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“Oh thank God,” Sarah Rogers exclaimed. She was standing in the living room, facing the couch on which Steve was peacefully slumbering, head tucked against Bucky’s leg. At some point, Bucky had pulled a fluffy camouflage blanket over Steve’s tiny shoulders. Bucky himself was sitting, dark jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back against the couch, snoring. One arm was loosely draped around Steve. Although asleep, Bucky had dark bags under his eyes, his hair was mussed, and he looked absolutely exhausted. Steve, though, looked like a little angel.
Sarah gently shook Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky groaned and tipped his head forward, squinting at her. Then rubbed his eyes, accidentally smudging the black eyeliner he perpetually wore. “What time is it,” he slurred.
“Nine-thirty.” Half an hour later than she’d promised she’d be back. But the hospital had needed her to stay longer that night.
Bucky groaned again and shook his head, trying to rouse himself.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Sarah said quietly, standing a couple feet away from the couch.
Bucky squinted at Steve like he suspected he was up to something. But Steve peacefully slept on.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” she offered, beginning to fret.
“No,” Bucky grunted. “Thass okay.” He got up off the couch and stretched. His black t-shirt rode up briefly, exposing a pale sliver of stomach. “I can call my mom.”
“You’re sure?”
Bucky smiled sleepily at her. “Iss okay.”
Bucky was such a blessing, he really was. Sarah didn’t know what she’d do without him. Her Stevie didn’t mean to be difficult; she suspected it had a lot to do with his father dying when he was so young. He needed a father figure; Sarah was painfully aware of that. But she just wasn’t ready to remarry yet. And she knew whoever she married could never really be Steve’s father.
They’d had a string of babysitters, none of which worked out. First there was Thor. His foster family wanted him to be more active in the community, since he was an exchange student from Norway and he was having trouble fitting in. Everyone seemed to like Thor. He smiled a lot, he was jovial, he had a booming laugh and a warm handshake. Steve liked him right away. But Thor had gotten in trouble for something; the specifics were never mentioned. She just knew he was grounded, and he called her one day to regretfully tell her he could no longer babysit her son.
Then there was Remy. Her neighbors absolutely adored Remy because he would rake their lawns and shovel their driveways for what they felt was a very reasonable price. He was certainly charming, and having a bilingual babysitter also seemed a good idea because learning more languages, she’d heard, was very good for a developing mind. She asked, upon interviewing the young man, whether he’d be willing to teach Steve some French. He agreed that he would, for an additional price, and then winked at her with his startling red eyes. Sarah just sort of assumed he was kidding and paid him exactly what she’d been paying Thor.
Remy had taught Steve some French, and the two of them had gotten along swimmingly, but Remy never seemed quite content with his pay. He kept wheedling Sarah to give him more. After a few months, he showed up on her doorstep explaining he’d received a better offer from the Storms—one of the rich families that lived in Stark Estates, the new development complex—and she hadn’t seen him since.
She later found out that he was babysitting a classmate of Steve’s. He commented about him constantly as Sarah worked through a string of babysitter after babysitter: “Remy lets Johnny jump on the couch.” “Remy lets Johnny eat two scoops of ice cream!” “Remy lets Johnny watch action movies that are rated PG.” “Remy lets Johnny stay up past nine!” –and so on. Part of Sarah was glad Remy was no longer babysitting for them and wondered if Remy had let Steve do any of those things.
Kitty was okay, but she kept disappearing and not showing up. Anna Marie had a thing about people touching her. Jubilee was fired after Sarah came home to Steve’s face completely covered in bubble gum. Hank was too absent-minded; he got a lot of homework done but he must have gotten absorbed in his assignments because Steve would get up to all sorts of mischief while Hank was busy. She felt bad for firing Hank, since he was such a nice, soft-spoken young man.
Charles had been a disaster. Steve had left his marbles and his Legos and various other toys strewn about the floor. From what Erik told her, Charles had been running across the floor to stop Steve from doing something dangerous with his little green soldiers when he slipped on a marble and landed wrong. His back had collided with a coffee table on his way down, and Erik had screamed at Charles to get up. Steve, meanwhile, had dropped his army toys and was staring at them. He started crying. Erik swore at Steve and said all sorts of frantic, encouraging things to Charles, who had passed out. Charles was taken away in an ambulance.
Upon a follow-up call, Sarah found out that Charles had been paralyzed from the waist down and Erik wanted to sue. He took it to court, but the case was dismissed on the grounds of it being an accident which Sarah had no control over. The judge let her off with a warning.
And then there was Wade. Wade had been funny and charming and reminded her a little of Remy. He was always cracking jokes and making references. She thought at first that he was going to be a good fit. Steve seemed to like him right away. But then one day Sarah had come home to the unmistakable reek of marijuana and found a doobie in the hand of her eight-year-old son. Wade was so high he didn’t even care that he was being fired.
So when Bucky Barnes had knocked on her door and said “I heard you were looking for a babysitter,” Sarah wanted to hug him. But she held back. She put him through a rigorous one-hour interview, poking and prying to find any sort of weaknesses he might have. But the longer she talked to him, the happier she was.
Bucky also came from a military family. His father had fought in the same squadron as Steve’s, and had died in the same month. Steve’s father had died of mustard gas; Bucky’s had died of rifle wounds. Bucky’s mother was also a single mother, and too busy raising Bucky’s three younger sisters to bother with remarrying. But Bucky’s sisters were twelve, eleven, and nine, so his mother didn’t really need him to babysit them anymore.
His appearance was a little jarring at first; he always wore at least one black article of clothing, had his hair cut a little long, pierced ears, a pierced lip, and even tattoos, despite his only being fourteen, and as though his eyelashes weren’t dark and thick enough, he wore black eyeliner every day to complete his look. But Sarah soon learned that how Bucky looked had very little to do with the way he acted.
Steve liked Bucky right away; Sarah was eternally grateful for that. She was confused, though, when Bucky said after the first night that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to babysit another night. He called Steve a ‘little punk’ and listed off the various things he’d had to stop Steve from doing- climbing on the counter, standing on the back of the couch, sitting upside-down on the couch for so long his face turned purple and he started to black out, putting little army men in the toilet- Bucky’s hair was mussed, his face pinched, clothes askew; Bucky looked downright haggard. But Sarah was so impressed by how clean her house was, and by the fact that Steve was asleep!, that she paid Bucky a bonus and practically begged him to come back again.
And so it began.
Bucky started babysitting Steve in the fall. There were lots of shenanigans with leaves and rakes and the neighbor’s dog. Steve seemed to have three times the amount of energy and spirit his body ought to be able to contain. He spent a lot of time hanging out with a kid named Johnny at school, so Bucky was constantly hearing all about what Remy let Johnny do.
“Steve,” Bucky said one day when he wouldn’t let Steve swing too high on the tire swing, “Johnny has Remy wrapped around his little finger.”
Steve had frowned and contemplated this for a moment.
Bucky could tell from the intense look of concentration on Steve’s face that he was trying to figure out how this was possible in a very literal sense. This was so terribly funny that he agreed to give Steve one last push on the tire swing.
Steve was always a handful. He was constantly testing Bucky’s boundaries, getting into things he wasn’t supposed to, and asking Bucky a seemingly endless string of questions. “Why is the sky blue?” “Why do birds chirp?” “Does the sidewalk ever end?” “How come you wear make-up?”
Bucky had started wearing black nail polish recently. He wasn’t sure whether or not he liked it.
One night, he got fed up with Steve asking him about his fingernails and brought over his jar of nail polish. “You want me to paint your nails, punk?”
Steve had gaped at him in awe. Then furrowed his eyebrows, confused. “Why?”
Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “’Cause you’re always goin’ on about ‘em. I thought maybe you were interested.”
To Bucky’s surprise, Steve enthusiastically said yes.
Bucky carefully painted Steve’s nails. Steve sat very still and watched Bucky with avid interest as he slowly painted Steve’s fingernails black, one stripe of paint at a time.
Once he was done, he warned Steve not to touch anything with his fingernails for a few minutes. “Actually, it’s probably better if you don’t touch anything.”
Steve had nodded very seriously and made it a point not to touch anything with his fingernails for the rest of the evening. Bucky thought he was adorable.
He should have known it would backfire, though.
The next time Bucky was over, Steve was nursing a black eye and had a bruise on the side of his face. His lip was split. He was sitting on a stool sullenly.
“What happened?!” Bucky demanded, angry at whoever did this to him.
“Got beat up,” Steve admitted, staring angrily off into space.
“By who?” When Steve didn’t answer, Bucky folded his arms across his chest. His knuckles pressed against his biceps. “Steve,” Bucky warned. “What did you do?”
Steve glared at him sullenly. “They made fun of me for my nail polish.”
Bucky’s gut sank. “What?”
“They were callin’ me gay. So I punched ‘em in the face.”
Bucky barked a bitter laugh. Part of him was proud of the kid; the rest of him felt like it was all his fault. “Well it’s not.”
“Are you gay?” Steve asked, more out of curiosity than anything.
Bucky blushed a little and cleared his throat, taken by surprise. “Uh.. no. I’m bi.”
Steve nodded as though he’d known all along. “What does that mean?”
Bucky snorted. “It means sometimes I fall in love with guys, and sometimes I fall in love with girls.”
“Do they take turns?”
Bucky thought about this. “Sometimes,” he allotted. “Sometimes not. Sometimes I like a guy and then a girl. Sometimes I like a guy and then another guy.” He shrugged. “I just like who I like.”
Steve considered this. “Do you like someone right now?”
Bucky laughed. “Well, kind of. I’ll have to introduce her to you sometime.”
Steve nodded seriously. “Yeah.”
The first time Bucky brought Natasha over was the day before Halloween. He couldn’t bring her over on the day itself, because that was Natasha’s favorite holiday and she had plans.
Steve was wary of Natasha at first. She had reddish-purple hair, a diamond through her nose, and wore lots of skintight black clothes and fishnets and buckles. Her eye makeup was a true work of art, and she seemed to wear a perpetual sulky expression except when Bucky made her laugh.
She seemed wary of Steve at first, as well. The two spent a lot of time examining each other and checking Bucky’s reactions whenever the other did something.
But by the end of the visit, Natasha was smiling at Steve and patting him on the head.
She became a regular visitor after that, accompanying Bucky maybe once a week to help babysit Steve Rogers.
Sarah knew about Natasha, and apologized that she didn’t have enough money to pay Natasha for her services.
Natasha pretended to consider this for a moment before saying simply the word, “Cookies.”
Sarah smiled. And a new tradition was born: every time Natasha came over, there would be fresh cookies.
Christmas was coming, and although Steve had a couple weeks off of school, Sarah had virtually no time off of work. Bucky showed up on the first day of Christmas vacation with a suitcase and settled in for the long haul.
Sarah apologized profusely and insisted that Bucky could spend the holiday with his family.
Bucky shrugged and said, “I get paid for it, right?”
Sarah had made a sour face and Bucky had rolled his eyes, smiled, and told her he was just kidding, but Sarah felt guilty anyway.
Natasha accompanied Bucky for most of Christmas break. She, Steve, and Bucky spent a lot of days making blanket and pillow forts and enjoying Mrs. Rogers’s Christmas cookies, watching Christmas specials on television and having tickle wars. They built snow forts outside and had snowball fights; Bucky paired up with Steve so it would be a fair fight against Natasha. She usually won anyway.
They built snowmen, made snow angels, even baked a batch of Christmas cookies together for Mrs. Rogers one day. Sarah cried when she got home and found the cookies, along with their note in Natasha’s handwriting that simply read ‘Merry Christmas.’
Sarah did wind up being called in on Christmas. Bucky was with his family, though, and she felt so bad about how often he’d been over lately. Really, that boy was such a blessing. So instead of calling up Bucky, she called a friend.
“Bruce?”
“Yes?” crackled the soft baritone voice on the other end of the line.
Sarah smiled to herself. “Bruce, I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas…”
“You’re never a bother at all, Sarah,” Bruce replied with absolute honesty. “What is it you need?”
“Bruce… I’m really sorry, but I’ve been called in to work, and Steve needs a babysitter. –He has one, but Bucky has been here every day since vacation began— he brought a suitcase, for crying out loud! The boy deserves a break. Do you think you could watch Steve for the day?”
There was a pause. “Of course,” Bruce answered.
Sarah was on her way out the door when Bruce arrived. His glasses fogged up when he stepped in the entryway, his dark brown wavy hair was badly in need of getting cut, and he was wearing a red-and-green knit Christmas sweater with deer and pine trees on it. He smiled tentatively at Sarah, who gave him rushed instructions on meals and bedtime before rushing out the door.
Bruce deflated a little once Sarah was gone and turned to Steve with a gentle smile. “So. What shall we do today?”
Sarah came home to a very haggard-looking Bruce fast asleep on her couch, glasses askew. Steve was passed out under the Christmas tree with cookie crumbs on the side of his mouth, hugging a teddy bear he’d gotten from Bucky. Sarah admired how pretty Steve’s sleeping face was under the multicolored lights of the Christmas tree, then took in how sweet Bruce looked in the soft, predominantly pink lighting. His chin was lightly stubbled, his mouth half-open, his long fingers splayed across his chest. There were cookie crumbs in his hair. And very quietly, in the background, A Christmas Story was playing on the television.
Sarah bent down and smoothed a curl away from Bruce’s forehead. She was leaning down further to kiss his forehead when Bruce stirred; she paused mid-way. Bruce slowly opened his eyes and turned towards Sarah’s hand. He blinked a few times, still waking up. “…Sarah?”
She smiled gently, glad the pink lighting masked her light blush. “Bruce. You can go home now, thank you for all your help.”
Bruce sat up and straightened his glasses. “I don’t have to…. I could stay a little longer,” he offered, giving Sarah a meaningful look.
Sarah backed away a step, drawing into herself. “I—I’m sorry, Bruce. Maybe another time.”
Bruce looked disappointed, but nodded and gave her a little smile, only slightly hurt. “Maybe next time,” he agreed. He got to his feet and approached her, practically tiptoeing in his stocking feet so as not to disturb Steve. He reached a hand up to cup her face. Sarah didn’t back away; Bruce laid his hand a little more warmly against her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Sarah.”
Sarah smiled regretfully at the ground, blushing. “Thank you.”
Bruce leaned down slowly and placed a soft kiss against Sarah’s forehead. He gave her one last shy smile, dropped his hand, and headed for the door. He had put on his shoes and coat and had his door on the doorknob when Sarah’s voice filled the empty room. “Bruce?”
He slowly turned, hand still on the doorknob, hope in his eyes.
Sarah scanned his face for a moment. “…Thank you, Bruce.”
He smiled and opened the door. “Merry Christmas,” he replied.
“Merry Christmas,” she agreed.
It was a cold, icy day in January. Steve was bored. Bucky was running out of ideas.
“We could make snow angels.”
“But we made snow angels yesterday.”
“We could have a snowball fight.”
“Nah.”
“Do you wanna build a snowman?”
“We built one yesterday!”
Bucky sighed and tapped his cleft chin, eyebrows puckered in concentration. He stared off into space for a long moment while Steve hung off of his leg, arms wrapped around Bucky’s calf, leaning backwards.
“We could go sledding,” Bucky finally offered.
Steve’s eyes lit up.
Fast forward to Steve and Bucky all bundled up- Steve moreso than Bucky- sitting on a sled at the top of the sledding hill. There were a lot of kids there that day.
There was a guy in a pink knit cap with a tan winter coat sledding on a board with flames on it, hugging a kid about Steve’s size, who was wearing a black and red coat and a black knit cap with flames on it. Steve ran excitedly towards the pair. “Johnny!”
Bucky trailed after. Steve took a running jump at the kid in the black and red jacket. The kid fell to the ground with a surprised “Oof!” and started laughing. The kids proceeded to have a tickle fight.
“Remy,” Bucky greeted levelly.
“Bucky,” Remy replied likewise. “Wearing blue today. Ah see yah ahre expandin’ your wardrobe choices.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” Bucky’s coat was blue and black, and his scarf was blue-and-black plaid. “Nice hat.”
“Thanks. Johnny’s mothah made it fah me.”
“Pink?”
“Mah fav’rite color.”
“Mm.” Bucky watched with concern as Steve and Johnny wrestled in the snow, both grinning and calling each other things like ‘stinkbrain’ and ‘boogerface.’
Remy watched fondly, eyes glowing with pride.
Johnny secured Steve in a headlock and gave him a noogie, causing Steve’s hat to fall off so Johnny could properly muss up his hair.
That’s where Bucky drew the line. “All right, that’s enough, boys.” He pulled the two apart and fixed Steve’s hair, then pulled his hat back on. He heard Johnny mutter ‘spoilsport’ but chose to ignore him. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Remy congratulating Johnny for something. Really, those two were as thick as thieves.
Bucky set up Steve’s sled— which had an American flag pattern; neither Steve nor Sarah ever really seemed to have gotten over Steve’s father’s death, so Steve had a lot of military-themed clothes and toys— at the top of the hill and wrapped his arms securely around Steve. “Ready?”
“Ready!” Steve’s adorably tiny voice affirmed. Bucky knew Steve was wearing his Serious Face.
“Don’t be scared, okay?”
“I’m not scared.” Steve was obviously scared; his muscles were stiff.
“I’ll take it nice and slow for you. Ready… and… Go!” Bucky shoved off, starting them down the hill. Steve clung to Bucky’s arms all the way down. Wind rushed past them, cold air blasting their faces, and Bucky had to steer the sled so they avoided little obstacles here and there.
He checked Steve’s face after they slowed to a stop, sled crunching on fresh untreaded snow. Steve was still clinging to Bucky’s arms, but his eyes were bright.
Steve grinned up at Bucky. “Let’s do that again!”
Bucky laughed and patted Steve’s head fondly. “All right. Back to the top.” He and Steve trekked to the top of the sledding hill and went down time after time, going a little faster each time.
Steve was having the time of his life.
Bucky was feeling bold. He pushed them off extra-fast and sent them hurtling towards a ramp. The sled swooped down the curve of the ramp, then up the other side; they were airborne for a few seconds. Both Bucky and Steve were screaming with joy. But when they landed, the sled bumped and skidded roughly, sending Steve off to the side. Bucky lurched sideways and landed wrong on his arm. His ears were ringing and his cheek stung from striking the snowy ground.
“Steve?” he called. Steve was no longer in his arms.
Steve didn’t respond.
Bucky pushed himself up and let out a cry of pain. He must’ve sprained something; his left arm hurt like a bitch. Wincing, Bucky got to his feet and located Steve.
Steve was treading slowly across the icy pond towards his glasses, which must have flown off when they landed.
Bucky heard a sickening rumble. As he got closer, he saw that deep cracks were spiderwebbing out from where Steve stood.
“Steve!” he shouted. “Don’t go any further! Hang on!”
“I’ve gotta get my glasses!” Steve insisted.
“No! Don’t! Steve!!” Bucky scrambled to the edge of the frozen pond, debating what to do, mind racing.
“I’m almost there!” Steve insisted. He took another step—and promptly disappeared from view with a surprised shout.
“Dammit Steve!” Bucky shucked off his coat and his boots and ran across the shattering ice. More holes appeared where his feet sank through.
Bucky dove down the hole through which Steve had disappeared. His lungs immediately seized up; he knew his body was in shock but he had no time to worry about that. He just kept fishing around until he found Steve’s listless body drifting near the bottom.
Wrapping his good arm around Steve, Bucky made sure he was secure before kicking powerfully towards the surface. He had to swim most of the way to shore, teeth chattering all the way.
Remy had seen him go under; him and Johnny were waiting on the edge of the pond when Bucky emerged with Steve. “Should Ah call someone?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky snapped. “Steve!!” He laid Steve out on the snow and started giving him CPR. Every thump on Steve’s chest shot screaming jolts of pain through Bucky’s left arm.
Steve wasn’t breathing.
“Dammit! Come on!! Steve!!” Bucky breathed into his mouth again.
Steve’s eyes shot open and he coughed.
Tears sprang to Bucky’s eyes. He helped Steve sit up so he could properly cough up the water in his lungs.
Bucky held the still-coughing Steve and cried.
Remy carefully wrapped Bucky’s still-dry jacket around Bucky’s shoulders. “Ah’m gonna call 9-1-1.”
Bucky was so relieved that Steve was alive that he didn’t care what Remy was saying. He just kept sobbing against Steve and trying to ignore the shooting pain in his left arm.
*
Steve didn’t see Bucky for two weeks after that. He kept asking Sarah about it, since Sarah worked at the hospital, but all Sarah knew was the doctors told Bucky he had a broken arm.
Steve had contracted pneumonia from the incident and was coughing viciously by the time Bucky finally returned, his left arm in a silver cast. “Hey,” he greeted apologetically at the door.
“Bucky,” Sarah greeted, relieved. “Steve has been asking about you. Are you all right?”
Bucky held up his cast. “Just a broken arm, ma’am. They had to re-set some bones and change the cast a couple times, but I should be good in about eight more weeks. How’s Steve?”
Sarah led him to Steve’s room, where Steve was propped up on several pillows, skin pale, eyes closed, coughing periodically in his sleep. “He has pneumonia.”
“Fuck! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rogers. I am so fucking sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sarah contended, voice strained. “This is the third time he’s caught it.”
“Third?!” Bucky’s brows crashed together over his nose.
Sarah offered him a weak smile. “Steve’s never been that healthy. When he was younger, I used to wonder every winter, ‘is this his last winter?’ But he’s always fought through. Steve’s a fighter, Bucky,” she concluded, staring sadly at her son.
“I’m sorry.”
Sarah regarded him with a weary expression, as though keeping Steve alive all these years was a constant uphill battle. “Don’t be,” she replied softly. “Just… watch over him, please?”
“Of course.” Bucky sat in the chair beside Steve’s bed and watched him sleep for a while.
Steve woke up one evening to find Bucky fast asleep, face-down on his Geography homework, which was spread all over the lower half of Steve’s bed. Bucky had been there every day for him through his pneumonia scare, and Steve wanted to pay him back somehow.
He crept out of bed, careful not to wake Bucky, and headed to the kitchen. Bucky must be hungry, Steve thought. There must be something delicious in the kitchen that Bucky would like to eat.
Steve dug through the cupboards, deciding against things like canned soup, macaroni and cheese, and instant tacos. Spaghetti though—Steve remembered Bucky saying something about how much he loved spaghetti. Steve read the instructions on the box. He needed an eight-quart pot. That’s the one his mom always used for spaghetti noodles. But the eight-quart pot was on the top shelf.
Steve pulled up a chair, but that wasn’t quite tall enough. He looked around for something to stack on top of the chair.
Stacking another chair on top of the first one didn’t work; the second one just threatened to fall. Steve put it back before it could fall and wake Bucky.
Cushions didn’t really work, they were too soft. And none of the boxes were sturdy enough to stand on.
Steve thought about stacking cans, but there were only five cans in the cupboard anyway, and they were all short.
Finally, Steve decided to just climb the rest of the way.
The shelf he was standing on sagged worryingly underneath him, and Steve heard a crack as it gave way under him. But he had the pot in hand, so he just jumped back on the chair, secured his balance on the cupboard door, and safely made it to the floor. The only casualty was a bag of dried beans, which fell from the collapsing shelf and broke open, spilling all over the floor.
Steve told himself he’d pick them up later.
He filled the pot up in the sink— which took forever— and dragged it across the counter to the stove because it was too heavy to lift. Steve set the pot heavily on the front right burner and set the flame on high.
Next, he had to find the makings for spaghetti sauce. His mom always used tomatoes, garlic, basil, and oregano. He searched the kitchen for tomatoes. There were a few sitting on the windowsill. Steve placed the tomatoes on the counter.
Cutting board. He needed a cutting board.
Steve jumped a little when a large bead of water traced its way down the pot and hissed once in contact with the fire. He turned the flame down a little.
He located a cutting board and set it on the counter. Next he had to select a knife. His mom had a lot of knives. Butcher knives, paring knives, bread knives, steak knives. He needed one to cut tomatoes. He remembered what the one his mom usually uses looks like- it has a black handle and a serrated edge. Steve selected one of the smaller bread knives and set it next to the cutting board.
Steve couldn’t remember whether his mom always washes the tomatoes first. He figured it can’t hurt. He dumps all the tomatoes in the sink and runs warm water over them. Mom was always stressing the importance of soap and warm water when washing things, so Steve washed the tomatoes using dish soap and a scrub brush. The scrub brush turned out to be slightly too abrasive and tore a few holes in the skin of the tomatoes. Steve felt a little bad about this, but figured that just meant they’d be extra-clean. He drained the sink and rinsed the tomatoes off in hot water until all the soap bubbles were gone.
Then Steve set the wet tomatoes on the cutting board. His mom never dried off tomatoes before cutting them, so Steve wasn’t going to either.
He realized he had nothing to put the tomatoes in once they were cut, so Steve set off in search of a large frying pan. His mom always used that one for tomato sauce. It was located on the top shelf, right next to where the large pot had been. Steve had to climb again, and broke another shelf, this time unleashing a bag of garbanzo beans, a bag of split peas, and a bag of lentils upon the kitchen floor. And, less intrusively, a box of raisins.
Steve pushed aside a path with his foot so he wouldn’t trip on his way to the counter and set the pan next to the cutting board.
Next, Steve set about slicing the tomatoes. The tomatoes kept slipping across the cutting board, and Steve didn’t know how his mom made it look so easy. The knife was not cooperating. Steve tried to hold the tomatoes in place, frustrated because they kept sliding on the combination of water and tomato juice. All four tomatoes ended up crushed and mangled, and Steve nicked his thumb so many times he lost count. His pointer finger also sported several large cuts.
Steve stopped to wash his hands and get a band-aid. Once he saw how many cuts he had, though, he spent about five minutes in the bathroom putting on band-aid after band-aid until his pointer finger and his thumb were both covered in them.
The pan was full of mangled tomato chunks; Steve set the pan on the stove. He could’ve sworn tomato sauce was wetter than this. He wondered how his mom made it so liquidy. Steve turned that burner on high too.
The water in the large pot was still not boiling yet.
Steve started searching for the spices his mother always used. He found most of them on top of the fridge. The chair, once again, proved to be too short.
Steve did not want to climb on the counter, because the fridge was very close to the stove, and Steve didn’t want to lose his balance and fall into the pot of eventually-boiling water.
So Steve opened the fridge door, propped open the fridge door with the chair, climbed up on the chair, and stood on top of the fridge door. The fridge started tipping forward as soon as Steve put his weight on the door. Scared, Steve stepped back down again. The fridge wobbled back into place. Steve thought for a minute, then climbed back on the fridge door, putting his feet closer to the fridge this time. The fridge started tipping again, but not as extreme as last time. Steve took this as a good sign and put the rest of his weight on top of the fridge door.
Holding onto the freezer door for support, Steve reached for the spices. He brought them down and put them on the counter one at a time. The fridge wobbled back and forth under his weight every time he climbed on it, and the freezer door kept opening at inopportune moments. But ultimately, Steve succeeded. The only things he knocked over were a bottle of mustard and a nearly-full bottle of ketchup; the mustard bottle shattered on the floor, leaving glass shards and mustard splatters everywhere. The ketchup bottle was fine until Steve slipped on it, causing it to squirt everywhere. But Steve caught himself on the chair, so he didn’t fall.
Steve told himself he’d clean it up later.
The tomatoes were starting to sizzle.
They didn’t look quite right, though. The pan was starting to smoke a little, and come to think of it, Steve thinks he might remember something about his mom removing the tops.
Oh well.
Steve dumped some of each spice in the pan and gave it a stir. Parts of the tomatoes had incinerated to the bottom of the pan.
Steve turned down the heat a little.
Finally, the big pot was starting to boil! Steve poured in the pasta and set a timer.
The tomato sauce was starting to burn, but it didn’t look done. Steve could smell the burning tomatoes. He knew there was something else he was missing. He thought, maybe it would help if he tossed it in the blender.
The blender was on top of the fridge.
Steve climbed on top of the fridge door again, retrieved the blender, and promptly dropped it on the floor. He winced, sure Bucky had heard the noise and his surprise would be ruined. So he hurried down from the fridge, ignoring the bottle of maple syrup that toppled to the floor and rolled to a stop in the middle of the kitchen floor, slowly spilling its contents in an ever-growing puddle, and plugged in the blender.
He had never seen his mother use the blender before, only heard her use it, so he didn’t know about the top of the blender, which was still sitting on top of the fridge.
He dumped the hot tomato mixture into the blender, spilling some on the counter and struggling under the weight of the pan. He set the empty pan down on the still-hot burner and turned on the blender.
Half-incinerated tomato chunks were immediately flung all over the kitchen.
This is when Bucky walked in. “Steve! What are you—?!” Bucky took in the floor, the still-running blender, the pot which was boiling over, the fact that Steve’s finger and thumb were literally covered in band-aids and there was a suspicious-looking cutting board sitting on the counter, and carefully, but angrily, approached Steve. “What are you doing!” Bucky barked, shutting off the blender. Steve had a hot chunk of tomato on his face and was crying.
Bucky plucked the hot chunk off of Steve’s forehead, wincing at how hot it was and dropping it onto the already-filthy floor. The chunk left an angry red mark behind. “Steve…” Bucky repeated more softly, since Steve was now crying in earnest, “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to make you spaghetti!” Steve sobbed into Bucky’s black shirt.
“What?”
Steve repeated himself more forcefully, sobbing harder. “I wanted to make you spaghetti!”
Bucky held Steve while he cried, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Steve…” Bucky was gonna start crying too. The kitchen was a complete mess, and Steve was a complete mess, and— “You did this for me?”
Steve nodded, sniffling. “It’s my fault your arm is broken! An’ you saved me from the ice, an’ you’ve been here the whole time I had pneumonia, an’ I just wanted to make you spaghetti, but I ruined it!”
“Steve…” Bucky was crying now too. He held Steve tighter with his good arm and let his tears fall down the back of Steve’s neck. “You could’ve asked me for help.”
“No! I wanted to do it for you!”
Bucky understood. He rubbed Steve’s back. “I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna dump out that pot for you, since it’s too heavy for you to lift and I don’t want you to hurt yourself. We’ll drain the noodles, and we’ll use your spaghetti sauce, and some parmesan from the fridge, and we’ll eat your spaghetti. Okay? You didn’t ruin it.” Bucky rubbed Steve’s back more forcefully. “You did a great job. I’m just gonna help you finish it, okay?”
Steve nodded, sniffling. “Okay.”
Bucky smoothed Steve’s hair back, gave him a reassuring smile, set a colander in the sink, shut off the burner, and dumped the pot of noodles into the colander. “See? Look,” he said, dumping the colander back into the pot. “You made a beautiful pot of spaghetti.”
“It’s not spaghetti without the sauce,” Steve lamented.
“You’re right.” Bucky took out two plates and a serving spoon and piled some spaghetti on each plate. “It’s not.” He scooped some of the half-burnt pulverized tomato chunks out of the blender and plopped some on top of each mound of noodles. Then sprinkled some parmesan from the fridge over each mound of pasta. “Now it’s spaghetti.”
Steve sniffled and looked at Bucky like Bucky was some sort of superhero.
Bucky gave Steve a kind shit-eating smile and prepared himself for what he was pretty sure was going to be some awful tomato sauce.
By the time Sarah came home that night, Bucky had cleaned up the entire kitchen- with Steve’s very apologetic help- and they had both agreed that the pasta was fine, but the remainder of the ‘sauce’ should be pitched.
Steve was feeling much better after Bucky let him win at his favorite video game; Bucky always forgets the name of it, something to do with fighting tanks. Steve’s tank meandered through the maze and shot Bucky’s over and over again until Steve fell asleep peacefully with his head on Bucky’s shoulder.
Which is when Sarah came in.
Bucky was zoned out watching something about orangutans on the nature channel and only a few minutes from falling asleep himself.
“Was Steve a good boy?”
Standard question, standard answer. “Yup.”
“He didn’t get into any trouble did he? You look exhausted!”
Bucky was exhausted. “I just have a lot of homework.”
Sarah noticed the band-aids on Steve’s hand. She frowned. “Is Steve okay?! What happened?!”
Bucky had nearly forgotten about the band-aids. “Just a little accident. He broke your mustard jar,” Bucky explained apologetically.
Sarah waved it off, unconcerned. “We can buy more mustard. Is he okay?”
“Yeah,” Bucky affirmed. “He’s fine. Just tired.”
Sarah sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I know you’ve been here a lot lately, but can you be here again tomorrow? I have a meeting I can’t miss. I’m so sorry..”
“No trouble at all, ma’am.” Bucky gave her a winning smile. Steve was a handful, but Bucky had found lately that he really cared about the kid.
As Valentine’s Day approached, Sarah was increasingly nervous. She kept dropping things, forgetting simple everyday tasks like putting jelly on the other side of Steve’s sandwich instead of more peanut butter, or telling him to brush his teeth before school. Steve had mentioned this to Bucky, and it had him wondering what was giving Mrs. Rogers the jitters.
It all made sense when Bucky was babysitting Steve on February 14th, and the doorbell rang. Bucky paused the video game they’d been playing and looked up, wondering if he should answer it.
Then, in a flurry of light blue and the gentle scent of violets, Sarah Rogers answered the door. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a beautiful light blue dress that came down to her calves. Her entire body seemed to be thrumming with nervous energy as she opened the door.
On the other side of the door stood Bucky’s biology teacher, wearing a white suit and offering Sarah a bouquet of blue orchids.
Sarah gasped and blushed, accepting the bouquet. “Oh! Thank you, Bruce! These are lovely!”
He offered her a tentative, warm smile. “They remind me of your eyes.”
Sarah’s entire face was pink. “Come—come in for a minute,” she offered, stepping aside and nearly tripping over her powder-blue heels.
Bruce stepped in, but advanced no farther than the front carpet. He closed the door behind him to keep out the cold; it was above freezing, but it was also dark and there was a gentle, damp breeze. He smiled politely at Steve and Bucky, who were sitting on the couch, as Sarah scurried to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase. All three of them listened to Sarah’s heels clicking across the house as she rushed to the front hall closet, pulled out her white winter coat, and zipped it up. “Okay!” she affirmed, breathless, “I’m ready.”
“Have fun!” Bucky called over his shoulder as Mr. Banner and Mrs. Rogers stepped out the door, closing it behind them.
“Well whaddoyou know about that,” he remarked to himself, unpausing the video game.
Sarah came home late that night to find Steve and Bucky asleep on the couch again, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between them.
Coming home late became an accidental habit of hers. Not that Bucky minded—Steve had really grown on him. He didn’t mind spending time with the kid. Sarah always apologized profusely for coming home so late, and started berating herself for being a bad mother, but Bucky always put a stop to that and pointed out how well Steve was turning out.
And so things went on; Bucky babysat Steve, Steve got into trouble, Natasha would come by to help and either demand or produce some sort of baked good as recompense, and Sarah kept showing up late and flustered.
By April, she acknowledged that she and Bruce were dating.
Years went by, as years tend to do. Steve had grown too old for a babysitter. Sarah wished both Bucky and Natasha the best; she asked what colleges they were going to so that she could send them care packages. Warm, friendly hugs were exchanged between Sarah, Natasha, and Bucky.
Steve, however, did not hug Bucky good-bye. He had his arms folded during the entire good-bye meeting, and only begrudgingly accepted letting Bucky muss up his hair.
Later, Steve locked himself in his room and cried for four hours.
Bruce had become a frequent visitor to the Rogers residence. Whenever Steve asked for a babysitter, Sarah—well-meaningly, of course—assigned Bruce to this task. Bruce, meanwhile, was left wondering why Steve needed a babysitter in the first place, because he would spend the majority of his time quietly reading or studying in his room.
Steve liked Bruce—whenever he was around, cracking quiet jokes and offering his mother shoulder massages and herbal tea, his mother was a lot more calm and happy—it’s just that he couldn’t help the irrational part of him that blamed Bruce for taking away Bucky.
It was sophomore year of college and Steve decided he wanted a tattoo. Sam and Clint had wing tattoos on their backs- one of the things which had solidified their close friendship- and both had assured Steve that yeah, it’ll hurt, but it’s worth it. “You might even find your soulmate!” Sam joked. Clint winked at Sam. All three young men laughed.
“All right, all right, but where should I go?”
“I know a place,” suggested Peggy, Steve’s long-time friend. The two had dated in high school but ended up being just friends.
Which is how Steve ended up in Hydra, the best tattoo shop near S.H.I.E.L.D. University. Peggy came with him for moral support. She kept rubbing his hands and reassuring him it would be all right.
In swaggered Bucky Barnes, clad in pretty much the same outfit he’d been wearing last time Steve had seen him in, except now his jeans were a little nicer and very well-fitted, and his black shirt was a button-down dress-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Bucky’s eyes widened when he took in Steve Rogers. “You’ve really filled out,” was the first thing he said. His eyes couldn’t stop taking in Steve’s muscles.
Steve blushed. “Bucky!” was all he said.
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, still openly ogling Steve.
Peggy smirked and pushed Steve forward. “Go on, then,” she urged.
Steve clumsily got to his feet, cheeks pink, confused and suddenly very turned-on. He’d never noticed how handsome Bucky is before. Now he couldn’t stop looking. That cleft chin was utterly devastating. And that stubble. Damn.
Bucky, likewise, was having a hard time taking his eyes off of Steve as he led him back to the conference room. “I, uh. Heard you were going to S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Yeah.” College had never seemed less important than at that moment.
Bucky nodded. “Good school.” He closed the door behind them. “Dropped out, myself.”
Steve’s brows furrowed. “That’s too bad.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Bucky sat down with his usual cat-like ease. “I work here now. I’m happy.” He leaned forward. “What about you though? You studying something you love?”
“Minoring in it,” Steve admitted.
Bucky leaned closer. “Yeah? Well I think you should major in it. What’re you studying?”
“History. With a minor in art.” Steve blushed self-consciously.
Bucky combed over Steve’s impressive new figure with his eyes for a long moment before repeating, “Well, I think you should major in it. -How’s your mom?”
“She’s good.”
“She end up marrying that nerdy guy?”
“Yeah. Did you end up marrying Nat?”
Bucky laughed. “Natasha? Nah. She dumped my ass a long time ago.”
Steve perked up. “Oh? How long?”
Bucky shrugged, shuffling some papers. “High school. She deserved better.”
Steve scoffed. “Better than you?”
Bucky glanced up at him curiously. “I’m not that great.”
Steve’s eyebrows raised and his eyes widened. “What! Not that great?! You were the best babysitter I ever had!”
Bucky smirked. “What about ‘Remy this’ and ‘Remy that’?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Johnny grew up spoiled. He was insufferable to be around.”
“Hear he went to Harvard.”
“Yeah. And dropped out.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You got something against drop-outs?”
Steve held up his hands, blushing. “No, no, it’s not like that, I just—!”
Bucky laughed and set the sheaf of papers down. “Don’t worry about it, I’m just teasin’ you. Yeah, Johnny dropped out, and now he races racecars for a living. Not that he really needs a living, since his parents are rich. Did you hear about Remy?”
Steve shook his head ‘no.’
Bucky grinned. “Got busted for gambling, spent some time in jail. When he got out, he ran into Johnny- by chance- and Johnny was like ‘Aren’t you my old babysitter?’ –Well, they got to talking, and it turns out Johnny had a crush on Remy since as long as he can remember, and I’m not gonna say I got a wedding invitation in the mail yesterday, but they did move in together.”
Steve laughed. “And then there’s us.”
Bucky met Steve’s eyes. Something was smoldering deep within his own blue-gray eyes. “What about us?”
Steve shifted uncomfortably under Bucky’s penetrating stare. “Well… here we are, meeting up after all these years.” He cleared his throat and blushed.
Bucky looked Steve over again, slowly, feeling the heat rise in the room. “So we are.”