Finding You

[theycalledmeacurse]

I know forever don't exist
But after this life, I'll find you in the next
So when I say "forever," it's the goddamn truth
I'll keep finding you...

Aliens. Of all the things that could have gone wrong on her first solo business trip for the school, somehow aliens hadn't really made the list of possibilities. Breaking a shoe on the way to the donor's office, her car breaking down on the way into the city, getting food poisoning from bad sushi — the list went on and on, but aliens had never really occurred to her. Staring up at the giant armored worm thing flying above the street a few blocks down, she realizes that apparently it should have.

It takes time for her to fight the crowds fleeing the epicenter of the attack, each second feeling like an hour, and then she's faced with one of those creatures, its weapon pointing straight at her—

Reflexes honed by years of training sessions in the Danger Room have her dropping just in time, the car behind her taking the brunt of the impact with a metallic screech, and then she's back on her feet, a short metal stick in her hand expanding to a full-length staff. She wastes no time in swinging it at her enemy with practiced force, focused on damaging that armor enough to get hold of its weapon. Once she has it, she should be able to take them out much more efficiently.

It's a good thing everyone is more focused on the alien invasion than the woman with the weird hair trying to play ninja in a business suit.

Comments

[on_ur_left]

Steve stares at the reply, debating. It's true, the sky's getting cloudy, and it just smells like rain is coming. But is that a legitimate reason, or is she saying it to get out of it because he made the offer?

Pressing his lips together, Steve starts to type.

You could come to my place to eat. Just some pasta Im making and garlic bread. Or I can deliver. :)

He stares at the message, then adds one more line.

I cook enough for an army, you'd be doing me a favor eating some of it.

He knows all about how to guilt someone into doing something. It may not work, but at least now he's taken away her chance to say 'oh I don't want to put you out.'

[theycalledmeacurse]

She can't help but smile at the message, recognizing his tactic as one she's used herself many a time. It doesn't sway her decision either way for any guilt-related reason, but it does make her want to accept the offer for other reasons.

I'm in a hotel for the night, so it'll be easier for me to come to you. Thank you for the invitation. When should I be there?

There's a part of her that's curious about where he lives, what the space will be like and what parts of him will be reflected there.

[on_ur_left]

Blinking, Steve glances around the kitchen, out into his apartment, trying to see what she might see. He decides quickly it's not messy enough to worry about - he's not much of one for pretenses, and he considers making his apartment immaculate for a guest/friend to be a pretense - and texts back, 45 mins. May still be cooking but it will still be hot when you get here.

He adds his address and apartment number.

Then realizes he still hasn't finished putting away the groceries, and hurries to do so, so he can start on supper.

[theycalledmeacurse]

Okay. I'll see you soon.

45 minutes is just enough time for her to change out of her suit and into something far more comfortable - jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, and a well-worn green hoodie. Favorite clothes that make her feel more comfortable and help her move past the horrible events of that afternoon.

It's also enough time for a quick stop at a bakery. Steve had mentioned dinner only, so it seems only polite to pick up dessert on the way. Of course it starts raining as she gets to the stop near his apartment, but fat drops soaking into fabric as she makes a mad dash across the street, sheltering the white box as best she can. She doesn't look quite like a drowned rat when she knocks on his door, but the resemblance is certainly there.

[on_ur_left]

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.

[theycalledmeacurse]

Rogue takes a seat at that small table, setting down the white box off to the side of it before shrugging off the damp hoodie. Thankfully the layers beneath are mostly dry - she hangs it off the back of her chair and hopes the warmth from the kitchen will help it dry off too, at least by the time she has to leave. Her gloves are just as damp, but there's no helping them unfortunately.

Grinning at his reaction, she provides, "I'll take one of them off your hands then, sugar. If you don't mind." Her nerves could sure use it after the day she'd had. Usually she's more of a bourbon girl, but she'll take what she can get. "Everything smells delicious, by the way. Thanks for inviting me."

Sure, she'd already said it over text, but this is something that warrants being said again. In person. He can't know how much it means to her.

[on_ur_left]

He glances at her again when she thanks him, then just shakes his head, bringing the beer bottle over to her. "You're welcome, but it's really not a big deal. I was plannin' on makin' food anyway, and..." he flashed her a smile. "I have the feeling you won't make much of a dent in all the food I have to make for myself. It's nice to have the company."

The chicken is dumped over the pasta and stirred a few times, before the sauce gets poured over it and set on the counter closest to the table - unfortunately the table isn't big enough for both the food and the plates, but it's a minor inconvenience. Next the garlic bread is pulled out of the oven and added to the pile already plated and moved next to the pasta. Lastly, Steve pulls a salad bowl of mixed greens out of the fridge and drizzles Italian dressing over it, before it gets deposited beside everything else.

Plating everything, Steve grimaces as he sets down in front of Rogue what is obviously a cereal bowl, full of salad. "Sorry. I don't do much entertaining, so my standard tableware is a little lacking." Setting a plate of pasta with 2 slices of garlic bread down in front of her, he makes up his own plate, with at least twice as much of everything as he gave her, before sitting down. "If you want seconds, no problem. I just--" he gives a kind of nervous, self-conscious laugh. "It's only been a few years, for me, but it's still hard to remember what 'normal' servings look like. First I couldn't eat a whole serving, now I have to have at least 3."

[theycalledmeacurse]

She pops the top off the beer and takes a sip, watching him move around the kitchen with purpose. It's comforting, seeing him at peace with his work. She's found that peace herself in the kitchen before, and more often in her training. It's a peace that she's tried to share with her students so many times over the years.

"You've got a faster metabolism than most," she reasons with a shrug, setting aside her drink and picking up a fork. "Trust me, I'm used to it. Between teenagers and mutants, people with normal eating habits is kind of a rarity in my life." Spearing a few pieces of pasta, she takes a bite and savors the taste for a moment before grinning. "This is really good."

[on_ur_left]

He doesn't quite sag, but there's a subtle relaxing to his body at her proclamation of his cooking. He alternates between bites of pasta that are deceptively large, and equally large bites of bread, polishing off his first piece in about 3 bites. Somehow it doesn't look at all like he's eating as much as he is, or as fast as he is, unless you watch how quickly his plate empties. That's part of why people end up staring when he eats out, Steve thinks; they wonder how he can appear to eat 'normally' and still go through so much food so quickly.

"Despite the whole super soldier business being scientific, there were a lot of unknowns and variables the scientists thought might occur, but they weren't sure how, or to what degree. So I kinda got tossed into the deep-end of the experiment pool, there. And," he paused to reach for the pasta bowl, adding a second large helping, and another piece of bread, "I've never eaten 'normally'. I always had to watch what I ate because of my health, allergies, all that. I could never eat a 'normal-sized portion', so between those two things, I learned how to cook what I could eat." He shrugged. "And then I learned how to cook what my family and friends liked. It's..." he grinned. "It's like science, with experiments, except you get to eat the results."