2015
Christmas Eve in New York was never quiet, but in the apartment Natasha, Maria, and Val now shared, it felt strangely peaceful. Outside the window, the city was alive—car horns echoed distantly, snow turned to slush beneath hurried footsteps, and lights from nearby buildings glittered against the dark. But inside, everything was calm.
The apartment itself was a mix of their personalities—minimalist enough to make Maria happy, practical enough to keep Natasha comfortable, and warm enough that Val felt like he belonged. A Christmas tree sat in the corner by the window, better-decorated than last year’s thanks to Maria’s intervention. Val had insisted on doing the lights, and though they were uneven, no one said a word.
The three of them sat together on the couch, illuminated by the glow of the tree and the flicker of a small fire playing on the TV screen—Natasha’s half-ironic choice. Val had handed each of them a box, his expression careful as he avoided looking directly at them.
“These are for you,” he said, voice a little too flat, as if bracing for rejection.
Maria raised an eyebrow and turned the small gift in her hands. “Look at you, getting all festive this year.”
Natasha smiled faintly. “Did you steal these?”
Val glared at her, though there wasn’t any heat to it. “No.”
“Relax,” Maria said, nudging him gently. “We’re proud of you, kid.”
Natasha unwrapped her box first, revealing a leather-bound notebook. The initials “N.R.” were etched into the corner, understated and precise. She ran her fingers over the smooth cover, understanding immediately what it was.
“You’re always writing things down,” Val said quietly. “Plans, ideas… thought you could use one that wasn’t full of grocery lists.”
Natasha’s smile was small but genuine. She didn’t say much—she didn’t need to. “It’s perfect,” she said softly, flipping it open to find a pen tucked neatly into the spine.
Maria unwrapped hers next: a sleek black coffee mug, sturdy and simple, with her SHIELD call sign etched in bold, silver letters along the side. It was almost professional-looking until Maria turned it over and noticed a phrase Val had scrawled across the bottom in small, careful handwriting.
Boss Lady.
Maria snorted, her laughter sudden and warm. “Are you serious?” she asked, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and affection.
Val shrugged, his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile. “It fits.”
Maria turned the mug in her hands, her grin lingering. “You’re damn right it does.”
Natasha reached over and ruffled Val’s hair, something she knew he hated but tolerated from her. “Good job, malishka,” she murmured.
Val ducked away, cheeks flushed, but he didn’t argue. For once, the weight of their expectations—or his own—felt lighter.
Val ducked away, cheeks flushed, but he didn’t argue. For once, the weight of their expectations—or his own—felt lighter.
Before Val could fully retreat, Maria cleared her throat and reached under the couch. “Hold on a second. We’ve got something for you, too.”
Val blinked, surprised. “What?”
Natasha smirked, pulling a small box from beside her. “You thought you were the only one handing out gifts this year? Sit back down.”
He hesitated but obeyed, sitting awkwardly on the floor while Maria handed him a heavy, rectangular package wrapped in dark paper. “This one’s from me,” she said, settling back against the cushions.
Val peeled the paper away carefully, revealing a book—its leather cover well-worn but sturdy, embossed with faint gold lettering. He turned it over in his hands, frowning slightly. “What is it?”
Maria smiled faintly. “An atlas,” she said. “It’s vintage. Thought you might like knowing where you’re going—or where you’ve been.”
Val ran his fingers over the cover, flipping it open to see pages filled with detailed maps, notes about countries and cities scribbled in the margins in a stranger’s hand. The gift was thoughtful in a way that made his chest ache.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, not trusting himself to say much more.
Natasha held out her own box then, wrapped with considerably less care—she’d used too much tape, as if she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it. “This one’s mine.”
Val opened it to find a sleek black pocket knife nestled inside, the blade engraved with a single word: Hope.
“It’s practical,” Natasha said, leaning her chin on her hand as she watched him. “Figured you’d like it.”
Val held the knife carefully, his thumb tracing the word etched into the steel. He knew Natasha wasn’t the sentimental type—she showed her care through action more than words. But this? This was something else.
“I do,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “I really do.”
Maria leaned over to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Merry Christmas, Val.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. For the first time in years, Christmas felt like more than just another day to survive.]
The next morning, the peace was shattered by a knock on the door.
“Don’t reach for the knife,” Natasha said automatically, shooting Val a look as she passed him. He scoffed but let his hand fall away from where it had twitched toward his boot. Some habits were hard to break.
When Natasha swung the door open, Clint stood there with a grin, snow in his hair and a large box balanced awkwardly under one arm.
“Merry Christmas to my favorite dysfunctional family!” he announced.
Natasha groaned. “You’re too loud for this early in the morning.”
“Too early?” Sam’s voice called from the hallway. He appeared behind Clint, holding a tray of pastries like a trophy. “I knew I should’ve waited to bring food. You’re all ungrateful.”
“Move,” Steve grumbled, nudging both of them aside as he carried in a casserole dish wrapped in a checkered towel. He looked too wholesome for Christmas in the middle of Manhattan, wearing a knit sweater that Sam had definitely mocked him for earlier.
The apartment turned chaotic almost immediately. Clint set up his “secret gift” under the tree with way too much dramatic flair, Sam complained about the lack of good coffee (“Nat, I’m begging you—just one espresso machine”), and Steve tried valiantly to keep the peace. Val watched it all unfold from his spot on the couch, half-amused and half-overwhelmed, but Natasha threw a snowman-patterned blanket at him until he joined the fray.
Wanda arrived a little later, her cheeks pink from the cold and a shy smile softening her usual sharp edges. She handed Maria a small box of homemade sweets she’d brought from Sokovia and dropped onto the floor beside Val with a grin.
“Is this a better Christmas than last year?” she teased gently.
Val didn’t answer right away, but his nod was enough.
Dinner that night was loud and messy in the best way. Sam and Clint bickered over who was responsible for carving the ham (“You’re a terrible butcher, Wilson,” Clint groaned while Sam brandished the knife threateningly). Steve acted as the moderator, shaking his head and muttering about children while Natasha smirked into her glass of wine. Wanda quietly helped Maria in the kitchen, though she kept rolling her eyes at Clint’s very loud demands for second helpings.
Val sat at the table, sandwiched between Natasha and Steve, watching the scene unfold. He wasn’t used to this kind of noise or the way laughter came so easily. It was different from last year—this time, the undercurrent of tension was gone. They weren’t hiding. They weren’t running.
“Did you actually make this?” Steve asked Natasha, poking suspiciously at the potatoes.
“Eat your food, Rogers,” Natasha shot back.
Clint leaned across the table to whisper at Val. “Don’t worry—she probably poisoned it.”
Val smirked faintly, though the joke didn’t land as harshly as it might have once. “She only poisons people she doesn’t like.”
“True,” Natasha chimed in, smirking at Clint before refilling her glass.
After dinner, the group sprawled around the living room. Sam challenged Steve to a game of cards, Clint promptly accused both of them of cheating, and Wanda curled up in the armchair with one of Maria’s homemade cookies. Maria herself sat with Natasha on the couch, their shoulders pressed together as they quietly watched the others bicker.
Val sat on the floor with his back to the couch, knees pulled up as he watched it all. For a moment, he let himself just be—here, in this space, with these people.
“You look comfortable,” Natasha murmured, nudging him lightly with her foot.
Val glanced up at her, his expression softening. “I am.”
Natasha didn’t say anything, but her hand found his shoulder briefly before she turned her attention back to the group.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and noise, stories and arguments over the rules of poker, before the apartment slowly settled into the kind of sleepy quiet that only comes after a long, good day.
As Val stretched out on the couch much later, an afghan draped over him, he could hear Sam snoring faintly from the floor, Clint mumbling something unintelligible, and Steve murmuring to Maria about how to clean up quietly. Natasha sat nearby, watching the snow fall outside the window, a small, satisfied smile on her face.
“Good Christmas?” she asked softly, not looking at him.
Val nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”
This time, he didn’t need to add anything else.