the relapse
It’s after a two-hour long working lunch and the team has gathered in the common area. Natasha’s still got her red bottoms on and Wanda’s blazer hasn’t left her shoulders; Bucky’s got his suspenders hanging down around his hips and Sam’s just foregone them completely, leaving them a pile of snakes on the coffee table.
The TV has been playing for the past twenty minutes but no-one’s actually watching except you and Steve. Everyone has a phone, after all, and Steve has that pet peeve where he can’t stand looking at his phone while there’s something on TV. You’re happy to slip off your own duck-egg blue heels and pull the bobby pins from your hair, cuddled up to his side on one of many loveseats. You’re not paying much attention to the screen either – Steve’s chest is the perfect laying spot, after all.
The TV show cuts to another scene – a young girl, one of the main characters, crying, bent over with a belt being snapped onto her thighs. And you feel yourself shoot up, limbs suddenly shaky, and you’re hit with the sudden urge to just puke.
You’ve had anxiety attacks before. You’ve had terrible, terrible anxiety attacks where you felt like you were going to die. But they were when you were a kid, when you were weak and vulnerable and still living under your parent’s roof. Not knowing what brought this on made it all the more terrifying.
One second you’re sitting beside Steve, the next you’re bursting into the kitchen, gasping for breath as your knees hit the tile. You screw your eyes shut and press your forehead to the cool floor, shutting out the concerned whispers from behind the door. Your chest feels like it’s closing up with every passing second.
You don’t know what triggered it. You’ve seen worse than that scene with no repercussions, you’ve even been in contact with your parents… Contact being a stiff nod when you saw each other at a charity ball 2 years ago, before leaving as soon as possible.
You don’t know what it is. And you don’t like that one bit.
“Sweetheart?” He’s speaking so cautiously, like you’re a spooked mare. You hate it. You’re not weak anymore. You’re stronger now. You’re stronger now. You’re… “I’m gonna come closer, alright?"
"They fucked me up!” You’re sobbing, and you can’t even remember when it started. “What the fuck, Steve! They – they–!"
"You’re not fucked up. You’re just panicking, okay? You’re safe here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. We care about you. You’re safe.” A hand, so warm and large and grounding, runs the length of your spine.
“I don’t know what it was,” you fret, raising your neck until you’re sat on your heels. “I don’t – I-I was fine, and then–"
You trail off in an incomprehensible set of blubbering, chest heaving so quickly that Steve grows more concerned than he already is – your hands reach for his forearms, nails digging into his skin, but he hardly minds. He’s never seen you so dishevelled. He feels like every bone in his body has been turned to fight or flight, prepared to strike out at what it was that had set you off.
What had set you off was the couple probably holidaying in their vacation home in the Maldives. And it would take a while to get to them – so for the time being, Steve busies himself with making you feel as safe as possible.
The weighted blanket you favour is on the other side of the wing and you don’t look like you’re prepared to let him go anytime soon, so he pulls you into his lap, a hand crowding your head to the crook of his neck and the other against your back, pressing you tightly against him.
"Count with me, okay? One, two, three, four…"
You don’t start until he reaches 29, murmuring quietly against his collarbone. Voice is still heavy with tears and you haven’t released your death-grip on him yet, but you’re slowly yet surely beginning to calm.
"I’m sorry,” you whimper suddenly. “I don’t know what happened…"
"That’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just glad you’re coming down, sweets.”
“I was making so much progress,” you say, voice miserably small. “I thought I was getting better.”
Steve’s healed from a lot. Being ripped from his time, being thrown back into war, constantly surrounded by things he doesn’t understand. But he’d healed, he’d adapted, and if there’s one thing he knows…
“Your progress isn’t linear, sweetheart. There’ll be relapses, and they’ll be hard, but you’re strong enough to get through them and you got family all around you who are willing to help. Okay?"
You nod, sniffling. "Okay."
"That’s my strong girl.”
(All in all, he knows how to deal with panic attacks. He makes sure you feel safe and secure, either by holding you really closely and tightly or by giving you your weighted blanket. He tries to steady your breathing and reassure you that you’re okay, that you’re not broken for experiencing anxiety or getting triggered.
If your anxiety was brought on by a specific person he’ll whisk you away to a quiet place to help you out – and then he’ll go talk to whoever was being so rude.)