Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

11: On the Count of Three...

A/N: THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST SONGS OF ALL TIME. IF YOU HAVEN'T HEARD IT, YOU MUST.

"My honey my baby, don't put my love upon no shelf."

My hips sway side to side with the beat of the Georgie Satellites hit. I can't stop myself from singing along as I ready the night's meal. It's my third day back from vacation. It's been much easier to settle back into the routine of things than they normally would me. Perhaps this is because working for Stark is so damn enjoyable.

"Don't hand me no lines, and keep your hands to yourself."

The cold linoleum floor sticks to the pads of my toes as I spin around. The skirt of my apron twirls out like a pretty yellow gown. The vintage half-apron sits nestled on my waist where my denim skirt rests underneath. On top I've got a cute striped shirt I picked up for two dollars at the consignment store.

The weight of my heavy ponytail flops from side to the other while my head bops. I sing louder as the song goes on—picking up a carrot to use as a handy orange microphone. Then I toss the carrot into the pot of water that I'll use to make a nice stock. Next thing I've got to do is cut the parsnips. Just in half; that's all. So I pull out a knife from the block, hardly inspecting it, before skipping back to the cutting board.

"No huggee no kissee until you make me a wife."

This is a good fucking song. I may love Taylor Swift, but I'm a sucker for oldies. Laurie's taught me well.  She's a real classic music nut.

Anyway, I'm so into the song that I'm hardly paying attention to what I'm doing. So it should come as no surprise when I've missed the parsnip tip by an inch—chopping right into my hand instead. The first noise I make is a gasp at the strange sensation of the blade going through flesh. Then the stinging, aching pain kicks in and I'm starting to hiss. I drop the knife to the floor where it clatters just next to my bare feet.

"Goddammit!" I curse quietly. I cradle my left hand to my chest and then hurry to the sink. I'm cringing, whole body gone rigid, as I run the cool water through the gash. Dark red blood is running out all around. It's dripping down my arm. It's hard to assess the damage through all the carnage, but it hurts like a son of a bitch and I'm pretty sure I've gone deep enough to see bone.

"Lovely," I sigh—utterly annoyed at myself. How come I'm always doing these sorts of things? Last week it was a burn, and the time before it'd been a dropped pan on a toe that nearly fractured it in half.

I stretch to reach the nearest dishtowel with my right hand while the other stays in the numbing cold water. Unfortunately the towel is white and I'll stain the shit out of it, but I've got no other choice. I'm not about to track blood through the tower while trying to find a first aid kit. I figure the only place I'll get one of those would be my apartment—maybe? I should have one in my bathroom, I think. We used to have one here in the kitchen, but since Peter and Pietro started that fire while making popcorn last week we've needed a replacement.

"Ow, ow," I mutter real soft like. Tears are prickling the corners of my eyes, but it's not because I'm crying. The stinging pain is just too much, I tell myself.

"Miss Sadie, you seem to be injured. Can I assist you in any way?"

"Oh Friday. I'm fine, thank you though." I make a lame effort to wrap my arm and then I hold it high above my head to slow the flow.

"You should be seeking some sort of assistance."

I shake my head, gritting my teeth as I scurry out of the kitchen and down towards the elevator. Friday's already opening the doors for me.