Whew! This is a long one. But I wanted to keep all of the festivities together. More questions will be answered, and more mysteries will be solved... but for now, let's just bask in some holiday fluff! Thank you, as always, for reading... and Merry Christmas!
For as long as he's known her – and, what's it been, four years now? – Bucky's been equal parts annoyed and impressed by her unmitigated obstinance. Whether it's simply holding her ground during an argument, waiting it out until he finally tires and gives in. Or refusing – out of principle – to let anything slide at work, insisting that the highest standard always be met. Bucky has to admit that Tessa's ability to simply never give up – irritating though it may be – really is quite admirable.
Her tenacity is what got the appliance outlet to knock a few hundred off their new fridge after she refused to pay the quoted – yet still heavily discounted – price for a floor model. There's not a doubt in anyone's mind that the reason she was made head of an entire division at one of the most prestigious science and tech firms in the world – at age 30, mind you – is because of her unyielding pursuit of excellence and unmatched ability to push herself beyond the limit. And, perhaps most importantly to him, had she not put her foot down and told him to simply get over it after that one awful night a few years back – when he attacked and very nearly killed her during a night terror – they likely wouldn't still be together today.
Not to mention, he's 100% certain that her stubbornness is what kept her from caving and giving Lobe what he wanted. And that refusal to give in, undoubtably, saved the lives of countless mutants.
But that doggedness is also the reason they tortured her so brutally for so long. It's the reason that most of her memories of the past four months sit tightly packed away in a deep, dark corner of her mind, hazy and untouched. And it's the reason that her body is now so weak and slow and pained. So… broken.
So, yes, sometimes her determination is admirable, certainly. But – and Bucky just can't help but roll his eyes even thinking about it – sometimes it's just plain dumb pigheaded nonsense.
Case in point, refusing to admit that frostbite so deep any normal person would've lost their toes should keep her from being on her feet. "You're being ridiculous, you know," he chides, accusatory brow raised high as he watches Tessa's face pinch in pain. She shifts her weight to her other foot, then back to the first, trying desperately to balance on her heels while white-knuckling the thick brass bar on the elevator wall. He smirks and snorts out a laugh, muttering something along the lines of, "Worst patient ever."
Tessa hisses as her pinky tow once again hits the ground, the slightest scrape along the surface sending a quick shot of burning pain up her foot. "M'not a patient anymore," she pouts defiantly. "I'm released."
The elevator chimes as they hit their floor, doors sliding wide open. "If the doctor says you should stay off your feet," Bucky intones, taking a step forward, "then you're damn well gonna stay off your feet."
Before she can even catch her balance well enough to begin the hobble out into the hall, he wraps a single arm around her waist and jerks her up to his chest. She lets out a small eep as he tugs her close and slips his metal arm beneath her legs. "This is so embarrassing," she laments, bashfully tucking her face into the crook of his neck.
He's at their apartment door in just a few short strides, and in that briefest of moments, he feels her settle comfortably into him. "You love it," he mutters with a short chuckle, doing all he can to remain lighthearted and cheery, while cringing internally at how utterly fragile she feels in his arms. As much as he wants her home, he can't help but wonder if it's really for the best, considering just how thin and frail she still is.
But they are home. After four and a half months, he finally gets to bring his wife home. And he can't deny the deep and delightful warmth that pools in his gut at that thought. He leans close to the door and easily flicks it open without needing to reposition her at all, and carries her over the threshold.
Again, she rails about this being humiliating, her words soft and muffled as she buries her face in his neck. But as soon as they enter the apartment, the low rumble of Nat King Cole seeping into her ears, her head pops up and the whining stops. She looks at her husband with a furrowed brow and suddenly sniffs at the air. "What's that smell?"
Before she's even able to turn in his arms, or crane her neck around to see, a deep voice sounds from her periphery. Sam pops around the corner from their kitchen – a poinsettia-lined apron tied loosely around his waist – and says simply, "Gingerbread." Her wide eyes connect with his and he gives her a playful wink. "Don't worry, I made oatmeal chocolate chip too. Just thought the gingerbread would be more festive."
She pulls in a short breath – something just shy of a surprised chuckle – and shifts in Bucky's arms, turning to take in the activity across the room as Sam disappears back into the kitchen. There's a tree in the corner, lined with brightly colored, twinkling lights, several beautifully wrapped packages littering the floor beneath. Along their mantle, a giant evergreen garland is wound around the bases of thick pillar candles. And three large red stockings hang down over the fireplace. She squints at the delicate cursive writing on them, struggling to read Doc, Edward, and Thick Thighs.
She barks out a laugh – bright and beaming and buoyant – just as Bucky deposits her on the couch. "What…" she starts, smiling, blushing face slowly turning to take in the rest of the apartment, "is this?"
Out on the balcony, she spies Clint and Wanda stringing more brightly colored lights in the freezing cold. Or, she assumes it's freezing, because Wanda is hopping from foot to foot and huffing hot breath onto her fingers as she orders Clint to unwind – and then rewrap – a length of lights to her liking. Even from the sofa – and through the thick-paned glass of the door – Tessa can see the archer's annoyed eyeroll, and it brings another soft giggle to her lips.
"This," Bucky intones, a hint of exasperation to his voice, "is… overkill." She looks up at him to see an irritated catch to his jaw as he too surveys the flamboyantly festive living room. His eyes light onto the stockings, see Thick Thighs in deep burgundy stitching, and squeeze painfully shut as he takes a moment to compose himself.
She watches him with absolute delight, a joyful smile splitting her face.
Natasha sweeps into the room, presumably straight from the kitchen, though Tessa had been so taken with relishing in Bucky's annoyance, that she seems to her to simply appear from nowhere. "You said to make it Christmassy," she singsongs, hip checking Bucky out of his stupor and handing him a steaming mug. She plops down onto the couch beside Tessa and offers her the other cup, the rich, sweet smell of hot chocolate wafting up to meet her. "Bruce said not to add any bourbon," she whispers conspiratorially. "So I only did a splash."
"I heard that," Bucky says as he leans over and swipes the mug just before Tessa's able to wrap her hands around it. He sets it on the table to her side – along with his own – and counters her exaggerated frown with a declaration of, "Steve's making soup. You can have soup."
"Damn super soldier hearing," Natasha mumbles. "How do you live with him?"
Tessa shakes her head solemnly. "I can't get away with anything." And twists around to lean precariously over the arm of the couch, snatching back the mug. Once turned, she's able to see into the kitchen and an overwhelming feeling of warmth – of comfort and love and joy – spills into her as she watches Steve bent over the stove, laughing maniacally as he blocks Sam's path to the oven.
Bucky glances down at her with a raised brow. "You get away with literally everything," he says, his irritation quickly melting away as he takes in the wonderous expression on her face. He too feels that same warmth spread within him… though – Christmas decorations be damned – he's simply taken with watching his girl smile. But there's something around here that he's pretty sure will bring an even bigger smile to her face. His brow furrows as he looks quickly around the room. "Where's the cat?"
Tessa perks up immediately, her astonished stupor fleeing in an instant as she twists further around on the sofa to peruse the room. "Eddie?" she calls out, leaning over the cushions and nearly kicking Natasha in the face as she moves. "Where's my sweet little babycakes?"
The glass door to the balcony slides open, Clint and Wanda spilling in from the cold. "Somebody call for me?" the archer asks, still clinging tightly to his coat and letting out a sudden, sharp shiver.
"Eddie," Tessa corrects, frown taking over as her fruitless search from the couch continues.
Clint scoffs. "Ah, yeah. He ran off after Nat and Wanda tried to dress him up."
Bucky turns to Natasha and levels her with a threatening stare. "You dressed up my cat?"
She shrugs and rises from the sofa. "No. He ran off before we could get the Santa hat tied on."
"For the two seconds before he lost his mind and started hissing," Wanda chimes in before taking Natasha's place beside Tessa, "he was the cutest thing I've ever seen." She curls her chilled body into her friend's side, drawn to the heat radiating off of her. "You're so warm," she mutters as the two wrap their arms around each other and settle back into the couch cushions.
Bucky grumbles as he looms above them, then mutters something about torture and retreats to the bedroom to seek Eddie out.
Tessa's eyes bounce back over to the tree, dripping with brightly colored orbs and shimmering snowflakes. She takes in the star on top, glowing in the low light of the room. "You guys did all this?" she asks, her voice more than a bit timid. "For me?"
Clint huffs a final breath on his hands, speedily rubbing them together, as he looks down at her with a crooked smile. "'Course we did," he chirps before dropping down to the couch and forcing himself in between her and the arm. "Ooo," he hums, wrapping an icy hand around the back of her neck. "You are warm."
She lets out a high-pitched squeal from the shock of cold, one that swiftly turns into a torrent of delighted giggles as she works to shake him off. "Here," she says a bit breathlessly as she hands him her mug of hot chocolate. "Try that."
He wraps his freezing digits around the still-steaming mug and brings it to his lips. "Don't mind if I do," he utters before taking a long, lingering sip.
Tessa's mouth falls agape. "I meant you could warm up your hands, not drink all of my cocoa!"
He merely shrugs and takes another long pull, bright shining eyes looking over at her before offering a mirthful wink. A large, metal hand then falls to his shoulder, giving him a quick tap. "You're in my spot," Bucky says as he reaches down and pries the mug from the man's hands.
Clint frowns and lets out a disgruntled grunt as he slowly pulls himself up from the warm spot on the sofa. "Couldn't find him?" he asks once he and Bucky officially swap positions.
"I found him," he utters, as he squirms into place beside his wife. Then, with a bit of a bite, "He's huddled – terrified – under the bed."
Natasha smirks. "What's the matter, you couldn't pull him out? Don't have super soldier reach?"
He glares ruthlessly at her, simultaneously bringing a gingerbread man up to his mouth. "Get out of my house," he deadpans, looking her dangerously in the eye as he bites off the head of the cookie.
"Rude," she mutters, crooked smile on her face.
The two continue their intense – yet oddly playful – stare off until Steve comes in and announces that, "The soup's ready whenever you want some." He steps over to Natasha and lightly grabs her by the elbow to lead her out of the apartment.
"Guess that's our cue to go," Clint mutters, brow raised high as he offers a hand to Wanda.
The young woman gives Tessa another quick squeeze and lets Clint pull her up from the couch, pausing mid-rise when Tessa grabs at her arm and asks, voice sweet and sincere, "You're not staying?"
Wanda merely smiles down at her. "You need your rest," she says in a motherly tone that belies her youth.
Sam tosses his apron onto the breakfast bar and scoffs. "We need some rest. We've been taking care of your man for months," he announces, following Steve and Natasha out of the apartment. He stops at the door, leaning back into the room as he states, mischievous grin on his face, "Now that you're home, he's your responsibility. We all need a break."
Clint chuckles under his breath and leans down to give Tessa a peck on the cheek. "Stark's got something planned for tomorrow. We'll see you then." He saunters away, ushering the others out the door with him, and tosses over his shoulder, "Be sure to get to some sleep tonight, or Santa won't come!"
The door closes heavily behind him, leaving the heavenly smelling apartment suddenly silent. Tessa shifts around on the couch and presses her back into Bucky's chest, leaning her head on his shoulder. She lets out a long, deflating sigh and pulls his metal arm down from the back of the sofa, bringing his hand to her lap. "They think it's Christmas," she intones, a hint of melancholy to her voice.
His free arm wraps tightly around her middle, tugging her closer to him, and he nuzzles into her hair. "It is Christmas."
She twists in his grip and narrows her eyes at him, cocking her head suspiciously. "I'm pretty sure it's not."
He raises a single brow, bright blue eyes positively twinkling as he asks, "Did you really think that we'd celebrate Christmas without you?" She turns slowly back around and settles into him, another deep sigh emanating from her chest as her eyes focus on the lights wound perfectly around the railing on the balcony. Bucky tugs her closer still, and he leans in to press a kiss to her crown. "I'm glad you're home," he whispers into her hair.
"Me too," she mutters, her voice heady with a sudden onslaught of emotion. "I'm sorry I missed Christmas."
He shakes his head behind her, his nose lightly swiping at her dark hair. "You didn't," he says matter-of-factly. "You're right here."
They sit huddled together on the couch for five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, neither moving nor speaking, each just getting lost in the rhythm of the other's heartbeat, the echo of each soft breath, and the barley there tempo of Christmas classics playing in the background. Tessa's about to drift off, her body – and mind – more relaxed than they've been in so damn long. But just as her eyes begin to flutter shut, the softest little thud sounds at the opposite end of the couch. Her eyes blink open and a sharp breath catches in her lungs. "Eddie," she calls out, her voice hitting somewhere between a joyous cry and a frantic plea.
Bucky releases his hold on her just enough to allow her to lean forward, a single, cautious hand reaching out towards the gray tabby. "Look, Ed," he murmurs softly as he taps gently, invitingly on her thigh. "Mama's home."
Eddie slowly makes his way over, carefully sniffing at her fingertips before leaning in and rubbing his head along the back of her hand. "He got so big," she mutters dreamily, and Bucky's chest tightens at the sound of tears in her voice. But then she laughs – light and airy – as the cat saunters over and climbs into her lap, rubbing up against Bucky's metal hand before settling in and kneading at her thigh. "What have you been feeding him?"
He shrugs, gently swiping along the cat's head, tenderly tracing over his ears with his metal index finger. "Cat food."
"Cat food," she repeats wistfully as she too strokes the tiny gray head. "And what did you eat?" she asks, an accusatory note to her otherwise teasing tone. She shifts a bit in his hold, looks at him from the corner of her eye. "The whole time I was gone, they took care of you, huh?"
Another shrug, but no words.
"And then they set this all up for us?"
He nods and pulls in a long breath – has to in order to choke down the emotion he feels building in his chest. "Made us soup and cookies too," he says, gazing down at her. "You hungry?"
She shakes her head and turns back to the now steadily purring cat in her lap. "All the time I spent… angry… and sad… grieving for my family," she drones softly, fingers absently patting along Ed's back. "And look at the family that was here all along."
He gives her a not-so-quick squeeze, his tightened arms lingering in their hold as he once again buries his face in her hair. "Yeah," he breathes out, a simple acquiescence.
"Sometimes I feel so damn… unlucky." She brings her hand up to Bucky's bicep, tenderly rubs a line up and down the soft flannel covering his strong, toned arm. "Not now, though."
"Nope," he whispers near her ear before placing an enduring kiss at her temple. "Not now."
000
They don't stay up much longer, the sun setting not long after everyone leaves, allowing the quiet cold of the winter's evening to seep gradually into their bones.
Sure, Tessa's still recovering. Her hormone levels had only just started to even out, temperature holding steady around 99. Bruce had sent them home with a thermometer, ordering that Bucky continue to monitor her temperature ever few hours. And of course, he'd be up to check on her first thing in the morning, ready to take more blood and keep up the tests. But he had decided that she was stable enough to be released into her husband's care. So long as she continued to rest and recover. The mere fact that she didn't argue with the word rest, and that she didn't balk about receiving orders or refuse any of his stipulations was clear evidence to Bucky of just how weak she really was.
So it's no surprise to him when she drifts off to sleep in his arms by the time six o'clock rolls around.
But the truth is, he's tired too. So damn tired. He'd been through months of sleepless nights – never able to drop off deep enough, lest he might miss the buzz of his phone or a knock at the door – and restless days – even when no news came and no evidence could be gathered, and all he felt capable of doing was wandering listlessly down the halls of the compound. He actually dozed off in the middle of meetings and debriefs – more than a time or two – waking up alone in an oversized chair in an empty conference room only to run off and berate an equally exhausted Steve for letting him drift to begin with.
He had thought, that first night that he had her back, his wife safely swaddled in his arms, that he'd finally be able to sleep. Even in such a small bed inside a hospital room on the locked-down med unit – locked down for reasons he still can't quite confront – he assumed he would drift peacefully and fully into a deep slumber. But it seemed that his body hadn't yet received the memo that Tessa was back. It behaved just like it had nearly every other night of the past four months, lulling him into a short, dreamless sleep, lasting no more than an hour or two before jerking him awake and leaving him to linger in an exhausted twilight for the remainder of the night.
The same had occurred every night since.
But now, tonight… tonight would be different. It had been so damn long since he'd shared his bed with her. And the moment he carries her into their room and tenderly tucks her into bed, he's filled with the overwhelming desire to sink down into the sheets alongside her. So what if there are cookies still sitting out on the counter? So what if a stocking with Thick Thighs is still hanging from his mantle? So what if he's hungry and Steve's mom's famous chicken soup is calling his name? All he really wants – needs – right now is to curl up beside his wife and sleep.
And sleep he does… for hours. Not just one or two hours… he sleeps for hours. Deeply, soundly, dead to the world. It's the kind of sleep he only experiences following a long, arduous mission, the kind of op that taxes not just the body, nor even the mind, but the soul. It's a sleep that's merely a precursor to the comfortable, restorative sleep he truly needs. Nothing more than a first step in his attempt to finally find rest. His body shuts down to slumber, nurturing him physically, but his mind remains whirring, violently spinning in circles as he dreams.
It's nearly one in the morning when Tessa stirs, a soft whimpering at her side pulling her slowly from her own rather deep sleep. She rolls over onto her side towards him and lays a gentle hand on his back. His shirt is soaked in sweat, his heart thrumming madly into her palm as he twitches. "Shhh," she breathes out, scooting closer and wrapping herself around him. Her right hand slides beneath his shirt, up to the center of his chest where her finger begins to absently stroke along the line of a long-healed scar that only she can feel.
He moans lowly, almost growls, and gives a small buck as something in his dream causes him to jump. Her eyes blink shut then, palm flattening over his rapidly beating heart. And she pushes the smallest bit of soothing energy into him, gradually building the volume of comfort and love until his breathing steadies and his pulse begins to calm.
Slowly, he wakes, blinking his eyes languidly open – once, twice – and working to get his bearings. He sees the moon shining brightly outside the window, the wide-open curtains allowing hints of blinking, colored lights to wash in from the balcony off the living room. He lets out a long-held breath, and as his chest expands to pull in more air, he notices the small, warm hand parked just above his heart. He reaches up to cup his fingers over hers, resting his palm atop the sweaty T-shirt, feeling her knuckles rolling just beneath. He slowly turns to face her, easily making out her sweet, familiar face in the light cast by the moon and twinkling Christmas lights.
She doesn't have to ask what he was dreaming about. It's written all over his face, in the reflective sheen of his eyes. She frowns at him for a moment, an expression to mirror his. And without thinking, he raises his metal hand to her face, presses the pad of his thumb to the center of her forehead to smooth out the worried crease.
She smiles then, light and loving, and locks onto his glistening eyes. "I'm here," she tells him simply, her words filling the space between them with a dense, reassuring energy. She scoots closer and tucks herself against him, nuzzling her face into his chest. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, holds her so damn tight, and tries not to cry. "I'm right here," she whispers into him as silent tears trickle down his cheeks and drip into her hair.
"I know," he mutters, voice thick and catching.
She pulls back a bit and looks up at him, takes in the deep, mournful energy still radiating from his every pore. "I came back," she tries again, uncoiling her arm from around him and instead reaching up to run her fingers through his sweat-laden hair. "I'll always come back to you."
He gives a tight nod and pulls in a stifled breath, nearly choking on a sob. She pulls herself up just a bit, settles him into the crook of her neck, and gently scratches at his scalp as she waits for him to let go and weep into her.
And he does. He clutches her tightly as hot, silent tears roll off of his gently quaking body. He cries for her… for all the grief and regret and pain she's already gone through. And for all that he knows is still to come. And he cries for himself, for the broken man he was in her absence, the one who's just barely been cobbled back together again. And he cries for them, for the happy couple, ripped apart while still in the tender throes of the honeymoon phase. For the sad, desperate, aching couple they are now, driven to cling almost maniacally to one another just to be assured that the other is still there.
He sees the footage of her being beaten and nearly killed – still playing, always playing – in the darkest corners of his mind. He hears her scream for him – the desperate shout starting in Scofield's voice but quickly morphing into her own, taking on a terrified, frantic tenor that echoes through his dreams. He feels her slight frame, jutting bones, pressed tightly against his chest. And he cries.
After a bit, his tears slow, then cease altogether. And he leans his face into her, nose pressing firmly against her neck. He pulls in a long, lingering breath, taking in her scent – hers despite still being clouded by foreign soaps and hospital antiseptic. It's still her, still his girl. His Tessa. His doll. His wife.
He nuzzles into her, overcome with the desire to be as close to her as possible, to smell her and taste her and be inside her. His lips part, teeth grazing along her tender flesh. He begins gently nipping at her collarbone, trailing soft, wet kisses down her shoulder, then back to the center of her neck. He hesitates only briefly, just long enough for a stilted breath to escape his lungs, before continuing down her chest.
Both of her hands are now buried deep in his hair, tugging slightly at the strands… longer than she remembers, but still so much shorter than she's used to. "It's okay," she says, breathes out into his hair as his lips still at the center of her breastbone. "It's okay," permission and encouragement in just two short words.
He leans into her, nearly rolling atop her as his arms tug her closer. His lips fall away and he drops his head, shakes it reticently against her breast. "No," he mutters. "You should go back to sleep."
She hooks her fingers around his short curls and hauls his head up just enough so that she can see the pain in his eyes – and the deep, intense desire. Then she ducks her head and kisses him… hard and deep and true. She splits open his lips, and swipes her tongue along his teeth, silently pleading with him to open up to her.
And he does. He carefully swings his left leg over her small body, pressing himself down into her just enough to let her feel his yearning, all while covering her mouth with his almost possessively. He pulls at her bottom lip, caresses her tongue with his, moans softly into her open mouth.
"Don't stop," she tells him between fevered kisses, as his fingers travel the length of her, sweeping along her hip to tug at the waistband of her leggings.
In between heated kisses – even as his hands, with a mind of their own, continue to caress her – he argues, both with her and with himself. "You need to rest. You shouldn't…"
His contending ceases as his mouth slides down once again to her clavicle, his words melting away as he trails his tongue along the length of the protruding bone. She lets out a small giggle, her fingers tightening in his hair as the delightful tickle sets off a shiver in her core. "I might not have a ton of stamina," she teases. "But I'm not gonna quit."
He pulls up to look at her, lips curling into a wide smile, corners of his eyes crinkling. "You need to carb load?" he asks, voice low and husky. "Want me to get you a cookie?"
She barks out a laugh, her head rolling back into the pillow. He watches her chuckle unabashedly beneath him, feels her wiggle her hip up into the heel of his hand, encouraging him to continue. He drops his lips back down to her neck, beaming into her when he feels the words vibrate up her throat. "You offering me a cookie for a fuck?"
He shakes his head in between kisses, telling her, with as much sincerity as he's ever been able to muster, "I don't want to fuck you."
"No?" she giggles again, squirming as her hands slowly pull out of his hair, fingers lightly drifting down his back, tickling along his spine in a way that sends shockwaves through him. "You want to make love to me?"
At that, his fingers dive inside of her, cutting off her teasing at the pass. "Damn right," he whispers into her neck, pulling the sweetest, most familiar squeak from her. "If you don't have the energy, tell me to stop." She bites down – hard – on the corner of her lip, but says nothing. He raises his head up to look into her lust-blown eyes. "But if you don't tell me to stop, I won't."
He curls his fingers inside of her and her hips buck at the touch. "Don't… don't stop."
000
As promised, Bruce pops by first thing in the morning, knocking on their door as they continue to sleepily curl their naked bodies into one another. "Tell him to go away," Bucky mumbles into the pillow, the order meant for Friday, who wakes them with the announcement of the doctor's arrival.
The AI responds simply with, "Dr. Banner says that he will Hulk out if you do not let him in."
"Ugh," Tessa moans, rolling out of Bucky's embrace. "I got it," she mutters lazily as she pulls herself upright and dangles her legs over the edge of the bed.
He's up in an instant, bolting across the bed to circle his arms around her middle and tug her back into the tangled nest of blankets and sheets. "Nope," he says over her delighted giggles. "Stay off those feet." He holds her to his chest for just a fraction of a second longer before dropping a wet kiss to her neck and climbing quickly out of bed.
He answers the door in nothing but a pair of sweats, arching an annoyed brow at the doctor as he waves him in without a word. "Wow," Bruce says, wide eyes taking in the Christmas decorations. "You really went all out."
"Wasn't me," he shakes his head before trotting into the kitchen to turn on the coffee. He flaps a hand absently through the air, towards the covered counters. "Have a cookie," he offers dully. "Or… twenty."
"Uh, thanks," he mutters, reaching down and grabbing a gingerbread man. "So," he starts, getting quickly interrupted by Tessa as she meanders down the short hall, positively drowning in Bucky's old, worn hoodie.
"Let's get this over with," she says, cringing as she awkwardly rolls onto her tender toes.
Bruce hurries to her side and slips an arm beneath her shoulder to help her the last few feet to the couch. "You're not supposed to be walking," he reprimands lowly.
Bucky peeks his head out of the kitchen. "And she damn well knows that," shooting chidingly from his lips.
She merely shrugs and turns to Bruce. "You don't want to go in there," she says, conspiratorial note to her voice as she tosses a thumb over her shoulder, back towards the bedroom. "Smells like sex in there."
"Gross," he mumbles, breaking into his pack and extracting a blood pressure cuff. He wraps it around her arm and looks up just in time to catch the amused sparkle in her eye, and the teasing wink. "I'm not going to tell whether you can or can't… do that," he says as he begins taking a reading. "But I will say that you're probably not ready to take on much strenuous activity yet."
She drops a rather indelicate snort, followed by an – as of late – uncharacteristic shiver. "I'm fine."
"Yeah," he mutters. "Haven't heard that enough lately. Also, your pressure's high."
She peers down at the reading on the cuff. "Psh. Barely. That's just what happens when you knock on my door at the ass crack of dawn."
"It's almost nine," he mutters distractedly.
She makes a move to stretch out and put her feet up on the coffee table… only to realize that there's nothing there to prop herself up on. "Uh, James?" she calls out as Bruce packs away the blood pressure cuff and pulls out the dreaded blood draw kit. "Where's the coffee table?"
He leans out of the doorway with a frown on his face, eyes catching Bruce's for just the briefest of moments. "I broke it," he mumbles quickly before ducking back into the kitchen.
"Broke it," she repeats, more to herself. But just as she's about to shout back to him, how? Bruce levels her with a warning stare and a slow shake of the head. "Okay," she murmurs to herself, drawing the word out awkwardly.
"How'd you sleep?" Bruce asks her as he busies himself with the blood draw.
She shrugs, eyes glued to the quickly filling vials. "Fine."
"Did you take anything?"
Bucky pops into the room just as the final vial is filled and snapped off. "She fell asleep pretty early," he answers for her, sidestepping the doctor before dropping down onto the couch beside Tessa. "And mostly slept through the night. Right?"
A sudden, deep yawn punctuates her response of, "Yeah. Didn't need any sleep aid."
Bruce pulls out a thermometer and sweeps the small contraption across her forehead. "Good," he mutters before squinting down at the reading. "97.4"
She tugs the thick sweatshirt sleeve back down – careful to avoid the new band aid in the crook of her arm post blood draw – and pulls the cuff over her cold fingers. "I was freezing when I woke up," she mutters, a concerned frown pulling at her features. "First time since getting back that I haven't felt… hot." She looks up at him with a worried scowl. "Think there could be a rebound effect?"
He shrugs and finishes packing everything up. "Maybe. But 97.4 is still normal." His eyes tick over to Bucky and take in his troubled grimace.
"It was still around 99 last night," he tells Bruce.
"When did you take my temperature?" Tessa asks, twisting around to face him.
"After I put you to bed. Bruce said to check it every few hours."
"That's creepy."
He raises a single brow at her. "Thought you liked it when I played doctor."
Bruce clears his throat purposefully and rises. "I should have the lab work back in an hour or so. If there are any abnormalities, I'll let you know. In the meantime, if your temp keeps dropping, or if anything else seems… off, have Friday call me."
She reaches out and grabs at his wrist before he can spin away. "Will you take me with you to the lab?" she asks in a cloying voice, wide puppy dog eyes boring into him. "Please?"
He stares down at her, utterly unmoved. "No."
"You haven't even been out of the hospital a full 24 hours," Bucky admonishes as he gets up to walk Bruce out. "You can't already be begging to go back to work." He pauses at the door to offer a simple nod of thanks, Bruce returning the gesture with a silent nod of his own.
"First of all," Tessa articulates, voice clear and firm as she watches Bucky shut the door and lean heavily up against it. "I was never in the hospital, it was our own little med bay. Big difference."
"Not really," he mutters, shaking his head vaguely.
"And B, I absolutely can be begging to go back to work already. Because I love work. And I miss it."
He glances over at her, a small smirk pulling at his lips as he watches her pout pathetically on the couch, still absently tugging at the sleeves on the oversized sweatshirt. "Shit," he murmurs suddenly, ducking over to the Christmas tree. "I almost forgot." He leans down and swipes a neatly wrapped package from beneath the tree, crosses the room and plops down beside her, eagerly handing the gift over. "You fell asleep before I could give this to you last night."
She unfolds her legs to sit upright and accepts the wide, thin box with more than a hint of hesitation. "I didn't get you anything," she murmurs, setting the gift in her lap and solemnly tracing her fingers over the brightly colored wrapping.
He scoots closer, pressing his warm hip into hers, and drapes his arm around her back. "They didn't let you out to shop?" he jokes, his tone coming off more stilted that teasing. He runs his flesh fingers through her hair, winding them into the soft, dark curls. "You're my gift."
A short chortle escapes her, one that all-too quickly fades into a sort of resigned sigh. She wants to apologize again, the words lingering on the very tip of her tongue as she gazes down at the present in her lap. But really, what would be the point of spewing out more regret? He already knows. They both do.
"What is it?" she asks instead, allowing a crooked grin to pull at the corner of her mouth.
He leans back a bit and smiles at her, and she gets a hit of his nervous excitement. "Open it."
She shoots him a quick look of suspicion, one that's met with the kind of smug smirk that always makes her laugh. And she tears into the package, fingers making quick work of the ribbons and wrapping. She peels the last of the paper off and looks down at the gift in her lap. There, encased in a dark wooden frame, beneath a thick layer of glass, is them.
Her breath catches as she gazes down at the large framed photo, her fingers dancing around the mahogany edge before slowly moving to trace along their smiling, happy faces. It's a picture from their wedding, of the two of them dancing at their wedding, staring into each other's eyes, each wearing their own glorious, goofy grin. They look oblivious to any others around them, including whichever guest happened to snap the shot. They look happy. They look… "We were beautiful."
Bucky lets out a huge guffaw, the chuckle thick and surprised and undeniably sincere. "Yeah," he laughs, gazing down at the photo. "Yeah, we cleaned up pretty good."
"I mean, if you were one of the more famous Avengers, we could sell this to People magazine for a million bucks." She pulls back a bit to look up at him, forehead furrowed, one accusatory eyebrow raised. "Did you have this retouched?"
His brows pull together in both incredulity and amusement. "No, baby," he laughs out. "That's just us."
Her face falls a bit, fading back into the same somber expression she wore when he first placed the gift in her lap. "Where did you get it?"
"Pepper," he tells her simply, clearing his throat and looking away before stating, "She sent some photos out to print, got them back about a week after you… after you disappeared. She framed this one – said it was the best – and gave it to me. But… I shoved it away in the closet. Haven't even looked at the other pictures yet."
She reaches up to run her hand along his heavily stubbled cheek, pulling his glistening gaze back to her. They stare at each other for a long moment, simply getting lost in one another's eyes. Until, "You're telling me you're trying to take credit for Pepper's gift?" falls from her lips in a soft and mirthful tone.
He snickers a bit and takes hold of the hand at his face, still mostly covered by the tattered cuff of his old sweatshirt. He feels the chill of her fingertips and gently tucks her back into the sleeve, smiling as he gazes down at her. "You're swimming in that," he says with a raised brow. "You don't want to wear any of your own clothes?"
"I like this," she counters, pulling her hands up to her face. She takes a long, deep inhale of the sweatshirt sleeves. "Smells like you."
"Our clothes all get washed together, baby," he tells her. "Same fabric softener… that's what you're smelling."
"No I'm not," she argues stiffly. "It's you."
000
It's a bit after noon when he takes her down to the common area, giving her a piggyback ride the whole way until they're just outside the room. "Down, down," she demands quietly, begging him to let her enter the party on her own. He simply rolls his eyes and squats down in the hall so that she can painstakingly crawl off of him. "Thank you, baby," she says adoringly once down. And she tenderly raises her hand to stroke his cleanshaven cheek for one long, lingering moment before turning to – painfully slowly – make her way into the common area.
Steve greets them at the door, lopsided Santa hat on his head, oddly clouded sheen to his otherwise bright and buoyant blue eyes. "Might I be the first to say to you, Merry Christmas," he announces cheerfully as he leans in and dangles a sprig of mistletoe over Tessa's head, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek before she even knows what hit her.
"Merry Christmas," she replies through heady giggles, precariously balancing herself by clinging to the doorframe. He gives her a sly wink and then – mistletoe still raised high – turns to greet Bucky in the same manner, a wet raspberry of a kiss popped onto his freshly shaven face. "Steve!" she shrieks in delight, almost falling over when the laughter that shakes her body causes her to lose her balance.
He glances back at her, gaze swimming, as Bucky scrubs at his face. "Yeah?" drops from his still smiling lips as he throws an arm around his best friend's shoulders.
"Jesus, punk," Bucky laments as he shrugs the heavily leaning super soldier off of him. "Are you drunk?"
He looks down at the drink in his hand, then back up at Bucky's confounded – but admittedly highly amused – face. "Yeah," he mumbles thickly before bringing the glass up to his lips.
"Ah, the honored guest!" sounds in a rich, accented bellow from just behind Steve. Thor rounds the corner quickly and in one fell swoop leans down and gathers Tessa into his arms, lifting her to his chest as though she weighs nothing at all. "Dr. Banner asked that I remove you from your feet," he states with a wide and agonizingly charming smile.
She hears Bucky grumble to her left, no doubt about to stop whatever it is that's happening. So she throws a stalling hand in his direction. "James, he's got this," she says, wide, mirthful eyes bouncing only briefly to her husband's confused and disappointed face before settling back on the god gripping her.
"Yes, yes. It's no problem at all," Thor says merrily, hiking her further into his arms, closer to his chest. "Go. Have some Asgardian mead," he tells Bucky before turning and heading into the common room with Tessa now wrapped fervidly around him.
A quick playful wink thrown over the blond god's shoulder is the last thing Bucky sees of his wife. He turns back to a rather jovial Steve. "Asgardian mead?" he asks, voice almost reproachful.
"You're gonna love it," he tells him, slapping the man on the back and leading him into the party.
It's a small party – just as they had discussed. Nothing too elaborate. And nothing that would take too long. Those were the stipulations given by Bucky. And seconded by Bruce, who insisted that, while Tessa may have recovered enough to be released from Medical, she still needed calm and rest. So the Christmas Party was set to be the core group of Avengers, and no one else.
He looks around the room as Steve pours him a drink, dropping in Thor's magical elixir. In the far corner of the room, Clint and Rhodes laugh raucously as an annoyed Sam – no doubt the butt of their joke – shifts from foot to foot, taking long pulls from a small crystal glass filled with what looks to be eggnog. Tony and Bruce stand idly chatting in the center of the room as Pepper positively fawns over Tessa, sitting down next to her and folding her into a warm and lingering embrace the moment Thor deposits her on the couch. To their right, Wanda and Vision are huddled together on an ottoman near the window, her head resting lightly on his shoulder as the two gaze dreamily out at the steadily falling snow.
Bucky's brow crinkles. "It's snowing?" he asks, accepting a full glass of whatever the hell Steve just concocted for him.
Thor thumps him on the shoulder, a friendly – if harsh – greeting, as he joins the men at the counterspace. "It is a machine!" he enthuses. "The things you Midgardians dream up. Though I shall procure one before I return to Asgard. A machine that makes snow! What a thing!" He lets loose a thick guffaw, tightening his fingers around Bucky's shoulder and jostling him to-and-fro. Then, glancing down at the sloshing drink in his hand, he mutters, "That is far too much for a mortal man," his eyes ticking up towards a suspiciously giggly Steve. "Your friend may be trying to kill you."
"Naw," Steve laughs out, throwing himself off balance with just a quick dismissive wave of his hand. "He can handle it."
"Very well then," Thor announces nonchalantly, once more digging his massive fingers into Bucky before turning to saunter off towards the group – now including Natasha – gathered around an even more irritated-looking Sam.
"Ow," Bucky laments lamely as he rubs at his undoubtably bruised shoulder. "When is he leaving?"
Steve just laughs, full and hearty and utterly jubilant. And despite the annoyance of Thor, and the lingering worry about Tessa, and the rather vivid remnants of last night's awful dream, Bucky lets himself relax – just a bit – as he cracks a wide, amused smile and takes a long drink of warm Asgardian ale.
It's almost an hour into the party before Tessa finally catches a quick moment to herself. Not that she minds having everyone near. Nor does she even mind the fact that she was given explicit orders not to rise from the couch. Well, actually she does mind that, but only because being given orders makes her skin crawl. Even so, how can she really mind staying put when her friends cycle through for visits, bringing her cookies and eggnog and hot tea to warm her chilled fingers?
But still, as wonderful as all of this is, she has to admit, it's exhausting.
It's not as though she isn't happy being here with everyone, sharing a wonderful holiday that they all built just for her. But her body just isn't… right. And neither is her mind. And the constant attempts at hiding this fact from the people she loves most – the people who know her best – is utterly draining. So when Sam leaves her side to go grab another drink, she simply can't help the weary sigh that billows out of her, nor the lulling motion of her head as it drops back to the cushion behind her.
Not a moment later, she feels the sofa shift as someone takes a seat beside her, the unmistakable hit of Tony's subtle cologne bringing a soft, almost dreamy smile to her face. "You know," he says as he scoots a bit closer, "You and Wilson might be the only people born within the last forty years that actually like eggnog."
She huffs a quick laugh and pulls her head upright, grin growing as her eyes rove over all of her friends laughing and talking around the room. "Yeah," she mutters softly. "Did you see Wanda's face when she tried it?"
"I did. Best Christmas gift I could've asked for. Present company excluded."
She turns to him and raises a coy brow. "Present company? Please tell me you punned that on purpose."
"I would never." He takes a sip from his own small cup of nog and leans back into the corner of the couch, thoughtful stare trained on her as she once again glances around the room, a more melancholy set to her features showing through. "I've been getting the feeling you're trying to avoid me," he states finally, punctuating the end with an awkward chuckle. "Had to throw a get-together just to get the chance to talk to you."
Without turning, she asks, "You want to talk to me?"
He shifts beside her. "What's the deal, buttercup? I go all the way to Manitoba to rescue you and you don't want to be friends anymore?"
Her breath catches for the briefest of moments before she nods at the window, manufactured snow still steadily falling onto the grounds below. "Looks like you decided to bring a little bit of Manitoba back with us."
She expects him to laugh, even if only a bit, even if only in the form of a short, sardonic chuckle. But he makes no sound at all. She turns to him then, finally pivoting to look into his deep brown eyes, dark circles residing underneath. His face is almost grim, and when the sad energy begins to spill off of him and tug at her senses, she shuts it out, refusing to allow herself to feel what she's certain she'll never be able to unfeel.
A shuddering breath falls from her open mouth, eyes ticking away as she says, "I lied to you."
He nods, a slow, contemplative movement, and says simply, "Yeah, you did."
Without looking back at him, her gaze now trained on the barely touched eggnog in her hands, she repeats, "I lied to you. About… so much…"
"Yeah," he agrees, pulling in a long, deep breath. "You did."
Her eyes slowly shut, lids pressing tightly together to keep in the tears that begin to build. "You must hate me," she murmurs lightly, words tumbling down into her lap.
Tony grabs the glass from her hand and sets it onto the small table in front of them, depositing it alongside his. Then he scoots closer and lays a single warm palm atop her knee. "I don't hate you," he says simply, the words soft and low. He gives her a small squeeze and waits for her to look up at him. "Have I made it seem like I hate you?" he asks the moment her shining green eyes meet his. "This past week, since you've been home?"
"No," she shakes her head. "No, you've been… there. You've been there for me."
He nods, small, crooked smile blooming. "I'm not gonna say I'm not mad that you lied to me." A harsh sigh billows out of her and she turns away again, only to have Tony take hold of her chin and pivot her face back towards him. "But, did you forget the part where you brought me back from the dead?"
"No," she mumbles meekly, childlike frown on her face. "But still… before that…"
He shakes his head and chuckles. "Tessa, I don't think you can worry about a before that when the that is bringing someone back from the dead. You didn't just save my life, kid. You…" He pauses mid-thought, a haunted look crossing his features. "What you did for me…"
"I let you down," she grumbles. "I… fixed you because you're my friend. My family. And I love you." Her head begins a slow, despondent shake. "But that doesn't excuse what I did – willingly, purposively – before that."
"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "Thing is, I've already kind of made peace with all that. I get it. I mean, I wish you would've just been honest with me. That's really what hurts. You not thinking you could be honest with me."
Her eyes return to his, a deep remorse showing in the sheen of unshed tears. "It wasn't that, Tony. I swear. It's not like…"
"Like you don't trust me?"
"I just knew that it'd put you in an impossible position. And…"
"And, after the accident and coming back to work just in time to hear Vargas' proposal – which I backed – you thought I might not be on your side."
She blinks her gaze away. Yes, she thinks, bitter shame rising within her. Yes, I thought you might leave me and side with them. "I'm sorry, Tony," she mutters.
"Well," he starts, pulling in a long breath. "The inhibitor project has been shut down." Her head flies up, mouth agape as she stares at him in disbelief. He merely shrugs. "Decided it wasn't worth the trouble."
"Tony," she mutters, her voice light and airy and carrying more than a hint of surprise. "I… I don't…"
"It had to be done. It was only a matter time before we did actually crack it, especially once you weren't around to sabotage the research anymore." He raises a single, almost chiding brow at her, causing her to duck away again, her cheeks and neck suddenly burning with a bright blush.
"I'm sorry," she repeats dolefully.
"Don't be. You were right. I was wrong." He twists around on the sofa, glancing in every direction around them before facing her once more. "Good. No one was around to hear that."
She smiles crookedly, bashful look still on her face. "I'm assuming I'm fired, though?"
He shrugs. "Don't see why you would be. As far as everyone at SI knows, you took an extended leave of absence. Most of the rumors I've heard involved either cancer or an affair with a rich Polynesian gentleman and a lovechild waiting to be birthed in Tahiti."
"I'm guessing you started the latter rumor," she accuses with a raised brow.
"Point is, you didn't quit and you weren't fired. Everything's still running fine in your absence… Vargas has been handling things in Seattle, Riordan here in New York. Dr. Ramos is working remotely with the Wakandan princess – "
"Shuri?" she interrupts glibly.
"Is there another one I don't know about?" He gives her a scolding, shut up and let me speak glare, and goes on to say, "Ramos and Shuri are working on a vaccine for Ebola. Actually, they pretty much have it. Some trials are starting next month."
"Wait, what?" Her mouth falls open, eyes blow wide. "Stark Industries invested in a vaccine for Ebola?"
He lets out a sardonic snort. "I'm not actually a heartless monster, you know."
"I…" A tidal wave of emotion hits her, causing a swell of tears to build in the back of her throat. "I know that," she chokes out.
He cocks his head at her, narrows his eyes almost threateningly. "Don't start… whatever this is," he demands, raising a pointed finger at her steadily glistening eyes.
But before he can say another word, before he can try and deflect the building emotion with a joke, or even make an attempt to change the subject entirely, she springs forward and wraps herself tightly around him. "Thank you, Tony," she mumbles into his shoulder as he returns the hug, winding his arms around her and holding as tight as he can for as long as his dispassionate façade will allow.
His eyes fall shut as his hand presses into her back, the feel of her ribs protruding even through the thick sweater sending a sudden wave of nausea through him. "You could've gotten away," he murmurs, tone low and soft as he continues to hold her to him. Tears prick at his tightly shut eyes, a thick, penetrating feeling of fear and remorse and grief barreling through him and into her, knocking straight through her defenses. She pulls in a startled breath as his energy washes over her. But he pays no heed, instead shaking his head lamentingly and muttering, "You could have fought. You could've have ran. You could've… you could've gone."
"Not without you," she says, her voice trembling.
He pulls away slowly and looks at her with such sad, regretful eyes. "You wasted all your energy on me," he mutters, barely a breath. "And now look."
She gives him a small smile, bright eyes shining with unshed tears. "Yeah," she says, locking onto his gaze and running her hands softly, reassuringly down his arms. "Just look."