The Avengers compound at 2:17 a.m. The building is quiet in that artificial, high-tech way, like even the walls are holding their breath.

And then it starts.

Not loud. Not at first.

A sharp inhale. A strangled sound. The faint metallic groan of vibranium fingers crushing the edge of a nightstand.

You don’t mean to wake up. You just do. Like your body knows before your brain does.

At first, you think it’s a training alarm or an attack. But then you hear it again. A broken whisper from down the hall. A name in Russian. A plea.

His voice.

You’ve fought beside Bucky Barnes. You’ve watched him dismantle entire strike teams with clinical precision. You’ve seen him stand between civilians and gunfire without hesitation.

You have never heard him sound afraid.

You follow the noise barefoot, heart pounding harder with every step. His door is closed. Locked. The handle doesn’t turn.

Inside, something crashes.

You don’t knock.

You force it open.

The room looks like a war zone. Sheets tangled like restraints. The lamp shattered. The metal arm embedded halfway into the wall.

And Bucky is still asleep.

Pinned in place by a nightmare you can’t see.

He’s sitting upright but not aware. Eyes open but unfocused. Breathing like he’s drowning. Speaking Russian under his breath, fragmented phrases you don’t fully understand but feel in your bones. Words that taste like captivity.

You say his name.

Nothing.

You step closer.

“Bucky.”

His metal hand snaps out and catches your wrist midair.

It doesn’t hurt. Not really.

But it’s not him.

It’s the Soldier.

Your pulse jumps, but you don’t pull away. You kneel in front of him instead, steady and stubborn.

“You’re safe,” you say, slow and clear. “You’re home. It’s me.”

His grip tightens.

Then falters.

Then breaks.

The shift is subtle but devastating. His eyes focus. Recognition hits. Horror follows right behind it.

He lets go like you’ve burned him.

“I didn’t—” His voice is raw, scraped thin. He looks around at the damage like it’s proof of something unforgivable. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head.

He looks unconvinced.

The next morning, he acts like nothing happened. He shows up to training. He makes dry comments. He avoids your eyes.

But now you know.

And once you know, you start noticing the pattern.

The exhaustion he hides behind sarcasm. The coffee he doesn’t even drink, just holds. The way he flinches when someone approaches from behind. The way he never fully sleeps during missions.

You don’t tell the team.

He’d hate that.

Instead, you start staying up later. Movie nights that stretch into early morning. “Accidentally” falling asleep on the couch outside his room. Soft music playing through the shared common space.

The second time it happens, you’re already there.

This time, when he jerks awake gasping, you’re at his door before anything breaks.

He doesn’t lock it.

He never says thank you.

But he lets you sit on the edge of the bed. Lets you press your palm over his racing heartbeat. Lets you anchor him while the ghosts try to drag him under.

And somewhere in the quiet aftermath, while the compound hums like nothing happened, you realize something heavier than fear has settled in your chest.

You don’t just want to help him survive this.

You want him to feel safe.