Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 5 Truth
Bucky spends a few days in Delacroix with Sam and his family. On one evening, as they both have a beer before dinner, watching the sun set, they have a conversation about life, about therapy, about work.
TW: US healthcare system and the military industrial complex, mental health
Read on AO3
Part 33 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series
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Sam’s family house is more of a home than anything Bucky’s lived in since he was deployed.
It’s warm and luminous, with big windows and light paint on the wood and the walls. There’s a poarch where they all end up sitting at the end of the day, when the sun sets over the bayou. The walls outside are blue and the roof is red. There are crayon drawings stuck with magnets to the fridge and mismatched furniture and containers. It’s been lived in, loved in.
A few days after his surprise arrival, Bucky stops feeling like a blood stain on the tapestry of life of the Wilson home.
Sarah’s nice and warm. He immediately takes a liking to her, and her to him, and he can see how much that infuriates Sam. What can he say? She’s a gorgeous woman, funny and bright and caring and her smile is honestly the kind that probably stopped a few hearts in her lifetime. Yes, she’s his sister, but he still has eyes, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least show appreciation. Besides, she seems to enjoy it. He’d stop the second he’d sense uncomfort.
He hasn't gotten to flirt and be comfortable with flirting in a really long time. It seems to be the same for her. What if they’re just… enjoying the flirtation? And enjoying infuriating Sam? Bucky considers it his duty as Sam’s friend.
Delacroix is unlike anywhere he’s ever been. It’s half an island and half a town. It’s relaxing. And the food… Bucky doesn’t think he’s eaten as much seafood in his life as he had in the past week.
It’s a slow end of day in Louisiana when Bucky and Sam find themselves sitting on the plastic chairs out back, with beers, watching the surface of the water. There’s music playing in the house, the kids are doing their homework.
It’s simple. Bucky breathes in and out, unobstructed.
He hears Sam’s intake of breath and knows a hard conversation is coming from that alone. No, that’s a lie. Sam’s shifted, ten seconds ago. He’s looked between his beer and the water four times in the past minute.
“We haven’t had time to talk about Madripoor,” Sam starts and Bucky immediately tenses.
He’d almost forgotten he’d told Sam they’d talk about that later. Because still, he’s not ready to talk about it. He’s not ready to talk about that part of his past. It’s still an infected wound in him. It’s still hurting. He can’t do it. He’s about to say that when Sam holds up his hand.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, surprisingly. “I don’t need to know shit if you’re not ready to tell.”
Bucky goes back to breathing. It’s a reprieve. Even if one day, Sam might expect him to be ready… it’s extra time. He’s so thankful for it.
“I’ll tell you though,” Sam keeps going. “You need a new therapist. Because if I know one thing, after everything, and what I saw in that precinct? it’s that Raynor’s not working for you. You need better. You deserve better.”
Bucky looks up at him then. Sam is looking at the water, but there is that look on his face. The look of determination, of drive, the look that Bucky knows… there’s no use in trying to go against what he is saying now.
No one has ever told him he deserved better.
He’s told himself that a few times, in the few moments where the clouds parted and he didn’t feel like the worst person in the world.
But he doesn’t think anyone has ever told him that. Even Steve. There was a couple ‘you deserved better’, but they were all in the past tense, all regarding Hydra, not Bucky’s current situation. Because his current situation is good. It’s great, compared to the past seventy years. Maybe even compared to what was there before. Because he doesn’t break his back in the factory during the day and in the docks at night anymore.
He’s so silent and shocked Sam just keeps going.
“And don’t give me bullshit about not needing help or whatever. I know your generation didn’t do therapy but that ain’t gonna fly with me. You deserve a therapist suited to your needs, and I know that’s gonna be hard to find, with your trunkload of decades of trauma, but we’ll find them.”
He says it with such determination, like it’s his new personal mission. He has much better to do than try to help Bucky more than he already has, and yet… Sam looks at him finally, for a long moment.
“Raynor’s not a bad doctor,” he says. “She’s just not the right fit. And that’s not uncommon. We just need to find you someone that’s better. And someone that’s not me. Because I can’t be your friend and your therapist, man. And out of the two, I’d much rather be your friend.”
Bucky’s still staring. He doesn’t know how to handle this. Nowhere in his databank of social interactions is there something that prepares him for this. He’s had long talks with people before, hell, even with fucking Zemo, but this is entirely different and he has no idea how to handle it.
“I’m sure you’re a great therapist,” Bucky says quietly after a moment, before he takes a big swig of a beer.
Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “You do realize I ain’t a therapist right? I’m a counselor.”
“You’ll have to give me the difference on that because we were still using alienist the last time I heard about psychoanalysis,” Bucky points out.
“There isn’t much of one. I guess I’m more about… finding practical solutions for people to deal with their trauma than really knowing the root cause of it. Probably because, since I worked with the VA, I knew what the root was.”
Bucky hums, nodding. That makes sense to him. More than the ‘how does that make you feel’s. “Either way, I’m still sure you’re a great counselor.”
“It ain’t difficult, with your experience,” Sam shrugs, watching him. “You don’t know better, old man.”
Bucky snorts at that, watching the water again. Sometimes, his eyes catch motion, but he’s never sure if it’s wildlife under the surface or just a trick of the light.
AJ and Cass seem to be debating with their mother whether they can finish their homework later, after dinner. Bucky barely knows them, but he already knows it won’t actually get done if they follow their plan. Kids are kids. Bucky’s sisters could never finish their homework after the radio show either. Too distracted, too tired.
He turns his attention back on Sam after a moment.
“Walker is in a bad shape,” Bucky says quietly. “Now, and before Hoskins died too. The second we saw him in Germany, I felt it. That guy didn’t get help.”
Sam sighs heavily. “Yeah. Not enough of them do, when they come back. You wouldn’t, if you weren’t forced to.”
Bucky can’t deny it. “Yeah, but I’m 107.”
If Sam noticed the year added to his age, he doesn’t mention it. At least for now.
“Some of it hasn’t changed that much,” Sam explains. “The army… You know that culture of toughness, right? Gotta be strong, gotta be a man. Can’t cry, can’t show you’re struggling. I’m sure they had that shit too, in your day, probably even worse.”
He’s not wrong. There were a lot of issues in his day but that was part of things. Emotional outbursts that weren’t from anger were frowned upon. Once they got to the war, it was even worse at first, until it started really getting hard. And then there were two options. Either you fucking cry with your buddies, or you end badly. Bucky had Steve, and the Howlies.
“Men like Walker… Because they’re these tough white guys, they’re encouraged to be like that. Aggressive, emotionally-closed off, fight-hungry. They’re the ones that shove you and call you a pussy for not laughing at their frankly horrible offensive jokes. It’s like they think the trauma we all face just won’t touch them. Or that they can’t show anyone it touched them. So they keep it all in. And the only way they get to be… emotional is in combat.”
Bucky nods quietly. They’re worse off than he thought.
It wasn’t good in his day either, but it just feels worse now. It churned and churned and got bigger with every spin, and now it’s all a giant fucked up stick of trauma cotton candy, all twisted in itself and sticking to itself.
“When I work for the SRT… Sometimes I see these kids,” Bucky mumbles. “They’re what? 22? And I ask them why they’re here, you know, try to pass time. And they tell me they enlisted for college. Or healthcare. And it’s…” He closes his eyes. “It’s been eighty fucking years…”
He takes a swig of the beer again, shaking his head. “When the crash hit, in the 30s, things were bad. No one could afford shit, there was polio, there was syphilis… It was really bad. And they made plans. They tried to get healthcare on the way, and they half succeeded. And more than like… two thirds of the population was for it too. And we had basically none of the resources we have now.”
He looks up at Sam for a moment. “It hurts to see… that it’s still… We’re still here. At least on that issue. On other stuff… Rights and all, that’s getting better.” He finishes. “But healthcare… and college…” He shakes his head. “It’s criminal. That’s what it is. It feels criminal.”
Sam bumps his shoulder with his fist, chuckling. “Don’t say shit like that next to journalists, they’ll say the Soviets put communism in your brain along with the murdering.”
Bucky chuckles at that. “Nah. That was all America. Living in it. Dying for it.”
Behind them, AJ and Cass have lost their battle of wits with their mother.
“You happy with what you’re doing?” Sam asks after a moment.
Bucky takes a deep breath. The answer is easy. “No,” he mutters. “But I don’t have a say in the matter. Until they decide I’ve done enough to undo the damage I perpetrated as the Soldier… I’m gonna be clearing Hydra safehouses. And after the shit I pulled with Zemo, I’m gonna be at it for a while longer, I think. But… I was expecting that.”
He can feel Sam’s eyes on him. “You knew what would happen.”
“Yep. On all accounts. With the Dora Milaje, with you, with Walker, with the U.S. government, and the GRC, and everything… Still did it.”
Sam huffs loudly. “Stubborn ass.” He shakes his head. He’s smiling, beautifully, brightly.
Bucky smiles at that. “You know it. Wouldn’t be alive without it.”
The sun is starting to set over the bayou. Every evening, Bucky finds himself thinking he’s never seen anything quite like it before.
“Whatever happens,” Sam points out after a moment, looking down at his empty beer bottle. “You got a couch here. Somewhere to crash. Somewhere to rest. I don’t know what your situation is, up north.”
Bucky sighs a little. “I got a house,” he answers, looking back at him. “A townhouse, in Brooklyn.”
Sam’s eyebrows rise up to meet the descending sun. “Well excuse us, mister.” He teases.
Bucky shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” he starts. Sam looks even less like he takes him seriously. “It’s a former Hydra safehouse,” he adds, and now his friend’s eyes get a little sadder, a little darker. “The army got tired of me taking space in their housing, so the second we raided a place within proper commute distance, they handed it over to me.”
Said like that, it sounds even worse than it actually was.
“It wasn’t like.. Full of Nazi or Hydra shit, or anything. It was just a house. They got rid of the bodies.”
The emotional journey on Sam’s face as he talks is worth a good dozen of sunrises.
“And you live there?” Sam asks. He’s struggling not to let his bewilderment and horror show, but he’s failing.
It makes sense. It sounds like an absolutely terrible situation to be in. It is an absolutely terrible situation to be in. As much as owning a townhouse in Brooklyn can be terrible.
It’s been about four months now since he signed those papers and moved his bag of things into that pretty house with the marks in the doorways and the basement he still hasn’t stepped foot in. And now that he’s been away long enough…
He guesses he kinda misses it.
He doesn’t miss the house in itself, much. He does miss… everything else though. Charlie, Miriam, the neighbor whose name he still doesn’t know, the familiar commute, the Chinese place he gets a lot of very late night food at, the proximity to his childhood streets, the way life feels there. He misses his night jogs in the relative quiet. He misses the weather, and the oven he baked kugel in for the first time.
Brooklyn has become familiar again, in all of its differences with his memories.
And he didn’t even realize it was happening.
“You should come, one of these days,” Bucky shrugs. “I have a couple guest bedrooms.”
Sam punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Fancy ass ‘couple of guest bedrooms’.” He teases and Bucky smiles. “So I’m guessing I should try and find some good therapists for you in New York then,” he adds.
Bucky shrugs lightly. “I feel like… I have some stuff tethering me there.”
Sam’s expression shifts for an instant. “Like the SRT?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Nah. Like my childhood congregation, that somehow still exists, and has a shul not too far from where I live.” He points out.
“Shul?” Sam asks.
Bucky smiles lightly when he looks up at him. A few days ago, Sam spoke of his teetee and Bucky probably made the same face Sam’s making now.
Sam makes a small ‘ah’ sound and nods. For a moment, they’re silent again. The noises of the world around them aren’t threatening to overwhelm them though, they’re… comforting. A warm tapestry in the background.
“You’re Jewish, I take it?”
“No, I’m Mormon,” Bucky replies with the straightest face he can muster before chuckling.
Sam punches him again, a little harder this time. “Come on, dude.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m Jewish.”
That’s the first time he says that out loud in… He’s never said it like that ever. This is the first time in his life that he says it that way. The first time he’s not afraid of the outcome of such an admission.
It’s a heady, wonderful feeling. He never thought he’d ever be comfortable enough to do that. Somehow, he might have Zemo to thank for that. Zemo and his fucking questioning. Not that he’s going to be asking much more questions from the Raft.
He’s Jewish. That’s a truth that doesn’t deserve to be hidden right now. Not when he can carry it. Not when he is strong enough to bear it proudly. He feels like his heart is going to burst with something he cannot name.
traditional sketch of one of my favorites ever, Allison Raskin
warning: long sappy post about loving her
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✨Anyone who’s been friends with me since I was 15 years old knows how much I admire Allison Raskin. Her and Gaby were my favorites on buzzfeed and I followed them straight to their own channel when they made Just Between Us.
✨(I even had a YouTube themed cake once with a bunch of people on it that 20 year old me doesn’t keep up with anymore. But JBU were on it too and they remained my constant. I also did a very poor drawing of them when I was 15, swipe to see. When they saw it on Twitter I literally cried over it.) and now I often listen to @/jbupodcast when I draw or paint (like I did while sketching this piece) and have listened to all of the gossip podcast.
✨Having role models who spoke so freely about mental health and illness was incredibly important to me back then and as I grow up and learn more, it becomes even more important to me. They helped me understand my own anxiety more than any other piece of media did. They took away the shame I had and were ultimately a big push in the right direction.
✨Allison has been very open and honest about her experiences, her ups and downs, triumphs and “failures” and overall learning and healing. She doesn’t try to paint some pretty-idealized-for-social-media picture. When she created @/emotionalsupportlady I was ecstatic because it was a place for good, healthy, discussions about mental illness, and seeing how many people comment and relate back to the same posts I do makes me feel so good to know other people feel the same. If you’re looking for a space like that, please go to her page. Seriously.
✨My admiration for her has only increased from recent events. Her resilience is so admirable but her honesty is what I love most. So when I sat down to sketch today, she’s the person I most wanted to dedicate my time to. (With a little dash of Sugar, of course)
✨ Allison, I doubt you’ve read this, but if you have: thank you for sharing your experiences so openly and for giving other people the safe space you have. I send you all my love and positive energy and am looking forward to all the great things I know life is going to give you.
I highly recommend that if you feel alone and isolated in this quarantine that you watch Just Between Us on youtube. Gaby and Allison will make you feel like you're sitting and chatting with your friends.
They're so open and forthcoming with each topic they discuss and they talk about therapy and mental illness in a very self aware way. They don't try to pretend that they're perfect people and they're always trying to be understanding and better themselves.
It's so comforting to hear them talk about the mistakes they've made and how their opinions changed and just expressing opinions that might not be that popular but it's what they think and it's what they're gonna say. It's just a really great show tbh.
ouch, jbu saying you shouldn’t date people who hate their jobs? i get not wanting to be the only good thing in someone’s life, but like, the privilege in writing off people for having to do things they don’t love or for not always being able to “make their own happiness” is just...
