Chapter Text
The city is aglow with countless of twinkling Christmas lights. They flicker and dance and play, catching Bucky’s eyes and filling them with wonder. Christmas was not this bright when he was younger. It wasn’t welcomed with the scent of cinnamon or with over the top sales. Christmas was quieter. It was cold. And although his mother made all her efforts to make it happy, the sense that this was only one day in an entire year meant for merriness and cheeriness took a more prominent place in Bucky’s mind the older he got.
He walks with purpose, snow and ice crunching beneath his boots as he makes his way past the many people stopping to take pictures of the very lights that had just captured his mind. Their excitement and happiness evident by the way they just cant seem to stop chit chatting bout the wonder of it all.
His mom would love this, he thought, the lights once again entering his thoughts.
She would love the displays in the window shops. She would love the enormous bow propped on the side of the toy store he was across from. She would enjoy all the lights and all the warmth that Christmas now brought.
And he likes to think she would love the man he was now. He hopes, anyway.
He’d been through a lot. He’d seen a lot. He’d seen the darkness of the world and had somehow survived it all to now get the chance to see the brightness of the Christmas lights.
He likes to think his mom would be proud of that. He really hopes.
Forgiveness had not been easy. Not when the world constantly, and rightly, brought up time and time again all the atrocities he was behind. Not when memories replayed in his moments of silence. But slowly, it began. Many months in therapy and with Sam by his side, he began to reach forgiveness. He’s still a work in progress, and he’s not ashamed to admit that, but at least now he can look at the lights and smile. At least now he can think back to his mom and think she’d be happy for him. And that was more than he could ever hope for.
His steps slow as he realizes that lost in his thoughts, he walked past his destination.
He was asked to pick up a few supplies. She’d made him a list because he had been honest and let her know he didn’t recognize what half of the things she’d listed were.
When he was younger, he reflected again, as he began walking back to the store he passed two blocks ago, receiving oranges in his stocking was life-changing. The thought of the sweet juice of the oranges he got to taste only a few times a year was enough to have his mouth watering in July. And on Christmas Day, when he got to have one of those oranges, he swore there could be nothing in the world that could make him happier.
He needed to stop by the grocery store and get some oranges, he notes. It was almost Christmas after all.
But first, he needs to take care of getting a couple of things here.
The bright fluorescent lights of the store are uncharacteristically welcoming. They bring a stark contrast to the grogginess and cold of the outside.
Aisles and aisles of paper, glitter, paints, easels, fabric, yarn, all sprawled out in front of him. He’d be overwhelmed, but he’d visited her apartment before, and this store was nothing compared to the collection of materials she somehow squeezed into the tiny apartment she called home.
“We all have our thing, Buck,” she had said the first time he saw her supply closet, laughing at how his jaw dropped. “You like to run and punch things. I like to craft. How else would we keep our sanity if he didn’t have at least one hobby?”
That had been almost a year ago. A mission gone wrong and long had both Sam and him crashing in her place unannounced. She hadn’t minded, simply pushing her scrapbook papers around to make room for them in her small living room.
But now, as the many many lights had made evident, Christmas was here, and he saw a different side of her and this hobby.
She excitedly told him over the phone that she had woken up and decided to start a new tradition and that he was more than welcomed to join. She couldn’t reach Sam as he was on a mission and keeping a low profile, and she couldn’t wait for him to start.
That was very much like her. Determination suddenly springing into action. Usually, at 6 am.
“Well, that sounds interesting,” he drawled, trying to shake the sleep from his voice. “Does it involve food, because I’m in if it does.”
“I mean it could,” she chuckled, “I could get some pizza.”
“So, what exactly is this ab-”
“Christmas Cards!” she cut him off. “I want to make Christmas cards this year instead of buying them. You know, personalize each one.”
“That’s…. well, that’s just plain adorable,” he found himself saying with a smile.
“Wanna help?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea how to make Christmas cards,” he admitted.
“That’s ok! I can teach you. We can make one for each of our countless friends,” she laughed, and he joined her. He could probably count his friends on one hand.
“So, we’re making one for Sam, and that’s it.”
“I mean, we can extend the definition of friend a little. We can make one for Sharon; she is one of my friends. And she’d be very disappointed if after everything you didnt consider her one of your friends too. Another one for Pepper, maybe Peter and his aunt, oh and one for Bruce!”
“All in one go?”
“Not if we want them to be nice,” she said, and he suddenly thought back to the way his mom’s tone would change when he missed something obvious. Like when he frantically searched for the shoes, he had already put on. “Maybe meet a couple of times, to wind down after hard days, and we can have them ready by Christmas. I can help you start your own supply closet. You in?”
“I was in as soon as you mentioned pizza,” he laughed. “When’s our first meeting?”
And so, they had scheduled the beginning of this new tradition for tonight. She had written him a list of a few supplies she hoped he could get on his way to her place.
And now with whatever embossing powder and Versamark ink were, he was on his way. A new tradition he knew he would love about to begin.