fugue // stucky

10. Flapjacks

I jerk awake, my nightmare coming to an end as I'm butted in the head with the end of a gun. I pant, my body covered in sweat. My surroundings are unfamiliar. I go to stand up, but a tiny groan of protest below makes me stop. My eyes shoot down, and I come face to face with a blonde man. Who is he? I begin to panic. I look around more and see dirty dishes with burnt food. Oh. I remember. Steve.

I gaze down at him again, this time fondly. A small smile spreads across my face as I run my fingers through his hair like I did last night. He sighs through his nose, still lost in a seemingly peaceful sleep. I want to make him breakfast for letting me stay.

My human hand cradles his neck, as to keep him from jolting away from the harsh cold of my metal one. I slowly move his head up so I can slip out, then place it back down. His face contorts and his hands flail, grasping for me. His hands clutches to a floral cushion and he pulls it to him. I chuckle and walk to the kitchen.

I'm used to eating food parallel to cardboard, cooked by yours truly. I want to give Steve a feast, however. How is the worst cook in the world qualified to make a breakfast buffet? I guess I'll figure it out. First, I grab my backpack and yank out a notebook, scribbling down, 'Play with hair. Say it'll be okay. Head on lap. Helps Steve sleep.' I didn't get to last night.

Slowly, I stalk to the fridge. It really is frightening how silent my feet can be. My hand reaches for the cool metal of the steel handle, and I open it. There's so much food in here, he won't need to shop for weeks. I know how to make omelettes, but last time I did that they were undercooked and slimy. I internally smack myself for being so bad at food. I search through some cupboards and find pancake mix. Smiling to myself, I pull out the needed things and start mixing it together.

I saw a pack of bacon in the fridge. I hum the song I heard in the elevator yesterday and cook it quickly, hoping it's decent. Does Steve like his pancakes with syrup? I think long and hard, trying to remember. Suddenly, it hits me like a freight train.

"Steve, put it on your damn cakes."

"But it costs extra!" He whispers.

"Steve so help me God if you don't put the syrup on your flapjacks-"

"Flapjacks?" He laughs, throwing his head back. I shoot him a look and he laughs harder.

"I'll be okay without," he sighs and sticks a forkful into his mouth. I clench my jaw and pop the cap off, smothering his food in the stuff. His eyes widen.

"Bucky!"

I grin a shit-eating grin and he squints angrily at me.

"God knows we can't afford this," he rolls his eyes.

"Steve, shut up. It's dumb that they charge anyways. Eat it."

"No."

"Steve, eat the pancakes."

"No."

"Steve! Living is hard. Who knows when we will eat again? Please, just eat it," I close my eyes, my hands locked on to the table, turning snow white.

"I'm sorry, Buck," he sighs and I hear a fork against a plate.

"Thank you." I look up. His tiny arms moving with grace. He's looking even more sick, but of course he won't tell me if he is. I sigh again and eat my plain, syrupless breakfast.

My head aches as I recall him insisting to pay. I remember ignoring him and putting the last few dollars of my paycheck into the cashiers hand.

I bite my lip and add syrup and butter to both of our stacks. Bacon piles next to them on the plates. I pour glasses of milk and set the table.