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Sam wakes with a start. For a moment, he's confused -- he didn't have a nightmare of his own, so why is he awake? His hand searches for Bucky, but finds only empty sheets. He rubs his eyes and sits up, scanning the room. His eyes land on a mess of brown hair, just visible over the foot of their bed.
Sam chambers out of bed and is greeted with an odd sight. Bucky is kneeling on the hardwood, facing the foot of their bed. He's still wearing what he went to bed in -- boxers and a tank top -- and his dog tags glint in the dim lighting. His head is bowed, long hair hiding his face. Sam's stomach drops when he realizes that Bucky's hands are clasped behind his back.
They knew this was a possibility. Shuri was able to remove the programming that made Bucky into the Winter Soldier, yes–but she couldn't undo decades of trauma. Bucky's body still remembers. So sometimes, given the right nightmare, the right trigger–Bucky gets caught halfway between Sergeant Barnes and the Winter Soldier.
"Hey, Buck," Sam murmurs, sliding down to sit on the floor near his partner. "Can you look at me?"
Bucky's prone form doesn't move a muscle, and Sam's heart clenches. Bucky's given him permission, said that if he ever goes under that Sam can command him, but the thought still makes Sam sick. Sam takes a deep breath, reminding himself forcefully that this is about Bucky, not him, and says–
"Soldier." His voice is soft but firm. Bucky's breath hitches, and Sam knows he's hearing him now. "Release your hands."
Bucky drops his hands to his sides, and Sam can see the tremors running through his upper body. Jesus, how long was Bucky holding that position before he noticed?
"Soldier, how long have you been awake?"
"Holding stress position for thirty-five minutes, sir." Bucky finally meets Sam's eye. "Would you like me to assume a different position?"
"No, Soldier." Sam is just barely able to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He stands, realizing that Bucky will likely be under for a few more hours. "Come with me."
Bucky follows Sam into their kitchen, and Sam gestures towards a stool at the island. "Sit."
Bucky does so, but Sam notices that his body is still trembling minutely. "Are you cold?" There's a pause, before Sam adds: "I'm not going to hurt you. I want you to be truthful."
Bucky's shoulder slump, relieved, at the admission from Sam. "Yes, sir," he says softly. His face is guarded as Sam crosses the room and grabs a blanket, bringing it back to him. "Here." Bucky wraps himself tightly in the blanket, like he's worried it'll be taken away. "Thank you, sir."
Sam smiles at him before returning to his original task: making them both a hot meal. At three in the morning, there's not much he can rustle up, but he's certain that neither Bucky nor the Soldier would turn down scrambled eggs and buttered toast.
“Why did you wake up, Soldier?” Sam tries to ask as gently as possible.
Bucky's face scrunches in concentration. “A dream, sir. A malfunction – I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again.”
“I don't think it's going to be the last time,” Sam says before he can stop himself. He's forgotten, standing in their kitchen, cooking breakfast, that he's not talking to Bucky. He's talking to the Soldier, who has been trained to comply, hide any vulnerabilities, at all cost. He spins around to correct his error, but it's too late.
Bucky's already bowed his head again, and his arms are outstretched on the kitchen island. Palms up, like an offering. “You're right, sir. I require – the Asset requires correction.”
There's a knife placed at the edge of the island, towards Sam. He remembers vaguely that the Soldier was trained to always arm its handlers. For correction, or…decommission. Sam tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. He takes the knife and drops it in the sink behind him.
“I am not going to hurt you.” He says it firmly, leaving no room for argument. “You're safe here.”
Bucky's mouth opens as if to speak, but he quickly shuts it again, choosing to nod instead. But he does not withdraw his hands. He's still waiting for pain. Sam tries again, using the Soldier's own words.
“You did not malfunction, so there is no need for correction. Dreams are not malfunctions. Neither are nightmares.”
Bucky looks up at him, tentatively drawing his hands off the island and into his lap. For a man pushing nearly a hundred pounds of muscle mass, he looks small. Frail, even. Sam takes the opportunity to slide him a plate. Three slices of toast and a mountain of eggs.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” Bucky says, but his hands don't move towards the plate. He's still waiting for permission.
“Eat. Until you are full,” Sam adds quickly, because he gets the sense that the Soldier would eat himself sick if he didn't specify. Sam eats his own, smaller plate and tries to think of a plan.
Bucky said a dream woke him. It's likely that in the dream, he was acting as the Soldier, which has now carried over into his awake self. Sam's had his fair share of flashbacks, but the tactics that work for him definitely won't work for Bucky. He's a fan of using ice and cold to get his body and brain on the same page – but the Soldier is used to the cold. To ice. To pain.
Perhaps the way out for Bucky is warmth. The warm food and the blanket have seemed to help so far. Sam turns on their electric kettle while Bucky finishes the rest of his plate, and he pulls out Bucky's tea organizer. “What kind of tea would you like?”
Bucky's hand reaches out, then hesitates. Perhaps the tea box is helping to jog some memories as well. Finally, he selects a tea bag and hands it to Sam. Peppermint tea. “Well done,” Sam murmurs. The kettle comes up to temp and he makes two mugs of peppermint tea. “Here,” he says, handing one to Bucky. Their fingers brush, and it's the first physical contact they've had this entire episode.
Bucky almost clings to Sam's hand, but jerks himself back. “It's okay,” Sam soothes. “Would you like to hold my hand while we have our tea?”
Bucky nods. “Your hand is warm. S'nice.” Bucky's Brooklyn accent has started to bleed back into his voice, a good sign. Sam sits on the stool next to him and they drink their tea in silence. Sam wants to let Bucky break the quiet, see where his mind is at, unprompted.
Twenty minutes pass, and both of them have finished their drinks. A shudder runs through Bucky's body, and Sam squeezes his hand, still waiting for Bucky to speak on his own terms.
“Sam?” Bucky's voice wavers.
“Yeah, I'm here, Buck,” Sam slowly reaches his other hand out to rub little circles on Bucky's back. “You with me?”
“Yeah.” Bucky drops his head, takes a deep breath. “How long was I under?”
Sam hums. “Two hours at most. You said you had a dream.”
“I remember,” Bucky murmurs. “I'm sorry I woke you.”
Sam presses a tentative kiss just above Bucky's hairline. “I'm glad I woke up. I would have felt awful if you stayed like that all night.”
Bucky leans into Sam's touch. “You, I – thank you, Sam.” His flesh hand comes up to rub at his eyes. “No one's ever done this for me. I've always been alone whenever I've gone under before.”
An image flits into Sam's mind of Bucky, kneeling alone in his Bucharest apartment, waiting for hours for someone to give him an order. As much as Sam hated commanding Bucky, he hates the idea of him being alone and immobile even more.
“How much–” Sam's voice breaks and he has to clear his throat. “How much time have you lost before?”
Bucky meets his eyes wearily. “Days.”
“I'm so sorry, Buck.” Sam holds him a bit tighter. “But thank you. For trusting me to look after you.”
Bucky relaxes into his arms. “There's no one else I'd want it to be,” he whispers.
“Do you want to try sleeping?” Sam checks his watch. 4:34am. “We've got plenty of time. Could sleep in, too.”
Bucky nods against his chest, yawning, so Sam half carries him back to their room. He shuts their curtains tightly, knowing Bucky probably needs to sleep past sunrise today, before crawling into bed after him.
“I got you, Buck,” he whispers into his mop of brown hair. “Just rest.”