A/N: So, I watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

...

And DANG IT it needed to be fixed.

So this happened. Enjoy the fluffelites.

Do You Want Some Milk?

Bucky's eyes popped open. Something was wrong. Just...what was it?

He sat up slowly, letting the white sheets tumble off of his chest and into a rumpled heap over his thighs. The bedroom was full of morning sunlight, and everything was in order—the photographs were still on the walls, the baseball cap still on top of the dresser, and the hardback copy of the Fellowship of the Ring still where he left it open on the chair by the window.

Bucky blinked hard and stared at his hands on the sheets. The flesh one continued to make tiny muscle movements, even as he held it still, while the metal hand was motionless. What was different? What had woken him up?

Steve wasn't there. Bucky sat up a little straighter and checked either side of the bed to be sure. He really wasn't there.

Bucky blinked hard again. How was it possible that Steve wasn't there with him? Bucky knew that if he had so much as the smallest nightmare about cryo, Steve would—

Wait.

"I didn't," Bucky whispered to himself. His voice sounded low, but not hoarse as if he'd been screaming all night. (Which did happen upon occasion.) Both of his hands tightened around the bunched sheets, his metal fingers creaking slightly.

Bucky's flesh hand shot up to his face and neck to feel for sweat. There was none. Instead of cold and damp, he felt warm, dry, and...calm.

"I didn't have a nightmare," Bucky whispered. His quiet voice rang with disbelief and victory.

It was then that Bucky realized the rich smell in the room was the aroma of pancakes. Steve was awake.

Bucky shot out of bed and was a yard from the door before his feet hit the carpet.

As he stepped out into the hallway, Bucky observed first the sheer amount of sunlight in Steve's little apartment, and second the fact that Steve's low voice was singing. The song was jaunty, clear, and slow, and Bucky wondered if he shouldn't recognize the song.

Didn't Sarah used to...? The thought escaped him before he could finish it.

Stepping forward over the hardwood, Bucky made no noise whatsoever. Training died hard, after all. Yet he wasn't on guard for a threat—at least, no more than normally—as he entered the joined dining room and kitchen.

The Soldier's only true match in combat—and Bucky's only true friend in the world—stood in sweats and a white tee, his dinged vibranium shield propped on the wall within a wise arm's reach.

"Hey, Buck," Steve greeted him, his face split with a warm grin.

Bucky flinched, then growled lowly at himself and straightened up. It's Steve, he scolded himself. He's not going to hurt you. He promised.

Steve's blue eyes were wide and full of compassion. Stupid punk wasn't even watching the eggs in that pan in front of him.

Bucky took a quiet breath and let it out. It always took effort to get his bearings back like this. "Hey," he replied, trying to sound like it took no effort.

Another, smaller smile came back onto Steve's face, even as he turned away in some kind of attempt to hide it. He began to dig under the eggs with the nylon turner in his hand. Bucky decided that his friend behaved strangely sometimes.

"So, uh...did you sleep well last night?" questioned Steve, scooping up the eggs and flipping them over. A sizzle went up from the pan.

Bucky paused, running his flesh thumb down the familiar ridges of his left arm. "Yeah." A tiny smile of disbelief crept onto his face. "Yeah, I did."

Steve looked up, and the grin from earlier resumed its place on his features again. Bucky gave a half-chuckle and looked away, suddenly too timid to do anything else. Damn.

The punk did have a nice smile, though.

"Uh, you can help yourself to breakfast," offered Steve, gesturing at the nearby counter to plates piled high with food. "I've got pancakes, bacon, sausages; made the pancakes with blueberries. I thought I'd try it, you know..."

Steve was rambling. Bucky leveled a gaze at him, watching with little less than curiosity as Steve just...talked. He did this often. It seemed like so much unnecessary noise, and yet it was somehow freeing. To be able to say whatever you want—the idea was both delicious and terrifying.

"So let me know it you like it, and I'll make it again, okay?" Steve asked, finally looking up at Bucky.

Bucky panicked for a moment. Opinions still weren't something he was comfortable with yet. And yet, if it was Steve asking...

"Okay," Bucky nodded, half before he realized what he was doing.

Steve gave a nod and a smile. "All right. Great."

For a moment, Bucky forgot what he was agreeing to. Then it came back to him—right. Pancakes with blueberries. Steve said help yourself—what did that mean again?

It took a moment for Bucky to pull himself back to reality. It took longer for him to screw up the courage to grab a plate from the cabinet and then put one of every food item on it. He kept glancing over at Steve to see if there was any clue whether this was right or wrong, but Steve seemed not to be paying attention.

Bucky almost growled in frustration. This was so nerve-wracking. But after a while, he decided that Steve had paid extra attention to the pancakes, so he probably wanted Bucky to take another pancake.

Bucky took his usual place at the table and immediately began to eat, before he remembered about utensils. His face flamed. So many little rules. It was so hard to remember them all.

But when he stood up to get a fork and knife, Steve only gave him a gracious smile. The heat left from Bucky's face, and instead, he felt a little warm in his chest.

Bucky really, really liked the fact that Steve never hit him for things like this.

Steve went back to minding his own business as Bucky pulled a fork and knife out of the drawer. He felt brave, for some reason, and reached up to grab a glass from the cabinet too.

Yet when he got to the fridge and was about to pull the handle, Bucky's resolve melted. This was wrong. He was doing too much without permission.

"Can I—?" began Bucky. Yet Steve's glance caused him to shrink back even more. "I—" Bucky withered and stared hard at his feet.

"Oh, you want something to drink?" supplied Steve. Bucky looked up. Steve sounded more chipper than normal, but Bucky could tell it was from some kind of panic.

"Sure, go ahead," offered Steve. "You can take whatever you want."

Bucky nodded slowly and more mouthed than said aloud, "Okay." His metal fingers closed around the sleek handle and tugged it open, causing a tiny burst of chill air.

The first thing Bucky saw was a milk carton.

"Do you want some milk?"

The Soldier stiffened. Alexander Pierce.

The Soldier hated Pierce. He hated his face. He hated his voice. He hated the ground Pierce walked on. He hated being ordered around by Pierce.

He must obey Pierce.

He must not speak out of turn. He must not have choices. He must show no opinions. If Alexander Pierce asks, "Do you want some milk?", the answer is not yes or no. If the Soldier were dying of thirst, the answer would not be yes or no.

The answer would be silence.

Always silence.

"Bucky?"

Bucky spun around with a sharp breath, and his eyes locked icily onto Steve. My mission. Dangerous target. My—my mission...Bucky blinked hard, bringing his flesh hand up to his eyes. My... brother...

"Steve?" Bucky rasped.

"Hey." An anxious smile played on Steve's face. He squeezed Bucky's shoulder firmly, where he could feel the pressure. Reality began to reclaim Bucky's mind. "Are you okay?"

Bucky stared hard into Steve's eyes. He didn't look injured or frightened. Then Bucky turned a hard gaze onto the otherwise innocent milk carton.

"Yeah," Bucky answered slowly.

Milk would not have been his first choice. He actually preferred something stronger—like coffee, or at least orange juice, which was also in arm's reach. But just this once—just this once, he was going to get back at Pierce.

Bucky seized the milk carton with his left hand, marched back to the table, and sat down.

"O-kay," chuckled Steve, and the fridge door shut softly.

Bucky's flesh hand had to wrestle with the twist-cap for a little bit before it came off. With a flush of triumph, he dumped milk into the glass, stopping for nothing until it nearly poured over the rim.

His metal hand slammed the carton on the table with a soft, satisfying thump.

How's that for milk, Pierce?

Steve raised his eyebrows as he meandered around Bucky's chair. "That's kind of a lot, Buck," he noted slowly.

Bucky looked up in sudden fear that Steve was unhappy with what he'd done. Yet slowly, Bucky realized that Steve wasn't upset at all, and in answer he wrapped both hands protectively around the glass.

"Yeah?" drawled Bucky, his Brooklyn accent slowly coming through. "What's it to ya, punk?"

If Bucky thought Steve's eyebrows couldn't go up any further, he was wrong.

"Well, all right, jerk," Steve grinned in reply. He turned and strode back towards the heaping plates of food. "If you're gonna be like that."

Bucky felt a broad smile tug at his face. It vanished in a moment, but there was a warmth that lingered in his chest even afterward.

"Aw, nuts," muttered Steve. Bucky looked up to see him knock the last drops of creamer out of the carton and into his coffee mug. Bucky watched Steve toss that little carton into the trash, then pull a loaded plate of food off the counter and carry both it and the coffee mug to the table.

"Ah, well," shrugged Steve as he sat down across from Bucky. "Did you want some eggs?" He reached for the milk carton at Bucky's side. "I can make you some, if you like."

Bucky shook his head. He'd realized that Steve was going to use the milk instead of creamer, but...

"Wait."

Steve seemed as surprised to hear Bucky as Bucky was to hear himself. Staring down into the liquid, Bucky decided to lift the glass and offer it to Steve. There was a pause, and the strangest look crossed Steve's face.

"What's this, Buck?" asked Steve, looking at him with something that was very much like a smile.

Bucky was lost for words for a moment.

"Well, it is kind of a lot," he shrugged.

Steve's smile split into a grin, and he carefully lifted the glass from Bucky's hands—not even batting an eye when his fingers grazed metal ones. "You didn't drink out of this already, did you?" he asked lightly.

Bucky shook his head.

"Okay," Steve laughed, and he poured all he wanted into his mug. Bucky watched every drop with rapt attention, and also the slight, irrational fear that he wouldn't get his glass back.

But Steve did hand it back when he was finished, adding a gracious smile and, "Thanks, pal."

Bucky received his glass with a half-inch of it emptied.

He heard Steve's spoon clink as he began to stir his coffee, and somehow, less milk was even more satisfying than a full glass.

How d'ya like that, Pierce? Bucky took a swift gulp of the milk, and couldn't help but feel that it tasted like victory.

"So," Steve began through a mouthful of bacon. Bucky remembered his food and began to cut into the sausage on his plate.

"I've got two tickets for a baseball game," Steve went on. "Dodgers vs. Yankees. It's coming up this Saturday, so, if you want to come with me..."

A/N: First story ever! Reviews are blueberry pancakes.

EDIT: Since I can't reply to guest reviews, I'd like to reply here to SeventhTartar. (Thanks for your kind review by the way, but YES, oh my goodness, yes. Even if it's just a small glass in a random moment between all the action I will squeal loud enough to embarrass myself. That would be glorious, and I'd love it.)