It was late when you heard a knock at your bedroom door. Kicking yourself over causing Bucky distress had kept you awake even longer than usual and you had tried to silence that nagging, anxious voice in your head for the last few hours by reading under your bedside lamp. The knocking startled you a bit, but after giving yourself a derisive snort, you put your bookmark between your current pages. "Come on in."
The door opened slowly, just wide enough for Bucky to step through, Potato pattering in between his feet. He only wore sleep pants, low lamplight glowing off his bare left arm as he closed the door quietly behind him. You hadn't seen him since walking Steve outside. Hadn't had a chance to check on him and apologize for what happened with the movie. When he turned to face you, he looked haggard, pensive, such a drastic change from earlier in the evening. You had the sudden urge to hop to your feet and wrap your arms around him in a hug, but you resisted, remembering there was a good chance you contributed to his current unease.
"Trouble sleeping," you finally asked after a few moments of quiet.
His lips pulled thin as he nodded, raking the hair back from one side of his face. Fingers still tangled at the nape of his neck, Bucky leveled you with a nervous, questioning look through his lashes, like he wanted to ask something, ask for something, but didn't know how. The last straw was his tongue darting out across his lips, dragging his lower one between his teeth to worry absently as he looked away. The silence and that almost needy, childlike look about him were too much. You pulled the covers back from your bed to your right and tilted your head in casual invitation when his eyes returned to you.
Bucky stood straight, hand falling back to his side. Face turning from you slightly, his brow furrowed and he seemed uncertain. You could see him thinking it over and for a split second you saw self-loathing color his features, a sight and feeling you knew all too well. It made you wonder if his courage to seek comfort carried him as far as your bedroom door only to falter now. There was a bit of desperation to the next look he flashed you from out of the corner of his eye and it made your chest constrict painfully. But you gave him a reassuring smile, tilting your head again as you patted the mattress beside you. Yes, it was okay to be there. It was okay to ask for help. And you wanted to help so much.
The softness was back in his face a moment. The one that reminded you that despite having been on this earth for almost a century, he wasn't honestly much older than you in the scheme of things. He took a breath, parting his lips as if to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, he gave a curt nod and slowly made his way over to the other side of the bed. There was another split-second hesitation, grey eyes meeting yours before he slid himself onto the mattress. As he settled cross-legged beside you, you noted that the red star on his arm looked different. It was marked up, scuffed, like maybe he had tried to scrape it off since the last time you saw it.
With a soft meow, Potato followed Bucky onto the bed. She landed in front of him gracefully, but paused only for a small brush against his hand before making her way to the foot of the bed where she often liked to sleep. The small distraction of her movement seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders just a touch. And you hadn't even known you were tongue-tied watching him until you found yourself finally able to speak again.
"Bit of a wild day, huh," you said quietly, repositioning yourself to face him.
His eyes were still fixed on the crumpled sheets in front of his knees, but he breathed out a gravelly "Yeah."
Encouraged by the addition of his voice, you plodded on with a small smile. "Steve said he had a good time. Seemed to like my cooking, too."
"Everything you make is delicious," Bucky replied. It was another statement of fact from him, as though no one could dispute it, just like his earlier comment on you looking nice even in clothes you lounged around the house in. A little more agitation seemed to drain from him as he spoke and your smile widened.
"Even the chocolate egg creams," you asked in a playful, hopeful voice and leaned toward him a little expectantly.
Bucky gave a languid blink as his gaze shifted in your direction, head tilting enough for you to see the corners of his mouth curl up ever so slightly. There was almost a tinge of laughter to his voice when he answered. "Especially the egg creams."
"Good," you beamed, relieved at his approval. Out of habit, you reached over with the tips of your fingers to tuck a few wayward strands of hair back behind his ear. "I've never even had one before, let alone made one, so I was worried you boys wouldn't like them."
"They were good," he assured with a slight nod. Turning his head a little more, his cheekbone brushed into the palm of your hand just as you were about to pull it away. The fleeting way his gaze flickered up to yours let you know it hadn't been an accident.
You let your touch linger a moment, rasping a thumb across his stubbly cheek as your fingers curled against his jawline, answering that unspoken need for contact in his eyes. When you finally lowered your hand to rest on his knee, you huffed a little sigh through your smile. "You were awesome today, Bucky. You did it, just like you said you could. Steve even said he saw some of his old friend back. And it seemed like you were having such a great time."
"I was," he replied, but his face darkened, pain and anger etching his features as he turned from you again. "Until..."
"I know," you nodded, cringing. Your eyes and hand both fell back to your own lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shorts as shame twisted in your gut. "It's all my fault. You were doing so well and I ruined it. I just had to pick that movie. My sister and I watched it so many times as kids. Maybe, seeing you and Steve together, I just wanted some nostalgia of my own."
"You and your sister watched it together," he asked, a quiet, thoughtful sound.
"Yeah." You breathed out a bleak chuckle, running your hands down your face. "Guess I remembered all the good parts and forgot all the scary, bad ones. I'm sure there's a lesson in that somewhere. God, I'm horrible. Such a fucking idiot."
There was a heated edge to his voice when he countered, "I'm the one who nearly put my hand through the coffee table."
"The coffee table?!" Your eyes shot to his face finally as you groaned out in annoyance, shaking your head. "Aw Bucky! The coffee table? Your shirt? The sink? None of that stuff matters!"
"It matters to me," he snapped back. The intense look he turned your way had you like a deer in headlights, even as he reached for you with his left hand. "This?"
You didn't flinch away, knowing exactly what Bucky had zeroed in on despite the scar being nearly invisible now. In fact, if you were being honest with yourself, a part of you wanted to feel a cool touch against your skin that had grown too warm under his scrutiny. But he stopped just inches from it, brow furrowing as grey eyes fell from yours to the metal fingers curling away from you. "This was meant for nothing but destruction."
He dropped the hand, palm up, to his knee. Lips turned down to a grimace, that hatred rolling off him in waves, his fist clenched and unclenched multiple times, fingers rolling in fine articulation. The sections of his arm slid together one second and apart the next, a robotic flexing with a near inaudible pistoning sound. And Bucky watched it like a gruesome thing, like a train wreck you know is horrible but you can't tear your eyes from.
"You've never asked me about it," he eventually spoke again, and you were so damned thankful. A moment longer and you might have lost your nerve and put a stop to his self-imposed punishment yourself.
Instead, you gave your most nonchalant shrug. "It's never made a difference to me."
"It's been months." He looked up at you, one eyebrow cocked though the rest of his features seemed indifferent. "Aren't you curious?"
"Of course, I'm curious," you said, snorting a bit at the absurdity of that question.
"Well, ask then," was his hard, bitter response before you could add anything else. "Now's your chance."
"Bucky, it's been a rough day for you," you tried to soothe. "And I really don't think-"
But he interrupted you with an order that brooked no refusal, expression a grim determination. "Ask."
Breathing out a heavy sigh, you let your eyes roam his face a bit. You could see he was dead set on it. Maybe playing along could help him feel better, especially since he seemed so willing to talk. And you did have questions you had wondered about. Propping your elbows on your knees, you held your palms out to him. "May I?"
Confusion tinted Bucky's expression, as though it never occurred to him that you might want to touch him. He contemplated your hands a moment before ducking his head in a nod, lifting his arm out to you. Tentatively, you hooked your left thumb with his, the heels of your palms fitting sleek metal and warm flesh together flush as you gripped him. When he gave no indication of pulling away, you leaned in for a closer inspection. You could feel his attention fixed on you, but you did your best to ignore it.
"How does it work," you asked, fingers of your right hand gliding delicate and slow down the backs of his shiny digits starting at the tips and working their way over each joint. You'd held his hand before, but had never taken the time to examine the intricate plating. "I mean, how do you feel things?"
"Hard to describe," he replied as you moved to his wrist, studying the shape of the metal there. His voice had lost some of its edge, mulling over each word to use. "There's pressure. I can tell when things are hot or cold. I can detect surface variables. But it's not the same as... feeling."
"Sounds very sci-fi," you smirked despite yourself, thumb tracing a section of his forearm.
There was a look of interest on his face when your eyes flickered up to him. "Sci-fi?"
"Science fiction," you explained and watched as Bucky's eyes became a little distant, that pull of recognition evident on his face. The memory, or memories, must have been good, because the corner of his lips tugged upward and he gave a half-hearted little laugh. "I liked science fiction."
"Really?" You never would have pegged him for a sci-fi fan. Returning your attention to the metal beneath your fingers, you hid your grin. "I'm rather fond of it, myself."
Several silent moments passed as you continued to explore the lines of his arm. He let you bend his elbow, taking great care in manipulating the joint. The way it made the sections in his upper arm expand and contract was absolutely fascinating. You brushed over the flecked and pitted red star near his shoulder. No need to ask about that, though you shared a furtive glance with him. It didn't take a rocket scientist to understand the concept of him wanting rid of such a branding.
"Not as heavy as I thought it'd be," you remarked, pausing to raise his arm up a bit when you felt you'd lingered too long at the attempted removal. Leaning to one side, you looked over the sections that disappeared into his back. "Is it heavier than the right? Does it feel lopsided?"
Bucky took a moment to respond as your right hand followed just inside the curve of skin. "I... I think it might have. In the beginning. It's just how it is now."
"That makes sense," you nodded. Lifting again, you draped his forearm across your right shoulder to continue your inspection. This time, you gingerly traced your fingers along the edge of webbed scar tissue at his chest, an inch at a time as though one wrong move, one errant breath could break something, despite how ridiculously strong and sturdy you knew he was. "Does it hurt?"
When you looked up at him, he was staring at your face so intently it threatened to unnerve you. But his eyes fell to where you touched him, the thin line where metal met tough, thick skin. Tongue darting out across his lips, Bucky's voice was hushed and almost unsure when he answered. "It did. For a long while. I sorta remember injections, IVs. They musta had me so pumped fulla shit I couldn't feel mucha anything, judgin by how sick I was when I broke loose. But it hasn't hurt in a long time, I don't think. Except... when it's cold. When I'm cold. Like an ache deep in my bones."
There were no words you could muster when his gaze found yours again. Even the air in your lungs seemed hard to come by through the lump in your throat. The way he spoke, despite how quiet, you could almost hear that young sergeant crying out in torment and fear, thousands of miles and decades away. And all that pain in his eyes as they held yours… It was enough to break your heart. You had to look away as you blinked back the tears trying to form, that familiar sting in your nose making you sniff gently. Turning your attention to where your fingers rested against the plating at his chest was a small relief, but enough.
"I guess we'll-" Your voice gave an unceremonious crack when you started to speak. Clearing your throat, you hazarded a glance up at him. Some of that anguish had dissipated from his eyes with the slightest tilting of his head, making way for something close to curious concern. You offered him a self-deprecating smirk as you continued. "Guess we'll just have to make sure you keep nice and warm from now on."
A smile ghosted over Bucky's face, unsure, but he gave a small nod in acceptance. Content with your inspection of the scars, and not wanting to cause any more distress at this point, you gave him a few sympathetic pats to his chest. As you moved to pull his arm from your shoulder, you let your fingers brush down his ribs in a gesture meant to soothe frazzled nerves. But his demeanor suddenly changed. Spine shooting straight, he jerked away from you with a sharp inhale, making your heart sink with worry.
"Are you okay," you asked, frantic, pulling your hand from his skin with a gasp, afraid that you had hurt him somehow.
"I'm fine," he replied and shook his head, eyes a little wide as he turned his face away from you.
It was your turn to be confused a moment. Trying to make sense of the reaction, there was only one conclusion. You cracked into a knowing grin. In a tone of mock accusation, you asked "Bucky, are you... ticklish?"
He shot you a look, all that sadness gone from his eyes. It was replaced with amused reproach, as though the very idea was ludicrous. You had to bite into your lower lip to hold back the chuckle that threatened to bubble up inside you. He shook his head at you again, this time a real smile flashed across his lips, huffing a small exasperated laugh at your antics. It made your smile grow wider to feel some of the tension melt from his muscles, to see that light back in his eyes from earlier in the evening. It made you feel like maybe you could really help him, if given the chance.
Repositioning yourself again, you let your knee knock into his on the bed and gently pulled his left hand down into your lap once more. Your fingertips played over the insides of his palms a moment as you wondered at their details, pondering at everything he had told you. "So, you really think this is only meant for destruction?"
You could almost feel his disdainful frown before you ever turned to look at him. Desperate to keep the mood light, you rolled your eyes with a playful shrug. "Okay, sure. It was designed for nothing but that. However, I can think of a few good, positive things it could be used for."
A long quiet moment stretched while you let that sink in. Let Bucky try to wrap his head around the concept. Palm to palm, your fingers splayed against his in an attempt to measure them, he finally asked in a quiet, unassuming voice. "Like what?"
"Well," you began, tilting your head as you considered it. The index finger of your right hand skimmed a nail through the grooves inside his knuckle. "We already know you can pick up hot things to keep others from burning themselves."
His shoulder shook against you a little, a silent laugh, probably remembering your stupidity from that afternoon. Encouraged by this, you decided to press on. "And you're obviously really strong. I bet you can crush a thousand cans for recycling before you ever got tired."
"Crushing cans," Bucky muttered sarcastically, though the tone of his voice let you know he was at least somewhat entertained.
"Hey, recycling is very important for the environment," you informed with a haughty expression as you glanced over at him. He wasn't looking at first, his interest seemingly focused on the way your hand slid over the cool surface of his own. Though when he did turn his attention back to you, corner of his mouth quirked up, you swallowed down the tiny skip in your chest. "If you need something more substantial, you've basically got a built-in jaws of life. If there were a really bad car wreck, you could pry off a door, or, hell, probably rip a small car in half to rescue someone."
Bucky's eyes narrowed, lost focus. Another memory perhaps, less than pleasant, but it began to subside when your thumb pressed down the inside of his wrist. Scrabbling to pull him back, you shouldered him gently with a smile. "Or, some poor stranded motorist with a flat and no jack, you would be their hero holding up the car while they changed the tire. You probably wouldn't even break a sweat."
"A glorified carjack now, huh" he snorted wryly, but it seemed you had succeeded in your effort.
"Everyday hero," you countered as your fingers folded between his. As if on instinct, his hand curled closed around yours, though the quirk of his eyebrow let you know he was unconvinced. Giving a wicked smile, you squeezed a little tighter. "Just imagine it! Bucky Barnes, the bane of stuck jar lids. The master of helping friends move house. The savior of hot dogs that have fallen directly into the campfire. The best damned cat petter the world has ever seen!"
It surprised you when Bucky laughed. A short burst, gone much too soon, but a real one that lingered on his voice as he shook his head yet again. The grin was firmly planted though, even if just for the moment, those dimples infectious. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
"Of course I do," you answered proudly and pressing your ear into his shoulder with your own chuckle. Watching your thumb run over the plating where you held his hand, you brought your right up to tuck around his forearm so you could hug the metal appendage to you. When he didn't shy away, you let out a lighthearted sigh. "Honestly, Bucky, at the end of the day, it's really just an arm. It's unique and super powerful, and you obtained it under the absolute shittiest circumstances known to mankind, but it's an arm. And just like so many other things in this world, whether it's good or bad depends on what you do with it. How you choose to use it. Especially now that you've got so many more choices."
His hand flexed tighter in yours, but he didn't say anything. You really didn't expect him to. Instead, you just held onto him, letting him know you were there. The cat's purring filled the otherwise silent minutes that passed, even as he rested some of his weight against you. It was cozy in a way, your body heat having warmed the metal in your grasp. Comforting. You hadn't even realized you were starting to doze until a yawn overtook you unexpectedly.
"I should go," Bucky murmured just as you leaned away to glance up at him, his expression looking all the world like he had begun to zone out himself.
"Stay here," you replied, though it sounded almost more like an order than a suggestion in your tired voice. "Warmer than the floor, firmer than your bed, plenty of room for the both of us."
He looked unsure despite the obvious heaviness of his eyelids as he slowly untangled his fingers from yours. An inner turmoil furrowed his brow and his voice was tight when he said "What if I..."
"Survived the last one, didn't we," you answered, knowing he meant another nightmare, like the one that startled you awake with his cries of fear and pain. Unfolding your legs from under you, you gave him a sleepy half-smile. "It's up to you, but I cross my heart I won't bite. Unless you snore, then there could be a problem."
"I don't think I snore," he responded, shaking his head thoughtfully while you scooted to lay back. Turning to look down at you, he added "I've heard you snore, though."
You shushed him with a finger pressed to pursed lips. "I'm calling lights out, Barnes. Stayin' or goin'?"
Bucky hesitated. His eyes moved from you to the cat to the blanket at his feet before he began to twist away. And you'd be lying if you said your heart didn't stutter sickly when you thought he was going to leave. But he only moved to free the covers from beneath him, slipping his legs under them as he settled back on the mattress. Silly feeling of relief spreading through your chest, you rolled on to your side and reached for the lamp switch.
As you pulled the cover up to tuck against your chin in the darkness, you heard Bucky's voice behind you, exhausted and barely above a whisper. "G'night, kid."
"Night, old man," you smiled, snuggling down into your pillows.
It was still dark when you half-woke in the middle of the night. Your eyes were still too heavy to open, but you could tell. Vaguely, you realized it was the sensation of weight draping across your waist, being gently pulled a short distance, something unusually firm tucked beneath your pillow that disturbed you. The dull spark of confusion in your sleep-addled mind was smothered by the steady rise and fall against your back, the warm breath puffing against the nape of your neck. You barely recognized the contented sound you made as you drifted off again.
The smell of coffee filled his nose, dragging him from the depths of sleep. He flooded his lungs with it again, something peaceful and familiar about it, as he pried his eyes open slowly. The view of your bedroom ceiling was bright with sunlight that managed to spill around the drapes, midmorning if he had to guess. His metal arm crooked out beside him on the mattress and he shifted in that direction. There was a tepid dampness near the crook of his shoulder that he wiped at in confusion. There were a few hairs pinched between the plates of his upper arm. But there was no you. He felt his heart sink.
How you had gotten up without waking him, he couldn't figure out. Normally, the slightest change of environment, the barest movement, the tiniest sound would have him up and alert, prepared for an attack. Then again, normally he didn't really sleep. He had that night though, a deep sleep after an hour or two of fitfulness as he battled that selfish need for consolation in himself, surrendering to it finally as he pulled you against him in the night.
It was his own fault for feeding it by knocking on your door. The evening with Steve had drained him, despite how much fun he had found himself having, an undeserved enjoyment, and the incident over the movie had tipped him over the edge. He tried to deal with it himself, but it proved too much for him. And you were always so generous with your comfort, with your smile. Still, it had chaffed him, not knowing how to ask. You knew though, you almost always seemed to know. It made him wonder if he had become an open book, so easily read.
Sitting up in the bed, he thought about how you treated him the night before. You were trying your damnedest to help him. Even when he snapped at you bitterly about his arm, you met him with so much tenderness his chest clenched at the memory. Your fingers delicately exploring every metal plated inch, face alight as though it were something to marvel at instead of cringe from. The questions you asked weren't what he expected either, full of such genuine interest and concern for him. It had been so easy to answer, to open his mouth and just talk when you were leaned in close, no world outside of the space between you. You'd given him that sweet, soothing smile of yours, comforted him, joked with him, made him laugh until he nearly felt like himself again, whoever that was supposed to be.
And when your fingers had slipped down his ribs, the jolt of sensation that shot over his skin startled him. It was one thing to have the light pressure of your touch across the unfeeling surface of his left arm, intimate yet distant, but feeling you on his bare skin was something else entirely. If he thought your hand on his cheeks or your lips muffled by his hair had been bad, he had to reset the bar now. Remembering that, or the curve of your waist beneath his arm, or the kittenish sound you made when you settled back against him in the darkness... He was suddenly almost glad you'd gotten out of bed before him.
It hadn't been long though, judging from the warmth still trapped in the sheets beside him. Getting to his feet, he made his way out of the bedroom. Silence was second nature to him and he slipped down the hallway without making a sound. You, however, he could hear clearly now, bare feet padding across the linoleum in the kitchen as you hummed to yourself. He didn't know if it was a song he hadn't heard or just an absent noise you made, but it was airy and pleasant. The sound of it, mixed with the strengthening smell of the coffee as he approached, was familiar, nostalgic, felt almost serenely dreamlike.
The feeling intensified as he stepped into the kitchen doorway. Sunlight was beaming through the window above the sink, highlighting little flecks of dust wafting on the air, a few cats hairs floating here and there. You were standing at the counter, facing away from him, hard at work on something, seemingly oblivious to his presence as you continued humming. And Potato, ridiculously named as she was, was sitting picturesque on top of the little table near where he stood with her green eyes flashing his way. For a moment, he wondered if he wasn't still sleeping after all. It all seemed too unreal somehow, like any second he would open his eyes and find himself on a cold table with needles in his veins and straps holding him down. He felt his heart rate start to quicken in sudden dread.
But then the cat meowed loudly, stretching up onto her toes lazily and alerting you to his presence. Turning to look back at him, your laughing smirk helped calm the wild beating in his chest. "Mornin', Bucky. So much for your pre-dawn run, huh?"
"Yeah," he bit out, moving over to the side table to pet the cat, to reassure himself. She purred under his touch and rubbed her cheek along his arm as he watched you pull a mug from the cabinet.
You made your way to the coffeemaker you'd dug out of storage a few days before and pulled the full, steaming carafe for a long pour. There was a warm twisting in Bucky's gut as you approached him. He finally noticed how mussed your hair still was, the lingering puffiness under your eyes, erratic lines indenting your right cheek, skin so paled with sleep it made your lips standout. A gorgeous woman bringing him a cup of coffee in the morning? If it was a dream, he hoped like hell he stayed asleep forever.
"You must have been exhausted from yesterday," you smiled sympathetically as you handed the mug over to him. "Never would have guessed I'd be up before you. Granted, it's only been about 10 minutes, but still."
"Little surprised myself," he admitted, bringing the cup to his lips. He had never seen you make coffee before, but it was good. Jesus, everything you made in that kitchen was good. He lifted the mug in a casual salute. "Delicious. Thanks."
Your smile widened and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as if you were excited. He hid a forming smile behind another gulp of coffee as you spoke. "So, since it's a little late in the morning, I decided to make us a quiche."
"Quiche," he repeated thoughtfully. You hadn't made that for him before either, which explained your eager attitude. Bucky had learned pretty early on that the idea of introducing or reintroducing him to something, whatever the case may be, delighted you to no end. At first, he thought it would wane as you realized just how daunting of a task it could be to try filling in almost a hundred years worth of information. Though some things seemed to interest you more than others, you really hadn't faltered yet. But nothing got you more enthusiastic than food. Something about it was almost... charming.
"Aside from mimosas, quiche is by far my favorite brunch food," you explained. "It's basically a custard pie with savory filling."
When you reached up absently to scratch at your right cheek, nails catching on the fading sleep lines, he raised an eyebrow in a silent question while pulling another mouthful from his cup. You caught the gesture, a sheepish expression easing across your face. "I woke up with my face planted in your left shoulder. Guess I got a little cuddly last night."
Bucky couldn't bring himself to correct you. You may have rolled over at some point, but he instigated the closeness. But he didn't want to upset you or admit how ashamed he felt for it. Instead, he nodded in understanding, tilting his head toward his shoulder as he picked those few strands of hair away. "Probably yours then. And I think you drooled on me."
It was a swift kick to his solar plexus, threatening to drive all the air from his lungs when the skin at your cheek bones darkened. He'd seen you flushed with fever before, but not anything quite like this, especially from something he'd done. You suddenly seemed painfully self-conscious, smoothing a hand through your hair with a nervous smile. "God, that's gross. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Bucky tried to soothe. He had to mentally squash the thought that wondered if your face felt as scorching hot as it looked, wondered just how far down your skin that flush reached. He shook his head to clear it a little. "There's no harm done. At least you didn't snore."
That brought a grin back to your face, even through your pink cheeks, and his chest puffed up a little despite himself as you moved back to the counter to continue working on your quiche. He drained his coffee mug and brought it to the sink, glancing out the window to the backyard. "Missed my run. Should probably start calisthenics soon."
"Actually," you chimed in. Bucky looked over to find you chopping a mushroom carefully. "I was going to ask you. Since we both got up late, did you maybe just wanna make it a lounge around the house kinda day? Yesterday was pretty stressful, so I figured I could put something sci-fi on for us and we could veg out on the couch with some snacks. I think you'd like a Star Trek marathon."
"Trying to make me fat and lazy like your cat over there," he found himself teasing, licking at his dry lips and trying hard not to question how easily that tone of voice came when talking to you anymore. Especially when the reward was your face lighting up like it was now and that little laugh of yours that was too damned sweet in his ears.
"I don't hear her complaining," you chuckled, turning back to your cutting board.
Bucky considered his coffee mug in the sink a moment before deciding to pick it up again. Crossing behind you, he poured himself another cupful and turned to lean back against the counter, watching you work. After a few moments and a few more sips, he sat his coffee on the counter to move in beside you. "Why don't you let me finish that for ya? Figure two sets of hands could get us to that marathon sooner."
The grateful, ecstatic smile you flashed him tightened Bucky's chest a little. It seemed easy enough to ignore as you relinquished your position at the cutting board, handing the knife over carefully with the slightest brush of your fingers over his. You were probably just relieved to have help, chopping vegetables was tedious work. But then he saw that flush kick up on your cheeks again just as you were turning to gather more ingredients. And Bucky wondered what he'd ever done to earn a sight like that.
