Winter Widow One Shots

Fireworks

Morning

The sun was barely over the rooftops when Natalia padded barefoot into their kitchen, her hair still mussed from sleep. She rubbed her eyes with a knuckle, trying to wipe the sleep from them. She wore an oversized t-shirt brushing her thighs. It was his shirt, of course. Most of hers were too snug to sleep comfortably in. At least that was what she claimed. He was pretty sure she used it as an excuse to take his shirts, but he didn't mind. She preferred this one, soft from age, stretched from his broad frame, and smelling faintly of him.

They always looked better on her than they ever could on him.

The coffee was already on. It always was. James Buchanan Barnes didn't sleep much, and when he did, it was light. Filled with dreams he didn't want. He never said that, but she knew. She knew when his legs tangled in the sheets or when he jolted at 3 a.m., breath caught like a tripwire. She never mentioned it bothering her in the mornings. Just smiled, kissed his temple, and pretended she'd slept great too.

She found him at the table, his metal arm curled around a steaming mug, a battered paperback copy of the hobbit in his other hand. His hair was still damp from his shower that morning. He barely glanced up as she entered, eyes flicking to her with a quiet acknowledgment before returning to the page.

Natalia set a small black case down on the table in front of him.

He looked at it warily, and then up at her. "What's this?"

"Headphones," she said, moving around to pour herself coffee. "Noise-cancelling."

He cracked open the case and whistled low. Sleek, matte black. High-end. Natalia never bought junk. Whether it was knives, tech, or peace of mind, she made sure it was quality. If she bought it, it meant she'd researched it, vetted it, believed in it. And she had bought these.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do I dare ask why?"

She didn't turn back to respond, just grabbed the cream and poured far too much into her cup. "For you. For tonight."

He closed the case with a snap. "I'm fine."

"Didn't say you weren't."

"I walk through live fire for a living," he said, managing a small, dry smirk. "I can handle a few bottle rockets."

She leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee. "I know you can. But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" His voice was a little sharper now. Not angry. Just... bruised.

She didn't flinch. "So you can watch and enjoy the show, instead of flinching every time someone lights a fuse."

"I'm not fragile, Nat."

"I never said you were."

He stared at the closed case. "You think I'm going to fall apart during a fireworks show?"

"I think," she said softly, "that you sometimes forget it's okay not to white-knuckle your way through everything."

He didn't answer.

She crossed the kitchen in three steps, bent, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Her lips brushed through his damp hair as she whispered, "Just... keep them. Just in case."

Afternoon

They were hosting this year at a safe house upstate. A small backyard and neighbors on both sides. The classic American home, minus the picket white fence.

Sam was the first to arrive, beer under one arm and a Bluetooth speaker blaring some remixed Motown beat under the other. He strutted up the walk like he owned the place.