Chapter 6

"I could have done it," Wanda whispers. "But I didn't; I don't even think anybody thought to ask me. Over and over I thought about it, but then I decided 'no'. I can not do it for him. Everybody has to overcome their own demons, or they aren't truly gone. In one moment I could rid Bucky's mind of those words, I could make him forget what he knew of Hydra. So many things I could've done- but I didn't."

Clint sighs, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. There is a slight breeze this evening, as both Wanda and Clint watch the sunset from a swinging bench on the veranda.

Scott is playing video games, Sam is trying out weapons in the gym, Ella is napping, T'Challa left, and Steve and Bucky are in their respective rooms. But Wanda and Clint sit together.

Hawkeye lightly presses his foot on the ground, causing the swing to keep up its rocking momentum. "You're right, I guess," Clint says, breaking the silence. "He has to work this out on his own. I don't even know why they brought a therapist in. I never trusted the shrinks when I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. 'Tell me about this, tell me about that.'" Clint uses a mocking voice. "'Blah, blah, blah.'"

"I think she's nice," Wanda comments.

"That's what they want you to think."

"And you know," Clint stands up. "Stop blaming yourself, because if it weren't for Stark, none of this would've happened. Heck, you wouldn't be here, you would be at home with your family! I would be home with my family."

"That is not what we were talking about," Wanda says quietly, looking at her hands.

"But isn't it?" In a show of anger, Clint begins to pace the veranda. He clenches his fists. "Everything was going fine in my life. I was going to go ski-boarding with my kids, before I got dragged into this mess! I was retired! But no," He cracks out a dry chuckle. "Stark had to create Ultron, which caused the government to get mad, which caused the Accords and on and on and on." Clint makes a spinning motion with his hands.

"No, Clint, you only came because of me. To try and help me. This is my fault." Wanda presses her palms to her face.

Clint's countenance softens for the young Sokovian; his fatherly instincts kick in. "No, Wanda, that's not what I meant." He takes his seat next to her again on the red, cushioned swing.

"But it is!" Wanda takes her hands off her face and waves her hands madly. "I killed all those people Clint! That's what caused the Accords. It gave Zemo the perfect opportunity to stage that bombing; the reason all of us are here, and not together as a team."

"But even more innocent people would be dead if it weren't for you," Clint insists.

"You can't say that. I could have done something, Clint. I could have helped Bucky, too." Regret spills from Wanda's voice.

"Just blame Stark. It's easier."

/

When I wake up, it's 6:00 o'clock in the morning. I swallow, trying to get the sour taste in my mouth. My stomach growls, and I need food. So I head out of the room, careful to close the door quietly behind me. The sun is just beginning to rise, but the halls still have that early morning darkness. It's my favorite time of the day, as long as I'm not incredibly tired. A soft, white light can be seen shining out of the entryway in the kitchen.

"Well, hey." I jump when I hear the voice behind me. Sam. It is hard to see his dark form in the shadow's of the kitchen. "Your up early," Sam says with a smile.

"Yep. Slept through dinner." Not the first time it's happened, actually. "Do you have any plain Cheerios?" I say, groping through the different boxes.

"What?!" Sam exclaims.

"It's my favorite cereal! It's like crack." I find some and carry a bowl to the kitchen island. Sitting on the stool next to him, I start eating. Sam's eating what looks to be fruitloops. "And you're questioning my cereal choices? Gosh, I haven't eaten those in forever, five year old." I point towards his bowl with my spoon. My and Sam begin to reminisce about the past and favorite cereals.

It's nice to have a normal conversation for once. Agony had overwhelmed me last night but there's something about the early morning to lift your spirits. Maybe it's the thought of a whole sunny day, that makes it seem like anything is possible.

When we finish eating, Sam takes me to my new office. It amazing. There is a whole wall made of windows overlooking the lush jungle. The sun is just beginning to rise over the mountain, which are shrouded in a white haze, and it's hard for me to tear my eyes away. But I do and see two white leather chairs face each other, and a desk sits in the corner. "Wow." I say.

I take the file and notebook in my hands and set them down on the polished wooden desk. "So, can you, by any chance, prescribe meds?" Sam asks out of the blue.

"No," I reply. "Why?"

"Well, um, my sleeping pills have stopped working. I thought maybe you could give me something stronger." Sam grasps the leather chair in front of him, clearly uncomfortable with the question he's asking.

"No, I'm sorry Sam. Are you having nightmares?"

"Oh yeah, just some war stuff." He brushes it aside. "Uh, never mind. Good luck." And he quickly leaves the room.

"Yeah, ok." I say to the closed door. I decide to let him off the hook; Sam needs to come to someone in his own time.

Trailing my fingers along the lacquered wood, they come to rest on my notebook. I flip through the pages, until I land on notes on a patient. Regret fills my chest, like a bubble just waiting to pop. I plop down on my desk chair, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. I haven't thought about this in so long. My chest feels restricted and I try to calm myself. Being upset will not help anyone.

When a knock sounds at the door, I quickly shut my notebook. "Come in," I call. Bucky opens the door slowly. "Hi, Mr. Barnes!"

"Hi." He replies simply. I sit down on one of the leather chairs and Bucky does the same.

I honestly don't think I will ever get accustomed to this place. The white of the chairs, of the whole compound, disturbingly offsets the turpitude of this refuge. Me and Bucky sit here in the heavenly white; wrapped in the colors of angles. But all we do is leak out blood and tears onto the very seats that could be our salvation. White feigns cleanliness, when really it only reflects our defilement. What vile things will be said in these chairs? What horrid acts and admittances will soak through their putrid and fake facade? Oh the oxymorons that abound just because of white chairs.

"So, how did you like the music?" I want to laugh out loud at such a stupid question, but if Bucky were to know my true thoughts, I think he would up and leave.

"Fine." Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and ends in a stiffly proper position. The bright sunlight filters into the room, giving the room a dreamy quality. His cool blue eyes look out the glass, never glancing at me.

I decide to slowly ease into the questions and bring him to trust me. The plan is to go easy on Bucky today. I ask, "Who was your favorite singer back in the forties?"

Bucky just shrugs his shoulders.

"Do you not remember?"

He huffs, then says, "If I did, what would be the point in telling you?"

"Because I asked." I sass.

Bucky's walls are up, and he's trying to distract. Obviously, if I asked him the touchy but important questions, he wouldn't respond. So I persist.

I lean forward in my seat. "Look, please trust me. It is all a process that will take time. Believe me, I have a Ph.D in it."

"I don't see how telling you about private things is going to help." Bucky mumbles.

"But what you did didn't just affect you, Mr. Barnes. It hurt a lot of other people too!" The words came out of my mouth so formed, but as soon as I said them, I realized they stung.

I struggle to push something else out of my mouth, something to make up for the stupidity. All I do is gape. And Bucky just sits there for a moment, eyes pointed my way, but not into my eyes. Then he says in a harsh whisper that drips pain, "Don't you think I know that?"

Tears well in my eyes, and I squeak out, "I- I, yes but-"

Bucky stands from his chair. He's about to walk out the door, when he turns to me and mumbles, "And I disgust myself every day because of that." The door bangs shut.

I sit there, in a state of shock, and wait for what seems like thirty minutes. But it's really only thirty seconds. My throat is so tight I can't breath. I burst through the door, and run as fast as my feet will carry me to the nearest bathroom.

My body slides down the door, and I dissolve into tears. How could I say that? I knew it was trouble when I got upset looking at my notebook. I let my own personal feelings melt in with what I was telling Bucky. It had just been so long since I had looked or thought about those notes. And keeping those feeling pent up all this time has not helped.

All the days I spent with those child soldiers… And I freaking slip up now. Of course, when I was saying it, I thought I was simply following the procedure of addressing the problems simply; to fully come to grips with what has been done.

But this is no child, and no standard procedure whatsoever will apply to Bucky. That's obvious now. And I knew it before, but I am just too inexperienced and stupid, so it slipped. Now my mistake has cost me whatever good favor I might have held with Bucky.

I try to wipe the tears away, but they keep coming. So I just keep wiping the salty droplets with a piece of toilet paper until my under eyes burn. When I deem myself appropriate to walk out, I cautiously peek out the door, checking to make sure nobody is there. With a brisk pace, I walk down the hall, trying to avoid any social interactions. Not only because of my red face, but the fact that they all still think I'm in session with Bucky.

I'm so close to my room, when Wanda opens her door. She seems to have been getting her phone, but when she spots me, my fake smile doesn't trick her. "Ella, what happened?" Wanda's face is full of concern.

"Oh, nothing. Just stopped the session short," I lie.

Her eyebrows raise, and she grabs my arm, pulling me inside her room. "What is it?"

And then I burst into tears all over again. It's like that way when you think you have yourself under control, until someone asks in such a sweet way, that your fortitude crumbles in a second.

I manage to get out, my voice shaky, "I was so, so, stupid. I thought I could help him, but I've already failed!" I feel like a five year old, sitting on Wanda's bed, her hand gently rubbing my back, but it feels good to let it out.

"You haven't fail-" But I interrupted her, saying, "I made things worse!" Something deep inside me urges me to tell her why. To share with her the one thing that each of us keeps down inside of us: our darkest secret.

I shiver, a chill running down my back, then start. "When I first began working with patients on my own, I thought it wouldn't be too difficult." I try to calm my voice by swallowing hard and blowing my nose. "I had had to perform my residency before I could treat them on my own, but still saw some awful things. But it was never my patient; it never deeply affected me. But when I met my first patient, I made a wrong assocation of them. She seemed so normal, like nothing was wrong." My voice squeaks and still quivers. "So we talked together about her family: her dad and mom. And she seemed like such an easy case; so normal. But I missed every single sign. She killed herself after our third session. The girl was only seventeen."

Wanda stays quiet. So, I continue. "It was my fault!" I cover my face with my hands. "Her father had been sexually abusing her, and I didn't even see it because I was to brash and overconfident. Now, I have done the same to Bucky. And I let my feelings of regret mix in with what I was saying to him. Every chance I had to help one of those children in the refugee camp, was just trying to make up for that girl. Like trying to fill a leaking cup, it just never gets full. And this could have been my one redeeming chance. But I blew it like a freaking idiot!"

"No, no," Wanda soothes. "It's not too late, Ella." She takes my face in her hand. "You have done so much good, how could you possibly think that that one incident degrades every good thing you've done since? You were just young, naive, just beginning…" Wanda trails off, and looks towards the wall.

"You need to go back to him." Wanda says when she refocuses. "But-" I start, until she interrupts me.

"No buts. Go apologize and tell him why it happened. If anyone will understand your regret, it is Bucky."

/ (omni POV)

Bucky stands on the same veranda Wanda and Clint sat a night ago. Looking over the expanse of dense jungle, where misty mountains can be seen in the background and a mist hangs around you, is the only thing that can make Bucky feel a little relieved.

Sitting down and doing nothing, reminds him of all those hours he spent locked down in a chair, being read those horrid words, with no chance of escape. Sleeping- well, it can't really be called sleeping when Bucky is constantly being awakon by realistic nightmares. And any type of practice fighting would remind him of those days when he was an assassin; when he brought Steve's friends down into the miserable mud.

So The Winter Soldier stands on the veranda, trying to feel free, even though he knows he's not. All Bucky wants to do right now is stay numb to those feelings of regret. Sometimes, though, he takes his box of remorse and airs it out. Why? Because sometimes you just want to feel something, and those dark emotions are all you have. Like the only way to lubricate yourself from the pain is to absorb it. And so Bucky keeps his pain somewhere easily accessible.

But right now, Bucky is suppressing everything. Before, he had tried to combine the pain with new life. Although, seeing as that didn't work, he's back to square one.

The glass door behind Bucky slides open. Steve walks out onto the balcony. "What are you doing out here, Buck?" He asks.

"Needed some air."

Steve leans onto the smooth edge of the rail, and looks out over the jungle. "So it didn't go well?" Steve asks, already knowing the answer.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Steve knows not to push it, so instead he quietly stands by his comrade, his best friend. They just stand, each deep in their own thoughts. After a substantial amount of time has past, Bucky takes a small breath.

"Why, Steve? Why?"

Steve looks curiously at Bucky, confused by the question. "Why what?"

"She was right. It just-" Bucky pounds his head with his palm, as if trying to sort everything out in his jumbled brain. "All of you and your friends became fugitives because of me, and what did I ever do but kill all those people, Steve?" Bucky isn't looking for some kind of validation, he actually wants to know.

"It wasn't you, Buck! It was Hydra; they used you. Stop blaming yourself." Steve tries to pat Bucky on the back, but Bucky backs away, looking at Steve indignantly.

"But I did it! All of it. And when I tried to stay away from everything, to keep away so I wouldn't hurt anybody, the government still came after me. And now, because of all the bad things I've done, I can't live a normal life!"

"And all I wanted" Bucky continues, "was to be in control for once in seventy years, but those words still haunted me. And Ella was right: everything I have ever done hurts the people around me." Bucky looks away from Steve's pained face, running his fingers gruffly through his hair. "So that's what I was asking you Steve. Why even bother with someone who should have just killed themselves when they had the chance?"

It takes Steve a moment to recuperate from Bucky's words but, with a quick intake of breath and conviction, he says, "Because you are the only reason I ever did anything Bucky; my world ended when I thought you died and began when I found out you were alive. Why do you think I became Captain America? To save you from Hydra. And I don't regret that one moment." Steve steps up close to Bucky. "I don't know why you didn't end it either Bucky. But I know that if you had done something like 'that'," Steve can't even say the words, otherwise be choked, "then every part of my world would come crashing down, and I would be right behind you, taking my own life."

And Bucky knows deep down why he never committed suicide: Because of Steve. He doesn't know whether it's because he knew that Steve would follow in his terrible fate. Or if it was the possibility of being able to see Steve's once so familiar face again. That everything that was once jumbled up would fall back into place again, and he could somehow live a normal live. But that seems like some lurid fantasy now.

Steve's words are still ringing in Bucky's ears, trying to find somewhere to stick instead of bouncing around in his head. He begins to break down, clutching Steve's shoulder. A piteous tear runs down his scruffy cheek. "I didn't want you to see me like this," Bucky whispers. "I just wanted to remember… and try to live."

Steve knows what Bucky is saying despite it being a vague statement. Because Steve had seen Bucky's apartment; had seen him with his metal arm in a vice, coming out of Hydra's control. Grabbing Bucky and holding him upright, Steve says, "We'll have to help each other survive. Maybe one day we can finally live."

/

I walk slowly towards Bucky's room, but my feet seem to be sticking to the ground. Inhale, exhale. With some of the butterflies calmed in my stomach, I slowly open the door. The room inside is dark, but a small shaft of bright sunlight shines through a crack in the curtains. Nobody is here.

I sulk around the room, knocking on the bathroom door, and throwing back the covers, just in case Bucky maybe got tangled up in these messy sheets and can't get out. But he isn't here. I head back down the hall, peeking into doorways, but end up being drawn into the living area. There I see Sam, Steve, and Bucky watching a nature documentary, and downing a few beers.

I really don't want to disturb them, and make my plea to Bucky that much more conspicuous. But I have to. So I slide half my body into the room, the other half being shielded by the door. They don't hear the door, considering Sam is laughing his head off at the otters on the TV. I give a small cough, and all their heads turn to me.

Bucky's large eyes show he is surprised to see me, but both Sam and Steve are giving me looks that seem to say "it's about time". I say quietly, my words fading through the large room, "Can I talk to you, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky nods his head and gets off the couch, placing his beer on the coffee table before he walks out. I hold the door open for him, my nerves building up once the door behind me so were alone in the large hallway, I sigh. "Um," I start, as brilliant as ever. "Sorry to interrupt y'all-"

"It's fine," Bucky interrupts, running his hand through his messy brown hair.

"I just want to say I'm sorry. It was so stupid of-" When Bucky opens his mouth, I immediately hold up a finger to quiet him. "I shouldn't have said what I did. Whether or not it was true doesn't matter. And, I don't want to give excuses, but I feel you should know why I said such an unnecessary and idiotic thing."

I stop and prepare myself. Bucky looks at me with an expectant and curious look. "Before you came to see me, I had just looked over some old notes about a patient of mine. I, um, messed up when I was accessing her. And, she killed herself." I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I was emotional. And I spoke about myself when I said that your actions affect those around you. Because it is what I constantly tell myself."

Understanding paints Bucky's face as he looks into my eyes, and relief floods my body. "Will you forgive me?" I ask.

Surprised, Bucky responds, "There is nothing to apologize for. So, yes."

And I don't know what compels me to do it, but I stand there for a moment, and then wrap my arms around him in a hug. Bucky stumbles back, startled, holding himself steady with the wall. He takes a moment before wrapping his one muscular arm around my waist, his face nuzzling into my neck. I can feel his warm breath. It sends shivers down my spine; the good kind.

And in that moment, warmth spreads through my body. Being held there in Bucky's arm, I feel safe. Like I have finally found someone who understands. And someone who, despite needing help themselves, might be able to guide me. Since I am always the therapist it feels like my responsibility to be strong; that I shouldn't receive help because I am giving it.

But with Bucky firm chest against me, I feel like ascendancy and healing might finally be coming.

/