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The small apartment smells like something is burning.
Natasha leans against the doorframe of the tiny kitchen, arms crossed, one brow steadily raised. She watches as Kate Bishop, apron askew, hair frizzing from heat and stress, desperately tries to salvage whatever is happening in the oven.
Something involving cranberry sauce and “Laura’s secret marinade”… which Natasha strongly suspects is just soy sauce and panic.
Across the small room, Yelena lounges on the couch, untangling and stringing tiny fairy lights for the world’s smallest Christmas tree. Natasha’s choice, Yelena’s purchase, Kate’s upturned lip as she saw the sad looking thing.
Yelena hums along to a Soviet-era carol on vinyl like this is the most normal evening in the world.
It is not.
“Kate,” Yelena calls out, deftly threading the lights through themselves despite their reluctance, “are you supposed to be smoking the turkey? Because it smell like you are smoking the turkey. With fire.”
Kate lets out a laugh that is only marginally deranged. “It’s not smoke. It’s…festive steam. Very traditional. Everyone does it.”
Natasha smirks. She’s seen agents crack under less pressure than cooking for Yelena Belova. Kate isn’t technically an agent, but she is apparently ‘in love’ with Yelena, which makes her doubly doomed.
Yelena, bless her tactical idiot heart, remains completely unaware. Kate could be holding a sign up that declares her attraction and Yelena would fold it into an aeroplane and toss it.
“You need help?” Yelena offers, getting up from the couch and wandering barefoot into the kitchen. She peers into the oven and frowns. “Oh. It’s black. That’s a choice.”
Kate slams the oven shut like it has insulted her with its hot, black, turkey breath. “It’s rustic!”
“Is it supposed to be crunchy on the outside and frozen in the middle?” Yelena asks, her eyes on Kate like she’s trying to hide her judgement.
She fails, pathetically.
“It’s a fusion dish,” Kate says through clenched teeth. “East meets…health code violation?”
Natasha coughs into her hand. It may have been a laugh. “Bold move, Bishop. I like it.”
Kate gives her a desperate look, the kind that says ‘please don’t let me fail in front of my crush’. Natasha just shrugs. She isn’t the one who decided to woo an oblivious assassin with burnt poultry.
Yelena, meanwhile, grabs a candy cane from the counter and starts using it as a pretend microphone. “This is Kate Bishop, live from New York City, about to poison two highly trained individuals in one night…stay tuned for the shock finale.”
If Yelena wasn’t always like this, Natasha may have thought she was trying to flirt back with Kate.
“Okay,” Kate groans, face in her hands. “I’m just going to throw it out and make Mac and Cheese.”
“You’re doing great,” Natasha says, deadpan. “I always hoped my last meal would be cooked by someone in love, makes the dish better.”
Yelena blinks. “Wait, who’s in love?”
Kate goes very still. Natasha raises her glass of lukewarm eggnog and takes a sip, fighting a smile.
“No one,” Kate says quickly. “It’s just- it’s a figure of speech. You’ve heard it! Like…like, love for the culinary arts…”
Yelena turns to Natasha, candy cane pointed at Kate. “Is she having a stroke?”
“No,” Natasha says, letting the silence stretch as she watches Kate quietly combust. “Just trying to get your attention.”
Kate drops the turkey baster.
Yelena laughs like it is a punchline. “Well she could just throw something at me, that usually works.”
“Oh my god,” Kate mutters.
“Anyway,” Yelena says, turning back to the couch. “Wake me up when the food is safe to eat or the kitchen catches fire. Whichever comes first.”
She flops down, grabs a blanket that’s Natasha’s, and sticks the candy cane in her mouth like a cigar.
Kate looks like she might cry.
Natasha clasps her on the shoulder. “You tried, Bishop. That’s what counts.”
“Does she really not know? I cooked for her and all.”
Natasha smiles faintly, eyes on her sister. “She knows how to kill a man with her eyes closed, with one hand tied behind her back. Emotional nuance? Not her strong suit.”
Kate groans again, louder this time like the turkey probably would if it could see itself all charred and burnt.
“Merry Christmas to me.”
“Don’t worry.” Natasha picks up the fire extinguisher from under the sink and tosses it Kate’s way. “It’s not Christmas unless something explodes.”
The fire alarm has stopped screaming. The turkey has been quietly declared deceased. And somehow, despite Kate’s culinary war crimes, everyone is still alive and vaguely festive.
Natasha sits on the worn couch now, nursing a mug of something that may be hot cocoa or just cleverly disguised vodka. Yelena had handed it to her earlier with the instructions to ‘drink and be merry’. Natasha isn’t asking questions.
Yelena reenters the room like a kid trying to do a cool jump trick but only really lifting one leg. Her arms are full of something hideous and woolly.
“Ta-da!” She declares, tossing garish lumps of fabric at both of them.
Kate catches hers mid-air, too eager. Natasha lets hers land on her lap with a slow, unamused blink. It is red. With a stuffed Santa head sewn into the chest. Santa’s mouth opens when Natasha pulls a string attached, like some gaping mouthed demon trying to suck Natasha’s soul.
“Tell me that is not sentient.” Natasha says.
“Stop being dramatic,” Yelena grins, already shimmying into her own. Her sweater is lime green with a 3D snowman that looks vaguely haunted, and very much high.
Natasha stares at her sister, mouth twitching. “Is it too late to defect to another family?”
Kate, still holding hers, looks like someone has handed her a signed love letter. “Yelena, this is…amazing.”
Suck up, Natasha thinks.
“Right?” Yelena beams, oblivious. “Only the best ugly sweaters for my chosen people.”
Natasha tugs her sweater over her head despite herself, a sigh heavy on her lips, but a smile also. The wool smells faintly like dust and Yelena’s stuff, probably stored away half the year.
Santa’s googly eyes wobble as she sits back.
Kate is still not wearing hers. She is staring at Yelena.
“I mean, you look amazing,” Kate says, voice a little breathy. “Like, that colour? Sexy! You’re pulling it off.”
Natasha rolls her eyes.
“Pulling what off?” Yelena frowns, looking down at herself. “It looks like Christmas threw up on me.”
Natasha makes a noise into her drink, a laugh muted by vodka cocoa.
“I just mean,” Kate tries again, “not everyone can wear radioactive green and still be…you know…cute and amazing.”
Yelena squints at her. “Are you okay, Kate? You’re sweating.”
“No, I’m fine.” Kate says way too fast, dragging the sweater over her head to hide her expression. The navy blue wool thick.
It has a dancing reindeer and LED lights that blink in what looks like Morse code for ‘kill me’.
Yelena collapses next to Natasha, flipping the earlier fairy lights over her legs to continue untangling. “She’s so weird,” she mutters fondly.
Natasha gives her a flat look. “You think that was a normal conversation?”
“She said I looked cute and amazing,” Yelena shrugs. “Which is a lie. I look like the inside of a Christmas dumpster. That’s the whole point of ugly sweaters, it’s traditional.”
“She said it three times.”
Yelena blinks. “Okay?”
“Yelena,” Natasha says, her voice dry as kindling, dropped low. “She’s flirting with you.”
The kindling bashed against Yelena’s skull.
There is a beat of silence.
Yelena turns her head, very slowly. “What?”
Natasha gestures towards Kate, who is now fiddling with the light-up reindeer on her sweater in a corner and absolutely not eavesdropping with every fiber of her being.
“She’s been flirting with you all night.”
“No she hasn’t.”
“She called your sweater sexy, Yelena.”
Yelena laughs. Abrupt. “No one calls sweaters sexy. That’s not a thing.”
“You’re not a thing,” Natasha mutters. “How are you like this.”
Yelena just looks baffled. Staring at Natasha with unheeding eyes. “Why would Kate flirt with me?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Natasha says, tilting her head dramatically. “Maybe because she likes you, you emotionally constipated idiot.”
Yelena ignores the correct insult and instead leans closer to Natasha. “She likes me?”
“Yelena,” Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If she compliments your eyes next, I’m leaving.”
As if summoned by fate and poor time, Kate wanders over with a plate of slightly less-burnt cookies. Her ugly sweater rolled at the sleeves.
“I brought peace offerings, an apology for sending the turkey to hell.” She says, then turning to Yelena fully, “wow, your eyes really are insane in this lighting. Like forest green with—“
“Goodnight!” Natasha barks, standing up so fast the couch creaks and Yelena slumps sideways. She storms off toward the guest room with her Santas mouth hanging open, like he’s screaming for her.
“Wait, what did I say?” Kate blinks, confused.
“Nothing,” Yelena calls after Natasha, “she’s just being dramatic!”
Natasha slams the door, but not before muttering: “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
The night has lulled to a quiet energy. The kitchen looks like a war zone. And the world’s ugliest Christmas sweaters are still in play.
Natasha has returned and sits curled up on the far end of the couch, sipping from a glass of pure vodka now.
Yelena is perched in the middle like a very smug, lime green goblin. And Kate has taken the armchair, hugging a pillow with far too much nervous energy for someone who’s survived burnt turkey and a sweater ambush.
“Okay,” Kate says bright a moment later, with the confidence of someone about to do something deeply unwise. “So. I brought one last thing over tonight.”
“Oh no.” Natasha mutters.
Kate reaches into her bag nearby and pulls out…mistletoe. Attached to a string. Which she then very casually stands and dangles over Yelena’s head.
Natasha stares. Kate is dangling it, like a cartoon carrot. Yelena blinks up at it.
“Is this…a plant?” She asks.
“It’s tradition,” Kate says, trying to sound breezy and failing miserably. “You stand under it, someone kisses you. Y’know! Merry Christmas and all that.”
Yelena squints at it. “Why would I want someone to kiss me just because a plant told them to?”
Kate almost drops the god forsaken mistletoe.
Natasha sits forward, slowly, setting her vodka down. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“What?” Yelena asks, totally serious.
“She’s been trying to kiss you all night!” Natasha says, gesturing wildly to the mistletoe like it was exhibit A in a murder trial. “The compliments. The wearing your stupid sweater. The cookies. The actual mistletoe trap.”
Yelena tilts her head. “You are wearing the sweater also, Natasha. You don’t want to kiss me because of a plant.”
Natasha groans. “No. But Kate does.”
Kate freezes like a deer in headlights. “I mean…only if she wants to…” she says to Natasha with a shrug that’s far too clipped to be casual.
“You won’t want that,” Yelena says quickly, “not really.”
“Oh for the love of—“
Natasha stands ups and stops right in from of Kate. “Fine. If you won’t kiss her, I will.”
Kate blinks quick. “Wait, what?”
Yelena jolts upright. “What?! No! You’re not allowed to do that. That’s not fair.”
“You’re sitting under the mistletoe,” Natasha says, voice dry as sandpaper and just as rough. “And you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
“I’m not wasting—!” Yelena’s voice breaks off as Natasha leans in slightly to Kate, bluffing a kiss.
Kate goes very, very still.
And that’s when Yelena moves.
Like a switch flipping, she is suddenly on her feet and between them, one hand on Natasha’s shoulder, the other grabbing Kate’s face. No hesitation, no ceremony.
She kisses her.
It is clumsy, a little too fast, and definitely way overdue.
Kate makes a muffled sound of shock, and then kisses back, melting into it like a candle burned hot. Her hands coming to rest on Yelena’s sides, respectfully but needy.
Natasha takes a step back and raises her eyebrows and hands. “Well, finally. Jeez.” Voice harsh, she’s smiling however.
They pull apart slowly, faces flushed. Yelena blinks, lips still parted like even she’s shocked at the moment. “Oh.”
Kate is smiling like she’s won the lottery.
Yelena glances sideways at Natasha. “You did that on purpose.”
Natasha shrugs. “Yeah. Well, you weren’t going to move otherwise.”
Kate lets out a dazed, breathy laugh. Her reindeer blinking its lights against Yelena’s lime sweater. “Merry Christmas to me.”
Natasha grabs for her vodka and raises it in a salute. “Merry Christmas to the turkey you sacrificed.”
Yelena grins, and then, sheepish she leans her head against Kate’s shoulder like it is the most natural thing in the world.
Their ugly Christmas sweaters too bright, the mistletoe forgotten, and the apartment smelling like something is burning.
Sounds like a normal Christmas to Natasha.