The curve of her smile eases any residue uncertainty and he settles in his seat, rounding out the commentary with a smile of his own that lifts his cheeks: “They’re fairly strict about these things. Luckily I got to it before anyone noticed.” The proverbial ‘they’, a scapegoat and a convenient, safe, facade. Luck doesn’t have much to do with it either – though maybe it does, considering the unlikelihood of this all, and his leg shifts at the touch, opening up and sliding closer.
Thankfully he’s experienced both sides of that situation – this version he much prefers. Maria’s worked this job and these hours long before he came along, and he’ll relish any deviance from that schedule. It’s a hard habit to break, a hard routine to step out of, and he appreciates any time they get together. “It was easy when I worked in Tony’s lab – ample supplies of snacks.”
“Little of both,” he answers – he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about adding something like this to the decor, but he hadn’t exactly set out to do so that morning. It was as much an expression of his wanting to stay as it was functional gift. Which might have something to do with his most recently received proposal.
Bruce takes a sip of wine, the taste playing along his tongue, his words extending beyond the meal – “I hope you enjoy it.”
Her eyebrows rise in playful acknowledgement of his mock-seriousness. “I’m not sure who ‘they’ are, but I’ve never let them dictate things before,” she teases, lifting her glass of wine to her lips, taking a long pull and savoring the liquid in her mouth before finally swallowing. The stem of the glass is held delicately, moving gently to swirl the liquid inside at his mention of Stark and the benefits of working for him.
They work their way through dinner, following the current of conversation as they traipse from one point to another. The outside of her calf rests against the inner part of his and she has to extricate herself in order to clear their plates, moving to the sink and pouring them each more wine on the return swing. Maria leans in over his shoulder, brushing a kiss across his cheekbone in the same movement that she sets down the bottle. “Thank you. For dinner and… this.” A fruit bowl? If there was a specific name for it besides that, she’s unaware.
She moves her own chair partway around the table so that when she slides back into it their knees knock and she huffs out a short-lived laugh, stifling it with another drink of wine. This is all very domestic, and she can’t say outright that she completely hates it. The crooked line of her mouth continues to convey her amusement. “This might be the best meal I’ve had in.. probably in a few weeks, if I’m honest.”