Star Dust (A Paladin Adventure)

Nightmares

I looked at the house; it was dark and I knew Bucky would have locked up. But there was a trellis by the master bedroom, and I knew that he always slept with the window open, even in the winter. He liked fresh air around him as much as possible, and he adored snuggling under a huge pile of blankets when it was cold. I scrambled up the trellis (whoops, have to fix that part), pulled out the screen, (he needed new windows) and shoved the window up. The only person in the room was Bucky, thrashing around in the bed, muttering and occasionally shouting in Russian. I shut the window, dropping the bag with my boots, and walked to the bed just as he screamed again.

"Bucky," I said in a normal speaking voice. "Bucky, wake up." I didn't want to touch him; he might react with old reflexes, and I didn't want him to regret anything more. "Bucky." In an instant he erupted off the bed, grabbed my throat, and tossed me down on the floor, hissing at me in Russian. "Bucky," I squeaked out as he landed on me, trying to pry his hand off my throat. Jesus, I did good work. I slid my hand up his arm and pressed an area up by the collar, then pulled his thumb back as my vision started to go gray and fuzzy. This froze his hand and arm, which woke him up.

"What the hell?" he said hoarsely, and I squeaked at him again. He sat back on my thighs, and I heaved for breath, coughing and wheezing.

'Bucky," I said again, and he jumped up and lunged for the light.

"Emma, what the fuck....what happened? What did I do to you?" His face was horrified.  I waved my hand at him and sat up, then rolled to my feet.

"You were having a nightmare. I was walking home and I heard you screaming, so I climbed the trellis and came in through the window," I said soothingly. I folded his thumb back into place and pressed another spot, then put my arms around him, drawing him close. He was starting to shake. "I tried to wake you but I startled you." I nudged him toward the bed. It was chilly in the room; fall was well advanced. I kicked off my shoes. "Come on, come here," I cooed to him.

Tears ran down his cheeks. He did not change expression; he was shut down entirely. I took his organic hand and tugged gently. He took a step, and another. There was a shirt on the floor, and I put it on him. He didn't resist or help. I smoothed the sheets quickly, fluffed the pillows, and crawled onto the bed, tugging on his hands gently. Step by slow step, he advanced, then collapsed on the mattress. I pulled him onto the bed then settled in beside him. I pillowed his head on my shoulder and cooed to him, smoothing his hair and petting him, trying to soothe him.

It seemed to take forever, but his shaking eventually eased and his tears lightened. Or maybe my shoulder was too soggy to tell anymore. Sweatshirts are very absorbent. I kissed his forehead. "Bucky, honey, tell me what happened," I said gently.

"No," he said, his eyes red. His lip trembled.

"Yes."

"You'll think I'm a monster."

"Not possible."

"You don't know what I've done."

"Not all of it, but I know some."

"I don't want you to know the things I've done."

"What they made you do."

"It's all the same," he said in despair.

"It isn't. Tell me." I smoothed  his hair again. "It's safe to tell me. I won't tell anyone else without your say-so." And I really hoped I wouldn't regret saying that. "Unburden yourself," I whispered. He was still shaking and I was getting worried.

He licked his lips, and then started to tell me the most horrific story I'd ever heard. What Zola had done to him before Steve rescued him, falling from the train, being 'rescued' by the Soviets and turned over to HYDRA. The surgeries on his arm, usually with inadequate anesthesia. The training, the savage beatings and abuse under the guise of training. The brainwashing that deprived him of the ability to make his own choices, the strict discipline and scheduling. They had had control over the most minute details of his life, even arbitrarily deciding when he could use the bathroom. The humiliation this sometimes caused him. After they found how successful Zola's work had been, the medical testing. Then they'd wanted to see whether the changes would breed true. They'd dragged women from a gulag to the training facility and forced him to rape them. The breeding program was not a success, and ultimately discontinued. But not until he'd been compelled to  too many women's beds. The assassinations. Not always clean, a bullet from a distance. Some had been beaten to death. Some of them had been for the fees HYDRA had been paid, most had been to shape the world for HYDRA's purposes. Angola, during the Halloween Massacre. Hits in Egypt. Columbia, during the Palace of Justice siege, Chile. The US. More besides. Not just political figures, but industrialists, diplomats, arms dealers. Other, slightly more pleasant jobs, like training girls in the Red Room. But even then, compelled to help train them in bed. Not just regular sex, but exposure to more...exotic sexual practices they might encounter from their marks on their missions. And how to deal with violation. Unable to resist, his mind running as fruitlessly as a mouse on a wheel. The girls had had their own compulsory behaviors, including handcuffing themselves to their beds. The agony of having his brain wiped repeatedly. When he'd finally escaped HYDRA, he'd written obsessively in his journals, everything and anything he could remember. He spoke for hours, unrelenting horror.