The symptoms were barely noticeable at the beginning.

James Buchanan Barnes wouldn't even believe in fantastical things like mental illnesses back in his days because he had always been very strong and levelheaded to ever even question their existence. He thought they were something of a fairytale, a social construct to make people feel more vulnerable than they are.

But no one laughs at God when they're peering down the edge of a cliff.

He was half sure he was born into a normal world and died a very normal death for a war veteran. That is, until he survived a fall of a hundred feet and was turned into a killing machine, mind numbingly made to kill so many people that he couldn't even count on his fingertips then frozen alive. And perhaps that, too, was normal. However, some seventy years later he was gunning down aliens alongside a talking racoon and was disintegrated by a snap only to be revived to find out five years had passed already.

Bucky had seen wars, seen the blood of his comrades lathered on his shirt, and he had blood on his hands, he had been made to kill unconsciously, and made to take the blame for it. He was filled to the brim with putrid hate when all he ever wanted, all he ever left Brooklyn for - was to save people, to protect people.

Bucky only ever stepped on the battlefield as a flagbearer of love until the word itself stabbed him square in the guts and abandoned him, like most things in his life did anyway.

If someone could stay sane having lived through that, then it would really shock Bucky. And shock was a strong word coming from a hundred years old, metal armed super soldier who had fought against aliens alongside aliens.

So slowly, his sanity started slipping away. So stealthily, he didn't even realize it until it was cold shivers running down his spine in the middle of the night as he clutched fistfuls of his sweat soaked sheets trying to make sense out of what was happening to him.

He didn't notice at first.

During the war itself, everything seemed normal, fleeting even, with bouts of adrenaline gushing through his veins and the sound of gun fires keeping his mind distracted. But the reality crept up his spine soon after it had ended. It felt as though his body was devoid of feelings, as if the blood had stopped circulating in his body and was clogged up in his head instead.

Bucky thought it was sleep deprivation at first.

He just wanted to be alone for a while, to sit and gulp the whole situation down like a bitter pill and then sleep thoroughly. Steve had to force him to make a trip to the hospital to get his wounds stitched up because he just desperately wanted to plunge through the crowd of superheroes, lock himself in a room and sleep.

Next morning, when Bucky woke up in the hospital's sterile, nauseating room amidst disinfectant riddled sheets, he thought that this uncomfortable, drowning feeling in his gut would finally go away soon after.

But he was wrong, because that's when the nightmares began. Insomnia or nightmares, no in-between.

After Starks funeral, Bucky noticed that he was shivering a little, his head was heavy and he had lost his balance. He stumbled on obstacles he was consciously very vigilant of. Despite the slight confusion prevailing in his mind, he decided to ignore the symptoms.

And after being discharged from the hospital, of course, Bucky did not have a place to stay. He was previously in cryo and that wasn't exactly the perfect definition of a home.

He crashed at Steve's apartment and the two old comrades sat all night reminiscing for old times sake. Unbeknown to Rogers though, Bucky only stayed up because he was afraid of the unbelievably realistic nightmares that would clutch his throat as soon as he closed his eyelids. All while the strange numbing feeling in his gut had not ceased.

Steve revealed that he had decided to leave the modern world for good and return to the old times after commencing one last mission in the twenty first century. And an offer was made to Bucky; he was torn between leaving or staying. He wanted to run, more than anything, but not to a place where he was known as a hero, because he was anything but.

It felt wrong.

At this point it felt so wrong to be loved. Because he felt so, so unholy that he thought his touch was callous enough to obliterate anything he touched. He secretly wanted himself to rot alone and be forgotten.

Because he knew full well he wasn't the same Bucky he was back then, and he could never return. Not even if he desperately wanted to.

Some wounds never heal.

One thing he was grateful for was that Steve arranged an apartment for Bucky. So Bucky had the perfect place to rot alone and be forgotten.

But it was that evening, when Steve left for a mission with Sam Wilson, that anxiety struck him right square in the guts to a point the pressure in his head made him feel dizzy.

It was not a new feeling, if he could remember his time as the winter soldier he knew this was probably how he felt all the time. Dizzy, nauseous, confused and exhausted.

Balance had completely left his feet as he made his way through a narrow alley to reach his apartment after declining several offers from Sam to drive him home because he desperately, desperately wanted to be alone. He wanted to be alone, because the frightful thought crossed his mind over and over again,

what if I turn into the winter soldier again?

The thought alone was enough to make him nauseous and soon his surroundings were moving and he knew he was stumbling as he crossed the street. He knew it was late because the street was already submerged in darkness and he was completely unaware of time because his mind was preoccupied with countless thoughts, memories he did not want to recall.

Blood, blood, blood.

There was only one flickering street lamp in the narrow alley. Terrorizing thoughts plagued him, as he desperately tried to convince himself.

His brain was free of the triggers,
his brain was free of the triggers,
his brain was free of the triggers.

He was a cured man now, they couldn't control him now, he wasn't a puppet anymore.

No more blood.

And then his vision dyed in hues of crimson. Right in front of his eyes. Blood, blood, blood, he froze in his spot. Only to find out it was just a bunch of teenagers teaming up on a feeble looking kid and beating him up.

Deja vu struck him as he saw young Steve from Brooklyn in the face of the scrawny kid. Before Bucky could analyze the situation, he hurled himself forward and pushed the group away from the feeble kid, earning their attention and they looked aggravated.

Bucky knew he could take care of this situation in seconds, despite his disintegrating brain function. That is until he saw it, written in big bold letters; homecoming. All russian on a neon sign board but he could only focus on one word.

And he froze.

He heard the kids muttering something angrily, something he couldn't decipher because everything was a haze. They swiftly pushed Bucky off his feet, but he couldn't react; his ears had stopped working and suddenly his lungs refused to take in air. As hard as he tried to suck it in he couldn't hear and he couldn't breathe.

The rest was blurry haze. All he knew was that the mob of teens was hurling kicks at him. But he was so numb he barely felt anything. They were all attacking him and laughing and saying something but it barely bothered him because all he could see was the word, the word in red, homecoming. And no matter how hard he tried to breathe, he failed.

And the last thing he noticed was the scrawny looking kid running away. The mob also dispersed because rain was pelting down straight from the sky onto the concrete pavements. Everyone took cover while Bucky lay flat and motionless on the ground, the cold raindrops pulling him out of his malfunction as he finally sucked in a triumphant breath.

He sat upright, pulling his feet up as he dragged himself towards the apartment. He was completely drenched in the midwinter rain and insufferably cold. Not far, not far, he mumbled to himself as he shivered in the rain.

Relief washed over him as he saw the apartment building. He decided to take the stairs instead of the elevators because his brain was too dizzy to mess with buttons.

His breaths weren't uneven anymore but he felt strangely dizzy. As he reached his floor, he knew his sanity was on the edge and he could collapse any moment.

He was shivering violently by now.

He saw the door, he pulled out the keys from his side pocket in one swift movement, and then supported his weight on the handle, pulling it down aiming for the lock with the key in his fumbling hands, hoping that he somehow makes it.

He took a sigh of relieve when he heard a click, assuming it was his door.

And then he collapsed.

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