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He doesn’t like snow. You know that, and you know why, and it makes you angry in a cold-ruthless kind of way when he hugs you close in the dark hours of the morning, seeking desperately for something alive to cling to after the blood and death of his nightmares. Sometimes he cries silently, and sometimes they’re loud and ugly and you hold him as tightly as he holds you.
He’s quiet in the soft, gentle way you’ve come to associate with peace and home and safety. And maybe that’s why he doesn’t say he loves you often, or maybe it’s because of those old demons he’s fighting, or an odd fear. He has his moments of raucous and boisterousness; with Steve and Sam, when the sun is bright out and he chases you around the apartment whilst you’re both trying to clean it, at the galas Tony Stark hosts as he charms both men and women with that mischievous dimpled smile and those funny war stories.
But he’s quiet, and you know the darker stories he doesn’t share with anyone except his therapist and Steve, and maybe Sam, and you like it like that. You like that he’ll sit at his piano for hours and play endless tunes to accompany you with whatever you do. You like that sometimes he won’t speak all day, because he always seems to know how to tell you everything, anyway. You like that his quiet is his most inner layer of serenity and strength, and that he shares it with you.
His fingers dig into the dimples of your back, and you think mildly that he really does need to cut his nails. There are no tears tonight, but his breathing is ragged and his grip frantic, and you wonder if tonight’s nightmare is drowning him.
Your hand threads through his tangled hair, finding a place at the base of his skull and cradling his head and neck. He falls a little more into you, and you sit in the quiet of the night, watching the city happen far below you through the window in the bedroom. Even at night, it’s awake and buzzing.
He exhales slowly against your neck, and you shift to look down at him. “Hey, sweetling, how are you?”
His eyes flutter closed, eyelashes brushing your skin. “That was a real bad one.”
“Yeah?”
He straightens slightly, tugging and moving until he’s the one holding you, arms coming around you like warm, loving anchors. “Yeah.”
“Wanna go to Steve?”
“No,” but he gets up, anyway. You watch him stumble towards the door, watch with sad eyes the physical toll his nightmares take on him.
You know not to follow him, right now; it’s one of those things he said without words. Your phone is open, messages open, and you’re waiting for some indication you should text Steve or Sam, but you only smell freshly made coffee and hear the gentle dance of piano melodies filling the apartment.
You lock your phone, no message typed, and roll back over. You have work in the morning, and he’s there when you wake a few hours later, with freshly sliced fruit and hot tea and warm oatmeal. You smile and kiss him, and he smiles back, and you know it’ll be one of those silent days, but that’s okay.
***
It’s fun to curl up on a sofa in the corner of Stark’s living room and simply sit and watch. Bucky is happy here, in that lovely, boisterous way of his. His laughter rings loud and bellowing, and Steve’s joins him, and Tony raises his voice to be heard over them as he continues where the story left off.
Natasha and Clint sit on the sofa with you, somehow both squeezed into the other corner, a tangle of limbs and hand signs as they share comments back and forth about their teammates. They look warm with the special intimate familiarity of two souls made from the same bit of stardust, and that makes you happy, too.
Steve turns his head to catch Natasha’s eye, smiling excitedly at her, proud of his quick wit and banter with his brothers, and she smiles back. She doesn’t have a face made for smiling, not really, but it’s a special smile she has for only Steve, and it softens the hardness of her face until it’s almost warm. You suppose Steve can see what you can’t, of her warmth and peace; she is, after all, to him what you are to Bucky, and that connection allows people to see in each other what no one else can.
Bucky twists around towards you, head cocked, eyes glittering, and you grin back, assuring him that your mug is full by taking a quick sip. His smile widens and he returns to the conversation. Vision materializes beside you; you’ve gotten used to his habit of floating through walls.
“It appears Sergeant Barnes is quite content tonight.” The weather had warned of possible snow, and you suspect that’s why Tony had thrown this sudden gathering—despite what the media likes to claim, he is a kind man with a brilliant, soft heart.
You hum quiet agreement. “Each winter gets a little easier.”
Vision floats beside you. “Yes,” he murmurs thoughtfully, “they do.”
You wonder if he’s thinking of Wanda and her own aversion to the colder weather. The red-head is chatting with Pepper in the kitchen off to the side, and when Vision excuses himself as quickly as politeness allows, you smile again.
There is so much love here, tonight, in this small, understated apartment Tony has specifically for moments like this. Laughter and good food and you take a slow sip of your tea, relaxing further into the sofa and letting the moment fill you.
***
There’s no snow yet, and for that you’re both grateful and disappointed. No matter your love’s aversion to it, you love the cold, beautiful crystals that will fall from the sky and turn the world white and sparkling. He knows this, and tries to cheer you up by taking you ice skating. You can’t help your adoring laughter, the affectionate smile, the ecstatic kiss that turns to something a little deeper and hotter and heavier.
It’s another hour before you leave, and the temperature is well below freezing. The ice rink is full of people; of children wobbling precariously in their blades, of teenagers lapping slowly in large hoards, of parents wobbling along behind their kids. Bucky pays admission and gets the skates, and it makes you warm in your heart and mind that he knows what size to get you, that he pays such close attention.
He presents them to you almost proudly, before kneeling down to gently slide them onto your feet, lacing them up tightly. You laugh quietly. “Sure you tied them tight enough?”
He grins up at you. “Just wanna make sure you have enough support for your ankles, doll.”
You just kiss him your gratitude as he sits next to you to slip on his own blades, and then you’re up. He’s graceful on the ice, with his trained balance and control. You’re not as good as he is, but it’s a tradition now, and every time you come you get a little better. He circles around you lazily as you glide easily around the rink.
The first time he’d done this, the circling, you’d panicked and scrabbled gracelessly into a fall. He’d laughed and bent down to help you up, assuring you between his chuckles that you had nothing to worry about. Now, you knew he could calculate your speed and movement in relation to his, knew that he wouldn’t lose control and hit you; and you had the sneaking suspicion that his circling was to act as a protective barrier from the over-exuberant skaters who occasionally lost control.
Christmas lights were strung back and forth above the rink, sparkling rainbow and lovely off the ice. Classic carols vibrated from the speakers mounted on the outside of the small shack that housed the skates. There was a breeze that turned your nose and cheeks raw, but you didn’t care. You were with Bucky, and you were warm.
He circles and you lap, endlessly, happily, chatting and laughing and falling in love, and it’s only when your cheeks are too frozen to speak that he tugs you gently off the rink. You whine playfully, and he refuses you.
“You’re ‘bout as cold as this ice, babydoll.”
You quirk a brow. “You can warm me up.”
He grins back, shamelessly, crouching to untie your skates. “Later.”
“Why later?”
“I was thinking we’d get some hot cocoa and pie at that bakery down the street.” He looked up at you for affirmation, and you hummed happily, bending down to kiss him.
He tasted like the cold and like the apple cider he’d had earlier, and you linger a moment before straightening. “I love you.”
His smile widens and softens, and something in his eyes melts away. You wonder if it was one of his nightmares.
***
The Christmas tree is taller than he is, and you dance happily around him as he puts it up in the corner of your living room. The boxes of lights and ornaments are already out, strewn haphazardly around the furniture. He’s barely finished tightening the last screw into the trunk when you begin pulling out coils of lights.
He moves out of your path of excited chaos, leaning against the wall to watch you. He’s beautiful like that, reclined and relaxed, not quite smiling, but almost. Quiet and peaceful.
Christmas music plays from the turntable on the coffee table, an old record you’d found of the artists he would surely remember. He’d cried the first time you’d played it, tears of shock and awe and nostalgia. That was the first night he’d danced with you.
It’s quick work to get the lights on, and the ornaments soon twinkle in the dark green of the tree. He’s just watching you, softly, reverently, and you look back at him after hanging the final ornament. “How’s it look?”
“Like magic.” He hasn’t even bothered to look at the tree, those blue eyes never moving from you.
You grin down at him. “You have to actually look.”
He does, dutifully, and then seems to become entranced, simply staring. The lights reflect in his eyes, sparkling.
Magic, indeed.
***
You were surprised the first time he baked something, because he’d never expressed any interest in it previously, and because it was the most delicious apple pie you’d ever had—except for maybe your nana’s. Now, he does it every year, trying new things and then you’ll make trips to local firehouses and soup kitchens and donate the sweet treats. He always makes sure to save an entire apple pie for you, though.
Steve and Sam are over tonight. Steve is by the stove, stirring a pot as its contents bubble merrily, and Sam is busy pounding gluten activation into bread dough on the counter beside him. Bucky is measuring out flour and sugar and butter, and you recognise the ingredients of his favourite pastry crust.
The old record plays, and the conversation is bubbly and merry, and though you’re as quiet as possible, you see a small smile curl on Bucky’s lips. You never have been able to sneak past him unnoticed.
“Hey, doll, how was your day?”
You set your purse and keys on the dining room table, squeezing past Steve to kiss him. “Good. How was yours?”
He leans into you briefly, giving you another quick kiss on your forehead. “Good. Tony is having a bake-sale charity fundraiser tomorrow, so we’ve been busy.” Yes, he has that buzzing satisfaction of working through a to-do list.
You move to greet Steve and Sam, the latter fixing you a quick eggnog drink. You thank him and clink your glass to his. “Are we all going?”
Bucky pauses to give you a curious look. “If you want. You’ve mentioned how those galas aren’t always your thing; didn’t want to volun-tell you.”
He’s so kind, so considerate, and you just smile at him helplessly. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”
He nods and smiles back, and you escape the bustling kitchen to shower and relax after your long day at work. You fall asleep on your bed, a book open on your chest, the warm smells of Christmas and happiness permeating the apartment.
Bucky isn’t there when you wake up the next morning, but there’s a small note stuck to a mug of tea that’s still warm: out with Stevie, be back soon, do my hair for the gala? You smile sleepily; he has a phone and knows how to text, but those old habits always win out. You save every note he writes for the days when you’re old and senile.
After a lazy thirty minutes lounging in bed and drinking your tea, you wander out to the kitchen. The dining room table is overflowing with baked treats, and a singular apple pie sits on display on the counter by the stove. You fix another kettle for hot water, swallowing a yawn and moving to study this year’s treat.
He’s decorated the top with snowflake-shaped cutouts, and a small, precisely measured heart directly in the middle.
***
Tony greets you happily, kissing both cheeks and hugging you. Pepper is close behind, a little more subdued but with the same glow. “Thank you so much for your contributions.”
“Oh,” you let one of the bellmen take your coat and scarf, “Bucky, Steve, and Sam did all that.”
Pepper smiles. “I’ll be sure to thank them, too.”
She’s kind, like Tony but also in a different way. She is patient and graceful and lovely. You like her.
The party is in full swing, with live music and warm drinks and happy chatter. Bucky is proudly showing off his hair, done by you, as requested. People dance and laugh and you exhale happily. This, this is beautiful and wonderful and it feels like Christmas, and you love it.
Vision appears beside you. “Good evening and Merry Christmas season.”
You turn towards him. “Hello, Vision. Merry Christmas.”
He smiles; he has a nice smile, for being an AI. “I’ve heard it’s supposed to snow tonight.”
You sigh; if only. “They’ve been saying that for weeks now, and no snow.”
Vision blinks at you curiously. “This makes you sad.”
“I do like snow.”
“But Sergeant Barnes doesn’t.”
“No.”
He considers that for a moment, then nods acceptance and offers another smile. “You look lovely tonight.”
Vision is odd, and young and naïve, and old and tired, and kind in his own way, like everyone else on the team. You laugh quietly. “Thank you, darling.”
Wanda walks in then, and Vision’s gaze snaps to her as if drawn by a magnet. You know he will remain speaking with you, as propriety demands, so you excuse yourself quietly. He gives you a grateful look and glides towards the redhead.
Natasha and Steve are dancing in the middle of the room, Clint and Sam battling it out in a game of darts. Tony and Pepper continue to play doting hosts, and Bucky is nowhere to be seen.
It’s not the first time he’s disappeared from a party for a few minutes, and you wander over to the refreshments table, knowing that he’ll be back soon enough. The treats the boys made are selling insanely fast, and you know Bucky will be delighted to know people liked his baking so much.
Your phone vibrates in your clutch and you look down to a text: balcony in the back? You’re smiling again, because you love him so much, because he loves you so much; because it’s Christmas.
Be there soon.
Sam smiles and waves at you as you walk past, and you wonder suddenly if he knows why Bucky is calling you away from the party. It wouldn’t be the first time your love has gone to Sam for advice or ideas.
Bucky truly is beautiful, standing there on the balcony in his tailored suit and hair you did. Tony’s staff did the decorations wonderfully, the white and blue lights making everything glow. He’s waiting, bathed in the light that makes his eyes look so pale they’re clear, hands folded behind his back.
You smile as you approach, and he smiles back, holding out an arm to you. Even in the cold, he’s always so warm.
“Hey, beautiful.”
You kiss him greeting. “Hey, sweetling.”
His smile becomes something almost bashful. “I have a present for you.”
“Do you?” You kiss him again, quick and chaste. “It’s not even Christmas yet.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Close your eyes.”
You do, feeling the chill once more as he steps away. After a moment of letting you stew in curiosity, you hear the soft clink of something, and then a cool, weighted strand around your neck, a pendant resting on the bare skin beneath the hollow of your throat. And then his arms are around you again, warm and secure, and you open your eyes to see a compact mirror in his hands.
A necklace of gold and diamonds and aquamarine that sparkles almost like his eyes did in the lights of your tree, and your breathless and awestruck and—
“ Bucky ,” his name leaves you in a breathless gasp.
He looks worried and excited and nervously hopeful. “Sam and Steve helped. And Pepper.” Yes, you’d figured the bulk of the cost had been covered by the Stark bank account. He shifts his weight. “Is it good?”
And then there are tears in your eyes and in your words and you hug him tightly, whispering reassurances and gratitude that trip over each other in your wonder and delight. “It’s like ice crystals; it’s perfect .”
He smiles down at you, kissing the top of your head and swaying gently back and forth to music that you can’t hear. You’re not sure how much time passes—minutes or maybe even an hour—and then he stirs and whispers, “Doll, look around.”
You do, unsure what you’re seeing at first, unsure why he pulled you both from your moment of softness and togetherness. But then you see it, the small, white flakes spiraling through the air. Your mouth opens slightly, eyes wide, and, “Snow! Oh, my god, snow!”
Bucky smiles and nods and reaches for you again, and you can feel the tension vibrating through his body, because he doesn’t like snow, and you know that and you know why, but he doesn’t move away, and he doesn’t suggest going inside.
You laugh, delighted and entranced, and spin to give him another searing kiss. “ Thank you. ”
He blinks at you curiously. “I didn’t do this.” A playful quirk curls on his lips. “I can do a lot, but I can’t control the weather.”
You laugh and roll your eyes and kiss him again. “Thank you for being out here with me.” Thank you for trying to see the magic where I do.
He just squeezes your hand. “Always.” You hear everything else he isn’t saying, all the promises of future magic and the swell of past moments
He doesn’t say he loves you often, but that’s okay. You hear it, anyway.