#ssb 2020

The lab was surprisingly quiet: Sam was used to the frenetic chaos of Tony’s various workspaces. He’d expected robots gliding all over the places, random bursts of sparks. Even a small explosion or two. AC/DC blaring and Stark racing through the middle of it all. By contrast, Lab 2 was neat and sparse; shelving units and pegboards stacked with spare parts and tools, carefully arranged; not a thing out of place. Several large, transparent screens lined the walls, glimmering with digital blueprints, lines of code, and one bearing a surprisingly elegant floral screensaver. Three long, stainless steel tables, perhaps seven feet or so, were situated in an angular semi-circle towards the middle of the room. 

Somewhere, a piano softly played. 

No, that couldn’t be right. 

The smooth, delicate notes danced strangely at odds with the sweet, bruised smell of oil, of metal; the clanking of tools, and the rougher edges of gnarled, unfurled machinery settled on each of the tables. And yet, discomfiture aside, Sam found himself relaxing into the sound, into the space. Surely anyone who was able to make a Stark lab seem tranquil couldn’t be all that scary, right? Maybe Evan had simply -- 

“Who are you?” 

Sam jumped, and shoved his hands into his pockets in an attempt to conceal the slight tremor in them. The eyes burning at him now were pretty, but disarmingly large -- oh, no, those were magnified safety goggles. You removed them carefully, spinning the stool across the lab and into the middle of the arrangement of tables, looking him up and down with suspicion, hand outstretched for the ID badge hanging from his pocket. “Wilson,” he croaked, as you let the badge snap back to his hip. “I’m here to check on my wings.” 

Where had you come from? 

A squeaking roll, and you moved back to the lab table he’d somehow missed you hunched over; perhaps because the grey coveralls you wore were nearly the precise shade of the misshapen hunk of metal you were currently poking at. As you mumbled out a response, a few sparks burst near your ear. 

You frowned, and then reached for a screwdriver. 

“Um, my...uh, my wings? Ma’am.” Sam straightened; there was nothing really to account for the nerves prickling in his belly, only the impatience to have his wings back safe and sound. “I was hoping they’d be ready today.” 

“My shift is almost over,” you said firmly, twisting the screwdriver into some part of the metal. “Did you put in a work order for it?” 

Oh, he stiffened at that. Of course he had; Sam Wilson was nothing if not efficient. He understood protocol. “Yes.” 

You shrugged, rather nonchalantly. “Then wait for the notification that the work order has been fulfilled.” 

A quick scan of the lab and -- bingo. “I can see them right there,” Sam argued, pointing to the familiar curves of red and grey. He didn’t like being separated from them; a little flash of longing erupted somewhere inside. 

An irritated roll of your eyes, but you lifted your head to follow where he’d pointed. “Oh, right,” you said. “I finished those this morning. Just need to do one last inspection before I can release them. I can have that done by tomorrow afternoon.” You turned back to the project in front of you, as though Sam was supposed to be mollified by that. 

“Inspection? It was just a slight upgrade, can’t I take them now?” 

The screwdriver clattered to the table, and you simply blinked at him. Loch Ness Monster, Sam thought dimly, watching as you drew yourself up to your full height, glaring at him. He wondered how you could look so terrifying and so pretty at the same time. “I programmed in a shield mode upgrade to the gauntlets,” you said crisply, squaring right up to him. Oh, you smelled nice. “I need to run some final tests to make sure they don’t accidentally decapitate you in the field. Is that okay with you, Falcon?” 

Sam gulped, stomach flipping in a not-unpleasant way as you adjusted the collar of your coveralls and stalked back to the table. He hated to push, hated to pry, but he needed those wings bright and early. “Look, I --” 

Your gaze snapped to his, and this time, Sam actually took a step back at the force of it. “I need them tomorrow morning,” he said weakly, trying to summon a charming smile. The one that got him out of most shit. “Please?” 

“Nope. My shift is almost over,” you repeated. “I’m starving, and I’m leaving the Compound for dinner. You can come get those tomorrow afternoon.” 

One last shot: “What if there’s an emergency?” 

“Then get the Star Spangled Senior to attend to it,” you snapped, rubbing at your temples. “Look, man, I’m sorry. I’m just...I’m really hungry.” 

A smile erupted; borne on a tide of sheer relief, perhaps. It was a moment of candour, and honestly, Sam could relate. That after-workout shake he’d downed earlier was just not sticking with him. “How about...what about if I get you some dinner?” 

Oh, you perked up at that. Glare softening, you leaned over the table. “I want tacos,” you said slowly. “Can you make that happen?” 

Sam’s grin broadened at the sound of victory. “Yes, yes, I can.” 

The wings, as it turned out, were mostly finished: the inspection consisted of just a few coded commands, a digital form, and exactly seven minutes later, you and Sam were headed down to the garage together, stomachs rumbling in unison. You’d shimmied out of the coveralls, revealing leggings and a t-shirt, tugging on a well-worn Stark Industries sweater over that. He felt himself relaxing even more in your company as you started chatting about the upgrades, both completed and planned, to his wings. 

Talking about your work brought out a new side to you -- softer, filled with tender passion that Sam recognized from Steve opening up about art, Riley about baseball, Natasha about knives. You loved your work; it was far, far more than a job to you. 

A vocation. 

“So I’m thinking about those vibranium shielding gauntlets that the King gave to Rogers, you know?” A smile -- yes, an actual smile, as you stepped out from the elevator and into the parking garage. Sam had agreed to drive you to the only authentic food truck worth visiting, located about forty minutes away. “I like the idea of a frontal shield for you as a complement to the dorsal one. It’d be easy enough to encode and prep, but you’d had to put in another work order.” 

Sam recognized a peace offering when he saw one. “That wouldn’t overload them?” 

“Nope,” you said, opening the car door. A sleek, low, silver model; not nearly as ostentatious as the so-called low profile Audi that Tony had offered to replace the car destroyed by HYDRA’s resident psychotic senior. “Flexible carbon fibre, same as the wings. Lightweight, durable. It’ll be good. A simple code will let you program them from the gauntlets.” 

As he pulled  out of the parking garage and into the fading afternoon light -- a dull, steely blue, the hollow kind of sky that made him think of the approaching winter -- he tried to imagine, with your guidance, the benefits of an additional shielding function. You even walked him through some of the updates you’d made to one of Stark’s fleet, as well as a few gadgets you were working on remotely with Shuri. “She’s brilliant,” you gushed, the first real kindness he’d seen from you so far. “Just being able to talk with her is so inspiring. The way she sees the world.” 

Sam chuckled, and your gaze shot to his -- he didn’t miss the way your eyes lingered briefly on his hands flexing against the steering wheel, though. Interesting. “What’s so funny?” you asked brusquely. 

“Nothing bad,” he said with a shrug. “It’s just...I was talking to someone this morning who said pretty much the exact same thing about her.”

“Oh.” You settled back into the seat, placated for the moment. Outside the windows, the landscape rushed by in a washed-out autumn blur; Sam missed the vibrant, fiery oranges and reds of just a few weeks before. “Do they know her, this person?” you asked softly, eyes on the rolling fields. 

A nod, and Sam accelerated easily, merging onto the main highway. It was strangely quiet for this time of day, but perhaps the oncoming dark had drawn people closer to home. “Well, sort of. She knows of her. They’ve never actually met, but my friend wants to do a profile on her.” 

“She?”

Your expression was passive, neutral; but there was a funny, vulnerable little hitch to your tone that had Sam glancing over with some surprise. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Her name is Taylor. She’s a writer, coming by tomorrow, actually. To do an article about me.” 

Still nothing changed in your expression, and your voice was even when you answered: “I thought Stark had special PR and stuff to cover that.” 

“Taylor’s different.” She was. Taylor was special, and this opportunity? He wasn’t going to let anything jeopardize that for her. The wings were necessary. 

“So she’s the reason you wanted the wings back tonight? Planning on showing off a little?” You arched a brow, grinned over at him. Sam laughed, but declined to answer. He wasn’t quite sure how to do that. His friendship with Taylor was different: it held a unique weight, one he wasn’t sure everyone knew how to carry. 

Instead, he turned his attention back fully to the road, let you fill the slightly awkward silence with some poking at the dash, finding a satellite channel crooning smooth jazz, and then another with something old and peppy. “Dolly Parton?” he asked, amused. 

“Girl’s got style.” 

“That she does.” 

Traffic began to thicken as the highway skirted a small city. Sam relaxed into his seat and tried to think of something else to say, something to bring out that soft, endearing passion he’d seen in you while discussing your work. “You, uh, you listen to music in your lab?” 

“Music raises dopamine levels,” you explained, shrugging. “There’s theories that listening to classical music while you work can kind of put you in a heightened state, make you more receptive to new information. For me, it just kind of...drowns everything else out. Music and machines, that’s what I like. Everything else just gets to be too much.” 

Sam glanced over at you -- sweater pulled down at the wrists, staring out of the window with the touch of some delicate otherness he recognized. He was half-tempted to ask if you’d seen service, but he knew that wars were fought on many fronts, not all of them easy to put into words. So he decided to earn your trust, first: “They’re similar, in a way,” he reasoned, pulling into another lane. 

A brightening of your gaze as you found him again, fingers twitching forward to scale back the mournful strains of Jolene. “Exactly,” you said eagerly, twisting in your seat. “All the little pieces, the notes. Everything working together in tandem. When you figure out the rhythm, the song of a machine, it plays perfectly.” 

“Is that what you did with my wings?” he smiled. “What kind of music are they?” 

A wry grin; the softness touched him again, and something flipped pleasant and familiar in his belly at the brush of it. “That’s kind of for you to say, don’t you think?” Your voice was warmer now, a melody by itself. 

He thought about it. Put himself back in the air, where he belonged. Soaring, swooping. The heat and the cold and the delicious mystery of falling without fear. “I think,” Sam said slowly, weighting the words, weighing your smile, “they’re more like that piano music you were playing when I walked in. Delicate, but strong. Smooth, but dynamic. Supple.” 

“Supple,” you repeat, and the word pops like a sweet bubble. Sam has a flash of sudden longing to kiss it from your lips, steal from that tight smile, unwind it against his own mouth. “Yeah, you’re right. I like that.” 

Some things, you explained, were like classical music -- dissembled, discordant elegance, waiting for the right sequence to whole and beautiful; Tony’s suits were rock and roll, gilded and ragged and hardy; a special project you were working on for Sharon Carter, contracted by the CIA, that was jazz, and you loved it. Sam listened to you talk and fell in love at least three times before the flow of traffic ground to a standstill just before the exit ramp that would lead to his destination. 

Shocked, he sat there, hands frozen on the wheel, looking up ahead at the long, snaking line of vehicles rounding the curve of a hill and the bend of the river on your side. Honking horns and a few shouted expletives; Sam sank back into his seat with a heavy, dejected sigh. “Just hold on,” he said, tired and apologetic, thumbing in a quick search on the dashboard screen. News stories popped up rapidly, headlines warning of a sinkhole. An honest-to-God sinkhole. 

“Oh,” you said, deflated. “Guess we’re not getting tacos.” 

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled. 

The estimated time for rerouting traffic and stabilizing the area around the sinkhole was estimated to be a few hours. Drivers were being warned via the news and radio that they were to expect to be stopped for a substantial amount of time. Sam sent a quick message back to the Compound, and let his thumb pause over Taylor’s contact. Should he cancel? No, why would he? Even if he didn’t get a good night’s sleep, he could still do the interview. Couldn’t let her down, not Taylor. 

Quiet descended again; Sam itched to turn the music up, but your mood had plummeted and he wasn’t keen on making any sudden movements. This was his fault, in a way. He’d pleaded with you to stay late, taken up your time, made an elaborate promise, and now couldn’t deliver. 

The minutes ticked by, a wordless tension brewing with each one. Sam turned off the engine, released his belt, and rubbed at his temples. A plan, he needed a plan. A plan and an apology. 

But mostly he was mourning the ease of your company earlier, the warmer tone in the car. He opened his mouth to break it, but you beat him to the punch: “We’re going to be stuck in traffic for the next three hours and you want to sit in complete silence?” 

Sam flinched, mortified, and could barely bring himself to look at you. A little bit of progress, and now it was completely shot. His stomach dropped at your short tone, and he wished he’d just ordered in for you. But a sudden, welcome peal of laugher pierced through his self-berating, and he looked up and over to see the widest, sweetest smile on your lips, a gentle sorry in your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you choked, smile growing. “I honestly didn’t mean for it to come out like that, and then you looked so sad. Sam, I’m really sorry.” 

A pause; Sam sat in it for a moment, tested the waters. Turned his own multi-watt grin on you, and played along: “Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, reaching over to nudge you with his shoulder, “but you’re kind of scary.” 

“In a good way?” 

Oh, you fixed those pretty eyes on him, and he thought about Evan and his terror, wondered what you’d put the poor guy through. Decided he didn’t care, and just wanted more. “In a damn good way.” 

You winked, and the world got brighter. 

“He called me the Loch Ness Monster?” you crowed, wiggling around in your seat to face Sam fully. “Well, I suppose, there are worse things to be called.” 

“Like what? The Tooth Fairy?” Sam joked, tapping out a message on his phone. 

A roll of your eyes. “Actually, I prefer ‘Head of Research and Development.” Another wink, and Sam realized he was gone, gone and entranced by the pace of your wit, the speed of your mind. The last half hour had flown by, and he realized he actually wouldn’t mind spending the full three here with you. The conversation flowed easily, cleverly; more so after he’d been able to scrounge up some protein bars from the backseat. 

He talked freely about his military past, his hobbies, about joining the Avengers. You talked about school, about the September Foundation. About your passion, your drive. A clearer view came into sight, and Sam even found himself telling you about Taylor -- something he rarely did. 

“Her mom was with me overseas,” he said quietly. “Both tours. She...she didn’t come home.” 

Taylor was in college now, he explained. A journalism and political science major. He’d helped her and her dad out throughout the years, offering what he could. Sometimes it was just an extra pair of hands, a midnight phone call when the loss got too heavy to carry. Someone to sit next to at Taylor’s piano recitals, or her swimming competitions. A friend, an ally, a heart that knew the shape of what they had all lost. 

And now, he was offering Taylor a big break, something to add to her portfolio that would set her apart from other interns jockeying for positions at major papers all over the East Coast. Her father was driving her out to the Compound tomorrow morning; he’d take the pictures, Taylor would ask the questions. An article interviewing Sam Wilson, Falcon and Avenger? That and her stellar writing would take her right to the top of any pile of applications. 

“That’s very kind,” you said softly. Sam’s heart hammered in his chest when your fingers crept over the console, found his hand. The squeeze was tentative, uncertain, but welcome. Every day as an Avenger seemed to sweep him further and further away from the familiar shore of touch, of friendship, of tiny, simple moments. As though becoming one had relegated him only to missions, to the Quinjet, the training room, or an exhausted, dreamless sleep, fully clothed, on his lonely bed. 

But there was something about you. Something familiar and something new. Trust bloomed in the spaces between the questions still unanswered, but Sam found himself actually thrilling at the opportunity to learn, to get to know someone for the first time. 

“Head of R&D, huh?” he said, smiling down at your hand linked with his, at the pretty sparks tickling up and down his spine. Like a damn teenager all over again. “That sounds good.” 

You grinned over at him, leaned in -- Sam felt the ghost of your words as he met you halfway, as you spoke against his lips, a glancing touch, but it burned just right: “You better believe it, sunshine,” you purred, and that was it, he was in love, he wanted this more than anything, and just another centimetre, and he’d be -- 

A beep. Shrill, and insistent. Sam blinked, and found himself looking instead at the twist of your neck, took a few deep, steadying breaths that smelled of laundry soap and lost opportunities. “Um, isn’t that your...special friend?” 

Redwing. 

It hovered just outside your window, bearing a medium-sized brown paper bag, swinging slightly in the breeze. “Yeah, can you open that up?” 

Smiling, you pressed a button and the window came sliding down; Sam reached over to carefully detach the bag from the underside of the drone. “Thanks, buddy,” he said idly, and Redwing went speeding up and away in the direction of the Compound. 

“Alright, Head of R&D,” Sam said, opening up the bag and taking a deep, appreciative sniff as the scent of taco beef, cheese, and refried beans filled the car. “What’ll you have?” 

Sam very much doubted he’d ever fully get the smell of Taco Bell out of his car, but the breadth of your smile, the music of your laughter? The feel of your lips on his cheek? 

He towelled himself dry and threw on what had once been pyjamas, but now counted as a daily uniform: basketball shorts and a baggy grey t-shirt.  Why bother with anything more involved, he figured. Moving through his apartment, it was clear even to Bucky that, with one step inside, Steve would be able to realize they were in a state of Code Red. 

Clothes littered the floor; he hadn’t put the pull-out back to its sofa format in at least a week; blankets strewn all over the place. Only the kitchen counters remained fairly clean; copious boxes and bags of takeout were stuffed into one corner, of course, but no baking implements were drying on the rack, and no new recipes were stuck to the fridge. 

He hadn’t baked since the wedding. 

A sigh; it wasn’t good, and Bucky knew himself well enough to understand that these weren’t good signs. Distantly, he remembered the good steps, the better habits, the resources at his disposal, but for the life of him, he couldn’t even understand why he had sunk so, so low. 

Only that the rhythm of your breathing in the small of the night had been the prettiest, sweetest sound he’d heard in a long time. 

The memory soured with the return of the morning after -- his scars on full display, the fulsome tragedy of his situation sitting jarringly side-by-side with your soft smile, and the embarrassing confusion of the night before. You’d thought he was dating Pam; he’d thought he could tell you how he felt -- and then…

Bucky raked a hand through his messy hair and decided that he needed to do something. Couldn’t let himself slip back into poor habits, couldn’t let himself lose the progress he’d made over the past couple of years. The morning after the wedding had been uncomfortable, a mistake, even, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Didn’t have to be the end of you and him, whatever that was, and his recovery was his. His project. His baby. His life. 

And it started with cleaning. 

Well, technically, it started with a to-do list. Bucky put on a podcast he’d been meaning to get to a few weeks before, something about meringue techniques, and rummaged around his kitchen drawers for a blank sheet of paper. He ended up scrawling out his day on the back of a flyer for the school bake sale -- he managed a faint smile at the memory of your mac and cheese cake, and the thought of you only brought a small twinge this time. 

Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, emails. A simple list; Bucky added in the hope for a workout, and then decided that that would have to be the first thing anyway. Get his blood pumping, some fresh air. He could come back to the apartment fortified and energized, tackle his day with more strength. 

Just like Gina and Maria had taught him. 

He thumbed through the playlists on his phone until he’d found one that would ease him into a purposeful walk, and then tied on his sneakers and grabbed a bottle of water. One hand on the door, he turned back to look at his tiny apartment, mess that it was. The sight reminded him of the guest room he’d slept in after the hospital, the veritable hurricane his depression had been back then. How strange it had been, to have his body, his mind, feel so achingly sluggish, so sapped of energy, and to see that manifest in the world as chaos, as a storm. 

A chirp from his phone interrupted his thoughts; Bucky glanced down to see your name flash on the screen. Email. Another one. He gritted his teeth to think how he’d probably offended you, confused you. He’d done the same to Steve before, to Sharon. To friends from high school and once, in a bad, bad time, to poor little Ava. 

But he could fix it. He could. He was strong enough, resilient enough. He’d get through this, and it started with one step. 

The day melted into something so close to peace and calm that by dinnertime, Bucky felt ready to fall asleep. Three loads of laundry; fresh sheets on his bed (tucked neatly away as the sofa for now); a frozen pizza heating up in the oven and the promise of babysitting Ava and Oliver while Steve and Sharon headed out to a movie. He’d vacuumed his entire place after the invigorating walk, even found himself singing along to Patsy Cline a little while he scrubbed the bathroom. He’d tackled a huge chunk of his inbox, though he’d filtered your name. 

And hadn’t even looked at his texts yet. 

Nevertheless, things were looking up. He’d squeezed in a meditation session before getting groceries, and had stopped in at the local bookstore to pick up a new notebook after being inspired to start journaling again. It was a habit he’d let go of within the past year, and wanted to get back to. Seeing his own thoughts on the page had always somehow helped him to understand them better; as though they became something tangible once he’d trapped them in ink. Something he could translate, and hold. 

Bucky was just jotting down some thoughts about his reaction to you after the wedding when there was a knock on the door. 

Ava’s bright grin, missing her two front teeth, and a blur of rainbow pyjamas was all he could see before something solid, warm, and laughing slammed into his middle. Followed closely by a second slam, this one a rush of yellow and orange. “You got me!” he croaked, dropping to his knees with a lapful of Rogers’ kids. Oliver snuggled into his neck, same as he’d used to do as a baby, and Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle at the slightly exasperated expression on their mother’s face, looking down at the pile on the kitchen floor with some dismay. 

“Okay, kiddos, next time, we just say, ‘Hi, Uncle Bucky,’” Sharon said, shaking her head as her daughter straddled Bucky’s right arm and began braiding his hair absentmindedly. “Gotta be more careful.” 

“Yeah, Bucky’s an old man, you know.” Steve stepped into view, adjusting the sleeves of his dark blue sweater. “Isn’t that right, pal? Got your Ovaltine and crossword puzzle ready to go for tonight?” 

“Keep it up, punk, like you won’t be asleep before the opening credits.”

Sharon held up a neatly manicured hand; Bucky smiled when he noticed the bracelet he’d brought back for from the desert gleaming there. It had been for his mom, he realized again with a sinking feeling, but took firm hold of the thought, stepped outside it -- yes, it had been for his mother, but when he’d realized she would never wear it, he’d decided to give it to another important woman in his life. The closest thing to a sister he had. 

Dark brown eyes, the colour of chocolate, followed his gaze, and met him over the crown of Oliver’s head. Bucky thought of her favourite dessert -- his sangria cupcakes, topped with orange slices, a strawberry, and a blueberry. How she’d begged for them at her birthday last fall, slung her arms around his neck and proclaimed him a genius. Made him feel so special for making her feel so special. 

He cleared his throat, willing the emotion to stay down, at least for now, and asked the kids to go set the table and check the timer on his phone. At the door, Steve gave him the usual spiel -- they’d be home at ten-ish, could he bring the kids down and tuck them into bed? But they both knew that wouldn’t happen, and Sharon even jokingly put in a request for those double-chocolate cookies as she called her children back for a kiss and then headed down the stairs to the garage. Babysitting with Uncle Bucky always meant a late night, a sugar rush, and a baking experience that left pyjamas stained with frosting and fingers sticky. 

Not that anyone really minded. 

Steve watched his wife go with a half-tucked smile that clearly said he’d be along in a minute, and Bucky urged the kids to find the mismatched plastic Disney cups he’d collected as a child and had yet to actually get rid of.

The kids loved the cups, and Bucky loved them. 

“Hey” -- Steve’s voice was soft, gentle, but not superior -- “you good?” 

If Steve had asked him just twelve hours ago, Bucky probably would’ve given him a shaky “No,” but now? He glanced over his shoulder; he’d bought a big bag of chocolate chips and Hershey’s kisses; blue and purple frosting was chilling in the fridge. The apartment was clean and he thought, he really did think, he might have enough in him to answer your emails tomorrow. 

The morning had been a clear Code Red, Bucky thought with some dismay, but he’d turned it around. By himself. Because that’s what he did; took care of himself. “You know what,” he said, smiling widely at his oldest friend, “I’m doing just fine, Stevie. You?” 

Steve could see through his brave face, just as well as Bucky could see through his. There was little room for lies in a friendship as old as theirs, as thorough and as deep, so Bucky didn’t bother. “Doing just fine,” meant that he hadn’t been doing that well. That Steve’s texts and random visits, the one probing conversation they’d had a few days ago -- that concern had all been warranted. But the trust between them, that Bucky always knew his best and oldest friend was just a phone call away, that help was never far, meant that they could take their own steps, too. Embrace healing in their own way.

A hand reached out over the threshold, but Steve didn’t bother -- there were moments for handshakes, and there were moments for hugs. Steve drew Bucky closer, eyes closing on the clean, warm apartment, the baking supplies out on the counter, and the sight of his son and daughter snuggling up with their favourite cushions on the sofa. He breathed in the sweet scent of hope and resilience that seemed, somehow to Steve, after all these years, to smell of something fresh-baked. Something warm and sprinkled in sugar. 

Something uniquely Bucky. 

And he smiled. 

The cookies made the apartment smell warm and sweet, and there was something so satisfying about glancing over to see Ava and Oliver curled up on the couch, watching a movie, while Bucky set to washing the dishes. On the kitchen table, the teddy bears cooled -- a soft touch from his childhood, that’s what they were. As though his mother had stepped into the place with them, leaned over to take a deep sniff, and proclaimed them “Perfect,” just as he had. To Ava and Ollie’s delight. 

Sure, some of them were lopsided, with winsome or crooked smiles, and most had mismatched M&M eyes, at Oliver’s request, but mostly, Bucky was simply happy that he’d just done something. Gently wrested himself free of the bad things, the sad things. The heavy things. 

“Hey, princess.” Bucky grinned at the light squeeze to his middle. Ava had a habit of tucking herself there, face smushed into his back. “How’s the movie?” 

“Kinda dumb,” she said lightly, peering around his elbow to see the bubbly sink. “Do you need any help?” 

He glanced down at her; she had her mother’s eyes and her father’s reckless streak, all impulsive courage. Gymnastics and bike tricks and daredevil theatres on the rope swing out in the backyard. It amazed him, sometimes, that watching Ava was somehow so close to having Steve back, as though he could step back into his childhood while running around with this pigtailed hellion who reminded him so easily of simple days. 

But she was quiet tonight, and soft. In need of cuddles, after the excitement of pizza and cookies, and Bucky knew her well enough to know she thought she was too old now to ask for that. So he placed the last dish in the drying rack and wiped off his hands, the scent of citrus rising on the air and causing a lingering bit of tension from a busy day to dissipate. Rest was as important as doing, he reminded himself firmly. Rest was good. 

A cookie for each of them and two glasses of milk for the kids; Bucky settled between them on the couch and listened as Oliver explained the plot of the cartoon he’d chosen. “So the turkeys are trying to stop Thanksgiving?” he asked, slightly dumbfounded. 

“Smart, right?” Ollie laughed and snuggled further into Bucky’s embrace. The left side. He swallowed thickly as Ava prattled on about her favourite turkey and Ollie pressed his nose to Bucky’s t-shirt. Not squirming away from the knotted, angry scars snaking around his flesh; not shuddering at the press of war against his yellow pyjama sleeve. 

Tears, unbidden and hot, crept up his throat at the sight of the cheery, bright stripes of Oliver’s shirt, under the heavy, ugly weight of Bucky’s pain. But Oliver didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because to Oliver, to Ava, to Steve and Sharon, Bucky was so much more than that pain. It was there, of course it was, in the nightmares and the Code Reds and the soft, sad look Sharon got in her eyes on the heavy anniversaries, the day in November when he and Steve would go so quiet, retreat somewhere grey and private. It was there in the therapy appointments, in the journals he’d once poured his broken, bleeding heart into; in the recipes he clung to, and the hope he both nurtured and craved. 

You hadn’t squirmed away from his arm, either. You hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him with disgust, with fear. Hadn’t touched him with anything more than honesty, than friendship, generosity. And what had he done? Thrown it all back in your face. 

The intimacy of sharing a bed, of knowing what you looked like as you slept, of knowing how much at risk he had put you by letting his guard down in your presence -- that was something he could’ve explained. Hadn’t Kathy said all that, in so many words? Being honest, speaking his truth. Letting you know that he had honest-to-God butterflies in his stomach every time you looked at him, that he wanted something more than just emails about parties and weddings. That sitting across from Pam that afternoon had shown him two things: that he was capable of connecting, of letting someone new in, someone that hadn’t known him Before, only After; and that he liked Pam, really liked her, wanted her in his life, but that there was a marked difference in the way he felt around her, and the way he felt around you. 

Hell, there was a difference in the way he felt without her, and without you. Going out without you was like…

Like trying to breathe with one lung. Like trying to bake with no recipe. Like hoping that something good could come from no effort, from pretending you didn’t need anything. As though he could find his way through the dark. Trying to go home with no directions.

Bucky waited until the kids had dropped off, Ava’s breathing evening out against his chest, Ollie’s right leg twitching a little, slung across his lap. Gingerly, he managed to reach across the side table for his phone, thumbed through until he found the litany of emails from you. All with polite, professional subject lines; your texts were another matter. Less consistent; slimmer; and clearly showing some sense of fading hope. 

The last one, from earlier today -- I hope you’re okay. 

A sharp exhale -- Bucky worked to fight the sinking feeling of guilt deep in his stomach. Yeah, he should’ve emailed you. Texted. Let you know he was okay. But he couldn’t go back in time; all he had was right now.

Maybe he couldn’t fix the whole thing; but he could start with an apology. 

Hey…

He didn’t go into a ton of detail; just acknowledged the rudeness of his silence and what it must have felt like for you. I haven’t been at my best the past couple of weeks, he explained, as Ava stirred and snuggled closer, under his arm. 

By the blue glow of the television, he waited for your response. It was late in the evening, and you might be working. Wedding season, after all. He sat with the anxiety, and talked it down. Dismantled it. Looked it face-on and saw it for what it was. 

When your text came in, Bucky paused for a minute, shifting on the couch under Oliver’s weight and living in the moment before your (he assumed) profound disappointment. Maybe even dislike. And he had to accept that, had to hold that possibility in his mind for a while before thumbing open the message and reading, eyes widening. 

I’m so glad to hear from you. I’ve got a bit of a problem I could use your help with, if you wouldn’t mind. So happy to hear you’re doing better. 

No emojis, but that was okay. Your tone throughout was simple but warm, and when he texted you back to ask for more details, you came at him with a request to come over to your place. An address. Tomorrow morning, if possible. What’s going on? Bucky asked, wincing. Hoping he didn’t sound too forward. 

Bit of an emergency. 

He frowned, anxiety twisting anew in his stomach. You okay? 

At the response, slow coming and lengthy when it appeared, Bucky almost jumped off the couch, and had to settle for wiggling around under the two little bodies sprawled over him. He checked his watch; Steve and Sharon should be home in another half hour. He hoped you could wait long enough. 

Bucky’s nerves were frayed by the time you opened the door, a baleful smile firmly in place and clad in cozy pyjamas that made his mouth go dry and his hands tremble around the tray of brownies he’d hastily tossed in the oven from his freezer supply. “Are those...where did you get flowers at 10:30 at night?” you asked, eyes dancing as you reached for the treats. “Come in, cupcake guy.” 

Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Bucky followed you into your apartment, having paced back and forth outside of it for several minutes while double-checking the address you’d texted. Any calm he’d garnered throughout his recovery day had been disrupted by his nervousness now, not to mention the blush that was slowly flooding his cheeks as he took in your living space. Yours. 

Warm and inviting, soft blankets and candles. A small tank of fish burbled over by one window, and, with your trademark efficiency, you pulled out a pretty vintage vase for the flowers he’d manically picked from the Rogers’ garden before jumping into his truck. “I really appreciate this, Bucky,” you said, fluffing up the hydrangeas and leaning in to smell them. “The flowers, the brownies, and...and you. You’re a really good friend, coming over like this.” 

“It’s no problem,” he said gruffly, kicking off his shoes and following you further into the apartment. The kitchen was small, and ordinarily, he was sure, neat as a pin, but it currently looked like a murder scene. “Uh…I thought you were, uh, baking.” 

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” A broad smile unfurled, as you gestured to the chaotic mess behind you. “Well, my secret’s out -- now you see what happened to the last guy I had over,” you joked, swiping a finger delicately through a puddle of red splashed across your refrigerator door. “Hank was nice, but -- blergh.” Your face twisted in disgust as the food colouring hit your tongue. “Ugh, that’s gross. See why I need your help?”

Bucky pressed down a grin at your expense, and reached for a roll of paper towel overturned by the sink. The kitchen was a disaster, bowls and boxes and messy spoons dripping red, cakey gore. A printed recipe sheet was soaked through with egg, and the faint scent of burning made him wrinkle his nose. “Okay, so you mentioned...a party?” 

“Not just any party.” You sighed, gesturing towards the living room. Bucky followed with some faint disbelief: he was in your home, your space. A place permeated with and radiating you. “It’s Sam’s homecoming party. Tomorrow.”

Sam. Bucky’s stomach dropped, because homecoming could mean so many things: for Steve, it had been marriage, family; for Bucky, physical therapy and a funeral home. For others still, it was a folded flag and retreating to memory. 

But you wouldn’t be telling him this if it was bad, he thought firmly, sinking down onto the warm, soft sofa and willing the tension to leach out of his body. This wasn’t a bad thing. This wasn’t a sad thing. There’d be no party if it was. “Nat asked me to plan it, because she’s been so busy. Trying to prep to take some time off when he’s back, you know? And Riley doesn’t know, most of their friends don’t, it’s a total surprise. You and I are the only other ones who know.” 

Something close to pleasure kind of purrs inside him, this thought of being close to you in this way. Trusted. After how he’s left you in the lurch these past few weeks, he hardly deserves it, but he’s happy to be here. “So what are your plans?” 

A sigh, and you tucked your feet up underneath you, facing Bucky as you began talking about a barbecue, a pool party. Another bouncy castle. He sank into the easy embrace of work talk, the spell you wove when you got so enthusiastic about crafting joy and celebration for others. It was a magic he brushed, with his baking. “Sam’s favourite cake, apparently, is red velvet, and it’s driving me crazy,” you groaned, sinking forward, forehead to his shoulder. His left shoulder. 

He froze; the scent of your perfume tangled with sugar; pressed up against him and your mouth, as you spoke, almost brushed the sleeve of his shirt. Underneath your pretty skin, there were dark, old, ragged scars. A legacy of pain. 

No one touched him there, except his family. 

And yet, he shivered pleasantly under your touch, couldn’t help but grin when you shook your head back and forth in frustration against him. “I can’t make the cake, Bucky,” you grumbled. “It hates me.”

“‘S’alright,” he said, awkwardly patting you on the back. “I can walk you through it. I’ve got a couple tricks for red velvet.” 

“Yeah?” Your eyes drifted up to meet his; Bucky realized for the first time how tired you looked. It seemed faintly and unfairly ironic to him that bringing joyful celebrations to others necessitated so much time and energy sacrificed on your part, but he knew that, come tomorrow, you’d be waltzing into Natasha’s backyard with a big smile and a stylish outfit, no matter how little sleep you’d gotten. 

Gently, he touched the curve of your jaw with his left hand. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, a tingle bursting along his spine at the hitch in your breathing, the softness of your skin. The smile in your eyes, and on your lips. 

As the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight, Bucky found himself guiding you through his mother’s red velvet recipe -- by memory -- in the freshly-cleaned and reclaimed kitchen. Wearing a borrowed apron patterned with dachshunds on skateboards (“housewarming gift, please don’t ask”), Bucky expertly whipped up four egg whites, explaining as he did that it made the texture of the cake, as he put it, “magical.”

“Magical?” You peered dubiously into the mixing bowl he’d rescued from your earlier attempts. “Pixie dust or something?” 

Bucky laughed; at first, it had come out rusty, but with more jokes and more comfort -- especially the brief soap-suds fight you’d initiated over the sink -- it now emerged smooth. Natural. “Something like that,” he chuckled, before walking you through the next few steps of the recipe. 

“You know, this was my mom’s wedding cake recipe,” he mentioned off-handedly, watching you confidently begin folding in the ingredients. “She loved making this.”

Your pretty smile was all it took for him to feel weak in the knees; better still was the swipe of cream cheese frosting on your cheek. “She must be proud of you,” you said, reaching for the bowl of frosting Bucky had whipped up, to place it in the fridge; easier for piping, he’d told you, if it was chilled. “Starting your own business.” 

His mouth went dry; a spasm shot up his left arm, and the realization came to a screeching halt right there in your tiny kitchen, as you brushed the flour from your own apron and gently placed the bowl inside the fridge. You didn’t know; he hadn’t told you. 

“Uh…” But the words wouldn’t come. They had never come easily. As though the truth about his mother, the cold reality of a world without her in it, was an unspeakable thing. And your smile, your face, your relief over him finally replying to you, explaining in some part the reason he’d been so distant the past few weeks -- he was about to wipe that away. “She, um, she passed away a few years ago. While I was deployed. I-I didn’t tell you.”

Bucky looked down at the bowl of red batter, at the tiled floor, at the dish towel hanging over the oven handle -- anywhere but at you. The soft mix of sympathy and awkwardness, he’d never really been able to deal with that. Not his mother’s friends, clucking and cooing over him as they talked about flower arrangements and obituary fonts; not even Steve and Sharon, who’d been young and in love and inexperienced with grief. Kathy, at the wedding, had been a rare exception, perhaps because she reminded him of his mother, and -- 

A shiver passed through him at the barest brush of your hand, gently intertwining your fingers with his. He glanced up; your gaze was soft, sad but not pitying. “I’m so sorry, Bucky,” you murmured. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Courage, and something sweet, melted on his tongue, and Bucky found himself squeezing your hand, reaching to wipe the frosting from your cheek. Your lips parted, and he found himself stroking his thumb, just lightly, against them. It wasn’t time for kissing, he thought dimly, not when this loss sat so prominently between the two of you, but he wanted you to know he felt. He just felt. Everything he had pushed away for a long time -- buried in nicknamed girls, and mountains of journals; in baking and driving and running and now this. A safe place to land. 

He was safe here. So were you. And he couldn’t imagine how it had happened, how quickly it had been born. That, just a few weeks ago, you had been a friend of a friend and a name he couldn’t quite remember -- the event planner. 

Now, you were you, in all that wonderful knowledge. And you took a step closer, loosened his hand, and tucked yourself against his chest. Vaguely, Bucky registered your hands winding around him, pressed to his back; stunned, he sank into it. 

It was a homecoming kind of hug, and he felt -- pressing his forehead to your shoulder, breathing deep the smell of your perfume, of cocoa powder and frosting -- that he’d been gone for such a long time. Away and apart from these sweet stirrings. These knowings.

As the night drew on, and batter sat unfinished on the counter, Bucky embraced you there in the kitchen, listening to your kind words and wondering if your lips tasted as sweet as the things you said. He shared more, unsheathing his history in greater, and sadder, detail than he’d done in the cabin; and carried more of yours in return. Several times throughout the baking process, you touched him simply: a hand to his back, a smile he could feel. 

And by one a.m., in the wordless way of old, old friends, Bucky fell asleep on your sofa, a blue blanket stretched over him; the smell of the red velvet cake permeating the apartment with a rich, decadent perfume. You gave him a smile, and a kiss to his forehead that, surprisingly, didn’t make him feel like a little kid. 

No, it made him feel cared for. Wanted. Safe. 

The water ran in your bathroom; soft, lilting music flowed from your bedroom. As he drifted off to the sounds of you winding down for the night, Bucky thought of what he had written about you in his journal: 

I know it’s fast, but I know it’s her. 

Thank God. 

A deep breath, and Bucky reached out awkwardly with his elbow to nudge the doorbell. Wished he had thought to run a hand through his hair before getting out of the car, but it was too late. 

The door swung open to reveal a pair of panicked green eyes; a sharp mouth, swiped with scarlet and twisted with worry. “You’re James?” the woman asked, voice pouring out so husky and quick Bucky almost mistranslated his own name. “The cupcake guy?”

The cupcake guy. He tasted the phrase for a second, let it sit on his tongue -- without a proper business name, Bucky often felt a little afloat, and this one certainly had its charms. “Hi,” he imagined saying, “I’m the Cupcake Guy.” 

Half a beat too late, he realized that the woman -- Ms Romanoff, if he remembered correctly, which he surely should -- had impatiently repeated her question. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he said quickly. “I got a little turned around by the Costco.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” She reached out to take the top tray; Bucky swallowed a prayer at her sudden grip, hoping beyond hope it wouldn’t cause the whole stack to topple over. “Let’s take these through to the kitchen, huh? Follow me.” 

The house unfolded around him in a chaotic rush; a burst of noise from the open patio doors leading to the backyard revealed an ample pool, a bright pink moonbounce shaped like a fairytale castle. A woman with long, shining brown curls stood in the middle of a gaggle of eager children, all grabbing at her sparkly yellow gown, the star-tipped wand she waved over their heads. Bucky chuckled to himself as he followed Ms Romanoff further into the glossy kitchen, dodging a small yipping puppy around his ankles, and generally leaning into the chaos of the moment. 

“Cupcakes here,” she said, setting down the first tray near the sink. “You do candles, yes?” Ms Romanoff didn’t wait for an answer before poking at two towers of sandwiches on the marble kitchen island, adjusting labels scrawled with glittering calligraphy. PB & J, Royal Ham Salad. “Hello?” 

Bucky tore his eyes away from the princess in the backyard, from the hundred-and-one kids careening into the pool. Parents mingled around; music poured from a radio somewhere in the spotless living room, draped with balloons and streamers and stuffed unicorns -- and Ms Romanoff snapped her manicured fingers under his nose. “Candles, please. And you did the special one for my daughter?” 

The dog’s high-pitched barking abruptly seemed to intensify, as Bucky scrambled to quell the rising twist of panic in his belly. “Um, yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Of course. Unicorn with a tiara, you got it.” 

“Mommy!” 

Ms Romanoff swore under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’m sorry I’m a little short. The pizza delivery got messed up, and my neighbours are threatening to call the cops, and then you were late, and my husband isn’t here, and I --” 

“Nat.” 

Both turned at the arrival of a cool, smooth voice; Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets as you stepped into the kitchen, professional and friendly with an open smile and a pale lilac blouse. Setting a clipboard down carefully next to the sandwiches, you wrapped an arm around Ms Romanoff’s shoulders, nodding at Bucky briefly. “Hey,” you said softly, rubbing across the sleeves of her blazer. It occurred to Bucky then that Ms Romanoff looked as though she’d dressed for a board meeting, rather than her daughter’s birthday party. “I called Fred; the order didn’t get lost, the delivery kid just forgot his phone. He’s on his way. And I popped next door with some sandwiches and a coupon for the pizza place. They’re fine. And look” -- your eyes shifted to light on Bucky’s then, grinning broadly -- “our cupcake hero is here!” 

Bucky couldn’t keep the flush from his cheeks at the warmth of your tone, the brightness of your smile. “Everything’s fine. And we’re going to Skype Sam at three, yeah?” 

Tension slithered from Ms Romanoff’s whole frame with a deep, steadying exhale. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I need to --” 

“Mommy!” 

Bucky turned to see a forthright little girl, springy curls gathered in two buns on the side of her head, marching in from the backyard, a bewildered princess in tow. “Mommy, you’re supposed to come watch me jump in the castle,” the girl said firmly, swinging the tulle skirt of her dress with her free hand. “You promised. Four times.” 

“You know what, Riley?” You crouched down carefully in front of the girl, taking both her hands in yours. Bucky suppressed a smile as the princess hissed in relief, subtly flexing her hand in the folds of her skirt. “Mommy’s not only going to watch you jump, she’s going to jump with you. Would you like that?” 

Riley’s smile burst wide and sunny, even as her mother’s jaw dropped. “Mommy’s going to what?” she repeated.

“Yes, she is,” you said through a tight smile, flashed over your shoulder quickly. “Your mom just needs to go change, okay, sweetheart?” 

Clapping her hands with a high giggle, Riley dashed back out into the yard on springy, bare feet. You watched her go, a fond, familiar expression on your face that somehow, miraculously, calmed Bucky’s roiling nerves, helped him settle into the moment. “Pam, why don’t you take a break,” you said, touching the princess’s arm gently, where white gloves were pulled up to her elbows. “Have some water and a sandwich. I’ll go entertain the masses for a few minutes. Chloe still good with the moonbounce?” 

The princess nodded wearily, her tiara drooping precariously over her forehead. You pointed to a high-backed stool at the breakfast counter, and then proceeded to order Ms Romanoff upstairs to find “leggings, a t-shirt, and for God’s sake, a sports bra. We don’t want a repeat of the Abners’ party.” 

Bucky busied himself with unpacking the cupcakes, arranging them carefully on the empty glass tiered display towers. Four dozen of them, all in varying ombre shades of pink and purple, topped with miniscule unicorns -- except for the most special one, which belonged to Riley. The unicorn was larger on this one, and wearing a gold-painted tiara hooked around its horn. Bucky had laboured over the thing for hours, and almost knew a little sense of loss as he settled the birthday girl’s cupcake in the centre of a small plate. 

So engrossed was he in the work, he almost jumped out of his skin when your hand settled lightly on his shoulder. “Sorry.” Your smile was just as warm, just as steady, as it had been for Ms Romanoff -- who, Bucky realized, had disappeared. “Thank you so much for filling in on short notice,” you said softly. “We really appreciate it. My usual caterer kinda flaked on me.” 

The party planner. Ms Romanoff had mentioned something on the phone earlier in the week, during her desperate, nine p.m. call, pressing on the “friend-of-a-friend” connections that had caused Bucky’s name to crop up. Steve had apparently been talking him up during a dinner months ago. 

He flushed now, wiping his hand on his jeans to reach out and shake yours. “Thanks,” he rasped; nerves had scraped at his throat. “I appreciate you taking a chance on me.” 

“A chance? You come highly recommended, according to Natasha. She’s very grateful you stepped in.” Arms wrapped around your middle, you leaned back against the countertop, sighing deeply. “I apologize on her behalf...she’s a little frazzled. A perfectionist, you know? And with Sam away…” 

Bucky felt his stomach sink at the name, and the sudden furrow in your brows as your voice trailed off.  In his texts explaining the situation, Steve had been brief. Mentioning Ms Romanoff as a friend, the birthday party, and a caterer who’d backed out at the last minute. “Her husband?” 

“Yeah.” The corners of your mouth turned up wistfully. “Sam’s great. He’s in the military. Been deployed almost seven months now. Riley and Nat miss him like crazy, and sometimes...family stuff is just a lot without him.” 

He nodded, a strange buzzing filling his ears at the mention of Sam’s job. So that’s how Steve knew him. “I can imagine,” he said, clearing his throat. 

Oh, he certainly could. 

“Anyway” -- you pushed away from the counter, bright smile determinedly back in place -- “you’re our hero today, James. That’s for sure. I’d better get back out there. Feel free to help yourself to sandwiches, there’s cold drinks in the fridge. Could you make sure Her Royal Highness here takes a break?” 

The princess rolled her eyes playfully, biting into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had been carved into a neat star. You pushed a can of sparkling water closer, and winked over your shoulder at Bucky. “I’m going to show those kids how a pro jumper works in that moonbounce. If you need anything, let me know.” 

Bucky felt some awkwardness settle over the kitchen once you’d left; he exchanged a clumsy, uncertain look with the princess, who pulled off her long gloves and reached out a hand across a tray half-filled with cupcakes. “I’m Pam,” she said kindly. “You’re James?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Might as well. ‘Bucky’ was enough for friends, but if he wanted to make a go of this business, ‘James Barnes’ might sound better. “Nice to meet you.” 

A pretty smile -- a kind air. Bucky warmed to her after just a few minutes of conversation, learning that she was a grad student, paying most of her bills with princess parties on the weekends. “It’s easy money,” she laughed, “even though I look ridiculous.” 

An old instinct fluttered in Bucky’s ear; memory tugging earnestly. “You look great,” he blurted, squeezing the cupcake in his hand much too hard. 

“Thanks, James.” Pam’s eyes darkened -- a rich, chocolate brown. She leaned forwards on the counter; Bucky’s blood boiled: it had been a long time since a woman had looked at him so. “You know, I think it’s super cute that you bake.” 

Super cute?

Pam meant well, Bucky knew, but he bristled at the insinuation. Cute? No. Baking was so much more than ‘cute.’ But she couldn’t be expected to understand that, he reasoned. It was unfair of him to hope anyone would be able to know, to feel what he felt. “I enjoy it,” he said stiffly. And Pam, attentive as she was, picked up on the change in his tone. 

“That’s so cool,” Pam smiled. “It’s so important to have a job you actually enjoy.” 

From there, the conversation bloomed easily. Bucky stumbled a few times, still awkward at the thought of small talk. Pam chatted about school, the other princesses she played; a birthday party she’d been to two weeks before when a mother had gone into labour. “She, uh, really put the ‘birth’ into ‘birthday,’ I guess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. He winced. 

A laugh -- the prettiest he’d heard in a long, long time. Pam joined in as you reached over her shoulder for a cell phone he hadn’t yet seen. “Talented in the kitchen and funny,” you said warmly. “Don’t let this one get away, Your Highness.” 

As Pam gathered her long, tulle skirt and slid off the stool, Bucky stood back and looked at the arrangement of cupcakes. Forty-eight in total, all shimmering with a healthy dose of edible glitter. Something warm flooded his stomach, and his lips curved up into an easy, honest smile. He’d done it. “These look amazing,” you said, turning the phone around and angling it with the air of experience. “Mind if I take a few photos for our socials? I’ll link to yours, of course.” 

He blinked. “Socials?” 

“You know, Instagram. Twitter. We have a Facebook page and a website, too. How about you?” 

The pride he’d felt only seconds before sputtered out, and Bucky shuffled self-consciously from one foot to the other. “Uh, I don’t...I’m still…” 

“You’re still getting started?” God, you had a nice smile. “No worries. How about I take the pictures, you leave your business card, and I’ll email them to you. Sound good?” 

It would -- it would sound great, in fact, if Bucky actually had a business card to offer. Pushing the hair back from his forehead, he tried to summon somewhat of an apologetic look -- relieved when you simply waved your hand. “I get it, honestly. Look, you write down your email, whatever contact you feel comfortable providing, and when you get your socials up and running, let me know, okay? I’d love to recommend you to others, and, if you’re willing, hire you again.” 

“Again?” You hadn’t even tried a damn cupcake yet. 

“Seriously, you saved the day.” A few snaps of the camera phone, and you twisted around the island, inadvertently brushing past him in the small space. Bucky stepped back, chewing his lip, shivering when your elbow pulled back and almost touched him again. “These are gorgeous, and you’re reliable.” 

“I was late,” he reminded you.

“But you’re nice and polite, and you make wonderful cupcakes,” you countered, jutting out your elbow playfully. “Look, the company I used to hire constantly let me down, and to be honest, the guy is kind of a jerk. It’d be a pleasure to work with you and support your new business, if you’re alright with that.” 

He weighed it. His living situation wasn’t ideal, and his pension was good, but not enough to live on solely. And most other workplaces he was qualified for wouldn’t be conducive to his newer requirements. Baking afforded him the quiet he needed, the more gradual pace. And he did want to turn this venture into something more substantial. 

On the back of your business card, then, he wrote his number, his email, and his more formal James Barnes. “Nice handwriting,” you said, offering out another card. Bucky glanced down, realized that in the frenzy, you hadn’t given him your name until now. 

It was lovely. It was you. 

Written in a dancing script, on a lavender card, promising Pretty Parties, excellent service, and showing off the various social media handles he’d be sure to check out later. “Got a business name in mind yet?” you asked, turning at the slapping of bare feet on the hardwood floor -- Riley was back, eyes bright with sugar and panting slightly from her efforts in the moonbounce. Bucky looked out; somehow, Ms Romanoff had made her way outside without him realizing. In a house this big, he was sure they had another entrance to the backyard. He was glad to see her jumping around with a pair of little boys, red hair bouncing in a high ponytail, and a broad grin on her face. 

“James?” 

“Huh?” He tried to refocus, on Riley’s gap-toothed smile, on your pretty voice. “Sorry?” 

“I asked if your business has a name.” Patient, calm. Easy. You were so easy to talk to. Riley reached up, and fluidly, without even needing to look at her, you lifted, perching her on your hip, keeping a steady, light gaze on him. “No pressure, I’m just curious.” 

“Mommy said he’s the cupcake guy,” Riley chirped, burying her face in your neck.

Bucky laughed -- an honest-to-goodness, soul-loosening laugh. Frayed nerves from late nights and hoping so badly everything would go according to plan today, they all just simmered down, leaving him with a pleasant, warm buzz. “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I’m the Cupcake Guy.” 

The car smelled like tacos by the time Bucky finally managed to pull into Steve’s driveway, easing the sedan into the spot next to Sharon’s SUV and his own truck. Neither had moved, so he suspected the five of them had enjoyed a quiet family afternoon together. A pinch of loneliness struck him as he made his way into the garage, thumbing through the pocket of his hoodie for his house keys while the sound of some cartoon burbled out from the living room. He poked his hand in far enough to drop Steve’s car keys on the kitchen counter, and then backed out, heading for the second door at the back of the garage. 

His door. 

With a sigh, Bucky climbed the creaking steps up to the studio apartment, the promise of tacos, the next episode of an astronomy docuseries, and a scroll through your social media posts the only things bringing even a faint smile to his face. Couldn’t help but sink down a little every time he came home, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. 

It wasn’t much, and he supposed he ought to be grateful. A kitchenette, his own bathroom, and room for a sofabed and his television. Most of the furniture had been there before he’d come back from the hospital, inherited from Sharon’s great-aunt, which explained the aggressively-floral pattern of the sofa and the curving, elegant legs of the TV stand and end tables. 

Bucky had made some small efforts to infuse his own presence into the space. Family pictures from his childhood on the walls; a landscape of Arctic tundra he’d picked out from a yard sale months ago. He liked the contrast of a cold desert; he’d grown too used to the heat. 

On his fridge, there were magnetic school pictures of the Rogers kids, a calendar reminding him of therapy appointments and weekly get-togethers at the VA. Printed recipes and now -- he thought with a smile, standing back to look at the pastel paper held up by a plum-shaped fridge magnet -- your business card. Your name. 

He ate his tacos on the couch, the documentary running in the background, as he scrolled through Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram on his phone. Stunning pictures -- birthday parties, weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs. There’s you, smiling that wonderful smile with Pam in a mermaid costume, a long red wig tossed over one shoulder. 

Under each picture, he read gushing comments from clients. On Facebook, he found more in-depth, personal descriptions. One bride and groom could not stop raving about your attention to detail; the care you took to make each and every client feel special, no matter the occasion. He found a handful of terse complaints about food arriving late, one about a birthday cake that had fallen in the middle. Even then, in your responses to those complaints, your voice sounded warm, and sweet. 

After nearly forty minutes of scrolling, though, he saw that a new picture had popped up. 

His cupcakes. 

They looked wonderful -- that glowing pride burst in him again, and a smile broke out as he read your caption: These stunners were made by the one and only Cupcake Guy. Social links coming soon! Princess Riley enjoyed a magical eighth birthday today -- swipe for more pics! 

A couple of swipes, and he had his own. Instagram would serve well enough for now, he figured. Once he got a handle on where exactly this whole thing was going, he could look into other options. But seeing the blank possibility of @thecupcakeguy’s page? He couldn’t stop grinning. 

After texting you the handle, following @prettyparties, and searching the tags for a few more baking accounts, Bucky fired off a quick message to Steve. “Thanks for the car,” he typed. “If you have time tomorrow, think you can help me figure out a design for a business card? Today went well.” 

Within two seconds, a row of encouraging emojis came back. Bucky rolled his eyes; his oldest friend was a little heavy-handed with the characters. “Would love to, already have a few ideas in mind. Names?”

Bucky couldn’t hold back the smile as he wrote his choice. Seeing it there felt pretty damn good -- real. Authentic. As though he belonged. “It just slipped out,” he added.

“It’s perfect. Nat texted and said to say thanks. Riley was thrilled.” 

A deep breath, and Bucky collapsed back against the sofa. 

Mission accomplished, he thought drowsily. Maybe things were going to be alright after all. 

The sky is on fire. 

Bleeding black flame and choked screams; Bucky tears his way through a cardboard wall, a fluttering layer of green silk. And then glass. Impenetrable, thick; cold as ice. If everything weren’t so dry, so hot, he might think it were ice. 

But nothing that cold could stay here. 

A scream crawls its way up his throat, bubbling out as the softest whimper. He touches his own chest; fingers come away bloody, and he starts to cry, wants his mom, wants to go home, just home. Where things are soft. 

The fire comes closer, drip-drip-dripping down from the sky, and it touches him, strokes him, and he can’t get away, he can never get away, and it’s melting his arm, flesh fusing to bone and he wants to die, just die, because wouldn’t it be sweet? Would it be -- 

Panting, Bucky jerked awake, body doused in cold sweat. He peeled away the t-shirt, leaving him in just a pair of boxers and the phantom pain streaking up his arm. A flick of his bedside lamp, because no matter how many times his therapist has explained he doesn’t have to, he just needed to check. 

The scars looked more vicious in the half-hearted light. Red and white by turns, skin puckering up at the shoulder. Snaking down toward his wrist, the skin seemed almost angry, and he looked away, tried to steady his breathing and his pounding heart. 

It was always the same, the dream. Never changing. And it was the consistency of it that horrified him the most. If it were simply a matter of reliving the war, of seeing familiar faces, long gone; of the chaos of waking up in the hospital; maybe a memory of being in the humvee just moments before -- he could’ve handled that. Swallowed the bits and pieces of his past, meted out in more manageable doses. 

But to touch that day, over and over again. To know that pain and fear, every night that he closed his eyes -- a sob settled in his throat, but he willed it to say down. Not that Steve and Sharon could hear him from up here, but starting...letting that go, he could never be sure if he’d be able to stop. 

A deep, rasping breath, and Bucky swung his legs over the side of the bed. Head spinning, heart pounding, he made his way into the kitchen, quietly reaching for flour, for eggs, for peace of mind.