Marge bustled back into the kitchen, and broke the growing tension with an unaffected "Can you boys help me set the table?". As she delegated tasks to the others, Bucky slid into the living room where Natasha rested on the couch. Sitting next to the half-conscious agent, he breathed deeply through his nose, attempting to center himself. She sleepily studied him, taking in his tense posture and subtly gritted jaw.
"2 main exits-front door 'nd a back door, 'hich leads outside. Back door's squeaky, but both 're unlocked," she spoke quietly, exhaustion evident in her slight slurring.
Bucky glanced at her and raised his eyebrow, continuing to breathe deeply.
"Mardzh vyshla na ulitsu. Otsyuda ya uslyshal skrip dveri," she mumbled. Marge went outside. I heard the door creak from here. Even in her drugged state, Natasha's eyes pierced through Bucky. As much as he hated her scrutiny, her attempts to soothe him didn't go unnoticed. He nodded, and hesitantly placed a hand on her leg. If she felt uncomfortable with the rare show of affection, she didn't show it. Grasping his wrist gently, she thanked him, "Spasibo. Vasha dobrota v samolete byla nenuzhnoy, no tsenilas'." Thank you. Your kindness on the plane was unnecessary but appreciated.
"Ty moy tovarishch po komande, mne bylo priyatno pomoch' tebe," Bucky regarded her solemnly. You are my teammate, it was my pleasure to help you. He tried to stand, but Natasha's hand shot out and grasped his bicep. An unnerving focus behind her gaze made him stiffen.
"Vy pochuvstvuyete to zhe samoye, kogda aktiv vernetsya?" Will you feel the same way when the Asset returns?
Cold settled over Bucky's heart. The realization that her apparent concern for him concealed a vigil for the Winter Soldier was unsurprising, but still stung-even her momentary softness was a ruse to take his pulse. After a year as teammates, she still didn't trust him. Not much has changed since the Red Room. Bucky understood her motivation, after all there were potential casualties present and with her blood loss, she wouldn't be much help. Not that she'd be able to hold me for long anyways. General discomfort wouldn't cause him to 'flip', but her wariness was justified. He just wished that Natasha hadn't been shot so he might've already been back at the compound in his quiet room. Is that really what you want? To be alone in a place where people are happy to shoot you as soon as they receive the order? Bucky didn't know where that thought had come from, but yes. He'd take familiarity over the unknown any day. No matter, Natasha still waited for an answer to her loaded question. 'Yes' was a lie, but 'no' would add to the potentially damning list she was undoubtedly compiling about him. He briefly wondered if the rest of the team knew that she regularly gave reports to Coulson and Fury about their individual effectiveness. He met her gaze steadily.
"Dinner will be ready soon."
She released his arm, but Bucky could feel her watching as he retreated back into the kitchen.
After his unsettling conversation with the Black Widow (most Avengers saw their superhero identity as their 'alternate persona', but Bucky suspected the opposite was true for the red-haired spy), questions distracted him through most of dinner. Question: how many others are assessing me? Change question: assume they've all received orders to. How many are likely to report? Assume all possibilities besides direct teammates will. Will report: Romanoff, Barton, Stark. Likely to report: Vision, Maximoff, Wilson. Will not report: Steve. Question: why did Romanoff try to trap me? Answer: Wanted to rile me up, see how I react under pressure. Question: why that moment specifically? Answer: Unknown - I was effective during the mission and that was higher pressure than an awkward kitchen conversation. Question: why did she alert me to assessment? Answer: Unknown - makes future investigations more difficult.
"Bucky?" Steve interrupted his thought process, and Bucky took a millisecond too long to process the question that Walt had asked him.
"I don't remember much from the '40s, but I'll never forget rushing into battle with this twerp. Who'd've guessed the tiny runt fighting in alleys would turn out to be Captain America?" Bucky infused his practiced answer with old-school charm. Most of his companions seemed to be satisfied with his false aplomb—confined to the couch, Romanoff couldn't analyze his hesitation—but Steve didn't buy it. In fact, the man looked more concerned once Bucky used one of the statements the PR reps devised. I'm fine, mother-hen, Bucky raised one eyebrow. Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Bucky stared back unimpressed. Steve narrowed his eyes and promptly shoved another forkful of sweet potato into his mouth. Satisfied, Bucky tried to reorganize his thoughts, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Cate keenly observed him, confusion and uncertainty warring in her eyes, as if she couldn't quite tell what to make of him. What am I, a circus act?
"You know the first rule of observing a target is making sure you blink. You wouldn't want them to think they're being stared at," Bucky commented coolly, keeping his voice low. He smirked slightly as Cate flushed and Steve choked on his water.
"Wrong pipe, dear?" Marge asked Steve, while Walt slapped him on the back.
"Yeah, must have been," Steve croaked after a second or two. After sparing Bucky a glance, Steve continued the conversation he'd been having with the rest of the table.
"I wasn't staring," Cate hissed.
"Then what would you call it? Admiring the view?" He felt a surprising amount of familiarity towards her, but didn't let himself read too deeply into it.
"No, you'd have to be attractive for me to do that."
"Bull."
"Not bull."
"Your pupils are dilated, doll," Bucky baited.
"Maybe because I'm arguing with an obstinate idiot like you!" she snapped quietly, trying not to draw her parents' attention.
"If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all," Bucky chided, and struggled not to smile at the absolute indignation on Cate's face. Honestly it was like riling Steve up: too easy and extremely entertaining.
"Cate sweetheart, is everything alright? Your face is all red," Marge innocently asked her daughter. "And stop frowning, you'll get wrinkles."
If Bucky had been granted one wish at that moment, he would've taken a picture of Cate's face. She tried to hide her seething fury with a polite smile, and the result looked somewhere between constipated and murderous.
"I'm fine! Just talking to Bucky!" Cate's fake cheer sounded high-pitched and tense, causing the men to wince, but Marge pushed doggedly on.
"You know, Bucky," Marge winked at him conspiratorially. "Cate had a pretty big crush on you in high school. She made her friends go as the Howling Commandos for Halloween two years in a row just so she could dress up like her favorite Sergeant."
Bucky coughed as he processed that information. He struggled to keep his composure, but he knew that his blush reached the tips of his ears. Steve valiantly fought a smile, and Sam didn't even try to contain himself as he cackled loudly into his napkin.
"Mom!" Cate's protest, though shrill, fell on deaf ears.
"I forgot about that," Sam wheezed. "Do you still have pictures?"
Cate's head whipped over to Sam and glowered ominously, "We have 3 years worth of Halloween pictures of you as Captain America." When that didn't stop Sam's gleeful crowing she switched tactics. "Want me to show Steve the pictures of our fashion show?"
Almost immediately, Sam stopped laughing and threatened her with his fork. "You said we wouldn't talk about that again!"
Cate raised her eyebrows and bit into her chicken. Sam grumbled, stabbing at his food sullenly.
"Fashion show…?" Steve looked completely lost.
"When we were kids, I made Sam join in on my fashion show. He'd refuse to wear anything I picked out for him because it wasn't 'manly'," Cate took a moment to swallow her food. "Instead, he decided to wear his Captain America underwear and onesie."
To his credit, Steve nodded hesitantly and turned to Sam seriously, who looked like he might have an aneurysm.
"Oh… so, how old were you?"
Sam muttered something incomprehensible; Walt took the liberty of answering for him.
"18."
Bucky tried to keep his composure, but at the thought of an 18 year old Sam sassily walking down a hallway like a runway model in boxers and a onesie with Steve's face and the American flag on them, he lost it. His chuckles started small but quickly escalated. Steve and Sam stared at him in shock, but neither could resist joining in. Soon, everyone around the table was in hysterics, glassy-eyed and breathless. Eventually things died down, leaving them with smiles on their faces but feeling completely worn out.
"Alright, Marge and I'll do the dishes. You three get up to bed, you've all had long days and I won't see guests in my house doing chores," Walt said after catching his breath. Bucky would've protested, but exhaustion weighed his tongue down. The mission clearly had taken a toll on all of them, Steve being the only one to resist before thanking the couple.
"Cate, if you'll show them to their rooms and then help me make sure Agent Romanoff is comfortable, please?" Marge asked.
"Sure. She should be fine tonight, but you'll want to get her to an actual hospital tomorrow. Technically she shouldn't even be sleeping without a proper transfusion or medical attention, but somehow she's recovering quickly. You super soldiers must be rubbing off on her," Cate noticeably did not speak to Bucky, instead directing her observation to Steve who nodded seriously.
"Thank you again for your hospitality," he turned to Walt and Marge. "We should be out of your hair early tomorrow morning."
"Stay for breakfast! Marge makes great french toast," Walt insisted, but Marge laid a hand on his arm.
"They need to head out early, dear. Even without Agent Romanoff to think about, they need to get back to work."
Walt looked crest-fallen, but nodded his agreement. "I know, I know. We'll make sure to see you off in the morning."
With that, Cate finished clearing the plates and ushered the men up the stairs. "We only have two rooms, so I can inflate an air mattress or Sam can sleep on the couch?"
"What? Why do I have to sleep on the couch?" Sam whined. Cate regarded Sam contemptuously.
"I'll take the couch," Bucky offered suddenly.
"Buck, we can just blow up a mattress."
"Don't worry about it Barnes, I'd rather take the couch anyways."
"Bucky, you can have one of the rooms. Sam'll be fine."
Bucky frowned. "I'm takin' the couch," he said decisively, and fixed each of them with a challenging glare. None of them looked happy about the arrangement, but Steve knew he wouldn't be able to change his friend's mind, and Sam really didn't want to sleep on the lumpy sofa. Cate still looked like she might argue, but Marge came up the stairs, conveniently interrupting any snappish comment.
"I just realized that you boys don't have any PJs to sleep in!"
"Oh we don't need any-"
"Are you really going to tell me you'd rather sleep in combat gear?" Marge asked flatly, and Bucky suddenly realized where Cate got her sass. "They're a little small, but they're warm and soft. The bathroom is down the hall, or you can use the bathroom downstairs. Both have extra toiletries and bathrobes, but please be aware of the amount of hot water you use. If none of us are awake tomorrow morning, your packed lunches are in the fridge. We're so glad to have met you three, so don't hesitate to drop by if a mission brings you to Colorado. And Sam," she eyed the man with a fond knowing that only a mother could muster. "Try not to take so long between visits." Then, she grabbed Cate's hand and whisked downstairs like a terrifyingly efficient tornado.
The men stared at the empty stairwell in shock, each feeling a ferocious surge of affection towards their matronly host.
"Hey Steve?"
"Huh?"
"Is it weird she reminds me of Peggy Carter?"
"Nope."