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There’s something about the way it can come out of nowhere. Like a bullet or bomb, completely blindsiding you without even the hint of warning.
Bucky knows, he knows the signs, the oncoming panic that can flood his bones like a blazing river; he’s felt the fear wash over him in overwhelming waves. But that is not this, this is ice in his veins, heart stopping, lung seizing, unparalleled numbness.
His hands tremble as they cease the motion of scrubbing the pot from dinner, the water that had been running from the tab suddenly cold. This chill spilt over his palms and between his fingers and not for the first time he’s cursing the hyperrealistic sensors that were programmed into his prosthetic.
The water heater must’ve quit, or just run out midway through. With one too many people in the apartment building taking a shower or using the washing machines or dishwasher.
There was a clear explanation for the water running over his hands to have suddenly dipped into freezing, but it was like his mind had gone completely blank. Which, for James “Bucky” Buchanan Barns, having a blank mind in the middle of a freakout is maybe the worst case scenario.
The pot creeks under his grip, metal warping between his fingers. He’s not sure which hand is doing it, the vibranium one that can crush cars or the flesh and bone one jacked on super-soldier serum; but the pot folds under his palms anyway before it snaps and crashes into the sink with a sickening clang.
The noise echoes around Bucky’s skull like a gunshot, pot clipping against the plates that lay in the bottom and the utensils smashing against one another in an even louder encore. The water is still running from the faucet, now splashing against his chest from the way its spray had angled against a spoon.
He takes a step back, stumbling across the floor, if he has the thought to be grateful he was barefoot against the tiled floor he would be, someone knowing he couldn't take slipping because he was wearing a pair of socks on top of this.
Before he can blink, his back collides with the opposite counter, marble digging into his lower spine. The pain is almost able to ground him back in reality if not for the way his shirt clung to his skin like a vice, the wet fabric dripping onto the loose sweatpants he wore and droplets of liquid rolling down his hands to his elbows and onto the floor.
But before he can collapse to the floor, there is a towel in his hands. Gentle motions drag the fabric against the skin of his right hand, collecting the offending beads of water until it’s dry before hopping over to his prosthetic and drying the metal there too.
He is maneuvered out of the kitchen to stand awkwardly in the living room, and Sam is saying something about his clothes before he disappears like a flash out into their bedroom.
The change of scenery has done wonders for Bucky's sanity, lighting a soft glow from above rather than the harsh brightness they keep for cooking. There’s a warm carpet beneath his feet, and the stark contrast from the cold, hard tile is a shock to his nerves.
His clothes are still wet, but when Sam reappears with a new, dry, pair of sweats and a t-shirt the dots finally connect between the words Sam had said a few moments ago to the actual action happening around him.
Sam’s hands are on him again, light shoves to get his hands and legs where they need to be for him to change into the new outfit.
Blue eyes meet brown.
“You back with me?”
Bucky blinks at him, jaw dropping ever so slightly as he sucks in a breath and holds it, hand still slightly shaking from where they’ve landed hung limp at his sides. “Yeah,” the world still feels a little off kilter, but at least its in focus again.
Sam lets out a little sigh that if Bucky didnt know any better would sound annoyed, instead he receives a small smirk and easy, rolling amusement, “Good, because you broke my favorite pot, and I can’t be mad at people who aren’t all there.”
Bucky winces, face scrunching into a guilty cringe, “Sorry, I-” he doesn’t know how to explain what happened, but they’re working on his ability to make mistakes and not feel like the world is ending. “The water was cold,” he says instead, hoping Sam could fill in the blanks.
Sam, the angel he is, doesn’t even blink. Insead he gathers Bucky’s soaked clothes and walks them to the laundry room to toss them in the basket for their next load. Leaving Bucky speechless and simultaneously enamored.
What he did to earn someone like Sam is completely beyond him, between everything he’s done there hasn’t been a moment where he thought he deserved a life like this. Maybe somewhere, distantly, a version of himself that died on that train in the 40’s dreamt he’d end up happy; married with kids and a steady job, no war, and a house to return to at the end of the day.
Yet, as Sam comes back and leads him to the couch to sit, throwing a blanket over his still mostly frozen still body without even a moment's hesitation in caring for someone like him, he can’t help but think that this was better.
“Stay,” Sam says, as if sensing Bucky’s near protest like a disturbance in the force, “You and I both no damn well you only get bad attacks like that when you haven’t slept. Take a nap, I’ve got the dishes.”
“You cooked, I’m supposed to clean up,” he countered, voice hitting that defensive tone he can never quite get control over and a frown tugging at his lips.
“Well, maybe I am trying to be nice, and it would be really rude of you to fight me when I’m trying to do something kind for you. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you and we’ll go to the room together when I’m done”
Bucky’s mouth, which had in fact been poised to protest again, snapped shut. Sam really was perfect, silencing all of his concerns in one spoken blow. Sam knew exactly what buttons to press to get him to stand down, he knew to keep Bucky close by because being completely alone in silence after one of his breakdowns only served to make it worse, and he knew to reassure him that Sam would come get him at the end.
Damned Veterans Affairs PTSD counselor training, making his boyfriend good at talking people down and comforting them after panic attacks.
“Fine.”
“Fine, I’ll see you in an hour or so,” with a final, nonchalant squeeze to Bucky’s hand, Sam walked back to the kitchen.
Bucky could hear him pick up the mangled remains of his pot and toss them in the trash. As the faucet turned back on and the clanging of dishes shifting in the sink resumed, Bucky did not flinch, because he could trust that Sam had his back.
-
The next morning, Bucky woke up in his bed, with the suns streaming through their curtains shining through his bedroom. A few feet away, the telltale sounds of Sam going through his morning routine echoed from the bathroom. Muted shuffling from behind the door as his boyfriend went about his business was a comforting sound, it kept his brain from wandering too far in the other direction, down the dark rabbit hole of crippling loneliness that Bucky hated. It made him feel pathetic and desperate, those long ago drilled in rules that connections made him weak bouncing around his skull in half-baked memories of lightning and pain.
Bucky was usually the first of the two of them to wake up, not by much considering both of them were on military hours and never really broke free of those habits, but the fact that Bucky was still in bed post the sunrise was saying something.
Sam was probably right about the lack of sleep thing, if Bucky staying in bed for a full eight-hours-plus had anything to say about it.
At least the bed was warm, faint traces of body heat remained buried in the sheets where Sam had been laying earlier combined with the pleasant rays of the sun leaving the area perfectly heated for comfort. Sam wandered out of the bathroom, teeth presumably brushed and face washed.
“Glad to see you’re finally awake, sleeping beauty.”
The chuckle that accompanied the words was not lost on Bucky, he may be a little behind the times when it comes to slang but he’s not stupid. He knows he’s being teased when he sees, or hears, it.
“Shut up,” he goes for instead, turning his back to Sam and curling up under his blanket with a small smile hidden from view.
The bed dips as Sam crawls in behind him, placing a simple kiss at the back of his skull when his hairline ends and meets the top of his neck. Bucky sighs, tension he didn't realize he was carrying melting from his spine like the ice in a glass of lemonade on a summer day.
“Get out of bed and clean up, I’ve got plans for us today,” Sam murmurs with a gentle shove to his shoulder.
“How the hell have you made plans when all I’ve done was sleep?”
“I have my ways, and it's not like I had to make reservations.”
And that's how, about two hours later, Bucky finds himself standing in the middle of a random park a few blocks away staring at an ice cream truck. Sam seems pleased beside him, if the way he’s grinning like an idiot had anything to say about it. The air is humid and warm, not quite sweltering, but Bucky is glad he left his jacket at home all the same.
“Ice cream?” Don’t get Bucky wrong, he loves ice cream, but this feels like it came out of nowhere.
Sam shrugs, already walking forward towards the vehicle and tugging his wallet from his back pocket, “I thought it could be good for you. Y’know, exposure therapy and all that.”
Bucky can’t help himself, he bursts into laughter as he jogs to catch up with his partner. Coming to an even stride at Sam’s side he speaks up again, “You saw me have a panic attack over cold water, and your first thought was, ‘I’m gonna take him for some ice cream’ ?”
“Well, no,” Sam counters, similarly amused, “My first thought was ice skating, but then I thought that was a little harsh for your fragile super-soldier brain.”
“Har har.”
“Plus, we’re in southern Louisiana. It’s not exactly brimming with ice skating rinks.”
They make it to the ice cream truck, wide grins still eating away at their cheeks. It’s stupid, but Sam is right, a little positive association never hurt no one.
Sam gets an Oreo bar, claiming that it is a classic, which it is, and Bucky orders a plain vanilla cone because he's old and allowed to be a little stuck in his ways. Sam pays, “My trauma-healing idea, my treat,” and they make their way over to a park bench with a little view of a nearby lake.
There are ducks swimming in the distance, periodically dipping their heads below the water to fix their feathers and Bucky watches with a peaceful smile. He looks over to where Sam is sitting, the other man is staring at him with a gentlest smile on his face.
Bucky leaves forward and places a kiss on his lips, it’s short and it’s sweet, but it says everything he needs too. When he pulls away it's with a goofy grin and the lingering taste of Oreo on his tongue.
He looks back out at the lake and realizes he couldn’t be happier.