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Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have ever been a problem. This was like a woman’s dream, right? Perhaps not the kind of American Dream that was popularized back in the 50s, but Steve wouldn't know about that, anyhow. The women in skirts and aprons, cleaning and cooking and taking care of the kids with a white picket fence around the abode. A dog or two in the backyard (it always had to be a golden retriever, for some reason). A husband working a blue collar, nine to five job and coming home to the smell of whatever his wife had laboured over.
Which was the polar opposite of Beth’s American Dream.
Hers included having enough money to pay the rent. There was no picket fence, let alone a white one. She spent so much time working at the café that dinner was usually a bag of McDonald’s that she would grab on the way home—assuming Steve didn't take it upon himself to cook for them.
There was no dog, unless you counted the days of having to clean up dirty diapers off the floor or when Alex went through a phase of not using a fork when he was younger. But he had blond hair like a retriever, so that had to count for something.
The closest she probably had to the American Dream was Steve, who was both American and a dream come true, so Beth figured it still counted even if he didn't work a blue collar job.
There wasn't really a term for the kind of job that required interstellar warfare on occasion. Insurance probably wouldn't cover it, anyhow.
But again, normal circumstances. These weren't the normal circumstances and Beth was fine not having her 1950s American Dream because she had Steve.
The American dream before the American Dream.
So Steve shouldn't have to push himself so hard when he was basically already perfect—
There was the sound of heated oil popping in the kitchen, followed by what sounded strangely like “jiminy” being exclaimed under the breath.
Okay, so perfect was a stretch, but he was pretty close.
Beth finished tugging the shirt over Alex’s head, who had finally stopped zipping around long enough for her to accomplish that much. He was too excited about the prospect of going to the park today to realize he needed a shirt if they were going to go anywhere.
Again, this was probably the closest thing to a dog Beth would have for quite a few years. Which was more than fine, because dogs were too much trouble in an apartment, anyhow.
“You okay in there?” Beth called out over her shoulder.
“Everything's good!” His voice sounded a bit higher pitched than normal, so he was probably lying. That skillet sounded like it was popping an awful lot.
She stepped out of Alex’s bedroom, just in time to see Steve rolling his shirt sleeves down. Couldn't imagine why.
“Is it hot?” She smiled, leaning just enough on the counter to prop and elbow up and rest her chin in the palm. “You can turn down the heat, you know.”
“I figured it would cook faster if I turned it up higher.”
“Burns quicker, too.”
Steve sent her a half-hearted look over his shoulder, which was short-lived when the oil popped again and it hit the back of his hand where the sleeves couldn't reach. He stepped back from the stove with a laugh, reaching a free hand toward the sink to turn on some cold water and ease the burn. “Alright, alright, so I turned it up a bit higher than I should have.”
Beth walked around the counter and turned the heat to a low simmer. The bacon was done, anyhow, Steve had just fought tooth and nail to try and fish it out of the oil without getting popped at.
Which was a hilariously ironic thing to witness from the man who had served in multiple wars and continued to save earth (which was not an exaggerated statement, oddly enough).
“You didn't have to cook breakfast,” Beth hummed, grabbing some tongs to finally fish out the bacon before it could turn black. “I would have grabbed Alex something on the way to the park.”
“Cooking at home is cheaper,” Steve countered, drying his hand off on a kitchen towel.
“At the cost of your poor hand?” Beth gave him a mock pout, which earned her another half-hearted look and a smile that he couldn't fight off, anyhow.
One of the few things he couldn't fight.
Beth slid the plate of bacon across the counter where Alex was bouncing in his seat. “You don't have to do a lot of things you do for us, you know. And I'm not just talking about the cooking.”
“Well, what good is a man who takes a day off?” He said it as a joke, but it wasn't the first time he'd made that comment, so Beth had to wonder if it was really a joke anymore.
She turned to face him, arms crossed, and brows pinched upward. Steve earnestly wondered for a minute if he had said something wrong. Did he? Was it the bacon? He'd burnt it, hadn't he. He knew it had probably been too much oil and bacon made its own grease, too—
“You don't have to be superman, you know,” Beth spoke up, halting his downward spiral very quickly, even if she was unaware he had been having one.
Or maybe she just knew him that well.
“I'm Captain America,” Steve snorted, half his smile lifting higher.
“You're Steve Rogers, first,” Beth stressed, which sobered the lightheartedness he had been trying to pave the moment over with. Even more so when she took a step forward and that was how he knew she was serious. This was a come to Jesus moment. “You push yourself too hard— and before you go saying something about how cooking isn't that big of a chore, don't.”
Steve closed his mouth again.
“It's not just about the cooking,” Beth continued. “You do so much, and I'm so grateful, I really am…but maybe I want to do something for you, too. And I don't have…that many opportunities to do it.” She laughed a bit airily, fingers going to either temple as she gesticulated. “I'm busy, too, and you're more busy than me and yet still do so much. I just…”
She searched his eyes. He wasn't speaking or trying to finish her sentence or guess what she was trying to say. Something told him that trying to do so would undermine the whole point she was trying to make. That he did stuff for her and, whilst it was very much appreciated, sometimes it made her feel like she wasn't doing enough.
And, as suspected, she did continue speaking. Her voice was softer, not wanting to disturb Alex’s thorough enjoyment of the bacon.
“I want to be able to do stuff for you, too. And I can't go off to war and fight for you. I can't go out and just buy stuff for you—” he was so minimalistic and Beth knew it had to be that 1920s Great Depression in him, “all I can do, sometimes, is just little things. Like cook something for you or a…a massage or something!”
She didn't really have that many ideas. But that was part of the point.
“But you're tired when you get off work,” Steve murmured, reaching up to cup her face. “I enjoy cooking for you and helping you out—”
“I know you do.” She leant into the touch. Darn him for being sweet and distracting her when she was struggling as it was to keep her thoughts together. “But I want to enjoy cooking and taking care of you, too. I want to do something for you. Help you. Even after a hard day of work or when I'm stressed…sometimes I just want to spoil the man that spoils me.”
Steve felt his heart skip, even as his ingrained training and upbringing was trying to find every reason under the sun to persuade Beth to think otherwise about this idea of hers. It didn't sit right with him to have a woman work herself to the bone both outside and inside the house.
But he knew where she was coming from, too. That same desire he had to push and work and provide was ingrained in her, too. It was what kept her going to provide for Alex. And when Steve wasn't pushing himself to do something for the greater good…he felt like he wasn't doing enough.
With a soft exhale, Steve smiled softly, not even enough to crinkle his eyes like his smiles usually did.
He didn't usually need help, not with anything menial, but…
A shy glance was made toward the stove and the cast iron skillet where the oil and grease were finally cooling. “Do you mind cooking the bacon from now on?”
Beth breathed out a short laugh. “Yeah, I’d love to, honey.”