Food, Glorious Food...
“Uuurrrggghhhhhhh...”
As it turned out, day one of the genuinely joyous discovery hadn’t been the only time that morning sickness (who the fuck came up with that term, anyway? He was being sick at all points of the day and, as one of Helen’s assistants had promised him, this was quite common, especially with omegas) had plagued him.
“Tony?”
“Why does my body hate me?” the bearded scientist whined as he curled up on the common-room’s largest couch, his eyes screwed shut and the bucket he’d just used already being scurried away by a roomba he’d upgraded for that purpose.
Hmm... that could be a potential, marketing gold-mine if he pitched it right: ‘baby-help-bots, for all your vomiting needs...’
“Tony?”
Heh... he might need to work on that slogan.
“Hey, you alright? I’ve been callin’ you for the past three minutes.”
Blinking out of the latest range of baby-products he could build, the omega owlishly looked up (from his foetal position, no less) to see a neutral faced, former assassin looking down at him, his arms crossed and his brows knitted.
“Umm, you mean beside the whole pregnancy without the actual fun-part of baby making? Yeah... I’m just...” the omega yawned, his eyes closing again; “tired... and thirsty... and hungry but I don’t want to wretch anymore... my throat can’t handle it, ‘specially now I can’t have my coffee... ugh, I would kill for a coffee right about now... Ooh... and cake, ice-cream cake... yeah... with peanut-butter and capers... no! Pickles! Dill pickles... oh yeah... ugh... Uuurrrggghhhhhh... I always thought that ridiculous cravings were made up and added to sitcoms to make them funnier... Well, look who’s laughing now, huh?” he bemoaned as he curled up a little tighter.
Watching the display, his face (and heart) softening, the alpha went to reach out to the quietly grumbling omega before withdrawing; it wasn’t his place, it wasn’t right for him to just brush over the hostility between them.
They’d both been hurt too much for that.
However, there probably was one thing he could do...
About facing, his hands instinctively shoving his hair up and out of the way (he’d have to thank Nat for the see-through bands she’s slipped him when he’d come home), the alpha slid into the kitchenette and began to assemble a meal that was straight out of the most nostalgic of all his reclaimed memories.
He’d been three when Steve was born, his frail, tiny frame quivering with every inhaled breath and, through his child-eyes, he could so clearly see, remembered so strongly that it ached how his mother (bold, beautiful and utterly fearless) had gathered Sarah Rogers into a firm hug and told her not to fret.
”All he needs is a little meat on ‘is bones, that’s all” she’d said, her warm, fawn eyes aglow with motherly wisdom and determination; ”now you come in, give Bucky the babe, sit yourself down on the stool and let me feed you up good’n’proper... the stronger the mother, the stronger her son, that’s what I always say”.
Sure, it hadn’t been a miracle cure, but as Sarah ate (and Steve in turn fed from her), both of them looked healthier, slept better and didn’t seem to cough half as much.
If his mom could do that for Sarah, a relative stranger to them at the time, then he could most certainly make something delicious for the man he was so madly in...
’Not now hind-brain... not now’ he mentally berated, his eyes watching (almost as though he was detached from his body and looking in from the outside) whilst his dextrous, battle hardened hands seamlessly chopped through vegetables, stirred the simmering stock and added spices to season.
If the omega wanted something both tangy and sweet, then this stew from the Old Country would satisfy the tang whilst the peanut-butter muffins (a recipe he’d picked up during a mission when he’d been Hydra’s asset; being a waiter in a franchise restaurant for two weeks before assassinating his target hadn’t exactly been fun but at least he’d learned a thing or two...) would sate his sweet tooth.
’S'good that I managed to retain this information if he likes it and it stays down... heh, might even be worth the added red to my ledger... who'd have thought such a prominent politician would frequent a place like that anyway... but then, he was there with his family...’
“Umm... hey, what’s smelling so good?”
Blinking out of the dark thoughts, his eyes blinking away visions of blood-spattered tiles and shattered ice-cream sundaes, Bucky looked up from his (chef-standard immaculate) work station to see Tony’s head poked up (adorably) and peering over the back of the couch he’d been curled on.
“You said you were hungry” the alpha stated; “an’ Helen might be a doctor an’ all, but my Ma’s cookin’ never failed to make even the fussiest stomach happy, so...”
“You’re cooking, for me?” Tony asked, his head tilting to the left like a puppy hearing a new word; “wow that’s... huh, I’m actually lost for words” he added whilst taking another deep breath through his nose and sighing it out. “What exactly is that? It smells awesome but I can’t say that I’ve ever scented something quite like it before” he admitted whilst sitting up a little higher.
“Heh... it don’t exactly have a name...” the alpha chuckled, his smile tilting into a grin; “my Ma was many things, but bein’ sentimental over everyday things just wasn’t her style... guess when you have seven kids to look after and a bed-ridden mate to tend’t you don’t have time to...”
He stopped talking, his teeth making an audible clack as his jaw snapped shut.
What in the world was he doing? Jesus... standing there, talking about mother’s when, on that God-forsaken night in December he’d...
“I’m sorry...”
Snapping his head up, his eyes wild, Bucky stared, his hands trembling when the omega looked at him, his face awash with genuine sympathy (sympathy, not pity, not anger, not hate) as they looked gazes.
“You know” the theoretically younger man continued, his tone soft. “I think that, sometimes, me and the others kind of take for granted how hard it must be for you and Steve... I mean, we’ve all lost people, sure, but the people you lost... well, it must be like losing them twice, hell, three-times over when you factor in the time-frame and what you’ve been through” he said, his shoulders giving a little shrug.
“It must be a really heavy burden for you to bear...”
“I...”
“Friends, what is that sumptuous aroma?”
Snapping their heads towards the stairwell (as Thor, disliking the allegedly cramped conditions of Tony’s (perfectly and aerodynamically proportioned, thank you very much) elevator always vaulted his way up to the communal-area, two steps at a time), the pair regarded the Asgardian with a grin and a scowl.
“Ma Barnes’ patented pregnancy-resistant stew” Tony chirped, the moment he and the alpha could have shared completely gone (much to the latter’s dismay); “sorry big-guy, but I’m claiming that pot of loveliness for myself... and the dessert” he added whilst crossing his arms and offering a smirk.
“Hah! Tis most fortunate that I wouldn’t wish to challenge you for fear of our Captain’s welfare; I shall, however, remember this affront to mine rights to share in a meal and hope to meet you in the gym once the babe is born... for the sake of mine honour, of course.”
“Of course” Tony agreed whilst he stretched, rose from the couch and started sauntering his way towards the elevator: “okay, I’m just gonna go upstairs and, ugh, powder my nose” he drawled, his eyes glittering with his sarcastic tone. “Sir James of Barnes, you are now my official chef and defender of my delicious new diet plan... as the fair-maiden of this affair, I’ll give you a hanky or an oiled rag or something as a favour should you keep that over-grown Labrador away from my table and off my stew” he declared imperiously.
“Labrador!?”
“Duly noted, ya majesty...”