Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

Steve comes in several more times over the next two weeks, yet somehow Bucky is never out front. He tries his luck by getting to know two new faces behind the counter: Wanda and her twin brother, Pietro, both of whom just moved from Sokovia with student VISAs and started their first semester at NYU. Steve knows a little Sokovian, having spent a little time there while he was in the Army. The twins give him big smiles when he asks about Bucky each time in their native tongue, but their faces fall a little bit when they carefully tell him that Bucky is busy right now, can’t be bothered to come out front. Steve takes his black coffee and leaves, a little more defeated each time.

He knows the problem, and if he could just talk to Bucky, tell him how he feels and how gorgeous he thinks the man is in his own skin then he knows things would be different. If he hadn’t been so damn scared to reach out and make a move when he saw sparks of possible interest from the man, maybe none of this would have happened.

As he steps out of the bakery on what feels like the millionth day without seeing Bucky,away from the warmth and lovely smell of fresh baked goods and hot coffee, the jingling bell almost dull in his ears the grip on his cup tightens and his mind wraps around a plan. He only has to be brave enough to execute it.

Steve normally goes for a long run in the morning, finding the exercise grounds him and gets him focused on the day ahead, much like the training he did in the Army. The first step in his plan is changing his route, running past Barnes’ Bakery on his way back to his apartment. He knows Bucky opens the shop for customers at 5:30AM, but he needs to catch him before the doors open if he wants to get a chance to talk to him.

He feels a little like a stalker, but he can only take so many nights tossing at turning in bed, thinking about Bucky’s bright smile, his sweetly dimpled chin, and how warm and soft his body would feel beneath Steve’s hands. He firms his resolve and makes his rounds a little earlier each day until the time is right.

The opportunity presents itself around four early one morning, and Steve stops in his tracks when he sees the man bent over in front of the glass pastry case, cleaning the glass with a rag. His shirt has ridden up in the back, soft love handles rounding over the waistband of his pants. Only one overhead light behind the counter is on, the rest of the dining area covered in shadow. The sign on the door reads “Sorry, we’re closed. Come again!” and Bucky seems to be alone. It’s now or never. Steve comes to the door and raises his fist, knocking softly on the glass.

Bucky jumps to his feet, fists clenched and eyes narrowed. It’s then that Steve notices Bucky’s mismatched hands, the black glove missing and a hand made entirely of metal in its place.

Steve mentally kicks himself for scaring him. Usually only trouble could come knocking at this hour, but Steve hopes this conversation will be anything but.

Bucky’s features soften when he recognizes Steve at the door, and he hesitates for a moment, brow furrowed with worry before he relents and comes to the door. It’s all Steve can do not to give a tiny fist pump in victory.

Bucky fiddles with the lock, jerking a hand down to pull his shirt down where it’s ridden up again, several jagged pink stretch marks curving over his gut, and Steve is momentarily dazed at the sight before Bucky opens the door.

“Hi, Steve,” he says softly. He’s standing in the doorway but also holding it open, which Steve takes as a good sign. His eyes are drawn momentarily to the metal hand gripping the door handle. He jerks his gaze away, but not without Bucky noticing, his features drawing further down into a frown.

“Hey, Buck. Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I could catch you before things got too busy. Got a minute?” He tries to give the man his most reassuring smile. Bucky holds his gaze for a moment before finally nodding and letting Steve follow him into the bakery, locking the door behind them.

Bucky goes behind the counter, wordlessly pouring two cups of coffee and sliding one over to Steve while carefully avoiding his gaze.

“So what are you doing out this early? It’s still dark out,” Bucky asks, and Steve tries not to cringe as the phrase “ stalking you,” flashes across his brain.

“Oh, just getting in my morning run. Couldn’t sleep much last night. I guess it’s been ingrained in me from the Army to get up and do something productive if I can’t get any rest.”

“You served? What company?” Bucky brightens a little and Steve feels like the sun is finally coming out.

“51st. You?”

“107th,” he says, straightening a little. Steve warms knowing that the man across from him understands not only the pride he has for his time serving with his men, but also the ache from countless memories of his time at war. Bucky’s face seems to change, hardening a little, like he’s steeling himself for a blow. “I guess you’ve noticed the arm by now, that’s how I got out.”

He shrugs out of the worn flannel, and Steve suddenly understands why he’s always wearing it despite the constant warmth of the ovens and bustling customers in the bakery. His left arm is entirely made of metal, stretching from the tips of his fingers and all the way up to disappear beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

“Is this StarkTech?” Steve asks, his fingers hovering just over Bucky’s.

The man nods. “You can touch it,” he replies softly. Steve brushes his fingers down his metal forearm, unable to ignore the way Bucky shivers beneath the touch as if Steve were stroking his own flesh.

“The sensory neurons are--are the best in the world, or so he tells me,” Bucky mutters, his fingers folding and unfolding. Steve feels his cock stir in his gym shorts.

“Tony’s definitely a genius, or so he tells me,” Steve tries for a smile, hoping to edge one out of Bucky. “We work together at the VA.”

“You work there?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Well, to be fair, I’ve kind of avoided the place for awhile. You said you just moved back.  I haven’t been in in almost a year. ”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Steve says, voice going soft to match Bucky’s. He can’t stop running his fingers over the warm panels fitting together to make up Bucky’s forearm. “As long as you’re taking care of yourself, you shouldn’t feel pressured to go anywhere you don’t want to go.”

Bucky just shrugs his metal shoulder in response.

“Believe me, I work with a lot of guys coming home down in Physical Therapy, and I know the VA can feel more like a trap than a place to recoup. It shouldn’t have to be that way.”

“Can’t believe we missed each other, I spent a lot of time in Physical Therapy,” Bucky murmurs, a sad smile curving his lips. He glances up at Steve. “I had a rough time coming home. I know everyone does, but when you’re down one arm it’s hard to jump back into your routine.”

“I bet,” Steve says, giving him what he hopes is an encouraging nod.

“PT was the first to go,” he says with a short laugh, referring to the physical training required daily by all soldiers. “I tried going for runs, hitting the weights again, on my own and in therapy but it just felt awkward and stupid, so I quit showing up. I know I shouldn’t have just dropped it like that, and that’s probably half the reason the arm gives me so many problems, but I got wrapped up in opening the bakery and it just got easier and easier to avoid it.”

He brings his half empty mug to his lips. “You look like you haven’t had any trouble staying on track with your workouts though,” Bucky says, peering over the cup with a almost indiscernible gleam in his eye. Steve chokes on his own drink in surprise and Bucky chuckles. Steve wipes at his lip, unable to keep the grin off his face but not knowing how to respond. Bucky refills their cups, and if Steve flexes his biceps casually when he knows Bucky’s looking again, that’s his own prerogative.

Bucky leans over and grabs a glass butter dish, cutting off a small slice and sliding it into his coffee. He stirs it until it melts into the hot liquid.

“You put butter in your coffee?” Steve can’t help but ask. It’s one of the weirdest things he’s ever seen.

Bucky’s lips twitch nervously, his good-natured grin falling into a grimace as he sneaks a glance up at Steve before nodding. “Yeah, I‘ve been trying this new thing Bruce Banner did to get all his weight off. Called the Keto diet. It’s high in fat, you cut carbs and sugar and retrain your body to run off of fat instead. Try to work in all the healthy fat that you can, that means butter in my morning coffee.”

“Oh yeah?” He says, trying to be positive. This damn diet again. “How’s that going?”

Bucky sighs heavily, letting his gorgeous chin rest heavily on his metal hand. “I don’t know. It seems fairly straightforward, but it’s pretty strict about what you can and can’t eat.”

“So I guess that means no more taste-testing the muffins?” Steve asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as disappointed as he feels.

“No. I haven’t had one in two days,” Bucky says, and by God if he has to look at Bucky pout for one minute longer he’s going to jump the man, devil may care where they are. His full bottom lip is so plump and juicy, like a ripe plum just waiting to be picked by Steve’s teeth.

“It seemed easy for him but I just…” He trails off, chewing his lip like he doesn’t know whether to go on. “Either way, I’ve gotta cut back, lose some of this weight,” he says softly, and Steve’s eyes unconsciously drift toward his sweet, round belly. Bucky’s flesh hand rests on top of it, a newly formed shelf where it rounds out from his thick, softened pecs. His hand slides down, gently rubbing the skin, and Steve feels like he’ll soon fly apart, or worse, reach across the counter and cup Bucky’s gut in his own hands.

“Who says you have to cut back?” He asks, aiming for subtle but landing somewhere near way too forward.

Bucky scoffs, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt and running a hand through his long hair. “No one, it’s just---look at me,” he says in frustration, holding out his arms.

“I am looking at you,” Steve says, dead serious and holding his gaze firm to Bucky’s wavering blue eyes, his jaw jutting forward in defiance.

He doesn’t think he can bear hearing Bucky put himself down, so he jumps ahead. “Are you happy?”

Defeated, Bucky turns in on himself, eyes downcast in thought. “I don’t know? Maybe? I love what I do here, love working the counter and talking to customers, like knowing I’m putting something out there that makes people happy.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and Steve forces himself not to check and see if his shirt has ridden up again. “I just feel like this is getting out of control, but any time you start a diet, most of the time you have to make your own meals, and I just don’t have the time for that. Baking has always come easily to me, but I’ve never been much of a cook.” He shrugs. “Most of the time when I get done here I’m exhausted, so I just grab take-out on my way home and eat on the couch. That’s why I look like this,” he says, taking a step back and gesturing to his body, practically asking Steve to drink him in with his eyes.

“I don’t see anything wrong with the way you look, Buck,” he says, surprised that Bucky can’t hear his heart pounding in his throat. He’s perfect, doesn’t he see that? The best mixture of strength and softness, biceps that could choke a man with a single flex but soft thighs that Steve can almost feel himself snuggling in between. He’s got a soft middle perfect for rubbing and an ass that Steve just knows is 100% guaranteed to not quit.

“I’m serious,” he tries again when Bucky narrows his eyes in disbelief. “I don’t see a single thing wrong with your body. But I do think you need to take better care of yourself. When was the last time you ate a good, hot meal? And I don’t mean a toasted sub from Sal’s, I know it’s on the way and I agree, the man makes a damn good meatball sub. But that’s not what I mean.”

When Bucky’s lips turn up in a bashful smile, Steve thinks he’s broken the world record of sheer willpower not jumping the man behind the counter. “I dunno, Steve. Maybe the last time I went home to my Ma’s? That was probably this past spring. It’s just been so long since I’ve had...” His smile fades, eyes darting away. “I don’t know.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “See? That’s not good for you. As much as you work, as much as you’re on your feet, you need to be filling your body with the nutrients it needs. Tell you what,” he says, and he’s trying for casual, but he’s been daydreaming about asking Bucky this since the first day he met him. “Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow night after you close up. I like to cook, and you probably know as well as I do it’s hard to cook real food for just one person.” When Bucky pausing, considering, but doesn’t immediately turn him down, he presses on. “C’mon, you’d be doing me a favor, really. I hate leftovers. Whaddya say?”

Bucky gives him a little smile. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m positive.” He nods. “I’d love to, honest. You like lasagna?”

Bucky chews his lip, and if Steve has to hear one more time about that dreaded diet-- “I’m not really supposed to---”

“Just give me a try, see if you’re not feeling better after a week. If not, you can do it Dr. Banner’s way. Sound fair?”

Bucky smooths a hand down his rounded front, considering. “Yeah, I can do that.”

It’s all too much, the sweet scent of vanilla wafting from the kitchen, Bucky pinking cheeks from the conversation and the rising heat in the bakery, the fact that he hasn’t kept his hands off his tummy since Steve sat down---he feels a sudden magnetism drawing him toward the man, and before he realizes it, Steve is bracing his forearms on the counter and leaning forward over his coffee. Bucky seems to feel it too, his eyes honing in on Steve like he’s finding a target.

A jangle of keys and a scrape of an opening door from the back of the shop breaks the moment like a suspended bubble, sending the two men reeling backward. Steve is alarmed for a moment until he hears a slap of liquid being spilled and an “Aw, coffee, no,” letting him know that Clint Barton has arrived for his morning duties.

Steve jumps to his feet, sliding the empty mug toward Bucky. “I guess I’d better get going.”

“Wait,” Bucky grabs a brown paper bag, sliding open the pastry case to grab a chocolate croissant for Sam, a large cinnamon danish with a Russian name that he can’t pronounce that Bucky makes special for Natasha, and two muffins of his own creation and no doubt Steve’s current favorite, aptly named Apple Pie Muffins, the perfect amount of streusel and cinnamon sugar pressed onto the top of each one. He folds the bag closed and slides it across the counter to Steve with a grin.

“Bucky, I can’t keep--”

“Steve,” he says firmly, his fingers of his metal hand brushing Steve’s own as he levels him with his eyes, something firm and secure settling between them, though nothing has been said, nothing even really decided. “They’re on the house. Now go, before I change my mind,” he says, grinning wickedly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?” He asks, his blue eyes hopeful and his smile turning from dangerous to suddenly bashful. Steve feels like he’s liable to melt right then and there.

“Text me when you’re leaving work tomorrow, I’ll have something for you to eat,” he smiles, scribbling his cell phone number down on a napkin and sliding it toward Bucky as he collects the paper bag and turns to go.

When the door closes behind him, instead of the bell, he swears he hears a triumphant “ whoop!” only capable of coming from the mouth of Clint Barton.

Chapter Text

That Monday evening, Bucky texts Steve around seven, an hour after he’s closed up shop, and Steve can’t keep the smile off his face as he checks the pan of lasagna warming in the oven. His apartment is small, the sitting area and kitchen sharing the open living space, and he has two place settings ready at the small bar.

Bucky arrives soon after, still wearing his work clothes but missing his white baker’s apron. He holds an oblong shaped object, wrapped in a white cloth.

“Bread,” he offers it to Steve with a tired smile. “What bakers bring to dinner.”

Steve nearly groans as he cuts off several crusty slices dotted with slivered cloves of garlic, a thick spread of butter, and fresh italian spices. “This smells amazing, Buck. You didn’t have to do all this. I know you’re busy.”

“You didn’t have to cook a hot meal for me either. But I really appreciate it,” he says, and the shy smile he gives Steve is all the payment he could ever require.

“So does this mean no more Keto diet?” Steve asks, smirking at the bread.

“You told me to wait, try this first, right?” Bucky sobers on the spot, wide blue eyes jerking up and staring up at Steve. It’s so submissive, the way he’s asking, practically begging for instruction and it strikes something in Steve that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

“Yeah, of course I did,” he says hurriedly, holding himself back as he feels the urge to reach out to touch the man, to card his fingers through Bucky’s long dark locks. He didn’t mean to worry Bucky, only hoped he was finished with this nonsense that a talented baker like himself would have to cut out carbs and sugar. Was he really supposed to never taste another baked good again? Ridiculous.

He serves them both a large slice of lasagna, and they dig in, sharing easy and comfortable conversation. When Bucky begins mopping up the leftover sauce with the last bites of his garlic bread, Steve wordlessly serves him another helping, praying he isn’t being too forward as he adds two more thick slices of garlic bread. He doesn’t think too much about how his cock twitches when Bucky tucks into the next piece without blinking an eye, praising the richness of the sauce and the balance of Steve’s flavors.

He gently encourages Bucky to take another slice, and doesn’t prod when he turns it down politely. He has a niggling feeling that he wants more, could fit in a third slice if he really wanted, but Steve doesn’t want to scare the man away, so he lets it go.

Bucky begs him to let him help with the dishes, finally consenting when Bucky offers: “I’ll wash, you dry?” He’s helpless to something so kind and domestic that he shuts his trap and grabs a dry dishcloth.

The time passes all too quickly, and Steve feels like he’s spent the evening with an old friend instead of a new acquaintance. Bucky’s presence in his home soothes the ache of loneliness he didn’t realize he’d been combatting for so long now. Sure, he has Nat and Sam over regularly, attends parties with other people from work and occasionally holds a few of his own, but it’s not the same as having a companion, someone to take care of, seeing Bucky’s sated smile and full belly and knowing that he put it there.

When Bucky shrugs his jacket back on, he and Steve are laughing about the sheer amount of water he’s managed to spill down his front while washing dishes. His rounded belly is soaking wet, the dark circle of his navel clearly outlined beneath the drenched white fabric. Only he would end up standing next to the man of his dreams and find him in a makeshift wet T-shirt contest, Steve thinks exasperatedly. He tries to send calming thoughts to his aching cock, but then his hand darts out seemingly on it’s own, pressing to Bucky’s front.

“Better button up that jacket, wouldn’t want you getting cold,” he murmurs, his eyes moving slowly upward from the chilled skin of Bucky’s tightly packed belly to his wide blue eyes, watching Steve as if he were holding him at gunpoint. He’s stuck, can’t believe he’s touching Bucky, something he’s dreamt about every night, but doesn’t know what to do next. Does he kiss him, or worse, does he rub his stretched skin until Bucky’s warm again?

He settles on a gentle pat.. “Thanks for coming tonight, Buck,” he says lowly, taking a careful step back.

“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious, really. And, ah, it was really nice to have the company too,” Bucky says softly.

“Come back tomorrow?” Steve chances, the words blurting out before he can think too much about his chances.

He gets a delightful smile in return. “Yeah, sure thing. I’d love to.”

Bucky steps forward, tucking himself into Steve’s arms, and it’s the sweetest feeling he thinks he’s ever experienced. Holding Bucky, so sweet and warm, his round cheeks tucked against Steve’s neck in a surprisingly intimate way; Steve knows he’s a goner. He’s never going to be satisfied until he gets more of this. All too soon Bucky steps away again, a blush spilling over his cheeks and coloring his chubby neck, and he slips out the door with a soft ‘goodbye.’

The man is barely out the door before Steve slides the chain home and tears open his fly, pressing his forehead to the door and fisting his throbbing erection immediately. He jerks himself embarrassingly quickly to release, the image of Bucky’s soft smile and softer middle seared into his brain like a brand.

Each night that week, Bucky shows up at his door, bearing a small gift of his own and that quiet, shy smile that Steve has come to hope Bucky reserves just for him. Steve digs through his mother’s treasured recipe box, and he whips up something warm and filling each night, as promised. Spicy chili, creamy gnocchi, oven fried chicken and twice baked potatoes, all of which Bucky consumes happily, opening up a little more over each meal.

It's Thursday night and Bucky has just agreed, much to Steve’s delight, to a third helping of Chicken Pot Pie. He loads up a big bite, chicken and vegetables and flaky crust sop up the rich white gravy, and Bucky just moans in delight when he tastes it. Steve has to grab his water glass to hold in his own moan of a much different variety.

“Steve, this is ridiculous. You just come up with this stuff on your own? Because you could be on Food Network tomorrow.”

He chuckles, reaching for the small, weathered tin box that holds his mother’s recipe cards and slides it over to Bucky. “I wish I could take all the credit, but I can’t lie about my Ma like that. They’re all her recipes.”

His heart clenches in a whole new way when Bucky handles the little box with care, looking over at Steve and asking before peeking inside.

They have half the cards pulled out in a matter of minutes, their plates scraped clean and pushed toward the sink, forgotten as Steve tells story after story. Like how his Ma made the best cornmeal crusted fish, how her chicken noodle soup was probably the only reason he made it past the age of eighteen, and how nothing made him happier than Irish Apple Cake, but he’s never tasted it since she passed away. Not in almost fifteen years.

Bucky just listens, his sweet smile fading as he gives Steve his condolences. “But Steve,” he says, “it’s your favorite. You haven’t had it again, not once?”

He shrugs, fingers rubbing the yellowed edge of the recipe card, his mother’s looping script dancing beneath his fingers. “Well, I’m a pretty sad excuse for a baker. I tried making it myself once…Brooklyn’s finest showed up,” Steve explains, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly when Bucky suppresses a giggle. “I tried a few bakeries here and there, some in D.C., some when I came back to visit Brooklyn. Not many people make it anymore, and besides…” He looks

over and meets Bucky’s gaze.

“Doesn’t taste like home?” The dark-haired man offers, his voice quiet and his eyes warm, looking at Steve like he gets it, he understands how much he yearns for that feeling of comfort and home that he has been missing for far too long.

He feels more content than he’s felt in a long time when he sends Bucky away that night, his cheeks flushed from warmth and fullness and an entire night spent laughing and talking with Steve. Knowing that he’s well fed and happy, even if he’s not curling up into Steve’s bed, settles Steve’s heart in a way he never thought possible.

Steve rearranges his schedule on Friday so that his last patient is pulling off their ice packs by 2:30, and Steve has all his equipment wiped down less than ten minutes later.

“Where’s the fire, Rogers?” Sam comments, seemingly appearing out of nowhere behind him and leaning on Steve’s squeaky clean table. He scowls at his friend, sidestepping him so he can get to the sink. “You got a hot date with Mr. Barnes tonight?”

“It’s not a date, Sam,” he replies, loading towels into the washing machine and rifling through the cabinets for detergent. Sam just smirks at him.

“What? It’s not. I told you, I’m just cooking him dinner.”

“Oh, I know ya did,” the man leans over in Steve’s space again, handing him the missing container of Tide Pods and a knowing grin. “I also happened to offer to cook dinner for Claire down in HR last week, and it wasn’t because she looked hungry, Steve.”

He keeps his eyes on the washing machine and huffs out a breath. “Bucky’s just really busy, Sam. Whether or not I like having him over is irrelevant.”

“But he’s been over to your house every night this week for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And every time you ask him to come back, he always agrees?”

“Yeah?”

“Then it sounds like your boy isn’t only interested in your lasagna, Rogers. Lay one on him when he walks in the door tonight. I promise he won’t punch you in the face,” Sam croons, laughing at Steve’s pinched expression.

“He wouldn’t do that anyway. ‘S too nice of a guy. Besides, I’m just doing him a favor, that’s all. Helping out a friend.”

“I bet I know a couple favors he’d like ya to do for him…” Sam mumbles under his breath, dodging to the right with a cackle as Steve swings out a jab and throws a Tide pod petulantly in Sam’s general direction.

Bucky's text dings in to Steve's phone at 6:47, and he is sweating bullets. He’s spent the last 48 hours searching for his mother’s recipe for lasagna, straightening up his tiny apartment, and rapid fire texting with Nat over whether or not this can be considered a date.  

“Remind me again why it’s not?” Nat’s voice is tinny as it comes in through his phone, FaceTiming him now since he literally has no time to text her.

“Because I never really asked!” He yells from his bedroom, a red sweater flying through the open door. He runs out in a navy blue.

“You need to wear that one when you’re ready to get laid,” she says casually.

“Nat!”

“What? Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it. Besides, I’ve felt that sweater. It’s soft. It’s cashmere,” she says dramatically.

“Well what do I wear that says, I’m here for you, I want to make you comfortable, and if you want to take this further I’m willing and ready?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Dear God, what are you, Captain America? He’s a grown man, Steve. Just snog him as soon as he walks in the door. A little less talk, a little more action, please.”

“Bye, Nat,” he sing-songs, going to end the call.

“Wear the red one, it makes you look cuddly!”

It's not long before Steve is smoothing his hands over his red sweater, and checking his reflection just one last time before Bucky arrives. Though he hates to admit it, Sam’s right. Tonight feels different somehow, the air feels charged with something he can’t put his finger on. Steve’s skin prickles with excitement, and he can barely wait to see Bucky walk in the door. He’s been over every night this week, leaving Steve with only a bashful smile and the warmest hugs, just a touch too close to be platonic. Steve’s lain awake every night after Bucky leaves, swamped with puppy love and an aching feeling of guilt as he wraps his hand around himself, imagining how it would feel to have Bucky’s thick, calloused palms working him over instead.

His heart all but stops when he hears the knock at the door, and he has everything ready. The lamb chops are resting on the table, sprigs of rosemary and roasted potatoes piled high in a bowl. He’s trying a little harder tonight, aiming for romantic while trying not to scare Bucky away.

Steve worries over his hair in the mirror one last time, shoves a mint in his mouth and finally pulls the door open, but all of it seems irrelevant when he sees Bucky on the other side of the threshold.

He looks absolutely exhausted in every way. His shoulders are slumped, his apron is still wrapped around his waist and dusted with various ingredients, and twin dark circles weigh heavily under his eyes. Bucky looks as if he’s barely standing.

Steve doesn’t think, just reaches out and takes his hand. “C’mere, Buck,” he says softly, leading him into the flat. “Let’s get you inside.”

It’s then that he notices a cardboard box and a thermos clutched in Bucky’s flesh hand. “Bring your own cocktails?” He says with a grin, setting them on the counter.

Bucky chuckles, giving Steve a tired smile. “Something like that.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a bit of flour behind in its wake. “Sorry I’m such a mess, Steve,” he says quietly, fiddling with the strings of his apron, a scowl marking his handsome face. Steve slides a plate in front of him and puts a hand over Bucky’s, stilling his fingers as he takes the apron from him and giving him a reassuring smile.

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Buck. Just take a breather and have something to eat.” Soon Bucky’s taking a long pull from his beer and an even larger bite of lamb, and Steve nearly comes apart when he sees Bucky’s entire body relax at the taste of something warm and flavorful on his tongue.

“Steve,” he says, licking his plump lips in a way Steve’s only dared to dream about, wickedly sinful, “this is incredible. Seriously, I don’t remember the last time I ate something this good. Except maybe last night,” he says, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Steve blushes at the praise, and how good it feels to make Bucky happy, see his full cheeks ruddy and warm as he tucks into a meal Steve’s prepared.

They eat in silence for awhile, only the satisfying scrape of cutlery against their plates fill the air. Bucky tucks into his meal with what Steve can only describe as desire, clearing his plate three times and eating like he’s half-starved, only stopping between bites to rub at his shoulder several times. He finally sits back with a little huff, sated but still shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Steve slides the last of the roasted vegetables onto Bucky’s plate. “Your shoulder bothering you?” He asks quietly, like it’s their little secret.

Bucky only nods in return, biting his lip.

“I can rub it down for you, if you’d like. Might help with the tightness,” Steve offers, watching the way Bucky favors it, keeping the prosthetic curled in his lap, his metal forearm and hand draped lifelessly across the dome of his now full tummy. “Only if you want to. I know you said you don’t have the best memories of therapy.”

“No, I think that would help,” he agrees, straightening a little and lifting his chin bravely in a way that makes Steve’s heart ache. When he adds a quiet little, “Please?” Steve knows this man will truly be his undoing.

“Do I get to see what you’ve brought me first?” He asks with a grin, collecting their plates and sliding the cardboard box Bucky’s brought in front of him. Bucky nods, a hint of mischief in his eyes. Steve tips the lid off the box like a kid on Christmas, but he freezes when he sees what’s nestled inside.

“Buck...is this…?”

Bucky pulls a familiar yellowed notecard from his shirt pocket, now smudged a bit with flour. “I may have taken some pointers from your mom, but I didn’t think you would mind too much,” he says, sliding the recipe card across the counter, Steve’s mother’s cursive looping across the front, reading “Irish Apple Cake.”

“No, it’ll be perfect,” Steve murmurs, opening the top of the thermos to find the traditional custard cream inside, the color a soft, buttery yellow. He sticks a finger inside to taste it, not missing the way Bucky is watching him with apprehension, his eyes tracking the finger Steve drags slowly from his lips.

“Buck, this is...this is amazing. You didn’t have to take the time to do all this for me. Really.”

The man shrugs his good shoulder and comes around the counter to take the dessert dishes from Steve’s hand, lifting the pan from the box and serving them two slices.

“Look, I know what it’s like to feel like you’re just getting by, to miss the way things used to be.” He looks up briefly, meets Steve’s gaze as he opens the thermos, expertly spooning custard over the crumbly top of the dessert. “You didn’t have to be nice to me, you didn’t have to feed me. You didn’t have to look out for me. But you did.” He slides the plate across the bar in front of Steve, tucks a fork in beside the slice. “It’s the least I can do.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, feeling like the words are stuck in his throat with emotion, Bucky’s round blue eyes watching him with expectancy. He doesn’t trust himself not to lurch across the table and kiss the man senseless, so he does the next best thing and shoves an abnormally large bite of cake and custard into his mouth.

Of course, it’s perfect.

Bucky’s right, it’s not his mom’s, nothing ever will be. But the moistness of the cake, the perfect balance of sweetness with the crisp tart flavor of the apples, combined with the tang of buttermilk and the smooth, richness of the custard cream on top, Steve feels like he’s back at home asking for seconds, his home full of love and warmth. Now he looks across the counter at the man standing before him, smiling shyly as Steve offers him yet another large slice of cake, and Steve thinks there’s a good chance he’s finding home again.

He loves seeing Bucky like this, his cheeks a little rosy and full after a good meal, undeniably full with one hand splayed across his belly, trying not to rub his stretched skin. But Steve can still notice the tightness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, and he can’t stand to see Bucky in pain for a minute longer.

“C’mon,” he says, rising to lead Bucky away from the kitchen. “Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

Steve leads him to the couch, sitting him so his back is to Steve. Bucky’s skin is warm, radiating heat through his thin T-shirt, and Steve starts working his fingers slowly over the skin of his back and shoulder, letting Bucky’s muscles acclimate to the unfamiliar touches.

Bucky is silent, but Steve can feel tension in his shoulders rise like hackles. This isn’t uncommon for him to see, especially when he works with soldiers, who can be averse to touch, or in Bucky’s case, probably just touch-starved in general. He’s used to it, even having experienced it himself, but seeing the pain in Bucky’s body hits him in a way he hadn’t expected. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Steve hears himself murmuring gently in Bucky’s ear, attempting to soothe him and relax his muscles. He keeps going, gentle touches getting firmer until he feels the knots break up around the scar tissue in Bucky’s shoulder, and he cheers a little inside when he sees Bucky’s head fall back, finally relishing in Steve’s continuous touches.

Steve’s still focusing on his bad shoulder, but he lets one hand drift up to rub at the taught trapezius muscle at the side of Bucky’s neck. Bucky lets out a quiet noise, and he unconsciously scoots back into the vee of Steve’s legs. He keeps on with his ministrations, fingers on Bucky’s neck, his shoulders, down the broad expanse of his back, gentle circles at the sides of his spine, and by the time he’s working on Bucky’s lower back, the man is lose and pliant beneath his hands, barely able to hold himself up. He lists to one side, leaning against the back of the couch, and Steve can’t keep the grin off his face. This is all he wants, for Bucky to feel good and relax for once, to feel like he can let go and feel safe here.

Steve imagines if he could see Bucky’s face, his eyes would be closed, drifting in and out. He could probably stop, he’s done his job, Bucky’s shoulders have dropped and the pain in his arm has mostly likely leveled out. But now that he’s got his hands on the man, Steve finds he can’t stop touching him. Not when Bucky’s moving his hips backward ever so slightly, silently seeking more touch, and Steve will be damned if he’s not going to give it to him. He works on Bucky’s lower back some more, thumbs rubbing big circles into the muscle there. Before he can stop himself, his fingers are creeping out and splaying over Bucky’s thick sides.

He takes a leap of faith and moves forward to close the gap between them, happy when Bucky just stretches back against his chest, his head falling on Steve’s shoulder. Now that he can see his face, his sweetly rounded cheeks and the fan of his eyelashes, Bucky looks so relaxed and peaceful, Steve wishes he could hold him like this all night.

Finally giving in to his desires, Steve lets his hands drift to the round dome of Bucky’s full belly. He keeps up the gentle ministrations, thrilling when Bucky makes little quiet, pleased noises, tucking his face into Steve’s neck. He chuckles fondly, chancing a soft kiss to Bucky’s temple and smoothing his palm over Bucky’s tummy, which is rounder than he’s ever seen it.

“Buck?” He whispers, lips brushing the shell of the man’s ear. Bucky whimpers in response, and Steve’s hands tighten around him at the sound. He presses forward, lost in the headiness of the moment and the sensation of Bucky’s skin beneath his fingers. “Feeling pretty full, huh?”

He keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face where he’s still pressed against Steve’s chest, a delicious blush creeping over his cheeks. Bucky gives him the slightest nod, keeping his eyes closed, like he’s afraid to look up and meet Steve’s gaze. Steve chases the blush with his lips.

“Want me to rub your belly? Make you feel better?”

He gets another small, nervous nod, and Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s temple again in silent praise. He starts by letting the tips of his fingers tickle over the sides of Bucky’s belly, then making small circles over the taut skin with the pads of his fingers. Bucky reacts so beautifully to the touch, soft moans and whimpers bubbling out of him the more Steve lets his hands rove over his belly. His sides, the gentle slope down from his chest, the soft curve of his underbelly where it’s starting to peek out of his shirt, he touches every inch of him until Bucky’s plump lips fall open and he’s panting softly, his skin growing even warmer beneath Steve’s hands.

“Feel good, Buck? You like that?”

He murmurs in response, hips rutting upwards when Steve cups the bottom of his belly in both of his large palms and just holds him.

“Love holding you like this,” he whispers, risking to press his lips along the shell of Bucky’s ear, which is flushed red. “Love taking care of you. Love making you feel good.”

When Bucky lets out a low moan at his words, and desire boils hot under Steve’s skin. He’s aching to take Bucky right here, but he settles for finding the hem of Bucky’s T-shirt, which is slowly creeping toward his deep navel.

He lets his nose brush Bucky’s cheek, silently asking for permission, and he can only whimper in response. Steve rewards him by placing a kiss to his full cheek and pulling his T-shirt up to his chest, exposing his gorgeous tummy.

It’s round and heavy, resting in his lap even though his thighs are spread. Dark hair trails down from his thick chest hair, leaving a delicious path down his navel, disappearing over the curve of his belly, and Steve aches to follow it with his mouth.

He presses a kiss to Bucky’s jaw, drinking him in. His skin is mottled with stretch marks, some a muted pink, silvery and pale to match his skin, but there are a few new ones, angry and jagged that Steve runs his fingers over, in awe of how perfect Bucky is beneath him, better than he could have ever imagined.

He scratches at Bucky’s skin gently, knowing how stretched and itchy he must feel, and Bucky keens in response. He’s slowly coming undone beneath Steve’s fingers, and he’s so caught up, addicted to every response he can draw from Bucky, every moan, every whimper, every gasp from his lips is like fuel to the fire.

Bucky’s squirming beneath Steve’s hands, murmuring nonsense and panting heavily now, and Steve pulls him even tighter in between his legs. “You like that, Buck? Like it when I touch you?”

He nods, moaning louder and pressing kisses to the thin skin just beneath Steve’s ear. Goosebumps crawl down his neck and he’s suddenly aware of how insistently hard his cock is, obviously pressing against Bucky’s soft posterior.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

Wrecked, Bucky only mouths against his skin. “C’mon, Bucky, talk to me.”

“Touch me,” he pants, bucking his hips harder, the soft curve of his belly quivering beneath Steve’s hands. “Please, Steve, please touch me.”

“Here?” He asks, cupping his gut and squeezing gently, Steve’s cock practically bobbing in response. Bucky shakes his head and Steve lets his hand drop to the tie at the waistband of his chef’s pants. “Here?”

He nods feebly, and Steve makes quick work of the tie and the elastic waistband. He stops at the tight waist of Bucky’s briefs, letting his fingers tease at the baby soft skin he finds there. “Is this what you want, Buck?”

“Please, Stevie,” he whines, fingers insistent where’s he’s been clutching at Steve’s forearms. “Yes, I need it, please!”

He finally relents, tugging Bucky’s swollen cock from its confines and fisting him in his hand. The head is flushed and almost purple, drooling with desire to be touched. He starts off slowly, one hand curved protectively around Bucky’s gut and keeping him held fast against Steve’s chest.

“Good boy,” he purrs in Bucky’s ear, almost falling apart at the way Bucky responds so beautifully to the praise, his cock spurting slick and his mouth falling open to cry out. His own hips rut into Bucky’s cheeks, chasing his own release as he pumps Bucky’s gloriously thick cock. It doesn’t take long, a few rough pulls and the quick twist of his wrist, and Bucky’s spilling again and again and again, painting the skin of his belly white with his release.

Steve’s right behind him, coming in his pants hard and fast like a teenager, but refusing to move as his eyes are locked on Bucky the whole time. Just when he thinks he couldn’t be any more gorgeous, unbelievably better than Steve’s wildest imagination, he raises his hands to rub the mess into his stretched skin, like he can’t get enough of his own girth that he has to feel it himself. Steve is overcome at the sight, and he just drinks in every inch of the sweetly curved man that lets himself relax back into Steve’s arms with a heavy huff, and Steve bends down with the last of his energy to place a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth.