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It was really a passing remark, in the middle of a pretty mindless battle. They’ve been shooting the shit over a private comms line while Bucky shot at some actual AIM shits trying to murder his teammates when Steve said, almost dreamily, “You know, I could really go for a good plate of scrambled eggs right about now.”
Bucky grunts, taking out a mobile turret trying to gun down Iron Man with a single bullet to its power source. Tony cartwheels in the air to give him a thumbs up and an awkward flying kiss before jetting off to barrel into an AIM beekeeper harassing Clint. “I bet you’d want it fluffy, dripping with cheese and butter, seasoned with pepper and salt, and served with a side of crispy ham bits?”
“God, yes. Hey, take care of the goon on my six, wouldja? His potshots are missing me by a mile but I’m not waiting for him to get lucky.”
They’d fallen back into standard combat chatter after that with Tony joining them on the private line with beekeeper jokes, though Bucky couldn’t stop mulling the idea over at the back of his mind like flipping burgers on a slow grill.
JARVIS just restocked the shared fridge two days ago so there would be plenty of eggs, and Bucky could try and barter away some of his decadent Belgian chocolate ice cream for a cut of Natasha’s juicy honey-glazed ham. There’s still a whole tub of sour cream left over from Bruce’s attempts at making potato salad palatable to Tony and Thor last week. He would have to wrestle Clint for the last of the grated cheddar but it’ll be worth it, to give Steve a meal straight out from his ma’s old recipe book.
Bucky’s knees bounced impatiently the whole time during debrief. He’s aware that he’s jostling the table, but he couldn’t care less. Even Tony’s frowning at him - Tony, who prides himself on being the team’s resident annoyer, doesn’t like to be dethroned. He flicks a pen at Bucky’s head in a foolhardy attempt to get him to stop, gasping theatrically in mock hurt when Bucky catches the writing utensil with his metal hand and snaps it cleanly in half.
Steve raises his eyebrows at them both, amused but fond.
Fury wisely decides to end debrief soon after that, and Bucky’s out of his chair and through the door before anyone could stop him for a chat. He takes the stairs three at a time to the communal kitchen, raids the fridge for everything he needs, punches Clint in the face before the archer could squawk his protest at the stolen cheddar, then rushes off to storm Steve’s kitchen with his loot.
He manages to get there before Steve’s done with his post-debrief-debrief with Fury and Tony (perks of being team leader and team consultant – they get extra meeting minutes, what joy) and slams the stairway door close behind him. “Hey, J? Lock down Stevie’s floor for me.”
“Apologies, Sergeant, but only Captain Rogers can bar access to his own floor.”
Fair enough, Bucky thinks, then he grabs ahold of the solid metal door handles and twists them together into a pretty snazzy-looking butterfly knot.
“Sergeant, may I ask—“
“No, you may not, but you may keep your trap shut since you’re no help.” Bucky smoothly cracks his left fist into the elevator control panel as he passes by it on the way to the kitchen and rips out the wires operating the doors. He dropped an egg doing that, but that’s okay, he’s got plenty more.
His communicator beeps as soon as he’s laid out his foodstuffs on the counter. “You took my ham.”
“My ice cream is on the top shelf, Häagen-Dazs, take the whole tub.”
It beeps again while he’s dicing the ham. “I thought we had a bro code, man. Bros don’t steal each other’s cheese—”
“Gross,” Bucky growls, throwing some oil into a pan and putting the flame on high. He throws in the ham before continuing in his best Soldier voice, “You and me on the mat, bucko, oh-six-hundred hours tomorrow. Loser buys pizza, extra cheese.”
“That’s unfair, you never let me win—”
Bruce buzzes him next, sounding concerned. “You haven’t taken the sour cream by any chance, have you? I was going to bake a pie…”
Bucky actually stops beating the egg mixture, staring guiltily at the container of sour cream he just emptied into the mixing bowl. Bruce is a nice guy, he doesn’t deserve getting his food retconned like that.
Also Bucky remembers the gaping hole in Tony’s lab wall, courtesy of the Big Guy, after Tony thought it funny to swap out Bruce’s favorite tea leaves with top-grade weed. Messing with Bruce’s food is practically asking for a death sentence. “Hell, m’sorry, Bruce. I just wanted to do this one thing for Steve, and I needed the cream for it. I should’ve asked first, but I forgot my manners. How’s about I buy you another tub after lunch as an apology? I’ll even help you with the pie.”
Bruce hums appreciatively at Bucky’s wheedling tone. “That’s very nice of you, Bucky. I’ll take you up on your offer. Looking forward to baking with you.” And if his voice had the slightest edge of threat to it, the smallest sliver of green, Bucky didn’t dare comment.
Someone’s trying to punch through the stairway door, shouting Bucky’s name. Bucky all but throws the egg mixture into another heated pan already lined with butter, working double-time on the stirring with his right hand while his left chucks the ham onto a plate covered in paper towels, patting the oil away. The punching stops just as the eggs reach peak fluffiness.
Bucky’s plating the scrambled eggs and ham when he hears the hum of Iron Man’s repulsors zipping around the outside of the Tower, past the kitchen windows. Tony’s giving him a warning by doing that - ‘incoming Capsicle; quick, hide your kinky porn’ - so he gives the plated eggs one last critical look, adds a sprig of basil for aesthetic effect, and then walks out of the kitchen in time to see Tony landing on the balcony with Steve hanging off the suit’s handholds.
“Bucky!” Steve calls out once he’s let go, looking wildly around his living area half-expecting to see Hydra schmucks holding Bucky at gunpoint. When he sees Bucky leaning coolly on the doorjamb leading to the kitchen, his posture stiffens. “Are you the… Asset…?” Then he sniffs the air and recoils. “Did you make me scrambled eggs, Soldier?”
“Relax, Steve, it’s just Bucky. The Asset wouldn’t be caught dead in a ‘Murican flag apron.” That’s when Bucky notices he’s wearing the hideous thing and almost chokes himself in the rush to tug it off. Goddamn, Tony better not have a recording of that somewhere. “JARVIS, air filtrations off, I wanna—ooh yeah, that smells amazing. Did you make any for me?” Tony asks eagerly, flipping up his faceplate and jogging past Steve to get to the source of the smell.
Bucky kicks up a leg and props it on the opposite doorjamb, barring the way to the kitchen, but Tony just jets himself over the minor obstacle and plonks down on the kitchen stool uninvited. Uncharacteristically enough, he only stares at the plate of eggs with an unreadable expression, before turning in his seat to give Bucky a slightly unhinged smirk.
Bucky’s throws the balled up apron at him.
A beat or two later Steve joins them in the kitchen, stepping neatly over Bucky’s foot. He gasps a little seeing the perfectly arranged plate of scrambled eggs and ham bits on the counter and Bucky swears he could hear Steve’s stomach rumbling. “Is that your mom’s…?”
“Good thing Hydra didn’t bother wiping her recipes from my memories, huh?”
Steve’s already making his way to the stool next to Tony, gaze transfixed on the plate and its golden, fluffy crown. Bucky even spent the effort to arrange the ham bits like rubies around the eggs, and the cheese is just starting to melt into the butter, and—damn, now his stomach is growling too. Steve takes his eyes off the plate for a moment to give Bucky a funny look. He pats the stool next to him, beckoning Bucky to it, then he grabs the fork, scoops up a healthy serving of the eggs, and holds it out to Bucky’s mouth.
Bucky only opened his mouth to protest being fed like a child, he swears, but Steve knows how to take advantage and suddenly the eggs are on his tongue, and he’s chewing, and God, it tastes so good. He can never go wrong with one of ma’s recipes. Steve grins at him as he swallows, then turns around and smacks Tony’s gauntlets as Tony tries to sneak a ham bit off the plate with his fat metal fingers. Tony whines at being denied the ham bit, because unlike Bucky he fully embraces the fact that he’s a child, but then Steve’s dutifully holding up another heaping serving for him with a few ham bits thrown in and Tony doesn’t waste a second to wolf it down, warbling his thanks around his mouthful.
“My compliments to the chef,” Tony sings cheerily once he’s gulped it down, pushing in front of Steve to get to Bucky, kissing him lightly on the temple. “I regret that I must leave you; I have an elevator to fix and a fire exit to replace. Worth the eggs though.” He winks at Bucky before hopping off his stool, landing solidly on the floor and sauntering out of the kitchen. Steve looks like he’s struggling to hold back a chuckle behind closed, smiling lips – Bucky knows he’s a sight, the redness of his blush reaching his ears, because while he and Steve are old hat at the lovers thing, Tony’s open affection towards him is a novelty. Bucky’s still trying to get used to it.
“Thank you, Bucky. The eggs are wonderful. You’re wonderful,” Steve leans in close after he’s had his own bite of the eggs, voice unbearably warm and heart-achingly tender as he whispers them into Bucky’s ear. Bucky’s flush deepens. Steve must be ripping pages out of Tony’s ‘how-to-woo-your-super-soldier-boyfriend’ book. “And the only thing I enjoyed more was being able to share good food with you and Tony.”
“Alright, you sap, I get it. We’re best boyfriends.” Bucky's own laughter startles him, embarrassment adding to the redness of his face as he pushes at Steve’s shoulder. From the other side of the apartment, in the general vicinity of the elevator, Tony yells, “Yeah, we’re totally BBFs!” then “Oh, that’s disgusting-- I stepped on an egg?!” and that gets Bucky laughing again, head thrown back like he couldn’t contain the giddy mirth that bubbles in his chest. Steve pulls him closer, beaming beatifically before ducking his head to kiss at the pulse in Bucky’s neck, lips trailing softly upwards until he finds Bucky’s own waiting for him, curved up into a lazy smile. Steve seems content to just lave at the seam of that smile, taking his time to chase away the taste of buttery eggs and sweet ham.
“I’ll cook us lunch later.” Steve says when he finally pulls away, scooping up more eggs with his fork. Bucky takes a moment to appreciate him polishing off the plate before shaking his head.
“I’m helping Bruce make pies, I’ll save my lunch for a slice.”
“Oh? Then Tony and I will join you. And after that, maybe we can both thank you… intimately… for cooking breakfast.”
And that, Bucky thinks, is definitely worth the eggs.