Back in Brooklyn

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Bucky slammed the oven shut and reached up to silence the ear-splitting screech of the smoke alarm. He rushed to open the window above the sink, fumbling with the latch, then ducked as the gray plumes of smoke billowed out above him.

Things were out of control. He had opened the oven to a scorched baking tray, a wall of smoke and now the pot on the stove was about to boil over, and somewhere a timer was going off— fuck, indeed. He pulled the pot away from the burner, slammed the knob off, and pressed buttons until that godforsaken beeping stopped.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on slowing his breathing while the room aired out. This was a stupid idea, it had always been a stupid idea. He could imagine the headlines: Notorious Assassin Bucky Barnes Killed In Kitchen Fire. Avengers Compound Destroyed. He wasn't cut out for this cooking stuff. Sure, he could follow your directions and help out, cut when you said to cut, boil when you said to boil, but this, planning and cooking a whole dinner all on his own, was disastrous. Maybe if he'd had time to prepare—

It was already late afternoon when you wandered off to your room for a nap and this stupid, stupid idea popped into his head. It wasn't the first stupid idea he'd had that day; he'd run through thousands of them, struggling to come up with something he could do to get your attention. Because you had spent the day acting like everything was normal, but it wasn't. Not for him.

Not after he came in his pants like a fucking teenager, gasping and shaking as you held him and kissed him and moaned into his mouth. Not after you looked at him with lust in your eyes, his own face wrecked and sweaty and exhausted, but climbed off of him before he could convince you to stay. Not after he had to shower off alone, change into clean clothes, and then nearly had to change again because shit, you were in his bed waiting for him. And especially not after you just kissed his forehead once before curling up on the far side of his mattress again, running rampant through his mind but just out of reach.

You were your usual warm and cheery self from the moment you woke up, but something was missing. Maybe there would always be something missing, he'd always have that hollow feeling because now that he knew just how good he could feel, every second he spent without your touch was agonizing. Maybe it was because of how sensitive he was— so fucking sensitive— after all these years, because he had never felt like this before. That had to be it. He'd never felt like this back then, not with the girls he met at Coney Island or the combat nurses in their tent or even any of those USO showgirls Steve introduced him to. He had never felt this need, this desperate painful demand to touch and be touched.

Steve always said Bucky was fucking greedy. Maybe he was right.

Maybe it was just because he was greedy but he had to try, had to do something. He wanted you to feel like this too, and he needed to figure out a way to make that happen. He had to come up with something that would impress you, that would make you want to touch him again.

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