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For a while—
Bucky doesn’t dream.
It’s something he notices slowly.
Then all at once.
At first, he wakes up expecting it.
The noise. The voices. The cold echo of commands he had never quite forgotten.
But there’s nothing.
Just—
Blank.
It unsettles him.
At first.
Then it doesn’t.
Because blank is better than screaming.
Better than shadows.
Better than waking up with his hands clenched like he’s still trying to survive something that ended a long time ago.
“Nothing?” Sam asks one morning, handing him coffee.
Bucky shrugs. “Nothing.”
“No dreams at all?”
“Not that I remember.”
Sam watches him for a second.
Then nods.
“Sounds like a win.”
Bucky thinks so too.
Sometimes, when Sam is asleep beside him—arm thrown across his chest like he belongs there—
Bucky lets himself believe something’s coming for him.
But maybe not.
Maybe he’s done with that part.
So he jokes about it.
Of course he does.
“You fixed me,” he tells Sam once, dry.
Sam snorts. “Yeah, way easier to fix than our clogged toilet.”
But there’s truth under it.
Something quiet.
Something fragile.
Because for the first time—
Sleep isn’t a battlefield.
It’s just—
Nothing.
And Bucky learns to live with that.
Two Years Later
The first nightmare feels like a mistake.
Bucky bolts upright.
Breath torn out of him.
Room spinning.
Hands shaking.
It takes a second to remember where he is.
Their bedroom.
Not a cell.
Not a chair.
Not with hands that don’t stop—
“Buck?”
Sam’s voice cuts through it.
Warm.
Real.
There.
Bucky drags a hand over his face.
“…yeah.”
“You good?”
No.
“Yeah,” he says anyway.
Sam watches him.
Doesn’t push.
They lie back down.
Sam’s hand settles over his chest.
Night Two
This one is worse.
Bucky doesn’t wake up quietly.
He wakes up screaming.
Not words.
Just—
Sound.
Sam is up instantly.
“Buck—hey—hey!”
Bucky’s already out of bed.
Backing into the wall.
Breathing like he’s been running.
Eyes wide and wrong.
”Please, Sir. No more,” Bucky pleads.
Like a sick prayer.
“Hey, it’s me,” Sam says, careful, steady. “You’re safe. You’re home.”
Bucky flinches from his touch.
It takes longer this time.
Too long.
By the time Bucky comes back—
He won’t meet Sam’s eyes.
“…sorry.”
Sam’s expression tightens. “Don’t.”
They don’t talk about it.
Night Three
Bucky doesn’t scream.
He just—
Doesn’t sleep.
Sam wakes to find him sitting on the edge of the bed.
Still.
Tired.
“You gonna explain why you’re haunting our bedroom at three in the morning?”
No answer.
Sam pushes himself up. “Buck.”
“…not doing it again,” Bucky mutters.
“Doing what?”
“Sleeping.”
Sam stares at him.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him.
“Absolutely not,” Sam says immediately. “We are not doing the ‘I’ll just avoid sleep forever’ thing. That’s not a strategy, that’s a breakdown.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Bucky’s jaw tightens.
“I said I’m fine.”
Sam swings his legs off the bed.
“Yeah? Because you look great. Real picture of mental stability over there.”
That hits.
Bucky stands.
“I’m not crazy.”
“You’re acting like one.”
Silence.
Sharp.
Then—
“Every time I close my eyes,” Bucky says, low, controlled, “I’m back there.”
Sam’s anger flickers.
Then softens.
He didn’t mean to.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Yeah. I figured.”
“I don’t need sleep,” Bucky adds. “I’ve gone longer.”
Sam exhales.
Slow.
Unimpressed.
“That wasn’t normal then,” he says. “It’s not normal now.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Sam steps closer.
“No. You’re scared.”
That lands.
Bucky’s expression shutters.
“Stop it.”
Sam doesn’t back off.
“Or what? You gonna stop sleeping harder?”
Bucky turns away.
Done.
Conversation over.
Sam watches him.
Frustration crawling up his spine.
“…unbelievable.”
I. The Beginning of Something Worse
Bucky stays awake.
One night.
Two.
By the third—
He’s slower.
Not dramatic.
Just—
Off.
A pause before he answers.
A blink that lingers too long.
Movements slightly delayed.
Sam notices immediately.
He always does.
“You look like hell.”
“I’m good.”
“Liar.”
Bucky waves him off.
Then stops mid-step.
Just—
Freezes.
Sam frowns. “Buck?”
No response.
Then his knees give.
Sam catches him.
“Hey—hey!”
Out. Like a light.
II. Static Returns
After that—
It escalates.
Fast.
Not just exhaustion.
Not just sleep deprivation.
Something else.
Because now—
Even when Bucky tries to stay awake—
His body doesn’t listen.
Mid-conversation—
Gone.
Mid-meal—
Gone.
Mid-argument—
Gone.
“What the hell—,” Sam says.
Too late.
Sam stares at him, slumped forward on the couch.
Breathing.
Alive.
Absent.
“…no. We’re not doing this again.”
III. The Difference
This isn’t just tired.
Sam knows tired.
He’s seen Bucky exhausted, worn down, running on fumes.
This is—
Wrong.
Because sometimes—
Right before Bucky drops—
He goes still.
Not sleepy.
Empty.
Just like before.
Sam grabs his shoulders once, mid-episode.
“Buck. Look at me.”
For one second—
Bucky’s eyes lock onto his.
And there’s nothing there.
No recognition.
No confusion.
Nothing.
Then he collapses.
IV. The Truth
Sam finds the file later.
Because of course he does.
HYDRA.
Always HYDRA.
Sleep regulation.
Forced shutdown.
Compliance through exhaustion.
“Scheduled sedation was insufficient. Subject responded more reliably to enforced sleep deprivation followed by involuntary shutdown.”
A switch.
Something in Sam goes cold.
“…they don’t get to do this again.”
V. The Break
It happens one night.
Bucky wakes up shaking.
Not from a nightmare.
From something worse.
“…they’re still inside me,” he says.
Sam sits up slowly.
“Yeah.”
Bucky laughs. Sam doesn’t know. Not really.
He just can’t know.
“They’re good.”
Sam leans forward.
Grabs his face.
“Listen to me.”
Bucky’s eyes are already slipping.
“Stay with me.”
He tries.
God, he tries.
Fails.
Sam catches him.
And this time—
He doesn’t fight it.
VI. Relearning
The shift is ugly.
Slow.
Frustrating.
Because Bucky has to accept two things at once:
Sleeping isn’t safe.
And not sleeping will break him anyway.
Sam builds structure around it like it’s a mission.
“You feel it coming, you tell me.”
“…I hate this.”
“Yeah. Still gotta do it.”
Short naps.
Controlled rest.
Sam steadying him when he fades.
Conversations in pieces.
Life—
Fragmented.
But still there.
VII. Still Here
One afternoon—
Bucky wakes up on the couch.
Sam’s still there.
Same position.
Like he hasn’t moved.
“…how long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Bucky exhales.
“…felt longer.”
Sam glances at him.
“But it wasn’t.”
Silence.
“…they used this to shut me down,” Bucky says.
Sam nods.
“Yeah.”
“…still does.”
Sam leans forward.
“Difference is,” he says quietly, “you wake up to me.”
Bucky’s eyes soften.
Sam holds his gaze.
“You wake up,” he repeats. “And I’m still here.”
That lands.
Bucky’s eyes close again.
But this time—
There’s no panic.
Sam shifts closer.
Hooks an arm around him before he slumps.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
Bucky leans into him.
Lets go.
And for once—
Sleeping doesn’t feel like losing.