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The day begins poorly from the moment you open your eyes.
You'd gone to bed excited the night before, eagerly anticipating today's plans. Steve and Bucky were both planning to be home with you today, and they'd promised you a picnic at the park, followed by an ice cream cone, and maybe a trip by the toy store if you felt up to it. No one had suggested that you'd be regressed, but no one had to; your brain predetermines that these days, where both of your caregivers are home and there are no adult tasks on the docket, are going to be little days.
So of course, when morning starts creeping in and your eyelids flutter open, you immediately squeeze your stuffed dog tight to your chest and kick your feet like a restless toddler. Today, today, today! Today is the day you go out on a well-earned little trip with your Stevie and your Buck and the soft doggie that you always reach for in this headspace.
You only get a moment of joy before the rest of your senses start to wake up, and your stomach almost immediately drops at what you hear: rain pattering on the window, tapping meanly against the glass like it's waking you up just to deliver the bad news.
"Noooo," you can't help but whisper, crawling across the mattress to peek out the curtain. The sunny, beautiful spring day you'd been expecting would be paradise compared to the bleak, wet gusts of wind that sweep raindrops into the gutters faster than they can collect them. The dark sky is already throwing the tantrum you feel bubbling in your gut, begging you to let it loose in a flurry of tears and foot-stomping.
You take a shaking breath, urging your brain to mature just enough not to cry at the disappointment of it all, but the tears are too imminent. By the time you're padding down the hall, your chest is holding a mix of devastation and anger at the universe for ruining your day. Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are too shiny to be anything but the tears that fall as soon as you lay eyes on Bucky at the kitchen table.
He sits with a calculator and a checkbook in hand, and he pauses writing mid-number when you walk through the door. "Hey there, sweetheart," he begins without looking up, then freezes at the sight of tears running down your cheeks. "Hey, hey, what's the matter, dollface?" he murmurs, getting out of his chair without hesitating. His voice drops into that warm cadence that always makes you melt when you're this small, and it almost makes something in your stomach unclench. He crouches in front of you, making himself lower to your level so you can see the gentleness in his face. "Rainstorm get you down this early?"
Your lip can't help but wobble at the reminder, and you look at the rain-spattered kitchen window like it's personally responsible. "Our day at the park," you say with complete despair, letting out the smallest foot-stomp like the frustration can't help but exit through the soles of your feet. "We were gonna have so much fun, and now it's ruined."
"Who says it's ruined?" Bucky hums, standing back up so he towers above you again. Without thinking, your arms go up in the universal sign for pick me up, please, and he obliges without a moment's hesitation. He scoops you up and sets you on his hip, and your arms wind around his neck.
"It's ruined," you repeat with a huff, tucking your face in his shoulder even while he bounces you a little to make you smile. You hide the slightest curve of your lips, not wanting to give up your grumpiness just yet. "We was gonna go to the park, 'n get ice cream, 'n a toy, 'n maybe see a doggie outside, and now we can't."
"Nothing says we can't go tomorrow, honey," comes a new voice behind you, just as warm but attached to your other safe place. Steve comes around Bucky to be in your line of vision, expression soft but not nearly as devastated by the rain as you think he should be.
"I don't wanna go tomorrow," you answer without waiting to hear what else he has in mind. You bury your face in Bucky's shoulder again and whine, kicking your legs a little for good measure. He doesn't drop you, of course he doesn't, and the reprimand you're half-expecting never comes.
"I know what helps when we're having big feelings like this, kiddo," he says smoothly, metal hand rubbing your back through your soft pajama shirt. "I'm thinkin' Stevie's famous chocolate chip pancakes are in order. What do you think, Captain Rogers?"
"That's Chef Rogers this morning, Buck," comes Steve's easy reply, and you hear the gentle clatter of cookware as he takes out the pan and utensils. You can't help but peek over Bucky's shoulder, the thought of something so yummy making you forget for a second that you're supposed to be mad.
"What's this?" Bucky hums, planting a kiss on your now-exposed cheek. You giggle at how his beard scratches you, squirming in his arms. "Is someone getting behind the idea of an indoor picnic instead?"
"Indoor picnic?" you echo, turning to face him with your eyes wide at the thought. "With a blankie and sam'iches?"
"How about a blankie and pancakes?" Bucky hums back, keeping you easily held with one arm while he carries you to the living room. The television is already playing a soft cartoon like they knew you'd wake up needing something gentle in the background. "And the best part about an indoor picnic? No ants."
"No ants can come, 'cept Ant-Man," you reply seriously, making Bucky snort.
"I'll let Lang know he has an invitation," he chuckles, grabbing one of the blankets out of the basket next to the sofa. You hold on tight to his neck as he uses one arm to spread the blanket on the floor, tossing throw pillows from the couch on top. Gently, he deposits you to sit right on top of one. "Wait right here, honey, I'll go get the other guests."
"Guests?" Your eyebrows fly up, and you twist around to watch Bucky walk down the hall. Your eyes stay wide and you watch the doorway like you're expecting the entire Avengers team to strut into the living room, but when he returns to view, it's with an armful of your stuffed animals. You giggle despite yourself, bouncing a little in place.
"Couldn't leave these guys out of the picnic, huh? It's supposed to be a teddy bear picnic and all," he hums, setting each plushie carefully around the perimeter of the blanket. You grin and crawl around to help adjust them all, setting them up carefully like they'll need their balance to eat the pancakes. He's even remembered your beloved stuffed dog, which you set right next to your spot with a loving pat to its nose.
When Steve comes into the living room with a tray filled with breakfast, you and Bucky are sitting criss-cross on the floor, playing a hand-clap game you'd suddenly remembered from your less recent days on the playground. A smile curves onto his face as he sees the grin on yours, and it lingers as he carefully sets the steaming tray down in the middle. "Did I miss much?" he asks as he sits down between the two of you, creating a little triangle of safety.
"Little punk here was teachin' me a new game," Bucky responds with a smile, reaching to grab your sippy cup of orange juice. You take it eagerly, game forgotten in favor of the delicious spread of pancakes, bacon, and juice in front of you. The chocolate chips are even sprinkled in the shape of a crooked star.
"That one's for you, honey," Steve says like you didn't already know, and you butt your head gently against his shoulder in an affectionate thanks. As the morning fades into yummy food and easy laughter between the three of you, the sound of rain becomes a mere background rhythm to an unexpectedly nice, still little, safest kind of day.