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Whose big idea was this? That's what Bucky wants to know. Who's the genius that thought what the Avengers Christmas party really needed was a Santa shackled up in an ankle monitor?
'Cause, ya know, the whole Santa thing's not creepy enough already. Who came up with little kids sitting on an old man's lap? Who said they should promise good behavior just so he'll give them some sticky candy cane from a dirty sack? Gross. And then that virtual stranger goes on to inform them he intends to break unseen into those little kids' goddamn houses during the night??
Whose big idea had that been?
In the 20s Santa had seemed... fine. Wholesome. Bucky hadn't thought twice about it when he was young enough to believe in that kind of—frankly—bullshit. He'd wised up earlier than most, though. You couldn't convince street-wise seven-year-old Bucky Barnes that a fat man in a sleigh could make it around the entire globe in a single night. Even if the sleigh could fly, that just wasn't logistically possible.
His parents' claim that Saint Nicholas was a real saint, but Santa was more of a representation of the spirit of giving, and parents the world over were all charged as Santa's helpers... bullshit. Bucky had sussed that pretty early on, too. He had moved on from the whole concept of Christmas magic sooner than a certain gaptoothed, scrappy little Stevie Rogers had.
Still. He hadn't questioned some of lore of Santa Claus till he'd rejoined society.
Pretty jarring all-around now, Christmas. The Soldier had pretty much had extraneous things such as Christmas eradicated from his memory for decades. There had been the odd HYDRA Christmas party, but they'd been wiped after the fact. But slowly bits and pieces of those had resurfaced, and once he'd been out on his own, Bucky had re-learned what Christmas was. Or rather, what it is today: Over the top, reeling, glitter-vomiting late-stage capitalism. The trussed up corpse of innocence and romance, both killed in an onslaught of intense flashing LED lights, YouTube videos titled "What I Got For Christmas," and stores putting out Christmas displays in fucking September. And that damn Mariah Carey song... some kind of mind-control thing, probably. A plant. It's doing something to people. Why else would it be playing incessantly everywhere Bucky goes? It's as close to brain-zapping torture as Bucky's experienced outside of HYDRA.
So Christmas is different these days—so's everything. It is what it is. But the holiday season's also still got a lot of the things Bucky remembers from when he was a kid: A Christmas Carol. Jazz standards. Santa Claus.
Only that ain't any ol' Kris Kringle settling himself in the holiday throne that is Pepper Potts' CEO chair. That's Baron Helmut Zemo.
Who came up with this goddamn idea?
At least the ankle monitor is covered up.
Shaking his head and seeking refuge his ineffective whiskey sour can't possibly offer him, Bucky watches from across the room as Morgan Stark marches right up to Zemo. With his enhanced senses, Bucky can hear her over both "Silver Bells" and the joyful milling of everyone associated with the brand new Avengers Initiative and their families.
"I know who you are," the little girl says. "And there's no way I'm sitting on your lap."
"Morgan, sweetie," Pepper starts.
"A young lady who knows her boundaries," says Zemo diplomatically, from behind his frothy fake beard. The beard's not a wiggy mess with an elastic strap that hangs off his face, like Bucky's seen some places. It's been glued to him like a legitimate prosthetic.
In fact, the whole getup looks kind of great. Opulent, even. Rich people really spare no expenses on this kind of stuff, Bucky's discovered. The Santa suit is a velvety-looking wine red that Zemo's belted over some fairly convincing padding with a huge, ornate gold belt buckle. He's got heavy fur-trimmed black boots on. They're big enough to conceal the ankle monitor, but Bucky knows it's under there somewhere. On his head Zemo's sporting a matching hat trimmed with cream-colored fur and a generous plume of holly leaves, and on his hands, neat white gloves.
But the best part is that whoever's behind the getup slapped some makeup on Zemo, and his cheeks and nose look cherry red, just like the old poem says.
According to that same poem, Santa's eyes are supposed to twinkle. And because it's Zemo under the beard and excessive blush, they do.
'Course, Bucky would characterize that more as an unsettling glint.
Zemo looks at Tony Stark's daughter and smiles.
"Fair," he tells her. "But at least indulge me in this, Miss Stark: Have you been a good girl this year?" He tilts his head and flicks his gloved fingers in far too familiar a fashion. "Of course you are maintaining firm boundaries. But are you obeying your mother? Doing all your schoolwork?"
"None of your beeswax," says Morgan. She's a lot older now than she was at Tony Stark's funeral, which is the last time Bucky saw her, and she's got Tony's quippy defiance. She still must be a kid, though, because she tacks on, "But yes."
"Well, then. Tell Santa Zemo what you would like for Christmas. I cannot bring it to you myself. But I can pass it on to interested parties. My network is extensive."
He cups his ear and looks at her with something between kind persuasion and expectation, and for some reason, Bucky downs the remainder of his drink all at once and stalks off to get another.
A black-tied bartender in a much cheaper Santa hat pours him something that tastes like a peppermint bath bomb. (Yes, Bucky knows what bath bombs are. He got some for Sarah Wilson's Christmas gift last year.) He sticks close to the bar—but not so close so as to convince the bartender small talk is necessary—and glowers at Zemo from across the room, watching him interact with child after child as he drinks. They've actually formed a line now, and several of the children do actually seem to want to sit on Santa's knee.
Bucky knows more than anyone that Zemo can come off charming. When he wants to. His charm seems to work exceptionally well on children. Didn't anyone consider that? Didn't anyone think Zemo might say just the right thing to just the right child and bing, bang, boom, suddenly he's taking the New Avengers down from the inside?
It soon becomes evident exactly whose big fucking idea this was.
"Aha," gloats Sam, when he hits up the bar for his own drink. "How you liking the entertainment? Better than a comedian, right?"
"Golly. It's a gas," says Bucky, so sarcastic it almost loops back into earnest. Almost.
"Oh, come on," Sam says. "It's hilarious."
"That's what you say about those 'talking cat' TikToks," says Bucky, "and it's never true."
Sam gasps dramatically. "I thought you liked the Todd TikToks."
"Y'know, it's kind of cruel, making him do this."
"Well, I don't make the videos, Bucky. I just text them."
"No—I know you're not all of TikTok, Sam. I mean Zemo. Making him be Santa."
"Really? It's cruel, huh? That's not the word I'd go with. And anyway, he gets to come to the party. How's that cruel? Man gets a little taste of holiday cheer instead of whatever they're serving up on the Raft tonight."
"How're people ever supposed to take him seriously after seeing him like this?" Bucky needles. "We've been trying to rehab his image for the last two years, not turn him into a joke. You're sabotaging my lineup, Cap."
Sam's mouth twitches. "You don't need my help with that."
"You shoulda cleared this with me. Everything Zemo has to go through me. That's part of the deal."
"Oh, wait. Now I get it," says Sam, darkly. "This is some weird territorial thing. Only you can mess with Zemo. Anybody else does it, and—"
"So you admit it. You did this to mess with him."
Sam snorts and grabs his fruity cocktail. "Whatever, Scrooge. Bah humbug to you too. Come find me if you actually manage to get a buzz going, okay? Tipsy Bucky's bound to be a lot more fun than whatever you've got going right now. And I know it'd make Zemo's night to see you lit as a Christmas tree."
Bucky scowls. "Don't hold your breath."
But forty-five minutes (and almost as many drinks) later, Bucky is feeling a little... lit. Leave it to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to tattle about his steadily low blood alcohol level to the bartender, who was so fascinated Bucky couldn't blow her automatic Breathalyzer that he finally reached for the good shit. The Asgardian shit. Bucky's only on his second cup, but he is tingling all over.
Armed with his mead, he saunters... stalks, almost... into the mix of party-goers, looking for Sam. Sarah's around here somewhere too. So are Cass and AJ, one of whom was "way" too old to sit on Zemo's knee but talked to him about some rapper named "Sound Cloud," and the other of whom plopped right onto his knee to talk about.... whatever kids are into these days. Bucky wouldn't know.
But he doesn't see Sam, or Sarah. He considers walking up to Hawkeye and Bishop, just to see what'll happen when they find out he's tipsy. But where there's Bishop there's Belova, and phhh, Bucky's not drunk enough. Maybe later.
He scans the rest of the party with an uncontrollable glower.
Sparkling evergreen trees, golden baubles, digital snowflakes swirling overhead. A four-piece playing jaunty Christmas tunes, some of which Bucky even knows. Count Basie's Orchestra, they ain't, but at least they aren't playing that damn Mariah Carey song.
Amongst swarms of former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Stark Internship winners, and other people Bucky's never met, Bucky glimpses Scott Lang's family, plus a reluctant Hank Pym with a white-haired woman on his arm. He avoids them, too, without knowing why. He spots that sentient tree alien next. Better not go over there. Where there's tree alien, there's talking raccoon, and that critter is way too into Bucky's arm.
He keeps looking.
A bunch of kids are hanging out not too far away from Zemo, playing some kind of game on the floor. Zemo's run out of kids to interview, but whoever's handling Santa for the night hasn't come to retrieve him and tear his fake beard back off, so he's just sitting there twiddling his white-gloved thumbs.
As if sensing Bucky looking at him, Zemo lifts his head. Their eyes meet.
A smirk, cloaked in fake snowy curls, and Zemo beckons him over with a single crook of fingers.
Without even deciding whether he wants to, Bucky follows the cue. He strolls up to the throne, and before Santa Zemo can say a thing, Bucky says, with far too much zeal, "Nice beard."
He can sense just how much the greeting takes Zemo off-kilter, so he doubles down, feeling himself smile wolfishly.
After a moment Zemo figures it out. "Can it be you are actually drunk?"
"Phh. Nah," says Bucky, cup in hand.
"Whatever it is you're drinking, I can smell it from here, so I'm inclined to think otherwise," Zemo says, but doesn't belabor the point, because Bucky can't help but reach between them and touch the edge of his fake beard. It looks pretty real... and it covers up Zemo's moles. Most of them.
Up close, he gets a good look at the pancake makeup rouging Zemo's nose red as Rudolph's, and it makes him want to laugh.
But he's not the one to laugh; Zemo is. He lets out a breathy chuckle as Bucky rubs the fake facial hair between curious fingers.
"You're not the first to do that tonight," he says, and his head tips. In consideration, it turns out. He waits till Bucky lets go of his beard, then says, with an idle pat to his thigh, "Sit, James. I'm duty-bound to follow up as to your behavior."
"Sit?" Bucky scoffs.
"Yes. Have a seat," says Zemo.
"... Where?"
"I think you know."
"Say it," challenges Bucky. "Where d'you want me to sit, Baron?"
"On my knee, Sergeant Barnes."
Bucky puffs drunkenly. He suspects he's trying to jeer, to snicker in Zemo's jolly, made-up face. But instead he practically crooned his dare, and after a tipsy, swaying few seconds, Bucky's left with little choice other than to make the next move. He doesn't want to back down from the escalation he himself introduced. Not when he's got the excuse of actually being drunk for once.
So, he semi-stoically settles onto Zemo's right leg. Not with the eager lack of grace a child might have, but a sort of resigned purpose and Morgan Stark-esque defiance.
He hears a murmur ripple through the party. There are a few titters, and Cass is losing his shit—Bucky'd know that goofy cackle anywhere. Bucky gives a sardonic salute to the room, then lifts his cup of stinking Asgardian mead. He gets a few whoops out of that. He's pretty sure one's from that raccoon.
Zemo waits for Bucky's attention to return to him before he speaks.
"Now," he says, as if this is all totally normal. "My instructions for the evening were very specific. After you are seated, I am to ask you: Have you been a good boy this year?"
Something about being asked that while he's sitting on Zemo's lap makes Bucky blush so hard his ears pop and sizzle like so much bacon on either side of his face.
"Why bother," he says lamely. "You know who I work for now. I'm on the right side of history these days. And so are you."
"That's not what I asked," Zemo has the nerve to respond. It's at a low volume, as if this is a private conversation, and not one their co-workers are watching with evident amusement. He places a hand on Bucky's back. It's warm, even through Bucky's suit jacket and black dress shirt. "Have you been good? Eaten all your vegetables? Attended your therapy sessions? Turned in all your reports on time?"
"Sure," Bucky grouses. "I guess."
"Then you should have no problem saying it," Zemo insists. "'Yes, Santa Zemo. I've been a very good boy this year.'"
"Don't fucking push it. I'll snap your neck right here," says Bucky, under his breath. None of the innocent kids here should hear him threatening Santa Claus.
Zemo merely chuckles at him. "I'm afraid that would put you on the naughty list."
"Never got off the naughty list," says Bucky. Only then does he hear himself and further blush. The fucking naughty list. Who came up with this shit?
"Ah. I can guarantee otherwise. So, James? What does a good boy like you wish for?"
"Don't think I've been all that good," mumbles Bucky, redder in the face than Zemo now.
Zemo hums, but it sounds—and feels—more like a purr, since Bucky's literally right up next to him.
"These children, they want Zelda video games; several hundred dollars' worth of Apple products; season passes to Disney World. A far cry from what children would receive when you were small, I believe."
Bucky grunts in agreement.
"It is a world of difference to me also," says Zemo. "In Sokovia we did not have a Santa Claus figure. For Yule, children would sing door to door for warm drinks and traditional desserts, and finally sing at their own home for their gifts. There were many regional songs I'm sure will become lost to history now that Sokovia is no more."
Already much of what Christmas had been is no more, Bucky thinks. Consigned to the realm of the outdated and outpaced and old-fashioned. Sokovian holiday songs are in good company.
Zemo, awash in reminiscing now, goes on. "We would get small things, mostly. Socks. Sweets. And one big gift. One year I was given a toy boat to sail in the lake on our property. The hours of fun I had, sailing that boat. It was painted like a real boat, and was motorized."
Bucky wants to see the boat.
"Do you have any memories of childhood Christmas gifts?"
"Tinkertoys," Bucky blurts, the memory coming back to him for the first time since he was small. "They were these..." He really hasn't thought of them in years. "Wooden building toys. Sticks and spools. You could put them together, make things with them."
"Yes," says Zemo, "yes. There were many different pieces, of all colors, some with holes drilled in. I had some as well."
"No kidding."
"On my honor," says Zemo, as though Bucky's impressed statement had been a challenge too. "They were popular for many ages, and remained so through several generations, I believe. But... surely you have no use for Tinkertoys now. Perhaps there's something else you would like for Christmas."
There is. It's something Bucky has thought of many times before. But it's not something that's possible; why bother thinking about it, let alone asking for it? But Zemo prods.
"Ask, and perhaps Santa Zemo can see to it your wish is granted."
"You can't," Bucky grumps. "It'd take magic, and you're not magic."
"Magic? Is this the alcohol talking?" Zemo comments, but Bucky can hear his smile.
"Asgardian mead," says Bucky. "You can't have any. It'd kill you."
"It does smell of death."
"You can't have my mead. Don't even ask."
"That's quite alright. I will likely get a contact high just being near it."
Bucky moves his cup forward, almost bumping it right into Zemo's red nose. "Wanna sniff?"
Zemo chokes and leans back. "God, no. Get that away from me. Too big a whiff and I'll find myself intoxicated, and it will set off the sensors on my monitor, and that will ruin Ms. Potts's party, believe me. James, stop. Stop. I will put you back on the naughty list," he tisks, grimacing, and Bucky grins and takes a swig of mead, just because he can and Zemo can't, and that's fun.
He tortures Zemo with the stuff at every opportunity, breathes on him on purpose, and talks with him more about Christmas in Sokovia and their childhood toys. They share a mutual hate for that Mariah Carey song. It feels so good to hate it so... hatefully, with someone who gets it.
Until Torres approaches. At his side is a woman carrying a little girl in a frilly red party dress.
"Uh, hey, Sarge," Torres says. "You gonna let anyone else sit on Santa's lap, bud?"
Bucky sobers all at once. Or at least, he sobers up a little. Enough to realize that he's still on Zemo's lap, practically cuddled up to him at this point. Loose and limber with drink, perfectly comfortable. And he's lost track of exactly how long he's been there.
He rockets off Zemo again, almost tripping, and doesn't make eye contact with anyone as he staggers sloppily away.
"What's that smell?" he hears Torres's girlfriend ask.
"Asgardian mead. A holiday favorite," says Zemo, smoothly. "Now... who is this grown up girl? I hardly recognize her! Surely it's not..."
"It is! It's Haleigh," Torres fills in.
"Haleigh? It can't be!"
"Hola, Santa!" cries Haleigh, taking Bucky's place on Zemo's knee.
Sam finds Bucky out in the hallway, grabbing him by the shoulders before he can jump off the damn building. No, wait, he's not trying to keep Bucky from ending it all right now. He's laughing, giddy. Maybe he's as drunk as Bucky is. He sure is yapping away about how he knew it was a great idea to get Zemo to play Santa, and how "adorable" it was that Bucky sat on his lap.
"Don't worry, don't worry," he says. "I got pictures."
"You what."
"Had to! Had to get pics!" Sam proclaims. "It's tradition! Every kid gets their picture taken on Santa's knee, Buck!"
"I'm a hundred and ten," Bucky snaps.
"Young at heart," Sam crows. "Smiling, laughing..."
"Fuck off."
"What'd you ask Santa for? Let me guess. Hmm! A knife—guy like you can't have too many! Ooh, or?" He squeaks out of the corner of his mouth, "'Oil can!' ... Get it?? That's a joke just for you!"
"Yeah, yeah. Tin Man. Very funny."
"The rare pop culture reference we both get," says Sam. "God bless us, every one!"
He's still holding Bucky by the shoulder, but now it's sort of in the guise of a one-armed bro hug, and he's leading Bucky back towards the party. The glow of lights and bustle of merry conversation ought to look warm and inviting, but Bucky drags his heels, saying, "I get that reference, too."
Later that night, only the core teams remain, drawing the much smaller party on into the wee hours. There are a few different teams, now. Bucky's is one of them, so Zemo gets to stay out late, too, and enjoy the libations, the hors d'oeuvres. He's taken off his beard and fake belly, but the cherry-red cheeks and nose remain. He can't have alcohol, so. The bar's Bucky's best bet to keep some space between them. Buuut Zemo joins him there anyway. Fuck.
"We were interrupted," he says serenely, "before you could tell me what you want for Christmas."
"Doesn't matter," says Bucky. He is much closer to sober than he was earlier.
"It doesn't matter because it's not within reach? Or because you want it, and therefore, in your eyes, it cannot possibly matter?"
"I dunno." Bucky turns away from the bar. "Either. Both. It's not gonna happen, so. There's no point."
Zemo raps his knuckles softly against the shine of the bar. His hands are bare, now, but the rap is as satiny-quiet as it would be if his fingers were still gloved.
The bartender takes the opportunity to ask Zemo if he would like a drink. Zemo orders sparkling champagne—no alcohol. Good.
"It's a mind-blowing mystery to those of us on the outside of the event," he finally says, "how the so-called 'Time Heist' for the Infinity Stones was executed. How, precisely, time was at last bent to the will of humans. But if the rumors about Steve Rogers are true—and I'm not talking about the ones which involve the moon—then time travel on a whim is very possible. And therefore, I do not see why you could not at least visit him. It might be a difficult undertaking. It might even require some form of magic. But it isn't impossible, James."
Bucky stares at Zemo. "Wait. What?"
"This is your Christmas wish, is it not? To reunite with your friend?" Zemo looks pretty calm and reasonable about it. "It's easy to guess. Especially when one knows you."
"Great. Guess you don't know me at all, then."
It should be gratifying, the startled perk of Zemo's eyebrows and obvious cranking of gears as he asks himself where his assessment went wrong. But Bucky's busy wondering where his own take on his situation went wrong. He should want what Zemo's talking about. Shouldn't he? He should want to suit up with some Pym particles and hop back to the 40s, when everything was far simpler and Christmas didn't leave neon starbursts on the insides of his eyelids. He should want to show up on Steve's doorstep and hear him say, astonished and perhaps even relieved, Bucky!
"Forgive my assumptions," Zemo says, with a bewildered little shake of his head that suggests Bucky clocked him one. "And consider my curiosity well and truly piqued. What is so impossible a thing you refuse to even entertain the notion of asking for it?"
"You, dumbass," Bucky practically growls. He corrects himself immediately, even though this too is pointless, judging from the unsettlingly keen look Zemo gives him. "Your freedom. I'm tired of dealing with all the red tape and body cavity searches and flying out to the middle of the ocean to get you. Just want you outta that sardine can pokey on a permanent basis. I want our lineup ready to go at a moment's notice."
Zemo's bewildered expression slides back into something more recognizable. Something more smug. "And here I thought you rather liked being in charge of me. Depositing me below sea level whenever you are done with me suited you wonderfully, I thought."
"Yeah, well. Not all bad."
"Of course," says the baron, "were it in my power to give you such a gift, I would."
"Told you. Doesn't matter. It's not happening."
"Not this, year, no," Zemo agrees. He accepts his drink from the bartender as if on cue, and lifts it as if toasting Bucky. "But perhaps there will be a Christmas in the future where our wishes have come true."
Bubbles run up Bucky's insides just like they do the sides of Zemo's champagne flute. He watches Zemo take an appreciative swig of the stuff, then before he can fully sober up, he surges forward and kisses Zemo on his ruby red cheek.
It's so fast and furtive, Bucky hopes no one catches him in the act, let alone snaps a picture of his moment of weakness. Still, his lips steal some warmth from Zemo's skin, and the Santa makeup making him look so flushed comes away with his mouth, too—Bucky can feel it. He doesn't wipe it off, though. The rouge will last longer on his lips than Zemo's body heat. He's counting on taking it with him as proof. Already, in sobering up, his body has forgotten the ease of sitting on Zemo's knee, and he misses it.
"Maybe next year," he murmurs thickly, not meeting Zemo's glinting eyes before he turns and makes his escape from the party.