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It was hurricane season in the Atlantic. Most late summer storms earned their names along the southern coast of the country, thriving in the lazy ocean currents and warm water. But every now and again, some strong wind prevailed and pushed the adverse weather north, to New York. At this time of the year, conditions were just hospitable to keep the air electric for a while, before the clouds petered out and moved on.
The rain started first.
Some time in the early afternoon, a sudden sheet of shower dropped unannounced from the darkening sky. You’d been at the café then, like usual. After days of moody overcast, everyone anticipated a downpour–and still, it caught you by surprise. Startled pedestrians rushed into cars, or nearby buildings: frantic and disheveled. The handful of customers you were entertaining began to murmur nervously. Over the next ten minutes, most of them finished up and left. You couldn’t blame them. Curtain after curtain of heavy rain swept the streets outside. At this rate, the pavement would overflow. And every passing moment seemed to further obscure what sunlight there’d been to begin with; soon, clouds boiled so thick overhead, the sky was blacker than nighttime. The street lights switched on.
Every taxi within ten miles had been hailed, and every sidewalk was all empty of people. Warm air fogged up the windows of your storefront. It was barely past three, but things were starting to feel fantastical in your small slice of the world.
Then the wind picked up. It swirled near the ground at first, stirring the generous inches of stormwater waiting to drain, pushing little waves back and forth. Steadily, it grew stronger as it billowed higher. The rain began to swing around in a frenzy, slapping the windows at an angle and shooting in all directions. You could hear wind blasting past the high-rises, could hear it boom, crashing into concrete and glass. Your door rattled. Faintly, through the waterfall of rain, you watched a dislodged awning drift by.
It didn’t take much longer for the thunder to sound. The first of it you heard was like a rolling of great ocean waves, steady and threatening. Resonous. Little by little, it slid closer to you. The way it moved was an easy flow of pearls. Bubbling, it spilled through the darkness like scattering marbles of noise. And bit by bit, it was less of a smooth boil, now a razor’s edge splintering crack of broken glass, shattering so violently it had all the sky above to echo through.
You blinked once. White veins spalled the clouds, then were gone just as fast. The air began to smell of ozone. Taste like copper. Through it all– somehow –it was quiet. Despite the rushing torrent of rain, and the keening, wailing wind, and the thunder so cataclysmic it made New York City feel shallow and small, the lightning brought a violent hush. That bated half-second when it branded the sky was forever and a half of silence. All sound dropped away while the glaring scars lived their glory. The lightning that ripped the clouds apart was bright white and brilliant: shocking, startling, unnerving in a tense and mute alarm; then the thunder roared so suddenly it cleaved the air itself and forged a vacuum in the void left behind.
Lights flickered. The walls shook.
On days like this, having a car would come in sure handy. Alas. You’d always been fond of walking to work before, and anyway had nowhere to store a vehicle. It was never worth the hassle simply to commute twenty blocks each way. But now… as you stared at the flood of rain blocking the other side of the street from view, you couldn’t help but wish for a coach to spirit you home. Not having one, you were stuck at the café, completely stranded. With Bucky.
Yes, of course Bucky was there with you. He’d come in a little before midday as usual, setting up in his booth for a bit of computer work. When the storm hit, and everyone else scattered, Bucky stayed where he was, unperturbed. The weather hadn’t seemed to bother him at all. He hadn’t been in a huge hurry to leave. You were fine with it; for about an hour, you yourself heavily debated going home, because you’d have to get soaked on the way. By the time you seriously thought closing early was the best choice and had accordingly sent all your workers away, it was too dangerous to risk setting foot outside, much less drive through the flooded streets.
The conditions left you but one choice: wait it out.
In all honesty, your situation wasn’t the worst scenario. The café was a really decent place to be stranded. It had delicious food, excellent internet speed, and the most hospitable lounge you could accomplish–because you liked giving people a place to be comfortable. And alright–so maybe the internet crashed semi-permanently about an hour into the rainfall, but still. There were things to do. As it turned out, Bucky liked playing board games.
You had a considerable collection of such old-fashioned pastimes on hand for some of your more regular crowd. There were classics, cards, plus a few really inventive and obscure ones whose instructions you had to read every time you took them out. The two of you made an event of picking through the litter, once the wifi went to heaven and Bucky was forced to leave his laptop alone. He was such a good sport.
“Aren’t you bored?”
You were sprawled over one of the couches in your lounge, a knitted blanket draped across your legs. Lazily carding through the collection of games on the coffee table beside you was a good way to ponder the choices while you waited for Bucky to join up. There had been no official request for his presence, sure. But the storm was stretching on and on without tell of any end, and it was just the two of you alone in the café. He’d probably start a conversation eventually. Then you could throw the gauntlet.
“Mmm, a little.” You muttered. Your back was to his vantage in the corner, and you didn’t bother turning to gauge his expression.
The booth creaked. Boots scuffed the floor. Outside, blazing white flashed sharply and flooded in, followed soon by boulders breaking off a mountainside. Bucky’s glove gently lighted on the back of your sofa.
“The connection got cut.” He gruffed. “I’m guessing cable’s striking too?”
The TV–which had been droning with the weather channel since the storm began, or trying to, at least–kept respawning every twenty-ish seconds. The dish was definitely loose, if that was what made it work, and trying to actually watch something hardly seemed worth the trouble when it shorted out for longer than it stayed on.
You gave a disappointed sigh, which turned to a grumble at the end by mistake. “Yep. So you can forget any of our regular sit-coms. Looks like we’re down to some more hands-on activities.” The Sorry! box rattled when you slapped it with half-hearted gusto. Bucky’s face softened.
For the next hour or so, board games consumed the time nicely. The quaint collection sprawled across your lounge area in various states of assembly. It was fun, with a mild atmosphere that lacked any intensity at all, and even Bucky went right along with your noncommittal infidelity to each new round you started. Sometimes you picked a game, then bored quickly and pivoted to another. Many of the pieces from multiple collections had been halfway unpacked and abandoned. It was becoming a mess, but the lightning outside showed no signs of letting up, so you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.
It was getting late. For a city that didn’t sleep, the view beyond your window sure seemed dark. Time was suspended in your cheery little pocket of the world, with warm lights that stayed on. Wind smashed against your door, and water pooling through beneath it tried to breach what sanctuary there was, but you and Bucky were perfectly safe. From the weather.
Boredom, on the other hand, was steadily encroaching upon your tranquility. There were only so many games you could make a genuine sport of with just two people. And those that did prove amusing were quickly overplayed.
Plus Bucky was very good at everything. It wasn’t fair.
With a frustrated huff, you slapped your UNO cards against the table and shot off the couch, just to rake your hair from its long-abandoned bun because this was the third row in a row that Bucky won in seven turns. As much as it didn’t bode well for you, you could feel a restless itch coming on.
“That wasn’t fair!” You jabbed an accusing finger at the stack of cards on the table between you. “The cards weren’t…”
Bucky laced his gloved hands between his knees and stared up with a patient smile. There was a twinkling amusement in the steel of his irises, patronizing and gentle and cute and infuriating.
“We can rematch… if you want.” He suggested in a tone that knew exactly how the prompt would be received.
“No!” Lightning stole the sound outside like a blinding blow to the eyes. You paused for the thunder to say its piece before speaking. “I need to bake something. Come help me.”
Without waiting for his acquiescence, you tossed the throw blanket aside and marched for the kitchen doors just past your coffee bar. Most of the tasks for tomorrow had already been squared away, and the current debate to even open in the morning had cropped up in your mind a while ago. But working with your hands was a good brain break. Baking was something you’d never tire of. On the plus side, it was always more fun with another person, and Bucky–if anything could be said about your friendship thus far–knew how to have a good time.
“...you want me to bake?” His incredulous disbelief reached your ears from the lounge as you rifled through your cabinet for an apron or two. “I dunno if that’s my strong suit, doll.”
“It’s not hard!” You yelled back so your voice wouldn’t perish in the cabinet. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of getting your hands a little dirty!”
Bucky grumbled something incoherent and grunted gruffly.
“Wassa?” Pulling out of your apron abyss with two functional vestures, you popped your head above the counter to scowl at him, still across the room, despite your explicit mandate. “Oi, ya don’t have to take your gloves off, biker baby. I know that’s like–your selkie skin or whatever, but just help me get the ingredients out, would ya? Those bags of flour are heavy.”
Bucky frowned, pursing his lips in that charming heart-throb way of his–but he was a real sport and grudgingly conceded to indulge you.
“Why does my apron have a bad pun?” He pretended to gripe and be put-off. It didn’t stop you seeing the corners of his mouth curl up.
Taking a moment to admire the sight, you appraised Bucky’s lovely slender build in a leather jacket, and an apron that boasted “taking whisks in life”. It was an odd image–a gruff, reclusive man so easily shoe-horned into domestic tasks. Day: made. Maybe even the week too. What a shame your phone was out of range.
“I didn’t see your opinion in the recipe.” You quoted your own apron in response to his complaint.
A slow smile spread across his features, all levity and unadulterated happiness. His hands twitched at his sides. He was gorgeous and you loved him.
In the spirit of Bucky’s unfamiliarity with baking, you decided to go with a simpler recipe: sugar cookies.
Your kitchen in the back of the café was small. Nonetheless, you’d carefully molded it to yourself in a way that allowed for maximum capacity–which was useful because running a café required baking goods in bulk. Luckily, Bucky was as strong as he looked.
“Are you sure you have it?”
You were a once-burned, twice-shy kind of gal, and more than a few traumatic instances involving your industrial bags of flour had you hovering around Bucky like a nervous fly on five shots of espresso. The anxiety was bad enough that you’d hired a part-time worker to help you move ingredients around, duly afraid to handle them yourself. So when Bucky scooped up not one, but two massive bags like they were full of down and not fine flour, your eyes felt ready to pop.
“I got ‘em doll.” He twitched his lips at you with a ghost of feigned arrogance in the look. There wasn’t the slightest tremble in his muscles, or a hint of strain in his arms at all. You were shocked.
Awed, you watched him swing around to place his load where you’d indicated before. Bucky was something special.
“How much are we going to need, anyway?”
The task at hand shook you from your trance. “Right! About a quarter of that bag. I’ll show you how to measure it.”
Much of the next few hours passed like that. Bucky took to each new task easily, carefully, expressing the utmost awareness of his actions like he wasn’t used to being gentle. True, his bulk and brutish movements made it hard to exude gracefulness, but he was trying very hard to mimic your delicate touch, and that was adorable.
“You haven’t done much fine motor work in life, have you?” You joked, after watching him struggle to remove the seal from a new bottle of vanilla extract. The plastic layer had come quickly, but the paper clung to the lip of the plastic, and his fingers were too wide to get a real edge on it.
“I–” He clenched his jaw and fixed the bottle with a threatening stare. “–want to crush this thing.”
You almost gave him the go-ahead, only thinking better of it when you recalled his feat with the flour, and considered that he might actually have the strength to do it. Instead, you laughed and reached for a paring knife on the counter, holding it out to him handle-first. “Here,” another snort bubbled in the back of your mouth. “I’ve watched you struggle long enough.”
His head snapped up, fingers frozen now, and he stared at you without preempt. The reaction was tense and cold. You faltered. Something in the way his gaze stayed locked on yours–never straying once to the object in your hand–made you think this wasn’t about the proffered tool, but nothing of that sort could ever be certain where Bucky was concerned. He’d always been an enigma. One of his mysterious triggers was bound to have been revealed sooner or later.
Still, you were caught off guard, and you wanted to know why. So you kept your hand where it was. “What?” you asked, smile fading now.
Bucky’s tight lips carefully remained neutral. In a voice that sounded more distinctly Brooklyn than any time you’d ever heard it before, he asked with slow, deliberate emphasis, “Why are you giving me a knife?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Was this about the knife then? You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Maybe the offer had awakened some unpleasant memory, or he hadn’t understood your intentions.
“To open the bottle.” You leaned your confidence into the words, reassuring yourself that you hadn’t stepped out of line, because your response had been natural and you hadn’t known it would ruin the mood. Also, you sensed that any hesitation would make Bucky feel bad, which was obviously the last thing you wanted. “It’ll be faster than scissors. Not as bulky.”
Thankfully, he accepted your explanation. Albeit awkwardly. “Oh.” He said, turning his eyes back to the vanilla as he took the knife without looking. “Sure.”
You lowered your arm.
“Don’t like knives?” It would be a shame if the abruptness of this discomfiture caused a small rift in your easy relationship with Bucky. The least you could do was provide a graceful taper out of the subject, to allow him the opportunity to talk if he wanted. You’d always gotten that feeling from him: that he had something he wanted to say, but never did indulge it. The tension strained him sometimes, it seemed. As his friend, you wanted him to be comfortable enough to share, even if he never shared with you.
He worked his jaw, twitched the knife a little, surveying the lip of the bottle with a carefully nonchalant eye. “It’s complicated.” He grumbled, then stabbed the paper. “I’m good with knives.”
Brow now raised, you propped your hands on your hips, surprised he’d divulged that small nugget of information. “Well, that should come in handy.” You reassured. “This next part of the process requires some very refined knife-work.”
The “next part of the process” you referred to was tracing paper cutouts of images you planned to pipe. It was important to be as precise as possible when shaping the cookie dough, because even though icing was the real picture, it could only go so far. The shape of the cookie was what always sealed the deal. And you weren’t “good with knives” like Bucky claimed to be. That didn’t make you above coaching him, of course. You had a better idea of what to do, and more experience doing it.
Besides, talking was a good way to fill the silence (Bucky told you before that he didn’t like silence). In the back, in the kitchen, it was harder to hear every facet of the storm outside. It was harder to see white light split the clouds wide open. Bucky’s lengthy and painstakingly crafted playlist of 40s music lilted from your phone in a corner on a shelf, safe from the mess you two had fun making. Slowly but surely, the cookies took shape.
Your ovens were primed and ready. In fact, you were just sliding the first few trays of perfectly-cut dough in to bake when a loud BANG rattled through the whole shop without warning. It was only a miracle you jumped to kingdom come without burning both arms on the hot surface.
“Oh dee!” You yelped, dropping your cookie sheets on the racks with a clatter. “What was that?”
Over your shoulder, Bucky donned a mildly curious frown, shoulders sliding back and going stiff.
“Bucky?” Safety first, you slammed the oven before it could pose a threat to your skin again and punched in the timer with a distracted air.
“Dunno, doll.” He said in a tone that indicated he might have a few suspicions. His narrowed eyes stabbed the kitchen doors. “Stay here. I’ll see if it’s something to worry about.”
“Sure.” A part of his reaction confused and worried you both, where before you might not have given any mind. Should you be more alert? Should you suspect danger? But this was Bucky. You trusted him. And anyway, there was more dough that needed rolling out, so you were content to comply.
The quiet jazz from your phone swallowed his footsteps. Curious; it wasn’t set to a high volume. He was lighter on his feet than he gave away. You tried not to worry about his sudden shift in behavior. Bucky was an odd person, yeah, but he was entitled to some privacy from you of all people.
It only took half a minute for him to determine the source of the noise. He didn’t report his finding to you directly, but his very loud and very annoyed exclamation of “You’ve got to be kidding me!” gave you the impression that there was no immediate danger. Rolling pin in hand, you skirted the island countertop and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors.
A very curious sight greeted you.
Just outside your wide bay windows, on the threshold of the reach of light from inside your café, a man was slowly staggering to his feet. His unrefined movements pushed him in and out of the shadows from the rain, disrupting his silhouette, and making it hard for you to tell what you were looking at. He was dressed in dark colors. His clothing–though somewhat bulky–appeared to be a uniform of sorts, geared up with all kinds of straps and pockets. It was the kind of thing you imagined a James Bond secret agent would wear while cable-lining into a fancy mansion through the glass dome ceiling in the main hall–if a little more red.
Dazedly, the man pushed a pair of goggles from his face. He cast about the street for a moment with a lost look, limping in a slow circle as if to orient himself in the rain.
You gasped.
As the man turned his back, the reason for his confusing outline became plainly clear. He had wings.
Beautiful, elegant wings draped from the space between his shoulders, sharp and supple where they scraped the wet sidewalk. They twitched against the wind and rainfall. Each involuntary flex and flick was jerking. Jittery. When the lightning sprang across the sky, his wings glowed, flashing in the moment of day like mirrors.
It couldn’t be. Either the Falcon himself had just landed on your doorstep, or a–quite literally–fallen angel decided to grace you with his presence. Had he really been flying? In this weather? Whatever the case may be, standing and staring was no longer an acceptable course of action.
“Is that what I think it is?” You demanded from Bucky, striding quickly to skirt the counter. On your way, you snagged your keyring, because the door was still locked.
“If you think that’s a petty, kiss-up, people-pleaser in tactical gear, then y–”
You whacked your rolling pin into his chest (to hold) while rushing for the door. It didn’t take a second for you to unlatch and swing it open, baring yourself and the whole café inside to the unrelenting rain. Also to the odd fella on the street at two in the morning.
“Hey!” You shouted, eliciting a surprised jolt from the man as he turned to locate you. He must have been pretty dazed if he didn’t notice your café being the only building on the block with its lights still on, much less with people putzing around inside. “What’d ya do, mister? Fly into the window?”
He stared at you for a second, arms tucked against his ribs, then blinked slowly. A sheepish grin soon melted the look of disorientation smashed into his handsome features. “Uh, yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
You raised an eyebrow. Woof. Poor guy. “What are you standing in the rain for, then? Get in here! You’re practically drowning!”
“Ah–” He shuffled his feet. “That’s really not necessary–”
“Get in here!” You further emphasized your request with exaggerated gesticulations.
When he still hesitated, you heard Bucky roll his eyes behind you. “Wilson, just do what the lady says. She’s not going to bite your head off.”
Wilson. He glanced over your shoulder in a moment of genuine surprise, now–at least–finally compelled to comply with your wishes.
“Oh my word.” He breathed, stepping through your door. Ripe amusement began replacing the shock in his face. “Bucky? What are you doing here, man?”
Bucky glared. It wasn’t a full glare, but you sensed genuine dislike simmering in the gesture. He now held your rolling pin out like a weapon. “I’m baking cookies. What’s your excuse?”
“I was on my way back from a mission, actually. Thought I could beat the storm. But uh… obviously that didn’t work out.” He turned to you, apologetic. “Is this… fifth avenue?”
You blinked at him, as was the only appropriate reaction. Now that he was standing in full light, you could see just how thoroughly drenched the poor man was. He’d been completely soaked from head to toe, his wings hung limp against the ground, and a puddle was steadily pooling out around his feet. His boots squished as he shifted. He still had his arms tucked close when a small shiver shot down his spine. The rain outside was warm, but you had your AC on, so he’d be freezing in a minute if he didn’t get dry.
There were, however, a few more pressing things to note.
“Not even close, bud.” You told him sympathetically, which Bucky emphasized with a put-on “what a shame” face that was less so.
“I’m sorry, do you two know each other?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. His nose twitched. He was staring at your new visitor. “We’ve been acquainted.” He said vaguely.
It earned him a soft, incredulous scoff. From the man with dark skin.
“And you never thought to tell–” You tried to start, but were quickly redirected.
“I’m Sam Wilson.” Sam Wilson introduced. He turned to you, pointedly turning his back to Bucky, and generously extended a hand.
You momentarily dropped the fact that Bucky withheld his first-name basis with an Avenger and didn’t tell you in favor of shaking hands with said Avenger.
“Hi.” You couldn’t help the giddy grin that stretched your face wide. “I thought so. My name’s y/n.” His very wet glove turned the flour on your palm sticky, and you felt bad about that. Gosh, what were aprons for if not to wipe your hands off? Major blunder. Luckily, Sam didn’t seem to notice.
Crepes. There was an Avenger in your café.
There was an Avenger in your café! How cool was that? You couldn’t believe it!
“Golly, you must be so uncomfortable!” You sputtered. Heat took the liberty of leaving your body entirely through your face. “Are you injured at all? Let me grab some towels!”
Sam squeezed his elbows as you hurriedly pivoted away. “Naw, I’m alright. You don’t have to–”
“And hang your gear up on a chair or something! Make yourself at home!”
This was too unreal. First, the storm–in all its ethereal beauty–slammed the city headlong with no warning, next an Avenger crashed into your window completely out of the blue! What kind of day was this? It was a dream. Had you passed out on the couch? Were you dreaming this whole thing up?
At your retreat, you thought a conspiratorial, “She doesn’t know?” came from Sam, but Bucky’s annoyed grumble could have meant anything in response.
It was quiet enough–at least–when the lightning struck next that you heard Bucky warn, “She’s my friend. You’d better not step out of line.”
And Sam half laughed, momentarily prying his hands away from his chest in an excessive and false gesture of reassurance. “You got it, Buck.” He chuckled, which earned him a low snarl.
Deciphering what on earth that exchange could possibly mean was way above your pay grade. At least three things were certain: Bucky knew an Avenger–was even close enough to be friends (though the feeling seemed to be entirely one-way, which baffled you), there was far more to their relationship than Bucky was letting on, and it was absolutely none of your business.
No, you couldn’t deny the itching curiosity. Bucky was your friend too, after all. But if he wanted to share, he would have, and he hadn’t. So you had no place asking. Even if you were indignant to know he knew an Avenger this whole time and never felt privy to tell you. Not just any Avenger either–Sam Wilson, the Falcon of all of them. Who was an angel in every way. He’d never done a single bloody thing ever in his life that you could blame him for, at least not from what was publicly common knowledge, and he was cool. He could fly. So you’d always liked him, though he wasn’t the most prominent face among his colleagues. He’d graciously accepted your offer of hospitality. That was more than enough.
By the time you’d returned to the foyer with a bucket and a supply of towels good to dry a sopping komondor, Sam had removed his gloves, placing them carefully on the edge of a table. He was a gentleman. He was courteous. You wanted to groan out loud.
“Come on now, don’t be shy.” You grinned at him over your obscene pile of towels. “Feel free to take all your gear off. Your boots, your vest–that can’t be fun to tote around water-logged. If you want, you can wring some of it out.” Here, you offered the bucket. Hopefully it would be deep enough for all the rain packed into his clothes. The puddle had grown, but quite a bit lingered on him yet. “Then hang it up and let it air-dry. I have a feeling we’ll be here long enough for it to happen.”
He’d forced his arms to his sides, but his fingers twitched as he watched you dump the stuff on an adjacent booth.
“Ma’am, I really don’t want to be a bother.” He told you earnestly, and was that your imagination, or did he very momentarily cast a sidelong look at Bucky? “Really. I could try flying back now. I might make it to the tower–”
Flaring white beamed outside the window, cutting him off with a profound silence. Then the thunder bellowed to California and back. And it was briefly enough to stop him arguing anymore.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” You stared him down sternly, a trick that Bucky may or may not have taught you. “The wind is what knocked you to the street to begin with, isn’t it? And it won’t have any qualms about doing that a second time. I can’t fathom how you were lucky enough to land outside our doorstep, but you might not be so fortunate again if you take your chances. Just stick around. We don’t mind.” And because you lacked confidence in that last statement extending fully to the other party composing your “we”, you shot Bucky a pointed look–of which he was aware, yet stoutly ignored in favor of staring at Sam childishly.
Sam cleared his throat, meekly preparing to protest again.
“I mean it.” You insisted.
Bucky scoffed. He’d taken to one of the couches while he waited for you, still holding your rolling pin like he wanted to hit something with it. “Come on doll, he’s a grown man. You can’t force him to stay.”
Whatever words had been on the tip of Sam’s tongue, they quickly morphed into a satisfied, “Thank you, that’s very generous. I appreciate it.” Before he began to strip his uniform with practiced efficiency.
Bucky slumped back against the couch and griped. You were impressed. Sam brought out a side of Bucky you’d never seen before. He was acting young and rash, pouty, spoiled, and a little bit jealous. Perhaps –you reasonably mused–Sam’s sudden appearance had ruined the chummy rhythm you and Bucky found tonight, but the fact that it was Sam Wilson of all people interrupting had you less than irked. Unfortunately, Bucky didn’t share the sentiment. Maybe he just didn’t have the common civilian tendency towards hero worship. But that disregard usually indicated a closer relationship with said hero to have negated such default idolization, and Bucky hadn’t said anything other than to stiff arm Sam in your presence.
To say the least, they had a strange dynamic. Not that you were one to judge. You were just happy to get the poor bird out of the rain, and into an environment where his definite concussion could be more easily monitored. At the very least, he’d been in no condition to walk off just yet, much less fly, especially when the wind had been strong enough to knock him to the ground in the first place.
He seemed fairly alert. And if nothing else, he and Bucky shared a subtle awareness that dictated their responses to your actions. This little detail became a big detail when your timer for the cookies went off.
It was quiet–was always quiet so customers couldn’t hear it in the back and be annoyed by you baking during the day–and was almost unnoticeable from the front side of the café. But Bucky heard it. And he was on his feet in a moment, voice all serious business.
“What’s that sound?”
Sam, who’d been chatting it up with you about the varied differences between knitting and crochet stilled immediately. His ears perked, and a hand carefully reached for his neat pile of gear where everything but his current tank top and cargo pants had been deposited.
The sound in question was a soft beeping. Its steady rhythm never faltered, pattering quietly in tandem with the rain, still nearly silent even now that all three of you were straining to listen.
“I’ll go check–” You tried to offer. But the two men didn’t much fancy that.
“ NO! ” They wheeled on you at once.
In half a heartbeat, Bucky was there, up in your face with such a grave expression. He’d never raised his voice at you before. He’d never been anything but wholly mild to you before. His grip on your arms was crushing and scary and you hadn’t been so startled by another person in a long time.
Wide-eyed, you stared back at him, now frightened and worried. Sam was already moving to grab his gear again.
“It–it’s just the timer.” You stuttered. “For the cookies. We set a timer, Bucky. Remember?”
His searching, piercing gaze bored into your sense of security. He had not let go of you. “Are you sure?” He demanded, sharp in all the firm uncompromising stress of his sudden outburst.
You nodded, small and quick. You were sure. “Yes. I–I know that sound in my sleep.”
The beeping continued while Bucky weighed your words, still staring at you relentlessly. In your peripheral vision, you were vaguely aware of Sam hesitating where he was. He’d stuffed his boots on. There was a kriffing gun in his hand.
“Bucky, what on earth is going–”
Bucky abruptly dropped your arms, now burning from his vice-like grip. “Show me.” He ordered.
You resisted the urge to hug your bruising biceps, too startled and unsettled to do much besides comply and lead the way. Back into the kitchen, you scuttled, feeling unpleasantly like a scolded pup. Bucky and Sam followed close at your heels. Both men were tense, walking with rigid purpose.
Neither of them relaxed all the way when you skirted the island counter, reached the ovens, and pushed a single button to shut off the timer. The beeping stopped. The kitchen smelled like sugar and cookies.
“See?” You tried to shake the unsettled fear in your stomach by flavoring your tone with exasperation. “Just a timer. What the heck were you expecting?”
Sam lowered the gun he now gripped in both hands. He, at least, had the decency to twist a very wry, apologetic smile onto his face. “Sorry ma’am.” He forced out around a tension in his voice. “Old habit I guess.”
It made sense coming from Sam. He was an Avenger. Most likely, he dealt with these sorts of investigations on a regular basis, suspicious of any strange noise or any alarm even remotely resembling a hidden bomb, you supposed. You were willing to be gracious with his reaction, because it made sense that they were old habits of his. You couldn’t begrudge habits that might save his life under different circumstances.
But Bucky?
Where did Bucky fit into all of this? No doubt, the way he and Sam had moved, spoken, behaved in such a synchronized way had something to do with their history together, and possibly whatever history Bucky had in his field of work. Whatever the case, this display was a rare exhibition of a side he usually kept guarded from you. And you wanted to respect that–were trying so hard to respect your friend because he meant a lot to you and he deserved the benefit of the doubt–but admittedly, you were a little shaken up. Part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
“It’s… don’t worry about it.” You felt a cordial frown form between your brows, but accepting Sam’s offer of peace was a good way to excuse him and Bucky both. Besides, you had no intention of pursuing your curiosities out loud, so you let the whole situation slide. There were cookies that needed cooling, after all.
In silence, you gathered heavy duty hot mitts from a draw to your right and pulled the oven open.
“Here,” You said, slapping the gloves against Bucky’s chest like you’d done with the rolling pin earlier on. “Take those trays out. Put them on the stove. I’ll get the cooling racks.”
Before he could protest, you’d already snuck off in search of the aforementioned tools. A familiar task would help you move away from the mystery of Bucky. And if he was helping you, all the better. Then maybe you could appreciate him in the present moment, rather than fantasizing about the things he may or may not have experienced to be instilled with such a profound pessimism.
He complied without further comment.
Before long, the massive batch of cookies had all been artistically cut, baked, and cooled, no small thanks to your two very agreeable helpers. They perked up quite a bit, after getting used to the chirp of the oven timer. They did, however, maintain sheepish expressions whenever it happened to go off, though you pretended to ignore that. Who knew such men would be so generous with their services? Of course, Bucky had been unwillingly roped into the baking exercise, but Sam was entirely here against his better judgment, and he’d still offered to be of use.
Something about the whole experience was unreal. Maybe it was the odd hour, maybe it was the sleepiness clouding your head, maybe it was the fury of the storm outside that gave the setting a surreal quality, present company also considered. This was too exciting a scenario for your dull life. You weren’t used to such dramatic, incredible things happening in your orbit as the Sam Wilson baking sugar cookies in your café, in an apron that dubbed him “Daddio of the Patio”.
Maybe this was a fever dream. Though–while Sam busied himself with cutting out more shapes (he happened to be decent with knives too), and while Bucky gently pulled you aside–you couldn’t help thinking that this moment was delightfully grounded in reality.
Bucky frowned at your arm and wouldn’t meet your eyes. His plagued kicked-puppy look hadn’t faded since the last time the timer went off.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.” He muttered. His hands flexed at his sides, making the gloves squeak just the tiniest bit. Between the Jazz music, and Sam’s humming, it was hard to pick up on that detail. But Bucky deserved your full attention. So of course you noticed.
“I’ll be okay.” You said with a soft, conciliating smile. “I’m not made of bubble wrap.”
“I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It was out of line.” He ducked his head ever lower, now pulling his shoulders in, leaning back–away from you.
“Hey–” Abruptly, you reached out, pausing for a moment so he could reject your advance if he wanted. When he didn’t, you took his left hand in yours and gave it a firm squeeze. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean any harm. You may startle me, and catch me off guard, and scare me a little bit, but you’re still my friend. I care about you. I care about what makes you feel safe. If we need to get a different timer, just say the word and–”
The skin around his eyes crinkled with a mirthful chuckle. “Thanks doll.” He interrupted. For the briefest half-second, you thought maybe his hand was trembling in yours, but then he pulled away quickly and you couldn’t be sure. “That’s–a nice thing to say.”
“Well I mean it.” You huffed.
By the time all the cookies were baked and cooled and squared away, the storm still raged on beyond your windows, heavy and unrelenting like it had been when it started. You’d since cleaned up Sam’s puddle in the front, and a towel tucked under the front door kept the flood water from pooling in. Every sharp crack of lightning was as deafening, if not growing worse. There was no venturing past your protected bubble of air conditioning and sugary-scented atmosphere. It was just the three of you. Tucked away for God knew how much longer.
Having now baked together, having now more than two people, it was only right to come full circle and revamp the board game party.
Certainly there was flour in your hair, and Sam was still steamy after drying his clothes with body heat, and Bucky’s gloves remained ever present in a manner not friendly to paper or small pieces, but you three chose to begin a game of monopoly anyway. The storm had you stuck there for the foreseeable future. No better time to start the longest board game in existence, when the rain and wind and thunder and lightning showed no signs of letting up in the slightest. And you were fine with it.
There were worse places to be stranded in violent weather. But you were here, out of all of them. You were comfortable, and content. So much so, in fact, that you slumped back on your couch with a knitted shawl draped on your shoulders, spilling into your lap–after paying ridiculous rent for Bucky’s Reading Railroad–and dozed off. You were out like a bulb with the electricity cut.