Trauma-Coaster

The days that followed their arrival at the Avengers' compound were both quiet and intense. Arthur spent most of his time holed up in a private room, a space that felt safe to him—at least for now. The walls were thick, soundproof, and if he closed the blinds, the room could become as dark as he wanted. 

It was almost too quiet. Too still. Every movement, every sound felt amplified. The hum of the compound’s air vents, the distant footsteps of the other Avengers walking by, the soft creak of the doors—all of it left his nerves raw and exposed. He could feel his anxiety building, and no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it lingered like a weight pressing on his chest.

There were flashes of the past that came without warning—memories of the chair. Of the cold, sterile lab where they had turned him into a machine. Of the things they had done to him to ensure his compliance, and the things he had been forced to do to survive. Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the night, he would wake from a dream of being back there. The sounds of needles piercing flesh, the endless commands, the sharp orders that cut through him like a blade.

He couldn’t escape it. 

But he could breathe.

The compound was unlike any place he had ever been. The air felt different here—lighter, less suffocating, even if the weight of his past still pressed heavily on his shoulders. He wasn’t alone. Bucky was always nearby, never too far from his side. And Steve—Captain America—had been kind and patient, giving Arthur time to adjust, never pushing him to do anything he wasn’t ready for. 

But as much as he appreciated their kindness, it didn’t stop the unease from gnawing at him. He didn’t know how to be anymore. He had spent so long as a weapon that the idea of living a normal life—whatever that even meant—felt foreign to him. 

Today was no different. The soft daylight filtered through the blinds, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to open them. Instead, he sat by the small desk in his room, staring down at the sketchbook in front of him. His hand hovered over the page, but it didn’t move. He couldn’t make himself draw. Couldn’t make himself create something from nothing.

In the past, art had been his escape. It had been a way to express the emotions he couldn’t put into words. It had been something that had grounded him when everything else in his life had been chaos. But now, it felt impossible. His mind was too clouded with memories. Too heavy with the trauma.

He jumped at the sound of a knock on the door. 

“Arthur? You alright in there?” Bucky’s voice came through the wood. It was familiar, warm, and for a brief moment, Arthur felt himself relax.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice hoarse, even though he wasn’t sure it was true. He had gotten good at lying over the years. 

Bucky didn’t seem to buy it. The door creaked open slowly, and the sound of boots on the hardwood floor followed. “I don’t believe that for a second, Arti,” Bucky said gently. “You’ve barely left this room since we got here.”

Arthur didn’t respond right away. He could feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze on him, even though he hadn’t looked up from the sketchbook. He wasn’t ready to face Bucky yet—not when the storm inside him was so violent, so unpredictable.

“I don’t belong here, Bucky,” Arthur said finally, his voice small, as though saying the words aloud would make them real. “I’m not like them. I’m not like you.” 

Bucky sat down next to him on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. There was a long silence before he spoke again, his tone soft but firm. “You’re not like me, no. But you’re not some monster, either. You’re my brother, Arti. That’s all that matters.”

Arthur’s head snapped up at the word. Brother. It was a word that had so much weight behind it, a word that made him feel both cherished and unworthy at the same time. He swallowed hard, trying to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over.

Bucky seemed to sense his internal struggle and placed a hand on his shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. “I know it’s not easy, but you don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to be you.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, as though the simple reassurance of his brother’s presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. But as much as he wanted to believe Bucky, a part of him was still locked in the past. Still shackled by everything HYDRA had done to him.

The silence stretched between them, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy. Bucky didn’t push him to talk, didn’t pressure him to open up. He just stayed there, a silent anchor in the storm.

After a long moment, Arthur spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared, Buck. I’m scared that… I’ll never be the same. That this is all I’ll ever be. That the things I did—they’re too much. They’re too… far gone.”

Bucky sighed softly and gave his brother’s shoulder a light squeeze. “The things you did aren’t who you are. They never were. You’re not that man anymore, Arti. You’re not a soldier. You’re you.”

Arthur shook his head, feeling the weight of the guilt press on his chest. “I don’t even know who that is anymore,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Bucky’s voice softened. “You’ll figure it out. It’s gonna take time, but I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this together.”

Arthur wanted to believe him. He wanted to trust that everything could be fixed, that he could somehow heal from all the trauma he had suffered. But there was a part of him—a deep part—that was still trapped in the darkness. The fear, the anxiety, the paranoia—it was all still there, lurking just below the surface.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be around them,” Arthur said, his voice quiet with a tinge of fear. “I’m not sure I can be around everyone. Not yet.”

Bucky nodded. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be around anyone if you’re not ready. Just take your time. But you should know, you’re welcome here. No one’s gonna judge you for what you’ve been through. We’ve all got scars, Arti.”

Arthur looked up at his brother, meeting his eyes for the first time in a long while. There was a kind of raw honesty in Bucky’s expression—an understanding that ran deeper than any words could express. 

Bucky’s voice was steady, unwavering. “You don’t have to rush. But when you’re ready, we’re here. You’re part of this family now, whether you believe it or not.”

Arthur felt a tightness in his chest at those words. Family. It was a word he had thought he would never hear again. But here, in the quiet of the compound, surrounded by people who understood the pain he had been through, it felt like something real. Something he could hold on to.

The sound of footsteps interrupted their quiet moment, and they both turned to see Steve standing in the doorway, his expression gentle, but still carrying the weight of concern.

“Everything okay in here?” Steve asked, his voice a mix of care and caution.

Arthur hesitated, looking between Bucky and Steve. His anxiety was still a tight knot in his chest, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he wasn’t completely alone. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I… I’m trying,” Arthur said softly, his words almost lost in the quiet room.

Steve gave him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

As the three of them sat there in the room, the tension didn’t completely dissipate, but it was manageable. It felt like the beginning of something. A slow, quiet journey toward healing.

Arthur wasn’t sure what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t walking through it completely alone.

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To be continued...