Christmas is... complicated for many people. Trauma, grief, loss, etc. etc. Natasha didn't do Christmas for all of the above. She didn't celebrate it as a kid for obvious reasons. The only time she felt any of the festivities was in her classroom in Ohio, on her sleeper agent mission as a kid. They didn't celebrate it in the house, only taking fake pictures for photo albums in case of any inquiries. But she baked cookies at school, decorated cards. Before Russia again.

With the team, she told them she didn't do it. She only got Clint something. That was it. Nat didn't even want to partake in activities at his house, even after years. Too painful. Too much.

It wasn't that she hated the holidays or anything. Just, she wished she could drop off of the face of the Earth for the entire month of December... until you popped into her life. Literally. A hopeless night of drinking and ending up at a bar, losing her inhibitions for just one night - not like her usual self at all. Drowning her sorrows completely. And well, she had surgeries, was told kids were never an option, so of course, she thought she didn't have to be careful.

Incorrect.

At the beginning of December, she stared at those two pink lines for approximately three hours straight. Wasn't possible. She didn't even have monthlies, so how on earth- she stilled herself as she nearly snapped the stick in half by gripping it too tightly during her existential questioning.

But no, early tests from doctors showed the results were real. So, you became the first person she sent a Christmas card to. A small, tiny card with an owl wearing a santa hat. "To Bump". She couldn't bring herself to write "Love, Mom". Not yet.

Even your first couple of Christmases were rocky for her. Your first, she showed up to the compound, chubby baby clutched in her arms, trying to show you all the lights and decorations, throat tight as your eyes took everything in. Natasha was in awe herself that she got to give you all of your firsts. Show you everything she never got when she was a kid. Christmas day itself was the only thing she did. For you. The apartment wasn't decorated, she didn't go and get wrapping paper or anything. Just awkwardly putting some new babygrows in your lap on the morning before taking you to the compound. She didn't know what she was doing.

"You are staring.. far too hard", Steve murmured, sat criss-cross beside her in the circle near the tree where all of the other team members kids were opening their gifts from santa. To be fair to him, her eyes were dead-set on you gripping at stray pieces of wrapping paper and giggling when accidentally tearing parts.

"She's never seen wrapping paper before", was her murmured response, focused, one thing on her mind. You.

The following couple of Christmases were similar. December being normal until Christmas Day at the compound. She settled into motherhood well, you were her entire world. She went full out on your birthday, did monthly trips to places like the aquarium, or a hike up a mountain with you in a carrier on random weekends. Letting you experience more life in your three short years than she'd basically had in her thirty. Christmas was still a sore point, though. Still too much.

But on your fourth Christmas you were too much of a conscious being for her to half-ass her way through December anymore. You wanted decorations like the compound had. So, she went out and made her apartment look like lapland for when you woke up on the 1st. You wanted to make Christmas cookies. So, she watched tutorials on youtube all night one night to do just that. And finally, you wanted to see santa at the mall.

Waiting in that line overwhelmed her. The people, the noises, the incessant songs playing on repeat. But that all went away when it was finally your turn up there, your little eyes filled with pure magic, body buzzing with excitement as you dragged her towards the big man himself. "Okay, up you get", she hummed and carefully plopped you onto this old man's lap.