Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I—I don’t get it,” admits Steve, squinting a little at Stark’s phone.

It’s a photo of a burger—a burger Steve had made the previous night, with lettuce and tomato on a toasted bun. Bucky’s flesh hand is in frame, gripping it, and one bite has already been taken. #sogood, it’s tagged.

“Didn’t peg RoboCop as a foodie, is all,” replies Stark, nabbing the phone back from Steve’s hand. “Although, I suppose seventy plus years of bland protein shakes with a side of torture would make anybody appreciate the finer dining options in life. Here, see?” He angles the phone towards Steve again and scrolls through photo after photo of food, Bucky eating food, or Steve serving Bucky food. Bucky shoots them in a way so they’re never quite in frame, just pieces of them. No identities are revealed, but the photos tell a story regardless. “He's a total foodie. Has gathered a bit of a following, even. It’s—well. It’s kind of cute. Very world’s deadliest assassin meets Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.”

“Oh.” Steve stares at the photos, then tilts his head and peers up at Stark. “Foodie?” He asks, squinting again.

Stark huffs and mutters something that sounds like, “Hopeless,” beneath his breath.

* 

That night, they order in.

They sit together at the kitchen island, in front of an impressive spread of Thai from egg rolls to green curry chicken, to Phuket Pad Thai with shrimp. As Steve reaches for an egg roll, Bucky takes a photo. He studies it for a moment, and taps at the screen.

“Stark says you’re a foodie,” comments Steve, smiling a little as he takes a bite out of the egg roll. 

“How’s that?” Asks Bucky, brow creasing in question. He taps at the screen a little more before he pockets the phone and begins to load Pad Thai onto his plate.

“Dunno,” Steve admits with a shrug. “He showed me your Instagram. All the photos you take of food. It’s a word, I guess. For somebody who really likes—really appreciates food. I think. I’m not sure. I might have to look it up, he could be pulling my leg.” He’s babbling, and Bucky casts him a curious look, eyebrow raised.

“It is a word,” he confirms, seeming to already be in on this fact. “And I do like food.” To emphasize his point, he palms at his stomach a little. He wears a soft, grey shirt that belongs to Steve. It pools at his shoulders, but is snug at the waist. Hugs his stomach, the shadow of his navel just visible through the fabric.

Seventy plus years of being frozen and thawed had left Bucky’s digestive system astoundingly fucked, so in the early months of recovery he hadn’t been able to process much more than broth or rice. Once he began to improve, food was one of the first things he formed a true opinion on. He’ll shake his head at anything that resembles a smoothie or shake, really enjoys Thai, and is astounded that they put bacon in dessert these days. (“Bacon, Steve. Can you believe it?” He’d exclaimed, pointing to the Food Network where a woman had been making bourbon bacon bread pudding.)

Emotion is something he still struggles with, even now, nearly a year into his recovery. Food, though—food is something he’s genuinely excited about. He’s happy to explore every advance that’s been made and every option available.

He’s gained back what weight he’d lost (and then some). He’s soft around the middle with a sweetly round face and a curve to his hips that Steve pinches every chance he gets. Bucky likes it. (“Makes me feel less like the Soldier,” he’d admitted one night while Steve worked a hand over his stomach. He’d eaten too much, and Steve’s learned exactly what he wants out of a belly rub. “You like it?”

“Love it,” Steve had replied earnestly. Because he does—he really, really does.)

So, yeah. He does like food.

“Erm. Right,” says Steve. He rubs at the back of his neck, a little embarrassed by Bucky’s ease in picking up slang while he still struggles, and a little distracted by just how much he likes Bucky in that shirt. “Curry?” He finally asks. He holds the container out, and Bucky takes it from him with a smile.

*

Later that night, Steve makes his own personal account and adds Bucky. He finds the photo he’d taken during dinner—Steve’s hand in frame as he reaches for an egg roll, along with a wide shot of their shared meal. My fella called me a foodie #abouttime #dinner.

Steve shakes his head, a fond smile creeping onto his face.

As he heads into their bedroom, he finds Bucky already in bed. “I’m your fella?” Asks Steve as he crawls in beside him.

“да,” Bucky answers, and then winces when he realizes his slip. “Damn straight,” he corrects. “Now wipe that sappy look off your face, Rogers, and c’mere. Be the little spoon.” He makes grabby hands in the air and Steve complies. Curls onto his side and allows Bucky to settle his soft bulk against Steve’s back. Like Steve is still ninety pounds, and Bucky is still keeping him warm at night in their drafty, shoebox of an apartment.

Some things never change.

*

Bucky helps Sam make jambalaya. ("Gotta teach your boy how to cook," Sam had told Steve.

"He cooks," Steve had defended. Because he does. Sometimes. Mostly he chooses take-out menus from the drawer, but still.)

Steve sends him off for the day, and is happy when his phone pings. He sees a new post from Bucky. A photo his bowl of homemade jambalaya—his fourth helping, according to the caption—and the camera is angled in a way so Bucky’s lower half is visible, seated in a chair. The flannel shirt is buttoned halfway, but just barely. Steve spots the little gaps between each button and breathes a little harder.

“You are such a jerk,” he mumbles that night, fisting his hands in Bucky’s hair and kissing him. Bucky had come home, and Steve had met him in the foyer. They’d yet to make it out of the hall. “Did that on purpose, didn’t you. Knew I’d see it. We didn’t even buy this shirt for you that long ago.”

Bucky grins into the kiss. He leans back against the wall, and grabs Steve by the hips. Pulls him in so their bodies are flush against each other. “Maybe,” he remarks. Steve huffs, because he’s such a liar.

Steve skirts his hands along Bucky’s shoulders and sides. Jostles his stomach a little and gropes the pudge that spills over the waist of his jeans. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest as Steve sinks to his knees. He pops the button on Bucky’s jeans and finds they’re even tighter than the shirt. A red crease has been left on his skin, and Steve leans in to kiss it before moving his attention lower.

*

“You never take photos,” Bucky complains. They’ve finally made it out of the hallway, and are draped across the couch. MythBusters plays quietly on the television, though neither is really paying attention. “I take photos for you—stuff I know you’ll like. You need to take some photos for me.” He pokes a finger against Steve’s chest, denting his t-shirt.

“What am I supposed to take photos of?” Asks Steve, because his mind is genuinely blank when it comes to what Bucky would like to see from him. Photos of him out jogging? Or at the VA? He can’t take photos on missions, and photos of him spending time with Sam or Natasha would be too revealing of his identity. He has public accounts, things he posts to as Captain America, but this—this is private.

Bucky peers up at him, and lifts an eyebrow. “Your cock,” he says, sounding far too serious.

Steve sputters. “Um. No.”

“Well, we’ll think about it,” Bucky shrugs. He pats Steve's chest once more and turns his gaze towards the screen.

*

Sam takes Steve flying.

They test out the new set of wings Stark designed. Fly laps around the roof of the Avengers (nee Stark) Tower and get so brave to loop past the Empire State Building. "I don't think we've got the clearance, but hell if that wasn't fun," Sam laughs, and Steve shrugs in agreement. He takes a photo, up in the air of the ground far below. Considers posting it, but never hits the button. Instead, he saves it. Figures he'll show Bucky later, he might get a kick out of it. 

*

Steve’s in the back of a quintjet, headed to base.

He’s tired, he’s dirty, and the only ray of light comes in form of a new post from Bucky.

Opening it up on his phone, Steve sees a photo of an empty pizza box (from Bucky’s favorite joint) and Bucky’s body frames the shot. He’s visible from the chin down, and wears one of his novelty Captain America shirts. It’s snug, fabric straining a little around his taut stomach.

Might have overdone it #stuffed #missyou reads the caption, and Steve blushes so hard Natasha has to kick him.

“Need a medic?” She asks, lips curving into a wry smile. He knows she follows Bucky as well.

He buries his face against his shoulder, but not before giving the photo one more glance.

*

“Everyone can see those photos, Buck,” Steve breathes. He kisses Bucky’s mouth, his throat, and bites softly at his left shoulder, careful to avoid the spot where flesh meets metal. “They’re not just between you and me.” There's no heat behind his words. He dips down. Pushes Bucky’s t-shirt up and licks a wet stripe across his soft stomach. Between debriefing and a shower, Steve didn’t make it back until early morning. Bucky’s sleepy and affectionate, arching his back and humming against the pillows.

“Do that again,” he murmurs.

Steve does. He sucks a bright bruise onto his skin (he knows Bucky will grouse about him leaving yet another hickey on his stomach, but he can’t help himself), and dips down to nose at tented boxers. Bucky’s half-hard already, and becoming more interested. Steve mouths wetly at the fabric for a moment before moving back to his stomach.

“Why’s it matter?” Asks Bucky. “People like the photos. Tell me I’m cute or recommend places to try. No one knows who I am, and can’t identify you. It’s just fun. And I know it gets you riled up ‘cause—well.” He gestures to their current position and, okay. Right.

“Point taken,” Steve admits. 

“It’s breakfast time,” Bucky yawns, turning his head to look at the clock on their bedside table. “You gonna make me pancakes?”

“I just got back from a mission,” Steve says with false reproach. He flicks Bucky’s thigh teasingly. “You make your own pancakes.”

“M’kay,” mumbles Bucky. “But first…” He arches his hips, drawing Steve’s attention back to what they’d started.

“Right, right, where was I...” says Steve as he tugs Bucky’s boxers down.

*

Steve makes pancakes.

Like he was ever not going to.

He sets an absurdly large stack in front of Bucky, and a slightly smaller stack for himself.

Then, he returns to the stove to clean up. He hears the telltale click of a shutter, and once he’s finished putting everything away he takes his seat at the table. Bucky’s already digging in, and Steve pulls his phone from his pocket. He turns it on, and sees the photo Bucky took: pancakes front and center, and Steve in the background—a little blurry and out of focus, from the neck down.

He’s too good for me, says the caption.

Steve’s heart tugs a little.

Bucky’s mask is strong, but Steve knows how insecure he is underneath. The guilt he feels, the shame, the anger. (“You were the gun, Buck. They pulled the trigger, not you.”) He’ll wake sometimes at night, sweating and shouting and pushing Steve away because, “How can you even look at me? You deserve better. So much better.”

Drawing a breath in, Steve gives him a sad smile.

"These are good," Bucky tells him, voice a little quieter than usual. "Thank you. For making them, I mean."

"I love cooking for you," replies Steve, and Bucky focuses on his plate.

They eat breakfast in silence, forks scraping their plates.

*

That night, they lay in bed.

Bucky's head rests against Steve's chest, and Steve has an arm tucked securely around his waist. He thumbs lazily at the soft strip of skin exposed between his shirt and pants. After a minute, he threads their hands together. Pulls his other arm free and fishes for his phone. Focusing on their joined hands, he takes a photo. Bucky casts him a questioning look, but Steve doesn't respond. Not right away.

Nothing’s too good for you #iloveyou, he taps.

He hits post, and turns his phone so Bucky can see. Bucky stares, his expression blank. Something builds behind his gaze, and he bites down on his lower lip. He doesn’t let go of Steve’s hand.

“Not as good as your cock, but it’ll do,” he says after a moment, voice warbling a little.

Steve smiles softly at him. “Sure,” he says.

He squeezes Bucky’s hand and Bucky squeezes back.