"Die, Barton!" I shriek before tossing a projectile over the fort walls.

"Right back at 'cha!" he calls before hurling something my way, and I duck before watching the snowball explode into powder behind me.

Yep, you guessed right: a Christmas snowball fight.

It was a fierce battle between me, Dad, and Steve on one side and Bucky, Natasha, and Clint on the other. We were in the middle of a public park, and for once completely uncaring about what the public thought because this was war, and Clinton F. Barton was going down.

"Look out!" Dad yelps, tugging me down behind the walls of our tightly-packed snow fort.

"Missed me!" I crow, crouched low while my right hand – I was wearing a specially-tailored one-armed coat to determine how a new arm upgrade dealt with cold – packs a new snowball.

I laugh as it nails my boyfriend in the face and he glares at me over the walls of his fort, probably ruing the day he taught me to aim.

It's six years too late for that, as far as I'm concerned.

The snowball fight progresses well – volley after volley of projectiles being tossed between the two forts, ending in no clear winner after it dissolved into chaos and we weren't sure who was fighting whom anymore.

Bucky and Natasha had decided to ice skate on a frozen lake nearby – Steve and I had decided to sit back and watch Bucky try to ice skate while Nat dominated the lake.

Oh, and provide medical assistance if someone fell through the ice and got hypothermia. That too.

A sigh from my companion makes me look up. "Are you okay?"

"What?" Steve blinks and looks at me. "Yeah – yeah, I'm fine." He turns back to watching the lake, his eyes gaining an unreadable look.

I follow his gaze to a certain Russian super-soldier.

Oh.

I breathe out as I turn back to Steve, my breath visible in the mid-December air. "'Fine' is a very subjective word."

The Captain gives a mirthless chuckle. "I guess it is."

I glance between him and my surrogate brother. "Has anything happened between you two since February?" I ask, referring to when Bucky had kissed Steve (on the cheek, but still!) in front of a tarmac full of reporters.

Steve just snorts and shakes his head. "That was a fluke – Bucky's always pulling stunts like that for the press."

"Keep telling yourself that," I deadpan. Yeah, Bucky was known to pull stunts once in a while, but nothing that directly or indirectly affected one of us, and kissing Steve was definitely affecting him.

Steve huffs at me and pulls his knees him, resting his chin on top of them.

"You know that's not illegal anymore, right?" I ask, diverging from the original topic just a bit. "If Bucky wants to kiss you, he can."

"I'm pretty sure he'd do it if it was illegal or not. We'd sneak around like…I don't know, Pyramus and Thisbe, or Romeo and Juliet."

I give him an amused look, and he grins sheepishly. "Shakespeare. I read a lot when I was sick."

"I know it's Shakespeare, dummy, you're not the only one that was a nerdy kid with time on their hands," I roll my eyes. "I just found the analogies funny. But really, you could totally make a move. He's single."

"I doubt that." Steve makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "He's got da – ladies stuck to him all the time."

I choke back a laugh. "Steve, man, if you haven't realized that your bestie is rooting for the home team yet, then you need your eyes checked. And yeah, take it from a girl, Bucky's a catch. All the more reason for you to hit that before someone else does."

Steve blushes but says nothing, and I shake my head before turning back to watch the two ice skaters again, but not before adding one more thing: "There's mistletoe all over, Rogers. Use it."

We both fall silent again, content to sit and watch our Russian friends play on the ice. I'm struck by the natural grace and poise Natasha exudes – her history as a ballerina didn't show very often, except for the times when she used certain leaps in battle, and then I was too busy to appreciate it.

The tranquility is shattered by an ear-piecing yelp and a sharp tug on my uncovered arm that has me instinctively moving towards the sidearm I had on.

Luckily I look before shooting, because all I found was my boyfriend stuck to my arm…by his tongue.

The idiot had licked my arm. My freezing cold, metal arm.

"What are you doing?" I sigh exasperatedly, shifting my arm so I wasn't tugging on his tongue at all.

"I' innt my 'ault!" Clint protests, grey eyes blown wide. "'Ee 'ared me 'oo!" he continues, pointing an accusing finger at my father, who was laughing uncontrollably on a bench nearby.

I mutter some colorful words in Italian before sighing and looking over at Steve, who was barely holding in his own laughter. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But seriously, someone help me!"

"Try breathing out," Natasha suggests, coming over to kneel beside her best friend. "Clint, stupid, calm down and breathe deeply in and out. You'll get it off eventually."

Clint rolls his eyes at her but huffs out a cloud of breath anyways.

Nothing happens.

I sigh. "How long will this take?"

"No clue. In…out…in…"

I groan and lean back into Bucky, who was practically a human radiator.

"Just keep breathing, just keep breathing, just keep breathing…"

My day had started out so well.

.

It took around an hour to get Clint's tongue fully detached from my arm, and by that time the park had really lost it's appeal for the group as a whole. Dad had Happy pick us up, bring us back to the Tower, and coffee and hot chocolate had been passed around.

I was currently curled up in an overstuffed armchair, balancing a mug of hot chocolate on the armrest as I watched Thor try to explain what a bligesnipe was, mainly because he was giving us each a blanket made from their pelts with Nordic runes that represented our personalities.

Mine had a rune meaning the beginning of something or the actualization of potential. Fitting, I think.

All of them were – Clint had protection from enemies, defense of that which one loves; Natasha, strength of will; Dad had movement, work, or growth;Bucky had strength and stability; Steve had success and solace, and Bruce had support.

It was a touching gift, really, it was, but the lecture on Asgardian beasts that was now approaching half an hour was a bit excessive.

"Hey, Pikachu," I cut him off gently. "That's great and all, but Bucky looks like he's about to burst if he doesn't get to give his gifts."

"My apologies, Friend James," Thor booms, a frown creasing his face. "I was not aware that I was causing you pain."

Bucky – who now looked relieved, but not too enthused about being the center of attention - smiles at him in forgiveness, shooting me a grateful look as soon as Thor turns away. He reaches behind the couch he shared with Steve and pulls out an armful of sloppily-wrapped packages, passing them around to the eight occupants of the room (Betty was visiting her non-sociopathic family, and Jane and Darcy were investigating some Science! in Massachusetts).

The package I'm handed is flexible and feels soft, indicating a type of cloth. I tear it open to find a presumably hand-knit, dark red sweater that was a little too big; the threads were tightly bunched in some places and too loose in others.

It wasn't perfect, no, but Bucky had made it, by hand, and it's the thought that counts, right?

I look up to see the others unwrapping their own knitted gifts – Clint was holding a deep purple scarf with what looked like lighter purple arrow motifs, Dad was unwrapping a pair of red and gold gloves (one was slightly bigger than the other), Natasha was inspecting a black sweater with red black widow hourglasses all over it, Thor had a grey scarf with what I thought were yellow lightning bolts, Bruce was grinning at a bright green ski cap with what were maybe yellow and black radiation signs, and Steve was holding a blue ski cap decorated with what looked like hexagonal versions of his infamous shield (and looking like it was the best present he'd ever been given – I wonder why…)

"Do you like them?" Bucky asks anxiously, breaking the silence. "I mean, if you don't, that's-"

My pillow hits him dead in the face. "Of course we like them, snowflake," I tell as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, tugging on the sweater and rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. "Why wouldn't we?"

Bucky smiles at me, and then at Steve – something's different about that smile – before giving the group in general a big smile, which we all return, before leaning back against the couch he shared with Steve. "Who's next?"

"I guess I will," Dad sighs dramatically, even though we all know that this is no big travesty. He reaches under his armchair and pulls out a sack, setting it down and pulling out several small packages, handing them out to the various people around the room.

I open a small box to find a single pair of car keys and a picture – a picture of the newest Chevy Camaro, a sleek, silver convertible. A quick glance up revealed Bucky holding a set of motorcycle keys, Steve holding a new pack of expensive drawing pencils, Bruce holding a green stress ball, and Thor holding a book titled Culture for Dummies.

A sharp intake of breath makes me look up, my eyes zeroing in on Natasha, who was holding what looked like a jewelry box, her eyes widened just slightly – and for her, that was the equivalent of screaming in shock – at what was inside, something only she could see.

"Tasha?" Clint – who was holding a new pair of hearing aids – asks, his tone worried and, when I looked over, his brow pinched a bit. "You okay?"

At his words, she seems to snap out of a trance. "Yeah," she smiles, tucking the box and determinedly not meeting my father's eyes. "I'm going next."

Clint and I share a worried look – something wasn't right there – but leave it alone as Natasha passes out her gifts.

I unwrap a set of pointed, double-edged throwing knives with a holster that was meant to strap over my back opposite my quiver and a shoebox full of photos of the two of us over the years – all the way from when she was Natalie Rushman, eight years ago, to one taken only a week ago.

"Thanks, Nat," I grin at her, noticing that some tension still resided around her eyes, but she smiled back nonetheless. "You're welcome."

As Bucky finished laughing over the bottle of hard Russian vodka he had received – apparently it was an inside joke from 'way back when – and blushing over the 'I Heart Captain America' shirt he gotten (brilliant, Nat, brilliant), Steve took the opportunity to hand out his gifts.

I quickly realize everyone's received sketches – mine was a profile of Clint reading a book, wearing a loose hoodie that I loved because it belied everything he's been through and made him look truly 26, with his head propped on one hand and his hair mussed up.

A quick glance to my right shows that Clint has a picture of me lying on my stomach, feet swinging in the air as I stared intently at something on a StarkPad, a vague reflection bouncing off my glasses.

Both of them would definitely be framed and hung up in the apartment.

I get up to put my sketch on the table, passing behind Bucky as I went. He's holding a black and white upper-body sketch of himself, with long hair and dog tags, and a small smile on his face.

After setting the sketch carefully on the table, I return to my seat to find a book waiting for me. "Aw, you guys gave out gifts without me?" I whine.

"Sorry, love," Clint gives me a small smile. "You were taking too long."

"Impatient," I huff, grabbing the book and flopping into my seat. The book, on closer inspection, is titled Flying Warbirds, by a person named Cory Graff. There's a sticky note attached to the front cover that reads:

Taylor-

Thought you might like this to keep up with the most advanced high-flying stunts, the kind that gives everyone else a heart attack. Merry Christmas, science-niece.

-Bruce

"Aw, thanks, Big Guy." I look up and give Bruce a smile. "I'll use these."

"Oh, no," Clint groans, seeing the title of the book. "Bruce, why, I don't want to have heart problems before 30!"

"Drama queen," I mutter, shoving his shoulder. "And you have no room to talk, Mr. I-Jump-Off-Buildings-For-Fun."

"That's different," he argues, but cuts off the rest of that conversation by pulling his gifts out and passing them around.

I tear off the brown paper – note to self: give Clint wrapping lessons – and find a blue t-shirt within that says 'Sarcastic comment loading, please wait…' and a progress bar at 99%.

A quickly survey of the room shows Dad holding a shirt that reads 'Guns don't kill people, Dads with pretty daughters do', Natasha laughing at a 'Girls Do Not Dress for Boys' shirt, Bruce smirking at a green t-shirt that says 'You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry' with a Hulk fist underneath, Bucky holding a shirt with the Howling Commandos insignia on it, Thor looking bemused at his 'Stop! Hammer Time!' shirt, and Steve blushing at his 'I Understood That Reference!' shirt.

"You think you're so witty," I tease him softly, leaning over to his armchair.

"If the shoe fits…" he returns in the same tone.

I snort as I slide back into my chair, looking around the room. "My turn?"

"Your turn," Dad agrees.

I turn to grab the little pile of presents from behind my chair, handing each person the gift that was wrapped with their trademark logo.

Bucky's the first to unwrap his present, holding up a pair of black motorcycle gloves. "You know, im starting to think you coordinate your gifts."

Dad – who had given him a Harley – and I share a look. "I can neither confirm nor deny that," I announce flatly. "And by the way, they're made of the same stuff these are." I hold up my net-shooting gloves, which double as both archery gear and bike gloves. "Nylon. Kevlar. Other protective stuff I can't remember."

"So on the off chance I get shot at while taking a Sunday drive…"

"It's not that uncommon," I remind him, and he nods after a moment.

I'm content to watch Bruce enthuse about his new, break-resistant beakers – until, that is, Natasha starts acting suspiciously shifty.

I narrow my eyes as she gets up from her chair, grabbing the jewelry box she'd gotten from my dad before slipping out of the room.

Nobody notices as I follow her out, trailing her first to the stairwell then down twenty-six stories and into a quiet lab, leaving me confused – but I knew that Natasha didn't do anything without meaning to, so she must have a reason for choosing this destination.

"What are we doing here?" I ask as I step into the lab behind us, looking around as the doors lock themselves shut and the windows seal with a hiss.

If this were anyone else, I'd be extremely worried. As it was, I was mainly perturbed and wondering what had spooked the Black Widow, of all people.

"I knew you'd follow me," she admits, not turning around to face me, instead focused on something in her hands.

"And you engaged the locks in here…why?"

She sighs before turning around and taking a few steps that put her right in front of me, and she thrusts a hand into my face before I can blink. "Look at this."

I blink and lean back slightly to focus on the object that she was holding. I was looking at a ruby pendant, shaped like a heart, that was about 2 inches wide and just as tall; it was hung on a shiny gold chain that was admittedly gaudy. It wasn't that bad of a necklace, all things considered.

'All things considered' meaning that it was garish, conspicuous, outlandish, and definitively not Natasha.

I sigh as I take a step back. "Did he really-?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to-?"

"Fix it."

I huff out a breath before taking the necklace and sitting down on a workbench, setting the necklace down in front of me. This wasn't my first time 'fixing' my dad's social blunders – not that I was much better at interacting with people, no, but I could get a college degree in placating business-people and friends alike.

"At least he tried," I offer Natasha without looking up. "It's not like he knew what a traditional girl would want for Christmas, let alone one like you."

"That's because he hasn't given presents to girls, excluding you, as far as I know."

"He hasn't," I reply after a moment of memory scanning – the last present he'd given to a woman that didn't call him 'Dad' or some variation of that was probably Christmas of 1999, or maybe '98.

Before me – before everything went south with my mother.

"Why me?"

I shrug. "I can't tell you that."

She sighs and sinks onto a stool. "That man is confusing."

"At best."

She shakes her head and stares at the ruby heart, the necklace already detached. "What does it mean?" she asks softly, almost as if the thought had unwittingly escaped via her mouth.

"I don't know," I respond bluntly before focusing all my attention on the necklace.

I hear her leave the lab, disengaging the locks and seals as she went, leaving me alone with just my thoughts, a knitted sweater, and a necklace in the early stages of disassembly.

This hasn't been a normal Christmas; far from it.

But when was it ever?

.

So…I'm aware that it's July, and this is a Christmas one-shot. But unless you all wanted to wait until December rolls around…

I've got something exciting set up next. Stay tuned!