[for Pepper] carry that weight

[daretodo]

"Forty-eight... Forty-nine... Fifty... Fifty-one," I count steadily under my breath, a push-up accompanying each number. This isn't something I'd have to do at home, my patrols of the city enough to keep me in shape without even trying, but I can't say the same for here. My sessions with Cap are ramping up -- not to mention a heckuva lot more challenging than I'd ever let on -- but he told me on the very first day that I can do the sit-ups and push-ups on my own time. If improving my balance is his initial focus, then strengthening my core seems like one of the brighter ideas I've had lately.

"Fifty-two... Fifty-three... Fifty-four... Fifty-five..."

I'm out on the terrace, wanting the fresh air from having been cooped in the workshop for the better part of the morning, and not having gotten very far in much of anything. It's easier to think when I'm not trying, sometimes, when I can get lost in something physical. I'm not a computer. I can't work in a vacuum, and hope to pull an answer to an impossible question out of nowhere. So I take my distractions where I can get them, push myself in a more productive way than enforced insomnia, and hope to draw my attention away from the constant gnawing pain that Mary Jane's left in her absence, at least for a little while.

"Fifty-six... Fifty-seven... Fifty-eight... Fifty-nine... Sixty..."

Comments

[wildlyconflicted]

Even on the island, Pepper tends to stay to a fairly regimented schedule. As with her life back in California, this is more about Tony than herself, old habits she's reluctant to break. She knows exactly when she's going to eat because eating is something that Tony regularly forgets about if she doesn't remind him.

Today isn't any different, but as she pauses in the kitchen doorway with a considering downward tilt of her chin, she recognizes at least partially what Peter is trying to do.

"Not yet," she replies after a pause, and turns to arch a curious brow at Peter over her shoulder.

[daretodo]

"I'm not a master chef, but I could throw something together?" I offer, setting my mug back down on the counter, as I take a step towards her. It's true, what I said. Baking's more my speed -- it's just like chemistry -- but it's not something I do particularly often; it eats up too much time I could spend doing other things. Still, I've lived alone enough to know how to fend for myself, even if fending for myself often just involved getting take-out, and pointedly avoiding the lone, moldy piece of cheese in my fridge.

His name was Kevin.

"It'll be perfectly edible, I promise," I add.

[wildlyconflicted]

"I'm sure it will be," Pepper allows with a brief quirk of her mouth, then turns to more fully face Peter again. "Alright," she assents with a slight nod, and sweeps a bit of hair back from her cheek. "I'd offer to help, but considering my dubious culinary experience, it would probably end up a bad idea for us both. But I can set the table and clean up after."

[daretodo]

I smile then, brief but genuine, and I nod quickly as I start to open up cabinets, almost afraid that if I stop to breathe, she'll leave me to my own devices. I haven't been the most welcoming of house guests, too eager to bury myself in work than entertain my hosts, and maybe this is just more of the same, but at least this work -- if it can even be called that -- is more open to outside observers.

"What do we have in here, anyway?" I ask, looking at her from over my shoulder.

[wildlyconflicted]

"Not much. I wasn't kidding when I said it's a bad idea for me to cook," she replies and then affords a brief nod to the eccentric-looking refrigerator. "I think there's some leftover shrimp and pasta, some fruit and things for salad."

She steps to one of the cabinets and begins rifling through the modest contents. "We don't keep much in the way of spices. Salt and pepper, and I may have some garlic… ah." Half a bulb in hand, she turns and offers an apologetic smile. "Honestly, even if you just heated some of the leftovers up, it would be fine."

[daretodo]

"...I can reheat leftovers," I say, blinking at the bulb of garlic, and letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Even having stayed here for weeks, I never paid much attention to the kitchen, usually finding my meals elsewhere, but now I'm not sure if it's something I can ignore. I've lived in bachelor pads better stocked than this, and that is saying something.

"And it won't even take me three hours."

[wildlyconflicted]

"You're doing better than Tony, then," Pepper replies with a soft chuckle, and replaces the garlic in the cupboard, where it will likely stay until it sprouts and she has to throw it out. She isn't entirely sure why she brought it up to the house in the first place.

"Did I tell you about the birthday cake?" she asks as she moves to pull down some plates instead. "He's never allowed in the kitchen again."

[daretodo]

"At least he remembered your birthday?" I offer, grabbing the leftovers out of the fridge. "I mean, I had to tell him, but I'm pretty sure he only hears half of what I say, anyway, so it's still pretty impressive, you have to admit."

[wildlyconflicted]

"I seem to recall you chastising me for holding Tony to a different standard than everyone else," Pepper replies, her attention still fixed on collecting place settings but a small smile curving her lips. "It had strawberries on it. I'm allergic to strawberries. Not sure impressive is the world I would use, there."

[daretodo]

"Touché, Ms. Potts," I say, filing away that bit of information for later. Ex-nay on the strawberries, then. "I'm hardly about to argue with such impeccable logic as that."