During the day was not so bad. While the sun shone in the sky with its ever constant brightness, there was very little trouble at all. It seemed that during the day, Bucky was more than able to keep himself occupied and out of bother. The little place he now referred to as 'home' needed a lot of work doing to it and he was more than happy to have something to keep his hands and mind occupied. It turned out that earning to do DIY jobs, building the bed, putting up shelves and other seemingly menial tasks were a surprising source of pleasure for the former assassin.

It hadn't taken long for the place to be transformed from a small poke hole into something that might be called home. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, it wasn't a place most people would consider venturing into, however it was his. The first place he could call his own and he would be damned if anyone was going to take that away from him. The past did not come up to haunt him overly much and he was able to function as well as could be expected in a world that was still mostly unfamiliar.

The night told a completely different story.

Every night it was the same. He followed a routine, eating a simple dinner, showering and settling down to either watch something on the television or to read one of the books he had been given to help him adjust. Tonight was no different to the last few months. The book in his lap was great. Wanda had insisted that it was a modern classic and that he should waste no time in reading it. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets had seemed like nothing more than a kid's book when he opened it, however he quickly realised that she was right and he'd chewed through half the series in a matter of weeks.

No matter what he read however, the memories crept through.

This night, it was a job in Sweden, 1986.

23:13. The building he was hiding out in was damp, he could smell the mould growing on the walls, even now. The cold weather would have been a bother if not for the focus of the task ahead. There was no reason given for the task he had been given, no explanation; there never was. Just the words, the task and the mission. Light snow had begun to fall, no surprise there, it was the time of year for it after all.

23:15. The target was lingering outside the cinema, engaged in conversation with another couple. The detail was striking. Everything was as clear as it had been on the day. The two couples separated and went their separate ways. The Prime Minister of Sweden linked arms with his wife and led her off in the direction away from where he was hiding. Gun in hand, he moved on sure feet.

23:17. They paused to look at something in a shop window. Bucky turned his back, keeping the gun in front of him in case they caught him. There were no other people around and he was sticking to the darker spaces, the couple resumed their walk. The assassin resumed following, the calm assurance that he could do this setting in his mind.

23:19. Olof Palme and his wife paused and looked for traffic before beginning to cross the street. Bucky avoiding their gazes by looking in the very window they had done moments before. He took a deep breath, slowed his breathing. The sound of the snow echoed in his ears, the crunch of the snow underfoot of the target seemed louder than elephants. Time slowed.

23:21 Striding forward, purpose true. He approached the back of the Swedish Prime Minister. Rising the gun, aiming it at the centre of his back, he squeezed the trigger. The crack echoed. She screamed. Moving his arm, he aimed at her, fired turned and ran. Her screams echoing in his ears. The wide eyes imprinted in his mind effectively as any brainwashing.

His cries were what brought him back to the present. Sitting upright, heart thundering in his chest, sweat pouring down his chest, he drew in a shaking breath. Looking down at his hands he was surprised they were pale pink rather than bright red. Running a hand through soaked hair, he resisted the temptation to bury his head in those hands. No matter how hard he tried, he kept cycling back to those deeds. Always waking with someone lying in a pool of blood and him running, endless running and returning and the words, always the words echoing in his mind. Rising, he headed for the shower – the next part of this nightly ritual. There would be no more sleep for him this night.