We Were Soldiers

170. Filling In The Blanks

There was one particular pigeon that woke Bucky every morning. He was an old bird who cooed relentlessly in an effort to attract the ladies. Because he had a broken wing, he couldn't fly off the roof of the Strand, so every morning when the pigeons descended and began the daily hunt for scraps dropped on London's streets, the broken pigeon was forced to stay behind. He had no mate, and only survived because Charles or Jack took pity on him and threw him a handful of seeds every day. It was probably only a matter of time before a hawk got him; if London even had any hawks. Until then, the pigeon existed only to keep trying despite the futility of his actions, and to wake Bucky at six-twenty every morning without fail.

When the pigeon's coos penetrated his mind, consciousness rose fuzzily like some half remembered dream from the depths of slumber. His legs were stiff, his shoulders ached, and a thin slice of light bisected the room neatly in two where he'd not fully closed the blackout curtains. He pushed himself up from his slouched position and squinted, trying to get his bearings. This was definitely his room, unless the pigeon had followed him across London.

His left hand wasn't free, so he reached across to the tiny lamp on the bedstand with his right hand and pulled the chain. Warm yellow light filled the room, and his memory of the previous evening sprang up clearly now. His hand wasn't free because he'd managed to keep a grip on Wells' hand throughout the night; his friend was still propped up in Bucky's bed, but he was finally awake, his eyes roving the ceiling above. He looked like hell, but just the fact that his eyes were open took a great weight off Bucky's shoulders.

Mentally kicking himself for falling asleep when he was supposed to have stayed awake to keep an eye on his friend's vital signs, he asked, "Wells? Are you really awake?" He remembered the test. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

A frown graced Wells' forehead and he glanced down at his hand before giving it a gentle squeeze. Hopefully that wasn't all the strength he was capable of mustering.

"What happened?" he asked croakily. "Normally if I wake up in someone else's bed I assume the evening ended with a lot of fun, but I'm still dressed, so it seems no fun was had. Why am I here?"

"How much do you remember?"

Wells closed his eyes as he tried to summon memories. "We were playing pool. I think I was thrashing you." Bucky smiled. At least his friend's sense of humour was still intact. "Did we meet some dames? I feel like dames were there. Then… nothing. I can't remember a single thing. How many blanks need filling in?" Genuine worry spread across his face. "I didn't do anything… um… stupid, did I?"

"No. Just the opposite." He gave Wells' hand a reassuring squeeze. It didn't seem to help. "You did nothing wrong. Here's what happened."

So he told the story in a rough form. The game of pool, the wager, how the evening had progressed. The walk along the Thames and being in an unfamiliar place. Being taken to a building and pushed down the stairs, into the cellar. How he'd come around and managed to fight the dames off. But he left out the part where he'd momentarily lost his head and tried to kill them, instead making it sound like the women got spooked when he stood up and left pretty sharp. Not a single word of what he said drew any spark of recognition from his friend's eyes.

"It seems I owe you, pal," Wells said at last. "I mean, I didn't have anything worth stealing, but it sounds like we got lucky. I wonder how you managed to come out of it so quickly."

"Alice… though that's probably not her real name… she said to Katherine that she thought she got the dose wrong. So I guess whatever they were using had to be measured out carefully, and she wasn't careful enough."

Wells nodded then winced. "My head hurts."

"Yeah, you've got a bruise." He lifted his hand to gently brush the skin on Wells' temple that had turned a deeper shade of purple overnight. "Right here. Guess you probably hit your head if they pushed you down the stairs too."

"Guess so." His eyes fell on his jacket on the small writing table. "Hope they didn't get my room key. My landlady will be pissed if she has to change the locks. I might be the next one she murders."

He smiled at his friend's bullshit, but the smile swiftly faded as another thought popped into his mind. "How come you've never told me where you're staying?"

Wells shrugged. "You never asked. Didn't seem important."

"Of course it's important! How will I know how to find you if I need to reach you? Last night, the police were asking all sorts of questions. Where we were staying, who our COs were… and I couldn't tell him anything. I felt like the world's worst friend."

"Sorry. I guess I should've told you." He glanced away, unwilling to meet Bucky's eyes. "It's just awkward, y'know."

"Look, if you're afraid I'm just gonna show up and say something stupid or incriminating about you in front of your new team—"

Wells quickly shook his head. "No. It's not that. It's just… back with the 3rd Infantry, Captain America and his Howling Commandos were kind of a big thing. And of course everyone knew that I served in the 107th, so they knew that I knew you and Dugan and Jones. They watched me. All the time. Thought I had special insider information about Captain America's secret missions. I could feel their eyes on me the whole time I was there, just waiting for me to do something or say something top secret, and it was really annoying. I like that here, in London, I'm just Danny. Just another small cog in a big machine. Not important to anybody who matters."

"You're important to me, idiot," Bucky told him. But it was kinda refreshing to hear. Most guys would probably sell an arm to be known as the kinda guy who personally knew Steve Rogers and his team. That kinda thing might even open a few doors. Bucky was always alert for people who might wanna exploit his friend, because Steve had never been popular before and he might not be able to spot people trying to take advantage. "And if you don't want me to know, then that's fine—"

"I'm staying at the Parkgate Hotel, and my CO is Colonel Miller," Wells offered. "Like I said, you never asked, and I never really had to bring it up before."

"Thanks. Are you hungry?" His own stomach hadn't stopped growling since he'd opened his eyes.

"So hungry I could eat that pigeon," said Wells, eyeballing the curtains. "In fact, if it doesn't shut up real soon, I might just do that."

"It won't taste nice. But I'll fetch something to eat. If you can stand and feel like taking a shower to wash some of the cobwebs away, there's a clean towel already on the rail in there. It might make you feel better."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks."

Bucky extracted his hand and left quietly without locking the door. And if he was real lucky, maybe he could dodge Mr Chipperton and avoid having to tell the concierge that he had yet another mouth to feed.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Army regulation boots were not the most comfortable things to pound the sidewalks in, but Steve ignored the rub against his heel as he finished his final lap of the area. More than a year on from his transformation and he still marvelled at how fit he was now. He'd just run a twenty-K in less than an hour, and he could probably manage another twenty without breaking a serious sweat. But he'd agreed to meet Peggy for breakfast, which meant spending more time than he would've liked getting ready and worrying about whether he needed another hair cut yet.

When he reached the hotel door he spent a few minutes going through his cool down routine, stretching out muscles that were barely even aching despite the workout he gave them. Maybe he needed to start doing more. He was running a lot, and doing stretches and jumping jacks, but he wasn't really using much of his body's potential. Perhaps Peggy could devise a training plan for him; and if not her, then someone in the army ought to have some recommendations. He just needed to find the right person. Someone who was willing to relentlessly drill him until he discovered his limit. Once he knew his limit, he could start pushing it further out. It was worth talking to Peggy about over breakfast.

The hotel was pleasantly quiet this morning, which meant that the newest batch of recruits who'd been out drinking till late last night were probably still sleeping it off today. Hopefully he'd be able to hit the breakfast table before they all descended. Peggy's idea of breakfast was a nice little café that served toast accompanied by small pots of marmalade and a boiled egg, and none of it even touched his appetite. He never told her that he ate a first breakfast before meeting her, but he suspected she knew.

"…I'm sorry but Captain Rogers isn't here right now. No, I don't think so. As far as I'm aware he's simply gone out for his usual morning run." Mr Chipperton sounded put-out by whoever he was speaking to, so Steve hurried into the lobby. The concierge was on the phone, scowling down the receiver. "Would you like to leave a message for him, sir?"

"I'm here," Steve whispered before the guy could hang up.

Chipperton covered the mouthpiece and whispered back, "It's a Colonel Phillips for you, Captain Rogers. He sounds terribly annoyed by your absence."

"I'm used to it." He accepted the telephone from Chipperton. "Thanks. Hello, Colonel Phillips? Sorry I wasn't here earlier sir, I've just got back from my run."

"Rogers, you and I had an agreement," Phillips said, his tinny voice not only irate, but inine and iten as well. "You got to pick your team, and you'd make sure they didn't cause me any problems. So when I walked into the office this morning to be handed a report from London's police commissioner, you can imagine my annoyance."

Steve's spirit deflated. Almost a year without a single incident. Maybe he'd asked too much of Jacques. "Sir, whatever Dernier has done, I take full responsibility and will of course offer a formal apolo—"

"Dernier? I'm not talking about the Frenchman. I'm talking about Barnes. Apparently he was the victim of a crime. Somebody drugged him and tried to rob him last night."

All the hairs on Steve's arm tried to stand on end as a chill ran down his spine. That had happened to his friend? Why hadn't anybody told him? Where was Bucky now? Was he in hospital? He'd said he'd gone out to play darts with Danny. Clearly something had gone wrong.

"Sir, can I call you back shortly?"

"I insist."

And with that, Phillips was gone. Steve handed the receiver back and asked, "Did Sergeant Barnes come back here last night?"

"Not while I was on duty, but I was in bed by ten o'clock, and you know that your teammates do sometimes keep late hours. Should I send somebody up to his room, to check?"

"No, it's fine, I need to go up there anyway. Thanks, Mr C."

Because he was faster than an elevator, he took the stairs two at a time and reached the third floor in just a few seconds. Conscious of how loud his knocking could sometimes be, along with the fact that the rest of the team might still be asleep, he knocked on Bucky's door only moderately loudly and asked, "Buck? You in there?"

No answer. He pressed his ear to the door. No sound. So he tried the handle and found the door unlocked. It opened with only a quiet squeak. A figure sat motionless at the end of the bed. But it wasn't Bucky. It was Danny. His damp hair was plastered to his head and he had a towel wrapped around his waist. He didn't glance over as Steve stepped into the room; his gaze was fixed on the window, which was open slightly to admit the persistent coo coo of a pigeon along with the breeze.

"Danny?"

Still no response, so Steve stopped by the guy's side and reached down to gently shake his shoulder. "Danny, what's going on?"

Danny finally turned his head and looked to Steve. His expression was vacant, his blue eyes lacking any sort of comprehension of his surroundings. Maybe Bucky wasn't the only one who'd been affected by whatever had happened last night.

"Rogers?" he said at last. "What are you doin' here? This isn't your room."

"It's not yours, either," he pointed out.

"Fair."

"Where's Bucky? Is he okay?"

Danny nodded, then looked down at one of his hands, turning it over to examine it from another angle as if only just seeing it for the first time. "He's fine. Getting breakfast. I never realised how wet water is before."

"What happened?"

"I took a shower."

"I mean what happened last night? I got a call from Phillips to say Bucky had been the victim of a crime, that someone had drugged him and tried to rob him. What do you know about that?"

Danny lowered his hand. "I was there. Apparently. There were some bad ladies. I was out cold but Barnes brought me back here after he scared them away. He's fine by the way; just gone to get breakfast. Do they make fried eggs here? They don't fry the yolks hard, do they? I hate that."

The man was clearly not in his right mind. Maybe that was par for the course; Steve didn't know him well enough to make that call. But this seemed like odd behaviour even for an odd person.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a little more gently now that he knew Bucky was not hurt. "You seem a bit dazed."

"I'm fine." He blinked owlishly. "What're you doing here anyway, Rogers? This isn't your room."

"Steve?"

His heart leapt with relief at the sound of Bucky's voice. His friend was poised at the door, two large plates of food in his hands, with cups of coffee balanced on their edges. Before he could drop them and earn Mr Chipperton's ire with a coffee stain on the carpet, Steve leapt over and grabbed the cups, and set them on the small writing table.

"I got a call from Phillips this morning," he explained. "Something about the police saying you were drugged and nearly robbed?"

"Ah. That. Yeah. I was afraid Phillips might say something." Bucky's expression shifted back and forth between sheepish and guilt. Like his ten year old self caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "He didn't need to call you, though, I'm fine!"

"But he didn't know that. And neither did I. What happened?"

His friend began relating a story about darts and pool, and a couple of dames who joined them for their next round. Halfway through the story he tried to get Danny to take a cup of coffee, but the guy couldn't even hold it properly, so he gave up and drank the coffee himself. When offered the other cup, Steve shook his head; coffee could wait until Peggy.

"So then," Bucky continued, his eyes a little more tired than usual, "we all left and I started to feel a bit woozy. I thought maybe I'd had too much to drink on an empty stomach, but I'd only had a couple of beers and a glass of rum. Okay, maybe two glasses of rum, but the first was early, even before we left the Kettle, and you know I'm not drinking as much now. In fact, I drink more when I'm with the team than when Wells and I play pool, on account of you can't stop playing to go water the flowers once you have your table, or someone else steals it."

"It's okay, I wasn't gonna say anything about what you were drinking," Steve assured him. And it was a good sign that Bucky was worried Steve might be concerned about that, because even a few months ago, he wouldn't have cared all that much. And true, Phillips had told them to stay sober in case they needed to move quickly, but Phillips had also pulled them off missions until Morita was back on his feet.

"Right. So, the dames led us to this house. We were both pretty out of it by then. I got pushed down the stairs. I guess Wells did too, judging by the bruise on his head. I woke up to one of the women rifling through my pockets. Either they hadn't dosed me right, or the fall snapped me out of it. When it was clear I wasn't gonna be falling asleep, they rabbited. I dragged Wells out, found a couple of police officers to report it all to, then brought him back here so I could make sure he wasn't gonna die or anything."

"And you didn't think to wake me up about this?" Bucky could be remarkably stubborn at times.

"No, I didn't. What would be the point? You're not a doctor. There was nothing you could've done except go after those dames yourself, and that's not something you would do."

"I may not be a doctor, but I am your friend. Your best friend, in fact." A fact that Bucky seemed to forget the longer this war went on. Once upon a time he wouldn't have hesitated to come to Steve right away. "Didn't it cross your mind that I might want to know something had happened to you? That I might be worried if I found out from somebody other than you?"

His friend's expression shifted to sulky defiance. "Yes, it did. But like I said, there was no point in worrying you over nothing. I'm fine. I was just a bit sleepy last night. I needed some space and I needed to make sure Wells was okay, and I needed to do that without you and the rest of the team henpecking me."

The sound of running water made both of them jump. Danny had disappeared back into the shower, maybe to sober himself up a little more.

"Great, now you've upset Wells," Bucky sighed. "He doesn't like it when people argue."

"He's not upset, Buck, he's completely out of it. He needs to see a doctor."

"I took him to Howard last night. Howard said he was fine." He sank down onto the end of the bed, and a small pang of guilt stabbed through Steve. Bucky might look okay on the surface, but he had been drugged, even if it hadn't affected him the same as Danny. Maybe he hadn't been thinking straight last night. But on the other hand, if the police who'd handled their report thought that either of them needed medical treatment, they would've taken both men to a hospital… wouldn't they?

"How are you feeling?" he asked, taking the empty bed spot beside his pal.

"Tired," Bucky admitted. "Stayed up late trying to make sure Wells wasn't dying. And I guess I might've felt a little bit dosed from whatever the women gave me. Other than that I'm okay. Guess my thick skull protected me when I fell down the stairs." He took a deep breath, and the frown that his forehead had been wearing grew smoother. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I really didn't want to worry you. All the excitement was over by that point. The only thing left for me to do was take care of Wells."

"Maybe I could've helped with that."

"Maybe."

He clapped his friend gently on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay. I'll go report back to Phillips, tell him there's nothing to worry about. Maybe we can get some more info from the police about who these women are."

A look of guilt flashed across Bucky's face so fast that it was gone in the blink of an eye. "Yeah. I hope they see the error of their ways." But that was all he said, and Steve knew he wouldn't get anything out of his friend if he pushed it. Bucky clamming up could give regular old oysters a run for their money.

"Alright, I'll head off now. I've got breakfast with Peggy after my phone call with Phillips, but we can get dinner if you like."

"Sure. That'd be swell."

That was some relief, at least. He'd make sure his friend got plenty of food and an early night. Morita's final check up with Stark was scheduled for three days' time, which meant missions could be on the table again real soon. After so long spent watching his team recover, he was just itching to get back to the fight. Hopefully some time in the field would keep the guys out of trouble for a while, because it sure did seem to have a habit of finding them in London.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The water was cool and invigorating, a refreshing wet breeze on Danny's bare skin. Much as he liked a good shouting match, his head just couldn't take it at the moment. Loud noises were painful, and the two men seemed to be trying to take loud to a new level. Besides, another shower to wash some of the cobwebs away couldn't hurt, and it was impossible to be too clean. That's what his mom always said, anyway. She always said it more when his dad was due home. Always lined Danny and his brothers up, except Tim who was old enough to be absent with his own Naval service, and inspected them like a drill sergeant sizing up the recruits. At the first sign of dirt, out came the handkerchief for the ol' spit-and-polish treatment, while she drilled into them that you can never be too clean. Sometimes it was hard to know whether she was trying to protect her boys, or herself. Dad was a stickler for cleanliness and order.

"Hey, Wells."

He glanced over his shoulder, blinking water out of his eyes. Barnes was peering around the door jamb, one hand holding open the door to the tiny private bathroom. The dark shadows beneath his eyes and slump of his shoulders said he'd stayed awake long past his bedtime last night.

"Yeah?"

"Steve's gone. Come get some breakfast before it goes cold."

"Okay, I'll be out in a minute."

Barnes' eyes roved over him briefly before he disappeared. Damnit, his friend was gonna make a big deal outta his shoulder again; he could just tell by the way he was lookin', all innocent-like. And Danny had stupidly left his clothes piled on the chair in the bedroom, so he couldn't even get changed before going out there. If he'd had a second towel he could've draped it casually over his shoulder, but he only had one towel and he couldn't forsake covering up for covering his shoulder, because for one, it would look real fuckin' weird, and for two, that was exactly the moment Rogers would choose to walk back into the room making an awkward situation ten times more awkward. No, he'd just have to suck it up and get this over and done with now. At least Barnes would finally stop asking to see it.

After switching the water off and grabbing the now-damp towel, he used his hand to wipe the steam from the little over-sink mirror and looked into his own eyes, searching it for the memories that had been taken. Knowing that something had happened, but he couldn't remember it… it was a tiny bit terrifying. Those dames could've done anything to him, and he wouldn't have known. Maybe the memories were still in there, just repressed in some way.

He touched the bruise on his temple and winced at the pain slicing across his head. Maybe it wasn't the drugs that'd broken his memory. Maybe he just hit his head hard after being pushed down the stairs. Or maybe it was both. But thank god he hadn't been alone when it happened. If he'd woken up in some cold, dark cellar with no memory of what had happened… well, he had a very active imagination, and it would probably have no issue with filling in the gaps.

Barnes had already made a start on one of the plates of food when Danny stepped wobbily out of the bathroom, and he did a very poor impression of somebody who was trying very hard not to stare, casually munching on a slice of toast while glancing over from the corner of his eye. To be fair, Danny had been unconscious last night, so Barnes could've done anything to him. Even peeked at his shoulder. But he hadn't.

"Fine, you fuckin' baby," he said with a sigh. "You can look at my shoulder. But if you even look like you're feelin' guilty about it, I'm gonna punch you hard."

Barnes was on his feet so fast that he didn't even put his slice of toast down, and Danny tried to pretend like this was just another medical exam as his friend stepped closer. Just another doctor making sure Danny Wells really had got shot, and wasn't just fakin' it to get out of combat missions. But when Barnes lifted his left hand towards him, he slapped it away.

"Ah-ah. No touching."

"I promise I won't hurt you."

"I'm not worried about you hurting me," he told his friend. "Shower etiquette is still in effect."

"But I'm only looking at your shoulder!"

"Exactly. That's my most private area." Along with all the rest of him. But Barnes was very quickly reducing that rest of him perimeter to a much smaller size, and Danny just didn't know how to say no."I've already been poked by a half-dozen doctors; I don't need you doing it too."

Barnes pouted. Whoever said only dames pouted had clearly never met him. And of course, because Danny was a complete patsy, he said, "Okay, but you don't get to touch and eat at the same time. I don't want you getting butter all over me after I just got out the shower." He snatched the piece of toast from his hand and bit into it before Barnes could object. It was soggy, and cold, but at least it was something to do. Something to focus on so that he didn't have to think about his friend's ticklish fingers as they traced across the scar tissue left on the front of his right shoulder from the Italian doctor's rather hamfisted attempt to remove the bullet. So long as he thought only about chewing the soggy toast, he did not have to think about how he had failed, yet again, from preventing his friend breaching that safety zone he was supposed to be implementing.

"Does it hurt?" Barnes asked.

Danny looked up into warm grey eyes that were filled with concern. Not when you touch me so softly. "Yeah," he said. "Constantly. The pain is unbearable. But I endure it in a stoically heroic manner because I am brave."

"Wells."

He sighed. How could his friend put so much rebuke into a single word, whilst still looking so insufferably genuine? "Sometimes. Mostly if I sleep on my right side too much during the night, or if I over-exert the muscles during the day." He rolled his shoulders, to try and free Barnes' touch from it, but it didn't work. "Doesn't feel too bad at the moment. Guess I have you to thank for that; good call putting me on my back to sleep."

"It was a tough one. I wasn't sure whether to lie you on your front, in case you were sick. Propped up seemed like the best compromise." He stepped to Danny's side and ran his fingers across the back of his shoulder. "You're real lucky the bullet didn't go all the way through. Remember how much Stoller bled, when a bullet went through his leg?"

He shivered, and gooseflesh peppered his skin. Barnes quickly snatched his hand back and was immediately apologetic.

"Sorry, that was insensitive. I shouldn't go bringing up old stuff like that, not when you told me how close you were to losing your arm. Seeing the damage now, I understand why you struggle using it at times."

"I'm not thinking about Stoller's leg; I'm cold. In case you didn't notice, I just got out the shower. I hadn't planned on a lengthy exchange before gettin' dressed, or I would've run the water hotter. So if your morbid curiosity has been indulged enough for now..?"

"Yeah. Sorry. And thank you. Here, you want this cup of moderately warm coffee?"

"Sure." He wrestled himself into his clothes as Barnes returned to the food and picked at one of the plates. This was the second time in a week that they'd ended up back here after something had gone wrong during their nights out. It wasn't the low profile Danny had been aiming for when he'd taken the assignment in London. "I've been thinking," he said, as he pulled on his boots and took another slice of toast and the cup of coffee to perch on the end of the bed, "maybe it's time I told you where I'm staying. If you'd known, you could've taken me back there last night, and slept in your own bed. Maybe even avoided the awkward conversation with Steve."

Barnes frowned. "You already told me that."

"I don't think so." He'd avoided it so far because it gave him some small sense of control over the whole situation. If Barnes didn't know where he stayed, he couldn't just randomly show up and start piquing the interest of people whose interest ought not to be piqued. His CO was already suspicious about the redacted file of his newest staff member; the last thing Danny wanted was further prying.

"We had this conversation not an hour ago. You told me that you're staying at the Parkgate Hotel, and your CO is a guy called Colonel Miller."

"Huh." That was worrying. How could he have forgotten a conversation he'd only had an hour ago? Granted, his brain still felt kinda fuzzy, and his head might wobble right off at any moment, but still.

As Danny wrestled with the memory, Barnes plonked himself down on the bed beside him and said, "I think you should see a doctor."

Danny immediately shook his head. "I'd rather not, thanks."

"But there could be something wrong with you. With your head, I mean. Because of the fall down the stairs, or whatever those dames put in our drinks."

"I'm just a little woozy is all," he said. "Some more food and more sleep is what I need. I don't think what I had last night was real sleep."

"And if you still aren't a hundred percent after that?" Barnes insisted.

"Then I'll see a doctor." He wouldn't have any choice about the matter. "Believe it or not, I have to use my brain a lot in my new job. I can't be forgettin' important stuff."

"Okay. Good. I'm glad you're being sensible about it." It seemed like Barnes wanted to say more, but instead he clamped his mouth shut and picked at a hangnail on his thumb, his gaze focused on it. Something was eatin' him up. If it was more Krausberg stuff, Danny was in trouble. Wobbily as he felt, he wasn't sure he had strength left in him to fend off hugs.

"You look tired, pal," he offered instead. "Why don't you get some sleep? I gotta head back to my place anyway before my roommate sends out a search party."

"Yeah. Sure. Okay." But he didn't make any effort to move. And now he was giving off some pretty serious inner turmoil vibes. Guy was a master at that. He turmoiled more than anyone Danny had ever met, if that was even a word. And if it wasn't, it ought to be one, and applied exclusively to Barnes.

"Something on your mind?" Danny asked him. Please let it just be indigestion…

"I had a bad dream last night," Barnes admitted, keeping his focus on his nail. Just like when he'd talked about Austria, keeping his gaze on the painting. Like he couldn't look. Didn't want to be seen.

"Another nightmare about Krausberg?"

His friend shook his head. "No. It was… well, I dreamed that I woke up in that cellar, where the dames took us last night. It was dark, only a tiny bit of light to see by. I could feel hands on me, rifling through my pockets. And I could see somebody standing above you. And…" he took a deep breath, "I thought you were dead. You were just lying there with your eyes open, not moving, not even blinking. And I kinda lost it. I was so angry. I wanted to hurt them. I had one of them by the throat, and I watched her slowly suffocate. I could see the light dimming in her eyes. I would've killed her. Would've killed them both. And I think part of me would've enjoyed it. But something snapped me out of it and I let them go." The next deep breath he took was shaky, as if even just talking about it had made him live it in part. "So. That was my bad dream. I know some people think that dreams don't matter, but I'm not so sure. What do you think?"

What could he say to that? He couldn't lie, and tell his friend that dreams didn't matter. Not when it was a dream that had shown him so much about himself that he was only just starting to fully accept. But at the same time, telling a guy that his nightmare might be some reflection on who he really was inside, was not helpful at a time like this. Maybe it was time to try for a change of subject.

"You've always been the kinda guy who gets angry when his friends are hurt," he pointed out. "Remember how you punched Weiss when we lost Tipper? You punched him because you felt guilty about sending Tipper out. You couldn't take your anger out on yourself, so you took it out on Weiss instead. And what about when we fought after losing Franklin and Davies? I think you have a habit of storing your feelings up inside you, and eventually you become like a bottle of soda that's shaken too hard, and everything just bubbles over. Maybe your dream was a way of showing you that you can't keep doing that. Not without consequences."

His words were met with silence, so he sipped his now-cold coffee and waited. Sometimes a guy needed to talk. And sometimes he just needed to know that he wasn't completely alone. His friend seemed to be at that stage. Maybe he'd been at that stage for a while. What he'd been through in Krausberg had likely been the most painful and lonely thing Barnes had ever experienced. And true, he had his team, but he hadn't talked to any of them about the experiments and the torture. He'd gone into that room alone and come out of it alone, and was still alone even now because he lived it over and over again every day and didn't want to burden anyone else with that horror.

"I'm not a good person." The words came so quietly that Danny barely even heard them. And they were complete bullshit.

"You're the nicest, kindest person I've ever met," he objected. "So don't try to convince me that—"

"It wasn't a dream, Wells." He looked up, and the anguish in his eyes was heartbreaking. "It really happened. All that stuff I said. Me thinking you were dead, wanting to hurt the women… it happened. So what does that say about me?"

"Listen. I'm gonna give you some advice, and I want you to try and take it on board. Okay?" Barnes nodded. "You are not perfect." His friend opened his mouth to object, but Danny quickly clapped his free hand over his lips before he could speak. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be big brother to the entire world. You are allowed to make mistakes. In fact, I insist on you making some, because trying to live your entire life as a perfect, flawless person who always does exactly as he thinks the perfect man should, is first going to exhaust you, and second going to break you when you do make mistakes. Making mistakes does not make you a bad person. You can't define who you are by one moment. You make a mistake, and then you learn from it. You make amends. You don't let it decide who you are.

"Okay, so you lost it a little. That's fine. Anger is an emotionally healthy thing to feel when you think one of your friends has been killed. I can't tell you how you should've felt in a situation like that, or how you should've handled it, but I can tell you this: if our positions had been switched and it was me looking at you and thinking you were dead, the thing that snapped you out of it would not have snapped me out of it. I would not have stopped. And maybe that makes me a bad person as well. If 'an eye for an eye' really does make the whole world blind, then in your place I'd be living in a world without sight right now, and I would not be sorry about it in the slightest. And I really didn't mean to make this about me, so I'm sorry for hijacking your guilt and trying to justify it."

He removed his hand to let Barnes finally speak. "My 'mistake' nearly got two people killed."

"But it didn't. I'm no expert, but I think you need to stop bottling things up. Let go of some of that tension. Let yourself feel things more. And let some of those feelings come out."

"I don't know how."

"Then you're lucky I'm here, because I have a suggestion about that." Something Barnes probably hadn't done in a long time. Something way overdue. "Do you have a couple of hours to spare?"

Author's Note: Thank you everyone for your thoughts on the last chapter!

Guest - happy to hear you're enjoying the female characters! If you ever spot a Mary Sue in my writing, please do let me know. I've already had to shelve one fic because a Mary Sue snuck in without me realising, so now I'm hyper-vigilant for it... O_O

Kaylee - raw aggression/anger is something that I think Bucky has always had in him, and you see little bits of it coming through earlier in the story, but Krausberg has hardened him a lot, so today's anger is much deeper. I think we see a little as well in CA:CW when Bucky/Steve are fighting Tony, and you can see both of them getting angry at home Iron Man is hurting the other. Bucky is definitely prepared to kick ass for his friends.

Nessah - indeedy - I haven't really touched on it much before because Winter Soldier stuff doesn't interest me at present, but I don't see the Winter Soldier as a character who feels a whole lot of emotion - he's an efficient killing machine who occasionally starts to break when his memory kicks in. Only when those memories start to come back and he begins to remember Steve does he really get angry. So that anger is pretty much all Bucky.

Karina - More of Howard's perspective to come next chapter ;)

RRR - I never really considered before that Bucky/Bruce are kinda similar in that they both have a darker side they sometimes become (or have become in the past)... some interesting food for thought there, thanks!

Guest - I am immune to Puss-In-Bootsisms. I did however have a spare hour today to polish up this chapter, so en garde!