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Bucky twitches in his sleep. Sam knows this, is fine with it, never once mentions how often it wakes him up from a dead sleep because he's worried Bucky's old haunts are returning. He has become accustomed to watching Bucky's sleeping face for early signs of the nightmares: a furrow in his brow, the tiniest scrunch of his nose, the beginnings of a frown playing at the corner of his mouth. Sam has seen it all, and usually, all it takes is a simple touch from Sam to ease Bucky's growing tension. He'll rest his hand on Bucky's waist or forearm, readjust his hold if they've drifted apart in the night. Most nights, it's enough.
Not tonight.
Sam feels as if he's only just fallen asleep when Bucky starts muttering. It's more nonsense than words to Sam's sleep-addled brain, but he swears he can hear Walker within that unconscious mumble.
Turning on his side, Sam brings a hand up to squeeze Bucky's bicep. The vibranium plates whir and flutter slightly under his touch before settling flat again.
(Bucky once told Sam that that was how the arm registered touch. The plates simulate skin's touch receptors and are able to send the necessary signals to the brain to say hey, something's touching you!
In that regard, Bucky can really only feel pressure through the arm. Texture and temperature are lost to him.)
While he knows the arm can feel the weight of his hand, he also knows it's useless if Bucky's too deep in his head to feel it himself; and, Sam fears that's the case when Bucky's expression doesn't soften at the touch. His eyebrows remain tightly drawn together, his mouth turned down into a grimace. The vibranium hand is gripping his pillow so tightly, it's tearing into the soft material.
Sam props himself up on his elbow. The moonlight is hardly enough to help him see clearly, but all the same, he's able to follow the line of Bucky's shoulder to his neck, and then to his face where Sam cups his stubbly cheek. His skin is cold, clammy. Sam, not wanting to frighten Bucky out of his nightmare, pats his cheek lightly.
“Buck. Bucky, hey. " He keeps his voice low, just above a whisper. “Y’gotta wake up, sugar. C’mon, wake up.”
It takes a bit more coaxing to bring Bucky out of it. He still jolts awake, but he doesn’t make much sound beyond a quick, sharp intake of breath. (Small victories.) His eyes are wild and unfocused as he regains his footing in the waking world; seeing Sam helps, his warm brown eyes easing away the panic coiling in his chest, urging Bucky to really see.
Sam smiles, sleepy and soft. "There he is."
Bucky's voice is small when he speaks. " — Sam?"
"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here." Sam brushes his fingers through Bucky's hair. "You know where you are?"
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as if he's trying to block out whatever he saw in his nightmare and nods, but something in his expression shifts, telling Sam he isn't quite out of the woods yet.
"Here," Sam says. "C'mere." He starts gently pulling Bucky closer until he's practically on top of Sam and his head is settled on Sam's chest, just above his heart. "Listen to my heartbeat, okay? Focus on that."
Bucky seems all too willing to do just that, a hand curling around Sam's ribcage to hold him close. There's something to unpack there, but Sam doesn't push. It can wait till morning.
Minutes pass, and Sam is almost certain Bucky fell back asleep, but his voice eventually cuts through the silence.
" . . . thanks."
Sam can't help it. He smiles to himself and runs gentle fingers through Bucky's hair. "Go to sleep, Buck."
And, if Bucky sleeps soundly throughout the rest of the night? Well, Sam will gladly chalk that up to a win.
It's the small victories.