Chapter Text
“Steve.” Bucky tugs at Steve’s sleeve insistently.
Steve is occupied, looking at jars of honey at a stall, turning each over and inspecting the labels. “Where are these collected, sorry?” He clarifies with the shop seller, not even turning to look at his partner.
“Steve,” Bucky repeats. “C’mon, the honey will be there in a second, just look. ”
With an apologetic smile at the seller, Steve follows Bucky’s line of sight. “Okay sweetheart, what am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Cat in a stroller, Steve.”
True enough, a fluffy flame-point siamese sits in a stroller a few stalls away from them. It’s wearing a sparkly pink collar with ‘Vincent’ bedazzled on it.
“Bucky,” Steve says, his tone a mix of fondness and mild admonishment, “that’s the third cat you pointed out to me. New York is gentrifying, pets in strollers are trendy now.”
“Fine,” Bucky rolls his eyes, “but those were different cats in different strollers. You should be thankful.”
“Yes, Buck. You have all my gratefulness, for eternity, in sickness and in health, etcetera,” Steve snarks. He wraps up his purchase with the honey seller quickly, putting the purchased items into a tote bag. He scans over its contents, matching it up with his mental grocery list. “I think I got all my things,” he says, taking hold of Bucky’s hand. “What's on your list for the cake?”
“Probably just more plums,” Bucky replies, “but we can walk around the entire market, just to see what they have out.”
Steve tugs Bucky closer, like he’s compelling them to breathe the same air. He smiles sweetly and plants a soft kiss on Bucky’s forehead. “Sounds like a plan, Buck. I think there’s an art fair going on too, maybe you’ll spot something you like.”
After a quick stop by a cafe for coffee to warm their hands against the chill of the mid-fall, they wander over to a fruit stand with boxes of plums, freshly shipped from Romania.
With a nonchalant tone, Bucky approaches the woman manning the stand. “Hi,” he flashes a charismatic grin, “can I have three kilograms of the plums?”
The woman blinks. “Are you sure it's kilograms? That’s almost this entire box, sir.”
Bucky just nods, widening his grin to expose the whites of his teeth. “Yes ma’am.”
Steve has to step in at that point, curious himself about the quantity Bucky needs for what should be two, at most three, cakes. “Can I see the recipe? Maybe the units are off.”
Bucky passes over his phone, but clarifies anyway. “Some of it’s for the cake, but I want some to snack on. Plus, you can teach me to preserve them! We can make jams and all.”
“We can get plums year-round though, we don’t need to stock up now.”
“I know that, Steve,” Bucky justifies, “but it’d be nice to preserve ‘em the way your ma used to do when fruits got cheap.”
Steve takes the phone from him but ignores it. His blue eyes soften and he tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand, moving his thumb in soft circles over the cold metal. The grooves where gold filament meets pitch-black vibranium scratch at his skin and ground him in the 21st century. “You’re right. She’d be happy to see us keep her recipes alive. Really, alive. Not just letting them go brown and dusty behind a museum vault.”
“And if we put it in between the layers of the cake,” Bucky adds as an afterthought, “there’s no way Sam could top it.”
“ Bucky,” Steve rolls his eyes in admonishment.
Bucky raises his hands in surrender. “What? I need to win.”
“Step one Buck, is always mise en place, ” Steve says, pulling bowls and measuring instruments out of their cupboards and laying them on the countertop
“Mise en – what?” Bucky asks from his seat at the island, watching Steve’s deft hands work.
“ Mise en place,” Steve repeats, slower this time. “Basically, it’s all the work that happens before we even start baking. We have to prep our pans, preheat the oven, and measure everything out first so our process can come together smoothly.”
Bucky nods, listening intently. “Okay, pans, oven, measure everything. Got it.”
Steve beckons Bucky over to stand next to him. “Measuring ingredients for baking is a science in itself. There are techniques you have to remember that change depending on the thing you’re measuring.” He picks up a black measuring cup with a long silver handle. “See, this is for dry ingredients like flour. You shouldn’t measure a liquid like milk with it.”
“Why not though?” Bucky interrupts, “they have the same labels.”
“It’s for accuracy. You have to fill it to the top for the best measurement, but then it’s really easy to spill.” Steve replaces the black measuring cup with a small glass pitcher with gradations. “As I was saying, this one’s for liquids. Make sure to get down to eye level when checking the measurement, otherwise your angle will mess it up.”
“Mmhm,” Bucky hums, “black cups for dry stuff, glass pitcher for liquids.” He glances over at the ingredients laid out on the counter. “Are we going to do the fun stuff, yet?”
Steve rolls his eyes, “Patience, young Padawa–”
“You watched Star Wars once!”
“–Anyway, I figured we have to go over the basics. Baking isn’t like cooking, where you can work without specific amounts of each thing.” Steve gestures at the sad, sunken cake Bucky made, a cautionary tale. “Look at your last attempt. You probably added too much flour, and that’s because you measured wrong.”
The reminder of Bucky’s previous failure quiets his impatience. “ Fine, Steve,” he says, pushing the unmeasured ingredients towards Steve, “now show me how to measure.”
They measure twice the amount called for in the recipe, once for Steve to show Bucky how to do it, and once for Bucky to repeat it himself. They discuss how flour is meant to be sifted then spooned into the cup, not scooped using the measuring tool itself. Steve clarifies that brown sugar should be packed into cups in a procedure opposite from flour’s.
As Steve demonstrates, Bucky’s attention strays. He snaps his fingers in front of Bucky’s face, but partner just blinks blankly twice.
A moment passes as Steve waits in expectant silence.
“Sorry, what?” Bucky asks, his expression still absent.
“C’mon sweetheart. If you want me to teach, you have’ta listen,” Steve admonishes. “What’s so distracting anyway?” Steve follows Bucky’s gaze to his own hands, which hold a small spatula in a loose grip, his large mitts dwarfing it. Experimentally, he drops the tool and flexes his fingers, regarding Bucky’s tracking gaze with no small amount of amusement.
Steve barely suppresses his grin. “My hands, Buck? How are you going to beat Sam if you’re distracted by the littlest things?”
At that, Bucky finally looks Steve in the eye. His mouth forms a suggestive grin. “From personal experience, I know it’s not ‘little’.”
Steve can feel the blood rush to his face, the tips of his ears turning an angry red. “You’re a menace,” he mumbles, bumping Bucky with his shoulder.
“Not my fault that you’re easy to tease,” Bucky retorts, smiling widely and laughing.
Eventually, they have everything laid out in neat bowls arranged in a half circle, with the oven preheating and their pans greased and lined, ready to receive the batter.
Bucky watches Steve beat together the butter and sugar with the electric mixer, waiting for them to get fluffy before adding in eggs, lemon zest, and vanilla. He does the same for his batter while Steve watches him, ready to make corrections if needed.
“Here’s the tricky part, so pay attention,” Steve states. He gestures at the batter they mixed, the bowl of sour cream, and the container of flour. “We have to alternate adding in the dry and wet ingredients,” he explains, picking up a red spatula, “and we’re gonna fold it by hand. It’ll give us more control than the mixer, which is important to the texture of our cake. Mix it too much and the cake will end up dense, too little and it won’t hold together.”
“Is that what happened to mine?” Bucky asks.
Steve nods. “Among other things, yes.”
Under Steve’s attentive tutelage, Bucky puts together what he thinks to be a well-mixed batter. They toss chopped plums in flour to prevent them from sinking to the bottom of the cake, and sprinkle them into their mixing bowls. A few minutes later, they’re able to put two cakes into the oven to bake.
The moment the oven door closes, Bucky is reinvigorated by a sudden jolt of energy. He spins around to face Steve. “Is it the fun part yet? Can we make the jam already?” He tugs on Steve’s hand gently. “Our kitchen’s gonna smell like our old tenement, all honey-sweet and sticky.”
Steve nods at Bucky and swallows loudly before turning his back to him, avoiding his gaze. Steve feels his throat start to close up, lungs filled with half-choked breaths and aborted coughs. His chest bursts with the familiar feeling of grief, a tired ache he has yet to stamp out, accompanied by the sharp throb of shrapnel buried in his sternum. A small, sad, smile makes its meandering way across his face, less an expression of joy and more a twisted approximation of a grimace.
Steve greets the feeling like an old acquaintance. The lonesome grief took residence with him for years, until he found a better home with his friends: first Natasha, then Sam, and finally the exultant light of Bucky’s return. When it left, it kept the door open for times like these, when the littlest things – Christ, like plum jam – reminded him of the past.
Steve gathers himself up before his shoulders start to shake. He grounds himself in present sensations. The smell of the plum cake, baking away in the oven. The plush give of the house slippers under his feet. The texture of his shirt and the scratch of its tag against his nape. Steve takes a slow breath as he grabs a saucepan and a few small plates before spinning back around to face Bucky.
Bucky stands in front of him, maybe two strides’ length away. He has a warm, knowing look in his eye, earlier enthusiasm tempered by his uncanny ability to read Steve, honed over decades of friendship. He takes a short step forward, looking straight into Steve’s eyes; it’s a silent request for permission to come closer.
Steve nods his agreement and they end up with barely a few inches between them, close enough to hear each other breathe, but not close enough to touch.
Bucky reaches a hand out slowly and asks, “Can I?”
Still silent with the depth of the ache in his chest, Steve nods before ducking his head, breaking his gaze with Bucky.
In an instant, Bucky’s arms form a tight ring around him, one arm under his shoulder and the other against his neck. Bucky tucks his face into the crease of Steve’s neck, and they stand there for a stretched-out moment, like time has stilled into something calm and placid.
They stay there, Bucky holding Steve together, until the feeling recedes. After it does, Steve returns the embrace, squeezing a hug against Bucky’s midsection. He feels Bucky smile against his neck before he pulls back far enough to look Steve in the eye, but not enough to sever contact entirely.
“Hey,” Bucky says in hushed tones. Gently, he sweeps Steve’s floppy bangs away from his face. “It’s okay Steve, I miss her too.”
“We’ve been in the future for years now,” Steve responds, voice tinged blue with embarrassment, “the ache’s jus’ so big sometimes.”
Bucky kisses Steve on the forehead. “I got you, Steve. I’m here.”
“And I miss her so much,” Steve continues, eyes shimmering with wetness under the light of their kitchen.
Bucky pushes back into Steve’s space, letting his arms tighten again. “I know, love,” he whispers, “I know.”
They slide down to the floor, backs against the cupboards, without letting each other go. Steve sits with his back against the wall, Bucky soundly on his lap, as they let silence bloom between them once more. The atmosphere is lighter now – cathartic, even – as they draw comfort from each other.
Eventually, Steve stands up, electing to carry Bucky to a chair instead of breaking the silence to have him walk there himself. He wears a small grin, extending a hand in front of himself for Bucky to take. “Ready to make the jam?”
Bucky grins back and clasps his hand in an assured grip, using it to pull himself off of the chair. “Of course I am.”
With the golden glow of the sunset streaming in through their windows, Steve feels buoyant as he shows Bucky how to make jam like his ma used to.
As Bucky watches the sugar dissolve into the fruit in a slow cascade, he asks, “D’you remember that fight we had over your ma’s preserves?”
“Sure do,” Steve retorts, the wooden spoon in his hand raised in teasing accusation, “you stole the jars I was saving.”
Bucky scoffs. “Stole? What happened to ‘what's mine is yours,’ husband?”
“We weren’t even married then!”
“I know,” Bucky says, lips tipped into the charismatic smirk Steve fell for 70 long years ago. “Didn’t stop me from knowing that it was always going to be you.”
A fiery red flush spreads across Steve’s face, vibrant against his pale, Irish, skin. He stares at the jam, bubbling away in the saucepan, to avoid Bucky’s gaze. “You’re such a sap,” he groans.
Bucky sidles up to him unapologetically and bumps him with his hip. “Only for you, love.”
A few minutes later, they have three jars of jam cooling off on the counter, with the sugar-coated saucepan soaking in the sink.
“I think we did well,” Steve remarks, gaze assessing the outcomes of their labor.
Bucky hums in acknowledgement, staring at the spot of jam dabbed on Steve’s cheek. “We did,” he says, wiping the jam off of Steve with a finger.
From the touch, Steve looks back at Bucky. “What’re you doing, Bu–” his voice trails off as he watches his partner lick the jam off his thumb, pink tongue obvious against the dark metal of his arm. Steve’s mouth goes dry.
“Hm?” Bucky lifts an eyebrow, face coy and knowing. “You had food on your face,” he says, all cuteness and faux-innocence.
“You are ridiculous,” Steve chuckles, charging forward to pick Bucky up and set him on the counter to sit in between Steve’s powerful thighs. Steve plants feather-light kisses across Bucky’s face, brushing his lips across his cheeks, forehead, and temples. “So,” a kiss punctuates his sentence, “ridiculous.”
“Yes, yes,” Bucky says, “I’m ridiculous. Now stop teasing.” At that, Bucky grabs Steve by the collar, pulling him for a deep kiss.
Their teeth click together and Bucky tastes like a clashing mix of mint and plums. It’s not perfect, but Steve feels like sunlight given form. “Bedroom?” he asks, pulling back slightly to gaze at Bucky.
Bucky clasps his hands together behind Steve’s neck and hooks his legs around his partner’s waist. “Take me there,” he murmurs.
Without another word, Steve carries Bucky to their bed with unyielding strength.
They lay on tangled sheets, Bucky holding Steve from behind, lazily rubbing a hand up and down his arm. All at once, he notices the smell of burning wafting into their room, smokey and acrid. He sits up suddenly and pushes gently at Steve.
“Steve,” Bucky says insistently.
Steve rotates from his side to lie on his back, stretching an arm out and tucking it under his head. “Gimme a few minutes, Buck,” he grins languidly, “serum or no, I need recovery time.”
“ Steve.” Bucky shakes his head and pushes at him again. “We forgot the cake. I think it’s burning.” In an instant, Bucky can see a switch flip in Steve’s brain as he registers the smell of burning for himself.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve mumbles, scrambling out of the sheets and running to the kitchen. From behind him, Bucky’s laughter echoes.
On the day of the competition, Sam rearranged his living room to mimic the judge’s area of a cooking show. His couch has been pushed to the corner of the space and a long dining table has taken its place. On it sit two placards, each indicating what Sam’s and Bucky’s cakes are and where they should be placed. Natasha sits on the lone chair in the middle of the table, like a judge presiding over her court.
Bucky and Steve walk into Sam’s living room, carrying a tiered, naked plum cake, with jam in between each layer. Sam’s cake is already on the table. The placard states that it’s an orange chocolate cake, though that’s obvious from the presentation. Fluffy chocolate frosting coats the layers of darkly colored cake, with candied oranges arranged in a half-moon on top. It looks like the work of a professional.
Bucky thinks it's kind of stupid how seriously they took their “friendly” competition, but its par for the course with Sam. He can’t really blame his friend either, not when he took the cake Steve made because apparently paying more attention to the flex and deft movement of his partner’s hands isn’t conducive to learning how to bake.
He made a new plum cake earlier that day, and even under Steve’s instruction, it was still dense and chewy. While it was a definite improvement over his initial attempt – at least he didn’t burn it – it wasn’t the material of a sure and decisive win. Besides, Bucky’s a strategist. Taking Steve’s cake is a contingency plan.
Once Bucky has laid down the cake, he meets Sam in front of the table with a firm handshake.
“Barnes,” Sam nods, seriousness heavy in his voice, as if meeting a dreaded foe in battle, “good luck.”
“Wilson,” Bucky says back, his tone an airy contrast to Sam’s. It’s self-assured. Confident. “I don’t need luck.”
Sam picks up the snark in Bucky’s voice and retorts, “Doesn’t matter, no amount of luck would beat a Wilson family recipe, modified by yours truly.”
Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam and spots Steve chatting idly with Natasha. “Steve!” He barks, “come tell your friend that I’m going to win the bake-off.”
Steve, attention drawn, darts his eyes from Bucky, to Sam, then back to Bucky again. Both competitors, each with a distinct but equally deep history with Steve, eye him intently. He takes a step back and raises his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me,” he defends, “I’m a neutral observer here.”
In a cacophonous chorus, Bucky’s and Sam’s annoyed retorts blend together.
“C’mon man!” Sam crosses his arms in indignation. “You think I trekked across Europe with you for funsies?”
“I literally wear your ring!” Darkness colors Bucky’s voice and he grabs at Steve’s dog tag hanging around his neck. “Marriage means taking my side.”
It’s into that chaos that Natasha finally intervenes, swinging her legs gracefully off of the chair, and swiftly striding in front of Steve, shielding him from his betrayed friend and jilted lover. “Boys,” she scolds, clearing her throat. The room goes dead silent. She lets her nails click against the table, reveling in the tense atmosphere, before putting on a beatific smile. It’s haunting in its uncanniness. “Now that that’s over with, let's get to the tasting.”
As Steve cuts slices of the cake and places them on small saucers, Bucky considers his chances of winning. Sam’s cake looks intimidating with its professional presentation, the elegance of the dark frosting only highlighted next to the rustic theme of Bucky’s naked plum cake. Even worse, in the heat of the bickering, he’s forgotten that Steve’s cake is on the table, not his.
Bucky watches Natasha taste each cake in rapt attention, her considering hums and tiny bites. She takes a second serving of Sam’s cake, and Bucky thinks it spells doom, until she scrapes off some plum jam with her fork to specifically taste.
The air is so still that, when Natasha finally lets her fork drop to the saucer, the clang it makes is a cavernous echo. She takes a sip of water. The clock ticks 1, 2, 3. The chair pushes away from the table, its legs scraping audibly against the floor. Natasha stands in the middle of the table, ready to be the judge and the executioner.
She claps her hands once. “First, an announcement,” she declares, “on today’s bake-off, there will be no winner.”
Sam looks ready to gear up and argue, his chest inflated with a large breath, until Natasha lifts her index finger and silences him with a venomous look. He deflates.
“As I was saying,” Natasha continues, clearing her throat pointedly, “there will be no winners, because someone did not bake their own cake.”
Natasha pauses for a long moment, looking directly at Bucky with a knowing expression. “Don’t try to lie to me, James. You know I have eyes everywhere.”
Steve has backed himself into the corner, one hand rubbing at his temples and the other stuffed into a pocket in an attempt to minimize himself. Bucky himself looks sheepish, embodying the spirit of a scolded schoolboy about to get hit by a zealous nun.
“Uh–” Bucky rocks back on his heels and laces his hands together at his back, “I can explain.”
Natasha smiles condescendingly and kisses her teeth. “I believe you can, James. Regardless, though no one wins the competition, Sam is the better baker by default.” She looks at every face in the room, as if expecting a challenger. When no one steps up to bat, she picks up both cakes before making her leave.
“I’ll be taking these two home with me,” she states from the doorway, wiggling her fingers in farewell.
“Bye, boys.”
The door shuts with finality.
Aghast, Sam and Bucky stand staring at the closed door for a moment, tension building, when–
“ You cheated?” Sam asks in disbelief.
“Rematch. One week,” Bucky says evasively, forcing his voice to be even and strong.
Sam nods and crosses his arms, skepticism written all over him. “Okay, rematch. So you can steal Steve’s cake again.”
Offended, Bucky takes a menacing step closer to Sam. He jabs his pointer finger at the middle of Sam’s chest, opening his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. He stays for a second, still silent, before biting his lip and letting his posture deflate, his arm falling limply to his side.
“I won, Bucky,” Sam huffs, his laugh smug. “Accept it. I’m better.”
“It doesn’t count! I was disqualified; you’re only better by default,” Bucky says, trying to goad Sam into another round despite his continued lack of baking prowess, a fact only strengthened by the outcome of the bakeoff. “We’ll do a rematch.”
Distracted by their bickering, neither Sam nor Bucky notice Steve slowly inching his way across the room, eventually sitting at the judging table. He sits in front of the remaining cake, a new fork having mysteriously materialized in his hand.
“And you!” Sam shoots an accusatory look at the corner Steve was previously in, only to find a blank wall. He spots Steve, eating bits of cake surreptitiously, slouching to minimize himself. “Are you,” Sam pauses and blinks once, “are you eating the cake?”
Caught out, Steve’s eyes widen, and he shovels another bite of cake into his mouth before dropping the fork. He lowers his head to the table and hides his face in his arms. Ignoring Sam, he lets out a soft giggle. Around him, Bucky and Sam pick up their bickering again, somehow progressing away from baking and to a debate on the merits of fruit in chocolate.
Steve finds that there is nowhere else he’d rather be.