Work Text:
Bucky hates the nights where bright hot anger spreads under his skin because of what HYDRA took from him... did to him. He hates the cold stabs of fear as he remembers sharp metal, broken glass and the bite of pain. Of electricity and burning flesh. The sting of ice cold water hitting him. Memories of ice and being trapped. Of not being anything. Remembering loss and empty space and failed experiments to replace what he had. Of being wiped over and over if he did anything they didn’t like.
He hates the shame and regret that chokes him as he remembers his victims and their screams, so loud he has to curl up with his hands over his ears, as if that could help. He hates the happiness when he remembers before. The juxtaposition making his head spin as Steve laughing as he lays beside him on couch cushions, morphs into his hands slick with blood. Which leaves him staring at his own hands, wondering how no one else can see the stains.
He feels the phantom weight of knives, guns and bombs. Garrottes and bullets. Of his mask and costume. The heft of the bulletproof material and hears the sound of combat boots. Of crashes and flames. Gas and pleads. Of choking and gasps and dying breaths.
His fingers flutter as he remembers the way throats felt in his grasp. Of the way their eyes bulged and as he watched impassive until the light left them.
Most of all he hates the nights where he's numb and feels nothing at all. Those are the nights were he feels more like him again. The soldier, the asset, the obedient attack dog. HYDRA’s most prized possession. Their greatest weapon. A ghost. A man with no past or future. No feelings just cold strategy and death. No guilt or fear. No remorse or cares, just a mission.
Those nights he sometimes secretly, in his heart, wishes for that just so he can rest from the turmoil.
That's what scares him the most.