Buterbrod

One of the adjustments to American culture was, of course, the drinking age thing.

Sokovia was one of the more lenient countries when it came to the legalities of alcohol consumption—that is, if you were tall enough to see over the counter, you could purchase it, and the rest was your own problem. Wanda and Pietro, though just shy of twenty-one, had been old enough to drink in Sokovia for some time. This, of course, posed a problem.

There was no way for them to legally purchase any alcohol in the States. Their ID cards were clear enough, and Steve wasn't about to allow any fraudulent behavior on that front. But nobody had the heart to tear the twins away from a sense of familiarity just for the sake of following a rule—so, within the safety of the HQ, some concessions were made.

Tony had allowed Pietro access to the vodka in his stash, as long as nothing was broken when it was imbibed. Pietro was simply happy for a taste of home, and his enhanced metabolism meant that he burned off any adverse effects much quicker than normal. Any requests made were promptly granted, and soon, Tony got a taste of real Russian vodka, Tatratea, and hard kvass.

Which is why Steve didn't so much as bat an eye when he walked into the Common Room kitchenette to find Pietro with a bottle of vodka on the counter and one and a half shots in front of him, making sandwiches.

"Dobry den, Captain!" greeted Pietro. His voice was a little lower from the alcohol, but apart from a slightly more lackadaisical air than normal, there wasn't much change.

"Pietro," Steve answered politely and looked at the bread and condiments stacked up over the counter. "You're making something?"

Pietro looked almost offended, and a little embarrassed. "I was hungry."

Steve's smile was small. "So am I," he said, perfectly serious. "All the time." He wandered over to the other side of the kitchen island and noted, "You haven't finished these sandwiches."
"That's because is not sandwiches," Pietro answered smugly. "Is buterbrod!" With a flourish, he smacked a thick slab of butter on a small slice of bread. "Otherwise known as how to eat like king without paying money like one." He turned away, not meeting Steve's eye, and added quietly, "I know that we have allowance from Stark, but, well..."

"Old habits die hard," Steve intoned gravely. "I get it."

"Áno."

"May I?"

Pietro shrugged. "Sure, of course." He began to busy himself with more open-face sandwiches. "I have with sausage and cheese, and with pickles, and with egg, and with majonéza, and with caviar..."

"Is this rye bread?" Steve lifted one in his hand, almost folding it between his fingers like a slice of pizza.

Pietro's head popped up. "You recognize?"

"Sure," said Steve. "It's cheaper than wheat. Ma couldn't always afford wheat bread, but rye is better for you anyway."

Pietro looked away, his voice low, as he stared far away past the counter. "So you do understand..."

Steve smiled. Pietro was always openly friendly and bombastic, but sometimes that meant it was hard to see what was actually going on in his head. He could only imagine how afraid the Sokovian boy was of getting hurt—because he himself was—but now, he could feel a little bit of that protective ice beginning to melt.

Steve bit into the rye bread, egg, and butter, and made a small noise of appreciation. "This is good."

Pietro, recovering his wits, replied, "Right? Here, try one with cucumber." He looked around at all his creations, hands on his narrow hips, and frowned. "Hm. Needs some sprats."

With that, he marched off to the fridge.

"I think we have some sardines," Steve called after him.

"Is not the same as sprats!" Pietro shouted back.

They spent the next few hours making—and eating—enough sandwiches to feed six men, and washing it all down with homemade hard kvass.

All in all, Steve decided, a successful afternoon.

A/N: Part two of the former namesake! Steve and Pietro are extremely similar in so many ways, and it's a shame we never got to explore that. Pretty much everything else here—buterbrod, Tatratea, kvass, etc.—is all inspired by the youtube channel Life of Boris. Is Pietro Russian? No, but he is Slav, and I think there'd be a little overlap here.

All Sokovian, as always, is Slovak, courtesy of the ever-dubious Google Translate. Dobrey den means hello, Áno means yes, and majonéza means mayonnaise (apparently a food group unto itself, if Boris is to be believed).

Reviews are buterbrod! Tbc...