2016
The apartment was too quiet.
Only a year ago, Christmas had been chaotic and warm, full of noise and laughter—Clint teasing, Steve shaking his head with a smile, Sam calling himself “Keeper of the Whiskey,” and Maria and Natasha keeping it all from completely falling apart.
But now, it was just Natasha and Val.
The fire on the TV flickered, its faint crackle a poor imitation of real warmth. The Christmas tree sat in its usual spot by the window, but it looked emptier this year—decorated only halfway, as though they hadn’t had the energy to finish it. A few ornaments Maria had picked out still hung there, small reminders of her absence.
It had been four months since the Snap, but time felt hollow and slippery. Natasha had stopped counting the days. What did it matter anymore? Maria was gone. Yelena was gone. Bucky was gone. Half the world was gone, and nothing felt real.
Val sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the tree, staring at an unopened box on his lap. Natasha could tell he’d been quiet all evening—too quiet, even for him. He didn’t know how to do this either.
“You’re allowed to open it,” Natasha said gently, sitting on the couch behind him.
Val glanced up at her, his face pale and drawn, like he hadn’t been sleeping. “It’s not the same,” he said softly.
“No,” Natasha agreed, because there was no point in lying. “It’s not.”
She held her own gift from him—a small, hastily wrapped package—but she hadn’t opened it yet either.
Val turned the box over in his hands. “I didn’t know if I should get you anything,” he admitted after a moment. “I almost didn’t.”
Natasha leaned back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “That’s not the point, Val. We’re still here. That’s what matters.”
It sounded like something Maria would have said.
Val didn’t respond for a while. Then, quietly, he tore open the box. Inside was a new pair of gloves—soft, warm, and black leather, simple but high quality. Val ran his fingers over them, his expression unreadable.
Natasha shrugged when he looked at her. “Your old ones were falling apart.”
“They were fine.”
“They weren’t fine,” Natasha replied flatly.
Val’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up a second box from under the tree and handed it to her.
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you almost didn’t get me anything.”
“Shut up and open it,” he muttered.
The box was small and light. Natasha unwrapped it carefully, finding a delicate silver bracelet inside—thin and understated, with a tiny compass charm that she recognized immediately. It was a small compass, the needle frozen to always point north.
Natasha looked at him sharply. “Where did you get this?”
Val shrugged one shoulder, not quite meeting her gaze. “I found it,” he said. “It reminded me of you.”
Natasha swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “You think I need a compass?”
“You’re always the one who knows where we’re going,” Val said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even now.”
There was a long silence. Natasha slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, her movements slow and deliberate.
“Thanks,” she murmured eventually, because there wasn’t much else to say.
The knock came the next morning.
Natasha glanced at Val, who had fallen asleep on the couch, curled into himself like he didn’t trust his own body. She moved carefully, picking up a knife just in case, though she already knew who it would be.
Sure enough, when she opened the door, Steve Rogers stood there, a wrapped box tucked under one arm. He looked like he hadn’t slept—his shoulders heavy and his eyes haunted.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Steve,” Natasha said, a little surprised. She stepped aside so he could come in. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting Stark either.”
“Hey!” Tony called from the hallway, stepping into view with two large bags. “You’re the one who dragged me here, Cap. I’m just the Christmas mule.”
Natasha blinked as Tony pushed past Steve, shrugging off his coat like he owned the place. He set the bags down by the tree and waved a hand. “Don’t get up, Val, I’ve got it handled.”
Val stirred on the couch, blinking blearily at them. “What’s going on?”
Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t want you two to be alone.”
Natasha folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at Steve. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know we didn’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice soft but firm. “We wanted to.”
Tony busied himself pulling things out of his bags—food, mostly, and a bottle of something expensive-looking. “Hope you two like Stark-brand catering. Not exactly homemade, but it’s better than what you were probably planning to eat.”
Val sat up slowly, still blinking as though he wasn’t sure this was real. Natasha caught the slight crease in his brow—the disbelief at seeing Steve and Tony here, as though they’d stepped in from another world.
“Why are you here?” Val asked finally, his voice low.
Steve crouched down beside the couch, meeting his gaze. “Because you’re not alone, Val,” he said quietly. “Not today.”
Val looked away, but not before Natasha saw the shine in his eyes.
The day passed quietly. Tony joked too much and too loudly, clearly trying to distract himself from the ache of everything. Steve didn’t smile much, but he sat close to Val on the couch, speaking to him softly when the room grew quiet. Natasha just let them be—let the noise, however brief, fill the emptiness.
When evening fell, Steve stood and clapped Val gently on the shoulder. “Take care of each other,” he said, and Val nodded.
Tony lingered a little longer, patting Natasha on the back like he didn’t know how else to say goodbye. “Merry Christmas, Romanoff.”
Natasha returned to the couch and sank down beside Val, who hadn’t moved. He looked small—smaller than usual, somehow, like he was carrying a weight too heavy for his narrow shoulders. Slowly, without saying anything, Natasha shifted so he could lay his head in her lap.
It surprised her when he did, resting against her like a child seeking comfort, his arms pulled close to his chest. Natasha stilled for a moment, her hand hovering uncertainly above his head. She wasn’t used to this—to holding someone, to being the one left behind.
But then she let herself touch him, threading her fingers gently through his dark hair.
She looked down at him, imagining what he would’ve been like as a little boy—before the violence, before the loss, before the sharp edges that life had carved into him. She wondered if anyone had ever held him like this, if anyone had ever just let him rest.
Val didn’t say anything, but his breath hitched, and she saw a single tear slip down his cheek.
Natasha blinked rapidly, her vision blurring as she looked away, staring at the half-decorated tree. She didn’t wipe her eyes. There was no one here to see them—no one except Val, who wouldn’t judge her for it.
“We’re still here,” she whispered finally, her voice barely audible.
Val’s shoulders shook faintly, but he didn’t respond.
Natasha didn’t press him. She just kept running her fingers through his hair, holding onto him as best she could, like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.
Outside, the city was quiet.
Inside, they stayed there, silent and still, tears catching in the faint glow of the firelight.