Bucky loved Christmas.
Well, he used to. Before Hydra. It was his favorite holiday. Watching Becca ope her presents. The look of sheer joy on her face. He loved it all. The lights, the carols. Waking up to snow on the ground.
He wanted to be excited now. The compound looked like Christmas had exploded inside it. Trees decorated in nearly every corner. Lights hanging from ceilings. Stockings. Presents. Johnny Mathis playing on rotation through the speakers.
But he had the blues.
It wasn't because of all that had happened. No, honestly it was you. Bucky had been harboring a crush since he'd moved in. Slowly opening up to you, letting his walls down. Letting you in.
But he was so shy. Afraid to make a move. Afraid to push, to lose what little he'd gained. He'd searched for weeks, painstakingly trying to find the right gift for you. It seemed impossible. Nothing was good enough.
He thought his skills of stealth would be enough, that he'd pick up on something, any little thing. So that he could find the perfect thing for you. But he came up empty, finally deciding on bath items, soaps, oils. Bombs. He knew you liked that, so hopefully it would be enough.
Everyone had gathered under the tree, sleepy eyed, still in pajamas. Tony had insisted on making everyone wake early. Bouncing through the place like a giddy five year old. Bucky had to admit, it was infectious. His eyes searched, landing on you as you eagerly opened your gifts.
You stunned him, every time. Even barely awake, he thought you looked like an angel. You thanked everyone, smiling as you enjoyed everything. Finally you reached the small, messily wrapped gift. He didn't know it, but your heart raced, knowing it was his.
Your eyes lit up, more than overjoyed. It was personal, something Bucky knew you enjoyed. You opened every bottle, sniffing each scent. He couldn't help but beam from across the room. You mouthed a 'thank you,' and he nodded.
It was good enough for Bucky.
You pulled the cookies from the oven, dancing a bit to the tune playing, humming along. He watched from the doorway, a smile playing on his lips. "Don't just stand there, Sarge," you smiled, turning to face him. "Come help a girl out."
He cleared his throat and made his way over, using the spatula to place the cookies on the plate, his eyes barely tearing away from your face. "Thanks again," you told him, "for the gift. It was lovely." He blushed and tugged at the collar of his new soft, gray hoodie, your gift to him.
"And thanks for this," he smiled and you chuckled. "Least I could do after stealing your other one," you grinned. He laughed quietly. "Well, it looked better on you than me." You both blushed red and you finished plating the cookies.
He led you through the door and stopped, causing you to crash into his broad chest. "Mistletoe," he cleared his throat, looking up and you managed to blush again. "Well, guess you should kiss me, Sarge," you told him, "those are the rules."
He swallowed hard and dipped his head, brushing his lips over yours, so softly, sweetly. Your heart hammered in your chest, butterflies in your stomach. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips and you smiled.
"Merry Christmas, James."
