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You heard the music before you reached the kitchen, but it was the singing that really surprised you.
“I really can’t stay…”
“But baby, it’s cold outside…” a familiar voice filled in the return of the duet.
You stopped.
No. Surely not.
You peeked around the corner.
Bucky Barnes stood by the coffee machine, waiting and yet completely unaware he was singing Baby, It’s Cold Outside with his whole chest.
“I’ve got to go away…”
You wondered if he was hearing what you were hearing.
“But baby, it’s cold outside…”
His brow furrowed slightly, like something in the lyrics had just registered in his subconscious.
Yep, he was. He had to be.
“This evening has been -”
You stepped fully into the room and took the line.
“So very nice -”
Bucky froze.
He turned slowly, eyes widening as he realised he was not alone.
“Oh no,” he said immediately. “No, no, no -”
“Nice vocals.”
“I can explain.”
“Please don’t. It was perfect.”
“It really wasn't -”
You tilted your head. “And?”
“And now I’ve been exposed,” he muttered. “There goes my reputation.”
You laughed softly. “Relax. You’re, like… ninety-five percent on key.”
He huffed. “High praise.”
You folded your arms. “You wanna keep going, or…?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “I feel like I'm really hearing the words now, and realising how sketchy this dude sounds.”
“Right?!” you said, delighted. “She says she wants to leave. Repeatedly.”
The song carried on without either of you joining in, but both listening intently.
“The neighbours might think…”
He winced. “Oh god.”
“Baby, it’s bad out there.”
He pointed at the speaker. “That guy should back off.”
You laughed, and something in his shoulders eased.
You looked at him.
He cleared his throat, suddenly bashful. “I, uh... There are better duets.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Less… morally questionable.”
He turned his attention back to the coffee machine, avoiding you.
“Maybe,” he added, half over his shoulder, “we could sing one of those instead.”
He reached over and tapped the tablet by the coffee machine, skipping the rest of the song with a decisiveness that surprised you.
The opening notes of something softer and more wistful filled the room.
“I'll be home for Christmas,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Much better.”
He didn’t look at you as he set down a cup for you and started singing.
“I'll be home for Christmas…”
You waited half a note - just long enough to make him wonder if you would - then stepped in smoothly.
“You can count on me…”
His head snapped up, eyes flicking to yours in surprise before something like relief settled in his expression.
You were good. Really good.
You sang together easily, your voices fitting like they’d done this before, like a memory neither of you realised you had. When the chorus came around, he smiled - a real, genuine smile of happiness.
“I'll be home for Christmas… If only in my dreams…”
The song continued, but you didn't sing along. The music hung in the air between you like strings of fairy lights, linking you, guiding you home.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Bucky cleared his throat and reached for the coffee pot, refilling his cup without looking, like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Didn’t know you could sing like that,” he said, casually.
You wrapped your hands around your own mug for warmth. “Didn’t know you did either.”
“I was around the first time that one came out… heard it real quick when I was on leave back in ‘43. Turns out the Brits banned it ‘cos they thought it lowered morale.”
“I think it's beautiful,” you smiled.
“So do I. Couple of the fellas at the base had a Decca in their care packages. The B side was Danny Boy.”
You fell silent, waiting for him to continue.
“By ‘44 it was everywhere. Even the US army had it on V-Disc. Course by then I was uhh… a little inconvenienced.” He said bashfully.
The neat description made you snigger, before you knew it you were belly laughing.
“Just mildly inconvenienced?”
“What do you want me to say, doll?” He laughed alongside you. “I missed out on hearing Bing Crosby ‘cos I was being brainwashed by HYDRA?”
The giggles subsided and you nudged him gently.
“Thank you for sharing that memory with me.”
“Thank you for helping me laugh at some of it.”
The speaker queued the next song, but neither of you reached to skip it this time.
“I get so sick of being in the dark all the damn time.”
“So step into the light,” you suggested.
Bucky leaned back against the counter, close enough that your shoulders brushed. He tensed, like he was wondering whether you’d pull away.
You didn’t.
“You know,” he said, quieter now, “I don’t usually sing with people.”
You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “But I wouldn’t mind… doing that again. Sometime.”
You met his gaze and smiled. “I think I’d like that.”