#ttfmab

Sam suppresses the nagging urge inside to shove his face into Bucky's neck or groin and inhale his mate's scent so deep it'll be forever imprinted within. 

He's forgotten how overwhelming this all can be and how hard it is to ignore the impulse to claim them and love on them. With another wolf, it's much easier, they know the feeling, they feel it too. He's never been so enamored with anyone who didn't share his infliction. 

The real kick comes when he looks at Bucky again. His eyes are bright yellow fires, and Bucky's quite used to that by now, but it's the fangs in the opening of Sam's parted lips that totally throws him. 

Bucky feels a hot spike of want pulse through him at the sight. He reaches up and runs his finger along one razor-sharp point in amazement.

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Bucky has his t-shirt tucked in the back of his jeans, rinsing his face under the outside tap when he feels eyes on him.

He spins around right away, expecting someone coming up the path toward the cabin.

But there's no one there.

Once he hears the wolf snoring softly, he reaches down and dares to thread his fingers through the long soft fur on the wolf's back. For a second, he thinks he ruined it when the wolf stirs, but he doesn't run off. Instead, he turns a little to the side and lets Bucky scratch his chest. 

Bucky's not freaking out or anything. He's chill. He's so chill. 

The wolf bows his head and initiates the shift. As always, mist envelops his form, and when it fades a second later, he is a man. He is Sam.

He bends down and scoops Bucky up in his arms, "You fool," he whispers. He smiles at the way Bucky's face twitches sleepily as he gets carried up the stairs.

"So this is a thing, huh? Werewolves? You. You're real?"

The question seems to only briefly throw Sam off. "Well. I'm here, ain't I? You can see me, can't you?"

"That's part of the concern, yes," Bucky mumbles and takes another long swig of piping hot coffee.

Sam then lifts his leg and flops it down on Bucky's thigh, "Feel. I'm very real."

The prints are enormous, about the size of his palm, and trails from his chair, halfway around the fire pit, and fades where the clearing's dirt meets the woodland grass.

There's something electric dancing up his spine. This is real. These are definitely animal prints; they're wolf prints. They've got to be. And the wolf was here, literally inches away from Bucky, possibly touching him.