He was suddenly free, and he needed to feed. He knew immediately that something was wrong… Something was different. How long had he been trapped?

He sensed confusion and chaos. Their fear was palpable, but so was their joy. It was the fear he required, brought forth in their nightmares.

He would return to the Dream Dimension and take his rightful place over the Nightmare World, but he needed to gain strength, and for that, he needed to feed. There was enough disarray to give rise to nightmares. So many nightmares. So he fed, and fed, and fed.

For months he bathed in the terror of his victims.

When he gained enough strength to return to his dimension, he reached out for more. His captivity had weakened him, but he was getting strong. Tormented souls and more potent nightmares would restore him to his true glory. He searched the Dream Dimension for the soul whose nightmares were powerful enough to satiate his hunger longer.

He'd barely begun the search when he sensed the torment like a beacon in the darkness. It was exquisite. In all the billions of psychic energies he had feasted on, he'd never felt anything quite like this. This was a soul tortured like no other.

He mounted his horned black horse and raced toward the dark storm of psychic energy. He found a human. Male. Dark, long hair. And something unusual — a metal arm. The energy pouring from the man was tumultuous and almost overpowering. He soaked in it.

The nightmare itself seemed almost ordinary. He'd encountered so much worse in his millennia of existence. A dark road. A car. Two older humans.

The human with the metal arm walked toward the injured old man as he pleaded for help, then bashed the front of the victim's skull in with two quick blows. He dragged the man behind the steering wheel and sauntered around the car, his steps steady and deliberate, and strangled the helpless woman in the passenger seat. A double murder. Rather ordinary as far as humans went, but the chaotic, anguished flavor of the man's psychic energy told of something unique.

The torment of this human would replenish him. He need not search further.

-0- -0- -0-

Her neck was as soft as a marshmallow in his grip, and he squeezed until he could no longer feel her pulse against his palm. When he released her, she was still and lifeless. Her eyes were empty and bulging, with red blotches in the whites.

When he turned, a young man was there. A familiar face with dark hair and dark, wet eyes. Accusing. "You killed my mom."

"Bucky, what have you done?" Steve was there, too, to the left, dressed in his red, white, and blue uniform, the shield at his back, eyes full of horror and disbelief.

Then, in less time than it took to blink, Steve was small, looking exactly as he had in 1943 and wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of old, beige pants that were a size too big. One big eye stared at him. The other was bloody and swollen shut. "Why, Bucky? Howard was your friend. I was your friend. You need to be put down like a dangerous dog."

The horror of what he'd done crashed into him like a wave of ice-cold water. The corpses of Howard and Maria Stark began rotting, the flesh deteriorating before his very eyes. "It's not my fault," he croaked. "I had no choice."

"I don't care." Tony Stark's words were venom. "Your hands are drenched in blood."

Bucky looked down to see the blood on his hands, dripping from his limp fingers, red drops plopping onto the ground. Blood had seeped between the plates of his metal arm. The stench assaulted him. How had he not smelled it before? It twisted his insides and brought bile to the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry." He dropped to his knees, his throat closing up. I didn't have a choice.

A hard chuffing breath and the thud of feet on the ground sounded out of place. His eyes scanned the darkness and stopped on a dark figure, barely illuminated by the pale light from the moon. The figure sat on top of a dark horse with a horned head. His face was like a ghost, with chalk-white skin and black hair that blended into the night.

The specter's eyes glowed, and his mouth stretched into a grin that was more like a snarl, revealing a row of pointed teeth. Bucky felt as though he were being twisted from the inside. Pressure built inside his skull until it was pure agony. By the time he came to his senses, he was in a different place…a familiar place.

No.

Siberia. He was strapped to the metal chair, tilted back. The hum of the machine reverberated around him. The silver halo slid into place around his skull.

He was dreaming. He knew it was a dream, and he knew what was coming next.

Wake up. Wake up, dammit!

The halo sizzled to life, and the electricity drilled a path of pain into his brain so hot and intense that it banished all rational thought—except for the fleeting notion that a dream couldn't possibly feel so real.

The words he hoped never to hear again shot from his ears into his skull.

Zhelaniye.

Rzhaviy.

Each one sent him further into the abyss. He strained against the metal clamps, his throat raw from screaming. The machine rattled around him, the bolts groaning and knocking with the vibrations.

The knocking grew louder, faster, almost insistent. A voice yelled. The words were English. Something crashed. Heavy footsteps approach.

"Sergeant Barnes!"

Bucky surged upward in a darkness that was broken only by a beam of light that swung directly into his face. His lungs ached as they struggled to pull in enough air. He squinted beyond the beam. Two figures stood in the doorway of his bedroom. He shot to his feet, heart pounding, shaking, and swung his metal arm in front of him as a shield against the guns pointed at him.

"We're police!" one of the figures announced.

Bucky blinked, eyes adjusting, and made out the dark uniforms and badges on their chests.

"We're responding to a call of a disturbance," the other officer explained, looking around and lowering his gun a couple of inches. "Are you okay, Sergeant Barnes?"

The beam from the flashlight dropped a few inches.

Even though his pulse was thundering in his years and his insides felt like jelly, Bucky forced himself to appear calm and slowly brought his arms away from his body. His encounters with law enforcement were always unpredictable. Some officers seemed to respect him, others just wanted an excuse to shoot him.

"I'm fine," Bucky croaked, barely able to get the words out. His throat felt like hot coals under pressure. He must've been screaming loudly enough for the neighbors to hear…just what he needed to prove to them that he was a normal guy. Most of them already avoided him. "Just a bad dream."

The officers holstered their weapons. "It sounded like somebody was being murdered," the man on the left said. In the darkness, the two officers looked like shadows. "We busted down your door to get in. You should get that fixed as soon as possible. We'll leave you alone now."

They made a hasty retreat.

He wondered what they would write in the report. The fact that they didn't stay to gather more information didn't surprise him. They didn't get paid enough to face off against a semi-stable former assassin with a kill list longer than his metal arm.

At least he was now sleeping in a bedroom on a mattress like a normal person. If they had busted in and found him sleeping on the living room floor, that would have just been one more oddity for his file…one more thing to tell the Government that he wasn't entirely stable.

He took a deep, steadying breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. The nightmares still lingered. They were as vivid as any he could remember. His head throbbed as if hundreds of volts of electricity had pummeled his brain, and despite the hint of light coming through the curtains telling him morning was close, he felt like he hadn't slept a wink all night.

He glanced at the mattress on the floor. He must've been thrashing because the blanket was a twisted mess. Picking up his phone from the floor, he disconnected it from the charger and glanced at the time. 5:32 AM. His alarm wasn't set to go off for another 28 minutes, giving him extra time to shower and dose up with caffeine before he had to meet Sam.

He'd figure out what to do about the door later.

-0- -0- -0-

He spotted Sam in the booth through the window of the small diner even before he walked through the doors. Sam donned his usual attempt at a disguise—a baseball cap pulled low and a pair of sunglasses. He had his nose in his phone. Bucky pushed through the front door, his entrance announced by the hollow ring of a bell.

His headache lingered, and the mix of aromas from the diner turned his stomach. He didn't have much of an appetite, but Sam was in town and wanted to talk with him, and Sam was the only friend he had in the world. Dr. Raynor had given him one good piece of advice — he had to nurture friendships if he wanted to keep them.

Sam looked up just as Bucky slid into the booth. "You look like hell."

Bucky grimaced. He probably should've shaved before leaving the apartment. "Good morning to you, too. You realize wearing sunglasses inside calls more attention to yourself, right?"

Sam opened his mouth, looking like he had a retort on the tip of his tongue, but his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. "You sick? You look paler than usual, but I didn't think you super soldiers could get sick."

"I'm not sick. I just had a rough night."

The waitress came up to their table, her curly blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. "You ready to order?"

Bucky eyed the chalk menu behind the counter and decided his stomach was not going to be up for food just yet. "I'll just have some coffee."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "I'll have the morning special with coffee." He held Bucky's gaze as the waitress hurried away. "Either you already ate or you are sick."

"Neither. So, what's up?"

"Why does something have to be up?" Sam leaned back with a cocky smile. "Can't a guy just meet up with a pal when he's in town?"

Bucky tried to muster a light-hearted retort, but his head felt stuffed with cotton. His limbs were heavy, as if the earth's gravitational pull had increased suddenly. Maybe if he forced some food down, he'd get a bit of energy.

One bad night shouldn't have him feeling so tired. Maybe Sam was right. Could he be getting sick? He didn't think that was possible. He couldn't remember being sick since 1943.

"You wouldn't be in town unless there was business," Bucky responded, pushing out the words like they were a Jeep stuck in the mud. "But it's still good to see you. I wish I was better company."

Sam leaned forward, brow furrowed, oozing concern suddenly. "I wasn't kidding before. You really do look like crap. Maybe you should get checked out."

"Doctors aren't my thing." He saw the waitress and flagged her down, changing his mind about food to order a stack of pancakes with a side of sausage. Maybe a helping of refined carbs and sugar with a dash of protein would perk him up.

"You're right that I'm here on business, partly." Sam lowered his voice. "The feds think there's going to be a drop of stolen alien tech tonight. They can handle it, but the government asked if I could provide backup given the sensitive nature of the goods. Should be an easy operation."

"Never say it should be easy." That was a surefire way to jinx an operation, not that he was suspicious, but he knew overconfidence could be deadly.

The coffee arrived, and Bucky drained his mug before the waitress even turned around to leave. She cocked an eyebrow at him and promised to be back with the pot.

"You want some backup?" Bucky asked, but even as the words came out of his mouth he wondered whether he'd be up for the job.

Why the hell was he so tired? He'd gone far longer without sleep and remained completely functional.

Sam waved a hand. "No man, you look like death warmed over. I was going to ask if you wanted to tag along tonight because we could always use an extra set of eyes and ears, not to mention muscle, but with the way you look, you should get some rest."

"I can head home, sleep the rest of the day, and be ready tonight. Just tell me when and where." He was literally made for tactical operations. He might as well use it for something good.

Sam studied him for a few seconds, eyes narrowing, assessing. "You sure?"

"Yeah, if the feds are okay with it."

"They will be. Carrying the shield has its perks, after all. Tonight, 11 PM. GMD shipyard."

"I'll be there."

"Thanks, man."

Bucky hoped he managed a smile. "So, you said you're partly here on business. What's the other part?"

"Recreation. Sarah and the boys came with me. We're all booked into the Hyatt. They're doing their own thing today and tomorrow while I'm busy with this, but we have plans to do some museum hopping and stroll around Central Park in a couple of days. Care to join us?"

He'd enjoyed his last visit with the Wilsons. Spending a day with them would be nice, and it might be just the thing to get him out of his funk. "Yeah. Sounds nice."

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky stopped by a hardware store on his way home to pick up supplies to fix the door. He'd pried the door closed from the inside and made his way back into his apartment through the fire escape. It took him four hours to fix the damage. He should have been able to finish it in half the time, but breakfast failed to give him energy, and moving felt like wading through wet concrete.

He stripped to his boxers and collapsed on the mattress. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

-0- -0- -0-

He was strapped to a metal chair in a dark room. The thick metal cuffs secured his one hand to the arm of the chair, and leather straps bound his chest to the back. His feet were shackled tightly to the floor.

His heart pounded, and, when he heard the clang of footsteps approaching the closed door, it picked up the pace, as if trying to break free from its cage. Three men entered. Karpov was in the rear.

The guards in front were almost a matching pair—young men with square jaws and hard eyes. The one on the right carried a plastic sheet.

"I see you are eager for another session." Karpov smiled and moved behind Bucky.

The man's hand came down on Bucky's shoulder. Chest heaving, Bucky tried to get his breathing under control. Fear was half the objective, there was no point in giving his captors satisfaction. It wouldn't change what was coming.

Another man entered. He had jet black hair and white skin. His eyes glowed. He slid to the corner, his movement so effortless he appeared to float like a specter. The room felt colder suddenly.

The guards loomed in front of Bucky, and one of them handed the plastic sheet to Karpov.

"Hydra is the air you breathe." Karpov squeezed Bucky's shoulder and then removed his hand. The sheet crinkled above Bucky's head. "This is your first lesson in that regard."

The sheet enveloped Bucky's head and was pulled tightly back, driving away all oxygen. He instinctively tried to breathe but sucked in only plastic. He fought the rising panic. They didn't want him dead. For some reason, they wanted him alive, though they never asked him any questions about the Allied forces.

They seemed to think they could make him into some kind of weapon. They were delusional if they thought he would ever work for them. It was only a matter of time before they realized that and eventually decided to kill him.

His chest grew tight, and pressure built behind his eyes. His lungs struggled to take in air, but it was futile. He clenched his hand against the rising panic, closing his eyes and focusing on the mantra that they would not let him die. Not yet anyway.

Even if he was wrong, it would only last a couple of minutes. Then all of this would be over, and they would never be able to hurt him again. He held onto that thought as his chest heaved in vain against the suffocation.

His head felt like it would explode, and he was vaguely aware of spasming like a dying fish against the restraints. He didn't realize the moment he lost consciousness, but he came to gasping, with a voice emanating from speakers in the room.

"Heil Hydra!" It repeated over and over again.

He sagged in the chair, sucking in deep breaths. When the voice went silent, the plastic bag returned. Again and again, Karpov repeated the cycle, until all Bucky knew was the feeling of suffocation and burning lungs interrupted by overpowering relief and the mantra of "Heil Hydra!" echoing in his brain.

Bucky catapulted upward into a dark room, his ears assaulted by an incessant ringing. His lungs were working as though he had just run a marathon. Panic clawed at his throat and vibrated through every muscle in his body.

He wasn't sure where he was, but he was tensed for an assault. Something was in the darkness with him. He could feel it. The hair on his body went straight. The whisper of a breath tickled the back of his neck. He spun around, metal arm slashing the air and encountering nothing.

The ringing grew louder. It was a phone, he realized. It was his phone. His alarm.

He blinked, trying to pierce the darkness. A faint glow from the floor caught his attention, and he saw the device. Its screen was face-down and glowing with the activation of the alarm.

Sam. He was due to meet him at the dock. He grabbed the phone and looked at the time. 10:16 PM. He'd overslept his alarm by more than a quarter of an hour. He didn't remember waking up since hitting the mattress, but he felt like he hadn't slept in a week.

He'd have to hurry to make it to the rendezvous point on time.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky made it there with five minutes to spare, which was cutting it much closer than he liked.

Each step was a challenge. Exhaustion dragged him down like the claws of a demon reaching out from the underworld. It took everything he had not to surrender to it.

When he met up with Sam, who was hiding behind a shipping crate, he got no more than a tight jaw and furrowed brow by way of greeting. Sam's head was tilted, and Bucky could pick up the faint voices coming from the earpiece. The feds were already in position.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and spun to his left. There was nothing. His heart beat chaotically. He tensed, listening. The voices in Sam's ear became clearer. Waves made soft thuds as they rolled against the dock. A tiny scratching sound on his right indicated the movements of a rodent.

Nothing suggested the presence of a potential assailant. There were no footsteps. No breathing. No rustling of fabric.

"What is it?" Sam whispered.

Bucky shook his head. The nightmares and lack of sleep must be getting to him more than usual, but he wasn't about to admit to Sam that he was seeing things in the periphery of his vision that weren't there.

A tense female voice echoed from Sam's comm."The drop is going down. Standby."

Another flash of movement out of the corner of his eye had him jerking his head to the left. He spotted the ghost white figure with jet-black hair 20 feet away, lurking in the darkness near another storage container. The glowing eyes were fixed on him.

"Hey man, are you okay?" Sam kept his voice low. "What's going on with you?"

Bucky blinked at the figure, but it was still there. It looked solid. Real. Without moving a muscle or taking his gaze off the ethereal figure, Bucky whispered, "Tell me if you see anything odd by the storage container there?"

"No man, nothing. Why? Are your eyes making out something I can't see?" Sam raised his arm and fiddled with his wrist controller. "Redwing isn't picking up anything unusual." He tilted his head as more chatter came from the calm unit. "Okay, we're moving in on three… two… one!"

Sam gestured to the air and then jabbed a finger at Bucky and pointed toward a set of storage containers at the 9 o'clock position. This suit's wings expanded a second before Sam launched into the air. Bucky broke into a run.

A man dressed in tactical gear emerged from behind one of the storage containers and stood directly in his path. Bucky slid to a halt, metal arm coming up defensively in case the man took a shot at him. It took his brain a second to process what he was seeing.

Brock Rumlow. Impossible. He was dead.

Rumlow's mouth twisted into an anticipatory grin. "I've waited a long time for this."

Bucky sent his metal fist flying into the man's face, only it never made contact. Rumlow was gone. Before he could process the spectacular vanishing act, the sound of hooves pounded the pavement behind him. He spun to see a black, horned horse rearing up on its back legs. The ghost-like man was mounted on the east.

"We're gonna put your brains back in a blender," Rumlow's voice hissed from behind.

Bucky spun around again, metal arm whipping out faster, this time making contact. Rumlow flew backward with a grunt. Three more figures in black emerged from the darkness, guns pointed at him. The man on the ground groaned, his hands covering his face. One of the black-clad figures knelt next to him, pulling his arms away.

It wasn't Rumlow. He'd never seen the man before, but the dark jacket he wore indicated he was with the FBI.

"Whoa! Hold your fire, everyone!" Sam landed in the middle of the group. "This is James Barnes. I told you he was with me tonight." Sam's brow furrowed as he looked at the downed agent. "What the hell happened here?"

"What happened," the kneeling agent said, eyes flashing angrily at Bucky, "is that your buddy here attacked a federal agent."

Author Note

When I read about the Marvel comic character called Nightmare that feeds off the nightmares of his victims and has tormented characters like Bruce Banner and Peter Parker, I could not resist putting him in the mix with the MCU character who is arguably the most tormented by nightmares. The version of Nightmare in this story is closely inspired by the comics, but I may have taken a few minor liberties with him.