Seven o'clock. He said he'd be back at seven o'clock. By seven thirty there's no sign of him. Bucky tries distracting himself, bustling around the kitchen. Puts the kettle on, gets a single mug out. Sits down while he waits for the kettle to boil.
Sighing, he looks at the time. Seven thirty-three. God. Every minute feels like a year and every tick of the clock pounds in his heart heavily. It's fine. He's fine. Missions overrun; he's important, he's Captain America.
Why did he take on that stupid role anyway? What was wrong with him just being Steve Rogers, small but firey Steve Rogers, normally found with a bloody nose and a man three times his size in a back alley in Brooklyn.
Tiny, preserum Steve Rogers with determination so strong he probably could lift a mountain if he wanted to.
Spindly Steve Rogers who looked like you could blow him over with one puff, who always had his inhaler in his clutch, who'd be bedridden for a quarter of the year.
Bucky doesn't want that for him, of course, but he'd rather worry he'd perish in his small bed being spooned by the big, protective James Barnes than worrying he'd be disintegrated to dust or bashed on the head so hard he bled out, or stabbed or shot or drowned or strangled.
Bucky would rather stick to what's familiar, to him caring for Steve as he had his third asthma attack of the week, Bucky holding him upright and mumbling,"Another puff, Steve. C'mon. Breathe it in," while his heart pounded at Steve's red face, wheezing and spluttering and panicking, clutching Bucky's starched shirt with his greasy little fingers.
"Yeah. You're fine." He'd say, but really he'd be thinking, "God, you've really blown it now, you punk. What am I gonna do with ya? Shoulda stuck with me, pal," Brooklyn accent coming through hard with the panic.
The sound of the kettle finishing startles Bucky from his thoughts and he pulls his heavy feet into the kitchen, each step feeling like a chore as he lumbers over the linoleum.
He sets his mug up, tossing a tea bag in, stirring in some milk, all while trying to ignore the pounding in his chest and the fact that his flesh fingers were beginning to tingle with adrenaline like both his arms were electrical. Steve is fine. He's fine.
He's completely fine but with a sinking dread that seeps down to Bucky's toes, he realises. Steve could've left him.
Steve didn't have to stay with him, and he's never been late, but he's probably sick of Bucky and his whining and his crying and the way he swallows pills at least once a month to try and numb himself out, sick of cleaning his puke, sick of waking up in a wet bed after Bucky had a nightmare.
God, Bucky doesn't expect him to stay. But the thought of just dealing with life without Steve, well, that just crushes him. Steve came back for him. Surely he wants him? But he didn't know it would be this hard. Bucky didn't even know it would be this hard.
Bucky thinks for a moment; if Steve has really left, he could be okay. He could just get himself into bed, wake up, go to work with the Avengers. The usual.
But he can't, he can't be without Steve. Not again. Suddenly he hears a shatter and realises the mug has slipped out of his sweaty palms, crashing to the floor as shards flew half way across the room. God.
Hot tea burns at Bucky's socked feet but he just stands there, trembling, looking at the mess.
The noise had startled him; it had the same pitch of a knife clanging or a rifle dropping on the cold stone floor and that visual is enough to send him stumbling forwards into the kitchen counter, metal arm providing most of his support to stop him falling into the shards of broken mug.
His chest falters; air is getting hard to suck in through his lungs and this is the part he's been trying to put off for the past half an hour.
The ticking of the clock in the background turns into a buzzing sound around his ears and every single tick is a tick that Steve isn't back yet, and Bucky is trying to slow his breathing down through his nose, inhaling sharply, closing his eyes so the world will stop spinning but he can't move at all, he's surrounded by shards of cracked mug and hot tea and he's shaking too much to be able to step over it, he can't even turn around from the kitchen counter it gives him too much vertigo.
Bucky braces a hand on his chest over his thumping heart but gets more worried over the speed of his heartbeats. That's not normal. That's not normal!
His hand shakes over his heart and his eyes are still squeezed shut, small soft whimpers coming out of his mouth.
"No, fuck. No." He whispers through gritted teeth.
His chest ached right in the centre like he'd been electrocuted.
It actually had a very similar sensation to being under the Memory Surpressing Machine and that thought results in a low, pained groan from Bucky as he leans his head down on the cool kitchen counter, breath becoming erratic very quickly.
"No. No." He repeats, lifting his head up to hit it back down hard on the counter.
"Stop. Stop."
His entire body was trembling now, voice quivering. His metal fingers curled themselves around his long hair, twisting it and pulling it away from his scalp.
Bucky winced at the painful pull, but continued running his fingers through his hair as he felt sweat dripping down his body from his armpits and the sides of his face and under his stubbly beard.
"God. Please."
He whimpered helplessly as his chest rose and fell too fast, air wheezing out of his lungs painfully, eyes crinkling at the corners at the strain.
The clock ticked on and on, the sound reverberating around Bucky's head painfully and he clamped his hands to his ears to try and drown it out, leaving his right ear damp from his sweaty palm.
He gulped now and then through the hyperventilation, way past the point of calming himself down. Close your eyes. It's not real. It's not real. I'm not real. It's a malfunction, surely.
It's fine, they'll fix it soon. The vibranium arm, it's probably playing up. Sending false signals through his body. Making him feel things that aren't there.
But this thought isn't any more reassuring and his breathing is still spiralling, getting worse when he thought he was surely at the peak.
He thought it was at the summit but he was continuing to sob, hands pressed firmly into his ears, gasping and panting.
Drool dribbles out of his mouth and lands on the counter and he barely notices, but now he can tell his mouth is salivating too much because of the way he's so ready for a fight, why else would he be sweating and panting and having heart palpitations if he wasn't just really, really angry or malfunctioning?
He let's his mouth hang open and more saliva leaks out of his panting mouth.
"God, oh, God." Then the door opens, and the sound startles him so much he jumps, knocking another mug off the counter to the floor.
"FUCK!" He yelled angrily, panting hard still, the air making small wheezing noises as it struggled to reach the bottom of his lungs.
At the clatter, Bucky's hands flew back into place over his ears with a desperate sob.
"Hey, hey!" Steve said firmly from the door, still in his Captain America uniform. His blonde hair was messy and tousled from being under his helmet all day. It made him look like a little chick.
"Oh, Buck..." He mumbled frantically, rushing to behind Bucky who was looking very unsteady on his feet.
"Hey, come on..." Steve grabbed Bucky around his waist, planting his hands in firmly and pulling him away from the shards of porcelain as Bucky continued hyperventilating hard.
"Nnn-" Bucky grunted out as he felt his head start to spin and his tongue felt tingly in his mouth. He was so certain he was seeing stars.
"Alright. Hey. You're alright." Steve repeated, concern furrowing his blonde brows.
He lead Bucky over to the sofa and sat himself down first, tapping his lap encouragingly and Bucky then sat on his knees, facing him, legs shakily slipping around either side of his body, but he didn't burrow his face in Steve's shoulder like usual.
Instead he faced him, red faced and panting, looking into his eyes like he couldn't believe he was really there. He has this look of desperation and a childlike hurt in his eyes. This must be because Steve is late.
He wraps his arms around Bucky's muscular back. It definitely would look odd to anyone else; such a strong man like Bucky being so vulnerable.
He'd never shown his vulnerability around anyone but Steve and Nat. Steve held the warm, shivery Bucky into him, looking into his eyes with determination that he is here now, he will help him.
"Shhh. I'm here. I'm right here."
"Steve I can't - I can't breathe... I - I-" Bucky panted hard, arms flailing about until Steve held them tight in his own hands.
"Sshh. Shhh, Buck. It's okay. Shhhh," he cooed softly, running his hands in different shapes on Bucky's back.
"You're alright. I'm here. Shhh."
"Steve. Steve -" Bucky's voice was frantic, desperate, even, as he warbled out Steve's name pleadingly.
"I know, baby. I know... just take some breaths. You're gonna be fine, I promise."
Steve started bouncing his legs up and down gently to try and soothe Bucky, who was snuffling and sobbing, breathing unevenly.
"Steve. Please. Steve, please -," he was murmuring almost to himself, struggling to get a breath in and it hurt Steve hearing him like that. Steve wanted him to stop. He doesn't want to lose him, he doesn't want to hear him hyperventilating anymore.
It sounds so raw and frenzied and he doesn't want Bucky to keel over and die and take his last breath but he needs to centre himself. Bucky is fine.
He's heard people die and this isn't it. It's a panic attack, he's dealt with loads of Bucky's attacks and episodes and he's going to be fine. Just, fine.
"Alright. Take a breath, Bucky."
"Hhh-" Bucky sucks in air painfully, feeling it get stuck on the way to his lungs and he puffs it out again, frustrated and panicked.
"That's good. And again," Steve coaxed, determined to get him well.
"Mmmhh-"
"Yeah. That's good." Steve still ran his fingers over Bucky's back.
"Steve."
"Just me, Buck."
There was silence for a bit, apart from Bucky's hyperventilation and Steve's mumbled "Shh."
"Steve?" Bucky asked again, 5 minutes later, voice inquisitive.
"Still here, punk." Bucky could hear the smile in his voice.
"Doing good?" Bucky asked, hoping for praise.
"Yeah. You're doing amazing, sweetheart."
Bucky looked into Steve's face again, still breathing hard, and his face contorted again. "I don't feel..."
He stifled a burp behind his metal fist that came out from deeper down in his stomach and wetter than he'd anticipated.
There wasn't even time for him to warn Steve before he felt a rush of warm, chunky liquid spurt up his stinging throat and spilling out over his metal fist with a gasping retch, yellowy vomit pouring between the gaps in his metal fingers and dripping onto his own lap.
Vomit splashed onto Steve's shirt as Bucky heaved so violently it sent his eyes rolling back into his head.
"OH, God -" Steve blurted out while grabbing Bucky around his waist, holding him so he didn't send himself falling backwards as he retched forcefully, pushing more sour tasting bile out of his mouth with a hurl.
"So- So-" Bucky tried talking in between catching his breath, but would get sent forwards gagging from the back of his throat whenever he tried.
"You're okay. Let it up -" Steve tried reassuring him but Bucky was obviously getting himself worked up as he retched noisily into Steve's lap.
He felt so guilty and embarrassed from the red flushed look on his face.
Steve reminded Bucky it's fine, they can clean when he's done, but he is still sobbing in between smaller, drier gags now. Not much coming up, Steve thought it was safe to move.
"Alright. Let's get you to the bathroom."
Steve assessed the damage; his own shirt was splattered in Bucky's vomit, making his stomach damp, and Bucky's vibranium arm was dripping in saliva and bile. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment.
"God, Steve, I -"
"No. Don't apologise. I promise you, Buck, it's all okay."
Steve smiled reassuringly, hoping Bucky would understand he wasn't mad; he's never going to be mad. Even though the sofa has small circles of vomit on it and they both smell acidic, he really doesn't mind. As long as Bucky feels better after it.
And he's not sure he does, because as he manoeuvres Bucky off the sofa and holds him away from himself so he doesn't get in his own sick that's on Steve's shirt, more saliva drips from his mouth in a lazy burp.
"You're alright." Steve reassured, rushing them to the bathroom trying not to jostle Bucky's stomach more. When they reached the bathroom Bucky slumped down against the door with an exhausted sigh, closing his eyes.
"Oh, baby. You can't sleep just yet, let's get you cleaned, hm?"
Bucky just grunted.
"I know, I know." Steve cooed, slipping off Bucky's shirt to avoid transferring the vomit anywhere else.
"Can I undress you?"
Bucky just nodded tiredly, stretching himself out helpfully so Steve could slip his fingers to his waistband and pull his soiled jeans off, taking his underwear with them.
He turned himself so he was facing Bucky's left shoulder and fiddled away with the mechanics holding the arm in place.
Thanks to Wakandan technology, it was removable, which was considerably useful in situations like this. It once took him a long time to switch the right switches and pull at the exact right angle, but now he disconnects the metal from his shoulder stump in a few swift movements, placing it onto the counter gently to clean later.
"Alright. Come here." Steve turned the knob on the shower making sure it's warm, before undressing himself and stepping under it, hand out for Bucky to follow. But Bucky looked so weak; Steve just slipped his hands under his armpits and pulled him in after him strongly.
They sat there for a bit, bare skin touching bare skin, Bucky's arm stump leaning into Steve's now clean chest as he moaned softly in tiredness and because his muscles ached so much, Steve soothing him and carding a hand through his hair absent mindedly.
"You've done good, pal."
"I threw up all over you." Bucky sobbed, embarrassed.
"Yeah. You've done good. Coulda been worse, Buck."
"I'm really sorry, Steve..."
"Stop. You don't have to be. Everything can be fixed. We're clean now, right? I just gotta scrub the sofa, we're all good."
"So you're not-not gonna..." His voice wavers and breaks completely as fresh tears spill from his eyes.
"Gonna what?" Steve soothes.
"Leave me." Bucky whispers quietly, flesh hand in his mouth to make his sobs quieter.
"Buck..." Steve pulled Bucky's hand away from his mouth and looked into his eyes.
"I'm never, ever gonna leave you. You're where I want to stay. I promise."
"Promise?"
"Yeah. I do."
Bucky's lip curled in a faint smile.
"Alright. We're gonna get you nice and cosy." Steve pulled out some plaid pyjama bottoms for Bucky, leaving him without a top for the night. He will get too hot after all of that stress; especially if he has a nightmare.
Steve sincerely hopes he doesn't; he's already weary and worn down and deserves a decent rest.
When they're both dressed and Bucky's hair has been carefully towelled dry by Steve, he helps him to the sitting room again.
"Wanna sit there while I clean up?" Steve offers and Bucky slumps into the old armchair that was very worse for wear, and they kept it because it reminded them of their old apartment in Brooklyn.
Steve got some plastic bags and fabric cleaner, pulling the cushion covers off the sofa and putting them into the washing machine.
Once he'd scrubbed it spotless he walked over to their bedroom and took off the mattress protector, putting it on the sofa and stuffing it with blankets and pillows.
"Let's camp out here tonight, hm?" Steve suggested and Bucky nods thoughtfully.
"We can watch some movies. I bought popcorn and fries today." Steve explains excitedly. Bucky tries not to feel embarrassed at the fact Steve had put the mattress protector on the sofa.
But he knew Steve took this all in his stride; he didn't even show anything on his face that said he was making fun of him, Bucky realised.
So he smiles too, and says, "that sounds wonderful," and Steve chuckles at his choice of adjectives.
"I love you, you jerk." Steve exclaims, grabbing Bucky by either side of his face and planting a kiss on his lips, mumbling into them.
"Love you more, punk." Bucky scoffs.
They both settle on the sofa together once Steve has heated the fries in the microwave, and they snuggle onto the blanket nest on the sofa, Steve's arm around Bucky as he squishes into him, holding him with his flesh arm, stump shoulder encased in all the blankets.