Therapy (Bucky Barnes x reader)
For @just-trying-to-survive-marvel‘s 500 writing challenge
Prompt: “I don’t need your help. You’ve already done enough”
A/N: Is it bad to say how much I hated writing the end of this? It’s not edited because I just finished it but I hope you enjoy (please leave feedback) <3
Bucky had adopted the habit of carrying around a small black moleskin notebook on his regular walks spent exploring the ins and outs of New York City. Having spent so much of his life in and out of the cryochambers, brainwashed and mindless, nothing made sense in this strange new world. Some days he forgot where he was, thinking he was back in the 1930s with small, fragile Steve, who he needed to look after. Others, nothing made sense anymore, fragments of half-coherent thoughts flitting through his mind as he stared blankly at the wall in his dimly lit room. Those days he didn’t get out of bed until Steve dragged him out, sighing as he saw the brooding confusion brewing in Bucky’s mind. The rest, which lay few and far in-between, yet had been more frequent of late, were the only days where the modern world made any sense and he grabbed those opportunities with both hands. This meant he often ended up returning to the Tower many hours into the early morning, eyes shining with the day’s results as he discovered New York and how it had changed.
Steve often worried about him; the horrors of the past still haunted Bucky, and he never lost the ghosts from the past that hid behind his eyes. On his good days, Steve felt the hope inside him rekindle. Maybe one day he could have his best friend back, not the soulless husk that wandered around aimlessly nor the one stuck firmly in the past. The way Bucky’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the tall tales of the crazy trouble he had got himself caught up in reminded Steve of Bucky’s boxing days back in the ‘30s, where he would be wrapped up in his stories of the ring, adding elaborations wherever he could to make his adventures seem more interesting. Nearly always, they ended up with him victoriously defeating his opponent after a long and arduous struggle. Bucky had enjoyed painting himself to be the hero in these situations. Steve couldn’t ignore the irony, considering the unspeakable horrors HYDRA had put him through and terrible crimes he had been forced to commit. On Bucky’s bad days, Steve felt despair curl into its familiar spot in his heart.
Some part of him couldn’t let go of the image he had in his mind of his best friend and this new version just didn’t live up to what he expected him to be. Steve knew that was messed up. Of course, Buck was different. Being a brainwashed assassin for 70 years would do that. But thanks to the help of their friends in Wakanda, he’d been assured that all the brainwashing had been removed. Therefore, he’d hoped that the Bucky he’d known would return. And that all would go back to how it had been; him and Buck together through everything.
When he hadn’t, Steve could barely bear to be around him. Bucky hated to admit it, but it hurt. Knowing that his best friend was constantly disappointed in who he was. Seeing the corny smile slip off his face and his brow furrow when he thought Bucky wasn’t looking. Hence, Bucky tried to stay out for as long as possible, roam as far away from the Tower before Steve’s helicopter parent instincts kicked in. It was almost ironic that little Steve, well, not so little anymore, was the one looking out for him.
It should have been the other way round.
Therapy had been a word that Steve had offered up one day, accompanied with a shy smile. The team had a great one and Steve had been sure that no one would mind if Bucky booked a slot with her, he’d assured firmly. And thus, Bucky had instantly agreed, if not only to keep that smile on Steve’s face for a bit longer. To offer him hope that maybe one day he’d become the man Steve so desperately wanted him to be. The beaming grin in response had made the decision worthwhile; he wasn’t sure if he’d seen Steve that happy since regaining some sort of control over his brain again. He just hoped that he’d achieve whatever high expectation Steve held for this session.
Which was why Bucky was here. Opposite you, wearing a thick sweater in the summer sun to cover up his arm and lessen any fears you may have in response to seeing him. He had to remind himself that although you were a therapist, you were still just a civilian. And the media had not been kind to him.
“So, Mr Barnes, would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?” Your question takes him by surprise, that much is obvious in the small movement of his eyebrows, although the rest of him stays perfectly composed. He didn’t know what to expect from therapy, maybe something a bit more Good Will Hunting-esque. Or simply some talking, a Eureka-like moment and all problems instantly solved.
“Um, coffee would be nice… thank you. Black, no sugar.” When you got up to make it, he was even more confused. Why wouldn’t you just have a pot ready? Surely it would detract from the time with the client to have to fiddle around with the pot and sorting out the coffee granules.
The silence as they both waited for the pot to boil was deafening and Bucky soon found himself looking around the tiny yellow room with its monochromatic knick-knacks. Everything in here was sleek, almost succinct in its manner of serving a purpose and nothing more. The plain blue and white clock on the wall was geometric and placed directly next to three perfectly straight wooden shelves, each one painted a cool white.
Once the pot had boiled, Bucky found himself holding a steaming mug with a soppy depiction of a cartoon duckling on it. I Love Ducks More Than Humans, it loudly proclaimed. It felt out of place in this impersonal room, filled with items of purpose not decoration.
“Mr Barnes-”
“Please, call me Bucky.” He interrupted instinctively, smiling to ease the rudeness of his outburst. “Mr Barnes was my father and Lord knows how long he’s been dead.”
“Bucky, would you mind telling me what brought you to therapy?” Your grin is easy and genuine, putting him at ease as he leans back into the couch.
What had brought him to therapy? Bucky wasn’t sure of the answer himself; he didn’t have much of a reason except trying to change himself for Steve. But that wasn’t the answer you would be looking for, and there was no need to add another potential problem to his already mile-long list, starting with daddy issues, skimming over the numerous previous job-related traumas and now ending at fear of not being enough for his best friend. “I suppose it was Steve. He was worried for me and suggested therapy, so I wanted to give it a try.”
“But what do you want to get out of therapy? Not what your friend wants, you personally.”
Bucky hesitated. He knew that opening up would be good, and something about the simplicity of the place made it feel a lot easier to tell the whole truth to someone. “I don’t feel like myself, or who I used to be anymore. I’ve changed but people don’t seem able to see that.”
“I understand. It must be really difficult to not feel understood, can you tell me more?” Your voice was sweet, coaxing him to say more. It made his skin crawl, he felt like he was back at HYDRA with one of their ‘therapists’ who would coerce him into revealing information he wasn’t supposed to know and then they would wipe him, the excruciating pain reminding him that he couldn’t trust a therapist.
But these sessions were meant to help him. And so, he went back the next week, nodding with a fixed smile when Steve asked him how they were going. ‘Great.’ And the grin that Stevie gave him made it all seem like a good idea. Even though he felt like a cornered animal in the sessions.
It wasn’t your fault. You were lovely as far as he was concerned, but the way you spoke to him to get him to open up made him want to dive out the nearest window just to escape. And all this simmering frustration came to a head when you asked him a pointedly blunt question, nothing like the previous ones that had all danced around the topic.
“Bucky, I can tell that you’d rather not be here and we’re not making any progress unless you talk to me. What did HYDRA do to make you so afraid of what I’m asking you?”
Bucky froze, resentment bubbling up as he tried to regulate the words that were threatening to spit themselves out of his mouth. To attack her for not knowing. How could you know? How could you not? It was all over his file, the torture he’d undergone, and you had the audacity to ask what made him ‘so afraid’.
“You know what,” Bucky grimaced, biting down hard on his tongue.
“Bucky, please. I’m here to help. Please don’t shut me out because I haven’t understood you yet.” Her eyes pleaded with him to just give it a shot and he shuddered. He’d seen that expression before. It had usually twisted into a smirk as he was dragged away for yet another excruciating memory wipe.
“Maybe I don’t want your help. Maybe I’ve just been forced to come here but it’s turning out to be useless.” He bit back, hand clenching around the porcelain mug.
Your mouth opened and closed without a sound, face pulling into an awkward smile as you tried to soothe his raised temper. The longer you kept eye contact, the further your face fell and you gulped, throat clenching harshly.
Crash. The mug was crushed between his fingers and the tension was broken. You exhaled shakily, brushing your clammy palms against your long skirt. Bucky could hear your pounding heartrate from where he sat, a good few yards away. It filled him with remorse, like a splash of water to the face. He refused to be that person anymore
“I’ll grab a dustpan.” You smiled weakly, quickly moving out of his line of vision. Bucky didn’t move an inch, eyes staring blankly at where you’d sat. A shuffling noise by his feet startled him as you crouched down, scooping the shards up. He should be the one doing that, he realised.
“I’m afraid that’s the end of our session. But I do hope that you’ll come back next week, even if it feels like we’re getting nowhere.”
Guilt gnawed at Bucky as he nodded stiffly, making his way out the door without a single word. He turned round to say something to you, but when confronted with your face, he found he was unable to.
And the next week he was back. He would compare it to a drug, his inability to quit it, but that would imply that he enjoyed or craved therapy. He liked the way Steve seemed hopeful, less cautious around him. He liked your company, in a way. But he couldn’t stand the endless questions.
He was early, sat on one of the short armchairs stationed around her office. The person before him was loud, talking angrily about not being able to deal with it anymore and how he just couldn’t look at somebody. Was therapy meant to be that aggressive sounding? Your mild-mannered voice was much fainter and Bucky physically had to stop himself from leaning in to eavesdrop.
The door slammed open only moments later, Steve storming out and you hurriedly following him. When his eyes fell upon Bucky, he deflated, feet stuttering to a halt.
“I can’t do this.” His voice cracked as he spun round to look at you, eyes wild and frantic. Bucky frowned. “Buck, I can barely look at you without feeling like a failure. I thought once you’d had the brainwashing removed, you’d be back to normal. But you’re still not and…”
Bucky’s heartbeat was deafening in his ears, blood roaring as he drowned out the rest of Steve’s excuses. His eyes focused in on your face, patronizingly, mockingly sympathetic and he clenched a fist subconsciously. Some sort of exclamation from Steve at the sight of it caused him to forcibly relax all muscles, relieving any underlying tension that might still be visible. It did nothing to quell the sickening sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, throat clenching as he tried to swallow an invisible block.
“I’m going to go.” Steve brushed past him, not even looking back once.
Did he feel any remorse? Bucky wondered, a bitter taste on his tongue. Any sadness? Guilt? Anything about telling Bucky that he couldn’t deal with this PTSD-riddled version? He never thought that Steve, who stood up to every bully and against anything and everything morally wrong, would turn his back on him just for not being the man he once was.
“Bucky?” Your tentative voice broke him out of his reverie, your vibrant yellow skirt cheerily mocking him.
“You did this.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. There was only one person who could have twisted Steve’s mind, who could have turned the one person that Bucky always thought would have his back against him.
“No.” You were defensive, suspiciously so, your posture stiff. You sighed, turning back to head into your office. “Will you come in?”
“I don’t need your help. You’ve already done enough. Aren’t you sick of destroying lives by twisting people’s emotions? Do you enjoy playing the saviour in order to create chaos?”
Your face fell at his words and Bucky felt a vindictive joy at the sight. He knew that it was unfair to enjoy seeing your cheery façade slipping, but he couldn’t help it. It was as if something deep inside him was egging on the cruel remarks on the tip of his tongue, begging him to cut deep with his words.
“Bucky, I won’t force you to come in, but my office is always a safe space for you to enter. Always.”
You turned with a forced smile, although it was more of a grimace, shoulders slumping as the door swung shut in Bucky’s face. He could hear a muffled sob through the door and a towering wave of icy guilt crashed down upon him, clearing the red haze.
He hadn’t meant to make you cry; it was just that… he wanted someone else to feel the same as he did.
He wanted someone else to get punished for Steve’s actions.
Bucky raised a metal fist, sleeve slipping down over his wrist as he hovered in front of the door. He wanted to offer some sort of apology, and comfort, because it clearly wasn’t your fault. Bucky had easily overlooked the months of awkward silences and faked smiles between him and Steve, but something had been wrong for a while.
It wasn’t your fault Steve was unable to let go of the past.
“Just give me a sec,” your voice quavered with a sniffle. A sharp burst of shame startled Bucky and he wheezed quietly, clutching at his left shoulder. The door tentatively swung open in front of him, your puffy face forcing a watery smile. “Oh. Bucky.”
“I’m sorry.”
His abrupt sentence startled you, a flicker of confusion flashing across your face. Bucky didn’t know whether he should feel worse about the fact that his apology was such a surprise to you, or just accept the fact that he’d been a complete and utter dick to you.
“It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have just blamed you because you were there. I’ve been nothing but an asshole to you and I’m sorry.”
You blinked at him owlishly.
What else did you want him to say? Bucky shifted onto his left foot, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Do you want-“ “I’m just-“
Bucky shared a hesitant chuckle with you as your sentences tripped over each other’s. He gestured for you to continue speaking, unable to help the small smile that crept onto his face.
“Do you want to come in?”
Now, sat on the little white couch, steaming mug of coffee in his hands, Bucky looked at your hopeful face. You had assured him that you hadn’t meant to push last week and that you would go at the pace he felt comfortable with. This session you were starting off with his childhood and then, slowly, over time, trying to work your way to the present. Together.
Maybe therapy wasn’t so bad.
