Heal Thy Self Chapter 28
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Chapter 27
MINORS DNI - probably best for this to be an 18+ fic. (but I'm not your mom, so read at your risk)
Content Warning: PTSD triggers, trauma responses, dissociation, emotional breakdown, discussion of past abuse and violence, and references to Hydra conditioning. Also there's a potential for some inaccurate therapy talk. I am only human....
I apologize that the following gif doesn't actually have much to do with this chapter other than it's pizza.
Malachi 4:2
But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays. And you will go out and frolic like well-fed calves.
Matilda missed the fire escape of their old apartment.
Bucky had never trusted it—not with rusted bolts and half-rotted steel—but it had given them something this place didn’t.
Sunlight without exposure. Freedom without being seen.
Now they had a rooftop terrace—but it wasn’t the same. The windows were sealed shut—wouldn’t budge, not even under Bucky’s strength. And the risk of being seen was too high now. Not after learning who was looking for her.
So when Bucky suggested a harvest festival just outside the city limits, Matilda said yes before he could finish asking.
The sun hung low and warm against the crisp autumn air, the breeze carrying swing music and the scent of apple cider. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was back in Georgia—living a life she barely remembered how to miss.
As they moved between stalls, Matilda shifted her weight with each step, leaning into Bucky when it grew too much.
Two months—and her leg still hadn’t settled.
The irritation sat sharp beneath her ribs. What was the point of super soldier serum in her veins if it couldn’t fix something as simple as this?
“Just say the word and we can leave,” Bucky said, nodding toward a nearby bench as they sat. “I don’t want you pushing it.”
“I’m fine,” Matilda insisted, ignoring the restless bounce of her foot against the pavement. “I want to be here. It’s too nice out to be stuck inside.”
A sharp series of pops cracked through the air, drawing their attention to a small crowd gathered around a kettle corn stand.
“Proaspăt și atât de dulce!” the vendor called, handing out samples.
Matilda chuckled as he tossed a kernel toward a small dog. It leapt into the air, twisting mid-spin before landing cleanly.
She glanced over at Bucky, one brow lifting when she caught him staring. “What?” she asked, slipping her hand into his.
“You just look beautiful, is all.”
“You might want to get your eyes checked,” she muttered, picking at the loose stitching along the wrist of his glove.
She’d dressed simply—that pink dress Bucky had insisted Sam grab from their old apartment, dark stockings pulled underneath. She just wished she’d thought about a jacket.
The bruises were finally beginning to fade, but the burns had started to turn—shiny, uneven patches of new skin that caught the light in all the wrong ways.
Bucky clicked his tongue softly, lifting a hand to turn her face back toward him. “I can see just fine, doll.”
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, slower this time.
“You’re always beautiful.”
“Can we keep going?” she asked, a faint blush rising as she pushed to her feet.
“Îmi pare rău!”
Bucky was already moving—his hand settling firmly at her waist as a small child barreled past, nearly colliding with her.
Matilda laughed, watching the boy dart back to his friends, a bright red balloon filled with glitter clutched tight in his hand.
The breeze lifted a loose curl from her braid, brushing it across her cheek as she smiled.
Bucky felt his chest catch. He hadn’t seen her this at ease in weeks.
She hid the discomfort well—but he knew better. Knew she was doing it for him as much as herself.
Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, his fingers lingering just a second too long.
Then he tugged the sleeve of his henley back down over his metal arm.
“I wasn’t cold,” Matilda murmured, tugging her arms through the sleeves. She closed her eyes, taking a slow breath.
“That’s not why I gave it to you,” Bucky said softly.
His thumb brushed gently over the small scar tucked at the curve of her upper lip.
“Not from him,” she said, quieter now—almost like she was reminding herself.
A beat passed as she leaned into his touch.
“Cleft palate,” she added. “From when I was a kid. I used my abilities to heal it… I think I was nine. Maybe ten.”
“How many of those kinds of cases came through your door?” he asked as they moved through the crowd.
He hadn’t always noticed the lingering traces of what her mother had pushed her abilities into doing.
“Too many,” Matilda said. “Back then, surgery wasn’t really an option. Too risky. Too expensive for most families.”
She glanced ahead, voice softening. “And I didn’t have the serum to expedite the recovery time. That’s why the scar runs so deep.”
Bucky frowned slightly. “I never noticed it.”
“Most people don’t,” she said with a small shrug, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.
They continued through the stalls, weaving through the crowd. Matilda seemed especially drawn to the smells, pausing now and then just to breathe them in.
It had been nearly two years since they’d broken free of Hydra, and Bucky still struggled to convince her that most food was safe to eat. She’d push back sometimes, insisting food was meant for nothing more than fuel. Shadows don’t eat.
So it surprised him when she lingered at a pizza stand.
“Hmm,” she hummed, inhaling the rich scent of melted cheese and rising dough as the vendor worked the flame.
“Want a slice?” the man asked, kneading fresh dough on the counter.
“Maybe,” she said quietly, still watching the dough as he tossed it into the air.
“When was the last time you had pizza?” Bucky asked, remembering how he used to split slices with Steve on the walk home from school.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” she admitted.
“Never had pizza?” the vendor’s wife said, pausing mid-motion as she dusted flour from her hands.
She opened the glass case and pulled out a slice, still steaming from the oven. “You have to try this. No charge. It’s good for the soul,” she insisted, sliding it forward before either of them could protest.
“Dios mío… come si vive?” she muttered, already walking away.
Bucky let out a quiet laugh as he guided Matilda toward a nearby picnic table.
“You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to,” he said, plucking a slice of tomato off his piece and popping it into his mouth. “Mm… but it’s really good.”
She didn’t move at first—just watched. Then, carefully, she took a bite.
Her eyes widened as the cheese stretched between her and the slice, pulling farther than she expected.
“When does it stop?!” she blurted, looking at him in alarm.
Bucky laughed, tearing the cheese cleanly with a pinch. “You’ve gotta bite it off, doll.”
He sucked the grease from his thumb, watching her chew slowly.
“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”
Matilda shrugged, setting the slice back down on the tray. She studied it for a moment, as if it might offer a better answer.
“It’s impractical,” she said at last. “Too messy.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head as he stole another slice of tomato. “Would you believe me if I told you we used to eat this on the way to the docks?” he asked, tugging lightly on her braid.
“There’s no way this is meant to be portable,” she said, breaking off a piece of crust anyway. “It is tasty—”
She stopped mid-thought.
“Did you—”
Bucky straightened slightly, scanning the crowd. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I heard it too.”
Matilda’s gaze snapped toward a quiet corner near the edge of the festival. “There,” she said, pointing.
Bucky followed her line of sight—and tensed. A man had a young girl by the arm.
A faint whimper cut through the noise.
Before he could stop her, Matilda was already on her feet.
“Matilda…” he stood, moving after her. “Maybe we should stop and think—”
“What is there to think about?” she shot back, already weaving through the crowd.
“Matilda!” he called again, sharper now.
She didn’t answer.
She reached them in seconds. The man barely had time to turn before she yanked him away from the girl.
“Don’t touch her!” she snapped, slamming him to the ground.
“Ce naiba?!” he groaned as he hit the pavement.
Matilda stepped down onto his shoulder, pinning him in place.
“Matilda—stop!” Bucky barked, reaching for her.
“What were you going to do?!” she hissed, yanking her arm free. “Take advantage of a drunk girl?”
“That’s my tată!” the girl cried.
Matilda froze. Her eyes flicked between the teenager and the man beneath her foot.
“I snuck out,” the girl added quickly, hiccuping. “He was just bringing me home!”
Matilda turned sharply, gripping the girl’s shoulder. “You don’t have to lie. You’re safe. Tell me the truth,” she said, voice low and steady as she searched her face.
The girl’s expression went slack mid-breath, tears stalling as Matilda’s powers influenced her.
“Hey! What’s going on down there?!” someone called from the crowd.
“Matilda!” Bucky snapped, pulling her back. “That’s enough—we’re leaving. Now.”
Matilda let go of the girl, her eyes widening in horror. “I—I didn’t mean to…” she stammered.
The girl shook her head quickly, still teary but alert again.
“Let’s go,” Bucky ordered.
He wrapped an arm around Matilda’s shoulders, guiding her into the crowd before anyone could connect them to what had just happened.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the safe house.
“I’m so—” Matilda started.
“What were you thinking?” Bucky cut in sharply.
Matilda took a step back. “I don’t know… I thought he was hurting her.”
“I’m not asking about that. That was reasonable.” Bucky stepped closer. “Why didn’t you stop when she said it was her father?”
Her lip trembled. Something about the question made her stomach turn.
She looked down, clenching and unclenching her hands.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t even realize I was touching her until you pulled me back.”
Bucky sighed, tossing his ball cap onto the kitchen counter. “We need to know. That could’ve ended a lot worse.”
Matilda didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them.
She had never lost control of her powers before. It was the one thing she had always been certain of—something she could trust in herself.
So why had it happened?
How do you control something you don’t even realize you’re doing?
“Did I hurt them?” she whispered, staring down at her trembling hands.
“No,” Bucky said. “But the fact that you have to ask…”
She swallowed hard. “All I saw was… him.”
Her voice faltered.
“Holding a rag to my mouth and—” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I wanted to hurt him.”
The words seemed to startle even her. She sucked in a breath, covering her mouth.
Bucky stepped toward her, his hand lifting like he meant to reach for her—but Matilda flinched hard before he could.
“Don’t—” she choked. “Don’t give me empathy. How can you?”
Her voice shook, breaking apart. “I don’t deserve it, Bucky. I could’ve killed him… I wanted to.”
The admission seemed to hollow her out, her voice dropping with each word as tears blurred her vision.
Bucky didn’t answer. He just kept moving forward as she backed away—slow, steady—until her shoulders hit the wall.
“Fury was right about me…” she gasped, the words catching in a strangled sob.
That was when he pulled her into his arms.
She didn’t fight him this time. Bucky just held her, cradling her head as her fingers twisted tightly into his shirt.
He should’ve seen it sooner.
He’d been so focused on mending burns and setting broken bones…he hadn’t even touched the wounds Rumlow left behind.
And now they were festering.
Minutes passed before her sobs finally began to quiet, though they didn’t stop entirely. They’d sunk to the floor at some point, her weight still folded into him.
“Matilda…” Bucky murmured softly as he tugged the tie from her hair, his fingers working gently through the tangles.
She stilled at the touch, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, her voice small and tight.
Bucky pressed his lips to the top of her head, his jaw tightening as he searched for something—anything—that might reach her.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing along her cheek.
Matilda fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, worrying over the same loose thread between her fingers.
“I don’t know if I trust myself not to hurt you.”
Her fingers stilled as the words sat heavy between them.
Bucky exhaled slowly, leaning back on his hands.
“We’ve both gotten good at not talking about our past… about what Hydra did to us.”
Matilda frowned. “We talk about it all the time, Buck.”
“We talk about what happened,” he corrected gently. “The details. The surface of it.”
He shifted, trying to catch her eye.
“We don’t talk about what it did to us. Like how you still don’t like to eat.”
He paused.
“Or how I can’t sleep until I’ve checked every exit twice.”
“Both seem like fair reactions, considering what they did to us,” Matilda said quietly, pulling her knees to her chest as she braced against the wall.
“They are,” Bucky agreed, shifting so he sat beside her, his arms resting loosely on his knees.
“But for the rest of our lives?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“It takes time, Buck…” she added softly.
“I know,” he said. “I just worry about the in-between.”
He dragged a hand down his face.
“The moments when we lose control.”
Matilda huffed quietly, resting her chin on her knees. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose control.”
Bucky went still.
His gaze dropped to his metal hand as the faint whir of the joints filled the silence.
He slowly curled his fingers into a tight fist.
“I have,” he said quietly.
“I killed an innocent man before I found you.”
He flinched as she placed her hand over his, still unable to look at her.
“My memory after DC is still a little fuzzy,” he said quietly. Her fingers laced through his as he spoke.
“But I went back to the Hydra base… the bank.”
He paused.
“I thought it was empty…”
His jaw tightened.
“But they’d left the chair. I sat in it for days… waiting for orders. For someone to debrief the mission. Then he walked in.”
Bucky looked over at Matilda. Her face was soft—neutral, carefully still, like she was trying not to react to his horrors.
“He was a bank teller… just going down to the vault for papers,” Bucky said with a dry, broken laugh. “He spoke to me in Russian, and something just… flipped.”
His hand slipped out of hers. He stared at it instead, like it belonged to someone else.
He could still feel it—the snap of bone as he lifted him off the ground.
“I took his wallet and ran. He had kids.”
He shook his hand out.
“And a dog.”
Matilda took his hand again, squeezing it tightly. “It wasn’t you, Buck. You’d just come out of the ice,” she said softly, rubbing his shoulder with her thumb.
“It was still me,” he said quietly. “Enough of me that I knew what I’d done.”
His jaw tightened.
“Enough to know killing him was wrong.”
“I killed someone when I got off the ice too,” Matilda said softly, resting her head against his shoulder.
“A train conductor. He called me Fräulein.”
She went still as the memory surfaced—how easily she’d led him to the back of the car, out of sight of the other passengers.
His face when she pushed him onto the tracks.
“I didn’t have to,” she whispered. “But when he spoke… I saw someone else instead of him.”
She paused as Bucky placed his hand over her knee.
“Do you think SHIELD would pay for our therapy?” she asked, peeking up at him.
Bucky huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “That might scare them into leaving us alone.”
“Sam once told me it was a requirement of being an Avenger,” she remembered on the ride home from the hospital, as Sam rattled off a bulleted list of reasons they absolutely should not let SHIELD recruit them.
“I knew I liked him,” Bucky said, carefully avoiding eye contact.
Matilda raised an eyebrow, not believing a word of it.. “You hate Sam.”
Bucky exhaled. “Yeah,” he admitted. “He’s a punk.”
“I don’t know if you’ve seen these,” she said as she carefully stood up, a quiet groan slipping out when her leg protested.
Bucky stood before she could get all the way up, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.
“Thanks,” she whispered, taking his hand and guiding him toward the small bookshelf in the corner.
Bucky watched as she ran her fingers along the spines. He recognized a few of the titles—Gone with the Wind, The Grapes of Wrath, The Hobbit—but the rest were unfamiliar.
“Do I even want to know what Twilight is about?” he asked, pulling one from the shelf.
The cover was worn, the pages crinkled, a faint smear of red lipstick along the spine.
“I think that one was left by the Black Widow,” Matilda said. “This is the one.”
Bucky tried to picture the tough little ballerina he trained reading what looked like a teen romance novel. The thought made him huff a quiet laugh as he set it back.
“The Body Keeps the Score,” Matilda read aloud as she handed him another book.
“I skimmed it a few weeks ago,” she added. “I think it could help both of our problems.”
Bucky flipped open to the first page, his eyes scanning the handwritten note.
“For when your brain and heart aren’t communicating. Call me if you read this. xo — Sam”
“Punk,” Bucky muttered. “What does xo even mean?”
He flipped through a few more pages. “Is it some sort of code?”
Matilda laughed softly, leaning into him to read over his shoulder.
“It means hugs and kisses,” she explained, gently pausing his skimming.
She tapped the page.
“As long as you keep secrets and suppress information, you are fundamentally at war with yourself…”
Her voice softened.
“The critical issue is allowing yourself to know what you know. That takes an enormous amount of courage.”
They looked at each other—silent, understanding—before carrying the book to the couch together.