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It's somewhere around three in the morning when Sam jerks awake in his room, breath caught tight in his throat. Rolling from his shoulder onto his back, he scrubs a hand over his eyes, mouths a tired curse towards the ceiling.
Rustling from the chair perched in the corner of his bedroom alerts him to the presence of another person in the room, and he lifts his head to peer towards the corner, picking out Nat's fire red hair in the dim light. "You were making sound," she explains, matter of fact. "Oh." Sam says, because Sam is an eloquent motherfucker, especially first thing in the way too goddamned early morning. "Sorry," he continues after a second, because it seems like Nat's waiting for something more. She shrugs, cocks her head at him like she's weighing his remorse.
"It's okay," she allows eventually. "I wouldn't have heard if I hadn't been listening." It probably says something about how long he's been living with three utter menaces to society that his first reaction isn't aghast but fond, a smile shot towards the shadow that is Nat because it's endearing when she worries about him. Then he sighs, because with the amount of adrenalin he's dealing with, he's not going to be going back to sleep any time soon. Shoving back the sheet and comforter he'd been sleeping under, he stands, runs a hand over his hair.
"Wanna move to the living room?" He asks, because he's not just going to leave her in the darkness of his room when there is (probably) a reason she'd sought it out. He's rewarded with a flash of teeth, so he guesses that's a yes, offers her his arm. She unfolds from the chair with her customary grace, stares at him for a heartbeat before she takes his forearm in both her hands.
There is definitely a reason she'd sought out his room.
"I think Barnes is out there," she murmurs, leans her weight on his arm to toe open his partially closed door so they can move to the hallway. "There was movement earlier, and there was no screaming, so it probably wasn't Steve."
Rather than bother trying to muster a reply in face of the disheartening truth that is Steve's tendency to wake from a dead sleep with a scream already bursting from his lungs, Sam just hums, guides the two of them into the kitchen, and on a hunch whispers "Barnes, you want some cocoa?"
It's definitely indicative of his life that he only barely twitches when the man materializes out of thin fucking air to reply "Yes, please," arms folded tight around himself and eyes tired, like maybe he hasn't even been to sleep yet. Depositing Nat with Bucky, Sam ignores their whispered greetings in favour of easing open cabinet cupboards to dig up the cocoa mix; the box is a bit old and maybe a bit stale, but beggars can't be choosers and a hot cup of cocoa can do worlds of good for soothing a troubled mind. Especially if it's made properly.
Moving to the stove, he unearths a pot, reaches a hand over for the milk he hopes Natasha has already grabbed from the fridge. She doesn't disappoint, depositing the carton in his hand with a smarmy grin that he is far too busy dealing with the stovetop to see. Cocoa is a delicate art, and he passes the time while the milk is brought nearly to a boil in rapt attention; the rasping sound of Barnes' voice and the lighter tones of Natasha's serves as a pleasing enough counterpoint that he can nearly manage not to think about the dream that woke him. At some point, he must telegraph a bit more of his distress than he means to, because he's got two inquisitive ex-assassins hanging off his shoulders, and his hands full slapping fingers away from the pot ("But Sam, how do we know if it's done if we don't try?" "It's done when I say it's done, keep your grimy mitts away from my milk, don't think I won't hurt you.").
Once he's judged the milk an appropriate temperature and poured it into the mugs that already hold the cocoa, once all three mugs have been stirred and the remaining milk left to simmer on the stovetop, they retreat to the living room.
There are plenty of places to sit, but they all end up piled in the center of the largest couch anyway, Sam sprawled dead middle with Natasha on one side and Bucky on the other. He's just begun worrying the edge of his shirt between his fingers when he hears the telltale hum that means their television set has been turned on, and alarmed eyes hit the screen just in time to see the volume go nosediving down until it's barely audible, which is good: Steve doesn't get enough rest, and the last thing he needs is to be woken up by whatever television the three of them decide to occupy themselves with.
Or the television Nat decides to occupy them with--it's basically the same thing anyway. She settles on some animated Christmas special that's almost guaranteed to have no violent material at all, and for a while the loudest sounds in the room are those of their breathing and the quiet hum of the television.
It's probably somewhere around four when Steve appears in the doorway looking like nine kinds of beat shit. His lips are tight and unhappy, the bags under his eyes suggest that maybe he hasn't been sleeping much more than any of the rest of them, and the defensive lines of shoulders say that even if he has, his sleep has not been particularly restful, nor calm. He's hesitating there, probably because he's always been too cautious to assume that he's welcome wherever the three of them congregate, no matter how often they tell him that he is; he's hesitating there until Natasha leans over like an inverted u to be able to reach one of the pillows on the neighboring couch and launch it at him.
"We left you milk on the stove." Bucky says, picking up the offensive where Nat's left it. "Make yourself some cocoa and get in here, you're missing the good parts." Steve watches them for maybe two more seconds, pillow clutched tight to his chest. Then, he gives a jerky nod and vanishes into the kitchen, probably to do as told. He's back in maybe half a second, and he gives the loveseat next to them such a miserable look that Nat actually gets up, drags him bodily over and shoves him down where she'd been sitting, and tucks herself up into his lap, grinning like the cat that got the canary.
Bucky's got a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Steve looks as bewilderingly happy as the first time he'd been dragged bodily into physical expressions of affection, and Sam chuckles into his cocoa, earns himself a swat on the arm and an insistent "Shh" for his efforts, and thinks--yeah, there're worse ways to wake up from a nightmare.