Chapter 3
Steve is a terrible liar. He is also fairly shitty at dissembling, misleading, or playing it cool. It’s something Bucky always used to make fun of him for, his inability to be anything but direct. Steve had always figured it was basically a positive, though.
Now, with Bucky standing at the edge of the kitchen, looking ridiculously good, all wet and wearing a towel, belly on display, asking Steve when he was planning on telling Bucky he was getting fat? And just staring at Steve while he fumbles for words? Now, Steve’s thinking he should learn to lie, quick.
“You’re—uh,you’re not fat, Buck,” he says, feeling his cheeks already starting to turn pink.
“I said getting fat,” Bucky says, undeterred.
Steve whirls back around to the stove, poking at the frying pan full of bacon in lieu of a response. He can’t hear Bucky’s footsteps—he can be dead silent, when he wants to be—but Steve can tell he’s moving closer, all the same.
“You look fine,” he finally offers, not turning around.
Bucky snorts, and yeah, he’s right up next to Steve all of a sudden. “What’s this, then?”
Against his better judgment, Steve looks over at Bucky, and oh. Bucky has a little handful of smooth, chubby belly grasped between a metal thumb and forefinger, and he’s jostling it in Steve’s general direction.
Steve chokes on his own spit. “Jesus, Buck. You’re—you’re fine. You look—fine. Go get dressed, food’s almost done.” He glances up at Bucky’s face for just a moment, trying not to look like he’s begging.
Bucky eyes him, metal hand still cupping the curve of his belly, and Steve feels like Bucky can see right through him.
“All right, pal,” is all Bucky says, and Steve holds his breath, watching him walk away.
*
When Bucky comes back out five minutes later, he’s wearing jeans that are clearly at least two sizes too small, and they aren’t even buttoned. Steve knows this because the henley Bucky’s thrown on is also too small, and it clings to his tummy enough that Steve can see where Bucky’s jeans are obviously unbuttoned and partially unzipped.
So in terms of Stuff that Makes Steve Crazy, this is only a mild improvement over Bucky in a towel.
“Here,” Steve says, handing Bucky a plate of bacon and eggs. Four eggs. A stack of bacon—a big stack. “There’s a bagel in the toaster,” he adds. “And cream cheese in the fridge.”
Bucky collects his food, and Steve tries very hard not to watch as Bucky applies a heavy layer of cream cheese to both halves of his bagel and then licks the knife.
He fails at not watching.
His own breakfast might as well be sawdust, for all Steve tastes it. He’s too busy watching Bucky—watching as he methodically eats his food, first the eggs, then the bacon, then the bagel, like it’s an assigned task. It makes Steve a little sad, how mechanical Bucky is in the way he approaches his meal, but Bucky doesn’t look unhappy. Just—focused. And it makes Steve feel a little better when Bucky pours himself a cup of coffee that is nearly half cream—the real stuff, not that non-dairy creamer shit people are so fond of in this century. Steve figures Bucky would only doctor his coffee up like that if he enjoyed it.
He also dumps enough sugar into the cup that Steve’s teeth hurt. He’d always been like that—sweet tooth a mile wide before the war. He’d had the slightest little softness at his waist back then, too, invisible under his clothes. Even the shadow of a double chin sometimes, especially if he was looking down. Watching Bucky eat the way he has the last few months, Steve wonders if Bucky would have always been chubby, if he’d had the opportunity.
Probably, Steve thinks, watching him smear cream cheese across another bagel and finish off the last of the bacon still sitting on the stove. Fucking Bucky.
It’s strange, how simultaneously comfortable and weird it is to be rooming with Bucky again. On one hand, sharing living space with Bucky is second nature. They’d done it for years, before.
But on the other hand, it’s not the same Bucky he’s living with now. Back before the war, living with Bucky was like living with a storm, a constant hum of energy that lit up the whole little apartment. Bucky was always on. his mouth always running, always grabbing Steve by the arm or around the shoulders, dragging him out to the dance hall, or down the street for a soda, or out onto the fire escape so that Steve could sit next to him while Bucky smoked, conscientiously exhaling downwind of Steve’s delicate lungs.
Now, Bucky is mostly silent, his big blue eyes watching, always watching. Scanning every window, every door, every move Steve makes. That might be one of the reasons Steve likes watching Bucky eat so much—it’s one of the only times he doesn’t seem completely on edge. It’s peaceful, watching Bucky eat, even in that weird, mechanical way he has.
*
About a week after Bucky’s apparent discovery that he’s getting chubby, Steve comes home from running errands to find Bucky doing one-armed pushups on the living room floor, and Steve nearly drops his little reusable canvas grocery bag.
Bucky’s metal arm is pulled up, tight to his chest, and he’s supporting himself fully with his flesh arm. His track pants are tucked into his boots, and he’s fucking shirtless again. His belly—his soft, round, achingly perfect belly—is pulled down by gravity, looking bigger than it really is, jiggling just a little with each pushup, and Jesus Christ, this is all too much.
Bucky finishes a set and rolls himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the couch. “Hey,” he says, just the slightest bit breathless, chest rising and falling a little more rapidly than usual.
“Hey,” Steve echoes, setting aside his bag of groceries and sinking down on the floor next to him. “Don’t let me stop you, Buck.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m done, anyway,” Bucky says. He looks over at Steve and smiles a little, and it’s crooked but real. For a minute he looks a lot like the Bucky Steve has always known.
Maybe that’s what makes Steve decide to do it. Or maybe he’s just been driven slowly crazy by six months of Bucky and food and shirtlessness. That’s a definite possibility.
Whatever it is, Steve finds himself reaching out, poking a finger into Bucky’s round little gut, right into the flesh that pools over the elastic of his waistband. Jesus, Bucky is soft. “No crunches, buddy?”
Bucky’s eyes widen, and then he chokes out a little huff of laughter. It sounds rusty, like an old hinge in need of oil, but it’s a real, honest to god laugh, and Steve loves it. “Thought you said I looked fine, Rogers.”
“You do!” Steve exclaims, raising his hands up in a gesture of innocence.
“Whatcha sayin’, then?” Bucky asks, and the way his accent drifts toward Brooklyn makes Steve’s heart pound.
Steve looks at him, eye-to-eye. “Not a goddamn thing, Barnes.”
*
Steve says they should go out for dinner, that he doesn’t want to cook and he’s sick of delivery.
And that’s fine, although it means Bucky has to find something to wear—which is sort of an issue, lately, and it’s amazing how it took Bucky so long to realize he was getting fat, when one look at his wardrobe would have confirmed it. Pretty much nothing he owns is comfortable except his track pants, and they’re even getting snug, tight enough that the elastic leaves little red indentations on the softest part of his stomach, the little curve below his belly button.
He ends up going with jeans that don’t button and a sweater that fits like a second skin. It’s not ideal, but it’s what he’s got. He uses a rubber band on the button of his jeans and manages to get them fastened, but the whole thing still looks pretty obscene. He likes the way it feels to have a big belly at night, when he’s stuffed and a little uncomfortable and it helps him drift off to sleep. Walking around smuggling a beer belly under his shirt in broad daylight is less pleasant. So he throws a black hooded jacket over the ensemble and hunches his shoulders a little bit. Better. He doesn’t exactly look skinny—just sort of blocky instead of undeniably chubby.
They end up at the little divey joint Bucky likes, the one near Steve’s apartment that serves pretty much nothing but classic diner fare. It’s the kind of place that smells perennially of grease and salt, and there’s not a salad in sight.
Bucky orders the biggest burger on the menu, a basket of French fries, and a chocolate malt. He knows he probably shouldn’t—Christ, if your pants won’t fasten and they’re already digging into your gut, that’s probably your first clue that you don’t actually need all that shit. But—fuck it. He wants it, and why the fuck shouldn’t he have it? What does he have to stay in shape for, now? Why should he have to do a goddamn thing he doesn’t want to do?
He’s done enough of that for several life times.
Steve’s expression is a little funny when Bucky orders, but before Bucky can really decipher it, Steve just hands his menu over to the waitress and says, “Same for me, please,” flashing his pretty boy smile at her, a tractor beam of shiny teeth and honesty.
Steve talks a little while they wait for their food, filling Bucky in on various Avengers, talking about how he’d like to have everyone over to the apartment soon for dinner. Bucky listens, nodding in the right places and sucking Coke through his straw.
There’s a lot of reasons he likes being with Steve—a lot, like more than he could probably list—but one of the best reasons is how Steve doesn’t seem to mind that Bucky doesn’t hold up his end of the conversation anymore. It’s hard, finding words. The asset wasn’t expected to speak much, and after so many decades, Buck’s out of practice. His silence makes people uncomfortable, mostly—he knows, he can tell by how they react to him. Steve never seems to have that issue, though. He just looks at Bucky like he hung the moon, like just being there is enough.
It’s easy to be with Steve.
When their food comes, Bucky digs in immediately. The burgers are huge, a half pound of ground beef on an enormous, grease-shiny bun, topped with bacon and cheese. The basket of fries is literally a basket—he and Steve easily could have shared one order and it would have been plenty.
By the time Bucky has worked his way through the burger and most of his fries, his tummy feels taut and round, and he’s very, very aware of the fact that he’s using a rubber band to hold his jeans together.
“Want these?” Steve asks, and before Bucky can answer, Steve is dumping most of his own fries onto Bucky’s plate.
“Uh—you don’t want those?” Bucky looks up, and Steve, weirdly, looks guilty as hell.
“Nah, take ‘em,” Steve says.
Bucky blinks. Looks down at the new mound of fries on his plate and back up at Steve.
Steve—blushes?
Bucky scans Steve’s eyes. Pupils dilated. Heartrate almost certainly elevated. Flush moving down from his cheeks to his throat, and down past the vee of his collar.
What the fuck is Steve playing at?
Most of Steve’s malt is still in his glass, melting. Bucky finishes his own, watching Steve all the while. Waiting. And—yup, there it is—Steve pushes his own malt across the table.
“Finish that, pal. I don’t wanna waste it.”
Don’t wanna waste it, Bucky’s fat ass.
“Oh yeah?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, but reaches out and takes the glass.
Steve just stares, and Bucky obligingly takes a long pull, thinking stupidly that Steve’s lips had been wrapped around this straw, the one that is currently in Bucky’s mouth.
Steve fuckin’ Rogers.
He finishes the malt and moves on to the fries. Looks up at Steve every now and again, just to check in on the man, and yeah, Steve still looks like he might as well have a sign over his head that reads I Am Sexually Aroused.
When there’s only a handful of fries left, Bucky stops. He could finish them, but—but he wants to test a theory. One that, really, Steve has already proven, but Bucky is thorough, because Hydra trained him to be. So he pauses and exhales, shifting in the booth. His tummy hurts, bloated and sore, and he feels like he’s ready to pop, so he’s really not lying when he leans back, rests his gloved metal hand on his distended gut.
“I think I’m out,” he breathes, eyeing Steve as he speaks.
Steve—the wily fucking pervert—blinks innocently and says, “Oh, finish ‘em, Buck, no rush.”
Bucky leans forward a little, the better to give Steve A Look, and Jesus, he is really fucking full, and it’s kind of uncomfortable. “Why do you want me to finish them, Stevie?”
Steve gives Bucky full on Captain America face, earnest and wide-eyed as a fucking schoolgirl. “No reason.”
Bucky snorts, obligingly stuffing a couple of French fries into his mouth. “No reason, huh?”
Steve shrugs, blush rising again.
Bucky takes a few more bites, chewing deliberately and watching Steve the whole time. Slurps down the last of his Coke, not even remotely surprised when Steve pushes his own soda—a Sprite, which is kind of gross, but whatever—across the table to him. “No reason,” he murmurs, purposely squirming around a little bit, like he’s so full it’s hard to move. It’s only partially a performance, honestly. He’s eaten a lot, and he feels swollen and kind of sore, weirdly heavy. “Nothing at all you’re getting out of this?”
“Watching you eat French fries?” Steve scoffs a little, calling Bucky’s bluff. Captain goddamn America, and he’s lying like a goddamn rug. Bucky knows it, knows this is driving Steve up the fucking wall.
“How come you gave me all your fries, then?” Bucky asks, shoving the last of them in his mouth and licking grease off of his fingers. “How come you go to the store every two goddamn days to buy me ice cream, when I know you don’t even eat it? How come you blush like a virgin every time you see my gut?”
It’s probably the most words Bucky has said in a row in weeks, this little diatribe, but he doesn’t feel worn out from it, like he usually does when he has to have a conversation. Instead he feels weirdly exhilarated. He wants to play with Steve, wants to further this weird little game that’s sprung up between them. It’s brand new and familiar all at once, sparring with Steve like this, one-upping each other.
It’s fun.
“It’s not—I don’t—I don’t blush,” Steve says, his pink cheeks making a liar of him immediately.
“You’re blushin’ right now, sweetheart,” Bucky says, the endearment falling out of his mouth before he really considers it.
Steve blushes harder.
“But if you say it’s all nothin’, then okay,” Bucky drawls, sucking down the last of Steve’s Sprite even though his tummy hurts. “And here I thought it was something. Thought I’d tell you I wanted to go home, get that ice cream you always buy me out of the freezer, have dessert.” He shifts again, pressing his hand deliberately into his belly, watching as Steve’s eyes lock on it over the table. “But it’s nothing. So I won’t.”
Steve looks physically pained, and Bucky almost feels guilty for a minute, watching Steve squirm. He almost opens his mouth to say something, to try to play it off as a joke, give Steve some kind of out, when Steve—brave, reckless little fucker that he is and has always been—squares his stupidly broad shoulders and says, “Fuck’s sake, Bucky. C’mon, then. But I’m gonna feed it to you, you fuckin’ tease.”