Archive of Our Own

It's been two weeks since Bucky moved into the Avenger's tower with Steve, and sometimes he can't help but feel lost in this new world. His memory of his time as the Soldier is touch-and-go, so everything feels eerie, foreign, like he's seeing it all from underwater. He doesn't go out yet, doesn't trust himself to, but even from his perch by the window he can see that the city is loud and crowded and unfamiliar, and every day brings a new challenge, a new lesson to be learned, a new terrible obstacle he's expected to face.

“It's not an obstacle,” Steve says, exasperated. “It's a burrito. Bucky, swear to god, you're gonna like it.”

“What's wrong with macaroni?” Bucky demands. “Why can't we just have macaroni again?”

“Because,” Steve says, “I'm sick to death of it.”

“Whine, whine, whine,” Bucky grumbles, which gets him the twitch of a smile from Steve.

“And because you can't eat only macaroni and hot dogs for the rest of your life,” Steve says gently.

Unfair. “I eat other stuff! I eat bread. And yesterday I had that egg, remember? Not to mention all those protein bars you won't quit shoving down my throat.”

Steve sighs and hunches his stupidly broad shoulders, folds his massive arms on the small table and fixes Bucky with a puppy-eyed, pleading look. They're alone in Steve's quarters, sitting across from one another in his sunny yellow-painted kitchenette, everything shiny and well-made and just a little bit stylistically off, like Steve himself. Upstairs, the rest of the team is eating takeout all together, and Bucky feels guilty for keeping Steve back, for being too jumpy and dangerous to socialize like he knows Steve wishes he would. He's okay one-on-one, but anything more than a two-person conversation makes his head spin, and when his head spins, he gets anxious, and when he's anxious, he gets angry, and then...

Suffice to say, he's done enough damage in his long, fucked-up lifetime. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, not ever again. So he stays far away from them. Keeps them safe. He'd be locked in a cell if it were up to him.

“I understand you wanna stick to what's familiar,” Steve is saying. “And that's fine. All the docs say you should be taking your re-integration slowly, and I absolutely support that. You know I do. But Buck – they also say we need to get your weight up. And yeah, we could keep doing that with protein bars, but food has come so far since 1943, you have no idea how good it is, the stuff they eat nowadays... and it just seems a damn shame that you won't even try it.”

“This doesn't look like food,” Bucky says, poking the burrito. “Can't even see what's inside. Sneaky.”

“Look,” Steve says, and picks up his own burrito, takes a superhero-sized bite and leans over to show Bucky the torn-away corner, doesn't comment when Bucky flinches away. “See?” Steve says, mouth still full. “It's all stuff you know, more or less. Beans, cheese, rice, chicken,” he swallows, takes another bite, “and this tomato stuff is salsa, you'll --”

“I know salsa,” Bucky says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Spicy,” Bucky says, the sense-memory flooding his mouth. “With, uh, with chips?”

“Yeah!” Steve says. “You want some chips?” He starts to rise. “I bet Tony's got a --”

“Sit,” Bucky says, and places both hands, metal and flesh, flat on the table. “I'll try it. It's not like – I mean, it's just food. It's not gonna...” He swallows, not even sure how to complete that sentence. He has a vague memory of choking down thick grey stuff – oatmeal or something? – and then passing out, waking in the Chair. “The place you got it from,” he says.

“Safe,” Steve says, and takes another bite, licks salsa from his fingers. “Look, I'm eating it, aren't I?”

He is, and his obvious enjoyment is what seals the deal for Bucky. Steve looks like Bucky's hazy memory of him, all big blue eyes and earnest enthusiasm. Plus about a hundred pounds of muscle, but it's his size that calms Bucky down. Steve can take care of himself. Steve could restrain him. Maybe. Bucky could never be allowed around Past-Steve, so fragile, so in need of protection. This thought pangs a dusty corner of his heart.

He takes a deep breath, picks up the burrito in both hands and maneuvers it towards his mouth. His heart is beating a mile a minute, which is ridiculous, because the burrito is soft and warm and feels harmless as a ripped-out human heart.

He shakes his head sharply. Not the image he was going for. He glances up, meets Steve's eager eyes. Takes another breath. Opens his mouth. Bites down. Chews.

“Oh,” he says. Swallows. Takes another bite. “Oh. Steve. This is.” Then his mouth is too full to speak. A second later he says, “Steve. It's very. It's good.”

“Right?” Steve says, beaming. “Ha! Man, I knew you'd love it. Oh, wait til you try Thai, I can't wait to see your face!”

He has to wait, though, because for the next few days Bucky will eat only burritos. Soft, warm, safe little burritos, filled with chicken or steak or even shrimp, even vegetables! He miscalculates his capacity and tries to eat three in one sitting, like Steve does, and ends up groaning on the couch, clutching his roiling stomach while Steve flutters around like a mother hen, apologizing and swearing and draping cool cloths on Bucky's forehead. Finally he calls up to Tony for reinforcements and a little robot comes with some truly bizarre pink liquid that does, in fact, make him feel better.

“You're malnourished, so you've gotta go slow at first,” Steve says. “Plus, my metabolism's a hell of a lot faster than yours, so don't try to keep up. No one can. You had a different version of the serum, don't know why.”

“Cheaper to keep me fed,” Bucky says, and Steve looks like someone punched him.

“I'm ready for more,” Bucky announces the next evening.

“More...?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

“Other foods,” Bucky says. “You scored high with the burritos, pal, so don't bring down your average.”

Steve beams, the way he always beams when Bucky reflexively teases him, like Bucky's won an Olympic medal or something. His beam is a literal beam. A beam of light. Very shiny teeth. Nice.

Slowly, Bucky and Steve work their way through global cuisine, and Bucky enjoys – well, he enjoys everything. Everything tastes fucking amazing, like his tastebuds have been re-set along with his brain. Flavors explode onto his tongue and dance around his mouth like underage hookers in a Berlin nightclub (and where do these images come from, thank you no thank you), and something happens to him when he's eating, some strange peace washes over him and quells the erratic pulse of his heart, the shake in his flesh hand. When he's satisfied after a meal, the violent, bloody thoughts that usually simmer just behind a veil of self-control are somehow quieted, muted by good food and the comfortable heaviness in his belly, his instincts dulled, his mind slower. He's safest when he's eating.

A short male doctor comes to see him, and though he's rigid with panic all through the examination, both the doctor and Steve seem pleased at the end.

“You're doing great, all told,” the doctor tells him. “Vitals look good, and you're back up to a healthy weight. Good job,” he says to Steve, but Steve shakes his head and gives Bucky a proud smile. It feels better than Bucky cares to admit.

“I had nothin' to do with it,” Steve says. “It's all Bucky.”

Which, untrue.

“This guy,” says Bucky, jabbing a thumb at Steve, “spends most of his downtime reading restaurant reviews. Just for the record. You ever wanna take your dame somewhere nice, you know who to ask.”

Steve blushes like it's the best compliment he's ever received.

That night, he tentatively raises the idea of joining the others upstairs.

“Just got a text from Tony,” Steve says, showing Bucky the tiny handheld computer he claims is a phone. “They're getting Italian, from – well, I don't know if it's the best Italian in New York, that's probably in some grandma's kitchen, but I'd put it solidly in the top fifteen.”

“Pizza?” Bucky says.

“And pasta, and eggplant parmesan, and chicken marsala, and –” Steve's eyes roll back in his head a little “-- ugh, what I wouldn't do for their deconstructed lamb lasagna.”

Decon – what. Who cares. Lamb.

“Sounds good,” Bucky says, trying not to make a big deal out of it, but Steve ruins that by clapping his giant paws together and tapping his huge fingers against the tiny computer screen at a rapid speed, squinting, his tongue poking between his teeth.

“Okay,” Steve says after several minutes of typing and beeping. “It's just gonna be you, me, Tony, Nat and Clint. A nice small group.”

Five. Five people. Well, four, not counting Bucky himself. He flexes the fingers of his metal arm unconsciously and then notices what he's doing, stops short.

Steve senses his distress and says, “Hey, look at me. Look. You're gonna be fine. If you need to come back here, we'll come back. No pressure. Just some good food and a little conversation. Used to be your favorite thing.”

Bucky nods, tight, but Steve still looks stricken, and he hates to see that look, so he says, “Yeah, you're right. Can't keep this face locked up forever, anyway. Be a disservice to the world.”

Steve tosses back his head and laughs, and Bucky finds himself smiling, too.

Steve's friends are... friendly. To a degree. Tony talks a mile a minute and won't look him in the eye, Clint is quiet but has a kind, listening air about him, and Nat is precise, petite, and all kinds of sassy. The three of them make near-constant fun of Steve, which Bucky wholeheartedly approves of, and they don't seem to expect him to participate much in the conversation, which is good, since Bucky can't seem to find his voice at the moment. They're all drinking beer; Steve's drinking chocolate milk.

“Because he's actually five years old,” explains Tony.

“This morning you were calling me grandpa,” Steve says mildly. “Now I'm in kindergarten? Make up your mind.”

“Don't need to,” Tony says. “I'm rich as a lord, I can have it all. Why choose between fettuccine and tortellini? Both, I say, both! Nat, what'll it be for you, huh? I peg you as a lasagna girl.”

“No one pegs me,” she says, and Clint snorts a mouthful of beer.

“Didja get that joke, Capsicle?” Tony says. “Because I'd be happy to --”

“I got it,” Steve says, somewhat grimly. “You put it on an essential list of vocab. As you well know.”

Bucky does not get the joke, and no one explains it to him. He makes a mental note to ask Steve later, if only to watch him squirm, since it seems a squirm-inducing kind of thing.

“Bucky,” Natasha says, in her measured voice. “Would you like something to drink? Soda? Beer?”

“Probably not beer,” Steve says, then glances guiltily at Bucky. “Or, I mean, it's up to you, obviously. I can't get drunk, but you probably can, so you might want to hold off.”

Bucky is quiet, thinking. Beer loosens inhibitions, which is bad when many of your inhibitions pertain to not ripping someone's throat out when a loud noise startles you. However, it is also a depressant, and produces feelings of calm and mellow happiness.

“Lasagna,” he says.

“All right,” Tony says, “not exactly what the lady asked, but duly noted.”

“I mean milk,” he says, flushing.

“Chocolate?” Nat says, with the hint of a smile.

“Yes,” says Bucky defiantly, but no one laughs at him like they laughed at Steve. Good move on their part. And the chocolate milk, to give Steve credit where credit's due, is delicious. He drinks three glasses of it before the food comes. And comes. And comes.

“Wow,” says Bucky, when all the takeout containers are spread across the table in Tony's living room. “This is... excessive.”

It's the first thing he's said in a while, and four pairs of eyes swing his way.

“Well, Captain Chow-down over here is eating for two,” Tony says. “Himself and his biceps. And like I said, why choose when you can have a little of everything?”

Bucky sits back on the couch and lets Steve fill him a plate of heavenly-smelling, cheesy, saucy food, some of which is familiar – macaroni! – some of which is not.

“That's baked ziti,” Steve says. “That's a shrimp scampi. This one's fettuccine alfredo. That one's bolognese. And this little number here, that's the lamb lasagna. Paradise on a fork, Buck, I'm telling you.”

Steve is not wrong.

“You're not wrong,” Bucky tells him. They're sitting side by side, Steve's tree trunk thigh pressed up against Bucky's, and he's struck by how thin he looks next to Steve's bulk, how tightly-wound and small and stealthy. Steve has a hero's body. Bucky has the build of an assassin.

“Did you try the alfredo yet?” Steve says.

He has not, but it's a situation easily remedied.

“Hot diggety dog,” Bucky says, startling Nat into laughter.

“It's not hot dog,” Nat says, “it's alfredo.”

“It's cheese,” Bucky agrees, confused.

“She's just ribbin' you, Buck,” Steve says. “People don't really say hot dog much anymore, unless they're talking about actual hot dogs.”

“What do they say?”

“Holy fuck,” says Tony. “Christ on a crutch. Jesus fucking christ. Shit, son. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Oh my freakin' god. Holy shit. I could go on.”

“No need,” says Clint. “I think Bucky's got it.”

“Fuck god,” Bucky says, and Clint clinks his beer bottle with Bucky's glass of chocolate milk. He's feeling looser already, calmer, and by the time his first plate is cleaned, sauce mopped up with a piece of garlic bread, the tension in his shoulders has dissipated almost completely. He fills himself a new plate under his own steam, goes heavy on the alfredo and lasagna and takes a couple more pieces of bread, and when that's done, he goes back for some of that excellent bolognese. It's just he and Steve eating now, and that makes him happy, for some reason. Like they're in synch, the way he knows they once were.

Except Bucky stalls after plateful number three, and Steve eats two more.

“Christ on a crutch,” Bucky says, patting his full stomach and wincing. “You really do have a super-appetite.”

“It's not fair,” Tony says. “The man could eat twenty-five sticks of butter a day and not gain a pound.”

“You'd want to eat twenty-five sticks of a butter?” Clint says.

“No, but I'd like the option,” Tony says. “My heart is unstable enough as it is without adding pure undiluted lard to the mix. And I already fill out these jeans so very well, I wouldn't want to mess with the equilibrium of ass-to-thigh, you know?”

Bucky looks back at his own thigh, thinks he might not mind messing with that equilibrium a little. He pictures his thigh growing as big around as Steve's, though not with muscle... with something softer. Less dangerous.

“If I weren't a deadly spy, I'd be eating five plates of alfredo, too,” Nat says, stretching.

“Spies don't eat pasta?” Bucky says.

“Next Bond flick,” Tony says. “The Spy Who Ate Pasta.”

“It's harder to fight if you're overweight,” Nat says. Bucky likes how she answers all his questions, takes him seriously, even if she does it with a smirk on her face.

“How much harder?” he wants to know.

“Well,” she says. “That depends on how overweight you are. I mean, imagine a pregnant woman. A belly that big gets in the way. Plus you'd be heavier, slower.”

Bucky looks down at his lap, imagines it full of soft, warm, harmless belly, like a burrito. The thought fills him with a strange sense of warmth, and he touches his own flat stomach with disappointment. Steve catches the gesture, but misinterprets it.

“Don't listen to them, Buck,” Steve says. “Eat whatever you want, don't worry about it.”

But Natasha is staring at him with an interested expression, head cocked, and when he catches her eye, she smiles a little. Like she knows Steve got it wrong and she's commiserating.

“I won't worry,” Bucky says. In fact, he decides, he'll do the opposite. He knows how many calories this body needs to run itself per day, and he knows he's been eating about double those, lately. He's put on much-needed weight... and he thinks he'd like to put on more. Would like to rid himself of this capable, violent body, change himself from a weapon to a person, someone too soft to fight.

He reaches for another piece of garlic bread. Natasha winks at him.

This plan of his, this eating-more-and-being-soft plan, is somewhat impeded by the fact that he is pretty much entirely reliant upon Steve for food. And Steve becomes alarmed when Bucky, the next morning, requests and then attempts to eat an entire box of donuts.

“Hungry this morning, huh?” Steve says, as Bucky devours his fourth (a jelly-filled, which is uncomfortably reminiscent of, well, you know, viscera).

“Uh, Buck? Maybe you wanna slow down there?” he says, as Bucky chews his seventh.

“Hey, whoa, you're gonna make yourself sick again,” Steve says, as Bucky starts panting halfway through donut number nine, and he takes. The donut. Out. Of Bucky's hand.

Bucky has killed men for less than this.

“I'm fine,” he says. It's somewhat unconvincing, since he's also wincing and pressing a hand to his gurgling stomach. These donuts, they're small, but very powerful. “Give it back, Steve.”

“Nuh uh,” Steve says.

“I agree with Tony,” Bucky says. “You are five.”

“I'm still four months older than you,” Steve says. “I know better.”

Bucky changes tactics. “Please?” he says, and borrows Steve's own big-eyed, puppy-dog expression.

“No!” Steve says. Then, “I mean – I don't want to – you're free to – oh, dang, here. But if you puke, it's on you.”

“It won't be on me,” Bucky says. “I have great aim and your toilet is large.”

“Ugh,” Steve says, wrinkling his nose.

And Bucky triumphantly finishes all 12 donuts and does not throw up. It's close, though. He'll never tell Steve how close.

Lunchtime rolls around and Steve gets them some submarine sandwiches, piled high with meat and oil and hot, crispy pickled peppers. Steve gets six for himself, and –

“You only got me one?” Bucky says, peeking in the bag Steve hands him.

“You only ever eat one,” Steve says, mouth already full, looking perplexed.

Not any more, Bucky thinks, but he doesn't want to share his plan with Steve, is embarrassed to speak of it out loud, so he grumpily eats his single sandwich and then stares pointedly as Steve starts in on his fourth.

“I guess I only need five,” Steve sighs, and hands the extra one over. “But jeez, Buck, aren't you still full from that breakfast of yours?”

Yes. “No,” Bucky says, chewing.

After lunch he requires a long nap in a dark room, his belly rumbling unhappily. He can feel that it's swollen, bloated, and although it's painful he also likes how it makes it difficult for him to move quickly. He lies there in the dark, palming his burbling stomach and trying to figure out how he's going to get around Steve and put this plan into real action.

There's only one answer, he knows.

He'll have to leave the tower.

Steve is ecstatic, of course, and practically holds Bucky's hand and sings when they first step out onto the crowded, dirty cement street.

He does hold Bucky's hand. But he doesn't sing.

Or, to be completely honest, Bucky holds his hand, and his arm, and any part of Steve he can reach, because Jesus fucking Christ, New York did not have this many people when he lived here.

“Half of this city should be forcibly removed,” Bucky hisses, clinging to Steve's boulderlike bicep.

“How, exactly?”

Mass annihilation, obviously. “We could, uh, ship them to nice farms in the country. I bet there's plenty of farms need a good hand.”

“You're joking, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky lies, and does his best to not jump out of his skin when a four year-old girl barrels past him. “Steve. I would like to. I want. Get me the fuck out of here.”

The first outside mission lasts two minutes and twelve seconds. Fail.

Dinner is pizza, which is lucky, since Steve is in the habit of ordering about five of them, eating four himself and then putting Bucky's leftovers in the fridge, so he doesn't even really notice that Bucky's munched his way through nearly one entire pepperoni pizza until Bucky lets out an accidental moan around slice number 8.

“Jesus,” Steve yelps. “I told you, man, you can't try and keep up with me!”

“You have four pizzas,” Bucky wheezes. “I think I can --” he pauses to emit a deep, uncomfortable belch, “-- think I can handle one.”

“Doesn't look like it to me,” Steve says.

“Ye of little faith,” Bucky says, and leans forward to grab his ninth slice, though the motion is quite painful for his stuffed, tight belly. Two slices to go. He can do this. He can. He can.

He can't. He emits defeat with just one slice to go, and that's okay, because by his calculations he's already eaten roughly three times the number of calories he needs, and that ain't nothing. His stomach is bulging with food, and when he staggers into his bedroom he spends a moment in front of the mirror admiring the lump, picturing it even bigger, picturing it softer and more permanent, instead of rock-hard and temporary. When it's permanent, he reasons, it won't hurt so fucking much. Because – owwwww.

He cradles his belly as he falls asleep, hiccuping a little, feeling sorry for himself but also proud. He wishes Steve would come in and rub his belly for him. Is that something he could ask of Steve? Would it be weird? It would be weird.

It would be awesome.

The next day, after an unsatisfactory breakfast of one single five-egg omelet, six pieces of toast, and Steve squawking at him for using an entire stick of butter, Bucky ventures up into the common space, alone for the first time. Steve is giggling about some felines on the internet, and he doesn't notice Bucky slipping out and up the stairs with one of Steve's camo duffle bags.

No one is in the kitchen, luckily, and he moves quickly through the cabinets, dumping anything snacklike he finds: bags of chips, boxes of cookies, boxes of cake mix (why not), sleeves of crackers, bars of chocolate, bags of –

“Are we being robbed?”

The next thing Bucky knows, he's got Natasha pinned against the wall, his metal hand at her throat, and then her leg is coming up and he's being kicked right where it hurts and he's dropping to his knees.

“Oof,” he says, when he's verbal again. “Sorry. Shit. You. You startled me.”

“My bad,” she says, rubbing her neck, and he hangs his head. This. This is why he needs the food. “Hey, I'm all right,” she says. “No harm done.” She peers around his shoulder at the duffle bag lying splayed open on the floor. “I stand by my previous question, however. Are you robbing us?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Carry on, then,” Natasha says, stepping delicately around the duffle so she can get at the coffeemaker on the countertop. She's wearing tight black pants and an even tighter black tank top that would probably have caused a reaction in Past-Bucky. Present-Bucky is not entirely immune either, to be honest.

“Steve has no snacks,” Bucky tells her.

“A travesty!” she says. Then, “You can just come up here and eat, if you're hungry. You don't have to sneak around like an assassin.”

“Um,” he says.

“Joke,” she says.

“Right.”

“Whatever's in this kitchen is fair game,” she says. “Tony keeps it stocked for us, bless his strung-out heart. If you have any requests, just write them on this whiteboard.” She gestures to a bright white thing stuck to the fridge.

Tentatively, Bucky gathers up his duffle bag and takes it to the kitchen table, lowering himself down on a chair. He extracts a bag of Oreos and opens the package, keeping one eye on Natasha. He stuffs a cookie in his mouth.

“Want some milk with that?” she asks, without turning around.

“Mmf,” Bucky says. “Yes?”

“It's in the fridge,” she says. “Glasses are in this cabinet.”

Bucky pours himself a glass and, after a moment's hesitation, “How do I make it chocolate?”

She shows him the plastic spout of chocolate sauce, and he goes back to his Oreos. A few minutes later Natasha comes to sit across from him with her cup of coffee, and they attend to their respective snacks in companionable silence, Bucky methodically demolishing the package of Oreos, refilling his glass of chocolate milk once when it runs out. He's getting pretty full, his breakfast seeming maybe not so small after all, but he keeps going.

“Impressive,” Natasha says, raising one slim eyebrow. “You've got quite an appetite.”

“I have quite an appetite,” Bucky repeats, because it seems like a phrase that'll come in handy later. “Yeah,” he says. “That's right. I do. What do you wanna make of it?”

She puts up both her little hands and smiles. “Nothing at all.” She rises, then, taking her coffee with her, though she pauses at the door and looks over her shoulder at him. “There's a ton of ice cream in the freezer,” she says, and then she's gone.

Good to know.

So Bucky's days go like this. He has most of his meals with Steve or the whole gang, eats as much as he can get away with without disturbing Steve, and then three or four times a day, he heads upstairs for a snack. He tells Steve he's “exploring,” and “re-conditioning himself for social interaction,” and they both agree it's best he learn to do such things alone, so Steve stays out of his way. The look of pride he gives Bucky whenever Bucky leaves makes him feel a little guilty, but not enough to stop him. The kitchen is empty more often than not, but he usually runs into someone else about once a day.

Doctor Banner comes in about midway through the first week, and pauses in the doorway to adjust his glasses, peering at Bucky with interest.

“Sargent Barnes,” he says.

“Bucky,” Bucky says.

“Bucky,” he says. “Of course. I'm Bruce. The, uh...”

“The Hulk,” Bucky supplies.

“Yes. Him.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Bucky says, because he's not without manners. Then, “I'm eating hot dogs.”

Bruce eyes Bucky's plate of five hot dogs, neatly bunned and ketchupped. “I noticed.”

“Want one?” Bucky says.

“Thanks,” Bruce says, “but I just came in for some tea.”

Bucky takes a swig of his chocolate milk, stifles a burp, takes a bite of his hot dog. His belly pulses in protest. This is his after-lunch snack, and lunch was an eggplant parmesan sub and half a medium pizza. He's... struggling, to be honest. But nothing he can't handle. He has some more chocolate milk. Finishes his second hot dog. Quietly allows himself a few more burps.

“Would you like some tea?” Bruce says. “Peppermint. It's very... soothing.”

Soothing sounds nice. And peppermint aids digestion, Bucky's memory supplies. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”

He finishes his chocolate milk and pushes the empty glass aside in favor of the steaming mug Bruce sets in front of him. “It's nice,” he says.

“I find it calms me,” Bruce says. “And I need all the calm I can get.”

“I understand,” Bucky says, and Bruce slips him half a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I imagine you do.”

“This calms me,” Bucky says, gesturing to the hot dogs. It's the first time he's admitted it to anybody, and he's curious to see how Bruce reacts.

“It's good to have something,” is what Bruce says, and Bucky grins at him.

“It is good,” he says.

Bucky requests ice cream on the whiteboard nearly every day. He likes to sneak pints up to his room to eat before bed, and if they melt, so much the better. Easier to get them down. He just writes “ICE CREAM,” doesn't specify the flavor, but whoever does the shopping likes to shake things up, and he's tried more kinds than he ever thought could be possible. Salted caramel, brownie sundae, peanut-butter rice krispie treat, cookie dough... He starts looking forward to the moment of opening the freezer and seeing what's in store for his tastebuds today.

His capacity is growing, he notices. He can eat a whole pizza now, no problem, and three burritos is a walk in the park. A very full, gassy walk in the park, but still, he can get them down without being sick like he was that first time. And his appetite's not the only thing that's growing. His jeans are getting snug, the waistband restricting his stomach, the zipper harder and harder to do up each morning. And his shirts, which are all the same, seven fitted black crew-necks that Steve picked out for him and that he washes once a week, are getting a little tighter. When he looks in the mirror he can see the faint press of his belly against the fabric, and when he sits they get even tighter, especially at the end of the day. He can see the effects of his eating as his belly bloats outwards throughout the day, and by bedtime each night, his belly is noticeable even to the casual observer.

Steve is a casual observer.

He can see Steve watching him as he plows through two cheeseburgers and then leans back in his chair, huffing a little, patting his belly until he jostles a few satisfying belches from its depths. Can see Steve stare as he tugs his shirt down at the end of a big meal. Can feel Steve's eyes on him as he tries in vain to adjust his pants and then gives up, undoing the button with a sigh of relief.

He goes to bed each night with a bloated, gurgling belly, and each night he wishes Steve would come in and put his hands on the swollen mass, massage Bucky's poor stomach with those strong, capable hands, all his superhero strength put aside in favor of gentleness. At first when Bucky palms his cock he's clumsy with it, unused to touching himself, but he gets better with practice, and soon jerking off becomes as much a part of his daily routine as ice cream. It doesn't mean anything that he thinks of Steve as he does it; he's just around the guy all day, what do you expect? He imprinted or something. No big deal. Nothing to think about. (Stop thinking about it, Bucky, christ.)

Steve, for all his staring, says nothing. He starts to a few times, Bucky thinks, like when they're all gathered in the common room for Thai food and Bucky's polished off seven chicken satay skewers, two orders of coconut curry and two cartons of white rice, and is leaned back against the leather couch cushions, fidgeting a little from how full he is.

“Had enough?” Steve says.

Bucky lets out a low hiccup in response.

“Oh, you super-soldiers and your speedy metabolisms,” Natasha says.

“Bucky doesn't have my metabolism,” Steve says.

“We've noticed,” says Tony, and when Steve shoots him a warning glare he puts his hands up, shrugging and smirking. Bucky pretends not to notice the exchange, but it gives him a funny zing of pleasure to think that other people can see the effects of his hard work.

The doctor comes back to check on Bucky about six weeks after his last check-up, and looks gratifyingly startled with Bucky takes his shirt off in the exam room. Steve isn't present this time, since Bucky's been deemed stable enough to be left alone, though the doctor is equipped with an emergency button that will bring all the forces of Tony's security down on Bucky if need be. It's a comfort to both of them, Bucky thinks.

“You've put on some weight, I see,” the doctor says, so blunt that Bucky's toes curl in delight.

“Have I?” he says.

The doctor gives him a stern look over the tops of his glasses. “Judging by the state of your pants, I'd say you're well aware that you have.”

Bucky's jeans gave up the ghost a few days ago, and he's been fastening them with a rubber band. So far the doctor's the only one to notice.

“Maybe,” Bucky concedes, laying a hand on the side of his stomach. It's definitely rounder, definitely softer, though it's nowhere near close to sitting in his lap the way he wishes for. It mounds out from under his pecs, though, enough that the curve is visible under a t-shirt. Recently Bucky's noticed that the outline of his belly button is revealing itself through his shirts, too.

“Well, let's find out the damage,” the doctor says, and Bucky steps obediently on the scale, waiting as the doctor tips the little metal thing this way and that. “One ninety seven,” he says. “That's a gain of twenty-eight pounds since I last saw you. Twenty-eight pounds in six weeks, Mr. Barnes, not to mention a loss of muscle tone. Quite a lot of weight in quite a short time.”

“Thank you,” Bucky grins, but then realizes it wasn't, of course, meant as a compliment, and stutters, “uh, I mean – oops?”

“For your height of six feet, ideally you won't want to gain much more weight.”

Ideally – ha ha. Whose ideals? Not Bucky's.

“I would expect that your metabolism might be a bit sluggish,” the doctor continues, “since you did go through a period of caloric deficit, so just maintain healthy eating habits and try not to be too concerned.”

“I'll try not to be,” Bucky says.

“I could speak with Steven about an exercise regime, if you'd like.”

“No thank you,” says Bucky, as firmly as he can, and the doctor drops it, doesn't say anything else about his weight for the rest of the examination. Steve's hovering outside the door, trying and failing not to seem like a nervous auntie, and to Bucky's gratitude, the doctor says nothing about his weight.

“Everything looks excellent,” he says. “I'm pleased with his progress, and you both should be, too. Physically, he's cleared for... anything he might care to do.”

“Thank you,” Steve says sincerely, shaking the doctor's hand, and when he leaves he turns to Bucky with a blinding smile and says, “We should celebrate.”

“Should we?” says Bucky.

“What if we...” Steve pauses, chews on his lower lip, then plunges ahead. “What if we went out to dinner? We could call ahead, clear the place out, take one of Tony's cars straight there. It'd be just like having dinner in the tower, but with a few more steps in between. You think you might want to try that?”

Bucky thinks for a moment. He's been calm lately, and dinner means food, which means even more calm. And it sounds... appealing. To sit across from Steve in a quiet restaurant.

“I think it might be in the realm of possibility,” Bucky says, and Steve rewards him with another sunbeam smile.

“Awesome,” he says. “I'll text the others and rally everyone together.”

Text the – wait, what? What about their quiet dinner? What about candlelight? Why so social, Steve? Why?

“Sounds great,” Bucky says, resigned.

They end up at a steakhouse on the top floor of a massive building, the lights of New York flickering far below them. Tony's there, and Nat, and Bruce, and Clint, and a small robot, and you may as well have invited the entire Bronx, Steve.

“A toast,” Tony says, and raises his glass. “To the continued health and well-being of everyone's favorite patricidal assassin.”

“Tony,” Steve snaps.

“Oh, all right,” Tony says. “To everyone's favorite monosyllabic binge-eating recluse.”

“Jeez,” Steve complains, but everyone raises their glass anyhow. Bucky's been served about an inch of white wine, and he swallows it down quickly, gives Steve a beseeching little glance and pokes his glass pointedly until Steve sighs and pours him a little more, almost a proper serving.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, and they all look at him, expectant. Is he supposed to make a speech? He smooths his t-shirt down over his rubber-banded jeans and clears his throat. “Appetizers for the table?” he says.

After enjoying some artichoke and parmesan dip, barbecued shrimp, veal osso bucco ravioli and about five fluffy white dinner rolls slathered in butter, Bucky orders the biggest steak on the menu, a 20 oz porterhouse with blue cheese mashed potatoes and creamed spinach.

“And a side of french fries, please,” he adds.

“Buck, your steak comes with potatoes,” Steve says.

“I know that,” Bucky says, but then relents. “A side of onion rings, then,” he says. “And some more bread.”

Steve, the hypocrite, orders three steaks. Bucky watches jealously as the waiter brings them all out on three different plates, wishing he had the ability to eat three gigantic servings of beef at a time, but the truth is he's got his hands full with just the one. He alternates between steak and sides, trying to trick his body into believing he's eating in moderation, and thank goodness Nat keeps pouring him more wine, because the alcohol does wonders to numb his belly a little. He checks himself to see if his lowered inhibitions will translate to his steak knife turning on something a little more alive, but he feels mellow, content, and totally disinclined to stab anyone.

Across from him, Clint's gotten a whole lobster, and gives Bucky – and, circumstantially, the whole table – a very detailed tour of how to dissect and consume each and every morsel from the hot red shell. He gives Bucky a buttery piece of the claw in exchange for a bite of steak, and Bucky nearly swoons. Next time, a lobster and a steak. He saw it on the menu.

“Surf and turf,” Clint tells him. “America's contribution to middlebrow foodies everywhere.”

“Foodie?” Bucky says.

“Slang,” Clint says. “Someone who's really into food.”

“Someone who posts pictures of their meals on Instagram,” Natasha says, and Bruce guiltily lowers his camera.

“I'm really into food,” Bucky says. “So I'm a... foodie?”

Clint coughs a laugh. “Guess it's not just liking food. It's liking food as a hobby. Reading magazines about food, reading all the restaurant reviews, taking cooking classes, wine tasting, all that shit.”

“Steve,” Bucky realizes. “Steve's a foodie.”

“Tony's the foodie,” Steve says defensively. “He's obsessed with gourmet cuisine.”

“That makes me a goddamn gourmand,” Tony says. “You, sir, are the foodie. It's a class thing. Make a couple million and then we'll talk about moving you up in the food-appreciation chain.”

Bucky, meanwhile, has been mentally repeating the word “foodie” over and over to himself, and has begun giggling helplessly.

“What?” Steve says, looking over at him, all bright interest and encouragement, so ready to share the joke, and Bucky laughs even harder, though laughing is a bit painful given how full he's getting.

“Foodie,” Bucky snorts. “Foodie. Foodie doodle do.”

“Uh,” Steve says, looking nervous, and places a giant, careful hand on Bucky's metal arm. “Are you --”

“Relax,” Natasha said. “He had like a whole bottle of wine.”

“What!” Steve yelps.

“S'okay, Stevie,” Bucky says. “I'm not gonna start a brawl. 'Cept with this steak. C'mere, you.” He forks his second-to-last bite and stuffs it in his mouth. Gives Steve a full-cheeked, close-mouthed smile, and watches him relax a little, shake his dumb blond head.

“Well,” Steve says, “I guess you are over eighteen,” and he and Bucky snicker at each other for a second.

“Drinking age is twenty-one now,” Natasha says mildly.

And Steve gets outraged and distracted enough that Bucky sneaks his fork over and steals a couple chunks of his second steak, hides them inside a bread roll with a few onion rings and settles back in his chair to give his stomach some room while he enjoys his little sandwich. It'd be good with some mustard.

“Maybe I should take a cooking class,” Bucky says, and hiccups a little, palming the stretched-out side of his full belly.

“You'd have to leave the tower for that,” Tony says.

“I could leave the tower,” Bucky says, gulping wine. “I'm leaving it right this very minute.” And he could, he thinks. With a big enough fortifying snack beforehand. “If you lend me your driver. I don't want... maybe no subways. Or busses. Or walking.”

“Of course we'll lend you our driver,” Steve says excitedly. “We could take a class together! I've been dying to learn how to cook Indian curry, I mean properly cook it, toast all those amazing spices with unpronounceable names and --”

“Our driver?” Tony says. “Our?”

“That sounds fun,” Bucky says to Steve. It will be better with Steve there. Less dangerous. Less scary.

“I'll sign us up tomorrow!” Steve says, and if he gets any smilier Bucky's going to have to look away. He doesn't want to look away.

“Bucky,” Natasha says, and pats the underside of her chin. Oh. Right. Bucky closes his stuffed-full mouth and tears his eyes away from smiley Steve, finishes his steak-stuffed dinner roll and stares at his empty plate. He is. Extremely full. His stomach is very firm to the touch, and his t-shirt has ridden up along the crest of his belly, wrinkling beneath his pecs. He touches the underside of it where it's bulged out above his waistband, hiding the rubber band, and he wonders how much more he'll have to eat to get it to settle down and rest atop his legs.

He glances over at Steve's hand, all strong and enormous and curled around a fork as he starts in on his third steak (so jealous). What Bucky would like most in the world, even more than being able to eat three steaks in one sitting, would be for Steve to drop his fork and reach over and splay that big hand on the roundest part of Bucky's achingly full belly. He wouldn't even have to do anything, he could just leave it there and keep eating. Bucky wriggles a little in his chair. He can practically feel the phantom weight of Steve's square palm and calloused fingers, warm, resting.

“While Beefsteak finishes his beefsteak, should we do another bottle of wine?” Tony asks.

“Dessert,” Bucky says. “Obviously.”

“You're not too full?” Steve says.

“Hell no,” Bucky says, though that statement is belied by the slightly agonized burp he doesn't quite suppress in time. “Sorry,” he says, wincing, fingers prodding his rigid stomach.

Bucky gets something called a molten lava cake with vanilla ice cream, which turns out to be a beautiful disaster of gooey chocolate and buttercream. It's large. Very large. And by the time he's cleaned the last bit of chocolate sauce from his plate (and the corners of his mouth), he can't hide how shallowly he's breathing, how he's stuffed so full his stomach has encroached on his lungs and he's forced to take little wheezy sips of air, punctuated by hissy, deeply unsatisfying burps that he can't stifle.

When they stand to leave, Bucky's stuffed gut sloshes audibly and starts making a sound like a creaky wooden door, and he puts a hand flat over his belly button, trying to soothe the churning depths below.

“I like the button situation you've got going on,” Tony says, waving a hand at Bucky's crotch region. “Very MacGyver. Not the height of fashion, maybe, but still, commendable effort.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, staring at the stretched rubber-band that's holding Bucky's pants together. “You, uh... you need new pants.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, too full for conversation. “Can we talk about it later? Like, when I'm lying flat?”

“Yes,” Steve says, still staring. “Yes, we can, um, we'll talk about it later.”

The car ride back is a blur of passing lights and soft conversation and the rumbles of Bucky's complaining belly, which he has cradled in both hands to try and minimize the pain of potholes. In Steve's quarters, he stumbles straight into his bedroom and stretches himself out on the bed, belly up, and rips off the rubber band so he can unzip his jeans and get a little goddamn room. He feels a slight breeze on the poking-out underside of his tummy as Steve opens the door and comes to sit at Bucky's side.

“God,” Steve murmurs. “You're... you...”

“I'm really fucking full,” Bucky says.

“Does it – um, does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, and then, in the spirit of honesty, “in a good way.”

“Why didn't you tell me you needed new pants?”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Was embarrassed. Plus, I didn't want a lecture.”

“Shit,” Steve says. “I'm sorry.”

Bucky opens his eyes again. “What for?”

“For... for making you think you couldn't come to me. For making you feel embarrassed about asking for something you need. For being such a nag. I'm just – I worry about you, you know?”

“I know,” says Bucky, and taps his overfull stomach. “But this? This isn't something you should worry about.”

“You just, you've really been eating a lot lately, and I want to be sure it's not some kind of...” Steve winces, but presses onwards. “Some kind of emotional reaction. I don't like the thought of you hurting yourself.”

Bucky gives this a moment's thought, because it is, in theory, an emotional reaction. From the depths of his heart, he does not want his body to be strong, and fit, and lean, and knife-like, sharp, violent, deadly. But he thinks Steve means this differently.

“I'm happy,” Bucky says, and it's not a lie. “I eat because I feel great, not because I feel crummy. So – don't crack up about it, all right?”

“Okay,” Steve says, “okay, I won't.”

And for a moment they just sit there quietly, Bucky breathing heavily beneath the weight of his stuffed belly, which is still doing the creaky-wood sound every so often. He works out a deep belch and when his stomach responds with a loud gurgle, Steve makes this little move with his hand, like he's going to –

is he going to –

oh god –

his hand is –

Steve puts his palm right on Bucky's stomach, and Bucky nearly passes out with happiness.

“Is this --” Steve starts.

“It feels good,” Bucky says, “it feels so fucking good.”

And Steve leaves his hand there for a moment. It's everything Bucky's been dreaming of, the wide solid warmth of it, the slight press of Steve's amazing fingertips, and just when he thought it couldn't get any better, Steve starts to rub. Tentatively at first, just a few gentle circles with his palm, but then he starts getting into it, and his fantastic hand travels the whole circumference of Bucky's tummy, from the top and all the way down around, working in slow, concentric circles towards Bucky's belly button, firm and smooth, except when his hand snags on Bucky's t-shirt and Steve has to stop and straighten it out.

Bucky does everything in his power not to thrust his hips, his hard cock seeking some kind of friction, but luckily – painfully – it's being kept down by his too-tight jeans, and Steve doesn't notice, just keeps rubbing, his thumb trailing across the tight drum.

Too soon, he says, “Good night, Buck,” and gives his belly one final pat before removing his remarkable hand and closing the door quietly behind him.

Bucky gives it a solid sixty seconds before shoving down his jeans and boxers and getting himself off with a gasp and a grunt and a white-hot flash of ecstasy that is almost as blinding as Steve's smile.

Steve, ever steadfast and true to his word, has several pairs of jeans delivered to the tower the next day, and Bucky selects the largest size even though they're baggy as hell. He fully anticipates to end that state of affairs as soon as possible, and meanwhile threads a belt through them. Steve has also taken the liberty of ordering seven new black crew-neck shirts in the next size up, and Bucky admires himself in the mirror for a while, wondering how long it will be before his belly button will be visible through them. He stands sideways in front of the mirror and pushes his stomach out as far as possible, remembering Nat's description of a pregnant woman, and then holds his hand out experimentally to see how many inches he'll need before his belly starts really getting in the way. He estimates four or five, which is not much, and certainly a fun new goal.

“You look great,” Steve says when Bucky comes into the kitchen to model. “Those pants are a little big, though.”

“They're comfy,” Bucky shrugs, and then grins when he sees the breakfast Steve's prepared for them. A huge stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a bowl of whipped cream, a shitload of bacon, and a casserole dish full of eggs and sausage and covered in gooey cheddar cheese. Plus a pitcher of chocolate milk and two tall glasses. God, he loves living with a guy who needs so much food. Makes his own goals so much easier to attain.

But it's not just Steve's own appetite that's prompted him to cook so much. Something has shifted between them since last night – Bucky can feel it. For the first time, Steve serves Bucky just as much as he serves himself, and maybe even a little more. He gives him a plate with a huge stack of pancakes and whipped cream and at least twelve slices of bacon, and then fills an enormous bowl to the brim with the cheesy egg mixture, tops it off with an enormous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of chives. Both dishes are absolutely heaping, a veritable mountain of food.

So much it's almost... almost as if Steve is challenging him.

“Tuck in,” Steve says, and Bucky tucks. They're quiet, both focused on breakfast, and of course Steve finishes first and helps himself to more, but we can't all be super-chewers, Steve, so Bucky doesn't let himself get jealous, just concentrates on his own food. He counts the pancakes as he eats them, and feels utter pride when his fork scrapes the plate after pancake number eleven, but his relief is short-lived, because as soon as the last bite is gone, Steve puts another six pancakes on his plate without looking at him, and tops them with another mound of whipped cream.

It's been awhile since he's left food on his plate, but he nearly admits defeat this morning. There's still pancakes and cream swimming around in the lake of syrup, and still at least six bites of cheddary, sausagey eggs in his bowl, but he's already rock-hard (in the belly, not the nethers, though he's a little excited down there, too, to be honest). He presses on his stomach experimentally, and there is almost no give to it. He can barely make a dent with his fingers.

He sucks in a painful breath and give his tummy a few heart pats, trying to shake up a good belch, and he's rewarded with a huge, brassy burp that has Steve nearly snorting chocolate milk out his nose.

“Was that your body?” Steve says. “Sounded like a horn.”

“All, me,” Bucky pants, and picks up his bowl of eggs, brings it to his mouth so he doesn't have to lean over the table and put undue pressure on his hugely stuffed gut. He hasn't ever been so full in his life, never, and he has Steve to thank for it. What did he do to deserve him?

He doesn't realize he's said this last out loud until Steve says, “You've taken care of me my whole life, Buck. Least I can do is return the favor.”

Bucky glances up to see Steve's big baby blues get damp, and he says, “No mushy stuff, Captain.” He herks another big burp. “Not until,” he takes a breath, “I finish these eggs.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says, blinking hard, the big softie, and then he says, “Oh! And I signed us up for a cooking class. Once a week at the culinary institute. Thursdays. Tony's driver will take us, if you're still interested.”

“Swell,” Bucky says, grinning. “Can't wait.”

Steve, Bucky realizes on Thursday, is fully in cahoots now, whether he knows it or not. He's been feeding Bucky vast quantities of food, hasn't made a single comment about being full or not keeping up or taking it slow, but the clincher comes during their first cooking class. It's a nice set-up – they'll spend all evening cooking, and then sit down to a meal at the end.

“I'd like to pay for enough materials for six people,” Steve tells the teacher at the beginning of that first class, “since my friend and I will be tripling the recipe each night.”

“Ah, you'd like to take some home to your family?” she says.

“No ma'am,” Steve says. “We'll eat it here.”

She's a pretty little woman, maybe early thirties, in a bright pink sari that pleases Bucky's eye, and she gets a bit pink herself, and sweetly flustered trying to dissuade him.

“It's a three-course meal, you see,” she says. “Appetizers, main, and dessert. Quite a lot of food! Plus all you can drink. I don't think --”

“So how much will it be?” Steve says, taking out his wallet. “You can charge it to Steve Rogers. Captain Steve Rogers.”

Her eyes go wide, then, and she stares at him full in the face before dragging her eyes down his body, taking in the circumference of his biceps, the furrow of his abs beneath his tight white shirt. “Captain,” she breathes. “Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't – of course, six people, no problem.”

“Cute dame,” Bucky comments as they take their place at their little black table, kitchen instruments shining before them.

“I hate pulling the Captain America card,” Steve mutters. “But sometimes it just works.”

That night, Bucky and Steve have, as promised, three times as much food as the other nine participants. Bucky can feel people staring at their overloaded plates as they all gather round the table, and he meets everyone's eyes, smiling, until they glance politely away. They all toast to good food, and then start eating.

Most people have two samosa per person, but Bucky and Steve, of course, each have six. Their chicken tikka doesn't fit in the one small pot provided, so they each have their own pot of it. Their rice fills the big bowl and rises over the top, and while the others eat their rice pudding out of delicate glass dessert flutes, Bucky and Steve eat theirs out of soup bowls. They drink endless cups of sweet, creamy chai.

It is so. Much. Food.

Three fourths of the way through, Bucky is in some serious discomfort. His stomach is stretched tight as a tick, so bloated and aching, and he can feel his belly gently pressing up against his new, loose shirt. He chugs some chai, trying to work up a discreet belch, and tucks his flesh hand underneath the table to press on his belly.

Steve nudges him with one clifflike shoulder.

“Keep pace, Buck,” he says, very quietly. “Don't want teach to say I-told-you-so if you can't finish your meal.”

For some reason, Bucky's cock gives a happy little twitch at these words, and he starts shoveling his food in with renewed determination.

A little while later, as Bucky is choking down delicious mouthfuls of creamy white rice pudding, red-faced and wheezing, Steve says, again very quietly, “Almost there. Just a few more bites, pal. Pack it in, I know you've got room. You're doing great.”

By the end, Bucky can barely walk out of the room and down to the car, and Steve leads him with one attentive hand on Bucky's back. They both sit in the back of Tony's limo, and Bucky reclines as much as possible and lets his stomach mound out in front of him, pulsing a little with the shock of so much food. He digs his knuckles into his bloated sides, pets the almost-bursting crest of his belly, and then, miracle of miracles, Steve's hand joins his.

Steve isn't looking at him, is gazing out the window, but his hand is deliberate and firm, patting and rubbing the bloated dome. “Just a few more minutes, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Then we can get you into bed.”

Bucky doesn't bother putting on pajamas, just strips off his jeans and sprawls out in his boxers, and again Steve sits beside him and strokes his distended gut. The bedroom is dark, just the soft yellow glow of Bucky's bedside lamp, and he finds himself falling into a sated lull, Steve's hand keeping up its rhythmic path. After a while, though, his fingers crawl down to Bucky's boxers and tuck into the waistband, pulling a little, and his forehead creases.

“These are way too tight,” he says. “God, they're leaving marks in you. Think you've outgrown all your clothes, Buck.”

And at this, Bucky's body betrays him, and his dick makes his excitement evident. Completely. Impossible to miss.

“Um,” Steve says, pink rising to his cheeks, and Bucky doesn't know what to say.

“Um,” Bucky agrees.

“Do you,” Steve says, and clears his throat. “I could, uh, I could take care of this for you. If you. If you want.”

Has Bucky died and gone to heaven? Is this paradise? Does god exist?

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes, please.”

Steve rolls Bucky's too-tight boxers down, and Bucky lifts his hips so Steve can shuck them completely. He starts at Bucky's stretched belly button and drags his hand downward before grabbing onto Bucky's already leaking cock, and Bucky can't help himself, he groans a little and bucks his hips upwards into Steve's strong touch.

“I gotcha,” Steve murmurs, and places his other hand on Bucky's belly, starts a rhythm with both hands, on dick and stomach, and it is the single greatest feeling Bucky has ever felt. He groans again, hips thrusting, and Steve increases the speed, increases the pressure, thumb swiping over dick head and belly button, super-dextrous and super-strong and super-gentle and fucking insanely hot jesus fucking christ holy shit holy mackerel hot hot hot dog –

“Are you crying?” Steve says a second later.

“I, what, no,” Bucky says, wiping his streaming eyes. “You're just. You're just so, so good at that.”

Steve puts his come-sticky hand on Bucky's stomach, and his clean hand comes to rest, ever so gently, on Bucky's cheek. He lowers his head a little, then clears his throat. “Can I,” he says, but Bucky grabs the back of his head and crushes their mouths together before he gets the question out, and it's so good, so good, and suddenly Steve's on top of him, straddling the hard bloat of his stomach and grinding his super-cock onto Bucky's thigh and his mouth is so right, so hot, so perfect, and his hand is in Bucky's long hair, and he's letting out these sweet little moans, and he's shaking and gasping and –

Bucky's bare thigh is suddenly slightly damp.

“Oh my god,” Steve says, his mouth muffled from where it's pressed into Bucky's neck. He's lying, boneless, on top of Bucky, and Bucky's stomach gives a terrified gurgle of protest. Steve rolls onto his back. Looks down at himself, at his fully-clothed body and the stain spreading across his pants.

“You creamed your jeans,” Bucky says, so delighted he can barely speak. “Tony's wrong. You're not five. You're not eighty. You're thirteen.”

Steve throws a muscly forearm over his eyes and says, “It's been awhile.”

“I bet,” Bucky says, and heaves himself onto his side, throws an arm around Steve's trim waist. “And this... this has been a long time coming.”

Steve looks at him, then, and his eyes are even bluer this close up. He still has the light smattering of freckles he's always had, peppered across his nose and cheeks and only there if you know how to look for them. Bucky knows how to look.

He kisses Steve, trying to put as much gentleness into it as Steve's shown him.

“I love that you creamed your jeans,” he says, and okay, it's not the most romantic line he's ever delivered, but he's post-orgasm, himself, and still hazy with fullness, and Steve's eyes crinkle up so wonderfully when he laughs. “I love,” Bucky tries, and swallows. “Um.”

“Yeah, um,” Steve says. “Me too, Buck. Me too.”

Nothing really changes between them, except now they fuck all the time, and when Bucky's sitting on the couch eating ice cream, Steve comes and throws an arm around him and presses himself as close as possible and starts nuzzling Bucky's neck. He is, to nobody's surprise, a cuddler. Whenever they're alone, Steve is about as close as physics will allow. He drapes himself across Bucky's back when Bucky stands at the counter eating peanut butter, puts his head on Bucky's shoulder when they're eating popcorn and watching movies, and at night he curls around Bucky and grows like eight more limbs to hold him with, his hands everywhere, his thick arms holding Bucky down in the best way. They eat dinner on the same side of the table, now, Steve's leg pressed up against his, his hand on Bucky's knee, and sometimes, when Bucky starts hiccuping and wheezing, on his belly.

Steve also likes to express his love through food. He starts baking, and will come to where Bucky's sprawled on the couch, take the last bite of Bucky's candy bar away and replace it with a plate of hot, gooey brownies. Sometimes he'll feed Bucky with his own hands, bite by bite for hours until an entire carrot cake has disappeared and Bucky's too breathless to make out.

Soon enough, Bucky's new black crew-necks start straining. His belly shoves up against the fabric and pulls it tight, his belly button making its appearance through the cloth and the sphere of his stomach framed by the too-tight shirt. They start riding slowly upwards, shoulders pulling them out, chest filling them tight, even the necks and sleeves start pinching a little. He's fully covered in the morning, but by the end of the night, when he's been stuffed full all day, his lower belly comes out to say hello, a pale inch of swollen skin, touched here-and-there with growing stretchmarks that Steve strokes his fingers over.

They don't tell the team they've started – doing whatever it is they're doing – but one night soon after their first encounter, they're sitting in Tony's living room eating pizza, and Steve loads up a plate to pass to Bucky. Bucky takes it, and meets Steve's eyes to smile his thanks.

That's literally all that happens, Steve passing Bucky a plate while they look at one another, but Tony slaps his knee and says, “Fifty bucks, Clint!”

Clint sighs, digs out his wallet and passes over a fifty. Explains to Bucky, “I thought it'd take you a year, at least. Captain America's a notorious prude.”

“Wait,” Steve says, “what?”

“Oh, don't play innocent with me,” Tony says. “You army boys, all the same, homoeroticism coming out your ears.”

“No,” says Steve, “uh, it's not,” but he gives up pretty quick and ducks his head, smiling a little.

“What can I say?” Bucky says, leaning back and trying to balance the plate of pizza on his stomach, but he's not there yet. “I'm irresistible.”

Comments about his weight gain were sporadic at first, but as his gut surges forward and he has to swap his shirts for the next size up again, they start coming fast and hard.

Natasha doesn't say anything, just pats his stomach as she passes him on his way to the kitchen and gives him a wink, but Clint and Tony tease him non-stop, each in their own way. Clint quietly, and Tony with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

“Here,” Clint will say, passing him a beer. “Put that in the keg.” Or he'll greet everyone else without speaking to Bucky, then feign surprise and say, “Oh, hey Bucky. Sorry, thought you were a pillow.”

Tony, for his part, starts calling him Belly Barnes.

Bucky has to admit, his belly has quickly become his most prominent feature. It's getting... well, it's getting quite large. It's finally begun sitting on his lap, just a little at first, an overlap at the top of his thighs, but it moves forward over the months, inch by inch. He's constantly tugging his shirts down or trying to adjust his pants, and by the time their six-week Indian cooking class has concluded and they've moved on to French cuisine, his formerly-loose new jeans are practically skin-tight around his spreading ass, and his love handles lap over the top and crush the waistband down uncomfortably. He has to unbutton around lunchtime, leaning back in order to get at the button, and then he's unbuttoning at breakfast, and then that's it, he breaks a belt loop trying to yank them up over his thighs.

His new pants are a little roomy, but, he promises himself, not for long.

His back starts hurting a little, and Steve finds him in the kitchen one day, one hand pressing into his lower back as he leans to get the weight off. He's eating cheesecake.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve says. “You look like you're about to pop. When's the baby coming?”

Bucky looks down at his round gut, heavy but still so perky, and grins. “Next month?”

“Nah,” Steve says. “I'd give it two. You look about seven months along, I'd say.”

Just a few weeks later, Bucky's unbuttoning his jeans after dinner, and he finds he can't just lean back to access his button anymore. He has to lean back and push his belly out of the way with one hand, fumbling for the button with the other. It really is heavy, and it drags him down pleasantly. Sometimes when he's really stuffed and has to stand for some ungodly reason, he puts a fist beneath his gut and pushes upwards, takes some of the pressure and weight away. His tummy sits full-on in his lap now, mounding up hugely and curving out from under his rounder pecs, and he finds it gets to be more comfortable to spread his legs a little, let his stomach have a little extra space, though as his thighs chunk up he has to spread them wider to give the belly that much-needed room.

The four or five inches he estimated, standing in front of the mirror all those months ago, have come, and brought a friend or two. His stomach is definitely getting in his way now. He can't see his feet anymore, and he has to reach around it to do anything, so his arms feel comically like they've gotten shorter. When he's standing at the stove he has to stand sideways to reach the back burner, or else his belly shoves up against it and impedes his movement. He keeps banging it into things and he can't pull up as close to the table anymore, his gut getting in the way, so more often now he leans back in his chair and balances his plate on the crest of his gut, which he can now do quite comfortably.

Steve is even more attentive, passing Bucky the mayo when he can't lean forward to get it, getting up to fill Bucky's plate, fetching him drinks and snacks and picking things up when he drops them, since it's getting more and more uncomfortable to bend over.

Steve first notices this difficulty when they're in the bathroom and Bucky's pasta-stuffed belly bangs into the sink, jostling him so he drops his toothbrush. Bucky bends over, trying to maneuver around his belly, spreading his legs to let his stomach fold forward into the space provided, but when that's not enough, he tries to squat, and finally drops to one knee with an audible grunt. He picks up his toothbrush and reaches out for the toilet seat to get a little leverage and haul himself back up, and when he's finally standing upright, Steve is staring at him.

“Got it,” Bucky says, red-faced from the exertion. He lets out a shallow-breathed burp, still so full from dinner.

“Any day now,” Steve says, planting both hands on either side of Bucky's domelike belly. “The baby's coming any day now.”

A few days later, Steve catches him standing with both hands on the small of his back, back arched as he stretches in between sips of a milkshake, and he says, “Seriously, Bucky, you look nine months for sure.

“Feel nine months,” Bucky grunts. “Feet are swollen, back is sore.”

“I'll rub your feet for you,” Steve offers, and Bucky accepts, because he's not an idiot. They lie on the couch, Bucky stretched flat on his back, and he can't see Steve over the round hill of his stomach but whatever he's doing feels amazing, and he groans a little in pleasure. It's no surprise that the massage takes a turn for the erotic.

In fact, in many ways, Steve does treat Bucky like he's pregnant. He rubs stretchmark cream into Bucky's striped, itchy gut, and massages Bucky's achy back for him at the end of the day, and sometimes he'll even kneel at Bucky's feet and tie his boots for him so he doesn't have to go through the wheezy, uncomfortable adventure of bending over to get at his feet.

Tony thinks it's absolutely hilarious, and will sometimes drop something just so he can ask Bucky to pick it up for him. Or he'll say, “Hey Belly Barnes, pass me the hot sauce, would you?” and cackle as Bucky grunts and shifts forward on the couch until he has enough room to spread his legs and lean forward for the hot sauce.

Even Natasha comments. “You should talk to your doctor,” she says. “Weren't you supposed to give birth a month ago?”

He does, in fact, have to talk to the doctor, because it's been a long time and it's time for a check-up, and the doc can't hide his astonishment at how Bucky's belly has settled between his spread thighs enough to nearly touch the paper of the exam table.

“I got fat,” Bucky says, to forestall any hemming and hawing. “Can we weigh me and get it over with?”

Bucky clocks in at three hundred and twenty six pounds, which means he's gained almost twice his body weight. And boy, can he feel it. Even getting dressed in the morning tires him out, all his energy going into swinging his heavy round gut from place to place. When he goes up stairs, his belly hits the tops of his thighs, and he uses the railing more, pausing in between flights to pant and arch his back. He has trouble getting up from Steve's low couch, has to work his way forward and get a little momentum before heaving himself to his feet, and when he sits he has to reach behind him and feel for the armrests so he can lower himself down. In bed he has to roll from side to side a little before he can flip over, and he after a few aiming difficulties, he starts sitting down to take a piss, his gut too big to reach his dick adequately.

He can't jerk off as well, either, arms too short to reach fully around his belly and the fat folds of his love handles, but luckily Steve is happy to assume responsibility for that bit of work.

He's sitting at the table one night, bowl of ice cream resting on his tummy, and Steve's washing dishes, then happens to glance out the window.

“Bucky,” he says, “a meteor shower! Come check it out!”

Bucky sets down his ice cream, pushes back his chair, scoots to the edge of it and grips the table, pushing himself upward with one hand on his sloshing gut. It feels particularly heavy right now and he arches his back a little, puts one hand beneath the round undercurve that's just started really drooping. By the time he gets to the window, Steve is grinning.

“You're waddling a little,” he says. “It's pretty fucking cute.”

“You ever heard of an assassin who takes five minutes to get out of a chair?” Bucky asks.

“Nope.”

“Me neither,” he says, grinning, and Steve kisses him full on the mouth while the stars fall outside their window.