Fairytale of New York - Professor Bucky x Reader

Nine

Y/N

You sighed as you flipped closed your suitcase, finally having finished packing anything and everything that you would need for your trip back home. It was the last day of school before winter break, with all mid-terms and essays officially graded, half of the student body already on their way home for the holidays, and a relatively empty schedule. Your final lecture had been that morning, journalistic writing with Professor Rhodes, a one-off additional lecture that you had chosen to take at Bucky's suggestion.

The city itself, however, seemed busier than ever. Snow had fallen over the last week, and with the Christmas lights strung from the trees and lamp-posts, and the Christmas trees propped in the corner of every shop that you visited, you'd never felt more in the Christmas mood. Yelena had even put a small tree in your apartment, in the corner by the TV, a miniscule sized tree with a string of lights and half-broken decorations that she had apparently found at a thrift shop. She had informed you that, as it was her first Christmas outside of Russia, she really wanted to make the most of it. You would hear her every morning blasting Mariah Carey or Michael Bublé from her room as she got ready.

Bucky had understandably been busy, with his job consuming most of his time. You didn't mind really, having been so caught-up with school work and preparations for heading home that you didn't have time to miss him, but it was at night that you really wished he was there. He would often be working late, and would simply head back home after work, and with all of your studying and essays due at once, you had ended up spending more time at your own apartment as of late than at his. It felt strange to once again be climbing into an empty bed alone after so many months of falling asleep in his arms. But you knew that you were about to have three weeks to yourselves; three whole weeks together where you didn't have to hide or keep your relationship a secret, you could simply be together.

But there was still one last thing to handle before you left the city; a Christmas present for Bucky. You had done your research, searched for anything and everything that you thought he might like, had spent countless hours scrolling through google for ideas. But the problem was that nothing seemed quite special enough. Nothing felt like it would really tell him how much he meant to you. So you decided, on your free afternoon, to head out and see what you could find.

You must have scoured through every shop in your neighbourhood with no luck. The wind was beginning to nip at your skin, and the sky was dark, threatening yet another fall of snow. You sighed, turning to your phone again, hoping to find something. That was when you found it, a pin on google maps that you didn't remember making. Cogito Books, a small, independent, family run book store in downtown Brooklyn. It was a drive, but a book could work as a gift for Bucky if you found the right one. You hailed a cab and slid into the backstreet, reading further into the store as you drove. Handed down through three generations of family, an 'institute within its community'. It sounded perfect.

It was tucked away on a little backstreet, nestled between an old apartment building and a coffee shop. It had seen better days, the fern green paint on the wood panelling outside chipping with age, the golden lettering of the sign weathered over the years. The inside of the shop, you found as you entered, the bell ringing above the door to indicate your arrival, was small, with floor to ceiling bookcases crammed in at every turn, a labyrinth of stories, each one told by a different person, a different perspective. The scent of ink and old pages and leather, mixed with a hint of chamomile and vanilla, hit you as soon as you walked through the door, lingering around you as you slowly began to pace the shelves, an aroma that reminded you, strangely, of the man that you were buying for in the first place.

You walked through each aisle, your fingers trailing over the spines of the books piled precariously onto the shelves, more novels and copies than could fit on one shelf squeezed in to the point of bursting. It was strangely peaceful, being alone with the books, like a little bubble of bliss in the center of the bustling city.