We Were Soldiers
87. Christmas Cheer
"So, who'd you get?" asked Morita.
Bucky dodged a pair of shoppers and fell back beside the shorter man. "Telling you would betray the whole point of Secret Santa."
"C'mon, I'm gonna learn anyway once you give your gift, and I already know it's not me. Besides, you're just as stuck for ideas as I am."
"Actually, I know exactly what I want to get," Bucky told him imperiously. He and Morita had decided—after confirming that neither of them had picked the other out of the hat—to do a little Secret Santa window-shopping. Despite the measure of austerity inflicted by years of war, the windows of Oxford Street's shops were overflowing with goods of all kinds. Apparently, despite rationing and a lack of affordable clothing available to the general public, the well-to-do had considerably more choice. One window showed off womens' dresses, and the price tags read a full year's Army pay.
"I get the feeling we're shopping on the wrong street," said Morita. So, they relocated to a street less swanky, and spent twenty minutes browsing the wares of a local market. "Alright, help me out," Morita said at last. "I got Falsworth. What am I supposed to buy for our fearless second-in-command?"
"A jar of peanut butter."
"Ha-ha, Barnes. I'm being serious here. What if he picked me, and bought me something great?"
"Falsworth is easy," Bucky said. "Remember that training mission last week, one of the 'capture the flag' scenarios? How he was complaining how hard it is to get a decent cup of tea with everything rationed so tightly? I bet he'd enjoy a packet of Earl Grey tea leaves."
"Oh yeah! If I'd realised listening to the guy's complaints would come in so handy, I would've listened a bit harder." Morita chuckled and patted the pocket of his jacket which held his wallet. "Don't believe what Dugan says about you; you're a genius."
"What does Dugan say about me?"
Morita jogged over to the other side of the road and turned back to offer a wave. "I'm gonna go look for someone who sells tea. Thanks again, Barnes." The crowd of shoppers swallowed him up, and Bucky was left alone on the pavement. So much for shopping with company!
Luckily, Dugan was not a hard man to buy for, and Bucky already knew what gift to get. Back in some other life, Wells had won Dugan's tobacco pipe off him in a poker contest, then offered to let him win it back. But Italy had been harsh, steeped in chaos and death, and there had been little time after that for games. The pipe hadn't been in Wells' footlocker when Bucky went through it, which must've meant he'd taken it with him on that final mission. By now it was probably in Nazi possession… or still lying with Wells where he had died.
He put aside the macabre thoughts and began searching for a tobacco store. When he finally found one, it was a sad little affair, its shelves almost depleted of stock. What was available was extortionately priced, but luckily, Bucky had six months' worth of pay he'd barely touched. Maybe while I'm at it, I should try to find something for Mom and Dad, and Mary-Ann, Janet and Charlie.
He shook his head. Even if he could find something suitable for them, it would take months to ship home, and unlike letters, parcels could not be sent by V-mail. Most likely, it would be sent by ship, and be at risk from U-boats. There seemed little point buying presents that would arrive months late, if they arrived at all. No, he would write them a letter, instead. It would still arrive too late for Christmas Day, but it would be better than nothing.
"Can I help you, sir?" the man behind the counter asked.
"I'm looking for a pipe for a friend," Bucky said. "And some tobacco to go with it. I'm not a pipe smoker myself, so you'll have to help me out here."
"Of course. If you don't mind me saying, I notice you're American."
"What gave it away, the accent, or the uniform?" He narrowed his eyes at the salesman. "Why, does that make any difference?"
The man smiled. "Not in the slightest, we accept American dollars as well as British crowns. But may I take it that the friend you're purchasing the pipe for is also an American?"
"That's right. Does that make any difference?"
"Perhaps." The man dipped below the counter, then brought out a glass-topped box of display pipes. Bucky's dad would'a been in heaven right about now. "English gentlemen tend to prefer the traditional briar pipes made by Comoy's, here in London. I have, however, had the discerning American customer or two enquire about pipes more familiar back home, and have arranged to have small, regular shipments of Falcon pipes supplied direct from an American source. They haven't yet caught on in popularity amongst my regular customers, but perhaps your American friend would appreciate a touch of the familiar whilst stationed here."
Bucky nodded as he assessed the pipes on display. The Comoy's definitely looked more like his dad's sort of pipe. Very round. Very traditional. Very heavy. The Falcon pipes looked much more stylish. Not that 'stylish' was a word he would necessarily apply to Dugan. But perhaps appearances weren't everything.
"Which is the best?" he asked.
"Between these here on display? They're all from roughly the same quality range, so there's not that much difference between them. And frankly, telling you things about packing and dottle and cake won't mean very much to you, since you're not a pipe smoker yourself."
He realised, now, that he should've paid more attention to his dad's smoking rituals. When he thought of buying a pipe, he'd been so pleased with himself. Imagined himself handing over something Dugan would be happy to smoke from. Now, he pictured giving the wrong sort of pipe. Something ugly, that Dugan hated. How difficult could it be to buy a pipe?!
He cast his mind back to the last pipe Dugan had owned. He'd been so damn proud of winning that pipe… until Wells had won it off him. It hadn't looked much like a Falcon pipe, though. It was one of those old-fashioned types. Probably been in somebody's family for a couple of generations. If Bucky wanted to get Dugan a pipe he knew his friend would like, he had to get him one like the type he'd lost.
Luckily, there was a similar style on display. One of the Comoy's pipes, a little slimmer than his dad's, but a similar shape to Dugan's lost treasure.
"I think he'd like that one," Bucky said, pointing at the pipe in question.
"An excellent choice. One of our more popular Comoy's, it oozes sophistication."
Again, not a word that Bucky would've applied to the mustachioed, arm-wrestling madman, but perhaps some of the pipe's sophistication would rub off on him. One could only hope.
"Can I get some tobacco to go with that?"
"Certainly. We currently stock a hundred and fifteen different varieties, including—"
"Just gimme what the other American customers took." Choosing a pipe had been hard enough, he wasn't gonna spent the rest of his afternoon agonising over damn tobacco when he didn't even smoke the damn stuff.
Ten minutes later, and shockingly poorer, Bucky left the tobacco shop and clutched the package beneath his arm as he made his way back to the Strand. Apparently, paper was rationed, too, so he'd had to pay extra to have the thing wrapped. Still, if Dugan enjoyed the gift, it would be worth it. And maybe if he liked it enough, he'd finally stop calling Bucky by fairytale princess names.
Stranger things had happened.
Probably.
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The bus deposited Steve a couple of streets from where he needed to be, but the weather was fine, and the walk welcome. He felt out of place in his Army uniform, out here in what passed for quiet suburbia in England, but he had no choice; regs said every serviceman had to wear his uniform when off-base, and he figured he'd pushed his luck a little too much recently to tempt fate again. Besides, the uniform made him seem official, and that was exactly the gravitas he wanted to portray on this 'mission.'
The sprawling houses of Hampstead Heath, each set within their own perfectly ordered grounds, spoke of wealth and refinement. Each driveway held no less than two motorcars, and no two houses were the same size, or shape, or of the same construction materials. The apartment where Steve had lived with his mom could've fit into any of these houses five times over… and probably had room for Bucky's whole house, too! These were the types of houses that had gardens instead of a lawn. Had drawing rooms and solariums. Probably had servants, too.
He'd known Peggy had come from a well-to-do family, but until he found the driveway to her house, he hadn't realised exactly how well-to-do they were. Suddenly, the uniform didn't feel enough, and he kicked himself for not bringing Falsworth with him. The major oozed English charm, and Steve suspected Mrs. Carter would respond better to a request like this from one of her fellow countrymen than a stranger, and an American to boot.
But… no. He had to do this alone. To prove to himself that he could. Just because he didn't really know what he was doing, didn't mean he couldn't try to do it anyway. If he went running to Bucky—or Falsworth—every time he hit a bump, then this thing with Peggy would never be what he wanted it to be. There would always be someone else hanging over them, waiting to chip in with advice. For better or worse, Steve had to do this alone. He had to give Peggy a hundred percent Steve Rogers… and hope his hundred percent was enough.
Steeling himself, he opened the wrought iron gate, closed it behind him, and set off down the drive. He counted the paces to the front door. Four. Five. Six… eleven, twelve, thirteen. Was it an omen that he'd reached the door in thirteen paces? He hoped to God it wasn't, because he could hardly go back and take shorter steps to make it fourteen or fifteen. He was already feeling a little crazy; he didn't need to look it, too.
He paused. Took a deep breath. Rang the doorbell. Waited. Tried not to count the passing seconds. Counted them anyway, until he reached thirty-three, and the door clicked open. Probably took the people inside a while to trek across the whole house and reach the door.
When a face peered around the opening door, he didn't need to be told this was Peggy's mother; he could see the family resemblance. Mrs. Carter's hair was greying around the temples, and she was a little more filled out than her daughter, but there was no mistaking those eyes, that dark hair or the pouting red lips.
"Yes? Can I help you?" the woman asked.
When he realised he'd been staring, he removed his hat and tried very hard not to blush. "Mrs. Carter? My name's Captain Steve Rogers, and I'm with the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
The colour drained from her face as her hand came up to her mouth. "Oh God, Peggy, is she—"
"What? No! Peggy's great. I mean, she's okay. She's busy at work right now, and she… doesn't know I'm here. I'm sorry if I worried you."
At last, a little colour returned to her cheeks. Steve promised himself that, one day, he would stop putting his foot in his mouth. He should'a realised what somebody from the SSR turning up on her doorstep without Peggy would've looked like.
Mrs. Carter regained a little composure, but her eyes were still wide with shock, and Steve suspected she would benefit from a comfortable chair and a glass of water.
"May I come in, Mrs. Carter? I was hoping to ask a favour of a somewhat personal nature. Perhaps you'd allow me to make you a cup of tea, after the fright I gave you?"
"Yes, of course, where are my manners? Please do come in. Any colleague of Peggy's is welcome in this house."
Steve made sure to wipe his feet on the doormat before stepping into the house. The last thing he needed was to track dirt across the pristine beige carpet. Just what kinda crazy person put beige carpets in their hallway?!
She took him through the house and into a sitting room with an expansive view of the gardens. This place reminded him of Central Park, back home. An island of peaceful tranquility in the centre of a bustling city. London city centre was less than thirty minutes away by bus, but it might as well have been thirty hours.
"Please make yourself comfortable," said Mrs Carter. Her sweeping hand indicated the wooden-framed sofa. "I'll fetch a pot of tea."
He tried the sofa. It was hard, and the matching armchairs didn't look much better. He'd noticed that about the furniture in the hotel, too. The English seemed to prefer thin upholstery over hard wood frames. It was a far cry from the Barnes household, with its sofa comfortable enough to sleep on, and armchairs so padded that sitting on them was like sinking into marshmallow.
A collection of photographs framed on the mantelpiece caught his attention and drew him towards them. They were family pictures. Most of them showed Mrs. Carter and the man Steve guessed to be Mr. Carter standing arm in arm with two children posing in front of them. Looking at the pictures was like seeing a time-line of Peggy Carter's life. Here she was as a babe in her mom's arms, and over there a toddler propped up by a dark-haired boy who must've been her brother. Then she was an older girl, her hair captured in pigtails, and over there dressed in a school uniform, her hair tamed in a plait.
The last picture in the line was of a greying Mr. and Mrs. Carter posing beside a plain-faced Peggy wearing a respectable dress, with their son beside them, standing proudly in his British Army uniform. They must've known when he put the uniform on that it might be the last thing he ever wore, but they managed to put their fears aside to smile widely for the camera.
The rattle of teacups snapped Steve out of his photographic examination. Mrs. Carter carried a tray into the room, a teapot and two cups sitting atop it. "I hope you don't take sugar," she said. "We don't have any left. I could fetch a little honey from the storeroom, though, if you like."
"Thank you, but I don't like my tea sweetened," he said. In truth, he didn't drink tea at all, but Monty had told him drinking tea was a very important English ritual, and he wasn't about to make any further faux pas with Peggy's mother. He would drink as much tea as was polite.
She poured two cups and handed one to Steve. He felt ridiculous holding the tiny china thing; like Jonathan Swift's Gulliver suddenly thrust into Lilliput. So delicate was the cup that he held it as he would a butterfly, taking great care not to crush it. The tea itself was bitter to the taste, but not as bitter as coffee without milk. Even before his mom had died, times had been lean. Milk was better used in oatmeal than coffee, so they often went without.
"So, Captain Rogers, what brings you all the way to Hampstead Heath?"
He put his cup down. While he was still getting used to limiting his newfound strength, he had to concentrate on it. Couldn't afford to let one stray thought cause his fingers to tense and shatter the cup.
"As you know, it's nearly Christmas, and I wanted to do something special for Pe—for Agent Carter. Before I became a soldier, I was an artist. I've heard that Peggy used to have a little dog that she loved very much, and so I thought if I could find a picture of the dog, I might be able to draw it and frame it for her." Mrs. Carter gave him the strangest of looks. He quickly ran his hand through his hair, and then smoothed it down. "I know it might sound crazy, me drawing a picture of somebody's childhood dog, but your daughter doesn't strike me as somebody who puts much stock in token gifts, and the rationing system being what it is right now, I don't think I could find anything that she'd truly enjoy."
"I think I do have a photograph of that dog," Mrs. Carter said at last. "I'll go and fetch my album, and we can see if the picture's usable."
She was only gone for a few minutes, and when she returned, she carried a hefty looking tome clasped to her chest. Steve made some room on the table so she could put it down.
"Is that your husband?" he asked, gesturing to a photo that was similar in composition to the ones on the mantelpiece.
"Yes. Harrison works for the War Office." She sighed and turned the page. "In hindsight, I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised that Peggy joined the SSR. She always had a nose for adventure, even as a little girl. Ah, here we are."
The picture she pointed at was exactly what Steve was looking for. In fact, it was better. It showed Peggy and her brother sitting with the dog between them. It was Christmas, and they sat beneath a grand spruce tree, a stack of presents around them. A happier time, before war had torn their family apart.
"Peggy loved that dog," said Mrs. Carter, removing the photograph from beneath the protective film. "It broke her heart to leave him behind when she went to boarding school." She held the photo out to him. "You may borrow this, but I'd appreciate its return once you're finished."
Steve accepted the picture and carefully stored it within his jacket's inner breast pocket. "I will make sure this gets back to you. I promise." He glanced down and spotted an empty space in the album's pages. "You have a couple of photos missing?"
"Oh, those were of Peggy and Fred. She made me remove all pictures of him after she broke off her engagement to him."
The world spun around Steve as he sat staring at the album. "Engagement? Fred?" Surely he'd misheard. Surely Peggy would've mentioned it if she'd been engaged to somebody in the past. Wouldn't she?
"Fool girl was so full of grief over Michael that she ran away from her promises, straight into the open arms of the SSR." Mrs. Carter shook her head and closed the album before looking up to Steve's face. "She should've married. Settled down. Started a family. Instead, she let Michael fill her head with thoughts of war and espionage, and took up his cause in some silly attempt to honour his memory."
Steve sat a little taller, and used a little of the gentle force that'd been so effective against Private Lorraine. "Your daughter is making a difference, Mrs. Carter. She's saving lives." And she was the bravest, most talented woman he'd ever met. He wasn't going to let anybody disparage her choices, not even her own mother.
"She was saving lives at Bletchley," Mrs. Carter countered. "Every code she cracked saved thousands. Possibly hundreds of thousands. There is more to war than carrying a gun on the battlefield. I've already lost my son in combat; I don't want to lose my daughter, too."
"I can't speak for Peggy's motives in joining the SSR. But I joined the Army because I wanted to keep people safe. I don't have much in the way of real family back home. Dad died in the Great War, and Mom a few years ago from TB. But the family and friends I do have, I'm going to protect with my life. If I was in her position, I know I wouldn't be able to live with myself if the war was lost and my family harmed. I'd always wonder if I could've done more. And I think it's better to fight, than to live with that uncertainty."
"The war has already taken my son, Captain Rogers. It doesn't need to take my daughter. And nobody, not even that dreadful Colonel Phillips who fills her head with nonsense and sends her running towards danger, can promise me that she'll come home after this is done."
What could he say? She was right. But that didn't make Peggy wrong for what she was doing. As good as she may have been at breaking codes, she was an excellent agent, and she was changing the world for the better. Besides, marriage? Children? She'd never given any indication that she wanted those things.
She'd never mentioned that she'd once loved someone so much that she'd gotten engaged. Had she looked at 'Fred' the way Steve sometimes caught her looking at him? Had she smiled at him, encouraged him, made him feel like the luckiest man in the world with a mere glance of her eyes?
Had she gone dancing with him? Had there been… fondue?
No, that was stupid. And it was none of his business. Peggy's life had not started when Steve Rogers wheezed his way into her sight. Before him, she'd been a woman with her own mind and her own heart. She had the right to love whomever she chose.
"All I know is," he said, conscious of Mrs. Carter's expectant wait, "while men like Hitler are out there, free to direct their armies, nowhere is safe. Not the front lines, not here, not even the streets of New York." Not even the most secret of SSR installations. "We're all in danger, Mrs. Carter. Personally, I'd rather face that danger with a gun in my hands and a half-dozen brave men beside me. There's no honour in war, but I can find some in the knowledge that any sacrifices I'm asked to make will help the world become a safer, freer place."
Her expression softened momentarily, something like gratitude or pride slipping through the cracks in her stern mask. "You sound like just like Michael."
"I take that as the greatest compliment anybody could ever pay me. And I thank you, for the photograph. I hope I can do it justice."
She showed him to the door and wished him well. Before he'd even made it halfway up the drive, she called after him.
"Captain Rogers? I am truly proud of what Peggy is doing. I can't tell her that, of course—she might take it as approval of the dangers she undertakes. But I'm glad she has grown into a woman who can stand on her own two feet. That's all any mother could ever ask for."
Steve nodded in understanding. He just wished it wasn't so hard for her to tell her daughter these things. He knew better than anyone how important it was to make peace with your loved ones while you still had the chance.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
The Fiddle was closed on Christmas Day, but the Strand's manager allowed Steve and his team to take over one of the private function rooms for their own celebrations. Because of the rationing on wood, they weren't able to get a Christmas tree, so they instead decorated a coat-stand with baubles and tinsel that Dernier had somehow scrounged up on the black market. Morita donated a few candle ends that he'd been storing for a rainy day, Monty brought out some of his dwindling supply of tea, and Dugan's contribution was a hearty meal of PB&J sandwiches. Bucky and Jones had put themselves in charge of entertainment, and they produced a gramophone and several records; the team ushered in Christmas to Glenn Miller, which was pretty traditional as far as the Barnes family were concerned.
Steve paced in front of the window, his super-hearing strained for a pair of heels clicking their way down the corridor. He'd invited Peggy to join them, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, he wished he'd met her privately. All of the Secret Santa presents were piled beneath the coat-stand-tree, including the framed picture that Steve had put the finishing touches on last night and wrapped as neatly as he could in brown paper. He'd invited her to help her feel like part of the team, only realising after he'd made the offer that he'd have to deal with the public fallout of her potentially hating the drawing he'd made for her. What if it made her cry? Mom had often cried over thoughts of Dad. What if seeing Michael and the dog made Peggy break down in front of the others? She definitely wouldn't appreciate that.
A hand slapping his shoulder made him jump out of his skin. A nefarious Bucky-chuckle swiftly followed.
"Bit jumpy, pal."
"I just hope she likes it," he replied, his gaze betraying him as it wandered over to the wrapped frame.
"Of course she'll like it, it's amazing! You're a great artist, Steve. If you ask me, your talents are wasted as a soldier."
Steve could feel his ears turn pink at the high praise. It was true that the picture was one of the best works he'd ever done, but that didn't mean Peggy would like it. Perhaps he should've gone for something less personal after all.
Too late. He heard the click of heels. Could already picture her striding towards the function room door. Could practically smell her perfume. It wasn't as if he could even switch the labels with the present he'd brought for Bucky, because just what the heck would Bucky do with a picture of Peggy as a child?
Bucky nudged him forward, and Steve floated dream-like towards the door. He opened it at just the right moment to surprise her; the shock faded quickly from her eyes, and just as Steve opened his mouth to speak, she said, "I'm so sorry. When I told him where I was going, he insisted on coming along."
"Who—"
"Are those PB&J?" asked Howard Stark. He hovered behind Peggy, peering over her shoulder at the tray of sandwiches. Before anybody could respond, he pushed his way past and made a beeline for the food.
"Oh." Steve couldn't help the flat despondency of his voice.
"I would've told him that I was going out to meet some girl-friends for Christmas," Peggy explained, "but that probably would've made him even more determined to come with me."
"It's okay. If I'd known, we could've arranged a Secret Santa gift for him."
"What would you buy for the man whose only wish for Christmas this year is a particle accelerator?"
"A 1941 edition Elvgren Girls calendar." Bucky stepped into the conversation and gave an appreciative smile for Agent Carter's dress. Only then did Steve realise it was the same one she'd worn that night at the Fiddle. The one that'd turned heads. The one in which she'd mentioned dancing.
Steve's mouth went dry at the thought.
"That's what you buy the man who has everything," Bucky summed up.
Peggy rolled her eyes. "At any rate, Howard will hopefully be distracted by the first pretty girl walking past the window and will find some alternative way to entertain himself."
"Captain, should we get this show on the road?" asked Monty. "I can't speak for the others, but I'm itching to find out what fine gift my Secret Santa has brought along for me."
"Sure. Bucky, since this was your idea, why don't you do the honours and go first?"
"And I want everyone to open their gifts slowly," said Freddie. He held up his camera. "I need to get some good reaction shots. Don't worry, these won't go to the brass, it's just for posterity."
"Okay," said Bucky. He made his way to the would-be tree and picked up the present labelled for Dugan. "Merry Christmas, you arm-wrestling lunatic."
Freddie managed to get his shot as Dugan tore through the paper, capturing Dugan's grin as the big man held up a box with a pipe in it and an accompanying pouchful of pipe tobacco. "Why thanks, Mrs. Claus, you shouldn't have!" He ran his fingers over the pipe and stuck the end in his mouth. "This is even better than my last one!"
In the end, everybody was happy with their gifts. Monty got a box of tea from Morita, which he said was 'very well thought out.' For Freddie there was a personal photo album and a tube of lens-cleaning solution. Jones got a collection of Dixieland records, which he insisted on playing as the rest of the team opened their presents. Morita came away with a selection of English chocolates and a brand new hard-cover edition of a book Steve hadn't even heard of, and Dernier got a new writing set, including a silver-nibbed pen. Steve didn't need to be handed his present by Dernier to know that the gift was from the Frenchman. Nobody else would've got him a selection of strange cheeses and a bottle of something red and French-sounding. For a moment, Steve wondered if he was being punished; then Peggy complimented the gift and told Dernier how much she liked French brie. Suddenly, a world of possibilities opened up to him.
By comparison, the gifts Steve had got for Bucky and Peggy seemed underwhelming. He wished he could go back and do it over, to get additional gifts, but it was too late. And he couldn't stall any longer. Only two presents remained. Time to bite the bullet, and hope that if Peggy didn't like her gift, he could make it up to her in brie.
"And here's mine, for the organiser of our Secret Santa," said Steve, collecting the present he'd left beneath the coat-stand-tree earlier and handing it over to his best friend. "Merry Christmas, Buck."
Right then, Bucky proved that although the war had changed him, it hadn't changed him too much. Instead of tearing into the present, he sat with it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, letting the suspense build. Just like he did every Christmas, ever since he was a little kid. And finally, when the anticipation had built, he carefully removed the layer of protective paper to reveal the heart of the gift. The leather-bound journal was the best Steve had been able to buy.
"I'm speechless," said Bucky, opening the journal to its first blank page. "But as soon as I find words, I'll be sure to write them down."
"I bet they go something like, 'Dear diary, last night I drank a lot of whisky and today I stayed in bed till two in the afternoon,'" Dugan joked.
The others laughed, and started coming up with their own fake Bucky-diary-entries. As hilarity ensued, Steve sidled up to his friend, to explain his gift more quietly.
"I know you've got a lot on your mind, and you don't wanna talk about it, but I figured maybe it would help if you could write some of it down. You know, get out whatever's on your chest. Or, you know, you could write anything. Stories. Ideas. Whatever takes your fancy."
Bucky smiled, and for a moment, the past six months fell away from him. "Thanks, pal. I think I'm gonna fill this journal with only the good things. Then one day, I can show it to my kids, and even when I'm gone, they'll have reason to be proud of their old man."
Steve blinked away his tears. Growing up, such a book written by his own dad would've been his greatest treasure. Trust Bucky to think of something like that.
"Of course," Bucky continued, his jovial tone slicing through the poignancy of the moment, "I'm also gonna include a lot of embarrassing stories about when we were kids. Then they can have a good ol' laugh at their Uncle Steve."
"I look forward to hearing those stories, too," Steve assured him.
"Oh, before I forget, I got a present for you." Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package, no bigger than the palm of his hand.
"Did you just break the rules of Secret Santa?" he asked, faking an aghast expression.
"Yeah, but I wanted to get you something. I saw this and it seemed ideal, so…"
"Bucky, you shouldn't have. Really." Guilt niggled his stomach. He should'a got Bucky something else. Should'a known his best friend wasn't gonna break years' worth of tradition by not getting him a Christmas gift.
Bucky merely shrugged, and pressed the gift into his hand. When Steve tore off the paper, he found a plain box, and inside the box was a fine new compass.
"I saw the state of the thing you were using when you rescued your future team-mates from Krausberg," Bucky explained. He gave Steve a friendly nudge on the arm, but the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. "Figured that rusty old compass was the reason it took you so long. Besides, every soldier needs a dependable compass to help him get back home after each mission."
Home. His apartment in New York hadn't felt like home since his Mom died. He'd spent more time at the Barnes' house… but that didn't feel like home, either. Even though the family did everything they could to make him feel welcome, he still felt like an outsider. In fact, here, with his team, was the most 'at home' he'd felt in a long time. Maybe that was the point. Maybe home wasn't the place you rested your head at nights; maybe it was the people you rested your head with.
He pocketed the compass. "Thank you, Buck. I couldn't have asked for a better gift."
"Glad you like it. But don't you have one last present to give?" his friend prompted.
"Of course. Umm, Agent Carter, this last one is for you." He picked it up and handed it over. Dugan elbowed Jones and Dernier, and an expectant hush fell over the room. The guys had all seen the drawing, because Bucky had a big mouth on him and had dragged each of them into Steve's room to pass judgement. They were all dying to see Peggy's reaction.
Her surprise was genuine, and she was momentarily flustered. Like a good soldier, she covered her surprise well. "For me? But I wasn't expecting an exchange of gifts, otherwise I would've brought something to the party."
"It's not an official present," he told her. "Just something I wanted to do. For you. For… um… as a token of my… ah… well, you'll see."
A half-dozen necks craned as Peggy slowly tore open the paper. Even Stark stood motionless, a PB&J sandwich halfway to his mouth. Freddie lifted his camera, and Steve shook his head at the young man, driving his point home with the finger-across-throat motion. The camera was lowered.
"Oh, Steve!" The wrapping paper fell to the floor as Peggy held up the picture towards the light. "This is wonderful. I knew you could draw, but I had no idea you were such a talented artist! And how on Earth did you manage this with such accuracy?"
"Well, I have your mother to thank for that." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Mrs. Carter had lent him. "I promised I'd get this back to her."
"I'll make sure she gets it." She took the photograph and pocketed it, then turned back to the drawing. Her eyes shone with what he suspected were unshed tears, and when she spoke again, her voice was shaky. "Thank you, Steve. It's been a long time since I've been able to think of Michael without dwelling on his death. And Picasso is so life-like, it's almost like having him sitting in front of me again."
"Well, I hereby declare this Secret Santa business a success," said Stark. He'd abandoned the sandwiches and taken up a spot by the door. "But before we go letting our hair down, I have a present, too. Something we can all share."
He opened the door, and there was one of the Strand's staff, holding a large platter before him. When Steve saw what was on the platter, he couldn't help but laugh.
It was a plate of fondue.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
"Dear Barnes," wrote Danny. Propped up in bed, by the light of the fire, was where he got most of his writing done. It had been a few days since his last letter, and he figured one was now overdue. He had quite a lot he wanted to say, which was always better than the boring recounts of 'milked some goats, churned some milk, waded through snow, chopped some vegetables, heated snow for washing' that otherwise filled his days.
"Well, it's December 25th. I guess that means you and the fellas from the 107th have spent the day exchanging presents and then gambling them away. I wish I could be there. I wish I was a part of it. I feel like I'm missing out, even though I'm so much safer and warmer and drier where I am right now. And the bed. Don't even get me started on what it's like to sleep in a real bed.
"You wouldn't believe what these crazy Italians are like. They don't open presents on Christmas Day. They don't even open presents on Christmas Eve, like some odd folks do. No, they wait until January 6th. Why? Something to do with Epiphany. Here, kids aren't visited by Santa Claus, but by some good witch called… hell, I don't even remember. It's not like it's important. It's not like it's real."
He stopped to re-position the paper on his knee. Though his arm was fixed enough to allow him to write, doing so for long periods of time made his hand start to cramp up. How very out of practise he was! It didn't help that the words he'd written were wobbling around the page, either.
"On the other hand, Christmas here lasts for approximately three weeks, and Christmas Day involves a lot of food. A lot. And rather a lot of alcohol, even though Rosa doesn't normally allow alcohol in the house. And the darnedest thing happened earlier today. A group of travelling musicians came into town. I didn't think anybody travelled far in winter, but apparently these guys had come from the next village to spread the musical traditions. It was all very strange, especially compared to the sedate cheer of New York.
"We exchanged 'stockings' today, which is basically just small treats in a sock. Nuts and candies and fruits and such. Rosa made a cake called panettone which is kinda like Christmas pudding except with the consistency of some strange bread/cake mixture, and with decidedly more citrus. It was pretty nice. Matteo still hates me, but I've been doing odd jobs around the village for money, and I've managed to get enough to buy everybody in the family a present. I've got Matteo a nice pearl-handled knife, so maybe he'll like me a little bit more after that. Or maybe he'll just stab me with it. Hard to say.
"On the mixed-news front, I think Adalina is really starting to fall for me. I try to discourage her, and she thinks I'm being sweet and chivalrous. Clearly she does not know me as well as she thinks, because as you know, I am neither of those things. But how can I let her down without hurting her feelings? She knows I don't have a dame waiting back home. She knows she's pretty, and she knows I do like her. According to the laws of common sense and biology, I should be falling head over heels in love with her. And I wish I could, I really do. But I must be more sick in the head than I ever imagined possible, because when I close my eyes, you're still the only one I see. I've wondered before if maybe you're just a phase, but now I'm not so sure. If that were true, then surely I should forget about you, over time and distance? Surely the emptiness in the pit of my stomach shouldn't grow larger the longer we're apart… should it?
"I have no idea how you'd even react to any of this. Probably with a great deal of understanding and patience, because that's just what you do. And that's also why I write these letters. Because even if you were here, I could never tell you any of this for real. I couldn't heap my crap on you. Not this sort of crap. You're too good for that. You deserve more than my maudlin wallowing. You deserve that flock of grandchildren I told you about. You deserve a family, and a life. You deserve to live an uncomplicated existence.
"So. I'm not there. But this is my Christmas gift to you. Even if our paths one day cross again, you'll never learn any of this. I'll keep my complicated, broken, inappropriate feelings to myself, and I'll help you to live the life you deserve. I know it's not much of a gift, but it's the best I can do. I've never really thought of living my life to do right by other people, but perhaps I can at least do right by you.
"Merry Christmas, wherever you are.
"Love—" He quickly crossed the word out, and replaced it with, "Platonically, Wells."
Finished with his letter, he re-read it a couple of times, then sighed at his own pathetic confessions. "You, Daniel Wells, have reached Carrot-esque levels of patsy. In fact, you've surpassed that level, because at least Carrot did right and found himself a pretty dame to love."
He crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the fire, watching until the very last corner had burnt to a cinder. Perhaps he ought to stop discouraging Adalina. After all, she was a pretty girl, and smart to boot. A guy could do a lot worse. Maybe he didn't have to go back, once the snow cleared. After all, what was back there for him? A court-martial for going AWOL, or a blue-discharge for caring too much for his friend. Either way, he'd be shipped back home in disgrace.
But here… here he could have a good life. He could learn a trade. Settle down with Adalina. She'd take over her mother's cheese business, one day. Or maybe they could travel. She'd love to see Rome and Milan. He could easily find work as an accountant in a big city. He could have a comfortable life.
But… he wouldn't be Danny Wells anymore. Very likely, he'd been declared dead. His family wouldn't miss him, and his friends had probably already finished mourning him and had gone on with their lives. If he didn't go back, he couldn't be Danny Wells anymore, but he also didn't know how to be anyone else. He'd tried being Pierre, but being permanently French just wasn't working out.
He nestled down beneath his blankets and tried to put all thoughts of staying or going out of his mind. Right now, with the snow drifting up to knee-height, he wasn't going anywhere. There would be time to make plans later, once the season changed. In the spring, he could decide who and what he wanted to be.
Author's note: Sorry for the lack of chapter last Sunday; I've been having technical problems. I haven't been able to fix them yet, but I've got a tedious work-around that will suffice for now.