CHAPTER SIX

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     THE HOUSE WAS SEEPED IN SILENCE. Bucky sat on an opulent couch, his legs crossed. Clint was fast asleep beside him, muttering in his sleep, a hand draped over the couch to rest in an empty pizza box. Thor's body was stoic, spread across the floor as he snored softly on the moss green rug. Empty beer cans stood upright, circling his head.

     It was a fervent, joyous homecoming. Bucky had worried that the thick tension that snaked around Tony and Steve would form a wall. To his surprise, the two lost friends had pulled each other into a deep hug. It conveyed their emotions better than words could have.

     The reunion sparked a light of revelry. Food was devoured, drinks were spilled, and their voices grew into shrill, but happy, echoes. It had been so long since Bucky had felt such welcome, such joy. He did not realize how much he missed the feeling of having everyone together, not until everyone had fallen asleep and he was left alone. His mind piqued, and in the quiet, did his heart swell, at the realization of how much he loved his friends, and they him.

     Shifting his weight, Bucky slowly stretched off the couch. Wood shrieked under his foot and Bucky stilled. On the opposite couch, Bruce stirred in his sleep beside Steve, before quieting down. Like a ghost, Bucky drifted across the floor, his steps light and quick. He could always hold his alcohol better than his friends, leaving him their guardian when their energy was drained into the early hours.

     Natasha had retired early for the night. She chose one of the many rooms upstairs, and retreated to sleep off her sickness. Tony had retired a few hours after her, having not tasted a sip of drink to Bucky's surprise and approval. He knew his friend was trying hard, and he knew they didn't make it easy on him. Curious on their well being, Bucky strode down a long hall pinned with pictures that could cover a year's worth of rent. He took the stairs two at a time and when he met them.

     As Bucky ascended, he noticed a drop in the temperature. It was gradual. The closer he came to the second floor, the more chilled he became. He stood on the final step, eyes straining to adjust. It was a smothering darkness. Had Tony switched off the lights? Hesitantly, he stepped off the stairs and into the hall. He was shivering now, the cold nearly unbearable.

     It was like being blind. Bucky took a few steps, praying he would not trip over furniture or walk into a wall. Moonlight, seemingly from a nearby window, cut through the air above him. It was the only light in the darkness, though it illuminated nothing. His eyes fixed to the ground. Grass was being crushed by his steps. The wooden floors were gone.

     Bucky was alarmed. Maybe he was wrong about his alcohol intolerance. Had he in a drunken state somehow wandered outside? It was windy, too. A wind carried the cold that lashed his skin. He wanted to turn back and retreat, but the staircase was gone. Panicked, he turned around in his spot over and over. Brown strands of his hair were being forced into his eyes as the howl of the wind grew agitated.

     Through his panic, Bucky looked up. The moon judged him, high in the ink filled sky, behind billowing clouds filled with bane. Below it he could see where the ground finished and nothing began. The cliff was jagged, cracked and whipped by the wind, forced to grow under the moon's order. A stone trickled off, the sound of it striking rock as it descended was never-ending, only stopping when it was out of earshot.

     No, no, no. I can't be back here.

     He had only been trapped in his dreams. Bucky had tried so hard to stop them, to fight them. It was what had made him shut away, risk his life daily, withdraw from everyone. He had gone months without the dream. He thought he was free of it.

     This time was different. He was not asleep. He could move, even if he was not the one moving his limbs. Pulled by unseen strings, Bucky was forced to take small steps towards the cliff. Bile filled every part of his being. He did not want to look down. Each time he would be frozen in stone, the cliff edge moving towards him on its own. Each time he would wake up before he could peer down.

     Stop, stop, please, stop.

     The light of the moon grew brighter as Bucky got closer to the edge. His feet scraped across dirt as he tried to fight his own will. Suddenly, he was at the edge. His heart was pounding against his chest, fearful and pleading.

     He heard it before he could see it. The slow, scraping against rock was like a knife in his ear. Bucky was hysterical. A storm was wreaking havoc inside him, and he could do nothing to save himself. All he could do was wait.

     Copper flooded his nose and forced its way into his lungs. The smell was overpowering, like inhaling fresh blood and drowning in it.

     The scraping grew louder, and Bucky finally saw it. It was wrapped in tattered and dirtied rags, its jaw resting against its hollowed neck. Its head rocked to the side, and it held a limb of crushed bone and torn tissue towards his ankle.

     Crash.

     Bucky bolted back, freed from his invisible prison at the noise of wood splintering. It wailed, its grip loosening. It fell back, a wretched cry bouncing off the mountain. Darkness snapped at its falling figure, until Bucky could no longer see it.

     The moon melted, like paint dripping on a canvas, as did the ground beneath him and the stretch off nothing around him. The white walls of the house, its oak floors, and bay windows pushed into Bucky's vision. He was standing outside his bedroom door, a dim orange light from a nearby lamp cascading on him.

     His legs buckled beneath his weight, and Bucky was on the floor gasping for air. His mind was flooded with explanations: sleepwalking, hallucination – yet he knew, he didn't know how, that none of those reasons were true. He could still feel the cold lingering on his skin.

     Another crash cracked through the night's silence. This time it sounded like the breaking and pulling of a bush. Forcing his torment aside, Bucky stood up and carried himself to a nearby window. The yard was flooded in light; Tony had ensured this. In the shadow of a twisted tree, Martin stood, leering up at Bucky. He winked, waved, and then turned and walked away until his figure was enveloped by the trees.

     Before Bucky could react to the emotions of anger and fear swirling in him, a cry bounced around the house. It sounded like a baby being murdered. Though to Bucky's trained ears, he knew this not to be true. Near the front door, a cat cried loudly, just like the ones in the alley outside Bucky's flat. He could hear it scratching at the door, its cry grew louder and louder until nothing.

     Like Martin, it vanished into the night.

     After peering into Natasha and Tony's rooms, and seeing their peaceful slumber, Bucky ran downstairs. Each door and window was checked and locked. He then brewed a pot of coffee and set it down on the kitchen table. It was bitter and scalding, but Bucky forced a cup of it down his throat.

     With a kitchen knife gripped tightly in his hand, Bucky sat and listened, filled with dread. His eyes were fixed on a window, waiting and watching. He did this until the sun soared into the sky and his friends stirred awake, but even then, he did not feel safe.