A Concept of Women and Cooking

That Doctor Romanoff was certainly something. Beautiful, scary, smart, a redhead; in a nutshell, she was pretty much just Pepper without freckles. And Tony found that both amusing and slightly horrifying. Amusing because he now had not one, but two Peppers he could bother whenever he wanted, but horrifying because he now had not one, but two Peppers who would always have better reasoning over him. Their judgement would always be right. They both had a moral compass that surpassed Tony's by a long-shot.

Two resilient minds in two powerful women should be a good thing. But to Tony, it was anything but a good thing. It meant that they now had the potential to gang up on him and actually make him heed their advice. Obeying Pepper's nagging rules was scary, and Tony was not prepared for that.

However, the even scarier part of listening to Pepper was that he would have to also listen to the second Pepper: Dr. Natasha Romanoff. Granted, the doctor gave lots of helpful insight, albeit, but she also gave two instructions which spelled out Doomsday for Tony.

Number one rule being: He was not allowed to fatten Steve up.

'Just be sure to not overwhelm him with massive amounts of food,' she had said, reading off her checklist as if this were something unimportant, as if she gave orders to wounded military captains every day, 'or something too unhealthy, even if it fattens him up. Fattening is not the answer, I promise.' The doctor's advice was… scary, for lack of better terms.

At first, Tony thought she was crazy, telling him not to 'fatten him up' and that he was 'malnourished.' To Tony, Steve was still the big, masculine army dude who looked like he popped right out of a G.I. Joe Doll box. Steve still resembled Tony's earliest memories of him, back when he was first captured and brought to Yinsen's cave, as if he was a perfectly preserved photograph. But then, after Dr. Romanoff's suggestion, Tony decided to look at Steve, really look at him, not the American army poster child, but the injured kid from Brooklyn.

And, looking at him, Tony discovered that Dr. Romanoff was right. Steve really had changed. It wasn't just his clothes, it was his yellowed skin, his lack of muscle, his matted fading hair, and his stubbly chin that changed him. And it gave Tony the creeps.

He subjected himself to traumatic memories and pressures for two weeks to get his soldier back, and all Tony got was a sad, quiet figure who he wasn't allowed to talk to. And Tony didn't want it.

So, he gave Steve vegetables, protein, and grains, and offered dairy and fruits occasionally, all cooked and decorated to perfection by some of the most prestigious chefs in the nation. But Steve still didn't eat; not much anyway. Within the few days that they had spent together, Tony never saw Steve eat an entire meal. Peter had said something about what his aunt did for his uncle to get him to eat, but Tony didn't remember; he was too preoccupied in trying to figure out what the hell to do with Steve. He really, really, really, wanted to give him a five-star buffet of twenty courses of meals, a feast fit for ten kings. The only thing holding him back from doing so was not the price, it was Pepper #2.

The second rule the devil-of-a-woman gave him was to reconcile with his junior assistant.

Tony didn't realize it until Dr. Romanoff pointed it out, but he missed Peter. He didn't miss him the hopeless romantic way that he missed his actual assistant, Pepper, but in a slight… paternal way. He missed the shadow over his shoulder, constantly fawning over him. He missed how that tiny, shrill voice of Peter's would offer coffee or whiskey no matter what time of day. He missed the way Peter would get in the way, and how Tony would have to swerve around sharp corners not to bump into him. He missed that stupid red and black backpack with the stupid blue straps and the stupid yellow zippers that adorned it. The kid liked Princess Aurora, ha! Peter was priceless.

It's been a while now since Tony has last seen him, four days maybe. And that means it's been two weeks since Pepper left. And that means it will be two weeks until she returns. And that means Peter will have two weeks before he's out of the job.

What was it Tony said that got Peter to walk out in the first place? He didn't say anything harmful, he knows he didn't. Tony didn't fully understand why his junior assistant was so upset. He thought he understood. But then, Peter didn't show up for work since he left. So Tony must have said something worse than what he thought he said, either that or Peter was just stubborn.

All millennials are stubborn. But wasn't the kid from Generation Z?

Tony slammed a fist down on the kitchen counter. Everything was difficult and confusing, especially since he was trying to cook while sorting all of this out.

Steve sat straight up at the noise of Tony's fist hitting marble. He had been peacefully resting on the sofa before, but now he looked like a deer in the headlights.

Tony waved him off, "Lie back down, Steve. I just hit the counter," he said. He pounded the counter a few more times, looking at him, "See? No harm done."

Steve's surprised expression softened. However, he still looked unconvinced.

Tony hit the counter with more ferocity, "It's marble, Steve. It's Lux Touch marble, the best there is. By both Pietra Firma and John Harwood Designs! It's the most expensive out there! It's not hurting me, and I'm not hurting it."

Steve nodded slowly, sinking back down onto the sofa, facing upwards with his arms crossed over his chest. Tony took hold of his kitchen knife and gave the marble a few nicks with it.

"I'd have to be made o' metal to hurt this crap," he muttered to himself.

"What happened to your iron man?"

It was Steve who spoke.

Tony dropped the kitchen knife. For a moment, he was completely still. Anxiety began to flood his thoughts slowly, so slowly and painfully it felt like molasses. He went to Steve's side at the sofa; the movement almost giving him whiplash. He cupped his quivering hand over Steve's mouth, "Ssh!" he hissed, his voice threatening to break, "You... you're not supposed to talk. No talking, okay? What, did the doctor not tell you? That Russian Empress... she... Dr. Romanoff says you shouldn't talk, Steve. It's bad for you."

Steve nodded. He took hold of Tony's hand and carefully lifted it off of his mouth. He took Tony's grip in his, intertwining their fingers like a true friend, like he really understood.

Tony would have smiled if he hadn't been filled with so much anxious energy. But he knew Steve didn't really understand, but he was trying to, and that almost made him proud. He shook their hands professionally. Steve moved to one side of the sofa, leaving the other cushion for Tony to sit down on.

"Now... about the iron man," Tony said, slouching down on the sofa, "The Mark, it–Wait, do you really not remember, Steve?"

Steve remained still.

"Geez. Okay–Geez, okay, um… So we were outside. And it was really hot, and you were really sick. Except you were walking and so I yelled at you–But not like in a mean way, at least I don't think it was in a mean way. Anyway, you said let's build a statue, a beacon so that people could see it from long ways away and come find us. So we took the Mark apart and... you know, reconstituted it as a big, tall… doohickey. But it was really hard, 'cause it was so freaking hot. Like, I mean, in the desert, the Sun seems to get a million times hotter and a million times bigger. You know, the sun is actually becoming ten percent more luminous every billion years. In five billion years, it'll be so hot and intense that all the water on Earth would've melted away, and everything will be dead, and it'll blow up and destroy the entire planet. And… yeah, that's what happened to the Mark, I guess."

Steve looked distraught. Tony couldn't guess why, since Steve barely helped construct the beacon. He really only rested in its shade.

Something tugged at Tony's heartstrings as he began to remember the last time he saw Steve. After they... kissed... Tony got mad and ran away. He had only been taking time to himself, since he knew Steve was unable to follow him. He was going to come back, really he was. He had only been taking time to himself to think, and planned to return shortly afterwards.

But then the helicopter came and rescued him. Tony and the helicopter team flew back to the beacon to find it deserted. It had been all alone in the desert. Steve had been nowhere to be found. Until two weeks ago. He miraculously went from a near-death condition in the middle of an Afghan desert to walking upright somewhere in New York State.

Tony's stomach filled with lead, "Where have you been, Steve?"

"Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! And all the girls say I'm pretty fly for a white guy."

Oh yeah. Tony had totally forgotten he set that song as his ringtone for Pepper. Pepper #1.

He held up his finger to Steve, "One second please."

Then he hurried back into the kitchen where he left his phone on the Lux Touch marble. He swiped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, "Pepper guess what!"

"Tony, I'm calling about–What is it?"

"No, you have to guess."

"Okay, umm… you learned to tie a tie?"

"Nope," he added a pop on the 'p.'

"You found some new crazy foreign alcoholic drink?"

"Nope."

"You went to a conference without pants again?"

"Yes, but no. That's not what I'm talking about."

"You made up with Mr. Parker?"

"No. Why is it everyone knows about that?"

"Tony, just tell me."

"You have a twin!"

"Is that all?" her tone was dry and flat.

"I guess? I don't know, I thought you'd like to know you were separated at birth from your long lost twin sister," Tony muttered, going back to boiling rice on the stove, stirring the mixture with his kitchen knife (because all the spoons seem to have disappeared.)

"Tony, I'd like to talk about Captain Rogers."

The sentence caught him off-guard. He was so distracted, in fact, that he dropped the kitchen knife into the boiling rice.

"Crap," he muttered. He grabbed a washcloth and tried reaching around the rim of the pot.

"Tony? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just dropped a knife."

"Oh my God! Are you hurt?!"

"Nooooo. I just dropped a knife. Into some rice."

"Rice? Tony, don't tell me you're–"

"–Cooking? Most certainly. The chefs have a day off and I don't trust the suchefs enough to–"

"–You've never cooked before."

"Well today I felt like it. It's a good day to cook! What is it, Saturday?"

"Friday."

"Even better."

"You don't know how to cook."

"I just... felt like it today, okay?"

"Are you cooking for Captain Rogers?"

His fingers got burnt through the washcloth. Tony pulled his hand back on instinct, trying not to shout out in pain. He bit his tongue as he moved to run his fingers under cold water.

"Yeah. I am. Jealous?" he asked, his fingers feeling like hot ice under the running water.

"I just–I'm proud of you. No, really, I am."

Tony nodded, mostly to himself, "So, whatcha wanna talk about? About him, I mean."

"I just wanted to apologize for being so brash on Sunday, I just didn't understand that... well, you know. I still don't understand what's going on with you and him right now and I'd like to sort it out."

"When you say 'sort it out…'"

"I mean establish something stable. I can put your captain in whatever proper facility he needs, and then shape you back into business. And I quite literally mean 'business.' You have many meetings and calls that you've missed within the last two weeks, and you'll certainly have more that–"

"...Pepper."

"What?"

"You really don't understand, do you?"

"No, Tony, I don't understand. You haven't been particularly open about any of this for years! What makes you think I can suddenly understand this stunt you're trying to pull off?"

"Okay, first of all, it's not a stunt. I haven't tried popping a wheelie since you left, sweetheart. Secondly, I explained this already. Sort of. I explained the logistics, and that should be enough."

"I think you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about your relationship with the captain."

"I am too," Tony said. His fingers were throbbing now, but no longer felt like ice and fire at the same time. He turned the stove down to its coolest level before grabbing a dry oven mitt and trying for the knife again.

Pepper let out a sigh from the other line, "Well, Tony, not everyone is a genius. Try explaining again."

Tony didn't point out that no one had to be a genius to understand what one person can mean to another person. In fact, geniuses understand human interactions way less than the average joe. It wasn't rocket science–Tony should know, he works with rocket science– it's just human emotions.

"He was with me in Afghanistan," he began slowly, "and we kept each other alive. It was like the Hunger Games, I guess. Where I'm Katniss and he's Peeta because I'm a badass and he's not in peak physical condition."

"Don't tell me you fell in love."

"No! What makes you say that?!"

"You said it was like the Hunger Games. Katniss and Peeta fall in love."

"That was just a metaphor!"

"It was a simile."

"I was saying that because I kept him alive. He was sick and hurt. And I helped him," his heart was beating too quickly. He hated this kind of talk, "And for the record, Gale and Katniss were actually in love. Katniss only married Peeta because it was her civil duty."

"But Katniss bore Peeta's children."

"What?!"

"Haven't you read the epilogue of the last book? They have two kids."

"Oh," Tony said, dumbfounded, "Damn. Well, I assure you I haven't birthed any babies within the last couple of years."

"Good to know."

There was a beat. Pepper took an audible breath, "So just refresher: You two are not secret boyfriends."

"Correct," Tony said, finally beginning to feel the knife through the oven mitt, "I mean, we did kiss."

"What!?"

His hands slipped into the boiling water once again and he pulled them back in pain. Being burnt the second time hurt far worse than the first time. Tony pulled open the freezer door, taking a tub of ice cream and burying his hands inside; all while muttering curse words.

"Tony? Still there?"

"Yeah..." he groaned, his fingers squishing the cold, relieving ice cream, "Still here. Forty-two years and counting."

"Did you kiss the captain?" Pepper demanded, her voice sounded more concerned than scolding.

"Not really," Tony admitted, "it was like–I don't know, it was like our lips brushed for a second. Back in the desert. It was nothing romantic, I swear. I mean he was sick, he had a fever he wasn't thinking straight. Hell, I wasn't thinking straight. The heat was driving me nuts."

"So you two are... friends."

"I wouldn't even say that. We're survivors in the buddy-system. That's it."

"This next question is non-accusatory, Tony, it's just so I know how to handle this–"

"–Pepper, you don't need to handle anything, we're oka–"

"–What's the difference between the captain and your other friends? What is it that makes him more important to you?"

"... Holy shit, Pepper do you smell smoke?"

"Tony, I'm not–"

"–Gotta go."

"Wait! I–"

"–Bye bye, Birdie, I love you," he hung up before running to where the burnt rice overflowed the pot, water and black flakes boiling over the top. Panicked, Tony shut the stove off and put on some dry oven mitts. He carried the pot over to the sink and emptied it, watching as his dinner swirled down the drain.

He sighed, throwing off the oven mitts into the sink.

Running fingers through his hair, Tony realized they were still sticky, cold, and blistering all at the same time from the ice cream. So he ran his hands over his face, sticky and all, out of exhaustion and disappointment.

Pepper always made things difficult. Surely she was only trying to help, but she just didn't respect Tony's privacy sometimes. And now Tony had two Peppers.

"Women are nuts," he muttered.

Steve gave him a nasty look. He was peering over the back of the sofa, arms crossed over the top. He had been listening to the entire conversation.

"Please tell me you're upset about dinner, and not my second sexist remark of this week."

Steve held up three fingers.

"Three... What? You mean I said three sexist things? When did I–Ohhhhh. Yeah. You're right. Three. My bad," Tony said, moving to sit back down next to Steve.

On Tuesday, when Tony went back to Dr. Romanoff's office to pick up Steve's medicine, Tony took the moment to ask the question that had been bothering him. He asked Dr. Romanoff how old she was. Now, normally, that's a question anyone can tolerate and ask back and forth with no problem. But Dr. Romanoff was a woman. And that was the second most offensive question anyone could ask a woman, right after asking what her weight was.

Dr. Romanoff squeezed his hand a little too tightly on their parting handshake. She never told him the answer.

Tony looked at the new fingernail scars on his hands, right next to the heat blisters from the rice epidemic. He had managed to burn half of the rice to crisps, and drown the other half of rice in boiling water. Maybe Friday wasn't the best day to cook.

"Sorry I ruined dinner, Steve," Tony muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "I just figured that if I made something that none of those chefs did, you would eat it."

Steve nodded. He didn't say anything. Of course he didn't speak, he wasn't allowed to.

Tony slouched in his seat. He didn't make eye contact, "I never thought I'd see the day when Tony Stark goes hungry."

Steve gave a look.

"Except for, yeah, except for Afghanistan. Those days don't count."

There was a ping at the elevator. With barely any noise, the doors slid apart. The junior assistant stood in the door frame, plastic bags in each hand. He wore a hoodie, with an expression of both embarrassment and unease.

"Hi, Mr. Stark," he said, eyes tilted down at the floor. He held up one of the bags, "Ms. Potts said you cooked."

Tony felt a lump rise in his throat. It hurt when he gulped, "Hi."

"Hi," he said again. He wavered in his spot, "Can... May I come in?"

"Uh. Yeah… Yeah, sure. Come on in," Tony stammered blindly. He scooted over to make room for Peter on the sofa. He was brushing up right against Steve, embarrassing heat and tension forming between them.

Then Peter took a seat on the loveseat right across from them, and Tony realized how horrifyingly awkward the scene had become.

"What, is it my smell? Makes sense. I mean, I haven't showered since-" he cut off; he was making the situation worse. He scooted away from Steve to his first spot, and began to drum his fingers without rhythm in his lap.

In the loveseat, Peter was slouching. He set the bags on the table, and began to open the boxes inside.

"I brought Chinese food," he said with no emotion. He set four styrofoam boxes onto the coffee table between them, followed by three bottled soft drinks, bottled water, some chopsticks, and paper straws. It was an entire meal; a meal that Peter paid for.

Tony stopped himself before he opened a box, "Did Pepper tell you to bring food?"

"Pepper?"

"Ginny. Virgina. Ms. Potts."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, "She did."

"Remind me to thank her," Tony said, opening a box of steamed dumplings.

"Already did," the junior assistant said. He pulled out an agenda from his pocket. It was red and gold on the cover. He handed it to Tony, opening the page to the current week, "There's your schedule for this week. You thank her tomorrow morning at ten."

Tony didn't suppress a small smile of gratitude, "Thanks."

"Yeah. You're welcome."
"Look," Tony began, "Peter, I-"

"-It's okay, Mr. Stark. We don't need to talk about it right now," he said quietly. He pointed a chopstick to Steve, trying to look incognito. He clearly meant that he wanted a private talk with Tony.

Tony agreed, having the captain around would just make things awkward, "Another time then."

There was a beat.

"Listen... it's getting late, I'd better go," Peter said, already standing up, zipping up his hoodie.

"Go?" Tony repeated, getting up after him, "No, you don't have to. You can stay for dinner. Steve doesn't mind."

"No–no, really, I shouldn't. I have to help my aunt tonight–" he stopped himself, already at the elevator door with his fingers poised at the button.

"She can come over too, if that's what you want," Tony said, following after him.

"Mr. Stark, no–just–just, no, not tonight. I'm going home now. I can come back another time," Peter confessed, his attention absent, "just not tonight."

He didn't move, and for a moment, neither did Tony. They stood, neither of them talking nor even looking at each other. Then Tony reached over and pressed the elevator button dourly.

"Okay," Tony said, "go."

Nothing more was said, and frankly, nothing more needed to be said. Peter left, and Tony returned to his dinner. And that was the end of it.

"Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)" by The Offspring. "The Hunger Games Trilogy" by Suzanne Collins.