Work Text:
The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.
You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.
Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”
Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.
That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”
“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”
“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”
He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.
The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.
---
“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.
You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”
"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.
"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."
Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"
"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."
She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"
“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”
Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”
“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”
“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”
You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”
“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”
“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”
“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.
---
Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.
“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.
“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”
“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”
“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”
“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”
“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”
“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”
“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”
He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”
The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”
Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”
Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”
---
Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”
He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”
“How’s the loneliness doing?”
He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”
“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”
---
A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.
“You beat me again,” you say.
“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”
“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”
He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”
“So am I.”
You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.
Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”
You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”
“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.
---
July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.
“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.
“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”
“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”
He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”
---
The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.
“Old-man coffee,” you tease.
“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”
“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”
“Did you sleep any better?”
“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”
He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”
“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”
He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”
“Judge and I take it back.”
He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”
Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”
“Anytime, Barnes.”
You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”
He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”
You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”
He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”
---
The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”
“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”
The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”
You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”
He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.
---
Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”
“Meaning?”
“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”
You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”
“Sound dangerous.”
“Live a little, Barnes.”
He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.
“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.
You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”
Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.
And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.
---
You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.
“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.
He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”
“You get a medal for that.”
“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”
“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”
He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”
“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”
“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”
You lean in. “Any lighter?”
“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”
“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”
He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”
A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.
You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”
“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”
“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”
He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”
“Only if they don’t touch the art.”
“No promises.”
---
You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”
“Jealous?”
“A little.”
You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”
“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.
You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”
He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”
A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”
“Same thing.”
You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”
He blinks. “Package, huh?”
“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”
He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.
---
Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.
Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text
“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.”
“You asleep?”
You smile, thumbs flying.
“Wide awake, obviously.”
“Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”
Three dots… then your phone rings.
“Hey,” you whisper.
His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”
“Then be interesting.”
He snorts. “No pressure.”
Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.
“Tired?” he asks, softer.
“Keep talking.”
He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.
“Why?” you mumble.
“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”
Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Don’t hang up yet.”
“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”
“Night, Bucky.”
Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.
Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.
---
Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."
You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."
She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"
You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."
Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."
"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."
"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."
---
Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.
"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.
"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."
"Advice?"
He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."
You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."
"It is. Hence the advice request."
You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."
"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."
Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"
"In the best way."
Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.
"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."
He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"
You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."
"Deal."
---
The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.
The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.
You shut the book. "You survived."
"Barely."
"Anyone bite?"
"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"
"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."
He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."
"Always."
You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.
He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."
"That’s huge."
"Didn’t feel huge."
"It will tomorrow."
He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"
Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."
"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."
The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.
"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"
"Now?" you prompt softly.
"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."
You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."
He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."
You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."
"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"
"Better."
He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.
---
Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.
Dad.
You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."
"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"
You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"
He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."
"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"
"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"
You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."
"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"
"I didn't move on."
"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"
"Dad, please stop."
He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"
Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."
"Y/N—"
You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."
Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.
---
Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.
He types out another quick message:
"You close? Saving you a seat."
Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:
"You okay?"
Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"
He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"
She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"
"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."
Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."
He’s already out the door.
---
He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"
No answer.
Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."
Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.
He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:
"Outside your door. Please open."
Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.
Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."
---
Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.
"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"
You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.
Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"
You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.
"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."
Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"
A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."
Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."
Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."
"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."
He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."
You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"
"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."
You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.
"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."
You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.
Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.
"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."
You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.
He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."
You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."
"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."
You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."
"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"
You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."
"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."
You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.
He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."