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Jason woke up all at once, heart slamming into his rib cage as he lay there, motionless, taking careful stock of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the steady whistling snore coming from his left — Clint had had his nose broken one too many times — and the familiar noise soothed him.
Warmth seeped into his side where Clint was pressed against him as he forced his muscles to unclench one by one, but it wasn’t enough to keep him in the bed. Normally he enjoyed the t-shirt type feel of the hunter green jersey sheets, but after a nightmare the bed was too soft to bear.
He slid out off the bed as quietly as he could. When he glanced back to make sure Clint was still sleeping, though really he could hear the answer, he noticed that the other bed occupant was missing.
He might have given the bed another shot after washing his face and taking a moment to stretch in the bathroom, but he wanted to check on Bucky. Bucky was sitting on the couch in the dark, and had clearly heard Jason coming down the stairs. Light glinted off of his eyes when he turned to face Jason.
“You’re up late.” Jason knew he was stating the obvious, but it was a kinder ask than ‘are you okay’ when they all damn well knew none of them were. They were all fucked up in their own ways. They were mostly good together, shoring each other up, burying the not-okay parts, but every so often something reared up. Bucky could choose to address it or not, this way.
Bucky spent several long moments considering his answer. Jason gave him the time; he knew that on bad nights Bucky liked a little more time to process and pick his words.
“Arm’s hurting,” he finally said. Jason nodded. That wasn’t a surprise really; they’d had a tough few days — back to back missions that had involved a lot of close-quarters combat. None of them had been significantly injured — even Clint had come out mostly unscathed and had only needed four stitches on his forearm — and for all that Bucky had his super-soldier healing, all of that activity fucked with his arm. Jason privately wondered if it was similar to phantom pains, the way the ache flared even when the bruises were gone but he knew better than to ask.
“Come in the kitchen with me,” he suggested, and then led the way. Bucky was slow to follow, and in the kitchen light Jason could see that his face was sunken and sallow. He wondered if Bucky had had nightmares too before the pain had driven him from bed.
The first thing he did was pass over a handful of pills, knowing Bucky wouldn’t have taken them. He never did on his own, on nights like this. He didn’t watch Bucky take them, just trusted that he would because Jason wanted him to. Instead he started the kettle and began pulling out the tea cups and bags. The soft red readout on the oven surprised him; it was earlier than he would have guessed, just after midnight.
When the tea — chamomile in hopes of more sleep — was ready he sat down across from Bucky and let the warm steam wash over his face for a moment before he took a sip. Bucky stared at his own cup, his hand restlessly kneading the bulky sweatshirt where it sat over his left shoulder.
Bucky still hadn’t touched his tea by the time Jason finished his cup, but that was okay. They’d had enough of these nights to know that they both got most of what they needed from the simple silent acceptance of each other’s company.
Jason looked up when Bucky stiffened and turned and saw that Clint was shambling down the stairs with a spectacular display of bedhead. It wasn’t surprising Clint had come down the stairs, he didn’t like sleeping alone, but he barely looked awake.
Clint shuffled to a stop behind Bucky’s chair, and after a jaw-cracking yawn said something completely unintelligible. Bucky and Jason shot amused looks at each other and Jason stood to start the coffee pot. Clint began plucking at the sweater until Bucky complied and pulled it off.
Jason leaned against the counter and watched as Clint began massaging the puckered and twisted scar that ran along the metal graft and the tissue next to it. His fingers were deft and purposeful, and seemed at odds with the rest of his about-to-fall-asleep manner.
The machine behind him beeped and he fixed Clint a cup with his preferred creamer. It wasn’t a night for the harshness of black coffee that Clint usually went for with his first cup. Bucky seemed to be slowly deflating under Clint’s ministrations, though he tried to straighten when Jason walked over with the new mug.
“Nuh-uh,” Clint said with a shake of his head.
Jason’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. “Are you—” he cut himself off. They didn’t ask each other if they were okay but Clint knew what he’d been going to ask let out a soft chuckle.
“Want to get back to bed. We need the sleep.”
And that was both fair and honest. Jason felt ready to head up, all remnants of his nightmare chased away by Bucky’s solid presence and the warm tea. When he looked over at Bucky he saw that most of the lines of pain had eased and his eyes looked heavy.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Let me clean up and—”
“It’ll keep,” Clint interrupted. “Come on. Bed.”
Another glance at Bucky had him capitulating and they trudged up the stairs in a single file, Jason bringing up the rear. Feeling warm and safe back in the bed it wasn’t long before sleep claimed him again.