Work Text:
It takes Sam a few seconds to spot Bucky by the edge of the dock. The sun is just dawning, meaning everything is tinted in a rich shade of orange like marmalade on toast; and Bucky’s body, laying flat on his back, camouflages perfectly on a piece of concrete extending into the sea. His eyes are closed. His feet dangle above water, unmoving.
Sam takes a step closer, wondering just whatever the hell is going on in the guy’s mind. Back at the Wilson’s, there’s a perfect piece of couch for him to sleep on (alright, maybe not perfect : the deck is slightly slanted and the back is squeaky if a two hundred pound man leans on it too hard, but still). Yet, when Sam woke up earlier this morning to answer nature’s call, he found the makeshift bed empty, sheet-draped cushions evidencing a Bucky-shaped dent. Sam had worried.
Now, staring down on the runaway’s face, he considers the best line to wake him up with. Something snarky, because sleeping outside in sea breezes is just the way to catch a cold and the two of them still have a boat to mend—
“ Boo. ” Bucky’s eyes snap open. Sam’s shoulders jolts back in betrayal. The man’s smirking.
Great. There goes the genius one liner.
“Aren’t you like, a hundred?” Sam scoffs. “That’s just so mature, Barnes. Wow.” He nudges Bucky’s shoulder with the side of his shoe. “What are you doing out here- Soul searching?”
“Nah,” Bucky pats him away. “Wasn’t doing anything. Just looking at the sky. Waiting for sunrise. It’s pretty.”
“You sound like a vampire who’s just discovered sunscreen.”
“You sound like Drew Carey on that shitty improv show.” Bucky counters. Sam decides not to question where or why Bucky has consumed that piece of information.
“It’s not that shitty.”
He squats down, looking to the horizon. He has to admit that Bucky’s right: there’s something so calming and hopeful about this time of a day, the way water glistens under the bright, burning star, reflecting millions of shattered fragments as if each ripple itself is glowing. Nothing above, nothing below, only a boundless sheet of light. Sam has seen the exact view countless times when he was a kid, but now— he sometimes forgets. He takes it for granted.
Bucky’s staring at him when Sam finishes that thought. Like he does.
“What?” Sam asks. The man perks out his lower lip, brows canting downward.
“You were really quiet. No complaint on that, but,” Bucky pushing himself up with his elbows. “Thought you'd crack some more dock-based wisdom. It’s entertaining.”
Sam snorts out a laugh. “Dude, just say you want some quality time with me, it’s okay.” He’s not thinking when the next sentence slips out of his mouth. “Wanna skip stones?”
He doesn’t know where that came from. Bucky looks at him like he’s just said something outrageous.
Sam takes in a deep breath. “It’s when you take a piece of-”
“I know what skipping stones is, Sam. I’m not actually raised by wolves.”
“Wow, learning something new everyday.” Sam deadpans, getting back on his feet. “So? I can get some pebbles from- That guy’s backyard. That’s old man Leroy’s house. He wouldn’t mind.”
“You just made up that name.” Bucky points out. But Sam’s already trotting away.
On skipping stones— or any other water-related, recreational activities, really— Sam Wilson has learned from the best. Mom and dad knew just how to keep the kids occupied; and as a result, he’s been a master of catching tides, digging holes and trapping sand bubblers by the age of five. Sam feels damn confident as he unloads the pockets of rocks by Bucky’s side. By the way Bucky looks at him, that self-assurance must have shown on his face.
“You first.” Sam offers. “Know how to pick a good stone?”
“Yep. It’s not rocket science.”
Bucky examines the pile of stones and eventually grabs a flat, ovoidal one on top. He bounces the stone up and down a few times, narrowing his eyes, and tossing it straight out with his right hand. The stone bounces on water— once, twice— then breaks the surface and starts sinking.
“Not bad for an amateur.” Sam comments, finding himself smiling. “You’ve got a poor angle though.”
“ Backseat skipper ,” Bucky snorts. “You do it.”
Sam picks up two stones, surveying them in his hands. He replaces the heavier one with another, then again, until he finds his candidate: a smooth, grey rock, about palm size, shaped like a pancake. He lowers his arm, leaning back a little, and throws with a slight spin. The stone courses a tight, elongated curve in the air before reaching the morning sea. It leaps forward briskly, dipping itself for a total of eight times before vanishing under waves.
Sam grins smugly, taking a bow. He feels somewhat like a little kid.
“Huh,” there’s a clear layer of competitiveness in Bucky’s tone now. “That was pretty impressive.”
“Ha! Bet your ass it is.”
They practice again: Bucky has five, and Sam has nine. Then again, six and eleven.
“Sarah can do more. We once bounced it twenty times.”
“Must’ve been a very exciting afternoon.”
Bucky lowers his chin. His brows are locked, steel blue eyes focused, a shallow ridge running up the root of his nose to one forth his forehead. He’s focusing. Sam watches him picking out another stone: the shape is about right, but it’s a little too big. It can skim four or five bounces at most.
“That one’s gonna be too heavy,” Sam offers. “You won’t adjust the angle fast enough.”
“Watch me.”
Bucky tosses the rock in the air— catches it, and throws it straight upward again. The second time, he reaches out with the other arm and clutches the stone in his dark, vibranium hand.
“How’s that going to-”
It’s far less flexible. Sam reckons, but Bucky’s already veering back, chest stretched broad. His pinch loosens half way during the swing, and the rock simply glides off from under his thumb, gearing toward the skyline like a seagull’s wing. The dark little dot cuts through the shimmering water; nothing’s there to hinder its journey. It trails on, brisk and effortless under the sun.
The stone does twenty.
“Metal,” Bucky breathes out, when Sam realizes he’a holding his. “Smooth, no sweat, not waxy. Way less drag than skin.”
“That’s,” Sam’s suddenly hyper aware of his own heartbeat. “That’s definitely cheating.”
“Just utilizing some of its trivial advantages.” A corner of Bucky’s mouth curves up, wrinkling a laugh line. “All is fair in stone skipping, Samuel. ‘tis a cruel sport.”
Sam puffs, sitting back to the dock’s edge.
“Wanna feel it?”
“Feel what?” Sam hesitates, confused.
“The difference.” Bucky answers, crouching down and laying out both of his palms.
It takes Sam a moment to realize what Bucky’s saying. The man writes his hands: the skin n’ bone one, lean, strong, a barely-visible patch of callus by the first knuckle of his index finger, human; the metal one, delicate yet powerful, immaculately crafted— also human .
Don’t make this weird.
Sam covers those hands with his. He gulps, trailing a laser-carved line on cold, hard vibranium with the pad of his thumb. He hears a hitch in Bucky’s breaths— and finding his other hand, unbeknownst to himself, mimicking the tracing motion on Bucky’s skin like he’s reading the man’s palm. Sam freezes.
Goddamnit. He doesn’t— he’s not sure what to do now. Sam’s heart is pumping hard in his chest, screaming at him to Put His Hands Away. But he can’t move.
“It’s not.” Bucky mutters softly, as if to himself.
“It’s not- what,” Sam feels an utter sense of despair. He needs more to work on than just two syllables.
“I don’t know, uh,” Bucky sounds just as lost as him. “It’s not weird?”
“ Okay ,” even though okay definitely isn't a description of his current situation in any possible way. “I’ll just-”
It’s Sam who grips onto Bucky’s wrists, but it’s Bucky who leans in and presses their mouth together. He watches the man’s eyes screw close. The kiss is feather-light. Sam shifts his body, bringing Bucky with him, until his back presses against the concrete ground. Bucky smells like witch hazel, some old-fashioned aftershave. He threads his fingers between Sam’s, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe. It’s certainly not weird. It feels the opposite of weird, if anything. The only weird thing is how light Sam’s head becomes when Bucky’s face moves away.
“Sorry.” Bucky looks like some sort of guilty animal. “I should’ve asked.”
“No, it’s alright.” Jesus, what was that. “It’s more than alright?”
“I don’t want you to-”
“Bucky, listen,” Sam croaks out. They don’t need to deal with this right now. “ Just a couple of guys. ”
“Yeah,” Bucky replies, his voice low. “Just a couple of guys.”
He leans down and kisses Sam again, harder this time. Sam parts his lips, letting a long, yielding sigh elude the back of his throat. Bucky’s tongue slips inside, and suddenly Sam feels him everywhere: the heat of his mouth, the faint, sweet, minty taste of his toothpaste, his breath tingling on Sam’s skin, their legs tangled. Behind them, a bright, golden sun is rising and the tides are billowing an endless ocean, but all that has become blurry and distant.
Sam tightens his clutch around Bucky’s fingers, holding on like it’s the only point of solidity that keeps him from aground— and it works. For the first time in god knows how long, Sam doesn’t feel like he’s falling.
It feels good.
“This place suits you just right,” Sam manages as they break apart for air. “Two days in, and you already found someone to make out with on the dock.”
“You found me on the dock, Samuel,” Bucky points out, smiling. “I was just laying here.”
“Yeah, four in the morning, just taking in the sun. You’d make a fine barnacle.”
“Y’know, Sam, people serve that in Spain- Percebes , it’s considered a delicacy,” Bucky wriggles up an eyebrow. “Pretty expensive stuff.”
Sam wants to laugh. Here they are again, back to the bantering. He wonders what Dr. Raynor would say. “Shit, Buck. You gonna make me pay?”
The man above him wheezes out a chortle, his whole body shaking with it. He’s gorgeous like this— open, unguarded, free of worries for a brief second. Sam realizes they’re still holding hands, and it doesn’t feel odd at all, either, no first date jitters. Maybe it’s a partner thing. They’ve worked together for some time now. They’ve touched and held each other for the sake of combats; they’ve rolled around in a flower field.
“We still need to have the old boat fixed,” Sam starts. It’s discontenting, but they can’t lay like this forever. Bucky shrugs, retrieving his arms and arch up his back. Sam’s brain laments the loss of contact. “Better have it done before Sarah comes in.”
“The water pump, right?”
Bucky bounces onto his heels. Sam starts propping himself up before the other man can offer help.
“Uh-uh, we check the belts and clamps, then the sea strainer. There were some cooling problems, but Sarah said the water pump was fine.”
“No- She said the water pump was fucked .” Bucky objects with a firm shake of his head. “Fucked. Not Fine.”
Sam’s ninety percent sure his sister wouldn’t curse like that in front of a guest, but Bucky seems very confident on this issue. The old pump needs some check up anyway— so hey, why not. Worst case scenario, they’ll be wasting one or two hours together dissecting old marine machineries, which, at this moment, really doesn’t sound like the worst punishment.
“Alright. You take the bullet if we get it wrong.” He settles for the modus vivendi.
“Sure.” And Sam has a feeling that he probably wouldn't. Bucky walks a few feet behind him; maybe it’s all in his head, but Sam swears he can feel the man scanning his back with a steady gaze, checking him out from top to bottom, like he’s taking down some measurements for later use.
“Do you think,” Bucky sounds nonchalant, also trying-too-hard-to-sound-nonchalant. “I can find someone to make out with in the engine room too?”
Sam almost skips a step. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know the guy’s smirking.
“I don’t know, do you?” He grins secretly. “Better try your luck.”
-
Sarah looks at them like they’re AJ and Cass, like they’ve just put dish soap in the washing machine and she’s done with this shit. “I told you specifically that the water pump was not the problem, and yet, here you are-”
“Yep, Samuel.” Bucky corks his head at Sam, face written in innocence.
Little fucker. Who’s fault is that?
“In our defense, we were supposed to be done long before you woke up.” Sam stares right back into Bucky’s pupils, not backing off. “Weren’t we?”
Bucky’s screwdriver slips a turn. Sarah snaps her fingers. “I don't come up to the sky to tell you how to barrel roll, so don't come down here and mess around with-”
Sam turns back to his sister and lets her scold rain on him. From the corner of his eyes, Bucky’s stretching his lips thin like he’s pushing a noise back down into his throat. His face starts to flush, and Sam counts that as a win.