𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚'𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

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Natasha Romanoff couldn't sleep. Again.

Tonight, her body was too awake to sit down for more than five minutes. She had already walked through her apartment seven times, fiddling with the few things she'd left lying around. It was beginning to feel a lot more like her space—she was comfortable here, and comfort wasn't an easy thing for someone like her to find.

She took care of it well. When she'd been cleared to live at the Triskelion, the first thing she'd done was sweep the place for bugs. It had already been furnished—probably a good thing because Natasha didn't know the first thing about decorating—, it had its own laundry machines in the closet across the bathroom, a television she's never used, and a kitchen that was also painfully empty. Three months, and she still hadn't gone to the grocery store. Mostly because she wasn't off her probation yet and she wasn't all that keen on dragging Clint with her while she struggled to accomplish such a mundane task.

Besides, she spent most of her time at his apartment, anyway. She could probably live off of his sandwiches for a little while longer.

By the time she'd made it to ten laps, she'd still found nothing to do and it was only three in the morning.

At that point, sleeping would simply be a waste of time.

Already dressed in leggings and a tank top, Natasha grabbed the hair tie on the counter to contain her curls in a low ponytail and walked out the front door.

Though she wasn't permitted to go outside without Clint, who acted as her probationary agent, she could travel through the building on her own. Any room or floor she wasn't cleared for were restricted to a voice print, and she'd already played her part in cementing her defection to S.H.I.E.L.D. to Director Fury's satisfaction. The rest were mostly formalities according to Clint, though she wasn't too worried.

What S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her in the last few months was more freedom than she'd had her entire life. Even after she'd escaped the Red Room, survival was all she'd ever known.

Of the places she had access to in the building, she only frequented three—the training room, the gym, and the library.

The gym was where she went during the day if she was with Clint. It was usually crowded, and she didn't always fancy the mixed stares sent her way, but Clint insisted she integrate into more public spaces. ("You don't have to actually talk to anyone," he'd say to her complaints, "just don't be a hermit.")

She didn't usually linger in the library—only long enough to brush up on her literature or study new material while Clint filed reports. The training room was her favorite—unlike the gym, it was spacious with padded floors and walls, and it was mostly used to host combat classes for the trainees.

Past midnight, all three were usually empty.

So, whenever Natasha couldn't sleep, she'd pick one of the three.