Chapter Text
Dr. Raynor’s constant taps of her pen against the clipboard fill the room and the silence Bucky has refused to end. She repeats her question, sterner than last time.
“How are things?”
Bucky’s stare doesn’t falter, it remains fixated on the clock hung up on the adjacent wall. So far, he’s managed to use up half of their allotted time with minimal replies. He’s offered his standard basic greeting, showing no sign of glee to be sat in the same chair week after week, coaxed into providing barely acceptable answers. His remarks about the weather have long since dried up. This is the question week after week he has yet to know how to answer.
“Fine,” he says for the second time this session, the same answer he gave when she asked him at the start. He thought she had given up by now, or at least accepted that for all she needed to know, it was the truth.
She puts her pen down and attempts to meet his gaze. He prefers to keep track of the time. Twenty-three minutes.
“Mr. Barnes,” she cautions, “you are required to provide truthful answers so that we can assess your risk level to the public. It’s in the conditions of your pardon.”
Bucky doesn’t need the reminder. Every week he hears the same thing, and he is yet to complete a fulfilling therapy session to relieve him of her nagging. He does not know what more she wants.
“So,” she provokes, eyes narrowing, “how are things?”
It’s not that Bucky is determined to be difficult, that is only a small part of his insistence that things really are fine. Her question rattles around his brain, but no answer comes to the surface. Truthfully, Bucky himself doesn’t know how things are, let alone how to put it into words. Instead, what his brain can’t articulate in words it makes up for in flashbacks.
Him and Steve in Wakanda. The hint of something more than friends being fresh on Bucky’s tongue, so close it felt pre-determined. Realization that maybe he has something to be here for other than death and destruction. The all-consuming hope and desperation for it to be true. And then there the feeling of disintegrating, mind, body, and soul. Only to return to a Steve that is somehow unfamiliar with how things should be, how he knew they were supposed to be by now. It had been five years, Bucky would give him that, but it didn’t change the fact that it was five years Bucky didn’t have. He hadn’t had the time to work out that maybe it was friendship, maybe this wasn’t the same as love, which Steve had made clear upon his departure. Maybe it was two familiar faces coming together when they had no one else, mistaking what was so obviously not there. But Bucky hadn’t thought of it as a misunderstanding. Still, he was sure that it wasn’t. He couldn’t be wrong about it. He was certain. Bucky had been left to play catch up, and he’s working on it, he is. But instead of relaying this, to explain how things are not at all what they should be but he doesn’t have a way to fix it, he gives Dr. Raynor a small smile.
“No nightmares,” he lies. “Sam introduced me to a new sushi place downtown. Not bad, but the desserts were overpriced. Pretty good week, don’t you think, Doc?”
Bucky doesn’t worry about therapy again for the next week. He has much more pressing issues such as trying to buy cat food online and rearranging what little possessions he keeps in his bare apartment. No one needs that many decorative couch cushions, he doesn’t care what the IKEA salesperson says. It’s not until he’s on his way to his next session the following week that he remembers he needs something vaguely interesting and true to relay to Dr. Raynor. She has too often caught him out on small lies. If they’re at least partially true he’s done his job. Bucky pauses, halfway through pulling on his shoe when Alpine hops down onto the floor from the window ledge, making her way into the living room without sparing him a glance.
“My cat started to open doors,” he answers this week when Dr. Raynor begins their usual routine. It is, unfortunately, not enough to relieve him of her lecture this week. She doesn’t even give him a pitiful look. She pauses in her scribbling, which makes things a whole lot worse.
“Your cat?” she repeats, her tone accusatory. “Alpine, was it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Bucky crosses one leg over the other, bouncing his foot on one knee. Twenty minutes to go.
“Last week it was Sam. The week before it was your postman. You said he seems nice. This week it’s your cat,” she deadpans. “Mr. Barnes, do you see the problem here?”
“My social life too exciting to handle?” he quips. “Can’t say I do, Doc.”
“You’re in a bubble, Mr. Barnes,” she says bluntly, pen slapping against the clipboard. “One friend, one cat, and people working in retail. That’s your bubble. That’s your life.”
“Works for me,” Bucky shrugs, ignoring the scrawny blonde kid that comes to mind when she mentions friend. It should be two. Or one. He doesn’t know.
“As your therapist, let me tell you, no it doesn’t.”
She starts writing again. Bucky hates it.
“I’m not lying.”
The clock ticks. Eighteen minutes. Dr. Raynor leans forwards in her chair, hands going still.
“I know you’re not lying. And that is exactly what makes your problem that much worse. You’ve become so accustomed to your own loneliness, your own fear of people, that you don’t see it as a problem. Avoiding human contact won’t save anyone, Mr. Barnes, and it certainly won’t help you to move on from your past victims.”
Bucky’s ears ring. He seldom wishes for the still raw memories of Steve to return but it’s a far more pleasant experience than the face of an innocent woman trembling in fear, the moment her eyes rolled back as she choked. The others.
“I’m not scared of people,” he lies.
Dr. Raynor smiles, and he knows she thinks she won. She hasn’t.
“Great, then meet someone. Have a conversation with someone who isn’t Sam, or your cat, and isn’t getting paid to be in your presence.”
Bucky stares, letting the silence fill the room as it usually does. It feels heavier somehow, and his mind runs trying to figure out how to get out of it without letting her win. She sets her clipboard down on the table after a minute of him thinking.
“Let’s call it a day, shall we Mr. Barnes? You can report to me on your progress next week unless you want your unwillingness to cooperate to go on file.”
The ticking of the clock mocks him. He leaves with sixteen minutes to spare.
The advantage of weekly therapy sessions is that Bucky can ignore that they exist until the sixth day. He has a normal week. He avoids his neighbours and lets Alpine ruin his apartment with her clawing which gives him an excuse to fix things, to have anything to do, and he speaks to Sam once. It’s over the phone, but Sam is busy with a family birthday party. It counts as human interaction as far as he is aware, he doesn’t see the problem with Dr. Raynor’s accusations. He buys a copy of the Lord of the Rings box set and lets it gather dust before he puts it away, deciding he doesn’t need to watch it yet. He takes a walk, earphones playing nothing and black cap disguising his features. The jacket and gloves are excessive for the June heat but he bears it, walking briskly through the buzzing park.
He hadn’t considered the number of people outside when he had left the house, focused on the mission of grabbing batteries for his television remote. The batteries had run out this morning and the apartment had seemed too quiet, the hours too long without the buzzing of something in the background distracting him from his thoughts. The park is filled with groups lazing on blankets of various shades, some couples, groups of friends laughing at something he’s probably too old to understand. Families are dotted around, too. A few tired mothers watch the playground from where they lean on the railings in the uncomfortable humidity of the afternoon, their children playing, oblivious to their parent’s exhaustion. He almost makes it out of the park, regretting taking a shortcut in the full park which only slowed him down, but also satisfied for a mission completed. He has a whole evening to think of a lie to tell in therapy the next day when something hits his leg with a whack, a small snap followed by a sniff.
“I- I’m sorry,” the young boy shrieks, wide eyes brimmed with tears as he stares up at Bucky. Clad in all black with his usual glare, he isn't a figure children flocked towards. Not anymore.
Bucky glances over to the ground next to where the boy has fallen after colliding with his leg. Next to him, an action figure lay missing one of it’s limbs, the small blue-clad arm a few feet away from where it had snapped off. The young boy, who can’t be older than five, doesn’t get up, as though he is scared Bucky is going to reprimand him for playing.
He doesn’t. Crouching down to grab the severed doll before another passer-by decapitates the toy, he gives what he hopes to be his least irritating stare.
“You alright?” he asks the kid who can only nod in response. He doesn’t look injured, except for his palms which are caked in dirt. He hands the boy the two pieces of the doll, a piece in each of his small hands. It’s only then that he spots the blue-clad uniform, the severed arm attached to the star-stamped shield. Of course.
“T-Thank you, sir,” the child says, pushing himself up and darting over to the group of mothers. Bucky finishes his walk home with no other issues.
It shouldn’t bother him.
He tells himself the same thing on repeat as he flicks through the never-ending list of channels, desperate for something to take his mind off the unexpected reminder of his best friend. His best friend who he has expected to be here with him in human form, not plastic. Not dead. Not having left him for someone he actually loves.
Alpine snores next to him, belly full of whatever overpriced treats he had bought the other week. He’s too soft on her. But limited as his friends go, she’s good company. Tonight, however, even Alpine doesn’t seem like a good enough distraction. He debates poking his sleeping companion for some form of interaction that takes his mind off of the red, white, and blue. He craves something, anything, anyone to distract him for the first time in a while. He debates sleeping but knows that the chance of nightmares will no better solve his dilemma.
He has sixteen hours to figure out a lie for tomorrow’s session. It’s hard when the only image his mind can conjure is a stubborn blonde.
He doesn’t want Dr. Raynor to be right. She’s not. She’s not the reason he’s pulling on his jacket, stuffing his wallet into the pockets, and heading back out into the humid night-time. It’s not her, it’s the unpleasant reminder of loss that came from a clumsy innocent child that unintentionally ruined his day.
He’ll get Steve out of his head, somehow. He’ll do what she wants, and then she won’t remind him of what is expected of him for at least the next few weeks when he’s back to being radio silent. He shouldn’t go where he does, but with the memories of Steve, their too many moments of ‘what-ifs’ refusing to set him free, he finds himself stepping into the flag adorned bar. The beer does nothing to get him buzzed like the patrons around him, swaying under the dim fluorescent lights. It cools him down, though, and he slips off his gloves, metal obscured by the neon lights that adorn ceiling beams.
He didn’t think this through. He’s still dressed in all black, clothes uncomfortable and sticking to his as patrons pile in. The mixture of cologne and liquor in the air feels sickly sweet.
“Sorry,” a young woman mumbles as he brushes past him at the bar, her partner echoing the same as they push past to their table.
He should have at least made an effort if he wasn’t going to sit here and be miserable, instead of replacing the feeling of loss he’d felt back home with the same feeling in a crowded room. So he sips his beer, reminding himself that there’s fifteen hours to go until he has to form some kind of excuse for why he can’t talk to anyone.
“Hey, hey!” A nearby voice cuts across the too fast music he doesn’t quite understand yet. “I- I am so not drunk.”
“Oh my god!” A female voice howls with laughter, “You had literally one drink!”
“He’s a wreck,” a third voice agrees.
The first guy hiccups, “M’fine, you m-mind your business with your girlfriend. I’m completely fine!”
The guy is definitely not fine. His stubbornness, unfortunately, reminds Bucky of the man he came to the very bar to forget. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, just to feel a bit better, at least. He feels someone slip into the space next to him, a slightly drunken voice offering a reasonable distraction from the chaotic group of youngsters behind him, but he can’t take his eyes away from them.
The booth a few feet away sits a small group huddled over a dozen or so empty glasses. Two girls sit huddled together, arms interlinked as they wearily watch their friend attempt to place his chin on the palm of his arm balanced on the table. His mess of brown hair glows pink on the edges with the fluorescent lights. Even Bucky can see from where he’s stood that his eyes are unfocused and glazed over. Definitely not the result of a single beer.
“Peter.” His friend snaps their fingers in front of his face. “Should we call you a cab?”
The drunken guy shakes his head, chin slipping off of his palm. He groans, “M’good.”
He looks up, towards the bar this time. Bucky pauses, room temperature beer halfway to his lips. Pushing past the memories of Steve, his ears ring over the chattering to his side. It was hard to tell when he was almost face-planting the table, but Bucky remembers. He hasn’t seen him since Tony’s funeral, but it's unmistakably him. He'd heard whispers back then of the scrawny kid at the funeral being Spider-Man, the same guy who had caught his punch and fought back. He hadn't questioned it and hadn't thought of the kid since, too busy dealing with his own chaos. But there he is sat; Tony’s protégé, a reminder of the fight and what winning had cost everyone.
Peter drunkenly frowns in his direction.
Bucky quickly tears his eyes away, taking a deep breath.
He shouldn’t have come here, not where anyone he knows could see him. Not where he might have to see them again, and this particular bad day could hang as a reminder between them.
The guy who had been talking to him still hasn’t left. He’s short, brunette, and has a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. The smell of tobacco on his clothes cuts through the sickly sweet air. The complete opposite of Bucky’s desires. Perfect.
“What did you say?” Bucky asks. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the music.”
The guy smirks, leaning forwards. “I said, can I get you a drink?” he pretty much shouts into Bucky’s ear.
Bucky shoots him his best smile, the one that used to work. It feels unnatural now, stiff. He can do this, he can solve both problems.
He downs the rest of his drink, feeling nothing. He leans back in.
“How about you take me for a drink elsewhere? Somewhere I can hear what you’ve got to say.”
The stranger doesn’t need convincing. He’s not what Bucky should be going for, but he takes it as a win.
Dr. Raynor can’t criticise him, and he can get out and attempt to lose the other guy in their second bar of the night.
If the spider kid watches him leave with the other guy in tow, Bucky doesn’t bother to check. He lets the relief of the fresh night air outside wash away the unpleasant reminders of the day.
He returns to the therapist’s office fourteen hours later and doesn’t lie, repeating the only basic information he’d learned about the guy the night before, Paul, before he made an excuse to leave.
She nods, and Bucky can’t read her expression.
“Paul. Bar. Got it,” she mumbles, which is the closest to a compliment he’s going to get for his attempt at socialising.
Bucky glances up. Twenty-five minutes. She taps her pen against the paper. “Other than Paul, how are things?”
And so it restarts.