𝗕𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

Christmas, 1972

SONG REQUEST FOR THIS CHAPTER: HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS by FRANK SINATRA

MERRY CHRISTMAS! This is a chapter for my book, 'Love Strings'. It's not detrimental to the story, but of course, I recommend reading my book!

947 Words

Christmas morning in 1972 came in sideways through the thin curtains of the Rogers house, pale winter light slanting across the walls like it was sneaking in without permission. The house was quiet in the way it always was—too quiet for a holiday. No clatter of pots, no forced cheer, no parents bustling around pretending everything was fine. Just the hum of the heater kicking on and off and the faint sound of the neighbourhood waking up somewhere far away.

I was awake before the light even got brave enough to show up.

I lay there for exactly three seconds, staring at the ceiling, before my brain finally caught up with the date.

"Oh," I whispered to myself, a grin already pulling at my mouth. "Oh. It's Christmas."

I launched myself out of bed, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes I'd dropped there weeks ago and never bothered to pick up. I pulled on a sweater that didn't quite fit right anymore and socks that didn't match—because who cared?—and padded down the short hallway to my older brother's room.

Steve was still asleep, sprawled diagonally across his bed like he'd lost a fight with gravity. His hair stuck up in every direction, and one arm hung over the side of the mattress, fingers nearly brushing the floor.

I didn't knock. I never knocked.

I jumped onto his bed with all the force of someone who believed in chaos as a lifestyle choice.

"WAKE UP, GRANDPA," I announced cheerfully, bouncing on the mattress. "IT'S CHRISTMAS."

Steve groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. "Serena," he muttered, voice thick with sleep. "It's too early."

"It is never too early for Christmas," I shot back. "Jesus himself would agree with me."

"I'm pretty sure Jesus would want you to let people sleep."

"Well, Jesus isn't my older brother, and you promised we'd go to Bucky's first thing."

That got a reaction. Steve sighed, pulling the arm away from his face and blinking at the ceiling. A slow smile spread across his face as the realisation sank in.

"Oh," he said softly. "Right. Christmas."

"See?" I said smugly. "I'm a delight."

Steve sat up, rubbing his face. "Did Mom and Dad—"

I cut him off with a shrug. "Still asleep. World's smallest miracle."

Steve nodded, not surprised, not disappointed—just resigned. That was how things usually were. Holidays didn't magically fix people.

"Okay," he said, swinging his legs off the bed. "Let's go before they wake up and start asking questions."

We grabbed coats, scarves, and gloves, and slipped out the front door like conspirators. The cold air hit my face, sharp and clean, and I sucked in a breath, laughing.

"I love winter," I said. "Everything feels quieter. Like the world's holding its breath."

Steve smiled at me. "You're weird."

"Correct."

We ran down the road, boots crunching against the thin layer of snow, breath puffing out in clouds. Bucky Barnes's house came into view—older, a little crooked, with a porch that sagged just enough to feel unsafe but never actually gave way.

Steve knocked once. I knocked twice more immediately after, just to be annoying.

The door opened to reveal Bucky's mother, still in her robe, hair pulled back messily. She looked tired, but there was warmth in her eyes when she saw them.

"Merry Christmas," she said.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes," Steve replied.

I grinned. "We're stealing your son."

Mrs. Barnes sighed fondly. "I figured. Go on."

We brushed past her before she could say anything else, racing up the stairs two at a time. I burst into Bucky's room without hesitation.

"RISE AND SHINE, SLEEPING BEAUTY," I announced.

Bucky sat bolt upright with a startled yelp, nearly falling out of bed. "What the—Serena?!"

Steve laughed. "Merry Christmas."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, blinking at them. "You guys are insane."

"Correct again," I said. "Put on clothes. We're going back to our place."

Bucky smiled despite himself, that soft, crooked smile that made my stomach do something weird I absolutely refused to think about. "Give me two minutes."

Back at the Rogers house, we settled on the living room floor, a small pile of mismatched, homemade presents between us. None of us had much money, so everything had been crafted, scavenged, or repaired.

Steve handed me a small, carefully wrapped box. Inside was a notebook, the cover painted with jagged stars and my name written in block letters.

"For your... writing," he said. "Or whatever you call it."

I swallowed, then smirked. "You mean my sarcastic observations about humanity?"

"Exactly."

I hugged him quickly, awkwardly. "Thanks, jerk."

Bucky handed me his gift next—a leather bracelet, clearly handmade, a little uneven but sturdy.

"I, uh," he said, suddenly interested in the floor. "Thought you might like it."

I slipped it on immediately. "I love it," I said, and meant it.

Steve received a new sketch pad from me and a carefully repaired compass from Bucky. Bucky got a patched jacket from Steve and a cassette I had painstakingly recorded with songs I thought he'd like.

After the presents, we migrated to the garage, breath fogging in the cold air. Steve grabbed an old microphone, Bucky settled behind a battered drum set, and I slung a bass guitar over my shoulder.

We weren't perfect. We weren't even that good. But when we played, something clicked. Laughter mixed with noise, mistakes turned into new ideas, and for a while, the world felt right.

One day, we told each other, we'd be a band.

One day, we'd get out.

For now, we have this. And it was enough.

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