Sam nodded in return, an unspoken acknowledgement that they were on the same page. He and Samantha usually were, even before they talked through it. Sometimes one or the other of them simply had to do the talking before they realized they were already there, and the person they trusted the most was waiting for them when they did.
It wasn’t always Samantha who had to be coaxed into a change. Sam had his hesitant moments, too. Since becoming Cap and coming back from the army, he’d become almost hyper aware of his effect and influence on other people, to the point where it was difficult for him to do anything casually outside of his very small circle of teammates, friends, and family. Samantha wasn’t exactly a social butterfly herself, but she never stopped pushing him to get back out there. One of these days, he might even listen. It was only fair, after all. Hard to think of a time she hadn’t listened to him.
He gave the pan with the sizzling ravioli a good shake and, satisfied the dish wouldn’t burn, stepped away to head for a cabinet across the kitchen. On the way he passed behind Samantha, briefly pausing to clasp a hand on her shoulder. The final word on their conversation, more or less, silently telling her that he was glad they agreed and that she’d have his support as they navigated this new change together, just as she always did. For as long as they’d been friends, that’s how it had been. Always together.
Letting go, he continued toward the cabinet, first pulling out a pair of plates, then grabbing two sets of utensils from a drawer. He offhandedly placed the utensils on the kitchen island (where any Avengers either passing through or living there usually ate, as opposed to the larger and more formal dining room) as he walked back to the stove. Presentation and plating? Not so much his priority. It wasn’t arrogance to say that his food spoke for itself, no frills necessary. Leave that to the professionals.
And speaking of: Samantha was right. The sage smelled fragrant, the butter nice and brown. The ravioli themselves were crusting into a light golden color, and Sam removed the pan from the heat before they were overdone. “I could,” he said mildly, quickly dividing the ravioli between the two plates, “but something tells me cooking for strangers wouldn’t be half as fulfilling." Not to mention the odd hours any restaurant of his would have to keep, in order to cater to his favorite customer.
"Now, eat up.” Smiling, he held out a plate for her and gave her a playful salute. “Captain’s orders.”