The nightmares were less frequent with every healing session Bucky had with Shuri. It didn't mean he didn't still get them. Usually, they were things he at least somewhat remembered consciously; his numerous kills, time on Zola's table, the torture, the chair, cryo, the fall. But every once in a while something he didn't remember at all would pop up and catch him off guard.
Tonight was one such night. He'd actually been sleeping fairly well lately and hadn't had a panic attack or flashback in almost a week. It shouldn't have taken him by surprise that a nightmare would ruin his steak of good days, but it did.
His "field test", they called it. They wanted to be absolutely sure he could be trusted on solo missions. So they sent him to take out a target alone but had agents following him in secret. To observe or to keep things clean in case he failed or rebelled. At the time he hadn't realized the significance of his chosen target.
His target was in London, so it had involved some undercover travelling. The target was a member of a wealthy upper class family. The kill was to be done up close, with his knife or arm, which he was told to keep hidden until the kill was possible. They had said it would be easy to get close, to get the target alone. All he had to do was be seen then move to somewhere isolated nearby and he could complete the mission.
They were right.
The target had been leaning against a wooden porch fence in the early morning, drinking absentmindedly out of a steaming mug. He looked weary and his thoughts seemed far away as he looked at the sky. His face had been familiar, in a distant way, and at the time the Soldier had wondered if they had met before, a thought which made him slightly hesitant. But he did not ponder it for long. He had a mission and failure meant pain.
The mug had been dropped and subsequently shattered when he slipped from the shadows of the trees just far enough into the weak sunlight to be seen while keeping his left arm in shadow. For a long moment the target could only stare before he practically gasped the word "Bucky?" An unenhanced human wouldn't have heard it.
The Soldier slipped back into the treeline, knowing beyond a doubt that his target would give chase. He did. The man scrambled to follow, stumbling down the steps in his haste, and the Soldier led him into the woods. Just far enough away they wouldn't be easily overheard or found by accident. All the while his target called "Bucky! Bucky, wait!" over and over, desperate and almost pleading.
When the Soldier finally reached the location he'd chosen the night before, he stopped walking. Allowed his target to catch up. The man was breathless and his heartbeat had been elevated. He had to take a moment to catch his breath before he stepped cautiously closer. He seemed worried, but not for himself.
"Bucky? Is that really you?" He asked. The Soldier said nothing, just waited as his target got closer and closer. "How are you alive? It's been fifteen years. Why didn't you try to contact anyone?"
The questions made the Soldier's brain falter slightly, but then the target was in range. It took surprisingly little effort to jab the blade into his target's body, just under the third rib where he was sure it would puncture a lung. The stab took his target by surprise too; the man's eyes grew wide and after a moment blood bubbled from his mouth. The Soldier withdrew the knife and his target crumpled to the ground.
He reached for the Soldier weakly with one arm, a plea for help. The Soldier only watched. He knew he should leave, return to base, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. Instead, he stayed and watched as the color, then life, slowly drained from his target's face. Something in his chest had felt cold at the sight, almost ached.
It was only now he understood why.
Bucky barely made it to the toilet before he was throwing up. Not much came up; there was a reason he didn't eat in the evenings. He still felt nauseous as he rested his head against the cold porcelain. After a few breaths he forced himself to stand. He flushed the toilet and cleaned out his mouth before he left the bathroom.
Steve was outside his room, waiting by the door to their shared balcony with two mugs in his hands. One was offered to him and Bucky felt like a puppet on a string as he crossed the room and accepted it. Steve stayed mercifully silent as they settled onto the balcony, onto the chairs that had been put there specifically for nights like this.
Bucky hadn't liked tea as a kid, but it had been the only thing that helped settle his stomach during the war and now, when he remembered what he'd done for HYDRA. Looking into his teacup, at the almost honey colored water made exactly how the English did because that was who had taught both him and Steve how to make it… he was tempted to throw up again.
He quickly set aside the cup, a bit too roughly. He was surprised neither it nor the table broke. But his hand was shaking and he couldn't take another sip without being sick. Bucky pulled his knees in and curled into a ball on the chair as he tried to keep his trembling from being seen.
Steve was watching him out of the corner of his eye, obviously concerned but waiting for Bucky to be ready to talk. If he chose to talk at all; there were some things he couldn't share with Steve, but his friend would still sit in silence with him after a nightmare until it was time for breakfast and never ask what new hell had been drudged up.
Finally, after swallowing hard, Bucky spoke. It was quiet and he refused to meet his friend's eyes, but he knew Steve would hear. "I think I killed Monty."