Fast breathing. You can hear it, your own. Then you are aware of rising, falling—the chest, your chest—breathing quickly, heart pounding. Fast, fast. Adrenaline. Your own blood rushing in your ears. All accounted for in a split second.
Becoming aware of the heat the moment your body goes. Rigid. Shaking. You are shaking, your thoughts—Iamthinkinghavingthoughts—blurred. Softness around you, bedblanketdarkness, heart still pounding. Breathing slowing. Coming down. The dream. A dream.
Now, a memory, a man, recalled.
Alone. Darkness. An insecure facility, mission incompatible(?). Persue.
A voice, the man (greyinghairdarkeyesearlyfiftiesIveseenyoubefore?): “Do you need me to take that away from you?”
You are holding: A weapon. Memories, themostimportantALLIHAVE.
“I think you need that taken away.”
A glint in the man’s eyes. He is Standing. Evil. Fear. Adrenaline. GetAwayFIGHT-
Your own voice: “I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU.”
RAWSCREAMINGFIGHTFIGHTING--
Darkness. Heavy breathing. Not reality, yet.
Whiteness, circles. Morphing. Changing. They are secure. You know this. Different colors, small, large, forming anew yourbodyistryingtocalmitselfdown a monotone, a smiling face. Blinking in and out of existence, until you are back to
darkness. The sound of your heart beat pushing against your flesh, shifting the covers around you. Steady, slow, slower.
Your eyes blink open in the dark, a moment of peace, then-
thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk-
The sound: FOOTSTEPS.
Your heart. Beating fast, again. Your breathing. Quick. Speeding, nearing hyperventilation. Body: Rigid. Eyes openfearFEAR-
thunk, thunk,
You are still.
Silence.
You breathe in with quick jerks, exhale in long, slow breaths. That is unintentional. You are silent. That is intentional. You are listening. Waiting. Aware of each of the thirteen weapons that could be accessed in .5 seconds or less.
You have not assessed properly. You are distantly aware that there are gaps of knowledge about your surroundings that could be filled if there was not fearadrenalinecoldfight trapping your veins, your thoughts.
The doorknob turns,
before you can decide to move, a voice:
“Bucky?”
Steve.
Breath slowing, but not slow. Muscles relaxing, but not relaxed. You are on edge, still. Razor sharp.
Your eyes meet his, you sit up, you are keeping your body very, very still. He steps inside.
“Nightmare?” He asks. You nod.
Then, correct yourself: “Yeah,” you say, and your voice sounds like jagged rocks scratching on pavement, it takes work to push it out, but you do.
Steve stares, quiet, from where he stands for a moment, then says: “You were yelling.”
Your right hand curls into a fist. Part of you knew to expect that. All of you is angry that it came out.
“Sorry,” you say. It is yet another part of you that seems uncontrollable in this new way of living.
Steve says, “It’s okay,” and your gaze shifts to the ground. He steps forward, sits on the bed next to you, and it occurs to you that it would be extremely easy to kill him right now. There is a knife under the bed within arms reach, all it would take is two fluid movements, .3 seconds, and a deep bloody slash through the neck would end it.
Something like shame creeps into your bones alongside that thought, and you shift so your body is facing Steve’s, saying, thank you. Saying, I’m trying.
Steve has seen this before. Steve has made innumerable efforts to understand you, to help you, and through that, you have also learned about him. You know how this goes.
Which is why you are jarred when he asks: “What do you dream about when you’re not having nightmares?” instead of talking aimlessly, or letting comfortableuncomfortable silence stretch between you.
There is a silent wince in his voice, and you know why. You told the therapist that you have vivid dreams—nightmare or otherwise—nearly every night. Which was true. You also told her every dream was a memory, resurfacing. Which was a lie. She must have told Steve some of this, he feels guilty for knowing without being told by you directly.
Even in the dark, you recognize the genuine curiosity and care in Steve’s eyes, and you are reminded that it is okay for him to know parts of you that you never want anyone else to see.
“I’m not sure,” you say, honestly. Steve shoots you a questioning look, but doesn’t prod further.
“I don’t know if they really happened,” you continue. You won’t let your eyes meet his.
“I might be able to help with that,” Steve says, cautious. There is a reason you have not said anything about the dreams to the therapist. Whether the dreams happened or not, they are still yours, finite parts of you that you feel like you have to hold on to, because you never could before.
But. Steve has a point. And you get the feeling that as much as you are able to hide, wdshklaeksdgl.
“Some of them don’t make sense,” you say, finally finding a starting point. “I know you never worked for Hydra, even if I dream about you there. I know I didn’t die falling from that train even if it sometimes feels like I did.”
You are suddenly aware of the number of words coming from your mouth, and you’ve had conversations in the last year with Steve, his friends, the therapist, but it is still so strange to hear your own voice.
Steve opens his mouth, begins to say, “Bu-“
but you cut him off with: “There are some I just don’t understand.”
And this. This is something you’ve been toying with telling him for awhile, and reasons for not saying anything, but they seem obsolete in the quiet intensity of your conversation.
“I’ve dreamt that I can fly, but the arm is too heavy, so I can never actually leave the ground,” you say. “I dream of kissing you."