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“Hey Uncle Sam,” A.J. said, sharp brown eyes tracking the approaching golden arches, nose pressed to the window of Sam’s rental car, “I think it’s lunchtime,”
Sam smirked. He knew how this worked. Sarah had a firm ‘home cooked food only’ policy, only broken for birthdays and good report cards. A.J. knew this. Unfortunately for him, Sam knew this too. There was no way Sam was gonna face the wrath of a disappointed Sarah over a lunch at Mcdonald's, even for cool uncle points.
“We’re almost home,” Sam reassured.
“I had a really early breakfast,” A.J. told him earnestly. “And sometimes I get nauseous when I’m in the car when I’m really hungry,”
“Have a muffin,” Bucky said. And out of thin air, a “muffin” appeared.
For Sam, “muffin” means a greasy cupcake dressed up like a healthy snack. Maybe you put blueberries in it, or banana, or make it with cornmeal and then smother it with butter and jam. The thing Bucky was offering was not such a muffin. The thing Bucky was offering was a healthy snack in the shape of a cupcake. It was dark brown and lumpy and smelled like soggy bran cereal.
He passed it back to A.J. who made a valiant effort at hiding his crushing disappointment. Sam couldn’t tell whether the damage Hydra had dealt to Bucky’s brain was more serious than he’d thought, or if in the three months between visits Bucky had developed a poker face, but he made no sign of acknowledging A.J.’s horror.
“Thanks,” A.J. said.
“No problem,”
Sam’s smile grew. A.J. politely picked at the muffin wrapper.
“It’s a chocolate muffin?”
“Uh, no.” Bucky replied, “but there’s some apple in there. And some fig. You like fig?”
“No chocolate?”
“No,”
“What, uh, what makes it brown like that?” A.J. asked.
“What d’you mean? It’s a muffin,”
“That’s, no offence, but that’s kinda sus, Uncle Bucky,”
“Sus?”
“Oh, it’s from a video game,” A.J. explained.
Bucky frowned.
“So, uh, what’s, what’s in it?”
“You know,” Bucky said vaguely, “there’s, there’s some flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, oil, molasses, oats, wheat germ, brandy-but that’s just for flavor. All the alcohol’s burnt off, I’m not trying to drug you A.J. What else? There’s some egg, and then just all the add-ins, I think. It’s a fridge scrapings muffin. You know, to clear all the fruit out of my fridge before I came to visit you guys. And then there’s some currents too. And raisins. Ginger. Really the Muffin Gods are deciding what goes in.”
Sam now read the thought bubble over A.J.’s head as ‘highly concerned,’. Bless him, A.J. gave Bucky a watery smile and took a fairly large bite. He chewed for a long time before forcing it down.
“You do a lot of baking, Buck?” Sam asked as A.J. struggled forth.
“Some,” Bucky replied.
“It’s nice to have food around. Snacks. And it’s nice to make it myself. Get to enjoy the novelty of being a functional, independent adult again. Yay!” Bucky said dryly.
“There’s, there’s something crunchy in here,” A.J. said.
Bucky thought for a minute.
“Might be the cucumber,” he reflected.
A.J. choked.
“I thought I’d throw it in. Don’t want it going to waste, you know,”
“A cucumber?”
“Well, people put zucchini in muffins. Cucumber’s kinda like zucchini. . .”
“Where did you find this recipe?” A.J. asked.
“I made it up.”
Sam was starting to feel kind of sorry for A.J. now.
“I remembered some of the recipe from before, then, you know, filled in the blanks. See, I made this fantastic discovery,”
“Ok,” Sam said.
“Impart upon us your elder wisdom,” A.J. added.
“I will. This will blow your minds. Here it is. You feel less crappy when you look after yourself. See, like when you’re hungry, you feel miserable, or when you’re tired, or thirsty, or dirty, or lonely, and when I look after that stuff I feel less awful, and weird brain stuff happens less. So I make muffins. I’m a genius. Someone nominate me for the Nobel medical prize,”
“That makes sense,” A.J. agreed weakly.
“You’re describing the ‘wheel of wellness’,” Sam told them in his counselor voice.
“Uh-oh, Bucky, you’ve woken the Beast,” A.J. said, “brace for lecture!”
“Godfathers! You’re right,” Bucky agreed cheekily. “Here he goes,”
“It’s just a visualization tool,” Sam defended, “it’s very helpful, I-”
“-When I was in Romania-”
“-back when you were kind of a sadistic psychopath?-” Sam said helpfully.
The vacuum of Bucky’s hurt sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Sam’s heart winced. There was a pause during which time the temperature inside the vehicle dropped about ten degrees. A.J. stopped chewing. The faint smile that all Bucky’s words since arrival had been marinating in dripped off his face.
“-I was not sadistic.” he said in that tired, toneless voice he got. That voice that makes him sound his age.
“I am not sadistic. I don’t like hurting people.”
Bucky caught his eyes in a cold, flat glare.
“I know that,”
And Sam did know that. The second the words had left his mouth he’d known it was a mistake. But by then, of course, it was too late. Maybe it would have been OK a year ago, back when they both spent all their time bristling over the shield. Maybe back then Sam could have gotten away with pretending it was funny and Bucky could have gotten away with pretending he didn’t have feelings. Water off a duck’s back. Not now. Sam had to say something.
“I’m sorry man,” Sam said.
“I was just joking, I-”
“-That wasn’t very funny,” A.J. muttered.
“I wasn’t thinking, Buck. I shouldn’t have said that. I-”
Bucky cleared his throat.
“I didn’t mean to-”
“Better keep your eyes on the road, Sam. You know how many people I’ve killed in car accidents?” Bucky bitterly shot at him.
He rolled his head away to look out the window.
“I didn’t mean it like-”
“-road needs your full attention, Uncle Sam,” A.J. chirped up.
Oh. Yeah, of course A.J. takes Bucky’s side. Not that there are sides here. Not like this is a fight, right?
“It’s fine, Sam. I get it. It’s OK.” Bucky said, still not looking at him.
Sam knew Bucky was lying.
Sam shut up for a while. But being Sam, he couldn’t help himself.
“Man, that wasn't cool of me.” Sam said, making himself meet Bucky's eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Bucky replied, frustration creeping into his words.
“What can I do?” Sam asked.
Bucky opened his mouth.
“And don’t say it’s OK,” Sam slotted in before Bucky could spit up another ‘It’s OK,' because it wasn’t OK. Because Bucky cared and because words hurt.
Bucky thought for a moment, then a ghost of a smile graced his face. The cold thing clawing at Sam’s lungs shrunk back at the sight.
“Well,” Bucky said, that smile stretching wide.
“You could try a muffin,”