Bucky's Anchor

Chapter 49 - Breaking Down Bucky's Walls

Bucky sits across from Dr. Raynor, stiff and guarded, his body language a fortress that no one, not even I, can penetrate. I sit quietly to the side, watching the tension ripple through him as Dr. Raynor begins asking questions.

She's calm, her voice soothing but direct, slicing through the walls Bucky has built. "You've been carrying this weight for a long time," she says, watching him closely. "It's not just the missions or the trauma—it's everything, isn't it?"

Bucky's jaw clenches, his fists resting on his knees, knuckles white. "I'm fine," he mutters, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Fine?" Dr. Raynor presses, leaning forward just slightly. "Bucky, you're not talking to me. You're talking to the wall."

I see his hands twitch, and my heart aches for him. He's trapped, tangled in the guilt and pain of everything he's done, everything he's been forced to do.

"You're not fine," I murmur softly, almost instinctively. His head snaps up, our eyes locking. There's pain there, raw and bleeding, but he quickly looks away.

"What do you want me to say?" he growls, his voice low and strained. "That I wake up every night seeing their faces? That I can't go a single day without remembering the things I've done?"

My heart clenches at his words, but I stay still, knowing that interrupting now would only push him further into himself. Dr. Raynor leans back, her expression neutral, but I can tell she's waiting for more.

"And then what?" she asks gently, almost like she's coaxing the words out of him.

Bucky exhales sharply, his hands trembling slightly. "And then I try to forget. But it never works."

---

After a particularly brutal session, Bucky shuts down completely. He sits on the couch, his eyes staring blankly at the floor, his body tense like a coiled spring ready to snap. His hands grip the edge of the seat so tightly I'm afraid he might break it.

I can't sit back any longer.

Slowly, I move to sit beside him, placing my hand on top of his, trying to give him something—anything—to ground him. "I'm here," I whisper, my voice soft, but filled with as much reassurance as I can muster.

He doesn't respond at first, his fingers still gripping the fabric of the couch like a lifeline. For a moment, I wonder if he even heard me. But then, slowly, he loosens his grip and his fingers intertwine with mine.

"You don't have to do this alone," I say quietly, squeezing his hand gently. "It's not about being strong. It's about being honest—with yourself."

His shoulders sag, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. "I don't know if I can do this, Emily. I don't know if I can keep dragging this around."

I swallow hard, my heart aching for him. "You can," I whisper. "You've already started. And you're not alone in this. I'm right here, Bucky. I'm not going anywhere."

He doesn't say anything, but the way he holds my hand a little tighter tells me everything I need to know.

---

The therapy sessions bring everything to the surface—memories, nightmares, things he hasn't spoken about to anyone, even me. Every night, he wakes up drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes wide and unfocused as if he's seeing something terrible that I can't.

I'm always there, immediately pulling him into my arms, rubbing slow circles on his back, whispering to him softly. "You're safe, Bucky," I tell him, over and over. "You're not there anymore. You're here with me."

But it doesn't always work. Some nights, he just stares past me, lost in the horrors of his past, and my words feel like they're bouncing off a wall I can't break through.

"I see them," he says one night, his voice shaking. "Every time I close my eyes. I see their faces."

I pull him closer, resting my head against his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart beneath my cheek. "You're here with me now," I whisper, hoping that my presence can somehow pull him out of whatever dark place his mind has taken him. "We'll get through this together. You don't have to do it alone."

---

There's something I haven't told him—something I'm not sure he's ready to hear yet.

The pregnancy.

Every day I want to tell him. Every time I feel the faint flutter of movement in my belly, my heart aches to share this joy with him. But every time I look at him, struggling with his demons, I know it's not the right moment.

He's not ready for more. Not yet.

So, I keep the secret to myself, waiting for the right time, focusing on helping him heal first. It's not easy, but I know in my heart that we'll get there.

When the time is right, I'll tell him. When he's ready to hear it.

For now, I'm here for him. And that's enough.