For the holidays, you can't beat home sweet home
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Sarah Wilson wakes up at seven-thirty. It’s later than she usually does; getting the boys up, fed, and dressed before school tends to have her day starting at six, and, if not them, the restaurant always has her working at the crack of dawn. But, the boys are on winter break, “Wilson Family Seafood” is closed for the twenty-third through the twenty-sixth, and she can stay in bed for now. Not much longer, really, because her house is full with family, every bed occupied, plus an air mattress or two and a crib wheeled into Sam’s old room, and there’s lots to be done to make this holiday happen. But, ten more minutes won’t hurt anyone. For ten more minutes, she can be with herself.
Sarah sighs in a deep breath. The smell of salty water and damp earth has spent so many years sinking into every floorboard and crack in the plaster that it is a permanent facet of the house. She can barely smell it anymore, except for times like this when her eyes are closed, her body is still, and she does the work to seek it out. Over the constant, grounding scent of her home is the musty smell of her space heater, so rarely used and always out of practice when December rolls around and it’s pulled out of its nearly year long storage. Sarah pulls her blankets snug about herself, feels the warmth and weight of them alongside the waves of heat the hard-working, albeit ancient appliance is giving off. It’s been five minutes; she should at least stand up. And she will. And, after some bargaining with herself about coffee and dipping the frankly amazing gingerbread Bucky made last night in it, she does.
Slippers on, space heater reluctantly clicked off, and fuzzy robe (Cass and AJ’s gift to her from last year) tied on, she’s almost ready to get on with her day. Almost.
Before the Christmas festivities get really under away and she is swept into them, Sarah must undertake her tradition of the last decade.
She makes her way to her dresser and the vast collection of pictures she keeps on top of it. Mostly the boys, a good speckling of Mila, one of Sam and Bucky’s wedding, a new one they gave her of Eric to add to the selection, some of her parents that she addresses a ‘merry christmas’ to, and, tucked into all of that, a picture of her and her husband, long since passed, not once forgotten, Jonas, together on the day Cass was born. She sighs and pulls it to the front.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Jonas,” she hums to it, “Sammy’s finally spendin’ it with us every year, even if he’s still runnin’ around trying to save every single person on this earth. You got a nephew this year. Looks too much like my brother, poor thing. Bet you woulda liked him, though.”
Sarah swallows hard against everything lurching up in her, shakes her head, kisses the tips of her fingers, and presses them steadily and surely to Jonas’s face.
“Love you, sugar,” she whispers. She stares at the picture just a moment longer, her hand stuck like glue to it, before she tucks those fingers into the pocket of her robe, takes a deep breath, and leaves her room-and the picture-behind.
The boys aren’t up. Not that Sarah would expect them to be, cause those wild things she birthed don’t wake before lunch time unless she makes them. Mila doesn’t seem to be up, either, as she walks into the living room to see Sam and Bucky in a state of exasperation with Eric, sans her.
“We should just try again with the-”
“He’s not going to take it, Sam!”
“Well, shit, Buck, maybe he’s hungry enough now that-”
“Don’t curse around him, goddamn it,”
“Oh Lord, I swear-”
“Good morning, love birds,” Sarah cuts in with a mildly teasing smile. Sam and Bucky both pause their grumbling, though Eric’s whimpers are persistently still going, if not even louder now. Not much can stop his fussing once he really gets going. Sarah’s seen it first hand enough to know.
“Did he wake you up?” Bucky asks sheepishly, rocking his whole torso in an attempt to get Eric to anywhere resembling calm. The movement seems to be doing a whole lot of nothing, though, as he fists his suddenly more agile hands (how the hell is he nearly a year old) into Bucky’s hair and starts up with a frustrated babble of ‘pa-papapapa-papa-pap-papapa’. Sarah offers a gentle shake of her head.
“No. Couldn’t even hear him upstairs,” she assures, “I shoulda been up a half hour ago anyway. Want me to help settle him down?”
“No,” Bucky answers quickly, and Sam sends him a questioning stare, which he answers with a shrug and a put out furrow of his brows back. They’re staring at each other for another moment, until their expressions soften and Bucky turns back to Sarah, “Sorry, that was rude. I mean, he's been so easy to set off lately. I don’t want you to have to deal with a meltdown.”
Sarah nods. As she understands, meltdowns have not been uncommon for Eric as of late. She takes no offense, even if she hasn’t been able to hold her nephew for more than a few moments since he got here yesterday.
“I’ll make you some coffee, then. Both y’all want some?”
Sam smiles appreciatively. Bucky, whose focus has shifted back to Eric and all his fast little tears, tips his chin in answer a moment later. Again, Sarah doesn’t get worked up over their distraction. She’s glad they’re here. She’s glad her home is full.
She brews a pot and indulges in a gingerbread cookie while she waits, even if she knows she’ll have another with her first cup. She tries her best to be good about her diet, because Lord knows she can’t eat like she did when she was a young, worry-less kid and staying in shape was effortless. God, she can’t even hardly remember that brief, brief time, fresh to college, Momma, Daddy, and Sam all still happy and safe and untouched at home. Needless to say, her relationship with food isn’t the only change since then. But, it’s the holidays and she’s got at least Sam and her together again under the same roof, so, for a few days, maybe she’ll eat like she’s twenty.
She comes out of the kitchen with three mugs; Sam’s black with a good amount of sugar, her’s with a little cream, not too sweet, and Bucky’s near tan and as indulgent as it can be, alongside a cookie for each of them. But, once she’s gotten to where she left them, only Sam remains.
“Where’d Bucky go?” she asks as Sam comes up to get at his coffee. She pulls it back from him, even as he huffs, until she gets an answer.
“He, uh . . .” Sam trails, lips twisting, and Sarah quirks a brow. With a sigh, Sam admits, “Eric needed to be fed. By Bucky. So he went up to the bedroom where he could have, um, you know. Privacy.”
Sarah rolls her eyes and shoves the mug into Sam’s waiting hands before she takes a hearty sip from her own.
“He doesn’t have to hide away every time he nurses. He knows that, right? We got a big family. I’ve seen my fair share of breasts and babies on ‘em.”
“Yeah, but, with him-”
“What? He thinks I’m gonna faint at the sight of his naked chest? He’s pretty cute, I’ll admit, but I think I’ll be okay,” Sarah says, because, really, haven’t she and Bucky passed this point? Maybe, right after she first found out her brother had gotten his forties boy-toy pregnant, she would have been a little awkward about the breastfeeding. But, now, over five years, two babies, and her fair share of days with Bucky immediately after delivery later, she’d like to think she’s shown herself to be pretty damn cool with all of it.
“I know. And, trust me, I’ve told him that nobody in this house is gonna care if he feeds our kid wherever he pleases. But, look, with Bucky, you just gotta allow him his hang-ups, okay?”
“Fine,” Sarah sighs, talking herself down from cornering Bucky and getting this matter settled on her own later, “So, I guess weaning still isn’t going too great?”
Sam thumps down onto the couch with a groan and Sarah follows after, coffee cup set in front of her and her robe tucked snuggly around her thighs.
“Nope,” Sam huffs. His face falls into his open hands and he winces as soon as his palm hits against the nasty shiner he’s sporting around his right eye.
He had shown up with that yesterday when Sarah collected him and his group at the airport.
“Bucky finally got tired of your bullshit?” she had jabbed last night, a finger pointed at the purple and maroon discoloration around his cheekbone.
“You know it,” Bucky had hummed into his tea, a teasing smile that was tight enough to let Sarah know that’s all she’d be hearing on the subject. It’s fine, she guesses. She doesn’t need to know all the details of what happens during Sam’s super-heroing. Even if it brings him back home bruised and worked over. Even if Bucky's been joining him again for some reason, if the two weeks Mila and Eric spent with her alone this summer are anything to go by. If they don’t want to tell her, she’ll fight every urge she has, and she won’t ask.
“That’s lookin’ even nastier today,” Sarah comments on the bruise, because, even if she won’t outright ask how he got it, she’s not above giving Sam a hard time.
“Thanks,” he grunts into his coffee.
“So,” she says, and drops it, for now, “the weaning?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, eyes slipping closed for a long, long moment, “we got Eric on pumped bottles, mostly, and some solid foods, but, then we took, um . . . our trip, in August, and since we got back he’s just been, like, gagging on Cheerios like they’re not his favorite food, which I know they are, and spitting up any pureed stuff we give him, and now, the past week or so, with travelling, he won’t even do bottles. It’s been . . .”
“Tiring?” Sarah finishes for him. Sam nods, takes another sip of his coffee, and hisses a little when he accidently grinds his hand against his bruise again. Sarah holds back a laugh and gets a cookie into his hands.
“Eric’s just . . . I mean, Lord, I’m so happy, and he’s already my little best friend, but he’s so fussy. All the time.”
Sarah smiles sympathetically and does not point out how every story she hears of Eric’s temperament mirrors Sam’s own babyhood. She doesn’t have many clear memories of that time, given that she’s only a little over a year older than him (was a little over a year older, and now, cause of the blip, is more than six his senior, which she hasn’t fully processed), but she does have the vague sense of a lot of crying and her parents’ exhaustion. And, it seems, her nephew is Sam’s mirror in every way.
“I’ll get you some more coffee,” she says, and Sam mumbles his thanks.
Bucky’s back, eventually, and, when Sam gives her a heavy look, Sarah doesn’t hound him for being gone. He’s brought Mila with him, too, so she really can’t be too upset. Her wonderful little lady smiles up at her, a few teeth in her grin missing, and Sarah feels Christmas spirit rush her.
“Titi!” she exclaims.
“What?” Sarah answers almost as enthusiastically.
“We have so much to do today!” she informs, and Sarah laughs. Even on a holiday, Sarah’s day is full. She shouldn’t be surprised. Taking in a big breath, Mila goes on, “more cookies, and another letter to Santa, and I wanna watch the movie with the grinch again, and-”
“Alright,” Bucky sighs as he walks by, getting a hand on Mila’s head to give it a shake. He has a cup of coffee, a handful of cookies, and his arms free, so Eric must have been given over to Sam, “it is definitely not even nine o’clock yet, Mila. Calm down.”
“But, but-” Mila stutters, eyes big, body bouncing with energy, and she’s so cute, so cute Sarah wants to steal her, that she can’t help picking her right up and crumbling to her demands.
“Oh, no, she’s right, Bucky!” Sarah declares, and Mila giggles triumphantly, “We have a lot to do.”
Bucky grins, that warm, comfortable one that Sarah only saw once she’d worked her way through all of Bucky’s walls and pulled him right into this family.
“Titi’s a lot more tolerant of your crazy than me, huh?” he says, and Mila nods assuredly. He flicks his eyes back to Sarah, “Seriously, though, if she’s bugging you-”
“Oh, she never bugs me,” Sarah says, and finds it mostly true. She turns to Mila with a conspiratorial look, “now, let’s get to work.”
Work entails, firstly, getting her grumpy teenagers (Sarah has teenagers, oh Lord) out of their beds, which is a process that takes multiple attempts and some threats for added chores if they don’t get the hell up right now. Once her cantankerous late risers are awake, it’s all of them, Sam and Bucky alternating in and out so that one can keep an eye on Eric, making up platters upon platters of food to bring to shelters around town.
Sam has told her she doesn’t need to do this every year, considering the good chunk of the morning and last night the prep work takes, but Sarah counters back that he doesn’t need to throw his ass into every fight he can, either, and he drops it. She’s as stubborn as him, she has to admit to herself, which might as well be the Wilson family curse, considering how deeply the streak runs in all of them. She half-wants to account all Eric’s irritability to it already.
Sarah takes Cass along with her to deliver the food. It’s usually AJ who tags along, but he wanted to take Mila outside to play with the drone Jonas’s sister sent him, and, besides, Cass is newly sixteen, moody as all hell, and Sarah’s determined to bring her boy up right.
By the time all three of the shelters in their neighborhood are well supplied with her cooking and she and Cass head home, she’s ready to take a nap. But, it’s a little past three and if she doesn’t start work on dinner now, it will never be finished in time
“Hey, baby,” she hums as she parks her car and remembers how her, Jonas, and Cass used to stand around in the kitchen on this day every year, chopping up oysters for the dressing and throwing every decadent seafood they could think of into the gumbo, and how dearly and piercingly she misses it, “I was thinkin’, maybe you could help me make the dressing this year? You know, like you used to. That’d be fun, yeah?”
She doesn’t realise how desperately she had wanted him to agree until Cass’s face falls guiltily.
“Um, actually, Grace is back in town for the holidays and she asked if I could meet up with her before dinner. I’d say no, but she said it’s the only time she could see me-”
“Cass,” she huffs, and feels like her heart is going to cave in. A selfish, powerful desire rises in her to say no, he can’t go. To grab his hand like he’s Mila’s age again, take him into the kitchen, tie him up in an apron, and keep him at her hip for the rest of the night. But, she won’t. He’s not Mila’s age. He’s over halfway done with high school, he shaves twice a week, and he hasn’t been at her hip for years. Besides, she’s had him with her all morning and he was nothing but respectful and diligent serving up food. And, he was always so sweet on that Grace before her family moved. Blinking away the overwhelming waves of maudlin betrayal that hit her, she pulls a tight smile.
“I don’t want you to miss out on seeing Grace while she’s here,” Sarah makes herself say, “but you better be back by six, cause we are gonna eat then, whether or not you’re-”
“I’ll be back!” Cass assures brightly, “Thanks, Mom!”
“You’re welcome,” she’s giving back when he leans over to wrap his arms around her shoulders and kiss her cheek, and suddenly, none of it seems so bad anymore. She hugs him back. She walks with him into the house. She watches him spin Mila around in a hug, give each of his uncles a bump of his knuckles, tickle at Eric’s chubby belly, and get AJ into a headlock as a goodbye. She hugs him again and she lets him leave.
She has Mila sample the gumbo and listens to her tell her everything she’s learning in kindergarten as she cooks, and it’s nearly just as good as if Cass had stayed. He keeps his word, and is back five minutes till six.
Dinner’s as good as it always is. Sarah’s dressing and gumbo is never quite like her momma’s, but it’s not bad, either, so she gives herself a break. Bucky, as he’s been doing for every Christmas she’s had with him, makes the dessert. He improves every year, and the cranberry pie he pulls together this time is nothing short of amazing.
They get out of watching It’s A Wonderful Life after dinner is finished, much to Sam’s disappointment. Sarah loved Riley with all her heart, but she curses him from beyond the grave for getting her brother obsessed with the over two hour black-and-white epic every time she hears that some white guy named his kid ‘Zuzu’. Bucky handles bedtime for both the kids, Cass has a group call with some of his friends, and AJ begs Sarah to play video games before bed. So, the night ends with the original Wilsons, both sort of wine drunk, alone in the living room, trying not to slosh their drinks on the floor and readying to play Santa.
“Oh, Lord,” Sam snorts as he fumbles with a present and gets it shoved under the tree. Sarah, laughing along, knocks her shoulder into his.
“Shhh,” she shoots at him, “We gonna wake your kids up.”
“Oh, my kids and their fuckin’ super hearing. Shit,” Sam mutters, sliding two more presents next to the first. He’s giggling again after that, falling heavy against Sarah. The first drip of wine spills onto her carpet, though she hardly notices. Sam stares at the stain with big eyes, though, that look ridiculous with his bruise, and grabs Sarah’s arms, “shit, do we drink too much?”
“What?” Sarah guffaws. She takes another sip of wine, as if to prove a point, “No. Sam, it’s-this is Christmas, c’mon. We’re fine.”
“Okay,” Sam says, nodding slowly. He picks up his own glass and takes a sip, humming warmly around it, “Yeah, okay.”
Sarah tucks a present in on her side of the tree, before she sets her wine on the table behind her, slumps onto one of her arms, and lets her head lean heavy on her shoulder. She stares up at the length of the tree. It’s a fake one; she stopped bringing home real trees during the first Christmas after the blip, stopped doing a lot that year, and hasn’t felt a strong enough want to return to real ones since. On this fake tree, though, are years of hand-made ornaments and things she has kept from her own childhood. Her eyes stick on a paper snowman that Cass brought her home during first grade. It’s yellowed to the extreme, and the picture of his little, chubby face stuck on to it is curving up at the edges. It probably won’t make it that many more years.
Sarah sucks up a breath and wills away tears.
“Do you think I’m bad at bein’ a mom?” she asks, her voice tight. Sam whips his head to her and slams his glass down onto the floor, more wine splashed on the carpet.
“Are you crazy?” he says, too loud, and she shushes him again. He shakes his head and Sarah releases a heavy sigh.
“Just, I dunno. Cass ain’t hardly ever home and now AJ’s talkin’ to me less. Maybe it’s my fault. I work a lot,” she mumbles, pulling at loose threads in the carpet. She shrugs as her breath gets thick in her chest.
“No,” Sam insists with the same passion Sarah had about their definitely acceptable level of drinking, “Now, look, teenagers are . . . they’re just brats to their parents, no matter how we act. You can’t put that on you, okay? And, as far as teenagers go, those boys are great. You-you should be proud, because they’re awesome. I love ‘em.”
Sarah laughs around some tears that she can’t keep out of her eyes. Lord, she loves her stupid, danger-seeking, stubborn-ass brother.
“Okay, yeah, they’re alright,” she chuckles wetly, “and, by the way, you do pretty good with your babies, too.”
A smile quirks up into Sam’s cheek.
“Yeah? Even when I do stuff like,” he gestures vaguely at his black eye, “this?”
“Even then,” Sarah says, and moves in a touch closer to him, “but, you wanna tell me how you got that?”
Sam opens his mouth and leaves it hanging there for a good, long while. Sarah keeps her own shut for as long as he needs to take and, when Sam takes another gulp from his wine and says nothing at all, she stays quiet about that, too.
“I’m really happy you have Bucky. I’m glad you found love again,” Sarah hums after a moment. It’s a cheesy thing to say, even she can hear that, but she’s drunk and it’s Christmas, so she won’t feel too bad about it. She also can’t exactly blame Sam for laughing at her for it, though.
“Okay, enough of that for you,” Sam says as he tries to grab at her wine glass. She tugs it away. Another spot on the carpet and Sarah snorts at it.
“I’m being serious!” Sarah presses out.
“Sure,” Sam says with a laugh. A gentle smile spreads across his face as he looks down to his lap, something soft and touched playing out on his face, “Thanks, though. I-I’m really glad, too. Having him, and having Mila and Eric, it’s sort of everything.”
Sam shakes his head as he rolls his eyes.
“Now you got me goin’ all sappy. Jesus.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Sarah grins. Sam looks up to her with a smirk that can’t mean anything good.
“You ever thought about looking for something like that? Dating again?”
Sarah’s eyes grow wide in shock for exactly a second, before she’s laughing so hard she falls over.
“It’s a legitimate question,” Sam huffs at her as she wipes at her eyes and makes no moves to sit up.
“Well, then, no is my legitimate answer,” she says with an arm tossed over her eyes.
“You could, though,” Sam continues, like it would be that simple.
“No,” Sarah repeats, for Sam and for herself, even if, maybe, at times, she has thought of that, maybe even had chances to make that happen, not that she’s ever let it get very far, “I don’t have the time.”
“Bullshit,” Sam counters.
“I work constantly! I'm raising two kids!”
“Oh, c’mon, you could find the time, if you wanted to.”
That might be fair, Sarah will give him. She just told him earlier how Cass is out with friends more and more. AJ doesn’t need her home watching him twenty-four seven. She could hire extra help at the restaurant. But, she doesn’t. And maybe she’s never tried out wanting to.
“I don’t have any options, then. This town ain’t that big,” she offers instead.
“That’s even bigger bullshit,” Sam grumbles, and maybe he’s right on this point, too. There’s been guys before. There still are guys. One particular guy comes to mind, who owns a seafood place the next town over and who she sees at every farmer’s market and on too many docks. A guy whose number might be saved as ‘hot fish guy’ in her phone, a number she hasn’t ever texted, even if her skin goosebumps when he smiles at her. But, this, Sam must never know.
“It’s true,” she lies, “The last time a guy hit on me, you married him.”
“Stop trying to steal my husband,” Sam chuckles, kicking at her outstretched legs.
“Then, stop having such a hot fuckin’ husband!” Sarah fires back. And then they’re both laughing like little kids, laying together on the floor in the middle of the night, after Momma already told them to go to bed and wait for Santa. Sarah still can’t quite process that they’ve made the jump to being Santa, but she guesses they’re okay at it.
They’re in this state when Bucky comes into the room, the perpetually sober one of the three of them, with Eric on his hip.
“You are loud and annoying. Stop,” he states sternly and Sarah laughs so hard she almost vomits up her wine. Sam spills more of his own on the floor. Bucky groans and they giggle.
“We didn’t wake up Mila, right?” Sam checks anxiously after a moment of Bucky glaring down at them, sitting up fast. Bucky clicks his tongue at them.
“No, but if you two keep at it, the whole neighborhood’s gonna be awake.”
“We’ll be quiet, we will,” Sarah promises, slowly working her way upright. She looks at Sam, trying for seriousness, but they set each other off into another fit of giggles they work hard to muffle. Bucky rolls his eyes.
“I came to see if you’d be coming to bed, Samuel, but I guess-”
Eric cuts him off in the middle of his sentence with a sharp whine and a demanding tug at the neck of Bucky’s shirt. Bucky groans.
“Really, kid? Now?” he asks and Eric whimpers again, his head careening into the center of Bucky’s chest. He turns to Sarah and Sam with a flush to his cheeks, “sorry, I should-”
“Oh, just stay,” Sarah says, buzzed enough to push this issue. Sam’s brows knot at her, but she goes right on, “You don’t have to keep runnin’ off every time he gets hungry.”
Bucky swallows firmly, standing staunchly still, as Eric continues to yank at his shirt. His jaw barely loosens when he speaks.
“He won’t take a bottle right now, so . . . so . . .”
“I know how you feed him, Bucky,” Sarah sighs, “and, once again, you don’t gotta go hide just cause of that.”
“It, um. It-it’s not normal, it’s-” Bucky stumbles as he grips Eric a bit tighter and his eyes keep flitting down to Sam.
“Honey, it’s breastfeeding. It’s as normal as it comes. C’mon. Feed your kid,” Sarah tells him and, to make sure he gets the point, leans over to the section of couch closest to her and gives it a welcoming pat.
Bucky doesn’t come immediately. Doesn’t come within a few more seconds, even, but Sarah keeps her hand on that couch and waits. He’s like a feral cat. She thinks that’s how Sam described Bucky on that very first night he slept on their couch. Someone that you let come to you, that you let in slowly. And she’d say he’s become pretty well domesticated, considering he cooks baked goods for her family at every holiday and teaches her boys how to fix engines, but sometimes the metaphor still stands.
After a long minute, Bucky takes the seat she’s offered, gets a blanket stretched across his chest and the baby that lies there, and tosses his shirt out from under it a moment later. Sarah smiles as he settles back and lets the blanket drift down around his shoulders.
The three of them make good work of the milk and cookies and Sarah gets the rest of the presents under the tree as Bucky hands a well-fed, sleepy Eric off to Sam. She lets them go to bed first, Bucky smirking at Sam’s alcohol-twinged, fumbly steps, and takes one more moment to stare at her tree.
She thinks she might be starting to really love the holidays again. She thinks, when they’re over, she might even have enough residual hope to text ‘hot fishguy’ and finally see if all that flirting can go anywhere. Cass is getting older, and so is AJ, and maybe she’ll have to let them go sooner rather than later. But, tomorrow morning, they will all open their gifts together, her beautiful niece and nephew will light up with innocent joy that will keep her going through the rest of the year, and, under one roof, sharing one love, her family will all be home.