Philophobia | Helmut Zemo [TFATWS]

Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His gaze was steady and his features looked hard. If Steve saw him like this, he probably would have told him he was making that face again. At the thought, his fingers, which he had clenched into fists, loosened slightly. At the same time, a feeling of sadness threatened to creep in that he had been trying with all his might to keep away. As if he could shoo it away that way, he shook his head slightly before looking ahead again.

Normally, the streets of the big city were almost crowded at this time of day. On this late afternoon, however, it seemed to him that the sidewalks were uncharacteristically empty. Mentally, he blamed the thick rain clouds that had been gathering over the city for several days, threatening a heavy downpour. Nevertheless, Bucky was sure that his bad mood had arisen completely independently of this. Closer to his mind was the assumption that it had to do with the upcoming therapy session.

After he had resurfaced, he had turned himself in to the American government and had eventually been pardoned. However, it was only on the condition that he showed up for regular therapy sessions. A stipulation he had not liked from day one. He didn't want to talk about his past. Especially not with someone who had never been in a similar situation. Now, however, he was being forced to face it and it seemed like it would further darken his days. Even though he mostly refused to talk to his therapist, her questions made him think about what had happened in the past. At first he thought he could just ignore it, but he had quickly realized he was wrong.

By now he had reached the parking lot of the building where his therapist's office was located. His pace slowed, but he knew he couldn't just stop and turn around again. He had tried that once and the result had been anything but satisfactory when the police had picked him up and taken him to therapy. So to try again made no sense. His going was, after all, a condition of his pardon.

He strolled toward the front doors. With his human hand, he pushed open the double doors and stepped into the anteroom. Briefly, he looked around before walking straight toward the counter. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman, staring fixedly at her computer screen. Bucky propped one arm on the counter and cleared his throat slightly. She then detached her attention from her task and turned to him.

"Oh hello. What can I do for you today?" she inquired, eyeing the man before her.
"I have an appointment with Dr. Raynor," he immediately explained his request.
"What's your name?" she asked more specifically, glancing at the calendar in front of her.
"James Barnes," he answered curtly. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he did so.
"Oh, yeah, there. I see it," the woman agreed, nodding slightly, "It says it right here. Right now Dr. Raynor is still in a meeting, but it should be ready shortly. You can wait there until then."
"Mhm, thanks," he made and then detached himself from the counter.

Apparently, he had no choice but to follow the receptionist's recommendation. He started moving and headed for the sofas that were set up in a corner for those waiting. The fact that no one was sitting there was welcome to him at that moment. Talking to another person after that was not on his mind. He just wanted to get this over with. So he spent the next few minutes in silence, his eyes fixed forward.

When he heard the sound of a door opening, he raised his head. His psychologist, Dr. Raynor, had opened it and stepped out of her office with her last patient. "I'll see you next week," he heard her say as he watched them both. He had to stifle a sigh as his therapist's gaze fell on her. For a moment she waited for her previous patient to disappear before nodding to Bucky, "James, come on in. We can start right away. "Wordlessly he rose from his place on the sofa, his hands still buried in his pockets. He didn't bother to hide his displeasure about these meetings. His therapist knew by now that he would rather do anything than come here.

_____

An hour passed before Bucky left the consulting room again. The expression on his face revealed that his mood had deteriorated drastically since then. Just the thought of someone piercing him with questions about his life didn't sit well with him, and for a change, reality was even more unpleasant. Not least because of the passive-aggressive nature of the therapist and her notepad, which she kept pulling out when he wasn't spilling the beans.

"I'll see you next week, James," he heard the therapist say as he left the room and stepped out into the hallway. "Yeah, see you next time," he replied before starting to move down the hall. As he did so, he let his gaze wander, lingering on a person who had by now taken his place in the waiting area. Her skin was lightly tanned. Her long, dark hair fell in light curls over her shoulders, framing her round face and defined jaw. The thing that stood out the most, however, were her brown eyes, with which she surveyed Bucky. A smile appeared on her lips, causing him to lift the corners of his mouth slightly as well. Time to go to her or say something to her, however, he did not take.

He had noticed her several times since he had started coming here. Each time it had been her turn after his, but they had never exchanged more than glances. Contrary to the therapist's assumptions, he didn't need any new friends. Especially not ones who might have had as many problems as she did.

He continued on his way, passed the reception desk and left the building again. At least, for now, he didn't have to deal with it anymore. One hour of therapy had already been enough to ensure that images from his past haunted him. He had tried to ignore it as best he could since he had returned after his disappearance at Thanos' hands. Most of the time he succeeded well enough so that he was only haunted by it at night and could keep his distance from it during the day.In the meantime he had left the building and looked around on the street. By now it had become dark and his feet carried him back towards his apartment almost as if by themselves. Halfway there, however, his pace slowed. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed that he had turned several streets too late. Although the city had changed over the last century that he had not been here, he still recognized the old places from his time. Therefore, it was not difficult for him to notice where he had absent-mindedly gone.

To his left, he recognized the banks of the Hudson River. Nowadays some houses had been built around it, but from the street you could still get to the place he used to visit with Steve whenever his best friend had gotten involved in another argument. Bucky had usually helped him out of trouble or tried afterwards to cheer up the, at that time physically still rather weak, boy when he himself had not succeeded in intervening.

He strolled between the houses towards the black metal railing that separated the pedestrians from the river. Below him, the waves lapped gently against the stone and he closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn't the first time he'd wished for the old days to return. The last time he had stood here with Steve had been in his forties, and despite the world war, everything had felt so simple. None of the problems around him had felt as serious as they did today. Instead, he had simply taken most things lightly before he had gone off to war. That was one of the traits that Hydra had successfully exorcised from him. Even though Steve had tried to prove to him over and over again after his return that the old Bucky was still in him somewhere.

Now, however, Steve, his anchor, was gone. All the dark thoughts he had kept away from him now washed over him like powerful waves, threatening to drown him in the depths of his mind. This was shown to him by his dreams, which had gotten worse since Steve had gone back in time and now haunted him night after night. Being alone with himself was slowly beginning to make him more and more uncomfortable, but he had no one to honestly talk to about it. No one who understood and didn't secretly condemn him for what he had done. Because even though his therapist told him she didn't form opinions about him, each of her gestures gave him a different feeling. Or maybe he was just starting to get paranoid and read more into people than was really true. But how could anyone understand what it was like to be the Winter Soldier if they had never had blood on their hands themselves? No one but him knew what it was like to not know who you were anymore.

He took a deep breath as he felt his windpipe begin to constrict just at the thought. He couldn't sit alone in the apartment again that night and deal with his mission of making amends for his transgressions. Instead, he felt a sudden urge to socialize, and the best place he could think of was the bar near his apartment, which he had always passed by skeptically until now. In the past, he had enjoyed sitting in bars and meeting people there to somehow pass the evening. These days, that image of himself seemed like that of a stranger. To distract himself, however, anything was fine for him at that moment.