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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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"At least we're on level footing." And she shrugged with another smile. "It doesn't have to be pretty. Honestly, my high standards bottom out at 'not food poisoning'."

That made him laugh.

"Well, I've tasted it enough to know it's better than that. So bully for me, I guess."

He sat across from her and plucked one of the cokes from the bucket and held it up for her 'approval' before gesturing to the glass.

The coke meets her equally high standards for bottles of coke. "It definitely smells good, so I think that's two for you."

"Good thing we're not keeping score," he said before twisting the top off and pouring most of it into a tall glass he'd already set out. He did the same for himself before settling back into his chair and closing his eyes to speak a short bit of grace. That, it seemed, hadn't been erased.

Once he was done, he smiled over at her and gestured for her to eat what she liked.

She couldn't help but tease a little at that. "Who says we're not? I don't follow sports, maybe this is the kind of score-keeping I pay attention to."

"All right then," he said with a smile back and a sip of his coke, "so who's winning?"

"I think we both are."

She was pretty sure she was, at least.

"I like how you play the game."

He went for some salad first, which he'd dressed lightly with some oil and vinegar and a bit of cracked pepper.

"The salad is also good, which I believe is a point in both our favors."

He spread his hands, taking the compliment.

"Wanted to have something nice and light to start. And--"

He glanced at the oven and winced.

"Shoot, I forgot to put in the rolls..."

She shrugged. "It's fine, Steve. Rolls are not a dealbreaker."

"You sure?" he asked with mock concern.

"I mean... we are playing to win here, aren't we? The Russian judges might be harsh without the rolls."

"They might," she agreed. "But I'm sure we can wow them with something else."

"Well, you'll have to tell me how the rest of it is. So I can prepare."

She gave him a crooked smile. "Of course."

"Not that I haven't made sure I had something up my sleeve the whole time," he said airily before grinning over at her.

"Really. Am I allowed to know what it is or is it a secret?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully before glancing over at the counter. There, tucked in against the refrigerator, behind the microwave, was something covered in a white cloth.

"There may just be dessert."

Solemnly: "I'll be sure to keep it a secret, in case you need a surprise last-minute game-saving throw."

"I appreciate that," he said with a little grin.

The Stripes wasn't the most amazing bar in the world, but it was the one that most of the people in town tended to head to after work for drinks and food. Most of the week, it was a good place to enjoy a beer, kick back, shoot some pool, or hang out with friends. The interior was nice and large, all dark wood and decor that would be kitschy if it wasn't all entirely genuine; the place was something of an institution and had been for many years. Within the last few years, they'd expanded their food offering to provide a greater variety of pub food during the day and from Thursday to Saturday, the pool table and the freestanding tables were stowed to cater to the nightclub crowd. It never got particularly loud or outlandish, but it was still the preferred spot so the press of bodies did require a little extra maintenance.

Steve worked from Tuesday to Saturday, acting as the primary bouncer for the night club and the drunk wrangler for the other nights, occasionally assisting with tables and bussing on slower nights. He was friends with all of the staff, his boss regularly referred to him as an angel, and he'd gone from most desired co-worker to everyone's brother (sometimes older, sometimes younger) within a week of taking the job.

Tonight, he'd finally convinced Bryce to come to dinner with him; Sunday evenings had the best food (as far as he was concerned, old Irish fare as prepared by the cook to her rib-sticking preferences) and the lowest number of people, so it was the ideal night to come out.

"Bess makes the mashed potatoes proper," Steve said with some authority as they walked to the table, "and the lamb is fantastic when she decides to make it."

It was hard not to notice that they were getting a few interested looks from the staff - coworkers trying to evaluate his mysterious wife, most likely. She wasn't sure what the place looked like other nights, but right then it seemed more like a restaurant than an actual bar, which helped her be a touch more comfortable.

"I guess we know what we're ordering, then. If she decided to make it."

"I know what I'm ordering," he said with a little smile, "but it's all good and you may see something you like better."

He glanced towards the back.

"I'll be right back but I'm heading past the bar, so I'll put in my drink."

"All right."

Of course, it felt like he'd barely made it out of sight before someone who apparently wasn't paying attention to who she walked in with felt the need to approach her. She made the mistake of giving him attention, thinking he might be a coworker of Steve's or something along those lines and got a singularly unimpressive pick-up line for her trouble.

She stared at him impassively before speaking. "Just walk away."

It didn't work. "It would be crime to let a MILF like you sit around here on your own. Lemme buy you a drink."

"Not interested."

He leaned forward, close enough that she could smell that he'd clearly already been to the bar that night, and leered. "What? You're too good for a drink with a guy like me?"

The girl manning the bar leaned over from where she had been standing and raised an eyebrow.

"Buddy, I think you may want to reconsider. Lady's married."

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I may have hit post too soon.

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