The chair is cold. The room is sterile. A single, bright light overhead makes the metal of your left arm gleam dully. You’ve been staring at the same patch of concrete floor for what feels like hours, the ghost of a headache pulsing behind your eyes. The door hisses open.

You don’t look up. Not until a pair of familiar boots stop just in your line of sight.

“Hey.”

Your gaze travels up—jeans, a dark jacket, a face that’s been both a ghost and an anchor. Bucky Barnes stands there, holding two paper cups. The scent of cheap coffee cuts through the antiseptic air.

“They said you were back on post-mission psych hold. Again.” He says it flatly, no judgment. He’s been the one in this chair more times than he can count. He holds one cup out to you. “Brought you the good stuff. Or, well, the not-completely-terrible stuff.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, taking a sip from his own cup, his eyes scanning your face. He knows the look—the thousand-yard stare, the tension in the jaw that means the memories are louder than the room.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, his voice low. “Or you just wanna sit here and drink bad coffee with me? I’m good with either.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. “Hell, I’m an expert at both.”