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The night sky was the nearly starless dark grey that came with living in this modern time. There was a biting chill riding on the wind that swept through DC and ice on the branches of naked trees. There was frost on the metal railings and a thin dusting of white powder on the cement ground of Steve’s balcony. His bare fingers felt the chill of the metal windowsill he was supporting himself against. The wind burned his cheeks and ruined his hair, but there he stood.
Decembers had been rough for him before the serum. The cold and the snow had been too much for his frail frame and weak lungs. Even if they’d had a fireplace, he’d have coughed up a lung with the smoke. Today he was outside in just a thin cardigan Pepper had gotten him for Christmas nearly a year ago and some jeans. His feet were shoved sockless into some slip on canvas shoes with the backs pressed flat beneath his heels, and his ears were bare to the brutal wind. He felt like he should be more bundled up, but winters after the serum had always been a different kind of dangerous that didn’t involve pneumonia.
Sometimes he thought back to those winters in Brooklyn when the cold moved in and the warmth left the concrete jungle. It always made him nostalgic to think about them; made him strangely miss being so small. The winters crammed into a tiny shoebox of an apartment with his best pal were the good memories the cold brought back, and so he generally focused on them. He tried to never think about the winters that fell after he left that flat behind.
He blew out a plume of smoke and warm breath together, making a cloud that drifted up and away above his head. He tapped his cigarette against the railing. The wind was starting to pick up; big strong gusts that threatened to move even his large body. He shivered for the first time that day, brushing the ash off his sweater where it had blown back. He tried to focus on the warm glow at the end of his cigarette instead of the wind whipping at his exposed skin.
“Since when do you smoke?” a rough voice asked. Steve hadn’t even noticed the door open.
“I don’t,” Steve replied, snapping out of his thoughts. He crushed out the cigarette next to him against the metal rail, melting a patch of ice. A pitiful string of smoke drifted up. He pursed his lips.
“Mhh,” it was skeptical and noncommittal all at once. Steve looked up at him.
He was wearing a thick blue sweater and a red scarf Natasha had made for him. His jeans were the new ones Steve had gotten him at the mall a few days prior; the nice thick Levis without any holes in them. His boots weren’t tied and Steve could see the thick socks that matched his scarf underneath them and the half-hazzardly tucked pant legs.
“You look prepared to stay out here a while,” Steve said.
Bucky shrugged, looking a little sheepish. He was getting more expressive by the day. Steve nudged him fondly with his shoulder.
“I hate the cold,” he muttered, picking at the hem of his t-shirt that stuck out from under his sweater. Steve understood. Being frozen could do that to a guy. Steve couldn’t even imagine being frozen over and over and over.
“The Winter Soldier hates the cold,” Steve smiled humorlessly. Bucky replied with a sardonic twist of his lips. The name really did fit him though, at least in Steve’s opinion.
To Steve, winter was not winter without Bucky.
Winter was supposed to be happy. Christmas was in winter. People were friendlier. Kids could ice skate and make snow angels in the streets.
He and Bucky used to build snowmen, even when they’d outgrown their coats and couldn’t buy new ones. Even when there wasn’t enough snow and they’d have to drag grey slush in from the road. Even when their coats came in men’s sizes and they lived together just the two of them. Even when Steve probably shouldn’t have been out in the cold.
Steve felt morbid thinking it, but he was glad he got frozen the same winter Bucky fell. With that and the war still raging on without him there at Steve’s side, Steve didn’t know what he would have done.
“You can go in,” Steve said softly as he realized he’d gone silent staring at the road below.
“Nah… You looked lonely,” Bucky said slowly. He was looking at the toes of his boots when Steve glanced over at him. He didn’t see Steve looking and swallowed hard before continuing. “Natasha told me that you told her that you hate winter.”
The few winters he’d had in the new century were split between New York and DC. They had been busy and filled with jobs and new friendships. In 2013 he’d spent the first half of December on a mission in Egypt with Natasha, most of January helping clean up after Stark’s crazy Mandarin crisis, and then February making sure Tony was alright via a two-week guys’ getaway with Bruce and Clint in India (on Stark). As busy as SHIELD and the Avengers kept him, he hadn’t had much time to get depressed. He supposed he was making up for it now, ironically after Bucky came back.
“Did she?” he sighed.
“Yeah. And I just… You know I don’t have the best memory,” Bucky paused to laugh, and it was so much less bitter these days. Steve let himself smile a little back, feeling guilty about his own bitterness. “But… you used to love winter, didn’t you? I totally understand hating the cold after everything… but… even though you almost died every year, you never stopped loving it.”
They’d tried to make a snowman once overseas, over in London or something like that. One of them was drunk and one of them was concerned and so, so tired. Both of them were barely keeping it together in front of the rest of the commandos (who, truthfully, were in much the same state). The pitiful pile of dirty slush was lopsided and had bullet shells for eyes and fell over after ten minutes, but it made every single commando smile like it was Christmas and they didn’t have the gnawing possibility of death on their heels. Steve had always had that possibility even before the war though, he’d thought back then. He didn’t sleep that night.
Steve shrugged and raised his chin to stare at the snow that was starting to fall again. He took a long, slow breath and watched the air turn white as he breathed out. When he looked back to his left, Bucky was staring at him with his jaw set hard and his eyes like they were reflecting the sky.
“Steve.”
“Bucky…” Steve sighed and brought a chilly hand up to card through his hair. “I did. I used to, I mean. But the last winter… that last winter when you… and I,” he found himself desperately at a loss for words.
“You hate winter?” Natasha repeated.
“I can’t even look at heavy snow falling,” Steve slurred. The mug in his hands was in danger of shattering, his strength not ebbing away along with his clear state of mind, apparently. “I can’t ride a train either, but thass notta big problem in this time, huh?” He rubbed at his face with both hands.
It took Natasha’s face about ten seconds to go from looking confused and amused at her drunken friend’s ramblings to complete understanding.
“Ah. Sergeant Barnes.”
“I… never said… that,” Steve grumbled, downing the last of his drink and sliding the mug off to the side.
They were gathered at Tony’s to watch the ball drop; a small party to check in on each other after so long apart. Thor and Clint were whooping at the TV and Tony was wearing festive glasses shaped like 2012. Bruce was sitting on the couch sipping something warm and Pepper was chatting away with him, champagne daintily in hand. Snow was falling outside the ten-foot, wall-to-wall windows, and the lights of the ball-dropping ceremony could be seen in the distance. Thor had brought Asgardian ale, which meant that Steve had been able to join the party. So far, he didn’t feel like he was partying very well.
Steve was slumped at the bar away from the others with Natasha leaning elegantly next to him, the both of them turned away from the windows. The back wall was mirrored, so Steve’s head was down. Six empty mugs were stacked next to him, and Thor was red-faced and loud at five.
“You’re a miserable drunk, Rogers,” Natasha replied, but she wasn’t smiling. Her hand was cold where it brushed his neck as she reached out to put it on his back. He swatted it gracelessly away.
“I couldn't get drunk when he died," he spat bluntly. He was momentarily shocked by his own voice. He tried to soften it. "I just see him disappear behind all the…” he trailed off and stuck his hands out in front of him to gesture at the mirrored wall in a way that he thought conveyed a blizzard, “white.”
Natasha was silent. She had stories of tragedies and seeing things she’d rather not have in spades, he knew, but he was thankful she didn’t try to tell any of them for his comfort. She was simply silent in her support.
“I miss him,” Steve managed, his voice wavering.
Bucky’s eyes were still steely grey, the blue sucked out somehow by the weather. His hair was lying perfectly combed and newly short on his head, like it always used to. His lips were slightly parted and he was gazing at Steve in that way he had, his breath ghosting out into the air. If it weren’t for the clothes it could have been the 40’s again by the expression alone.
“Steve, Bucky said again, softer. He moved closer, their shoulders bumping. He tilted his chin up to maintain eye contact. “The winter s-”
“I’m glad you cut your hair,” Steve said abruptly, turning his head to stare down a cab idling below and the plume of white from its exhaust pipe. There was an irritated huff next to him but he didn’t dare turn to look. “You look like your old dumb self again.”
There was a genuine, startled laugh for a second that blended into a “Thanks?”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Steve whispered after a beat. There was silence for a long time and Steve wondered if Bucky had even heard him. He braved taking a quick glance and caught Bucky staring down at the ground, his eyebrows furrowed and hands buried deep in his pockets. Steve turned back to do something similar.
Steve thought back to one winter, before the war, when he’d been too sick to go out. He couldn’t walk down the stairs much less work, and Bucky would work pretty late most days to compensate. Christmas presents were out of the question, but Bucky came home Christmas night with a paper bag clutched in his arms and a grin on his face. With the way he waltzed in, you’d have thought he was carrying a golden goose egg.
“What’s so funny?” Steve asked with a sniffle. He was wrapped in every blanket they owned and propped up in the corner of his bed shivering.
“Your face,” Bucky said, not losing his grin. He set the bag carefully on the windowsill and started undoing the latches on the window.
“What the hell are you doing?” Steve asked, his weak voice not carrying the authority he wanted it to. He punctuated his sentence with a rough cough. “That better not be a present.”
“Come here,” Bucky crooked a finger at him but didn’t look over.
“I’m too sick, Buck.”
“This is worth it, come on. You’re supposed to walk a little, anyway.”
“But it’s cold,” Steve whined, pulling the blankets tighter around his chin and up over his mouth.
“It’s not that much warmer in here,” Bucky pointed out with a shrug.
He threw the window wide open and clambered out of it onto the fire escape. Steve had no choice. He picked the thickest of the blankets and wrapped it around himself so he could still walk, and joined him. Bucky extended his hand to help him over the sill and put a hand on his back to keep him steady. His hand was warmer than anything of Steve’s, so he held on extra tight. When he was stable again Bucky rubbed some warmth into his back with the hand already there.
“You’re such a jerk.” He wasn’t. “If it was anyone else, I’d kick their sorry ass.” He’d try, at least.
“You love me,” Bucky said cockily, leaning over and kissing Steve’s cheek with an annoyingly loud sound. Steve grimaced and stuck his tongue out. Bucky laughed and ruffled his hair on his way to grab the bag. He was right.
Before Steve could ask what was in it, Bucky unceremoniously turned it over. He dumped the contents out onto the wooden board they had so Steve could sit outside in the warmer months without his pencils falling through the gaps in the metal. Steve’s eyes went wide and he couldn’t control the eyebrow raise he sent Bucky’s way. Some of the snow started slipping off the top of the pile and Bucky snapped into action to keep it from falling down three floors.
“Buck, why?”
“It’s ‘cause I’m a good friend. Now help me out here, you’re the artist,” Bucky winked and Steve couldn’t control the grin that spread across his face either.
“Let’s make it Mr. Jameson,” Steve said.
“What- that old grouch of a landlord? Snowmen are s’posed to be jolly,” Bucky pulled a face as he started forming a body out of the pile of snow.
“So we can knock his fool head off, of course,” Steve chuckled. Bucky roared with laughter for a moment, falling back on his rear from his position crouching.
“Do you think… there’s enough snow on the ground?” Bucky asked, snapping Steve out of his memory.
“For what?” Steve asked.
“For… a snowman,” Bucky shrugged. There wasn’t.
“Nah. We’d have to scoop up the whole block,” Steve said.
“Didn’t I do that once? I think I remember bringing a bunch of snow up to our… apartment?” Bucky looked wistful, a huge step ahead of angry and straining for a memory he couldn’t quite get.
“Yeah. Plopped it right on the fire escape,” Steve chuckled fondly.
“Yeah, I remember gathering the snow ‘cause it wasn’t too thick and I had to scrape it up. Don’t remember the snowman, though.”
“It was ugly as sin because my hands were too cold to help much and you’re an awful sculptor,” Steve laughed again, strong and genuine. They settled into a much more comfortable silence.
Bucky leaned into Steve after a minute, his head lolling over onto Steve’s shoulder. The height reversal was still weird, after everything. His hair was warm against Steve’s chilly cheeks. He leaned into it, probably looking ridiculous with his face smashed up against Bucky’s skull.
“It’s good to be back.” Steve barely heard Bucky whisper.