A Gift From: hufflepuffsneak
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Christmas Lights and Limelight
A Gift For: sandrasfisher
Rating: PG
Warnings: child exploitation, minor violence
Summary: Natasha is trained from childhood by Red Room Records to be the perfect popstar. Sold to HYDRA Records, she travels to the US and becomes the international sensation known as The Black Widow. Despite her fame, she'll need a lot of luck and a little Christmas magic to break free from the Red Room and HYDRA.
Author's Note: Thank you to all the people who contributed to the making of this fic.


banner by ohmydarlingdear


Prologue

January 5th, 2002

Natasha watched the timer on the computer screen count down to 3:00, then 2:59, then 2:58. Her hour was almost up.

She looked furtively around the internet café, populated by the scowling man behind the desk and two blonde American tourists. Galina hadn’t returned yet, which meant she could watch one more video. She eagerly scrolled down the message boards until she found a cover of White Christmas sung by Bea, a sixteen-year-old from the Philippines -- the same age as Natasha.

Natasha felt a flash of jealously. Bea could upload her tracks without consequences. Natasha’s contract prevented her from doing so.

Then the music started. Natasha’s eyes closed as she listened to the innovative arrangement and she mouthed along with the words.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and-

The music came to a jarring stop just as the young singer really started to croon. The timer on Natasha’s screen flashed 0:00 in red. Her time at the café was up, and it was back to reality.

She slipped her black earbud headphones into her pocket. The cheap headphones were nothing like what the Red Room had at the studio, but they were hers. She patted her pocket to make sure they were secure before she left.

Natasha gave a nod to the manager on the way out; he nodded back, his perpetual scowl still gracing his face. He was a curmudgeon, but he treated all the girls from Red Room Records nicely, and never ratted them out to Ivan.

Natasha huddled into her coat as she walked towards the dormitories, the tips of her fingers already starting to freeze even inside her gloves. She walked slowly, so Galina could catch up. Her best friend always spent more time with her boyfriend than she should; it was a wonder Ivan hadn’t caught them together yet.

Sure enough, she could hear Galina crunch through the snow behind her as she ran. The older girl’s coat was unfastened, and she seemed unaware of the cold.

“I had the best day!” Galina bragged, her cheeks flushed pink with happiness. “Dimitri and I went ice-skating. It was so romantic.”

She sighed, seemingly overcome with the memory of her beloved.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but gave Galina a smile nonetheless. Galina was destined to be a back-up singer for Red Room Records, so she was glad the cheerful girl had a devoted boyfriend. Galina could marry out of the business once her contract was over, and be free of Ivan.

They linked arms and walked the rest of the way to the dormitories as quickly as they could, the seconds towards curfew ticking away.

They rushed through the main door, stomping snow off their boots, and ran to the kitchen, Galina giggling. As they rounded the corner they abruptly came to a halt. Ivan, the Chief Operating Officer of Red Room Records, was waiting for them. He looked down on them from his commanding height, eyebrow raised. Galina stopped giggling abruptly.

“What took so long?” he demanded.

“We were listening to tourists, just to practice our English, like you said,” Natasha told Ivan, her eyes wide and innocent.

Galina didn’t speak, for good reason: Natasha was the best at lying.

Ivan nodded grudging approval.

Natasha and Galina made their way into the sparsely equipped kitchen. Ten other contract girls, all between fifteen and eighteen, had taken the best seats, so Natasha and Galina sat at the end of the table. The younger girls would have already eaten and would be taking their last lessons before bed.

“I have a big announcement to make,” Ivan told the girls from the head of the table.

He took the first serving from a large bowl of lapsha and a plate of blinis. Natasha’s stomach rumbled in response to the scent of the food wafting from higher up the table. There would be only scraps left for her and Galina by the time the bowls reached them.

“As you know, we offer one long-term contract every three years. We were scheduled to make that offer three months from now, but events have forced us to choose earlier,” Ivan continued.

Natasha observed her competitors from the corner of her eyes with no small amount of satisfaction. Most of them were destined to be back-up singers or wives of minor officials. Natasha knew she was different: she was the best performer in the room.

Natasha gazed at Ivan with adoring eyes. Even bad men like Ivan enjoyed being liked. Natasha had invested a lot of energy into being his favorite.

“We’ve selected Yelena for our long-term contract,” Ivan said, looking directly at Natasha as he said it.

Natasha blinked back tears from her eyes. It was no use showing weakness in here. The spot had gone to Yelena, skinny Yelena who could barely speak English, who was grinning in triumph as she heaped an extra large serving of lapsha onto her plate.

Galina threw Natasha a look of pity; the rest looked at her with smirks of vindictive triumph. They enjoyed seeing Natasha brought low, after she had bested them for so many years.

Natasha couldn’t process it. She was going to be forced to spend the next few years as a back-up singer, and then what?

“The rest of you will of course be taken care of as back-up singers and dancers,” Ivan told the girls. “Natalia, come with me please.”

Natasha stood and quietly followed Ivan.

“Natalia, Father Frost has brought you a special present,” Ivan told her.

Natasha trailed Ivan cautiously as he walked to the sitting room. In her experience, presents meant more work and little praise.

The sitting room was a small space containing two threadbare chairs and a television that worked only part of the time. A stranger with a comb-over and a slight paunch was waiting in one chair. His belt buckle had an ugly design of an octopus on it, which Natasha recognized as the logo of HYDRA Records, one of the biggest labels in the United States.

Ivan sat in the second chair, and Natasha remained standing, eyes lowered.

The American didn’t offer a greeting; instead his eyes roamed over Natasha’s body as if she were livestock. It took all of Natasha’s willpower not to shudder.

“She’s perfect,” the American drawled.

“I told you,” Ivan replied smugly. “And she won’t give you the same trouble as American girls.”

Ivan turned to Natasha.

“Natalia, would you like to go to America?” he asked.

Natasha nodded quickly. Ivan shot her a piercing glare, and Natasha pasted on a dutiful smile.

“Good. Mr. Garrett and I will return to my home to discuss the details of this arrangement. Pack your things.”

Ivan and Garrett left, chatting breezily about the state of the global music industry.

Natasha stayed in the sitting room, ambition blooming to life in her belly once more. Her hands went to the earbuds in her pocket. America was the land of opportunity, was it not?

Maybe she could pursue her dreams there, out from under Ivan’s eagle-eyed gaze.



Chapter 1

December 20, 2011

Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Natasha lowered her voice, and moved in a slow shimmy as she launched into the last, suggestive lines of the song.

Hurry down the chimney tonight,
Hurry, tonight.

She turned her head and winked at the camera, pulling her long red hair over her shoulders, and the studio audience burst into applause. The metallic curve-hugging dress she wore would be lighting up television screens across the nation. She could practically see sales of her Christmas album rising, not that she would see more than a few pennies once iTunes, Red Room Records and HYDRA took their share.

“Give it up for Natasha, the Black Widow!” Hudson White, late-night talk show host and serious asshole, said as he joined the studio audience’s applause.

Natasha waved at the audience in thanks, not bothering to do the same for White. When she had first started out he had called her the perfect woman: a first-grade mind in a world-class body. She hadn’t forgotten. The only reason she was doing his show and not Fallon’s was a deal HYDRA had made with his network. Assholes, all of them.

“Thanks for coming on the show, Natasha,” White said, as if they were friends.

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans,” Natasha responded, blowing a kiss at the audience.

Predictably, they went wild.

“We love you Natasha!” one girl screamed.

Natasha smiled in her direction as if she could see the girl, and not just the blinding stage lights.

“And that’s all for tonight, folks. See you tomorrow, on Late Night with Hudson White,” the host said, flashing his perfect teeth at the camera.

Natasha gave the audience one last wave, brushed off White’s attempts to talk to her and retired to her dressing room.

John Garrett was waiting for her, with even less hair and more of a paunch than the last time she’d seen him a year ago, when HYDRA had acquired S.H.I.E.L.D. Records.

“Great show, darling,” he said, genial and menacing at the same time. “Now when are you going to sign that contract we sent over?“

“When you make me a better deal,” she answered, crossing her arms.

“We doubled your share,” Garrett responded, leaning forward with an ‘aw-shucks’ grin that Natasha had grown to hate.

“Double of almost nothing is still almost nothing, John,” Natasha replied sweetly.

She wished she had lawyers to handle this for her, or bodyguards that would protect her from HYDRA as well as they protected her from unauthorized fans, but HYDRA kept what was theirs, and everyone knew it.

“Fifteen percent. It’s my final offer,” Garrett said.

“Forty percent. That’s mine,” Natasha shot back.

“I’ll talk to the boss, but you know the rules. No one else will take you on. You really think you can go it alone?” Garrett asked with a taunting smile.

Natasha smirked at the moisture at his hairline. He had thought she would be a one-hit wonder, and signed her on to a ten-year contract that split the money she made between HYDRA and the Red Room. If she didn’t sign the contract before her last twenty-six days were up, HYDRA would be just as merciless towards him as they would be towards her.

“You’re sweating, John. Goodbye,” Natasha replied.

“You’re not Monica Chang,” he told her with his characteristic leer as he left.

Monica Chang was a small fry who had bought out her contract with HYDRA. Her first independent album had been an international hit, but none of the concert arenas would take her on for fear of drawing HYDRA’s wrath. The smaller venues that had booked her had been burnt down, or broken into. As far as Natasha knew, Chang was living a happy life somewhere in Australia. HYDRA wouldn’t allow a top earner like Natasha the same luxury.

Natasha locked the door behind Garrett. The lock was a temporary comfort, but she welcomed it all the same.

With a tired sigh, Natasha collapsed in the wooden chair in front of the dressing room mirror. She examined herself in its surface. The Black Widow, widely recognized as one of the most beautiful women in the world, stared back. Her signature long red hair was perfectly curled down to her impressive cleavage, and heavy gold eye shadow against pale white skin made her look otherworldly.

The first part of her outfit to go was her wig, long curly red hair in a rich shade that was instantly associated with her around the world. Underneath the wig her hair was cropped short, and several shades lighter. She quickly wiped the eye shadow from her face and peeled off the silver dress, but left the body glitter across her shoulders as a lost cause. She would shower it off later. For now, she covered herself with a turtleneck and jeans.

Her phone rang as reviews of her performance started being posted on the Internet. She ignored it.

She ran her hand through her sweat soaked hair, enjoying the woman staring back from the mirror. This woman wasn’t a famed seductress or celebrity; she could be any New Yorker going about her day. With one last glance at the mirror and the version of Natasha it contained, she pulled a black leather jacket over her outfit and left through a side entrance.

Her gaggle of bodyguards and hangers-on would be staying at a luxurious hotel, preserving the illusion that Natasha Romanoff was still in New York City. Natasha could have a few blessed days of peace in her cottage in upstate New York, before she became the Black Widow again for her December 26th performance in Times Square.

She began the long drive home in her silver Prius. She was unrecognizable to all but her most intense fans without her signature red curls and heavy eye makeup.

The long day, and the monotonous falling of light snow, combined to dull her senses. The highway stretched straight ahead, unchanging, lulling her into complacency. Her eyes began to drift shut, and the right tire of her car vibrated as she drove over the gravel on the side of the road.

“Goddamnit,” Natasha cursed as she pulled the car back towards the center of the highway.

She turned on the radio, and jacked up the volume so she wouldn’t fall asleep again. Natasha had no plans to end up as a tragic news story.

The last few notes of Let it Snow played, then the announcer spoke.

“We follow up that classic with a modern take on Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas from sultry Russian siren Natasha Romanoff.“

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light

Natasha shifted to talk radio for the rest of the drive. Ideologues yelling at each other would keep her awake better than listening to her own voice sing words that meant nothing to her. Most Americans didn’t even realize that in Russia Christmas was celebrated in January. Natasha couldn’t remember celebrating anything with her family, other than a day where they all had enough to eat.

The rest of the drive was uneventful, and she made the final turn to her neighborhood in relief. Her cottage was tiny, with only one bedroom. It had taken five years of saving to pay it off, but it was entirely hers.

Two hours after leaving New York City, she slowly drove up the driveway, her tires crunching through the three inches of snow that had fallen since she had been here last. So focused was she on parking safely, she only noticed the figure slumped at her front door once she got out of the car.

Suppressing a startled gasp, Natasha pulled her Taser out of her glove box and hid it behind her. The slumped figure was covered by a heavy coat, and could be anyone. Natasha gripped her Taser tighter as she tiptoed forward.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Oh fuck,” the figure said, jerking awake.

The hood fell away to reveal a broad-featured man of middle years who regarded her sheepishly.

“Natasha Romanoff?” he asked.

“Look, I will give you an autograph since you’ve made the effort,” And then call the police, Natasha added silently. “But I have to insist you leave my property.“

The man held his hands up, palms out, to indicate his harmlessness. Natasha kept her Taser hidden, just in case, regretting ditching her bodyguards.

“You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m an agent, not a fan. Well, an agent and a fan. Clint Barton,” he said, offering his hand.

Natasha sighed. This was almost worse than a stalker. He must be a rookie agent, one who hadn’t learnt HYDRA’s methods yet. She hoped HYDRA hadn’t had her followed, as they periodically did, or he was about to discover those methods first hand.

“Clint Barton? I’m not interested,” she answered bluntly, not taking the proffered hand.

“Give me five minutes of your time,” Barton said, with all the false confidence of a used car salesman on his first day.

She was about to make a cutting remark but reconsidered when she noticed his lips were blue from cold. Having a man die of hypothermia on her doorstep would be bad press.

“Fine. You can have five minutes, no more,” she told him.

One part of her railed against letting this strange man into her house, but the other part of her knew she had to warn him about HYDRA before they made an example of him.

“Thank you,” Clint said.

Natasha opened the front door, wishing she had thought to put a wreath or something festive on the outside to celebrate the season. Clint, she noticed, kept a respectful distance from her as she walked into the hallway and turned on the lights.

She turned to see him hovering at the doorway, waiting for her to invite him in. In that moment he reminded her of a lost puppy.

“You can come in,” Natasha said, bemused.

“Thanks,” he said.

He took off his coat to reveal a purple sweater that was tight enough for her to admire his broad shoulders and muscular arms.

“Your five minutes start now,” she told him, before he had time to turn around.

“I’m always up for a challenge,” he answered with a grin.

For a second, his drawl reminded her of Garrett and her skin crawled. Then he scratched the back of his neck, obviously a nervous gesture, and any similarities he had to Garrett disappeared.

“I work for Avengers Records. You haven’t re-signed with HYDRA, so I thought I would give you a call. Sorry about the unorthodox approach, but I didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the river somewhere,” he said, apologetic.

Natasha, startled by his frank assessment of HYDRA, said nothing. Clint took her silence as a cue to continue.

“I kept on wondering how Monica Chang bought her way out of her contract, and why her first independent album was so much more imaginative than the second. I did some digging, and all roads led to you.”

He crossed his arms and regarded her thoughtfully, waiting for her to speak.

Natasha felt her heart pound with fear. How had he found out? She had been so careful.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, adding a slight Russian accent to her voice. “But I would love to talk to you about something else, perhaps over wine?”

She sashayed towards him, able to use her allure even without the wigs and the makeup. His pupils dilated and his breath quickened in response, but he kept talking.

“You have so much talent. I can’t offer you a multiple record deal, but I can offer you one record funded and distributed by Tony Stark, with full creative control,” Clint continued.

Tony Stark? He was a full-time billionaire playboy and part-time rock star. He picked up toys and put them down on a weekly basis. Trusting him with her future would be the ultimate in naivety.

Natasha moved close enough to Clint that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, buying herself time to think. In response, he scooted backwards until his back was against the door, blushing slightly under her gaze.

“You could collaborate with whomever and work in any genre your muse wants. You deserve that, Natasha. You deserve so much more,” he finished.

Natasha found herself flinching at his words. Who was he, to pretend that he knew her?

“Get out,” she said, voice flat.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, pushing down the hope that had risen up in her chest for no good reason.

“Okay, I said five minutes, it’s been five minutes.” Clint gave her a disarming grin.

He nodded to her, and set his business card on the side table, then sent one last hopeful look at her. She glared until he left, closing the door neatly behind him.

She left the business card where it was, and trudged to her well-stocked kitchen to find the stash of dark chocolate she had hidden in her pantry. Time to settle down with Netflix and forget the rest of the world.



Chapter 2

December 24, 2011

The new contract lay on the kitchen table, 19.4% written in bold at the very end. The usually penny-pinching Red Room had helpfully provided her with a return envelope so she could send it back to them and sign away another ten years of her life.

Outside the windows of the cottage the day was bright despite the winter chill, the sky a clear blue. She wished her own thoughts were as clear.

Instead of signing the contract, Natasha busied herself around the house, putting her sheets and towels through the laundry and washing all her dishes. When that was done, for lack of anything else better to do, she made herself peppermint tea and started reading comments on her YouTube videos.

Her version of All I Want for Christmas is You began to play automatically at the link. Natasha had wanted to write her own song rather than do the same cover that everyone else did, but she had been overruled by HYDRA management, again.

The first few comments were from diehard Widowers, who liked all of her songs regardless of their quality.

Natasha is AMAZING. I want to sing like her some day WIDOWER101

Fave Xmas song ever!!! toopurtyformycorset

Natasha Romanoff is a goddess and I will fight you if you say otherwise JennytheLegalEagle

She basked in their adoration, even though she felt unworthy of it, and kept scrolling.

As she expected, the next two comments were a combination of juvenile and appalling.

Best tits in the business. Watched it on mute. MaximumThrillzz

That one had 37 upvotes. Natasha rolled her eyes.

Who told the B!TCH she can sing! I should chock her to death it would sound better. nicestguyaround1990

That one had only 5 upvotes, Natasha was relieved to see. She had received more death threats than she could count, and so far none of them had used correct grammar or spelled every word correctly. In her mind, if someone was going to make a death threat then they could at least bother to use spellcheck.

The recorded version of her launched into the last verse:

Make my wish come true
Baby, all I want for Christmas is you

Natasha shook her head at her own foolishness. Reading the comments was never a good idea. She shut down the computer and took the final sip of her peppermint tea. What else was there for her to do?

As she shifted in her comfy jeans, something jutted hard into her thigh. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a mess of cords. It was the ancient earbud headphones she had bought when she was fifteen. At the time they had been her most prized possession, she remembered with a smile.

She looked between the headphones and the contract lying on the kitchen table. She knew what the girl she had been would do: she would rip up the HYDRA contract and sign with the Avengers. Natasha was older and more cautious now. She bit her lip in indecision.

Her sleek silver fridge, stocked with all the food she could eat, hummed quietly as she pondered. Next to the fridge a landscape of a rocky beach took pride of place on the wall. She could lose it all in a blaze of fire if HYDRA found out about the offer Avengers Records had made her. But she couldn’t live ten more years under constant fear, under constant surveillance.

She pulled an unopened disposable phone out of her cutlery draw, attempting to push away her doubts. She had bought it with cash, so HYDRA couldn’t track it. Clint’s business card, creased and wrinkled, lay underneath the knives.

With shaky hands, she carefully fished out the business card, and then dialed the number Clint had given her. The phone rang once, and Clint picked up before she could think better of her actions.

“I’m busy, Kate,” he barked into the phone.

“This isn’t Kate,” Natasha responded, playfully.

She might not know how to openly defy HYDRA, but she knew how to deal with men.

“Oh, shit. Sorry!” Clint exclaimed.

“Should I call back at another time?” she asked, amused.

“No, please don’t, what do you need?” he said, panic brimming under his tone.

“Come over. We should talk,” she replied.

Then she hung up on him; satisfied he would do as she asked.

Natasha baked while she waited for Clint to arrive, snickerdoodles in the oven and chocolate hazelnut fudge in the microwave. Sugar cookies were traditional for American Christmas, but she refused to bake them on the grounds they were a waste of good sugar and butter.

She was setting the last batch of snickerdoodles to cool when the doorbell rang. Her jeans and t-shirt were smeared with flour: she looked nothing like the desirable Black Widow who was worth several million dollars in future performances and album sales.

She ran to her bedroom, pulled off her clothes and replaced them with a clingy green sweater dress and hastily applied red lipstick. The doorbell rang again, as Natasha raced back towards the front door. She pulled it open smoothly, mentally thanking her spin instructor for the fact she wasn’t breathing hard.

Clint was waiting on the other side; eyes squinted against the glare of the snow. In his hands he held an object messily wrapped in brown paper.

“Hi,“ he said.

She noticed with satisfaction that he did a double take at the dress.

“Come in,“ she said, standing aside.

He attempted to offer her the messily wrapped object, getting tangled in his coat as he did so. It took him a few moments to strip off his outer gear and put it into her hands, and he almost fell over in the process.

Natasha stifled laughter at his ineptitude.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he said, shifting his feet awkwardly.

Natasha tried to give the object back, now that he was finished taking off his outer layers.

“It’s a present,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Open it.”

“But I didn’t get you anything,” she said, hiding her surprise with a dramatic pout.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I’m the one asking for your signature.”

He grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

She opened the box, to reveal a stuffed bear with an Avengers Records hoodie.

“Oh,” she said, unexpectedly touched. “How thoughtful,” she purred.

Clint jerked back from her. Natasha raised an eyebrow in surprise. That wasn’t the usual reaction men had when she used the Black Widow persona.

“You don’t have to do that,“ Clint said.

“Do what?“ Natasha asked.

“Perform. I’m not here to sign the Black Widow, I’m here for Natasha Romanoff,“ he told her frankly.

She really looked at him for the first time. It was only now, in the afternoon light filtering through the cottage windows, that she noticed how attractive he was. She was so used to covering herself with layers of trickery so nothing could touch her and dealing with people who did the same. In contrast, he was heartbreakingly real, with kind eyes, crooked features and weathered skin.

“Okay. I’m in,“ she said.

She put her hand to his chest, and leaned towards him for a kiss to seal the deal.

“Don’t you want to talk about the terms?“ Clint asked, incredulous, side-stepping her attempt to kiss him.

Natasha kept her annoyance out of her expression. Clint was not reacting according to her script. At this point he should be eating out of her hand. The thought gave her an idea.

“Do you want to try some of the cookies I baked?” Natasha asked.

Clint sniffed the air. It still smelt like chocolate and peanut butter from the snickerdoodles.

“Sure,” he said, with childish enthusiasm. “You bake?”

Natasha smiled and tilted her head coquettishly. Before she discussed terms she wanted him to be firmly in her camp.

“Of course,” she answered. “But I rarely have anyone to test the results on. You don’t mind being my guinea pig, do you?”

“Not at all,” Clint said.

For a second his eyes flicked down to her chest, and Natasha felt a flash of triumph.

Clint followed her to the kitchen. She put a slight sway in her walk.

“It’s nice, homey,” he said as he looked around.

“Smaller than you expected?” Natasha observed wryly.

“I guess,” Clint answered.

“I didn’t want to bother with a cleaning staff and all of that,” Natasha replied.

In truth, she hadn’t wanted to be in debt to anyone. Having her own home outright gave her a level of independence that she cherished.

“Makes sense,” Clint replied.

She got the feeling that he understood more than he let on.

Natasha offered him the plate of snickerdoodles, and he eagerly took a couple.

Natasha took a cookie of her own and lowered her eyes flirtatiously in a way that drew attention to her eyelashes. She daintily took a bite, letting the slightly melted chocolate in the center run over her lips. When she looked up, Clint was paying no attention to her, but had crammed an entire snickerdoodle into his mouth. His eyes were closed in bliss.

“These are amazing,” he said, words garbled by the cookie.

Natasha couldn’t help but laugh. Clint, a grown man, seemed oblivious to her seduction attempts. Persuading him into her camp was turning out to be surprisingly fun.

“So amazing,” Clint repeated, mouth still full.

Natasha hummed in agreement as she took another bite of her snickerdoodle. The Mexican vanilla she’d added to the recipe had been an inspired touch.

The afternoon light hit Clint’s hair and turned it gold. He opened his eyes to look at her, and Natasha felt heat go through her body. Heat that she counterfeited in her performances, but hadn’t truly allowed herself to feel.

She reconsidered her strategy. After so many years of using subterfuge and misdirection to get what she wanted, it was difficult to speak directly, but that looked like the only way of getting through to Clint.

“Clint, it’s Christmas Eve. We should celebrate,” she said, looking into his eyes.

He swallowed, hard, eyes flicking once again to her cleavage.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“You could stay over,” she offered.

He froze, eyes wide. She took the first step, standing on her toes so that her lips brushed his, the sticky chocolate from the cookies sweet to the taste. He returned the kiss for a moment, then pulled away, regret in his eyes. Natasha felt like cursing in frustration.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Clint said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Of course, you must have someone to celebrate Christmas with,“ Natasha said.

Natasha clasped her hands behind her so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him again.

He probably had a girlfriend, or a family to go home to, like most people. It was Christmas Eve, and she had just foolishly assumed he would stay with her.

“You should go home, let’s make an appointment for the twenty-sixth,“ she suggested, attempting to be professional while her body still buzzed from his touch.

“No,” Clint said. “I want to be here, but only if you really want me here.”

“Why would I ask you to stay if I didn’t mean it?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t know, to bring me under your power, or something?” Clint said, back to shifting his feet awkwardly.

Natasha laughed. She had been guilty of trying to manipulate him, but she wouldn’t have offered to have him stay if she didn’t want that.

“Think about it this way,” Natasha offered. “If I really wanted to manipulate you, I’d dangle the possibility of sex in front of you, not offer to sleep with you.”

“That’s strangely reassuring,” he told her, bemused.

“So you’ll stay?” she asked, hating how wistful her voice sounded.

“I just need to make a call. Then I’m all yours, believe me,” he said.

She looked at him carefully. He appeared to be telling the truth.

Her red lipstick had left her mark on the corner of his mouth, she observed with satisfaction. He was hers, if only for tonight.

“Don’t make me wait too long,” she said, giving him a genuine smile.

She moved languidly towards her bedroom, feeling Clint’s eyes following her as he started speaking into his cellphone.

“Sam? Yeah, I’m not coming to dinner. You and Steve have fun, something important came up. I need to ask you for a favor,” he said.

She closed her bedroom door, cutting off the rest of his conversation. That done, she abandoned all pretenses of languid grace and rifled through her underwear drawer as quickly as she could, dissatisfied with what she had available. Why had she thought the bright pink underwear was a good idea? She had plenty of black, but that seemed cliché, and he wasn’t interested in her stage persona, he was interested in her and what she wanted. She glowed at the thought. Finally, she picked her red bra and green panties on a whim, to celebrate the season.

Clint knocked gently on the door to her bedroom.

“Tasha?” he asked.

“I’m ready,” she called back.

--

December 25, 2011

Natasha startled awake, instantly alert as unfamiliar footsteps wandered through her kitchen. Then she remembered the night’s events and relaxed back into the warmth of her mattress. Her skin still tingled from remembered caresses, and she allowed herself a smug grin before she got out of bed. In retrospect, sleeping with Clint hadn’t been a clever idea; if she messed this up she would have to fall back in HYDRA’s less than tender embrace. Still, being with Clint felt right.

She padded her way to the kitchen, pulling her fluffy robe around herself for warmth. Clint was dressed in just his jeans despite the chill, pouring cream batter into a skillet. Whatever was in the batter smelled delicious to Natasha. As she moved closer, she noticed he was singing quietly, his voice rough and low.

Santa Claus is coming to town
He’s making a list, checking it twice
Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice

Natasha let her eyes linger on the muscles rippling in his back as he shifted the skillet to the back burner and set the glass bowl full of batter back on the countertop.

“Let me guess, you wanted to be a singer when you first got into the industry?” Natasha teased.

Clint jumped, almost knocking over the bowl.

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted.

“What happened?” she probed.

“I realized that I hate the spotlight,“ he confessed sheepishly as he turned to look at her.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?“ Clint asked.

“No,“ Natasha said, pulling him towards her.
He slipped his hands under her robe. His hands on her skin felt like having an electric shock run through her body. He kissed her, amping up the volts, and then drew back with a dopey smile on his face that made Natasha weak at the knees. She opened her mouth to suggest they postpone breakfast.

Then the front door blew open, the sheer noise of the blast making Natasha cry out. Her eardrums vibrated in pain, and she felt acutely fragile as men invaded her home. Strong arms embraced her, and suddenly Clint was putting himself between Natasha and the door.

“Well aren’t you two as cute as two puppies frolicking in spring,“ Garrett’s distinctive drawl came from the cloud of debris.

John Garrett walked through her hallway, holding a gun casually at his side. Behind him lurked two muscular men wearing ski masks, who Natasha recognized as HYDRA approved bodyguards.

Natasha hid a knife behind her back as Clint bristled.

“If you’ll just sign the contract, we’ll let you get back to it,“ Garrett continued, leering.

Natasha wanted to wipe the leer from his face, and she thought she knew how.

“Too late, John. I already signed with Avengers Records. The contract is in the mail. Would you like some snickerdoodles?“ she asked, attempting to stay casual.

Clint didn’t react to her lie, silently assessing the men in front of him instead.

“I’ll even wrap them up for you, and you can have some on the drive home,“ Natasha added, the perfect hostess.

Garrett shook his head, putting on a show of regret.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’m going to have to teach you a lesson,” Garrett told her.

He raised his gun to point squarely at Clint.

Natasha muscle’s tensed in fear, as her brain worked frantically to figure out how to get Clint out of this situation alive. She moved in between him and the gun, pulse racing as adrenalin pumped through her body.

“To be clear, you’re working as a representative of HYDRA records?“ Clint asked Garrett.

Clint tried to muscle her out of the way, but she wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t letting him die for her.

“Of course I am. Cut off one head, and two heads return,“ Garrett said, chanting the HYDRA mantra.

Natasha’s heart was in her throat. How could she be so stupid? She should have re-signed with HYDRA.

“Say your prayers, lover-boy,“ Garrett said, lifting the gun just above Natasha’s head to point at Clint, obviously relishing her powerlessness.

Then, for the second time that morning, strangers invaded Natasha’s home. Two men, wearing FBI windbreakers, strode through the gaping hole that had once been her front door. The first man was blonde and muscular, the second dark-skinned and equally handsome. Both of them had their weapons raised and pointed at Garrett.

“Ma’am,“ the first one said with a nod towards Natasha.

“Put down your weapon. Hands up,“ the second man yelled at Garrett and the bodyguards.

They complied, Garrett’s body stiff with indignation.

“I don’t know who you are, but when I find out you and your families will pay for this,“ Garrett promised.

The two FBI agents didn’t even blink, just handcuffed all three men and read them their rights with brisk professionalism.

“Sorry about the unpleasantness, especially on Christmas,“ the first agent apologized to Natasha, as if it was somehow his fault.

“We’ll be back to collect your statements later,“ his partner added.

“Okay,” Natasha replied, too stunned to say anything more.

She watched Garrett being led away in handcuffs, grim satisfaction in her heart.

“You should have taken the cookies,” Clint called after Garrett with a smirk.

Natasha laughed, as relief reverberated through her. She and Clint were going to be okay.

“Merry Christmas,” Clint told her.

He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her.

“Merry Christmas,” she replied, absently.

Natasha leaned back into his comforting embrace and began to add up the events of the morning. An unpleasant realization occurred to her, and she jerked away from Clint.

“You’re FBI,” Natasha said, faintly.

She glared at him accusingly. He had lied to her. The contract he had offered her wasn’t real; he had been lying to her this entire time. And she had slept with him. Nausea began to build in her stomach.

“No, Nat, I swear. I really am working for Avengers Records,” Clint said, eyes wide with alarm. “Those FBI guys are old friends, I called in a favor.”

Natasha regarded him suspiciously, until the smoke rising from the charred mess in the skillet made her eyes water. She blinked away the tears.

“Avengers Records is serious about beating HYDRA, we have a game plan and everything. Maria Hill is running day to day operations and Stark is providing the funds. That’s what I was going to tell you last night, before we were … distracted.” He said the last with a blush.

Maria Hill had been one of the most successful producers at S.H.I.E.L.D. before HYDRA had engulfed them. If what he was saying was true, then Natasha had a real chance to start afresh.

Clint began to shiver as the frigid winter air blew in from the empty space Garrett, the bodyguards and the FBI guys had just exited. Goosebumps coated his flesh.

“Seriously Natasha, let’s figure out how to block off the door, and we can discuss the details of your deal,” Clint told her.

She regarded him thoughtfully. If she was starting afresh, she was going to do it right.

“We can work out the details once I hire a lawyer to represent me,” she declared.

“Oh,” Clint said, eyes downcast.

“Do you want to stay for lunch?” she asked.

A part of her wanted to ask him to stay for much longer than that, but she didn’t want to push things so soon.

He looked up, joyful and surprised in equal measure.

“I’d love to,” he answered.



Epilogue

December 25, 2014

Natasha turned over on the beach chair, letting the sunlight soak into her muscles. The soft lapping of waves against sand and the gentle breeze through the palm trees made her feel drowsy and relaxed. After the grueling nine-month world tour she had just completed, relaxation was welcome.

Absently, she noted that Clint was attempting to sneak up on her as he made his way back from the surf. Natasha turned around to glare disapprovingly at him when he was a mere five feet away.

Clint froze with a guilty expression, like a child caught stealing candy. Water droplets ran down his chest. Natasha pushed her sunglasses back into her hair so she could admire him properly.

“Christmas in the tropics was a great idea, Tash,” Clint said, toweling off.

“I know,” Natasha replied, smugly. “I got you a present,” she added.

“I thought we weren’t doing presents this year,” Clint said.

She pulled out a box neatly wrapped in striped red and green paper.

“I decided to ignore that rule,” Natasha said with a grin.

She enjoyed surprising Clint with presents, especially now that she had the money that someone of her status deserved.

Clint opened the box to find a toy bear with a Natasha Romanoff hoodie. She had it made especially for him.

“For when I’m traveling,” she explained.

She had found her own Avengers Records bear useful for when she was away from Clint, not that she’d ever admit that to anyone.

“Thanks, sweetheart. It’s unbearably cute,” Clint said with a laugh.

Natasha threw her towel at him, mouth quirking at the terrible pun.

Clint dodged the towel and fell into his own beach chair, still laughing.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Natasha grumbled.

Clint leaned half out of his chair to give her a scorching kiss.

“That’s why,” he told her smugly.

They regarded the waves together in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Clint began to sing I’ll be Home for Christmas under his breath. Natasha joined him, their voices twining around each other to make an imperfect harmony.

Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
And you'll be in my dreams