Chapter Text
Malls overwhelmed him. The size, the brightness, the echoing voices and the plethora of stores. Back in his day (he hated that phrase, it made him sound old), such lavish displays of luxury were unheard of; now it was normal. The twenty-first century had an overabundance of food and money. Sure, he read about the crash in the 70s and the Recession in the late 2000s, but nothing compared to the sparse nature of the Great Depression. The grim bleakness of a populace looking for work and finding none, wanting food and finding their pantries empty. He read how the war saved the country from total economic failure. He supposed war created a demand for supplies, that demand created jobs, which created money. Still, such avarice on display bothered him. "You okay?" Natasha asked, leaning against the glass and metal railing on the second floor. They were at a mall in Brooklyn, the name she didn't remember, and he didn't bother to look up.
Giant plastic Christmas decorations hung between the walkways, with lights blinking merrily, the radio played Christmas music (half he didn't recognize). In the main hub of the mall was a large fake Christmas tree with a festive village around its base and a red winged back chair; there Santa Claus sat to accept Christmas wishes from children (and so parents can get their child's picture with Santa). Many of the smaller children were dressed in their Sunday best, their faces screwed up in fear and tears rolling down their chubby cheeks as they sat on Santa's lap screaming for their mothers, who cooed and waved while the assistant (elf) took a few pictures. He told Natasha to remind him to never subject his future children to such horror. She gave him a cheeky grin in response.
This was his first Christmas out of the ice. His first Christmas in an uncanny world: strange yet familiar, alien yet home. He didn't know what he'll do for Christmas day, so far he'd figured he'd go to Midnight Mass at the nearby Catholic Church. At least after seventy years that was still the same. He found himself going to church much more now (especially after the Chitauri), the familiarity of Catholic Mass brought him an odd sense of comfort and peace. The Bible hadn't changed. Communion was still the same. He wished he still had his mother's bible and rosary, but he lost those things long ago. "Steve, you okay?"
"Yeah," he said, leaning back, surprised that Natasha was so close to him. "Yeah, Romanoff, I'm fine."
"I told you, call me Natasha. No need to stand on ceremony," she said and began leading him through the crowds. Only she knew their destination and he was content to follow. "You going to Stark's Christmas bash on Christmas Eve?" she asked over her shoulder. He looked at the people, eyes widening whenever he saw a group of teenagers with hair the colors of the entire rainbow. Other teenagers had their faces decorated with piercings or they wore thick black eyeliner and matching black lipstick and dressed in black and chains. He wondered what happened to parenting in the seventy years he was frozen or at least human decency. "Steve? You still with me?"
"Yeah, yeah" — he looked around again, before finding Natasha — "just uh… I guess culture shock?"
She gave him her signature half smile. "Yeah, guess that's the best way to describe it. It is a different culture," she said. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him along through the crowds like a mother holding onto her child. "You can ask questions. I am here to help." She gave him a cheeky grin. "As your liaison to the twenty-first century."
"And how did you get that position again?" he asked. She laughed; he was learning to associate that sound with comfort and familiarity. He twisted his wrist free of her grip and took her hand. Her skin was warm with after lotion softness, yet the femininity of her hand masked its strength and deadly nature. He felt grounded when she didn't pull her hand free. "Remind me, I'm an old man, memory's on the fritz." He could poke fun at himself.
"That'll be the day," she said with a laugh. "Well, it was down to Stark and Clint," she said, "and I know them both and I couldn't just let you suffer with their terrible taste."
"Like your taste is any better?" he arched a brow, a playful smile on his lips. Banter came so easy with her, as if they had known each other their entire lives. She shot him a playful glare.
"I'm earning my Help the Elderly Girl Scout badge by doing this," she said.
"Y'know, I'm technically twenty-seven" — he frowned — "twenty-eight, I had my birthday after the Battle of New York."
"Face it, Steve, you're a hundred years old. Nothing's gonna change that." She slid up to him, taking his arm in both of her hands. "It's okay Grandpa, we can take it slow—"
"Hardy har-har." He rolled his eyes.
"—Oh look, there's a Hallmark store." She pointed out the store. His face went slack, and then he smiled. "We—"
"We're going in there," he said, pulling his arm free and grabbing her hand, leading her for a change, to the store.
"Seriously?" she asked, trotting to keep up with his brisker and longer strides. "I was joking about the grandpa thing, Steve."
"My mam used to take me to Hallmark every year in December to buy cards for the nurses she worked with," he said as he entered the store.
"Hi, welcome to Hallmark," the sales associate said, "what brings you in today?"
"Just…" he looked around, trying to fit the pieces together. The store had changed since he was a boy. It used to sell cards and gifting items and a few knickknacks, now there was a plethora of various items. "Christmas cards," he said, finding the familiar red envelopes.
"Yes, we have a lovely—"
He ignored the associate and went straight to the cards. He ran his fingertips over them, reliving the memories of his youth. "It was one of the few times I heard my mam speak Irish," he said, "she always muttered to herself in Irish." He pulled one free, admiring the design and the glitter, the simple message inside. "She'd've loved these cards. So much fancier than the ones I remember."
"Lots have changed," Natasha said, standing by his side. He noticed that she didn't look at the cards, instead looking at the not-Christmas items.
"Every year she'd buy me something expensive. Mostly art supplies, but sometimes other things" — he slipped the card back into its slot — "and I'd get a card with a piece of chocolate inside stuffed into my stocking." He smiled. "Had an old shoebox filled with Christmas cards. She always wrote something in them." He sniffed, wiping at his eyes. "Read them a lot when I missed her after she passed. Could still smell her perfume on them." He sighed, looking at the ceiling, collecting himself.
"I'm sorry Steve," she said. "Was she a… good mom?"
He grinned. "The best. Always knew what to do make everything better." He shuffled down the aisle and plucked another card. "Even after a long day she'd have a smile for me. Made everything special even when it wasn't special." He put the card back. "Sometimes, I still can't believe she's gone."
"She sounds like a wonderful woman," she said. "What was her name?"
"Sarah," he said, a bit wistful. He looked around the shop, noting the ornament wall on one side, the wall with various figurines, and the various displays dotted in between. "Her name was Sarah." He looked at her. "What about you? Any fond Christmas memories?"
"I never celebrated Christmas until I escaped the Red Room," she said, blithely drifting away from him. It was a punch to the gut, he gaped at her like a fool, blinking in stupefied disbelief.
"N-Never… Never celebrated Christmas?" he asked. Good God, did he squeak, he hoped he didn't just squeak. "How could you have never celebrated Christmas."
"Not everyone celebrates Christmas, Steve," she said, looking at the fancy Keepsake ornaments, the associate hovered near them. It was slow for the store, right now by the looks of it.
"Oh, so you celebrated Hanukkah, then?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "That's alright in my book, really."
"No," she said, "I never celebrated any holiday." She flipped an ornament a bit too firmly. The sales associate made a weird noise. "It just… we didn't do it."
"Oh. That's sad," he said. She shrugged. "Well, you're going to enjoy Christmas this year," he said. "I'll make Mam's baked apples, and I still remember her stuffing recipe." He grinned, warming up to the idea. "I'll bring them to Tony's Christmas party. Everyone loves free food."
"You do realize Stark will have food there, right?" she arched a brow. She pressed the button on the Captain America ornament.
He frowned. "I don't sound like that," he said. She grinned.
"'We did it together, as a team, we're the Avengers,'" she quoted, mocking him. He rolled his eyes.
"Nobody makes baked apples like my mam did," he insisted. "Trust me, Natasha, you'll love them." He laughed. "Bucky could… Bucky could…" he stopped, blinking. He shook, leaning forward to put his hands on his knees. He was there again, the icy wind howling in his ears, mixing with Bucky's screams. His friend vanishing into the landscape of white and dark grey; the way gravity tried to drag him down as he reached for Bucky. How he saved himself instead of his friend. He let out a few shuddering breathes and shook his head.
"Sir? Are you okay?" the nervous associate asked, taking a step closer to him.
He forced a smile on his face as he looked at the young man. "Yeah, fine." He nodded, acting as if nothing abnormal happened and ignored Natasha's disbelieving glance. "You'll love them," he told her, looking at the ornaments with faux interest. Then honor his death and respect his choice, because he damn well thought you were worth it. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to keep the pain of losing Bucky at bay.
"I've lost friends too," Natasha whispered, slipping her hand into his. He bit his lip, nodding, squeezing her fingers. "The angel's nice."
"Yeah," he said, looking at the angel, "she is." Natasha let go of his hand and he watched her drift around the displays.
"I'm going to head out, if you want to get something go ahead, I'll be outside," she said.
"Okay." He looked at the associate. "That angel," he said, pointing to it. "Please."
The apples were still hot. He hissed and winced as he plucked them from the hot baking dish with a serving spoon and his hand. He didn't know how many to make so he made three dozen. His apartment smelled of apple pie, he had traditional carols playing in the background and he found himself humming to them. He wished he had some decorations, maybe he'll ask Natasha to help with that. Take him to one of those all year Christmas stores or something or — a knock broke through his thoughts and he almost dropped an apple on the floor. "Coming," he said, setting the apple down. He went to the door, wiping his hands. He opened the door, smiling a little when he saw it was Natasha. He tossed the hand towel over his shoulder.
"Didn't realize I caught you in a compromising position," she teased, eyes lingering a bit on his groin. He flushed, tucking his hands into his arm pits and rocking on his feet. She took a deep breath. "Smells like…" she stopped, licking her lips.
"Nothing's burning is it?" he asked, sniffing as well. "I should mix the stuffing." He headed to the kitchen. "Close the door will ya?" he asked over his shoulder. He heard the door shut as he lifted the lid to the stuffing, inhaling the reach aroma. His mouth began to water, the scents of chicken, onions and carrots bringing back fond memories of his childhood. Digging the wooden spoon in, he mixed the stuffing, remembering to scrap the bottom as his mother taught him. "Natasha, come here," he said as he tapped the wooden spoon on the pot's side. He took a small spoon and scooped out a bit, blowing on it. She came to him, cautious. "Try it," he said, "Mam's stuffing is the best."
He watched her take the spoon, nibbling at the stuffing before eating all of it. "This is good," she said. "Didn't know you could cook."
"I had to get by on my own." He went back to taking out the apples. "I made three dozen, wasn't sure how many everyone would eat and I could probably eat a dozen myself." He bent down and grabbed some large tupperwear. "I love this stuff" — he showed her the plastic containers — "best kitchen invention."
"Better than a mixer?" she arched her brow. He looked at the KitchenAid and chewed his lip. It was a handy invention, made life easier and baking quicker. He hadn't gotten a chance to use it, not being much of a baker.
"Yes." He set the tupperwear out with a duller clatter. "Help me back this up?" He started putting apples into the tupperwear. "Do you think we could go to some of the after-Christmas sales and get decorations? The apartment is kinda drab. Mam and I would string popcorn and make paper chains. If she wasn't too busy at the hospital and we could afford it, we'd go upstate to the woods and get some pine boughs for wreaths." He snapped the lid close.
"You really like Christmas," she said. He flushed, setting the apples in the next one. "Never took you for a religious person."
"I've… I wouldn't say more religious but… Mass is still done the same way it was seventy years ago." He shrugged. "It's familiar. I don't feel so… lost. And reading the Bible helps the nightmares."
"Nightmares?" she asked.
"What brings you by? Wasn't expecting you and I didn't think you'd be gun-ho to help me bring food to Tony's Christmas party."
"I got you a little something," she said, a mischievous grin on her face. He swallowed, focusing on his task to keep his emotions in check. He liked Natasha. He liked Natasha a lot. Their first meeting may have been cool, and she wasn't the coziest person, but in some ways, she reminded him of Peggy. A woman often underestimated, not afraid to put her life in danger to help people. Peggy was more open, easier to talk to, but the more he spent with Natasha, the more he discovered that she was easy to talk to, just in a different way. Yet, as much as he liked Natasha, she wasn't Peggy. And Peggy… Peggy was everything. He frowned, wishing he had died in the ice or when the Valkyrie crashed into the water. "I mean, it wasn't too much trouble. It's more of a gag gift… a gift meant as a joke. Not serious. I can take it back if you don't like it."
"Huh?" he looked at her, noting a flick of concern on her face before it vanished into a neutral mask.
"You got upset when I said I got you a gift."
"Oh, oh, no" — he waved his hand — "no, I was just… uh… I got a lotta thoughts rattlin' around in my head." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "So, you got me something, huh?" She nodded and presented the lumpy wrapped package. He arched a brow, taking it. "To: Steve. From: Natasha." He sat down at his little table and unwrapped the item, careful not to yank too hard at the tape.
"Maybe next year I'll just put the gift in a bag if you're gonna be an old man about unwrapping a gift."
"I'm ninety-four," he said, cheekily. He shook out the sweater. It was a deep navy with bands of white and red on the sleeves, hem and across the chest and neck. In the center was an image of his shield. "It's a sweater."
"Watch." She pressed a little button near the hem and the shield lit up in flashing colors — red, white and blue — while the Star-Spangled Banner Man with a Plan (instrumental version) blared. He winced and turned the sweater off. "Amazing isn't it?"
"I'm not wearing this, Natasha" — he offered the sweater back to her — "I appreciate the thought, but I'm sorry I'm not."
"It's a gift Steve, besides you have to wear it. Tony's hosting an ugly Christmas sweater party." She unzipped her jacket. Her sweater was a dark grey with a red hour glass symbol on the chest. She pressed the button on the hem and in a high tinny sound blared a national anthem he hadn't heard in decades.
"Is that… the Soviet national anthem?" he asked, watching the lights flash red and gold along her sweater. She nodded a soft giggle escaping from her. "I haven't heard that since I was in Russia."
She pressed the button again, shutting the sweater off. "What brought you to Russia?"
He shrugged, thinking of the winter of '43 and how the Soviets helped him and the SSR root out the Hydra base operating just inside the Russian border. A female Russian pilot had saved his life as he freed the prisoners. It had surprised him to learn she was a woman and later the Russian commander told him that the Red Army had several female fighters. "The war," he said. "Learned to respect Russian women though." He quirked a smile. "They can be scary."
She sat down, scooting the chair close and leaned well into his personal space. He could smell her perfume, a soft subtle floral scent that reminded him of roses after a storm. He leaned in closer, her hair smelled of roses and orchids. Her hands found their way to his thighs, a warm and gentle weight. "Just wear the damn sweater, Steve" — he could feel her breasts against his chest; he swallowed the lump in his throat — "I can always help you take it off later," she purred into his ear. She shifted a bit and more of the flowery scent filled his nose. He closed his eyes, the scent bringing forth memories of the floral scents Peggy wore. He told Bucky he was going to buy Peggy some nice expensive Paris perfume after the war. In fact, she wore his favorite the day she kissed him, jasmine and lilac with a hint of rose. He could feel her soft lips on his, the harsh orders of the car and plane exhaust mingling with the subtle floral notes of Peggy's perfume. The faith in him that he saw in her gaze gave him the courage he needed to go on, and the promise their kissed sealed was something he held onto. He pushed his chair back and was on his feet in a blink. Natasha grunted when her hands met hair.
"You should go," he said, staring at the horrid Christmas sweater in his hands, imaging all the Christmases he missed, the Christmases he should've spent with Peggy and the family they never got to have. The last time he heard her voice was when she told him where and when to meet her for their date. During the Christmas of '44, he promised Peggy he'd take her to a Christmas dance when the war was over; she hinted that she may just give him a kiss beneath some mistletoe once this was all over. He had blushed at that. It was the best Christmas he ever had, despite the fact they were in war torn Europe.
"Rogers, I was teasing about helping you take it off," she said, coming to stand in front of him. "Just wear the stupid thing for an hour or two and then go change. That's what I plan to do."
"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can make it." He looked at the apples and the stuffing he made. His teeth caught his lip; he sighed and decided that he could freeze the stuffing and just work on eating the apples for the next couple of weeks. Waste not, want not, right? Who was he fooling, thinking he could go to a Christmas party… his first Christmas out of the ice, and pretend everything was normal; with people he didn't know. "Tell Tony I—"
"No," she said, closing the gap between them. There was a look in her eye — concern, worry, he couldn't tell — that he hadn't seen before. "It's not good for you, staying home on Christmas Eve."
"I was planning on going to Midnight Mass," he said. "It's alright, I can get by on my own." Now I'm truly alone. At least last time I had Bucky… I knew people and how everything worked. Now… he shuddered. "Please, I don't want to be a Scrooge."
She shrugged. "Don't care. You're going."
"Natasha, I—"
"You can't celebrate your first Christmas back in the world alone, Steve." He hung his head at that. "Just come until you have to leave for Midnight Mass."
"Do I have to wear the sweater?"
"Until you leave for Midnight Mass."
He had been inside Avengers Tower a few times before. In fact, he lived there on an entire floor to himself (he had no idea what to do with all that space). The interior was always sleek, cutting edge and futuristic. Glass and chrome accents and the soft electrical hum of technology. All powered by JARVIS and all birthed by Tony's genius. It was still sleek, cutting edge and futuristic, though now boughs of holly (fake) with red velvet ribbons hung from the walls, red and green LED lights tucked into the seam between wall and ceiling, JARVIS greeting them with a Merry Christmas. It was a technocrat's version of Christmas. He tugged at his sweater. "Are you sure we won't be the only ones wearing these… things?" he asked, glancing at Natasha. He carried the pot of stuffing and she carried the tupperwear filled with the baked apples. He had left the ornament in his jacket pocket on the bed in his suite.
"Yeah." She glanced up. "Right JARVIS?"
"It is an ugly Christmas sweater party, Captain Rogers," JARVIS said in a smooth British accent. Steve huffed as they reached the penthouse floor. The elevator chimed their arrival (the chimes sounded like sleigh bells). They stepped out.
"Hey, you guys made it!" Clint said, coming over to greet them. "Whatcha bring Cap?"
"My mam's stuffing and baked apples," he said, grinning. "And… what are you wearing?" he arched a brow at Clint's sweater. It was a dark olive green, with a childish image of a man with blond hair and pointed ears; the man held a bow and a Santa hat sat on his head. Clint grimaced.
"It's Legolas, from The Lord of the Rings," Clint said.
"We've watched it, it's the archer," Natasha said, out of the corner of her mouth. He nodded, remembering now. "I'm sorry Clint."
"It was the only thing Tony could think of apparently. Though… I guess he didn't do much thought for yours or Banner's."
"What's wrong with Banner's?" Steve asked, finding the scientist in the corner. His sweater was green. That's it. Just green with flashing green Christmas lights. "It's green."
"I get an eight-bit elf image and Banner gets a green sweater," Clint said as if that was supposed to explain everything. He arched a brow while Natasha chuckled and went over to the table, setting the tupperwear of apples down. He followed her.
"Natasha can you get the hot mitt from my pocket?" he asked and shifted so she could grab the thick square piece of cloth from his pants' pocket. She did and sat it down and he put the stuffing pot on top. "There, thanks."
"It was no problem," she said with a wink. He flushed. Tony walked up to them, his sweater was the less offensive garment so far. It mimicked Iron Man's breast plate though a hole was in the center to expose Tony's actual arch reactor.
"Capsicle! You made it!" he gave an uneasy smile at Natasha. "Natalie."
"Stark," she said. "You're looking spiffy."
"Nice sweater Tony," Steve said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He tried not to stare at Tony too much, tried to not find parts of Howard in his son. Tried… and failed. Howard had been his friend, someone he shared drinks with and laughed about the mysterious nature of women. Tony, as he learned quickly, was nothing like his father. Well, that wasn't true. Tony and Howard shared brilliance, natural charm and money. The similarities ended there.
"It plays music, all of them do," Tony said.
"I hate you Stark!" Clint yelled, when someone pressed the button on his sweater and The Lord of the Rings theme blared into life. Steve's eyes grew wide when he realized that Tony had hooked the sweaters' music system up to the speaker system of the tower.
"Love you too Barton!" Tony gave the archer a cheeky grin and a merry wave. "Now let's press your button Capsicle."
"No." He took a step back, shaking his head and eyeing Tony's hand. The Soviet anthem sounded, loud and epic with the choir singing in Russian. He breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring Tony's pout. The elevator chimed again.
"Happy Yule everyone! I come bearing the Yule Boar!" Thor declared in his loud booming voice. He stepped out of the elevator, he wore a golden sweater with an image of his hammer emblazon on his chest. Upon one shoulder he carried an entire roasted pig, grease stains clear on his sweater. In the other was a wooden log. "And a Yule Log for more festivities tonight." Besides him stood a white goat with a wreathe around its neck. It gave a bleat, breaking the shocked silence.
"Thor," Tony began, "is that a goat?"
"Aye!" Thor said, grinning. "'Tis a billygoat! His name is Tanngnjóstr."
"Why did you bring a goat?" Clint asked, coming over to see what the commotion was about. The thunder god continued to grin.
"He's a Yule Goat. Every year my father would gift me a goat for Yule." He looked down fondly at the animal. "I'd raise them for a year and then we'd feast upon the goat."
"Okay, but why?"
Thor shrugged. "I have no idea," he said, "apparently Midgardians — you… Earth people — thought I really liked goats."
"Okay" — Clint's awkward grimace spoke for them all about being called Earth people — "but why did you bring the goat."
"Oh," Thor said, "that's simple. It's Yule! Can't have a proper Yule without a Yule Goat!"
"Please tell me you're not going to sacrifice Tann… your goat, Thor," Tony said, "I just brought in my white faux fur rugs for the winter and—"
"Not to worry Stark," Thor said, "I brought a Yule Boar for feasting! Went to Vanaheim and slew the beast myself!" He pushed his way through the crowd to the table and set the log down; then with one mighty sweep of his arm made a space for the large boar. Steve felt sorry for Tony as things clattered to the floor. "It was an epic battle," he said, "I shall regale you all about the hunt as we feast upon it!"
"I… I had ham," Tony said. Steve looked at the glazed ham on another table next to a beautiful Christmas goose and prime rib, his eyes grew wide at the display. Never had he seen so much food in one place before, every imaginable Christmas dish was present, prepared by the finest chefs in New York City. "I ordered catering, Thor! We had plenty of food!" Tony frowned when he noticed the tupperwear and pot. "Rogers, did you… bring this?" he pointed to odd items.
"Yeah, my mam's baked apples and stuffing." He swallowed. "I knew you had catering Tony, but I always had this during Christmas and I… uh… wanted to share."
"Mom's recipe?" Tony arched a brow. He nodded. "Can't say no to a mom's recipe." He grinned at the compliment, pleased that Tony liked his contribution to the array of food. "Let's get this party started, shall we? JARVIS."
"Yes sir?"
"Christmas music," he said and began to mingle with the guests. "You know the one."
"Of course, sir," the AI said, and a bombastic opening to the Ukrainian bell carol echoed on an ultramodern stereo; lights flashed red and green to the beat of the music. Tony, at the center of it all, grinned.
"I know this song," Steve said, staring at the lights. "Never heard it like this before." He stood there, awkward as people mingled. He only knew the Avengers; the rest were guests from Stark Industries that he didn't know. At the parties back home — funny how he thinks of before the ice as home and after as not — he'd hang back, watching the gathering while he nursed a drink that Bucky had got for him. Bucky would come over and cajole him into mingling, steering him to where the mistletoe hung in hopes that the girl he had convinced would kiss him. Too often (like every time) she kissed Bucky, not him. At his hurt look, Bucky would come to his defense and demand to know why, to which the girl comment about his small stature, Susan McGillan had said, "he's more boy than man, Bucky." Betty Roberts had answered, "there's not enough man in him to appreciate a kiss!" Those hurt, but he shook them off. He lived his entire life knowing he was small, bullied because he was small. All the girls said that about him, but by far the worst was the Christmas of '39 when Anna Grace Martin sneered, "You want me to kiss that? He's not even a man, besides, he's Irish."
He left that party before Bucky could start anything. Being bullied for his small stature he could handle, but he hated being singled out because he was Irish. Now, seventy-three years late, he stood amongst strangers once more, feeling more awkward and out of place. The only plus side was that nobody hated the Irish anymore. He drifted to a corner, tucking his hands into his arm pits, watching everyone. "Rough crowd?" a voice asked. His eyes widened, surprised to see Fury there. The Shield director wore his signature long black leather trench coat and black eye patch over his eye. He also wore a candy cane pin on his lapel, the only nod on his entire person to the holiday.
"Director Fury, sir," he said, swallowing and looking around to see if anyone was watching. "Didn't know Tony invited you."
"He did, Hill and Sitwell are here as well." Fury watched the crowd, hands behind his back. "How are you adjusting?"
"Well," he said, "Natasha… uh, Romanoff— I mean, Agent Romanoff, she's helping me catch up. Still behind, made a list of things to check out. And the internet," he said, "so helpful. Been reading it a lot trying to catch up. Natasha — Agent Romanoff helps me with it from time to time."
If Fury noticed his familiar addressing of Natasha, he didn't comment. He thought Natasha was difficult to read, but reading Fury was like trying to squeeze water from a rock. "That's good," he said.
"Found a place in Brooklyn," he said, "not… changed a lot since I last been there." He glanced at the floor, which was more interesting that watching the crowd of people. He wanted to find Natasha, but he didn't want to appear like he was a fish out of water or a lost puppy. "Thinkin' about askin' Natasha — Agent Romanoff, if she'd uh… help me with Christmas decorations for next year."
"How would you like to join Shield?" Fury asked. He snapped his head to stare at the director. "Not sure if you're familiar with the history of Shield, but it was what the SSR became. Peggy Carter helped found it, along with Stark's father and Colonel Philips."
"Oh," he said. He swallowed, trying to sort his memories of Peggy and his crushed dreams of a future they never got the chance to have around in his head. He swallowed, squishing his hands further into his arm pits. "I uh… well…"
"Think about it Cap," Fury said, "we'd love to have you on the team." Fury gave him a single nod. "Merry Christmas." And walked into the crowd, vanishing among the sea of people. He stared at the spot the Shield director was moments ago, trying to gather his thoughts. Unsure what to do or say, so he just stood there until Natasha came over, her cheeks flushed from drink, eyes bright with good cheer.
"Steve, what are you doing here? Hiding in the corner like a Scrooge," she said, looping her arm through his. "Mingle, before Stark finds you and labels you a Grinch."
"A what?"
"Put it on the list," she said and took a sip of the drink she held. "Vodka?" she smirked. He swallowed again, cheeks heating and blood rushing south. Whenever she smirked like that, he got a little thrill of excitement, it was how Peggy made him feel, when she had showed up at the bar in that stunning red dress and told him that after the war she may even go dancing. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself a little shake. He didn't need to be thinking about Natasha like that. He had Peggy… well, Peggy was probably dead, and probably had married during the seventy years he was frozen — regardless, he shouldn't be thinking about Natasha like that. He didn't know much about her private life, but he was pretty sure that she and Clint had a thing. "It's the good stuff," she said, "Zyr, best Russian vodka money can buy. Stark always gets the good stuff."
"No, I uh… can't get drunk," he said. "So, I uh—"
"You can't get drunk?" she arched a brow. He flushed. He should have known better to admit that to her. She was Russian. Next to the Germans and Irish, the Russians were known to be big drinkers. He read on the internet that after the end of WWII, Moscow ran out of vodka because the Russians partied so hard. "That's the best, Steve!"
"I really don't see how it is," he muttered. He never was a big drinker, so he'd nurse a drink throughout the night. It was only after Bucky's death that he realized he couldn't get drunk. "It's quiet miserable when you want."
"Think about it Rogers," she said, leaning into him — he figured she was a bit tipsy, since her rigid control over her emotions was loosen. "You can actually enjoy alcohol. You can drink it like other people drink juice. Not that I'd recommend it, but… you can be an absolute liquor snob now."
He titled his head, never thinking about actually drinking for taste and pleasure before or realizing that the serum allowed him to be able to do that. Never hurts to start. "Let me taste then," he said, holding his hand out for her glass. She handed it to him. "Best Russian vodka?"
"Best money could buy," she said, smirking again. He flushed and squeezed his thighs together and made himself think of something sexually unappealing. He took the glass and took a sip. He made a face at the burn of alcohol.
"It's… not for me," he said, handing the drink back to her. She gave a little shrug, taking another sip. "Sorry, I just… even before I was well…" he swallowed. "I never was a big drinker."
"Steven!" Thor boomed as he came over to him.
"Please, Thor, just Steve." He gave the Asgardian a pleasant smile. Thor clapped him on the shoulder with a beefy hand, gesturing with his mug to his sweater.
"You have a Yule sweater too!" He plucked at his own. "I'm pleased Stark felt inclined to give us festive garments to wear to this Yule celebration."
"Christmas sweater Thor," Natasha said. "And it's Christmas party." She took another sip of her drink.
"That's what I said." He grabbed the button on Steve's sweater and pushed. The Christmas music stopped, replaced by the song the sweater played. Everyone turned and stared at him. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. "Marvelous!" Thor said in that booming voice of his. He pressed his own sweater's button. A song he never heard before began to play.
"Is this Immigrant by Led Zeppelin?" Clint asked, looking at Tony. Tony pushed his lips together, making a popping sound as he pulled them back in a feral happy grin.
"Bingo, Legolas!" he said.
"Please don't call me that," Clint groused, tipping his beer back to take another swallow. He pushed at the goat. "Thor come get you goat."
"Tanngnjóstr! Leave the Master of Arrows alone!" he strolled over to Clint and scooped the goat up, tucking it beneath his arm. The goat bleated. "I'm sorry Clinton, he's just being friendly."
"Don't ever call me that," Clint hissed, "it's Clint."
Thor gave him a puzzled frown. "I'm sorry, I thought your name was—"
"My name is Clint Barton. You can call me that, or Barton or Hawkeye or even 'hey you, arrow guy'. Just don't call me that."
Steve frowned, leaning close to Natasha. "What does Clint have against Clinton?" he asked. She brought her drink to her lips, taking a long swallow.
"I asked once," she said.
"And?"
She gave him a look. "Never asked again." She drifted over to the table of food, eating some of the finger food items. He stood by her side, feeling awkward again.
"Steven," Thor said, coming over to them, the goat still tucked beneath his arm. "Let me get you something to drink! You must be merry during Yule!"
"It's Christmas, Thor. Nobody calls it Yule anymore," she said. The god ignored her as he set his goat down and got another tankard. Steve wondered when the large wooden barrel made its way into the room, but he figured it was better not to ask questions as Thor handed him a foaming tankard of Asgardian spirits.
"Asgardian honey mead, brewed specially for Yule!" Thor thrust the tankard into his hands. "Drink up!"
"I uh" — he glanced at Natasha and then at the god — "okay," he said and drank. The mead was sweat with warming spices of cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg (he wondered how the Asgardians had such spices), there was also a hint of orange. It tasted better than the vodka. "This isn't bad." He grinned. "You know I can't get drunk right?"
"Steven, my friend," Thor said as he slung his beefy arm around him. "Asgardian mead is quite different from Midgardian brews." He tipped the tankard back. "Drink up, it's Yule!"
He choked, swallowing the sweet and spice mead quickly so he didn't gag. Natasha giggling behind him wasn't helping. He lowered the tankard when he finished. "This is uh…"
"Another!" Thor shouted, snatching the tankard away and refilling it. "And you must try the Yule Boar!" Thor handed the full tankard back to him before pulling off a hunk of the boar, its skin roasted to a crisp perfection crackled as Thor plopped it on a plate and handed it to him. Steve looked at the large hunk of meat. He took it.
"Thank you," he said and filled his plate with a little bit of everything (his own offerings included) and sat down at a couch to eat. He was about half way through his meal when the Asgardian mead hit him. His head swam, he felt warm and flushed, his stomach rolled, and he felt the strong urge to pee. He shook his head when Natasha sat down.
"You okay, Rogers?" she asked.
"I think the mead hit me," he said, looking at the half-drunk tankard. She arched a brow. He took another long swallow. "Haven't been drunk since '36," he muttered, his voice echoing in the hallow clay confines of the tankard. "So—" he shrugged.
"What crazy party did you go to in 1936?" she asked, a giggle in her voice. He lowered his tankard, his face grim as he caught her mirthful gaze.
"My mother died in 1936," he said. The smile fell from her face and she straightened, looking ashamed.
"Steve… I'm sorry," she said, bowing her head, "I didn't know."
The party seemed far away, the world narrowing down to the two of them. It felt nice that she offered sympathy. He hadn't thought about his mother's death in a long time. The ache in his heart hurt anew, the reminder that he was a man out of time fresh. His mother had been dead seventy-three years, yet to him still felt like only nine years. Though, he supposed, neither amount of time made it easier. Time doesn't heal all wounds. The thought was bitter, like the burn of his sudden tears. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes. He felt melancholic, woozy and too warm; he was acutely aware of Natasha rubbing his bicep in an effort to comfort him. He stood up. "I'm warm, wanna head out and get some fresh air?" he asked. Head spinning, he grabbed her shoulder, squeezing to keep himself upright. He forgot what it was like to be drunk; he didn't notice that she winced.
"Yeah," she said and lead him out to balcony. Thor stopped him on the way to the door to fill his tankard (yet again) with the heady Asgardian mead.
"Thor, I really… I don't think I can drink anymore," he said, wincing as some of it flowed over the rim and onto his hand. His head spinning, he felt like he was sweating even though he knew he wasn't and his bladder felt over filled. The demigod flashed him a board grin and clapped him on the back.
"It's Yule, Steven! Drink up! Be merry!" he said and went off to mingle with the rest of the guests. Steve sighed, taking a long swallow from his tankard, inwardly cursing his mother for ingraining such refine manners into hm. He slipped outside, shuddering at the biting December cold. Fat snowflakes drifted down, zigzagging in lazy spirals towards the earth. New York was bright, golden oranges and bright yellows from the streetlights and headlights of cars, clear white from the offices still open as they held their annual Christmas parties. Christmas lights aglow on the wreaths hung upon the lampposts and buildings. Tony had programmed the lights of the A as well, flashing seasonal colors in time to the music and a Christmas decoration was set up on the overhead level.
It was all background information to him. Natasha stood there, snow caught in her red hair and black sweater. She watched the city, a serene look on her face, pensive but not unhappy; content. "Back in Russia, because it was communist, we didn't celebrate Christmas," she said, "at least I don't remember celebrating it. Then in the Red Room there were no such things as birthdays and holiday." She took a sip of her vodka. He stopped at her side, sipping at the mead to give him something to do, feeling more and more woozy. "It wasn't until Clint rescued me that… I truly experienced Christmas." She smiled at him and he grabbed the cold railing, the shock of it kept his mind from wandering into the gutter. He drank some more. "It was 2006, Clint had found me that spring, so I'd been out a few months. He invited me over for Christmas."
"Oh? That's nice of him."
"Clint's a great guy. Took me under his wing, I'm grateful for him. He… I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for him." She took another sip. "And Laura… she's special too. Always flexible, always willing to adjust and understand. Never asking too many questions, accepting the answers Clint gives. She has to be, being married to Clint and knowing what he does for a living."
"Wait," he said, "Clint's married?" It was a struggle to process the information, his mead-washed brain didn't want to understand it, but he forced it to and his eyes widen. "He's married… but I thought you and him" — he cleared his throat — "err… y'know, fondued."
"Fondued?" she arched a brow, confused. "Clint hates fondue."
"No, no… I…" he chugged some more mead to hide his embarrassment. "Make whoopie… do the dance with no pants, uh… cuddle naked." Natasha bowed her head, shoulders hunching up around her shoulders as she snickered at him. He flushed, hating himself. "I thought you and Clint were together."
"No," she said, "no Clint and I aren't together. He's like brother to me. Laura is Clint's wife." She smiled. "And what's this thing about fondue?"
"I uh… I'll explain later when I'm less… drunk," he said, looking at the tankard and drowning the rest of the contents. "If I have any more I may throw up."
"Okay, Rogers," she said, shaking her head, "I guess you can get drunk, so long as its Asgardian mead."
"Yeah." He looked out at the snowy city. "Always was a lightweight, even when I was—"
"A shrimp?"
He scowled, but an amused snort escaped him. "Yeah." He peered into the empty tankard. "Mam always made Christmas special. We'd string popcorn and listen to Bing Crosby on the radio. If she wanted to do things extra special, she'll make caramel apples and we'd make papier-mâché ornaments and paper garlands for the tree. I'd go down to the corner store and buy a box of candy canes for a buck and hang them up on the tree. We didn't have a tree topper so we'd put Da's crucifix on instead. Sing Christmas carols before going to bed." He wiped at his eyes. "Christmas was always special. Even though we didn't have much, it felt like we had a bunch." He hung his head. "Doesn't feel the same now. Doesn't feel like Christmas. Everyone's concerned about shopping and parties and gifts. It seems like in the past seventy years everyone forgot about what Christmas means."
"People aren't religious like they used to be."
"I'm not talking about that, Natasha," he said, "Christmas is… we lived near the Jewish neighbourhood, because it was cheap, and they didn't mind us Irish… they even wished us Merry Christmas, invited us over for a Christmas dinner once or twice. They didn't celebrate it, but they understood it. They understood what it meant." He shook his head, hating how his emotions bubbled up so easily. "I have no one, Natasha. Everyone I ever knew, ever cared about its dead and gone and I just… I'm alone. I'm so alone." The tears dried on his cheeks, sharp and cold with his misery. If she was uncomfortable with his sudden confession she didn't show it. She took the tankard from his numb fingers and set both the tankard and her glass aside.
"I understand," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. He buried his face into her neck. Her hand traveled up and down his back. He pulled away after a moment or two, turning his gaze to the city. A car blared, the sound muted in the wintery night. Tiny black human shaped figured walked along the snow-covered sidewalks. New York never slept, even back in his day, there was something always going on, but now it seemed like that was truer. There was the constant buzz of technology, if people slept then the machines stayed up, working long after their human masters went to bed. Natasha's hand closed over his. "After the Red Room, I felt alone too. Felt out of place. All I ever knew was a life in the Red Room, my life before it… well, they had really good mental conditioning. Most of it feels like a dream. Clint… he stayed by me after I got out. He made me feel less alone."
"You're lucky to have him; a friend like him," he said. Bucky was like that… but Bucky's dead, because of me. "I have nobody." He pulled away before she could say anything, his head spun from the suddenness of it, and he headed to the door.
"Steve, wait," Natasha said, and he heard her follow him. The door hissed then sighed open and they both stepped into the moist warmth of the interior. Everyone stopped, Tony had JARVIS turn the music down low. He grunted when she ran into his back. Though drunk, he managed to stay up right.
"Looks like someone's beneath the mistletoe!" Tony shouted. Steve flushed, and stepped aside to let Natasha enter further; the doors sighed closed behind them. "C'mon Capsicle, kiss her!"
"Yeah," Rhodey agreed, "caught beneath mistletoe, gotta kiss."
His flush deepened. "I'm… uh… no, I'm not—"
"Sure you're not that old to remember that you gotta kiss beneath the mistletoe," Clint said. "Bet it was around during your time."
He swallowed, tugging at the collar of his sweater. "It was, Barton, it was but I—"
"Among Victorian English tradition, any man beneath the mistletoe can kiss the woman caught with him. If the woman refused a kiss, she'll have bad luck. Berries were to be plucked after each kiss and once the berries were gone the plant had no power to command kisses anymore" — Bruce made a face — "Mistletoe is poisonous so… don't eat the berries. And among German tradition, the couple that shares a kiss beneath mistletoe is destined to have enduring love or are bound to marry each other."
Steve glanced at Natasha from the corner of his eye, unsure whether to bolt or go through with it. He never kissed anyone beneath mistletoe. "Thanks, Nerd!" Tony shouted, Bruce flushed. "C'mon, Rogers! Give Natalie a smooch!"
"Shut up, Stark, you're drunk," Natasha said.
"Aren't we all?"
"A tradition, such as this, must be upheld. Though in Asgard, the mistletoe is banned." Thor frowned. "Loki tricked our blind cousin Hodur into throwing mistletoe arrow as his cousin Bladr, it killed him."
The room was silent again. The goat bleated, and Clint coughed into his fist. "That's why you don't give blind people arrows," he muttered. Tony burst into uproarious laughter at the comment. "You can kiss her Cap, just remember if you break her heart, I know where you live."
"I bet he's shaking in his boots," Tony said. "Go on kiss her! Before I get everyone to chant."
"Fine, fine," he said, losing his patience (and his bladder was not far behind, dear God why did he drink that third tankard). He kissed Natasha's cheek. She arched a brow and the room booed. "I kissed her."
"Do a proper kiss, Captain," Hill called from the crowed. He hunched his shoulders up around his head, trying to become smaller than his six-foot-two frame.
Tony looped his arm around Pepper's waist when she drew near. "I'll show you, Rogers, since Dad said you were hopeless with the ladies." He kissed Pepper, pulling her close and cradling her head with his hand. "That's how you kiss… what did Dad always say you old folks called the ladies? Right, dames. That's how you kiss a dame." He winked at him.
If Steve ever wanted the floor to open up and swallow him it was now. He glanced at Natasha. "What's the matter Rogers? Never kissed a girl beneath mistletoe before?" she asked, that smirk appearing on her face again. His face paled and blood rush south.
"I can show you how to do it, Steve," Bruce said, inching closer to them.
"When have you ever kissed a girl, Banner?" Clint asked.
"I was popular-ish with the ladies before… well… you know," Bruce said, sounding flustered. Clint and Tony both gave a laughing snort. The fact that Bruce offered to kiss Natasha irked him. It reminded him of how he felt when Howard asked Peggy if she wanted a late-night fondue. An evil itch that wriggled up his spine.
"I can damn well kiss my dame," he growled, shooting a challenging glare at Bruce. He grabbed Natasha's face, pleased about her surprised squeak, swallowed and — it's just like how Clark Gable kissed Scarlette O'Hara in Gone With The Wind, he told himself — kissed her. Her lips were soft, tasting of the vodka she drank, cold from the outside yet warm with her internal heat. Her tongue brushed against his lips and he opened his mouth, tasting more of the vodka on her tongue. He gave a soft groan when she ground against him. They broke apart when the demand for air was too much, still they didn't lose contact. He took in several breaths, processing everything. "Uh…"
Natasha smirked, green eyes twinkling with… something he couldn't quiet place. "I can do more than just kiss you beneath the mistletoe," she whispered into his ear, "I can make you go ho ho ho, too." She ground her hips against him. His face went red, his stomach rolled, and he felt himself harden further.
"I gotta go," he said, pulling away from her and walking towards the exit, trying to not cup his hands around his crotch as he wove through the crowds. He hoped nobody saw his erection, he hoped it wasn't as prominent as it felt. Stupid serum, he thought to himself with an unhappy grumble as he went into the elevator and told JARVIS to take him to his suite.
Vomiting his dinner into the toilet won out over jacking off to his holiday themed fantasy of Natasha having her way with him. He flopped onto the bed, dimly aware of the ornament and tried to sleep. "Captain Rogers, it's thirty minutes to midnight, the nearest Catholic Church's Midnight Mass begins in fifteen minutes. I have informed Mr. Hogan that you will be requiring a drive to the event."
Right, Midnight Mass… he forgotten about that, forgotten he told JARVIS to remind him. "Thank you, JARVIS."
"Of course sir, also, Miss Romanoff is at your door, she seems… agitated, shall I let her in?"
No. "Sure." He sat up, rubbing his face, pulled the sweater off as Natasha came in. His puckering in the cold of his room.
"God bless America," she said, desire in her voice. He flushed. "So, you changed your mind?"
"No, I uh…" he stood up, making a face and opened his closet for a shirt. He shrugged into it, fingers deftly buttoning it closed. He tucked the ends into his pants. "Sorry. I uh… I'm sorry."
"I should be apologizing," she said, "I was out of line." She smiled. "Though for your first kiss since 1945—"
"I'm sorry, I only had… Peggy… she… she kissed me before... I… she kissed me goodbye," he said. "And again, I'm sorry, but… it's not… I still—" he stopped, shaking his head, figuring it was better not to say anything further. Thinking about Peggy hurt, and he couldn't betray her, even though she's dead and would have wanted me to live my life and find happiness even if it wasn't with her.
"I understand," she said, "I've lost someone too."
He nodded, giving her a small smile as he combed his hair to the side. He glanced at the mirror, he looked halfway decent. "Well, uh… Merry Christmas," he said, scooping up her gift and his jacket. "Happy's waiting for me. Gonna take me to Midnight Mass."
"I'll tag along, never been to one before," she said.
"You really don't have to, Natasha. I'll be fine on my own," he said, as he shrugged into his coat and stuck the box into his pocket.
"You shouldn't be alone on Christmas Steve, even if you're going to church," she said and looped her arm through his. "You're surprisingly sober."
"I threw up."
"Ah. I didn't, but I've always been good at holding my liquor," she said as they entered the elevator together. They rode the elevator in silence, the floor numbers pinging as they came and went. He glanced at her, a little smile on his face.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For coming," he said, she smiled.
"Someone has to make sure you get back in one piece, Rogers," she teased as they reached the garage and stepped into the cold exhaust scented space. Happy was waiting for them with a car. He opened the door for her, which she smiled and thanked him, before he got in himself on the other side and Happy drove them to Mass.
The church he went to as a boy felt more medieval than the church he and Natasha sat in. Still, the weight of tradition stretching back thousands of years hung heavy in the space. A sense of devote holiness, a divinity beyond the ken of mortal man. They sat in the back, the pews less crowded, both observing the Mass rather than following along. Though they did partake in the communal aspects of it. Sang Christmas songs and said amen when required. The priest was a grandfatherly fellow but with a soft voice that carried through the solemn silence of the church. He spoke of Jesus's birth, how the Guiding Star brought the Wise Men to Bethlehem, how the angels informed the shepherds of Christ's birth. How the world rejoiced over the news of their Savior, the Son of God, born of the Virgin Mary. The choir boys behind the priest began to sing a hymn, dressed in white and gold gowns, their cherubic faces pink-cheeked and merry. "I was a choir boy," he said, his voice soft as to not disturb Mass.
"Oh?" she arched a brow. "Don't take you for a singer."
He flushed. "Well, I was. I was good at it. I also helped drew the backgrounds for the Nativity scene at our church when I was a boy. And I played the little drummer boy in the Christmas Pageant."
"You were very involved."
"Well, it was either partake in church functions or get beat up in snowy alleyways, Mam preferred the church functions, so…" he gave a little shrug. "Was a part of the church choir, did Sunday school. The usual stuff. Made Mam happy."
"Explains the good manners and the only one god," she said, a teasing smile on her face. He shook his head, leaning back into the rigid wooden backrest of the pew. He took her hand, putting it on his thigh, squeezing her fingers. Neither said anything about it, both accepting the contact, the quite closeness between them, a budding friendship. "Do you believe it?"
"Believe what? That Jesus was the Son of God?"
"No, what Bruce said, how we'll get married and have enduring love because we kissed beneath the mistletoe. Do you believe it?" she asked, a pensive open expression on her face, as if she was silently asking him to give he a reason to trust in something she wouldn't trust in; looking for hope from him.
"I uh…" he tilted his head, unsure how to answer. He gave a little shrug. "Not really. It's just a superstition. Why?" he asked, glancing at her. If she was disappointed with his answer, she didn't show it.
"Love is for children," she said, "and marriage only happens in fairy tales."
"Take that as a no." He watched her nod out of the corner of his eye. He pulled out the box, the wrapping paper started to peel away from one corner, he frowned. "Merry Christmas, Natasha," he said, handing it to her. "Sorry about the condition."
"For me?" she asked. He nodded and began to worry when he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I… thank you," she said, a heartfelt smile spreading on her face. She unwrapped the present with the same carefulness he had done with the sweater.
"I'll get you a bag next time since you're going to be an old lady about it." He bumped her arm with his elbow, smiling. She shot him a mock glare, and then her face went slack at the sight of the angel. "Do you like it?"
"Steve… I…" she opened the box, pulling apart the molded plastic case and held up the pretty angel. The light from the candles shimmered off the mirror finish of the porcelain and metal accents. A comforting expression was on the angel's face as she held the Guiding Star. He reached over and wiped away a tear. "I've never gotten something this beautiful before."
"Well, it's nothing. I saw it thought of you and…" he shrugged.
"I don't know what to say," she said, holding the angel for a few moments longer. With reverence, she put the ornament back into the box, placing the plastic lid over her. "I'll always treasure this, Steve. Thank you."
He leaned in closer to her. "You're welcome, Natasha," he said, his voice soft and his eyes started to flutter close. He could smell the vodka that stubbornly clung to her breath, the floral notes of her perfume and the new car smell that clung on her jacket. He could almost feel her lips, taste them too, his eidetic memory filling in the missing pieces.
"We shall end this Mass by singing, Silent Night," the priest said, his voice breaking through their private moment. They pulled apart, sitting up straighter. The choir master moved his arms to get the tempo of the song going and the choir began to sing. It began soft and angelic, the youthful voices of boys too young to be on the cusp of manhood filled the space, echoing through the church and up to Heaven, so the Father, Son and Holy Ghost could hear. He threaded his fingers with Natasha's, smiling at her and his heart swelled when she returned it.
Together they began to sing, "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child.Holy infant, so tender and mild,sleep in heavenly peace!Sleep in heavenly peace."