The First Attempt

"Be careful with that. It's not a—"

"A toy, I know."

"Okay, just—"

"Steve! You said I could do this!"

"I'm already regretting it."

Steve, Cat, and Wanda had returned to Natasha's apartment to come to the realization that they had another problem. Natasha didn't have any baking-appropriate tools. No spatula. No wooden spoon. No mixing machines. Not even regular cooking knives. Wanda had offered to scour the rest of the apartment in the vain hope of finding more kitchen appliances while Cat and Steve got started on the cake.

With little to no tools, they had to resort to… creative measures.

Currently, Cat was using one of Natasha's… uh… non-cooking knives in place of a butter knife. It was a nice long one that Cat had found strapped under the coffee table. The hard part hadn't been finding it. (Natasha had an impressive collection hidden around the apartment.) It was persuading Steve into letting her use it.

"No," had been his split-second response.

"C'mon," Cat had said, "do you want to be a party pooper or the cool fun uncle?"

"What I don't want to be is the one telling Natasha that I let her ridiculous kid slice her hand open with a knife that she shouldn't have been touching in the first place."

"Now, those are the words of a party pooper."

Eventually, he agreed to letting her cut half of the butter into cubes under his supervision. Cat took it as a victory.

Cat eyeballed an amount of butter that looked roughly equal to the specified amount in the video she was referencing. It was titled How I Make My Famous Moist Chocolate Cake by Kathy, the recipe lady. The knife went through the butter like… well, butter.

"Watch your fing—"

"Okay!"

The crease that appeared between his eyebrows drew a twinge of guilt from Cat. She knew he was trying to help.

"Sorry." She smiled apologetically, waving her still-intact fingers at him. "I'm watching them."

"If you lose a finger, Nat's going to blame me."

Cat deepened her voice in a hoarse imitation of Natasha's. "What the hell were you thinking, Rogers? Why would you give a ten-year-old a knife?"

"My question exactly," Wanda said as she walked in, holding a bowl and a spoon. Her eyes calmly surveyed the scene before her. "I thought you two were preparing the ingredients."

"You found a spoon!" Cat said, delighted. "Now we don't have to use our hands!"

Wanda set the items down on the counter. "I found them in an old box in Natasha's room. Odd place to keep wooden spoons and bowls." She frowned. "Are you sure it was okay for me to look through her things?"

Cat flicked the knife nonchalantly. "Ah, Nat won't care."

Steve caught her wrist and yanked the knife out of her hand, much to her dismay. "Stop waving that around. You're going to kill someone."

"It's a knife, not a shotgun."

"A sharp knife. Sharp knives hurt people."

"So do dull knives," Wanda added, "if you throw them hard enough."

"Or a rock," Cat said, getting into the spirit. "If you throw a rock really hard at someone, you could shatter their skull or rupture vital organs. If the rock has bacteria, you could hit them in the eye and give them a really bad infection."

Wanda looked mildly distrubed. She turned to Steve. "Where did Natasha find her?"

"It doesn't even have to be a rock," Cat continued. "It could be a plastic Barbie head."

"Why just the head?" Wanda asked.

"I don't know. Some kids do that. This one girl I knew in first grade— god, she was so weird—"

"I feel like we've strayed from the point," Steve interjected.

"Right, the point. All kinds of things can kill people," Cat said brightly.

"The point was," Steve emphasized, "don't kill anyone."

Wanda nodded. "A good policy for all areas of life."

"Unless you're trying to kill someone," Cat finished. She smiled sweetly at Steve. "Lesson learned. May I have my knife back, please?"

"It's not your knife, and only if you use it for cutting butter." He reluctantly placed it on the cutting board for Cat to grab.

Wanda studied the lopsided cuts of butter. Before Cat could pick up the knife, she said, "There is a simpler way of doing this, you know."

Steve looked at her. "We're open to ideas."

Wanda flattened her hand and gave a small downwards chop towards the stick of butter. Her face was fixed in a mask of concentration. A thin red plane of energy mimicked the motion of her hand, slicing the butter lengthwise into perfect halves.

Cat looked at Steve. "Did you know she could do that?"

"It didn't occur to me, no."

"It's not his fault," Wanda said. "I usually use my powers to throw people through buildings, not for slicing butter."

Steve's eyes landed on the cutting board.

Cat followed his gaze. "What?"

Wordlessly, Steve reached behind the butter and picked up Natasha's knife, where he'd left it. Or rather— the remains of said knife. The freaky red energy had sliced through it as well, leaving the blade effectively disembodied from the handle.

Cat's mouth dropped. "That's… her favorite knife."

Wanda's eyes widened in horror.

Cat smiled uneasily, taking both ends from Steve and shoving them into a drawer. "Let's not tell her about this."

Natasha wished she had her knives. She always felt more comfortable with a weapon hidden on her, but for obvious reasons she wasn't allowed to carry them into a room full of important people.

She hated press conferences.

She found them extremely tedious for the minute purpose that they served. Not only were they long, but also dreadfully boring, filled with a buzz of cutthroat reporters eager to be in the same room with "the Earth's Mightiest Heroes." God, she hated that name.

She'd spent half her life trying to hide who she really was. Constantly switching identities, changing up her hair every other week— it was the kind of thing that stuck with a person. She wasn't used to interviews or being broadcasted on air to millions of people. But after she'd exposed all her secrets— and HYDRA's— to the public, she didn't have the luxury of pretending anymore.

Natasha was seated at the panel with Tony, Rhodes, Sam, Bruce, and Vision. Wanda had backed out last minute, saying something about not being comfortable with the press yet. Clint was with his family, and Thor was off-world. Bucky was nowhere to be found. His public appearances where he wasn't trying to kill everyone were spotty at best. Similarly, Steve hated dealing with the press.

Natasha shared their sentiments. She wasn't like Tony. The man lived for attention. He'd spent his whole life under the scrutiny of the media. Say what you want about Tony Stark, but he knew how to work the press like no other. There was always a witty comment at the tip of his tongue. He had a response to everything. Natasha didn't care for his over-the-top flirtatious remarks, but she had to admit that he had somewhat of a talent for thinking on his feet.

"Mr. Stark—"

"Tony, Tony!"

"Mr. Stark, over here!"

A reporter wrestled the mic off of the previous speaker, clambering for the next question. They were all like that— a bunch of rabid wolves fighting for the prized bunny. The reporter holding the mic began to ask some idiot question about the Avenger's responsibilities or something. Natasha stopped listening when she realized that she wasn't required to contribute anything to that conversation.

It was at times like these where Natasha was thankful for Tony's presence. He took the brunt of the questions. He would charm and deflect, go off on tangents, and finally give away just enough to satisfy the reporters. They found out only what he wanted them to know, and nothing else.

Natasha didn't say much at these. She spoke into the mic only when a question was specifically directed towards her. Even then, she only spoke for the minimum that was required of her. She wasn't trying to get the people to like her. Hell, she didn't want to be liked. Who gave a crap if some twenty-something reporter thought of her?

The questions themselves weren't particularly flattering, either. It was rare to come across a question that wasn't simultaneously rude, ignorant, and blatantly sexist. Apparently, there was no shortage of people who thought that the only purpose she served the team was to be a sparkly little cheerleader, something pretty for the boys to look at while they fought aliens.

As Tony leaned into the mic to answer the question, Natasha fiddled with the pen she'd been given. There wasn't even a notepad for her to write in. What was the point of giving her a pen, then? She tuned out the clicking of cameras, the flashing lights, the roaring noise of fifty-something reporters all trying to get their attention, and let her thoughts wander.

She spun the pen in her hand. Pens were useful. Not only for writing things. Especially the one she was holding. It was heavier than your typical Walmart ballpoint pen. It was made of metal and had a sharp tip, perfect for penetration. Given that the person handling it wasn't a complete fool, pens could be used to apply all kinds of harm towards another being.

It wouldn't be as effective as a knife, but with the right amount of force and accurate placement, it could cause significant damage. The neck would be an ideal target. A quick stab at the carotid artery would cause the person to bleed out. There were, of course, other places she could stab. The brain stem, the Vagus Nerve, and a dozen other important blood vessels. Perhaps she could forego the neck altogether and instead go for a forceful application to the right pressure points in the body…

Her thoughts drifted to the call she'd received that morning. It was from Cat's school, informing her that there had been an "incident" and her presence at the principal's office was required immediately. Her first reaction was concern, which quickly melted into exasperation. Of course Cat would land herself in the principal's office just when Natasha was halfway across the country. She'd just had enough time to shoot a quick text to Steve asking him to step in before the conference had started.

That damn kid was going to be the death of her. Why was she always getting into trouble? And it was the second time that week. First that disastrous parent-teacher conference, then this?

Something was amiss. Natasha just couldn't figure out what.

Was it school? Cat was the smartest kid she knew. She had never had trouble with the educational side of school, but maybe the stress of balancing high school and elementary school was getting to her.

It could be a teacher thing. Cat didn't seem to like her new substitute teacher all that much.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact time that Cat had started acting odd, but it happened around the time of the kidnapping. It had obviously bothered her more than she'd let on. The bags under her eyes were becoming more obvious. There was a heaviness in her face that was more than just lack of sleep. She hadn't so much as said a word about it, but that didn't surprise Natasha. Sometimes, Cat reminded her too much of herself for her liking.

Pausing Cat's training wasn't just part of her punishment for forging Natasha's signature. Natasha was a grueling instructor, but there was a fine line between hard work and recklessness. Lately, Cat had been pushing herself too hard. Natasha was worried that she'd hurt herself. Not that the kid needed to know that.

Natasha made up her mind. Once she got back, she'd talk to Cat and figure all of this out. Or she'd force it out of her. Either would work.

"Ms. Romanoff!"

Natasha suppressed a sigh as she allowed her focus to shift to the reporter, prepared for another mind-dulling question.

She really did hate press conferences.

The Second Attempt

Natasha would have an aneurysm if she knew the state her kitchen was in. Every available surface was littered with half-opened packages, spilled ingredients, and dirty bowls and plates of varying sizes. They'd spilled half a bag of cocoa on the ground. Cat kept telling Steve that they'd clean it up later.

The scent of burnt cake still lingered in the kitchen from their first attempt. Said attempt laid on the counter with the rest of the ingredients. It was completely black on the top, yet the insides were gooey. Wanda had wisely deemed it unsafe for consumption.

The current attempt wasn't going so great, either.

Cat was trying in vain to turn the stiff, gloopy mess in her hands into an acceptable cake batter. She was operating on the dying hope that maybe if she just stirred it enough, it would become less of a solid block in the bowl. However, the spoon had become so lodged into the batter, it wouldn't move. No matter how hard she twisted it either way, it stuck stubbornly to the bottom of the bowl.

Steve watched the batter like it might explode at any given moment. "This is just wrong."

Cat refused to listen to such unwarranted criticism. "I don't know what you mean."

"It's… not ideal," Wanda agreed without looking up from the recipe in her hand. She was sitting on the counter, in the midst of the packages, her feet tucked underneath her.

"You didn't even look!"

"I can tell from the way Steve sounds."

Steve squinted at the batter. He poked it gingerly. (That's right. Because it was pokeable.) "I think it's supposed to be more… liquid."

"It's supposed to look like this."

Steve pointed to the paused video, where Kathy was showing them the consistency of her cake batter. It was decidedly different from Cat's. "It's supposed to look like that."

Cat glared at him, putting her hands on her hips.

Steve looked like he was trying not to laugh, but he raised his hands. "Just trying to be helpful."

"This is you being helpful?"

Wanda leaned back. "You are both awful at this."

"I don't see you doing much, Wanda," Steve said.

"When I see a disaster coming, I try not to get in the way of it."

Cat placed a hand on her heart. "Your neverending faith is touching. Truly."

"Am I wrong?" Wanda hopped down from the counter to stand next to Cat. "Oh. It's worse than I thought."

Cat looked helplessly at the batter, if it could even be called that. "Okay, fine. I'm a terrible baker." She suddenly pointed to Steve. "But so is Steve!"

He shook his head. "This was all you, kid."

She sighed in defeat. "I don't get it. I did everything like Kathy did."

"You did nothing like she said," Steve said. "You didn't even measure."

"I measure from the heart."

"Your heart is not a good baker," Wanda told her bluntly. "And neither are you."

"Harsh." Cat crossed her arms and got flour on her shirt, which had already picked up cocoa, vanilla extract, and half an eggshell.

Wanda picked the eggshell off of her shoulder and threw it in the trash.

"So are we starting again?" Cat asked.

"No." Wanda poked the lump in the bowl warily. "There may be hope for this unfortunate paste yet."

The Second (and a half?) Attempt

"I've changed my mind," Wanda said half an hour later. "This batter is completely unredeemable."

There was a swipe of chocolate on her chin. She'd tied up her hair in a ponytail, but it was now lopsided and a few strands had come out. The apron she'd managed to find was smeared with flour. She looked like a mess, but Cat herself probably didn't look much better.

Wanda had made it clear that Cat and Steve were in no circumstances allowed to come within three feet of her and her station, deeming their presence detrimental to the baking process. They'd decided to make themselves useful by cleaning up and salvaging what was left of the kitchen.

Cat paused in wiping down the counters and came up to Wanda, peering down at the bowl. Rather than being stiff and hard, the consistency of the batter dripped off the spoon like water. It was still better than the state it'd been in Cat's hands, but not by much.

"I thought you knew what you were doing!"

"I cook," Wanda said. "I'm not a baker."

Steve leaned over. His eyebrows raised. "Wow."

Cat sniffed it. "It doesn't smell awful."

"That's the vanilla extract," Wanda said. "I think I added too much."

"It's better than nothing," Steve decided. "Should we toss it in the oven and hope for the best?"

"What could go wrong?"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

They'd set off the smoke detector.

Wanda and Cat had been messing around with a deck of cards when Steve smelled something burning. The batter had overflowed and dripped to the bottom of the oven, catching fire. The kitchen had filled with wisps of smoke, and it had only taken seconds for the alarm to go wild.

Wanda was opening the windows, trying to clear out the smoke. Steve was balancing on a chair, fiddling with the stupid alarm while Cat frantically googled how to turn off smoke detector on the laptop, shouting instructions through the cloud of smoke filling up the kitchen.

"It says we should replace the batteries." Cat squinted at the next line. "Or just get a new fire alarm— gee, what great advice, wikiHow."

Steve glanced down, baffled. "What's a wikiHow? Do I need it to replace the batteries?"

"Never mind. Oh! Press the reset button— not that one, the one to your left."

Steve held it down. The chirping didn't stop. Beep. Beep. Beep. "Now what?"

Cat tapped something into the search engine. She clicked on a new site and scrolled for something helpful. "Try turning it to the right— sorry, the left— wait no, this isn't the right brand—"

"Doesn't matter!" Steve gave it a hard twist and the smoke detector popped free. There were a handful of wires attached to it, connecting it to the ceiling still.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Wanda returned to the kitchen. Every window had been thrust open, filling the rooms with cold air. Most of the smoke had cleared out, yet the chirping didn't cease.

"What next?" Steve asked.

"Uh—"

Wanda lifted her hand. "I have a better idea."

The smoke detector glowed a vibrant red in Steve's hand. Alarmed, he turned to look at her. He only had time to say, "Wanda—" before the smoke detector was forcibly yanked from the ceiling— wires snapping, the faint crackle of electricity before the beeping came to an abrupt halt.

Cat and Steve both stared at the broken smoke detector in Steve's hand.

"Problem solved," Wanda said. "I'll pay for the damages."

How was wanda? idk if she was out of character because I'm not thaat familiar with how she talks/acts when she's not being a freaking badass.

anyway I decided to split this chapter up. I've already written half of the other chapter, so that'll be up soon.

I'd love to reply to all of the guest reviewers, but I'm honestly so busy at the moment which is also why it's taken me a bit longer to upload. I'm taking two summer classes at the moment and my off-season practice started a couple weeks ago. Hopefully I'll update this chapter later with the guest replies.

if you could take the time to review, I'd greatly appreciate it :) I promise I'll respond to you at some point

also happy one day late fourth of july! did I say this in an earlier chapter at some point? I feel like i did because i was going to write "if you're american because I am too" and then I got this weird deja vu like have i written that before