Session 2: The Wall
He's early this time.
Not by much—five minutes, maybe—but he's already sitting in the waiting room when I come out to call him in. His expression is unreadable, impassive. A cold wall of ice with a human heartbeat ticking faintly underneath.
"James?" I ask gently.
His eyes flick toward me. No verbal response. Just the briefest nod before he rises, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
I've already decided to try a different approach today. The last session was a long, silent standoff punctuated only by the sounds of a ticking clock and the soft creak of the chair under his weight. I didn't push. Not then. I still won't.
But I plan to meet him on new ground—figuratively and literally.
I guide him toward the same room as before. The blinds are open today, and sunlight streams in over the windowsill. I've rearranged the chairs slightly. Instead of sitting directly across from him, I've set them side-by-side, turned at an angle to one another. Less confrontational. Less clinical. An invitation instead of an interrogation.
He notices. I see it in the subtle twitch of his mouth—almost a grimace. He doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he walks slowly around the perimeter of the room like he's scoping out a potential threat. His eyes flit to the corners of the ceiling. The window latch. The reflection in the glass.
Hypervigilance. Still acute.
Eventually, he sits.
Same jackets. Same gloves. Same boots. But today, there's the tiniest change: he doesn't cross his arms. Instead, they rest loosely on his knees. Not relaxed, exactly. But less armoured.
"Thanks for coming back," I say, keeping my voice warm and casual. "I wasn't sure I'd see you again."
No response. His gaze stays on the bookshelf across the room.
"You don't have to talk today, either," I continue. "But I'd like to show you something. Just a few tools we can use if you're ever feeling overwhelmed or stuck."
Still nothing. I nod to myself and shift slightly in my chair, retrieving a small bag from beside me.
"These are grounding objects," I explain, setting a few things on the low coffee table between us. "They help people stay in the present when the past tries to pull them under."
He looks. Doesn't touch. But that's something.
There's a smooth river stone. A lavender-scented stress ball. A small square of flannel cloth. A thin, flexible metal spring. And a simple wooden cube with textured sides. Tactile. Familiar. Safe.
"Pick one," I say softly. "Or not. Your choice."
His eyes flick down. His metal fingers twitch—just once—but then he leans back in his chair. The movement is slow, considered. Not relaxed, but not entirely tense either. He stares at the objects. Doesn't speak. Doesn't touch. But he doesn't mock the gesture either.
I decide not to fill the silence. I've learned, over years of doing this work, that silence is not the enemy. Sometimes silence is the body's way of speaking when the voice refuses to cooperate.
Instead, I watch the small things.
He's breathing slower than last time. Still shallow, but not sharp. His foot isn't tapping anxiously. His shoulders have dropped by a few centimetres.
His eyes, though… his eyes are still so tired. Bone-deep fatigue. Not just from lack of sleep—though I'd wager he hasn't had more than a few uninterrupted hours in years—but from the constant strain of being. Of existing in a world that kept moving while he was trapped inside someone else's mind.
"You can leave whenever you like," I remind him after a few more minutes of stillness. "This space is yours, not mine."
That earns me a glance. Just a flick of the eyes. And then he looks down at the cube. Slowly—almost like he's testing himself—he reaches out and turns it over once.
His gloved hand, not the metal one.
I pretend not to notice.
That cube becomes his anchor for the rest of the session. He doesn't engage with me, but he rolls it slowly between his fingers, turning it over, over, over. Rough side. Smooth side. Notched side. Over again.
Twenty-three minutes in, he stands. No words. Just gets up and heads for the door.
"Okay," I say, standing as well. "Same time next week?"
He hesitates at the threshold. Looks back at me. Nods once. Leaves.
I exhale, writing the session's progress down immediately while it's still fresh in my mind.
Progress Notes – Session 2
Client: James Buchanan Barnes
Date: [REDACTED]
Session Number: 2
Presenting Issues: PTSD, chronic survivor's guilt, moral injury, dissociation, prolonged grief, identity disturbance
Observations:
Client arrived early and appeared less physically guarded than in previous session (i.e. uncrossed arms, no overt exit scanning after initial sweep). Minimal verbal communication again, though increased willingness to engage with the therapeutic environment. Client made brief nonverbal contact (eye flicks, gestures toward items). Chose to interact with grounding object (textured cube) for a majority of the session. Demonstrated patience, attention to sensory input, and tolerance of silence.
Mood/Affect: Blunted, neutral. Affect still largely constricted, though not completely flat. Evidence of reduced arousal levels compared to previous session.
Interventions Used:
– Environmental adjustment (chair positioning, natural lighting)
– Introduction of grounding objects
– Continued application of person-centered therapy techniques
– Observational encouragement, not direct prompting
Response to Interventions:
No verbal participation or emotional disclosures, but did remain for 24 minutes and physically interacted with provided materials. Small but significant shift from previous session (in which client remained silent, arms crossed, body rigid).
Assessment:
Client continues to demonstrate clear markers of complex trauma, including hypervigilance, avoidant behavior, and emotional withdrawal. Despite minimal verbal communication, client's behavioral cues suggest incremental movement toward safety in the therapeutic space. Trust not yet formed, but behavioral shifts (early arrival, partial engagement) may indicate early-stage therapeutic alliance beginning to form.
Recommendations:
– Maintain person-centered approach
– Introduce optional somatic interventions or EMDR exercises pending future trust development
– Validate autonomy while encouraging nonverbal engagement (e.g., grounding objects, drawing, journaling if applicable)
– Avoid trauma narrative work until stronger rapport and emotional safety are established
Session Summary:
Client remains largely uncommunicative, but engaged with environment more willingly than previously observed. Left early but did not exhibit distress in doing so. Progress—however small—should be acknowledged. In trauma work, silence can be sacred. The wall is still there, but there's a window in it now.
I shut the folder and glance toward the door he just left through.
It would be so easy to give up on him. I've had clients like Bucky before—closed off, combative, unreachable.
But he's not unreachable. Not really. He's just unmoored.
People expect warriors to be strong. They forget that war makes ghosts long before it makes heroes. And Bucky Barnes has been a ghost inside his own body for longer than any human should be able to bear.
Still… he showed up.
That counts for something.
Small wins.