Bucky One-Shots and Imagines

Secret Santa

Christmas was a time you didn't enjoy much. You'd spent most of yours in peril in an orphanage and then the rest of them being tortured at a Hydra concentration camp. Currently you were seated at a small Christmas themed gathering in Tony Stark's living room with some of your best friends despite your obvious disdain for the holiday. Him and the rest of your friends had managed to drag you out of the house for the night, miraculously.

Usually, you "celebrated" by drinking a whole bottle of red wine by yourself at home while binging your favourite T.V show and hogging some takeout or just simply going clubbing.

However this routine became relatively challenged after you joined the Avengers a few years back. They always managed to drag you out and take you somewhere or the other for Christmas and even though you wouldn't admit it, because of them, you'd started looking forward to the overtly festive holiday.

Currently, you sat on the carpet in the middle of the Avengers Tower's living room at Tony's holiday party. It was strictly family and friends only so needless to say you were fairly comfortable sitting amidst all of the people that meant the most to you and holding a large, oblong package wrapped in newspaper in your hands. Natasha was grinning at you and everyone else was waiting for what you were gonna do next.

"Well," Steve said, taking in a deep breath, "Our first secret Santa of the night, open it, Y/N,"

You ran your fingers over the flimsy wrapping, feeling the bumps and ridges of the box below, studying intently the form that lay within your hands in hopes of framing a proper reaction to it in which no feelings would end up getting hurt. You blew out a puff of air from your nose, setting the package down and tucking your hair behind your ears, sighing.

"Come on, Y/N!" Tony whined, "We can't wait any longer,"

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves that felt rock-hard in your veins. You were so afraid of upsetting someone, so afraid that you'd end up not liking what someone got you and that it'd convey loud and clear through how you reacted. You really didn't want to compromise your relationships with any of these people.

A soft voice, soothing to the ears, called out, "Come on, Y/N, it's okay,"
Bucky looked at you, those deep blue eyes of his lined with understanding, a soft smile on his face that made him seem a lot younger than he usually looked. Through that simple look you could tell he understood, you could tell that he heard your heart thudding rapidly against your chest, desperate for relief and wanted to convey that it was okay for you to feel that way.

Human interaction was hard.

Slowly, you tore one side of the paper, unraveling it over and tugging it off. Contained within the stereotypically mundane wrapping was a simple shoebox, brown in colour with an adorable drawing of a smiley face on the lid, one that caused you to smile in return and 'Merry Christmas' printed on it in messy scrawling. You lift the lid off of the box and gasp at what it beheld.

It was the most gorgeous sweater. You pulled it out, running your hands over the smooth fabric, "Cashmere," You mumbled to yourself, satisfied. It was pale lilac colour and you unfolded it's sleeves, holding it up in front of you.

A smaller box fell from within the confines of the sweater you'd just opened, clattering in front of you with a thud that was muffled by the carpet on floor. Picking it up and analyzing the package, you slowly began opening the string that held the two halves of the box together. A glimmering object sat between on a small, cushioned seat, the kind used for engagement rings, a chain draped carefully around it so as to not get tangled. You sucked a sharp intake of breath as you realized what it was, gently picking it up.

It was a locket. It was your grandmother's locket. The only thing you'd had from your past that you thought you lost forever almost a century ago.

It was beautiful, cased in royal marble, outlined in gold wiring that formed a crest on it. You twisted the latch, slowly opening up the item of jewelry and let out a happy laugh as tears started welling in your eyes. There were two pictures, one of your mother and one of your grandmother, both black and white portraits that had been re-sized to fit the small space the locket had to offer. On the back, was a small painting of a baby angel, that you knew only your grandmother could have painted. You ran your fingers over the dried paint and could feel yourself become more connected with who you were. Who you used to be. Who you were supposed to be.