Chapter Text
1952
Natalia threw chubby handfuls of snow up in the air, squealing with delight as it came down around her in little fluffy flakes. Her father laughed behind her, a big, booming laugh that seemed to shake the air around them. Natalia bent down to pick up more snow, happily tossing it about. She’d gotten a new pair of gloves that year from Ded Moroz along with a wooden horse figurine whittled by her father. The horse was in her pocket and the gloves being put to use in the newly fallen snow.
Her small feet stumbled over a snowdrift and she plunged into the cold white. It was scary suddenly, being surrounded by nothing but cold and ice. It was in her mouth, seeping into her lungs. She cried and hands plucked her from the ground and bundled her up close.
“<You must get used to the cold, little Natalia,>” a voice said. She thought it was her father but the memory didn’t seem right; he called her something else.
“<Run the simulation again,>” another voice announced.
Natalia felt hands on her and suddenly remembered it wasn’t a horse but actually a stag.
They made her believe it was a horse.
1989
Christmas in the circus was kind of…eclectic. Everyone came from somewhere different, had various traditions, even celebrated on different days. There were those who lit menorahs, others a Kinara, and others still who celebrated the Solstice. Some didn’t celebrate anything particular but picked a day to drink and be merry.
Clint had grown up with Christmas. His mother had always made sure he and Barney had something under the tree (even if it was only a pair of knitted gloves and an orange or apple). The various fosters homes had ranged from full Christmas dinners to frozen pizza and cigar smoke. So Clint didn’t really pitch in much when it came to commemorating the holiday. And this year he didn’t feel like celebrating at all.
Barney had left seven months ago. He’d joined the army, leaving Clint to fend for himself. Of course he had Buck and Jacques to look after him. But when he found them drunk off their rockers and counting money from a liquor store heist he’d helped on, serving as their lookout, he began to question just how well his looking after was being considered.
He went back to his trailer – one he shared with Murphy, an acrobat who’d gotten him addicted to the high wire – he noticed an envelope on the table. It was from the army and Clint got excited, thinking Barney had finally written back.
He cried when he read it.
Barney was dead.
1998
He picked at his nails absently. They were bleeding again with how short he’d gotten them. But the pain kept his mind on, active, living.
Solitary confinement.
He had no idea what the day or time was. The one blip of sound he’d gotten when his door was opened last resembled sleigh bells.
Christmas?
He bit at his cuticles and kept his eyes on the door. He wanted so badly for it to open. He needed it to. He’d been good. He hadn’t caused any trouble since going into confinement. He’d eaten his meals and done everything the guard had asked, cooperated when they transferred him to a cell across the hall. Something about needing to keep a closer eye on him. (It was only after they’d moved him had he realized the air duct had run above him. They’d thought he’d escape. But he didn’t. He was being good.)
Been an angel all year, the lyrics circled around his brain. Better watch out, better not cry. So be good for goodness sake.
He was! He was being so good and yet they wouldn’t open the door.
“Please,” he rasped. “Please!” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Please, let me out.”
Two weeks later the door opened and an unassuming man in a suit stood there with a manila folder tucked into his chest.
“Congrats, Barton. This suit’s here to bust ya out,” a guard explained.
Clint studied the man: thinning hair, brown eyes, an air of aloofness and a twinge of misbehavior.
He stood up, legs shaky from disuse and struggled over until he was right beside the man in the suit. His cologne smelled tastefully expensive yet a bit stale. Government.
“I can take it from here,” the man addressed the guard. He turned to Clint. “Not to be pushy, Mr. Barton, but I do have a lot of work to get done before Friday.”
The guard huffed. “Merry Christmas, Barton.”
2003
She’d been there eight months. Three had been spent deprogramming her, two interrogating her. The remaining three had been reserved to training and conditioning with her new partner.
Clint Barton was an interesting man. He didn’t seem to want any kind of reward for saving her life other than her doing well at SHIELD. He claimed there was no debt. Yet he kept a leger. She’s snuck a peek once and saw rows and rows of names in red and black ink. Lives he’d taken. Lives he’d saved. Taped to the inside cover was a scrap piece of paper with an address inked on it. She’d looked it up and found an abandoned house in some small Iowan town. She wasn’t sure which debt it went with, but it was obviously important.
She liked the idea of the ledger even if the notion that he kept one made her inexplicably sad and frustrated.
She bought a leather-bound journal from a shop that was having a sale because of the holiday season. She’s never been one for Christmas and the approaching date had slipped her mind. In the journal she tallied up the lives she’d lost and the ones she’s saved. The second column had painfully few in it.
Barton didn’t seem to give much consideration for the holiday as well, so when SHIELD let them have a few days off, they’d simply reserved more time in the empty gym.
She’d left her bag on the bench outside the locker room and went towards the showers. That must’ve been where he took it. Because the next time she opened the journal she found all the pages with red writing crossed out in purple ink. A note in familiar chicken scratch read:
They did this, not you. Merry Christmas. C.
Now
Tony’s party was extravagant, as expected. The decorations were expensive and tasteful, the food exquisite. But Natasha’s eyes were focused not on the festivities, but on her partner.
She’d seen him in a tux many times in the field but here, after Loki and SHIELD, and the war between Tony and Steve, here…
Well here he was. And she’d never seen anything better.
“Hi,” she greeted, sliding in to his side. His arm around her waist was a movement so natural it was like breathing.
“Hey,” he said back. “Glad to be by your side again.”
She hummed contentedly. It had been a long time since she’d seen him and touching him was too tempting to resist. Her rules about PDA flew out the window when he looked down at her, eyes so soft and begging and wanting and loving.
She kissed him.
It wasn’t their first kiss, not by a long shot.
But she realized this was their first on Christmas Day.