Author's note: This is the 2nd in a series about Bucky's relationship with Dr. Tessa Sullivan (OFC). If you'd like to know how they got here, read In the Beginning... that pretty much lays out... their beginning.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing Marvel.

"Yeah, I know," he hears her say, voice muffled behind the door. Then, "I know. I didn't forget," after a long pause. She must be on the phone, he realizes when no other voice sounds in response. He knocks lightly before letting himself in.

"I will," she says in an exasperated tone as she turns to face him, showing him a one minute finger. "I promise."

He sets the grocery bags down on the counter and starts to unpack them while she finishes her call.

"Yes. I love you too," she intones with a slight laugh. "Okay. Merry Christmas." And she hangs up the phone. "What is all this?" she says with forced cheer as she turns back to face him.

"I'm making you dinner," he mumbles, as he twists around, looking for somewhere on the cluttered countertops to set things down. "This place is a disaster."

She pulls up a stool at the breakfast bar, rests her chin on her hand, and watches him work. His brow furrows in either confusion or disgust, or maybe both, as he shifts piles of papers and empty cans and bottles to make room.

He looks up at her and notices a melancholy, far off look in her eyes as she follows his movements. "Who do you love?" he asks simply.

She startles a bit. "What?"

"On the phone," he states, pulling out a garbage bag from the cabinet. "You said, I love you too."

He starts to toss the bottles and cans into the bag. "I'm recycling those," she says, pointing to the trash in his hands. "Don't throw them in with the trash."

"Recycling," he utters under his breath. It's still a new concept to him. Of course so is all of the plastic people use nowadays. "You shouldn't drink this crap anyway," he says, holding up a few empty energy drink cans. "It's poison."

She rolls her eyes. "You sound like Natasha."

He ties up the now full trash bag and stops everything else to gaze at her. She looks down, has for days. The holidays can have that effect on people, he's no stranger to it himself. But he misses her smile. "So, who do you love?" he asks again, an impish quality to his voice.

"Just a friend," she singsongs. "No need to worry."

"I wasn't worried. I just thought you might be talking to your family."

She sighs, long and drawn out. "Yep. My family."

"Or is it just a friend?"

"Same thing, I guess," she says before propping herself up on the stool and leaning over the bar to look at the food he's unpacked. "What are you making me?" she asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

"Christmas dinner," he says with a nod. He turns around to flip on the oven and begins rummaging through the cabinets of the small galley kitchen. He comes up with a couple of small pots and a large roasting pan that she honestly didn't know were even in there. Pepper had made sure that everyone's apartment was fully stocked before they moved in. But she'd been here for more than two years now and had never come across those items before. Of course, she didn't often go looking for cooking utensils. What would be the point in that when there was a perfectly good cafeteria downstairs and a common area upstairs that was always stocked with food?

"Christmas is tomorrow. And I think Tony's expecting everyone in the grand hall," she says, referring to the small ballroom just below the penthouse where their parties were typically held.

"Well," he says turning to face her, leaning his hip against the oven, "tonight is our Christmas." He shoots her a sly but genuine smile and she can't help but return the expression.

"And you can do that?" she asks, leaning so far over the bar that she's practically crawled on top of it. She's looking through the piles of fresh vegetables and herbs that he's laid out on the counter beneath the bar. "You know how to cook all of this?"

He walks over and lightly slaps her hands away. "Yeah, Tess. I can cook carrots and potatoes." He side-eyes her as he gathers the produce and takes it to the sink. "You really have no idea to cook anything, do you?"

She shrugs. "Never really came up."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I never really had to learn."

She never talked about her family or where she came from or how she grew up. And other than a few questions here and there – because he was genuinely curious – he never pushed. It was obvious that her past was a bit of a sore subject, and no one understood that concept better than him.

She leaves her perch and comes to stand beside him at the sink. "You wanna wash these?" he asks, handing her some carrots. She takes them and runs them under the water. "You know how to peel?" he inquires, holding a potato in front of her.

"I can probably figure it out."

He sets her up at the sink with a vegetable peeler – which she'd never seen either, oddly enough – and moves to the opposite corner to start prepping the chicken.

"Your mom taught you how to cook?" she asks quietly.

He nods, "She did. She said that she'd feed me 'til I was 18, then I was on my own. And since she didn't expect that I'd find a good woman to take care of me for a long time, I'd better learn how to fend for myself."

Tessa laughed lightly. "Sounds like she knew you well."

Bucky smiles to himself as he thinks back, remembering his mother's words, her coy, crooked smile as she said them. "Yeah, she did."

"I never knew my mom," she says so softly, he almost doesn't hear her. "Or at least I don't remember her."

Bucky looks over his shoulder at her and sees that she's still bent over her potatoes, hyperfocused on peeling them just so. She makes no move to look at him, and he's pretty sure that's by design. It's almost a test – seem too eager to know more and she'll shut down completely, say nothing at all and she might never bring up her family again. He plays this game himself sometimes, not on purpose of course, but he's noticed himself doing it just the same. Over the last year, since being brought into the fold here, he's become more aware of how his struggles with his past affect those around him.

"Who raised you?" he asks, turning back to the chicken. It seemed safer to ask something like his than to push her on what happened to her mother.

"My grandfather for a while. Then Scott and Alex took us in."

"Us?" he asks. He hears the peeler hit the side of the sink as soon as he says it, and he shuts his eyes, mentally kicking himself. She was talking and now he's gone and ruined it. Is this how people feel around me? he wonders briefly.

She's silent for a long moment as she retrieves the peeler and rinses it off. "Me and my sister," she says finally, the words clipped short.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Maybe we come back to that later, he thinks to himself before asking, "Who are Scott and Alex?"

"My brothers," she volunteers, this information coming out a little easier. "Well, adoptive. Sort of. After my grandfather died… no one wanted us. We didn't have any other family. And no one would adopt a mutant." She stops for a moment and he thinks that she might be done talking altogether. He's just about to ask something else, anything else, just to keep her going, when she starts up again. "Most mutants don't see their powers develop until puberty. I was four when it started. My grandfather never told anyone. But… I don't know… I was just a kid… I don't know how people found out. But Scott found us, or we found him. We met in a children's home outside of Chicago. He was an orphan too. And Alex." Bucky turns around to see her, watch her as she slowly, carefully peels each potato while talking about her brothers. "Scott was 15 at the time and he was just trying to find Alex, who'd aged out of the system." She sets the peeler down and looks up at the cabinet in front of her, clearly gazing at nothing as she recalls, "He took care of us. He became our big brother. And when Alex found him and said he was taking him away to some school in upstate New York, Scott said that we needed to go with them." She braces herself on the counter and shakes her head at the memory. "It was more… complicated than that, of course. But eventually Alex was able to become our legal guardian – after the Professor pulled a ton of strings. And then… well, I grew up at that school." She turns around to face him, not at all surprised to see him watching her from across the small kitchen. "Hence not knowing how to cook."

"So it was like a boarding school?" She nods. "I always thought you'd have to be crazy to go somewhere like that. I always figured they were like the Army, like basic training, only with more books and tests."

She laughs a bit and leans back on the counter before saying, "Sometimes, maybe." Then, shaking her head slightly, "It was a good place. With good people."

He considers only briefly whether or not to ask the question begging to be asked. "So why are you here then? At Christmas… why aren't you with your family?"

She looks at him long and hard before saying in a measured tone, "Same reason you aren't with your family. They're all dead."

He sees the pain in her eyes when she says it, but he can also see the resolute tilt of her chin, the firm line of her lips. She's doing all she can to make it seem okay, to fight off the sadness. That's a trick he knows all too well. He looks away, knowing he can't do anything to take away her pain breaks his heart. "I'm sorry," he says simply.

She merely nods in response. "So," she breathes out after a moment, "am I supposed to cut these up now or something?" She indicates the peeled potatoes on the counter.

He pushes off of the counter and goes to fill a large pot with water. "Nope," he says, placing the pot on the stove and holding his hand out for them. "Now we boil them."

She wrinkles her nose while handing over the potatoes. "Boil them?" she asks with a face. "That sounds gross. Are you sure we aren't supposed to fry them or something?"

He chuckles. "Don't you know how mashed potatoes are made?"

She thinks for a moment, making a totally new, completely adorable face. "From a box?"

"You've got a lot to learn, doll," he laughs, shaking his head.

She scoots a bit closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder. "So you boil them and then you mash them?"

"Basically. Add butter and cream," he replies, leaning his head onto hers.

"We're not boiling the chicken, are we?"

He smiles wide. "No room in the pot."

She steps back suddenly, cocking her head at him in an assessing way. "This isn't my Christmas present, is it? A sarcastic cooking lesson?"

"You were expecting a present?" he asks, unable to hide the coy smirk on his face.

She rolls her eyes at him rather dramatically and he steps away from the stove to stand directly in front of her. His hands fall to her hips as he presses his forehead into hers. "Presents are for later," he says softly. "It isn't Christmas yet, remember?" He pulls back a bit and places a kiss on her crown. "And I'm not giving you a lesson. I'm making dinner." He gives her a little shove with his left hand as he turns her toward the kitchen doorway. "You are going to take a bath," he says, all but forcing her out of the room.

"Why? Do I stink?" she tosses over her shoulder with a wink.

"I don't trust you in here. Go relax."

She leans back over the breakfast bar on her way to the bathroom and says, "It's been a long day. You might want to check on me to make sure I don't fall asleep in there."

He glances back at her and notices just how tired she looks. "I'll keep that in mind," he says before throwing his chin in the direction of the bathroom in a shooing manner.

000

An hour later, she's back in the kitchen, this time cutting up apples for a pie. "Can't you buy this stuff in a can?" she asks before letting out a long drawn-out yawn.

"That's disgusting." He absently scoots a little closer to her, unconsciously drawn to the clean honeysuckle scent clinging to her damp hair. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again."

She snorts out a laugh. "Just because it's harder doesn't mean it's better. I've eaten ready-made pie filling before. And it was delicious."

He stops pressing the dough into the pan and turns to face her, a look of utter horror on his face. "You ate pie filling?" he asks. She nods without glancing up. "As in, just the filling?"

"It was college. I was poor. Those cans were cheap." She tosses the last pieces of apple into the bowl between and them and cocks her head in his direction. "I had a can opener. I had a spoon. And I have to tell you, that shit is de-licious."

He shakes his head as though he might be able to fling the thought of her eating that crap out of a can like a deranged homeless person right out of his head. "We're never speaking of this again."

They work in silence as she tosses the apples with the melted butter and sugar he set out and he checks the potatoes. It's nice. He can't remember the last time he cooked a big meal like this. And while he and Steve sometimes have to dodge each other in their kitchen while putting together meals, he hasn't really cooked with anyone in a long, long time. Actually, this whole evening reminds him of cooking with his sister. Being so much younger, she was always at a bit of a loss for what to do. Like Tessa, she turned her nose up at raw chicken, couldn't fathom how myriad ingredients came together to make food, and spent a good deal of time pilfering anything mixed with sugar.

"If you keep eating them, there won't be anything to fill the pie with," he says softly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She holds her hands up in mock surrender and takes a step back from the counter. He hears the apple crunch in her full mouth and can't help but snicker as she attempts to choke down the evidence. "I'm hungry," she whines then. "I can smell the food, but I can't eat the food. It's terrible."

He dumps the apples into the pie pan before she can go back for more, sets the pie aside and washes his hands. "It's almost ready," he says, reaching for her. "You're being very patient."

She snuggles into his chest as his arms wrap around her. "Thank you for noticing," she says with a smirk.

It's actually more than hour before they can eat, but that isn't entirely his fault. Yeah, the chicken took a little longer than he thought, but she's the one who got a call and ducked out for "just a second" to check on something happening in the lab.

"Helluva second," he says to her as she stomps back into the apartment almost an hour late. He has the table set and is sitting there with a beer in his hand and a smug smile on his face.

"I'm starving," she drawls out, dragging herself dramatically over to the table.

"Why is anyone even up there?" he asks, referring to the research lab upstairs. "It's Christmas Eve."

She slumps into the seat across from him, rests her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands. "It's Stark Industries. Places like this are built on people who work holidays. Well, people who work all days, really. Every. Single. Day."

"I remember having Christmas dinner with Howard," he says, a far-off look gleaming in his eye for just a moment as he grasps at the old memory. "I think." The memory is fuzzy, like so many others. But he's sure that Howard was there, sure that he bought in turkey and roast potatoes and red wine – damn the rationing. He's sure that he stood and gave a speech that lasted at least 10 minutes, even if he can't recall a word that was said.

"Are these my plates?" she asks, pulling him from his reverie.

He looks up to find her examining the china closely, confused look on her face. He reaches over and plucks the plate from her hands. "They were in the top cupboard," he says. "You're probably too short to ever been able to find them." He picks up his dish too and goes into the kitchen to prepare their plates. When she makes a move to get up to follow him, he turns and throws up his left hand in a stop gesture, waggling his index finger as a directive for her to sit back down.

"I'm not short," she mumbles, resuming her head-in-hands position at the table. "I'm above average height for a woman."

"Well then maybe you were too busy eating out of cans like a hobo to notice that you had fine china," he intones from the kitchen.

"No one says hobo anymore." She's raises her head to look at the table in front of her, see if the silverware is at least the same that she normally uses. It is. The wine glass in front of her is a utensil she is more than familiar with. She perks up a bit, noticing the light liquid inside. "What's this?" she asks, picking up the glass and taking a large inhale. Oaky. And… peachy?

"I don't know," he replies, returning and setting a full plate in front of her. "But the lady at the store said it was good."

"It is," she declares, as the just-dry-enough chardonnay slips down her throat.

The corner of Bucky's mouth turns up in a small, crooked smile as he takes his seat across from her. "Good." He looks over at her and watches her eyes close as she takes another sip. He can tell that she's enjoying the wine, and he's pleased about that, but he can also see the exhaustion on her face, the dark circles under her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. "Eat," he directs, more than a little upset with himself for telling her it was fine to go check in at the lab.

She sets down her wine glass and picks up her fork with an excited, almost beaming expression on her face. They eat in silence for several minutes, Bucky eating like a normal person and Tessa shoveling mashed potatoes into her mouth like a starving toddler.

"You're gonna choke," he says finally, laughing.

Her mouth is full when she replies. "No." Then, following the massive gulp, "I didn't know this was what mashed potatoes were," she says with a big, dumb smile. "And the chicken too…" He looks down as the food in front of him, averting his eyes as an unwelcome blush takes over his face. "It's soooo good."

"It's really not that hard," he says, shyly shuffling the vegetables on his plate with his fork.

He feels the top of her bare foot slowly creep up his leg as she says, "I've never had a guy make dinner for me before."

"Really?" he asks incredulously. Her foot continues to slowly stroke his calf, which only adds to the redness in his cheeks.

"Well, Steve made me pizza once. And chicken soup. Oh and we experimented with sushi one night," she recalls, waving her fork in the air. "But I guess that doesn't really count."

He looks up at her pointedly. "It better not."

"Does that mean that pizza and sushi don't count as dinner or that Steve doesn't count as a guy?"

"Yes," he says simply, feeling his cheeks cool as the sound of her laughter fills his ears.

Her foot has made the move from his calf to his inner thigh, and while the blush of embarrassment may no longer be on him, another awkward-for-dinner-time feeling is starting to take over. "You have no idea," she starts in a low, seductive voice, "how much I'm looking forward to filling my mouth," she continues, leaning forward, her toes creeping along the inseam of his pants, "with that apple pie."

Her foot drops suddenly as she leans back in her chair, popping another bite of chicken into her mouth with a smug, satisfied smirk. He rolls his eyes as a deep chuckle emits from his chest. "You are…"

"Amazing?" she tries, mouth still full. He shakes his head and purses his lips like he's trying to come up with the right word. "Perfect?" she asks with a swallow.

"Definitely not."

"Beautiful?"

"Not quite what I was thinking."

She sighs long and deep. "Brilliant? Sexy? Smart? Loyal? Coquettish?"

"I don't even know what that means."

"Honestly, I just keep coming back to amazing," she says with a shake of the head.

He gazes at her from across the table, crooked smile slowly widening as she takes another bite and lets out a tiny blissful moan. "I was going to say a real jerk. But I like amazing," he says with a nod. "It fits."

"Yeah, it does," she says with a smirk.

They finish the meal without words, just enjoying the food and enjoying knowing that the other is sitting right across the table. As soon as Bucky leans back in his chair, plate clean in front of him, Tessa gets up to collect the dishes. His hand comes up and takes hold of her wrist when she reaches in front of him. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't mind," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and easily slipping his grasp. "Need another beer?" she asks, grabbing the empty bottle along with the plate. He nods happily and settles back in his chair.

His gaze drifts towards the window as she heads into the kitchen. "It's snowing," he says, almost to himself. He hears the clatter of dishes hitting the sink and cringes. "You okay in there?"

She appears suddenly around the corner, beer in hand, bright smile on her face. "It isn't Christmas without snow," she says, completely ignoring his question. She offers him the bottle and he grabs her wrist instead and pulls her into his lap.

"So what was Christmas like at mutant military school?" he asks as she settles herself in.

"I don't know," she shrugs. "Quiet. Quieter anyway. A lot of the kids would go home for the holidays." She takes a quick swig of his beer and lays her head on his shoulder. "I don't know," she repeats before going silent.

He brings up his right hand up to her head and runs his fingers through her hair. "I remember snowball fights," he says. "And my mom yelling at me about catching pneumonia after coming home with wet mittens." He chuckles a bit at the memory, but feels a surge of sadness at the same time. Because it's one of just a handful of memories he still has of his mother, and of his childhood in general.

"Will you cook me Christmas dinner every year?" she asks softly.

He can hear the hesitation in her voice and it makes his chest constrict a bit. They don't talk about the future. He's still not entirely sure that someone like him can even really have a future. And sometimes he thinks she's feels the same way about herself. But there's not a doubt in his mind that if he gets a real chance at a future at all, she'll be in it. "Every year," he says, placing a gentle kiss on her head.

She turns in his lap to face him. "We could go have a snowball fight, if you want," she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Work up an appetite for pie?"

He laughs heartily and she takes that as a yes, jumping up from his lap and running into the bedroom to find her boots. "It just started snowing," he calls after her.

"I don't care," she yells back. Then, stumbling out of the bedroom as she struggles to get her boots on, "We can just take a walk until it builds up."

He stands up and moves over to her, wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her in close. She hugs him tightly back, burying her face in his neck. He breathes in the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo, feels her fingertips grasp his shoulder. "I love you," he says into her hair.

Without missing a beat, without even acknowledging that this was something new, something neither of them had ever said before, she grips him a little tighter and utters in return, "I love you too."