1.
It started on a Monday.
Well, technically it was already Tuesday as of one hour but to Steve, who had been working on this fucking essay for fucking hours now, it was still Monday and it would stay Monday until he said otherwise.
Then the light was turned on and Steve did not shriek, thank you very much, but he might or might have, kind of, sort of, maybe, jumped and accidentally hit a few random keys on his keyboard.
“Sorry,” the guy who was to blame for Steve’s near-heart attack muttered.
Steve simply stared.
The guy looked terrible. His long hair was greasy and hid most of his face, he had dark bags under his eyes, and his shirt was covered in stains that Steve did not really want to know the origin of.
Steve kept staring.
The guy stared back.
Then, the guy blinked and walked on towards the cupboards and Steve realized that he should have probably said something back except now it was too late and saying something now would only be weird and creepy and wrong and Jesus, why is socializing so hard? Not that the guy seemed to care…Steve watched from the corner of his eye as he took out…eggs? Flour? Chocolate?
Huh…okay…shrugging to himself, Steve went back to his essay which was just as uncooperative as had been a few minutes ago. Fucking Durkheim, he thought and scowled at the screen of his laptop.
Sugar was being poured into a bowl.
Eggs were being cracked open.
A mixer was turned on.
Suicide is a social fact, Steve thought. Relatable.
Letting out a groan, Steve went over his notes once more and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his course, he did, honestly, he just wasn’t sure why he had to write an essay on the sociology of suicide. Like…sure…it was an important thing to study but why did he have to write an essay on this?
Concentrate, Rogers.
Across the room, something was being put in the oven.
Steve groaned again and started typing. Letter after letter, word after word, sentence after sentence. It was worse than pulling teeth but after half an hour, Steve had actually managed to finish half the essay.
The air in the kitchen was filled with the smell of…something?
Steve looked up and saw the guy pulling a baking pan out of the oven.
1000 words left.
It was half one in the morning, Steve was fucking tired, his eyes were burning, his head was pounding and he just wanted to go the hell to sleep but the essay was due in in a few hours and why the fuck didn’t I start on this like, two weeks ago? Or even better…when the assignment was given? But it was too late now to complain so all he could do was grit his teeth and stay up until this was over and done with.
Concentrate. Rogers.
It was half two in the morning, Steve was fucking tired and his head was pounding and he just wanted to go the hell to sleep and finally – finally – the blasted essay was finished. Leaning back in his chair, Steve stretched his arms and rubbed a hand over his face, he –
His eyes fell on something on the table. Something next to his laptop. Something that looked suspiciously like a brownie. Looking around, Steve noticed that the guy was gone. The oven was turned of and cold, everything was clean and looked like it hadn’t ever been anything but, and Steve began to wonder if he hadn’t hallucinated the guy. Except for that brownie.
Huh…okay…
2.
The second time it happened was on a Friday.
It was actually Friday this time because this time, Steve wasn’t working on any essays. Mind you, he should be but he had successfully ignored that fact and instead sat down in the kitchen and started drawing, that’s why it was Friday, 3 a.m.
Steve heard steps outside in the hallway, hoping that whoever it was wouldn’t come into the kitchen, but of course they did. He did. The guy with the hair and the bags under his eyes and the stained shirt.
The guy blinked when he saw Steve, looking mildly surprised and tipped his head as a silent greeting and this time, Steve actually managed to give a short nod of himself. Progress.
There was sugar.
There were eggs.
There was a mixer.
It wasn’t brownies.
Steve flipped the page of his sketch book and set down his pencil, his hand moving on its own accord, a hundred little lines coming together, weaving a bigger picture – there were eyes, bright and vibrant, framed by long and dark eyelashes. Lips, plush and soft. Sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jawline, covered by dark stubble. There were palms, big and calloused, an arm covered in scars, creating a crisscross pattern across the skin up from the shoulder all the way down to the hand. There was long, dark hair tucked behind an ear, curling around strong shoulders. There were muscular thighs clad in sweatpants.
Well, shit.
Steve blinked at the image before him, at what he had drawn on the page of his sketch book…it was the guy; handsome despite the tiredness he was so obviously feeling.
Steve looked up, he was still there, putting cookies onto a small plate. Steve contemplated averting his gaze, pretending like he hadn’t been watching but he couldn’t because he could see it now, his beauty. It was there, hidden in plain sight. The guy turned towards him and if he found it strange that Steve was looking at him, he didn’t show it, instead he crossed the distance in confident steps and set the plate down in front of Steve. Four chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven and still warm. Steve blinked at the plate and then at the guy and the guy…smiled. It was merely a twitch in the corners of his mouth but it was there. And Steve meant to say thank you, meant to say you don’t have to give me food, meant to say you have really magnificent bone structure, but instead he said nothing for way to long and then the guy was halfway through the door and –
“Thanks!”
Steve cringed at himself and his own awkwardness, his face growing hot in embarrassment but, again, it was too late. The guy was gone and the damage was done.
Damn you, Rogers…
3.
The third time was the following night. Saturday morning, half twelve.
Most everyone was out with friends, getting drunk, having a good time, and then there was Steve. Steve, who sat at the kitchen table, pointedly pretending like he didn’t have three more assignments to finish and only six days left while he sketched. Again.
This time, he and the guy had entered the kitchen more or less together, sharing a nod and a smile, and while Steve had gone to the table, the guy had started pottering around the kitchen. As far as Steve could tell he was cooking this time but what did he know; his cooking skills were limited to ramen noodles and microwave popcorn. Steve didn’t think he’d ever baked in his life.
He could see tomatoes and onions and ground beef and like a million different seasonings and is the guy making lasagna? It certainly seemed like it if the pasta sheets were anything to go by.
This time, Steve wasn’t surprised when he started drawing the guy, didn’t even try to stop it. The truth was that Steve had drawn the guy several times since last night…totally casual, of course.
He really does have magnificent bone structure…
Okay…maybe not totally casual…
The guy on the page was standing at the counter, expertly chopping fresh basil with a sharp knife, his hair bound up in a messy bun. He seemed relaxed and at peace with himself and the world. It was simple. Domestic. Beautiful.
A timer went off and Steve looked up to see the guy taking the lasagna out of the oven before taking two plates and cutting two generous portions out and placing one on each plate. Movements smooth and confident, the guy took both plates, approached the table and…sat down? He’d never done that before.
“Thank you,” Steve managed to say, earning himself another smile, small and shy but definitely there.
Shitshitshitshit, what do I do, what do I do? Do I talk to him? Make small talk? Ask for his name? Tell him my name? Does he even want to talk to me? How are you supposed to react to something like this? Is there, like, a guide to behavior in case of unexpected late-night cooking by strangers? Should I ask why he’s doing this? Should I –
“Eat.”
Steve jumped at the rough voice, his eyes wide as he realized that he, in fact, hadn’t touched the lasagna yet, so he did and –
“Wow, this is really good!”
The guy had his own eyes – steely grey eyes – fixed on his own plate, “Thanks,” he muttered and oh my god, is that a blush? It’s definitely a blush. It was oddly endearing, seeing this gruff-looking guy embarrassed because of such a small thing and Steve’s fingers were once again itching for his pencils, wanted to preserve this moment, hold onto it, cherish it.
They didn’t speak as they ate.
They didn’t speak as the guy cleaned up the kitchen.
They didn’t speak as the guy left.
They just nodded and smiled, and Steve was already looking forward to the next time they’d see each other.
4.
The fourth time, Steve missed it.
Kind of.
He had caught a cold and was slowly descending a spiral of panic and self-loathing. He had four days left to finish three essays. It was Monday morning half past four, when Steve startled awake. He must have fallen asleep while writing, the left side of the table covered in used tissues, the right side had a bowl of soup, a sandwich, a cupcake and a thermos with tea.
Oh…
5.
The fifth time was the morning of his last deadline. Friday, 3 a.m. And Steve was furiously typing out his last essay which was due in ten hours. He could do this. He could.
Steve knew that the guy was there, had been there for a while now, but for once Steve didn’t pay him any attention. He distantly registered that the glass of water next to him was being refilled, as was his coffee. He could also smell the pumpkin bread in the oven.
500 more words.
Steve chewed on his lower lip, eyes glued to the screen, his brain on fire. He would never procrastinate like this ever again, this he was promising himself, full well knowing he’d break his promise come the next assignments. But that was something he’d have to deal with then, right now all he had to do was concentrate on how much he hated the nuclear family and put that into somewhat academic language – preferably without offending anyone too much.
250 more words.
The delicious smell in the air got stronger and Steve’s mouth began to water but he ignored it, had to keep going, had to keep writing, and then – after he’d finished this essay – he could maybe hope for a slice, he could maybe get the hell over himself and actually talk to the guy, he could maybe do something about this ridiculous crush that was solely based on magnificent food and bone structure.
For fuck’s sake, Rogers…
“Ha!” Steve let out a triumphant cry as he forcefully set the last full stop.
A soft chuckle came from the kitchen counter and Steve looked up to see the guy’s back turned to him as he pulled out two plates and Steve couldn’t help but grin even wider. He was kind of glad the guy couldn’t see him.
Saving his work, Steve shut down his laptop and massaged his sore shoulders. He was done. Finally.
As if on cue, the guy came up to him with freshly baked pumpkin bread and butter, sitting down with Steve and giving him a smile. It was a real one this time, warm and soft and honest and Steve’s heart was too large for his chest, beating violently against his ribs, making his whole body vibrate, and he was sure that the guy had to hear it too as they both ate the bread. It was delicious.
They did not talk, simply sat together in comfortable silence until they both retreated to their rooms and Steve fell asleep with a smile in his face.
+1.
It ended on a Monday.
After sleeping for 12 hours straight, Steve had made a plan…well…kind of. Anyone who knew him could tell you that Steve was not particularly good with plans but he did his best okay? It’s the thought that counts anyway. The plan was to cook for the guy for a change. Something simple. Something nice. Something that said you have very nice bone structure. Of course, Steve didn’t actually know if or when the guy would show up, but he figured he’d take that chance. So far, the guy had been in the kitchen nearly every night and some part of Steve was deeply concerned as to why, the other part was just looking forward to seeing him again.
Sam had helped Steve pick out something that even he couldn’t possibly mess up. Spaghetti Bolognese.
Just follow the damn instructions, Rogers. You’ll be fine, Sam had said and yet…Steve felt slightly out of his depth as he looked at all the ingredients set out in front of him on the counter.
Jesus fucking Christ, why the hell am I doing this?
Of course, that was the moment the answer to that question walked into the room, looking as insomniac and grumpy as ever and Steve thought he might be a little bit in love. Upon seeing him, the guy’s face lightened up with a broad smile, before that turned into a questioning look as he saw the stuff behind Steve.
Shit, Steve thought, trying and failing not to blush.
“Are you okay?” the guy asked.
“Steve,” Steve blurted out and immediately bit his tongue. Double shit. “I mean – Steve is my name. I am Steve. Steve is me.” Oh. My. God. Shut up!!!
The guy chuckled lightly, the slight frown that had formed on his fore head smoothening out and the confusion in his eyes giving way to amusement.
“Bucky,” he introduced himself, offering his hand. It was just as strong as Steve had imagined it to be. “Are you okay?” the guy, Bucky, asked again.
“I wanted to cook for you,” Steve confessed, his face on fire, “But I can’t cook.”
And oh, now Bucky was full on smirking, “Good thing I’m here then, eh?”
“Yeah, I mean no, I mean –” Steve stuttered, “I wanted to cook for you. As a thank you.”
“You got nothin’ to thank me for, Steve,” Bucky said, still smirking. He stepped around Steve and eyed the ingredients. “I always cook or bake stuff when I can’t sleep and I almost never sleep.”
“Still, I…I wanted to do something.”
The brunet turned his head, his expression gone soft as he replied, “Tell you what, I sit back and talk you through it, deal?”
“Deal.”
As it turned out, cooking wasn’t that bad when you had a Bucky by your side.
“Dunno what you want,” Bucky told him after they’d eaten, “That was great.”
Again, Steve blushed. He had the suspicious that that would be a constant state if he was going to keep seeing Bucky. “Just ‘cause you were there,” he muttered, his eyes cast down to the empty plate before him.
“Guess I’ll have keep being there then.”
Steve’s head shot up and around so fast he thought he might be getting whiplash, his eyes wide as he took in Bucky, smiling and beautiful.
“You have really magnificent bone structure.”
Please, someone just put a bullet through my head. I’d be less painful.
“You’re cute.”
It ended on a Monday because the seventh and eighth and ninth and tenth and all the times after that, Steve didn’t count anymore. He didn’t have to. He knew Bucky would be there.