The nightmares had started a few months ago. He had known that recovery wasn't going to be an easy process—but these nightmares exceeded what constituted as normal nightmares and ventured into true psychotic territory. He hadn't told Ari because she would worry herself to death and, not actually having any access or right to administer any actual medicine not prescribed by any doctors (who he refused to go to; he mistrusted people in white lab coats), there was nothing she could do to help him anyway. He didn't want to see her look at him with a pinched expression of worry, so he kept it to himself. He was tough; he knew he could handle them.

Still…the nightmares were paralyzing. Almost every night, he dreamed about bodies and blood and death. Sometimes it was him doing the killing and sometimes he just stumbled upon the dead bodies, but they were all people he knew or had known…and all killed in the most gruesome way. Steve, vacant expression on his face, his entire body cut open and every organ pulled out, scattered all around him. Ari, hanging from the ceiling by flaps her skin, having almost been flayed alive, bright blue eyes dull and light-less. His mother, disassembled into numerous body parts and sewn back together like a misshapen monster, resembling a Picasso painting. And blood—so much blood. He was always slipping in blood…dried rust-colored blood, fresh scarlet blood splattered around rooms and walls, congealed blackish blood, thick, smeared into people's wounds and around their slashed grinning smiles. He could taste the blood, smell the flood, hear it dripping down the walls. And his victims. Always his victims featured in the nightmares, either laying dead on the floor or brushing their fingers past his face, his hair, whispering, pressing leering mouths onto his trembling, hot neck until he shot awake, either screaming or whimpering—but always gasping and crying.

And the nightmares weren't all. Then came the blackouts, the shaking, the ghostly figures that floated in front of his vision like dancing puppets with ghastly smiles and empty eye sockets. The day terrors came when he was awake and didn't happen as frequently as the nightmares. His vision left him, his ears rang, furious pain in his head and body pounded through him, and he felt like someone was trying to rip him apart. And then everything would return to normal, as if nothing had happened. They had happened three times in the past year. One had happened during a previous mission, and a lower-ranking agent had reported the incident to Fury, who didn't take light of the situation. But Bucky assured him, in a hard voice, that he could manage himself. And he could. He'd been through so much worse than this. This too—like everything else—would pass.

He tried to close his eyes and rest, leaning against his headboard, arms crossed, until four a.m. That was when he gave up the pretense that sleep would come and he got up to go running. Steve went running every morning when he wasn't out of town a mission (which was quite often, in fact, because Steve didn't actually go on too many missions) and he had invited Bucky to join him. Bucky usually did. Some days he ran alone but most days he ran with Steve—which is what he did today. What he liked was that Steve, like Ari, didn't feel the need to fill the air with incessant chatter. He pulled on a working out t-shirt and hoodie and shorts and then left, taking his motorcycle to meet Steve at the Washington Monument, which was usually where Steve did laps.

Steve was already running when he arrived. Sometimes Bucky wondered why exactly he and Steve even bothered to run or work out; they were already so much stronger than the average human. Did they really need to be stronger? But Bucky soon realized that working out was less about getting stronger and more about mental focus. It allowed both of them an outlet for their frustration and boredom, to simply run and run and run, to focus on their breathing and work towards an achievable goal. Bucky had once tried to convince Ari to go running—he thought that she could do with building up some muscle—and she'd been horrified. "No thank you!" she'd said. "I already wake up at four a.m. to get to work at the clinic! I'm not going to go running on my days off!" And that was the end of the matter. He knew she went to the gym weekly but nothing she did ever really seemed to make her muscular. It seemed being slender was in her genes. Either that or she had a spectacular metabolism, considering she actually ate an alarming amount of food.

He began running and soon caught up to Steve. "Hey," said Steve.

"Hey," said Bucky.

And that was all they said for the remainder of the run. Bucky kept his gaze straight ahead as he ran but he couldn't help but perform the automatic sweep he did whenever he went anywhere—checking for any threats or danger. He didn't think this suspicious part of his nature would ever go away. Looking at Steve next to him, slightly taller than him and keeping an even, steady pace with him, Bucky couldn't help but let out the smallest chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Steve asked.

"Nothing," said Bucky. After a moment— "I was just remembering how small you used to be. And now…" He waved an arm carelessly in Steve's general direction, referring to his Hercules-esq physique.

He couldn't see Steve rolling his eyes but he could sense it. "You know, I'm not the only guy in the world who grew up and got fit," said Steve, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Yeah, but you are the only guy who grew up and became Captain America," said Bucky dryly.

"Not true," said Steve. "They had a lot of men put on my suit after I was gone."

"Those wimps?" Bucky scoffed. They rounded the corner and kept going. Had anyone been observing them, their jaw may have dropped because the men had done around twenty laps at this point without even realizing how much they were running. "They weren't the real Captain America."

"What's this?" Steve asked in mock-shock. "Is Bucky Barnes actually a Captain America fanboy?" He laughed.

"What, like the girl you invited to dinner last night?" Bucky asked slyly. Steve immediately stopped laughing and Bucky smirked. Regardless of the fact that he now looked like a male model and was a superhero, Steve was just as clueless with women. Trust him to bring home the world's most obnoxious woman by accident, simply because he was too polite to fend her off. Bucky sometimes didn't understand why Steve was so hopeless with women. He was handsome, he was heroic, and he was—despite what the clichés about men like Steve said—he was artistic and intelligent. He loved reading and painting and sketching and he was a gentleman, to boot. He was an all around catch. Bucky supposed the only thing against him was the fact that he was simply too nice. Some women—a lot of women, actually—preferred the "bad boy" exterior (with a heart of gold on the inside, of course).

That was more Bucky Barnes…these days anyway.

"Let's never talk about her again," Steve groaned. "I already told you: I panicked."

"I don't understand," Bucky said after a pause. "What about…Agent 13?" He saw Steve stiffen out of the corner of his eye and sighed. "Steve. You can't blame her for forever for not telling you right away. And it's not her fault who her grandmother is. I realize it's kind of weird—but she seems like a great woman." He was talking about Agent 13, Sharon Carter, also known as Agent Peggy Carter's granddaughter. Agent 13 had initially been assigned to live in Steve's old apartment building undercover, pretending to be a nurse, to keep a watchful eye on Steve and make sure he wasn't encountering any major issues adjusting to the modern world. And it seemed to Bucky that Steve had initially been interested in her, though he'd never really admitted it to anyone; but then, six months ago, he'd figured out that Sharon was Peggy's granddaughter. Sharon hadn't exactly been hiding it…but she hadn't been rushing to tell Steve either, considering the fact that she knew that Captain America had been sweet on her grandmother—and she herself was interested in Steve. Bucky could understand why she didn't bring it up earlier; it would have immediately dampened their budding relationship and why would anyone do that? Why would anyone purposefully ruin their chances with someone they were interested in? But Steve had immediately backed away and kept a cool distance from her for a few months now. Bucky knew a part of it was the fact that Sharon had kept the secret from him—but a part of it was also that Steve felt strange about having slight feelings for the granddaughter of the woman he'd loved. It sounded like some sort of twisted Greek mythology tale, in some ways.

"She likes you," he pressed. "You should give her another chance. It's not really fair to ignore her like this."

"I'm not ignoring her," said Steve, sounding stung. He was too much of a gentleman to ignore a woman completely—but Bucky knew he'd been keeping his distance from Sharon more than was polite.

"Yes, you are," he argued. They passed a teenage boy who was standing on the grass in running shorts and a running tank top, staring at them with an open mouth and slightly dazed eyes. They didn't notice him, didn't realize that the boy had somehow been up at the crack of dawn and had seen them run laps around the Washington Monument more times than was humanly possible in the amount of time they'd been running.

"Why are you even pressing this?" Steve shot at him. "Since when do you care about my love life? I've never had one, remember? You're the one who's always had girls hanging off of him. Focus on your own love life."

"What love life?" Bucky muttered. "What girls?" Sometimes he noticed girls giving him interested looks but he also saw a lot of them giving him nervous and sometimes frightened looks. The old Bucky Barnes had never frightened women. Charmed them, wooed them, danced with them and spun them in circles—yes. Scared them? Never.

"Well, there's always Ari," Steve said slyly.

Bucky immediately sped up and passed Steve, determined to ignore what Steve had said. "Race you!" he called over his shoulder, throwing himself into hyper-speed. "Twenty bucks says I make it to the Lincoln Memorial before you."

"Not on your life!" Steve shouted and then they both shot off like rockets, sprinting so fast that they almost left steam rising in the concrete. Bucky ran as fast as he could but Steve quickly gained on him and then passed him by a pace or two. Oh, hell no, he is not winning this. Just as they were nearing the Memorial, Bucky shouted, "Stop, there's a kid choking!"

"What?" Steve screeched to a halt, wildly looking around. "Where?"

Bucky blew past him, laughing, and then raced past the Memorial. Steve stomped up to him, scowling, and poked him in the chest. "Cheating doesn't count, Bucky."

Bucky gave Steve his most innocent smile (which he was sure didn't actually look innocent at all). "Sorry, Cap. I'm the Winter Soldier. I play dirty."

Steve sighed. "Ah, fine, how much was it? Fifteen dollars? Twenty?" He began to pull out his wallet and Bucky shoved his arm away.

"Forget the money," he said, "and take out Sharon instead."

"You're out of your mind," said Steve, putting his wallet away.

"I won, you have to listen to me," Bucky replied. "Come on—I think she likes you. I think you like her. What's the hold up?"

"That's a lot of thinking and not enough knowing," said Steve, raising an eyebrow. Seeing Bucky's argumentative expression, he threw his hands and said, "Fine, I'll think about it—but give me some time, okay?"

"What, six months isn't enough time?" Bucky muttered but he let the matter drop, since Steve had more or less agreed. He knew he was being pushy but a part of him really wanted Steve to get a life and get on with his life. He, Bucky, had a lot of demons keeping him up at night and holding him back—but what was Steve's issue? Why didn't he find some girl, find some friends, get a chance to live? Even with Bucky back, even with good friends like Sam and Ari, and good acquaintances like Kendall Chengary, Hal McAfee, Selena Wu, and the few other folks around the neighborhood who were friendly with Steve…he was still a largely shut-in. A recluse. A hermit. And Bucky simply didn't understand why.

Still, he knew how to interact with people far better than Bucky did. If he just put forth the slightest bit of effort, he could have a life again. This was why Bucky kept pushing for him to give Sharon another chance. She was smart, capable, and she had a connection to Steve's past. She was perfect for him.

They both collapsed onto a park bench and watched the sky turn bluer and bluer as the sun came out and the first signs of human life began to show: store lights winking out, sleek Mercedes and BMWs whizzing past on the roads, joggers beginning their laps around the monument, even a family of (very strange looking in fluorescent pink t-shirts) tourists gathering around Lincoln's marble feet.

"Do you think this is ever going to stop feeling weird?" Steve suddenly asked.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"Time travel," Steve said seriously, not a hint of a smile on his face. "You and me. It's weird, right? Normal humans don't get to experience this."

"Normal humans also don't turn into giant green monsters," said Bucky, referring to Dr. Banner, a friend of Steve's, "or fly around in metal suits. Looks like the world is changing. But no, I don't think it'll ever stop feeling weird." He paused for a moment and then said, "It's not exactly a coincidence, you know? HYDRA would have taken whatever man fell off that train—but that man was always going to be me because I was always with you."

"I know," said Steve quickly, apologetically. "It's my fault. And I am so s—"

"That's not what I meant!" Bucky took a deep breath. Always so noble, Steve. "It's no one's fault. It's not like you—I mean, no one could have predicted what HYDRA would do. Besides, they'd already fiddled with me before I fell."

"What exactly did they do to you then?" Steve asked delicately.

Bucky shrugged, staring out at the Lincoln Memorial. The stone face was blank, slightly weathered with age, staring out at all, impassive and unknowing. It had been built during the very early years of his childhood. He'd never visited it before but he had planned to, once he got done with school. He remembered he'd had a plan for his life. He was going to get married to some girl and then travel the world with her. HYDRA had ruined all that. Sometimes—often—Bucky wished they'd just let him die. What did one more man dying matter? Scores of men had died during the war. And yet he, of all people, had been given a second chance—a twisted, second chance. It was like a rose with deadly thorns. A delicate, precious gift but one that hurt, could make him bleed at any time.

"I have no idea," he finally said, truthfully. "They…I don't remember much." He remembered being strapped to a hard metal gurney and sharp pricks at the inner corners of his arms. They'd made him feel disoriented and lost, his vision swirling slightly, and he'd begun to feel as if he were floating, floating high above the gurney, the room, even the building…vanishing into the sky. He'd begun to forget his name, his life, even the name of the country he fought for—so he struggled to remember. He mumbled his name and his identifying ID number to himself, a chanted mantra that eventually began to slur together after the hours and lose all meaning. He didn't know what would have happened if he'd stayed there longer than he had because Steve had showed up then. Bucky still remembered blinking, feeling as if he were in a very strange dream, because his best friend was looming over him, looking taller than seemed normal, mouthing things that Bucky couldn't understand. He'd thought he'd conjured up Steve to comfort him in his haze of confusion—until Steve had dragged him from the table. Then Bucky had realized it was real: his best friend was here, he was bigger than he was, and he was going to save him. It mirrored every instance in their lives where Bucky had magically shown up to save Steve from someone kicking his ass…except the situation was more dire this time.

"Well, I guess it's pointless talking about this," said Steve. "It was a long time ago and you're free from HYDRA, so…"

But was it really pointless? Bucky had started to wonder, in recent weeks. What if it was something HYDRA had done to him that was taking a toll on his sanity? Ari would have said it was post-traumatic stress disorder and Bucky would have agreed initially, but lately he was wondering more and more whether it wasn't something else. He had his files and he'd flipped through them but no one in their group could make head or tail about the science involved in the Winter Soldier project. Even Natasha, who Bucky didn't see as much anymore, had admitted that this was beyond her.

"Stark might be able to figure it out," she'd started but Bucky had immediately shot the idea down. He'd...encountered Tony Stark a few times and while the man was undoubtedly a "good guy" he also unnerved Bucky. Bucky didn't want the likes of Tony Stark knowing what had been done to make him so mechanical. He had a feeling Stark would crack some tiny jokes, eyes gleaming in ways that Bucky didn't like, and he wasn't in the mood to stand for that. Stark could be downright cruel and considering that he already knew some of Bucky's darker crimes... No. He didn't want Stark reading his files, ever.

"Well, what about Dr. Jane Foster?" Steve had asked.

Natasha had shaken her head. "No. Dr. Foster is a brilliant woman, but she doesn't deal with this type of science. I'd ask Dr. Banner, but he's off the grid and he wants to stay that way and I don't…"

"Yeah, don't bother him," Steve had said quickly. "The man deserves his peace."

"There is one person," Natasha had said abruptly, sudden light coming into her eyes. "Brilliant girl, kind of the shy and sweet type, I think she might be able to make a little headway on it. She has a partner who works with her, he's more focused on technology but considering Barnes is part technology, he may be able to help. Dr. Simmons, heard of her?" Steve and Bucky had both shaken their heads. "Well, I think she could help decipher some of this," Natasha had said. "She's busy with her team so it may take a while—and I'd obviously ask her to keep it private—but it's your best bet. What do you say?" She'd looked straight at Bucky in that typical Natasha way: a bit sardonic, vaguely thoughtful, slightly calculating, and partly amused.

Bucky had agreed. He wasn't a fan of a total stranger reading through his files but what choice did he have? Besides, there were already a handful of people at the remaining tiny-scale SHIELD who knew who he was. He wouldn't be able to hide for forever. He'd taken out the pages that talked about his missions and victims and Ari had helped him make a photocopy of all of the science-y pages. Then he'd given Steve the bundle of papers and Steve had promised to give it to Natasha, who in turn promised they'd make their way to this Dr. Simmons.

It had been months. He still hadn't heard word from Dr. Simmons. Natasha had updated him once and warned him to remember that it may be a while before Dr. Simmons got back to them, as she was a busy woman and off the grid much of the time, doing God knows what.

"I have to get going," said Steve, standing up. "The Director wants to see me."

"Co-director," Bucky corrected. A few months ago they'd all found out something a bit strange: Fury technically wasn't the director of SHIELD. He told them so himself, telling them that he'd placed a different man in charge. He wouldn't tell them who that man was, only that he was around the world doing important things. "You'll be acquainted with him when the time is right," Fury had said at a small meeting with the highest-ranking agents. "And you'll have to call him 'director' then. But in the meantime you may carry on calling me director." And then he'd grinned, one of the first (and only) times Bucky had seen him smile. It was startling to see. Bucky wondered who the new technical director was. Fury himself vanished for weeks at a time, leaving other agents in charge, doing God-knows-what, but Bucky had never seen neither hair nor hide of this mysterious new director.

"Don't let him hear you saying that," Steve joked. "He may not technically be director anymore but I doubt Nick Fury has ever been co- anything in his life."

Bucky didn't doubt it. The man was as prickly as a porcupine. The thought of him working with someone as an equal partner didn't compute.

Steve waved goodbye and then jogged off to his motorcycle, no doubt. Bucky wondered if Steve had gotten a motorcycle on his behalf. Steve had never been interested in cars; he'd liked art and comics and drawing, as a young man. Bucky had been the one who liked fixing up cars and motorcycles, even though his mother told him that no self-respecting gentleman drove a motorcycle. A motorcycle didn't exactly seem like the type of thing Steve would buy, which led Bucky to think perhaps he'd done it in Bucky's memory. The thought made Bucky feel awkward, like perhaps he should have been reciprocating and painting masterpieces in Steve's honor. Except Bucky was a terrible artist. He could hardly draw a stick figure without it looking like a hideous monster.

He sighed and got up to head back to his own motorcycle. Yet another day filled with aimless wandering, mixed-up thoughts, and trying to fit back into a world that he wasn't sure wanted someone like him in it.


Across the world, the midday sun beat down on the city of Rome in full force. It was an early summer day and tourists were already flooding the cobblestone streets of the Vatican, the ultimate seat of power in the Catholic world…in this century, at least, anyway. The man racing through the streets as fast as he could remembered a time when Spain had been the throne upon which the Church sat and governed the world. The man remembered because the man had been been there, been alive during those times. However, this was something no one knew. He was a holy, God-fearing righteous man and so were those around him, but he knew that there would be terrible consequences if anyone ever found out what he was (providing they even believed him to start with; many would just say he was mad and needed to retire from his life in the public to a life of piety and peace in the rolling Tuscan hills, perhaps at a monastery).

Oh God, oh God, oh God, please, his mind screamed in a panic as he ran uphill through the narrow, winding streets as fast as he could. He was a bit overweight and elderly as well and couldn't move as fast as he once could in his youth, in his days of playing calcio (football) in the streets with his young friends. But that had been centuries ago. Much time had passed since then. Some days he could scarcely remember his own origins.

This cannot be happening, he thought to himself, wheezing, clutching a stitch in his side. He stumbled and accidentally bumped into a woman with brassy blonde hair standing outside one of the tiny churches that dotted the Vatican and Italy throughout. Such small churches—small one-roomed buildings built centuries ago—were commonplace, nothing to get worked up over, but these mad tourists seemed to lose their minds when they saw them.

He stumbled around a corner and leaned against the wall, bending over and breathing heavily. His chest was burning and his heart was pounding and stuttering alarmingly. He suddenly felt very afraid. He had had a physician visit him a year ago and the physician had told him that his heart had a stutter, an extra beat that was irregular. He had thanked the physician and had never invited him back or gone to any follow-up visits. I have lived this long, he had told himself, I can continue to do so with God's grace. He didn't exactly remember when he had turned to Christ but it had been a century or two ago. He'd been suffering through a mid-life crisis of sorts (though his had come much later than most normal people's did), wondering what kind of creature he was, why he aged so slowly, what was the point in his living so long? And then he had wandered into a church one day. It had been silent and empty but the solitude had brought him peace like nothing ever had. And he had converted that very day.

This is impossible, he thought to himself. How can someone have discovered me? How can they mean to do this to me? It is an abomination, what they have with them! A work against God!

A sudden bang around the corner made him start in fright. He quickly crossed himself, silently praying to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit for aid, and then he darted through the closest door he could see. It led to a small room with some tables and a counter. There were no lights on and the room was empty of any human life; it felt cool and dark, unlike the uncomfortably hot and bright sun outside. He wiped the sweat from his face, trembling, and let out a cry of fear as the door slammed open suddenly. How did they know I was in here?!

"Please!" he cried, backing up against a wall, holding up a trembling hand. "Please, this is monstrously sinful! You do not have to do this!"

The person took no notice of him. They wore all black and had a black hood pulled over their head so that their face was thrown into shadows. "You're perfect," they said quietly in perfect Italian, taking no notice of his frantic babbles or trembling. "Normal people work, of course, but you—you're a treasure trove. I'm glad I've managed to find you." They took the object out from their pocket, pulsing and shining with brilliant green light, and he let out a cry, throwing an arm across his eyes and averting his gaze.

I will not look, he thought to himself fiercely, though he was still shaking with fear. I will not look. He began to whisper prayers under his breath as the person walked towards him. Despite himself, he found himself pleading, "Please, please—"

They held the object against his cheek and he only had a moment to scream before he erupted in unimaginable pain. It felt like his entire body was being ripped apart. Memories danced in his mind as he felt an enormous sucking sensation, like he was being sucked and torn apart by one of those—what did they call them?—cyclones. The entire process only lasted a few moments and then the person stepped back. The objects brilliant light dulled a bit when it lost contact with the man's skin and the man fall to the ground, as dry and withered as an old husk, powdery and bone-white, hair as white and fluffy as cotton candy. And his eyes…there were all white. His entire pupil and iris had gone snow-white. His teeth had fallen out and he lay there, stiff as a wooden board, looking as withered and wizened as an ancient mummy, mouth open in an eternal scream.

It was days before anyone found him. And when they did, they also found one other thing: five vertical black slash marks painted in black paint on the dusty window of the room, thin black streams dried as they dripped down the window like tears of the damned.

A/N: Apologies for the lack of Ari! She'll be back next chapter, don't worry. Review, review, review! Also, wink to Agents of SHIELD thrown in! Coulson's team may find its way wandering into this story. We shall see.