𝒑𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒕 || s. rogers & b. barnes

4||; 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒚

⤷ february 25, 2013
━━━━━━━━━━━

"Good peameal."

"Made it the same way I always do, Roberts."

Irina lets out a delighted hum as she cuts another slice of the meat, the juice spilling out onto the plate, making her all the more hungry. Steve smiles over from his place at the stove, flipping over the omelet he was making, effortlessly succeeding.

The past few months have been a grace period of sorts. After eight months of underlying awkwardness and tension between the two new roommates, they found their peace on Christmas Day, and have since been slowly working on building a relationship past just coworkers.

Now, they were friends.

Irina still had the occasional nightmare, but she never told Steve, in slight fear of his disappointment in hearing his sentimental Christmas present didn't, in fact, work for her.

She's been slowly introducing Steve to the pop culture she was shown by the Parkers, with them having Friday movie nights and the occasional binging session of some of the big tv shows going on at the present moment.

Steve had also gotten into introducing her to more old-fashioned things — namely music, as not many items from the 40's were on as many shelves nowadays, nor as relevant.

"You ever wanted to be a cook, Rogers?" Irina asks casually after they're both done with their breakfast, now cleaning up.

Steve had his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, scrubbing away at the dishes and utensils while she was on drying duty, wiping at the dishes with a clean and dry cloth before putting them away in their correct cupboards and drawers. "Because you cook like Gordon Ramsey — without the shouting and the cursing and the overall unpleasantness."

Steve glances at her briefly, the ends of his lips flickering up. He focuses back on the dishes. "It never crossed my mind to be one, no. I was always focused on the war; on getting onto the frontlines and servicing my country —"

"God, don't give me a Captain America answer," she interrupts, her nose scrunching in slight distaste at his answer. "Try again. From the top."

Steve let out a small chuckle as he hands her a washed plate. Irina takes it, wiping it dry with her cloth. "Alright... I guess I never got into it because my Ma loved cooking — loved my cooking, too. She always told me how she thought I could do some great work as a chef, but after she died, I..." he let out a breath, giving a small shrug, "...guess the passion died with her."

She's silent for a moment, guilt written across her face as she opens the cupboard in front of her, reaching up and stacking the plate with the others. "...That was... Sorry. My bad," she sighs.

"No. No, you're fine," Steve insists, looking at her while offering her a wet cup. Irina glances at him as she takes it, holding his stare with a slight grimace. "Please, don't. It still hurts but...my Ma would scold me for wallowing in my sorrows. She'd want me to move on, and I have, for the most part."

Irina let out a small hum, glancing away as she took to circling the rim of the clear glass cup with the cloth. She frowns. "I...never knew my mom," she blows out a breath. "But it's good yours sounded like a nice woman. She raised a hell of a man," she comments, eyes flickering briefly to Steve with a tiny smile etching onto her lips.

He returns it with a low, sheepish chuckle. "Thanks, I suppose. You know, if you're ever curious about your mother, I'm sure Stark will gladly —"

She shakes her head immediately, shutting the idea down with a soft, derisive snort. "No. The man has enough on his hands, after the whole fiasco with the Mandarin. I'm fine just texting him once or twice a week to check up, really. It's...easier that way, to get used to him," remarks Irina. She smiles softly to herself while taking a washed fork from Steve and wiping it down after putting the cup away. She tucks the utensil into the drawer at her hips.