A/N: So I just spent three hours writing algebra notes and making worksheets and I think I deserve some celebratory fic. This could be considered pre-slash or full on slash, if you'd like. I don't mind either way. I totally ship Stucky BroTP and OTP, so it's all good.
Caution: This takes place after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. So there's gonna be spoilers. Like, significant ones. So. If you haven't seen the movie and/or don't know the Winter Soldier storyline from the comics and don't want the experience to be spoiled for you, I don't think you should be reading this? Shoo, go on now.
Trigger warnings: A main character suffers from PTSD and experiences a panic attack. This might be a trigger. If anyone is affected by this, I'm very sorry, but you might want to avoid this story.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Marvel. And Disney. AgentDown owns nothing. She doesn't even own any candies right now. How sad.
Of Cathedral Style Radios and Quilt Cocoons
Steve had never been able to play baseball as a kid. He'd always wanted to, but with his asthma and his weak heart and his skinny stick legs, he'd only ever been a hindrance to whatever team he'd been on. He'd soon been restricted to the sidelines, where he would watch the neighborhood kids toss some makeshift baseball around the street and run over stacks of newspapers that passed as plates.
It wouldn't take long for Bucky to become guilty then annoyed. By the third inning, Bucky would have quit pitching, and the two friends would already be heading back to one of their apartments, Bucky casually explaining that the game was boring anyway, and Steve secretly but guiltily grateful.
If Bucky's dad was home when they arrived, he would switch on his radio and let them listen to it while he got ready for work. They would settle there on the living room floor, sitting cross legged or lying flat on their bellies, and would stare up at the cathedral style radio as the afternoon programs played.
In the winter, Bucky's mom would order them to sit on the couch and then bundle them in a checkered quilt she had knitted herself. If his mother wasn't around, Bucky would grab the quilt himself and bundle a shivering Steve up before tucking himself in next to him, both of them buried up to their ears in colorful mounds of soft material. They had huddled together under that quilt more times that Steve could remember, and if he had missed the comfort and warmth that the close proximity of his best friend and the soft quilt had brought even after they declared themselves too old to even think about doing that anymore… well, nobody had to know.
He didn't know if Bucky ever felt the same way.
It happened six weeks after bringing Bucky home.
They'd been staying at Sam's place since returning from Oregon, where Steve and Sam had caught Bucky following them while they'd been trying to follow him.
Bucky claimed he had let them catch him, and Steve was pretty sure he was telling the truth.
The man hadn't called himself the Winter Soldier at the time-said he'd abandoned the title and had taken the name Bucky, because it felt right.
It is right, Bucky, Steve had said. That's your name. Your nickname. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. But you always introduced yourself as-
Bucky had told him to shut up.
That had hurt, a bit, but Steve had shut his mouth and kept it shut as Bucky continued to speak. Sam's hand on his forearm had been a comfort, and a reminder to let Bucky continue uninterrupted because the man had to be allowed to speak without Steve rushing in and unintentionally harassing him.
In the end, Bucky had accompanied Sam and Steve back to D.C. Sam had offered his place for as long as they needed it, and both soldiers had accepted.
As the weeks went by, Bucky became himself bit by bit, with new memories resurfacing every day. Some memories came so gently and gradually that Bucky sometimes didn't realize he'd ever forgotten them.
Other memories came suddenly, with blunt force, crashing into Bucky's conscious mind like the caving in of a concrete roof.
These were less kind than the memories of his life before the Winter Soldier.
These brought panic attacks.
Steve wasn't sure what he did to trigger one of those memories. He'd been talking to Bucky at the kitchen table, waving his hand to punctuate a point he was making about Tony Stark, when Bucky's eyes went wide and wild and he stood up in a panic.
Had it been his tone? His waving hand? Some trigger word he'd mentioned without realizing?
"Buck? What's wrong?"
"I can't," was all Bucky said before sweeping around the table and stumbling into the living room.
Heart pounding, Steve followed. "I'm sorry, Bucky, I didn't mean to-was it my hand? I didn't-"
Bucky fell to his knees in the middle of the living room and clutched at his head. He was breathing hard.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Steve began to kneel and reached for Bucky's trembling shoulders. "Bucky, calm down, you're alright-"
"Don't touch me!"
Bucky's metal arm swung out and caught Steve across the chest.
It was only thanks to the quick reflexes gifted to him by the serum that Steve was able to move in time for the arm to do no more than knock the wind out of him. Tumbling back, he stared in quiet shock at Bucky, who turned to watch him with a shocked expression of his own. He jerked his metal arm back to his side.
"I'm sorry," Bucky said, voice breaking. "Fuck, I didn't mean-it was-"
Groaning, turned away and bent his head, one hand still clutching at his head. "Just-just don't touch me, alright?"
"Alright," Steve said. He used to couch to pull himself up, careful not to get too close to his friend, even though he wanted to hold him until the panic left, until the memory settled enough for Bucky to work through it.
It had worked before. Bucky had curled into him and heaved with dry sobs until he fell asleep, and Steve had let him sleep against his shoulder until morning broke and Bucky lifted his head, groggy and embarrassed but better.
But…
Don't touch me.
"Do you want me to leave?"
Bucky clenched his fist in his hair. He continued to stare vacantly, taking deep, slow breaths in through his nose and exhaling through barely parted lips. He nodded once without turning to Steve. "Yeah."
Steve's face fell. He knew he shouldn't take it personally, but it hurt. He wanted to help his friend and pull him out of whatever dark hole he'd fallen into, but this whole thing had probably happened because of something he'd done.
Schooling his expression into a neutral one, he nodded, then looked to Sam, who had hurried into the room once the yelling began. Sam met Steve's pleading gaze and went to kneel in front of Bucky, slowly.
"Bucky," Sam said gently. "I'm going to stay with you, if that's alright."
A pause. Bucky unclenched his fist and nodded.
There was nothing Steve could do but walk out, but at least Sam could be there to make sure Bucky didn't hurt himself. And he would know what to do if Bucky had another attack. It also hurt, knowing that his friend preferred the presence of someone he'd just met to Steve. But Sam was also a friend, a good friend, and Steve knew that Sam was better apt to handle this than he himself was. Sam helped Bucky through some of his previous episodes, after all. And there was no denying that Sam was a calming presence. It was no wonder that Bucky had latched on so quickly.
Stepping out the front door and closing it behind him, Steve settled down on the front steps and hunched in on himself.
Daylight was fading. The street was busy with people heading to and from work. For a moment, Steve tried to imagine himself and Bucky with those people, who didn't share the trauma that Bucky had suffered and didn't have nightmares of being trapped in ice or of their memories being pulled from their heads. But no, normal lives had never been meant for the two displaced soldiers from Brooklyn, even in the 21st century.
Redirecting his gaze to the sky, Steve sighed and waited.
Dusk came with the gentle sounds of summer nights; crickets chirping in the grass, birds chirping from nearby trees, the wind moving through branches. Steve had closed his eyes as the sun went down, listening.
The door opened behind him, and the gloom that had left him while he listened to D.C. around him threatened to take hold again. But at Sam's smile and nod, the feeling fled, leaving relief and a bit of trepidation in its wake.
Steve followed Sam back into the living room. Still sitting on the ground, Bucky lifted his eyes as soon as the others walked in. He was wrapped in one of Sam's blue comforters, with the edge pulled up around his head so that only his face and some of his ruffled hair showed. There were playing cards scattered in front of him; it looked like he and Sam had just ended a game of Go Fish.
Steve hesitated by the couch.
"It wasn't your fault," Bucky said. "It was nothin' you did. I just." He paused and shifted the comforter further up until it covered his ears. "I remembered somethin'. Saw a red car out the window and I just remembered somethin'. And I couldn't be in the same room as you. Had to get it outta my head, first." He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "'s stupid."
"It's not stupid," Steve said, frowning.
Amused eyes peered at him over the edge of the pale blue comforter. Sighing with a bit of exasperation, Bucky lifted one end of the comforter with his metal arm and jerked his head. "Get over here, punk."
Steve's heart jumped. He headed over before he could stop himself. It wasn't until he was kneeling and moving to sidle in next to Bucky that he halted and searched Bucky's face uncertainly. "Are you sure? If you need more time, I could-"
"Will you just get in here," Bucky said, and closed the blue cocoon around Steve as soon as the super soldier shifted closer.
Braver men-
Well, actually, more like idiots-
Idiots who thought themselves brave men might have looked at the two ex-soldiers sitting on the floor wrapped in a blue comforter, pressed so close to each other that it seemed as if two heads were sprouting from one body, and their first words might have been the beginning of a jab at their masculinity.
Sam Wilson was no idiot.
"I brought chocolate," he said from the kitchen entrance. He held up a bowl of chocolate Chex mix. Only Steve turned to look at him, smiling, half of his blond head hidden by the comforter. Without turning, Bucky lifted the empty side of the comforter.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"What, Wilson, too insecure to share a blanket with two other guys?" Bucky finally turned to aim a challenging stare at him.
Sam snorted. "No, Barnes, I'm just questioning the logic of sharing a comforter when it's 90 freakin' degrees outside."
"Don't ruin the moment and get your ass over here."
Taking a moment to question his sanity, and another moment to overrule his own reasoning because he'd just helped this guy out of a dark place and fuck if he was going to even let him get close to being back there, he gave a long suffering sigh-theatrics, mostly-and, after setting the bowl in front of Bucky, let himself be encased in the big blue cocoon.
Bucky began munching on the chocolately treats almost immediately, and Steve followed soon after. Sam sat still for a few minutes, let himself enjoy the silence and what was practically cuddling-and no, he was not going to ever admit that to anyone, no way.
"Soo," he said, watching Bucky dump half of the crumbs into his cupped metal hand the rest into Steve's flesh one. "…what now?"
Steve paused with his hand half way to his mouth. "Well… you wouldn't happen to have an old cathedral style radio, would you?"
A/N: I don't know. It's after four in the morning and my brain has been ravaged by algebra and I have to get ready for work in little over two hours, but I couldn't sleep until I'd written something, so. It was supposed to be fluff and only fluff because I really wanted to write about Steve and Bucky wrapped in a blanket and cuddling, but then I remembered that Bucky must experience some PTSD and I couldn't ignore that. I hope I didn't offend anyone with inaccuracies-I did some research, but I could very well have gotten everything wrong. If I did, I am very sorry, and I will try to fix it.
Thanks for reading!