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DECEMBER 21ST.
For all intents and purposes, Sam would like it on record that the night of Scott’s Avengers Holiday Party started off just like any other normal night.
Sure, the drive from Delacroix to New York is a long one. Traffic is murder, Sam has to lay on his truck’s horn at least three times, and the motel he stays at overnight on the 20th is a shit hole. But hey, it gives him time to catch up on his podcasts, and watching the holiday lights and glistening snowflakes falling to the Brooklyn streets is enough to put even Sam in a festive mood.
Bucky, on the other hand, who wears a fuzzy green sweater with Rudolph’s face printed across the front when Sam stops by his apartment to pick him up, looks far less enthused.
“I gotta be honest, Buck,” Sam says. “I didn’t think you were actually going to wear it.”
Bucky scowls. “I think it’s unfair that you get to wear the sweater that’s less ugly.”
Sam looks down at his own sweater, blue with a snowman on the front. “Maybe I just pull it off better.”
Bucky lets out a long sigh. “You owe me,” he finally says, and shuts his apartment door behind him.
“So, you staying in New York long?” Rhodey asks Sam.
The two of them and Bucky have been making small talk in the Avengers Compound conference room, some Frank Sinatra song from Scott’s holiday playlist playing in the background. Bucky’s been quiet all night, which is standard, but he seems to be doing okay, if the way he snorted into his candy cane cocktail at one of Rhodey’s jokes a few moments ago is any indication.
“Just a couple of days,” Sam replies. “This party was a nice little excuse to actually see some snow in December. Plus, I get to spend some time bugging this guy for the next few days,” he adds, nodding towards Bucky.
Rhodey lifts an eyebrow. “Thought that was already in the Captain America job description.”
“Yeah, but that’s all for work. Turns out even Captain America gets the holidays off, so we’re hanging out in New York the next couple days then driving down to Delacroix so Mr. Cyborg over here can get a real, authentic 21st century Christmas experience. I’m talking holiday shopping, Christmas movies, uncomfortable work parties you’re not sure if you really want to go to…”
Rhodey snorts, then gestures to Sam and Bucky’s outfits. “And the ugly sweaters are part of that?”
“That was all on him,” Bucky mutters.
Rhodey just laughs.
Sam meanders the party for a while after that, catching up with Danvers, letting Lang compliment his sweater, introducing Torres to all the Avengers, and making the executive decision to steer clear of the eccentric group of aliens Thor has brought as his plus-ones, also known as the so-called Guardians of the Galaxy.
(He’s pretty sure one of the members of the group is a literal talking raccoon, and he’s also pretty sure he caught said raccoon eyeing Bucky’s vibranium arm pretty hard half an hour ago.)
But after about half an hour of mingling, the fatigue of the road trip Sam’s spent the last two days taking starts to catch up with him, and he finds his smiles growing strained and his responses becoming shorter and shorter. It’s not until he’s pouring himself another mug of hot chocolate that he sees Bucky again, who sidles into the Compound’s kitchen to lean against the entryway and say, “The fact that I’ve heard Rhodey repeat the same story four times now may be a sign that we should start heading out.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you’ve been keeping a tally, huh?”
“He repeats himself a lot,” Bucky says defensively. “But also – yes.”
Sam bites back a laugh. “Fine, fine, I’m starting to get tired, anyway. You know, I might actually be looking forward to sacking out on your shitty ass couch.”
“It’s not shitty,” Bucky says immediately, even though he grins, a small thing, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Sam sets down his hot chocolate and walks over, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “Whatever you say, pal. Let me just say bye to everyone and then – ”
“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.”
Sam turns, surprised, to face Scott, who has suddenly materialized in front of the two of them, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. But when Sam turns to look back at Bucky, Bucky won’t look back at him.
Instead, Bucky’s looking above them, and when Sam follows his gaze, he finds a single sprig of mistletoe hanging from the kitchen entryway ceiling, directly above their heads.
“Uh,” Sam says eloquently.
Bucky just looks down and blinks back at him, wide-eyed.
“Ha!” chimes in another voice, and Sam turns to see Rhodey, an amused look on his face. “Figured it’d be the two of you that end up under there. Bruce owes me five bucks.”
“You bet on us?” Sam hisses in betrayal.
Rhodey just shrugs, as if to say What can you do?
And to think Sam thought they were friends.
“Oh hey, Sam and Bucky under the mistletoe,” says Torres brightly, joining Rhodey and Scott, because sure, a whole crowd gathering around to witness Sam’s embarrassment is exactly what he needs right now.
“Oh wow,” Peter Parker says, right on Torres’ heels. The two of them were introduced only a couple hours ago, but they’ve spent most of the party hanging out and already seem thick as thieves, much to Sam’s displeasure. He’ll have to give a stern talking to Torres later; he doesn’t want the Spider-kid to be a bad influence.
“Did I miss it?” Parker continues. “Did you guys kiss?”
Bucky’s face turns a shade of red Sam didn’t realize was humanly possible as he grits out, “No one is kissing anyone.”
“What?” Parker says in outrage, and Sam would almost swear it was an act if the kid didn’t seem so damn earnest all the time. “But it’s a Christmas tradition.”
“Yeah, guys. Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Torres asks, a wide-eyed expression on his face that looks genuine, but Sam’s spent enough time around the guy to know when he’s pretending to be genuine, but he’s really just being a little shit.
Sam is starting to regret suggesting to Scott that invite Torres to this party.
“Yeah, c’mon guys,” Scott says, and then, to Sam’s horror, he begins to chant, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Naturally, Torres and Parker join in. Sam turns to Rhodey, pleading.
“Don’t look at me,” Rhodey says, gesturing to Scott. “It’s his party.”
“ Guys, ” Sam says finally, cutting off the trio’s chanting. “Look, not that your bizarre investment in the two of us isn’t – ”
“Weird,” Bucky cuts in.
“Well – I was going to say sweet, but weird is probably more accurate – ”
“Oh, c’mon, you’re really not gonna kiss?” Parker demands. “This isn’t some kind of…toxic masculinity thing, is it?”
Sam glares at Parker before opening his mouth to object – to say that that’s not what’s happening, first of all, and second of all, even if it was, it wouldn’t be any of Parker’s business.
But before Sam can say anything at all, Bucky says, incredulous, “Toxic masculinity?” And then Bucky’s grabbing Sam by the shoulders, muttering, “I’ll show you toxic masculinity,” and the next thing Sam knows, he’s being kissed.
For all intents and purposes, Sam would like it on record that he hasn’t dedicated time to imagining what kissing Bucky would be like, per se. That would be ridiculous, because Bucky is his friend, and his coworker, someone to Sam that normal people would not ever imagine kissing.
But if Sam had, hypothetically, ever imagined what kissing Bucky might be like, he might have imagined it heated, in the middle of an argument; or desperate and a little relieved, after a mission that almost went wrong.
Regardless, Sam never would have imagined it like this – abrupt, unceremonious, and chaste, just Bucky’s lips briefly pressing against Sam’s as several of their other coworkers awkwardly look on. Sam barely even has time to process the way Bucky steps impossibly closer towards Sam rather than dragging Sam towards him, or the way that Bucky’s mouth pressing gently against his contrasts to the firm grip he has on Sam’s shoulders, before Bucky steps away, and then the kiss is over.
“There,” Bucky says roughly, turning to the small crowd of onlookers. “Happy?”
Parker blinks owlishly at them, Torres looks far smugger than he has any right to be, and Scott looks almost as dazed and surprised as Sam feels.
Almost.
Rhodey, of course, just bursts out laughing.
“Scott, man,” Rhodey says, clapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder, “This might actually be the best Avengers Holiday Party I’ve ever been to. I had my doubts, but I guess putting up mistletoe was a good move after all.”
Blinking out of his reverie, Scott turns to Rhodey in confusion. “Wait – I thought you put the mistletoe up.”
Rhodey raises his eyebrows. “Why the hell would I have mistletoe?”
“I don’t know! Why would I have mistletoe?”
“Kinda seems like the kinda thing you’d do,” Bucky mutters.
“Thank you,” Scott says with a smile.
“Wasn’t exactly a compliment.”
Sam glances at Bucky, who won’t exactly meet his gaze. “Well, if neither of you put the mistletoe up then who – ” Sam starts.
“Hey guys!” Thor cuts them off, stumbling upon their group and shooting everyone a quick, if a little frantic, smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but you wouldn’t have happened to have seen…” His voice trails off as his gaze travels towards Sam and Bucky, and then freezes on the sprig of mistletoe above their heads. Then, “Ah, shit.”
Sam raises one eyebrow. “ What’s ah, shit?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Thor says with a strained smile, clapping his hands together. “Nothing to worry about. Just… you two didn’t happen to, er, kiss under that, did you?”
Sam feels his face burn. Bucky looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. But before either of them can stammer out an answer, Parker pipes up, “Yeah, you just missed it.”
“Very romantic,” Scott adds.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Bucky glower at him.
“Okay, good, good,” Thor says, nodding. Then, without preamble, he shouts, “Hey Quill? We have a, uh, situation over here!”
The leader of the Guardians wanders over, eyes lighting up when he spots the sprig of mistletoe. “Oh good, you found it,” he says, and then when his gaze travels down to Sam and Bucky positioned beneath the mistletoe, his face falls. “Shit.”
Sam looks at Bucky, then at the mistletoe, and then back at Thor and Quill, and narrows his eyes. “What did you two do to the mistletoe?”
“Well, it’s not exactly mistletoe, per se,” Thor says, and when Sam just blinks at him, he adds, “It’s actually viscum xumbada. We harvested it from the planet Santalaceae just a couple months back.”
“You brought an alien plant to my holiday party?” Scott exclaims.
“Don’t look at me,” Thor says, then gestures to Quill. “Look at him.”
“ Me? ” Quill says, outraged. “Why would I bring it?”
“Uh, because the plant was on your ship?” Thor says.
“Oh, so now you admit it’s my ship,” Quill says with an eye roll. “Any other time it’s ‘I’m the real captain, not Quill,’ but now that it’s convenient for you – ”
“Not that this exchange isn’t invigorating ,” Bucky grits out. “But is anyone going to bother to tell us what the plant actually does? ”
“Right,” Thor says, remembering himself. “Well, it’s nothing too major, really. Just…well, the two of you aren’t going to be able to lie to each other.”
Sam blinks. Opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again to finally get out, “What?”
“Like…forever?” Bucky asks, sounding panicked.
Thor laughs. “Of course not. That’d be ridiculous,” he says, as if the entire situation isn’t ridiculous.
“The plant only blooms in colder seasons, and its properties are only activated once two individuals kiss within proximity of it,” Quill explains. “After that, those two people lose the ability to properly lie to each other. It’s a popular plant in Santalaceae; they see it as romantic, for some reason. I guess because the plant’s properties are supposed to strengthen a couple’s bond, or whatever. But the plants start to wither the day of the winter solstice, so on Earth…that means the properties should only last until midnight, December 25th. You won’t be able to lie to each other again until Christmas.”
Sam stares, and then finally, incredulously, he bursts out laughing. “Oh, come on. Seriously, the day after Christmas? This has to be bullshit.”
“Sam,” Bucky says quietly. “I think he’s serious.”
“You’re really buying into this?” Sam demands. “Bucky, come on, it’s gotta be a prank.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? Then let’s try it. Two months ago, when you stayed over at my apartment, did you or did you not eat the last of the Oreos in my pantry?”
“Yes, I finished off the Oreos,” Sams says immediately, without thinking, and then, “ Fuck! ”
“Told you,” Thor says.
“Dude,” Sam says. “Why the hell would you bring evil mistletoe to a holiday party?”
“Ask Quill!”
“I told you it wasn’t me!” Quill says. “Where’s Gamora? She’ll back me up on this if – ”
“Hey guys, what’s going on?” comes a voice, and if things weren’t bizarre enough, Sam watches as the talking raccoon wanders over, casually sipping one of Scott’s signature candy cane cocktails.
“Rocket,” Quill says in relief, then gestures to Sam, Bucky, and the evil mistletoe plant. “Tell Thor I wasn’t the one who put up the viscum xumbada.”
“Oh, yeah, that wasn’t Quill,” Rocket says with complete confidence.
Quill turns back to Thor, triumphant. “See? I told you that – ”
“I’m the one that did that.”
Simultaneously, every person in the room freezes and spins to stare at the raccoon, who just takes another sip of his cocktail.
“You what? ” Bucky finally gets out.
“I put up the viscum xumbada ,” Rocket repeats casually, and when everyone continues to stare at him, “What? I wanted to see who’d be stupid enough to get stuck under there. I thought it’d be funny. Was it funny?”
Bucky makes a growling noise low in his throat, and Sam has to physically restrain him from confronting the raccoon. In all honesty, it’s more for Bucky’s benefit than it is Rocket’s – sure, Bucky has super serum and a metal arm, but raccoons are already a little terrifying on their own, and Sam’s pretty sure this one knows how to use a gun.
“There has to be some sort of antidote,” Sam says, after successfully restraining Bucky from attempting to choke the talking Build-A-Bear. “It’s space, right? Surely there’s some sort of potion, or plant, or something.”
“I can find the antidote, sure,” Rocket says, eyeing Bucky. “All you gotta do is hand over that metal arm, and I’d be glad to give you the – hey! ”
Quill cuts Rocket off by smacking him upside the head, causing Rocket to glare up at him in betrayal.
“I told you to stop stealing people’s arms,” Quill mutters, then turns back to Sam and Bucky. “Besides, there’s not an antidote. The properties won’t wear off til they’ve run their course, so, long story short, y’all are stuck dealing with this till Christmas.”
Sam feels himself deflate and finally looks over at Bucky, who looks back at him with a resigned expression.
“You know,” Bucky says finally. “When you said you were going to give me an authentic 21st century Christmas experience, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Sam sighs, long and loud, tilting his head back to simultaneously glare at the mistletoe hanging above his head and also ponder how this became his life.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Me neither, pal.”
DECEMBER 22ND.
When Bucky first wakes up the next morning, half-lucid, there’s a brief moment of blissful peace where he turns to the window, watches the snow gently fall to the pavement outside, and revels in the knowledge that he got a full night’s sleep, which is a rarity, even now.
Then he blinks, and the events of last night’s mistletoe incident come rushing back, and the moment of blissful peace is over.
The thing is: this shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not ideal, sure, but it’s not like it’s the worst, or most bizarre, thing that’s ever happened to him. Hell, it isn’t even in the top ten. And after all, it’s not like Bucky wasn’t already pretty honest to begin with; Sam has told Bucky on several occasions that it wouldn’t kill him to be less blunt.
The problem, specifically, is that it’s Sam he can’t lie to.
Maybe problem isn’t the right word. Maybe the right word is inconvenience. It’s an inconvenience that Bucky can’t lie to Sam, not because he lies to him frequently, or because he doesn’t trust Sam; he does, more than anyone. It’s an inconvenience because though Bucky doesn’t lie to Sam often, he has been lying to him just a little bit, if lying by omission counts.
It’s an inconvenience that of all the people in the world Bucky can’t lie to, it’s the one person he happens to have unreciprocated feelings for.
Bucky groans quietly, scrubbing his hands over his face.
It’s going to be a long three days.
When Bucky finally emerges from his room, Sam, who wakes up earlier than God, is already up, scrolling through his phone.
“Hey,” Bucky mutters as he beelines to the coffee pot in the kitchen.
“Hey,” Sam echoes, trailing after Bucky to lean against the kitchen counter as Bucky pours himself a cup of coffee. “So…did last night actually happen, or was that just a bizarre dream I had?”
“Jury’s out, but I’m hoping for the latter. You want some coffee?”
“Hell no. Your coffee tastes like shit.”
Bucky turns in slow surprise to find Sam staring back at him, wide-eyed. “Guess that disproves the bizarre dream theory,” Bucky says.
“Okay, so…I didn’t actually mean to say that out loud,” Sam says. “But also, in my defense…your coffee does taste like shit.”
“Says the guy that uses more creamer than he does coffee. At least my coffee doesn’t taste like straight-up sugar.”
“At least my coffee tastes like something,” Sam shoots back. “Aside from mud.”
Bucky just shakes his head, but still grins, amused, as he takes a sip from his mug.
“So, I guess we should discuss this…situation,” Sam continues, and when Bucky raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate, “Just…this might make things awkward.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Bucky mutters without meaning to, and curses to himself when Sam’s brows knit together in confusion. Quickly he adds, “Look, after everything, I think it’s safe to say we’ve been through a lot worse.”
“I know, I know, I’m just…worried.”
“About what?”
“You, mainly,” Sam says, and Bucky blinks at him. Sam shrugs, looks down at the counter, then continues, “Just – this stupid plant makes us say things that are out of our control or against our will, and…I know that’s an experience you’re probably not too thrilled about going through again.”
It is, remarkably, a very Sam thing to say. Because of course, after being subjected to a plant from another planet with literal evil magical abilities, Sam’s first response is to worry about someone other than himself.
Bucky almost wants to laugh.
Instead, he just says, “Look, none of this is…ideal. But you don’t have to worry about me over this. It’s only three days, and it’s only you, and I trust you, okay?”
Because he does. Sam is Bucky’s partner, his best friend, the closest thing he has to family, and secret unrequited feelings or not, Bucky supposes if he had to be stuck in this situation with anyone, he’s glad it’s Sam.
Sam glances up. “Okay. You know I trust you too, right?”
“Yeah. I know,” Bucky says.
Because he does.
Sam sighs. “Okay, so you’re right: this isn’t ideal. But I didn’t drive all the way to New York for nothing, and you’re not getting out of an authentic 21st century Christmas experience that easy. We can still do all the tourist-y New York shit today, drive to Delacroix tomorrow, stick to the original plan. And, hey, this may be as normal a Christmas as we’ll get in this line of work anyway.”
“No arguing with that.”
“Just…don’t try to use this whole evil mistletoe thing to your advantage so you can figure out what I got you for Christmas,” Sam warns.
Bucky just laughs and takes another sip of his coffee. “No promises,” he says.
They visit Times Square first. Surprisingly, it’s Bucky’s idea.
“It’ll be packed,” Sam warns as they head towards the subway.
Bucky shrugs. “It might not be that bad. And anyway, I haven’t gotten gifts for AJ and Cass yet.”
Sam stops in the middle of the sidewalk, causing the woman behind them to glare in Sam’s direction as she’s forced to maneuver around them.
“You were gonna get gifts for AJ and Cass?” Sam asks in a funny sort of voice.
“Well…yeah,” Bucky says, a little confused by Sam’s reaction. “Should I…not? I mean, if it’s overstepping I could always — ”
“No, no,” Sam interrupts, shaking his head. “Of course they’d love a Christmas present from you. The boys adore you.”
“Yeah, well, I love them too,” Bucky says, even as his face burns at the obviously fond tone of his voice.
But Sam just grins. “Yeah, you better.”
As it turns out, Sam was right; Times Square is packed. There are people everywhere, lines forming out the door at every store. It’d be overwhelming for anyone, but aside from everything with the flag smashers and visiting Sam in Delacroix, Bucky has barely left Brooklyn since the snap; has hardly left his apartment at all aside from the occasional grocery store pick-up, therapy appointment, or sushi with Yori. Standing in the middle of this crowd, it’s never been more evident that New York isn’t the same city it was in the 40s. Bucky can’t help but feel overexposed, and with every person who gets a little too close, he feels almost like there’s an itch under his skin he can’t scratch.
Still, every time Sam makes an off-hand joke or his arm brushes against Bucky’s from his place right at Bucky’s side, Bucky feels himself grow a little more settled.
As the crowd thins out the further they make their way into the city, Bucky starts to actually take in his surroundings, watches the snow flurries fall to the pavement and crunch beneath their feet, the wreaths and garlands at every lamppost rustle with the chill in the air, the elaborate lights and Christmas decorations set up in every store window they pass.
But as the day goes on, Bucky finds himself watching Sam more often than not. Because sure, the point of this whole excursion is supposed to be Bucky’s first authentic 21st century Christmas experience, but this part is just as new to Sam as it is to Bucky. Sam doesn’t live in New York, has never spent Christmas in the city, hasn’t, and by his own admission, ever even seen snow like this in December before.
So Bucky can’t help it, really, if it’s more entertaining to look at the endearingly fascinated expression on Sam’s face than it is to look at the actual Christmas decorations themselves.
They spend the entire morning going in and out of shops, eating street vendor food, and admiring the store window decorations, so it’s not until mid-afternoon that Sam finally comes to a stop to gaze up at a giant building with white pillars and large glass windows across the street and say, “Is that the David H Koch theater?”
“What’s the David H Koch theater?” Bucky asks.
“It’s where the New York City Ballet performs The Nutcracker every year.” Sam holds up his phone to snap a picture of the building, then lowers it to send to Sarah. “Man, my mom loved The Nutcracker when I was growing up. She played the soundtrack every December, all month long. When I was nine my dad even got all of us tickets to see it in New Orleans for Christmas, and my mom swore it was the best present he ever got her. She always said she’d love to see it performed in New York one day, but…”
He falters, shrugging, and glances away from Bucky, almost self-conscious, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal all of that out loud, and Bucky can’t help but wonder if the spiel was a result of the evil mistletoe, or if it was just Sam getting caught up in the feelings of nostalgia.
“I’m sure all the tickets for today are sold out,” Sam says finally, in a more subdued voice.
Bucky shrugs. “We could find out,” he offers.
“Yeah?” Sam looks up. “You want to?”
Bucky shrugs again. “Anything for you, Wilson.”
And Bucky’s voice sounds teasing, if a little fond, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that he means every word.
“So, if Clara and the Nutcracker are shrinking in the scene with all the rats,” Bucky says as the two of them exit the theater and enter the lobby. “Does that mean that the Snow Queen and the Sugarplum Fairy and everyone else is just…really tiny people?”
“You would get caught up in the logistics of a ballet about a magical doll.”
“I’m just trying to figure out semantics,” Bucky argues.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Just admit it: you liked it.”
“Okay, yes, fine. I liked it.”
“I knew it,” Sam says triumphantly. “Classical ballet and shit like that is totally your style.”
“How is it my style?” Bucky demands.
“Because senior citizens love that kind of stuff.”
“I hate you.”
Sam smirks as he holds open the door exiting the lobby. “And here I thought the powers of Evil Mistletoe meant you couldn’t lie to me.”
Ridiculously, Bucky feels his face flush, because even though Sam’s just teasing, it feels like they’re verging into territory that’s dangerously close to Bucky admitting something he isn’t sure he’s ready for.
Still, Bucky pushes past Sam, through the door and out into the brisk December air. “Yeah, well, I – ”
But suddenly Bucky stops. Because when they first entered the theater, it’d still been daytime. Now, three hours later, the sun has set, and with the surrounding buildings and lampposts lit up with blinding, twinkling lights, it feels like they’ve emerged into a completely different world.
Sam takes in what must be an awestruck expression on Bucky’s face as he gazes at the lights and grins, nudging him. ‘You think this is cool? C’mon. I bet I can show you something even better.”
It turns out the Rockefeller Center is only a short subway ride from the David H Koch Theater, and so only fifteen minutes later, Bucky emerges from the underground to the biggest, brightest tree he’s ever seen.
The Rockefeller Christmas tree tradition is an old one, though admittedly, not quite as old as Bucky himself. He’s pretty sure it first started sometime during the Great Depression; Bucky even saw the tree in person once, before the war. At the time, he thought it’d been a nice tree, but that measly pine from the 1930s pales in comparison to the massive Christmas tree in front of him.
And maybe it’s just his imagination or overly sentimental thinking – but as he’s gazing up at the Rockefeller tree, Bucky feels almost like he did when he was a kid, when even though money was tight and his parents could barely afford to put food on the table, the whole family came together to decorate the tree, and then step back and smile up at it in both wonder and satisfaction once it was finished.
“It’s actually bigger than I thought it would be,” Sam says, an impressed, almost awestruck look on his face. “I’ve never actually seen it in person.”
“It’s beautiful,” Bucky says, honest, then cringes at how cheesy it sounds.
But Sam just nods. “Yeah. It is.”
For dinner, they order Chinese food for delivery and camp out on Bucky’s couch as Sam subjects Bucky to his favorite Christmas movies.
They’re almost halfway through the second movie on Sam’s list when Bucky announces around a mouthful of lo mein, “I don’t think I get this one.”
Sam blinks. “What’s to get?”
“Well, back in my day – ”
“Here we go,” Sam rolls his eyes.
“ Back in my day, ” Bucky reiterates, glaring at Sam. “Christmas movies were about romance, or family, or something. They were supposed to be lighthearted. Not…” Bucky gestures to the TV screen with his fork.
“This is lighthearted!” Sam insists.
“It’s a movie about a neglected kid who is abandoned by his parents and has to fight for his life against the two strangers who break into his home,” Bucky deadpans.
“I – ” Sam starts, then stops. Bucky raises his eyebrows, waiting for Sam to elaborate, but all he says is, “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Admit it: I’m right.”
“You’re right,” Sam says immediately, then, “ Shit. ”
“Wow,” Bucky says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Who knew all it took for you to finally say those words was a healthy dose of evil mistletoe?”
“Fuck you,” Sam grumbles, shoving him, but Bucky just laughs.
They make it through another one and a half movies before Sam finally passes out, his head thunking against Bucky’s shoulder. It takes a lot of careful maneuvering for Bucky to finally disentangle himself from Sam and the couch, and then even more maneuvering to get Sam in a horizontal position, lying across the couch, without waking him up.
And if Bucky lingers in the living room just one second longer to tuck a pillow under Sam’s head and pull the fuzziest blanket he owns up under Sam’s chin…well, no one else has to know.
DECEMBER 23RD.
They leave Bucky’s apartment before the sun’s even up the next day, loading up Sam’s truck with their overnight bags of clothes and toiletries, Bucky’s gifts for AJ and Cass, and a mysterious lumpy paper package that Bucky yanks from Sam’s hands when Sam spends too long poking and prodding at it.
Sam drives – because “this is my truck and the last time you were in possession of my vehicle’s steering wheel, it didn’t go too well” – and Bucky takes the passenger seat, and they spend the first hour or so of the road trip to Delacroix in relatively comfortable silence, the only noise coming from Sam’s “Classic Christmas Hits” playlist playing on the aux cord at low volume.
It’s not until they’re out of the city and on the interstate that Sam spots a Starbucks, and then he’s pulling off the interstate and into the drive-thru. “I’m getting a latte; you want anything?”
“Not unless you want to pull over and wait for me while I camp out in a rest station bathroom for the next two hours,” Bucky says, and then immediately turns very pink.
Sam, on the other hand, positively crows with laughter.
“You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?” Bucky grumbles.
“No, no, wait,” Sam says, still snickering, “You’re telling me all this time you’ve been acting big and tough drinking your plain black coffee, but really it’s because your delicate, sensitive stomach can’t handle the tiniest bit of milk and sugar?”
“Lots of people have dietary restrictions,” Bucky protests feebly, but Sam just keeps laughing.
“I can see the headlines now,” Sam says, shaking his head. “‘Former Assassin Known as the Winter Soldier is Secretly Plagued by IBS.’”
Bucky sighs, long and loud, before declaring in a miserable-sounding tone, “I hate Evil Mistletoe.”
“Yeah, buddy,” Sam says in a cheery voice. “You and me both.”
It’s a couple hours later, when his latte is finished and the truck has gone quiet, when Sam breaks the silence and asks, “Wanna play a game?”
Bucky glances over at him, looking unimpressed.
“Dude, come on. We still have 18 hours left,” Sam points out. “We might as well pass the time.”
“What kind of game?” Bucky asks skeptically.
“20 questions?” Sam suggests.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Is that such a good idea, considering present circumstances?”
“What circumstances?”
“We got dosed with evil mistletoe and can’t lie to each other, Sam! What other circumstances would I be referring to?”
“I figured that would just make things a little more interesting,” Sam says. Bucky just gives him a look. “Hey, it’s fine. We can have a mutual agreement where we promise not to ask each other any questions that are too personal, alright?”
“Alright,” Bucky finally sighs. “But only if I get to go first.”
“Be my guest.”
“Fine, okay. Uh…what’s your favorite color?”
“Blue. Also, seriously? Is this the first day of kindergarten?”
“It was the first thing I thought of,” Bucky says, defensive. Then, “Why blue?”
It’s not something he’s ever considered, really – your favorite color is just your favorite color, no questions asked. Still, Sam hears himself say, “I don’t know. It’s the same color as the sky and the ocean, you know? I guess it just always reminds me of flying. I don’t know.” He shrugs, then glances at Bucky. “Why, what’s yours?”
“I don’t know. Guess I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Come on. Everyone has a favorite color.”
Bucky leans back against the headrest and frowns up at the roof of Sam’s truck before saying, “I guess black, if I had to pick.”
Sam blinks at him, then shakes his head. “You’re terrible at this game.”
Surprisingly, Bucky just laughs.
They only make a few stops while on the road – twice at different rest stops to use the bathroom and get some snacks from the vending machine, and once for Sam to refill his gas tank. They don’t even stop for lunch, just go through the McDonald’s drive-thru and eat their burgers and fries on the road.
And throughout the day, between twenty questions and would you rather and just shooting the shit, Sam learns a surprising amount about Bucky. He learns that Bucky is the sort of psychopath who says his favorite color is black, that Bucky’s first kiss was with a girl in his seventh-grade class who puked on his shoes after they got off the Cyclone at Coney Island, and how Bucky is remarkably terrible at playing “I Spy.”
“You’re supposed to pick something I can actually see, ” Sam insisted with frustration after he’d spent over half an hour unable to guess whatever Bucky had been describing, only to find out it was Bucky’s socks, which were, of course, concealed by Bucky’s shoes.
“But I know they’re there,” Bucky had said with complete seriousness, and Sam had groaned, thudding his head against the steering wheel.
In fact, Sam gets so caught up in conversation that the time practically flies by, and it’s not until they’re in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, approaching an exit that advertises some local restaurant called Jerry’s Diner, that a) Sam realizes it’s well past dinner-time, and b) he’s been driving for about fifteen hours.
They both agree to stop at Jerry’s, just to stretch their legs and eat something Sam doesn’t have to precariously balance on his legs with one hand as he holds his steering wheel with the other. It turns out to be a hole-in-the-wall place, with red vinyl booths and a jukebox playing 70’s music in the corner. A middle-aged woman with a platinum blonde bun and red acrylic nails takes their orders, and only minutes later, brings Sam a burger with coleslaw and a sweet tea, and Bucky a chicken finger basket with fries and a diet coke.
“Alright,” Bucky says after their waitress has walked off, dipping a fry in his ketchup. “Thor, Lang, and Banner. Go.”
Sam lowers his fork, wrinkling his nose. “Dude. Those are our coworkers. ”
“So?”
“You’re supposed to pick, like, celebrities or something.”
“I don’t know any celebrities,” Bucky reminds him. “Also: stop beating around the bush and answer the question.”
“This is a family establishment,” Sam protests, gesturing around the diner, which is basically empty, seeing as they’re in the middle of nowhere and it’s nearly 8 PM.
“ Sam. ”
“ Fine, ” Sam says, then, “I guess…kill Hulk, fuck Thor, and marry Lang.”
“You’d marry Lang? Seriously?”
Sam ducks his head to pick the lettuce off his burger. “What? He’s a nice guy, and he’s good with kids, so he’d probably get along with Cass and AJ.”
“ I get along with Cass and AJ.”
“Well, you didn’t include yourself in the line-up, did you?” Sam shoots back. “Plus…Scott is…you know. Complimentary.” Bucky raises his eyebrows, and Sam rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Just…I feel like whoever was in a relationship with him would feel very…appreciated.”
“God, you are such a narcissist,” Bucky declares. “Also, I appreciate you all the time.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You can cut the jealous act, Buck. It’s just a game. And, look, if it makes you feel better, in my hypothetical marriage to Ant-Man, I’m sure there’s a high probability we’d still be partners in the field.”
Instead of getting defensive, or objecting to the jealousy remark, like Sam expects, Bucky just munches forcefully on his fry and mutters, “Yeah, well, we better be.”
Sam hides his grin by taking a sip of his sweet tea.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom before we head out,” Bucky adds, sliding out of the booth.
“Did the super-soldier serum not work on your bladder or something?” Sam asks, arching an eyebrow. “Because I swear you have to go to the bathroom more than any adult man I know.”
Bucky flips Sam off on his way to the men’s room without looking back over his shoulder.
He’s only been gone a couple of minutes when Sam’s phone buzzes on the diner table, and Sam flips the phone over to answer an incoming call from Sarah.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Just checking in on you,” Sarah responds, which is sweet, until she adds, “I was worried you and Bucky might’ve killed each other after being stuck in the car alone for that long.”
“Still alive, thanks for your concern,” Sam says, deadpan. “And actually – it hasn’t been too bad.”
And, surprisingly, Sam finds that he means it. Sure, he spends most of his time with Bucky anyway at this rate, but that’s all for work, where they’re always busy teaming up for missions or taking down bad guys or trying to avoid getting killed. It’s been nice to spend time with Bucky and not worry about their lives being on the line, to just stare out at the long road ahead, watch the trees pass by, and just…talk.
And yeah, maybe the Evil Mistletoe side-effects should make Sam feel nervous. It’s not like Sam’s a secretive person or anything, but being vulnerable feels daunting, especially when it’s against your will. And maybe, possibly, Sam has the frequent habit of talking a lot without actually saying anything. It’s just something he’s used to: being the person people turn to when they need help, but keeping his own problems close to his chest and only opening up to a select few people.
But with Bucky…it’s different. The guy gives Sam shit, constantly, but Sam gives it right back, and even still, Bucky has his back, and Sam trusts him. There’s nothing he can think of, really, that he’d be afraid of Bucky knowing, not when Bucky is his partner, his best friend, the person that knows him better than almost anyone.
“Well, color me impressed,” Sarah says now, through the phone. “If anyone was going to break first, I figured it’d be you.”
“So far so good,” Sam says, then, “But, uh…we did hit a bit of a snag, before we left.”
“Uh-oh. What?”
“Well…have you ever heard of viscum xumbada ?”
It takes a few minutes for Sam to get the story out, and by the time he’s almost done, Sarah’s laughing too hard for Sam to wrap up. He supposes it doesn’t really matter – Sarah gets the gist, anyway.
“I swear, something like this would only happen to you two.”
“Believe me, I’m starting to think the same thing,” Sam mutters, picking up his burger.
“Seriously, out of everyone that could’ve gotten caught up in this, it would be you,” Sarah says, and Sam can practically see her shaking her head, a wry grin on her face. “Must be inconvenient, too, unable to lie to the guy you’re crazy in love with when you haven’t even told him yet.”
Sam chokes on his burger for several seconds before he finally gets out, “What?”
“Sam,” Sarah says. “Come on.”
“Sarah, seriously, what are you talking about?”
“Wow,” Sarah says. “You’re under a magic spell that makes it impossible to lie to somebody, but you sure can still lie to yourself, huh?”
“First, it’s a plant, not a spell,” Sam says. “And second, I don’t – I’m not… in love with Bucky.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“Sarah,” Sam protests feebly. “I don’t – I mean, Bucky’s my partner. We work together. We’re just friends. And even if I did have feelings for him – which I don’t – it’s not like it would ever work out, anyway.”
“Why not?” Sarah demands.
“Because,” Sam says, frustrated. “Bucky lives all the way in New York. It wouldn’t be practical, first of all, and second of all, like I said, we’re friends. If I – if we – if I told him I had…feelings, and he didn’t feel the same way, or he did but then we broke up…how would we even come back from that and keep working together?”
Sarah is quiet for a moment before she says, “For someone who’s not in love with the guy, you sure have thought a lot about why it wouldn’t work out if you were in love with him.”
Sam feels his face get hot. “I – ”
“Look,” Sarah interrupts. “It’s late, and it’s two days before Christmas, and I have about a million things to do before then. So I’m only gonna say all this once, and then you’re on your own, because the last thing I have time for right now is dealing with your feelings. But, first of all – I don’t think Bucky living in New York is an actual problem. You’ve said yourself his apartment is a shit hole, and he looks happier in Delacroix than I’ve ever seen anybody. And second of all, Sam, the idea of Bucky not having feelings for you is the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard, because that boy looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.”
Sam opens his mouth to respond – to say that Sarah doesn’t know what she’s talking about, to tell her that the mere idea is ridiculous.
Only when he opens his mouth to speak, no sound comes out. For the first time, in maybe his whole life, Sam feels struck speechless.
“And on that note, I’m hanging up now,” Sarah finishes. “Y’all have a good night, and let me know when you’re close.”
“Wait, Sarah – ” Sam starts, but he hears a resounding click on the other end before he can finish.
“Hey.”
Sam nearly jumps at the sudden sound of Bucky’s voice as he slides into the booth across from him, and whatever expression is on Sam’s face must give him away, because when Sam doesn’t answer, Bucky frowns. “Everything okay?” He asks.
“No,” Sam says immediately, and then cringes.
Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise. “Uh…okay.”
“I just got off the phone with Sarah,” Sam tries to explain, and opens his mouth to come up with an excuse – say she ran out of wrapping paper, or there was a baking mishap, or something, anything. But when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out, and then Sam remembers – he can’t lie.
“Is she okay?” Bucky asks, immediately concerned.
“No, yeah. Yeah, she’s fine.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, clearly uncertain. “Do you…want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“ No, ” Sam says, quickly, so vehemently that Bucky blinks in surprise.
“Uh – ” Bucky starts, but before this situation can get even more wildly out of hand, the waitress approaches the table with their checks, and Sam is saved from any further embarrassment.
“Y’all heading to Santa’s Village after this?” The waitress asks as she picks up their plates, and then when she sees the apparent lack of recognition in their faces, “It’s a big tourist attraction just a few miles from here. Most folks passing through this time of year come all the way out just to visit.”
“We’re just road tripping home,” Bucky tells the waitress, and Sam feels his brain briefly turn to static at Bucky’s word choice.
“Well, if you have the time, you should stop on by. It really is something,” she says, nodding down at their receipts. “Plus, we give out coupons to every Jerry’s Diner guest all through December.”
When the waitress walks away, Sam lifts the receipt in front of him, and sure enough, underneath is a 10% off coupon to Santa’s Village, with a blown-up image of a cartoon Santa sipping from a mug of hot chocolate.
“You wanna stop by, don’t you.”
Sam looks up at Bucky and shrugs. “Well, nothing says 100% authentic Christmas like ‘Santa’s Village.’ Besides…we have coupons.”
“Well,” Bucky says, with a wry smile. “If we have coupons…”
“So,” Sam says moments later, after they’ve paid their bill and exited the restaurant to get back in Sam’s truck. “Road trip ‘home,’ huh?”
Bucky blinks back at Sam from the passenger seat, clearly confused. “What?”
What was it Sarah said? He looks happier in Delacroix than I’ve ever seen anybody?
Sam turns away and puts his key in the ignition. “Nevermind.”
As it turns out, Santa’s Village is only a thirty-minute drive from the diner, and despite being located in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, the parking lot is packed. Sam circles the lot twice before he finds a spot near the back, and as the two of them wait in the line in front of the ticket stand, it occurs to Sam that neither of them bothered to find out what Santa’s Village actually is. But two $15 tickets at 10% off later, Sam steps past the ticket stand and through the entrance and discovers that Santa’s Village is…well, a bit of everything.
It’s not as packed as he thought it would be based on the number of cars in the parking lot, but Sam quickly realizes that’s because the place is massive . Santa’s Village consists of one main walkway that splits off into several different attractions, including but not limited to a horse-drawn carriage, a fire pit, an ice skating rink, a meet-and-greet with Santa, and more. Fake snow falls from overhead, Christmas music plays tinnily over the speakers, and the entire village is decked out in garlands, wreaths, and Christmas trees.
“It’s like Christmas threw up all over this place,” Bucky says, but his tone isn’t as criticizing as Sam thought it’d be. Instead, he sounds almost impressed as he scans their surroundings with wide eyes, a look not unlike the one Sam saw the other night as Bucky gazed up at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
“What do you want to do first?” Sam asks.
In the end, they end up doing a bit of everything. They stop at the fire pit first, where Sam orders a mulled wine and Bucky a hot chocolate.
“You sure that won’t upset your stomach?” Sam asks. Bucky just glares daggers at him.
They both roast s’mores at the fire pit, too, squeezing between exasperated mothers and their sticky kids to get a good spot.
“You’re burning yours,” Bucky points out to Sam.
“They taste better burnt. Have you never had a s’more before?”
“I didn’t exactly partake in a lot of campfire singalongs as the Winter Soldier, so no,” Bucky shoots back.
They eat their s’mores on the way to the ice skating rink, where Sam learns that despite his insistence he’s never tried it before, Bucky is uncannily good at ice-skating. Sam is loath to admit it, but it makes sense – the super serum gives Bucky this sort of graceful agility that makes him infuriatingly good at nearly everything he tries.
Sam, on the other hand, falls flat on his ass at least three times in the middle of the rink. Bucky laughs at him, and so does a random five-year-old girl, who, Sam notices, doesn’t fall once. It’s only mildly humiliating.
“I used to be better at this,” Sam insists when Bucky helps him up for the third time.
“Sure, old man,” Bucky says in mock sympathy. “Maybe you should just stick to the wings.”
After Sam’s failed attempt at ice skating, they just meander around, taking sips of their hot drinks and checking out Santa’s Gift Shop (which is severely overpriced), something called a Winter Wonderland (which is just about exactly what it sounds like), and an ice sculpture display (which is surprisingly impressive). All in all, they waste more time at Santa’s Village than they should, and it’s nearly eleven o’clock before they finally start making their way back to the parking lot.
“So, this whole mission to give me an ‘authentic 21st century Christmas experience’...” Bucky begins, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “What’s that all about?”
Sam lifts his eyebrows. “What, are we back to twenty questions?”
“Not exactly,” Bucky says. “I guess I just…well, if you’re putting in all this effort, you must really like Christmas a whole lot, right?”
It’s not the question Sam’s expecting, and it’s surprise, honesty, or both that makes Sam cough out a dry laugh and say, “Honestly? I kind of hate Christmas.”
Bucky turns to Sam in surprise. “Really?”
“I loved it when I was a kid,” Sam explains. “And I still enjoy certain aspects of it. You know…getting a day off, spending time with Sarah and the boys.” Then he shrugs, looking away. “But every time this time of year rolls around I can’t help but think about my parents, and Riley, and all the people in my life who aren’t around to experience Christmas anymore, and, I don’t know. I guess…I’m just always just a little glad when the holiday season’s over.”
Bucky is silent at first, the only sound between the two of them the crunch of the gravel parking lot beneath their feet, and then, when Bucky still hasn’t said anything, Sam swallows. “Sorry. I’ve never really said all that out loud but I guess it’s kind of a bummer to talk about, so – ”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Bucky interrupts, and when Sam finally risks a glance over at him, he has a small, worried little frown on his face. “Just – Sam, you don’t have to go through with all these Christmas festivities for my sake if the holiday brings up bad memories for you. If you’d told me earlier it made you upset then I wouldn’t have – ”
“Whoa, hey,” Sam says. “Relax. I didn’t mean it like that. C’mon, Buck, I wouldn’t be doing all this with you if I didn’t want to.”
Bucky visibly relaxes at this, the tightness of his shoulders settling, but the worried little frown on his face still doesn’t go away.
“Besides,” Sam continues, dropping his gaze again. “Doing all this with you, making new memories…it kinda helps make the old ones hurt just a little less.”
Sam looks up just in time to see Bucky looking back. Then, just as quickly, Bucky looks away.
“Okay,” Bucky says. “That’s – okay.”
“Okay,” Sam echoes back, lamely, and Bucky huffs out a laugh.
“I used to love Christmas when I was a kid, too, you know,” Bucky says after a moment.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, almost hesitant, because it’s rare, for Bucky to offer up information about his life before the war, especially unprompted.
“Yeah. Hanging up stockings, putting up the lights, decorating the tree, getting to spend time with my family…that was stuff I looked forward to all year, y’know? And if you hadn’t dragged me out of my apartment and roped me into all of these cheesy holiday traditions…I might not have remembered all the things I used to love about this time of year.”
“What, like falling victim to evil mistletoe?” Sam jokes.
Bucky shrugs, ducking his head. “More like…you know. Just getting to spend time with the people you care about, I guess.”
“Right,” Sam says after he's found his voice. “Uh, yeah. That too.”
They reach Sam’s truck shortly after that, but in that time it occurs to Sam that he’s not used to this – to being so honest with Bucky. Most of their conversations consist of them giving each other shit, and Sam’s pretty sure one of the last actually serious conversations they had was while they were practicing with the shield in Sarah’s backyard all those months ago. Figures it’d take magical, evil mistletoe to pull emotional vulnerability out of either of them.
But the thing is, maybe magical, evil mistletoe isn’t completely to blame. Sure, the effects of the plant pulled the words out of Sam, but he’s not convinced that he wouldn’t have admitted all of that to Bucky anyway, evil mistletoe or not. And he doesn’t regret it – being vulnerable and opening up to Bucky like that. He doesn’t even mind, really, giving Bucky this small piece of himself; because Bucky is his partner, his best friend, someone who knows him better than nearly anyone, and Sam trusts him, completely.
He’s still mulling it all over when he unlocks the doors to the truck, but just as Bucky starts to climb inside, Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
Bucky turns to him in confusion. “What?”
Sam bites back a laugh. “Nothing, just – your head is covered in that fake snow, man, and you’re not getting that in my truck.”
Bucky makes a face before scrubbing a hand on top of his head, but all that does is make his hair stand up on different ends, and the stubborn fake snowflakes stay stuck exactly where they were.
“You look like you have dandruff,” Sam informs him.
Bucky scowls. “Just get it off.”
“Fine, fine,” Sam says with a laugh, stepping forward to run a hand through Bucky’s hair. “For the record, though, this could actually be a good look for you. Really fits with your ‘Winter Soldier’ branding.”
Bucky just snorts in response.
When the flakes are finally gone, Sam moves to take a step back. But before he does, he makes the unfortunate mistake of glancing down, and suddenly, Sam is rooted to the spot.
He’s not sure what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s Sam realizing the proximity between the two of them, that he’s standing close enough to feel Bucky’s breath against his neck. Maybe it’s the mulled wine Sam finished off not even half an hour ago, making him feel a little loose-limbed and pleasantly warm.
Or maybe it’s the look on Bucky’s face, the soft curl of his mouth in a fond smile, as he stares back at Sam, and the echo of Sarah’s words from their conversation on the phone earlier.
He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.
It’s a startling realization. But what’s even more startling is the fond smile Sam can feel on his own face, and the recognition that Sam is staring back at Bucky in the exact same way.
Oh, Sam thinks.
“Well?” Bucky says, shifting on his feet and breaking Sam out of his reverie. “You get it all off?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, clearing his throat and taking a step back. “Sorry.”
And then, before Bucky has a chance to say anything else, he climbs inside the truck, shutting the door firmly behind him before Bucky follows suit.
After dinner, s’mores, mulled wine, plus the fifteen hours he’s already spent driving, Sam is exhausted enough to admit that there’s no way he’s going to make it through the rest of the night. And since they’re still in the middle of nowhere, it takes a bit of driving along the interstate to find a motel. He spends several long minutes scanning the side of the road looking for signs advertising a place to stay, glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, and hoping his rapid heartbeat isn’t loud enough for Bucky’s super-soldier hearing to pick up on.
Finally, they find a dingy motel only a few exits away, and Sam pulls the truck into a surprisingly crowded parking lot before putting the car in park and following Bucky into the motel’s lobby. It’s shady looking, for sure, and there’s a strange brown stain in the corner of the room, but they’ve both stayed in worse conditions, so Sam figures it’ll do for the night.
That is, until the motel receptionist tells them they only have one room left, and it’s a single.
“You can try your luck somewhere else,” the receptionist offers. “But there’s not much in this area, and it wouldn’t surprise me if every other motel had the same problem. It is the night before Christmas Eve, after all; lots of other folks are trying to get home to their families, too. This might be your best bet.”
It’s a bad idea, regardless if it’s their best bet or not, for several reasons. But what can Sam say? Thanks for the offer, but I just realized half an hour ago that I’m in love with my best friend and partner, and I can’t tell him but he might find out anyway because we’re both under the influence of an evil mistletoe plant, and sharing a bed with him for a whole night is just going to make everything worse?
He’s pretty sure that wouldn’t go over well.
So, instead, Sam just smiles thinly and says, “Thanks. We’ll take it.”
The motel room is just as shady looking as the lobby, with faded, dusty curtains, a dead roach on the window sill, and a comforter that looks like its from the 90s.
The bed is bigger than Sam expected it to be, though, which is a bonus.
Bucky tosses his duffel bag onto the bed, then turns to Sam. “You can get the first shower, if you want.”
The shower is pleasantly warm, with the water pressure just right, and as Sam stands under the stream, he tries to convince himself that this isn’t the end of the world. So maybe Sarah was right – something she’s never going to let him live down – and he has feelings for Bucky; feelings that are less platonic than he originally thought. So maybe it would only take one wrong move for these feelings to slip out, for Sam to reveal everything to Bucky without meaning to, all because Bucky asked one innocent question and Sam was unable to lie to him. So maybe revealing that would completely change their dynamic, make it impossible for them to work together, make –
It’s not until the water starts getting cold that Sam admits he’s doing a terrible job at convincing himself of anything, and shuts the shower off.
Bucky showers next, and Sam putters around uselessly while Bucky’s in the bathroom, straightening the sheets on the bed and reminding himself that after tonight, they have one day left until the evil mistletoe wears off, and everything will go back to normal.
Or as normal as their lives can be, anyway.
But after Bucky gets out of the shower and the two of them get ready for bed, maneuvering around each other and brushing their teeth side-by-side in front of the small bathroom mirror, Sam can’t help but think about how… domestic it all feels. And he can’t help but think about what Sarah said earlier, about how Bucky looks so at home when he’s in Delacroix, the implication that Bucky would pack up and leave New York willingly, if he knew it was an option.
And what if it was? What if all of this was an option? What if Sam could see Bucky all the time, and not have to use work as an excuse? What if they could spend every night like this, brushing their teeth side by side, exchanging glances, sliding into the same bed together? What if all Sam had to do was muster up the courage to tell Bucky how he feels for this to become a reality?
It’s a ridiculous thought to entertain, probably. Good things never come that easily; not for Sam, at least. It should almost be impossible, to imagine the idea of Sam getting to have something like that for himself, especially with someone like Bucky.
But when they turn off the lights and Sam feels the motel bed dip as Bucky climbs in next to him, it doesn’t feel hard to imagine at all. It feels remarkably, incredibly, easy.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
Bucky wakes up the morning of the day before the evil mistletoe wears off with Sam’s arm across his waist and his face pressed into Sam’s chest.
For several minutes, Bucky lies there, frozen, his mind filled with static, until he finally gets it together enough to realize the absolute last thing he wants is for Sam to wake up while they’re in this position. Only when Bucky goes to carefully extract himself from under Sam’s arm, Sam just sighs, his arm tightening around Bucky’s waist, and from there, it’s impossible for Bucky to disengage without waking Sam up in the process, so, with little other choices, he bites the bullet.
“Sam,” Bucky says, poking him gently in the sternum.
“Hmm,” Sam mumbles into Bucky’s hair.
“ Sam, ” Bucky repeats, firmer.
Evidently, that does the trick. First, Bucky hears Sam yawn, and it’s not until Sam’s mid-stretch that he must register their predicament, because suddenly he freezes, looks down, and it’s only then that Bucky realizes how little space is between the two of them.
“Uh,” Bucky says eloquently, feeling his face burn. Then, “I kinda need to use the bathroom.”
Sam blinks, then quickly draws away from Bucky, lifting his arm off Bucky’s waist in the process. “’Course you do,” he mumbles, not meeting Bucky’s gaze.
“Thanks,” Bucky says lamely, then practically falls out of bed in his hurry to get to the bathroom, where he all but slams the door shut behind him.
They hit the road at 6 am, less than an hour later. Naturally, Sam pulls over to the first McDonald’s drive-thru he sees, claiming he can’t get through the day without a coffee first, though Bucky’s pretty sure the latte Sam orders with his sausage egg & cheese McGriddle has more sugar than caffeine in it.
Bucky just orders an egg and cheese McMuffin and a plain black coffee, and it’s a testament to the lingering awkwardness from that morning that Sam doesn’t berate him for it.
“So,” Sam says after they’re back on the road again. “Uh, you sleep okay?”
And of course, thanks to evil mistletoe, Bucky has no choice but to blurt out, “I think that’s the best night of sleep I’ve gotten in years,” and make everything even more awkward than it was already.
“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, stilted, after a long moment. “Same here.”
They lapse back into silence after that, a sharp contrast to yesterday, when it seemed like they couldn’t stop talking, and Bucky tries to content himself with the knowledge that they only have five more hours until they get back to Sarah’s, and about eighteen hours until midnight, and then maybe, miraculously, things will finally go back to normal.
Luckily, the awkwardness eases by the time they finally arrive at Sarah’s a little after twelve. The two of them enter the kitchen to the smell of Sarah’s cooking and AJ and Cass’ excited yelling as they tackle Bucky and Sam in a hug, immediately prattling on about science projects and book reports and everything else Bucky’s missed since he visited last month. Cass even ends up dragging Bucky away to show him the brand new action figure he got just a few weeks ago, and when Bucky looks back over his shoulder, Sam’s watching them, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face that makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat.
“So,” Sarah says after Bucky’s rejoined her and Sam in the kitchen. “Evil mistletoe, huh?”
Evidently, Sam had explained the entire embarrassing ordeal to Sarah over the phone during one of Bucky’s “frequent bathroom breaks” – Sam’s words, not his – and she’d laughed about it for at least five minutes.
“I almost don’t know if I believe you,” she confesses, shaking her head with a laugh.
“You really think I’d make this up?” Sam demands.
Sarah just lifts an eyebrow. “Lucky Charms St. Patrick’s Day fiasco, March 1989. Ring any bells?”
“Sarah,” Sam groans. “I was nine. ”
“I’m just saying!”
“Sarah!”
“Fine. If the evil mistletoe is real, then prove it.” Then Sarah turns to Bucky. “Bucky, ask Sam what he got me for Christmas?”
“Wait, don’t – ” Sam starts.
But Bucky has learned the long and hard way to a) never get involved in an argument between the Wilson siblings and b) never disobey Sarah under any circumstances, so without thinking twice about it, he says, “Sam, what did you get Sarah for Christmas?”
“An espresso machine.”
Sarah’s face lights up. “Wait, really?”
Sam ignores her, choosing instead to narrow his eyes at Bucky. “Seriously, man?”
Bucky winces. “Sorry.”
“Damn,” Sarah says. “Well, this is an inconvenient situation, isn’t it?”
She stares right at Bucky when she says it, and though Bucky had his suspicions before, he knows for certain in that moment that Sarah knows. He’s not sure when, or how, she picked up on it. Sarah’s uncanny perception might be a mom thing, or possibly, it might just be a Sarah thing.
Or more likely, it might be because Bucky’s feelings for Sam are so obvious they can be seen from space.
“Well,” Bucky finally manages. “It’s not ideal, that’s for sure.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Sarah says, turning from Bucky and patting Sam on the arm. “When I open up my espresso maker tomorrow morning, I’ll pretend to be surprised for the boys’ sake.”
They’re all pretty busy the rest of the day. They sit down for lunch first – tomato soup, sandwiches, and iced tea – and then they get straight to work quickly after. Bucky helps Sarah cook while Sam finishes wrapping up the presents, and then, when that’s done, they load up the back of the Wilson Family Seafood truck with to-go containers to distribute around town.
“You guys do this every year?” Bucky asks Sarah as she hands him a stack of to-go containers to put in the back of the truck.
“We try to,” Sarah tells him. “It started several years back. It was originally Sam’s idea, believe it or not.”
Bucky just shakes his head with a smile. “Trust me – I believe it.”
After the back of the truck is full, all five of them pile inside, Sarah driving, Sam next to her up front, and Bucky, AJ, and Cass squeezed in the back. They drive all over town, delivering food plates to nearly everyone they come across: big families with several children, elderly shut-ins that live on their own, single moms and single dads, and several people Bucky already knows – Carlos and Tommy and others. Most times, they park the truck outside the house and Sam and Sarah take the food to the door while Bucky, AJ, and Cass wait in the truck. But when they get to the houses with the big families, when there’s too many to-go boxes for Sam and Sarah to carry alone, Bucky, AJ, and Cass help carry the load, and most importantly, Bucky gets an excuse to watch Sam in action.
Watching Sam like this feels just like watching him that day on the boat, or the barbecue after the GRC vote. Sam like this, side-by-side with Sarah, his smiles easy and genuine, a confident set to his shoulders: it’s obvious that he’s in his element, that he takes pride in interacting and spending time with his community like this. And for Bucky, it’s never been more obvious that even without the wings or the suit or the shield, Sam embodies Captain America, that he was always the only person deserving of the mantle.
And with that realization, well, Bucky can’t help but find himself falling in love with Sam all over again.
They don’t run out of to-go boxes until the sun sets, and after Sam and Sarah drop off the final box, they climb back in the truck and Sam turns around to the backseat and asks, “Y’all think we still have time to check out Candy Cane Lane?”
“ Yes! ” The boys cheer in unison, and Sam just laughs.
“What’s Candy Cane Lane?” Bucky whispers to Cass after Sarah drives off.
“You’ll see,” Cass hisses back.
As it turns out, Candy Cane Lane is the Wilsons’ affectionate nickname for a neighborhood about twenty minutes away, on the outskirts of Delacroix. It’s well past 5 and completely dark when they finally arrive, and every single house is lit up with more Christmas lights than Bucky has ever seen in his life.
“Alright kids,” Sarah says as she puts the truck in park at the curb at the entrance of the neighborhood. “Half an hour tops, okay? We still need to get home and start dinner.”
“Okay,” AJ and Cass chorus, already out the door and chasing down the street, Sarah sighing and getting out of the truck to follow after.
Bucky climbs out of the truck slowly, blinking up at the decorations.
“I know it’s no Rockefeller Center tree,” Sam says, sidling up to Bucky and nudging his shoulder. “But it’s pretty impressive, huh?”
“Yeah. It must be a lot of work for these people, putting all these decorations up.”
“They do it every year. I think they get pretty competitive with it, too. It’s fun, trying to figure out which houses are trying to one-up each other.”
Bucky laughs, glancing over at Sam. “Do you guys come here every Christmas Eve?”
“Usually, yeah. The boys love it. We’ve been doing it for years,” Sam says. “Honestly…it’s probably my favorite tradition.”
“It’s nice,” Bucky agrees, and Sam grins.
They walk together in silence for a moment, Sarah and the boys just a bit ahead of them, and Bucky uses that silence to take in the gleaming lights hanging overhead. He sees what Sam means, about houses competing with each other – certain homes have front lawns that are so overloaded with decorations that Bucky is almost worried the ground might cave in. Still, it’s nice, walking through the neighborhood with Sam, appreciating the decorations, getting to witness a neighborhood’s combined effort to spread some holiday spirit.
“By the way,” Bucky says when they’re almost at the end of the street. “It’s really nice, what you guys do. Delivering food to the other people in Delacroix for Christmas, I mean.”
Sam shrugs, glancing down at the street, and if Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say Sam looked embarrassed. “Sarah does a lot of the work. I just help out. I mean, anyone could do it – ”
“But it’s not anyone,” Bucky cuts him off. “It’s you and Sarah, taking time on Christmas Eve you could be wrapping presents or watching Christmas movies or just relaxing, and helping the people in your community instead, and that’s amazing, Sam.”
And then, without even meaning to say it, Bucky continues, earnestly, “ You’re amazing.”
Sam stops in the middle of the street, turns to Bucky, wide-eyed, and Bucky falls into place next to him.
“Bucky,” Sam says, quietly. “I – ”
“Hey! Slow-pokes!”
Bucky takes an automatic step back from Sam, as if burned, then turns to where Sarah’s standing a few feet ahead of them, her head cocked to the side almost knowingly. “You better hurry up or you’ll miss the best house,” she warns, and then turns to march ahead, AJ and Cass right behind her, snickering.
So, dutifully, Sam and Bucky follow.
Sarah was right – the house at the end of the street is the best house in the neighborhood, by a mile. The roof is lined with white Christmas lights, perfectly placed and symmetrical, with garlands and wreaths hanging in each window. There’s also giant, glistening trees in red, yellow, and green that blink in unison, as if following a silent tune. But the most captivating part of the display is the snowflakes and icicles that hang from the trees in the yard, bright and blinding, glittering in a way that’s almost mesmerizing. In fact, if it wasn’t 60 degrees out, Bucky could almost be convinced the icicles and snowflakes were real.
“This is always my favorite house, too,” Sam says, clearly picking up on the awestruck look on Bucky’s face if his teasing grin is any indication. “Number 152 always knocks it out of the park.”
And as Bucky watches Sam turn to gaze up at the decorations, too, Bucky realizes the only thing more mesmerizing than the Christmas lights at 152 Candy Lane is the look on Sam’s face, cast in faint blue and yellow hues.
“It’s beautiful, right?” Sam asks, breaking Bucky out of his reverie.
And Bucky already can’t lie to Sam, but at this moment, Bucky doesn’t think he’d want to in the first place. Because it’s Christmas Eve, and he’s with the people he cares about most in the world, and all he really wants, right now, is to be honest.
So, without looking away from Sam’s face, Bucky says, quietly, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
When they get back home, all five of them gather around the kitchen table for a dinner of salad and shrimp gumbo and grits until they’re stuffed, though they all manage to find room in their stomachs for brownies and ice cream for dessert anyway, and after, they migrate to the living room, Sarah, AJ, and Cass settling on the couch while Sam and Bucky squeeze into the loveseat to watch It’s a Wonderful Life.
Evidently, it’s the movie the Wilsons watch every Christmas Eve. Bucky’s never seen it, due to the misfortune of having died two years before it came out, but it is on his never-ending movie watchlist, so he feels glad to be able to cross this one off.
And, surprisingly, as the movie goes on, Bucky starts to realize he actually…really enjoys it. It feels just like the kind of movie he’d go see at the theater before the war, and while there was probably a time where that line of thinking would just depress him, right now, surrounded by the Wilson family, the movie just feels…familiar. It feels…good.
Sam must like the movie, too, if the way he quotes nearly every other line is any indication. Sarah probably likes it too, seeing as they’re watching the copy of the DVD that she owns, but when George finally finds Mary after wishing he was never born, Sarah grumbles, “I don’t like the implication that because she has a job and no husband she’s some kind of miserable failure.”
“She says that every time we watch this movie,” Sam informs Bucky.
“I’m not gonna apologize for criticizing sexism, Sam,” Sarah shoots back.
But despite Bucky’s enjoyment of the movie, he can’t help but feel hyper-aware of the lack of space between him and Sam on the loveseat, or how easy it would be to shift those few millimeters and drape his arm behind Sam’s shoulder. And it doesn’t help that nearly every time Bucky glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye, Sam is looking back at him.
The thing is, Bucky has, on several occasions, imagined what it would be like if he told Sam how he felt, and every time he’s imagined it in his head, it’s gone badly. He knows Sam wouldn’t hold it against him; he’s too good for that. But Bucky has imagined that Sam would be surprised, maybe even a little panicked. He’s imagined Sam quickly and efficiently turning him down, has imagined Sam insisting that Bucky’s feelings don’t change anything, has imagined Sam promising they can still be friends, but that every moment after Bucky’s failed confession would be tinged with a lingering feeling of awkwardness that never really went away.
But these past few days, wandering around New York, playing road trip games to pass the time, and walking through Santa’s Village, things have felt…different. He’s felt even closer to Sam than he ever did before, and it’s partly because of evil mistletoe, because of all the things Sam has revealed to Bucky without meaning to, and all the things Bucky has revealed in return. But Bucky also can’t help but think that the evil mistletoe incident has made Bucky realize how close he and Sam were to begin with, before any of that.
Because despite the fear lingering in the back of Bucky’s mind that he might accidentally reveal his feelings at any moment, he’s enjoyed this – getting to know Sam just a little better, and letting Sam know him better, as well. And with each half-confession, with every earnest remark he’s said to Sam that verges just a little too close to the truth, Bucky’s found himself less and less afraid of telling Sam how he feels, and about what might happen if he did.
It isn’t until now, as he’s sitting on the couch next to Sam with barely any space between them, the only light in the living room coming from the glow of the television screen and the lights on the Christmas tree, that Bucky allows himself to consider the idea that maybe telling Sam wouldn’t go so badly after all. That maybe Bucky hasn’t been incorrectly interpreting Sam’s fond smiles or lingering looks, or the arm he’d firmly wrapped around Bucky’s waist in the motel room bed only this morning. That maybe there’s a possibility that Sam feels the exact same way he does – that watching movies and taking road trips and spending time with Sarah and the boys in Delacroix could be something Bucky can have every day, not something he gets only after coming up with some sort of excuse to visit Louisiana.
Of course, Bucky could always ask. Given present circumstances, when Bucky can’t try to downplay his feelings, and Sam has no choice but to be honest, now might even be the perfect time. He could pull Sam aside after the movie is over, lay everything out, and ask, tentatively, if Sam might possibly feel the same.
But the longer Bucky thinks about it, the more he realizes it wouldn’t be right, to use the mistletoe as an excuse. If he’s going to tell Sam how he feels, he wants it to be real, genuine – he wants Sam to know that Bucky’s confessing because he wants to, not because a weird alien plant’s magical properties compelled him to.
He can tell Sam another time, Bucky finally decides, as he returns his focus to the movie. Hell, maybe he’ll even tell him tomorrow.
But not tonight.
By the time the movie’s finished, it’s getting late. Sarah goes to put the boys to bed, who are already half asleep by the time the credits roll anyway, and Bucky and Sam head to the kitchen to wash up the dishes from dinner.
It takes a little while – five people use up a lot of dishes. By the time they’re done, the rest of the house is quiet, meaning the boys and Sarah are likely already in bed. And before Sam can head up for bed too, Bucky grabs the lumpy, poorly-wrapped package he’d hidden away when they’d arrived at Sarah’s that morning, and shoves it towards Sam.
Sam blinks in confusion as he takes the package. “What’s this?”
“Your Christmas present,” Bucky says. And when Sam just blinks at him again, he adds, “I just figure tomorrow will be busy, and we’ll all be focused on the boys, anyway, so you might want to go ahead and open yours now.”
Sam chuckles. “Good thinking. AJ and Cass turn into menaces the second they spot all those presents under the tree.”
Then Bucky holds his breath as Sam rips open the package and pulls out a blue scarf.
“Wow,” Sam says, running his hands over the material. “It’s really soft. Where’d you get this?”
And a few days ago, before the Evil Mistletoe Incident and everything that followed, Bucky might have played it off. His knitting isn’t the best, and there are several spots where he messed up, or the scarf turned out too lumpy. A few days ago, he might have lied, said he bought it at a farmer’s market or something, and told Sam he could always return it and get him something else.
But now, in the face of Sam’s obvious, happy surprise, Bucky replies, “Uh, I made it.”
Sam looks up at him sharply. “Wait, seriously?”
And the thing is…Bucky worked hard, making this scarf for Sam. And maybe that’s embarrassing, or pathetic, but weirdly, Bucky doesn’t care. He wants Sam to know how much thought he put into the gift, because he wants Sam to know he was thinking of him.
“It took me a few months,” Bucky admits finally. “It was hard to get the hang of at first, and then I kept messing up, and I was going to make it red and blue, but then that was too hard, so I just stuck with blue.”
“Bucky, it’s amazing,” Sam tells him, and Bucky flushes. “I didn’t even know you knew how to knit.”
“Uh, I didn’t,” Bucky says hesitantly. “I learned, I guess. I just – well, every time you visit New York, you forget it’s going to be cold, for some reason, and you don’t pack a coat or a hat or anything, and since the scarf matches the Captain America colors, I figured you could wear this.”
“Bucky,” Sam says. “I love it, seriously. Thank you.”
“Oh,” Bucky says, feeling his face grow even hotter. “Uh. You’re welcome.”
“Hang on,” he says, and Bucky watches Sam leave the kitchen to rummage for something under the tree in the living room, before returning with a letter-sized envelope that he places in Bucky’s hand. “This is your Christmas present. It’s – well, I’m probably going to have to explain it after you open it.”
As Bucky tears open the envelope, he tries to imagine what might be inside. He figures maybe it’s a gift card, or a greeting card, or money, or maybe even a gag gift, like a handwritten coupon Bucky can use in exchange for Sam not playing Marvin Gaye for at least one car ride.
But when Bucky finally opens the envelope, he finds it’s none of those things at all. Instead, Bucky reaches inside the envelope and pulls out a flyer advertising the Delacroix Animal Shelter.
“Uh…thanks?” Bucky says hesitantly.
Sam just laughs. “So, I was going to actually get you something, but then I figured maybe you should be the one to pick them out, so really, the flyer is just a placeholder, but – you mentioned a few months ago you were thinking about getting a cat?”
Bucky looks up.
“And, you know, a lot of veterans say pets really help,” Sam continues. “But I wanted you to be able to pick a pet you felt like you had a connection with, not a random cat I picked for you. So I figured we could go to the shelter together, maybe the day after Christmas, and you could pick one out, but I’d be the one paying. Not that I don’t think you can afford it, or anything, obviously, just, that’s the whole point of a gift. Unless you changed your mind about getting a cat, then you know, I can just – ”
And before Sam can prattle on nonsense any longer, Bucky drops the flyer to the kitchen floor, clutches his hands in the front of Sam’s sweater, and drags him forward and kisses him.
It only lasts a few quick seconds, long enough for Bucky to register the fluttering of Sam’s lashes against his cheek and the beat of Sam’s heart underneath his hands, before Bucky abruptly pulls back.
Sam just stares back at Bucky, frozen.
“Shit,” Bucky says, panicked. “I – I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just that you’re so – and I just couldn’t – and you remembered, and I – ”
“I’m in love with you,” Sam blurts out suddenly, and then it’s Bucky’s turn to freeze.
“What,” Bucky utters.
“I’m in love with you,” Sam repeats, like it’ll be something Bucky can wrap his brain around better a second time. “I wanted to tell you earlier. Well, not that much earlier, because I’m an idiot, and I didn’t realize until…well, yesterday, actually. But I was worried I’d gotten this all wrong, or you wouldn’t feel the same, and then I was worried you would, but you wouldn’t believe me, or you’d think it was something I was only saying because of the mistletoe, but…just…it’s Christmas, and I’m in love with you, and I wanted you to know.”
And then, incredulously, Sam just shrugs.
“You asshole,” Bucky says after a long moment. “ I was going to say it first.”
Sam bursts out laughing. It’s maybe the best sound Bucky’s ever heard.
“I can’t believe you only figured out yesterday, ” Bucky grumbles, if grumbling is something that can be accomplished while simultaneously smiling like an idiot. “I’ve been pining after you for ages, and you mean to tell me we could’ve been doing this for months if you could’ve just pulled your head out of your ass?”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “You’re really gonna treat me like that when you’re the one that wasn’t even brave enough to make the first move?”
“Oh, shut up,” Bucky mutters, and it can’t even constitute as grumbling now, not when he isn’t sure he’s ever felt this happy. “I don’t know why I’m in love with you.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam says, crowding back into Bucky’s space, and then he asks, quiet, “Can I kiss you this time?”
All the quips and comebacks die on Bucky’s tongue, and all he can do is nod as Sam leans forward and kisses him soundly, his hands on Bucky’s waist and Bucky’s fists still gripped in Sam’s sweater.
“I can’t believe,” Bucky says, after they’ve parted, his forehead resting against Sam’s, “That all this might have never happened if not for evil mistletoe and a talking raccoon.”
Sam laughs quietly, his thumb rubbing against Bucky’s hip.
“Nah,” Sam says with a smile. “I think we would’ve gotten here on our own, eventually.”
CHRISTMAS DAY.
Being out from under the influence of evil mistletoe does not feel even distinctly different from being under the influence of evil mistletoe, Sam finds out. There’s no shift in Sam’s body, no change in the air when the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve. Time just carries on, the way it always does, as if nothing changed at all.
The only real difference is this: Sam wakes up tangled with Bucky in the same bed for the second day in a row, only this time, instead of the two of them awkwardly lying there, frozen, Bucky smiles up at him, mumbling, “Good mornin’,” into Sam’s shirt.
Sam bites back what would likely be a ridiculous smile. “You sleep good?”
“The mistletoe wore off, Sam,” Bucky mutters. “You can’t trick me into saying something cheesy this time.”
Sam sighs. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
Bucky grunts, kicking him beneath the covers in annoyance, but a few moments later, face still pressed into Sam’s shirt, he mumbles, “Slept really good.”
And if Sam can’t bite back his smile quick enough this time, well, it’s not like Bucky can see it, anyway.
They’re only able to laze around in Sam’s bed for a bit longer, because soon enough, Sam hears the unmistakable sound of AJ and Cass thundering down the stairs and to the living room, and when their excited chattering gets so loud they can hear it all the way upstairs, there’s no hope in getting back to sleep after that.
Sarah’s already in the kitchen when the two of them finally make their way downstairs, and Sam pointedly ignores the knowing look she shoots him as she pours them both cups of coffee and hands them a plate of the same Pillsbury cinnamon rolls she makes every Christmas morning. Then they all migrate to the living room, where they sit around the tree to watch AJ and Cass unwrap their gifts.
Sarah – or Santa, depending on what the gift tag says – got AJ and Cass more toys than they need, plus two brand new skateboards after spending nearly five minutes warning them not to fall and bust their heads open on them. Sam, already thinking ahead, got AJ and Cass helmets for their skateboards, plus a keychain for Cass and a snowglobe for AJ that he’d purchased while shopping with Bucky in New York, while Bucky’s gift for Cass is the final piece in his Star Wars Lego set, and his gift for AJ is a copy of whatever the newest book is in the children’s fantasy series they’ve been nerding out together over.
There are still a few gifts for the adults to open, too – Sarah does a remarkable job at pretending to be surprised when she unwraps her espresso machine, and Sam is thrilled when he opens his gift from Sarah to see the cast iron pan set he wanted. The boys even have gifts for them, too. Sarah unwraps a wobbly and somewhat misshapen clay bowl the boys made in a pottery class at school, and Sam and Bucky get the same gift – two identical white mugs with “#1 Uncle” printed across the side.
(Later, Bucky will swear he didn’t cry when he opened the gift, but Sam’s pretty sure those misty eyes weren’t because of allergies.)
After all the presents are unwrapped and AJ and Cass begin immediately playing with their toys, Sam and Bucky are regulated to cleaning duty again, where they pick up all the wrapping paper on the living room floor to toss in the trash and collect all the dishes from breakfast to wash in the sink.
“So, I was thinking we could visit the shelter tomorrow after lunch,” Sam tells Bucky as he scrapes the icing off a plate. “They say shelters get an influx of animals the day after Christmas, so the later we go in the day, the more cats there may be to look at.”
Bucky nods as he stuffs tissue and wrapping paper in the kitchen trash can. “Sounds good.”
“And,” Sam continues, before he can lose his nerve, “I’ve been thinking, lately, that it may be time for me to get out of Sarah’s hair.”
Bucky stills, looking up from the trash can and over at Sam. “Yeah?”
Sam shrugs back at him, aiming for casual but likely missing it by a mile. “Yeah. So I figured, while we’re out, maybe I can look for some apartments or houses for sale, see what’s on the market. Maybe even a place that even allows cats. You know, just in case.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, not at first, but Sam finds he doesn’t really mind. The way Bucky smiles and ducks his head tells Sam all he needs to know.
“Yeah,” Bucky says finally. “That sounds good, too.”
Sam is just coming back inside the house after taking out the trash when his phone rings. At first, he debates not answering it – it’s Christmas, and if it’s really important, whoever it is can just drop a text.
But then he realizes that it’s not his regular phone ringing, it’s his Captain America phone, which means the call has to be important, and not answering it may lead to a national or global catastrophe, so with a sigh, he digs the phone out of his back pocket.
The caller ID is from a number he doesn’t recognize, which isn’t necessarily surprising. What is surprising is the casual, merry tone in the voice that says, “Merry Christmas, Captain Wilson,” when Sam picks up.
Sam stands still in the kitchen for a moment before he gets out, “...Thor?”
“Ah, I see you survived the viscum xumbada , then,” Thor says cheerily on the other end.
“How did you get this number?” Sam demands, then, “How do you have a phone? Aren’t you in space?”
“Don’t worry,” Thor says. “This is your official Captain America line, correct? I’m fairly sure it’s on an intergalactic phone plan.”
“That doesn’t – ”
“Anyway!” Thor continues. “I was just checking on you and Sergeant Barnes. No nausea, dizziness, etcetera?”
“Wait, are those symptoms?”
There’s a beat of silence before Thor says, unconvincingly, “...No.”
Sam rolls his eyes, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he wanders towards the living room. “Yeah, relax, Bucky and I are good,” he says, and leans against the entryway to watch Bucky sit with AJ and Cass on the floor, eyes narrowed in concentration as he helps them painstakingly assemble a Lego Millenium Falcon.
“We’re really good, actually,” Sam hears himself say, as he watches Bucky look up at him from across the room and smile in the way that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle up.
“Oh,” Thor says, and then, more pointed, “ Oh. I see. Well, glad to hear you’ve experienced no adverse side effects. Most people aren’t so lucky.”
“Uh,” Sam frowns. “Do we need to be worried about any – ”
“Tell Barnes I said merry Christmas,” Thor cuts in quickly. “See you at the next Avengers meeting, Captain Wilson.”
Then the line goes dead.
“What was that about?” Bucky asks when Sam sits down next to him and the boys.
“Nothing,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Thor says Merry Christmas, by the way.”
Bucky frowns in confusion, but before he can answer, Sarah says, “Hey, y’all forgot one last one.”
And then she emerges from behind the Christmas tree with a white envelope. There’s no return address on it – no address at all, actually. Just “To Captain America and the Winter Soldier” scrawled across it in handwriting that strongly resembles a four-year-old’s.
It’s Bucky who takes the envelope and opens it, but inside is just a piece of paper with the same handwriting from the front of the envelope on it.
And all it says is, ‘ You’re welcome. – Rocket ’
“What,” Bucky says, with feeling, “The hell.”
Sam looks up at Sarah. “Where did you get this?”
Sarah shrugs in confusion. “I don’t know, it was just under the tree.”
Sam can’t help it. He starts laughing.
“Are you not concerned right now?” Bucky demands, looking honest-to-God alarmed as he flips the letter over and over again, as if expecting it to detonate at any moment. “I mean, how did this get here? How does he even know your address?”
“Bucky,” Sam says. “This isn’t even the third weirdest thing that’s happened to me this month. And hey, it’s kind of thoughtful, if you don’t think about it too hard.”
“It is not thoughtful! It’s creepy!”
Sam shrugs. “Eh, who cares. And hey, he’s not wrong. Maybe for our one-month anniversary, we can send the raccoon a chocolate gift basket as a thank you. Expedited shipping to space probably isn’t too expensive nowadays, right?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I hate you.”
“Hey,” Sam says, nudging him. “Just because the evil mistletoe wore off doesn’t mean I can’t still see right through you, Buck.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but that does nothing to diminish the way the beginnings of a smile starts to spread across his face, and then there’s that fond look on his face, the look he gives Sam when he orders a sugary latte, the look he gives Sam when he tells a joke Bucky’s pretending not to find funny, the look he gave Sam this morning when woke up in bed next to him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, shaking his head, that smile still on his face. “Wouldn’t want it any other way, Wilson.”