Chapter Text
“Today I’d like for you to talk a little bit about how your physical appearances have changed since you were young, and how those changes have affected you,” Theresa suggested.
Steve didn’t want to roll his eyes. He just kept reminding himself that this was the therapist Sam had recommended. He let out a sigh and began.
“Well, obviously, I’m 6’1” and weigh 280 pounds, instead of being 5’4” and 110 pounds soaking wet,” Steve said. “Not to mention that I can hear out of both ears now, and breathe.”
“So you’re happy with your physical changes?” she asked.
Steve glanced at Bucky, who sat unmoving as usual, staring straight ahead and not volunteering information until it was directly requested of him.
“I’d have to be crazy to be unhappy with being given the serum. I wouldn’t be alive today — I wouldn’t have the chance to help Bucky now — “
“But are you happy in your new body?” Theresa pressed.
“I don’t have the right not to be,” Steve ground out, frowning.
“Think of a time when you felt happy,” she said.
Steve furrowed his brows. “Okay.”
“Were you big like now, or small like before?” Theresa probed. “Tell us what your body felt like, and why you were happy with it.”
“It was after I rescued Bucky and the 107th from Azzano,” Steve said. “Before we went back to London. We had regrouped at our base camp under Colonel Philips, and I was so relieved that he didn’t immediately detain me for a court martial. Then all the men were sorted out — some to medical, most just got in line for showers and hot meals. And then I realized, I was standing next to Bucky and we were shoulder to shoulder, and he was alive, and so was I, and we were finally together, and I was so, so happy.”
"Thanks for sharing that, Steve," Theresa smiled. Turning to Bucky, she asked, “Do you remember that moment?”
“Yes,” Bucky said.
“Is that a happy memory for you?” she asked.
“No,” Bucky said flatly.
Steve’s eyes flew wide and he turned toward Bucky, wounded — but he didn’t object.
“Why weren’t you happy in that moment?” Theresa asked gently.
“Stupid punk,” Bucky said. His inflections were so empty, but his accent, his words — they were Bucky’s. Tears sprang out in Steve’s eyes. He held his breath to keep from interrupting.
“He was s’posed to be safe, back home, not there, in the mud of that stinkin hell hole. He wasn’t s’posed to go through alla that.”
“You didn’t want Steve to come to Italy?” Theresa asked.
“I wanted him to stay home, safe. It was the only thing that kept me going, some days, the thought of Steve, warm and clean in our apartment, thousands of miles from the war. And then, there he was, right there in the thick of it. He wasn’t safe at all.”
“Were you glad he rescued you?” Theresa asked.
“No,” Bucky said.
“Buck!” Steve gasped. Two high spots of color stood on his face, as he warred with his emotions, trying to let Bucky speak without judgment.
“How did you feel?” Theresa softly responded.
Bucky was silent for a moment. “Angry — angry at Steve for putting himself in danger. Afraid he’d see what was wrong with me.” He swallowed. “The changes. I felt different. I was scared. They did something to me, there. The experiments. The procedure has already started.”
Bucky twitched, his head and shoulders jerking just a little as the memories swept through him and the tension in his body grew too great.
Theresa reassured him in a calm, quiet tone. “Sergeant Barnes, this is April 4, 2015. You’re in New York City, in America. You’re safe, you’re with friends now.”
Bucky let out a shuddering breath.
Steve looked at the therapist, weary with strain. These episodes were not uncommon for Bucky.
“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked after he was breathing a little more easily.
Bucky gave a nod, and the therapist continued.
“Did you know what had happened to Bucky at Azzano?” Theresa asked.
“I should have known,” Steve said, with a miserable frown.
“Were there any other survivors who could tell you what happened?” Theresa asked.
“No,” Steve admitted. “The other Howlies, they told me, no one but Bucky made it back from whatever it was.”
“Did Sergeant Barnes tell you anything about what he’d been through?”
“He was tortured. It was hard on him. I didn’t want to dredge that up,” Steve protested.
“Mental health procedures may have been less than adequate in those days,” Theresa suggested.
“Tell me about it,” Steve said.
“What would you say to Bucky now, if you could?” Theresa said. “Think for a moment.”
Steve tried breathing in and out a few times, but he was only marginally more relaxed than Bucky. He thought for a while and finally spoke slowly. “I’d tell him he did good, taking care of his men as best he could, making it through that factory alive. I was so glad he survived. I’d tell him that if he felt like talking I’d listen and I’d never ever judge him for what happened. I’ll never be anything but on his side.”
“How do you feel about what Steve is saying?” Theresa asked.
Bucky was silent. After a long wait, he finally said, “I’m still not sure. I shoulda died then, I think. But Steve. Steve wants me… Steve still wants me here, with him. So. I guess I’m glad to be here.”
“Oh, Bucky,” Steve said, and he couldn’t hold back the tears any more.
“But I just make him sad. I make everybody sad. I’m a monster.” Bucky delivered this statement as though it were the weather report.
“Why do you think you're a monster?” Theresa asked.
“Look at me,” Bucky said. For once, his tone changed. He displayed his silver hand for a moment before shoving it away again, hidden against the arm of the couch. “This is the arm of a killer. This whole body — they needed a killer. Even inside my head — they made me a killer. Steve shouldn’t even be in the same room with me!” Bucky’s voice had risen, until Steve could hear the torment loud and clear.
“Bucky — you didn’t kill me. You saved me. You broke free. You got away from them. You did that.”
“But not before I’d done — so many things,” Bucky whispered.
“I know,” Steve said. “I know what they made you do. But you didn’t do it willingly. You tried so many times to get away… I know you’re beginning to remember those times too…”
“Yeah,” Bucky admitted.
“And Natalia,” Steve said.
“Yeah,” Bucky said.
“She told me she owes you her life.”
“That girl never owed nothing to me!” Bucky said vehemently. “She was gonna live! She was gonna make it!! I just — gave her a little encouragement.”
Steve argued gently with Bucky. “She told me — she’d never dared to imagine that anyone could cross the Red Room and get away with it. She told me how they wiped you, time after time, but you always shook it off — every time, you tried to teach her, you told her she could make it, that she was more than a weapon.”
“Pauchok,” Bucky murmured. “Little spider.” The shape of his lips almost formed a tiny smile.
“You have a lot to be proud of, Sergeant Barnes,” Theresa said. “You shouldn’t hold yourself responsible for things you did when they had you under such ruthless control. Every time you resisted, you proved what a remarkable person you were. And you should take pride in helping Agent Romanov in such a hostile environment.”
“I feel proud for you,” Steve said, with a stubborn lift of his chin he knew Bucky would recognize.
“Punk,” Bucky said, that little smile broadening.
“Jerk,” Steve returned. “Ain’t you gonna feel proud of me at all?”
Bucky turned his head and looked at Steve. His face was more alive than Steve had seen it yet. “Punk — I always been prouda you, Stevie. You’re the best — you always been the best — you always will be. You were perfect before — and now, you’re like a god. Hell, you got a friend that is a genuine bonafide god. You beside him, you’re two peas in a pod.”
“I ain’t a god, Buck,” Steve scoffed.
“Like a god, I said,” Bucky said, eyebrows twitching upward just the slightest.
“You see what I live with,” Steve said to the therapist, gratitude in his eyes, and in his choked voice.
“You’ve both done exceptionally well today,” Theresa said. “I want you to close your eyes, count slowly to ten, and focus on feeling good about sharing your feelings with each other today.”
Steve closed his eyes. His thoughts and emotions were still in a whirl, but he was amazed at the progress Bucky had shown — whether he’d shown any at all himself, he trusted the therapist and tried to give himself a little mental pat on the back.
“One last thing,” she said, very softly. “One of your goals is to re-establish safe touch. Steve, open your left hand and leave it lying there open on the couch. Sergeant Barnes, when you’re ready, if you can, slip your hand over Steve’s. If you can, just clasp hands gently, and try to focus on the care and compassion you feel for each other.”
Steve couldn’t bear to look. He kept his eyes closed and his hand open… and then, he felt it, Bucky’s beloved hand, slipping into his, taking hold. And there, flowing, just as it always had, was the soul-deep love they’d always felt for one another.
Steve could have sat there until the next age, happily crying and holding Bucky’s hand, but after a few minutes, Theresa said.
“Thank you, gentlemen, your time is up.”
They stood up, but Bucky didn’t let go.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, politely, and Steve couldn’t do more than nod.