More SamBucky kissing because this is the only thing breaking me out of my writer's block and I need it.
Also, did you know chain link fence were invented in 1884, according to Google? Things you look up for writing...
"It ain't that big a deal, Sam," Bucky sighs, looking away with nervous energy bubbling through his chest. He's standing on Sam's doorstep with a couple bags of groceries, mostly food that people eat when they're sick.
Because Sam is sick. And when Sam is sick, Sam is a big crybaby about it, according to Sarah. Bucky's come to realize the truth in this over the years they've known each other. He's always heard people say that men are babies when they're sick, but since the serum, he hasn't gotten sick outside of the standard throwing up immediately out of cryo. As the Winter Soldier, it was a quick vomit, a shot in the ass, a smack to the face, and then he was being thrown into a mission. No time to cry about it.
But here's Sam, standing just inside the door to his apartment, head leaning on the door itself, with a soft, watery smile on his face. And it's all he seems to be able to do not to actually cry at Bucky right now. Which is mildly disturbing?
"You didn't have to do all this," Sam whines at him, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
"Just let me in," Bucky grumbles, shouldering past Sam and moving to the kitchen. Without another word, he starts working on some chicken soup (from scratch; his Ma would strike him down if he gave Sam soup from the can on a special occasion, and sick days were special occasions). He cubes up the chicken and starts cooking it, working on a stock right alongside it, and then moves to chopping up vegetables, all before he can feel someone watching him.
He tenses, mid-chop. "Sam, go lay down, doll. You're sick."
There's arms around his middle suddenly and it's a good thing Bucky's highly trained in knife skills, because goddammit Wilson. But Sam's head presses into the space between his shoulder blades and his breath is hot through Bucky's shirt and, yeah… Sam is pretty sick if he's being this affectionate.
Bucky sets the knife down and turns in Sam's hold, sighing at him. "Let's get you back to bed and then I'll make you some food," he says, reaching over to turn the stove down so things don't burn. "C'mon, Sam."
"I liked when you called me doll," Sam says, voice sluggish and tired as he looks up at Bucky, his chin firmly planted in Bucky's sternum.
"I'll remember that for when you're feeling better," Bucky teases him. He gently puts his hands on Sam's arms and goes to move him back, but Sam's grip tightens and his expression shifts.
Sam hums, almost upset, then looks at Bucky for a long moment. He shifts, standing straighter, then presses his lips to Bucky's softly. As soon as the kiss starts, it's over, but the memory of Sam's lips lingers and tingles. Bucky faintly remembers running his fingers along a chain link fence as a kid and the resulting buzzing up his arm. It's something like that, but through his lips and up to his brain.
He tries not to think about it for too long as Sam is gently pushing away from him and slowly making his way toward the living room again.
"I'll be in my blankets," Sam says, voice dripping with exhaustion, and Bucky is damn sure Sam won't remember this after he's better, but Bucky will. And he doesn't know what to do with that.
But then, Sam's gone, and Bucky turns back to cooking, thoughts focused on the task at hand. Because if he thinks about Sam's lips on his, he'll start thinking about how this isn't their first kiss. How he's kissed Sam before. How this is starting to become a thing. Or maybe it needs to happen one more time to become a thing?
He can't think about that. So he finishes chopping vegetables and stirring the stock and making soup for his sick best friend and partner. And he pushes away that tingling feeling in his lips with a swipe of his tongue over them and a hum of an old tune to distract his brain.
But, hours later, as he's settling Sam under blankets and happy to see the man's fever has finally broken, he can't help but remember how soft those lips felt, and wonder if they might still feel that way next time.
If there is a next time.
