Bucky Barnes had survived more things than most people could say out loud without needing to sit down afterward.
War. Capture. HYDRA. The chair. The ice. The missions he remembered in pieces and the ones he only knew because someone else had printed them in a file with his name on it. He had survived men with guns, monsters from space, government hearings, psychological evaluations, Stark’s security system deciding he was “suspiciously loitering” in a hallway at three in the morning, and Sam Wilson loudly announcing to the entire common room that Bucky had once Googled “how to tell if an avocado is trying to kill you.”
Somehow, despite all of that, the Avengers headquarters cafeteria still managed to make him feel like he had wandered into enemy territory without a map.
It was too bright, for one thing.
Not hospital-bright, which was worse in an entirely different way, but sleek and polished and aggressively cheerful. Morning light poured through enormous windows, catching on chrome counters and glass display cases full of food that looked like it had been arranged by someone who believed breakfast deserved a portfolio. There were labels everywhere. Tiny neat cards in front of every tray. Organic. Gluten-free. High-protein. Vegan. Locally sourced. Overnight oats. Deconstructed oatmeal.
Bucky stood in front of that last one for a long moment, staring down at it with the quiet, grave suspicion of a man confronting evidence of a crime.
“Deconstructed,” he muttered under his breath.
The oatmeal did not defend itself.
He held a plate in his flesh hand. It was empty. It had been empty for several minutes now, which probably said something about him, though he was not emotionally prepared to unpack what. His metal hand rested at his side, fingers flexing once with a soft mechanical whir as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
There were too many options.
That was the stupid part. The part that would have sounded ridiculous if he tried to explain it to anyone. He had gone decades without choices. Eat what they gave you. Wear what they put you in. Move when ordered. Sleep when forced. Wake when dragged out. Kill when commanded. His life had been carved into obedience so deeply that something as simple as choosing breakfast could feel like standing at the edge of a cliff and being told to jump in whatever direction felt most authentic.
He knew it was ridiculous.
That did not stop him from standing there in silence, glaring at a row of smoothies like they were whispering state secrets.
One was green. One was purple. One had something floating in it that looked alive enough to have rights.
A few agents passed behind him, talking quietly about mission schedules and briefing updates. Someone laughed near the coffee machines. A blender screamed from the far counter with the sudden violence of a jet engine, and Bucky’s shoulders tensed before he could stop them. The reaction was tiny. Barely there. A twitch in the muscles, a tightening in his jaw, his fingers curling against his palm.
He forced himself to breathe through it.
Bucky looked back down at the food.
There were eggs. Normal enough. Toast. Also normal. Bacon, though someone had placed a turkey bacon option beside it like breakfast needed moral conflict. A waffle machine sat proudly at the end of the counter, blinking with a little green light, smug in the way only modern technology could be smug. Next to it was a bowl of something labeled chia pudding.
“What the hell is chia?” he asked no one in particular.
The question hung there for a second.
He had not meant to say it out loud.
That was happening more lately. Little comments slipping out before he could lock them behind his teeth. Steve would have called it a good sign. Sam would have called it annoying. Natasha would have looked at him like she knew exactly how much effort it took to sound casual and then said something awful enough to make him laugh despite himself.
Bucky glanced sideways when he felt someone come up beside him.
He did not startle this time. That was progress too.
“Don’t answer too fast,” he said, still looking at the cafeteria spread in front of him. His voice was low, rough around the edges with sleep he had not gotten enough of, but there was a dry thread of humor tucked into it. “I’m tryin’ to decide if I wanna know or if I’m happier living in ignorance.”
He finally turned his head just enough to look at them.
There were shadows under his eyes, but not the worst kind. Not the hollow, hunted kind that sometimes followed him out of nightmares and debriefing rooms. This was something softer. Tired, yes. Guarded, always. But present.
“In my defense,” he continued, lifting the empty plate slightly as if presenting evidence in court, “breakfast used to be simpler. You ate what they gave you, complained about it, and then got shot at by noon.”
His gaze drifted back toward the chia pudding.
“Now there’s seeds in a cup pretending to be dessert and oatmeal having an identity crisis.”
He took one step farther down the line, then stopped in front of the waffle machine. The instructions were printed clearly on the side. Too clearly, maybe. There were diagrams. Arrows. A warning about not overfilling the iron. Something about waiting for the beep.
The waffle machine blinked back at him.
“I don’t trust this thing,” he said.
Then, quieter, with a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, “Stark builds flying armor in his garage, but this is what’s gonna take me out. I can feel it.”
He looked at the person beside him again, expression serious enough that it might have been difficult to tell if he was joking.
“So. You know how to work this thing, or are we both about to be defeated by brunch?”
