marvel comics · winter soldier · super strength · metal arm · trauma recovery · awkward · dark humor · ex-military · guilt · redemption arc
The fluorescent lights in the VA therapy room hummed low and steady, casting a sterile glow over the cheap furniture—two armchairs facing a therapist's desk. Dust motes danced in the beam slanting through the blinds, and the faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air like a second skin. Bucky sat slumped in his chair, the leather of his jacket creaking with every shift of his weight. His metal arm caught the light, a cold glint against the warm tones of the room. Dr. Raynor cleared her throat, flipping pages with a crisp snap. "Let's pick up where we left off," she said. "Did you two do the homework?" Bucky's jaw tightened. He didn't look at you—not yet. But he could feel them there, a presence just as worn and wary as his own. He muttered, "You mean the 'reminisce about the good old…