The timer for the pasta has just under 2 minutes left on it when Steve hears the knock, so he's still holding the tea towel he was wiping his hands on when he answers the door. A quick, involuntary smile crosses his face when he first sees Rogue, motioning her in. "Hey! Come on in. I'm just-- about ready to check the pasta, should be done soon. Umm-- you can have a seat," he gestures toward the little kitchen table - room enough for two people to comfortably eat, but probably not any more, "I'll just finish this up."
The towel lands on the counter while he moves back to the pasta pot, taking a quick peek at the bread slices through the oven window. The timer dings, and he scoops up a piece of penne with a wooden spoon, blowing on it a couple times before eating it. Nodding, he moves the pot over to the sink, draining it into a colander.
There's a plate set beside the stove with what looks like half a loaf of garlic bread already, and another pot on a back burner that's slowly simmering a white sauce. Beside the sink, there's a large bowl for the pasta to go into, and beside that an almost equally large bowl full of chunks of grilled chicken.
Steve moves efficiently, competently from sink to counter to stove and back, putting everything together. "What d'you want to drink?" he asks over his shoulder. "I've got... water," he laughs. "I think there's some soda in the fridge, but I couldn't tell you what kind. Not diet, I know that. I'm usually not a fan of a lot of sugar, though. Coke, I think," he adds in a murmur, trying to remember. Clint had come over at one point, brought the soda, some beers. "Beer, if you want. Doesn't do anything for me, so I'm not likely to drink it." He rolls his eyes.
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The towel lands on the counter while he moves back to the pasta pot, taking a quick peek at the bread slices through the oven window. The timer dings, and he scoops up a piece of penne with a wooden spoon, blowing on it a couple times before eating it. Nodding, he moves the pot over to the sink, draining it into a colander.
There's a plate set beside the stove with what looks like half a loaf of garlic bread already, and another pot on a back burner that's slowly simmering a white sauce. Beside the sink, there's a large bowl for the pasta to go into, and beside that an almost equally large bowl full of chunks of grilled chicken.
Steve moves efficiently, competently from sink to counter to stove and back, putting everything together. "What d'you want to drink?" he asks over his shoulder. "I've got... water," he laughs. "I think there's some soda in the fridge, but I couldn't tell you what kind. Not diet, I know that. I'm usually not a fan of a lot of sugar, though. Coke, I think," he adds in a murmur, trying to remember. Clint had come over at one point, brought the soda, some beers. "Beer, if you want. Doesn't do anything for me, so I'm not likely to drink it." He rolls his eyes.