A/N: Written for wynterwydow for the tumblr BuckyNat Secret Santa exchange. She gave me the following prompts: Bucky recounts memories to Natasha of the Howling Commandos' Christmas while overseas in the winters of 1943/44 and 1944/45. (MCU), and The Red Room's only acknowledgement of Christmas was as a decadent 'opiate for the masses'. Bucky helps Natasha find her own meaning in the bleakest of seasons. (Comic or MCU). I pulled some ideas from both, mashed MCU & comics with my own headcanons, and hey, presto… this little story happened.
Although I draw a lot of cues about BuckyNat from the comics, this story exists a bit 'unanchored' in any specific comics timeline other than Bucky's recovering and functioning well—so let your imagination decide if Bucky is Captain America or simply good-guy Winter Soldier. Sam Wilson is Falcon, and Steve Rogers, though he doesn't appear in this story, is definitely alive and well, because I don't like him dead or an old man. My universe, my Rogers.
I have never been to Grozny. District names and streets all courtesy of Wikipedia and Google Maps. If I'm completely off-base in the details, let me know. (Dear NSA/KGB/whoever: please don't come after me; only reason I was looking so intently at Grozny maps was for this fanfic story.)
Many thanks to Nath, Imbecamiel and Nefhiriel for their excellent beta superpowers.
I don't own Bucky. If I did, he'd never get killed. EVER. I don't own any of these people. Marvel does. I just have action figures and a wild imagination.
-o0o-
Natasha Romanoff's steps dragged a little as she took the stairs to her apartment. It'd been a tiring mission, with hours spent in Chechnya freezing her tail off in a rusted-out Zhiguli sedan that was probably ten years older than she was, breathing in an musty fug of old cigarettes, fermented fish, vomit and maybe even the decaying bodies of all its former passengers. Might have been worth the immersion in stomach-churning stench if something had come of the tedious surveillance, but no. After two days of fruitlessly staring with watering eyes at a shelled-out factory on the edge of Grozny's Oktyabrski District, Nick Fury contacted her to tell her that the initial intel was out of date and the new suspected hideout was in a completely different country. The big bads were in the wind once more.
"Find Litovskaya ulica," Nick had said. "Take it southwest out of the city. Quinjet's waiting at the edge of the forest. You'll be home in time for Christmas Eve dinner with Barnes." No apology, no sympathy. That wasn't Fury's way. If her time had been wasted, so be it. You learn early in the game that some missions are like that, and there's no point in whining about it. Plus, Nick had been right in one respect: she was home in time to spend a peaceful Christmas Eve with James. After a long flight in a noisy quinjet, she couldn't imagine anything she wanted more than simple quiet.
She just hoped the eau de Dead Soviet Dreams would eventually wash out of her hair.
Halfway up the steps, she heard her door open. She immediately melted into a shadow, grabbing one of her Widow's bites, but then she relaxed. It was Falcon. "Wilson, what are you doing in my apartment?"
Sam Wilson smiled down at her as he stood in the doorway. "Left you a Christmas present. A smoked ham, already sliced."
"Smoked and sliced? How thoughtful. But you know I don't really like ham that much."
"You'll like this one, trust me. Just don't freeze it. It doesn't respond well to freezing."
A deep male voice shouted from within the apartment. "Wilson, I can hear you!"
Sam's grin widened. "Be gentle with him. He doesn't mean to be stupid."
The familiar deep voice, louder this time, "Again, right here! No problem with my hearing!"
Nat rubbed her temples. "Oh god, what's he done to himself now?"
"Oh, he was just being Barnes. You know how it is."
"Wilson!"
They both ignored the outraged shout, except that Nat smiled at the way his voice cracked on -son. "Rush in and get captured?"
"To his credit, this time he wasn't captured. Still working on the rushing in part, though. But I won't steal what little thunder he has with this—you can get the details from him. Merry Christmas, Nat." Leaving the door open behind him, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he passed. He pulled a face. "Whew, what dead animal did you roll in?"
"You don't want to know."
"You better shower or you might spoil the Christmas ham."
"Take it on the road, Wilson. You're a regular Santa Guffaws."
His laughter faded behind her as she let herself in. Bing Crosby's White Christmas—one her favorites out of James' very large and eclectic collection of Christmas music—played softly from the wireless speakers sitting beside his phone on the coffee table. All the lights but the ones on James' Christmas tree were dimmed, but the apartment was still bright enough that she could make out James Buchanan Barnes stretched out on their couch, his casted left ankle elevated on two cushions and his right hand holding a blanket protectively under his chin. He also sported a black eye, a slight bump on his nose that hadn't been there the last time she'd seen him and enough small bandages over the rest of his face, neck and arm to make him look like a piss-poor cosplay of Clint Barton. She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and crossed her arms. "I hope that ham tastes better than it looks."
James bit his lower lip and gave her a sheepish look. "Honey, I'm home?" He sounded as if he had a head cold. Broken nose will do that, she supposed. At least he wouldn't be able to smell her hair.
"So I see. What on earth did you do to yourself?"
"Hey. I didn't do anything to myself. It was robots. Lots of robots. And, um… there might have been a bomb, I think? And a plate glass window? All I know is there was a blast and a bright flash and I got slammed through a lot of glass. Then things kinda got hazy. There were flames, more big loud booms. Lots of screaming. So much screaming."
"Civilians?"
"Them, too, but the screams were mostly mine. Those robots were scary. One of them grabbed my ankle and flung me across the—"
"Stop. I don't want to hear any more." She went over and sat carefully beside him. She brushed his mop of dark hair out of his face. It smelled faintly of smoke and chemicals and was a bit singed here and there. Bad hair days for them both, then. "How bad?"
"Broken ankle, broken ribs on the left side. Bruised kidney, uh…something else lacerated on my left side, maybe my spleen? I can't remember what the doc said, but it musta been something fairly important because she was yelling a lot and nurses were racing around. There was apparently more blood outside my body than inside and they were all a little worked up about it."
She tried not to, but she laughed. "Oh, James."
"Oh, and see this?" He pointed to the bump on his nose. "Broken. My dashing good looks are ruined, plus I can't smell anything."
She leaned down and gently kissed the tip of his nose. "You still look plenty handsome to me, James Barnes."
He broke into that lovesick grin that never failed to melt her heart, but she could see his eyes weren't quite right… lids were a little droopy and the pupils contracted a little too much given the dim light. Must be some fairly powerful painkillers. She spied a prescription bottle on the coffee table and looked at the label. There was no chemical name, just a simple directive to take one every four hours.
James flopped his arm toward it. "That's some good stuff in there. Just took another one about fifteen minutes ago."
"Stark?"
"Yeah. Stuff he and Dr. Cho whipped up for Steve, he said."
She took off the lid and looked at the large pills inside. Each one was stamped with Super Soldier Sleepytime. She rolled her eyes. Leave it to Stark to be a smart-ass even when trying to help out injured team members. She put the lid back on and replaced the bottle on the table. She then took James' hand between hers. His fingers were cold. She chafed them between her hands and then tucked the blanket up a little more firmly under his chin. "So when did all this happen?"
"Day before yesterday. Got out of the infirmary this morning. Sam gave me a ride home."
"So have you told me everything that's broken?"
He frowned. "Um… maybe some other stuff, I can't remember. But basically all my insides got a little scrambled, especially on the left side."
"Hence the screaming?"
"Hey, you'd scream too if a robot punched your pancreas into your lungs. My impact-resistant suit wasn't resistant enough."
She kissed his bruised knuckles. "My poor James."
"'portant thing is the doc put it all back where it belongs. Just gotta…" He blinked a few times and yawned so big she heard his jaw pop. "Ow. Sorry. Gotta rest and let it all heal, grow some new blood. I'm off the clock through New Year's."
She noticed he hadn't moved his metal arm. She patted the blanket covering it. "Did it get damaged?"
"Huh? Oh." He pulled it out and waved his hand and then flexed it a few times. It made its usual quiet whir as the plates shifted and settled. "Nah, it's fine. Not a scratch, unlike the rest of me."
"Good. Are all those gashes and lacerated organs adequately sealed or is my couch at risk of getting soaked by your blood if you twitch the wrong way?"
"Our couch, 'member? I helped pick it out 'cuz it has this wide section where we can cuddle. And nope, ain't gonna bleed on it unless you get too carried away welcoming me back. Stitches ain't up to our usual wild homecoming."
She pouted. "How disappointing. I was really looking forward to good old-fashioned bra-on-the-lamp, shirt-on-the-ceiling-fan romp." She leaned down and gently kissed him on the right corner of his mouth, since the left side had stitches holding his split lip together. "Before you fall completely asleep, tell me how bad it is, really. Be honest. No joking."
Fatigue, or maybe the painkiller, finally cracked his bravado. "Sam really pulled my ass out of the fire on this one."
"He's good at that. But you didn't answer my question."
He shrugged. Couldn't hide a wince. "It'll heal, Nat. Stop worrying."
"Again, not an answer, James."
"Nat. Really, I'm—"
"James. I need to know how you are now, so I can tell if you're getting better. Or, god forbid, worse."
He finally dropped the tough-guy act. "It hurts pretty bad in spots. My side and ankle, mostly. Oh, and my pee is pink, which is always fun."
She pulled back the blanket and lifted up the hem of his tee.
"Hey, that's cold!"
"Sorry, but I need to look." A grayish-white bandage clung to the skin on his left side, held in place with tape all around the edges. "How often do I replace it?"
He shook his head. "Shouldn't have to. Nurse said it's infused with silver, can stay on a week without changing. I'll be healed way before that."
"Well, that's good, I guess. I don't have to change any bandages."
"Nope. Just my diapers."
"Ugh, tell me you're joking."
"I'm joking. You might have to help me hobble to the bathroom, though. The doc said no weight on my ankle for another two days, but I can't really manage crutches because of my side. She sent me home with that scooter thing there." He pointed at a wheeled knee walker at the end of the couch. "It even has a basket."
"Well, merry Christmas to you. Shall I put a bell on it? Or just stick a little box in there to hold your dentures and arthritis cream?"
He glared at her.
She smiled fondly at him, running her hand up and down the uninjured side of his abdomen under his shirt. "Now now, no pouting. It's Christmas Eve. Santa will fill that basket with coal. Or denture tablets."
"You're mean, anyone ever tell you that?" But then his glare melted into a rueful look. "I pretty much ruined Christmas, Nat. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to get blown up. It's just… there were civilians, and kids, and I couldn't…"
She laid a finger across his lips. "Shhh. It's fine."
He sighed a little, but nodded. "How'd your mission go?"
"Oh, you know. Lounging by the pool, going to swanky parties. Grozny's lovely this time of year."
Concern darkened his eyes. "You were in Chechnya?"
She shrugged. "It was quiet. Too quiet, as it turns out. I spent the entire time in a car that Brezhnev probably used to transport the dead bodies of dissenting Politburo members, watching a factory that had more bullet holes than actual walls and no signs of life other than pigeons. It was long, boring, made my hair smell and ultimately amounted to absolutely nothing. Turns out I was surveilling the wrong location."
He grimaced. "Bad intel?"
"Outdated. It happens."
"Guess you at least verified that the location's abandoned."
"Listen to you, all Mr. Look On The Bright Side."
"I have my moments." He sobered as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. She leaned into it, relishing his touch, knowing how close she may have come to never feeling it again. "I'm glad it was boring. Means you didn't get hurt." The quiet worry in his eyes made her heart do a slow flip. She still wasn't used to anyone being so concerned about her that he looked like his world would end without her.
"Shh, I'm fine, Yasha," she said. She put her open palm against his cheek and gave him a gentle kiss. His lips were so soft. She kissed him more deeply, once, then pulled back. He was injured, after all. There'd be time for that later, so she again gave the tip of his nose the gentlest of kisses. "Worry about yourself, not me." She kicked off her boots and stretched out beside him, careful not to jostle him as she slid under the blanket and gently draped her leg over his uninjured one. "Enough shop talk. What will we do for Christmas?"
"I guess we could watch movies. That's about all I'm up for."
"I'll pop popcorn. Maybe fix brie en croute, some fruit or something."
"Or maybe pancakes? Please?"
She rolled her eyes. He would eat pancakes for every meal if she let him. "Since it's Christmas and since you've had a very bad week, I'll fix crepes."
"Ooh, fancy pancakes."
She laughed. "You're hopeless."
"Not so long as I have you," he murmured as he nuzzled her hair. But then he pulled back. "Um… I take it back about my nose. I can definitely smell."
"Told you it was a stinky car."
"Poor Nat." He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I don't mind. You're beautiful whether you smell like Chantilly or dead Soviets."
She lifted her head. "Chantilly? Seriously? Am I your great-grandmother?"
"Hey, that's what all the gals wanted in 1942."
She snorted.
"Fine. Gucci-woochy or whatever it is that gals—I mean women use these days."
"James, I will say it again: you're hopeless."
"You'll have to educate me, then, so I can stuff your stocking properly." He gave her hair another kiss.
"I like Chanel No. 5."
"And you yell at me? My grandma did wear that. In the Roaring Twenties. When it was new."
She giggled and laid her ear against his chest, listening to the comforting beat of his heart. "Am I hurting you, laying like this?"
"No, I'm fine. Better than fine." She felt his chin rest on her head, then he laughed softly.
She lifted her head enough to look at his face. He had a soft smile and a faraway look in his eyes. She recognized the signs. "What are you remembering?"
"Dum Dum Dugan. From back in the War. The smell of your hair triggered something."
"Ooh, is Grandpa going to tell me a story?"
He made his voice creaky and thickened his Brooklyn accent. "You bet yer sweet bippy, young whippersnapper, so pay attention."
"Oh god, please don't use that voice ever again."
He laughed, but it turned into a gasp "Ow. Ribs." He winced, but he still smiled. "Fine, no grumpy grandpa voice. But it'll lose something in the translation."
"I'll take my chances. You sounded like a cheesy gangster from an old Hollywood B-movie."
"I did not. That was exactly what my neighbor sounded like, back in Brooklyn."
"Your neighbor must have been a gangster."
"Can I tell my story or not?"
"Please do."
"Thank you. I was just remembering the time we got caught behind enemy lines in Italy. Dugan commandeered an old car that we all squeezed into. The thing smelled like limburger cheese and sweat. Just awful. It wasn't too long after Steve rescued us at Azzano and I was still a little wobbly. Between the smell and Dum Dum's total lack of driving skill, I got such a bad case of carsickness I threw up all over Steve's boots. If there hadn't been a foot of snow on the ground, I'm sure they would have tossed me out to walk the rest of the way, and I can't say I would have minded."
She traced a circle on his chest with her finger. "Did you have to deal with snow a lot, in the war?" She noticed wryly that the iPod had shuffled to Bing singing Mele Kalikimaka. Not much snow in Hawaii.
"Some. Especially in… in the mountains." He cleared his throat and fell silent and Nat could have kicked herself. Snow, mountains… yeah, good going, Romanoff, bring up his worst memory ever. Go ahead and ask him if he likes Christmas trains and drive the dagger in completely.
Time to deflect. A glance out the window provided the perfect out. "Speaking of, look. It's snowing."
He raised his head with a grunt. "Waddya know. White Christmas after all, looks like."
"Did you have any white Christmases, growing up?" Surely that was a safe subject. No mountains in Brooklyn.
To her relief, his eyes crinkled in the corners in that way they had even if he wasn't fully smiling. "Yeah, but nothin' like during the war in 1943 and '44. Especially in '43. Snowed like crazy, so much that for the week right before Christmas, no one could move, enemy or ally." He laughed. "Morita decided to build a snowman. Turns out he had quite a talent for realistic snow sculpting."
"What'd he make?"
He suddenly blushed. "Um, I probably shouldn't say."
"James, you're adorable, but it's the new century. I don't swoon at pre-adolescent male humor."
His blush deepened. "Am I that bad?"
"No, darling. Clint, yes. Deadpool, my god. But you and Rogers are still refreshingly old school."
He chewed his lip. "You probably think I'm an old fuddy duddy."
She smiled slyly. "Trust me, you're no fuddy duddy, James. Some nights I hardly remember you're a gentleman at all."
He stared at her, then broke into a slow smile, his eyes gleaming with far from chivalrous thoughts. He pulled her tightly against him and kissed her hard enough to make her think maybe they wouldn't have to hold off on the wild homecoming after all. But then he winced and reluctantly turned her loose. "Damn robots," he gasped.
She took his hand and let him squeeze it until the pain subsided. "So… back to your story?"
"Oh, uh… yeah." The boyish grin she loved nearly as much as the sexy smile came back. "He recreated Captain America in, um, very anatomically correct detail. You might even call it full salute."
Her jaw dropped. "Oh, he didn't!"
"Steve was so mad. I've never seen him throw that shield faster, not even the time when a HYDRA goon had Dernier in his sights. Chopped SnowCap in two right through his Balls of Freedom."
She buried her head in his shoulder, overcome with laughter. "Balls of Freedom, oh my god. I will never look at another snowman the same way again," she finally wheezed. "Or Steve, for that matter."
He tightened his arm around her once, but didn't say anything. She settled down again with her head on his chest, still smiling as she imagined James with the Howling Commandos. Times of extreme danger made for the strongest bonds, she knew, and she couldn't imagine the sorrow both he and Rogers must feel, being so young when all their friends had grown old and died without them. Afraid from his sudden silence that his thoughts might be traveling the same melancholy paths as hers, she said, "Tell me another funny story, Gramps."
"Sorry, got nothin' to top tha' one." His words slurred a little, the pill starting to kick in. "You tell me a Christmas story, pu' me t'sleep."
She leveled a mock glare at him, and he looked properly horrified and completely awake again. "Not like… I didn't mean it that way… it's the pain meds… You're not boring… I just meant, like a bedtime story."
She laid her head back down and patted his chest. "Calm down. I'm not mad." On the contrary, she felt a little terrible for waking him up.
"Sorry."
She knew if she looked up at him again he'd be all puppy-eyed and remorseful. Which was worth craning her neck to see, actually, and when she did, she saw she wasn't wrong. His eyes looked huge and worried, like he'd accidentally spilled wine all over a vintage Captain America war bonds poster.
"Oh, good grief. Stop that with the big eyes."
He sighed a little, but he nodded. "Still sorry, though," he mumbled one more time, hitching himself up a little on the couch, a determined set to his jaw. "Really. I'm awake. You won't put me to sleep."
"You need to sleep, silly, but okay." Once he finished fidgeting into place, she settled her head back on his chest. "Trouble is, I'm not sure I have any Christmas stories. There wasn't much green in the Red Room. You know how they were about anything remotely religious. Opiate of the people and all that. Santa never came down that chimney." Now Bing was crooning Here Comes Santa Claus. She grimaced. Was the iPod mocking them? She punched the button to skip the track. A soft instrumental with guitars and piano... We Three Kings. Much better.
"I don't really remember a lot from that time," James said after she'd snuggled back against him yet again. His hand rubbed her back in time with the music. "But yeah, you're right. Religion wasn't a part of the training, unless we needed to know the rituals so we could blend in on a mission." His voice turned wistful. "Even now Christmas is… different. Nothing like the old days in Brooklyn, that's for sure."
"Tell me more about Brooklyn."
"Oh, it wasn't nothin' fancy. We had a little tree in the living room. Presents on Christmas morning. No matter how poor we were, Ma found something to put under the tree. But she always insisted on church first, so Christmas Eve, my family and Steve's, we'd all go to church together."
"I bet that was nice."
"It was. I mean, when I was little it was boring, the preaching and having to sit still for so long, but as I grew up I liked it a lot more. The music especially. Peaceful, you know?"
She didn't reply. It sounded peaceful, in theory. All of Christmas sounded wonderful… in theory. She really had no idea what to do about Christmas, if she were honest, which, thanks to Steve Rogers' undue influence, she tried to be a lot more these days than she used to. Usually during the holidays she was on a mission, and if she wasn't, she'd sit in for someone at the Avengers facility, man the phones, monitor satellite data… whatever needed to be done to let someone who valued Christmas have the holiday off. It was only since James had finally found enough of himself to realize that he had once loved Nat and still did that she had started paying attention to things like holidays, because they were all so important to him.
"Nat, did you ever… wait, no. Never mind. That's none of my business."
"I've never been to a church service on Christmas Eve, if that's what you're asking."
He stopped rubbing her back in lieu of gently massaging the back of her neck in the way she loved. "If I wasn't laid up and stoned out of my mind on painkillers, I'd take you to the one at that old church, if it's still there."
"I'd like that." After a pause, "You really believe in any of it? I don't mean Santa and his flying sleigh, but the baby in the manger. O Holy Night. The serious stuff?" She said it lightly, but she suddenly realized that for some reason, even though she was mostly ambivalent about philosophies and theologies beyond adopting or rejecting them to suit a mission identity, it was important to her that he still believed in it.
And maybe she wasn't as ambivalent as she liked to think.
"I… I think there's a part of me that does, yeah. Or wants to, at least. The old me, the part of me that's still Bucky Barnes, the kid from Brooklyn. This new me… I'm still working through it all, I guess. Maybe that's why I can't stop downloading Christmas music." He laughed softly at himself. "I don't know. Maybe I'm tryin' to decide if I still believe, and if I do, whether I should be mad at God for lettin' me go through all that or grateful to Him for bringin' me out of it. Haven't quite worked it out yet. I just know there's… well, there's something there, something I believed in my childhood that I still haven't quite remembered. Something true and good about it all, if I can just find a way back to it."
She squeezed a little closer to him. "You will," she said softly, though she couldn't say why she felt so sure. She thought about it, as she watched the snow falling gently out the window. "Steve still goes to church, did you know that?"
"Mmm hmm. He's asked me a time or two to go with him. I'm still thinking about it."
"You should."
She felt his soft laugh rumble against her ear where it pressed against his chest. "Lightning would probably burn down the building as soon as I stepped foot in the door." Despite the laugh, she heard an undercurrent of such sadness that her heart broke a little for him.
"You're a good man, James. If God is as good as they say, he understands."
He said nothing.
She raised her head and looked at him. He was staring toward the window, but she knew he wasn't seeing the falling snow. He was seeing death and murder and a lot of red all over his ledger. "Hey. Don't do this to yourself."
"Can't help it. 'specially this time of year." He shifted a little, settling a little deeper against the cushions. "Christmas…well, it's always been a time when I look back, take stock of where I've been and where I am. Good and bad, gains and losses. I remember that. I remember doing it every year since my dad died in '37."
"Sounds like an awful lot of heavy thinking for a man on painkillers."
"Yeah. This year might be a little different. I can't go…" His voice trailed off.
"Where?"
"Oh, there's always a thing I do, but this year…" He waved a hand toward his broken ankle. "Hard to get across a snowy cemetery on that scooter thing."
"Is there something I can do? Put a wreath on someone's grave for you?"
"Nah. I don't do that, I just go and… well, talk. You ever heard of Jack Monroe?"
"He was groomed to be the 1950s-era Bucky after you and Rogers disappeared, right? He died of a gunshot… oh. Oh no, was that the Winter Soldier's work?"
"Yeah."
She had learned that he didn't find much comfort when anyone told him, "It wasn't you," so she simply said, "I'm sorry."
A wry smile lifted a corner of his mouth. "Good and the bad, like I said. It's how I get through Christmas."
"It's not a bad tradition. A good man should keep tabs on himself."
He said nothing. Just tugged her a little closer. She noticed his eyes were glazing over again. She gently traced his jaw with her index finger. "I think, if the god of Christmas is out there, he has all the evidence he needs to know that you're a good man."
His arm squeezed her waist. His eyes drifted shut. "Pro'ly not but I'll keep workin' at it," he murmured.
"Oh, James. He knows. He must. You are a good man."
"Nhuhh'm not," he murmured, then his breathing deepened and he was out. As always, he didn't believe her. He never did. He would keep trying to right the wrongs, undo the damage. Wipe out all the red. And she loved him for it. Watching his face relax as sleep's hold deepened, she was struck by how very young he looked, as if sorrow and regret had no hold over him. She knew better, but for now, all was well. Or at least well enough. She kissed her fingertips before lightly touching them to his slightly parted lips. "Merry Christmas, my sweet one." She pulled the blanket tighter around them both and, lulled by the falling snow outside and his peaceful breathing beside her, fell asleep to the soft strains of Silent Night.
-o0o-
A/N: Bucky's self-assessing on Christmas Eve comes from comic canon, specifically in the Winter Kills issue. In it, he visits the grave of Jack Monroe to apologize, and it's my headcanon that he goes every year on Christmas Eve to either apologize again or perhaps just remember. In case that's not sad enough, it's also my headcanon that he visits Toro's grave and talks to him as he would an old friend.
About Nat's endearment, Yasha: It's fanon, but I'm gleefully embracing it because it's fanon that seems logical. James=Jacob=Yakov=dimunitive 'Yasha'.