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“Ms. Arcos Romero, could I have a moment of your time, please?”
Ana Sofía looked up. Chuck Lowrey, CPA/PFS, CMA, ATA, ATP, CGMA (and those were just the ones she could remember) was standing in the doorway of her office, watching her intently. She couldn’t imagine what this could be about; she hadn’t made any mistakes—she’d know if she’d made any mistakes big enough to get the senior partner’s attention. But she got up, shuffled the stack of tax forms on her desk into something resembling a neat pile, and followed him down the hall to his office, where he shut the door and gestured to one of the three chairs in the small room.
Ana Sofía was suddenly glad she’d chosen today to wear her lucky socks.
“Ms. Arcos Romero,” Lowrey said, taking a seat and looking, warily, at the third chair, which was clearly meant for a client. “How long have you been with us, now?”
“Three years, Mr. Lowrey.”
“And you enjoy the work? You’re happy as a member of the firm?”
“Yes,” Ana Sofía said truthfully. Every day was a puzzle of numbers to be sorted, arranged, balanced; it was fun. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no! Quite the opposite,” Lowrey said quickly. “You’re here because you’re easily the best tax preparer in the firm. You know I’m about two years away from retirement?” She nodded, and he said, “I’d like to start training you on an account for a… unique client. Someone whose accounts I’ve handled personally, until now, and also somewhat off the books.”
“Mr. Lowrey, I won’t do anything illegal—”
“No, no, no. Again, it’s quite the opposite. This client operates in an area where the law is… evolving rapidly, shall we say. You may need a few more certifications. Will that be a problem?”
“No.” Ana Sofía liked certifications. “I’m just not sure I understand… You said ‘he,’ so it’s just one individual, not a corporate client? Then how could it be so complicated that I’ll need two years before I can take over the account?”
Lowrey slumped a little in his seat. “I’ll let you watch,” he said. “Then you make the decision.” He pressed the speaker button on his desk phone. “Angela, please send Mr. Barnes through to my office.”
The knock on the door came a moment later, and the door opened to reveal a Caucasian man with longish brown hair and a muscular build under a motorcycle jacket. Ana Sofía initially put him in his mid-thirties, but his eyes made him look older. He looked a little tired, but cheerful—it was hard to put a finger on what gave her the impression that he’d been around, had a hard-knock kind of life, but it was definitely there. “Hey, Chuck,” he said, and then, seeing her, came forward and held out a work-roughened hand. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. James Barnes. Call me Bucky.”
“Bucky—” Lowrey, who usually stood on ceremony, looked like it was causing him physical pain to say the nickname. “This is Ms. Arcos Romero. I’m training her to take over your account when I retire.”
“Retire? But when I met you, you’d just—” Bucky looked surprised, and then thoughtful. “Jeez, time flies.Still feels like the war was just yesterday to me.”
The war? Ana Sofía looked hard at him. Most people talked about the Blip, or occasionally the Snap; not too many talked about the actual fighting that had gone along with half the world’s dis- and re-appearance. But Lowrey was already moving on. “Well, you’re not finished with me quite yet,” he said, not exactly concealing his regret about that. “You’ve brought your documents?”
“Yeah. Tried to organize ‘em a little better than last year, but…” Bucky shrugged and set a cardboard box on the desk, filled to the brim with papers and receipts. He had a prosthetic hand, Ana Sofía noticed. She’d been wearing hearing aids since she was a kid, so adaptive devices always interested her. This one was a metal so dark it was almost black, with gold gleaming between the plates. “They’re sorted by planet, but that was pretty much the best I could do.”
Sorted by planet? Ana Sofía was starting to suspect that she was being punked.
“We’ll figure it out. We always do,” Lowrey said, with slightly desperate optimism. He picked up a notepad and a pen. Ana Sofía would have used a data pad, but for important clients, Lowrey liked to show off by going old school. “So, let’s go over whether there’ve been any changes to your tax status since last year.”
“Yeah, actually, there’s been a pretty big one.” Bucky’s cheeks colored, just slightly. “I, uh, I got married.”
“Mazel tov, Mr. Barnes,” said Lowrey, falling back on the more formal title as if he hoped Bucky wouldn’t notice. “Spouse’s full name and Social Security number?”
“Already written down here.” Bucky fished a sheet of paper off the top of the pile. “Funny you should mention Social Security, though, because there’s kind of a complication there.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, um, he was declared legally dead in the Infinity War. So, about ten years ago.”
Ana Sofía blinked, thinking that was a pretty tasteless thing to joke about, but Lowrey just looked resigned. “Have you set about getting the error corrected?”
“Well, it wasn’t really an er…” Looking as if he was thinking better of it, Bucky said, “It’s a long story. But yeah, Tony’s got a lawyer working on it, but he says it might take a while.”
“Have Mr. Stark’s lawyer send the paperwork over when it’s resolved, then,” Lowrey said, and while Ana Sofía fought the urge to adjust her hearing aids and ask if he’d really just casually mentioned Tony Stark, he went on, “I take it he has back taxes to pay?”
“Well, no, he wasn’t earning any income while he was dead. Might be kind of a mess when they reinstate his Social Security payments, though. I don’t know if that’s a thing they give you retroactively in a lump sum or what, but…”
“He’s over sixty-five, then?”
“A lot over, actually. Same as me,” he said, to Ana Sofía’s great confusion. “I should warn you that you might recognize the name.”
Lowrey picked up the paper, blinked several times, and put it down again. “I take it we’re discussing the Steve Rogers,” he said. “As in Captain America.”
“Yeah, he hasn’t gone by that in a long time. That reminds me, there’s a military pension, too, but I think he convinced them not to make him take that one. I know it sounds kinda crazy that he doesn’t want the money, and I told him he’s entitled, but he says it was only supposed to last until he was dead, so… Shit, do people who come back from the dead usually have to file amended returns?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it,” said Lowrey. “If Captain Rogers is legally dead, regardless of what he is in point of fact, I’m afraid you won’t get any benefit out of filing jointly in the state of New York. We’ll put you down as head of household filing singly again, yes?”
“You’re the boss,” Bucky said, with the relaxed air of someone who’d just made a huge financial mess into someone else’s problem.
“And now, the matter of your dependents,” Lowrey said. “Has anything changed on that score?”
“Nope. Still the three kids. We got a space dog,” Bucky added, “but I can’t claim him because as far as I know he isn’t a sentient being, although I’m not putting anything past him at this point.”
“Sorry,” Ana Sofía said, unable to keep her mouth shut any longer. “Did you say ‘space dog’?”
“Alien dog, yeah. Asgardian wolfhound, I think, and believe me, if there was a way to write that off, I’d be all over it, because the way he eats… Oh.” Bucky shot a glance at Lowrey. “Did your boss not tell you that I live in space?”
“I find it’s easier to just… let people experience you for themselves, Mr. Barnes,” Lowrey said neutrally. “Ms. Arcos Romero is aware that I hold the ITA certification, and I expect she’ll have her own by the end of the year.”
ITA? Ana Sofía stared at Lowrey, trying to figure out if he was serious. Sure, Lowrey had a certificate that said Interplanetary Tax Accountant hanging out in the vestibule, but she’d thought it was a joke. It was only now occurring to her that none of the senior partners had been laughing.
“So, back to the dependent children,” Lowrey said. “Their ages, again?”
“Hela’s fourteen and the twins are nine, now.”
“Their dates of birth?”
“Uh.” Bucky shifted in his seat. “I can never remember how their birth certificates track to Earth dates, I usually have to fill ‘em out in Xandarian. And it tends to break software when I put the real dates in. I really need to set up a spreadsheet, because even with the shipboard computer, keeping track of what the legal documents say versus when I actually adopted the kids is a whole thing.”
“...I’ll just copy the dates from last year’s filing, then. Now, you own property in… New York, of course, although that’s not your primary residence… and the planet Xandar, which isn’t your primary residence either…”
“It’s only like two square inches in Xandar,” Bucky told Ana Sofía. “But if you own land and pay taxes on it, you can send your kids to school there, and they have an amazing school system.”
“They do something like that in Scotland,” Ana Sofía told him. “One Christmas, my friend Doreen gave us all certificates that said we owned a square foot of land there, so we could all call ourselves Lairds or Ladies.”
“If I’d known that, I woulda bowed when I came in,” Bucky said, giving her a genuinely warm smile.
“Your business, however,” Lowrey interjected, before they could get too sidetracked, “is currently incorporated where?”
“Knowhere,” Bucky said.
“I’m certain I helped you fill out the requisite forms—”
“No, the planet is called Knowhere, with a K. Aliens,” he told Ana Sofía, in a quiet aside, “got weird senses of humor.”
“But you have an Earth-based incorporation as well,” Lowrey persisted.
“Yeah, Milky Whey LLC.” Feeling Ana Sofía’s eyes on him, Bucky ducked his head, looking faintly embarrassed. “W-H-E-Y, like curds and whey from the nursery rhyme? See, it’s an import/export business, and my primary product is cheese, and my daughter was six when I set all this up and I’d pretty much accepted that they’re all gonna be dad jokes from now on, so I figured I might as well go all in on it.”
Ana Sofía giggled before she could stop herself. “Is it alien cheese?”
“No, it’s the other way around. I sell the cheese to the aliens. Technically it is space cheese, though, because once I break atmosphere, it’s cheese in sp—” Bucky stopped just in time; Lowrey looked like he might sprain a muscle in his face if he tried to Serious Professional at them any harder. “So yeah, the business ledger is in the box,” he said. “Did you ever get an answer on whether I can count the spaceship for the home-office deduction?”
“You’re already claiming the…” Lowrey’s expression was strained. “Spaceship as a business vehicle, Mr. Barnes. Claiming it twice would look like an error at best and fraudulent at worst.”
“And we don’t want that,” Bucky said, the picture of innocence. “Because tax fraud would be wrong.”
“Where do you buy the cheese?” Ana Sofía asked.
Bucky looked pleased. “Finally, someone’s asking the important questions. Most of it’s from a U.S. government stockpile. You’d be amazed how much cheese is sitting around in a bunch of caves in Missouri, even getting taken out a spaceship-load at a time for ten years straight.”
“So you’re selling American cheese to aliens,” Ana Sofía clarified, just to be thorough.
“Well, not just American cheese, not anymore. I’m starting to move into the small-batch artisanal stuff. That way I’m not tied to a single supplier. Plus,” he added, smirking, “there’s something really satisfying about turning aliens into cheese snobs one planet at a time. I buy it from all over. ...Well, all over except Latveria, but that’s another story. My best seller is a bokmakiri I get from goat farmers in Wakanda, but also there’s this group of Benedictine monks in France who’ve been making Abbaye de Tamié with the same process for like five centuries, it’s freaking amazing.”
Ana Sofía fought down another round of giggles, because she was a mature financial professional. “Is the monastery where all the paper receipts came from?”
“You know, you’d think so,” Bucky said, grinning, “but actually the monks are some of the most tech-savvy guys I’ve ever met. ‘Excel may labor under the same burden of sin as the rest of the world, Mr. Barnes,’” he quoted, in a heavy French accent, “but even as Our Lord can use humanity for His glory, so can we use Excel to email you an invoice.’ That’s Brother Ezekiel, and he’s hilarious. If you’re ever in Savoie, you should look him up. The paper receipts are from a place called Sakaar, and by the way, if you wanna talk about corruption and tax fraud—”
“I really don’t think the creation method of the receipts is pertinent, Ms. Arcos Romero,” Lowrey said, a little desperately.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Lowrey,” Ana Sofía said, making sure her face was completely solemn. “I was just wondering if Mr. Barnes could qualify for any tax breaks as a government contractor. Since he’s disposing of a product the government can’t sell, he should at least get the toll tax exemption for waste removal.”
Bucky blinked. “Holy shit,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for ten years and this guy’s never thought of that up before. Lowrey, you’re fired.”
“I know you’re joking, Mr. Barnes,” Lowrey said flatly, “but I feel compelled to tell you that I know I’ll never be so lucky. Did you give the usual amount in charitable donations?”
“Maybe a little more than usual this year,” Bucky said. He looked, Ana Sofía thought, a little embarrassed. “Made a pretty big donation to the Veterans of the Great Reckoning of Skarloth III Charitable Foundation.”
“Interesting choice,” Lowrey said, and despite the fact that his tone practically screamed, I’m just being polite, don’t explain it to me, Bucky shuffled a little bit in his seat.
“Now, to be clear on this, I’m not saying I had anything to do with the Great Reckoning of Skarloth III,” he said. “While it’s true that I don’t like space fascists, I definitely didn’t have anything to do with their dic—uh, when their not at all suspiciously elected supreme leader having a tragic accident in which he tripped and fell out a nineteenth-story window.”
“Mr. Barnes,” Lowrey said wearily, “please stop talking before we need to find a space lawyer.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I have witnesses who can place me halfway across the galaxy when that happened,” Bucky said, straight-faced. “In fact, you might say my alibi is rock solid.” He was obviously waiting for Lowrey to ask, and when Lowrey didn’t, he sighed. “Anyway, yeah, I made a pretty big donation to their veterans’ hospital’s prosthetic tentacle program. Thought it was a good cause.”
“I’m sure it was.” Lowrey slid a copy of the firm’s standard work agreement and a pen across the desk. “Just sign the release form, and I’ll get started on the paperwork as soon as we settle the matter of payment.”
“Right. Payment,” Bucky said, scribbling a signature on the paper. “I take it Earth still isn’t moving with the times like the rest of the universe, so, same as last year okay?”
“You’re correct that we’re still not accepting payments in ‘galactic units,’ Mr. Barnes, but,” Lowrey said, “the same method of payment as last year will be fine.”
“Okay.” Bucky took a small metal cylinder from the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across the desk. Lowrey nodded and closed his hand over it, and Bucky stood up. “Hey,” he said, “thanks, Chuck. Really. I know my weird space taxes have been a pain in your ass for years.”
“Not at all, Mr. Barnes. It’s been…” Lowrey hesitated, and finally said, with complete sincerity, “quite the experience. I’ll send copies of the requisite forms your way once they’ve been filed.”
“Thanks. And it was nice to meet you, Ms. Arcos Romero.”
“Ana Sofía is fine,” said Ana Sofía. “We’ll be in touch.”
Bucky nodded, shoving his metal hand in his pocket and whistling quietly to himself as he went out the door, and Ana Sofía turned back to Lowrey. “How much of that was real?” she asked.
“Real? I don’t follow, Ms. Arcos Romero.”
“A lot of it could have been real,” Ana Sofía told him, “and there was enough detail that he couldn’t have been making it all up. I can almost believe there really is a… a cheese merchant with a spaceship who has something to do with revolutions on alien planets. But if that was true, why would he be coming to us to get his taxes done?”
Lowrey looked hard at her. “Actually, I’ve never been sure,” he said. “The truth is, I suspect it it has something to do with my mother.”
No, her hearing aid wasn’t malfunctioning; that was definitely what he’d said, but… “Your… mother?”
“Her name was Sarah Winifred Proctor,” Lowrey said. “And, more to the point, her mother’s name was Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. Ten years ago, Mr. Barnes reached out and explained to me that he needed to… re-integrate into American society after some legal difficulties, and that part of that involved finding an accountant. I suspect he chose me based on a family connection.”
“So he’s like a distant cousin of yours?”
“Something like that. And as for the ultimate truth of his story…” Lowrey unscrewed the cap of the metal tube and tipped the contents out onto the desk, and Ana Sofía gasped in spite of herself. “They’re real,” he said. “Look as closely as you like. Pick them up, if it helps. Honestly, I’m not sure I believe Mr. Barnes about their origin either, although ‘there used to be a palace made of diamonds on an alien planet and there isn’t anymore’ does match up with his claim to ‘really, really not like space fascists.’ Don’t you agree?”
Ana Sofía was dumbstruck. “I…” she said, and had no idea what to say next.
“Yes,” Lowrey said, “exactly. I’ve told him he’s wildly exceeding our usual rates, even after the diamond buyer takes his cut, but he’s very persistent. So, in addition to a generous fee for my time, his payments help support a great deal of charitable work that our firm does, as well. And of course, as my assistant on this project, you’ll be given what I assure you is a very fair bonus for the work.”
Ana Sofía stared at the pile of uncut diamonds glittering on the desktop. That, she thought, would buy a lot of lucky socks.
Steve was in the kitchen, making lunch for the twins, when Bucky walked in. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, glancing at Bucky over a platter piled high with triangle-cut sandwich halves. Cooking for two mostly-ex-super-soldiers was no small task on its own, but feeding small Asgardians was practically a full-time job; Steve was already dreading the thought that someday Thor was going to be a teenager, and even an entire spaceship hold filled with government cheddar might not make enough to keep him in grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Had to do a quick time travel,” Bucky said, shrugging off his jacket. “My accountant sent me a note that my taxes were done, and I realized I never actually dropped off the paperwork, so I had to skip back a month to get him the stuff before it turned into a time paradox and ripped a hole in the universe again. What?” Bucky said, at the look Steve gave him. “I put it back.”
“I’m more concerned that you let it happen… I’m going to say once,” Steve said, “and if I’m wrong, I’d rather you didn’t correct me.”
“Oh, don’t be smug, Mr. I’ve-been-writing-everything-down-in-a-notebook-since-1937. I got an import/export business with a profitable off-the-books smuggling sideline, three growing kids, a space dog, and whatever the hell the Sacred Reznor is to worry about. Sometimes a day planner just doesn’t cut it.”
“Is that why you still have the Time Stone in your sock drawer?”
“It’s... not not why I still have the Time Stone in my sock drawer. Hey, do you have any desire to be a Scottish Laird?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Just wondering. Thing I heard today. Was thinking instead of Cap, you could try being Laird America for a while. We could even wrap a flag around you to make a kilt.”
“That’d be a violation of the flag code,” Steve said absently. “So, taxes.”
“Yep.”
“Which you’re filing as a law-abiding full-time resident of the State of New York.”
“Well, not yet. Not until the sale goes through. You still sure about moving back to Earth? I mean with the kids and everything? It’s gonna be a lot.”
“Only thing I’ve ever been more sure of was marrying you,” Steve said, leaning over the table for a kiss, which Bucky provided… in exchange for which, Steve pretended not to see him swiping one of the sandwiches with his metal hand. “You’re the one who wants to live on a farm, though, so you can break it to them that they’re going to be learning how to take care of goats.”
“Deal,” Bucky said, and turned to call down the hallway of the spaceship. “Kids? Hey, can you all come in here for a minute? There’s something Steve and I want to tell you…”