Archive of Our Own

The metal countertop has a fine layer of flour covering it, distinct shapes where his fingers spread the powder cut through the white dusting. Bucky flips the bowl of dough over and smiles at the satisfying cloud of flour that rises when it hits the counter. He punches the dough a couple of times, forcefully letting the air out, before getting into the flow of kneading it.

Rolling out dough has to be one of his favorite baking techniques. The dough is always soft against his hand, and while it’s a pain to grease and glove his prosthetic, the outcome is always rewarding. It’s a process to make the dough, from putting together the ingredients, to letting it proof, to rolling it out, sometimes he kneads other treats into it, sometimes it’s braided, but it always ends with the dough being placed in the oven. The sweet scent fills the bakery as it cooks, on slower days he’ll sit in front of the oven with the light on and just watch the bread rise. Then once the pastry comes out, it’s golden brown, the fragrance pouring out of the hot oven. The most satisfying part of baking, other than the final product, is that he gets to put the final product out for his customers to buy.

Nothing’s more rewarding than the smiles on their faces when their pastry of choice rests inside the glass case. Well, the only thing more rewarding than selling his baked goods is when he takes the leftovers down to the VA and gives the people there something to smile about, even if it’s just for a moment.

He spreads out the dough he’s currently working on into a decently sized rectangle and brings over the bowl of fillings. First he pats down a brown sugar and cinnamon mixture onto the rectangle, then generously sprinkles walnuts across the dough. Bucky wipes his hands on his apron- somewhere his mother praises God because he’s not wiping his hands on his pants- then carefully rolls the dough into a log. The log is cut into a dozen pieces, and the pieces are placed into a dish with a glaze made of melted butter, brown sugar, and walnuts at the bottom. The glaze is a deep brown with golden butter swirled into it, perfection and a heart attack in one.

Bucky sighs and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand once the rolls are finally in the oven. One batch down, about ten more to go.

“Late night?”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, looking away from the oven, already thinking about the other trays he needs to make before he can turn the damn thing on, “Cinnamon rolls are a favorite, gotta please the people.”

Riley huffs, setting down the tray of cooled cannoli shells, “A mob favorite, you mean.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to get another bowl of proofed dough, “They come to me and buy my rolls. Plus, I’m not going to turn away a paying customer.”

“Not like you turn away unpaying customers, either,” Riley says, teasing him.

“As if you do.” Bucky points out with another eye roll.

After both of them served their tours, went through hell out there in the sand box where food was hard to come by at times, they would never turn someone away. Bucky knows he’d rather starve than tell someone with a hungry stomach they couldn’t have a pastry or a cup of coffee. Food is one of the most important things to the body, yet for some it’s the hardest thing to find. If he can help just one person with his bakery, make one stomach less empty by giving them a cup of coffee and a cookie, then he’s done good.

Riley pauses, piping bag in the air, cannoli shell gently held in his other hand, “Touche.”

They both work in silence. Bucky goes through the motions of making more cinnamon rolls, sometimes spicing things up with new fillings, but overall it stays the same. Riley quietly fills the cannoli, gently setting them down on a clean sheet of parchment paper, so accustomed to the motions that it’s muscle memory by now.

“You coming with me to the VA later?” Riley asks, eyes still focused on the cannoli.

Bucky smirks, “You just want someone there to make sure you don’t say anything stupid around Sam.” He doesn’t turn to look at Riley, but he knows there’s a blush underneath that sanitary netted beard.

“No, I want you to sit in on an actual session.”

Bucky ignores the way his fingers jerk as he sets a roll down in the butter coated dish, “Someone needs that chair more than I do.” Just because he likes baking and visits a VA doesn’t mean he knows the definition of self-care, baking is more of a physically taxing escape rather than a way to bring him down.

Like he knows there was a blush there, he can hear the roll in Riley’s eyes, “You and I both know there’s always empty chairs at late night sessions.”

Bucky doesn’t get mad, he doesn’t get annoyed, he just accepts that this is a question Riley’s going to ask every day, “Maybe another day.”

Thing is, it’s always another day with him, another month, another year. He doesn’t know what scares him so much about sitting in that chair. Whether it’s the fact that he’s going to have to face his inner demons or the fact that he’s going to have to hear other people’s. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to. Not just yet, at least.

It’s been close to five years since they got out. Five years of night terrors and phantom pain he can’t get rid of, no matter how many lavender incense and yoga sessions he tries. No matter how many times he stabs his vibranium metal arm in attempt to get his brain to understand that his arm isn’t there anymore. His real arm is back in the sandbox, along with his full nights of sleep and good dreams.

“Okay,” Riley sighs, “another day.”

They’ll have the same conversation tomorrow, too.

They get to the VA with their arms full of baked goods. Some of them are things that didn’t sell earlier in the day, but the majority are fresh pastries they cooked hours ago.

“Man, y’all spoil us.” Sam shakes his head, taking one of the boxes, “I swear most of these vets come for these more than they come for actual therapy.”

Riley rolls his eyes, “Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. People come here to pet the dogs too.”

Bucky snorts, pushing past both of them to place the pastries on the fold out table. There’re not many people in the space, mostly because there’s a couple hour block between the group sessions, but Bucky knows as it edges to the next hour people will be flowing in like water.

“Done flirting?” Bucky teases when Riley slides up next to him, opening a box of baked goods.

“Shut up,” Riley mutters, “still don’t know which direction Sam swings.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “It’s been a year now, if he swings any direction it’s definitely yours. Especially when you wear those motorcycle jeans.” He grins, spotting Sam coming to the table, “Right, Sam?”

Riley jerks, Bucky ignores it.

“What?” Sam asks giving them his patented gapped tooth grin.

“Right Riley’s cannoli are the best cannoli?” There’s a double entendre hidden there somewhere.

“Yeah, I can’t find a place that beats them. Did you bring any?” The joke fell flat on Sam, but Riley’s cheeks are tinted pink at the top. One point to Bucky.

Bucky grins wider, “Oh yeah, he packed ‘em big and large.”

Riley chokes on his own spit and Bucky can’t help but burst out laughing, tears building in the corners of his eyes.

Sam rolls his eyes, “Idiots, the both of you.”

“You love us,” Bucky says, picking up one of the napkins on the table and wrapping it around a cannolo. He hands it to Sam and takes the box of pastries in exchange.

Sam bites into the cannoli, sighing, and says with a mouth full of ricotta filling, “Yes, I do.”

Soon enough people start filing into the VA. Everyone grabs their pastry or two of choice as they wait, chatting quietly amongst each other.

Bucky’s familiar enough with most of the people here. He doesn’t know everyone's story, but he has faces and names down. Riley, on the other hand, greets everyone like an old friend. He asks all the right questions about their families, their pets, more than Bucky ever could. He knows it’s because, unlike him, Riley actually sits in on the session. Not just so he can have more time with Sam, but to actually try and heal his own invisible wounds. In doing so he learns about others and makes actual friends, rather than just putting a face to a name.

“Bucky!” Sam calls from across the VA, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He blinks once and clears his throat before pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on. Across the room Sam stands with a tall, blond man he’s never seen before. The man stands straight as a rod next to Sam, but not obnoxiously so, a welcoming presence rather than a defensive one.

“Steve,” Sam introduces, smiling his gapped tooth smile, “this is Bucky. Bucky, Steve.”

Steve holds a hand out, a small smile playing on his lips, “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand and shakes it once, “Nice to meet you, too.”

They drop hands after the quick shake, and Sam puts his hands on his hips like a proud parent. “Steve’s a new comer to the VA. Unlike you, he takes his doctor’s advice.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but gives Steve a grin, “My therapy is baking.”

“Baking?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised. The small smile is still present, Bucky files the mental image away for later.

“He owns a bakery,” Sam says, elbowing Bucky in the ribs, “right, Buck?”

“Okay, mom,” Bucky elbows Sam back, “I own the bakery Brooklyn Born and Bread,” He does not blush at the name, not one bit, “All the baked goods on those tables were made by either me or Riley, my loyal sous chef.”

“That’s pretty neat,” Steve nods, “I’ll have to try your place. I know a lot of people that have huge sweet tooths.”

“Yourself included?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out flirty, he hardly knows this guy, but it does and it’s not like he can just take it back.

Steve grins, large and toothy compared to the small thing from before, “Myself included.”

They both stare at each other for a moment. Both of them grinning like school boys, both of them not caring that they’re at a VA and not a bar.

Sam clears his throat, “I think I hear Riley calling me.” He looks between the two of them and claps Steve on the shoulder, “Bucky can take care of you from here on out, see you in a bit.” He turns to Bucky, giving him a pointed look, before making his not-so-smooth exit.

Once Sam leaves it’s like the air around them shifts into a stale awkwardness. Bucky doesn’t remember the last time he had an instant crush like this, maybe it was in high school, maybe he’s never felt something like this before. He doesn’t know what to think about these emotions, about the tiny flutter in his heart. For now, though, he ignores it.

Bucky decides to break the silence between them, “So, Steve, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an artist,” Steve says, he sticks his hands in his pockets, gently rocking back on his heels.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, “What kind of art do you do?” This man, with the muscles that don’t quite fit into his shirt and the height he has on him, looks like he does private security. Then again, Bucky with one metal arm and a resting murder face owns his own bakery, so who is he to judge?

“Mostly scenery, sometimes portraits if I get asked to.” He shrugs his shoulders, “I have a little online shop, it’s nothing much.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, if he was more comfortable with Steve he’d have slapped him on the shoulder, “none of that. I went from baking out of my tiny broom closet of an apartment to owning my own bakery with my best friend beside me. Who knows, maybe you can open your own gallery one day.”

Steve ducks his head, poking something invisible with his shoe in what Bucky would call an aw, shucks motion, “Thanks, maybe one day.”

Bucky smiles, Steve can’t see it from where his head’s still ducked, “No problem, you’ll have to show me your work one day.”

Steve looks up at Bucky, his cheeks are flushed a light pink, “Maybe when I go visit your bakery?”

“I’d like that,” Bucky almost says It’s a date but he holds his tongue. While this VA has a rainbow flag perched next to the American one, it doesn’t mean everyone feels the same. Besides, he’s only just met the guy.

Steve’s eyes flick somewhere behind Bucky’s head, probably looking at the clock, “Wanna’ sit together during the session?” His voice is hopeful and Bucky hates to break it.

Bucky looks back at the door where the group sessions are held, then back at Steve. It’s the perfect opening to go to his first session, it’s a sign that he should be one of the veterans in that room, but he can’t. He doesn’t think he’s ready for it, he doesn’t know if he can deal with hearing about different versions of the war, nor does he know if he can’t talk about his own time there.

There’s pain where his arm used to be, where the metal one rests now, and Bucky shakes his head, “I don’t-- I haven’t--” He clears his throat, it’s his turn to look at the floor, “I’m not sure if I--”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice is gentle, a warm hand cups his right shoulder, “I didn’t mean to assume.”

Bucky looks up at Steve, their faces are closer than he thought, “It’s fine.” He gives Steve his most reassuring smile, “Rain check?”

Steve smiles back, it’s small again, “Rain check.”

Steve drops his hand, and Bucky steps back. He gives Steve a tiny wave, not sure how else to end their conversation, and watches as Steve makes his way to the room. He grins, private and to himself, when he sees Steve grab a personal pie and take it with him to the session.

Bucky takes in a deep breath, standing in the empty lobby for a moment, before turning on his heel to leave the VA.

“Barnes,” An all too familiar gruff voice calls.

Bucky turns around from where he was filling a fridge with more personal cheesecakes, flicking his eyes back to the line to make sure Kate has it covered. He grins at the sight of Conall, one of his many organized crime related friends, “Conall, my man, how are you?”

He goes over to where Conall stands in front of the counter. They greet each other with an awkward clap hug, Bucky oofing at the impact of Conall’s hand.

“Things are good,” Conall nods, “Angelica has just gotten engaged.” There’s a small smile on the large man’s face and Bucky can’t help but mirror it.

“To Trevor, right?” Bucky remembers Trevor. He’s a quiet kid, not tied to organized crime, something both Angelica and Conall wanted.

“Yes, which is what I wanted to speak to you about.” Conall leans forward and takes both of Bucky’s hand into his larger ones, “Would you do us all the honor of making the cake for Angelica’s wedding?”

Bucky’s heart flutters at the thought, and a lump forms in his throat. Conall and his family have frequented Bucky’s bakery since it opened. He remembers when Angelica first brought Trevor to the shop, when Conall came in that evening and binge ate cookies while venting about the kid Angelica brought home from college.

“It would be my honor, seriously.” He can already picture the cream tiers decorated with edible pearls and fondant roses. Simple and classy, much like Angelica. “We can set up some consultations, cake tastings and the such the next time you come in.”

Conall smiles, “That would be perfect. I’ll bring her and Trevor later this week. Now,” Conall lets go of Bucky’s hands and slaps the counter, making the customers in line jump, “I have a meeting tonight and I need to please them with your baked goods.”

At this point Bucky knows meeting is less of an assembly of people to discuss the nature of the broken water cooler and more of a threat session.

“Who are you expecting at this meeting?” Normally, people take one of the trays and walk around the bakery picking their own pastries. Conall is a friend, though, so he gets the goods from the back, fresh from the oven.

Conall shrugs, “The usual people.”

Bucky nods, “I’ll be back. Make nice with Riley.” He turns around on his heel, grabbing one of the dozen boxes as he rounds the counter, and grins when he hears Conall shouting Riley’s name.

He quickly fills the box with his best sellers. Some cinnamon rolls, cannoli, personal pies, and so on, not waiting to keep the man waiting. He walks out holding the box in one hand, over his head, like the idiot that he is and almost drops it.

There, standing in the middle of the bakery, staring at Conall’s back like he’s seen a ghost, is Steve fucking Rogers.

“You okay, friend?” Conall asks, turning around to briefly meet eyes with Steve.

Bucky clears his throat and goes to the counter where Connal waits, “Yeah, totally fine.” His voice, shooting him in the foot, doesn’t sound fine.

Conall leans in, his voice serious, “Who is the blond? Friend or foe? You know my men can take care of foes better than anyone, better than those Russian fuckers--”

“He’s a friend, Conall. And so are the Russians,” he gives Connal a pointed look, “We are all friends here, remember that.”

Conall rolls his eyes, “I know, I know. Do you need me to vet him? I have never seen the man before.”

Bucky looks down as he bags up the box of goods, “He’s a new friend.” He slides the bag towards Conall and frowns at the way he’s staring at him, “What?”

A huge grin spreads across Conall’s face, slowly, almost eerily, Bucky can image Conall killing people with that face, “What kind of friend is this friend?”

“What?” Bucky asks again, knowing full and well what Conall’s hinting at. He wills down his blush, employing his special forces skills.

Conall’s grin stays, “He is not just a friend, is he?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, “I only met him yesterday.”

“So?”

“So,” He says, emphasizing the word, “he’s just a friend.”

“Ah, but Bucky, when I met my beautiful wife I had only seen her across the room and I knew it was love at first sight.”

Bucky gives him a blank stare, “Didn’t she kill your competitor?”

Conall smiles wistfully, as if remembering the oh-so-romantic moment, “Yes, with a knife she kept in the lining of the dress she wore.”

“Anyways,” Bucky clears his throat, once more pushing the bagged box of pastries towards Conall, “He’s just a friend, be nice, you have one more dozen of baked goods before you need to pay again.”

The smile stays on Conall’s face, “Thank you, and take care friend.” He picks up the bag delicately, “I will come in later this week with Angelica to schedule a consultation.”

Bucky nods, glad that conversation’s over, “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Conall smiles at him before turning around.

Bucky feels the need to disappear into the floor as Conall stares at Steve with the smile still on his face. He watches as Steve doesn’t back down, but instead puffs his chest up and makes himself taller, while keeping his eyes locked with Conall’s. Conall, in return, throws his head back and laughs before walking out to the sleek, black car waiting for him.

Steve turns to the counter, deflating his chest and making himself a bit smaller, “Was that a mob boss?”

Bucky shrugs, leaning on the counter, trying to act cooler than he actually is, “He’s a friend.”

Steve raises his eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead he crosses the short distance from where he stands to the counter and sticks his hands in his pockets, pose mirroring the one from yesterday, “Hey,” Steve greets, a small smile on his face.

If this were an old rom com, Bucky would be swooning.

“Hey, what brings you to the neighborhood?” He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t throw Steve any smiles, just acts normal. Acts like he’s talking to Riley or any of his other platonic friends, because for all he knows Steve is as straight as a ruler.

Steve shrugs, “Heard there was a place that had the best cinnamon rolls in town, know of it?”

Bucky grins, “Yeah, I know of it.”

Steve leans into the counter like he’s going to share a secret with Bucky, “Think I could get in on the ‘rolls?”

Bucky shrugs, “I guess I could let you.” Acting like there isn’t cinnamon rolls ready to be bought in the glass case to the right of the entrance, like there isn’t prepackaged, ready to be warmed rolls displayed on a table next to the artisan coffee and baguettes. It’s subtle flirting, something small that he allows himself to have. He doesn’t fool himself, though. He doesn’t know Steve, nor does Steve know him. So if he leers a little, put his best smirk on, and flirts it’s all out of pure fun and almost-innocence.

“I wait in anticipation,” Steve says, grinning.

Bucky rolls his eyes and pushes himself away from the counter, “Allergies?”

Steve nods, “Only to toxic masculinity.”

Bucky snorts, Steve was probably a little shit when he was a kid and goes to the kitchen.

He’s trying to decide which roll is the best one to give to Steve when someone comes up behind him and whispers ‘boo’ into his ear.

Bucky feels himself jump off the floor, the hair on the back of his neck raising. He does everything he can to not grab the nearest rolling pin and use it as a weapon because he knows this his is bakery, and he’s not there anymore.

He turns around slowly and frowns when he sees Kate, “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of the register?”

She shrugs, pulling a net over her messy bun, “Riley took over for me.”

Bucky frowns harder, “And why would he do that?”

She steps to the side of him and looks at the multiple trays of cinnamon rolls, “So, who was that fine thing on legs you were talking to?”

“Fine thing on legs, Kate really?”

Kate shrugs, “Saying it like it is, Bucko.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “His name is Steve, I met him at the VA yesterday.” He doesn’t know why he’s letting her know anything about Steve, since it seems like her life goal is to embarrass him. He knows telling her makes happiness burst in his chest. It feels like the sparklers he would play with as a kid: sparks small, short lived, but there nonetheless. It’s the same feeling he gets when he tells Riley or Becca about something exciting or good that happened to him that day. It’s got nothing to do with the crush he may or may not have on Steve, but more to do with the fact that he can share something with someone and that person be genuinely interested.

Nobody said he wasn’t lame.

“Did you go to a meeting?” She asks, her voice isn’t playful anymore.

Bucky sighs, picking up a roll with a gloved hand, “No.” He sets the roll in the box, and tries to ignore the way she’s staring at the side of his face.

Kate’s been working at Brooklyn Born and Bread for about a year now, and her godfather Clint is both a veteran and a frequent visitor of the VA. She knows what Bucky goes through, and she knows that he hasn’t been to a session since the one they forced him into when he was first discharged. For a young adult she knows too much about war and what it does to a person.

“Bucky,” She starts, ready to reprimand him.

“I’ll go when I’m ready, Kate.” He keeps his eyes on the cinnamon rolls.

She’s quiet for a moment, “He’s still a fine thing on legs.”

Bucky snorts and elbows her gently in the side, “You’re a kid, everything is a fine thing on legs to you.”

“I agree with you there.” She slaps him with the back of her hand, his metal prosthetic ringing slightly, “But everyone can agree that this man is quite the specimen.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and finishes packing the half dozen box with cinnamon rolls, “Sure, Kate, whatever you say.”

“Look, Buck,” She spins him around by the shoulders and he follows the movement as she forces him to look into her eyes, “I’m nineteen soon, if you don’t take him I will.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “What happened to your crush on America?”

A slight flush blooms on Kate’s face, she drops her hands from his shoulders, “I think I hear Riley calling me back to the register.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky grins, nothing breaks Kate’s cool attitude like bringing up America does.

He keeps grinning as she quickly walks out of the kitchen and looks down at the box in his hands. Steve is going to love these cinnamon rolls, everyone loves his cinnamon rolls, mob bosses love his cinnamon rolls. Bucky snorts, and even if Steve doesn’t love these rolls he’s bound to love something else. Yeah. There’s something for everyone here.

Bucky nods to himself as he continues the mental pep-talk. He takes in a deep breath before closing the box and walking out of the kitchen.

He walks out from behind the counter, and leaves the area holding all the food cases. There’re not many people in the dining area since the breakfast rush is over but come noon the place will be filled to the brim with bodies wanting something sweet to eat. He spots Steve sitting at a corner table and has to take a moment to drink in everything that is this man. He’s staring out of one of the windows that hugs the table, his blond hair shining in the sunlight, and his blue eyes even softer. Bucky can see some of the freckles that speckle his cheeks and nose, whether they’re from being in the sun too much or something Steve was born with Bucky doesn’t know. There’s a notebook in front of Steve, and a steaming cup of coffee next to the hand resting on the table. It’s picturesque, and if Bucky was an artist of some sort he would be aching to draw the image in front of him. Either way, Steve is beautiful, and Bucky can say that even without the small, tiny, crush that lives in his heart.

Bucky clears throat, and does a mental head shake, before walking over to Steve with the box in hand and a grin on his face.

He plops down in the open seat across Steve and places the box on top of Steve’s notebook, “Chef’s special.”

A smile spreads across Steve’s face as he opens the box, “The coveted cinnamon rolls.”

“New York’s finest cinnamon roll, mind you,” Bucky says, grin still on his face. Nerves flutter around in his stomach; the kind he gets every time he asks a friend to try one of his new creations. As he told himself just before in the kitchen, though, if Steve doesn’t like his rolls then that’s on Steve and terrible taste buds.

Steve takes one of the rolls out of the box, he raises it in mock toast, before taking a big bite. Bucky watches as he eats it, and absolutely does not lean forward in anticipation of Steve’s opinion. Instead he keeps his back against the chair, hands folded on the table, and a neutral expression on his face.

Steve, on the other hand, can be read like a damn book. His eyebrows raise, eyes widen, and he lets out a very happy hum. Bucky can’t help but be pleased at the reaction. If someone comments positively on his food, whether it be online or to his face, he’s as happy as a kitten with warm milk. He’ll be on cloud nine for the rest of the day and he knows it.

“These are amazing,” Steve says, after he downed the roll with a swig of coffee.

Bucky grins, wide and toothy, “Thanks, I know.”

“Where did you learn how to bake?” Steve asks, ripping a piece of the roll off to pop it into his mouth.

“First from my Ma’, then in school, and finally overseas.” He condenses the story down, not wanting to start spewing about how his passion came to be.

“Your ma’ must be proud, then.” Steve nods.

Bucky shrugs, making a mental note to call her later, “I think she regrets teaching me since I always one up her at family gatherings.”

Steve snorts, “Yeah, I can see how she could regret her choices.”

Bucky leans in like he’s telling a secret, “I always leave the baked good in the oven a little too long before taking it home, but don’t tell her that.”

Steve makes a cross over his heart with a glaze-sticky index finger, “I promise I won’t tell her.”

“Granted, she can taste the difference when she comes into the shop.” Bucky leans back, “But she lets me believe that she doesn’t know what I do.”

Steve chuckles, continuing eating his roll, “You’re a good son.”

Bucky looks down at the table, he pokes at a stain with a finger, “I like to think I am.”

They’re quiet for a moment as Steve eats his roll and Bucky looks out the window. People walk up and down the street, cars drive by, but there’s no traffic yet. The shop isn’t in a particularly busy location, better for him and his business, but people still use it as a back way to get to the main streets and subway stations. He turns to look at Steve, who’s now mirroring him except he’s sipping from his coffee cup like it’s a lifeline.

Bucky has never been one for ice breakers or small talk. In the sandbox he was with the same people all the time, and after he didn’t care much to make other friends. He’s got his mom, Becca, Riley, Sam, and a few other people sprinkled here and there. He’s never needed more than that, and still doesn’t, but he wants Steve to have some part of his life. He wants Steve to be his friend, and he hasn’t wanted that in a while.

“So,” Bucky starts, hoping Steve can’t hear the awkward in his voice, “what do you do for fun?”

Steve turns away from the window and shrugs, setting his mug down, “Art, mostly, but I like exercising, I tried hiking a couple times and that’s pretty fun.” Steve’s eyes are staring at the ceiling, like he doesn’t know what he does for fun and has to think hard about it, “Sometimes I hang out with friends, which is becoming a more frequent thing, now that I think about it...” Steve trails off at that thought, his eyes back on the table.

“Nobody exercises for fun, Steve. Nobody.” Bucky detests running, and lifting, and anything of that nature. He does it, though, but mostly so he can keep his military physique in line and be able to support the weight of his metal arm. The damn thing ain’t anywhere near light, and he doesn’t want to think about what he’s going to do when he’s an old man.

Steve shrugs again, it’s small and insecure. It makes Bucky feel guilty, “I like the way it gets my heart racing, the way it makes my lungs work. Reminds me to be grateful that they’re in one piece.”

There’s a story there. The way Steve made himself smaller, the way he talked about his heart and lungs as if they’re fragile and edging on broken. There’s a story there, but Bucky can’t tell if it’s something from Steve’s life before or after his service, so he doesn’t poke. He doesn’t ask or give Steve that pitying look that every serviceman with a visible disability knows all too well. Instead, he changes the subject.

“I told you how I got into baking, how did you get into making art, huh?”

Steve lets out a visible breath and looks up at Bucky, “My drawings always made mom happy, and I would do anything to make her happy.”

Bucky smiles, it’s soft, “Look at us, mama’s boys.”

“And proud of it,” Steve nods.

Bucky nods back, yes, he is, “We should get one of those cliché heart tattoos with ‘mom’ inside the banner to solidify our dedication to our mothers.”

“You got any ink?” Steve asks, leaning back in his seat.

Bucky shakes his head, “Nah, I’m too indecisive for that.” He’d hate to get a tattoo, pay all that money for it, go through the terrible healing process, only to be partial to it months down the line.

“Understandable,” Steve nods, “and no. I haven’t thought about it.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “Your unit didn’t have some less than legal tattoo sessions going on?” He know his did, the jagged tattoo on Riley’s hip is proof of that. He had one on his left shoulder before he lost it.

“Uh, no, not that I remember,” Steve clears his throat, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You had a good unit, then, or at least a strict commanding officer.” Both things Bucky’s unit lacked, not that he minds or minded at the time. The people in his unit got the job done when they needed to and allowed themselves to smile when it was time for it.

“A little bit of both, I think.” Steve nods, he flicks his wrist to look at his watch and curses under his breath, “Damn,”

“Damn?” Bucky repeats.

Steve closes the box in front of him and sighs, “If I don’t leave now I’m going to be late to a- a- consultation.”

“Get to your consultation, Steve, don’t be late on my account.” He gets up from his own seat, and takes Steve’s now empty coffee mug, he’s headed that way anyways.

Steve quickly gathers his things before pausing, “How much do I owe you?”

Bucky shakes his head, “Show me your art next time and we’re even.”

“Buck--”

Bucky cuts him off, “It’s on the house, Steve, deal with it.”

Steve sighs in defeat, “Fine, but I’m putting some money in your tip jar.”

“Do with your money as you please.” Bucky watches Steve pull out a ten from his wallet, placing it on top of his journal, before gathering his things and standing up.

He raises the box in the air, “Thanks for these, my friends are going to love these as much as I do.”

Bucky grins at the praise, “Be sure to send their business this way, then.”

Steve nods, kicking the linoleum in front of him, “Are you coming to the VA later?”

“Yeah, gotta’ help Riley deliver the baked goods.” He doesn’t say he’s going to a meeting, he doesn’t make that promise.

Steve meets his eyes, “I hear Sam’s bringing the dogs in today, you could stay during the session to pet them, ya’ know.”

It’s a branch, an outreach of something that’s almost a meeting. “I know, about the dogs, I mean.” He looks at the empty cup, tilting it to one side to watch the brown drops at the bottom move to one side, “I’ll see if I stay.” Not a promise, just a hand holding onto that little branch.

“Okay, then,” Steve sighs, another person on the list of many that want Bucky to go to a session, “well, I’ll see you around.”

Bucky looks up at Steve, “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

They walk back into the store area, Bucky going behind the counter and Steve going to the tip bowl. He raises the ten before stuffing it into the glass bowl, meeting Bucky’s eyes one last time, then turning on his heel as he makes his way out of the bakery.

He hears Kate tell Steve bye, to come back later, and lets out a sigh. He leans against the counter for a moment, mug still in hand, before pushing himself off and heading out to the kitchen.

Bucky sets the mug in the bin with the others that need to be washed, and decides he’s going to wash them. He knows this is Kate’s job, and he could be doing inventory or actual baking, but right now he wants to go through the calming, consistent motions of washing dishes.

He’s elbows deep in soap suds, half the bin of ceramic mugs cleaned, when Riley slides up next to him. Bucky already knows Riley’s presence comes with questions about Steve, he doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know that. Instead of acknowledging him, Bucky continues washing the mugs, eyes focused on what his hands are doing.

“So,” Riley starts.

Bucky keeps the sigh to himself but breathes out quietly and slowly. “So,” he repeats.

Riley leans his back against the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, “Saw you and Steve were having a nice chat.”

Bucky nods, placing the freshly washed cup upside down on the drying rack, “That we were.”

“I think that’s the quickest I’ve seen you make a friend, Mister Cold and Calculating.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Aren’t you glad I’m making friends?” It’s been years since he’s had a normal, civilian life. Years since making friends and going on dates came as easy as rain, if anyone should be proud of himself it should be Bucky.

Riley nods once, “Yeah, I can’t be the only person in the world dealing with your shit.”

Bucky snorts, “Like I don’t deal with yours.”

“Mutual shit dealing, isn’t that what friendship is about?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Bucky pauses, “What else could friendship be about?”

“Well, there’s mutual appreciation, love, care, dedication...” Riley ticks each one off with his fingers, “... but I think mutual shit dealing is the most important component to a successful friendship.”

“Maybe one day Steve can get a share of my personal shit to deal with, but not all of it ‘cause then what would you do?” Bucky rinses the soap suds from his hands and cuts the water off. The mugs aren’t all clean yet, but that’s part of the reason he pays bratty college kids anyways.

Riley snorts, “How sweet of you to think of me.”

Bucky turns around to mirror Riley’s position, and leans against the counter, “He seems like a nice guy.”

“Sam says he’s a nice guy,” Riley shrugs, “I usually trust Sam’s choices in friends.”

Bucky nods once, “Agreed.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Both of them stare at the floor, their arms crossed over their chests.

“You going to see him tonight at the VA?” Riley asks, breaking the silence.

“Riley,” Bucky starts, now staring at Riley’s face.

Riley puts on an innocent look, hands now in the air, “What? I’m just asking.”

Bucky frowns, “Well don’t ask.”

“Fine,” Riley says, lowering his hands.

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine. I won’t ask if you’re going to act like a middle schooler with a crush.”

Bucky slaps Riley’s arm with his metal hand, ignoring the loud ‘ow’, “Shaddup.”

There’s a buzz in the air when they get to the VA. Everyone’s huddled in small groups, all surrounding four-legged fuzz balls. He quickly deposits the baked goods on the table in the back, not caring for presentation, before finding a pup waiting to be pet.

Bucky grins as he lowers himself to the ground to gently pet a curious mut under the chin, “Sam, if we knew you were bringing the dogs in we would have brought some treats.” Homemade treats of the Brooklyn Born and Bread sort, specially made for all the good pups (which is all the pups, to be clear). He completely forgot about the pups after Steve reminded him, his mind too muddled with their conversation to focus.

Bucky keeps his eyes on the dog whose own eyes are half shut, one-foot scratching at the air where Bucky hit a good spot, “Don’t worry bud, there has to be treats somewhere.”

Sam snorts, “Ask their trainer first, this is a different batch.”

Riley sighs wistfully behind them, a small pit bull in his arms, “I should get myself a service dog.”

“Haven’t I been telling you that since you came here?” Sam asks, eyebrow raised, and arms crossed over his chest.

A beat, “Yes.”

Bucky knees around in a circle until he’s facing both Sam and Riley, the pup following, “You gonna’ put yourself on the list?” There’s a long line and wait for someone to get a service dog. People put into an order based on income and how much a dog would help with their disability. Some people are lucky and get their dog free of charge in months, others either play the waiting game or shell out their own cash to get a trained dog.

Riley shakes his head, gently scratching the dog’s belly, “I would use my own money. Other people from the list need the dog more.”

Sam lets out an audible sigh, “Don’t compare your struggles to those of others. It’s not a line, it’s not a hierarchy, it’s a sphere.”

“Sam--”

Bucky ignores the bickering for sitting on the floor, his hands gently stroking the dog's hair. He’s so captivated with the fact that the dog doesn’t seem to care that one of his hand’s is metal, that it doesn’t notice the difference in texture or temperature, that he doesn’t notice someone standing in front of him until that body sits down.

“That one’s cute,” Steve says, making Bucky look up and away from the dog.

Bucky smiles down at the pup who's now on her back, wanting belly rubs, “Yeah, but all dogs are pretty cute.”

Steve makes a scrunched-up face, “I don’t know how to feel about chihuahuas.”

“What did those dogs ever do to you?” Other than the idea of them biting his ankles, he doesn’t have any reason to be against the tiny dogs.

“Nothing, but they’re just--” Steve makes sizing motions with his hands, “so small yet so evil.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “Steve, are you implying that Satan lives within chihuahuas?”

Steve snorts, dropping his hands, “No, I’m implying that too much mean lives in those little dogs.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, he gently picks up the pup and sets her in Steve’s lap to pet, “Chihuahuas are lower to the floor, ya know, closer to hell and such.”

Steve chuckles, loud and surprised, “Are you implying that shorter people are closer to hell?”

Bucky shrugs, grinning at Steve’s reaction, “If the shoe fits.”

“You know I used to be short?” Steve says, almost hesitant.

Both of Bucky’s eyebrows raise. “You?” He looks Steve up and down, even sitting the man is obviously tall. Bucky was under the impression that Steve was born with a six pack and guns, maybe an American flag and an eagle in his hands.

Steve ducks his head, focused completely on petting the dog, “Had a pretty major growth spurt, but before that I came in at about five, four.”

If Bucky’s eyebrows could go up any higher on his forehead, they would, “You got some good genes, then.” Bucky grew at a consistent pace for an average, American boy. He doesn’t remember any drastic changes, maybe with his shoes, but what kid doesn’t grow out of their shoes stupidly fast?

“I guess, yeah,” Steve says, shrugging.

They fall into silence. Steve keeps petting the dog, and Bucky looks around at the center. More people have flowed in, some of them on the floor petting dogs, others in groups talking over coffee and pastries. Even with the dogs it’s a calm setting, everyone here understands the need to keep their voices and laughter hushed. Both out of respect for veterans who are sensitive to sound, and out of respect to the fact that while it is a social center it is also a professional area.

“Are you sticking around for the meeting?” Steve asks, obviously not one to drop a subject.

Bucky sighs and tugs at the laces of his work boots. “No, I’m not.” He wishes he could say that he was. He wishes that he had the ability to walk into that room just feet away from him and sit in on a meeting for once in his life. But he’s not ready, not just yet, and forcing himself to go into that room would only hurt more than him going home for the night.

Steve nods, “That’s okay, try again tomorrow?” There’s a half smile on his lips, one that knows Bucky won’t go in that room tomorrow but is willing to try anyways. Steve’s known Bucky for two days and is already used to his shit.

“Yeah,” Bucky tries to mirror the smile, “tomorrow.”

Eventually the dogs are herded back to their owner and all the vets go into the room. Bucky could tell Steve wanted to sit on the floor and stay with him but Bucky waved him off. He doesn’t need anyone to sit in his pity party. Instead, he gets up off the floor, dusts his pants off, and heads home.

“Hey, Ma’,” Bucky greets, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

“How are you, honey?” She asks, her voice soft.

Bucky shrugs, scraping the bottom of the saucepan with a spoon, “‘m fine, and you Ma’?”

“We’re all good here. Poppy just had her first calf so it’s been busy.”

Bucky grins, bringing the wooden spoon to his mouth to taste the sauce, “Oh yeah? What color is it?”

“Brown,” his mom laughs, “Henry has to be the father, then.”

“And finally, the mystery is solved!” Bucky sets the spoon down on the counter and lets the sauce bubble away. He leans against the fridge keeping an eye on the stove, “There room for me to come up soon?”

Winnifred snorts, “You know there always is, honey, you just need to get your butt on a plane and visit.”

With his mom still living in Indiana it’s hard to see her. He left home after he came back with one arm, not wanting anyone to pity him or to look at him any differently. He doesn’t regret leaving, no, he needed the fast pace life of Brooklyn, but he does miss his Ma’. Sure, they see each other on major holidays, but it never feels like enough. Because while his physical home may be Brooklyn, his other home lives in his Ma’s heart.

“Maybe I’ll take a vacation, hand Riley the reins of the shop and spend a month at home.”

Winnifred hums into the phone, “That would be nice, you could show me some of your baking tricks and visit the cows, they miss you.”

Bucky grins, “Of course they miss me, I’d always give them treats.”

She snorts, “They’d follow you all around the pasture thinking you’re going to feed them something new.”

Bucky sighs into the phone, it’s wistful, he misses the simplicity of farm life.

They fall into a silence and Bucky cuts off the sauce, letting the pasta boil.

He clears his throat, staring at the bubbling water, “So, I, uh, might have met someone.”

“Oh?” She asks, alert and interested.

“Mmhmm, his name is Steve.”

“Is he someone you could bring home?”

Bucky snorts, “Not there yet, Ma’. We haven’t even gone on a date yet.”

“But you want to?”

Bucky nods but she can’t see it, “But I want to.”

“And why don’t you just ask him?”

“Ma’, the probability that he’s straight is very high.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” She replies, probably rolling her eyes, “If he’s a gentleman he would be flattered that you asked him out, no matter his sexuality.”

Bucky cuts the pasta off, putting his phone on speaker so he can drain it, “So, you’re saying I should just jump the gun and ask?”

“I’m saying you should just jump the gun and ask.”

He drains the pasta, liking the way the steam heats his face up, “But what if he says no? We literally just met, and I don’t wanna’ ruin anything.”

“Bucky, honey, if you want to let your relationship simmer for a while longer than feel free. But, if you’re holding off on asking him out on a date because you’re afraid of rejection then you might as well hold your breath forever.”

He nods, stirring the pasta with his spoon, “You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” she says, and he can hear the grin through the phone.

“So,” Bucky starts, changing the subject, “tell me about the new calf.”

“Little one, you know your cousin Jasmine is allergic to peanuts.”

Angelica rolls her eyes, and Bucky tries to hide his grin. While Angelica’s petite in stature she’s far from the ‘little one’ Conall refers to her as.

“And I don’t like Jasmine, dad, if there’s a peanut ganache she won’t come to the wedding.” Angelica picks up the spoon that had the vanilla cake with peanut ganache duo, “Or, ya’ know, she’ll eat the cake and die. Oops.”

Trevor shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Bucky wants to pat him on the back and tell him it’s going to be okay.

Conall sighs, “You can’t kill your cousin Jasmine, Angelica.”

Bucky nods and crosses the vanilla/peanut combination off on his paper, “I agree killing someone’s a little distasteful on your wedding.”

“Thank God someone has morals,” Trevor mutters under his breath, but not low enough.

Angelica rolls her eyes to look at Trevor, “She tried to hit you with her ugly car, Trev, she tried to kill you.”

“But look,” Trevor says, voice pitched high, he spreads his arms out as he speaks, “I’m alive!”

“She tried to hit you with a Range Rover!” Angelica shouts, eyes wide, “How tasteless could she be?”

Trevor sighs, taking Angelica's hand, “Would you rather she try and hit me with a Mercedes?”

Angelica pouts, squeezing Trevor’s hand, “At least you’d have been hit with something classy.”

Trevor breaks into a gooey smile, “Next time we’ll run over her mailbox with the Mercedes then.”

Angelica, mirroring Trevor’s smile, “It’s a date!”

Bucky looks between the two, then flicks his eyes to Conall whose expression tells Bucky that he would rather be in court than here. Bucky pities him.

“Okay,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. He pulls the three plates back to him and pushes the chocolate/strawberry duo forward. It’s cliché, a little too simple, but maybe this family needs a little simple right now, “how about this flavor?”

Bucky frowns down at the sketch of Angelica’s cake, he takes a moment to breathe and look over the entire four tier beast, before aggressively erasing it from the page. Bucky isn’t good at designing cakes, people like them in the end- he wouldn’t have wedding business if they didn’t- but going through the motions of designing them is worse than pulling out teeth. He would rather be in the hell that is the dentist’s office than sitting in the kitchen drawing.

Instead of snapping the mechanical pencil with his metal hand, he decides to get up and stretch his legs. There’re probably a dozen things to do in the bakery, all of which are tasked out to the college employees, but his hands are itching for something to do other than drawing. There’s a rack of baked goods just waiting to be put out before the evening rush, and while evening won’t be here for a couple hours, he decides to go for it anyways.

The tray he grabs is full of assorted cookies. From oatmeal to peanut butter, from gluten free to sugar free, all smelling and looking just as good as they did when they were pulled out of the oven. He’s pretty sure these are part of Riley’s batch, since he doesn’t remember making smiley faces out of M&Ms in the cookies, but he takes them out to the store anyways.

“Thanks for doing my job,” Kate mutters to him as he walks past her from where she sits on her phone at the register.

“My bakery, my work,” Bucky shoots back, stopping to keep her in ear shot.

She raises an eyebrow, sitting up straight, “So, does that you’re going to wash the dishes tonight?”

Bucky snorts and turns on his heel, “No.”

Kate rolls her eyes, and with a huff goes back to her phone.

With his left hand gloved, he starts to refill the cases. Some of them need more work than others, like the chocolate chunk section, but he doesn’t mind. It takes his mind off the impending doom that is Angelica’s wedding cake, lets him do something other than stress over the damn thing. Most of his stress is normal, too. The kind where he wants to get all the bride and groom’s dreams right and present on the cake, where he doesn’t want the cake to be a mountain of ugly. The other half, though, isn’t normal.

This is for Conall and Angelica, and it’s not that they’re huge in the organized crime district, that doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s that he’s known them since the shop opened, since he and Riley were baking only two products and the place was half the size with an abandoned cafe next door. Conall’s been there for the break-in’s and for the dazzling reviews in New York food journals. Conall’s his best and favorite customer, sure he scares some people away and when there’s another organized crime leader in the shop everyone’s on their toes and wanting to hide the metal trays and tongs, but Bucky can ignore that.

What he can’t ignore, though, is the desire to really impress the family. He wants the cake to be something he’s proud of and Angelica, Trevor, and Conall are in love with. Maybe that’s too much weight to put on a cake, too much history, but Bucky’s damned to try.

He’s so deep in his thoughts, thinking about the stupid cake when this was supposed to be his time to not think about the cake, that he doesn’t realize when a bulking mass of blonde man is standing next to him until he bumps into it.

Bucky blinks himself out of his thoughts, the tray of cookies on his shoulder doesn’t move an inch, “Steve,” he says, like an idiot.

Steve grins, wide and toothy, “Hey, Buck.”

If Bucky were less of a man he would melt at the nickname, “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

They’ve been dancing around like this for over a month now. Steve will show up at the bakery, Bucky will act stupid like he doesn’t know why Steve’s here, and Steve will say he’s here for some baked craving he had. Everyone and their mother in this shop are fed up with it, but Bucky’s not ready to admit a crush and Steve doesn’t seem like he is either. Thus, the game they continue to play.

Steve looks around the shop, his smile small but just as bright as a moment ago, “Had a craving for chocolate chunk cookies.”

Behind them it sounds like someone (Kate) hit their (Kate) head against something (the counter next to the register), but they ignore it.

“Ah,” Bucky says, picking up a chocolate chunk cookie with his tongs, handing it to Steve, “you’re in luck.”

Steve takes the cookie, “Would you look at that, a chocolate chunk cookie.”

Bucky snorts, and turns away from Steve to continue filling the case. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but he keeps a straight face. If being in the army taught him anything it was how to keep a good poker face. Saved him plenty of MRE dessert items and got him out of dozens of sticky situations. Now, it’s keeping the smile that so badly wants to make an appearance on his lips at bay. Great use of his ex-military skills.

“I was wondering,” Steve starts, clearing his throat, “what time do you get off today?”

Bucky keeps his face in the cabinet, Steve doesn’t need to see the hope or want on it, “Anytime I want, really. Riley will be here later to help the kids close, but I’m always down to stay later.”

If Kate and him could telepathically communicate she would probably be screaming in his brain that she and Riley can close.

Steve falls silent again, and Bucky keeps filling the cabinet. He’s going to run out of cookies soon, whether that’s a good thing or not he doesn’t know.

“I was wondering if you, uh, wanted to go to a gallery opening with me and maybe catch dinner after?”

Bucky heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. Steve doesn’t call it a date, so Bucky doesn’t take it as one, but it sure hell sounds like it. It’s not a date, though, it’s just a totally platonic outing between two friends.

He takes a step back from the cabinet and looks at Steve, clicking the tongs in his hand out of nerves, “Yeah, that sounds great.” He keeps his answer simple and contained, not wanting to scare Steve away with an overly enthused response.

“Really?” Steve asks, like he’s surprised, before correcting himself, “I mean, uh, is five good?”

“Riley, me, and Peter will be here at five!” Kate yells from the register, probably scaring everyone in the bakery, “Five is great!”

Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes, he doesn’t blush, he just smiles at Steve, “Five sounds good,” he flicks his eyes to the clock, it’s only three, “see you then?”

The small smile is back on Steve’s lips, and it’s probably Bucky’s favorite, “Yeah, I’ll be here on the dot.”

Bucky wants to say “it’s a date then” but he’s not that cocky. Instead he just nods, clicking the tongs again in his hand, “I’ll see you then. Casual dress or...?”

“Casual,” Steve says, taking a step back, “let me pay for this and get out of your hair, I can see you’re busy.”

Bucky completely forgot there was a tray of cookies on his shoulder, he blinks at them like they’re a new sight then looks back at Steve, “The cookie is on the house, don’t worry about it.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “I got dinner then.” And without giving Bucky time to respond, dashes out the door.

For a moment Bucky just stares at the slowly shutting door. He can feel customer’s eyes on him and when he turns around to the register Kate gives him a cheesy grin and two thumbs up. He rolls his eyes and goes back to racking cookies.

If he does it quicker than usual nobody has to know.

Bucky is expecting either a walk to the gallery or a take the subway. Both of which he doesn’t mind, both of which he likes on good days when the weather’s nice. What he isn’t expecting, though, is this beauty of a motorcycle to be parked outside of the bakery with two helmets hanging off the handle.

“Public transportation and walking are a little too slow for me,” Steve says with a shrug, he hands Bucky one of the helmets, “is this okay with you?”

Bucky has to tear his eyes away from the bike by physically moving his head to look at Steve, “Yeah, this is totally fine.” He takes the helmet and steps to the bike, touching the leather seat, “This is quite the bike, Steve.” He might be a little in love with the bike, about to wax some sappy poetry to it.

Steve grins, “Thanks, a friend rebuilt her for me.”

Bucky watches as Steve slips the helmet on, visor down covering his eyes, and follows suit. Everything is muted inside the helmet, like putting a seashell to his ear, and it’s kinda’ nice. There’s enough padding in the helmet to make it comfortable, and from knocking on it once Bucky knows it’s made well enough to save his skull if he were to take a spill.

Steve gets on the motorcycle seamlessly, swinging one long leg over the seat before settling in. He turns towards Bucky and with one hand pats the rest of the seat behind him, signaling Bucky over.

It’s a fine sight to see, Steve on a bike. All American Boy aesthetic at its peak, the motorcycle just adding to the image. Bucky drinks it in, eyeing Steve up and down shamelessly through the tinted visor because Steve can’t see his eyes.

Bucky takes a deep breath in and gets ahold of himself before going to the motorcycle. Getting on is a little daunting, and he doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Steve. He gently places his hands on Steve’s shoulders, waiting for the nod of affirmation Steve gives him to put on more weight and swing a leg over as easily as he can. When his other foot touches cement, he gently lowers his body down onto the leather seat. He’s only ever been on dirt bikes in the desert, not the smooth leather of a luxury motorcycle.

Steve pats his own waist with his hands, another signal for Bucky, and Bucky follows.

At first he’s only just holding onto Steve, arching his back so that he’s not pressed against him, giving the man some space. Then the motorcycle turns on, loud and rumbling beneath them, and Bucky can’t help but grip on tighter. He follows his instincts and closes the small space between them, relaxing his chest against Steve’s back. He hopes to whatever god will listen that he doesn’t pop a hard on against Steve, because unfortunately for him this is a sexual fantasy he didn’t even know he had.

Steve pulls out seamlessly into the slow street. The motorcycle rumbles loud beneath them, and for the first time in what seems like forever Bucky trusts someone entirely with his wellbeing. He doesn’t grip on to Steve out of fear of falling off the bike, nor does his heart race for that reason. Rather, he grips on and holds Steve closer because he finally has the chance to. He’s allow the moment, this small window of time, to shamelessly press himself against Steve and like hell is he going to take advantage of the moment.

It’s exhilarating, being on a motorcycle with someone he trusts. From the wind against his clothes, the way Steve’s body moves under his hands as he controls the bike, to the warmth of both their bodies pressing together. It’s like all his senses are heightened in the dark space of the helmet, he can both hear the motorcycle beneath him and his own breathing. He can feel Steve’s leather jacker beneath his fingers and wind against his shirt. It’s like a rush of adrenalin shot through his veins.

Steve weaves in and out of traffic, not slowing down of yellow lights but speeding up so he passes through them before they turn red. For moments in time they’re so close to other vehicles that Bucky could run his finger along them as they sped past, so close that he was worried about scraping against them. But Steve’s a skilled driver, he’s not clumsy or aggressive, just confident and it feels amazing just to be part of the experience. So much so, that their night could end here and Bucky would go to bed with a smile on his face.

Eventually, the ride ends, and somehow Steve finds a parking spot. It’s like a movie the way he slides into the space, as if it were saved just for him. But Bucky finds everything Steve does on his bike impressive, he could stop at a light and Bucky would think it’s the best thing since sliced bread.

Steve gets off the bike first and holds a hand out for Bucky.

Bucky takes the hand, clumsily getting off the bike and needing a moment to stop the world from spinning slightly before he lets go. He pulls the helmet off, shaking his hair out before running his fingers through it, a grin on his face the entire time.

“How was it?” Steve asks once he’s got his own helmet off, there’s an all-knowing smile on his face that Bucky chooses to ignore.

“Exhilarating,” Bucky says, breathless.

Steve smiles and doesn’t say anything. He probably knows as much and more from the smile still on Bucky’s face. Instead, Steve motions with his head to the building behind them, “Come on, let’s go see some art.”

The art wasn’t up Bucky’s alley. It was modern shtick that he easily confused for trash, full offence to the artist. He’s not that arty of a person. He doesn’t like sketching, he doesn’t like how annoying paints are, it’s never been his thing. Sure, he’s been to the MOMA before. He’s appreciated the paintings and sculptures they had to offer, but that doesn’t mean he’s ever had to experience modern art in the flesh.

Steve, though, was in his element and it was quite a sight to see. Bucky ignores the pile of sticks in the center of the building for watching Steve like the creep he’s become. All of Steve’s emotions surface on his face, they bubble to the top like he can’t help but hide them. From the way his eyebrows bunch together when he’s concentrated on a piece, to the way his eyes shine, and hands animate his words as he speaks to the gallery’s artist. Stealing those glances at Steve from next to him or across the room was more than he could ever get from art, and Bucky’s perfectly fine with that.

“I just don’t understand it.” Bucky motions to the pile of assembled boxes in front of him. They look like moving boxes, the cheap kind found at a hardware store, but the plaque in front of them says they’re made out of wood and acrylics.

Steve shrugs, looking at the same piece, “You don’t need to understand it. It’s all about your personal interpretation. Sure the artist might have intended a meaning behind the work but that doesn’t mean you have to follow it.”

Bucky frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “It just looks like a pile of boxes to me.”

“Then it’s a pile of boxes, you don’t need to dig deeper than that if you don’t want to.”

“Art is weird.”

Steve grins, stepping back from the boxes, “That it is.”

Bucky follows behind Steve and wishes this were an actual date. He wants to be those saps in the gallery holding hands and looking thoughtfully at the art in front of them. While Steve would be the only one doing that, he still wishes. The strong urge to hold Steve’s hand, touch Steve in general, is a new one. He’s had wants before, slight cravings, but never anything like this. He got a taste of touching Steve on the motorcycle, and now he can’t help but want more.

“How about we leave here and get some food?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows like he’s asking Bucky if he wants to rob a bank.

Bucky grins, pushing down the urge to reach out and take Steve’s hand, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Now the art may not have been up Bucky’s alley, but the food, the food is some next level shit.

“How did you find this place?” Bucky asks, licking tzatziki sauce off his fingers. He probably looks like he was raised by wolves, doing a mighty disservice to his mom’s name, but he can’t help it when food tastes this good.

Steve laughs, gyro halfway to his mouth, “Went on a run one day and I was so hungry that I just walked in here and asked for the best thing on the menu.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “That’s classy of you, Steve.”

Steve shrugs, “It got me here, right?”

They fall into another silence as they eat their gyros. Bucky’s is full of delicious falafel patties and lettuce, Steve’s with lamb, baskets of fries in front of them.

The place is family run from the banter going on in the kitchen, the booths are cushioned with worn red pleather, the floors checkered linoleum. One of the radio stations plays softly over the speakers, a TV with soccer on in the corner of the shop. Bucky watches as one of the bussers stops, bucket of plates in hand, to watch the game for a moment before shaking his head. It’s a nice, almost homey, place. Something that could only be found by word of mouth or an accident, rather than Yelp or Google Reviews. Bucky hopes people get the same warm feeling from his place that he does here. He hopes people feel like they’re part of his chosen family even though they don’t know him, that Brooklyn Born and Bread doesn’t come off as pretentious from all the reviews and awards they get.

“You know what would make this perfect?” Steve asks, breaking Bucky out of his thoughts.

Bucky blinks, “What?”

Steve grins, trading his half-eaten gyro for a napkin, “Some of your cinnamon rolls.”

Bucky scrunches up his nose, using his left hand to grab a fry, “Being completely honest, I get tired of my own baking.”

Steve’s eyes widen, “How could you get tired of something so great.”

“You try baking something every day and not getting tired of it, I dare ya’.” He shoves the fries in his mouth, but keeps an eyebrow raised in light of the dare.

“I actually, uh, can’t bake.” Steve says, a light flush spread across his face.

The eyebrow drops, and Bucky quickly swallows the fries in shock, “You don’t know how to bake? Or are you not good at it?”

Steve winces like he’s telling Bucky he broke one of his mom’s vases, “I’ve never actually tried baking before.”

Bucky wants to drop his jaw in astonishment, but there’s probably fry and gyro residue in there that the man he might be trying to woo doesn’t need to see.

“Steve,” he says slowly after swallowing, “you’re friends with a baker, hell, with two bakers. You have all the baking resources at the tips of your fingers just waiting to be used.”

The wince gradually disappears from Steve’s face, “You’d teach me how to bake?” His voice sounds hopeful, like it’s something he’s been wanting to try but never knew how to ask.

Bucky nods, “Yeah, we could start slow with a simple cookie then move onto more difficult things with time.”

“What if I break your kitchen?”

Bucky raises his metal hand and wiggles his fingers, “If I can’t break my kitchen then your human hands shouldn’t be able to, either.”

Steve laughs, shrugging, “We’ll see.”

“Next time you’re free it’s going to be you, me, and my kitchen. You’ll go home with your very own batch of cookies.”

Steve grins, “It’s a date, then.”

Bucky’s heart skips a beat in his chest, but he ignores it and the voice repeating it’s a date over and over in his head. He just mirrors the grin on Steve’s face, bringing his gyro to his mouth, “I guess it is.”

Bucky’s nervous, he doesn’t want to be nervous but there’s persistent butterflies in his stomach and anxiety driven thoughts running through his mind. His apartment’s been cleaned from top to bottom, Glade fresheners that he never uses plugged into the wall, and all the ingredients for a simple chocolate chip cookie sorted on the counter.

It’s been a while since he’s had a romantic interest over at his apartment. Sure, he’ll host friends when a major football game is on or for a birthday party but that’s completely different. This isn’t just a friend, this is Steve and he wants to impress him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows Steve doesn’t care about surface level impressions, that if he and Steve did turn into something more every little flaw about his person would come out eventually, but his brain doesn’t let him think about that. Instead he turned his apartment into something spotless that doesn’t show the fact that he likes to leave his shoes at the door and sometimes lets cucumbers go bad in the fridge because he deeply hates cleaning it. It’s so spotless and neat that the health inspector would probably pass it off as the perfect place to cater a crowd of strangers in.

A quiet knock breaks Bucky out of his thoughts. He stares at the door for a moment, almost holding his breath. If he answers it too soon would Steve think he’s desperate? But if he answers it a moment too late would Steve think he didn’t care? Bucky shakes his head, as if to throw the thoughts away from him, and takes a moment to gather his composer. In a few strides he’s in front of the door, out of habit he looks through the peephole and smiles. There, Steve stands a respectable distance from the door, a paper bag in one hand, the other in his pocket.

Bucky quickly undoes the chain latch, unlocks the door, and opens it.

Steve grins at the sight of him, “Long time no see.”

Bucky, per usual, wants to swoon, “Ah, yes, a day too long.” He steps back from the door, opening it wider, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Steve steps into his apartment, curiously looking around for a moment before politely taking off his shoes to reveal pink and green polka dot socks.

“Nice socks,” Bucky says, closing the door behind him.

Steve looks down at his own feet, as if unaware of the socks he put on this morning, “They’re very comfortable,” his eye’s flick to Bucky’s feet, clad in simple black ankle socks, “and not boring.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Black socks match with everything.”

“You sayin’ these don’t?” Steve asks, one eyebrow raised.

Bucky snorts, walking past Steve, “Not in my closet.”

He goes straight to the kitchen, hoping Steve follows behind him, and preheats the oven.

“So,” Steve asks from behind him, the sound of a paper bag being set down following, “what kind of cookie are we making?”

Bucky turns around from the oven and crosses his arms, “You’re baking a chocolate chip cookie. I, on the other hand, am just supervising.”

“You’re at least going to give me instruction, right?”

Bucky wants to laugh at the concerned tone to Steve’s voice but holds back, “Yes, but you’re going to be doing all the mixing and stuff.”

“Oh,” Steve says with a relieved sigh, “okay, cool. Don’t want to burn your place down or anything”

Bucky hums in agreeance before nodding back to the bag, “What’s in there?”

Steve looks at the bag then shrugs, “Didn’t know what to bring in return, or if you drank alcohol, so I brought some of those fancy sodas as a thanks.”

Bucky walks over to the bag and look in, different caps with their respective flavor look back at him. He looks back up at Steve, grinning, “Thanks, but you didn’t have to.”

Steve shrugs again, “I know.”

They share a glance before Bucky clears his throat, “Shall we?”

“Wow,” Steve says with a pant, “I never realized how much work goes into baking.” He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, a small triumphant smile on his face.

Bucky grins, moving next to him to lean on the counter in front of the oven, “Now you won’t take baked goods for granted, huh?”

Steve laughs, eyes still on the oven, “I will respect any, and all baked goods that I consume even if they taste horrible.”

“Unless they’re twinkies,” Bucky says, nose scrunching.

“What’s wrong with twinkies?” The frown is evident in his voice.

“They’re cakes packed with chemicals and mass produced in a huge factory, they deserve no respect.”

Steve laughs again, but this time it’s loud and full bodied, “No respect for the twinkie, then.”

They fall into a lapse of silence. Both of them next to each other, watching the cookies slowly bake in the oven. Bucky knows soon his apartment will be filled with the delicious scent of home baked cookies, and while he’s tired of eating his own baked goods, eating Steve’s will be a treat. It’s nice to eat a baked good not made by him, because no matter if they use the same recipe, it’s going to taste different.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve asks quietly.

“What’s up?” He’s distracted by his thoughts, so he doesn’t expect Steve’s face to be only inches away from his when he looks up. His voice trails off as he meets Steve’s eyes.

He’s never been this close to Steve. It makes his skin tingle with excitement, the hair on the back of his neck raising with anticipation rather than fear. He can see the clear blue in his eyes, tinged with a slight wash of green that he never noticed before. He can see the sun kissed freckles that dance on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, some of them light and fresh others the slightest shade deeper. Personal space is nonexistent as they breathe into each other, he can smell the cherry coke that lingers on Steve’s breath and wonders if Steve can smell the grape on his own.

“I’m going to kiss you, okay?” Steve asks, his voice low and rough.

Bucky nods, his voice caught in his throat, “Okay.”

Steve leans in, their noses brushing, and closes the distance.

It’s a short kiss. A press of dry lips to dry lips, but Bucky takes it in. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in, and rests the hand not on the counter on the hem of Steve’s shirt. It’s nothing spectacular, fireworks don’t burst behind his eyes, but it’s enough because it’s Steve. If he could live in this moment forever he would, from the silence other than their breathing and the noises that emerge from the oven, to the warmth of Steve’s nose as it rests against his.

But, as abruptly as it came, it’s over.

Steve pulls back like something shocked him, bumping into the sink behind him. His eyes are wide with shock, stuttering sounds emit from his mouth but words don’t.

Bucky opens his own mouth to calm Steve, tell him it’s okay, but before he can do anything Steve’s out of the kitchen. He doesn’t even have time to turn around and look at the door before the sound of it closing rings through his apartment.

He doesn’t know how to react.

Steve is the one that leaned in, Steve’s the one that kissed him. Hell, Steve asked if he could kiss him and Bucky agreed. He didn’t do anything but stand there and consent to it with a single word followed by the press of his own lips.

He frowns as he looks down at the piece of linoleum Steve was standing on, maybe he’s still in the closet? That’s the only idea that sounds valid, at this point. Steve’s dealing with his own sexuality and freaked out when he kissed Bucky. Yeah, that sounds right. But that only makes it harder for Bucky, how does he talk to someone who physically recoiled when kissing him? He doesn’t want to force Steve out of the closet, or further into it, for that matter. He does want to talk to him, though.

Bucky’s frown deepens, what does he do?

Something pops in the oven and it comes to Bucky: he will do nothing.

“How long has it been?” Riley asks, spraying the counter down with disinfectant.

Bucky doesn’t resist the eyeroll, “You ask everyday, but it’s been around two weeks.”

“And he hasn’t called or seen you?” Kate pipes in, cleaning the farther end of the counter.

“Why don’t you take matters into your own hands?” This time it’s Peter from where he sits at the register.

“I’m going to fire each and every one of you,” Bucky sighs, he sits back on his haunches, pulling away from the chilled case he’s cleaning that resides next to the register.

They all laugh, knowing full and well Bucky wouldn’t fire the main components to his bakery support system.

“Still think you should ask him what’s up,” Peter says, like he’s all knowing in the dating world. Kid can’t even get a date of his own, but here he is dishing out advice like he’s all knowing.

Kate hums in agreement, “I agree with underoos, there.”

“They’re compression pants, for running, Katniss.” Peter grumbles.

Bucky rolls his eyes, one day they’re going to get stuck at the top of his head and goes back to scrubbing down the case.

He’s so focused on making the case spotless that he doesn’t notice Riley trying to get his attention until he’s kicked in the thigh.

“Ow!” Bucky exclaims, pulling away from the case, “What was that for?”

Riley’s eyes are fixed on the door, “Looks like you got company.”

Bucky peeks over the case and it feels like his heart is going to thump out of his chest.

It’s Steve.

Bucky quickly gets up off the floor, pulling his cleaning gloves off. He looks down at his body, then back at the door, “I look like shit.”

Kate snorts, “Steve won’t care.”

Riley pushes his shoulder, “Go open the door, don’t be rude.”

Bucky nods, his breath shaky, and stumbles his way to the door.

It’s a couple hours before opening, hence the cleaning and the locked door. He makes quick work with the keys, and awkwardly steps outside, not wanting his nosey friends to listen in.

He looks Steve up and down, and it’s like taking in a breath of fresh air. “Steve,” he says, breathless.

“Bucky,” Steve sighs back. He flounders for a moment before shoving something against Bucky’s chest, “Those are for you.”

Bucky blinks down at the package, not registering what it is, before smiling. It’s a bouquet of flowers, sunflowers to be exact.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for freaking out,” Steve says, looking down at the pavement with a pinch between his brows, “You were my first kiss in a long time, and I didn’t want to mess up our friendship.”

Well that wasn’t what Bucky was expecting, “So it’s not about me being a guy?” He can’t help but ask. He doesn’t want to get into a relationship, only to find out later that Steve was going through a gay panic the entire time.

Steve’s head snaps up, “What? No, no,” he steps forward, hands gently on Bucky’s elbows, “not at all about you being a guy.”

“Oh,” Bucky sighs before a laugh bubbles to the surface, “thank God.”

Steve chuckles in return, “Yeah, I was just worried I messed something up.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I laid eyes on you.” He shrugs, looking down at the flowers, “Just didn’t have the guts to do it, is all.”

“Bucky?” Steve asks, his voice hushed like the sun peeking through the early morning clouds.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking up.

Steve doesn’t say anything more, just leans in and kisses him. It’s the same as before, but this time Steve’s hands are on his elbows, warm and sturdy. This time, Bucky smiles into the kiss and presses himself into Steve, forgetting about the flowers between them and the fact that his friends are on the other side of the glass wall.

And Bucky? Well, Bucky could live in this moment forever.

The kiss only lasts a short moment, neither of them deepening it out of respect to how new everything is. When they break away Bucky stays close to Steve, liking the tiny difference in height that allows Steve to rest his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Not going to run this time?” Bucky jokes, but keeping one hand on Steve’s waist.

Steve laughs, his breath warm against Bucky’s face, “Definitely not going to run cause that would mean leaving you.”

Bucky’s heart melts into a puddle of goo and grins, “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m your sap now, if you’ll have me.” Steve’s voice is hesitant, like he’s unsure what Bucky’s response would be.

“Thought it was pretty clear I don’t want anyone but you?” Bucky replies rubbing Steve’s waist with his thumb.

Steve grins in response, “What a sap.”

Bucky sighs roughly and rips the piece of paper he was sketching on out of his book. The way the paper crunches when he balls it up between his hands is all too satisfying, the sound it makes when he throws it on the floor only adding to that. He takes a moment to breathe through his frustrations before straightening his back and picking up his pencil, catching Steve’s eye when he does so.

“What?” Bucky asks, a slight flush coming to his cheeks because he completely forgot someone else was in his apartment.

Steve’s eyebrow stays raised in a perfect arch, “You okay there?”

Bucky shrugs, he averts his eyes and stares at Steve’s own sketchbook, “I hate drawing wedding cakes. It’s the hardest part. I don’t even know why I take wedding commissions.” Bucky knows why he took this particular one, Conall and his family are important to him, but every other one? Not a thought in his mind why he did that.

Steve’s silent for a beat, “Why don’t I draw it out for you?”

“What?” Bucky asks, his head snapping up to meet Steve’s eyes.

It’s Steve’s turn to flush, “I mean-- If it’s so hard for you, why don’t I take a swing at it?”

Bucky gapes like a fish for a moment. He’s never had any outside help on wedding cakes. Only him and Riley powering through the cream-colored beasts until all parties were satisfied with it. They’ve considered hiring an artist on to their team for times like these but never got around to it. This might be their chance.

“Did I overstep?” Steve asks nervously, his words quick and tripping over each other, “You don’t have to say yes.”

“We’ve been wanting to hire on a temp artist for cakes like this,” Bucky admits, “You wanna apply for the position?” Having Steve on as an artist would be like having his cake and eating it too. Steve’s artistic abilities are amazing, plus having his boyfriend there during the already-stressful wedding season, what more could he ask for?

Steve laughs and ducks his head, it’s like all the nervous tension in his body drained out and he’s back to his normal self. He looks back up, giving Bucky a small smile, “How about I sketch something out, and if you don’t like it then that’s the end of it.”

Bucky grins, relieved that he might not have to draw this cake out, “Okay, deal.”

There’s a brief thought that passes through his mind that maybe him and Steve shouldn’t work together. Having a home/work balance is something he was never good at. Not in the army where that was never a thing, and not now when he stays in the bakery past closing or when he takes his work home. It’s not like they would be working together every day, just on wedding cakes which aren’t frequent, so he mentally shrugs and moves on.

“This,” Angelica says, pausing to stroke her fingers across the paper, “is perfect.”

The grin on Bucky’s face is wide and shining, “I’m glad you like it. Steve here,” he nudges Steve in the ribs with his elbow, “designed it.”

Angelica eyes Steve up and down before giving him a dazzling smile, “Thank you for designing my cake, I know all my friends and family will love it.”

Steve smiles back, not wide like Bucky’s but small and contained, “I was happy to do it.”

“So, who all will be at the wedding?” Bucky asks, “For cake proportion reasons.”

Angelica leans back in her seat, staring up at the ceiling in thought, “Of course the other mobs and their spouses and kids--”

Steve shifts.

“--my immediate family and in-laws, friends, and a few random people.” She sighs, looking at Bucky, “Around two hundred people, being safe.”

Bucky nods, expecting around that number, “How about we make your cake as designed, and then make some sheet cakes to go with it. Equally as tasteful in design and flavor.”

She leans forward, placing her hand over Bucky’s, “You know my family and I both trust you, whatever you say about this cake goes.”

He places on over hers, “I’m happy to hear that, Angelica, I want this cake to be perfect for you.” He squeezes her hand before leaning back, “Tell your dad I said hi?”

Angelica grins, “Will do, he’ll probably be by soon as he can’t live without your baked goods.”

“If he could I’d go out of business, he’s probably my number one customer.” Bucky shrugs, “Without him how would I keep my lights on?”

Angelica snorts before standing up, adjusting her purse so it rests in the crook of her elbow, “You’d manage. I have to go now, see you on the big day, Bucky.”

He nods to her, as if tipping a hat, “No sooner or later, we hope.”

She blows him a kiss before leaving the bakery, walking out to a parked Mercedes.

He and Steve are quiet until she’s in the car. Bucky rolls his head on his shoulders, looking over at Steve, “How do you feel about designing a mob daughter’s wedding cake?”

Steve shrugs, “As long as I don’t end up with a horse head in my house I’m fine.”

Bucky snorts, and gets up from his seat, stretching as he looks around the quiet bakery, “Well, we have a month to get this cake sorted. That’s enough time for a couple mental breakdowns and a few ruined cakes.”

Steve shakes his head with a chuckle, “Sure thing, Buck.”

“Holy shit, Steve,” Bucky pants. He’s sweaty, his lungs are on fire, and his legs feel like they’re about to give out from underneath him.

Steve turns around, jogging backwards with a shit eating grin on his face, “Can’t keep up?”

Bucky shakes his head and plops down on the trail, right there in the middle of Prospect Park, “I don’t think anyone could keep up with you,” He takes in a deep breath of air and lets it out slowly, “They put you on steroids in the military or something?”

Steve snorts and stops jogging away, instead walking to Bucky with an extended hand, “I’ve been told I’m quite the specimen.”

Bucky takes the hand and lets Steve pull him up. He stumbles forward with the momentum but takes the chance to wrap his arms around Steve, “You could probably carry me home, Mister Specimen.”

“Probably could,” Steve says, humming as he wraps his own arms around Bucky, “throw you on my back like a monkey.”

“Ain’t that the definition of romance,” Bucky laughs, shaking his head. He squeezes Steve harder for a moment before pulling away. He eyes Steve for a moment a grins.

“What?” Steve asks, he runs a hand down his face, “Got something on me?”

Bucky’s grin widens, “Race you to the end!” He yells before taking off in a sprint.

It’s not long before Steve catches up, laughing as he runs past Bucky. His head thrown back, hair a mess, and his cheeks flushed.

Damn, Bucky thinks, how did I get so lucky?

“I just need to grab two things, then we can head to that new Asian place,” Steve says, quickly unlocking the door to his apartment.

Bucky shrugs, hands in his jean’s pockets, “I’m in no rush, besides I’ve never seen your place before.”

Steve pushes the door open, letting Bucky in first, “It’s nothing much, just your normal apartment.”

He’s surprised how right Steve is, the place is bare. Bucky thought there would be art on the walls, maybe shelfs full of books from how much Steve reads. Instead there’s little to nothing. The essentials are there, like a couch, TV, and a small kitchen table, but what’s missing is any sign of life. He doesn’t say anything about it, just watches as Steve walks down the hall, presumably to his bedroom.

Bucky slowly walks through the living room- no kicked off sneakers or socks on the floor- and goes into the kitchen. Much like the living room, it’s bare. There’s a single pan hanging above the stove, salt and pepper shakers on the counter, a roll of napkins, but when he opens the fridge there’s only water bottles, a lemon, and an old takeout box. It’s odd, and borderline concerning.

He quietly shuts the fridge and moves back into the living room. He’s not sure if he should ask why Steve’s apartment’s so bare, or if he should just drop it. Maybe Steve’s a clean freak in his own apartment, because he sure isn’t in Bucky’s. The amount of times Bucky’s almost tripped over a kicked off pair of shoes or had to fill a bowl in the sink up with water because there’s mac and cheese glued to the plastic, add up to more than he can remember. It could be some post-war paranoia, but he and Steve don’t talk about that. They ignore each other’s nightmares and quietly change the TV if one of them flinches at the gun shots. Bucky knows not to make dates on group therapy nights and Steve knows not to ask Bucky to come to them.

This is different, though.

He doesn’t know how to feel about the lack of things here. Steve is such a bright and lively person, he’s complex and full of life. Nothing like this apartment with eggshell walls and dusty cabinets. Concern for Steve bubbles in his stomach, they’ve been together for long enough that Bucky knows this isn’t okay. He just doesn’t know how to address it.

The sound of Steve rounding the hall makes Bucky come to a decision: dropping the topic. If Steve wants to not-live in his own home then he can, if Bucky’s place is where he feels at ease then he can do that too. Steve doesn’t have to spill everything about his life, as long as he’s not married or a serial killer then Bucky’s perfectly fine with not knowing about this barren place.

Steve lifts a duffel bag when he turns the corner, “Got my clothes, ready?”

Bucky grins in return, all concerns vanished, “Ready.”

Bucky wakes up to the sound of a dull thump just outside his bedroom. He lays there for a moment, his heart slowly picking up pace, his mind racing with all the possibilities of what could be waiting for him just down the hall. Quietly, he takes the gun and magazine out of his bed side table drawer. Assembling it quickly but keeping the safety on.

He’s quiet on his feet as he creeps down the hallway, his breath steadying as he falls back into this familiar rhythm. Bucky rounds the corner, pointing the gun to the sound, “I’m armed!”

There, at the end of his gun, in the dim light from the kitchen, waits Steve. Hands in the air, a deer in headlights look on his face.

“Steve?” Bucky drops his hand, gun still in it.

“Uh, you told me I could come whenever, and I was in the area--” He closes his mouth, frowning, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize the sound came from Steve dropping a bag of clothes, and the reason Steve dropped a bag of clothes is because his arm is in a cast.

“What is that?” Bucky asks, motioning to the broken arm.

“Think you could put the gun down first?” Steve asks, one hand up like Bucky’s about to rob him.

Bucky looks at the gun in his hand- he forgot about it- before placing it on the nearest elevated surface, “Steve, why is your arm in a cast?”

“I was going to wash clothes and I fell down the stairs with the basket. It’s just a hairline fracture, it should heal soon.” Steve ends the sentence with a shrug, like breaking an arm happens to him every day.

“You tripped and fell?” Bucky asks, eyebrow raised. He’s not sure if he believes Steve or not. Not that Steve’s lied to him before, but Steve’s the most agile person he knows. Steve can do backflips and wash the large mixing bowls with ease while holding a conversation. Steve tripping down the stairs because he had a basket of laundry doesn't sound right.

Steve nods, “Yeah.”

“And you got out of the hospital and came here?” Bucky doesn’t mean to interrogate Steve, but how can he not? The story just doesn’t add up.

“Hospital, VA, and now here,” he says, “to clarify.”

Bucky crosses his arms, “You could have called when you got to the hospital.” They’ve been dating for almost six months now, Steve’s skyped with his mom, him getting Steve from the hospital would be nothing.

Steve shrugs again, crossing the living room to stand in front of him, “Didn’t want to worry you,” he leans down and presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s forehead, “can we sleep now?”

Bucky eyes Steve, something tells him Steve isn’t being truthful but there’s nothing to validate the irk he has in his stomach. He trusts Steve, probably with his life, he just doesn’t believe this story.

He lets out a sigh, and takes Steve’s free hand, “Yeah, let’s go to bed. God knows that must have hurt when all two hundred pounds of you fell on it.”

Steve snorts, tugging him towards the bedroom, “You love my muscle.”

Bucky grins, “That I do. Abs of steel and all that.”

They fall into bed easily, Steve on the side without the broken arm and Bucky curling up next to him. Steve lets out a huge mint scented yawn, obviously just having chewed a piece of gum, and smiles.

“I like lying in bed with you,” Steve says sleepily.

“It’s one in the morning,” Bucky snorts, raking a hand through Steve’s hair, “anyone would like lying in bed with me.”

Steve just hums in response, obviously tuckered out from whatever caused him to break his arm.

Bucky watches Steve fall into a deep sleep, mouth slightly open and body heavy on the bed. He places his hand on Steve’s elbow, right before where the cast starts. He doesn’t know what happened to Steve, and he’s pretty sure it’s not falling down the stairs, but he doesn’t want to press. If Steve is telling him it was stairs then Bucky will believe him, but with the state of Steve’s apartment and the various mysterious injuries Steve accumulates, Bucky’s not too sure what’s going on.

“Can I get you some more wine?” The waiter asks, pity dripping in his voice.

Bucky sighs, “No, thanks, I’ll just take the check.”

The waiter gives him a pressed smile and nods, turning on his heel to leave.

Bucky feels like an idiot. He’s dressed to the nines in slacks and a button down, his hair’s freshly shaven, but here he sits. Alone. At one of the most romantic spots in Brooklyn. He’s tried Steve’s phone about a dozen times through the last hour, but nothing. The last he heard from Steve was earlier this evening, a text saying how excited he was for tonight with a little smiley face emoji.

He doesn’t know whether something important came up or if Steve just decided to stand him up, but he’d like to think it’s the former. Either way, he feels like shit and if he was irresponsible he’d buy the wine bottle to go and drown his sorrows in some of the best grape alcohol he could get his hands on. But he’s not twenty anymore, and three strong cocktails can give him a hangover, so God knows what a bottle of expensive wine would to do him.

The waiter sets the check down on the table, but Bucky stops him with a wave of his credit card. He wants to get out of here sooner rather than later. All around him are couples, enjoying their time, and here he is. Sad and stood up, better him leave than ruin the atmosphere with his moping face.

He gets his card back in no time and signs off a twenty-dollar tip for the waiter who had to deal with him.

The air is thick and humid when he walks out the doors. It’s almost peak summertime, hundred-degree weather and melting crayons in cars just around the corner.

Bucky decides to take off his button down, wanting to avoid sweat stains at all costs, leaving just his white undershirt on instead. He doesn’t order a Lyft or hail a cab since home isn’t too far from the restaurant. He’d rather walk, give himself a good half hour to think before getting to his apartment where bits of Steve exist in patterned socks and half drank bottles of water.

He gets about two blocks away from the restaurant when he hears someone screaming his name. He has half a mind to ignore it and keep walking, but the better part makes him stop and turn around to the direction of the voice. Just as Bucky suspected, there’s Steve, dressed similarly running down the street.

Bucky sighs, and stays put. He doesn’t know if he’d rather Steve not have shown his face at all tonight or if this is better. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Riley’s tells him getting things off his chest is better than keeping them bubbled in. He wants to ignore the voice, but he can’t be that petty when 200 pounds of blond man are running directly at him.

Steve skids to a halt in front of Bucky, his chest heaving, and a bruise over his eye that wasn’t there yesterday prominent, “Bucky-- I’m sorry-- there was a thing.”

Bucky raises his eyebrow, and crosses his arms, button down clenched in his metal hand, “A thing?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, “a thing.”

“That made you miss a date we’ve been planning for a month now?” He thought he would be able to keep his chill when talking to Steve, but no, he’s pissed.

“I’m here,” Steve says, opening his arms, “technically I didn’t miss it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns on his heel to keep walking, “Cut the crap, Steve, you missed our date.”

Steve’s still for a beat before he registers what’s happening and starts following Bucky, “Yeah, but there was--”

“A thing, I know.” He keeps a steady pace while walking, the movement helping him gather some control over his emotions.

“I didn’t want to miss our date, but my neighbor was getting robbed and I couldn’t just stand there.”

Bucky stops, a frown on his face, “So you jumped in instead of calling the cops?” He doesn’t know what he’s more frustrated at: the fact that Steve tried to stop a robber on his own, or that Steve missed their date.

Steve shrugs, suddenly sheepish, “I can handle myself.”

“Steve, they could have had a gun.” The black eye makes sense now, but he’s still pissed. Steve has a bad habit of not calling him when important things like hospital visits or being a vigilante happen.

“They had a pocket knife and it was small,” He brings up a hand, thumb and index finger showing how small the knife was, “like, this small.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and sighs, “Not the point, you got yourself hurt and missed our date.”

“I know,” Steve nods, hands now in his pockets, his head ducked, “and I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you?”

There’s still a frown on Bucky’s lips. He doesn’t like the fact that Steve got hurt, more so than the fact that he missed their date. Not that he’s not pissed about that too, but a hurt Steve will always take priority on his list of concerns. Steve could have gotten stabbed. He learned how to kill people with the tiny knives that come with multi-tools, any knife can do harm if the person knows how to use it.

“How about you stop doing stupid shit and getting hurt without letting me know, then we can talk.” He takes a step towards Steve, nudging his face up with a delicate finger to look at his bruised eye, “You’re a grown man, you can do whatever you want, but I’m your boyfriend. Let me know when your grown ass gets hurt or in trouble, okay?”

Steve smiles, it’s that lopsided soft thing that Bucky loves, “You’re on all my emergency contact lists.”

Something flutters in Bucky’s chest, it not an I love you but it’s damn close to someone who gets hurt as often as Steve does, “Then you can make it up to me.”

The smile turns into a grin, and the creases by Steve’s eyes have to hurt from the bruise, “First we start with the oh-so-romantic McDonald's, then we watch all the terrible slasher movies on Netflix.”

“Don’t you know how to woo a man,” Bucky grins, he strokes Steve’s cheekbone with his thumb one last time before dropping his hand, “onward and forward.”

Steve nods, “Onward and forward.”

“Hey, Riley,” Bucky calls, elbows deep in dough.

“Yeah?” Riley asks, turning to look at Bucky from where he’s icing a cake.

Bucky bites his lip and folds the dough in, “I, uh, I think Steve might be a spy.”

Riley pauses, icing bag midair, “A spy?”

Bucky nods, “He doesn’t tell me about his work, he keeps showing up at my apartment injured, he’s super secretive. I dunno’, man, it reads spy to me.”

“We know spies, we were almost spies,” He sets the bag down, “you think he went private?”

Buck shrugs, punching the dough down, “I would make him private if I saw him.”

Riley nods slowly, “And how do you feel about that?”

“I think I’ll feel better when he lets me know.” Which is true, he knows Steve’s a good person, and he knows he’s not some sort of Spy Novel Cover Romance. He just wants Steve to be upfront about his job, Bucky won’t judge him.

Riley grins, “And how do you feel about being a Bond Boy?”

A laugh bursts out of Bucky’s lips, “I’d look damn good in heels, and a red body-con.” That he knows for a fact. Drag night is always fun.

Riley snorts, picking up the piping bag, “Show off those thunder thighs, man, be proud of them.”

Bucky grins, they’re making light of the situation, but he knows Riley believes him, “You know I damn will be.”

Bucky’s not used to being on the register. He knows how to use it, yes, but trying to be polite while ringing people up is a skill in and of itself. He doesn’t know how Kate and Peter do it so effortlessly, or why they even stick around when some people are douche canoes even to him, the damn owner.

He hands the woman her bag of pastries, smiling at her as she takes the bag, dropping it when she turns to leave. He lets out a sigh, leaning against the register, before pepping up when a scrawny kid in a suit steps up.

For a moment Bucky blinks because the kid doesn’t have a tray of pastries with him, before realizing there’s a whole case of things he could buy right next to Bucky, “Something I can get ya?” He asks, motioning to the fridge.

The kid raises an eyebrow at him, like he just did the most idiotic thing, “Can I order something, you know, off the menu?”

Bucky frowns, “No.” He doesn’t bake on last notice commission, the only commission he takes are of the cake kind, not some cookie he doesn’t have on the shelf.

The kid grins, leaning in, “You saying you can’t make me some wedding cookies?”

“I’m saying I don’t bake off menu.” He doesn’t know where this kid got the idea that he bakes off menu to sell to his customers. He only does that for friends, family, and occasional organized crime people. All those people give him a week's notice, though, not something as off the bat as this.

The kid laughs, “Come on, as a favor, then I’ll owe you somethin.”

Bucky’s frown deepens, “That ain’t how it works here, kid.”

The laugh fades and the smile drops, “Do you not realize who I am?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow and look the kid up and down, “A brat that got lost in daddy’s closet?”

The kid’s face reddens in anger and he slams a fist down on the counter, “You’re gonna regret you ever said that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, he’s been threatened before and this is nothing, “Kid, go walk it off before you regret threatening me from your jail cell.”

The kid points a skinny finger at Bucky, as if that’s supposed to scare him, before spinning on his heel and angrily making his way out of the bakery.

Bucky grins as the kid tries to slam the door, only for it to slowly close with the special hinges he installed.

“It’s been awhile since anything interesting happened here,” Riley says, sliding up next to him.

Bucky’s grin widens, “I think that made my day. How old was he? Like, twelve?”

Riley shrugs, “Give or take.”

“As if a twelve-year-old could threaten me,” Bucky says, shaking his head.

“I don’t think he knows who we are, two ex-military men just trying to live their lives,” Riley sighs, “Poor kid would have got beaten to a pulp if Conall was here.”

Bucky smiles as a customer comes up with their tray of baked goods, “Ain’t that the truth.”

Bucky feels like he’s vibrating with nerves. His heart is two pumps away from beating out of his chest, and if he had longer nails they would be bitten all the way down.

“Buck, they love your cake,” Steve says, his voice quiet under the music, a warm hand resting on the middle of his back.

He looks at the front of the ballroom where the cake sits on a podium. It’s tiers of cream fondant and icing with edible pearls and gold leaf accents. It’s obvious that everyone loves it, that he’s probably going to get a dozen more orders from this event alone. It’s still a piece of his own art, though, so it’s only natural that he feels nervous about it.

“I know,” he admits, “but still.”

Steve nods, he’s an artist too, he understands.

Bucky sighs and turns away from the cake, his back to the mass of people, “I wish I could enjoy you in that suit.” It’s a light grey and deliciously tailored to fit Steve’s body. He grips the lapels with his hands, pulling him forward.

Steve snorts, following the motion of Bucky’s tug, hand still on his back, “You can enjoy me in it later.”

“That a promise, Rogers?” Bucky asks, a grin on his lips as he looks up at Steve.

Steve mirrors the grin on his lips, “Remember that thing we talked about? The thing where I--”

“Bucky! The cake is wonderful!” Conall yells, tugging Bucky away from Steve to grasp him by the shoulders.

Bucky oofs when Conall shakes him, “Everyone loves it! Angelica and Trevor most of all!”

“I’m glad,” Bucky smiles, warm and fuzzies fluttering around his stomach, “I was worried they wouldn’t.”

Conall snorts, “As if we could hate anything you did. And you--” Conall drops Bucky to grab Steve by the shoulders, “you helped design it, yes?”

“Yeah, a bit of the drawing nothing big—”

Bucky has to hold back a laugh at the surprised look Steve gets on his face when Conall pulls him into a bear hug, picking him up for a small spin.

“You are now part of the family,” Conall says, dropping Steve a serious look crossing his face, “but the moment you hurt Bucky you are cut, understand?”

Bucky isn’t sure if he’s being literal or figurative, but Steve’s ex-military and potential-spy so he can take care of himself.

“Understood, I don’t plan on doing that.” Steve says, his face mirroring the serious look on Conall’s.

Conall grins, “Perfect,” he pats Steve on the shoulders, “now enjoy the party!”

They both blink at the array of emotions Conall just transitioned through.

“He’s quite the character,” Steve says, “not sure what I expected from a mob boss.”

Bucky over at Steve, a grin crossing his face, “He made you part of the family!”

“Does that mean when we get married there’s going to be a bunch of mob at our wedding?” Steve asks, simple and easy, like he didn’t just turn Bucky’s world upside down.

Bucky has to suppress the grin at Steve’s casual mention of when they get married. Not ‘if’. It’s not a proposal by any means, hell, they haven’t even exchanged ‘I love you’s yet. They’re a couple weeks away from their one-year anniversary, sure, but Steve being so casual about their future wedding has Bucky giddy.

“Of course,” Bucky replies, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach “and we’d have to invite the main family from all the big ones so they don’t get jealous.”

Steve snorts, “I forgot mobs were actually run by kids with bad tempers.”

Bucky elbows Steve in the side but chuckles with him because ain’t that the truth.

They fall into a comfortable silence, both of them watching the party go on in front of them. Bucky turns to ask Steve if he wants to go dance, mouth open with the idea bubbled on his tongue, when the familiar sound of gun shots rings out.

At first, he thinks it’s in his head. Maybe a car backfired and he’s just having some form of PTSD, but then he hears yelling and feels a tight pressure on his shoulder. He knows this feeling to intimately, and sure enough—when he looks down his suit is pooling with blood.

“Bucky!” Steve yells, before pulling him down on the floor.

Bucky watches as Steve flips a table over and situates it behind Bucky. Some part of his brain, the one with dust from Afghanistan still on it, tells him to make a quit tourniquet with his tie. He feels like there’s water flooding his ear. From the sound of yelling, the pain of the shot, the memories of losing his other arm, everything is too much.

“I have to go help everyone else,” Steve says, kneeling in front of him, “are you going to be okay?”

He looks up at Steve, the tie already looped around his shoulder, and nods. He can’t do much more than that. It’s like his brain and voice are disconnected right now. As if his brain is focusing the entirety of its energy on making sure he doesn’t bleed out on the marble floor.

Steve presses a quick kiss to his forehead before peering behind the table and jumping out of sight.

Bucky quickly ties the tourniquet with his hand and teeth, wincing when he moves his arm. Half of him wants to help Steve, help Conall’s family, but the other half would rather stay in the vague safety that is behind this table. He’s not weak if he just stays here, rather it’s probably better if he does. He’d just drag Steve, or anyone else, down. He’s injured, he’s not a good shot, and besides it’s been so long he’s been in the field he’s probably too rusty to do any good.

Having settled on a decision, Bucky leans back against the table and slows his breathing. He closes his eyes, not wanting to deal with his current situation, and waits for it all to be over.

Eventually the shooting stops, and with it the screaming. He knows better than to move from the table he’s behind and instead continues his wait.

“Who the hell ruined my daughter’s wedding?!” Conall yells from somewhere on the other side of the hall.

“It was that kid who thinks he’s part of the mob,” a voice yells back.

Bucky wonders if ‘that kid’ is the same one who tried to demand his business.

“Can everyone stop shooting so bystanders and those who need medical attention can get out?” It’s Steve’s voice this time, “Conall, Bucky was shot.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “I’m fine!”

“That fucker shot you?” Conall yells, the fury of a thousand suns in his voice, “When I get ahold of—”

“Conall if you keep talking I can’t plead the fifth when he ends up dead,” Bucky reminds him, “and the last thing we want is me in jail.”

“If he goes to jail we can’t get those cinnamon rolls anymore!” Someone yells, horrified, “I hate to say this boss, but maybe you should shut your trap.”

Conall grunts loud enough for Bucky to hear, “Fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, wanting to get out of this hall and into a hospital so he can be reassured he’s not going to lose his other arm.

“So,” it’s Steve again, “let’s all stop shooting and get everyone out- okay?”

All parties huff an ‘okay’ and Bucky sighs in relief. He can hear the shrill of sirens coming down the street and thanks God that there’s probably an ambulance with them. He waits until cops and paramedics bust down the door before moving, not wanting to get shot again.

“I got shot in the shoulder,” He tells one of the paramedics motioning to his arm, “can you help me?”

The paramedic blinks probably not used to the bluntness, and nods “Yeah, of course, let’s get you to the hospital.”

It’s not until he’s strapped in the gurney of the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, that he remembers Steve.

He wakes up groggy, with a slight pulsing feeling in his shoulder that reminds him getting shot actually happened. It takes him a moment to blink the sleep out of his eyes, and another moment to notice that Steve’s sitting quietly with a book open in his lap.

“So,” Bucky starts, clearing his throat, “I guess I got shot.”

Steve looks up at him, not surprised he’s awake, and sighs, “I guess you did.”

Bucky watches as Steve closes the book, setting it down on the chair’s arm, and goes over to his bed. He leans into the hand Steve cards through his hair, and sighs happily when it comes down to cup his face.

“How’re you feeling?” Steve asks, his voice soft in the quiet room.

Bucky shrugs, and then regrets it when his shoulder pulses angrily in pain, “Like I got shot.” His voice is tight from the pain but he clears his throat, “Did they get the kid who started all the drama?”

Steve nods, “I made sure to grab him before he got away,” Steve shrugs like it’s no big deal, “couldn’t let Conall or any of the other mobs get into trouble for something that wasn’t their fault.”

A grin stretches across Bucky’s face, “My own personal hero.”

Steve sighs and drops his hand, taking a seat on the edge of Bucky’s bed, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Bucky’s stomach drops, his mind running through all the worst things it could be. From Steve being a married man to needing to leave the country and never come back. He tries not to let the fear show on his face, but with the pain meds he’s hopped up on some of his emotional barriers have dropped and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Steve licks his lips, like whatever he needs to say is caught in his throat and won’t come out.

“Hey,” Bucky says, placing a hand on Steve’s knee, “you can tell me anything.”

Steve’s eyes look less pained and more hopeful, he shifts again before opening and closing his mouth, no words coming out. Steve clears his throat again, looking up at Bucky, a hand now placed over his, “Do you remember learning about World War II history?”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, confused.

“Remember hearing about superheroes in the news a couple years back?”

Bucky frowns, not sure where this is going, “… yeah?”

“Well, I’m almost positive you don’t remember it that much because I’m Steve Rogers.” A pause, “Captain America, my face was everywhere for a couple years.”

It’s like everything makes sense. From the state of Steve’s apartment, the secrecy behind his personal life, the random injuries, the fact that Bucky thought Steve was a spy, and how blank his apartment always is. It all makes sense, he just doesn’t know why Steve never mentioned anything earlier.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bucky asks, confused and slightly concerned. He doesn’t understand why Steve wouldn’t say anything, but it’s also not his place to understand something that big. Steve was a science experiment, a soldier with more baggage than Bucky can phantom, and in the public eye. He apparently never did pay that much attention since he doesn’t even associate Steve’s face with the masked Captain America.

Steve shrugs, nervously rubbing a thumb against Bucky’s hand, “I didn’t want to change anything between us, I didn’t want you to worry, but after yesterday—with you getting shot and all—I decided you needed to know because what if something big happened to me? How would you know to get in contact with someone, who would you even get in contact with?” Steve shakes his head, “I couldn’t do that to you.”

Bucky clumsily places his other hand over Steve’s, ignoring the shouting pain coming from his arm, “Nothing is different, you’re still Steve. My Steve. Now I just know why you’re hurt and why your apartment is so bare. But you’re still Steve.”

Steve smiles, it’s wobbly with emotion but Bucky can see the relief in it, “I love you, Buck.”

“I love you, too.” Bucky blurts out, his heart overflowing with emotions. He’s loved Steve since the first few months, probably before, but he never knew when a good time was to say anything. He didn’t want to care Steve away or risk a broken heart, so he opted for waiting, and now he’s glad he did. Hearing Steve say those three words before him, knowing they’re real, was worth any waiting he did.

Steve leans forward, pressing a gentle yet passionate kiss to his lips. He pulls back, their foreheads still touching with a soft smile on his lips.

The moment’s nice, it’s warm and comforting, and Bucky doesn’t want it to end. He hums happily before yawning, big and loud, right in Steve’s face. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought I was,” he sighs, rolling his eyes when Steve laughs at him, “fit yourself on the bed and hug me to sleep?”

“It’s going to be a little cramped, but I can do it.” Steve nods, kicking his shoes off and slowly lowering himself onto the bed. He wiggles an arm behind Bucky’s neck, careful of the fresh wound, and brings the other arm around his waist.

Bucky sighs into the snuggle and closes his eye. He knows that the next time he wakes up there’s going to be talks with doctors and medications. There’s going to be physiotherapy and days he needs to take off from the bakery. Forced visits to VA meetings and constant nagging from his friends and family with questions about his health and wellbeing. But through all of it there’ll be one constant: Steve.

And that’s all he needs.