Lots of angst in this chapter, because of course there is :P

This story is going to go in a wildly different direction than I'd originally planned and I'me excited for it!

Enjoy!

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Falcon And The Winter Soldier TV show, the Marvel franchise, or any of the characters. That all belongs to their original makers. Everything to them. Any added dialogue, plots, or characters are mine, but nothing else. I don't own it.

Chapter Three - Run

Bucky falls asleep before he even hits the pillow. His vibranium arm hangs limp off the cushions and his ghostly-white face is swollen red with tears. Dark circles sag under his eyes. I fling a blanket over him and make my way outside, clenching and unclenching my fists.

"Sam!" Sarah stops me in the entrance. "Sam, I am SO sorry, I– !"

"Sarah– ."

"I didn't know it would affect him that much– ."

"Sarah, calm down!"

"And now everyone's asking about him– !"

I grab her shoulders. "Sarah!"

My sister freezes.

"I didn't know either." I lean against the door. "But as his…" Words run through my head. Co-worker? Partner? Associate? "…as his friend…it's on me. I should know his triggers by now."

"How is he?"

I glance back. "He's okay. He's asleep."

"The fireworks…must've sounded like– ?"

"Gunshots, yeah. Sometimes, I still forget that he fought in World War II."

Sarah purses her lips. "How can we help him?"

"Don't say anything for now. If he needs help, he'll ask for it." I cross my arms. "I usually take him for granted and assume that he's always fine. And now I've paid for it."

Sarah rubs my shoulder. "Sam, it's not your fault either. How could you have known?"

"I used to counsel soldiers dealing with PTSD. I should've known. I should've seen the signs, I should've…should've done something!" I drum my fingers on my bicep. "He's still got a lot of shit to talk through. I just hope I can help him sort it all out."

Sarah gives me a little smile. "If anyone can do it, it's you."

I avert my gaze. "I don't know. Only Steve could really do that."

After tucking Cass and AJ into bed, I retreat to the kitchen to fix myself an evening bowl of ice cream.

Sam looks up from the sink. "Hey."

"Hey."

He sets a cleaned plate in the dishwasher.

"You don't have to do that."

"Well, what else am I gonna do?" He flings the towel over his shoulder and chuckles. "I want to help out."

I roll my eyes. "You and Bucky both. He's a charmer, that one."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Don't you go gettin' attached or anything, sis."

A smile peeks onto my face. "He's…kinda cute, not gonna lie."

"Okay, that's not helping." Sam fixes me with a look. "Not another word about him."

"So what if I find him attractive! It's none of your business!"

"Actually," Sam slaps the towel down on the counter, "it kind of is. I'm not about to let my sister date some primp from the 1940s."

I collapse into deep-bellied laughter.

Sam lifts his hands. "What? I'm serious."

I wipe tears from my eyes. "That's what makes it so funny!"

"You make a move toward him, and I'm steppin' in-between you two. It wouldn't work. With your lifestyle and his baggage, it just wouldn't. It would hurt more than it'd heal."

Still giggling, I lean against the island counter and scan my jagged nails. "You know, you really are too– ."

"... pozhaluysta…"

I freeze.

Sam squints. "What?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"... pozhaluysta ne nado…"

My ears twitch. It's coming from the living room.

Sam meets my eyes. "Bucky."

We hurry to the source and find Bucky strangled in blankets, twitching, his face twisted in pain. His prosthetic arm whirs and clicks like a computer. Sweat gleams on his brow and whimpers escape him. "Ya budu v poryadke…"

I exchange a glance with Sam.

He works his jaw. "Nightmare."

Bucky groans in his sleep, muffled sobs trapped in his chest. "Ya obeshchayu… ya obeshchayu…"

Sam swallows hard. "He's promising someone that he'll be good. He's begging them to stop."

A knot forms at the bottom of my stomach. "HYDRA?"

Sam nods. He inches forward. "Back up."

"What?"

"Just do it." A bead of sweat rolls down Sam's face. "Bucky might not wake up as himself."

A shiver runs through me. I hover by where the kitchen meets the living room and watch as Sam tiptoes up to Bucky.

The ex-assassin grits his teeth and from his pale lips growl three Russian words: "Gotov podchinit'sya."

The way it glides over his tongue like water makes my blood run hot. "Sam? What did he say?"

He doesn't respond.

"Sam?"

My brother leans over him, bringing his hands slowly down on Bucky's shoulders. He makes contact–

Bucky erupts from the couch with a snarl, seizing Sam by the throat.

Sam's cry cuts short as Bucky slams him against the wall.

A scream rips from my mouth, but I can't look away.

Gone is the gentle innocence of Bucky Barnes. Veins swell from under his skin. He grinds his teeth like an animal loose from its cage, nose crinkled, lips pulled back. His lips move separately, spouting words in Russian. And his eyes… Two black points of light drilled into his skull, swirling with an insane madness that no words of reason could douse. Flashing like silver ice, flushed with white fire, his unblinking eyes are those of the Winter Soldier.

Sam fumbles at Bucky's metal arm. "Bu…Bucky…! This– !"

The Winter Soldier squeezes harder, snarling.

Sam chokes, breath rasping in his chest.

I leap forward, tugging at the vibranium arm. "Bucky, stop!"

He whirls around, smashing me into a wall. I see him cocking his arm–

Pain spasms through my head and stars wink in my vision. Darkness spiders around me. When it clears, Sam's in his hold again.

"Bucky, it's me! Sam Wilson! You remember Steve? Captain America? End of the line?"

The Winter Soldier's eye twitches and he freezes.

I struggle to my feet, panting.

"Yeah, that's it, Buck. Come back to us." Sam wheezes in his hold. "End of the line. Remember that? End of the line."

The Soldier's eyes dilate and he flexes his metal arm on Sam's throat.

"Come on, Buck."

An eyebrow twitches.

"You hate it when I call you that. You can run three marathons in an hour. You hate mustard. You're a mechanic. You're right handed. You love plums. You love 40s music. You're protective. You're a science nerd. You love The Hobbit."

The metal grip slacks.

Sam takes Bucky's wrist in his hands. "You were Steve's best friend. You…" he glances at me, "you're a ladies' man. You love dancing. Your favorite meal is breakfast. You've never lost a staring contest. You love Mexican food."

Pause.

Silence.

The storm passes from Bucky's face. The shadows lift, and his eyes clear. Immediately, they flood with an ocean of tears and he rips his hand away from Sam's throat.

Sam drops to the ground, coughing.

I hurry to his side and rub his back, easing his tense muscles. "You okay?"

Sam nods, massaging his throat.

In the moonlit darkness, I see purple bruises already blooming on his neck. A rush of heat overwhelms me and I whip my head up, frowning. "Bucky!"

One look at him, and the heat shrivels up, leaving me full of guilt.

Bucky's slumped on the foot of the couch, hugging his legs to his chest with his face buried in his arms. He's trembling so hard that for a moment, I think he might be seizing. Frantic gasps escape him, and his shoulders heave with every sob. This broken man, sobbing on the floor of our living room, whimpering like a child… How could I even have thought to blame him?

Sam shifts under me. He lifts himself to his feet, his voice raspy. "Bucky."

His friend presses himself as far into the corner as possible. With the moonlight and the shadows and his posture, Bucky looks even smaller, his bones folding in on each other.

Sam walks forward and kneels in front of his friend. "Bucky, look at me."

Bucky grips his head in his hands and presses down hard.

"Whoa, easy." Sam rests his own hands on Bucky's wrists. "Easy, man."

Bucky doesn't stop. His metal arm whirs and his nails cut into his temples until they draw blood. He whines like a wounded animal.

"Bucky, Bucky!" Sam takes his friend's arms and pushes them down. "You're hurting yourself– stop!"

Finally, Bucky drops his hands in his lap, his body heaving with sobs.

I rub the sore spot on my temple and feel a bruise forming. Wincing, I kneel at Sam's side. "Bucky, it's okay."

In the darkness, we both hear it. A halting, quivering voice that doesn't even sound like Bucky's:

"Get me out."

Sam and I exchange a glance.

Bucky grits his teeth. "Get me out."

Sam squeezes his shoulder. "You gotta tell us what you mean, man. We– ."

"I c-can't stay here." Bucky tilts his face up and his puffy, swollen eyes fix on mine. "I'll…hurt you again."

I shake my head. "You're staying right here. Don't give us that bullshit."

Bucky jerks to his feet. "I-I need to get out, I…" He staggers past us, gasping for breath. He doesn't even reach the kitchen before his legs buckle and he slumps against the wall.

Sam reaches him before I do and catches him.

Bucky whimpers, his face glistening with sweat and tears. "Sam, don't…"

"We'll take care of you, man. You're not going anywhere."

I help Sam carry him to the couch and tuck him in. He falls into a restless sleep almost at once.

I grab an ice pack for my head and turn to Sam. "You want anything for your neck? It looks pretty bad."

My brother shrugs. "I'll heal. It's not the first time the Winter Soldier's attacked me anyways."

I cock my head, brow furrowing.

"Hey, I ran with Steve for years, searching for Bucky. You bet I got my ass kicked a few times."

I sigh and fall into Sam's arms.

"You all right, sis?"

"Just…tired. And I'm…worried about him."

Sam runs his hands through my dreadlocks. "Yeah, me too. But the best we can do is give him our support. We'll take this day by day. Bucky's been through lots of shit, but this ain't anything he can't get through."

I rest my head on his chest. "And we'll be with him through it all."

If only.

The next morning, I wake up to an empty couch and an empty driveway.

And no Bucky.

Author's Notes: OOoooooo where do you think Bucky's going?

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