#team dinner

He angles the screen away like you’re not allowed to see the world’s least thrilling secret. “Nothing.”

That’s Bucky-speak for everything.

“James,” you sing, because apparently pregnancy has also turned you into the kind of woman who can’t resist teasing her husband at eight in the morning. “Let me see.”

He sighs like he’s deeply burdened, sets his phone down, and slips his flesh hand around your waist—fingers splayed under your ribs like he’s grounding himself. His metal hand, cooler, steady, cups the underside of your stomach like it already knows what it’s meant to protect.

Then he says, flatly, “Apparently you can’t have deli meat unless it’s heated until it’s steaming.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“And the fancy soft cheeses are a risk,” he continues, voice tight. “Unless they’re pasteurized. But some places lie about it. There’s a list.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Are you… studying my food?”

His jaw works, and you can see it—how seriously he’s taking this, like your pregnancy comes with an enemy dossier. “It’s not just your food,” he mutters. “It’s ours.”

You laugh, soft and helpless, and he looks offended by it—not angry, just… wounded that you’d find it funny when he’s clearly doing Something Important.

“Oh my God,” you say, leaning back into his chest. “Bucky.”

“It’s not funny,” he insists, but his voice drops, gentler. “It’s… you. It’s the baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, and you cover his hand on your belly with your own. “I know. But you don’t have to do this like it’s a war.”

“It is,” he says instantly, and then pauses like he realizes how insane that sounds out loud. He clears his throat. “I mean. It feels like it.”

There’s a moment where the kitchen is just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of Sam talking too loudly somewhere down the hall, and Bucky’s breathing at your back.

Then he adds, quieter, “I don’t get to mess this up.”

Your heart tugs—so hard it almost aches. You turn in his arms, press your palms to his chest, and look up at him. “You’re not going to mess this up.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. Like he wants to believe you, but belief has always been something he has to earn.

“Come here,” you say, and you kiss him—slow, patient, the way you’ve learned he needs when he’s spiraling quietly.

When you pull back, he exhales like you’ve just loosened a knot under his ribs.

“Okay,” you murmur. “But if you start grilling waiters about pasteurization, I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

“I’ll be subtle,” he promises.

You raise an eyebrow.

He looks you dead in the face and says, “I will not be subtle.”

---

It starts small. It always does with Bucky—quiet adjustments he thinks you won’t notice.

He reads labels with a frown deep enough to be carved in marble. He asks you, Can you have this? like it’s a life-or-death question and not a jar of sauce. He gets rid of the smoked salmon in the fridge without telling you, like he’s disposing of contraband. He swaps out your coffee for decaf the second you mention that caffeine makes you nauseous now, and when you make a face, he offers you his own mug like a peace treaty.

Then he stops eating things you can’t eat.

You’re the one who notices first in the most mundane way possible: you’re both at the kitchen table with lunch, and his plate looks… suspiciously identical to yours.

You narrow your eyes at his sandwich—turkey, but the turkey is steaming. Like he nuked it until it was basically a tiny protein volcano.

“Bucky,” you say, slowly. “Why is your turkey… hot.”

He doesn’t even glance up from where he’s peeling a clementine for you like you’re a delicate Victorian heroine. “Because deli meat is a risk.”

“I know mine is hot,” you say. “Why is yours hot?”

He finally looks at you like you’ve asked him why the sky is blue. “Because you can’t have it cold.”

“Baby,” you try, reaching across the table to touch his wrist. “You don’t have to suffer with me.”

His mouth tightens. “You’re not suffering.”

“I mean—” you laugh a little. “Okay. It’s not suffering. It’s just… annoying. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything I do.”

He stares at your hand on his wrist, like he’s watching the point of contact anchor him. “I want to,” he says simply. “It’s easier.”

“Easier?”

His eyes lift to yours. “If I do it too, I don’t have to watch you do it alone.”

That… hits you. The way everything with him comes back to loneliness, to being left behind, to watching other people carry pain while he stands helpless on the edge of it.

You swallow. “I’m not alone,” you whisper.

He nods like he hears you, but he doesn’t look convinced.

So you squeeze his wrist and change tactics.

“Okay,” you say, brightening. “Then you can do this with me, but you have to let me pick one thing you don’t copy.”

His brow furrows. “Why.”

“Because I’m your wife,” you say, like that should settle the entire argument, “and I’m exercising my marital rights.”

He exhales through his nose. “Fine.”

“Good.” You point with your fork. “You are allowed to eat sushi when we go out.”

His whole face goes still. Like you just told him you’re planning to juggle knives.

“No.”

“Bucky—”

“No,” he repeats, firmer.

You blink. “That’s not how compromises work.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s that protective steel in him, the same one that makes him step between you and danger without thinking. “I’m not eating sushi while you can’t.”

“I don’t even want sushi right now,” you protest. “The smell makes me want to cry.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says, like he’s won.

You laugh, helpless, and he watches you like the sound is oxygen.

The first time it becomes a team thing is at dinner.

It’s one of those rare nights where the whole crew is off at the same time—no missions, no emergency calls, just a reservation at some place in the city that Sam found and insisted was “normal people good” and not “Tony Stark good.”

You’re sliding into the booth beside Bucky, adjusting your coat over your belly, when the server comes by to take drink orders.

Sam orders something fruity and bright and immediately starts flirting. Nat orders vodka like it’s a personality trait. Walker is already annoying. Even Steve—who has been trying to be chill since getting back—is eyeing the beer menu like he’s studying history.

The server looks at you. “And for you?”

You smile. “Just water, please.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “Water for me too.”

You whip your head toward him. “Bucky.”

He keeps his gaze on the server like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Water.”

The server nods and leaves.

The second she’s gone, you lean in. “You can have a drink.”

“I don’t want one,” he says.

“You always want one,” you hiss, because this man has discovered the simple joy of a cold beer after a long day and clings to it with the devotion of a convert.

He glances at you, expression flat. “Not tonight.”

“James,” you warn.

He reaches under the table and laces his fingers with yours—metal and flesh warm against your palm. His thumb rubs slow circles like he’s calming you on purpose.

“I don’t want you to feel left out,” he says quietly.

You stare at him. “I do not feel left out.”

“You will,” he insists.

“I won’t,” you insist back.

He holds your gaze like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t like it.”

You soften. “You don’t like what.”

“The idea that everyone gets something you can’t have,” he admits. “Even if you say you don’t care. I care.”

Your throat tightens, and you lean your shoulder into his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes—like being called ridiculous is safer than being called sweet.

Across the table, Sam squints at your drinks. “Why do y’all have water? Are you two in trouble?”

“We’re hydrating,” you say brightly.

Bucky, deadpan: “She’s pregnant.”

Sam freezes. “Oh.”

Nat leans forward, eyes lighting up. “He is doing the sympathy thing.”

“It’s not—” you start, but Bucky cuts in.

“It is,” he says calmly. “I’m doing it.”

Clint snorts. “That’s—”

Steve shoots him a look that could cut glass. “Don’t.”

Clint shuts up, miraculously.

Sam points his straw at Bucky. “So you’re not drinking for nine months?”

Bucky’s chin lifts. “If she’s not.”

Your eyes widen. “Babe—”

Bucky looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. “Unless you tell me you want me to,” he adds, softer. “If you actually want me to have a beer, I will.”

Your chest swells, hot and tender.

You could push. You could argue. You could insist you don’t care.

But then Bucky presses his lips to your knuckles under the table—quick, secret, like he can’t help himself—and you realize this isn’t about rules or food or alcohol.

It’s about him choosing you, over and over, in a thousand small ways. Him standing beside you so the world feels less sharp.

So you squeeze his hand and give him the gentlest compromise you can.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “You can have a drink at home sometimes. When I’m asleep. Like a little forbidden bachelor.”

His mouth twitches. “That sounds depressing.”

You grin. “It’s romantic. You’ll be thinking of me.”

“I’ll always be thinking of you,” he says, like it’s not even a line—just a fact.

And when the server comes back with your waters and sets them down, Bucky slides yours closer first, like you’re the priority.

Like you always have been.

At the table, Hanzo sighed. He was already looking a little coarser as the sun dipped closer to the horizon and McCree nudged him gently under the table; both ignored the disgruntled blach! that Genji made at their hidden gesture. “You can duck out, y’ know,” McCree murmured quietly. “I know it’s a strain on ya.”

“Is it too much to ask to have more than one nice dinner with the team?” Hanzo muttered back but he nonetheless stood. “I apologize,” he told the table when they all looked at him. “I need to…”

Everyone suddenly had more interesting things to look at. Once upon a time Hanzo (and McCree) would be unnerved, but by now they simply understood that it was just because no one was entirely sure how to deal with the brothers’ issues with their lycanthropy.

“I’ll save your plate, darlin’,” McCree promised, tipping his head up for a kiss which he received. “Bah!” he yelled, slapping Genji’s big nose away when he tried to steal the food on Hanzo’s plate. “I will get the spray bottle, you mark my words!”

Grumbling, Genji retreated – like some demented game of whack-a-mole – and popped his head back up beside Zenyatta. “Are you ready to settle down now?” the monk asked, offering Genji a chunk of meat. The other wolf considered it for half a second before devouring the offering and licking sauce and drippings from Zenyatta’s hand. The monk let out a buzzing sigh as he reached for another chunk.

“Hey, Hanners,” McCree said brightly when he caught sight of Hanzo’s wolf-skin poking his head in the door.

Hearing his name, Hanzo’s ears pricked forward. “Boof?”

McCree picked up a chunk of meat from Hanzo’s plate and lobbed it at Hanzo. It fell far short of him and hit the floor with a wet plap and Hanzo’s unimpressed glare truly did transcend species boundaries. He lunged for it a moment later when the table jumped and Genji skittered to get it. The other wolf whined pitifully when Hanzo stood over the morsel and gobbled it off the floor.

Table manners and human dignity went out the window in wolf-skin after all, McCree supposed.

“Genji,” Zenyatta said with a buzzing sigh. “You still have a full plate of food here – why are you trying to steal food from everyone else?”

Genji mumbled, his ears flat in canine regret as he trotted back to Zenyatta with his great plumed tail tucked between his legs.

When McCree turned around, he found Hanzo halfway over the bench with his hind legs sticking up in the air as he reached under the table for something. The entire table jerked as Hanzo flailed with a pained yip! On his other side, Angela tried to help him when it was clear that Hanzo had become stuck and received a paw the size of most cereal bowls to the face for her troubles.

Angela yelped and nearly fell out of her chair but was caught by one of Reinhardt’s enormous arms. In the end McCree and Reinhardt had to stand and carefully lift Hanzo out from where he had gotten caught between the bench and the table.

“No dogs at the table,” Ana teased when Hanzo draped himself over McCree’s lap so that his paws wrapped around the gunslinger’s waist and the wolf’s head rested on McCree’s shoulder.