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It had become a common occurrence, every time they return to the Quinjet, for Bucky to lay his head on Sam's shoulder. Sam knew this meant something. Coming from a super soldier who needs half the rest Sam does. Coming from his stubborn partner who never lets down his guard. For Bucky Barnes to willingly let his eyes fall shut and place his head on Sam's shoulder means everything.
Sam didn't make a big deal out of it. And like dealing with a cat, Sam never moves until absolutely necessary when Bucky's in contact with his shoulder. He doesn't want to disturb the peace or break the idea that this is okay, this is allowed. And so, it becomes routine. Every time they return to the jet.
See the thing is, most people don't know this about Bucky Barnes. There's a softness to him. It took a while even for Sam to see. Took months to break the cold, rigid exterior but once it was gone, Bucky is all soft underneath. He doesn't like to show it and for the most part, he never does. But when he lets someone see it, he's like a puppy with big round eyes begging you to cuddle.
The next time the puppy shows up is in D.C. when it's nearing midnight. Sam opens his front door with a perplexed expression. Bucky stands on the other side with a face of guilt and sorrow.
"Sorry to show up like this," Bucky starts and he sounds so unsettled that Sam immediately invites him in.
Bucky crashes on the couch for the night and it's not until the morning that Sam asks why he dropped by. Bucky merely shrugs and says he was having a bad night. Sam presses his mouth tight, he's not about to point out that he had to drive four hours to get here.
"I hope I wasn't too much of a bother," Bucky mumbles.
"Of course not."
It happens again. Late at night, a gentle knock at the door. Sam swings it open to his solemn brunette partner on the other side.
"You can just text next time, I'll leave the door open," Sam tells him.
"That's not safe," Bucky argues.
Sam's too tired to disagree this night, he steps aside and lets the man in.
The third time, Sam finally mentions the distance.
"Does it really help to drive all the way down here?"
Bucky looks completely stricken by the question.
"Oh, sorry. I thought it was okay," Bucky says as he's turning around like he's about to drive the four hours right back to Brooklyn.
"No man, stay," Sam insists, grabbing his shoulder. Bucky turns back, glances at Sam's hand, then back to his eyes. "I was just asking since it's gotta be out of the way."
"I'm just," Bucky winces and peers away. The rest of his sentence is practically a whisper, "comfortable with you."
Sam blinks. He's never heard Bucky utter the word comfortable about anything.
He lets him inside.
So crashing the night at Sam's place becomes a regular enough thing that Sam just makes the man a key. It's not a big deal, he's being a good friend is what it is. Bucky does start texting him to let him know he's on his way so Sam doesn't fret at hearing the door open in the middle of the night.
Sam's pretty used to it by now, finding Bucky on his couch in the mornings, but what he's not expecting is the morning he finds Bucky wearing his clothes. Maybe Sam should examine the fact that this isn't a problem for him in the slightest, but he bypasses the thought.
"You could pack a bag, you know," Sam says with no heat.
Bucky's quiet for a moment. He's staring down at the faded, Wilson Family Seafood shirt he has on as he smiles to himself.
"I like how it smells."
Sam really tries to pretend that doesn't affect him but he's struck motionless by the sincerity of the man's voice, by the genuine smile and startling appreciation of his... scent. How is Sam's brain supposed to function with that?
The sharing of clothes continues, oh it continues. Sam's training with Joaquín when he sees a text from Bucky pop up on his phone. He assumes it'll be the typical: dropping by, hope it's alright message. Instead, he sees five words that make him stand in place with his mouth hung open.
The text reads: "I'm wearing your shirt, doll."
And okay, since when are they using pet names — since when are they anything? Sam's brain malfunctions until he feels Joaquín tap him on the shoulder.
"You okay, Cap?"
Sam blinks up at the kid's worried face and pulls himself together.
"All good, man."
He puts his phone away, he needs time to deal with that later.
Sam forgets to deal with it and arrives home to find Bucky lounging on his couch in another one of his old t-shirts and sweatpants. He looks so snug and warm, his feet up on the armrest like he paid for the damn thing.
When he hears the door close, Bucky glances behind him, waves hello with two fingers like that's all he has the energy for. Sam walks over, observing the display of his partner looking completely at home in his own living room.
"You still got that place in Brooklyn?" Sam asks and he meant for it to be more teasing but it acts like a shot of cold water. Bucky tenses, clicks off the TV, and shoots up from the couch.
"Yeah, I can—"
"No," Sam interrupts, "I'm never asking you to leave. Just trying to understand... this."
Sam motions between them and now Bucky follows in his confusion with his brows knitting together.
"Oh well, I have a lot of um, bad nights. And I like coming here but I get it. I have my own place," Bucky says like he's deciding this all in the moment. Then his eyes drop and he notices the shirt he's wearing, "And my own clothes."
Without warning, he shucks the shirt over his head and Bucky Barnes is left standing shirtless handing the tee over like it's a bargaining chip.
Sam doesn't accept the shirt, he's too busy staring inappropriately at the man's bare chest. Bucky hesitates in the dense silence that follows. Then he steps back with the shirt and proceeds to fold it. He lies the garment carefully on the armrest of the couch when Sam finds his words again.
"You got another shirt?"
"No, uh. I kinda borrowed that one last time and then wore it back here."
Sam stares at him incredulously. The image of him driving home without a shirt on his motorcycle is ridiculous.
"Don't go," Sam says.
Bucky shakes his head.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm... having a rough night too," Sam tells him, instinctually bringing his hand up to rub his temple.
"You feeling okay?"
"Yeah, just thinking too much."
Sam slouches over to the couch and plops down on one of the cushions. Bucky hesitates but eventually, he picks up the remote and turns the TV back on, then slides slowly down into the other cushion.
Sam smirks to himself.
"You really gonna sit there shirtless?"
Bucky reaches for the folded shirt but Sam grabs a hold of his wrist. Bucky turns to him wide-eyed with that puppy dog innocence beaming into him.
"If you wanna make a move, just make one."
Bucky doesn't move for a good, long moment. Sam's still clutching his wrist hoping to god he didn't read this wrong because it will get awkward as hell if he did. Luckily, he didn't.
Bucky rushes forward and presses his lips to Sam's so forcefully and hurried it's like he's been underwater and is just now coming up for air. Sam dives deeper into it, keeping his partner close with a hand at the nape of his neck.
He lets him go and watches Bucky heave a breath of disbelief.
"So is that what all these nights on my couch have been about?"
Sam smiles playfully but Bucky shakes his head.
"No, it really helped being here... to be near you. Even with you in the other room," Bucky admits.
Sam nods, his smile dwindling under the heavy truth.
"But I've also been sweet on you for far too long, Wilson."
A new smile breaks loose across Sam's face and even he's a little embarrassed at how much he can't hold it back.
"Yeah well, you let a doll slip over text today."
"It didn't slip."
Sam blinks.
"Have I really been that blind?"
Bucky shakes his head again.
"I work insanely slow. Been testing the water for years now."
"Years?" Sam laughs incredulously.
"Seriously," Bucky's face is dead set. "You have no idea how long I've been working up to this."
Sam's at a loss for words so he simply pulls the man back in for another kiss.
Sam wakes up to the smell of bacon and toast. He pulls himself out of bed, slips into boxers, and sidles out to the kitchen. He finds Bucky frying eggs over the stove.
No surprise, he's wearing Sam's clothes. This time, all of them. An old beat-up tank, a pair of sweatpants, and socks all out of Sam's dresser drawers. Honestly, it makes Sam's heart clench so tightly he feels it springs down to his toes. How can a singular sight make him so happy?
He snakes two arms around Bucky's midsection and hears Bucky hum quietly.
"I like how it smells," Sam notes.
"Food's almost ready."
"I meant you."
Bucky's stomach caves in with a deep breath. He sets the spatula down and spins around in Sam's grip. He kisses Sam. It's salty telling Sam he's already been snacking on the bacon. Sam licks his lips when they break.
"Like how you taste too," Sam teases.
Bucky frames his face, swiping his thumbs over Sam's cheeks.
"I like everything about you."
Sam's swept away once more from the sincerity in his voice. He's not sure what to say especially with the way Bucky is currently looking at him like he's the entire world. So he just leans into Bucky's lips and kisses him again. Because even though this is all incredibly new, it already feels like the safest thing he can do.