longing. [sambucky]

𝟏𝟕: equals

It was dark outside by the time they returned to Sam's apartment, their cases were just inside where they'd tossed them quickly before heading to the meeting. Bucky hadn't been inside yet and Sam had anxious anticipation rising in his chest. The ex-assassin didn't exactly have room to judge for the size or state of Sam's apartment, not when Bucky had just handed his notice in to his landlord and didn't technically even own a home anymore. Sam wasn't exactly house-proud but his space was always kept in a good condition. Even when the space he owned was limited in size after the Blip and his old place had been sold, replaced with this tiny apartment.

There was a narrow hallway leading into the kitchen with big open windows and a living area with grey couches just behind the breakfast bar. There were two doors on either side of the room leading to the bedroom and toilet.

Sam switched on the dim light in the hallway once he'd closed the apartment door, watching Bucky hover awkwardly.
The taxi ride back had been tense, filled with heavy emotion Sam couldn't decipher when Bucky wouldn't meet his eyes from the seat beside him. He was processing, Sam thought, he did that often. And though the kisses Bucky and he had shared in the abandoned corridor had been lust-driven there was an inescapable nervousness on Bucky's part. Sam hadn't missed his worried eyes, the way he leant out far too often to check nobody could see them. And on the ride back, if it had been any previous partner, Sam would be holding their hand but Bucky kept his in his lap, ensuring meticulously that his body wasn't brushing against Sam's.

Sam wasn't too sure how to break the silence, clearing his throat awkwardly, thankful when Bucky spoke,

"Show me around," he said.

"Oh," Sam replied. "Well, the kitchen is just through here."

He led Bucky down the corridor.

"Big windows," he commented.

"I like the light," Sam replied.

"Sort of ironic I'm here, then," Bucky laughed self-consciously.

Sam furrowed a brow, did Bucky think he brought about darkness?

"You are light, lighter than anyone I know," Sam affirmed.

Bucky ducked his head, shaking it slowly.
"No, Sam, I'm just... And you're... you're the fucking sun or something."

After shooting Bucky a skeptical look, it suddenly dawned on Sam that he could alter Bucky's opinion without changing it entirely.

"Well, then, you're the moon," he told Bucky, "perhaps, you have had dark times. But at the end of the day, who lights the sky at night?"

The moon was shining brightly through Sam's windows at that very moment. Bucky's blue eyes were transfixed on it.

"The moon can't be bright without the sun," Bucky smiled sadly, eyes never leaving the sky. "But the sun can be bright without the moon."

Frowning, Sam tried desperately to meet Bucky's eyes.

"Buck, I need you just as much as you need me, okay? Scrap the shitty metaphor."

Bucky's eyes were hesitant to meet Sam's, but when they did eventually, they were glossy. All Sam wanted to do was hold him and hold him and hold him.

"You should finish showing me around," Bucky said.

Sam showed him the rest of the little apartment. It didn't take long and Bucky didn't say much, but that was alright.
They ended up on opposite ends of Sam's grey couch, mindlessly watching some comedy show on Netflix. Bucky was fiddling with his hands, clearly trying to find the courage to say something.

"Thanks for having me," he managed.

Sam raised a brow, wondering why Bucky was making everything so formal and awkward.

"No problem, man. It'll be easier to plan our trip if we're in the same living space."
"And I'm really proud of you," he blurted out.

Sam sort of froze then, watching how Bucky peered up at him shyly from behind a curtain of dark curls that had grown a lot since his first cut. Sam had to admit that he preferred the soft wave of them now they'd grown out, he looked slightly more at ease, less overwhelmingly masculine, which was what an over one-hundred year-old guy with internalised homophobia was probably going for.

"I'm aware you're proud, that kiss you gave me told me," Sam smirked, flirting shamelessly.

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes drifting over to the crappy TV show providing background noise. Sam shifted closer to Bucky on the sofa.

"I'm trying to keep my hands off you," Bucky admitted after a short while.

"I hope that's not for my sake," Sam pouted.

"No, for my own," Bucky explained, "I can feel myself... wanting to touch all the time. I'm using touch too much. My therapist always said communication is key for socialising, for friendships and relationships and stuff. I don't want to just touch you all the time and not communicate and mess everything up."

Sam moved closer still, until their thighs knocked together.

"I think your therapist was terrible," Sam whispered.

Bucky chuckled, meeting Sam's gaze.

"I think you just want to kiss me again," he whispered back.

Shaking his head, Sam brought his hands up to cup Bucky's neck. He let his hands trail up the back of his head, playing softly with his chestnut curls before holding Bucky's face, tucking a piece of hair back behind his ear with his forefinger. Bucky trembled.

"I told you something then, but I didn't utter a word," Sam said softly into his ear.

"You like my hair," Bucky murmured before bringing the palm of Sam's right hand up to the left side of his chest so Sam could feel Bucky's racing heart.

"You're nervous," Sam guessed as he lowered his hand. "But you see my point? We don't need words all the time. On the days when words are too hard for you, I'll still be here."

Bucky let out a groan of frustration, muffling it into his hands.

"I hate how good you are," he said.

"Sorry," Sam chuckled.

Lifting his head, Bucky pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes in concentration. He then took Sam's right hand and trailed his pale fingers to Sam's wrist. Wrapping his fingers around it, he could feel Sam's pulse as he brought his hand up to his lips. Bucky trailed chaste kisses along his knuckle, the back of his hand, the fragile inner skin of his wrist. He then took his left hand to worship that one too. When he was done, he placed his cool and warm hand on Sam's cheeks.

"What did I just tell you then?" Bucky asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

Sam was away with the fairies, his hands buzzing with electricity and his heart pitter-pattering inside his chest like rain hitting a tin roof.

"You t-told me..." Sam began uselessly.

"I told you," Bucky finished the sentence for him, "that I'm going to look after you."
"I don't need-"

"No, Sam," Bucky interrupted. "We aren't each other's therapists. We care for each other equally, okay?"

"Okay, Buck."