Chapter Text
“Hey, Winter Cyborg, pass me the parmesan, wouldya?” From where he sat at the opposite end of the dinner table, Tony had his hands raised high, ready to catch the plastic green container of pre-grated cheese. One would think there’d be fresh cheese to grate, but no. If that were the case, they wouldn’t have anything to play football with.
Instead of throwing it like Tony so obviously wanted him to, Bucky wordlessly handed it to Steve, who was sitting to his right. Steve gave Tony an irritated look over the offensive nickname, but kept the chain going, handing it off to Sam, who handed it off to Bruce, who finally set it down on the table in front of Tony, who didn’t like being handed things.
The whole team had gathered on the communal floor of Avengers Tower for a Pasta Party, as was tradition the night before embarking on a mission. Bucky would not be partaking in said mission, but he still participated in other Avenger events like training sessions, meetings, and meals.
When he’d first arrived at the Tower, Bucky tried to throw himself back into the routine of a soldier, much like Steve had done when he’d first thawed out of the ice. Also similar to Steve though, the method didn’t quite work out the way he’d hoped it would.
He’d fallen into a panic mid-mission. He couldn’t remember what it was he’d seen or heard or maybe smelled that caused the reaction, but it had thrust him back into the depths of his dreadful days as the Winter Soldier. Thankfully, his shameful actions hadn’t been witnessed by anyone other than Steve and Sam. More importantly, he hadn’t gotten anyone hurt, or worse, killed, but Bucky was still finding the embarrassing event hard to live down.
He and Steve had both agreed from that moment on that Bucky would only be joining in on missions if and when he felt he was ready. Bucky was still having trouble identifying what that actually meant for him, but getting a stronger hold over his flashbacks and panic attacks seemed like a reasonable place to start.
Therefore, he doubted he’d be going on any missions any time soon, considering the fact that every mission the Avengers had been going on since D.C. were all linked or traced back to Hydra through one godforsaken way or another. Given that all of Bucky’s triggers had anything and everything to do with the malevolent group who once held so much power over him, such missions were to be avoided altogether for the time being.
As soon as the first Hydra-free mission presented itself though, Bucky was aiming to join the Avengers. It was currently the biggest goal he had for himself, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t back out in the field, watching Steve’s six, in the upcoming weeks.
For now, Bucky had to be satisfied with acting as “team mascot”. According to Tony, it was a “crucial role”.
“Stark!” Thor’s fist banged hard on the table from where he was seated at Tony’s other side. “This marsala sauce is exquisite! Tell me where it is that they harness this delicacy?!”
“That would be through Stark Industries' catering service.”
“Fascinating!”
Clint, who was seated at Thor’s right, made a show of adjusting his hearing aids to tune out Thor’s loud interjections. Natasha, who was sandwiched between Clint and Bucky, completing the eight person table, laughed into her napkin.
Marsala wasn’t the only pasta sauce Thor was indulging in. The buffet style of their meal meant he’d also dolloped ladlefuls of marinara, alfredo, Bolognese, pesto, carbonara, scampi, and vodka sauce into separate little piles on his massive plate of rigatoni. It was the only possible way to sample them all.
Tony, adopting Thor’s style, but in the opposite way, had opted for one sauce drowning a mix and match of different pasta shapes. Every long, short, and stuffed pasta shape and configuration imaginable was swimming beneath an ocean of carbonara sauce.
Bruce was twirling a bite of scampi sauce soaked capellini onto his fork. Natasha was indulging in some penne with vodka sauce. Clint was on the verge of choking himself to death with how quickly he was wolfing down his chicken and broccoli covered fettuccine alfredo. Sam, who was still getting used to interacting with the team, was quietly chewing on a mouthful of tagliatelle Bolognese. Finally, there was Steve, making slow progress on his mountain of spaghetti, which was topped with meatballs and marinara.
Of course, generous helpings of Caesar salad and garlic butter breadsticks had come before this main course. It all would’ve paired divinely with some red or white bottles of wine, but alcohol of any kind was reserved for post-mission celebrations only.
“Better pick it up over there, Cap.” Tony said without looking up. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he focused on loading a ziti noodle onto each tine of his fork. “Even Natasha’s eating more than you.”
Steve scoffed. “You counting my calories now?”
“Hell no,” Tony answered, dodging the leftover croutons that Natasha was now hurling at his head over the earlier rude comment. “Just trying to make sure our team leader’s got plenty of gas in the tank for tomorrow.”
“I used to go into battle with nothing but a cup of coffee and a half can of Spam in my system. I’ll be fine,” Steve assured, tone only slightly bitter.
While the others treated this dinner as if it were a party, Steve couldn’t help but be more serious throughout the entire evening. He wasn’t thinking about the meal, he was thinking about the mission.
With every Hydra base, outpost, and hideout they stormed, the more information they gathered. Of that information, what Steve found most important were the details relevant to Bucky’s torturous treatment all those years. Unfortunately, that was often the majority of what they uncovered.
They’d been at this long enough now that Steve knew the basics of what he should expect to see tomorrow: a cryochamber, the Chair, an operating theater, paper or digital files containing comprehensive accounts or encrypted information related to missions, training regimens, maintenance protocols, punishment…
It never got any easier to witness, but Steve hated to say he was used to most of it by now. Every once in a while, Hydra would manage to throw a curveball his way, and he’d be subjected to learning about some new, unforeseen grisly aspect of Bucky’s time in captivity. Thankfully, those instances were becoming fewer and farther between.
There was always that fear though, in the back of his mind. The fear that he’d eventually meet his match. He’d see or learn of something so unspeakably awful that his psyche would break far worse than Bucky’s ever had. Because Bucky had always been the strong one. Steve’s strength, mental or physical, pre-serum or post-serum, had always paled in comparison.
The anticipation, the knowledge of the fact that in less than 24 hours, he would be coming into direct contact with people who may or may not have had a personal hand in treating Bucky as nothing more than a weapon to be operated… Needless to say, Steve was losing his appetite.
“Even if that worked well enough for you in the past, excess calories will only help with your endurance, decision making abilities, and problem solving capabilities. Not to mention your healing factor too, if you should wind up needing it for any reason.” There wasn’t any threat in Bruce’s addition to the conversation, but if there was one way to get Steve to take something seriously, it was to bring up the potential for injury. If Steve got laid up, how would he be able to look after and protect Bucky?
“Plus, I’d say it sets a good example for the rest of the team.” Bruce was never one to beat around the bush, and his eyes briefly flashed from Steve’s face to Bucky’s untouched dinner plate.
So far, for most of the evening, Bucky had been forlornly pushing his food around on his plate. Bucky often fed off Steve’s energy in any given social situation, no pun intended. Therefore, Steve needed to be feeding himself if he wanted Bucky to be doing the same.
With that in mind, Steve finally picked up the pace, carving into one of his baseball sized meatballs. He was much more apt to take Bucky’s cues and Bruce’s advice into consideration over Tony’s offhand remarks any day.
To Steve’s surprise, his newly displayed gusto did little to kickstart Bucky’s own eating. The modest portion of cheese stuffed tortellini and pesto on his plate might as well’ve been placed as decoration.
Outwardly, Steve acted nonchalant about his observation. Internally was another story. Panicking wasn’t the right word, as this really wasn’t that serious of a situation, but he was on alert. Clearly, something wasn’t right. He thought back on the evening’s events, trying to pinpoint when things had taken a turn, and what had caused it.
He was fine earlier today. Seemed fine with the appetizers too. Wait, come to think of it, did he even touch any of the salad or breadsticks? Did he have lunch? Breakfast?! Steve tried to recall, but nothing came to mind. He cursed himself for not paying better attention.
The rest of Steve’s teammates were now arguing about whether or not the “no alcohol before missions” rule should be rewritten. They were coming up with something called the Alcohol Accords, which answered questions as to who could or couldn’t drink? What could they drink? How much could they drink?
Steve ignored the heated debate, and lowered his voice so only Bucky would hear. It was a pointless effort, as everyone at the table, whether they were paying close attention or not, knew Steve was checking in. “Do you not like it? You can get a different plate. Nobody’d mind.”
“No no, it’s not that,” Bucky rushed to reassure. “I just had a big lunch.”
That was a total lie. Bucky hadn’t eaten anything yet today. He hadn’t gotten hungry, and when he’d tried to go through the motions, everything in their kitchen or pantry had sounded revolting. He’d wanted to weasel his way out of tonight’s dinner, but no believable opportunity had ever presented itself.
To ease Steve’s worries, Bucky made a show of taking a big bite of his meal. He chewed thoroughly, in no hurry to swallow the entirely too rich and flavorful pasta that had now turned into a sticky, goopy sludge in his mouth.
His mouth was rapidly filling up with saliva, and it had nothing to do with a sudden desire to eat. An overwhelming wave of nausea washed over him, and Bucky was sure he’d have to jump ship and flee the dinner table. Miraculously, he somehow managed to muscle down both the pasta and the nausea.
There was no hidden suspicion in Steve’s pleased smile, so Bucky’s face must not’ve taken on the same green hue as his pesto sauce.
“Well, when you’re done with that, I saw some tiramisu over there on the dessert tray. I know how much you like it.” Steve pushed away from the table and rose from his seat. “I’ll go and get you a piece.”
Bucky nodded with false appreciation and excitement, and hoped Steve missed how pale he’d gone at the prospect of eating more. “Thanks, that does sound good.” No, it didn’t.
This was ridiculous. Bucky was being entirely too dramatic. Everything was fine. He was still getting used to eating solid foods, and his stomach liked to act up on him every now and then. That’s all this was.
All he needed to do was push through. If he didn’t, Steve would notice more than he already had, and he’d be distracted during the mission. And if Steve got distracted during the mission, he could get hurt.
Bucky couldn’t allow that to happen. He’d have to suck it up, and get through the rest of this meal. Easy peasy. No problem.
Tony stood up from where he sat at the head of the table, and clanged his fork obnoxiously against a glass. “Alright everybody, listen up! We’re gonna have us a little cannoli eating contest!”
Fuck me.
…
Back at their level of the Tower, Steve had called dibs on showering first, so Bucky was brushing his teeth, biding his time until it was his turn. He took his time flossing, brushing, then finally rinsing with mouthwash to get rid of the lingering garlic taste in his mouth from a lone bite of breadstick he’d forced himself to stomach.
Steve left the shower running for Bucky, slid the glass door open, stepped out, and began toweling off. They traded places, and Bucky turned the heat up a few degrees more. They both tended to take scalding showers, an effort to ward off their respective memories of arctic waters and frigid cryochambers, and Bucky hoped the heat of the shower would soothe these feelings of malaise he’d been suffering from all day.
No such luck. Worse, Bucky wound up needing to cut his shower short, barely taking the time to rinse out his shampoo, and forgoing body wash altogether. It seemed gross even in his own mind, but throwing up all over himself would’ve been much nastier. All he knew was that if he didn’t get horizontal in the next ten seconds, he’d be reacquainting himself with his dinner.
Bucky carefully measured his pace as he strode over to their bed. He felt the need to flat out run, but that would ring some major alarm bells with Steve. He brought his metal hand up to cover his mouth just in case, and he attempted to make it seem like he was merely rubbing tiredly at his stubbled cheek.
The theatrics were ultimately unnecessary, as Steve, the nerd, was already under the covers, propped up against the headboard, with his nose buried in the latest bestselling non-fiction book.
Bucky laid down on his side of the bed, keeping his back to Steve so the warm light of the beside lamp wouldn’t illuminate his sickly face the way it was softly lighting up Steve’s. He kept his metal hand firmly against his mouth, but eventually decided it was safe to draw away after he’d taken a few steadying breaths.
He kept his mind focused on the act of falling asleep, of drifting off, rather than the war worming away in his gut. He was doing a pretty good job, if he did say so himself, considering the sharp click of the lamp turning off paired with the sudden encompassing darkness it brought startled him back to full awareness.
There was a shifting of sheets as Steve nestled himself down into a more comfortable position. He finally settled with a loud sigh, his arms reaching out to wrap around Bucky’s form from behind. One of his hands started trailing lower… and lower… and lower, until Bucky batted it away.
“Not tonight, Stevie. I’m tired,” Bucky grumbled tiredly. There’s no telling what they would’ve gotten up to. They’d been fooling around a lot more lately, but they were still trying to take things slow, difficult as that sometimes was.
With every new baby step they took in their relationship, there was a careful testing of waters associated with it. Bucky’s main concern was that both of them were having a good time, whereas Steve prioritized Bucky’s well-being, never wanting to trigger an episode.
At Bucky’s tell off, Steve immediately pulled away, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. It was rare that Bucky ever rejected his affections, but it did happen from time to time. Steve wasn’t sure if this was related to some physical issue or mental block, or if Bucky simply was tired. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just full of cannolis.” It was Bucky’s second fib of the night, and they both knew it. They’d seen the meager amount Bucky had been able to put away.
Steve didn’t question him any further on it though. He wanted Bucky to feel comfortable communicating with and confiding in him, and if that meant Bucky keeping things to himself, then Steve would support him one hundred percent. Bucky would open up about whatever was eating at him when he was ready… hopefully… in theory.
“If I do anything to exert myself, I’m gonna puke.” Hey, at least that wasn’t a complete lie! “And I doubt that would be sexy for either one of us. Plus, we both just showered. Why would we want to get all sweaty again?”
Steve gave a low, rumbling chuckle at Bucky’s logic, “Okay, message received. How ‘bout a goodnight kiss?”
That Bucky could handle. He rolled over to face Steve, going slow to avoid jostling his sensitive stomach, and they shared a brief minty goodnight kiss.
Everything’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Steve doesn’t need to be burdened with another one of my problems. They were the mantras Bucky repeated to himself as he slipped into a restless slumber.