#ldmkwc

The ornament glows his sigil and, you miss him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. Miss his damn shadow.

Thanksgiving had tasted like wet sand. The turkey and cranberries a mush of pulp. Basting and seasoning, rosemary and garlic, rubbing all manners of things down with butter… and in the end, no matter how you tried, the last six months crumbled like ash in your mouth.

Your father’s illness and subsequent recovery bloomed relief but it was still too soon. There was one more round of radiation and then, it would be over. The cloak of death could finally be ripped down, hung up elsewhere to shrivel and flee; he’d finally be free of cancer.

Six months after sweltering summer kisses on a dock and you were still sick with longing for Bucky. He calls rarely because your civilian life can’t bleed into your hero life; you’re the only one with family—the only one with a possible hostage situation.

Two conversations, maybe. With his low timbre saying hello. Don’t know when I’ll see you, but I’ll dream of you until I do. And the sadness in your gut volleys into hope—careens itself into balmy spring and the taste of his tongue on yours. The only reprieve you receive is in darkness, when you might be lucky enough to find him under a clear June sky, the two of you meeting in the middle of a midnight yearning.

The days between Christmas and New Years smear together. A foggy mess of unknown hours and habits, waking and sleeping all blurring into some kind of purgatory overcrowded with glazed ham leftovers and candles with names like Twisted Peppermint and Merry Berry.

A steaming mug is slid over the frosted windowsill on the 30th. Your youngest sister plops down on the sofa seat with a hum, pulling striped red and green sock encased knees up to her chest. Mind-reading. That connection between siblings.

“You go.” She states casually, and it takes you by surprise. “Dad’s doing well. You go. World needs you and all.”

Under a heavy quilt, you’re already quivering with preemptive heartbreak. A sip of your drink and the beginning of a protest before she puts up her hand, “We’ll be fine.” Then, a smirk and a roll of her eyes, “Figures. You finally fall for a guy and he’s probably Captain America.”

You bite your smile down and stay silent.

-

Voicemail. Even the automated tone repeating his phone number before the shrill beep gives you butterflies. War drums echoing from your chest. The practiced message you ran through your head sounds stupid no matter how many times you rehearse it. No matter how many times you’ve dreamt of him and this moment.

“H-hey... I, uh, I’m heading to the compound. Uh. Well, I think I’ll be there in time for tomorrow night’s party. Can’t wait to see you, Buck.”

A string of the dumbest syllables ever known to man.

-

The commons room is aglow when you arrive. Soft and brilliant in orange and yellow, warming up the darkness of dimmed lights. There are at least three trees on your way in, lit up with gold, then blue, then silver for the third, overflowing with ribbon and sparkling garland. Hand-blown glass ornaments refract a rainbow array of hues. There is fake snow in a trail flanking the velvet red carpet running inside, shaped meticulously so that it imitates a snowbank to perfection. Soft music hums from deeper in, harps and violins, and the smell of the fireplace crackling spiced woody notes soothes your bones.

Pepper’s outdone herself heralding in the New Year. You’ll have to apologize for dripping water all the way in, pelted by snow and shuddering head to toe.

It’s flurrying in New York, alright. Your chattering teeth are a testament to the temperature.

Natasha’s the first to see you by the entrance. A raise of her champagne class and you grin shyly, stepping in, wet boots tracking to the bar. Steve beams and rushes across the room, nicking off his conversation with a fan in the middle, throwing his arms around you for a hug.

“He’s in D.C.—does he know you’re— Christ, where’s your coat?"

You shake your head and quiet your trembling as you take in Steve’s pressed denim shirt and his slacks and hair neatly combed to one side. Clean shaven and handsome, twinkling eyes as he holds tight. Your shoes are dripping onto his and you chuckle, “I forgot it—too eager, I suppose.”

The gown you pulled on at the airport is an old one—silvery lavender with thin trails of sparkling tinsel. Worn once during an undercover mission near New Mexico and then hung up to sway limply in your sister’s closet because it was too beautiful to discard even though it smelled like gunpowder. The excitement of your arrival was too pressing that you’d forgotten the right shoes. Boots it is—black and clunky, the kind you’d prefer to have on in a fight.

“He’ll be mad you’re not dressed for the weather.” A silly grin as if Steve’s hiding a secret. Then, a single raise of his sandy brow as he looks down. The gossamer hem a darker purple as it sways over your shoes. “But maybe you can go barefoot for tonight.”

-

Sam is elated when he arrives, pulling you into a spin before his hand clasps onto yours and he sways all the way to the middle of the dance floor. It’s like you never left as he chatters on, making you laugh and cry, his steps goading the band to play faster accompaniments.

Three songs in and you’re reminded of how tired you are from the trip. Your feet are freezing on the tile and so you lead Sam to the couches, accepting a drink from Natasha’s hand before leaning into her, tingling toes tucked beneath your thighs. She plays with your hair, rubs your shoulder, and whispers that it hasn’t been the same without you.

“I remember this dress. We got into some trouble that mission.” And you know that look even without seeing it. Half-smirk, eyebrow up, the Natasha trademark.

You laugh at the memory. Gunpowder from her Beretta and the skirt hiked up to reveal your own pistol strapped tightly to your thigh. Beneath it had been a knife. Overkill, you’d thought, but it came in handy anyway.

“James will appreciate your sentimentality.”

The two of you had played lovers, and it was easy slipping into the role. Your heart flutters at the memory and how nervous you had been when his hand caressed yours at the auditorium entrance. He had bent over and whispered that you looked beautiful, and you snorted in return—a broken noise of disbelief.

“We missed you.” Natasha blows into your ear playfully, “You won’t believe how annoyingly long he sulked. If he’s not here at midnight, you’re getting a kiss from me.”

“Woah. I’m gonna kiss her.” Sam protests, leaning forward dramatically.

You turn to Steve with a grin, waiting for his bid but he only puts his hands up, palms faced outward. “Not me. I’m not trying to get into any fights with Buck. Had enough of that for a while, if none of you remember.”

A few more minutes of chatting and you dismiss your friends, shooing them back to their company and unwilling to take up any more of their time.

New Year’s Eve and you certainly can’t be the most interesting person here, you say. Check out the band, gosh, there’s a celebrity—and Tony, sweeping in with gusto to shoot a comment about how he didn’t even notice you were back but that your room is still in pristine condition, if you were wondering.

And you weren’t, but you thank him anyway with a wink.

11:50 and the back wall is glaring a projected image of the NYC ball drop. You stifle a yawn behind your hand, leaning over the couch lazily. Guests come and go, welcome you back, and you’re always a little startled when another stranger flits by to say hello and thank you. Everyone blurs together in a rush of sparkling cream gowns and silk suits.

11:55 and your eyes are shuttering close, cheekbone resting upon your palm.

11:58 and a hand is skimming up your arm, softly prodding, but you’re too tired to move.

Cheers and whoops. It’s so loud. Music crescendoes, Natasha placing a peck on your cheek along with a blanket over your shoulders and you reply with a wilted little smile. Then, you return to a familiar sweetened coffee black dream of someone tall and soft-spoken.

-

You jolt from the stupor with a gasp. The room has emptied and darkened, only lit by the soft glow of the projector spinning starry images. The blanket from your shoulders has slipped off some time ago, gathering to pool at your feet. Blinking sluggishly, you realize you’re no longer leaned against your palm on the edge of the couch.

Dusky pine and leather. Faint cool aftershave and the vital heartbeat of warm boy. Something heavy and buttery soft draped over your previously cold shoulders.

Another dream.

Yet, it feels more corporeal than ever before and the drumming in your chest strikes a thrilled beat. Your hands wildly pat him up and down, drawing forth his sweet laugh at your antics. You don’t stop, though, running up the neoprene vest, the straps buckled over his torso, his strong jaw and chin. Then hair, those long chestnut strands lightly curled at the edges, grown a little longer and tucked loosely behind his ears.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, honey.”

You bristle in disbelief, distracted by the realization with some embarrassment that you’ve been sleeping on top of him for who knows how long.  Stupid syllables stuck like caramel chews in your mouth, welding your teeth together in a solid disappointment. After spending six months dreaming about seeing him again, now you’re finally here and you’ve got nothing to say. Bucky lifts his chin to place atop your head, pressing kisses down and chills race to your fingertips and toes.

“Nat said she kissed you at midnight,” Bucky muses, and you can just hear him smiling how he does when he thinks he’s done something clever. “And what about me? You owe me a kiss, unless you’re all done with kissin’ for the night?” His gloved finger traces your chin, thumb pad rubbing over your nose, lifting your gaze until you’re staring up into his eyes.

Blue, blue, blue, like milky ways dipped in a cerulean sea. Behind his head the cosmos continue to spiral, outlining him in silver and starlight. He is beautiful in the night, brighter than suns. You want to sob and say Bucky, Bucky, if I’m sleeping don’t wake me.

Cheekiness snuffs itself out as he tilts his head with a smile, eyes roaming over your expression curiously. A statement begins in the silence of his thumb caressing your cheek, then brow, then making a path down to your bottom lip, skimming over the edge.

He punctuates it with a press of his mouth to yours. Hand moving to latch onto your jaw, then neck, then cradling your head between two and your heart hurdles all the way to the finish line.

“Missed you.” He murmurs, “Missed you a lot.” Licks to your lips and you vaguely wonder when he learned how to sweep you completely off your feet. Bucky tugs on the lapels of his jacket around your shoulder, crushing your torso to his. After six months of longing and anguish, you could float away if he wasn’t holding on so tightly.

“You look beautiful. Always thought so.” Fingers rub the lavender tulle and he smiles. You didn’t believe him then, the night Bucky complimented you and yanked the knife from its strap. “Like a dream.”

Now, you know he means it.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

Bucky pulls you fully into his lap, solid beneath your hands and flush against your torso. Real. Real. Real.

Winter rages on outside. Wrapped up in him, here, now, finally, you’ve never felt warmer.

“Happy New Year, Bucky.”

-

There was a hole on Bucky Barnes's glove.

It was small one, nestled between his thumb and forefinger, a modest circle where the wool started to unravel. He wouldn't even have noticed it if it wasn't for the cold.

Soft specks of white fluttered lazily from the dark sky. The first snowfall of the new decade looked like cotton freshly plucked from Heaven's fields, softly making their descend to the dim-lit streets of Brooklyn.

It was far too late for a young woman such as yourself to be out with a man who was not your husband or relative and Bucky knew that. He'd get a lecture Ms. Roberts, the owner of your boarding house, who'd no doubt be awake ready to pounce on him as soon as you rounded the corner. 

You'd lost track of time. It had been packed at the speakeasy, forcing him to keep you closer to his body as you danced. The band was incredible, a wonderful jazz trio all the way from Chicago and Bucky wished cameras could be smaller just to he could record the memory of your smile as they played. He'd keep it in his wallet, right next to the blue ribbon you'd given to him on the third date.

When you left the club, wide-eyed and red-cheeked, your sweaty bodies shivered from the biting wind outside. Bucky huddled you in his arms, the joy from dancing keeping your spirits high as he escorted you home. At some point you stopped, hands going to your head:

"Is it snowing?" you asked, beautiful eyes sparkling with child-like glee.

Bucky lifted his left palm, only for an unexpected piece of ground ice to land on it. He briefly noticed a hole on his gloves.

You stood there, heads angled painfully as you gawked at the marvelous white. If someone passed by the deserted streets they might mistake you for two frozen lovers. But nature was a privilege in man-made Brooklyn, with its stone buildings and factory chimneys, and any small glimpse of it felt like true magic.

When Bucky looked down his face was slightly damp, but he felt peaceful. His eyes had closed yet he was oblivious, too lost on the feel of snow on his face and your hand in his, surrounding him in a love that took his breath away.

Looking over, he found you: His doll, his sugar, his baby girl, his sweetheart. All the prettiest names dripping honey from his lips. The moisture had ruined your careful hairstyle, with some of the fronts strands stuck to your forehead. He thought you still looked gorgeous, even with the strange way you were poking your tongue out of your mouth.

"Doll, waddya doin'?" he chuckled

Your eyelids fluttered open serenely and you smirked. For some miracle your lipstick was still perfect despite the snow and all the kissing before that, which drove Bucky insane. He was sure you kept retouching it just to tease him.

"Catching snowflakes with your tongue is harder than it looks" you answered simply. 

Bucky couldn't help it. He laughed, glee rumbling loud in his belly with the sound of his earlier excitement and his love for you, which never failed to catch him off guard in unexpected moments like this. 

He grabbed you by the waist, your giggles joining his as he spun you around, bodies swinging in a messy dance while the sky fell apart in snow. With absolutely no worries about the scolding he'll get from Mrs. Roberts tonight - or you tomorrow when you wake up with a sore throat - Bucky took your lips in a kiss, his wicked ones taking pleasure in smearing your lipstick again.

"Can't touch that up now, darlin'" he whispered in that lazy drawl that made you want to punch him then kiss it better.

When his fingers grew numb on the small of your back - ruined gloves and all - Bucky lead you to the boarding house. As expected, Mrs. Roberts opened the door as soon as you approached the front porch steps, a glower on her face and a reprimand at the ready. Before she could say anything, however, her gaze landed on your ruined looks, and the prospect of any neighbor witnessing this scandal - somehow more outrageous that missing curfew - was enough to restore her priorities and quickly usher you inside the house.

Bucky supposed he would live to see another day then.

He was returning to the arctic streets when your small body collided with his back, a pink fluffy towel wrapped around your body like a cape. It took all but three seconds for his surprise to make way to hands finding familiar curves and soft skin.

"I love you, James Barnes" you said as you returned to a scandalized Mrs. Roberts. "I really do."

He could only smile, dumb and dizzy with the size of his adoration and his luck on finding you.

"I love you too, doll. See you in sixteen hours."

Looking over your shoulder, messy hair and smudged makeup, you winked. Anyone would've missed it with the heavier snow, but not Bucky.

You normally don't drink coffee this late but it's some Christmas blend and you really just like the smell. 

On the t.v you're watching figure skaters glide across ice, their expressions focused and elated all at once. You wonder what it must feel like to be there, to be able to move the way they do on ice. 

Natasha could do it, you think. You glance over at her as she stretches and yawns on the sofa. You've never seen someone who can nap the way she does. She does those twenty minute cat naps. This afternoon, however, she napped a little the way you do – knocked out for a couple of hours. You’ll probably tease her about being ‘one of us lowly normal humans’ when she wakes... Then again, maybe you shouldn’t say things like that? Sometimes you think she might be a little sensitive about how... unique she is. 

You've already set a glass of water on the coffee table for her, knowing that you’re usually pretty dehydrated after a nap. 

Natasha's chartreuse eyes are on the figure skaters before she glances over to you. She smiles a little, then spots the glass of water. 

“Oh is that for me?” Her voice is a bit rusty from sleep. It sounds cute, honestly, and more than a little hot. You don't know why, but that rusty crack to a woman's voice has always been kind of sexy. 

“Yep. Figured you'd need some water after that nap.”

“Yeah,” She sits up slowly, taking the water and adjusting her back against the arm of the sofa. She takes slow sips. You whistle in awe as the figure skater on screen, a slight, Asian girl leaves the ice and spins in the air. Almost like a cat, she lands gracefully on her feet, slipping right back into the rhythm of the song blasting on the speakers. 

You're pretty sure Natasha could do that. And then your brow furrows. How come you've never seen her skate? Then again, when exactly do either of you have time for something like ice skating?

The sun is setting – it's only around four in the afternoon but it's late December in New York City. With the short Christmas tree you put up topping a table by the t.v and a lamp on, it feels cozy in here.

This is your apartment – ish. Technically it was going to be Natasha's but then you moved in. You know Natasha has probably eight other places she could stay – Stark nee Avenger's tower for instance, or Clint Barton's place. She likely has at least three safe houses, among other places even you don't know about. But this is the place the two of you share. So far, it's been nice having her as your unofficial roommate. 

She's smiling a little at the sight of the girl on tv who is blushing and breathless after her performance. Applause rings out and the announcers discuss the minute mistakes she made that most people watching would never even notice. 

Natasha’s feet are propped up on your lap – you aren't sure when they arrived there or if you propped them up while trying to gingerly sit down and not startle her out of sleep. Natasha can be a very light sleeper. They're currently donning warm, knit socks with bright Fair Isle patterns.

Natasha yawns as she eyes the people on screen.

“I need to work out,” she sighs. “I've eaten way too much-”

“Oh don't start that,” you plead. “Don't remind me how much gingerbread I've eaten.”

She looks at you in surprise. “Sorry,” she says a moment later, her lips curling into a smirk. Her eyes clearly say 'You're the one who insists on making gingerbread every year.'

Yes, and every year they get more ridiculous. Last year you had a punk gingerbread people theme. This year they all ended up being superheroes. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you made the first batch at Stark Tower and invited Rogers and Banner to join in.

The fact that they each made the other as a gingerbread man made it even better. Banner did a great job making Cap's cowl and Rogers nearly used up all the green icing to make a Hulk. 

“I'm gonna use this really big gingerbread guy,” Steve said as he began to outline it in green. “Hulk smash!”

The memory makes you smile. All that sugar was worth it just to see a couple of grown men act like little kids. Tony Stark joined in and complained that their Iron Man wasn't accurate. The mental image of Steve Rogers rolling his eyes and saying “It's art, Tony. It's cookie art” causes you to laugh.

“What?” Natasha asks. 

“Nothing. Just remembering your uh, teammates decorating gingerbread.”

“They're your teammates too,” she slips up from the sofa, setting her now emptier glass of water down.

Your lip stretches at one corner. “Sure.”

“What? They are.” Natasha heads into the kitchen. “You want cream and sugar?”

“Sure,” you call. “Yes to both.”

“They are your teammates,” she reminds you when she returns with two mugs. She carefully hands you one as she sits down, setting her own mug on the coffee table.

“Maybe,” you say. “But only ‘cause...”

“Cause what?”

You shrug, glancing away from the screen to look at her.

“I don't know...”

“Cause of me?” She asks after taking a sip of her coffee. You consider your own, breathing in the smell before taking a sip.

“Maybe.”

She snorts. “Maybe? Does it bother you? That you're on the team because of me?”

“I don't know... It doesn't bother me.” You shrug. “I just feel like... I'm kind of a temporary member? Or you know... I'm just there on occasion, when needed.”

“I mean, technically we're all just there when we're needed.” She shrugs. “We're hardly active all the time.”

“Yeah, that's true. I mean I guess you guys are more of a 'existential threats' kind of group.”

“What'd you call us? A raid group?” She smirks. Your face flushes. You got Natasha to game with you on occasion, but you're kind of the resident gaming nerd.

“Something like that,” you chuckle.

“I like it.” Natasha reaches out and takes your free hand in hers. It feels nice. Her hand is warm. “Whoo! Your hand is cold!”

“Yeah... I've been sitting here messing around on my phone.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Taking pictures of me while I sleep?”

You lean in to give her a gentle kiss. 

“You know it,” you joke.

“Creep.” She laughs, red hair tossing as she turns her head to look at the screen again. Every time you kiss Natasha it makes your heart beat a little faster. It causes other things to happen too but you remind yourself she just woke up from a nap and is probably feeling a little groggy.

“Have you seen yourself in underwear?”

She snorts. “Pervert.”

“Um, yeah. How long have we been living together? Three months?”

Something about saying it out loud sends your stomach into a little dive. You don't know why but you feel like clutching her hand even more tightly. She just shakes her head, looking amused, her eyes on the screen as she takes another sip of her coffee. You take a sip of your own, trying not to squeeze her hand in yours.

“Let's go ice skating,” you blurt. She gives you a puzzled look.

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Um... the sun is setting,” she laughs.

“Well... I think that skating rink is still open in the evening.” You point out. “We should go while it's still open.”

She tilts her head at you. “You mean the one where we met?”

“Yeah. Where you met me the first time.”

“I'll have to thank Nick for that.”

“Same.” You gently squeeze her hand.

“You sap,” she teases.

“Now you sound like Rogers.”

“He's probably rubbed off on me-” She stops herself immediately and rolls her eyes as you smirk and waggle your eyebrows. “Nice. Very mature.” But she laughs, in spite of your gross joke.

“You really wanna go ice skating?” She asks a moment later and you shrug.

“It's been forever honestly.”

“We used to, when I was a kid,” she says quietly. She rarely ever mentions being a kid and you know why. Natasha grew up in a place called 'the Red Room' – people took her and other little girls and trained them to be weapons. You're pretty sure her childhood was nightmare fuel so you don't press her about it.

“What time is it?” Natasha picks up her phone which is lying on the coffee table and peeks.

“Like... four?”

“Four thirty. Do you think it's open right now?”

“I've seen the one at the park open.”

“Which one?” Natasha is already opening Google Maps. “There are two.”

“Um... I think the one closer to our place. The one near the zoo. Wollman Rink?”

“Let me see...” The light from the phone washes over her face as she slides a finger over it. Her eyes reflect the screen, a little rectangle in a green world. “Yeah, looks like they're open until 11 tonight.” She looks at you again. “Wanna go?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Let's finish our coffee first. Then we can bundle up. Are you hungry?”

“Not at the moment. But we could grab something after maybe?”

Coffee under your belts and plans made, the two of you set off. Wollman Rink isn't far on foot but it's freezing outside and you're glad you bundled up. Natasha is actually wearing a coat which isn't a total surprise but she tends to tease you and the others about what you consider 'cold.' Granted she is from like, Ukraine, and grew up in Russia. Winters there must be pretty intense compared to what you're used to. You're not even from New York either.

On the way there you see a Greek restaurant you might like to stop at later. You point it out and Natasha shrugs.

“Might be good.”

You offer one glove covered hand and take hers in it. She smirks.

“I like your mittens,” you tease.

“Shut up,” she laughs. “Rogers got them for me along with the hat. I think he just never knows what to get me for Christmas.”

The mittens and hat are both white with pink stripes and designs. The hat has a big white pom pom on it and you smile and shake your head.

“I think he was trolling you.”

“Pretty much,” She smirks. “But I figure, why not? I'll wear it.”

“The Hufflepuff scarf is pretty great too.”

“Oh. That was Clint,” She rolls her eyes. “He gave me this like a year ago actually.”

“Are you a Hufflepuff?”

She tilts her head at you for a moment. “What do you think I am?”

You're silent for a moment as you side step somebody.

“Hm... I mean I could easily see you as Hufflepuff – because you do like to help people.”

“Do I?”

“I think so. But you're also cunning. So I could see Slytherin.”

“I think everybody assumes I'm a Slytherin,” She says. “Or would if they even think about it.”

“I've tested Slytherin before.”

She laughs. “Is there an official test?”

“I mean, there's a test on Pottermore.” You feel your face flush.

“Pottermore?”

“Don't judge me! It's an official website,” You add in explanation after you laugh in embarrassment.

“Nice.”

“But there's other quizzes too.”

“I have taken Harry Potter quizzes – I will go ahead and admit it. Clint actually gave me one of the books to read... Back when I first joined SHIELD.”

“Cool. Sounds like good reading for when you're... about to join SHIELD I guess?”

She smiles.

“When you're leaving an organization that brainwashed you,” she points out.

“Yeah.”

SHIELD is in pieces now – or it was broken open and revealed to be full of HYDRA agents anyway. There are still SHIELD agents, working under Phil Coulson, and you're one of them. But your role these days is largely helping the Avengers.

Ice in the streets crunches under your boots as you walk. Natasha doesn't seem bothered by the cold. You've worn enough under layers to be warm so it's not bothering you yet either. The wind is a little cutting and you draw closer to her as you walk.

When you reach the rink, the two of you wrestle to pay the fee first. Natasha manages to get cash into the hand of the woman at the entrance first and you laugh, cursing her.

“How dare you!”

“You can get dinner,” she's snickering at how upset you are.

Next, you're strapping on a pair of ice skates and stuffing your shoes into the same cubby. Natasha is out first on the ice – the intrepid one this evening. Just as you suspected, she's slightly wobbly at first but takes to it like a duck to water, laughing and gliding along.

“Wait up!” you call, unable to help from smiling. “Jerk!” You shake your fist in mock anger and she snorts.

“Hurry up!”

You step out onto the ice, a little tense at first, but you gradually loosen up as you realize you're not going to fall on your ass in front of everybody. You catch up to her and she offers you her hand.

You take it, even though you're a little suspicious she might troll you, pull you along playfully.

“Let's go slow at first,” you point out.

“You're the one who's always rushing into stuff,” she laughs.

“That is true.”

Natasha is generally more cautious than you. Maybe it's because you're younger but you tend to throw yourself head first into some things.

“How do you say 'ice skating' in Russian?”

She groans. You're always trying to pick up more Russian and you even started using an app to learn.

“Come o-on!” You goad her.

“Kataniye na kon'kakh.”

“Katanya what?”

She snorts and speakers slower. “Kataniye. Na. Kon'kakh. Or if you wanted to say 'I like to ice skate' you could say “Ya lyublyu katat'sya na kon'kakh.”

“Kataniye na kon'kakh,” You murmur to yourself.

“Very good.” She smiles.

“What was the first language you learned beside Russian?”

She thinks for a moment, glancing out over the other people gliding on the ice. Most of them are couples or parents with kids. You watch a ten year old girl squeal as she slides over to her mom. The woman is smiling and holding her arms open to the kid. Nearby her husband and a little boy skate.

“English,” she says finally. “That and I think French? They tried to get us to learn as many as possible.”

You nod. You can speak a couple of languages but you're pretty sure Natasha has you beat. Then again, she is a master spy.

“Sometimes I like to imagine being a figure skater,” You confess, smiling a little.

“Yeah?” She looks at you. “You could still do it.”

You laugh. “Hell no. I mean, it's fun to do. It's a great hobby... But it's not what... It's not my dream.”

“What is your dream?”

You think about it for a few moments.

“I really don't know. I'd like to travel the world, I guess?”

Natasha nods. “You'll definitely do that working for SHIELD.”

“Well I don't mean for work. I mean... just 'cause.”

“Yeah... I don't know. Travel doesn't mean the same for me I guess.” She shrugs. “It's always been for work.”

“Is there anywhere you'd like to go?”

She studies a tree nearby, a fir decorated with baubles and lights.

“Maybe...” She smirks. “The North Pole?”

“Don't be silly.”

“No really. There's a place called The North Pole. In Finland.”

“You're bullshitting me.”

“No, I'm serious!”

“What they have like.. Santa Claus and elves?”

“They have reindeer.” She frowns. “Actually I'd really like to visit Machu Picchu.”

“Yeah. That would be pretty cool.”

“I don't know why, but I like ancient ruins.”

“I grew up watching Indiana Jones movies, so I get it, trust me.”

She laughs. “It's not like I think it would be this great adventure. It would just be interesting.”

“Yeah. Archaeology is pretty cool. I'd like to go surfing in different parts of the world.”

“I didn't know you surfed.”

“Yeah. I mean I haven't done it a lot of times – and I suck at it. But it's fun. I've heard about some really great places for surfing.”

“Yeah? Where?”

You shrug. “Australia.”

“Australia sounds interesting. If it's beaches we're talking though, I like Hawaii.”

“I've never been to Hawaii.”

“I went once, with Barton, a couple years ago.”

“That sounds nice.”

“There are some really beautiful parts of Hawaii.”

There's something pretty special about skating around the very spot you first met Natasha. You remember spotting her coming around the other side of the rink. Her hair was shorter than it is now, but just as bright, swinging loose from her hood as she pushed it back.

You can remember Nick Fury standing next to you saying 'Here she comes.' The way you couldn't take your eyes off her.

You squeeze her hand gently in yours.

“I'd like to go Hawaii with you.”

She smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You lean in and kiss her. She sputters at first, maybe surprised that you're kissing her in public. But you don't care if anyone sees. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever been with and you're out together, close to New Year's eve, ice skating. Life has never felt more like a movie than it has at this moment.

You want to say those three little words. But when you do use them, it's sparingly, because you're pretty sure Natasha has a hard time hearing and repeating them.

You chance it.

“I love you.”

She smiles, then glances away. She has a flush to her face and something about her reaction makes your heart break.

“Race me?” she says, glancing back at you, her lips in a wily smirk and a gleam in her eye.

“Yeah right. You already know you'll beat me. Hey!” You cry out, a laugh on your lips as she releases your hand and speeds ahead. “Dork!”

“Can't catch me!” She sings back, gracefully sliding around the little family you spotted earlier.

“This is so unfair!” You call after her, trying to catch up. You can't help but laugh as you nearly stumble several times. “How are you this fast?” You shout.

When you finally catch up, she's paused by the side of the rink and is laughing, both of you breathless.

“I thought you said it was years since you last skated!” You gasped.

“No! I said that I went skating when I was a kid.” She grins. “Barton likes to try and challenge me on occasion on everything from air hockey to handstands.” She rolls her eyes.

“Right,” you nod. You've seen those two battle over a pin ball machine and even in the archery range in Stark Tower. (The fact that it has an archery range is still kind of mind blowing and ridiculous, honestly)

“I forget you two are the Wonder Twins.”

She laughs. “The Wonder Twins. I love it when you say that.”

“Oh man, I should have gotten you guys t shirts for Christmas!”

“Well his birthday is coming up in the summer,” she smirks.

“Ahh,” You offer your hand. “Or your Unbirthday.”

Natasha doesn't know when her actual birth date is so she just picked a random day in April simply because she likes spring. You feel proud of the fact that you know that Natasha likes spring. It's one of those things most people don't know about her.

You figure a lot of people just expect her to be all dark and morbid but honestly? Natasha loves Halloween for the same reason she loves Christmas – it's an excuse to have fun and be with other people. This is the side of her that only you and a few other people get to see.

“You know something?” You hold her hands in yours and she groans.

“You're being sappy again,” she teases, but her eyes are alight and her lips are pulling into another smile.

“I am so glad I have you in my life.”

She looks back at you quietly for a few moments.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Cause you're such a dork!” You laugh and start to skate away. “The race isn't over!”

She laughs.

“You're the one who's a dork!”

She begins to chase after you after a moment.

Naturally, Natasha catches up and speeds past you, beating you pretty soundly. The two of you skate for a while longer until you're both complaining about your noses being frozen. Then you decide to stop by the restaurant you saw to pick up dinner.

Back at your place, on the couch, you curl up together and decide to watch Die Hard as you eat your take out.

“Samuel L Jackson will always remind me of Nick Fury,” You note. “Mothafucka.”

“Yeah... I'm pretty sure Ol Sam Jackson is more laid back than Fury.”

“You're probably right.” You scoot closer to her and she smiles. A few moments later, she leans into you.

“I don't care what you and Clint say. Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”

“Maybe not,” you shrug. “But it's worth watching during Advent all the same.”

“I'm happy to have you in my life too, you know,” she says it quietly but it makes you look at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leans in and kisses you.

“Well, I'm glad. Otherwise this would be really awkward.”

She snorts. Then she starts to laugh.

“You are such a dork,” she shakes her head and looks back at the screen.

“Am I your favorite dork?”

“Aside from Clint? Yes.” She smiles.