MCU Fic: that which nourishes us
Jan. 22nd, 2024 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lair***
Title: that which nourishes us
Author:kat_lair
Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Bucky/Steve
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Alternate Universe, Omega Bucky Barnes, Alpha Steve Rogers, Cooking, Baking, Food as a Metaphor for Love
Rating: G
Word count: 3,226
Summary:
He breathes through the idea that’s rising from somewhere the depths of his scrambled brain, a collage of memories of… of cooking. For himself, his family. For Steve. They never had money for the really good quality ingredients, but that just meant Bucky had to get creative. Food preparation was the one ‘traditional omega skill’ he’d excelled at. Only the results mattered there, not how demure or beautiful he looked working for them. And the results Bucky had achieved had always garnered satisfaction and full stomachs at worst, and… ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomtrees fics, this one written for aimmyarrowshigh. Betaed by the awesome dreamersdare.
that which nourishes us on AO3
“You don’t have to do this,” his therapist tells him, gently. Her name is Verona, and her clinical grade scent blockers and her carefully controlled behaviour give Bucky no clue as to her designation. It used to bother him, but now it’s a relief.
Verona has been gentle with him throughout. But firm. It’s the approach traumatized omegas respond well to, and Bucky doesn’t know if he should be angry or relieved that it works for him.
He was an omega, before. He remembers that now. But when he became the Winter Soldier, when they remade him, they’d eradicated that along with everything else.
Or they’d tried to. The very fact that he’s here, rather than back in the box, or dead, is a testimony to the fact that they’d failed. Something in him had recognised Steve, something in him had felt safe enough to accept the hand Steve had reached out.
“There are no expectations on you with regards to your designation,” Verona continues. “Things are different now. Not perfect, but better. The way people express themselves need not bear any connection to their biology and whatever traditional expectations used to come with it.”
Bucky nods. He knows this. Back in his first life he’d only been allowed to enlist because the military was desperate and, like usually happens in a war, rules were bent. He’d been fitter and bigger than Steve then, both of them as far from posterchild alpha and omega as possible, which is at least one of the reasons why they’d hit it off in the first place as kids. Now of course… Steve is finally everything an alpha should be physically, to match how he always was in every other way, or at least what Bucky always thought a good alpha was supposed to be: protective, fiercely loyal, always doing the right thing, no matter the cost to himself.
Bucky on the other hand…
As always, Verona seems to know exactly what he’s thinking but not saying. Bucky had been mightily suspicious of that to begin with, but Wanda had assured him she was not even a little telepathic, only very good at her job.
“And if you do want to reclaim that part of yourself,” she says now, leaning forward to catch Bucky’s eyes, smiling when he allows it despite not really wanting to, “well, there’s no right or wrong way to be an omega, only what feels right to you.”
Bucky nods again, though much slower. He knows this, intellectually, and is prepared to fight for everyone else’s right to express themselves however they want. But it’s another thing entirely to believe that the same applies to himself. He is graceful only when he’s fighting, quiet in a way that’s unnerving rather than demurring. His body bears the marks of a hard life and the scars in his mind are worse. He remembers being considered good looking, even making use of that fact, and while his face remains largely unchanged, Bucky looks into a mirror now and sees someone who is lost but probably not worth finding.
And yet…
“Food,” Bucky says.
Verona waits him out just like he knew she would.
“I miss… I missed food. Proper food, with taste and texture and colour.” He doesn’t have to tell her that what they’d fed him on the rare occasion that he was out of the box for long enough to need it did not qualify. Verona has read his file. By now, she’s probably added several pages to it.
“You have that now.”
It’s not a question but Bucky answers it anyway, which, of course, is the point.
“Yes. I have it. But…” He breathes through the idea that’s rising from somewhere the depths of his scrambled brain, a collage of memories of… of cooking. For himself, his family. For Steve. They never had money for the really good quality ingredients, but that just meant Bucky had to get creative. Food preparation was the one ‘traditional omega skill’ he’d excelled at. Only the results mattered there, not how demure or beautiful he looked working for them. And the results Bucky had achieved had always garnered satisfaction and full stomachs at worst, and…
Another memory floats to the surface: Steve, his frame too frail and face too skinny, but eyes filled with the same steady conviction as now, saying ‘This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,’ saying ‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ saying ‘Amazing, so good,’ and Bucky… Bucky had sometimes let himself think Steve had been talking about him, about Bucky being good and amazing, rather than just complimenting the dish.
It occurs to him that this is something he could get back. And now, with the abundance of fresh vegetables and fruit and meats and spices from all over the world available to him, thanks to globalisation and Tony Stark’s endless pockets… His mind is spinning with the possibilities.
“But?” Verona prompts after what must be at least a couple of minutes of silence while Bucky spiralled down the kitchen memory lane.
“But I want to make it,” he says. “Again. I was…” He makes himself straighten his back and look Verona in the eye for this. “I was good at it.”
Verona smiles, small but proud, and it makes Bucky’s shoulders pull back even further. “I bet you still are,” she says.
***
A few days later, Bucky is doubting her words and his own idea. The Tower’s industrial size kitchen is gleaming with chrome and high-tech gadgets, while the kitchen crew, dressed in white and working in organised chaos, mostly regard Bucky with a mix of suspicion and fear.
“Sergeant Barnes?” the head chef asks. He is a small, Italian man named Dino. A beta if Bucky’s nose isn’t mistaken, though the smell of dishes and spices is strong enough in the kitchens that it’s honestly hard to tell. “I have set up a workstation here for you.” He gestures at the space cleared out on one of the long workbenches, near a cooker that has more dials than most weapons Bucky has handled.
He feels cold sweat break out at the back of his neck and fists his hands in order to hide how they shake.
Dino regards him silently for a few seconds. “Of course,” he continues smoothly, “if you would prefer a calmer and a more… personal environment, I’d be happy to help you stock and set up the kitchen in the Avengers floor to your specifications.”
Bucky nods tersely even before the man has stopped talking. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would…” He swallows. “Thank you, chef.”
Dino bows just a bit. “It will be my pleasure, Sergeant Barnes.”
***
This is better. It’s still a far cry from the tiny kitchenette he remembers from Brooklyn, from struggling to keep things cool in the summer and free of pests all year around. No need to worry about cockroaches or food going off in this beautiful open plan kitchen with its large islands and larger fridge freezer and every ingredient Bucky can think to ask for. He can feel some of the little boy glee in him about the possibilities, and for a while he’d been tempted to order something expensive and exotic (…coconuts? caviar? crabs?) just because he could, but the part that had grown up abhorring waste had reminded him that Bucky did not, in fact, know how to cook such things. At least not yet.
So, for the time being, he’s settled for things he knows. Or at least knew, once.
The beans are the same, not much that changes there, but the cuts of ham he can get now… Much better. And the herbs, those he can get fresh and in abundance. And for the dessert, sugar and butter and chocolate chips… As much as he needs, no need to weigh up the decision between a treat or eating for the rest of the week.
Bucky makes the soup on memory and instinct alone, relying on his taste rather than any recipes. For the cookies, he asks JARVIS to find him a couple of example recipes just to gauge the proportions. He could look them up himself, of course, he knows how to use a smartphone and the internet, despite Tony’s incessant grandpa jokes, but the amount of choice… It’s still overwhelming. Much easier to let JARVIS sort through the chaff. One of the things Bucky has learned in therapy is that making things easy on himself is not a sign of failure or something to be ashamed of.
Magically, or perhaps because Stark is way more perceptive than he pretends to be, Bucky has the kitchen to himself. There is plenty of time to prepare the food, zone out on memories, and have a small breakdown over the selection of different types of chocolate chips Dino had provided. The only other person on the entire floor is Natasha, who stays curled up on the far sofa with a book the whole time. In retrospect, she too may have something to do with the fact that Bucky is left alone for as long as he is.
The soup is finished and the cookies are baking when Barton wanders in, making a beeline toward the kitchen.
“Something smells good,” he comments.
Bucky tenses, momentarily thrown. He hadn’t really thought what would come after the cooking and the baking, the fact that people might want to eat the results.
No. Scratch that. He hadn’t thought that other people would want to eat what he’d made. People other than…
Clint’s watching him with something altogether too knowing in his eyes. “Though doesn’t look like you’ve made enough for the whole team,” he says, indicating the single pot on the stove. It’s a large pot, granted, but it’s definitely not large enough to feed everyone, not when several of them have appetites well in excess of average humans.
“Uhh…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit that has, much to his chagrin, made a reappearance as the conditioning to stay still and alert at all times had weakened. “I didn’t really…”
“Leave him alone, Clint.” Natasha walks up to two of them. She socks Barton on the shoulder, hard enough that Bucky winces in sympathy.
Barton adopts a wounded puppy expression. “But Nat…”
Natasha flicks his forehead. Barton starts grinning like a dog who just got a treat.
“Don’t whine,” she says, “it’s unattractive,” although there’s definitely an amused glint in her eyes that suggests otherwise. “I told you to come and meet me here so we can go out to eat, not scrounge off Barnes.”
“He’s baking cookies, I can smell them.” Clint makes a big show of sniffing the air. Bucky checks the timer he set; not ready for a while yet. Still, Barton’s right, the smell is already delicious and tugging at his brain in a way that could make him slip-slide into the past all too easily.
“But they aren’t for us,” Natasha says. “And neither is whatever is in that pot.”
“Navy bean soup,” Bucky answers automatically, shifting a little from foot to foot. “With ham.”
Clint groans and Natasha’s almost-there smile widens into a real one. “I’m sure Steve will love it,” she says, “and the…?”
“Chocolate chip and oat cookies,” Bucky finishes, resignedly. Because Nat is right. He’s done this for himself yes, to see if he still can, if he still enjoys the process of creating something delicious and nourishing, but he’s also done this for Steve. Like he used to. Except, this time it’s not just that Bucky is cooking and Steve happens to be there, one hungry mouth among several, or because Steve is too sick to feed himself and it’s only to be expected for Bucky to make sure his best friend doesn’t faint from hunger on top of everything else.
This time, it’s just because he wants to.
“Chocolate chip and oat cookies,” Clint all but moans out, looking like he’s about to cry.
“I can make more,” Bucky promises unable to help himself. Apparently, the part of him that was an absolute sucker for kids is still present as well, and somehow Barton’s wide-eyed “Really?” triggers the same damn response.
“For the next movie night,” Bucky adds hastily. He’s done with this for today, already feeling the jittery edge of exhaustion pushing at the back of his mind, exaggerated by the realisation of what he’s trying to do. It’s stupid, he knows that, pathetic and useless, because he’s not the same person, the same omega, maybe not any kind of omega and to think—
“Steve is going to love them,” Natasha repeats, firmer this time, effectively cutting off Bucky’s burgeoning panic.
“Speak of the devil,” Barton mutters as the lift doors ding and Steve strides through them, looking around frantically as if expecting enemies.
“Oh good, he’s here. Time for us to go then.” Natasha’s voice is back to a carefree lilt as she grabs Clint by the elbow and starts hauling him toward the lift, raising a hand at Bucky and nodding at Steve in passing.
Their “What? Nat?!” is comically synchronised, but Natasha pays no mind.
Bucky and Steve stare at the lift doors for a few seconds, Steve in confusion and Bucky just seething. He knows exactly what Nat did and he can’t even say he’s surprised now that he’s had a chance to think about it, but boy is he annoyed. No cookies for her. Well. Maybe not many.
“Buck?” Steve finally walks to lean against the kitchen island, hands braced against the marble top, the muscles and veins in his forearms on full display. “You okay?” He gives Bucky the kind of careful onceover that makes him want to hide and preen at the same time. God fucking damn, Natasha.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Were you expecting to find dead bodies?”
Steve shrugs, sheepish. “No, just… Nat said you wanted to see me, and I thought…” He trails off.
Bucky gets it. The others may think he doesn’t but he’s not stupid, just traumatized. ‘Bucky wants to see you’ has been the code phrase for everything from ‘Bucky’s having a flashback and might murder anyone who isn’t Steve’ to ‘Bucky is experiencing a positive emotion and doesn’t know how to deal with it, Steve should come and role model that shit’.
He sighs. Steve’s here now, Natasha’s meddling ensuring that Bucky can’t chicken out even though he really wants to. “I, uh, made lunch.” It’s well past five in the afternoon, but neither of them mentions that.
“Lunch?” Steve’s face brightens and he takes a noticeably deep breath through his nose. And then another, his eyes growing wide. “Is that…?”
Bucky can’t even look at him, the hopeful anticipation, the sheer happiness that radiates from his whole body is too much to handle right now.
“Sit down,” he orders instead, turning to rummage cabinets for bowls, drawers for spoons.
Carefully, he ladles a large portion of soup for Steve and almost as large for himself, remembering the time when there was never enough for both of them to really be satisfied, and the times when Steve couldn’t keep down more than a few spoonfuls anyway. Steve is sitting at the table now, fingers neatly crossed in front of him, eyes following Bucky’s every movement. He serves Steve first, then himself, sitting down opposite.
Steve stares at the steaming bowl, enraptured, but… He’s not making any move to pick up the spoon and actually eat. The fight to stay still and not fidget right out of his skin gets more difficult with each second that ticks by. Why isn’t Steve… Doesn’t alpha like… Bucky digs fingernails into his thigh and tries to regulate his breathing. A raggedy edge creeps in regardless, noticeable enough that Steve’s attention finally diverts from the food, and possibly the memories it has evoked, to Bucky.
“Buck? What’s wrong?” His eyebrows start to draw together with worry. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I…” and this is stupid. It’s stupid and so fucking obvious and mortifying but suddenly Bucky wants it more than he remembers wanting anything for a long time. It’s not the all-encompassing need for freedom that made him push through the conditioning, just a want. A selfish one. And yet… “Alpha eats first,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.
Steve’s mouth honest to God drops open in shock, which would be hilarious if Bucky was in any mental state to laugh. And, fair play, this is kind of out of nowhere. They’d neither of them grown up in the kind of households that could afford to follow these kinds of traditions. Steve’s mother had been an omega but also the only breadwinner, and dinner time at the Barnes household was a chaotic affair full of laughter and everyone snatching what they could, when they could, and designations had little to do with that.
“Bucky…” Steve’s face is pink now and Bucky is almost certain that his is as well. With three words he’s framed the meal not just as a lunch one friend cooked another, but as an omega preparing food for an alpha, something that carries a whole host of connotations. And, well, they’re not new connotations as such, not for Bucky, but this is definitely the first time he’s making them explicit.
It’s fucking terrifying. Bucky is an idiot for…
“Thank you.” Steve’s spine straightens. A smile, tentative and awed and so goddamn hopeful it makes Bucky’s chest ache, curls up the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, omega.” Slowly, with great care, he picks up the spoon and takes a mouthful of the soup. “It’s delicious. I love it.” There is nothing but genuine pleasure in his tone, on his face, and Bucky’s own fingers shake a bit, reaching for his spoon, relief and something much, much bigger than that making him lightheaded.
Steve looks like he’s gearing up to saying something more, which Bucky is not at all sure he can take right now, when the timer derails him. “What’s that?” he asks.
In lieu of answering in words, Bucky gets up, dons some oven mitts, and pulls the tray of cookies out, putting it on the waiting rack next to their bowls. Steve’s eyes go as wide as saucers, his hand immediately reaching out to grab one.
Bucky smacks it without a second thought, the very movement bringing with it a sensory memory of having done this before. “You’ll burn your fingers,” he admonishes. “And your mouth.”
“I’m a super soldier, I’ll heal!” The grin on Steve’s face is unrepentant but he’s gone back to eating his soup instead trying to sneak dessert first.
“I don’t care,” Bucky says. “You’ll do what I say in my kitchen, alpha.” And it’s… This isn’t even his kitchen, not really, and going from clumsily executed traditional forms to outright sass is not how you’re supposed to do this, even Bucky knows that.
And yet something about it, the combination of the familiar back and forth they are still rediscovering and the use of a formal title that gives the whole thing a new tint, a new flavour if you like, seems to work for Steve because he outright laughs.
“Gladly,” he says, eyes full of warmth, and hooks his foot behind Bucky’s under the table.
***
Title: that which nourishes us
Author:
kat_lair Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Bucky/Steve
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Alternate Universe, Omega Bucky Barnes, Alpha Steve Rogers, Cooking, Baking, Food as a Metaphor for Love
Rating: G
Word count: 3,226
Summary:
He breathes through the idea that’s rising from somewhere the depths of his scrambled brain, a collage of memories of… of cooking. For himself, his family. For Steve. They never had money for the really good quality ingredients, but that just meant Bucky had to get creative. Food preparation was the one ‘traditional omega skill’ he’d excelled at. Only the results mattered there, not how demure or beautiful he looked working for them. And the results Bucky had achieved had always garnered satisfaction and full stomachs at worst, and…
Author notes: Third of theAnother memory floats to the surface: Steve, his frame too frail and face too skinny, but eyes filled with the same steady conviction as now, saying ‘This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,’ saying ‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ saying ‘Amazing, so good,’ and Bucky… Bucky had sometimes let himself think Steve had been talking about him, about Bucky being good and amazing, rather than just complimenting the dish.
fandomtrees fics, this one written for aimmyarrowshigh. Betaed by the awesome dreamersdare.that which nourishes us on AO3
“You don’t have to do this,” his therapist tells him, gently. Her name is Verona, and her clinical grade scent blockers and her carefully controlled behaviour give Bucky no clue as to her designation. It used to bother him, but now it’s a relief.
Verona has been gentle with him throughout. But firm. It’s the approach traumatized omegas respond well to, and Bucky doesn’t know if he should be angry or relieved that it works for him.
He was an omega, before. He remembers that now. But when he became the Winter Soldier, when they remade him, they’d eradicated that along with everything else.
Or they’d tried to. The very fact that he’s here, rather than back in the box, or dead, is a testimony to the fact that they’d failed. Something in him had recognised Steve, something in him had felt safe enough to accept the hand Steve had reached out.
“There are no expectations on you with regards to your designation,” Verona continues. “Things are different now. Not perfect, but better. The way people express themselves need not bear any connection to their biology and whatever traditional expectations used to come with it.”
Bucky nods. He knows this. Back in his first life he’d only been allowed to enlist because the military was desperate and, like usually happens in a war, rules were bent. He’d been fitter and bigger than Steve then, both of them as far from posterchild alpha and omega as possible, which is at least one of the reasons why they’d hit it off in the first place as kids. Now of course… Steve is finally everything an alpha should be physically, to match how he always was in every other way, or at least what Bucky always thought a good alpha was supposed to be: protective, fiercely loyal, always doing the right thing, no matter the cost to himself.
Bucky on the other hand…
As always, Verona seems to know exactly what he’s thinking but not saying. Bucky had been mightily suspicious of that to begin with, but Wanda had assured him she was not even a little telepathic, only very good at her job.
“And if you do want to reclaim that part of yourself,” she says now, leaning forward to catch Bucky’s eyes, smiling when he allows it despite not really wanting to, “well, there’s no right or wrong way to be an omega, only what feels right to you.”
Bucky nods again, though much slower. He knows this, intellectually, and is prepared to fight for everyone else’s right to express themselves however they want. But it’s another thing entirely to believe that the same applies to himself. He is graceful only when he’s fighting, quiet in a way that’s unnerving rather than demurring. His body bears the marks of a hard life and the scars in his mind are worse. He remembers being considered good looking, even making use of that fact, and while his face remains largely unchanged, Bucky looks into a mirror now and sees someone who is lost but probably not worth finding.
And yet…
“Food,” Bucky says.
Verona waits him out just like he knew she would.
“I miss… I missed food. Proper food, with taste and texture and colour.” He doesn’t have to tell her that what they’d fed him on the rare occasion that he was out of the box for long enough to need it did not qualify. Verona has read his file. By now, she’s probably added several pages to it.
“You have that now.”
It’s not a question but Bucky answers it anyway, which, of course, is the point.
“Yes. I have it. But…” He breathes through the idea that’s rising from somewhere the depths of his scrambled brain, a collage of memories of… of cooking. For himself, his family. For Steve. They never had money for the really good quality ingredients, but that just meant Bucky had to get creative. Food preparation was the one ‘traditional omega skill’ he’d excelled at. Only the results mattered there, not how demure or beautiful he looked working for them. And the results Bucky had achieved had always garnered satisfaction and full stomachs at worst, and…
Another memory floats to the surface: Steve, his frame too frail and face too skinny, but eyes filled with the same steady conviction as now, saying ‘This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,’ saying ‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ saying ‘Amazing, so good,’ and Bucky… Bucky had sometimes let himself think Steve had been talking about him, about Bucky being good and amazing, rather than just complimenting the dish.
It occurs to him that this is something he could get back. And now, with the abundance of fresh vegetables and fruit and meats and spices from all over the world available to him, thanks to globalisation and Tony Stark’s endless pockets… His mind is spinning with the possibilities.
“But?” Verona prompts after what must be at least a couple of minutes of silence while Bucky spiralled down the kitchen memory lane.
“But I want to make it,” he says. “Again. I was…” He makes himself straighten his back and look Verona in the eye for this. “I was good at it.”
Verona smiles, small but proud, and it makes Bucky’s shoulders pull back even further. “I bet you still are,” she says.
***
A few days later, Bucky is doubting her words and his own idea. The Tower’s industrial size kitchen is gleaming with chrome and high-tech gadgets, while the kitchen crew, dressed in white and working in organised chaos, mostly regard Bucky with a mix of suspicion and fear.
“Sergeant Barnes?” the head chef asks. He is a small, Italian man named Dino. A beta if Bucky’s nose isn’t mistaken, though the smell of dishes and spices is strong enough in the kitchens that it’s honestly hard to tell. “I have set up a workstation here for you.” He gestures at the space cleared out on one of the long workbenches, near a cooker that has more dials than most weapons Bucky has handled.
He feels cold sweat break out at the back of his neck and fists his hands in order to hide how they shake.
Dino regards him silently for a few seconds. “Of course,” he continues smoothly, “if you would prefer a calmer and a more… personal environment, I’d be happy to help you stock and set up the kitchen in the Avengers floor to your specifications.”
Bucky nods tersely even before the man has stopped talking. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would…” He swallows. “Thank you, chef.”
Dino bows just a bit. “It will be my pleasure, Sergeant Barnes.”
***
This is better. It’s still a far cry from the tiny kitchenette he remembers from Brooklyn, from struggling to keep things cool in the summer and free of pests all year around. No need to worry about cockroaches or food going off in this beautiful open plan kitchen with its large islands and larger fridge freezer and every ingredient Bucky can think to ask for. He can feel some of the little boy glee in him about the possibilities, and for a while he’d been tempted to order something expensive and exotic (…coconuts? caviar? crabs?) just because he could, but the part that had grown up abhorring waste had reminded him that Bucky did not, in fact, know how to cook such things. At least not yet.
So, for the time being, he’s settled for things he knows. Or at least knew, once.
The beans are the same, not much that changes there, but the cuts of ham he can get now… Much better. And the herbs, those he can get fresh and in abundance. And for the dessert, sugar and butter and chocolate chips… As much as he needs, no need to weigh up the decision between a treat or eating for the rest of the week.
Bucky makes the soup on memory and instinct alone, relying on his taste rather than any recipes. For the cookies, he asks JARVIS to find him a couple of example recipes just to gauge the proportions. He could look them up himself, of course, he knows how to use a smartphone and the internet, despite Tony’s incessant grandpa jokes, but the amount of choice… It’s still overwhelming. Much easier to let JARVIS sort through the chaff. One of the things Bucky has learned in therapy is that making things easy on himself is not a sign of failure or something to be ashamed of.
Magically, or perhaps because Stark is way more perceptive than he pretends to be, Bucky has the kitchen to himself. There is plenty of time to prepare the food, zone out on memories, and have a small breakdown over the selection of different types of chocolate chips Dino had provided. The only other person on the entire floor is Natasha, who stays curled up on the far sofa with a book the whole time. In retrospect, she too may have something to do with the fact that Bucky is left alone for as long as he is.
The soup is finished and the cookies are baking when Barton wanders in, making a beeline toward the kitchen.
“Something smells good,” he comments.
Bucky tenses, momentarily thrown. He hadn’t really thought what would come after the cooking and the baking, the fact that people might want to eat the results.
No. Scratch that. He hadn’t thought that other people would want to eat what he’d made. People other than…
Clint’s watching him with something altogether too knowing in his eyes. “Though doesn’t look like you’ve made enough for the whole team,” he says, indicating the single pot on the stove. It’s a large pot, granted, but it’s definitely not large enough to feed everyone, not when several of them have appetites well in excess of average humans.
“Uhh…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit that has, much to his chagrin, made a reappearance as the conditioning to stay still and alert at all times had weakened. “I didn’t really…”
“Leave him alone, Clint.” Natasha walks up to two of them. She socks Barton on the shoulder, hard enough that Bucky winces in sympathy.
Barton adopts a wounded puppy expression. “But Nat…”
Natasha flicks his forehead. Barton starts grinning like a dog who just got a treat.
“Don’t whine,” she says, “it’s unattractive,” although there’s definitely an amused glint in her eyes that suggests otherwise. “I told you to come and meet me here so we can go out to eat, not scrounge off Barnes.”
“He’s baking cookies, I can smell them.” Clint makes a big show of sniffing the air. Bucky checks the timer he set; not ready for a while yet. Still, Barton’s right, the smell is already delicious and tugging at his brain in a way that could make him slip-slide into the past all too easily.
“But they aren’t for us,” Natasha says. “And neither is whatever is in that pot.”
“Navy bean soup,” Bucky answers automatically, shifting a little from foot to foot. “With ham.”
Clint groans and Natasha’s almost-there smile widens into a real one. “I’m sure Steve will love it,” she says, “and the…?”
“Chocolate chip and oat cookies,” Bucky finishes, resignedly. Because Nat is right. He’s done this for himself yes, to see if he still can, if he still enjoys the process of creating something delicious and nourishing, but he’s also done this for Steve. Like he used to. Except, this time it’s not just that Bucky is cooking and Steve happens to be there, one hungry mouth among several, or because Steve is too sick to feed himself and it’s only to be expected for Bucky to make sure his best friend doesn’t faint from hunger on top of everything else.
This time, it’s just because he wants to.
“Chocolate chip and oat cookies,” Clint all but moans out, looking like he’s about to cry.
“I can make more,” Bucky promises unable to help himself. Apparently, the part of him that was an absolute sucker for kids is still present as well, and somehow Barton’s wide-eyed “Really?” triggers the same damn response.
“For the next movie night,” Bucky adds hastily. He’s done with this for today, already feeling the jittery edge of exhaustion pushing at the back of his mind, exaggerated by the realisation of what he’s trying to do. It’s stupid, he knows that, pathetic and useless, because he’s not the same person, the same omega, maybe not any kind of omega and to think—
“Steve is going to love them,” Natasha repeats, firmer this time, effectively cutting off Bucky’s burgeoning panic.
“Speak of the devil,” Barton mutters as the lift doors ding and Steve strides through them, looking around frantically as if expecting enemies.
“Oh good, he’s here. Time for us to go then.” Natasha’s voice is back to a carefree lilt as she grabs Clint by the elbow and starts hauling him toward the lift, raising a hand at Bucky and nodding at Steve in passing.
Their “What? Nat?!” is comically synchronised, but Natasha pays no mind.
Bucky and Steve stare at the lift doors for a few seconds, Steve in confusion and Bucky just seething. He knows exactly what Nat did and he can’t even say he’s surprised now that he’s had a chance to think about it, but boy is he annoyed. No cookies for her. Well. Maybe not many.
“Buck?” Steve finally walks to lean against the kitchen island, hands braced against the marble top, the muscles and veins in his forearms on full display. “You okay?” He gives Bucky the kind of careful onceover that makes him want to hide and preen at the same time. God fucking damn, Natasha.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Were you expecting to find dead bodies?”
Steve shrugs, sheepish. “No, just… Nat said you wanted to see me, and I thought…” He trails off.
Bucky gets it. The others may think he doesn’t but he’s not stupid, just traumatized. ‘Bucky wants to see you’ has been the code phrase for everything from ‘Bucky’s having a flashback and might murder anyone who isn’t Steve’ to ‘Bucky is experiencing a positive emotion and doesn’t know how to deal with it, Steve should come and role model that shit’.
He sighs. Steve’s here now, Natasha’s meddling ensuring that Bucky can’t chicken out even though he really wants to. “I, uh, made lunch.” It’s well past five in the afternoon, but neither of them mentions that.
“Lunch?” Steve’s face brightens and he takes a noticeably deep breath through his nose. And then another, his eyes growing wide. “Is that…?”
Bucky can’t even look at him, the hopeful anticipation, the sheer happiness that radiates from his whole body is too much to handle right now.
“Sit down,” he orders instead, turning to rummage cabinets for bowls, drawers for spoons.
Carefully, he ladles a large portion of soup for Steve and almost as large for himself, remembering the time when there was never enough for both of them to really be satisfied, and the times when Steve couldn’t keep down more than a few spoonfuls anyway. Steve is sitting at the table now, fingers neatly crossed in front of him, eyes following Bucky’s every movement. He serves Steve first, then himself, sitting down opposite.
Steve stares at the steaming bowl, enraptured, but… He’s not making any move to pick up the spoon and actually eat. The fight to stay still and not fidget right out of his skin gets more difficult with each second that ticks by. Why isn’t Steve… Doesn’t alpha like… Bucky digs fingernails into his thigh and tries to regulate his breathing. A raggedy edge creeps in regardless, noticeable enough that Steve’s attention finally diverts from the food, and possibly the memories it has evoked, to Bucky.
“Buck? What’s wrong?” His eyebrows start to draw together with worry. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I…” and this is stupid. It’s stupid and so fucking obvious and mortifying but suddenly Bucky wants it more than he remembers wanting anything for a long time. It’s not the all-encompassing need for freedom that made him push through the conditioning, just a want. A selfish one. And yet… “Alpha eats first,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.
Steve’s mouth honest to God drops open in shock, which would be hilarious if Bucky was in any mental state to laugh. And, fair play, this is kind of out of nowhere. They’d neither of them grown up in the kind of households that could afford to follow these kinds of traditions. Steve’s mother had been an omega but also the only breadwinner, and dinner time at the Barnes household was a chaotic affair full of laughter and everyone snatching what they could, when they could, and designations had little to do with that.
“Bucky…” Steve’s face is pink now and Bucky is almost certain that his is as well. With three words he’s framed the meal not just as a lunch one friend cooked another, but as an omega preparing food for an alpha, something that carries a whole host of connotations. And, well, they’re not new connotations as such, not for Bucky, but this is definitely the first time he’s making them explicit.
It’s fucking terrifying. Bucky is an idiot for…
“Thank you.” Steve’s spine straightens. A smile, tentative and awed and so goddamn hopeful it makes Bucky’s chest ache, curls up the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, omega.” Slowly, with great care, he picks up the spoon and takes a mouthful of the soup. “It’s delicious. I love it.” There is nothing but genuine pleasure in his tone, on his face, and Bucky’s own fingers shake a bit, reaching for his spoon, relief and something much, much bigger than that making him lightheaded.
Steve looks like he’s gearing up to saying something more, which Bucky is not at all sure he can take right now, when the timer derails him. “What’s that?” he asks.
In lieu of answering in words, Bucky gets up, dons some oven mitts, and pulls the tray of cookies out, putting it on the waiting rack next to their bowls. Steve’s eyes go as wide as saucers, his hand immediately reaching out to grab one.
Bucky smacks it without a second thought, the very movement bringing with it a sensory memory of having done this before. “You’ll burn your fingers,” he admonishes. “And your mouth.”
“I’m a super soldier, I’ll heal!” The grin on Steve’s face is unrepentant but he’s gone back to eating his soup instead trying to sneak dessert first.
“I don’t care,” Bucky says. “You’ll do what I say in my kitchen, alpha.” And it’s… This isn’t even his kitchen, not really, and going from clumsily executed traditional forms to outright sass is not how you’re supposed to do this, even Bucky knows that.
And yet something about it, the combination of the familiar back and forth they are still rediscovering and the use of a formal title that gives the whole thing a new tint, a new flavour if you like, seems to work for Steve because he outright laughs.
“Gladly,” he says, eyes full of warmth, and hooks his foot behind Bucky’s under the table.
***