The Lewis Family Post-Nightmare Recovery Routine
Wind speed: 7 kph
Temperature: 34 °C
Humidity: 87%
Incline to target: 48°
The data analysis pouring in from the cybernetic sensors is automatic, but unnecessary. The Asset’s skills as a marksman are not needed today.
Mission parameters: Eliminate target, hand-to-hand. Avoid indications of a professional hit. Avoid detection. No witnesses. Remove valuable and/or distinguishing items once the target has been eliminated. Place the body out of immediate sight, but easily accessible to local law enforcement. Get to extraction point unapprehended. Return to safe house and handlers for eval and maintenance.
The Asset has been watching the target from its rooftop perch. The target’s pace is slow, without purpose. Obvious non-combatant.
Mission Report on Target-
Sex: Female
Age: 16
Height: 160 cm
Weight: 48 kg
Hair color: Brunette
Eye color: Grey
Name: Irrelevant
The small female draws closer to the alley that The Asset has staked out as the ideal spot to dispatch the target. The Asset leaps over the edge of the building, knees bending with the impact, landing in near silence. Peering around the corner, it can see the female approach, eyes downcast, hair tied back in two long braids.
Target Assessment-
Combat Skills: None
Awareness Level: None
Weapon placement: N/A
Threat Level: None
The Asset pulls back into the shadow of the alley. It will wait for the target to pass. The braids are convenient. It can grab them with the metal hand and pull the target back into the alley to cover the mouth with the flesh hand. Reassessment ...Grab with flesh, cover with metal. Metal is not susceptible to teeth. Two breaths, and then the target is in place. Another breath, the target is apprehended. Another breath, the female is pressed against the alley wall, mouth still covered, no noise, no witnesses.
Assessment...
Female is too small. Too young. Ten, not sixteen. But it is the right target. The bone structure is right, but it is covered by softness that isn’t present in the picture from the Report. And the eyes...wide, grey eyes. So familiar. He can remember...
No. It remembers nothing. Target verified. Dispatch immediately.
The target screams under its hand, but the sound is too muffled to draw attention. The Asset draws its knife, slicing through the soft flesh at the target’s throat. Blood and viscera are witnessed. Target is limp, breathing has stopped. Mission accomplished.
Or.
No.
The target screams under its hand, but the sound is too muffled to draw attention. The Asset releases the braids to place its hand at the target’s throat. Squeezing, squeezing, crushing the trachea. Target is limp, breathing has stopped. Mission accomplished.
But. No, that was wrong.
What did the police report say? Broken neck?
The target screams under its hand, but the sound is too muffled to draw attention. The Asset releases the braids to place its hand at the back of the target’s head. Quick twist, bones snap, spinal cord is severed. Target is limp, breathing has stopped. Mission accomplished.
It stuffs the body behind a dumpster. Out of sight, giving the Asset enough time to be overseas before the smell draws attention. It pulls the small purse from the body’s shoulder, tucks the wad of bills in the pocket of its black tactical pants. Mission parameters call for distinguishing items. Nothing in the purse. No bracelets, rings, hair pins, earrings. There is a necklace. Engraved. Useful. The Asset removes it and places it into its pocket as well.
Parameters met, return to the handlers.
The Asset keeps to the shadows, creeping through back alleys until full dark descends and it can move more efficiently to the extraction site. The dark helps to conceal the blood spattered across its face and hands and chest.
No. That was wrong. No blood. It had been strangulation.
Hadn’t it?
Or.
Broken neck?
Why was the target the wrong age?
The report said sixteen but his memory of her was of a child. Memory...why did he remember her?
The grey eyes, like his mother. His mother? Why couldn’t he remember?
Remember...Remember...Re-
“Rebecca!”
Bucky reared up out of his bed, his legs tangling in the sheets and causing him to pitch forward onto the floor. His throat was raw, his tongue tasting like blood and half forgotten horrors. He knew he’d been screaming in his sleep again, the violence of his past coming back to haunt him. He hadn’t had anything this vivid in a long time and the nightmare startled him with its clarity and intensity.
But the dream itself...was it a dream? Or...or...?
Bucky began to shake violently at the thought. Nausea rose up in him and he choked and coughed, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. His already ragged breathing ticked up a notch and his heart raced along with his thoughts. Nightmare or memory, nightmare or memory?
So wrapped up in his own head, Bucky wasn’t aware of the presence of another person hesitating at the threshold of his room, until the person cleared their throat. Startled by the sound, he jumped to his feet, deftly retrieving the knife that he kept tucked between his mattress and the box springs, and shifting into a battle-ready stance.
“Whoa! Bucky, it’s just me!”
Darcy. It was Darcy. Thank God.
The knife fell from his fingers, clattering to the floor, and he sank back down to sit on his bed. He ran his hands through his hair, letting them drift over his face to scrub away the sleep and dampness of tears before looking over to where Darcy still stood.
“Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured. He watched Darcy cross her arms over her chest, one hand idly rubbing over her elbow.
“Yeah, um. So, according to Sam, I need to verify some things with you? Before approaching?”
Post nightmare protocol? Well, Sam was nothing if not thorough. He nodded his assent and waited for her to begin her questioning.
“Do you know who you are?” she asked. He nodded.
“Do you know where you are?” Again, he nodded.
“Do you know who I am?” Her voice cracked, either in exhaustion or some emotion unknown to him.
“How could I ever forget a peach like you, Darcy?” He tried giving her a charming grin, but was fairly certain the effort fell flat. She didn’t seem to notice though, barreling on through with her questioning.
“Oh thank god,” she sighed. “Final question: Can I pretty please come over there and give you the biggest hug of your life without you going all stabby on me??” She made a stabbing motion with her left hand in emphasis.
His bark of laughter seemed to be enough assent for her because the next thing he knew she was bounding across the room and chucking her arms around him, her body colliding with his with enough force to knock him back into the headboard.
“Whoops! Sorry, sorry, too much power,” she gushed in his ear, but her grip on him didn’t loosen, much to his relief. She knelt on the bed beside him, pulling him so that his shoulder was fit snugly against her chest and leaned her forehead against the side of his head. They stayed like that for what seemed like an hour but was probably closer to a few minutes. He let her embrace soothe and settle him, matching his breathing to the soft exhales tickling his ear.
Eventually, she pulled away from him, sitting back on the bed and letting her arms rest across the tops of her knees.
“Soooo, you had a nightmare...” She let the statement hang between them, eyebrows raised comically in expectation.
Bucky sighed. He hated talking about his nightmares. Digging up the horrors and half formed memories that his brain had concocted to torment him with was one of the worst aspects about going to therapy...but the results spoke for themselves. If Darcy was willing to listen, then he ought to share, shouldn’t he? His therapists said he should open up more to his friends, let them help with his healing and cognitive reconditioning. Talking about this nightmare, though...he was terrified that it would be a confession instead of a therapeutic effort like she expected.
Would she run, when she found out what he might have done? Would her gentle features harden with disgust? Would she shutter away the soft warmth of her soul, leaving him cold and aching again?
Bucky swallowed hard around the nausea that rose back up. She deserved to know. And maybe he deserved to be cast away by her. His sin must be confessed and he would leave it to her judgement whether or not he'd be granted punishment or absolution. Decision made, Bucky cleared his throat to speak.
“I, uh, I dreamed I was the Soldier again. Emotionless. A weapon.” He turned his face away from Darcy, unable to meet the sympathy shining in her eyes.
“I was on a mission. Had to take out a hit on a civilian target...” Bucky's throat closed up and tears stung his eyes. He could feel more than hear Darcy's sharp intake of breath. When she laid a soft hand across his metal forearm, he looked up into her eyes. Some self-flagellating aspect of his character needed to watch her grow cold towards him when he revealed the last part of his dream.
Deep breath. Count to three. Let her have it...
“It was Rebecca. I...killed her...over and over in the dream. She was so small under my hands but-but I...the Asset didn't care. Just ended her life, tore through my Becca like tissue paper--” Bucky cut himself off, the ache of the dream and the hurt of his sister's loss still so fresh. He'd only found out about her death a few days ago, was still mourning her, and now his scrambled brain was making him relive the horror of it.
He shuddered and fresh tears fell. He met Darcy's eyes for a moment, then in a tight voice barely above a whisper, “Darcy...I think...I think it was me. I don't think it was just a dream, I think Hydra had me murder my--” he couldn't continue. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't look at her anymore. Couldn't watch her look at him like the monster he was.
But then—
Two small arms snaked around him, and he was being crushed to Darcy's small frame. She was mumbling something over and over in his ear, but the rushing of his blood and burning of his shame roared over them, scattering the syllables and turning her words to incoherency. Eventually his mind settled and he could still hear her chanting soothingly into his ear.
“It wasn’t you, it was just a dream.” Over and over, she spoke the words to him, like a prayer or a plea.
“No,” he croaked. “You don't understand, Darcy,” he pulled back from her, looking at her fully. “They...Hydra, they fucking thrived on hurting me. This is exactly the sick shit that they love.” He pulled out of her arms and began pacing in tight, rigid circles beside the bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. His voice dropped into a tight cadence, his words infused with bitterness so sharp he could taste it.
“‘Let's make the Asset murder his friends and family, let's strip him of his humanity and leave him with nothing. Look at how they recognize him and then see how they scream when he murders them!’ It’s exactly the kind of twisted shit the higher ups were into! They always did love testing the obedience of their favorite pet!”
Bucky abruptly turned away from where Darcy sat stock still on his bed. He slammed his fists against his thighs and fought to regain control of the rage that was boiling up in him, chest heaving and legs quaking with the effort.
Darcy began to speak quietly then, her voice shaking slightly. “Bucky, no, babe, I promise you, it wasn't you. They caught the guy that did--”
“A plant. A patsy. Someone to take the blame and keep anyone from questioning it,” he cut her off sharply.
He heard her huff abruptly and was surprised to hear the irritation coloring her next words. “If you would let me finish! It wasn’t you, the guy they caught was responsible, and I know this because you had been in cryo in a warehouse out in the ass-end of Romania for six months when she died!”
Bucky turned sharply on his heel. “What?” he asked her numbly.
He watched the irritation leak out of her, replaced by resignation and maybe a small amount of guilt. “I looked up the dates in your Hydra file. Checked and double checked the timelines. On the day she died, you had been in cryo for half a year already. And wouldn't be pulled out for another three months. Hydra used the Nazi record keeping system. Very efficient, very thorough.”
“So I, I didn't kill her? It was just a dream?” A shard of hope struck between his ribs and lodged itself in the vicinity of his heart.
Darcy stretched her fingers out toward him. “It was just a dream, Bucky,” she affirmed softly.
A breath. And then the shard exploded, relief flooding his systems. He fell to his knees, a puppet cut from its strings, and felt her join him on the floor. Hands fluttering over his shoulders, more soft words and soothing absolutions.
Oh, thank God, thank God! He already had so many sins, but this one was not his.He came back to himself slowly, vaguely aware that this was the second time that week that he'd found himself blubbering in Darcy's arms. God, he was turning into one of those men that got weepy in their old age. That thought and the relief still coursing through him mixed strangely in his gut, pushing forward out of him with a giggle that tinged on hysterical.The first laugh drew another and then another until he was consumed, the strength of his laughter causing him to tip over and fall prone to the floor. Darcy gave a squeal of surprise and followed him, seeing as how her hands were still looped around his shoulders. She landed on top of his chest, wiggling and writhing, trying to work her hands out from where they were trapped beneath his shoulders.
She worked one hand loose enough to smack him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey! Cut that out,” she admonished, but her voice lacked any real heat. He shifted his weight a bit to release her other hand, but the perturbed look on her face did little to quell the serious case of the giggles he'd acquired.
She dropped back on her heels and watched him for a moment, amusement passing lightly over her features. “Something funny?” she asked. “Or is this an early sign of dementia, grandpa?”
Bucky sighed and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes, the laughter petering out as he did. “It might be, doll. Mostly, I just think it's relief.” She hummed in understanding and patted him lightly on the shoulder.
He watched her face for a moment, a thought pulling to the front of his mind. “What made you go looking? What made you think to check if, if...if i’d been the one who did it?” He saw her wince slightly in the darkness before answering him.
“I dunno. It just seemed the sort of thing that they'd make you do. Especially after knowing what they had you do to the Starks...And once the idea came to me, I couldn't let it go. I had to know.” She took a steadying breath, eyes boring into his. “If I’d found anything that indicated you were...involved, in any way with her death, I would have told you, I promise you. But there was nothing to find. You weren’t even on the same continent, let alone conscious...so I didn’t say anything. I guess I should have, and we could have avoided all this nightmare fun. I hope you’re not angry with me for prying--”
“No, not at all. I’m thankful . If you hadn’t gone looking, I would still be living with the thought that I’d hurt my baby sister. Thank you for finding the answers for me, Darcy. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you would take the time to help me.” He wished he had the guts to touch her face. It was right there, a smile pressing back into the softness of her cheeks. His fingers twitched in their desire to reach out and test the texture of her skin, to see if it was as smooth and pliant as it looked.
She leaned forward over him where he still lay on the hardwood floor, and for the briefest moment he had the absurd thought that she might be leaning in to kiss him. He squashed down the flare of disappointment when she merely tucked her hands under his armpits and made to pull him to his feet.
“Come on, Sarge,” she grunted under the strain of moving his bulk. “Let’s get you back in bed, we’ve gotta get up in three hours for our road trip and I’m making you drive for the first leg so I can take a nap,” she said.
He groaned, but assisted her efforts and let her pull him to his feet. The horror of his nightmare had made him completely forget about their holiday plans.
They would be driving six hours down to her sister’s place in Virginia to spend Christmas and New Year’s with the McKenzies and Darcy’s father. He had assumed that Angie’s invitation to bring him for Christmas had been out of politeness and not a serious offer, so he’d been slightly shocked when Darcy had started to go over their road trip itinerary earlier that week. When he mentioned his hesitancy to accept the invitation, she just looked at him like he’d started speaking in pig latin and then continued on with her itinerary as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
Once he was standing, Darcy pushed him down onto the bed by his shoulders and began to straighten the bedding back out. Before laying down, he retrieved the knife he’d left on the floor and placed it back in its sheath under his mattress. When he had settled back down into the bed, lying comfortably on his back, she pulled the covers up over his chest and then began to literally tuck the blankets in around him, starting at his feet and making her way up to his rib cage.
“You having fun there, sweetheart?” he asked, one brow lifted sardonically.
“Shush, I’m giving you the Lewis Family Post-Nightmare Recovery Routine. It’s scientifically proven to create sweet dreams for the standard four year old little girl. The tucking is essential in keeping away any more bad dreams.” Her fingers jutted into a particularly sensitive spot along his ribs, causing him to jump and squirm away from her reach.
“Hey! Watch it, Lewis, that tickles!”
“Poor baby,” she deadpanned and re-tucked where his squirming had dislodged the blankets, careful to avoid the ticklish spot lest her hard work be undone again.
She really had done a thorough job on him. He felt like he’d been stuffed into a warm, fabric cocoon. He could definitely see the post-nightmare appeal. The bed dipped next to his side and he felt the warmth of her press into him from where she sat on the edge of his bed.
“So, uh, what exactly does the Lewis Family such-and-such entail?”
Darcy held up a hand, ticking off the steps as she went. “Step One: Full Body Tuck. Step Two: Verbal Reassurance.” She paused in her list to look intently at him. “You are handsome and brave and smart. You are kind and sweet and gentle. No one will hurt you ever again. I will not let them. You will never have to hurt anyone again. Unless they are a bad guy and really, really deserve it, but even then, it’s still your choice. Because you are a good person who deserves good things and you smell really nice all the time. Also, your cooking is balls-to-the-wall amazing. Shhh, stop laughing, you’ll mess up my tuck job.” She waited a beat for him to settle.
“Boom, step two complete. Next is Step Three: Physical Reassurance with Musical Accompaniment.” She began to lean towards him, her body inching closer and for a moment his brain completely blipped out. But then she was singing to him, hands gently running through his hair and tracing the lines of his face like they had the other night.
Jesus , this was heaven, he was sure of it. He just seemed to melt under this woman’s hands. It took everything in him not to start purring like a goddamn cat every time she touched him. Her touch, combined with the soft, clear tones of her voice worked like a charm, loosening the latent tension in his body and soothing the frayed edges of his mind. He closed his eyes briefly when a fingertip crossed one of his cheekbones and it was a struggle to reopen them. Her song ended and he blinked slowly at her a few times.
“What’s next?” he asked sleepily.
She shot him a wicked grin and rose to stand at the edge of the bed. She planted one hand beside his shoulder and the other dead center on his chest, leaning slowly forward until her face was inches from his.
“Step Four: Kiss Goodnight,” she said, eyes lit with mischief.
Fuck. Bucky felt his heart rate skyrocket, blood singing through his veins and lighting up his nerve endings. Anticipation prickled along his spine and it took all of his sniper training to keep still and not surge up into her. So he waited and watched. And waited. And the whole while that shit-eating grin of hers just got wider and wider as she watched him. Just when he thought he might explode with nervous energy, she began to pull back, straightening up and away from him.
“Goodnight, Barnes,” she said in an overly sweet voice, lightly patting the center of his chest. He was so befuddled by the sudden release in tension that she was almost to his doorway before he realized what had happened.
“Hey!” he shouted, jerking up in his bed. “Where the hell is that kiss, Lewis?”
She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, the curls bouncing and sliding across her back in a way that was much too appealing to his already overloaded senses. She licked her lips, drawing his eyes to the sly grin planted there before she responded. “The fourth step has only been used in studies on four year old girls. There is no data on whether or not it proves effective in bad dream removal when applied to the elderly.” She arched an eyebrow, an obvious challenge.
Well, guess what, babydoll, Bucky Barnes never did back down from a fight.
“No time like the present to find out,” he growled, the edge and tone of his words bubbling up from some forgotten place in his memory that used to charm the hell out of the dames he used to run with.
Darcy just threw her head back and laughed.
She was laughing at him, the little shit. Here he was trying to flirt with this woman and all she could do was laugh. Damn, he must be rustier than he thought.
“You’re a tease, you know that, Lewis?” he barked at her, but it held little bite. He crossed his arms over his chest and was only marginally ashamed to admit that his lower lip may have stuck out a bit. Just a little.
Darcy rolled her eyes at him. “Oh my god, Barnes. Are you seriously pouting right now? Maybe you are a four year old girl. It would definitely explain all the recent crying and the obsession with Disney movies.”
Bucky jabbed a finger in her direction. “Hey now, you’re the one who made me start watching those movies. I can’t help it if Beauty and the Beast is a goddamn cinematic masterpiece.”
Bucky watched as Darcy steadied herself against his door jamb, her beautiful face crinkling up into lines of mirth. He couldn’t help the smile pulling at his own mouth. Seeing her like this, so happy and open and shining, it was a thing of beauty and he felt blessed to just be near enough to witness it. In that moment, he had never envied Steve more for his ability to draw.
He wished he could capture the exact curve of her cheek as she laughed, the way her pale throat moved and shone in the moonlight.
“Barnes, you’re staring.”
Bucky jerked, heat rising up the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, um,” he hemmed and hawed. “I was just, um, waiting for you to finish laughing so I could ask you to close the door and leave me the hell alone. I’m old. I need my beauty sleep.” He scowled at her, giving her his best grumpy-old-man face.
Darcy looked at him with faux discomfort. “Eesh, yeaaah, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but now that you mention it...fine lines and wrinkles are a real problem for a lot of men your age...”
Oh! That little stinker. Bucky reached back for a pillow, slinging it around, only to hit the door in the exact spot that Darcy’s head had been a millisecond before she’d pulled it shut after her saucy little remark. He could hear her cackling to herself all the way down the hallway and into her room. Bucky rolled onto his stomach, groaning and punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape before collapsing down onto it. He closed his eyes tightly and let loose another quiet groan, the tendrils of exhaustion already starting to pull at him.
What in the hell was he gonna do about that woman?