The bacon sizzled, popping tiny flecks of grease like it was trying to start a fight. I flipped the pancakes with a practiced flick.
"Good morning, Natasha."
The smell of sugar and salt had already filled the room.
"Breakfast?"
She stepped into the kitchen, barefoot, still guarded even in softness.
"Pick your poison." I offered. "Maple syrup with a cinnamon twist? Fresh berries and yogurt? Or just go full mercenary—pile it with bacon?"
She gave me a look. Calm. Decisive.
"All of them."
"Spoiled."
I flipped a second pancake onto the stack.
"Should've known better than to ask a super spy to pick just one vice."
She leaned against the counter, watching me work.
"How'd you get Fury to send you a Blackstone?"
She narrowed her eyes at the shiny slab of cast iron glory.
"He doesn't part with gear like that. Especially not for pancakes."
"Gifts." I said simply. "The kind spies like."
I cracked a few eggs into a bowl.
I glanced at her.
"Want scrambled on the side?"
"With chives, onions, and a little salt." she said.
She grabbed a cutting board without asking. "You bribed Fury with secrets, didn't you?"
"I don't bribe." I replied. "I offer insight, gifts. He just... happens to thank me with cooking equipment."
I whisked the eggs.
"Also, he wanted me to stop hacking his calendar. Apparently, scheduling a sex change appointment every day for a month crossed a line."
She snorted—an actual, barely-there laugh—as she passed me the diced onions.
"So you do this often?" she asked. "Cook?"
I poured the eggs onto the hot surface, the mixture dancing in the heat.
"Not really."
I grabbed the spatula, pausing.
"But my employer is picky. And if she doesn't get a breakfast worth eating, she withholds payment."
"Sounds ruthless."
She reached for a piece of bacon.
"Terrifying woman," I said.
"Red hair. Sharp tongue. Deadlier without coffee."
She popped the bacon in her mouth and raised a brow.
"And what does this terrifying woman pay you with?"
"Silence."
I plated the eggs beside the pancakes.
"And, occasionally, the privilege of not getting stabbed."
She grabbed a fork and sat.
"That's a terrible contract."
"Best one I've ever signed."
I slid the plate toward her.
She didn't thank me. She just took a bite, chewed, and nodded once—barely perceptible, but approving.
"You're lucky I'm not a food critic," she said, without looking up.
"I'm lucky you're still here."
That made her pause.
Then, slowly, she reached for the syrup.
I bowed slightly, one hand behind my back, the other holding the cinnamon jar like a relic.
"Mademoiselle." I said with reverence. "Would you permit a humble servant to grace your morning meal with a touch of spice—to match your own, of course."
She raised an eyebrow with measured amusement.
"You do speak prettily for a man holding breakfast condiments."
I tipped the cinnamon delicately over her pancakes, letting the dust fall like snow.
"Ah, but beauty must be complemented with warmth, no? Cinnamon for sweetness, subtle fire—for the lady who burns far brighter than she lets on."
She leaned back slightly, watching me pour the water into her cup.
"A gentleman, clearly. And how strong is this charm of yours, monsieur?"
"As strong as you desire, madame." I said, placing the coffee before her with ceremony. "Enough to chase away the ghosts of last night… or to welcome them back with grace."
She took the cup, testing its heat with the tips of her fingers.
"Then I'll take it bold. Strong enough to silence the memory of thirty-six drinks—and gentle enough not to remind me I survived them."
"Remarkable." I murmured. "A soul so free it can dance with poison and wake fresher than the morning itself."
I placed a spoon beside her saucer. "A flower that never asks for light, yet grows toward it anyway."
She stirred the cup slowly, the spoon clinking like distant bells in a cathedral.
"If I weren't so convinced of your impeccable manners." she said, half-lidding her gaze, "I'd suspect this was your way of slipping beneath a lady's skirts."
I brought my fork to the eggs and chewed thoughtfully before replying.
"But madame." I said, voice low and smooth. "were I truly a man of such hidden intentions… would I not already be there, tasting the forbidden fruit with utmost devotion—rather than serving breakfast with reverence?"
A pause. Her smile curled like steam off her cup.
"Touché, monsieur. A rake disguised as a servant. Or perhaps… a servant hiding the heart of a poet."
"I only follow the orders of beauty, madame." I said, bowing my head again. "It commands more loyalty than any crown I've known."
She sipped, eyes meeting mine over the rim.
"Then let us hope beauty never asks you to betray your honesty."
I smiled faintly.
She took a slow sip of coffee, the porcelain cup stilling at her lips.
"But would a lie, however elegantly delivered, not remain a lie all the same?"
"Ah, but we don't seek truth, not really." I said, reaching over with my fork.
"We seek comfort. And comfort often wears the silk of a beautiful lie."
My fork slipped onto her plate, aiming for the soft center of her pancake stack. Her fork met mine like a sabre. A soft clink. A duel had begun.
"Even the lies we crave remain lies, monsieur." she said, not retreating.
"But we hold them to our chests like prayers. Perhaps because we wish so hard for them to become truth... we forget they aren't."
I parried her fork with the poise of a man trained in far more lethal things, then sliced off a neat corner with my knife.
"Madame, this taste..." I dabbed the corner of my lips with my handkerchief, eyes locked on hers. "It is exquisite. Almost worth the war."
She narrowed her eyes slightly, the corner of her mouth curving.
"We may crave falsehoods, monsieur, but truth is persistent. Like a draft under a locked door. It slips in."
"Truth finds a way, yes. Though it rarely knocks first." I reached again, fork subtle, like a thief in velvet gloves. "You never find a need for it until your plate is full and overflowing."
"But in a world where truth itself can wear a lie's face…"
Clink. Her knife intercepted mine with a little more force.
"…does it matter anymore?"
She smirked—royally.
"A life may be lived in shadow, monsieur, without ever basking in the sun. But that does not make the sun any less real."
Her fork and knife crossed against mine, twisting, turning—a miniature war of table etiquette turned territorial skirmish. She won. Pancake defended. Victory claimed.
I withdrew with practiced defeat.
"Touché, madame." I bowed my head slightly. "A strategic victory. But I shall return."
She took a bite, slow and regal.
"As all tricksters do." She paused, savoring. "Though I admit... it tastes sweeter after a duel."
"Then perhaps." I said, refilling her coffee with silent grace. "All things—truth, lie, or breakfast—are meant to be fought for. Especially when shared."
Her gaze lingered just a moment too long before returning to her plate.
"And here I thought you only served lies with elegance."
I smiled faintly, lifting my cup.
"Only the ones worth remembering, madame."