Session 4: Cracked Glass
There's a tension in the air before he even walks through the door.
It's not unusual for him to be guarded, but today it's different. His posture is looser, like something's sagging inside him, not by choice but by sheer exhaustion. He looks… hollow. Not like someone who didn't sleep well. Like someone who hasn't slept at all.
His hoodie is wrinkled and damp at the cuffs. Shadows cling under his eyes, purpled and sunken. He doesn't make eye contact. Doesn't even glance at the seat before dropping into it with a quiet grunt like his body has finally given up holding tension upright.
Client presents with notable signs of sleep deprivation: dark under-eye circles, slouched posture, slowed physical movement. Skin tone pale, affect dulled. Immediate concern for physical exhaustion as compounding trauma symptom.
"Rough night?" I ask gently, watching him curl one gloved hand into a fist against his thigh. He doesn't answer. Not verbally.
But he flinches when the building's heater rattles to life. Just a quick twitch of his left shoulder—subtle, practiced—but I see it.
The kind of twitch you get when you're still sleeping with one eye open.
Hyperarousal response to benign environmental noise suggests elevated baseline stress. Somatic vigilance remains consistent. Client likely experiencing chronic sympathetic nervous system activation (fight/flight).
His mouth twitches. Not quite a frown. Not quite a smirk. "Try rough week."
He adjusts in the seat, then winces. Small movement. Just enough to show the physical tension winding up his back.
"Dreams?" I try gently.
He nods. Barely.
"What kind?"
"The bad kind."
We haven't talked around them before. Not yet about them, but I know the signs: intrusive memories repackaged as nightmares, the past replaying itself in his sleep like an old reel with no off switch. He's too tired to hide it today. His guard isn't down, exactly—but it's cracked. Like a surface worn thin.
He shifts his weight. His prosthetic arm rests heavily in his lap like it's something borrowed, not part of him. He hasn't taken his gloves off in any of the sessions. I don't ask today, either.
"You can tell me about it if you like. Or we can change topics?"
He swallows. "Change topic."
I shift gears.
"Tell me about your support system. Friends. People you trust. Who do you talk to, when things get heavy?"
He huffs a sound—something like a laugh, but brittle. "Define heavy."
I lift my eyebrows in a gentle, knowing shrug. "You walked in like you're carrying the whole damn war again, Bucky. So, who helps you hold it?"
He's quiet. His jaw tightens.
He scoffs. Actually scoffs. But it's not cruel. It's hollow. "I had Steve," he says.
And just like that, the temperature in the room shifts.
I've been waiting for him to say the name. I've been waiting for the dam to break.
He doesn't stop there.
"He was always…" He drags a hand down his face, voice thickening. "He always found me. No matter what."
I nod, not pushing. Let him unfold it how he needs.
"He fought the whole damn world for me. Risked everything. And then…"
Then he stops.
He's blinking fast now. That desperate, masculine kind of blink that says, I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not—
"And then he just left," Bucky chokes.
The words break open like a bottle dropped from too high. I don't say anything. I let the silence hold him.
"He went back in time. To her. Peggy. Got his second chance."
I nod. "And you didn't get one."
He laughs—sharp and bitter. "I didn't get a first. Steve's gone now. He's old. He isn't the same man. He made his choice."
Another pause. His fingers twitch against his leg. "He stayed with her and lived a whole life. And then came back… there's barely any time left."
Now his voice cracks. Just slightly. Like cracked glass under a boot heel. Spidering lines.
Client initiates discussion of emotionally charged abandonment. Shifts from present to past tense inconsistently—possible sign of emotional disorientation or grief dysregulation.
Client begins processing abandonment grief. Marked emotional distress. Tear suppression attempt failed; now crying openly but without aggression. Presenting deep-seated belief in being perpetually sidelined or forgotten.
I don't interrupt. I sit with him in it.
"He lived a whole life," Bucky says, quieter now. "Married her. Grew old. Did it all. And then just… showed up again. Gray-haired. Wiser. Smiling."
He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, angry at himself for needing to.
"I wanted to be happy for him. Still do. I mean… I love the guy. He deserved peace. He earned peace. I am happy for him."
I nod again, more slowly. "But he got it by leaving you behind," I say, careful.
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
"It's like I spent years being the mission," he says after a while, voice hoarse. "His mission. His everything. I was Hydra's weapon. Then I was Steve's cause. And now…"
His voice falls apart. Just breath now.
"Now he's gone. And I don't even know who I am if I'm not being fought for."
That hits like a punch.
Client exhibits intense identity dysregulation. Strong associations of self-worth rooted in being the object of others' loyalty or protection. Lacks internalized self-definition independent of external validation.
"I wake up," he mutters, "and for half a second, I think maybe I'll see him again. The Steve I knew. Not the old man who made his peace and walked away."
He presses the heel of his palm against his eye.
"He didn't say goodbye. Not really. Just handed over the shield to Sam. Left me in a world I still don't fit into."
His breathing is ragged. But he's not running. He's here. That matters.
"And now what?" he says, bitter. "What the hell am I supposed to do with all this?"
"All this," I echo gently. "You mean the grief?"
He nods, chin tucked to his chest. His voice is muffled when he says it:
"I loved him. Not just as a brother or whatever. I—"
He stops.
I wait.
"I loved him," he says again. "And he left."
And just like that, the silence becomes sacred.
Client reveals possible romantic affection and/or unresolved attachment to Steve Rogers. Expression of complex grief and ambiguous loss. Layered with suppressed identity formation.
He lifts his head, eyes raw. "He got his dance. He got the girl. He got the house and the quiet life. I got therapy."
There's no venom in it. Just truth. Heartbreaking, unfiltered truth.
"Who do I have now?" he whispers. "Really."
Not the kind we sit in patiently. This one's loud. Pressurised. I can see his throat moving, see him swallowing it down—but it's already coming.
Tears well again, freely this time, more than before. He stiffens like he's been shot, like he's trying to retreat inward before it escapes. But his body betrays him.
He turns his face to the side, hides it behind a gloved hand.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"You don't need to apologise, Bucky," I say quietly.
Major emotional release observed. Client attempts to suppress tears but unable to contain. Somatic indicators: rigid posture, clenched jaw, hand-to-face self-soothing behaviour. Trauma-triggered grief expression likely rooted in core abandonment schema.
"He left," he finally says, the words tumbling out now like a wound opening. "He picked her. I got left behind. Again."
He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees. Doesn't look at me. But he's no longer completely sealed off. He's leaking.
And I know how deep this one runs. Hydra took his body. The world forgot his name. And the one person who'd anchored him across decades of pain and propaganda finally chose to let go.
His voice cracks again. "After everything… he just left."
I nod slowly, giving him space. "You feel like he gave up on you."
His head bows lower. "No. Worse. He got what he wanted. And I didn't even make the list."
Client expresses simultaneous gratitude and grief. Cognitive dissonance: joy for friend's peace versus own enduring abandonment. Strong internalized belief of being unwanted or disposable persists.
I let that breathe.
"Who do you have now?" I ask, gently. "Anyone who knows the real you?"
He looks up at me, red-eyed, hollowed out.
"No one."
I let a moment pass. Let it sit. And then carefully—delicately—I ask:
I sit with it. Then ask carefully, "What about Sam?"
He flinches. Blinks. That look again, caught between shame and caution.
"He's… there," he admits.
"That's not nothing," I offer.
He shakes his head. "He doesn't need me. Doesn't want me, not really. I'm just some broken-down ex-assassin from another century. A burden."
And there it is.
The rot under the foundation. The story he tells himself before anyone else gets a chance.
"You're not a burden, Bucky."
He looks like he wants to argue. But he doesn't.
"He tries," he admits, reluctantly. "Sam. He says the right things."
"Has he tried to talk to you?" I ask.
Bucky's mouth twists. "Once or twice. But… I always shut it down."
"Because you think you're protecting him?"
He doesn't respond.
That's answer enough.
Client avoids vulnerability under pretence of protecting others. Evidence of self-imposed isolation. Potential for interpersonal reconnection if self-worth is addressed.
"It feels like I have to keep proving I deserve it. Every second," Bucky says quietly.
Client verbalizes internalized belief of being unworthy of support. Evidence of maladaptive schema: "I am unlovable unless I earn it." Trust-building with current allies (e.g., Sam Wilson) recommended area of future focus.
"You don't have to earn connection," I say. "You deserve it by being human."
"Hydra didn't make me human," he says. "Steve did."
"You were trained to survive without connection, Bucky. But that doesn't mean you don't need it."
He doesn't reply. But he's listening. Still leaking at the edges. Still human under all that armour.
I take a slow breath. "And now it's time for you to start making yourself human, Bucky. For you to decide who you are. Not them. Not Steve. You."
He's quiet. But he's not retreating.
Just sitting in the wreckage of that truth.
Client expresses distorted self-perception. Believes interpersonal connections are conditional on performance or utility. Possible extension of Hydra-era conditioning and prolonged isolation.
"We'll work on it. Together," I say.
He nods—barely. But it's there.
We don't speak again for the rest of the session. But he doesn't leave early.
And when he finally does get up to go, he looks at the chair like maybe—just maybe—he'll come back next time because he wants to. And because he might need to.