It had been difficult, in the beginning. When Bucky was remembering himself and Steve was so happy to have his best friend back, there was a lot that Bucky had to get used to real fast. One of those things had been touch.
Over the years with Hydra, touch was never a good thing. It was a painful, awful, dreadful thing that only meant he had made mistakes and was being punished. Touch and pain were synonymous and he couldn't just erase that from his mind.
So, the first dozen or so times Steve reached for him, Bucky had flinched. And Bucky caught it. The look of sadness in Steve's eyes. The flash of concern mixed with confusion. Because why would Bucky be afraid of Steve? Steve didn't understand just what made Bucky pull back from that touch, from affection. Why was Bucky not the same Bucky?
It got better. Bucky got better at suppressing the fear responses. He started to recognize Steve's touch for what it was over the times he visited in Wakanda. It was just Steve being Steve. Steve was safe. Bucky knew it. Deep down, Bucky was fully aware that Steve was safe. He just had to remember that touch didn't have to hurt anymore.
Sam was different, though. From the beginning, Sam seemed to be able to read him. There was a connection in Sam's mind that made sense of Bucky's body language and fell into a reasonable pattern, without having to ask.
What Sam did ask was for permission. He warned Bucky when he was close. He asked if he could touch his arm. To give him a squeeze to the shoulder. A hug.
He remembers the first time Sam entered Bucky's personal space in Wakanda, and it hadn't arisen a panic within him. Sam had come to visit Bucky in the field, and Bucky was sitting on a bench, watching the goats.
Sam had walked up to him, right into his field of vision so he wouldn't startle him, and asked Bucky if he could sit next to him. The bench was a little small. Snug for two grown men. But Sam had asked. Bucky nervously said yes.
Sam sat gently, made sure they didn't connect in too many places, and when he moved, he made sure Bucky knew. Even in the middle of their conversations, he'd stop to let him know. Just a gentle, "Hey, I gotta move my arm, sorry," and then he would pull his arm from between them, adjust himself, get settled again.
Sam never moved until after he announced the movement, either. Usually. There had been a couple moments, when Bucky had lost his footing on the steeper hills on quiet, tired days, that Sam had acted first and apologized moments later, but Bucky was grateful. It meant he wasn't face first in the dirt.
Now, years later, after the Blip, after therapy, after Karli, and even after having been dating for long enough to be engaged and working on picking out colors for the wedding, Sam asks. Sam warns him. It isn't every single time now, but Bucky has gotten better. Sam still knows exactly when asking and warning Bucky about touch is necessary, and he does it.
Like right now, as Bucky is gasping for breath after a panic, on his knees in the kitchen and not sure how he got there. Sam is calmly speaking to him, telling him what he's going to do before he does it. Every step of the way.
"I'm right here, Buck," he's saying, and Bucky can hear what direction he's coming from, but his vision is swimming and he's too out of it still to really see anything.
"I'm on your right side, okay?" Sam adds. "I'm going to touch your arm now. To try and help you balance to stand. When I take hold of your hand, can you squeeze mine if you understand?"
And Bucky does. On some deeper level, under the panic, he knows what Sam's doing. Because this is what Sam always does. This is something Bucky's so used to it's like breathing.
There's a hand on his upper arm, holding him firmly, and then another gripping his hand. He takes a breath, shaky and whimpering, but he squeezes Sam's hand.
"That's it, baby," Sam says, and he sounds proud. That makes Bucky feel a little better. There's no upset or sadness in his tone. No irritation or impatience. He's just here with Bucky to get through this.
Whatever this is, Bucky doesn't know. He can feel his chest heaving still and his breaths aren't filling his lungs fully. There's a distant thought at the back of his mind that he can't breathe and he's scared that something bad is still going to happen. He doesn't know what it is, but it's there. Looming.
"Do you think you can stand with me and make it to the chair?" Sam's voice creeps into his thoughts. "Give me a squeeze if you think you can."
Bucky doesn't squeeze. He's too shaky. He can barely hold himself up where he is. Even with Sam's help, he'll fall over. He knows it. He feels like he's about to pass out.
After a few moments, Sam hums softly. "Okay. How about this? I'm going to put my arm around your shoulders and we're going to sit back against the counter together. Right here on the floor. Does that sound better?"
Bucky squeezes Sam's hand. That sounds great. Something to hold them both up so the world can stop fucking spinning. He likes that a lot. He feels Sam shift, his arm coming around Bucky's shoulders and his other hand staying firm in Bucky's hand. It's their form of communication right now, so of course he's going to hold on.
He can't see, but he feels when his back touches the counter and his side settles in against Sam's. There's a moment of terror, until he remembers this is exactly where he wanted to be. He sinks against Sam's side, deflating and gasping for air. If he can just breathe, he'll be fine. Why is he down here again?
"You're doing a great job," Sam whispers into his hair. "I'm so proud of you. I don't know what happened, but you're still here with me and we're going to get you through it together, alright?"
Bucky can feel something in him release, just a little bit. As though he needed that confirmation. He lets out a soft whimper and closes his eyes, giving up on trying to see anything. What's the damn point right now? Breathing is what he needs to focus on. Breathing and the feel of Sam against his shoulders and side.
It's quiet for a few moments, Bucky trying to settle his breathing. He can hear another breathing pattern next to his own and recognizes it after a few moments. It's Sam. Of course, that makes sense. They're the only ones here. The cats are around, but they have very different breathing patterns.
Bucky finds himself easing into matching Sam's breaths, a soft sigh falling from his lips after a few minutes. His body starts to relax and he rests his head on Sam's chest.
"There we go," Sam murmurs softly. "Is it alright if I run my fingers through your hair? That's helped in the past."
Bucky lets out a content hum and squeezes Sam's hand. God yes. He would love that. And when Sam does start pulling his fingers through Bucky's hair, a soft smile tugs his lips as he feels himself falling into the comfort it provides. His panic starts to fully subside now and he's just at home, sitting on the kitchen floor with his fiancé.
He's starting to doze off when Sam speaks up again a good ten minutes later.
"Maybe we should go lie down?" Sam asks gently. "My Bucky Bear is starting to snore."
Bucky snorts, turning his face into Sam's chest. "You're really goin' down that line of nicknames, huh?" he teases.
Sam chuckles and tightens his grip around Bucky, wrapping his other arm around him now, too. "Yes."
Bucky laughs harder and turns, wrapping his own arms around Sam. "Thank you," he whispers into Sam's neck. He really is tired now, the panic having taken a lot out of him, but he's grateful for Sam. Grateful for how well the other man pulled him from it. "I wish you didn't have to see shit like that."
"I would rather be here to help you through it than you be alone," Sam says with a shrug. "Babe, you remember we're in this life together, right? Some days, you got my back, others I got yours. That's just how it goes. On and off the field."
Bucky takes a slow breath in and chuckles. "Yeah. That- I remember." He yawns. "Y'think we could go lie down?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, c'mon. I'll help you up." He shifts and grips Bucky's elbows, helping to haul him to his feet and wrapping an arm around his waist as they make their way down the hall to their bedroom.
As they settle down together in bed, Bucky lets out a quiet chuckle. "Y'know, back when Steve and I were fightin' in the War, they ran a line of dumb little toys for the Commandos back in the states," he says. "Action figures, stuffed animals, shit that would make people give money that would go to the war effort, you know?"
Sam hums softly.
"They made this one," Bucky laughs. "An actual Bucky Bear. Just this… this fucking stuffed bear that wore the same uniform I wore. One dressed like Cap, too. But for some reason, the bear of me sold better'n the one of Steve. At least, that's what I heard before I fell."
Sam laughs softly and wraps his arms around Bucky, kissing his temple. "Yeah, I know. They re-released them when I was a kid, because… I had a Bucky Bear."
Bucky lifts his head and looks at Sam. "You didn't."
"Ask Sarah," Sam says. "I carried that thing around with me everywhere. Dad once asked me why I didn't want a Captain America toy and I told him I thought it was cooler to be Captain America's friend than to be Captain America. Younger me thought the logic was sound, but it didn't matter. I loved that damn bear."
"Now you've been both," Bucky hums, tilting his head before he lets it rest on Sam's shoulder. "I'm texting Sarah later. There better be pictures."
Sam laughs again. "There probably are." He kisses Bucky's temple again. "Get some rest, baby."
And Bucky closes his eyes, settling into Sam's hold, easily dozing off again. Sam knows when touch is needed, but he also knows when to ask, just in case, and Bucky loves him for that. It makes every touch that much more warm. Just another reason he keeps falling in love with the guy.