At The Table
The table was bare, its glossy wood shining nicely.
“Nice table you got here,” Bucky called, running his hand across the surface.
Steve came out of the kitchen with three china plates and utensils. “Go set the cups,” he told Bucky.
As Bucky entered the kitchen in search for glasses, Mrs. Rogers turned around from the stove.
“Oh! Don’t you dare,” she crossed her arms. “Steven Grant Rogers, why are you putting James to work like a slave? He’s our guest!” she exclaimed, a broad grin showing off her dimples.
“Oh no, really, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky searched through the tall cabinets over the counter. “I really don’t mind at all. It’s my pleasure to be of a service.”
Mrs. Rogers sighed with a warm expression, “Oh, all right then. But, James, please call me Sarah.”
Bucky turned towards her, balancing the three glasses in his hands. “But, Mrs. Rogers, please, call me Bucky.”
They heard gagging sounds from the dining room.
In under five minutes, the table was set with a feast fit for a king. Well, as much as Mrs. Rogers could afford. There were mashed potatoes, bread rolls, a roasted chicken, corn, and rice, with a boat of gravy on the side.
“I can hear you boys’ stomachs growling from across the table. Go on, then. Eat!”
She didn’t have to tell them twice. In fact, she didn’t have to tell them once. Bucky was already spooning himself some mashed taters and Steve had sunken his knife in the chicken, in attempt to disembowel it.
“Woah, slow your roll, Stevie.” Bucky said, standing up and taking hold of his friend’s elbow. “That chicken has more meat on it than you do, buddy.”
Steve chuckled half-heartedly and let go of the knife. “I don’t even know how to cut a chicken.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Bucky admitted, sitting back down.
Mrs. Rogers scoffed, “Good Lord, you two. Here, let me handle it.” And in no time, the boys both had a generous serving of perfectly cut poultry on their plates.
Soon enough, they all had healthy portions of food, in which they ate heartily. The dining room was filled with the noise of chewing and clinking of fork-on-plate.
“Gee, Mrs. Rogers, this food really is something else,” Bucky said, swallowing a mouthful of meat and dabbing a napkin on his lips.
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Rogers said, smiling bashfully. “It’s an old recipe, I just followed it.”
“No really, this takes some real talent.”
“Oh, thank you, James.”
“But truly, how did you get the mashed po –” Bucky cut himself off. Steve was throwing him a that’s enough look from his side of the table.
“Anyways, it’s good.” Bucky finished awkwardly, taking another bite of food so he couldn’t mess up again.
“So, I’ve heard so, so many things about you, James.”
“Yeah? What kinda things?” He cocked a mischievous eyebrow at Steve.
“Only the good stuff,” Steve reassured, smiling coyly.
“Oh yes, definitely. How did you two meet?”
The boys locked eyes. Bucky knew how they met, he couldn’t really forget. But it was whether Steve wanted his mother to know that he was being beaten to a bloody pulp at age nine behind a dumpster in a cold alleyway. Whether Steve wanted his mother to know that Bucky spent two hours trying to make it look like Steve only suffered minor injuries and helped him hobble his way to a trolley in means of getting home safely. Whether Steve wanted his mother to know that at age nine, Steve was moments away from death.
“At school, ma’am.” Bucky said casually, taking another bite of food.
Steve’s head whipped up from his plate. His brows were furrowed and his mouth formed a firm line. “Yeah, at school.” He said, raising one eyebrow.
“And how did you become friends?” Mrs. Rogers asked cheerfully.
Steve answered. “He just came to sit with me during lunch if I was alone, and we just started talking.”
“Yeah, we really hit it off.” Bucky beamed.
“Oh that’s wonderful!”
The meal was delectable. Well, at least Bucky thought so. He tried to stop complimenting it, because Steve would always give him the evil eye, but at moments he couldn’t help himself. He certainly didn’t get meals like this in his household. He offered to refill everyone’s glasses of water, and he could tell that really ticked Steve off, so he let Mrs. Rogers do it. Once they were finished, Mrs. Rogers stood up and started stacking the plates to carry off to the kitchen.
“Here, let me help with the dishes,” Bucky offered, putting the cups inside each other.
That did it. Bucky didn’t try to piss Steve off; he was just trying to be polite, honest. Steve shoved himself away from the table and stood up, fiery passion burning in his eyes.
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you help her with her hair and makeup, huh? And while you’re at it, why don’t you pay a bill or two? Lord knows we need the help.” He growled, and with a huff, he stormed off, slamming the front door behind him.
“Oh my,” murmured Mrs. Rogers, Steve’s angry footsteps still echoing from down the hall. “What’s gotten into him?”
Uncertainty rose in Bucky’s chest. He folded his napkin quickly and placed it on the table, standing up. “I’ll talk to him, Mrs. Rogers. Leave it to me.” He raced out the door, grabbing his coat from the rack and closing the front door behind him.