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It’s snowing. The flakes are big and fat, floating slowly to the ground. It’s pretty, even if it’s freezing outside.
Bucky carefully tucks the parcel under his arm and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’d left his gloves with Steve because Steve’s are too threadbare to be of much good, and they can’t afford to buy a replacement pair right now.
He’s running late. A quick stop had helped contribute to that, but the opportunity to work a few extra hours had come up, and he’d had a really hard time saying no. Money has been really tight, especially with Steve sick again.
Bucky glances up and down the street and then darts across, making a small leap to the curb to avoid the collection of snow and ice that has collected in the gutter. His hands and face and ears are practically numb by the time he lets himself into their building. He takes the steps two at a time until he hits the third floor and then walks quickly to their door.
The lights are all off when he lets himself into their small apartment. Bucky toes his shoes off by the door and then pads across the room to the bed and the lump of blankets there. The parcel he’s carrying finds a home on the end of the bed.
Steve is asleep, buried under every blanket they own. He’s lying on his side, gloved hands curled up under his chin. His breathing is coming in these awful wheezing gasps that Bucky hates to hear. Blue eyes open slowly when Bucky sits on the edge of the mattress next to him, a hand falling on the mound of blankets in the general vicinity of where Steve’s side would be.
“Hi,” Bucky says quietly. He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and then rests his palm against Steve’s skin. He’s still hot.
Steve gives him a weak smile. “Hi.”
“Did you eat?” Bucky asks him, and frowns when Steve shakes his head. He leans down and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple. He sheds his coat and drapes it over Steve and the pile of blankets.
There are a few cans of chicken noodle soup in the cupboard. It only takes Bucky a few minutes to heat one up and dump it into one of their bowls, snagging a spoon.
He heads back over to the bed and sits back down. “Sit up?”
Steve stares at him for a moment, looking utterly exhausted despite probably having spent all day in bed. He lets out a little puff of breath and slowly drags himself into a sitting position. When he reaches for the bowl, his hands are shaking.
“I’ve got it,” Bucky tells him quietly. He scoots closer and gathers some soup on the spoon. He blows on it for a minute or two and then takes the first bite to test how hot it is. When he looks up again, Steve’s watching him with the slightest tilt to his mouth, amusement flashing in blue eyes. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Steve protests. His voice is scratchy from coughing so much the last few days.
“I know what you were thinking,” Bucky tells him. He spends a few minutes carefully feeding Steve, taking an occasional bite for himself. “Better?” he asks.
Steve nods his head. “Would you get me some more water, please?”
“Sure.” Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead - it’s still too hot - and grabs the empty glass off the rickety nightstand. He sips the rest of the broth out of the bowl on his way back into the kitchenette and rinses the bowl out, setting it in the sink. He gets a glass of water with ice for Steve and brings it back over to the bed. “Here you go, Stevie.”
“Thanks.” Steve gives him a small smile and slowly drinks half of the water while Bucky gets ready for bed. He’s reaching to set the glass on the nightstand when Bucky slides under the covers with him.
Bucky will be way too hot under all of these covers, but he doesn’t mind suffering for one night if it means Steve is more comfortable. He curls an arm around Steve after Steve snuggles close. He drops a kiss into blond hair and gives him a squeeze. “Go back to sleep,” Bucky murmurs.
“Why were you late?” Steve asks him, the question muffled by the fact that his mouth is pressed against Bucky’s chest.
“Worked a few extra hours,” Bucky tells him. “Got a little extra per hour, too, ‘cause of the holiday.” He smiles when Steve hums because he knows that sound means Steve is most of the way to sleeping and probably isn’t listening to him.
A few minutes later, Steve is heavy with sleep.
When Bucky wakes up in the morning, it’s because the air is drying the layer of sweat on his skin and he’s actually a little cold. Then it registers that the blankets are no longer on the bed. He hadn’t kicked them off, so that means Steve must have. His eyes snap open, immediately tracking over to Steve.
Steve’s on his stomach next to Bucky with his arm curled around Teddy, the bear he'd gotten from his parents as a baby, and the one Bucky had rescued from the nuns when they'd moved out on their own. For the first time in days, he looks completely relaxed.
A light touch to Steve’s forehead tells Bucky that the fever finally broke overnight. He smiles when Steve’s eyes open. “How are you feeling?”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. He stretches some and then seems to take a mental inventory. “Better,” he decides finally.
“Good.” Bucky sits up and reaches for the abandoned parcel sill perched on the end of the bed, buried under the pile of discarded blankets. He hands it to Steve who gives him a questioning look. “That’s for you.”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to get each other presents?” Steve asks him, and shakes his head when Bucky shrugs his shoulders. “Guess it’s good that I got you something anyway, then.”
Bucky’s mouth drops open when Steve slips out of bed long enough to pull a small box from under the bed frame. He takes the box from Steve and can’t help but grin. “You little punk.”
Steve sticks his tongue out at Bucky and curls close, sliding his fingers under the edge of the paper on the present Bucky gave him. He opens it slowly instead of tearing into it, like tearing the paper apart might harm what’s inside. When he pushes the paper off, it’s a brand new sketchbook. It’s one of the big ones with more blank pages than Steve really knows how to fill.
“I know it’s not a lot,” Bucky starts, but cuts himself off when Steve shakes his head and kisses him.
“It’s perfect. I love it.” Steve smiles. “Your turn.”
The box that Steve gave him isn’t wrapped, but that doesn’t matter. He carefully lifts the lid and then stares for a long minute at the inside of the box. Sitting on some shredded paper is his dad’s old pocket watch, but it’s working again, ticking faintly. “You got it fixed?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Steve answers. “I thought - I thought you’d like that. Is that okay?” he asks after a minute, sounding hesitant.
“Steve.” Bucky doesn’t get out much more than that because his throat goes tight and his vision gets a little blurry. “I’m - this - you - you did good, kid,” he finally manages, and the bright grin Steve gives him lights up the room better than any Christmas tree could.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Bucky leans in and presses a long kiss to Steve’s mouth, murmuring, “Merry Christmas,” against his lips.
Steve smiles at him and settles his head on Bucky’s shoulder after the kiss ends. “Merry Christmas, Buck.”