Merry Christmas
Disclaimer: It's a little far away from Christmas to ask for the Avengers, yes?
Rating: K+
Pairing: Slight Clint/Natasha
Summary: In which ten Christmases are celebrated by Clint and Natasha with varying success.
Author's Note: I really have no excuse for this. Merry early Christmas?
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"Guess what?" Clint asks her while they're at the shooting range. It's been one year since they became partners and four months since they've grudgingly (more on her part than his) become friends.
She points a gun at the middle of his forehead just because she can. "I don't like guessing."
He rolls his eyes. "It's December!"
She raises an eyebrow at him. "I know. It happens every year."
"That means it's almost Christmas!"
"I can't even begin to tell you how much I don't care," she says, and she's lying.
"Which Christmas do you celebrate?" he asks.
She cocks her gun because he's being so annoying. "Neither. Never have, never will."
He looks grumpy at that, but turns back to the range. She can just hear him mutter, "I'm getting you a present anyway."
"I'm not getting you one," she says, and puts a bullet into the target's head.
The next year, he gets her two presents, and the year after that three. She thinks he thinks he's making up for all her lost Christmases, and she lets him. On four-present Christmas, she finally gets him something and shoves it in his face, nearly dropping it in an effort to get away as fast as possible.
"Thanks, Nat!" he calls, sounding genuinely happy.
She'd gotten him socks. Practical socks. He delights in wearing them everywhere.
"Have you ever washed those?" she asks, wrinkling her nose at him.
"They'd lose their Christmas magic!" he tells her cheerily, and sticks a foot in her face. She uses it to toss him to the floor, and promptly removes his "magic" socks and throws them into the wash. He whines at her for days afterwards.
"Baby," she mutters, but smiles when he can't see.
It's six-present Christmas before she gets him something not particularly utilitarian, and she'd had to do some serious spying and eavesdropping and consulting of Phil before she'd figured out what to get him.
He grins like a child. "There are two tickets!"
"That's your other present. If you're good, I'll go with you."
Though she'll never admit it, she doesn't hate the amusement park. He buys her cotton candy, which is disgusting, and funnel cake, which is not, and they win each other giant toys at the shooting range. She nearly gets sick on a roller coaster (honestly, upside-down? People were not meant to go upside down hurtling at 40 miles per hour) and he says nothing and buys her a soda.
She thinks this is what fun feels like.
They spend seven-present Christmas on a mission, and Clint spends the entire time grumping about how Fury hates joy and holiday spirit.
"If you don't stop whining," she hisses, "I will make sure Fury gets the mission recording in his email."
She thinks she can hear Phil chuckling over the earpiece. "But Nat, he's like the Grinch," Clint protests.
"The what?"
"The Grinch who stole Christmas."
"That makes no sense."
Clint sighs. "When we get back, movie marathon."
They end up watching bizarre Christmas movies (but Nat, they're classics!) in her hospital room, Clint's crutches forgotten against the wall.
"Phil's bringing your presents when he visits tomorrow," Clint murmurs as she's drowsily and druggedly playing with his suddenly fascinating hair.
"Hid what I got you," she slurs. "Phil can't find them."
He smiles. "I can wait, Tasha. You're still alive; that's enough for a while."
"Tasha?"
"Like it?"
"No," she mumbles. "That's a Christmas present."
"Merry Christmas, Tasha," he whispers, and as she drifts off, she feels a light kiss on her forehead.
Probably due to Phil's intervention, their eight-present Christmas mission is assigned to someone else, and Natasha finds herself in Clint's room putting ornaments on a Christmas tree. They discover she's allergic to pine needles when she sneezes repeatedly and breaks several ornaments. Although he complains loudly the entire time, he and Phil arduously remove the real Christmas tree and set up a fake one in its place. Natasha gets a kind of fuzzy feeling watching Clint give up one of his traditions so she can be comfortable. To cover it up, she uses her very steady hands to glue the broken shards of ornaments together, which makes him give her a smile that increases the fuzzy feeling.
"See you tomorrow morning," Clint says as she starts to leave. "Hey, Tasha?"
She turns back. "Yeah?"
"Mistletoe!" He points up.
"What?"
He rolls his eyes. "People kiss under the mistletoe."
"I am not kissing you."
"Why not?" he asks, looking wounded. "You did last week."
"That was a cover!"
He pouts at her. Pouts. A grown man. Pouting.
"You look ridiculous," she grumbles, and doesn't want to tell him she hasn't kissed anyone when she didn't have to. She doesn't even know if she's good at kissing as just Natasha.
Some of the uncertainty must have shown on her face, because Clint drops the act and looks at her seriously. "Natasha, do you trust me?"
She meets his eyes. "You know I do."
"Close your eyes."
"This counts as a Christmas present," she whispers, closing her eyes. He kisses her lightly, and she shivers a bit.
"Not so bad, hmm?" he asks.
She shrugs, eyes still closed. "Okay."
He laughs, pulls her close, and drops a kiss into her hair. "Admit it, Nat. I am the best kisser ever."
She scoffs at him, whacks him on the shoulder, and calls him something particularly vile in Russian, which makes him laugh harder until she's laughing, too. "You're an idiot, Barton."
She gets back at him by kissing Phil on the cheek under the mistletoe when he comes by to exchange presents.
On nine-present Christmas, they kiss multiple times, and only once is under the mistletoe.
They spend ten-present Christmas in a cross between splendor and squalor, crammed into Tony Stark's living room with Thor, Jane, Steve, Darcy, Bruce, Erik Selvig, Happy, Pepper, Tony, and a picture of Phil. They're talking and laughing and opening a ridiculous amount of presents and Natasha just cannot wipe the smile off her face.
Clint murmurs in her ear, "You don't celebrate Christmas. Never have, never will."
She swats him lightly. "I can still take your presents back."
He smiles and kisses her cheek. "Merry Christmas, Tasha."
"Merry Christmas, Clint."
-
Author's Note: When he asks her about both Christmases, he means Christian Christmas (December 25th) and Eastern Orthodox Christmas (January 7th).