#recovered bucky barnes

[underthemexicansun]

Grumpy Bucky in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.

[bucky-obsessed]

Merry slightly late Christmas! I gift you, smiling Bucky!

[cobrafantasies]

[rolandtowen]

A Winter Soldier / Avengers Tower Recovery fic in the year of our lord 2024?

It's more likely than you think!

Read the first chapter on Ao3 or under the cut!

Tony Stark was not ready to be housing a recovering assassin, but here he was. 

The fearsome Winter Soldier had passed out beside Steve on the bank of the Potomac – and Maria Hill brought him straight to Avengers Tower. 

“Why me?” Tony griped. “Why do I have to save this guy? He’s killed dozens of people, maybe more. Whoever he used to be, he’s not Barnes anymore.”

Maria turned on her heel. “Because you have an apartment built to hold the Hulk, which should hold him. Because SHIELD just imploded and we need to keep him out of HYDRA’s hands. And,” she paused to take a cookie Pepper offered her, “because he’s the longest-held prisoner of war in global history.” She throws a stack of folders down on Tony’s desk. “Even if he’s not Barnes anymore, he’s not responsible for what he did. Read those.”

Tony did. And he threw up in the nearest trash can. 

Pepper set up an Avengers meeting for the next morning. 

Steve, Sam, and Natasha had all spent the night in the Tower, Sam staying in the guest room on Steve's floor and Natasha on her own floor. Bruce and Helen had already been living in the Tower, and both responded immediately when Pepper asked if they could provide medical attention to the Soldier. 

No one got much sleep that night. The files made it from Tony, to Steve, to Natasha, and to Sam. Steve makes it through one folder before having to excuse himself. Sam doesn’t know where he goes. 

They start the next morning with copious amounts of coffee in the conference room. 

“We finally got a sedative to work on him around three a.m.,” Bruce explains. “He's so underweight, it's a miracle he's still functional.”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow at him. “The man who attacked me on the highway was not underweight.” 

“For a normal guy, he's got a lot of muscle mass, but for an enhanced person? He's underweight compared to Steve at least. He's got almost zero body fat.” 

“And that's a problem because?” Tony drawls. 

Bruce takes a gulp of his coffee, exasperated. “Well, for one thing, his temperature regulation has got to be screwed. Humans also need body fat to regulate hormone production and nutrient absorption. No unenhanced person could be at this body fat percentage and live. Their brain would stop functioning.” 

“Oh.” Tony shuts his mouth. 

A silence falls over the table as they consider the mess they’ve gotten into. SHIELD has just been exposed as a fraud, and the Avengers find themselves in possession of the most effective assassin in the world, who happens to be a starving, brainwashed POW.

"We need to designate one person for him to interact with. Build a routine." Sam's been delving into the files they'd recovered from the HYDRA vault, and has the bags under his eyes to prove it. “HYDRA designated one person to give him orders. They called them his ‘handler’.”

"I can do it," Steve offers immediately, even as he winces at the way his ribs complain. "He recognized me on the Helicarrier." 

"He also broke nineteen of your bones," Tony deadpans. "One moment of lucidity does not a Bucky make." 

"Tony, seriously? He pulled me from the river." Tony opens his mouth for another retort, but falls silent when Natasha stands. 

"I can do it. He was wiped after the highway, yeah?" 

Tony nods. They'd captured a HYDRA technician who was singing like a canary. Incredible what secrets people will reveal to avoid going to the Raft forever. 

"Then he doesn't remember me as a target. He'll remember Sam or Steve from the Helicarriers. I'm our best bet." She pauses. Her face remains neutral but Steve can tell she's fighting to calm herself. "And I had to deprogram after the Red Room. It's not the same, but..." She trails off. 

"It's the closest experience that any of us have about what he's gone through," Bruce offers. "And it might not be a bad idea to limit his contact with men for now. When I was working on him, his vitals were off the charts, but he seemed much calmer when Helen took over."

Steve nods and Tony claps his hands together. "Alright then, how do we start?" 

Natasha gives him a weak smile. "Very, very slowly." 

***

The Soldier is warm. They had given it new clothes, ones not sopping wet from the river. The Soldier likes being dry. 

The technician, a woman with black hair pulled back into a bun, had brought the Soldier to its holding cell. She had set its flesh arm and placed it in a sling. Inexperienced, certainly. The Soldier will not need a sling in a few hours. 

The holding cell is...odd. 

It is not the Soldier's place to question its handlers. But why the carpet? There are no obvious drains on the floor. The carpet will only get soiled when they hose it down. 

There's furniture too. A room with a couch and a TV, a kitchen area with a table. There's two closed doors across the room. The Soldier considers these. Maintenance was performed on another floor, and the Soldier has never had weapons storage in its holding cell. 

The Soldier turns abruptly when it hears the door to the cell open. Another woman, one with red hair, strides into the room. She is wearing a black tactical uniform, her hair just brushing the shoulders of her leather jacket. This must be his handler. He's never had a woman handler before though. 

"Soldier," the woman says, a voice oddly absent of a distinct accent. "Status update." 

The Soldier stands at attention as best it can with the sling on its arm. "Bodily function: 75 percent. Mission: none. Awaiting further instructions." 

The woman eyes the Soldier for a moment, then orders: "Injury report." 

"Right arm, fractured, five hours until operational. Torso, three broken ribs, not impeding function. Hydration level, 50 percent, not impeding function. Calorie intake, 25 percent of optimal, not impeding function." 

The handler looks at the technician, who nods, saying: "that's everything we saw in the lab." The handler nods. "Thank you, Helen, you may go." 

The technician retreats from the cell, and the Soldier is left alone with its handler. 

"Soldier, describe your method of caloric intake." 

"Liquid. Through feeding tube or drinking. Optimal intake is 5,000 calories a day. Minimum required is 500." The Soldier isn't sure if it is correct to address the handler as "ma'am", so it refrains. The handler doesn't seem to notice the lack of title. 

"Thank you, Soldier. We will feed you at optimum intake. Come with me." The Soldier follows the handler as she moves through the cell. She opens the first door, a bathroom. "You may use these facilities at any time, without permission. Do you understand?" The Soldier nods. “This floor is also equipped with a computer called JARVIS. JARVIS, can you say hello?”

“Hello, Soldier,” a soothing male voice responds. “If you have any questions, you can speak my name and I can try to help.”

“Thank you, JARVIS.” The handler continues her tour as if nothing was strange about a man’s voice coming through the walls. The Soldier shakes its head. JARVIS must just be a highly advanced surveillance system. Its new buyers are clearly very powerful. 

The handler leads the Soldier to the second room. This room is larger, with a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. The Soldier hesitates in the threshold. Are these...handler quarters? Is the Soldier going to live with its handler?

"This room is yours," the handler says softly. "You may come in here without permission. You may sleep either on the bed or the floor. No one will sleep here but you." 

The Soldier stutters forward, placing its metal hand upon the bedsheets. "Permission to speak," it croaks. 

"Granted." The handler holds its gaze. 

"What...what is my mission?" 

The handler considers for a moment, then: "Effective immediately, your mission is to obtain optimal levels of hydration, caloric intake, and sleep for at least seven continuous days. Understood?" 

The Soldier nods. This is a test of its self-sufficiency. Its new owners want to know what it functions like at peak performance. Furthermore, the Soldier suspects that its owners want it to acclimate to these luxuries. 

So they can take them all away again. 

***

Steve has a sour look on his face when Natasha enters the surveillance room. 

"Spit it out, Rogers." 

Steve glares at her. "I get that we have to go slowly, but did you really have to order him around so much?"

She sits beside him, staring at the many camera angles of the apartment holding Bucky. "To you, I'm sure it looked like a lot of orders, but to him?" She points at one feed, showing Bucky seated on the floor next to his bed, running his metal fingers over the blanket again and again. "I barely gave him any. He's had his every action controlled for seventy years. He's probably had to ask permission every time he needs to eat, sleep, and piss." She folds her arms. "Ordering him to use the bathroom and bedroom without permission? That's like giving him the fruit of Eden, Steve." 

"Free will," Steve murmurs. His eyes are locked on Bucky's prone form. “I’m sorry, I know you know what you’re doing, but it’s just awful seeing him like this.”

Natasha rests a warm hand over his. “I know, Steve. But for what it’s worth, I think he’s still in there.”

“What was it like,” Steve asks suddenly, “Clint deprogramming you?”

“He had to gain my trust. Show me that he wasn’t going to hurt me or turn me back over to the Red Room when I fucked up. And like what Sam said earlier – I needed routine in order to feel safe.”

Steve swallows. “How long did it take?”

Natasha hums. “The better part of a year, I would say. Just to deprogram. But still, after all these years…” her eyes look suddenly very far away. “I still get nightmares. I’m hypervigilant, which is great for superhero work, not so great for normal life.”

Steve nods in understanding. They sit in silence together for the better part of an hour, watching Bucky slowly fall asleep leaning against his bed. "What will you set the next mission as?" Steve asks finally. “You know, once he gets past the seven days.”

Natasha considers this. "Maybe getting him onto solid food? I know he needs a shit ton of therapy, but he's fucking emaciated. He needs to stay alive, first and foremost." 

Steve nods. "Heal the body, then the mind," he agrees. “That's why you have JARVIS addressing him as ‘Soldier”, yeah?”

“Yep. He can have an identity crisis after he puts on some weight.”

"The kitchen has a protein shake Tony formulated for me. Should have all the stuff he needs. Three a day should get him pretty close to 5,000 calories too." Steve thinks 5,000 is pretty low for an enhanced individual too.

Natasha stands. "I'm going to have sealed water bottles delivered to him as well. I didn't trust water out of a tap for almost three months after Clint found me." She suppresses a shudder. "I'll let the kitchen know to send him the shakes. You gonna stay here for a bit?" 

Steve nods, his eyes never leaving the camera feed showing Bucky. 

***

The Soldier must have fallen asleep leaning against the bed, because it startles at a soft noise from the kitchen. “There has been a food and water delivery, Soldier,” the computer in the walls tells it.

Clambering to its feet, the Soldier finds a bottle filled with a thick shake sitting on the kitchen counter, alongside a case of bottled water. A note has been left under the shake. 

Three shakes a day for optimal nutrition. Three waters a day for optimal hydration. More of both are in the fridge. Seven days starts tomorrow. Sleep well, Soldier.

The Soldier takes a sip of the shake. It had expected a foul flavor, like the meals from its previous handlers, but this one...is almost sweet. 

Vanilla, a voice in its head supplies. This flavor is called vanilla. 

The Soldier does not know what time it is, but it feels tired. It drinks, first one of the shakes, then two of the bottles of water. It does not know where the trash is, so it rinses the shake bottle and places all three of them on the counter by the sink. Perhaps the handler wants evidence of how many of each it has consumed. It could ask the computer in the walls, but it does not want to earn a punishment yet. 

Questions always earned punishment. 

It returns to the bedroom and the blanket on the bed. It cannot feel anything more than pressure with its metal hand, but something about the repetitive motion of running its fingers over the soft material is…calming. That’s the word. The Soldier does not dare to sleep on the bed. The handler said it could sleep on the floor or the bed. The Soldier knows its place. 

It sleeps on the floor, its metal hand holding the corner of the blanket like a lifeline. 

***

The first of the seven days begins with another shake and bottle of water. Its flesh arm is fully operational, and the sling comes off, neatly folded on the kitchen table. The Soldier does not know how long it slept last night. It hadn’t wanted to ask a question so soon, but its sleep is also paramount to mission success. 

“JARVIS,” it speaks into the empty air. 

“Yes, Soldier?” 

“How many hours of sleep were obtained last night?”

“Six hours, Soldier. The minimum amount of sleep for optimal functioning is seven hours.”

The Soldiers’ lip trembles. It had failed. “Thank you, sir,” it says to JARVIS. Surely the computer will report its failure to the handler, and the handler will punish it. The shake that had settled so nicely in its stomach now turns sour, and the Soldier fights the urge to vomit. That will only make its punishment worse. 

“If I may, Soldier,” the computer continues to speak. “I have been programmed with several ways to help individuals relax at nighttime. You are more than welcome to explore these this evening. Or I could tell you more about them now.”

“You are…programmed to help me?” Fuck it, the Soldier had already asked one question. It may as well ask some more.

“That is correct. Would you like further explanation?” 

“Yes, please, sir.” 

JARVIS demonstrates several noises for the Soldier, which he claims are relaxing. The Soldier feels a panic rise in its throat at the sound of rushing water and fire crackling, but it enjoys the rain sounds. “I can play the rain sounds while you sleep. It is a form of white noise that may help you sleep more deeply.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“It is still early morning, Soldier. You could go to sleep for another hour without disturbing your circadian rhythm.” 

“The handler has…no other tasks for me today?” 

“That is correct. Your only tasks are to maintain optimal levels of hydration, calorie intake, and sleep.” 

The Soldier breathes out shakily. It had not failed completely. It could still maintain optimal sleep levels. “Could – could you play the rain, please, sir?” 

“Of course, Soldier.” 

The Soldier returns to the floor of the bedroom. This time, it feels bold enough to pull the blanket off the bed. 

It sleeps. 

***

“Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Sergeant Wilson,” JARVIS greets the three of them, still curled up in the surveillance room. “I would like to report that Sergeant Barnes is now sleeping. I project he will reach nine hours of sleep today. He has also consumed one food shake and one bottle of water.” 

“Thank you, JARVIS.” Steve stands, wincing a bit at the tug on his ribs. “That was well done, having him go back to sleep.” 

“Thank you, Captain. I must report as well that Sergeant Barnes appeared quite distressed when I relayed his less than optimal sleep from last night.” 

Sam shoots Natasha a look. “He was expecting to be punished.” Sam shudders as he thinks back to the folder labeled “correction methods.” 

“But he wasn't.” Natasha sighs. “We just keep doing this, setting healthy goals, refusing to punish him, until we can figure out the next step. But I don't know who we could trust to even attempt to tackle his mental state.” Natasha waves her fingers at her head. 

“We get him through this week, and I can make some calls,” Sam offers. “This is so out of my depth, but I worked with a guy in Afghanistan who specialized in reintegration for captured soldiers. We can start there.” 

Steve nods. “As long as it's better than the shitshow Fury put on for me, I say we give it a shot.” His gaze turns back to the camera feed, where Bucky's stirring after his morning nap. “JARVIS,” Steve calls out. “Can you have some new clothes ordered for Bucky?” 

“Of course, sir. Any colors that Sergeant Barnes prefers?” 

“Blue.”

[ccappucino]

The recovered letters of Steven Grant Rogers

[fsbc-librarian]

I was hoping you could help me find a fic I've been looking for for years. It was a complete multi chapter post ca:tws story, where Bucky escapes Hydra and ends up hiding out in the woods Hatchet style. Most of the fic is him by himself, coping and healing and learning to be a person again. I remember there was a whole section of him trying to cope through gummy bears? I don't remember if it ended in stucky, or was just gen, but the romance definitely wasn't the main part. I have tried every search term on ao3 I can think of, and cannot find it. I know this isn't necessarily your specialty, but I'm desperate!

Ooh, I’ll have to see what I can find, I don’t think this is something I’ve read though.

If anyone else out there knows it, please feel free to drop a link!

Update: this could potentially be it?

Color by Numbers

gossamerthreads

Summary: The Soldier came up with the plan in his spare time, though he never actually believed he’d put it into practice. Hydra’s reach seemed too complete – too powerful – to actually consider running. But he thought about it.

And then the man stopped fighting. And he said he knew him. And the Soldier felt…felt… He knew what he felt was important.

So, he ran.

[stuckydrewx]

Idc how good Bucky looks I am NOT watching thunderbolts fuck that shit they’re gonna mischaracterise everyone. 😭

[astranix]

bucky barnes energy

this is peak retired assassin. This is like a literal hitman. look at how casual he is . Wild

[meraki-yao]

I had a 20 minute meltdown over the fact that apparently BUCKY BARNES IS A CONGRESSMAN NOW???!!!!

I just—I have so many questions

[everythingmarvelbxm1012]

Not Normal

Summary - What do you do when you walk into your kitchen at 3 AM and a stranger is looking for supplies?

Notes - Takes place soon after the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, hours after the post-credit scene with Bucky in the museum. 1.1k words

*Don’t repost or translate my work without my permission. *These characters and world do not belong to me.

You were dealing with A LOT of things. For one, you were just fired from one of your jobs that morning; two, your phone had suddenly died part way through the day and for whatever reason your charger was not working; three, your grandmother had quickly called to ask when you were getting married after your sister, who was four years younger than you, had gotten engaged the day prior; and four, your groceries dumped everywhere after the bag broke at the bottom. So you were definitely not in the mood to walk into your kitchen around 3 AM to find a stranger rummaging through your cabinets and drawers.

You nearly screamed upon seeing the figure. He was covered nearly head-to-toe in dark clothing. Pants, boots, a t-shirt and hoodie, though his right arm had been removed from the sleeve and the short sleeve of the t-shirt rolled up. He had brown hair that nearly reached his shoulders. Fortunately, you had powers. You didn’t know where they came from, but you had used them enough to feel comfortable to defend yourself, so you just let yourself be angry.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” What you hadn’t realized was that the man hadn’t really registered that you were standing there and he quickly swiveled on his heel, raising a gun.

“Who are you?”

‘What the hell kind of a question is that,’ you thought to yourself. You cleared your throat. “The person whose kitchen you just broke into!” You stated, disdain written in your voice. You stood there, looking over the small pile of first-aid things he had piled onto your island kitchen. Before you could ask any questions he was talking again.

“Don’t scream. Just need supplies. Bullet to the shoulder,” he mumbled. He mumbled it so quietly you wondered if he was just trying to reassure himself of what he was doing rather than telling you. The gun was still raised though the arm that held it almost seemed to lose some tension, if that was the right way to put that.

“What are you doing in my kitchen,” you emphasized the ‘my.’ You knew why he was in a kitchen, just unsure of why it was your’s.

He slowly lowered the gun a few inches, but it wasn’t completely facing down. You knew you could protect yourself if you needed to. “Look. I don’t want to start trouble,” he stated a little more forcefully, the muscles in his jaw tightened momentarily before loosening again.

“You started trouble when you broke into MY kitchen!” You stood there, unmoving, unfazed by his slight change in demeanor.

He lifted some gauze from the kitchen island, only staring down at it before speaking again. “Look lady, I just need to patch myself up. Then I’m gone.”

“You’re not going to do it well with one arm,” you responded. Nobody could possibly patch up a bullet wound in the shoulder with one arm. He didn’t respond, just tried to glance over at the wound, before reaching toward it with his other arm which is hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie. “No! You cannot do it with one arm,” you insisted, rolling your eyes. “If you are going to steal my things, don't waste them.” He slowly lowered the gun, though he kept finger around the trigger.

If it was a more reasonable hour you might have kicked the stranger out, but you weren’t about to let him waste the good money you spent on those items. Before he could stop you, and honestly before you were even thinking all of it though you were pulling more supplies out of your kitchen drawers before organizing them a bit more. You forcefully pointed towards the stool. “Sit.”

There is a short pause before the stranger places his gun at his hip and sits in the stool. There is another moment of silence as you wash your hands before standing by his shoulder and letting out a heavy sigh. “Have you removed the bullet?”

The man shook his head. You nodded, knowing it was better to leave the bullet in there than remove it, in case it lodged itself into or near a vein, or other nerve endings. “Good.” You turned on the light hanging above where the mystery man sat to get a better view, before pulling a soft washcloth from the drawer near you and before opening the bottle of saline solution already on the counter. You proceeded to get some saline solution over the cloth before beginning to clean the wound without looking away from your work.

You looked up momentarily, actually getting a better visual of his face under the light. His jaw was clenched and his blue eyes would have been more pleasant except that they were rather stern, cold, calculated, as he looked just past you. Whatever he was feeling in that moment, you would not be able to figure out. His face seemed to be absolutely blank. If he was in pain he was not showing it at that moment.

You then went back to your work, noting for the first time how it did not look horrible, making you wonder how long ago it had happened and how long he had been dodging around people’s homes and taking supplies. You finished cleaning the wound and the area before throwing the washcloth to the side. He was damned lucky to be alive, but his presence was still a bit unnerving so you chose to not mention the fortunate situation of that. You pulled some gauze and slowly wrapped the wound and the area, carefully, making sure to not wrap it too tightly. “There, done.”

You took a few steps back, not bothering to look at your work and pulling a half-full bottle of ibuprofen and Tylenol from the cabinet as he sat there, seemingly unable to move. You shoved them into his other hand, which you realized was gloved, which you thought odd but did not spend too much thinking about it. Something inside of you felt sorry for the man. All you knew was that some guy had been shot and apparently needed to sneak supplies, so maybe that should have been a red flag. What surprised you is that he actually spoke up.

“You’re not normal, are you?” His voice was completely even, face still blank.

“Depends upon how you define normal.”

There was more silence, before he spoke again. “Well, most people probably won’t patch up a guy who broke into their house, then give them medicine.”

“Maybe.” You only shrugged before deciding it was time to sleep. Okay, maybe you helped patch the guy up, but you didn’t trust him enough to let him stay on your couch. For all you knew you were harboring a fugitive. “I do need you to leave now.” He didn’t even nod, just slipped the painkillers into his pocket without another word, before exiting through the main door to your apartment leaving you with a million questions you didn’t get answers to for a few years.

[softevnstan]

³.⍭ 𝐈𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

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. yeahhh i couldn't do this as just a one time thing. this is going to be a multi-part i write to update every now and again. so for today you have crumbs of what your first session is like. as someone who's been diagnosed with c-ptsd and has a butt-load of trauma, i'm writing bucky's experience in therapy based on my own. that being said i do not condone patient/therapist irl or any of that power balance outside of fiction. gross. that's the only disclaimer for this series tho going forward, i'm not gonna tag that everytime.

edit. part two is here yall

“So, Mr. Barnes, from what I’m understanding, you'd like to make me your primary therapist and discontinue working with Doctor Raynor?” Perhaps if you knew you’d be in this situation, you would’ve mentally prepared yourself a little better for the day when you got up out of bed that morning.

Being a therapist certainly wasn’t without its obstacles, no – It’s a lot to listen to someone else’s problems and just how many callus and evil things happen in the world. It also has its moments where it reminds you just how vile people can be, too. From children all the way to elderly, you’ve seen countless patients. They come back because you’re passionate about your job; Not looking at these people as paychecks but as living, breathing people. And sometimes people just need someone to talk to; there’s no shame in that.

You just never anticipated you’d have a war hero on your office couch, though. That was not on the radar when you were working towards your Master’s Degree. 

James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes sat across from your beige and brown striped armchair on the couch. He looked lonely in the middle; For a man so broad, it would be impressive how small he could make himself if not for the fact it was simultaneously heart wrenching. Cobalt eyes struggled to meet your gaze from the moment he walked into the office to begin the session. His body looked awfully stiff, and his eyes dark like he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in weeks. Perhaps months.

“Yes.” He answers stiffly, “Please.” At least he’s sure to mind his manners despite the clear discomfort radiating from the soldier across from you. But his quiet and taut demeanor is discouraging: “It’s important that you are comfortable here, Mr. Barnes. Therapy is something that works best when it doesn’t feel forced…” “I am comfortable,” Bucky jumps to correct, earning a slight raise of a brow from you before schooling your expression once more. “Comfortable enough. I’m just new to… this.” The man makes a vague gesture with his hands between the both of you; Aching eyes speaking more than words ever will when Bucky briefly raises them to look at you.

The first step is wanting to heal. Bucky’s already showing initiative by being present - by putting his foot forward to try to find a therapist better suited to him rather than just throwing his hands up after the first dead end. That’s good. You can work with that. 

Your lips curl into a soft, welcoming smile. “Change can be scary, especially when we don’t understand what all is changing or what could come from it. With us working together, though, I can only do as much as you let me. It’s going to be intimidating, and you may not like it, but I want to help you feel better, Mr. Barnes. You deserve to feel better.” Positive reinforcements are always a good thing so long as they’re not condescending or passive aggressive. It’s all in the delivery, you’ve learned. It’s important patients feel comfortable when they’re with you – how else are they expected to be honest, then?

Bucky looks quizzically for a few moments before once more averting his anxious gaze. It made your heart hurt to see a man so beaten down and on edge; it felt so obvious to you, but then again, you were educated on how to find the tells. You could read him like a book right then. Feel everything radiating off of him, almost.

“What kind of things will you do..?” Bucky inquires after a beat.

“Well, I’d like you to start keeping a journal that we could use for our sessions. It’ll help you keep a record of what you’re feeling and we could use it like a workbook – there’d be homework involved, but there’d be nothing I know you can’t handle.”

“Homework?”

You smile, a nod of your head: “Work sheets, sometimes I’ll ask you to read something for me or answer a few questions, sometimes I’ll give you a worksheet you can use when necessary – then the next time I see you, we’ll go over what you’ve brought back and assess together so I can help you understand.”

He’s tentative to the idea, you can see it. It’s clear Bucky is very selective and reserved. You can only imagine how much strife this poor man has been through. But you see the light in him. You do. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to get better.

“...I don’t want to be unhappy anymore,” Bucky says, almost not catching the words if not for the fact the room is silent except for the two of you. “I can help you, Bucky,” you assure him, voice sincere. “We just need to work together and let me give you the tools to be happy. Do you think you can do that for me, Mr. Barnes?”

It’s clear your words seem to rock Bucky in some way, because he looks at you with something that almost resembles shock. As if he’s never heard anyone say something like that to him, has never wanted to help him become himself again. And if his experiences with Raynor is anything to base off of, Bucky needs a proper support system and someone who’s there with his best interest in mind. You can be that for him - even if it is your job irregardless. 

He’s silent, eyes darting away and breaking the brief moment of eye contact between the both of you. Then, a nod.

“I can try.” it might as well be a promise.

“That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”

[underthemexicansun]

I just want to take care of Bucky Barnes. Like I want to cook for him and do his laundry and buy him books to read and put all his pieces back together again and show him he’s deserving of love and care. But I also want to have hot, dirty sex with him and I want him to choke me and take his anger out on me. I want him to call me his good girl and ruin me for anyone else.

[lynlee494]

I'll Use You (As A Focal Point): Chapter Nine is out!

Bucky knows Steve Rogers would not hurt him, now, that once he had even loved Bucky Barnes. He knows with certainty that Steve would do everything he could to keep him out of Hydra’s grip. Whether Steve would because it is the right thing, or because he is Bucky, worries at him. Bucky isn’t who Steve remembers, he’s been a tool for the enemy whose every action since he gave in had been designed to hurt, the ripple of pain far reaching. Immeasurable.

How can he hold Steve to their whispered promise, echoing across so many memories, in the face of that? Not when Bucky isn’t sure it can survive it.

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

I've seen a lot of theories about what Bucky did to make money in Romania and I put forth:

Math tutor Bucky.

Like. Think about it. Not only did it mention he excelled in the classroom on his Smithsonian description at the end of TWS, but Bucky was a sniper, meaning he had to know a LOT of math, and I doubt that'd be something HYDRA would want to brainwash out of him seeing as he'd need that during his Winter Soldier years. He speaks Romanian so he can talk to the kids, and even though how math is taught may have changed since the 40s he can still teach them a way that gets them to the correct answer. Maybe some might find his way of doing it easier even idk.

I don't know how it would start or why parents would suddenly start trusting their kids to be around this sad hobo looking man that they're 99% sure is squatting in an apartment (in my headcanon he is), but eventually they end up trusting him and he kinda likes it. He doesn't make much money off it, but the parents pay in cash so it isn't traceable (good for someone on the run), and it pays enough that he's able to buy food, do laundry, and maybe some new clothes if he saves up. Or at least, some things from the local thrift store.

I also like to think at least one parent takes pity on the sad man that tutors their Cristian and helped bring his Calculus grade up to a C+ when he was in danger of failing before and they force ask him to stay for dinner whenever he's over for sessions and make sure to send him home with as many leftovers as he can carry

Edited to add: @stuckyfingers added this to the reblog and I loved it so much I had to mention it to the original post!!

[rolandtowen]

hey! are you also feeling shitty this week? so am i. so i wrote a fic framing self-care tasks as a form of spite. you know, for reasons. this'll be quite a few chapters, so please enjoy.

read on Ao3 or under the cut:

I'm doing this for revenge / I am doing this to try and stay true

I'm doing this for the ones / We had to leave behind

I'm doing this for you

-  "Training Montage", The Mountain Goats

Bucky likes his new therapist. 

After helping to defeat the Flag Smashers, he’d started looking for a new therapist. While Dr. Raynor had been helpful, he felt that he was shifting into a new phase of his recovery, and they just weren’t clicking anymore. Luckily enough for him, the US government decided that he was trustworthy enough to pick his own therapist after saving the world (again). He’d asked both Sam and Dr. Raynor for their recommendations in the Brooklyn area. He wanted someone who had a lot of experience with PTSD, had worked with veterans extensively, and hopefully disabled veterans specifically. He didn’t mention this to Sam or Dr. Raynor, but Bucky also wanted a queer therapist. Oh, and the therapist also needed to be comfortable with phone therapy in case Bucky, you know, needed to save the world again. 

That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

That’s how Bucky ended up in the office of one Carlos Sanchez. He was sitting on a couch, like with Dr. Raynor, but that’s where the similarities ended. Dr. Sanchez’s office was colorful and open, and one wall of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves. He’d gone to adjust one of the pillows on the couch before realizing it was a green dinosaur, and it was… heavy?

“Oh, that’s Rodger,” Dr. Sanchez smiles, wheeling out from behind his desk. “He’s weighted, some of my clients find it comforting to hold him on their laps while we talk.”

If Bucky had to guess, he’d say Dr. Sanchez is in his thirties. He’d come highly recommended from Sam, and Bucky’s own internet searching reassured him. A veteran himself, he’d been hit by an IED on his second tour as a medic, causing lower-body paralysis. After being honorably discharged, he went back to school to become a therapist, specializing in PTSD and trauma-informed therapy. On his website, Bucky noticed a little flag with a rainbow on it, and the phrase “queer-friendly” next to it. So far, Dr. Sanchez is checking all of his boxes. 

“Mr. Barnes, I’m really glad you came in,” Bucky shakes his hand. “Before we get started, are there any questions you want answered right away?”

Bucky takes a second to consider before shaking his head. “No, Dr. Sanchez. And please, call me Bucky.”

Dr. Sanchez smiles, making a note on his notepad. “Of course, Bucky. And you are welcome to call me Carlos if you want – I know some clients prefer the formalities, but I want you to know that it’s not necessary here.”

Bucky nods. They spend the first half of the session going over Bucky’s history. Carlos had been sent all of Dr. Raynor’s notes, as well as several files detailing the history of the Winter Soldier, although these were heavily redacted. Carlos asks about his life now, about Sam, and about his current work. Bucky finds him easy to talk to, and when Carlos takes notes, it doesn’t feel like a punishment the same way it had with Dr. Raynor. It feels like Carlos is actually listening to what he’s trying to say. 

Carlos checks his watch. “We have about half an hour left, and I feel pretty caught up on your background – was there anything you want to start talking about today?”

Bucky flounders for a second. Carlos has been nothing but kind to him today, but if he says what he wants to work on – will he laugh? Judge Bucky? “You can say whatever’s on your mind, Bucky. I promise, I’ve heard stranger.”

“I don’t like myself.”

“I see,” Carlos says, making a note. “That’s quite understandable. A lot of veterans struggle with lower self-esteem – that’s something we see in people with PTSD in general. Can you tell me a bit more about that?”

They spend another twenty minutes talking about Bucky’s view of himself before Carlos pauses. “This is a really good start, Bucky. I have an idea I want to run by you.” Bucky nods and Carlos continues. “I’m hearing that self-care is hard for you because you don’t think you deserve it, does that sound right?” Bucky nods again. “So, I’m wondering what it might look like if you started viewing self-care as a form of revenge. Spite, if you will.”

“Spite? In spite of who?”

“In your case, HYDRA. You spent seventy years of your life being denied care and compassion – perhaps it would help to imagine that every time you care for yourself, you’re taking revenge on HYDRA.”

Bucky’s brain tries to wrap itself around the concept. Would it really help him eat better, sleep better, care for himself better if he imagined he was doing it to spite HYDRA? If he’s honest with himself – yeah. “I want – I want to try,” he says. 

Carlos smiles at him. “Alright. Then your homework for this week is to identify at least one self-care task you can improve, keeping in mind this idea of spite. Any questions?” Bucky shakes his head. “Alright, I’ll get you booked for the same time next week, and of course you have my number if you want to meet earlier.”

His first opportunity for spite/self-care (spite-care?) comes the next day. Sam’s been visiting him in Brooklyn, for the first time since their relationship became official. Sam’s helping him unload his groceries for the week, peering into his fridge before saying – “Damn, Buck. You got anything with flavor?”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky gripes, turning to look at Sam. Sam gestures broadly to Bucky’s fridge. “I don’t know man, everything is just, plain, you know?”

Now that Sam’s pointed it out, Bucky supposes that the contents of his fridge aren’t usual. There are a lot of protein shakes, formulated by Shuri especially to deal with his enhanced metabolism. There’s peanut butter and jelly, some fruit, a gallon of milk, and some overnight oats. “What’s wrong with plain food?”

Sam hums, wrapping his arms around Bucky. “Nothing wrong with it. But you seem to really enjoy Sarah’s cooking, so this is surprising to me.”

“I love Sarah’s cooking,” Bucky sighs. He resigns himself to be embarrassed. “I just don’t really know how to cook like she does.” 

“Surely you know how to cook a little bit, right?”

Bucky spins around to look Sam in the eye. “I learned how to cook during the Great Depression, Sam. The extent of my culinary skills is being able to boil potatoes three ways.”

That gets a laugh and a kiss from Sam. “Okay, I see your point. Do you want to know how to cook better?”

“Like Sarah?” Bucky asks. “God, yes.”

“Okay, we’ll make a date of it then. I’ll text her tonight and see what she thinks a good beginner recipe is, and then we can go back to the store tomorrow, yeah? I know her recipes pretty well, but we can video call her too.”

“Really?” Bucky hates how small his voice sounds. There’s the familiar feeling closing in around him, the voice in the back of his mind whispering you don’t deserve this. But he takes a breath and thinks about what Carlos said. Taking care of himself is an act of revenge. HYDRA would have never considered if he liked the food he was eating. Hell, they didn’t even care if he was fed. 

“‘Course, Buck,” Sam’s voice brings him back to the present moment. His phone pings, and he reads a text from Sarah. “Okay, she’s just sent me our grandma’s jambalaya recipe.”

“Sounds like a date,” Bucky murmurs, resting his head against Sam’s shoulder. 

Bucky Barnes is going to make a jambalaya to spite HYDRA.

[ccappucino]