Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

23: Not Fair

Crack.

I gently cradle the yolk out from its pretty white shell. My eyes momentarily dart up from where they've focused on the mixing bowl to Bucky's spot at the couch. We're in my apartment, a brisk Wednesday night, just one day after his most recent memory lapse. I would never dare tell anyone anything too personal about Bucky, but I was so worried that I felt I had no choice. I called Nat on the phone after he left me that night. She came down to my apartment from hers a few hours later—much past midnight. She of course had referred to Bruce for advice (which I was grateful for, since I had no intentions to personally share my sex life with Dr. Banner). That's when Nat told me, "Barnes' is still healing. All he's known these past seventy years has been pain. Intense waves of feelings, physical or emotional, will initially remind him of pain and fear." She rested a hand on my shoulder and gave me that signature little smirk. "Don't worry, Cupcake. He'll be okay."

But now I'm not so sure. Bucky's hardly looked at me since then. Of course he's been around, but something is different. This wasn't the shift in demeanor that I was hoping for when I finally gained the courage to admit my love. Then there's the whole drama surrounding my dad that still rests in my head somewhere. I still haven't told Bucky about that man I saw outside my window after he drove away sometime earlier last week. I wonder if I'll ever tell him or if this will be just another thing that I'll keep to myself to make everything "easier". 

With all these ravaging thoughts on my mind I begin to zest a cute little lime into the bowl. I usually like to watch the green flecks drown into the yellow yolks, but now all I can do is stare ahead at the back of Bucky's head. His grown out locks are tugged up in a messy man-bun. He's crouched over, with terribly ill posture, over some top secret documents he's scattered on my coffee table. The pen in his right hand etches short words onto some of the papers before moving on to read the rest. Through the material of his tight shirt I can see the muscles of his back contracting with each movement. The bright florescent lights of my kitchen radiate off of his metal arm. It takes on a pretty silver glow.

"Fuck!"

Bucky's jumped up from the couch faster than I can comprehend what's going on. Apparently I've cut myself again—this time with the expensive zester. I quickly try to move my hand out of the way before I can bleed into the bowl, but it's too late.

The gorgeous super soldier with the thick thighs is fast. He's at my side in a matter of milliseconds. "Come here," he tells me in a husky, gruff voice that leaves no room for compromise.

Yet I deny him still. "No. I'm fine." I give him my back. I take myself to the sink where I hurriedly try to rinse out the lime juice from my new wound. The acid that seeps into my flesh is making my eyes burn.

Bucky's loud huff—irritated and long—is audible as the music I've got playing overhead.

"Sadie."

"Go on," I snap. "Finish your work. I'm fine."

Despite my attitude Bucky still tries to intervene. His metal hand reaches out for my wrist, the one I've got under the stream of cold water. I only manage to fluster him further by shoving him away with my shoulder. He's as solid as a statue and I'm weak, physically speaking, but he still lets me push him.

"What is going on with you?"

I roll my eyes in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible. Bucky grits his teeth. "Come on, James. We both know you're smarter than that. I also know that you're hoping I make up some lame excuse as to why I'm mad so that we don't have to talk about what's really going on." I swivel on my heel. My hand drips water and blood onto the tiled floor. I have to crane my neck back in order to make proper contact with his ocean blue eyes. Even when I'm mad at him, he's absolutely stunning.