The streets are aflutter with activity, people darting around cabs and cars, slipping in and out of shops and cafes, racing from one destination to the next with the kind of vigor that only this time of year can bring. December in New York – even this December, just a handful of months following a… rejuvenation of the world's population – creates an atmosphere like no other. The world is alive around them. Full of fast-paced joy and holiday-fueled excitement. Full of hope and renewal and… chaos.
Normally, Bucky would do everything in his power to avoid being out amid these crowds. Normally, he would hole up in his apartment, as far away from the masses as he could get. He would frown and grumble and grimace as though channeling the Grinch whenever mention was made of holiday activities, of Christmas shopping, of braving the streets of Manhattan to see the window displays and take in the wreathes and bows and twinkling lights draped across the city. He would race purposely past all the giant trees with brightly colored baubles that took up residence on nearly every corner. He would refuse to enter any shop that had fake frosted windows displaying holiday cheer. Even the decades-old songs that, admittedly, caused a familiar warmth to sprout in his chest, weren't enough to beckon the cantankerous soldier inside.
Normally, Bucky would avoid it all like the plague, certain that the delight he felt as a child – what he could actually recall of it anyway – could never be rekindled. Worried that getting lost in crowds of strangers might spark a note of panic, might then awaken the Soldier within. Confident that what had once been a mecca of holiday bliss was now little more than a tourist trap filled with overpriced junk cloaked in red and green trimmings that people were being swindled into buying.
Normally.
But this year is different, and not just because of the whole second chance at life thing that so many are experiencing. This year is different because of Ava.
Right around Thanksgiving – an admittedly, blissfully quiet affair with only his girls… and the best damn turkey he'd ever roasted – he began getting flooded with memories. Beyond just the wispy, vague recollections he'd had for years… of a small tree in the corner of the apartment, his ma always barking at him to keep it watered. And delicate paper chains glued together by his sister's tiny fingers. And the feel of stinging cold being sucked into his lungs alongside a laugh as he and Steve and other kids on the block pummeled each other with snowballs. Beyond all of those memories that had slowly coalesced in his Hydra-free mind over the years, he began to remember more.
He remembered begging his parents to take him into Manhattan to look at all the shops and decorations. And his father refusing, not wanting his kids to so much as see the highbrow rich folks carelessly tooling about while so many were lost deep in the Depression. He remembered his mother making a habit of picking up extra shifts around the holidays after his dad left, leaving an opening for him to steal away, out of Brooklyn to see what all the fuss was about just across the bridge. He remembered taking Becca one year, her too-small shoes pinching her toes long before they made it over, the look of pure joy on her innocent little face when – instead of huffing in annoyance and sending her back home like older brothers are wont to do – he lifted her high and put her atop his shoulders for the rest of the trip.
That specific memory flooded into him that Thanksgiving night as he carried Ava to bed – the little girl sated with turkey and mashed potatoes and way too damn much pumpkin pie – and tucked her in tight beneath her bright blue comforter. As he sat on the small bed beside her, brushing the haphazard curls from her face, listening to her soft and subtle snores, feeling the warmth of her tiny body pressed to his hip, he remembered that day. Standing in Rockefeller Center, oo-ing and ah-ing at the tree – a comparatively small and unimpressive thing by today's standards, but simply marvelous to the two of them back then – and watching the hustle and bustle of the holiday crowds until the chill of the evening got to be too much to bear.
He remembered being happy.
Happy to get to share in the buoyant energy of the decked-out city and spirited people. Happy to feel the excitement of so many burn through him, protecting him from the outside cold. Happy to be able to share it all with his little sister, who made him swear up and down that they would return to the energized city every single Christmas… made him promise they'd make the trip in, even when she'd be far too big to ride on his shoulders through the crowds.
"Alright, baby doll," he calls up to the kid on his shoulders now. "We good, you think?" He gives her leg a little jiggle, holding tight to her with his flesh hand as his vibranium fingers pinch and curl around the handles of half a dozen bags, each filled to the brim with gifts galore. She lets loose the smallest, sweetest giggle, her tiny, fleece-gloved hands shifting down from the top of his head to slide along his bearded jaw, and he lets go of her ankle for just a fraction of a second to reach up and give her little fingers a squeeze.
When he told Tessa he wanted to do this – wanted to take Ava out into the city to go Christmas shopping, wanted to show her the giant tree, wanted to share something special with his little girl for this, their first Christmas together – she laughed. Really, really laughed. Hard. Raucous. Unrelenting. Tear-filled guffaws. And truthfully, after about an hour in, he understood why.
First, there's the fact that – no matter how trapped he may have initially been in a delightfully reminiscent haze – the Bucky of today hates crowds. All of the people, all the activity, makes him nervous when he's out in that sort of chaos alone… eyes constantly peeled for threats around every corner, super senses trained to detect any anomalies, any suspicious sorts, lurking among the masses, looming in the shops or alleys. But being out here with his baby, that's a different kind of peril altogether.
He hadn't fully accounted for the level of stress involved with keeping tabs on a four year old amid crowds of thousands. Ava wanted to run, or at least walk beside him through the streets, throwing a fit when he insisted on carrying her – I'm not a baby! Never mind the fact that she was his baby… she was so small and could so easily get trampled or pulled away from his safe embrace.
And once in the shops, she insisted on looking at everything, wandering idly around in search of the most perfect gifts. There was just one moment – one short but terrifying moment – that he lost track of her inside an antique store. After that – despite all the annoyed fussing – he remain clamped onto her hand so tight that she was thoroughly tethered to him at every turn.
Ava wanted to buy toys for everyone on their list, clearly thinking that all her aunts and uncles – and mommy too, of course – would appreciate them as much as she did. Bucky didn't think that'd be the case and he only let her pick out a select few items herself. Occasionally he allowed her to decide on the color of a scarf or sweater – one that he got to choose – but that little concession did little to pull the pout from her face.
There were tears – small, angry tears that perked the corners of Ava's eyes when Bucky grabbed her by the hood of her coat and tugged her away from the giant toy store across the street. And sad, embarrassed, guilty tears when he yelled at her – at then hugged her too tight – because she'd dropped his hand and tried to dart across the street in the first place.
There were tantrums – one from Ava when her father refused to buy a tacky as a hell sweater with a cat on it for her mom. And one from Bucky when Ava refused to let him buy the same sweater to give to her Uncle Sam.
There were silent treatments – a quick hot dog lunch being spent with neither father nor daughter uttering a word, each stubbornly devoted to showing the other up by refusing to speak. Each somehow convinced the other would lose the test of wills.
But now – now that the shopping is done and the giant tree in Rockefeller Center has been seen and appropriately lauded. Now that no one is yelling or crying or tugging in different directions. Now that the crowds have thinned out a bit, the late afternoon slowly settling into evening as Ava sits atop Bucky's shoulders, looking out over all the people to take in the lights and decorations and trees at every corner – now, everything seems to be going pretty damn great.
"Hey," he calls up again, craning his neck to get a glimpse of her reddened face. "We need anything else?"
She leans over the top of his head, her bright blue eyes, glassy from the cold, connecting with his nearly identical ones. "Ice cream!" she shouts, her hands beating out an excited rhythm on his jaw.
He flinches and tugs her tiny hands down. "Ice cream?" he scoffs. "It's freezing out here and you want ice cream?"
She nods enthusiastically, not that he can see her, and hums out a loud and excited, "Mm-hmm."
"You don't even like ice cream," he argues, the words flowing through a crooked smile. He reaches back and tickles her leg, grin widening as her laughter trickles down to his ears. "Since when do you like ice cream?"
She leans over him, resting her chin on the very top of his forehead as she tries to get a visual of his face. "Since… now!" she bellows, the piercing word being followed by another string of delighted giggles.
He considers saying no, it is getting late after all, not too far off from dinner time. But, well, the whole purpose of this trip was to have fun. To bond. To share the Christmas joy he only just now remembers ever having felt as a kid with his own kid. And the thought of getting off the too busy street right now is probably more enticing to him than the idea of dessert is for his daughter. And an ice cream shop, surely, won't be too crowded in the middle of winter. So he lets out a put-on sigh, utters a reluctant sounding, "Alright, alright," and picks up the pace, heading for the parlor two blocks down.
Turns out, he's wrong about the place not being packed, though it isn't as bad as some of the shops they hit up earlier. But it still takes a good ten minutes before they get a table. And it's almost ten minutes more before their order gets taken, an obviously frazzled teenager barreling over and spewing, "Sorry, so sorry," as she haphazardly wipes at what looks to be a melted mess of bright blue cotton candy ice cream mottling her apron. "What can I get you?" she asks, sounding so out of breath that Bucky almost insists she takes a seat for a bit.
He lets Ava choose the scoops that'll go into their banana split – vanilla and vanilla and… strawberry! – and barely has time to thank the young waitress before she scurries away to clean up a felled cone at the sprawling counter. He shakes his head idly as he watches her go, a peculiar dad feeling tugging at his heart as he thinks to himself, they need to give that poor kid a break.
He glances back at Ava, leans across the table to surreptitiously state, "Don't tell mommy about this. She'll get jealous and make me leave in the middle of the night to get her her own ice cream." Then he reclines back in his seat, lets his eyes wander around the shop to take in the steadily shifting stream of patrons – in and out, every table getting turned faster than he's seen at any restaurant – and he mutters to himself, "She'd be pissed you didn't pick chocolate."
"There's chocolate on it," Ava smarts from across the table, her response pulling a curious look from her father.
The kid has incredible hearing. And this isn't the first time he's thought it. No, the first time was a few weeks back when he and Tessa left Ava – utterly engrossed in some obnoxious cartoon movie, complete with a painfully loud and annoying soundtrack – in the living room while they went to put away some laundry. The door to their bedroom was closed. The music from the TV down the hall was booming. And they were quiet. Yet when Tessa sunk her teeth into Bucky's shoulder, pulling a low, amused ow! from somewhere deep in his chest, a tinny shout of, "You okay?" sounded from down the hall just the same.
He'd been terrified to make a noise while making love ever since, going so far as to cover Tessa's mouth when she moaned just last night, a thing that got him bit once again.
He shakes his head again, this time working to fling away the most awful, conjured image of his baby laying in bed – surrounded by Teddy and Busy Bunny, the stars from her nightlamp dancing on the ceiling above – as she listens to him rail her mother – her mommy – in the next room. He lets out a depleting sigh and looks her way, raises a single brow high and – eager to change the course of his own thoughts – asks, "You decide what kind of cake you want for your birthday?"
"Um," she hums out, her bright blue eyes pinging all over the small shop to take in the orders of other patrons. The tip of her tongue runs along her lips before she bites it into the corner of her mouth, her face twisting in consternation as she lights onto a particularly gigantic sundae being set down on the table in the corner. "Daddy, what's that?"
He follows her gaze to the mess of orange and brown scoops, wrinkling his nose as he tries to figure it out for himself. Maybe some kind of candy flavor and… it's too light to be chocolate. Coffee? Could be coffee. And the other actually looks more like sorbet. Or sherbet. Orange sherbet and coffee ice cream?
"Daddy?" she whines out, her fingers tugging insistently at his wrist.
Daddy. Despite it having become fairly commonplace over the last couple of months, hearing that word – that name – still sets his heart to stutter. He clears his throat and bites back the smile desperate to break across his face before turning back to his little girl – and away from the disgusting concoction – and saying with utter sincerity, "That looks like cheesy milk dirt. Did you want to try it? I can call the waitress back."
She gives him an assessing look, clearly wondering if he's messing with her or not.
Too damn smart, he thinks to himself as he snorts out a short laugh and shakes his head. "What about your birthday, baby doll?" he tries again. "What kind of cake do you want?"
She continues to stare at him for a long moment, no longer seeming to care about the rush of desserts swirling past her. And she cocks her head to the side, her eyes darting back to the heinous sundae they'd both been studying for just a fraction of a second more. "Cheesy dirt," she tells him then, her face splitting with a wide grin as she leans so far over the table she's practically crawled on top of it.
By the time their ice cream arrives, they've left behind the topic of birthday cake entirely – with the joke of cheesy milk dirt now in her head, no other flavor would do – and have begun instead to talk about school.
She starts it, leading into the topic with a rather pointed, birthday-related declaration that, "When I'm five, I'm big enough for real school… not pre-school."
The fact that she's right – she'll be so old, so big, so… not the baby he still desperately wants her to be – startles him into silence for a brief moment. But once his heart returns to a normal pace – the broken pieces quickly knitting themselves back together as he watches her eyes blow wide in childlike glee when the giant banana split is set down before them – he asks another version of that same question he's been posing for weeks now, ever since the day Sam had made him the offer to join the new and improved Avengers. "What if you went to a school somewhere else? Maybe one outside the city?" He raises his brows high, tries to elicit a positive response with, "Maybe one that's made for really, really smart kids, like you…"
But the question doesn't lead to the excitement he had hoped. She doesn't begin gushing about how she can read and she can write her whole name, even the middle one. She doesn't ask if they can do science at this new school – ever her mother's child – or if they'll let her learn Russian so she can be like Aunt Nattie. Instead, a worried look begins to tug at her features and she utters, voice small and timid, "But Noah won't be there."
He lets out a short sigh before reaching across the table and tapping her hip, a silent command to sit her butt in the chair rather than oscillate between standing and squatting like she's been doing for the past five minutes. "I don't know what school Noah's going to, baby," he tells her, a lie.
He knows exactly where her little friend will be attending. He knows everything about Noah. He knows that the boy has been completely potty trained for over a year now, unlike Ava, who's still wearing pullups more often than not. He knows that, while Ava is already reading at a first grade level, Noah can barely spell his own name. He knows that Noah's the first kid to share his toys – and his tender, long-lasting hugs – with any kid on the playground and any adult willing to brave his perpetually snotty nose. Whereas Ava still seems wary of new people… probably always will if he has anything to say about it. Though he wouldn't mind her being a bit nicer to kids on the playground every now and then.
Bucky also knows – he and Noah's mom, Naomi, have had far too many conversations about it as the two sat by the playground every other day for months and talked endlessly about this difficult and mysterious parenting thing – that Noah's really struggling with the presence of his newfound father in his life all of a sudden.
He gazes over at his somehow already covered in chocolate daughter and grins as he reminds himself that – despite all his doubts about his place in her life, despite all of the years and milestones and memories that he missed, despite the hard days and challenging moments they're still working through – he's a damn lucky man.
"What if the school you go to has Morgan there?" he asks as he reaches out and gathers a spoonful of ice cream for himself.
She stops chewing and stares at him for a long, uninterrupted moment, that almost suspicious look that he's gotten rather used to seeing on the little girl's face – despite it seeming not at all like an expression a child should wear – forcing him to bite at the corner of his lip to stifle a smirk. Her eyes narrow a bit further as she continues to assess him. "Maybe," she finally mutters, her tongue then flicking out to lick at the mess surrounding her lips.
He gives a quick nod and decides not to push any further.
"Daddy," Ava slurs out, a giant chunk of banana sitting on her tongue. He turns his attention back to her, raises his brows in an unspoken, what? She chews her food, swallows thickly and asks, "Can we have pizza for dinner?"
"You're not even finished polishing off that ice cream," he starts, glancing down at the huge dent she's managed to put into the giant banana split. "And you're already asking for more food?"
She nods and stabs her spoon back into the dessert, creeping up the table as she does so. "Yeah."
He cocks his head to look at her legs under the table – both folded up beneath her in a squat, readying for a full stand atop the chair – and he raises a chiding brow. "Sit down."
She continues to lean heavily on the tabletop, but awkwardly unfolds her legs just the same. "But… pizza?"
He grabs a napkin and reaches across the table to swipe away some filth from her face, tries not to smile when her countenance pinches and she lets out a low growl in protest. He does the best he can, recalling that he has some wet naps in his coat pocket – thank you, Naomi for the hot tip – that he can attack her with once they leave. "We'll see."
"Daddy," Ava starts again, her mouth full once more.
"Yeah, baby?"
Without looking up at him, she says simply, "We need cookies."
He laughs and shakes his head. "We don't need any cookies."
"Yeah," she argues, now swirling her spoon through the melted ice cream in the dish. "Because… because it's Christmas."
The spoon slips from her grip and clanks against the side of the bowl, and Bucky takes the opportunity to tug the remnants of ice cream away from her. "I think we're done," he mutters as he pulls the dish towards him.
"No, but…" she starts again, pressing sticky palms into the tabletop and once again pulling herself up to stand in her seat. "Because… they're for Aunt Nattie."
His eyes, at once narrowed disgustingly on the sloppy mess before him, blow wide and shoot over at the little girl. Almost as a reflex, he utters a command to, "Sit down."
She pounds her hands angrily into the table. "Daddy, we need cookies!"
"Okay," he mutters, leaning over and pulling her from her chair, tucking her into his lap, and popping open a wet nap all in a single, swift motion. He begins working at her hands first, wiping them clean while asking, voice soft and slow, "What kind of cookies?"
"Um," she hums out, tugging the napkin away from him and rubbing it over her fingers on her own. "She likes the white ones. But we have to make them. And we have to make them… snow-peoples. She likes snow-peoples."
He smiles fondly as he reaches into his pocket to pluck another nap, this one for her chocolate-smeared face. "Snow-people sugar cookies," he says, almost to himself.
"Yeah." She shakes her head wildly and sputters as he tries to wipe her mouth clean. Once he's done, she goes on to explain, "Then we gotta to send them to the stars."
He nods, tosses the spent napkin onto the table, and blows a long breath out of his nose. "Because Aunt Nattie is in the stars…"
"Yeah," she says, the word sounding certain and casual, not at all bothered by – or perhaps truly cognizant of – the fact that she's talking about sending Christmas cookies into space for a dead loved one. "Rocket goes there. He can take 'em."
His face twists in confusion for a moment. Rocket? Oh, yes. The space raccoon. He repositions her a bit on his lap and reaches up to pet at the thick curls sticking out in a wild halo from the constant on and off of her hat all day. "I don't know if we'll see Rocket before Christmas, baby doll."
She shrugs and tries to shake him off her, whipping her head to move the hair from her face on her own. "Then… FedEx."
He barks out a sudden laugh and squeezes her tight as the chuckle gets huffed into her hair. "Yeah, okay, baby," he agrees, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. "We'll FedEx Aunt Nattie some cookies for Christmas."
They continue to sit for a moment more, Ava prattling on about the icing colors they need to use – She likes blue and red and black – and which sprinkles are best – only rainbow – and Bucky keeping her wrapped up in his arms, his chin resting on her head as he listens. His eyes peer up to take in the shop yet again, this time his gaze lingering a bit more calmly, his mind more subdued, even as the place continues to buzz around them.
It's then that he sees her. A small, blonde woman at a table across the way. She'd had her back to them before, he remembers. He remembers seeing her oddly familiar swath of hair, the thick ponytail moving back and forth as she laughed along with the two other women at her table. Now she's turned. Facing them. Watching them. Smiling from the other side of the shop.
He recognizes her immediately. Once he's able to take in her face. Even after years, it takes him little more than a glance to plainly see that the woman across the shop is the same one who almost got his wife killed. The one who sold her out, gave her up to a lunatic, caused her to be taken and imprisoned… tortured for months.
Sarah Atkinson.
Here. Sitting in the same ice cream parlor as he sits now. Smiling sweetly at him… and at the little girl in his lap.
"We have to go," he says, voice too low, too rough and demanding to be used with Ava. But it comes out all the same. He gathers their coats, swiftly – harshly – pressing the little girl's arms inside her sleeves despite her protests.
"Da-ddy," she whines, lurching from his lap in an attempt to retrieve her felled hat. But his arm tightens around her like a boa constrictor as she pitches to the side, causing a startled squeal to burst out of her. He gathers her hat and shoves it in his pocket before hoisting her high, holding her close as he somehow manages to get his coat on as well. She struggles against him, pushing at his chest. "Nooooo."
"Stop it," he tells her – voice once again too harsh for his baby's ears – and he swiftly rises and makes a beeline for the door.
"Noooo," Ava whines again, this time tears painting her tone with a confused sort of anxiety. "You stop."
The sound of her voice – and the small shudder of her body in his arms – causes him to stop short, just shy of the door. He looks down at her, sees both fear and indignation in her eyes, a perfect reflection of an expression he's seen on her mother's face more than a time or too.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out her hat, places it in her trembling hand. "I'm sorry, baby," he mutters, tone soft but anything but calm. "I'm sorry. But we've got to go." He gives her a small, crooked smile and nods. "Put on your hat."
They're almost out the door, his bag-bound hand just about to reach for the handle when someone calls out from behind. "Oh, hey, hang on," he hears, the voice holding a familiar soft twang. He turns, slowly, every muscle in his body suddenly tensed and taut, rubber bands all about to snap. Ava lets out a tiny, disgruntled groan as his fingers tighten around her hip. "Hey, sorry," the petite blonde says, a wide smile stretched across her face. She holds up a bag, one of the parcels he and Ava had carried in. "I think you forgot this."
Bucky's jaw clicks, his gloved metal fingers twitching and gripping the other bags. He raises his hand and unravels a single finger from the tight fist, an unspoken invitation to place the forgotten bag in his grip.
The woman obliges, her grin slowly fading. "Um," she sputters, rocking back on her heels. "Sorry. I'm sorry if you… I know I was staring." She chances a glance over at Ava, her smile brightening once again, nose crinkling as she offers a jubilant beam at the little girl. But it falters the moment she looks back up at Bucky and sees his stiff, unyielding posture, all sharp, dangerous edges where just a moment ago resided a softness to his eyes and a relaxed pitch to his chin. She clears her throat. "Sorry. I just… I thought you looked familiar. I…" She tosses her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the women still sitting at the table in the corner. "My and friends and I are just in from Oklahoma and… well, we've all been keeping our eyes peeled for celebrities. So when I saw you… and I thought I recognized you… well, I guess I kept staring. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
He swallows thickly, the lump in his throat almost too great to allow the saliva down. "You didn't," he says, tone terse, voice deep. He gives Ava a little bounce, pulling her closer to his chest. He leans for the door, but a large family slips in just as he makes to leave, cutting him off.
"You have the most beautiful eyes, you know that?" he hears in the woman's soft tenor. He looks back slowly, stare wide and horrified as he sees this… monster of a woman smile broadly at his little girl. "Just like your daddy's, huh?" she asks, getting met with little more than a wary nod from his daughter.
He can't wait any longer, sidestepping a couple in front of them and almost hip checking a little kid as he bursts out the door. His fingers cling to the handles of the shopping bags as he brings his vibranium hand up to rest in a tight fist at Ava's back. Tight. At the ready.
"Who's that lady?" Ava asks as they hurry down the street, Bucky trying with all his might to keep from bulldozing everyone on the crowded sidewalk and breaking into a full sprint all the way home. But her question never quite makes it to his ears, her sweet little voice carried off on the cold winter wind and muted to a mere whisper by the deafening hum throbbing through his spinning head.