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Nobody knew that Steve Rogers suffered from panic attacks. Nobody except for Natasha.
She had ignored it, the first few nights in the new compound when she’d heard Steve tossing and turning in the next room over. On day four when she’d heard grunting and heavy-footed pacing she’d finally gotten up to knock on his door.
“You doin’ alright in there?” she’d called in after a soft but pointed knock, “Sounds like you’re running a marathon in there, Rogers.”
“’m alright,” Steve called back without further explanation.
Although it had been clear from the strained quality in his voice that he was – without a doubt – not alright, she’d left him alone after that. The heavy, late-night foot falls continued for another week.
For one night it had appeared that he had finally settled, until she'd been awoken by screaming in the early morning hours.
After a quick knock on the door she shoved her way into his room. There he was, pacing from wall to wall, one hand pressed against his throat while the other monitored the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved for breath, choking in a desperate need for air.
“You are not alright,” Natasha murmured as she paused at his side, “Tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, even as his restricted airflow caused him to cough and wheeze, the hand at his throat coming up to brace against the wall, “Just...feeling-”
With a sigh, she helped to situate him, leading him to the edge of the bed and letting him settle, elbows on knees. “Well, your feelings are about to wake up half the compound,” she said, pressing a hand to the back of his flaming neck as she knelt before him, “Let me help you.”
He fought for several more labored breaths before finally nodding.
“Okay,” Natasha nodded as she leaned forward, pressing her palms into his knees, “Breathe. In four counts. Hold for eight. Out four.”
She counted him through the first few reps, slowly fading out until she was keeping time only with her thumb against his knee.
“Good,” she hummed out as his breath evened and he sat back with a low sigh, “Better?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Red Room,” Natasha said as she sat back, legs crossing, “The younger girls would wake up screaming in the night and if I could get to them before the Mistress...well, doing the breathing exercises helped calm them down. Now, are you going to tell me what’s had you wound so tight since moving in here?”
And in the next moment, after a hesitant sigh, he was offloading. Everything about Peggy and her fading memory. The new recruits. The successes and failures of previous missions. And enough fucking diplomacy to make any person’s head spin. They spent a solid twenty minutes like that, him talking quickly from between his fingers as he combed his hands over his face - Natasha nodding along, interjecting only when asked.
“When I’m low...I’m really low. But when I’m on a high, like right now...it feels like I’m just waiting for everything to come crashing down around me. I don’t know. It’s a lot,” he finally sighed, slumping forward and shaking his head.
“Why do you think you have to do everything on your own?” she asked, leaning forward to catch his eye, “You spent the better part of the last year telling me that I needed to behave like part of the team and here you are drowning because you’re not following your own advice.”
“That’s different.”
Her eyebrows shot high as she braced back on her palms, “Why is this different?”
Steve sputtered, trying to come up with any response. “It’s different because I am supposed to lead, Natasha. And I can’t do what I need to if I have to-”
“What? Rely on others?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like this way is working out any better for you,” she said with a sad but knowing smile. “You could lean on me...if you needed. I hope you know that already.”
“I do,” he grumbled, finally peering up to meet her eyes, “I know that.”
“Then lean on me, Rogers.”