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[Phigerophobia- noun; a fear of smothering, choking, breathing hindrance; also called pnigerophobia]
The Winter Soldier’s dreams can hardly be called such, little more than swirling, broken memories of kills and injuries, of failures and reprimands, of falls. To the Soldier, hell isn’t fire and brimstone; hell is ice and snow, freezing wind and water so cold he can still feel it in his bones. Just as he drifts off to sleep most nights, finally lulled into rest by the warmth of someone beside him, he feels it, feels the breath frozen in his throat, the snow filling his mouth and the compressed oxygen forced into his lungs while his body froze around him.
He doesn’t speak of it, not even to Steve, the only other person in the world who might possibly understand what living hell he’d experienced. The memories were almost tactile even after so long; he could still feel the snow that smothered his cries for help, stained red and stinging in his wounds until his whole being had dissolved into numbness. That hell, that burden was his alone to bear; the others had done so much for him, more than he thought he deserved most days, so he kept this fight to himself.
Or, he had tried.
It’d been an accident, really, letting the fear slip out into the open like it did. He’d hid it for months before his guard relaxed enough for it slip. Most of the team had been called away on a mission, but sidelined with broken ribs and bruised lungs, Bucky had stayed behind. Clint too, having sprained his ankle badly and also sporting a fractured collarbone, had opted to sit the mission out and remain behind. That was how the two snipers ended up watching some silly spy movie until they’d both dozed off on the couch, Bucky laid out across most of it with his head near the other man’s lap, while Clint had his feet up on the coffee table and arms spread across the top of the couch.
The movie had ended about an hour ago, the large flat screen now displaying some advertisement, but the both of them were too busy sleeping to really notice. Bucky had nearly cocooned himself with every blanket in reach, always so desperate for warmth, and Lucky had taken to sleeping wedged behind his legs and squished into the couch cushions, head on the sniper's hip. Natasha’s cat, who usually slept curled up against Bucky’s chest when the assassin herself wasn’t around, was still wary of the dog and had taken to sleeping in Bucky’s almost-always empty bed.
It was just as well, as things didn’t stay peaceful for long. Decent sleep was rare for the sniper, and tonight was no different. About an hour after falling asleep he lapsed into a nightmare, body going rigid and tense as he felt himself lose his grip, tumble through open air into swirling water and ice that tried to swallow him whole. His screams for help were choked out of him, mouth and throat filled with inky water, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get air into his lungs. It didn’t help that as he twisted up around himself, waking the dog up in the process, he pulled the bandages around his torso taunt, constricting his own breathing.
Lucky barked loudly, squirming his way free of the tangle of blankets Bucky had made and jumping down off the couch. The noise startled Clint awake; Lucky didn’t really bark unless it was pretty important, and it’d been loud enough for even him to hear without his hearing aids in. It didn’t take him more than a second to realize what the problem was; the assassin was barely visible under the mound of blankets he’d collected, gasping for air and struggling as if he was fighting some invisible enemy. The archer had seen plenty of the fellow sniper’s fits, but this wasn’t like his usual nightmares. Normally he started to tremble and mumble in a half-dozen languages, nothing this… violent.
“… hey, Barnes,” Clint said softly, pulling a few of the blankets away when he feared Bucky’s broken ribs might have punctured his lungs, “Can you hear me?” he found the assassin’s shoulder and put his hand there, and the moment he touched him the man went suddenly still, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath as if he hadn’t had air in years; Clint didn’t hear it, but he felt it in the way Bucky’s shoulders trembled and how he curled in on himself a half-second later. The archer didn’t jerk away at the reaction, keeping his hand there, trying to convey that Bucky wasn’t alone and that there was someone beside him.
“Try and sit up if you can,” Clint didn’t ask what the nightmare had been about, none of them ever did as that was Bucky’s choice whether or not to divulge that information, “it’ll help your ribs.” Talking about anything and everything usually helped to distract Bucky after he woke up, and gave him enough time to overcome his own disorientation. He was about to start up one of those distracting conversations but stopped when he actually saw how Bucky looked. When he peeled himself out of the nest of blankets and slowly sat up his eyes weren’t clouded with confusion or glazed over with the steely look of the Soldier, this time he looked scared and helpless. It made him look young in a way that made Clint’s heart drop.
“Barnes, you—”
“Couldn’t breathe.” Bucky's words were breathed out and strained, Clint not hearing it but he read the words off his lips. The soldier was shivering a bit, fingers gripping onto the nearest blanket tightly enough that his knuckles were white from the force of it. He was breathing too hard for Clint to really relax, his shoulders shaking with the effort of it. Whatever his nightmare had been about it’d definitely knocked him down pretty hard. He'd seen plenty of his nightmares in the months since he and Steve moved into the tower permanently, but that didn't mean seeing one of his episodes was any less stressful or taxing. It was beyond saddening to see just how much he struggled with himself some days, but he knew that he needed to let Bucky take things at his own pace but he always made it known that if he ever felt the need to seek help, he was there for him.
It took several minutes of softly spoken words and coaxing before Bucky’s shuddering stopped. His breathing was still a bit too quick, a bit too shallow, too labored for his liking, but he’d leaned himself up against the archer’s side, head on the man’s shoulder and the fluffiest blanket of the bunch wrapped around him as tightly as possible. Bucky was pale and his skin flecked with cold sweat, and in his own mind he could still almost taste the water on his tongue, feel the snow crowding his face and smothering his attempts to breathe, but listening to Clint’s own heartbeat and breathing helped him try and set a rhythm in his own.
Lucky soon wriggled his way so he was sprawled across both their laps, snuffling Bucky’s flesh and bone hand before he settled himself in. Clint took that as a good sign that Barnes was stabilizing. He picked up the remote and flipped it over to some old cartoons, figuring they’d provide some harmless background noise. Jarvis had the windows dimmed, but the sun was already just peeking over some of the smaller buildings so it had to be pretty early. He’d ask Bucky if he wanted any coffee or something sweet once he settled a bit more, but for now he was fine just staying still and being a grounding point for him. That’s what family was for.