Bucky only trudges out of his room and to the communal floor because he needs coffee. He knows he’s not actually hungover, that all he imbibed last night was regular ol’ human liquor, but it’s almost as if his body is determined to remember the experience of what once was and forever shall remain stupidly karmic misery.
JARVIS at least keeps all the lights helpfully dimmed and the shutters low on the expansive windows, but Bucky’s not really in the kind of state of mind where gratitude’s even in his periphery, so he just shuffles through without a word.
He pulls up short, however, when he steps into the kitchen that overlooks the open plan living room, distracted from his quest by a most heinous discovery.
“Halloween was yesterday,” he bites out, his mouth tugging down past the usual lines of a not-a-morning-person frown to a this-offends-me-on-a-personal-level-and-I’m-going-to-glare-until-it-stops frown.
Clint, bedecked in a hideously red and white onesie with a lopsided black belt, turns from where he’s perched at the top of a ladder in the far corner, stringing multi-colored Christmas lights throughout the whole room by the looks of it.
“Yup.” Clint grins and winks because there’s not enough wrongness happening before his very eyes, apparently. “Way to read your calendar this morning, Buckaroo.”
Over by the couches, there’s still a skeleton posed provocatively across the loveseat from last night’s revelry. In deference to his decor retrofit, though, Clint has plopped a Santa hat on it’s head at a jaunty angle.
Scowling, Bucky turns his back on Clint and stomps over to the coffee machine, determinedly focusing on it and only it. “Times like this remind me how awful the future can be,” he grumbles as the machine sputters to life and slowly dispenses the one true elixir of the Gods. “Can’t we just enjoy holidays one at a time? And when it’s actually, oh, I don’t know, the designated time for the holiday?”
Grabbing up his mug, he ducks his head on his way back out to avoid anymore overly bright cheer, though he nevertheless catches a glimpse of a cottony mound of fake snow piled up in front of one the windows with a lopsided snowman at the center. Bucky has never rolled his eyes so high and so hard in his life.
theproblemwithstardust 