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Bucky noticed the lighter was missing on New Year’s Day.
It wasn’t something he ever used, but he kept it anyway. It was usually tucked into the back pocket of his duffel bag, or the inside pocket of his jacket. Occasionally it ended up in his bedside drawer.
It had survived more than it ever should have. The brass body was dented and chipped, the hinge was stiff with age. 1942 was still stamped faintly on the base.
It hadn’t worked since the fall from the train. The impact had cracked the mechanism, and when Hydra found it on him, they’d laughed and tossed it back with the rest of his useless belongings.
Doesn’t matter, they’d said. It’s broken. Just like him.
He'd kept it on him ever since.
He checked his jacket first, the obvious place. Then the duffel bag. Then the back of the narrow drawer by his bed. Eventually he checked the small bowl by the door where he left his keys.
Nothing.
He moved on to the closet, panic setting in that it was lost forever. He tugged boxes down from the top shelf until one tipped and spilled open at his feet. It was full of winter scarves and old gloves. And beneath them, a small, neatly wrapped package.
His name was written on the tag.
Bucky.
The handwriting stopped him cold.
He stared at it before carefully peeling back the paper. Inside was a velvet pouch tied at the top. He opened it slowly.
The lighter gleamed back at him.
Polished. Still dented, but it flicked open smoothly, the brass was warm in his hand, the weight of it was just right. He flicked it open again and this time the flame caught immediately.
His breath caught.
He hadn't seen it alight since 1942.
“Buck?”
She stood in the doorway, her slippers silent on the floor. She took one look at his face and froze.
“Oh,” she whispered. “You found it.”
He looked up at her. “This was…?” His voice roughened. “I thought maybe I missed a Christmas present.”
She shook her head. Then took a step into the room, her hands twisting together.
“I got it fixed last year,” she admitted. “You mentioned it once - how it never worked again after the train. I found someone in Brooklyn who restores vintage lighters. I was going to give it to you when you got back.”
He swallowed. “Last year? As in last Christmas?”
She nodded, her eyes down at the floor. “You went on that mission the day before Christmas eve, then everything just… kept happening. There was never a right time.” She hesitated. “I wrapped it anyway. I guess I was hoping.”
“Hoping for what?” he asked gently.
She met his gaze and found her courage. “For when you got back. For us to stop missing each other by inches.”
Something shifted in his expression - understanding dawning slowly.
“This has been sitting here,” he asked carefully, “for a year.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been -” He stopped himself, then tried again. “You’ve been in love with me.”
She didn’t deny it.
Bucky let out a breath that was mostly a laugh, and rubbed his thumb over the dents and scratches. “I thought I was the one dragging my heels,” he murmured. “Turns out you were just waiting.”
He stepped into her space, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her, the steady calmness she'd instilled in him.
“Happy New Year,” he said quietly.
Then he kissed her, like he'd waited far more than two Christmases to do it.