1934
The first time happens in Bucky's ma's kitchen and it's Bucky's little sister Becca's fault, really.
They're sixteen and Steve's still convinced he's gonna get that growth spurt, still kinda cares about being smaller than the other guys who all got so much taller and broader over the long hot summer of '34. Summer died leaving the heartland full of dust and food prices through the roof. Steve's just old enough to notice things, like Ma stretching out the soup just a bit further and the fact there's less work down the docks for the locals again this year. It's gonna be a cold, wet Christmas but no snow. Steve can tell Ma's pleased about that, doesn't care about the postcards, just doesn't want Steve's asthma playing up even worse than it does the rest of the year. Nothing worse than a chest infection for Christmas and there's a lot of it going around. It's why Steve ends up with the Barnes' for Christmas Eve that year. Ma's working the graveyard at the hospital, keeping a nurses vigil even when she doesn't have to keep one over Steve. He knows she's grateful for the hours, he's old enough to know that art school scholarship isn't gonna cover everything. Old enough to know that him not being able to work the docks like the other boys next summer is gonna hit even harder for a widow than it does for the larger families.
Bucky's not got huge like the Thompson boys up the hall, but he's got a lot bigger than Steve. Steve's old enough to notice that, too. He's still busy trying not to care but he can't help but see it, all the same. Somehow he feels even smaller next to Bucky, for the first time in forever. By Christmas, Bucky's finally figured out how to shave without cutting himself to ribbons, something Steve had to show him, he's always had a softer hand with that sorta thing. He fills out his rough cotton shirts like a man, not a boy, and his arms are nothing but tight corded muscle from working the docks all summer while Steve was drawing. His skin still has the softest hint of sun, the hairs on his arms still almost golden where his sleeves are rolled up. Steve tries not to compare. Knows it doesn't matter, not to Bucky and not to him. Knows it shouldn't matter. Steve would argue 'til he's blue in the face that even the little guy has something to offer. It's just harder, when he's the little guy in question.
Even Becca's got bigger than Steve this year, she's only fifteen and she's got a job. That's how it's Becca's fault, that first time. She's working at the florist shop, mostly helping out the back getting the big hotel orders ready overnight. But the Jewish couple who own the place are nice folks and they send her home with some surplus stock they won't need for decorations. Holly with twisted twigs, baby's breath that's gone a bit yellow, and some mistletoe without the berries. It's nice. Steve doesn't think much of it, at the time.
Steve's helping her set it all up, mostly following orders even though he got told to help because he's meant to have an artist's eye. Or something. The main room looks great. He's just pinned the mistletoe where Becca's told him to. In a corner in the kitchen, near where his dad keeps the sherry and the whiskey. She thinks it's the best place to catch her parents, but in the end it catches Steve. Bucky walks in from God knows where just as Steve is getting down off the kitchen chair and trying to find his balance.
"Whatch'a doin, punk?" Bucky asks, grinning and glowing, easy as you please.
"Um, nothing," Steve finds himself stammering, not really sure what he's denying or why.
"He's puttin' up the mistletoe, Buck," Becca says, reminding them both that she's there at all. "Which you're now under. So you gotta kiss. For luck."
She's watching them with a shrewd look that makes Steve feel even more awkward than before.
"That ain't how it works," Bucky snaps, tone the kind of sharp it only gets with his sisters. Bucky's fist clenches and something in Steve's chest gets tight too. Tight, and scared, and maybe just a little bit offended. Which don't make a lick of sense, but there it is.
"Sure it is," Becca drawls back. "No one else around, so you gotta. It's all kinds'a bad luck if you don't."
"Becca," Bucky says, like a warning. He's flushed, just a bit, a blush staining his throat at the collar of his shirt. Steve has the strangest urge to touch the skin and see if it's warm. Warmer that the rest of him.
"It's alright, Buck." Steve's not even sure what's alright, or why he says it, but he does. He hates it when Bucky and Becca fight, and he hates this even more. Whatever this is. Feels a bit like rejection.
Bucky's bright blue eyes snap back to Steve's, snake quick and an anxious kinda tense. "Yeah?" he says, Steve can't place that tone. Some kind of surprised, and maybe just a little molten. It makes it hard to breath, when Bucky talks like that, this close and that intense.
"Yeah," Steve says and shrugs, looks away to save himself from burning from it. "You know, 'less you're scared, or sumthing?" Steve can't help it. No matter what kind of awkward this is. He's still Steve, and Bucky's still Bucky. He can't quite resist making it a challenge. They're both a little reckless, like that.
Bucky laughs. Relife. Like they're back on stable ground. Steve might have liked it better shaky, now it's not.
It's over before it starts, that first time. Bucky sweeps in and Kisses Steve on the cheek. Hot and dry, but a little longer than he has to. Bucky's left hand comes up unbidden and rests gentle, a tiny bit coaxing, on Steve's jaw. It's his fingers that burn the most. It's the feeling of Bucky's hand on his face as much as his lips on Steve's cheek, that keep Steve awake at night for years after. Heat floods Steve's cheeks and he's got no ancient summer tan to hide it.
"Happy Christmas, Steve," Bucky whispers, his breath on Steve's cheek is hotter and lasting longer than the kiss itself.
Steve shivers, because that felt like some kind of promise. He doesn't know what to do with it but he's pretty sure he wants to find out.
1937
The second time, it isn't such a shock. Not really. But it means a lot more. This time, Steve knows they've been building up to something for a while. He's figured out that the way he watches Bucky isn't what you'd call normal. He knows that feeling in his gut when Bucky makes time with yet another dame isn't a normal kind of jealous. He's pretty sure Bucky knows too, which is all kinds of terrifyingly good. It's got harder to ignore since his Ma died the year before, and him and Bucky moved in together. He's not sure he wants to stop, though. Not when Bucky looks at him the way he does some mornings. Like he knows what Steve's thinking, and maybe he's thinking it too. Like it might be worth the risk.
This time, it's Bucky that brings home the mistletoe. Steve never does find out where it came from.
The sun sets early this time of year and the electric bulb in the kitchen isn't much to draw by, but Steve's trying anyway. He's got a deadline for the paper and another for the dirty mags both before the end of the year.
Bucky strolls in, taking up all the space and all Steve's air. Like he always does. It takes Steve a moment to see it, the dark green leaves and few white berries in Bucky's hands. He's fidgeting, not quite nerves but not as confident as usual either.
Steve doesn't ask what it is.
He knows what it is. They both do. There's no one else there in their cold little bed sitter, there's no one else to know. There's no one else to kiss. This time it's a promise and something like a threat. An offer and an offering. A challenge. Eventually, everything always is with Steve and Bucky. They're reckless, like that.
Steve thinks he knows what to expect, but he doesn't, not really. Bucky strides across the room once he knows he's got Steve's attention (as if there was any doubt of that). He drops the innocent sprig on the table, right on top of Steve's cartoons. Neither of them watches it, they're too busy looking at each other. Steve stands up, seems like the thing to do.
They don't speak. Talking might make it real.
Steve has seen Bucky kiss a lot of girls. More than kiss, more often than he should've, if he's honest. This kiss is nothing like any of those. It's not even like the time in Bucky's ma's kitchen. There's no hesitation. Bucky isn't gentle with Steve, never has been and knows he doesn't need to be. It's like Bucky knows that it'd hurt Steve worse to be treated like he might break than breaking ever would. He lets Steve lead, even though he started it. It's hot and heavy, 0 to 60 in a breath. Steve takes everything he can get. He always has. There's no pause, no tease, no more waiting. Teeth and tongue and something aching under Steve's skin. Speeding pulse and beating heart, tangled limbs and crushing, crashing, burning kisses. More than half of that is all Steve. It's been simmering in his blood too long, they've been edging on this for too long. When Steve takes a dive or a swing, he does it full force, this is just another stunt. He does it with everything he's got, and he drags Bucky down with him, still swinging.
This is better than fighting. Steve feels alive for the first time in years. There's no going back, and neither of them cares.
1943
The trenches aren't exactly what you'd call romantic. In the first war the men on the Western Front used to lay down arms and have fights with snow instead of shell fire on Christmas. There's no such amnesty this far behind enemy lines.
Steve's on watch, and he would have forgotten all about the date if Morita hadn't reminded them all with a grumpy "Merry Christmas, assholes," before bed.
He's not surprised when Bucky drops into place next to him. Steve lets his sleepless best friend lean on his shoulder even though he should order his Sergeant back to bed. Bucky hasn't been sleeping, he's been edgy ever since the rescue mission. It's been a month and some nights Steve's not sure he brought all of Bucky back. They haven't touched the way Steve wants to. Not in or out of uniform. Steve's not even sure Bucky wants him like this, and wouldn't that be just swell. Everyone else finally notices him and the one fella he wants looking misses him scrawny.
It isn't even mistletoe but the moment he sees it, Steve gets the idea. It's some kind of weed but the flowers almost look like white berries and when he looks up there's something of his Bucky looking back at him. The circles under his eyes are still too dark but there's that old challenge in there too. It makes Steve's pulse race. That weed is a promise, like every Christmas kiss before it. Bucky might be broken, but he isn't gone. Steve might be bigger, but he's still Steve.
"Buck-" steve tries to speak but Bucky cuts him off with a mumbled "shush".
He's right. This isn't Brooklyn. They've always been reckless, but not that reckless.
Bucky doesn't waste any time. Now he knows where he's going and what he's doing he's in Steve's lap, sniper quiet but Brooklyn brash. He tastes like K-rations and army issue cigarettes. He tastes like home and hope and everything worth fighting for. It's reckless but it's worth it.
1944
Christmas in newly liberated Paris is a thing to behold. Steve isn't looking at the city, though. He isn't looking at the skyline or the soldiers or the civilians dancing in the streets.
He's looking at Bucky flirting with some French girl, her in broken English and him with even worse French. Bucky's always looked good in the spotlight of some dame's attention. He's a razzle dazzle kinda guy. Looks better on a stage than Steve ever could.
The party moves on without them, something about fireworks, and the girl goes too. Steve's not that disappointed, because he gets Bucky looking back at him which is just as good as watching him from the corners. Bucky's snagged a bottle of champagne, doesn't bother with glasses just plants himself in the chair next to Steve and offers him the bottle.
"Did you even look where you're sitting?" Bucky asks when he knows Steve's taking a sip of the fizzy, nose tickling wine.
Steve puts the bottle down and glances around like an idiot until Bucky points. He knows exactly where he's sitting. Bucky's not the only one who can play this game. At least it's real mistletoe this year.
1944 is a victory kiss. Passionate and dangerous. Warm and heady, champagne and chocolate flavored. Full of wanton promises. Steve thinks this might be his favorite Christmas kiss yet. Bucky smiles against Steve's cheek when they pull apart. Mostly just to breathe. France is free, they'll be back in the thick of it within a week, but tonight they have an officers' room to themselves and a lot of time to make up for. For once, it doesn't feel reckless. It just feel right.
2014
There's a sprig of mistletoe on his doorstep. He's old enough to know better, but he doesn't. It hurts to see. Hope always does, these days.
2016
Wakanda is temperate even in winter, but what really throws him is the way all the buildings are temperature controlled. A combination of highly advanced technology and perfectly balanced architectural design. There's cats on everything and they don't celebrate Christmas. But Steve doesn't know where else to be on the 25th of December if it isn't with Bucky.
He doesn't get searched when he gets off the Quinjet, never has. The mistletoe is still made of plastic anyway. He doesn't want to risk an international incident and Wakanda's biodiversity just for the sake of his own sentimentality. He's not that reckless anymore.
Doesn't matter what it's made of. What matters is what it means.
This time it's more than a promise. It's a vow. This won't be the last time. Simple as that. They've been through too much for that. End of the line ain't here yet. It's a simple kind of promise, but it's the only one they need.