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Sam passively stared at the cream-ceiling, occupying himself with the content cooing of pigeons out on the balcony (eating from the new bird-feeder he’d hung out last month) and the scratchy flicks of permanent marker Clint was using on his leg.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”
“Yeah, a little.” Clint pivoted his hand to work the blunt side of the marker into crest shapes.
It was a month since Sam had fractured his lower leg trying for a safe-landing and instead hitting the concrete through a billboard. At first, he thought he could wait out the four months; put on the national geographic documentaries he had recorded, spend a little more time in the kitchen, and maybe catch up on neighborly gossip (there were atleast three noise complaints on him and Clint that he maybe needed cleared up). But after the second week he realized how the idea of free time felt nicer than the actual reality of it.
Sam liked to keep busy.
Always having his calendar lined back to front with things to do, trying to squeeze in a free Sunday here and there— pretend he wanted a day to spend on the couch and do nothing. Now he had more than a Sunday, and Clint was getting a kick out of seeing him at home (morning till evening) with virtually nothing to do.
Sam sat up on the couch, looking over what-all Clint had drawn on his cast in the past hour; he spotted a European Starling and House Finch before his eyes were being covered by an ink blotted hand.
“Hey! I said wait!”
“You’re taking too damn long—“ Sam pulled down Clint’s right hand, this time spying a White-throated Sparrow, before the left hand came up to cover his eyes.
“It’s not like you have other shit to do. What were you gonna open the fridge to pass the time?”
“It’s my cast, Barton.”
“So? Just wait.”
Sam groaned, crossing his arms and keeping his eyes closed in lieu of hands. “Fine, but it better be good.”
“It would if you’d quit moving so damn much.”
Sam jolted his knee, hearing the tip of the marker skid, and chuckled when Clint slapped him on thigh. After that Clint remained unnaturally quiet while his hand moved and Sam tried to quiz out what the shapes were from the movement alone; so far the theme was New York birds, but Sam was hoping he’d see a Mottled Owl or Black-throated Mango.
Finally, Clint capped the head of marker and leant back on his hands.
“Okay, done.”
Sam opened his eyes. “Wow.” He said plainly, and Clint grinned.
Along the side of the cast, facing outwards, were the words ‘Ask me about my birds’ in bold, jagged font. And on the bridge of the cast were sketched and shaded European Starlings, House Finches, White-throated Sparrows, Red-winged Blackbirds and a Mottled Owl nestled at the very bottom.
“You like it?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” Sam said, and didn’t realize how hard he was smiling till he felt a sharp pang in his cheek. “I do.”
Maybe a few months inside weren’t so bad.