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The gala was flawless in the way things always are when no one is allowed to see any kind of seams.
Gold light spilt from the crystal chandeliers, reflecting on the polished marble and carefully neutral smiles. The orchestra was playing something slow and tasteful, holiday-adjacent without committing to joy; after all, it was a political event.
Bucky Barnes was standing at the centre of it all, a senator in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, a glass of champagne sweating against his palm as donors, diplomats, and colleagues rotated in and out of his orbit.
He smiles when he’s supposed to. Laughs when the joke lands near him. Nods gravely at the right moments.
He is, by all appearances, exactly where he should be.
And yet his mind kept drifting backward, stubbornly, to a living room that smells like pine cleaner and cedarwood cologne. To the sharp edge of a voice he knows too well. To the words he wishes he could swallow back down.
You’re never here.
John hadn’t yelled when he said it. That had been the worst part. No anger, no accusations thrown like weapons. Just exhaustion. Bone-deep, honest exhaustion that had settled into his posture, the slump of his shoulders after practice, and the way he’d dropped onto the sofa like gravity had finally claimed him.
Bucky remembers standing near the window, phone still glowing in his hand with unread emails and the itinerary of the next day. He remembers thinking: just one more week, one more appearance, then I’ll slow down.
He remembers saying, “This is bigger than us,” like that was supposed to help.
Like that was enough.
The best.
He squeezed the champagne glass a little too tightly now. The memory tasted bitter.
John had looked at him for a long moment after that. Like he was memorising Bucky’s face in case he never saw it again.
“Then stop pretending I’m part of it,” John had said quietly.
That had done it.
The walls Bucky kept carefully reinforced between duty and want, between fear and love, had cracked all at once. He’d snapped back with something cruel and careless, something that still wakes him up at night.
“Maybe you deserve someone simpler.”
He’d regretted it the second the words left his mouth.
John had gone very still. Then he nodded once, sharp and final, and said, “Have a good new year, Senator,” even though it was only December first. Then he’d grabbed his jacket and left.
They haven’t spoken since.
No texts.
No calls.
Just silence stretching wider with every passing day.
Someone laughed nearby.
Bucky turned automatically; he offered a smile and murmured something polite. With that, the donor moves on, satisfied. Bucky drained the rest of his champagne and set the empty glass on a passing tray.
You should be home, a traitorous voice whispers.
He glances at his watch. 1:47 a.m.
The gala was winding down now.
He had made his rounds, given his speech, and shaken all the necessary hands. No one would fault him for leaving now. The thought brings an unexpected tightness to his chest.
He made his excuses, accepted the parting pleasantries, and finally stepped out into the cold.
The night air was sharp and clean. Snow crunches underfoot, freshly fallen, softening the city into something quieter. His driver opened the car door, nodding respectfully.
“Merry Christmas, Senator,” the man says.
Bucky hesitates, then corrected him gently. “Merry Christmas. And… thank you. For tonight.”
The driver smiled, surprised but pleased.
The ride home was silent. Bucky watched the city pass by, lights blurring together. Every street looked as if it could lead somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere where John might be.
When the car pulled up to his townhouse, Bucky almost missed it.
A figure standing on the porch, framed by snow and soft yellow light from the entryway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that made Bucky’s breath catch painfully in his throat.
John.
He’s dressed for the cold, coat zipped up, cheeks flushed pink from the night air. Snow dusting his hair and shoulders like he’s been standing there a while. With his right hand, he was holding a single flower, with red petals vivid against the white. Next to it there was a small gift wrapped clumsily in green paper.
Bucky’s heart stuttered.
The car door closed behind him with a soft click. For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then John lifts his gaze.
“Merry Christmas,” he says softly.
The sound of his voice, gentle and tentative, hit Bucky like a physical blow. His chest tightened, breath catching as something fragile and desperate unfurled inside him.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Instead, he crossed the distance between them in three long strides and pulled John into his arms.
John made a startled sound before laughing breathlessly as Bucky lifted him just enough that his trainers slid over Bucky’s polished shoes, toes barely brushing the ground. The snow crunching under their shifting weight. John’s free hand came up instinctively, gripping the lapels of Bucky’s tuxedo as if anchoring himself.
Bucky buried his face in John’s neck, breathing him in like oxygen. Cold air, familiar soap, something unmistakably John.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, the words spilling out rough and unpolished. “I’m so sorry.”
John’s arms tightened around him, strong and sure. He pressed his forehead against Bucky’s temple.
“I know,” John murmured. “I am too.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, snow settling quietly around them, the world holding its breath.
Bucky lowered John carefully until his feet were back on the porch. He didn’t let go.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Bucky continued, voice low and earnest. “I was wrong. I was scared and tired, and I took it out on you. You were right. I haven’t been here. Not the way you deserved.”
John exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you don’t care. I know you do. I just… I missed you. I still do.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I missed you every day.”
John lifted the flower between them, sheepish. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me. But I couldn’t not try.”
Bucky took the flower with trembling fingers. “You don’t ever have to wonder that,” he said firmly. “I want you. I choose you. Even when I’m bad at showing it.”
John’s eyes shone in the porch light. He offered the small gift next, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Open it later,” he said. “It’s not… fancy.”
Bucky shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “Neither am I.”
He cupped John’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing away melting snowflakes. “Stay,” he said.
It was not a command but a plea.
John smiled then, wide and real and full of relief. “Yeah, I was hoping you’d ask.”
Bucky leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to John’s forehead. The tension that had been living in his chest for weeks finally loosened, replaced by something warm and steady.
The gala felt a thousand kilometres away.
Inside, with the door closed against the cold, Christmas finally began.