Chapter 13: New Developments
"You seem…conflicted," Dr. Raynor noted. "What's troubling you?"
"I met this guy."
"Oh?"
Bucky suddenly realized what he'd insinuated. "Not like that! Definitely not ready for that. I was at lunch, by myself, and I kinda zoned out staring at this salt shaker," he explained. "And this random old man asked me who I lost. I have no idea how he knew."
"Interesting. And then what?"
"We shared stories about…who we lost. I told him about Steve, and he…he told me about his son." Just thinking about RJ made his chest ache.
"Meeting a person you can relate to sounds like a great thing. So why do you sound so distressed?"
Bucky's jaw quivered when he opened it to answer the question. He snapped it shut again and rubbed at his temples. Logically, he knew that he had nothing to do with Mr. Nakajima's son's death, but it somehow felt like he did. Every time he thought about it, he thought about what might've happened if Ewing's spared RJ and took him instead, and how that might've been easier than what he was going through right now. But he didn't want to tell Dr. Raynor that because it was a bit too close for comfort to suicidal thoughts and he didn't want to be put on a watchlist or something.
"James?"
The minute hand on the wall clock had somehow advanced from the four to the five. His hand gripped his thigh so tightly that his fingernails turned white, but he couldn't feel anything. A breath caught in his chest and got stuck and oh God, was this what Steve felt like at the end, with his head on Bucky's chest? Was this what Bucky would've experienced if the cancer had spread to his lungs and drowned him from the inside out before CF got the chance to take his husband?
"James, I need you to breathe. Close your eyes and listen to me. In for five, four, three, two, one; out for five, four, three, two one. Again."
Closing his eyes didn't help because instead of Dr. Raynor's office he saw their second bedroom filled with medical equipment and the room in Gravesen when Dr. Potts said those damning words You have cancer and the nightmare scene that his brain had dreamed up of Mr Nakajima screaming at him to bring his son back, so he wrenched them back open and looked at Raynor's face. She didn't look scared, but why wouldn't she be scared when Bucky was sitting in front of her literally dying? She was still talking, rattling off numbers to time his breaths to, perfectly calm. If she was calm, he couldn't possibly be dying, so he listened to the numbers and forced a breath past the one stuck in his throat.
"In for five, four, three, two, one; out for five, four, three, two, one. And again." Bucky breathed with the numbers and gradually his grip on his leg loosened and the alarm bells in his head faded to low warnings. "That's it, James, just a few more." In for five, four, three, two, one; out for five, four, three, two, one. He lost count of how many cycles he ran through, but by the time Dr. Raynor stopped counting the minute hand was already on the nine. Twenty minutes? How had he lost twenty minutes?
"How do you feel now?"
Bucky swallowed the lingering sour taste of panic. "Shaky."
"That's okay. You just had a panic attack, but you're safe. When you're ready, I want you to tell me what you think set it off."
"I don't—I don't know." And that scared him, because if he didn't know, it could happen again, when he was alone, and then how would he calm down?
"That's okay. Take your time. Can I get you some water?"
"N-no." If he put anything in his mouth, he'd probably throw up.
"Just keep breathing, James, you're doing great."
He forced himself through six more regimented inhales and exhales before his hand stopped shaking and his spine untensed enough for him to sit back against the sofa. "That's…never happened to me before," he uttered.
"That was your first panic attack?"
"I—I think so."
"Have you ever had any symptoms like this before, even to a lesser degree?"
"I mean…I've felt scared like that before when an actual scary thing was happening." He remembered the monster of a breakdown he'd had after that doctor told him that Steve would never come off a ventilator if he needed one. But that was warranted given the circumstances. This one came only from the thoughts in his own head.
"Okay. Do you know what caused you to feel like this? Was it something I said?"
"No." Bucky ran a hand through his too-long hair and pulled just enough to make it hurt. He hadn't brought himself to get it cut yet, because he and Steve always got their hair cut together and Bucky wasn't prepared to explain to the people there why he was coming in alone.
"What were you thinking about?"
"Just…Mr. Nakajima. And—and his son."
"James, what happened to his son?"
"C-cancer. The same as mine." He shuddered as the confession poured out.
"And why does that scare you?"
"He—he doesn't know. About me."
"And?"
"And what if he's angry?"
"James, why would he be angry?"
"Because I lived! I survived and his son didn't and for what?" A bitter streak of anger shot through the last shaky vestiges of the panic attack. Bucky had never felt so out of control of his own emotions.
"Are you suggesting that you didn't deserve to survive cancer?"
"I—I guess so. No more than anybody else who fought it."
"You know that's now how it works."
Intrinsically, he did know. The forces of cancer didn't choose to kill the unworthy—only the unlucky. Bucky was among the lucky, and RJ was not. He had nothing to do with it. But the what if what if what if plagued him. The night after meeting Mr. Nakajima, he had a vivid dream. Instead of a neuroma, that MRI found a relapse. Eight months elapsed in the three hours he'd managed to sleep, and he wasted away faster than Steve ever had. It ended in a perfect inversion of Steve's last moments: Bucky collapsed against his chest listening to his heart beat away while his own slowed to a stop. Real-life Bucky snapped awake with dream-Bucky's last breath and he sobbed until sunrise.
"I just don't understand why it wasn't me."
"Survivor's guilt is very common in cancer patients," she said matter-of-factly. Bucky knew the term. Steve talked about it a lot, how he struggled with it. But he couldn't anymore, because he wasn't a survivor, and maybe all the guilt that Steve once carried had now transferred itself to Bucky.
He sniffled. "Yeah, that makes sense. Steve had it too. He was sick so long, he lost even more friends than I did."
"Have you talked about this with other survivors?"
"Yeah, a bit." He, Natasha, and Nick talked about it occasionally.
"Just casually, or in a support group type setting?"
"Just among friends. My cancer friends from Gravesen."
"Were you ever treated for psychological symptoms during or after treatment? With therapy or medication?"
"I didn't really have symptoms right after." He shook his head wryly. "I saw the therapist at Gravesen a few times, but only for basic check-ins or when something big happened at the hospital. As for meds, I don't know. I was on so many drugs I probably wouldn't have even noticed if there was some psych shit mixed in."
"Well I doubt your doctors would have put you on anything like that without first consulting you or your parents, so I think it's a safe bet to say you've never used them before. Have you ever thought about taking an anti-anxiety medication?"
"No. My mom has PTSD from all the cancer stuff, but I'm fine. Well, I was fine until…until Steve."
Dr. Raynor nodded. "It's completely normal for one traumatic event to sort of 'unlock' buried trauma from another. Steve was your person, your go-to for emotional support, and now that he's gone, it's harder for you to manage these feelings on your own."
"No kidding."
"Even while Steve was still alive, did you ever experience anxiety or panic attack symptoms?"
"Yeah, there was this one time I got triggered by lemon drops—those were my scapegoat food during chemo—and threw up in our kitchen sink. That felt a little bit like this time. But Steve helped me through it." Bucky didn't know what he would've done in that moment if Steve hadn't intervened and helped him reground himself. He probably would've passed out and given himself aspiration pneumonia. "I just don't want something like this to happen next time I see Mr. Nakajima."
"You're seeing him again?"
"Yeah. I paid for his lunch and he insisted on returning the favor. Do I tell him about my cancer history?"
"Do you want him to know that about you?"
"I don't know. But I think it's better that he hears it from me than he Googles me or something. I don't even know if he knows how to use Google."
"Then you should tell him."
"How?"
"Just tell him that you have something important to share. Make it the first thing you say after saying hello."
Bucky sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "That seems awkward."
"No matter how you do it, it will be awkward. At least this way, it's over and done with and you don't have to sit through the whole lunch worried about bringing it up."
"Okay. But what if I panic again?"
"Before you leave here today, I will talk you through my favorite panic attack management techniques. I also have resources I can give you with more options."
"Okay." That didn't sound so bad. It reminded him of all the physical therapy regimens he'd been coached through in his lifetime. That's all this was: treatment, just for a condition having little to do with physical health and all to do with mental. Bucky could handle this.
~0~
Natasha took it upon herself to check on her friends, especially Bucky. And Parker. And Tony. After the narrowly-averted crisis back in June, she knew she needed to remain vigilant. The way her shifts at the hospital fell, she often had one or two weekdays completely free. She woke up early to squeeze in a gym session, ran any necessary errands, worked on knitting, and then made dinner to bring to Bucky's house, or sometimes Parker or Bruce's. Cooking had never been her pastime of choice—she sustained herself through nursing school mostly on peanut butter sandwiches—but the more she learned and practiced, the more enjoyable it became. It also helped that she knew just how much her friends appreciated it when she brought them dinner. Mama even sent her a bunch of recipes, so she could make her favorite dishes from home. She quickly got Bucky hooked on Russian food.
On Monday, she drove up to Bucky's with a container full of solyanka. Mondays were always hardest for him, and therefore the day he was least likely to work up the energy to cook for himself. These visits made Monday Natasha's favorite day of the week. On the drives home, she swore she could always feel Steve thanking her for looking out for them. It fulfilled her in the same ways working with the young cancer patients did.
She pulled into the driveway and climbed the seven steps up to the front porch. The once-familiar "Please wash your hands and take off your shoes at the door. If you're sick, come back another time" sign was long gone, but the glass panel in the door still looked empty without it. Maybe she should get Bucky a new sign to fill its space. That would be nice.
Bucky answered the door, looking even more haggard than usual. His beard was thicker than she'd ever seen it and, unless he was aiming to look like his fourteen-year-old self once again, he was in dire need of a haircut. "Hey Nat," he greeted. Alpine poked his head out from behind Bucky's leg and meowed at her.
"Privet, malenkiy kot," she said. She didn't even remember how or when she picked up the habit of speaking to the cat in Russian, but it amused Bucky, so she kept it up. "How are you doing?" she asked Bucky.
He hesitated. Natasha watched the "Do I tell her the truth?" debate rage behind his eyes. She could always tell when he lied to her, but she let it slide. Sometimes, Bucky needed to have a normal visit with a friend and pretend life wasn't terrifying and sad, and sometimes he needed a serious heart-to-heart. Natasha trusted him to know the difference and share with her accordingly.
"I, um…apparently I get panic attacks," he said shyly.
She wasn't expecting him to divulge something that huge. "Are you okay? Did you just have one?"
"No, not just now. Last week, in therapy."
"Okay. Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really. I just…I wanted to be honest with you. That's how I'm doing. Having panic attacks over telling a nice old man that I had the same type of cancer his son did."
"I'm sensing there's more of a story there. Do you want to tell me over dinner?"
"Sure."
Natasha grabbed the big pot out of their cabinet and started heating up the soup. The warm smell soon drifted throughout the kitchen. Meanwhile, she sat on the living room floor and played with Alpine while Bucky told her the latest soccer team gossip. "Walker and Lemar now have a running bet over who's gonna be next."
"Wait—Jack found a what in his prosthetic liner?"
"A huge spider. Thing was the size of his palm. Nobody knows how it got in there."
"Didn't he feel it?"
"He thought it was just the liner being itchy."
"That's crazy."
The timer for the soup went off. Natasha tasted a small spoonful to check the temperature before pouring her and Bucky a bowl. Alpine waited patiently by her feet, hoping she'd drop a chunk of chicken. She did, but only when Bucky wasn't looking. "So, do you wanna talk about it now?" she asked casually.
"It was just really scary. To feel that horrible, just from some words and thoughts."
"I can imagine."
"And I know it's not my fault, but at the same time I feel like I'm failing. I should be getter better as time goes on, but it's been months and only now I start getting panic attacks? It doesn't make any sense."
"Did you talk to your therapist about this?"
"Not this part yet, we ran out of time and she was focused on teaching me management techniques. But I will."
"Good." Natasha was more than willing to be a sounding board, but she wasn't qualified to help with this sort of thing. "You know grief is never linear. This doesn't mean you're going to get worse and worse forever, it just means that things are a little rocky right now."
"Yeah, you're right. You don't think Steve would be worried that this is happening?"
"Of course he'd be worried that you're struggling. He's a good husband. But he'd want to help you through it. You can't help how your brain copes with trauma."
He took a slow sip of his soup. "You'd make a darn good therapist, you know."
"I know."
That got a smile out of him.
"So…this look you've got going." She gestured to his whole face with her spoon.
Bucky sighed. "I don't really want to look in the mirror and see myself the way I looked with him. I'm not that guy anymore."
"Okay. I kinda like it. You've got this rugged hippie lumberjack vibe going on. You gonna grow it out to as long as it was pre-cancer?"
"Maybe. I haven't decided yet. Are you gonna dye yours again?"
"Yeah. I'm getting tired of the blonde tips, and the ends are starting to split anyway. I'm considering going all blonde. What do you think?"
Bucky scrutinized her face for a second, then shook his head. "Don't do that. Do all red. A rich coppery red, like Wanda's. But darker."
"You think so?"
He nodded emphatically. Natasha smirked. She never thought of Bucky as the kind of guy who would have such strong opinions on hair color. "I'm also thinking about getting some more piercings in this ear," she pointed to her left. "What do you think?"
"Do it. Fuck those cancer rules."
She smiled. No new piercings had been on the extensive list of things they couldn't do while on chemo. Introducing a hole in the skin was a guaranteed way to get an infection. Getting them now was just another way of showing how far she'd come. "I'll send you pictures of the ones I'm considering, if you send me more pictures of malenkiy kot." She leaned over to pet Alpine's back under the table.
"Deal."