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Steve Rogers slowly turned around. His eyes met the cool grey-blue of his cashier's before flicking to the phone held in his hand. He took a deep breath in.
"They said WHAT?"
The exclamation came close to a shout.
"They said the sprinkles are illegal," Bucky repeated calmly, his face alarmingly neutral for a man who was predisposed to frowning.
"Illegal? ILLEGAL?" Steve threw his hands up in the air and laughed humorlessly. "What does that even MEAN? They let me ship them here! It's not like they're sold from some cottage operation in the boonies—it's a legitimate American company!"
Bucky winced. He looked down at the offending box of sprinkles, innocently sitting on the counter beside him.
"The Trading Standards guy on our case, Zemo? He said that's the issue. I guess American sprinkles have ingredients not allowed in commercially sold baked goods in the UK?"
"For fuck's sake," Steve muttered, running his hands through his blonde hair and lacing them behind his head. He looked up at the ceiling and counted out his next inhale. One… two… three…
"Bucky," he said, still staring at the ceiling.
"Yeah?" Bucky replied. If Steve didn't know better, he'd have thought the man standing in front of him sounded nervous. He released his hands and let them fall to his sides. He looked away from the ceiling and at Bucky instead.
"I want you to know that those are the best damn sprinkles I've ever had, Buck. The best. Damn. Sprinkles. " He pointed an aggressive finger at the sprinkles with each word, eyes locked on Bucky's. The other man's eyes widened. He swallowed.
"This is NOT over, you hear me?" Steve continued emphatically. Bucky looked for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights.
"I—I hear you, Steve."
"Good," Steve said. He felt a little calmer after Bucky's acknowledgement—reassured at least that he knew Steve was invested in making this right.
He was too worked up to notice the flush creeping up Bucky's neck.
Steve turned back on his heel, heading for the kitchens.
"Go ahead and flip the sign, Buck. I'll lock up. We're closing early today."
Eight months earlier, Steve had been living a far simpler life. Sprinkle-conspiracies weren’t even a twinkle in his eye; he had no personal vendetta against the UK’s consumer protection agency, and he would’ve been hard-pressed to imagine a situation in which he would develop one. Hell, eight months ago, he didn’t even have a cashier.
It was therefore no exaggeration at all to say that Steve’s life changed the day he met Bucky Barnes.
It had been a nice, busy morning; that was how Steve liked it. He always enjoyed the pre-dawn hours at his shop. The hustle and bustle of preparing a dozen different varieties of baked goods required a degree of focus that felt almost meditative to him. It cleared his mind of other concerns, freeing him to focus on the texture of a dough, the angle of a whisk, the flourish of a piping bag. Steve Rogers was a small, wiry guy; he’d never been particularly strong, but single-handedly running a bakery required more than a little strength, and the lean muscles of his arms were hard-earned. They reminded him, every day, that he was just fine on his own. He didn’t need anyone else’s help to get by, to do well, to have a full life and a successful business. Just look, his beautiful case of pastries seemed to say to him each morning as he prepared to open up. You did this all by yourself!
That particular morning, he’d been transporting his last tray of cupcakes from the kitchen to the refrigerated case in the front of the shop when he heard the twinkle of the front door bell. It was still ten minutes until opening; the door should've been locked. Steve was startled, and in his haste to see who the hell had just walked in at 6:50 AM, he managed to trip over his own two feet and dump a tray's worth of freshly baked and decorated cupcakes right there on his tile floor.
He had cursed a foul earful, neglecting to remember there was someone else in the shop with him, already too emotionally invested in the task of cleaning up hours of wasted cupcakes and preparing himself for the obnoxious amount of catchup a new batch would require. So Steve startled all over again when a voice asked, "Do you need help?"
He looked up sharply and quickly fell into the coolest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Blinking, Steve dragged himself back to the present, only to be immobilized once more by the handsome face that accompanied those stormy, intelligent eyes.
I should be asking you that, you beautiful, beautiful man, he thought. Steve knew he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the man in front of him. He cut a striking figure.
The man’s shoulder-length brown hair framed a strong jaw and a 5 o’clock shadow, not to mention oh, oh so full lips— Jesus, Steve, get it together, he berated himself—and the man’s solid frame was covered head to toe in shades of black: thick-soled black boots; grey joggers, snug around his powerfully built thighs; a darker grey henley under a very soft looking black pullover. His eyebrows were thick, and they were currently furrowed in concern.
"You look like you could use some help," the man continued, turning his head to sweep his eyes suggestively over the entirety of Steve’s shop.
Surprise and confusion quickly turned to indignant embarrassment—just what had that meant? Steve was suddenly aware of a tremendously upsetting possibility: that the beautiful man was judging his bakery.
He knew that his shop was not the most high-end establishment. Its tile floors were clean but cracked in places, and while he’d repainted the bricks a warm, cheerful yellow to cover the globby, peeling chartreuse they’d come with, there had been nothing he could do about the knobby brickwork itself, or the cramped shopfront that made his secondhand cases feel like they were crowding out customers rather than welcoming them in. But for all its flaws, it got the job done, and Steve was proud of every inch of it.
He bristled.
“Listen, pal—I don't even open for another ten minutes, and I don't know how you got in here, but I'd appreciate it if you left and gave me some time to finish getting ready for the day, okay?" He strained to keep his voice neutral; the last thing he wanted to do was scare off a potential new customer.
The man snorted and shook his head, his hair swishing to and fro like a pendulum. Then he turned back to Steve and fixed him with a look so intense that it knocked the breath right out of him.
"I'll help you," he announced firmly.
Steve gawped at him like a fish.
"You'll—hey, I don't need any help, okay? I've got it under control, and besides, I don't like what you're implying—”
"What time do you open up tomorrow? 6:30?” Steve’s eyebrows rose sharply of their own accord. As if. “Earlier? That’s okay—how about I come by at 6:00. You can show me the ropes before we open."
" What? Show you what ropes?? There is no we —I said I don't need any help, and I can't—I can't even afford any help, so I really think you've got the wrong idea here. I'm not hiring, okay? I'm not hiring and I'm fine on my own, so you'll have to go somewhere else if you're looking for work. Or cupcakes," he said, staring back down at the briefly forgotten pile of smashed cupcakes on the floor around him.
"Don't need to be paid. I’m volunteering. You know, doing my part—supporting underprivileged businesses in my community," the stranger deadpanned. Steve’s head shot up and he glared at him, opening his mouth to retort something. In turn, those full lips twitched into a lopsided smile that miraculously managed to soothe Steve’s anger like a gentle touch. Before Steve could process the alarming shift in his mood, the man’s face reverted to its previous, inscrutable expression. He gave Steve a brief nod and headed for the door, where he paused. He turned his head back to look over shoulder, taking in Steve, still kneeling on the floor.
"See you tomorrow. Oh—and Natasha said to tell you hi” he called back casually, and then he winked. With that, the door closed, the bells chimed, and Steve was, once again, alone in his bakery.
He was too stunned by the abrupt bottoming-out of his stomach at that wink to register the man’s words for several seconds. He watched through the window as he headed down the street, hands in his pockets, and… whistling??
That did it. Steve sprinted for the door, flinging it open.
"HEY," he shouted after him, angry and surprised and confused and definitely, unfortunately, incredibly attracted to the asshole who’d just given himself a job at Steve’s goddamn bakery. The asshole who was apparently sent to him by Natasha, of all people.
The man turned around, halfway down the block, hands shoved into the pockets of his joggers. Steve wasn't sure what he’d wanted to say— don't you dare show up here tomorrow; I’ll have you know my shop is nice , goddamnit, and I do fine on my own; you tell Natasha to keep her messenger and come say hi by herself next time —but instead what came out was, "What the hell is your name??"
"Bucky," the man called back, more softly than Steve had, and then he turned around and kept walking.
---
That fateful morning was how Steve found himself saddled with an employee—no, a volunteer— who Steve was sure would be the death of him. Bucky gave Steve heart palpitations on the best and worst of days, and he silently cursed Natasha more than once for siccing Bucky on him when he was most vulnerable… in other words, at all, since Steve was putty in Bucky's brusque, unmotivated hands, and he'd been so from the moment they met. He did his best to hide it, of course, and Bucky helped him plenty by being so damn ineffective that Steve was absolutely convinced he was putting twice as much effort into giving Steve a hard time than it would have taken him to simply do things well.
"I thought you came here to help me," Steve grumbled at Bucky one morning during the first month of his “employment,” as Steve hefted yet another full tray of pastries from the kitchen to the front case while Bucky observed, munching on a chocolate croissant.
"I am helping," he said, straight-faced, staring directly into Steve's eyes with his terrible laser-beams of beauty. A croissant-flake had caught on the corner of his mouth. Steve stared back at him, briefly frozen in place at the sight. He watched, mesmerized, as Bucky's tongue flicked out to catch the crumb before slipping back between parted lips.
"Quality assurance," he continued, jarring Steve out of whatever croissant-inflicted stupor he'd been in, eyes still locked on Steve's face. Steve flushed red as the velvet cupcakes on his tray, and hastily set them down with a murmured "Less tasting, more selling," before he high-tailed it back to the kitchen to chill the fuck out , goddamnit.
Natasha stopped by later that day, pausing outside the large front window with a tell-tale smirk as she took in Steve's exasperated expression and Bucky's nonchalance behind the counter. She made eye contact with Steve and lifted an eyebrow, nodding her head towards the door. He made his way outside, leaning against the brick wall while she lit a cigarette and looked at him like the cat that caught the canary.
“Haven’t seen you around here in a while. I was getting worried,” he said, eyeing her with suspicion.
Natasha Romanova was Steve's best—"and favorite," she liked to add—customer. She was also his friend. The Russian expat had popped into his shop soon after Steve opened it, and she had never really stopped.
Since then, the two had shared coffee, pastries, and a great deal of conversation. There had been a moment when Steve wondered if there might be something more between them than frequent purchases. That moment had, thankfully, been brief—he was more than a bit afraid of her, in an affectionate and deeply respectful way, and he figured any man would be wise to be—and he remained appreciative of her patronage and, above all, her friendship.
“I got scared off by all the negative reviews,” she replied archly, a half-suppressed smile on her lips. She took a drag of her cigarette as he shot her a glare and waited for her to say more.
She rolled her eyes.
“I was home in Mother Russia,” Natasha continued, adopting an exaggerated accent and flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette. “Had some things to take care of—don’t worry, kotik, I wouldn’t have left you all alone in the world without good reason. Certainly not with a big, bad man hanging around.” Her eyes gleamed. “How's the new hire?”
“Funny, that would imply that I've actually hired someone," Steve replied, narrowing his eyes at her as she chuckled. "I seem to have something more along the lines of a Bucky Barnes infestation."
"Oh, come on—admit it, you like him," she teased.
"What's not to like? He's rude to my customers, he never lifts a hand to help me carry anything even though he's got muscles that make me cry—"
"Do they, now?" Natasha's smirk returned, only this time it was wider.
Steve groaned.
"God, Nat. What have you done to me."
"You've got it bad, Rogers."
He sagged against the wall. "This is all your fault."
She shrugged casually, taking another long drag from her cigarette. The look she gave him as she exhaled was wicked.
"What can I say? I do what I can.”
“How did you two even meet? And why on earth did you send him my way?”
She laughed. “So many questions! Come, pochemuchka, I can’t give away all of my secrets, now, can I?” She winked at him and then smiled when he glowered her way. “We’re old friends. Our families lived in the same town.”
“He’s Russian?” Steve was surprised. Bucky had no accent to speak of—all Steve had known about his connection to Natasha was what Bucky had told him that second morning. Steve had asked for further clarification about her directions: “Natasha just told you to come here and say hi from her?” Bucky had shrugged: “Actually, she told me to come bother you.”
Natasha lifted a shoulder, a nonverbal eh.
“If you ask Russia, yes. Otherwise I’d say he’s Russian-American.” She noticed Steve’s confusion and clarified, “Our homeland doesn’t recognize dual-citizenship. He lived in the States—I would see him when he visited Russia with his mother.”
“Ah,” Steve replied, feeling a little better about assuming Bucky was American. He was even more curious now, though, and Natasha must have anticipated additional questions to come, because she patted him on the head and said, “Come, I haven't had my pastry fix in so long and I want to say hi to my boy."
Steve rolled his eyes as Natasha dropped her cigarette on the ground and crushed it beneath her heel.
“Smoking, Natasha? In this economy?” She lifted an eyebrow and he gave her a stern look. “That’s a bad habit you’ve got there.”
She huffed a laugh and pulled open the door to the bakery. “Trust me, Steve—smoking is the least of my bad habits.” He followed her back inside the shop, shaking his head.
“Malysh!” Natasha crowed as she walked in, holding her arms out wide. Bucky looked up. His mouth lifted into a crooked smile, and he replied in Russian, letting her sweep back behind the counter and wrap him in her arms. Steve watched somewhat awkwardly from the door as they spoke rapidly to each other in a language he didn’t understand.
There was an intimacy and affection between them that surprised him. He wasn’t sure why; Natasha had just told him they were old friends. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t seen Bucky look quite so at ease before, nor had he seen Natasha as warm as she was currently behaving towards the other man. Steve’s focus drifted back to Bucky, zeroing in on the light in his eyes and the way he tossed his hair back as he laughed at something Nat had just said.
God, he’s beautiful.
Something about that crooked smile made Steve feel like he was melting. He hadn’t known Bucky for long, but he knew him well enough to realize that he usually kept his smiles to himself. He was expressive in his own way, Steve supposed, but he refrained from the easy, casual displays of joy and happiness that Steve was constantly aware of himself making. Watching Bucky now, however, Steve wondered just how much was going under his impassive surface—and what it would take to get Bucky to smile that easily for him.
As if they could hear his thoughts, the two of them abruptly looked Steve’s way, Natasha smirking and murmuring something to Bucky as his smile faded and his expression turned vaguely thoughtful. Steve blushed.
Just then, the door behind him opened, chimes tinkling. Steve looked back over his shoulder to see one of his regulars walk in. He smiled.
“How’s it going, Clint?”
The other man grinned. “Oh, not bad, now that I’m here!” Steve laughed, turning from the door and walking back behind the counter. Natasha gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a murmured goodbye as she slid by him and headed for the door. Behind the register, Bucky straightened, adopting what Steve internally referred to as his customer-service frown.
“What’ll it be today?” Steve called back to Clint, directing his own behave yourself frown to Bucky, who in turn innocently widened his eyes. Who, me?
Clint paused when he noticed Natasha. He ducked his head to her as she passed by him on her way to the door, and she gave him a slow smile. They crossed paths here often enough on their respective pastry journeys. Steve liked to tease Natasha that she was going to break Clint’s heart with her flirting, to which she always scoffed and waved a dismissive hand, replying “It keeps him young.”
His eyes trailed after her now as she opened the door and sauntered down the sidewalk. Steve glanced over at Bucky. Bucky rolled his eyes, and Steve bit back a smile, tossing him a half-hearted don’t make fun of customers glare instead. Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him and turned back to Clint, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“What’ll you have, Clint?” Steve repeated, loudly. The other man startled, grimacing in embarrassment and turning back around to place his order, which Steve grabbed for him from the case. Bucky stonily took Clint’s money and grunted when he dropped a dollar in the tip jar, surprising Clint, who looked nervously at Steve before waving goodbye and making for the exit.
With the chimes twinkling his departure, Steve and Bucky were alone once more. A soft silence settled between them. Steve glanced over at Bucky from the corner of his eye. The customer-service frown was gone; he looked almost relaxed.
The warmth Steve had felt kindling towards him earlier returned. He’d stopped thinking of Bucky as an asshole after that first day; in this moment, he thought his attitude towards Bucky might best be described as begrudgingly affectionate. Bucky was intriguing, that was for sure, and things had certainly become more interesting in Steve’s life this last month since Bucky had maneuvered his way into it. He wanted to know more about him. You want to know everything about him, a voice whispered in his head. Steve hastily shooed that thought away and instead asked the question that had been on his mind since his conversation with Natasha.
“What brought you to Leeds?”
Bucky turned to him in surprise. He paused, as if considering how he wanted to reply, and then gave Steve an assessing glance. It made him nervous, and he hoped Bucky found whatever it was he was looking for in his face.
“I moved here after my mother died. Last year,” Bucky said finally. His voice was quiet, and his eyes had drifted down to where his hands lay in his lap. “I’d been taking care of her, before, and I didn’t want to stay there. She was in Russia,” he said, looking up at Steve then. “Wasn’t the safest for me.” He seemed to be considering adding something else, but then he shook his head slightly and continued. “I didn’t have a place lined up anywhere else. Natasha heard about my mother from hers, and she reached out, asked me if I needed a place to stay while I figured things out. So here I am,” he said, opening his arms and then dropping them back down to his lap.
“I’m really sorry about your mom,” Steve murmured. He looked down at his own hands. “My mom died a few years ago. It—well, it really fucking sucks, doesn’t it.”
Bucky let out a slow exhale. “Yeah. It really does.” They stood there in silence for moment.
All of a sudden, Bucky stood. Steve’s eyes widened as he took a couple of steps towards him, then stopped. Bucky shifted uncomfortably in front of him, looking surprised at himself and a little awkward. Then he leaned forward and rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before dropping it. “I’m sorry about your mom, too,” he said. Steve stared at him, stunned.
“Thanks, Buck,” he said. His brain immediately fizzled— Buck? Did I just call him Buck?! What the hell, Rogers! Jesus Christ!— and a blush rose on his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if he should acknowledge or apologize for the pet name, and so he decided instead to just ignore it, hoping Bucky would, too. For his part, Bucky held his eyes for a second longer and then looked down, giving him a quick nod before backing away to sit down on the stool by the register. Steve murmured a quick “Excuse me, gotta use the restroom,” and then bolted for the back of the shop. That’s enough unexpected vulnerability for one morning, he thought as he splashed water on his face in the restroom. No need for more of that!
Bucky seemed to agree; aside from serving customers and checking in as questions came up, the two men passed the rest of the day in companionable silence.
---
The months after Bucky’s arrival flew by. In-between every Bucky, the customers don’t understand you’re being sarcastic , and No, Bucky, you can’t tell someone it’ll be $100 dollars when they try to buy the last chocolate croissant, the two of them spent plenty of surprisingly pleasant time together. Day by day, Steve learned more about his reserved cashier. When Bucky served his first customer below the age of fifteen, Steve discovered that for all his brusqueness and dry humor, Bucky was excellent with kids. He watched as Bucky made a cupcake fly from its case, spinning around in circles as he brrrrr- ed airplane noises before bringing it to a soft landing on the counter before a delighted toddler. When Steve casually mentioned it later, Bucky had rubbed the back of his neck and murmured, “Siblings,” before glancing up abashedly at Steve.
That had turned into a conversation about their respective childhoods, and Steve had been delighted—and somewhat shocked—to learn that they had both grown up in Brooklyn, despite never crossing paths. Bucky’s mom had immigrated to Little Odessa in her 20s and worked at a Russian restaurant. A strained relationship with her family meant she had no intention of returning to her country of origin, but then an ill-advised affair with an American businessman led to Bucky. When she abruptly became a single parent soon before he was born, she reconnected with her parents and they supported her and their first grandchild as best they could, buying plane tickets and sending money. She moved back to Russia and remarried when Bucky was an adult. He had two younger sisters from that relationship. They lived with their dad now; Bucky tried to visit every few months.
Steve eventually shared the story of his own journey to Leeds, blushing through an abbreviated retelling of his relationship with a fierce British political science student, in New York for her semester abroad, and his somewhat rash decision to follow her back to the U.K after his mother’s death. He’d thought Peggy was the woman of his dreams; she certainly was incredible, but she was also incredibly determined to advance in a career that Steve came to realize was sharply at odds with the life he wanted for himself. They called it off amicably enough; by then, the thought of returning to a Brooklyn shadowed with the ghosts of his mother’s agonizing last months was far too painful. He had a work visa and nowhere else he needed to be. He decided to stay.
Steve thought that something in Bucky’s look had shifted as he talked about Peggy, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he was annoyed with himself for even having imagined it. What would’ve changed? he thought. It’s not like there’s anything going on between us. Besides, they never talked about her again, so there was no way for him to know for sure.
---
It was months later before the seeds of the sprinkle saga were officially sown.
It began with a Google review:
Guy manning the cash register was having a bad day. Taking it out on customers.
Steve dragged his hands over his face. He sat there, head in his hands, fingers gently tugging his cheeks down, and stared at the computer screen for a long minute. Then he called for Bucky.
Bucky strutted his way from the front of the shop into Steve’s tiny closet of an office. He leaned casually against the door frame and crossed his arms, cool as a cucumber.
"Yeah, Steve?"
Steve refused to look at him. If he looked at him, he would cave, and if he caved, he would blush, and then Bucky would think he thought it was funny, and he would keep doing this, and Steve really, really needed him to stop. He couldn’t cave. He had to draw a line somewhere.
Steve kept his eyes firmly on the computer screen in front of him.
"Did you respond to this comment about a rude cashier by writing, and I quote, 'Sorry, we took him out back and shot him?'"
Bucky was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and casually replied, "Yeah, I did."
Steve sighed. He dropped his face lower into his hands, covering his eyes and thoroughly removing the temptation to turn them towards Bucky. He silently cursed himself, because fucking a, this is all my own damn fault, but I can’t help it, can I?!
His voice was muffled as he spoke to Bucky through his hands.
"How about we don't write things like that to our customers next time, okay, Buck."
Steve could no longer see him out of his peripheral vision, but he could imagine his shrug just fine.
"Okay," Bucky said.
Steve sighed again. He caved a little —he couldn’t help it; he knew he wasn’t going to like the answer, but he was curious.
“May I ask why you thought this would be a good reply?" He asked from his safe space behind his hands.
"Well, you're always saying I should try to engage more with customers—make people smile, all of that," Bucky deadpanned.
Steve peeked up at him over his fingers.
"Do you think this made jill228 smile?"
Bucky's semi-permanent frown lifted, slowly, into a brilliant, wolfy grin. He shrugged again.
"It made me smile,” he replied, eyes latched on Steve. Steve stared back at him, feeling his cheeks heat. Fuck. Bucky gave him a cheeky wink and turned around, heading back to the front of the shop.
Steve buried his head back in his hands.
I'm so screwed.
The sprinkles came a week later—left without commentary on his desk. The delicate glass jar containing them suggested they were far from your ordinary, run-of-the-mill supermarket purchase. Steve wasn’t sure if they were intended to be something of an apology, but if they weren’t, he had no idea what the hell else they could be for. It was truly impossible to say with Bucky. The man had it locked down.
Nevertheless, Steve was charmed. When it came to Bucky’s antics, he had to work damn hard to avoid being charmed. Apology sprinkles superseded his usual attempted resolve to suffer no Bucky-Barneses.
The sprinkles were simple enough, despite their fancy presentation. The glass jar contained an array of small, cylindrical, rainbow-colored bits of sugar. They were plain, yet pretty: something Steve felt an affinity for, and he immediately loved them.
He had always been a bit of a sprinkle fan. When he was a sick kid enduring humid, painful Brooklyn summers, Sarah Rogers had taken him out for the cheapest ice cream they could get several times a week to soothe his complaining. He’d never missed a chance to add sprinkles on top—rainbow, just like these. Over the years his sprinkle consumption had gone down, but opening a bakery had led to an understandable spike. He was hard-pressed to find a cake he didn’t want to cover in some variety of sprinkles. Clearly, Bucky had noticed.
Steve decided to whip up a dozen of Bucky’s favorite cupcakes—dark chocolate with a cashew butter frosting—as a similarly unspoken thank-you for the gift. Or rather, he grumbled internally, a similarly unspoken I-forgive-you for the “apology.”
When the cupcakes had cooled and he’d finished making the frosting, Steve piped luscious swirls of nutty buttercream on top of each one, then finished them off with a generous rain of sprinkles. He brought one out to the front for Bucky, who raised an eyebrow at him and accepted it without comment. Steve, predictably, blushed fiercely at Bucky’s questioning look and mumbled semi-incoherently, “y’know, just, yeah,” in response before hastening back to the kitchen. He grabbed his own cupcake and settled back into his office, hoping to calm the heat in his face with the mundane task of ordering more flour.
Then, he took a bite.
Steve stopped clicking through the bakery wholesale website. He stopped doing anything but chewing and staring at the cupcake in his hands.
The sprinkles were good. He hadn’t imagined that they would be bad—they were sprinkles, after all—but this was something else. The sprinkles were far better than he’d expected, and almost certainly far better than any of the sprinkles he currently used at the bakery. Steve took another bite. Holy shit.
“Bucky,” he murmured softly to himself in awe. Bucky had procured him magic sprinkles. That was the only explanation he could think of for how something as simple as a bit of sugar and wax had transformed into the deliciousness currently filling his mouth.
“Bucky!” He repeated loudly as he stood from his seat and marched to the register. Bucky looked up from the laptop he had placed on the counter and quickly closed the lid. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he took in Steve’s flushed cheeks and big smile.
“These sprinkles are amazing!” Steve exclaimed, waving his half-eaten cupcake in the air. Bucky followed the cupcake warily with his eyes, then looked back to Steve. His eyebrows had lowered into an expression on the border between confusion and concern.
“They’re sprinkles,” he replied, watching Steve closely.
“Really, really good sprinkles,” Steve said, grinning at him. Bucky’s eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth and stayed there for a moment. Steve felt his cheeks growing hotter, and he swiped a quick hand across his face, just in case. Bucky’s eyes returned to his.
“So, where did you get them?” Steve asked, feeling his excitement slide closer to embarrassment as he stood before Bucky’s handsome, decidedly un excited face.
“I ordered them online,” Bucky said hesitantly, looking away. Steve wasn’t sure what to make of the tentativeness of that response, but if he could order more of the magical sprinkles online, he was thrilled.
“Perfect!” He said, giving Bucky an easy smile. “Can you send me the site?”
Bucky met his eyes again and nodded. He glanced down at his own cupcake, which was sitting there on the counter beside his closed laptop. Bucky picked it up and inspected the sprinkles on top closely. As Steve stood there, he brought the cupcake to his lips and took a careful bite.
“Well?” Steve asked after a moment. His cheeks heated again as he watched Bucky chew, following the bob of his Adam’s apple with his eyes as Bucky swallowed. Something tightened pleasantly— rudely— in Steve’s gut.
“They’re sprinkles,” Bucky said slowly. He noticed the crestfallen expression on Steve’s face and hastily added, “Good sprinkles,” with a thumbs-up.
“Yeah!” Steve said in relief, giving Bucky another quick smile. “Great. Thanks, Buck! There are more cupcakes in the kitchen, too, if you want some—I figured you could take the rest home, since I made them for y—” He cut himself off and cleared his throat. The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up as he eyed Steve’s reddening face.
“Sounds good,” he replied, resting his hand back on the lid of his laptop. Steve waited a second to see if Bucky would say anything else, but he didn’t—nor did he reopen the laptop. Steve narrowed his eyes at him, and Bucky fixed an innocent, placid expression on his face.
Steve snorted.
“Behave,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back to his office, cupcake in hand, to order as many of those sprinkles as he could get.
Today, Steve had no time for concerns about whether Bucky was continuing to reply to their negative Google reviews with responses so absurd and unprofessional that Steve was surprised they still had any customers at all.
No; now, Steve only had time for one thing: justice. Justice for his sprinkles.
As he locked up behind Bucky that day—the other man eyeing him with increasing concern, lingering briefly outside the window to watch as Steve paced in the storefront—Steve began to reconsider some of his attitudes towards Bucky’s internet habits. Certainly no one in their right mind would think it was a good idea to say on their Google business account that the owner had shot an unpleasant employee, but there was something to the idea: something about using their internet presence to fight back against an unfair response. And what was more unfair than Trading Standards’s declaration that Steve’s perfectly good, incredibly delicious sprinkles were somehow illegal because they used a dye only authorized in the UK for fucking candied cherries? It was a nonsensical policy. It was infuriating. Who the hell had even made the report?? How did they even know??
Maybe Bucky had the right idea. Maybe Steve should take a page out of his book of schemes and use the power of the internet to do something about all of this.
A plan solidifying in his head, Steve headed to the back of the shop and turned on his computer. He opened Facebook. He began to write.
Just a quick heads up to let you all know that we’ve closed early today. If you’re wondering why, it’s because:
- We had a lovely visit from Trading Standards on Friday after someone reported us for using what they thought were “illegal” sprinkles.
- The sprinkles are imported from the USA and may contain colorings that aren’t allowed over here. We sent them out to get tested and just heard back today confirming that apparently they are, in fact, illegal.
- Unfortunately, I am only prepared to use these sprinkles and no others. If I can’t use them, I won’t use any. I will be on sprinkle strike and won’t budge for no man.
- This is insane, I’m fucking exhausted, and I need a break to figure out what we’re going to do about our menu and the many fucking cakes that use these sprinkles.
Whoever reported us—who hurt you, you asshole?? Hope you fail.
SR
Satisfied, Steve hit Post and sat back. The frustration he’d felt roiling in his chest ever since the call from Trading Standards that morning had calmed slightly in the process of updating their customers, as if he’d exorcised part of it from his body. He had a good feeling about this.
A part of him even thought that Bucky might be proud when he saw it. Steve snorted at the image rising in his head of Bucky, logging on to his laptop and seeing the post… rising to walk back to Steve’s office and giving Steve one of his rare, shining smiles… clasping him on the shoulder and saying “You did it, Steve. You really did it.”
He smiled to himself and let it play out a little further: he would modestly demur, of course, and Bucky would give his shoulder a little shake until Steve looked back up into those gorgeous, mind-numbingly blue eyes, and then Bucky would grow serious and tell Steve, “It means the world to me that you’d do this, Steve—just for some silly sprinkles I bought you,” and Steve would blush and say “I don’t think they’re silly, Buck,” and then Bucky would blush, and then he’d step closer to Steve, and he’d look deeply into his eyes and say “I’m so glad,” and he’d—
An abrupt ding from the computer launched Steve out of his daydream and back to the present. He shook his head and covered hot cheeks with trembling hands, mortified with himself. He turned back to the computer and frowned, clicking the Facebook notification. The post already had a handful of reactions—including the laughing reaction and the shocked one—and it also had a comment.
I’m sorry, maybe this is obvious, but I don’t understand, the person wrote. What’s the big deal with the sprinkles?
Steve’s eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. “‘What’s the big deal with the sprinkles?’ I’ll tell you what the big deal is,” he muttered to himself. He cracked his knuckles and clicked Reply.
It is HIGHLY unlikely that we will find any legal sprinkles that we will use as a replacement. I am extremely passionate about sprinkles, and anyone else who’s into sprinkles will know what I’m talking about. British sprinkles just aren’t the same, they’re totally shit and I hate them. They look bad, they bake bad. Not only that, but they taste like TRASH compared to the sprinkles we’ve been using.
He hit Enter. A second later, he decided to send another reply.
While this might seem like it’s not a big deal, it’s actually very fucking annoying.
With a triumphant click, Steve shut off the computer and rose from his desk. It had been a long, stressful day, but he’d done something about it. It was time to go home.
---
To say that Steve’s Facebook posts about the sprinkles had exploded would be an understatement.
When he walked up to the shop the next morning at 3:30 AM, he saw a figure in the dark waiting for him at the door.
“Bucky?” He said, alarmed. “What are you doing here?”
“Have you checked Facebook today?” Bucky asked him. His breath puffed from his mouth in a visible cloud.
“No, not yet,” Steve said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He looked back at Bucky as he followed him in and turned on the light, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Jesus, Buck, how long have you been outside? Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
“Didn’t want to scare you,” he replied, pulling his phone from his pocket and clicking on something. He held the phone up to Steve. “Look.”
Steve leaned in and looked at Bucky’s phone. He stared. And stared. His wide eyes met Bucky’s. Bucky’s eyebrows were raised.
“What the hell,” Steve muttered, taking Bucky’s phone in his hands and looking back at the screen. “Is this real?”
“Steve. Do you really think I faked a thousand likes on your post and personally added a hundred comments?”
Steve glanced back up at Bucky, and he couldn’t help a small grin.
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched and he tilted his head to the side.
“Fair.”
Steve spent the rest of the pre-dawn hours ignoring his viral Facebook post and doing the usual prep work for the day, with the marked difference of having Bucky alongside him to help for once. It was a little awkward at first, but Steve was surprised with how quickly they fell into a rhythm together. Steve delegated the simpler tasks to Bucky, putting those muscles to work turning trays in the oven and carting bags of flour to more convenient locations as the two navigated the controlled chaos of the bakery’s morning routine. For all his sass at the counter, Bucky was an incredibly responsive and accommodating assistant. He still made off-color jokes, but he did so while quickly carrying ingredients from the fridge at Steve’s beck and call, and when their hands brushed as Steve passed him a tray to take to take to the front case, Bucky gave Steve a small smile that nearly made his heart burst.
Then 7:00 AM rolled around.
Bucky opened the front door to a small line of people, and soon the shop was bustling; customers Steve had never seen before were filling up the front during hours that were usually quiet and subdued. The phone rang off the hook, and Bucky was so busy that his usual level of terseness actually felt appropriate, almost polite, as he hustled people through the line and rang them up.
For the first time since Bucky had joined Steve’s bakery crew of two, they actually closed for lunch. Steve ran back to his office nook and logged on to Facebook as Bucky began to go through the voicemail messages that had piled up over the last several hours.
“God, Bucky, what do I do?” He called out frantically, feeling something of a panic settle over him as he looked at the thousands of interactions with the post.
“Give the people what they want, Steve,” Bucky called back.
“What does that mean?” Steve muttered, clicking through some of the comments. The response was overwhelmingly positive; people appeared to be amused, entertained, even. More than a few replies echoed Steve’s own frustration:
that’s bollocks, and
I agree, the sprinkles for here are s**t they are like little flavourless rocks!!
As if some knob has taken it literally and has gone to lengths to get in touch with trading standards.
It filled Steve with warmth. Maybe it had been a bit rash to post what he did yesterday, but look at what it had led to: a whole community of people supporting him and Bucky, their bakery, and, most importantly, their sprinkles.
He exhaled, and clicked to create a new post.
Very little time to post anything on here today because we’re sensationally busy. Just thought I’d let you all know that I love you and I fucking miss my sprinkles.
Got my eye on you, Trading Standards. I can do this all day.
SR
---
The next day, Steve texted Bucky at 3:00 AM.
This is insane, I had calls on my cell from reporters all night and I’ve had two so far this morning, how did they get my number???
Two minutes later, Bucky responded.
Did you talk to them?
Steve paused.
No
Maybe you should
Could be good for business
It would take me literally *all day* to call them all back
If today’s anything like yesterday, I won’t have time
Let’s open late
Besides, after yesterday, I deserve it 💁♂️
H A! H A!
FUNNY
I was thinking that after yesterday, you FINALLY paid me back for all of those stolen croissants
That’s my pay, Steve
I thought you were a volunteer 🤔
No comment
Steve smirked at his phone, then frowned as it buzzed with another call from an unknown number.
“UGH,” he mumbled, dragging a hand over his face. Maybe Bucky was right—what, did that make three times this week? He didn’t know what to do with that, but he dismissed the call and sent him another quick text.
Fine, let’s open this afternoon - 5 PM. Get your beauty sleep
A couple minutes later, Steve blushed at Bucky’s reply.
You’re my favorite
(But it’s cute that you think I need sleep to be beautiful)
Steve pulled up the Facebook app he’d downloaded last night and posted a quick update.
IMPORTANT:
We’re having to delay today’s opening to 5pm.
We are currently being bombarded by the press, which is fucking amazing and sensational coverage for us.
However, it’s causing havoc in the bakery, and I just don’t have time to do enough work while trying to manage all of this stuff.
To any reporters out there: I’ll start answering the phone at a reasonable hour.
I will be doing this all day.
SR
Two weeks went by, and aside from going viral across the globe, Steve’s Facebook posts had done nothing to save his beloved sprinkles.
After several back-and-forth emails with a beleaguered Trading Standards officer ( Would it be illegal if I were to sprinkle aforementioned illegal sprinkles into the bags of customers upon their request? Response: These products should not be placed on the market and your actions would be deemed irresponsible), Steve was exhausted and disappointed.
Steve wearily walked out the latest reporters and locked the door behind them, rubbing his eyes as he leaned his head against the door frame and sighed.
He heard the sound of a throat being cleared and turned back to look at Bucky, who was staring at him with a bemused expression from his position behind the counter.
“I guess that’s it,” he said neutrally, watching Steve closely.
Steve sighed again, pushing off from the door and walking over the counter. He leaned over, resting his elbows next to the register and watching Bucky through tired eyes.
“I’m sorry, Buck. I really tried. It’s fucking ridiculous—I can’t even believe that bullshit law exists. I mean, cherries, for god’s sake! You can still eat those! So why can’t they be in sprinkles? It makes no fucking sense.”
He sighed for a third time. He knew he was being dramatic, yet he couldn’t help his pouting. He really thought the outpouring of support meant they’d get the decision overturned. Otherwise, what else had it all been for?
Bucky mirrored him, leaning down on his side of the counter so they faced each other at a slight diagonal.
“It’s okay, Steve,” he murmured. “They’re just sprinkles.”
Steve blinked at him in confusion.
“Just sprinkles?? Bucky! They’re not just sprinkles!”
Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Oh?”
Steve felt his face flush. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it, feeling embarrassed.
“I just meant—I mean, it’s about more than just the sprinkles. It’s—” He trailed off.
“What’s it about, Steve?” Bucky lifted an arm from the counter to rest his head in his hand, the other arm splayed out across the counter so close to Steve’s that he could almost feel the warmth coming from Bucky’s skin.
Steve’s mind stuttered to a halt, as it always did when Bucky was this close to him. Bucky watched, waiting.
“It’s—” he tried, then stopped again as Bucky shifted slightly, his arm briefly brushing Steve’s as he readjusted.
“Yeah?” His tone was curious, even as his face was carefully closed.
Steve exhaled shakily, then looked away, rubbing his temples with one hand and focusing his eyes on the other where it lay clenched on the counter.
“Those were special sprinkles, Bucky. I mean, you got them all the way from the US! You found the best damn sprinkles I’ve ever had. Don’t you want to keep them on the menu?”
Bucky shrugged. “It’s not about the sprinkles for me.”
Steve’s eyes snapped to Bucky’s. What did that mean? He stared at him for a long moment, Bucky watching him in return, expressionless.
“What—what’s it about?” Steve asked, his heart pounding in his chest. Bucky looked away from him then, glancing over at the pastry cabinet.
“You liked them.” He shrugged again. “It’s your bakery—it’s about what matters to you, what you enjoy.” It was a casual enough comment, and it made sense, but Steve’s stomach felt like it was full of helium, rising up within him. What?
“What I enjoy matters to you?”
He couldn’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. Blame it on a mix of exhaustion from the endless media circus of the last few days, or his confusion about Bucky’s nonchalance about the sprinkle campaign failure, but he just didn’t understand—is that what Bucky was saying?
Bucky’s eyes flicked over to him, a furrow crossing his brow, one corner of his mouth dipping down into a frown. “I didn’t say that.”
“But is that what you meant?” Steve asked. His own brow furrowed in confusion, mirroring Bucky’s expression. What the hell is happening right now?
Bucky eyed him closely, scanning his face for something. Abruptly, he leaned back from the counter and pushed off. “I’ve gotta get going,” he announced. He stepped away to grab his jacket from the back of the kitchen door.
“Wait, Bucky—” Steve started, surprised. Bucky was already striding towards the door.
“See you tomorrow, Steve,” he called back, unlocking the front door and slipping through with the tinkling of the chimes.
Steve stood there in the bakery, alarmed and perplexed. He had no fucking idea what had just happened.
---
That night, Steve got a text from Natasha.
We should talk.
He instantly panicked. What happened?? Is Bucky okay?? Is Natasha okay?? Did he do something wrong? He thought back to his earlier, extremely confusing conversation with Bucky and felt his stress ratcheting up. Oh God. What did I do.
He texted her back right away, and half an hour later they were meeting in a dimly lit pub. She already had two pints on the high top when he arrived, and he took a good, long, nervous guzzle of his Guinness before he made eye contact with her. She watches him the whole time, a small smile on her face.
“So,” he started, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and setting his pint back down.
“So,” she echoed, her smile widening.
They stared at each other for a few moments before Steve finally buckled.
“Jesus Christ, Nat, what’s going on?? I’m freaking out!”
She tossed her head back and laughed.
“Oh God, Steve, you should see your face. I didn’t know how much I needed that!” She wiped her eyes, grinning at him. He stared at her in shock.
“Natasha!”
“Sorry, sorry, ditya, I couldn’t help it. I have so few pleasures in life, you don’t blame me, do you?” Her eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter, and her voice was light. Steve was not amused.
“So help me God, Natasha, if you brought me here for no reason, I might scream. Do you know the week I’ve had? The day I’ve had??”
She sighed at his lack of humor and gave him a reassuring pat on the arm.
“Of course I do. That’s why I texted you, silly boy.” Steve’s eyebrows rose.
“And? Why did we need to talk?”
Natasha looked at him seriously.
“What’s going on, here, Steve?”
“What?” he asked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, crossing her legs and lacing her fingers together before resting them on her knee, “that this isn’t like you. Something’s going on.”
“Well obviously something’s going on, Natasha. The government is trying to take my sprinkles, that’s what’s going on.”
She rolled her eyes at him, and he made an indignant noise.
“That’s bullshit, Steve,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you care so much about sprinkles?”
“Since—since forever! I love sprinkles!” Natasha’s eyes narrowed further.
“You love sprinkles, or you love Bucky’s sprinkles?” Something about the way she said it sounded like innuendo, and Steve immediately blushed.
“They’re great sprinkles, okay? Bucky just happened to get them for me. It’s not because they’re from Bucky.”
She hummed disapprovingly, and Steve threw up his hands.
“What do you want me to say, Natasha? That I’ve lost my mind and gone off on internet rants out of some misplaced effort to demonstrate how much Bucky means to me?? That’s insane!”
Natasha lifted an eyebrow and her beer. She took a slow sip, and Steve stared at her, hands still hovering in the air.
“Is it?” She asked, setting her glass back down.
“Of course it is.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Steve repeated. “Why?” His brain tossed around possible answers: because the sprinkles don’t even matter to Bucky, that’s why; because it didn’t mean anything, they’re were freakin’ apology sprinkles, for God’s sake; because that would be super embarrassing if I had, in fact, done all of this for Bucky, and I would never ever be able to look at him again; because…
It hit him like a ton of bricks. Fuck.
“Bingo!” Natasha cheered, grinning as his eyes widened and his face paled. He stared at her in alarm.
“Oh no, oh no, no, no, Natasha, no, I can’t— Natasha! This cannot be about Bucky, he’s my employee, he doesn’t even like me, oh God—no, this is—this is humiliating, what the fuck, Nat.”
She rubbed his arm soothingly. “Calm down, Steve. First and foremost, if you think Bucky is your employee, we have bigger problems than your bizarre courtship spectacle.”
He was too stunned to even laugh.
“Second,” she continued, still rubbing Steve’s arm, “I can think of few things more humiliating than being a grown man who volunteers full-time in a bakery for months even after he gets his work visa, just because he has a crush on the owner.”
It took a second for her words to sink in, and then Steve entered an entirely different phase of denial.
“Natasha, no, are you out of your—Bucky does not have a crush on me! There’s no way!” She snorted, taking another sip of her beer as Steve rambled on.
“I mean, he’s never said anything! Never even given me a hint that he would be interested, and how long has it been now? Seven, eight months? You don’t spend practically every day with someone for that long and not know if they’re into you!”
Natasha remained silent, letting Steve revv himself up further.
“What an idea, Nat! Ha!” He laughed then, though it was pitched higher than usual and sounded strained even to his own ears. “Bucky Barnes, having a crush on me? Just look at me!” He gestured to himself dismissively, all 5’ 4” of him, and at that, Natasha cut in.
“Excuse me? Steven Grant Rogers, how dare you suggest you are somehow beneath his level. The man hasn’t had a professional haircut in years, scowls like a gargoyle, and dresses like a damn ghoul. You, my dear, are charming, and bright, and you make pastries that are to die for, illegal sprinkles or not—”
Steve groaned.
“—and I will not stand for such foolish, self-pitying nonsense. He’s crazy about you, and you’re an idiot for not seeing it.”
“You’re the idiot for thinking so,” Steve mumbled, and Nat kicked him under the table. “Ow!”
“Tell him how you feel,” she said.
He shot her a panicked look.
“That’s a terrible idea!”
“No more terrible of an idea than going to bat with Trading Standards over some sprinkles!” She kicked him again. Steve stepped back from the table, frowning at her and rubbing his shin.
“Honestly, Steve, the fact that you’ve gone through all this trouble and haven’t made a move is going to convince him that you’re not interested. Which, as we well know, is far from the truth.”
Steve frowned more deeply at her. He recalled his earlier conversation with Bucky—the way he’d looked at him, searching Steve’s face. His repeated questions: What’s it about, Steve? His evasiveness when Steve had turned the tables, asking him why it mattered.
“You don’t really…” he started, and then trailed off, feeling much less sure of himself than he had a moment ago.
“I do. Really,” Natasha replied softly. She stood, took a last sip of her beer before setting the empty glass back on the table, and edged around the high top to wrap her arms around Steve’s body. She gave him a warm squeeze before turning her head and whispering in his ear.
“Do something about it.”
Then she released him, gave him a pointed look, and left.
Steve stared after her until Natasha’s flaming red hair was out of view. He turned back to their table, drained his beer, and squeezed his way past the other patrons out to the street.
He spent the rest of the night thinking about their conversation. By the morning, he’d made up his mind. He was going to do what he did best: bake.
————————————————————————-
Steve left for work at the usual time, but when he arrived, he didn’t begin his usual preparations. He spent some time cleaning the shop, placed an order for some additional supplies, and checked his email, studiously avoiding the bakery’s Facebook account. Ever since sprinklegate—as the news was calling it—Bucky had taken to coming in earlier than he used to, but that first morning aside, “earlier” for Bucky meant 4:30, not 3:00 AM. Steve was grateful for it that morning. It gave him time to get settled and take care of things. He finished his alternative morning ministrations and prepared an automated post on Facebook, setting it to release at 5:00 AM. Then he waited.
At 4:25 AM, he heard Bucky come in, and he rose from his desk to meet him out front.
“Put your coat back on, Buck,” he said by way of greeting. “We’re taking the day off.”
“Huh?” Bucky said, frozen with his coat halfway off.
“In-service day,” Steve said, his mouth twitching into a half-smile as Bucky’s blatant confusion.
Bucky narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve said, giving him a little push and pulling his own coat from where he’d left it on the counter. He held the door open for the other man as he walked through, still staring at him with suspicion.
“Where are we going?” Bucky asked, trailing after him down the street. Steve stared straight ahead, focusing on keeping his pace and voice even.
“My flat,” Steve replied.
If Bucky found that objectionable, he didn’t say so. In fact, Bucky didn’t ask any additional questions, which surprised him. Steve glanced back at him once and his expression gave nothing away, although his ears and cheeks were a delightful shade of pink. Probably from the cold, Steve thought, looking away and fighting off his own blush. Definitely just from the cold.
They arrived at his flat soon enough, and Steve sat Bucky down at his teensy kitchen table.
“Coffee?” he asked. Bucky nodded, his leg bouncing up and down. He looked… nervous? Steve could relate; his heart was pounding, his hands trembling with adrenaline as he prepared the coffee pot.
Leaving the coffee maker to do its thing, Steve began assembling a pile of materials on his kitchen counter. He grabbed mugs for their coffees, as well as a large bowl and a hand mixer. Butter was already out on the counter, warmed to room temperature, and soon it was joined by a box of powdered sugar, vanilla extract, milk, and a jar of cashew butter. He slipped a small tupperware of sprinkles out from the bag he’d had with him that morning at the shop; they’d been the only ingredient he didn’t have at home.
Accoutrement assembled, Steve looked up at Bucky. Bucky was staring at him, open-mouthed. Just then the coffee pot burbled its grand finale, and Steve took advantage of the opportunity to evade Bucky’s stare and fill their mugs. He knew exactly how Bucky took his coffee, so the kitchen remained quiet until Steve carried Bucky’s mug over to him.
“Thanks,” he murmured, fingers grazing Steve’s as he accepted the cup. Steve felt a thrill of pleasure race his fingers directly to his groin, and he gave a somewhat strangled sound of acknowledgement before moving back to the counter to grab his own mug and hide his face behind it.
“What are we doing?”
Steve startled, sloshing some of his coffee over the edge of his mug as he swore. Bucky looked on-edge at his reaction, and it took Steve a second to remember he hadn’t said anything to Bucky but “in-service day.”
“We’re baking!” He replied, wiping coffee up from the floor with a sponge before squeezing it out in the sink and turning back to him.
Bucky barked out a laughed.
“Steve, what the actual fuck! You have a bakery that you just closed for the day—why are you baking?”
The tension between them broke as Bucky stared at him in exasperation. Steve rolled his eyes, chest warming at the hint of a smile on Bucky’s lips. This, at least, was familiar—a nervous Bucky, he didn’t know what to do with, but an exasperated one? A difficult one? That was Steve’s bread and butter.
“Just do it Bucky, Jesus Christ, what am I paying you for,” he joked, and Bucky rolled his eyes back at him.
“This is baking for fun,” Steve continued, fixing him with what he hoped was a stern look. “It’s different.”
“Sure doesn’t sound any different,” Bucky grumbled back at him, but he rose from his seat and walked over to Steve’s side. Steve tried to shove down the giddiness threatening to spill out of him. He felt like screaming.
“Well technically,” he admitted, “the baking part is already done.” Bucky glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow. Steve nervously averted his eyes. “We’re gonna be decorating.”
“Did you bake for me, Rogers?” Bucky drawled, leaning against the counter. Steve flushed.
“I just anticipated your complaining,” he emphasized with a brief glare, “and did the time-consuming part ahead of time.”
“My hero,” Bucky said drily. His tone did nothing to dull the impact of those words on Steve’s already flustered brain, which briefly stalled out as he stared blankly back at Bucky.
This time, Steve didn’t have any external influences to blame for the flush on Bucky’s cheeks.
Avoiding the implications of that, Steve launched into action. He procured aprons for both of them—“Does this have kittens on it?” Bucky asked in a funny voice as he fingered the edges of Steve’s bib—and quickly put Bucky to work measuring out the correct amount of cashew butter. Bucky took his assignment seriously, frowning in concentration as he carefully scooped it out into a measuring cup and deposited it into the glass bowl alongside the butter. Steve handed him the hand mixer. Bucky stared at Steve.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.
“You mix it,” Steve replied, gesturing to the bowl. Bucky looked skeptical.
“Go on, give it a try,” Steve said, smiling reassuringly at him. Bucky placed the mixer into the bowl and Steve’s eyes widened in alarm as his thumb flicked the level to full speed.
With a screaming whir, bits of butter rocketed out of the bowl. Steve launched himself over to Bucky, frantically covering his hand with his own as he turned the hand-mixer’s lever back to the off position. They stood there for a moment in the resulting silence, looking at each other with wide eyes and butter-covered faces, before Bucky looked down at Steve’s hand still clasped over his. Steve jerked his hand back and took a quick step away from Bucky. He laughed shakily, grabbing paper towels.
“You don’t want to start at the fastest speed just yet—gotta work up to that, nice and slow,” he said. Bucky’s eyes jerked up to his—as close as Steve was, he could see his pupils dilate.
Bucky lifted the mixer up. “Show me.”
Steve reached his hand out and waited, but Bucky didn’t pass it to him. Instead, he moved his hand, still holding the mixer, closer to Steve’s.
Steve swallowed. He moved closer to Bucky, eyes focused on the mixer, and gently wrapped his hand back around his. He guided the mixer to a better position in the bowl and brushed his thumb past Bucky’s, flicking the lever to the lowest speed. After a moment, he wrapped his other arm around Bucky’s waist to hold the bowl steady as he flicked the level to the next speed. Bucky’s hand flexed slightly under his, following his lead as directed him to make slow circles around the bowl, combining the butter and cashew butter until they were creamy.
Steve couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he took a single breath the entire time Bucky was in his arms, because Bucky was in his arms. Pressed up against Bucky as he was, it felt like he was holding his breath, too. Finally, Steve lifted his hand gently from Bucky’s around the mixer. He reached over for the powdered sugar and began to gradually add it to the bowl. He stayed in place, holding the bowl with his arm around Bucky, as Bucky continued to carefully mix the ingredients.
“Like that?” Bucky whispered.
“Just like that, Buck,” Steve responded softly. “Great job.”
Bucky shivered in his arms.
He shivered.
It was too much; Steve stepped back, his face on fire. By now, the sugar was incorporated; they just had to add the vanilla, milk, and salt, and he hastily tossed the small quantities required of each into the bowl as Bucky finished mixing them together.
“GREAT,” Steve said, voice too loud. He gave a nervous clap. “We’re all done with that! Now it’s just time to decorate!” Bucky moved to set the mixer down and turn back towards Steve for further directions, but Steve quickly rambled on.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Buck, I’ve got it—hey, why don’t you go take a seat in the other room? I’ll take it from here. I’ve worked you enough for one day! Ha!” He laughed awkwardly and gave a surprised Bucky a gentle push. “Go on and finish your coffee in the living room! This will take just a sec!”
Bucky nodded slowly and gave Steve a look he couldn’t decipher. He picked up his coffee cup from the kitchen table and walked out, glancing back at Steve as he did.
The second Bucky left the room, Steve sagged against the counter, pressing his forehead to the cabinet and gently banging his head against it. One. Two. Three.
“You’re losing it, Steve,” he whispered to himself. “Get it together. You can do this.”
But, God. Maybe Natasha was right; why the hell else would Bucky have done that? The thought alone was almost too much for him to bear .
Bucky was waiting in the other room, he reminded himself. It was time to finish the cake and do the damn thing.
A great deal of expertly efficient frosting later, Steve reached for the container of sprinkles he’d nabbed from the bakery. He carefully pressed his special, illegal Bucky-sprinkles into the sides of the cake and delicately scattered them across the top. He picked up the piping bag next to the cake and carefully added the message he’d decided on that morning, sweeping the thin lines into artful cursive. Putting the bag down, he inspected the cake.
It’ll do.
Lifting the plate from the counter, he took a deep breath and steeled himself to bring it out to Bucky.
“You can do it, everything’s gonna be fine, Natasha knows best, you’ve got this,” he whispered to himself, a mantra to propel his wooden legs forward and carry him from the kitchen into the next room, where Bucky waited.
As he walked through the door, Bucky looked up. He’d been sitting on the couch, looking through the photo album Steve always left out on his coffee table: pictures of him and his mom over the years, painstakingly assembled as he’d grieved her death. Steve froze at the sight. Bucky carefully closed the album and gently set it back down on the coffee table. He stood, his eyes fixed on Steve’s, and walked slowly over to him. Only when he stood before Steve, a few steps away, did his eyes drop down to the cake.
Bucky stared at the cake, and then back to Steve, and then back to the cake again. Steve watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. A flush was creeping up his neck, one that Steve was sure matched his own as he stood there silently, holding the cake, like an idiot.
He waited for Bucky to say something, but Bucky was clearly waiting for him.
Steve took a deep breath and started, “So…” but then he couldn’t get his throat to issue any other sounds. He was terrified, absolutely petrified, suddenly more overwhelmed than he had been in a long, long time. Standing there before Bucky, holding a damn cake, all of Steve’s anxieties rushed through his head.
What the hell was he doing? He hadn’t dated anyone since Peggy, and look how that turned out, and Bucky was his employee—okay, well, no, he wasn’t, Natasha was definitely right about that—but still, he worked for—with—him, and what if Steve was wrong, what if Natasha was wrong, what if this was a terrible idea, what if Bucky hated him and left and then Steve never saw him again and he never left any more obnoxious replies to Google reviews and Steve never caught him eating pastries he shouldn’t be and Bucky never gave him anymore illegal sprinkles and—
“Steve,” Bucky said, interrupting his panic. Steve’s eyes refocused, settling on Bucky’s face, his ocean eyes. Bucky lifted a careful hand and traced his fingers through the air above the words on the cake.
It wasn’t about the sprinkles
“What was it about, Steve?” Bucky asked. There was something in his voice, then—something a little hoarse, a little unguarded, a little vulnerable. Steve stared at him. Bucky looked up from the cake. He looked very, very nervous, and shy, and Bucky never looked so obvious. Suddenly Steve couldn’t bear to have him not know for another second what this whole damn thing had been about.
“You,” he said, his voice cracking. He ducked his head, embarrassed, and tried again, voice a little more firm this time. “It was about you, Bucky.”
Bucky stared at him, and Steve saw it in his eyes—hope.
“You gave me those sprinkles, and they mattered to me because they were from you. Because of who you are. Which is, quite possibly, the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.” He chuckled then, as Bucky’s eyes crinkled around a half-suppressed smile.
“God, Bucky, you’re the worst volunteer ever. But—” he continued hastily, as Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, “I wouldn’t trade you for the world. Um,” God, could he be blushing any harder? How was there blood left to rush to his face?
“I mean, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t want to work with anyone else. No one else would know how to diffuse a tense review with a well-placed assassination comment. Hell, I think half the time people come into the shop because they want to meet the infamous grumpy cashier. And I don’t blame them. Buck—”
He took a deep breath, and then realized he was still holding the cake. He set it down on the coffee table, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“Buck,” he started again, but then Bucky took a step towards him. Steve’s eyes widened, and he paused, staring at the man who was suddenly incredibly near to him.
“Steve,” he replied evenly, his eyes boring into him, intense and stormy and so fucking sexy, Jesus Christ—
“What you enjoy matters to me. That is what I meant,” Bucky continued, watching him closely. “It matters to me that you’re ridiculously into silly sprinkles, even before all this, and that you put your heart and soul into your bakery, and that you let me show up and flip everything upside down. You gave me something to do with myself when I didn’t really have anything else—even if I’m the worst volunteer ever.” He smirked at Steve, and Steve thought his knees were going to buckle right then and there. Bucky took another step towards him.
“It matters to me that you’re patient, and you’re kind, and generous, and really fucking good at what you do. And you’re funny, especially when you’re mad at me. You make me…” he trailed off then, and the smirk faded into a small frown. Without thinking, Steve reached up and gently ran his thumb across the furrow above his nose, gently smoothing it out. Bucky sucked in a breath, his expression clearing, gentling. He stared at Steve, and his eyes didn’t look so intense anymore. They looked soft.
“You make me feel safe,” he murmured. “I always feel safe when I’m with you. Your shop is my favorite place in the whole world.”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He stared at Bucky, taking in that revelation. They’d known each other for almost a year by now—shared countless morning conversations, silly arguments (usually about Bucky’s work ethic, or his Google review responses, or pastry display arrangements, or...), and more: conversations that spanned their respective histories, touched on their hopes and dreams, their frustrations and flaws. He’d barely realized it, as preoccupied as he’d been with keeping his own guard up against his growing attraction to Bucky, but they had created something safe, together. Something warm.
Steve looked forward to going to work every day, and that was because of Bucky. Before, he’d been alone—he’d been proud, but tired; his bakery was his anchor, when he still felt so unmoored after his mom’s death and the end of his relationship with Peggy. Every success was painstaking, and with the exception of Natasha, he’d been incredibly alone. And then Bucky had showed up and pried his way into Steve’s life, and without even realizing it, Steve’s life had become something he shared with someone else again.
He’d been prepared to tell Bucky about the sprinkles, to let him know in some halting, careful way, that he’d cared so much about them because he—alarmingly—cared so much for Bucky. He hadn’t been prepared to be slapped in the face with the fact that didn’t just care—he loved Bucky Barnes. Somehow, someway, it had snuck up on him: inched its way into his heart, even as he tried his best to ignore it.
Staring up at Bucky now, all of these emotions and revelations running through him, Steve wondered if Bucky could see it all plain as day on his face. He felt utterly transparent.
“Bucky, I—” he started again, eyes wide and—and—blurring? Blurring?
Oh God, he thought to himself, I am not going to cry about how stupidly fucking in love I just realized I am, I refuse, this is not happening, no sir, no ma’am, no way—
Bucky reached forward then, and cupped Steve’s face in both of his hands. “Yeah?” He said softly, holding him, eyes never leaving Steve’s.
“I’m crazy in love with you,” Steve whispered, blinking furiously to clear his eyes, needing desperately to see Bucky clearly through it all.
And oh, what a sight he was. Steve has never seen Bucky look so open, even with Natasha. His eyes were shining, and a slow smile spread across his face. His breath hitched and he laughed softly, shaking his head, and moved his hands from Steve’s jaw back to his hair, threading through the short strands and tugging him closer.
“You are?” He asked, his voice hoarse, his smile now wide and beatific, practically glowing. Steve swallowed.
“I am,” he affirmed. He reaches his own hands up, sliding them over Bucky’s chest— fuck, those goddamn muscles— and placed them lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t miss the way Bucky’s eyes had stuttered shut, or the careful exhale he’d given, as Steve’s hands had touched his body. He didn’t miss his own heart, galloping in his chest.
“Good,” Bucky said gruffly, and then he closed the gap between them, kissing him fiercely, his lips soft and oh so smooth as they pressed hard against Steve’s.
Steve gasped, and Bucky swallowed it, his tongue swiping across Steve’s lower lip as they parted, and then Steve was kissing him back with just as much heat, fisting his hands in the shoulders of Bucky’s shirt and dragging Bucky towards him as he stumbled backwards into the wall. Bucky groaned as Steve released his shirt and wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him tight against him, demanding that Bucky press him back, back against the wall, press into him, grind against him, feel him. Steve’s tongue parted Bucky’s lips, pulling out a gasp of his own that Steve breathed in, tasting the sweetness of his breath and drowning in it.
He shifted his body and Bucky followed suit, adjusting his legs and pressing a firm, thick thigh between Steve’s legs and—oh, shit that felt good. Steve moaned against Bucky’s lips as his thigh rubbed Steve’s painfully hard cock through his jeans.
“Fuck,” Bucky gasped, his arm snaking around Steve’s waist and pulling him tighter, sliding Steve up his thigh so he was almost riding his leg. Steve was dizzy with pleasure, his mind completely consumed by the feeling of Bucky’s body against him—all he wanted was more more more, closer, wanted to feel Bucky’s skin against his own, wanted there to be no space between them at all. So he was completely disoriented when Bucky suddenly said “Shit,” and propelled himself back, eyes wild, releasing Steve and running his hands through his hair.
“Huh?” Steve said, dazed. He attempted to still the shaking in his legs as he found himself once again supporting his own weight. “What’s wrong? Buck?”
“I forgot to say it back,” Bucky said, his chest heaving, letting his hands fall down to his side. His eyes were still wide and wild, but he took a step back towards Steve, closing the space between them and pressing his hands against the wall on either side of Steve’s head.
“What?” Steve replied. Had there been something for him to say? He was drawing a complete blank, eyes focusing on Bucky’s red lips, swollen and slick and gorgeous.
“Steve,” Bucky said, and his voice was suddenly firm and full of command. Steve looked up quickly and met his eyes. Bucky’s face was red, his expression extremely determined and confident. He moved one hand from the wall and to Steve’s face, where he gently stroked his cheek with his thumb.
“I’m crazy in love with you, too,” he said. Steve continued to gaze at him in dazed surprise, and Bucky’s determined expression relaxed into a gentle smile. He leaned forward again and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to Steve’s lips before pulling back slightly. His breath brushed across Steve’s lips as he spoke.
“I just wanted to make sure you knew, is all. Before we fucked each other senseless against this wall.”
That broke through Steve’s daze as his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He felt his cock twitch at the words, and Bucky’s smile turned feral.
“Jesus fuck, Bucky,” Steve said, and then he was laughing. All of the emotions of the last day burst out of him in helpless, gasping laughs, and he couldn’t stop. He laughed so hard he doubled over, and he felt tears start running down his face.
Bucky started laughing, too, and soon they had collapsed onto the floor in each other’s arms, limbs tangling, chests heaving.
Steve marveled through his own laughter—and the tears falling so sexily down his gasping face—that this was the first time he’d heard Bucky really, truly laugh.
The sound filled his aching, breathless lungs so full with joy that he thought he might burst.