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Natasha Rogers plops a cup of coffee in front of her dad. Her fire-engine hair swings as she pivots back to the kitchen and retrieves her own breakfast: toast, charred and slathered in butter, just the way she likes it.
“Thanks, kid,” Steve says absently, his attention on the paper spread out on the table before him.
She’s not sure why he bothers—he never actually reads the thing, just ends up flipping past the depressing headlines and holiday sale flyers to the comic strips in the back.
“No problem, Steve,” Nat says through a mouthful of toast.
It’s mumbled and near-unintelligible, but the words are clear enough to earn the girl a frown and raised brow. At twelve, she’s too old to be calling the man who fathered her “Daddy”, but she hasn’t landed on a moniker that accurately reflects both her budding independence and their continued parent-offspring relationship. Looks like “Steve” is a non-starter, though. At least out loud.
Steve returns his attention to the latest goings on of the FoxTrot household, and Nat schools her smile as he takes a sip from his mug.
“Ugh!” he sputters. “What is this?”
Nat shrugs, eyes wide and innocent. “What? Peppermint creamer. It’s festive.”
“Please leave your festivity out of my coffee,” he says, standing to dump the contents of his mug in the sink and pour himself another—black—cup of coffee.
“You’re such a Scrooge.” The doorbell chimes, and Nat stuffs the last of the toast into her mouth. “Clint’s here!” She snatches her backpack from the floor and plants a peck on Steve’s cheek. “Don’t forget—we’re meeting at Murphy’s lot after school. I want a big tree this year. Like, huge. And then I’m singing at the lighting ceremony tonight.”
“Murphy’s lot, huge tree, singing lights … got it.” Steve smiles that happy-holiday-grin, but Nat can see it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey, loser,” she says, heading for the sidewalk with a tousle-headed boy in tow. Clint regales her with his latest Xbox conquests while Nat only half-listens. This Christmas is going to be different, she decides. It’s time for the Rogers to move on.
…
“Who can tell me why June 6th was chosen as the start of the D-Day invasion? What conditions were necessary to carry out the attack?” Mr. Barnes flips a piece of chalk in his right hand, scanning the sea of sixth grade faces and their deer-in-the-headlights terror. Nat feels sorry for them. With only minutes until Christmas break and two weeks of freedom, how does Mr. Barnes expect anyone to be able to focus?
“I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t anything to do with military strength—Eisenhower and the Allied forces had been preparing for the attack months before. No, the timing was very specific, related to something out of the control of man and machine.”
Obvious, if you bothered to do the reading. Mr. Barnes lifts his brows in that expectant way teachers do, like the correct words will magically pop out of his students’ mouths if he just wishes hard enough. Nat knows the answer, but she’s got her own thing going on with Clint right now, and it’ll work better if Teach turns around.
“All right,” he sighs. “Maybe a visual will help.”
Right on cue, the dark-haired dreamboat (okay, he’s like way old, but Nat can’t deny he’s still nice to look at) turns around and starts on a simple chalk illustration of gigantic ships and a moonlit beach.
Nat signs the word ears to Clint, leaning in close. He takes the instruction and turns his hearing aid all the way up.
“I’ll get you one of my dad’s porn mags if you can hit France,” she whispers. She’s not exactly sure her dad has porn mags, but she figures he’s been a bachelor for almost two years, and there’s got to be something stashed around the house.
Clint narrows his eyes and examines the target. He twirls a straw between his fingers, a moist wad of notebook paper already sitting ready under his tongue. “No deal. I can pinch those from Tony and Bruce. I hit France, and you do my Spanish homework for a week.”
“It’s break. Ms. Hill didn’t assign any homework.”
Clint shrugs. “When we get back.”
It’s not a bad deal for Nat—she’s great with languages—but she needs to sweeten the pot for herself to make this worthwhile. “Okay, fine. But if you miss, we spend after school at your house everyday for a week.” The Bartons stock the best junk food, and Clint’s got way better games than her.
“Come on.”
Clint hates going to his house after school, because his big brothers (Tony and Bruce, with the great porn stash) are always home, and they’ve made it their mission to torture little bro as much as possible.
Nat huffs, keeping her voice low. “You’re so sure you can hit it, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”
Mr. Barnes is talking excitedly about ocean tides and full moons, back still turned. The clock’s ticking, so Clint nods and lines up his shot.
The spitball lands with soft, wet thwack!, leaving the globe on Mr. Barnes’ desk wobbling. Nat and Clint hold their breath, while around them an eager audience whispers and snickers. They seemed to have avoided detection, however, as the instruction carries on.
“Light. They needed light to navigate the water by night …”
Nat smirks, getting her own projectile ready. “That looks like Budapest to me. We said France, not Hungary.”
“It’s Europe,” Clint urges. “Close enough.”
Nat fires off a shot, stealthy and silent. There’s no evidence of her attack apart from a jagged smudge whiting out the beach of Normandy.
“After school. Your place. One week.”
The bell rings as Mr. Barnes finishes up his last point about inclement weather and spring tides. “Okay, have a good break!” he hollers over the screech of chairs and excited chatter. “And don’t forget you owe me two pages on Nazi propaganda when we get back.”
Nat is already out of her desk and riding the high of her win when Mr. Barnes clears his throat. “Ms. Rogers. Mr. Barton. A moment, please.”
She bites her lip, deflating, while Clint surreptitiously adjusts his aid. It’s a trick he uses when he knows he’s about to get chewed out and doesn’t want to report to back to Mom. Plausible deniability. If he can’t hear it, it's almost as though it didn't happen. Nat wishes she had the option to tune out what is sure to be an unpleasant lecture.
“That was a great discussion, Mr. Barnes!” she says, trying to get out ahead of the reprimand. “Really interesting to think about how weather and natural tides and stuff affected mission strategy.”
“Really?” His lips thin into a smirk. “I thought you were too busy with your own mission to pay much attention to me.” He touches his index finger to the globe, cocking his head and turning the defaced orb in a slow revolution. “Who made this one?” he asks, pointing to one of the slimy pock-marks.
Nat holds up a hand, sheepish.
“Nice shot. Assuming you were aiming for France.”
“Yes, sir. Trying to keep with the theme of the lesson.” She smiles now, cheeky, and Mr. Barnes grins back.
“Okay, you two, I’m clearly not challenging you enough. So, for your homework this break—”
Nat groans, and even Clint can read lips well enough to know this is going to suck.
“—for your homework, I want you to investigate a female World War II combatant. Choose one, and give me five pages on her early career, missions in the war, and how she was received by her community after the fighting ended. You could start with the Russians—they had a number of female snipers on the rolls. But dig a little bit and you can find female POWs, flight nurses, and combat medics from each of the Allied nations.”
“Mr. Barnes—” Nat starts to object, but she can’t get more than that out before she chokes off the words, silenced by the ice in her teacher’s eyes.
“We’re talking about people’s lives, Natasha. Maybe this seems like boring old history to you, but these people sacrificed themselves to make the world better for you. They deserve your respect. And so do I.”
Maybe he’s just talking about teacherly respect, but as Nat glances toward the shiny prosthetic arm peeking out from Mr. Barnes’ left shirt sleeve, she doubts it. She winces, stomach plummeting. Beside her, Clint shifts uncomfortably. It’s common knowledge that Mr. Barnes was once Sargent Barnes, and that he made his own none-too-small sacrifice in the name of changing the world. But at the end of the day, she’s just a kid, and before this moment, she hadn’t given much thought to how that sacrifice might color his views on things.
Stupid. Especially stupid considering how her mom died.
The soldier part of her mom was important, but so distant in her mind. That was the absentee part, the doing-her-duty part. Almost like a separate person. It was the warm, loving, present part of Mom that Nat thinks about and misses most.
“I’m sorry,” Nat croaks, on the verge of tears. “Really.”
Mr. Barnes nods, satisfied. “Have a good break. I’ll look forward to reading your papers when we get back.”
She slips out of the room before the tears come in earnest, and though Clint has them both laughing in minutes, a feeling of regret hovers around Nat long after they leave.
…
“How’s this? Looks like a good one.” It’s the fourth time in five minutes Steve has uttered those same words in that exact monotone, and Nat’s starting to get annoyed by his lack of excitement.
“Come on, Dad! I said a big tree! A beautiful tree! This is some Charlie Brown shi—”
Steve whips his head sharply.
“—some Charlie Brown crap right here,” she amends. She plows ahead, undeterred. “I want the kinda tree that would make Rudolf piss himself with glee.”
“Natasha!”
And now he’s using her full name. Great. That’s twice in one day she’s been Natasha’d.
“Dad, please, I know this isn’t your favorite holiday, but can you just try? For me?”
Steve’s expression falls, and Nat feels like she has foot-in-mouth disease. Why does she keep stepping in it today?
He nods slowly, eyes on the ground, and clears his throat. “Yeah. I’m sorry, honey. I’ll try.” Instead of brightening his mood, his eyes grow more dim. But at least now he seems aware of the effect it’s having on Nat. He scans the lot of pre-cut Christmas promise and tips his head.
“Why don’t I check out the Eastern Red Cedars over there, and you keep looking through the Douglas Firs? If we find the one, we’ll give a holler.”
“Okay.”
Steve escapes into the ersatz forest, and Nat exhales through a heavy sigh. She’s trying to make this better—trying to take the hollow space that’s been sitting inside her for two years and fill it up with something good. Even if it’s just forced enthusiasm and borrowed cheer. But it’s not helping. Steve is looking emptier than ever, and Nat can feel herself sinking, too. Even the smell of pine and sap is starting to make her head hurt.
She’s just about to give it up for a lost cause when the jingle of sleigh bells catches her ear. No doubt some phony Santa on the move. She turns her head to investigate the source of the sound, but she doesn’t get far, because there—just a few yards away—under a halo of orange parking lot light and sparkling with merriment it stands. Regal and tall, full of limb and needle-heavy: it’s the perfect tree.
“Oh my God, that’s it!” she squeals, making a bee-line for what she has now dubbed, The Perfect One. “Dad! Steve! I found it!”
She circles wildly, warding off other potential buyers and making sure it’s just as beautiful from all sides. The tree doesn’t disappoint, boasting perfect balance and symmetry. She looks around, but Steve is nowhere to be seen, and she’s not losing out on this baby. She reaches through the thick branches and takes hold of the trunk with the thought of hauling it to wherever Dad might be. It’s a miscalculation of epic proportions, considering Nat barely tops five feet, while the tree is a solid ten. Her footing slips, balance gone, and she starts to tip—along with tree—squealing as she makes an ungraceful plunge toward asphalt.
“Aaah!”
“Whoa, there!” A familiar voice sounds in her ear just as a strong arm wraps around her from behind, halting her momentum. “You trying to kill yourself, Ms. Rogers?”
Nat blinks, and her history teacher’s face comes into focus. Very close. Mortifyingly close. He sets both girl and tree upright as Nat hears her father’s panicked shouts.
“Nat! I heard you scream!” Steve eyes Mr. Barnes darkly, hands drawing into fists. “You okay?” he asks her, body tense and ready for a fight.
Nat’s overworked heart pounds even harder as she realizes what this must look like to him. She tucks into Steve’s side, babbling through an explanation she hopes will wipe the murderous look from his eyes.
“Oh my gosh, that was so scary. I was trying to pick up the tree, but it was too heavy, and then it started tipping, and I was going to fall, and Mr. Barnes totally rescued me.”
“What?” Steve looks down at her, confused, and Nat feels about three inches tall. “You tried to haul that thing by yourself? Jesus, Nat, you could have really been hurt.”
Suddenly, she’s wishing Steve would direct his glare back to Mr. Barnes and leave her be.
“I bet she’s stronger than she looks,” her teacher interjects, and Nat feels a wave of gratitude. “But, even so, that was a pretty silly move.”
Scratch that. Gratitude gone. No gratitude for him.
“Thanks, man. Really.” Steve’s shoulders sag in relief. “Lucky you were there.”
“Nothing me and the hardware couldn’t handle.” Mr. Barnes flashes a toothy grin and flexes his metal hand. It’s unsettling in the way Clint might joke about his hearing, or Nat about her mom. A way to get in front of the issue before anyone else can.
Steve’s brows draw together, momentarily thrown, then he holds out his hand, expression open. “Steve Rogers.”
“Nice to meet you. James Barnes,” he says, shaking Steve’s hand. “I teach history at Lincoln.”
“Oh.” Steve gives an appreciative nod. “So you’re the reason Nat’s been coming home complaining about the fascist nature of a single-parent-run household.”
Mr. Barnes laughs, full-throated and loud. A real laugh, not the controlled “teacher laugh” he uses in the classroom. It’s bone-deep and lights up his whole face. And it’s totally directed at her dad. Weird.
“Guilty as charged. Hope I haven’t caused any untimely domestic revolts.”
“Nothing that can’t be explained by the presence of a near-teenager in the house.”
“Oh, come on,” Nat groans. She’s had just about enough being talked about for one day. “So are you going to look at the tree? Aside from trying to kill me, it’s pretty much The Perfect One.”
“It’s gorgeous, darling,” Steve says, eyes still locked on Mr. Toothy Grin Barnes.
It’s the most alive he’s seemed in months—maybe years, even—and something moves like lava and ice through Nat’s veins. It’s wonderful, seeing the light in his eyes again, and horrible at the same time, because she realizes Steve hasn’t looked at anyone like that since Mom. And that should make her feel bad, right? But it doesn’t. And insanely, that almost makes her feel worse.
Also, this is just really freaking strange because, hello? This is Mr. Barnes. Like, Mister Barnes. And suddenly Nat realizes there might be a few things she doesn’t know about her dad.
“So … are we gonna take it home, or what?” Nat says, when the silent goggling has gone on long enough.
“What?” Steve drags his eyes away from Mr. Barnes, and Nat can’t help but roll hers. “Oh, yeah, honey. Let’s figure out where the guy is.”
“Let me help you with that. Apparently, it’s a two person job,” Mr. Barnes says with a pointed glance Nat’s way.
She’s almost inclined to point out that now that her dad is here, they have two people, but she’s kind of curious to see where this thing goes. And if she’s honest, she’s not looking forward to seeing her Dad’s eyes turn ashen and sad again.
The person manning the lot is predictably by the entrance, and he helps Steve and Mr. Barnes tie the tree to the top of their beat-up minivan.
“Nice wheels,” her teacher teases when the job is done. There’s no real reason for him to be there anymore, but it seems like the adults around here are having a hard time saying goodbye.
Steve clasps a hand to the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s practical, but that’s about all I can say for it. Peggy insisted—for carpools and such. Nat’s mom …”
Steve swallows hard, his words drying up on Peggy’s name, and all the joy seems to leach out of him. Mr. Barnes looks like he wants to ask, but doesn’t want to be rude, and there’s no way Steve’s offering anything up.
“She died.” Nat says. “A couple years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” And he seems to mean it. “That’s—I can’t imagine.”
What a great way to set the mood, Nat thinks, her gaze ping-ponging between the sullen duo. It can’t end like this, not when there’s so much potential here. Not when she’s still picturing the way her dad’s cheeks were pinking just moments before. She sets her mind then, deciding Steve deserves to be happy, and she’s going to see to it he is.
“You going to the tree lighting ceremony tonight? In the Square? I’m singing with the Lincoln choir.”
Mr. Barnes blinks, trying to catch up to the sudden subject change, and stutters his response. “Uh … I w-wasn’t planning on it.”
“It’s going to be lots of fun. They serve hot chocolate and egg nog, but not the spiked kind, and a guy dresses up like Santa and brings a bunch of elves, and we sing carols, and then they turn on the lights on the massive tree in the Square, and it’s really pretty.” She knows she’s babbling, but Nat figures he can’t say no as long as she keeps talking.
“Leave it alone, Nat. Mr. Barnes has better things to do than come to some silly—”
“Call me Bucky,” he says. “All my friends do. And, actually, it sounds like a lot of fun. I was feeling like I could use some Christmas spirit, you know?”
Nat’s eyes go wide.
Bucky?
She can practically see the spark in her Dad’s responding smile. “Okay, Bucky. I guess we’ll see you there, then.”
It’s clear her dad’s going to need a little push, but what’s happening right here? This is as much as she could ask for. They bid farewell to Mr. Barnes and load into the car while Nat plots her next move. She’s gonna need Clint on this one. And maybe some mistletoe.
Things are about to get very interesting.
…
The Square is packed, and from her position on the make-shift stage, Nat is having a hard time spotting her dad, let alone Mr. Barnes. It’d be so much easier if Steve had worn the hat like she’d asked, but apparently reindeer antlers with a dangling sprig of mistletoe was too festive for mister Grinch. Still, he’s heads above most people with that shocking blond hair, so he should be easy enough to find.
She spots Clint first—that idiot did end up wearing the antlers—and she waves to him as he moves through the crowd. He signs, What’s up? and she tells him he looks like a reindeer clown. At least I’m not a singing monkey, he tosses back, and Nat lets her hands fall silent, not feeling the need to tell him the expression he’s looking for is “dancing monkey”.
Then her dad is there, practically in the back row, and he’s got two cups in his hands and Oh my God, I’m going to die! thinks Nat. Mr. Barnes taps him on the shoulder, and Steve hands over a cup, smiling like he’s on the cover of a magazine. Nat never imagined he could turn on the charm like that, but even from all the way over here, it’s obvious that when he puts his mind to something, Steve Rogers is a force to be reckoned with.
…
He’s nervous. He’s got that butterfly flutter in his stomach, the kind that twists around inside you when something new and exciting happens, and he hasn’t felt that for so long. Not since Peggy. Not for years.
Steve feels silly, standing here in the cold, jostled by too many people, with an extra cup of cocoa in his hand and no one to give it to. But Nat is clearly so desperate for him to try, and more than that, after meeting Mr. Barnes—Bucky—he feels like maybe he wants to try, too.
He knows it’s been bad. Bad for Nat. Bad for a long time. But sometimes the weight of it all, knowing what they had and what they lost, is just too much to take. And he could cry everyday, rail and rage against the world and God, or he could let himself go numb. That was the easier choice, Steve supposes.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He feels a tap on his shoulder, and all this stuff gets tucked into his pocket for a later time. He can’t help but smile. All he wants to do is smile when he sees Bucky, and it’s so strange and so new. And he doesn’t understand at all.
The cup of cocoa is still warm as he passes it over. “Here you go. Got an extra in case you decided to show.”
Bucky nods his thanks and takes a sip.
“I hope you didn’t feel like Nat guilted you into this. She can be-”
“—persuasive, I know,” Bucky finishes with a laugh. “She’s got that Barton boy wrapped around her finger, looks like.”
Steve chuckles, catching Nat’s eye way up on stage. She grins, shamelessly giving a thumbs up. “Yeah. Lord help anyone who goes up against that girl.”
Bucky’s mouth turns down into a pout. It’s unsettling because he looks troubled, but it’s also unsettling for entirely inappropriate reasons. Steve shifts side to side, looking away from those lips, but unable to keep his heart from racing.
“I hope you didn’t feel … I mean, I’m definitely glad I came,” Bucky says. “But like you said, the girl knows how to get her way.”
“Don’t be silly. I got cocoa, didn’t I?” Steve laughs, feeling stupid and clumsy, remembering an old joke about fondue he and Peggy used to share. Sometimes fondue is just fondue, but sometimes it’s more. Is it the same for cocoa?
Bucky furrows his brows, confused, and Steve sighs. “I’m glad to be here, Bucky. Really.” He huffs. He’s so old and so out of it. “I’m not. I’m not going to pretend like any of this is easy, but, yeah. I’m good.”
Up on stage, the choirmaster makes a few brief comments, and then the carols begin. Steve can pick out Nat’s voice from the throng, and he smiles, so proud of his girl.
“So what do you do, Steve,” Bucky asks after a time. “When you’re not picking out Christmas trees or managing extra servings of cocoa?”
Bucky is effortlessly charming and handsome, and Steve finds it increasingly easy to talk to him. He describes his illustration work—designing greeting cards—and his dreams of opening his own gallery one day. He talks about his early years in Brooklyn and is surprised to learn Bucky grew up only a few blocks away. He talks about parenting as a single dad and how hard it is, but how it’s also the most important thing he’s ever done. Bucky talks about teaching and his love of cooking and his dog. He says he likes the small-town life, his little house on Walnut Street, though sometimes it’s hard to sleep without the noise of the city. Bucky’s got no family here, but that’s okay, he says, even if holidays get kinda lonely.
They skirt the hard topics for a while, but as the evening wears on and the intimacy of the moment becomes impossible to deny, conversation shifts to weightier matters.
Steve likes the idea of sharing some of his secrets. Like a burden that might be lifted, or maybe carried with the help of someone else. So when Bucky asks, in halting, stilted words, what happened, how Peggy died, it’s with a kind of relief that Steve answers. A release.
“She was a Transportation Officer stationed in Kabul.”
Bucky’s eyes go wide, and Steve nods at his surprise, like he’s heard it all before.
“I know. Fearless little thing. Like a tiger in red lipstick. You see where Nat gets it.” He smiles fondly, then carries on. “Routine mission transporting a couple of sharpshooters from a unit out of New York, and her convoy was hit by an IED.” His voice waivers, and he swallows hard. “Nobody made it out of there whole.” His chest is heaving, and he takes deep breaths through his nose. He can do this. He needs to say it. “She didn’t make it at all.”
Bucky goes still and quiet for a long time, and Steve understands. What do you say to something like that? How does anyone bear someone else’s grief? Sometimes all you can do is listen and just be there. But even if Bucky can’t find the words, Steve realizes, it feels better, somehow, just to have told him. He listens to the carols for a while, Nat smiling bright as the words to “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” ring out loud and clear.
Bucky coughs and looks down, and Steve thinks he might be trembling under his coat. There’s a quiet desperation in his voice when he speaks, and it catches Steve by surprise.
“Did she take your name, Steve?”
Steve tilts his head, confused by the non sequitur.
“Was she a Rogers? Peggy Rogers?”
Steve smiles, remembering the feuds she’d inspired throughout the extended family, refusing what to Steve was never a piece of baggage he expected her to shoulder.
“No. She was an independent lady, through and through.” He says it with undeniable pride. “Margaret “Peggy” Carter, that was my girl.”
The happy glow he feels warming his blood runs suddenly cold at the expression on Bucky’s face.
“What’s the matter? You okay, Bucky?”
Bucky looks like he might pass out—or maybe throw up. His skin has taken on an unnatural green tinge. Steve feels a tap on his arm and sees little Clint Barton with those silly antlers on his head and a cup in each hand.
“Hey, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes. Thought you guys might like a refill.”
“Not now, Clint.” Steve hushes him with a quick shake of his head, and he scoots off with a frown. “Hey, Bucky. Wait, Bucky!”
But Bucky has already pushed his way to the back of the crowd and he’s heading out of the Square. Steve doesn’t understand—can’t understand—what’s going on, and a stone lodges in this throat, thinking this might be it. Saying goodbye. Missing out on this chance.
“Wait! Bucky!” He’s hollering now, and running as fast as his legs will carry him, wondering the whole time what he could have said, what it was he did. Bucky is fast, but Steve catches up, pulling him to a stop with a rough hand on his shoulder. He’s breathless, heart racing, and he knows it’s not just from the run.
“Wait, please! What’s wrong? What's going on?”
Bucky’s eyes are dark and hooded, and he looks like a different man. Haunted is the word that comes to mind, and Steve takes a step back, thrown off by the vast, inexplicable change.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said-”
“Don’t.” Bucky holds up his hand, his voice cold, full of anger. There are tears in his eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”
“I just don’t understand, I’m sorry-”
“Jesus Christ, Steve! Please!” He lets out a sob, and Steve feels like he’s on the Tilt-A-Whirl back on Coney Island. Everything is twisted and turned around. How did they get here? It was just cocoa. Just some carols.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says through wringing tears. “I’m so sorry. You should be proud of her. You have every right to be proud.”
For a moment, Steve thinks they’re talking about Natasha again, but that doesn’t make any sense. He squints against a flash of light shining in his eyes, reflection from the streetlight against Bucky’s prosthetic hand, and suddenly everything clicks into place.
Nat had said something, at the start of the year. It’s a foggy memory now, drudged up from a place of indifference. Sargent Barnes, she’d said. Mr. Barnes was in the army, like Mom. Isn’t that cool?
Steve takes a step back, or maybe he stumbles. He’s not sure of his feet at the moment.
“Oh.”
It’s all he says, but it’s enough. One quiet little syllable, and Bucky’s head snaps up like a puppet on a string.
“Oh.”
Bucky’s gaze is full of knowing remorse—a pain larger than either of them can carry.
“No one made it out of there whole,” Steve says, toneless, mimicking his words from before. He doesn’t need to say the rest.
His breath is coming out in shallow wisps, and he feels like maybe his legs will give at any moment. He can’t keep his eyes off Bucky’s prosthetic, and Bucky folds his arms across his chest, shoulders hunched, tucking the metal hand away from view.
He should have known. Why didn’t he know? Why hadn’t he asked? It was one of those things, one of the difficult conversations they’d put off until end, and now. Well, now it was too late.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice coming out muffled like cotton. “We had a target, and she was on transport. I was next to her. She was driving the truck when—” He stops, choking off the thought. His jaw jerks back and forth, like he’s rolling the words around his mouth. “I didn’t know who she was to you. If I’d known, I’d never have—”
But it doesn’t matter, does it? What he knew or didn’t know. What they said. What might have been.
It is what it is.
Steve shakes his head, shuffling toward someplace else. Anywhere but here. “Doesn’t matter, Buck. Doesn’t matter.”
…
“I’m going caroling with the group tonight. You want to come with?” Nat’s hovering on the threshold of Steve’s studio, leaning her head around the doorjamb.
Steve doesn’t look up from the drafting table, where he’s presumably working on a new illustration for a birthday or engagement card. He usually scolds her for interrupting him while he works, but he barely seems to notice she’s there.
“I don’t think so. You have fun with your friends.”
It’s a variation on the theme. The only words he’s been able manage over the past three days have been some version of No, thanks.
- “Want to help me decorate the tree?”
“Nah, you’re doing a great job.”
- “I’ve got frosted cookies and It’s a Wonderful Life On Demand—we could sit on the couch and go into a holiday sugar coma.”
“Not right now, hun.”
- “The snow is picking up. I bet it’s almost the right consistency for a snowball fight.”
“You should call Clint. I bet he’d love to do that.”
The most disturbing thing, Nat thinks, is he’s not even going through the motions anymore. He used to at least make an effort to appear engaged, even if she could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. Now he doesn’t even bother with that. He might as well be lump of coal in her stocking or a button-eyed snowman on the lawn.
She doesn’t know what happened the night of the tree lighting, but she’s pretty sure whatever it was is responsible for Steve’s sallow skin and sunken eyes. She was distracted as she sang, and by the time she knew something was amiss, Bucky was pushing his way out of the Square with Steve close on his heels. Clint couldn’t provide any insight, other than how unwelcome his offer of hot chocolate had been. He didn’t catch the conversation, and they were gone before he knew anything was wrong.
Steve was in bed, door closed, when she came home that night, and he’s been like this ever since. She wants to ask but she’s afraid, and she wouldn’t know what to say anyway.
Nat swallows down her hurt at this latest rejection and leaves Steve to his work. It’s Christmas Eve—the one time of year when you’re supposed to be surrounded by family and love, and she feels more alone than ever. She closes her bedroom door and collapses on the bed. It shouldn’t be this hard. He’s the only dad she’s got, and neither of them deserve this pain.
She stares at the ceiling for a while, feeling heavy and useless. The idea of moving is ridiculous, and when her eyes fall closed, she’s relieved to let sleep take her.
The dream is disjointed and odd, as dreams always are, mixing and matching pieces of her real life with snippets of surreal fantasy. Mr. Barnes is there, holding a rifle on a hill, looking determined and whole. And then a troop of Russian snipers gather behind him, some of them in skirts and red lipstick, some in Santa hats and elf ears, some with black smudges around their eyes. They march in a line, curving slowly around Nat. She looks for some escape, dread mounting, but she’s surrounded. They point their guns at her as she huddles and trembles, shouting “No! Please, stop!” and when Mr. Barnes gives the order … they fire.
She shudders awake, still screaming the words from her dream, and Steve is there, hushing and cooing in the dim afternoon quiet. He pulls her close, wrapping her in warmth and protection.
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just a dream. You’re okay.”
It’s the first time he’s touched her in days, and Nat didn’t realize how starved for affection she was until someone finally put their arms around her.
She sobs against his chest, adrenaline from the dream still pumping through her, but that’s only a small part of it. She cries tears of relief to know he’s here, and tears of fear, thinking he might retreat again. Nat clutches onto Steve with a sudden trembling panic. She needs her dad. He can’t go away.
“Shh … ” he hushes into her hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“Don’t leave. Please, Daddy, don’t leave.”
He huffs a confused breath against her head. “What? I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, I mean it.” She pushes on his chest to meet his eyes. She needs him to understand. “Please, not like it’s been. Not with you walking around …” She thinks like a zombie. She thinks like you’re already dead. She can’t say either of those things. “Like … like you’re not really here. Please, Dad.”
“I’m—” Steve begins, and Nat can tell he’s going to say something easy and placating. But he stops himself, really looking at her for the first time in days, and his expression cracks and crumbles in horror.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” He crushes her to his chest, and she lets him. “I’m just … I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, honey. It’s so hard. I can’t—”
And he’s crying and gasping, and suddenly it’s Nat holding and comforting him, not the other way around.
“We got a shit deal, Dad,” she murmurs against him.
“Nat,” he says, resigned, barely the energy to scold her.
“We did. This whole thing is totally FUBAR.”
Steve shifts but doesn’t even bother pretending to care about her language this time.
“She should be here with us. We don’t deserve this, and she didn’t deserve this, and it sucks, and it’s shit, Dad.” Her tears are streaming down her cheeks, but Nat’s voice is unusually clear. “There’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t take it back and we can’t do it over and it’s what we’ve got to live with.” She looks up at him, chin jutting with determination, waiting until he meets her eyes to go on. “But we have to live with it. We can’t hide anymore. You can’t hide. I need you to be here, because when you close up like that? When you leave me alone? It’s like I lost both of you.”
Steve nods, looking like he might collapse from the weight of it all. But his eyes are bright, even if they’re shining with pain, and that’s so much better than the dull mask he’s been wearing.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Nat’s not sure this will really change anything, but it’s a start. She feels lighter. Something inside is telling her it’s going to be okay.
…
They’re on the couch together a little while later, cozied up under a blanket with glasses of eggnog—one plain, one spiked—in hand. A Christmas Story plays on tv, and Nat’s kind of watching it, but mostly she’s just happy being in the moment. She has a few hours until she needs to get ready for caroling, and she wants to spend each of them soaking in the newfound Christmas spirit Steve seems to be indulging in.
Steve nudges Nat’s ribs and sets his eggnog down. “You know, I think I could use your help with something.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think I owe Bucky—Mr. Barnes—an apology.”
She lifts a brow, so curious, but not wanting to scare him off by interrupting.
“I learned something about him, and I didn’t handle it well. I wasn’t … I wasn’t really thinking straight.”
When it seems like that’s all the explanation he has to give, Nat nods. “Well, I think I can help with that. You know me—girl with the plan.”
Steve bites his lip, gaze distant.
“Are you okay with this?” He turns to her, suddenly, looking as awkward as she feels. “I mean, I think … with Bucky … there might be. And I just want to make sure—I mean, I love your mom. I will always love your mom, but-”
“Dad. Please stop. I’m fine, I’m more than fine. I like Mr. Barnes, but that’s not really the point.” This is so weird, talking about boys with her dad, but Nat can’t think of anything to do except forge ahead. “I like how you look at Mr. Barnes and how he looks at you. You deserve that.”
They’re quiet for a while, stewing in the awkward joy.
“So when do you want to do this apology thing? And how big are we going?”
“How about very soon? And very big.”
Nat meets her dad’s grin and starts to plot. She’s gonna need Clint again. And some mistletoe.
…
He’s standing here shivering on the doorstep of a little green house on Walnut Street, and it’s cold, but he knows that’s not the cause of the tremors rocking through him. His finger is hovering over the doorbell labeled “Barnes”, but he can’t seem to make himself move the last half inch to press it.
“Come on, Mr. R! You can do it.”
Steve turns to glare at Clint, but his annoyance is frozen in the face of the mass of adolescents gathered behind him. Right, it’s not just Barton witnessing his humiliation. Why did he let Nat talk him into this? He said big, but he didn’t dream this is what she had in mind.
He nods, flustered, and goes for it. The bell chimes merrily, and behind the door he can hear scuffling and the bark of a dog.
“Hello?”
Bucky has barely opened the door before a chorus of voices rings out in unison. “We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!” The Lincoln choir carries on while Bucky eyes go wide with shock.
Steve smiles uncertainly, hands behind his back, trying to gauge Bucky’s reaction before he moves onto step two. But there’s not time really, because a shaggy blur has forced its way through the crack of the open door, and it’s leaping with slobbery enthusiasm onto Steve’s thighs.
“Hi there, boy,” Steve says, dropping to his knees and discarding the things in his hands to give the dog a proper scratch. He looks like a Lab-Retriever mix, and he’s licking Steve’s face while his body shimmies in a fully-body wag.
“Roscoe! Down!” Bucky says, pulling on the dog’s collar.
Over the sound of the carolers, Steve assures him he doesn’t mind, but Bucky leads the dog back into the house, closing Roscoe in.
“What are you doing here, Steve?” He looks wary and not remotely amused.
Steve swallows hard, extremely conscious of the stupid antlers on his head and the flowers and card in his hands. He can’t seem to get his voice to work, and there’s no way he’s going to manage this shouting over the singing.
“Hey kids,” he says, and they fall silent. “Thanks, guys. Why don’t you carry on down the street? I got it from here.”
There are muffled complaints and a few wishes of good luck, but with Nat and Clint guiding them, they shuffle on.
“I, um, I wanted to bring you a little holiday cheer. You said before, you didn’t have any family in town, and I thought …”
Bucky’s biting his lip, brows drawn together. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s not sending an entirely welcome vibe either.
“You going on a date after this?” he deadpans, nodding at the white and red bouquet in Steve’s hand.
“What? No! I mean, Nat said—” Steve is stammering, and it feels like it’s all falling apart. “She thought flowers might be nice. Not that Nat should be telling me how to, I mean … Aw, crap.” His shoulders sink, and the bouquet swings toward the ground in his hand. “I’m really bad at this, aren’t I?”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth moves into something like a smirk. “Are you trying to say those are for me? ‘Cause if so, yeah, you’re really bad at that.” He takes a step forward, holding out a hand. “May I?”
Steve blinks, confused. “What? Oh, sure!” He lays the flowers in Bucky’s hand. “There’s this, too,” he says, passing over a card.
Tucking the flowers into the crook of one arm, Bucky tears the envelope and pulls the card out. On the cover is a sketch, quickly but expertly done. It’s a doll, the creepy wooden kind ventriloquists use, but it’s enormous, towering over a peaceful winter village. Inside reads: I’m sorry I was a gigantic dummy. And it’s signed, ~Steve.
Bucky looks it over, expression unreadable. “This one of yours?”
“Yup. A Steve Rogers' original. Nat had some ideas, most of them featuring enormous piles of manure, but I thought this was …”
What did he think this was? More appropriate? Funny?
Oh, man, he’s already fucked up and he hasn’t even gotten through the apology. He’s going to have to make card to apologize for the apology card.
“I’m sorry. It’s stupid and disrespectful. I don’t know what I was thinking-”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.” Bucky huffs a laugh. “It’s great. You’re clever.”
Steve sobers, feeling for the first time he might actually have a chance here. “I’m sorry, Bucky. Really sorry. I know you didn't do anything wrong. I think I caused you a lot of pain, and I wish I could take it back.”
Bucky’s head sags, eyes on his feet. “I told you not to say sorry, Steve. There’s nothing for you to apologize about.”
This is taking them right where they were before, and Steve has no desire to walk that road again. “Okay, fine. No more apologies. Just, please—”
Bucky looks up, drawn by something in Steve’s voice. “What?”
“Please say you’ll—” He’s lost for a moment, no idea what to say. Then he smiles, taking a page from Peggy’s book. “Have cocoa with me again. I really liked that. I thought our … cocoa … was good.”
The strains of “Silent Night” float to them from down the street as Steve watches Bucky’s breath come out in long, heavy puffs of air.
“Do you think that’s a good idea, Steve? Really?”
“Do I like you and want to get to know you better? Absolutely.” He smiles, no doubt in his mind. “Will it be easy? No, probably not. Chance I’m willing to take, though.“ He licks his lips and pins his hopes on the slow thaw of Bucky’s gaze. “Nat and I are going to carol for a while and then go home and make some dinner. We’d love if you joined us.”
Bucky shakes his head. “That’s family time, Steve. You should be together.”
“It’s Christmas, Buck. And you shouldn’t be alone.” He reaches out carefully, and when Bucky doesn’t pull away, Steve takes hold of his prosthetic hand, squeezing gently. He looks up, meeting deep blue eyes and feeling warm in spite of the biting chill. “I think it’s a miracle that you’re here, and this is the night to celebrate miracles.”
Bucky smiles, meeting Steve’s eyes with easy affection, then his gaze is drawn upward. “Nice antlers,” he teases, full of mischief. “I suppose the mistletoe was Nat’s idea.”
Steve shrugs, beaming. “What can I say? She’s a smart kid.”
Stars twinkle high above while Bucky leans in. He smiles, pressing a soft peck to Steve’s cheek and laughs when Steve’s grin bursts bright.
“That she is.”
.......