I Walk The Line (A Bucky Barnes Fanfiction)

Chapter 38

My dreams don't scare me anymore. It's only one dream, one image - bullets from my gun, Miles on the ground, his face unrecognizable underneath his blood and brains. A horrifying image, yet, my heart never skips a beat. What scares me is the feeling I get in my stomach, the rumble of muted happiness, the urge to smile. Do I actually feel happy about killing a person? Or am I just happy that I escaped?

Thinking back, I didn't mind not escaping. Maybe that's the scariest of all. I was fine with dying. My mind did a complete 180 on me. When I was still with HYDRA, the only thing I could think about was escaping. Getting to live my life the way I want to live it. Trying new things. Being fucking normal. When Miles got me, I had it all. Well, almost all. But I was fucking free. And yet, in my mind I was ready to let it all go to waste.

In my head, killing Miles meant going back to Bucky. There was no doubt in my mind that I loved him, I still fucking do. I love him enough to kill, just to be with him. That's not right. That's fucking insane.

I could always justify killing when it meant saving my own ass. Never had a problem with that, not when I was with HYDRA, not now. Call me fucking corrupt, call me narcissistic, whatever. We all have our ways. I didn't have to kill Miles. I could've punched him, left him unconscious, just lying on the ground for someone else to find. I didn't have to pull that trigger. I didn't have to pull it so many times.

Bruce finally got me that therapist I asked for way back. She says it's good I'm aware of all the shit going on inside my head - makes me easier to work with. My problem is that I don't know how to fucking live with myself. I always condemned people who did what I did to Miles. Who kill without any reason. Who kill just for the hell of it. I always believed those people should be dead, too. So why am I allowed to carry on?

Linda was the first to say that killing Miles was a way for me to truly and finally escape HYDRA. Now that he's gone, there is nothing tying me to them. When I argued that there's Connor, she just said that it's not the same. I guess it's not. Miles was from my past life, from the time I had it all, too. Miles would've stopped me from getting away the first time. Connor couldn't. Linda says that the guilt will go away once I forgive myself,  but she doesn't tell me how to do it. She says I have to find my own way. When I ask how I'm any different from Ted Bundy or David Berkowitz, she brushes me off, swiping her hand through the air as if shooing away a foul smell.

She helps, though. I know I painted her as if she doesn't, but I wouldn't be able to go on without her advice. For a while, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. Whenever I did, I'd see myself covered in blood. I would stay in the shower for hours on end, scrubbing every inch on my skin, every hair on my head, digging deep under my nails to get the dirt out. Then I'd go to sleep, and dream that fucking dream, and I'd wake up with a fucking smile on my face, and Bucky would always brush my hair out of my face and say "No nightmares?", and I'd nod my head, and he'd kiss me, all the while I'd scream at myself in my head.

I'm afraid to tell him about the dream. I can't stand to lose him again. And although I know in my heart he wouldn't leave me if he knew, the fear stays, persistent and constant. Without Bucky, I never would've kept seeing Linda after the first two or three appointments. Those first weeks were just awful, with her still not completely understanding, and me not allowing her to help me. He was the one who kept me going, who pushed me to keep seeing her. He would walk me to her office every week, and wait for me when I came out. He can always tell when I've had a bad day, and he never asks right away, and he knows when to hug me, or to smile, or to touch, even. He's the only one who truly knows.

He knows I don't feel remorse. I told him that much, and that was hard enough. For him to know that dreaming about killing a person brings a smile to my face? I think it might destroy me. I told him I'm not sorry for what I did after a particularly productive session. I felt confident enough to mute the petrifying fear of him knowing, and I told him as we sat in a small diner not far from Linda's office. He sat across from me, devouring his hamburger like he hadn't seen food in weeks, and I was drinking a black coffee, anxiously tapping my foot under the table and craving a cigarette. I didn't wanna keep it in any longer. I took a long sip, and I just started talking. Pouring myself out on that dirty table. I didn't let myself hold anything back. And after all of that, my whole monologue, he took my hand, tracing his thumb across my knuckles, and he just said: "You don't have to find excuses, Andrea. Never with me. I understand."