A day like this was normal for most. For Steve and Bucky, however, it was something of a rarity. Walking to the mainly-kosher market with a basket between them and holding hands like the love-sick fools that they were, Steve felt blissfully comfortable. While the blond didn’t often get the chance to go out with his husband, what with their busy schedules and for the fact that Steve was always being watched - whether by the media, SHIELD or by the press - he did enjoy days where he and Bucky were able to just take the day off. Plus, he loved going to markets. There always seemed to be an air that made them feel just darn right adventurous.
Tearing himself away from his thoughts, the blond brought himself back to the moment to look at his husband. “Hm? Oh, yeah. ‘Course I did. She sent it to me just last week. We’ve got most of the ingredients, but we just need to tomatoes, chili peppers, and onions. Maybe a little cumin, too. I think we’ve got some leftover from the last dish we made, though.” He was already thinking of all the ingredients in his head, his mind categorizing and sorting the ingredients. It was a good thing, what with his eidetic memory. He could memorize and envision any set of numbers, images or information at any given time. One good thing about being a super-soldier, he supposed.
Walking among the stalls, he kept a good eye out for any ripe, fresh fruits — specifically tomatoes. It was a hard thing to find nowadays, he thought, what with pesticides and injected hormones being planted into most of the fruits and vegetables being grown. Back in his day, they didn’t have much of that kind of stuff — and if they did, he certainly didn’t know ‘bout it. Nonetheless, it was interesting — if not surprising — to find just how many types of food were chemically engineered to fit the label or image of “wholesomely good” or “fresh.” Hell, his idea of “fresh” was the type of fruit (or vegetable) that was grown without any chemicals used. Then again, he knew very little about the farming industry, nor of the procedures needed to make food fresh or necessarily clean.
With a small huff of laughter, he turned to his husband and said, “Anythin’ else we need to get that I haven’t already listed out?”
Just as predicted, Steve had remembered everything. With fondness, amusement and pride all rolled up into a smile, Bucky looked at his husband, taking a moment to appreciate how pretty he was.
Bucky wanted to kiss him; to do so in front of complete strangers was still something that made him nervous, and probably always would. Bucky leaned over and pecked him on the mouth anyway.
“Nah, I think you got everythin’”, he answered finally, rubbing his gloved thumb over Steve’s knuckles.
Bucky looked around at the stalls, trying to find any of the ingredients they needed, which he kept listing under his breath so he wouldn’t forget them. Most of the men there wore kippahs, something Bucky hadn’t done in public since he was 13 (it turned him into too much of a target and made finding jobs that much harder, two things he couldn’t afford to deal with and risk starving his sisters); and he’d stopped wearing it altogether when he was shipped out to Europe. Becca still had it at her home, worn and faded, but safe.
“We used to go to church”, Bucky remembered. “You went to confession. Priests made ya pray that rosary so many times I memorized all them prayers.”
It used to be hilarious. Steve, the fucking punk and all the fights he picked, obviously needed to ask forgiveness for them and save his soul for eternal damnation. Bucky never let him forget about them, either, nor did he ever complain about how long it used to take. Steve had always been so understanding and respectful of Bucky’s faith, so the least Bucky could do was return the favor.
“Prayed in your place, too”, he added, as an afterthought. “When you were too sick to do it? Knew it was important to you, thought it was worth a shot.” Bucky gave him a mischievous grin. “Wasn’t like your God could send me to Hell, anyway.”
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