The first time she wears his clothes, it's not for good reason.

Well, she has a good reason, Steve thinks, he just doesn't like it.

Actually, she doesn't tell him. It's Clint who does, long after she's come down and told him she's stealing clothes. He'd wrinkled his brow in confusion, because he's still not used to the time period and women stealing men's clothes? That's a little strange.

Thing is, it's Natasha, and he knows better than to get in her way.

Clint tells him it's been a brutal day and Steve finds her curled up in a corner of Tony's giant media room watching ballets off Jarvis' servers.

He doesn't say anything, just folds himself onto the couch beside her. She doesn't acknowledge him and he says nothing for the whole performance.

But then, when she stands up to leave, she seems to pause before she hesitantly reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Thank you."

She's so obviously sad, but also so obviously relieved and he wisely lets it go.

Later, it dawns on him that she could have gone to Clint. He tries not to read into it. He's always sucked at women.

. . . . .

The second time she wears his clothes, it's because she makes a striking damsel in distress.

Okay, not distress, but when she enters the lounge of Stark Tower wearing the same shorts and sweatshirt she'd stolen from him months ago. He remembers that night vividly – and actually he's had some startling dreams about what would have happened if Natasha had crawled across that couch once the movie was over. It's startling.

But not near as startling as the kick his stomach gives when she walks in, hair soaked, wrapped in his clothes.

"What happened?" he asks, a little dumbly and entirely out of reflex.

She huffs, obviously irritated with herself. "Got caught in the rain."

It's as clichéd as anything he's ever seen because the minute the words come out of her mouth, there's a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning.

But Natasha just tilts her head to the side.

"Tea?"

He makes both mugs and she offers him a shy smile. He dreams of it for a week straight.

. . . . .

The third time she wears his clothes Clint is in medical.

It's probably from her nightmares. In fact, it is, Steve knows that. Because they talk now, he and Natasha. She doesn't tell him much, per se, but he's an artist and he's still trying to get over the mentality of being that small, scrawny kid. He's learned to read people and while Natasha's the biggest challenge he's ever encountered, she's also his favourite subject to study.

He's never admitting that.

It's Natasha.

Except the woman who is curled in the corner of Clint's medical room is such a far cry from the woman he normally interacts with that she doesn't look a thing like formidable.

"Tasha," he murmurs, because she's Nat, or she's Natasha, or she's Black Widow. Tasha is a name she's heard Clint, even Coulson use. And endearment in it's own right and, he thinks, much more suited to the woman who looks too tiny and fragile to be an assassin.

She blinks at him, in that strange place between sleep and waking because Clint's been hurt and they have him under heavy sedation. It's not quite an induced coma, Bruce tells him – and an induced coma? Since when had that become a thing? – but it's heavy enough that he can't wake up on his own.

Steve hates the idea of any of them being hurt that badly.

But she tugs harder on his heartstrings than most.

"Come on, you need to clean up, to eat. I'll sit with him."

She's reluctant, but he's persistent and calm and maybe it's that strength – because he wants to do this too, to be here for Clint, as an Avenger and a leader – that finally as her agreeing.

She returns half an hour later, looking worn out but clean and carrying take out. She's also in a t-shirt he recognizes. It's not the one she still has from when she'd ordered him to hand one over – he should really get that back but he doesn't have the heart to ask – but he very carefully avoids saying anything. She doesn't need that kind of grief.

Not when she's facing an entirely different kind.

So he says nothing, just sits there, the same way he's done a number of times now.

In reality, he catches her sniffing at the collar as she's tucked into that same chair. He wonders if maybe what Pepper had told him about scents and safety is true.

This time when he dreams it's entirely innocent and he wakes with the feeling of his chest expanding.

He thinks maybe he's in trouble.

. . . . .

The fourth time she wears his clothes, it's because it's all she can wear.

He doesn't even know what happened, of course. The Avengers get sent out on solo missions as much as they do as a team, Natasha and Clint more than anyone else. They're still SHIELD, not just Avengers and still absolutely deadly at what they do.

The problem is, they're not infallible.

She won't tell him what happened, not that he necessarily wants to know. What he does know is she has a massive gash along her left side. Well, not massive, but enough of a wound that she can't lift her arms over her head, and the only reason he sees it is because she comes to his floor looking for something to wear.

She has nothing, she tells him. Everything is too tight, or she has to pull it over her head. Her bathrobe is the only thing that works and she refuses to be seen in it. He lets her raid his closet, because he's a gentleman and because the way she hisses when she moves wrong makes his chest clench too hard.

She picks his favourite, of course, a plaid one he's owned forever and most definitely broken in rather thoroughly. She drops her robe right there and he can't avoid looking at the long expanse of her back. He can see the edge of her wound crawling around her side, but her back is smooth and bare. He's a little stunned to be honest because he's not under the impression women's backs are supposed to be so incredibly erotic.

And then, very suddenly, it's not because she can't get the other sleeve properly and he steps forward without thinking, reaching out to give her a hand. It doesn't even dawn on him to let his eyes wander – because he's not stupid so he can figure out that her limited range of motion means no bra for a while – just to help slide the flannel over her shoulders before making swift work of the buttons. Her breath shudders out against him as he does it and it's the most open he's ever seen her.

She comes to him with her nightmares, wrapped in his shirt, and he watches over her while she heals. He realizes something's changed between them, something's building, but he's not entirely sure what it is.

. . . . .

The fifth time she wears his clothes he finds her in his kitchen.

It's the most striking picture he's ever seen.

He's not used to this, to domestic Natasha. Sure, they've been seeing a lot more of each other, dating if he's allowed to use the term, but this is different.

Last night, he'd taken her to bed.

And not in the platonic sense.

She's fire and warmth and everything he's ever dreamed of. She's curves and skin and a sly smile and not a word about any lack of experience he exhibits. He's not a virgin, but this is Natasha and whether or not she's actually slept with the number of men that gets tossed around SHIELD sometimes – he has suspicions of how low that number actually is – she definitely has more experience with sex and seduction than he does.

He'd been a little disappointed when he hadn't woken up next to her especially since he can vividly remember wrapping himself around her. It's not new, something he'd taken to doing months ago when she was still crawling into his bed plagued by nightmares, and so waking alone is not a unique experience either. He'd just hoped it would be different.

He's only slightly assuaged by the picture of her in his kitchen in his t-shirt.

"You're up early."

She doesn't startle, not that he'd particularly expected her to, and offers him a radiant smile. It does things to his heart that it probably shouldn't given this is Natasha, but he trusts her and he definitely has a soft spot for her. He can't imagine doing this with anyone else, not now anyway. He actually has to bite down on his tongue to avoid asking her what this is, what they're doing.

"I don't sleep much," she says in a voice that's so entirely soft, so entirely not her that his chest expands again. Maybe he's not so far off the mark when it comes to what they're doing. "Tea?"

They drink tea and eat breakfast and then he drags her back to that bed, strips the t-shirt off of her and does everything in his power to worship her body. Afterwards, she snuggles in close and they don't leave his floor for two days.

They trade back and forth after that and maybe he's not in the 1940s anymore, and maybe he's never been good with women, but he's good with Natasha and he thinks maybe that's good enough for him.

First time here. Hoping I got it right, though the first one's probably OOC. Forgive me? Or at least be polite when/if you tell me in a review.

Thanks in advance!