Work Text:
Steve’s biceps glisten, his arms taking quick jabs at a black punching bag. It’s obscenely heavy by normal standards, the chain it hangs from sturdy enough to tow a full-sized SUV. It’s what Tony came up with after Steve decimated several other prototypes, and so far it’s been working. No matter how hard Steve hits, it holds, and it does so without going on a wild pendulum swing.
Jab, jab, jab.
His hands are hurting, but he keeps going. He loves the rhythmic dance these sessions have become, each hit a drumbeat that eases something in his chest that has sat heavy—so heavy—since the ice.
By the time he finishes, he’s drenched, his blond hair clumping together in deceptively dark spikes. His white tee is soaked through and clinging to every muscle he has, and he has to peel it off of his body to get into the showers.
He’s still toweling his hair when he makes it up to the common room, taking two steps inside before he stops in his tracks. Over the fireplace, there is what looks to be an entire forest’s worth of greenery, all of it filled with red ribbons and white lights and berries and pinecones.
There’s more greenery throughout the room—around the doorways, draped across the entertainment center, poked into centerpieces on the dining and coffee tables.
Steve blinks. He feels… There’s a sinking feeling in his belly, a burn in his eyes. He’s glad he’s alone so no one sees him bring his fist to his mouth, lightly biting the skin across his aching knuckles to catch the breath that stutters out of his chest.
It’s not right.
And the tree—a massive artificial monstrosity next to the window. It’s bedecked in picture-perfect glass balls and ribbons, every item meticulously placed like something out of a catalog.
It’s terrible. It’s…
In his mind, he sees a little Christmas tree iced with tinsel. On the branches is a collection of blown glass ornaments that she left—gone now. Gone like so many things are gone. With another shaking breath, Steve puts both hands on the nearest surface, squeezing the edge of the kitchen counter until he’s sure it might give way.
By the time Natasha strolls into the common room with her own damp hair, he’s managed to compose himself. Or so he thinks.
“All right there, Rogers?” she asks, taking in the new decor. “Wow, did a Macy’s explode in here?”
Steve scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head and brushing past her on the way out. “I’m going to get a real goddamned tree.”
Jarvis gives him directions to the nearest tree lot but suggests the 2nd closest based on online reviews. And so Steve treks several blocks as the sun sets. He finds the place pretty easily, enhanced senses picking up on the strong scent of evergreen before he rounds the corner.
It’s a quaint little lot. On the sidewalk, a clapboard sign rimmed in white lights advertises it as Barnes Family Farms. A second clapboard sign boasts firs, pines, spruces, and cedars. Throughout the lot, there are wooden supports pushed into metal buckets of cement, string lights strung pole-to-pole, crisscrossing the lot and giving it a warm holiday glow.
Steve stares at it all from a distance before taking a deep breath and going in.
It’s overwhelming.
There are so many trees. Smaller ones grow in pots of rich soil. Larger ones stand in rows and lean, netting-wrapped, against the brick of the building next door. He walks through the first row, touching branches, sizing up his option. But the truth is… the truth is the big artificial tree isn’t really the…
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Steve twitches and realizes he’s been fondling the same patch of fir needles for an unnecessarily long time. He turns toward the voice, his brain starting on a response and getting as far as, “Oh, I—” before it stutters to a halt.
The owner of said voice is smiling, warmth lighting up his eyes (an ambiguous color given the late hour and the soft lighting). His hair is dark, pulled into a loose bun—a few wavy strands falling down to frame high cheekbones and a soft, dimpled double chin. He’s pudgy in build, his tummy round beneath a forest green apron and a red buffalo plaid button-down, one sleeve pinned up on the left side.
“Oh, I…” Steve repeats, and he still doesn’t manage anything more than that. He clears his throat. “I’m looking for a tree.”
“Ah, sorry, we only do bushes and shrubs here. The occasional topiary.”
Steve blinks. The forest green apron reads Barnes Family Farms in fading white script. It also has a name embroidered in the top left corner: Bucky.
“We did a bonsai once.” Bucky’s customer-friendly smile has morphed into an amused grin, and Steve finds he can’t help but match it. “So, what kind of tree are we talking? We’ve got all the hits.”
Steve reaches out to touch the fir needles again. What does he want? This is his first Christmas in the modern age, and none of the trees he’s seen so far match the ones in his memories, shiny and messy by what he’s quickly learning are modern standards.
The smile falls from his face like snow.
“I…”
Steve shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. What he wants is to be somewhere else, somewhen else. What he wants is for them to have never found…
“I have to go,” Steve says, his eyes feeling like hot coals in his skull.
“Are you—”
But Steve doesn’t stop, weaving his way through the lines of trees until he’s back on the sidewalk. And then he keeps walking. In the back of his mind, the thought vaguely occurs to him that he could hop on a train or a bus or even hail a cab, but he never fully connects those dots. And so he’s on foot when he crosses the Brooklyn Bridge.
It feels like her grave has aged 70 years in the blink of an eye.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, plopping down in front of the headstone atop a light dusting of snow. “I should’ve brought flowers, but I didn’t realize…” He shakes his head. She’ll understand. She always did.
There are other people he wishes he could visit—Morita buried somewhere in California; Dugan, cremated but memorialized in other ways; Falsworth in a churchyard somewhere an ocean away; Dernier in France… Jones and Peggy are still alive, but they’ve got 70 years of life experiences on Steve, and even though they all had a good dinner the last time Steve visited their home…
In a quiet cemetery in the middle of December, Steve buries his face in his knees.
He avoids the common room for several days.
He finally destroys the new punching bag, sand pouring out of it and spreading across the reinforced floor.
“Jarvis,” Steve says, panting.
“I will inform Sir.”
Somewhere in the middle of showering, Steve decides that he really does want a tree.
Upstairs, he changes into tailored jeans and a cozy white sweater, wrapping a red scarf around his neck.
The evergreen scent hits him even sooner than it had the first time, and not long after, he finds himself walking through the rows of trees. He still doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, sizing up various specimens until he sees…
“Bucky,” Steve says, and the man in the green apron turns to face him from where he’d been adjusting some of the string lights.
“Hey, you came back.” Bucky smiles at Steve briefly before furrowing his brow. “I’ve been thinking about you actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I… You seemed upset before you hightailed it out of here. Did you…” Bucky trails off. “No, that’s none of my business.”
“Go ahead.” Steve prepares himself to field some question about being Captain America. And those are always what the questions are about—if the Vita Rays hurt, if he remembers the ice, if Captain America would approve of this thing or that thing. Never about being Steve Rogers. He is nothing except a shield, a suit, and a serum.
Bucky takes a breath. “It’s just I’ve seen that look before on a lot of faces. Usually people who have lost somebody and are spending their first holiday season without them. I was gonna ask if that’s what’s going on. And if you’re okay.” Bucky shakes his head. “Well, obviously you’re allowed to not be okay, but…”
Steve looks down at his feet. “Yeah, I… It’s something like that.” He forces a smile, can feel it dying before it gets to his eyes. “And I think I would like a tree.”
“Oh.” Bucky looks temporarily frozen by this admission, but he recovers quickly and dusts his hand off on his apron unnecessarily. “Yeah, of course. What’d you have in mind?”
“Something classic. Full and round.”
Bucky nods and motions for Steve to follow him. Bucky has on more plaid—tonight’s shirt a black and white check, the left sleeve yet again pinned up near his shoulder. He leads Steve to the end of a row.
“This one’s a balsam fir,” Bucky says, running his hand down the branches. Steve takes a couple steps back and looks it over. It’s a good height for the lofted ceilings of the Tower’s residential floors, but the slope is too angular. Too much like the artificial tree in the common room.
“No?” Bucky asks. “That’s okay. We got plenty of trees.”
The lot isn’t very big given that it’s New York City, but it feels bigger than it is. Something about being led through winding rows stuffed with green things makes Steve feel like he’s gotten pleasantly lost in a tranquil wood.
“So what was wrong with that one?’ Bucky asks, walking Steve up to a small table holding multiple metal coolers with pour spouts. He hands Steve a small cardboard box from a neat row, then pulls an insulated cup from a stack. “Coffee, cider, or chocolate?”
Steve opens the box. Inside are two cookies shaped like Christmas trees.
“You don’t have to—”
Bucky raises one eyebrow at him in an amused challenge. “You really gonna let me choose for you?”
“Co—” Steve cuts himself off. “Is it homemade cider?”
Bucky smiles proudly. “From our family apple trees. A blend of Granny Smith and Honeycrisp, plus freshly ground spices.” He’s already pouring Steve a cup, steam rising over the lip. Steve brings it close to his nose and inhales.
The sense memory hits him like a punch to the gut. They always had cider on the better Christmases, when Steve was having a good health year and money was a little less tight. His mother would come home with a bag of apples, and on one of her days off, she’d chop them and cook them down on the stove. By the end of the day, the entire tenement building would smell like cinnamon and cloves, and inevitably, Ms. Greene would drop by and ask after a cup and flirt with Ma.
In another time and place, Steve takes a sip and feels like, for once, he’s been given something back that he actually wants.
“She always let me stir,” Steve says quietly, half-choking on the words. Bucky reaches out to touch his forearm, telegraphing his movements and giving Steve plenty of time to pull away. The weight of his palm is comforting.
“Yeah, Pa always made the cider before…” Bucky smiles sadly. “My sister and I used to fight over who’d get to do the stirring and who’d get to throw in the cloves and cinnamon sticks.”
Steve doesn’t answer, instead taking another sip, his eyes watery. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind though. He pats Steve gently on the shoulder and says, “I think I’ve got another idea for your tree.”
It’s a Nordmann fir, or so Bucky tells him, and it’s tall and plump. The branches are slightly uneven, a few sticking out farther than the rest, though the overall shape of the tree is nicely symmetrical and full. Balancing his cup and cookie box in one hand, Steve reaches out to touch it, already nodding before he feels the needles slide across his fingertips.
“It’s perfect,” Steve says, dropping his hand. “I’ve, uh, never bought a tree before.”
“Don’t worry about it. We get a lot of first timers. So this is the one then?”
“Yes.”
Bucky nods, reaching down to release the tree from its stand. “Let’s get it up front then.” And then Bucky shoves his shoulder against the tree trunk, using that to lever it half-up onto his shoulder. Bucky’s back and arm muscles strain against white buffalo plaid. When he moves to adjust his hold, they strain even more. Steve’s eyes go wide as saucers.
Wow.
And Christ, when was the last time he felt this way about anybody? He thinks of Peggy’s pleased smile after he got that flag. He thinks of a hand down his pants behind a bar that didn’t legally exist. He thinks of kissing Arnie as teenagers, everything bruising and with too many teeth. (Steve never felt that way about Arnie though, and Arnie never felt that way about him. They just both needed to try it with a fella. To be sure. (They’d both been sure, really, even before the kiss.))
“I can get that,” Steve says, when Bucky starts to walk with the tree.
“I don’t doubt it.” Bucky smiles at him with an edge of exhilaration, like he’s enjoying the chance to work his body like this. Like he might smile if they… Steve’s stomach goes wobbly, and he follows Bucky back toward the hot drinks and cookies, all set up next to a pay station manned by a plump woman with salt and pepper curls.
“You’ll settle with Ma there while I get this wrapped up for you.”
Steve exchanges bills with the woman, Winnie, thanking her for the excellent service and treats before turning to find Bucky.
He’s in the tree wrapping area nearby, Steve’s fir laid out on the ground. Steve goes to take a sip of cider and then feels the cinnamon burning up his nose when he chokes on it, sputtering. In front of him, Bucky squats down, his thighs testing the seams of his jeans, his belly rolls becoming more prominent. He then hoists the tree up with his arm, just high enough to get his knee under the trunk, using the strength of his legs to lift while he guides the tree into a metal tube, his bicep flexing yet again. Once it’s in there, another swift movement of his arm sends it through, netting instantly wrapping the tree from base to tip.
“That ought’a do it,” Bucky says with another exhilarated smile.
“Gr—” And that’s when Steve’s phone starts to blare. Steve groans, and Bucky doesn’t react at all, seems to just think it’s some weird ringtone instead of the alarm that only goes off when there’s a need to Assemble.
“Emergency,” Steve says. “Can you hold onto that for me?”
He’s gone before Bucky can even answer, sprinting down the sidewalk with cider sloshing over his hand.
“Jarvis, what’s up?” Steve asks in the elevator. He chugs the few sips of cider he didn’t lose on the run over.
“There is a level three event in Palo Alto, California.”
Steve tosses the box of cookies in his locker and grabs his shield and go bag. He meets Clint on the way to the roof, also running, also carrying his clothes and choice weapon. They’re the last ones on the quinjet, and they take off immediately.
“So what is it this time?” Clint asks, zipping up his gear.
“Oh, the usual,” Tony says at the controls. “Someone tried to make a robot Santa—not sure if they meant for it to be evil or if that bit was an accident. But he’s evil.”
Steve sighs.
It’s nearly dawn by the time they land the jet back at the Tower. Along with the others, Steve trudges down to the locker room to shower off soot and blood (his, though the wounds that it came from are already scabbed over or healed completely). Like everyone else, his suit will need cleaning and repairs. But for now, he opens his locker intent on throwing it in and dealing with it later.
The little cardboard box feels like a gift. He pries open the lid, the two cookies still resting soundly inside. If ever there was a time to have cookies for breakfast…
He takes a bite, his eyes fluttering shut. The cookies are soft and chewy, buttery. They aren’t gingerbread, but there’s a hint of ginger in the flavor, along with notes of citrus. Steve takes another bite.
He works on them as slowly as he can allow himself to, chewing small mouthfuls in the elevator and down the hall. He finishes the last morsel in his kitchen before chugging about a half gallon of cold milk. It’s perfect, and he wonders if the recipe is protected or if he could ask…
He shakes his head. Bucky isn’t his friend he can call up for recipe exchanges. Bucky is a random service worker whom Steve’s only spent all of ten minutes with. By the time he goes back for the tree, he might get in five more. It’s not a basis for friendship.
But.
But.
Steve probably doesn’t have to wait until nightfall to go back for the tree, but he wants to. There’s something magical about the string lights and the smell. Plus a light snowfall has started by the time the sun sets, and he knows all the trees will have a dusting—a little bite-sized storybook Christmas right there in the heart of New York City.
Bucky’s with someone when he gets there, so Steve walks through the rows of trees, admiring them all. They’re all beautiful specimens, clearly well-cared for during their lives. Steve’s leaning forward to smell the branches of a short, squat little cedar tree when he gets a whiff of cinnamon and cloves.
When he turns toward it, Bucky presses a cup of cider into his hand, a box of cookies following.
“You know you could’ve just asked for seconds instead of this whole ‘emergency’ ruse.” Bucky smiles warmly. “Seriously though, you okay?”
“Yeah, a little banged up but I heal fast.” Steve doesn’t know why he said that. Again, Bucky is not his friend. He knows he’s supposed to respond “yes,” or if he’s really not okay, he might can get away with a, “oh, you know, hanging in there.”
“I’m glad. I guess you’ll be wanting that tree.”
“Yeah.”
“Though if you ask me, cider always tastes better in the middle of a Christmas tree forest. Or something like it.” Bucky jerks his head and Steve follows on instinct, weaving toward the little treat table where Bucky pulls off his apron. He’s foregone the plaid tonight in favor of a thick burgundy sweater that looks like it would be butter soft to the touch.
“Ma, I’m takin’ a break,” Bucky says, pouring himself a cup of cider. And they walk through the tree lot together, Steve opening up the box of cookies and sharing the second one with Bucky even though he’s sure Bucky probably has access to as many of these cookies as he wants. It’s nice. And it’s even nicer when Bucky shows him the spot near the back of the lot where they’ve got an outdoor heater set up with folding camp chairs.
For a couple of minutes, they sit in companionable silence, watching small snowflakes flutter down on the lot.
“So who makes these?” Steve finally asks, tapping on the now-empty box in his lap.
“Oh, I make the dough. I start in October and fill up the freezer.” Bucky shifts one of the empty chairs in front of him so he can throw his feet up on it. “The problem with that being that I end up with a fuckload of cookie dough in my freezer and have to keep everyone out of my place.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed by that somehow?”
“No, I just assumed you lived on the farm.”
“I do. It’s a lot of land. About five years ago, I bought a big shed, fixed it up into a house so I could have my own space. Then Becca—my sister—asked me to help her do one. Basically I was doing tiny houses before they were cool.”
“A real Buck-of-all-trades, huh?”
“That’s what it says on my business cards.” Bucky looks at him over the lip of his cider cup. His eyes are blue. “I guess after the accident, I felt like I had to prove my worth to society or some shit. I started working even harder on the farm, did my house because I didn’t want people to think I was that guy who still lived with my parents, started some online businesses which included doing baked goods by mail. Just non-stop trying to prove my life had value.”
Steve hums, tapping his thumb against his paper cup. “I think I know what you mean.”
“I managed it for a couple years. But the business grew, and we got a better spot in the city, and I looked up and it was the middle of the Christmas season with me somehow trying to work here and fulfill all these orders. I just had an epiphany, you know, that I was… I’ve always believed all human lives have inherent value, but I’d somehow made myself the exception. I’d internalized all this bullshit and let it eat me up. So I got through the season and scaled back. I picked the stuff I liked best. Working the farm. Baking but just for fun. Becca’s house was an exception really because she’s my sister and I have to be nice to her at least sometimes or she won’t get me a Christmas present.”
Steve huffs a short laugh.
“And now that I’ve told you my entire life story, what about you?” Bucky asks. “You live in Manhattan?”
Steve glances up at the Tower, easily spotted where it looms large over the rest of the skyline.
“Something like that.”
Bucky hums, and Steve closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and cloves and tart apples.
“Sometimes,” Steve says, “I feel…” He takes a drink. “I feel like I spent all this time fighting to have a life, to build up all these parts of it. I guess I had something to prove too. Not all of that life was good, but it’s like I lost every part of it that mattered. I never wanted to be here.”
Steve opens his eyes to look at Bucky, whose forehead is wrinkled.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” Steve sighs.
“I started it,” Bucky says. “But you should probably tell me your name if we’re gonna keep getting personal.”
“Fuck.” Steve puts his face in his hand, and then he can’t help it. Inexplicably, he laughs. It doesn’t make sense, isn’t the right reaction to the emotion that he’s feeling. But… He can’t stop. Not until he’s breathless and gasping. “Steve. I’m Steve.”
“Steve,” Bucky says, like he’s testing it out. “Steve,” Bucky says, like they’ve been friends their whole lives and Bucky knows the exact tone to use to soothe him. “It’s kinda like Becca’s house.”
“What?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s quiet for a moment, everything fading into the noise of the city, into the scent of evergreen and holiday spices and something that smells like eucalyptus and mint.
“Becca’s house,” Bucky says. “I built my house first, and it isn’t perfect by any means. I made a lot of mistakes. There are things that aren’t completely level, things that don’t quite match up, things I’ll have to tear down if I want to even think about fixing them. But I love my house because it’s mine.” Bucky stows his cider in the chair’s cup holder, reaching for Steve and giving his wrist a soft squeeze. “And then I had an opportunity to build a second house And maybe I didn’t always want to build a second one and Becca and I probably spent half the project sniping at each other. But it was easier than the first.”
Steve looks down at his feet, focusing on the warmth of Bucky’s hand around his wrist.
“Bucky…”
“This isn’t a perfect metaphor or anything, but my point is that it’s okay that you love the life you had, that you miss it, that you mourn it. It’s okay if it leaves a hole that will always ache at the edges. But you get to take everything you learned from it, everything the people in it taught you, the fella they helped you become—all of it—you get to take it into something new. And that old life that you miss, it’ll always be a part of the new one.”
Steve sits quietly, staring down at his cider cup, swirling the last sip around and around.
“Do you…” Bucky trails off.
“Do I?”
Bucky clears his throat. “Do you need help getting that tree home?”
“No that’s…” Steve looks up at him, casually sitting in a camp chair with snowflakes landing in his curls. A friend. Steve has a friend. “Yeah, that’d be nice. I can wait until you close up for the night if…”
“Hey, I built my sister a house. The least she can do is run the place for a little while.”
Bucky loads the tree up in the back of a rusty blue pick-up truck. He doesn’t say a word when Steve directs him to the Tower and into the Tower parking garage.
They’re at the elevator before it occurs to Steve that maybe he should stay something to Bucky before he presses the button, given that there’s no way to get to his floor without…
“Bucky, if you haven’t put two and two together yet, you should probably know that I’m, uh…” Okay, now Steve can hear how it’s gonna sound if he says it, and it sounds ridiculous. He blows out a breath and steps onto the elevator with the tree. “Floor 74. Authorization Captain America.”
“Of course, Captain Rogers. Welcome home.”
Steve looks at Bucky, who’s nodding to himself and mouthing, ‘Steve Rogers’ like he just figured out the answer to a crossword clue. He meets Steve’s eyes.
“Well,” Bucky starts, “I guess that explains the Tower and the tree-abandoning emergency.”
“And… the rest of it, I suppose.”
Bucky smiles kindly. “My advice still stands. It’s okay to be sad about it, Steve. Christ, I think I mean that even more now that I have an inkling of what you lost. But every year we make my Pa’s cider recipe. And I make my great-grandma’s orange ginger cookies. And we put the hideous ornaments we made at Great Aunt Becky’s on the tree. Every life is built on the lives that came before it. I mean, why’d you come to the lot in the first place?”
“Because…” The elevator glides to a stop on Steve’s floor, and he drags the tree off into the foyer in front of his apartment door, leaning it against the wall. “Because Ma and I always had a tree even if most of them were nothing to write home about. We never could’ve afforded one like this, wouldn’t have spent the money on one like this even if we could have. But I feel like wherever she is, knowing that I can afford it now...”
Bucky listens patiently, giving Steve a small encouraging nod.
“I want a taste of the Christmas we might’ve had if she was with me here now,” Steve spills out, and Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, craning his head to look him in the eye.
“See,” Bucky says, and Steve pulls him into a hug.
They immediately realize there’s a problem when they get the tree inside. Steve doesn’t own a tree stand. He doesn’t own lights or ornaments or tinsel. Maybe because some part of his own brain had taken his threat to replace the common room tree seriously. But even if he hadn’t realized pretty quickly that it would be a jerk move, he’d have wanted different things than what Tony’s hired decorator had chosen.
“Becca, I’m not gonna make it back tonight,” Bucky says.
“Gross.”
“That’s not—” Bucky pulls the phone from his ear and glares at it before shaking his head and turning a smile on Steve. “Okay, far be it from me to tell a fella how to decorate his tree, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that you gotta have a tree stand.”
“I don’t even know where to go.”
Bucky shrugs. “I might know a place.”
Bucky takes him to Brooklyn and a place called North Pole Nook. It’s near Steve’s old neighborhood, and he recognizes the building. It had been Patacki’s Drug Store once upon a time, and in Steve’s head, it’s only been a few years since he was here with Arnie, shooting the breeze over malts. It looks much different now with a sign in red and white and a window display of artificial trees and some furry green character stealing decorations.
It looks different inside too, but the original floors are still there and Steve smiles down at the checkerboard tiles, remembers kicking Arnie under the table when he accused Steve of having a crush on Mr. and Mrs. Patacki both. (Arnie had been right.)
Inside, Bucky grabs two shopping baskets, handing one to Steve before looping the second over his arm. They go to the tree stands first, and Steve finds himself infinitely glad that he’s not alone for this. Because there is a whole small shelf of different stands, and he has no idea which one he needs. Why are there so many choices?
“Is this where I ask for your expert advice?” Steve picks up a stand painted a bright red and turns it over and over in his hand. Yep, it’s a tree stand.
Bucky tilts his head, looking them all over. He nods at one in the middle, plain and green.
“That one. Good water capacity, sturdy and deep. Since your tree is tall, you’ll want that, and it should last you a long time.”
Steve puts it in a basket.
“The rest is all you,” Bucky says, and so it begins. Steve starts with lights. He goes for the classic large bulbs, but he chooses a warm white LED since they consume less energy. A little old, a little new. Maybe that’ll be the theme of his tree.
Tinsel is a must even if it seems like nobody uses it anymore. But he also gets a more modern tree topper—metal shaped into a starburst, a light inside shining through the cutouts and casting geometric shapes on the wall next to the display model.
For ornaments, he realizes he has to choose a basic color scheme. The plain baubles come in all kinds of color combinations. There’s red and green, but there’s also hot pink and turquoise. There are glass ones, and there are shatterproof ornaments made of shaped plastic.
“It’s a lot, huh?” Bucky asks, patiently waiting for Steve to make a decision. Steve picks up a box of silver and gold balls.
“No one ever lets me talk about how strange it is, that it’s been 70 years for everybody else, but for me… I can clearly see the trunk of Ma’s ornaments that should still be sitting in the attic of my best pal’s place. But his old place is part of a parking garage now, and I got no idea what happened to them, no idea what happened to a lot of things. And I know lots of people lose their family heirlooms for all kinds of reasons, but…”
Bucky nods. “It’s allowed to hurt, Steve. And if you wanna leave at any point, don’t feel like we have to stay. Hell, I’ll refund the tree if you want.”
Steve shakes his head. “Thanks, Buck.” He reaches for another box—glass ornaments in red and silver. “Her favorite color was red.” He puts the box in his basket, then grabs another just like it figuring that he’ll need two to fill up the large tree. They move on to the shelves and shelves of single ornaments.
Steve makes straight for the section of vintage-style blown glass. He chooses some round red balls with silver star indents and a few snowmen with bright red scarves. Farther down the aisle he finds the last Santa Claus that looks almost like his mother’s, and he lays it gently among the rest.
A little old, a little new.
He chooses classic teardrops. But he can’t resist the little artist’s palette or a small box of snowflakes made of glass tubes. And when he finds the rainbow heart emblazoned with “love is love,” he places two carefully on top of his haul.
“Are you, uh…?” Bucky gestures at the hearts, and Steve feels a small sinking feeling in his stomach. He likes Bucky so much. He might like Bucky more when he has the time to sort out whether or not he’s having Feelings or just attaching himself to the first really good thing he’s found in this century. He’s not sure he could handle it if Bucky had a problem with his being queer. One of the only good things about being in a new millennium is that Steve can do things like buy rainbow hearts at a Christmas store.
Steve squares his shoulders. “Yeah. I’m…” Steve had gone down a rabbit hole of queerness in the modern age. Internally, he’s been thinking of himself as bisexual ever since, but this is the first opportunity he’s had to use it, to try on the label and, for the first time in his life, be who he’s always been. “I’m bi. Bisexual.”
Oh, it feels good.
Bucky’s face splits into a grin, ear-to-ear, and he holds up his hand—a little low and awkward due to the shopping basket, but up nonetheless. “Bi five!”
Steve stares at the sightly paler skin of Bucky’s palm, then feels a laugh bubble up in his chest. He slaps his hand against Bucky’s. “Bi? five?”
“You’re right. We gotta do it better.” Bucky puts his shopping basket down on the vintage tile, then holds his hand up far above his head. Steve slaps it again, then looks at the display of rainbow ornaments. He gets one more.
The total at the register is outrageous, and he can feel his skin burning when he swipes his debit card. But what he said to Bucky was true—if he was going to have a single indulgence in the modern age, his Ma would’ve wanted this for him.
They spend hours decorating the tree. They order take out, and Bucky lounges on Steve’s sofa and makes suggestions when Steve asks for them. Somewhere in the middle, they break to go the coffee shop on the first floor of the tower, and Bucky forces Steve to try his first peppermint mocha frap.
“Do you wanna help me with the tinsel?” Steve asks, opening up the first package.
“Oh, I’m so in.” Bucky says, slurping at the last bits of his coffee drink before hopping up and joining Steve by the tree. It looks good already, bathed in light and color. But it’s not Christmas without enough tinsel to be a health hazard.
“So the key here is to put it fucking everywhere,” Steve says. “When you feel like you’ve put enough on, you’re maybe halfway there.”
“Like sunscreen,” Bucky says. “Or lube.”
Steve chokes. “Bucky!”
“I got it though. I’ll take this hemisphere of Planet Tree. You take the other?”
“Perfect.”
It starts with artful drapes of silver strands, their hands occasionally brushing amongst the branches. By the time they tear into the second package though, they’re both throwing it at the tree like snowballs. At some point, Bucky misses the tree altogether, multiple strands of tinsel landing on Steve’s head and shoulders.
“Hey!” Steve attempts his Captain-America-is-disappointed voice but ruins it with a laugh. “You did that on purpose.”
Bucky brings his hand to his chest and gasps. “That you would even suggest…”
Steve throws a large wad of tinsel at him.
“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Bucky says, and so the next round of tinseling comes from using the tree as a shield, tossing handfuls at each other through the branches. By the end, everything is a mess. Bucky has tinsel tied around his hair bun. Steve has tinsel chest hair poking out of his shirt. The floor is a disaster zone.
And the tree? It’s perfect. Dripping. Gaudy. Everything Steve remembers from his youth. Everything he would’ve given his mother if he could have.
And Bucky…
Bucky’s cheeks are slightly pink from the exercise and excitement. His hair is a little askew from Steve attacking it to make said tinsel ponytail. He’s…
Steve thinks he’s sorted out whether the feelings are Feelings or not.
“Hey, you forgot one,” Bucky says, holding up Steve’s third rainbow heart.
“I didn’t.” Steve takes it from Bucky’s hand and picks up a wad of tinsel from the floor, shrouding the heart in it before handing it back. “Merry Christmas, Buck.”
“Shucks, I didn’t get you anything.”
“No,” Steve says with a smile that doesn’t hurt, “I think you did.”
Bucky stays the night on the sofa.
“Sorry I don’t have anything here for breakfast. I’m not used to guests. Wasn’t really used to them even before the war and all.”
“I’ll survive.” Bucky yawns. His hair is loose, hanging in waves that just brush over his shoulders. His bare shoulders. Steve clears his throat and looks away. “Is there at least coffee?” Bucky asks.
And that’s how they end up in the common room with the massive artificial tree. Bucky whistles at the sight of it before taking a seat at the peninsula bar in the kitchen area.
“You’re gonna have to convince Stark to let Barnes Family Farms be his official tree supplier next year.”
“I will.” Really, he’ll nicely ask Pepper and that’ll probably be all it takes, but…
“I’m kidding, Steve.”
“I know. But I will.” Steve hands Bucky a cup of fresh coffee—grateful to the early bird who made a pot. (Clint, more than likely.)
“You two are under the mistletoe, you know,” Clint says from somewhere up above them, as though the mere thought of his name summoned him.
Bucky jumps and looks up. “Uh, Steve, is there a second disembodied robot or are the vents haunted?”
“Just the one disembodied robot here, Mr. Barnes,” Jarvis says cheerfully.
“I’m the ghost of Christmas presents.” And the air vent cover pops open, Clint skillfully folding his body out of it and dropping to the floor. He hands Steve a small box wrapped in green paper, looks both him and Bucky in the eye, and points significantly at the mistletoe before traipsing out of the common room with a wave and a “Merry Christmas.”
“Um.” Bucky blinks after him.
Steve opens the small box. Appropriately, there’s an ornament inside—a wooden circle with the Brooklyn Bridge burned into its surface.
“There’s something on the back,” Bucky says, and Steve turns it over.
Steve, I know the future’s weird as hell (and so am I). But I’m glad you’re here. -C
Steve runs his thumb over the inscription, staring down at it.
“Steve?” Bucky asks.
“I think I’ve been looking at things wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you might be my first friend in 70 years.” Steve puts the ornament back in the box. “But maybe I…”
Bucky’s face goes soft. “Never too late for a change of perspective.” And then he glances up at the mistletoe. “Friends, huh?”
Steve’s stomach drops and does several loop-de-loops. He swallows.
“Do you, uh…” Steve clears his throat.
“Not if you don’t, Steve.” Bucky takes a sip of his coffee. His hair looks so, so soft. “But I do like a good tradition.”
Steve glances at the mistletoe and leans over the counter, his heart migrating farther and farther into his throat with every inch of distance that he closes. He shivers when his lips touch Bucky’s. It’s a light kiss, one befitting the tradition, but it makes Steve’s whole body go fuzzy, warmth trickling down his spine and pooling in his belly.
Bucky smiles at him when he pulls away, and they finish their morning coffee in quiet conversation before Bucky leaves to change and head for the lot.
Steve meets Bucky every night for his evening break, the two of them sitting in the camp chairs while Steve drinks his weight in cider. He wants to kiss Bucky again every time he sees him, wants to taste the apples and ginger on his lips.
But he doesn’t. And there’s no more mistletoe, and he doesn’t know if the first kiss was because Bucky wanted to kiss him or because Bucky was just honoring the tradition, you know, given the whole theme of their becoming acquainted.
It’s maddening being so close to him, wanting to touch him, to feel his soft belly against his own torso, to press his thumb into the dimple of his chin. Every time they’re close, Steve feels like there are a thousand microscopic magnets under his skin, pulling and begging for him to get closer.
But he doesn’t. He sits in his chair and memorizes the laugh lines around Bucky’s eyes and wishes…
“I probably can’t sit long tonight. These last few days before Christmas are the busiest.”
“I can see that.” The number of trees on the lot has thinned significantly since Steve got his. But that seems like a good thing considering the sheer amount of people milling about under the string lights, some sipping hot beverages as they go.
“Bucky!” Becca calls from somewhere in the crowd.
“That’s my cue. Sorry.” Bucky reaches over to squeeze Steve’s arm and hops up. “As always, feel free to hang out and finish your cider.”
Steve does, enjoying the atmosphere, watching the operation play out. He’s down to the last sip when he realizes just how busy the lot is for a small family operation. Bucky, Becca, and Winnie are all doing their best to keep on top of things, but…
“Great, I’ll get this one wrapped up for you,” Bucky says to one customer before turning to another. “And I’ll be right with you when I—”
Steve picks up the Christmas tree with one hand firmly wrapped around the trunk.
“I’ll take it and wrap it,” Steve says, and Bucky gives him a look of immense gratitude and moves on to the next customer while Steve walks the tree up to the wrapping station. It’s about as easy as Bucky made it look. Steve ties the end of the netting, slides the tree through the tube, rinse and repeat. And he does that all night, taking up every tree Bucky and Becca sell so they’re free to keep working the lot.
By the time they close up, Steve very much understands why Bucky’s bicep looks the way that it does.
“Steve, you fucking angel,” Bucky says, producing a Barnes Family Farms tote bag from somewhere and filling it up with the rest of the day’s cookies before thrusting it into Steve’s arms. “Do you want a cut of the night’s profits? We’ll have to do the math, but—”
Steve shakes his head. “Consider me a volunteer.”
“Thank you.” Bucky takes a large step toward him and wraps his arm around Steve’s back, hugging him close. It forces Steve’s nose into his hair, eucalyptus and mint filling Steve’s nose. And, oh Christ, Steve’s blood is singing. Bucky’s against him for the first time since… Bucky’s so close, so warm, so Bucky.
Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. Like you mean it this time.
But Steve doesn’t. For one thing, Bucky’s Ma is right there. For another, he’s still not sure it would be wanted. And at this point, he’s in so deep that he’s terrified of being rejected. He wants to keep Bucky in his life and would never let it ruin their friendship if Bucky didn’t want him that way. But to know would mean the end of the hoping, the longing.
“I’ll come back tomorrow?” Steve offers, and Bucky hugs him again.
Steve helps every night, hauling trees around the lot until they sell the last little tree on Christmas Eve and officially close for the season. Everyone claps when Steve sends it through the wrapping tube, and he sits with the Barneses after, all of them sharing cookies and hot drinks.
“Thank you again, Steven,” Winnie says, patting his arm affectionately. “You’re welcome at the farm anytime.”
Steve smiles at her before frowning down at his cider. The farm. Bucky won’t be in the city every day after…
“I can’t believe we sold out early. I get to actually sleep tonight.” Becca sighs happily. “What about you, Bucky? You sleeping for twelve hours or sixteen? I think I’m gonna go for sixteen. Steve?”
“Oh, I was…” Steve taps his fingers against the travel mug he bought specifically as a cider receptacle. “There’s a Christmas party tonight. I was gonna ask Buck if he wanted to come, you know, if we were done in time.”
Bucky glances down at his phone. “When does it start?”
“About an hour from now,” Steve says.
Bucky stands up immediately. “I’ll meet you there then.”
The tree’s not so bad, Steve thinks, staring at it where it sits perfectly centered in front of the common room windows. Sure, it’s made of plastic, but he can appreciate the symmetry and clean lines and the way the red bows stand out so boldly against white lights and ornaments in silver and gold.
He’s on one of the couches with Thor’s arm slung over his shoulder.
“So I have the wildehorne by the legs, and I’m of course trying to explain that I am merely helping with its predicament, but of course it keeps flailing about like this…” Thor waves his arms in the air, sloshing a little Asgardian mead over the side of his mug. Steve takes a sip of his own otherworldly beverage, admiring the faint taste of something similar to honey.
To his left, Clint sits on the couch, Natasha on the floor between his legs while he braids fake holly leaves into her hair. Tony and Pepper are arguing playfully about something in the corner. Bruce leans against the wall by the fireplace, rapt with attention at Thor’s story (or maybe just at Thor.)
That’s the scene Bucky walks in on.
“Captain, Mr. Barnes has arrived,” Jarvis says, briefly interrupting the instrumental holiday jazz. Steve looks up at the door to and, oh. Oh.
Bucky has his hair down out of its bun, his brown waves swept to one side where they cascade down. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater in a deep green color over a pair of dark, ridiculously tight, jeans. When he smiles at Steve, the bottom of the entire world drops out, and Steve’s falling, his belly swooping.
“You made it,” Steve says, scooting over to make space for Bucky between him and Clint. Bucky sits down, a small box in his hand. It’s wrapped in a paper patterned with dinosaurs in Santa hats. Steve wants to lace their fingers together and never let go.
“Merry Christmas, Steve,” Bucky says, sliding the gift into his lap. Steve unwraps it and takes the lid off a box full of cotton. He carefully moves away layers of padding and then gasps softly. It’s a bright red ornament—blown glass, shaped vaguely like a spinning top, a circular silver burst laid into the larger segment.
He runs his thumb over a small scratch in the paint, remembers putting up his first tree without his ma and dropping this ornament and being devastated that he’d…
“How did you get this?” Steve asks, his voice so rough and hoarse that he can’t even pretend he’s not on the verge of tears.
“I set up an eBay alert. I thought it was a long shot, that I’d maybe get lucky before next Christmas, but…”
Steve stands up and offers his hand to Bucky.
“I’ll be back,” he says to no one in particular, before leading Bucky out of the room and into the elevator.
In his apartment, he stares at the tree and the ornament in the box before carefully removing it from the package.
“Where do you think it should go?” Steve asks.
“Front and center. You can move the…”
Steve relocates a plain red bauble to another part of the tree and hangs the ornament right there, wiping at his eyes after it’s done.
“I was a little worried it was a fake,” Bucky says, and Steve turns to face him and he realizes he has to do it or he won’t be able to live with himself in the morning.
“Bucky…” Steve slips his fingers under Bucky’s chin, pressing his thumb into that perfect little dimple. “Can I…”
“God, Steve,” Bucky breathes. “Please.”
And Steve leans forward and presses their lips together, losing himself in the faint lingering taste of cinnamon and ginger.
By the time they make it back to the party, their hair is ruffled and their lips are red and swollen. Bucky leans into Steve on the sofa while everyone does holiday Mad Libs.
“Butts!” Bucky and Clint call out at the same time, both dissolving into giggles and exchanging a low five.
“Now, I require a movie title,” Thor says, scribbling in the book.
“Snakes on a Plane!” Bucky yells.
“Anybody ever think that guy looks a lot like Fury?” Bruce asks, and then Tony and Clint are both trying to talk over each other at once while Bucky demands pictures.
“I like him,” Nat mutters, so quietly that only Steve’s enhanced ears could pick it up. She smiles at Steve warmly, looking every bit like a Christmas elf between the hair, a green bodycon dress, and bright red boots.
“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning down to press a kiss onto Bucky’s crown. “Me too.”