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Steve stared at the package on his step. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, with no markings but for a ‘For the Occupant of this Apartment’ scribbled in black marker. He glanced from left to right. No one was in sight.
After quick deliberation, he picked up the package and tucked it under his arm, fumbling with his keys and opening his door. A minute later, he was back to studying the package. He hadn’t signed up for any Secret Santas. He couldn’t think of any friends that would have done this, but he sent a quick text to Tony anyways. There was always a chance that he was trying to pull some sort of joke.
Did you leave a package for me?
Tony responded within a couple minutes. No.
Steve bit his lip, and then shrugged. There was no reason he should hesitate. Leaning over the package, he began ripping the heavy paper off. If it wasn’t for him, he could always rewrap it and apologize to the person that it had really been intended for.
When the last of the paper fell to the floor, Steve was left with a beautifully bound sketchbook, black and hardcover with thick, heavyweight paper. Steve thumbed through the book, admiring the quality, but feeling more confused than ever. Somebody must have picked up on his love for art -- but who?
The sketchbook tugged at the back of Steve’s mind all evening, as he cleaned up from dinner and got ready to go to bed. It kept him up all night, tossing and turning and throwing glances at the book, which was sitting on his bedside table.
At 1 AM, Steve had finally had enough. He grabbed the sketchbook and headed out of his bedroom, salvaging the wrapping paper that it had been covered in. Steve managed to arrange it so that it looked tidy enough, and he tugged a pen towards him. Beneath the note on the package, he scrawled out his reply.
I don’t remember signing up for any Secret Santa. I think you have the wrong person. - Steve
Before he could think better of it, he opened his door and nudged the package out into the cold. If it was still there by tomorrow, he thought, then he’d have to accept it. But if it really wasn’t meant for him, Steve wasn’t about to keep it. All that he could hope for was that whoever had delivered it in the first place would come back.
He went back to sleep.
The parcel was still there the next morning. Steve stepped over it on his way downtown to work, shooting it a hesitant look. By the time he returned, much later in the day, it was still there. He was prepared to step over it without much thought, but something caught his eye. Below the message that he had written the night before, there was a reply.
Steve scooped the package up, bringing it back into his apartment. When he was sitting at his table, he allowed himself to read through the response.
Not for a Secret Santa. Just wanted to do something nice. Merry Christmas.
Something began to boil within Steve. Reaching for the nearest writing utensil, he wrote back with a green pencil crayon:
I don’t need your charity.
As he set it back outside, he noticed something that he hadn’t before. A new addition had been made to the bundle. Curiosity overcame the anger, and he carefully pulled back the wrappings just enough to see the label. It was a package of pencils, all different grades of graphite. Steve had been in need of new supplies, if he was being honest with himself, but pride stopped him from taking them. Shaking his head, he abandoned the package back on the step of his apartment and went back inside.
With the next evening came the next addition to the gift.
It’s not charity, honestly. I just want to add to someone’s holiday. If it were charity, I’d be giving something like food or money.
Conflicted, Steve picked up the pencils and sketchbook, turning them over in his hands. The stubborn part of himself urged him to throw them back outside, tell this mystery giver that he had no interest in them. The artist in him couldn’t help thinking about how satisfying it would be to break them out of the package and use them, watch the fresh graphite brush against the paper.
There was also the newest inclusion of a candy cane. That, at least, he allowed himself to open. Eating the candy, he came to his decision. He put the gifts, still unopened, on his table, and took a fresh piece of paper from his drawer.
Fine. But you should get something in return.
He stood up, opened his cupboards and surveyed the contents. Cookies. He could bake cookies. No matter who this mystery giver was, they couldn’t turn down a good batch of Christmas cookies.
Steve got started. His mother’s old recipe came so easily to him that he barely had to think at all. Within an hour, the smell of cookies had flooded his apartment, and Steve took the first tray of cookies out of the oven. After they had cooled, he arranged them in a cookie tin and attached a note. The next morning, he left the tin outside.
By his return, it had been replaced with an envelope. Steve opened it to find a note, thanking him for the cookies, and a cheesy-looking decal of Santa Claus. He smiled.
The sticker found a place on his door.
Steve couldn’t help but become a little curious about the identity of this person, though. And once the thought was in his head, he couldn’t help but obsess over it. Christmas was approaching: in fact, Christmas Eve was the very next day. This, Steve knew, would be his very last chance to discover who was really behind the notes and offerings.
There was nothing for it.
He had already arranged it so that he had the day off. It turned out, though, that instead of participating in festivities, as he had anticipated, he instead hustled outside to wait outside his door. Knowing that it was likely that he’d have to wait for hours, he had brought a pile of blankets with him, and had dressed with the warmest of clothing that he could find (scarves, a hat, two sweaters, just to start). The only thing that he hadn’t put on was gloves. He planned to pass some of the time by sketching, something that he couldn’t do very well if his hands were covered.
Two hours in, he was regretting this slightly. His hands, red from the cold, were shaking and didn’t seem to warm up (even when Steve buried them underneath the many blankets). Still, he dared not go inside for even a second to grab something. If this was really his last chance to meet the mystery gift-giver, he was not going to waste it over something as simple as gloves.
Instead, he distracted himself by watching the snowfall, the slow accumulation of the tiny flakes on the ground. He really did love winter, he thought. Gone were the days when he got sick at the tiniest change in temperature. Now, he could enjoy the sight without having the sickening feeling that he was going to fall ill in the next few days.
He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the man who had just climbed the closest flight of stairs. It wasn’t until he did a visible second take that he gained Steve’s attention.
“Are you the person who’s been leaving me stuff?” asked Steve, focusing on the man’s startled look. Even with his expression, Steve couldn’t help but notice that he was really very attractive.
The man found his voice. “I guess I am.” He stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Steve stood up, wincing as the cold air hit him. “No. But I wanted to meet you. In person. I’m Steve.”
“Bucky.” Bucky reached out to shake hands. “How long have you been sitting out here?”
Steve shrugged.
Bucky crossed his arms. “Tell me.”
“A while,” Steve said, evasively.
Bucky sighed. “Open your door. I have hot chocolate.”
He held up the package that he was holding. Steve rolled his eyes.
“I thought you said that you weren’t going to give food.” he said, doing as Bucky had told him and letting him step inside.
Bucky scoffed. “I don’t think that hot chocolate really counts as food. Besides, you really can’t turn down a hot drink after being outside for god knows how long.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“Well, obviously you need someone in your life who’ll make you exercise some restraint.”
Steve led the way into the kitchen, thinking about how easy this was. He barely knew Bucky, but here they were, preparing hot chocolate and talking as though they had known each other their entire lives. When the both of them had their own mugs of the drink, Steve sat down at the table and asked the question that had been bothering him for the last few days.
“Why me?”
Bucky looked at him. “I just decided that I was going to do something nice for someone this year. And then I saw you, a couple of days ago. You were sketching something and didn’t seem to notice anyone around you. You just… made an impression. So I chose you.”
Steve cupped his hands around the mug, thankful for the warmth that instantly began to flood his senses. “Well, you certainly make an impression, too.”
“What do you mean?”
Steve shrugged. “For one thing, I wasn’t expecting you to be so hot.”
Bucky laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Well, I guess I had the advantage there. I already knew that you were pretty damn attractive.”
Steve felt his mouth quirk up into a smile. “I’m beginning to think you arranged this whole thing just so that you could hit on me.”
“Could you blame me?”
Steve, who had been in the process of taking a sip of the hot chocolate, accidentally scalded himself. When he composed himself, he looked up to see Bucky laughing.
“Are you okay?” The man asked, trying to sound concerned. Steve wrinkled his nose at him, not bothering to reply. Instead, he aimed a light punch at Bucky’s shoulder.
This was just as good as those festivities he was missing out on, Steve was sure.
(It was even better, later in the day, when they found themselves curled up together on Steve’s bed, Bucky’s hands sliding over Steve’s body and Steve’s hands finding their way up to tangle in Bucky’s long hair. That, thought Steve, was a gift for both of them.)