still friends

Chapter 9: A Christmas Moment

December 23rd, 2027

What does one get a witch for Christmas?

Bucky hasn't the faintest idea. He'd searched the internet, scrolling through pages of lotions and candles, window shopped on his way home from the gym. He even texted Client, the texting alone taking over half an hour, asking what the man normally got his wife.

CB: Laura doesn't like flashy things, she prefers memories over items.

Bucky didn't know what to make of that, so he didn't respond.

Memories over items. Like photographs? Didn't that still count as an item? Rebecca had always claimed to hate Christmas, but when the time came, she'd always gifted something impossibly thoughtful, like she'd peered into your brain and knew it was something you'd been hoping for.

Bucky wished he had that gift.

The few Christmases he had spent in the service had been mostly uneventful. No gift giving, sometimes a haphazard tree had been erected and the guys would gather around, drinking and cheering to the Christmas before.

During those years he'd always wished there was a girl he could send postcards to back home, a girl he could visit when he was on leave. But then he'd remember how dangerous his situations were, and how unfair that would be to any person, and he wasn't a selfish person.

Christmas wasn't even a thing when he was with Hydra.

Out of all his Christmas', he never thought he'd be spending one with her; but she wants to. She's already deciding on what she's going to cook, for just the two of them, and she's busying herself by writing down a list. Her handwriting is large, loopy, and she's rushing, her excitement nearly palpable as she sits across from him at his dining table. His laptop obscures his view of her, scrolling hopelessly, his anxiety growing by each failed attempt at finding a gift she'd enjoyed.

"Do you like sweet potatoes?" She asks, head bent. "I've heard that's a typical American staple for Christmas dinner."

"Don't cook too much, lord knows you don't eat a lot." He chuckles. Her head shoots up, his only indications of that action is her red hair bouncing, lines etched on her upper forehead.

"Bucky Barnes," she warned, but her tone was laced with joy. "I have never experienced an American holiday like this. Are you going to strip me of that possibility?"

He rolls his eyes at her dramatics, bringing his coffee mug to his lips. "I'll strip you of something else."

She leans to the right, giving him a scrunched narrowed look to indicate she heard his raunchy remark. Pulling back to her position, she resumes writing.

"Just you wait, solider." She mutters, and he surpasses a laugh. "This will be better than any Christmas your mother would have cooked for you."

He huffs into the cup. "That'll be easy to accomplish."

Her pen scratching pauses, can hear her shuffling slightly. "I take it your family didn't celebrate?"

Bucky flexes his fingers, places the cup down. He's glad the laptop is obscuring her from view slightly.

He didn't want to talk about this, he didn't want to unbury the dead, especially to her. She already carried so much, she didn't need his weight.

Wanda sits up, her face in view now, green eyes questioning, and he clenches his flesh hand. His nerves grow as the silence stretches on, and she's patient, waiting for his response. Glancing up, he catches her expression, and he feels a knot grow in his throat. Lips raw, he's biting down hard.