"Are you sure I'm invited to this thing?"

"Sure. I mean, 'invited'..."

"I knew it." Bucky pulled at his collar and considered yanking off the borrowed necktie. He didn't know how he let Steve talk him into this.

"It's fine, you're my plus one. I ran it by Tony."

"You did?"

The elevator clattered up to the 20th floor, although the motion was too smooth for its old-money antique appearance; the clatter was just for show. What Tony Stark referred to as his "place in the city" and most people now called Stark Tower Central Park West had been fully retrofitted with the latest proprietary tech. Fitting the billionaire's new, humble lifestyle, the building was merely a modest early twentieth century architectural gem, hardly gleaming at all, and definitely not soaring. Just tall enough to see over the neighbors. And not to be confused with the new Stark Tower South, an 1800' spire now under construction in Hoboken, which was the new Chelsea, which was the new somewhere else—by that point Bucky had stopped listening to the cabbie.

"Well, I ran it by Pepper."

Bucky slammed the Lobby button, but nothing happened; the buttons were for show, too. "You and your loopholes."

"It's fine, don't worry. We're all on the same page. Clean slate! Fresh start. New year, new universe."

"How are you so believable even when you're full of shit?"

"Because I'm not full of...it, and we're all going to have a good time at this party, and no one's going to put anyone through a wall."

"If you say so." The elevator dinged as they reached the penthouse floor. "Sounds like a dull party, though."

A robot took their overcoats—an Iron Coatcheck, he guessed, and a good way not to pay your staff—and Bucky hung back in the small vestibule while Steve strode ahead. "You know, 'plus one' is so you could bring a girl," he called. "Not some tagalong loser with no other friends."

Steve turned. "Sure, 'cause you never brought your loser friend along anywhere. Come on, you're being dumb."

Bucky caught up and muttered, "Did it have to be black tie? Did he do it just to be an asshole?"

"Of course he did. Anyway, you look great. Think of it like wearing your dress uniform."

He had kind of liked that, in the old days. Getting spiffed up. But today was not the old days. Bucky fidgeted, pulling on his gray velvet sleeve at the shoulder. "The jacket doesn't fit right."

"Things fit slimmer now."

Steve, the modernity expert. Bucky had experienced the passage of time and progress like a flipbook, stick drawings flickering by in the corner, without ever getting to see what was on the rest of the page. Sometimes he was annoyed at how quickly Steve, coming in quite literally cold, had picked all this stuff up. But it made sense that he had attacked it like a homework assignment, with the zeal of someone who'd spent a lot of his life as an outsider desperately trying to fit in. He guessed they'd both done their time as outsiders now.

The apartment was bigger than an apartment had any business being, but that was usual for this part of town. The room, which was more like a hall, where the party was centered was pretty much what he expected. Shiny wood, a cascading staircase, expensive rugs over marble floors, a roaring fireplace at each end—classic rich person stuff. A tree that had to be twelve feet tall, decorated in crystal; real fir fronds hanging from every doorway, molding, and beam. It smelled like…

...The pines...or were they spruce?...either way they were shelter enough for now. It took a long time for him to get tired, but he was tired now, and the one beside him was exhausted. The snow no longer crunching underneath their boots, but spilling over the tops. And night falling, and the hunters coming, and their trail so plain…

"The taiga..." When he shook himself out of it, Steve was staring at him with concern.

"Buck? You still here?"

"Yeah. Just a flash. Happens sometimes."

"Want to talk about it?"

It would be a good excuse to get out of here. "Absolutely not."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's mingle."

It wasn't a big crowd. "Just family," Steve had said, which meant mostly Avengers and adjunct Avengers, or whatever they called them. So really more of a work party, with most attendees dressed to the nines. A few, like him, had bent the rules. Then again, maybe those were their formal capes. The host and hostess were holding court in the center of the room, in matching understated black, which must have been Potts's doing, since it was the only thing at the party that was understated. It was easy to tell when they spotted Bucky and Steve's entrance, because Stark started rolling his eyes and gesticulating at his wife.

"See?" Bucky hissed.

Steve watched for a minute and then shook his head, smug. He tugged on the hem of his midnight blue tuxedo jacket and straightened his already-straight silk bow tie. "He's complaining that I look better in a tux than he does."

"You read lips?"

"You don't? Heads up, they're coming over."

Tony Stark opened his arms wide, all gregariousness. "Captain!" He tilted his head and said flatly, "Sergeant." Pepper Potts put her hand on her husband's elbow.

"Merry Christmas, Tony." Steve hugged him and kissed Pepper's cheek. "Thank you for having us." He looked at Bucky.

"Oh. Yeah, thanks. It's...real decent of you." Steve smiled in approval, like everything was going really well.

"Well," Stark said, drawing out the word, "It is the holidays, after all. In the spirit of peace on earth and goodwill to men… Sure, eat my food and drink my booze. It's a new world, right? Welcome to it."

Steve appeared genuinely touched. "Thanks, Tony, that's really—"

"Calm down, scooter, we're not gonna be friends."

Bucky silently agreed.

"Well," said Steve, and looked around at the decor. "This is all...really something."

"Subtle, isn't it?" said Pepper.

"You don't like the ice sculpture? She doesn't like the ice sculpture."

Sitting by the bar was a three hundred pound ice Infinity Gauntlet, the middle finger ever so slightly more prominently extended.

"Wow, I...don't know how I didn't see that as soon as we walked in," said Steve.

"It's bragging," Pepper said, obviously not for the first time.

"We saved the universe, babe, we get to brag."

"Hey, so where's Morgan?" Steve asked. He always was uncomfortable with bragging.

"Rehearsing," Stark answered. "We're going to have her do a little song and dance number like The Sound of Music. She's upstairs with the nanny, this is a grownup party."

Steve held up the brightly wrapped package he'd been carrying with him. "I brought her a gift."

"Oh, awesome!" Stark grabbed the box and shook it next to his ear. "I bet it's made of wood."

"I'm sure she'll love it," said Pepper.

"For real, that's very sweet." Stark pointed over his shoulder. "Now I'm gonna go pretend to check that the grazing table is decadent enough before this gets awkward. Gentlemen!"

"It's very decadent," Pepper said, not quite apologetically, before following her husband.

"What's a grazing table?" asked Steve.

Bucky shrugged. "What's The Sound of Music?"

"That one I know. It's a movie. Do you remember—?"

He interrupted him. "Buddy, I don't actually care." Piano music started up, and he saw that another recommissioned IronTM robot had sat down and started playing carols at the baby grand. People were clustered in twos or threes, talking, eating, drinking, while he and Steve were still standing in the same spot. Had he actually forgotten what to do at parties?

He must have looked tense, because Steve said, "Relax. Think of it like going to the canteen. Have a drink. Talk to some girls."

"What girls?"

Steve gestured at the room. "There's Wanda, you could talk to her."

Wanda Maximoff was a stunner in her high-necked red gown, like some kind of spooky nun. It complemented her date, whom she was currently pulling into a doorway and under some mistletoe.

"Seems like she's busy."

"Oh. Well, maybe later."

"He's...a robot, right?"

"No, he's a person," Steve chided. "I mean, not a person person. Sort of a robot, yeah. He's a nice guy." He glanced at them again, and turned away, embarrassed at their public canoodling. "But yeah, let's not bother them now. Who else, who else…?"

"You don't have to try so hard." But Steve kept pointing out attractive brunettes for him to practice socializing on.

A petite, intense-looking beauty was deep in conversation with Doctor Strange. "That's Jane Foster. She's a physicist, so you could ask her about...science stuff." A woman in a shimmery pantsuit was chatting animatedly with Happy Hogan, and Steve said, "That's...I'm not sure who she is. But she looks approachable. Over there with Bruce... Oh, hey, that's Betty Ross. Wow, good for him." A woman with a broad smile and a kind face was taking hors d'oeuvres off Banner's overstacked plate. In his red dinner jacket, the Hulk looked both very festive and like the world's largest valet.

"Look, there's Hill. You could...I don't know...guns? And— Oh." A blonde turned to take a glass of champagne off a passing Iron Waiter's tray. Sharon Carter. Steve wheeled and tried to duck behind him. "I'm going to go, uh, food." He shuffled behind a column and toward the buffet.

Bucky mouthed "Chickenshit" at him as he went. Read that.

He surveyed the conversation cells again, preparing to suck it up and select a target, when the elevator dinged behind him, reminding him how long he'd had his back to the door. He turned, and a short burst of breath escaped him, like after a friendly sock in the gut.

In the vestibule, Natasha Romanoff was shedding her overcoat, handing it off to the attendant with one graceful arm. She paused, probably scoping out the room, but she was framed in the doorway like a full-length portrait in a museum. Her fiery hair was softly waved and curled at the ends, in a style that was familiar to him but probably old-fashioned now. It set off the forest green of her gown—velvet, from the way it caught and absorbed the light—which flowed to the floor but didn't drag. Smart—no chance of tripping in a fight. Her sleeves were gathered at the shoulders and puffed out slightly, a demure touch that contrasted with the deep V neckline that plunged almost to her waist.

She briefly clasped her hands below that waistband, and smiled at someone across the room. His brain took a snapshot, without waiting for instruction or permission, and her gaze darted his way, as if she'd heard the imaginary shutter click. She smiled at him then, a different kind of smile that he couldn't quite read, and he raised his hand lamely. They had run into each other a few times since the big battle, but he still knew her mostly as Steve's friend and that-woman-I-tried-to-kill-a-few-times. She'd sworn that she didn't hold it against him, but he thought that was probably the reason he always felt so off-kilter when she was around. Sure, she was beautiful; but every woman here was beautiful, and beautiful women had never been a mystery to him before.

She glided into the party, and he turned for the bar. If he couldn't get drunk, at least he could respect tradition.

The voice of Stark's AI came out of a speaker on the Iron Bartender's head. "What'll it be?"

"Vodka, neat."

"Coming right up!" The robot leaned in as it served him, and the AI's lilting voice said, "I know who you are, you know." He heard the whir of cameras repositioning and took the warning, thinking maybe he should pocket some silver on his way out just to make it worth her while. He wondered again what had made him agree to show his face in Stark territory.

He finished his drink and ordered a second. "Merry Christmas!" the AI chirped. "What'll it be?" For a second he thought it had glitched, but it wasn't addressing him. It was asking the woman who had snuck up on him again.

"Same," said Natasha, leaning on the bar. "Chilled glass, please." The mirror on the bar back defeated his attempt to look away from that dress.

When they got their drinks, she held hers up, and he realized she was prompting a toast. "Merry Christmas," he offered.

She clinked her glass against his and said, "Happy Holidays. We're all still here." She took a long sip and sighed with satisfaction. "Stereotype, I know. But Tony always brings in the good stuff for a party."

"What do you usually drink?"

"Whatever the occasion calls for."

"I guess that's part of being a spy."

"Or a well-rounded person."

He smiled at that. If she was working him, it was working. He didn't know why she would be, but he didn't know a lot of things about her. This was already one of the longest conversations they'd ever had.

Her hair bounced as she gestured for another round. "Didn't expect to see you at this shindig."

He had expected to see her, he realized now. So maybe he did know, at least partly, why he'd let himself be dragged here in the first place. "Disappointed?"

"Not at all." She smiled. They both noticed Steve approaching, and she said, "Otherwise I'd be looking at this one's sad puppy-dog face all night."

"Well, you know, I've gotta keep him out of trouble."

Steve stepped up to the bar and put an arm around each of them. "Unbelievable lies. Huge lies, both of you. And at Christmas." He hugged Natasha, then stepped back and stared at her, all awestruck and aw-shucks. "Wow. You look incredible. Doesn't she?"

Before Bucky could answer, Natasha cut in with, "Thanks. It's off the rack."

"I don't know what that means, but you look terrific. Like a movie star." He turned to Bucky again. "Doesn't she?"

"Sure," he said, wishing Steve would shut up. A movie star, maybe that was it. Maybe that was why she drew his attention, why she seemed...familiar. Maybe she just looked like someone, some other gorgeous dame from a long time ago. "Sure does."

"Well," she looked down, perhaps embarrassed by Steve's big brother effusiveness. "You clean up pretty nice yourselves." She ran a hand over Steve's lapel. "And you. It's kind of infuriating, actually. You're not even trying."

"I try a little bit," Steve protested.

Then they all ducked as a stream of webbing zipped over their heads, grabbed a sprig of mistletoe off the chandelier, and deposited it onto the banister above Peter Parker and his girl, who rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.

It was only then that Bucky noticed there was mistletoe...everywhere. Not just in that one doorway, and not just on the chandelier, but tucked into garlands and wreaths, set like traps. "Who does this?" he muttered. "Where do you get it? Have you even seen that stuff in real life?"

A booming voice said, "Of course!" and someone heartily slapped Bucky's back, sending him stumbling forward. Natasha's hand landed on his chest, stopping his progress. His focus fell into her wide eyes, slid down her fascinating nose, sunk into her dark red lips pressed together in a reluctant smile. All the while, Thor was going on and on about Yule.

"Many a year I visited Midgard, disguised as a humble beggar, to partake of the Midwinter feasts. Rams were sacrificed in my honor! So many delicious rams. Spiced honey mead! And mistletoe, of course; it's a fertility symbol, you know, that's why the—" He made a hand motion that was probably vulgar to Vikings. "And the maidens! The maidens..." he trailed off in a momentary reverie, then crashed back into his story. "And men dressed as terrifying beasts, dancing around the great bonfires, chanting under their hideous masks to ward off the evil spirits who dwelt in the darkness," his voice rose to a thundering crescendo, drawing the attention of the party, "and lo, they pled to their gods, 'BRING BACK THE LIGHT!'"

After a moment's silence, Steve said, "Playing it up a little, aren't you, Thor?"

"A little bit, yes. Anyway, bringing back the light wasn't really our thing, but we let them think it. What could it hurt, right? 'Bring back the light!'" he said again, this time in a wan, pleading voice, and chuckled. "Great parties, though. But this," he gestured with his champagne flute, "This is nice too, I guess." He drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar. "Now! More of this Gallic elixir!"

That was enough to break up their little party. Natasha adjusted the knot on Bucky's tie, and stepped back. "There," she said lightly. "Better."

He felt himself grin, creaky at first like a rusty bicycle; the kind of grin that had been locked up in the shed for a long time, unused. "Thanks." He'd known it was a little sloppy, but he'd had trouble with the satin fabric slipping through his fingers on his left hand, and had given up. "If I ever have to wear one of these again, I hope you're around."

"Hm," was all she said, and her eyebrows lifted.

Thor muscled between them to wait for his drink, looking from one to the other. "So what's this? Is this happening?" They both looked away without answering. He leaned over the bar and banged on the counter. "Metal man! My libation!"

"Maybe you've had enough, big guy," Natasha said.

"I'm not drunk," he insisted. "This is just my personality. I'm a party guy. I love parties."

"Okay, let's go talk to Jane, then."

"That's right, Jane's here!" He led her away, excited.

Natasha threw a look back over her shoulder, and her profile carved itself onto Bucky's brain, the line smooth and sharp, as if a template were already there.

Beside him, Steve cleared his throat. "So…"

He picked up Thor's forgotten champagne and looked down into the glass. "So what?"

"Is this happening? "

Bucky played dumb. "Is what happening?"

He could see Steve's wheels begin to turn. He was too keen; it was annoying. "Come on, I know what that was. I've seen it enough times before. Like at the canteen, remember?"

Bucky downed the champagne. It didn't affect him, but she was right, Stark did spring for the good stuff. "Pal, even I don't know what that was."

Natasha circulated. She caught up with Rhodey, said hello to Wong, and ran into Happy by the caviar station.

"You're not working tonight, are you?"

"No, I am a guest."

"Don't you have your own family to hang out with this time of year?"

"Oh," he said, lifting another blini to his mouth, "They'd have to pay me."

She found Bruce—he was hard to miss—and he shyly introduced her to Betty Ross, who was instantly likable, with a sweet, friendly demeanor and a firm handshake. Bruce seemed happy, and she was glad to see it, but she didn't linger long.

Tony bumped into her side while she was examining his ridiculous tree. She'd seen him coming. "Agent Romanoff, Merry Christmas."

"Hi, Tony. You really went for it, here, huh?"

"This? This is stately. You should see the one Pepper talked me out of. We would have had to open up the roof."

He was probably planning a reason to open up the roof anyway. The lower floors of the building were already closed for mysterious renovations, the strange noises and coming-and-goings of equipment causing a lot of talk and out-of-joint noses in the neighborhood. But Tony had left the upper floors alone for now, and had lent her the use of an absurdly extravagant four-bedroom apartment to use as a pied-à-terre while she was in the city.

"How's the seventeenth floor?"

"It's lovely, thank you. I'm going to sublet it to a family of six."

"Enterprising, I like it."

"Is Morgan around? I haven't seen her."

"We're going to let her sneak down later. It's more fun that way."

"That does sound fun." It was an honest assessment, but she wasn't sure it came off that way. She was thinking more of "having a childhood" than "being a parent", but she didn't want to see a sympathetic look either way. But it was Tony, so he hid it well.

"So Pa Ingalls never RSVP'd, which was very rude. I assume he's having his own holiday hoedown down in Hooterville."

She'd learned to interpret his references even if she didn't always get them. "Yes, Tony, Clint is with his family. I'm stopping by there later this week, do you want me to bring him some leftovers?"

"No, we've got a Dumpster out back. Actually it's all going to corporate. And Pepper donated an equal amount to the food bank on top of our annual gift."

"Look at you. The founder of the feast."

"Seasonal literary reference, very nice." He reached out and fiddled with a crystal snowflake, moved a silver icicle, adjusted a twinkling LED. All this, in lieu of a verbal segue. "Can you believe that Barnes showed up?"

"I can't believe you let him in the building," she said, testing the direction of the conversation. "You used to want him dead."

"Well, he was dead, so...I guess we all got what we wanted."

"It means a lot to Steve, you know."

"Sure, I know. I'm very magnanimous with my friends. Don't expect to see him at every backyard barbecue, though."

"I didn't expect to see him here," she said.

"Didn't you?" he said, narrowing his eyes like a TV detective.

"What?"

"This whole…" he waved his hand in front of her, "...Rita Hayworth get-up. What's that for?"

She blinked innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

"Come on, Natasha." Before she could plot how to steer away, he threw a spike in the road. "I read your file."

"That's not in my file," she said sharply, and knew immediately she was a fool.

"Got you! I knew there was something going on."

"Nothing that's any of your business. How did you—? I gave you nothing."

"I have a million eyes." A robot waiter swerved its head in their direction.

"That's creepy as hell, Tony."

"Uh huh. Be careful, okay?" He gave her a stern look that he had to know was futile. Then he walked away, moving his finger in an expansive circle above his head. "A million eyes, baby!"

Nat swore in Russian, the best language for swearing, and looked up at the towering silver spruce. The way the decorations glistened in the soft light could almost trick the eye into seeing snow-covered boughs at the top. She plucked a few needles, crushed and smelled them.

Recon; tonight was just supposed to be about recon. Now she might have to move up her timetable.