Work Text:
No one could have guessed how enthusiastic one meal could make them all. Such a small thing, sharing a meal with friends, and yet Bruce’s suggestion, in his meek, tiptoeing way, that they make it together triggered an excitedly helpful avalanche; offers to wash and chop and stir and flambe – NO Tony – inundating him until Bruce himself was left with very little to do.
He was relegated to chief pot-stirrer. ‘Chief’ because he was in charge, because he wasn't the only stirrer, because Scott Lang was not being put in charge of anything, because Scott Lang had a habit of forgetting and they did not want a repeat of The Chili Incident.
Scott Lang was only there because sometimes he came to visit, was fed, and:
“Never fucking leaves,”
“Tony, that’s mean.”
While stirring could apparently be very difficult for some – Iron-dude, you need better spoons, this one just fell apart, splintered everywhere – Bruce was quite smart and was able to stir and ignore the shouting and watch the spectacle happening kitchen-wide all at the same time. Smart.
Natasha and Clint had commandeered bench space and were moving in sync like a well-oiled, telepathic slicing and dicing machine and it was a little bit scary so Bruce stopped watching. Tony was... well, shouting at Scott, because:
“How did you break another one? Why are you here?! Get out of my house!”
“Get out of my house!”
A scream and a scuffle followed and whatever Tony had been... inventing... in a frying pan was on the floor and Bruce was grateful for small mercies.
Steve and Sam were... not helping either, but much less forcefully as they were only distracted by their conversation. And were both using their inside voices. The two were leaning by the fridge discussing something or other – music? Bruce couldn't hear over “I’ll kill you Tictac!” “Your face!” but they both looked quite content and, beside Steve, holding his hand and quietly watching everyone, was the reason.
Bucky didn’t say much, and Bruce really didn’t blame him. Bruce had many days like that himself and he hadn’t seen and experienced what the Winter Soldier had been forced to. Bruce didn’t know any more than Tony or Clint and probably a lot less than Nat and Sam – God only knew what Scott was aware of – but he knew enough to be truly glad of Bucky’s slow but steady recovery.
He was nice. And, Bruce knew from quiet moments of observation, surprisingly gentle. Bucky deserved something good.Watching the silent, unconscious way Steve orbited Bucky, hands linked, Bruce thought that there was perhaps no one that embodied ‘good’ more than Steve Rogers.
Standing closest to the bench top Natasha was ordering Clint around, it was probably inevitable when she reached – right in front of Clint’s face, giving his scowl a sweet smile – to pass Bucky an onion and a small chopping knife. Bruce tried hard not to find it adorable, the way Bucky stared down at the knife and the onion he held in one hand, still holding Steve’s in the other. Bucky’s bemused face lifted, as if looking at Steve for an explanation, and Bruce watched Steve squeeze reassuringly.
There was a pause and then Bucky was setting the onion on the bench, the top layer of brown skin crinkling away, satiny smooth underneath, and Bucky trailed a finger over it like a curious child before setting his knife against it. He was quick and precise in dicing it and standing beside Clint and Nat, all industriously chopping away, Bruce loved the thought that he looks like he belongs. And he did.
And even from across the kitchen Bruce could see Bucky’s eyes grow a little red, and it was likely just the onion, but Nat passed him a carrot next and Clint unobtrusively rubbed his back a few times, and Steve – still deep in conversation with Sam – was circling his thumb on Bucky’s arm, and Bruce wondered if he would embarrass himself by crying or laughing from all the love he felt for these people.
From these people. His family. That they each had a special place in, in the kitchen that smelled of simmering dinner, and home, and-
“For Gods sake Scott!”
“Ah!”
The End.
Not a rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
Like the careful undressing of love.
- Carol Ann Duffy