Now, I know it's not even October yet, but I'm posting this early for a few reasons: one, my 10-year posting anniversary was yesterday and I wanted to celebrate, and two, I will be unable to post on the sixth and seventh, so posting two days early can make up for that.

As of posting this, I only have Chapters 3 and 4 completed, and Chapters 5, 6, 22, and 23 partially written. I hope to get all of these done on time, but I can't make any promises.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Marvel Cinematic Universe or any of its characters.

WORD COUNT: 730

It was the sound of running water that woke Darcy up. Which was odd, because usually it was the sound of screaming that woke her up, if not the alarm on her phone.

Actually, back it up, that's inaccurate. It was the sound of running water plus the gasping breaths and choked sobs that woke her up.

She had sadly become accustomed to the fact that her wonderful boyfriend was plagued with horrific nightmares that frequently interrupted both his sleep and hers. She'd held him when he cried, held back his hair when the goriest nightmares had him puking into the toilet, and talked him down when he either held a knife to her throat or jammed himself into a corner in a panic.

Waking up to an empty bed, with Bucky all alone in the bathroom, apparently in some distress, was a new one, but she didn't hesitate; she slipped out of bed, out of the bedroom, and across the hall to the bathroom.

Bucky was hunched over the sink, his whole body shaking, furiously scrubbing at his hands and breathing harshly in between whimpers and mutters. "No, no, no," he gasped, "Come on, get off!"

"Bucky?" Darcy asked tentatively, "Are you okay?"

He whipped around, staring at her with haunted eyes, eyes that broke her heart. "Darcy?" he breathed, his voice trembling.

Her heart breaking just a bit, she stepped forward and went to embrace him, keeping her movements slow enough that he'd be able to read her intentions. And usually, he would let her. But today, he ducked away from her.

"Don't," he muttered, "You'll get it on you."

She frowned. "Get what on me?"

He turned back to the sink, resuming the process of scrubbing his hands and also his arms. "Can't get it off. There's so much- It won't come off!"

"What won't come off?" she asked softly, even though an idea was forming in her brain.

"The blood!" He practically choked on the word. "I can't get it off! I'll never get it off!" His scrubbing intensified, his left hand practically bruising his right and tearing up his fingertips, drawing actual blood.

Darcy sighed. "Babe…" She stepped up beside him and gently grasped his wrists. "Bucky, you're still dreaming. The only blood on your hands is coming from you tearing your fingers open with all this scrubbing. Come on, look at me."

He tore his eyes away from his hand and met hers.

"Bucky, I need you to wake up all the way, now, alright? What you were seeing isn't real, okay? Just take a deep breath, and come back to me. Please."

Bucky swallowed hard. "All those people," he whispered, "All their blood… I killed them, Darce. Their blood is all over me." He tried tugging his hands out of her grasp, but she held on. Thankfully, he wasn't pulling nearly as hard as he could.

"That wasn't your choice," she reminded him, "You were just the weapon HYDRA aimed at them. But that's all in the past. Come on, Babe, look at me."

He shuddered, blinking a few times, then his eyes seemed to clear. "Darcy?" he whispered, "What was I…" He swallowed again, looking at his bloody hands. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she assured him, "No, you didn't. This is all yours. You were kind of pulling a Lady Macbeth in here, and you tore your fingers open a bit on the metal arm. We- Should we bandage these up?"

He lifted his right arm and examined it. "Not really," he whispered, "They'll heal."

"Still, we should get the blood off. Gently, though, not like the way you were practically tearing your skin right off, earlier."

He nodded silently, and remained quiet as she rinsed the blood off his hands and towelled them dry. Then he let her lead him back to bed and tuck him in, lying down behind him and running her hands up and down his back like her Mom used to do when she had bad dreams and would climb into bed with her and Dad.

"I'm sorry," he whispered eventually, barely loud enough for her to hear.

She scooched closer in order to press a kiss to his temple. "You have nothing to apologise for."