Work Text:
Six months out of cryo (for the last time), and Steve wants to throw him a party.
“It’ll be the Fourth of July, Buck, we’ll have a summer picnic.”
“We’re in Wakanda, where no one cares about America and it feels like summer all the time,” Bucky points out.
Steve kisses his hairline. “Still wanna celebrate.”
~~~~~
So that’s how they end up here, underneath a big red tent on T’Challa’s grounds. Next to a hedge maze made out of thorny African plants. (“Fitting, even your plants have claws,” Sam says.)
“Drove the English crazy that they could never conquer us. Although we conquered their horticulture quite well,” T’Challa remarks mildly, nodding to the hedge.
Bucky, who has recently seen The Shining , finds it all a bit creepy and colonial, but that kind of goes along with the spirit of the holiday anyway (at least to those who stopped believing in “America” somewhere around 1945).
“Nice shirt,” Nat says, appearing out of seemingly nowhere, in black cutoff shorts and a black tank top, hair up in a messy bun. She thwaps Bucky on the belly, right on top of the big red star he’s sporting.
“Hands off, Nat, that’s official Captain America merchandise,” Sam chimes in, to Bucky’s chagrin.
“It was a gag gift, okay?” Bucky’s truly annoyed that he can’t cross his arms with only one arm.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Steve steps in, puts his arm around Bucky. “This is my merchandise right here.” He hugs Bucky to his side for a moment and plants a big kiss on his cheek.
“Get off, Rogers.” Bucky shoulders Steve off of him and stalks away towards the food tables.
“Someone’s a little cranky.”
“He’s hungry,” Steve explains. “He didn’t have breakfast.”
“Well, that’s a first.” Sam smirks, watching Bucky point to food items as one of T’Challa’s people piles a plate for him.
“You better go tend to your man,” Natasha notes sardonically. “Wouldn’t want him to starve over there.”
Sam barks a laugh, and Steve tries to look stern. “Very insightful, Nat, I can see why you were a top spy.” Steve cheerily gives Sam and Nat the finger as he walks away, though he knows it’s all in good fun-- he can’t count the number of times he’s found Nat slipping plates of brownies under Bucky’s door or Sam using Redwing to fly Bucky bags of chips.
~~~~~
Under the tent, Steve drops into the seat across from Bucky, who is steadily working his way through a huge mound of macaroni and cheese, several hot dogs and a hamburger waiting on the side of the plate.
“You’re liking the spread?” Steve asks, watching Bucky methodically move fork to mouth, fork to mouth.
Bucky nods, swallowing, then: “Sorry I snapped at you,” he says, mouth full. “I was just--”
“Hungry,” Steve finishes. “It’s okay, Buck.”
“This”-- Bucky hefts his gut with his hand-- “gets a little adamant about its feeding schedule.”
Steve smiles fondly at him, somewhat pleased with Bucky’s earlier grumpiness. At first, just-thawed Bucky had been sad and mostly silent, and never, ever annoyed or frustrated. The fact that he’s now feeling comfortable enough in this new, sun-warmed skin to let these types of emotions peek through is enough to make Steve want to whistle. Well, that and watching Bucky work at eating his weight in traditional American fare.
Steve stands then, ready to fill his own plate (and perhaps another for Bucky). “You need anything else while I’m up, pal?”
Bucky squeezes his eyes then, considering around a huge mouthful of hot dog. He chews for a moment, then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Some Coca-Cola’d be nice, and I didn’t get to that second table, so maybe some stuff from there.” He immediately shoves another huge bite of hot dog into his mouth and then burps, patting his belly.
“S’cuse me.”
“I’ll be right back,” Steve says, and joins Sam and Nat at the plates and utensils.
~~~~~
America, the veritable melting pot, had been difficult to pin down, culinarily speaking, and Steve hadn’t exactly wanted to serve fondue at a summer picnic party. So he’d tried to focus on things that he’d remembered Bucky eating as a teenager, things that he likely hadn’t gotten to taste since the 1940s, as well as things Steve just wanted to taste on Bucky’s tongue as he was kissing him stupid.
“Good job with the grub, Cap,” Sam tells him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I think he likes it,” Nat whispers in Steve’s ear, standing on tiptoe and inclining her head in Bucky’s direction. It’s true; Steve had spent far too long agonizing over the perfect menu and talking everyone’s ear off about the perfect Coney Island dog , and god bless ‘em, his friends had mm-hmm’d and nodded just convincingly enough.
And Bucky is enjoying it, and Steve is enjoying every goddamn minute of watching him enjoy it.
~~~~~
Steve plops a heavy plate next to Bucky’s current plate and then slides back into his seat with his own meal.
“Nat’s bringing your Coke in a second, honey.” Bucky stops eating for a moment to lock eyes with Steve before blushing and looking back down.
“Got the Mexican Coca-Cola in special,” Steve continues. “It’s more like what we used to have back in Brooklyn. The new American stuff isn’t quite the same.”
Bucky meets his eyes again. “Thanks, babe.” Steve feels himself blushing-- Bucky’s never been the type to use endearments much-- and is glad when Nat and Sam rejoin their little group, Nat setting a glass bottle of Coke in front of Bucky’s plate.
Scott and T’Challa come along a bit later, discussing some sort of insect-related engineering. Well, ‘discussing’ is probably a bit generous; Scott is exuberantly telling and T’Challa is indulgently (royally) listening.
Clint’s here, too, “on vacation.”
Sam eyes Clint critically when Clint swings into his own seat like he can’t really be bothered by things like sitting down normally. “So, like, are you on vacation from… vacation? Aren’t you on vacation now? Like, isn’t your family in Fiji?”
“... Possibly.” Clint twirls his fork between his fingers in a way that seems kind of lethal.
Nat butts in. “Clint’s just mad because he’s neglecting his familial duties, again .” She raises her eyebrows.
“Nat’s fucking T’Challa.” Clint flicks the fork at Natasha’s face and she catches it without changing her facial expression.
“Please,” Nat sets the fork down and then takes a bite out of an apple. “Everyone already knows that. And Steve? Red Delicious is kind of an overrated apple.”
Sam (slowly): “Uh, no, Nat… that is… new information.”
Steve (slightly hurt): “The Red Delicious is a very American apple, and…”
“Oh, okay, whatever.” She shrugs, and crooks her finger at T’Challa. “C’mere, stud.”
T’Challa obediently rises from his seat at the end of the picnic table, excusing himself from the lopsided conversation with Scott, and comes around to stand by Nat’s side. He kisses her squarely on the lips for a bit longer than everyone really wanted to watch, and then goes back to his seat and his conversation. Nat smirks and takes a dainty bite of watermelon.
“C’mon, Nat, you and T’Challa, really? How long?” Sam’s still not over it.
“Since Bucky first got out of cryo.” Nat pats her lips with a napkin, pretending like she is the type of person who gets food anywhere other than exactly inside her mouth. Sam gapes at her some more.
“What?” Nat says. “I like cats.”
Bucky eats throughout this entire exchange, listening quietly and carefully. He agrees with Nat about Red Delicious (c’mon, hasn’t Steve ever heard of a hybrid apple? Give a guy a fuckin’ Honeycrisp) and pinpointed the beginnings of Nat’s relationship with T’Challa at some point back around when he was still stuck in that hospital bed and she brought him the little three-legged black cat. (Where else would she have gotten it, than from T’Challa? And how else, than if they had carnal relations? It has made so much sense to Bucky, yet here are all of these allegedly super bimbos, clueless. Remind Bucky not to go on missions with these folks anytime soon. Well, maybe Nat and T’Challa. Ditch the rest.)
~~~~~
By the time everyone else has reached second helpings, Bucky has reached fourths (possibly fifths? Who’s counting) and he’s starting to feel grumpy again. Steve just doesn’t know how hard it is to eat some of this with only one hand (well, it’s obvious that Steve had planned only food that Bucky could manage one-handed. But now he’s full and tired and everyone else has another hand they could just switch to at this point, ugh, it’s not fair) and he wants a belly rub and to take a nap and possibly also some more hot dogs. And then dessert. It’s complicated.
When Bucky clears his fourth (fifth?) plate, he makes sure that Steve’s watching as he scrapes it clean and licks the fork, and then casually stretches, the Captain America tank top letting a little sliver of belly peek out. Steve’s eyes are about to bug out of his head until he catches himself, clearing his throat loudly.
“You ready for some more, Buck?”
“You go get it,” Bucky says, digging the heel of his hand into his belly, rubbing a bit at a cramp in his side. He manages a couple of burps while Steve is filling another plate for him, and he is so very thankful for stretchy-waisted athletic shorts, and pulls the waistband down a bit lower on his getting-a-bit-sore waist. (“Don’t you want to wear real shorts, Buck?” Steve had asked that morning. “Don’t you want me to eat ?” Bucky had snapped back, and so casual wear it was. If you couldn’t wear stretchy things to a Fourth of July party, what even was the point of America, really.)
Steve brings Bucky so much food that Sam whistles when Steve sets down the plate (he has to use two hands).
“Hope you’re still hungry over there, Bucky,” Sam chuckles, as Steve claps Bucky on the shoulder, hand lingering for a moment, before going back over to the other side of the picnic table.
“Don’t worry,” Steve smiles, watching Bucky’s face carefully. “He is.”
~~~~~
He’s not, he’s really, really not by the time he’s finished with the plate Steve made up for him.
“You better not be leaving that last hot dog hangin’ over there, big guy,” Sam says, as Nat hides a grin behind her hand and Clint dismantles an elaborately balanced structure of silverware. Great, just what Bucky has always wanted: an audience to his death-by-picnic.
“Ugh,” Bucky groans, and pats desperately at his belly before going in for the last hot dog. Steve had really been overzealous this time- loading his plate with liberal amounts of macaroni and cheese, more hot dogs, French fries and ketchup, and several large pieces of watermelon on a napkin.
After finishing the hot dog (in small, careful bites), Bucky tries valiantly to lean back and take some pressure off of his poor overtaxed gut, but that’s a real problem with picnic benches. He hiccups, and watches his belly jump, wincing. The stupid star shirt only draws the eye to his current issue. He hiccups again and hides a burp in his fist before firmly planting his elbow into the top of the table and resting his chin in his hand and closing his eyes.
“Aww,” Nat coos at him and if he weren’t so full he might just bite her (except now, he really is so full, he definitely couldn’t manage, even if Nat is tiny). “Did someone eat too much?”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response and instead lets the others talk around him for a while, the blended sounds of their voices soothing, until he feels Steve’s muscular thigh push up against his own on the picnic table bench and he opens his eyes.
“What?”
Steve smiles like the goddamn sun, says, “Brought you something,” and pulls one of those red, white, and blue popsicles out from behind his back.
Sam whistles again. “Wow, looks a lot like Cap’s dick.”
For that, Nat smacks him and quips, “What, are you familiar with it?”
Sam gets slightly red and flustered. “We’ve shared a room! You know, we’ve shared a room.”
Bucky tunes them all out because he is focused on this popsicle-- it’s cold and good and it’s a nice break from all that chewing. (Which, great to be at this point in his too-long life-- aww, his jaw hurts from fucking chewing so much food. Hashtag first. World. Problem.) Plus, Steve is still holding it for him while he jokes with Sam and Nat about American flag codpieces (“Hey! It was a prototype!” Steve blusters), and so Bucky is (mostly) able to not focus on how everyone must be imagining him giving Steve a blowjob right about now.
He manages to finish the popsicle before it starts to drip and now his palate feels cleansed and like he could even go for some dessert. Speaking of- where is dessert, anyway?
~~~~~
It takes a little bit of poking Steve increasingly hard in the side (he probably couldn’t feel it at first, muscle-wrapped tree trunk motherfucker) in order to get his attention but eventually Steve breaks off his conversation with Sam and Nat (Scott and T’Challa have disappeared somewhere, probably to look at termite mounds or something) to clear his throat and and mention in a too-casual tone that it might be time for dessert, if everyone maybe wanted to head inside…
Sam interrupts. “C’mon, man, we all know about your weird food sex. It’s okay.”
“... and that’s why we brought the dessert,” finishes Nat, smirking, as Scott and T’Challa troop back under the tent with their arms full.
~~~~~
Did they ever. It’s a whole apple pie with a fork sticking up out of it, and a carton of vanilla ice cream.
“Enjoy,” Nat says, dropping a quick kiss on the top of Bucky’s head and another on Steve’s cheek. Both men blush and the rest laugh at them good-naturedly before walking out of the tent together, T’Challa’s arm slung around Nat’s waist.
Steve and Bucky watch the others leave, not saying anything.
“Well,” Steve remarks finally. “This looks good.” He removes the fork from the middle of the pie and takes a small bite. “Mmm.”
“Hey,” Bucky says. “That’s mine.” He plucks the fork out of Steve’s hand and takes his own-- much larger-- bite.
“Hey,” Steve replies, pulling the pie tin away so that Bucky can’t reach it. “I want to make sure you’re good to go before you eat all that, okay?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Whatever, just-- c’mon. Pie? Ice cream? Africa? Melting?” He looks pointedly at the carton of vanilla ice cream, also just out of reach, and Steve sighs.
“Hang on a second, Mr. Starving. Just settle down and digest for a minute, I have something else for you under here.” Suddenly, Steve’s disappearing under the picnic table (or, well, as much as his broad shoulders can fit)
“I am digesting,” Bucky throws back. “It’s practically all I do.”
Steve has to chuckle at that, and he reappears from beneath the table and busily starts setting up the lawn chair he had stashed under there.
“What’s this?” Bucky asks curiously, pie and ice cream momentarily forgotten.
“Lawn chair,” Steve grins. “Little more comfy than a picnic bench… and easier on the belly.” His smile gets even bigger. “C’mere, honey. Lemme feed you that pie and ice cream.”
~~~~~
Once he’s settled in the lawn chair, Bucky has to admit-- it is much better than the picnic bench, especially on such a full stomach. Pie is-- pie is definitely still doable at this point, but it’s going to be a little difficult, and he’s definitely going to need some help.
Luckily, Steve is a very enthusiastic partner in crime, especially when said crime involves absolutely murdering an entire apple pie and carton of ice cream.
Bucky makes it through about a third of the pie before he has to take a break, setting the pie tin back on the picnic table and then pulling the Captain America tank top up and skimming his hand gently over the stretched skin of his stomach.
“Little help here, pal?” he asks, grabbing Steve’s wrist as his tummy lets out a very displeased-sounding gurgle.
“What? Oh, oh . Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” Steve startles slightly, and then takes a fucking knee in front of Bucky in the lawn chair, like he’s about to be knighted Sir Rogers of the Belly Rub (or more likely, Sir Rogers of the Grass Stained Khakis-- seriously, Steve, who wears khaki pants in Africa in July?).
Steve’s hands feel good as ever on Bucky’s sore stomach-- he kneads his fingers in small concentric circles, pausing when Bucky makes a small sound of discomfort.
“You okay?”
“Mm”-- Bucky winces-- “little more right there.”
Steve reapplies pressure slowly, carefully watching Bucky’s face. Eventually, Bucky releases a long, low burp, and sighs in relief.
He smiles lazily at Steve. “Much better.”
Steve leans forward to give Bucky a quick kiss, then reaches back to retrieve the pie tin. “Ready for the rest?”
Bucky pats the taut crest of his belly and burps again. “Oof. As ready as I’m gonna be.” He puts his hand out for the fork, but Steve shakes his head.
“Nope, this time I get to do it. Now open up.”
Bucky’s about to make a sassy comment back, but he’s interrupted by a forkful of pie poking at his lips.
“Open,” Steve repeats, and this time there’s a little something else in his voice-- not quite a command, but not exactly a request, either.
Bucky opens his mouth, chews, swallows. Again. Again. He closes his eyes somewhere past the halfway point and just lets Steve tell him when to open, when to swallow, when to--
“Buck, Buck. You’re done.” Steve’s setting the empty (empty? When did that happen?) pie tin back down on the table, and he’s mouthing Bucky’s neck.
“So hot, Buck, god-- you’re so good for me--”
Bucky snorts. Steve stops giving him hickeys.
“Shut it, you brat. Let me have my moment.”
Bucky is too full, really, to argue. Too full for much of anything, to be honest about it.
“Ugh. Just want to go lie down and let you cuddle me with your octopus limbs,” Bucky says, and then groans. “Then maybe some Netflix.”
“And chill,” Steve chimes in, mouthing Bucky’s ear. Bucky regrets ever explaining that one (after Sam had explained it to him).
“Okay,” he huffs. “But no talking when Rory or Lorelai are talking. And not one word about how Sookie and Michel are meant to be,” he growls, and then hiccups painfully. “Ow.”
“Shh, don’t get worked up,” Steve murmurs. “Let’s sit here for a little bit and let you digest and then I’ll take you back to bed and we’ll do the whole Netflix and chill deal, okay?”
Bucky hiccups again and rubs at a cramp. “Fine. But mostly Netflix.”
Steve sighs, but he’s still smiling. “Okay. Mostly Netflix.”