Chapter Text
On Saturday afternoons, Steve liked to go to Sam's group therapy sessions. Bucky, feeling he had enough of his own nightmares to contend with, never felt much like listening to strangers share theirs.
That didn't stop Steve from inviting him every single time he went, or from spending an hour after he returned talking about how great the damn things were. You didn't have to be a mind reader to see how badly Steve wanted Bucky to go with him.
“Not everyone feels comfortable in a group setting, I know,” Steve granted, slapping a sandwich together in the kitchen and chomping into it. “For some people it's easier to talk in a more private, one-on-one situation. That might be the perfect thing for you, you know?”
At least he wasn't beating around the bush this time - Bucky had to give him that. “But I don't need to talk to anyone. I'm fine,” he reminded Steve.
“Fine?!” Steve almost choked on his own enthusiasm, which was being smothered by bologna and white bread. “You're more than fine, Bucky, you're an inspiration!” Steve coughed. “That's why Sam and I want you to come down and speak at one of the sessions. You're a survivor with an incredible story. You could give people a lot of hope.”
Bucky stared back at Steve, incredulous. From his perspective, the best thing he could do for this world was to keep the horrors of his past to himself. If his stories could inspire anything, hope wasn't it. “No.”
Steve frowned. “Well, will you at least think about maybe talking to Sam? It doesn't have to be a traditional sort of thing. Maybe you guys can go out for beers or something...”
Steve didn't push this hard unless he really wanted Bucky to try something. Instead of flat-out refusing, Bucky hesitated, thinking of a compromise that wouldn't be as repugnant as detailing and dissecting his agony over beers at Hooter's. “I'm not talking to Sam,” Bucky asserted, then, before Steve's open mouth could bring up Natasha, he added, “or any of your other friends.”
Steve's frown deepened and he looked sideways at Bucky. “Why not?”
“Just...” Bucky couldn't believe he had to explain therapy to therapy's biggest fan. “... it's a little awkward, you know? Most people go to therapy so they can complain about their life to someone who's not in their life. I can't complain about Sam if Sam's my therapist!”
Steve scratched his head. “Yeah, I guess an outsider's perspective can be beneficial...”
“No shit.”
Steve dropped the topic without asking why Bucky would need to complain about Sam. In truth, outside of getting Steve so excited about therapy, Bucky really didn't have any problem with Sam. Maybe if get myself a therapist, he thought, they'll help me come up with something.
At first, Bucky had no intention of seeing a therapist at all. He could choose a slot of time every week – say, Wednesdays at two – and spend a set amount of time wandering around the mall or some other place he was sure not to run into Steve or anyone he else knew. From listening to him blather about his beloved group sessions, Bucky was confident he knew enough psychotherapy jargon to fabricate stories and updates for Steve on his “progress.”
Long-term deceptions are bitches, though, and it's almost inevitable that the deceived gets wise to it eventually. Steve being Steve, the discovery would be devastating. Bucky would feel like shit, and since the biggest and most obvious question would be why, the entire misadventure would only result in Steve having even more reason to think Bucky was hiding something. So, on to plan B – actually just going to a fucking therapist.
Nothing about this plan appealed to Bucky besides the convenience of not having to lie to Steve. The first thing he had to do was find a therapist. He really had no idea what he wanted in one beyond them not being connected to Steve in any way. In this regard, he had declined both Steve and Sam when they offered to help him search for an appropriate purveyor of bullshit, even though they insisted that it was tricky to ''find the right person to fit your needs.” Thing was, he and they had very different ideas of what his needs were.
Frankly, Bucky was insulted by their concern. He had survived the most advanced methods of brainwashing and mind control the world had ever seen. Nobody could come close to doing what Pierce and Zola had done to him. Worrying that the wrong shrink might fuck him up was like worrying that kids might break a window in a condemned house. His soul was rent and irreparable. Letting some inept dipshit scatter the pieces around was fine if it kept Steve happy.
Like everything else in the twenty-first century, Bucky's mission to find a harmless, incompetent, and hopefully inexpensive therapist started with the internet. He found a mental health directory and began skimming a list of physicians that were compatible with his insurance, noting their specializations: eating disorders, anxieties, depression, anger management... every kind of psychic dysfunction was represented. He had only been at it a few minutes when a name caught his attention. Bucky read through the doctor's summary of expertise a few times and chuckled. For the first time, Bucky wondered if this therapy thing might actually turn out to be fun.
Sam said he went to Hooter's for the chicken wings but Bucky figured it was probably tits. Steve said he went to Hooter's for the chicken wings and he was telling the truth. Bucky didn't give a shit about tits or chicken wings but he was there because he needed approval for his new therapist.
Sam and Steve were working their way through a huge plate of wings, Sam's eyes wandering the room while Steve's stayed trained on the chicken. When he remembered the purpose of the social gathering Sam asked, “So, Steve says you might have found someone?”
Such a vague question might be construed a couple of different ways, but no one at that table would mistake Bucky for the dating type. Not now, anyway.
Bucky pushed his phone forward and tapped it on so Sam could read the blurb without getting sauce all over it. Taking the hint, Sam reached for a napkin but seemed distracted as he read.
“What do you think?” Bucky asked.
Instead of answering, Sam reread the short paragraph out loud. “Jim Bolton, PhD, MC, LPC. Experienced counselor specializing in memory and dissociative disorders - amnesia, identity, misidentification, delusional, false memory, as well as comorbid personality disorders of the paranoid, emotional, and anxious types. Treatments available: abreaction, hypnosis, transcranial magnetic stimulation, ECT referral. Outpatients welcome.”
His fingers now clean, Sam fidgeted with his wrist watch and cleared his throat. “These diagnoses... well, let me ask you this – when you saw this ad, what attracted you to it?”
“Memory disorders,” Bucky answered, then seeing that Sam did not seem satisfied, added, “amnesia, anxiety. These things seem relevant to me.”
“Okay...” Sam rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his nose. His body language was betraying how uncomfortable he felt talking about this.
He wants to find a tasteful way to tell you that this is a doctor for lunatics, Bucky reflected. You must either convince him that you are in fact a lunatic, or that you are too naïve to understand what one is.
“... I know as well as Steve does that your memory has been fucked with pretty hard,” Sam said, his blunt lead-in earning him a momentary glare from Steve, “but what's important is that you know that. You know that things have been added and taken away from you, and you know it's all artificial - by that I mean it's been done purposefully, and with technology and methods that we don't fully understand yet.” Sam paused and took a sip of his water. “Do you know which memories are real and which aren't?”
Bucky swallowed. “Sometimes.”
“But you want to know, right?”
Bucky eyes drifted down to the table.
“Look, most memory disturbances are caused by trauma,” Sam continued. “Any good doctor will ask their patient why they want to go digging around in a traumatized memory before getting started. So that's what I'm asking you - what do you want to find out about your memory and why do you think it will make you any happier? What if you unearth something painful?”
In the brief pause that followed Sam's questions, Bucky wondered if he was actually expected to answer. He kept his eyes locked on the table and waited for Sam to keep going.
“I know you have to do what feels right for you,” Sam said, “but I personally think it would be more valuable for you to learn how to cope with the past and build on it than to dig into it and disturb its foundations.”
Bucky sighed deeply, hoping it seemed born out of consideration rather than exasperation. Then he looked up from the table and gave Steve and Sam a tight-lipped smile. “I've already made the appointment,” he confessed.
“Oh,” Sam said, shrugging, “well what are you asking me for?” He grabbed another chicken wing and began looking around the room again. “Have you seen our waitress?” he asked no one in particular.