"I cannot believe I'm doing this," Megan muttered to herself as she stood in front of her closet and looked through her shirts for the fifth time. Half a dozen of them were off their hangers and tossed over the back of nearby chair. She wished she'd told Steve the dress code was super casual. As it was, she was trying to walk the fine line between comfortably hanging out at home and dressing up for company without looking like she was being deliberate about it. Given the era he'd grown up in, she half expected him to come dressed in a suit and tie, so if she wore jeans and a t-shirt he'd feel overdressed. If she overdressed herself and he tried to be casual in keeping with the modern era, he'd feel awkwardly underdressed. Of course she wanted to look a bit better than she did on a typical Sunday where sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt were the norm. She'd settled on black slacks as a safe middle ground and gotten stuck.
The timer on the stove went off letting her know she was out of time. "This is ridiculous." She finally grabbed a teal scoop neck top that had three-quarter sleeves and stuffed the other shirts in the empty laundry basket to rehang later. Her DNA pendant necklace and matching earrings were the first thing she saw in her jewelry box, so she grabbed them to put on while she checked the roast again and added a bit of water so the pan didn't go dry. The pumpkin pie she'd made last night was in the fridge and the apple pie would be done in another half hour. There was even a loaf of bread baking in the bread machine.
She'd make the gravy once he got here. The roast was done and the smell was seriously awesome but making her really hungry. She brushed her chin length brown hair out one last time and gave up any hope of taming the curls today. She didn't consider herself to be especially pretty, but today's standards of beauty were skewed. She had curves and would never be a size 2 model or movie star. That was okay given her love of food. Besides, she had good lab hands and that was far more important to career success than begin blown away by a gust of wind while nibbling on carrot sticks. Carrots! She'd forgotten to make the salad.
So much for not being rushed. Chewing on her lower lip, she put her apron back on and got to work.
She had the celery, carrots, and green peppers all chopped when she heard a knock at the door. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she checked the peephole and saw Steve waiting patiently. "Hi! Did you have any trouble parking?" she asked as she opened the door and gestured for him to come in.
He was wearing slacks and a button down shirt under his leather jacket and held a motorcycle helmet under one arm. In his other hand, he held a bottle of wine. Stepping inside, he shook his head. "Bike's easy to park and then I just followed my nose here. The food smells wonderful." He handed her the wine. "I wasn't sure if you liked wine or not but I wanted to bring something."
"I don't drink often, but it always tastes good with pot roast. Let me get the glasses down. There are hooks and hangers on the back of the door you can use for your jacket. Just find a spot to put your helmet and pull up a barstool. Once the salad is done, I'll make the gravy and we can eat."
"Nice place." Steve toed of his shoes and put the helmet down on the floor beside them before following her to the kitchen. "Can I help?"
"There's no need. I'm almost done. And this is really a one-person kitchen if you're working at the counter. Actually, it's a one person apartment," she laughed a little as she started slicing tomatoes. "But I wanted something in walking distance to the metro, and that drives prices way up. I feel sick every time I pay rent, but not having a car makes access to the subway a must. And I figure with only one room to live in, I'll be highly motivated to keep everything picked up."
While she talked, Steve sat down on a barstool and leaned on the bar that separated the sink side of the kitchen from the rest of the small living space. Looking around a bit, his brow furrowed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…" he paused, waiting for her nod before he continued,"... where's your bed?"
Megan smiled, "The couch folds out into a double bed. It's not that comfortable, I admit. But I didn't pick it, either. Most of this furniture is included in the rental price. I just have to move the coffee table, open up the bed, and I'm set. During the week, I usually just leave it out since I'm whipped by the time I get home and eat dinner. I figure once I have a better job and savings built up, I'll move to something a little bigger and buy myself a real bed. In the meantime, it works." She shrugged. "My back sometimes likes to suggest otherwise."
"I brought your book back." Steve laid it on the counter beside the wine glasses she set down in front of him.
Megan figured he must have had it in his jacket. "The rest of the series is on my super-fancy bookshelf set over there. Go and pull them out so you can take them with you."
Steve looked more closely at the shelves, "I like your shelves," he said with a smile.
"Cinder blocks an boards are standard college issue, just like two filing cabinets and a door make a pretty awesome desk. I'll skimp and save all sorts of ways, but I have to have my books with me."
"Your desk isn't made of filing cabinets."
"That's my sewing machine. All closed up, it doubles as a desk. It's my other must-have item no matter where I go."
Steve went over to the shelves and quickly located the next two books in the Narnia series. He put The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on the shelf where it belonged before returning to his seat. "I didn't think most people sewed anymore."
"They don't, at least not for everyday clothes. Even I can't buy fabric and a pattern for what I can pay for a basic shirt on sale. When I was growing up, my mom sewed all of our clothes to save money. Nowadays, sewing is more expensive than buying clothes, at least for a lot of the basics. But I learned to sew when I was in high school and I'm glad I did. I can fix things that have torn seams and even better, I can often make some basic alteration so what I buy fits me better. I also like making my own curtains and throw pillows, which actually does save money. But you're right, most people don't know how to sew. It's more of a hobby than a necessity."
"What is that?" Steve asked, nodding to the lidded bowl she was holding down on the counter while she pulled a cord in the lid.
"Salad spinner. Basically, it's a kitchen centrifuge. Getting a lot of the water off keeps the lettuce fresh longer. Between this and the Tupperware, the salad leftovers will stay fresh for a few days.
"I put the corkscrew out. Go ahead and pour the wine while I get the gravy started." Megan instructed as she added the lettuce to the big bowl she had the rest of the vegetables in. She mixed it all up and put the bowl on the drop-leaf table that was in the living room between Steve and the bookshelves.
Right then, the bread machine beeped. "Bread's done."
"You made bread, too?" Steve looked at her in wonder, while is fingers were busy removing the foil cap from the bottle.
"Don't look too excited. I didn't do it by hand. But there is nothing like homemade bread." Megan used a potholder and removed the pan from the machine. She set it on the counter to cool and turned her attention back to the roast. She set the Dutch oven on the stovetop and removed the lid. "I hope you're hungry."
"Starving. You have no idea how good that smells to me. Seriously, we can skip the gravy."
"You don't like gravy?"
"I love gravy. But you don't have to—"
"Sit down and drink your wine," Megan admonished him. "Gravy doesn't take that long. Or, if you want, you can wrestle the bread out of the pan and start eating that." She looked up from dishing up the meat and potatoes and carrots from the pan so she could collect the drippings. "I mean it. I'll have a slice, too. There's a cutting board beside the microwave and the knives are in the block." She moved the drippings to a smaller pan, added the flour solution she'd prepared earlier, and then started to stir the mixture.
"I like the second suggestion."
"Just save room for pie."
"You really made two pies?" He looked like a kid on Christmas morning the way his eyes sparkled.
"The pumpkin pie is in the fridge and the apple pie is ready to be checked. You can do that before you cut the bread. I need to keep stirring this until it thickens." Megan told him.
"How do you tell if it's done?"
"Grab a table knife from the drawer beside the sink and pierce some of the apples through one of the holes in the crust. If the apples are soft and the crust is golden, it's done. If they are still crunchy or hard to cut, it needs a bit more time in the oven."
She moved out of his way so he could open the oven door. "It looks done," she said, watching him test the filling with a knife.
"It is."
She watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before setting the pie on a hot pad on the counter. It broke her heart to think of him missing these simple pleasures due to the depression, then the war. "I can teach you how to make pies, Steve. It's not that hard and then you can make pie whenever you want to."
He looked down and answered her softly, "I'd like that."
"I don't want to overstep here, but do you know how to cook? I know that when you were growing up, the kitchen was traditionally a woman's domain."
"It was, but my mom taught me a little so I'd have hot food even on the nights she had to work late," Steve explained quietly as he sliced the bread and handed her the first piece.
"We can expand that repertoire if you want. It kills me that you haven't had pot roast since 1941." She saw the wariness in his eyes, his guard going back up as he protected himself from what he perceived as pity. "It would be fun, actually, to dig through my recipe box and get back to cooking more. I've gotten into a bit of a culinary rut, I'm afraid."
She sipped her wine and kept stirring with her other hand. "For the record, it's not pity that's motivating me."
"Then what is?" His shoulders were still tense as he continued to slice the loaf of bread, his back towards her.
"Empathy. And a bit of anger on your behalf. I can't believe how you've just been left to you own devices to figure out a world that has to be overwhelming at times. Instead, it seems to me that S.H.I.E.L.D. only cares that you're able to go on their missions and as long as you're good for that, they're happy."
"They offered me a tutor. It… didn't work out," He admitted quietly.
"Let me guess. They gave you some young, starry eyed recruit who was either caught up in hero worship or talking down to you like you didn't know anything about readin' and writin' and indoor plumin'."
He turned and looked at her shyly, his face a bit red, "Both, actually," He chuckled a bit. "I knew it wasn't going to work when he seemed surprised I had grown up with electric lights. So once I was acclimated enough to do my job, I told him we were done."
"I knew you were a smart guy," She grinned and was happy to see his guard starting to come back down again. "Let's eat and you can think about it. I'm not trying to pressure you and I'm by no means a gourmet chef. But I do know how to make pie and pot roast. Besides, just think of the women you'll have swooning at your feet when they find out you know your way around the kitchen. If they find out you also wash windows and scrub floors, you'll be beating them off with a stick."
"I had an interesting conversation with Nick Fury this week." Megan said a bit later when the ravenous hunger was gone and they were both working on second helpings. "He really likes his grumble and gruff routine, doesn't he?"
That got Steve's attention. He eyed her warily. "What happened?"
Megan watched his expression morph into a mix of admiration and horror as she relayed the conversation as she remembered it. "When I left, he was almost smiling. I think for him that was the equivalent of belly laughter."
"I can't believe he let you talk to him like that." Steve shook his head. She couldn't tell if she thought she'd been bold or stupid to have done so. In truth, he'd be right on both counts.
"Me, either. I was expecting him to fire me on the spot."
"So why'd you do it if you thought it would get you fired?"
Megan blushed a little and looked down, embarrassed at her behavior. "I didn't like his attitude. If there is one thing I can't stand it's people trying to act all-important just because of their title or their rank. I pushed back. And when he started asking me why I was there for a meeting he summoned me to, I got really angry and I'm afraid that when I get angry or backed into a corner, I tend to speak my mind, minus the all-important filters of manners or tact. It gets me into trouble sometimes, so I try not to get myself into those situations in the first place. He hit all my buttons, but I learned something in the process. I think it's a defense mechanism for him."
"Defense against what?"
"Lots of things: racism, hurt feelings, getting too close," Megan sighed, "To get to the top, he had to prove he was twice as good as any of the white guys who wanted his position. If he barks first, it puts people on the defensive. He's got a tough job and I'm sure there is a lot of political crap going on behind the scenes that makes it an even tougher job. So he snarls and growls because for whatever reason, it works. But it keeps people from seeing him any other way."
"That makes sense. But I don't suggest trying that again if you want to keep your job."
Megan laughed. "I'll try to stay out of trouble." She retrieved a tablet and pen from her sewing table/desk and quickly jotted a note. Do you think I have to worry about my apartment begin bugged? She felt stupid writing it and hoped she didn't come across as paranoid. "This is good wine."
"I'm glad you like it." Steve took the pen from her, thought a moment, then wrote beneath her words. I wish I could say no.
"Are you ready for pie?"
Steve let out a soft moan, "Give me a few minutes. I'm enjoying this too much to rush." On the pad, he continued their second conversation. What has you worried?
"I never thought to ask if you drank coffee. I don't so I don't have any here. But I can offer you tea."
"I love coffee, but tea is fine."
"I'll put the kettle on." She took back the pen. Hard to put my finger on. Lots of little things. Someone was in my apartment this week. May have been maintenance… but no note was left.
When Megan returned to the table, Steve handed her a folded paper he'd retrieved from his jacket. He wrote a bit more and pushed the notepad over to her. This was slipped inside my locker at S.H.I.E.L.D. on Friday.
Megan opened up the paper. It listed two books, followed by the message, "Mandatory book club reading, off-site only."
Megan felt the color drain from her face. "I'm going to put the food away while the water heats," she said in as normal a voice as she could manage. We need to talk. Cell phones track your location. Where is truly off the grid and private?
"Let me help," Steve said, jumping up in alarm at her reaction.
Megan pulled Tupperware out of the cupboards and tried to find matching lids but her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the plastic ware. Steve reached around her and took them from her and laid them on the counter before turning her around and pulling her close in a hug. His lips brushed next to her ear. His breath was a faint whisper, "You've read those books?"
Megan nodded and held up one finger. She couldn't stop shaking. If she was right, then she was going to have to make some tough choices.
Steve rubbed her back, holding her close. "We'll figure this out," he murmured to her. In a normal voice, he said, "I think I'd like for you to teach me to cook a few meals."
Megan nodded robotically and took a deep breath. Cooking as a cover for spending more time with him? She could do that. "As soon as I finish putting this away, we can decide what to start with. Why don't you sit down and make a list of favorite foods you miss having. I'll get my recipe box out and pull out some of my favorites, and we can from there. Do you have a crock pot?"
"I don't know what that is, so I assume the answer is no."
"Then we need to get you one. Or two, actually, so you have different sizes for different meals. They're not expensive. Do you trust me?"
He held her head in his hands when she pulled away to start putting away the leftovers, "Absolutely." His eyes told her that he wasn't talking about crock-pots.
