Did he seriously just say I'm having a panic attack?!
Fuck that. I've held up under brutal Hydra torture. There is no way I'm having a panic attack right now. Besides, what would it even be from? The weird fuzzy green dude on the TV? The damn Christmas holiday?
I'm fine. It's poison.
As if reading my mind, he says, "Can I try something? It might be weird, but I think it will help."
I wave my hand, ready to give anything a try. I know I won't die, but that doesn't mean I enjoy feeling like I will.
His hands slide under my arms and lift me into him. My cheek presses against his warm chest. Instinct kicks in and I lift my legs to his waist. With that, he lies back on the bed bringing me with him, one hand on the back of my head keeping me in place, the other resting on the small of my back.
"Bucky… what are you—?"
"Just breathe. Keep yours in rhythm with mine."
My eyes dart around in the darkness, his heartbeat thudding against my ear. We've been in similar positions before, but every time I still get weirded out by it. I gulp back the lump in my throat. Doing as he says, I sync the rise and fall of his chest to my breathing. The only sound is the hushed murmur of the movie just beyond the thin plaster wall.
No clue how long we stay like this, but slowly and surely I can breathe again. The only weight on my chest and stomach is his warmth radiating from beneath me.
Son of a bitch. I really was having a panic attack.
"I had a few," he whispers.
I don't respond. Don't look up at him. I just shift my head higher to feel the vibration of his voice through his chest, echoing into my bones.
"When I got here, when I became free—truly for the first time—I thought I was dying at first too. That someone had attacked me. My therapist helped me through it."
"Why?" It's the only word I manage to whisper against his chest, wondering how two people strong like us can be brought down by our own bodies. Then again, these damn bodies of ours were our own personal prisons for years.
But somehow, he understands me. His hand, once resting on my lower back, trails small circles over my skin.
"She told me it was because I spent so long fighting that my body didn't know how to accept not."
Bracing my forearms against his chest, I ease myself up, crawling up him so we're face to face. Those glacier-blue eyes that have become my safe space stare into me. My brown hair curtains around us, blocking out the rest of the world. His hands come to rest on my hips as I almost straddle him.
The moments tick by. Uncertainty weighs heavy on me. My eyes trace over his face—his perfectly brown lashes, that flawless jaw decorated with scruff, his pink, full lips slightly parted. The ones I know are gentle, kind, soft… almost loving.
Loving.
Is that what this is?
The thought leaves a dull ache in my chest and a heat between my legs.
My heart screams to ask—just ask the simple words.
No. Tell him. Tell him you love him. Because you do. You love him, right?
This is love. Fuck—wait, no. Kiss him. Just kiss him.
Damn it. I don't like any of these options, yet I want them all.
"Bucky…" I whisper.
A knock on the door has me yelping and rolling off Bucky in a hurry. A loud thud echoes through the dark room as I hit the hardwood floor, ducking behind the bed.
"Mom? Dad? What are you doing?" a tiny voice calls from behind the door.
I rise to my knees, resting my elbows on the edge of the bed, my face insanely hot and I'm sure beet red. Before I can answer, Bucky calls out, "Just talking. We'll be out in a minute."
"No! Come out now. The Grinch is stealing all the presents," she whines, and I can hear the fear in her voice.
Bucky can too, apparently, because he's off the bed in seconds, swinging the door open. Within moments she's up in his arms, being comforted, her head nuzzling into his neck.
I nod to myself in silence, letting out a sigh of relief. Good job, baby. Mom was about to do something. Although I'm not sure what.
Bucky clears his throat. Looking up, I see him standing there, watching me.
"Good?"
I nod. "Yeah. Just going to get dressed and be out."
He nods and leaves me to it.
I slam my face into the mattress, trying to ignore the heat now resting between my legs. Damn it. I might be a soldier, but apparently my lady parts are forgetting that.
I let out a low groan before settling on taking a cold shower to calm my nerves and ease the ache—and the apparent thirst for the man just one room over.