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December 21st
“I don’t know, it just seems… ostentatious.” Steve stares down at the bright flecks standing out against the cherry-red drink. In the background, someone who might be the real Mariah Carey belts out some sort of hellishly jolly song. “Not really what Christmas is supposed to be about.”
“We didn’t all grow up in the Depression,” Rhodes replies, “and gonna be honest, you’re probably the only one here who’s a registered Socialist. And anyway, don’t let Tony hear you say that--”
“Too late.” Tony swoops in like a bird of prey that happens to be wearing an Armani suit and a tie completely covered in jingle bells, which are probably made out of pure platinum and filled with diamonds. He taps his ear, and Steve notices he’s got some sort of wire in there. “JARVIS tells me whenever anyone is criticizing one of my parties. What’s the problem?”
“Steve doesn’t like the punch,” Rhodes says, melting back into the crowd before Steve’s glare can kill him.
“What? You don’t like it? Say it isn’t so, Cap. I paid good money for this.” Tony snatches the cup out of Steve’s hand and drains it in one go. “Tastes fine to me.”
“There's nothing wrong with the punch. It’s just… gold flakes? Really?”
Tony shrugs. “Adds pizzazz.”
Steve tries to swallow his tongue, but he’s never been good at that, and he’s still got a lot of class-based rage from his childhood, even though he’s far more than financially-stable these days.
“You’ve got an Asgardian pine tree in the lobby--”
“Oh, like I’m supposed to turn down a gift--”
“--at least three different kinds of caviar, so many gifts they’ve basically got their own floor--”
“Bet you won’t be complaining when you open yours--”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” Steve asks desperately, not even bothering to mention the frankly excessive amount of lights adorning the outside of the Tower, which Tony had to tone down twice due to air traffic safety concerns.
“It’s Christmas,” Tony replies. “We’re celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior. I think He deserves to have a nice party, don’t you?”
“What about your workers?” Steve waves his hand, vaguely indicating all the many people in uniforms that mill around, ready to clean up any crumbs that fall or replace lacking champagne glasses. “How are they supposed to feel, knowing you can just drop more money than they make in five years on a one-night party?”
“Listen Charlie Brown, I’ll have you know that they’re unionized, making way above market-rate for tonight, and will all be getting sweet, sweet bonus checks in the mail.” Tony rolls his eyes and scoops more punch into his/Steve’s cup. “And before you even start, the Stark Foundation has given out more than three million this month alone, mostly in anonymous donations to grassroots organizations. I’m not sitting around on my wealth waiting for my dead best friend to come rattle some chains and tell me to be more generous.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Steve replies, somewhat mollified. He knows that Tony does have a generous heart in spite of everything else about his behavior suggesting otherwise. He gives Steve a place to crash for free when he’s not out with Sam, chasing clues that never actually lead to Bucky. That’s a kindness he knows he shouldn’t take for granted, given how heart-stoppingly high New York rent is these days.
And, anyway, four days before Christmas, it is nice to be around people he knows, who might be like family if he let himself open up more. Not to mention that it’s not fair to keep Sam from his actual family, and it’s a bad time of the year to be alone; he knows that from his first year out of the ice.
“It’s a great party, really, Tony.” In the background, Maybe-Mariah hits a glass-shattering note. Steve winces.
“--and anyway, at least me and Stark Industries pay our taxes, unlike some of America’s best-known billionaires.” He stops, apparently just catching up to the fact that Steve isn’t spitting Marx at him. “Thanks. Glad you could make it.”
“Wait.” Steve grabs his shoulder before he can get back to his manic mingling. “There are billionaires who don’t pay their taxes?”
Tony blinks at him with his oh, you sweet summer child expression (Clint called it that once, and Steve gets it now that he and Sam have been catching up on the series during their cross-continental manhunt). “Uh, yeah. 'Bezos' ring a bell?”
Someone in the band is actually jingling bells. “No. Should it?”
Tony lets out a long, whistling breath. “Oooooh boy.”
*
December 22nd
“You want to what,” says Pepper.
“Call a press conference,” Steve says patiently. He has a publicist, but she’s already on vacation and it goes against Steve’s principles to call her back. Pepper knows about these sort of things, Steve’s pretty sure.
“No, I heard that part.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s the ‘why’ that I’m not clear on.”
“Because Amazon doesn’t pay their federal taxes. I know that they might be using legal loopholes and incentives to avoid them, but it’s morally wrong, Pep. Not to mention the deplorable working conditions in their warehouses. They have vending machines where they make workers pay for Advil just to get through their shifts. It’s criminal.”
“And this press conference is supposed to--?”
“Draw attention to the disgusting wealth hoarding of Jeff Bezos, as well as the inhumane workloads placed on people who aren’t earning nearly enough. And to let the world know that Captain America doesn’t stand for the exploitation of the working class.”
Pepper stares at him. Tony, who insisted on being in the room for this conversation, makes a sound that might be a choked-back laugh.
“Look, you’re always saying that the Avengers should use our fame for good in the world, right? This press conference is me using my platform to stand up for the little guy.”
“I was thinking more that you could all go visit the ASPCA or plant some trees,” Pepper says. She scrubs a hand down her face. “Look, Jeff Bezos is an asshole. I’m not disagreeing with you there. His ex and I get lunch every few months, and the stories she tells me… I just don’t think a press conference is going to do much good. Steve, when you’ve got that much money, you start to lose your conscience.”
“Excuse me,” says Tony, sounding offended. They both ignore him.
“People know all about Amazon not paying taxes, and what it’s like in their warehouses. It’s not a secret. The thing is, Jeff Bezos doesn’t feel shame. He doesn’t care. Nothing short of a mass strike would impact his profit margin, and maybe you could organize that, but not right now. It’s three days before Christmas. Not even Captain America can rally the American people and get them to forgo free two-day delivery at this point. Strategically, a press conference right now just isn’t a good call.”
Steve frowns, tapping his fingers against her desk as he recalibrates the plan. Pepper makes some good points.
He could wait to make a public appeal, but justice isn’t supposed to wait, is it? And while he’s a big fan of mass protests, sometimes direct, individual action is more powerful. He can’t argue with that.
“You said Jeff Bezos can’t feel shame,” he says slowly, “but he can still feel fear, right?”
*
December 24
It takes a couple of days for Natasha’s contacts to nail where Jeff Bezos is spending Christmas, but she doesn’t let him down.
“Thanks, Nat,” he says, staring at the slip of paper and memorizing the address. “You’re a real friend.”
“Anytime. I’d offer to come with, but fighting the American bourgeoisie might be kind of a setback in my whole deprogramming thing.” She grimaces.
“No worries. Hey, any signs of Bucky?”
He tries, and completely fails, to sound casual. Nat gives him a glance that says he’s full of shit.
“Nope. I always tell you as soon as he pops up on my radars.” She shakes her head. “Looks like he’s lying low. If I were you, I’d let it go and focus on imparting some class consciousness into a billionaire.”
He sighs, suppressing the part of him that says that Bucky shouldn’t be alone this time of the year, given that Christmas never held that much significance to him beyond a day off from school and a pathetically small party with the Rogers, being that he was Jewish and all. “I guess you’re right.”
Steve flies the quinjet that Tony lets him borrow (“Don’t you dare tell me what you’re doing; I want plausible deniability if this all goes south”), landing within a mile of one of Bezos’s many mansions that he no doubt afforded at least in part due to the extensive tax breaks he took advantage of.
He waits until nightfall to make his move. According to Nat’s intel, Bezos’s kids are with his ex-wife this Christmas. He’s spending the holiday alone, probably bathing in orphans’ tears while he sips on a bottle of 19th century wine from a cup carved of rhinoceros tusk.
Steve wears his most iconic suit, shield strapped to his back even though he’s not expecting any sort of resistance. Bezos needs to know who he is for this to work. Otherwise he might just look like some crazy guy breaking into a billionaire’s home and telling him to redistribute his disgusting amount of wealth.
He’s committed the floorplans to memory, as well as the rotation that Bezos’s security follows. Crouching in a pine tree that overlooks the exorbitant palace-like building, he waits for the first guards to come by so he can make sure that no one spots him leaping onto the roof and breaking in from above, like the jolly socialist Santa he is.
And waits.
And waits.
Okay. Apparently there aren’t any guards tonight. He’s confident that Nat wouldn’t have given him faulty information, so maybe Bezos’s had a momentary dash of humanity and given them the night off. One small act of kindness doesn’t excuse him from the way he hoards the means of production and builds his castle of riches upon the backs of the working class.
When he’s reasonably sure there’s no one on patrol, he launches himself from his hiding place to the roof. Crouching, he surveys the expanse of the roof, the vast stretches of acreage that Bezos calls his own, as if he has any right to claim possession of the land.
Steve is in the middle of contemplating what it’ll take to make Bezos return the property to the Indigenous people it was stolen from when something rams into him. With an undignified grunt, he tries to elbow at the sudden weight on his back, leaning into the tackle and rolling with it as best he can. Unfortunately, his assailant is clinging onto the shield, which makes them slightly harder to reach.
And whoever it is is strong, strong enough to pin him down, one hand in his hair, the other around his ribs, the attacker’s own legs atop his. Steve thrashes, grateful that the roof is flat, though if it were tilted and he could get them to fall, then he might have a better chance of getting away.
The hand in his hair clamps down over his mouth. He bites it without thinking, and…
And something’s wrong. Steve’s had to bite a lot of people’s hands in his time, probably more than the average man. He knows what they feel like when he chomps down on them. And that...
That’s a metal hand.
“Bucky?” he asks, voice somewhat muffled. He goes limp.
“What the hell are you doing here,” a rough voice that unquestionably belongs to one James Buchanan Barnes growls in his ear.
“I’m here to talk to Jeff Bezos about his taxes, and his exploitation of the working class. What are you doing here?”
There’s a pause, and all of a sudden the weight drops off Steve’s back. He rolls around, crouching on his knees, and, yep. Definitely Bucky.
His hair hangs in long strings, framing a deeply suspicious bearded face. He looks (and smells, if Steve’s being honest) like he hasn’t bathed since the Potomac, but he’s here and he’s more or less in one piece. At least from what Steve can tell in the admittedly limited moonlight.
He hasn’t answered the question yet, still staring at Steve with what might be surprise, or what might just be open hostility, so Steve tries again. “You look great,” he says. “It’s real good to see you, Buck.”
Bucky rolls his eyes.
“You really breaking into people’s houses to talk to them about workers’ rights? Is Captain America even allowed to be a Socialist?”
The confirmation that Bucky knows who he is makes Steve’s heart grow several sizes, like in that Christmas special Tony made him watch solely so he’d understand what Tony meant when he called him a Grinch. “You remember that about me?”
Bucky looks away. “I remember when you were… I dunno, 20, 22, and you had a real bad cough but couldn’t afford any medicine. And I went and got it for you and made sure you had enough until you got better. And then you happened to ask me how I’d afforded it ‘cause you knew rent was due, and I told you’d there’d been a strike down at the docks… I don’t think I’d ever seen you that mad at me before. I think you almost got sick again just to spite me.”
“I didn’t talk to you for a week,” Steve says fondly. Which hadn’t been easy, since they’d shared a bedroom.
Bucky nods, meeting his eyes again. “You called me a filthy scab.”
“You crossed the line, Buck, of course I was mad--” Steve shakes his head, doing his best to cut off that train of thought. Having his best friend back trumps even his righteous indignation on behalf of the country’s unions. “Guess that’s not important right now. You remember everything?”
Bucky snorts. “No. Just how much of a pain in the ass you were. Are.”
“Hah. Yeah.” Steve rubs at the back of his neck. He’s daydreamed lots about how his reunion with Bucky would go, but somehow none of the scenarios he envisioned involved Bucky tackling him on Jeff Bezos’s rooftop on Christmas Eve. “What are you doing here, Buck?”
Bucky glances away once more, like he’s not sure he wants to be there at all. Steve prepares himself to follow if he bolts.
“Hydra. I’ve been hunting Hydra.”
Steve blinks. “And Bezos… is Hydra?”
“Don’t know if he’s Hydra, exactly, but Hydra sure used Amazon.” Bucky’s lip curls up. “For everything. Weapons. Repairs. Anything they needed to keep me in line. Same-day deliver on hundreds of their threats.”
“And you think Bezos knows about it?”
“Doesn’t matter if he knows, he sure as hell benefits from it.” Bucky’s scowl deepens. “I wasn’t going to hurt him or anything. Just...”
“Scare him?” Steve suggests.
Bucky nods. “Make him think twice about who benefits from the world he’s built.”
Steve starts to smile as he rises, adjusting the shield on his back. “Sounds like maybe you and I want the same thing here...”
Jeff Bezos loosens his tiger fur bathrobe as he reclines in his favorite chair, the one made of real rhinoceros leather. Wood harvested from one of the few remaining bois dentelle trees in the wild crackles in the fireplace, filling his third-favorite sitting room with a pleasantly heady scent, complemented by the Cuban cigar-flavored vape pen that lets out a lazy twirl of steam on the table beside him.
He opens up his iPad. What better way to spend Christmas Eve than looking at his stock portfolio while he pleasures himself? Or maybe he’ll shake it up tonight, and watch Amazon’s profits rise in real time. Inside his mulberry silk briefs, a fire is already beginning to Kindle at the thought.
Something thumps on the roof. Jeff chuckles, thinking about reindeer and delivery drones that will soon make thousands of drivers redundant, drastically cutting overhead costs.
He’s just about to start stroking his own Prime Package when the skylight above him smashes inwards.
“Holy mother of--!” He dives behind his chair as two large men fall through the shower of glass.
One is a ruffian with long hair and kohl under his eyes. He gives off an aura of dirt and grease, doubtlessly some sort of vagabond, like one of the many undesirables that Amazon drove out of their neighborhoods as they generously gentrified Seattle.
The other is Captain America.
“Jeff Bezos?” he asks, striding forward. Before Jeff can even begin to think of an answer, he’s being hauled to his feet.
“I’m Steve Rogers, alias Captain America, and this is my good friend...”
“You don’t need to know my name,” growls the other man.
“...whose name you don’t need to know. Now, Jeff, I heard you don’t pay your taxes.”
Captain America frowns at him, the sort of look that says he’s been a very naughty boy. It’s a look Jeff saw often in the comic books he read growing up, whenever some sort of cartoonish villain offended the democracy that Steve Rogers worked so hard to defend. He never really imagined it would ever be directed at him, personally.
“Well,” Jeff says, swallowing hard and trying to think of the justifications that his publicity firm usually gives whenever this particular issue comes up, “that’s not strictly true. Like any private citizen, I have to pay my fair share to the government--”
“Is it really your ‘fair share’ when you earn, per hour, almost 315 times what the average Amazon worker makes in a year?” asks Captain America. “What tax rate could make that disparity ‘fair,’ Jeff?”
“--and Amazon pays all corporate taxes in the countries we operate in, as well as paying state taxes. Not to mention our job creation and investment.” Jeff swallows. “All the tax breaks we take advantage of are perfectly legal.”
“And I’ll be going after those next,” Captain America says agreeably. “But right now, we’re talking about the federal income tax. Which Amazon didn’t pay.”
Jeff shifts the tiger robe, rubbing his sweaty hands against the endangered fur. “As I said, it’s perfectly legal--”
“That’s just what the Nazis said when we fought them back in World War II,” Cap informs him. “Do you think that legality and morality are the same things, Jeff?”
“Probably not,” he squeaks. Where the hell is his security team? He’s not paying them to slack on Christmas Eve.
“I’m glad we agree. Now, Jeff, here’s what I want. I’ll give you a day to get your affairs in order because tomorrow is Christmas, and I know you might have plans. But on the 26th, I want you to hold a press conference. You’re going to apologize for not paying your taxes and vow to pay them in the new year. You’ll donate an amount equivalent to what you should have paid in the past to grassroots human rights organizations. I can send you some suggestions. Can you do that?”
“Sure. Of course.” Relief floods through him. People hold press conferences and make promises they never intend to keep all the time. Looks like he’s not in danger of facing consequences for his actions after all!
Captain America’s Frightening Friend is staring at him like he can read his mind or see his soul, or something. His eyes have narrowed. He shifts something from hand to hand.
Is that a grenade?
“Super,” says Captain America, either oblivious or 300% aware of what’s going on. “You’re also going to address the conditions that workers in your warehouses face. You need to commit to ensuring that you’re paying a livable minimum wage. $15 is a good start, but it’s not enough to survive in most major metropolitan areas, let alone allow for any sort of economic advancement.”
That sounded fake, but whatever. “Absolutely.”
“You’re also going to allow warehouse workers to unionize and commit to full investigations of human rights abuse, such as the allegations that workers have to piss in bottles, conducted by independent agencies. The results of which will be released in full to the public. And workers will be allowed sufficient breaks, so that they won’t need to pay at your Advil vending machines to make it through a shift.”
“Yep. Whatever you say. No argument from me.” He breathes out, starting to relax. Altogether, this isn’t much worse than what rabble-rousers usually yell at him. They’re typically not doing so in the middle of his sitting room, but Jeff’s an innovator. He can adapt to these circumstances.
“Good,” says Captain America’s friend, smiling an unpleasant smile. “Because we also wanted to talk to you about these.”
Frightening Friend tosses down a handful of papers. Captain America nods at him to pick them up, so he does, swallowing back protests about the injustice of making him clean up someone else’s mess.
The papers aren’t anything exciting. Not sexts of him romantically calling his mistress “alive girl” or anything like that. They’re just order forms and pictures of Amazon Prime boxes with a whole variety of addresses on them, all different states and countries.
“I don’t get it.” Some of the order forms are for various mechanical components that could, under the right circumstances, be linked to torture, but they’re not inherently illegal. Technically, probably anything bought off Amazon could be used to kill a man in the right hands (he strongly suspects that Captain America’s friend’s hands are one such pair).
“Look closer,” says Frightening Friend. He taps at some of the names of Prime customers, then at some of the locations, and--
--oh.
“Amazon does business with clients around the world,” he says, as dignified as he can be. “I can’t, as a hypothetical example, be held responsible if Hydra agents open Prime accounts. And what our customers do with the items that they purchase--”
He’s cut off when Frightening Friend’s left hand shoots out, grabbing him by the tiger robe and lifting him off the ground. A squeak may or may not escape the confines of his throat.
“That a confirmation that you knew Amazon had business dealings with Hydra?” he asks, voice as casual as if he was asking what Jeff wants Santa to bring him this year.
“We have over 100 million Prime users in the US alone! I can’t possibly keep track of them all-”
Frightening Friend lifts him higher. He glances over to Captain America – surely the embodiment of all the US represents can’t stand idly by while he, Jeff Bezos, patron saint of capitalism, gets manhandled like this! – but Cap just watches with a look on his face that bears a suspicious resemblance to fondness.
“I may have been aware that certain accounts were terminated due to suspected terrorist activities,” he grits out.
That gets a smile from Frightening Friend. “Great. And I’m gonna guess that Amazon has the… algorithms, or whatever you kids call it these days, to flag other suspicious accounts?”
Jeff shrugs. “Probably? I’m not an engineer-”
“Don’t care. Hand over all the info about the known past Hydra accounts. You can send ‘em to Stark Industries.” Frightening Friend glances at Steve. Jeff does too. He’s smiling even more now, like the grimy creep dirtying Jeff’s bathrobe has hung the moon and the stars. Cap nods just so, and Frightening Friend nods back. “When you send that data, you’re gonna also hand over full access to your customer databases. So better people than you can actually do some good with it, and track down the bastards that've been ordering torture supplies with their Prime accounts.”
“No.” Jeff shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I can’t just hand over consumer data! Do you really think that a giant corporation would act with so little regard for its users’ privacy?”
Frightening friend raises a greasy eyebrow and lifts him higher.
“...fine,” Jeff hisses, crossing his fingers behind his back. If he can lie his way through the press conference, he can do the same right now. “Fine! I’ll do what you want!”
All at once he’s hitting the floor, landing in an undignified pile on his polar bear rug. Frightening Friend rubs his hands on his pants, like they aren’t just as dirty as the rest of him.
“Steve? I think we’re done here.”
Captain America nods, the stupid smile still on his face. “Let’s head out. I memorized the floorplans, and the exit should be--”
Frightening Friend snorts. “You can go out the door if you want. I’m not walking that far.”
Before Jeff even has time to wonder what that means, Frightening Friend unclips a – is that a grappling hook from his belt? – and sends it flying through the shattered remains of his skylight. Ignoring the shower of glass that promptly follows, he glances at Captain America. “You coming?”
“Of course.”
Captain America turns to him. “Pleasure meeting you, Jeff. I look forward to hearing about Amazon’s new commitment to workers’ rights. And remember, this is just the first step. There’s a lot more you could be doing. Like single-handedly ending homelessness, for example. Or turning Amazon into a worker-owned corporation.”
“Sure. I’ll, uh, keep it in mind.”
“Swell.”
And with that, Captain America and his Frightening Friend ascend up through the hole they made upon entering and disappear into the night, like Santa and his homicidal elf off to spread more cheer to unsuspecting multibillionaires.
Jeff, still lying on the ground, stares up at his ruined ceiling, the only physical proof that what just happened actually… happened.
Then again, maybe it didn’t. Maybe a meteorite or space debris or something crashed through his roof and hit him on the head, and he had a whole hallucination about the spirit of America and his… evil sidekick? coming to him and telling him to be more generous because… it’s Christmas? And even he isn’t immune to all the holiday propaganda about generosity and human kindness and other bullshit like that?
That’s gotta be it, Jeff decides, standing up and reaching for the Cuban cigar vape pen abandoned on the table. Just his imagination. Not something that will cause actual consequences at all.
Steve follows Bucky across the roof of Bezos’s mansion and into the trees. When they’re a safe enough distance away, he finally lets himself speak.
“So if you want Bezos to send all that data to Stark Industries, does that mean you’re coming with me?”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. “I don’t have an email address. Or any other way to be contacted. Figured you and the Avengers were as good a place as any.”
Undaunted by the less-than-encouraging answer, Steve presses onward. “You think he’ll actually send it?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Bucky replies. “You think he’ll pay his taxes, or improve things for his workers?”
Steve thinks for a second, then sighs. His belief in the inherent goodness of humanity is well and truly surpassed by his socialistic convictions on the unshakable evil of billionaires. “Nope.”
“Figured. We got enough info about Amazon’s connections to Hydra to make life difficult for him, at least.”
At the use of “we,” Steve’s heart leaps like it’s being pulled through the night sky by a team of reindeer. He does his best not to let it show on his face. “Pretty sure I know some people who know some people who can break into their databases, too. And anyway, once the holidays are over, if he hasn’t kept any of his promises, I’ll start drawing attention to what a putz he is. Get the pressure on.”
Bucky nods. Then, as they step into the clearing where Steve landed the quinjet, he lets out a sound that combines the worst features of a sigh and a snort. “That yours?”
Steve, having been carefully steering them in this direction from the moment they leapt from Bezos’s roof, smiles. “Yep. Fancy a ride?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. He looks up at the clouded sky, breath coming out in a fog. Steve thinks he looks beautiful, even though his beard is patchy and his hair hangs in thick clumps.
“It does look like it’s supposed to snow,” he says, almost to himself.
“Sure does,” Steve agrees. “And y’know what? I think it’s just about midnight. Merry Christmas, Buck.”
“I’m Jewish,” Bucky intones flatly. “I think.”
“You are. Never stopped you from coming over and eating half the orange Ma would put in my stocking.” Steve takes a risk and gently bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “C’mon, pal. You don’t even have to stay long. Or talk to anyone who’s not me. Or even talk to me, if that’s what you want. Just take a warm shower, have some eggnog, and help me break into Bezos’s emails so we can see how corrupt he really is. Whaddya say?”
Bucky scuffs his boot against the ground. For a moment he looks incredibly vulnerable, even with the numerous visible weapons that hang off his clothes, and the numerous invisible weapons that Steve is very sure he’s carrying.
Then he sighs and starts walking towards the quinjet. “I’m only doing it for the shower,” he calls, not bothering to look back at Steve.
“Course you are,” he replies, striding after Bucky with all the joy of a kid who just opened the perfect present. He’ll never admit it out loud, but if this brings Bucky back to him, maybe, just maybe, billionaires have some redeeming qualities.
Or, more likely, it’s a Christmas miracle. Either way, as he follows Bucky up into the jet, quietly planning out their future together, Steve certainly isn’t complaining.