okay i have no idea if this is what you meant, but my brain interpreted the plot twist as bucky breaking into steve's apartment and leaving him food and then i wrote a fic LOL. i hope you enjoy!
There’s absolutely fucking nothing in Steve’s fridge.
Blinking, Steve rubs his eyes, and looks again. As if he has the power to will a meal with actual sustenance into existence instead of the half-eaten pack of cold cuts and the lone pizza lunchable sitting on the middle shelf of his fridge. But when no sudden, elaborate meal appears in front of him, Steve sighs. Reaching out for the cold cuts and the lunchable, he lets himself plop down onto the floor in front of the fridge, still dressed in his tac gear from the mission he’d just returned home from.
His joints are stiff and his muscles are sore, and the light from the fridge is the only thing his throbbing headache can handle at the moment. Sitting on the cool, tile floor of his apartment, he peels back the seal for the lunchable, trying not to feel too pathetic as he lethargically eats his way through both mini pizzas, the entire roll of provided pepperoni, a capri sun, and the rest of the roast turkey from the cold cuts bag.
It isn’t filling by any means-- especially after he spent the last week and a half burning a million calories fighting fucking mutant killer cows-- but it gives him enough energy to hoist himself to his feet and lumber down the hall. Stripping off his tac gear, he doesn’t bother showering before he falls into bed, stomach aching as he drops into a dreamless sleep.
“Rogers, you thinking of joining us for sushi?”
Steve looks up from where he’s shoving his shield into its case, hands trembling with fatigue, and chest distinctly tight in the way it tends to get after an adrenaline crash. Tony is looking at him expectantly, and vaguely, Steve knows he should take him up on the offer. But his battery for being in public-- around people-- has officially run out, and Steve knows himself well enough to know if he joined them, he’d either bite someone’s head off or freak the fuck out. And he’s not in the mood to do either of those things right now.
“Nah, not today, thanks,” Steve says, giving Tony a sheepish smile.
Tony shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Suit yourself,” he says, and pats Steve’s shoulder as he passes behind him. Steve shivers a little, trying not to think about how badly he craves to be casually touched like that more often, and finishes packing his things.
But a half hour later, as he’s letting himself into his apartment, head spinning and stomach gnawing at itself, he wonders if he should have bit the bullet and gone out for sushi with the others. Dread is already climbing in his chest as he lugs himself to the kitchen, eyeing the singular can of spaghettios in his pantry with disdain. Fuck, he really ought to go shopping more, but grocery stores are so overwhelming. The harsh overhead lights. The crowds of people. Parents with screaming children, and low levels of chaos that Steve can’t keep track of. Plus there’s so much food now. So much variety and foreign choice, that it sends Steve down a steady spiral of indecision and vague discomfort each time.
After DC and the helicarriers, there had been a short period of variety where new foods were plentiful. While on the road with Sam, it was easy to fall into a routine of following Sam’s lead. Getting takeout from restaurants he suggested, trying local cuisine from the places they hunkered down. But now that he’s back in New York-- back on his own-- finding the motivation to make an effort is a particular struggle.
Steve watches his reflection in the microwave as his spaghettios heats up, and eats the entire bowl standing over the sink. His stomach is still growling when he finishes, so he rinses his bowl, and lugs over to the fridge, already bracing for the empty sort of disappointment that accompanies seeing the barren shelves.
Except, the shelves aren’t empty. Not entirely anyway.
“What the fuck?” Steve mutters. Sitting on the second shelf of the fridge are three pizza lunchables, stacked neatly next to a couple of apples.
The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up, and he reaches in to grab the lunchables. Instantly, he throws away the apples; he knows better than to trust food that’s exposed like that. But the lunchables seem aptly sealed, and entirely untouched. Peeling one of the lunchables open, he leans in to smell it. There’s no abnormalities that his serum enhanced nose can detect. Just starchy, cheap gluten and tangy marinara.
Glancing around, Steve looks for some sign of a break in, but it feels silly. What kind of idiot would break in just to give him more pizza lunchables?
Bucky, his mind whispers. Bucky would break in just to stock more food into his empty fucking fridge.
A pang of hope so sharp it makes Steve sway where he stands courses through his veins, but he tamps it down hard. If Bucky is near, he still clearly doesn’t want to be found, lunchable offerings or not. Steve knows he’s alive-- has known since he saw his figure amidst the rubble of some random Hydra base in Tikhvin, having beaten Sam and him to the location-- but he hadn’t pushed then, and he wouldn’t push now.
Standing by the counter, Steve eats all three lunchables, then grabs a sticky note, scrawling out a little cartoon figure of himself holding up a sign. He scrawls a cursory message into the sign, and sticks it in the fridge where the lunchables had been.
Loved the lunchables! Thank you :D Hope you’re being safe - SR
The note stays in the fridge until Steve is called for his next mission, paper growing damp from the cold. He tries not to think about it too much as he idles through his days, ordering too much takeout, and actually managing to keep his fridge somewhat stock. Even if it’s mostly with chow mein and stir fried vegetables.
But when he returns from his most recent mission-- which had left him and the team stranded for nearly two weeks in Uzbekistan-- the food is all gone, as is the note. In their place is a new note, clearly taken from the same sticky note pad Steve had used and scrawled on with the same pen. Steve’s heart skips a beat, before speeding up as he reaches for the note, unsticking it from the empty shelf and holding it up with shaking hands to read.
Sorry I threw everything away. It all went bad. But I left some food in the freezer for you. Hope that’s fine.
And fuck. Fuck, Steve would recognize that handwriting anywhere. Looping, fast cursive that’s somehow still legible, even if the lines are a little shakier now. An ache of familiarity that Steve hasn’t felt since he died grips his chest so hard he can’t breathe for a moment. He was right. He was right. It had been Bucky who had left the lunchables, which means that Bucky is near. Bucky is watching him, and Bucky is--
Frowning, Steve looks back down at the note. Does this mean that Bucky’s back? Steve highly doubts the Winter Soldier is bringing him frozen foods. But he supposes there isn’t a true answer to that. Bucky will probably never be back, just like Steve isn’t sure bits of himself are ever going to be the same as before.
That’s alright, though, Steve supposes as he opens the freezer and finds a tupperware of frozen pot roast and mashed potatoes. As long as he’s safe-- as long as he’s alive-- that’s all that really matters.
The pot roast tastes like a home Steve never really had, and he eats it all in one sitting, savoring the tender pieces of meat and fluffy mashed potatoes. Vaguely, he wonders how Bucky managed to get the roast-- or make it, perhaps. He hopes he’s warm, wherever he is.
Before he goes to sleep that night, Steve leaves another note, this time with the little cartoon version of himself asleep on his back, hands on his stomach as he sleeps off the food coma.
Pot roast! You spoil me… it was delicious. Hope you saved some for yourself ;). - SR
After the success of the frozen pot roast, Bucky seems to inch closer. Take more risks.
Food appears in Steve’s kitchen even if he isn’t on missions. He comes home from a run one day to find fresh fettuccine alfredo sitting on his countertop, still warm in the tin tray Bucky had seemingly left it in. And a few days later, there’s a delicious banana pudding in the fridge waiting for him after a meeting at the Tower.
They continue to chat through sticky notes, and Steve tries not to think too hard about the fact that Bucky had touched the pen he’s holding as he scrawls yet another cartoon version of himself saying thank you after Bucky had left him some chicken noodle soup. Something in him is settled knowing Bucky clearly has access to all of this food, and he wonders how the hell he’s pulling this all off. Where he’s been getting these recipes. Has he gone to bookstores to get cookbooks? Is he looking them up online? Where is he cooking the food?
But he doesn’t ask questions, and Bucky doesn’t give hints. Steve doesn’t think it really matters anyway. If Bucky wants it to be his business, then he’ll make it his business. For now, Steve lets himself enjoy this bittersweet cadence of odd communication. The rest can wait for later.
There’s someone in Steve’s kitchen. He can hear it as he enters his apartment, still dripping sweat from his routine, three hour morning run. Instantly, he’s alert, hackles raised as he swoops down to grab his shield by the hall closet door. He inches further into the apartment, the distinct smell of bacon and eggs hits him like a truck. And even though his instinct tells him to be careful as he rounds into the kitchen, he already knows what he’s going to find.
And despite knowing, nothing prepares him for the breathless shock he feels as his gaze lands on Bucky, standing in front of the stove, cooking breakfast.
Bucky’s hair is swept up into a bun on the back of his head, and he’s wearing an apron with the Iron Man suit on the front. He’s shifting a pan around with his left arm-- the metal one-- and Steve watches, transfixed for a moment as he fries up some eggs.
“Buck,” he breathes, arms loose at his side. He’s still holding the shield, and he grips the straps tighter, trying to ground himself in the feel of leather in his palm.
Bucky glances over at him and smiles. For a moment, Steve’s certain he’s going to pass out, because fuck, that smile. That smile. The goddamn smile that Steve was sure he’d never see again after he watched Bucky plummet into icy hell off the side of that fucking train, a lifetime ago. A world away.
“Hungry? I’m also thinking of making pancakes,” Bucky says, gesturing to the box of pancake mix on the counter with the spatula he’s using. Steve closes his eyes, letting Bucky’s voice wash over him for a moment. He still isn’t sure he won’t pass out. “Which, by the way, I had to pick up after I found out you don’t have flour. Or sugar, for that matter. Or eggs. Why don’t you have fucking eggs?”
Steve swallows hard, blinking a few times. “I… don’t go to the store.”
Bucky squints at him, spatula halting in the pan. “You don’t go to the store,” he repeats slowly.
“I-- yeah. I don’t like it.”
Bucky hums, still squinting at him. “Yeah, okay,” he says after a moment, like he can see where Steve’s coming from. Which, yeah, he probably can, Steve figures. “Well, lucky you, I love going to the store, so I bought you eggs and milk and such, but you should really try and at least keep basics around.”
“Bucky,” Steve says, shaking his head, slowly. It’s fucking surreal. There’s a world of questions between them. Things they have to talk about. Things that need to be said. And yet, Bucky’s berating him for not having fucking eggs in his fridge while cooking breakfast at his stove.
Bucky’s expression shifts and softens, and he nods, turning back to the eggs and adding a handful of shredded cheddar cheese.
“I know,” he murmurs. “Later. I-- not right now. I can’t--”
“That’s okay,” Steve cuts him off. If Bucky needs to wait, they can wait. “Later.”
Bucky nods again, moving the eggs off the heat. He reaches for the pancake mix next, and Steve finally places his shield down.
“Can I at least ask… do you have a place to stay?” Steve asks, moving further into the room. He looks around; breakfast looks fantastic, and it’s clearly methodical. Everything is clearly prepared with care and strategy. Steve vaguely wonders if it’s soothing for Bucky to cook. In the same way it's soothing for him to paint. Some way to purge this need to move in a way that usually meant harm.
“I do,” Bucky confirms, getting a large mixing bowl. Steve tries not to think too hard about the fact that Bucky apparently knows his kitchen layout. “And-- I’m not ready to-- with you-- I mean--”
“I know,” Steve says, and Bucky looks at him, throat working as he swallows. “I was just making sure you’re safe. And Buck, if you’re never ready to come stay with me, that’s not an expectation. I just need to know you have somewhere you can sleep.”
Bucky’s eyes do something complicated, and his jaw shifts. The plates of his metal arm whir softly as he reaches out to grip Steve’s hand. A fleeting movement that leaves Steve feeling like he’s been shocked with electricity.
“I want to, one day,” Bucky says. “And I know we used to… we used to be… something, right?”
Steve closes his eyes for a moment, utterly unprepared for the question. “Yeah, Buck,” he whispers. And if he thinks about it, he can still feel the touch. Bucky’s lips on his brow bone, arms around his waist. Bucky making love to him with a reverence that Steve never felt his deserved. Fleeting touches and weighted looks. Two bodies, moving together as fluidly as one. “We used to be something.”
Bucky nods, biting his lip. “I want to,” he repeats. “I just need a little more time.”
Steve smiles sadly. “If I’m being honest, I think I do, too. But… maybe we can start small? Like… this.” He gestures to the spread of breakfast. “Hanging out. Getting to know each other again. You know… like friends.”
Bucky smiles, and he reaches for Steve’s hand again. This time, he holds on for a few moments, letting their fingers lace together. Steve squeezes. I hear you. I’m with you.
Bucky squeezes back. Me too.
“I’d like that,” Bucky murmurs. “Friends.”
“Friends,” Steve repeats. They watch each other for another moment. A promise solidifying between them. Then Bucky is letting go and checking his hip.
“Pass the milk, punk, I’m teaching you to make pancakes.”
And fuck, Steve can’t wait to get to know Bucky again. Every damn inch.
