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If Bucky had not gotten a super soldier serum (and, he supposed, if he was born in this century etc etc etc) he was pretty sure his hand would've started cramping a while ago. As it was, there was a faint ache building in the first knuckle of his middle finger, where some recent break was still twinging in an impractical way. But what was a psychosomatic ache in one knuckle when the cause was holding Sam's hand constantly for something like eight hours? At least, from the time they walked into the church, to the reception afterwards, and the whole ride home. (Not so much the ride to the ceremony. Sam had been busily texting a cousin to catch up on all the family gossip. No, during the drive in, Bucky had kept his hand on the inside of Sam's thigh, squeezing every now and then when Sam scoffed or rolled his eyes hard enough that Bucky practically heard it.)
Even now, just having to let go long enough to get out of the car and cross around the hood felt like too much distance. He had Sam's hand in his again before they stepped off the driveway.
Sam just grinned at him, like he knew exactly what Bucky was thinking. Which he probably did, honestly. He always did. They walked up to the door and Sam pretended like he was searching for his keys, but he didn't even stumble a little as Bucky curled his arms around him and slipped them into another quiet slowdance. And Sam pressed close to him like he had all evening, except this time the creaking wood was from their front porch and the yard outside was pitch black and the only music was the bugs overhead battering against the porchlight. No little kids to trip over, no audience to watch them, no sneaky pictures taken by the boys. Just them, in a warm evening, Sunday best loosened and sweaty.
"I wanna get married," Bucky said against the side of Sam's neck, head tucked close. "To you."
"I know you do," Sam agreed. "But you've also just got a bad case of wedding fever. Tell me about it again in a week."
"What do you mean you know I do?" Bucky asked, pulling back a little, slightly affronted because even he hadn't given it thought yet until tonight.
Sam took the break as a chance to return to the door lock, get them inside, turn on lights and ceiling fans. He veered into the kitchen, taking his hand with him, and Bucky stepped into the living room long enough to toss their suit coats over the back of the couch.
"What do you mean you know?" he repeated. He leaned on the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen.
Sam set their water jug on the counter, leaned back to face him in a reverse image directly across from him. The fridge door banged shut on his other side. "You're always tracing your fingers around my ring finger," he said. "And whenever we're at the mall, you always want to look at the newest designs for male rings at the jewelry store. I've never seen someone so interested in silver and gold braided bands. You leave hickeys like you're trying to mark me as yours, which is only exasperated by you constantly putting your dogtags around my neck because, and I quote, 'Barnes looks good on you, Sammy.'"
Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but there wasn't much to argue about there. Maybe he had been thinking about it longer than he knew he'd been thinking about it. "Be honest," he said. "Are you a mind reader?"
"I put you in regression hypnosis when you ask me to wash your hair," Sam confessed drolly, eyes alight as they had been all night. But this time, the light was a little different. It was the way he got playful and lighter with Bucky, when the weight of everyone else's eyes weren't on them. When they were arguing about the laundry, or cheating at a video game, or getting messy while they cooked. "You admit it all then. Tell me all your dastardly plans."
"Oh, and what sort of plans are those?" Bucky asked, unable not to fall into Sam's happy, playful attitude. Hell, he was happy to fall into it.
"Wed me, bed me, take over the world," Sam said blaisely.
"Take over the world specifically because I married you?" Bucky confirmed.
"Yeah, because of me. Admit it, Buck, I'm the charm in this duo."
"You're the charm," Bucky agreed. "Am I very specific about wed before the bed part?"
Sam's smile was a slow, fond thing, and he ducked his head. If Bucky was close enough to touch, he'd feel the blush on Sam's cheeks. "Nah, you're probably not that specific about the order of things," he said.
Bucky held out his hand again, stretching his fingers out dramatically. Sam came around the bar, took Bucky's hand, and let him lead them into the bedroom. Sam, of course, paused inside the door to kick his shoes off, but then let Bucky guide him to the full length mirror in the corner by the closet.
"Sweetheart," he sighed, leaning back into Bucky's chest when Bucky hugged his arms around Sam's waist. "It's late. What're you doing?"
Bucky pressed his face to Sam's neck briefly. Just long enough to take a deep breath and make Sam's pulse stutter a little. "It's late," he agreed. "We can spare a little more time." He lifted his head again, watching Sam in the mirror over his shoulder, and began to unbutton his dress shirt.
Sam's face was fond, watching back, and he helped untuck his shirt and pull his tie free. Bucky ran his hands up Sam's chest, over his broad shoulders, then watched all the muscles ripple down Sam's back as he shrugged his shirt off. Bucky tossed it aside. He unfastened Sam's belt, pulled the zipper, but didn't try to work his very well fitted pants down. Just stared at Sam with a hunger in his chest that felt like a cavern opening up within him. Sam's stomach fluttered and he let out this breathy little sigh, eyes lidding slightly.
"Are you still looking?" Bucky asked, even though he knew the answer. Sam nodded, even though he knew Bucky knew. Bucky kissed his shoulder in acknowledgement.
He trailed his fingers down Sam's arm, slow, languid, dancing. Over a scar just above his elbow, the hollow of the top of his forearm, down to his hand. He pressed his palm over the back of Sam's hand. Laid his fingers over Sam's. Curled them together in a shared fist. Then brought Sam's hand up to his shoulder. He leaned forward enough to kiss Sam's ring finger gently, right where a wedding ring would nestle.
"I'm not gonna change my mind in a week," he said, meeting Sam's eyes in the mirror again still holding his hand against his mouth.
"I didn't say you would," Sam breathed. "Just that you've got wedding fever right now. It always happens with good company and a good dance and people in love."
"We've been to other weddings," Bucky said. "This time it's serious."
Sam smiled, lazy and easy. "'Cause this time they were old like us. Admit it, Barnes, you got bored during the service and started imagining us up there."
"Maybe," Bucky agreed. "Imagined all of it. Kissing you in front of everyone who loves us--"
"You already do that."
"--and dancing the night away. Getting dressed up fancy. Decorating some place. Feeding everyone our favorite food." He set Sam's hand down on his shoulder so he could put his hands on Sam's waist instead. "Taking you home afterwards, dance-drunk, wine-drunk, happiness-drunk. Laying you out over our bed. Making love to my husband."
Sam's eyes fell shut and he put his hands over Bucky's on his belly. "You wanna get married so we can have sex? I have good news for you, Buck."
Bucky smiled against Sam's neck. "No, I want to have sex with my husband," he repeated. "I've got you carved down on my bones, sweetheart. But, God, if I don't wanna make it official."
"Baby," Sam breathed, head falling back against Bucky's shoulder.
"Open your eyes again," Bucky murmured and kissed Sam's shoulder again. When he felt Sam lift his head a little, with a soft little scoff, he began to trail kisses across the back of Sam's shoulders. He slipped one hand free from beneath Sam's, reached up for his chest instead, held Sam's hips still with the other one. He kissed Sam's shoulderblades, along the faint bruises that the jet pack always left after a long flight, and then to the concave of his spine.
"Baby," Sam sighed again, breath hitching. Bucky glanced over the top of his shoulder one more time, already shifting low, knees bending. But Sam was still watching, gaze on Bucky's hands in the mirror.
Bucky kissed down Sam's spine, marveling at the tight, neat curl of muscle and bone, these delicate, powerful things that became the perfectly splendid machine of Sam's body. Bucky knew the way it looked when Sam was soaring in the wings--long training days over hot asphalt, workout gear lost in the haze of sweat and sparring. He knew what it looked like when Sam was spread out over him, sank down on top of him. The way his shoulders pulled tight when he put his hands on Bucky's thighs. The way they curled in when he covered his face when he got overwhelmed. He knew what it looked like when he was trying to walk on his hands in the backyard, lazy mornings turned into family competitions, shirt rucked down to his armpits because gravity was generous like that. He knew what it looked like when Sam swam in the ocean and lazed on the beach. When he was cooking breakfast closer to lunch time. When he was running before breakfast time. When he was standing in the shower, serenading Bucky outside with motown hits and striking dramatic poses and dance moves that Bucky didn't recognize. And every time, it was an unfathomable miracle of life. This sprawl of muscle, bone, and skin held the most precious thing on the Earth together and Bucky got to hold it in turn.
Bucky finished sinking to his knees so he could kiss the small of Sam's back, where two dimples and two freckles sat on either side of his spine. He kissed those too, like he always did. His hand had fallen to the side of Sam's ribs and Sam readjusted it back to the underside of his pec. If Bucky stretched his fingers just a little, he could feel Sam's heartbeat, heavy and deep in his chest. He could feel the way it tripped a little when Bucky put his tongue to the dimple above Sam's waistband.
"You're gonna take my knees out from beneath me," Sam warned with a breathy laugh. "Get back up here."
Bucky obliged, because of course he did. There were things he couldn't give Sam, so when it was, instead, something simple and precious, he didn't argue. Sam caught him by the jaw before Bucky had fully gotten back to his feet and pulled Bucky close to kiss over his shoulder. He was already desperate, forgoing their usual playful, teasing kisses, opting straight for getting his tongue in Bucky's mouth, sharing breath and moans.
Sam, delicate and wonderful, strong and perfect, could be teased to within an inch over and over again. Thrived on it even. Bucky, with a body that took what it wanted from him as it pleased, didn't have the patience or self-control to last. But now it was Sam who pressed into Bucky's space, whose hips were canting forward, who was squeezing Bucky's hand so hard it should probably hurt.
"Bucky, I swear, if you don't touch me right now--" he started.
"Marry me," Bucky gasped into Sam's mouth. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get married."
Sam got both hands on Bucky's face, twisting them around until they were actually facing each other again. With a nudge to his shoulder, Bucky got on one knee. Sam using a knuckle beneath his chin to turn Bucky's face to the mirror.
"Now, that's a sight," he sighed.
Bucky grinned at their reflection. "You're so old school, Wilson," he said.
Sam put his fingers through Bucky's hair, and Bucky really liked that image too. Then he said, soft as anything, "Yeah, baby. Of course."
Triumphant and gleeful, Bucky kissed above Sam's belly button and pressed his face to Sam's stomach. Maybe he was a little wedding drunk, but at this point, Sam should know he was always love drunk when they were together, or apart. He was fully in his right mind as he stood, scooped his fiancé up in his arms, and carried him to their bed.