Bucky hates mornings. The sunlight always seems to have a personal vendetta against his vision, coming through the window at just the right angle to sear his retinas. The air is always too cold, raising goosebumps all over his arms. He absolutely hates the moment when he will be forced to exit the covers and face the day.
But God damn, does he love waking up next to Steve.
No matter what position they go to sleep in the night before, Steve will always manage to end up with his back against Bucky's chest in the middle of the night, the brunet's arms wrapped around his midsection. Bucky always marvels at the fact that Steve seems to revert to his pre-serum size in his sleep, slipping down the mattress a bit so that his head is below Bucky's chin and curling his legs up to subconsciously make himself smaller. There aren't a lot of things that Bucky remembers about his former life in Brooklyn, but he could never forget the nights that he would spend in that exact same position keeping the punk warm. You haven't known sexual frustration until you've spent several nights in a row with your arms wrapped around the love of your life and not even be able to kiss him because he couldn't possibly be gay.
Of course, it had been just as bad, if not worse, for Steve, so they're both idiots.
Steve starts to stir as he slowly wakes, pulling Bucky from his reverie.
"Morning, jerk," Steve mumbles, lightly squeezing the fabric-covered metal arm that his partner has wrapped around his waist. "The sleeve and glove was a good idea," he comments, referring to the cover that Bucky had started slipping over his metal arm before climbing into bed, "Your arm feels like an ice cube when you don't have them on."
"You talk too much for your own good, punk," Bucky huffs back, burying his face in the back of Steve's neck and pulling him closer to his chest. "I really need some coffee," he mumbles into Steve's hair.
"Well, I can only do that if you let me up," Steve replies, the laughter obvious in his clear, awake voice, unburdened by the grogginess of sleep.
"Punk," Bucky reiterates, rolling onto his back and flopping his right arm over his face to block out the harsh sunlight as it attempts to assault his eyeballs. He feels Steve plant a kiss in his hair.
"And a good morning to you, too," he says cheerfully as he slides out of bed.
Bucky peeks out from under his arm, smirking as he watches Steve's naked ass stroll into the bathroom.
I hate to see him leave, but I love to watch him go, he thinks, chuckling lowly as he remembers the 21st century saying.
In the bathroom, Steve shakes his head, having felt Bucky's eyes on him and heard him chuckling. A fond smile graces his features as he glances back in the bedroom, where Bucky has already managed to fall back asleep. He lets out a small huff of amusement before turning back to the sink and starting to get ready for the day.
Several minutes later, Bucky is woken by the smell of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and (Thank God!) coffee filling their small apartment, practically forcing him to exit the comfortable bed. He squints resentfully at the open door leading into the other rooms of their residence before sucking in a steeling breath and throwing the covers back to allow the cold air in. The smells are too good for him to ignore.
Steve looks up from his frying pan of eggs and glances over his shoulder to see a now fully clothed Bucky shamble through the door, yawning and ruffling his hair. Steve pauses for a second to admire his partner's disheveled look before turning back to the task in front of him.
"Morning, babe," he greets as he shovels the eggs onto two waiting plates. He hears Bucky approaching his back a second before two arms encircle his waist, Bucky's breath hot on his ear as he rests his chin on Steve's shoulder.
"Morning, beautiful," the ex-sniper replies, pressing his lips to Steve's neck before reaching past him to grab the coffee pot from its place next to the stove. As Bucky moves away to grab a mug from the cabinet, Steve crosses the small kitchen to place the two plates of eggs on the equally small table. A plate of bacon and sausage and a plate of toast are already waiting.
Bucky gently sets his coffee on the table before plopping into his seat, barely getting the words "Thanks, sweetheart" out of his mouth before it's stuffed with eggs and toast.
Steve simply laughs before taking his own seat and digging into his breakfast. The two super soldiers don't say another word until every plate on the table has been completely emptied of food. Bucky leans back in his chair, sighing in a contented manner. He gently nudges Steve's foot with his own under table.
"Does Fury want us to come in today?" he asks, tilting his head at this partner.
The blond shakes his head. "He said he'd call us if we're needed, but it seems like we've hit a calm patch. We should be good for at least a day or two."
Bucky nods, raising his metallic arm to tuck back some hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.
"Should give me enough time to catch up on sleep, then," he says with a smirk. They both know that what they'll actually be doing will most likely be a lot less family friendly.
"Of course," Steve replies with an identical smirk, one of his eyebrows raised in mild disbelief as his eyes twinkle with mirth.
He stands, collecting the plates and rounding the small table to gently kiss Bucky, once on the forehead and once on the lips. He moves to collect Bucky's dishes, but the brunet's hands on his stop him. Bucky takes the dishes from Steve and sets them back on the table, his movements unhurried but deliberate and purposeful. Steve grunts in surprise as Bucky's human arm suddenly takes hold of the front of his shirt, pulling him closer to capture his lips as the metal one settles on his hip, pulling him forward insistently. Steve quickly gets over his surprise and gladly reciprocates, straddling Bucky's lap and running his hands through the other man's hair. The kiss gradually gets more and more heated before Bucky places his hands on Steve's shoulders and pulls away, smirking as he takes in Steve's lust-blown pupils and heavy breathing.
"What would you say to going and catching up on some sleep?" Bucky asks, his smirk morphing into a grin.
Steve nods, huffing out a laugh as he runs his hands down Bucky's arms. "Good idea," he replies eagerly as he climbs off of the other's lap and takes his hand, leading him back to their bedroom.
The dishes remain on the table completely forgotten.
It isn't that Tony hates it when people call him, just that he hates it when they call him while he's in his lab.
Which is to say, most of the time.
On this particular occasion, Tony is about to finish a revolutionary design for some new do-dad when an icon sprouts in the middle of his hologram, emitting a telephone-like ring that almost can't be heard over the ACDC blaring from every speaker in the lab. Tony sniffs in disgust and juts out his bottom lip as he considers simply declining the call, but sighs as he sees who the caller is, knowing that they'll just keep calling until Tony picks up out of sheer annoyance.
"Hey Jar, turn it down a few notches, would ya?" The music almost instantly lowers itself to what others would consider an acceptable volume. "Thanks, buddy."
"My pleasure, sir," the virtual butler replies.
Tony screws his mouth to one side as he once again considers the call notification in front of him. Finally, he reluctantly gives in to the insistent ring.
"Accept call," he sighs wearily. The call immediately gets fed into his Bluetooth earpiece.
"Is there a reason why you're calling me this late at night, Spangles? And while I'm working, no less." Tony pauses to hear the reply before looking at the blacked out windows that surround his office in genuine surprise.
"Jar, shed a little light, please." The opaque windows immediately turn to clear, allowing the early morning sunlight to stream into the workshop, forcing its owner to squint and shield his eyes. "Well would you look at that? So it is. Could you turn it down a bit, Jarvis? You're going to make your old man blind." The windows turn translucent, dimming the light.
Tony frowns at what he hears on the other end of the line and leans back a bit, his eyebrows drawing together.
"Why would I sleep when there's Science to be done?" he asks, both confused and offended. "I was just about to finally locate your dignity. Just tell me what you need, Rodgers."
As Steve explains why he's calling, Tony's face goes through several transformations, first showing mild (read: intense) annoyance, then resignation, then grudging respect, finally settling into a teasing, your-blunders-make-me-happy smirk as he leans against his work table and crosses his arms over his chest. This all happens within the span of a few seconds.
"Okay, ignore what I said. You dignity is gone forever. I mean, wow Capsicle, that's the…," he glances at the inside of his arm, where he's been keeping a tally with a black Sharpie marker, "fifth time in two weeks. Sure you don't want me to just soundproof your apartment? It would probably cost less than having to pay off the manager every time someone makes a noise complaint."
He reaches over to his hologram and pulls up a blueprint while he listens for the reply. When it comes, his smirking countenance falls into disappointment.
"You wound me, Cap! Listening to you and Death Metal's fun times is not on the top of my 'to-do' list," he assures, reaching up to exit out of the spy microphone blueprint that he had only just opened.
The annoyed look returns (this time it really is mild) as he listens to Cap's pleas.
"Don't get your panties in a twist. I'll pay off the building manager again and you two won't get evicted. You know, it would be a lot easier if you two just came to live in the Tower. Our walls are soundproofed, the kitchen is always fully stocked, everyone gets their own personal 72 inch flat screen TV, the gym h-" He breaks off midsentence, his hands frozen in midair where they had been ticking off his reasons for them to move in, his mouth hanging slightly open. Without warning, he turns and firmly swipes his hand across the hologram over the table that he had been leaning against, cancelling the call. He stands there for a full minute, his back ridged and his shoulders tense as he stares off into space, his arms at his sides. Finally, Dum-E notices his creator's odd behavior from across the room and cocks his dunce-cap-clad head, whirring and beeping in worry.
Tony turns to him, a look of confused horror occupying his features, and whispers four simple words.
"He said that he doesn't watch TV."