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“Buck?”
“Ah, fuck, I thought you’d be–isn’t there something else you need to go do? Some–pressing shit to attend to? Go attend to the pressing shit.”
“Huh?”
“Just–go away for a little bit, I’m–”
“What are you doing? It smells good in here, are you–?”
“Fuck, man.”
Steve stopped in the entryway of their kitchen and just stared.
“You aren’t supposed to be here right now, you damn fitness junkie. Aren’t you supposed to be like–taking a five mile jog or some shit?”
“Already did it.”
“In twenty-five fucking minutes? God, I hate you. We’re getting divorced. And I–ah–”
Bucky fidgeted with the spatula he was holding, his face a blotchy red as he glanced down at the pan he’d been working on moments before.
“What are you doing?” Steve asked, smiling. Bucky stared resolutely at the floor which seemed like the safest and least humiliating option at the moment.
“God, you’re gonna make fun of me,” Bucky mumbled. “Just–you go out running at the ass crack of dawn every morning and I feel bad cuz you come back and eat microwaved egg whites and that appalling bread–”
“I like Ezekiel Bread–”
“--okay, now I just feel bad for you, and you get Abe up and get him dressed and shit while I just–lie in bed. Like a corpse.”
“I don’t mind,” Steve murmured, his eyes warm. “I’m a morning person.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
“As you love to say, what’s the difference?”
“Ha ha,” Bucky deadpanned. “And the apron is–purely practical.”
He fidgeted with the honest to God fucking apron that he was wearing. It was pink and it said Captain Kitchen on it. A line of appliances that Steve had endorsed (and damn if they didn’t have a hell of a coffeemaker, but still, the damn pink apron was a bridge too far). Beneath it, he had on one of Steve’s button ups with nothing but his briefs on beneath, and a pair of socks that nearly went up to his knees.
“Either that or I’m trying to do some weird–school girl thing. So I hope you’re into that. Or whatever. The omelette’s not quite ready yet, it’s spinach, turkey sausage, and feta which I figured–sounded healthy. And shit. And it’s egg whites only so don’t worry, no unclean yolk shall touch your pristine lips.”
Steve wasn’t saying anything. He was just smiling, his gaze moving over Bucky slowly. Not lasciviously, but definitely appreciatively.
“What?” Bucky mumbled. “Look, I know I look like somebody dressed up GI Joe in Barbie’s wardrobe and–Steve, ah–”
Steve had crossed the room quickly, pushing a hand into Bucky’s hair and placing a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. Bucky would often fuss when Steve was sweaty as fuck and would get close to him, but the truth was that Bucky liked the smell of Steve’s sweat. Which sounded fucking weird, but, well. It was true. And it was a little cold in the kitchen, so the heat of Steve’s body was very–
Well, it was very–
Oh, fuck.
After several tender, breathless moments, Steve pulled back, dropping his forehead against Bucky’s. Bucky was trying to just fucking orient himself and suddenly he didn’t care that Steve was seeing that he secretly wore Steve’s shirts when he was out and Bucky didn’t care that he was wearing an apron and Bucky didn’t care about–
Well. Much of anything.
Fuck, they’d been together for two years and he still could feel like this.
“What was that for?” Bucky managed out, swallowing a lump of overwhelm that had been building in his throat.
Steve stole a soft kiss, but it was impossible to steal what was so eagerly given.
“Because… you’re you,” Steve murmured. “And this is so sweet. And you just… make me so happy.”
They were just words. The simplest ones. You make me happy. But after what felt like a lifetime of causing nothing but anguish and pain and there had been so much war and turmoil and loss but out of the ashes of that pain had grown something so tender, so beautiful, so honest.
And maybe a little part of Bucky had always worried that it wouldn’t last, but there was something deep in the marrow of bones that whispered to him that somehow, impossibly, it would. The roots had begun spreading before Bucky had even realized there was the possibility of a seed.
“You’re distracting me,” Bucky murmured. “You need to get lost so I can finish this.”
“I’ll go get Abe up,” Steve replied softly. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I love you.”
It was an impossible and beautiful thing, to have loved someone so long with such blind faith it was almost religious devotion.
And Bucky had so many dreams in his life, but the most enduring one had always been this.
Because love wasn’t passionate nights tangled in bed and heavy romantic confessions in the rain. Love wasn’t a lavish wedding ceremony where everyone weeps at the beauty of your devotion. And love isn’t even a home with warmth and a baby.
Love is sock-footed mornings. Love is a boy with a vibranium arm in an apron. Love is dirty spatulas and tentative omelets.
And love is knowing. Always knowing. Even when doubt whispers.
“Go get up Abe,” Bucky murmured, leaning up to kiss Steve again. “But damn, Rogers, I really, really love you.”
And as Steve headed to Abe’s bedroom, Bucky smiled to himself.
“Captain Kitchen and the Father Soldier,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “What a damn pair.”
Yes. What a damn pair indeed.