((strangers!AU, or they might not have seen one another for a long time, now they're meeting together at a PTSD meeting:)) He didn’t fucking want to be there. Bucky Barnes did not need therapy. Some of these other guys did, sure; their lives were shit. But him? He was getting along just fine, thank you very fucking much. Or, as good as an armless veteran could, after what he’d gone through.
Bucky understood why they were making him go. Or, why they wanted him to go. Sam Wilson was supposed to be one of the very best when it came to helping wounded warriors, especially those with PTSD or problems readjusting to civilian life. After serving, it took some getting used to. And okay, sure it wasn’t easy. Bucky was having a really hard time of it, if he was being honest with himself, but he didn’t need some guy telling him he was crazy, didn’t need help, or certainly not the amount the other people in his group needed.
It had all started when he’d graduated high school. Barnes had enlisted, knowing he’d never make anything of himself otherwise. Besides, he had a kid sister he had been helping raise, and the pay for a soldier was pretty good, enough to help put Becca through college, keep dinner on the table, the lights on, that kind of thing. It wasn’t much in his mind, not as much as he wished he could do, but it was the best he could offer.
He’d risen to the rank of Sergeant really quickly as a sniper for the 107th, his men nicknamed the Howling Commandos early on for the war cry they were known to let loose. His men were great, and he absolutely loved his job.. sometimes. He was expected to do some things though, eventually, that made him lose some sleep at night. When they needed information in the heat of things and the enemy wasn’t complying, it fell on Bucky to get it out of them. He had killed more men than he could remember, even some women and children.
People didn’t understand that, but in that moment when there’s a little boy or a woman coming at you and your men with a suicide bomb or a grenade, it’s you or them. You have to think of who you have back home, and who the guy next to you has back home. You take that in, you know you’re killing a woman or a child, and you make a choice. Bucky never failed to take the shot, and it haunted him every day.
Then it had happened. His convoy had tripped a mine and his truck had flipped in a ball of fucking fire. Bucky had been trapped under it, or his arm had. Before he could even check on his men, insurgents had come in and taken him, since he was the highest ranking man they had seen at the time, as though that fucking mattered. Bucky had been behind enemy lines for months before the US could send someone in to rescue him and the other POWs being kept with him.
It was too late, though. Bucky’s arm was useless, had already been cut off at the bicep, and he had been… questioned, about the military, himself, all sorts of things. Questioned, and something else. A form of breaking and training had begun, though he was rescued before it could really take hold. Bucky still couldn’t look at someone without thinking of ways to kill them, or hearing whispers in the back of his head, ghosts of men long since gone or dead. His scars bothered him sometimes too, the physical reminders, aside from his missing limb, of what he had experienced.
When he’d gotten home, they’d taken his arm completely off at the shoulder, patched his body up as best they could, and told him to get his ass to therapy. So here Bucky was, a group PTSD and survivor’s meeting, listening to the man in front speak about safety and blah blah fucking blah. Bucky had long since tuned him out, though he knew how to act as though he were paying perfect attention. He sat rested in his chair, looking relaxed and comfortable though still close to attention as he watched the man, Sam Wilson, lead the group, counting the minutes down until time to leave. One meeting was mandatory. After today, he didn’t have to come back.
