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An Unbearable Smorgasbord

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“Nat, help me, I can’t do it”

“Can’t do what?” Despite the fact that Clint had whispered in her ear in a clear request for discretion, Natasha replied at full volume, and several of their neighbors were now staring at him. He shook them off with a dismissive smile, while subtly kicking Nat’s ankle under the table.

“I can’t eat all this food Natasha, it’s not physically possible.”

“You have to—Thor specifically said that not cleaning your plate was a grave insult.” At least had kept her voice down that time, though her stupid, teasing smile wasn't giving him much help.

“I know but—“ He gestured helplessly at the large game-bird leg and starchy mash still covering nearly half his plate.

“Well, you should have thought of that before you piled half the buffet on there.” Nat feigned indifference, but he could tell she was enjoying his struggle.

“You know I normally eat a lot. I’m telling you, this stuff is magicked to be more filling!” His only chance at averting an inter-planetary incident on their first trip to Asgard merely raised her eyebrows. “Please, just help me finish it”

“Nope, I’ve got my own plate to worry about.” She returned to eating from it as if to prove a point.

“Nat, you have like seven peas left.”

Natasha had, in fact, sixteen purple pea-shaped vegetables and a small pastry on her plate. “I’m very full too, I just didn’t bite off more than I can chew. Now eat; everyone else is almost done.”

Grudgingly, Clint stuffed a fork-full of the mash into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. He went for the next bite, thinking to get this over before his body realized what was happening. But then— Aww, stomach, No.

He made it down the hall to the bathroom before it hit though. Thank the demigods getting up from the table wasn’t also a massive faux-pas. Suddenly, he had a lot more space in his belly for that food. Not that the thought was exactly appealing.

When he got back to the table though—well, he knew when they met there was a reason he hadn’t killed Natasha Romanov.

The definitely-not-a-turkey leg had been moved to her plate, leaving him with only the could-passably-be-potato mash. He could manage that. They always managed together.