Chapter 2
Now
Sam had awoken early, roused by the muffled screams from the living room, where Bucky slept. The first few times he’d heard them, he’d rocketed out of bed, grabbing a weapon on the way, fully ready for battle. But by now, he knew better. He’d seen a lot of trauma when counseling veterans, but it was one thing to see trauma twice a week in a controlled setting. It was something else entirely to watch a man—one of the strongest men he’d ever met— be reduced to something less than human, quivering and whimpering and shaking like a leaf, stuck in the vice grip of whatever memory was haunting him.
Sam didn’t know what to say. Or whether to say anything. He’d agreed to keep an eye on Bucky as a favor to the rest of the Avengers, but more importantly, because it’s what Steve would have wanted. But now he felt out of his element. He wasn’t a licensed professional. And these days, he barely felt able to cope with his own shit, much less shoulder someone else’s.
He heard Steve’s voice in his head, almost involuntarily. “I need you to look after him for me,” Steve had said. It was a promise he had to keep.
He knew better than to wake Bucky up suddenly in the middle of one of his nightmares. If he did, it was about a 50-50 chance he’d end up in intensive care. Part of him wished Bucky would stow the robot arm in a closet at night…
Quietly, Sam crept into the kitchen and began making a pot of coffee. Maybe the aroma would wake Bucky without startling him.
He tried not to listen to the words Bucky mumbled in his dream. It felt like eavesdropping into someone else’s life. But when Bucky yelled “Steve!” Sam felt a chill run down his spine. It was the pain in that single word, the desperation. Like something out of a horror movie. Like he was watching something be done to Steve. Or maybe he was doing it. That couldn’t be ruled out.
Eventually the moans turned to quiet whimpers. Sam checked his watch. 5:00 am now. Time for a run. Maybe Bucky would be awake when he got back.
As Sam’s feet pounded the pavement, he felt the weight of these last months. He was tired. His body hurt. His heart hurt. Sometimes he imagined he could hear Steve’s footsteps coming up behind him. He would have given anything to hear them one more time.
—-
Bucky had slept fitfully, waking at least twice he could remember, despite the pills he took that were supposed to knock him out. Any normal human would probably be comatose taking sleeping pills at those dosages. But for Bucky, it barely helped, and did nothing to get rid of the nightmares.
Every night was a new and unique horror. A new memory, sometimes one he’d suppressed. Or an old memory. The torture he’d endured, the fear, the horror. It was just as vivid in his dreams as it had been in real life. The technique his therapist taught him to ground himself and bring himself back to reality did help a bit. But those nightmares stayed with him all day. And the trembling in his muscles, the sweat that soaked the futon - those things were irrefutable evidence. He was fucked up. And it wasn’t getting better.
Sam was out. That was good. He’d left a fresh pot of coffee. Bucky felt a wave of shame wash over him when he realized that Sam must have witnessed his thrashing and screaming. Long ago, his nightmares had been so intense that he’d had to strap himself down, just to keep from breaking everything around him during those night terrors. Having a roommate was never what he’d wanted. He felt shame rise in him like bile, acrid and choking. To have someone else witness how crazy he was…it was almost too much to bear.
He would shower and leave early. With any luck, he’d be gone before Sam returned.
He stripped his soaked clothes off and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. There were deep circles under his eyes, clear evidence that he wasn’t sleeping. His face looked sallow and sweaty. He hated looking at it. His body was worse - the scars and marks of battles that he didn’t remember. It was like waking up after getting blackout drunk, not knowing what you’d done, trying to piece it together. But the memories wouldn’t come. He remembered some in bits and pieces, some all in a rush. And some memories remained elusive despite him and his therapist trying to recall them. According to her, examining the most painful memories was the key to getting better.
She was a good doctor, but it was hopeless. He was who he was. And he would never get better. Not without help. The only one who had ever helped him was gone now. And what did he have now? Himself.
He turned away from the mirror. He turned the shower water as hot as it could get. Then he stepped into the shower, feeling the burn on his skin. It felt right. Pain felt right to him. It was what he knew. It was what he deserved.