Chapter Text
There are two truths about Christmas that exist in the popular zeitgeist.
One: Christmas is a time of warm festivities, deadly-sweet kindness, and table groaning at the weight of earnest gifts.
Two: Christmas is a time of much ado about nothing, overpriced whatnots, and families who grit their teeth to bare each other only because tradition demands them to.
Unfortunately for Bucky, he is squarely living in the second truth.
The road is about as pleasant as one may expect a frozen stretch of asphalt to be during this time of year. The landscape nor the dull aching pain in his neck has changed for miles, making a terrible and dragging trip from the capital to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. A hell of his own making due to his own overcrammed schedule. With the added traffic from the holiday rush, the trip had taken longer than anticipated as night had already begun to cloak the sky.
And, as if the universe had a sense of humor, he’s on his way to spend this holiday season with his generous friends without having bought a single gift.
Great. He can feel his blood pressure climbing already. Holiday cheer, indeed.
He feels his eyes glint with a comic sparkle as the scenery finally changes around him as signs of civilizations fade into view, warm street lights cutting through darkness.
From what he can tell, the town, Custer’s Grove, is as small and warm as Yelena had described over the phone, almost hallmark-ish in quality. A delicate and crisp layer of snow, meticulous Christmas lights strewn across every railing and roof gutter, families merrily walking adorned in bright and gauche sweaters– Basically the works and staples of typical holiday B-movies.
As the panic settles in that he’ll have to see his terrible gaggle of friends in about sixteen minutes according to his GPS empty handed, his car blitzes past a storefront that steals his attention.
A bookstore.
A very, very inviting bookstore. In the quick glance he manages to catch in his rear view mirror of the place, it seems warm, cozy, and definitely a place can snag last minute gifts for. He hesitates for a second, fingers tightening around on the wheel before shame overrides pride. His blinkers flick on as he desperately searches for a route to double back on himself.
Maybe it’s not the best solution but it’s something, and right now, something is definitely better than nothing. He’ll just make some half-assed excuse about how their actual gifts got destroyed in the mail or something.
Bucky parks his black car nearby, taking an embarrassing amount of time to straighten it just right into the lot, before slamming its door with too much nerves and making his shaky way to the door.
He tugs on his scarf one, two times, not realizing how frigid it would be, and enters the shop to be instantly hit with inviting warmth and a beautiful mix of smells – cinnamon, wood, and something else he can’t quite put his finger on but practically screams comfort.
The bell above his head rings, a tiny chime that mingles with an annoyed groan from across the store. This place is small, cramped really, but a gold mine if he knows where to stick his nose. Surely he could scrap together some last minute gifts for them here.
Wait. A groan?–
“We close in 10 minutes.” The voice comes from beyond the counter. Male, tired, gruff, and each word as sharp as nails. Not angry, just utterly worn down.
Bucky freezes for a beat. “I’ll keep that noted.” He murmurs back, off guard. As he approaches the wide shelves, he manages to snipe a look at the origin of the voice and sees a blond man with tired eyes glaring at him. A disturbing good looking face he would care to appreciate more if they both weren’t clearly bitterly annoyed at the other’s presence.
Under the worker’s scrutinizing gaze, he starts with Alexei, beginning in the cooking section. He quickly goes over, and though, not a cook himself, grabs the first book he sees that looks interesting. It’s something to do about the different variants of soups from around the world. One done, three to go.
He drifts to the next section, scanning the shelves for something fun and fantastic for Bob. This time, he has no idea what to do. He must be standing there for an impossible amount of time, frozen between paper spines and long enough for it to feel like there was moss to start settling his feet.
Eventually, movement breaks the spell. The worker abandons the counter and wanders over, stopping beside Bucky deliberately.
“Fantasy?” The blond murmurs, following Bucky’s eye line and crossing his arms– arms that are, much to Bucky’s shock and embracing delight, quite toned.
“Yeah.” Bucky responds quickly. “It’s for a friend. I don’t know what to get, I’m not much of a reader.”
“I can tell.” The blond shoots back without missing a blink.
Before Bucky can discern if that was a passing joke or an actual insult, the guy reaches out and carefully plucks out a book from the shelves. He flips it over once in his hands before shoving it into Bucky’s.
“Funny, witty, smart.” He rattles off, words quick and tired, like a rehearsed pitch he’s practiced way too much. “Good enough world building and characters to have you gripped. Just don’t read any of the sequels.”
Bucky glances down at the cover then looks back up. “Thanks.”
The blond hums in affirmation, already stepping away. “Seven minutes till closing.” The words land with pointed incredulousness.
Asshole. Bucky sneers to himself, but still clutches the book with twisted amusement and annoyance.
He steps into the next section, this time fishing for an interesting science fiction novel that Ava won’t rip apart for scientific inaccuracy. As he peers into the aisle, the colorful and text-packed spines blend into a blur of promising futures that never get the math right. Not sure where to start, the massive display with giant cut outs, too many copies of one book to count and a large sign that is practically begging for attention.
It looks a bit silly in such a quaint and small book store if he’s honest. Too loud. More for an airport or a mall, than a slightly crooked bookstore.
The moment the blond resettles himself in whatever he’s doing behind the counter and Bucky approaches the display like a sailor under a siren’s song, Bucky pivots and finds himself crashing down with the display.
The crash is, in one word, spectacular.
Cardboard groans. Books thump around him, avalancing. Something slides across the flor and bumps into the dirt on his boots.
“Shit.” Bucky hisses, trying to compose himself. He can already hear the panicked but mostly frustrated footsteps of the blond slowly getting louder.
“Oh, God, I’m not in any trouble, am I?” Bucky groans, picking himself up and examining his crime scene.
“Maybe morally if you were actually considering buying it.” The blond says drily from behind him, taking a moment as well to survey the scene. “Terrible author and even more terrible work. The publisher keeps sending me their work despite my many passive aggressive emails.”
Bucky snorts, crouching down to fix the toppled over shelf to begin cleaning up the mess. “Might be hard to tell when your complaining since your default tone is already passive aggressive.”
“Only because there's annoying assholes in the world.” The blond muses back, joining Bucky in collecting the scattered books.
“Takes one to know one.”
The blond lets out a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh. “You’re just the aggressive part in passive aggressive.”
“Always. Holidays put me in a good mood.”
The two fix the display, lifting the fallen books and slotting them into their proper place like puzzle pieces. The blond rearranges them with deliberate care, nudging here and here to straighten the pile, with Bucky following suit and mimicking the care. Before long, the display looks as pristine as if no stupid mishaps had ever crossed it.
“Three minutes.” The blond says, looking at the seemingly ancient looking clock on the wall that could have come from the industrial revolution era. “Need another recommendation so we can hurry this along?”
“Two, actually.” Bucky says. “One sci-fi and one terrible romance.”
The man hums semi-thoughtfully and disappears between shelves. He returns almost immediately, a book in each hand and offering them to Bucky without ceremony. Bucky barely looks at them before shoving them into his hands, trusting the other’s recommendations.
“Two minutes.”
“Are you always this cut-throat about time?” Bucky asks, amused.
“Just when a sulking stranger is getting on my nerves.” The blond replies smoothly, already turning to move towards the counter.
“Call me honored.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he follows quickly behind.
Bucky grabs the books, now inside of a paper bag, and slides over the money wordlessly. The worker counts it carefully then gives his change in a swift and practiced motion.
“I do not sulk.” He says, flat and final, while making his way to leave. The door chimes again over his head as he opens the door.
“Sure.” The other calls out.
As soon as he closes the door, he’s met with that awful, frigid cold that crawls underneath his skin. Bucky makes his way over to his car, burying his face in his scarf. His leather jacket was not doing enough to keep him warm. He hurriedly slides in, settles the bag into the shotgun seat, and turns the key. He adjusts the GPS mounted on the tripod, quickly pulling up the bar where he’s all supposed to meet.
The drive is quiet, maybe too much, mirroring the town as it slips past his windows. Despite himself, the brief exchange with the shop worker lingers, replaying in his head long after the store disappeared from the rearview mirror.
He arrives with his car heating screaming in exhaustion, quickly parks somewhere far, and slips into the bar. It’s shabby, maybe worse than shabby since it looks like the kind of place where the floors stick to your shoes. Still, he can see why Bob or Ava picked it. If you squint, really squint and tilt your head, it has its charms.
Unlike the bookstore, the moment he steps inside he’s assaulted by the stench of pungent alcohol and regret, thick enough to coat the back of his throat. He weaves through the crowd, brushing past elbows and beer-stained jackets, until he finally spots them.
He slinks into the chair next to Bob. It’s weirdly sticky. Yay.
“Bucky!” Yelena chirps, reaching over and clapping his back with too much enthusiasm. “It’s been too long.”
“I know, I know.” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his shoulder. “Why are we in the middle of Georgia for this holiday season, anyways?
Ava hooks an arm around Bucky, squeezing. “Looked idyllic enough in the photos. Also the hometown of that blond guy I told you about over the phone, so we have the local scoop of the place.”
“The…” Bucky trails off, trying to scan his memory. “The tall one? Good at cooking? That one?”
“Yeah. That guy. He’s been great to all of us, I think you’d like him. I’m pretty sure Yelena invited him for drinks tonight too.”
“The more the merrier.”
Ava takes a cup and mumbles into her drink, “Also Custer’s Grove is a nice switch of pace from the flaming trash pit we spent last year.”
Bucky blinks. “We spent last year at my house.”
Yelena snickers over the table, much to his chagrin.
Bucky rubs his temples in response “Where are we even staying?”
“We?” Bob questions, incredulously and squinting his eyes acquistorily for something Bucky doesn’t know.
Yelena shoots a glare at Bob and knocks her elbow against his, telling him to behave without needing to say it outloud. “There’s only a small hotel here. And since you didn’t respond to Bob’s messages, thank you Bob for doing the booking,” Bob raises a thumbs up in affirmation. “We, sorry he, didn’t book you a room so you have to sleep in a cot in one of our rooms.”
“Just what I need.” Bucky groans into his hands.
“I texted you about it on five different occasions and you always said you would message me back later.” Bob sneers. Alexei pats him on the back affectionately, in the same way a father would pat his son for missing his first bat.
“You are always welcome to stay in my room.” Alexei adds, still comforting an aggravated Bob.
Damn. Bucky really needs a drink.
“I’m gonna get something.” He mutters, already pushing himself up and cringing at the residual stickiness.
“Get me a Shirley Temple!” Yelena calls after him.
He shoulders his way through the bar and flags down the bartender. He orders himself a whiskey on the rocks alongside Yelena’s Shirley Temple because apparently he’s still a decent person. While he waits, he drums his fingers loosely on the cracked and scared wood of the bar, ice machine and shaker rattling in the background.
That’s when the door cracks open again.
A cold breeze cuts into the dim room. Bucky takes a passing glance at whoever just entered but freezes and almost gawks instead.
The newcomer pauses right in the doorway, eyes adjusting and scanning over the place. His gaze flicks to Bucky. Something twists low in Bucky’s gut, terrible recognition. He looks way first, jaw tightening.
It’s the goddamn blond guy from the bookstore.
Despite the darkness of the place, he swears he can see the other mouth “Goddamnit” underneath his breath.
Soon, the blond, much to both their displeasures, approaches the bar and orders himself a drink.
“So this is why you were in such a rush to get me out. Needed your vice.” Bucky muses drily.
“Needed you out of my ass.” The blond groans.
“The first time something was stuck up there. Closest thing you’ll get to getting laid. ” Bucky says into his drink.
The blond looks as if he’s about to verbally or physically beat Bucky, but suddenly the bartender slinks back with three cups in two hands. They get their drinks at the same time, Bucky thinks about how surely the bartender has a sense of humor.
“Just saying,” The blonde grins before leaving, tone too cheeky for Bucky’s liking. “I’m not exactly deprived."
“Great. Gross turn of phrase. Get a room.”
“I have. Multiple times.”
The blond stares at him boldly and way too smugly, not daring to back down. “Historically, that look leads to us getting a room. Careful there.”
As the blond’s face flushes scarlet, Bucky slinks off with a half-petty nod to find his table again.
But, the blond keeps following him.
“First you follow me to the bar, now you follow me to my table?” Bucky asks bitterly, turning and starling the other. “A little creepy.”
The blond rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about you. I’m meeting up with my friends who are right behind you, dumbass. Friends is a very foreign concept to you, I’m sure.”
“Your friends?” Bucky scowls, drinks almost spilling over.
Ava quickly stands, noticing the escalation but not noticing the animosity. “Bucky, I didn’t know you knew John.” She says with a smile.
“You know this guy, Ava?" Bucky sneers.
Ava gives the blond, who John now knows is named John, what a stupid name, an even stupider look. “Remeber the guy I was talking about over lunch? Coming in from outside of town?”
“You described him as handsome.”
Ava nods. John squints at him. Takes his sweet, sweet time squinting. “That’s a misnomer.”
“Thanks.” Bucky grimaces.
“But for the sake of the holiday spirit of generosity and kindness to the unfortunate, I will say you have a somewhat-great personality." Unfortunately, the only open seat for John to take a seat in is the one directly beside Bucky. As if the night couldn’t get better.
Bucky grimaces as he sits down. “Look at you, giving away what you don’t have.”
He slides over the red glass to Yelena who gleefully steals it from him, already sipping on the sparkling beverage the moment it’s in proximity.
“You talk like you already know each other. Why?” Alexei asks and booms bluntly.
Just as Bucky opens his mouth, John’s already rattling off. “He stopped by my store to buy last minute–”
Bucky raises his voice just loud enough to steam roll John. “Last minute bonus gifts, thanks to UPS delaying the actual ones.” He coughs awkwardly. God, since when was he awkward? “Temporary.”
“Cute. Very cute.” John chuckles slowly, dark and disbelieving in a way that gets under Bucky’s skin. “Because if I personally got generously invited to spend the holidays with a group of people I care about, I wouldn't forget something as basic as gifts.”
Bucky’s eyebrows tense, scowling. “Hospitality isn’t retail.”
“No, but it does involve effort.”
“Effort isn’t synonymous with gifts.”
“Effort without thought or manners is just effort.”
“You think I’m just here without thought? For nothing?”
Yelena clears his throat carefully, as if she was a bomb defumer crossing into the scene. “John, it’s fine, really. Hell, I forgot to pack some of my gifts last year before I drove half the country last year.”
John takes a hefty sip of drink, finishing it all in one swallow already. “I’m gonna get more.”
Bucky downs him too, almost like he’s taking a challenge. “Same here.”
The night soon descends into a blur of alcohol, with Yelena being the only exception as she seems to be getting more sugar high instead of her endless stream of sugary mocktails. John sips constantly from his one drink that he nurses over the course of hours. Bucky, on the other hand, and alongside the others, seem to lose count of how many drinks he’s slamming down.
Only John, Yelena, and Bucky stand as the others had thrown in the towel like a responsible adult and gone back to the hotel before they vomited. Or vomited a second time in Bob’s case.
Bucky’s vision wavers. His face burns, completely flushed.
“Is that the same drink from… one–” He trails off for a moment, blinking desperately to keep his eyes open and stopping his mouth shut from rattling off something stupid, “–no, two hours ago?”
“Surprisingly, I don’t feel like being hungover during Christmas.” John says, finally finishes his drink and swirls the empty glass in his hand. “Also it’s been 3 and a half hours.
“Well I don’t,” Hiccup. That’s the first hiccup in years. Holidays always do bring out the best in him. “Don’t get hung– hungover.” He pauses, drawing the word out.
“I thought you could hold your alcohol better.” John grins. “Huh. Expecting your tough-guy act came with better tolerance."
“I can hold my,” Hiccup. “Alcahol perfectly fine. Well I expected you to be a decent person too,” Bucky slurs, another hiccup escaping him. “But you are… just terrible.” He can’t think of anything clever to spout.
Yelena gives him a look, noticing how his eyes are constantly dropping down “You okay?”
The world starts to black, corners fading and dissolving into darkerness. “I’m gonna,” Hiccup. “rest m’ eyes for a bit.” His head lolls and he rests it on the table, folding his arms as a sort of cushion.
And just like that, he’s out cold