AN: Reading your visions of Mo made me so happy – you're all exactly right! She has a little issue in this chapter… Keep in mind, Mo struggled with and still struggles with PTSD. And what tends to go with PTSD? Anxiety issues, which she does have, so we get to see her and Bucky flip roles for a bit. Enjoy!

"Remember – keep up on your medication," Sam said, standing in the doorway. Mo narrowed her eyes. "If you—"

"Sam," Mo finally snapped, "I've been without you for a while. I think I can handle the next few days alone, alright?"

Sam nodded, grinning a little. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, girl."

Sam and Steve were on their way out; Mo and Bucky were seeing them off—mostly, Mo, as Bucky lingered in the background, anxious, rigid, and uncertain.

"You're sure you'll be fine?" Steve asked.

"Yes, mother," Mo lied. "We're old enough to stay by ourselves." Steve rolled his eyes at her. "We'll be fine," she said, her tone a little more gentle, softer. "It's the two of you I'm worried about."

"We'll be alright," Steve assured.

"Yeah," Sam said. "We done this before. We can handle it."

"Stay alert," Mo said sternly, eyes flicking between them. They were clearly humoring her. "I know you think I'm being too neurotic, but I mean it. The second you relax is when the bad stuff happens. Okay?"

"Alright, alright," Sam sighed. "We'll come back. Just gonna go kick some Hydra ass real quick. Easy peasy. Right?"

"Right," Steve said. "We should be going."

Sam opened his arms and Mo stepped into them with a huff, sliding her arms around his waist and squeezing.

"Be careful," she mumbled into his chest as he squeezed her tight, forcing the air from her lungs. She held on a little longer, her stomach in knots, her fingers twitchy, her mouth dry.

"Hey," Sam said, seeming to sense the seriousness. He pulled away a little and looked into her eyes. "We'll be fine, okay?" She nodded, breaking eye contact. "C'mere, baby," he said, hugging her again, and she buried her face in his chest, taking a deep breath, swallowing the knot in her throat. He placed a hand behind her head. To her right, she heard Steve and Bucky talking, but she tuned them out.

"Please come back," she whispered. "I'm done with war, Sam. I'm done with this life. I don't want to lose anyone."

"I'll come back," he promised, and she sniffed, cleared her throat, and separated from him, wiping her damp eyes on her sleeve. She braced herself with a little fake smile and turned to Steve, unsure of what to do, wondering if they were close enough to hug it out—was Captain America even the huggy type?

He ended up reaching for her and they did one of those one-sided, brief hugs. He gave her a little squeeze.

"You sure you'll be okay?" he urged, and she knew he was talking about Bucky. She nodded.

"We're good, Captain."

"Alright. Well, I've left you Stark's contact information, just in case. He's close, and he knows the situation. He'll leave you alone unless you call for him."

"Thanks," Mo said, "but we won't need him. Don't worry about us. Keep your heads clear, focus on the mission, and come back."

Bucky hadn't handled the news well; just as she'd said, people in his situation didn't tend to cope with change well. He was trying to hide it, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the twitchy edge to him, the skittish, nervous eyes. It made her nervous. She tried to lighten the mood for his sake, although her own anxiety levels were skyrocketing. As soon as the door closed behind Sam and Steve, she turned to him with a grin.

"Mom and Dad are gone," she said, rubbing her hands together and limping a few paces away from the door. "What're we gonna do?"

Bucky eyed her. "Maybe we should call that Stark fella," he said. "Just in case."

"In case…?"

He gave her a look. "In case of me."

"Nope," she said automatically. "We aren't doing that. We'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen?"

She hadn't realized when she said it that she was just asking fate to test them, and test them fate would.

It was evening, the same day Sam and Steve had left. And even though Mo knew she wouldn't be hearing from them, she still felt the prickles of anxiety in her belly. She spent most of the day pacing the house and Bucky had finally snapped at her: "Will you stop that? You're driving me out of my mind!"

In only a few hours, they had learned each other's little nervous habits. Mo was a pacer, a mover; if she wasn't pacing, she was tapping her foot, cracking her knuckles, chewing her bottom lip ("You're going to chew a hole right through. Knock it off," Bucky had chastised.) It was a way of making up for the fact that her guitar wasn't in her hands, and for a while she considered bringing it out again. As she had told Steve, she hadn't played since the accident, but then again she hadn't been this anxious in a long, long time. Her fingers itched for the strings to distract her frazzled mind.

Bucky, on the other hand, wasn't a nervous pacer. He got very, very still, like a statue, trapped in his own mind, and Mo thought it was worse. He'd finally cracked, and now he was sitting on the sofa, a knife in his hand, and he was flipping it and tossing it, doing tricks. Mo watched, mesmerized; he did it methodically, naturally, and the tricks he did so off-handedly were amazing to see. It distracted Mo for a little while, but not for long.

The feeling of dread hung heavy in the air, pressing down on her, and it slowly got more and more difficult to breathe. She tried to slow her breathing, expand her lungs, but it wasn't working. Her breath started to come in short little spurts, and before long she was breathless. She broke out in a cold sweat and she sat up abruptly from where she was draped over the sofa. Bucky, still flipping the knife, didn't notice. She put her forehead in her hands, the fingers spastic, and tried to breathe.

Something bad was going to happen. She could feel it. As certain as the sky was blue, and grass was green, something bad was about to happen. Her heart started skipping beats, her arms tingled, and she felt dizzy with dread; her whole body shook.

I'm going crazy, she thought. And then: Something's coming. "No," she muttered. "No, no, nonononono—"

She had to warn Bucky. The logical part of her mind understood what was happening, but logic was only a very quiet voice in her head, smothered by the wave of terror. She was gasping for breath; she wanted to scream.

"Bucky," she choked. "Bucky."

He blinked and glanced at her, and then his eyes widened and he dropped the knife where it stuck point-down in the floor. He was in front of her in a flash.

"What—" he started.

"Something bad," she gasped. "Something's going to happen." He studied her face for a moment and understanding suddenly washed over his face.

"You're having a panic attack," he said. Yes, that sounded right. Her eyes flicked up to his face and she nodded frantically, her muscles clenching. He nodded and dropped to his knees in front of her. For a moment his eyes were full of doubt, and then he squared his jaw.

"Mo," he said as she gasped for air.

"I can't breathe," she wheezed. "I can't breathe."

"Yes, you can," he said, and his voice was calm, but commanding. "Yes you can. Slow down. With me." He took a deep breath and she shook her head. "Yes," he urged, and her heart was frantic in her chest. He grabbed one of her hands and placed it on his chest so that she could feel the expansion as he breathed.

"Together," he said. "Let's breathe. Okay? Together. With me." He took another slow, deep breath and held it, and she did the same. After a few seconds, he released it. "You're rigid," he murmured.

"I'm dying," she whimpered.

"Hey," he said sharply. "No. No one's dying, Mo. Breathe with me; in through your nose, out through your mouth. You're okay. Everyone's okay. Lay down for me."

She was rigid, so he had to help her lay down. She was still in a panic, and he had to remind her about her breathing. He didn't understand—something was going to happen—

She felt his metal hand on her foot, snatching her attention. "Curl your toes," he said. "Good, now let them go. Relax your muscles. Now, your foot…" And this went on, up her legs, up her body, her hands, until he reached her face. With each contraction of her muscles, she felt the panic slowly start to ebb, until she was panting, skin slick with sweat, on her back on the couch with Bucky on his knees beside her head, one arm folded on the couch on top of some of her hair. She stared up at the ceiling, still trying to catch her breath, her body trembling slightly. Her breath shook.

She could feel Bucky's eyes on her and felt her cheeks flush and heat up—her body was already too hot from the panic attack. She was humiliated, to say the least, and she wasn't ready to face him yet. But he didn't move, and she could feel his eyes on her, and when she turned to look at him he was wearing an expression she wasn't entirely familiar with, not from him. He looked nervous, worried.

"Mo?" His eyes were wide and very blue, unguarded for the moment.

"I'm alright," she said, her voice very soft, a little shaky.

He released a huge breath and laughed a shaky little laugh. "Damn," he said, "you gave me quite the scare there, sweetheart." She noticed her didn't really pronounce the h, so it was sweet 'eart.

"Sorry," she mumbled, staring at the ceiling again. Again, he gave a nervous laugh.

"Good thing you've helped me with enough of mine."

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks."

"You okay?" She tried to sit up, but his arm on her hair held her down. "Sorry," he said, shifting, and she finally sat up, raking a hand through her wild, sweaty hair. Without a word, she stood on shaky legs and hurried into the kitchen.

"Hey," Bucky said, and he sounded irritated and he was just behind her. She opened the fridge, searching for water. "Hey." She grabbed one and he shut the fridge, standing in front of her as she unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow, panting.

"That's it?" Bucky questioned. "No explanation?"

"What d'you want, Bucky?" she demanded.

He stared at her. "Well," he said, "usually, when I'm the one having a panic attack, we sit and you force me to talk about it—"

"What do you want me to say?" she snapped. "I cracked. I'm a fucking lunatic, okay? I'm embarrassed. What do you want to know? What triggered it? Sam and Steve leaving. I have anxiety, Bucky, and sometimes I crack and it's no big deal and—wipe that stupid grin off your face before I wipe it off for you, Barnes."

"Oh," he laughed, cheeky grin in place. "Barnes? Is that your Sargent voice?"

He was smirking, still watching her, and she clutched the water bottle. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," he said, his eyes sparkling.

"What?"

He took a step closer, leaned against the counter beside her and nudged her with his shoulder. "It's just different," he said. "The tables have turned. Is this how you feel dealing with me?"

"And how's that?"

"Frustrated."

"Yes," she said with a sigh, some of the tension melting. "But I'm fine. The difference is that I've figured out how to cope. I slipped up, but I'm okay."

"What changed? Why'd you slip?"

"Trying to change my way of coping."

"By pacing and chewing up your mouth?"

At this she grinned a little, shaking her hair out of her face. "Not too effective. No, I used distract myself a little better." She could see him about to ask how, so she interrupted before he could start. "Thanks, I guess," she said. "For getting me through it."

He shrugged. "Learned from the best, doll."

"Ha," she said with a roll of her eyes. She took another sip of water. Cleared her throat. "So," she said, "what's for dinner?"

AN: Things are about to get exciting for these two! Next chapter might have them relaxing/a little fluff and joking around, and then the action's gonna start! Maybe Mo singing in the next chapter…?

Review! :)