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Peter found out the same way he found out most things he wasn’t supposed to know—by being nosy and too earnest for his own good.
It started in the kitchen on a random Thursday evening. You were sharpening a knife, Bucky was making tea, and Peter was rifling through the cabinet above the fridge looking for hot chocolate packets that did not exist. He’d been talking nonstop about Christmas traditions at Midtown, about the decorations, the Secret Santa assignments, the holiday assembly, and the charity toy drive. He was rambling happily until something you said—something simple, something harmless—made him stop mid-sentence.
You’d muttered, “I don’t care for Christmas,” while adjusting the angle of the blade against the sharpening stone. You didn’t even mean it in a dramatic way. Just matter-of-fact, casual, the same tone you’d use for things like “I don’t like the taste of ginger” or “that scientist from R&D smells like burnt plastic.”
But Peter froze. “What do you mean ‘you don’t care for Christmas’?”
You didn’t look up. “It’s not complicated. I’ve never celebrated it.”
Peter slowly lowered himself back to the ground from where he’d been half-standing on the counter. “Never? Like… ever?”
“No.” You switched hands and kept sharpening, entirely unbothered. “Finishing school didn’t do holidays.”
Peter blinked rapidly. “Finishing school didn’t do holidays?”
“It did etiquette drills with forks,” you said, like that explained everything. “Holiday cheer wasn’t part of the curriculum.”
Peter stared at you like you’d just told him your childhood home was a shoebox. “Wait. So you didn’t have a tree?”
“No.”
“Presents?”
“No.”
“Cookies?”
“No.”
“Carols?”
“No.”
He turned desperately to Bucky, who looked up from steeping tea, shrugged once, and said, “don’t look at me. I haven’t celebrated since before the war.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. “You two are like… holiday orphans.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Peter insisted, pacing as if the weight of this tragedy was too much. “You’ve never celebrated Christmas. You’ve never celebrated Christmas. How am I the only normal one in this room?”
Bucky held up his mug. “Pretty sure you’re not normal.”
Peter waved him off. “Not the point.”
You set the knife down, finally giving Peter your full attention. “Why do you care?”
“Why do I—?” He sputtered like you’d insulted every holiday movie ever made. “Because Christmas is amazing! It’s cozy and chaotic and loud and embarrassing and wholesome. It’s the one time of year when you’re supposed to relax and do fun stuff and be a little cheesy.”
You just stared. “I am not doing cheesy.”
Peter pointed at you with deep determination. “You say that now.”
Bucky chuckled, sipping his tea. “Kid, she survived a Russian assassination program. You’re not going to crack her with tinsel.”
Peter looked between you and Bucky, eyebrows drawing down in stubborn resolve. “Bet.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t challenge him.”
Bucky shrugged. “I’m not scared.”
You looked at him like he was lying and both of you knew it. “You should be.”
Peter crossed his arms. “This is important. You guys missed out. That’s not fair.”
You tilted your head. “Life isn’t fair.”
Peter stepped closer, lower lip pushed out in a stubborn pout. “You’ve done birthdays for the team. You’ve helped with Halloween costumes. You made Wanda that weird apple tart she liked. You can’t tell me you don’t care about holidays at all.”
You met his eyes and, unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. You did care. You’d learned to, slowly, because this place forced it into you. Because these people treated you like family even when you didn’t know what the hell to do with that. But admitting that out loud? Absolutely not. So instead, you said, “holiday traditions are inefficient.”
Peter gasped. “I can’t believe you just said that.” Bucky snorted behind his mug. Peter pointed at both of you again. “Fine. If you won’t celebrate Christmas, then I will celebrate it so hard near you that you’ll have no choice but to get involved.”
You raised one eyebrow. “That sounds like a threat.”
“Good,” Peter said. “It’s supposed to.”
You stared at him for several seconds, then said, “if you try to put a Santa hat on me while I’m asleep, I will throw you out a window.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “I accept the risk.” Bucky laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into holiday chaos even before it began. Peter took a breath, pointed dramatically at both of you, and declared, “this year, you two are going to have an actual Christmas.”
You rolled your eyes. “We’re not doing—”
“You are,” Peter cut in, dead serious. “And I’m going to help you. And you’re going to like it.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. He stared back, unafraid.
Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking. “Think he means it.”
You sighed. Long. Slow. A sigh that could’ve frozen a coastline. “This is going to be unbearable,” you muttered.
Peter beamed. “That’s the spirit.”
And somehow, without knowing how or when it happened, you realized something terrible. You were going to lose this fight.
---
Peter did not ask if you and Bucky wanted to join movie night. He simply appeared in the doorway of your shared room holding a giant bowl of popcorn and announced, “family holiday movie time,” like you’d already agreed to it hours ago.
You looked up from the book in your hands. “No.”
Bucky didn’t even look up from polishing his knife. “Absolutely not.”
Peter rolled his eyes with the kind of confidence only a teenager fueled by cocoa and cinnamon sugar cookies could possess. “Too bad. May told me not to let you two spend the season brooding like gargoyles, so guess what? Living room. Now.”
You stared at him. “Did you just call us gargoyles?”
“Yes,” Peter said, already turning toward the hall. “Get up.”
It should not have worked. It should not have even been a conversation. You were a trained operative with a record longer than Stark Tower is tall. Bucky was a hundred-year-old super soldier with enough trauma to level a small country. Peter was a child with popcorn. And yet, ten minutes later, you were on the couch with a blanket thrown over your legs while Peter fiddled with the remote and Bucky sipped hot chocolate like he hadn’t been bullied into this.
Peter clapped his hands once. “Okay, first up: Rudolph.”
The moment the opening shot appeared—jerky stop-motion, dead-eyed reindeer—you felt a creeping discomfort crawl up your arms. It took approximately fifteen seconds before you said, monotone, “absolutely not.”
Peter turned around, mid-sit. “You didn’t even give it a chance.”
“You expect me to look at that,” you said, pointing at the screen, “and feel joy?”
Bucky squinted at the animation. “Actually, that’s kind of unsettling.”
“It’s classic,” Peter insisted. “It’s warm and nostalgic and—”
“That reindeer is blinking out of sync,” you cut in.
Peter paused, squinted, and then groaned. “Okay, yeah, that part’s weird, but the rest is—”
“No,” you said again.
Peter dragged both hands down his face. “Fine. Fine. Backup plan.” He pulled out the second DVD from behind a pillow like he’d expected this. “The Grinch. Jim Carrey edition.”
You watched him load it into the player. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Is that the one with the furry suit?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “And the yelling.”
Bucky nodded. “Alright. I’ll give that one a chance.”
The movie started, and to Peter’s relief, you didn’t immediately disassociate out of discomfort. In fact, five minutes in, you leaned slightly to the right, settling your shoulder against Bucky. Not intentionally affectionate, just comfortable. Bucky shifted his arm so you had more room to lean.
The three of you watched in relative quiet. Peter laughed at almost every line. You didn’t laugh, but every so often your mouth twitched when the Grinch was at peak bitterness. Bucky smiled whenever you twitched.
Halfway through the movie, Peter looked over, hopeful. “It’s good, right?”
You took a sip of your tea, eyes still on the screen. “It’s tolerable.”
Peter looked personally victorious. “That’s basically a rave review coming from you.”
Bucky nudged your knee with his. “You like the Grinch.”
“He hates everyone equally,” you said. “It’s admirable.”
Peter pointed politely at you. “You say that like it’s normal.”
“It is normal,” you said. “People are exhausting.”
Bucky nodded. “She’s right.”
Peter sighed like he had two vampire parents who didn’t understand the spirit of Christmas. “This is supposed to be a heartwarming movie.”
“It is,” you said. “He tries to ruin Christmas out of spite. I can respect a man with goals.”
By the time the movie ended, Peter was curled into the corner of the couch, half-asleep with a blanket over his shoulders. You hadn’t moved much, but your head was resting lightly against Bucky’s chest. His metal arm was around you, warm and steady, and you looked more relaxed than you had all week.
Peter yawned, blinking at the credits. “Okay… that went better than expected…” You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t get up. Peter grinned sleepily. “Can we do another one tomorrow?”
“No,” you said instantly.
Bucky smirked. “Maybe.”
Peter pointed at him. “Ha. One yes beats one no.”
You shot Bucky a look that promised consequences. He kissed the top of your head to defuse it. “What? The kid’s excited.”
Peter yawned again, curling deeper into the couch. “I’m gonna make you guys watch Elf next… it’s gonna be great…” A minute later he was asleep.
You glanced at him, then at Bucky. “He’s lucky he’s unconscious. I don’t want to explain that puppet movie again.”
Bucky chuckled quietly. “You survived your first Christmas movie night. That’s progress.”
You didn’t answer immediately, just let your eyes drift to the dim lights strung along the wall—Peter’s doing. They glowed softly against the window. Finally, you said, “it wasn’t awful.”
Bucky squeezed your shoulder. “High praise.” You snorted, but you didn’t move away. And on the couch beside you, Peter smiled in his sleep like he’d won something.
---
Peter brought it up at breakfast as casually as someone announcing their own funeral. He was stirring way too much sugar into his oatmeal when he said, “so… uh… I was thinking… maybe tonight… we could go see the tree at Rockefeller Center.”
You didn’t even look up from your coffee. “No.”
Bucky didn’t look up either. “Absolutely not.”
Peter sighed loudly, dramatically, theatrically. “You guys haven’t seen it in person, right? Ever?”
Bucky made a face. “Saw it once. In ’43. Before it was big. It was just a tree with lights on it and a handful of people around.”
Peter pointed at him with his spoon. “Exactly. It’s different now.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Does it still involve a giant crowd of loud strangers?”
“Yes,” Peter admitted.
“Then no,” you said.
Peter groaned, slumping forward until his forehead hit the table with a soft thud. “Come on. It’s Christmas. You have to see the tree. It’s a rule. It’s basically a rite of passage.”
You didn’t blink. “I have a long list of rites of passage I’ve intentionally avoided.”
Peter lifted his head. “Please? Please? May said I should get out and do something festive. And you two haven’t done anything Christmassy besides watching a movie about a furry green home invader.”
Bucky smirked. “She didn’t hate it.”
You cut him a look. “Don’t help him.”
Peter clasped his hands together dramatically. “Please. I’ll be good. I won’t touch anything. I won’t wander off. I won’t call you mom once.”
That got your attention. “Once?”
Peter corrected himself immediately. “Zero. Zero times.”
You stared at him for several seconds. Peter swallowed. Bucky watched you like someone waiting to see whether a grenade would detonate or not. Finally, you sighed. “Fine.”
Peter blinked. “Fine?”
“Fine,” you repeated, already sounding deeply annoyed about a future event that hadn’t even happened yet. “But we’re going early. Before the worst crowds.”
Peter nearly jumped out of his chair. “Yes! Yes! Oh my god, you’re not gonna regret it, it’s gonna be amazing, it’s gonna be—”
Bucky cut in. “Kid.”
Peter stopped mid-ramble. “Right. Calm. Cool. Casual.” He took a deep breath, then whispered, “I’m so excited I might throw up.”
You pushed your chair back. “If you do, you’re not coming.”
He immediately straightened. “I will not be throwing up.”
Later that evening, you, Bucky, and Peter made your way through Midtown in the early winter dusk. Peter was practically vibrating, hopping ahead by a few steps, then circling back like a happy golden retriever. You and Bucky walked slower, bundled in your coats, both of you watching him like he was a live firework someone trusted you to supervise.
When you turned the corner onto Rockefeller Plaza, the tree came into view—massive, glowing in warm gold and white lights, surrounded by crowds and skaters and music. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. “See? See? Isn’t it incredible?”
You stared at it for a long moment. It was bright. Enormous. Over-the-top. Ridiculous. “…It’s excessive,” you said.
Peter groaned. “You can’t describe Christmas magic as ‘excessive.’”
Bucky slipped his metal hand into your coat pocket, lacing his fingers with yours. “It is a little excessive,” he murmured, smirking when Peter shot him a betrayed look.
“Traitor,” Peter whispered at him.
But then you took one quiet step forward and tilted your head back to really look at the tree. Something softened around your eyes. It wasn’t joy, exactly. More like… recognition of something simple and uncomplicated existing in the world. Peter saw it. His expression melted into something warm and stupidly hopeful. You didn’t say anything sentimental. You didn’t smile like a movie character. You simply exhaled, slow and almost peaceful, and murmured, “it’s… better in person.”
Peter lit up like the tree itself. “Right? Right?! I told you!”
You shrugged, deadpan. “I still hate the crowds.”
“We’ll get you a pretzel,” he said immediately, as if that solved everything. You didn’t answer, but the corner of your mouth twitched, and that was enough for him to punch the air in victory.
Bucky leaned in slightly. “You want a picture?”
“No,” you said.
Peter already had his phone out. “Too late! Smile—”
“Peter, don’t—” The camera clicked. You glared at him. “If you post that anywhere, I will erase your existence.”
Peter nodded rapidly. “Right. Got it. Private memory. Super important moment. Very sentimental. Never posting. Probably gonna put it on my lockscreen though.”
You sighed, but didn’t take the phone away. Bucky smirked. “You let him keep it. That’s basically affection.”
Peter bounced on his toes. “Can we get hot chocolate next? And see the skating rink? And maybe go see the window displays? Or—”
“No,” you said again.
But when the three of you headed toward the nearest hot chocolate stand, you didn’t walk behind him like a handler. You walked beside him, and Peter looked between you and the tree, grinning like he’d pulled off the greatest mission of his life.
After five minutes, Peter had drained his entire cup of hot chocolate by the time he started begging again. You were still sipping yours, content to stand on solid ground, when he grabbed the sleeve of Bucky’s coat and said, “Please. Please. Pleeeeeease. We have to go skating. It’s like the Christmas thing to do.”
Bucky shrugged him off gently, but there was already amusement in his eyes. “Kid, you’ve never skated in your life.”
Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. That means today is the perfect time to start.”
You snorted into your cup. “That logic is flawed.”
Peter turned on you next. “Come on, you two never do anything like this. This is fun. This is festive. This is memory-making.”
You stared at him. “We have plenty of memories.”
“Not ones that don’t involve explosions,” Peter said.
Bucky tried to bite back a smile and failed. “He might have a point.”
You raised a brow. “Are you actually considering this?”
He shrugged casually, which usually meant he was about to say something stupid. “Haven’t been skating in a long time. Used to take Becca when she was little. Could be nice.”
Peter nudged your elbow repeatedly. “Come on. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.”
You exhaled slowly, already feeling the inevitability creeping in. “If you break your ankle, I’m not carrying you home.”
Peter beamed like you’d just accepted a marriage proposal. “So that’s a yes?”
You finished your hot chocolate and tossed the cup. “It’s a reluctant yes.”
Peter fist-pumped the air. The rink attendants sized the three of you for rentals, although Bucky insisted he didn’t need help lacing his boots. You sat on the bench, tightening yours with quiet efficiency while Peter fought with his like he’d never encountered the concept of laces before. You nudged him with your knee. “You tied your shoes every day as a child,” you said. “Explain this regression.”
Peter groaned, tugging aggressively. “Skate laces are different. They’re evil.”
Bucky leaned over, fixed the knot in three seconds, and patted Peter’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Peter looked between the two of you with wide eyes. “Wait. Are you both actually good at this?”
You didn’t answer. Bucky only smirked. And then you stepped onto the ice.
Peter clung to the railing like gravity had betrayed him, legs shaking, skates squeaking. Meanwhile, Bucky glided forward with the casual confidence of someone who grew up before television existed. You followed after him, smooth and balanced, barely making a sound as the ice parted under your blades.
Peter stared at you like you’d sprouted wings. “You skate?”
You slid past him effortlessly. “I’m capable of many things.”
Bucky chuckled, skating backwards for a moment. “You should’ve seen her face the first time I asked if she could skate.”
Peter flailed toward the middle of the rink, absolutely not ready to be near the middle of the rink. “What else can you do? Can you juggle? Do ballet? Pilot a helicopter?” You passed him again, this time adding a slow turn that looked suspiciously like an actual figure skating element. Peter’s jaw dropped. “What was that?”
“A three-turn,” you said flatly.
He nearly fell trying to point at you. “You know the names?”
You shrugged lightly. “Finishing school.”
Peter blinked. “Finishing school taught you combat and figure skating?”
“It was an unusual program,” you said.
Bucky glided up next to you, nudged your hip with his, and grinned. “Show-off.”
“You married me,” you reminded him.
Peter focused very hard on not dying while you and Bucky casually skated circles around him. At one point he slipped, nearly took out a businessman in a scarf, and grabbed onto Bucky’s coat for balance. Bucky caught him by the elbow and steadied him. “Bend your knees more.” Peter tried, immediately overdid it, and almost squatted on the ice. “Not that much!” Bucky barked, pulling him upright.
You circled back. “This is painful to watch.”
Peter groaned. “This is abuse.”
“No,” you said, “this is physics.” He let go of the railing for a solid eight seconds before slipping again. You grabbed the back of his hoodie and hauled him upright without ceremony. “You’re like a cat,” you said. “All legs. No plan.”
Peter muttered something about how rude that was, but he didn’t let go of your sleeve. Eventually, with both of you guiding him—Bucky on one side, you on the other—Peter managed to do a full lap around the rink without collapsing. When he realized it, he looked up at you both with shy pride. “Hey… I did it.”
You didn’t smile, but something softened around your eyes. “Minimal disaster. Acceptable.”
Bucky grinned, flicking his fingers against Peter’s helmet of curls. “Good job, kid.”
Peter practically glowed at the praise, even while his legs trembled like jelly. The three of you skated a little longer, you occasionally doing small spins or tight controlled turns that only made Peter whisper, “what the hell,” every time. Bucky watched you with amused admiration, skating beside you like muscle memory had dragged him back to the 40s.
Eventually you herded Peter off the ice before he actually broke something. Once the skates were returned and you were all back in your normal boots, Peter paused outside the rink, looking back at it with a wide, tired grin. “That was… that was awesome. You guys were awesome.”
Bucky ruffled his hair. “You didn’t die. That’s the important part.”
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t know you both could skate like that.”
You adjusted your scarf. “There are a great many things you don’t know.”
Peter laughed. “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.” Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist as you started the walk back toward the subway. Peter trailed beside you, humming Christmas music off-key. After a minute, he looked over at you. “We’re doing this again, right?”
“No,” you said immediately. But Bucky heard the small quiet warmth underneath it. Peter did too. And both of them grinned.
---
The mall should’ve been simple. In and out. Three gifts for Peter’s people, maybe pretzels, maybe not. But the moment you stepped inside, holiday chaos hit all three of you like a tactical flashbang. Crowds, carols, the smell of cinnamon sugar, children running everywhere, inflatable decorations that looked like they’d fall over if someone breathed wrong. Peter took one look around and lit up. “Okay, this is perfect. I know exactly what I’m getting May. And Ned. And MJ. I made a list.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “Let me guess. You’re gonna abandon the list immediately and panic-buy something weird.”
Peter gasped. “I would never.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You literally bought Ned a rock last year.”
“It was a geode,” Peter defended. “A very nice one.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. He pulled the two of you toward a department store like he was leading an elite strike unit. You and Bucky followed behind at your usual pace—silent, vaguely intimidating, and entirely unimpressed by holiday capitalism.
Peter grabbed a jacket for MJ, a novelty science kit for Ned, and a delicate necklace for May. All reasonable choices. Bucky looked faintly proud. You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t criticize him either, which in Peter’s world was basically a standing ovation.
Then he spotted the Santa display. The line of kids wrapped past the fountain, around a fake sleigh, and down near the pretzel stand. Santa sat on an oversized velvet chair, smiling as if he hadn’t already seen three hundred children that day. Peter froze. “Oh! I wanna see Santa.”
You stopped walking too. “Why.”
Peter shrugged—too casual, too natural—which instantly made you suspicious. “It’s just fun.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You know Santa isn’t real, right?”
Peter made a face. “Of course I know Santa’s not real.”
You studied him. “You said that too quickly.”
Peter huffed. “I’m sixteen, not six.”
“We’re still stuck in a mall line,” you said. “Explain the logic.”
He hesitated for half a second before muttering, “May and I used to do it. And… I haven’t gone in a while. And I just thought… maybe this year… since it’s kinda like my first real Christmas with you guys…” His voice trailed off.
Bucky softened immediately. You felt it happen before he even spoke. “Oh,” Bucky said quietly. “Kid.”
You looked at Peter again—really looked. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t being dramatic. He just wanted… something small. Something simple. Something normal. And because you were you, your response came out completely deadpan. “Fine,” you said. “But you’re not sitting on anyone’s lap.”
Peter’s ears turned red. “I wasn’t going to sit on his lap!”
Bucky smirked. “Sure you weren’t.”
Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Can everyone stop saying that out loud?”
The three of you got in line. Slowly. Painfully. Ridiculously slowly. Peter bounced on his heels, adjusting his scarf. You stood still with your arms crossed. Bucky kept looking at you with that amused, fond stare he saved for when you were doing something unexpectedly decent, even if you pretended not to be. When you reached the front, the elf running the line waved Peter forward. “Next!”
Peter looked back at you one last time. “You’re not gonna make fun of me, right?”
You blinked. “Extensively.”
Bucky nodded. “Mercilessly.”
Peter sighed but stepped forward anyway. He didn’t sit on Santa’s lap—he perched awkwardly on the edge of the bench, talking quietly, gesturing with his hands. You and Bucky stood off to the side together, watching. After a moment, Bucky leaned in just enough that the people around you wouldn’t hear. “He really wanted this.”
“I noticed,” you murmured.
“He’s got… traditions. Memories. He wants us in them now.”
You frowned slightly, not annoyed—just thoughtful. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, brushing your knuckles lightly with his metal hand. “But you’re good at those.” You didn’t answer, but something warm settled under your ribs.
Peter returned a minute later holding a tiny printed photo of himself grinning beside Santa. He looked embarrassed but happy. “Okay,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket. “Pretend that never happened.”
Bucky clapped his shoulder. “No chance.”
You stepped forward. “Pretzel stand?”
Peter’s smile came back full force. “Pretzel stand.” And the three of you walked off—Peter chatting non-stop, Bucky listening, and you pretending not to be secretly, quietly content with all of it.
---
Pepper barely finished saying the words “gingerbread house contest” before the room exploded into chaos. Peter practically levitated, Clint yelled “dibs on Tony,” Sam immediately demanded a rematch from last year even though there had never been a last year, and Steve asked Bucky what exactly gingerbread was supposed to be. Pepper held up her hands and said she’d judge but she refused to participate because “last time Tony got competitive with food, a fire started.”
Teams formed fast. Tony, Peter, Vision, and Clint grouped up immediately, which was either genius or a death sentence. Steve, Bucky, and Sam formed what Sam proudly called “Team Patriot,” and Bucky called “Team I Don’t Want To Be Here.” Natasha waved Wanda over and looked at you expectantly. You didn’t even have to answer before she smirked and said, “yeah, you’re with us.”
Steve glanced between the teams. “This seems uneven.”
Natasha shrugged. “Feel free to cry about it later.”
The tables were set up in the common room, each covered in supplies—gingerbread panels, bowls of icing, candy canes, gumdrops, chocolate rocks, pretzel sticks, frosting bags, and structural supports Tony claimed were “for safety.” You weren’t convinced.
Peter rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. “Okay, guys, we’re making the best gingerbread house ever. Stark Industries level. Structural engineering. Vision, you’re on precision icing. Tony, you’re on architecture. Clint, you’re on morale.”
Clint saluted and yelled, “go team!” loud enough to startle Sam.
Steve stared at their table with a crease between his brows. “There’s no way this ends well.”
Sam elbowed him. “Relax. We’re gonna win this. We’re soldiers. Strategy. Planning. Discipline.”
Bucky held up a gingerbread wall and let it snap in half. “We’re screwed.”
Your table was quiet at first. Natasha stared at the supplies like she was planning a heist. Wanda was already conceptualizing. You cracked open the icing bag and said, “we’re not making a house.”
Wanda nodded. “Obviously not.”
Natasha smirked. “We’re making a fortress, right?”
You placed two gingerbread panels together in a way no gingerbread was ever meant to be used. “Castle.”
Within minutes your team was working with the precision of trained operatives. Wanda used her powers just enough to steady a wall without anyone noticing. Natasha piped icing like she was drawing blood, sharp and clean. You built turrets, archways, windows, and a working drawbridge made from pretzel rods and candy ropes. You dug into the candy rocks and created a moat bordered with chocolate gravel. There were guard towers. There were sugar-glass windows. There were battlements. At one point Sam walked by and stopped dead in his tracks. “What the hell is that?”
Natasha didn’t look up. “A house.”
Sam stared at the moat. “A house?”
You added a tiny gumdrop soldier to a tower. “A very defensible house.”
Across the room, Tony was shouting at Clint. “Stop eating the shingles!”
Clint yelled back, mouth full, “they’re delicious, man!”
Vision quietly placed red icing with absolute perfection. Peter was knee-deep in blueprints he definitely didn’t need. Their structure looked like a hybrid between a skyscraper and a spaceship. There were solar panels. Clint kept sticking candy canes on it and calling them antennas.
Meanwhile, Team Patriot was in shambles. Steve held a gingerbread wall upright while Sam tried to glue it with icing that kept sliding off. Bucky was trying to carve details into a roof shingle with a butter knife because he claimed “it needs texture.” Their house was small, leaning slightly to the left, and missing a roof on one side. Sam threw his hands up. “We are actual heroes. Why can’t we do this?”
Steve frowned. “The icing doesn’t behave like mortar.”
Bucky muttered, “this is why I didn’t build the damn safehouses.”
Peter wandered by, nearly dropping his frosting bag when he saw your table. “Is that… is that a moat?”
Wanda nodded. “And a watchtower.”
Peter blinked at the miniature gumdrop soldiers. “You guys built an army.”
Natasha flicked a gumdrop into place like it owed her money. “We’re thorough.”
Tony walked over next, squinting at your structure. “This isn’t a house. This is a siege-ready sugar compound.”
You didn’t look up. “And?”
Tony sighed. “Pepper’s gonna hate judging this.”
“Pepper’s gonna know talent when she sees it,” Natasha said.
Pepper finally called time. Everyone stepped away from their creations, some proud, some exhausted, some visibly in mourning. Pepper walked the tables slowly, hands clasped, expression neutral. First she examined Tony’s Frankenstein skyscraper. “Impressive. Structurally unsound in a few areas. And someone”—she gave Clint a look—“bit a chunk out of the back wall.”
Clint crossed his arms. “I was hungry.”
Then she examined the Patriot house. “It’s… charming.” Sam held his breath. Steve tried not to look offended. Bucky sighed heavily. Finally she reached yours. She stared at it for a long time, then said, “This is a military installation.”
Natasha nodded. “Yes.”
Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. “You built a drawbridge.”
You corrected her. “A working drawbridge.”
Pepper put her hands on her hips. “This is a gingerbread contest.”
Wanda shrugged. “You said ‘house.’ You didn’t specify size, purpose, or defense capability.”
Pepper inhaled deeply, then exhaled like she was giving up on the concept of rules entirely. “Fine. You win. Whatever this is, you win.”
Peter cheered. Clint threw a gumdrop at Tony. Tony pretended not to care. Sam loudly protested the results while Bucky patted him on the back and said, “she’s right, man. They built a whole fortress.”
Natasha high-fived you. Wanda beamed. You allowed yourself the smallest, smugest smile. Your gingerbread castle stood tall—immaculate, intimidating, entirely over-the-top—proof that even in a holiday activity, the three of you were still terrifyingly competent. Peter snapped a picture and said, “I’m sending this to May. She’s never gonna believe it.”
You glanced over at him. “Tell her we offer home security consultations.” Bucky groaned. Sam threw a gumdrop at you. Peter laughed until he dropped his phone. It felt almost like an actual holiday.
---
Ned arrived at the compound armed with a backpack full of ingredients you were pretty sure weren’t legal in beverages. Peter let him in, both of them red-cheeked from the cold and buzzing with a level of excitement that always meant something catastrophic was about to happen. You were already at the kitchen counter, nursing a mug of plain hot chocolate because you believed in simplicity. Peter did not. “Okay,” Peter said, dumping his coat on a chair, “today’s mission is scientific. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary.”
Ned nodded eagerly. “We’re expanding the flavor possibilities of hot chocolate beyond mortal comprehension.”
You stared at them. “You’re making drinks.”
“No,” Ned said, unzipping his backpack, “we’re redefining the beverage arts.” He pulled out cinnamon sticks, candy canes, chili powder, marshmallows shaped like dinosaurs, a bottle of maple syrup, a container of peanut butter, crushed Oreos, gummy bears, and an entire lemon for reasons you could not fathom.
Bucky leaned over the back of the couch, watching all this unfold. “You’re gonna kill yourselves.”
Peter waved him off. “We’re professionals.”
You raised your mug. “You’re children.”
Peter pointed at you dramatically. “You’re gonna regret doubting us when you taste our creations.”
“I’m not tasting anything that contains a lemon and chocolate in the same cup.”
Ned opened a bag of gummy bears. “Oh, that’s drink three.”
Drink one started simple enough. Marshmallows. Cinnamon. A drizzle of maple syrup. It smelled decent. Peter declared it “warm and cozy with notes of holiday spirit.” Ned wrote that down like he was documenting a lab experiment.
Drink two was Oreos blended directly into the hot chocolate. It looked like a swamp but tasted fine. Not good. Not bad. Just fine. Peter claimed it had “texture.” You called it “chewing a beverage,” which horrified Ned but made Bucky laugh loud enough to echo down the hall.
Drink three involved chili powder. Ned measured it carefully, Peter didn’t. You coughed the moment the cup got near your face. Peter took a sip, choked, and started flapping his hands like a malfunctioning robot. Ned tried it next and immediately grabbed the entire jug of milk, chugging it like a man in crisis.
Bucky wandered over, took one look at the carnage, and said, “I love watching natural selection work.”
“You’re mean,” Peter wheezed.
“You’re stupid,” Bucky countered.
Then came drink four. You should’ve stopped them. Truly. But there was something fascinating about watching two teenage boys attempt beverage-based self-destruction. Drink four contained gummy bears, lemon zest, peanut butter, chocolate, and—for reasons no one could explain—pickle juice. You didn’t even ask where the pickle juice came from.
Peter stirred proudly. “Look at that. It’s… sort of pretty.”
Ned nodded. “Like a sunset. If the sunset was poisonous.”
Peter took a sip first. His expression traveled through five stages of grief in under four seconds. Ned tried next. He gagged immediately and keeled over onto the counter, slumping dramatically.
You pushed the cup back toward them. “I refuse.”
Peter held his stomach. “Yeah. That one was a mistake.”
The kitchen was a disaster by the time Tony walked in. Marshmallow goo dripped down a cabinet. The stove was sticky. Someone had stepped on a gummy bear and ground it into the tile. There was an unopened lemon sitting in the middle of the counter like a tiny, mocking sun.
Tony stopped. Took it all in. Raised one eyebrow. “What fresh hell is this?”
Peter pointed. “Hot chocolate science.”
Tony nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And what’s the part where my kitchen looks like a toddler’s fever dream?”
“It’s Ned’s fault,” Peter said immediately.
Ned gasped. “You’re the one who added pickle juice!”
Tony turned toward you. “And you. You were supposed to be the adult in the room. How did this happen under your watch?”
You took a long sip of your own perfectly normal drink. “I supervised.”
“Supervised?” Tony repeated. “You sat there and let them weaponize cocoa.” He pointed at the counter. “There’s peanut butter on my ceiling.” You glanced up. There was indeed peanut butter on the ceiling. Tony threw his hands up. “This is the last time I go to a meeting and leave the children alone with you.”
That did it. You didn’t sigh. You didn’t glare. You just calmly picked up your mug. Tony, oblivious, kept talking, ranting, pacing, gesturing wildly, complaining about structural integrity of gingerbread houses and now beverages being biochemical threats.
Then you threw your entire cup of hot chocolate at him. It wasn’t a violent throw. More like an elegant, practiced arc, a perfect combination of accuracy and restraint. The contents splashed directly across Tony’s chest and dripped onto the floor. He froze, staring down at the cocoa dripping from his shirt.
Peter’s jaw dropped. Ned whispered, “dude.”
Tony looked up very slowly. “Did you just—”
“Yes,” you said.
“No hesitation? No remorse?”
“None.”
Tony wiped a drop from his collar. “I deserved that.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Peter looked between you and Tony with awe. “This is the best day of my life.”
Bucky strolled in at that exact moment, saw Tony soaked in hot chocolate, and smirked. “What’d I miss?”
Tony pointed at you. “Your wife assaulted me.”
Bucky shrugged. “Probably for a good reason.”
Tony threw his hands up again. “Why does everyone in this building hate me?”
Ned raised his hand. “I don’t hate you, Mr. Stark.”
Tony pointed at him. “Thank you, Ned. See? Appreciation.” Then he gestured at the room. “And now one of you is cleaning this.”
You picked up your coat. “Not me.”
Peter scrambled to his feet. “Not me!”
Ned pointed at Peter. “He started it!”
Bucky put his arm around your shoulders. “We’re gonna go now.”
Tony groaned loudly. “None of you respect me.”
You didn’t stop walking, didn’t look back, just said, “Correct.”
And that was how hot chocolate night became yet another Stark Industries incident report titled “Cocoa Catastrophe.”
---
Christmas Eve at the compound was going fine until Tony and Clint touched the oven. You were upstairs when the smoke alarm went off, and you didn’t run toward the disaster so much as descend the stairs with the resigned irritation of someone who already knew what she was about to find. The alarm blared. The kitchen was full of smoke. Clint was waving a dish towel like he was trying to swat a dragonfly. Tony was yelling at the oven like it had personally betrayed him.
Bucky appeared at the doorway behind you, took one breath of the air, and said, “nope,” before backing out again.
You pressed the button on the wall to silence the alarm. Then you walked in, crossed your arms, and stared at the two idiots in the kitchen. Tony pointed at the oven immediately, as if defending himself in court. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Clint coughed. “It was definitely his fault.”
Tony glared at him. “You told me to turn it up!”
“You turned it up to broil!” Clint shot back. “It’s a ham, Tony, not a space shuttle!”
You stepped forward, looked into the oven, and saw what had once been a perfectly fine Christmas ham now sizzling angrily under a glowing red heating coil. You shut the oven off, turned around, and kept your voice level. “Both of you. Out.”
Tony blinked. “Out?”
“Yes.”
Clint pointed at Tony. “She means you.”
You gave Clint a slow look. “Both.”
Clint’s shoulders slumped. “Aw, come on, I didn’t even touch it.”
“Out,” you repeated.
They shuffled out like schoolchildren who’d been caught stealing glue sticks. Tony tried to defend himself one more time. “For the record, I followed the recipe.”
“No, you didn’t,” you said without turning around.
“How do you know?”
“Because I read the recipe this morning. And it did not say ‘blast the meat from orbit.’”
Clint snorted on his way out. “That’s fair.”
You let the door shut behind them, took a breath, opened the windows, and started repairing the damage. The ham needed hours—low heat, tightly wrapped, slow and steady. You had already planned to do it properly, but apparently the universe wanted to test your patience first. Bucky cautiously poked his head back in once the smoke thinned. “Can I enter the war zone?”
“It’s safe,” you said, adjusting the oven temperature with quiet precision.
He stepped inside and leaned on the counter. “You’re really doing it? Overnight bake?”
“Yes.”
“We could order takeout.”
“No.”
He nodded. “Okay.” You wrapped the ham again, slid it into the oven, set the timer for the night, and washed your hands. Bucky watched you with something between admiration and amusement. “You really did learn all this in finishing school?” he asked.
“Table etiquette, posture, pastry technique, and how to make a soufflé while concealing a knife,” you said. “It was a well-rounded education.”
He let out a short laugh. “Remind me never to piss you off around cutlery.”
“Don’t piss me off in general.”
He held up his hands. “I try not to.”
You dried your hands and finally turned toward him. “Where are Tony and Clint?”
Bucky jerked his thumb toward the hall. “Arguing about whether ham can ‘self-destruct.’”
“That tracks.”
Peter appeared, still in pajamas even though it was nearly midday. “I heard yelling. And smoke. And Clint screaming ‘abort mission.’ Did we lose the ham?”
You glanced at the oven, then at him. “No. I fixed it.”
Peter let out a relieved sigh. “Good. May said if I ruined Christmas dinner again she’d revoke my dessert privileges.” He paused. “It wasn’t my fault the turkey caught fire last year. That was science.”
“It was lighter fluid,” you said.
He shrugged. “Same category.”
Tony popped his head back into the kitchen, already wearing an apron he definitely didn’t put on earlier. “How’s my ham?”
You stared at him. “Your ham?”
“I supervised,” Tony said, gesturing at himself.
“No, you didn’t,” you replied. “You nearly incinerated it.”
Tony turned to Bucky. “She’s being very mean to me.”
Bucky didn’t even look up. “Probably earned it.”
Tony frowned at him, then looked at you again. “So… is dinner saved?”
“Yes,” you said. “Thanks to me.”
Tony put a hand dramatically over his heart. “Thank God. I was about to tell Pepper we needed to pivot to pizza.”
Clint reappeared beside him, eyes wide. “Do we need to pivot to pizza?”
“No,” you said.
Clint relaxed. “Okay good. I already ate pizza twice this week.”
Tony leaned closer to him and whispered loudly, “she definitely thinks we’re idiots.”
“I know she does,” Clint whispered back.
“I can hear you,” you said. They both froze.
Bucky laughed under his breath. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, checked the oven one more time, and finally walked out of the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything,” you warned over your shoulder.
“Not even the fridge?” Tony asked.
“No.”
“But that’s cruel.”
You didn’t respond. Bucky followed you out, smirking like he was thoroughly entertained. Behind you, Peter sighed loudly. “Mr. Stark, give up. She’s in charge of the kitchen now.”
Tony huffed. “Fine. But next year I’m installing StarkTech temperature regulators in every appliance.”
Clint patted his shoulder. “Sure, man. Let’s hope we survive this year first.”
Bucky slipped his hand into yours once you were down the hall. “You know,” he said softly, “you kind of saved Christmas dinner.”
“I did,” you replied.
“You want credit for it?”
“No.”
He squeezed your hand. “Okay. I’ll give you credit anyway.” And even though you didn’t smile outright, the quiet tilt of your head toward him said enough.
---
The compound was quiet when you slipped into the kitchen the next morning, sleeves rolled up and already focused. The ham had slow-cooked through the night exactly the way you intended, and the kitchen smelled warm and soft and rich, like you’d personally bullied Christmas into cooperating. You checked the meat, nodded once in approval, and moved on to the sides.
You laid everything out with the same precision you used for missions. Mixing bowls in a row. Vegetables chopped efficiently. Herbs measured. Baking trays lined. It wasn’t showy, just practiced. Muscle memory from a childhood where you were taught that perfect presentation distracted people from sharp edges. Natasha had once said your finishing school training made you terrifyingly competent. This morning proved her point.
Halfway through preparing the stuffing, you heard a shuffle behind you. You didn’t look up. “If it’s Tony, the answer is no.”
“It’s not Stark,” Bucky said, sounding amused as he entered. “But I’ll let him know you yelled at the air again.”
You kept chopping. “He deserves it.”
Bucky came up beside you, stealing a piece of celery from the cutting board. “You need help?”
“No. You’ll cut the vegetables unevenly.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s harsh.”
“It’s true.”
He laughed quietly and leaned against the counter, just watching while you transferred chopped onions into a pan. “I can clean,” he offered.
“You’ll stack the dishes wrong.”
“You’re impossible.”
You didn’t deny it. Instead, you slid the pan onto the stove and lit the burner. “If you really want to help, get me the thyme.”
Bucky reached for the spice cabinet but froze when he saw the alphabetical arrangement inside. “You reorganized this.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“While you were asleep.”
He shut the cabinet slowly. “You terrify me.”
“You married me.”
He smiled, leaning over to kiss your cheek before stepping back. “Best mistake I ever made.”
You ignored the comment and reached for the potatoes, already peeling with clean, efficient motions. Peter stumbled in next, hair sticking up, wearing pajama bottoms with cartoon ghosts on them. He blinked at the kitchen like he needed to recalibrate. “It smells like a holiday exploded,” he said.
“That’s the point,” you answered without turning.
Peter yawned and sat at the island. “Need help?”
“No. You’d get in the way.”
“That’s fair,” he said, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. “May burns canned soup sometimes. I didn’t exactly grow up with Christmas cooking. This is… way more intense.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t touch anything.”
Peter froze with his hand an inch from the mixing bowl. “Right. Not touching. Just… sitting. Very still.”
“Good.”
He shot Bucky a helpless look. Bucky shrugged. “I learned not to interfere about a year ago.”
Peter perked up. “Wait, so this is normal?”
“For her?” Bucky said. “Yeah. She’s in the zone.”
“I can hear you,” you reminded them.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said.
You mashed the potatoes, seasoned them, set them aside, then moved on without pause. Rolls, glazed carrots, a cranberry-orange sauce that came together with the same cold precision you applied to lethal teamwork. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t stressful. It was just efficient. You didn’t even look winded.
Peter whispered to Bucky, “do you think she could take over a small country with this energy?”
Bucky whispered back, “We’ve already seen the plans. Remember?”
Peter nodded with grave seriousness. “Right. Girls Night.”
You didn’t turn, but your voice cut cleanly through the kitchen. “Stop talking.”
Peter almost fell off his stool. “Yes! Stopping!”
By the time the rest of the team smelled the food and wandered in—Tony in soft pants, Steve carrying coffee, Sam half-asleep, Natasha already smirking because she knew exactly what was happening—you had three side dishes done, two more in progress, and the desserts cooling on the counter. Tony stepped in, sniffed dramatically, and froze. “You cooked.”
“Yes.”
“All of this.”
“Yes.”
“And Clint wasn’t allowed to touch anything?”
“No.”
Tony put a hand over his heart. “Finally. A functional adult in this house.”
Natasha leaned beside you. “How early did you start?”
“Five.”
She nodded. “Kitchen’s never been this calm in its entire life.”
Wanda peeked into one of the pans and lit up. “You made sweet potato soufflé.”
Peter whispered to her, “she learned it at murder finishing school.”
You didn’t look up. “It wasn’t called that.”
Bucky leaned in. “It might as well have been.”
Natasha grinned. “She’s the only person I know who can caramelize sugar and plot a coup at the same time.”
Tony’s head whipped toward you. “Wait—was the notebook thing—”
“No,” you cut in. “Get out of my kitchen.”
Tony put his hands up. “Out. Leaving. Not arguing.”
The others cleared out quickly—Steve after stealing a roll, Sam after trying to and getting your death glare, Peter after nearly knocking over a mixing bowl, and Clint after you literally pointed at the door. Bucky lingered in the doorway just a second longer than the others. “Need anything before I go?”
You paused, just a moment. “Hot tea.”
He smiled. “On it.”
And when he came back with it, setting it beside you gently, you allowed yourself the slightest warmth in your voice. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said softly.
You didn’t answer out loud, but the quiet tilt of your head toward him, and the easy way you moved around him in the kitchen, said everything he needed.
---
Everyone crowded around the long dining table like they didn’t quite trust that this much food could be real. It wasn’t that the team doubted your competence; they doubted the universe. Things didn’t go this smoothly for the Avengers. Not ever.
Pepper arrived first, kissing Tony’s cheek before taking her seat. “It smells incredible in here,” she said, smiling at you in genuine delight. Pepper never fawned, so the compliment landed heavier than praise from anyone else.
You simply nodded. “It’s dinner.”
Tony elbowed Pepper. “See? Humble. Terrifying, but humble.”
May came in a moment later with Peter at her heels, shrugging off her coat. “Are you sure I can’t bring anything next time?”
“No,” you answered immediately. “Sit. Enjoy.”
May laughed. “You remind me of the lunch ladies at Midtown, if the lunch ladies could win a knife fight.”
Natasha snorted into her wine. “That’s the most accurate description anyone has ever given.”
The food went around the table in heavy, steaming dishes—ham glazed and tender, rolls golden and warm, stuffing perfectly crisped, potatoes whipped smooth, glazed carrots shining, sweet potato soufflé fluffy under toasted marshmallow. Every familiar holiday smell rose and tangled together until even Clint looked reverent.
Steve took the first bite like he expected it to explode. When it didn’t, when it was actually perfect, he went still. Then he looked at you. “You could run a restaurant.”
“No,” you said.
Sam pointed at his plate. “I would pay money for this.”
“You already do,” Bucky murmured. “Taxes.”
Peter shoveled stuffing into his mouth and nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh my god. Why doesn’t May cook like this?”
May turned to look at him. “Peter.”
Peter froze mid-bite. “I mean, uh—I love your cooking too—please don’t ground me.” Everyone laughed except you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth when Bucky nudged your foot under the table.
Pepper looked over the spread again, impressed. “How long were you in the kitchen?”
“Since five,” Bucky answered for you, pride in his voice.
Tony groaned. “Five? In the morning? On purpose?”
“Yes,” you said.
Pepper shook her head with a smile. “I’m adopting you.”
“She already has parents,” Bucky said lightly.
“Classified,” you corrected under your breath.
Tony pointed his fork at you like he’d caught something. “See? Every time you say things like that, I remember we absolutely need to increase security protocols.”
Natasha held up her wine. “Merry Christmas.”
There was a chorus of clinks as everyone lifted their glasses—even Vision, who didn’t drink but held his politely. Peter, already halfway through his second helping, looked at you across the table with that earnest, irritatingly soft expression he saved for moments like this. “This is the best Christmas dinner ever.”
You didn’t respond, but you didn’t need to. You served him more ham without being asked. Peter lit up like you’d handed him a prize. May watched the exchange, elbowed Pepper, and whispered, “she pretends she’s not maternal. Look at that.”
Pepper whispered back, “she’s scarier than Tony and somehow the best cook I’ve ever met. I’m terrified and grateful.”
Tony leaned in. “Are you two talking about me?”
“Yes,” Pepper and May said at once.
Dinner stretched comfortably, conversation warm and chaotic. Sam argued with Clint about the proper ratio of marshmallows to sweet potatoes. Steve told a story from the forties that ended with everyone laughing except Bucky, who muttered, “it wasn’t funny at the time.” Wanda asked if anyone wanted seconds, and Natasha took that as a threat.
Peter tried to lick caramel sauce off his plate, and May grabbed the back of his collar. “No.”
By the time dessert made its rounds, everyone was full, loud, and happy. Even Tony looked relaxed—leaning back in his chair, sipping wine, gesturing with a fork as he argued with Vision about whether robots could appreciate nutmeg.
You watched the scene quietly. It was the kind of warm, loud, chaotic Christmas you’d never had growing up, the kind you wouldn’t have chosen for yourself. Yet here you were—at the head of the table, married, fed, surrounded, content in a way you’d never admit.
Bucky nudged your elbow gently. “You okay?”
You nodded once. “Yes.” He smiled because he understood what that yes really meant.
And Peter, halfway through a sugar crash, slumped sideways against his seat and mumbled, “this was perfect.”
You didn’t correct him.