Work Text:
"I hate this place," Bucky says, staring out the window of the coffee shop.
The whole town is lit-up like a green and red nightmare. Just looking out the window requires glancing past three mini Christmas trees, two dancing Santas, six tiny elves, and an ocean of powdered fake snow. Maybe it's not too late for him to go back and let the government herd him into a super-secret prison.
Across the table, Sharon gives him a knowing raise of her eyebrows, like she's more than aware how much this place is the antithesis of what he needs, let alone wants.
"Great, right?" she says, "Look I know, I do. Just think of it as somewhere to lie low. We'll get you back in once the press has died down and the government can touch you. In the meantime - well, enjoy the scenery, okay?"
The scenery. At the Christmas tree farm. That she'd faked all kinds of paperwork to make apparently belong to him. Because as an employee of the secret super-heroing division of the DOD she could do that. And then leave him here for three weeks without a shred of remorse.
"What if I cut down all the trees?"
"I think that's kind of the point, Bucky."
Yeah, whatever.
"What if I cut down all the trees and burnt them?"
"No."
"What about if I only do the burning infront of anyone who wants to buy one?"
"Jeez, you want to make kids cry?"
Yes.
"This is the worst day of my life, Sharon. Don't fucking smile."
---
It turns out even that isn't allowed to be true. The worst day of his life is the next morning when he discovers his stupid house that comes with the stupid Christmas tree farm doesn't even have a working shower.
Fuck this, he chants as he goes for a second run, this one all the way into town. Who needs cars? He loves running in the snow. The feel of it seeping in through his socks brings him so much seasonal cheer. Everything he ever wanted.
Someone waves at him as they drive past and he only just manages not to rip off his glove and flip them the metal middle finger of his left hand in response.
"I would literally rather be killing people," he tells a crow perched on the signpost.
It flaps away into the cold air like it's got better things to do than listen to his whining. Good for it, Bucky thinks. At least one of them is making progress on their hopes and dreams.
---
"Uh, hi," says the guy behind the desk at the hardware store.
He's ridiculously attractive. Wearing a tight-fitted t-shirt that's riding up over his biceps kind of attractive. Bucky blames the lack of sleep and the insane amount of heat that's being pumped through the store from somewhere. Nobody should wear t-shirts in December when there's snow falling outside. That's some kind of wrong that should be putting him off.
It's not.
Bucky is wearing an oversized 'Christmas Land: It's where the magic grows' sweatshirt, some ratty old shorts, his gloves, and socks and sneakers both soaked through from the snow.
"Hi," he says back.
The guy's badge reads 'Sam - The Can Do Man'. Bucky stares at it for two long beats so that he doesn't have to stare any more at Sam's smiling face.
By the time he gets around to raising his face back up to eye level, Sam is grinning at him openly.
"You doing all right there?" Sam says, propping one of his bare elbows on the counter.
"Yeah," Bucky says gruffly. "I'm looking for some -"
He has no idea what he's looking for. He's never fixed a shower in his life.
"Yeah?" Sam says.
He's got a good smile. Bucky can see why he's wearing a badge that says he's all about can-doing. Maybe Sam would be up for can-doing him later.
He clears his throat and looks Sam straight in the eyes. He's surprised by how easily Sam stares back, like Bucky's general expression of frustrated dissatisfaction with the world doesn't bother him. Like it apparently bothers everyone else.
"Look, if I promised you some favors, would you come have a look at my shower? Maybe tell me what it is I need to buy to get it give me hot water?"
Sam's head tilts fractionally to the right.
"Or money," Bucky adds. "I think I have some money I could promise you."
Sam brings his other arm up to counter level, displaying a few more nice muscles as he does so.
"You think?" he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I'm new to Christmas Land, haven't finished unpacking."
Bucky gives a humble-type shrug to go with his excuse, his dusty flirting game slowly sliding back into focus.
"You're something," Sam says. "But you know what? Old Benji always was pretty individual, guess it makes sense his long lost grandson would be too. Alright, I'll come look at your shower. We can discuss payment after."
"Yeah?" Bucky says, perking up.
"That's payment in the form of a Christmas tree we're talking about. You grandpa used to put one aside for us each year."
Us, great. So the guy's married with kids and fifty dogs and seven alpaca and a pickup truck and probably a mother-in-law across the street.
Fine, Bucky can deal with that. He can. He'll make love to the hot water instead.
-----
"Wow," Sam says, staring around the house.
Bucky tenses defensively as he follows Sam's gaze to all the furniture that's still under dust sheets. He was going to do something about that stuff but, well, he also didn't exactly care about the old guy's furniture. The shower was his first priority.
"You didn't even want one chair to sit on?" Sam says.
Bucky shrugs. Yesterday he wasn't even sure he was going to make it through the night. Yesterday he was busy taking stock of every functioning vehicle he could see from the upstairs window and deciding which one he'd steal to get out of this town.
"Only got in yesterday," he grunts. "Shower's upstairs."
It comes out a little shorter than he means it to. Only because Sam's ill opinion of his stupid house has stung him. It just hits home how the guy probably has something much better waiting for him. A partner who probably bakes him nice-smelling things and gets to clamber into bed with him every night and take him out of his tight-fitting t-shirts.
"Huh," Sam says, looking at Bucky strangely, but he follows when Bucky makes his way to the stairs.
---
"Pass me the wrench."
Bucky does so, obediently. Far more obediently than he usually would fetch things for anyone else. Sam's got a concentrating face on and has done for the last fifteen minutes. It's distracting. Bucky wants to nuzzle into his shoulder and then see if he can find his way inside Sam's pants.
"That's not the wrench."
"I know what a wrench looks like," Bucky says.
"Okay, fine, the other wrench then, please," Sam says, looking mildly amused.
Bucky accepts the wrong wrench back and goes to find the right one.
"Don't you have an apprentice or something that could come out with you and give you the right wrench?"
Sam laughs. "Why, you looking for a second job?"
Bucky pauses in looking through Sam's toolkit and peers over his shoulder. Sam is propped against the shower wall looking smug. The remark almost sounded like it could've been flirtatious.
He spends a little longer than he needs to rummaging through the kit bag. When he does find the wrench, he makes a point of stepping that one step closer as he hand it over. Even holds on a second more than necessary.
"Thank you," Sam says, his mouth twitching.
"So," Bucky says. "About your payment - "
"Hey, I haven't even fixed it yet."
"I was just wondering - "
"Easy, tiger. You can ask me out later."
Bucky feels himself smile just as smugly as Sam was a minute ago.
"You let me know if you need any more of those wrenches," he says, raising his left arm up behind him and resting it casually on the wall.
Sam's eyes follow the movement before he shakes his head with a soft laugh and gets back to his work.
----
"You gonna wear those gloves the whole time?" Sam asks.
Bucky stops kissing his neck just long enough to get some thoughts back. They've been at for about five minutes now and he'd given his brain permission to shut off around minute one.
"Yeah, about that, there's something you should probably know about my left arm - "
"Yeah? Then there's probably something I should tell you too."
"There is?" Bucky says.
Please don't be married with three kids and fifty dogs and seven alpaca and a pickup truck.
"So, I'm not always just your friendly local handyman. Sometimes I'm also - "
He trails off with a wave of his hand like Bucky has enough information to fill in the gap.
Bucky does not have enough information to fill in the gap.
"What?"
"Look, I don't think you're gonna like this part. Sharon said I wasn't meant to tell you -"
Bucky groans and turns away from Sam, knocking his head against the wall. Why did she have to somehow be pulling the strings behind every stage? How did she do that?
"What?" Sam says. "You really want me to pretend I don't know you're that Bucky Barnes, retired super assassin who may or may not be on our side now?"
Bucky groans again, pressing his entire face into the wall. He couldn't even have one makeout session. Not even the promise of Sam's thighs between his and maybe a mutual handjob. Nothing was untainted by the ever reaching arm of superheroing.
With his eyes closed, he peels away from the wall and turns towards Sam's general direction.
"I'm just a guy who inherited a stupid Christmas tree farm," he says stubbornly.
"Sure you are," Sam says.
His hand cups the side of Bucky's face and then a very soft, very warm pair of lips kiss Bucky on the cheek.
"So are you gonna continue this little existential crisis or can we pick up where we left off?"
There's something in Sam's tone that makes Bucky's ears perk up.
"Can you promise not to mention Sharon Carter or the government or whatever it is you do for the good guys?"
If he's going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere and have to sell happy people Christmas trees, he's allowed some kind of recompense, right? Some tiny fraction of enjoyment out of the whole ridiculous affair.
"Sure, baby," Sam murmurs, edging his lips another inch along Bucky's cheek.
---