You weren’t a mental health professional by any means, but anyone with an ounce of intelligence could see something was not right about Bucky- or the Soldat- or whatever term he answered to nowadays. His method of healing wasn’t healing at all, it was self destruction. He actively sought out harm, keeping those who hurt him close, taking matters into his own hands when it got bad enough.

It was like an itch imprinted so deep into his veins that he couldn’t get it out. You could remember watching the news one day, the main story being on Rumlow, the old bastard from Hydra who’d managed to escape. You turned around to find Bucky standing there in silence, watching the TV with some sort of glazed over look in his eyes. That’s what made you realize it. This wasn’t some sort of coping mechanism, he was manipulated into depending on Rumlow, on the pain he brought. to the point he couldn’t function. Rumlow had turned Bucky into his own little rag doll, able to beat him down whenever and never get retaliation, because he tricked buckys mind into liking it.

You didn’t push him on it, you couldn’t, he’d break down. You simply let him be, only being there to make sure he took care of himself and didn’t hurt himself. One night after making him a warm meal he was all too distracted watching the news, slowly you turned to look at it, finding the news that Rumlow was dead, killed by the avengers. The soldier was still, too still.

“Bucky- that man hurt you..” you say softly. He simply shook his head. Pushing away from the table and walking off into the compound.

You found him a few hours later, sitting in the corner by a window, looking out on the city. You could see him twitching faintly, his torso leaving wet marks on his shirt. God, he’d done it again.