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“Hey, Friday?”
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”
“Bucky. It’s uh...” he trailed off, pushing a hand through his hair before dropping it to rest on his hip, head hanging slightly as if it’ll hide the wave of embarrassment that he’s feeling from the A.I., “It’s November, right?”
“Yes, sir. It is November 13, 2017, your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you were born on March 10, 1917, you are in the Avengers Tower—“
“I’m okay, Friday, thank you,” he cut her off, the corners of his lips curling at her reassurance.
Even with the trigger words safely removed from his consciousness along with the rest of HYDRA’s programming, it was still a long road to recovery dealing with the aftermath of his time as the Winter Soldier. Nightmares were a regular occurrence, his training was always pushing at the back of his mind, and on rare occasions his memories would lapse, leaving him confused and disoriented.
At times like these, Friday’s programmed response to his mounting distress, if he was alone, was to recite facts, beginning with grounding him in the present and becoming more detailed as she progressed. The last time he had snapped back into his mind was to her reciting a recipe for plum cobbler, something he had built up the courage to ask her for in preparation for the team dinner around Thanksgiving.
He found it almost sweet that on more than one occasion, such as just now, she did it even when he spoke to her directly, despite the realistic probability that he would recognize her in that state being close to zero.
Even for an A.I., she had enough sass and sarcastic wit to stand on par with her creator, and she still met every random question and whim he had with seemingly unlimited amounts of patience and understanding.
Which, he supposed, she could really have.
He hadn’t forgotten the date, though. Or at least he was relatively sure he hadn’t. He figured it couldn’t hurt to check, but with that simple piece of information, he just found himself terribly, incredibly confused.
Because hanging from the ceiling, right in the middle of the hallway leading from the common area to his suite, was a mistletoe bunch.
Even with Stark’s eccentric party planning at every opportunity, not a single Christmas decoration had made its way to the residential floors yet. Not on any of the floors, probably, but he hadn’t made any recent visits to the S.I. or R&D sections of the building, both out of a lack of necessity and a personal mission to avoid social interaction when at all possible.
As he shifts his weight to his other leg, arms coming to cross over his chest with a soft huff, he sifts through his recent memories, trying to determine the most likely culprits with a motive to hang up the offending piece of greenery.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, where did they find this thing?” He questions aloud, thankful that no one else is around to see how ridiculous the whole situation is, even before he started talking to empty space, and even more so that Friday didn’t answer his rhetorical question.
I should take this down, she's in this hall too, it might make her uncomfortable, he thinks idly, moving under the bundle to inspect how it was suspended from the ceiling, muscles stiffening as soon as he fully processes the thought.
Could it be for you? There’s really no evidence that it’s for him at all when he thinks about it objectively, and he really wouldn’t put it past a few of the other people on the team to hang it up as an excuse to see you flustered, or some setup to an elaborate prank, something he knew you’d been victim to more than once.
Almost all of which were headed by the same person.
“Fucking Wilson,” he grumbles under his breath, spinning on his heel to head to the training room and confront the man in question, before promptly rocking back on his other foot to prevent himself from knocking straight into you.
“Sorry!” You squeaked in surprise at the sudden movement and proximity, hand shooting out to grab his arm in an attempt to steady him if he needed it.
He didn’t, but he wobbled a bit longer than necessary to enjoy the feeling of your hand on the plates of his arm.
While Stark and Banner had made some improvements to the limb that HYDRA gave him until a new, upgraded prosthetic could be completed, he was still limited to the basic sensations of pressure and temperature along the surface.
It made his heart swell every time you touched his left arm, knowing that you weren’t afraid of it and embraced it as just another part of him. Despite this, he really wished you had grabbed his right, just so he could enjoy the contact of your skin on his.
“That was my fault, I should have heard you coming,” he managed to get out, the slight lift of your brows and the hint of blush spreading across your cheeks equal parts humorous and sweet, as your wide eyes flitted across his form to make sure he was securely planted before slowly releasing your grip.
Would it be too obvious if I just tipped forward?
“Didn’t know I had what it takes to sneak up on a super-soldier. What did Sam do?” You questioned, slipping back into your easy banter with a small smile.
“Oh, right. I’m actually not sure if it was him yet but um...” he trailed off, foregoing completing his statement in favor of simply pointing above them.
You quirked a brow at him before tilting your head back and shifting your gaze to the ceiling.
If your expression before had been humorous, this one was simply priceless.
The blush erupted with renewed force across your cheeks with all the grace of paint splashed across a canvas, lips parting at the sudden drop of your jaw, eyes blinking owlishly before they shifted to focus on him again.
This time he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter that came out of him, smacking his left hand over his mouth, the slight sting of the impact a punishment for possibly offending you.
“Is that...mistletoe?” You asked slowly, looking back and forth between him and the bundle.
“Yes.”
“In November?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And you think Sam put it there because...?” You trailed off.
“Well, uh, this hallway is just you, me, and him. I highly doubt it was put there because of me, and he pranks you all the time. He just seemed like a logical option,” he explains lamely, realizing how weak his logic is when forced to voice it out loud.
“That makes sense, and it probably was Sam, but it’s uh—“ you start, peering over your shoulder at the end of the hallway— “it’s not for the reason you think,” you finish, your voice lowering a bit as you fiddle with the bracelet on your wrist, a habit he noticed you had a tendency to do when you were nervous.
“Okay, well, what do you think is the reason he has to hang it up?” He decides on asking, the direct approach seeming like the quickest and most effective way to find answers to the question literally hanging above his head.
“He— Well we—“ you attempt to answer, eyes darting to look anywhere but his face, “We were talking about the holidays a few days ago, right? And I really love Christmas, it’s probably my favorite holiday. So we were exchanging stories, things we like about the season. At some point I, um, I mentioned that I had never been kissed under the mistletoe, and that it was on my bucket list. He’s the only person that knows that, I think, so, yeah. It’s probably because of me.”
By the end of your rant the words are coming out in a rush, and you finally manages to meet his eyes again, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, the soft jingle of your charm bracelet drifting in the space between them.
His brain stops functioning.
Not really, he knows what that feels like, but it’s his turn to look dumbly between you and the bunch as he processes your confession.
It’s probably the most endearing thing he’s ever heard you say, and the warm feeling blooming in his chest creeps up the back of his neck in a way that is in no way unpleasant.
What you told him was also in no way an invitation, and he doesn’t even think he’s worthy of taking away an opportunity like that from you, but it doesn’t stop the image of your body pressed against his from pushing to the front of his mind, and the tingle in his neck turns into a burning electric current, shooting straight down his spine to rest in a roiling boil in his belly.
He realizes he’s still staring at you.
“Bucky?” You asks quietly, looking like you want to melt right through the floor and he could kick himself for putting that doubt in your head.
“Yes, yeah, right. I would say that’s sweet of him but uh, I doubt he did it with pure intentions.”
You huff out a laugh and he feels a bit better for relieving at least a bit of your tension.
“Yeah, well, he’s probably making fun of me for being one of the only people that hasn’t done it. He thinks it’s mostly for kids,” you concede with another self-deprecating laugh.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he reassures you quickly, stepping closer to place a hand on your upper arm, startling himself with his own sudden movement, smile growing when you relax into the contact, “I haven’t either,” he adds on.
Your head snaps up to look at him so fast that he’s momentarily concerned about your neck.
“Really?” You asks incredulously, searching his face like you’ll be able to spot the lie.
“As far as I can remember. I always spent the Christmas season with Steve and his Ma or my sisters, eating more popcorn than stringing it,” he confirms, chuckling at the memory.
“I thought you were a player in your day,” you tease, gently pulling your lip between your teeth as you grin at him.
“I might’a been,” he concedes, deciding to take the risk and trail his hand down your arm to grab your own, carefully holding it and checking your expression for any sign of discomfort, “but I spent the most wonderful time of the year with the most important people in my life, and if I had a girl I think I really would’a enjoyed the sweet and simple things.”
The smile you gave him nearly took his breath away. It crinkled the corner of your eyes and shone brightly enough to compete with the star on the top of the Rockefeller Tree.
And in that moment it was just for him.
You slowly reach up with your free hand and brush the loose hair behind his ear, palm resting on his cheek with a tender swipe of your thumb.
“Bucky?”
“Mm?” He hums lightly, almost scared to break the moment as he leans into your touch.
“It’s a bit early but, will you kiss me under the mistletoe?”
The warmth in his chest explodes with the strength of a supernova, pulsing heat licking across every inch of him so hot he’s worried he’ll burn you where you’re connected.
He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss on your knuckles before guiding it to caress his other cheek, resting his own hands on your waist and the small of your back, closing the last bit of space between you with a gentle tug.
“Nothing would make me happier, doll.”
He watches the way your eyes flutter shut, wanting to memorize every second of this moment before letting his own close.
There is no rush, the press of your lips is languid and soft and even better than he could have ever hoped for. It’s not a kiss of desire, the embrace isn’t hurried and needy, it’s an acknowledgment and acceptance between them and says all of the words they haven’t gotten a chance to express yet.
He’s not sure how much time has passed when they pull apart, but it feels like no time at all and he already wants to sweep you away and continue for as long as you’ll indulge him.
With one last peck on your lips, he presses his forehead to yours, maintaining the contact that he had been yearning for so long.
“We might need to get Sam a fruit basket or something,” you say.
“Maybe. But he can wait till Christmas.”