OOOO second chapter, let's goooo!

TW: description of panic attack

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Disclaimer:

I do not own The Falcon And The Winter Soldier TV show, the Marvel franchise, or any of the characters. That all belongs to their original makers. Everything to them. Any added dialogue, plots, or characters are mine, but nothing else. I don't own it.

Chapter Two - Fire

Bucky and I get back to house at around eight o' clock, and almost at once, Sarah pulls me into the hallway.

She glances over at Bucky starting on the dishes. "Sam, what's… Is he okay? What's wrong?"

"It's a…long story, Sarah. He's been through a lot."

"Like what?"

I raise my eyebrows and check the time. "Whoa, okay, uh… How much time you got?" I shrug.

Sarah crosses her arms. "I can tell he's been through some shit, Sam. But I want to know who this man in my house really is. I've heard some stories and rumors and plenty of gossip, but I want to know what's true and what's just noise."

"You been to the Smithsonian?"

She nods.

"You read about him there? James Buchanan Barnes?"

Again, she nods.

"Yeah. So you've got a one-hundred-and-six-year-old walkin' around in here. He was put on ice just like Steve was. He fought in World War II. He was captured by HYDRA and presumed dead. And…" I lean against the wall, listening to the kids play in the living room. The clink of dishes against Bucky's metal arm rings from the kitchen. "Okay, lemmie ask you this: how much do you know about Bucky?"

Sarah bites her lip. "Um… He was all over the news after the bombing of the UN, but none of us really knew what was going on. I know that he stayed in Romania, that he used to be HYDRA, that he was in Wakanda for a while… Did-did he really kill for HYDRA?"

I purse my lips. "Yeah. Dozens and dozens. So much blood on his hands that he's not proud of."

Sarah looks back at her children.

I read her mind. "He won't hurt them. I promise. Look– I mean– ." I stuff my hands in my pockets. "It means a lot that you're even letting him stay here. He lived for years and years in the dirt, sleeping on the ground, treated like an animal. He's a World War II veteran with mental scars beyond your imagining. HYDRA tortured him. Strapped him to chairs and tables and cut into him like an worthless test subject."

Sarah's eyes are dark, and her jaw tense.

"He's a victim of psychological, verbal, emotional, and physical abuse. He was experimented on over and over and over again and HYDRA did things to him that he'll never be able to undo. Yes, the Winter Soldier programming is gone, but the memories will never be. He has PTSD and has struggled with suicidal thoughts and attempts. He's had it rough. So please, Sarah."

My sister's eyes shine with tears.

"Please believe me when I tell you that he is no longer the Winter Soldier. He's just a broken man trying to find his way in a world of chaos."

She ducks her head, brushing at her tears. "Sam, I…I didn't know."

"No…" I watch Bucky from the hallway. "How could you? He never talks about it unless he's at the breaking point. He holds it back until he can't go on anymore, then he breaks. Steve did the same thing."

Sarah tightens her fists and comes to my side to watch him.

Bucky hums as he washes dishes.

I sigh. "He's found peace here. It's…honestly the happiest I've ever seen him."

Sarah squeezes my arm. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For doubting."

"It's not a sin to worry, Sarah. It's all right."

"Sam!"

Bucky's call from the kitchen pulls me away. "Yeah?"

My friend tosses a towel over his shoulder. "Why don't we go throw the shield around? You need to practice."

As soon as Sam and I return to Delacroix after the huge showdown with Karli and the Flagsmashers, Sarah's already got a gigantic party in the planning process.

I catch her in the kitchen, drafting outside plans for tables and chairs, and I reach for a pencil. "Here, let me help."

She stops me with a hand. "Ah, ah! You're not allowed to help."

"What? Why?"

"You just worked your ass off savin' the world! I'm not lettin' you trouble yourself with helpin' me."

I know arguing would be fruitless.

And the following night, the people start arriving. The docks are crowded in no time. Every plate is piled high with food, every face has a smile, and every minute is filled with laughter from all directions. As the sun sets and Sarah starts to haul the food into the house, the crowd gathers at the edge of the docks, chattering. Dusk conquers the sky and I find Sam leaning against the shed in the back of the crowd.

"What's happening?"

"We're getting a show. See that boat?"

A small craft lingers on the edge of the horizon.

"We've got that thing loaded with fireworks."

I cock my head.

Sam squints. "Are you tellin' me that you've never seen fireworks? Damn, nineteen-forty-five was shit."

"No, we had fireworks back then. I just don't really remember them."

"Nothing?"

I shake my head.

Sam chuckles, crossing his arms. "You're in for a treat."

Sarah hovers by the edge of the dock and claps twice. The noise rings above the waves.

"There's the signal." Sam slaps me on the shoulder.

The crowd goes quiet.

With a little pop, a line of color shoots into the sky. It dissolves into the stars and…

Silence.

The crowd holds its breath.

CRACK!

Colors explode around me.

I go rigid.

Sounds exactly like…

CRACK! CRA-CRACK!

Gunshots. Bullets whizzing past me. My metal arm goes crazy, whirring and clicking.

CRACK!

Flashbacks.

Shoving the gun into innocents' faces.

CRACK!

Pulling the trigger– CRACK! –blood splatters everywhere, my shoes, my hands, my metal arm, my face– CRACK! –I can smell the hot stench of the blood, freshly-drawn–

CRACK!

I flinch, screwing my eyes shut. My lungs burn as I fight to draw in breath. I'm sweating feverishly, nauseous, shaking so hard I think I might keel over–

CRACK! CRA-CRACK!

White-hot pain tears through my chest like a bullet wound. Tears burn behind my eyes and I clamp my hands around my ears. Someone grabs my arm, probably Sam, and blurry figures shuffle around me. Their mouths are moving, but I can't hear. I can't hear, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe–

CRACK!

"Take cover!"

CRACK!

"Sergeant Barnes!"

CRA-CRACK!

"Get down!"

My knees buckle and I crumple to the ground, gasping. Voices waver around me, yelling. My heart pounds like a drum, blood rushing in my ears, in my head, I double over, whimpering as the memories surge over me–

CRACK!

Red fire lights up the night.

Blood sprays in my mind's eye and Russian slithers into my brain.

Soldat?

Hot tears run sizzling trails down my cheeks.

CRACK!

CRA-CRACK!

A voice is calling from the distance, maybe Sarah, someone's yelling to turn it off, turn it off, stop firing, stop firing, firing, firing– fire– fire–

"Ready, and…fire!"

CRACK!

More gunshots. Dirt sprays like ash into the trenches. Soggy mud sucks around our boots like filthy leeches and the rifles are slippery eels in our hands. The war continues. Rain pours down on us, just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and now I can't remember not being wet and tired and bloody and dirty and hurting and afraid, so afraid that I can't aim straight and my fingers tense at the trigger and my frozen hands cramp up from reloading so many times and I've lost count and I can't do this, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying–

My entire body shudders, someone's sobbing– is it me? –and hands squeeze my shoulders and rub my back and hold me and–

Soldat?

HYDRA.

CRACK! CRA-CRACK!

More yelling.

CRACK!

The nausea surges back. I hunch over and throw up a party's worth of beers and food. I'm doubled over, coughing, wheezing, trying to breathe and calm down, I need to calm down, calm down, calm down–

Clipped voices surround me.

"Shut– down!"

"What's– on?"

"He's– ving a– nic attack– !"

"Bucky– ! Look– me!"

"Tell Carlos– stop– works– !"

"He's– PTSD– veteran– War II– !"

"–must sound– gunshots– him– ."

One person rises above the others:

"Bucky, stay with me, buddy! Breathe, just breathe, man!"

Sam.

Somewhere, I hear him breathing. His hands are on mine, my hands are on his, and he's breathing low, deep, grounding.

In…

Out.

In…

Out.

In…

Out.

He's talking to me.

In…

"Hold…and let go."

Out.

In…

"You're safe."

Out.

In…

"You're okay."

Out.

In…

"You're perfectly safe."

Out.

In…

"You're protected."

Out.

In…

"You're loved."

Out.

"You're cared for."

In…

Out.

"Keep breathing, you got this, buddy."

In…

Out.

In…

Out.

"Easy."

In…

"Take it easy."

Out.

"That's it."

In…

"That's better."

Out.

"Come back to us."

In…

Out.

Sam withdraws, pulling his hands out of mine.

I blink twice, three times, so hard that stars wink behind my eyelids and I make myself dizzy.

The flashbacks clear and I can see again.

Sam kneels in front of me, and behind him, a crowd of his friends and family watch. Some biting their nails. Some crossing their arms. Some glancing around at others as if asking the same question I am: what in the hell just happened?

Tear stains harden on my cheeks. My head throbs like it's been slammed into a wall. Panting, I blink sluggishly up at Sam.

He smiles. "There he is. You back with us?"

I barely have the strength to nod. My throat is burned raw like I've been screaming. "S…Sam…"

My friend rubs my shoulder. "Take it easy. You just had a panic attack. A pretty severe one."

I go limp, tilting my head back.

"How are you feelin'?"

I moan. "Like I'm gonna be sick."

Sam chuckles. "Well, try to stay with us." He turns around, whispering to the surrounding crowd. "He doesn't need y'all hovering over him. Beat it!"

Sarah is the only one who stays.

I try to speak, but only a whimper comes out. My head feels like it's splitting down the middle, hammering with every heartbeat into my temples.

Sam clears his throat. "All right, let's get you to bed, Bucky. You need to sleep this off."

I take his hand and he hauls me to my feet. The world careens off center, my legs buckle, and I must've blacked out for a second, because the next thing I see is Sam leaning over me, calling my name.

My vision focuses a little, enough to calm the panic in Sam's eyes. I stagger to my feet and into the house where I collapse onto the couch and fall into so deep a slumber that my nightmares can't find me.

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