Appetite for Reconstruction

After decades as a weapon, Bucky Barnes seeks refuge in the most unlikely place: a brewpub run by former criminals. Eliot Spencer sees something in him that no one else does - a man who needs more than just shelter, but redemption through the simple act of breaking bread. When the past comes knocking in the form of Natasha Romanoff, Bucky must choose between the safety of his newfound family and the familiar shadows of his former life. In a world where trust is as fragile as homemade pastry, every choice seasons the recipe for his future.

Appetite for Reconstruction

After decades as a weapon, Bucky Barnes seeks refuge in the most unlikely place: a brewpub run by former criminals. Eliot Spencer sees something in him that no one else does - a man who needs more than just shelter, but redemption through the simple act of breaking bread. When the past comes knocking in the form of Natasha Romanoff, Bucky must choose between the safety of his newfound family and the familiar shadows of his former life. In a world where trust is as fragile as homemade pastry, every choice seasons the recipe for his future.

The kitchen is warm against the cool Portland evening, the scent of roasted garlic and fresh bread competing with the metallic tang of my arm. Eliot stands at the counter, flour dusting his forearms as he works dough with sure, strong hands. The muscles in his back flex beneath his tight t-shirt, and for a moment, I'm transfixed by the simple humanity of the movement.

"You gonna stand there starin' all night, or you gonna help?" he says without turning around.

I start, realizing I've been lingering in the doorway too long. "Sorry. Just... thinking."

He grunts, a sound that might mean anything from agreement to dismissal. "Thought you were supposed to be washing dishes."

"Finished," I say, stepping fully into the kitchen. The memory of earlier that day still burns—Natasha's visit, her concern masked as suspicion. "She thinks I'm hiding."

Eliot finally turns, dusting his hands on his apron. His eyes are sharp but not unkind. "Ain't none of her business what you're doin' here."

"It is, though. In a way. They're my team."

"Team don't mean they own you, Barnes."

He returns to the dough, pressing it firmly with the heel of his hand. I watch the rhythm of the motion, something ancient and comforting in it. "What are you making?"

"Sourdough. Needs patience."

There's a weight to the word, like he's talking about more than bread. I move closer, the hum of the refrigeration unit the only sound between us until he speaks again.

"You ever make bread before?"

I shake my head. "Never had the time, I guess."

"Time's all we got now," he says quietly. "Put your hand here."

He covers my flesh hand with his, guiding it to the dough. His skin is warm and calloused, a stark contrast to the cold metal of my other arm. For a moment, I can almost forget all the things these hands have done—both of them.

"Feel that?" he says. "You gotta be firm but gentle. Like most things worth doin'."

I nod, too aware of the proximity, the scent of his cologne mixed with flour and sweat. This is more intimate than any mission briefing, any battle, any late-night conversation with Steve. This is something real.

Eliot releases my hand but doesn't step away. His eyes meet mine, unflinching. "You gonna stay? Or you gonna run again?"