2 AM.

First night in the home. Waves of cramping gripped his abdomen and drove nausea to his throat. Sweat clung to his scalp and matted his hair. His breath came in ragged gasps; he woke wild-eyed with a stifled scream.

"Shut up! Shut up. No screaming at night, you know it's not allowed."

Only screaming when in the chair or fighting or when they wanted it to happen; punishment, for their pleasure. He searched for a weapon that wasn't there.

His heart was beating hard, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Waking to a new place was never easy; but it had become routine. New people, different years; he had grown accustomed to the routine of chaos. But this time he was in a home, without any weapons. No one handling him; staring at him, pulling him to that damn chair. He felt alone.

Slowly the recollection of Steve crept in. "Welcome to our new home." Steve had said with a soft smile. Bucky's head started aching. "Home?" He could barely grasp the concept of living in one place for more than a few weeks never mind embrace this old farmhouse. He stared with emptiness at the rugs and furniture, the pictures on the walls, the big screen TV. He was more able to accept the concept of his own room; if he concentrated he could imagine it was a cell. The whole place was comfortable and warm; and tore at his heart with distinct sadness. Shame roared up from his belly.

"The asset doesn't live like this, you'll filthy up the place; you'll soil in your own bed like a caged animal."

The Voice was angry that he had allowed a glimmer of enjoyment at the place.

Sleep wouldn't come back that night. He chose to get to the business of reconnaissance. He wandered each room with ease in the dark. Searching for chinks in the armor of protection. He checked each door and window, once, twice, three times. There was a basement gym, well lit and equipped but he found it oppressive. Uncertain what features caused his discomfort, perhaps it was the low ceiling, the padded floor; the space brought forth unnamed fears. There was a room off the kitchen with a computer that controlled the security feed for the house. He studied the perimeter cameras for gaps and weaknesses. There were plenty.

His search didn't turn up a single gun or tactical knife. "Good." He thought, then, "Maybe, not good." He didn't want to hurt anyone. No one, not even Hydra or Stark. Not anymore. But then again he felt naked, defenseless. "Maybe one weapon would be a good idea." He resolved to find one somehow.

It was nearly dawn by the time he found himself in his own room staring at the large and comfortably made bed. He never even considered using it. He reached to drag the mattress to the floor and thought better of it. "Steve'll never let that go." He settled near the door; if someone came in it would hit his feet and wake him. Although he had no plans on sleeping. The Winter Soldier didn't sleep, he watched and waited.

"You sleep on the floor like the dog you are."

"God Steve, it's too early for running, isn't it?"

Steve just laughed out loud. "Nope. Let's get going."

Bucky was being dragged by his sleeve towards the back door. Steve had insisted he change into sweats from the jeans and Henley he wore home and slept in. He had only dozed for an hour. Steve didn't seem to realize Bucky had slept, correction; not slept; laid on the floor for about an hour. Better if he didn't know. "It isn't even light out yet!" He protested.

"Open your eyes." Steve laughed.

"I can't." Bucky moaned.

"Yes, you can."

Bucky had a rush of déjà vu. 'We did this before didn't we?"

"Yes Buck we did. You always hating mornings, and I always wanted to get up and going." Steve shot that statement over his shoulder as he started jogging in circles around him. "Come on, let's get moving."

"Yeah, yeah." He hated running for no good reason. He could run forever to chase down a target, or fulfill a mission but running just to run seemed a ridiculous waste of good energy. But he'd rather be with Steve than left behind. So running it is.

The run wasn't a half bad idea Bucky conceded, to himself, not to Steve. It helped to clear his head of the haunting voices and visions that kept him company at night. He sprawled on the sofa with his flesh arm across his face, one foot on the floor and the other leg slung over the arm rest. He settled into the satisfying tiredness of 90 minutes of driving his body full out through the dawn.

Steve was humming to himself, happy to have a partner that could match him stride for stride. He made his way to the chair nearest Bucky and relaxed back into it. "I can't believe he's here." Steve rolled it over in his mind. There was Bucky. All he had to do was reach out an arm's length and touch him. After all the years and pain, he was right there napping on the sofa.

As he sat drinking in the heady mix of dreams and reality, his eyes began to wander. The firm jaw line, the long hair, the way his muscled abdomen peaked out between the T-shirt and sweat pants. His left hip bone was visible above the band of the sweats, a teasing amount of skin. Steve's eyes lingered on the subtle bulge beneath the stretch of the sweats. "God he looks amazing." Steve wondered if he could sneak away quietly enough to get pencil and paper to capture this moment.

Ultimately he was outright staring at Bucky's crotch by the time he shook himself out of the trance and groaned. "What the hell am I doing, this is so not right." Steve buried his head in his hands. The last thing he wanted was to be lusting after his friend, especially when he knew he was decidedly heterosexual.

"What about the words in my head?" Bucky's voice was soft and uncertain as it broke the silence. But Steve heard them loud and clear despite being lost in his own self loathing. Bucky was still lying on the sofa; not sleeping after all. Steve looked up to connect with those intense grey-blue eyes.

Steve's face betrayed a fleeting look of sadness then resolve. The rush to leave Wakanda only gave them time to replace the arm. The trigger words remained lodged in his friend's brain like a time bomb buried deep in his psyche. Bucky could still be overtaken, could still be manipulated to forget himself and become a weapon, become the Winter Soldier if someone had the words. They had no idea where the red book ended up. Zemo had it last at the silo in Siberia so it could be anywhere. Likely in the hands of the CIA as evidence against Zemo. They hadn't discussed it yet. No hot button issues. But that book could be used against Bucky too. It could contain information that would put him away for the rest of his very long life. Or it could vindicate him. Steve had already decided his long game on this situation. He would find a way to get his hands on that book.

"There are some really good people out there who may be able to help you, help us. T'Challa gave us some names. People he's had vetted so they're safe for us to approach." Steve searched Bucky's face for permission to go on.

He'd had long conversations with Sam and Natasha before waking his friend about how they would go forward, bringing Bucky home. Natasha had even christened it "The Project Barnes Offensive" and laid it out on a white board with stickie notes, algorithms and a zenn diagram for good measure. Steve really loved the way she threw herself into this, even if it felt more like a battle plan than supportive friendship; then again, maybe it needed to be a battle plan. He hoped not.

Bucky's response to the offer of "really good people" was muted. He lay on the sofa more still than before speaking, if that was even possible. He didn't answer right away. Steve noticed a slight twitch of his head. He'd never noticed that about Bucky before.

"What kind of good people?" he questioned.

Steve paused, then offered, "People who can help get past everything."

Bucky shifted a skeptical eyebrow towards Steve and called him on it. "Well, that was vague." He drawled.

"Yeah, that was. OK, therapists. A psychiatrist. People to talk to, to talk with, to help with how you might feel, help work past the words, help get over the things they, things that happened to you, get over, I mean, get past, really get better...Crap." Steve shook his head and ran his hands through his hair.

"Eloquent." Bucky slowly sat up and dropped both feet to the floor. He pulled the T-shirt down to cover his stomach and wrapped his arms around himself. "How can a therapist get the words out of my head? I'm not crazy, Steve. I don't need therapy; I need someone to get rid of the words."

"No, no you're not crazy, no one is saying that. It's just that a therapist can help overcome the words, the conditioning. They can help with how you feel." Steve was miles outside of his comfort zone.

"How I feel? What does that have to do with the trigger words? I feel fine. I am fine." Bucky's voice was sharp, his body tensing. "I want the words gone. I didn't ask for them. I didn't agree to put them in my head. I didn't volunteer for this. I just want help taking them out of my head."

"I know Buck, but we may need to work on this slowly. T'Challa's people didn't have any quick fixes. They offered therapy and deconditioning. They called it deprogramming, working through what happened and working with the trigger words."

Bucky shook his head hard and scowled; the metal arm flexed so it whirred with nearly as much expression as his face. "I don't want to talk about what happened to me. I don't want to talk about any of it." His voice was firm and clipped.

"What am I supposed to say to a psychiatrist?" He was angry now; voice loud and cracked. "Right. Hi, my name is Bucky and I'm an international assassin wanted in 117 countries, I've been brainwashed, frozen and I've killed literally hundreds of people over the past 70 years,nice to meet you, got any ideas? Or maybe I ask to see their fucking resume to see if they've treated any brainwashed POW 90 year old assassins!"

His last statement ended in a nearly hysterical shout. If it wasn't so damn tragic, it might have been funny.

"I'm sorry." Was all Steve could say. He wanted desperately to have a better answer. He felt an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around his friend and hold him so tight all the broken pieces would be forged back together. But Bucky hadn't opened the door to touch. So Steve slipped to his knees to look up into his face. "I am with you. I hope you know that. I will do anything and everything I can to help, just don't give up. We can do this, we will do this."

Bucky searched those earnest blue eyes staring up at him. He wanted to trust Steve; to believe him.

"Idiot. So you get rid of the words, you think that changes anything? You murdered hundreds of innocent people, words didn't make you do that. Piece of shit like you, those words are part of you now."

Bucky's head twitched hard as he reacted to the Voice's shouting. The force of its tone unnerved him. He wondered if Steve had heard it too. The uncertainty must have shown on his face as Steve looked surprised.

"I have to shower." He blurted out and abruptly pushed past Steve kneeling in front of him, nearly knocking him over.

"Great. Well played, Rogers." Steve's first attempt at approaching the whole therapy thing just failed miserably. He had to concede, maybe the "Project Barnes Offensive" had some traction.

He worried about how to help Bucky recover, especially when he didn't think he needed to recover. It was naïve to think he would regain his memories and just pick up where he left off. Foolish to think he would just be Bucky from the 1940's again. Steve knew that Bucky felt shame over all that had happened; he held himself responsible for what he did as Hydra's asset. No matter what Steve or anyone said, Bucky blamed himself. That was going to be the greatest hurdle they faced.

During one of their "Project Barnes" planning sessions, Sam had insisted, "This is going to be one long and tumultuous ride Steve."

"The hellfire storm in Bucharest, the airport fight, Siberia; he was fine, but that was all a distraction from the nightmare he's been living. When you two settle into an everyday routine, I'm afraid he's gonna come apart when you get him home."

Steve hoped Sam was wrong about Bucky.

The nightmares varied.

Dark red curtains hung in every dream. An opulent dinner party, a remote village, the cryostasis chamber; the cascade of red surrounded his every step. Voices provided an undercurrent of words slurring through the images. The players in his dreams would ignore him at first as if he was an unseen observer, there to gather information without leaving a mark.

His clandestine status never lasted though, the faces always turned towards him. Their chatter morphed to screams when he fought against their attention. That's how it went in real life, as the asset. In his dreams, the screaming turned to laughter. Death turned into hands; insistent and powerful, they pressed against his chest, held down the metal arm, and pushed him backwards into a grave.

Some nights he'd scream as the dirt filled in around him. He'd wake with a choked out sound, shivering from the cold sweat that dripped down his back. Other nights the scream would drive his body into motion. He'd thrash against the unseen hands, bringing him to his feet.

Tonight, his struggle to escape the grave ended at the bottom of the stairs.

The fight to survive woke Steve. He ran down and jumped over his prone body. "Buck, what the hell."

Bucky scrambled to put distance between them; his back bumped against the wall.

"Don't touch me." His left arm shot towards Steve, connecting with his jaw just enough to compound the overwhelming dread but not hurt him.

Steve didn't back away. "It's a dream, just a dream."

"Steve? "I'm sorry, sorry." He rolled to crawl up the stairs.

"Wait. Just wait." He slipped upwards past him a step. "Let me in."

Bucky hesitated. Neither of them spoke.

Steve pictured reaching out to brush the sweat soaked hair from his face. He could see the forming bruise on his temple; saw the darkness under his eyes. He satisfied himself with the imagined touch. "Come on. Come with me."

Bucky stopped in the doorway to Steve's bedroom. "No. Not in here."
"Neither of us are sleeping. Maybe if you're here. Someone close. You might get some rest."

"I'll hurt you." He shook his head.

"I trust you." Steve reached towards him but let his fingers fall short of connecting.

Bucky chewed on his cheek and let the moment hang expectantly. He remembered lying next to Steve as kids. Sleep overs on sofa pillows or watching the night sky lying on the beach. The memory brought a calmness that hadn't been his companion in years. An image of Steve as that skinny boy nearly brought a smile; what it did bring was the heat that spread through his chest whenever they were close.

He glanced towards the hallway behind him, then back towards the bed.

"Come on, we both need some sleep." Steve grabbed extra pillows.

A hesitant step, then another and he was in an awkward perch on the side of the bed.

"Great." Steve crawled in to his side. "You might sleep better lying down."

Bucky remotely thought of a good come-back involving assassins, sleep and remaining upright, but his thoughts were increasingly like word salad so he kept it to himself. He laid down, face up, his arms tightly wrapped across his chest.

"Good. Now close your eyes and go to sleep." Steve rolled to face him. The darkened room didn't hide his silhouette. He'd studied that face a thousand times before now. Drawn the line of his cheek bones, the shape of his eyes so often in the past that he could draw his likeness from memory. There were more lines now, the outward nuanced testament to what Hydra had done to him. Steve held firm to what he believed, to what he knew with no uncertainty; Bucky was and is a good man.

The world had started to turn gray after the Project Insight fight. It was a muddied mess after the silo battle with Stark but the one clear fact he held onto was his loyalty to the man lying inches away from his hand.

Bucky quietly watched the hallway occupants. Faintly manifesting acquaintances from his past, they had started to gather in his peripheral vision. The nightmares were painful events that he could work through like a difficult mission. The ghosts were something all together different. A crowd of speechless apparitions that were intruding on his waking hours. Nothing he'd tried had deterred the growing audience.

Until now. His ghostly entourage didn't cross the bedroom threshold. "Good to know." He cataloged the new data dispassionately. "Must be afraid of Steve." The tightness in his shoulders relented enough for his arms to fall to his sides even if sleep wouldn't come.

"Close your eyes. You know what to do here. Make him think you're sleeping."

Bucky complied with the Voice's command. "Eyes are so dry, gotta rest them." He justified his obedience to himself.

"You need someone telling you what to do. You can't handle this. What the hell were you thinking walking off like that. Leaving your family. Ungrateful, pathetic shit."

The Voice was not afraid of Steve even if the ghosts were.

"Hey Buck, I wanna show you something." Steve leaned over Bucky's shoulder as he sat cross-legged on the sofa staring at the blank TV screen. He didn't respond.

Steve worried to himself, "He looks like hell." The dark sweats were soiled, his hair tangled and unwashed. The lack of sleep was showing in the dark circles, hollowed cheeks and vacant stare. "Let's go downstairs."

Bucky slowly started to uncurl his body without making eye contact. A faint tremor shook his head. He padded barefoot behind Steve towards the basement stairs, then across the gym's mat covered floor to the blank far wall.

"You need to see this." Steve pressed a non-descript panel on the right of the wall. It triggered a hidden door that swung open on a large room that automatically lit up with soft overhead lights.

"Come in. It's our tactical room." Steve stepped in.

Bucky stayed out.

"It's safe. I, I wouldn't ask you, you need to trust me. I want you to trust me." Steve was relying on words and sheer willpower to move Bucky through each day, but with every passing hour their grip on reality was slipping away. Steve was chasing him again, only this time it wasn't around the world; it was deeper into his own mind.

Maybe a different focus would change things. "Here it is Buck. Our tactical room. King T'Challa really spared no expense."

The room hardly fit with the old country farmhouse that sat above it. Sleek and state of the art computers filled the far wall. "Great connectivity despite being out in the woods. We're got full surveillance capabilities for a mile around the house, motion sensors, alarms. We can sleep at night. You can sleep."

Steve crossed to the wall of storage cabinets. "We've got storage for our gear; go bags, burner phones, weapons. Everything we'd need." He pointed to the opposite wall covered in cork and white boards; paper maps and diagrams. He started to blurt out, "Not as high tech as Stark." But managed to pull it back and laugh, "Low tech. Just our speed right?"

Bucky scanned the room slowly. His gaze resting finally on Steve. "You're not Captain America any more."

"No. Not any more. Too much has happened." Steve sat on the edge of the table.

Bucky mumbled. "I happened."

"You aren't the reason I dropped that shield."

"I was there, remember. You made a choice."

"I did. I chose you. But you aren't the reason I dropped that shield and neither is Stark."

"Yeah, tell yourself whatever you want. You lost everything because of me." Bucky turned to leave.

Steve stood, hoping his movement would keep him from retreating. "Not true. I get it. You don't see it but you will."

"See what, Rogers? What a hopeless optimist you are?"

Steve stepped closer. "You already know better than anyone that's a lie." His foot slid forward, edging to close the gap between them. "I know that someday you'll see that chasing you around the world was worth the effort." He thought he saw, maybe felt, Bucky lean slightly towards him as if he was drawn to the impending contact. He held his breath, waiting for his follow through.

Bucky's eyes met Steve's for a heartbeat; then darted away. A tremor shook his body as he stepped back to wander along the wall of cabinets.

Steve forged ahead. "I've been thinking I would work under a new name. Nomad. A man without a country."

Bucky nodded. "That's a plan."

"I was hoping you'd think about helping. If you wanted to, felt like it." Steve searched his impassive expression, wondering if he'd even heard the question.

"You want to know what I know about Hydra." Bucky stood at the far end of the room. A cold look on his face, his voice flat. He had vaguely wondered when Steve would get around to asking about Hydra.

"If you want to. No pressure but they are still active and a threat. I thought maybe you'd want some payback."

"Payback? For what?" He muttered.

"For what they did to you. They tortured you. Don't you want payback?"

It was hard to hear what Steve was saying. The Voice in Bucky's head was getting louder. Calling him Soldier and giving orders. The ghosts were hovering always closer, bumping against him at every turn. Bucky may have wanted payback at some point in time, but not anymore. The Voice wouldn't allow it.

"Payback? For what? You deserved every bit of what happened. You did those things. You're choice."

"I don't want to put pressure on you, Buck. I just thought maybe doing something with what you might know, if you remember things, it would help you let it go. We could find things to work on..."

"You suck at this, Steve." Bucky stated flatly. He slowly began stalking the room. "I remember a lot of details, sometimes it's clear. Bank accounts, names, places. Sometimes not so clear."

"There's a price to pay for infidelity, Soldier."

Steve was feeling more hopeful. "Good. We can write it down, plan it out but only if you feel comfortable. When you feel up to..."

Bucky spit out, "Don't fucking coddle me. You want the information, I'll do what I can."

The sudden flair of anger didn't make much sense to Steve. But Bucky knew where it was coming from. Every passing minute was filled with the Voice in his head telling him he was still the Soldier.

"That's right, Soldier. You're still ours. Still our loyal asset. Lead him on. Tell him anything. Make him think they are your secrets. Whatever works to shut him up. You'll be rewarded for a job well done when you come home to us.

He was starting to believe the Voice. He pushed past Steve.

"Wait. What the hell happened?" Steve reached but didn't connect. He let him go.

The frigid water was comforting even through his clothes. His mind went numb with the rest of his body. The Voice grew quiet in the cold. Shivering took his mind off the pain. The showers at the house were good. Not that he had a lot of experience. But the pressure here was strong, leaving his skin sore and muscles tight. His thoughts drifted back to water-boarding, a frozen lake, a fire hose. He wasn't disturbed that the cold made him feel at home.

His own voice whispered. "Steve would be angry about this." But it didn't make him leave.

Steve texted Natasha.

Nomad: Hey.

RED: Ready for reinforcements yet?

NMD: No. We're fine.

RED: Sure? I can be there in an hour.

NMD: NO. We're fine.

RED: How's it going then?

NMD: What r u up to?

RED: Washing the windows. Then patching the roof.

NMD: Sounds good.

RED: Seriously? You think I do windows? I'm coming over.

NMD: NO. DO NOT COME OVER.

RED: Don't be a damn martyr. He's a mess isn't he?

NMD: NO. He's great. Really. Great.

RED: LIAR.

NMD: All good.

RED: Stop it! Let us help you!

NMD: Gotta go. Out. Door.

RED: ?

RED: HELLO?

RED: Answer me! 3-2-1 calling Birdman now.

NMD: No. NO. Found him. We're good.

NMD: Walking. Soaked?

NMD: Home.

RED: CALL ME.