A/N: Big chapter! So the inspiration for this one comes from the song "The Messenger" You Tube link ends in (/watch?v=21YBpBWhXAo)

And from this one: "Cardiff" by Stone Sour You Tube link ends in (/watch?v=HAheGCIQDyA)

... but we'll see more of that in the next chapters.


Bucky watched her sleeping long after the credits ran their course, finding that more restful than the film. All in all, he'd liked it. It was a good story at its heart, and he'd enjoyed the glimpses of Boston culture in it. He'd had a buddy from South Boston in the 107th that he used to play cards with. Apparently, some things had stayed the same, a Southie was still a Southie, and that was strangely comforting. A fond memory he'd been glad to have returned to him. Weren't many of those, unfortunately. Most of them were ones he'd rather be without, so he guarded the good ones close.

Where he wasn't exactly sleepy, his mind was in a calmer state. He might be able to catch a little shuteye if he tried. Hilly's insomnia cure worked for her. She lay limp and boneless, her head lolled against the back of the sofa. Her neck would ache if he left her as she was. He cursed his lack of an arm again. If he were whole… but he wasn't. She was a tiny thing, but he couldn't pick her up without waking her.

She almost looked like another person all curled up, her face soft, relaxed, younger somehow. She seemed so much bigger when she was awake, with her direct gaze and plain speech, facing him down when he challenged her. He knew he'd scared her; he'd seen it in her eyes, but she hadn't let it stop her. Hilly was a no bullshit type of dame, and he respected that, he did, but she was going to need more than a go-get 'em attitude to put humpty dumpty back together. How she and Steve believed it could happen was beyond him.

He closed his eyes and tried to push away the darkness trying to crowd back in. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Bucky extracted himself from the blanket, and pushed gently at Hilly's shoulder. She came awake with a start, eyes too wide and confusion clouding her features.

"Let's get you to your room," Bucky said, his voice pitched low.

She blinked, her nose scrunching up as she tried to get her thoughts untangled. She nodded finally, but made no move to get up. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and her blinks longer than they should be. She was about to go under again. He wondered how long it had been since she'd gotten a good night's rest if it was this hard to wake her.

"Hilly, come on," he gripped her forearm and started to pull her up.

She glared at him but stood unsteadily, swaying on her feet, her blanket cocooned around her. He sighed and slung his arm around her waist and started walking her towards her room. She let herself be led, and he tried to ignore the soft press of her warm body against his as much as he was able. Contact with others had been limited, and having her so close was almost painful he craved it so much. It was why he'd sunk down next to her on the sofa to begin with, accepting her offer. Why he hadn't pulled away when she'd stretched out in sleep, her legs brushing his. Aside from Steve or the impersonal touch of a lab technician or scientist, he couldn't remember the last time someone touched him in peace. He snorted, a sad state he was in if tucking his head shrinker into bed was enough to leave him all weepy.

He stopped outside her door, "Okay doc. You gotta open the door for me." She frowned up at him again, but complied. "That's it. Bed's this way."

Bucky led her to it, and Hilly tumbled in, pulling her blanket snug around her. He took a quick glance around, noting her piles of books, likely pillaged from the library, the half-empty amber liquor in a glass decanter, the stacks of files and pages of notes strewn across the desk. He was curious, but he didn't want to invade her privacy. He felt like he was intruding already.

"Okay, I'll lock this behind me. Night, Hilly."

"Mpfh," she answered. "Hate to see you go but I love watching you walk away…" she mumbled.

He stopped and turned back to her, "What?"

She was already snoring.

Hilly was already making coffee in the common kitchen when Bucky made an appearance. She smiled at him and tried hard not to think about what he'd felt like pressed against her, how warm and solid. He'd just been helping her to bed. For his part, it didn't seem like her insomnia cure worked on him. The shadows under his eyes were as deep as ever. He was dressed for the day in jeans and a deep blue t-shirt, unlike her, still clad in track pants and a sleep t-shirt.

"Morning. How long have you been up?" she asked.

"Dawn."

Her eyes widened, "Not much sleep then?"

He shook his head, his eyes cast downwards.

"Did you eat yet?" She asked.

He had, but that was hours ago, and his metabolism burned through food at a much higher rate. His stomach growled audibly, answering for him.

Hilly grinned, "Okay then. Care to join me for breakfast? You really don't have to cook. There's some instant oatmeal in here. They've stocked it with some pretty easy stuff. Specially imported, just for the resident Americans. Even I can't screw it up."

"We're going to start today?" he asked, ignoring the offer of food.

She frowned and turned to face him, "Yes. Is that still okay?"

He sighed and shook his head, "I—Yes. Never mind."

She cocked a brow at him but let it go. If she didn't press now, it may come out of him easier later. It wasn't ideal to start her sessions with him when he'd had so little sleep, she'd guess three hours at best. It would be worse to wait. She could only hope that after what she worked with him on today, he might be able to sleep tonight.

She opened up the pantry door, intent on making herself a bowl of Quaker goodness. She was partial to the peaches and cream flavor, and bless the kind soul that had selected the fruit and cream variety pack. Blame it on her southern roots.

"I don't mind making breakfast. I need to do something useful anyway."

She shut the door and turned to face him. "Need help?"

He shook his head and began to rifle through the cabinets, pulling out a heavy skillet, then eggs and bacon from the fridge. Bacon came in little vacuum sealed packages most often these days, a "peel here" note in its corner. You could still get it wrapped in paper from the butcher counter, but this was some of the special foods their hosts had purchased for them to make them feel at home. It was mostly wasted on him, but he was sure Hilly appreciated it.

He stared at the innocent little words and slammed the package down on the counter, pulled one of the knives from the magnet on the wall, flipped it to reverse the grip, and pinned the package to the butcher block to hold it steady then snagged another to slash the package open. Peel here. Peel this.

Hilly's barstool screeched back as he opened the bacon. Right. Maybe a little overreacting there. He just shrugged one broad shoulder and continued, keeping his back solidly to her face. He didn't want to see what she must be thinking.

Hilly took a few gulps of her coffee and waited for her heart to slow back down. Bucky had scared the crap out of her. She probably wouldn't have opened the package quite so viciously, but then again, she had two hands to work with. The speed at which he'd managed the two knives was incredible. Even short his cybernetic arm, Bucky was a very dangerous man.

Bacon, a side of scrambled eggs and another pile of toast and jam later, and Bucky settled into a quiet calm in place of the quiet agitation she'd been met with this morning.

He hadn't spoken much, monosyllables and grunts in place of actual words. There went her hopes for him sharing what had him so worried on his own. They weren't there yet. Patience was the name of the game in therapy, and just because he'd willingly shared space with her last night didn't mean he trusted her enough to spill his guts just because she asked. Hilly spent two weeks watching security footage over and over, reading his file, reading his journals, and talking to Steve about the Bucky that he used to be.

Steve said Bucky hadn't been much of a sharer before his Winter Soldier days either. He never talked about what Zola had done to him when he was experimented on the first time, and he and Steve were like brothers. Yeah, she already felt close to him, but he didn't have the same connection to her. He'd just met her, and really, given his background, she shouldn't feel disappointed he didn't feel the same bond.

"Meet you in my office in an hour?" she asked.

Bucky just nodded, his face carefully blank.

Precisely on time, Bucky arrived at her office. She waved him in and asked him to take a seat in the chair they'd wired up to read his vitals and scan his brain function as they worked. Hilly pressed a button on the intercom on the desk and asked the lab to come online. Jak was on the other end, acknowledging they were set. This first session, he'd tend to the details in person.

"You learn the word to shut me down?" he asked, his voice drawn and bleak.

"Yes."

She didn't think she'd need it, but they'd been over all that before. It got him in the door, and that was what mattered. There was time to address the rest of it. She invited him to sit, gesturing to the chair they had made for him. He looked at it like it may bite him, but walked to it, his posture stiff.

"Sit, please."

"Yeah," he answered, his voice barely audible.

He sat, although he had a death grip on the arm and a sheen of sweat stood out on his brow.

She pushed her chair over until she was right next to him and sat down. "You don't want to do this." she stated.

He humphed, "No, but it doesn't matter what I want."

"I'm afraid it does," she argued, her voice soft.

Bucky clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching in his cheek. She waited him out. She'd thought it had been too easy to get him to sit through sessions, and she'd been right. In abstract, it was something he could logically understand the need for, but when it came to planting his ass in the chair and getting to work, it wasn't so easy.

He sighed, breaking finally after a long tense minute of him staring her down. "It's what I have to do, but no bullshit, doc, it's not something I want to do."

She nodded, "Understandable. This does have to be your choice, though."

My choice. It is. It's my choice.

"Let's get started," he said.

"First thing is teaching you to relax and get through the memories without lashing out or having a panic attack. That's all we'll focus on today. You'll need to practice them on your own, not just in here."

He sat back, bemused. "The triggers—"

"Will come in time, but this has to be first."

He frowned, "How much time?" He felt like a bomb walking around with the triggers in his head. The sooner they came out, the better. He couldn't ever get that out of his mind, and now he was going to have to wait even longer?

"That's really up to you, but not as long as you might think. Once you can ride out the memories without it shutting you down, we can move to the trigger words." He didn't give her a response, so she pushed on, "So, what have you been doing when you get a rough one?"

He shook his head, "Wait it out, mostly. Then I write it down." He looked down at his feet, "I'm not doing so great with them on my own," he admitted. The incident with Steve rose up in his mind. Okay, not so great was probably an understatement. "You're saying when I get a flashback, I could just… deal with it? Not end up laying on the ground waitin' for someone to put a bullet in me while I'm lost in my head?"

"That's the idea."

He looked up, interest sparking, "Yeah, okay. That'd be good."

Hilly smiled, "We'll learn three techniques to help you relax. You'll have to figure out which ones work best for you when. I'm going to expect you to practice them daily, and the time to practice is not in the middle of a panic attack."

"I can do that." His lips lifted at the corner, a hint of humor returning at last.

"Put your hand here, on your chest," she reached out and laid her hand in the middle of his chest, a brief touch to show him where. He obeyed after a beat. "This hand shouldn't move. We're going to be taking deep belly breaths. In for a four count, hold for two count, out for four." She laid her hand on his abdomen, "Your breaths should move here." She swallowed hard as his breath caught at her touch, his eyes locking on hers with an intensity behind his gaze she wasn't expecting.

She tried to ignore the hard wall of muscle bunching beneath her fingers and the sudden urge to lift his shirt and touch his skin. What the hell was wrong with her? He was a client, and he didn't need this. She shook herself mentally, ignored the urge to snatch her hand away and acted as if the close proximity didn't affect her.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice steady despite her nerves.

Bucky just gave a sharp nod.

She walked him through a six breath cycle, his eyes watching her hand on his body, his breaths making it rise and fall just as she'd asked.

Hilly removed her hand from his abdomen and sat back in her chair. She explained how to use deep breathing when he started noticing anxiety creeping in on him. At the first sign, not when it had already spun out of control. She wanted him to do three five minute practice sessions a day, and they'd also start each session with it. Bucky listened intently, and she believed he would practice on his own, even without any prompting from her. The idea of eliminating a pretty significant vulnerability was important enough to him to make it worthwhile. Good. She'd take it, whatever reason.

"Technique number two?" he asked.

"Progressive Muscle Relaxation. Same idea as the breathing. It will help take the focus off the anxiety or whatever it is you're seeing, and place it on something you can control."

She walked him through the technique of tightening his muscles, one part of his body at a time, systematically and then relaxing, careful to keep her hands in her lap on this one even though she usually did use touch to tell if the muscle was isolated as it should be. In the breathing technique, she normally had her patients use their own hands, but Bucky didn't have that option so she jumped in. She'd jumped in and now she couldn't stop thinking about it.

It was bad enough watching him clench his bicep until it shook before letting the tension go. If she couldn't draw a line for herself here, she was going to have to tell them she couldn't continue on with Bucky, and she had the feeling that would be a bad thing for her continued safety. If anyone learned she'd been working with Bucky Barnes, it was only a matter of time till someone figured out she knew more than she'd let on. Maybe she'd get lucky and no one would connect the dots, but she'd be looking over her shoulder forever now that she knew the full scope of what she'd been involved in.

Truth be told, she couldn't imagine quitting on him, even if it was the right thing. She didn't think she could do it. Sometimes she didn't feel like a very good person.

She cleared her throat, "Fifteen minutes, twice a day."

"Okay. Got it."

"Last technique is grounding. You'll most likely want to use this if you are in a panic attack. The idea is to focus on details around you. Color, texture, name the presidents, neighborhoods, alphabet backwards, whatever captures your mind's focus. Touch what you're describing, if you can."

"Simple."

"It is. Keep your eyes open if you can, and if the person you're with can help guide you towards it, even better. Like the other things, practice. A couple of times a day. I'll give you an example."

She reached out and laid her hand on his right shoulder, "Your shirt is soft, cotton, navy blue. It's got little flecks of lighter blue running through the fabric. Your shoulder is warm, warmer than I expected, and," she squeezed a little, "hard. Muscular," she amended. She pulled her hand away, cleared her throat and looked up to meet his eyes, "You try."

Bucky could have chosen anything in the room, but he reached out for her hand. It surprised her, but she gave him a small smile, determined not to act in any way to discourage him, "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

"Your hand is… very soft, three freckles," he began, his voice pitched low. "You have long fingers, slim hands." He compared the size of hers to his own, "But they're so small. No calluses like mine," He traced a finger over her palm. "A burn scar on your wrist," he turned her hand over again, "Soft hands, but you have scars on your knuckles, and these little ones on the back of your hands?" He met her eyes, curiosity bright within the blue depths. "I wonder where you got these?"

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as he looked at her like that, his face soft, the Winter Soldier far away. This was pure Bucky, and if the warning bells in her head was any indication, she was in way over her head. "Uh, good." She pulled her hand back into her lap. "That's perfect."

His eyes started to shutter closed as she failed to answer his question. She couldn't stand to see him shut down, not now.

"My dad was a mechanic, a good one. I helped him since I was old enough to say the word 'wrench' and he taught me all he knew. My scholarship didn't cover all my expenses, so I put myself through college working in a garage," she rushed to answer. "The knuckle scars are an occupational hazard, and the burn is from an exhaust pipe. I only did that once."

Bucky grinned, and her heart nearly seized in her chest.

She was in so much trouble.


A/n: This chapter was like blood from a stone, but I finally got it moving in the right direction. I hope y'all will think it was worth it. If so, please let me know. I got a whopping one comment from last chapter which leads me to believe the primary response from folks was a solid "meh." And thanks again for those that have left comments. It really does fuel my muse and make the many hours put into this worth it. Think of it as a tip for your entertainment. ;) Also, if you'd like to see it go in a particular direction or see a scene, let me know and I'll see if it works in the (loose) narrative I have laid out.