Chapter 2
The situation with Steve is getting more intense.
Bucky isn’t trying to provoke it, but somehow Steve looks more and more wound up as the weeks go by. He gets flustered easily, and Bucky can’t quite put his finger on what it is that’s setting him off. Sometimes it happens when they’re out for dinner somewhere, and Steve will suddenly get tense, or awkward—he dropped his fork under the table twice the last time they were at the little diner around the corner that Bucky likes.
Other times it seems to happen at home, when they’re doing something as mundane as sitting on the couch, maybe watching a movie from the list Sam provided them with to “catch up.” Halfway through Scarface--which Bucky liked because the violence was weirdly pretty, but also thought was ridiculous because there are much easier ways to kill someone than pretty much any of the ways that Tony Montana used, which made it a little unbelievable—Steve had suddenly been nervous as a cat and twice as jumpy. There was no reason for it that Bucky could tell, so he had offered Steve some of the Oreos he was eating, but Steve had just shook his head, looking sort of strangled. His loss, because Oreos are fucking great. They taste just like they always had, even when they were kids—unless you bought the weird fancy kinds they have now, the double stuffed ones or the kind with flavored filling, neither of which Bucky approves of—and it’s comforting, eating something that hasn’t changed one bit in seventy years. Bucky can go through an entire package of them, dunking them in milk as he goes.
Steve also gets visibly flustered whenever he sees Bucky anywhere close to undressed, but that at least makes sense. Bucky had passed Steve in the hallway after a shower, towel around his waist, the other day, and Steve had just stopped dead, like Buck had hit him in the head with a mallet. The arousal factor was obvious—Bucky is good at reading these things, and really that’s only partially due to his tenure as the Winter Soldier, when sex was just another weapon in the arsenal. Before the war, he’d done it in the dance halls, with the dames, he knows. Knew how to read them, knew which ones would be willing to fool around. He has fuzzy memories of pressing pretty gals against the wall in dark corners, feeling them flush against him, breasts crushed tight to his chest. Or of walking them home, sliding a hand up their skirt in an apartment hallway, pushing aside drenched panties and sliding his fingers against them, inside them—or maybe, if he was lucky, if the dame in question wasn’t real concerned with propriety, going inside with her, laying her out under him and fucking her, slow and gentle if she seemed unsure, hard and fast if she didn’t.
He even remembers a few rushed handjobs in back alleys with the fairies who worked by the docks—and, at least once, paying for one of those boys to get on his knees and suck him off.
None of that seems to have prepared him for this thing with Steve, though. Steve, whose arousal hums at a low-grade buzz all the time and inexplicably spikes fever-sharp sometimes, intense and hot between them, the apartment suddenly feeling too small. Steve, who is Bucky’s best friend and his only real point of reference in the world, now. Steve, who always looks so fucking tortured when he looks at Bucky, like a century of grief has worn him thin.
Bucky feels weird about all of it, and he wishes they could just fuck and get it out in the open, but he can’t, really, because he’s not sure what Steve actually wants. He wants Bucky—that much Bucky knows—but he’s not sure if that wanting makes Steve happy or not, if he’s ashamed or not. Based on what he can see on television—and sometimes on the street—being queer isn’t nearly the same sick secret it was when they were kids, but Bucky still wonders if maybe that’s what has Steve tied in knots. He wants to just force the issue, make Steve confront it, push him down against the bed or the wall or the couch and make him do what he obviously wants to do. That’s what the Winter Soldier would have done. See the opening and take it. But Steve is not the target, not anymore. And Bucky isn’t sure what the objective would be, if they did fuck.
So instead things just roll along as they have been. Steve pretends he’s not eyefucking Bucky every second of the day, and Bucky pretends not to notice it.
And he eats. A lot. Because he’s sort of bored, and he’s sort of hungry, and he’s never had enough to eat in his whole fucking life until now.
*
Occasionally Steve leaves and goes to Stark Tower. He’s not actively Avenging right now, but he seems to at least attend meetings, or something. He goes over in the evenings occasionally, anyway. He always gives Bucky big mournful eyes when he leaves, like it physically pains him to go, and Bucky ends up waving him toward the door. Tonight is no different.
Steve worries. Bucky gets it. He’s not quite sure what Steve is actually worried about, though. Bucky’s a killer. Steve knows this. He is more than capable of taking care of himself without Captain America watching his six. Not that it’s not appreciated, but still.
Unless, of course, Steve is worried about Bucky hurting someone, rather than being hurt. Which is an entirely different concern, and one that leaves a sour taste in Bucky’s mouth. Partly because he wants Steve to think better of him than that. And partly because it’s probably a valid concern.
In any case, it’s not something Bucky wants to think about, so he orders pizza instead. A large with bacon and sausage, and then breadsticks too, just because. He uses the laptop, pecking away at the keyboard with the index finger of each hand to input the order. Fucking 21st century. It’s miraculous and terrible in equal measure.
By the time the pizza arrives, Bucky is sprawled on the couch, using the remote to scroll through Steve’s Netflix account. And wow, there are a lot of fucking World War Two documentaries on Netflix. Jesus, do these people have some sort of obsession? There must be twenty on Hitler alone.
Bucky scrolls up to a documentary about lions instead. Much safer.
The first six slices of pizza go down easily, along with most of the breadsticks, and Bucky doesn’t even really think about it, just eats and watches the documentary, which is basically about some guy with a death wish who gets far too close to lions for safety or sanity. Bucky roots for the lions to jump up and snatch him out of his little Jeep, but it doesn’t happen. Too bad—the movie would have been much more interesting that way.
When there are two slices of pizza and two breadsticks left, Bucky realizes, rather belatedly, that he’s pretty damn uncomfortable. The waistband of his jeans is digging into him, squeezing at his middle, and as much as he squirms around on Steve’s fluffy sofa, he can’t seem to get comfortable.
He looks down at his tummy, planning to adjust the waist of his jeans, and he realizes, with some surprise, that he can’t actually see his waistband. What he can see is a few inches of belly, hanging over his jeans and pulling his t-shirt taut. Where the fuck did that come from?
Whatever. He sucks his tummy in—which hurts, a little—and flicks open the button on his jeans. The soft roundness at his waist promptly expands forward, and it’s an instant relief.
Bucky eats the last of the pizza and breadsticks slowly, panting a little by the end. He takes the last bite as the documentary ends, which is pretty fucking good timing and completely unplanned.
When he hauls himself up off the couch and tosses the pizza box into the trashcan, his belly hurts quite a bit. He should probably just go to bed and call it a night. He’s clearly full, and probably should have quit eating before he had to undo his pants, Jesus. But—and god knows why—he opens up the freezer and peers inside, and yup, there’s a brand new carton of vanilla ice cream sitting there. He goes through them pretty quick, but more of them just magically appear. Fuckin’ Steve. He’s too good by half.
Bucky doesn’t even bother taking it back to the couch, just grabs a spoon and stands there against the kitchen counter, spooning up bite after bite, until he’s put a pretty good dent in the carton.
*
Bucky is used to his tummy looking swollen at night—he eats a lot, and he’s aware of it. Shit, most nights he curls up with his hand on his bloated belly, cradling it. He’s not oblivious.
Still, it’s a shock the next morning, when he happens to catch a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror as he’s stepping into the shower, and his tummy is still swollen.
He’s getting fucking chubby.
He stops, turning back to face the mirror. His eyes are drawn to his middle as if by magnet.
It’s round. The curve starts just under his pecs, and yeah, the only word for it is round.
He reaches out with his flesh hand and pokes it, surprised by how easily the flesh gives, sinking in at his touch. He’s used to holding his belly at night, when he’s firmly bloated with food, his tummy like a little balloon under his sheets before he falls asleep.
This—this is different.
His tummy is soft. He can pinch it. He turns to the side, looking at his profile.
Huh. The Winter Soldier has a fucking beer belly. It’s funny, when you think about it.
Well, shit. Bucky feels sort of stupid—he’s eating like he’s out on bail pretty much every night now, so what did he expect? And really, that’s exactly what his life has felt like, these last six months: being out on bail. Freedom feels funny. Tenuous, like it might disappear again. A little overwhelming. Weirdly boring. But the food is good.
He looks at himself in the mirror—really looks, like he doesn’t usually bother doing.
He’ll be goddamned. Is that a double fucking chin?
No. No, not really. But maybe if he looks down? Shit fire.
His arms and shoulders and chest are still broad and strong as ever, so there’s that still going for him. He skims his eyes down further, over his tummy and down to his hips, his thighs—and Jesus, how did he never look at the fucking full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door before?
He looks fucking wide. Less like a finely tuned weapon—honed and taut everywhere. More like—well, just wide. He’d always sort of been built like that, thick and broad everywhere. Stocky, that’s probably the word.
And now he’s fucking chubby.
After he showers, he slicks his hair up into a messy knot and wraps a towel around his waist, tucking the ends together under the soft pooch of his tummy and padding out into the hallway and toward the kitchen, where he can hear Steve banging around and smell bacon frying.
“When were you gonna tell me I was gettin' fat, pal?”
Steve freezes, and when he turns around, he looks guiltier than Buck has ever seen him—which is saying something, since Steve is a proper Catholic and has an advanced degree in guilt. “Uh—what?”