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Living on the run wasn’t a fun venture, although living with Zemo made things so much more comfortable. Being holed up in a trench or a burnt out building was not something that neither Sam or Bucky wanted to do again, and living with the baron had more benefits than either one of them would like to admit. In any case, living with each other was tedious, though cozy...except for when night fell.
Sometimes it was Bucky jolting awake from his spot on the couch, desperate screams as his unconscious mind fell back to things he didn’t remember doing, things he didn’t control. Sam woke softly crying, shoulders hunched over as his nightmares mixed with reality, their situation with Karli stressing him out--especially after she’d contacted his sister. And sometimes it was Zemo, who refused to speak in anything other than broken Sokovian, hoarsely crying out for the loved ones he’d never see again, the imprinted memory of blood and filth on his hands ever present.
Whoever was comforting had learned to turn on the lights, softly approach, and start making tea or warmed milk on the stovetop. Two sets of hands pressed a warm mug into shaking fists, finding clean tissues or a damp cloth to wipe away tears and sweat; they’d soothe with gentle touches and speak quietly until the waking world had come into view, and whichever man needed comfort had it, pushed into the middle spot of the large bed that was kept in the master bedroom for safety. Sleep would lull them back into its embrace, and in the morning there’d be a pair of backs facing outwards from the middle party, protective and within reach.
All three men had seen too much, done too much, and hadn’t cried nearly enough to soothe the ever-present pains. But they had each other, and that was enough, for the time being.