“We're cooking Thanksgiving dinner.” Clint announced as he burst into the apartment he shared with Bucky in the tower.
“We're doing what now?” Bucky asked, sitting up from where he'd been lounging on the couch, hoping he hadn’t heard right.
“We're cooking thanksgiving dinner.” Clint repeated. “turkey, potatoes and gravy, stuffing, sweet potatoes, pie, the works.”
“And why would we be doing this?” Bucky asked.
“Because tony always has dinner catered and while it's great, I want a real home cooked meal this year.” Clint explained, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, which instantly had Bucky worried.
Whenever Clint sounded like that, bad things happened. Things like explosions and screaming and injuries, usually Clint’s.
“Sweetheart,” Bucky said in a calm voice, the kind used on madmen and over excited boyfriends and boyfriends who were over excited madmen, “are you sure we are the best people for the job?”
“Sure, how hard can it be?” Clint asked. “We are two grown men; we can do this. What can go wrong.”
Bucky had this image of food exploding, the tower in flames while sirens wailed and the Hulk raged and Clint standing there with singed eyebrows and a confused look on his face.
“Do you even know how to cook all that stuff?” Bucky asked.
“That' what the internet's for.” Clint said.
Bucky felt a chill run down his back, this was a bad idea, he knew it was a bad idea, but he was going to go along with it, just like he went along with most of Clint's bad ideas in the end.
“For the record, this is a bad idea.” He muttered.
“Probably.” Clint agreed cheerfully.
“As long as we agree on something.”
That and sweet potatoes had to have marshmallows on then were the only two things they agreed on for the next week. They argued about how much sage to use on the turkey, should the turkey be free range, how to make gravy, Bucky was a flour as a thickener person, Clint was corn starch. They fought about pie crusts and green bean casserole, Clint was for it, Bucky wasn't. They had a royal shouting match about stuffing because Bucky wanted to put oysters in it.
`Oysters, really, who does that" Clint demanded.
“Lot's of people according to the internet.” Bucky snapped.
“Well, they're idiots.” Clint yelled.
“So are you, that's never stopped you before.” Bucky snarled.
“Stubborn asshole.” Clint yelled as he threw the potato he had in his hand at Bucky's head and stormed out of the apartment.
Bucky caught it in his metal hand, then cursed when it burst in his clenched fist. He cleaned up and went back to perusing recipes on the internet. When Clint hadn’t come back by the time he was ready for bed, he asked Jarvis to make sure Clint was ok, then went to bed, determined not to back down.
The next morning, he woke to an empty bed. He stumbled in the living room to see Clint on the couch, sound asleep. He watched him for a few minutes, then went into the kitchen to start the coffee. He was sitting at the counter, looking at more recipes on his laptop when he heard shuffling steps. He didn’t look up as Clint got a cup of coffee and sat beside him.
“We could make both.” Clint mumbled from behind his mug.
“We could.” Bucky agreed, not looking up.
“Love you, you stubborn asshole.”
“Love you too, ya idiot.”
Their first attempt at cooking a turkey was a complete disaster that has the smoke alarms going off. Bucky has a brief flashback to the day Clint had told him they were cooking Thanksgiving Dinner. They stood in the smoke-filled kitchen, staring at the blackened remains of a 22-pound bird.
“Maybe we could deep fry one instead.” Clint suggested.
“NO!” Bucky vetoed loudly, visons of fireballs and third-degree burns running through his mind. There was no way he was letting his accident-prone boyfriend anywhere near a pot of boiling oil.
“Let’s just do more research and try again.” He said in a more normal tone.
Clint stared at him, trying to decide if Bucky was up to something, then shrugged.
“Ok.” He agreed.
There were baking disasters, Bucky still didn’t understand how Clint had managed to get pumpkin puree on the ceiling fan in the living room and was pretty sure he didn’t actually want to know if just to keep his sanity.
They each made their dressing recipes and after tasting them, Bucky had to agree, oysters were a bad idea. Clint did a happy dance, then gave Bucky a blow job right there in the kitchen to reward him for admitting he was wrong.
Thanksgiving Day had them rolling out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to start cooking. That afternoon, the whole team, plus friends and family, gathered around the dinning room table in the communal area. They all oooed and aahhed when Bucky carried the platter with a beautiful, golden skinned turkey on it in to the room and set it before Clint to be carved.
“Damn, Robin Hood,” Tony exclaimed after tasting his food, “you and Frosty missed your true calling. You two could open a restaurant.”
“Not happening.” Bucky said firmly.
He had plans to recover from his misadventures in cooking that involved him and Clint being naked in bed. From the look Clint gave him he totally agreed.
“I think we’ll take our dessert back to our room.” Bucky said, standing upso quickly he knocked his chair over.
He grabbed Clint’s arm, hauling him to his feet. He paused long enough to grab a pie and a can of whip cream off the kitchen counter before ushering Clint in to the elevator.
“In a hurry?” Clint asked with a knowing smirk.
“You, me, naked with pie and whipped cream.” Bucky told him.
“Why, Mr. Barnes,” Clint purred, “I like the way you think.”
Turns out, whip cream and pumpkin pie are harder to get out from between the plates of Bucky’s arm than smashed potato.