Paper Tree

by Ellessey

Summary:

Bucky just laughs and shoves another bite of egg in his mouth, giving Steve a shrug and a full-cheeked smile. He's so damn cute Steve wants to shout at him, but he can't seem to say any of the right things. "Shoulda got you a comb for Christmas," is what he comes up with instead.

"What did you get me?"

It's Steve's turn to shrug now, and if he looks more terrified than cheeky as he does so, he can only hope Bucky doesn't catch it before Steve hurries out the door.

--

On December first, Steve wraps up a letter for Bucky and sets it under their Christmas tree. Now he has twenty-four days left to figure out how to tell Bucky what he wrote, face to face.

Notes:

I posted this as an advent calendar on Twitter, but now that it's complete I just wanted to put it all together in one place!

December 1

It's not the best plan in the world. Not even really a good one, but it is a plan and Steve figures that's better than nothing. Well, less of a plan, and more of a deadline, because as tough as he tries to be, the fact is... he's scared shitless of telling Bucky the truth.

So this is it. He's giving himself until Christmas Eve to say it, to just put it out there. Bucky... when you smile at me it turns my bones right into butter. When you touch me, I'm weightless. When I make you laugh I'm unstoppable, I'm a god, and I'd make entire universes just for you. 

It should be so easy. Steve thinks these things so much they might as well be his heartbeat at this point. (He's almost afraid sometimes that Bucky will hear it when they're close. That he'll listen for crackling in Steve's lungs and hear all his secrets instead.) Except his heartbeat is weak and unsteady, and this—this torch he's been carrying for damn near a decade now—this is unwavering. He's nineteen years old, and maybe he only has another decade left, so there's no more time for being afraid. 

Well, there's twenty-four days, but that's the beauty of this plan. If he hasn't done it by then, it's out of his hands, because he's written every word of it down in ink. Wrapped it up already in newsprint and set it under the drawing of a Christmas tree laden with candles and bright holly that he and Bucky taped up on their wall earlier this evening. 

Bucky wanted to get in the Christmas spirit, and Steve wanted to make Bucky happy so he'd smile that big grin of his that makes his cheeks go round, so he'd used his best colored pencils to do what he could. There's no extra money for a real tree, but this one suits them just fine. Bucky added colorful little balls and a lopsided golden star, and he beamed at Steve when Steve set his gift beneath it. So early, Stevie. Now I gotta wonder what it is all month!

Only if Steve doesn't manage to tell him before then. But at least now, however it ends up happening, by Christmas Day Bucky's gonna find out that Steve's head over heels for him, and he doesn't know how to be any other way.

 

December 2

Steve has the comfort of time still and it makes him complacent. He doesn't even really try yet. The letter is there under the tree, reminding him that he's done something at least. And he and Bucky are both home this evening, a rare Monday night when Bucky's not working late and Steve's already finished up with the advertisements he draws at their kitchen table.

"We could string up some popcorn," Bucky's saying, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the apartment and trying to find new ways to make it look festive.

"Don't have any. And what would we put it on anyway?" Steve says. It's not that he wants to crush Bucky's holiday spirit, but someone's gotta be the voice of reason around here, and it sure as hell won't be Bucky.

Bucky just smiles at him, eyes crinkling the way they do when he's about to be a pain in the ass. It makes Steve's chest get warm despite the chill of their drafty building.

"We'll wrap it around you, of course," Bucky says. "Stand you up on the table and deck you out all pretty. You can be the tree and the angel all at once."

"Shut up," Steve says, knocking Bucky's hands away when he holds them over Steve's head to make a halo with his fingers. "Drew you a perfectly good tree already."

"You did," Bucky agrees, giving up on trying to make Steve into an angel and dropping down beside him on the floor instead. "Now sing me a perfectly good Christmas song, since you won't make popcorn with me."

"We don't have any," Steve repeats, already thinking of when he'll be able to swing by the store, and if he can stretch their budget to include popcorn seeds. 

"So sing," Bucky says, as if this is the only other option, and as if he isn't the much better singer between the two of them. "And not one of those melancholy ones, either. Sing me somethin' happy."

Steve sings O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, just long enough for Bucky to groan and wrap an arm around his neck, mussing up his hair until Steve relents. Then he sings I Saw Three Ships, because Bucky loves it so much, and Steve loves him so much, even if Bucky doesn't know it yet.

 

December 3

Steve only sees Bucky for a grand total of forty-two minutes on the third, at least while they're both awake. They stumble around the apartment in the haze of exhausted confusion that's standard for them on mornings Steve's not working from home. Bucky can only find one clean sock, Steve's hair will not part the right way no matter how many times he pats it down with water, and they both assume the other is keeping an eye on the eggs, when in fact the eggs are completely unattended.

"Tastes like tires," Bucky says, struggling to take a proper bite of their disappointingly rubbery breakfast. He hasn't even attempted to tame his own hair yet, and it's sticking up at odd angles. Falling in soft, messy waves over his forehead. 

Steve accidentally bites his tongue instead of his eggs in his distraction. It's not the first time this has happened, and just one of the many reasons he needs to tell Bucky the truth. Then maybe, maybe, when he's thinking these things he can just... reach out and touch, instead of spiralling inside his own head until he forgets how to chew.

"Doin' okay there, pal?" Bucky asks, watching him with an amused tilt to his eyebrows. 

Steve is such an idiot. He's got to goddamn say it, or stop staring.

"I'm fine," Steve says. "I'm…I—"

He wants to touch Bucky's hair. That's it. That's all his brain can put forward. He wants to twist it around his fingers and pull Bucky closer. Knock the terrible eggs aside and kiss him right there at their cramped table.

"Steve?"

"I gotta get to work," Steve says. "My hair okay?"

"It's… " Bucky squints, reaching out to poke at the same part Steve's spent half the morning uselessly patting. He tries to smoothe it down to no avail, finally just holding the errant lock in place, his eyebrows drawn together. "Stubborn," he says, oblivious to the way he's sending Steve into near cardiac arrest with his proximity. Why isn't he moving? Why isn't Steve brave enough to just casually touch Bucky like this? Why the hell can't he just say it?

"I gotta go," he says again, clearing his throat after when his voice comes out weak and breathy.

"Sure," Bucky says. "Here, just…" He rakes his fingers through Steve's hair again, parting it over to the right instead of the left. "There. Lookin' good, Stevie."

"Yours is a disaster," Steve says, because his middle name is can't accept a compliment. 

Bucky just laughs and shoves another bite of egg in his mouth, giving Steve a shrug and a full-cheeked smile. He's so damn cute Steve wants to shout at him, but he can't seem to say any of the right things. 

"Shoulda got you a comb for Christmas," is what he comes up with instead.

"What did you get me?"

It's Steve's turn to shrug now, and if he looks more terrified than cheeky as he does so, he can only hope Bucky doesn't catch it before Steve hurries out the door. 

"I'd better love it, Rogers!" Bucky calls after him.

Steve can't help the nervous laugh that rattles in his throat. Yeah, he sure as hell hopes so.  

 

December 4

It's nearly ten o'clock by the time Bucky gets home, but Steve is still up. He bought the goddamn popcorn seeds and he's just run out of patience and started popping them on the stove when Bucky walks in.

"Steven Grant, are you popping corn for me?" he asks with a wide grin on his tired face. He works two jobs on Wednesdays and the strain of it shows in the shadows under his eyes, the downward line of his shoulders. Steve hates to see it, but he couldn't pay his medical bills without it and they both know it. At least Steve's been able to work fairly consistently so far this winter too. Enough to get some extras they don't really need, like the popcorn, and a few other small things he's tucked away for Bucky.

"Nope," he says. "This is for me. I'm eating all of it."

"Little shit," Bucky says, still smiling as he toes off his shoes and comes to stand behind Steve, hooking his chin over Steve's shoulder and leaning on it like it's perfectly comfortable and not bony as hell. "Where are we gonna put it up?" 

"We'll figure it out," Steve says. They might as well have that phrase framed and hanging on their wall for all the times they've said it and done it. They apply it to everything: the rent, the broken icebox, the apple pie they swore they'd bring to Thanksgiving at Bucky's Ma's with no clue how to make it. 

Steve's hoping they can also apply it to this thing inside him that Bucky needs to know about. This thing Steve's really hoping is inside Bucky too.

When they're seated at the table together with a bowl of cooled popcorn and two threaded needles (and one bandage on Bucky's thumb), Bucky beams at Steve again, and Steve has to focus very hard on the task at hand so he doesn't react. 

Except… that's the whole point of the plan, isn't it? Bucky knowing what it does to Steve when he smiles at him like that? The way he feels it simmering in his belly and fizzing in his chest. The way it makes his face hot and his head empty. 

So for once, he doesn't stare at his hands and try to will the burning in his cheeks away. He looks up at Bucky and he smiles back, just a little, and God does it ever feel good. Especially when Bucky ends up looking down first, so Steve is left gazing at the soft fan of his eyelashes and the curve of his full lips. Watching him select a lopsided kernel that Steve automatically flicks out of his fingers before he can slide his needle through it.

"Use the fluffy ones, it'll look better."

"The little ones are fine," Bucky argues, digging through the bowl to find another. "Variety's the spice of life, Steve," he adds sagely.

Steve rolls his eyes, but when Bucky shoots him another smile he can't help smiling right back again, even if he's shaking his head at the same time. 

Of course Bucky would think the imperfect kernels that haven't even fully popped are just fine; he's been telling Steve he's just fine his whole life. It's funny how it still surprises Steve sometimes. How he's still realizing that Bucky really does mean it. 

It's incredible to think that there could be an actual chance of Bucky looking at him and seeing something that he wants, and that in twenty-one days or less, Steve will finally find out.

 

December 5

Steve does not confess anything to Bucky on the fifth of December. 

He wakes up feeling panicked over getting Bucky the popcorn and smiling at him like he did. He spends ten minutes pressing his face into his pillow in shame, certain that Bucky already knows everything. That he smiled at Steve fondly and draped uneven popcorn garlands over their window frames with him because he's the best person in the world and doesn't want to hurt Steve.

"Hey," Bucky says, touching the back of Steve's head. "Feelin' okay, kid?"

Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, even though his face is already hidden, and lets the nickname pierce another little hole in the ball of hope that felt so buoyant in his chest last night. 

"Fine," Steve says into his pillow. "Jus' tired."

"Turn over, let me see."

Steve shakes his head and tries to make himself immovable, but of course Bucky flips him over like it's nothing, so Steve's left glaring up at him like an angry little dirt-dwelling creature whose sheltering stone has been overturned. "Stop it," he snaps, jerking out of reach when Bucky tries to feel his forehead.

"Jesus, where'd all your Christmas spirit go?" Bucky asks. "Gonna make me pin you down, or can you just not be difficult for once?"

Steve almost chokes at the mere suggestion of Bucky pinning him. He hates being held down, as a rule, but the idea of Bucky doing it has made frequent appearances in his fantasies. 

Not something he wants to be thinking about right now. 

"I'm not sick," he says, sitting up and touching his face himself. "I'd know if I had a fever. You think I don't know what it feels like?"

"I think you'd lie about it without a second thought so you could get up and go to work," Bucky says, crossing his arms over his chest. It's filled out a lot this past year, with the hours he's been putting in at the boxing ring whenever he gets the chance, and the way the cotton of his undershirt is falling just so between the new swell of his pectoral muscles may send Steve's temperature skyrocketing after all. 

He wants to say he doesn't lie to Bucky, but he doesn't exactly tell him the whole truth all the time either, so he just sighs and brushes his hair away from his forehead so they can get this over with.

Bucky presses his hand to it carefully, shifting his palm from one side to the other until he's satisfied. 

"Alright," he says. "So you're just a grumpy shit today, then."

"Guess so," Steve agrees, since he's not going to put forward the alternate suggestion of heartsick.

"If you do feel like you're coming down with something later, you get your ass home early, you got it?"

"Sure, Ma," Steve says, which makes him feel like an asshole both because his Ma is gone, and because Bucky doesn't laugh or even smile. He just looks at Steve with his lips downturned and his eyes saying something Steve can't put a name to, and then walks away to finish getting dressed. 

"Buck," Steve calls out after they've both silently gotten ready, right as Bucky's turning the door handle to leave for work. Bucky turns back to face him, waiting, and Steve could just do it. Just say I was pissy because I'm crazy about you and I'm scared you won't feel the same. I'm losing my mind because there's a love letter for you sitting under our fake Christmas tree at this very moment.

Bucky raises his eyebrows when Steve doesn't say anything. "You need something?"

He does, but he shakes his head. His fear is bigger than his need.

"No, sorry, I just—I'm sorry. For snapping at you."

"S'fine," Bucky says. "Think I'm not used to you by now, Rogers?"

Somehow he says it with soft eyes and a crooked smile, like it's not a bad thing to have to be accustomed to Steve's moods. 

"Still," Steve says, but Bucky waves off any further apology attempts. He says goodbye and heads off to spend another day not knowing he sets Steve on fire. 

Steve allows himself a moment to press his hands to his face and just burn.

 

December 6

In light of the way yesterday went, Steve decides to give himself a little break. He has almost three weeks left, if he wants to do this out loud instead of in writing, so it's not as if it has to happen right now. 

And besides, it's Friday, and Bucky isn't working late. Steve has some cocoa hidden in the cupboard that they can warm themselves with while the New York winter gets ever more frigid.

That's the plan anyway, Steve's plan, until Bucky comes home just before dinner and immediately starts changing into his going-out clothes. 

"Got a date?" Steve asks, feeling stupid for not considering that, when Bucky has a date most every weekend. 

"Yep," Bucky says. "Wanna come along? Elsie wouldn't mind."

She probably wouldn't—because Elsie's a sweet girl, and Bucky can talk anyone into anything even if she wasn't—but no, Steve does not want to go along.

"Nah," he says, not letting himself sound unhappy about it. And he's not even, not really. Bucky loves going out, loves girls fawning over him, and Steve loves watching him puff up like a peacock under the attention. He loves Bucky getting to hear how special and handsome and funny he is, because it's all true, and the praise never seems to go to his head anyway. He keeps getting taller and broader, his cheekbones sharper and his jawline harder, but he's never stopped being Bucky. Generous and thoughtful. Loyal as they come. He's never stopped putting his scrawny, prickly best pal first, so what can Steve do, other than want Bucky to be loved? 

"You sure? We don't have to go dancing or anything. We can just see a movie if you want."

Steve shakes his head, ignoring the warm fluttering in his chest at the way Bucky's so willing to tailor his night to Steve's interests. 

"I'm good here," he says. "I'll work ahead a little on my ads for next week so I can take the weekend off."

"Alright. If you change your mind just come out and meet us."

"Sure," Steve says, even though he definitely won't. 

He settles down with his work in the empty apartment, but instead of drawing fancy hand soap as he should be, he draws big kind eyes and a soft dimpled chin. He draws the face that he loves, and then he folds it in thirds and wraps it up in newsprint too, because he might as well keep all his secrets under the tree for now. 

 

December 7

"Okay, but think about it," Bucky says, nudging Steve out of the way so he can get a spoon out of the kitchen drawer where they keep their mismatched silverware. "Hot cocoa is just chocolate mixed with hot water, and then it turns into magic, right?"

"I mean… I guess?" Steve says, lifting himself up to sit on the counter with his own mug of cocoa. It was a cold, grey Saturday, but Bucky's home from work now and he hasn't said anything about going out tonight.

"So if they could make Mallo Cups into a drink, wouldn't that be amazing?"

"Buck…" Steve has to take a moment before answering. Bucky is sipping his cocoa spoonful by spoonful, like he has since he was six, and he's so dumb sometimes it makes Steve ache with fondness. "That's the exact same thing as just putting marshmallows in cocoa. What do you think Mallo Cups are made of?"

"It's a different taste, though! I want the authentic Mallo experience, in drink form."

"It's coconut. The different taste is coconut. We could make it ourselves."

Bucky's face lights up, and Steve adds another thing to his mental list of ways he can make those blue eyes get all happy and bright. He thinks about how many things he's not good at, how many things are so hard for him, but seem easy for everyone else with their perfectly functioning hearts, lungs, ears, and eyes. 

And he thinks about how easy it's always been for him to make Bucky happy. Doesn't even seem like he has to try, but he likes to try anyway. 

He drops another marshmallow in his own mug, and two in Bucky's, and thinks he could probably spend the whole rest of his life just trying and trying and trying. 

 

December 8

Steve still has two and a half weeks to tell Bucky, so on Sunday he lets himself set it aside for another day and not worry about it. When he's seated in church in his threadbare suit he feels a little less guilty than he usually does, because the truth is there on his apartment floor and it'll be out soon enough. 

He supposes maybe he should feel guilty for wanting Bucky the way he does, but he's never been able to. Bucky being a man doesn't mean Steve's love for him is any less pure than it would be for the girls that sit around him in their neat skirts and pin curls. He couldn't love anyone harder than he loves Bucky. It's the cleanest, strongest part of him.

They meet up at the corner between Steve's church and Bucky's after, and Steve watches Bucky kissing his Ma's cheek and ruffling his little sisters' hair before they cross the street to walk home, calling out greetings to Steve. He and Bucky will join them for Sunday dinner later, but for now, the afternoon is theirs.

"Where's your scarf, Rogers?" Bucky says as soon as he reaches him. "I told you to grab it right before I left."

"You ever get tired of henpecking me?" Steve asks, tugging at the collar of his thin jacket so it covers his neck better. "Or is it just fun for you?"

"Yeah it's a real fuckin' riot," Bucky says, hooking an arm around Steve's neck and tugging him into his side. "Never get tired of watching you being too dumb to take care of yourself."

"Don't see you wearing a scarf," Steve points out.

"Yeah well, I'm not—" Bucky cuts himself off, but Steve knows what he was thinking and won't say. I'm not skin and bones. I'm not liable to get pneumonia if I so much as look at a snowflake. He loves giving Steve a hard time, but he's careful about some things. Steve's size. His health. Bucky never teases him about those. "Guess I'm not that smart either," he says instead.

Steve laughs even though he sees right through Bucky, and he doesn't slip out from under his arm like he normally would after this long. The streets are quiet and cold, and before they've made it halfway home, the scattered clouds have begun to shed huge, fluffy flakes that settle on Bucky's shoulders and catch in Steve's hair, glinting in the afternoon sun still peeking through. 

They stop at the corner across from their building, and Bucky looks down at him while cars move through the intersection. Steve waits for him to say something about how Steve ought to be wearing a hat, how they'd better hurry before he gets a chill, but he doesn't say anything at all. 

"Got a snowflake on my nose or something?" Steve asks, shifting his feet nervously under Bucky's quiet scrutiny.

Bucky shakes his head, his lips turning up. "It's all over your hair. Like Christmas lights."

Steve's throat is very dry, and the traffic has cleared so they don't need to be standing here anymore, but there's no way in hell he's moving right now.

"Stop trying to turn me into a tree," he says, and Bucky's soft smile turns into a grin.

"Why? You're just as prickly as one."

"I'll drop all my needles before Christmas, and then what will you do?"

Bucky barks out a laugh, wrapping his arm around Steve again to steer him across the street. "You would, too. Contrary little asshole."

"That's some language for the Lord's day, Barnes."

"Fuck you," Bucky laughs, and they walk the rest of the way with their sides warm against each other as the snow drifts across their path like dandelion fluff. 

Like thousands and thousands of wishes that are all the same for Steve. This, this, just let them always have this.

December 9

The snow is completely gone by Monday night, and Bucky is pretending he's not disappointed. He loves snow, but he also considers it Steve's enemy since it tends to come with the coldest weather, so he's always been (adorably, if you ask Steve) conflicted over it.

"We live in New York, Buck, it'll be back," Steve reassures him as they're cleaning up their chipped dishes after dinner. 

"I'm fine," Bucky says, bumping Steve's shoulder with his arm. "Think of all the time it'll save me, not having to remind you to put a goddamn hat on."

"Mhm," Steve says. 

"Just... my sisters were excited about it, that's all."

"Right," Steve says. "So if I said I have some old sketches I need to clear out and was thinking we could turn 'em into snowflakes, you wouldn't have any interest in that, right?"

Bucky stops in the middle of scrubbing the bottom of their old soup pot. He does not look at Steve, but Steve can see the corner of his lips twitching up anyway.

"I mean... if you're just gonna toss them out anyway."

"You know you're about as transparent as glass, Buck?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Bucky says, casual as can be.

He then proceeds to rush through the rest of the washing and drying, and watches over Steve's shoulder while he pulls the sketches out from one of the shallow boxes under his bed.

"Sit down, you're breathing all over me."

"I smell like chocolate, what're you complaining about?" Bucky scoffs, sprawling out on the end of Steve's bed.

He does smell like the hot cocoa they had for dessert, but he also smells like soap and clean pajamas, and it was making the back of Steve's neck heat up. 

"Remember to start with a square," Steve directs him, once they're both on the bed with the stack of paper between them. It's just things too rough and messy to bother saving, and he likes the idea of them being re-purposed to make Bucky happy. Something that was his, becoming something that's theirs. Even if it will just be for a little while, until the decorations come down again.

Nearly an hour later there's an assortment of flakes spread all over Steve's blue bedcover. Steve's have come out well, delicate and varied and even. Bucky's on the other hand…

"Well... this probably isn't my calling in life," Bucky says, looking down at his most recent creation, which looks about as square and childish as all his others. 

"I did show you what to do."

"But the scissors are tiny. The paper's tiny. We don't all have perfect artist fingers you know, Rogers. Some of us have these," Bucky says, holding up his hands as if he's making some kind of point.

He's not, because while his hands are certainly much larger than Steve's, there's nothing crude or bulky about them. They're lovely and familiar, and Steve has spent so much time studying them that he could (can, he definitely can) draw them perfectly from memory. Just looking and sketching doesn't feel like nearly enough anymore though. He wants to map them with his own fingers. He wants to mark them with his lips. 

"There's nothing wrong with your hands, stupid," he says, his brain just catching up with the fact that Bucky called his hands perfect, and not knowing what to do with that. "Or your snowflakes. Variety's the spice of life, right?"

Bucky looks up at him with one eyebrow quirked. "I'm sorry, I'm confused. Are you complimenting my ugly snowflakes and quoting me as if I you think I'm some kind of fount of wisdom?"

"Quoting you quoting someone else. Not the same."

Bucky is not dissuaded. He's smiling at Steve with pink cheeks and genuine pride. The sweetest kind of pride, because he doesn't care what his snowflakes look like, he just cares that Steve is defending them.

"You like my snowflakes, Stevie?" he asks.

"You hungry for praise, Barnes?"

The color in Bucky's cheeks deepens and Steve has to look away. This is doing things to him. This is giving him so many ideas that he can't let himself think about right now. Thank God Bucky didn't say you like my hands, Stevie?

"Let's get them hung up," Steve says quickly, before Bucky can respond to the praise thing and make this situation any more dire.

Bucky follows his lead and starts gathering the flakes together. By the time they're both stretched out on their backs in their beds, Steve's nerves have calmed down, and all their handiwork is hanging from white threads, pinned to the ceiling above them.

Steve still hasn't told Bucky, and he's feeling so many things that he wasn't all that explicit about in his Christmas letter, but right now Bucky's talking to him soft and sleepy, and their snowflakes are dancing over them—Bucky's and Steve's all mixed together—and Steve thinks this might just be the best December he's ever had. 

 

December 10

Tuesday is another one of those days where Steve barely sees Bucky. There's just the typical morning rush, made even more chaotic by Steve having a coughing fit when Bucky accidentally leaves grease burning on the stove and fills the kitchen with smoke. Bucky shoos him out into the clean air with a lot of cursing and apologizing, then turns up at the general store where Steve stocks shelves just long enough to make sure he isn't wheezing. 

"This your lunch break, you idiot?" Steve asks.

"Smoke break," Bucky says.

"You don't smoke."

Bucky shrugs and gives Steve his signature there's nothing I can't get away with smile. "But now I still get a lunch break later. Long as I'm back in three minutes."

"Better run then," Steve says, then watches Bucky stroll out of the shop like he has all the time in the world. The canning factory he works at isn't that far from here, but far enough that Steve's willing to bet Bucky starts sprinting as soon as he's out of sight.

When Steve sees him again it's some time in the middle of the night. Steve was asleep before Bucky even got home, but he wakes in the dark for no determinable reason, and by the time he's shuffled off to use the bathroom and tucked himself into bed again, he's too cold and alert to get back to sleep.  

Bucky, for his part, is sleeping soundly. Curled on his side with the blanket tucked up under his chin. It's hard to make out his face, but Steve doesn't need to see it to be able to picture the delicate lines of his nose, and the way the tip is probably a little pink from the chilly night. He can imagine the broad set of his jaw and the smooth slope of his forehead. The way his full lips naturally pout if he isn't setting them in a smile. They'd look pouty now, if Steve could see them. 

He thinks, for about the millionth time, about what it'd be like to kiss them.

Steve's been kissed by a few girls, against all odds. Nothing much, just chaste touches of lips. Nothing like the way he imagines kissing Bucky would be. Bucky's gentle, but he's passionate in everything he does. He'd hold Steve tight and close, pour himself into every touch, every taste. He'd take Steve's breath away and give it back to him clean and new. Make Steve into something he's never been before with just the heat of his mouth and the touch of his hands.

It's so tempting just then, with all these ideas warming Steve up from the inside out, to slip out of bed again and shake Bucky awake. He could touch his face once Bucky's eyes were open and say Buck, I need you to kiss me, and Bucky probably just would, because he's soft and agreeable when he's sleepy, and he's terrible at saying no to Steve at any time of day. 

But he can't, he could never do it like that. He has to tell Bucky everything. How long he's loved him, how it's okay if Bucky doesn't ever want to talk about it again after he finds out. He has to be sure Bucky knows it's okay to say no. To turn Steve down and keep on going. 

Steve wants to kiss Bucky more than just about anything, but not more than he wants to have Bucky in his world, in whatever way he can. That's the thing Bucky needs to know most of all. That Steve loves him because Bucky's the best person alive and Steve's so goddamn glad he exists. That he's the best friend Steve's ever had and ever will have, and if that's all they can be together, that's still everything to Steve. 

He can't try to kiss Bucky tonight, but inside his letter are all those things Bucky needs to know, and soon he'll read it and then... well, then they'll see what happens next.

 

December 11

On Wednesday, Steve gets home later than Bucky, because he possibly got into a bit of a scuffle on the way home. It was nothing big. Just an asshole who thought he had the right to say crude things to a girl passing by, and Steve making sure he got the message that it wasn't okay.

Bucky just sighs when he looks up from the paperback in his hands and sees Steve's face, the dried blood still crusted under his nose. "No black eyes at least. Unless it's just too soon," he says, setting the book down.

"Nah... barely touched me."

"Right," Bucky says with a tired smirk. "Go clean up. I got you something, but I'm not sure I'm gonna give it to you now."

Steve frowns at him and Bucky just smirks harder.

Once Steve's face has been washed and he's changed into long underwear with one of Bucky's warm sweaters pulled on top, he comes back out to sit on the couch, keeping to the edge because it sags down in the middle.

Bucky sets his book aside once again and looks over at him, taking in the sweater and the way the sleeves go far enough past Steve's hands that he can curl them around his fingers like mittens. Steve isn't exactly proud of this fact, but it sure does feel nice.

"You don't mind, do you?" Steve says, when Bucky just keeps looking at him without saying anything. "I'm outta sweaters. I'll get laundry done tomorrow."

"Course not. You just…" Bucky shakes his head a little, like he forgot what he was saying, and his eyes move away. "Go look under the tree before I change my mind and give it to someone without punchy little fists."

Steve grins and hops off the couch, crouching down in front of the paper taped to the wall nearby. The wrapped up letter and drawing are still there, but there's also something new. A red and white candy cane, sealed up in clear cellophane. 

Steve picks it up and sits back down with Bucky, trying not to look too excited. It's just a stick of candy, but he loves peppermint, and he loves that Bucky knows that and got this for him. 

"You didn't have to," he says, carefully peeling the wrapper open.

"Felt bad for setting your asthma off yesterday," Bucky says with a shrug. "Maybe we just shouldn't cook on Tuesdays. Never goes well."

"Never goes that well any day of the week," Steve points out. "But I'm fine, you don't owe—"

"I know, I know. Just eat your candy, Steve."

"Take half," Steve counters, snapping off a large piece of the straight bit before Bucky can argue with him and handing it over. Bucky ignores it and takes the curved piece, the notoriously obnoxious to eat piece, from Steve's other hand.

"And you call me contrary," Steve says.

Bucky's eyes widen, all clear blue innocence. "This is the best part!"

"It's the worst, it's all crooked and difficult and—" Steve stops, because it's not fucking lost on him that he's describing himself, and he wonders if Bucky's even aware of the way he keeps doing this. The way he's always showing Steve, one way or another, that he likes him just the way he is.

"It tastes just the same," Bucky says easily when Steve doesn't keep going. "But if you don't like it, why'd you try to give me the part you like best?" 

"Because… because you bought it."

Bucky nods. "For you."

There's a moment that stretches for probably much too long, where Steve just looks back at him—at his sweet, honest face and the missing button on his thermal shirt—and the only thing he can think is I love you.

"Well stop talking and let me enjoy it then," Steve says finally, with absolutely no bite. And then after a little while, when they're both quietly turning their sticks of candy from thick and striped to thin and white, he adds, "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky shifts against Steve, because they've both kind of sunk to the middle of the couch where it's warm and comfortable, shoulder to shoulder. "Sure, pal," he says. 

His voice is low and he smells like mint. Like Christmas and magic and home.

In exactly two weeks, Steve might kiss him. 

 

December 12

It becomes clear, once Steve has finally gotten all the laundry done, that his work is not finished. In addition to the missing button on Bucky's shirt that he noticed last night, there are holes in pockets, splits in the seams of shoulders, and far too many worn out places in too many shirts and pants that he can't really do anything about. He wishes he could just buy brand new everything for himself and Bucky both, but as that's never going to be an option, he sets to threading a needle instead. 

He's down to just a few loose buttons and an old sweater of Bucky's he's not sure he can salvage, when Bucky comes in the door, shivering from his walk home. 

He stands there in the entrance for a minute once he spots Steve on the floor in front of the couch, with neat stacks of folded laundry surrounding him and his needle in hand. 

He is very clearly deciding whether or not to tease Steve. 

"I can rip the stitches out just as easy as I put 'em in," Steve says.

"Well I can't put them in easy at all, so I guess I'd better just be grateful."

"Smart," Steve says. 

"It's just—"

"Nope."

"You just look so—"

"Bucky Barnes," Steve warns. He holds a shirt up menacingly, but Bucky darts forward and snatches it out of his hands.

"You just look awful sweet here Stevie I'm sorry," he says all in a rush, through a big obnoxious smile. "What'd I ever do to deserve coming home to—"

He doesn't get to complete that thought because Steve's already on his feet, launching himself into his big dumb asshole of a friend. Knocking him off balance, even if he can't actually knock him off his feet.  

"I'm just saying," Bucky laughs, stumbling back and almost tripping over the laundry basket behind him.

Steve gets him in a headlock that they both know Bucky could break out of, and rubs his knuckles over the neat swoop of his hair to mess it up. "You're just saying thank you, Steve, for fixing my shit."

"Thank you, Steve," Bucky says obediently, one arm wrapped around Steve's waist but doing nothing to pull him off. "For being the best little wife I—"

Steve punches Bucky in the stomach. It wasn't hard enough to really hurt, but Bucky sinks to his knees anyway, wheezing with laughter.

"You're such a jerk," Steve says, shoving Bucky's shoulder and trying not to laugh himself. It's damn near impossible, because Bucky's laughter is the most infectious thing he's ever encountered. 

"I'm just teasin' you, Stevie, come 'ere."

Steve drops down to sit as far from Bucky as he can in the tiny space they have, and holds up his middle finger.

"Aw, don't be like that, sweetheart," Bucky says with an attempt at a straight face, that is instead rosy cheeks and a smile working hard to show itself. "Breaks my heart when you're mad at me."

"It's really gonna break your heart when I rip every one of your buttons off and leave you to fix them," Steve says coolly, trying so, so hard not to react to sweetheart being directed at him. It's not the first time Bucky's done it, but it's always just playing around like this. It doesn't mean anything. 

"Gonna rip my buttons off, huh?" Bucky asks, one dark eyebrow arched.

Steve has to close his eyes briefly and take a steadying breath. What the fuck is Bucky trying to do to him? 

He just stares back at Bucky levelly once he opens his eyes, until Bucky's face goes from exaggeratedly seductive to smiling sweetly again, and he crawls over to sit right next to Steve.

"Hey," he says. "You know I'm messing with you."

"I know you have a big, stupid mouth."

"Yeah," Bucky agrees. "Don't know what I'd do without you, Stevie. It makes a big difference, you being able to fix this stuff up."

"You don't gotta flatter me. I'm not actually gonna undo my work."

"Show me how to do the buttons again. I'll help."

Steve has shown Bucky at least four times before and he's still godawful at it, but he's sitting so close to Steve, still smelling like winter air and a long day of working hard, and Steve's not dumb enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

In the end Bucky does a serviceable job, and they've patched things up as well as they can. Except that sweater of Bucky's that has an ever widening hole under the collar and another near the hem.

"Just toss it, I guess," Steve says, even though he hates to. Bucky's had it for years, and the cream colored wool is thick and soft.

"Or... you could keep it, just for at home," Bucky suggests, his eyes on the sweater in his hands. "Wish I could get you a new one, but at least the sleeves'll keep your hands warm. Like yesterday."

"Oh," Steve says, waiting for his brain to supply more words for him, but only able to think of having Bucky's scent wrapped around him. He wants this ratty old sweater a hundred times more than he wants a new one. "Yeah, okay."

"'Kay," Bucky says, handing it over.

Neither of them make a move to get up or get ready for bed. The Christmas tree is across from them, with Steve's carefully drawn branches and Bucky's crooked star, and Steve feels so terrifyingly close to having exactly what he wants. 

 

December 13

They wake up on Friday to frost covered glass and snow piled on their windowsills. Bucky takes one look outside and tells Steve to go back to bed.

"I gotta work," Steve says with a shake of his head. 

"It's still comin' down, you'll get soaked on your way there."

"I'll dress warm."

"Steve—"

"Bucky. If I'm not sick, I go to work, that's it. We need it."

Bucky lets it drop after that, while they hurry through their morning routine with hands that won't warm up and teeth incessantly chattering. But as soon as they're out the door and Steve coughs reflexively in the frigid air, he picks it right back up again.

"You were coughing a lot last night too."

"Buck, I always cough a lot. It's just dry."

"And fucking cold, and it's not good for you."

"Arguing with you ain't good for me either. Let me save my breath."

Bucky glares at him over the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. "It's not funny, Steve. Last winter you… it's not funny. This isn't a fucking joke."

Steve knows. He knows how scary it was, how expensive it was, when he ended up in the hospital twice in three weeks because his glass bulb nebulizer wasn't coming close to cutting it. He knows when he spent the two weeks after that with fevers and chills and a pain in his chest so sharp it made him whimper every time he coughed, it was Bucky who sat beside him every moment he could. Holding Steve's cold fingers and praying under his breath for the infection to clear. 

They stop at the corner, and it's not like their walk home from church when just being next to each other kept them warm enough. There's a bitter, biting wind, and Steve can feel his chest seizing up even though he has his scarf over his nose just like Bucky.

"Please, will you stay home," Bucky says. "I'll stop and tell Miller you couldn't make it. I can do a few hours for him too, when I get off work."

Steve hates everything about this plan, from him not working to Bucky working longer. He opens his mouth to say so and just ends up coughing, and then coughing some more, and all he can see of Bucky are anxious blue eyes and the line between Bucky's brows that only comes with anger or worry.

Steve nods his head and Bucky's eyes go soft with relief. He walks back home with Steve, makes him swear to stay in and stay warm, and then disappears back into the flurrying snow. 

There isn't much for Steve to do, once he's breathing easier again and bundled up as much as he possibly can be. He tidies a little, then winds up on the floor by the picture of the Christmas tree, with one blanket on his lap and another over his shoulders. He has a pencil and paper with him too. He writes P.S. at the top, and then he writes more things that Bucky needs to know.

It drives me goddamn insane having you worrying over me, and it's not because I'm an ungrateful, macho asshole. Well it's a little bit that. I've gotten used to it, mostly, but it still stings, always having to be taken care of. I don't want you to look at me and see weakness and sickness. I know you'll say you don't, but it's there either way and I wish it wasn't. It makes you work longer. It makes you scared. It makes things harder, and Buck all I ever want is to make things better for you. 

That's why I get so mad when you're hounding me about warm hats and coughing. A little bit because I'm really fine most of the time, but mostly because that's not what I want to give you. Not worry. I want to give you every goddamn star in the sky, Bucky. I want to give you whole truck loads of Mallo Cups. And even though I'm a mess and I come with the worrying and the coughing, I want to give you me. 

I think I'm really good at making you happy, maybe better than anyone else could be. And if you'll let me, that's all I mean to do.  

 

December 14

Saturday is so cold and so snowy that Bucky comes back home within minutes of leaving for work. They spend most of the morning drinking hot cocoa with blankets wrapped around themselves, while Bucky tries to guess what's under the tree.

"You gotta stop giving me things, you're showing me up," he says.

"It's nothin' much. Just three shoelaces, since you're always wearing yours out."

"Liar, you can't buy single shoelaces."

"I'll put the fourth one out soon enough," Steve says with a grin that tugs at his chapped lips. It's so goddamn fucking cold and dry.

"Maybe..." Bucky says, ignoring him, "it's feathers. And by Christmas day there'll be enough to stuff a whole pillow."

"One sad, small pillow."

Buck smiles lazily and leans heavily to the side, resting his head on Steve's. "S'alright, I've got you at least."

"Probably even less comfortable than a three-feather pillow," Steve snorts, trying very hard not to move or hyperventilate or burst into flames.

"So much prettier though," Bucky says, and Steve pinches his leg.

By the end of the day they're out of cocoa and Steve is entirely out of patience with being freezing cold, and with Bucky worrying about him being freezing cold. 

"I give up," he says. "Let's just wear everything we own and go to bed. Maybe tomorrow the goddamn sun will come out."

Bucky agrees, but they only last about five minutes shivering in their beds before he sits up again, swinging his legs to the floor.

"This is stupid. Move over, huh?"

Steve hesitates. They've shared a bed plenty of times before, but it's been a while. And Steve's feelings for Bucky have only gotten more intense in that while.

"Stevie, c'mon. Your lips are blue and I can't feel my nose," Bucky whines.

Well, if it's for the sake of Bucky's nose, which Steve will admit in the privacy of his own thoughts is the cutest nose he's ever seen, he can't really say no. He lifts his stack of thin blankets up and Bucky hurries under them, pressing right up against Steve and sticking his nose into the crook of Steve's neck.

"Oh my God, were you holding ice on it?"

"Your neck's so warm," Bucky sighs happily, nuzzling closer. "How is it so warm?"

"Dunno, 'cause my fingers sure ain't," Steve says, pressing a hand to the back of Bucky's neck just to make him yelp.

"Punk! You probably just gave me frostbite."

"You probably deserve it. Jesus, I can feel how cold your feet are right through your socks."

Bucky is wrapped around him like Steve's a tree and Bucky's a koala bear, and if Steve doesn't focus solely on icy toes and noses he's going to combust. 

"Okay," Bucky says. "What if we just bite the bullet real quick. It'll be awful, and then it'll be so much warmer."

"What will? What are you—"

"Just—here," Bucky says, and suddenly his hands are up the back of Steve's shirt and Steve's heart just about stops. "Put your hands in my shirt, c'mon. Right in the front so they'll be between us."

Steve's brain has shut down, but he follows the directions on auto-pilot. Slides his hands under Bucky's layered shirts to rest over his chest. Warm skin and soft curls of hair. Bucky holds him tight, tucking his chin over Steve's head so Steve's surrounded by him, hands snug between their bodies.

"I'm gonna die," Bucky says. "Your fingers are gonna freeze my heart."

"This was your idea!" Steve says, voice muffled by Bucky's shirt. "An' if you think your fingers are toasty warm, let me tell you—"

"I know, I know," Bucky says. "But in ten minutes you'll be thanking me."

In ten minutes Steve's hands are warm and his teeth have stopped chattering, but he can't thank Bucky. Within a few minutes Bucky's head had gotten heavier on top of Steve's. Within a couple more he was snoring into Steve's hair, with his arms still wrapped around him, and his chest rising and falling evenly under Steve's palms. 

"Thank you," Steve whispers anyway, into the warmth and quiet between them. 

Bucky's been joking about not having a Christmas gift for Steve yet, fretting about not finding something good enough, but Steve can't think of a single thing he wants more than this. Just Bucky's nose in his hair, and his comfortable, calloused hands brushing Steve's bare skin with every breath Steve takes.

His toes are still a little cold, but it feels like the sun they've been missing is right there in his chest as he falls asleep.  

 

December 15

Steve wakes to warm breath on the back of his neck and a heavy arm over his waist. It would feel like heaven, except he also wakes to a pain in his throat and behind his eyes. His standard precursors to a cold. 

He tries to wriggle out of Bucky's hold, but Bucky just tightens his arm and presses his face into Steve's neck a little harder.

"Buck…"

"It's Sunday," Bucky mumbles. "Sleep."

"Church," Steve corrects. "But also—"

"Hey," Bucky says, suddenly sounding more alert. "You're real warm, Stevie. Did I make you too warm?"

He sits up, pressing his cool palm to Steve's face and looking dismayed and sleep rumpled and devastatingly handsome on top of it all. Steve would sell his soul to get to wake up every morning and have Bucky look down at him and touch his cheek like this.

"Fuck, are you—"

"Just a cold," Steve says quickly. "Sore throat. Lungs are fine."

"You feel sick last night?"

"No, it just started," Steve promises. "You should get up though, I don't wanna get you sick."

"I'll be fine. Goddammit, we were doing so well."

"We're still fine. It's a cold, that's not a big deal."

Bucky huffs and brushes the sweat damp hair off Steve's forehead. "You're not going to church. You're staying in bed and drinking tea all day."

"And pissing all day too, then."

"Good. You can piss the cold right outta you."

"Buck, I'm seriously fine. I don't need—"

"No talking. Rest your throat," Bucky says, climbing over Steve, tucking him back in aggressively so he can't move his arms, then going straight to the kitchen and setting water to boil. 

"This is ridiculous!" Steve shouts after him.

"Steven Grant, if you yell again so help me God I'll tape your mouth closed."

"Then how will I drink all my tea?"

Bucky is not amused, but he does agree to let Steve relocate to the couch, with a nest of blankets wrapped around him. The sun is bright outside their little windows, and they can hear snow melting and dripping over the low hum of the radio. 

"You should go out," Steve says. "Have dinner with your Ma. Build a snowman with the girls."

"Nah," Bucky says, setting a plate of toast next to Steve's third mug of honeyed tea. "Mine always look like a Picasso painting anyway."

"So, like the work of one of the most influential artists walking this Earth?"

"Shut up," Bucky says. "Y'know what I mean. It's New York, we'll get more snow."

"I don't want you to give up a perfectly good day just to—"

"I'm not giving up anything, Rogers," Bucky says firmly. "I wanna be here, so stop arguing and drink your goddamn tea."

Steve fully intends to argue just a little bit more, but then he starts sneezing instead. And when the sneezing makes him wince because of his headache, he earns himself a new position with his head in Bucky's lap, a cool, damp cloth held to his forehead, and a heap of blankets all around both of them. It seems a bit counter-intuitive, the cold and the heat at once, but it all feels really nice—especially with Bucky massaging Steve's temple with slow, firm circles of his thumb—and Steve decides to give up arguing altogether. 

"You're real good at this," he says softly, when the sun's started to go down and Bucky's still stroking his hair. He's thinking about his Ma doing the same thing when she was alive. About how Bucky makes him feel just as safe, just as certain. 

Bucky doesn't say anything, but he tugs on Steve's ear gently before going back to smoothing his hair, and he starts to hum along with Bing Crosby on the radio. A warm, smooth sound like the honey in Steve's tea, or chocolate melting in his mouth. The slow, familiar tune of Silent Night.  

For the second night in a row Steve falls asleep with Bucky's hands on him, and with the fleeting thought, right before he's unconscious, that he won't even need to dream. 

 

December 16

On Monday Bucky has to go back to work, but Steve is not going anywhere. He is producing unbelievable quantities of mucus. He's sneezing approximately every forty-five seconds. He's achy and cranky, and Christmas is only ten days away. 

"Ma's dropping soup off at lunch, so make sure you eat it, and tell her if you need anything else," Bucky says as he tugs his mittens on. 

"How 'bout I just sleep till I can breathe through my nose again?"

"How 'bout you drink lots of fluids and goddamn tell me if that cough gets worse."

"Where'd that gentle bedside manner of yours go?" Steve asks with a smirk. 

"Lost it listening to you tryin' to breathe through all that snot all night."

Bucky says it in his typical good natured tone, but there's a crease of worry between his brows, and Steve feels terrible.

"M'sorry," he says, but Bucky just rolls his eyes and reaches out to rub his mittened hand over Steve's hair. 

"Not your fault, stupid. I'll see you tonight."

Steve nods and squashes down a sudden, fierce desire to throw himself forward and wrap his arms around Bucky's middle. To ask him to stay home so Steve can curl up on his lap and listen to the rumble of his voice in his chest as he sings. 

Jesus, this cold is really getting to him.

He winds up sleeping fitfully most of the day, waking up to blow his nose and heat up water for tea. He feels awful, but he knows he could feel worse. He can usually tell the difference between a cough that he'll be able to deal with, and one that's going to rapidly become a problem. He definitely knows the difference between a low fever and the kind that turns every moment and movement into misery.

When Bucky gets home Steve is half conscious in his blanket pile on the couch. He hasn't bothered to do anything with the tissues balled up all around him, and he's too tired to even be ashamed.

"You eat?" Bucky asks, coming in and crouching in front of him.

Steve shrugs. He did, at some point. 

"Breathin' alright?"

"Not bad," Steve says, but of course Bucky doesn't take his word for it. He tugs Steve's blankets away and pushes him carefully back against the couch so he can press his ear to Steve's chest. 

"Alright," he says once he's leaned back again. There's a smudge of grease across his forehead and his lips are chapped. Steve wants to run his fingers over them. He wants to bury himself inside Bucky's jacket. "Gonna clean up and change, and then… God almighty, Steve. How can such a little guy have so much snot in him?"

Steve shrugs miserably. He tries to help tidy up the mess he's made—once Bucky returns with his face clean and pink from being scrubbed—but Bucky sets a heavy hand on his shoulder until Steve is sitting again. He heats the soup back up for Steve and then drags him to bed after he's eaten, climbing in after him as if this is just what they do now. It's not as cold as it has been, but Bucky presses in close beside him, tugging him so Steve's back is to Bucky's chest.

"You, uh—" Steve begins, trying to make his tired brain find a string of coherent words. 

"This okay?" Bucky asks. "It's easier to check on you if I'm right here."

"You don't gotta check on me, Buck. I appreciate your help, I do, but I'm not your responsibility."  

"I don't know why you're always thinkin' I'm doing something because I feel like I have to, and not because I want to."

"You want to spend half the night awake, analyzing my breathing?"

"I mean, despite you bein' the biggest pain in the ass I've ever met, you are my favorite person, so yeah. I'd like to keep you alive."

"M'not a goldfish," Steve mutters. He's so glad Bucky can't see his face right now. He's so fucking glad that whatever happens with them after Christmas, whatever Bucky's feelings are, he does love Steve. Steve is his favorite, just like Bucky is Steve's.

"I know, pal. A goldfish would be a helluva lot easier to keep alive."

Steve elbows him halfheartedly, and Bucky chuckles into his hair, moving his hand up to rest it over Steve's chest.

"Buck…" Steve says. His eyes are closed and he already feels more asleep than awake, but he wants… God, there's so much he wants to tell Bucky.

"What?" Bucky asks in a whisper.

"You… you're mine. Too," Steve admits, just as softly. That wasn't quite what he meant to say; he was trying to tell Bucky he's his favorite, but…

"Good," Bucky says. Or Steve thinks so, anyway. It was barely more than a breath, soft on his ear. 

It was more than enough to send warmth right down to the tips of Steve's fingers and toes. 

 

December 17

When Steve wakes he doesn't immediately regret attaining consciousness, which is a good sign. Day three of a cold is always telling for him. Either things start getting worse, and he knows he's in for a rough go for at least the next couple weeks, or they level out and there's hope on the horizon.

By late afternoon he actually feels more human than creature-made-of-snot, and manages to get the bedding washed so they can sleep in something that isn't germ infested that night. By the time Bucky's home, he's managed to wash himself too, which leaves him both happy and completely exhausted. 

"You're dripping," Bucky says when Steve comes into the kitchen with wet hair and a towel around his shoulders, looking for something easy to eat. 

"Water tends to do that."

"Hardy-har," Bucky says, unimpressed. "Dry your hair."

"It's fine. I'll do it after I eat."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky huffs, grabbing a banana from the bowl on the counter and holding it out to Steve. "Take this and sit your ass down. Now."  

Steve's tired enough to go along with this, so he takes a seat at the table and begins to unpeel his banana, startling a little when Bucky pulls the towel off his shoulders and settles it over Steve's head.

"What are—"

"It's a goddamn wonder you've made it this long, bein' this stupid," Bucky says, rubbing Steve's wet hair with a gentleness that completely belies his rough words. "Who the fuck walks around with wet hair in the middle of winter when they already have a cold?"

"I do," Steve says, and Bucky snorts, which is exactly what Steve was hoping for. 

"I oughta trade you in for a fish."

Steve blinks, a little surprised that Bucky's bringing that conversation up again. The quiet, sleepy words they exchanged in the dark of night, words Steve woke up thinking maybe he'd imagined. He takes a big bite of banana so he doesn't have to say anything, closing his eyes when Bucky starts to really work the towel into his scalp. It feels amazing, so good he can barely resist tipping his head back into Bucky's hands to get more of it. 

"You gonna finish that?" Bucky asks.

Steve opens his eyes and is reminded of the half-eaten banana in his hand. It seems like too much work to lift it to his mouth again. Bucky's fingers massaging his head through the towel have taken him from sleepy to so blissfully relaxed he's not sure he'll ever move again.

"Tired," he says.

"Ya don't say. It's almost like you're sick and should be in bed or something."

"I changed the sheets," Steve tells him, managing a little nibble of the banana. "Won't smell like sweat and pestilence now."

Bucky laughs quietly behind him and gives his hair another once over with the towel. "Mrs. Wright had a bowl of those little round peppermints out when I stopped at the library. I grabbed you a few, if you think you can stay up long enough to eat 'em."

"You get any books?" Steve asks, feeling slightly more energized at the thought of candy and something new to read.

Bucky got a whole stack, so settling into the clean sheets is put on hold in favor of sitting side by side on the couch. Steve finds pretty quickly that his brain is too sluggish to read, but Bucky doesn't mind reading aloud from the science fiction novel he got for himself. It involves giant alien lizards and it all sounds ridiculous, but Bucky is clearly riveted, and Steve can't find any fault in that. 

He's not really listening to the story, anyway, just the rise and fall of Bucky's voice. And he's doing a lot more thinking about how far they've gotten into December than about space invaders. It's just a week until Christmas Eve and Steve still doesn't know if he can trust himself to say the right words when he's nervous and looking right in Bucky's eyes, or if he should wait for Christmas morning and just let Bucky read all his carefully written thoughts. 

Neither option seems like the best or the worst. Either one gets the truth out there. But if he tells Bucky now, or tomorrow, then that's it; he'll know. And he'll never stop being Steve's friend or be a jerk about it if he doesn't want what Steve wants, Steve knows that, but surely something will change. Some small shift that Steve won't be able to set back to rights again. Maybe he won't want to sit so close like this anymore, when he knows that Steve's in love with him.

"Rogers, you paying attention? It's right outside the door," Bucky says, interrupting Steve's thoughts. 

Steve has no clue what Bucky's talking about. Probably a space lizard. "I'm listening," he says, popping another mint in his mouth and letting his shoulder settle against Bucky's. 

He's not listening, but he's damn well going to soak up every last second of being with Bucky like this, before his letter maybe changes everything. 

 

December 18

Steve and Bucky spend Wednesday night wrapping Christmas gifts. Not for each other, of course. Steve's already got Bucky's under the tree, and he's given Bucky strict orders not to spend anything on him when he already has his whole family that he's determined to give things to. 

That's what they're wrapping up now; dolls for the youngest girls, a little science kit for Becca, and a soft, delicate scarf for Bucky's Ma. Steve wants to scold him for spending so much, but he doesn't have the heart. Nothing makes Bucky happier than giving, and Steve loves getting to watch him do it. They'll go over to the Barnes' apartment on Christmas, the girls will shriek with excitement, and Bucky's face will light up like the star on a tree. 

Currently though, as Bucky hunches over the package in front of him, his face is more like a stormcloud.

"Why, though?" he says. "I'm doing the same thing as you, why does it get so bunched up on the sides?" 

Steve has no idea. Bucky is good at so many things. He's good at a lot of things that directly involve his hands (which Steve has spent many a night trying not to think about). But for some reason, paper in Bucky's hands always turns into a disaster. 

"Just let me do it," Steve says.

"No, you've already done two of them. I'm twenty years old, I should be able to wrap a goddamn box in paper."

"There's a lot of things you should be able to do, Buck, but…"

"Shut up."

"The girls won't care that you wrap like you're wearing mittens."

Bucky grins and flicks Steve's nose. "I said shut the fuck up. I'm starting again, tell me exactly what to do."

Steve huffs an exaggerated sigh, as if it's really putting him out to have to sit right next to Bucky and guide his fingers into making the right folds. 

"There," he says when it's finished. "Look at that, you're not so hopeless after all."

Bucky looks up at him with a crooked smile. "A little hopeless."

"Well I can't work miracles, Buck."

"So fuckin' saucy tonight," Bucky laughs. "I can tell you're feelin' better."

Steve still has a cold, but the exhaustion and the pain in his head have faded and his cough isn't worsening, so he's in pretty good spirits. 

"You taking these over tomorrow?" he asks.

"No, I'm gonna—shit, I didn't tell you. Miller asked me to dress up as Santa for his party on Friday. I'll take the girls their stuff after, with the suit on."

"You're…" Steve has to gather himself for a moment and absorb this.

Mr. Miller, who owns the store where Steve works, holds a Christmas party at his home every year that probably every customer he's ever had attends, with their children in tow. There's always someone playing Santa Claus, and plenty of drinks and finger foods, and Steve hopes to God he'll be well enough to go this year. He is not missing Bucky in a red suit and a fake beard if he can help it.

"Why the hell did he ask you? Wasn't there someone older and... rounder, who could do it?" 

"You don't think my belly's gonna cut it?" Bucky asks, patting his flat stomach.

"Hate to break it to ya pal, but all your baby fat's right here," Steve says, reaching over to pinch Bucky's chin, the only place he's still a little soft. (And Steve hopes he always will be. He loves every damn part of Bucky's face, but maybe his chin most of all.)

Bucky flushes a little and Steve almost takes back the decision he made last night to wait for Christmas. He almost leans forward and presses his lips right to the dimple in Bucky's chin, but he's not sure, he's still not sure, what would happen if he did. 

He will tell Bucky, he's not going back on the plan. But it's so impossible to know, coming off of nearly fifteen years of being closer to Bucky than anyone, if the way they are together—the way Bucky teases him, and opens up to him, and sleeps so soundly next to him—if that's just because they've spent their lives together, or because Bucky's fallen the same way Steve has.

"Too bad the beard'll cover that," Bucky says. "But I can stick a pillow in the jacket. Miller needed someone as tall as the guy who usually does it. He's out of state for the holidays this year."

"Oh," Steve says. "Well you'll be a great Santa, Buck. Kids love you."

Bucky smiles and his cheeks are still pink. "You'll come, right? Long as you're feeling better?"

"Course I will. Got a long list of things to ask Santa for."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Like you, Steve thinks. Just you, and you, and more of you. 

"Like a roommate who can wrap a present all by himself," he says, because it's not Christmas yet. 

Bucky just laughs and pulls the last box closer to himself. If Steve's fingers brush Bucky's more than they need to while he helps him wrap it, Bucky doesn't seem to mind, and Steve allows himself to believe that he might really get the only thing he wants for Christmas. 

 

December 19

"Great job measuring, champ," Bucky says. "But that's powdered sugar, not baking powder."

Steve frowns, looking down at the teaspoon in his hands, and then at the glass jar he just scooped it out of. He can barely read the faded label on it, written in his mother's narrow script. Bucky's in charge of refilling the jars, and Steve just uses them when he needs them.

"How can you even tell?"

"Learned to read when I was five or so," Bucky says with a wink. "You'll catch up soon enough, Stevie."

Steve flicks the powdered sugar at Bucky, then darts out of the way when Bucky tries to retaliate with a spoonful of flour that winds up on the floor.

"I ain't cleaning that up," Steve says.

"You're not following the recipe either, so what good are you?"

Steve shrugs and pops a piece of chopped up chocolate in his mouth. He's never cared much for baking, but he doesn't mind hanging around by the warm oven and sampling things, while Bucky makes cookies for his Ma and the girls.

"You're the one who tells me I need to eat more."

Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs Steve's wrist, pulling until Steve's hand is palm up, and then dumping a handful of chocolate chunks in it. "Eat this and stop muddling up my cookies."

Steve tries not to smile too obviously, and hops up to eat his snack on the edge of the counter while Bucky works. He's feeling quite a bit better today, which is a goddamn Christmas miracle. He can't remember the last time he had a cold this mild.

"Think I'll be able to go tomorrow. See you being a right jolly old elf."

"Still gonna try to get yourself that new roommate?"

"Nah… I forgot the one I've got bakes."

Bucky grins, brushing hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand and leaving flour across his forehead. "Well damn, I'm glad I reminded you before it was too late."

"You're not gonna ask Santa for a roommate who can tell the difference between basic ingredients?"

"I'm pretty attached to the dumb fuck I already have, to tell you the truth."

"Hm," Steve says, like this is only mildly interesting to him, and not giving his heart wings. "What if he gives you a terrible Christmas gift, though? Will you trade him in then?"

Bucky turns to him, wooden mixing spoon in hand, and his face is so goddamn sweet. Soft with fond amusement.

"Feelin' a little insecure, buddy?"

"No," Steve says with a scowl.

"You really that worried about whatever's under the tree?"

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "A little," he admits. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. "If you actually think you could get rid of me, you're even dumber than I thought. We don't quit, Steve, not you and me."

They don't; Steve knows that's true. 

"What've I been telling you for goddamn years now, huh? How long am I with you?" 

Steve's eyes are burning all of a sudden, so he keeps them turned down towards the chocolate beginning to melt in his palm. "Till the end of the line," he says.

"That's fuckin' right. Now pull the sugar cookies outta there while I stir this, will ya? They oughta be done by now."

Steve hops off the counter, pops the last bits of chocolate into his mouth, and tugs the oven mitts over his hands. He's right in Bucky's space now, with Bucky mixing the dough for chocolate crunch cookies next to him, but Steve doesn't look up to meet his eyes. 

He loves Bucky so fucking much, and those are the only words he can find inside him right now. So loud in his head, and held silently on his tongue. He loves him until the end of the line, and past it into whatever comes next. Till he's just a spirit, or star dust, still pulsing with a light he'll never shake, no matter what becomes of him. That torch he'll never stop carrying, that he's been covering up for so long.  

He loves Bucky more than he could fully convey with ink and paper, but if he gets the chance he'll try every way he can—with lips and hands and all his secrets shared—to show him just how bright that flame is. 

 

December 20

Steve spends almost the entirety of Mr. Miller's Christmas party with his eyes on Bucky, he just can't help it. Instead of looking silly in his big red suit, Bucky looks unbearably adorable. His cheeks are rosy from lifting kids on and off his lap and ho-ho-hoing all night. His eyes look bluer than ever between the snowy trim of his hat and the white of his beard. His endless warmth and patience with all the party guests is doing so many things to Steve's heart that he's starting to feel worn out from it.

He's a little worn out by the rest of the party too, in a less pleasant way. There's so much smalltalk to make, every instance of which means he has to look away from Bucky, and by the time most of the families with young children have left, Steve's more than ready to leave too. He gets to leave with Bucky, after all.

"Steve!" Bucky calls, after one last little girl has toddled away with a candy cane in hand. "Get over here."

Steve excuses himself from a conversation he'd barely been participating in, and makes his way over to Bucky. There's a chair set up for him in a corner of the front room, right next to the towering Christmas tree.

"Need something?"

"That's my line," Bucky says, then he deepens his voice and pats his knee. "C'mere, sonny. Have a seat and tell Santa what you want for Christmas."

Steve grins and shakes his head, taking a step back. "I have it on good authority that you're not the real St. Nick."

"I've got an in with him, though," Bucky says, his eyes smiling. "Come on."

"Buck—"

"Come on! It's not every day your best friend is Santa Claus."

Steve can only hope his face isn't visibly flaming when Bucky grabs his arm and pulls him over, tugging until Steve relents and takes a seat on Bucky's knee. He has never sat on Bucky's lap before. He has thought about it a lot. 

"Now," Bucky says, falling back into his Santa voice. "Have you been a good boy this year?"

"Um, pretty good?" Steve says, laughing a little out of nerves.

"Oh? You haven't gotten into any fights? Haven't turned into a little demon made of righteous anger and flying elbows at any point?"

"Maybe once of twice," Steve says, torn between his amusement with Bucky, and his intense awareness of his own ass being planted on Bucky's leg. 

"Hm," Bucky says. "Sounds like bullshit to Santa."

Steve snickers and looks around, making sure no one's close enough to be listening to them. "So I don't get to ask for anything then?"

"You might be dumb as a rock, but your heart's in the right place. Tell me what you want."

"Uh," Steve says, trying to think of something he can say out loud. Something that won't embarrass him. It would be the perfect time, he knows, to say You, Buck, but it's not the perfect place. Steve wants to be alone with Bucky when he spills his heart out, not in his boss's living room.  He wants to be able to kiss Bucky, if Bucky will let him. "I don't know, Santa. I kind of feel like I've got… everything I want."

Bucky's eyebrows go up, temporarily disappearing behind the brim of his hat. "Really? Everything?"

"I mean…" Steve hedges. He does have Bucky, even if it's not in every way, and that's the only thing he really wants or needs. "Just about," he says, finally meeting Bucky's eyes. It's the truth. He's so damn close to having it all. 

"Well," Bucky says softly, in his natural voice. "That doesn't give me a lot to work with."

Steve tries several responses to this in his head, but none of them make their way out of his dry mouth. Bucky's eyes are so pretty and his arm's around Steve's back. Steve doesn't know how he's even sitting upright anymore. 

"You don't gotta do anything, Buck. You're already—"

"Barnes! You're off duty now, come get yourself a drink."

Steve looks up to see a ruddy cheeked Mr. Miller waving them over, a glass of wine in hand. He gets off Bucky's lap quickly, without having had a last second to savor it, and lets Bucky make their excuses for them. Santa has a few last gifts to deliver, said with a wink that makes Mrs. Miller titter. 

They'll have to stop at home to get the presents for the girls, and the cookies they boxed up last night. Steve will have to share Bucky the whole rest of the evening, when all he wants to do is sit close to him again and teeter right on the edge of baring his soul.

"I'll put a good word in for you, alright?" Bucky says once they've left the party and are heading towards their own neighborhood.

"Huh?"

"With the real man in red. Part-time Santas have an in, remember?"

"Right, but I don't—"

"There's gotta be something you want. You said just about. That's not everything."

Steve smiles even as he swallows thickly. "No one's got everything, Buck."

Bucky shrugs, his arm bumping Steve's. "Some people deserve it."

"What about demons made of righteous anger?"

"Especially them," Bucky says warmly. "I want it to be a good Christmas for you, Stevie."

Steve doesn't trust himself to say anything about how good Bucky's already made it, so he just lets his arm brush Bucky's again and smiles at him. 

He wants it to be a good Christmas for Bucky, too. He thinks… he's not sure, but he thinks his gift might really be just what Bucky wants.

 

December 21

Steve is back to work on Saturday, with just a manageable cough and some lingering congestion. It feels good to be productive again, and to eavesdrop while Mr. Miller chats with customers about last night's party. Saying more than once what a hit Santa was, and what a fine young man that James Barnes is.

Steve commits the description to memory so he can tease Bucky with it. He is a fine young man, it's true, but Steve prefers to call him any assortment of less flattering terms. He's pretty sure Bucky knows they mean the same thing in the end. 

He doesn't have to wait until arriving home to see him, because as soon as he steps out of Miller's shop he spots Bucky's familiar figure leaning against the side of the old, brick building. Ankles crossed and hands fiddling with the ends of his scarf. He looks up when Steve approaches him, and his face goes bright with a smile. 

"What are you doing here?" Steve asks. 

"Walkin' you home, obviously. Figure if I'm with you we can keep your streak of comin' home without a shiner going a little longer."

"Hm," Steve says, because Bucky could do this any old day, but he doesn't, and he knows that gleam in Bucky's eyes well enough to be immediately suspicious. "And what else?"

"What's that?" Bucky asks lightly.

"What is it that you're gonna spring on me when we're almost home?"

Bucky grins, letting their shoulders bump together. "Well, since you bring it up…"

Steve rolls his eyes and tries not to reward Bucky with a smile. He's such a shit.

"Some folks from church are going caroling tonight, and I was thinking—"

"No way," Steve says, cutting him off. "No one wants to hear me singing Christmas carols, Buck, that's like… a punishment."

Bucky laughs, sounding surprised. Incredulous, even. "You have a fine voice, what are you talking about?"

"Buck—"

"No! Shut up. You don't even get a choice now. We're gonna carol our little hearts out and bring joy to our neighbors, and you're not gonna say a goddamn thing more about not being any good."

"But I'm not—"

Steve is forcibly prevented from completing his thought by Bucky's hand planting itself over his mouth. 

"Steven Grant."

Steve makes a sound. He makes his eyebrows as angry as possible.

"You are dumb as shit and you don't get to talk anymore tonight unless you're blessing some merry gentlemen."

Steve does not take this to heart. The moment Bucky removes his hand, he says, "That's not even what it means. The comma goes after merry, so—"

There's a hand on his mouth again, but Bucky's eyes are now closed, like he can't even bear to look at Steve when he's being like this.

Steve can't bear having Bucky's bare skin on his mouth. How is he supposed to resist pressing his lips to Bucky's palm? Or tucking this feeling away so he can bring it back again sometime when he's thinking about being pressed together in the dark, trying not to make too much noise?

The familiar feeling of being next to an open flame tells him a blush has worked its way over his face, but it's chilly enough to be chalked up to the night air biting his skin, he hopes.

"I'm sayin' this once more," Bucky says, removing his palm, but holding one finger against Steve's lips in its place. "Stop being a shit and come sing with me. Please, Stevie."

Steve lets out a heavy exhalation. He wants to kiss Bucky's fingertip so bad he's aching with it. 

"Alright," he says. "But I'm only mouthing the words."

"Scrooge," Bucky says with a scowl. His eyes are smiling and Steve feels like he's won a prize.

"My voice ain't a gift, Buck, I'm doing everyone a favor. If that's not Christmas spirit, what is?"

Bucky just rolls his eyes, and drags Steve past their street and on towards the corner where they'll meet the rest of the carolers.

When they do sing—Bucky tall and proud beside him, with his smooth, clear voice—Steve ends up singing right along as best he can. He doesn't know if it's the Christmas spirit that's filling him, or if it's Bucky's arm pressed to his, and how close they are to having everything open between them, but he feels full to the brim with it. He feels like it's all over his face and wishes for a moment that Bucky could just look at him and know.

In the middle of O Tannenbaum Bucky does look down at him, sees him singing, and smiles so sweet and smug that Steve thinks this is enough for now. Just giving Bucky a reason to look this happy. 

Soon enough he'll know if Bucky will let Steve give him everything else too.

 

December 22

Sunday dawns bright and sunny, and the powdery snow they tracked through the night before is wet under their feet by the time they meet at their regular corner after church.

"Feel that?" Bucky asks.

Steve pretends he doesn't know what he means, because he was born an asshole and doesn't seem to be outgrowing it. "What?" he says blandly.

"The snow, Steve. It's perfect packing snow now."

"Hm, suppose so," Steve says noncommittally, before continuing to ignore Bucky. Even when Bucky drops behind, probably to pout.

Then a hard, wet ball hits him square in the back and Steve gasps in surprise.

"Asshole!" he shouts, whirling around on Bucky to see him already packing another ball. 

"It is the Lord's day, Steven," Bucky says with scandalized wide eyes and a shit eating grin, as if Steve doesn't say the same thing to him nearly every Sunday. "Better clean out that goddamn filthy mouth of yours."

"Don't even—Bucky!" Steve yells when Bucky darts forward to wrap him up tight with one arm, the other holding up a handful of snow in front of his face. He won't touch Steve with it of course—because cold is cold, and Steve is Steve, and never the twain shall meet—but Steve stomps on Bucky's foot anyway so he can jerk himself free and grab his own handful of snow, which he doesn't hesitate to shove directly down the collar of Bucky's jacket. 

The sound Bucky makes is so high and shocked that Steve laughs himself nearly to tears. He can't get himself to stop even when he gives in, after watching Bucky dance around trying to get the snow out, and helps him shake the last of it from his jacket.

"Fuck," Bucky says with a last violent shiver that just makes Steve start giggling again. "Well I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, you little punk."

"The way you screamed, Buck," Steve says, because Bucky is grinning at him.

"Like you wouldn't do the same."

He wouldn't ever have to, because Bucky will muss his hair and wrestle with him, but he won't risk making Steve sick. And Bucky won't say that out loud now, even though he could. He could tease Steve about being too delicate for Bucky to even try retaliating, but he's too kind, and Steve feels so warm he may melt the snow around him even without the sun's help.

"Tell you what I will do," he says. "Start getting the base going, and I'll help you make a snowman that doesn't look like abstract art."

He's lying—he loves the weird faces Bucky's snowmen always turn out with and he won't do a thing to change that—but he will help with everything else, and Bucky is already glowing. He gets right to work rolling a huge, unwieldy ball to start the snowman off, then helps Steve lift a more moderately sized ball on top of it. 

The head comes next, and Steve finds a handful of stones and pinecones for Bucky to work with, before excusing himself to look for twigs for the arms.

"Wait, Stevie, you're supposed to—"

"Just start it!" Steve calls over his shoulder. "I'll finish it off."

He takes as long as he can to find two good, long twigs, and comes back to see a crooked pair of eyes and a mouth that looks vaguely menacing, but is probably supposed to be smiling widely.

"Is...is he—"

"Singing," Bucky says earnestly, and Steve presses a hand over his mouth to muffle the squeak that rises up. "What?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Out with it, Rogers."

"He just—he looks like he's gonna eat my soul if I get too close."

Bucky opens his mouth, presumably to argue, then he stares at the snowman/soul eater for a moment and closes it again. 

"Well that's what you get for not helping me. Say goodbye to your rotten soul."

"I think it's worth it," Steve says with a grin. 

"I hate you."

Steve nods gravely and hands over the twigs to Bucky. "Me too, pal. Give him some claws to help him claim his victims."

Bucky snickers and jabs the arms into place. He lets Steve help him add sharply angled eyebrows with broken twigs, and two pinecone horns that look more like the ear-tufts of an owl than anything else. 

"What a disgrace," Bucky says, surveying it with a smile.

"Wish I had a camera," Steve says. 

Bucky laughs and starts walking towards home. He doesn't say anything when there's a new, small, newsprint wrapped offering under the tree that night, after he comes out of the bathroom from cleaning up. He just catches Steve's eye, and Steve shrugs, and he can't goddamn wait for Christmas. 

 

December 23

Bucky gets in so late Monday night that Steve is half asleep with a book in his hands, startling when he hears a heavy clunk from the kitchen that isn't one of Bucky's typical "returning home" sounds.

"Steve, you awake?" he calls softly a minute later. 

Steve gets up, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and going to see what Bucky wants. He finds him lifting mason jars out of a paper bag, one by one. Each is filled to the top with something creamy and thick.

"Is that—"

"Taylor's eggnog," Bucky says proudly, as if he made it himself. Taylor works at the canning plant with Bucky, and he makes the strongest, richest eggnog Steve's ever had. 

"Why'd he give you so much?"

"Curtis and Brown don't drink, so Taylor gave me their share too."

Steve whistles, looking at the jars. "Should we save it? Or—"

"Hell no," Bucky says. "Pull up a chair, Stevie. I'm just gonna change."

Steve gets two glasses out and takes them over to the floor in front of the couch instead, along with two of the jars and a pile of their worn blankets. They might as well be comfortable if they're going to be drinking.

"Don't let me have too much," he says, once Bucky has settled in beside him in flannel sleep bottoms and the thermal shirt Steve just replaced the button on. The new one isn't the same as the others, but it does the job. Steve's wearing the old sweater Bucky passed on to him, and he likes that they're both wearing something given to them by the other.

"You callin' my best friend a lightweight?" Bucky says, throwing a blanket over both his lap and Steve's.

There's no point in pretending otherwise. Handling a lot of liquor is not one of Steve's strengths. "That's exactly what I'm calling him."

"Alright," Bucky says, carefully pouring them each a glass and handing one over to Steve. "Pace yourself, kid."

Steve wrinkles his nose at Bucky to show his distaste for the nickname, and then scrunches it again unintentionally after he's taken a sip. "Lord, that's a lotta rum."

"Jesus," Bucky says in agreement, once he's taken a sip too. "Seriously, pace yourself."

Steve does his best to. They slow themselves down eating dried out cookies and chatting about work. Laughing more than necessary over silly things, and laughing more over their own laughter. 

"Your ears are red," Steve says.

"So's your nose, Rudolph," Bucky grins, pinching the end of it.

Steve tries to glare at him, but he loves when Bucky touches him, and he thinks he's just smiling instead.

Near the end of his third drink Steve leans back against the couch, staring across at their paper Christmas tree while the radio plays softly. He doesn't even realize he's singing along until he feels Bucky's eyes on him, and looks up to find a lazy smile on his face. His eyes are a little glassy, his skin flushed all over now, in that particular way that comes with the low, pleasant burn of alcohol. Steve wonders if he looks the same.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothin'. I like when you sing." 

"Oughta get your ears checked."

"Mm-mm," Bucky says with a shake of his head. "Always liked your voice."

Steve looks down at his hands, at the frothy remains of his drink in the bottom of his glass. "Think that's the eggnog talkin'."

Bucky shakes his head and then laughs, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Shit, that made my head spin."

"Stupid," Steve says, reaching out to pull on Bucky's sleeve and bring him closer. "Here, just… lean on me and don't go cracking your head open."

"I'm sitting down," Bucky laughs, but he wraps an arm around Steve's shoulders and lets their heads rest together. He's had more than Steve has, and his breath is sweet with cinnamon and vanilla. "Keep singing?"

Steve does for a little while, but he can't seem to keep up with the voice on the radio, his words coming out too sluggish and slurred.

"You're drunk," Bucky says.

"M'not," Steve says automatically. "Just… warm."

Bucky laughs softly, his head rocking against Steve's. "You are warm."

Bucky is so warm, too. His armpit, where Steve's shoulder is tucked, and his long fingers curled around Steve's arm. When Steve leans his head back so he can see Bucky, he looks warm too. So rosy and bright in the gentle light of the little lamps on either side of the couch. His hair curling over his forehead, lips red and sweet. Chin just as irresistible as it always is. 

Steve doesn't even register his own movement before he's pressing his finger to the little cleft in the center. He feels his own eyes widen while he watches Bucky's do the same, but before he can pull away Bucky's free hand closes around his wrist. Not tightly, but firm enough to keep Steve in place. Bucky's fingertips resting right over Steve's pulse.

"Sorry?" Steve says, because he feels like he should be, but also isn't sure why. Bucky's face is perfect and Steve always wants to touch it. It's meant to be touched. His finger fits just right in Bucky's dimple, just like he'd thought it would.

"Steve…" Bucky says, blue eyes growing more focused, fingers moving gently over Steve's wrist. "Stevie. Listen, okay?"

"Okay," Steve says. He curls his hand into a loose fist so he's not touching Bucky's chin anymore.

"I want to… Stevie, I want—" Bucky stops himself again, so Steve reaches out to brush Bucky's chin with his thumb this time. It's so soft under the light stubble that always appears by the end of the day. 

He means to ask Bucky to keep going, but he's so, so warm from the blankets, and Bucky's arm around him, and the buzz of rum in his bones. It makes him heavy, from head to toe, and he realizes his eyes have closed without him telling them to. He blinks them back open and Bucky is there, hazy and soft.

"We should get to bed," Bucky says.

That's probably true, but wasn't Bucky about to say something else?

"Buck, what—"

"Tomorrow, Stevie, okay?"

Steve means to nod, but he only manages the downward motion, because his forehead finds Bucky's shoulder at that point and is very content to stay there. 

He barely registers Bucky pulling him to his feet and half carrying him to bed with his arm around Steve's waist. 

"Sorry, I shoulda cut you off after two," Bucky says, voice coming soft, close to Steve's ear. 

Steve hums, but his tongue is too tired to form words, and his eyelids too heavy to open. He does manage to shove himself closer to Bucky, until his head is pillowed by Bucky's chest. 

"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve," Bucky whispers.

Steve knows, and he knows that's important and there's something he wants to tell Bucky, something he needs to tell him. But Bucky's running his fingers through Steve's hair, and his brain goes so quickly from mush to something even more melted and useless. 

"Night, Stevie. I… goodnight."

Speaking is entirely beyond him, but Steve's mouth is right there over Bucky's heart. He presses his lips to the soft ridges of the thermal shirt, because Bucky is meant to be kissed, and he falls asleep. 

 

December 24

Steve wakes alone, with his tongue thick and his head pounding. He'll be working from home today, but Bucky still has to go to the factory, and somehow Steve slept right through him getting up and leaving.

There's a glass of water on the crate between their beds that serves as a nightstand, and a scribbled note on the back of an old piece of mail. 

Drink this! I'll be home early as I can. Don't get into the rest of the eggnog without me.
B.

Steve snorts and reaches for the glass of water. He's not sure he'll be getting into the eggnog again at all. His memories from last night are warm and pleasant, but they're fuzzy too, and he doesn't even remember getting into bed. 

He manages to rouse himself after he finishes the water, and feels more human once he's had a plain bowl of porridge. It's not until late afternoon, once he's gotten his illustrations finished for the day, that he starts to feel off again. Not from the eggnog, but from the realization that this is it, this is actually it. This is Christmas Eve. 

He tells Bucky tonight, or his letter tells him tomorrow.

"Oh Jesus," he says aloud to himself, fingers curling into nervous fists. 

He's still sitting there at the table—his work left out, his nerves wound tight as coiled wires—when Bucky comes in the door. 

"Oh, still working?" he asks, face falling a little.

"No, no I'm just…" Having a crisis over how much I love you, it's fine. Not out of the ordinary at all. "I'm finished now."

Bucky smiles, brushing snow out of his hair and slipping out of his scarf and jacket. "I was thinking we could finish trimming the tree tonight."

"I think it's about as trimmed as it's gonna get, Buck."

"Nope," Bucky says. "It needs lights."

Steve rolls his eyes, waiting for Bucky to explain himself instead of just looking pleased, but he's left hanging. 

"Grab some pillows and go sit by the tree, I'll be there in a sec."

"Why do we need—"

"So we're comfortable, Steve, Jesus. You gotta argue about everything?"

"Yeah, because also, how do you think we're gonna get lights on a—"

Bucky puts his hands over his ears and walks away, which isn't adorable at all, and doesn't make Steve want to tackle him and kiss his dumb face.

Instead, Steve heaves a sigh and gets two pillows off the couch, and a few blankets. He arranges them in front of the tree while Bucky's washing his hands, and he's waiting there when Bucky comes over with a paper bag that Steve hadn't noticed him bring home with him, and a little book of matches.

"Our tree is paper, Buck," Steve says seriously, and Bucky flicks his ear.

"You give me no fuckin' credit," he says, settling down facing Steve, and then pulling an assortment of candles with mismatched holders out of the bag. He shuffles Steve's gifts out of the way, so they're between Steve's crossed legs and Bucky's, then sets the candles in a neat row in front of the tree. Not close enough to set the paper on fire. "I know we can't actually put them on the tree, but this still counts."

Steve bites his lip, watching Bucky light each one. He must have borrowed the candles from his Ma, which means he hurried over there after work, which is... awfully sweet.

"There," Bucky says proudly, once every candle is flickering. "Now tell me I was right."

"Still seems like a fire hazard," Steve says, but he can't help the way he's smiling at Bucky, and when Bucky smiles right back Steve thinks this really is it. He can't possibly wait for tomorrow when Bucky brought home candles for their tree, just so they could sit by them together in a nest of blankets.

"One more thing," Bucky says, before Steve can let that thought go any further. "I, uh… I got your present, but—look just know, before you see it, that if you hate it that's okay. It's really okay."

"Buck, I told you not to get me anything! Why—"

"Don't," Bucky cuts him off. "Listen, Steve, I'm tryin' to—do you remember last night, when I was trying to tell you something, but you were falling asleep?"

"I... no? Maybe? I remember…" Steve tries to think, but he really just remembers being tired and warm and close to Bucky. So close he could see the tiny, faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. So close he almost thinks…

"Wait, did I… Buck, did I do anything weird? Or—"

"No, you were just drunk and sleepy, and so was I, and I didn't want—I wanted to—shit, Steve, just let me give you your present."

"Now?" Steve asks, watching Bucky fish a little package out of the bag the candles were in. It's just a small sheet of brown paper, gathered together at the top to form a little pouch.

Bucky holds it in the palm of his hand, looking at Steve over it with his eyes wide and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He nods his head, and Steve takes the gift into his own hands. Loosens the bit of string keeping it held together, and lets the paper fall open to reveal a little tuft of green leaves and tiny white berries. 

Steve isn't sure what he's looking at.

"It's... I know it's not much," Bucky says. "But there's just—there's nothing I wanted to give you more."

"Than... leaves?" Steve asks. He feels like he's not getting enough air. Like none of his thoughts are connecting. He feels like he's burning up, but it's not with a fever. Just with hope bleeding through him so bright and hot it's setting his every cell on fire.

"It's mistletoe, Steve," Bucky says softly, and all the breath goes out of Steve's lungs. "If you don't—"

Steve does. He sets the mistletoe on the floor between them, because it probably doesn't matter whether it's above or below them, and he leans right over it so he can press his lips to Bucky's. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the soft give of Bucky's mouth, and breathe in the warm, familiar scent of him. When he leans back Bucky's eyes are open, bright blue and shining in the candlelight.

"You just... you kissed me," Bucky says.

Steve would be terrified that he'd done the wrong thing if Bucky's voice wasn't so warm. If the corners of his lips weren't turning up so sweet and slow.

Steve nods, running his tongue over his lips unconsciously, as if to confirm for himself that Bucky's taste is there.

"Open your presents, Bucky," Steve says, handing him the first one. The one that begins with Bucky, here's the thing... I'm in love with you.  

Bucky peels the newspaper open carefully and takes the folded paper out. Steve watches him read the first line, and he sees it when Bucky's lips tremble. He's not sure how far Bucky has read when a tear slips down to catch at the side of his nose, and another makes its way down to his chin. 

Steve thinks he may have touched Bucky's chin last night. 

He'll have to come back to that realization later, because Bucky has finished and he's folding the letter gently back into thirds. He's looking at Steve with parted lips and wet cheeks. "You mean all this?" he asks.

"Buck, of course I do."

Bucky smiles then, so goddamn beautifully that Steve is struck dumb. He reaches out for Bucky's face without even thinking. Just needing to touch his skin and his tears. Needing to lean into him again and let their lips fit together. He barely manages to kiss him any longer than the first time though, before Bucky's pulling back suddenly, shaking his head.

"Wait, wait. So this has—this has just been sitting under the tree this entire month?"

"Well... yeah," Steve says, since Bucky already knows that's true.

"But then—Jesus Christ, why didn't you just tell me?"

"I was nervous, Bucky! I was—I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it."

"How? How could you not be sure?" Bucky asks, looking completely bewildered. "Steve, my God. I didn't want to scare you off because you're so... you're so you, and I had no fucking clue if you were just tolerating me or if you liked it. But I tried to show you in every possible way how much I—Jesus, Steve, how much I love you."

Steve is certain he looks one hundred times as bewildered as Bucky now.

"I flirt with you all the time. It's not like I'm fuckin' subtle."

"But—"

"But nothing!"

"Not 'but nothing'! You're always flirty and charming, that's just you. How was I supposed to know you meant it with me?"

Bucky is shaking his head again, but he takes Steve's hands in his. "You're so dumb."

"I... yeah. I know."

"You are the only fucking thing I want for Christmas, Stevie, do you understand that? This…" Bucky lets go of one of Steve's hands to pick up the opened letter. His eyes have gone overly bright again, and he's smiling that beautiful smile again too. "This is the best thing anyone's ever... do you know how fucking happy it makes me? Knowing that you—that you—"

"I love you, Bucky," Steve says. And he does know, he knows exactly how happy Bucky feels, because Bucky loves him, and Steve feels like he's made of light right now. Glowing and weightless and bright. "So you were flirting with me? Really?"

Bucky lets his head fall back while he laughs, a couple new tears slipping down his cheeks. 

"Why are you like this?" he asks when he tips his chin back down to look at Steve again. "I was getting afraid you were just ignoring it because you weren't—because you didn't feel the same way. But then last night—"

"Last night what? Did I—"

"You…" A faint flush rises in Bucky's cheeks, and he looks down at Steve's hand in his. "You just touched my face, real soft. And then, when we went to bed, you kinda kissed me."

"What?"

"Just on my chest. You were barely awake."

Steve wants to cover his face, but Bucky won't let him. He squeezes his eyes shut instead, and that just makes Bucky laugh.

"I didn't know if it was just the eggnog or if you meant it, but I figured... I thought it was about time I just told you right out and let you break my heart or not."

"Me too," Steve says. "That's why I…" He gestures at the little packages on the floor.

"Can I?" Bucky asks, and Steve nods. He watches Bucky read the second letter, eyebrows creasing somewhere in the middle, and going soft by the time he reaches the end. Then he watches him unfold the first drawing. The one of Bucky's face. "This is…" Bucky trails off, letting his fingers hover over the dark lines, but not quite touching them. "This is beautiful."

"Yeah, I mean… it's you, Buck."

"You really love me," Bucky says, all soft and wondering, like Steve didn't say it a dozen times in his letter. Like he isn't looking at him now with his heart all over his face. 

"I love you," Steve agrees. He'll say it a million times more, if Bucky wants. Once for every time he's thought it and kept it to himself. 

"What's this one?" Bucky asks, touching the last little gift.

"Oh, it's just… it's dumb."

It's the quick sketch he did of their soul-eating snowman. Bucky grins so wide when he sees it, shoving Steve's shoulder and berating him again for not being a more vigilant artistic supervisor. He sounds just like he did when they were only Bucky and Steve, best pals, and Steve feels a trickle of relief go through him. Confessions of love and soft mistletoe kisses are new and amazing, but they don't change who they've always been. They're best friends. Always will be. And now they just get to be something more, too.

"Well, shit," Bucky says, stacking the letters and drawings up neatly and just holding them in his hands. "These are… thank you, Steve."

Steve smiles, and runs his fingers over the leathery mistletoe leaves. "Thanks for this."

"Thanks for wanting to kiss me," Bucky says. And still, even after the letters and the kisses, there's something a little disbelieving in his voice. "Would have been a real flop otherwise."

"Buck, you have no fucking idea how much I wanted to. How much I want to."

Bucky meets his eyes, and Steve doesn't look away. Doesn't try to mask that burning for Bucky that he's spent so long hiding.

"Help me blow these out," Bucky says. "I don't wanna set your pretty tree on fire."

Steve helps him put the candles out, then watches him set Steve's gifts out of the way, leaving the mistletoe between them.

"We probably don't need this anymore," Steve says. "I didn't kiss you because of the mistletoe."

"Why'd you kiss me then, Rogers?"

Steve grins, shaking his head. "Thought you've been reading since you were five, Barnes. You need to look over those letters again?"

"Just summarize for me," Bucky says, grabbing a fistful of Steve's sweater and pulling until Steve shuffles forward, then pulling some more until there's no room left between them and Steve has to climb onto Bucky's lap, spreading his knees over Bucky's. "The real important points."

"You just wanna keep hearing that I love you."

"Sure fuckin' do."

Steve laughs, clasping his hands behind Bucky's neck and shivering when Bucky's hands settle on his waist, fingertips brushing the small of his back. "I love you, Buck, but I've been waiting to really kiss you for so goddamn long. Stop messing around and—"

There is no more messing around. Or there is, but it's the kind that Steve has been longing for. The kind where Bucky is pulling him in tight and kissing him with soft, hungry lips. The kind where Bucky's tongue dips inside Steve's mouth, and Steve's fingers get tangled in Bucky's hair, and there doesn't seem to be any space left between them at all. 

They kiss until they're breathless, and when their lips finally part Bucky just pulls Steve in closer somehow, pressing his face to Steve's neck. His cheeks are wet again and Steve can't bear it. Not Bucky's soft heart or the fact that he's the one making Bucky feel so much. His love for Bucky making these broad shoulders shake under his hands. 

"Bucky... Buck," he says stroking Bucky's neck, pressing kisses to his hair. Tears have always come more easily to Bucky than to him, but his own eyes are prickling now too. This is happening. Bucky is in his arms, Bucky's taste is on his tongue. Bucky knows that Steve loves him and he's so goddamn happy because of it.

"I love you," Bucky says into Steve's skin, voice thick and muffled. "I'm dumb too. I shoulda just told you sooner. I should have—"

"No," Steve says, tugging at Bucky's hair a little. "You've been so good to me, Buck. You've been—this is perfect, this is the best Christmas. I wouldn't change anything."

"I'm cryin' all over you," Bucky says with a choked laugh, raising his head so they can look at each other again. His lips are red and Steve has to kiss them. He has to.

"Don't care," he says, and then he does exactly what he wants and fits his lips to Bucky's again. A little desperate now, because he loves Bucky so much and he wants him to feel it.

Bucky hums into the kiss, melts into it, sinks right down to the floor till he's on his back and Steve is over him, feeling like he really is a god. Except he doesn't need to make universes for Bucky, he just needs to kiss him and kiss him. He needs to nip at Bucky's chin and at the crook of his neck, and feel the heat building low in his gut when Bucky lets out little gasps at each press of Steve's teeth. 

"Bitey little fucker," Bucky says, voice strained and breathy. "I shoulda known."

"Want me to stop?" Steve asks, and then lets out his own gasp when Bucky's fingers tighten around his hips, pulling Steve against himself so Steve can feel him through their pants, hot and half hard. 

"What do you think?"

Steve cannot think. His nerves have gone up in flames, his thoughts reduced to a high buzz in his head, and he can't even get himself to shut his own damn mouth. Bucky wants him. He's beautiful and flushed and looking up at Steve like Steve's got everything he's waiting for, and Steve… well he's sure as hell not gonna make Bucky wait anymore.

He shifts a little lower on Bucky's hips so Bucky can feel him too, and goes right back to kissing him. Feeling the way Bucky reacts, the way his hips jump when Steve bites his lip, and the way he rolls them up hard and slow when Steve sucks a little mark on the side of his neck. 

"Steve, Stevie, can I—ah, I need to—"

"Whatever you want, Buck," Steve says, keeping his lips right at the tender spot under Bucky's ear, and pressing the tip of his tongue there after.

"Jesus, shit, you feel so good. I gotta…"

Everything spins suddenly, and Steve finds himself on his back, Bucky's legs on either side of his hips. Bucky's looking around, dragging one of the blankets closer and tucking it behind Steve's head for him, and Steve almost laughs. He can feel Bucky's cock right against his own, and Bucky is fucking making a pillow for him. 

"Bucky, I'm fine, I'm perfect. Please, just—"

Bucky rocks into him, hard, and it pushes Steve against the floor beneath them but he doesn't care. In fact maybe he even loves it. Maybe he loves it more with every sharp press of Bucky's hips, every drag of his cock next to Steve's. Maybe when Bucky kisses him, wet and messy and hungry, Steve can hardly even kiss back. He's panting, reveling in Bucky's hand moving over him, skimming along his ribs and across his chest. It settles at the back of Steve's neck, lifting just enough to make his chin tip back and let Bucky cover his neck with hot kisses.

"I wanted—Steve, I wanna suck you so bad," Bucky says, rutting faster against Steve, pressing his tongue to the underside of Steve's chin. "Next time, okay? I can't—I'm not gonna—"

Steve's eyes are wide open, his cock throbbing from Bucky's words and the heat of his body, and he's not going to last one more second. His hips jerk under Bucky's weight and the sound that leaves his mouth is low and almost wounded, but he's never felt better than this.

Bucky presses his lips to Steve's neck, grinds against him so hard Steve thinks they might just stop being two people and turn into one, and Steve just pulls him even closer with his arms around his back. When Bucky comes, with a last rough thrust of his hips and a little cry so soft and sweet it makes Steve's eyes burn again, Steve can feel the tremor of Bucky's orgasm under his hands. Shivering all the way up Bucky's spine to his shoulders. 

Steve did that. They did that.

"Holy hell," Steve says to the ceiling.

Bucky is slumped on top of him, panting against Steve's neck, but he lets out a quiet huff of laughter. "I, uh…" He props himself up on his forearms, looking down at Steve with red cheeks and warm eyes. "I meant to take my time with you, but I just... couldn't."

"Me neither," Steve says, and he doesn't mind at all. His back is sore and they both have cum in their pants, but Bucky's kisses are also still wet on his skin, and Steve feels so wanted his head is spinning. "I couldn't wait. And we've got... we've got next time."

Bucky nods, leaning down to drop a soft kiss on Steve's nose. "Can't believe you were gonna make me wait till tomorrow for this."

"Oh, don't start," Steve says, shoving Bucky's chest and finding that he's not the least bit disappointed when Bucky doesn't even budge. "I wrote the goddamn letters, didn't I?"

"And then you kissed me before I'd even read them."

"Well," Steve says, and then doesn't follow it up with anything. That's neither here nor there. Maybe both of them could have said something sooner, but they've said everything now, and Bucky's on his lap, so there's really nothing to complain about, is there? "Merry Christmas, Buck."

"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Bucky says with a wide smile, crooked and perfect like the paper star at the top of their paper tree. 

They've never really had any Christmas Eve traditions before, but they still have a few hours before midnight, a pile of blankets, and years of held back kisses that they're free to share. 

They do eventually move to Bucky's bed, for the sake of Steve's back. They manage to last a little longer on their next round, too. Slowing down enough to peel away sweaters and kick off woolen socks. To tug underwear all the way off so when they finally wear themselves out and are catching their breath together in the dark, all Steve can feel is Bucky's bare skin against his own, and the blanket pulled over them both. 

If this is the precedent they're setting for every Christmas that comes after this, Steve thinks they're making damn good choices. 

 

December 25

Steve wakes slowly on Christmas morning. So slowly he thinks he's actually woken up several times before it sticks. And even then, he's not convinced he isn't dreaming when he registers Bucky's fingers in his hair, carding through it over and over. His other hand is at the base of Steve's spine, holding Steve close against his side. 

It's not that Steve hasn't woken up with Bucky before—he's woken up with him every day for the past week and a half—but it's never been like this. With both of them naked. With a mark on Bucky's chest that looks suspiciously like it was left by someone's teeth. By Steve's teeth.

Steve reaches out to brush his fingers over the raised, red line, and Bucky shifts under him.

"Morning," he says, scratching lightly at Steve's scalp. "Admirin' your handiwork?"

"I, um…" Steve looks up at him, takes in the disastrous state of his hair (which he thinks is also his handiwork) and the soft smile he's giving Steve. "Yeah," he admits, because the truth is he really liked biting Bucky, and Bucky clearly liked being bitten. "Looks pretty good on you."

"You look pretty good on me," Bucky says, with a grin that only widens when Steve groans. "Come on, it's Christmas. You gotta laugh at my jokes."

"Don't gotta do anything," Steve says. "Except kiss your dumb mouth."

"Okay," Bucky says, smiling smugly like it was his idea.

Steve shouldn't reward him, but he's never been able to wake up and kiss Bucky before, so he goes ahead and does it. Holds his jaw and kisses him soft and careful on his upper lip, and then on the lower one, and then on his chin—right in the dimpled center where he's pretty sure his heart has been kept for years—because it's Christmas, and this is his gift to himself. 

Bucky just smiles and lets him do it, smoothing his hands up and down Steve's sides. Doesn't even act like Steve's being weird for repeatedly kissing his chin, or for touching it when he was drunk on eggnog. 

When Steve makes his way up to Bucky's lips again, Bucky pulls him in closer and kisses him back, tender and slow. Tilting his head to make it deeper. His stubble scrapes at Steve's chin and Steve loves it. He loved the way it felt on the rest of his skin last night. The way the insides of his thighs are still tingling with it. 

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky says softly, pulling away only to lean back in for another kiss, and then another. 

"Hm?"

"I really gotta piss," Bucky says, and Steve snorts. "Sorry, just—stay in bed for me, okay?"

Steve nods his agreement and then leans back on Bucky's pillow, watching him get out of bed and hurriedly pull on underwear retrieved from the cold floor.

"You checkin' out my ass, Rogers?"

"Sure am," Steve says. "That okay with you?"

Bucky does that thing where he bites his lip and smiles at the same time, before pulling a sweater over his head. 

"It's okay with me," he says, and it's not even flirty. Just sweet and pleased, like when Steve said his paper snowflakes weren't that bad. 

"Jesus Christ, Bucky," Steve says. 

"What?"

"Hurry up and go piss already so I can kiss you again."

Bucky does not hurry up. He jumps back on the bed and kisses Steve right then and there, on his lips and his cheeks and his bare chest. He's smiling between every kiss, and Steve doesn't know why he thought telling Bucky he loves him would relieve that constant swelling inside him, because it hasn't at all. If anything it feels even bigger now. Full and buoyant and growing with every press of lips and flash of Bucky's smiling eyes. 

"Buck," Steve says, with his hands in Bucky's hair. When Bucky meets his eyes he's so stunned by this new reality, this new ability to just say exactly what he's thinking, that for a moment he forgets what he was going to say. 

"Stevie?"

"I love you," Steve says. It's what he's thinking, and he doesn't think he's ever going to get tired of saying it. He doesn't think, as he watches the way every bit of Bucky's face softens, that Bucky's ever going to get tired of hearing it either.

"I never woulda guessed you'd be so romantic," he says.

"That's not romance. That's just a fact."

"Right," Bucky says with a nod of his head.

"You gonna go to the bathroom or what? If you get off me and let me get dressed I'll make you some Mallo Cup cocoa."

"We have coconut?" Bucky asks, all wide-eyed and wondering, like an actual kid on Christmas morning. 

He's so goddamn adorable, Steve wants to bite his face. Maybe he will, once they're back in bed with their cocoa. For now he just nods his head, and then lets Bucky wrap him up in a big, tight hug. The wool of his sweater so soft against Steve's bare skin. 

"How'd I get a Christmas present as good as this?" he asks, with his lips in Steve's hair.

"As good as cocoa?"

Bucky squeezes him tighter and presses a firm kiss to Steve's temple. "No, you dumb little asshole. As good as you."

This is the thing, Steve thinks, that he loves so much about Bucky. About him and Bucky together. Steve knows he's far from perfect. He knows he's too skinny and his nose is too big and half his body doesn't work the way it ought to. But when Bucky says he loves him, when Bucky says having Steve is the best thing he can imagine, there's not one part of Steve that doubts him. 

He knows Bucky means it, and he knows that it's true. He's spent his whole life loving Bucky Barnes. Years and years have gone into figuring out just what Bucky needs, and what he wants, and what will make him laugh so hard he cries. Steve can love him better than anyone, and that's just what he's going to do, for however many years he has ahead of him.

The best part, though, is that—

"I love you, Stevie," Bucky says. "That's a fact and it's me bein' romantic, you got that?" Presumably in case Steve has not gotten it, Bucky takes Steve's face in his hands and kisses him so sweet and soft and lingering that Steve melts right down like a snowman in the sun. "Love you so goddamn much."

That's the best part. The way everything Steve feels for Bucky, every way he's so good at loving him, Bucky gives that all right back to him. He's the very best at loving Steve too, and he's so happy doing it, and Steve can't think of anything better than making his best friend happy and being loved so damn well at the same time.

He's sure there are countless people out there having fancier Christmases, with shiny presents stacked up under real, living trees strung with lights.

He and Bucky have a drawing taped to their wall, curling at the corners. They have a row of unlit candles with blackened wicks. They have a stack of folded papers and a sprig of drying leaves.

They have everything they need. They have exactly what they want. For Christmas, and for every day after. 

 

Notes:

Thank you so, so much to Essie for putting each daily installment into perfect Christmassy graphics for me as I shared this on Twitter. And a big thank you to Em for being the sweetest cheerleader the whole time I was writing it.

And thanks for reading! You can find my other stucky fics here, and can find me continually singing their praises (and Sebastian Stan's) on twitter at elliebbarnes.