Bucky, who loves reading and finally gets to sit down and enjoy all the literature he's missed for the past decades.
And Sam. Who watches that stunning smile bloom across his face like a morning glory at the first rays of sunshine the first time he gifts him a new book and decides he wants to witness that sight again and again and again.
Sam, who eyes the ever growing piles of books scattered across Bucky's apartment with a fondness that has long since done surprising him and snorts at Bucky's stupidly proud smirk when he compares him and his book herding to Smaug herding the dwarves' gold in the Hobbit (they did a buddy reading of the Hobbit, LotR and the Silmarillion on Bucky's insistence, which was about when Sam found out that 1) Bucky could talk non-stop for at least half an hour with enough motivation, and 2) the asshole had no concept of time when he talked about books and Sam had woken up half a dozen times to at least one 20 minutes long audio message from Bucky rambling about Tolkien lore).
Sam, who learns how much Bucky loves poetry on a random night during a stake out because the man mentions that the only thing he's grateful for when it comes to the Winter Soldier conditioning is all the languages they've put inside his head so now he can enjoy poetry in every language that he speaks, because no poem is more beautiful than in the language it was originally written in.
Sam, who from then on buys Bucky poetry books. English classics, of course. But also Spanish and Turkish. French and Arabic. Japanese and Hebrew. Xhosa, Hindi, Greek, Portuguese. Old and modern alike.
Sam who listens with his eyes closed when Bucky reads him his favorite poem of each book, losing himself into the sudden softness of Bucky's voice, into his surprisingly beautiful diction, asking 'how about another one you liked?' when he feels especially greedy and wants to bask in the velvety quality of the man’s voice just a little longer, Bucky indulging him, always, too happy to share, the shyness of the first few times he'd done this long gone now.
Sam, who listens with a bleeding heart to Bucky as he explains why Tommorow, At Dawn and 'Tis A Fearful Thing are his favorite poems.
Sam, who goes on a cruisade against the Smithsonian to get his hands on Bucky's belongings from the war because he mentioned once a beat-up copy of the Ghost of Canterville he used to drag around everywhere with him across Europe because it was his favorite tale, the one his mother had read to him time after time when he was little, and it reminded him of home.
Sam, who gifts Bucky a collector LotR bookset he got from a small artist for his birthday, with handmade leather bindings and painted edges.
Sam, who has to sneak away and step out on the front porch for a second at the look of pure adoration Bucky sends his way once he's done running his flesh and bone hand along the carefully crafted leather spines of his brand new books, taking advantage of his nephews making a show of bringing their own gifts to their Uncle Bucky to calm the wild beat of his heart against his ribcage. (And if he pointedly ignores Sarah's knowing look on his way out, it's nobody's business.)
Finally, Sam. Who sucks in a sharp breath that same night when mismatched arms pull him into a strong embrace just as he's about to leave Bucky with a fluffy pillow and a warm quilt on the couch, the softest of thank yous dropped directly in the shell of his ear, two words that have never sounded so tender, echoing in his head long after he retreated to his own room.
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