Work Text:
- Past -
Angie announces the first week of December that she’s off to Staten Island on the 23rd after her shift and then to Jersey for an unspecified amount of time, “Cousins,” she says firmly with a roll of her eyes. “You know you’re always welcome to join us, Peg. It isn’t like Thanksgiving, you celebrate this one, right?”
In the end, she demurs. There’s a short and sharp letter from her mother with curt tidings of the season and a shaky postscript from her father. She can feel their disappointment from across the Atlantic, even though it’s been four Christmases since she was last tucked into the too warm front parlor with its fug of woodsmoke and pine.
She stays late in the office on Christmas Eve. There’s a skeleton crew on the night shift but Thompson takes everyone else out for a round before Midnight Mass or dinner or whatever lay ahead.
“Aw, c’mon Carter, just one? What, ya got somewhere else to be?”
She declines his offer and waves them off, making her way much later to a quiet hole-in-the-wall that was known to keep her favorite scotch in stock before a morose trudge back to the apartment. The off-kilter jingle of the bells on the wreath that Angie had gaily arrived home with hung on her arm weeks ago shepherds her into the darkened entryway.
It’s not until later, when she makes her way into the kitchen to wash out her tumbler that she sees the small pile on the table. Two brightly wrapped boxes from Angie, a brown paper parcel from England despite the tone of her mother’s letter, a trio of neatly packaged gifts from the Jarvises, and one absurd box with Howard’s scrawl on the note.
She feels the smooth luxurious paper on the box from Howard and sighs heavily when the sound of laughter echoes up from the street.
And with that she sets her tumbler in the sink, picks up her library book, and walks down the silent hallway to bed.
--
- Present -
you know you catch watch st. pat’s right on tv now. no invites needed and no ties he texts to Bucky sometime mid-November.
even in my new place?
He thinks about the shepherd’s dwelling that Bucky moves into gratefully and without complaint - i’m sure we could work something out
yeah but you could get an invite right?
yeah, I could get an invite he replies, feeling oddly warmed, like he could feel Ma being proud of him. Then a thought occurs to him.
wait - do you want to go to st. pat’s?
It turned out that no, Bucky did not want to go to St. Patrick’s. He would have hated to say that it wasn’t a good year and that he didn’t have as many strings to pull so it was a relief when get outta here, punk, i’m not leaving paradise came back.
There are no gifts this year, he’s moved around a lot and no one would know where to find him anyway. The tenuous connections he has are being held together via the highly secure and almost indestructible cell phone that Shuri slipped into his hand with a knowing look before he stepped onto the plane.
He throws that phone and the rest of his meager possessions back into his rucksack three days before Christmas and drops the key in his landlord’s mailbox.
There’s an all-night diner off of the highway with only a handful of other diners eating alone with the exception of one couple near the door. It’s a Wonderful Life plays quietly on the couple of screens and he has to look away from the swing of Donna Reed’s curls. The food tastes like ashes in his mouth, as it has for months, but he cleans his plate out of habit.
His waitress tops up his coffee and murmurs a quiet “happy holidays” before making her rounds. He leaves a stack of bills under his plate and steps out into the night.
--
-Future -
When he looks at her, with that open face and endless blue eyes, there’s almost nothing that he can ask for that she would deny him, so she hands over all holiday arrangements. By December 1st, their little bungalow, her first run at homeownership, is bedecked in fresh pine garlands wrapped lovingly around the porch railings, a wreath two sizes too big that tends to slam alarmingly on their front door, and small electric candles in every window.
To her utter astonishment given his usual thriftiness, she finds herself inquiring about the household expenses when a nine foot tree appears around the 15th sitting slightly squashed under the living room ceiling and bedecked in brand new Shiny Brite ornaments. After his ears turn gently pink, “Don’t worry, Peg, I’m doing some odd jobs for Mr. Johnson at the corner store,” she doesn’t bring it up again, even when she notices that his bottom drawer no longer closes all the way and that a large brown package has been half hidden on the top shelf of the coat closet.
Shortly, she also notices the tightness around his eyes and how he keeps tensing his jaw even as he wraps piles of cookies to drop off to the neighbors and sends her to the office with a basket full of sweets for her staff. By December 20th, his previous manic energy has shifted to a low hum.
They curl up on the couch after dinner one night, her stocking feet tucked under her, basking in the glow of the tree.
“Darling,” she says quietly, the word luxurious still in her mouth. And he looks at her for a moment before looking away. She leans over to gently rub his cheek.
“This time of year can be hard,” she posits.
He looks at her again. They sit in quiet for awhile, she learned long ago that what is closest to his heart he is not always willing to relinquish.
“I thought…” he trails off and she waits, “I thought if I hit the ground running...it’s just…”
He runs his hand through his hair and huffs before shifting so that he can face her with those endless eyes again.
“Peggy, I am so happy to be here with you, finally. I don’t ever want to you think differently. But…”
She squeezes his hands, “A lot happened to you since the last time we were together.”
He nods, “You’re right, it can be a hard time of year.”
She leans over into his arms and they stay there until moving, hand-in-hand to bed, together.