i might say something stupid. | bucky barnes (18+)
⤷ tfatws!bucky x therapist!reader
⭐︎ warnings: pre-tfatws canon compliant, fluff, angst, unrequited love, inaccurate depictions of therapy, bucky yearning barnes, touch starvation, mentions of nightmares, loneliness, and anxiety. exchanging music is their love language, bucky say "i love you" without actually saying "i love you" challenge
⭐︎ word count: 8.4k
⭐︎ a/n: oh tfatws!bucky how i miss you so. i am not a licensed therapist whatsoever so please beware of inaccuracies. this is my second post for the bwat summer collab, be sure to check out the other writings in that masterlist! not so fun fact but i made a tfatws bucky playlist while writing this and (other than writing) exchanging music is technically my love language for you guys too, so.
synopsis: While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.
← previous fic | main masterlist
When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.
He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.
He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.
Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.
He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.
The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.
You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.
“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.
There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.
Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.
“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.
You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.
Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.
Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.
But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”
Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”
You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”
You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.
He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.
“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.
“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.
You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.
“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”
A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.
You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”
Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.
“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”
You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.
After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.
“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”
You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”
He blinked, not expecting that question at all.
“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”
He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.
Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.
“And then…?”
But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.
“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”
Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.
“That’s great, James!”
Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.
“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”
Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”
“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.
Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.
No. Of course Yori didn’t know.
He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.
You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”
Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.
“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.
“It’s not that simple, doc.”
“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”
“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”
“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”
Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.
“I liked listening to music.”
“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”
“Forties music,” he replied.
“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.
Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?
“No,” Bucky answered.
It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.
You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.
“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”
Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.
“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.
You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”
You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.
Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.
“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”
As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:
“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”
His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?
He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.
Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.
Shit.
Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.
Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.
Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.
The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”
The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”
Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”
The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”
Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.
“Here, follow me.”
Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.
The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.
“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.
As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.
It was different—but he liked it.
It was his next session with you.
Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.
“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.
“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.
His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.
“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”
You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.
“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”
Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”
Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.
“And how was it?” you asked.
“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”
Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”
Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.
“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.
You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.
“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”
Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.
Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.
“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”
You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Did you now? How did you like it?”
He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.
“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.
Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.
“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.
“I’m kidding. I did like it.”
You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”
Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.
“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.
“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”
His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.
You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”
You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.
“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.
Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.
“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”
You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.
“Let me know what you think about it next time.”
It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.
Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.
He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.
Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.
Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.
Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.
“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.
Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”
The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.
“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”
Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.
What was wrong with the way he looked?
She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”
Now, Bucky was just confused.
His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.
“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”
He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.
“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”
He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.
She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?
“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”
He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.
“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”
He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.
Well, not entirely.
She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.
“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.
It was her phone number.
“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”
You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.
“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”
“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”
Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.
Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”
You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.
“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”
And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.
The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.
“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”
Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.
He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.
The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.
Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.
You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”
Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.
You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”
“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.
“Why not?”
There was no ring.
Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”
“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”
There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.
He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.
“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.
You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”
Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.
Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.
Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.
If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.
He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.
Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.
A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.
Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.
His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.
He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.
On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.
Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!
Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.
Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?
No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.
But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.
He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.
But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.
None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.
Every single nightmare was about you.
It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.
In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.
He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.
His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.
He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.
He just needed to see you.
“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”
“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”
Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.
“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”
“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”
You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.
“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”
Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.
“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.
“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”
Bucky rose a brow.
You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”
“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.
You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.
“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”
A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.
“—are you still having nightmares?”
It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.
“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”
You had been proposed to?
Was that why you had to cancel on him?
“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”
While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.
The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.
Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.
His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.
It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.
He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.
All he was was your patient.
He was nothing to you.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.
When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.
“Bucky? Are you okay?”
He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.
He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.
“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.
“No. No nightmares, doc.”
Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.
The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.
It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?
He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.
Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.
Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.
You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.
You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.
As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.
A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.
He had every opportunity to turn around.
He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.
He couldn’t keep living like this.
If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.
Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.
“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”
Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.
“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.
“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.
Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.
“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”
You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.
He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.
“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”
You stood there, stunned.
“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”
“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”
He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.
“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”
“Bucky, slow down—”
“—that I’m in love with you.”
With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.
“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.
You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.
A patient? Falling for his therapist?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”
“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”
The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.
He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.
But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.
“I’m so sorry, James.”
“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.
She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.
It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.
“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.
Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”
“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”
She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.
“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”
“Have you tried reaching out to him?”
“No.”
“Has he tried reaching out to you?”
Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”
Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.
Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.
Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.
“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.
Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”
“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.
“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”
“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”
Bucky made a face.
For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.
“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”
Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.
“Our time is up. Call your friend.”
After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.
Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.
He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.
Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.
But now that you were gone…
With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.
“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”
Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”
There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.
“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”
Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.
Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.
He was going to try.
For you, he was going to try.
“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”
There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…
“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”
For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.
He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.
“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”
If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.
“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”
me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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