#dr christina raynor

[deafening-radio-silence]

I think that Dr. Christina "I was an excellent soldier" Raynor needs to deal with some personal things before she's anyone's therapist, because she strong-armed more of Bucky's autonomy away from him than Zemo did within the series.

[sapphirerogers]

I lack the wisdom required to write this fic, but I hope someone skilled enough takes the initiative to.

Have any of you ever thought about Steve Rogers waking up from the ice and not going back to fighting?

He wakes up, Fury tells him he needs him, and Steve makes a choice for himself and says no, at least for now. Fury respects that choice, Steve gets a therapist (a good one, not Dr. Christina Passive-Aggressive Raynor) and uses his second chance in life to do the things he actually wanted to. Art. History. Maybe he goes to college again.

On top of all this, he figures out the internet (come on, he's a smart man. He's not gonna be clueless forever) and you know golden boy Steve would jump at the chance of using social media for a good cause.

And I also think Steve would be great at debates. The fucker (affectionate) has a way with words. He's also a nerd. He's well informed and has quick thinking skills. He gets into online fights a lot. Tweets and retweets a hell lot.

Gets Tumblr. (Steve would love tumblr don't lie to me) Reblogs things like it's his last day on earth. (But somehow makes sure to utilise the tag feature perfectly so everything is organised).

Some dudebro makes a misogynistic comment and he's there to verbally drop kick Dudebro into the next week.

Somebody makes an offhand comment regarding something historical and Steve gets his trusty motorcycle and drives his star spangled fine ass to the library and the next day there's a video circulating the internet of him citing sources (down the page number, paragraph number and line number) to prove why the offhand comment was grossly incorrect.

Someone angrily reposts his tweet saying "THAT IS NOT THE AMERICA OF MY DREAMS TALKING" and Steve proceeds to respond with "I'm a person. I can't be a country. What I can try to be is a good human being." and then absolutely demolishes the other person. (Yes to Steve reclaiming himself as Steve Rogers and not Captain America)

He also posts art. Like, everyday. But it gets slightly overshadowed by everything else he does and says.

He has a separate Instagram. For more personal stuff. Pictures of himself? Rarely. Pictures of birds and animals and trees and sunrises and sunsets? Absolutely. Pictures of the cat and the dog he rescued and now is a proud dad to? Everyday. (He's definitely a both person.) Maybe someday he'll step out of his comfort zone and start going live. Everyone loves him. Everyone rational, that is.

He stays away from tiktok.

2014. Fury shows up at his apartment and gets shot. Something stirs in Steve's brain as the masked assassin catches his shield. Those eyes seem familiar. Despite his reservations, he jumps back into the fray. The whole CATWS thing happens.

He finds Bucky. Brings him home. Fights tooth and nail for the charges against him to be dropped. He's got 70 years of military back-pay, he's got no problem getting the best lawyers (Matt Murdock is definitely among them) for the love of his life.

Anyways Bucky is set free. Moves in with Steve. People start gushing over him too. He stays out of Steve's internet life at first, but then the old Bucky comes back little by little. Maybe he'll join the livestreams. Maybe he'll make an Instagram of his own to post more of Steve.

People, being people, start shipping them. The two of them have a good laugh over it.

One day, out of nowhere, Steve shows up on one of his livestreams wearing a wedding ring. Comments go crazy. Bucky joins him on the couch, throws an arm around his shoulder, flashing his own matching band, smirking lazily.

The rest is mayhem. But they don't care. For Steve, life is perfect.

[I'd love to see Steve Rogers vs internet troll he'd eat that up]

I hope the good Steve Rogers authors see this. This has potential I think.

[steelbluehome]

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On 'The Falcon and the Winter Soldier's Curiously Iffy Relationship With Therapy

By Gregory Lawrence

Mar 28, 2021

I’ve been going to therapy for many years, and if you’re reading this, I suggest you do, too. It’s an exceptional tool in the ongoing journey of one’s mental health, a place where you can speak and be listened to without agenda. The therapists I’ve spoken with in my life have one common trait: Unflappability. They are professionals at navigating the complicated emotional lives of their clients while not becoming destructively emotional themselves. They don’t pursue anything but giving you a runway to find your truth.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier is a welcomely grounded Marvel Cinematic Universe series, one less interested in the “big three” of supernatural baddies (“androids, aliens, and wizards,” as Anthony Mackie’s Falcon phrases it) and more interested in the traumas and struggles of getting chewed up and spit out by the systems of regular-ass life. Yes, Mackie’s Sam and Sebastian Stan’s Bucky are fierce warriors who have used state-of-the-art tech and super-soldier serums respectively to battle all kinds of strange folks. But two episodes in, the series’ fights are human-to-human, full of shades and nuance, and often hamstrung by the cruel machinations of a society so determined to make life hard for people (especially returning veterans).

That’s why I was happy to see Amy Aquino show up as Dr. Christina Raynor, Bucky’s court-ordered therapist, in the very first episode. As made evident by Bucky’s nightmare of the merciless acts of violence he took while under Hydra mind control (rendered with shocking horror-tinged brutality by series director Kari Skogland), he needs therapy badly. In their initial sequence together, we see Bucky behave the way we often see troubled protagonists behave in therapy scenes: He plays the silent treatment at best and is openly antagonistic at worst. He baldly lies to his mental health professional about his own mental health. I understand that our (anti)hero can’t suddenly be enlightened and peaceful and ready to move on from his inner conflict; I want to see him go through this journey over the season of television. But I still couldn’t help but want to scream through the TV at him, “Just tell her the truth! You’re only hurting yourself!”

Depiction doesn’t equal endorsement, especially when it comes to a complicated character like Bucky who has objectively committed murders, but there’s something that continues to be complicated about seeing the center of our journey, the person we’re to align ourselves with being so resistant toward mental health wellness, perhaps to provoke a response of “Aw, I understand, I’d behave the same way. Therapy is weird!”

Then again, Dr. Christina Raynor might not be the best therapist for Bucky, or any client. Dramatic license must be taken in any depiction of real life. Unlike the often aimless moments of regular-ass life, dramatic scenes must involve conflict, intention, agency, and a visible drive toward a visible goal. Thus Dr. Raynor, like many film and television therapists before her, takes an aggressive approach toward “meeting the goal of making Bucky well,” poking and prodding at him, trying her best to “get him there.” She simply drips with derision and disdain at every level of her interaction with poor Bucky, even snarkily acting out his past tendencies to commit brainwashed murders. On the one hand, she needs to behave like this for the function of the scene; to watch a character be a blank slate of non-provocation without any goal of her own would likely make a boring scene. The way the scene plays is a strong visualization of Bucky’s resistance and Dr. Raynor’s (and the audience’s) desire for him to know peace. But as she kept poking and prodding and needling and frowning, even while insisting that Bucky needs to trust her, I thought to myself, “Of course he’s not speaking up. Who’d want to spill their innermost secrets to this force who obviously has an aggressive agenda?” The scene attempts to justify some of this behavior by reminding us that Dr. Raynor is a soldier who’s seen combat herself. But the moment a therapist tells you “That’s utter bullshit” is the moment you find a new therapist, dramatic license or not.

Episode 2 pumps up some of the oddness of this therapy dynamic by injecting it with one of the key secrets to the MCU’s sauce: Tension-cutting banter. After Bucky is arrested for not showing up to one of his court-mandated sessions (another complicated moment of positioning the viewer as finding therapy to be an impediment to the characters’, and show’s, action), Dr. Raynor forces both Bucky and Sam to sit down in front of her and figure out what’s tearing them apart. Surprisingly, and quite touchingly, Stan and Mackie play this scene earnestly, the pain they feel toward each other and themselves seeping from the corners of their eyes into their full figures, even as they do bantery things like move their chairs close together without knocking their knees together.

But Dr. Raynor is over here roasting and toasting them like a damn Friars Club gala. She glibly but stridently positions the exercises she wants them to do as normally being done by romantic couples, not giving them any chance to breathe at the slightest moment of resistance, cutting her patients off at the knees under the auspices of helping them stand. She is sarcastic throughout, saying things like “No volunteers? How surprising,” and “Sweet Jesus” with the tenor of a middle school gym teacher ragging on the math nerd who’s getting whomped in dodgeball. And yes, there’s an attempt at fun and bravado in these back-and-forths, the way we see all kinds of other fun back-and-forths in other “serious” MCU moments, the way we see Sam and Bucky constantly treat each other like bickering children. But not every single moment of the MCU needs to possess this kind of tone, especially not when we’re trying to watch a mental health professional deal with such clearly damaged clients.

All of this, this brevity and impatience and snarkiness, is perhaps more understandable and better played in this episode, given the emotional states of our title characters and the fact that it’s framed by an increasingly sleazy, dehumanizing new Captain America (Wyatt Russell, simply throwing away the line, “He’s too valuable of an asset to have tied up, so just do whatever you gotta do with him, then send him off to me”). But it’s still odd and brittle in a way I find unnecessary, even unhelpful. The sequence ends with a genuine moment of clarity and understanding — a breakthrough, even — between Sam and Bucky, even though it ends with Sam leaving the room. Dr. Raynor’s response, simply, is a sarcastic, “Thank you. That was really great.”

“No bullshit tough love,” to use a word Dr. Raynor is fond of, is a sensible stylistic choice for any character in Falcon and the Winter Soldier, but I worry it comes at the cost of actual human connection, change, or empathy in these very sensitive moments. And I worry it all comes at a cost of further demonizing seeking therapy as a viable option for anyone watching. I love the way The Falcon and the Winter Soldier pushes forward in its darker-than-usual plottings, but I really love the way it stands still in its darker-than-usual emotional explorations. I don’t want Dr. Raynor, nor performer Amy Aquino, to suddenly become clipped or dampened or in any way made less of a human being. I just hope Dr. Raynor’s own in-universe therapist tells her to get out of the way of her own bullshit and let the characters explore themselves in future episodes.

[softevnstan]

³.⍭ 𝐈𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 - PART II.

pairing. bucky barnes x gender netural!reader

summary. you couldn't believe the name that graced the file on your desk for your new patient. james 'bucky' barnes. you'd heard of him - even studied some of his history during college for psychology classes. never would you have imagined he'd be sent to your office, looking for help.

a.n. you guys responded really well for part one so i wanted to work on part two. no beta, we die like men. i have no fully formed plan with this so i apologize if i got anyone's hopes up. see part one here (make sure you read that first, otherwise, parts of this won't make sense). i also hate using 'y/n', but i don't know how not to, so i heavily recommend the 'InteractiveFics' chrome extension - it'll automatically correct 'Y/N' to the name of your choosing (and can replace other terms)

w.c. 3.6k

tags. depression mention, suicide mention, ptsd mention, therapy, recovering!bucky barnes, patient x therapist (as a whole for the series), not 100% accurate therapy - based on my own perspective and experiences.

‘What am I doing here?’ Bucky's mind played like a broken record, brain scouring for any reason to excuse himself from this appointment altogether.

Was it too late to slip out of the room? Surely not - the secretary was one of the four people (including himself) that sat in the same gray room, and she didn't seem to be paying too much mind hunched over her desk in a seek-and-find book.

The waiting room was dark - lacking any real windows in the area given it was part of a larger building that housed the offices. Bucky had taken the stairs up to the second floor after stepping into the building and searched the stretched hall for your office number and silver nameplate on the walls. Upon finally finding it, Bucky couldn't help but see it as a blessing and a curse. No more wandering aimlessly with the inkling of tension that'd begun to grow with the anxiety of someone approaching him to potentially redirect him. But it also meant he was now another excuse short for skipping this referral appointment entirely.

When stepping in, the atmosphere wasn't near as comforting as he'd been hoping. The space was dark and dimly lit by the glow of orange lamps; chairs sat neatly along the wall with a coffee table, scattered with magazines that had been flipped through countlessly since they'd been there. There was a rounded desk to the left of entering the room where an older woman sat, glasses sitting on the end of her nose and the signs of aging prevalent in her graying hair. Along the back wall, there are several doors; Individual offices, Bucky's brain supplied.

There were shelves of books and an overwhelming amount of fake plants in the room. The closest window that Bucky could scour out immediately was a narrow, rectangular one. Lone by itself given the layout of the office building not allowing for it. Hardly any natural light seeped into the room. If the actual offices with the therapists were as gloomy as this, Bucky would have better luck abandoning all hope right then and excusing himself. Save him another uncomfortable experience in the mental health field.

Working with Raynor wasn't exactly what Bucky needed as a first experience in therapy. Before the 70 years that he'd spent under HYDRA's thumb, there were no resources like this at home. Mental Health hardly existed as a concept - no awareness of the rippling effects of war or aid for the soldiers that would return traumatized and self-loathing. Hell, men beat their wives back then like property. That was even without the PSTD and fragile masculinity slammed on top.

Not his father, thank a god that Bucky isn't sure he even believes in anymore.

Christina was rough around the edges. A former officer in the military, one would think she may be perfect for the job in regard to Bucky's emotional baggage and the weight he carries. She wasn't. That was something Bucky only began to learn months later with Sam's help; That while Dr. Raynor was not a bad woman, she was not what Bucky had needed to begin opening up to people. The clipped energy that filled a room when sharing a space with Christina made it near impossible to relax fully; When Bucky was being a little difficult on his bad days (yes, he can admit he's difficult), instead of approaching him with patience, Raynor would combat his comments with her own condescending ones. It felt more like a weekly brawl where he had something to prove rather than a safe space to begin the healing process.

It was like ripping open a healing wound, wondering why it wouldn't improve, and being confused when it worsens under brutal treatment.

Dr. Raynor was not what Bucky needed, simply put.

But the one that woman did right with all certainty was to at least aid in redirecting Bucky to someone that can help him produce better results.

That's what landed him there. In the waiting room of your office with an appointment at 3:15 p.m.

Your praise was sung of being someone who was more approachable and positive, albeit not naively so. When Bucky was peering at reviews and your background check - comforting his own paranoia - he'd seen nothing but kind things said. How patient you were. How compassionate; How you make your patients feel heard and understood. How you provide the tools to create a proper support system and show people how to live again. Bucky tries not to get his hopes up for things, but he was certainly beginning to spark hope when he was able to look more into your reviews. It made him want to try again rather than give up.

But sitting in that dim-lit office, he's not sure how confident he is in that statement anymore. Bucky's left leg bounces in an anxious fidget. His shoulders are tight, arms folded over his chest in a closed-off stance while he sits back in one of the empty chairs of the waiting room. To anyone else, Bucky probably looks angry at the world - it's just him hiding his nerves. Never an intentional expression worn, it's simply become a default to wrinkle his forehead and wear a tired face.

Bucky could still leave. The heavy door that he'd pushed open to get in taunts him from where he sits.

And it's right as he's weighing out the consequences of bailing on this idea altogether that the sound of a door opening grabs his attention. Head turning in the direction of the noise, tired eyes squinting slightly for a brief moment when light pours into the room. A woman in roughly her thirties steps out of the first door lining the back wall, followed by you. Bucky is only certain of that fact because he recognizes your face from the LinkedIn profile you have.

"Thank you again for coming in, Greta, I'm looking forward to hearing about your daughter's Bat Mitzvah; tell her happy birthday for me." you tell the woman that's begun her leave.

"Of course, I hope your next session goes well," beams a woman, assumedly 'Greta'.

Bucky sucks his bottom lip in, worrying the skin between his teeth before sighing out through his nose. Attempting to take a steadying breath to appease his nerves when--

"Mr. Barnes?" your voice prompts.

Running away isn't a choice anymore. Not realistically.

So Bucky drops his arms and feels the taut muscles in his shoulders before trying to force them to settle. Rolling broad muscle under his leather coat before pressing off the armrests of the wooden chair with gloved hands to get up. His eyes remain averted from your face, but he crosses the room to you nevertheless.

"It's nice to meet you, James, if you'd please step in here with me," you hold the door open for Bucky; Allowing him to step into the relatively small space.

But it's not suffocating, he notices.

It's actually a stark contrast to the heavy waiting room he'd just been sitting in for the past 10 minutes or so. The light of day pours in from the tall, wide window on the back wall of the room. In the brief space where the window doesn't occupy the wall, there's a bookcase sat with countless psychology books. A soft-looking loveseat is pressed against the wall to Bucky's right, and across from that is a matching single chair with an end table. On the table sits a lamp, a box of tissues, and what appears to be a selection of colorful fidget toys. The walls are hogged by large framed photos; some of paintings, some of hyper-realistic photos or art. The floor is a deep gray-brown carpet, the walls painted a soft eggshell. Plants sit on the shelf in front of the window, drinking in the sun; He spots a Wandering Jew, two cactuses (both different breeds), and a succulent perched comfortably.

"Have a seat," your voice interrupts the way Bucky studies the room, and promptly he moves to the loveseat. Lowering himself into it, it's significantly more comfortable than the chair he was just sitting in. Still, Bucky sits stiffly. Uncomfortable; refraining from letting his back touch the couch and posture coming across as closed up without him even realizing it.

Like a mantra, belittling thoughts play on a broken loop through his head.

This isn't going to work. It's going to end badly. I'm going to be seen as a monster all the same. I'm a bad person, I don't deserve this. Other people deserve it more. I'm wasting everyone's time.

The thoughts spiral heavier and heavier for Bucky, even as you close the door; successfully sectioning him and you off from the rest of the world. His jaw sets as you move to sit across from him.

Bucky silently wishes the moment would end before it's even begun.

He wants to go back to his apartment, even if it makes him just as miserable.

“So, Mr. Barnes, from what I’m understanding, you'd like to make me your primary therapist and discontinue working with Doctor Raynor?”

Bucky wants to heal. You see it in him. The first step is admitting you have an issue; that there is something wrong. Not that Bucky is wrong, but his headspace surely is a defunct mess; The task ahead of you in untangling said mess is daunting, but Bucky is worthy of it. He deserves it. Even if he doesn't realize that yet.

He deserves to have someone who's willing to help him understand and put the pieces back together. Not simply throw their hands up the first time that Bucky struggles and leave him to fend for himself - this man was done far too much fending by himself.

It's clear by the silence followed by the words, 'That’s all I’ll ever ask of you', that Bucky isn't sure what to say. Rather than allowing the quiet to eat at him, you continue the conversation. Save him from the anxiety he might be feeling in being unable to muster a reply.

"So, Bucky - Can I call you 'Bucky'?" You ask, sure to keep a warm and approachable composure. Bucky's comfort is your priority; If he feels unwelcomed, he won't come back.

A stiff nod comes from the man across you. He still struggles to meet your gaze; Eventually, you'll both work on that, but for now, you don't mind. Let him take things at his own pace.

"So, Bucky," you reiterate, leaning back in your armchair and crossing your legs at the ankle. Your shoulders ease and you relax into your seat. "How about we start by getting to know you a little bit; Where you'd like to work first and what some of your immediate issues are, in your opinion."

Bucky's teeth clench - you can tell because his jaw flexes and it pulls on your heartstrings for a moment. His shoulders look so tight, his body so stiff. Chiseled features are hard, and his face doesn't seem nearly as full as you'd seen in museums and textbooks while growing up and learning American History. Dare you even say he almost looks sunken in, with dark rings around his eyes and sadness in gray hues.

You wonder how he sleeps at night - if he even does. If he eats the way he should. It's heartbreaking to see a man carved into such a husk.

"Raynor was working with me to make amends," Bucky starts, and surely that doesn't mean what you think it does-- "To make things right for what I did as the Winter Soldier, as a condition of my pardon."

"There's nothing to make right, Bucky." You answer almost immediately; your blood feeling hot for half a moment. You saw history unfold right before you, living in New York. Hearing the chaos of HYDRA overtaking SHIELD in 2014, that Boy Wonder 'Bucky Barnes' was still alive. Many things were kept from the public, as much as they could be, but one thing was for certain. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see that Bucky was another victim of HYDRA's. Not the catalyst for the carnage. An unwilling piece of the puzzle.

You have to stop yourself from becoming too expressive, though. Despite the quickness of your words, you maintain an evenness to them. "Now, I won't pretend to know what's happened with it all; That's something for us to talk about with time. But I can promise you right now, Bucky, that I am not Dr. Raynor. And while we can revise the conditions of your pardon, you won't be trying to fix mistakes you didn't make. We're here to help you."

Another break of silence, and Bucky has begun to fidget with his hands. Kneading them together in his lap; your own gaze flickering briefly to watch the leather rub on leather.

"I... I don't know what to say," Bucky speaks, his voice soft and timid. Unmatching the hardness of his face.

A small crease forms between his brows, eyes downcast but briefly lifting to peer at you.

"You don't have to know what to say right now," you gently tell him. "I know you may not agree with my perspective on things right now, but please hear me when I tell you that I'm not here to judge you. You're a survivor, Bucky."

A soft huff comes from him - lip curling into a crooked grin that's humorless. Bucky shakes his head right after, and the expression falls. You watch curiously.

"I'm sorry, it's... Everyone seems to either look at me like the pariah or like a victim." Bucky explains, and for a moment, your lips form a soft smile. You lean forward, shifting your position once more to lean in a little closer to Bucky's space without outright intruding on it.

"You're a survivor," you reiterate. Making sure he hears it. "And there is no shame in being a survivor - I'm a survivor and don't consider it derogatory, it's exactly what I am."

Bucky's brow knits up slightly and his attention is on you fully. Arguably the longest so far since he's been in this room with you. He looks as though he's searching for something and the answer is somehow embedded in you, and deep down, you want to give him whatever it is he's searching for.

You're a survivor, too. It's what made you good at your job. Being able to empathize to a degree with the individuals that come to you; To be able to share your own experiences and show the person sitting in front of you that they are not alone. People like to feel heard and understood. And sometimes the best way to for that is to sit with someone who's been through something similar.

Though you certainly didn't have experience as a prisoner of war who was genetically engineered...

His pink lips part as though he wants to speak, but whatever words were that die on Bucky's tongue when his mouth clamps shut and he finally averts his attention. You follow his gaze briefly to find him looking out the window parallel to him on his right. The light peeked in through the sheer curtains and lit the side of his face partially. You wonder if the sunlight makes him warm at all.

"Do you want me to draw the curtains for you, Bucky?" You offer, wondering if perhaps it's distracting to him.

Bucky shakes his head. "I'm not used to this." "Can you explain what 'this' is?" You ask, gently prompting him in hopes he keeps talking. "I, uhm..." His voice trails - clearly searching for the words. "You're... Calm. I don't entirely know how to explain it. We haven't been talking that long but I was, uh, intimidated to meet you. My precious therapy experiences haven't been the best..." It's the most he's said in a single sitting, you're impressed.

"And that's alright - sometimes not every therapist works out. Many people struggle to understand that therapy is not a 'one size fits all' matter. Sometimes we have to feel out situations and feel out people. If you decide at any point you're no longer comfortable speaking with me, I understand and will be more than happy to help you find another therapist that can specialize in your concerns." Always deliberate as to not call Bucky's situation 'problems' or 'what's wrong'. The last thing you'd want is for him to feel as though he is the root problem in his life. He's not.

"Thank you," the man murmurs softly, and you can tell it's another moment he's unsure what to say. Even the words feel as though it took quite a deal of effort to muster from Bucky. That's okay - sometimes people need to warm up. You're not surprised in the least that Bucky isn't an open book, you wouldn't be if you went through even half of what he did.

"...I'll tell you what," You begin, Bucky's attention drawing right back to you rather than the world outside the glass. "How about we start small, you and I, okay? We don't have to touch anything heavy yet, we can start simple."

"Simple?" Bucky echoes.

"Mhm," a confident nod from you, "I hope I don't sound rude at all, but I can tell you're someone who's carrying a whole lot more than they let on."

That earns a skeptical look from Bucky. You wonder in a brief moment where you potentially lost him when he answers that question for you:

"I'm sure you can." The response comes out almost irritated. No elaboration.

For a moment your mind scrambles, wondering, before it clicks. Still, you encourage Bucky to use his words. "What do you mean?"

A long sigh comes through his nose. "Oh, c'mon," he tries, but you simply look expectantly. Bucky needs to communicate, if they have no form of communication, they have nothing. "Y'know, everyone seems to know about me. Everything with HYDRA..." His expression is progressively hardening; He's lumping you with everyone else. You see it. Even if Bucky doesn't realize what he's doing, he's trying to build that wall again. Brick himself out and separate himself.

"No," You reply, "I only know what you want to share with me, Bucky. I didn't follow your story as it was happening - though I'd be lying if I said I was entirely clueless. Whatever I knew prior to meeting you today, though, doesn't matter. I want to know you. Not what everyone else's perception of you, is. Consider us strangers."

Then, as if to prove your point, you shift forward even more in your seat. Uncrossing your legs and sitting them flat on the floor as you offer your right hand out.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Bucky, I'm Dr. Y/N." Maybe the notion seems silly - and it is, honestly. You've both been talking this long.

Bucky is a little taken aback by the gesture; Blinking at you cluelessly for a moment before he huffs again. This time, his half-hearted grin doesn't look so bitter when he offers his right hand out tentatively. A ginger shake, as though he's scared he's going to break you, and the leather of his glove is warm against your palm.

While he doesn't verbally reciprocate the gesture, his expression speaks for him. A conversation without words.

It's clear that it's a bit more comforting to Bucky. For a brief moment he seemed as though he was ready to leave without coming back, but with quick thinking, you're relieved to have reeled him in once more.

"Anything about you outside of this room means nothing to me," you promise. "It's up to you how much you share. No one else."

Bucky's smile pulls just a tad bit wider, and you consider it a victory.

"We'll start simple," You repeat, pulling your hand from his to pick up the notepad on the table beside you. Flipping to a clean page and clicking your pen - you don't miss the way Bucky looks at you almost worriedly. As if you've picked up a weapon when in reality it's a pen and paper.

"I'd like you to find a nice journal that you like. One that you won't be afraid to write in, and one that you'll feel comfortable using. Next week when we see each other, I'd like you to bring it with you." You effortlessly speak while your pen scrawls away on the small lines sheet in front of you - your handwriting reads out on the paper, 'BRING A NOTEBOOK THAT YOU'RE COMFORTABLE WITH USING :)'

You tear the paper from the metal rings that bind it and pass it over to Bucky. He takes it wordlessly, looking at the piece of paper in his hands.

"That's it...?" Bucky ponders aloud. "That's it." Another gentle smile you wear. "Journaling is an extremely useful tool for going through our feelings and helping us take a step back and breathe. It can help us avoid dramatizing situations unintentionally, and it can help us develop a sense of mindfulness and gratitude. You don't need to write anything in it just yet, but if you'd like to decorate it, I won't stop you. Whatever makes you feel comfortable to begin writing in it."

"...Dr. Raynor didn't have me keep a journal," the soldier murmurs. "I'm not Dr. Raynor." you answer simply.

Your first session with Bucky seems to go well on all accounts. Sure there were a few brief tense moments, but you like to hope he'll return. At the end of the day, that's Bucky's decision. If he chooses to continue with you as his therapist, though, you want to help him in any way he can.

He doesn't know it yet, but you're determined. By the end of your time together, you want to have helped Bucky obtain a new perspective and help him live. Not simply survive.

After he leaves your office, you make sure to fill your schedule in for the same time next week.

[mxltifangxrl]

Let Me Help You For Once

Paring: tfatws!bucky x “psychologist”!fem reader

Summary: Bucky finally accepts help from someone

Warnings: fluff, mentions of trauma, swearing

A/N: I had written this entire thing once before and then accidently deleted pretty much the entire thing so this one definitely isn’t my best work. Hope you guys enjoy anyway. Most of the mentions of psychology will be based off my own studies so if something is off, please let me know!

“Doll, I’m home.” Your boyfriend, Bucky, said as he entered the apartment.

“Hi, darling! How was your session? Is everything okay? You look about ready to punch a wall for the tenth time...today..” You asked, teasing him some which worked given that Bucky smiled at your teasing.

“Christina-” Bucky began only to get slapped on the arm. “Dr. Raynor- did absolutely shit for me today. Only made me feel worse about myself.” Bucky openly admitted to you, knowing you’d have some way to help him feel better.

“What exactly happened? I mean you don’t have to tell me considering the confidentiality you get with therapy.” You told him, taking him to sit with you on the couch.

“She’s trying to tell me that I’m traumatized and that I need to find more friends and stop grieving over Steve.” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

“James. I’m sure she didn’t say that. First, she probably told you that you have PTSD which is formed by a traumatizing event. In your case, several. Second, you do need to find more friends. It’d be good for you to hang out and go do things with other people than Dr. Raynor and myself. Third, I highly doubt she told you to stop grieving over Steve. She probably told you that it’s time to find something else to occupy your mind to keep you from falling to a point of no return.” You told him, cupping his cheek lovingly.

“What exactly is PTSD?” He asked curiously, showing some type of interest in what you were seeing which was better than him shutting down anything you had to offer to help him.

“Well, it stands for posttraumatic stress disorder. Given its name, PTSD is a stress-related disorder. There’s something called ASD or acute stress disorder which is a disorder resulting from exposure to a major, traumatic stressor. The symptoms of ASD include; anxiety, dissociation, recurring nightmares, sleep disturbances, problems in concentration, and moments in which people seem to relive the event or events in dreams or flashbacks. Though this sounds exactly like what you experience, ASD wouldn’t be the best diagnosis because the symptoms last as long as one month after the event. For PTSD, the symptoms last more than a month which is you.” You explained to him as best as possible, Bucky showing an interest in what you were telling him.

“Oh...well is there any way to cure it?” He asked, showing how in the conversation he was.

“PTSD can’t be cured unfortunately. It can be dormant and not be triggered for a while, sure, but it will never fully go away for good. One of the best things for you right now is continuing with therapy. There’s a lot of types of therapies though too. I won’t get into it now but talk to Dr. Raynor. See what she can help you with, okay?” You explain to him once more, earning a soft nod.

“Now, lets get changed into comfier clothes and go cuddle in bed.” You told him, getting up and heading to the bedroom.

The two of you spent a while cuddling in bed, Bucky in your arms as you mindlessly played with his hair and massaged his scalp. In that time, Bucky knew he was going to continue therapy. For you.

All he does is for you.

[thekaiqueen]

Sam: Bucky… Is a friend.

Dr. Raynor: See, it wasn’t that hard to say something nice about him-

Dr. Raynor: Oh, you’re vomiting now.

[novembermurray]

Ok. Time for another Marvel TFATWS head-canon...

Bucky’s “court mandated therapy” is just a polite way of saying “weekly threat assessments”. Dr. Raynor was not really giving him therapy. She was checking to make sure Bucky wasn’t a danger to society: monitoring his contacts, his daily activities, making sure he wasn’t breaking any laws, etc. 

Though not the best way of dealing with the guilt and trauma he has been through, the amends she is ostensibly encouraging Bucky to make are a quantifiable way one could demonstrate Bucky’s “rehabilitation”. If her government superiors/employers questioned her, “is Bucky safe to be in society?” Raynor could point at the corrupt politicians and dangerous criminals Bucky had helped stop as part of his “amends” and say, “Look, he’s a good citizen doing his civic duties.” 

From the way Raynor reacted to Walker, she didn’t seem happy that he would be taking responsibility for Bucky away from her. Having worked with Walker before, it’s not hard to imagine Raynor would predict Walker would bring out the worst in Bucky and wouldn’t hesitate to throw him to the proverbial wolves.

Raynor pulled Sam into the session at the police station not really because she thought it would help Bucky, but because she wanted to see if Sam would be a safe person to leave Bucky with. She wanted to see first hand how Sam would react to Bucky when he was cranky and pissed off. If Sam would respond with anger, fear, or patience. In the end Raynor didn’t have much control in that situation, but she did let Bucky and Sam leave together. She didn’t try to talk either of them out of following the Flag Smashers or working together.

TL;DR: My head canon: Raynor isn’t a therapist, but she does care about Bucky. She wants to keep him out of jail and make sure he has people in his life who support him and look out for him, like Sam. 

[reijamira]

https://nerdist.com/article/falcon-winter-soldier-villainizes-trauma/

Bucky is a victim, but in TFatWS he is depicted as a villain which upsets me a lot, to be honest.

Favorite parts:

The story retrofits a previously nonexistent agency into Bucky’s past as the Winter Soldier. Rather than telling a story of survival and recovery, TFATWS retcons Bucky’s history in order to more comfortably deal with it. 

In a six episode-arc, he transforms from a victim into a victimizer who “deserves” his shame. Against the backdrop of his absolute suffering, the audience is asked to agree that he is at fault for his trauma. And thus, that the single avenue open to him is atonement. But there is only one term for this sudden shift of culpability onto a trauma survivor: victim-blaming.

In truth, Bucky should be allowed to conclude that he didn’t harm anyone. That, in fact, his name belongs on a list of those deserving of absolution. But the narrative denies him this. 

In Madripoor, Bucky is forced to violently perform as the Winter Soldier while his body is, in essence, trafficked by Zemo. But the show doesn’t indicate that it understands how harrowing it is for a victim of repeated assaults to relive their trauma. 

The doctor condones Bucky placing himself into traumatic situations without equipping him to process that pain.

At the end of the day, TFATWS reaches a large number of people, many of whom are likely facing hardships of their own. Thus, the decision to broadcast therapy as a combative, invasive punishment that is all too willing to blame a patient is truly an irresponsible choice. 

[buckysoldatbarnes]

Dr. Christina Raynor is a girlboss and a milf <3

[giasesshoumaru]

“I had a bit of calm in Wakanda, but other than that, I’ve gone from one fight to another for 90 years.” - James “Bucky” Barnes to Dr. Christina Raynor (The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Episode 1)

[enkelimagnus]

Raised Jewish

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2709 words, rated M for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky's therapy session with Dr Raynor takes a turn for the worse when Raynor starts asking him about his identity.

TW: queer used as a slur, mention of Bucky's 1945 "death", Raynor being the worst therapist

Read on AO3

Part 5 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

--------------

Dr Raynor isn’t nice.

She’s not kind, or sweet. She doesn’t speak the way Sam does when he’s trying to figure out if Bucky’s okay. She’s harsher, more commanding. She seems more used to orders than to niceties, and so is he.

Yet, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand her. He can’t stand the way she looks at him, with her notebook and her pencil clicking. He can’t stand her questions, and the fact she knows everything he’s talking about. She has access to all his files, the Hydra ones, the Army ones, everything. She knows everything about him.

Why is she asking all these questions? Why is she even pretending to give a fuck? She’s here for a paycheck, and he’s here because he has to be. He suffers through this shit because he doesn’t want to go back to prison.

He spent one month in the Raft after Stark’s funeral. They put him in custody the day after Steve left, and he was there until his trial. It was hell. Claustrophobic and silent and… he has to breathe in deeply whenever he thinks about the absolute despair of that month.

The whole prison smelled like seawater and cleaning products, there was a heavy, unmistakably nefarious bracelet around his left wrist, and the cell was too small. Way too small.

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to chase the phantom of the Raft’s smell from his nostrils. He gets drying flowers and washed out perfume instead, coming from the vase on the table by Dr Raynor’s chair and from the woman herself. It’s not unpleasant, as far as smells go.

He’s stopped paying attention for a moment, and when his eyes refocus, she’s staring at him with that pinched look that says she’s expecting him to explain what he was thinking about, what pulled him from the session and made him lose focus. She hates when he’s not focused.

He sets his jaw and shifts his fingers in his gloves, hearing leather creak over his left knuckles, and stares right back at her, silent. He doesn’t like talking to her about the things in his head. He’s fought for them too long and too hard to give them to the first person he’s told to give them to.

She’s the closest to a handler he’s had since Colonel Helmut Zemo in Berlin. Or, as he introduced himself back then, Doctor Theo Broussard. What is it with Bucky and shrinks?

“I see our usual conversation isn’t enough to keep your attention, James,” she says. It feels like a reprimand. She says ‘James’ the way handlers said ‘Soldier’. Like it’s a threat.

He stays stubbornly silent. He’s always been the stubborn kind. Hard to get through, hard to break. Much stronger people than Dr Christina Raynor have attempted to break their way into his mind. They had to torture him to do so.

“Let’s change subjects then,” she nods, and pulls her notebook out. Bucky wants to scream. It’s not red, but it feels red.

“I think it’s time we dive deeper into your identity.”

Alarm bells go off in his mind and he freezes. Your identity . What is she referring to? What does she know? There are things that Bucky prays aren’t in the files. Things he never wants anyone to ever find out, especially her. Old instinctual fears of teenagehood suddenly rise and the leather creaks harder, the sound mixing with the wiring noises of the arm. It’s a quiet threat wrapped in a sound, like a wolf’s warning growl.

“Please remember to control yourself, James.”

She’s so very good at reminding him he’s only free because she wants him to be. The second he shows any sort of aggression, he’ll be put back in that tiny cell, with that bracelet and won’t see the sun for the rest of his overly long life. He knows it. He can feel it.

His obedience is part of the deal he made with the government. He has to comply with their demands. And that includes humoring Dr Raynor.

“What do you want to dive into?” He asks, letting his irritation obviously show. She can’t take that from him. He will comply, but fuck them if they believe he’ll do it without attitude.

If she starts asking about his relationships and Steve, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He can’t escape. He’s trapped in this room, with this woman, until she decides that their session is over. This is the price of his freedom.

He can’t tell her, or anyone, about Steve. He can’t do that to him, to his name, to his legacy. He just can’t stain him this way. It’s the kind of secret that has to die with him. Captain America can’t be a queer.

He forces himself to stay still, to not let nervous motions betray his emotional state, and he just waits to see what Dr Raynor knows. The other shoe will drop. He’s just trying to prepare for it.

She drums her pencil against the side of the horrible notebook and exhales through her nose, obviously irritated by his attitude. He just stares back at her.

“I’ve read your files, James,” Dr Raynor starts, the way she does so often. “And you’ve mentioned the word shul some time ago. I’m guessing you did not use it to mean school. You don’t have German ancestry.”

Bucky relaxes a little at that. Alright, it’s not about Steve. He silently thanks anyone who might be listening.

“My mother spoke a little German,” he replies conversationally. From what he remembers, it was only bits and pieces, picked up from growing up in a large city. It was probably mostly Yiddish.

“You were raised Jewish.”

Bucky can’t help the full body shift at that. He bristles. It feels like an attack, like an accusation. It feels ugly and menacing coming from that woman who knows too much. It feels disgusting in her mouth.

What does she want him to answer to that? What does she want from him?

He knows he’s not much of a Jew anymore. He knows what he’s done is too much, too ugly, too against everything he was ever taught. He was taught to save lives even if it breaks religious rules, to take care of people, to be kind and helpful and make sure to do good in the world and all he’ll ever be remembered for is ugly disgusting acts of horror.

He knows all of what he was raised to be is gone. He’s pretty sure it was gone the instant his hand slid on the train railing and he felt himself pulled down by gravity.

That moment where he saw the horror and anguish written all over Steve’s beautiful face. That moment where he knew he’d never see his mother again. His sisters. That moment he screamed in fear but tried to drink in Steve’s face for the last time. As if it could make it less terrifying and painful and lonely.

There was too much time during the fall. Too much time for him to think and feel. I’m going to die alone. He’d wanted to die old with his loved ones or the Chevra Kadisha with him. No one’s supposed to die alone.

The pain had been blinding. Some nights, he can hear his own wails again. Life and death have that in common. The screams.

“James.” Dr Raynor’s voice snaps him back to the present and she still looks pissed at him.

Bucky exhales and his breath is shaky. Panic curls into his bones. He can feel something inside of him tremble and he looks at the window. He could jump through it. Escape it that way. There are no bars on the window, it’s just glass, and it’s only two levels high. It’s doable, easy even. It won’t hurt that badly. He inhales, deep. Ayo taught him that one. Breathing. Focus on your body rather than on the storm in your mind, White Wolf.  

He focuses on his body, but mostly on Ayo. The memory of her is strong and firm in his mind, in the same way she talks and walks. Ayo’s eyes always have weight. The kind of weight - smothering or comforting - depend on how he behaves. He’s trying to be good. He’s trying to be good for Wakanda, for Ayo, and for Princess Shuri and for King T’Challa.

Dr Raynor should be the one helping him, not the memory of Ayo.

He calms down, eventually, and sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a second. There’s a clock ticking loudly. It’s a wonderful sort of noise for him in this moment. It’s rhythmic and predictable.

“I was,” Bucky replies to Raynor’s earlier comment. He was raised Jewish.

In all truth, he was born Jewish more than he was raised Jewish. At least that’s what his father would say. That he was born into a legacy, born into a community. Born to sing songs in age-old tongues. Born with knowledge and strength in his soul.

He hasn’t thought about those words in years.

“You don’t talk about it.”

Why would he? There’s nothing to say. Words and experiences that he’s half-forgotten over the time, that he doesn’t have anyone to share with anymore. Community and family were such important parts of every ritual, and now he’s alone. Completely and utterly alone.

“There’s nothing to say,” he says out loud.

Raynor crosses her legs and leans back in her seat, watching him. “I would expect there’s a lot. You worked for an organisation that was born from Hitler’s government. You spent seventy years furthering nazi ideology and agenda.”

Bucky wants to scream. It’s salt in an open wound. It’s violent. He closes his eyes and tries to keep his cool. He can’t lose it here. He has work to do still, amends to make still, in the free world, and he is so desperate to stay out of prison.

“I know,” he replies. His voice is so tight it might break any second.

He knows. He’s very intimately aware of what he did, what it meant, who he was for seventy godforsaken years. He’s aware that it means he can’t possibly claim that part of his life back. He can’t be a Jew anymore. Not after being a Nazi agent for so long.

Even if he wasn’t actually one, even if he had no choice. He killed people and said ‘Hail Hydra’ and made the world a worse place every day of his existence. His actions are why fascism has such a prominent place in today’s political landscape. He’s responsible for it, for putting people in power, for killing good people. It’s on him. It isn’t his fault. It’s still on him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells Dr Raynor, and now his voice is quiet. “Not to you. Not to anyone. Ever.”

How can this part of his life possibly be of interest to the government? Do they think his jewish upbringing means he’s less likely to go back to Hydra and their neo-nazi friends? Do they see him reclaiming that part of his identity one more reason to keep him free? Is it a ploy? Is this going to be used against him, again? Can’t he have one thing in his life that isn’t used by someone else for their gain?

“It could be a way for you to form connections.” As if she gives a flying fuck if he has friends and family. As long as he doesn’t start killing people, comes to his appointments and does whatever the government tells him like a good fucking dog, he can pretty much go fuck himself.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this angry with her before.

How dare she touch this part of his life? How dare she prod him about it, let him know she knows? How dare she take that one thing that no one has been able to touch before?

Even Hydra didn’t know.

They never asked, his dog tags had P on them, and there are a lot of other Americans that were circumcised. They didn’t know.

But she does. The US government does. And he can’t have it be his secret anymore.

“Stop,” he asks, louder than he expected. “Stop, I said no.”

As if that has ever stopped anyone. As if those words have ever brought him anything but renewed suffering.

He doesn’t see her anymore. His eyes are open but he can’t see anything, and he’s panicking and he wants to run so far away. He wants to leave Brooklyn, and leave the US, and disappear and never come back. Fuck his pardon, fuck Sam, fuck everything and everyone, and he can go back to living in Romania and having no name and no handlers and no one.

He stands up suddenly and she flinches. She’s scared of him. Of course she is.

“The session’s not over,” Raynor tells him quietly, calmly, despite her earlier flinch. “Sit back down.”

“No,” he bites back.

He’s trapped, and he can’t actually leave because they’ll put him in prison for it, and he can’t do anything but stand there and shake with barely controlled emotion and try to wait it out. But he doesn’t have to take her orders, and he doesn’t have to be happy about it, all he has to do is be here and answer with more than a grunt.

He can say no. She can’t make him sit down. She’s not strong enough. Physically, anyway.

It takes on average three expertly-trained soldiers to take him down, and that’s when he’s half-starved and in pain. He’s been eating well, he’s clear of any sedative, and he’s not in physical pain. There is no way she can take him down, unless she has a gun. But in this room, if she makes a move for a gun; he’ll snap her wrist before she manages to touch it. She can’t do shit.

“Alright then,” she nods.

He narrows his eyes. She should be mad at him.

She looks down at her notebook and back at him. He stares at her, glares at her, trying to convey that if she starts writing in that fucking book, shit is going to happen. So she doesn’t.

“Why is this upsetting to you?” She asks him, back to her bullshit questions, and it makes Bucky want to punch something, anything. But he can’t.

Everything he has is devoted to controlling himself. His gloves creak again, with the exertion of containing his fists. The prosthetic is loud in the silence, threatening. At least it’s loud to him.

“I said no.”

“So it’s all off limits?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Boundaries, that’s what they’re called. And that part of his identity is behind the line. He thought he was ready to talk about everything that’s in the files, but he was wrong. Not that. Never that.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily, looking away from him. He can tell she’s only pretending, trying to make him feel a little more at ease.

“I need to know about these things, James.”

He huffs. “I’m doing the work you want me to do. I have a quiet life.”

“You’ve told me about the shul already,” Dr Raynor points out.

“Yeah. I did.” And it was a mistake.

He just wants to be left alone. He wants to do his job and be left alone. And she doesn’t get that. She scoffs when he tells her he wants peace and serenity, she needles him about the things he’s not ready to say. He’s pretty sure she’s not a good therapist, and he literally doesn’t have any other experience.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily again, parading her irritation out to him. He doesn’t move.

“Well. We won’t get anywhere today. You’ve won. The session’s over, you can go home.”

You’ve won. He tastes something sour.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods at her. There’s no use in dignifying her with much of anything. He mumbles ‘goodbye’ because he was raised right by his ma and calls it a fucking day.

He’s pretty sure he finishes his pack of cigarettes by the time he gets home.

[uhthor]

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier + Incorrect Quotes part 20/?

[duchessonfire]

Why Bucky's journey in TFATWS is actually a great one

I know I'm getting into some serious hot waters here, and honestly I might delete this post if I get too much hate for it, but here goes:

Bucky's portrayal in TFATWS is actually amazing in terms of storytelling and representation of military trauma.

Ever since I got on Tumblr (6months ago-ish) I've seen that, for a lot of Bucky fans, seeing his TFATWS arc was very upsetting, and the argument behind that is that everyone keeps acting like Bucky is guilty for his actions as the winter soldier. And I think that's actually where people are mistaken.

No one is saying that Bucky intentionnally did what he did as the winter soldier. What people like Sam and Dr. Raynor are saying is that Bucky did it. Period.

And that is such a huge difference: all the characters here know that Bucky didn't have a choice, that he was brainwashed and tortured by Hydra (that's why he's being pardoned, because he didn't have a choice). But at the end of the day, it's still Bucky who was used to commit those crimes. When he closes his eyes, he sees himself killing those people, he sees his hands holding the gun or the knife or the neck and squeezing. So Bucky still did those things, even if he did them without having a choice in the matter.

So where does he go from there?

I see a lot of people bashing Dr. Raynor for her methods, saying Bucky should have been seeing someone who stresses how innocent he was and generally being soft and gentle with Bucky. I'm sorry, but nothing would have been more out of character for MCU Bucky Barnes.

Bucky was very young when he went to fight Nazis, and the people he had to kill were probably even younger. The reality of war is that Bucky probably had to kill 18yo German soldiers and didn't have any choice in the matter because disobeying the army during a war means being branded a deserter and killed. Bucky didn't have a choice back then, and yet he was still responsible for killing an 18yo who probably listened to nazi propaganda for years, was enlisted by force, and is - as often during a war - probably drugged so he won't sleep, and be more likely to run into the front lines and shoot on sight. That's what war is and that's where the inspiration behind the character of the winter soldier came from: soldiers are always powerless tools in the hands of leaders.

Now to go back to TFATWS Bucky and what taking responsability means: it means coming to term with what other people made you do. And that involves owning the fact that it's you who did those things, even if you aren't to blame. This is not a cookie cutter solution for everyone, but it is specifically appropriate for a soldier like Bucky, someone who has been going from one war to another for almost a century (and I think Raynor saw that the moment she met him): Bucky is a man of action. He needs to do something otherwise he just spirals. Much like Steve, he can't just sit by and let someone else take over the job for him. Even in Wakanda, when he was resting, he was still actively working on being deprogrammed from Hydra. Because the alternative? Saying to Bucky, again and again, Hydra made you do those things, you had nothing to do with it, now rest, that would drive Bucky insane because it would force him to acknowledge his lack of control. By displacing all the responsability (again, there is a difference between blame and responsability, Hydra gets 100% of the blame but Bucky is still sharing in the responsability) onto Hydra, it leaves Bucky with nothing but nightmares and a sense of guilt he can't shake.

But if you say: you're not guilty of anything, but you still did those things, and we need to find a way for you to acknowledge that and move on from them, then Bucky can do something about it. And that's what TFATWS arc is about. It's not about absolving Bucky or treating him like a villain. I don't even see it as a redemption arc (what kind of redemption arc starts with the villain already feeling bad? Loki doesn't feel bad in the first episode of his show). It's a healing arc.

Telling Bucky that he's responsible - again, responsible, not guilty - for what he did as the winter soldier, and telling him to make amends, is part of healing. And only soldiers like Sam and Raynor, people who had to do horrible things for the military and didn't have a choice, because the very basis of the military is following orders, understand that about Bucky. Bucky is a soldier, not a civilian. And healing for a soldier is very different fom healing for a civilian. It's about coming to terms with what other people made you do because the matrix of a soldier's mind is accepting to follow orders even when you don't agree with them. (No wonder Steve was such a terrible soldier.)

That's also why Sam tells Bucky there is a difference between amending and avenging. Because guilt isn't reasonable. Bucky won't feel less guilty just because he acknowledges nothing he did as a the winter soldier is his fault. It won't erase the nightmares, it won't stop the depression. But saying: okay, you did those things, now let's fix what you can? That will help him sleep.

[lies-unfurl]

has this been done yet

[sitaka-irony]

Dr. Raynor seeing shit on the news about the Winter Soldier in Madripoor and Captain America publicly executing someone in Riga: [speed-dialing Bucky’s number] the FUCK they doing over there????

[caffeineforbucky]

As Time Goes By...(Chapter Four)

A/N: My first draft of this...I accidentally deleted it and I had to rewrite the entire thing. That was really something.

Enjoy, Dear Reader!

(I can't stop listening to this song:

https://open.spotify.com/track/3tIQg7bErGUNgE6nZ2TXZ2?si=021fc0455e174a20

Word count: 3,129

Pairing: Bucky X Fem! Reader

Warnings: descriptive detail of surgical sutures, mentions of depression. (TW: the implication of kys) therapy sessions...the whole nine. Angst, swearing.

-This chapter may be intended for mature audiences, reader discretion is advised -

The fluorescence of the lights above you beamed against the sterling silver of the tapered needle. You watch closely, engrossed in the finesse of your nurse's gloved hands while he pulls the needle through with small tweezers.

Blood would spill out every now and then, the needle pulling the thread through to loop a few times before tying a knot to perform a new suture. Blood loss was common in your line of work, so the sight of it never bothered you. Needles, that's what bothered you.

"It was a good thing you came to us when you did," The nurse comments, tying the last of the thread to finish you up. "Any longer, and you would've gone into shock."

"Huh," You shut your eyes, gnashing at your lips as you draw it in. The anesthetic might've been doing what it was supposed to, but that didn't mean the dull pain wouldn't slip in. "I didn't think it was that bad." You crack a smile, the pain beginning to fade as your eyes flicker to the nurse.

He shakes his head at your lively attitude. Despite the wound being five and a half inches deep, you still managed to squeeze in a joke. "Okay," He grunts, pushing up from his stool, tossing the medical tools onto a tray before retrieving an antibiotic from a different tray. "After this, you're good to go." The nurse sits back down, pushing himself closer to spread a thin layer of lotion around the sutures, guiding his gloved finger carefully, as to not touch the thread. Then he unwraps a nonstick bandage, gently sticking it to the outer edges of the wound. "All done!" He exclaims.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, endless rings of some obnoxious notification sound you chose when you were drunk one Saturday night. Apologizing, you fetched your cell from your back pocket, the nurse beginning walk away, discarding his latex gloves in the bin, mouthing something about a prescription and discharge paperwork, before exiting the room.

You avert your focus to the small screen in your grasp, tapping on Sam's name to read through the multiple texts and missed calls. You cringe, scrolling through are you okay texts, and how's the doctor's going? But, only one of them seemed to capture your attention. As soon as you begin to reply to Sam, the sound of your name made your ears perk.

"You know," Sam comes into view, sauntering inside the ER, making his way closer to you while shoving his phone into his pocket. "Most people answer their phones. It's why they have it." He scolds you, arms folding over his chest. "How's the stab wound?"

You glance down at the bandages wrapped around your thigh, the dull ache pounding at your left side. "I can even feel it," You shrug, looking up at Sam, padding the spot next to you as you scooted over to make room for him. "How'd Isaiah's go?"

Sam exhales heavily, taking a seat beside you, cautious not to graze your thigh with his. "You not tagging along was probably best," He admits, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

"That bad, huh?" You ask, frowning softly at the man beside you. It was dusk out, the night skies evident from the glass windows behind you. Your stitches had only taken an hour, but you arrived late afternoon in Baltimore after Munich. Sam runs his hands over his head, the whole Isaish situation putting him off. "Hey," You pipe up, placing your palm over his shoulder. "If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to, but know that I'm here if you ever want to talk."

Sam turns his head, capturing your warm smile. He places his hand on top of yours, nodding his head softly to reciprocate your consolation. "Thanks, kiddo. And thanks for saving the world," He nudges your side, dropping his hand, and you bring yours back into your lap. "I know you never lost hope."

Your smile falters, guilt rising to the surface of your throat, you break eye contact, gaze dropping to the bandages. "I'm not going to lie to you, Sam," You take a breath, blood beginning to pump faster as your heart rate picked up. "I went completely off the radar during year three," You confess, keeping your attention forward. Sam frowns softly, listening intently with open ears and a forgiving heart.

"I think I was doing worse than Thor and Clint," You whisper, a haunting expression glazed over your features, the memories of who you were two and a half years ago coming back to you like an acid flash. "-And Thor drank by the gallon...Clint?" You shook your head, swallowing thickly, "Clint was a vigilante based in Japan...I was worse," You confess, eyes shifting down to your hands. The horrors of what you'd done were in your nightmares, haunting you with every blink of an eye. "I fell off...hard."

"I tried it all," You murmur, tears burning in the back of your eyes, but you didn't dare look at Sam for fear of judgment and disappointment. "I wanted to feel...something-Anything!" You exclaim, not noticing how tight Sam was squeezing your hand. "I uh..." You shake your head, shutting your eyes tightly, tears spilling out from the pressure of your eyelids closing. "I lost myself...I wasn't me."

"Y/N, please don't tell me you tried to..." Sam pauses, not wanting to finish his question, but when your eyes met his, the whites of your eyes bloodshot, glassy, full of guilt. He got his answer. Before you could make an excuse, he pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arms around you, the tightest anyone's ever hugged you.

You gasp, shocked at the sudden contact from the falcon as well as the strength. As soon as you felt his hand on the back of your head, you hugged him back, burying your face into his shoulder. Your shoulders shook, heavy tears staining the fabric of his jacket while he cooed you in comfort. "Does that make me weak, Sam?" You croak, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Sam took a moment to gather his thoughts, even though it was nothing new to him, having counseled soldiers with trauma. He still needed to find the right words to say. It broke his heart, listening to how much pain you had gone through. You lost so many people, and he knew more than enough about loss. "No," He says softly, caressing the back of your head. "Your depression is not a sign of weakness, kiddo. And neither are your attempts at trying to put a stop to it." Sam starts to pull away, but you hold on for just a while longer.

"Year four?" You begin again, pulling away from Sam, and he wipes away your remaining tears. "I cleaned up, got better, and met Joshua. I liked him," You smile softly, nodding your head to convince yourself. "Maybe even loved him,"

"What happened?" Sam asks, taking your hand in his again.

"I got Bucky back," You sigh, finally admitting why you couldn't be with Josh. Even if you had already admitted it to yourself, you needed to say it out loud. "A few months before we got everyone back, Nat found me in San Francisco. When she told me there was a way to bring you all back, I thought she was talking crazy. Time travel, really? That kind of stuff is in the movies and sci-fi books I read as a kid. I mean, as if Scott not shrinking to the size of an ant isn't crazy." You chuckle, but mostly to yourself. "Anyway, some shit went down between Bucky and me a month after Tony's funeral. I broke up with Joshua right after."

"Can I ask you something?" Sam asks, making you nod your head in agreement. "-And don't be flip, okay?" You nod again.

"Do you love him?"

And you didn't even need to ask to know who Sam was referring to.

Your foot tapped in anticipation, the rubber from the bottom of your boot touching the linoleum every two seconds, your back so far sunk into the chair you could almost slip off. You didn't ask for this, much less want to be here. Therapy was the last thing you expected, even if you desperately needed it.

"So..." Christina Raynor's voice bounced off the brick walls of the interrogation room she had led the three of you in. Her eyes taking in the bored look on all of your faces. "Who would like to start?"

Your back came off the chair, head swinging to your left to look at the guys. Neither of them seemed to be on board with the situation. You blow out raspberries, letting your back hit the seat once again.

"Alright, Dr. Raynor?" Sam asks, making sure he got her name correct to which, she responded to with a nod, letting Sam continue. "I get why you want us to talk," He gestures between the three of you, "-And I get why you want me to talk to Freaky Magoo over here, but I'm one-hundred percent fine."

Christina sighs heavily, narrowing her eyes as she observed the body language between you three. In all her years of counseling couples and letting patients vent to her, body language was their biggest tell. Sam was smack dab in the middle, Bucky on his left, and you on his right. Christina had taken note of your seating arrangement, and she was determined to get to the bottom of the unspoken animosity. "Look," She begins, unclasping her notebook, setting the spine flat on the table as she gets her pen ready. Bucky rolls his eyes. "It is my job to make sure that you're okay. And so...yeah, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it's the only way that I can see if you're getting over whatever's eating at you."

You shake your head, arms folded in defense, eyes avoiding the doctor. "This is ridiculous," You grumbled, adjusting your position to keep from slipping off your chair. You cross your legs, the back of your knee resting atop of the other.

"Yeah, I agree," Bucky chimes in, folding his arms as well, eyes ripping from you.

"See?" Dr. Raynor points out, smiling in satisfaction. "Making progress already," With a click of her pen, she brings her notebook closer. "So, who's going first?"

Silence filled the room once again, neither one of you wanting to talk. It was bad enough that she demanded to talk to Sam and Bucky at the same time, but when she forced you to? You had a gut feeling that it was going to be a shit-show.

"Okay," She exclaims, clasping her hands together to break the ice. "We're going to do an exercise. It's something I use with couples when they're trying to figure out what kind of life they want to build together...Are any of you familiar with the miracle question?"

"Of course not."

"Absolutely not."

"The what now?"

"It goes something like this," Christina answers, eyes shifting back and forth between the trio. "Suppose that when you're sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something that you would like to see that would make your life better?"

"In my miracle," Bucky is the first one to speak, eyes glaring daggers into the side of Sam's face. "He would...he would talk less."

"Exactly what I was going to say!" Sam laughs with no humor in his tone at all. "Isn't that crazy?" He retorts, shrugging his shoulders at Dr. Raynor as her eyes drift you.

You were quiet, holding back your tongue as to not say something you knew you were going to regret. You sigh softly, tuning out the incoherent voice of the guys beside you, your chin resting in the palm of your hand, eyes boring into the grain of the painted bricks.

"Y/N?"

Her voice pulls you out of your thoughts, lifting your chin, neck twisting to avert your attention to the doctor sat across from you. "Huh?" You hum and your hand slaps against the armrest.

"You haven't said a word since being here," She points out, ignoring the guys for now. The look in your eyes seemed to capture her attention from the moment you introduced yourself. She'd recognize that look a thousand times before. "What's your miracle?"

You uncross your legs, using the armrest to straighten your back, her question making you uncomfortable. You glance at Sam before looking at Christina. "My miracle?" You ask, earning a curt nod from the therapist. "My miracle..." You repeat softly to yourself, thinking long and hard about what you wanted to say. There were many things you wish you could see to make your life better than what it was. So many conversations you wish you could have with people you'd lost or have a chance to see them again. But, only one thing stood out above them all. You hike down your jacket. "In my miracle, I'd get some closure."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Raynor asks, waiting patiently for you to dive deeper into your simple request. "With who? Does this person know you feel this way?"

You refused to continue, feeling the blazing heat of Bucky's gaze at your temple. He knew exactly what you were referring to, and frankly? He didn't feel like discussing your fall-out with his therapist. You shake your head, eyes flickering down to your lap, pulling at your jeans the hospital had given you. It unsettled you, the mere fact that the jeans had belonged to someone who was no longer in this life. They were cute and happened to be your size. Who did the jeans belong to?

"Look, you guys are leaving me no choice," Christina sighs, shifting in her seat as she folds her hands on top of her notebook. "It's time for the soul-gazing exercise."

Your nose scrunched, forehead creasing in confusion. Soul-gazing? What the hell was that?

"I want all of you to turn and face each other, almost resembling a triangle, and get close." She instructs, biting back a laugh as she watched the three of you struggle and try to form a triangle. If she wasn't a therapist and a professional, she would've burst out laughing. "Okay, good." She praises, nodding in approval at all of your knees touching, brushing off the protests and silent curses falling from your mouths.

"Is this absolutely necessary, doc?" You complain, scooting as far as you can in your chair to refrain from touching Bucky.

"I'm going to have you start, Y/N," Christina begins, sending you a flat smile, the whites of your knuckles becoming evident while you gripped the armrests. "I want to know why James makes you so upset. And I've had you in here long enough to know when you're lying."

You curse under your breath, knowing deep down that she was going to pry the truth from you with every fiber of her being. What gave you away? Was it your antipathetic nature? The transparency of your attitude? "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, doc." You murmur, eyes locking with Bucky's baby blues, shoving down the vulnerability.

Bucky scoffs, glancing at the doctor, tongue darting between his lips with a smug smirk pulling at the corner.

"Something you'd like to share with the class, Barnes?" You gripe, disregarding the way your stomach flipped at the sight of him.

"No, no..." Bucky assures, waving his hands in dismissal, leaning back in his chair. This session had slowly faded from being about him and Sam to the tension between you and him. "I just think your passive-aggressiveness is shining through the cracks of your I don't give a fuck demeanor, but maybe I'm wrong." He shrugs, leaning on his metal arm. "What do I know, right?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" You snap, staring directly into his eyes, your leg starting to bounce with impatience for the former winter soldier.

"Nothing, Y/N," Bucky grunts, raising his hands in defense. "Nothing...because I'm always the bad guy, and you could do no wrong."

"Fuck you, Barnes!"

"Y/N!" Dr. Raynor exclaims, attempting to settle you down, but you were too far gone. Bucky's eyes widened, sharing expressions with Sam.

"No!" You fume, snapping your hardened gaze to the doctor. "This is why he upsets me. This is why we could never talk to each other!"

"Y/N-"

"What?" You continue, ignoring the doctor's protest as you absorbed the sheer surprise on Bucky's face at your outburst. "Is that brain made of vibranium as well that you're incapable of basic empathy?!" You spit, voice dripping with venom. If anger were considered petrol, you could fill up an entire car lot. Bucky's mouth parted, eyes filled with something that you couldn't read. If he pretended that didn't hurt him, he'd of been proud of your insult.

"That's not fair," He whispered, breaking away from your gaze to look at anything else but you.

"Which part?" You ask, tilting your head to the side to try and capture his eyes. "Leaving me on that bridge with no explanation or that I'm not treating you the way you want me to?"

Sam shrinks down into his seat, wishing that he could be anywhere else but here. If he had known what went down between you and Bucky, he would've never tracked you down. Sam knew it wasn't fair of Bucky to come at you as he did. He didn't know what you'd been through, vice-versa.

"You know what, Doc?" You say, scooting away from the talking circle. "I don't have time for this. We've got bigger shit going on than to be playing the feelings game." You stand up, pushing off the chair with so much force, it almost toppled over. "So, I'll tell you what. We'll squash this right now, and..." You swallow, a knot forming at the base of your throat while you look at the winter soldier and his hunched-over figure. "I'll forget everything I've ever felt for Bu-" You cut yourself off, realizing what you were gonna say.

Bucky's head rose slowly, eyes widening in pure shock. He was hurt, confused, and exhausted. His hands gripped the armrest, debating on whether or not he should stand, but Sam kicked his boot, shaking his head at the man in front of him. You needed space.

"Thanks, Doc," You muse, "For making it weird." You flashed her a grateful smile, tearing your eyes away from the doctor. "I'll see you guys outside." You turn to leave, hand hovering above the handle. "By the way," You pull the handle, glancing over your shoulder as you pull the door open. "I liked you better before the haircut." And just like that, you storm out, letting the door slam shut behind you.