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Bob still can’t get used to Valentina hovering in the Watchtower. He doesn’t think he ever can, not really. Valentina at least has the decency to look kind of timid these days, even if it’s probably just a front, instead of strutting into the building like she owns it. (Even if she technically does.) There are still notches in his memory of that day, blank spaces in between the flashes, but there are also images that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Like Valentina’s hands curled around the kill switch she’d designed specifically for him. Or Valentina recognising him as nothing but another disappointment, another wannabe hero who was stupid enough to think he could be worth anything at all in this world.
He particularly remembers the feeling of being the Sentry, like finally being able to reach the high he’d spent his whole life chasing. He remembers the hair too, of all things—again, Valentina.
(He’d asked Ava about it, when it finally came back to him. “You were very blonde,” she’d said, and when he’d asked if it was a bad blonde she’d hummed and reached up to tousle his hair and told him, in the most honest tone he had ever heard from her, “I just much prefer the original if you ask me, Bob.”)
He doesn’t think about his hair all that much anymore. And when he does now, it’s a pretty nice feeling. And that’s the whole point, right? That he’s not alone. They don’t talk about it in a lot of words, but there’s clearly been a shift. Twice a week when Alexei stays for dinner, he also brings along one of his old English-translated books and adds it to Bob’s growing to-read pile. Walker always makes sure to get him an extra helping of The Works when he swings by Burger Joint on his cheat days. Bucky gives him things to do, especially where their jobs are concerned, and not in an oh-here’s-something-for-you-to-distract-yourself-with kind of way but an actual our-lives-seriously-depend-on-this kind of way.
And Yelena, well. Bob owes her his life, basically. It doesn’t even matter what happens from this point on, because how do you go back from being literally pulled out of your own darkness by someone like that? The answer is you don’t. You try to find the light again, every single day, even if some days it nearly kills you. And he does find it, in the way she smiles at him sleepily over Walker’s slightly overburnt breakfast, and the way she says his name. After their last mission, Bob had noticed Yelena’s eyes searching for him through the New York City crowd, and it had felt a lot like the first time he flew, like he was invincible. Like he was worth something.
Bob can’t get high anymore. He’d tried once, on his birthday a couple of weeks ago. He got his hands on some back-alley pot and waited, and somehow only got more sober by the minute. Bucky had made an offhand comment about not being able to get drunk, so the serum built for the Sentry must’ve been on another level altogether. But the thing is, he doesn’t even want it anymore—that need to numb himself from the pain. He’s not alone. Yeah, there are days when a persistent voice creeps in and asks if he’s actually even deserving of this, of them. But then Bob thinks about the fact that every one of them had clawed their way through the depths of the Void just to get to him, not knowing if they could survive, and the voice is subdued for a while.
Until, of course, days like this one, with Valentina hovering in the Watchtower. The worst part of all of this is that she doesn’t even acknowledge him anymore, pretends like he doesn’t exist, like she hadn’t tried to pry open his brain and use him as a government-issued weapon of mass destruction only a couple of months ago. Bob slips out of the room whenever she’s here and none of them question it, just tell her to hurry the hell up and get out of their hair.
“Coffee, Bob?” Walker calls from the kitchen. “Coast is clear, by the way.”
“Thanks, Walker,” he says, shuffling to where they’re all sitting at the counter. “But, uh, I’m good.”
“C’mon, you sure? I took the French press out and everything.”
“You and that blasted French press,” Ava mutters, rolling her eyes. To Bucky, she says, “You really need to stop getting these things for the kitchen, you know. This one has a tendency to be insufferable.”
“Hi, Bob,” Yelena greets, smiling up at him from her coffee mug. “Here, try it a little.”
Bob slides into the chair next to her and she slips the mug into his hands, still hot to the touch. Her hair is slicked back so he can see a lot more of her face. The tip of her nose is pink from the cold December morning. She’s wearing a hoodie that looks like it’s too large for her—one of Alexei’s, he guesses—and once her hands are free she pulls her knees up onto the chair and tucks her chin, watching him closely.
“Oh, thanks,” he says, somewhat dazed. Something about the way the soft winter light is framing her right now makes her look like she’s glowing. “Oooh, okay, yeah. That’s really good.”
“Comin’ right up,” Walker calls out over the hum of the coffee grinder, snickering. “Still wanna sit this one out, Ava?”
“I’ll stick to my roots, thank you very much,” she retorts, reaching for one of the tea bags instead. And then, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “Maybe next time, Walker.”
“So. Val’s proposal.” Bucky drums his metal fingers on the metal counter. “Any further thoughts? Or are we gonna stick with what we told her?”
“What, uh, what did she want?” Bob asks.
“She wants us in Budapest for a clean-up job next weekend,” Yelena says, glancing over at Bucky. “Our clean-up job to be more specific. In a totally run-down, abandoned hellhole that no one has bothered to check on once in the past ten years. I swear that cyka is only trying to make us miserable whenever it’s convenient for her.”
“Right.” Bob nods. “And…”
“And I said that she’s more thoughtless than the Grinch himself, because there’s no chance in hell we’re working over Christmas,” Ava adds. “Especially not for something as trivial as that.”
“Then she said she didn’t think that we were the kind of people who could still afford to have holiday cheer,” Walker mutters.
Yelena shrugs. “So, I told her to go and fuck herself.”
Bob’s laugh comes out of him loud and sudden; so does the coffee, and Walker has to thwack him on the back. “That,” Bob says, still laughing, “that’s awesome.”
“I know! Thank you!” Yelena grins. “Mister Congressman here does not seem to think so.”
Bucky scoffs. “Alright, just… lay off the congressman thing already, huh? I said we could call it off if we wanted to.”
“Yes,” Yelena says, “and we want to, which means we are calling it off.”
“Great.” Bob is still staring openly at her—in awe or in terror, or a little bit of both. “So, then, what are we doing?”
“About what?”
“About, uh, Christmas.”
And oh wow, maybe Bob just shouldn’t have said anything at all, because one minute they’re exchanging glances with each other and the next they’re staring back at him with the kind of look that borders on pity. Which honestly just makes him feel bad, except there’s no actual reason why he should even feel bad, because it’s not their fault. It’s his. Which makes it worse. “Not that I was, you know, assuming we were gonna do anything,” he tacks on, and that? That just borders on pathetic now. He thumbs idly at his coffee mug. “Just… forget I said anything, guys. It was stupid. It’s fine.”
That’s exactly when a call of, “Lena! Look what I found!” pops up from a few feet to their left. Alexei makes the stride from the elevator to the kitchen, dressed in a brown parka and a matching brown fur hat that’s twice the size of his head.
“Oh God, what are you wearing?” Yelena mutters, exasperated. “It’s not nearly cold enough for your ushanka. Take that off, you look ridiculous.”
Alexei wilts, but a second later he perks up again. “But we are going to Budapest, no? You know how cold it can get. Might as well be Yakutsk!”
“No,” Yelena says firmly. “No Budapest mission, because Valentina has to go and fuck herself. And also because we are all going to stay here and celebrate Christmas together.”
Bob spins around so fast. “Oh no, Yelena, you don’t need to—”
She lifts a finger, halting him. Then Alexei breathes in the kind of breath that you just know is going to be followed by a bellow. “YES! Finally! It’s about time for the New Avengers team bonding! Rozhdestvo in New York City, what could be better, eh?”
Ava tries to stifle a laugh and fails. “It’s not like I’ve got any plans lined up or anything like that, so… count me in.”
“Well, I still got a couple of bottles in my apartment,” Bucky pipes up. “Shame to see ‘em go to waste.”
They turn to face Walker, who shrinks back into the kitchen sink. “Yeah, for sure. I mean, it was just gonna be me this year anyway, so.”
“Yes!” Alexei goes again, and as Bob watches him clap Walker on the shoulder and exclaim, “Molodets, now that’s the spirit, yes!”, a warm feeling he hadn’t known in a really, really long time starts flaring up again from somewhere within his chest.
Yelena likes Christmas. Or, she remembers liking the idea of Christmas; of being barely six and peeling wrapping paper off of empty boxes and sitting with Natasha, knee-to-knee and shoulders hunched under a fake pine tree. She didn’t care that there were no presents. She didn’t even care that after their fake picture was taken and the boxes set aside, it meant Christmas was already over and Thanksgiving would be next on the schedule. She just liked how their house felt warm and alive and so pleasantly noisy; so much so she decided right then and there that it would forever be the best Christmas ever.
Melina would make them hot chocolate—the one from the mix packets—in the time that it took for Alexei to reset the table, artfully laying the microwaved mashed potatoes and gravy next to the store-bought turkey. “American Pie” would already be playing in the background, dry and gravelly and slightly off tempo on their second-hand record player. Yelena and Natasha would stand in front of the full-length mirror and compare their hot chocolate moustaches.
In hindsight, it really should have been obvious that their family was a fake one. But Yelena was six and hopeful, and she hadn’t yet learned to suppress it the way Natasha could. She couldn’t understand it when Alexei had sold them out to Dreykov. She couldn’t understand how Melina had so easily owned up to the fact that she was responsible for the brainwashing, or how Natasha—Natasha, her sister and her hero and the only real family she’d had; the only one who ever loved her without reason or obligation—would willingly choose to leave this planet—leave her—just to die on another.
Even now, long after she’d made the decision not to kill Clint Barton, Yelena is still learning how to live not only with what she’s done but also with what has been done to her. She forgives Alexei, but there will always be some lingering resentment that she can’t shake from so many years ago, because he was her dad for as long as she would’ve believed it until one day he wasn’t, so really, can you blame her for not meeting his enthusiasm in their so-called family reunion?
“You forget your Russian,” Alexei had told her after her first night in the Watchtower. He’d come by to drop off some of his old clothes that he’d gotten too fat for—despite her protests of no thank you, I am not a homeless person, Alexei, I can buy my own going unheard. “Just a little. You know, here and there.”
“Da ladno.” Had it been a few weeks ago, Yelena might have said something different—something meaner, probably—but she’s aware now of people like Alexei and Walker who carry an unwavering devotion to a country that has forgotten them. She still can’t understand it, but she supposes everyone tries to find something to live for, even if it’s as flimsy as national pride. “Does it look like I have had anyone to practise with?”
“You have me now,” he’d said, so unabashedly that Yelena had felt it twinge in her stomach. “And it’s okay, Lena. I forget too, sometimes.”
She forgets what sound their doorbell used to make, something she thought she’d had memorised because of how often they’d had pizza nights. She forgets the lullaby that Melina used to hum to them on nights when Natasha would wake up screaming. She’s forgotten so many things from the year she turned six, but she will always remember that first and only Christmas they’d had.
It’s cold outside, almost freezing, just the way Yelena likes it. She’s on her usual route around the Watchtower, and her breath streams out of her mouth in clouds. She keeps her pace steady, bouncing one foot after the other to keep the blood flowing. It stings like hell every time the breeze whips at her face, and like always, Melina’s voice comes seeping in. Your pain only makes you stronger. She pushes on.
She’s made it about four laps before she hears, faintly behind her, “Ye-le-na! Yelena—oh, no.”
Yelena spins around on one heel and collides straight into Bob.
One of his hands shoots out at once, grabbing her by the elbow to keep her upright. “Oh God, sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, man,” Yelena groans, clutching her nose—it’s properly throbbing, what the hell. “You have a very hard chest, Bob.”
“I—sorry,” he says again, ducking his head down. “Are you—”
“Now that,” she laughs, tapping him on the chest, “will definitely come in handy one day.”
“Yelena.” Bob leans forward, brows knitted as he inspects her nose more closely. Yelena’s heart leaps into her throat, unwitting, at the sight of his face—flushed, his untidy hair matted, his forehead glistening with sweat. How long had he been running to her for? “Seriously, are you okay?”
Another whip of the freezing cold breeze mutes her senses—and her ability to speak, it looks like—so all she can do is nod. Bob’s arm is still slung around hers. She thinks about the way he had clung to her when they’d all stepped out of the Void and into New York City together, rigid not with terror but with a kind of relief only each of them could understand. She thinks about the act of pulling him out of the Void—how desperately she’d called for him, her limbs buzzing, her heart pumping itself into a frenzy like she hadn’t known in years.
Yelena had never felt more awake, more alive.
“I was just thinking,” she breathes, “of pretzels. I want some. Do you want—pretzels? Too?”
“Yeah. Pretzels sound so good right now.” He grins back at her. “Hey, you know, I was thinking, too. I, uh, wanna help.”
“Help?”
“With the party.” Bob pulls out his phone. “Christmas Cottage is having this clearance sale. I was thinking we could get some garlands, baubles, that kinda stuff? If you want.”
“Perfect!” Yelena tosses her hands up to the sky. “Bob, I hereby dub you my Christmas co-planner!”
When she turns back to him, her breath hitches in her throat at the way he’s looking at her, mouth slightly open, half in disbelief and half in awe. Like—like she was the one bringing Christmas to him. And it’s a strange thing, Yelena thinks, to be looked at like that, after moving through so much of her life alone. She doesn’t really know what to do with it yet, the whole weight of it, but what she does know is that she will keep her word to him no matter what happens: they stick together.
They get red and silver baubles, and none of the gold (too soon). They throw in the green and red lights too, because why not. A couple of fake snow blanket rolls for added effect, and anyway, this is all going on Valentina’s credit card.
They get half a dozen pretzels—Pepperoni Twist for Walker, Cheese Melt for Bucky, Cinnamon for Ava, a Jalaroni with extra jalapeños for Alexei.
The days leading up to Friday, December 24th go by in a blur: furniture being moved around to make room for the tree, leftover decorations from Christmas Cottage piled up in a corner, and too many different smells coming from the kitchen. (Bob’s pretty sure the serum had made his senses extra-sensitive—which, you know, on top of everything else, is just great.)
Today, Alexei and Yelena are attempting eggnog. Ever since their never-to-be-spoken-about-again incident with beef stroganoff last month, Bob knows better than to be anywhere near the kitchen when they’re both there. He’s perfectly fine sitting right here in his chair twenty feet away, pretending to read. At least the break glass unit’s close by.
“Come on, you really don’t remember?” Alexei is saying. “Your mama used to sneak a little vodka in there, too.”
“I was six, so of course I don’t remember,” Yelena huffs. “If either of you got us drunk as children, please do not tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Alexei barks a laugh. “Hah! It was special occasions only, late night after you girls are asleep. Then we take it even further into the bedroom—”
“Oh my God, Dad, stop. Please.” The whisk clatters on the counter. There’s a sharp hint of vanilla that Bob can pick up all the way from his chair. “Wait, wait. Not yet.”
“Let me try first,” Alexei says. “Mmm. A little sweet. But how come I don’t taste anything else?”
“Bespoleznye,” Yelena mutters, and then she starts coughing. “Are you crazy? This is, like, straight vodka! I have to start over.”
They’ve been at it for almost an hour when Bob finally sets his book down and heads to the kitchen. Alexei is wearing an apron, to make eggnog, and it tells Bob that he was already setting himself up to not be taken seriously by Yelena. It looks like they’ve worked through almost two dozen eggs and one and a half bottles of vodka. Bob didn’t even know they had so much vodka stored in here.
“Uh, hey, guys. How’s it—”
“Here, Bob,” Yelena says, “try this for me?”
Bob can taste the vanilla and the nutmeg all right, but the vodka slips straight through him. It’s kind of a weird sensation, like a pinch in his throat, then nothing. “It’s… good?” he says unhelpfully.
“More vodka, then,” Yelena sighs.
Around eggnog attempt number nine, she starts swaying over the kitchen counter so they end up moving to where the chairs are, and with a proper system in place this time: Yelena whisks the eggs, Alexei mixes in the drinks (which, they’re going to find out later, is a terrible idea), and Bob puts the finishing touches with the spices. Every now and then Bob catches them speaking softly in Russian; at some point, Alexei says something that gets Yelena to laugh so completely freely, and she nudges him back in the shoulder with the whisk. Something about the sound of her laugh right then has Bob feeling lightheaded, in a good way—like the kind of feeling you could get drunk on. By the time the elevator doors open somewhere to their left, Bob is already smiling.
“Make way, people, make way!” they hear Walker call out. “Biggest Christmas tree in New York City comin’ through!”
It is a pretty massive tree, and if it weren’t for the fact that Walker and Ava and Bucky’s metal arm are holding it up, it probably wouldn’t have made it through the doors at all. That and also the fact that the Watchtower’s elevator was built to withstand the Hulk.
The tree is a really nice blue spruce and looks about fifteen feet tall, with its needles freshly cut and everything. Bob is only able to tell because it’d been the last good memory he’d had of his dad, the both of them picking out a Christmas tree together. He doesn’t remember much of it anymore except for how cold it had been—cold enough that his dad had kept a firm, mittened hand on his shoulder the whole time and it’d felt so safe, even in the pitch-dark night. Blue spruce is always best, he’d said, but I know you’ll pick us a good one anyway, Bobby. That winter Bob had turned seven and he hadn’t had to learn to walk on eggshells around his own home just yet, or to constantly pray that his mom would be on his side for once instead of letting him take the blow.
Alexei claps his hands together. “A great tree! For a great team!”
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened over there?” Walker says, once they’ve set it down in the middle of the room. “Did you guys kill Yelena?”
“What?” Bob gives the kitchen a quick once-over, and even he has to admit that Walker’s kind of right—it looks like a vanilla explosion happened in here, and there are eggshells strewn all over the counter and the floor. Yelena is bent over the counter by now, her eyes shut and her cheek resting on the table. She’s completely dozed off. “Oh, shit. Um, we were… making eggnog. With vodka.”
“Eggnog with vodka,” Bucky repeats incredulously, “with two super-people who can’t get drunk around here? Whose flawless idea was that?”
“We got it, we got it,” Yelena mumbles, her eyes still closed. “Mm, we are a great team.”
“That’s the spirit, umnichka,” Alexei says, patting her on the head.
Yelena hums again, smiling. “Love you, too, Dad.”
“Ah.” Alexei yanks his hand back so fast, like he’s just been scalded. He blinks and looks away. “Listen—Bob, maybe you take her to the couch, okay? I’ll just, ah—I’ll clean the rest of this up. Don’t you worry.”
Bob glances over at him and frowns when he doesn’t say anything else. Alexei scrubs a hand over his face; when it comes away, his eyes are fixed on the wall above the sink, and there’s a weak and weary smile on his face. And Alexei doesn’t turn around again—not even when Bob hoists Yelena up from the chair and leads her to the nearest couch and thinks about how unbelievably wrong he had been when he’d told her, with all the conviction he’d had as the Sentry, that she didn’t know him. She probably knows him better than anyone else.
Walker comes by with a glass of water and an aspirin. “For when she gets up later. I’ll go… help the guys clean up.”
“So,” Ava finally says, no doubt watching him watch Yelena, but Bob doesn’t mind. Not if it’s Ava. “I heard you were made Christmas co-planner. How about you help me get started on the tree? You know, I could probably try phasing up there myself, but somehow I don’t think that’ll work.”
“No, no.” Bob sprints across the other room to grab the Christmas Cottage decorations and the rolling ladder. “I’ll help.”
He keeps his hands firmly on the ladder while Ava gets as much done on this side of the tree—they alternate between red and silver for each row of spruce needles, and he tosses up the string of lights to her for the finishing touch. When he turns briefly back to the couch, Bob can see Yelena stirring slightly in her sleep. The pale winter sunlight from the window catches in the ends of her hair and at the curve of her jawline and her hands tucked underneath her chin, and for a moment, Bob is dumbstruck by the sight. She looks so undisturbed, so at peace. If he had only one wish for Christmas it’d be that she could feel that way all the time.
“Hello?” Ava clears her throat. “Earth to Bob?”
“Sorry,” Bob mutters, wheeling Ava around to the other side, a little too quickly so that she has to grasp the ladder. “Oh, sorry!”
“I’ll take over from here, Bob,” Walker says, sidling up to him. “You did good. How’re you holdin’ up there, Ava?”
Ava pulls a face, the apparent niceness shed at once. “Ugh. Wonderful. If you so much as topple me even a little, Walker, I will drop every single one of these baubles right onto that big head of yours.”
Walker looks insulted. “What, and ruin all of your hard work? And Bob’s? You wouldn’t.”
“No,” she chuckles after a second, her voice low. “Of course I wouldn’t.”
“Behold, as promised,” Bucky announces, without fanfare, as he drops a duffel bag’s worth of alcohol outside the elevator doors on Christmas Eve. Yelena can spot a few bottles in the mix: Grey Goose, Baileys, a variety of Pinot Noir. “Knock yourselves out.”
Ava whistles. She’s already taking a Pinot Noir to the kitchen and rummaging the drawers for a corkscrew. “So, this is what life in politics entails. I suppose I can see the appeal of the whole congressman thing now.”
Bucky shoots her a glare, then reaches into his backpack. “I also have Christmas movies. For a marathon or whatever, if we wanna do that.”
“The Lord of the Rings?” Walker sneers, pulling a face. “All extended editions?”
“The Fellowship literally departed on Christmas Day,” Bucky mutters defensively. “It counts.”
Yelena can’t help but laugh. Trust the hundred-year-old to be the one with a firm grip on pop culture. To her right, Bob gives her a smile that tells her he’s thinking the same thing. They wait for the pumpkin pie to reheat side-by-side, their shoulders stopped just shy of touching, Bob absently thumping one foot against the bottom drawer.
They’ve done one hell of a job if Yelena could say so herself. This place is something else; so far removed from the cold, joyless Watchtower it had been at the start of December. Garlands of green and red lights wind around their huge Christmas tree, blinking in a rhythm, then continue overhead, arching from one corner of the room to the other. Their fake snow blankets really do the trick of making the room seem fuller, coated all around the tree and underneath it, and sprinkled on the fireplace. And speaking of the fireplace—Alexei had, over the course of last night, hung up six stockings with each of their names on it, all neatly arranged in single file.
Once it’s done, Yelena lays the pumpkin pie on the table next to Walker’s roast beef and mashed potatoes. Bob brings out the glazed green beans and roasted carrots while Ava starts pouring out the wine. Bucky saunters into the kitchen, easily touching the stock pot with his metal arm to figure out when the French onion soup would be ready to serve. There’s nothing really beyond the clinking of glasses and the clatter of plates, but still there’s some sense of comfort in that, in the not-talking and the simple, careful act of setting the dinner table.
It’s when everything is laid out that the weirdness finally settles in. They all stare at the spread, then at each other, like this is the most ridiculous thing they’ve done together yet. They’d just tried to kill each other a few months ago.
“I’ll go put the movie on,” Walker says.
“I’m digging in,” Bucky says, shrugging. “The food looks way too good to not be dug into.”
Ava passes the glasses around. “Wine’s good, too.”
Walker eyes her suspiciously. “How many of those have you had already?”
“Not enough to wash off just how fucking bizarre this all feels,” she retorts. Then, quieter: “I haven’t celebrated Christmas in over twenty years.”
“Me neither,” Yelena says.
“Try eighty,” Bucky chimes in. He winces. “Not that… it’s a competition.”
“Yeah, well, this’ll be my boy’s first Christmas without his dad,” Walker says, and they all look at him for a moment too long. “So, y’know. We can either keep mopin’ around for the rest of the night, or we can all eat. Together.”
“By the way, the mashed potatoes,” Bob pipes up around a mouthful, “are so good. Like, seriously, so good.”
That gets a laugh out of Walker. “Thanks, Bob.”
And that’s all there is to that. Ava piles on two platefuls of food and scoots toward the next couch over, and Bucky eventually joins them with his bowl of soup. In the background, Yelena can hear the lively sounds of Bilbo Baggins’ birthday party.
“Hey,” Bob says, scooping up another helping of mashed potato and holding it up level with her face, “want some?”
In a moment of boldness Yelena leans forward and eats it right out of his hand. She can hear his sharp intake of breath as she does, and she can feel him watching her move, and all of this thrills her like nothing else. Her gaze catches his when she’s finished, and he holds it.
“Mm, so good,” she murmurs, beaming as she takes in the way his mouth goes slightly open, his eyes slightly dark.
Right then, the elevator doors open and Alexei stumbles in with a huge paper bag in one hand, and two pizza boxes in the other. “Whew, lesson learned for sure! Never go shopping at the last minute, it’s really crazy out there, you know? Anyway, Merry Chris…” He drops the bag, affronted. “What? You all started the celebrations without me?!”
Yelena cringes. “‘Celebrations’ is really laying it thick. We just started. And we have enough food as it is, what did you bring all that for?”
“You’re not going to believe this. I was walking down the street after doing the shopping, and that man at Napoli’s, you know, the one who makes the pizzas? He recognised me! He said to me, ‘You are the red guy! From the Wheaties box!’ Of course, eventually, I corrected him, I said I am the Red Guardian. Seriously, he must do better to remember that next time—and so anyway, he gave me two extra large pizzas! For your Christmas, he said. So, Merry Christmas!”
“You’re kidding,” Bucky deadpans.
“And also,” Alexei continues, reaching into the paper bag, “Christmas sweaters for everyone! The ugly ones, it’s the American tradition, huh? I did not have time to put them in your stockings, of course. Well, what are you waiting for? Suit up. We’re a team!”
There’s really no going back from having sat through the first twenty minutes of The Fellowship of the Ring together, so they all wordlessly clamber toward him. Walker takes the pizza boxes to the kitchen island. Ava browses through the selection of sweaters, her frown deepening with every one that she tosses aside. Bucky finally settles on one with the least zigzags, then retreats to his couch with all the enthusiasm of a wet cat.
“Lena, come here, I got this specially for you,” Alexei beckons to her. He pulls out a box of cocoa powder from behind his back. “Ta-da! It’s not Christmas without the hot chocolate, right? Let’s make it together, what do you say?”
Yelena laughs, nodding. She’s further startled when Alexei reaches over and yanks her into a hug and says, very softly, “Ya lyublyu tebya, you know that, don’t you?” because she doesn’t know what to say to that—what she could say to that, after everything—so she just keeps nodding and hopes to God her eyes don’t look as wet as they feel.
It’s darker outside when they’ve all properly settled in front of the fireplace, fully talking over the movie. They’ve worked through half the food and a quarter of the pizzas, and now they’re discussing the unbelievably stark similarities between Bucky and Aragorn over eggnogs. (At least Walker is, from the way he can’t help pointing them out, right down to their fighting styles—mostly to Alexei and Bob’s amusement.
“You guys seriously don’t find it weird?” Walker is saying. “They’re the same person.”
“What I find weird is how much you pay attention to the way I fight,” Bucky counters. Then, softly, “Aragorn wouldn’t do the things I’ve done.”)
At some point when Ava goes to fetch the next bottle of wine and Walker begrudgingly puts on the next movie, Bob excuses himself and slips out of the room and toward the balcony. And like a helpless, curious moth drawn to his flame, Yelena follows after.
“Taking a break from all the ‘celebrations’?” she asks.
Bob’s leaning against the railing, staring out at the view. It’s a nice view, especially at Christmastime—she’ll give the city that. He jumps a little at the sound of Yelena’s voice, then tilts his head back to smile at her over his shoulder. “Yeah, just, uh, getting some fresh air.”
“Hot chocolate?”
Yelena joins him at the railing, stretching over to get a proper look. Most of the restaurants below are closed by now and probably will be until after New Year’s, but the shopfronts are still well-lit. She can even make out the garlands that hang from the rooftops of some buildings. There are patches of snow where the streetlamps are planted, and warm golden light spills onto the street and the sidewalk. She can see couples strolling, and families taking pictures of each other, and kids shrieking with joy.
“I’ve always liked Christmas,” Bob blurts out, and looks immediately regretful of the impulse. “I don’t know why, I just do.”
“Me, too,” Yelena says, nodding. She gestures to the hanging lights over the buildings. “This reminds me a little of Saint Petersburg. I was there for Christmas once. Total coincidence.”
Exactly a year after New York City, after she’d walked away from Clint Barton—unscathed, everywhere except inside her own chest—Yelena had gone back to that farm outside Saint Petersburg. She didn’t know why. All the pigs had gone. She’d known that there would be nothing left for her to find, and she was right, because of course after Dreykov’s death Melina would go into hiding, making herself—and her involvement in the Red Room—untraceable. She’d probably changed her name, too. Yelena couldn’t even find it in herself to blame her. If Alexei had taught her how to not let go of the past, then Melina had taught her how disposable the life of a Widow was. How unbearably lonely it would always be.
“Was it as grand as this?” Bob asks.
“Oh, much more grand. There were these Christmas markets all over, all the lights everywhere, and everyone stayed out until long after midnight but—but I was completely alone.” Yelena swallows hard, staring firmly at the sky in front of her. “I’m glad you brought up Christmas, Bob. I think we really needed this, you know, all of us. We just didn’t know how to say it.”
She turns to look at Bob, at the outline of his frame against the dark. He’s wearing a pine-green sweater with Frosty the Snowman embroidered right into the middle of it. It’s as endearing as it is ridiculous, and it wasn’t until they’d all gathered that they’d realised he was matching with Walker—whose sweater is also pine-green, but with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer slapped on it. Yelena tilts up to look at his face, and that’s when she notices something suspended from the balcony roof, just above his head.
“Ah, suchka,” Yelena mutters under her breath. Bob gives her a questioning look and she shoots her eyes skyward, to the mistletoe above them, and says, “Ava. I’m sure of it.”
Bob huffs out a laugh. They stand in silence for a while, and it’s not awkward—in fact, it’s actually kind of nice. They drink their hot chocolates and watch the lights tangled around the trees and the tiny people down on the streets below them. Yelena steals occasional glances at Bob out of the corner of her eye. His lips are pressed together, tight, and every now and then he closes his fingers around his mug like he’s waiting for something.
Eventually, he turns back to look at her. “Okay. So.”
“So,” Yelena echoes.
“Okay,” Bob says again, sighing. “I wanna say something. No, I need to, actually. I need to say it. It’s kinda long overdue, though, so, I’m sorry. I definitely should’ve said it sooner.”
Yelena considers saying something herself, but she catches the hopefulness in his eyes, bright and rampant and unmissable, and it takes her aback. She’ll wait this out.
“Yelena,” Bob croaks, and then clears his throat. “Sorry. Okay, here goes.”
Unexpectedly, he reaches over and clasps her hand. Yelena doesn’t dare move an inch, just stares at his hand holding her hand, and the way it’s shaking, and at the veins on his arm. She’s suddenly aware of how real and alive he is, when only a few months ago he might not have been.
“You saved my life,” he tells her, as if he could hear her thinking. A shy smile is tugging at the corners of his lips. “I never—I never thanked you. You know, I, uh, didn’t think I was worth saving. And sometimes, even now, I still don’t, but Yelena, you just… you came in and you saved me anyway, and I will forever be grateful to you for that. I don’t ever want to take it for granted. So, if you say that you don’t want to be alone again, then just know I’ll always be here for you, for—for anything. Or if you want to be, then that’s fine, too, you know, just say the word—”
“Don’t leave me alone,” Yelena mutters, far too quickly.
Bob lets out a laugh. “Okay. I promise.”
He lifts his eyes up to meet hers, and she’s completely startled at the earnest focus in them, at the way he doesn’t blink or look away. Yelena forgets how to breathe all of a sudden.
“You saved my life, too,” she hears herself saying, and realises just how much she means it. “And I hope you know, Bob, I’m really proud of you.”
Somehow that’s what it takes for Bob to dip his head and lean into her. He draws a quick, shuddering breath and presses a kiss to her lips, slow and cautious. Yelena’s eyelids slip closed after a moment, and she breathes in deeply, moving her mouth softly, softly against his.
“Finally,” she says, smirking, when they pull away.
“I know, I know, sorry,” Bob mumbles, laughing shakily, “I really thought I was in over my head before, but I guess—”
Yelena doesn’t let him finish the thought before rising swiftly on her feet and surging forward, snatching his mouth up again. Her fingers find his hair, his cheek, then his hair again. Bob hums into her open mouth and she drags him even closer, closer until their bodies are crushed together.
When she draws away a second time, Bob’s face follows after hers for a brief second, as if on instinct, before he realises that he’s also out of breath. He opens his eyes slowly, stupefied, staring at her like this was a dream he could wake up from at any moment. Yelena’s lips are tingling and her fingers are still cradling the back of his head, and she gives him a small squeeze to let him know that this is real—that she’s real. Bob is still gazing down at her expectantly, breathing a little hard, his eyes bright and practically glittering in the dark night. She doesn’t know if she can ever get used to that.
“Okay, it’s getting really cold now,” she says, snickering. “Merry Christmas, Bob.”
“Yeah.” Bob grins back at her. “Merry Christmas, Yelena.”
None of them question it when Bob and Yelena finally slip back into the room, hand in hand. Probably the same way none of them question the fact that Ava and Walker are pretty much sharing a seat on the couch by now, knee-to-knee, and Ava, wine drunk and giddy, is saying, “I didn’t take you for a crybaby, John.” (What Walker is crying about specifically is Samwise’s speech to Frodo, after the attack in Osgiliath where he affirms that there’s some good in their world, and it’s worth fighting for. And Bob gets it. He’d cried at that scene, too. Anyone with a heart would.)
They’re on their way to the fridge to get another round of eggnog when the elevator doors ding open. And for a horrifying moment, Bob thinks that Valentina had somehow found out about their little Christmas get-together—but the rest of them look just as confused as he probably does.
“Sorry for barging in,” a voice calls out. “We didn’t get a chance to RSVP ahead but, uh, we heard the old tower’s open for visitors again.”
“What the hell—Clint?” Yelena says. She rushes to the elevator, tugging Bob along with her. And what they see is Hawkeye, standing in the doorway, with a girl who’s wrangling a dog. Yelena gasps. “Kate Bishop!”
“Hi, so, um, Merry Christmas, I guess? I brought mac and cheese. Whoa, boy, chill out! Sorry, it’s his first time on such a long elevator ride. You guys are super high up.” The girl—Kate Bishop—does a quick sweep of the room in front of her. “Oh, perfect! You have pizza!”
The dog springs out of Kate’s grasp and leaps right at Bob with such force that it knocks the both of them down. He starts licking excitedly at Bob’s face, and it’s then that Bob notices he’s missing an eye.
“That’s Lucky,” Kate explains, “or… Pizza Dog for short.”
“Yeah, we keep him around ‘cause he’s a phenomenal judge of character,” Hawkeye—Clint—adds, “so, if he really likes you, it means you’re definitely one of the good ones. Looks like he’s a fan of yours.”
Bob’s pretty sure he’s never letting go of Pizza Dog.
“Hey, Bucky,” Clint greets. They’ve all come together now, peering closely into the elevator. Clint steps aside for the rest of them in the elevator to scramble in—a woman and three children, all of whom Bob assumes are Clint’s family. “We’re just in the city for the weekend. Thought we’d come and check out the newly revamped Avengers Tower as part of our tour. I, uh, brought some company if that’s okay with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it…” Bucky trails off. He’s staring at the doorway like he’s seen a ghost. “Sam.”
“Listen, no work talk tonight, alright? I don’t wanna hear it. It’s late, it’s Christmas, and I’m only here till the morning ‘cause I gotta be in D.C. by Sunday, so, let’s just put it all aside for one—”
A noise slips out of Bucky that sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh.“It’s really good to see you, buddy.”
“Walker,” Sam Wilson says, and nods in his general direction.
Walker clears his throat, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Cap.”
“There are children,” Alexei says, nodding. And then much more loudly, “There are so many children around! Ava, put away the alcohol!”
“Mmm, no,” Ava says in an airy voice, “I won’t be doing that.”
Clint’s kids are way too distracted by the overall splendour of the place to notice any alcohol anyway. They’re immediately drawn to the huge tree. Bob takes some sense of pride in the Christmas decorations, being co-planner and all. The place does look amazing. In his lap, Pizza Dog nuzzles up to his sweater, pawing at the embroidered Frosty the Snowman.
“Hey, what is it, buddy?” Bob mutters. “You—you want something to eat? What do you…”
“Oh, yeah, no, he’s literally called that ‘cause he loves pizzas,” Kate says, striding to the kitchen for a slice. “Wouldn’t answer to anything else, can you believe it? Man, he really likes you, huh? Bet you could get him to do a cool trick by tonight. You know, it’s crazy, I still can’t get him to dance.”
“Pretty neat tree,” Clint comments, joining his family in the centre. He throws Kate a knowing look. “Almost as big as the one you shot down—”
“You said you wouldn’t bring that up again, Clint,” Kate groans. “Seriously, not in front of the Avengers, come on!”
“Oh wow, so that was you,” Yelena says, laughing. “Very good job, Kate Bishop. I should have known. Did you know that they’re never going to put up a new Christmas tree again because of that? And now I am sad. So is New York! You have made all the New Yorkers very sad on Christmas.”
“Ha ha,” Kate fires back, “you are truly terrible people, both of you.”
She drops the slice of pizza by Bob’s feet and tells him to watch out for crumbs before going over to flip Clint and Yelena off—much to Clint’s annoyance, because his kids are watching. Pizza Dog is already chomping on the pizza by the time Bob reaches down to pet him underneath his ears. Bucky’s in the kitchen with another bowl of French onion soup and Sam and Alexei, trying his level best not to get frustrated by Alexei’s personal challenges he’s proposing “against the new Captain America”. Walker and Ava are back on their couch, sharing what is probably the last eggnog in the fridge while Merry and Pippin welcome the rest of the Fellowship to Isengard.
When Pizza Dog stretches over Bob’s legs and he turns to look at Yelena, only to find her already gazing at him before catching herself and flicking her eyes away with a blush and a smile that’s too big to hide, Bob kind of feels like anything is possible. He could fight the bad guys, he could be a superhero. He could probably even find some good in this world and know it’d be worth fighting for.