Work Text:
1932
Steve's palms are sweating. He's squeezed between George Barnes and his mother, Sarah. The table is groaning under the weight of too much Christmas food and too many people jostling for space. The Barneses have it alright, better than Steve and Sarah, and they've gone all out. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbours are packed into the dining room - the table extended three times over. Becca, Esther, and Catherine bicker by the record player, each sister of the opinion their music choice is the best, and paying no mind to their father when he hollers at them to pick something already.
"I'm the oldest, I should get first choice." Becca's dark curls bounce in their ribbon as she stamps her feet, mouth pinching into a mean little pout.
"Nuh-uh, Bucky's oldest, he gets first choice," chorus the twins. Their grins turn mischievous when they realise their sister has backed herself into a corner.
Steve chances a glance at Bucky who's sitting across the table from him, alert now that he's heard his name from the corner of the room, and Steve's stomach swoops again. He drops his eyes to his unfinished plate. Better to look at the uneaten cranberry sauce seeping into his mashed potatoes than look at his best friend. It's been happening all day, this swooping feeling, and he doesn't know why.
Maybe he's getting sick again. He hopes not. The last of the summer flu had him laid up for two weeks last time. With a furtive glance around the table, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead. It's warm, but not danger level warm. It's the warm of too many people and too much food and the half glasses of wine he's been sipping for most of the day.
He's fine. But he doesn't feel fine.
Steve shovels another forkful of food into his mouth even though his stomach is already full and straining. It's probably nothing, he thinks. It's the excitement of the day, he reasons. But then his eyes land on Bucky with his open shirt collar and flushed cheeks. Bucky and his rolled up sleeves. Bucky and the curl of chestnut brown hair that's fallen out of place and now lies artfully across his forehead.
His eyes land on Bucky and he wants. He wants to push that curl back into place, and he wants it so badly that his throat tightens and his heart kicks up into a trilling drummers rhythm. Steve excuses himself to get some air and doesn't see the way Bucky tracks the movement over his sisters' heads.
1934
"We're gonna be late if you don't hurry up."
Steve stills in his search for a suitable sweater as a familiar swoop rolls through his stomach.
Bucky . . .
They were due at the Barnes' twenty minutes ago and his ma had called up twice for him to 'hoof it already' but he hadn't. He's cycled through his wardrobe's meagre offerings twice trying to find something that doesn't make him look frayed around the edges. No matter what he does, when he looks in the mirror, all he sees are the ill-fitting sleeves and the patches in the knees of all his pants.
"Can't find a sweater," he mutters over his shoulder.
There's a deep sigh, footsteps, and then Bucky is at his side. Somewhere along the line last year, he found a foot and shot up like a weed but these past few months he's filled out the lanky limbs that the growth spurt left behind. Steve doesn't spare a glance for the too small vest straining at Bucky's shoulders. He really, really doesn't. Or pay attention when they bump into him. Or when Bucky shifts him out of the way to rummage through the drawers for himself.
Moments later, he straightens and thrusts a faded fair isle sweater into his hands.
"This one," he says, "Ma'll like to see you wearing it."
The wool is soft from years of washes and wears. Winnie gifted it to Steve last Christmas, a hand-me down from Bucky's own wardrobe after his growth spurt. Bucky watches him keenly, eyes narrowed and hands stuffed deep in his pockets. There's a weight to the gaze that he doesn't recognise. It raises the gooseflesh on his arms.
He gives his friend a shove. "Quit staring," he gripes and pulls the sweater over his head.
"I'm not. I'm thinking."
"Dangerous for you," Steve remarks. "Last time you did that you pulled a muscle running away from Johnny Gallagher."
Bucky snorts, tossing his head to flick the loose hair from his eyes. His curls bounce and Steve resists the urge to pat them back into place. "S'not my fault he has the sense of humour of a soggy piece of bread."
"Uh huh." Bucky's blasé attitude isn't fooling him. He knows him too well and if the restless jangling of his hand in his pocket is anything to go by, then he's worked up about something.
"Naw, I was just thinking - dangerous or not - is that you owe me a present."
It's Steve's turn to snort, thinking of the neatly wrapped present that's in his ma's shopping bag containing a thick slab of chocolate and a new hair pomade he's been moaning about wanting for weeks. Painting the butcher's window a few times a month didn't pay much but Steve had saved every penny for months to make sure he'd have plenty to cover it.
They always do presents all together in the Barnes' front room. The kids on the rug. The adults shoulder to shoulder on the sofas, and Bucky's father, George smoking his pipe in the squishy armchair by the door. That's how they did things. Bucky knows this. Hell, he'd been the one to explain it to Steve all those years ago when he and his mother were first invited to attend the Barnes family Christmas shindig.
"Later," he says, head now deep in the closet as he rummages for his coat.
"Now." A pillow hits him in the back and he whirls, fists on his hips.
"I don't have it here. Can't you -"
The argument dies in his throat.
"Stevie . . ."
There's a sprig of mistletoe in Bucky's hand. The leaves are crushed and torn, the berries a bit flattened, but there's not mistaking it for it is. For what it means. For what Bucky wants.
"Oh."
Bucky grins. "Figure you owe me one since it was actually your idea to egg Johnny Gallagher's car."
"You're not funny." Steve tries to sound cocky and match Bucky's easy surety, but his voice catches in his throat.
"I'm hilarious." Bucky waggles the mistletoe above his head. "Now get to it. I want what I'm owed."
"I don't see how the two correlate." Despite his quips, his mouth is dry. The swooping in his stomach is back and his palms are clammy as he takes a few steps forward.
They're already late. Bucky's ma will be serving her appetisers soon. They don't have time for this. They really, really don't. Steve knows they don't, but his feet carry him forward till they're inches apart and the warm scent of Bucky's skin is in his nose.
Bucky tilts his cheek. Steve's heart thuds in his chest. He glances at the door, knowing his ma is waiting. She's just down the hall.
"Plant one on me then, Stevie."
Steve huffs in one last ditch attempt to hide how much he wants to do this and leans forward.
Bucky twists at the last second.
Steve's kiss lands right on Bucky's mouth.
1938
"You sure you're well enough to dance?"
"I'm plenty well enough, now quit your clucking."
In truth, Steve still feels light headed. Remnants of the flu are still lingering heavy in his bones but he isn't about to tell Bucky that. Not when he has his arms around him and they are finally alone.
Bucky's family had been over for Becca's birthday and even though it was only for a few hours, between Esther and Catherine bickering over who would get to wear the green dress tomorrow at Mass and the smoke from George's pipe, it was enough to make Steve's head burst.
But now it is just them. Alone in their apartment. About to spend their first Christmas together.
It isn't much. Their coffee table is a slab of wood held up by a couple of cinderblocks and the privy in the hall is shared between them and three other families but it's theirs. Here they can push their beds together and live how they want. Sure, the blinds might be closed and the door deadbolted shut so no one can bother them but the family down the hall have finally stopped arguing, and Christmas songs are crooning out from their record player. Steve doesn't think this moment could get any better.
It's finally warm too. With the cracks and drafts finally stoppered up and the extra money tucked away for heating, it could almost be called pleasant. At least their breath isn't fogging anymore.
"You've met my mother, right?" Bucky continues, unaware of Steve's drifting thoughts. "Where do you think I get it from?"
"Oh sure, the egg doesn't fall far from the mother hen," Steve murmurs and leans his head into the crook of Bucky’s neck.
Bucky turns them in a lazy circle around the living room, singing softly in Steve's ear, and pressing gentle kisses into his temple.
“Tell me about it again, our future”
The song on Bucky’s lips fades to a hum, then slides into silence. “Again? You sure you won’t get tired of me before then?”
“Not in this lifetime or the next, pal.”
Bucky snorts and Steve feels his hair shift with the exhalation. They’re still dancing, technically, though they’ve now slowed to a gentle sway. The hand on Steve’s back tightens its grip, the splay of Bucky’s fingers creating a radiant point of delicious warmth.
“We’ll get a place in the country,” he begins, his voice taking on a wistful, storyteller’s lilt. “It’ll be warm and ours, with rolling lands all around so there’ll be no one to spy on us.”
The vision swims behind Steve’s closed eyes. “We’ll get some goats.”
Bucky chuckles. “Sure and some chickens to boot.”
He continues describing the scene. Steve knows it all almost by heart at this point, it's all very domestic, but Bucky always changes a few details when they play this game of 'what if and what could be'. The broad strokes are always the same: countryside, peace, quiet, something that's only theirs.
“What about Christmas?” Steve asks, voice barely reaching above a whisper. He's getting tired again, he should really lie down.
“Garlands as far as the eye can see," Bucky replies, holding Steve ever closer as if sensing his waning energy. "The ones with oranges and cinnamon that your ma always liked, and wreaths, and a fat Christmas tree. We’ll host and make our family dinner.”
Steve smiles against Bucky’s neck. “One day,” he sighs. Bucky echoes him.
They lapse into silence. It’s a dream, a play pretend they keep indulging in. Is it foolish, Steve wonders, or a necessity of circumstance? He doesn’t know. But what he does know is that being like this with Bucky counts towards some of his happiest memories, and maybe that’s all that matters.
Steve pulls back just enough to be able to rise up on his toes and to kiss Bucky until his breath catches in his throat and his stomach swoops.
1941
Steve doesn't know whether it's frostier outside or in the apartment. Somewhere down on the street there are carolers and people spilling out from Midnight Mass. Shouts of 'Merry Christmas' reach them but it goes unacknowledged.
They've not spoken to one another since they left the recruitment centre. Steve's form with its big fat 4F stamped in the box is lying torn on the kitchen table and he's been glaring at it for approximately 45 minutes.
Bucky sits on the sofa, long legs propped up on the coffee table and hands clasped behind his head. He stares at the ceiling, unmoved.
Steve wants to move him, maybe to shout some more, but what good will it do? He doesn't want to think about the stamp on Bucky's own form and what that will mean for them. They'd drawn looks from passersby on their way over to Bucky's parents place for Becca's birthday. Then, once they'd arrived, Steve caught Winnie and Becca exchanging looks, looking so similar that he knew Becca would thump him one if he ever mentioned it to her. All through dinner, they made a show of acting like it was all fine. Bucky entertained Esther and Catherine while Steve updated George on his latest work for the WPA. They resolutely did not speak a word to one another.
Becca cornered them after cake, hands on hips and cheeks red from her mother's sherry. A colour that drained from her face as quickly as if a plug had been pulled when they told her where they'd just been
"It don't mean anything," Bucky muttered, sullen and scowling. "It'll be months before I'm called. If I even am."
She told them she didn't want to hear any more, it was her birthday, it was Christmas, and Steve was happy to oblige. They sat in the Barnes' front room and pretended there wasn't a war for a few hours.
"You know what, we're not doing this," cries Bucky. Steve jolts. His stomach clenches, less a swoop, more a short, sharp drop off a hard ledge. "We're not sitting here in silence. It's Christmas for fuck's sake."
Bucky jumps up from the sofa. All his usual grace is gone. He's jerky and staccato, barreling towards Steve.
"What do you want me to say, Buck?"
"Nothing, not about tonight," he says, coming to a halt by his side. Steve doesn't look at him - can't quite bring himself to yet. Bucky drops to his knees. One arm brackets the back of the chair, the other Steve's hand. He's not taking it; he doesn't dare. "I want you to tell me you love me."
"You know I do," he sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his face to the ceiling.
"So tell me, and we'll put tonight behind us."
It seems impossible. But then he catches sight of Bucky's face. Unshed tears shine at the corners of his eyes. His wobbly smile does nothing to hide them and Steve's resolve breaks. Swinging around in his seat, he takes Bucky's face between his hands and kisses him gently.
He knows they won't escape this. Deep down he knows it. But for tonight, as Christmas Day dawns, they fall into one another. And when the day finally comes, dawning bright and frozen cold, they stay where it's warm, giving gifts of hoarded chocolate, pulpy novels, and hand knitted socks.
1944
London is quiet and bitterly cold. There are few people out at this time. They shouldn't be out at this time but Steve figures he could probably get out of any trouble that might come their way with just a flash of his patented "Captain America Smile". The streetlamps stand unlit but the moon easily lights their way back to the hotel from the Whip and Fiddle. London rarely has stars, but tonight a few fight their way past the hazy clouds.
Bucky sways up ahead, singing carols. Steve doesn't think he's drunk, he's seen him drunk, and this isn't that. This is him laughing, and free, and relaxed for perhaps the first time in months. He wishes they could stay in this moment. They've been all too rare and they'll become rarer yet. In three days' time, they'll start their journey to Stalingrad and the Hydra base hidden there, but until then, they have time, and most importantly, they have Christmas off together.
A few days off with no one to bother them will do them both the world of good.
Bucky spins and Steve's stomach swoops as he catches sight of his rapt face. It doesn't matter how many years pass, where, or who they are, Steve knows the near visceral feeling Bucky can elicit within him. It's been with him for more years than he can remember. It's what drove him out of Azzano and into that first accused Hydra base to begin with. Sometimes he thinks he understands it but then something happens to leave him gasping at its depths once more.
"You have a look," says Bucky, swinging around a lamppost, his breath billowing in a hazy, silver plume. He hangs from the post, a lazy, shit-eating grin playing across his features and Steve is reminded once more just how beautiful he is. Cold has skelped his skin raw, nose, cheeks, ears all cherry red, and his eyes are star bright, glittering like the frost hanging in the air around them. The day's pomade has worn off and a few rogue curls lie across his forehead. If they weren't in the middle of the street, he'd push them back and kiss that soft, hollow spot under the hinge of his jaw that makes him shiver.
"No look," says Steve softly, even though he knows it's a lie.
They've reached the mouth of the secluded side street that leads to their accommodation. It's just them and not a curtain twitcher in sight. Bucky sways closer to Steve's side, pressing their shoulders together for too brief a second.
"Say, what have you got me for Christmas?"
Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not telling you."
"Oh go on."
"You're getting the pleasure of my company and that's it."
Bucky humphs. "I have that everyday, what makes tomorrow so special then."
"I'll wear a bow."
"Only a bow?"
"If you ask nicely."
And that's enough for Bucky to push Steve into a puddle of shadow and press a swift, but not so disgruntled kiss to his ever-waiting mouth.
2018
Steve drifts slowly, unwillingly towards consciousness. A cocoon of blankets surrounds him and soothes his aching body. It's been weeks since he's been so comfortable and after his latest mission, the latest beating, it feels like heaven.
A warm shaft of December sunlight falls across Steve's face and even in his drowsy state, he shifts towards it like a bruised sunflower.
But as he drifts, Steve also realises that the bed is empty.
Bucky can't be far, but knowing he's not next to him is enough to make Steve rise and shake off the last of sleep's hold on him. He pauses at the window. Grasslands stretch out in front of him and in the distance, over the top of the forest are the the very tips of Birnin Zana's tallest buildings. Some of the goats nose at the grass in the field next to the cottage while a few others have climbed a low, bare branched tree and are bleating loudly to greet the new day - in competition with the chorus of chickens. He watches them for just a moment, tracing idle hands over the places where just the day before there were injuries - and mean ones at that.
Puckered scars slide underneath his fingers. The sharp edge of pain is gone, only the duller, deeper ache remains, but Steve knows it'll all be gone by the day's end. A day, he hopes, that will be filled with good food and better company.
There's a mound of fresh goat meat in the fridge for them to make into a curry later in the morning. Steve had suggested goose for their Christmas spread, but Bucky vetoed it almost immediately - "lest Wilson get offended by us eating one of his brethren". When he argued the point that Sam can't actually communicate with birds, he'd been told to hush.
The cottage itself is quiet. Garlands of dried oranges, rosemary, and cinnamon sticks crisscross the ceiling and wreathes of every shape and size dot the rooms. In the corner of the living room is a squat fir tree bedecked in tinsel. It feels strange to Steve, to celebrate Christmas in the middle of summer. It's too warm.
But Bucky had insisted.
And who was Steve to deny him?
It's better than freezing in Berlin, or Zagreb, or Budapest. Plus, at least by being in Wakanda, he gets to be with Bucky. Not that he doesn't like spending time with Nat, Sam, and Wanda, he just likes spending it with Bucky more.
As he moves through their home, he's drawn to the sound of the shower running outside. Now that is something Steve can get used to. Located just off the bathroom, is an outside shower with a huge waterfall head and the kind of pressure that his aching muscles always appreciate after weeks undercover. It's kept private from the outside world thanks to some tall bamboo screening threaded with vines and flowers.
Over the sound of the water running, Steve hears him singing softly to himself.
"Oh the weather outside is frightful . . ."
He smirks and draws closer.
"But the fire is so delightful . . ."
The door is open and Steve has full view of Bucky swaying under the stream of water. Water slides down his back, glistening in silvery rivulets against his skin, and curling long tendrils of dark hair over his shoulders.
"And since there's no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." Bucky holds the last note then falls into a low hum. Steve leans against the doorjamb and folds his arms across his chest.
"I hope you're not expecting a white Christmas because I think you might be in the wrong place," he says.
Bucky smiles but doesn't open his eyes, simply holds his left hand out towards Steve. He takes it, thumb tracing the band of Wakandan gold set into his ring finger, and presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles as he joins him under the stream.
As they come together, warm bodies wrapping around each other, Steve trails a gentle hand up Bucky's stomach, his chest, to brush his wet curls away from his forehead. Bucky hums and turns his face to kiss Steve's palm. It's a simple gesture readily given but still, even after so many years, it makes his stomach swoop and his heart soar.
“Merry Christmas, Buck," he says in an undertone.
“Merry Christmas, Stevie.”