27

Sam stumbled into their apartment to find out that the lights were turned off, the shoe rack was messy, and it’s too fucking silent, except for the faint sound of the television—which he suspected was playing some cheap soap opera.

So Bucky was inside, he concluded, despite how empty inside was from the doorway. The man was stuck on a small mission just this morning. If he was already here in the evening, Sam was pretty sure the mission was successful. But the apartment looked off, even when he hadn’t even entered fully yet.

Sam took off his shoes and changed it into the slippers Bucky had bought him the other day. He tried to take his mind off from the messy shoe rack—he can clean that up later—and went inside instead. His destination was the kitchen, to put the groceries he had just bought, and to get there, he had to pass the living room.

He had expected the slumped off man on his sofa, his eyes on the televisions screen, though Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t actually watching it, but he hadn’t expected how dejected Bucky looked.

His eyes were half open, holding an uninterested gaze. The man had changed to his daily clothes, though he had a blanket wrapped around him on top of his hoodie. Seeing his state, Sam held back all of his snarky remarks about being dragged off into a mission at three in the morning.

“Welcome home, Buck,” Sam said as a greeting, already switching his destination to the sofa instead. His hand went down to fix his boyfriend’s hair, then went up to scratch at his head. Bucky fully slumped into the sofa, releasing the last bit of tension on his body, and leaned into his touch. Sam smiled in understanding.

“Bad one?” he asked. Bucky nodded and that was it. Sam didn’t need to know the details to understand his mood and Bucky was forever grateful for it.

Unfortunately for him this time, Sam took his hand back, making him whine at the loss of his touch. Feeling bad, he bowed to give his boyfriend a kiss on the forehead.

“I’ll be there after dinner is done, okay?” he said. Bucky grumbled as a response, but Sam took that as a yes anyway and went to the kitchen.

“You know,” Sam said to Bucky—the distance between the kitchen and the living room wasn’t far anyway, “I was planning to make some noodles. Now that you are here though, I’ll make some chicken soup instead.” 

His words were met with silence, which he had expected. He wasn’t talking to get a response, but to fill in the silence instead, letting it comfort Bucky.

“Maybe I’ll put in the seasonings you wanted to try the other day,” he continued, his words altering his focus on getting the groceries on the right cabinet.

“Oh, also, I think a dessert would be good tonight, don’t you think?” Sam continued again while he took out a pot and the soup ingredients. Soon, he had focused on chopping out vegetables and chicken meat. The rhythmic sound of his knives meeting the cutting board filled in the silence along with his occasional comment.

Which was probably why he didn’t notice Bucky had slipped away from the couch. Sam was in the middle of a ramble about how he craved for any kind of chocolate dessert when he felt a pair of arms sneaking in around his waist. He let out a noise of surprise and nearly dropped his knife when he then finally noticed the metal arm.

“I want some wine,” Bucky whined out to his neck. He was snuggling on it hard. “I don’t want to eat.”

Sam snorted. “Now, you sound like a five year old.”

He heard Bucky made a soft offended noise—which just made him snort again.

“You can’t have wine for dinner, Buck.”

“Dare me.”

“I’d rather not.”

Bucky grumbled again.

“Then hug me,” he demanded, again, like a five year old.

“You’re already hugging me right now,” Sam pointed out, clearing out the cutting board, now preparing the water for the soup.

“But you’re not,” Bucky said, matter of factly.

“Because I’m making our dinner, babe.”

“And?”

Sam chuckled again. “You really are a five year old.”

Bucky just hummed as a response, but Sam could still feel the weight of his demand.

Who was Sam to deny him anyways?

So he turned to face Bucky and wrapped his arm around him. A hand managed to sneak to the back of Bucky’s head, petting there lightly while he hummed a familiar tune. Bucky sighed in content, tightening his arms that were on Sam’s waist—a gesture that never failed to make him feel warm inside—to make sure the man didn’t go away just yet.

It was peaceful and silent for a while. Just them swaying lightly in the kitchen, wrapped in each other’s arms. Sam’s tune switched into something softer and lighter, letting the mood sink in for those two.

Moments like these were the ones that Bucky treasured on his mind, to be cherished, just like the man in his arms. They always made his heart beat faster, the ones that made his stomach did a big funny swoop, the ones that made his chest warm.

Bucky buried his face on Sam’s shoulder while the latter leaned his head on his. Sam didn’t seem to mind the weight, only pulling him in even deeper than before.

The moment was broken when Bucky’s stomach let out a loud growl.

“What did I say about making us dinner?” He heard Sam asked, smugness and amusement clear in his voice.

Bucky let out a grumble, again, displeased.

“Make it quick,” he said, before releasing Sam from his tight grip. Sam took a pity on him and gave him a peck on his nose.

“Okay, okay, bossy much,” Sam teased him. “As compensation for me making us dinner and not letting you starve to death—”

“That’s a little bit mean, don’t you think.”

“—I’ll let you drink some wine after.”

Bucky high fived with himself on his mind. “Three bottles.”

The glare he got from the other man made him cackled all the way from the kitchen and back to the living room. Though he was pretty sure Sam was actually smiling.