Work Text:
The nighttime air was cold enough to burn.
Bucky instinctively screwed up his face, trying to stop his nose from turning red out of sheer will. (It turned red anyway.) He looked up at the stars – the few that were visible, thanks to the pollution of the city. They looked back at him sadly.
The door behind him opened briefly, the sound of voices spilling into the cold, none of them distinguishable. Someone shrilly exclaimed, “It’s freezing!” and the door closed again.
Bucky was alone.
He leaned on the balcony railing, looking at the city below him. It was bustling and alive, in the way that it often was, but especially at this time of year. He could see a rooftop party only a few blocks away; a car blasting Christmas music from its radio as it slowly moved through the congestion; tiny figures skating round and round in the park. Someone fell flat on their butt, convulsing with laughter, bringing their friends down with them.
There was laughter coming from the party, too, the one that Bucky had left. But it was all loud and fake, like people were making the active choice to laugh, like they were articulating each ha, ha, ha. It wasn’t the kind of laughter that Bucky liked; the kind that bubbled in your chest and burst out of your mouth when you couldn’t contain it any longer; the kind that warmed you from the inside like a mug of warm cocoa. Nothing really made him laugh like that anymore. No one did.
… He missed Sam.
It was strange, really, because Bucky didn’t really miss people. He thought – he almost thought that he couldn’t. Like it had been burned out of him, somehow. But he missed Sam. God, he missed Sam like a lung. He was living just fine without him, but… How long had it been since he’d laughed? Actually laughed, without making the choice to?
How long has it been since I’ve heard his voice?
Something in Bucky’s chest pulled, and he had never wanted to hear someone’s voice more than that moment. He had to hear it, in fact, if he didn’t, he was pretty sure he was about to die.
Fuck. Is there a word for that? Missing someone so much you think you’ll die?
Bucky let out a groan. Fucking holidays. Fucking Christmas Eve. Fuck. He hung his head.
His neck suddenly felt cold and wet, and he cautiously looked up, only to hear cheers of delight coming from the party behind him, and across the city below. Snowflakes fluttered down from the sky, dancing in the wind, delicate and light. It was a beautiful sight; Bucky couldn’t deny that. And he could see the small figures raising their hands up, or turning to run indoors – or in some cases, running outside. A shared moment for the city, no matter who or what you were.
… And yet he was miserable.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at it, mainly because he had nothing better to look at. It was a text from Yelena, asking if he was coming back inside.
He ignored it. What was the point, anyway? He was over getting schmoozed for brand deals and autographs. He could waste any evening doing that, why did it have to be Christmas Eve?
Instead, he looked at his call history. Ten outgoing. All to one number. All ignored. The last time he’d tried was way back in September. He’d given up since then – and work had gotten busy, so he didn’t really have the time.
That thing in his chest pulled once more.
Fuck it.
He called Sam.
The phone rang… and rang… and rang. It felt like it was going for eternity.
And then, eventually:
“Hey, this is Sam. Leave me a message, and I’ll ring you back!”
Liar, thought Bucky. He went to hang up, frowning at his phone, but then he saw a fresh snowflake land on the screen. It didn’t melt right away.
Someone on the street started singing ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ very loudly and out-of-tune. They made it through two lines before they dissolved into laughter.
Bucky put the phone back to his ear. The tone was just ending.
“Shit,” he murmured, then realised that the first thing Sam would hear in the message was shit, so he said, “fuck,” and then, “sorry, sorry.” Wrenching the phone away from his ear, Bucky silently yelled into his fist, bit it, and then sat abruptly on the floor. It was a little wet on account of the snow, and he was definitely ruining his nice pants, but this was likely the only way he’d be able to form actual words, so it was worth it.
“Uh, hey,” he said. “I know you probably don’t wanna hear from me, considering the fact that we haven’t spoken in… forever, but I…” I miss you. “I thought I’d see how you are. I mean – I know how you are, I guess, I saw you on the news today. Don’t you ever take a day off? Suppose you’ll be delivering presents this evening, dropping down the chimney or whatever… hah… all those parents saying, ‘be good, otherwise Captain America won’t bring you any presents this year.’ I hope I don’t get coal in my stocking.” Bucky pulled a face. What the fuck am I saying?!
“I hope it’s nice where you are,” he continued. “I saw that you were in DC today, but I guess you’ll be in Louisiana for Christmas. Say – say hi to Sarah for me, will you? And the boys? If they ever need anything fixed, or – someone to chop vegetables, I swear I’m better at it now.” Bucky let out a slow breath. It turned into a cloud, swirling among the snowflakes for a moment before disappearing along with his words. Nothing felt permanent. Nothing felt solid. There was something easy about the way it all fell from his lips, like snow melting as soon as it touched the floor.
“It’s snowing in New York,” he said, quietly. “I always liked the snow. My mom, she used to tell me off like crazy, y’know, because I’d bring it all back into the house, and it would turn to sludge. I didn’t care, though. I went out with my sled, and I’d fall off it every time. Steve and I would have snowball fights, and he’d… he’d shove the snow down my collar, because he didn’t want to lose.” He gave a soft chuckle, but it faded away, like everything else. “Man, I really loved the snow. Now, I just… I don’t know.”
Bucky tipped his head back, until it made contact with the building behind him. The snow was falling faster now. He wondered, if he stayed still enough, whether it would bury him. He wondered whether he’d let it.
“God, something must be really wrong with me, Sam,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m surrounded by all these people, and… and it’s fucking Christmas, and it’s snowing, it’s – it’s so beautiful, it really is, and all I want…” He trailed off. Coward, he thought. “I want things to go back to the way they were.”
Bucky sat with the admission, for a moment. He could hear glasses clinking inside as people toasted their good health and deep pockets. A shiver shot down his spine. For a while there he had forgotten that he was cold at all.
He knew that he wasn’t there, but he imagined Sam on the other end, listening intently. There was a little pinch to his brow sometimes, when he was really focused, or when Bucky had just said something he deemed important. And he would purse his lips slightly, like he was about to give advice (Sam gave the best advice), or a word of comfort (nobody comforted Bucky like Sam did).
Bucky closed his eyes. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking.” (He could hear the echo of Sam’s voice, deep and teasing; “Uh oh.”) “And maybe it’s because I don’t see you anymore, I don’t know, but – I’ve been thinking… about you. And I know what you’re gonna say—”
(“Of course you have. Everyone does.”)
“—but I mean it, I’ve really been thinking, and I – I don’t think it’s different. I mean, it’s not different from how I thought about you – from how I’ve always thought about you. But I was in the warmth, then, and now I’m caught in the middle of a fucking snowstorm… fuck, that doesn’t make any sense, does it? I’m so bad at this. Do you ever… think about me? I know you don’t wanna talk to me, otherwise we’d be talking right now, I guess. There’s so much I want to tell you, but more than anything, I just want—” you. I want you. “I want you to be there. Here. In the snow. With me. We could be at a stupid party, or we could be on the street, or we could be sitting on the couch under a blanket, or we could be fighting – aliens, or something, and none of that would matter. All that matters is – is you.”
And it didn’t float away, like all the words before. It stayed with him, that single word, you, like it was settling into his skin, his stomach, his soul. Like it would never leave. And maybe he didn’t want it to.
Sighing, Bucky held his phone against his forehead; then he put it back to his ear. “I’m a shitty friend, huh? Sorry. I’m sorry.
“I want you to know that I mean it. And you don’t have to… it’s okay if you never want to see me ever again. If that would make you happy. I just – I want to make you happy, Sam,” he said, his voice suddenly feeling thick in his throat. He blinked, trying not to let the tears reach his eyes. “If you’re happy, then… I’ll learn to live with it. But if you… uh… I’m here. I always have been. Fuck. Merry fucking Christmas,” said Bucky, the final words turning into either a laugh or a sob (though honestly, what was the difference?).
The tone played once more. To rerecord your message—
A wave of warmth washed over him as the door opened.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?” said Yelena, a half-empty glass in her hand.
Bucky shrugged. “Watching the snow.”
She looked at him carefully, assessing his position on the ground. “You want someone to watch it with you?”
“Yeah,” he said, honestly.
But not ‘someone.’
Sam.
*
That night, Bucky dreamed.
He dreamed that Sam was with him. That they were flying. That they were embracing. That they were kissing. That they were weeping, and holding each other, and laughing, truly laughing, so hard they fell out of the sky.
He was awoken by something on the roof.
“The fuck?” he muttered blearily, rubbing his eyes. He turned over, but there it was again – a kind of clomp clomp, like… like boots in the snow.
And Bucky wasn’t sure if it was his mildly delirious brain or his desperate need for something magical to happen tonight, but it sure sounded a lot like—
“Is that fucking Santa?” he said, sitting upright. His clock read 7am, so it seemed a little late for a visit from Big Red, but he decided to go and see, anyway. Chances were it was just a stray cat going for a morning hunt. At least he would be up for the sunrise.
So, Bucky pulled on a Christmas sweater (it was a hideously ugly one, a joke present from Yelena), shoved his feet into his shoes, and trudged upstairs to the roof. He didn’t really expect anything, but maybe – maybe there was the tiniest sliver of hope in his heart, a little voice that told him it was…
“Sam?” he said, stopping short.
Sam stood by the edge of the roof, his wings tucked into his wing-pack. He was facing away from Bucky, barely discernible amidst the flurry of snow falling from the sky. But Bucky knew it was him. God, he would know him anywhere.
Bucky didn’t quite know what to say. So, he said, “I thought you were Santa.”
When Sam didn’t respond, he moved closer, wondering if Sam could really hear him at all. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe this was a dream. Surely it was.
But then, like some miracle, Sam turned around, and his brow was pinched in that endearingly serious way, and he gave a little shake of the head and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Bucky paled. “What?”
“You heard me, Buck. You call me out of the blue, on Christmas Eve, leave me this long-ass message saying a million fucking things about how you miss me and you want things to go back to the way they were? You’ve had enough of your fancy parties and your government salary and you’re feeling lonely, is that what it is? Fucking pathetic, Bucky, you’re really…” He glanced down for a moment, then looked back at Bucky. His frown wavered. “You… fuck. Have your eyes always been so blue?”
“I know I’m pathetic, Sam, I’m sorry—”
“Stop it. Stop saying sorry, you – you just dumped this on me in a voicemail, I mean, who does that? How am I meant to respond? I’m supposed to be in Delacroix right now.”
“Shit, I – I didn’t mean for you to—"
“What did you mean for? What did you think was gonna happen? I was going to listen to that, say, alright, my best friend says he’s miserable without me, and he’ll be miserable forever if that’s what I want, so it’s kinda up to me to decide his eternal happiness, and then just have a normal Christmas dinner with my sister? Fucking hell, man.”
I am the worst person in the world, thought Bucky forlornly.
Sam gave him a light shove in the shoulder. “Stop making that face. You look like a kicked puppy, it makes me want to… shit.”
“It makes you want to shit?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth, and he exhaled shortly. “Don’t be funny.”
“I can’t help it,” said Bucky, something in his stomach lightening ever-so-slightly. He wanted Sam to laugh again. Properly, this time. He would get down on his knees and beg if he needed to.
Sam took a steadying breath. Behind him, the sun was slowly rising. “I, uh… I do. By the way.”
“You do…?”
“Think about you,” he said, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I think about you all the time.”
“Oh,” said Bucky. He hadn’t really planned for that. He felt buoyant, like he was about to take off and float away, evaporating into the snow clouds.
Sam’s frown returned, but it was a bit sadder than before. “You – you thought I didn’t?”
“You were mad at me.”
“Yes, I was mad at you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t…” he paused. “Did you really mean all that? What you said… about me. About us?”
Bucky just nodded.
“I would have,” whispered Sam, “if you’d just asked. If you had only asked, Buck, I would have. Fuck, if you had asked ten years ago, I would have. All this time.”
“You didn’t ask, either.”
“What if I’m asking now?” he said, dark eyes swimming with earnestness. “No, what if I’m telling you, now? I don’t want things to go back to how they were before. I want this.” He gestured between them. “I want… I want to hold you. Please, can I hold you?”
Wordlessly, Bucky opened his arms, and Sam wrapped him in a huge hug. It was nothing like those half-hugs of greeting that they used to do, the ones that lasted barely a second and were no more sentimental than a wave goodbye. No, this was a real, all-encompassing hug, the kind that almost hurt; warm and tight and protective. It was a confession. It was a promise. Bucky tucked his face into Sam’s shoulder, tears prickling his eyes.
Never let me go. Please, I promise to do the same, if you just hold me like this forever.
He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but it felt like something shattered when they broke apart. Bucky wanted to reach for him again, to cling Sam to his chest. It was where he was meant to be. It was where he always had been.
Sam’s shoulders were shaking, and Bucky couldn’t tell if he was laughing or sobbing (though honestly, what was the difference?). He managed to say, through short breaths, “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Stop,” groaned Bucky, covering his face. “I didn’t know you’d be here—”
“I really appreciate it, you dressing up for this wonderful moment—”
“You’re making fun of me!”
“You’re telling me you haven’t missed this? Because I’ve been saving up all my sarcasm just for you.”
“So have I.”
Sam grinned. “Don’t cover your pretty face.”
Bucky’s heart danced a two-step. “Oh? You think I’m pretty?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I feel like," he said somewhat coyly, "you need to prove it.”
“Okay,” said Sam, firmly planting his hands on Bucky’s face and pulling him into a kiss.
Bucky let out a soft noise of surprise, then leaned into it, his arms circling Sam’s waist. He had dreamed of this often, but nothing beat the reality of Sam’s mouth, warm against his. Everything was warm, in fact; his face, his chest, his stomach, the very tips of his toes. Bucky could feel the snow falling on his hair, but it felt like he was sitting in front of a roaring fire, toasting marshmallows.
He realised that he was smiling, a bit too wide, and Sam was too, and their teeth clacked together in an extremely unsexy way. They both laughed, real laughs, bubbling in their chests and escaping into each other’s mouths. Bucky kissed Sam once, then again, just as he pulled away, because he couldn’t bear for their lips to be so close without touching. He couldn’t bear for them to be so close without touching. Ever again.
Sam looked at him, eyes bright and smiling. “Your nose is all red,” he said. “You look like Rudolph.”
“I do not.”
“I’m the one looking at you right now, and I’m telling you, you look like Rudolph.”
Bucky smirked, and said, “You don’t want to take this reindeer for a ride?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You’re so corny.”
“What! That was such a you line.”
Sam gasped indignantly. “It was not! I am way smoother than that.”
“I don’t think so, pal.”
“Don’t call me pal.”
“Only if you kiss me again,” said Bucky, flashing a smile.
“So needy.”
“Christmas is a time for giving.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something, come on.”
As Sam started towards the stairs, Bucky called after him, “Wait, I’ve got something for you, too!” Grinning, he reached towards the ground and balled up some snow in his palm.
Sam let out a noise that could only be described as a shriek, and Bucky laughed and laughed; he didn’t stop laughing when he threw the snowball, when Sam retaliated, when they stumbled down the stairs and into his apartment, when Sam insulted his sweater again, when they got so distracted kissing one another that they almost fell off the bed, and for much of the day after.
Yeah, Bucky was pretty sure that this was his favourite holiday. Merry fucking Christmas.