Chapter Text
Zurich is beautiful in the wintertime. Despite the biting wind and the infrequent but heavy snowfall, the town is as stunning as any postcard. Ribbons, garland, and Christmas trees decorate every street, and Sam wonders if he’s living in a Hallmark movie right now. People smile and wave to greet each other, the scent of baked goods wafts into the public square, and the holiday decorations are perfect in that classic way, effortless and nostalgic.
Here Sam is, in a real life storybook town, and he feels nothing. Nothing at all.
Sarah would love Zurich, he’s sure. She always enjoyed the Christmas spirit, swiping icing on his cheek and calling him a grinch when he refused to decorate Christmas cookies with her and his mom. Back then, he thought he was too cool for all that. Christmas was for children and the foolishly naive. He was neither.
He’d spent his 24th Christmas shooting enemy combatants out of the sky, hadn’t even known what day it was until everything was over. Riley bought him a beer as a belated gift, and they spent the night getting hammered and reminiscing on family traditions.
Several months later, Riley was gone and Christmas lost every trace of its magic.
Looking back, he wishes he had shelved his cynicism and packed away his grief, at least for the night. He wishes he was back in that kitchen while his mom sings traditional hymns and Sarah mocks his decorative skills. He assumed he’d have all the time in the world to sneak pieces of dough from the batter and set aside icingless cookies for his dad. To bicker over who opens the first present even though he and Sarah are both grown now, to smile in another awkward family photo, to bow his head as his dad’s rich voice thanks God for their time together and the year’s many blessings.
He assumes he’d have time for it all, other years and other Christmases.
That just goes to show how much you really know at 25.
…
The hotel they’re in for the night is far from the worst place they’ve stayed. The window looks out over Zurich’s city center, including a 50 foot tall Christmas tree that shines through the night (and their window) like a beacon.
Bucky scoffed when he saw it and drew the blinds shut— turns out Sam isn’t the only one not feeling the Christmas spirit.
Even though Sam’s chest is a black hole of apathy, the trip isn’t all bad. He particularly enjoys the look on Bucky’s face when he drags Sam to a skating rink and realizes Sam is more than proficient on the ice.
“What the hell,” Bucky grumbles, begrudgingly watching Sam skate on one leg just to piss him off.
“Aw, did you think I was gonna beg for your help? Oh Bucky, please hold my hand and teach me how to skate,” he pitches his voice up, delighting as Bucky’s scowl deepens. “This must be embarrassing for you.”
Instead of responding, Bucky skates a few feet away and seamlessly executes several Olympic-level maneuvers, gaining the attention of pretty much everyone in the vicinity. He finishes with an extremely sardonic bow, smirking up at Sam from beneath a ridiculous flop of honey brown hair, and the onlookers cheer like this is the goddamn Ice Capades.
Sam rolls his eyes and skates off without him. “Showoff.”
…
He wakes to labored breathing in his ear and the lights from that stupid Christmas tree in his face.
He rolls onto his side, looking his partner over for any sign that something is wrong, something more than the typical nightmare (they’re never typical, not really. More nights than not, Bucky wakes with tears on his cheeks and blood in his mouth. They don’t talk about it).
Even in sleep, Bucky doesn’t look peaceful. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes flickering back and forth underneath the lids like he’s watching a movie, breath hitching in his throat. It should be unnerving, the way his fingers twitch like they’re searching for a weapon, but the sight doesn’t make Sam nervous.
At least, not in that way.
He should wake Bucky up. It’s clear from the sweat sliding down his temple that his mind is dragging him through a funhouse of past and imaginary horrors.
He should wake him up, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he continues watching, categorizing each minute shift in facial expressions, memorizing the clench of chorded muscle in Bucky’s forearm, studying the straining tendons in his neck.
He could wake him, it would be easy. Just a singular whisper, just his name.
Sam stays silent.
Like this, Bucky looks every part the tortured soul he swears he isn’t. Sam rarely sees this side of him, the side that’s truly affected, truly suffering. Dappled light from the window flickers over his silhouette, lingering on his mangled left shoulder and exposed collarbone, and Sam is struck dumb with it all.
Figures Barnes can make even the godforsaken Christmas tree look beautiful.
Sam swallows down his wanting and turns the other way. He falls back asleep. He dreams of nothing at all.
…
The following day brings a flurry of snowfall. Sam shivers, cursing the weather and Joaquin for assigning them this mission and his own summer temperament.
Bucky watches him with amusement, not bothered by the temperature in the slightest, despite his definitely-not-snowproof shoes and his pitiful excuse for a coat.
“Wanna borrow my jacket?”
Sam glares at him. “You’re wearing a short sleeved shirt under that, dipshit.”
Bucky grins, sharp as anything. “Don’t need it; I grew up in Brooklyn.”
He’s loving every minute of this. Steve never mentioned that his best friend is an absolute rat bastard. Goddamn you, Rogers.
“I hate you.”
Despite how vehemently Sam spits the words, Bucky laughs.
…
Miraculously, they make it back to the states before Christmas.
When Sarah finishes greeting him with a tight hug, she glances behind him, surprised to find the doorway empty.
“Where’s your handsome yet brooding shadow?”
Sam sets his bag down by the couch (Bucky’s couch, his traitorous mind supplies), and shrugs. “Brooklyn, probably.”
She eyes him as she snatches the bag off the floor and lugs it to Sam’s room. “He got plans there or something?”
“Hell if I know.”
She stops in her tracks. “Samuel Thomas. Tell me you invited that boy over for the holidays.”
He busies himself with unpacking his meager items so he doesn’t have to face her. She was always too observant for her own good.
“It didn’t come up.”
He doesn’t have to look to know she’s rolling her eyes up to the heavens, all exasperation and Lord give me strength.
When she speaks, however, it isn’t full of chiding or judgment at all. Instead, it’s soft, a little sad. “Oh Sam, you’re kin to your daddy. You never did know how to ask for what you want.”
Sam resents the words, but he recognizes them as true.
“Call him up,” she says. “He’s only got one friend in the whole goddamn world.”
“Steve’s gone, Sarah.”
“I wasn’t talking about Steve.”
…
Bucky not only shows up the very next day, he brings presents. One for Sam, one for Sarah, and a small mountain for AJ and Cass. When Sarah insists it’s too much and that the boys will be spoiled, Bucky ducks his head bashfully.
“I never got the chance to spoil my own nieces and nephews, so I’ll have to borrow Sam’s.”
Sam mouths kiss up, and Bucky has the audacity to wink.
“Nonsense, you’re a part of this family too,” she tells him, leaving no room to argue. “Besides, the boys already call you Uncle Bucky.”
A sunshine grin splits Bucky’s face, and it’s… yeah, okay. It’s…
He should probably look away before he gets caught staring, but he doesn’t. He looks his full and pretends he isn’t memorizing the way it softens Bucky’s face.
For once, he looks peaceful.
…
Christmas Eve finds Bucky and Sam lounging on the sofa after putting the boys to bed. Sarah’s out on the porch, finishing off the cookies the boys decorated and left out for Santa to find.
Judy Garland’s voice drifts through the open window, singing about faithful friends, Yuletide, and the fates.
“I remember this one. It came out a year before I… well, my last Christmas at home. I’m surprised it’s still around.”
His gaze is far away, and Sam desperately tries not to think about Bucky’s family listening to Judy Garland year after year. One day soon, we all will be together if the fates allow.
“Of course you know this song,” Sam shakes his head. “Happy Golden Days Of Yore is your middle name.”
Bucky snorts, and Sam takes it as a win. “Wow, you found something worse than Buchanan. Congrats.”
Honestly, he’s not sure what he’s doing here, sitting next to Bucky on the sofa with a mug of cider in hand. It’s painfully domestic, between the music and the relaxed slant of Bucky’s shoulders in the green Christmas sweater Sarah got him, looking for all intents and purposes like he belongs right here in the Wilson household, humming along to the radio, pressed against Sam’s side.
“Hey,” Bucky turns to him. His breathing is perfectly controlled like it gets when he’s nervous, and for a second Sam thinks this is it, it’s happening. “I know we’re supposed to exchange gifts tomorrow, but I’d like you to open yours tonight. Is that okay?”
“Of course Buck, let me grab it.” He eyes the tree, looking for the right gift, but Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder before he can get up.
“Not that one.” He pulls a small, beautifully wrapped box from his pocket, and Sam narrows his eyes.
“You got me two gifts.”
“Yup.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
Bucky laughs, clear and bright. “I’m an asshole cause I got you two gifts?”
“Exactly. It’s like when people decide not to exchange presents, then one person does it anyway. It’s the biggest asshole move, because then the other person feels like shit for doing what they both agreed to in the first place, which is nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” Bucky doesn’t even have the nerve to look contrite. “So should I return it, or…”
“Gimme that,” Sam snatches it from his hands.
Bucky doesn’t say anything else, he just watches Sam rips the paper off and stares at the unassuming black box.
“You’re not proposing, are you? Cause let me tell you, I will sell the ring for cold hard cash. I’m not settling down without at least 2.5 years of romance and wooing.”
“Just open it, Samuel.”
Sam grumbles under his breath. “Don’t call me Samuel.”
He opens the box, and oh.
The earrings shine in the light, and there’s no way they aren’t real gold. He runs his finger along one of the hoops, marveling at the delicate curve and floral detail work. It’s the exact size he’s been wanting, and of course Bucky knew that. Of course he noticed when Sam got his ears pierced between missions last month, needing to make some sort of change in his life, needing to regain a sense of control.
He only owns one pair of earrings, a set of simple studs, but he’s been wanting hoops.
“How did you know?” Sam breathes.
Bucky shrugs and doesn’t elaborate.
“They’re beautiful.”
He wants to say it’s too much, but Bucky’s staring at him with this look in his eyes and Sam can’t deprive him of this, of making someone happy, of feeling good about himself.
.
.
.
Bucky doesn’t tell him the earrings belonged to his mother first.
…
Sam wakes the next day to Cass and AJ thudding down the stairs, trying their best not to wake the whole house as they gape at their presents, crawling under the tree to get a closer look.
By the time he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and throws on an acceptable shirt, Bucky’s already fixed a cup of coffee for him, easy as you please.
Sam doesn’t think about how Bucky knows exactly how he likes it. He doesn’t think about that at all.
“Someone’s eager,” Bucky drawls, and for a second Sam thinks his feelings are written all over his face.
Then he follows Bucky’s gaze over his shoulder to see AJ shaking a colorful present with a single-minded determination to break identify what’s inside.
“AJ, put that down this instant. You know you aren’t supposed to touch the gifts before breakfast-”
And it’s off to the races.
Bucky cooks breakfast (“Let me do this for you Sarah, it’s Christmas”), then Sarah sets the boys loose on the presents. They tear through all their gifts with frightening efficiency, especially considering how many Bucky brought. The shock and delight on their faces as they open gift after gift is one of Sam’s favorite moments all year.
More than once, AJ throws himself into Bucky’s arms, crawling all over him and entreating him to play this or that game with him later in the day. Even Cass hugs Bucky a few times, which is huge because Cass isn’t a hugger.
Despite always claiming ignorance about the 21st century, ‘Uncle Bucky’ somehow managed to find the newest and coolest toys, including a video game that wasn’t even officially on the market yet.
Sam’s heart lurches in his chest when he realizes more than half the gifts Bucky brought for the boys are labeled From Santa.
Money was tight this year, and Sarah spent hours agonizing over the decision to spend less money on gifts than usual. It was a hard call to make, and the guilt weighed heavily on her, even when Sam assured her it was the right call.
So when Cass opens the new video game and shrieks Look what Santa got us, mom!, Sarah cries. She turns her face away to discreetly wipe away the tears, but Sam still sees them.
Later, when the boys are out playing in the yard, she’ll pull Bucky into a tight hug and tell him he always has a home with them, regardless of his relationship with her idiot brother.
For the moment, she mouths thank you, and that’s enough. Bucky blushes bright red and shrugs off the gratitude.
He makes Sam and Sarah open their gifts from him at the same time, and Sam blinks down at the smartphone in his hand.
“It’s untraceable, unhackable, and can connect from anywhere in the world, according to Shuri. That way you two can call while Sam’s away, even on classified missions.”
Sam stares at Bucky as he fidgets on the couch, as if he didn’t just give Sam the best gift he could possibly receive, one he didn’t even know he wanted.
“It’s just-” Bucky continues, filling the silence. “Your phone always loses signal, and you get this sad puppy look when you can’t call home, so I just thought-”
“Man, shut the hell up.”
Bucky shuts up, and Sam stares at the ceiling to keep the definitely nonexistent tears inside his definitely dry eyes.
“You perceptive asshole,” he whispers. “You out-gifted me, you considerate motherfucker.”
“Oooh, Uncle Sam said a bad word!” AJ cackles. “Money in the jar!”
“Two bad words!” Cass pipes in. “That’s ten whole dollars.”
“Make it twenty,” Sarah smirks. “For cussing at my favorite half of your dumb and dumber routine.”
Sam wants to find the words, the ones that mean thank you and how dare you and I hate you so much, or something like that. Instead, he wrestles Bucky to the floor for his wallet and crows triumphantly when he escapes with a twenty dollar bill, despite knowing Bucky let him get away with it.
…
“So when are you gonna lock that down?” Sarah asks as Sam clips her hair back for Christmas dinner, all dressed up even though they aren’t leaving the house.
Tradition is tradition, as Darlene used to say.
“It’s not like that,” he says carefully, wondering if he looks as see-through as he feels, like glass and water and air.
She clicks her tongue. “This is Jess Johnson all over again. You mope and mope, but anytime you actually get what you want, you’re too scared to take it.”
“Come on Sarah, that ain’t fair. This is nothing like Jess-”
“You’re right,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s so much worse than Jess because you’re not in 7th grade anymore, and that man downstairs actually knows how much of a freak you are and apparently wants you anyway-”
“Whoa whoa, I’m perfectly normal compared to him, he’s the freak-“
“-can’t believe the bravest person I know is running away like a little baby-“
“-you only like him cause he’s nice to you, he’s actually the worst, but he’s too busy being a kiss up-”
“-literally just trying to impress you, Samuel-”
“-don’t you Samuel me, Sarah Beth-”
A knock at the door interrupts their argument.
“Mom, Uncle Bucky says the ham is ready.”
Sarah gives him the stink eye and then, sweet as you please, says, “Tell him I’ll be right down, baby,” as if she weren’t just calling Sam a coward in his own bathroom.
“This isn’t over,” he glares.
Instead of answering, she smiles guilelessly. “Nice earrings, where’d you get them?”
He narrows his eyes. “I hate you.”
“Uh-huh,” she applies a layer of lipgloss and smirks at him. “I’ll see you downstairs. Don’t take too long, your man is waiting.”
…
Dinner is a quiet affair, but it’s nice. The boys are dressed in their Sunday best, and Bucky cleaned up nicely with his combed back hair and button down shirt. The reason Sam likes it so much has nothing to do with the fact that it’s his shirt, nothing to do with that at all.
Sarah cooked a lovely Christmas dinner with Bucky’s help, Sam says grace just like his dad used to do, and Bucky takes a picture of all the Wilsons smiling in front of the mantle at Sarah’s request.
“Do you know how to use the self-timer? We gotta have one with you in it as well.”
“Oh, I don’t think-” Bucky stammers, but what Sarah says goes, so Sam uses Redwing to take a picture of ‘the whole family.’ It’s a nice picture, and he makes a mental note to print a copy for Bucky, since he doesn’t have many photographs of his own, despite having rooms full of them at a museum in downtown DC.
“You’re doing that staring thing again,” he says after dinner is done and the dishes are all put away.
Instead of giving him lip, Bucky holds the eye contact.
“The earrings, they look nice on you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Despite the slight flush in his cheeks, Bucky nods resolutely, as if that settles things.
Hell, maybe it does.
…
Several hours and a few cups of mulled wine later, Sam feels a lot calmer about the whole thing.
“Get up,” he shakes Bucky’s shoulder. “Get up, lazybones, get off the sofa.”
“Oh my god Samual,” he groans, “What if I was asleep?”
“You weren’t.”
“What if I was?”
“Shut up and stand up.”
“Ooh,” Bucky grins, all Cheshire Cat teeth in the dark. “Taking me to a secondary location? Kinky.”
“You’re not sleeping on the sofa on Christmas.”
“Finally kicking me out?”
“Would you stop it?” Sam shoves him, ignoring the fluttering in his chest when Bucky laughs. “If sharing a bed was good enough for you in Zurich, it’s good enough for you here.”
“Sir yes sir,” Bucky salutes, and he looks so relaxed and ridiculous that Sam doesn’t even remember to make fun of him.
He wakes up the next morning with the warmth of Bucky’s vibranium arm slung low across his waist, and he keeps his eyes closed, choosing this moment for as long as he can have it.