It's pleasant. Just... listening to Bucky's voice. Just hearing him make plans for the future. It's comforting. And it keeps Sam awake longer than he otherwise might have. Keeps him warmer than any jacket or body heat would. Bucky holds him and talks about the future, and Sam thinks... maybe they could go to the grand canyon, and maybe they would kiss again. Maybe Bucky would watch him fly, and smile, and hold out his arms, and Sam would have someone to come home to, be it as a friend or...

Or...

He feels... light, here. In this space Bucky makes for him.

So light he can't tell when his eyes slide shut.

So light he doesn't realize he's no longer responding out loud.

So light he doesn't realize he's slipping away from Bucky, from the cold, from everything.

The silent moment stretches on too long. Sam is cold. Sam is silent. Sam's chest does not move.

Sam's heart makes no sound in his chest.

The room is terribly, heavily, irrevocable silent.