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JULY
It starts as a joke, all the way back in July, when thoughts of snowflakes, mistletoe and the North Pole are still far from the minds of most people.
Then again, Steve Rogers has never been most people.
So when Sam mentions as an aside via Skype that he’s got a planning meeting for the VA’s holiday party, it’s a day where even thirty seconds in the sweltering Brooklyn heat sends sweat trailing down the back of anyone who dares to set foot outside. Steve and Bucky dared, and even on their pre-dawn run, they were sweat-drenched by the end of their first mile.
Now, gulping down a third glass of ice water, Bucky glances at the calendar and scoffs. “Must be some party, if you’ve gotta start plannin’ it now.”
“Hey, it’s a big deal for my guys and their families,” Sam says, pointing a finger at Bucky in a way he wouldn’t get away with in person. “Plus, we’ve got to start the search for the perfect Santa -- the last guy retired to Florida. What do you think, Barnes? You should audition.”
Steve ducks into the frame, damp shirt still plastered to his chest, his eyes alight. “You need a Santa? For the kids? Can I … Sam? Can I do it?”
Bucky pokes Steve in the pec and laughs. “You’re not exactly built like Santa, punk.”
He recognizes that determined set to Steve’s jaw and exchanges a glance with Sam.
“Steve, man. I don’t want to agree with him -- ever -- but he does have a point. About this one small thing. Personality? Yeah, you’d be amazing. But we do Santa right at this party. No padded suits. Little round belly, you know? Bowlful of jelly? It’s got to be real. Santa doesn’t have abs.”
Steve glances down at his stomach and frowns. “It’s July. I have time. I can do this. Sam. Please?”
Bucky doesn’t even have to look at Sam to know what’s about to happen. The force of those sincere blue eyes has compelled him, in both his past life and his present one, to agree to far more ridiculous things than this. If he can finally admit that yes, okay, he’s got a lot of personal strengths, saying no to Steve Rogers has never been one of them. Coupled with that soft-spoken “please”? Bucky bites his lip to hold back a derisive snort.
Sam doesn’t stand a chance.
***
It starts as a joke, but judging by Steve’s breakfast choice the next morning, he’s not kidding around about getting into “Santa shape” by December.
He and Bucky had gone for their usual morning three miles-- but instead of making his usual egg-white-and-veggie omelet, Steve must’ve run out to the corner bakery while Bucky was in the shower, because when Bucky emerges from the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his damp hair, Steve’s munching on a donut. And it doesn’t look like his first, judging by the sprinkles on his plate.
“Mmph.” Steve looks a little guilty, but chews a big bite of donut before speaking. “Morning, Buck.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Donuts-for-Breakfast.” Bucky finishes toweling his hair (it takes a little longer with one hand) and moves over to the counter to look for the French press, which is empty.
“Hey, I thought you were making coffee.”
Steve’s mouth is full again, so he points instead to a travel mug on the other counter. Bucky drapes the damp towel over his shoulder and investigates, taking the lid off of the mug and sniffing.
“Mocha? In July?”
Steve grins. “I’m in the mood. Indulge me.”
Bucky thinks privately that Steve doesn’t need him to feel indulgent; judging by the third donut Steve’s working on and the travel mug in front of him-- Steve’s indulging himself plenty.
“You get a mocha, too?” Bucky’s not sure why he’s so interested all of a sudden; Steve’s a big boy and he can get coffee frippery anytime he wants. It’s just that, usually-- he doesn’t.
“Sure did.” Steve raises his travel cup up to Bucky in a kind of toast. “Had to get started, didn’t I?”
“Started with what?” Bucky sips at his own drink.
“My Santa diet.”
Bucky pauses. “I didn’t know you were that serious about it.”
Steve sips mocha, chews more donut. “Yup.”
Bucky starts to say something and then thinks better of it. “Carry on, then.” He ducks his head at Steve and takes his coffee and his towel and goes to get dressed.
***
AUGUST
It’s only been a few weeks, but the evidence of Steve’s commitment to his plan is everywhere Bucky turns. Empty donut boxes and milk cartons are an ever-present sight in the kitchen; Steve seems to have a perpetual milk mustache, and Bucky’s constantly pointing out the crumbs on his shirt.
Steve’s shirts. More evidence. Steve’s still taking his morning runs, declaring that he’s going to do this right, and he can still add the weight he wants and be active, but the shirts that were too small before the Santa Plan took shape are seriously struggling after a few weeks of Steve’s new diet.
Steve’s always been in favor of shirts that fit him like a second skin, but by mid-August -- and Bucky means this in the nicest way possible -- these shirts are more like sausage casings.
He’s not chubby -- Steve still has a long way to go before “chubby” -- but there’s a certain hint of softness around his waist and even in his chin, if you look closely. Not that that’s what Bucky is doing.
Right now, Steve’s parked on the couch, watching the British version of Top Gear and crunching his way through an entire family-size bag of Doritos.
“You keep eating like that, pretty soon you’re going to turn into a Dorito.” Bucky’s not even sure why he says it, why those particular words in that particular configuration jump out of his mouth.
Steve raises an eyebrow and puts another chip in his mouth, and Bucky tries not to stare at his cheese-stained lips as they’re moving. “Could be worse. Doritos are delicious.”
And there is nothing Bucky can say to that, at least not without acknowledging the weird bent his thoughts have taken since Steve started this whole thing.
He turns and walks out of the room, choosing avoidance as the path of least resistance, and Steve calls after him.
“Can you grab me a glass of milk?”
***
SEPTEMBER
Bucky pushes the half-open bathroom door and freezes as it swings open, revealing Steve, standing in front of the mirror and frowning. He’s fully dressed, but Bucky still automatically takes a step backward, retreating.
“No, wait,” Steve says, beckoning him in. “Do you see this?”
He’s in one of the sausage-casing shirts again, but it’s so tight at this point that it refuses to come down farther than Steve’s bellybutton, revealing the bit of golden-skinned softness last month only hinted at.
This is not a drill: Steve’s abs are gone.
Bucky’s mouth is almost too dry to form words, and he grips the doorframe with metal fingers. Steve looks at him oddly when the wood groans in protest, and he lets go, sucking in a steadying breath.
“Hate to tell you, Stevie, but that shirt’s a disgrace to shirts the world over,” he says, proud that his voice isn’t shaking the way he feared it might.
Steve beams at him, and Jesus, that’s unfair -- the combination of Steve’s smile and the exposed strip of belly. Suddenly Bucky’s thoughts aren’t bending -- they’re curving ... in the same direction as that tiny swell of stomach. He drums his fingers on the doorframe and swallows hard. Steve’s up maybe 15, 20 pounds (and Bucky should probably tell him to step on the scale, check his progress), and each of those pounds is an assault on Bucky’s sanity.
He’s not sure what’s happening. But he’s sure that he likes it.
“I think I need some new shirts.”
***
OCTOBER
The end of October finds Steve and Bucky visiting Sam in D.C. and handing out Halloween candy at the VA party.
Bucky hates to admit it (or does he?), but even Steve’s new shirts have started to look a little strained. He’s really not sure what’s gotten into him, or why he’s running his mouth the way he is, but something about the way Steve’s buttons look prods him into saying, “Hey pal, looks like it might be time to size up again.”
They’re changing for the party -- well, Steve is. Bucky donned his tightest part of jeans and a T-shirt from a band that claims to be heavy metal and sounds like misery and is prepared to tell anyone who asks that he’s Iron Man.
Iron(like) arm. Man. Iron Man. Steve had rolled his eyes at the idea, but he seemed to appreciate the aesthetic when Bucky showed him the jeans.
And now, at Bucky’s gentle ribbing, Steve -- god damn (bless?) him -- turns pink and looks pleased. “You really think so?” He peers down at his belly (and since when has it been an actual, honest-to-God belly?!) and calls out, “Hey, Sam! Really getting ready for December over here!”
Bucky has to move away because he can feel himself turning pink, too-- just for another reason altogether.
Steve’s in costume -- and from the look of it, he ordered it weeks ago, because he’s squeezed into a Superman costume that would have been skintight on him at the end of the summer. And his belly’s come a long way since then, so when Bucky gets a view of his profile, there’s unmistakable roundness.
Bucky’s experienced torture in a lot of forms, but Spandex is a new one.
Midway through the evening, he has to nudge Steve sharply. “We’re givin’ out candy. Not eating it.”
Steve drops a handful of wrappers -- his fourth handful, not that Bucky is being weird and tracking his candy intake -- into the trashcan behind him, his cheeks flushing.
“It’s just--” Steve bites his lip and glances down, where the yellow belt of his costume is screaming for Bucky’s attention. “I’m hungry. You know? The more I eat, the more I feel like I need to eat.”
There is no nearby surface for Bucky to thunk his head against. He settles for setting aside all the remaining mini-Twix and pulling out his phone to see where the nearest buffet is.
Is it Christmas yet? he wonders, making an effort to focus on the kids and not the royal-blue Santa wannabe beside him. Two more months of Steve eating everything in sight with joyful abandon. He might not survive. What a way to go.
***
NOVEMBER
“So, Tony invited us to come to his fancy-schmancy Thanksgiving fête,” Steve mentions one mid-November morning. He’s spreading what looks like a quarter stick of butter on his waffles before drowning them in maple syrup.
“Didn’t we tell Sam we’d come to his mom’s thing, too?” Bucky asks, taking a bite of his own (less buttered) waffle. “And Nat?”
“Sure,” Steve says, mouth full. “But I figured we’d take the quinjet and make a whole day of it.”
“Let me get this straight,” Bucky says. “We’re going to take the Avengers’ fighter plane out just so that you can have three full Thanksgiving meals. Is that right?”
“Um.” Steve chews more waffle, swallows. “Yeah. I mean, Thanksgiving is pretty close to December, and I want to be pretty close to full-on Santa shape by then.” He takes a big gulp of what Bucky knows to be whole milk.
“Like it?” Bucky looks up, and Steve’s got a milk mustache.
“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky tells him, and gets up, pushing his chair back and going to rinse his dishes and put them in the sink.
***
Ridiculous is right, Bucky thinks two weeks later, when Steve’s up another size in jeans and has started to look truly chubby from a side angle. They’re waiting to climb into the helicopter (Bucky’d talked Steve down from the jet)-- they’re going to D.C. first to have an early lunch with Sam and his family, and then back to New York for Nat’s and then Tony’s.
Steve falls asleep on the short helicopter ride, snoring on Bucky’s shoulder. From this vantage point, Bucky can really see just how Steve’s tummy rounds sweetly out from below his still-impressive pecs, and can feel how Steve’s arms (again, still impressively muscular) have softened with a layer of pudge.
If Bucky snuck his hand over just a little bit, he could touch Steve’s belly. He’s not going to. Obviously he’s not going to. But the temptation is as constant as Steve’s chubbiness. It’s always there. It cannot be ignored.
And if Bucky spends more time watching Steve eat than actually focusing on his own plate once they arrive at Sam’s grandma’s house? He can blame that on the spectacle that is Steve, shyly accepting seconds and thirds and are those fourths?
He pokes a finger into Steve’s side and gulps when the flesh jiggles beneath the metal digit. “Do I need to remind you that we’re doing this two more times today? Seems like maybe I should remind you.”
“Today’s about celebration, not moderation,” Steve says, barely pausing long enough between bites to get the words out. “I’m celebrating this amazing food. By eating it.”
“Santa, baby,” Sam whoops from across the table, and Steve looks up with a huge smile.
***
Natasha, unsurprisingly, is a good cook. Bucky’s not sure he can identify anything that’s on the table besides what looks like chicken.
“Cornish game hen,” Nat says, bustling past him, brandishing a wooden spoon, which she pokes in the air in Steve’s direction. “Want to bet he’ll eat three?”
Bucky swallows. It’s like Nat can read his thoughts. He’s really, really glad that Wanda’s not here.
“Um.” Bucky says, desperate to change the subject from Steve’s obvious overindulgence. “Need any help with anything?”
“Just keep Steve’s plate full so I can focus on my other guests.”
“There are no other--” Bucky starts, and then Nat winks at him.
When they sit down, there’s enough dinnerware for three guests and enough food for triple that amount. By the time Nat rises to begin clearing the table, Bucky’s pretty sure all her leftovers could fit into one giant Tupperware container.
Steve’s a little droopy-eyed but almost glowing with the satisfaction of having packed away what Bucky estimates at at least 5,000 calories. Santa Claus, were he real, would have nothing on a determined supersoldier. Steve’s putting on one hell of a clinic that Bucky privately refers to as his build-a-belly workshop.
***
Tony’s Thanksgiving meal is a real struggle. By the second course, Bucky’s starting to feel uncomfortably full himself-- this is their third Thanksgiving meal today, after all-- but that’s nothing compared to how Steve must be feeling at this point.
Steve, who’d had second helpings of pretty much everything today. Steve, who’d tried all three of Nat’s desserts. Steve, who seems determined to put himself in a serious food coma, and who’s also so unbelievably delighted about it that Bucky can hardly contain himself.
Steve, who has a little gap between his sweater and his jeans. Which are unbuttoned.
Bucky, who might have to excuse himself soon to go to the bathroom and take care of his own tight jeans situation.
When Bucky gets back from the restroom, Peter’s aunt gives him a knowing look from across the table, and he feels himself go red.
“Your man’s been eating Tony out of hearth and home over here,” she says. “And Tony’s got plenty of both.”
“He’s not my--” Bucky starts, but Tony interjects.
“Hey, I can’t help that I have a classy twelve-bed, fourteen-fireplace abode.”
May makes eye contact with Bucky again and rolls her eyes. Then she nods at Steve.
“How are you doing over there, hon? You need anything else?”
Steve’s leaning back in his seat, all sense of propriety abandoned. His sweater has ridden up even more, and it looks like he’s taking a momentary break from eating in order to rub his belly, which must be aching by now. Bucky considers volunteering: Steve’s belly looks like it could only benefit from the touch of a metal hand.
“I think …” Steve groans a little and shifts in his chair, trying to find space for his belly. There is none. “I think maybe I’m done.” He burps behind his hand and then winces. “Excuse me.”
He looks disappointed in himself, and Bucky considers recapping everything Steve’s eaten that day. Second helpings of 13 side dishes, thirds of seven … and fourths of at least five. Half a pie (at least) at each stop, and Bucky still can’t process the amount of turkey (and Cornish hen, and, thanks to Tony, quail) that he’s watched disappear into Steve’s eager mouth.
Steve slides his chair back from the table and grimaces. He reaches out to grip the edge of the table, and Bucky realizes what the problem is.
Steve’s so full he can’t stand.
“Here, pal, I’ve got you,” Bucky says, rising easily and extending his right hand to Steve, who takes it gratefully. Bucky tugs, putting his weight into it, given the size of the supersoldier he’s tugging out of Tony’s overtaxed dining room chair.
He succeeds in getting Steve onto his feet, but Bucky realizes too late that he’s put too much force into his assist, as Steve stumbles onto his feet and directly into Bucky.
They both groan -- Steve in obvious discomfort, and Bucky in actual disbelief that Steve’s belly (in all its round, tight glory, and a significant amount of glory at that) is pressed against his own still-flat abs. He needs to move, and he knows he needs to move, but at the feel of all Steve’s warm weight pressing against him, all he can do for one long moment is listen to his brain screaming thisthisthis.
No, he’s got to move. Gingerly, he steps back, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder to help him balance.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats, looking into those bright blue eyes. “Think there’s a fancy sofa in the other room. Wanna lie down?”
And I’ll lie down on top of you, he thinks. That would really be something to be thankful for. If only.
***
Tony -- being Tony -- serves dessert an hour later with brandy in the sitting room.
“A room just for sitting,” Bucky whispers to May, who’s perched next to him on the couch. “Now I know what my apartment’s missing.”
May snickers, and Tony’s head whips in their direction. “Settle down over there on the Herman Miller, guys. I can un-invite you to next year’s Thanksgiving already. Remember what you’d be missing: twelve bed, fourteen fireplace.”
Bucky rolls his eyes as soon as Tony’s turned away, and May laughs again. “Steve, you doing all right over there?”
Steve’s vertical on the matching midcentury modern loveseat. “Just digesting,” he says, and hiccups, his belly jumping. Steve’s face makes a grimace and he pats his stomach soothingly. He’s so full that there’s no jiggle left -- it’s one solid mound.
“Think he’s ready for a food coma,” May observes, and those words go straight to Bucky’s dick. He wills it to behave and makes an enormous effort to make chitchatty small talk with May and Peter and Pepper while Tony’s doing something au flambé over by the bar cart. It would figure that Tony would have affixed a culinary blowtorch to one of his robot’s arms, and that he would figure that testing it on the day of would be the best scientific method.
Therefore, there’s plenty of time for chit and chat, and Steve falls asleep in less than five minutes, true to May’s word. He looks like a bear hibernating for winter -- especially with that little stripe of belly in between his fuzzy sweater and his fully unzipped jeans.
When Tony unveils the creme bruleé, Steve jerks awake in some sort of Pavlovian response. “Time for dessert?” He blinks sleepily, and gingerly levers himself up to a sitting position. Bucky has to look away to stop himself from drooling.
Even though they’re past all of the Winter Soldier stuff, Bucky thinks that Tony must be out to get him. Why else would he give Steve the first creme bruleé and say, “Dig in, big guy” with a long look at Bucky?
***
The ride home in Tony’s limo is almost more than Bucky can bear. After an entire day of riding the edge of arousal -- and sneaking off to one of Tony’s twelve bathrooms to jerk off -- Bucky’s exhausted and ready to just go to bed, where he can fall asleep and forget all about stupid Steve and his stupid, stupid (sexy) belly and the sexy (stupid) little moans he makes when he gets really full.
It’s especially difficult when Steve’s all food-drunk and sleepy and so, so full, his fever-hot bulk pressed up against Bucky’s side for the first part of the ride, until he seems to get tired of sitting up and moves down to put his head in Bucky’s lap, snuggling his face into Bucky’s thigh.
Bucky would happily face a HYDRA firing squad right about now. He shifts around uncomfortably -- Steve’s chubby cheek is basically resting on his dick -- but Steve just makes a tired noise and keeps his eyes shut.
It’s New York City on Thanksgiving evening, so there’s tons of traffic. Bucky dozes off himself for a while, and when he wakes up, his metal hand is. On. Steve’s. Belly.
Bucky looks around the limo guiltily, as if the Belly Police will swoop down at any second to arrest him for lusting after his chunking-up bff and subconsciously acting on these feelings.
“Um,” Bucky says, moving his hand a little, but Steve doesn’t wake up. Jesus, if HYDRA could see their Winter Soldier now-- using what they gave him to basically fondle Captain America’s fat.
Actually, that thought’s not so bad. And since Steve’s asleep-- it’s okay to keep his hand there, right? And move it a little bit? Kind of like giving Steve’s belly a rub?
Sure it is. Almost as sure as it is that Bucky will be visiting another man in a red suit.
Because he’s going to hell. (If he’s not already there.)
***
DECEMBER
December is when it all falls apart. In a fit of inspiration he most definitely regrets five minutes later, Bucky tells Steve he’s got to practice being Santa. All month long.
“Buck. I’m not sliding down anyone’s chimney.”
Bucky snorts. “‘Course not. You’d get stuck. Nah, that’s not what I meant.”
He outlines the plan he’s come up with. It’s a terrible plan, and Bucky is a terrible person, because he’s volunteering to make cookies for Steve every night. So Steve can eat them.
“So I’m on a milk and cookies diet?” Steve asks, resting a palm on his belly. He looks intrigued. “I mean, I did want to try to add a few more pounds before the party. I tried the suit on last week. There’s still some room.”
Bucky nods. “Yeah, I just -- just want you to hit your goal. Be the best Santa you can be.” The biggest Santa. The roundest Santa. The Santa of the dreams Bucky is never going to admit to having.
Steve cups his belly and the fork in Bucky’s left hand bends under the pressure of his grip. “Do you think the kids will be happy? Is it enough?”
Is it enough. It’s too much, seeing Steve like this. It’s excessive, the way Bucky’s want grows as steadily as Steve’s waistline. It is positively unreasonable how gorgeous Steve is this way, chubby-cheeked and big-bellied perfection, and the only thing Bucky’s had enough of is seeing him this way and not being able to find the words to tell his best friend what he wants.
“Is it enough? Stevie. You’ve packed on forty-something pounds since the Fourth of July. The kids are going to love it.”
Just like Bucky does. (Albeit in a more innocent way.)
***
The milk-and-cookies diet is both the best and the worst idea Bucky’s ever had. He throws himself into baking with as much dedication as Steve’s given the entire project. Snickerdoodles, sugar cookies, painstaking facsimiles of Girl Scout favorites … his world, for the first three weeks of December, is sugar and flour and Steve.
It is sweet, sweet suffering.
The VA party is set for Christmas Eve, and as the date approaches, a throwaway comment by Steve sends Bucky into a mental tailspin.
“Can you believe it’s almost time? Four more days, and it’ll all be over.”
What does he mean, over? Bucky’s just hit the acceptance stage of Steve’s belly: it exists, and he can’t touch it. This is his life now, scheduling his days around Steve’s meals and snacks and “aw, Buck, I just need a bite or two!”
“Over,” Bucky echoes dully, punching his flesh hand into the dough for the Polish kiffles he’s making. “Right.”
He shoves the bowl into the fridge and briskly washes his hands. “I’m goin’ for a walk.”
Steve sits up as quickly as possible from where he’s sprawled on the couch, recovering from dinner. “You’re -- but -- cookies?”
Bucky grabs his coat and shrugs into it, not turning around. “Like you said, it’s almost over. There’s lasagna if you get hungry. Don’t wait up.”
***
Bucky expected Steve to be disappointed-- it’s Pavlovian by now, isn’t it? Bucky makes cookies, Steve eats cookies, Steve is happy-- but he’s not expecting Steve to look so fucking dejected the next morning.
“What’s with you?” Bucky asks as he’s getting his coffee mug down from the cupboard. Steve’s sitting at the kitchen table with nothing in front of him but a mug of what looks like-- herbal tea? It’s almost funny -- this is the first time in months that Bucky’s seen Steve in any vicinity of a kitchen without a full mouth or plate or both -- except that Steve looks so sad that it gives Bucky pause. Were the cookies really that much of a thing?
He goes to the fridge to get the creamer and notices that the lasagna pan is still in there-- there’d only been one row left, an easy snack for Steve now, but it’s untouched.
“You’re not hungry?” Bucky says it to the fridge, but loud enough for Steve to hear. “Did you get that used to the Santa diet?”
Steve sighs, and Bucky turns around and comes over to the kitchen table to sit across from him.
“I just--” Steve starts, and then stops. “I just-- I think I really liked you making cookies for me.” He says it while looking down at his mug of tea, and Bucky suddenly gets a realization like a sledgehammer to the temple: maybe Steve likes this, too?
Well, it’s obvious that Steve likes the eating -- is it ever; it’s obvious in his face and his belly and his ass and his thighs, Jesus wept -- but maybe he also likes Bucky feeding him?
Maybe is enough to send Bucky to the refrigerator to retrieve his abandoned kiffles. He starts the oven preheating while he rolls out the dough and glances over his shoulder.
Steve looks a little brighter already, and Bucky returns to his kiffle-making duties, scooping fruit filling into each square of dough before pinching the ends together. Steve pushes his tea aside and goes to the fridge to pull out the milk. The kitchen smells like cherries and sugar, and with every step of the recipe Bucky finishes, they’re one step closer to whatever’s been building these past months.
Bucky brushes the egg wash over the cookies. Steve refills his glass. They don’t speak, not when Bucky slides the kiffles into the oven, not when he pulls them out to cool and not when he dusts them with powdered sugar and heaps them onto a plate.
Not even when he sets the plate in front of Steve and watches the way Steve’s hands clench on top of his meaty thighs. He can’t find the words, even now, but he can slide a cookie off the plate and hold it out to Steve in silent offering.
And Steve can lean forward and take it with his mouth instead of with his hand.
***
Steve chews and swallows in one bite, and his eyes are bright when they find Bucky’s. “Another?”
Bucky’s hand is shaking as he reaches for the next cookie and holds it out, trembling as it makes its way to Steve’s rosy mouth.
This time, Steve’s hand catches Bucky’s before it gets too far away, and he brings Bucky’s knuckles up to his lips to kiss them.
Bucky’s heart is pounding so hard that he can’t even think. “You like this, you little punk,” Steve is saying, and he’s pulling Bucky closer to him, he’s-- Jesus-- he’s putting Bucky’s hand on his belly. “You like this.” And he’s pushing his fat into Bucky’s hand. And Bucky, Bucky is not sure if he’s dreaming or not.
Bucky chokes out a laugh, letting his hand roam over Steve’s big belly. “Yeah, well, so do you.”
Steve gasps as Bucky slips cool metal fingers under his shirt and uses them to stroke the soft, swollen skin there.
“Yeah,” he grits out. “I like it. Been waitin’ for weeks for you to put your hands on me.”
And that’s it, Bucky is done, scrambling backwards and catching Steve’s hand as he stumbles. This time, he knows what will happen when he tugs Steve up -- all that strength, all that softness come crashing into him, and as Steve’s belly bumps into him, Bucky reaches out, grabs Steve’s face with both hands and kisses him.
They don’t break apart until Steve’s panting for breath, and they stare at each other, wild-eyed, with matching ridiculous smiles.
“Done waiting,” Bucky breathes out. “Waiting is stupid. We’re stupid.”
“You’re stupid,” Steve says, kissing him again. “Wasn’t -- wasn’t sure how you felt about … all this.” He gestures at his gut, looking suddenly shy, and Bucky considers dropping to his knees in the middle of the kitchen to demonstrate his feelings on the subject with absolute clarity.
“I made you cookies every day for three weeks,” Bucky points out, getting his hands back on Steve’s belly where they’re meant to be, reveling in the fact that he’s allowed to do this, that Steve wants this. “I jacked off in one of Tony’s bathrooms. I like it, Steve, I fucking love it. And I ran out of the apartment when you said this was almost over. Because I don’t want it to be over. I mean, it’s your choice, it’s your body, but--”
Steve’s shaking his head. “I don’t want to stop. I mean, maybe I’ll slow down a little? But I like it, too.”
Bucky grins. “So you gonna let me show you how much I like it, pal?”
“God, yes. Buck, please.”
And then they’re stumbling into the bedroom together, so focused on each other that they knock a photo off the wall and a lamp off the bedside table before Bucky manages to push Steve onto the bed and climb on top of him.
He moves immediately to peel Steve’s shirt off, not bothering to stifle his groan when the bare expanse of Steve’s belly is right there, underneath him, seeming to invite both taste and touch.
He tastes. He touches.
And with tongue and teeth and truly terrifying single-mindedness, he takes Steve apart. Steve accepts this, too, as a challenge.
By the time they’re sated enough for sleep, there’s no room between them for doubt (as if there’s room between them anyway-- Steve’s belly has truly grown into a gut, and it is a thing of glory).
***
“You really did it. You really, really did it.” Sam is laughing his ass off, and Bucky can’t do anything but smile like an idiot and tighten his grip on Steve’s hand.
“What, you doubted me?” Steve mocks disbelief, and Sam gets himself together enough to take a few steps away and around Steve and Bucky, surveying the view from all angles.
“I mean, you really did it. Man, I knew you were determined, but-- man! The kids are going to love it.” Sam’s grin is a mile wide, and Bucky doesn’t even mind when Sam gets a mischievous glint in his eye. “Not to mention the fact that you finally manned up enough to hit that.” He nods at Bucky.
“Hey, I’m not just arm candy, you know!”
“Well, honey, you do have a lot of metal.” Steve leans over and kisses Bucky on the cheek, and Bucky pulls him back for another, more lingual kiss.
“... But none of that in front of the kids, please,” Sam says. “Now c’mon, it’s almost time.” He leads them over to what looks like a less-horrifying and more Christmasy version of the Iron Throne.
“I’ll let you get settled and into character, and I’ll go get the kids and bring them in, okay?” Sam asks, and Steve nods, while Bucky tips him a sardonic salute.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” Sam says, and for a second, Bucky almost wants to tear up. Who’d have thought, a year ago, that the Falcon would be saying this to the former Winter Soldier in jest?
“Watch me all you want,” he returns, unable to keep the happiness at bay long enough to make his reply even a little stern. “I’ll be watchin’ him.”
“About time” is all Sam says, and Bucky can’t argue that point. But now is better than never: he won’t argue that, either.
Sam heads for the door to let the eager kids in, and Bucky turns to Steve where he’s settling into the chair. Bucky’s going to remember the brightness of the smile on Steve’s face for the rest of his days. As the door swings up and happy excitement floods into the room with dozens of children, Steve lets out a booming, “Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!”
It’s perfect. Child after child perches in that ample lap and excitedly shares Christmas wishes and promises of good behavior, and Steve listens carefully to each one, the smile never leaving his face. A few kids go so far as to pat his belly -- Bucky applauds the restraint of the ones who don’t -- and Steve seems to swell with the pride of his accomplishment.
He’s Santa. The best Santa, if maybe not the biggest (at least not this year, but Bucky’s got plans).
When the last kid has clambered off his lap and the room is quiet again, Sam slips out, leaving them alone. Steve’s looking a little misty, but then Bucky saunters up to him with an innocent expression.
“Hey, Santa.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, then dark, and then he pats his lap.
Bucky has not been a good boy, but maybe Santa’s okay with that.