Chapter Text
The people on the screen scurry around the brightly lit hall like a disorganized crowd of ants, flitting individually from the large industrial refrigerators, to over-large cake stands, and to stainless steel stand mixers. Surveyed from above, it’s a curious scene. As if cursed to this drudgery, sets of two humans are trapped in cells made from thin plywood and strung with various cooking implements, seemingly forced to make pastry after pastry, each a bit more convoluted than the next, while never getting to eat a single one of their creations.
After every human has deposited their work on a table tucked near the exits, strangers in black garb, some carrying microphones and one carrying a large camera, bring the pastries to a second table, this one ostentatiously decorated table at the front of the room. There sit two – sometimes three – humans, always sitting and chatting breezily, watching the working ones and waiting to be served like kings.
Like clockwork, each pastry gets tasted and each gets critiqued by the two – sometimes three – humans. Like clockwork, once the comments and critiques are passed, just like clockwork, one set of worker’s faces scrunch up in an ugly expression, sometimes one cries, and they exit the hall, never to be seen again.
Cooking shows are a unique, if not too on-the-nose, metaphor for the hierarchies of modern life, Bucky thinks.
Or at least, that’s what Bucky would think if Sam wouldn’t –
“Barnes!” Sam interrupts Bucky’s train of thought, snapping his fingers across Bucky’s listing face to grab his attention. “Are you trying to turn Crime Scene Kitchen into a critique of capitalism again? I know we left McCarthyism in the 50s and that you and Steve were registered socialists, but this is a cooking show, man.”
Sam huffs loudly and kicks his feet onto the couch’s footstool. With swift movements, he snatches the takeout container of Chinese food from the coffee table in front of them, shoving a large mouthful of noodles into his mouth and looking suspiciously at Bucky as he chews.
Bucky puts an arm on the backrest of the couch from where he’s seated beside Sam, angling his body into the crook of the armrest to look at him challengingly. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong though. Look, Sam!” He gestures at the television screen with a harsh hand. It shows a mother-son duo arguing over who made their final cake go wrong. “They’re turning families against each other while stealing the fruits of their labor. You can’t tell me that’s not allegorical.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “It’s not allegorical.”
Bucky just grunts with mild annoyance, turning his nose up at Sam and crossing his arms in a caricature-like display of petulance. He watches the television with rapt attention, pointedly ignoring his companion.
“You can take the man out of the Soviet Union,” Sam grins with mild victory, “but you can’t take the Soviet Union out of the man.”
Bucky turns up the volume as Sam speaks, pointedly drowning out his voice. They watch in silence for a few minutes before returning to making teasing, friendly-yet-antagonistic snipes at each other.
“Wilson.”
“Barnes.”
“That’s you,” Bucky says, jerking his chin at the television.
On screen is a contestant frantically trying to fix a malformed yellow chick made of rice crispy treats. If Bucky squints, he can just barely see the beginnings of tears in their eyes. As the clock ticks down, the contestant sighs and lets the chick crown a hideous layered cake that’s covered in sick-green fondant and leaning precipitously to the right.
“Uhuh.” Sam rolls his eyes, not even bothering to look at him. “Dude, Falcon. Not whatever sugar monstrosity that is.”
“Chicken,” Bucky reiterates tonelessly.
“Falcon.”
“ Chicken.”
“Falcon.”
“We could sneak in there, y’know?” Bucky remarks absently. “Look at those rafters. They’re huge. They could definitely support a man, easily.”
“They don’t even film in New York, dude. What, you’ll haul ass to Los Angeles to see some people make cake?” Sam asks sardonically.
“Your point? We live in Avengers Tower, let’s just jack Tony’s quinjet or something.” Bucky sounds serious, like he’s actually considering it.
“And you assume I’ll join you,” Sam deadpans.
Bucky looks at Sam in the eyes for the first time throughout the entire exchange and turns the full force of his sad, blue, white boy eyes on him. “You won’t?” he asks, lips turning down into a fat pout.
“ Jesus Christ man.” Sam turns his eyes to the ceiling and exhales loudly. “Fine. We’ll buy tickets for a flight. Don’t steal anything.”
Bucky’s lips turn into a sly, conniving grin, a far cry from the man who looked like he was about to tear up just thirty seconds ago. “Ha. Sucker.”
Sam glares at him with an unimpressed expression.
Three hours and another order of takeout later, their baking show has crowned a winner for a tiered cake that, in Sam’s correct opinion, looks dry and gross.
“Did you see that crumb when they were frosting it? I’d bet anything that it’s underbaked,” Sam remarks in a matter-of-fact manner. “I can do better than that.”
Bucky’s head swivels around to look at his face, gaze dropping to the empty container of Chinese food held in Sam’s hands, then back up to his face. “So you’re telling me that you,” he pauses to emphasize his point, “ you can bake better than John what's-his-name, winner of this acclaimed reality TV baking competition?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
A short silence descends between them. Bucky’s eyebrows scrunch together and he adopts what Sam recognizes to be a contemplative look. It’s a cross between his furious angry-at-the-world face and his tired what-the-fuck-did-Steve-do-now face.
Sam pulls his legs up on the couch to lie lengthwise across the cushions, nudging at his companion with his feet. “Spill it, what are you thinking about? I can see the gears in that old cyborg brain of yours turning.”
“I’m not your stool, Wilson. Feet off.” Bucky pushes Sam’s feet off of his lap and a challenging smirk forms on his face.
Sam, wanting to make trouble, puts his feet on Bucky’s lap again. “Yeah, yeah. But spill it. That creepy soldier grin spells trouble and you know it.”
Like a smartass, Bucky intentionally lets his gaze go blank and a little wide-eyed. “Well, Sammy,” he starts, pulling his grin tighter over his face in a condescending manner. “Even if you bake better than him, ” he says, gesturing at the television that has since faded into credits, “I can bake better than you. ”
Sam has to laugh. “No way, Barnes! Remember that cake you brought to my family in Louisiana? It was store bought and still smashed to hell and back.”
“I couldn’t very well bake in your sister’s house, Sam, it had to be store-bought. My ma raised me with enough manners to know that,” Bucky grouses. “I know how to bake!”
Sam thinks he looks like a child with a tantrum, sad that his favorite toy car was taken away, and raises his hands placatingly. “Okay Barnes, okay. I believe you.”
“ I know how to bake,” Bucky insists, despite knowing fully well that he, in fact, has no idea what a crumb coating is or why Sam thinks the winning cake is dry just from sight. He knows all this, but if he admits it, Sam will win – and Bucky can’t stand for that. His pride’s on the line here.
“So if you’re such a good baker, you have proof for it, right? References?” Sam smiles widely, watching Bucky’s hands fidget with the hem of his shirt. It’s a tell, Sam realized early on, ‘ I shaped the century’ my ass. Outside of missions, that boy can’t lie for shit.
“Steve is my reference.”
“Steve does not count. That idiot would eat a rock for you and be grateful for it.”
The grumpy expression Bucky makes is adorable. The corners of his mouth turn downwards and his lips make the smallest pout. His shoulders curve inward slightly and his posture noticeably deflates. A child with a tantrum, Sam thinks again, unable to help the association.
Sam’s eyes drift back to the screen, which prompts them with Netflix’s “are you still watching” screen. “Ah, I got it,” he says, “how we can prove your supposed baking prowess. And more importantly, how I can prove that I’m better.”
Bucky brightens considerably, his challenging face once again taking root. “Okay Wilson, tell me how I’ll be beating you.”
“A competition,” Sam declares.
“That’s it? A competition?”
“Yup,” Sam says, letting the ‘p’ pop. “Simple as that. We can get Natasha to judge. There’s nothing influencing her, ‘cause whatever we can do, she can probably figure out herself.”
Bucky hums in consideration, projecting an air of indifference when really, he’s freaking out. A competition? When he doesn’t know how to bake? He knows he has to agree – there’s no way to weasel out of this without Sam winning by default.
“Get ready for me to beat your ass, Wilson,” Bucky taunts, half to annoy Sam and half to conceal his inner turmoil. “When you lose, remember that you were the one who wanted this.”
Sam lifts himself off of the couch to stand proudly in front of Bucky, his feet apart and his spine straight. He sticks out his hand, looking entirely unbothered by Bucky’s attempt at trash-talking. “Shake on it.”
“What?”
“Shake on it.” Sam nods at his hand, still poised between them. “You officially agree to the Sam and Bucky Baking Competition 2022 yadda yadda, I solemnly swear that I won’t be a sore loser when I lose to Sam Wilson and his awesome chocolate cake.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow but he grabs Sam’s hand. If he uses his vibranium arm and a bit more pressure than necessary, no one has to know. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that reference, nerd.”
“Hey, I grew up with Harry Potter. It’s like cultural osmosis or something.” Sam jabs a finger at the middle of Bucky’s chest. “ You don’t have an excuse. Don’t think I didn’t see you reading them.”
Bucky stands too, facing Sam with his full height to keep them both at eye-level. “Game on, Sammy,” he says, voice gravelly and over-serious. “Game on.”
Sam just smiles at him. Bucky swears that the gap in Sam’s teeth exists for no other reason but to mock him.
Bucky leaves Sam’s apartment in long strides. The moment he’s out of sight, his head drops from its straight and proud position to look at his feet with a wry gaze. He thinks the famous last words – what the hell , how hard can baking be anyway?