on Buckys hands. It will always end here.
Bucky woke up with a jolt, shoving himself off of the hardwood floor and into a bolt upright position. He was shaking hard, covered in sweat, and panting as if he'd just ran a mile. His heart thudded wildly in his chest, and Buck was suddenly terrified that somehow, someway, it was going to break itself out of his ribcage, with how hard it was beating. He felt too cold and too empty, but at the same time, part of him was sure that he could still feel the warm blood coating his hand. He couldnt see. Well, he could, but it was dark in his apartment, and checking his hand for blood wasnt really his top priority; he heaved in and out, shallow panicked breaths, trying in vain to calm his heart, calm his shaking. He growled, a deep rumbling from his chest, as he ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, the metal one digging into the skin around his eyes uncomfortably. No, no. It wasnt real. It was a fucking nightmare and that was all. Why the hell did his body have to react he was the one that got shot?
Slowly, the adrenaline high faded, and he was able to get control of himself again; though, if his hand still shook, that wasnt anyone business but his own. Bucky wasnt sure how much time had passed, but he guessed that it couldnt have been more than twenty minutes. That was his third nightmare that day, seventh of the past two days. He was a fucking mess, he was a mess.
- ••
The sky was shifting shades, brilliant reds and oranges streaking over baby blues and vibrant indigos as the night drew closer.
Bucky let out a slow breath, closing his eyes, and just listening to the commotion of people far below. He was perched on a chair beside the single window in his apartment, watching sun go down. It had been three (four? he couldn't remember) days since he'd talked to Mr. Nakajima, since he'd told him the truth about what happened to his son.
He hadn't taken it well. Of course he wouldn't, who would? Bucky exhaled sharply, bringing his right hand up to scrub at his face, and tuck a strand of hair back behind his ear.
Truth be told, Buck wasnt taking it well either. With Sam back in Louisiana, there was nothing left for him to do, except.. Do the work. He was trying, he really was, so fucking hard. But, with how Nakajima reacted? the pain, anger, and disgust in his gaze? the way he'd slammed the door in Buckys face? it broke him. Well, part of him. Something in him seemed to snap, and Bucky hated it. He hated the setback, because now, when he looks at his hands, all he sees are weapons, all he sees is blood coating them; hes back at the beginning of all of it. All his progress felt like it had gone down the drain. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew this was the progress, learning to ride this wave. But, it didnt change the fact that when he closes his eyes, he sees Nakajimas son. He sees the younger mans fear, he hears the pistol firing. It was him; it was Bucky. He killed Nakajimas son. And he could never take it back, not in a way that mattered. Yoris son was gone forever, and Bucky couldn't stand the thought. He couldn't trust himself, couldn't trust the hands that killed hundreds. He wasn't safe, he wasn't stable, he couldn't leave the apartment; he'd just be a danger to everyone, if he did.
To make it worse, his nightmares had gotten progressively more frequent, until Bucky decided that he just.. wasn't going to sleep anymore. That was two days ago. He hadnt showered, either, though that wasn't even on his mind. He snacked throughout the days, but that wasn't really enough for his enhanced immune system. He couldn't bring himself to leave the apartment, though, to get anything else to eat. get through it, he told himself, just get through the worst of it. He'd done it plenty of times before, muddled through the worst of it and just kept going. He could do it again.
The dark haired man was jolted out of his thoughts by his phone going off, somewhere behind him on the counter. The sound, cheery and bright, only upset him. He knew who it was. Standing slowly, he sauntered towards his phone. Picking it up and clicking on the screen, he read the text. It was from Sam, of course. Of course it was from Sam.
Sam : hey bucky, how you holding up?
Bucky felt a pang of regret; he didn't want to ignore Sam, but.. he just didn't know what to say to him. Last time he'd texted the other man, it was to let him know he was on his way to talk to Nakajima. Bucky hadn't replied since. All of Sams recent texts have been in the same vein. Asking how it went, asking if bucky was okay, asking if he needed anything. Bucky appreciated it, he really did, he just.. it was all too much for him right now, he can't trust himself to talk to anyone, even if its an unhealthy mindset, like his therapist would say. Anyway, he knows Sam wants to talk about how he's feeling, and, well, Buckys pretty sure that if he starts talking, he wont know when, or even how, to stop. Hell, he doesn't know if he'll be able to keep all the gritty details from spilling out, and he doesnt wanna dump all that shit on Sam.
The white wolf breathed in deeply and clicked the phone screen off, leaving the text message left on seen.
Bucky moved away from the phone, back to the window. In a way, it felt like his only salvation. Trying to sleep only brought him nightmares, and he couldn't trust himself to leave or talk to anyone at all. But even so, he was so lonely. Nobody wants him, nobody wants to be around him. He used the think—believe, hope—, that maybe.. maybe Steve would want him. They grew up together, theyd been through it, through it all, together. Bucky had unshakable trust in Steve, and he thought Steve had that in him, too. Til the end of the line, right? The thought, those words, left a bitter taste in his mouth now. It was the end of the line for Steve. That line turned out to be much shorter then Buck thought it'd be. Hoped it would be. but now Bucky was left alone. Not that Steve was his keeper, or anything, he could never blame Steve, but.. Steve was the only thing, the only good, pure, familiar thing that Bucky had left. And now he didn't have it.
The sheer loneliness is overwhelming, sometimes, but he usually gets through it. Sam helped. Being around Sam, Sams family, helped. Sam was the damn sun in Buckys eyes, though he'd never admit it; Sam knew how to make Buck feel okay. And how did Bucky repay him? By ignoring his texts. Truly, he felt alone. Especially now, cooped up in his apartment with just his nightmares for company. But.. when he sat near the window, he could hear everything, everyone. Talking and yelling and laughing, he could hear the birds, the symphony of car horns and shouts, and even though in the grand scheme of things, he was still alone in the world, hearing everyone else live their lives.. it made him feel a little less empty, even if he wasnt too sure why.
Bucky shook his head, dispelling his current train of thought. No use wallowing in it, he supposed. Glancing around to the horizon, he realized belatedly that the previous vibrancy of the sky had slipped away, leaving only shades of indigo and black, melding together as the sky grew even darker. Tiny points of light sparkled in the sky, hanging high above everything. He wondered vacantly, do stars get lonely? The man entertained this train of thought for a moment; being all alone out there in the blanketing darkness and complete silence of space, millions of miles away from their closest companions.. it seemed a very solitary life. Then, after a moment, he snorted, realizing just how silly that was. Theyre stars, not people. Just stars, not sentient things, not things with hopes and dreams and fears, like him.
Eventually, as late evening turned to late night, Bucky left his spot by the window. He wandered around his apartment aimlessly, stopping to stare at his shitty little bed. It wasnt really a bed, actually, just some blankets on the floor. But to him, it was better then a bed. Hell, he didnt deserve a bed to begin with. Maybe he didn't even deserve those blankets. Flexing his metal hand and willing himself to walk away before his thoughts grew any darker, he made his way towards the kitchen.
Bucky spent a good fifteen minutes rummaging around, but he ultimately came up unsuccessful. Almost everything he had, minus a pack of peanut butter crackers, was either blatantly bad, or past its expiration date. Well, to be fair, bucky hadnt gone shopping recently, like.. at all. Not for a week or two anyway, and he really had meant to stop at some point, but after the talk with Nakajima, that wasn't really in the cards.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Bucky walked back to his main room. He had to search for a minute, but he grabbed his leather jacket and his gloves, slipping his shoes on, on his way out the door. All he had to do was stop at that little corner store down the block, and then come back. That was it. He could do that without hurting anyone, for sure. For sure. He swallowed thickly, suddenly realizing how shitty he must look in that moment. His eyes were lidded with exhaustion, dark bags beneath them. His greasy brown hair was tied up into a messy ponytail, and he would bet good money that he didnt smell great. Whatever, it didnt matter anyway. He'd just be another customer. One with a metal arm and a haunting stare, his mind supplied unhelpfully.
The night air was cool, and almost heavenly compared to the stuffy air of his apartment. The brunette set a brisk pace, despite how his tired body protested. He kept his metal arm tucked into his coat pocket, even though he was wearing gloves. The little corner shop was lit softly, the warm white light flooding from the windows and illuminating the sidewalk around it. Bucky walked slow, feeling a small thread of anxiety curl around his throat. All he had to do was keep himself under control long enough to get some snacks, then he could hole up in his apartment again.
Realizing he was standing outside, staring inside in a rather ominous way, he jolted back to reality and quickly made his way towards the door. It opened easily with a push from his flesh arm, and a cheery bell chirped above him as he stepped inside. The guy at the counter, a younger man in his 20's, nodded to him as a greeting. Buck nodded back, rolling his shoulders before setting off.
Buck exhaled softly, beginning to wander the small amount of aisles within the corner store. He snagged a smaller bag of salt and vinegar chips, holding the edge of the bag as to not crush the chips. Further down the aisle he spotted little ramen cups; they were a different brand then he normally got, but he figured what the hell. He took a cup of spicy chicken, tucking it under his arm. He would have to make a proper store run eventually (tomorrow.. or the next day, hopefully), but this would be enough for the night. He stopped beside the register, reaching down, opening the clear glass of the fridge, and retrieving a water bottle.
He set his items down on the counter as the cashier made his way over, pulling out his wallet. He produced some cash, holding it in his flesh hand, while the man rung him up. His eyes wandered, staring at the wall behind the counter; it was lined with cigarettes and other miscellaneous tabacco products. It wasnt really a secret, buck used to smoke in the 40s. He hadnt had a cigarette in many many years, but maybe.. just one. Just once, for old times sake? Maybe it would calm him down, bring him back to better—
"Would that be all for today?" The cashiers voice cut in, derailing buckys attempts at making an excuse to get cigarettes.
"Uh," he started lamely, "Could i get a pack of Marlboros?" He asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Could i, uh, see some ID?" The cashier asked after a moment.
"Of course, yeah," Bucky set the money on the counter, digging into his wallet and pulling out his ID, showing it to the cashier.
The mans eyes widened, but to his credit, or maybe discredit, he simply nodded. After a moment, the man unlocked the glass door, pulling out a pack. Bucky felt slightly dizzy, wondering what the hell he was even fucking doing. Still, he accepted his items, now bagged, and his change from the cashier.
"Thanks" Buck offered, his voice gravelly, and the cashier nodded again. Bucky left, the bell chirping merrily again as he exited the corner store.
The man set a brisk pace, eager now to get home. The night air was still lovely, and part of him wished to take a long walk around new york right now, while it was dark and clear and far less busy than during the day, but anticipation buzzed like bees beneath his skin at the thought of what was in his bag. He exhaled sharply, crossing the street. When was the last time he had a cig? Years, years atleast. Bucky normally didnt bother with anything of the sort, no alcohol or anything else, since he never really saw effects from anything, namely alcohol, because of his hyped up immune system. Actually, Steve was the one who told Bucky he couldn't get drunk anymore, and Buck hadn't believed him til he had a couple shots of his own.
All in all, he wasnt really sure the cigarettes would do anything for him. But they felt nostalgic, or at the very least, familiar. Right here and now, in a world he has no grasp on, a world where hes completely alone in his experiences, this felt like a little piece of home. And, well, he knew it was stupid. Its not like he was gonna become addicted, he was fairly sure that it would be such a low dose compared to his immune system that he wouldnt feel any affects of the tobacco whatsoever; thus, no high, nothing to even get addicted to. He just, he wanted, he needed.. the familiarity of it. But just once, just one pack. He cant sleep, cant talk, cant even take care of himself for fucksake, and he was only getting worse. If these stupid cigarettes can grant him an ounce of peace, maybe enough to get a few hours of undisturbed sleep, then so fucking be it. Just this once, he'd let himself go a little, allow himself to have this little piece of familiarity in this foreign world.
The walk to his apartment passed quickly and without incident; he wanted to get home and smoke in peace. Stepping into the metal box, he hurriedly punched his number into the elevator, waiting for the doors to close. Anticipation buzzed like electricity just below his skin, and he squeezed his fists in a lame attempt to release some of it. The elevator dinged and the door slid open smoothly, releasing him into the hallway. Keys already in hand, he padded quietly to his door, unlocking it, stepping inside, and relocking the door with practiced ease. He tossed his keys onto the counter, ignoring the metallic sound they produced as they made contact with the surface. The gloves were peeled off, toss aside haphazardly and without care.
Anticipation buzzed just below his skin as he set the bags down, digging through and quickly retrieving the small red and white carton. Bucky stared down at the small pack, held gently in his flesh hand. Something deep in him felt absolutely desperate when he stared at the familiar packaging, but he couldn't pin down exactly what it was. He gulped anxiously, and moved towards the kitchen, where he kept his lighter near the stove. Snagging it in his metal hand, he fidgeted restlessly with the cardboard carton in his flesh one. Next, Buck strode through the apartment, silent but quick, purposeful steps, heading towards his open window.
The carton was ripped open with a shakey hand, and a single cigarette was gently extracted. Bucky nestled the cigarette carefully between his pointer finger and his middle finger and brought it to his mouth, hand still shaking softly. With a flick and a click the lighter burst to life, the small flame stuttering unevenly from the lighter. He brought the flame to the end of his cigarette, watching little golden thing begin to eat greedily at the paper, and without another thought, he inhaled deeply.
The smoke was hot and had a chemical tang as it roared down his throat and into his lungs. It bit at his throat and lungs, hot and angry and full of what he now knew was deadly toxins, but he didnt mind. The familiarity of it all already seemed to ease his anxiety a tad, and the heat in his chest felt it was forcefully gnawing away his leftover anxiety and adrenaline. The brunette clicked off the lighter, watching tiredly as smoke oozed from the end of the red, ashy cigarettes. Leaning a little further out the window, he snagged the cig from his mouth, and then slowly exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke scatter off into the night. Blowing it out through his nose probably wasn't the best choice, though; his exhale was quickly followed up by a violent sneeze.
After a moment, he leaned down, resting his chin on the window frame and closed his eyes, once again listening the sound of everyone living their lives around him.