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Bucky carefully placed his new purchases precisely where he wanted them, the rainbow piggy bank in a place of honor on the table, and then they headed south on the highway after they let Punk out again.
To distract himself from the tantalizing sight of Bucky’s long legs and exposed thigh where his already short skirt rode up even more and displayed an amount of fishnet stocking-ed leg that was downright obscene, Steve attempted to play with Punk.
“Here boy,” he called out, whistling as he patted the ground where he was crouched down on this hands and knees, trying to make himself seem smaller, less intimidating. Punk only growled from his place near Bucky, and then let loose a howling bark. Steve squeaked the toy he had in hand again, making Punk’s ears prick forward a little, but he otherwise didn’t react.
“Y’know, there’s some treats in the cabinet above your head where I keep his food,” Bucky called out, making Steve perk up. His breakfast had worked, so dog treats had to, as well, right?
It turned out that the treats worked a little too well.
While they incentivized Punk to get closer to him, they also triggered his food aggression, not to be confused with his regular aggression. In hindsight, Steve realized that Punk was smart enough to know that those were his treats, and why did that tall, blond, smiling giant that he hated so much have them?
But that was in hindsight, and Steve was too busy getting his face bitten off to have that realization yet.
“Ow, fuck!” he screamed, through the firm hold on Steve’s lower lip that Punk now had, having used Steve’s chest as a springboard to reach it, since he wasn’t big enough to reach his face in a regular jump, even while Steve was kneeling, but endowed with the burning rage of a thousand fiery suns, and all the agility of a gymnast, Punk had easily pulled the feat off, much to Steve’s complete and utter dismay.
Steve lunged backward, desperate to get away from the hellhound fastened to his face, and in the process, slammed his head hard into the edge of the countertop, stunning himself and leaving him dazed. Punk growled and jerked his head, making blinding pain erupt from where he still had his teeth pierced into Steve’s poor flesh. Grabbing the ball of rage did precisely nothing to fend off the attack or get him to detach.
Steve screamed again, half in frustration and half in retaliatory rage. Punk did not appreciate him screaming in his face, and gave another firm shake to show his displeasure. Steve cried out from the action and the vicious attack continued until Bucky appeared in his vision like a guardian angel, looking like the best thing Steve had ever seen.
He looked positively vengeful, red lips twisted in wrath as he growled, more terrifying than Punk had ever been.
“God, you stupid punk, I leave you two alone for about four goddamn seconds and this is what happens? Motherfucking Christ on a kabob, what the shit am I going to do with you? I should get a fucking muzzle for you both since neither of you shit for brains dumbasses seem to be fucking smart enough to know what fucking smiling means to the other one. The two of you need a get along t-shirt. I should duct tape you together. Shit, there’s an idea. Now fucking let go, goddamnit!” Bucky snarled out, finally dislodging Punk and Steve from each other.
To Steve’s (very) mild amusement, Bucky looked around wildly before he suddenly shoved Punk into the cabinet under the counter, presumably to separate them as soon as possible.
Then he reached for Steve’s face with both hands, grabbing it just as firmly as Punk had, and titled it this way and that as he peered at Steve’s lower lip, trying to evaluate the severity of his injury. He let go of Steve’s jaw with his flesh hand and suddenly grabbed his lip, gentle despite his obvious anger, just like he had always been. He pulled it down, revealing Steve’s gums and making him wince. With his other hand, Bucky pushed his sunglasses up onto his head to see the wound better, not that it really made a difference, Steve knew.
“Serves you right,” Bucky harrumped, grouchy and giving Steve the stink eye, but released his lip carefully, sucking the blood off his fingers as he stood up, making something in Steve’s brain trip over itself, disgusted and a little aroused, and confused because he was disgusted and aroused.
He crouched back down in front of Steve again, this time with a bottle of water, a napkin and a small plastic bowl that he poured a small amount of water into. He soaked the napkin and dabbed gently at Steve’s chin and lips.
“You are dumb, dumb, dumb,” he told Steve matter-of-factly, just like he did back in the thirties and forties. “A dumb little punk that doesn’t know to stick a finger down a dog’s throat to get him to let go. What the fuck am I going to do with you, Rogers?”
Steve, a little misty eyed from the nostalgia, offered Bucky a watery smile. “A get along t-shirt?” he suggested, sheepish.
Just like yesterday, Bucky’s loud and carefree laughter was totally worth getting his face bitten off.
“Now, if I strap him into your seatbelt, are you going to promise to behave?” Steve was just about to indignantly reply when he realized that Bucky was talking to the dog he had withdrawn from the cupboard, not him. In response, Punk looked away from Bucky, since he still sounded mad.
Steve got up and sat down in the passenger seat with a laptop that Bucky had produced and loaned him sitting on his lap. It had stickers all over it, cutesy shit that would rot his teeth if it were candy. Steve loved it, since it was proof that Bucky had made something his own, something that had worried him ever since Sam, a licensed therapist, went over Bucky’s Winter Soldier file and made a comment about how Bucky probably didn’t have anything of his own in all those years that had haunted Steve.
He didn’t have anything under hydra’s cruel thumb, especially not bodily autonomy, and was now free to exercise his freedom to choose what to wear, which he did. Boy, did he ever.
Surprisingly, Punk was subdued when Bucky strapped him into Steve’s seatbelt, and Steve guessed he was still smarting from the telling off. Steve doubted that there was a bone of shame in his small, three-pound body.
He took the rare opportunity to pet him, scratching behind his ears and rubbing his back as well as he could over the harness. He scratched at the base of Punk’s tail and watched in cautious hope as he started wagging his tail slightly. Not wanting to ruin any progress he made, Steve kept a hand on him as he opened the laptop singlehandedly.
He spent quite a while on it, looking up news articles from CNN, MSNBC, BBC, and catching on what was going on in the world, what new attack or shooting or explosion or murder or kidnapping or rape or suicide had happened while he was off galivanting across America with his long-lost pal.
“Steve,” Bucky barked, sharp and sudden, making him startle and almost drop the laptop, distracting him from the picture of a beheading in the middle east that he’d been staring at in despair, unable to tear his eyes away.
Steve blinked at him. “Yeah?”
Bucky’s brows drew together in the middle of his forehead. With the sunglasses back on, Steve had no idea what his expression was, whether he was radiating disapproval, anger or horror.
“Why don’t you look up the recipe for cinnamon rolls? I’ve been wanting to make some lately.”
It was not a suggestion. Steve obeyed, closing the window entirely.
“Go to my pinterest, I think there’s some pins there on my food board,” he told Steve, who dutifully typed in the site into the URL bar at the top.
“What’s your password?” he asked, needing it to log in.
Bucky was silent for a moment and Steve was about to just hand the laptop to him when he spoke quietly, “it’s stevie18, no caps.”
Oh. Steve tried not to get too excited, but he couldn’t help it. His name was Bucky’s password. That was enough to get Steve to drag himself over hot coals and broken glass and razor wire and not feel a thing besides utter joy.
He grinned stupidly down at the laptop as he typed it in, and didn’t care at all when it sent Punk into a snarling rage again.
Bucky had several boards, and Steve scrolled until he found one labeled ‘the moody foody’, which he clicked on and scrolled down, making a note of all the pictures of desserts he saw. About seventy five of a hundred and sixty-seven pins were about desserts. A little less than half, which tracked, given Bucky’s massive sweet tooth before and during the war. Steve had never been too crazy over sweet things like Bucky had been, but he could always go for a slice of pie after dinner.
Sweet rolls were Bucky’s favorite, and more than once, he had dragged Steve over to the bakery a couple of blocks away from their apartment whenever the baker had baked a fresh batch. They never got the opportunity to indulge, always having to save for meat and vegetables, except for one year when Steve had been really sick and Bucky had spent his last dime on a cupcake for Steve’s birthday, one that he thought he’d never reach. It had been the best thing Steve had ever tasted, and all the more sweeter coming from Bucky.
Suddenly, Steve thought that making cinnamon rolls sounded like a really good idea.