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If Bucky had any lingering worries about Marc's comfort level with a full no-masks get-together, it evaporates when Marc steps into his apartment and says, "Good lord, you live like this?"
"Should've seen it before I got to him!" calls Sam from the kitchen. "At least now he has chairs!"
"I had a chair before!" complains Bucky, taking the covered dish out of Marc's hands and showing him and Layla where to leave their coats and shoes. "I only have one body! Not like I needed to sit on two chairs!"
"I don't know," says Layla, following them in. "Even when..." She glances at Marc. "...ah, Reform Moon Knight was living with only one body, and not exactly rolling in guests...he managed to have more than one place to sit."
"He piled books on literally all of them except the desk chair," says Marc. "So they don't count."
Bucky tries not to look too obviously pleased.
Of course he invited all the Moon Knights. He and Sam are closest to Marc (the one they call Orthodox Moon Knight in the field, because he prefers the traditional mummy-priest outfit), but they're plenty charmed by Reform Moon Knight (the guy who sticks to the three-piece suit).
Not to mention, Reform has this adorable three-sided romance going on with Orthodox and the Scarlet Scarab, so it would be rude to ask two of them over for dinner while leaving out the third.
They're less familiar with Dark Mode Moon Knight (the guy who likes the jet-and-silver armor). And, according to Layla, he is "not currently part of the polycule," so it wouldn't be such a blatant faux pas to leave him out. Still, he's clearly important to the group, and he's been good company the few times Bucky has met him.
Marc is the only one whose face and wallet name Bucky knows, and the whole bunch is pretty secretive, so it wasn't a surprise when Reform and Dark Mode politely declined the dinner invite. But when Marc and Layla drop casual tidbits about them, it's a show of trust in its own right, and Bucky doesn't take that lightly...
"Now tell them what you slept on!" calls Sam.
Traitor.
Bucky throws a pleading look at Marc. "Hey, man, you were in the Marines. Tell Flyboy in there that he's a wimp, and a floor is a totally reasonable place to sleep."
"Hold on." Layla looks from Marc, to Bucky, to the open kitchen door. "We have a Marine, an Army boy, and an Air Force boy? Is there going to be a fight in here?"
"Nah, we can all team up and rag on the Navy," says Bucky. "There aren't any Navy Avengers. Unless we've added one in the past week...which, at the rate new super-people are turning up these days, I admit I can't actually rule out."
*
"How many places are we setting?" asks Layla, as she and Marc help get out dishes. "Is anyone else coming?"
Bucky shakes his head. "Elijah texted, they can't make it."
Marc nearly drops his stack of blue-and-white plates. (He's wearing a dark suit, sort of like Reform Moon Knight's outfit minus the tie, but not nearly as well-tailored; the jacket rides up as he tries to steady himself.) "What? You heard from -- what??"
"I know I'm not Jewish, but isn't he supposed to wait until Passover?" adds Layla. (She, for the record, is in a nice dark-red blouse and slacks with tasteful gold jewelry. In an emergency, Bucky is 80% sure it could be taken apart and used as weapons.)
"Elijah Bradley, not Elijah the prophet!" exclaims Bucky, over Sam's badly-muffled snickers.
(Bucky is wearing his fanciest outfit, a formal navy caftan, which he got as a gift in Wakanda. Sam is wearing a ridiculous Captain-America-themed red-white-and-blue Christmas sweater, which he got as a gift from Bucky.)
"Okay, come on -- I've already met a bunch of Egyptian gods, and Thor, and arguably Peter Pan," says Marc defensively. "We're gonna run into Zeus or Quetzalcóatl or Gilgamesh next year, you watch. Prophet Elijah wouldn't be much of a leap."
"I mean, fair," says Bucky. "But yeah, this Eli's just a kid. Him and his grandfather Isaiah were on my guest list. Isaiah's...like us."
"A superhero?" asks Layla.
"A guy who served his country, and didn't get much of a reward for it," mutters Sam, from his sentry position over the stove.
Bucky scoops up silverware (in his non-metal hand, so he won't stress-crush it by accident), and carries it out to the dining room. "What he said. Apparently Isaiah had a bad night, so Eli let us know they're staying in."
"Bad enough we should go see him?" calls Sam, while Bucky, Marc, and Layla circle the table to set places. "Baltimore's a short flight. Especially for...uh, everyone here but you."
"I said we'd bring leftovers around some time in the next couple of days. It'll still be Hanukkah then, it still counts," says Bucky. "And Sarah's not coming, right?...uh, that's Sam's sister Sarah, not any historical, religious, and/or mythical Sarahs."
"Nah, she had a thing," says Sam. "I told her she was welcome to dump the boys on us -- they're old enough to take a plane ride alone -- but she said she wasn't ready to send them somewhere without, quote, 'responsible adult supervision'."
Bucky grimaces. "I think that's her nice way of saying we stumble into too many life-or-death missions, and she doesn't want her kids getting involved."
"Could've spun a dreidel to see who watches the kids, while the other three handle the mission," points out Marc.
"...did you bring a dreidel?" asks Bucky.
"Do you not have a dreidel?"
"Man, have you seen what the Hanukkah displays in stores are like these days? I wasn't surprised to see what happened to Christmas, but us too? One shopping trip, for one menorah, was about all I could handle. Pure dumb luck I managed to find one that wasn't...oh, bedazzled, or Disney-themed, or wifi-connected."
"All right, zaydee," says Marc, rolling his eyes. "You can shop for stuff on the internet now, you know."
"I've been defrosted and de-brainwashed since 2018, I know about the internet," scolds Bucky. "How do you think I recreated bubbie's traditional challah from the '20s?"
"I don't know. How?"
"Went on the Sub Reddit for historically-accurate recipes."
(Bucky does this a lot. Pretends to be a writer, needing advice for a historical-fiction novel about Steve Rogers. The responses are always a mix of "helpful" and "great comedy.")
Layla circles back into the kitchen for more dishes. Marc has laid out four plates, and holds a fifth in his hands, gazing distantly at the table.
"Still with us?" asks Bucky lightly.
Out of silverware, he pretends to be busy adjusting his sleeves. The newest vibranium arm barely catches on any fabric at all, but it doesn't hurt to stay in the habit.
"Yeah. Sure." Marc shakes himself. "Uh. Would it be...inappropriate, or offensive to you, if we...set a place for Khonshu?"
Bucky blinks. "Is he here?"
"He's been lurking, yeah." Marc nods to the (apparently empty) hall. "He's being impressively restrained...you know, restrained on the Khonshu scale...about me celebrating another god's holidays. But I feel kinda bad that he's being left out."
"Sure, that sounds fine," says Bucky. He's not doing this so much for the deity, anyway. He's doing it for the tradition, and the community, and the excuse to make Sam cook. "Extradimensional super-being or not, he's basically a surprise guest, right? Welcoming guests is a mitzvah."
"Yeah." Marc sets the plate down, looking surprisingly relieved, and follows Bucky back to the kitchen. "Yeah, it is. Hachnasat orchim."
Bucky elbows him in the side (not hard, it's with the vibranium arm, and Marc may have super-healing but Bucky isn't trying to make him need it). "Okay, I knew from the background check you were a rabbi's son, but now I know you're a rabbi's son."
"Ah, shut up." To Layla, gathering cups, Marc adds, "One more place."
"Does Khonshu eat, uh, corporeal food?" asks Bucky. "If not, should we put something on his plate anyway, just as a nice gesture?"
Marc tips his head to the side, listening.
He makes a series of faces Bucky isn't sure how to interpret, then says, "Do you have...birdseed?"
A light breeze rustles through the kitchen.
Sam tenses. "None of you opened a window, did you?"
"It's New York in December, they better not have," says Bucky. "I didn't survive World War II, HYDRA, and the Battle of Earth just to get murdered by heating bills." And, to Marc: "I think there's sunflower seeds in the cupboard -- would that work?"
A harder wind rattles the cupboard doors, making Bucky grateful for the one modern convenience he did capitulate to: getting a menorah with LED bulbs.
Marc grins. "He says perfect, that's his favorite."
*
The group is halfway through the main course -- Bucky's courtesy-of-Reddit traditional challah, Sam's suspiciously-Cajun-flavored attempt at matzo ball soup, and Marc and Layla's "we found a vegan recipe so all the Moon Knights could split the leftovers" kugel -- when Marc disappears to the bathroom.
Sam and Layla keep the conversation going. They both have strong, enthusiastic opinions about flying, so it isn't hard. Probably takes Bucky longer than it should to realize Marc's been gone for a while.
Also, his enhanced hearing picks up a low hum of chatter, even if he can't make out what Marc's saying.
"Your husband okay, back there?" he asks Layla under his breath. "Should someone check on him, or does he just need a minute?"
"Probably just needs a minute," says Layla, unworried. "Khonshu went that way, too, so they might be talking. Even with all of us knowing he exists...Marc isn't used to having some conversations in front of people."
"Makes sense," says Bucky, and helps himself to another slice of kugel. (At this rate, there might not be any leftovers.)
Sam's listening now, though, and starts to frown. "He's not...in your room, is he?"
Bucky sits up straighter, trying to triangulate the noise. Yeah, it could be...
Layla looks from one face to the other, then starts to push back her chair. "I'll get him."
"No -- I will," says Bucky, standing a little too fast.
Another light breeze hits as he steps into the hall, making him squint. By the time he opens his eyes again, Marc has backed out of the bedroom door. Sheepish but unsurprised -- Khonshu probably warned him. "Hi. Sorry, I got -- sorry."
Bucky crosses his arms. It's not such a huge invasion of privacy that he's going to kick the guy out...not yet...but he's not happy about it, either. "Looking for something specific? Or just snooping?"
"I wasn't! I just..." Marc trails off, grimacing. "I saw the board, and I got interested."
"The murder board," says Bucky flatly.
"The...memory board," counters Marc. "Is it...is it all murders? I wasn't really reading the words."
"It has all the news reports I've found about the Winter Soldier," says Bucky. "With other records that corroborate the details in them, to help pin things down. And when I get flashes of memory from those years, I write notes to myself about them, and try to place the notes on the board. So...mostly murders, yes."
"Oh."
Even though the typed parts are mostly public records, and the handwritten parts are probably only legible to him and Steve and maybe Sam, Bucky can't resist adding: "It's really not for other people to look at."
"I know! I know, I'm so sorry," says Marc again. "I just -- it caught my eye, and I really wanted to know..."
Bucky braces himself for a question about something personal, something horrible, something he still has nightmares about...
"...where did you get the push pins?"
That...was nowhere on Bucky's list. "What?"
"The...did they call them something different in the '40s?" Marc makes fiddly little gestures with his fingers. "The little pins you have. Some have flags on them, some have molded shapes...all I have is dots with different colors, and I don't have one of those little mounted trays to put them in, either...where'd you get them?"
"Oh, come on," says Bucky, momentarily so baffled he forgets to be upset. "You went snooping on my murder board because you wanted tips on craft supplies?"
"Well -- yeah, I -- can you just, can you give me thirty seconds, Khonshu's butting in."
If Bucky doesn't agree, Khonshu will probably just talk over him, and Marc won't be able to respond coherently to both of them anyway. Also, if Khonshu gets cranky and does his Windy City thing right here, it will totally mess up the murder board. "Go ahead."
"Thanks." Marc turns -- toward the entrance to the bathroom, which is the best non-bedroom place over here for a ten-foot-tall bird-god to lurk. He mutters in quiet cut-off sentences, running his hands through his hair, tugging at the curls in a nervous tic. (There was a kippah on his head when he came in. Bucky's not sure when he pulled it off.)
...The bathroom really is down here. It's not like Marc had to go out of his way to snoop. He could've easily seen the board by chance as he walked past.
Bucky can hear Sam and Layla chatting in the distance now. They're making a point not to eavesdrop. Nice of them.
Way more than thirty seconds later, Marc takes a deep breath and says, "The thing is...I have a memory board too. Timeline's a lot shorter, and it doesn't involve any mind-controlling mad scientists, but the articles? Documents? Scribbly post-it notes with flashes that might or might not just be random nightmares? Got all that."
"Seriously?" says Bucky...though he pretty much believes it already, because he didn't tell Marc about the flashes being maybe-just-nightmares.
"Seriously. Look -- you remember, way back when, first time you mentioned therapy for superhero trauma? And I said I had pre-superhero trauma, from being in the Marines?"
Sure, Bucky remembers. The team-up mission where the four of them were sneaking through a rocky underground tunnel system, when Moon Knight had some kind of PTSD episode. (He's never said the diagnosis, but Sam works with veterans and Bucky, well, is Bucky.)
That's how they got a look at Marc's face in the first place. He disappeared the magic mask while he was under, probably on an unconscious reflex, because he was struggling to breathe.
Bucky nods.
"Well...I've got pre-Marines trauma too. The blackouts and the memory gaps go way back. To when my age was in the single digits. So they're not covering murders...or, you know, mostly not murders..."
He sucks in a breath.
"...I am being told very firmly to clarify that that was an example of Survivor Dark Humor, and I did not, in fact, murder anyone as a child."
"I figured," says Bucky softly.
Geez, Marc really must be in a bad way over this, if Khonshu is hassling him into being nicer to himself.
"So. Okay. So I just thought it would be nice, if I could take the news clipping about, say, That One Trauma From When I Was Nine, and have it tacked up on the board with...a tiny baseball. Or a sedan. Or a cute little fish. Well. Maybe not a fish. But. You get the idea. That's all."
Bucky takes a deep breath of his own. "...Etsy."
"Wha?"
"Where I got the pins," says Bucky. "They're all from Etsy. Look, do you want -- I have a nice box for these things -- you want to go chill in the living room for a second while I get it? Then I will close the bedroom door, like I should've done at the start of the evening, and bring them out for you to look through? Anything you like, I'll find the receipt email, so you can buy your own set."
"Yeah," says Marc faintly. "Yeah, that sounds...nice."
On his way back with the pins, Bucky leans into the dining room. Sam and Layla immediately drop whatever obligatory conversation they were faking their way through, and whip around to look at him with unvarnished concern.
"We're all good," Bucky tells them, "Don't rush through the food on our account. Just gonna take a break for some extra Hanukkah shopping."
*
The dessert course is bubbie's classic hamantaschen, and all four of the guests are way more relaxed by the time Bucky brings it out.
It helps that they have drinks.
For Sam, Marc, and Layla, that means regular wine -- the two Avatars can get drunk at a normal rate, as long as they don't summon their suits. For Bucky, it means a bottle of something Dr. Strange gave him at the last Avengers holiday party. He's been sworn, "on pain of extremely slimy death," not to share it with anyone who's not a super-soldier.
(So...in theory, he could share it with John Walker. He mentioned that to Sam, once. Cracked both of them up.)
For Marc, it probably also helps that he has the pins to fiddle with. Seriously, he keeps picking up different shapes, not even looking at what they are, running his fingertips over the textured metal surfaces.
Bucky, slouching on the living-room chair next to the one Marc is slouching on, is this close to offering to just let him walk away with the box.
"Y'know what I like about you guys?" says Sam, draped over the chair across from Marc, using a half-eaten hamantaschen to indicate him and Layla.
"Should we make a list?" says Layla cheekily.
"Hah. Cute. No, listen -- what I like about you is -- y'never hassle us about what happened to Steve."
(Bucky makes a face, but only for himself. He doesn't have a monopoly on Steve. Sam's allowed to talk about the guy too.)
"Obv'sly not," says Marc, circling the head of a dove-shaped pin with his thumb. "That's not our business."
"Yeah, but you've gotta be at least a little curious," says Sam. "Last poll I saw, it said 28% of 'Mericans think he's on the Moon. That's your thing. The Moon."
Marc snickers. "Pshyeah. Steve Rogers is not on the Moon. We'd know."
Layla hides a giggle in another sip of her wine.
"I hate that I can't tell when you're kidding," grumbles Sam.
"Ahhh, Marc Spector is never kiddin'," slurs Marc. "Marc Spector is the most humorless hijueputa this side 'a the--"
Layla reaches over the arm of her own chair and pinches his ankle, at the same time as a stiff breeze rustles everyone's hair.
"Right, right." Marc waves them away. "Bein' nice. Hanukkah spirit. Lo siento."
Bucky's heard him throw in bits of Arabic, Yiddish, and (in emergency mitzvah-identifying situations) Hebrew, but not Spanish before. It's cute. He knows both Marc and Dark Mode Moon Knight are Latino, but only the latter is really fluent -- did Marc grow up with the language, or is Dark Mode rubbing off on him?
(...not like that. At least, "not currently." Metaphorical rubbing only.)
Before Bucky can work through his buzz enough to put this into a question, a tinkling melody fills the air.
"Uh," says Sam. "Dude, is your arm ringing?"
"Yeah. Sort of." Bucky rolls up his sleeve and flips back a panel, activating a holographic display. The icons swim in front of him; he drags to make them larger. "Not everyone is hooked into the standard Earth phone network, y'know? I got the arm set up to get...other calls."
Sam sighs. "Androids, aliens, or wizards?"
"It's not always one of those!" complains Bucky, finally finding the icon to pair his arm with the flatscreen on the wall. (Sam made him get it.)
The screen flickers on...
...to reveal a blue-and-purple woman with cybernetic implants all around her bald head, and a peach-skinned woman with huge dark eyes and antennae poking up from her dark hairline.
"Nebula. Mantis," says Bucky. Half as a greeting, half because he isn't sure Marc and Layla have ever met either of these aliens. (He politely ignores Sam's smug yessss.) "How's it going?"
"Avengers!" exclaims Mantis, high-pitched and sweet. "We require your help to save Christmas!"
Layla spits a mouthful of wine all over Bucky's carpet.
"Oh, hell naw," yelps Sam. "If we're about to find out Santa is an alien -- or an android, OR a wizard -- I am quitting. Y'all hear me? I am quitting and retiring and moving to Cancun."
*
To Bucky's relief...and, probably, to the relief of every black kid in the country who was excited to see a Captain America that looked like them...it does not turn out that Santa is an alien.
At least, not as far as the Guardians of the Galaxy know.
The mission is not nearly as dramatic as "saving Christmas" makes it sound. The non-human Guardians just figured out that Peter Quill missed his Christmas traditions, so they're trying to pull together an outer-space celebration.
"Look, if you want Christmas advice, there are a ton of places on Earth you can get it," says Bucky to Mantis and Nebula, who are now standing in his living room. (Their spaceship is double-parked on the street outside.) "But a Hanukkah dinner at a Jewish guy's apartment is probably not gonna be your best source."
"We do not require general information, Barnes," says Nebula briskly. She's armed with at least three alien ray-guns. And that's only the ones Bucky can identify as guns. "We have done extensive research on the true meaning of Christmas, and are prepared to carry it out."
"Was Th' Nightmare Before Christmas already released when Quill got abducted?" whispers Sam. "Because if not...sounds like we oughta get 'im a copy. For therapy."
Marc gently shushes him. (Marc and Layla both invoked their Avatar outfits long enough to sober up, so at least if Sam and Bucky are on the verge of getting talked into any bad ideas, their designated mission-drivers can talk them out of it.)
"We are simply acquiring the Perfect Gifts for our colleagues. Some of these gifts can only be found on Earth."
"Such as Kevin Bacon!" chirps Mantis.
...she means Kevin Bacon movies, right?...nope! No! Bucky is not even gonna ask.
"Which means," concludes Nebula, still addressing Bucky, "for Rocket Raccoon, I require your arm."
"Uh," says Sam.
"Not happening," snaps Layla.
"That little grifter," growls Marc.
"Of course we will compensate all of you for the gift!" adds Mantis, holding up her hands. The tips of her antennae start to glow. "I can induce restful sleep, and/or the positive emotion of your choice, in almost any species found in the galaxy. Including humans, and large ugly wingless birds!"
"There is no bird," Nebula informs her. "The 'Falcon' is merely a code name."
"Not the one I use now, either," says Sam, "and also, what do you mean, 'ugly'?"
"Oh, I did not mean you!" says Mantis. "You are obviously a human. And your physical attractiveness level is very adequate!"
"Uh...thanks?"
"Can you see Khonshu?" blurts Layla.
Mantis perks up. "Is this the ugly bird's name?"
Her black-eyed gaze snaps to a corner where the wall meets the ceiling, and her face scrunches up in indignation at...whatever Khonshu is saying.
"...and Khonshu just took off," reports Marc. "Said he didn't come to this plane of existence just to be sassed by some other god's kid."
Bucky, Sam, and Nebula all stare at him.
Then at Mantis.
"My father was not a god," sulks Mantis, antennae drooping. "He was a jerk. I am glad we killed him. He never would have understood Christmas."
*
The anti-climactic solution to all of this is, Bucky's current arm is new. The previous model -- which an enchanted and aggressive Rocket "offered" to buy during the battle of Wakanda -- is in a box in his closet.
"You had a huge chunk of high-tech vibranium lying around this apartment for...how long?" asks Sam under his breath, not too drunk to be horrified, as he helps Bucky dig through his stuff. "And how much of it was during the time when you couldn't even be bothered to buy chairs?!"
"My procrastination might be saving the planet from an angry Nebula right now," hisses Bucky. "Count your blessings."
"Uh-huh." Sam drags out an extra-heavy box, pulls open the cardboard top, then pushes the whole thing at Bucky in exasperated triumph. "Say, is 're-gifting other people the old junk you don't want anymore' the secret true meaning of Christmas, or of Hanukkah?"
"Ah, Sam, don't be such a cynic," says Bucky serenely. "That is, in fact, the one great human truth that unites us all."
Both of them are skeptical about the positive-emotions offer, and Bucky would just as soon turn it down entirely...but once Nebula has the arm in custody, Marc starts asking questions. Good ones. Like "Is this any kind of mind control?" and "Is there a failsafe way to turn it off?" and "How long does it last?"
"Not long at all!" chirps Mantis to the last one. "The effect will wear off after one night!"
Bucky and Marc look at each other.
Then at Bucky's LED menorah, still twinkling in the window.
Then at each other again.
"I mean...she's not the child of that god," says Bucky. "Right? So...one night actually means one night?"
Marc nods. "I mean. Probably?"
Layla puts a hand on his arm. "A certain someone has told me that, for you, even getting one good night of sleep would be a miracle."
"St--ssssomeone is mostly saying that to sass me," grumbles Marc. "But...yeah, honestly, I wouldn't mind giving it a try."
*
There's a little more discussion, but in the end, they go for it.
Sam wants a night of joy. Layla wants a night of peace.
Bucky wants a night of "you know the constant low-key creeping fear that someone will shoot you over the edge of a bridge again, or say the control words that override your mind with assassin brainwashing again, or snap their fingers and delete you from the universe again? The opposite of that."
Marc just wants the restful night's sleep.
Mantis doesn't give any heads-up that he should lie down first. Which means Bucky and Layla both jump to catch him when he collapses in place.
"I got him," says Bucky, because he doesn't think Layla has super-strength when she's not transformed. "Couch okay for now?"
"Perfect."
"Bonus gift!" says Sam cheerfully, returning from the kitchen with a Tupperware full of extra hamantaschen. "Little taste of Earth for Quill. And for anyone else who can digest it, if he wants to share."
"This is also a Christmas item?" asks Mantis, taking the Tupperware with wide-eyed curiosity.
Sam glances at Bucky, who nods. "Sam celebrates Christmas, and he made it! So, yes."
(He's going by Army rules. When you're stationed far enough from home, every care package that makes it to your unit -- no matter whose family made it, or what ingredients they used -- counts for whatever holiday it arrives by.)
Mantis beams. "Excellent! Thank you so much, Not The Falcon Anymore."
Sam grins back at her. "Close enough."
He and Bucky escort Nebula and Mantis back down to the street, and wave as the ramp of their ship pulls up behind them. "Happy interfaith holiday exchange to all, and to all a good night!" calls Bucky as it zips off into the sky.
Then they go back to the living room.
Marc is lying on the cushions where Bucky left him: eyes closed and breath steady, all the usual furrows gone from his face. Layla sits on the carpet next to him, head resting against the arm of the couch, gazing at him in pure unworried adoration. One hand idly plays with his hair.
Still beaming, Sam elbows Bucky in the side. "Now, see, aren't you glad I hassled you into having a fully-furnished guest room?"
Later, Bucky will remember all the reasons he was afraid to settle down this hard in one place. Later still, he'll pepper the murder board with more notes about maybe-memories, maybe-nightmares. Some time in the middle of that, he'll search for Spector's parents' names in the archival files of local Chicago newspapers, and then at least he'll have somebody else's trauma to be sad about for a while.
For now, he puts his non-metal arm around Sam's shoulders and squeezes. "Sam, buddy...I have honestly never been happier."