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Lebanon, New Hampshire, is suffering through an unprecedented heat wave this summer. It is well over one hundred degrees outside, but it feels like being burned alive in the sun.
The little cabin on the outskirts of Leb doesn't have air conditioning. “I've survived the ice. I'm gonna be fine with a warm summer,” Bucky says about it all. And Sam, well Sam is used to hot summers anyway. But the thing about heat waves in places that don't usually get that warm is that they feel much, much worse.
The air is almost still, no breeze blowing through the leaves outside. So even if every window in their shared cabin is open, the air is still thick enough to cut through.
Bucky is sweating. Morning, noon and night he is sweating. The gardening he used to enjoy so much when they first moved in feels exhausting these days. He doesn't leave the house much during the heat wave, he simply feels like he can't. Sam tries dragging him out on a dinner date, to get ice cream and even begs him to go on a grocery run with him, but Bucky declines each time. He sits shirtless at home, keeping his metal arm in the shadows because he once accidentally burned Sam when they spent a day at the beach.
And tonight is no better. He's only in his briefs, sweating straight into the sheets. His blanket is crumpled on the floor, kicked off around midnight. Beside him, Sam is fast asleep, breathing slow and even. For the sixth or seventh time tonight, Bucky carefully maneuvers Sam's hand off his chest. It drives him crazy to be touched by a warm hand while he is already hot and sticky.
But he doesn't want to wake Sam. So he moves quietly and carefully, his years as an assassin paying off for something good. Every time he gently places his boyfriend's hand back on the mattress, he presses a soft, sweet kiss to it. Almost like an apology that he can't stand his touch tonight.
Around 3 AM, Bucky can't bear the heat any longer. He feels the droplets of sweat slide down his temples and how his wet hair sticks to his forehead whenever he moves around on the mattress. So he sits up and swings his legs over the side, sighing softly. He feels wet all over, almost clammy in a way.
For a moment he considers taking a quick shower, but then decides against it. It would make noise, possibly wake Sam. And then Sam would ask him if he is fine, and then he'd have to tell him that he is, he's just running hot. And then Sam would ask again and...
Bucky sighs again.
No shower.
Instead he gets up and stretches, the platelets of his metal arm softly humming in the dim light of the bedroom.
He tiptoes quietly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, heading for the sink. The water is cool and after drinking a few sips straight from the faucet, he holds his head under the spray as well. Searching for a dish towel, he blindly runs his hands over the counter until he finds one. But before he can grab it, he gets dizzy all of a sudden. The world spins for a second and he has to grab the sink to steady himself.
Jesus, he thinks, must've kept my head down for too long...
Bucky takes a deep breath and carefully dries his hair enough so he won't drip all over the kitchen. Sam hates water stains on the hardwood floors.
His heart is still beating a little faster than he deems absolutely necessary.
Just a dizzy spell.
Happens to everyone.
He leans back against the counter and sets the towel down, looking up at the ceiling, counting the wooden panels. Slow and steady.
One, two, three...
The refrigerator hums. It's breaking through the otherwise quiet kitchen.
Four, five... six...
The humming seems to be getting louder. Bucky blinks a couple of times to keep his focus on the panels.
Se- seven... eight... ah fuck, why is the humming so loud?
He tries to shake the uneasiness off, but it hardly works. His heart is still beating a little too fast.
Water, I need some water.
Ignoring the slight tremble in his hands, he tries to open a cupboard to reach for a glass, but it takes him two tries to open the right one. The kitchen is dark and he's slowly starting to stress himself out.
Goddammit Barnes, just grab a glass and pour some water from the sink. It's not that hard.
His throat is dry like a desert now. He feels like he's dehydrated already.
The corners of his vision turn fuzzy. He tries to breathe through it.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
His hands shake so badly that he spills half the water on the floor, the other half goes down his throat in two big gulps. But it doesn't stop his racing heart. Doesn't stop the tremble in his hands.
Fuck, fuck, fuck... Am I having a heart attack?
Before he can spiral down that road, he loses his grip on the glass and drops it. It clatters to the floor with a loud noise, but Bucky doesn't even realize that anymore. His hands grab at the skin over his heart and he slides down onto the floor against the kitchen counter.
I'm so hot, why am I so hot? Am I hot? No, the room's hot. But my skin feels hot too, is this a fever? What do I do?
His breathing is sounding more and more labored with every breath he tries to take. All the attempts at being quiet for Sam's sake are suddenly forgotten while he tries to understand what's suddenly happening to him. He feels so incredibly thirsty, but he can't will his body to move.
He presses his eyelids closed, trying to force his vision to steady. When he reopens his eyes, the corners are still black and everything looks slightly out of focus, but he sees two legs moving closer.
“Hey, hey Buck. I'm here. I'm here. You're okay. It's okay.”
Sam.
He must've heard the glass fall and realized that the bed was empty. Once he's in the kitchen, he crouches down next to his boyfriend.
Bucky looks at him wide-eyed.
“S-Sam. I- I- I'm...” he stammers.
“Shhh... hey, slow down. Slow down.”
Sam doesn't touch Bucky. He knows that the heat and the panic make touch feel like a threat right now.
“Look at me.”
He waits until Bucky's eyes meet his.
“Yeah, look at me. Just like that. Good boy, Bucky.”
His voice is calm and gentle, but firm enough to make sure he actually gets through to Bucky.
“Deep breath in... come on. I'll count. Breathe in... two... three...”
Sam mimics the breathing for him and Bucky tries to follow.
“Good, good. And out through the nose... two... three.”
He repeats the sequence until Bucky's grip over his own heart starts to loosen and his breathing slowly turns steadier and steadier.
“Good, just like that... keep breathing with me.” He murmurs softly. Eventually he stops the counting and just focuses on breathing a little more exaggeratedly with him.
The worry in Sam's eyes is palpable. Bucky almost feels ashamed.
“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.
Sam finally reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze. He doesn't stop him from apologizing. If time has taught him one thing, then it is that the apology will happen, no matter what.
“Do you feel better?” Sam asks instead.
Bucky shakes his head softly, a lump in his throat.
“I thought I was over having random panic attacks on a weeknight,” he says quietly.
Sam slowly gets off the ground and holds his hand out to help him up.
“Can you walk? It's so sticky in here, we should sit on the porch for a moment.”
Gently, he leads Bucky outside, both men just in their underwear, but most of Leb is asleep anyway.
The air actually does feel a little better outside. Theres finally almost a real breeze blowing through the yard.
Bucky and Sam sit next to each other on the porch steps.
“I know you probably don't want to talk, so can I say something I noticed first and you can comment on it?” Sam says gently and waits for Bucky to acknowledge him with a nod.
“You've been inside a lot lately.”
He lets his observation sit between them for a moment.
“The garden isn't fun for you anymore and you won't even come grocery shopping with me anymore.”
Sam leans his head on Bucky's shoulder.
“You didn't even comment on my cereal choices when I put them away.”
A beat of silence passes. It's not uncomfortable silence, it's more like the heavy kind that follows when someone realizes they've been feeling worse than they admitted to themselves.
“Sam, I-...” Bucky starts and trails off.
“I know,” Sam whispers softly.
“I thought getting out of everything we've both been through was enough too.”
There's a long moment where neither of them says anything, the only sound filling the air is the slow rhythm of their breathing syncing up. Bucky slowly rests his head on top of Sam's.
“Thank you,” he whispers softly.
Even if Bucky doesn't know how to handle the heat, he always has Sam by his side and Sam...
Well, Sam's good with heat.