A/N: Hey guys! This was requested by CalypsoStorm a little while back! I thought it would be hard to get into the Christmas-writing vibe this time of year but it was surprisingly easy while listening to Christmas jams! I would def recommend Michael Buble's holiday album while reading this. Also, it got me SO in the holiday spirit that when I was walking around my college campus this week I could've SWORN I heard sleigh bells! I got very excited and shouted "SANTA!?", embarassing my friends completely, and probably scared the poor janitor who was wandering around the breezeways at 10 o'clock at night.

ANYWAY! Thanks for reading! More requests coming soon: including Dare Me Part 2!

LOVE YOU ALL!

Winnie :)

Words: 4.7K

A crisp, cold winter breeze brings down flakes of freshly fallen snow from the Boston sky. Bustling people cram the streets that are lit up in lights of gaudy gold and garish green. In the distance a street Santa chimes a bell—the noise echoing emptily through the clashing of car horns, Christmas hymns seeping out of department store doors, and the clips of voices from conversations you catch through the fast-moving crowds. You're frozen in front of it all: more specifically, in front of a department store window. The glass shows a reflection of a woman with long hair tucked under a woolen cap and a scarf looped around her throat like a loosely knotted noose. The tips of your ears are tucked but the end of your nose is cherry bright. Chapped lips are smothered in Vaseline and hands wrapped in mittens to hide away the punching-bag bruises.

You didn't want to go into the store with the others. They'd ducked inside, saying something about picking up a few last minute things for the holiday next week, but you'd rather freeze to death outside than step into the shop where the overly cheerful music blares and children run around aisles with plastic planes and dolls without any cares.

When Steve Rogers joins you by the frosted glass window you imagine he's already finished up inside. He's holding a paper sack to his chest carefully as if afraid to break whatever is inside.

"Nat and Sam are coming. They're still in line," Steve tells you as if you asked. You only nod—still staring emptily at the display racks shown through the cracks between your cold eyelids. Steve's head turns to see the same sight. He doesn't give the display much attention. He looks back to you before very long. His eyes are the same blue as the late afternoon sky. While you watch the toy train make it's fifty-eighth lap around the artificial white-capped pine tree your heart aches deep in your hollow chest.

"Piet always wanted one of those."

Steve continues watching you carefully.

"We never had enough money for the fancy ones, though. But one year my parents saved enough to get a small battery one and my father made his very own track to run around the kitchen." You pause—lips almost turning up at the distant memory. Steve thinks he may be witnessing the first smile on your sweet face in months, but then you quickly stop. He assumes you've just remembered the fact that the very same sweet little boy you're imagining now has been dead for seven months now. Still, Steve wants to see that tiny bit of joy flood back to your eyes—even if it's just for another brief moment in the vastness of time.

"Did they like it? Wanda and Pietro, I mean," Steve tries to bring you back to that happy Christmas memory: not the one you currently live in now, with a dead baby brother and a sweet sister whom you can't stop from feeling ashamed to be around because you—even with your healing powers from the stone—could not save her twin brother from dying in the Ultron War.

"They did," you answer softly. "I was ten, they were five. Piet spent hours stacking toy blocks on the engine to see how much he could get it to carry before it refused to run. And Wanda liked to balance her little pocket dolls on the back and would cry when Piet would knock them off." A child in the store lowers to her knees to inspect the moving caboose carefully. She watches, almost as intently as you and Steve, as the train makes another clean lap around the tree.

Fingers against your coat sleeve bring your eyes to move up towards Steve. His face regards down at you closely. "I can't imagine how hard these past few months have been for you, Y/N. All I know is that ever since December rolled around you've been in worse shape than you've been all year. I want you to know that I'm here for you if you need anything."

Try as you might, you can't bring yourself to smile gratefully. "Thank you, Steve. But there's only one thing that I need, and no one can bring him back to me."

Steve's heart crumbles and shatters. The soft, unsure wavering to your usually steady voice has his knees nearly wobbling in the very same way. Ever since he met you last year in Sokovia you'd proven to be no normal foe.

The first time you met Steve Rogers had been in an impromptu fight. He'd spotted you with your hands on a knocked-down Clint's throat back in the snow outside of the Hydra base just after he'd spotted your fast-moving brother. Knowing there were enhanced, Steve made to shoot at you. Wide eyed you'd looked up at him like a deer in headlights. It was the look in your soft eyes that caused the Captain to hesitate. It wasn't innocence he saw, for you'd lost all that, but sincerity he saw there. And before he could realize his mistake in hesitating Pietro had angrily zipped by and knocked Steve off his feet. What Steve didn't realize until he came to stand was that you'd left Clint unharmed. In fact, you were doing the one thing you knew how to do: heal. There was something you saw in Clint on that field that called you to his aid when he got shot.

Who would've known that he would be the one that your brother would sacrifice himself for many moons further on?

You were the peaceful one of the Maximoff siblings. The experiments had left them strong and scary, but you were gifted in the way of life. Hydra wasn't too happy that was how it'd gone down, but your younger siblings made sure that the evil scientists kept you around. When Ultron got involved and the Avengers were called, well, you joined the team right beside the twins quite happily. Never one to run from a fight, you were right in the dirt of it that night that Pietro died. Clint Barton had rushed his bleeding body to your side. His silver-dresses were stained crimson like the red ribbons you now see swirling up light-posts towards the sky.

Your powers, strong as they were, were not enough to save him. All you could do was clutch his face and cry.

A tear threatens to come out of your eye. You quickly look towards the ground where soft snow resides and scuff the cold pavement with the bottom of your boot. Steve opens his mouth to reply, lacking in real confidence for once in his life, but is beat out before he can get a chance to try to say anything.

"You fools ready to go? I think we're late to this meeting thing," Sam Wilson shares aloud as he and Natasha come back onto the street. Both of them hold bags that are printed with the same emblem as Steve's.

"We're always late when you're with us," Nat scoffs and says. She looks over at you and suddenly becomes very somber. "Hey—you okay?"

"I'm fine." You brush her off and move farther away from Steve, as his growing concern for you is only making you feel weak. "Let's go. It's miserable out here."

You try to lead your teammates down the street. As you pass, growing smaller ahead of them, they all three share concerning glances before following you quietly down the path towards the hotel.

...

You can hear old Christmas classic tunes radiating down the dormitory halls. You've been awake all night. Restless is the best word to describe your sleep these past few weeks. Steve had been right: this month's been the hardest since you laid your sweet brother to rest in the ground. The Avengers helped you cope. What began as a distraction soon turned into a job, and now that the holidays are here there's nothing to distract you from the lack of joy. Sure, you still have your sister, but there will always be a void where your only brother once stood. The only one who could understand your pain would be Wanda herself, but you can't bring yourself to talk to her about that day. It hurts far too much to acknowledge the fact that it was you that failed to save him. What kind of big sister are you if you can't protect your little siblings?

A knock softly raps at your door.

Part of you wonders if you can pretend to still be sleeping. You glance around the dark room before softly calling out a reply. "Come in."

It creaks softly. Standing out in the hall in sleepwear is your sister and her wild, curly hair. "Good morning, sis."

You don't know how to reply. It's not a good morning. It's Christmas day and your brother is gone.

Wanda, clearly sensing your misery, lets herself into your bedroom. She shuts the door behind her carefully. Her feet are nearly silent as she comes a bit farther into the room. "I know you're sad, I am too. But Piet wouldn't want us to be locked in our rooms all day. He loved Christmas."

You look down to your hands that sit idly in your lap. "I know."

"Then why don't you come downstairs and join us? Stark tried to make Santa shaped pancakes but they look more like ugly dwarves, and Vis is playing carols on the piano..."

"I don't really feel in the Christmas mood today," you reply tiredly. You swallow stiffly. "I'm sorry."

Wanda takes a moment. She watches the side of your face and realizes just how tired and broken you look. She doesn't remember ever seeing you this way: not even after your parents died. You were always the strong one. And now... you just seem so lost. And she feels so guilty for not being able to help you find yourself.

"Okay, sis." Wanda thinks back to the advice Vision gave her before coming upstairs: that you might not be ready to come down, and if you were going to be ready, it had to be on your own time. You were still healing. So instead of forcing you to do anything more, Wanda comes over to give you a hug. She wraps her arms around your neck and squeezes lightly—trying not to feel saddened by your hesitance to embrace her back. "Joyas Noellia," she tells you Merry Christmas in your shared mother-tongue.

...

"No?"

Wanda shakes her head sadly as she comes down the stairs empty handed. The group lets out a collected sigh before turning towards their pancake plates with sadder eyes.

Vision stands and offers Wanda a reassuring hand. He squeezes her fingers. "It's going to take some time."

Wanda drops back into her seat. "She won't even look at me. I don't know why she won't talk to me."

Steve stares down at his plate—thinking of long forgotten memories of a brother falling off a plane with an outstretched hand he couldn't catch.

"She feels responsible," Steve says. Everyone looks at him now. "She feels like Pietro's death is on her hands."

Wanda, who has had her share of time in Steve's head, knows that he's been in this exact same place. "Will you talk to her for me?" She reaches out to lay her hand gently on his sleeve. "Please, Steve. It kills me to think that she's going to spend all of Christmas day up there alone. If she won't talk to me, maybe she'll listen to you."

Steve nods with pursed lips. "Of course. I'll do anything to help Y/N." He stands from the table without another thought. There's no time to waste. Helping you and making you smile again is the only thing on his mind. He goes to the kitchen counter and grabs an extra mug of cocoa, plopping in a marshmallow or two, and turns towards the other superheroes who fill the room. "Don't wait for me to start on anything. I don't want to leave her alone unless she really wants me to."

They all nod—watching as Steve leaves the room.

It's Tony's voice that comes next.

"Yep. He loves her."

Nat nods, "He's got it bad."

Sam looks to Wanda questioningly. "Do you think she loves him, too?"

Wanda smiles softly. She picks up her fork again and for the first time in a long time is filled with hope that her sister may be alright. "Why do you think I sent him up there?"

...

When your door next opens it's to let Steve Rogers into the room. He comes in at your call holding two cups of hot chocolate with steam billowing out and has thick soled slippers on his feet. He, like the other Avengers downstairs, are all still in their pjs. You wear yours, too, but only because you don't have the energy to do anything except getting up once to cross the room and turn on the light.

"Thirsty?"

God, he's so ridiculously cheesy, you think to yourself as he holds up the mugs. It's adorably endearing, and you hate to admit it but your heart skipped a beat as he appeared.

You shrug and Steve takes this as his okay to join you. He closes the door and comes farther into the room. Sitting on the end of your fluffy bed, he passes over the red ceramic mug and keeps the blue.

"Did Wanda send you up here?"

"I wanted to come up here," Steve replies.

You frown. "Thar doesn't answer my question."

Steve sighs. "She asked me to check on you. But that doesn't mean I don't want to be here."

"Wouldn't you rather be downstairs with everyone else?" you ask.

Steve blinks. "Wouldn't you?"

You look away from his face and to the dissolving cubes of sugar in your cocoa cup. "I don't know."

Steve's eyes take in your weak posture and the way you seem to crumble under his stare. He breathes deeply, wishing it didn't hurt as much as it does to see you this way, and chooses his words carefully as he begins to say, "The first Christmas after they pulled me out of the ice was one of the worst times of my life." Having caught your attention, Steve goes on. You're looking up at him now. "Everyone's surrounded by family and traditions and here I am with absolutely nothing. No family or friends left alive, not a single place to go, and I know I don't belong here. I kept thinking, I shouldn't even be alive. I should've died in that ice." His fingertip carefully traces the rim of his mug. The steam warms his cool skin. "I didn't have anything to celebrate."

He looks back up at you. "And then I found my family. Sure, it wasn't the family I had before: it wasn't even the family I wanted, but it ended up being the family I needed. This team became my family, and they gave me a reason to celebrate every year. It's not the same as it was when I was a kid and when I had my mom and Bucky, but it's sure just as special to me to have these people around me." He pauses. "Including you, Y/N."

You nearly scoff. "I don't add anything to this team." You shake your head lightly and set your mug down on the side table with finality. "I couldn't even save my own brother. I don't deserve to be here. I don't deserve to call any of you family."

"There was nothing anyone could've done to save your brother, Y/N, and that's including you. You can't fix everyone—I know you try, but you can't. Your sister knows that, and Pietro does, too." Steve takes a staggering breath as he sees the wet tears forming in your eyes. "No one blames you for what happened, honey."

When your chin lifts up towards Steve he's being met with those same fearful, deer-in-headlight eyes he saw in that snowstorm the first time. "I do—and I'm afraid that I will for the rest of my life."

As hastily as he can Steve's deposited his mug onto the floor so that he can reach out for you with both arms. He doesn't know what else to do besides embrace you. He needs to hold you. The urge fills his bones and suffocates his mind until the only thing he knows to be true is that you smell of lavender perfume and feel like a soft pillow nestled against his rigid chest. He holds you firmly: hugging you tight as if trying his hardest to piece your broken parts back together again. And it's in the safety of his embrace that you, for the first time since you pulled the lids down to hide the hazel of his Pietro's lifeless eyes, cry. You let it out at Steve's encouragement. He rocks you slowly back and forth in his lap with his lips to the top of your head and his hands running up and down your back. Your own arms have wound around his waist to meet at the small of his back. Like a belt you've secured yourself around him for fear that he'll leave you alone.

Leaving you is the one thing that will never, ever come to Steve Roger's mind.

It's a quarter past ten when Steve softly nudges you. You look up at him, eyes only slightly damp now with the passing of time, and see that he's trying to get you to look through the window that leads outside. The sun has come out for the first time in weeks and now illuminates the snowy scenery like a sparkly silver dream. The color is the same one of your late brother's hair. A few birds sing.

"It's beautiful," you softly say.

Steve nods. He takes your hand in his—secretly loving the feeling of your fingers daintily between his. "It is," he agrees before looking down at you as you still partially lay on his lap. "I don't think it's a coincidence that it's the first time we've seen sun all month." Leave it to Steve to hold hope that this is some sort of joyous message from Pietro in the afterlife. Even after all he's seen, including Norse gods and all the other alien species, Steve's still a Christian-God devotee.

You can't deny that you appreciate the concept.

"You hungry?" Steve pivots subjects in a careful voice. Your heart throbs sweetly at his genuine, gentle tone. He really sounds like he cares about you. "There's food downstairs."

"I, I don't know if I want to go down there yet."

Yet—you said yet. That's a good sign to Steve.

He nods. "How about I get you something? You really should eat." Steve slips out from beneath you and delicately releases your hand to sit atop the sheets. "Stark made pancakes, but they're not too great. Want me to make you something?"

"You don't have to, Steve."

Steve steps closer to the side of the bed. He can see it in your eyes that you're confused by what he's trying to do. He feels like it's not the right time to explain: how, while you only want your brother for Christmas, all Steve wants is to see you smile again. He can hardly explain the desire to himself, let alone begin to relate it to you.

"Please. I want to." Steve brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. "You like oatmeal, don't you?"

You nod softly. "I do." With his thumb still resting on your chin you can't help but feel a smile begin to tug at your lips. He looks so soft and sweet standing there in the snowy sunlight—his eyes a pale blue and his skin soft and smooth.

"Fruit? Sugar? Cream?" Steve quickly asks before shaking his head rapidly. "Don't tell me—I remember. I'll make it like you got it when you brought up breakfast to the hotel room in Boston last week. Sound good?"

You nod lightly. "Thanks, Steve."

When the Captain leaves it's with a promise to be back very soon. He even leaves the door cracked behind him as proof.

You can feel the tired smile on your face growing. Shaking your head lightly, almost in disbelief, you rise up from the bed to make the short walk to the window. You look down at the sunshine and snow outside. It doesn't take much creativity to imagine how much your two younger siblings would've loved to play around in the cold white stuff when they were young. But now one is older and the other is gone. And as much as you hate it, those facts are true.

You turn away from the window with a sigh. The sun warms your back through the glass. Like a hand against your shoulder the rays seep through your thin cotton clothes and bring you comfort.

"Friday?" you speak into the empty room for the AI woman.

"Yes?" she beckons back in that unidentifiable accent.

You pick up your tablet from where it sits on your bookshelf near the foggy window glass. "Can you show me downstairs?"

"Of course." The tablet, after accepting your retina scan, opens up to reveal live footage from downstairs. Stark has all the open living quarters recorded for security sake (and also for his own amusement when he wants to be a sneak). There's no audio, only visuals, that show you the scene from downstairs. Your little sister is on the couch next to Vision. You can't tell, but you think they might be holding hands. Tony Stark is standing at the back of Nat's and Sam's shared sofa and there's a good bit of space between them where a few empty gift wrappings are crumbled and stacked. The few team members who have family aren't here, but most of the team is around. Pepper Potts comes into the frame just as Steve's reflection can be seen in the mirror above the fireplace. He's in the kitchen cooking for you. You can't hear it, but it looks like they're all pretty happy as they laugh at something dumb Sam Wilson says.

"Show me the kitchen, please."

The video changes and Steve's at the stove. A pot is on with hot water for oats and he's digging through the cupboards to find what it is that he's looking for. You're not surprised when Wanda comes into the room, seemingly asking what it is that he's doing. He replies, she nods with a small smile, and seems to thank him in some way. He dismisses the compliment kindly, almost as if it's some sort of duty of his to bring you food and comfort, and laughs lightly when Wanda points him in the right direction of the maple syrup. It's been left on the counter.

You can't hear them, but this is what they say:

"You're making her breakfast?"

"She needs to eat something," Steve sighs. He pulls the oats off of the stove and moves them into a porcelain bowl. He glances back at Wanda over his shoulder. "Maple syrup and berries, right? I was being kinda cocky and thought I remembered right..."

Wanda nods with a smile. "That's right."

Steve, looking proud, turns back to the bowl. He tosses in a few strawberries and then drizzles over the maple syrup.

Out of nowhere Wanda speaks. "She trusts you, Steve." Unaware that her sister is watching Wanda leans against the counter closest to her and watches Steve finish cooking. "I think you're the only one she does anymore."

"I don't understand why," Steve replies. He grabs a spoon and a few napkins for his next upstairs retreat. "I just know that I want to help."

You quickly put away the tablet as you see Steve leaving the kitchen on your screen. Then you hurry back to bed, looking as if you never left, with your body perched against the headboard and your knees pulled up to your chest. When Steve walks through the door he smiles at you sweetly. A smile of your own sprouts on your face in reply—causing his heart to swell up a size.

Steve's proud to say that you eat for the first time in a few days under his watch eye and that you let him stay with you for a long time. It's early afternoon by the time he convinces you to leave your room. You do so with him right beside you and a bit of anxiety in your chest. Steve is acutely aware of your anxiety. He responds to this in the only way he knows how: he reaches down to hold your hand. You glance up at him at an angle as you walk down the stairs and when his eye meets yours he smiles softly and says, "Come on, the family's waiting for you."

Sure enough he's right. The gang is still all gathered downstairs, many of the presents untouched because of how ungodly slow they're all moving, and there's plenty of cookies and cocoa still being passed around. Wanda flies up from her couch and comes to give you a hug. You reciprocate it gently, still not all the way in the holiday spirit, but it's a good start.

You take a seat next to Vision and Wanda and Steve, not wanting to leave you, settles onto the floor next to your feet.

"You have some presents," Wanda says excitedly. "Do you want to open them?"

You're about to say no before seeing the happiness on her youthful face. How daft would you be to deny your surviving baby sibling the Christmas she deserves? Maybe Steve was right in bringing you down here.

"Sure," you say and smile. When she disappears and comes back with a small box from under the tree you laugh lightly. There are still a good number of gifts remaining. Nat and Sam are unwrapping, too.

"Oh, uh, that one's from me."

You look down at Steve. "It is?" You smile at him kindly.

Steve, who is blushing, scratches the back of his neck as you delicately pull at the ribbons that keep the pretty blue paper closed.

The room goes quiet when you open up the package and see what's inside. Your words seem to get caught in your throat when you look down at the little toy train car. It's baby blue, hand-made too, and has little gold etched print delicately crafted on the side: The Pietro Express.

"It's..." you can't even think of words proper enough to finish. Wanda, who is curious as to what's got her sister so shocked into silence, looks over your shoulder and stifles a happy little sigh.

Steve begins to panic slightly. "Is it okay? I just thought with the story you were telling me the other day that it would... I don't know. If you don't like it then I can..."

You lean forward in your seat. With the little train still clutched to your chest you bend down just enough to bring your lips against Steve's. It's a soft kiss, hardly even there, but it's a kiss nonetheless. Steve feels it in his bones and burning in his chest the moment your bottom lip brushes his. Before you can pull away from the gentle gesture, Steve's reached up with his left hand to grab your neck and push your mouth closer. Anxious yet patient he kisses you hard enough to have you seeing stars. Thank god one of you has enough sense to pull away before the gesture is taken too far.

The room is silent—shockingly so—until Tony Stark announces aloud, "Merry Christmas, you filthy animals," and the whole room goes wild. Steve's smile is parallel to yours as you look into his eyes and know for the first time in a very long time that everything is going to be alright.

Outside, the silver snow begins to melt in the heavenly-downward cast sunshine.