The most pivotal changes in life are defined by a single moment.

Now a has-been soldier, spat out by the military – honorably, of course – he understood how a split second could change everything. If he hesitated, finger on the trigger for a beat too long, someone within his ranks could die. If he didn't hesitate, pulling the trigger thoughtlessly, then someone did die.

Life was decided by those moments. Those moments when your heart is thick in your throat, when you've got dozens of voices in your head screaming, when your blood manages to both sing and boil at the same time. Hell, he made the final choice to join the military in an argument, bellowing out the decision in the hope it hurt, and his path in life was altered. He lost his arm during another fight, one with bombs and infections instead of words, when he decided living was more important than keeping one limb – and his life was altered.

One day in the future he'd look back and see that this moment – catching the edge of the envelope hidden in the trash, and shutting the door instead of walking through it – was the most pivotal yet.

Bucky left his keys by the door, instead moving into the kitchenette to watch the blond furiously mix something with a scowl. It only took that one glance to realize that the envelope hadn't been good news; stress baking was a very real problem in their household. "Hey there, Stevie," he greeted quietly, somehow still startling the smaller man. "Are you really baking at this hour?"

Steve gave a limp shrug. "I'm trying out some new recipes, thought the bakery needed something different," he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron as he looked up. "I thought you were going out tonight? Something about a bendy blonde with low standards?"

"I thought it over, ended up deciding I might as well stay in. You're my favorite bendy blond anyway," Bucky winked, humming under his breath as he took in the destruction around him. "Okay, wait what? Why does it look like you murdered a family of unicorns in here?"

The blond snorted, the sound laced with amusement. "Because I tried making these weird confetti cupcake things?" he declared uncertainly, shifting so the flour covered recipe book was visible. "Last batch is still in the oven. What do you think? Good for the new year holidays or too tacky?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "It's perfect, really, you're an evil mastermind in the kitchen," he soothed sarcastically, darting to the side and swiping a cake. His hand was slapped by a wooden spoon but he emerged victorious; bruising knuckles or not. Taking a bite, he groaned his approval; "Damn, butchered unicorns taste good. I bet some of your regulars are gonna be all over these; might even have to make 'em a permanent addition."

Steve lifted a curious brow.

"Translation – I like them so make more, please and thank you," Bucky explained, watching the blond grab one and nervously start nibbling. "They'll definitely make the kids happy, if anything, especially with all this colour. You could call them unicorn cupcakes. Unicupcakes?"

Steve seemed to carefully agree, lips pursed. "It's only sprinkles in the batter, Buck, no biggie," he murmured shyly. "And yeah, I guess they're okay?"

Knowing better than to rub in how good they really were – the blond would only believe him less and less with every comment – he made grabby hands at the remaining cakes. They were only testers so he could eat as many as his metabolism would allow. "I'm impressed anyway. What is that? Caramel?"

"Butterscotch," Steve corrected, dutifully grabbing another and shoving it into his hand. "Plain sugar icing? I don't want too much flavors at once."

Content to shove another bite past his lips, Bucky hiked up onto the counter. "Butterscotch," he echoed, licking his lips before beaming. "You sure art is the way you wanna go? I feel like baking is more you. Making people happy one cream pie at a – oh, cream cheese icing. You have to do cream cheese icing. Please? I will love you forever if you do."

It was Steve who rolled his eyes this time around, moving to fetch the ingredients without thought. "You already promised to love me forever when I made you that banana cake last week," he reminded the soldier.

Bucky blinked. "I'll love you forever times two?"

"Promised that too."

Slumping over slightly, the ex-soldier jutted out his lips in a perfect pout. "You player hater," he grumbled, somehow managing to fit the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. It was a little snug, but he spoke around it anyway; "So, did we get any mail today?"

Thin shoulders started winding back up, like a tension controlled toy. "Um, well some more cards from your sisters…" Steve swallowed thickly, busying his hands with the icing. There was that stress baking thing he'd complained about. "Ever gonna get around to sending one back?"

Ouch, dodging a personal question with another one?

Bucky fought to get from snapping to attention, forcing his own shoulders to relax back to something loosely calm. "Two words, my dearest boy. Christmas sweaters. I need two that are so damn ugly they could blind people and make children cry," he decided firmly, nodding as the master plan came to being in his mind. "Then we need to wear them, and snap a photo. Only then, with our shame forever immortalized, will I send a card back."

Steve sent him something he could only label as a dirty look. "Why do I have to get involved? It's your family and your shame, not mine."

"Oh please," Bucky snorted, sucking on his fingers to draw out any left-over butterscotch. "My mother adopted you years ago, and we both know you're her favorite son. As for my sisters? They think you're about as cute as a button. It's sickening."

The sad part, he mused idly, was that there was no lie to his words. Once the blond's mother had finally passed, leaving him alone in this world, his own snapped him up like a starving lioness. Steve was a model child after all, truth and honor wrapped up in a cherub package – perfection compared to her own blood child. She needed a son like Steve to make up for having someone as volatile as Bucky for her eldest.

Bitterness was a terrible taste, and he masked it with an easy smile. "Anyway, I'll read them later. Is that all we got?" he pressed, smacking his lips.

"Um…" Steve seemed to be weighing something in his mind, throat moving. "Um, another letter," he admitted softly. "From the uh, from the clinic. I'm behind in my payments. They're threatening to stop my prescriptions, and refuse any further examinations until the debt starts being dealt with."

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him. Damn, exactly what I didn't want. "Alright, okay," he breathed, nodding as he came back to reality – a reality he sorely wished wasn't real "Alright, we can deal with this. I have some money, if we ask the landlord for an extension then – "

"Buck, stop."

Blue clashed with blue, one shade defeated and the other fiery, as both friends sat at a standstill in the silence. He already knew what the argument was going to be, knew what turn it would take. He knew it all, but still managed to quirk a brow in challenge, unable to keep from wondering if the trademark string of words would change. There were new factors now – new people involved, and new threats on the horizon.

Steve took the bait – just like he always did. "Your pension was barely enough to cover your own medical bills, Buck, and those are still coming in. I'm not letting you waste your savings on me," he sighed, going back to the bowl and the pathetically overwhipped cream. "I'll handle it."

Word for damn word. The argument hadn't changed, despite the months of repetition.

"Well, it's not like I expected to live on the pension forever," Bucky admitted carefully, aware he was drifting from the usual path. Absently, he lifted a hand to rub at his left shoulder, swearing he could feel pain in a limb that was no longer there. "Maybe it's time I stop going out every night to get sloshed. I always hated the hangovers anyway. I mean, what's the use of a few hours of fun, if they're gonna be followed by even more hours of pure hell?"

Steve openly faltered at the change, visibly confused that the other man hadn't stuck to the script. "Wait, so you want to – what? Start looking for work?"

The question, while blunt and rude sounding, was understandable. Bucky hated pity almost as much as he hated people staring at his shoulder, and the thought of getting a job someplace – the thought of people staring while he was sober enough to recognize the mocking sympathy? Well, believe it or not, there was a reason that every time someone made the recommendation it was quickly shot down.

"Yeah, I think that'll work. I mean, I think I'll work?" Bucky gave a limp smile, wondering if he'd get away with grabbing another cupcake. His knuckles were still stinging from the latest whack, but he was hungry. "It's either that or I get a sugar daddy."

The blond beamed in both amusement and pride, his first genuine smile this evening. "If you think this is what we should do then I'm in – we can speak to Natasha tomorrow, see if she needs help at the bakery. Did you wanna come into work, or ask her at group therapy?"

"Might as well do it at my new place of work," Bucky barked out a laugh. "Can you imagine? The one-armed baker. I can see the headlines now."

A dollop of frosting hit him square on the nose, like a wadded-up newspaper swatting him. Steve lowered the whisk with a quirked brow. "One-armed barista," he corrected, squaring out his shoulders. He was either expecting a fight, or feeling indignant. "Remember when I said Rumlow hasn't been showing up to work? Turns out he's on holiday leave. Not any he applied for, or any he told us about though, of course. Tasha is pissed, she wants to fire him."

Indignation it was then. "Jesus. Tell her I support the decision," Bucky grimaced, licking the icing from his upper lip before wiping the rest away. "What an ass."

Steve shook his head. "Well, he's hinting at claiming unfair dismissal. Saying she looks down on him because of the burn scars? It's a bunch of bullshit of course; she couldn't care more about them, but it could hold up if he wanted to make a fuss," he finished with a frown, lips set. "So, we're collecting evidence."

"Evidence of his assholery. That'll hold up in court," Bucky nodded, grinning impishly when blue eyes glared his way. "Stop with that look punk, you can't prove me wrong. Besides if she hires me, his claims could be proven as bullshit. If he tries to say she has something against disfigurement, we can point to my arm. If he tries to say she has something against war vets, we can point to my arm. It's a win-win for everyone."

Steve let out a sigh. "Actually, you might have a point there. It'll help, in the very least," he murmured, blinking at his bowl of icing thoughtfully. It lasted all of three seconds before his face split into another smile, one brighter than the damn unicorn sprinkles littering the floor – which goddamn it, he was on mop duty this week, the little shit. "He doesn't matter – what does is your ability to work. Think you can figure out a coffee machine? If you can't, that's fine, Natasha will just pay for a barista course. It only takes about three days or so. That should keep you busy and away from me."

Bucky blew out a raspberry, knowing this was only the beginning of the blond's excited ramblings. His best friend was like a child, all bright eyes and loud opinions. "I can so work a coffee maker. It has buttons, doesn't it? I can push buttons."

"Don't I know it," Steve grumbled.