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Bucky staggered to his room from the gym. He had worked himself until he couldn’t push any further, desperately hoping exhaustion would provide dreamless sleep. He collapsed facedown, crosswise on the bed, a stinking, sweating mess. Fine tremors ran through his muscles while he lay there, wondering if he had enough energy left to shower. He felt disgusting; he knew it had been too long since his last shower even if he hadn’t worked up a sweat, but he couldn’t find the will to move in that direction.
With a huge effort he reached to the top of the bed and pulled one pillow down to wedge under his face. Within minutes he was snoring.
It hadn’t been a full two hours before he was jolted out of his sleep, choking on a scream. He shuffled off of the bed to sit on the floor, scrubbing his hands over his face, hair and shoulders, frantic to rid himself of the sensation that had followed him from the dream.
Bucky swallowed thickly several times as the imagined hot blood and flesh continued to sear into his skin, before he dashed into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to puke his dinner into it. When he was confident nothing else was coming up, he reached over to flush the handle, then leaned against the opposite wall. His chest was still heaving, and he focused on slowing down his breathing. He tried to remember the calming techniques his therapist had given him to use post-nightmare.
It took him several long minutes to get himself under control. He didn’t feel any more rested than before he had fallen asleep. He knew he needed to try to sleep again, but even the brief moments he closed his eyes to blink had him seeing flashes of Clint’s final moments.
He needed a shower. He should shower. But there wouldn't be anything in that shower to distract him from his thoughts, so he turned away from it and left the bathroom. And he didn’t want to have another conversation with his therapist about scrubbing his skin raw again.
Bucky didn’t think he had the energy to do anything else in the gym, so he sagged onto the couch and queued up a stupid reality show to zone out to until a ‘reasonable’ hour to find company in the tower.
Dawn crested through the open blinds, the bright light digging into Bucky’s dry eyes. He directed Jarvis to close the blinds and hit ‘continue playing’ on his show. He scrunched himself into a more comfortable position on the couch, heckled the knucklehead on the television and between one moment and the next was asleep again.
Roughly 90 minutes later he was pulled from sleep again by another nightmare, the resounding crack of a Glock echoing in his skull long after his eyes snapped open. Bucky pulled the throw pillow over his face and screamed the word, “Fuck,” into it, dragging the single syllable out until he was panting for breath after.
He pitched the pillow across the room and got off of the couch. It was late enough, early enough, whatever enough, now that it wouldn’t be odd for him to be in the communal kitchen. He needed a goddamn cup of coffee and something to distract him.
Steve and Sam offered to let him join in on their morning run but, still feeling drained after his gym session, he declined. He didn’t want them to see how out of sorts his sleepless nights had left him. He already couldn’t stand the sympathy radiating out from them.
Bucky found himself on the couch in the common room, his empty coffee mug on the side table. Something cheery danced across the screen, but if anyone had asked him what it was, he couldn’t have answered. Bucky’s head jerked up several times, fighting off sleep, trying to refocus on the bright colors, but it wasn’t long before he slumped sideways, fast asleep.
***
Bucky started so hard he fell off the couch when he opened his eyes to find Natasha standing over him.
“What the hell?” he demanded, heart still pounding and annoyed, as he resituated himself on the couch.
“Not sleeping well?” she queried, one eyebrow arched.
“Not with you staring at me.” He glared at her, but she returned the look levelly until he broke. “No. I’m not sleeping well.”
“Nightmares can be a bitch,” she agreed. “Have you spoken to your therapist about it?”
“Yeah, he knows.” She pressed her lips together and resumed her stare. “His stupid fucking pills don’t work. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you, James. I want to help — your lack of sleep is unhealthy.”
“Then what did you wake me up for,” he snapped irritably. Of course he knew his insomnia wasn’t healthy. It had been weeks since he’d had a proper night's sleep and he could feel his body breaking down — electric jolts of pain zinged through his body whenever he moved and it felt like he was wading through molasses. His brain was cluttered with cobwebs and his thoughts felt frustratingly slow. But it wasn’t like he was trying to be awake, and it was hard not to resent Natasha implying otherwise.
Bucky wanted nothing more than the oblivion of sleep, but he couldn’t escape his reality for more than two or three hours at a time.
“I’m not the reason you woke up,” she informed him coolly. He made a face; she was probably right. He had been caught in another nightmare before landing on the floor. He’d hoped he hadn’t yelled out in his sleep; he already felt weak and worthless, and when he wasn’t otherwise too numb he felt ashamed that his team was seeing him in such a state.
Natasha’s face softened and she sat beside him, placing her hand on his knee. “I know it’s rough, since,” she had to pause to clear her throat. “Well, anyway. I know it’s rough. But we both know he’d want you to take better care of yourself.”
Bucky flinched away, not wanting that conversation. He didn’t need to think about how he was disappointing Clint on top of everything else.
“If the medications your doctor provided aren’t able to keep up with or compensate for your serum, then let’s talk with Bruce. He can probably come up with a solution.”
“I’m not interested.”
Natasha gave him an unimpressed look. “I’ll talk to him for you, let him get started working on a solution so it’s ready if you change your mind.”
“Natalia.”
“Don’t Natalia me. Clint would never forgive me if I sat here and watched you continue to deteriorate.”
“It’s not like I’m trying to have nightmares every time I close my eyes.” Bucky sagged against the back of the couch, the ever-present exhaustion pulling even heavier on him. His throat felt thick with tears he didn’t want to shed.
“I know, but you’re just hurting yourself by not reaching out. It’s not a bad thing to try and get medication that can help.”
“Christ, Natalia. Just drop it.”
He heaved himself to his feet and headed to his room.
“Will you be joining us for dinner?” she pressed before he got to the doorway. Bucky shrugged but otherwise didn’t respond.