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Bucky hates maintenance days.
Not because they make it inconvenient.
Not because they take forever.
Not even because they leave him with only one arm for twenty-four hours while a team of Wakandan engineers pokes around inside the most expensive prosthetic on Earth.
No.
He hates them because they make him feel slow.
Which is why, after dropping his arm off at the secret facility at eight in the morning, he spends the entire drive home glaring out the passenger window.
Sam pretends not to notice.
“You know,” Sam says casually, one hand on the wheel, “normal people use their days off to relax.”
Bucky crosses his remaining arm over his chest.
“I am relaxed.”
“You ain’t normal people.” Sam chuckles. “You look like you’re planning a murder spree.”
“I’m self-reflecting.”
“Could have fooled me,” Sam says. “Same grumpy facial expression.”
Bucky continues glaring.
Sam grins.
Humanity somehow survived multiple extinction-level events and still produced people who think they’re fooling anyone when they’re throwing tantrums.
By the time they get home, Bucky has managed to convince himself the day is ruined.
Then Sam kicks his shoes off, drops onto the couch beside him, and pulls him sideways against his chest.
Just like that.
No ceremony.
No discussion.
One second Bucky is sitting upright, with the same grumpy posture.
The next he’s folded into Sam’s side like a melted towel.
Bucky blinks.
“…What on earth are you doing?”
“Taking advantage.”
“Of what?”
“There’s no escaping ‘The Cuddle Machine.’”
Bucky snorts despite himself.
Sam kisses his temple.
A small, absent-minded thing.
The kind that means more because it wasn’t planned.
“You’re irritating,” Bucky mutters.
“You’re welcome.”
The morning settles around them.
No missions.
No briefings.
No emergencies.
Just sunlight filtering through the apartment windows and the distant hum of city traffic.
Bucky gradually realizes Sam has no intention of letting him go.
Not that he’s complaining.
They spend nearly an hour tangled together on the couch.
Sam scrolling through his phone.
Bucky reading over his shoulder.
Occasionally reading headlines aloud.
Occasionally making disapproving noises.
Occasionally receiving random kisses for no apparent reason.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
Sam looks up.
“Doing what?”
“Kissing me.”
Sam stares.
“That’s your question?”
“You’ve done it seven times.”
“Don’t like it? I can stop.”
Bucky leans in and kisses Sam on the cheek.
Sam laughs so hard he nearly drops his phone.
“Thought so.”
Around noon, Sam gets called.
Bucky immediately sits up, his expression neutral.
Sam sighs.
“Just relax.”
“You got a mission.”
“I got a call.”
“Which means mission.”
“Maybe.”
Sam answers.
Listens.
Pauses.
Then grins.
“Seriously?”
Bucky narrows his eyes.
A few seconds later Sam hangs up.
“Well?”
“Joaquín’s got it.”
“What?”
“He’s handling it.”
Bucky stares.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Sam shrugs.
“Kid told me to stay home.”
“He told Captain America to stay home?”
Sam nods. “He said and I quote, ‘Please spend one normal day with your murderous boyfriend before you both become insufferable.’”
Bucky actually laughs.
A real one.
Sam looks absurdly pleased with himself.
“I love Joaquín. He’s my favorite Avenger.”
“Over Steve?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “But you hate him. You said he’s annoying as hell. You said he’s one quip away from becoming falcon barbecue.”
“I therefore retract my previous statements.”
Lunch becomes takeout because neither of them feels like cooking.
Then it somehow becomes an argument about whether Bucky can open the jar of pickles one-handed.
Which becomes a demonstration.
Which becomes Bucky losing badly.
Which becomes Sam laughing.
Which becomes Bucky tackling him onto the couch.
Which becomes another cuddling session.
Not dramatic.
Not urgent.
Just comfortable.
Years of familiarity.
Bucky stretched half on top of him.
Sam’s hands resting against his back.
The quiet sort of affection they never would have admitted to needing ten years ago.
Sam brushes a thumb along Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky closes his eyes.
The touch lingers.
“So,” Sam murmurs.
“So.”
“You feeling okay?”
The question is simple.
Maintenance days sometimes aren’t.
Sometimes Bucky feels helpless.
Sometimes frustrated.
Sometimes trapped inside old memories of dependence.
Today isn’t too bad.
Mostly because Sam has spent the entire day treating him exactly the same as always.
Helping when needed.
Ignoring it when not.
Never making a big deal out of it.
A partner.
Bucky nods.
“Yeah.”
Sam studies him for a moment.
Then leans forward.
Their kiss is slow.
Lazy.
The kind that happens when neither person is trying to get anywhere.
Just enjoying being close.
Bucky melts into it before he can stop himself.
Not that he tries very hard.
When they finally separate, Sam rests their foreheads together.
“Good.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches.
“Good?”
“Good.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Bucky kisses him again purely because that answer is annoying.
Sam makes a pleased noise.
Which is even more annoying.
By late afternoon they’re in bed.
Not sleeping.
Not doing much of anything, really.
Just tangled together beneath the blankets.
Sam’s arm draped across Bucky’s waist.
Bucky’s head resting on Sam’s chest.
Outside, the weekday continues.
People are working.
Meetings are happening.
Someone is probably yelling at a fax machine.
Someone is probably answering emails.
A tragedy, honestly.
Meanwhile they’re doing absolutely nothing.
Bucky listens to Sam’s heartbeat.
Feels warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
A combination that still catches him off guard sometimes.
“You know,” Sam says quietly.
“Hm?”
“I don’t mind maintenance days.”
Bucky looks up.
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
Sam smiles.
Because apparently he enjoys embarrassing him.
“Because you’re extra cuddly.”
Bucky immediately buries his face in Sam’s shirt.
Sam starts laughing.
“See? There it is.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve been attached to me for eight hours.”
“You started it.”
“Okay. Mutual attachment.”
Bucky groans.
Sam kisses the top of his head.
The laughter fades.
The apartment grows quiet again.
And for once, there is nowhere either of them needs to be.
No emergencies.
No crises.
No saving the world.
Just one maintenance day.
One bed.
One very smug Captain America.
And a one-armed former assassin who would almost admit this has been one of the best days he’s had in months.