#advent2016

This is how i see you by Feather (lalaietha), narrated by echolalaphile

Summary: After a minute of fighting against the stupid fucking impulse, drive, fear that makes him want to pull away, Bucky says, "Merry fucking Christmas," and maybe it could be a wry joke instead of bitter and spitting acid. Maybe.

Steve's arm's tighten for a second and there's no joke in his voice when he says, "Trust me, I've had worse."

Part 98 of the (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] series »

Excerpt - “Steve manages a convincing argument for watching every fucking Die Hard movie ever made with the ridiculous amounts of Christmas chocolate they've somehow ended up with in arm's reach, which right now amounts to suggesting it in a tone of voice that says he thinks it's a good idea. The fit of completely unnecessary domestic bullshit having been stopped, Bucky's not sure he could think his way out of a paper bag, or out of sitting somewhere and staring.

Considering that, sprawling somewhere and staring at a moving screen's probably a better idea. And there's an argument to be made that it's kind of like a fucking Christmas thing. And he sure as shit can't handle going anywhere. So sprawling using Steve as a pillow and a heater when Steve thinks it's a good idea works fine.

He loses track of the plot somewhere after deciding he can definitely see why McClane wife left him, and gives up and lets his eyes close. Steve's fingers move idly against his skull, through his hair, and he ignores the gunfire on the screen in favour of that.

The kitten settles in a curl on his upper back.

Standing right outside my door by eleanor_lavish

Summary: “I’ve been doing holidays alone for years, bro. I mean, I spent more holidays at Andover than in New York.”

Dex’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He kind of really hates Nursey’s parents right now, even though he’s never met them. He wants to yell at Nursey about this ridiculous chill he has going on, about how it’s fucked up, ask how he’s not just pissed off all the fucking time, but he looks over and Nursey’s eyes are still closed, and he’s curled in on himself in the seat. “Yeah, well. Not this year,” he says firmly.

Excerpt - “‘lo?” he manages.

“Deeeexxxxxxx! Merry Christmas, Dex,” comes the voice through the line, and Dex’s stomach flip-flops. It’s Nursey.

He hasn’t actually spoken words to Nursey since… since, so all he can manage is, “Nurse, what the hell -”

Not that it matters, because Nursey is already talking again. “You’re so grumpy, Poindexter, don’t be mad, just wanted to say Merry Christmas to my D-man. My D-dizzle. Diddly-Dex.”

Dex blinks into the darkness of his room. “Are you drunk?”

Nursey’s laugh is too loud, loud enough that Dex pulls the phone away from his ear. “Fuckin’ right. Daddy’s Macallan 25. Goes down smooooth.”

“He’ll be pissed tomorrow,” Dex tells him. Nursey’s laugh this time is quieter, and when he speaks his voice is tinged with something Dex has never heard from Nursey before, a kind of forced cheer laced with desperation.

“Nah, he and Mom are still in Dubai. Sent an email yesterday that they got a line on a deal, had to stay and see it through. Not like the sheiks are big on Christmas, you know?”

“Wait, what?” Dex frowns in confusion. “Are you home alone right now?”

“Home alone is my middle name, man,” Nursey says, “Just wish you were -” He tapers off, and Dex’s heart is beating hard enough that he can hear it loud and clear over Nursey’s quiet breathing on the other end.

“Just wish I was what?”

“Nothin’, bro,” Nursey replies, his voice a little hoarse - from the whiskey, or maybe from something else, Dex can’t tell. “Sorry I woke you up. Have a great Christmas, okay? High-fives to all the little Dexes.”

While We're Here... by JenTheSweetie

Summary: John and Sherlock are snowed in. And they have some things to talk about. If they must.

Excerpt - “So,” Sherlock said.  He appeared suddenly on the threshold of the kitchen.  “Just us, then.  Snowed in.”

“Possibly for days, yes,” John said.  He stared down at the marmite, ignoring the heat of Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his neck.  “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough food.  Not that you care.  You’d go for a week on last year’s saltines.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said.  “Well.  Probably not.”

There was a long, drawn-out silence, during which Sherlock continued to stare and John continued to ignore him.  The kettle whistled.  John poured two cups of tea and dropped a spoonful of sugar in his, half a spoonful in Sherlock’s, the picky bastard, and thought about putting on a pair of woolen socks; the heat in the flat was fine, but the floors were always freezing, like little blades of ice pricking at the bottom of his -

“Are you going to kiss me again?”