The Twelve Screams of Christmas
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
A/n: So I just felt like writing a Christmas thing, don’t ask why. This is the first one shot that I’ve made and decided to post. Just to preface this, Y/n Chekhova is a former Russian Hydra agent. (I swear the Russian part is relevant). Also I want to add that I interpreted Peter Parker as an adult in this.
9:10 AM — Avengers Compound, Common Room
Tony Stark was humming Let It Snow under his breath as he stirred his overpriced eggnog latte with a candy cane. He was, by all accounts, in an excellent mood. Christmas was in full swing, the tree was lit, the food was hot, and nobody had tried to blow up the compound yet. That was a win in his book.
Most of the team was already in the kitchen, crowding around the massive buffet Tony had forced the catering staff to prepare. Steve was trying (and failing) to slice a honey-glazed ham with a knife that definitely wasn’t meant for meat. Sam and Rhodey were arguing over whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie (again). Carol was spiking her cocoa with something strong enough to light a jet engine.
It was all very on brand.
Tony checked his Rolex again, brows knitting.
“Ten minutes late,” he muttered.
Bruce glanced up from the French toast station. “Who?”
Bruce blinked. “They’re late?”
Tony nodded solemnly. “Y/n Chekhova. The human chronometer. Miss I-Show-Up-At-Mission-Briefings-Twenty-Five-Minutes-Early-Even-If-It’s-On-Fire. That one.”
Clint looked up from his plate. “Maybe they’re just… y’know, being married.”
“Exactly. Which means someone has to go get them, now, before they make me miss the toast schedule.” Tony pointed dramatically at Peter.
Peter, who had been happily inhaling powdered sugar waffles, froze.
“No,” he said, mouth still full. “Absolutely not.”
Tony shrugged. “You’re her best friend. She tolerates you. That’s about the highest honor you can achieve with Chekova. Go on. Knock on the door. Say it’s breakfast time.”
Tony looked at him with pure, smug confidence. “That’s a risk I’m willing to let you take.”
Peter turned to Clint, eyes wide and desperate. “You’re coming with me.”
Clint sighed. “No I’m not.”
Peter grabbed his arm. “Clint. If she doesn’t kill me, Natasha will. You’ve walked in on them before, right?”
“Twice,” Clint said blandly.
Peter stared. “How are you still functioning as a person?”
9:15 AM — Outside the Romanoff-Chekhova Bedroom
Peter stood in front of the door like it was the gates of hell.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Just knock. Say ‘Merry Christmas.’ Don’t look inside. Everything’s fine.”
Clint leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee. “You’re overthinking it.”
Peter gave him a withering glare. “You don’t overthink interrupting two elite Russian assassins during potential holiday sex!”
Clint smirked. “I don’t think. That’s why I’m still alive.”
Peter groaned, braced himself… and pushed the door open.
Because of course he did.
And of course, the universe hated him.
9:16 AM — The Worst Decision of Peter’s Life
The door creaked open and Peter barely had time to register what he was seeing before the image was permanently burned into his retinas.
Y/n was underneath, blanket mostly kicked off, hands clenched into the sheets like she was about to launch into orbit. Her face was flushed, her hair a chaotic mess, and her expression—somewhere between shocked and mortified—snapped from dazed to homicidal in a second.
Clint peeked in over his shoulder, gave a tired sigh, and immediately turned back around.
“Oh hell no,” Clint muttered. “That’s a you problem.”
Y/n screamed—in full-volume, furious Russian.
“ЗАКРОЙТЕ ДВЕРЬ! ЗАКРОЙТЕ ДВЕРЬ СЕЙЧАС, ПОЖАЛУЙСТА, Я УМОЛЯЮ! ЗА ЧТО?! ЗА ЧТО, ПИТЕР?!”*
Peter screamed back. “I’M SORRY! OH MY GOD—I’M SO SORRY!”
He flailed backward, nearly tripping over Clint’s foot, red from head to toe.
Natasha, still entirely too calm, barely glanced at them. She tilted her head like she was judging the weather forecast.
“Next time, Peter,” she said smoothly, voice laced with that signature assassin chill, “you knock.”
Peter scrambled for the hallway like the room was on fire.
“Oh—also,” Natasha added as he reached the threshold, “please close the door.”
He slammed it shut like it personally offended him.
Peter arrived back at the table, hair wild, sweater askew, and looking like he’d just escaped a horror film.
Tony looked up from his mimosa. “Well?”
Peter sat down in silence.
Tony gave him a cheeky grin. “You find them?”
Peter said nothing. Just picked up a napkin and covered his own face with it like that would erase the trauma.
Clint walked in a moment later, calm as ever, and grabbed another cinnamon roll. “Yup. They’re alive. And busy.”
Tony raised his glass. “As predicted. What a beautiful Christmas miracle.”
Peter finally muttered from under the napkin. “She screamed at me in Russian. I think I have PTSD now.”
Tony sipped his drink. “Put it in a report.”
Meanwhile — 9:23 AM, Bedroom
Y/n, on the other hand, was face-down in a pillow, still swearing in Russian between muffled groans of shame.
“You didn’t lock the door,” she growled into the pillow.
“You were on top first,” Natasha said casually, sliding back down beside her. “It’s your job.”
“My job is not—” Y/n sat up slightly, flushed to her ears. “—to be publicly humiliated because of your inability to plan for interruption!”
Natasha smirked. “They shouldn’t have barged in.”
“They are Avengers. Not dogs.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Tony sent Peter. That’s basically a puppy with anxiety and a physics degree.”
Y/n flopped back down with a groan. “This is your fault.”
“I said I’d make it worth the time.”
Y/n turned her head slowly. “You are devil.”
Y/n narrowed her eyes. “Lock door next time.”
“I will,” Natasha said, not looking sorry at all. “Eventually.”
And then she climbed right back on top, because Natasha Romanoff didn’t like to leave a job half done.
10:00 AM — Finally Arriving at Breakfast
When Y/n and Natasha finally arrived in the kitchen, they looked suspiciously well-groomed. Natasha was smug. Y/n was wearing a hoodie, hood up and her eyes locked firmly on the ground like it might swallow her whole if she focused hard enough.
Peter refused to look at either of them. In fact, he just pushed his plate away and went to lie on the floor.
Tony beamed. “There they are! Merry Christmas, newlyweds!”
Y/n muttered, “You are reason I suffer.”
Natasha kissed her cheek. “Merry Christmas to you too, dorogaya.”
Tony raised his glass again.
“To unlocked doors, bad timing, and emotionally resilient best friends!”
Peter whimpered from the floor.
Y/n glared at him from across the room. Peter made the sign of the cross.
Clint just started pouring Bailey’s into his coffee and muttering about early retirement.
It was, undeniably, the most festive disaster of the year.
*Russian translation: CLOSE THE DOOR! CLOSE THE DOOR NOW, PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU! FOR WHAT?! WHY, PETER
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