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Christmas does not really go the way Steve had expected it to go.
Come over any time after 12, Sam had said, we’ll do lunch about 3, and in the end Steve’s spent his morning going to Mass and baking a pie (cranberry with an oat pecan crumble, not apple, fuck you Bucky). He stamps his way through the snow, down the cleared path, knocks on the door.
“It’s open!” Sam calls from inside, “just come on in, man, I got my hands kind of full here.”
Sam and Bucky’s house smells intensely of pine balsam, sweet and fragrant, and Steve tracks the scent through to the living room where a tree stands almost to the ceiling. It’s strung with garlands of popcorn and silver paper stars, and Steve has a flash of memory to sitting at a kitchen table with Bucky and Becka, the smell of popcorn and oranges warm in the air. He’s almost immediately distracted, though, by how Sam is lying on the couch, relaxed and easy, with the biggest wolf Steve has ever seen stretched out full-length on top of him.
“Hey, man,” Sam says with a smile. “Good to see you.”
“Nice tree,” Steve says faintly, because Sam are you aware you got a goddamn wolf on top of you seems rude to open with, maybe. Sam laughs.
“Yeah, Bucky says he found it in the woods. You ask me, I think he went to that dinky little lot in town and paid too much for someone to cut it down.” The wolf - Bucky - huffs in what sounds like outrage, and Sam laughs harder, digs his fingers into the ruff of thick fur at Bucky’s neck. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a rugged woodsman with a big old axe, I believe you. Come on, get off, Steve looks like he’s gonna pass out.” Bucky presses his nose to Sam’s cheek, rolls off Sam in a fluid ripple of motion, and Sam gets to his feet, dusts himself off.
“That’s better,” he says, and Bucky launches himself up onto his hind legs, gets his front paws on Sam’s shoulders. Sam staggers, catches himself and braces under the weight. Tugs at Bucky’s ears affectionately. “Now you’re just showing off,” he says, fond, and tilts his head back to bare his throat. Bucky takes Sam’s throat in his jaws, so gentle his teeth hardly make an impression on Sam’s skin, and growls low under his breath. Steve feels the air in his own lungs wheeze out all at once.
“I love you too,” Sam murmurs. Pulls Bucky’s head away and presses his cheek against Bucky’s muzzle. “Go get changed already, would you? I gotta check on the stuff in the oven.” Bucky settles back onto all four paws, trots obediently out of the room, and Sam grins at Steve, pushes the sleeves of his sweater back up his wrists like it’s a little too big for him, maybe. “We went out in the snow this morning,” he says like he knows Steve needs an explanation. “I got kind of cold, Bucky decided the best way to warm me up was to turn into a self-heating fur blanket.”
“Your teeth were chattering,” Bucky says easily as he comes back in from downstairs, buttoning his shirt. “You’re only human, Jesus, sorry I was concerned.”
“You’re overprotective is what you are,” Sam shrugs, “you know it’s true. That pie smells good, Steve. Cranberry?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, “yeah, it- yeah.” They weren’t like this when he lived in the house, he thinks dazedly, they- how long has Bucky just casually been a wolf around Sam like it’s no big deal?
“You want some eggnog? We made it last night, it sure packs a kick. Or we’ve got wine mulling, I think. Sit down, god, you’re too big to stand around and get in our way like this.”
“I, uh,” Steve starts. “Eggnog would be great, actually.” It is great. Sam’s not wrong - it tastes like it’s mostly bourbon and double cream - and he downs half a glass, feels a buzz a little like maybe they doctored it with Asgardian mead. The kitchen is very warm, and Sam and Bucky are both swathed in aprons, and it’s just- it’s nice, is all. It’s home.
“I smoked a turkey,” Sam tells him, poking at a pan of roasting vegetables, and Bucky kisses Sam’s cheek, passes him the seasoning like he knows Sam’s about to ask for it. “Bucky built a smoker out back, it’s probably gonna be pretty great.”
“And I’ve got dinner rolls proofing,” Bucky says, “shit, I better check on that dough, actually,” and Steve is swept up in the whirl that is Sam and Bucky getting Christmas dinner ready before he can work himself up into a lecture about safety or recklessness or Jesus Christ Sam his teeth on your throat.
It’s a good Christmas. Just the three of them - they’d invited Natasha but she’s out at Laura and Clint’s for the holiday - and they finish the eggnog, get started on the mulled wine. Sam gets drunk enough that Bucky just scoops him up and carries him to the couch, which Steve diplomatically avoids noticing.
“I’m fine,” Sam says, slurring just a little, curling up on the couch and pulling the cuffs of his sweater down over his fingertips, “baby, c’mon,” and it’s Bucky’s turn to laugh, eyes bright.
“Yeah,” he says, “sure, sweetheart,” and puts on a pot of coffee to help Sam sober up. He’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, eating another slice of pie. There’s a smudge of cranberry on his top lip and his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, hair pulled up messily in a bun, and the way he looks at Sam, it’s the softest thing Steve’s ever seen.
“I think he’s asleep,” Steve whispers, and Bucky smiles, puts down his plate, grabs a quilt off the beat-up armchair in the corner, drapes it carefully over Sam and tucks it in around his shoulders, touches his cheek very gently.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “definitely asleep. I told him that eggnog was too strong for people without experimental serum backing them up, god. Come on, I got the rest of that pie to finish and a bottle of whisky with our names on it, let’s go out on the back porch,” and they do, despite how cold it is. Their breath clouding in the crisp air, passing the whisky back and forth, and Bucky leans back on his elbows, sighs like he’s deeply contented.
“Happy Christmas, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky sighs again, turns his head sideways to look at Steve.
“Yeah,” he says, “happy Christmas, pal,” and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a little velvet drawstring bag. “You wanna see what I got Sam?” he asks, and tosses it to Steve, deliberately nonchalant. Steve fumbles it open, his fingers a little numb with eggnog and whisky and cold air, and a circlet of gold tumbles into his palm, glinting in the light from the hall.
“You- Bucky,” Steve says, overcome, and Bucky grins all teeth.
“I know,” he says, “god, I know. Figured I’d ask him tonight.”
“God,” Steve says. Blinks away happy tears, examines the ring more closely. It’s white gold, very matte, with a softly hammered texture a little like woodgrain. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. Tucks it back into the bag, passes it back to Bucky. “It really is.”
“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, ducking his head, “Sam’s pretty gorgeous, if I’m being honest with you, so. Gotta match up, you know?” He swallows another mouthful of whisky, brushes the pad of his thumb over the corner of his eyes like maybe he’s a little teary too, and Steve pats him on the shoulder before just giving in and pulling Bucky into a tight hug.
“You eat all the pie, James Barnes?” Sam calls from the living room, sounding sleepy and accusing all at once, and Bucky looks down at the empty pie plate, pushes it subtly to one side.
Uh oh, he mouths at Steve, and looks up at Sam, eyes widely innocent.
“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ like he’s just daring Sam to call him out on his shit, and Sam smirks, tangles his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tugs lightly just like he did with Bucky’s ruff of fur that morning.
“Hmm,” he says, glancing at the pie dish, “okay,” and touches Bucky’s cheek, frowns a little. “Come on, it’s freezing out here, just because you both can sit out in the fucking snow doesn’t mean you should.”
“I better get home, actually,” Steve admits. “Looks like it’s gonna start snowing again, I don’t want to wait for the roads to get too bad.”
“You sure?” Sam asks, and Steve nods, gets to his feet, hugs Sam goodbye.
“Thanks for Christmas,” he says, “it really was great,” and Sam smiles, passes Steve his scarf.
“Yeah, man,” he agrees, “take care. Come by tomorrow, if you want, we’ve still got half a turkey to get through.”
“I might just do that,” Steve laughs. “See you, Buck. Have a good night.”
“I will,” Bucky says, quiet and happy. Pulls Sam into an embrace from behind, rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder. “Yeah, Steve, we will,” and that’s what Steve sees as he leaves, the both of them leaning in the back door watching him go. They’re lit up by the fairy lights one of them had strung up along the porch, and snow is just beginning to fall very light and very soft and very still, and Steve is so happy for them it aches, cold and clean and beautiful all the way through.