A/N: This is a prequel to two of my previous stories, International House of Stockholm and You Only Want to Socialize (But I Don't Think We Should). However, it can be read as a standalone story.

Rollins doesn't voice his objections until they're parked at the thrift shop.

"This is insane, Brock." He's tapping his fingers on the dashboard. He's been doing that for the last half an hour, ever since Rumlow tore the knob off the van's radio in his haste to shut off yet another Celine Dion Christmas ballad. "This is fucking insane."

"What's insane," Rumlow says, tugging his coat tighter around his body, "was sending us on a weeklong mission that ended two days before Christmas. When did they expect us to shop?"

"Black Friday?" Perez suggests from the back of the van. Perez had all his Christmas shopping done and wrapped before it was even December, the bastard.

From the middle row of seats, the Soldier watches them, silent. It's Rumlow's second mission with the Soldier. He keeps catching sight of those cold, dead eyes in the rearview mirror; it's a wonder they hadn't crashed when it happened while Rumlow was driving. They're parked in the lot of a thrift store, freezing their asses off even with the heat cranked up. Fat flakes of snow drip down the windshield. The fifth member of their team, Daramy, is in the store picking out civilian clothing for the Soldier. So they won't raise suspicion when they stop by a mall for some last minute shopping.

Yes, it's fucking insane.

It's also entirely necessary.

"We're gonna die," Rollins says. "Either Pierce finds out or the asset snaps and goes on a tri-state killing spree. We're gonna die."

"Give him ideas, why don't you?" Rumlow asks.

The door to the thrift shop opens, but it isn't Daramy who steps out. The parking lot is decently full; people are either dropping off angel tree gifts or are searching for cheap, last minute presents.

"This is stupid." Rollins is still tapping his fingers against the dash. It's almost as annoying as the Christmas carols were. "For God's sake, Brock, just get up early in the morning to get your girlfriend's damn blender."

"It's not a blender, it's a stand mixer." And she's not his girlfriend. Well, not anymore. Amy's job had transferred her to California before Rumlow had even joined up with HYDRA. But she's back in the city this Christmas, visiting family, and just maybe...

Rumlow shakes his head. It's a gift, nothing more.

"It's a death wish."

"Yeah?" Rumlow props his feet on the dashboard, narrowly avoiding Rollins's fingers in the process. "You sure didn't complain when I first suggested it."

"I have a flight tomorrow," Rollins snaps, slapping at Rumlow's boot. "And I thought you meant after we dropped off the killing machine!"

"The debriefing'll take hours. All the stores will be closed by then."

"It'll only take five seconds for the asset to kill us once Pierce finds out where we've gone."

The door slides open before Rumlow can offer a retort. Daramy slips in, settling into his seat as if it's electrified, as far from the Soldier as he can possibly sit. He's clutching a plastic bag.

"Get the stuff?" Rumlow asks, and Daramy nods. "Good." Rumlow turns his gaze toward the Soldier, then tilts his head at the bag. "Get dressed, Soldier."

The Soldier swipes the bag out of Daramy's hands in a blur of motion and Rumlow's honestly surprised when Daramy doesn't piss himself. The man looks as if his heart gave out. The Soldier strips efficiently and shamelessly—good thing for tinted windows—before pulling on a T-shirt, flannel jacket, and—

"Are those acid washed jeans?" Perez asks, gaping.

And they are. Acid-washed, high-waisted jeans. It's like Rumlow's back in high school, only with less weed and clumsy fondling in the bleachers, and more murder.

"It was either that or a pair with the ass cut out," Daramy says. "Literally the only things in his size, all right? Can we just go?"

Rumlow turns the keys in the ignition but doesn't yet put the van in drive. He looks the Soldier over, scrutinizing. Dressed up like that, he looks as though he's trying to imitate Kurt Cobain but missing the mark. It's not a good look, but it shouldn't attract too much attention. "Fine."

Once they've found the last free space in the mall parking lot, Rumlow reviews the Soldier's orders. "This is a secret, Soldier," he says, slow and clear. "You remember what that means?"

The Soldier nods once. The motion is stiff and mechanical, and his robotic demeanor might be funny if he weren't so damn horrifying.

Rumlow's not satisfied. "Tell me."

"Secrets consist of information that does not need to be included in the mission report to the Secretary." The Soldier's voice is flat, hoarse. Rumlow isn't sure if it's naturally that way or if it's a result of disuse and all the cryo-fluids the Soldier hacks up whenever he's thawed.

Perez and Daramy twitch; it's the first time they've ever heard him speak. Rumlow himself has coaxed "yes" and "no" and the occasional grunt from the Soldier, but never a full sentence before. "Good," he says. "Let's go."

They leave Perez in the driver's seat in case a quick getaway proves necessary. Once they reach the large glass doors of the mall, Rumlow stops the group. "Be as quick about this as you can," he orders. "No chitchat, no pretzels, nothing. Just get what you need. As soon as you're done, head over to the mall Santa. We'll meet up there. Any complications, lemme know by radio. Soldier," he adds, as Rollins nods his assent and starts off. "You're staying with me."

The Soldier nods.

Daramy stays beside them, tugging on the cuffs of his windbreaker like a nervous child.

"We don't have time to stand around," Rumlow says.

"Listen," Daramy half-hisses, glancing at their surroundings as if searching for spies. "How much do you know about the Winter Soldier's maintenance? It's done by computer, right?"

Rumlow nearly waves him off—what could this rookie possibly have to say about the Soldier's handling—but on the off chance there's something he's overlooked, something that'll get this excursion discovered, he nods instead. "Yeah. Why?"

And here he'd thought Daramy looked close to fainting back in the van. "Then, in the New Year—all this Y2K shit—what's going to happen with him?"

A pause. Rumlow can only stare blankly. Somewhere behind his eye he can feel a vein twitching. "What?"

"Y2K. All the computers are going to crash, right? So is he going to? Is—will he just, like, break or go rogue or what? Do they have a contingency plan?"

Rumlow raises his hand, massaging at his temple. "Daramy. You idiot. Do you even know what Y2K is?"

"It's only on the news every other night." Daramy crosses his arms. He has the audacity to look offended, as if he's the sensible one here. "It'll be a worldwide computer crash. People are stockpiling canned food and water."

"Because a computer crash would cause a food shortage." Unbelievable. This guy isn't just a rookie, he's also Chicken Little. "Listen, Daramy, Y2K's about the dates in a computer screwing up. They think it might go from 1999 to 1900 instead of 2000. That's it. Bad news for, I don't know, bank records. Stocks. But the machines are still gonna function. The news stations just like winding people up."

Daramy looks about as convinced as a kid being told monsters under the bed don't exist. "But there weren't any computers in 1900. They could just—shut themselves off. Wipe the data. And then what's there to control the Soldier? He could malfunction and kill us all."

It's clear that logic is of no use here. "No," Rumlow says, trying to project an aura of calm. "He couldn't. Because he's programmed by the computers. So if they go down, the Soldier would just crash too, okay? He'd be completely catatonic until we could fix him. Now go get your damn presents or I'll have the Soldier snap your spine before you can even see the New Year."

Daramy races off. Rumlow sighs, beckoning the Soldier to follow as he strides toward Sears.

The mall is packed, but he and the Soldier have no trouble slipping through bodies. They pass the mall Santa on the way, and the line of kids waiting to see him must be half a mile long. Who waits until two days before Christmas to take their kid to Santa?

The Soldier's eyes flicker over the set up, but his steps don't falter. A couple of times other shoppers bump into him and Rumlow forgets to breathe, but the Soldier doesn't react. He only follows after the commander, because he hasn't been ordered to do anything but that. There's a rush of power in that knowledge.

Rumlow doesn't have time to marvel over his control, though. What's important now is the Kitchenaid stand mixer.

Amy had commented, years ago, when she was kneading dough by hand, that she ought to get a mixer. And the general consensus, in Rumlow's knowledge, is that Kitchenaid mixers are the best. Plus, they come in red, which is Amy's favorite color.

But by the time he reaches the kitchen appliances in Sears, some middle-aged man in a parka is already lifting the last red mixer box from the shelf.

Rumlow lets one hand fall to his pocket, checking the aisle for onlookers as he steps forward. There's only the Soldier. "Hey, buddy," he says.

"Fuck off," the man says. "It's mine."

"It's not that." Rumlow manages a smile. "I was just wondering—do you have Pacemaker? Any kind of heart condition?"

"What?" The confused indignation on the man's face is priceless. "I—no, what's it to yo—"

"Good," says Rumlow, and he slams the stun baton into the man's throat.

He catches the box as the guy collapses to the floor. The hood of the man's parka cushions his head against most of the impact. He lies spasming in the aisle before he passes out.

The noise, Rumlow finds as he turns back to the Soldier, has attracted a small group of onlookers. "This man's had a seizure," he says with all the concern he can muster. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

They rush off like good Samaritans and Rumlow gives the box to the Soldier to hold as they make their way to the checkout line.

"Tell me what a secret is," Rumlow orders.

"A secret is information that does not need to be included in the mission report to the Secretary," the Soldier says, staring down at the box in his hands. The left hand is gloved.

"And what are we doing right now? What is this?"

"A secret."

"Good boy," Rumlow says.

They're in the line for well over half an hour. There are screaming children both ahead of and behind them and there's shitty Christmas music being broadcast overhead. Well, all Christmas music is shitty in Rumlow's opinion, but "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" and "Do You Hear What I Hear" take the cake. Rumlow would send the Soldier off to disable the mall's sound system if that wouldn't be such a suicidally reckless, pointless risk.

"Tell me what a secret is," he instructs every five minutes or so.

"A secret," the Soldier always responds, "is information that does not need to be included in the mission report to the Secretary."

Once they're out of Sears, they find Rollins leaning against a wall across from the Santa booth. He's holding a box with a sewing machine in it—for his mother, he says—which he hands off to the Soldier as soon as they arrive. Daramy isn't back yet.

They wait, watching harried strangers rush up and down the hall. One little boy gets on Santa's lap and starts screaming himself hoarse. Rumlow's head throbs.

The Soldier watches Santa Claus with an intensity that might be funny if Rumlow weren't in such a foul mood. He's apparently assessed Santa as the most important figure in the room, which makes a ridiculous sort of sense. He's the focus of the most attention, after all, even if that attention's from a bunch of prepubescent brats.

Rollins takes notice and laughs. "Gonna tell him your Christmas list, Soldier? What do you want, a L115A3?"

The Soldier turns to Rollins. Even with his brow creased in confusion, his eyes are still cold and dead. "Tell whom?" he asks, sounding as if that's just one of a thousand questions in his head, picked at random.

Jack laughs and points to the poor bastard no doubt roasting in that suit. "Santa Claus. Every Christmas he goes around the world and brings presents to all the good children." Still grinning like a jackass, he leans in and adds, "He knows what everyone's doing all the time, even when they're sleeping. So I hope you've been a good boy this year, or you'll get coal."

The Soldier resumes staring at Santa Claus. His expression is unreadable. "He is HYDRA?"

Even with the headache pounding, that's funny enough to send Rumlow into a laughing fit. "No," he says, wiping tears from his eyes. "No, uh, Santa's a freelance kinda guy."

There's no response from the Soldier.

His relentless staring is more than a little creepy, so they look away.

"I can't believe you got her a mixer," Rollins says. "You haven't seen her in what, five years, and that's your plan to win her back? A mixer?"

"Fuck off."

"Fine, fine. Far be it from me to remark on the romanticism of a mixer."

Not for the first time in their history of working together, Rumlow considers breaking Rollins's face.

"You know," Rollins continues, as if he has any authority to speak on anything, "she might have bought a mixer at some point in the past half-decade. I'd hold onto the receipt if I were you."

"When was the last time you had a date?" Rumlow asks, fighting the urge to pull out his stun baton again. "Never, right? The answer's never?"

He misses whatever smart remark Rollins fires back, because at that moment there's a swell of sound. Specifically, screaming. Rumlow snaps to attention, hand falling to his weapon before he realizes the source of the noise. Santa's going on break. All the little tykes are howling and some of the parents are shouting obscenities. Well, that's setting a fine example.

He turns to be sure the onslaught of noise hasn't triggered the Soldier, but the Soldier's gone.

In the space where he stood, there's only the boxes for the sewing machine and the mixer sitting on the floor.

Rumlow swears. He catches sight of the Soldier, stalking down the hallway as he does when he tracks targets. The man is following the mall Santa.

"Watch the boxes," Rumlow orders Rollins, sprinting off. Shit. They've lost control of the Winter Soldier. They're dead. They're so dead.

"Soldier!" he shouts, strange looks from passerby be damned, but the Soldier doesn't turn.

Rumlow grabs his arm, hissing "Stand down!" into his ear.

The Soldier tenses up and Rumlow nearly pisses himself. In such close range, he doesn't stand a chance against an assault from HYDRA's greatest weapon. But the Soldier doesn't move. Doesn't even turn his head. His eyes are still fixed on the Santa Claus meandering toward the restrooms.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Rumlow demands, struggling to breathe again.

"Eliminating the threat," the Soldier says.

"What are you talking about?"

"The agent said Santa Claus knows what everyone does," the Soldier explains. His voice is flat, entirely serious. He's not capable of being flippant or sarcastic; knowing his reasoning is genuine is surreal. "Santa Claus is not HYDRA. He knows about HYDRA and must be eliminated."

Rumlow doesn't know whether to laugh or cry from relief or beat the Soldier senseless. "Santa Claus isn't real."

The Soldier blinks. He points at the man slipping into the restroom. "He is there."

Right. There's no use explaining the concept of fictitious beings to someone who forgets how to eat without prompting. Rumlow sighs, running his free hand over his face. "Listen, Soldier. Santa might be a freelance agent, but he's on our side, all right? We've contracted with him in the past. He's trustworthy and very closely monitored, don't worry."

The Soldier doesn't look convinced, but he allows himself to be led back to Rollins without struggle. This sort of independent action needs to be reported and punished, but there's no way to do that without letting slip that they'd taken the Soldier Christmas shopping.

"Get him back to the van," Rumlow orders as the Soldier's picking their boxes back up. "I'll wait for Daramy."

Rollins nods and the Soldier seems docile enough as he's guided away.

When Daramy finally arrives, he's loaded with more bags than a pack mule could carry. "Did you do all your Christmas shopping just now?" Rumlow asks, arching a brow.

"Listen," Daramy says, breathless. Rumlow's not sure if that's from exertion or excitement. "I was in line at Penny's, and the couple in front of me was talking about Y2K, and they said—"

"If you finish that sentence, I will stab you."

Things seem to be in order once they get back to the van, except Rollins and Perez are both red-eyed and shaky. Rumlow feels his teeth grind. If these idiots have been getting high while they're meant to be watching the asset—

"Brock, Brock!" Rollins says, ushering him in. "Listen, you've got to see what we taught him. Winter Soldier, show the commander."

The Soldier doesn't move. He remains in his seat, eyes blank and staring right ahead, and he speaks. "I really can't stay." There's something wrong with his voice, a broken cadence and quavering pitch, and Rumlow's about to ask what the hell is going on when Rollins starts singing.

"But baby, it's cold outside."

"I've got to go away," the Soldier says in that same strange way, and Rumlow understands.

The Winter Soldier is singing.

At least, he's trying to. He barely uses his voice and he clearly doesn't know what he's doing, but it's vaguely approaching music.

"But baby, it's cold outside." Rollins can't carry a tune in a bucket, either. It's a perfect duet, in a "dear God why" sort of way.

"This evening has been—"

"Been hoping that you'd drop in."

"—so very nice."

"I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice."

It's then that Rollins breaks off, laughing so loud the sound drowns out the Soldier's next line. Perez is doubled over himself, cackling.

"Get it?" Rollins asks, wiping at his eyes. "Just like ice? Winter Soldier? Who sleeps in ice, you get it—"

"What I get," says Rumlow, "is that we're all going to die because you're an asshole who just had to teach the Soldier the date rape Christmas carol. Way to go."

"Oh, calm down." Rollins props his feet up on the dashboard. "We taught him to be discreet. Winter Soldier, tell the commander what songs are."

"Songs are secrets," the Soldier says.

"And what are secrets?" Rumlow shakes his head, shoving Perez's out of the driver's seat. Between the Santa Claus nonsense and all this repetition, he's starting to feel like he's trapped in some sort of children's play.

"Secrets are information that does not need to be included in the mission report to the Secretary."

"And God bless us, everyone," Rumlow mutters under his breath, backing the van out of its parking space.

It takes forty-five minutes to exit the parking lot, and another hour to reach headquarters. As they're exiting the van, Perez grabs Rumlow's shoulder. "We need to talk. It's important."

Rumlow braces himself for whatever could possibly have gone wrong now. "What is it?"

"Do you think," Perez begins, barely speaking above a whisper, "that the Soldier's Y2K compliant?"

And Rumlow knocks out Perez's two front teeth.

A/N: Amy already had a stand mixer and Rumlow lost the receipt. And that's the story of how Brock got a mixer he'll never use, taking up real estate on his countertop.

The Y2K bug was the cause of a panic in late 1999. Many electronic devices only displayed the last two digits of the year rather than all four numbers, so 2000 would be 00 and as such be indistinguishable from 1900 and theoretically mess up automated lists of dates and so on. The public in general, however, took this to mean that all computer systems everywhere, from plane navigation to bank records, would cease to function. I was ten at the time and remember there used to be books on putting together a "Y2K survival kit." And in the end, nothing happened at all.