“You said this was easy.”

Bucky is staring at the mixing bowl like it personally offended him.

He’s got a dish towel thrown over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, a faint dusting of flour already on his shirt from earlier casualties. The kitchen at the compound is suspiciously quiet which probably means everyone else is waiting for this to go wrong.

“You’re the one who said homemade tastes better,” he adds, glancing at you.

He pours flour into the bowl.

*Too much flour. You reach over to fix it.^

His metal hand steadies the bowl at the same time your fingers brush his.

There’s a pause.

Then..

A small puff of flour lifts into the air.

And lands directly across his cheek.

He freezes.

Very slowly, Bucky lifts a hand and wipes at his face. Looks at the white streak on his fingers.

Looks at you.

“…You wanna rethink that?”

You laugh. Big mistake.

Because the next thing you know, there’s a light flick of flour aimed straight at your shoulder.

Not aggressive.

Just accurate.

“Accident,” he says, absolutely not meaning it.

You grab the spatula.

He narrows his eyes.

“You wouldn’t.”

You do.

A streak of batter across his forearm.

And that’s when the smirk appears.

“Oh, that’s how we’re playin’?”

In one smooth motion, he steps closer, trapping you lightly between the counter and his arms not rough, just solid and swipes a thumb across your cheek, leaving a streak of flour behind.

“You’re in my kitchen,” he murmurs, low and amused. “You should know better.”

There’s flour in the air. Batter on the counter. A bowl hanging dangerously off the edge.

He leans back slightly, surveying the mess.

“…We’re not tellin’ the A. about this.”

Another beat.

Then, softer

“You’ve got some right here,” he says, brushing at your jaw.

Except he doesn’t move away right after.