Work Text:
Tony knows its Peter’s fault. You tell the kid he can use the industrial-grade common kitchen the one time for his school’s bake sale, and now it just never stops.
For all intents and purposes, Tony does take some responsibility for his current dilemma. He did give the kid permission, for one. And for two, Peter had left him a small stack of leftovers from his first foray into baking and Tony had said it was good. Even Tony oblivious genius that he is, knows how important it is for Pete that the people he loves are happy so Tony should’ve known it would come to this.
In fact, he shouldn’t even be surprised that the operation is likely more elaborate than the initial, “just baking some brownies, Mr Stark” because nothing Peter does is ever just anything.
Ned’s definitely the logistics brain behind the scheme because Tony loves his kid but getting ingredients and dealing with all the little details isn’t exactly his strong suit. And certainly not something Peter would be able to handle considering the sheer volume of baking that’s been happening at the Compound recently.
He can already see the logos: Avengers Baked Goods with caricature designs of the New Avengers on the cardboard boxes, courtesy of MJ.
It’s a side-hustle of elaborate proportions. Tony’s honestly pretty proud.
And look, Tony doesn’t actually care. It’s not like he needs to get involved in any way. (Hello, billionaire. Besides, Friday’s probably got the paper trail lined up for the IRS, and filled out all the tax forms too. Pepper will cry tears of joy because at least someone can do their paperwork.
But the concern is this: Tony’s starting to get hungry. Tony’s starting to have cravings.
Which he can’t be blamed for.
The brownies he’d gotten, home-made for the first time in ever, had made his heart feel as soft and gooey as the warm melted chocolate that had oozed out with every bite.
The smells – oh, the smells. They seep through the walls and travel through the Compound with the stealth of a ghost, there one minute, gone the next. They haunt Tony with long-forgotten memories of being in the kitchens of Stark Manor, and the early mornings Tony would spend balanced on a chair as he helped shape dough and work batter and dribble icing under Ana’s watchful eyes before being peppered with congratulatory red kisses from his mama come tea time.
In all, having a bakery unofficially open for business in the Compound is everything Tony didn’t know he needed. The warmth that still lingers in the kitchen and the sweet tang in the air makes his mouth water and his heartache. It makes him think of a home he hasn’t had in a long time.
Except, as usual, by the time Tony sneaks upstairs – and really, he is sneaking, having the Rogues housed at the Compound after the Accords were passed had not been met with particular popularity, and Tony’s not about to walk in on another Mexican stand-off with Barton and Hope after the archer demanded weapons from her, like he was owed it – the kitchen is empty.
The elusive phantom smells of sweet treats hint at more but never give anything away, just a more solid odor of lemon-tinged cleaning product which makes sense. The metallic fixtures, floors and countertops have been scrubbed clean and the entire space is quiet save for the hum of the fridge. The kitchen is sparkling.
There are no brownies in sight.
Even the bins have been emptied of any evidence. Tony pouts, slinking away.
He’ll get there before they make preparations for the next delivery. He will.
But he doesn’t. He never does.
And the worst part is that the kids are pretending there is no next delivery.
Bruce’s back from a conference the next time the kids come around, and Peter and Ned practically soil themselves – “Dr Banner, sir, holy shit. You’re in our science textbook!” – and they spend the entire two days stuck to Bruce’s elbows in his lab.
(Thor spends the weekend pretending to not pout about it.)
MJ looks at Tony funny when he tries to wrangle for a timeframe about today’s brownies, and Tony can’t tell whether she’s purposely hurting his feelings or not. But she must’ve because come midnight there’s sugar and chocolate in the air and the oven is still warm and there’s no crumb in sight.
To compound his frustration, that afternoon before the kids leave, the day he walks into the kitchen empty of its promise of brownies, Tony’s following Peter with not so subtle threats of brownies, Petey, I want them. They walk into a familiar, one-sided argument between Rogers and Barnes.
Even if Tony had only heard thirty seconds of it before he’d grabbed Peter by the collar, done an about-face and left, he’s pissed off the rest of the day.
Tony tells himself it’s because he’s got a sweet-tooth craving that hasn’t been sated. Or that he doesn’t want Peter exposed to a bunch of enhanced people who happen to be walking adverts for American patriotism throwing down for no discernible reason, but his life is a study to the contrary because even hangry, Tony knows otherwise.
Because listen, Tony doesn’t make it a habit to make excuses for other people, see things from their perspective and try to empathize? Sure.
But forgive their actions on the basis of their personal perspective? No, not a chance.
Tony’s very big on personal responsibility and he will not deprive another person of the growth that comes with it. That being said, Tony’s heard Rogers’ entire shtick about the “Bucky that isn’t Bucky” and it’s the biggest load of shit.
Rogers fought tooth and nail to convince everyone that “Bucky didn’t do it”, and now that the Bucky he fought for isn’t his Bucky, he wants to throw it in the other man’s face?
What happened to it wasn’t you?
Tony huffs and shakes his head.
Barnes may not have willingly done the things he’s been charged for, but he was the one who pulled the trigger and fired the shot, and Tony won’t take that from him. But Tony also isn’t a monster. He knows Barnes didn’t mean it - couldn’t help it - didn’t have the power to stop it. He was as much a victim of Hydra as everyone else, and Tony’s sorry about that, but Tony's made the amends he could – getting the man cleared from his crimes while under mind-control, getting his United States citizenship reaffirmed, the protection of both the New Avengers and Stark Industries offered – Tony’s done everything he could, probably more.
Anything else is none of his business. Except it is.
Because it isn’t Peter that’s been baking brownies.
Barnes is.
And because this is Tony’s life, he pretends it’s totally, entirely, completely normal to walk into the kitchen at two in the morning and find James “Bucky” Barnes, the Winter Soldier with his cheeks and his sweatpants covered in flour, and the front of his shirt wet with – what is that, vanilla?
“Oh my god, you didn’t,” Tony finds himself accusing. “That’s for my brownies, you heathen.”
Barnes looks up, wide-eyed, so jarringly startled that he looks like an oversized kitten with those big blue eyes peering at him through his curtain of brown hair and –
“Please,” Tony groans, “please tell me you tie that up, it’s a miracle I didn’t eat a clump the last time Pete brought me a plate.”
Now that he’s saying it, duh, Peter didn’t bake those brownies. The kid is May’s.
“I…”
Tony’s moving in before he even realizes it, waving a stray dishtowel at him. “Go clean up, god. It’s like a marshmallow threw up on you.”
“Wait, let me just mix the -”
“Eggs? I got it,” Tony interjects, continuing to shoo him off. “Clean yourself up already. Even I can’t screw up mixing. Where’s the whisk? Or are you one of those who needs the electric mixer?”
Looking less surprised but more bemused, Barnes gestures to the utensil before taking the dishtowel and wetting it by the sink. He dabs it against his chest until he eventually gives up and chucks his shirt off, starting to hand wash it in the sink, like getting naked and doing laundry by hand, arms flexing distractingly, in the kitchen is a totally normal thing to do.
Tony pointedly pretends that it is, and if he pays extra close attention to his whisking technique, it’s only because of the sharp angles in Barnes’ exposed hips pointing like an arrow towards his whatever is distracting enough. He coughs. “Did you add anything yet or…”
“No,” Barnes says, licking at his lips, eyes flickering to Tony’s face in a rare sign of nervousness. “I was going to add the vanilla but -”
“You’re wearing it,” Tony supplies with a smirk.
The ragamuffin has the grace to blush even as he mumbles, “It was an accident.”
They work in tedium until the brownies are in the oven, nothing of consequence passing between them except for Tony’s usual brand of chatter and the question of, “How the hell did you get into this?”
“Came in when Peter was baking, or trying to. It was looking more like a science experiment by the second, thought I’d spare everyone the food poisoning.”
“Let me guess, no good deed goes unpunished?”
He shifts on bare feet, and as Friday informs them that the timer’s been set and they have half an hour to kill before the brownies are ready, Tony finds himself patting Barnes on his very bare, very naked, very muscle-y shoulder and says, “I should get you an apron.” Then he’s turning tail and calling over his shoulder, “Leave some for me.”
Come morning, at a normal hour and more towards the afternoon than the actual morning, there’s a stack of brownies waiting for Tony in the lobby just outside the elevator of the workshop.
Placed under a cake-cover, his name scrawled in blue ink the same colour as Barnes’ kitten eyes; the brownies are as dense and chocolate-filled as the first time Tony sunk his teeth into them.
If he moans a little, there’s no one to hear but Fri.
He texts Peter to let the kid know he doesn’t appreciate being misled this whole time. It’s been almost a month since he first got the brownies, Tony could have had this for a month.
The next time Tony waltzes into the kitchen, a week later, Barnes is wearing the apron Tony got him. Even from behind, Tony can see how bright red Barnes’ ears are. Studmuffin, he snickers, eyes trailing shamelessly at the cute little ribbon tied just above Barnes’ outrageously supple bubble butt. “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”
“Brownies,” he offers, eyes flickering to take Tony in before flicking away again almost hastily. “Milk?”
“Gotcha.”
It’s something they just end up doing at some point during the week.
They don’t really talk about it, and nothing of actual relevance passes between them in the scant conversations they share. Barnes is just as unwilling to talk to Tony as he is with Rogers, but Tony finds himself at ease that Barnes, at least, doesn’t look like he’s going to bolt.
Tony gets him another apron after that.
And another, when Barnes laughs a couple of weeks later, his expression just as startled as his fit of humor like he’s surprised he can still do that.
There’s no particular reason for Tony to get him another apron at all except the colour makes Barnes’ eyes pop.
When Barnes volunteers that he only bakes when he’s stressed out a few weeks after, Tony’s brows furrow in concern and Barnes stutters, ducking his head, “Everything is different, new. I don’t – I haven’t been handling it well. The baking – it's familiar, it helps give me something to do that doesn’t…hurt anyone.”
The apron Tony gets for him that says, “A sweet for my sweet”. Tony catches Barnes glancing down at his own chest at the dancing, cartoon cupcake, and fighting the smallest, sweetest smile that makes Tony kind of want to die.
Kind of like the first apron Barnes buys for himself: A pair of big cartoonish red lips that command, Kiss the Baker which is just asking for all sorts of trouble because Tony’s tempted, alright?
Barnes has been through the actual worst. But instead of going catatonic, or suicidal or homicidal, Barnes is out here baking brownies in his adorable aprons and messy man-buns and bare feet, looking the way he does with his ridiculous blue eyes and stupid face and that goddamn body, and it isn’t fair.
It’s Peter’s fault, Tony decides.
Despite the tension that’s started to thrum between them, in the kitchen and out of it, he and Barnes bake in relative comfort, arms brushing, hips touching. Tony’s chatter and Barnes steady presence filling the space of the kitchen in a comfortable blanket of domesticity. Tony doesn’t imagine it’s only him, not with the way Barnes’ eyes have started to linger and trail after him wherever he goes and – it feels…good, innocent, wanted.
But this silent thing – this unsaid, unstable, nameless thing – makes Tony's skin itch with its volatility and so, with the kitchen cleaned up and the majority of the brownies cooling on the rack, Tony tells him, “It isn’t the same as when I was a kid.” He chases the chocolate taste with a sip of milk, tongue tracing his lips, and says, “But it’s pretty good.”
Barnes, who’s taken to watching him like a hawk whenever Tony’s tasting their latest batch, blinks slowly, blush high on his cheeks as he asks, “The brownies?”
“The company,” Tony corrects, flashing a grin Barnes’ way and feeling smugly satisfied that Barnes’ cheeks paint a darker shade, and he looks away smile curling.
It’s enough, Tony thinks. It’s been a while for him, but it’s been longer for Barnes.
This, whatever it is and whatever they are, is enough.
To Tony’s surprise, however, Barnes isn’t done with today’s baking date, and says, “Before I got drafted, I used to work at a bakery down the road.”
“Yeah?”
“Better than the factories,” Barnes admits, turning shy cornflower blue eyes at Tony. “Not better than here though.”
“Well you’ve certainly got a better uniform,” Tony says, leering a little and trying not to get overly excited at how Barnes is looking at him through inky lashes and darkening blue eyes and pink tongue wetting plump pink lips and then – holy shit, he’s coming closer. Wow has he smelled like peppermint and chocolate this whole time?
“Thanks,” Barnes murmurs breath warm and teasing against Tony’s lips, “Peter got it for me.”
Tony really should remember to thank the kid.