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Brooklyn, 1937
Steve Rogers loved Christmas. Always had. When they were kids, he and Bucky, and sometimes Becca, if Bucky let her tag along, would wander, looking in the windows of the stores. Runny noses pressed against the glass, gaping in wonder, delight and envy at the bounty of glittering decorations and potential gifts inside. Sometimes they had a nickel and they’d buy a cup of hot cocoa and share it, huddled around, passing the paper cup quickly while it was still hot. Quick, greedy gulps, swallowing all that deliciousness before it was gone.
Growing up dirt-poor during the Depression meant you got squat for gifts, most years. Usually something like a hand-knitted scarf or new socks, or a second-hand book, if you were lucky. Hell, half the time they were just excited if they had something besides turnips to eat.
The year they were sixteen, the year Bucky got a job at the docks, he was earning some money and while he gave most of it to his Ma, he still had a bit set aside. He wanted to buy something special, something pretty, for Mary Alice Wiskowski. He’d been planning on a hair ribbon or a perfume, somethin’. You had to make a special effort for someone you, maybe, possibly loved right?
But then. Then Steve.
Steve got sick. Like, real sick. Not just his usual peaky skinniness and cough, but actual damned pneumonia. The kind that put you into the hospital. And his Ma, already thin and pinched and worried, looked like she might collapse. So Bucky slipped into the Roger’s crummy cold-water apartment and left the money in an envelope that just read, “From Santa Claus.”
He figured Sarah Rogers knew it came from him, but he also figured she was too broke and desperate to return it. Bucky only had a card to give Mary Alice. A few weeks later she broke it off with him. Bucky supposed it wasn’t love after all. Or maybe the easy kind. Seemed to be a lot of that around.
Steve came home. In the end that’s all that Bucky cared about. Girls might come and go, but Steve was forever.
France, 1944
Stever Rogers loved Christmas. There was a magic potential that his life had never quite achieved, nothing like in the books and movies. But still he dreamed of a perfect day. Like somethin’ out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Virgin snow, the scent of pine, coming in to a roaring fire, mulled cider, presents under a candle-lit tree. Holding someone special in his arms under the mistletoe.
It could happen, right? Some day. Anything was possible. Look at him. Docs all thought he’d be dead before he made it out of childhood. But he survived. Now he was Captain America, strong and tall and strapping. Practically damned invincible.
So maybe the day would come when he got it all. All those fuzzy daydreams of the perfect Christmas.
Today wasn’t that day, but it was pretty darn good. He’d saved up his cigarettes and chocolate bars and traded them all in for a pair of real silk stockings for Peg. It felt pretty bold, to give a girl as confident and intimidating as Peggy Carter something so...intimate. But he wanted this to be special. He’d also saved one of the chocolate bars to go with the stockings, and worked for weeks on a sketch for her; a depiction of the perfect Christmas of his imagining.
So wrapped up in his plans for Peggy was he, that Steve nearly forgot to scrounge up a little surprise for Bucky. But only nearly. Even though he seemed hungry all the time now--what was that about?--Buck had given him the majority of his chocolate rations when he realized what Steve was up to. Thankfully Steve copped to it in time to plan a little gift for his best friend.
In the end he wasn’t able to see Peg’s face when she opened her gift. The Howling Commandos were sent to Stalingrad; at the last minute Steve dashed into his tent, shoved the package in her hands and then they were gone. In the back of the truck, Bucky, as always by his side, nudged him, “Cheer up, Pal, you’ll be kissin’ your girl in a few days. A Russian blizzard ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle.”
Steve cracked a grin, spirits lifting, “Thanks, Buck. Hey...I know Christmas is tomorrow, but I thought I’d give this to you now.” He reached in his pack and pulled out the brown-paper-wrapped bundle. He’d attempted to make it festive by hand-drawing holly leaves on it, using some of his precious red and green paints to tint the leaves and berries. “It’s not much, sorry.”
Bucky carefully unwrapped the paper and admired it before folding it away into his own bag. His sky-blue eyes lit up when he saw the salami, the wedge of aged--and pretty stinky-- cheese and the quarter loaf of mostly-fresh bread. “Stevie! Wow, Pal, thanks.”
Steve pinked, rubbing a nervous hand on the back of his neck, “Just a little somethin’ for you,” he said quietly.
“Hey Sarge, you sharin’?” Morita asked, leaning towards them, eyes on the food.
Bucky held it jealously against his chest. “Back off, ya animals! The only person I’m sharin’ with is Steve.” His words summoned a collective awww and a ‘what sweethearts!’ from the Commandos
“Gee you two are cute when you blush like school girls,” Dugan chuckled.
Steve went red. Why were people always acting like he and Buck--
The truck rocked over a vicious pothole and only Steve’s quick reflexes saved the precious food from ending up on the dirty truck bed. Bucky smiled at him, their faces close, “You and me can dine without these bozos later, huh, Stevie?”
“There’s plenty of time,” Steve smiled.
He didn’t know that in a few weeks Bucky, his Bucky, would be dead.
Manhattan, 2016
Barnes doesn’t remember everything. There are...gaps, terrible gaps, in his memory. Between the gaps are fragments, tantalizing snatches of Steve’s voice, and Bucky’s. Mostly there’s a lot of bad memories from the last seventy years--out of cryo, of course. When they had him in deep freeze there was nothin’, not pain, not fear, not the torture when he disobeyed, or just displeased, his handlers.
Mostly he did what he was told, what he was programmed for. But sometimes he was out long enough that he’d start recovering memories. With the memories came resistance. Hydra soon learned that the longer he was out of cryo, the more trouble they’d have with him. It was like their conditioning began to break down.
Steve tells him those things, the things he did, don’t matter--that’s crap, Pal, and you know it, echoes Bucky’s voice in Barnes’ thoughts--that only the here and now matters. The two of them together again, despite all the odds. It’s a nice thought, but he’s not a nice man, so it doesn’t really count.
Barnes knows he has a lot to make amends for.
It’s hard, at first, as pretty much everything is. Having free will and self-determination kinda sucks. Better than the alternative, even if one of his punishments is being forced by Steve “well-meaning” Grant to make nice with Tony Stark. Stark’s not ever gonna like him, but at least between Potts, Banner and dumb-ass Steve he’s simmered down to a constant glower and the occasional boil-over into nasty remarks.
Barnes knew he had it comin’ but also he kinda hated Stark. The guy was one big pain in the ass in an irritating little package. Still, Potts liked him, so he couldn’t be all bad.
Most of the Avengers are okay. Barnes mighta thought they’d all be gung-ho, idealistic saps like Steve, but he’d learned otherwise over the last year. They’re all a little...broken...like him. He fits better than he’d worried, at first. Team nights helped him start to fit in, as did the odd sleepless night when he’d wander the Tower; running into a hollow-eyed Barton more than once, Barnes had found a quiet peace in watching really crappy late night programming with the other man. They rarely spoke, but Barnes considered him his first ally in the Tower, aside from Steve.
Romanoff was still an enigma; her eyes were watchful, even when her mouth was smiling. Thor wasn’t around much, but Barnes found his booming energy unsettling and he’d usually make himself scarce. Sam, he liked, but Sam was still resisting Stark’s attempts to woo him into joining the Avengers officially.
The person Barness was most uncomfortable with was the withdrawn, timid Banner. Funny, how Banner thought the Hulk was this big scary monster, when in fact Barnes found the doctor more scary than the big guy. Maybe it was because he’d had bad experience with doctors, didn’t trust ‘em. But having this unpredictable rage monster inside you? Well...he had an idea what that was like.
This year, his first Christmas at the Tower, Barnes found all the hoopla Stark whipped up to be too much, and he spent most of his time skulking in Steve’s quarters, while Steve attended a couple dozen charity dinners and PR events. Captain America was a big draw for those with deep pockets, and Steve stepped up to the plate, wearing the suit and making speeches and shaking hands with all the suits. Stark held a big public party for all the Avengers but no one fussed too much when Barnes skipped it. He was expected at the casual gathering though, on Christmas Eve.
That was where he saw for himself how much Steve Rogers loved Christmas. Listened to Steve tell stories of Christmasses past--even sparked a few memories for his fried brain. Saw Steve light up at the sight of the huge tree (decked with Avenger’s merch as decoration) and plunge his big hand eagerly into his red, white and blue stocking to pull out each item and enthusiastically examine it.
The whole thing made Barnes wish he’d put more effort into his gift for Steve, participated more in the festivities. Thinking about all Steve had done for him, how fiercely he’d fought to get Barnes back, to make a home for him, left Barnes upset with how avidly he’d avoided all of Steve’s efforts to include him. A talk with Sam helped put it in perspective, “Man, you’ve got seventy years of PTSD, no one, least of all Steve, expects you to be ready for a full Stark Christmas extravaganza. Give yourself a break, eh? Besides, there’s always next year.”
Barnes, experienced as he was at subterfuge and infiltration, set all his skills to work and began researching and planning Steve’s perfect Christmas. He had a whole year to get this right.
Upstate New York, 2017
By the time the armored SUV pulled up in front of the remote cabin in the middle of the snowy woods, Steve’s curiosity was at a pitch. Bucky had told him the day before to pack his bags, they’d be away for three days. He was instructed to meet him in the garage that morning, but not another word would he pass on the subject. Now, following orders had never come particularly easily to Steve, but he’d do literally anything for Bucky, so he complied.
Didn’t stop him from asking Jarvis if he knew anything about the mystery, though to no avail, as it turned out. For all that Jarvis was AI, the building seemed to have an affinity for Bucky. His secrets were safe.
So accordingly that morning Steve had met Bucky as requested, a bulging bag at his feet. Not knowing exactly what they were going to be doing, Steve had packed everything from a suit to his favorite comfy sweater (“it’s not an old man sweater, Buck, Jesus!”); tucked in among his things were a coupla gifts for Bucky. There was a cashmere sweater--one Bucky couldn’t object to, the diva, cuz Natasha had helped him pick it out. Butter soft leather gloves, the perfect weight for summer, since Bucky was still self-conscious about going out in public where people could see his metal hand. A couple of books and an .mp3 player. And the gift Steve was most nervous about. One he’d worked on all year.
In a beautifully bound journal he’d pasted photos and mementos of their early life together next to sketches and watercolors which he had done himself. Not all of the moments pictured were big, but they meant something to him. Steve had written little anecdotes and memories next to some of them; just little ways to help Bucky’s still incomplete memory recover.
Would it be too much? Sam had warned him often enough not to pressure Bucky to recall things, telling him that buried memories sometimes never came back, and that decades of systematic mental trauma weren’t going to disappear overnight. Steve couldn’t help but hope that some of the images would unlock a little more of the Bucky he had known.
Although he really liked the Bucky he was getting to know all over again, too. Maybe a little too much at times, if Nat’s knowing smirk and Tony’s less-than-subtle jokes were anything to go by. Steve still had to remind himself that it was okay to like anyone you pleased, nowadays. No need to hide it, or pick just one type to like.
Everyone, Bucky included, teased him about being an old man, but Steve was old-fashioned. He’d never been with anyone, always figured there’d have to be a ring and a serious commitment involved before anything intimate happened. There wasn’t a chance of anything like that happening with Buck, the man was too traumatized, for one thing. For another, he was--had been--a ladies man. So while there wasn’t a shot in the world of him ever feeling like Steve did, at least Steve didn’t have to feel like he was committing a crime for loving his best friend.
Steve shook off his thoughts and got out of the SUV to stretch, groaning after sitting for so long. “You gonna tell me now what’s up, Buck?”
The other man smiled across the roof of the vehicle at him, tossing his hair out of his eyes, “Stark loaned us this cabin for a coupla days. Thought we could celebrate Christmas here, just you and me.”
Oh Jiminy Cricket, Steve thought in despair, looking around at the remote setting, how’m I going to keep it together out here? Just the two of them, no distractions, no other people. “Wow, Bucky, sounds great!” Which it did, no lie. Just, you know, torturous as well.
They carried their bags into the cabin, which looked rustic until you went to access it and saw the cleverly hidden security cameras and an array of features you had to clear to make it inside. Bucky said casually that he’d only gotten Tony to agree because he liked Steve. “Wouldn’t have done it for just me,” Bucky said laconically.
“Tony likes you just fine, you know that’s just his way.”
Bucky snorted, “Sure, Pal, whatever you say.” He raised a disbelieving brow, mouth tilting up at one corner. Steve grinned at his placating tone; that at least was one thing that hadn’t changed. Bucky still humored him and challenged him in equal measure. Throwing open the door to the cabin, Bucky stepped aside and gestured for Steve to enter. He did, stomping off his boots and reaching up for his hat with one hand. It wasn’t until he lifted his head that he saw the interior and stopped cold.
There was a fire cheerfully crackling in the huge stone fireplace, from the mantle of which hung two stockings. His name was on one, Bucky’s on the other. The whole room (which was freaking huge in typical Tony fashion) smelled like pine, cinnamon and mulled wine. An enormous Spruce, festooned in red, white and blue ornaments--aw, geez--stood near the fireplace; festively wrapped packages waited underneath. The room was hung with garlands of pine and holly, and soft white lights were wrapped around the banister of the staircase that led to the second floor. The wood and leather interior wasn’t very Tony Stark, and might have been a bit much, except that it was lightened by soft watercolors on the walls, plush red throws draped over the furniture, and antique Persian rugs layered on the hard-wood floor.
Bucky closed the door gently and moved to stand next to him. A gentle bump of his shoulder against Steve’s jolted Steve out of his wonder. “You like it, Pal? Potts helped me.”
In answer, Steve dropped his bag and turned to fling enthusiastic arms around his friend. Burying his damp eyes in Bucky’s shoulder, he rasped out, “Yeah, Buck, I love it.” For one weak moment he clung to him, heart near to bursting with love and an aching longing.
Bucky hugged him back just as tightly, chest heaving once. “I’m glad...I wanted to find some way to say thank you. For bringing me back. For sticking by me all this time while I tried to figure shit out.” His arms tightened and then he pulled back, face flushed from being smushed up against Steve’s chest, hair messy. It was a good look on him. Steve’s hands flexed on Bucky’s biceps, but then he forced his hands to drop away.
“This is amazing,” Steve said through a tight throat, looking around again, taking it all in. “God, Buck, can’t believe you did this for me.”
Hand lingering on Steve’s back, Bucky smiled at him, “Anything for you, Steve.” That look of affection was what did Steve in. So damned much had changed, but in seventy years one thing remained the same--the way Bucky Barnes had always looked at him.
“Buck…” he swallowed, knowing his heart was in his eyes and unable to help himself. “I…” I love you. I want you. I’m scared I’m going to lose you again.
Bucky’s beautiful sky-blue eyes widened fractionally before the irises were all but swallowed up by his pupils. The look on his face was soft, hungry, yearning. “Steve…” He slid his hand up Steve’s back, his shoulder, over his neck, making Steve weak with longing, and then it was cupping his jaw, “Are you…? Can…?”
Yes, Steve thought, anything you want. Everything. The words never made it out of his mouth, because he was leaning in and Bucky was coming to meet him and then they were kissing. And oh God but it was the best thing he’d ever tasted; cold ice cream melting on hot apple pie, the first sip of coffee in the morning, his first breath in strong new lungs post-serum. None of them compared. Steve was dizzy with joy, so he clung on to Bucky, heart racing as Bucky leaned into him, arms tight, mouth hungry.
They might have stood there kissing forever, but even super soldiers need to take a breath occasionally.
“Buck…” Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s, chest heaving, “My God.”
“...yeah,” he agreed, sounding just as breathless and giddy. “Stevie, Pal...God, I messed this up.”
Steve felt a cold dash of worry, “What?” He started to pull back, but Bucky didn’t seem too ready to let go.
Bucky blew out a breath, sounded rueful, “I had this whole Thing planned. There was going to be a snowball fight and everything. Come in to have cider...I was going to lure you under the mistletoe and kiss you…” He looked up, the emotion in his eyes and on his face devastating Steve’s already fragile composure, “I wanted to give you the perfect Christmas. The one you always dreamed about.” Voice going sideways, he managed, “Wanted to tell you I love you.”
His smile threatened to take over his whole face, “I love you too. God, I’ve been wanting to say that forever!” Steve’s breath left him in a happy, pained laugh, “Jiminy Cricket, Buck, don’t scare a fella like that! I thought you regretted the kiss.”
“What?! No! God no.” Bucky’s vehemence was extremely welcome, and Steve kissed him again and again, both of them mumbling I love yous until they were dizzy and breathless.
Hours later, by the dying glow of the fire, they lay wrapped in one another, cuddled on one of the long, cozy couches. They’d shed their sweaters, and their shoes, and Bucky was half on top of Steve, pressing lazy kisses to his t-shirted chest, their toes brushing. Steve ran greedy hands through Bucky’s hair, enjoying the silky weight of it, the shape of his skull underneath. He’d discovered that Bucky loved having his hair played with, shivered when Steve would run gentle fingers run over his scalp. Every time Steve did it, Bucky would melt closer.
Steve planned on doing it a lot.
“This is the perfect Christmas,” Steve said dreamily, curling one big hand protectively over the back of Bucky’s head--and not inconsequentially keeping his mouth where it was, creating a damp patch over Steve’s extremely interested nipple. His toes wiggled happily, and Bucky’s wiggled back. Hello.
“Even without the mistletoe?” Bucky mumbled. Steve could hear the smile in his voice.
“Pal, I don’t need mistletoe to kiss you.”
Bucky laughed, low and a little dirty, and slid up Steve’s body, sinuous and slow, until they were nose to nose. “Good,” he breathed, “Cuz I figure we got a lot of kissing to make up for...coulda been doing this for years.”