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As soon as Thanksgiving was marked off on the calendar, Tony had declared war.
Well, it wasn't really war, but there was certainly an assault on the Tower in the form of garlands, pine trees, and baubles. Every room in the building seemed to smell like freshly baked cookies or peppermint or fresh snow, somehow, and boxes upon boxes of decorations were scattered throughout every single floor.
Tony claimed that he wanted it to be festive and fun, enlisting everyone to help put up the fake snowflakes and sleighs and reindeer figurines, uttering nothing more than, "We spend so much time staring down the barrel of a gun; sue me if I want a little more Christmas cheer when I'm home!"
There were… varying levels of enthusiasm. It ranged from cheerful (Wanda), to curmudgeonly (Clint). Natasha went along with it, not wanting to waste energy fighting Tony's wild, seemingly uncrushable holiday spirit, and Sam followed her lead, just smiling and shaking his head every time Clint finished with a box, satisfied, and Tony would breeze by with another one, tinsel spilling from the top. Steve didn't really understand the point of spending so much time on decorating every aspect of the Tower, right down to the utility rooms, but he didn't argue. He'd let Tony have it if it meant that he was easier to deal with.
Bucky, however, was in two minds. Tony's raucous glee made him think of before all that he'd had to endure. Before the war. Before everything. It made him think of Christmases spent with his sister and mother, the house warm and smelling of nutmeg, the old newspapers used to wrap presents. It made him think of shop windows with fluffy cotton snow, gathered in the corners. It made him think of ice skating and the bite of frost in the air. He didn't know if the traditions had changed all that much, since then. He'd had no time for holiday cheer when he'd been on the run, and there hadn't much to celebrate, at the time. He was mildly interested, nonetheless, though he'd never say so. He wondered if he would feel less alone, being here with the team. Or maybe he'd be overstimulated, still unused to the rowdiness that was the Avengers team at a party, let alone gathered around a tree or pulling at crackers or passing around eggnog.
You'd been stringing up tinsel snowflakes over doorways, humming under your breath. It was the same song over and over, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. When Bucky got close enough, he could just hear the words escaping your mouth, somewhat mumbled, but he could still understand most of what you were saying. He recognized the lines of the poem. He didn't know that it had become an actual song, four years after he'd fallen off the train. He couldn't have known, frozen and thawed over and over, trained until the control finally took. But that simple little poem had dozens of iterations, blared over speakers and sold on holiday CDs, so that even if you weren't trying, you'd know the words. And he knew them too, knew what the next line in your private concert would be.
Bucky liked you, in both a general sense, and a personal one. You were never too much, never invasive. You were a comforting presence, one he'd gotten used to much more quickly than he'd expected. You'd never assumed that you knew where you stood with him, never overstepped any boundaries, never had the hair raising on the back of his neck. You were charming, sweet and quietly funny, quick to soothe and slow to anger.
He also liked you right now, with how you weren't making a big show of being excited for the holidays. You'd been quietly getting into the spirit—Christmas themed socks, for one. They peeked out from under your jeans, happy little snowmen and penguins disappearing under the cuffs. The hot chocolate you'd been making with extra cream and marshmallows, the ingredients scattered across the counter top, which he'd been offered a handful of times. Your sweaters looked cozy, like you could just snuggle up into them and disappear.
Right now, you were standing on a ladder tacking the tinsel up, and Bucky came to stand next to you, passing you the tacks as needed, not needing to say anything. Your fingers brushed across his palm every time you reached for one. You were oblivious to the fact that he was looking at you like you were an angel on top of the tree.
He held his hand out so that you had a steady grip on something as you descended the ladder. He didn't let go of your hand right away, eyes caught on the stray string of silver and blue tinsel that had snagged on a strand of your hair. He let go with a jolt when Tony muttered in his direction, "Hey, you two! You aren't done yet!"
You tilted your head curiously, and it took Bucky an extra handful of seconds to stop staring at your face and make eye contact with Stark instead. Tony tossed something small and green at you—mistletoe. "These are going in every doorway," he said triumphantly.
Bucky knew all about this tradition. He eyed the fake plant with a curious gaze. For once, disdain had darkened your expression. You cast a glance at Tony, asking, "Really? You want us to go through a humiliation ritual every time we walk through the door with someone?"
Tony snapped his fingers at you. "That's what Christmas is all about, kiddo. Remember: FRIDAY's always watching." He said it with a smirk, before looking over his shoulder and exclaiming, "No, no, no!" at Clint's lopsided lights display.
You rubbed your finger along the fake holly berries, the styrofoam painted a glossy red, and then looked at Bucky with a shrug. "I'll see about stealthily getting these taken down in a few days, I guess. This won't last very long, I'm sure." And then you were back up the ladder, fastening it in place on the doorframe.
It happened a bit at a time.
Everyone had been very strategic about going single file through the doorways, especially in the living quarters. There was mistletoe all through the Tower, but less so in high traffic areas, lest rookie agents be caught necking for all to see. You were unsuccessful in your attempt to take it down, because Tony had arranged for FRIDAY to sound an alarm every time someone tried tampering with it. You were pretty sure that he'd put more care into that security system than any other one he'd ever installed.
The first time had been an accident, four days after the mistletoe had been put into place. Wanda and Sam, caught going opposite ways, one tied up on the phone, the other looking through a file folder. The lounge was half full at the time, a few of you coming and going as the day had worn on, and everyone looked up in surprise when they heard Tony's voice, an automated message playing through FRIDAY's system speakers. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!" There was a shared grimace from Wanda and Sam, and she kissed him on the cheek before they both shuddered and moved past each other.
It seemed that Clint was finally warming up to the Christmas cheer, slapping his knee as he laughed.
And so, the mistletoe madness began.
Everyone was rather halfhearted with it, much to Tony's chagrin. It was all cheek kisses, gentle pecks, or in the case of you and Wanda one evening, kissing your own hands and high-fiving. Tony wasn't pleased, but he'd never instated a rule on exactly how to kiss.
It was completely by mistake that Bucky ended up under there with you. You were standing under it already, calling to Nat, who was sitting on the couch. You were asking a question, though Bucky hadn't really been listening to what it was. He was right by the door, near the wall, and he stepped back and away to make room for Steve walking past. And then, the words blared through the speaker. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!"
He froze in surprise. One one of his feet was just barely in the doorway, but it was enough to trigger the camera. The entire room turned to stare, because of all of them, Bucky had never been caught in the crossfire. You raised an eyebrow in surprise. Of everyone to get caught with, he was glad it was you. You were gentle at the worst of times, soft as a feather at the best. You had a degree in psychology, did your entire graduate thesis on PTSD in soldiers. You'd always been patient with him, never demanding. You never made him feel breakable, either. "We don't have to… I can explain to Tony later." You offered.
"It's fine." He said it more tersely than he meant to, but you'd never been one to question him.
"Okay." Your voice was soft, so that only he could hear.
Then you were on your toes, reaching a hand up to cup his face, and pressing a kiss by the corner of his mouth. You were shorter than him—you'd probably aimed to go higher, the center of his cheek, and miscalculated. Sam murmured a saucy, "Oooooh," while Natasha whistled. They made a big production out of it, delighted that the moodiest Avenger had finally gotten stuck under the mistletoe. Bucky flushed, caught between retreating and being under your spell. You only offered him a sweet smile before moving out from the doorway, as if nothing was amiss.
All Bucky could wonder is what would have happened if there had been nobody to witness you both. Would he have been able to tell you to kiss him for real? Put his hands on your waist, listen to the way you might sigh? Might melt against him?
He resolved to find out.
It was easier said than done, to find himself under the mistletoe with you again.
He was trying to time it so that the surrounding areas would be devoid of people, but he hadn't been so lucky. The only person he was particularly comfortable having as a witness was Wanda, because she, like you, wouldn't use it as ammo with which to tease. But if Sam, Nat, or Clint were in close proximity? Fat chance. And he couldn't bear to look Steve in the eye, because if Bucky was a diary under lock and key with everyone else, he was a book on display in a library, pages open and plain to see under a glass case, to Steve. He'd already dodged many conversations in which Steve had tried to bring up the topic of you, feeling like an embarrassed teenager having 'the talk'.
He got a single shot when Clint was on the phone with his wife, his back to the room, facing the city's skyline. You were holding a stack of books—you were something of a bookworm, and he knew that you kept a regular book club with some of the rookie agents—on your way to return them to your room. It was easy to slide into the doorframe with you, for the telltale of Tony's voice to blare through the speakers. Clint moved to turn and see, but got held up his children wanting to have a turn to speak to him. He was absorbed in farm life once more, and Bucky was absorbed in you. Was it subconscious that he licked his lips, or was it anticipation? "Oh! I guess I wasn't paying attention. Sorry!" you let out a flustered laugh.
"It's okay. It's bound to happen." Bucky said lamely.
No, it wasn't.
He was an assassin and soldier. You were an agent. Usually, you were both much more eagle-eyed. "No one's here, so we could probably make a break for it." You were giving him another out, compassion in your eyes.
You'd seen the way he'd ducked his head in self-consciousness the last time. "Tony'll give you the third degree, won't he?" Bucky tried for lighthearted, and went for a smile. "It's not a big deal. We can be quick."
There it was: your eyes flicked from his own to his mouth. He had been trying not to do the same. "Quick. Okay." But he didn't let you make the first move—he leaned down to you, this time.
He pressed his lips to yours in a kiss so chaste, you could almost make yourself believe that it hadn't happened. Your cheeks went rosy as he pulled away. He suddenly regretted it. Clint be damned, he wanted a real kiss with you. He'd barely even touched you, for God's sake. But he'd wanted to give you an out, he supposed. And besides, he didn't want to come on too strong, or else you'd know—
"What did I miss?" Clint's voice cut in, and he'd turned to stare at you both, his phone now tucked away into his pocket. "Did it happen already?"
You laughed and pushed your hair behind your ear. "I'm not telling you, Barton. That's up to your imagination, now." And then you were gone, and Bucky licked his lips again, the faintest trace of sugar cookie on his tongue.
Why was it so hard to corner you and get you under the mistletoe? And more importantly, why the hell was everyone always in the god damned lounge? Didn't they have their own rooms to go and hang out in?
It was getting to him, a little. Sure, he could have asked you out for coffee or something, get the ball rolling. But this was the easiest way for him, at least right now, to glean your interest. He thought that you might like him romantically too, but he'd sooner die than ask you outright. It had been a very long time since he'd done this whole courting thing.
It happened by chance.
It was late. The lights from the city glittered, the lounge and kitchen dark save for the little bulb above the stove, yellow and dim. Everything was in soft shadow. It was supposed to snow tomorrow. Christmas was a week away, and with it, Stark's holiday party.
Bucky usually hit the gym in the mornings, but he had opted for a late session this evening, after a busy day. It was pretty late, close to midnight, when he came up to the living quarters, damp with sweat. He showered quickly before dressing. He wasn't tired yet, but he was hungry. A trip to the kitchen, something like a sandwich in mind, sounded like a good idea.
He was surprised to see you at the stove, ladling hot chocolate into a mug. He hung back so that you didn't see him. Your pajama pants had gingerbread men on them. You were humming to Rudolph again. You were alone save for your phone blinking up at you from the counter. He watched you turn towards the doorway after taking a test sip. If he timed it right, he could catch you. The camera wouldn't be able to pick up anything very well. It wasn't dark enough to trigger the night vision, but it also wasn't bright enough to capture anything with great quality, either.
He stepped through the doorway right as you did, your hot chocolate threatening to slosh over the rim. "Oh, you scared me! I didn't think you were around. It's late for you." you said, holding your phone to your chest.
Tony's voice and the phrase you'd all begun to mock rang out at the same time. You shook your head. "Not again. It's always you and me, huh?"
"Yeah," he said, his mind blank save for you.
"Okay, let me just—" You leaned to the side, awkwardly placing your cup and phone on the closest surface. "Tony better be paying us for all the entertainment we're giving him. Nice Christmas bonus." You meant to say it like a grumble, but Bucky had never heard you grumpy a day in your life, and you weren't about to start sounding that way now.
"I don't know. Maybe I should be the one paying him." He said softly, little more than a whisper.
You weren't given a chance to respond because one of his hands slid tentatively around your waist, the other on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. Those movements alone seemed to have stolen your voice.
He kissed you gently. A press of his mouth on yours. He could smell the hot chocolate on you. You went still for a second, which made him panic for a breath, two, three. But then you did sigh. You did melt against him, like a marshmallow in your drink. He was able to pull you closer as your hands found his shoulders and slid up, until your arms were wound around his neck.
Now he was really kissing you. Your lips parted and he licked into your mouth. Chocolate. You were sweeter than sin. Your tongue was hot and he couldn't tell if it was from the drink or if it was just you. His hand moved down, from your cheek to your throat, and he could feel your pulse there, quick as a rabbit's, though the kiss was languid, like you were both floating down a lazy chocolate river.
He couldn't get enough. He considered the fact that he might be intoxicated by you, but he hadn't realized quite how true that was before now. Your fingernails brushed at the hair at the nape of his neck. His hand went from throat to waist, and now he was encircling you in both arms, and you were flush against him. His lips left yours to pepper kisses down the line of your jaw. He stopped at your throat, listening to your ragged breath. He pulled back a little, his nose brushing yours in the process. Kissed you once more, timid, gentle again, before retreating so that he could look into your eyes, gauge your reaction. They glowed like twin lights, even in the dimness. He could count your eyelashes, if he had the time. Your body was so warm in his arms—he could feel the heat of you through his t-shirt.
"That was… wow." Was all you could say.
If Bucky held your face right now, he was sure he would be able to feel the flush on your cheeks, blooming red. He didn't have a reply. He was too caught up in admiring you. It felt like his heart was a bird, and the cage of his chest was open for it to fly out of, right into your waiting hands. "When's the last time you kissed someone, the 1940s?" You meant it as a light tease, not meant to hurt or poke fun.
Because really, that assumption was hard for you to believe. There was no way it had been almost 80 years—no one could kiss like that if they had been out of practice for eight decades. But then you saw the look on his face, like a shy puppy. Like you'd caught him pawing at a jar of treats. "Oh my God, it was." You said in awe.
You had just… assumed that he'd been with other women since joining the Avengers. Everyone had their dalliances, they were just private about it. But no, he hadn't. Of course he hadn't, you realized. Though maybe it would have been cathartic for him to seek someone out that didn't know him or his backstory, to lose himself with a stranger, that would have ben too much, for him. He needed to be able to trust the people he was with. Especially with himself, his body. And he was trusting you. "I just—was it bad?" he fumbled over the words, and you'd never heard the Winter Soldier sound flustered before.
"No, no! Not at all." One of your hands came down to smooth over his chest. "It felt like you gave it your all. I think I can understand why you used to have women swooning over you."
His smile was bashful, like he didn't want to react but couldn't help it. "Well, I think I'd prefer to just have one woman swoon over me, if she'll have me?" He looked pointedly at you, but he couldn't hide his hopeful smile. It was crooked, and he probably didn't know it, but it made him look rakish, more handsome than you'd thought possible.
"Under the condition that you don't only kiss me under doorways from now, on, yes. Just keep those blue eyes trained on me, soldier, and I promise I'll be swooning all the time."
The camera footage was very grainy, poor quality, just like Bucky had predicted. Tony knew you were one of the people in the shot, because you'd been in the kitchen. He just didn't know who the other party was, and you'd been tight-lipped about the whole thing.
You'd both decided to have a little fun with it. You'd been dating in secret. Bucky had wined and dined you the next night, and even though it was still very new, you were enjoying your time together. It felt as easy as tying your shoes, as opening the curtains in the morning to let the light in. You also knew that it was a matter of time before someone discovered you both. Secrets never lasted long in the Tower. You figured it was better to expose yourselves on your own terms, rather than get caught in the act like a pair of college kids. Tony's holiday party was the next night, and you'd been trying to decide whether to let everyone know that you and Bucky had started seeing each other at the party, or right before.
Opportunity struck at the perfect time, making the decision for you. Everyone had convened in the lounge after a particularly drawn out meeting. Crime fighting stopped for no holiday, but everyone was trying to wrap things up if they could, before festivities began.
It was strategically planned, a silent conversation shared between glances. You stopped under the mistletoe under the guise of fixing your watch strap, and Bucky stepped into your radius. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!"—everyone chimed in for the second half, used to hearing the words by now.
All eyes turned to you both. Of course, they expected the usual, the type of kiss reserved for your elderly relatives. They did not expect for Bucky to put one hand around your waist, the other at the back of your head, and to dip you backwards into a kiss so steamy, Clint dropped his bagel on the floor, smearing cream cheese on the wood, and Sam put his hand in front of Wanda's eyes, trying in vain to preserve the youngest from witnessing something that electric.
When you were swung back up to standing, you and Bucky traded grins, your hands finding each other's, fingers interlacing, and caught the look of utter shock on everyone's faces. Tony's was by far the richest, his mouth forming a perfect little 'o' of surprise. "These mistletoe decorations better be gone by the end of the day, Tony," you pointed a finger at him, "or you're gonna wish you never put 'em up to begin with."
"Yes ma'am," he muttered, chastised.
Secretly, Bucky wouldn't have minded getting caught with you a few more times, but at least he knew that now he didn't have to rely on a sprig of green plastic to steal a kiss from you. No, now he didn't even have to ask. Maybe holidays spent at the Tower wouldn't be quite so bad, after all.