"Natasha?" Steve approached her tentatively. "Can I ask you a favor?"
She turned her attention from her plate to the man standing in front of her and waited.
"I, uh, wondered if you could help me out, maybe teach me a few things?"
"I don't give dancing lessons, Steve," she answered in clipped tones.
"No, not dancing!”
He looked puzzled, so she allowed that maybe he hadn't pushed that particular button on purpose. "Did Tony put you up to this?"
"Put me up to...? I'm not sure what you mean. I mean, Tony did suggest I ask you," he raised his hands in front of him at her murderous expression, "but it's not-- I want you to teach me how to cook!"
She studied him in silence for a few moments, her disbelief written clearly across her face. "You want me to teach you how to cook."
"Yes," he replied in a rush. "Everybody else eats all of those prepared foods from tins and the freezer microwave meals and they taste like cardboard and chemicals and I mentioned something to Tony and he said I should try 'going organic' and maybe I should ask you because you like to eat, uh, healthy stuff and that you won't even let JARVIS pre-heat the oven for you so maybe you know how to cook and could maybe help me figure some stuff out?” He paused to take a breath, exhaled with, “Maybe. If you want to?”
He stood with his head bent, one hand massaging the nape of his neck. He peeked up at her through his eyelashes - nervous - with such a hopeful look on his face, she couldn't say no. ___________________
“This is called...?”
“A kampilan,” Steve answered immediately, ducking to avoid her swing.
“Good. And this?”
The knife in her hand flipped open in the time it took him to blink, and he barely caught her wrist as she thrust it toward him.
“It's a balisong,” he ground out, disarming her and pinning her to the mat. “Why do I need to know this?”
“I'm trying to teach you Eskrima,” she replied mildly, then twisted and attempted to break free.
“Yes, so you told me before.” He held her fast. “What I don't understand is what this has to do with cooking.”
“To cook you need to cut. To cut you need to know knives. Eskrima,” she explained, as if that train of logic should be obvious to anyone.
He just shook his head and smiled. “You're a swell dame.”
“Awww, are you gonna get togged to the bricks and ask me to the local gin mill for a ring-a-ding-ding?”
She took advantage of his surprise and flipped him over her head. She pulled a wicked-looking curved blade from its hiding place and smiled. “This is called a karambit...”
___________________
Natasha leaned over and swiped Steve's fork before it got to his mouth, miraculously not spilling its contents on the counter before it reached her mouth.
“This isn't my recipe,” Natasha observed around a mouthful of piping hot potato cake.
“No, uh,” Steve hesitated. “It isn't. I thought that, well, since you put applesauce on it when you served it that maybe I'd try cooking some apples in it, but it was probably a dumb idea. I'm sorry, I'll stick to the recipe next time.”
Natasha swallowed, feeling the burn all the way into her stomach. “No, it's good! You're a natural.”
“Really?” Steve smiled shyly.
“Yes, really,” Natasha smiled back. “And you are as cute as a bug's ear when you blush like that.”
“I'm-- Um.” His face flushed a deeper red, and he busied himself with dolloping sour cream onto his plate.
“Hey,” Natasha bumped him with her hip, swept her index finger through his sour cream and deposited in her mouth with smack of her lips. “What are you doing after you're done here?”
“Uh, nothing really. Why?” He took a bite of his food and hummed in satisfaction.
“There's this place I found, plays Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, that kind of thing. I thought maybe we could go dancing.” She let out a nervous breath. “Maybe. If you want to?”
She was leaning against the counter, her eyes darting here and there before her gaze locked with his. She was nervous, had such a hopeful look in her eyes, and he couldn't say no.
“That sounds fun,” he told her, a warmth spreading through him at the thought of Natasha in his arms, wearing something clingy, “but, I, uh, don't know how to dance.”
She shrugged, as if that were inconsequential. “It's not much different than Eskrima, really, and you picked that up easy enough.”
Steve gave a burst of laughter. “Yeah, that only took me three months.”
“And now you're as good as an eskrimador who's been practicing for years,” she praised him. “Really, you learn some basic steps, and the rest is just instinct. I'll teach you.”
Steve swallowed the flippant reply that had almost escaped his lips. He'd asked Clint a couple of months ago what the deal was with Natasha and dancing, and was given a very laconic answer regarding false memories and brainwashing, along with an admonishment that maybe there was someone else better suited to be answering his questions.
“I'd love to go dancing with you,” he told her sincerely.
“Great!” Natasha's reply was overly loud. She leaned up and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “Wear something nice. It'll be a real ring-a-ding-ding.”
She slapped his buttocks as she walked out of the room, and he couldn't help but smile.
no subject
She turned her attention from her plate to the man standing in front of her and waited.
"I, uh, wondered if you could help me out, maybe teach me a few things?"
"I don't give dancing lessons, Steve," she answered in clipped tones.
"No, not dancing!”
He looked puzzled, so she allowed that maybe he hadn't pushed that particular button on purpose. "Did Tony put you up to this?"
"Put me up to...? I'm not sure what you mean. I mean, Tony did suggest I ask you," he raised his hands in front of him at her murderous expression, "but it's not-- I want you to teach me how to cook!"
She studied him in silence for a few moments, her disbelief written clearly across her face. "You want me to teach you how to cook."
"Yes," he replied in a rush. "Everybody else eats all of those prepared foods from tins and the freezer microwave meals and they taste like cardboard and chemicals and I mentioned something to Tony and he said I should try 'going organic' and maybe I should ask you because you like to eat, uh, healthy stuff and that you won't even let JARVIS pre-heat the oven for you so maybe you know how to cook and could maybe help me figure some stuff out?” He paused to take a breath, exhaled with, “Maybe. If you want to?”
He stood with his head bent, one hand massaging the nape of his neck. He peeked up at her through his eyelashes - nervous - with such a hopeful look on his face, she couldn't say no.
___________________
“This is called...?”
“A kampilan,” Steve answered immediately, ducking to avoid her swing.
“Good. And this?”
The knife in her hand flipped open in the time it took him to blink, and he barely caught her wrist as she thrust it toward him.
“It's a balisong,” he ground out, disarming her and pinning her to the mat. “Why do I need to know this?”
“I'm trying to teach you Eskrima,” she replied mildly, then twisted and attempted to break free.
“Yes, so you told me before.” He held her fast. “What I don't understand is what this has to do with cooking.”
“To cook you need to cut. To cut you need to know knives. Eskrima,” she explained, as if that train of logic should be obvious to anyone.
He just shook his head and smiled. “You're a swell dame.”
“Awww, are you gonna get togged to the bricks and ask me to the local gin mill for a ring-a-ding-ding?”
She took advantage of his surprise and flipped him over her head. She pulled a wicked-looking curved blade from its hiding place and smiled. “This is called a karambit...”
___________________
Natasha leaned over and swiped Steve's fork before it got to his mouth, miraculously not spilling its contents on the counter before it reached her mouth.
“This isn't my recipe,” Natasha observed around a mouthful of piping hot potato cake.
“No, uh,” Steve hesitated. “It isn't. I thought that, well, since you put applesauce on it when you served it that maybe I'd try cooking some apples in it, but it was probably a dumb idea. I'm sorry, I'll stick to the recipe next time.”
Natasha swallowed, feeling the burn all the way into her stomach. “No, it's good! You're a natural.”
“Really?” Steve smiled shyly.
“Yes, really,” Natasha smiled back. “And you are as cute as a bug's ear when you blush like that.”
“I'm-- Um.” His face flushed a deeper red, and he busied himself with dolloping sour cream onto his plate.
“Hey,” Natasha bumped him with her hip, swept her index finger through his sour cream and deposited in her mouth with smack of her lips. “What are you doing after you're done here?”
“Uh, nothing really. Why?” He took a bite of his food and hummed in satisfaction.
“There's this place I found, plays Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, that kind of thing. I thought maybe we could go dancing.” She let out a nervous breath. “Maybe. If you want to?”
She was leaning against the counter, her eyes darting here and there before her gaze locked with his. She was nervous, had such a hopeful look in her eyes, and he couldn't say no.
“That sounds fun,” he told her, a warmth spreading through him at the thought of Natasha in his arms, wearing something clingy, “but, I, uh, don't know how to dance.”
She shrugged, as if that were inconsequential. “It's not much different than Eskrima, really, and you picked that up easy enough.”
Steve gave a burst of laughter. “Yeah, that only took me three months.”
“And now you're as good as an eskrimador who's been practicing for years,” she praised him. “Really, you learn some basic steps, and the rest is just instinct. I'll teach you.”
Steve swallowed the flippant reply that had almost escaped his lips. He'd asked Clint a couple of months ago what the deal was with Natasha and dancing, and was given a very laconic answer regarding false memories and brainwashing, along with an admonishment that maybe there was someone else better suited to be answering his questions.
“I'd love to go dancing with you,” he told her sincerely.
“Great!” Natasha's reply was overly loud. She leaned up and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “Wear something nice. It'll be a real ring-a-ding-ding.”
She slapped his buttocks as she walked out of the room, and he couldn't help but smile.
She really was a swell dame.