December 3, 2011

Steve and Peggy sat hand in hand as they watched clients go in and out of the well-appointed waiting room of an attorney specializing in elder law. Beside them, their son-in-law Dave was going through the sheaf of paperwork from his briefcase, his lips moving silently as he compared it to the checklist of documents they'd been asked to bring along to this consultation.

A number of years ago, the Carter family had made renovations to their Winchester home in response to the bad hip Peggy had developed: grab bars, a walk-in tub, a ramp up to the front door. But a diagnosis of Alzheimer's required a different type of preparation.

For the last six weeks, Sarah had buried herself in the latest research for treatment options, while Dave had looked into how Peggy could ensure that her financial and medical decisions would be made by the family members of her choice once she could no longer make such determinations herself. Mike and Tien had also been quick to offer their assistance, and were already in communication with everyone in the family to find out what days and times they might be available to help with caretaking once Peggy's needs became more demanding. In the midst of it all, the grandkids had been alternating among themselves who traveled to the Mirror Dimension to watch over Captain Rogers at the Retreat, an endeavor Beatrisa had taken over, to Sarah's great relief.

In fact, everyone had been so helpful that Steve was feeling a little lost. What was left for him to do? He ached to do something, anything, and he kept trying to, but Sarah and Mike had been gently firm with him: they would handle the practical matters, with the help of the grandchildren. His job and Peggy's would be to make the final decisions on a plan of action, once the rest of the family had done all the legwork to bring them the best options available.

Steve knew why they were doing it, and he knew they were right to do it. The emotional burden of the diagnosis was falling on Peggy's shoulders, and she needed him to be her rock while she came to grips with it. He was ready to be exactly that. He'd had 75 years to prepare for this, after all.

Somehow it hadn't been nearly enough time.

After their appointment with the attorney had ended, the three of them headed back home. Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table reading from her laptop with fierce concentration, but she straightened up and closed the laptop as soon as they walked into the room.

"How did it go?" she asked them, rising to greet Dave with a kiss.

"We got some good advice," Dave said, kissing her back briefly but with feeling. "We can talk about our options tonight, after Mom's had a rest."

"Sounds good. I had a call from Steven while you were gone, and he had some big news," Sarah said. Steve and Peggy gave her their full attention, and she continued: "It's official now: Father Andreassen is leaving Notre Dame. He's been offered the parish in Washington, D.C. And guess what? He's asked Steven to move up there and serve as one of his deacons."

"What does Beatrisa say about that?" Dave asked after a beat. She had lived in Brazil her whole life; would she want to leave the place where she had grown up, the place where she had met her first husband and started a family with him, the place where she had buried him? And what about her mother, who lived practically next door to her and helped her daily with Joaquim and Rita and the twins María and Nícolas, now 8 months old and dangerously close to learning to walk?

"I didn't talk to her for long, but she did say something along the lines of 'whither thou goest, I will go,'" Sarah said with a small smile. "Same thing Steven said when he moved to Brazil for her, actually. Mom, do you want me to make you some tea?"

"No, thank you, darling." Peggy was making her way toward the living room. "I'm just going to lie down for a while."

When she was gone, Steve took a long look at Sarah. She had sat back down to her computer and resumed scrolling through the text of a study on the effect of various diets for Alzheimer's patients. Steve took a deep breath and finally asked her the question that had been haunting him the past few weeks.

"Should I have given you more warning about your mother's condition?" he asked Sarah softly.

"Oh, Dad. I don't think it would have made a difference," she replied, reaching up to put a reassuring hand on his arm. "I admit, it's hard not to wish that Dave and I had a strain of the serum developed for neurodegenerative diseases, all ready to go for her. But we've talked about that so many times over the years, and it just isn't a good idea."

"It's one thing to heal damaged flesh, or a broken bone, or repair an organ defect," Dave put in. "Those things are fairly straightforward, even for conventional medicine; we've just been accelerating the process and improving the outcomes with advanced genetic manipulation and magical technique."

"-but it's another thing entirely to fiddle with something as complex as the human brain," Sarah finished. Her expression was serious. "Considering the danger of what the serum can potentially do, altering the brain could go badly wrong. Even if we'd known what Mom would face someday, I don't think we would have risked it."

Just then Sarah's phone rang, and she glanced at it and said with relief, "Oh, it's Dr. North finally." She hurried into the next room to take the call, leaving Dave and Steve alone in the kitchen.

Steve knew Sarah wasn't only saying those things to make him feel better. Even with Dave's expertise and decades of experience in genetic engineering, he was only just now beginning work on a new strain of serum that he hoped would be able to repair spinal cord damage and help parapalegics walk again. But the spine was a touchy area to manipulate, and Steve had seen for himself how much anxiety the project was giving Dave.

And he knew his son-in-law was pressing forward with it anyway for his sake. The first thing Dave had done when he started the project was ask Steve a series of detailed questions about the exact nature of the injury James Rhodes had suffered from his fall at the Leipzig Airport. He knew Steve still felt some responsibility for what had happened there. And without waiting to be asked, he was simply doing what he could to help.

Steve stood still and studied Dave, who was busying himself with tidying up the kitchen. His son-in-law didn't look quite like the young man who had married his daughter so many years ago. He had put on some pounds, and there was gray threading his brown hair now. He moved a little more stiffly than he once had, and even though he loved getting periodic visits from his children and their young families, Steve had noticed that by the end of the visits, Dave often looked visibly tired and relieved to have his quiet house to himself once more.

In a family full of people with fantastical abilities, Dave had always tended to blend into the background. But now Steve took a moment to appreciate just how crucial he was to the smooth operation of the Prevengers. The entire life-saving work of St. Raphael's Medical Services depended on the hours he continued to put in at the lab, even now that he had passed retirement age. Without question, Sarah's emotional well-being depended on his quiet strength. And all five of their children were who and what they were in part because of Dave's loving guidance. Steve had seen evidence of Dave's resilience in Amanda, his compassion in Steven, his patience in Joe. Not to mention Maggie's gentle parenting and Bram's work ethic. Who would they be without Dave?

And now here he was, taking on additional duties at his age to help care for his even more aged mother-in-law. No hesitation. No complaints. Whenever Steve thought of what Peggy would be like once her Alzheimer's advanced to its final stages, he felt a growing dread. Even his periodic visits to her as a young man had been painful. How much worse would it be to see her deteriorate on a daily basis? To watch the woman he loved slip away from him, month by month, year by year with an inevitability that could not be escaped?

But at least he knew he wouldn't face it alone.

Dave had finished tidying up, and now he noticed Steve's scrutiny and cocked his head at him questioningly.

"Can I do anything for you, Dad?" he asked.

"You've already done so much," Steve said.

"Not all that much. You hanging in there okay? It's been a rough couple of weeks."

"Yeah. I'm okay."

Dave nodded in acknowledgement, but then he came over and gave Steve a good firm hug anyway. Steve accepted it willingly, and gave him a couple friendly thumps in return.

"I've hijacked your whole entire life, haven't I?" Steve asked.

Dave laughed and released him to grin at him, his dark green eyes glinting.

"Ever heard me complain about that?" he asked.

"You're not really the complaining type," Steve pointed out.

"Well, let me tell you something," Dave said, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Before I ever met you, there were really only two things I wanted in life. I wanted to go into the medical field and do something for other people, something that would really make a difference in their lives. And second-"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if imparting a deep, dark secret. "-I was hoping to land a beautiful woman who was too good of a woman to know that she was too good for me." He grinned again. "You were the one who opened both of those doors to me."

"Well, I do what I can," Steve said modestly.

"That's plenty. Listen, I'm going to call Steven now and talk to him about Father Andreassen's offer. You want to join in?"

"Maybe in a minute. I'm just going to check on Peggy first."

Steve walked into the living room to find Peggy settled in the recliner, her feet up and one of her mother's hand-knitted afghans spread across her lap. He tiptoed a little closer to her, wondering if she was already asleep, but she opened her eyes and looked up at him and smiled a little, holding out her hand. Steve sat in the chair next to hers and took her hand in his.

"Sarah took me to see Captain Rogers early this morning," she told him softly.

Steve nodded but said nothing. A week ago, Nick Fury had transferred the younger Steve Rogers from the isolation of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Retreat and set him up in an apartment in Manhattan. The timing had been right, at least from Fury's perspective: by then Steve had gotten a handle on how to use a computer and had made a good start on an intense study of all the history he had missed out on. There was no reason why he couldn't live in his own space now, and in fact Steve seemed to remember he had hinted to Fury that that was exactly what he wanted the day he'd signed his employment contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. Living for weeks in a snowed-in cabin with a bunch of agents who were continually eyeing him for any sign of yet another PTSD-style meltdown hadn't exactly been comfortable.

Of course, Steve knew now that even with the move, S.H.I.E.L.D. had never stopped watching him. Fury had assigned a team of agents, headed up by Sharon Carter, to set up in the apartment below his and note all his comings and goings. They were probably searching his apartment while he was gone, too. Maybe even had bugs installed. He'd never insisted on getting all the details from Sharon the day she had shamefacedly admitted that she had been watching him since long before she had moved next door to him in Washington, D.C. and had her first face-to-face meeting with him.

Steve was honest enough to admit that he had been afraid to find out the extent of the invasion of his privacy for fear he'd never be able to forgive Sharon for it. As it was, he'd barely been able to control his temper the day he'd found out that "Kate the nurse" next door was neither Kate nor a nurse.

It had been even more confusing, in the days after the Hydra Uprising when Steve had been stuck lying in a hospital bed with nothing to do but think about everything that had happened, to catch himself trying to twist the facts to lay all the blame on Fury's shoulders and none on Sharon's. He had been forced to admit that for some undefinable reason, he still liked her. Something inside him was convinced that her "Kate" persona wasn't much of a deception. That the only lie she'd really told him was about her profession.

That, and her failing to mention that she was Peggy Carter's grand-niece, and that she'd been under instructions from her family, and not just Nick Fury, to look after him and report on his progress. But of course, Steve hadn't learned that until much later.

"Your apartment is still so bare," Peggy continued, and Steve gave her his attention again. "You bought yourself a few necessities, and then you just... stopped. No art on the walls, barely enough furniture, not even a houseplant."

"I know," Steve said.

"It isn't the money," Peggy pressed. "Sharon told me you're already getting paychecks from S.H.I.E.L.D. She said it's piling up in your account, and you're barely touching it." The question in her words was clear.

"The money was part of the problem," Steve admitted. "I felt kinda... guilty about it."

"Guilty?"

"It was money I hadn't earned," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't let me work, not at first. And it just didn't feel right, spending money I didn't earn on anything I didn't strictly need."

"Steve," Peggy said, and there was both pain and exasperation in her voice. "You went on a suicide mission to save the Allies from Hydra. I'm fairly certain that sort of sacrifice earns you enough money to buy a few things to make your place into a home."

"I didn't think that way," Steve said gently. "You have to understand: I went from living with my widowed mother in the cheapest apartments we could find in Brooklyn, to batching it with Bucky in some rickety old hole in the wall, to living off Army rations and sleeping on the ground with nothing but a blanket. Then all of a sudden I'm in the bright shiny future, no more Hydra to fight, living in Manhattan in a place that felt like a mansion, eating the best food I'd ever had, more money than I knew what to do with... and all I could think was that everyone I knew from our time, every soldier who deserved that kind of homecoming at least as much as I did, if not more, was-" He stopped suddenly.

"What?" Peggy asked.

He pressed his lips together for a moment. "-lying in a grave six feet under," he finished reluctantly, his voice going softer.

"Oh, Steve."

"It wasn't rational, but that didn't make it any less painful," he said. "Besides, what was the point of trying to make my place look homey? I wasn't home. I knew I never would be."

Peggy sighed heavily, and looked up at the ceiling for a long moment before looking back over at him.

"Well, that can't stand," she said.

He nodded a little. "I knew you'd say that."

Two days later, when Steve walked through the living room on his way to the kitchen to get breakfast, he found Dave and Sarah maneuvering a gently used couch through a portal that had been opened up to an apartment that looked much like the one in Manhattan his younger self had just moved into, though the layout was reversed and it was mostly empty of furniture. Through the portal, he could see his granddaughter Amanda and her husband Rob inside the apartment busily stacking up cardboard boxes with labels like "Kitchen" and "Bedroom" and "Books."

Steve shoved one fist into his pocket and studied the couch as Sarah and Dave paused in the act of pushing it through the portal to turn and grin at him knowingly.

"Boy, that looks familiar," Steve said.

"Does it?" Dave asked in a too-innocent voice, and he winked at Steve before they carried it the rest of the way through the portal.

Dave Capecci took a deep breath and knocked on Steve Rogers' door.

He wasn't in any suspense about whether or not his father-in-law was home - thanks to his niece Sammy's hacking skills, the family now had access to all the information on Sharon Carter's S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued phone, and that included Captain Rogers' trackers.

He was in some suspense about how exactly this interaction was going to go. While he came armed with a rough idea of today's events, Dad hadn't gone into detail in any of the recollections he had recorded from this time period, and Dave could guess why. His father-in-law valued honesty even higher than most people did, and he wouldn't want any of his interactions with his future family to be reduced to actors merely following a script. He wanted it to be real.

The door opened, and then Captain Rogers was standing there, looking at him seriously. Outwardly there was nothing remarkable about his appearance: a fit young man wearing a light blue checked shirt tucked into his khaki pants, his belt buckle perfectly centered, his blond hair combed neatly and parted on the side. He didn't look at all like a guy whose whole world had just been pulled out from under his feet.

But Dave knew him well enough to know that there should have been a liveliness and warmth in his blue eyes that was missing entirely, and he found himself having to push past an urge to offer a comforting hug, and settled for a friendly smile instead.

"Hi there," Dave said. "Sorry to disturb you. I don't think we've met, but I've seen you walk past. I'm your neighbor from down the hall. Number 816." He gestured down the hall.

"Oh." Captain Rogers glanced down the hall in that direction incuriously.

"My name's Dave," he continued. "What's yours?"

He held out his hand expectantly, and automatically Captain Rogers took it for a brief handshake. "Steve."

"Nice to meet you. Listen, I'm sorry to ask this, but I'm actually moving out today, and a buddy of mine was supposed to come and help me haul furniture down to the truck. Something came up and he can't make it. I don't, uh, suppose you're free to give me a hand, are you? I didn't know who else to ask."

There was an awkward pause. Captain Rogers had that look on his face that Dave had seen a thousand times on his son Steven's face, and Maggie's too, for that matter. That look that clearly said, I want to be alone right now. Why won't everyone just leave me alone?

But after reading Sharon Carter's last report to Nick Fury, he also knew that Captain Rogers had not spoken to a soul in 48 hours or more, not unless you counted murmuring "excuse me" to people on the subway or saying "thanks" to the man at the bodega as he got his change. There was such a thing as being too alone, no matter what he thought he wanted right now.

And Dave knew full well that his father-in-law was incapable of refusing to help someone no matter how lousy he felt, which is why he wasn't surprised at all when Captain Rogers finally broke his own awkward silence to say with careful politeness: "Yeah. Just let me get my shoes on."

"Thanks a lot," Dave said with relief as Captain Rogers opened the door wider and then bent down to retrieve his shoes.

"How long have you lived here?" Dave asked conversationally, glancing past him at his living room. It really was as sparsely furnished as Peggy had said: there was a TV on a stand and a single upholstered chair in front of it, with a precariously tall stack of library books resting on the floor nearby. That was it.

Captain Rogers took a moment to tie his shoes before responding. "A little over a week."

"Your place looks half-empty," Dave pointed out. "Aren't you planning on staying?"

A cynical smile touched Captain Rogers' lips as he straightened up — an expression Dave had never before seen him wear.

"Don't seem to have much choice," he said, not bothering to hide the hint of bitterness in his voice.

They walked down to the door marked 816 in silence. Dave fought his instinct to break it with small talk. He knew from long experience that he had just thrown Captain Rogers for a loop by intruding into his solitude, and it would take him a minute or so to switch mental tracks. It was better not to break his concentration in the meantime.

And so when they reached the apartment that Amanda and Rob had helped him and his wife stage, Dave merely led Captain Rogers past the stacks of boxes and down the hall to the bedroom, where a mattress and box spring had been wrapped in plastic for their supposed transport. They each took an end of the heavy mattress, and together they carried it to the big elevator the apartment owners reserved for movers.

They were almost down to the ground floor when Captain Rogers finally cleared his throat and asked: "So how come you're moving out?"

"Believe it or not," Dave said, "I'm getting married."

Captain Rogers did look momentarily surprised, but he covered it well and hesitated only a beat before giving him a sincere "That's great. Congratulations."

"Thank you." The elevator door opened, and for the next few minutes they concentrated on maneuvering the mattress through the lobby doors and up into the moving truck parked at the curb. Dave couldn't help but notice how careful Captain Rogers was not to hold up more than his share of the weight as they managed the bulky load, and it gave him an odd feeling. For so long he had been one of the few people on the planet allowed to see his wife and her family for what they really were. Now he was back to being an outsider.

Together, they slid the mattress to the back of the moving truck, and Dave paused to catch his breath.

"I know what you're thinking," he said to Captain Rogers. "I'm kinda an old buzzard to be getting married now. But it's like they say: better late than never, right?" His eyes softened, thinking of Sarah. "And she was worth the wait."

Captain Rogers held out his hand and helped Dave down from the back of the moving truck. "Somethin' special, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Dave said with feeling as they headed back to the elevator. "Beautiful... lovable... just plain good. Exactly the kind of woman who makes you want to rescue her. Protect her." He chuckled. "Not that she needs it, but she's nice enough to let me try. The truth is, she's plenty strong enough all on her own."

He wanted to say more, wanted to find some way to help Captain Rogers see that he hadn't missed his only chance at happiness, that time could be kind as well as cruel... but he caught a glimpse of the well of pain opening up in the younger man's eyes, and he knew he couldn't push too hard too fast.

So they moved more furniture and moved on to small talk. Baseball, the new skyscraper under construction further down the block, the crazy snowstorm last week that had dumped 8 inches of snow in the streets of New York City. As the pile of cardboard boxes in Number 816 gradually diminished with each trip down the elevator, Captain Rogers seemed to relax a little bit, and at times almost sounded like the Steve Rogers Dave knew.

Finally, they took a much-needed break - at least, Dave needed it - and they sat on the last couch yet to be moved downstairs and opened up a couple of Cokes.

"You know," Captain Rogers said slowly after a minute, looking at the can in his hand, "I used to live in New York City. A long time ago. When I moved back in, a woman from work took me around the city to see the sights."

Dave had a pretty good idea he was talking about Maria Hill. According to Sharon, she had taken charge of Captain Rogers' recovery and often checked in with him to see how he was doing.

"A lotta things looked different," Captain Rogers continued, eyes distant. "Not really like home, not like I remembered it. Kinda felt like... the rug got pulled out from under my feet. You know?"

Dave nodded knowingly. "It's always a little weird, going back to your hometown. All the memories come back, but nothing's the same, and it all feels a little sad."

Captain Rogers looked relieved at the validation. "Yeah. And finally she asked me where I wanted to stop for lunch, and I had a feeling I already knew the answer, but I said, 'I guess a hot dog and a Coke isn't really a thing anymore, huh?"

Dave chuckled before he could stop himself. For a second he was worried he had just offended Captain Rogers, but thankfully, even he was smiling wryly at himself.

"You can get a dog and a Coke on literally every street corner in New York City," Dave pointed out helpfully.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what she said," Captain Rogers said. He looked down at his Coke and smiled again, and this time it came closer to a real smile than anything Dave had seen from him yet today. "Nice to know at least some things stay the same."

"I'll drink to that." They tapped their Coke cans together and did just that.

"You know, you're lucky," Captain Rogers said then, sobering a little. "Not everyone can find a woman like yours. And even fewer can... keep her once they find her." He had to struggle to get the last few words out.

"Believe me, I know," Dave said with quiet firmness. "And you know... even though I sometimes wish I could have won her sooner-"

He realized he had slipped into quoting his father-in-law's own words from one of his comic books, but somehow it felt right, so he kept going.

"-in the long run, maybe it was better that I didn't," Dave said quietly. "When the time came, I was ready for her in a way I wouldn't have been before. And God knows that after a wait like that..." He blinked back the moisture suddenly blurring his eyes. "-I'm never gonna to take her for granted."

A long silence hung between them, but it was no longer an awkward one. Captain Rogers had that well of pain behind his eyes again, but he wasn't avoiding Dave's eyes anymore. The cool distance in his gaze had thawed to one of relief. Here was someone who knew what it was like. Here was someone who understood. There was a flash of connection between them, as solid and real as if they had clasped hands in friendship, even though they were still sitting on the couch with their sodas in their hands.

Captain Rogers finished his, got up and brushed the dust from his knees. "Well, we better get the last of the furniture down to your truck," he said, and now there was a sincere friendliness to his tone rather than mere politeness.

"Actually," Dave said, getting to his feet as well, "there's no room for this couch at my new place. Or those end tables over there, or the bookcase. Do you want to take them for your place? It would save me from taking a trip to the thrift shop."

There was only a slight hesitation. "Are you sure you don't need them?"

"Nah, they're yours. You've earned them, helping me haul all that stuff. Let's take 'em down the hall."

And so they moved the last of it into Captain Rogers' living room, and arranged the layout a couple of different ways until they settled on the best one.

"There," Dave said, surveying the results. "I think that works. What do you think?"

"It does look a little homier," Captain Rogers admitted with a faint reluctance, putting his hands in his pockets and studying the room.

"Oh, I've got one more thing," Dave said, remembering, and he went back to 816 and brought back the last cardboard box. "Just some bits and pieces. Stuff my fiancee already has, or doesn't go with her decor. Take anything you can use. Otherwise I'm just gonna throw it away."

Captain Rogers poked around the box halfheartedly, sorting through some kitchen utensils and office supplies before coming up with a tightly-rolled poster, which he unrolled and then gazed at for a long time. He had gone very still.

Dave came up behind him and looked at it over his shoulder. "You like motorcycles?" he asked.

"I used to have one just like this," he admitted slowly.

"Oh, classic, huh? Bet that's worth a lot of money."

"I don't have it anymore. Must be in a museum." Abruptly he rolled the poster back up and added with a hint of the old bitterness: "Where everything from those days belongs."

Dave couldn't help it; he laughed before he could stop himself. Captain Rogers stared at him with a subtle but unmistakable indignation.

"Spoken like a true millennial," Dave told him with a lingering grin. "Just exactly how long ago do you think the '40s were? My parents are from that era. I'm pretty sure they're not interested in living in a museum. Or my in-laws, either. I'm actually moving in with them after the wedding. Me and my wife and the in-laws, all in the same house. That's the plan."

Captain Rogers stared at him again, but this time he looked so surprised that he forgot to maintain his grim mood.

"You're gonna move in with your in-laws?" he repeated in vague disbelief.

"Yeah."

His eyebrows went up slightly. "Sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," Dave said with a grin. "They're the salt of the earth. And let me tell you something: I wouldn't have it any other way."

They put up the poster over the couch, where even Captain Rogers was forced to admit that it looked like it belonged there.

December 25, 2011

It felt strange to leave home on Christmas Day, Sammy thought as she watched her mother open a golden portal in the wall of her family room, and she glanced back at her family, still in their pajamas and sitting amid an explosion of torn wrapping paper, opened stockings and stacks of new presents. Wong and Hope - each of them with half a dozen Christmas bows stuck to their unbrushed hair - were fairly dancing with eagerness as they waited for Saul to unpack the parts for the robotics kits Santa had brought them. The scent of cinnamon hung in the air, and Christmas songs were playing on the radio.

"Bye, Mom!" Wong shouted, noticing her looking back, and ran over to give her another hug. "How long will you be gone?"

"Not long," she assured him, giving him a quick squeeze and a kiss on top of the head. "I just need to tell Grandpa Merry Christmas, and then I'll come right back, okay?"

"Like, 5 minutes?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Maybe a little longer than that. As soon as I'm back I'll help you put that together, okay?"

"No. I'm gonna put it together all by myself." Wong always had been fiercely independent about tasks like that, even when he wasn't really ready to do it by himself. Teaching him how to tie his own shoes a few years back had been a master class in learning the art of patience. Saul was in for it over the next hour, Sammy thought with a hint of amusement, and she met her husband's eyes and raised her eyebrows, smiling slightly as she thought, Better you than me.

Saul knew exactly what she was thinking, and sent her back a characteristically calm I got this expression. "Good luck, honey," he said. "Tien, you want to stick around for babka once you've got her on her way? It'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Oh, I was hoping you'd say that," Mom said promptly, and Saul grinned at her.

"Love you all. Be right back." Sammy waved at her family before picking up her cases and carrying them through the portal, followed by her mother with her sling ring.

They emerged into a maintenance room in the chilly underground of New York City's subway system. No one was there; they had correctly guessed the workers weren't likely to show up on a holiday unless there was a problem.

"Good luck," Mom said, keep her voice down and giving Sammy a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the maintenance door for her.

"Thanks, Mom." Sammy took a fresh grip on her gear and strode out into the underground passage. She turned a corner and joined the trickle of people heading toward the platform.

It was cold enough down here that she was glad she had borrowed Natty's red scarf and hat after all. She usually liked to wear more subdued colors, but her sister had insisted that for this mission, she would need to look festive to catch some attention, and Sammy had been forced to admit she was probably right.

It didn't take her long to find a good spot to set up her instrument. Busking was legal here, as long as the performers didn't block any routes or play too loudly, but it felt oddly transgressive to be doing something like this on public property. Definitely not something that would have normally occurred to her. But these were not normal times.

Sammy unfolded the stand for her traveling keyboard and set it down on the cement... and promptly knocked it over as she turned to get the keyboard out of its zippered case. A small knot of men loitering in the subway tunnel turned to look at her, and one of them laughed raucously at her clumsiness. Taking a deep breath, Sammy forced herself to slow down and move more deliberately as she set up her instrument and speakers and a little festive display in front of it all. She could admit it to herself: she was nervous.

It was strange to be preparing for a mission in which she would actually come face-to-face with a target. Always before, her work for the Prevengers had happened behind the scenes, tapping away on her computer, creating false identities for the family or hacking into databases or setting up security systems for everyone's homes. Work that didn't require her to talk to anyone while she was trying to concentrate on something important: an introvert's dream. None of that fieldwork spy-stuff that her sister Natty and her brother Harrison clearly enjoyed so much.

It was why she had been both excited and nervous to accept this assignment. On the one hand, she would only have to face Grandpa, and that was far more comfortable to contemplate than dealing with strangers. And yet in a way, this version of her grandfather was a stranger. He certainly didn't know Sammy, and she only knew of "Captain Rogers" by reputation. She wasn't really sure what to expect.

A train roared past, drowning out all other sound, and when it came to a screeching halt, hoards of people got off and began filing past Sammy and her keyboard. It wasn't hard to spot the tourists: they tended to look lost and overwhelmed as they meandered around the area, looking for signs to point the way to Times Square and jamming up the passageway to the obvious annoyance of the locals who just wanted to put their heads down and barrel straight to their destination without delay.

None of these people would be Captain Rogers; a glance at her cell phone propped up on her music stand told her that he was still two stops away.

Some of the people looked at her a little oddly as they walked past, and belatedly Sammy remembered that she was a busker and she really ought to be performing, and not just staring at the crowd lost in her thoughts. Clearing her throat vigorously, she played the intro to "Deck the Halls" and then began to sing. Might as well get warmed up before Captain Rogers got here.

Almost no one looked at her even now that she was playing, though, and the little bucket she'd put on the ground to complete the busker disguise stayed empty as she approached the end of the song. Gradually Sammy realized that her soft voice was being swallowed up in the noise and the bustle of the subway. She wasn't accustomed to performing in this kind of chaotic venue; mostly she played at home for her own family, and occasionally at church, where the congregation was always respectfully attentive.

This could be a problem.

Resolutely, she started up another song, "Winter Wonderland," and this time she focused fiercely on taking deep breaths from the diaphragm and projecting her voice to her utmost ability. It felt unnatural, even embarrassing, to be belting out like that, but she had to make herself heard or this wasn't going to work.

It seemed to help. Now people were starting to look at her as they strolled past, and a young couple paused to listen for a little while and throw in some money before walking off. Better and better.

A proximity alert flashed on her phone as she approached the end of a third song, and she felt her heart begin to thump with anticipation as her ears picked up the approach of the next train. This was it. He was coming.

She spent a few precious moments praying that she'd manage to get this right.

The train came to a screeching halt, and the next flood of people got off. Sammy kept her eyes fixed on the faces flowing by, letting her fingers play the keys automatically as she strained to spot any familiar faces.

A man in his mid-30s, dressed inconspicuously in a dark puffy coat and a knit cap pulled snugly down over his ears, was wearing a slight frown as he navigated the crowd, straining to see something just ahead of him, and in a flash Sammy recognized him as one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had been assigned to assist Sharon Carter in tailing their target whenever he left his apartment. Heart in her throat, she followed his gaze, and spotted him at last: Captain Rogers.

He blended in with the crowd surprisingly well for someone who ought to be a celebrity in this city, his head ducked down a little and his fists thrust into his jacket pockets, walking with the same business-like gait as the other locals. His concentration was clearly somewhere other than the here and now — his expression distant and a little sad — but he navigated the crowd with the deftness of someone who had a lifetime familiarity with New York City crowds and no longer needed to think about how to avoid collisions.

A sudden urgency rushed through her as he approached her, and Sammy kicked her speaker volume up to the max and began to play a new song.

This time it wasn't the type of holiday song people typically heard while they were out and about for their Christmas fun — it was a lullaby and a lament, much too slow and melancholy for that — but this time she only needed to capture the attention of one man, and so she projected her voice as best as she could in his direction, hoping she would be able to break through not only the noise of the subway but also the walls of his solitude.

"Oh sisters too, how may we do for to preserve this day, this poor youngling for whom we sing 'bye bye lully lullay'?" she sang, her voice reverberating across the tunnel as the centuries-old phrasings flowed off her tongue readily, thanks to long familiarity.

Captain Rogers froze mid-stride so abruptly that the man walking behind him bounced off his back and cursed loudly. Sammy winced; he was even more solidly built than the rest of them were, and that had to hurt.

"Tourist," the man growled, shouldering his way past Captain Rogers as he rubbed his chest irritably, but Grandpa barely seemed to notice. His eyes were busy scanning the area, looking for the source of the music.

Sammy pressed on confidently through the unusual lyrics of The Coventry Carol — a women's lament for the innocent children targeted by King Herod's rage as the Christ-child was taken to safety in Egypt — pointedly fixing her eyes elsewhere as she felt Captain Rogers' gaze settle on her from across the distance. After a few beats, she saw in her peripheral vision that he was beginning to thread his way slowly toward her through the crowd. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent behind him noticed the change in direction, and followed suit.

Finally, Captain Rogers nudged his way past a few stragglers and stood before her. Sammy met his eyes as she moved into the final verse, and it was an electric moment as she realized that this was very first time they were seeing each other. His blue gaze on her was intensely curious, and his head was nodding slowly in time with the music.

As the final notes of her song faded away, he took a deep breath, coming out of a reverie, and then leaned forward to drop some money in her bucket. A short distance away, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent lingered in the tunnel, pretending to look at his phone.

"I didn't think anyone knew that song anymore," Captain Rogers said to her. He looked strangely wary, like he almost dreaded her response. How many times in the last six weeks had he felt compelled to say things like that? How it must stick in his throat, knowing that so many of the things he loved had been forgotten by the world as it had moved forward through the years without him?

"It was my great-grandmother's favorite Christmas hymn," Sammy told him. She was so relieved that she had managed to get him to talk to her that it was difficult for her to remain outwardly calm. She forced herself to speak a little more slowly. "I never got to meet her — she died a long time before I was born — but every year my grandpa asks me to play this for him to remember his mother by."

Captain Rogers' expression softened noticeably. "That's nice," he said. He hesitated for a second, and then admitted almost reluctantly: "It was my mother's favorite, too."

"Really?" Sammy asked, tilting her head at him curiously.

"It reminded her of home," he said. "Ireland. That's where she was from."

"Tell me about her," she said softly.

He looked around a little uncertainly at the steady stream of people now pushing past him to catch the next train, but quickly Sammy angled her keyboard so that he could come stand behind it with her.

"Here," she said, beckoning to him. "So we don't have to shout at each other over the noise."

She was afraid he wouldn't, but after a beat he edged past the keyboard and came to stand next to her against the wall, out of the way of the bustling crowd.

"So what was she like?" Sammy prompted him again. "Your mother?"

"Her name was Sarah," he said softly, eyes dropping downward. "She was a... a good woman. Real good. Always taking care of other people. Never thought about herself. She was..." He swallowed hard. "She was somethin' special."

To her surprise, he had slipped into a heavier Brooklyn accent, something she had only rarely heard him do over the years. But it made sense; here he was so much closer to his Brooklyn days than when he was an older man. He hadn't had time yet to scrub away all the mannerisms that gave him away as someone who didn't exactly belong here.

"What happened to her?" she asked.

"Died when I was 18. Worked in a TB ward. Got hit, couldn't shake it." He delivered the information with the flat tones of someone who had carefully trained himself to say it without emotion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "But I'm sure she's still with you. The ones we love, they're always watching over us. Their spirits live on."

He looked faintly surprised to hear her say that, and said: "That's kinda... an old-fashioned idea, isn't it?" He seemed to have to push through a physical pain to get the words out.

"Not at all," she said firmly, and the relief that crossed his face was plain to see.

Sammy added slowly: "You know, there are times, when I'm playing that song, that I almost think I can feel her presence." Tears pricked her eyes, and she quickly cleared her throat and hastened to clarify: "My... my great-grandmother, I mean."

He nodded in sympathy, and they stood there in companionable silence together, watching the people stream past, until finally he said, "I went to Brooklyn today and left poinsettias on my parents' graves. Maybe they were there to see it."

"I'm sure they were," she said quietly.

She hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "Did you get one for yourself?" His brow creased, and she clarified: "A poinsettia. To brighten up your own place for Christmas."

"I-" He seemed caught off-guard by the question. "Didn't really think of it, I guess."

"You must take after your mother," she said gently. "Never thinking of yourself. But everyone needs a little something for the holidays, right?" She looked down at the miniature live Christmas tree she had draped with tinsel to go next to her donation bucket, and she bent down and picked it up.

"Here," she said, handing it to him. "Merry Christmas."

He opened his mouth and looked like he wanted to object, but after a long pause, he seemed to realize that refusing her gift would be rude, and instead he said "Thank you" politely as he took the tree carefully from her hands.

"You're welcome."

"Merry Christmas." Captain Rogers cleared his throat and added, "And thank you... for playing that song."

She smiled warmly at him. "Anytime."

As soon as he was out of sight, along with his trailing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Sammy deliberately packed up her things and went back to the maintenance room. Her mother was waiting for her, finishing the last few bites of her babka.

"Home?" she asked, standing up and brushing off her hands.

"Winchester first," Sammy said.

Her mother nodded, understanding without needing to be told, and seconds later they were walking into the warmth of Grandma and Grandpa's cottage.

Both of them were sitting in the living room with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Dave, all of them wearing Christmas sweaters and enjoying the crackling fireplace as well as each other's company. When Sammy walked in, Grandpa stood up - a little stiffly - and gave her a warm hug.

"Thank you, honey," he murmured in her ear. "You don't know how much I needed that. More than on any other Christmas."

She hugged him back fiercely. "I've never missed a year since I was 12 years old," she told him firmly. "I wasn't about to miss this one. Not for either one of you."

"You know, I kept that little tree up in my living room for months," he admitted to her, pulling back to look her in the eye.

She smiled deeply and took his hands in hers. "I'm so glad, Grandpa. So... are you ready to hear it now?"

He squeezed her hands warmly. "I wouldn't miss it."

Sammy smiled, and slid onto the piano bench. She started to play, and then, for the second time that day, she sang Great-Grandma Sarah's favorite Christmas hymn for her grandpa.

TO BE CONTINUED