Work Text:
The Quinjet drones steady at thirty thousand feet, the rumble of the engines more muted than the vibrations in the cabin. Joaquín’s punching of the keyboard is the only other sound, quick and relentless, louder than it has any right to be.
Sam scrolls through his mission logs, voice low but firm. “Upload the draft to the drive when you’re done. We’ve got Ross at ten hundred tomorrow, so make it look like adults worked on it.”
Beside him, Bucky sits slouched, rubbing at the gauze on his temple.
“You good?” Sam asks, his eyes already rolling back in his head.
“Just a scrape.”
Sam turns his head, one eyebrow raised. “If that’s a scrape, then I’m your fairy godmother. Wanna see me wear a tutu?”
Bucky meets him with a murder puppet glare sharp enough to pass for a ventriloquists’ conversation.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” Sam says, softer now. “And you were acting recklessly stupid, even by your standards.”
“How can I sleep when you’re yapping 24-7?” Bucky mutters, crossing his arms like the world’s most exhausted grandpa.
Minutes later, his head slips sideways, jerks up, dips again, and finally lands on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam lets out a quiet breath, steadying Bucky’s head with a hand. “I ain’t no pillow. But sure, whatever.”
Bucky cracks one bleary eye. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You just drooled on me, bro,” Sam says, gentler than his words. “It’s already fucking weird.”
Bucky grunts and leans in further until their thighs touch. Sam’s arm comes around him without thought, anchoring him against the bumps of turbulence.
“Attach the thermal scans from just before the extraction. From 1315 to 1345 range,” Sam says, like this is normal in a workplace setting, like he isn’t a nanny cradling a supersoldier toddler into sleep.
“Should I cc Captain Warm and Fuzzy?” Joaquín smirks, fingers not slowing.
Sam huffs, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on Bucky’s shoulder. “Say that again, Torres, and I’ll kick your ass.”
Joaquín chuckles, still mashing the keyboard like it owes him rent.
Half-asleep, Bucky mumbles, “Asses should be treated nicer. Not kicked.”
Sam freezes, glancing down at the weight slumped on his shoulder. “Did you just… advocate for butts?”
“Mhmm.” Bucky’s voice is rough and slurred, his eyes still closed. “Beautiful, soft, round brown. Why not?”
Sam gulps, looking at Bucky’s sleeping form incredulously. “Jesus Christ.”
Joaquín nearly topples out of his seat. “Oh, I am definitely putting that in the subject line.” His typing picks up, loud and deliberate. “Subject: Operation: Round Brown Cuddle — Mission Debrief.”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, torn between a laugh and a groan. He sighs. “I’m surrounded by idiots. One concussed, one fired. I regret everything.”
Bucky snores softly, his hand slipping to rest on Sam’s thigh. Joaquín keeps typing with wicked satisfaction.
And the Quinjet flies on, cozy and warm.