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Bucky got a lot of shit for staring so much. Well, the shit that Sam gave him was more teasing now, or occasionally concerned, but Bucky didn’t really take the shot that Sam said to him that seriously any more. And, since Sam’s opinion was the only one that Bucky really cared about in this century, he didn’t care much what other people said about his staring.
And, he was a sniper. Staring meant observing, meant knowing things that others didn’t expect him to know, meant acting on that knowledge.
Like the exact way that Sam took his coffee after his morning run, or the way he hung up his gear when he wasn’t using it, or the specific way he set up the shower after a particularly rough mission. Bucky noticed all of it, because he noticed Sam.
He would get back from his run between seventy twenty-two and seven thirty-nine on an average day when he didn’t decide to run for longer, and because Bucky knew that he wasn’t going for longer and that he would be home soon, Bucky took the incentive to turn on the heated towel wrack, because he knew that Sam would forget to even if he did appreciate the warmth.
Then while he waited he made the bed, because Sam liked the tightness of the sheets being tucked into the bed even if Bucky couldn’t see why. They usually ended up pulling the sheets out enough that the bed might as well have not even been made to begin with, but Sam liked a made bed, so Bucky made the bed, just to see Sam smile.
After that, Bucky simply read his book until his partner got home, sweaty yet energetic from his run.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he told Bucky after greeting him. Bucky nodded and took that as his cue to start on breakfast.
Bucky hadn’t really cooked much before he met Sam. He had tried to help out around the house when he had been younger, but that mainly consisted of getting a job, staying out of trouble, and watching his siblings when he needed to, not cooking. Then he joined the army, where all their food was rationed, and after that he was on the run and more focused on survival and substance than satisfaction.
Sam gave him a reason to cook, though. Just like he gave Bucky a reason to get out of a bed that he would make later and get dressed in something decent, and exist in a clean living space. Bucky didn’t know where he would be without Sam, but he knew that it wouldn’t be a good place.
Sam came out of the shower just as Bucky was going to make coffee, and by the time Sam had gotten dressed and came over to the table, the coffee was done.
“Thanks for the warm towel.”
Bucky hummed in acknowledgment. “Here,” he said, handing Sam the coffee. “Just as you like it.”
“Thanks, Buck.” He breathed in the coffee, holding the old, chipped mug with two hands. “You really spoil me.”
“Maybe you just deserve the best,” Bucky told him. It was the kind of sappy shit that Bucky tried to avoid saying, but it was also true. Sue him. “I also made bacon.”
“For me?”
“No, for my other partner,” Bucky rolled his eyes. His favorite part of making bacon? Definitely freaking Sam out by grabbing it directly off the stove with his metal hand. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“You asshole.”
Bucky just laughed.
“Hey, I was thinking—“
“—a dangerous activity—“
“—shut up,” Sam laughed, and tossed an apple at Bucky that was sitting on the table. “I’ve gotta go into the VA today; you should come.”
Bucky frowned, and took the moment to consider it by biting into the apple that Sam had thrown at him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said finally.
“You don’t have to,” Sam said sincerely, and Bucky knew that he truly didn’t, even if Sam wanted him to. “But I’d appreciate the company, and you could meet some of my people.”
“Got a World War Two group in that VA of yours?” He was mostly joking, but not completely, and Sam seemed to realize that.
“I know there was one before the blip, so long as there’s still people going. I don’t know what day they meet, but I’m sure we could check it out.”
If not, Bucky was sure there was a group of amputees somewhere around the VA that he could harass.
“Alright,” he agreed. “But we’re stopping at that one restaurant on the way back.”
“I was already planning on it,” Sam smiled cheekily at him, and the two of them bickered playfully most of the drive there.
Until their conversation fizzled out and Bucky felt his attention waning as his thoughts took over.
There was something about seeing other veterans that reminded him about all the bad things from the war. His first kill, his comrades dying in the cold, their bodies bloodied and malnourished, when they had been captured and Bucky was separated, the dog tags against his chest the only thing grounding him to who he was.
How many soldiers had lost their lives? How many wars were fought after another, even when they thought that the one they were fighting would be the last? How many were left limbless, without their minds intact, tortured by memories? The ones that only met at these groups because they had no one else, their families and friends either dead or turning their backs on them once they returned from war?
These soldiers were made to fight, congratulated, and when they returned from war? The government that so praised them forgot about them.
Bucky wasn’t conscious of the fact that he hadn’t blinked in several minutes, his eyes staring straight ahead as he trembled, Sam trying to get his attention. All he could focus on was the ringing on his ears, the absence of a solid space around him. He was falling, nothing to support his weight as he plummeted down towards the snow, the world closing in around him—
The world had forgotten about him. Steve forgot about him. They were going to forget about him again. Sam and Sarah and even Torres and Isaiah and Rebecca and Steve and Sam and he didn’t even know who he was supposed to remember. Himself. He forgot himself and slowly the world would forget him too, even while he was still alive and trying to make a difference.
He didn’t want to forget himself.
“Look at me, Buck. Look at me.”
Bucky blinked.
His eyes were startlingly dry.
“That’s it. Breath. You’re having a panic attack.”
Oh.
Right.
“You’re with me, Sam, in the car. We were heading to the VA.”
Bucky nodded slowly and blinked again. His eyes still felt dry.
“Who am I?” The voice asked, like some sort of test.
Bucky didn’t know. He needed Sam. Sam would help him.
“Sam,” he croaked out. “I need… I need Sam.”
“I’m right here,” the voice— Sam— said. “You’re in the car with me. You’re safe. I know it might not feel like that right now.”
God, why were his eyes so dry? He closed them tight, scrunching his face up, but that only made him feel worse as a wave of nausea hit him.
At least there was solid ground under him now, he was no longer falling. The ringing in his ears was growing fainter.
It took a bit for Bucky to come down from it, but Sam was right there next to him, being the supportive partner that Bucky always knew he was. It wasn’t Bucky’s first panic attack, not by a long shot, but he still got a bit thrown every time he had one.
“Sorry,” he murmured once the car was moving again. He was looking forward still, but this time it was because he had nothing else to look at other than the windshield, not because his eyes weren’t focusing.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sam told him.
“I know.” He did. “Sorry.”
Without taking his eyes off of the road, Sam took one hand off the steering wheel and offered it to Bucky. Bucky knew that it was his left arm and he couldn’t feel it anyways, but he let Sam take his hand and squeeze it nonetheless.
“I love you James Buchanan Barnes, and you have nothing to be sorry for,” Sam said with conviction.
Bucky was starting to believe that he might be right.