2014
The cabin was small and tucked away in the woods, far enough from anything to feel completely removed from the world, which was exactly the point. Snow lay thick and untouched across the ground, its soft glow reflecting the pale December moonlight. The stillness outside was a sharp contrast to the quiet bustle inside, where warmth seeped from every corner.
It was their first Christmas together—Natasha, Maria, and Valerik—and though none of them were the sentimental type, the weight of the year lingered in the corners of the cabin like an uninvited guest.
Natasha moved with her usual quiet efficiency, laying out a mismatched set of dishes at the small table. Maria, seated nearby in a flannel shirt and jeans, was carefully tending to a small, scrappy Christmas tree they’d managed to drag inside the day before. It leaned slightly to the left, lopsided but charming.
Val stood by the window, arms folded, staring out into the snow-covered woods. Sixteen years old, with dark hair still too long and shadows beneath his eyes that didn’t belong on someone so young. The remnants of his old life in Russia clung to him in ways neither woman spoke about directly—at least, not yet. He’d been here with them for nearly eight months, in and out of hiding, trying to piece together who he was when he wasn’t a weapon.
“The tree looks pathetic,” Val muttered, though there was no bite to his voice.
“It has character,” Maria shot back dryly, eyeing the lopsided top. “Unlike you.”
Natasha smirked and glanced over. “At least the tree’s standing upright. You, on the other hand, spent all morning sliding on the ice like a baby deer.”
Val turned from the window with a glare. “I was practicing.”
“For what? A figure skating competition?” Maria teased.
Natasha chuckled under her breath as Val huffed, flopping down onto the couch like the broody teenager he was. Despite the banter, there was a lightness to their voices, something fragile but genuine. It felt…safe. For now, that was enough.
The evening was simple. Natasha cooked—or, at least, did something passable that resembled cooking. The roasted chicken was a little dry, and the potatoes had a suspiciously lumpy texture, but Maria’s insistence on finding a halfway decent apple pie in town made up for it. They ate at the tiny table, the three of them, the only sound for a while the quiet clinking of silverware against mismatched plates.
“So this is Christmas in America,” Val said finally, pushing potatoes around with his fork. “I expected more…commercialism.”
“It’s not a Hallmark movie,” Natasha said, though her voice held a hint of amusement. “We’re not exactly traditional.”
“Or religious,” Maria added.
Val shrugged. “In Russia, we didn’t celebrate Christmas. It wasn’t allowed when I was growing up. I don’t see the point of it.”
Natasha glanced up at him, her gaze softening. She knew better than anyone what he wasn’t saying. For all his sarcasm and sharp edges, Val carried the same emptiness Natasha had once felt—that gnawing sense that you didn’t belong anywhere, that holidays were for people with families, people with roots. She and Maria were trying, but they couldn’t rewrite the past for him.
“Then you can decide what it means now,” Maria said simply, reaching for her glass of wine. “Make your own traditions.”
Val looked skeptical. “Like what?”
“Well,” Natasha said, leaning back in her chair. “Step one: pie. Step two: you open your presents.”
Val blinked at her. “Presents?”
Maria smirked. “What did you think? We’d just feed you and call it a day?”
Natasha stood, crossing the room to grab a small stack of poorly wrapped gifts from the coffee table. “Here. Don’t get excited—it’s nothing special.”
Val hesitated before taking the gifts, clearly caught off guard. The first was a thick, worn leather jacket that Natasha tossed over his shoulder as if it meant nothing. But the stitching had been carefully mended, and it fit perfectly when he tried it on. From Maria, there was a book of American short stories and a pack of black gloves—functional and warm.
“It’s not much,” Natasha repeated.
Val shook his head, his throat tight. “No… it’s good.”
Maria watched him carefully, as if trying to gauge his reaction. “You didn’t get us anything, did you?”
Val looked panicked. “I didn’t know—”
Natasha waved him off. “Relax. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s good enough.”
Later that night, as the fire burned low and the room grew quiet, they heard a knock at the door. Val instinctively reached for the knife hidden in his boot—a reflex he hadn’t unlearned yet—but Natasha shook her head.
“Calm down. It’s just Clint.”
Sure enough, when Maria opened the door, Clint stood there with snow dusting his coat and a mischievous grin. Behind him were Steve and Sam, bundled against the cold and holding a bottle of whiskey that was probably Clint’s idea.
“We come bearing gifts,” Clint announced, stepping inside.
“You’re late,” Natasha said, though there was no bite to it.
Steve handed Val a small wrapped box, which he accepted awkwardly. “Merry Christmas, kid.”
Sam clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, grinning. “We’re calling it a victory if you’re not glaring at us by the end of the night.”
Val just stared at the new arrivals, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. It was loud now—Clint teasing Maria about the crooked tree, Steve trying to make sense of Natasha’s lumpy potatoes, Sam declaring himself “Keeper of the Whiskey” while he poured drinks for everyone. It was chaotic and warm, so unlike anything Val had known before. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this—the sound of laughter, the presence of people who felt like something solid.
By midnight, Val was curled up on the couch, half-asleep under the leather jacket Natasha had given him. Maria sat on the arm of the chair nearby, a mug of tea cradled in her hands as she watched him. Natasha was stretched out on the floor by the fire, her eyes closed, listening to Clint and Sam argue about some ridiculous story.
“He’s doing better,” Maria said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
Natasha opened one eye to glance at Val. He looked peaceful for once, his breathing slow and steady.
“Yeah,” Natasha murmured. “He is.”
Maria smiled faintly. “Merry Christmas, Nat.”
Natasha’s lips quirked up just slightly. “Merry Christmas.”