A/N: Happy holidays everyone! I love and appreciate you all :)

Words: 3K

Skipping down the hall, your bell earrings chime. Atop your head you've wrapped a cherry red snowman decorated bandana to hold back your hair to showcase your festive red lipstick. At the end of the hall you throw yourself into the scene of a lazy living room of people. Arms open wide, you shout excitedly for all to hear, "Ho, ho, ho!"

"No, no, no."

Your arms immediately drop to your sides. Wanda's softly giggling at you in the cheesy Christmas sweater and dorky jewelry while the rest of the boys keep on with their afternoon activities.

"No?!" you repeat in shock.

Bucky Barnes nods. He's not taking it back.

"Wha—what?! I've waited weeks to start being festive because I knew none of you Scrooges would be as excited as me. But it's only a WEEK until Christmas now! It's time to celebrate!" Again you throw open your arms.

Steve, who sits on the opposite side of the couch as Bucky as they watch TV, catches your eyes with his sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Y/N. I guess we're just not really in the Christmas spirit this year."

"Tell me about it," you huff. "No one's even mentioned it." You look over to T'Challa who sits doing paperwork at the kitchen counter. "Cha-cha? What are your thoughts?" You walk towards the Black Panther prince who you've come to love and adore over the past twelve months.

"On what, friend?" T'Challa has yet to even glance up at you in your ridiculous Christmas garb.

"Christmas, Cha-cha. Do you even celebrate it here in Wakanda?"

T'Challa looks up at you regretfully. "I am sorry, Y/N. I do not celebrate it, nor does anyone else here at the base."

"That's fine," you reply. "Steve, Buck, and Wanda will celebrate with me."

"I'm Jewish," Wanda replies sadly. "Sorry, Y/N."

You walk over towards the couch. "Bucky?" you try for the metal armed super soldier. He won't look at you from the TV screen until you block his view. "Wanna set up a tree with me? Maybe we can chop down something tropical because there's probably nothing very festive out here in the jungle..."

"No thanks." Bucky moves around until he can see the TV again.

You frown. "Rude." Turning to Steve, you put all of your remaining hope into him. "Steve...?"

The blond super soldier sighs. "Y/N, listen..." he scratches the back of his neck as you continue to stare at him sweetly. He breathes deeply. "It's just... after everything that happened this year with the Accords and Tony and the rest of the team—"

Bucky interjects, "There's nothing to celebrate."

"What? Of course there is. There's always something to celebrate."

Bucky, clearly not a fan of your eternal optimism, rolls his eyes. He's been very grouchy since they unfroze him last.

You plop down between Bucky and Steve on the couch but only focus on the handsome Captain. "Steve, please. Don't you remember how much fun we used to have back in New York? When it was snowing and Tony would throw those festive Christmas parties? And we'd do Secret Santa and White Elephant games and Clint would use an arrow to get the star to the top of the tree?"

Steve's chest is muddled with sadness. Your eyes, so wide and hopeful, look to him expectantly. "Y/N, I'm sorry. All of that's over now. It's not happening again."

"It doesn't have to be the same! We could make our own Christmas here! We could bake gingerbread and get presents and watch Christmas movies! We could get twinkle lights and we could—"

"That's enough, Y/N!"

Steve's sudden angry outburst has you immediately shutting up. Your shoulders stiffen from shock before slumping forward with regret. On your face at first is the expression of just having been slapped. Then it's replaced by disappointment—both expressions draining the life from Steve's suddenly regretful heart.

"O-okay. Sorry I b-brought it up." You stand from the couch slowly. Then, quickly as you can, you scurry out of the room before you can properly start to cry.

Wanda jumps up from her seat right after you've gone. The young girl with the long chestnut hair snaps out an arm that immediately shatters the screen of the big TV. T'Challa jumps in his seat from the other room—gawking over at the scene.

"You two should be ashamed of yourselves," Wanda scolds Steve and Bucky. "Especially you, Steve!" She points a finger at him—angry red powers swirling around her wrist. "After all that she's sacrificed for you? Fighting her own brother for you? I had a brother too, you know. There's not a lot in this world that would've convinced me to turn against him, so I know how hard that choice was for her to make. I know you're missing the way things were, but don't you think she does too? She's homesick, Steve. And what do you do? Yell at her!" Wanda crosses her arms.

"I—"

"I don't want to hear it, Steve." Wanda shuts him up with a raised tone. "And you, Bucky? I shouldn't be surprised. You're just a grumpy old man." She ignores both of their saddened, remorseful eyes as she stalks out of the room. "Unbelievable," she grunts. Before she leaves, she turns to say, "I'm going to go find her and try to fix what you've just so stupidly broken because you're both a couple of nasty, bitter men." Her eyes meet T'Challa who gives her an agreeing little nod. The prince and the witch both care for you endlessly: something they've both learned since hiding out in Wakanda away from the government, Team Tony, and everyone else who hates them.

Up in your room you throw your stupid Christmas clothes into the corner—feeling like a fool. How stupid you'd been to think that suddenly this ragtag team would want to bond over roasting chestnuts and caroling. It shouldn't be so heartbreaking to think that you won't have a Christmas this year: you're nearly twenty four. But it's a sad day. Not only will this be the first big holiday without your brother Tony, but you won't get any of that familiar holiday feeling from your home of NYC. No snow, no jingle bell sounds, no Santas on the street corners with their buckets and cheesy suits with black leather belts.

Onto your bed you settle cross-legged and dewy eyed. You wipe the sticky tears from your cheeks and grumble quietly about how naïve you'd been. You should have known after all the suffering the past year that no one would be willing to try and find joy within it all. No one but you, that is.

You had hoped that at least Steve would see; see that there was a point in all the Christmassy things. But he hadn't. He doesn't understand. He'd been so mad at you for even bringing it up...

Retiring your Christmas sweater to the closet, you sit topless on your bed and scroll through old pictures from the good ole days on your phone. Your Instagram, that you can no longer use, is filled with snapshots of you and your Avengers family on holidays. Your favorite one is of Steve and Tony both in stupid Santa hats last year in front of the tree. You stand between them, standing on a present to appear taller, and they each kiss one of your cheeks. You'd thought back then that maybe Steve would become something more than a friend and Tony would be so happy for you finding love in the man your father adored. But a Civil War changed everything. It turned the world on its head. None of those good times will ever come back. And any hope of having both Steve and Tony's love is out the window completely. You've already ruined your relationship with your brother choosing Steve's side. But you couldn't deny that Steve had been right, and beyond that... you just might love him. These days the emotion is harder to name, but you think that it's love you feel when you look into those pretty blue eyes.

Today all you felt was disappointment.

Wanda knocks on your door. You open it only to lie and tell her you're fine and simply tired—wanting to go to bed early. She nods, knowing there's not much else to say, and leaves you alone once more.

Later in the night you're hungry enough to leave your warm, cozy room and venture back downstairs. T'Challa's no longer there and neither are Bucky or Steve. The living space is open, as is the kitchen.

You pull out enough food to make a midnight sandwich by the light of the fridge. Just as you're laying down the cheese you hear someone enter the kitchen behind you.

"Y/N, I—I need to talk to you."

You swallow a lump in your throat. You don't want to look back at Steve. You don't want him to see you hurting over something so stupid. "No, it's fine. There's nothing to talk about it."

"Yeah there is..."

Slowly you turn around to face Steve. He's standing opposite of you leaning against the dishwasher. He's wearing sweats and a white t-shirt. You're in the exact same outfit, only the shirt is blue and it once belonged to Tony—so it's smaller and fits you decently well.

"No, there's not. I was being naïve when I thought anything could be the same. It's not the same: I know that. Nothing's ever going to be the same. I'm going to have to get over it and understand that it's just the way things are now."

Steve takes a step closer to you. "I know you miss it."

"Of course I do. I miss everything," you admit. "I miss my brother, my home, New York, the crappy weather, and having all my friends getting along and not trying to track and kill each other." A single tear manages to escape your eye. Steve's heart shatters as he watches you silently fight the urge to cry. "But I made my choice. I chose to follow you, and I—I'm going to have to live with the consequences of that choice." Hurriedly you turn so you don't have to look into his sad face any longer. You toss your sandwich on a plate, not minding as the mayo smears along your fingers, and grab a bottle of water. "I'll see you around, Steve." You maneuver past his large body down the hall.

Steve watches you leave with a heavy feeling tugging on his heartstrings. His own eyes are peppered with tears after having witnessed you looking so brokenhearted. The crackle in your voice was enough to make him choke on a whimper. You'd looked up at him like a lost, abandoned orphan puppy with those sweet eyes and he'd been the cruel man to step on your tail and watch you fearfully scurry away.

He's made a mistake. Hell, Steve Rogers has made a lot of mistakes in his life. But anything he's done that's caused you pain in any way has to be the most awful of them all.

He has to fix this.

That night you hardly sleep. Maybe it's the ham sandwich that keeps you tossing and turning, but most likely it's the hours you spent looking over old photographs from Christmases past that caused sleep to evade you. By late morning you give up on slumber and drag yourself to your treadmill for a run. Then, after an hour of hardcore running to distract yourself, you submerge your tired body into a bubble bath. For two more hours you hide away in your apartment tub until your fingers resemble prunes and your skin smells only of lavender soap.

For the warm jungle day you dress in athletic shorts and one of your favorite movie t-shirts. You think you'll be able to evade all thoughts about the upcoming holiday until you step out of your room and remember that Pepper had gifted you with the Nike's you wear on your feet just last year. They're blue and purple and remind you of grapes.

Sighing, you keep walking down the hall. It doesn't take long until you're in the elevator and braiding your damp hair with the tie you keep around your wrist. The glass panels of the lift are clear so you can see through to the floors as you pass. And turning around, you get a glimpse of the main floor below.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

It's a Christmas wonderland.

There's a tree—a beautiful jade green pine tree—strung up with lights. Garland is wrapped around every visible mantle, ceiling corner, and piece of furniture. Stockings are hung up on the fireplace that flickers with life despite the warm weather outside.

You step outside of the elevator absolutely stunned. You shiver—the air conditioning has been cranked up way too high. It feels like a frosty December night in New York City. You're suddenly desperate to go rushing towards that delicious looking fireplace to find warmth. But first, you have to find who did all of this. Who put cheesy Christmas candles everywhere between glass decorations of angels and wise men? Who the hell thought to stick bright red bows on every window and door in sight? And where the hell is that Michael Bublé Christmas music coming from?

The smell of warm bread draws you nearer to the kitchen. There, in the middle of the white tiled room, are your friends: Sam, Bucky, T'Challa, and Wanda. They laugh and chatter while Sam, the skilled baker, pulls a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. He's the first to spot you. "Hey, Y/N! It's about time you woke up."

"I—I, uh..."

Bucky spins around on his barstool to grin at you crookedly. He tosses something at you. You don't recognize it as a Santa hat until you're holding it in your hand. He's wearing one, too.

"Merry Christmas, friend," T'Challa greets.

"You don't even celebrate Christmas, Cha-Cha," you laugh lightly—still very confused. "And Sam—I thought you were out of town until New Years?"

"I got a pretty convincing call to come back home for the holidays. So here I am," Sam notes with a wink.

T'Challa says, "I'm not Christian, but I can still celebrate a friendship holiday with you all. And I am never one to turn down presents."

You laugh lightly—looking down at the Santa cap you hold. Looking back up, you see Wanda smiling at you knowingly. "Wanda...?"

She shakes her head. "Don't look at me. I put up the menorah on the mantle—that's it." She grins and takes a sip of something yellowish in a tall glass cup. "This eggnog stuff isn't too bad, actually."

"I think it's gross," Bucky comments with a laugh. "I prefer coffee."

"Then drink your dumb coffee and leave the nog to us," Sam retorts but you're hardly paying attention to any of their banter now.

T'Challa, who notices your distant and wonderful gawking of the room, clears his throat and comes closer towards you. "I think the man you're looking for is over there," he says with a soft tilt of his head towards the long living room. "Check under the tree."

"Under the tree? Seriously?" you chuckle. But still you follow T'Challa's direction. You half expect to find Steve wrapped up in a bow, but he's lying on his belly with his top half hidden under the foliage as he fills the tree's base with fresh water for it to drink. There are no ornaments on the tall thing, but instead boxes of new decorations unwrapped and waiting to be delved into sitting all around the floor.

You clear your throat. Steve startles—hitting his head on a branch—and then rolls out from under the pine. He blinks up at you a few times before nervously rising.

"Good morning," he greets softly.

"Good morning?" you repeat. "That's all you have to say?"

Steve shamefully looks at his feet. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I should've realized that you've been just as homesick as I've been. You've sacrificed so much for me, and I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Steve I wasn't looking for an apology," you laugh lightly. "I just—I'm shocked. I don't understand why..."

"Because Christmas means a lot to you," Steve interrupts gently. "And you mean a lot to me. I wanted to give you a Christmas that you deserve."

You swallow the lump in your throat. Looking up into Steve's beautiful blue eyes you're overwhelmed with the urge to happy cry. "That's... that's so sweet, Steve." You make a show of looking around at the decorations once more. "How long did this take you? And where did you get all this stuff?"

"That's a long story you don't really need to know," Steve chuckles. He notices now that you're shivering—tugging off his sweater immediately. He's wearing a long sleeved white shirt underneath. "Come on now. We don't want you catching a cold in the next six days and messing up our perfect Christmas," he teases. "We still have presents to buy and wrap."

You take the warm sweater from his grasp. "Thank you Steve." You stare up at him—still doubting this is all real. "I—I can't thank you enough."

"You don't need to thank me. This is my thank you to you—for being you. For being here for me after all this time, even when I don't always deserve it. I don't need a thank you. I just don't want you to regret.... I don't want you to be upset. That's all I need."

Now wrapped up in his blue sweater you lace your arms around his neck in a hug. After a brief pause his go to cozy the span of your slender waist. Into his shoulder you whisper, "I'll always be right here, Steve. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"AHEM."

The painfully obvious sound of Bucky clearing his throat beckons your attention. Looking over, Bucky smirks. He's at the counter with the others—pointing playfully at the doorway where you and Steve both stand. Lingering above you in the air is a ball of plastic mistletoe. One of those dweebs over there must've set it up when you weren't looking.

Nervously, your heart flutters up your throat. Steve's smile wipes away all your fears though. "May I?"

"It is a Christmas tradition," you pose the point playfully, "And you know how much I love those."

Steve chuckles—hands moving to hold your face sweetly. "Almost as much as I love you." It's the last thing to leave his mouth before his lips are to yours—shocking you enough with the beauty of his kiss to almost forget what he's just said aloud. Whoops and hollers can be heard from the room next door. And to the sound of a Christmas carol and the flickering of a fire, lovely, sentimental, adorable Steve moves to hold your hand and kiss you harder: making Steve Rogers the best Christmas gift you've ever received.