thatawkwardtinyperson:

chicklette:

duelingnebulas:

amarriageoftrueminds:

I was thinking about that question Seb got asked at Wizard World about how Bucky was making money in the two years before Civil War no Mackie he was not a dancer and consider this: 

Bucky as a cook.

• scary-good with knives
• never needs an order repeated / never fucks one up
• working through his ‘automatic-obedience’ trauma in a low-stakes environment
• hidden away from the public / less chance of being spotted
• using the supersoldier!stamina to stay on his feet for hours without flagging and the grace to move around the kitchen like a dancer
• telling the other staff he has a badly burned arm/hand (which is why he’s shy and has to wear a glove all the time)
• picking up red-hot pans/handling hot food without getting burned because he’s using his metal hand
• getting the habit of wearing his hair up in a bun (or in a hairnet!!)
• learning to enjoy food again

  (aka, how he got thicc)

  because the Winter Soldier only ever ate to replenish energy or was force-fed through a tube 

• going to the market for good produce for the restaurant (plums!!)
• being an uppity restaurant-patron’s worst nightmare when they make the mistake of asking to see the Chef.

UM, @chicklette. What do you think?

I feel…offended?  blessed??? by this??? 

because OF COURSE he was a chef.  Of course.  He found an old, tattered copy of Joy in a market stall and, on a whim, bought it.  He started reading about flavors and technique (while he appreciates Alton Brown’s approach, Kenji Lopez-Alt’s absolute joy and tenacity *speaks* to him).  When the cafe at the end of his block advertised for a line cook, he took it.  Six months later he’d revolutionized their menu, and there were long lines to get in – even on a Tuesday night. 

He started getting up early to shop the markets before everyone else, bringing in armfuls of fresh greens and gorgeous fruit.  When the butcher brings a whole quarter pig, Bucky wastes no time butchering it.  When he looks up from his task the entire kitchen is watching, awed.  He yelled at them to hide his blush, but later, when everyone was bone-weary from yet another 16 hour day, Constantin made a point of passing him a shot of his uncle’s Tuica.  Bucky downed it with a shout of noroc! and as he left, Ioan, the owner, clapped a hand on his back and gave him a one-armed hug.  It was the first time Bucky didn’t flinch from human contact.

Bucky serves sarmale for family meal one night, the richly spiced, ground pork dish coming out of the kitchen in big pots.  Magdalina, the owner’s mother, tears up because she hasn’t had it made that way since her own mother passed twenty years ago.  Not long after, she begins dropping by the kitchen, mentioning this dish or that, and Bucky diligently researches and tests the recipe (yes, yes he did spend five days making tochitura until he got the spicy pork stew exactly right.  You wanna make something of it?), serving it up for family meal, waiting, tense, for her reactions. 

Last week she spoke of a plum cake that her metusa used to make for tea after church.  After reading a half-dozen cookbooks and talking to Ioan about what he remembers, Bucky thinks he has enough information to nail it down.

Sitting a the small table in his kitchenette, he goes over his notes one more time.  He has three notebooks: One for his recipes, one for his memories, and one…one for Steve.  His eyes dart to the top of the fridge, where the blue notebook lies under a couple of protein bars.  He’d stopped eating for caloric maintenance months ago, but he still feels the compulsion to keep a few on hand.  He has a couple stuffed in his go-bag, and he has another go-back at the restaurant, buried in the bottom of the rice bin.  Thinking about it still brings his heart rate up higher than it should be.  He knows he’ll have dreams tonight.

Breathing deep, he goes through his exercises: 5 things he can see, 4 things he can touch, 3 things he can hear, 2 things he can smell, 1 thing he can taste. 

He leaves his pen in between the pages of his notebook and lies down on pallet against the wall.  He still can’t bring himself to buy proper bedding, but at least he’s not sleeping sitting up in a chair any longer, finger on the trigger of his gun. 

In the morning, he’ll be up early.  He’s got a date with some plums.

OH GOD THIS