AN: Some of the Winter Soldier in this one! It's pretty brief. I think this is the longest chapter yet! It took a few tries, but I finally got the right angle on it, and I'm excited. I feel like we finally hit that low point, and now Bucky can start building again. I think it's time for him to stop moping around, don't you? Please, please leave reviews! I love you guys!

Chapter 6

The nights in Afghanistan had made Mo a frustratingly light sleeper. She rarely slept through the night; the tiniest sound, or the feeling of another presence in her room would wake her. Sometimes she woke up startled, imagining that someone was there with her. Other times, and would wake in a panic from a nightmare; those still happened but less often than they used to, thankfully. And sometimes she just woke up and stared straight ahead into the darkness, her thoughts swirling. Some nights, she couldn't get their faces out of her head. Some nights she still cried.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights. It had been a little over a week since the flashback, and in that time she and Barnes had spoken (he had started calling her Fox, dropping the 'sergeant' from her name, so at least he was getting comfortable), and she had learned a little more about him, but these things took time, and he still wasn't ready to open up. She hadn't started to lose hope, not yet, but it was difficult, sometimes. Occasionally, he would act fairly normal; he was doing a good job hiding the tumultuous feelings that raged inside of him. Other times, she wouldn't see him at all.

She didn't know what it was that had woken her. She switched the light on her cell phone on, checking the time: 4:43 am. It would be sunrise soon. She slept on her stomach, always in the same position, curled up, her good leg on top. She stretched out and pushed herself up, shivering a little. The house was eerily quiet. She looked around her room, feeling unnerved, and shone the light on her phone around, illuminating the dark corners. She was alone.

She pushed the sheets off her body and scooted to the edge of her bed, reaching for her prosthetic. She slipped into it, fastening the upper part around her hips like a belt, and stood. As usual, she wore only a sports bra and sleep shorts. Just to be safe, she snatched up a black tanktop and slipped it on, then tied her wild hair back in a ponytail. She headed downstairs, past the bathroom where Barnes spent his time. The door was closed, the light off. She trailed her hand along the wall for balance, using the cell phone for light still, looking around.

There was someone in the house. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she did, and she was certain that someone was here. She licked her lips, her heart rate speeding up slightly. She knew that there were people who might be after Barnes, and her imagination ran wild. She hurried closer, hating that her fake foot wasn't as silent as her real foot. She peaked around the corner into the living room and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Keeping her back to a wall, she shone her cellphone light around the kitchen, then started violently and jumped back as it illuminated a face only a few feet away.

She sucked in a breath to cry out, the light in her hand going wild, but found herself screaming against a hand. It had happened so quickly, so impossibly quickly, how did anyone even move that fast? She struggled, tried to bite the hand that covered her mouth, but quickly discovered that it was impossible. The hand was made of metal. She steadied the light and shone it on her assailant's face, already knowing who it was.

Barnes. But he definitely wasn't Barnes. His hair was down, hanging around his face. His eyes were hard, deadly calm, his mouth set, unfeeling. That was what tipped her off, more than anything, strange as it was: his mouth. In the days she had spent around him, she had learned that he was one of those people who, unlike most people who expressed or concealed their emotions with their eyes, Barnes did so with his mouth. Not to say that his eyes weren't expressive; they were, when his walls were down. But even when his walls were up, his eyes blank, she had found that his mouth always betrayed him, that it was almost always sad.

This wasn't the case now. He was perfectly controlled.

He had caught her by surprise, covering her mouth with such force that her lip had snagged her tooth, and she tasted blood. She tried to calm herself down, but he was the Winter Soldier. He wasn't Barnes; Barnes was long gone. She forced herself to be calm, to stop struggling, and swallowed the blood that was pooling in her mouth. Once she was calm, he slowly released her mouth but pressed himself against her, his arm at her throat, holding her firm. He leaned in, his mouth at her ear.

"Who are you?" his breath was hot on her ear. She forced herself not to struggle.

"Let me go," she breathed, straining away from him. "Don't do anything you're going to regret."

At this, he laughed softly, his breath tickling her neck. She swallowed. He applied more pressure to her throat. "Who are you?"

"Moriah," she said, understanding that this was the Winter Soldier, not Barnes, and that the Soldier had no idea who she was. Her mind was spinning; it was the middle of the night. Why had the Winter Soldier emerged in the middle of the night? Steve and Sam said he came out occasionally, but what had triggered him at this hour?

"Ah. You're the one who's going to help me," he said, slowly releasing her. She leaned against the wall, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. She didn't know this person, didn't know this side to him. She didn't know what to say or how to act; she was terrified of upsetting him and sending him on a killing spree. "I don't need your help," he said, turning away from her and seating himself at the kitchen table, watching her intently. His eyes unnerved her; they were watchful, like a predator's eyes, and they missed nothing. "Have a seat," he said imperiously.

She slowly walked toward him, his eyes always on her. She thought of screaming for help, but thought that would upset him and she didn't particularly want her neck snapped. Her cell phone sat on the table between them, lighting them both up; it made his face look eerie, turned the blue of his eyes flat and nearly silver. She reached for it, intending to send Sam a text alerting him to the situation, but the Soldier snatched it before she could. She swallowed, folding her hands in her lap.

This was dangerous.

"Bucky?" she tried softly, and the effect was immediate. He stiffened.

"Don't call me that," he said darkly. His fists clenched. Her heart sped up. You are alone with the Winter Soldier, her mind kept saying. You are going to die.

"Bucky," she tried again, gently. The Soldier was visibly upset now.

"Be quiet," he growled, and her hands started to shake. The Soldier shook his head briefly, violently, almost like an irritated twitch. She swallowed back frightened tears.

"Calm down," she pleaded. "Bucky, calm down."

"Don't call me that!" his voice rose. She wondered if she had an unconscious death wish; he looked murderous. She prayed that this would work, preferably before he snapped her in half.

"You're scaring me," she said softly; he had stood abruptly and now loomed over her. "Bucky, please."

"I said stop!" he was shouting now, loud enough to wake the others, unless they were heavy sleepers. She found herself lifted from the chair suddenly and slammed back against the wall. He had her by the throat with his flesh arm, and she clawed desperately at it.

"Bucky, please come out. Please, please don't do this, I know you're in there—"

"SHUT UP!"

He was losing it. He tightened his hold on her and she gasped, and suddenly he drew her toward him and caught her face between both of his hands. She thought it was strange, suddenly, how the act of cradling someone's face was usually a tender, intimate gesture, and at the same time could be so violent. His hands were anything but gentle; they shook with barely contained rage, and she felt his muscles tense. He was literally going to snap her neck.

"Bucky," she gasped. She was frantic. She placed her hands over his, tried to be gentle, tried to bring him back. "Bucky, please, it's me, it's me—"

The Soldier did that head shake again, his face contorting for a moment. He stared at her, his lips drawn back in a snarl, but it was a different kind of snarl, not directed at her. His entire body had gone rigid, like he was fighting something, and then his eyes closed for a moment—she could hear movement upstairs, thank God—and when they opened they weren't the Winter Soldier's eyes.

Barnes was back.

He stared at her for a moment, his body shaking. His eyes went to his hands on her face and he released her suddenly, as though burned, and took a couple of reeling steps back.

"What happened?" he asked, and his voice sounded so lost, so confused. Mo flattened herself against the wall, desperate for distance. The light flicked on and she shielded her eyes, and Sam and Steve were at the foot of the stairs.

All Sam had to do was take one look at Bucky—he stood, horrified, staring down at his hands, looking panicked—and at Mo—she was flattened to the wall, her eyes trained on Bucky, her mouth stained red—and he had put it together, and he nearly lost it.

"You—" he started, lunging for Bucky, who threw his hands up to protect himself and backpedaled so quickly that he knocked into the kitchen table. Steve acted quickly, catching Sam around the middle and pushing him away, stepping protectively in front of Bucky.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked, using his Captain America voice, looking at Mo. She had pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, and she was shaking. She nodded slowly, but her eyes never left Bucky.

"I'm sorry," Bucky was saying. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened."

Sam was livid. "Did he hit you?" he demanded, looking at Mo, who shook her head. She withdrew her hand and it was smudged with blood. Without a word, Mo turned away from them and headed back upstairs. Sam swore and went after her; he could hear Steve behind him demanding to know what had happened, could hear Bucky telling him that he needed to see her, he needed to make sure she was okay.

"Stay away from her," Sam said, halfway up the stairs, pointing his finger at Bucky. "I don't give a damn if you're the Winter Soldier or not, I will kick your ass." And then he spun around, hurrying after Mo.

He found her in her room; the bags she had brought from LA were open on the floor and she was throwing things into them. He just stared for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. This had been his room before it had been hers, before he had cleared it out. That day suddenly felt like ages ago.

"Mo?" he asked carefully, watching as she opened a drawer in the nightstand and threw her underwear haphazardly across the room toward an open suitcase. Only a couple of them made it in. "Mo, what are you doing?"

She spun around. Her lips were still red, stained like some sort of macabre lipstick. "What does it look like I'm doing, Sam?" she demanded.

"Well, it looks like you're leaving," Sam said slowly, "but I know that's not right."

"Funny," she spit, throwing a pair of shorts at him. "No, I'm leaving, I'm done. I can't do this."

"Mo—"

"You lied to me, Sam!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "You said I was safe! You said he wouldn't hurt me!"

"He's not normally violent," Sam said, trying to calm her down. She was breathing heavily, her eyes wild. She pressed her hands to her forehead. "You're not having a panic attack, are you?" He remembered when he had first met her, and her anxiety had been so bad that he'd witnessed his share of panic attacks.

"No, I'm not," she snapped, her green eyes murderous.

"Moriah," he said slowly, raising his hands, attempting to placate her. "I am so sorry that this happened to you. Please tell me what happened."

"He was going to kill me," she said. "He had me by the throat, then was going to snap my neck, Sam." Her voice had gone deadly calm, but her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm out. I'm gone. I'm sorry."

"Mo—" he took a couple of steps forward and reached his hands out to her, grabbing her shoulders. She flinched away, shrinking out of his grasp wildly.

"Do not touch me right now, Sam, do not touch me!"

"Just think about this," Sam said. "You've been doing so well—"

Her voice rose. "I'm not dying for this asshole!" she shouted. "He's not worth my life!"

"You're not going to die—"

"You didn't see his face."

He watched her fling things this way and that. He felt bad for her—he was furious himself, and he wanted to skin Bucky alive. But he was also irritated with her. He knew her well enough. He knew she was running. He knew she was stronger than this.

"You're acting like a hypocrite," he told her lowly, and this got her attention. She froze and raised her green eyes to look at him.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice deadly. She took a few steps closer.

"You're acting like a hypocrite," he repeated boldly.

"I am not a hypocrite."

"I seem to remember that you were in a pretty low place once," he started, but she cut him off.

"I never threatened to kill anyone!"

At this he tilted his head back and laughed a little. "You had a flashback and pointed a gun at me!"

"It wasn't even loaded!" she shouted back.

"I didn't know that! And did I give up on you? No, I didn't—"

"Don't make this about us," she hissed. "This situation isn't even remotely comparable and you know it."

"No? What's the difference?"

"The difference?!" she demanded, throwing her hands up. In the shouting, she had opened up the cut on her lip and she was bleeding again; her teeth were bright red with flesh blood. "The difference, Sam, is that he's killed people!"

"There isn't a single person in this house who hasn't killed someone," Sam pointed out.

"You know what I mean," she growled.

"Please, go on," he said. "Please. Because I'm still a little confused as to how this situation is different from yours."

She placed her hands on her hips, then raised one hand and started ticking off fingers. "Well, for starters, he's brainwashed. Probably damaged beyond fixing."

"You and I both know you don't mean that. No one is beyond fixing." He kept his voice calm. "I know you had a scare tonight. And I'm going to do what I can to make sure this never happens again. Steve and I both. But you can't give up on him, Moriah, I know you, and I know you'll hate yourself. Think this through. You know he needs help."

"Why are you suddenly his champion?" she demanded. "Why are you taking his side?"

"I'm on your side!"

"It doesn't seem like it!"

"Mo, just imagine if I had given up on you. Imagine if you had given up on me."

For just a moment she didn't say anything; she just glared. Then: "This is different. You know it is."

"How is it different?" he asked again.

"Sam," she said slowly, deliberately. Loudly. "He. Is. A. Trained. Killer."

Sam just held her gaze for a long, long time, until she finally looked away. He saw her bite her lip and close her eyes briefly as her own words sank in. He drove them home.

"And you're not?" he asked softly, watching her. The fight suddenly left her; the tension evaporated from her body, and she just looked very, very tired. "I'm not?"

"It's diff—"

"You're right," Sam interrupted, taking a seat on the bed. He patted the spot next to him and she sat almost petulantly, like an upset child. "It is different. You want to know how?"

She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say."

"Then let me say it," Sam said. "The difference is this: the dude was held captive by Soviets for years. He was tortured. He was brainwashed. He had his mind wiped. He was programmed. I've fought him myself, and it's like fighting a machine. The humanity was gone. He was just a tool. Just a weapon. Us?" He looked into her eyes as she sat beside him, saw that hers were brimming over with tears.

"Don't say it," she whispered. But he said it.

"We were in control," he said, and she closed her eyes. "As much as we don't want to think about it. When we killed people, we were in control of our actions."

This seemed to break her. She put her head in her hands, curling up into herself. "I can't do this, Sam," she said. "I'm sorry, but I realized that tonight. He needs more help than what I can offer."

"You're scared."

"I am terrified! Terrified, Sam! I haven't been this scared in—in a long time."

Sam put a hand on top of her head and drew her close, and she struggled at first, resisting, saying "I'm fine, I'm fine," but she finally gave in, her head falling against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head. He kissed her hair.

"You're okay, right?" he asked her. "As far as…"

"As my mental health?" she asked with a little laugh. "I'm fine. No flashbacks, no panic attacks. I'm fine."

"Just scared," he said, rubbing her shoulders.

"Yeah," she said.

He pushed her away slightly and tilted her chin up with his hand, looking at her mouth. "He didn't hit you?"

"No," she shook her head, licking her lip. "He covered my mouth with his hand, pinched the skin or something."

Sam nodded, drawing her into him again, and this time she sighed and thumped her head on his shoulder. He looked around the room, at the underwear on the floor.

"Nice," he said, raising an eyebrow, and she pulled out of his embrace and looked at him. "I like the red ones," he said with a wink, and she rolled her eyes at him and shoved his shoulder. He laughed a little, then sobered and they looked at each other.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do," he said, patting her knee. "If you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you, and none of us will blame you. Hell, I'm halfway out of here myself. But I also want you to know that I believe in you. And I think that if anyone is strong enough to do this, it's you. Alright?"

With that he stood, maintaining eye contact for just a moment before he left, stepping around the clothes on the floor.

"Where are you going?"

"To kick some ass," he said over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.

"I have to see her," Bucky pleaded, straining against Steve. "I had to make sure I didn't hurt her."

"Leave her alone, Bucky," Steve said, forcing him to sit in a chair. Bucky continued to struggle, trying to get around the super-soldier, but trying to move Steve was like trying to move a mountain.

"I have to make sure," Bucky pleaded, looking into Steve's face. "I have to—"

"You're not going anywhere," Steve said, gripping Bucky's chin in his hand. The grip was firm, but not painful. "Look at me, Buck," Steve commanded, and Bucky looked into Steve's familiar blue eyes. For once, he found them comforting.

"I have to…" Bucky said weakly, trying to push Steve away, but the fight had all but left him. "What have I done?"

"She's fine," Steve assured him. "Rattled up, but she'll be okay." Bucky put his head in his hands. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. "What happened tonight, Bucky?"

"I don't know," Bucky said, looking helplessly up at Steve.

"Think," Steve insisted, and it was a harsher tone than what Steve normally used with him.

"I just—I blacked out," Bucky said. "I blacked out again."

"When?"

"I don't know. I just remember going to sleep and then—and then I wake up and my hands are—"

There was shouting from upstairs. He swallowed convulsively and he and Steve both fell silent to listen.

"I'm not dying for this asshole!" That was Fox's voice. "He's not worth my life!"

Bucky put his head down. He didn't want to hear this, but part of him latched onto it, used it to fuel his already guilty conscience. He deserved this. The shouting continued, and neither Steve nor Bucky spoke. He heard Sam shout about having a gun pointed at him, heard Fox shout about the situation being different in that Bucky was a trained killer. She was right. And he was good at it; she'd almost gotten to experience it first hand.

He was disgusted with himself. He was terrified of himself.

"…he's brainwashed. Probably damaged beyond fixing."

Bucky felt Steve's eyes on him. He glared at the floor, trying not to let her words get to him, but it was unavoidable. They wormed their way into his mind, seeped in like poison, and he couldn't get them out. Damaged beyond fixing. Everyone in this goddamned house knew she was right.

Sam must have said something in his defense—he was grateful—because Fox demanded to know why he was taking Bucky's side. More fighting ensued before he heard Fox say "He. Is. A. Trained. Killer." very slowly, loudly, deliberately, before it got very, very quiet upstairs. Bucky licked his lips and gazed down at his metal hand; it was smudged with her blood. He clutched it in a fist, his hatred for the thing threatening to boil over. He turned away from the stairs, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. He ran his hands repeatedly through his hair, shaking his head.

"I didn't mean to," Bucky said, tugging at his hair. "They have to understand. I don't know what happened, I just—I would never—" This is what he had been afraid of. Steve pulled up a chair and gave his shoulder a squeeze, but didn't say anything, which was fine. There was nothing he could say; Bucky understood that.

The sound of someone coming down stairs caught both of their attentions, and Bucky looked up, his heart stuttering with fear and with hope. It was Sam. Bucky stood, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.

"Is she—"

"You," Sam said, pointing a finger at him. "Shut up. You don't get to talk, not right now."

Bucky held his tongue.

"Is she hurt?" Steve asked.

"Bloody lip," Sam said. "But that's it. Just scared."

No one mentioned the shouting. Sam ran his hands over his head, clearly agitated, before he finally spoke again: "She's leaving," he said.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"Hey," Sam said, taking a threatening step closer. "What did I say?"

Steve placed himself between them, placing a hand on Sam's chest, holding him back. "She's leaving?" Steve repeated, bringing the other man back on track.

"Yeah," Sam said, his eyes trained on Bucky with uncomfortable intensity. Bucky couldn't hold his gaze. He looked away, feeling as though he was shrinking beneath the furious glare. He was pathetic. He was worse than pathetic. "She doesn't want to do this anymore."

Steve nodded. "That's understandable," he said, and his voice was only slightly disappointed. He took a step toward the stairs and Bucky was alarmed. He didn't want to be alone with Sam. Thankfully, Sam blocked Steve's path.

"Leave her alone," Sam said. "She'll kill me. She definitely doesn't want to see anyone right now."

"There's no chance she'll stay?" Steve asked. Sam shrugged.

"I dunno. This is Mo; she's surprised me before, but you didn't see her face, man. She was upset."

Bucky closed his eyes.

"When is she leaving?" Steve again.

"By the looks of it? Tomorrow. Her bags are packed."

"Well, look at this. Rise and shine, boys."

Bucky started awake, his eyes snapping open. For a moment he was groggy, puzzled. His neck ached. He looked around. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and it took him a moment to realize he was in the kitchen. He'd fallen asleep hunched over the table—well, he hadn't been exactly sleeping. Dozing was a more proper term. His mind had been too busy for sleep. Sam snorted somewhere to his left; he had fallen asleep leaning against the wall, but now he was blinking his eyes like an owl. Steve, asleep in the chair to his right, had also started awake. Bucky looked at the clock on the microwave. It was 7:04 in the morning.

Fox was standing in front of them, leaning against the kitchen sink, arms crossed. Her honey-brown hair was knotted high on top of her head, exposing her face, neck, and shoulders, making her look vulnerable; it showed off her neck and her jaw, as well as the scars there. She wasn't hiding any of it today.

"Mo?" Sam's voice was sleepy, but alert. He stood. Bucky stared at her, feeling guilty just at the sight of her; there was a small red cut on her lip, but aside from that there was no visible damage. As if she could sense him looking, she licked the cut, the motion slow, almost thoughtful. Bucky looked away.

"Mornin'," she said. She pushed away from the counter and swung her arms out in a stretch, taking a deep breath.

"Thought you'd be gone by now," Sam said slowly, clearly testing the waters.

"Yeah, well, here I am," she said.

"When does your plane leave?"

She glared at Sam. "Shut up," she said, and at this Sam laughed, approaching her and wrapping her in a hug.

"I knew you'd stay," he said, lifting her briefly off the ground before setting her back down.

"You're staying?" Steve asked, standing and heading toward her.

"Yep," she said with a sigh.

"You don't have to," Steve said. "After last night—"

"After last night," she said, "I realized I have to stay." She shrugged, biting her bottom lip. "Can't just leave after something like that, you know? I mean, clearly, he's drowning." She made eye contact with Bucky, her eyes challenging him to look away, and this time he refused to look away. "And I can't just walk away. I've been in his place." Not exactly, Bucky thought, but appreciated the sentiment.

Steve gave her a little smile. "Thank you," he said. She nodded, but her gaze was still focused on Bucky, and he was starting to get uncomfortable. She stepped forward, approached the table, and leaned her hands on it so that she was standing above him, but leaning down.

"You," she said, "have a hell of a lot of work to do."

"I know," Bucky said.

"That means no more locking yourself up," she said firmly. "That means working through this. Starting today." He nodded. "I'm serious. It's going to get ugly and it's going to get painful, but what happened last night will not happen again. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He felt a strange combination of sickness and hopefulness.

"Good," she said, then turned her back on him. Maybe she did it to prove she wasn't afraid of him; with her back to him, she was completely vulnerable. Or maybe he was overthinking it. But, with her hair tied up the way it was, he noticed something strange on the back of her neck. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was writing. A series of numbers, more specifically, lines of them, with roman numerals at the very bottom. As though she could sense him staring, she lifted her hand and rubbed it absently over the numbers.

"Also," she said, turning back around, a small smile on her face. "I would like to issue a formal and public apology to Sam for shouting at him last night." Bucky saw her look at Sam and Bucky and Steve looked as well and saw that Sam was grinning. "I'm sorry. I'm awful."

"The worst," Sam agreed, elbowing her. Bucky looked away from them and down at his hands again, noting that there was still some of her blood on his left, the metal one. It had never been much to behind with, but the sight of blood on his hands was something he had hoped he would never have to see again. And then last night had happened, and it felt like such a massive setback, and he felt like such scum—

"Wait," Bucky said suddenly, looking up from his hands to look at Moriah. All eyes were suddenly on him. "I wanted to—to apologize," he said. "I know there's nothing I can say that will fix it, and I'm not going to make excuses for myself, but for what it's worth, I am sorry."

She held his gaze for a moment and swallowed; he saw the motion in her throat. After a few tense moments, she nodded.

"I have a theory," she said, raising one finger, and it was back to business. But he wasn't blind; he noticed the way she moved around him now, different form before; she was tenser, warier, and every time he moved it elicited the slightest reaction from her. She seemed to be constantly mirroring him; a movement from him meant a movement from her, always defensive, always watchful. He couldn't let himself feel upset by that. He had no right to be. And she was subtle about it, too; no one else seemed to notice, but thanks to his training, he did.

"I think what happened last night—how you slipped into Winter Soldier mode—" the name Winter Soldier stirred memories in his mind, and they threatened to surface, but they didn't. He didn't want them to. He knew of the name, vaguely, and it wasn't a surprise to hear her use it, but connecting that name to himself was the difficult part. "Was a defense mechanism. So I don't think it's another personality entirely, like we thought, but rather a part of Barnes that he's suppressed and that resurfaces from time to time," she said.

"But I think it might work the same way. With DID—dissociative identity disorder," she clarified, "the other personality or personalities have been created to cope with a trauma. So, Barnes, you didn't create the Winter Soldier yourself. He's not a creation, not like someone with DID has created personalities. The Winter Soldier is you. But, in order for your brain to handle the trauma, it's shut all of that out—that's called suppression—and you've got some post-traumatic amnesia going on—tell me if any of this sounds right."

Bucky blinked. "I guess."

"So, how another personality might surface when the host personality needs it, I think the Winter Soldier is triggered in somewhat the same way, but it's you, still—you go back to that place, you become that person again to protect yourself, because something triggered you and tricked your mind into believing you need that defense. It's just that you've buried that side of yourself—and the Winter Soldier is a part of you, and you're going to have to accept that."

Bucky ignored the part about accepting the Winter Soldier. "But I went to sleep last night. That's all I remember."

"I'd guess you had a nightmare," she said, as thought it was the simplest thing in the world, as though he should have known this. "You probably had a nightmare, got freaked out, and the Winter Soldier was triggered. So everything your brain hid away to protect you suddenly came back because you were fooled into believing you needed that part of your self to survive. The Winter Soldier is your ultimate survival mode. Make sense? I mean, it's just a theory, but…"

"Damn, girl," Sam said, looking impressed. "You are a nerd."

"It makes sense," Steve said, nodding slowly. "So what do we do?"

Moriah looked at Bucky, and he held her gaze. "We have to dig it all up."

AN: Mo's tattoo will be explained all in due time. We got some hints as to Sam and Mo's history as well as we got to see Mo completely freak out, but she pulled it together. From here on out, it's all about getting better. Can't wait to write in those fun, fluffy chapters as well, because we need those, right? I hope you guys enjoyed this. And remember to review! The little box is like Right There :)