Nightmares

"I'm telling you, man, I really do think you like getting your ass handed to you."

Steve's head shot up at the sound of the familiar voice, an instant sheepish smile spreading across his bruised face. "You're a punk, Steve," Bucky said sashaying into the room. Steve grinned and shook his head. "Jerk." Bucky stopped by the hospital bed and ruffled his blonde friend's hair. "But I'm your jerk." Steve swiped at his hands, and gestured to one of the chairs leaned against the wall. "Sit for a while. You know I don't like it when people hover over me." Bucky obeyed, dragging the folding chair to Steve's bedside and dropping into it heavily. It was then that Steve noticed that the smile had slipped from his face, and Bucky looked him up and down with an unmistakable glint of guilt in his eyes.

Steve glanced down at his arms and grimaced at the bruised and scarred knuckles, blue and purple with the reminder of what had happened in that alley earlier. He didn't need to imagine what his face only looked like, he could feel it. His lip was split, bruises of all different colors along his cheekbones, a gash that had somehow appeared above his left eye and yet another bruise underneath that that had nearly swollen his eye shut. And that didn't even complete the list of ailments that lurked beneath his hospital gown, creeping up his chest and snaking around his ribs.

Steve knew what Bucky was going to say before he even opened his mouth. "Buck, no. Don't blame yourself; this wasn't your fault." Bucky exhaled heavily. "I could've helped, could've done something. I've always been there for you, but this time…when you needed me most, I was nowhere to be seen. Now here you are, beaten to shit, and all I can do is sit beside you, twiddling my thumbs and hoping you get better." Steve gave a light laugh. "I'm not dying, Buck. Calm down. I've been beaten up before, you know that."

"But what if you were?" Bucky pressed, his eyes full of distress. "What if there was a day when these guys don't just want to beat you to a bloody pulp, what if they-" he stopped abruptly, running his hands over his face. He couldn't say it, not if it was directed towards Steve. He didn't even want to think about it. Steve watched him with a frown. He knew that Bucky had taken up the position of being his 'guardian' of sorts; he'd been watching the blonde's back since they were little and had always been there for him. Steve couldn't even remember a time when Bucky hadn't been in shouting distance. He'd always been nearby, if not right by his side, and both boys knew that that was where he belonged. So Steve could understand the remorse that was rolling off of the brunette in waves at his failure to be there to save him.

"You can't blame yourself," Steve said rather firmly. "I don't. You know you can't keep hauling my scrawny ass out of every scrap I find myself in, and I don't expect you to." He needed Bucky to understand that, as well as himself. He couldn't keep depending on Bucky to save him; the military uniform Bucky wore was a gloomy, sepia-toned reminder of that. "I could've saved you," Bucky sighed, leaning his arms on his knees. "I don't need you to save me," the words rocketing out of Steve's mouth before he could even make sense of what he was saying. "I need you to stand beside me while I save myself." He pursed his lips as he took in Bucky's shocked, wide-eyed face.

"And I don't mean that literally. I don't need you putting some kind of tracking device on me, monitoring my movements and stuff," added the blonde with a gentle chuckle. "I don't want to wake up and find you've glued yourself to my hip tomorrow, either." Bucky stared at him for a moment, then snorted out a laugh. "I might have to if you keep sticking your nose in other people's business. Dumb kid." Steve lightheartedly punched Bucky's shoulder, making him laugh even more. "Bring it in, chucklehead. I know you've probably got places to be, dames to sweep off their feet; I won't keep you long," Steve said between giggles. He wrapped his arms around Bucky's shoulders, where the latter embraced him under his arms.

Steve's brow furrowed in sudden confusion and he pulled away. "What's wrong?" Bucky asked, looking worried. Steve gripped Bucky's left shoulder, running his fingers over the whole arm, feeling for any sign of muscle and tissue, any of the warmth that usually emanated from his friend's body. There was nothing but cold, solid…stuff. "Bucky…what is that?"

Quick as a flash, Steve found himself gasping for air, desperate for his throat to work under the vice-like grip of cold metal that pressed around his neck. "B-bucky!" Bucky didn't respond, glaring at him that eyes that Steve didn't recognize. They were cold, empty and nothing like the warm, laughing ones that Steve had grown comfortable with over the years. Slowly, not-Bucky reached up towards his shoulder, the one that was holding Steve, and dug his fingers into his sleeve. He yanked, an awful sound of cloth ripping and tearing echoing throughout the room.

Metal, silver and glinting in the natural sunlight that poured through the windows like cruel irony, was what was under the sleeve. Metal forged in the shape of an arm, embellished only with a red star that seemed to drip the color down the 'muscle'. Steve screamed, though from the hand gripped around his throat, it sounded more like a hoarse cry. Dark needles pinned at the edges of his vision. He couldn't believe it: Bucky was going to squeeze the life out of him. His best friend that he knew, he knew, would never do anything to hurt him. This was not Bucky. This was not Bucky. What had they done with his Bucky? Terror washed over him. He was going to be strangled to death by some stranger who looked and sounded like his best friend.

He would've cried if he wasn't so close to the brink of unconsciousness, when Bucky's voice-sounded so much like Bucky, too much like Bucky, that it hurt-growled, "If anyone is going to kill you, it'll be me."

Steve woke with a start, jerking himself awake, which he instantly regretted when his entire body screamed at him in protest. He grimaced, sucking in a breath as he settled back into his pillows. Pillows? He glanced around, his eyes still half-closed with drug-induced sleep. The room was staunch white, smelling heavily of cleaning products. Sunlight poured in from somewhere to his left, and a peck of colors waved out of the corner of his eye from the right. Turning his head slightly, he realized that flowers had been left for him, sitting in a red glass vase. It was a pleasant surprise as he pieced together his whereabouts. A hospital, he groaned inwardly. Steve hated hospitals. Hated the sterile scents, the occasional sounds of pain and despair that echoed through the halls, the feeling of helplessness.

"Steve."

Steve turned his head to the left at the sudden voice. He squinted his eyes at the familiar face. "Sam?" Sam grinned and nodded. "In the flesh. How are you feeling? You looked like you were in pain when you were asleep a few minutes ago," he asked. Steve closed his eyes and hummed quietly. "Sore all over. Feels like I got hit by a brick wall. Or a truck." Sam offered him another smile. "Well, you're close. A truck and the thing that hit you are both made out of metal." Steve opened his eyes and glanced at Sam. "Did you see him? How did I get here?" Sam leaned his head in one hand, propping his elbow on the chair's armrest. "No," he said, knowing exactly who Steve was talking about. "No one saw him. We saw you on the banks of the Potomac, but we all assumed you managed to swim there and then passed out. You were in pretty bad shape. It wasn't until way after we shipped you off to the hospital that we saw the footprints leaving in the opposite direction. You just filled in the missing pieces, but I think we already had our suspicions of who it might've been."

Steve sank back into his pillows, disappointment apparent in his blue eyes. "Oh." Sam watched him, a frown on his face. "You're worried about him," he said quietly, not really a question, more like a statement, and he didn't sound very happy about it. Steve met Sam's eye and noted the knowing look that graced them. "He's not himself, Sam," he said quietly. "Not for seventy years, no," the man replied. Steve ignored the quip and continued. "I saw it on the helicarrier. He's not sure anymore. He…remembered me. At least remembered me enough to not waste me. He faltered, like he was struggling with himself. I think he's trying to fight against his programming."

Sam touched Steve's shoulder. "Steve, I know you're excited, but…just don't get your hopes up. I mean, we don't even know where he is." Steve knew Sam was right, as usual. He didn't know where Bucky was, or if he was okay, where he was going, what had happened to him after the helicarrier. He didn't even know where to start looking for Bucky. It burned at him, nagged at his thoughts. If it weren't for the drugs they'd pumped him full of, he wouldn't have been able to sleep at all. "Then I'll look for him," Steve said. Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "With what leads?"

Steve rolled his eyes at Sam's ability to knock his plans down a few notches. "I don't know, Sam. I just…" He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Silence ensued for a while and Steve thought that Sam had gone, until he heard, "Just get some rest, Cap. We can figure this out later, alright? We just need you at one hundred percent right now." Steve didn't open his eyes in acknowledgement. He felt Sam shake his shoulder in reassurance and comfort, the shifting of a body in the chair by his bedside and fleeting footsteps as he retreated from the room.

He didn't even realize that he'd fallen asleep until he woke with another start after yet another nightmare.

Steve allowed himself to be led away under the arm of Bucky, struggling to keep up with his long strides as they left the alley. "You're ridiculous, Steve. What did you get yourself into now?" he murmured to with a skyward glance. "That guy was causing a stir in the theater. About the war footage they play before the movie; it was really disrespectful, y'know? So I just thought I'd speak up-"

"And here we are. I swear Steve, what would you do without me? At this rate, I'll have to stay and fight the wars you're starting here instead of Hitler," Bucky said. Steve nearly tripped, but quickly steadied himself. "I'll be fine. Your country needs you. Besides, I was just trying to help. After all that those soldiers have done for us, you would think he would be a little more respectful. I don't see him stickin' his neck out for anybody." Bucky paused so suddenly that Steve would've tripped again had Bucky not had such a firm grip on his shoulders. "Y'know, you little scrap, if you had a coupla pounds on you, maybe a foot or two, you'd be the perfect soldier."

Steve raised an eyebrow and looked up at him. "I am," he said. Bucky still held his gaze skyward with a grin. "Maybe in the future." A loud honk from behind the two made Steve flinch in surprise and he turned back. The alley had become a crowded street, congested with cars and busy people, buildings standing tall all around him, lit up with colorful lights and signs, enormous screens glaring down at him with fluorescent light. Steve whirled around looking for Bucky, startled by the new setting. Every face that passed looked unfamiliar, and Bucky was nowhere to be found. "Bucky?" he shouted into the fray. His white t-shirt seemed to constrict him in his panic, and he realized that this scene felt very familiar. "Bucky, where'd you go?"

Another honk snapped him out of his trance. He turned to the car behind him and heard the driver scream from his window. "Will you get the fuck out of the way, dude? You're holding up traffic!" There was so much noise. Car horns, people's voices, the high-pitched scream-like sound of panic in his head. How could Bucky just be gone like that? He had been right there next to him! Fear froze him in place. He'd woken up in a new place, a new world that had left him behind, didn't know anyone or anything, left alone without his closest friend, the person who knew him best. It didn't help that that same person would pop up out of the blue and try to murder him in a year or so.

Steve's blue eyes snapped open and stared into the ceiling as he tried to clear his brain from yet another nightmare. He sighed and kneaded his palms into his eyes, mumbling, "This is too much."

"'Nother nightmare?"

Steve turned his head to his bedside and found a familiar redhead sitting in the chair that Sam had once occupied. "Tasha? What're you doing here?" Natasha sat cross-legged in the chair with regal gracefulness, chewing politely on a piece of gum as she watched him carefully. "Just dropping by. I'm allowed to check up on you, aren't I?"

"Just thought you were supposed to be looking for a cover," Steve said. "Haven't found one yet. Do you, uh, want to talk about that dream you were having?" she shrugged. Steve knew he couldn't hide anything from her; she was already too good at hiding everything from anyone else. "They're not really dreams. They're memories turned nightmares. Every time I dream them, they begin as memories from when we were the way we used to be, then something goes wrong and they turn into nightmares. It's like a constant reminder when I close my eyes that we've changed." He pauses and sighs. "Both of us."

Natasha knew who he was talking about, but she asked anyway. "'We'?" Steve glances at her, then returns his gaze to the ceiling. "Bu-the Winter Soldier," he replies. It sounds strange on his tongue, foreign and threatening, not matching up with Bucky's personality at all. Natasha frowned, searching for the right words to say. "You can skip the lecture," Steve said. "Sam already came by and said his two cents about the whole ordeal."

"But you aren't listening," Natasha said, prompting Steve to turn his head and look at her. "I bet he's already told you that this isn't the same man you knew. The Soldier-Bucky-he can't be approached as your old friend; he's still Hydra's number one asset and unfortunately that means we have to treat him like it. Still, you want to go after him, don't you?" She wasn't asking. She knew what was going on his head. Steve sheepishly didn't respond. Again, he'd been caught. Natasha shook her head with a tiny smile. "You're very persistent, Cap. Hardheaded and stubborn, I'm sure."

"You won't…do anything to him just yet, will you?" Steve asked. Natasha sighed. "We don't even have him, Steve; I doubt we could do anything. We've lost him again. Nothing's changed, he's still a ghost. Now that Hydra's in disarray, however, we might have a better chance of picking through the rubble and finding something-anything-on the guy, but-" She held up one finger as if to silence Steve and raised an eyebrow, "I am not saying that we will be able to find him or even track him. You have to remember that he's slipping. His programming's failing and he's going haywire. He's probably out there just as confused and unsure of what to do now as you were when we found you." Steve glanced up at her words, wincing when she described Bu-the Soldier-as if he were a damaged piece of machinery. "It will take a while is all I'm saying. Got it? Don't over excite yourself." Natasha looked at him with expectant eyes, awash with concern. Steve realized that this was probably the first time he'd seen Natasha this open with her emotions. She'd been opening up more in the past week, and now he could clearly understand that, even though she took trust seriously and only gave it to a select few, only those she held close would ever be given her deepest, truest emotions. She was only trying to lookout for the few people she might let in.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I get it. You sure you can divulge this kind of information to me, Tasha? None of that 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you' jazz?" Natasha smiled. "Nah. I trust you. Fury trusts you. And besides, I know you're just going to go hunting for him the minute they let you out of this bed, if not sooner. May as well give you something to do other than putz around a retirement home all day." Steve gave her a look, and she laughed. "Ha ha, Tasha. Maybe you could find a cover as a comedian." She lightly punched Steve's arm. "You first, Cap. But really, this is your responsibility now. This is your friend, your mission; but don't let it consume you. I don't want to watch you lose your mind over this thing." She said it as though she had seen the very same instance happen before, and Steve didn't doubt that she had. He nodded. "I won't," he reassured her.

Natasha smiled softly, seeming satisfied with his answer. "Alright. Get some sleep, old man." Amid Steve's grunts of protest to the moniker, she stood and kissed him on the forehead. In another life, at another time, he might've seen that as a display of affectionate romance, but he knew Natasha. She wanted nothing to do with that sort of thing and would sooner punch a guy out than kiss him; he took it as another display of concern.

Steve settled back into his pillows and watched her go through half-lidded eyes. He wouldn't have known that she was even gone had he not been awake; she moved so silently, like a ghost. He sighed and turned his head enough to see the window at the head of his bed, wondering where the other ghost in his life was going.