Sebastian Stan Short Stories

Bucky Barnes [1]

"Nightmares"

Time: Post Civil War, in an alternate ending.

Spoilers if you haven't seen the movie yet.

*

Sleep in our apartment within T'Challa's compound had become one of two things: as restful and restorative as it was meant to be or a danger to my life. Tonight, it was the second.

Bucky was poised above me, straddling me at the hips in a way that would've been quite a turn on if it weren't for the metal hand lingering at my neck.

"Bucky, come on," I begged. "Please recognize me."

His eyes were a deeper, more tortured blue than normal, but still striking. His hair hung in his face, at least what wasn't pulled back in his man bun. Of all the modern things he had taken to, man buns were the most surprising. None of it helped the fact that his bionic arm, newly repaired with Wakandan vibranium, was hovering over my trachea. It had been bruised and nearly crushed before, and so I took his hesitance to end my life as a positive sign.

"My mission is to kill the target. Where is the target?" he recited in Russian. I had asked him to teach me various languages, and I knew enough Russian to recognize the haunting phrase. It was like a script he couldn't forget, repeated every time he relived this nightmare.

"Bucky, I'm not your target," I reminded him as calmly as I could. The terror slowly began to retreat from his eyes, but there was only so much I could take. The first tear of the night rolled down my cheek. "You know me, Bucky. There is no mission. There's no target. Just me and you."

His breathing, which had been rapid and sporadic, slowly began to regulate. There was a twitch in his fingers, and then he was off of my body and the bed and standing against the wall, his fingers leaving dents in the sheetrock. I sat up, but avoided testing my throat for any tender spots.

"Are you there?" I asked quietly. I hastily dried my eyes before he could recognize my tears.

"I'm here," he whispered. He held out his right hand, the one that would still shake when he was nervous or scared. "Just stay there for a minute, please."

I didn't listen. The sooner I got to him and got him settled into bed again, the less he hated himself in the morning.

"You know better than that," I chided quietly. I took both of his hands, one shaking and the other steady as a metronome. He tried to pull them away, and I let him. My hands were on his cheeks just as fast. "I'm fine, Bucky. Look at me."

"You're crying," he reminded me without looking up. I used my gentle grip on his face to tilt his head up.

"So are you."

Then I kissed him. It had taken several nights of flashbacks and near death experiences before I figured out what worked and what didn't, in addition to a little research into PTSD.

Calling him Bucky worked better than James. His handlers had never bothered to use an old, childish nickname. Fighting back or struggling against his grip only rewarded the rewired portion of his brain. Lying still and staying calm confused that militaristic side; it gave his ever-growing empathetic side a chance to take over. Simply talking to him and not begging to be spared had similar effects. Touching my neck after the fact usually hurt me physically and always hurt him emotionally, a reminder he could've killed me.

I backed away from the kiss but pulled him back to the bed with me. Once he was laying next to me, half undressed and burning with adrenaline, he began to relax. Not without his guilt, though.

"I hurt you again," he mumbled. I arranged our bodies next to each other so he was practically cradled in my arms, with his head on my chest and his arms around me. "I nearly killed you. Again."

"You put your hand over my throat, but didn't apply any pressure," I told him. "There probably won't even be a bruise tomorrow."

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. I felt a tear against my skin, but it didn't belong to me. His grip around me tightened, but not in the dangerous way. "Please forgive me."

"It isn't your fault," I said calmly. He lifted his head off me and our met.

"I remember it. I can't just forget it. I remember every mission, every target, every murder," he admitted. I remembered the first time he revealed to me that those memories were etched into his mind, just like the fact that he had no control over them. "I remember your face the first time it happened. I remember feeling your throat start to collapse in my hand."

"That wasn't you. That was some remnant of a man that's disappearing more and more everyday," I encouraged.

"It's not the days I'm worried about," he said. He laid back down against my breasts and I began to stroke his hair soothingly. "I only try to kill you at night."

"You have a terrible sense of humor, Bucky Barnes," I teased. "I'm here for the nights, too. No matter what happens and what bad jokes you may tell."

Slowly, we both sank into bed, with Bucky wrapped around me and my fingers laced into his hair. Being so close to him let me feel his breath against my skin and his heartbeat deep in my chest. We fell asleep that way. And woke up much the same.

*

Author's Note:

I'm currently learning Russian, but phrases such as "My mission is to kill the target" haven't come yet. I'd love to work some of my more simplistic Russian vocabulary into another story, but I'm not sure how.