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Setting herself and Steve up actually turned out to be easier than usual. As a fugitive on the run from the US military, she didn't often have the luxury of picking locations that would be friendly to a woman traveling alone. Before she'd been on the run too long, she managed to pick up a ring that would pass as a wedding ring if needed. With Steve, she didn't just have a ring, she had a fake husband - which, for once, made it somewhat easier to find a place to stay.

It took barely a week for their current home to gain a set of jury-rigged laboratory equipment to continue her research into ways to cure - or, failing that, destroy - it. At the moment, she was mostly playing catch-up, adding newer findings to the worn notebook that served as a repository of information, something that she could visualize. When Steve entered the room, she smiled and quickly shut the book before he could see the heading of the section she was updating (termination(?)). "Morning."

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"Better you than me," he said with a shrug as he turned back to what he was working on in the kitchen. If she came in to talk, however, she might see that not only was the dining room already set out for their meal, but that he'd added two candles as well. There were no flowers, nothing outwardly ostentatious, and yet it was obvious he'd made an effort for tonight.

On the edge of the breakfast counter, there was a sketchbook which was open to a couple of sketches of random objects around the house, one of them including a few pieces from her lab. It was... remarkably good.

Once she had the items she got tucked away, she headed for the dining room. And froze briefly while she took in the clear effort he'd made to make the table look nice.

(What had he said when he mentioned dinner? That he wanted her to try it, or... no, he invited her to dinner.)

She took the rest of the steps toward the kitchen more slowly, not quite sure what to expect.

"You've got about half an hour before dinner's actually done," he informed her as he slipped the tray into the oven, "if you wanted to get things put away or wash up or something. I was just going to clean up the kitchen and try to see if I could make something for dessert."

She nodded absently, her attention already caught on the sketchbook. If it had been closed, she would have left it alone out of respect for his privacy, but she assumed it being open meant whatever it was open to was fair game. "When did you start drawing?"

"A week or so ago," he admitted as he pulled the pan he'd been using off of the burner since it was finally cool. The water fizzled a little but he wouldn't warp the pan. Now he just had to clean it.

"I found myself doodling on napkins on my breaks so I grabbed a sketchbook and some pencils at the pharmacy the other day. Now, I almost can't stop. The girls like my drawings on the sides of the party lists."

"They're good."

After a moment, she added, carefully, "That was something you were known for enjoying, before the crash. I wasn't sure if you would want to be told that."

"Stuff like that, I don't mind hearing about," he said as he scrubbed, "but don't worry about it too much. Figuring things out can be fun, after all."

He turned to face her.

"I don't want to hear about all the things that are gone. But things I can pick back up? Go right ahead. I don't want to frustrate you. You've got enough of that going on, after all."

"I'm fine," she said automatically. He had enough to cope with without throwing in concern for her. Particularly since she was - had been - his doctor. "And I'll keep that in mind, if I think of anything."

He turned to look at her very skeptically.

"Did you know that Steve Rogers could smell a snow job from a mile away?"

But he didn't actually press the matter, letting his attention shift over to making sure he got all of the spots on the pan. When he was satisfied that the job was done properly, he washed it off and hung it on the rack.

"But thank you."

"I don't think that was officially recorded, no," she answered dryly before going back to thumbing through a few of his sketches.

And then glanced up again when he thanked her. "For what?"

"You want a list or should I keep it general?"

Bemused again: "General's fine."

"For helping me, then," he said simply, "and respecting my wishes."

She shook her head firmly. "You really don't have to thank me for that, Steve. It's what any decent person would do."

"I don't have to," he agreed, "but I'm going to. Though I think you overestimate 'decent' people."

"A decent doctor, then," she amended.

"A good doctor," he added before starting to clean up the counter.

"I also... I got a couple of bottles of wine. If you drink that sort of thing."

She couldn't help the touch of tension gathering in her shoulders when he offered the wine. "Thank you, but I, ah. I don't drink alcohol."

"Well, they'll make good gifts then," he said cheerfully enough, "since apparently, the stuff doesn't do anything to me. Found that out the other week when one of the guys challanged me to shots after closing."

She was going to tell him that she didn't mind him drinking, but that tension goes away when he told her alcohol didn't have an effect on him. "You probably metabolize it too fast."

Her lips quirked. "I'm sure that was an interesting drinking contest, though."

"It mostly involved me having to carry him two streets over to his apartment," Steve said with a wry grin.

"But I won a little money out of it, so not all bad."

"I wouldn't get into any more drinking contests. I'm fairly certain just being you qualifies as cheating."

And that would just be unfair.

He spread his hands in front of him.

"Oh no. Never again. It tastes awful, after all. And you're right; it's cheating."

He tilted his head with a little smile.

"Playing big, dumb, and clueless at a pool table, though... that's fun."

She let out a snort-laugh.

"Now, that I might have to see."

"You're welcome down there any time. They only do the music and the dancing from Thursday to Saturday," he pointed out before washing out the rag he'd been cleaning with.