Summary: You’re making an elaborate breakfast for you and your boyfriend, Bucky. Over the course of the conversation you realise you had no clue how old he is.
A/N: I was hungry when I wrote this if you can tell. Let me know what you think! ❤️
Masterlist I Requests
You hummed along to the cheerful, upbeat melody streaming from the radio. The bacon in the pan was spitting dramatically at you while you bumped your hips along to the beat. The coffee pot dinged it’s readiness and, abuzz with excitement at the prospect of caffeine, you turned in an exaggerated twirl to grab a mug.
The sight of a figure leaning against your bedroom door startled the mug straight out of your hands. The radio couldn’t overcome the sound of smashing ceramic but you ignored the mess in favour of pressing a hand to your pounding heart. “Holy shit, Bucky,” he had the audacity to laugh at you as you bent to collect the largest pieces, “don’t do that!”
Stooping to help you collect a particularly sharp piece of pointed ceramic, he asked with a voice full of innocence, “what? I can’t enter the kitchen now?”
Standing up, a pile of jagged ceramic in your palm, you huffed and moved over to the bin. “You don’t have to sneak in! And sidle up behind me like a - a -“ you words devolved into stumbling as he put an arm around your waist, lazy kisses laid on your neck. “Don’t think you can distract me,” you sighed out, already leaning back into him. “I’m very angry with you.”
Cockily, he gave you nothing but a chuckle in response. Hands clutching your waist greedily as you melted into his attention.
A sudden ding jolted you from his arms, the grumble of your stomach more enticed by the idea of breakfast than his advances, and you rushed to the toaster. Licking your lips you plucked the two slices of toast from the toaster and plonked one piece indelicately on each plate. “Hope you’re hungry?”
Wryly, he smirked at you. “Sure,” he sidled up beside you, leaning forward to twist the dial of the radio, “what we having?”
As the music clicked off, you raised a brow at him - butter knife brandished as you paused in your action. “Well, I was having fun but you turned the music off.”
Delicately, he extracted the knife from you, taking over the important job of buttering the toast while you moved back to the frying pan.
“You call that music, doll?” You shook your head with a giggle, this familiar rant of his almost funny to you now. “That’s just… noise.”
Flicking the controls to turn off the hob, you deposited two slices of bacon on each plate and dumped the pan in the sink. “You’re so old.” You told him sardonically, listening to the hiss of cool tap water hitting the still heated pan.
Dismissively, he muttered “yeah, yeah,” as he leaned around you to send the butter knife clattering into the sink. “You know in my day, they made music you could actually dance to.”
You paused in your action, aggressively scrubbing the frying pan, and looked at him with a snorting laugh. “‘Back in my day’,” you mocked in good humour. A light laugh preceded your next sarcastic question; “what are you, a hundred years old?”
With a dramatic roll of his eyes he plucked the sponge from your hand and took over. “A hundred and five, next month.” He said that so matter-of-factly you couldn’t be sure if he were just continuing along with your poor excuse for a joke.
Frowning, eyebrows pushing together, you waited for him to clarify what that had even meant. When he said nothing, you pushed; “wait, wait, what?”
Carefully, stacking the pan on the drying rack, he shrugged. “My birthday’s next month.”
Grabbing a fresh tea-towel, grimacing at the sight of water pooling on the draining board, you shook your head. “Yeah, I got that part.” You told him, catching his eyes briefly before smoothing the towel over the pan, “you’re a hundred and five?” You asked, confused by whatever joke he was telling.
Plainly, he looked at you. “Yes,” he confirmed, “you know that.”
Flabbergasted, you shook your head. “I think I’d remember something like that, Bucky?” An element of fear infected his expression at the suddenly high pitch of your voice. “It’s not like a dealbreaker,” you assured, “but… you didn’t tell me that?!”
Seeming a little more settled, he squinted at you. “I didn’t outright say it, no,” he agreed, “but it’s pretty common knowledge.”
Lips twisting you pulled your phone from your pocket, tapping furiously into the search bar. The answer shone up at you, the fact feeling more real now that it was cemented in pixels. “Huh,” you gave, clicking the phone screen off, “you’re… right.“
A laugh pealed from him as he came to lean against the counter beside you, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah - I think I know how old I am.”
You nodded, brain still almost short circuiting with this information. “I thought when you said you were older than you looked you meant you were like… fifty or something not… a centenarian.”
Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward as though to hear you better. “A what?”
“Centenarian,” you repeated, “yknow, over a hundred.” Feeling a spark of tension rolling from him, something about this subject pulling him taut, you smirked and attempted to push him back into the quiet ease of the morning. “You’re pretty spry for an old guy.”
One brow raising at you, arms uncrossing as his shoulders dropped slightly, he asked; “oh yeah?”
Nodding, springing lightly closer to him, you sent delicate fingertips over his neck. “Yeah,” you affirmed. Then, with fingers now skimming past his hairline, you added in a husky whisper; ”full of youthful stamina too.”
He ducked his head as he laughed, one hand slung lazily over your hips as the other pushed him away from the counter and closer to you. His tone dropped and became lazy in that seductive way of his, eyes bright and dark all at once as they all but smouldered over you: “You want another demonstration of that stamina?”
The loud buzz of the egg timer you had placed atop the fridge cut off any response you could make. With a new excitement infecting every movement, making you almost clumsy with bouncy haste, you moved from him to open the oven. You heard a disappointed huff from the man behind you before the egg timer was silenced, but you ignored it in favour of opening the oven and basking in the smell of hash browns.
Oven gloves quickly secured, you pulled the tray free and felt your mouth watering at the sight of golden potato.
As you dished out the rest of the breakfast items, giving him a little extra as always, you couldn’t help a last jab. “Do you want me to cut it up for you, or maybe blend it so you don’t have to chew?”
“Very funny,” he grumbled, leaning over to turn the radio back on at almost full volume; an innocent smile shot your way.
Chuckling at his attempt to drown out the sound of your laughing words, you handed him the plate.
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