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firstelevens · 2 years ago

Note

sambucky, 14 (bc i know u had IdeasTM u wanted to get out and im trying to make it easy for u)

14. grabbing their hand to show them something

( also on AO3 )

If there is a field that Sam’s kind of an expert in at this point, it’s admiring a good view: earth from the deck of the Guardians’ new spaceship, the skyline of Birnin Zana against the mountains in the distance, lightning bugs flitting around the backyard as the sun dips behind the trees.

Now, on a breezy May afternoon, Sam stands a little ways away and considers the deadliest assassin of the twentieth century as he watches a middle school choir performance, and not a great one at that. Bucky has a stuffed animal tucked under his left arm, a way-too-big bag of cotton candy hanging from his vibranium fingertips–AJ’s, naturally, because Sam had told him he’d have to carry any novelty-sized snacks on his own, but Bucky remains a sucker for an earnest, “Please, Uncle Bucky?”—, and his phone held aloft in his right hand.

For a moment, his eyebrows are knitted together, his gaze laser focused on the phone as he adjusts it for the clearest video. Then, sudden enough that it makes Sam a little dizzy, there’s a grin on his face so wide that it’s making the corners of his eyes scrunch up.

Bucky’s been a little freer with those unguarded smiles in the past few months, but no matter how many times Sam catches one, it doesn’t diminish the warmth that thrums through his veins at the sight. It doesn’t hurt that this particular smile is directed at the stage, where Cass is warbling his way through a solo on “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.”

He’s practiced nonstop for weeks. When the others were on the verge of rioting if they had to listen to the song one more time, Bucky had taken to inviting Cass along on mostly-made-up errands, so he could sing in the car and the rest of the Wilsons could get some peace at home. Chances are good, Sam realizes, that Bucky has heard Cass sing this specific verse of this specific song more times than any of them have, but he’s still beaming, the pride rolling off of him in waves.

They’re both cheering and whooping as Cass moves back to his place and chorus starts again. Bucky has kept the phone remarkably steady the whole time, and as Sam pushes through the crowd to reclaim the spot beside him and AJ, the rush of affection doesn’t fade. Sarah hadn’t even asked Bucky to take a video when she found out she couldn’t join them. The choir teacher has a camera set up; the whole thing is going to be up on YouTube later anyway. Bucky had just insisted, pulling Sam and AJ this way and that as he found a spot that gave them the best vantage point of Cass’s mic.

Without a word, Sam plucks the phone out of Bucky’s hand and replaces it with one of the drinks he’d gone to grab. Bucky lets him do it, murmuring his thanks and taking a sip of the drink without a second thought. If Sam weren’t so distracted, he’d take a beat to marvel at how far they’ve come.

Onstage, the choir launches into their next song (“April Come She Will”, which at least explains why Sam thought he heard Bucky humming it on the comms last week.) Beside Sam, Bucky makes a pleased noise and holds out the drink to get a better look at it.

“What is this?” he asks. “And why is it so good?”

AJ answers before Sam can. “It’s Miss Colette’s sorrel. Mom says it’s magic.”

Bucky tilts his head as he looks down at AJ. “Magic, huh? That’s the secret ingredient?”

“That’s what Mom says.” The, ‘And she knows everything,’ is implied in the way he shrugs before returning to his kettle corn.

Sam leans in a little and murmurs, “Maybe there’s magic in there, but I’m pretty sure the actual secret ingredient is a pound of sugar.”

A snort. “Is that why you’re not having any of yours? You don’t have–what did you call it the other day?–the ‘sweet tooth of a five year old whose parents are really strict dentists’?”

“That cake was covered in jellybeans and marshmallows and sprinkles, Buck, and you took down four slices. Tell me there was a better way to describe that.”

(The better way to describe it, they both know, is that the local girl scout troop had baked and decorated a cake to thank them for helping out in a cookie emergency, and Bucky had taken extra slices so Sam wouldn’t have to. The girls had been delighted and Sam had avoided a sugar crash, which meant he wasn’t passed out on the couch when they got called out to deal with a situation in Arkansas that afternoon.)

All he gets in response is Bucky shaking his head, then pointedly finishing half his drink in a single slurp.

It’s enough of an answer for Sam to continue the conversation. “This is for Cass,” he says, giving the cup a little shake. “It’s his favorite; I just wanted to grab him one before they ran out.”

Something in Bucky’s eyes goes a little softer, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, the crowd erupts into applause and startles them both. Sam raises his eyebrows questioningly at Bucky, but he shakes his head and gestures towards the stage.

As the audience disperses and parents cluster to take pictures of their kids, the three of them hurry over to the steps and wait for Cass to make his appearance. It’s all hugs and fistbumps as they fawn over him, Cass ducking his head and shrugging off the praise.

Sam points the camera right at Cass and informs him that he expects to be thanked by name in his Grammy acceptance speech.

“But you have to thank me before Uncle Sam,” interjects AJ, “‘cause I convinced you to join choir in the first place.”

The flip from ‘performer in front of adoring fans’ to ‘annoyed older brother’ is instantaneous. “No you didn’t!” scoffs Cass. “I joined choir because Nin- I mean, I joined choir because I wanted to.”

“We know you did,” Bucky says, his voice placating as he passes Cass his drink, and at least then he’s mollified enough to stop glaring at his brother.

Sam had called Cass’s crush on Nina-from-down-the-street (not to be confused with Nina-from-the-library, a high school senior) during a carpool run last month. Bucky had originally told Sam he was jumping to conclusions, but then they’d both watched Cass tear through the kitchen baking Nina’s favorite cookies for the choir bake sale and he’d conceded that Sam may have had a point.

“So what do you want to do now?” asks Sam. “Y’all want to stick around here a little longer, maybe go on some rides? Or do we go get that pizza I promised you?”

“Pizza!” says AJ immediately, but Cass shakes his head.

“I didn’t get to do anything fun earlier,” he says. “I just did the ring toss one time. Can we walk around a little more?”

AJ, who in fairness has been out here and on his feet since nine in the morning, looks absolutely mutinous at this idea.

“Why don’t we split up?” Bucky says quickly, glancing from the boys to Sam and back. “AJ and I will go get pizza; you two go play some games. We’ll bring back some slices for you.”

Sam turns to AJ to see if that works for him, but he’s not where he was a second ago. Before the panic can set in, Bucky points to a spot a few steps away, where AJ is somehow already in the middle of a complicated secret handshake with his best friend Yusef.

Yusef’s mom, Maya, sends Sam an apologetic smile as he walks over with AJ and Bucky in tow. “I was just telling AJ that we’re going to go get lunch before we head home,” she says. “He’s welcome to join us, if that’s okay with you. You, too, Cass.”

“Cass is going to see if he can beat my record at the ring toss,” says Sam, “but I know AJ would love to join you. Should we pick him up from your place when you’re done, or…?”

But Maya waves his question away. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll drop him off,” she says. “It’s on the way anyway; I’m driving Nina home, too. You’re neighbors, right?”

“Yeah, we’re just up the street from her,” Sam says, silently counting down until Cass chimes in.

“Actually, Uncle Sam, now that I think about it, I’m kind of hungry,” he says. “I think I’ll just go with AJ and Yusef, if that’s cool.”

Sam shrugs and hopes he looks nonchalant. “Fine by me,” he says to Cass, as AJ plucks his cotton candy from Bucky’s hands. Then, to both boys: “Be good for Tante Maya. We’ll see you at home.”

They nod, AJ more distractedly than Cass, and Sam thanks Maya before they set off towards the parking lot.

At the last second, Bucky calls out to Cass. He jogs back, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, Uncle Bucky?”

Equally confused, Sam watches as Bucky holds out the stuffed dragon toy that Cass won at the ring toss booth earlier. “You forgot this, kiddo.”

“You can keep it; I don’t want it,” Cass says, starting to turn back to the others.

“I know you don’t want it,” Bucky says conspiratorially, “but remind me, who was it in the carpool who couldn’t stop talking about her new book with all the dragons in it?”

Cass’s jaw drops a little, and Sam follows his gaze to the group, where Nina has just joined the others.

Bucky smiles as a wide-eyed Cass takes the blue dragon from him, holding it like it’s something precious. The moment feels like it should be private, so Sam pretends to be distracted by his phone, although that doesn’t stop him from overhearing.

“What do I say?” asks Cass, half-whispering. “I can’t just like, give it to her. Isn’t that weird?”

“She’s your friend, right? You guys talk all the time. Tell her you won it earlier and you remembered that she likes dragons.”

“That’s it?”

“It can be something quiet, Cass. People just want to know that you’re paying attention.”

It’s solid advice, muses Sam, eyes still on his phone. He tamps down the impulse that says he should follow it and starts typing a response to Rhodey’s last text to distract himself.

He doesn’t look up again until Cass has called out a thank-you and walked away. They both watch as he rejoins the others, waiting until they’re all out of sight before turning away.

“Ready to head out?” Sam asks Bucky. Crowds can wear on Bucky, he knows, and though he probably smiled through it for the boys, there’s no point in him putting himself through this longer than he has to. Anyway, they’ve both got reports to write up from that mission to New Mexico last week. “Uncle duties have been taken care of, so we can just-”

“Are you hungry?” Bucky asks without preamble, and Sam furrows his eyebrows.

“Am I hungry?”

“Yeah, I saw a funnel cake stand back by the ferris wheel,” he says. “Come on, I’ll buy you one.”

Before Sam knows it, Bucky’s hand is in his, pulling him along through the crowd until the vanilla-sweet smell of fried dough is in the air.

“Buck,” he says, “we don’t have to stay here. We can just drive home.”

“Sweet tooth of a five year old, remember?”

It’s only when Bucky lets go that Sam realizes they were still holding hands. He feels the back of his neck go hot and tries to ignore it. “Fine. Maybe if you eat enough sugar, you’ll be too tired to mess with my music on the way back.”

(Bucky, Sam has discovered, is a serial song skipper. He’ll make it twenty seconds in, say he likes the song, then skip it anyway. Sam is incredibly tired of only ever getting through the first verse of “Son of a Preacher Man”, and he’s starting to suspect that Bucky’s doing it on purpose.)

“Don’t hold your breath,” Bucky laughs, then steps up to the counter.

The topping choices are messily scrawled on a chalkboard beside them, and Sam is busy squinting at it as Bucky orders. He’s just decided on the berries when he hears Bucky say, “And one strawberry shortcake, please.”

“How did-” he starts to ask, but trails off. Bucky’s observant, he tells himself, and they spend basically all their time together. It stands to reason that he could narrow down Sam’s preference from a list of five options. It’d probably be more surprising if he couldn’t.

The clouds of powdered sugar are still hanging in the air when the girl behind the counter passes them their funnel cakes, the paper plates bowing a little in the center from the weight of the toppings. As they make their way to the cluster of picnic tables nearby, Sam watches Bucky lick caramel off his thumb and tries not to feel any particular way about it.

“So why funnel cake specifically?” he asks when they sit down. “There’s giant s’mores on a stick two stalls down; that feels more like your thing.”

“Who says I’m not headed there next?” Bucky asks. He reaches over with his fork and steals a strawberry from Sam’s plate, slow enough that Sam could swat him away if he wanted.

He doesn’t bother, just makes a vague noise of protest and says, “You could’ve gotten this, too, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to steal mine.”

“They taste better stolen, Sam. That’s just a fact.”

“I let you have that one for free,” Sam says. “Come for the funnel cake again and it’s going to cost you.”

“Should’ve known our partnership would end this way,” Bucky says, shaking his head.

Sam snorts. “Me fighting you because you can’t keep your hands off my dessert?”

“No, you fighting me because you don’t like to share.”

“That wasn’t sharing, Buck; that was theft. Sharing implies an exchange.”

“Aww, Sam, if you wanted to try mine, you should’ve just asked,” Bucky says, pushing his plate closer to Sam with a smirk.

“Pass,” Sam says flatly, though he can’t quite keep the corners of his mouth turned down. “I don’t need to try it to know that it’s an abomination.”

“If they didn’t want you to combine the praline and the hot fudge, they wouldn’t have put them next to each other on the menu.” Bucky’s prim delivery is offset somewhat by him shoving an enormous bite of funnel cake into his mouth. “And besides, it’s delicious.”

“That’s not the point. Of course it’s delicious. Funnel cake is the-”

“-best part of going to any given fair, carnival, or amusement park,” Bucky finishes for him. When Sam looks at him in surprise, he just shrugs a little. “I heard you telling Sarah.”

Sam doesn’t have a response, just ends up looking at Bucky for a long moment. For once, it’s Bucky who blinks first, ducking his head to keep his eyes on the food in front of him.

They finish their food–well, Sam’s food and Bucky’s sugar monstrosity–mostly in silence, but it’s the comfortable kind. Sam nudges his plate with its last few strawberries over to Bucky; Bucky reciprocates with the one praline that somehow was untouched by chocolate. When they go to throw away their trash, Sam catches Bucky looking at him, his gaze assessing.

“What?” he asks. “It’s powdered sugar, isn’t it? I swear it gets everywhere, just spreads every time you try to wipe it off.”

Sam is pulling out his phone to check in the camera when Bucky reaches out a hand, stopping just short of Sam’s jaw. “It’s right there,” he says, gesturing to somewhere Sam can’t see because his eyes aren’t on his nostrils.

He reaches up and tries to swipe away the sugar anyway. It must not work, because then Bucky huffs a quiet laugh and asks, “Is it okay if I-?”

Before he’s even done with his question, Sam has tilted his chin up just a little in silent permission. Bucky’s fingers are gentle as he brushes it away. It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that he uses his right hand, even though the reach is a little awkward. He almost comments on it, but then there’s mischief lighting up Bucky’s eyes.

He frowns dramatically, squinting at Sam’s face before shaking his head. “Nope, still there.”

“What, the sugar?” asks Sam, mostly because he knows he’s supposed to.

“No,” Bucky says, “the paperwork face.”

“The paperwork face,” Sam repeats flatly. “What is the paperwork face?”

“That face that you make when you’re thinking about all the reports we have to write when we get home,” Bucky says, like this is something Sam should know.

“This is just my face, Bucky.”

Bucky just looks at Sam, stoic as ever.

It sinks in after a second and Sam shoves his shoulder. “Very funny,” he deadpans. “Tall, dark, and brooding over here telling me that I have paperwork face.”

“I’m just an objective observer, Sam.”

Sam lets himself laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe if you worried a little more about paperwork, I wouldn’t have to be so dedicated to making mine clear and detailed.”

“My paperwork is clear and detailed,” says Bucky. “It’s not my fault that kids these days can’t read cursive.”

It’s not, but it definitely is Bucky’s fault that they don’t have another choice. He claims he can’t fill out his reports on a tablet because the vibranium hand doesn’t respond well to touchscreens. It would be a lot more believable as an excuse if Bucky wasn’t constantly reading books on Sam’s tablet when they have downtime on the jet.

(It’s possible that, as Captain America, Sam should discourage this kind of behavior, but sometimes the only thing that cheers him up after a frustrating joint mission is watching an annoying SWORD agent grit out a thank-you when Bucky hands over triple copies of their exhaustive paperwork, all filled out in beautiful and perfectly illegible cursive.)

“I’m feeling generous because you just bought me food, so I’m not going to make fun of it, but I want you to know I heard that ‘kids these days.’”

“You call them kids, too! And they exist in this time period, Sam. What else am I supposed to call them?”

Sam just laughs, bumping his shoulder into Bucky’s. “Come on, Old Man Barnes. Let’s go play some overpriced games for crappy prizes.”

Bucky’s only response is a vague grunt, but when Sam puts a hand on his elbow, he lets himself be pulled along. There’s a water gun race booth near them where a crowd has just cleared out, and Sam beelines there first. Bucky looks skeptically from the plastic guns to the little model boats and back.

“Really?” he asks flatly. “This?”

“What?” asks Sam, already in his seat. “You worried you’ll lose?”

Bucky scoffs.

“It’s okay, Buck. We can go play the kiddie games if you want. Straws in a milk bottle, fishing with that little magnetic pole…”

The glare that Sam gets as Bucky grabs the stool next to him is less Winter Soldier than it is Bucky realizing Sam ate the last of the peanut butter, and he just grins back unrepentantly. When Bucky turns to line up the shot with the little pink water gun, the corner of his mouth twitches up just a little, too.

Then Sam beats Bucky by what can only be called an embarrassing margin and Bucky looks appalled, handing cash to the man running the booth before declaring that it’s now best out of three. Sam doesn’t bother to conceal his delight, even when Bucky evens up the score in their next round.

The third race finds them neck and neck the whole way, but the light at the end of Sam’s track goes on just a second before Bucky’s, and he takes the win. Bucky doesn’t even look annoyed about it, just tolerates Sam crowing about his victory as they keep walking among the booths.

Eventually, Bucky points to a game a little ways away. “Hey, what’s that one?”

Sam squints at the darkened interior of the booth, then lights up as he realizes what it is. “Skee-Ball! That used to be my favorite as a kid.”

Bucky just lets out a mildly interested hum, eyes still on the booth. “You played it a lot?”

“Sarah and I used to get really into it,” says Sam. “Eventually, she figured out that as long as I had the advantage of being taller, it was a better idea for her to stop me from scoring instead of trying to outscore me.”

“Do you want to play a round?” asks Bucky. “Promise I won’t use Sarah’s strategy.”

Sam looks at Bucky through narrowed eyes for a moment, then nods. “Fine, but I’m warning you, this is going to be a much more embarrassing defeat than the race.”

But all Bucky does is shrug just a little too casually before he starts heading for the booth. “Who knows?” he calls over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

When they get to the game, there’s a group of teenagers getting very intense about their competition, so Sam uses the time to take a picture and send it to Sarah. Bucky’s back is to the camera, but he’s still pretty distinctive, so Sam texts, ‘New Skee-Ball opponent. Maybe this one won’t try to cover my eyes in the middle of a game.’

She texts back immediately to tell him that there are no rules against that, so he can take his talk of cheating somewhere else. Sam is typing out a reply to her when he hears Bucky laugh and turns to find that he’s already looking back at Sam.

He raises a questioning eyebrow and Bucky holds up his phone. “Sarah’s giving me advice on how to beat you.”

“What?” Sam moves closer so he can get a look at Bucky’s screen. “Did she tell you to cover my eyes, because-”

Unfortunately, whatever Sam was planning to say next is interrupted by what can only be called a yelp, and he belatedly realizes that it came out of his own mouth. When he looks up again, Bucky is grinning delightedly at him.

“She said you were ticklish and I should go for your sides, because you always leave them open.”

Sam clamps his arms around his sides, deletes the beginning of the text he’d written to Sarah, and sends, ‘TRAITOR!!!’ instead. She replies with cry-laughing emojis.

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says. “I’m not gonna sabotage you.”

“I feel very reassured,” deadpans Sam, as they take the two freed-up spots in the booth. He very hesitantly relaxes his arms. “But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m good enough to win even if you do sabotage me.”

“Then I guess you have nothing to worry about,” says Bucky, picking up the scoop and flipping it in the air before he catches it again.

Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky again, but his face betrays nothing.

“Ready when you are, Samuel,” he says, flipping the scoop again.

Shaking his head, Sam squares his shoulders, hits the button to start the clock, and clears his head of the competition, focusing instead on scoring with every shot.

It’s a sound strategy, even if he starts off kind of rusty: he keeps overshooting at first, has to modulate his strength a little to land on 50s and 40s consistently. Once he gets into the rhythm of it, it’s a little easier, and he’s proud of his score when the clock runs out and the machine spits out his tickets.

He drops the scoop back onto the ramp, shaking his hand out as he turns to look at Bucky, who he pities for just a second: if Sam had to hold back his strength for the game, then it must have been even harder for Bucky.

But Bucky looks completely unbothered, leaning casually against the divider between his ramp and the next, an absolutely absurd amount of tickets clutched in his hand.

Briefly, Sam has the thought that Bucky just pulled the panel off the ticket dispenser and took out the whole roll, but then he looks up at the display above Bucky’s spot and realizes the words ‘high score’ are spelled out in flashing lights. Just below them, the digital display reads, in blocky red letters, ‘PERFECT GAME.’

Sam feels his jaw drop.

“Did you know,” says Bucky, looking more smug than Sam thought humanly possible, “that one of the first ever Skee-Ball ramps at an amusement park was at Rockaway Playland in Queens?”

“Did you just-”

“That thing had years on it by the time Steve and I used to take my sisters there, so there wasn’t always a line, and if the guy running the booth was feeling friendly, he’d let us keep playing until new people showed up. We got pretty good at it.”

“You just hustled me,” Sam says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“We didn’t bet anything, so I don’t think that’s technically hustling.” Bucky furrows his eyebrows, smirk gone. “Right?”

“Not technically, no.” In an ideal world, Sam would have a snappier comeback, but he’s busy trying to convince himself that Bucky going from cocky to sincerely confused in a split second isn’t something he finds endearing. It’s not working.

“Good,” Bucky says, nodding like that settles it. He steps aside to let a group of kids take his place, and Sam follows suit, handing off his tickets to them as he does.

There’s a memory niggling at the back of Sam’s brain, a story Steve once told him that shook loose at the mention of Rockaway Beach. He can’t remember what it was, exactly, but he remembers laughing about it with Steve and Wanda and Natasha, tucked away in a safehouse in Accra.

He shakes off the ache of missing them and focuses on Bucky again, who looks a little sheepish.

“I didn’t think I’d remember anything about the game, you know,” he’s saying, eyes sweeping the rest of the fairground. “I didn’t even know I had that memory until I saw the booth, and I figured it’d been so long, and it’s not like it was a skill I used after we shipped out, and-”

“Bucky,” says Sam, gentle but firm.

He stops talking. After a moment, his eyes snap to Sam.

“I’m not actually upset,” Sam continues. “And I’m glad it came back to you. It sounds like it was a good memory.”

Bucky bobs his head in a short nod. “It was,” he says. “So do you want to go to the prize booth? See what this many tickets gets us?”

Sam agrees absently and lets Bucky lead the way, because he’s finally got it, the memory he was grasping for.

He can see it so clearly now, Steve doing an exaggerated impression of young Bucky Barnes’ swagger while he chatted up some girl with an old school name. ‘Three dollars,’ Steve had laughed. ‘Three whole dollars to win her that bear. I still think the guy took pity on him and rigged that last game.’

They reach the prize booth, all brightly lit and full of brightly colored plushies and cheap toys. It’s quieter on this side of the fairground, barely any booths and no line for prizes, either.

Bucky slides his fistful of tickets over to the bored-looking kid at the counter, who tpoints them to a corner with stuffed animals easily the size of Sam’s torso.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, as nonchalant as ever. Now that Sam’s looking for it, though, he can see the way his eyes linger just a little, the way Bucky’s mouth lifts into a smile when Sam’s does.

Sam makes himself look at the prizes and immediately grins at the sight of one, right at the very end of the shelf. “That one,” he says, pointing decisively at a massive teddy bear. It’s wearing a jaunty gingham bowtie. “Definitely that one.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Really? Not the dolphin? Or the frog? Or the bird with wings that kind of look like yours?”

“Redwing would get jealous,” Sam says, shrugging.

“The bear, then,” Bucky says to the kid.

When Bucky’s handed the stuffed animal, he holds it out to get a better look, brushing the fur into place and adjusting the bowtie a bit so it sits right. Sam can admit to himself that it’s kind of adorable.

Bucky fusses with the bear for another second or two before he holds it out to Sam. “For you,” he says. “I feel kind of bad about the Skee-Ball thing.”

And because Sam can’t resist messing with Bucky just a little bit, he shakes his head and says as earnestly as he can, “Really, Buck, it’s not a big deal. You should keep it.”

“I-” Bucky starts to say, then frowns. “It’s yours, Sam. Just take it.”

He’s about to say no again, see if he can’t push Bucky into actually saying what he wants instead of the silent 1940s wooing that’s apparently happening here, but then from the corner of his eye, he spots a blue dragon like the one Cass won earlier.

He hears Bucky’s words in his head again, gentle and earnest, the way he always is with the boys: ‘It can be something quiet.’

Sam had thought the advice was just for Cass, to let him know it was okay if he couldn’t get the words out. He’s starting to wonder if Cass wasn’t the only one who’d needed to hear it.

He thinks of funnel cake, of Bucky holding the camera up so Sam’s arm wouldn’t get tired, of how fiercely he loves the boys, of longform cursive paperwork and company on the nights Sam screams himself awake and those smiles that always feel a little bit like being entrusted with something precious. All those quiet somethings that have become his touchstone, warm and steady and always there.

Sam looks back at Bucky, reaching out to take the bear with a soft, “Thank you.”

Before Bucky can pull away again, he catches the vibranium hand in his own, watching as Bucky’s eyes widen just a little. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he looks from their hands to Sam’s face and back.

“Just wanted to try something,” Sam says, hopefully with more confidence than he feels.

It must work, because Bucky’s shoulders relax just a touch. “Okay,” he says, nodding.

Using their joined hands, Sam pulls so they’re closer together. When he hears Bucky’s breath catch, he asks, “Okay?”

Bucky nods.

Sam slips his hand out of Bucky’s grip, bracing it against his neck. “Still okay?”

Bucky nods.

As gently as he can, Sam leans in and rests his forehead against Bucky’s. “Sti-”

But he never finishes his question, because then Bucky is gently tipping Sam’s chin up and pressing their lips together, quick and chaste.

Bucky pulls away after a second, but only manages the first word of an apology before Sam is pulling him closer to kiss him again. Sam is pretty sure he hits Bucky in the head with the teddy bear that’s still clutched in his hand but he’s also pretty sure neither one of them cares all that much.

When they pull apart again, there’s a part of Sam that’s pleased to see Bucky looking just a little bit dazed, especially since Sam can’t seem to stop the dopey grin on his own face.

It’s Bucky who recovers first. “So wait,” he says, “you’re telling me that in the end, all it took to win you over was a cheap bear from a fairground? That’s it?”

“Don’t forget the funnel cake,” says Sam.

Bucky hums, nodding very seriously and doing a terrible job of biting back his smile. “No, we can’t forget the funnel cake.”

“Just one question,” says Sam, as they pull away from each other and make their way into the crowd again. “When you blew all your train money to win that girl a teddy bear, did you try to woo her with a funnel cake first? Or is that just in the updated version of-”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, his ears and neck turning red. “He told you about that?!”

“He may have been carrying some bitterness about having to ride home in a freezer truck.”

Sam slips his hand into Bucky’s as he launches into an explanation of how the freezer truck had been a brilliant plan, actually. He hefts the teddy bear a little higher in his arms, listens, and lets himself be led.

#this is so long you guys #I don't know what happened this was going to be 1.5k MAX #sambucky #sam x bucky #sambucky fanfiction #I'll probably throw it onto AO3 tomorrow #philtstone

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oldsamshouseoffic · 6 years ago

Text

Southern Sun

Words: 7161

My very first modern AU.

Merry Kristannamas, @epbaker! Based on your recs you seem to appreciate a variety of AUs and character interpretations, so I tried to push out of my comfort zone. And boy, did I. It was meant to be a simple fluffy oneshot but, well, you can see it kind of got away from me and is now double the length I planned with oodles of family angst. I split it into four parts and the fluff doesn’t really start until Part III: Bribery. But they get there, they do get there.

I hope you enjoy my hot mess. It even follows the suggested theme...

To anyone with actual knowledge of Antarctic operations, my apologies in advance for the many, many inaccuracies.

Part I: Lousy Antarctica

Lousy Antarctica.

Anna Arendal threw her covers off and dragged herself to her feet, strangling a howl of frustration as she looked at the clock, her only reliable measure of time on this stupid continent. She opened the shutters, ignoring the recommended closure hours sensibly displayed across them in Norwegian, and let the bright daylight into her room. Her brain kind of knew the light was there anyway, even if she couldn't see it. It felt like daytime, twenty-four seven. And she had got used to it. Mostly. Normally. You couldn't be an intrepid polar researcher if you couldn't manage the weird hours- everyone knew that. But...

Lousy Kristoff.

Lousy storm.

Lousy dated, unreliable equipment, that falls apart if a teensy little gale force wind hits it.

Lousy... actually, this wasn't Elsa's fault at all, not this time.

Lousy Anna. Lousy Anna's lousy big mouth.

Lousy comms blackout, at the worst possible time.

She fell back on top of the mangled bed covers, the ambient chill than pervaded every inch of Troll Station even in summer creeping under her onesie and the pyjamas underneath that, at throat and wrist and ankle, setting her skin tingling. The chill cut through the fog of her insomniac funk, just a little.

It was all her fault. And Kristoff's. And the storm, obviously. And the midnight sun. But mainly hers.

She shouldn't have yelled at him. Kristoff was a big, oblivious... Kristoff, and she was expecting him to be a mind-reader. Of course he didn't get why she'd been pulling out her hair about a few days without Internet. She'd never explained about her family, after all. Not that he'd been very polite about it.

But then neither had Anna. Maybe it was guilt, the reason she was replaying their argument in her head over and over. Or maybe... maybe it was a sign of how few people she actually had, out here, on the underside of the world. How few friends to lose.

Lousy language barrier...

Antarctica is a post-state scientific utopia. In theory.

On December 1st, 1959, the twelve nations with active science bases on the frozen continent signed the Antarctic treaty, dedicating one of the great land masses of Earth to peace and scientific discovery. As of 2006, forty countries are signed up to the treaty and operate research bases and stations. More than forty are permanent, 12 months-per-year settlements, antennae and living pods linked together like moon bases, dozens more are small, summer outposts.

The biggest, McMurdo Station, is American. It is more like a town than an outpost, its population never dropping below two hundred even in the depths of the polar winter, and swelling to over a thousand in the summer research season. That was where Anna had spent her first season in the continent. So many fellow research biologists. So many penguins! She could literally walk to one of the Adélie colonies, except that she had promised never to do that again. Those darn pencil pushers...

This year was different. Particular research had to be collected from other parts of the continent, very specific, penguin-ey data which couldn't be gleaned from what other nations had shared. I can do that one, Anna had said, pointing to where Troll Station had been circled on the map. My parents spoke Norwegian. I'll fit right in...

“It'll be great!” Anna had insisted to Elsa. “No more of the big-base politics and bureaucracy and meetings... Ugh, so many meetings! All the nonsense there was around that congressional visit. None of which was my fault, by the way. Just real researchers, braving the frozen wilds for science!”

Elsa had looked uncertain; she hadn't said anything about how Anna was travelling to the other end of the planet again, and that it was different this time, they were different. But they'd promised to stay in contact- the base had a dish for Internet- and Anna had sworn she wouldn't let them drift apart a second time.

The journey back to the frozen continent had gone smoothly, considering how complicated it all was. Connecting flights down the length of the Americas, an overnight stay at an airfield in Argentina, and then a chartered plane had brought her back to McMurdo. She'd had enough time to say 'See ya later' to a couple of old friends before the equipment she'd need was collected and loaded onto yet another plane, which had carried her to the South Pole.

A pilot had greeted her on arrival, a sharp-featured older woman who had informed her in laboured English that she was to to fly her the rest of the way, and had seemed surprised but delighted when Anna answered her in Norwegian, even complementing her accent. She hadn't known she had an accent. Was that... actually a complement, though?

With an hour or two free once she'd made sure her luggage was safely transferred to the smaller cargo plane, and although she had already felt tired from the long hours in the air, Anna had still got out and walked around the Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station. Partly to stretch her legs, and partly because she was at the South Pole.

The South Pole... Wasn't that just crazy? Mother Earth's frosty little butt.

It hadn't even been all that cold, being the start of the Antarctic summer. Okay, pretty cold, maybe minus twenty, but she'd come straight from the first frosts of a New York winter and was wrapped up in the finest thermal gear government funding could buy, so she'd felt the sting on the exposed parts of her cheeks and that was about all.

There was... literally a pole there.

Right in front of the base. It was a goofy little thing- red and white striped with a shiny ball on top, sticking up absurdly from the packed white permafrost. To think so many men died to reach the site of some novelty lawn ornament...

She had taken a selfie with it, to send to Elsa as soon as she had Internet.

By the time the final leg had brought her to the little airfield alongside Troll Station, she had been awake for more than twenty hours, which had made it, according to the pilot, only mid morning by Central European Time. A massive man whose ginger muttonchops were sprinkled with white had been standing, waiting for her, by a red minibus fitted with massive winter tyres. Every vehicle in Antarctica looked like a scaled-up kids' toy. As it turned out that was the station director, Dr Kjøpmann, who insisted on Anna calling him Oaken with the same polite informality which proved to be the norm for... most of the station staff.

On the way from the airfield Oaken had launched into what could well have been the introductory spiel he gave every newcomer. Troll Station was established first by the Norwegians as a summer outpost, and only expanded into a permanent, year-round station in 2003. This was good news in a lot of ways- there were all the modern conveniences. A TV room. Even basic Wi-Fi- although he admitted it wasn't very reliable. A sauna- Anna had tried not to giggle at that. But of course there was a sauna...

And the base now had a wind turbine to generate part of its power. He sounded particularly proud of that. Then Anna remembered being told that a good portion of the Norwegian scientists at the base were environmental researchers. Sustainability was probably close to their hearts.

The base was not much to look at in itself- Antarctic stations never are. A handful of blocky prefabricated buildings, mostly bright red to stand out at a distance to anyone lost nearby, connected by tracks and walkways. What really stood out was that it was all built not on snow, but on bare rock. A huge rock formation rose out of the ice sheet, running up towards a collection of oddly shaped mountains in the near distance, and the Norwegians had planted their flag right on top of it. Oaken explained all this, adding that the mountains were the 'trolls' after which the station had been named.

By the time they had made it to the station, Anna had been half-awake, and they had installed her equipment in one of the lab buildings and installed Anna herself in an empty dormitory room as quickly as possible so she could sleep off some of her extreme jet lag, having gone from EST to New Zealand time then back to European time over the course of one trip.

Left alone to unpack and rest, she'd zipped open her case, changed into her pyjamas, pulled her favourite penguin onesie on over the top because she'd still felt the chill, then remembered just in time to text Elsa.

......

Did you arrive yet? x

Anna, please text me when you're safely there. You know I get jittery when you travel x

Arrived safely! ;)

Thank God. How is your Norwegian holding up?

Xxx

Okey dokey so far.

I'm so out of practice.

Elsa I need my sleep. So do you. It's 4am in NY.

Wait!

???

Forgot this. Lo, ye literal South Pole XD

This... is ridiculous x

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Don't let the bed bugs bite x

Have an adventure, Anna. Skype me. Love you x

Luv u xxx

......

Sisterly duty discharged, Anna had flipped the light switch and collapsed straight onto the bed, instantly asleep...

She'd been woken up again after only a couple of hours, but that was life, wasn't it?

Broken sleep was kind of part of working through the midnight sun, Anna considered, still staring at the ceiling of her room. Maybe they were all feeling a little edgy, shorter tempered...

After another twenty minutes replaying her good and bad choices with increasing frustration, Anna thought: To heck with it. Brooding was Elsa's thing- she was a problem solver.

Well, how to solve her problems, then?

Problem 1: Elsa. Couldn't do anything about her until the storm damage to the comms dish was fixed.

Problem 2: Kristoff.

Kristoff. Anna had the beginnings of a plan to repair that particular burned bridge. Hopping up, she pulled her boots, gloves and coat on over her night clothes. If she remembered the rota right, Olaf was on nights at the moment...

Olaf Snømann was in his element. Three quarters of the staff were asleep and the canteen block was empty, so he could use the kitchen without interruption. Strictly speaking, Troll Station having no official chef, meals were meant to be cooked by the researchers based on a rota, but Olaf often volunteered his down time to bake, mix, prepare. Partly because putting together a lovely stew relaxed him when he wasn't grappling with satellite data, and partly because if he didn't cook, someone else had to- and most of his colleagues struggled to empty a tin of herring onto a slice of bread. It certainly made him popular. Everyone wanted to be friends with the cook.

Of course, with the satellite down he had all the time in the world anyway.

The door swung open which a swish of frozen air which tickled Olaf's scalp through his thin, silver hair, and a lone figure waddled in, wrapped in a thick high vis coat. It wasn't time for the night shift to eat, but there was no mistaking his visitor anyway. Olaf stopped stirring the stew pot and hurried to shut the door as fast as his stumpy legs would allow as American Anna undid her jacket, yawning. Underneath she was dressed in the same bizarre one-piece hooded costume that she'd worn the first time they'd met, her wind-burnt face framed by ginger pigtails sticking out under a goofy plush penguin face...

She had only been at the base a couple of hours at that point, months ago, but according to her she had forgotten to turn off her phone alarm. Now, an early alarm in Latin America is past midday in Europe and, finding herself awake at lunch, she'd decided to brazen out her jet lag and try the canteen.

Everyone had introduced themselves, of course. And it had turned out the base rumour mill was, for once, true and she actually spoke Norwegian, although her accent was so strong Olaf couldn't believe she had ever left the United States before. Although Olaf's own spoken English was atrocious, so it was a relief to know they wouldn't have to rely on it.

In any case, she had sat down, bleary-eyed, clad in her novelty onesie, said thank you very politely for the smørbrød Olaf had placed before her, before devouring a good half of it with her hands- like a toddler. Eventually she'd gone pink in the cheeks, registering that people were staring, and picked up her knife and fork to finish. Someone had jokingly called her 'Pingu' and she'd looked at them blankly. Olaf had shooed them away and sat down to eat with her, feeling a little protective of this young, half-penguin researcher, with her feral American table manners, half asleep and wholly out of her element.

And she was fun, it turned out. A breath of fresh, crazy air. He'd not had a snowball fight in years before Anna had arrived...

Anna coughed, bringing Olaf's mind back to the present before he could .

“Hi Olaf. I'm sorry about the dish.”

He looked back at the pot. “What? Oh, the satellite dish.” He shrugged, smiling serenely. “These things happen. He glanced out one of the little porthole-like windows, sighed, and returned to stirring the pot. “This land is beautiful, powerful, dangerous... that is part of the wonder of it. A little damage, a little delay- it's nothing we can't fix.”

Anna inhaled sharply, wringing her hands. “Yeah... fixing things. About that. Could I ask you a really, really big favour?”

Part II: Penguin Girl

Kristoff shovelled snow.

The base had a snow plough, obviously, but the storm had done more than spread a few feet of powder over the roads. In the driving wind, tonnes had built up in dense drifts against the buildings, burying cables and equipment that had to be dug out by hand. And so, since Lars had called dibs on the plough and he wouldn't be driving Anna anywhere until comms were restored, Kristoff had picked up a shovel and offered a hand.

That was if Anna ever actually wanted to share a cab with him again. The thought that she might insist Oaken assign her one of the other techs bothered him in a way part of him found surprising. He wasn't sure exactly when he'd stopped being annoyed by the ginger menace and started...

He carried on shovelling. He'd been working at it steadily for a while now; Sápmi winters had trained him well and he kept up a clean, rhythmic technique, the exertion warming him against the burning cold of the Antarctic air, efficiently clearing the loose-packed snow into piles that could be swept off by vehicle. Initially the exercise had kept his head clear, stopped him from dwelling on the fight, but now specific impressions kept forcing their way back into his head.

Anna had been so unreasonably angry, Kristoff had thought, about losing Skype when the blackout left the base cut off from other stations if there were an actual emergency, and when the whole TrollSat team's actual jobs rested on the comms mast being fixed, and when actual international treaties existed around Norway sharing that satellite data. And he'd told her so, and he'd not really listened to her...

But now, now he remembered her hands, fidgeting, tying her braids in knots as she'd complained; the tension in her wide blue-green eyes, almost tearful, and that wasn't just Anna being her usual impatient, volatile self. Something had been very wrong, and Kristoff hadn't listened.

Now he was worried, and wondering if it was too late to fix... whatever they had. It wasn't like he could fix comms.

Kristoff remembered when he had first set eyes on her...

He'd been hearing the others gossip about Anna for a couple of days, the strange American penguin girl, but they'd kept missing each other, which suited him fine. 'Kind of hot', apparently, 'in a Pippi Långstrump sort of way'- he hadn't wanted to dwell on that particular disturbing mental image. All Kristoff had known was that some American government agency had cut a deal with some Norwegian government agency, which meant he now had to spend four days a week ferrying some stranger far overland to look at birds.

He had been checking over the snowcat when Anna and Oaken had come strolling up together. The Red Sven was a tracked polar specialist about the size of a tow truck, and the only vehicle they had with the necessary speed and range for Ms Arendal's outings. The director had simply handed Kristoff his revised work schedule and marched back to his office with a wave, leaving his more taciturn countryman to try and make conversation with the newcomer.

It had turned out that making conversation with Anna Arendal was mostly nodding and saying 'Huh'. Her Norwegian was better than he'd heard, although her accent was strong, going high and low in all the wrong places with heavy American 'R's. Still, words, mostly the correct ones, poured bubbling up out of this girl- sweet and effervescent and unrelentingly upbeat, like a human can of Sprite. Questions, follow-up questions, answers to questions he hadn't asked... maybe it was a nervous trait?. She had just arrived after all.

Their first trip had dispelled the theory that Anna only talked too much when she was nervous, as she'd quickly settled into a calm, collected routine of always thinking in her mouth.

Anna was in Troll Station because it was 'close' to penguin colonies she needed to observe and collect data from. However, Antarctica was a continent, and 'close' meant travelling hundreds of miles by snowcat as opposed to thousands by plane. Troll Station being the 'closest' to the colonies she needed to study meant that it was 'only' a three hour drive each way in fine weather, plus an hour or two of driving between the penguin nesting spots themselves. Plus waiting around for Anna to make observations and collect samples.

And through it all, Anna would talk...

Are we there yet?

No.

You don't say much, huh?

No.

…

If the rock rises through the ice around the station, is the ice thinner? Like, do we have to worry less about falling in cracks?

Actually, you'd think so, but no. The ice gets thick pretty quick as you move away from the Jutulsessen nunatak.

…

I've never observed an Emperor colony before. Most of the data I collected last year is from Macaronis, but we need to track the pollution effects on the other Antarctic species and form hypotheses about dietary factors, so... are you listening?

Um, sure.

…

Are you ever around in winter?

No, it's only really the satellite station team that are needed during the long night.

Twenty-four hours of night. That must suck.

Yes.

…

Are the nights very long where you come from?

Oh yes.

So, far in the North?

Sápmi.

Sorry?

Sápmi. You know, ugh, 'Lapland'?

Like Santa Claus?

...No, not like Santa Claus.

…

What's a Pingu?

…

It had been exhausting at first, chauffeuring their foreign guest from breeding site to breeding site. That first week, the idea of being grounded at Troll Station for a few days would have sounded like a holiday. So why, whatever he did, however much he tinkered with the vehicles in the garage, or cleared snow until his back and shoulders burned and his clothes and beard were dusted white... Why did the day feel so empty now?

He missed the easy smile, the fizzy energy that escaped in bursts of joy, or curiosity, or irritation. He somehow missed the constant barrage of words.

He missed Anna. At some point in all those long, long drives over the ice, she'd grown on him.

Like a terrorist and her hostage...

Part III: Bribery

The sun didn't set during December in Antarctica. But this far from the Pole it did skim lower in the sky for a few hours, swelling into a warmer golden light that smeared itself along the horizon like the glow of a distant fire. Kristoff liked to sit out and watch it sometimes, on his breaks or when there was no work for him. That was how Anna found him, sat on a box by the wall of the garage block and sipping steaming black coffee from a Thermos flask. Alone. Good.

He was looking away from her, scarf loose around his thick blond beard, woolly hat pulled down over his ears, rolling his broad shoulders gently as if working out the aches and pains of the day. Anna saw the shovel propped up against the wall next to him. Clearly Kristoff had been making himself a lot more useful than she had been, sulking in bed, and for a moment she hesitated to bother him.

No, shyness wasn't going to solve anything. If Kristoff didn't want to talk to Anna he could tell her. And the package in her hands wasn't getting any warmer.

“Anna?” She jumped.

“Oh, Kristoff...” Anna swallowed nervously. She'd been spotted, no point in trying to back out now. She stepped up to her colleague, her rehearsed apology completely evaporating from her mind. “So, I...” “I should apologise.”

“What? No! I should apologise.” Anna blinked in surprise. “I yelled at you.”

“I didn't listen to you.”

“No one listens to me!” Anna paused. “I talk too much I know it's a thing.” She held the bag in her hands out to him. “Peace offering. I didn't have time to wrap it.”

“For me?” Kristoff stared at the bag for a couple of heartbeats, then took it and sat back down on the box, shuffling over so Anna could join him. He lifted the box out of the bag, a large plastic tub she and Olaf had found in the kitchen, and...

As Kristoff cracked open the lid of the tub, the smell of sweet fried dough was detectable even in the icy midsummer air. He smiled. “Doughnuts. You got Olaf to make them again.”

“Yep.”

“Everyone has been badgering him to make more since... well, the last time. He said we had to wait for a special occasion.”

“I twisted his arm.”

“They're so good.”

“Yep.” Anna was giggling now. “And they're all yours. Tell no one, or the meteorological team will descend on you like vultures.”

Kristoff laughed, and Anna was finally starting to relax, relieved. “It's a strange world.”

Kristoff reached for a rucksack sitting on the snowy rock, and fiddled with fastenings. Thermal gloves made little things awkward. Eventually, mumbling an apology, he drew out a small package tied up in a cotton rag. “I didn't have time to wrap, either.”

Anna let him place the little parcel in her hands. “And it's not even Christmas yet.” As she pulled the cloth away she saw the gleam of coloured foil. Was it really...

“Chocolate!” Anna jumped up and down, clutching The Precious to her chest, then sat down self-consciously. “Wow, thanks. My stash lasted, like, a week. Not even that.”

She turned back to Kristoff. “I can't believe we both decided to bribe each other with sugar.”

“It's the drug of choice around here.”

“Like cigarettes in prison.”

“We should talk.”

“Yeah...”

“I promise to listen this time.”

It was far too cold to stay outside, so Kristoff led her into the garage. Soon they were sat together in the cab of Kristoff's snowcat, as they had on so many achingly cold, bright 'mornings' since Anna had arrived here.

Anna's chocolate was frozen solid- goodness knows where Kristoff had been hiding it, maybe buried somewhere safe from hungry researchers- so they shared Kristoff's doughnuts as Anna explained a little of her family situation.

How Elsa had increasingly isolated herself from everyone including, most hurtfully, her sister. How they hadn't realised how ill she was, not for years- Pappa hadn't really encouraged them to talk about it.

Eventually, in their twenties, after they had both made some questionable choices- Kristoff didn't need to hear about Anna’s jerkass of an ex just yet- things had reached a breaking point.

After a particularly severe crisis had landed Elsa in the ER, she was finally receiving the medical attention she should have been getting from the beginning. Encouraged by her therapists, she had reached out to Anna.

They were making progress, slowly learning to be sisters again. But things were still fragile between them. Anna could be thoughtless and short-tempered, Elsa was painfully sensitive and sometimes kind of paranoid... it was a volatile combination.

In their last Skype call before the storm had wrecked the mast Elsa had been smiling, proud of herself. She had gone to a Christmas party. Elsa. Elsa Arendal had gone to a party. And enjoyed herself. With people. And dancing.

Anna had asked her where the party had been. Elsa had prevaricated, but Anna had pressed the issue, knowing her sister didn't drink and the blush on her cheeks was not alcohol.

“It... was an office party.”

“Oh really... Whose?”

“Oh, whose office? A, um, friend.”

“A friend took you on a date, huh?”

“Well it doesn't have to be a date, necessarily.”

“Uh-huh...”

“Okay, it was. Maybe.”

“Ooh... Maybe I should check this guy out, ask him his intentions towards my sister. Or do I know him already? You don't meet that many people, no offence.”

“No, no.”

“You hesitated.”

“No, honestly, she's new in town... oh God.”

Kristoff looked wary. “And was that...”

Anna nearly spat out her doughnut. “Oh for God's sake Kristoff, I'm not a homophobe! I'm a scientist! It would be like... hating someone for their shoe size!”

Kristoff's nose scrunched up when he was thinking. It was kind of adorable- Wait, what?

“So, if you're not-”

“There's no if! Geez, one nightmare clown gets elected and everyone thinks the worst of us.”

“So what did you say?”

Anna face-palmed, groaning. “Nothing.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Nothing? You?”

“I panicked! Said some nonsense about having my lab tests to get back to...”

Anna found herself fidgeting with her hair again. “We're sisters, and I love her, but sometimes it seems like I hardly know anything about her. Elsa pulled away from me so hard all through our teens- I didn't know then about her mental health, I just thought there was something wrong with me, maybe. And it just got worse after Mamma and Pappa passed. We've only really reconnected in the last year after she started getting therapy and meds, and so much is still uncharted territory between us.

There should have been sleepovers and girls' nights in and blanket forts where we talked about our crushes and shared our darkest secrets. But there was none of that. Just a locked bedroom door I passed on my way to the stairs. And being reminded of that made me feel like the lousiest sister in the world all over again.”

She pulled her legs up to her body, hugging her knees. “And you know, I am.”

Anna put her hand up to stay Kristoff's well-meaning protests.

“No, really. I made it about me. I got all weird and made excuses so I'd have time to feel comfortable. I was so scared of saying the wrong thing I said nothing! The one time I didn't talk when I actually should have...

I should have told her that it was okay. I shouldn't have signed off before I was sure she believed that. Elsa never finds it easy to tell me anything. Her issues make her so scared all the time, make her expect the worst. But she's been trying so hard. She's been getting better...”

Anna buried her face in her hands. “But that was when we lost Internet! And phones! Everything! Like, ten minutes later, back at the lab I had started to worry and wanted to send her a quick message, something supportive, even just a stupid little “Luv u Elsa xxx”...

...But no signal. Blackout! So now my only sister's back stateside thinking I freaked out and ghosted her, probably deciding to cut me out of her life for good this time. Or worse, having another breakdown... because of me...”

Kristoff wasn't the most demonstrative guy Anna had ever met, so she was surprised when he shifted the remaining doughnuts to one side and wrapped her in a tight hug.

It was nice, though. It was really nice, even with the gearshift pressing into her hip. She felt adrift in nightmarish uncertainty, no clue what Elsa was doing, no way to fix it, and the feeling of his arms encircling her, thick and strong as tree trunks, was kind of grounding. He was so calm and still most of the time, it was easy to forget how big he was. Two Annas big. Like a bear. A brawny Norwegian bear man. She couldn't really feel the warmth of him through the layers of insulating clothing they both wore, but... why was she thinking about that?

“Anna, listen to me. The dish will be fixed before you know it. You will call your sister, or Skype or whatever you want. You will tell her exactly what you told me, and she will understand and she will love you. We will carry on collecting data, data and poop alike, I will make you watch Pingu in the TV room so you understand the joke, and everything- that means everything- will be alright. Okay?”

Anna nodded. Something about the sheer, solid presence of Kristoff made it easier to believe his words, to expect good things, as she mumbled his words back to him. “Everything will be alright.”

“That's right.”

They met again the next evening, in the same spot- where Kristoff waited in the freezing wind with a sheepish grin and enough coffee for them both. Anna's chocolate had had time to thaw out and was no longer like trying to bite into a slab of glass, so they took their eating caffeine and drinking caffeine into the garage workshop. Kristoff must have known it would be empty.

“I should explain my behaviour,” Kristoff announced out of nowhere.

Anna put her plastic mug down on the crate that Kristoff had dragged over between their stools to make them a table, with that effortless strength of his. “No offense, but you need to narrow that down.”

“I can often be too...” Kristoff trailed off, his brow furrowing under his woolly hat.

“Laconic?”

He grunted. “Actually, yes. My family are a bit overpowering. It would make sense if you could meet them.”

Anna leaned in, curious. “Your family?”

She'd never thought about him as a family person. But then she'd never asked. Had she really been so self-centred?

“Well, adoptive family. My brother, that's my... hold on.”

Kristoff reached into his coat to retrieve one of the indestructible phones the Norwegian teams were issued with and flicked through a couple of screens, before turning it over to her. It showed a photo of two young men dressed in colourful woollen clothes, smiling and hugging each other while one held up the camera. It took a moment to realise which one was Kristoff- he looked different without the thick beard he'd been wearing since she had arrived.

“My only blood relation. Sven and I lost our folks when we were very little. Then we were adopted by new parents. There were ten of us, altogether, growing up right at the furthest frozen edge of the north of Europe.”

“Ten?” Anna gawked. One sibling had been complicated growing up- seven seemed like, well a zoo.

Kristoff chuckled at the face she was making. “Pappa said it kept the house warm. It was crowded. I never had much time to myself as a boy, except when I was out on the ice. At home, there was always someone talking to me, dragging me off to join in with something. Sometimes there would be songs, all through our little house, just because someone felt like singing and then Mamma joined in, then everyone else joined in...”

“They sound wonderful,” Anna blurted out, before she could stop herself. Compared to the years of her parents always being busy with the company, and Elsa ghosting her- not that they'd known why at the time...

Kristoff snorted. “They are. But also loud, and excitable, and overbearing, and kinda never shut up. I miss them, but at the same time I need to get away for some of the year.”

At that, Anna felt something implode slightly inside of her, a feeling she couldn't exactly account for, but she didn't want to ruin their second actual proper conversation, so she tried to grin and make a joke of it.

“So, you come all the way to the bottom of the world for some peace and quiet, and instead you're driving me two hundred clicks to collect penguin poop, while I talk, and talk, and talk your ear off the whole way? Tough break. Wow.”

Kristoff looked up at her and shook his head. “The whole drive back, too. But that's not quite what I meant. I should relate to people. It is part of life, I want to. But I guess my family has left me too... passive. You come to me, and you sit and talk and I let you, like you're one of my kid sisters. But you are not. I am not home, letting the noise wash over me, where my family know what I feel even if I do not show it. I am here, and you are my... friend, and I should talk to you, let you know that your company is valued.”

Anna wasn't expecting the sudden turn, and the sad look in Kristoff's eyes and the hesitant way he said 'friend', like it was a question, had her head spinning in odd ways. “That's well, I mean, not that- Do you? Value it? My company? I value yours. I think I took that for granted before our fight, which is a thing I do and- sorry.”

Kristoff nodded, radiating sincerity. “I do, Anna.” He held out his gloved hand across the crate, mashing the empty chocolate foil, and Anna took it and held it. “We're all the way out here in fourteen million square kilometres of ice and frozen rock, and only a few thousand complete madmen-”

“And madwomen!”

Kristoff laughed. “-To share it with. It's good we have each other, don't you think?”

Anna squeezed his hand. “Yeah.”

“I have good news.”

“Oh! Hi...” Anna looked up from her breakfast to see Kristoff awkwardly hovering. Checking the hood of her onesie to make sure it hid her bed hair, she wondered for a second why he was looking so uncomfortable if he had good news... before she realised he was just waiting for an invitation. “Sit, sit, come on Kristoff! Tell me.”

Kristoff joined her at the table, grasping a mug of that now familiar thick black coffee. She wondered if he drank it instead of sleeping- he was certainly up at all hours.

“The repairs to the satellite system are almost complete.”

Anna's face lit up. “That's amazing! How long...”

“They'll be able to reintegrate with the satellite and start relaying data back to Europe tomorrow morning.”

“And Internet? Phones?”

Kristoff scratched his beard. “That will take another day or two. Oaken wants to make sure we have everything straightened out before we bring back non-emergency comms, so no Wi-Fi.”

Anna's heart sank.

“But...” Kristoff smiled. “Oaken's office has a direct broadband connection, which will be back straight away, and I told him you had a family emergency and, well, he's really a good boss.”

“Wait, what did you tell him?” Anna's eyes widened.

“Oh, no details, only that you needed to contact your sister urgently. He may or may not think that she's dying.” Kristoff shrugged. “The advantage of not asking for anything for five years is, when you do, people take it very seriously. Just talk to Oaken and arrange when it would be best to use his office tomorrow-”

Kristoff wasn't that surprised when Anna leaped up and threw her arms around his neck in thanks. She was a pretty excitable person. The kiss she pressed into his cheek before she rushed out of the canteen, on the other hand...

He sat still where he was for a moment, just processing. The other driver, Lars, took a seat beside him.

“So, you and Happy Feet, right?”

“Lars, no!” Kristoff hesitated, willing himself not to let his blush rise above the beard line. “I don't know. Maybe.”

Lars snorted with laughter. “Kristoff, you hopeless young idiot. It'll be Christmas eve on Monday. Invite her to the party. A little festive cheer, a little lutefisk, a lot of Oaken's akevitt...”

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, undeterred by Kristoff's stony silence. “She is the first new person I have seen you happily interact with since... I don't even know. You're at the damn South Pole, do you think you're holding out for someone better?”

“No! Anna's great, really great, she...” Kristoff caught himself. “Oh, I see you.”

“Because if there were someone better, sorry, but she wouldn't date you. You're reaching as it is.”

Kristoff got up, zipping his coat. “I'm leaving now.”

As he walked to the door Lars called after him. “Go, follow the beautiful penguin girl... Confess your true feelings...”

“See you around, Lars.”

Part IV: Julaften

“But he gave you chocolates?”

“Chocolate, Elsa. Chocolate. As in a candy bar. We had an argument...”

“And he didn't have flowers?”

“Hilarious. Kristoff's just a guy I know.”

“Who went out of his way to help get us back in contact. And gave you chocolate, and you spend all day with him. I'm just looking at the facts- he's basically your snow husband.”

“Stooop... A couple of dates and suddenly you're the love expert.”

“'Love' expert? Ha! A confession.”

“I could sign off right now...”

“Wait, Anna. Listen, listen, I'm being serious. You should see the way your eyes soften when you just say his name. Anna, this is me, of all people, telling you to take a chance... Why not just catch him under the mistletoe, see what happens?”

“Elsa, they don't do that in Norway. I think. We don't have mistletoe, anyway. Even if...”

Anna stared at the akevitt in the bottom of her glass, reflecting on her most recent Skype with Elsa. After the initial awkwardness of clearing up misunderstandings- it had turned out Elsa had sent about twenty panic texts and Anna had solemnly sworn to delete all of them unopened once they arrived- their conversation had turned with surprising ease to the warmer, more familial awkwardness of being interrogated about her love life. Not that she actually had a-

The door to the TV room opened, and Kristoff joined her in the hall, rosy cheeked with Christmas spirit and also probably from the rich, dark Christmas ale half-filling his cup. It was not to her taste, but by the rate it was disappearing it clearly suited some of their colleagues. “Not enjoying the film?”

"Three Wishes for Cinderella? They show it every year." Kristoff shrugged.

“Give me It's a Wonderful Life any day.” Anna sipped her drink. “Shall we go out and say hello to the doggie?”

Kristoff tried to frown, but it wasn't working. “It's a goat. A Yule Goat. They're meant to be made out of straw, but Gerda and Lars only had bits of crate to hammer together, which is why it's so...”

Anna grinned. “So... what?”

“So like a robot dog.” Kristoff sighed in surrender. “Sure, let's take a walk.”

A few minutes later, wrapped up warmly, they stood at the centre of the base trying hard to admire what Kristoff's colleagues had constructed. They would not be winning any art prizes.

“So, how's it a goat?”

Kristoff pointed up at some of the messier parts of the beast. “The bent-over parts are meant to be horns.”

“Really? Not ears?”

“Be nice. It would probably look more impressive at night.”

Anna rolled her eyes, giggling. “Sure, at night. Let's just wait a few months.”

Kristoff crossed his arms and pretended to sulk. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh at our ancient traditions. What do you do for Christmas?”

Anna grinned, stepping closer to him. “Give each other gifts...”

“Yeah, we already did that, and I'm out of chocolate.”

She looked up at his face, all bemused patience, eyes dancing. “Eat turkey...”

“Good luck with that. I'm not driving you to the nearest supermarket.”

“Where is that?”

“Cape Town. I hope you can swim.”

“Okay, okay,” Anna laughed, her gloved fingers trailing down the front of Kristoff's jacket. His brown eyes were as dark and heady as the ale he drank. “Well, there is mistletoe. You know how that works?”

“We have Hollywood. But if an American really wants to kiss someone why not just-”

“Yeah, why not?”

The kiss was brief- almost a collision- as Anna grabbed Kristoff's head in both hands and pulled him down, springing up on her toes to meet him halfway. Then she let go and staggered back a few feet.

Yep, she’d actually done that.

Kristoff was bright pink. “Anna...”

“You can't blame me!” Anna yelped. “I'm drunk and I have terrible impulse control!”

Kristoff burst out laughing, which Anna decided could either be good or really, really bad.

“Kristoff?”

That was when he kissed her back. Slow and loving and tender, and the alcohol in her veins could not compete with how that touch warmed her.

What was that bleeping?

Pulling away slightly, Kristoff pulled his phone out of his back pocket. His smile broadened.

“Midnight.”

Anna looked at the bright sunlight gleaming off the ear-horns of the Yule plank-monster. The sun was low over the mountains in the distance, gleaming off the ice flats... “Amazing.”

“Merry Christmas, Anna.”

#kristanna #anna #Kristoff #modern au #kakij2018

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