Okay, so maybe Sam’s gambit of getting Samantha to help him cook wasn’t that wily, but it did serve a purpose, in the end. Either she’d refuse his small request and tell him to do it himself, or she’d do it without saying a word. Whichever she chose, Sam would have a better idea where her mind was tonight. Because that was the thing about Samantha – if you didn’t pay attention, really pay attention, then you’d never have a clue what she was thinking.
Or, more importantly, feeling. Most days, Samantha was a closed book even to Sam – which was true long before she became the reincarnate of Natasha Romanova. Samantha didn’t talk about how she felt, she did something about it, and most often, she did it alone. That was just how she was, and Sam had never tried to change that about her, though sometimes he did push her boundaries just a little, just to remind her that she wasn’t actually alone. She knew that, of course, but there were moments in her life when she needed that reminder, even if she’d never admit it.
Watching her set the water to boil and toss in the salt distractedly, Sam wondered if one of those moments was approaching. She’d been going out more often lately gathering her mysterious intel – that hadn’t escaped his notice – and she’d managed to avoid running into Nick at the compound for weeks now. Neither were good signs, but both together? Definitely not great, and it wasn't like Samantha made it easy for him to help her through... whatever it was she was going through. Without many options left to him, Sam was half-tempted to send the stubborn exes on a mission together just to finally break the tension and get them talking again. It was almost worth the risk of Samantha’s retaliation, at this point. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to have two people – and two of Steve’s closest friends – under his command who simply refused to be in the same room together.
And therein lied the main difference between him and Samantha. When it came right down to it, Sam preferred open lines of communication, even if it was potentially awkward. Samantha? Very much the opposite.
So it wasn’t much of a surprise to Sam when the deflecting came so soon after the teasing. Not her smoothest tactic, all things considered, which told him something else: she probably did want to tell him something. She just hadn't quite decided what that something would be.
Nearly done folding the ravioli now, Sam paused after tossing another one in the bowl and half-turned to point at her. “Pot.” Raising a knowing eyebrow, he pointed back himself. “Kettle.” As if he wasn't bothered, he turned his attention back to his pasta, but there was a part of himself that was a tiny bit exasperated. Or maybe embarrassed was the better word. It always came back to his lack of a love life with Samantha, but he could hardly blame her. In that particular area, Sam made himself an easy target.
“I’ll find a real girl when you do, Red. Or when you tell me whatever it is you’ve been up to.” He shrugged, not a little transparently. “Whichever comes first.”