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"Might get yourself killed sneaking up on me like that." Bucky muttered, watching as Sam dropped down onto the floor next to his make-shift bed consisting only of an old sheet beneath him.
"Oh, please." Sam replied, smiling down at him. "You're all bark, no bite."
"That's what they want you to think-"
"Who is 'they' and-alright, no more. Why are you laying on the floor when my lavish couch is right there? You afraid you'll sink right through it?"
Bucky sighed. In all honesty he didn't count on anyone catching his escapade. Usually he was last to bed first to rise. He would move to the couch before anyone could catch him staring at the ceiling. Bucky would always promise Sam that he was fine on the couch, that he wouldn't kick Sam out of his bed. He'd refected the offer to share his but the more time Bucky spent with Sam, the more time he regrets declining.
"Floor feels more sturdy." Bucky agrees.
"That's cool." Sam hums in understanding. Slowly, he moves to lay on his stomach, head cushioned on top of his crossed arms.
Bucky feels slightly obtuse, feel the need to question the man. "What are you doing?"
"What's it look like?" Sam replies lightheartedly. "Any chance a man could get a blanket down here?"
Bucky rolls his eyes at him. "You crash a slumber party and don't bring your own bedding?"
Sam just shakes his head at Bucky. There's an unfamiliar yet now unwanted moment of comfortable silence between them. Sam is usually the one to fill up quietness. He's always chattering about something. Bucky doesn't mind, he likes hearing Sam's deep and soothing voice in his head throughout their days.The lights are off and the only light is coming in from the moon shining through the open windows. Even in the near complete darkness Bucky can see the dark sparkle of Sam's eyes and how his eyelashes curl up towards the lids. The other man looks content to enjoy Bucky's company this late at night.
They're looking at each other and Bucky reminisces in everything that reminds him of the man laying next to him. He can't help but see Sam in the soothing realities that come natural to Delacroix. The calmness of the waves as they crash along the boat when the two of them take it for a spin before anyone else is awake in the morning. The warmth of the mint tea Sam slides him from across the kitchen table, drinking their respective glasses in silence but not loneliness. He sees Sam in the yellow wildflowers that litter the outside of the house and his smile with the neatly planted pink carnations bordering the front walkway. Sam reminds Bucky of the sun; rising and falling to no avail bringing along those orange tinged skies that Bucky can never take his eyes off of.
They've been in Sam's hometown for almost two months now. The man was right, the town accepted Bucky with open arms. He hadn't remembered what it was like to be part of such a community of people, to be wanted around. Nobody prodded at his open wounds. None of them picked at his scars. Old ladies would pinch his cheeks and tell him how chubby he's gotten with their generous cooking. The stray cats would rub against his legs and would cuddle up to him and Sam when they lounged on the dock. The children of the neighborhood run circles around him, trying to get him in on their little schemes and pranks. When they'd come home from the dock, he'd help Sarah cook dinner and chat about their days to each other. Her sons tug on his shirt and hold his sleeve when they walk around the public market so they don't get separated.
Bucky listens to the rising and falling of Sam's steady breaths. The soft lull of it makes him drowsy.
"You don't have to…" Bucky begins to say, but doesn't bother to finish.
Sam's eyes were already closed. He's snoring softly into the crook of his elbow. Somehow he looks younger. The lines that crinkle against his eyes and forehead when he smiles or purses his lips are smoothed down into supple fragments of skin. All of the day's tension has melted away with dozing. Sam always holds the burden of other people on his shoulders and down his back. Despite the roughness of his life his touches are always gentle when resting on Bucky.
Years of being poked and tore apart by human hands and now the only thing Bucky wants against his skin is Sam's hands. He thinks Sam would go right through him by the delicacy he applies. Bucky wants to hold him back. Wants to get the pads of his fingers along the miles of Sam's silky skin. He thinks about putting his mouth to good use and kissing Sam so sweetly they get drunk on it. A pink blush rises to his cheeks when he wonders what it would take to make Sam come apart from the virtuosity of his touch. Falling between the cracks of life with Sam next to him. If someone told him that the reason the sky is always tinted indigo in Delacroix was all because of Sam, Bucky wouldn't question it at all.
Trying not to make any clamorous movements, Bucky reaches onto the couch to grab the quilted throw-blanket that Sam always curls up in. Bucky spreads it over the man's sleeping form, making sure it's covering all of him before laying back down onto his back again. His eyes are beginning to droop. They flutter when he looks from the wall to Sam's sleeping form. Fondness bubbles deep in Bucky's core at Sam's occasional sleepy languid mumbles.
"Night, Sam." Bucky whispers.
Sam twitches in his sleep and for a second, Bucky panics that he's woken the man up. He lets out a breath when Sam settles back in.
"Mmmm. G'night, Bucky." Sam mutters.
It's barely decipherable but enough to make Bucky melt right into the floor after all.
Bucky finally closes his eyes. With one hand resting on his chest and the other reaching out towards Sam, he falls victim to dozing away.
When Sam wakes up next to Bucky tucked into a blanket he didn't have before he fell asleep, he doesn't mention it.