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Steve rolls his shoulders back, testing the fit of the borrowed suit, the give of the material as he swings his arms and twists around his center of gravity, unfortunately finding his range of motion hampered. He sighs. Unlike the battle-worn suit he normally donned, this one is ill-fitting, a bit snug around his upper arms and too loose everywhere else, and the material offers little give, but he supposes it will do for the mission at hand.
You’ve faced worse odds, he tells himself. They’re relying on you. You can’t let them down.
After all, he had done more with less during the war when the men, bedraggled from weeks on the front, had turned forlorn eyes up at Captain America…
Then slid right past him to gaze upon his supporting troop of shapely showgirls in star-spangled miniskirts.
He no longer has the backing of a chorus line, but still. He is a professional. He can do this.
Showtime.
There’s a low whistle from behind, then: “Looking good, Stevie.”
He rolls his eyes, not even turning to face his long-time friend. “Can it, Buck.”
“No, I’m serious. You clean up real nice,” Bucky says as he transfers a pile of gifts wrapped in red and gold onto the table then starts to stuff them into the matching red velvet sack.
Steve eyes his reflection once again, noting the fluffy white beard looped under his nose. “What are you talking about? You can’t even see half my face.”
“It’s better this way. Trust me.”
“…Jerk.”
Bucky shrugs. “The kids are going to love it.” He says as he packs away the last of the gifts, pulling the drawstring closed and handing it to an uneasy Steve. “Morgan’s going to love it.”
“I hope so.” Long gone are the days when children were satisfied with oranges and penny candy in homemade stockings. Steve had enlisted Peter’s help in selecting appropriate gifts (all Lego sets), but still. It is his first Christmas with Morgan as her soon-to-be stepfather instead of ‘Daddy’s special friend,’ and it’s already going sideways due to Happy’s sudden bout of food poisoning precluding his annual appearance as Santa. Not to mention–
“Can’t believe your lesser half is missing it.”
“Stop calling him that,” Steve says, hoisting the bag over his shoulder and taking one last glimpse of his Santa regalia in the mirror. “And he’s busy.”
Up-pup-pup, Steve, Paradigm-shifting breakthrough, Tony had said, shooing him out of SI’s labs that very morning, a glint in his mechanical eye that Steve swears wasn’t just the light. Do not disturb unless the world is ending, and Iron Man is the only one who can save it. Again.
It hadn’t been funny to Steve at the time, and Bucky is equally unimpressed now. “It’s Christmas.”
“He said he’ll come by later.” Because breakthrough or not, Tony wasn’t going to miss Christmas with his daughter. Not after everything.
“Just seems to me he’s throwing you to the wolves. No backup. Without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Now Bucky’s just being overdramatic.
“Oh, come on. How bad can it be? They’re children.”
Steve groans and stares up at the ceiling, drenched in milk and wet crumbs, contemplating his life choices. He had ducked when little Nate Barton had fired a bow and arrow at him during his surprise entrance, his foot sweeping forward to slip on the Hot Wheels Morgan had left out. He had then reflexively reached for the spindly side-table to stabilize himself, knocking over the pitcher of milk and sloppily-decorated sugar cookies all over his costume. Under normal circumstances, he could have corrected his stance without blunder if the suit had allowed full range of motion or if he hadn’t already been off-balance under a sack of presents, but hindsight being what it is…
Morgan screams as Nate breaks out in loud, hysterical cries. “Santa’s dead!” he wails. “I killed Santa!”
So. This night is clearly getting off to a fantastic start.
“I’m on the naughty list forever!”
“There’s no naughty list if Santa’s dead,” his brother Cooper deadpans. Nate stops, considers, then recommences, his howls ever louder.
“Not helping,” Clint tells his son as he corrals an inconsolable Nate, and Laura tries to comfort Morgan. “Santa’s fine, buddy,” he murmurs.
Bruce and Lila Barton hurry over to offer Steve assistance, but Steve waves them off. “I’m fine. Fine. I’m- I’m good,” he says, rising to his feet and reaching out to reclaim the sack of presents.
Lila recognizes him immediately, the worry draining from her expression. After all, what’s a little tumble to a nearly-unbreakable super-soldier? “You sure, old timer?”
“The only bruises are to my pride,” Steve confesses. He tries to brush off the cookies, but the colorful icing and bright sugar springles are already sticking to the cheap red velvet. This is a rental, he thinks, hoping he can salvage it later with some hand soap and cold water in the sink. The shopkeeper is already doing him a favor lending this out last minute as a small gesture of thanks to Captain America and the Avengers for their work saving the universe from Thanos. He can’t bring it back stained. Still, that is a problem for two-hours-from-now-Steve.
So he puts on a jolly demeanor and opens his mouth to declare–
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” booms a voice from the balcony as yet another Santa makes his grand entrance. A traditional sleigh outfitted with Ironman repulsor technology and a modern sound system blaring Jingle Bell Rock hovers and gently sets down on the helipad, as the man of the hour hops down, bearing gifts in his own matching sack. His outfit is tailor-made of deep-red, high-quality velvet trimmed in white fur with a broad leather belt and matching boots. His facial prosthetics are excellent and the beard looks to be made of real hair, though Steve knows better. He had kissed that face sporting a tidy van dyke just that morning.
Like watching a train wreck in slow motion, Steve is helpless as Tony makes it to the sliding door before recognizing the problem himself, and stops, gazing speechless at his poorly-outfitted doppelganger in the living room.
Fuck.
Morgan and Nate look from one Santa to the other and back as the adults and teenagers nervously look to each other over their heads, willing someone – anyone – to say something.
“Now, what do we have here?” Tony says in a voice deeper than his usual register. “I was supposed to do the Eastern seaboard this year. It was… did you see it on the chart? I’m pretty sure it was on the chore chart.” He looks down to the children. “Scheduling issues, you understand.”
They don’t understand, but Steve is starting to.
So he plays along. “I thought you had New Zealand and Australia.”
“Already finished hours ago when you were doing Japan and China. They seem to have less children every year, but what are you going to do?” Tony says with a shrug.
“There’s more than one Santa?” Nate asks.
Morgan seems dubious. “How many Santas are there?” It’s a fair question. Neither of them look like the mall Santa Pepper had taken her to see earlier that week.
“Trade secret,” Tony hedges, turning back to Steve. “You’re supposed to be in California right now.” Or at least not dressed as Santa is the underlying message.
“Scheduling issues,” Steve repeats. “I thought you’d be… Happy to have the help.”
“Hm. I got that memo and thought I’d make a very special appearance.”
Now Morgan is prodding Tony’s right arm. His prosthetic right arm.
“My daddy has an arm like that,” she observes, “And Uncle Bucky.”
Tony nearly swallows his tongue.
Now Nate is poking him as well when Tony snatches his arm away. “How’d you lose it?” he asks. “Did Mr. Stark fix your arm too?”
“Nate, that’s not a nice question to ask… Santa,” his mother admonishes him.
“No, no, no, that’s– that’s a-okay. Children. Always the little scientists. Very curious,” Tony says, his mind racing as he explains smooth as ever, “Lost it in a workshop accident building toy trains for Thomas enthusiasts–”
“To–” Steve eyes the children then the tree with its seasonable birds, “-rtledove,” Oh, that… that’s not good, “don’t scare the children now.”
Tony just rolls with it. “Train safety is important,” he insists. “Tons of paperwork though. OSHA got involved. No elves hurt but a lot of lawsuits for mental distress. It was a whole thing. Don’t you remember, honey?”
“That’s what my daddy calls my other daddy,” Morgan points out.
Steve’s brain short-circuits. She had never called him that before.
“Yeah well. That’s because… you see…” Steve has nothing. Zip. Nada.
“You don’t have to be coy,” Tony bends down to Morgan’s level. “When two adults love each other very very much–”
“Are you married?” Nate interrupts, “My friend Cody has two daddies, and they're married and everything.”
“…Sure," Tony confirms. "Thanks for the assist, short stack." The explanation is as good as any.
Morgan cants her head to the side, considering Tony. “So you’re Santa’s husband?”
“Yes,” Steve agrees.
But Tony demurs, “I wouldn’t say that. I’m Santa, and he” - he points at Steve - “is Santa’s husband. He’s more like the understudy, you know. I’m the main event, the big Kahuna. Santa prime, some would say.”
Oh, for the love of–
“Sweetheart,” Steve warns.
“Oh okay,” Tony rambles on. “I guess you’re older, so that makes you the original if you want to get technical about it, and you know what they say? Age before beauty, though I think I bring some real pizzazz to the job–”
Nate pipes up, “You don’t look younger,” and Clint struggles to keep a straight face.
“Wow, someone’s gunning for next year’s naughty list,” Tony tells him, but when Nate’s eyes grow wide and glassy, he adds rather lamely, “It’s good that you have an entire year to be a good boy for your parents to make up for it.”
Steve massages his face with tented fingertips. If he was actually physically capable of getting headaches, this conversation would have done it. “The point is we’re both Santa, and we help each other out because we love and support each other. For the children.”
“Right.” Tony stands, his fingers interlacing with Steve’s own. “Now, who’s ready for presents?”
The following day, Morgan plays in the lobby of the Avengers Tower under the watchful eye of her security detail, waiting for her mother to pick her up, when Peter walks in. “Merry Christmas, Morgan,” he greets her as he nods to Happy’s temporary replacement.
“Merry Christmas,” She stares intently at her feet, trying to keep her balance.
“Where’d you get the hoverboard?”
“From Daddy,” she replies, “and I got Legos from Papa Steve.”
Peter knits his brow as Morgan dismounts her board. “Don’t you mean from Santa?”
And now Morgan simply rolls her eyes. “Santa’s not real, Peter.”
“No. That’s… well, no, that can’t be,” Peter splutters, nervously raking his fingers across the back of his head. “I mean, that’s just crazy. Who would lie to a – that is to say, um…” He coughs, tries to calm his squirrely nerves. “Who told you that?”
“Tommy Jeffers last week,” Morgan replies, chipper in the face of what is normally devastating news for a child her age. “At first I didn’t believe him, but I thought about it, and he’s right.” She tilts her head towards the ceiling, eyeing the dark dome of the security camera. “Santa would’ve never made it past J.A.R.V.I.S. last year.”