#buchares

“It’s what you are,” he shrugged. 

Before speaking again, you noted the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and looked anywhere but you.

"You can sit down if you'd like," you encouraged softly.

He complied instinctually.

“How are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t… know where to start.”

“You don’t have to know. We can start small for today,” you said, crossing your legs under you on the other end of the couch from him. “What’s your favorite color?” 

He snorted, the sound defensively mocking. 

“I’m serious!” you replied playfully. “It’s an important question. I can go first: mine’s green.”

“Your suit,” he remembered, referencing the Hemlock outfit you’d left behind in Brooklyn. 

“Exactly,” you grinned. “Your turn.”

“Gray,” he replied after a moment. 

You nodded. “Good.” The smile on your face faded slightly. “If you’ve got any questions— about me, the world now— you can ask me. No pressure; we can just sit in silence for the rest of the hour, if you want.”

The only sound in the room aside from your even breaths was the ticking of the clock on the wall above the television.

“When’s your birthday?” he asked, masking his trepidation behind a disinterested tone.

You answered with the month and date, finishing with, “1957.”

“March 10, 1917,” he responded. 

“Happy belated birthday,” you told him.

He gave you a strange look.

“It was nine days before the Insight crash.”

The look that came over his face showed you he hadn’t even realized that. 

****

The days between his first two sessions were marked by withdrawal and at least one migraine; you’d heard Bucky get up in the middle of the night to vomit. 

“Hey, Sarge.”

“Hey, Doc.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

He clearly was not “good.”

“How’d you sleep?” you tried.

“Fine.”

You waited for just a moment. “Nightmares?”

He nodded after hesitating momentarily. 

“What do you do after you have a nightmare?” you asked. “Remember—”

“Don’t have to answer if I don’t want to. I know.”

Although his tone was flippant, you still smiled. “Exactly.”

His leg bounced nervously, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the armrest of the sofa. “Try to go back to sleep.”

“How’s that work for you?” You already knew the answer.

He gave you a deadpan look.

You laughed good-naturedly. “Do you have nightmares every time you sleep?”

Bucky shrugged. “Mostly.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Do you remember your mom’s name?”

Although he seemed taken aback at the change of topic, he said, “Winnifred. Everyone called her Winnie. Pops was George.”

You told him the names of your parents before asking, “Do you have any siblings?”

He nodded. 

“You don’t remember their names?”

He shook his head, heartbeat speeding slightly and cheek muscle twitching.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I don’t have any siblings. I was kind of a handful.”

Bucky’s spiraling slowed slightly, and his expression changed slightly to intrigue. 

“I was always really… different from the other kids. Every developmental milestone: I hit ‘em extremely early."

“I heard about that,” he said almost reflexively. 

Now you were intrigued, but you bookmarked it and filed it away in your mind. Your face lit up when you remembered something. “Oh! I was reading something the other day— the internet, it’s crazy— there’s certain fruits that are supposed to help with memory loss. One of ‘em is plums. I noticed you liked ‘em, so I bought a couple when I went out a few days ago—”

“Alone?” he cut you off, eyes burning as he stared a hole through you.

You kept your voice even. “I won’t do it again, if that’ll make you feel better.”

His jaw unclenched only slightly.

You took a deep breath. “Do you have a specific routine when you go out? Like, things you have to make sure you do to feel safe?”

He nodded again.  “I, uh, I lock the door. I have t’ check the elevator before I get on. Security cameras never get a clear shot of my face, either.” He cleared his throat. “Simple stuff like that.”

As he listed each one, you checked them off your mental list. "I think you do other things, too."

He looked caught.

"Maybe you memorized the sound of each neighbor's footsteps. Maybe you listen for at least ten seconds before opening the door to the hallway. Maybe you bring conscious awareness back to your footsteps even though you've been trained to keep them quiet."

His shoulders bristled.

“You don’t have to tell me if I'm right. That might’ve been too much,” you concluded. “Let’s stop there for today, okay?”

Bucky didn’t say anything else to you after that, only getting up and going to his room. In fact, he didn’t say anything for the rest of the day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. 

****

Bucky hadn’t been able to get out of bed yet. You noted he just kept wincing any time he had to use his muscles on his left side, and then, he’d stare at the wall for hours on end.

Every time he made a sound, it sent a pang of hurt through you. Finally, there was one particular hiss that sent you over the edge.

“What’s going on?” you asked, going into Bucky’s room.

That room was his space; aside from his dresser and mattress on the floor, the room was completely bare. You figured out he was afraid of the dark because he always kept the curtains open when he slept.

“Nothin’. ‘M fine,” he insisted.

“No, you're not. Your obliques twitch sporadically, you sharply inhale when they do, and you hold your breath until it stops. Don’t lie to me, Buck,” you finished. “That’s rule number one of friendship.”

He sighed. “My side hurts.”

“Did you do something to it yesterday?” you asked, kneeling down beside him. 

He shook his head. “Nerve damage. Some days are better than others,” he said, grimacing as he tried to sit up. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, the wheels in your head churning out solutions rapidly. “Would it be okay if I got you an ice pack and swapped it with a warm compress after a little while?”

He just stared at you. 

“How ‘bout this, I’ll bring ‘em to you, and you can use ‘em if you want. You don’t even have to tell me if you do.”

Bucky continued to stare at you, even as you left the room.

About thirty minutes later, you heard Bucky call out for you. 

“What’s up?” you poked your head in his room. 

It seemed he’d lost all his nerve as soon as he saw you. 

“I'll reheat it for you Get you a fresh ice pack, too,” you said decisively.

He nodded sheepishly.

You smiled warmly, bringing the now room temperature rag and ice pack back to the kitchen.

****

When you went to go to the bathroom to get dressed one morning, you found Bucky staring down at an electric razor and its charger in confusion. You weren’t quite sure what he was trying to do with it, either; he had a towel thrown over the mirror where you’d expect him to need to use his reflection to shave accurately. 

“Hey,” you said, trying not to spook him.

He simply handed the razor to you, and you immediately understood what that meant. He'd forgotten how to use it.

You examined it. “Looks like you figured out how to charge it; that’s good.”

His expression remained unchanged.

“Lean back,” you told him. “Let me help you.”

Although hesitant, Bucky did as you asked, allowing you to tie his hair up out of his face before moving to help him shave. 

The whole time you carefully maneuvered the buzzing razor, you felt Bucky’s eyes on your face. His proximity made your chest tighten, but you suppressed that physiological response.

When you were finished, the buzzing came to a stop. “There,” you told him, setting it aside. “All done.”

****

Bucky had good days and bad days when it came to his memory. Often, the bad memory followed a day where he’d thought too much about his past or spoken aloud about himself. You couldn’t figure out if that was an intentional internal response programmed by Hydra.

“Mornin’, Barnes.” You tried to hand him a cup of coffee, but he just stared at you and the mug blankly. “Bucky…?”

His blank stare became confused. “Who are you?” It was more of a statement than a question as he backed you into the wall behind you. 

“My name’s Dr. (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You sometimes call me ‘Doc’.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. You know me.”

Even though he had you backed into a wall, he was the one who looked panicked. “Stop sayin’ that.”

“You don’t need to remember me right now. But I live here. We live here. Together,” you explained, voice plain as ever.

He shook his head. “I don’t live here.”

“Do you know what your name is?”

“Don’t have one,” he answered gruffly.

“Okay,” you replied, trying to be as calm as possible. “Do you at least recognize my face?”

After a moment of consideration, he nodded.

You breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. That’s good. What is it you recognize about me?”

He was slowly backing off of you. “Eyes. Scar.”

Strangely, both of those answers relieved you. “Do you know where you recognize them from?”

“No,” he said honestly.

“That’s okay,” you told him. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

“Why would I do that?” he grunted, becoming defensive again.

“You don’t have to,” you responded immediately. “I just wanna help you if you’re feeling overwhelmed.”

He stared at you, an unreadable expression on his face before he walked off without another word. You spent the day scribbling in a notebook of your own about all of the things he’d been experiencing. 

****

As usual, you were awake by five-thirty. Normally, by this time, Bucky had joined you, dutifully performing his role as “your shadow” in time to make your coffee together. To your surprise, he wasn’t in the kitchen or on the couch despite it being close to six. You made your coffee and his as usual before padding over to his room.

“Buck?” you asked, knocking on the open doorframe. He was lying on his mattress, back to the doorway. He never slept like that; it left him too vulnerable.

Immediately, you knelt by his side and put the coffee down a short distance away from you. “Barnes, you alright?”

To your surprise, when you touched him, he didn’t jerk away or toss you to the ground. 

“Bucky,” you said quietly. “Hey.” You gently rolled him onto his back. 

He just shook his head, insisting on rolling away again. 

You immediately understood. “You just don’t feel like you can get out of bed.”

That got him to face you slightly, the tension in his muscles lessening a little. 

“You just… feel like you can’t do anything. Even eating feels like it requires too much effort.”

He nodded, rolling over again. 

“Maybe your chest feels heavy,” you continued, “or your heart hurts. You just wanna lay there until it goes away.” You forced yourself not to get pulled back into memories of your own.

Bucky was still for a moment before nodding slowly. He tried to hide the tears coming through in his voice. “Why is this happening to me?”

“Do you actually wanna know?” you asked softly.

He nodded, still facing away. You leaned back against the wall, your hips resting near the back of his head. Careful not to touch him, you got comfortable as you explained, “Emotion isn't as simple as 'happy' or 'sad.' It's fuckin' archaic to describe it that way."

He blew out a puff of air, the closest you'd gotten him to laughing.

"Grief— what you're feeling now— can be a lot of things. You don't progress through stages steadily. It's cyclical. And that's okay. It's all part of the human experience.

“Bucky, most of your life was stolen from you. Anyone would grieve those parts they missed out on. Anyone would grieve after being forced to do the things they made you do,” you assured him finally. 

He was quiet for a few moments, and you almost thought he went back to sleep. “How do I stop?” he asked, gravel tearing through his voice.

“Stop what?”

“Grieving. Whatever I’m doing.”

“You don’t,” you said. “I know that’s not the answer you wanna hear, and I hate it, too. You have to promise me something, though. If it gets too hard, if you think about doing anything stupid, you tell me. Okay?” Your voice was firm but not mean.

“Okay,” he replied.

“Promise me, Barnes.”

“I promise.” Despite the exhaustion in his voice, you knew he was telling the truth.

You and Bucky froze, neither saying a word. Finally, you pushed yourself up from the ground with your coffee in hand, leaving his mug against the wall. “You don’t have to get up today if you don’t want to. I’ll come back with some food in a bit; you’re at least gonna eat.”

“Thanks,” he said through the gravel in his throat.

“Always.”