This prompt has been on my plot bunnies list for a looong time, and I recently found the time to turn it into this lil ficlet. It's like lowkey based on Taylor Swift's "How You Get the Girl", but it was mostly just born of random fangirl thoughts in my brain. x)

Shoutout to Mockingjay500 for beta-ing! :)

It was midnight on a Saturday night, and for some stupid reason, I was awake. Ordinarily, I would be fast asleep by midnight on a Saturday night – in fact, I would have been asleep for hours. But tonight, I was awake, and I'll be damned if I can remember why.

Nightmares, maybe. I couldn't begin to count the number of times I've awakened in the dark, sweating and shaking and trying to cry out, because of monsters and demons that lurked just off the edge of my consciousness. Or it could be that I had something on my mind, and needed a few quiet hours to ponder it.

Whatever the reason, it was midnight on a Saturday night and I was wide awake – sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee, staring at the flames that leapt and danced in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the walls. It was raining outside; the gentle patter on the roof and the intermittent rumble of thunder should have lulled me to sleep hours before – more evidence that my mind was troubled by some night terror or pestering thought. My brain was active, but my body was beginning to grow drowsy, fully relaxed and comfortable on the sofa.

There was a knock at the door.

I sat upright, instantly alert, craning my neck to peer into the dark, silent kitchen. My heart was pumping heavily in my chest, and confusion tangled my thoughts. Who the hell would drop in for a visit at midnight on a Saturday night? Thunder rumbled in the distance, and apprehension twisted in my gut. I fished a .22 from the cushions of the sofa and stepped cautiously into the kitchen.

The house was still as I moved stealthily toward the door; the only noise came from the rhythm of the rainfall. I squinted at the dark window as I neared the door, but the darkness obscured any possible view of my nighttime visitor.

I had reached the door. I fumbled for the knob, gripping the pistol tightly in my hand, and pulled it open.

And there she was. Standing on the porch like a phantom, utterly drenched and dripping with rainwater. Her arms were folded tightly over her chest, and she was visibly shaking in the brisk air. A flash of lightning ignited her fiery hair, and her bright green eyes were boring into mine.

"Hey," she said weakly. "I was… wondering if I could use your shower."

For a moment I just stared at her, almost numbed by the depth of my emotion. A cold breeze ruffled my hair, and her teeth started to chatter.

Then she swayed, and I shot forward and caught her before she could collapse.

"Don't hug me," she said, looking me sternly in the eye. "I'm soaked."

"Good god, Tasha," I breathed, gripping her by the shoulders. "It's been six months."

"I told you it would be a while," she returned.

"You walked here," I realized, glaring at her. "Are you insane?"

She smirked faintly. "I prefer inspired," she said. Then her knees buckled and she almost slipped from my grasp.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy!" I threw my arms around her waist to support her, and she made a strangled noise in her throat and tried to jerk away.

"I told you not to hug me," she said through gritted teeth, wincing.

I drew her back to arm's length, eying her severely. "Nat. What'd you do to yourself this time?"

"S'nothing, just a scratch," she grunted. "Now about that shower."

I cast one more furtive look around the yard before pulling her arm around my shoulders and guiding her into the house. I slammed the door shut and locked it securely.

Natasha was breathing heavily; my arm was around her waist, and through the thin, sodden material of her shirt, I could feel her ribs under my fingers.

"Tasha," I murmured as I led her toward the bathroom. "When was the last time you ate something?"

She merely shook her head. "Shower first. I'll eat after."

I hesitated, my mind brimming with visions of her fainting from hunger in the shower. "You sure?"

"I need to get warm, I'm freezing," she replied. I could feel her shivering, and cold water from her clothes and hair was sinking into my sweats. "Then I'll think about food."

We had reached the bathroom, and I switched on the light, resigned to her decision. "You good from here on out?" I asked as she stepped through the doorway.

"I'll manage, thanks."

I nodded and pulled the door shut. Moments later, I heard the shower start up, and, reassured, I headed off to find food and dry sweats.

…

Natasha entered the living room not long afterward, wearing one of my t-shirts and wringing her hair with a towel. Her eyes slid from me to the bowl of hot soup on the hearth, and she crossed the room and took a seat by the fire, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

I waited quietly in a chair near the fireplace, sipping my coffee while she ate. Once her bowl was empty, I passed her a cup of coffee. She took it with a murmured word of thanks.

A moment passed, filled by the crackling of the fire and the distant rumble of thunder.

"So," I said at last.

Natasha looked up, her eyes catching the lamplight.

"Still on that trail, then."

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. "Still at it."

"Any progress?" Natasha started to speak, but I cut in. "I know, I know. The less you tell me, the less I'll have to lie to the Council about."

Natasha drew her lips to one side, studying me thoughtfully.

"I can tell you I'm close," she said finally. "Closer than I've ever been. I just need a little more time."

I nodded slowly. "Anything else I should know?" I asked pointedly.

She gave me a look. "Clint. Honestly. You don't need to keep asking, I can take care of myself—"

"Nat," I broke in. "I want to know.

At last she sighed. "Two cracked ribs. A few bruises, a sprained ankle – mostly healed, some insignificant scrapes on my arms… and this." She pulled her t-shirt aside to reveal a nasty-looking wound on her shoulder.

I set my mug aside and stood up, crossing the room to where she sat. I knelt down in front of her, searching her face, then my gaze moved to her shoulder.

A row of crooked stitches decorated a comma-shaped slice in her shoulder, which started at her collarbone and curved toward her armpit. I sucked in my breath, running my thumb lightly past the hideous arc. "Tasha. What—?"

"The less I tell you," she said with a wry smile. I exhaled and sat back, eying her resentfully. She smirked at me and left the thought hanging.

Silence hovered in the air for a moment until I spoke.

"So… you staying here tonight?"

She blinked. "Oh—No, I should probably head out now, actually," she said, rising, and I stood as well. "It's better if I keep moving."

The finality in her tone expressed her intention to leave almost immediately, and my heart sank.

"At least stay til the rain stops," I urged her.

Natasha hesitated and glanced toward the window, which was still being doused by heavy raindrops. She shook her head firmly, and I didn't try to argue.

"Your stuff from last time's in the top drawer," I told her. She nodded and stepped around me to leave the room. She vanished into my bedroom, and I headed into the kitchen.

After a minute of two of rummaging around, I found a few spare magazines stashed in the back of a kitchen cabinet. My jacket was hanging by the door, and I fished my wallet out of the pocket before Natasha joined me in the kitchen, zipping her dark hooded jacket over a dry pair of jeans.

She stopped in front of me and bit her lip, scanning my face. A deep roll of thunder sounded in the distance.

I jerked my head toward the door. "Sounds pretty gnarly out there," I said casually. "Sure you're not staying?"

"I'll be fine," she replied.

"Here." I held out one of the magazines. "This should fit your Glock."

She took it from me and pocketed it gratefully.

I hesitated, then reached into my back pocket. "And you could probably use some—"

"Clint." She caught my arm, preventing me from withdrawing my wallet. "Don't be stupid."

I paused, examining her face, and her expression showed only stubborn determination. At last I nodded and relaxed my arm.

And then it was time for her to go. There was no way around it, no more excuses to delay her.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, eying her dejectedly.

"So how long are you gonna keep doing this, Romanoff?" I asked. "Hm? Showing up on my doorstep, eating my food, and then just walking out and expecting me to go along with it."

Natasha half-smiled at me.

"Thanks for everything, Clint," she said, stepping even closer to me. Her eyes were locked fiercely with mine. "I mean it."

I shrugged and dropped my gaze.

Then Natasha shifted, and her hand settled at the back of my neck, and she leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to my lips.

She drew back and smirked at me, her eyes searching mine. "Take care of yourself," she murmured. And then she was gone.

I'd been hinting to her that her visits were an inconvenience to me. That her presence was somehow unwelcome or irritating.

But in reality, these implications could not could not have been further from the truth. Natasha didn't have a home, or a family. She wasn't the type of person who tended to form emotional attachments to people or places.

So the fact that she kept coming back to me meant more than she could know. Because I knew that I was the closest thing she had to a home.

And I would do everything in my power to make sure she kept coming back.

SHOUTOUT TO MY 21 WAYS SQUAD. I know I said I'd start posting The Lost Years this Fall, but guess who forgot she was joining the upperclassmen this schoolyear? :P So I found the time to write this oneshot over Thanksgiving break so y'all would know I'm still alive and fangirling. It has similar themes to The Lost Years, so you can almost think of it as like a teaser. I swear I'll get TLY done at some point - meanwhile I want to start posting ficlets every so often because my prompts list continues to grow. :D

Hope you enjoyed! :)