𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

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The idea of designating a space for people who worked together—most of which being strangers—to eat as a collective was an odd thing, even for Americans.

Dining rooms and kitchens were understandable for the universal tradition of eating meals with family. Friends could also be an exception, but only if these friends were true and not just out of convenience.

Eating was a private thing. To eat meant to allow yourself to relax, to fulfill the beckonings of your stomach and support the functions of your body. Eating was just as sacred as sleeping, yet the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to think nothing of it.

A few months ago, Natasha Romanoff would rather commit a felony than be forced to sit with her "coworkers" and eat in front of each other as if they enjoyed each other's company.

Well...Natasha Romanoff already had an extensive list of felonies she was responsible for, all for various reasons, but it wasn't like she wanted to be a felon. It was more of a means to an end—the end being her life if she so much as made a false step in the field.

That was another odd thing—the idea that, now, Natasha Romanoff did not have to fight to live. That she could sit at a circular table surrounded by other circular tables occupied by people who laughed and joked in front of other people who laughed and joked and not have to look over her shoulder.

But not having to didn't mean that she didn't. Because trust was not something Natasha Romanoff gave out freely, let alone completely. It had taken her months to get used to the Canteen, and only just recently became comfortable enough to eat there. She never had the food that was served—and, Natasha didn't think she'd ever reach the point where she would ever be fully comfortable eating food she hadn't seen prepared—, but neither did Clint Barton, her only friend.

The only reason she ever came to the Canteen was because of him. Everyday he insisted that she get out of her apartment or give the training room a break in favor of getting something to eat with him. The first time he had suggested it, Natasha had stared at him as though he were speaking one of the few languages she didn't know. Now, it was a tradition: everyday Clint would drag Natasha to his apartment where he would make them lunch (sometimes breakfast if he managed to find her in time), and everyday he would ask Natasha what she wanted even though her answer had been the same for the past two weeks, and everyday they would walk into the Canteen and pick the same table in the upper right corner that was always empty when they got there.

The table had been her pick, as she had insisted that if she had to be tortured in such a way that she at least pick the vantage point. It had become her favorite pastime to people watch, taking the time to examine the other agents she may work with in the future—find out their connections, the way they held themselves, how they interacted with others. The best part was when they'd feel her stare. She could see the moment when they debated turning to meet her head on. She would guess at how long they'd last, and then they would meet her eyes and she would smirk at being right.

She was just about to get the attention of an Agent Kirk when something shifted in her peripheral. Without so much as a glance, Natasha slapped Clint's hand when it got too close to her sandwich and frowned at his shout of surprise. For good measure, she picked the sandwich up swiftly and glared as she took a possessive bite.