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Steve used to have a little notebook he would write in, sitting on the windowsill of their tiny Brooklyn apartment and looking out at the world. It carried over into their teenage years and then their time in the war, where Steve would write down all the good things about the world in an effort to drown out the bad. It was a staple, a constant, a comfort in the pain.
Both in Brooklyn and in war, he’d buy Steve any pretty little notebook he could find. He even began to buy them for himself.
The notebook became one of Bucky’s favorite things to see; it meant warmth, it meant Steve was safe, it meant that everything was okay.
Then something changed.
It started with Hydra. It started with the Red Book. The Winter Soldier hated that book, had started shaking just at the very mention of it. The Red Book meant pain. The Red Book meant suffering. The Red Book meant-
It started with Hydra, with the Red Book, and continued with Zemo. And then…
“You don’t mind if I take some notes, do you James?” Dr. Raynor asked, propping a red-leather bound notebook on her knee.
Bucky stared at it, the Winter Soldier in him already trembling.
Dr. Raynor cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to talk to me, James?”
Bucky sat, unmoving, eyes unable to pull away from the notebook.
Raynor sighed. She picked up a pen and clicked it, putting the ball-point tip to the paper.
“Sorry,” Bucky blurted, eyes wide. “Sorry. Sorry. I can- I’ll- I’ll talk, just- just please don’t take notes.”
Dr. Raynor rolled her eyes. “Just talk to me, and I won’t have to.”
Bucky doesn’t like notebooks anymore.
~*~*~
“Buck?”
Bucky turns, seeing Sam from his spot sitting on the edge of the dock.
“Hey, man,” Sam says, sitting beside him so they can swing their feet over the lake. “You seem kinda out of it today.”
“I do?”
Sam nods. “Hey- I was wondering if you wanted to try a session?”
Bucky recoils slightly. “Like. A therapy session? Right now?”
“Mhm. Only if you want to, though. I just want us to figure out what we need to work on, you know? Nothing too heavy.”
What we need to work on. Like Bucky’s some sort of dog Sam has to train.
“Do I have to talk?”
“For this one, yeah,” Sam says apologetically. “But we can take as long as you need, and after this first session, we don’t ever have to do talk therapy again. I promise.”
Bucky pushes a deep breath out slowly before he looks at his friend. “I’m trusting you with this, okay? I’m trying.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Bucky nods curtly, swallowing against a well of emotions and fear. “Okay. We can- can we do it here?”
“Wherever you feel comfortable, Buck.”
“Alright. Go ahead.”
Sam grins. “Awesome.”
He reaches into the breast pocket of his coat, pulling out a blue, spiral notebook and a pen.
Bucky freezes, staring at it.
“I’m gonna start with some things about doctor-patient confidentiality, okay?” Sam says, flipping open the notebook. “Usually, I’d say something like ‘I will keep these sessions confidential unless I fear you’re in danger of hurting yourself or others’, but I don’t think that that applies to our situation, huh? All of these sessions will be kept confidential, no matter- Buck?”
Bucky suddenly realizes his breathing has accelerated, his heart beat skyrocketing at the sight of the notebook. “I-“
“Bucky? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Bucky shakes his head, drawing away from Sam. He manages to stutter out, “The- the- the book-“
Sam looks down at his notebook, brows furrowed. “My notebook? I don’t- oh .”
Some realization must suddenly hit him, because he drops the notebook on his left side, where Bucky can’t see it. “Okay. We don’t have to use the notebook. It’s more there for looks, really- patients get nervous when a therapist is just sitting there staring at them.”
Sam’s making a joke, and Bucky all but topples over with relief, though his breathing is still short and panicky, the Winter Soldier in him not quite sure that the threat is gone.
“Can I touch you?”
Bucky nods fervently. Sam’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his arms, bringing his right hand to his own chest and taking deep, exaggerated breaths.
Bucky’s hand fists in Sam’s shirt on reflex as he fights to breathe.
“Try to match my breathing, Buck,” Sam directs. “In for seven, hold for four, and out for eight.”
Bucky complies as best he can, and the Winter Soldier slowly recedes, leaving Bucky shivering against Sam’s chest.
“There we go,” Sam murmurs, stroking a hand up and down his arm. “You good?”
Bucky nods, pulling away and wiping at his face. “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Sam soothes. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I- Hydra used to use the Red Book. To control me- to control us . And then- then- Dr. Raynor- I kept asking her to stop writing but she wouldn’t - unless I talked-“
Sam frowns. “She used your trigger as a way to make you talk?”
Trigger? What?
“I guess…?”
Sam stands suddenly, jaw clenched. “I knew I got a bad vibe off of her. C’mon. I’m gonna go make some calls- I know a few people who could get her license removed.”
“What?”
Sam pulls Bucky to his feet with the hand still in his and meets his gaze. “Listen. What she did? Using something you have trauma with as a way to force you into doing something she wanted you to do? That is not okay , Buck. Especially for a therapist who specializes in PTSD and paranoia. Get me?”
No. “Okay.”
“I won’t do that to you. And if I do, please tell me- hell, punch me in the face if that’s what you feel like you need to do.”
Definitely not. “Okay.”
Sam nods. “Now. C’mon, it’s almost dinner time. And I got a bitch to get fired.”
He strides off towards the house, looking for all the world like a man on a mission.
Bucky rolls his eyes at the man’s shenanigans.
As he’s walking away, the blue of the notebook catches his eye. After a bit of time worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, he bends down to pick it up.
The cover says “Therapy book for depressed people”, written in thick black sharpie. Inside, it’s filled with doodles, random song lyrics, and what looks to be a recipe for “good old fashioned southern breakfast biscuits”.
There’s nothing about any actual therapy sessions.
Bucky shakes his fondly and goes to return the book to its owner.