Since waking up from the ice, Steve has heard a million and one jokes about being old made at his expense. In the beginning when everything was so frighteningly new and the memory of how things used to be painfully fresh, they bothered him, but eventually he got used to them. After a while, when they came from people he actually liked, he even started not to mind them as much.
Natasha calling him a fossil was all in good fun, as was Sam calling him Old Man Rogers whenever they were chasing a lead together that required Steve to stay awake long enough to start getting cranky. The remarks from Tony weren’t as easy to swallow down, but that was mostly because they were made at Steve’s expense rather than among friends.
Still, as much as being given the slightly-too-snarky nickname Capsicle got under his skin, Steve wasn’t sensitive enough to get in his head over every age or history-related joke thrown his way. That’s not to say he liked them all or that they couldn’t sometimes get him in a mood, but with the frequency of that line of teasing, what else was there to do but grin— or at least grimace— and bear it?
Some of them he could admit were amusing, but even besides his dislike of the whole Capsicle shtick, others were said so often that he found them more irritating than anything no matter what sort of mood he was initially in. Yes, Steve was technically born before sliced bread was invented, but he doesn’t need to be reminded of that every damn day. It’s not like he and his Ma didn’t cut up their own loaves well before the factories figured out how to do it with their machinery.
When it comes to Capsicle, suddenly everyone's a comedian. The whole sliced bread bit is only the tip of the iceberg— and come to mention that, there have been at least three dozen people who have asked him if he’s old enough to remember the Titanic sinking since he got out of his own ice-induced death experience.
He’s not, but his Ma was. It’d happened right before she was about to get on a boat herself to come to America to begin with, so the story of how scared she was to start her life on the other side with Joseph is one Steve had heard often while growing up, even if he was born a good six years later. He does remember more than a few other major events of the 20th century, but people always seem to choose the ones he doesn’t to tease him about.
Even the Titanic is a tame miscalculation of his lifespan in comparison to the other things people try and bring up. It’s hard to tell what’s an exaggeration and what’s serious a majority of the time, but Steve refuses to believe that anyone is actually dumb enough to think he was born before the lightbulb was invented. He’s from the goddamn forties, not the Dark Ages.
They had radios. Television programs. Picture shows, some of which Steve starred in himself once he got involved with the USO. It’s not as if life was completely primitive back then. They didn’t have cellphones in their pockets or seatbelts in their cars, but they had plenty of other inventions.
At home electricity was definitely a thing back then, even if Steve didn’t always find himself in homes that were able to afford to pay the bill for it. Not on time, anyways. No matter how hard things were, they still managed to find the means to keep it on for a majority of the month, no matter how late their payments were made. Steve never went more than a week without power in the apartments he lived in, both with Sarah and Bucky as his roommates.
Like with so many other things, they always found a way.
The landlord Steve lived under as a child with Sarah was much kinder than the one he and Bucky had later, most likely because Sarah was an attractive single woman who knew how to fake a smile even when she wasn’t feeling particularly happy. He never gave them free amenities for the apartment or anything, but he was more lenient whenever Sarah said rent was going to come a little later than usual.
That was a kindness even Bucky’s charm didn’t allow for them to receive once he and Steve moved into their first shitty place together, not three weeks after Sarah had been laid to rest. Bucky was no nurse, but he was a dockboy, and as a boy his wages were slightly higher than anything he would have got as a girl. Steve hates that they had to be grateful for that— if 17 years under his mother’s roof with her barely scraping by because she was expected to wear a skirt had taught him anything, it was that she worked just as hard as any man could— but it was the Depression. They had to be grateful for anything they could get no matter how they got it.
Bucky’s work at the docks combined with Steve’s odd jobs at grocery stores and for newspapers usually added up to allow for most of their bills to be paid, but again, it was the Depression. Everything was unsteady in the world, and the financials of two broke Brooklyn boys was no exception. They were lucky to have a place to sleep at night. Electricity and running water were just additional bonuses, and depending on the month, a luxury they struggled to afford.
As they gained more experience with handling their money (without Bucky’s pops having to provide advice before every purchase) they learned to take certain precautions with their wages, especially come wintertime. They didn’t set aside their spare change for a rainy day— they set it aside for snowy ones, because those were the days where they absolutely couldn’t afford for their power to be taken away.
It wasn’t just because Steve was sickly, either. Sure, that was the main reason that it was such a worry, but there was also the matter of Bucky’s limbs being so stiff from the cold that he couldn’t do his work at the docks right or Steve’s fingers being so frozen that he couldn’t draw his shitty comics for the local paper, both things that provided them with the means to pay for getting their power turned back on in the first place.
They needed electricity, when it came down to it. They needed light, needed the water pump, needed that stupid unreliable radiator that was supposed to heat their shoebox of an apartment most of all. The fireplace and stove could only go so far for so long, especially when it came to sleeping. The bedroom was of course the room that got the coldest and darkest during the days they had to go without, so getting a good night’s rest on the mattress was out of the question.
Steve can’t count the number of nights he must have spent out in the living room on the floor in front of the fire, curled up in Bucky’s arms on the couch cushions, praying for the cold to leave and sleep to come, nore could he count the number of evenings spent with Bucky sitting at the kitchen table with the bills spread out in front of him and head in his hands.
The hours Steve spent himself sitting across from him sketching his commissions in the flickering light of their tallow candles only stick out in his memory because of how unpleasant the smell coming from them had been. The stench of tallow burning isn’t one that’s easy to forget, a far cry from the sort of candles they burn in their house nowadays. Even without comparing it to the options from the forties, the scent of Sugared Snickerdoodle is much more pleasant.
That’s what the label says it’s supposed to smell like, in any case. Right now what Steve is mostly picking up on is just plain vanilla, but that might just be because he’s currently so far away from the source. He’s all the way up in his studio while Bucky is burning the candle down in the kitching. Based off of the sounds of him splashing and humming, he’s doing the dishes by hand willingly for once in his life.
Steve’s doing some cleaning up of his own, at the moment. He feels a bit bad for ditching Bucky with all of the post-dinner cleanup duties they usually tackle together, but he’d wanted to put a few finishing touches on the painting he’s been working on for most of this month. Bucky had told him to go ahead and do it, anyways, an order helpfully doled out along with a swat to Steve’s rear end with the towel that he’d picked up to wipe the counter with.
Steve had scowled, but followed through on the direction in the end. And now, here he is, upstairs in the only room of the house reserved exactly for him, staring at a painting with his head tilted sideways as he runs a critique over every stroke.
He’d thought about giving this to Bucky as a Christmas present, but he doubts it’ll be done drying in time. He supposes he’ll just have to wait for either Bucky’s birthday, or maybe Valentine’s. The piece is centered around what he can remember of the view from their first apartment, so it’s a pretty all-bases-covered kind of present no matter what occasion he uses as its cover.
The clatter of Bucky dropping a dish into one of the basins of their sink rips Steve out of the brief trip inside his head he’d taken while staring. It happens every time he looks at this painting for too long, which probably is a sign of something that he’d rather not admit to lest someone try and send him to see a shrink again. He can’t help that making artwork based off of a memory gets him a bit melancholy.
It’s not that thinking back to when he used to see this view in person makes him sad. It just makes him think. Living in their first apartment together feels like it happened a lifetime ago, probably because it did.
They aren’t those same broke boys in Brooklyn anymore, not by a longshot. It’s true that some things never change— how Steve feels for Bucky being one of them— but others do. Ah, well. Such is life.
They might not live anywhere near their first apartment anymore, but what they have now may as well be even better. Who needs an apartment with an asshole landlord when you can live with your asshole husband inside your own bought and paid for home instead? Steve never thought he’d own a house, let alone have a husband, through legal channels to boot.
But now he has both. It had taken a long road with plenty of rough travels to get here, but they’d managed, just like always. They make do with what they have, and they’ve come out the other side having more than they could have ever imagined because of it. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. It’s everything and more.
As Bucky drops another dish and curses loud enough at the fumble for Steve to hear it from upstairs, Steve smiles to himself and sets the paintbrush he’d been wiping off down with his cloth. Moments like these in their house are some of his favorite, so stupidly domestic that they make his head and heart both spin.
He’s glad to be done cleaning up his impromptu painting session a few minutes later. Being in his studio always brings him a sense of peace, but this particular painting has him missing Bucky despite the fact that he’s only one floor underneath.
It’s almost Christmas, though. Steve settles on justifying his sappiness with the spirit of the season. Considering Christmas is as close as tomorrow, he only has the next 24 hours to squeeze all of this ridiculousness out.
He knows he really is being ridiculous, but he still has to pull a face when Bucky laughs at the way he comes up behind him in the kitchen and immediately plasters himself to Bucky’s back where he’s still standing in front of the sink, using his metal hand to towel off the one that’s still made of flesh.
Bucky isn’t turned around to face him, but he must be able to see Steve’s disgruntled expression in the reflection of the window that faces from the kitchen to the backyard, because he’s chuckling again and lowering his right hand down to pat over where Steve has his arms wrapped around his waist. “I thought you were too busy to help me clean up, Picasso. What're you doing back down here so soon?”
Steve makes a noncommittal noise and presses his nose against the warm patch of skin showing between the edge of Bucky’s hairline and the collar of the sweater he’s got on. His body temperature is much higher than it used to be, but he still appreciates the heat, especially when said heat comes from Bucky.
“What?” he mumbles, not bothering to move his mouth far enough away from Bucky’s neck to keep his words from coming out muffled. “You don’t wanna spend Christmas Eve together anymore?”
They’re still too new to living in an actual house together— and being back together full time in general— to have any real traditions surrounding the day past the norm that most other people celebrate, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t discussed possible plans. In their old days of apartment sharing, they would have simply spent the night at Bucky’s parents’ place so that they could share the holiday with the last bit of family they both held closest, but they can’t exactly do that anymore. A lifetime has passed, and as such, so has most of Bucky’s family.
The two of them can pop and string up all the lines of popcorn they want on the tree, can play as many old Christmas tunes as they can find over the stereo above the TV, but there’s nothing they can do to make it so that they’re spending today in what’s now nothing more than a distant memory.
The reality they’re living in isn’t the one that Steve would have pictured for them growing up, but as much as he misses a lot of the old stuff, there’s some new bits that really do make it all worth it. Namely, the ring on his own left hand and the matching band hanging off the chain that’s looped around Bucky’s neck, right next to his old tags. The last name on them reads Barnes but nowadays according to legal documents, it’s actually Barnes-Rogers. That’s a change that they both have for once been more than happy getting accustomed to.
From where he’s looking forward towards the window himself, Steve can see just how happily Bucky is smiling right now. It shows in his voice when he speaks.
“I agreed to spend my whole life with you, pal,” Bucky tells him, patting his hand over Steve’s a second time and following it up with a gentle squeeze and a thumb running over the line of his ring. “But I’m already almost done in here, so how about you let me finish what I started while you go get things ready for a movie out on the couch?”
Steve knows what that process entails. They have an unofficial movie night scheduled at least once a week, both of them still trying to catch up on all of the ‘classics’ that everyone insists they need to watch. It’s a pretty standard setup. They tend to make more popcorn than most in order to satisfy the stomachs of super soldiers— one giant bowl that fits the contents of two with plenty of butter and all of that seasoning junk Bucky loves that probably would have given Steve an asthma attack when he was small— but other than that, they do what everyone else would. Pull a couple of blankets down, pile up some pillows, and curl up side by side while the screen lights up the room.
With a nod and a small smile to match Bucky’s own, Steve lets go of him and moves to go start on accomplishing the first two tasks on that list. Bucky didn’t specify what movie he wanted to watch, nor did he tell Steve to choose, so he figures it’s best to just leave the TV switched off for the next few minutes while he works on getting the rest of the living room ready first.
It doesn’t take long. The blankets and pillows they use are kept in the coat closet that’s right outside the doorway, so all Steve has to do is step over to it and pull them out to toss onto the couch as he heads back towards the kitchen to see if Bucky wants him to make the popcorn himself as well.
He gets his answer to that question immediately. Bucky has just finished shutting the microwave when he enters the room, punching in the number of seconds required to pop their first bag with his right hands before turning to where Steve is hovering in the doorway.
“I don’t feel like dirtying up too many more dishes tonight, so we’ll have to settle for the microwave stuff instead of home-popped,” he says, in clear reference to what Steve had just watched him put behind the door. “But I was thinking about making some Christmas cookies later, so it’s not a total loss. Even if all you gotta do is pop ‘em on a sheet and stick ‘em in the oven to bake.”
“Well, technically we’ll be making the popcorn and cookies inside our house, so doesn’t that still count as homemade?”
Bucky grins and points a finger towards him. “I like the way you think, Rogers-Barnes.”
The affection in his tone has Steve grinning as well, even as he’s ducking his head down to stare at his currently-Christmas-sock-clad feet. Over half a century of Bucky being sweet on him and still, a couple kind words has Steve turning to putty. Like said: ridiculous. “I have been called a tactical genius before,” he says, attempting to cover up his reaction with a witty response.
It works a little, but since it’s Bucky he’s trying to fool, not all the way. It never does at this point. They’ve known each other too long. “You look about as red as Rudolph right now. That a sign you want us to watch the movie or something?”
“Shut your trap, Buck.”
To be honest, Steve has never actually seen that movie, but he’s heard enough about the story thanks to the song to know what Bucky is referring to. Comparing Steve to a baby deer is nothing new for him, though. When Bambi first came out, Steve couldn’t see color yet, but he knows damn well that he’d turned as red as everyone said Dorothy’s slippers were from the Wizard of Oz movie that had been released a few years earlier once Bucky took it upon himself to give Steve the same nickname as its main character for the next three weeks.
He hasn’t called Steve Bambi in a while, but Steve thinks he might prefer it to Rudolph. The smug look Bucky’s giving him from behind their now-full bowl of popcorn is enough to make Steve want to smother him with one of the pillows he’d set out for them to use. That urge only intensifies when Bucky plops down beside him and throws his right arm around his shoulders, pulling him in with a sound best described as a coo.
“C’mon, Rudy. Either hand the remote over or turn on the TV yourself.”
Steve gives Bucky a side-eye that’s strong enough to be considered a glare, grabbing the remote from the cushion next to him and clicking the power button probably a little harder than necessary. “You’re awful,” he feels the need to inform his husband, tossing the clicker back to the side as soon as the introductory credits of the movie start rolling and using the spare time to snuggle up closer to Bucky’s chest.
Hey, he’s awful, but he’s still warm.
“Awfully in love with you,” Bucky croons, planting a quick kiss to the tip of Steve’s nose that has him warming up again more than enough on his own end. “Now hush up. We got a movie to watch.”
Steve would argue against that, but he’s too interested in the claymation style of animation being shown on screen to bother. And to think he’d been so impressed by Bambi when it came out— this must take just as much effort. In the spirit of Christmas being so close, he settles on rolling his eyes with a heavy sigh, but remains silent like Bucky had just told him to.
There’ll always be time to get the last word in later. For now Bucky is right. They have a movie to watch, and Steve doesn’t want to miss a single second.
-
That thought is one that becomes increasingly ironic once Steve is woken up by the sound of Bucky snoring before the end credits have even started to roll. He’s not sure when they fell asleep, but the last thing he thinks he remembers is something about… teeth? As if Bucky teasing him about reacting just like Rudolph had when being complimented by Clarisse hadn’t been enough, he’d decided that Steve’s smaller self looked exactly like Herbie the elf as well.
Unfortunately, Steve couldn’t argue against that either.
Herbie’s dentistry endeavors on the Abominable Snowman aren’t the last thing he can remember only because of them dozing off, though. It can’t be, because from where Steve is sitting right now, he can’t see anything flashing on the screen at all. Not even the credits.
Everything is dark, as a matter of fact. Silent as well. Steve’s brain is still so slow with sleep that it takes him a second to realize what’s happening, but since he does, he finds himself groaning loud enough to wake Bucky up. It’s intentional. He doesn’t want to deal with this alone.
This is their house, anyways, so it only feels right to let Bucky know—
“Buck, wake up.” Steve nudges the soft side of his husband’s shoulders and waits for his eyes to flutter open before adding on, “Power’s out.”
To his credit, Bucky takes the setback in stride, shaking his head to clear it out as he rubs a hand over his eyes with a groan to match Steve’s own. “Fuck, how long were we asleep?”
He doesn’t wait for Steve to answer that question, but that makes sense considering he’s the only one between them who wears a watch. He pulls his arm out to look down at it, the glowing face allowing him to get a clear look at the time even while Steve is having difficulty making his own hands out thanks to just how dark it is without electricity.
“It’s only half past eleven, so we couldn’t have been out for long. It must’ve gone out before the movie was over.”
“Like you would know,” Steve finds himself saying, ignoring how he’d fallen asleep the same as Bucky in favor of getting that last word in now that he doesn’t have to worry about talking over Rudolph’s lines. He’d woken up first, anyway. That has to count for something. “Christ, it’s cold in here.”
His teeth aren’t chattering just yet, but it’s a close thing. He can feel it coming, just like he’d been able to every time before the war when their power was cut in the winter and then even during when they got sent out in unfavorable conditions. It’s so cold, Steve would bet his bottom dollar that the power is out because there’s snow. He can’t see outside the windows right now, but why else would their house feel like a goddamn meat locker on the inside?
Call it intuition, but Steve has been caught in enough icy weather before to know when he’s about to be surrounded by a blizzard. It’s too dark to find a real bright side to the situation, but if Steve really had to… at least this mess happened after dinner. He can’t even imagine how badly their night would have been ruined if Bucky had to deal with his precious homemade vodka sauce being frozen to the stove.
The two of them may as well be frozen to the couch with how neither have moved to get up and see what’s going on anywhere else in the house. The power box is located all the way in the laundry room, and while it isn’t that far of a walk, Steve isn’t exactly eager to shed his blankets to get over there and come to the inevitable conclusion that they’re caught in a snowstorm.
Paying the bills on time isn’t a concern for them anymore, so that’s the only thing it could be. New York winters have always been some of the roughest, so it isn’t surprising, but still. It’s a real bummer. The power going out on Christmas Eve of all days?
So much for all being merry and bright. Steve sighs and wiggles his toes in his socks, trying to summon the motivation to get up and do something productive rather than mope around. He used to save the world on a weekly basis. He should have no problem trying to save his own home.
Then again, he’s retired now, so it only makes sense that Bucky, the only current superhero of the household, is the one who makes the first move. He tosses the blanket over his lap off and stands, huffing out a breath and holding out a hand Steve can only silhouette of in an offer to pull him up. Steve only grunts at it at first, still disgruntled from being dislodged off of Bucky’s chest. He misses the warmth already, though there is a different kind of warmth in Bucky’s voice when he breaks the cold silence that’d come with the power outage.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna go on an adventure with me?”
Steve rolls his eyes even though he knows Bucky can’t properly see it, begrudgingly accepting his hand and following his lead to stand up beside him. “You sure you even know where the laundry room is? I can’t remember the last time you went near it.”
Bucky snorts and bumps him with his shoulder as he walks by to lead the way towards the room in question. “I go in there plenty. Who do you think always takes the towels down after we have sex?” Steve becomes briefly grateful for the darkness and the way it covers his cheeks heating up, but Bucky isn’t done being an asshole just yet. He never is. “It’s not like you’re usually coherent enough to clean up your own mess.”
His words are strangled, but Steve manages to get them out somehow regardless. Leave it to Bucky to bring this up at the most inopportune moment. “I think you mean our mess, pal.”
“You’re my mess,” Bucky says, and it’s said so fondly that Steve can’t even find it in himself to protest before Bucky interrupts the attempt before it starts. “I guess it’s a good thing we don’t have to worry about any of the food in the fridge spoiling.”
“Hm?”
They’ve reached the laundry room now, the moonlight hitting its window from a different angle that allows Steve to see Bucky’s grin shining as they step inside. “All we gotta do is stick it outside and come tomorrow morning it’ll all still be frozen.”
That’s actually a pretty smart plan, but Steve can’t admit that without Bucky getting a big(ger) head, so he settles on letting out a heavy sigh instead. “Just check the box, handyman.”
Thay gets him a low laugh from Bucky, but the front of the box pops open a second later, Steve hovering in the doorway behind him while Bucky checks for the answer they already know won’t be there. Sure enough—
“Everything looks all good in here. Or it should be.” Abandoning the now shut box, Bucky moves over to look out the window next, gesturing for Steve to come join him. He obliges. “That’s a snowstorm, alright.”
Steve stares out through the glass at the sight Bucky has just commented on, a swirling mess of white coming down so fast it looks like a blur. The ground is already coated, as are the trees, so this must’ve been going on for a while. The weather forecast had predicted a couple of flurries, but nothing like this.
They’ve both been through New York blizzards before, but the setting they’re riding this one out in is new. Not only because it’s their first house, but also because their house is out in the countryside upstate rather than smack dab in the middle of the city. Steve knows how to handle Brooklyn snow, but he doesn’t have a clue about how they’re supposed to deal with this. Their nearest neighbor is at least a mile down the road— a road which is no doubt going to remain snowed over until tomorrow, or maybe even longer since their location is so remote.
Fuck. Steve hates this. Everything about it. He hates the cold, hates the snow, hates that their Christmas Eve has been completely ruined by something neither of them could have seen coming. It’s all awful, and the kicker is that Steve wants nothing more than to avoid handling it by curling up in a ball on the bed, but what good would that do when their bedroom is probably even colder than the rest of the house is?
He’s not having a breakdown, but it’s a close thing. Bucky, bless his big heart, must sense that something is about to snap in his husband’s head, because he’s taking Steve by the shoulders before it can happen.
“Hey, we’ve got this. The power being shut off isn’t anything we haven’t handled before.”
While that’s technically true, Steve still can’t help but feel underprepared to face the issue again. It’s been a long time since they had to handle it, and now that they’re in their new home, Steve had stupidly been hoping that everything would remain perfect. This isn’t their first place together, but it is their first proper home. One that they own and can actually afford to pay for without having to worry about being too poor.
A snowstorm being the problem they’re saddled with is admittedly not the worst thing that that could have happened— the opposite option of a fire is something Steve can’t even imagine having to deal with— but it’s enough to have Steve’s mind flashing through at least a half dozen worst case scenarios that he can’t even bring himself to detail out loud.
Bucky’s the one doing most of the talking at the moment anyways, still holding Steve’s shoulders in a firm grip contrasted by the gentle tone of voice he takes. “Everything’s gonna be fine. All we gotta do is hold the fort down ‘til morning comes and wait for the power company to fix things, okay?”
The way he’s holding Steve does more than his words do to calm him down, but Steve nods in agreement with them, exhaling shakily. He glances sideways and back through the windowpane to the thick layer of snow still working on coating everything the eye can see. “Some Christmas morning it’s gonna be,” he mutters. “At least it’ll be a white one, I guess”
Bucky squeezes the back of his neck before sliding his hands off him completely, waiting for Steve to turn around in order to follow him back out the door they came in through. “We’re about to be in a winter wonderland, babydoll.”
“Yeah, you know me. I love having all sorts of frozen fun.”
They wind up back in the kitchen rather than the living room, leaning against the counter side by side staring at the last bit of light left in the entire house— that damn Snickerdoodle candle— as they try to form a plan that’ll ensure they won’t freeze. Again. Because God knows all of their lowest moments in life have always occurred in this type of cold.
Have yourself a Merry little Christmas. Isn’t that how the song goes? Steve doesn’t feel like that lyric is very applicable to them at the current moment.
The temptation to wallow in his own sulkiness is strong, but eventually Steve can’t allow himself to sit there and do nothing any longer. His Ma would he ashamed if she saw him right now, and if he’d ever done this under her roof growing up, she would have been mad as hell at him for not helping out. He tries to think about what she would do in this situation— what she did do for him every time their power was out.
She’d do what he and Bucky used to. It was from her they learned most of their lessons from, after all. Layering up in long underwear, bringing every blanket they owned to wherever the warmest spot in the apartment was, making sure that every window and door was shut to the room where the fire was going. All of those things were taught to them by Sarah, and all of those things are what Steve decides they’re going to do now.
Well, maybe not all of those things. Steve’s not sure he even owns long underwear anymore, but everything else they should be able to manage. It’s not like sweatpants and sweaters won’t work for the same job, in any case, and since the linen closet is on the way to their bedroom, stopping by it is the perfect first step to a plan.
He tells Bucky as much, which results in an immediate nod. “Lead the way.” Bucky’s teeth flash in the flickering light of the candle as he straightens up, placing a hand on the small of his own back in order to crack it. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you, ‘case you need someone to catch you if you faceplant on the stairs.”
Steve snorts, giving Bucky a good-natured glare on his way out towards the aforementioned stairs that lead to the second floor where his studio and their bedroom are both located. “You sure that won’t throw your back out, old man?”
Bucky only grunts and follows him up. “You say that like I didn’t have to carry you to bed last week when you got tipsy during the middle of our movie.” His inflection is accusatory, which Steve supposes he deserves. They still haven’t finished Pet Sematary, but who wants to watch a movie like that anyways? Bucky might like the scary shit, but Steve doesn’t. It’s why he’d been downing all those cranberry cocktails in the first place.
It’s a good thing they’d ended with watching something lighthearted tonight, because Steve doesn’t even want to imagine having to creep around in the dark with that sort of stuff fresh on his mind. This is bad enough, even after Rudolph. Steve sort of wishes he had a glowing red nose of his own to light his way, though he manages to find the handle to the linen closet before too long.
He pats his hand around to make sure that he’s in the right place before pulling anything out, and upon feeling a stack of soft fabric that tells him he indeed is where he thinks, takes a couple of blankets off the shelves and hands them to Bucky. “You think you can find your way back down to the living room by yourself?” he asks, hesitating in continuing on to the bedroom before he makes sure.
“I’ll be fine, but it’s cute that you’re worried. Like I’m the uncoordinated one.” Bucky’s voice is once again too fond for Steve to be truly frustrated, but it’s still probably a good thing that Bucky distracts him by cutting in again before he can respond. “I can go put these down and check the fridge if you want to grab the quilt and a couple extra sweaters before we get the fire started.”
Assuming Bucky means the thick patchwork quilt they keep on their bed, Steve nods in agreement and makes a mental note to bring down a few pillows with him as well. They already have the ones from movie night sitting on the couch, but if they’re going to try and sleep on the floor in front of the fire where it’s warmest, they’ll need all of the cushioning they can get. He'd bring their whole mattress if he didn’t already know it’s a bitch to fit down the stairs.
“You aren’t really going to stick all our food out the front door, are you?” He has to ask, because if he knows one sure thing about his husband, it’s that he’s a man of his word, especially when it comes to his ideas. Smart or stupid.
Which is exactly why Steve isn’t surprised in the slightest by the answer Bucky gives him. “I can’t just let our Christmas ham spoil, can I? I’m sure one night in the snow won’t hurt it any worse than room temperature would.” Then, clapping Steve on the shoulder with the hand not currently balancing blankets, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep the marshmallows and graham crackers inside so we can still make s’mores.”
A s’more isn’t exactly the same as the Christmas cookies Steve had been promised, but Bucky’s attempt to make him smile with the substitution works nonetheless. “Keep the eggnog in too,” he tells him, shutting the closet door and finally turning to head towards their room. “It’s almost Christmas. We may as well drink it before the night’s over.”
“That’s the spirit, Stevie.”
Steve does feel a bit more in the Christmas spirit as he begins to strip their bed of the quilt Bucky had requested he bring down. Things are still too dark and dreary for him to be content just yet, but another thirty minutes and a cuddle by the fireside with his husband might get him somewhere close to it.
It only takes him another ten minutes to gather everything necessary for his trip back down the stairs to where, from the sounds of it, Bucky is waiting for him in the living room already. Steve pauses at the top of the stairs, feeling a bit like a little kid trying to spy on Santa Claus with how hard he’s squinting trying to make out what Bucky is doing crouched down beside the tree.
It’s when he hears ceramic clinking on stone that he realizes Bucky is setting up Steve’s promised eggnog by the fireplace, the crinkle of a plastic bag that follows it leading Steve to the conclusion that he must be setting up stuff for s’mores too. He’s only proven right once Bucky gets around to lighting the candles he must have brought out from the kitchen, standing to place one first on the mantle above the not yet lit fireplace, beside the lamp that flanks the arm of the couch, and then on the coffee table.
Steve draws in a deep breath while Bucky is still bringing the lighter down to the wick of the third one, taking in the same scent of sugar cookies and vanilla he’d smelled in the kitchen earlier with a newfound appreciation for the dim light that’s being provided. It’s a shame they won’t actually be able to make their Christmas cookies tonight— not with how Bucky likely has the package buried in the snow outside— but this is nice in its own way. Romantic, too, even if Steve is still bummed out about the tree not being turned on for Christmas Eve.
His deep breath turns into yet another sigh. He dumps everything in his arms down on the couch, barely resisting the urge to throw himself down with it. And just like that, he’s sulking again. But who can blame him? All he’d wanted was a happy first Christmas in their first happy home, but now here they are stuck making do just like they used to have to in their old ones.
Bucky is trying to be helpful, but what he says next is so on the nose with Steve’s mental griping that he can’t help laughing out loud. “We could put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. Use ‘em as a mattress.” He frowns when Steve’s laughter begins to overpower his own volume, obviously confused as to what’s causing his husband’s sudden hysterics. “What’s funny?”
“None of this is,” Steve bites, trying to balance the sudden outburst by keeping his next statement comically calm in comparison to how he actually feels. “Or maybe all of it is. I don’t know, Buck.” He looks at him now, dropping down onto the couch like he’d been tempted to before and landing amongst all of the blankets and pillows with a puff of air he can practically see forming in the air, it’s so cold. “Don’t tell me you woke up this morning and thought that we could somehow possibly be caught in the same trap we always used to? No power, but not just on any old Friday night.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Happy Christmas Eve, everyone.”
The ridiculousness he’d sensed in himself earlier is coming out through a different channel than he’d initially planned. He’s not feeling as sappy as he had during the movie, not through fault of Bucky’s own, but because of everything else. This is what’s really ridiculous. Not him.
“Honey,” Bucky starts out, standing up from where he'd crouched back down and heading over to the couch Steve is wishing he could sink down into. That name is how he knows he is in fact the ridiculous one. Bucky almost never uses it unless he’s trying to talk Steve out of his own head, which apparently is what’s about to happen. “I know this isn’t the perfect night that we’d hoped for, but there’s nothing we can do to make all this snow go away. I’m sorry we couldn’t just finish the movie and go to bed, but this is where we are.” He sits down next to Steve and lays his right hand on top of his knee, squeezing gently. “It’s not fair, but it’s what happened. Doesn’t mean all of Christmas is ruined, either, so don’t go giving up on me just yet, yeah?”
“When in my life have you ever known me to give up on anything, let alone you?” Steve asks, and though he knows he sounds exasperated, he really is grateful towards Bucky for the reminder. He doesn’t say it, but he shows it by leaning his head down and placing it on Bucky’s shoulder, nuzzling almost absentmindedly into the warmth he finds there. “It’s just… it isn’t fair, Buck. It feels like it’s been forever since we got to have a normal Christmas.”
He knows Bucky already touched on the fairness aspect himself, but it’s true. This isn’t fair, but nothing for them ever is, is it?
Now it’s Bucky that sounds exasperated, touching along the line of something similar even if it isn’t the same. “Pal, when have you known us to have a normal anything?” He cups Steve cheek and moves his own face close so that they’re practically nose to nose. When Steve shivers, it isn’t only because of the cold. “I know this ain’t the sort of thing people write those Christmas songs about, but not being normal doesn’t mean it can’t be good.”
“It’s always been good with you, Buck,” Steve says quietly, because that’s true too.
Even when everything else was bad, Steve always had Bucky, on every day of the year including Christmas Eve. And then, even on the days where he didn’t have him, he still knew he would if he could. That Bucky would be there if it were up to him. Knowing that didn’t always make things good again, but it was a kind of comfort in and of itself. It was enough for the dark days to be a little lighter. That should be true for this sort of dark day too.
Bucky’s lips finding his after that statement is made help cement it into reality, sealing against Steve’s own in a kiss that feels like it warms him right down to his toes. The kiss itself doesn’t last long, but it’s made meaningful by the way Bucky rests their foreheads together after, raising up his opposite hand to cup over Steve’s cheek as well so that the space between them feels even more secretive. “We’re going to have a good night,” he whispers, and it’s clear that’s a promise.
Steve trusts him to be a man of his word, so despite his doubts about everything else, he still nods and lets Bucky kiss him again. “I should really get to building that fire,” he mumbles after, but Bucky’s mouth pressing up against the corner of his lips proves to be quite the distraction. He tries again. “Buck, if it’s gonna be a good night, we have to make sure it doesn’t end with us getting frozen.”
“We have plenty of experience with that sort of thing, don’t we?” At Steve’s disgruntled glare, Bucky only laughs, but he relents in the end. “Alright, I got it. No making out until the bed and the fire are made.”
“I’ll take care of the second job if you take care of the first.” Seeing as the fireplace had only been fully installed a few weeks ago, Steve is sort of excited that they’re finally going to get to use it. It’s the night’s only small miracle.
Bucky makes a sound Steve assumes is a sign of agreement, confirming that thought by standing and beginning to toss all of their blankets to the side in a brief rehoming to the recliner as he pulls the cushions off of the couch, tossing them onto the floor like he’d suggested earlier. The pallet they form isn’t as large as their usual mattress, but it’s not the most cramped sleeping situation they’ve shared by a longshot.
Bucky’s kind enough to have started arranging their makeshift bed far enough away from the fireplace for Steve not to have to worry about it being a fire hazard when he crouches down with a crumpled up sheet of newspaper in hand to start building the fire he’d promised Bucky was to come. With all the nights they spent outside in the war, not to mention the old wood stove that used to be in the Barnes’ family apartment, this task isn’t one that’s foreign to either of them.
Steve finds success in getting things started after only a minute or so longer, smiling genuinely for what feels like the first time since the lights went out to begin with. He blows gently over the sparks that he has taking to the paper, the kindling, and then the logs that are piled on top, smiling even wider as the first fave of warmth washes over his front.
“There we go,” he breathes, sitting back on his heels with both arms hugged around his knees and taking a moment to himself to celebrate one of the only wins they’ve had this evening. “Fuck, I didn’t even realize I couldn’t feel my toes before.” He rocks back to sit all the way on his ass now, holding his feet closer to the fire and wiggling them in his socks like that’ll make the pins and needles of fading numbness go away any faster.
“Yeah, I’m really looking forward to you pressing ‘em up against my calves once we’re under the covers,” Bucky snarks, smacking a pillow to fluff it up before placing it down on the ground at the end of one half of the cushions. “They’re like damn icicles every night come September, you know that?”
Steve sighs in over-exaggerated annoyance, tucking his hands under his thighs to try and warm them up as well. “You tell me often enough. Really makes a man remember.” Because Bucky does, almost every night after they get in bed. That doesn’t exactly stop Steve from putting his feet into the same position every night either. It’s a yearly winter ritual, at this point. Maybe a fall one too.
“You keep running that smart mouth of yours and I’ll be keeping all the eggnog to myself.”
It’s a bold claim to make considering Steve is closer than he is to the bottle right now, but Steve would rather not risk one of the only things he has left to look forward to tonight being taken away.
He scoots away from the fire now that the flames are getting strong enough not to require his full attention, leaving him available to turn it instead towards crawling towards where Bucky is already making himself comfortable on their couch-cushion sleeping arrangement. “Does that mean you’d still make me a s’more?”
Bucky squints at him like he’s giving the question serious consideration, quite literally stroking a hand over the scruffy beard he’s let grow in over the lower half of his face. “I could be persuaded, I suppose.”
“With what?”
The soft smile Bucky is wearing hints towards the answer, as does the way he leans in towards where Steve has just flopped down on top of the quilt that’s been spread out. “Couple of kisses might do the trick.”
He brushes the first of his suggested persuasion over the tip of Steve’s nose, blowing on it after in a way that has Steve both wrinkling it away from the gesture and warming up under the touch. That’s certainly one way to keep the cold from getting too far under his skin. Having Bucky’s mouth moving over top it has always been a sure-fire way to keep Steve running hot.
Now is no exception, even with all of their additional circumstances brought into consideration. The power being out doesn’t stop Steve from loving the way Bucky feels blanketed over top of him as they continue to kiss— if anything, it only makes him appreciate it even more.
So what if the power isn’t working? The two of them still fit together like puzzle pieces; as perfectly as ever, no sparks of the electrical sort necessary to keep the one between them burning bright. The tree might not be lit and the cookies might be outside the door rather than inside the oven, but what does that really matter so long as they’re tucked safely inside with each other?
Steve hates the snow and the cold for more than a few obvious reasons, and again, now is no exception to that rule. But with that being said, there is a small comfort in knowing that this time, they’re both here. No one is being left out to die the ice or shut up to sleep in cryo, because this is the place where both of them belong.
Power or not, this house is their home. Being here together is what makes it so.
That realization has Steve relaxing further under Bucky’s body, happily allowing him to keep up the kissing for an amount of time he quickly loses track of. With the fire doing its best to raise the temperature towards something more bearable, it's easy to get lost in the distraction of Bucky’s lips pressing against his.
That combined with the soothing sound of flames crackling in the background and the pleasant scent of the still-burning candles lining the room make for an unexpectedly romantic setting. It’s almost too easy to forget about all of the snow still swirling around outside, though Steve has to wonder if that was the point of Bucky starting this little encounter to begin with.
If it was, it’s working, which Steve doesn’t figure he should fight against. Why should he make himself miserable when Bucky is clearly doing his best to ensure the opposite? If Bucky wants to make out with him to make sure his mood stays positive, then so be it. Steve has always prided himself on being the bigger man, and to tell the truth, he doesn’t really feel like he’s getting a bad bargain in this situation.
Eventually they do have to break away from each other in order to take a breather, but Bucky keeps his hands on Steve’s shoulders and lets Steve keep his on his back during the pause even after he pulls his face away, evidently because (as usual), he has something to say. Steve doesn’t have to wait long to find out just that that something is.
“See?” He sounds suspiciously smug. “I told you tonight could still turn out good.”
Steve groans, but doesn’t push Bucky away. He’d miss the warmth too much. “It’s too cold for your head to be getting this big,” he grumbles, because although Bucky is being proven right, Steve doesn’t have to assist in boosting his ego. He’ll show him his true gratitude later.
“It is cold,” Bucky agrees, conveniently ignoring everything else Steve had said. “I think I need to invest in some snow shoes. I forgot how fucking frigidwinters here get.”
While Bucky had been the only one to venture outside into this particular storm, Steve still has to frown and knit his eyebrows together in order to ask— “As opposed to the ones in Siberia?” He doesn’t think about how sensitive of a subject that is until the words have already tumbled out.
“Hey, I wasn’t outside much back then. Wasn’t exactly a vacation.” Bucky doesn’t sound or look too bothered, but Steve’s stomach still drops at the remarks regardless.
He tries not to dwell on the past too much anymore, but it’s still a little too easy for him to get in his head about it, especially when it comes to anything related to after Bucky’s fall and what happened as a result. “Sorry.”
Bucky’s eyes soften at the sound of his apology, but apparently, he doesn’t want to accept it. “I was just teasing.”
“You do that a lot.”
Leaning back down for another brief kiss, Bucky smiles against his lips and speaks against them before pulling away again. “And you love me for it.”
I love you for a lot of things Steve almost says, but he doesn’t, because Bucky doesn’t give him the time to slip the sappy sentiment in.
He has other plans for them, it seems. Ones that involve the eggnog and marshmallows still sitting beside the fireplace. Once again, Steve is left slightly disgruntled by the loss of Bucky’s body heat pressed against him when the other man sits up and reaches over to grab both items as well as the glasses, graham crackers, and chocolate sitting beside them.
“You up for a midnight snack?”
Steve sits up too now, accepting the glass Bucky has poured his share of drink into. He takes a sip before responding, savoring the rich taste of it as he swallows. Bucky always buys the bourbon spiked brand. “Does that mean it’s Christmas already?”
Bucky glances down at his watch, pausing where he’s raising his own glass towards his face. “Give it fifteen more minutes.”
“I can’t believe Christmas Eve is almost over,” Steve murmurs, staring towards the fire just so he doesn’t have to think about how dark everything else is. He knows he sounds melancholy, but he can’t bring himself to hide how he feels. “I guess eggnog is a pretty good way to end it, all things considered.”
“What, you want me to make a toast?” Bucky says lightly, bumping their knees together where they’re both sitting up and facing the fireplace as they drink. He raises his glass up in an exaggerated gesture, voice grand as he declares, “To a better day tomorrow where hopefully our heat actually works.”
Steve huffs, but upon a second bump to his knee, raises his glass as well. “Hear, hear.”
They down the last of their glasses together, and when Bucky offers to top them both off again, Steve accepts. The bottle is almost empty anyways, and if Christmas Eve is almost over, they may as well make the most of the last few minutes.
That must be what Bucky has in mind too, because instead of getting started on the s’mores next like Steve has assumed they were going to do, he pushes both of their now-empty glasses to the side and ignores the marshmallows in favor of returning his attention back to Steve’s mouth, and more importantly, placing his own over top it.
The kiss takes Steve by surprise, but he’s not going to protest it by any means. This is a good way to end Christmas Eve too— and in any case, both of their mouths taste like eggnog, so they’re still technically about to close on that note.
Or maybe they aren’t, seeing as Bucky separates their lips a few seconds after rolling them both back down to lay on the cushions in almost the exact same position they were romping around in earlier. He runs his tongue over his own bottom lip, looking at Steve with eyes that are half-lidded.
“I can think of one way to make sure our Christmas starts off merry,” he murmurs, his smile both sharp and soft at the same time. “It’d help us keep warm, too.”
It’s pretty obvious what he’s getting at, and while Steve doesn’t exactly oppose the idea, he still has to object to the logic. “I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to keep our clothes on if we want to do that.”
“C’mon,” Bucky insists, brushing Steve’s bangs back and using the same hand to cup over his cheek, giving it a pat that’s clearly meant to be compelling. “I know our setup ain’t exactly a bearskin rug, but we’re still in front of a fire, and it’s still Christmas eve for the next ten minutes. Can’t I give you one of your presents early?”
“If you’re only gonna make it last ten minutes, does that count as a gift?”
Even as he shoots back the sarcastic response, Steve finds his eyes straying over to their unlit tree and all of the real present boxes that are stacked underneath. It’s still hard to believe sometimes that all of those are theirs. With the way they grew up, they couldn’t have even imagined being able to afford a Christmas like this. They couldn’t even afford to pay the electricity bill on time most months, for Christ’s sake.
There’s a different sort of electricity in Bucky’s gaze, and then his touch when he strokes his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone, following it up with a gentle kiss pressed on both sides of his face. Looks like Steve isn’t the only one feeling sappy because of the holidays.
“I could make it last a lifetime with you,” Bucky whispers, and suddenly Steve knows he’s no longer talking about something as simple as sex. “You’re the best gift I could ever ask for.”
This time, Steve doesn’t hold back the urge to say those three little words, the ones that the band he wears on his left hand are meant to stand for. “I love you.” He touches Bucky’s cheek too now, looking up at him with eyes he knows are large enough to deserve the Bambi nickname Bucky saddled him with all those years ago.
Bucky presses the tips of their noses together and Steve can’t help but smile at how it makes him think of the scene in that same movie where Bambi met the skunk who later became his friend— what was his name again? Flower? “I love you back.”
His returning smile is just as warm as the fire and just as sweet as the scent still coming from all the candles they have burning, and for that reason, Steve decides to let himself have at least one luxury for tonight. Wiggling his hips to help himself get situated better against the couch cushions, he spreads his legs just enough to let Bucky lay more comfortably between them in a silent acceptance of his proposed gift.
He gives him one out loud as well, because Bucky wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t always need to hear him say yes. “You still up for giving me that present?”
“We got eight minutes to get started,” Bucky reads from his watch, raising an eyebrow when he looks back at Steve in a manner that suggests he’s about to make this a challenge. “Maybe less, if we can’t figure out where the lube from between the couch cushions went when I moved ‘em.”
“Then I guess we should hurry it up.”
“I’ll check under the coffee table.”
“I’ll check behind the couch.”
-
It takes a little over thirty minutes rather than eight in the end, but they wind up in the position they would have even if it had taken thirty seconds. Steve curled up halfway on Bucky’s bare chest with both of their bodies wrapped up under a blanket that they’re definitely going to have to wash whenever the power comes back on. Bucky’s right hand is lazily combing through Steve’s hair where he’s facing the fire, staring into the flames through still slightly hazy eyes.
“That was a good one,” he eventually murmurs. He’s aware that it’s well past midnight now which means that the day is now over, but he means it when he says— “That was a pretty good Christmas Eve, too.”
“All things considered?”
Steve hums and shifts his head to press a quick kiss to the nearest part of Bucky’s pec. “No. Just in general.”
Bucky hums in agreement and presses his own kiss to the top of Steve’s head, resuming his hair petting after. “Maybe they should write a Christmas song about us after all.”
Keeping their current position in mind— curled up by a roaring fire with marshmallows ready for roasting while a White Christmas is in the makings outside— Steve can’t really say he’s wrong, but he can ask a question. “And what would you propose the title should be?”
That gets him another hum, this one thoughtful. “I know I’ll Be Home For Christmas is already taken,” Bucky says eventually. “But I feel like something about it really resonates. You know?”
Steve swallows thickly and has to clear his throat before he can respond, too suddenly come over with emotion for it to smooth things out completely. “Yeah. I know.”
Because he does. He’s heard the song before, not in just this century, but the last as well. It’d been directly written about men like them, after all. Soldiers who longed to be home, but couldn’t because of the war— the first time Steve heard it he had been alone in his tent with his radio, and though Bucky had only been a few hundred feet away in the mess hall, he couldn’t help but cry anyway.
If it’d hit home then, it had hit home twice as hard after the fall. Steve hasn’t actually been able to bring himself to listen to the song since then, but he thinks that he might be able to now. Because they are home, and not just in a dream. Being together in this house, in this home? That’s what truly is the best present Steve could ever ask for, even when the power is out and everything except his heart feels cold.
He hates the cold, but he loves Bucky. That’s more than enough for him to get through this stupid snowstorm.
When Bucky starts humming along to the tune of the song they’d just been discussing, Steve’s thought of finally being able to listen to it again is put to the test. Hearing it without words is a little easier, but if he were to listen to it with them, so long as they were sung in Bucky’s smooth tenor, Steve thinks it’d be okay by him. The tears that well up in his eyes even without them are inevitable either way.
If Bucky knows they’re about to fall, he doesn’t say so, though his own voice is more than a little gruff when he cuts off his humming to say something else. “I have a real present I want to give you.”
Steve would argue that the one that he’d just been given before this is real in its own way if he weren’t still so close to crying, but seeing as he is, it’s all he can do to keep himself controlled enough to answer. “What is it, Buck?”
Scoot up for a second and you’ll find out.” Steve doesn’t sit up completely so much as roll to the side, but its enough for Bucky to sit up himself and reach for a box Steve hadn’t noticed hiding under the bag of marshmallows that have still gone unopened for the night. Evidently, Bucky doesn’t expect him to give this box the same treatment, seeing as he hands it to him with a soft look and an equally soft command. “Open it.”
Steve obeys easily, sitting up fully this time as he begins to tear the wrapping paper off of the box to reveal the plain white cardboard of it underneath. He’s not sure what he should be expecting to find inside, but as Bucky can attest to, Steve Rogers— Rogers-Barnes— has never been a patient man. He’d rather find out sooner than later.
His fingers fumble slightly when it comes to opening the top flap of the box, but before too long he’s able to start tossing the styrofoam cushioning its contents to the side, and then begin to unwrap his prize from the paper that surrounds it.
Again, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be expecting here, but that isn’t the only reason he’s so surprised at what he gets. What he’s now holding isn’t exactly a shape that’s unfamiliar, but there’s something very different about the details of it.
It’s tags. Dog tags, that is, specifically ones that Steve is pretty sure are meant to hang as an ornament on the tree. Like the other tags they’ve owned, or in Bucky’s case still do, these ones are silver and hanging from a short, beaded chain. However, these ones aren’t the same as the ones given to them by the military.
The military wouldn’t top them off with a silver ribbon or send them in such a prettily wrapped package. The military definitely wouldn’t engrave them with matching silver stars, and more importantly, with a message that reads “THE BARNES-ROGERS HOUSEHOLD. CHRISTMAS #1.” on each tag respectively.
Steve couldn’t look away from the inscription even if he tried, but he doesn’t, because this time he can’t contain the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. This isn’t their first Christmas as lovers or in the same place of living by any means, but that isn’t what this gift is meant to be a reference towards. This is their first Christmas as a married couple in the first home they’ve ever truly owned, and this ornament is meant to be a marker of the many more to come in the future.
Bucky confirms that intention with his next words, spoken just as choked up as Steve feels even with the calming hand Bucky lays over top of Steve’s own where it’s started to tremble under the ornament. “I thought this could be a tradition, getting a new one every year.” He laughs, the sound wet, and when Steve finally looks at him he can see he’s not the only one whose eyes are shining. “We got seventy something years of lost Christmases to make up for. Figured we might as well start keeping track of the ones we get back, even if they aren’t all normal.”
“I don’t care if they’re normal as long as they’re with you,” Steve manages to get out, the statement hoarse but heartfelt. It’s the truth. Maybe earlier when his mood still had him all twisted up, he would have disagreed, but now he understands. How can he care about normalcy when Bucky is what makes every day in this house something special?
Power or not, Steve wouldn’t trade the night they’ve had for the world.
With their hands clasped together and the ornaments in between them, it feels only fitting for Steve to seal his acceptance of the gift with a kiss, pressed to Bucky’s lips like a promise. It is one, really. One that says he’ll do his best to make every Christmas Eve and Christmas they have to come just as good as this one. Tonight has been nostalgic of a lot of things, and if they ever do wind up going to sleep, it’ll be with the full knowledge that tomorrow will be a good Christmas morning simply because they’ll be waking up to it side by side.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, right up against his mouth. His breath still smells like eggnog, but Steve doesn’t mind it one bit.
He kisses him again and speaks to Bucky from the same angle. “Merry Christmas, Buck.”
And to all a good night.