Work Text:
It's five times warmer in the kitchen than in the rest of the apartment. Still in his pajamas, Bucky sits at the little round table by the window, absorbing the concentrated morning sunshine and willing it to settle in his bones. His hands are wrapped around a mug of some kind of green tea, having chosen the first thing he'd found in the cabinet. He doesn't much care for it. But it's hot, and it's better than nothing. He lets the drink slide down his throat into his stomach in a thawing trail and stares outside at the poplar trees by the street, just beginning to catch fire with their fall colors.
He's alone with his thoughts. Even this early in the morning, he notes how much he doesn't prefer this. He definitely deserves it, but he'd rather Anya be in here distracting him with her plans for the day or just generally softening the stiff silence with her presence.
Occasionally, during quiet moments like this, it hits him how accustomed he's become to not being all by himself anymore. How attached to her he is, how much he craves her company. He tries not to analyze that too deeply, not now. Not while his mind can all too easily turn it into yet another thing to run from, because she's a good thing and he shouldn't be given good things.
But he tries not to go there. It's too early for that. Breakfast with her - that's all he wants right now. She'll be another few minutes though - the shower hasn't cut off yet and he can hear her vocalizing the muffled, off-key strains of what sounds like one of Tchaikovsky's waltzes. He can't remember which one.
He's halfway through a Youtube search on his phone when the doorbell rings. It's like someone poured ice water into the center of his spine. Instantly he tenses up, eyeing the door like the devil himself is lurking on the stoop.
"Will you get that, please? It's food." Anya steps partway out of the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
Food. Bucky relaxes a tiny bit. Hopefully not the devil, then. "You had it delivered? Not really your MO."
"Someone offered." She says it mysteriously, balancing on one foot then swapping it out for the other, her toes freezing on the wood floor. But her smile is reassuring. "Go on. I'll be out in a minute."
He shuffles there in his sock feet, thinking how it's just as well since they have basically no groceries in the house aside from shitty tea, and opens the door to reveal a double armload of paper bags. The expectant face of Sam Wilson peers over the top of them.
"...Hey." The word comes out sounding slightly dense, as Bucky stands there in indecision. "What are you...?"
"Bringing your ass breakfast," he smirks, then raises a good-natured brow. "You gonna let me in?"
When Anya reappears with dry hair and a silky robe over clean PJs, Sam is already unloading all of the stuff he's brought with him onto the kitchen counter. Bucky sits back down at the table and, for lack of something obvious to do with himself, curls his hands back around his tepid mug, feeling a bit wary at these developments.
“Alright I got ReadiWip, I got berries, I got-- Woman, you better put those down. Just cause you said you wanted some...”
Completely ignoring Sam, Anya fishes out the bag of chocolate chips and slips beyond his reach, grinning. "And it seems you got my request. Thank you."
"Mmhm..." He side-eyes her in amusement. "Whatever. Save some for the waffles."
At this, Bucky perks. He can't remember the last time he's had waffles.
"Now he's with us," Sam grins. "I'll tell you what, ain't nobody's day can't be turned around after they've had some Wilson waffles."
Bucky directs a small smirk into his tea. "You should trademark that."
"I probably should. Now," He digs around in one of the bags for a second and pulls out a large sealed package of coffee. "Not that you don't look like you're really loving whatever's in that cup, but I can do you one better." He tosses it to Bucky and receives a look bordering on reverence. In return Sam just nods. "That's your job, then. I'd guess to make plenty."
Not that Bucky's going to say it, but his thoughts are something along the lines of thank you, bless you, as he opens the bag to the fragrant scent of fresh grounds and the promise of caffeine. He's also thankful for something to do so he won't be sitting there like a bump on a log while the others work.
Soon the coffee is dripping through the pot, filling the tiny kitchen with the tantalizing aroma. Anya's opening boxes of different kinds of berries and giving them a rinse while Sam combines a glass jar of dry ingredients into a bowl with buttermilk.
Picking up the empty jar, Anya turns it over to inspect the peeling label. "Did you bring this from home?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, just went ahead and measured everything there and brought it in that. ...What?" He chuckles at the impressed look she's giving him. "You didn't think I was gonna bring a boxed mix, did you? C'mon. Mama raised me better than that."
"Extra points for effort."
"Is that where you got the recipe?" Bucky asks in a low voice. "Your mom?"
"My grandma," Shaking his head fondly, Sam grins. "She'd make 'em for the family on the weekends. And seeing how it is a Saturday..." He shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea. Thought you guys might like it."
He turns back to his mixing bowl, chatting with Anya about some book she'd borrowed from him, and Bucky slips back into silence.
Here it comes again. That guilty feeling, mixing with the hungry growl in his belly, swirling around and upsetting him, whispering, This shouldn't be yours. By rights, this shouldn't be yours. And he knows - he knows - he needs to tamp down that voice, tell it to shut up, tell himself that it's not true... Except for the part of him that completely agrees. Except for the part of him that's known the voice for so long, it's practically an old friend. Dependable.
The sunshine and the delicious scents surrounding him and the mention of family argue with his awareness of the deep circles around his eyes and the heaviness in his chest and head. Why should his Saturday morning get to look like this - warm, and nurturing and now so obviously full of good that he can hardly stand it?
But then there's the other part of him, the one that shoves the first voice aside in desperation and yells, Take it! It's right here in front of you and you'd be an idiot to push it away. How often do second chances actually come along? You're here. So be here. Don't waste this.
And they're both so loud. He can't think. He can't stop thinking...
Anya walks over with a steaming cup of coffee and stands behind him. She's seen that look forming in his eye probably, or maybe she hasn't. Maybe her timing is just that uncanny. But she sets the coffee down in front of him and starts carding her fingers through his hair, taking her time gathering the strands together at the back of his head.
It's like a sedative. Almost instantly he can feel himself begin to relax, uncurling like a cat in a warm patch of sunlight. His eyes even start to droop, until he remembers that Sam is here and sits up a little straighter. With a elastic band from around her wrist she tames his hair into a neat bun. Kisses his cheek.
"Thanks," he murmurs to her, drawing in a breath.
"Mhm." She winks, clumsy at it as ever. "Now you won't get it all sticky."
"Yeah cause you don't want no sticky," Sam chimes in cheekily, the bastard, plating the last of the waffles. "Oh that's beautiful. What is that, a man-bun?"
"Don't be jealous just cause..." Mischievously, Anya vaguely gestures to Sam's head.
"Just cause what."
"Well," she shrugs. "You don't have a whole lot growing up on top, do you?"
"Oh, that's nice. That's nice--" Sam balances the giant stack of waffles and joins them at the table. "Do you know how nappy this hair is? I haven't had a 'fro since high school. No thank you." A decided shake of his head, then a sly grin. "Besides. The ladies prefer me sleek."
This gets a snort even out of Bucky. "What ladies?" He says.
"Ha. Hilarious." Sam ignores Anya chuckles and points a clean fork at the smug look on Bucky's face. "You better watch your mouth, Barnes. I made you breakfast. Don't forget."
"Mhm."
Bucky has to consciously hold back his drool as he surveys the spread in front of him.
The center of the small table is crowded with bowls of strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries, a can of whipped cream, the bag of chocolate chips, a plate of softened butter, bottles of maple and blueberry syrup, and the still nearly-full pot of coffee, leaving little room for their plates.
Anya has mashed her raspberries into a spread and covers her waffles with them before reaching again for the chocolate chips. She catches his eye and tips her head towards the cluster of food singing him a siren song as if to say, Go on, help yourself.
So he quashes his hesitance and spears a stack of two or three waffles, round and golden and patterned with an incredibly intricate design he can't figure out. "What is this supposed to be?" He mutters, slathering butter and maple syrup into the dozens of lines and divots.
"Seriously?" Sam says incredulously. "It's the Death Star, man."
This garners no reaction.
"The Death Star. You know, Star Wars? The Empire's space station that can blow up planets?"
Bucky just stares at him blankly.
"Ugh," Sam groans, spraying on more whipped cream to console himself. "You're as bad as Steve. He hadn't seen the movies either until a few months ago. 'S about time for another marathon too." Points his fork at him again. "You should get in on that."
Bucky shrugs noncommittally, still not following. To be honest, he doesn't really care anymore. Abruptly, all he can think is: Steve again. Those two words lodge in his brain, playing over and over. Like they're taunting him.
Steve again. Steve again. Steve again.
His food suddenly doesn't taste as vibrant, and he's nearly overtaken by the urge to push his chair back and head to the bedroom without explanation.
Come on, Buck, pull it together - inexplicably using that old nickname even as the unease spirals to the base of his throat.
But nothing else happens. It stays there, and nothing else happens. No eruptions or escapes.
After a beat or two, Sam seems to realize he's hit a nerve, and talk moves on to other things without further comment. Anya asks how Sam's DVA classes are going. Tells him about an art exhibit they went to the other weekend. They talk more about the book Anya borrowed and Sam teasingly asks if he's ever going to see it again. Yes, she's already finished it. And by the way, there's another book she recommends. An album he just downloaded that they need to listen to asap, he can't stop playing it on repeat.
Safe things.
All this, while Bucky listens, switching between watching the leaves outside and their expressions, between keeping his eyes down and being unable to keep them there. Sam's easy laugh, the gap between Anya's front teeth. He starts eating again, keeping pace with them as they go for second helpings. They speak to him too, mostly things that don't require a reply, making him feel included in the conversation without forcing him to say much of anything. Bucky is ridiculously grateful for this. It gives him the chance to recover. It gives him time to edge away from that feeling of, It's always something. It's always going to be something. You're weak and this is never going to end, and combat it with the rosy scene in front of him, breathing slowly, soaking up the sweet aroma and light chatter.
Slowly, he finds that he begins to feel better, begins to feel like he's back with them and not retreating further into his head. Stay out here, Barnes, where you need to be, he tells himself. Out here is better.
He scrutinizes the precision with which Anya lines the polar trench of her fourth - fifth? - Death Star with the mini chocolate chips, creating a spiky halo.
“Semi-sweet,” she says without looking.
His eyes drift to hers. "Hm?"
"They're semi-sweet," she reiterates, "not milk chocolate. You’d like them." Dusting off a few tiny dark shavings still clinging to her palms, she passes him the bag in exchange for the blueberry syrup.
She's doing that thing again where she knows things, and his chest constricts all over again, only with a different kind of pain. But he doesn't say anything in return, just sort of grunts in acceptance, allows the involuntary smile to bloom on his face, and takes the bag, popping several chips into his mouth. Yeah, okay. Not bad. He decorates his own with a chip in every indention, then goes for the whipped cream.
After a while they've all finally stopped reaching for more, even though there are a couple more waffles on the table and a second untouched plateful on the counter. Bucky is so warm now, and sated, and kind of sleepy. He sticks a finger in his mouth and sucks off the last of the syrup, letting the maple flavor linger. Anya is up, stretching, moving to refill Sam's coffee cup. Turning on the radio. Some kind of R&B station, mellow and quiet. It fills the tiny kitchen, spreading into the empty spaces and pleasantly covering the post-gluttony gap in conversation.
"Glad these pants have an elastic waist," she approves. "Sam. That was spectacular."
Chuckling, he gives her a little salute. "Wilson waffles," he says and shrugs as if that explains it all. "My pleasure."
"There's plenty left to freeze for later. Let me pack them up for you?"
But he waves aside the suggestion. "Keep 'em. They're for you guys and that'll be another meal for another day." Sitting up a little straighter, he huffs in satisfaction. "This has been good. But I'm gonna head out in a minute and let you enjoy the weekend. Got some work waiting at home." A pat to his stomach is followed by a slight grimace. "Might have to have a nap first though," he adds wryly.
Anya tells him she's going to go get his book, and whichever one she wants him to read, and heads for the bedroom.
And then, other than the soft, rhythmic music, it's just the two of them.
"So," Sam states after only a couple seconds.
Bucky's wants to swear at himself when his heart kicks into a higher gear against his will, but he stares resolutely back at Sam, hopefully appearing less wary than he feels.
"So...?"
Sam leans back a bit and shrugs. "So how you doing?"
Even though he sensed it be would something like this, Bucky can't help but flex a muscle in his jaw and try not to cross his arms. Damn it, Sam.
"Getting to the point, then."
Sam shakes his head. "Come on, man. You trying to tell me you're not struggling? Nuh-uh. No fool's gonna buy that. 'Course, no fool's gonna wonder why either. No shame in it."
Bucky's responding sigh weighs a ton. Sam's looking at him patiently and it doesn't look like he's going to be able to get out of this.
"What did Anya tell you."
"Nah, nah... It's not like that. She didn't tell me anything. I can see it right in front of me." He leans forward and moves aside his empty plate to rest his arms on the table. "Look, before you get all defensive, I'm not trying to ambush you here, and I'm not trying to get you to spill your guts. Not at all." He shrugs again. "You don't have to tell me a damn thing."
Now Bucky's just confused. "...Okay. So what's this about?"
"Just want to say I saw how you were today. You zoned out a couple of times--" He holds up a hand as Bucky appears about to make an excuse. "No judgement. But I also watched you interacting. Enjoying yourself. Don't think I didn't notice how you pulled yourself out of a dive at one point. That's hard to do."
Part of him resents Sam for noticing, for bringing it up at all, though he supposes he is pretty obvious, as much as a complete train wreck is pretty obvious. How could he not notice. But hearing Sam voice his observations is both depressing and...encouraging? He's not sure. Depressing because, yes he'd nosedived at something tiny - something stupid - and what if it never gets any easier? What if he's like this forever? But then, Sam also seems to think he did something...good. Something hard.
Sam can't help but chuckle at Bucky's bewildered, conflicted expression. "You spend your afternoons helping enough people to see their lives differently, I guess you start seeing things differently in people whether they ask for it or not." His smile fades a bit, and he leans back in his seat, hands folded over a full stomach. “Things aren’t ever gonna be all good. Not in this life. Not while you’re breathing. But they aren’t ever gonna be all bad either, you know? I know that for sure. Always something to be grateful for.”
Bucky looks away, considering this.
"They were pretty decent waffles." He can feel a small smile forming, almost despite himself. "You'd make a good housewife."
"I'm not talking about the damn waffles," Sam rolls his eyes with a smirk. "But yeah. It can definitely be the little things. In fact, a lot of the time that's exactly what it is."
"So you didn't actually want to come over for some kind of...disguised therapy session?'
"Nah, man." Laughing, Sam pushes back from the table. "This was just what it looked like. Good food, good talk. A Saturday morning Ma Wilson would've approved of."
Bucky follows him out of the kitchen. In the cramped entrance hall, Anya has laid Sam's books on the little table by the door.
"Good things," he points toward the bedroom where Bucky knows Anya is lingering out of sight on purpose. "Like her. You're one lucky bastard, you know that?"
He knows.
"Tell her I said bye."
"Mhm."
Walking him to the door, Bucky pauses as they stand on the top step outside.
"Sam... Thanks. For," he gestures vaguely, unsure of how to word it, "all this. ...Thanks."
Sam doesn't do Bucky the disservice of dismissing his gratitude. Instead he just nods.
"It's what friends do, if you let 'em."
He claps Bucky on the shoulder and squeezes once. Bucky lets him, resisting the instinct to knock his hand away.
"I'm around, Barnes," he calls over his shoulder, heading off down the warm sidewalk. "Remember that."