Breathe.

He was suddenly awake in an unfamiliar position in an unfamiliar room staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. He needed to breathe but there was no breathing tube and his throat was shut and his lungs were burning and panic was setting in.

Breathe. He needed to breathe.

Why did they bring him out of cryofreeze without putting in the breathing tube? There was no breathing tube, there were none of the other tubes and needles that pumped in the solutions that warmed his organs from the inside out whenever they brought him out of cryofreeze.

Breathe. Breathe. He needed to breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

This was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He twisted in his bonds, trying to attract the attention of the doctors or guards or somebody, but there were no bonds – there were no bonds – and he twisted himself right off the edge of whatever he was laying on, crashing into whatever was next to him and landing hard on the floor.

He needed to breathe. He needed to breathe.

His lungs and his brain filled with frozen fire and his vision blackened and if nobody came to find out what was wrong –

"Breathe. Bucky – BREATHE."

Someone shouted at him and they had his shoulders in an iron grip and when they shook him, hard, he could finally drag in a harsh, frantic, grateful breath.

"You with me? Hey – hey – you with me, Pal? Bucky? Bucky! C'mon. Breathe. Breathe. Take another breath. Bucky, take another breath."

He did. He dragged in another painful, noisy breath that edged the fire out of his chest and it stuttered back out of him, just as noisy, pulling the fire with it. And then another breath.

"There you go. That's good. Keep doing that. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing."

As he pulled more air in and pushed it back out, it got easier to do, less painful, less noisy and he could pull more air in each time. The blackness in his vision cleared but he kept his eyes down and didn't look at whoever still had his shoulders in that hard grip. He wasn't allowed to look.

"Buck? You with me now? You okay? Bucky?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but that wasn't unusual. There weren't always the same people bringing him back from cryofreeze who put had put him there. Even the slight panic in the voice wasn't something entirely unusual – if something happened to him, if he couldn't complete his missions and somebody knew and didn't do anything, that somebody would be in a world of trouble.

"Bucky? Hey, Buck, it's okay. Okay? It's all right. You're safe. Whatever – whatever that was – it's – it's – you're safe. Okay? You're safe. C'mon, let's get you up off the floor. Okay?"

Up. Up off the floor. He waited to be dragged to his feet and secured into the chair and punished for the unfreezing going so poorly.

But the hands on his shoulders loosened their tight grip. One hand stayed where it was, the other moved just enough to be placed gently against his jaw. The voice changed from panicked to – concerned?

"Hey, c'mon, look at me, Pal. Let me know you're all right. Just look at me. Please."

Please. That word couldn't be meant for him. It was never meant for him.

"Buck – c'mon. I need to know you're all right now."

Now. An order.

He lifted his eyes just enough – he knew instinctively just how much was just enough – to see that the man in front of him wasn't wearing combat gear or a doctor's uniform or a handler's three piece suit. He was wearing –

He was wearing – ?

His mind searched for the right name of what he saw and even when it presented the word to him, some other part of his mind told him it couldn't be right.

The man in front of him, holding him in place, the man who was there to watch him, guard him, control him, punish him, was wearing a – ?

"Are you making that face at my apron? Go ahead, laugh it up, Barnes. I'm in the middle of making supper and I am not going to get dirty doing it."

Something in the words or the voice or the fact that he wasn't already being beaten for disobedience knocked some blockage clear in his brain and a sluggish memory flowed in.

Bucky. Barnes. Supper. Bedroom. Safe. Home. Steve.

Steve.

"Steve?"

"Yeah. Hey – yeah. You with me now? You okay?"

He looked up farther, he looked at Steve, whose expression changed from pinched and worried to open and relieved.

"Hey. You had me worried. I heard the crash and I thought somebody had – I mean I thought – I just – I'm glad you're okay."

He looked around. The bedside table and lamp were lying across the floor. The chair that had been next to the bed was shoved up against the bureau. He'd done that. He'd made a mess. He'd reacted violently and made a mess and he'd be punished for it. Steve would have to punish him for it.

"Bucky? What is it? What's – hey, are you worried about the furniture? Don't be. C'mon. It doesn't matter. You matter, all right? All I'm worried about is you. C'mon, c'mon let's get you off the floor. All right?"

Steve stood up and the hands – Steve's hands, Bucky suddenly realized – lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't knocked down, he wasn't dragged up, he was left sitting on the floor and Steve offered a hand to him.

"All right, Buck? Let's get you off the floor."

He waited, considering that hand and what it meant. Then he lifted his own hand, his metal hand, and Steve took it and helped him to his feet.

"C'mon. You can come out and help me make supper, if you want. All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, all right."

Steve smiled, wide and happy.

"Great! C'mon – I've got another apron you can wear…"

To be continued