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Bucky sat in his room, laying back on his bed. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to laze around like this—as a soldier, his body was restless, and as a victim of.. well, life, his brain was just as restless.
As he stared up at his ceiling, he thought. He thought of the past, the forties. He also thought about little asthmatic Steve and big strong Steve. He thought about Howard Stark and his mini-me. He thought about the Widow, and Sam, and Clint and the rest.
Mostly, he thought about himself. The Winter Soldier.
When he began to spiral, he pushed himself to sit up, and looked at the wall. And he kept thinking. He’s killed a lot of people with these hands. Then again, he’s saved a lot, too. He wonders if he’s ever gonna even out the scale.
Bucky stood up, and slid his sneakers on. Shoes were more comfortable, nowadays.
He made his way down the hallway, and to the kitchen. Oddly enough, it was empty. Usually there was at least one person.
He began to grab ingredients from the pantry and cabinets, setting them out on the counter. He measured out three cups of all-purpose flour, and dumped them into the big mixing bowl he had.
As a killer, he was a very apathetic person. As a human, he was overly-empathetic. It made for a very confusing life, at least when he was trying to understand himself. Or, the Soldier. Because somewhere in him, he knew that he and the Soldier were different people, so he feels pity for the Soldier. But the other part of him recognizes that he and the Soldier share the same body, and the same mind, and the same hurt. That part of him was apathetic.
Bucky measured out one and a half cups of brown sugar, frowning a bit at how fluffy the substance was. It was.. not optimal, for getting accurate measurements. He dumped it into the bowl anyways, and hoped for the best. You don’t have to be exact with your sugars, anyway.
There are many illegal things. Murder, duh. Tax evasion. Theft. Etcetera.
Bucky is, in fact, one of them. He is constantly carrying a weapon without a permit. His arm, is a weapon. Crime scene evidence, even.
After Bucky added a fourth a cup of granulated sugar, he began to mix with a fork. He watched the different dry ingredients mix to cause a light-tan color.
He killed Tony’s parents, too. That sucked. Especially since Tony essentially pardoned him, and was letting him live in his house.
Bucky was becoming a new man.
He was not the man he was in Brooklyn, seventy years ago. No, he wasn’t that kid anymore. He is also not the Winter Soldier. He might have, or might not have, been him in the past. But that didn’t matter, because he wasn’t now.
He didn’t have to let his past define him. It might be til the end of the line, but that line can be continued in another color. It can have waves or zigzags or even loops.
Bucky grabbed a small bowl, and a stick of butter. According to the labeling on the side, the stick was half a cup of butter, so he would need two for this recipe. He grabbed another stick from the fridge, and unwrapped both. He set them in the bowl, and slid the bowl into the microwave. If he microwaved them too long, they could melt, or even get burnt. All he needed to do was bring them down to just-under room temperature. Ten to fifteen seconds should work, but he watched the microwave anyway.
The point was, Bucky didn’t have to let anyone choose anything for him. He was.. brand new, basically.
He picked up two large eggs, and cracked them on the sink and let them fall into the same bowl as the butter. He was careful not to let any eggshell fall. He set the shells in the sink, and rinsed his hands. After drying them off on a towel, he began to mix the butter and eggs. It was important to mix the wet and dry ingredients separately to prevent clumping as much as possible.
Bucky decided he wants to be nice. He wants to save lives, and be nice, and pay his debts to those he owes.
Bucky poured a splash of milk into the butter-eggs bowl. It wasn’t necessary for the recipe, but it made for a softer cookie. In his opinion, at least.
He should probably stop arguing with some of the team, as much. He was only really ‘normal’ with Steve, Natalia, and Tony, and the only reason he was normal with Tony was because he would feel guilty otherwise.
A creak near the doorway caught Bucky’s attention, and he looked up quickly. It was just Wanda walking past, though. It seemed she hadn’t even noticed him, luckily.
He turned his attention back to the two bowls. Luckily, the tower had a hand mixer. He poured the wet ingredients into the bigger bowl, and picked up the mixer. He turned it on, and began to blend the two. He waited to add the chocolate chips, that way it would be easier to see where there were clumps to be fixed.
The nightmares wouldn’t be an easy fix. He wouldn’t be able to just.. forget, not that easy. He could control himself while he was conscious, but asleep was a whole different ballpark. A different realm, even.
Once the dough was fully mixed, he slowly pulled the mixer out of the bowl. He let the majority of the dough clinging to the mixer’s whisks fall back into the bowl, before setting it in the sink.
He picked up the bag of chocolate chips, and sighed. Fortunately, because there was a certain arrow-wielding Avenger in the tower, there was an entire bag. Unfortunately, he has not a clue of how many chocolate chips he wanted in here.
In the end, he did about three-fourths of the bag. He grabbed a spoon, and began to fold the chocolate chips into the batter. It wasn’t often he baked. Actually, it’s been about fifty years. There was one time, in about ‘65, one of the handlers was having a bad day, and told him to cheer them up. And Bucky made a little cake, just bigger than a cupcake. It was adorable, and that handler ended up being a little nicer to him. Granted, that wasn’t much, with the fact that Bucky only saw them once after that day, but still.
A knock on the door frame drew Bucky’s attention, and he looked up. It was Sam.
“Hey, big guy,” Sam greeted with a smirk, and Bucky grinned. “Didn’t know you baked.”
Bucky shrugged with a slightly sheepish smile, before asking.
“How’d you find out?”
“Wanda’s in the living room, she saw you.” Sam shrugged. “So, naturally, you owe everyone a cookie.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, grabbing three pans and parchment paper.
“Well, help me put these on pans.” He instructed. Sam began to follow the instruction, while Bucky turned to preheat the oven to 350º Fahrenheit. The two men worked quietly together, to put the cookies on the pans.
When all the dough was used, Bucky glanced at the oven, which was now preheated. Usually, he cooked one pan for ten minutes. But, since he had three, he thought he should do more.
“Fifteen minutes, maybe?” He asked Sam, but he just shrugged.
“I dunno. Don’t bake,” he said.
Bucky decided that fifteen minutes should work, while checking periodically after ten.
The time seemed to pass quickly, with Sam sharing how his sister, Sarah, was doing. Bucky had met her once, after a mission. He and Sam were down south, and wouldn’t make it home. They had needed a place to rest, and her place was there.
When the timer went off, Bucky frowned. He couldn’t get the cookies. He turned the oven off, opened it, and frowned staring at the three sheets of cookies.
“..What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
Bucky looked up.
“I.. Arm.” He explained, lifting his metal arm for Sam to see, as if that made everything crystal clear. “Metal. Conductor.”
Sam just blinked.
“You’ve literally walked through fire, and you’re telling me you can’t take some cookies out the oven?” Sam deadpanned, narrowing his eyes at him.
“I like to avoid fire where I can.” Bucky hummed.
“Yeah, I like to avoid gluten where I can. You don’t see me scared of a bread roll.” The man scoffed playfully.
“Gluten doesn’t burn your shoulder, does it?” Bucky asked innocently, tilting his head.
Sam didn’t respond for a moment, before asking.
“We don’t have those oven mitts?” He asked.
Bucky looked to the side, averting his gaze. He’d never had to use them. He didn’t know if they had them. Actually, he forgot they existed entirely.
Sam watched Bucky for a second, before breaking out in snickers.
“Let’s get you some oven mitts.”