Chapter Text
He’s been back in New York less than 72 hours, and Steve is already regretting moving back to the city. It’s not even five o’clock, but he still has to fight through the hordes of people bustling up and down the sidewalk.
“What’s it called again?”
“Barnes’ Bakery. Big, old fashioned sign on the left. You can’t miss it,” Natasha says on the other end of the line. Steve squints up into the mid-afternoon sun, phone pressed to his ear, and finally spots the red script over the large glass window up ahead.
“Found it. Do you think he’s onto us?”
“Who do you think you’re dealing with here, Rogers? Of course he isn’t. Now hurry up, I want cake.”
Steve chuckles. “Missed you too, Nat.”
The line falls dead and Steve pushes the door to the bakery open, a faint jingle of a bell following him in. The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar washes over him, giving him a comforting feeling of warmth and sweetness that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. The place isn’t very big, just a handful of tables and booths lining the walls. There’s a pastry case full of big, thick cookies, danishes heavy with colorful fillings and striped with glaze, and cupcakes towering with heavy rosettes of frosting. Steve’s mouth waters at the sight of the row of muffins at the top of the case, his favorite treat. He’s so busy drooling over the pastry case that he doesn’t realize he’s next in line, and that’s when he sees him.
He hears a quiet “Sir?” and looks up to see a man behind the counter, a small smile on his face and the softest blue eyes Steve has ever seen. His dark hair falls just to his shoulders, which are wide enough to put any linebacker to shame. He’s dressed in a faded flannel unbuttoned over a simple blue T-shirt that’s stretched tight over his frame, outlining his thick biceps and rounded shoulders. It wrinkles just under his pecs, and his belly is deliciously rounded, though sadly partially hidden behind the counter. There’s a smudge of flour on his dimpled chin that should not make Steve’s mouth water, but definitely does.
“Can I help you with something?” The man asks, patiently waiting for Steve to pull himself together.
“Oh, uh, yes! Sorry, this is my first--I mean, uh--I’m new here. Well, not really but--” He shuts his mouth and tries again before he embarrasses himself even further.
“I’m here to pick up an order for Natasha. Romanoff.”
The man’s eyes brighten with recognition. “Ah, for Sam, right? Two layer chocolate? With extra sprinkles?” he asks with a grin.
“That’s the one,” Steve chuckles. “He’s passionate about his chocolate.”
He disappears into the kitchen and comes out with a square white box, placing it on the counter and opening it for Steve’s inspection. Inside reveals a pristine round cake with smooth white frosting and tiny round multicolor sprinkles pressed all around the sides. Red curving script declares “Happy Birthday Sam!” across the top. It’s then Steve notices his mismatched hands sticking out of the long sleeves of his open flannel, one human flesh and one encased in a black glove.
“This looks amazing, he’s going to love it,” Steve smiles up at the man across from him, relishing the tiny pink blush he gets in response.
The cash register dings as he gives out the total and closes up the cake while Steve gets out his wallet.
“So is it a surprise?” The man asks, and Steve thrills at the opportunity to strike up a conversation.
“Kind of? He’s my best friend. I just moved back to the city and took a transfer to the same office he works in. He doesn’t know I’m moving back, so I’m going to deliver the cake today, drop the news on him.”
The man’s cheeks round out sweetly as he smiles. “Sounds like a great surprise. Where are you moving from?”
“D.C. I was born and raised here though. I’m Steve, by the way,” he throws caution to the wind and sticks out a hand. The man offers his flesh hand in return, which is huge, long fingers and a wide palm dotted with callouses. Steve hangs on just a moment too long, squeezing the other man’s hand before dropping it.
“Bucky, Bucky Barnes. ‘S a pleasure to meet you, Steve.”
“The pleasure’s mine.” He can’t keep the words in his mouth, it’s so easy to flirt with the adorable man in front of him. To his delight, he gets another pleasant blush for his efforts.
They stand there for a quiet moment, holding each other’s gaze, before Steve realizes a line of waiting customers has gathered behind him.
He snatches up the white box and turns for the door. “Thanks again for the cake!”
“Sure thing, hope your friend likes it,” Bucky says with a smile before Steve slips out the door, bell jingling behind him.
Steve spends the next two weeks moving into his apartment and adjusting to his new position at the VA Hospital. He’s a physical therapist by day, but he helps Sam run several group therapy sessions for veterans in the evening, wanting to give back in his spare time. Besides, all his friends are there anyway. He met Sam while he was serving in the Army, the man saving his ass so many times that they were destined to become best friends. No one knew Natasha’s real job in the service, and Steve still finds it a little alarming that she’s never denied Sam’s good-natured teasing that she was a mercenary for the government. Whatever the title, she works somewhere in billing now, one floor above Sam’s, and Steve gets an eerie chill if he thinks too hard about Natasha Romanoff on the phones with people trying to deny money to disabled veterans. He’s content to remain in the dark on that one.
Two weeks have passed, and Steve is itching to find a good reason to not only go back to Barnes’ Bakery, but to have anything remotely interesting to offer in conversation with Bucky.
“Stop mulling over their menu, for Pete’s sake. Go in there and buy a damn muffin already. Get some coffee like a normal person instead of daydreaming about his muffin top.” Nat sneaks up behind him so quietly Steve almost sloshes his water over the forms scattered across his desk.
“What are you talking about?” He retorts, shoving his laptop closed with a snap, looking petulantly over his shoulder.
Nat smirks at him like the cat who got the cream. “Can it Rogers, I’ve had your number since eighth grade when I caught you doodling pictures of the Davis kid while hiding under the bleachers in gym class. Nothing wrong with being a chubby chaser unless you make it weird.”
He can only huff in response. “Okay, well what am I supposed to say to the guy? ‘You’ve got the most adorable smile I’ve ever seen and I want to feed you every danish in your pastry case?’ I don’t see that faring well for me, Nat.”
She rolls her eyes and flips his laptop open again, tapping the screen that traitorously opens with a large red ‘Barnes Bakery!’ sign across the front.
“Are you blind, Steve? It’s a bakery. People literally go there to sit down and drink coffee and buy things that are terrible for them. Here: go get breakfast, and bring me back whatever’s good. Gives you something to talk about and an excuse to leave if you completely blow it.”
“ Nat ...”
She gives him an obnoxiously loud kiss on the cheek, smiling cheekily as she walks back toward the stairs. “You’ll be fine, Captain. Just remember,” she adds, spinning delicately on one thin high heel to face him again, “his eyes are up here.” She waves her fingers dramatically in front of her eyes, laughing at him as she goes.
So of course, the first thing Steve’s eyes hunt for as he pushes the door open to Barnes’ Bakery is Bucky’s perfect belly, today encased in a different open flannel and a red T-shirt with the Barnes’ Bakery logo written across the chest. The white letters are faded and cracked a little, which makes Steve swallow audibly thinking about the fact that it may be caused by Bucky’s widening chest.
He steps in line, eyeing the muffins in the case and rehearsing what he’s going to say so he doesn’t stumble over his words and bring out his stutter. He got over the speech impediment in elementary school, but it still comes out a little when he’s feeling particularly stressed. Before he can blink, he’s faced with an eyeful of one decadent baker, his hands reaching behind him to tighten his apron strings, the white fabric settling under the curve of his belly.
“Good morning!” Bucky greets him brightly, leaning against the counter with a grin. “What can I do for you, Steve?”
A zing of excitement flashes down Steve’s spine at the notion that Bucky remembered him. “Well, I’ll take a large House blend, black. Oh! And one of your muffins.”
Bucky reaches for a cup and starts pouring the hot coffee, sliding a small square tea napkin across the counter to him. “What kind?”
“Whatever you think is best. Give me your favorite,” he says, edging in a small smile.
It works like a charm, and Steve can catch the tiniest of pink blushes coloring the man’s cheeks. “That’s a tough choice, Steve--”
“He makes them all himself!” A tall man cuts in suddenly, his head appearing above Bucky’s shoulder as he stirs a customer’s iced coffee. His blonde hair is a bit of a mess, like he just rolled out of bed, and there’s a coffee stain on his faded purple T-shirt. “They’re his recipes and everything. Handmade from scratch by the James Barnes!”
Bucky elbows the man gently, the dusty pink on his face burning a fiery red trail down his throat. Steve itches to follow it with his fingers, maybe even his lips.
“Cut it out, Clint. It’s not that big of a deal.” He turns back to Steve but he’s gone shy again, withdrawn and fidgeting with the Sharpie in his hand. The black glove still covers his left hand, while the right is uncovered. Bucky thinks for a moment, looking over the muffins with great care before pulling out a dark brown one from the far end of the case and sliding it toward Steve on its own napkin.
“Morning Glory muffins. This was actually my Grandmother’s recipe,” he says, that quiet smile curving the corners of his lips sweetly. Steve takes a quick sniff of it, the thick, lucious smell of fruit and moist cake making his mouth water.
“It’s sort of like carrot cake, but with a few more add-ins. Coconut, pineapple, walnuts, raisins...wait, are you allergic to anything? Nuts?” Bucky’s gloved hand jumps out and grabs Steve’s, feeling surprisingly hard and cold against his skin, but the concern on Bucky’s face is so genuine it squeezes at Steve’s heart and he’s distracted again.
“No, I’m good to go. I actually had a list of allergies a mile long as a kid, but I grew out of them. But thank you for asking.” He trails off, holding Bucky’s gaze again. He feels himself start to lean forward. If only there weren’t so many damn people around…
“How much do I owe you?” he says suddenly, straightening and sliding out of Bucky’s space before he embarrasses himself at how enamored he’s already become with the baker. The man clears his throat, pushing the large brown muffin toward Steve.
“Not a thing. ‘S on the house.” He busies himself with a rag this time, wiping down the already pristine small wood surface in front of him. Steve’s fingers twitch as the mound of Bucky’s belly spills onto the counter as he presses against it.
“What? No way, Bucky. I can’t take a handout from you.” He starts for his wallet, but Bucky darts forward faster, a hand on his arm this time.
“No, honestly. I want you to have it. Try it once, come back if you like it.” He says, all business except for the mirth dancing in his bright blue eyes.
Steve’s heart pounds as he wracks his brain for a comeback, wanting just one more chance to continue this game of cheeky flirting and more opportunities to ogle at Bucky’s deliciously rounded frame.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, smooth as glass. “I’ll be back.” He’s too busy winking over his shoulder to notice the blonde woman standing behind him before he collides into her, almost sending his coffee and muffin flying in the process.
“Whoa! I am so sorry ma’am--Sharon! Hi! Wow, I’ve really gotta run, sorry again…”
“So what’d’ya bring me?” Natasha picks up on the first ring.
“I don’t know, but he gave me a coffee and a muffin on the house. Told me ‘ he wanted me to have it.’ What does that mean, Nat? Am I reading into this too much?” He shoves a huge bite of muffin in his mouth. “Holy crap, this is amazing!” Crumbs spray out as he weaves through the throng of people on the sidewalk.
“You better not be eating my muffin, Rogers.”
He laughs nervously, jogging lightly across the street. “About that…”
“Told ya you’d get distracted by the belly.”
“Hey, guess I’ll have to go back,” Steve replies, grinning through a mouth full of muffin.
He comes in almost every day after that, keeping his coffee order the same but letting Bucky hand pick his muffins, relishing in the quiet joy that blooms over Bucky’s cheeks without fail as he does. He starts taking a seat at one of the high stools by the counter, taking Natasha’s advice and sitting down to enjoy his breakfast and steal moments with Bucky. One day it’s blueberry, the next it’s orange cranberry, another he gives Steve a hulking double chocolate that’s warm from the oven.
“Do you taste test these before you sell them?” Steve risks asking, because as much as he loves eating what Bucky whips up, he can’t help but imagine Bucky swallowing bite after bite of warm, moist cake and rounding out his already hanging belly. He can see Bucky’s biceps bulge beneath his flannel, though Steve guesses they’re hiding more muscle than softly rounded arms. He doesn’t miss the man reach beneath his belly to fiddle with the waistband of his pants.
“Sure do,” he says, smiling cheekily. “I haven’t tried that batch though, got busy this morning.”
Steve can hardly keep his mouth from dropping open at the sudden realization that Bucky’s telling him that he eats one muffin from each batch he makes-- every morning. A glance over at the pastry case tells him that there are at least eight different varieties that he keeps on hand, not including the new flavors he tries occasionally, like the Lemon Blueberry muffin sitting in front of Steve now, its streusel topping crumbly and delicious.
He breaks off a piece without thinking and thrusts it forward. “Wanna taste it? It’s amazing. Just the right amount of lemon zest.”
Bucky’s blue eyes are wide and trusting and he looks from the morsel in Steve’s hands back up to his face, and suddenly he’s taking the bite straight from Steve’s fingers, his plump lips and sweet pink tongue catching every stray crumb as he does. Steve is frozen, praying he hasn’t creamed his pants like a teenager right here in front of God and everybody at the sight.
Bucky chews, trying to hide a little smirk as he looks up thoughtfully, seeming to examine the flavors he’s making out. Steve just stares, beyond caring what his mouth looks like. He’s officially met the man of his dreams: sweet, round, and heart stoppingly gorgeous, literally willing to eat out of the palm of his hand. He briefly considers buying a ring and burying it in the center of a muffin.
“You’re right, they are amazing,” Bucky says after swallowing. He smacks his lips as an afterthought, grabbing an empty tray and turning toward the kitchen. “Welp, duty calls. Thanks for the taste, Steve.” And with a cheeky grin and a wink Steve almost misses, he’s gone.
“Pssst!” Clint Barton hisses at him from the register with barely concealed mirth. “Close your mouth, man. You’ll catch flies.”
Steve’s mind is still reeling as he fixes his meal at home that night. The thought of Bucky’s lips wrapping around his fingers lends to more daring thoughts that he tries to keep pressed down, but it’s hard to make comfort food and not think about spooning bite after bite into a certain baker’s willingly open mouth.
As exciting as the thought is, his mind begins to wander and he thinks about what Bucky’s favorite foods might be. He’s a baker, and there’s no doubt he appreciates good food, but Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man eat a square meal. The bakery is open late on the weekends, and Steve’s gone by on an evening run before and seen the man still hard at work, working what must be upwards of a twelve hour day.
He wonders if Bucky has a significant other (hopefully not) or at least a somebody to cook for him, keep him well fed and cared for. God knows he deserves at least that, if not ten times more. Steve stirs the marinara sauce on the stove and hopes Bucky’s not at home alone tonight, eating take-out in front of the glow of his TV. And if he is, Steve sends up a prayer that there’s something he can do about it.
Before the week is over, he returns before he can lose his nerve, Natasha in tow. Bucky’s behind the counter again, this time in a grey Bakery T-shirt and another flannel, and Steve can’t help but notice that the gap between the two panels of the flannel is growing wider, his soft tummy rounding out between them. Steve can tell the material of his shirt is soft and stretchy, the kind that always shrinks in the wash and clings to your body like a second skin. The tail of the teeshirt barely meets the waistband of his pants, and Steve gets a profile of just how round Bucky’s belly is, a firm ball just starting to hang over his white half apron. He can see the dark circle of Bucky’s navel through the stretched fabric, and he has to direct his attention to the pastry case before he moans out loud in the man’s bakery like some sort of sex-crazed mongrel.
Bucky isn’t ringing up customers today, instead he’s chatting with Clint, the walking human disaster Steve met last week, and two other customers that have their back to him. The line is long, but slowly moving forward, a girl with long dark hair and big eyes moving quickly as she rings up totals and collects money.
“-- didn’t take me long to get used to it. Really,” the gray-haired customer is saying as he cleans his glasses on his shirt.
“You’re a better man than me, Brucey. I couldn’t do without my bagels.” Steve recognizes him as Tony Stark, head engineer of Stark Industries, the fast growing technology company that the VA partnered with for their prosthetics a few years ago. The man beside him must be Dr. Bruce Banner, who works closely with Tony on his projects.
Steve can’t help but be drawn into the conversation, and looks over just in time to catch Bucky run a hand reverently over the curve of his rounded gut, his brow furrowed and his eyes downcast. Steve instantly feels a burning desire to make sure Bucky never makes that face again.
“Yeah, I’ve got to do something,” he says softly, his eyes flitting from the hand on his belly to Dr. Banner’s slim frame. Steve’s seen Tony’s extravagant before and after photos of Bruce (#hulktohunk) when he lost all his weight; the other man choosing to stay humble and withdrawn about his transformation on social media.
“I can talk to you about it, if you want,” Bruce offers. “It’s a pretty easy diet to follow. I just cut out breads and sugars, ate more meat and vegetables.”
Bucky’s gaze trails off, nodding absently as if working the idea over in his head. Steve thinks about what Bucky would look like if he were as slim as Bruce, and he hates himself a little for hoping he won’t take a diet seriously.
“Don’t feel pressured because of me. Changing any lifestyle or habit is something you should do because you want to,” Bruce insists, genuine concern on his face.
Bucky nods, his lips pressed in a firm line. “No, I need to do something,” he reaches a hand up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. The motion sends his T-shirt sliding up again to expose the low curve of his belly as it hangs out of his shirt. “I’m growing out of my clothes. Nothing really fits me any more,” he drops his voice, and Steve sends up a quiet prayer thanking God that he knows how to read lips. Bucky tugs his shirt down impatiently, Steve thinks his constantly reddening cheeks are surely going to be the death of him.
“How much do you want to lose?” Tony asks, accepting his coffee from a tall, grey-haired boy from behind the counter who zooms off to attend to the next customer.
Bucky chews his lip, fidgeting where he stands. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and his shirt rides up again. Steve is practically drooling.
“No idea,” he mumbles, his eyes downcast. “I don’t even know how much I weigh. Haven’t checked it in awhile…”
“That’s what got me into gear,” Bruce replies. “I got on the scale and just saw an error message. Most bathroom scales don’t go over 300-350 pounds, so I knew I had to be over that.”
Tony whistles loudly, stirring an ungodly amount of sugar packets into his coffee. “That’s a big range, Brucey.”
Steve can’t tear his eyes away from Bucky, whose face has fallen steadily throughout the conversation. It’s driving Steve insane. Bucky is perfect just the way he is. He seems happy, he’s obviously doing what he loves working at the bakery, and nobody has any right to make him feel like he needs to lose any weight. He has the crazy urge to vault over the counter and sweep Bucky back into the kitchen, show him how much his body is appreciated just as it is. He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists until Nathasha bumps his shoulder softly. “Alright there, Cap?”
He nods quietly, lets out the heavy breath he’s been holding. He can’t lie to Nat, she sees right through him. When he glances back over, Bucky is rubbing a hand over his belly, almost soothingly. He glances over, his head ducked and brows furrowed, and catches Steve’s eye.
Steve throws up a hand, giving Bucky his best grin. “Hey Buck! How’s it going?”
Bucky’s face drains of color. His sharp blue eyes take in how close Steve is standing, and Steve can see all over his face that he realizes Steve’s overheard their conversation. He turns to Tony and Bruce, mumbles something along the lines of “Thanks, gotta get back to work,” before turning to dash into the kitchen, the white door left swinging in his wake.
Steve watches him go, rubbing his own hand over his stomach, feeling like he’s been kicked in the gut. When he reaches the register, he asks Clint if Bucky is busy, but the usually cheerful man just peeks through the kitchen window and shakes his head at Steve. “Nah, man, sorry. He’s really strapped right now, working on the fall menu and stuff.” He gives Steve a tight smile and hands him his coffee mechanically.
Steve takes the coffee, and before he can think about it the words come tumbling out. “Could you tell him I said hello?”
Clint glances over his shoulder and lets out a defeated sigh.
“Sure thing, I’ll definitely do that.”