Steve was smiling before he even opened the door. There was a routine. The little practiced greeting that started when he got home one day and you’d been marathoning old gangster movies. He’d been in such a shitty mood that day and when you’d looked up at him and greeted him in your 1950s gangster slang that he could barely understand, he’d started laughing. It had lifted his mood almost immediately and made him remember exactly why he kept fighting the way he did.
Ever since that day if you were home first you greeted him with ridiculous dated slang. It made him laugh every single time. He would have thought he’d be over it by now, but he liked seeing what you’d come up with. He liked that you tried coming up with new ones every time. He knew there would come a day where you’d exhausted the variations of words you could string together to say hello. But it hadn’t come yet, and the effort you went to just to make them unique was impressive.
He stepped through the door and tossed his keys into the bowl on the hall table. When he came into the living room, he found you lying on the couch, already dressed if your fuzzy unicorn onesie.
“G’day, mate. How’s it going?” You asked affecting what Steve assumed was supposed to be a thick Australian accent. “Did those flamin’ galahs you work with do some hard yakka today or did they chuck a sickie?”
Steve burst out laughing and flopped onto the couch next to you. “What in the world?”
“That Clint’s a bloody yobbo, I heard.” You answered.
“Okay, now in English.” Steve teased.
“Hey there, daddio,” You said sitting up and leaning in close to him. “What’s buzzin’ cousin?”
Steve chuckled and shook his head, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Your one swell dame, you know that?”
“Streuth? You think I’m a bonza sheila? That’s grouse.” You teased, switching back to the Australian accent.
Steve broke down into laughter again and kissed you. He had no idea what the hell you just said.