knowledgeableknitter

[knowledgeableknitter]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Chapter Two: The Fan Club

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc; Platonic Thunderbolts x Kay

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Late at night down an internet rabbit hole, Kay finds a fan forum dedicated to the Red Guardian. Inspired, Kay crafts a plan for Alexei to relive his glory days and receive some long-overdue validation. 

Trigger warnings: nickname doll (which is a given, it's Bucky); This is really just super fluffy; Alexei lifts... something very heavy; Really just Alexei getting the recognition he deserves... through Kay's well-intentioned manipulations. Not much bucky/Kay - let me establish team dynamics!

Story Masterlist

Chapter 1

*****

Kay should have been asleep. Everyone else in the tower seemed to be lost in their dreams, the quiet hum of their slumber filling the rooms. But she wasn't. Instead, she was curled up on the couch in her room, wrapped in the soft embrace of a faded quilt. The only source of light was the cool, ghostly blue of her phone, casting an eerie glow over her face. Her fingers danced across the screen as she scrolled aimlessly through endless internet rabbit holes, each link leading her deeper into the digital abyss. 

She’d begun her search with an innocent intention: tracking down a discontinued shampoo that Yelena liked. The hunt seemed simple enough, but one peculiar product link spiraled into an abandoned Cold War history blog, and from there she stumbled upon an obscure, dusty little corner of the internet she hadn’t expected:

“ComradeGuardian1984: A Forum for Fans of the Red Guardian (and the Truth They Don’t Want You to Know)”

Kay blinked. Leaned in. Whispered, “No way.”

She tapped.

And discovered gold.

Half the users were clearly conspiracy theorists who believed Red Guardian was still an active global operative. The other half were obsessive collectors trading low-res screengrabs and bootleg VHS footage of obscure Soviet broadcasts. There were fan theories, fanart, someone claiming to have replicated his original uniform, and one particularly impassioned thread titled:

“I SWEAR I SAW HIM AT A DOLLAR GENERAL IN QUEENS LAST MONTH”

Kay snorted. Actually snorted.

She shouldn’t have dug deeper. She should have retreated to the comfort of her bed, letting sleep wash over her tired mind. But instead, she straightened her posture, eyes narrowing with determination, as her fingers hovered restlessly above the glowing screen. And, thus, a plan began to take shape.

A ridiculous, borderline manipulative, absolutely perfect plan. 

So she created a burner account.

FrozenVodkaWitch86

Classic. Nondescript enough to blend in. Just absurd enough to pass for one of them.

She posted under a popular active thread:

“Rumor: Red Guardian sighting scheduled for Waterside Plaza Park tomorrow morning. Low-key training session. No confirmation, but I have a good source. Don’t approach unless you’re respectful.”

Then she confidently hit post, set down her phone with a decisive click, and smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

*****

The next morning, Waterside Plaza Park was still waking up. 

Dog walkers shuffled by, clutching travel mugs filled with steaming coffee, their tangled leashes weaving a chaotic web around their legs. A few dedicated early joggers puffed past the fountain, their breath visible in the crisp morning air, feet pounding rhythmically against the pavement. Pigeons loitered, pecking aimlessly at the ground, as if they had nowhere better to be on this brisk morning. And on a quiet stretch of pavement near the outdoor pull-up bars, the Red Guardian stretched.

Well, Alexei stretched. Loudly, dramatically, and with exaggerated flair. He placed one leg up on the wooden bench, as if preparing to single-handedly rescue the entire Soviet Union once more. His attire was striking: a vintage-looking track suit in a bold red, adorned with a white star meticulously stitched onto the back. The sleeves were rolled up high, revealing biceps still impressive for his age.

The rest of the team (minus Yelena and John, since they deemed the time “inhumanly early”) were exercising while actually incognito. Kay observed them from a bench on the opposite side of the park. She was wearing sunglasses, her usual leggings and a light sweater, and cradling a steaming cup of coffee, looking every bit like an unsuspecting bystander. 

The first one arrived a few minutes after 8.

A heavyset guy in his 40s, wearing a Red Guardian t-shirt clearly made with iron-on patches and love. His eyes lit up with delight when he spotted Alexei. He stopped. Stared. Then slowly raised his phone and started filming.

Then came two more: college-aged, both wearing knockoff bomber jackets and babbling excitedly in Russian-accented English. They nodded solemnly to Alexei from a distance.

A fourth man wandered in next. Older, cradling an unopened Soviet Hero Series Red Guardian action figure, yellowed at the edges but pristine.

Kay took a sip of her coffee, hiding a chuckle behind the lid, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the steaming drink. Oh, it was on.

More trickled in: a teenager in a trench coat who kept asking loudly if Red Guardian ever fought Wolverine (“Like, in real life, though”), and a woman with a tattoo of Alexei’s helmet on her bicep who looked like she might cry.

Alexei, at first, froze in place. One boot still braced on the weathered wooden bench, his muscles stiffened. His eyes widened in surprise, while his mouth hung slightly open.

Then… he strutted.

Chest puffed out like a proud rooster. Hands firmly planted on his hips, exuding confidence. His hair was slicked back with military precision. He squared his broad shoulders with the discipline of a soldier snapping back into formation. With a deliberate, slow turn towards the gathering crowd, he flexed his muscular arms just enough to strain the seams of his track suit.

And then the questions began. 

“Are you really the Red Guardian?!” One of the students asked in awe.

“Can you sign my newspaper?!” Requested another. 

“Ah, yes,” he called out, voice booming across the concrete. “I remember this one. 1983. Berlin Wall run. Very heroic.”

The crowd clapped like they knew exactly what he was talking about.

Kay snorted into her coffee.

The teen asked again if he ever fought Wolverine.

Alexei ignored him entirely.

Instead, he stepped forward and began signing autographs with solemn, deliberate gravitas, like he was negotiating peace treaties. One man offered up his shirt, and Alexei signed across the chest in dramatic Cyrillic strokes. He paused at the action figure, eyes widening in a mix of awe and nostalgia. He laid both hands reverently on the cool smooth plastic, and murmured, “This… this is history. You have honored me.”

The woman with the tattoo wiped at her eyes.

Kay leisurely sipped her steaming cup of coffee, savoring the rich aroma that swirled around her. The sun gently warmed her legs as the sweet chaos unfold in front of her. This was better than she had ever imagined.

And across the park, Alexei basked in the attention like a triumphant hero finally receiving the long-awaited parade of a lifetime. The sunlight glinted off his beaming smile as he stood tall, soaking in the admiration. 

*****

Just as Alexei was basking in a particularly long applause for recounting a definitely-not-real mission in “outer Kiev,” a shout came from the nearby path.

“Hey…. uh, does anyone here know how to move a food truck?”

The group turned.

A battered green food truck sat crooked near the sidewalk, one wheel clearly stuck, angled awkwardly into an open utility cut in the pavement. It hadn’t bottomed out entirely, but the tire was sunk enough to make driving forward impossible.

The driver, a frazzled-looking man in a faded Bronx Science hoodie, waved frantically. “We hit the edge of that damn manhole frame. If I try to gun it, the axle’s gonna snap. Anyone got a jack?”

Kay, still seated on the bench with her coffee, arched her eyebrows ever so slightly.

Alexei's eyes narrowed into sharp slits, glinting with intensity. His nostrils flared wide as he took in a deep, steadying breath. The crowd before him seemed to ripple and shift, parting like the Red Sea as he advanced with slow, deliberate strides. His arms swung with a measured, purposeful rhythm, exuding an aura of determination and command.

“No need,” he announced. “I am jack.”

Someone gasped. Another person dropped their hot dog.

With grim determination etched across his face, Alexei approached the food truck. The air around him seemed to tense as he moved with purpose. He squatted low beside the massive wheel, the gritty pavement biting into his knees. In a hushed tone, he muttered something in Russian, his words a low, rolling murmur that seemed to carry the weight of his resolve. Carefully, he adjusted his grip beneath the truck’s side panel, his fingers finding purchase on the cold metal, his muscles tensing in anticipation of the effort ahead. 

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, gradually, with a deliberate grunt that seemed more theatrical than necessary, he heaved upward. The sound echoed around the park, adding a dramatic flair. 

His muscles tensed visibly, and the veins on his arms stood out like cords. The food truck shifted. The tire rose just enough to clear the lip of the manhole edge. The driver gave a dramatic cheer and jumped back into the cab, easing the truck forward onto level ground. 

The crowd erupted.

Cheers, applause, and camera phones filled the air. The teenager in the trench coat shouted, “That was so Wolverine-adjacent!” And was once again ignored.

“You’re the Russian Captain America!” someone yelled.

Alexei froze.

His mouth opened slightly. His chest rose with a deep inhale.

He turned to face the crowd, his eyes wide with a stunned, deeply moved expression etched across his face. His eyes glistened with emotion, their usual sparkle subdued with genuine gratitude. Slowly, he raised one hand to wipe at an eye with the back of his knuckle. Not dramatically, just enough.

Kay smiled from ear to ear. She didn’t even try to hide it this time.

*****

The cheers still echoed across the park, echoing off the surrounding high-rises like applause in a stadium. Alexei basked in it. Hands on his hips, sweat glistening at his temples, his undershirt slightly askew from the exertion of lifting half a food truck.

On an old wooden bench a few yards back, Bucky jogged past Kay, his sneakers crunching against the gravel path. His eyebrows arched with curiosity and a hint of surprise as he came to a stop in front of her, the cool breeze ruffling his hair. 

“Did you do this?”

She blinked up at him, her eyes widening in a carefully crafted expression of innocence. “What? Me? No. I would never leak a possible Red Guardian sighting to a highly specific online community…” 

His mouth twitched, fighting a full on smirk. “For some reason, I just don’t believe you, doll.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the endearment, as she sipped her coffee. “Believe what you like. I’m just here enjoying a lovely morning at the park.”

“John’s gonna be pissed he missed this.” He said as he returned to his jog. 

Just a few feet away, Bob was seated beside Ava on another weathered wooden bench. He held his phone with precision, angling it exactly so to capture every detail of the moment.

“This is incredible,” he whispered, as Alexei solemnly signed the helmet of a Red Guardian Funko Pop. “Like Bigfoot, but real.”

Ava leaned in. “You think he’ll try to lift a bus next?”

Bob zoomed in on the phone. “God, I hope so.”

Then Yelena arrived.

She sauntered in from the bustling sidewalk, her oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun. In her hand, she held a smoothie cup, the pastel green visible through the clear plastic as she sipped leisurely through a thick straw. Her eyes, hidden behind the dark lenses, roved over the scene with a discerning gaze, taking in every detail of her surroundings.

Fans of the Red Guardian thronged the area, proudly wearing shirts they'd crafted by hand, each one a testament to their devotion. Vibrant homemade posters waved in the air, their bold colors and passionate slogans catching the eye. Among the crowd, a woman cradled her baby, who wore a bib adorned with a carefully stenciled hammer-and-sickle, the words Future Hero emblazoned beneath it. Alexei leaned down, his broad shoulders hunching as he carefully signed his name on the tiny fabric.

Yelena paused beside Kay, her eyes sweeping over the scene with a thoughtful gaze, absorbing every detail. She remained silent for a moment, letting the quiet stretch between them. The bustling energy in direct contrast to her steady demeanor. Slowly, she brought the smoothie to her lips once more, savoring its cool, fruity taste as she took another sip, her expression contemplative yet serene.

Kay didn’t look up.

“Your doing I assume?,” Yelena said finally, voice dry as dust.

“He deserved his moment,” Kay replied softly.

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s going to be unbearable for a week.”

Kay smiled into her now empty cup. “Probably.”

They both stood there in silence for a while, watching Alexei shake the hand of someone who was holding up a shaky hand-painted sign that read #RedGuardianLives.

Yelena shook her head slowly, her hair swaying gently with the motion. But she didn’t move.

She just stood in the back, eyes softening as she watched the scene before her. A fond smile graced her face in a tender expression of warmth and affection.

*****

After the photos, autographs, and several dramatic retellings of what may or may not have been entirely fictional Soviet missions, the small but passionate crowd began to thin. DIY Red Guardian t-shirts were rumpled with excitement.

In the heart of Waterside Plaza Park, Alexei stood tall and imposing. His chest was puffed out with a sense of pride, while his chin was lifted high, exuding an air of confidence. His hands were firmly planted on his hips, striking a pose reminiscent of a grand Soviet colossus from a long-lost mural, a figure of strength and authority against the backdrop of the bustling park. The sunlight glinted off his silhouette, casting a commanding shadow.

“That,” he declared, turning slowly in place like he expected applause to return in waves, “was the recognition I deserve.”

On a nearby bench, Kay casually unwrapped a granola bar. “Mmm,” she hummed in agreement, chewing thoughtfully.

“I told them,” he continued, thumping his chest once, hard enough to echo. “I told them the world had not forgotten. You see? Still got it. The people know. The streets remember.”

Kay nodded, lips twitching. “Pretty lucky that crowd happened to be there, huh?”

He gazed off into the horizon, eyes glazed over with noble purpose. “Is not luck,” he said, utterly serious. “Is legacy.”

Then he turned on his heel and marched off toward the boardwalk like he was headed to accept a medal. The morning sun glinted off his sweat-damp hair, creating a shimmering halo around his head. His posture was upright and confident, exuding an air of heroism. 

He didn’t see the tiny smile curve Kay’s mouth as she took another bite of her granola bar.

He didn’t see her covertly walk over to the food truck driver and tell him they were square with a semi-elaborate fist-bump. 

He didn’t see her check her phone one last time to make sure the fan thread was still buzzing. 

He didn’t see her delete the burner account FrozenVodkaWitch86 with one final flourish.

No need for credit. This one was for him.

As Alexei strutted into the soft embrace of the morning light, his face was absolutely radiant in his triumph. The sun cast a warm, golden hue over him, highlighting the victorious gleam in his eyes and the confident set of his shoulders. Meanwhile, Kay reclined back on the bench, her gaze trailing after the Red Guardian. He moved with an air of self assurance, like a man secure in the fact that the world had never ceased to watch his every move.

Chapter 3

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch 

[knowledgeableknitter]

Chapter Two comes out tomorrow!

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Chapter One: First Impressions of Muffins

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: Kay Romano, a warm and witty new addition to the Watchtower team, starts her day cooking breakfast in the shared kitchen. Bucky Barnes is skeptical despite her friendly nature and delicious meals. While Kay wins over most of the team, Bucky remains cautious.

Trigger warnings: She calls him handsome (cause he is); suspicious Bucky being a bit aggressive (in voice and tone); mentions of Kay's past, including family mob connections and a prostitute in the family; old court case discussed regarding financial abuse (dismissed, fraudulent claims); sad grandma mentioned; the team eats breakfast? idk, it's really just an introduction to Kay.

*****

The kitchen of the Watchtower was quiet in the early morning hours. Quiet enough for the sizzle of bacon and the rich scent of coffee to permeate the space like a promise of deliciousness to come. The counters were cluttered with pots and pans, and a few unwashed dishes were piled precariously in the sink. Kay stood at the stovetop, flipping strips of bacon with practiced ease, her purple T-shirt slightly stretched over her shoulder as she reached for the pan’s handle. The hem curled at her wide hips over her black leggings, and a few stray brown hairs had come loose from the bun she’d jammed them into.

The serenity didn’t last long.

Boots sounded behind her, heavy and deliberate. Military. She didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” came the expectedly gruff an gravelly voice of Bucky Barnes, rugged timbre carrying an unmistakable edge. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

She turned with a grin, spatula still in hand. "Hello, Handsome! I’m Kay!" she announced brightly, her voice warm. "Valentina brought me on board. I’m your new cook! And almost-nurse. And personal assistant." Her small giggle was light. "I’m being paid to wear many hats. The only thing I won’t touch is PR, because that seems like a nightmare of social media, and that’s definitely not my thing. That’s still Mel’s territory."

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He didn’t lower the sapphire glare he was leveling at her.

“Good story,” he said, slowly, “but I’m not buying it. She would have told me.”

Right on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He kept his eyes on Kay as he pulled it out, answering without looking.

“Yeah?” he said. A pause. His gaze flicked up and down. "Uh-huh. Brunette, about five-four? Blue eyes, curves for days?" Bucky questioned, voice flat, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he stared Kay down. 

She arched an eyebrow, amused and quite frankly flattered at his description of her.

He turned slightly, facing away as he listened to whatever Mel was rattling off. “Yeah,” he finally muttered, “she’s already here. Making breakfast, apparently. Thanks for the heads-up.” He hung up, but the suspicion lingered in his expression. He kept his eyes on Kay as if she might reveal new secrets at any moment. He crossed his arms, metal bicep flexing against the thin cotton of his tee, and braced his shoulder against the refrigerator, staking silent claim to his corner of the room.

Kay, for her part, was unbothered. She shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Told you.”

The spell of awkwardness shattered with a dramatic entrance. Alexei stormed into the kitchen like a bear catching a scent on the wind.

“I smell bacon!” he bellowed. “Oh! Beautiful woman in our kitchen, cooking bacon.” He stopped in his tracks, staring at her with absolute delight. Then, to Bucky, in a mock whisper: “I had a dream like this one time, but the woman was naked.”

Kay snorted, barely catching the laugh before it escaped entirely. Alexei made a beeline for the bacon plate, snatched it, and carried it like a trophy to the table.

“Please don’t eat all the bacon, Alexei!” she called after him, smiling. “Sharing is caring!”

Yelena strode in, sleek and purposeful, followed closely by Bob, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“This is… different. Are these fresh scones?” she asked, already reaching for one on the side plate.

“Yes! Orange cranberry. I love scones, and this is my favorite flavor.” 

Yelena brought the scone to her nose and inhaled like a sommelier. “Still warm…”

John came in next, boots stomping and full of swagger. He headed straight to the coffee pot without a word to Kay, though his eyes never left her. 

Finally Ava entered, quiet and composed as ever, eyes crossing the room like a scanner running diagnostics.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, arms folding.

“Breakfast,” Kay said without missing a beat. “Alexei took all the bacon, which he will share if asked.” She shot him a look. He responded with a wide, unapologetic grin as he bit into a crispy strip. “I’ll have a whole heap of scrambled eggs ready in about five minutes, and toast is on the counter. Sorry the toast is store-bought bread. I’ll have homemade sourdough in a few days.”

Ava gave John a look, exchanged a silent, cryptic moment, then she shrugged and grabbed a plate.

“I usually just have cereal,” Bob muttered, almost apologetic.

“I won’t be offended if you want cereal, sweetie. I put a couple more kinds in the pantry. You only had Wheaties.” She leaned closer, wrinkled her nose, and whispered, “And I personally think that stuff tastes like cardboard.”

That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him—barely a breath of extra air, but enough to register. Kay grinned.

“You’re not wrong about that,” he said, almost under his breath.

As the others found their seats and started eating, Kay turned her attention back to Bucky. Only Bucky hadn’t moved. He remained planted by the fridge, with the posture of a soldier waiting for orders on a battlefield. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, still watching her like she might pull out a Hydra logo and start monologuing.

The others either didn’t notice this tension, or they’d grown accustomed to navigating it like a piece of heavy furniture in the middle of a familiar room.

Kay hesitated, then made a show of scraping eggs from the pan onto a plate, letting the sizzle and scrape fill the silence. She walked it to the table, setting it down with a flourish. No one was going to make the first move, so she did. “Eggs don’t keep well,” she announced, “So eat up before they go rubbery. Also, the scones are better with a little butter. Should be soft and spreadable by now.” She pointed at the ceramic dish in the center of the table.

Even that provoked only a few nods and a grunt of acknowledgement. Still, the room’s energy shifted. Food had a way of lowering defenses, even if just by degrees. Alexei was already on his third helping, and Yelena, despite a face designed to conceal most emotion, appeared captivated by the tart zing of cranberry. Kay watched these reactions with the quiet pride of someone who genuinely enjoyed feeding people, understanding that comfort sometimes comes in the form of carbs and citrus zest.

But Bucky… Bucky was immune. He didn’t so much as reach for a utensil. His skepticism had shifted from Kay’s existence to her motives, and she could practically see the gears turning behind his stare: why is she here, what does she want, who planted her and for what?

Kay reminded herself that winning over the wary took time and, in her experience, copious amounts of baked goods. She wiped her hands on a towel and crossed the room, returning to her spot behind the stovetop. The rest of the table fell into a hush, sensing the thin filament of tension stretching between the two.

Hands loose at her sides, she said, a bit softer now: “I made blueberry muffins,” she put the plate on the counter near him, “Not too sweet… with a brown sugar oat crumble on top…”

He narrowed his eyes, the blue becoming suspicious slits. “Why are you offering me the muffins, specifically?”

The question was so blunt it might have been rehearsed in a mirror, but Kay only smirked, a warm spark of real amusement. “I’m not trying to poison you, handsome. It’s my Nonna’s recipe. You’re kinda from the same era. Thought it had a chance of tasting a little like home.”

Bucky's gaze didn't budge. He looked down at the plate, then back up at her, as if waiting for her to flinch or look away. She didn't. He finally grunted, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a warning.

He hesitated. 

Then, slowly, he reached out and picked up the muffin, turning it in his hand. He bit into it, and the crunch of the crumble was louder than the skepticism.

He paused. Chewed. The initial suspicion on his face short-circuited, replaced by something softer, almost startled. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The blueberry burst, the oat crumble dissolving on his tongue with a memory as sugary as it was unexpected.

He blinked and looked down at the muffin like it had revealed some long-lost secret. Without saying a word, he slid the plate of muffins slightly closer to himself. 

Kay caught the motion and smiled.

“So… any allergies or dietary preferences?” she asked, glancing around.

Bob raised a tentative hand. “I don’t really like coconut.”

“I can work with that,” she said with a cheerful nod.

“Can I try a muffin?” Bob asked, directing the question to Bucky now, who was still guarding the plate like a dragon hoarding gold.

Bucky reluctantly handed him one, not taking his eyes off Kay.

“Chuck me one, too?” John called out from across the room, holding up a hand ready to actually catch a flying muffin.

“No,” Bucky said flatly, and turned to leave, plate of muffins in hand.

Kay called after him with a smirk, “Breakfast sandwiches tomorrow, with homemade bagels!” 

The kitchen buzzed with the early-morning chatter of contented people relaxing with good food. And that was a good enough start for Kay.

*****

The kitchen was quiet again. The breakfast chaos had long since passed: plates washed, crumbs wiped, and the team dispersed into their usual orbits. Somewhere downstairs, Alexei was shouting at someone in Russian, likely Yelena in the training room. In the kitchen, a fan hummed above the stove, the scent of lemon cleaner just starting to override the morning's warmth of orange and bacon grease.

Kay was wiping down the countertops.

She felt him before she heard him. The way the room changed when he entered. Quieter somehow, heavier.

Bucky Barnes leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed once more. Watching.

“So,” he said, tone flat but eyes sharp. “Why are you really here?”

Kay didn’t look up from the rag in her hand. “Cause the pay is good, room and board is included, and I wanted a change from my last job.”

Bucky stepped closer, boots silent on tile. “What was your last job?”

She paused, weighing how much to say, then shrugged. “Scientist. Cancer research at one of the big pharma labs. The work itself was fulfilling, but the red tape was tedious. Decided I needed a break from cells and experiments and—”

"What the hell kind of twisted research had you conducting experiments in prison cells?" he snarled, his words slicing through the air like a razor's edge. "Who were your test subjects?" He advanced with a menacing determination, his eyes burning with accusation.

His voice, though still low, was laced with a menacing edge, like a coil of razor-sharp barbed wire wrapped deceptively in delicate silk, ready to cut at any moment. 

The words cut through the air with such sharpness that they froze her hand in mid-swipe, as if an invisible force had grasped it. She turned slowly, her eyes widening in surprise, an instinctive reaction that brought her hands up, palms outward, in a gesture of automatic defense. It wasn’t fear in her demeanor, not exactly. Just a sense of heightened awareness and caution. 

“Whoa there,” she said calmly, voice gentle but firm, like talking to a wounded dog. “Cells, like single cells. Not jail cells. Not people.”

But he didn’t move, his body half-tensed like a tightly wound spring. She could see the tension coiled in the rigid lines of his shoulders, the firmness of his stance, and the clenched set of his jaw.

The way a man looked when he’d been wrong before. Hurt before.

“Oh Christ, how do I explain this…”

She tossed the rag onto the counter and dug into her back pocket for her phone. A few swipes later, she turned the screen toward him. “Look. These are cell culture trays—see these grids? I’d seed them with human cancer cells, treat them with different compounds, and study how the cells reacted. No humans. No animals. Just molecules and microscopy. Other than developing a raging case of carpal tunnel, nobody got hurt.” 

He stared at the phone for a long moment, reading more than just the image. Then something in his posture shifted—a slow deliberate breath let out, tension unspooling like a thread cut loose.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice dropping to a softer, almost embarrassed tone. "Sorry." 

"No harm, no foul," she replied, her words clipped and precise, as she spun back to the counter with a deliberate swiftness. Her voice maintained a veneer of calm, but inside, her pulse beat relentlessly in her ears.

A few beats of silence passed. She scrubbed the same spot again. And again. The rag squeaked faintly across the granite. She was giving him time to collect himself, and he knew it.

“Why this job?” he asked at last, softer now.

She looked over her shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thought it’d be fun.”

His brow raised in disbelief. “Fun? Playing nanny for a bunch of misfit assassins and spies?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” She shrugged. “It’s not every day you find a gig that lets you cook and bake whatever you want all day. And if I have to juggle some appointments, patch up the occasional wound, or make sure you people hydrate and remember birthdays? That’s manageable.”

He didn't laugh, but a subtle change flitted across his face—a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer in his eyes—something that might've been close to amusement. She could feel the way his gaze lingered. Studying her like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

She sighed, dried her hands, and walked over to the bar counter near the sink. From her wallet, she pulled out a worn driver’s license and slid it across to him.

“Not really a trusting bunch, huh?” she said, not unkindly.

Then she grabbed a freshly cleaned glass from the drying rack, cradled it in both hands, and set it down on the island between them. “There. You should be able to get a good set of prints from that. Cross-reference away. My name is real. My degrees are real. My tax history is boring as hell.”

Bucky shifted his gaze from the shimmering glass to her face, and then back again. Her eyes met his without flinching, just a gentle serene smile playing across her lips.

“I have nothing to hide,” she said simply.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time—just quiet. Thoughtful.

At last, he picked up the license and tucked it into his jacket. Not a word. But not a threat, either.

She went back to cleaning, a new rag in hand.

Bucky lingered for a moment longer, his eyes reflecting a hint of nostalgia. With a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "Those were good muffins."

Kay smiled without looking up. “I know.”

*****

The file lay open on the screen, its clean formatting belying how deep it went—birth records, tax returns, college transcripts, employment history, even a blurry family photo from some wedding ten years back. Kay Romano, age thirty, born in Boston. BA and a master’s in biology. Former cancer research scientist. Now Watchtower cook, nurse, assistant, and apparently, team therapist if Bob’s sudden calm demeanor was any indication.

“So,” Bucky said, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame of the war room doorway. “Are we really going along with this? Having Valentina set us up with a… nanny?”

Alexei didn’t even look up from his seat. “I like her,” he declared, mouth half-full with a thick Italian deli meat sandwich. “Very good cook.”

He said it with the finality of a man who had not enjoyed a hot meal in a decade and was now emotionally bonded to bacon.

“The scones weren’t that good,” John muttered, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he owned the place. “Little too… orange-y.”

Yelena’s head snapped around. “Are you kidding? They were warm. And buttery. And fluffy. I say she stays.”

Alexei pointed at her with his sandwich. “See? She gets it.”

Bob nodded, almost shyly. “She seems nice.”

That, apparently, was the deciding vote. No one questioned it.

“She’s overqualified, to put it mildly,” Bucky grumbled, pulling the file back up with a furrowed brow. “Her background is impressive. Cancer research. Degrees from MIT and Boston University. Her father was a janitor, mother was a nurse. Taught to cook by her grandmother.” Almost against his will, Bucky could imagine her family life instilling a strong work ethic in her, as well as a deep compassion. “There’s no red flags except…”

He tapped the screen.

Yelena leaned over his shoulder. “Ah. Family skeletons?”

“Cousin with mob connections. Another one who used to turn tricks. Nothing directly tied to Kay, but—”

“Oh please,” Yelena cut in with an eye roll. “We are a group of wanted criminals and ex-assassins. Are we really going to judge her for a couple of wild-card cousins?”

“She makes muffins,” Bob added quietly, almost in disbelief.

Bucky frowned. “I’m not saying we judge her. I’m saying I want to ask her.”

“Then ask her.” Ava, who had remained silent until now, looked up from her tablet. “But she’s not the threat you’re trying to make her out to be.”

She held his gaze a beat too long, like she was saying something altogether different. Like she knew he had another reason for wanting to find fault with her. 

“Yeah,” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let the guy with a kill-count over seventy-seven go grill the pastry chef about her morals.” 

There was no venom in the jab, just the weary sarcasm of someone who’d long since accepted that everything around him was a little upside down.

The team dispersed with little fanfare, their departure marked by nothing more than the quiet murmur of footsteps and the soft rustle of clothing, as they each slipped back into their respective tasks, training, or personal distractions. But Bucky lingered, rooted to his spot, his gaze fixed intently on the slow, methodical scroll of Kay Romano’s background information sliding across the screen. Nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing hidden.

Just her.

*****

The compound was quiet by the time Bucky found himself in front of Kay’s door.

Somewhere deeper in the facility, a door creaked, maybe John grumbling on his way to bed, or Alexei raiding the fridge for a midnight snack. But here, in this corner near the kitchen, all was still. A warm light glowed from beneath Kay’s door.

He knocked twice.

There was a brief pause, followed by the gentle scuffing sound of slippers brushing against the polished hardwood floor, before the door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. Kay stood there, comfortably clad in a pair of snug leggings and a worn Boston Strong T-shirt that had clearly seen better days. Her dark hair was casually gathered into a loose bun, a few stray strands framing her face. She blinked at him, her eyes wide with quiet surprise, but the smile that gradually spread across her face was warm and effortless.

“Breakfast request?” she asked, voice still warm despite the late hour.

He gave her half a smile. “No...” He hesitated, shifting his weight. “Can we talk?”

Her eyes searched his face for a beat, but whatever she saw there, she didn’t flinch. She stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Sure.”

Bucky stepped inside, allowing her to gently close the door behind them with a soft click. The room was modest yet inviting, exuding a sense of warmth and order. A cozy knit blanket, crafted in shades of deep blue and cream, was carefully folded over the arm of a plush couch that looked well-loved. A small stack of books, their spines showing signs of frequent reading, rested on the wooden nightstand, alongside a half-finished sudoku puzzle with a pencil poised for the next solution. The air was infused with the comforting scent of tea and honey.

He stayed standing, arms folded across his chest, glancing around like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

Then, quietly but clearly, he said, “I ran your file.”

She didn’t look surprised.

“Yes?” she asked, voice soft but steady. “And what part bothered you?”

“It’s not you,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It’s… the cousins. Mob ties. That court case. They tried to paint your mom as abusive?”

She sighed deeply, walking past him to the couch and settling down onto it with a practiced ease. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she gestured to the cushion beside her, a silent invitation. He hesitated for a moment, caught in the web of his own thoughts, before finally moving toward her. Instead of sitting beside her, he chose to perch on the edge of her desk directly across from her. Just close enough to catch every word.

“Maria and Michael,” Kay said, like she’d rehearsed the words before. “My uncle’s kids. My uncle Anthony was a good man. Construction worker. Hard-working. Never caused anyone any trouble. ” She gave a small, tired shrug. “But his kids… they’re another story.”

She stared past him for a moment, like she was seeing something far away.

“Maria was picked up for soliciting a few times. Struggled with addiction. Of her three boys, one’s in prison, one disappeared a few years back, and the youngest overdosed when he was sixteen.” A beat passed. “Michael chased fast money. Got caught up with bad people. Had a couple kids he never claimed. I don’t even know their names. Their moms did a better job raising them than he ever would’ve.”

She finally met his eyes.

“They turned on my mom when she stopped giving them money. Took her to court, claimed she was financially abusive, tried to get Nonna’s Social Security checks.” Her jaw tensed, faint anger releasing from her with the memory. “It was pathetic. And pointless. The judge threw it out and told them it was disgraceful.”

Her voice softened as she continued.

“Broke Nonna’s heart. She used to send birthday cards, Christmas cards. Every year, without fail.” She gave a sad smile. “Stopped after that. She passed a handful of years later. At 101. She was never the same after they did that.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and palpable. Not uncomfortable, just heavy.

Bucky shifted uneasily, finally leaning forward on the desk, his elbows resting on his knees. He hesitated to meet her gaze.

“I just had to be sure,” he said, quiet.

She nodded slowly, folding her hands in her lap.

“I get it. If our roles were reversed, I’d check me out too.”

A small smile curved her mouth. “You get jumpy when people are nice to you.”

That remark coaxed a low reluctant laugh from him that seemed to rumble from deep within his chest, nearly against his will.

“Little bit.”

There was a pause, a shared quiet.

“It’s hard to trust,” she said, not accusing, just understanding. “Especially when you’ve been burned before.”

He looked up then, really looked at her. No trace of resentment or defensiveness in her expression. Just a calm, steadfast resilience. The realization struck him heavily, like a weight pressing on his chest. This wasn’t someone pretending to be good. She simply was.

And suddenly, as he turned away and left her to her evening, a wave of regret washed over him. He felt foolish for bringing it up at all, and cringed at his own poor judgment.

[knowledgeableknitter]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Chapter One: First Impressions of Muffins

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: Kay Romano, a warm and witty new addition to the Watchtower team, starts her day cooking breakfast in the shared kitchen. Bucky Barnes is skeptical despite her friendly nature and delicious meals. While Kay wins over most of the team, Bucky remains cautious.

Trigger warnings: She calls him handsome (cause he is); suspicious Bucky being a bit aggressive (in voice and tone); mentions of Kay's past, including family mob connections and a prostitute in the family; old court case discussed regarding financial abuse (dismissed, fraudulent claims); sad grandma mentioned; the team eats breakfast? idk, it's really just an introduction to Kay.

Story Masterlist

*****

The kitchen of the Watchtower was quiet in the early morning hours. Quiet enough for the sizzle of bacon and the rich scent of coffee to permeate the space like a promise of deliciousness to come. The counters were cluttered with pots and pans, and a few unwashed dishes were piled precariously in the sink. Kay stood at the stovetop, flipping strips of bacon with practiced ease, her purple T-shirt slightly stretched over her shoulder as she reached for the pan’s handle. The hem curled at her wide hips over her black leggings, and a few stray brown hairs had come loose from the bun she’d jammed them into.

The serenity didn’t last long.

Boots sounded behind her, heavy and deliberate. Military. She didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” came the expectedly gruff an gravelly voice of Bucky Barnes, rugged timbre carrying an unmistakable edge. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

She turned with a grin, spatula still in hand. "Hello, Handsome! I’m Kay!" she announced brightly, her voice warm. "Valentina brought me on board. I’m your new cook! And almost-nurse. And personal assistant." Her small giggle was light. "I’m being paid to wear many hats. The only thing I won’t touch is PR, because that seems like a nightmare of social media, and that’s definitely not my thing. That’s still Mel’s territory."

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He didn’t lower the sapphire glare he was leveling at her.

“Good story,” he said, slowly, “but I’m not buying it. She would have told me.”

Right on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He kept his eyes on Kay as he pulled it out, answering without looking.

“Yeah?” he said. A pause. His gaze flicked up and down. "Uh-huh. Brunette, about five-four? Blue eyes, curves for days?" Bucky questioned, voice flat, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he stared Kay down. 

She arched an eyebrow, amused and quite frankly flattered at his description of her.

He turned slightly, facing away as he listened to whatever Mel was rattling off. “Yeah,” he finally muttered, “she’s already here. Making breakfast, apparently. Thanks for the heads-up.” He hung up, but the suspicion lingered in his expression. He kept his eyes on Kay as if she might reveal new secrets at any moment. He crossed his arms, metal bicep flexing against the thin cotton of his tee, and braced his shoulder against the refrigerator, staking silent claim to his corner of the room.

Kay, for her part, was unbothered. She shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Told you.”

The spell of awkwardness shattered with a dramatic entrance. Alexei stormed into the kitchen like a bear catching a scent on the wind.

“I smell bacon!” he bellowed. “Oh! Beautiful woman in our kitchen, cooking bacon.” He stopped in his tracks, staring at her with absolute delight. Then, to Bucky, in a mock whisper: “I had a dream like this one time, but the woman was naked.”

Kay snorted, barely catching the laugh before it escaped entirely. Alexei made a beeline for the bacon plate, snatched it, and carried it like a trophy to the table.

“Please don’t eat all the bacon, Alexei!” she called after him, smiling. “Sharing is caring!”

Yelena strode in, sleek and purposeful, followed closely by Bob, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“This is… different. Are these fresh scones?” she asked, already reaching for one on the side plate.

“Yes! Orange cranberry. I love scones, and this is my favorite flavor.” 

Yelena brought the scone to her nose and inhaled like a sommelier. “Still warm…”

John came in next, boots stomping and full of swagger. He headed straight to the coffee pot without a word to Kay, though his eyes never left her. 

Finally Ava entered, quiet and composed as ever, eyes crossing the room like a scanner running diagnostics.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, arms folding.

“Breakfast,” Kay said without missing a beat. “Alexei took all the bacon, which he will share if asked.” She shot him a look. He responded with a wide, unapologetic grin as he bit into a crispy strip. “I’ll have a whole heap of scrambled eggs ready in about five minutes, and toast is on the counter. Sorry the toast is store-bought bread. I’ll have homemade sourdough in a few days.”

Ava gave John a look, exchanged a silent, cryptic moment, then she shrugged and grabbed a plate.

“I usually just have cereal,” Bob muttered, almost apologetic.

“I won’t be offended if you want cereal, sweetie. I put a couple more kinds in the pantry. You only had Wheaties.” She leaned closer, wrinkled her nose, and whispered, “And I personally think that stuff tastes like cardboard.”

That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him—barely a breath of extra air, but enough to register. Kay grinned.

“You’re not wrong about that,” he said, almost under his breath.

As the others found their seats and started eating, Kay turned her attention back to Bucky. Only Bucky hadn’t moved. He remained planted by the fridge, with the posture of a soldier waiting for orders on a battlefield. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, still watching her like she might pull out a Hydra logo and start monologuing.

The others either didn’t notice this tension, or they’d grown accustomed to navigating it like a piece of heavy furniture in the middle of a familiar room.

Kay hesitated, then made a show of scraping eggs from the pan onto a plate, letting the sizzle and scrape fill the silence. She walked it to the table, setting it down with a flourish. No one was going to make the first move, so she did. “Eggs don’t keep well,” she announced, “So eat up before they go rubbery. Also, the scones are better with a little butter. Should be soft and spreadable by now.” She pointed at the ceramic dish in the center of the table.

Even that provoked only a few nods and a grunt of acknowledgement. Still, the room’s energy shifted. Food had a way of lowering defenses, even if just by degrees. Alexei was already on his third helping, and Yelena, despite a face designed to conceal most emotion, appeared captivated by the tart zing of cranberry. Kay watched these reactions with the quiet pride of someone who genuinely enjoyed feeding people, understanding that comfort sometimes comes in the form of carbs and citrus zest.

But Bucky… Bucky was immune. He didn’t so much as reach for a utensil. His skepticism had shifted from Kay’s existence to her motives, and she could practically see the gears turning behind his stare: why is she here, what does she want, who planted her and for what?

Kay reminded herself that winning over the wary took time and, in her experience, copious amounts of baked goods. She wiped her hands on a towel and crossed the room, returning to her spot behind the stovetop. The rest of the table fell into a hush, sensing the thin filament of tension stretching between the two.

Hands loose at her sides, she said, a bit softer now: “I made blueberry muffins,” she put the plate on the counter near him, “Not too sweet… with a brown sugar oat crumble on top…”

He narrowed his eyes, the blue becoming suspicious slits. “Why are you offering me the muffins, specifically?”

The question was so blunt it might have been rehearsed in a mirror, but Kay only smirked, a warm spark of real amusement. “I’m not trying to poison you, handsome. It’s my Nonna’s recipe. You’re kinda from the same era. Thought it had a chance of tasting a little like home.”

Bucky's gaze didn't budge. He looked down at the plate, then back up at her, as if waiting for her to flinch or look away. She didn't. He finally grunted, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a warning.

He hesitated. 

Then, slowly, he reached out and picked up the muffin, turning it in his hand. He bit into it, and the crunch of the crumble was louder than the skepticism.

He paused. Chewed. The initial suspicion on his face short-circuited, replaced by something softer, almost startled. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The blueberry burst, the oat crumble dissolving on his tongue with a memory as sugary as it was unexpected.

He blinked and looked down at the muffin like it had revealed some long-lost secret. Without saying a word, he slid the plate of muffins slightly closer to himself. 

Kay caught the motion and smiled.

“So… any allergies or dietary preferences?” she asked, glancing around.

Bob raised a tentative hand. “I don’t really like coconut.”

“I can work with that,” she said with a cheerful nod.

“Can I try a muffin?” Bob asked, directing the question to Bucky now, who was still guarding the plate like a dragon hoarding gold.

Bucky reluctantly handed him one, not taking his eyes off Kay.

“Chuck me one, too?” John called out from across the room, holding up a hand ready to actually catch a flying muffin.

“No,” Bucky said flatly, and turned to leave, plate of muffins in hand.

Kay called after him with a smirk, “Breakfast sandwiches tomorrow, with homemade bagels!” 

The kitchen buzzed with the early-morning chatter of contented people relaxing with good food. And that was a good enough start for Kay.

*****

The kitchen was quiet again. The breakfast chaos had long since passed: plates washed, crumbs wiped, and the team dispersed into their usual orbits. Somewhere downstairs, Alexei was shouting at someone in Russian, likely Yelena in the training room. In the kitchen, a fan hummed above the stove, the scent of lemon cleaner just starting to override the morning's warmth of orange and bacon grease.

Kay was wiping down the countertops.

She felt him before she heard him. The way the room changed when he entered. Quieter somehow, heavier.

Bucky Barnes leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed once more. Watching.

“So,” he said, tone flat but eyes sharp. “Why are you really here?”

Kay didn’t look up from the rag in her hand. “Cause the pay is good, room and board is included, and I wanted a change from my last job.”

Bucky stepped closer, boots silent on tile. “What was your last job?”

She paused, weighing how much to say, then shrugged. “Scientist. Cancer research at one of the big pharma labs. The work itself was fulfilling, but the red tape was tedious. Decided I needed a break from cells and experiments and—”

"What the hell kind of twisted research had you conducting experiments in prison cells?" he snarled, his words slicing through the air like a razor's edge. "Who were your test subjects?" He advanced with a menacing determination, his eyes burning with accusation.

His voice, though still low, was laced with a menacing edge, like a coil of razor-sharp barbed wire wrapped deceptively in delicate silk, ready to cut at any moment. 

The words cut through the air with such sharpness that they froze her hand in mid-swipe, as if an invisible force had grasped it. She turned slowly, her eyes widening in surprise, an instinctive reaction that brought her hands up, palms outward, in a gesture of automatic defense. It wasn’t fear in her demeanor, not exactly. Just a sense of heightened awareness and caution. 

“Whoa there,” she said calmly, voice gentle but firm, like talking to a wounded dog. “Cells, like single cells. Not jail cells. Not people.”

But he didn’t move, his body half-tensed like a tightly wound spring. She could see the tension coiled in the rigid lines of his shoulders, the firmness of his stance, and the clenched set of his jaw.

The way a man looked when he’d been wrong before. Hurt before.

“Oh Christ, how do I explain this…”

She tossed the rag onto the counter and dug into her back pocket for her phone. A few swipes later, she turned the screen toward him. “Look. These are cell culture trays—see these grids? I’d seed them with human cancer cells, treat them with different compounds, and study how the cells reacted. No humans. No animals. Just molecules and microscopy. Other than developing a raging case of carpal tunnel, nobody got hurt.” 

He stared at the phone for a long moment, reading more than just the image. Then something in his posture shifted—a slow deliberate breath let out, tension unspooling like a thread cut loose.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice dropping to a softer, almost embarrassed tone. "Sorry." 

"No harm, no foul," she replied, her words clipped and precise, as she spun back to the counter with a deliberate swiftness. Her voice maintained a veneer of calm, but inside, her pulse beat relentlessly in her ears.

A few beats of silence passed. She scrubbed the same spot again. And again. The rag squeaked faintly across the granite. She was giving him time to collect himself, and he knew it.

“Why this job?” he asked at last, softer now.

She looked over her shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thought it’d be fun.”

His brow raised in disbelief. “Fun? Playing nanny for a bunch of misfit assassins and spies?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” She shrugged. “It’s not every day you find a gig that lets you cook and bake whatever you want all day. And if I have to juggle some appointments, patch up the occasional wound, or make sure you people hydrate and remember birthdays? That’s manageable.”

He didn't laugh, but a subtle change flitted across his face—a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer in his eyes—something that might've been close to amusement. She could feel the way his gaze lingered. Studying her like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

She sighed, dried her hands, and walked over to the bar counter near the sink. From her wallet, she pulled out a worn driver’s license and slid it across to him.

“Not really a trusting bunch, huh?” she said, not unkindly.

Then she grabbed a freshly cleaned glass from the drying rack, cradled it in both hands, and set it down on the island between them. “There. You should be able to get a good set of prints from that. Cross-reference away. My name is real. My degrees are real. My tax history is boring as hell.”

Bucky shifted his gaze from the shimmering glass to her face, and then back again. Her eyes met his without flinching, just a gentle serene smile playing across her lips.

“I have nothing to hide,” she said simply.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time—just quiet. Thoughtful.

At last, he picked up the license and tucked it into his jacket. Not a word. But not a threat, either.

She went back to cleaning, a new rag in hand.

Bucky lingered for a moment longer, his eyes reflecting a hint of nostalgia. With a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "Those were good muffins."

Kay smiled without looking up. “I know.”

*****

The file lay open on the screen, its clean formatting belying how deep it went—birth records, tax returns, college transcripts, employment history, even a blurry family photo from some wedding ten years back. Kay Romano, age thirty, born in Boston. BA and a master’s in biology. Former cancer research scientist. Now Watchtower cook, nurse, assistant, and apparently, team therapist if Bob’s sudden calm demeanor was any indication.

“So,” Bucky said, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame of the war room doorway. “Are we really going along with this? Having Valentina set us up with a… nanny?”

Alexei didn’t even look up from his seat. “I like her,” he declared, mouth half-full with a thick Italian deli meat sandwich. “Very good cook.”

He said it with the finality of a man who had not enjoyed a hot meal in a decade and was now emotionally bonded to bacon.

“The scones weren’t that good,” John muttered, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he owned the place. “Little too… orange-y.”

Yelena’s head snapped around. “Are you kidding? They were warm. And buttery. And fluffy. I say she stays.”

Alexei pointed at her with his sandwich. “See? She gets it.”

Bob nodded, almost shyly. “She seems nice.”

That, apparently, was the deciding vote. No one questioned it.

“She’s overqualified, to put it mildly,” Bucky grumbled, pulling the file back up with a furrowed brow. “Her background is impressive. Cancer research. Degrees from MIT and Boston University. Her father was a janitor, mother was a nurse. Taught to cook by her grandmother.” Almost against his will, Bucky could imagine her family life instilling a strong work ethic in her, as well as a deep compassion. “There’s no red flags except…”

He tapped the screen.

Yelena leaned over his shoulder. “Ah. Family skeletons?”

“Cousin with mob connections. Another one who used to turn tricks. Nothing directly tied to Kay, but—”

“Oh please,” Yelena cut in with an eye roll. “We are a group of wanted criminals and ex-assassins. Are we really going to judge her for a couple of wild-card cousins?”

“She makes muffins,” Bob added quietly, almost in disbelief.

Bucky frowned. “I’m not saying we judge her. I’m saying I want to ask her.”

“Then ask her.” Ava, who had remained silent until now, looked up from her tablet. “But she’s not the threat you’re trying to make her out to be.”

She held his gaze a beat too long, like she was saying something altogether different. Like she knew he had another reason for wanting to find fault with her. 

“Yeah,” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let the guy with a kill-count over seventy-seven go grill the pastry chef about her morals.” 

There was no venom in the jab, just the weary sarcasm of someone who’d long since accepted that everything around him was a little upside down.

The team dispersed with little fanfare, their departure marked by nothing more than the quiet murmur of footsteps and the soft rustle of clothing, as they each slipped back into their respective tasks, training, or personal distractions. But Bucky lingered, rooted to his spot, his gaze fixed intently on the slow, methodical scroll of Kay Romano’s background information sliding across the screen. Nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing hidden.

Just her.

*****

The compound was quiet by the time Bucky found himself in front of Kay’s door.

Somewhere deeper in the facility, a door creaked, maybe John grumbling on his way to bed, or Alexei raiding the fridge for a midnight snack. But here, in this corner near the kitchen, all was still. A warm light glowed from beneath Kay’s door.

He knocked twice.

There was a brief pause, followed by the gentle scuffing sound of slippers brushing against the polished hardwood floor, before the door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. Kay stood there, comfortably clad in a pair of snug leggings and a worn Boston Strong T-shirt that had clearly seen better days. Her dark hair was casually gathered into a loose bun, a few stray strands framing her face. She blinked at him, her eyes wide with quiet surprise, but the smile that gradually spread across her face was warm and effortless.

“Breakfast request?” she asked, voice still warm despite the late hour.

He gave her half a smile. “No...” He hesitated, shifting his weight. “Can we talk?”

Her eyes searched his face for a beat, but whatever she saw there, she didn’t flinch. She stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Sure.”

Bucky stepped inside, allowing her to gently close the door behind them with a soft click. The room was modest yet inviting, exuding a sense of warmth and order. A cozy knit blanket, crafted in shades of deep blue and cream, was carefully folded over the arm of a plush couch that looked well-loved. A small stack of books, their spines showing signs of frequent reading, rested on the wooden nightstand, alongside a half-finished sudoku puzzle with a pencil poised for the next solution. The air was infused with the comforting scent of tea and honey.

He stayed standing, arms folded across his chest, glancing around like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

Then, quietly but clearly, he said, “I ran your file.”

She didn’t look surprised.

“Yes?” she asked, voice soft but steady. “And what part bothered you?”

“It’s not you,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It’s… the cousins. Mob ties. That court case. They tried to paint your mom as abusive?”

She sighed deeply, walking past him to the couch and settling down onto it with a practiced ease. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she gestured to the cushion beside her, a silent invitation. He hesitated for a moment, caught in the web of his own thoughts, before finally moving toward her. Instead of sitting beside her, he chose to perch on the edge of her desk directly across from her. Just close enough to catch every word.

“Maria and Michael,” Kay said, like she’d rehearsed the words before. “My uncle’s kids. My uncle Anthony was a good man. Construction worker. Hard-working. Never caused anyone any trouble. ” She gave a small, tired shrug. “But his kids… they’re another story.”

She stared past him for a moment, like she was seeing something far away.

“Maria was picked up for soliciting a few times. Struggled with addiction. Of her three boys, one’s in prison, one disappeared a few years back, and the youngest overdosed when he was sixteen.” A beat passed. “Michael chased fast money. Got caught up with bad people. Had a couple kids he never claimed. I don’t even know their names. Their moms did a better job raising them than he ever would’ve.”

She finally met his eyes.

“They turned on my mom when she stopped giving them money. Took her to court, claimed she was financially abusive, tried to get Nonna’s Social Security checks.” Her jaw tensed, faint anger releasing from her with the memory. “It was pathetic. And pointless. The judge threw it out and told them it was disgraceful.”

Her voice softened as she continued.

“Broke Nonna’s heart. She used to send birthday cards, Christmas cards. Every year, without fail.” She gave a sad smile. “Stopped after that. She passed a handful of years later. At 101. She was never the same after they did that.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and palpable. Not uncomfortable, just heavy.

Bucky shifted uneasily, finally leaning forward on the desk, his elbows resting on his knees. He hesitated to meet her gaze.

“I just had to be sure,” he said, quiet.

She nodded slowly, folding her hands in her lap.

“I get it. If our roles were reversed, I’d check me out too.”

A small smile curved her mouth. “You get jumpy when people are nice to you.”

That remark coaxed a low reluctant laugh from him that seemed to rumble from deep within his chest, nearly against his will.

“Little bit.”

There was a pause, a shared quiet.

“It’s hard to trust,” she said, not accusing, just understanding. “Especially when you’ve been burned before.”

He looked up then, really looked at her. No trace of resentment or defensiveness in her expression. Just a calm, steadfast resilience. The realization struck him heavily, like a weight pressing on his chest. This wasn’t someone pretending to be good. She simply was.

And suddenly, as he turned away and left her to her evening, a wave of regret washed over him. He felt foolish for bringing it up at all, and cringed at his own poor judgment.

Chapter 2

[knowledgeableknitter]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Kay Romano is the new curvy / plus sized nanny for the New Avengers. She cooks for them, cleans, and patches up their wounds. As she ingratiates herself with each of the team, none is more enthralled with her than Bucky Barnes, the brooding super soldier with old school gentleman's charm. And while they may flirt and share longing glances, will either of them ever make a move? Or will misunderstandings tear them apart?

This story will have good food, angst and misunderstandings, and (eventually) smut. No cheating, and a definite happily ever after. It will be presented in chapter format, with trigger warnings and word count per chapter. We will see insecurities from Kay's POV regarding being a plus sized woman in the world, and Bucky's reaction to it. This is a super slow burn, and as it stands, it is over 40k words (not including bonus chapters), and in the process of editing, so it may in fact be more by the time it's complete.

Chapter One: First Impressions of Muffins

Chapter Two: The Fan Club

Chapter Three:

Chapter Four:

Chapter Five:

Chapter Six:

Chapter Seven:

Chapter Eight:

Chapter Nine:

Chapter Ten:

Chapter Eleven:

Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Thirteen:

Chapter Fourteen:

Chapter Fifteen:

Chapter Sixteen:

Epilogue:

Bonus Chapter:

Additional Bonus Chapter:

In an unrelated note, this is my first fic! I hope someone likes it besides me, but even if nobody does, that's fine, too.