Work Text:
It’s happened slowly, he realizes.
Sam goes from his unfortunate partner, reluctant and at times, hostile, to the steady hands that rest on his shoulders and bring him back to the present. Sam’s the solid weight on the mattress beside him when he wakes up in a cold sweat, jolting upright with his chest heaving. Sam’s the willing listener on the other end of the couch, enduring another tangent over internet trolls and their wrong interpretations of Tolkien.
And it hits him, over dinner, when he glances down the hallway and notices nightlights in each plug that illuminate the space. It’s a combination of the little things. The small, potentially meaningless actions that Sam does—because that’s just who Sam is—that draw Bucky’s attention to reality.
He can’t pinpoint when it happened. Maybe there was no exact moment. But it’s different now.
He’s the one brewing coffee so they can spend an early moment together when the world doesn’t yet need them. He’s the one who waits to start another episode on Netflix until Sam’s home to watch with him. He’s the one who runs the hot shower until it fogs up the mirrors for Sam coming home from a mission, nudging until Sam accepts that he would’ve done the same.
Bucky glances up from his book, watching while Sam pops four pieces of toast out of the toaster and cracks another egg in the skillet. The song from Sam’s playlist grabs his attention as a warmth settles in his chest. It’s not Ella Fitzgerald’s vibrato or the rich, gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong that does it. It’s the hum from Sam’s throat to Dream a Little Dream of Me. Bucky smiles, rising to join Sam in the kitchen. He wraps an arm around Sam, and they sway. Slowly.