longing. [sambucky]

𝟏𝟐: intuition, maybe

Bucky slipped quietly into the downstairs bathroom in the Wilson's house. He was thankful he didn't have to travel back to his apartment so late, content with bunking on Sam's couch.

The walls in the bathroom were painted blue, with a painting that must have been done by one of Sam's nephews hanging proudly above the sink. The intention was clearly for said painting to look like a lighthouse, but the red and pink stripes on it had sort of blended together to make a pinky skin tone and well, given the shape of the lighthouse and the two big rocks at the bottom it didn't look much like a lighthouse at all. Bucky found himself laughing at the painting even as he left the bathroom.

He kept chuckling all the way into the living room, nearly bumping into the coffee table because he was so occupied trying not to laugh loud enough to wake up Sarah and the kids.

Sam hadn't gone to bed yet. He was sat on the brown couch with his arms folded, an eyebrow raised. It was dark in the room with only a weak lamp on, but Bucky could see Sam's curious face clear as day.

"Do I want to know why you've left the bathroom so happy?" Sam asked.

Bucky only laughed harder, it felt as if a barrier had been broken. He could laugh now, like a human that was in control of his own mind.

"That painting," Bucky explained. "That one of the lighthouse, above the sink. Kinda looks like a cock."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

"My nephew painted that when he was six!"

"Sorry!" Bucky slouched down on the couch beside Sam, still giggling.

"You've got one dirty mind, Barnes," Sam pointed accusingly.

Bucky bit his bottom lip to stop the chuckles, resting his forehead against Sam's shoulder as he tried to compose himself.

He wasn't sure if casual touches were allowed, or if that was what Sam wanted. But Sam had relaxed into the touch and Bucky could see the hand resting in his lap rising a little before he clenched his fists, as if he was trying to refrain from stroking Bucky's hair.

"You said, 'you've got me' before," Bucky mumbled as he sat upright. "What does that mean?"

Sam's mouth twisted into a frown and he shifted against the sofa that creaked in protest. He stared at a spot on the floor for a moment as he contemplated what to say.

"It means I'm here for you," Sam clarified, voice certain but his gaze remained on the floor. "However you want me."

Feeling his chest tighten, Bucky let out a shaky breath. The offer was there, it was just a question of whether Bucky was brave enough to take it.

"What makes you think I want you?" Bucky blurted out, trying to sound teasing but he was let down by the nervous waver of his voice.

With a hum, Sam tilted his head and met his eyes. Bucky's heart raced in his chest, just a look from Sam made him dizzy. He thought he'd combust when gentle fingers trailed up his arm- his flesh arm- and he could feel every finger tip, skin against skin. Bucky was so thankful he'd worn a short-sleeved top that day.

"Intuition, maybe," Sam whispered. "Or maybe it's the trembling, or the red cheeks or the dilating pupils. The list could go on, really."

His dark eyes flickered up to meet Bucky's.

"Ah. So you think j-just because I'm..." Bucky took a shallow breath. He'd never said it aloud before. "...I'm gay, you think I'd fancy your ugly mug?"

Sam pressed his lips together into something that resembled a pout and a frown. He took his hand away from Bucky's arm.

"Guess my intuition was wrong, huh?" Sam teased. "Well, I can't compete with Steve. I'm no Captain America."