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Sunday, December 1, 1940
The Christmas tree stands lush and full, its dark green branches weighed down with round colorful ornaments and hanging popcorn garland. A golden star perches on top, drawing the eye upwards from the carefully-wrapped gifts scattered below. The scene is warm and classic, inviting, even, and--
"No good," Steve mutters to himself as he rips the sheet of paper from its bindings. A few seconds later it’s a crumpled hunk of trash. He tosses it to his left and it lands somewhere near the tin bucket he and Bucky use as a waste bin.
"Hey, I liked that one!" Bucky whines from where he's draped lazily across their couch. He hasn't left that spot since his shift at the grocer's ended three hours ago.
"It's just a drawing. Ain't a real Christmas scene, Buck," Steve grumbles. "We got no tree, no music, no food." His gaze remains fixed on his empty sketchpad.
"Not true. Your stuff turns out pretty damn life-like. Hell, you could be drawin' for one of those weekend magazines I nab from the shop sometimes."
The start of a smile tugs at Steve's lips. He turns away enough that Bucky can't see. "You know I don't like you stealin' nothing, Buck."
"S'just every once in a while…"
Steve raises his pencil one more to start fresh, but he can't seem to make his fingers move. He can feel Bucky's eyes on the back of his head.
"Still liked the first one, Stevie," Bucky mutters just low enough for Steve to barely hear.
After a few minutes, Bucky makes a long-suffering show of getting up and grabbing the crinkled scrap, smoothing it out until the wrinkles passably vanish. He grabs a tack from Steve's desk and pushes the holiday drawing into the soft wood of the left wall, opposite the fireplace.
"There," he announces triumphantly. "I think that'll do, eh?"
When Steve doesn't reply, Bucky sighs.
"C'mon, Steve, you're supposed to be the one with the big ol' imagination here!" Bucky gestures incredulously at the little page with both hands. "You made this. So it's real enough."
"Still not good enough. 'S no point. " Steve drops the pencil, pushes his chair back and heads straight for the hallway and the bedroom. "I'm tired. G'night, Buck."
Bucky, who has resumed his position on the couch, follows Steve's stomping across the room and watches him vanish. He doesn't flinch when the bedroom door slams. Instead, he lies there for a while in the thick darkness, thinking, calculating.
Christmas has always been Steve's favorite holiday, and the season's just begun.
Bucky knows exactly what to do.
~
Friday, December 6, 1940
Steve wipes the sleep from his eyes as enters the den. The bright December light shines through their small windows, bright and clear…but the glare's not as blinding as it usually is.
No, half the light is blocked by a lopsided, weather-beaten evergreen. Here and there empty branches expose glimpses of the rugged brown trunk. The top of the tree droops severely to the right, weighed down by one dull star that might once have been called gold. The tree shakes suddenly and seems to shout, "Steve!"
"Uh…Bucky?" Steve's unsure of just where to look for a response.
Bucky's wide grin appears between two particularly mangy-looking branches. "Look what I found!"
The star from the top shudders and loses its grip, and it starts to plummet to the floor. One of Bucky's arms shoots out from underneath another branch and catches the ornament before it shatters on the floor, then he hooks it back into place.
Steve steps closer.
"Where'd you get it from?"
"Tree farm, dummy. Old man Henderson's got one the next block over. He was practically giving 'em away..."
Steve can't believe the sight as he takes one branch in hand, feeling the wiry needles and the stick of the sap. The last time he'd seen anything like this was, what, '32? He'd been a kid. One of the last few years Dad had been alive, for sure. Ma hadn't been in the spirit much since he died, and then after she--
"…and can ya get the popcorn already? Musta cooled by now."
With a rustle, Bucky points with yet another branch and jostles Steve from his thoughts. He follows Bucky's direction toward their tiny kitchen. Sure enough, an iron pot sits on the stove filled with cooling popcorn. A coil of string rests on the table. Steve grins in spite of his surprise and gets to work.
Bucky appears behind him and drops a strong hand on Steve's shoulder. He smells like sap and fir and something else, a comforting scent altogether warm and familiar.
"We'll have this little log lookin' like yours in no time," Bucky says with a chuckle, and he brushes past Steve to start a strand of garland of his own.
~
Monday, December 16, 1940
Steve bursts into their apartment to escape the December chill. Darkness has long since fallen but their Christmas tree remains in the far corner, a few sputtering candles doing their best to give off some semblance of warmth. The haggard garland they made and the cheap ornaments they stumbled across manage to cover up most the missing needles on the tree. It looks presentable, great, really, more than Steve could have imagined, and certainly much more than Steve could have drawn.
He drops his pack and art supplies on the desk, followed by his scarf and hat. But something else, besides the tree, is different in the apartment. Steve starts to look around and realizes he hears music - a faint, tinny sound emanating from the opposite corner, closer to the flickering fireplace.
There stands a very new and very expensive-looking record player, the flames dancing off the gleam of the spinning record.
Steve can't place the tune, but he's heard it before. An old Christmas carol, maybe? One he hasn't heard since Ma used to take him to church.
Bucky pops out of the kitchen as Steve starts to hum along.
"Look at that, hey! You like?"
Steve opens his mouth to scold. No way Bucky could have afforded this. It's too costly, too modern, too--
"Shhh," Bucky cuts Steve off before he can reply. "I know what you're gonna say, Steve. I've been savin' up. We need this." A beat passes. "You need this."
Steve looks at the Christmas tree, then the phonograph, then back at Bucky, chewing on his bottom lip.
"How did you…"
"Don't worry about it, pal." Bucky throws an arm around Steve's shoulder. "Just gettin' us in the Christmas spirit. It's only a week away, after all."
Steve grins, and he can't help but rock back a little into Bucky's warmth. The phonograph's playing something new, now, and Steve guesses it's a more modern carol he hasn't heard yet. After the long day he's had Steve is pretty tired, and he doesn't think anything of wrapping an arm around Bucky's waist.
Bucky stiffens in response. It's a subtle movement, but just enough that Steve notices and he starts to back away, mumbling his apologies.
"No, Steve, 's' okay. Just surprised me, is all." Bucky tightens his grip and pulls Steve back to him, switching positions so he has a matching arm around Steve's waist. He fumbles for Steve's free hand and starts to gently sway.
"Now this one's something a fella could dance to."
"You know I'm no good at dancing, Buck." Steve can feel the blush spreading over his skin.
Bucky ignores him.
Steve follows his lead into an awkward, shuffling two-step in front of the fireplace. "And sorry I'm not a dame," he chuckles. His voice is muffled where he's pressed into Bucky's woolen sweater.
"Don't need a dame for this one. No one's gotta know."
Bucky smiles down at him and Steve breaks into a matching, goofy grin in response. And when Steve rests his head against Bucky's chest again, he can imagine the soft, fleeting press of Bucky's lips against his forehead.
~
Tuesday, December 24, 1940
Christmas Eve in particular always fills Steve with excitement…but not when he wakes up with a cough like this.
He's happy Bucky has an earlier shift, otherwise he'd be worrying and fussing, and he'd probably do something to jeopardize that job of his just to make sure Steve was alright.
Steve appreciates it, always has, but he really wants Bucky to keep this one. It gets food on their table, after all.
He shuffles out of their room bundled in a couple sweaters and most of the bed's blankets. He lights a few candles on the tree and turns on the phonograph, and it's almost like the Christmases when he was a kid. That much effort proves exhausting, though, and Steve drops into the chair in front of his desk. At least this gives him a chance to finish the piece he's been trying to work on since the month began.
Steve works quickly, sketching out the scene that's been picking at his brain for days now. A thin boy with fair, messy hair sits surrounded by a mountain of gifts and boxes in different states of disarray, some wrappings untouched and others demolished. Steve pencils in the broad grin of unmistakable glee that covers the boy's face, then he starts on the details of the opened gifts themselves. He draws a mock rifle, a few cartoonish bags of money emblazoned with "$", a toy car. But something is missing--.
Steve yelps in surprise as the front door slams open, his pencil scribbling a frantic line down the page.
Bucky stands panting in the doorway. His dark hair flops forward in a messy tangle over his forehead, and Steve can see the glinting sweat even in the December cold. Behind him, snow flurries flit and dance against the gray background of next door's apartment building. Bucky's cheeks glow a vibrant red, but Steve suspects that this has nothing to do with the wintry weather… because Bucky clutches a strange burlap sack for dear life.
"Steve!" he gasps, falling inside and scrabbling the door shut. "Why are you home?"
"Didn't feel well. Why are you? Shouldn't you be at work…?"
Bucky shoots him a wary smile and dodges the question. He tries to hide the bundle behind his back, but Steve's already gotten up and shuffled over to him. Steve holds out an expectant hand.
"What?"
"You know what."
Bucky sighs and hands over the bundle. Steve starts to loosen the ties, and he gasps when the flaps fall open.
"Betcha never seen a turkey that big, huh, Stevie?"
Bucky's right, as always. Steve doesn't answer for a moment.
"You didn't have to do this."
"Sure I did."
"No, you didn't."
Bucky strips off his coat and overshirt and drops them over the back of the davenport. "You know you'll lose this battle, pal."
Steve sighs and carries the turkey to the kitchen. "What'd it cost you, Buck?"
Bucky pauses."Nothin'."
Steve sits the turkey in the icebox. Bucky keeps his distance, now leaning against the arm of the couch, and he's carefully looking anywhere but at Steve. He idly scratches at one arm with the other, shoulders drooping a bit. Steve knows this act and knows it well. Bucky's starting his best, "Aw, shucks, ma'am," routine.
"A couple dollars, or what?"
Steve furrows his brow.
"I'm tellin' ya, it cost me nothin'."
Steve crosses his arms.
"Alright, alright, I, uh…might need a new job tomorrow?"
"Buck! How're we gonna have any money? And you could go to jail--"
"Hey, hey, it's fine! He couldn’t run fast enough to catch me, anyway!"
"What about the rest?"
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Did you steal that too?"
"Uh…" Bucky scratches his head in his best nonchalant move, "…I might've?"
With an exasperated sigh, Steve runs a hand through his hair until it's sticking up in all directions.
"I can't believe you nabbed a tree!"
"Ain't hard, when they come off the truck all bundled up already!"
Steve wants to be mad. He wants to be angry. But it's just too hard when Bucky actually giggles. Steve can't help it and joins in, and then he can't stop and his knees give way and he's doubled over laughing on the kitchen floor until his sides start to hurt.
"I can't believe you," Steve gasps once he regains his breath. As he wipes the tears from his eyes, Bucky lowers himself to the floor as well.
"Come on, you can’t be too surprised."
They sit there in silence for a moment, backs pressed against the wooden cupboard doors.
Then Bucky puts his arm around Steve again, more confidently than the other day. When Bucky speaks again, his voice is soft and low in the quiet flat.
"Right now all that matters is that we're gonna get the Christmas you always wanted, Stevie. Best one ever, in fact. You and me, way it should be." Bucky gestures broadly at the tree, the phonograph, and the kitchen. "We'll figure the rest out in '41. Can only get better from here, huh?"
Steve answers him with a grin. This time, there's nothing to imagine as Steve surges forward and kisses Bucky full on the mouth. Bucky sighs against him, responding enthusiastically in kind. Each movement flows easily, naturally, more like the fiftieth kiss not the first. More like they'd been doing this all along. When they finally pull apart, Steve reaches for Bucky's hand and laces their fingers together.
Bucky looks down at the sight and squeezes.
"Not like either of us ever liked playin' by the rules anyway."
"You got that right, Buck."