𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

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Natasha was the only one at the table when Michael Castello walked in.

"Morning, Natasha," he greeted with a knowing smirk.

This was something he did almost every morning.

"That's Romanoff to you," she corrected impassively, watching Clint as he walked back to the table—he'd, unfortunately, forgotten the syrup.

"Natasha," Clint greeted, holding up his prize as though it was an offering. Natasha quirked her lips and took the bottle.

"Thank you."

"So, he can call you Natasha," Michael said, "but I can't?"

"Clint is my friend," she explained. "And he made me waffles."

"We're not even friends?!" He shook his head. "And all this time I thought we were overcoming our differences."

"I don't even know how we're friends," Clint admitted, gesturing between himself and Michael. "It's like you grow on people. Like a fungus."

"That kind of hurts. I'd like to think that I'm, like, the dog you never wanted to have but secretly adore. Or like—"

"How about moss?" Natasha suggested. "Or a weed?"

"...No, I was thinking more like—"

The voices in the room died down, almost as if they were silently announcing the presence of Truth Castello. They were shocked, muttering to themselves because this was the second time that the dark-haired agent had graced the Canteen with her presence in two weeks.

That had to be a new record.

She walked over to their table, eyeing the chair Natasha had her feet propped up on, the challenging look on Natasha's face an invitation. However, Truth decided she wasn't in the mood to start anything that morning and sat on her brother's left.

"Romanoff," she greeted curtly. "Clint."

"Castello," Natasha returned in the same tone. After all, they had roles to play in the eyes of the many, though Natasha would miss their shared smiles for a time.

"Ha," Michael said to his sister. "You're not her friend."

Truth raised a brow.

"What makes you say that?"

"Only her friends get to call her Natasha."

Truth wrinkled her nose at him as she picked at her eggs with a fork.

"I've told you to stop calling people on a first-name basis. It's weird. Not everyone likes you."