Work Text:
Winter, a vicious one
With unmistakable holiday glee, your manager denied your request to work on Christmas.
“Never in the twelve years I’ve worked in this business has there been a reason to work on a holiday. Especially this one.”
You couldn’t take your boss seriously when he had a pointy red hat on. The one with the white ball of fluff at the end.
“I know you’re trying so hard not to roll your eyes.” He poked the camera and the screen wobbled for a couple of seconds. “This is what you get when you give me a call on the 24th, when my out of office clearly said ‘urgent matters only’ because I’m off doing dad stuff.” He gestured to the hat again. His smile was kind, and you appreciated the sincerity but the hat… you hoped his kids liked that sort of thing.
In about three minutes, your shift was ending. If you walked fast enough maybe there would still be one of those single-portion roast chickens packed with potatoes or pasta at the store. You can pick up a few vegetables for a stir fry. You’d have to look for a recipe but that’s manageable. In theory.
You’ve got this.
You logged off and grabbed a coat, a thick one that’s served you well for four New York winters. It saved you from hypothermia last year when you stood stock-still in the middle of Washington Square Park until you almost passed out. You don’t know how long you’d been standing there by yourself, not thinking, not feeling anything after your ex clarified why he wanted to cut through the park on your way home from the office Christmas party.
He didn’t have a violinist on standby and a ring in his pocket. You certainly had no need for the dress your best friend helped pick out or the torture heels that created the illusion you had legs for days. Your boyfriend of three years escorted you dutifully from your apartment to the party, where your boss announced your promotion in front of the team, and from the party to the park, with the intention of informing you this relationship did not have a future beyond that evening.
You zipped your coat up, tugged on the beanie hiding your Day Three hair, and exited the building after the last working day of the week. The weatherman believed snow wouldn’t fall until right before New Year’s, but the wind already had a serious bite. Typical of the season. It had couples snuggling and single individuals insulating themselves against loneliness.
The streets seemed busier than usual. Either that or you needed to get out more. People dashed past you, going to or coming from office parties and last-minute get-togethers with acquaintances they will not be speaking to in the next two weeks. You’ve been dodging gift bags swung around with abandon the moment you stepped out of your building.
The city was beautiful in a cold, gray, pre-slush way. Decked out shop windows and children in holiday jumpers provided color to an otherwise desaturated cityscape. The twinkling lights inject New York with new life. Everything sparkled and buzzed with activity.
See, you weren’t totally incapable of recognizing signs of life. It just didn’t translate into warm and fuzzy feelings for you this time of the year.
Your mother who was on holiday somewhere warmer with your father, halfway around the world, sent a few messages, but you decided to reply to them later. You stuffed your hands inside your coat pockets, where they would be warm and toasty unlike your nose, and kept walking.
You probably should text your brother back too. He and his wife, together with your nephew, an eight-month old Alaskan Malamute who was more than half your weight and possessed five times your energy, were spending the holidays with your sister-in-law’s family.
Jess, who once declared she was not moving out of the city for anything less than a wedding proposal, was spending her first Christmas in the suburbs of Chicago this year at her new one-story house she bought with Lisa, who was notably still not Jess’ wife or fiancé.
The doors chimed when you slipped inside the family-owned grocery store.
“We’re out!” Ricky announced from behind the counter as soon as he spotted you.
“No you’re not. Come on.” You tiptoed over the glass counter at the deli section. Behind Ricky was a whole chicken, brown and glazed, stacked over two more roasted chickens in takeaway packaging.
A whole chicken was more than you need but that’s a problem for the next few days. Today you were focused on not having ramen noodles for dinner. You may have avoided going to a couple of Christmas parties and taken your name off the department’s Secret Santa list this year, but you’ll be damned if you weren't eating something roasted tonight.
You weren’t thrilled about the yuletide season and the good tidings that clearly skipped you, but a nice dinner, followed by a box of cupcakes would be proof your ex - along with other forces of evil like taxes and global warming - did not win.
The shop assistant gave you an apologetic shrug.
“Ricky. Ricky. Rickyyyyy.” You weren’t about to give up just yet. You had cards to play.
“Those have been reserved.”
“You told me I can’t reserve chicken.” You were acting like a brat because of chicken, something you didn’t expect to be doing today, but the alternative was unacceptable.
“You can’t. The guys who bought ‘em are just picking up drinks at the back.”
“But I went to your improv show. In Yonkers!” Your pitch went up; it was intentional and you did not like yourself very much when you heard it.
He laughed, slamming his palm on the tiled counter. “Ten minutes before closing if I remember.”
“And I gave you Jess’ number.”
“Jessica your hot friend the lesbian?”
“Yeah and now you have a hot girl’s number in your phone.”
Ricky frowned and for a moment you thought you had a shot.
“You’re out of beer Ricky G!” Someone yelled a couple of aisles back.
Freaking Ricky G? Seriously? You raised an eyebrow.
“The good kind at least.” Another voice quipped.
Seconds later, two tall men in baseball hats emerged with boxes of beer. The room shrunk as Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes appeared. They seemed to be arguing about something but quickly resolved it when they saw you chatting with Ricky.
It wasn’t unusual to run into the pair in this part of town. They kept to themselves and didn’t want attention, but it was pretty hard to ignore two Avengers huddled by the pasta and rice row, bickering abound carbohydrates.
“Hi.” The duo spoke at the same time.
Sam dumped the box of 24 he’d been carrying onto Bucky, who didn’t seem to realize he’s now carrying 72 cans in his arms.
“Merry Christmas,” Bucky greeted you with a friendly nod. He adjusted his grip on the boxes without breaking eye contact.
Something about the easygoing super soldier made you feel less anxious about your impending ramen meal.
You didn’t know much about him apart from what the Internet said and what you witnessed when you ran into him doing errands. Like you, he did his grocery shopping on Thursdays and but unlike you, he never bought more than five items. He always seemed to know about upcoming pop-up shops and flash sales in the neighborhood.
He had an impressive jacket collection that he wore year-round. Your favorite was a blue bomber jacket. It must have been early October, the last time you saw him wear it.
Fall, a while back
You collided into Bucky as you ran inside the store. You expected the impact to be the equivalent of slamming into a brick wall, but Bucky had an unexpected tender grip, still strong, but it wasn’t the death grip news outlets made people fear. The bomber jacket wasn’t just soft either, it smelled wonderful - clean and pressed, like he’d just taken it out of his closet that afternoon.
Your heart pounded from turning into the corner quickly and running into Bucky, chest first. He caught you without so much as a blink, and he seemed more relieved than caught off guard.
“What’s the rush?” That lazy grin tended to stick with you well into the night. Under the fluorescent store lights, his eyes were a cool, lighter blue shade, and for a brief moment you thought about watching those eyes by the fireplace.
Hey creepy girl, chill.
You don’t even have a fireplace, first of all, and surely Bucky Barnes deserved better than having people like you perving on him.
“Uh,” you cleared your throat and the fog in your head. “I’m not even sure anymore.” Must be something to do with Jess. Right. Jess invited you to have dinner with her and Lisa that evening.
“Bring wine. Something cheap,” her text message said. “We’re celebrating!”
Over home cooked steak and fries that evening your friends gave you the “we’re moving to Chicago” announcement.
Bucky released your arms and you realized he wasn’t carrying his usual five-item basket.
“Not shopping today?”
He scratched his head. The shorter hair made him look younger. Less recognizable. Like he could be any ordinary handsome neighbor. Seeing him made you regret doing your shopping in sweatpants. “Just picking up milk.”
He must live somewhere in the area but you weren’t going to ask for his home address.
“Anything new to report from your walk to the store this evening?” That was very lame. You’d have to be a little smoother than that if you planned on getting any personal information out of him.
He chuckled though and scratched his upper lip. “No, but I’ll keep an eye out on the trip back home.”
You watched him disappear into dairyland before you reluctantly headed in the opposite direction. As you tried to choose between moscato and riesling (and ended up bringing both to the dinner), you thought about the comfort these casual Thursday run-ins with Bucky brought.
They offered a sense of stability after months of feeling like everything lay on a precarious edge, like one wrong move and you’d crash and fall apart again, just like the time the guy you thought was the love of your life explained how things were different now, how you’d changed, how he couldn’t picture the two of you growing together, how his decision had nothing to do with her.
Out of the 365 days to choose from, he settled on breaking up with you a few days before Christmas and acted like you should be thankful for his honesty and initiative.
He was right about one thing - you were grateful about not spending one more minute with someone who turned out to be a complete stranger to you all this time.
Back to the alleged vicious winter
A year after the break-up, you weren’t sad anymore but the first sign of the holidays somehow stalled you; the reminder seemed to block your ability to feel festive about anything. Even the well-meaning invitations from your family and friends to spend Christmas with them did not appeal to you.
The only thing you had any passion for was roast chicken for dinner on Christmas Eve. You were supposed to be berating Ricky for not being on your side, but Bucky wished you a merry Christmas with boyish - dare you say flirtatious - twinkling eyes and before you had a handle on the situation, you found yourself saying the words you’d never uttered once this season: “Merry Christmas.”
Sam cleared his throat and leaned against the counter. “What’s Ricky G done now?”
“Hi Sam,” you added with a wave. If you didn’t know much about Bucky, you definitely knew less about Sam, other than what’s been reported on the new Captain America. He occasionally accompanied Bucky on mid-week shopping runs around the neighborhood. You ran into them sometimes when you were in the mood for overpriced coffee and a velvety muffin that just melts in your mouth.
You shot Ricky an apologetic look. “I was just hassling Ricky for roast chicken.”
“Sorry, we just bought the last one minutes before you came in.” Sam straightened up. “What do you need a whole ass chicken for anyway? Are you having a party and didn’t invite us?” He gestured to his friend, who continued to watch you with a cheerful expression.
“Oh god no, no party,” you replied quickly, unsure where the urge to make them understand you were not excluding them from some sort of organized fun came from. “It’s just - it’s more of a party for one scenario this evening.” You paused, and after a quick look at Bucky, immediately added: “That doesn’t sound like the most exciting evening but I’m celebrating with a box of cupcakes. Frosted to the heavens.” You kissed your fingertips for added emphasis.
“Ah.” Sam nodded approvingly. “Honestly, cupcakes on Christmas Eve is something I would totally be into, but you know what’s more fun? Roast chicken, a bunch of people, and a couple of beers.” He tapped the top-most box of the stack Bucky still carried. “What do you say?”
*****
Sam’s winter deal
Sam was not taking no for an answer. He spotted the hesitation when you paused and glanced at Bucky for what seemed like the tenth time since they approached you two minutes ago. He could hear the gears in Bucky’s arm stress-whirring as the soldier awaited your response. It’s very faint, and only trained ears would pick it up, but it’s a definite tell-tale sign.
Bucky remained cool, watching you and Sam like he was just as surprised about Sam’s invitation.
“You have to make it sounds like it’s your idea and that you’re throwing the party, I’m just providing the venue,” Bucky told Sam as they left a meeting in Washington DC a week ago - coincidentally also the first time the 107 year-old man brought up wanting to host a party on Christmas Eve. Or any party ever.
“Why?” Sam kept walking down the hall. He was in a rare position of being able to help Bucky. Supporting his friend was a given but Sam wanted to see if the bullheaded senior citizen could be convinced to do other things that were in his best interest, since he was in an accommodating mood anyway. Like talk to the guys at the VA about trauma and recovery.
Bucky was a private guy, at least as private as someone with multiple intelligence agency dossiers on him could get, but in a couple of situations, he has opened up and shown good teaching instincts. Sam didn’t know anyone like Bucky who had something to say about the grief and loss that was worth listening to, that would actually transform the lives of struggling people.
Getting Bucky to share his wisdom and life experience with discharged and injured servicemen was a lost cause until Bucky met you two years ago while he was staking out a warehouse in Queens and popped into a corner grocery shop for a pack of gum.
Suddenly, the visits to Queens became a recurring event and Bucky returned to his apartment in Brooklyn, 40 minutes away by car if he’s lucky, with a bar of soap or loaf of bread and an idiotic grin plastered on his face.
Bucky finally allowed Sam to come with him one Thursday, provided he didn't say a word.
“God Sam, please, please. Do not make it weird.” Bucky made him swear before they entered the store. The summer heat was stifling and Sam was desperate to escape it and go inside, where there was air conditioning. How Bucky could survive wearing one of his jackets was beyond him.
“She’s single now right? And you’ve been single since what, the forties? A little weird is what you need, Buck.”
Push Bucky hard enough and the Winter Soldier icy stare made a rare and unwanted appearance. “Promise me.”
Bucky never asked people to make promises. Sam wiped the smile off his face and hoped that would calm his friend down. “Alright, alright. Barnes, breathe man.”
They “run into you” moments later between toilet cleaning products and laundry supplies. Bucky indulged in small talk, much to Sam’s total fascination. Bucky smiled openly. Not once did he glare at anyone. When Sam quipped about being the guy who knew Bucky too well, the super soldier laughed heartily and even replied “I could say the same thing about you,” without a hint of sarcasm.
It’s not that Bucky was a different person around you; it’s more like he let you in to see who he used to be - the carefree, effortlessly charming guy who didn’t have a reason to look over his shoulder all the time. Not even Sam had access to that side of Bucky.
Obviously, when Bucky wanted to throw a Christmas Eve party, a poorly disguised (to Sam at least) excuse to spend more time with you, Sam was raring to help.
He just wanted to see Bucky grovel a little bit more.
“What do you mean why ?”
Sam continued crossing the street without acknowledging Bucky, taking quick steps to the lot where he parked the car loaned to them by the DC Chief of Police.
Bucky matched Sam step by step. “She mentioned her family and friends were all out of town during the holidays and I just thought - she doesn’t have to be alone, right? That’s all.”
Of course that wasn’t all. Bucky might be persuaded to confess to Sam his feelings for you in the middle of a busy DC street, but Sam wouldn’t do that. He’d make Bucky spill the beans inside the car.
“I don’t know buddy. Sarah’s expecting us to arrive the day before Christmas in case you forgot. The kids were looking forward to seeing you again.”
Bucky had trouble saying no to Sam’s nephews. Piggy back rides. Crushing random household items using the metal arm just because the boys wanted to know what sound it’d make. Aluminum cans. A bundle of sticks. A whoopee cushion. “I’ll make it up to them,” Bucky immediately said. He overtook Sam the moment they reached the other side and held out a hand. “Ok Sam Wilson, I’ll bite. What do you want in return?”
Sam didn’t even pretend to think. “Sessions at the VA. At least three.”
Bucky sighed. Not because he didn’t want to do it, but because he knew he would do more than what Sam asked if it meant you’d be around the apartment this holiday.
“You’d be helping out these guys immensely, Buck.” Not that anyone needed reminding, but Sam really believed Bucky had more to offer without having to pick up a gun. He’s just too thick, too hesitant to see it in himself.
Bucky stared at Sam. “She can’t know the party’s for her. Say it’s for Torres. Let’s invite Torres and the trainees over. It’ll be a team party.”
“You got yourself a deal, Mr. Barnes.” Sam walked around Bucky to hide a satisfied smile. He had not taken more than five steps when Bucky called out again.
“Oh and we gotta make sure the grocery deli runs out of chicken that day.”
Back to the vicious winter, the way Sam sees it
Sam conveyed authority even when he’s inviting a casual acquaintance to a party. “It’ll just be a few people we work with. Oh and him.” He nodded at Bucky, as if Sam had only remembered about the other guy. “I kind of have to invite him because it’s at his place.”
“Thanks pal, being kind of invited to my home makes me feel very special,” Bucky retorted.
“You’re welcome Buck,” Sam clapped his friend on the back harder than necessary.
You watched in amusement. If they weren’t arguing like an old married couple, they were smirking at each other like there was a longstanding inside joke and no, they wouldn't tell you about it. There probably was, the way Sam and Bucky exchanged eye rolls and made faces at each other all the time.
“What do you say? Come over to Brooklyn Heights for a roast and a beer?”
The surprised look on your face alerted Sam to his minor slip up. “Brooklyn?”
“Heights, yeah, where he and Steve grew up, the Smithsonian says so. Have you ever been? To the exhibit I mean?” Sam replied. “We’ll give you a lift to the apartment; we just have to get these in the back of the truck first and then we’re set.”
“It’s fine, I just thought he lived around here,” you explained with a sheepish grin. “I should probably change into something less casual than pj’s anyway.”
Bucky shook his head, letting you know it’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it.
Eager to move things along, Sam rubbed his hands together. “Then it’s settled. Bucky’s loading these up and he’ll give you directions to the apartment and we’ll see you in about… an hour or so? And bring the cupcakes!” He said, heading out of the store before you could change your mind.
He needed to talk to Torres about something.
*****
Spring
Bucky committed theft the first time he saw you nearly two years ago. You smiled at him from aisle five, juice and soft drinks, and he walked out of the grocery store having forgotten to pay for the pack of gum.
You were only trying to warn him about Ron Sr. overspeeding on his electric wheelchair out of aisle two, soups and canned goods.
The wheel dug into his shin and it hurt, but in the Bucky Barnes spectrum of pain, getting jabbed in the shin by a rubber wheel barely registered as a one.
The highly-trained field agent with enhanced eyesight, hearing, and reflexes failed to get out of Ron’s way just because somebody with kind eyes waved at him. Bucky’s leg would be sore tomorrow but he’d pay that price everyday for a chance to see those eyes. Even from this distance.
You turned to Ron as the elderly gentleman whizzed past your aisle. “Ron, you promised to take me for a spin, don’t forget!”
A middle-aged version of the speedster jogged over. Must be Ron Jr., Bucky guessed from the similar ear shape and sharp nose. “I’m so sorry-“ he froze the second he recognized Bucky.
“It’s fine.” Bucky was quick to reassure the frazzled son.
“Meat section, RJ,” you said when the man continued to gape at the Bucky.
Bucky took his eyes off you for a brief moment to address Junior. “Sure you’ve got this covered but if I can do anything…”
Ron Jr. nodded before rushing off after his father.
When he looked up, you were gone and Bucky’s shoulders dropped. He exited the store and only remembered about the pack of gum after reaching the end of the block.
He jogged back to the store and told himself it was to pay for the item. If you happened to come around the front, well that would be purely by chance but highly appreciated. He’s been watching amateur crooks move contraband into a warehouse since 6:00am that day and Bucky wanted -
Your pale pink shift dress fluttered out of the corner of his eye. Bucky caught his breath.
Get it together, he told himself. He saw beautiful people daily. He worked with elite level athletes with double degrees in science and humanities - persons who were out of his league but you were the first one who had him confessing to petty theft.
The cashier wouldn’t even let him pay for the gum, which was more embarrassing and Bucky could already hear Sam cackling if he ever found out. Just as he ran out of excuses to loiter by the entryway, you walked out with two bags.
Your eyes widened in recognition as you approached. “Our feet are safe thanks to Ron Jr.”
Bucky smiled self-consciously. “Do you need help with those?”
You shook your head and shifted a bag to your shoulder. “It’s just a short walk back home.” Bucky could tell it dug into your skin but you wouldn’t bother anyone with that. “My boyfriend won’t believe I saw you today. He’s a big fan.”
His heart plummeted. The reaction was instant and Bucky was terribly confused by his disappointment. It’s not like he was in love with you. He’s known you for all of what, five minutes? Of course someone with your compassionate eyes and confidence would be off the market. This shouldn’t be a big deal.
He’d get in the car again and keep watching people commit a felony and not do a thing about it because recon meant sitting on his ass and not doing a goddamned thing about nothing.
You misread his reaction. “I’m a fan too but I-“ You giggled and covered it up quickly by clearing your throat. It was the most beautiful sound to Bucky. “I guess I didn’t want to be creepy. Sorry. I’m thankful for what you do. You must hear that all the time. Sorry for being creepy and unoriginal.”
You’d be surprised to know how easily people forget about him and the team when aliens and criminals behaved for five consecutive days. But you meant those words and he felt that. In spite of his crushed soul, Bucky smiled back.
“Well, you have a good evening Sergeant Barnes.” Your eyes shone in the darkness as you bid him farewell with one more head tilt before walking off.
“It’s Bucky. My name’s Bucky.” He could have said that and wished you a good night too; he might be a soldier but his mother taught him better than that. Instead, he remained tongue-tied, watching in silence until you turned around the block.
Still spring
The stakeout yielded crucial information. Bucky already turned the report over but he dropped by Queens one more time to check if the warehouse had been sealed to his satisfaction. They had standards to maintain.
Call it due diligence.
Most people would call it a Thursday.
Before he started a second sweep of the grocery store, you entered with your faded cloth bags and pulled a cart on your way to the farthest aisle.
Interesting approach, Bucky thought. If he timed his “shopping” correctly, he’d pass you at the breakfast section and this time he’d remember to speak.
He couldn’t ask you out but he could ask for your name, right?
That day, you didn’t just give him your name, you told him about overnight oats and chia seeds too. Bucky’s head spun with thoughts of no-cook breakfast recipes and your animated, friendly face, practically bare although he detected a sheen on your lips.
He noticed the Little Women passage on one of the cloth bags and never has he felt gratitude for his near photographic memory until that day when he quoted the first few lines from the novel from memory.
“No way,” your jaw dropped.
Your mouth formed a delightful shape and Bucky was a miserable man. He’d stick his nose into ten moldy paperbacks just to see that look on your face again.
He returned the following week with his own reusable bag - black and plain, in keeping with his personality or so Sam joked. More importantly, Bucky was armed with details about an upcoming book fair a few blocks away from the store.
That night you spotted him first - “Bucky!” - just as he asked you to call him.
He managed to get his act together before walking over to you.
By the tenth weekly grocery shopping trip to Queens, more than two hours away from the Brooklyn apartment by foot - Bucky has been known to walk longer distances than that just because he felt like stretching his legs - Sam felt obliged to mention he was fooling nobody. “Are you gonna ask the lady out at some point instead of giving her updates like a community newsletter?”
Bucky frowned at him and then left the room. He returned two minutes later, willingly spilling the reason why he can only talk to you inside the store. He can’t resist seeing you, even if it were only for a few precious minutes each week, but he would never cause any trouble for you and the lucky bastard who never helped you with grocery shopping.
Sam felt bad for his friend, but he wasn’t about to tell Bucky Barnes how to deal with his feelings. He wasn’t worried about Bucky stealing you away. He can be obnoxious and daft; he had terrible taste in music and he’s as grumpy as old farts go, but James Buchanan Barnes was an honorable asshole.
Sam was more concerned about you breaking Bucky’s heart without even knowing how much power you wielded over a man who knew at least ten unique ways to neutralize someone with something as random as a spoon.
“Would you tell me if you needed advice or help?”
“I don’t need help,” Bucky growled. They both knew he was in over his head.
Bucky was as stubborn as he was old but Sam had the patience of a saint. It might take weeks or months, but Bucky would want his help one day.
Winter, Brooklyn
Bucky wanted to open the door for you but Torres said something about predator behavior in the wild. Instead, Bucky’s been made to wear an apron and reheat side dishes in the kitchen.
“Hi.” Your voice traveled through his apartment. Bucky’s had plenty of practice listening for your voice across rows and rows of dry goods. He grabbed the counter for support and stilled his breathing. It took zero effort to seek you out over the TV blaring, drinks clinking, and Sam’s unrestrained laughing.
You’re here.
Torres introduced you to all seven people from the base who didn’t have anything better to do that evening, and eventually found themselves in a house party with Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.
“Look who’s here.” Torres ushered her to the kitchen.
It’s a modest apartment, but spacious by the city’s standards. The room came into focus, like someone adjusted the settings, sharpening shapes and brightening hues, the moment she stepped in behind the lanky lieutenant.
“Bucky’s been cooking all afternoon,” Torres reported.
Bucky didn’t mind your drawstring joggers from this afternoon but tonight’s jeans were a gift from heaven. You even had a red sweater on. You looked cozy. You looked-
Stop ogling dickhead.
“No he hasn’t.” Your gaze landed on the chicken lying on a bed of vegetables. “I’d know that chicken anywhere.”
Torres laughed as he backed away. “Cooking, re-heating, same thing.”
Bucky wiped his hands on the apron. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Your eyes lingered on a framed photo of Bucky, Sam, Natasha, and Steve over the sink. Curiosity was written all over your face. “What are you having?”
All the beer in the building would only give him gas but Bucky drank for the social aspect, not for the alcoholic benefits.
“If you thought the chicken looked familiar…” He produced a cold can from a cooler under the table. “Can I open it for you?” Wait. Should he not have said that? What if you thought he was being overbearing? You’re quite able to open a can of beer.
“Please,” you replied without looking away from the picture. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this looks like you and Sam actually enjoy each other’s company.”
Must have been six, seven years ago when the picture was taken in Wakanda. Steve flew in with Sam and Nat to meet with T’Challa but someone got the dates wrong (Steve, Bucky liked to think it was on purpose) so they had a free day to themselves. Sam wanted to go fishing. Steve was happy to sit by the water with a beer and his sketchpad. Neither Nat nor Bucky were particularly into fishing but they were particularly into messing with Sam’s quest for zen.
There’s an identical photo in the Wilson’s living room back in New Orleans.
Bucky bit his lip to stop himself from smiling too much. “Captain America’s ok I guess.” The can creaked as he pulled the tab. “Football’s on, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks.” You accepted the beer and took a quick sip. “I’m good here. Plus I have to keep an eye on the chicken in case something happens.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s supposed to be the highlight of my day. Roast chicken, cupcakes, hanging out with the best of the military. What else can a girl ask for?” You looked around the table for something to do. “Put me to work, Chef.”
Bucky hesitated. You were the guest of honor but you weren’t supposed to know that. He handed you a jar of gravy to pour into smaller bowls.
You washed your hands, stood next to Bucky by the counter, and focused on the task at hand. He watched you but not with his eyes - he listened to your careful but deliberate movement, your relaxed breathing, and sensed your quiet confidence moving around his kitchen.
Bucky’s heart lurched. He nearly stumbled backward and had to turn away to cough.
“Are you ok?” You peered at him, not alarmed but concerned.
All he could do was take a very long drink from his beer and wait for his heart to settle right back in his chest.
Satisfied he was not choking on air, you returned to your assignment. “You want me to start setting the table?”
What Bucky really wanted from you, he couldn’t tell you. Not here. Not yet. Today wasn’t about what he wants.
“Yeah, that’d be great please.” He chuckled when you saluted him before taking the dishes to the dining area, where Torres’ team set up another table and extra chairs. Someone brought mismatched reindeer and candy cane printed tablecloth. Sam found candles in the second bedroom yesterday.
Sam and Torres banished Bucky to the opposite end of the table because there were only two women and Lee, Torres’ second-in-command, already chose her seat (which was the one Torres asked her to pick).
“It upsets the balance,” the younger soldier explained, directing him to the other side where he’d have to make friends with the trainees he only met today. “Only one Avenger, one pretty lady, one cute guy on each side and we’re good over here so…”
Sam high fived you and Bucky could only sigh.
He didn’t want to have to sit six feet from you, not when he’d gone through this whole operation just to make sure you have company this evening, but he’d also grown fond of Joaquin, even though he kept calling him Torres to keep the kid on his toes. Bucky offered you a helpless smile as he settled in his seat at the end.
You returned the look from your side of the table. Sam and Torres entertained you with tall tales and anecdotes, more than half of them at Bucky’s expense, and you would turn to him with an incredulous look each time. When Sam’s spiel turned into a three-minute speech about having to sit in a car with Bucky for four hours straight, you stole another look at Bucky. “He’s not going to stop anytime soon?” you asked with your smirk.
“Sorry.” Bucky mouthed back, suppressing a laugh.
It’s the longest the two of you have been in the same room together and all Bucky had to do to see you was look in front of him.
Aside from Torres, most of the trainees were only a year or two out of basic training and if only their jaws would stop dropping every time he or Sam walked into a room, Bucky thought the young ones might learn something useful. They made fun of Redwing and asked Bucky about European camps and what it was like to jump out of a plane without a chute. They saved Bucky from having to come up with conversation topics and kept Sam from taking over the discussion.
The silent glances, not as furtive as both of you thought they were, lasted until dessert. Sam volunteered to fetch the cupcakes and Bucky casually moved into his seat when Bucky refilled your drink. Sam returned minutes later, placing a singular cupcake in front of you without a word before taking Bucky’s former seat. The kids reached for their share of dessert.
“Want to go halfsies on a lemon cupcake?” You showed Bucky a golden cupcake with pale yellow frosting.
“Halfsies?” Against his better judgement, Bucky cocked an eyebrow. He can’t not give you grief for that.
“I said what I said,” you replied with a laugh.
Winter, later that evening
The drive back to Queens was familiar. It’s Bucky’s first time navigating the streets with you sitting next to him, and it felt more comfortable than his favorite t-shirt.
He told you about one of Steve’s sketches hanging in the halls of The Met, an anonymous piece of work that Bucky visited at least once a year. Two if he was feeling particularly ancient or lonely. You explained why you’d been hassling Ricky over bird meat that day.
He listened to you overshare and at times anger flickered through his eyes but he kept quiet. He merely “hmmmed,” nodded, and kept driving. You changed the topic eventually, and the curl of his lips returned.
Bucky walked you to the entrance of your building, wondering what else he can do to stretch time.
“Thanks again for the dinner; it was a hundred times better than what I had planned today.” You stopped walking just as you reached the first step leading to the door. It had grown colder since the afternoon and your coat was zipped right up to your chin. Even Bucky had his hands shoved in his pockets, his pink cheeks made his eyes look like someone pumped more blue into them since dinner.
“I’m glad you came.” He nodded. “And you didn’t have to tell me about - I mean it’s none of my business - I - I’m happy that you’re-” You were perfect; you’re the smile on Bucky’s face first thing in the morning; your happiness meant everything to him. “I’m really happy you’re ok.”
You turned your gaze up to get a good look at him, determined to say something, but you lost courage as you opened your mouth to speak.
Instead of rushing to fill the silence, Bucky held his tongue and he waited, just as he’d been sitting on the sidelines for months on this self-assigned recon mission. His confused smile persisted as yours went from scared to mortified to “oh fuck it.”
“I figured you should know… in case you wanted to have dinner again.” You brushed your nose hurriedly as you blurted out those words. “Just us, I mean. If you wanted to,” you looked at your feet with an embarrassed smile.
He’d be lying if he said the idea of asking you at the end of the night never occurred to him. “Yeah - yeah, ‘course I’d like to but -” Bucky stammered, his mind going too slow for his body. He paused to let the rest of himself catch up. “Tonight isn’t supposed to be about that.”
“Probably, but Sam’s either a terrible spy or an amazing friend.”
Bucky laughed. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, he thought about how he never pictured himself making holiday plans with Sam, bribing the shop assistant, reaching out to Torres for help, welcoming a bunch of strangers to his home, least of them all standing here with you.
You look another step toward the door and his attention snapped back to you. “Sam also said you guys were flying out to spend Christmas day with his family?”
“Right.” Bucky could already feel the distance growing as you inched your way to your building. The temperature dropped by the minute. Winter gloom hovered in the periphery, ready to jump him the second you closed the door.
You grabbed the door handle and leaned against it. “Is that going to be enough time to figure out if you want to give me call?”
Warm relief flooded Bucky’s lungs and it vanquished imaginary monsters. “More than enough time.” Bucky called out after you. “Too much time!”
“Goodnight Bucky!” You wave from the door.
There was more to say, he supposed, but tonight wasn’t about that.
*****
Summer
The demolition announcement came as a surprise. One day you were complaining about the lack of vegetables at the vegetable section; the following week you found out you’re going to have to look for a new favorite store in six days. You don’t know what else to do on a Thursday evening.
The notice by the entrance was hardly legible, a black and white announcement on an A4-size paper, more of a memo than a poster. You only detected it because a tall, really good-looking guy in a blue bomber jacket had been staring at it.
“That’s a shame,” you said after reading the message.
Bucky draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you to him. “Yeah.” He kissed your sticky forehead. You were enveloped in his arms and the light scent of his aftershave. “Did you run all the way here?” He kissed your hair again and his breath tickled your head when he chuckled.
You elbowed him hard and withdrew from the hug. “Sorry if I was excited to see you.”
“Hey - ow - oooow!” He rubbed his stomach, feigning hurt with sad, wide eyes. “I just saw you this morning anyway,” he pointed out, pride taking over hurt. There was a sensual swagger in Bucky’s stride as he led the way inside the grocery store, his male ego tickled by the memory of this morning back in your apartment.
Like a magnet being pulled, you automatically walk behind him, stifling a grin because that morning was fun and intense and also the reason why you were late to work, and therefore also late to meet Bucky for your regularly scheduled Thursday errand: grocery shopping.
Summer heat followed you inside. The air conditioning didn’t work as well as it did years ago. Everything about the shop seemed like it needed repairing; it’s been that way for months now, so maybe closing down made sense.
Like clockwork, Bucky grabbed a squeaky cart and made a sharp turn down the first aisle. “Are we going reverse alphabetical or by aisle this week?” He missed last week’s shopping trip because of work, which explained the puzzled look on his face. He leaned forward to rest his arms on the cart, the dark baseball cap barely containing shining eyes.
Of course his instincts were right. “By aisle,” you confirmed.
Bucky pumped his fist, like guessing right meant he’s coming home with a prize. He pushed the cart as you began pacing down the snack aisle. The squeaking behind you stopped after a minute and you figured he paused to grab something unhealthy for the cart. You reached for a bag of chips yourself.
He cleared his throat and then called your name.
“Hmmm?”
“I know where else we can pick up groceries.”
“Uh-huh.” You should probably skip this lane altogether. Too much temptation and -
“Brooklyn.”
You returned the bag of chips you’d very nearly tossed into the cart and faced Bucky with a hand on your hip. He walked around the cart, only stopping when the toes of his sneakers met yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Bucky nodded firmly. “Tons to choose from, with much better ventilation too.” He brushed a strand of your hair behind your shoulder. His eyes studied you, the way he used to while pretending to choose between chunky or creamy peanut butter on the other side of the aisle a lifetime ago.
Bucky often looked like there was something amazing he’d just discovered about you and the realization smacked him in the face. You thought that phase would pass after the first few weeks, but those weeks turned into months. Conversations changed from what plans the other person had this weekend to how many eggs someone with Bucky’s metabolism needed in a week. From figuring out who slept on which side of the bed to choosing a bigger duvet to end accusations of blanket hogging.
And months strung together formed years.
“You might be onto something there.” You tried to keep a straight face, but his grin was infectious. He already knew the answer would be yes.