That night he pressed a paper into her hands and told her to run, to burn the paper, to never stray from its words, had an impression on her life that she'd never really talked about. But it affected everything.
"You're gonna run like hell when you...
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After a long, hot day down at the docks, fixing boats and supervising the new workers who were on probation, Bucky drove his motorcycle over to Dr. Raynor's office.
Bucky focused on the sound of the faint rush of cars on the street below as he leaned back on the sofa. Dr. Raynor raised her eyebrows at him with a little smile. "So, James. You came early. You're not even ten minutes late... something's changed. What happened?"
He looked down at his hands. "A lot,"
Dr. Raynor took a deep breath. "Did you get triggered again?"
"...Yes."
"That must've been serious to have broken your two month streak. Do you know what could've triggered it?"
"I saw someone from my past. A woman I trained while I was in the Red Room."
If Nat had survived, it could've been her, too, that he took in. But she was gone.
A lump formed in his throat. What would happen if he lost Yelena, too?
Where were these thoughts even comingfrom?
"Flashback?"
"Y-yeah."
"Right. It was obviously worse than the last one, then?"
Bucky gulped. Just get through this, and after you'll go meet Yelena downstairs when it was finished, he thought to himself. He could do this. Somehow?
"Way worse."
"Okay. Why'd you see that woman?"
"I was asked to deliver her queque. She was living in a crappy hotel, so I offered her a room at my place, the old family one."
She narrowed her eyes. "Oh, so you live with her now? Did you not see this coming?"
"Uh. Yeah. And... sort of."
"Okay then. Let's start small, James. Tell me one word that you'd use to describe that flashback, and then try to explain why you chose that word. Take your time,"
They had done this excercise before, when he'd had other flashbacks. It helped last time, a little.He didn't want to talk about it, though. He didn't want to talk at all.
That flashback brought back memories he had forgotten. The pain from that night marked him in a way he wasn't sure would ever heal. What word would he choose? How could he ever narrow it down to one word?
Everything, Karpov turned everything into agony. Peircing, crawling, stabbing, ripping, tearing him apart like an abandoned rag doll and sewing him back together like mismatched quilt peices.
