Work Text:
It wasn’t Pete’s fault.
If he had to deal with himself, he wouldn't breathe a word either.
He was unstable.
Unreliable.
He already thought about getting out too many times.
He still felt too guilty about how young and naive and pure Peter was.
Didn't matter how much he loved him. He didn't do a thing to make him feel safe enough to rely on him.
It wasn’t his fault.
But it still sent him into a spiral and he didn’t know how to stop.
He was trying to open himself to Peter. He was trying so damn hard to start trusting people again and Peter Parker was such an easy person to trust. But now-…
Now he was feeling like Peter broke that trust because he didn't trust him back and he knew it wasn't it, and he knew he shouldn't be trusted anyways, but he couldn't fucking stop.
It wasn't Peter's fault he was failing so bad at being there for him but he still felt like he had any right to-…
… To what? Feel?
He remembered that little exercise they did on session.
He had a right to feel, didn't he?
It didn't matter yet if it was fair or not, cause it was how he was feeling right now.
“My feelings are valid, doesn't matter what trigger ‘em. I have a right to feel. I have a right to-…” – shit, he needed to call his therapist. – “to feel like shit. Like I deserve this. Jesus-…”
She'd probably be busy. Her world didn't revolve around his sorry ass. But she'd said to call her. She said she'd help.
He needed help.
He felt so out of control he felt sick with it. He was terrified of what he'd do when everything first happened. When the hurt first slashed through his chest, so hot and sharp, bleeding everywhere. He was scared of saying anything he'd regret. Of hurting Peter on his own hurt.
He didn't trust himself not to lash out. He was a trained killing machine. He didn't even trust his own judgment yet most of the time.
God, that was not fair at all was it?
He was a man, not a machine. He was a person. He wasn't a thing…
So, why-…?
He thought he was doing better.
He was doing better.
Wasn't he?
He stopped walking around, back and forth, on his living room, sitting at the old couch with deliberate care for fear of breaking it.
He did the same with his phone, finding Jo’s number.
.
Jo was his new therapist. The one he chose, that is.
He never really felt at ease at the other doc's office. In her presence. With her notes and her rules and the government on their nose telling what he needed to work on to be functional again.
Jo was easier. She was calm and gentle and warm and had a hand of steel underneath her gentle touch.
Her office was welcoming, bright with sunlight and flowers. It had a rug and a little side table with tissues and armchairs and a big sofa, a round table with sturdy wood chairs and a gentle welcoming smell.
He could choose where to sit.
He could ask her not to take notes in front of him.
He already told her about the worst shit he could remember and she never judged him for it.
She said he had nothing to atone for, because the intent behind the actions were never his. He didn't have any kind of agency to be able to choose anything, then. And he almost believes it when she says it.
She’s married to an honorably discharged soldier who got her leg blown up by an IED. She knows trauma.
Knows PTSD.
He still forgot sometimes the new, proper name and the meaning behind it and called it combat stress reaction, or battle fatigue. She didn’t even blink. He believed she even researched oldie 40’s slangs or something, because she always knew what he was talking about and only corrected him when he asked how it is called now.
She didn't bullshit him and didn't let him get away with it if he tried to.
She was a specialist on trauma, and she always made him feel like his thoughts and feelings mattered, even when she was showing him where they didn't add up.
So, that next afternoon – after he accidentally broke his phone with his metal hand when he got a notification of an income text from Pete, and then threw the damn thing so hard, he put a hole in his wall, and then cried of despair and anger and frustration for it all until he passed out to wake up an hour later from nightmares to never get back to sleep again –, he was alone at the waiting room, looking at the creamy wall fixedly to keep himself from running away.
He felt scrapped raw.
“Sorry for the time. Did I kept you waiting much?”
“No” – he replied tiredly, getting on his feet and following her back inside.
For the way the room looked perfectly cozy and airy, he knew she’d been cleaning up after her last patient.
He still could tell they used the table.
“I was so happy when you called yesterday to rearrange your hour, after the last one’s miss. But you didn’t come just to see my smiley face, did you?” – she locked the door for privacy, getting her coily hair out of her heart shaped face with distracted fingers.
It was a time since he last categorized someone’s every movement.
God, he was exhausted.
“How were you these past few weeks?” – she asked kindly, indicating for him to sit down if he wanted.
He chose the armchair farthest away from the window.
“I can’t really talk detail about why I was away, but you can ask why the fuck I’m here right now, doc.”
“Do you want me to ask this?”
“No. But… But I need to talk about it. I need to fix this.”
“Fix what?”
He shook his head nervously.
“Me. I need to fix me. I mean, I-I’m not working right. I’m mad when I shouldn’t be, I’m hurt but I have no right, and now Peter probably thinks I hate him all because I can’t work like a normal person. He dealt with so much bullshit this past two weeks because of me and I’m-I’m here, cracking up for nothing when it’s all my fault.”
“Can you tell me what happened, Bucky?” – she asked again in that nonobtrusive way of hers.
So, he did.
.
“... That seems like a big leap.” – she sounded honest to God puzzled about it and he couldn't help but laugh a sardonic laugh.
“Is it? A scruffy old man drops outta nowhere to pick a kid up after school and offers money to them before they go off together? After I kissed him. What the fuck was I even thinking?”
“Bucky, you're not an old man. You may be over a hundred on paper but-...”
“I'm probably 40 or something! I'm old and I'm fucking a 17-year-old kid! Why would anyone expect something good outta this? Why you don't say anything about this?”
“Why are you trying to shock me?”
“... What?”
“You used these exact words: ‘I'm old and I'm fucking a 17-year-old kid.’” – she uncrossed her legs, re-crossing them at the ankles. – “You are on a committed relationship within the exact parameters of the law. Peter is a consenting partner and from everything you have ever brought me, you two have a pretty functional, healthy relationship. So why are you trying to shock me into judging you for it?”
“I... I don't know.”
“Don't you?”
“I-... I don't deserve him. Look at what I am! Look how young he is! He's so innocent, he's naive... and I’m-... I'm unstable. Look what's happening now. He didn't trust me not to flip with all this and he was right. And I'm still hurt over it. He didn't trust me cause I can't be trusted!”
“Bucky, you are a survivor of horrors most of us can't even imagine. You fought for your right to exist and you are winning. You put your life on hold because of the war when you were 24, and you didn’t want it. My wife joined the Army freely and served for choice. You joined to not be drafted. You said it already you never cared to fight, you wanted to take care of your own. You’re not a killer, you are a nurturer. You take care of your own and you are hurt you where deprived the chance to try to protect your boyfriend.”
“But I’m good a killin’.” – he rasped, eyes burning with unshed tears he didn’t want it to share. To have.
“What we are good at doesn’t define who we are. It’s what we thrive on doing, what nurture us, that do. You are a protector. That’s what it is on your essence.”
“…But he didn’t trust me.”
“Bucky, he didn't conceal the situation from you because he didn't trust you or because he was afraid of you. He did it because he was afraid of how it would hurt you. You have the right to feel hurt over it, like he'd have the right, if your places were reversed, but you shouldn't look at his actions as an endorsement of your bad feelings towards yourself, because they didn't come from a place of judgment or distrust, they did from a place of love and care. He was trying to protect you too.”
“But now I hurt him too. He's probably scared shitless right now cause I’m cracked at the head and just disappeared.”
“Bucky, being in a committed relationship with someone is to be bound to hurt them and get hurt by them once in a while too. It's only human. And it's okay. A heathy relationship is not about avoiding conflicts, but about working together to overcome them. And you're doing your part. You didn't engage when you felt prone to lash out, you communicated you didn't feel able to deal with the question at the time. You're here to deal with it and try to understand what's going on inside your head because you want to reach out to him. You're doing your part.”
.
It wasn't all ok, but he did feel calmer when he left Jo's building.
They talked about a lot more stuff. About the bed thing, the broken phone, his fear of being out of control, why this situation was such a big trigger for him.
He felt drained to the bone, but lighter. Less like he was drowning.
Still hurt tho.
He had to talk to Peter about it. Tel him how he felt.
Hear him out too.
He got into the first phone shop he could find, dead remains of his old one buried on his jacket's front pocket, to find himself a new one to be able to call his best guy and try to sort this out.
It was not Pete's fault.
But they had to talk about it. Set boundaries for that kind of thing to never happen again.
He was trying to be better.
To get better.
He was trying so hard to start trusting people again and Peter was such an easy person to trust.
So, he could trust him to try. Could trust that, even if he failed, he'd give his all to never hurt that trust ever again.
.