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Steve is not, at this moment, one hundred percent sure why this was a decision he made. Why being here, in this tent, surrounded by people who likely know exactly what they are doing and why they are here, is something he was excited about and signed up to willingly.
'Steve!' his friends had said, 'You should apply!' they said, 'You could totally win, you're better than all those bakers put together!' they said.
They lied.
Natasha, he should have known, would butter him up just to get him on television and help bump their business.
Clint, he definitely should have known, would say absolutely anything if it meant free food might be involved.
Bruce. Bruce he had thought better of.
He also doesn't know why, three weeks into this nationally treasured baking competition, that he had by the skin of his teeth been accepted into, he decided to go out celebrating with his other contestants and drank the pina colada's they plied him with, (did dubious things he will not mention, lovely lovely things) and crawled back to the hotel so late in the night (morning) that he required coffee in an IV even to get into the shower this morning.
And now look at him. Here he stands, sun warming the tent to a temperature hotter than any sane Englishman had ever been subjected to, the dough for his tart crust looking sadder than any dough he has ever made (why are they cooking in a tent? Why?) his caramel refusing to come together, time bleeding away from him faster than it had any right to.
Today is going to be his last day on the show. He can feel it.
Trying to put together a salted caramel tart, brown butter crust, topped with a luscious brown sugar meringue, in such a short amount of time, on such an unusually hot day, was such a monumentally stupid idea, this - this chaos - is exactly what Steve deserves.
His only saving grace is that it seems as though the rest of the bakers have made similar and equally ridiculous attempts at their own tarts and they are all now in the same state of disarray. Benches covered in mess, aprons equally disastrous, and faces red and full of horror.
Except as Steve looks around to ground himself, to find his bearings, suddenly no one is focused on their benches, and everyone is focused instead on the door (flap? entrance? Steve has no idea. he is no expert on tents, thank you), eyes wide and mouths askew.
Perhaps the universe is punishing Steve for a past life. Perhaps he is simply destined for failure.
Because he can see what has caught everyone's attention. Or more accurately, who has caught everyone's attention.
Tall, dark and handsome gets thrown around recklessly and Steve has never paid it much mind outside of Pride and Prejudice fanfiction but here stands the embodiment of it, a man, tall; yes - at least six foot - dressed in a perfectly pressed and ridiculously well tailored, midnight black suit over a custom black dress shirt (the deep v of which sends a shiver up Steve's spine), hair swept up into a coif that Harry Stiles would kill for and sunglasses that probably cost more than Steve's car.
All of that is enough by itself, but it's the man's face - high cheekbones, peachy skin, soft stubble, and a straight, sharp nose that screams 'aristocrat' - or more importantly, his smile - somehow equal parts arrogant and innocent (cheeky, Steve's mother would say) that almost bowls Steve over.
'What?...' Steve whispers, snapping his mouth shut and looking around with confused terror, 'who?...'
'He's the guest judge,' Wanda says under her breath, standing just behind Steve and watching with the same hushed reverence as the rest of the group, 'Supposedly he's a fan of tarts.' Wanda say the last with a knowing wiggle of her eyebrows and Steve can tell he's blushing like a schoolboy. Which only raises her eyebrows more. 'Are you a fan?' She asks, keeping her voice low and her head close.
Steve can only stare at her, dumbfounded.
Because Steve doesn't know how this man is famous. Doesn't know why he qualifies as a guest judge. Doesn't recognise him as an important culinary figure, or an actor (at least from anything Steve has seen - which actually isn't that surprising, he doesn't look the type for trashy romantic comedies or high drama restaurant reality shows)
Steve only knows that this man is hands down the hottest human being that he's ever seen in reality. And that he happens to be the only man that Steve has ever had anonymous sex with in a bathroom.
Which happened to be last night.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
The man has taken off his sunglasses and his eyes are even more gorgeous than Steve remembers. Or could have even seen under the dank, spluttering fluorescents of the bathroom they were in. Grey-blue and steely, framed by dark lashes and pretty, so so pretty in that stupidly handsome face.
'You don't know who that is?' Wanda whispers, nose scrunched adorably at the dumb expression on Steve's face.
He can only shake his head. He's had this man's cock in his mouth, but no, he doesn't know who he is.
'That's Bucky Barnes!' Wanda's whisper elevates in pitch, 'You know... lead singer of Hydra... Number one Band in Britain right now... Sex symbol, Ladies man... sexiest man of the year...?'
Steve just stands there, staring at Wanda, Bucky Barnes in his periphery, and continues to shake his head. Because no. He doesn't know any of that.
Steve's spotify playlist has had his 'Hopeless Romantic' playlist on repeat for months now, and he barely notices it anymore as it plays in the background to keep him company as he bakes. He's absolutely useless at anything popular these days.
'Oh Steve,' Wanda says, mouth turning up in a fond grin, 'you're hopeless.'
And of course now he's nodding, because yes, yes he is. More than Wanda could possibly know.
Steve has dumped his caramel into the sink to focus on his pastry, as long as he can get that in the fridge he can put all his attention on a new caramel and make sure its as silky and salty and smooth as it should be. He's not watching Bucky move across the floor to speak to the other judges, to smile at the contestants at the front of the room. Absolutely not staring like a deer in headlights.
God/the Universe/Karma... whatever it is that rules Steve's life, chooses that exact moment to sway Bucky's head his way, and Steve tracks him, catching the precise millisecond Bucky sees him and recognises him. The way his eyes widen. The way his steps falter, smile drops into open mouthed shock, and then immediately snaps shut again.
'I'm in so much trouble.' Steve barely breathes the words out, they're so quiet, and yet somehow Wanda hears him - even as she hurries back to her own pastry.
'What's happened? Your pastry?' She asks, keeping one eye on her dough as she flours it, wraps it and tosses it into the fridge, talks to him out of the side of her mouth the way she usually does as she bakes. Ready to help him if he needs it, somehow able to keep seven tasks simultaneously under her intense command as she does.
'No, I mean yes, but no,' Steve is trying to look away, honestly, but his eyes are fixed on Bucky's. Bucky who is headed his way.
Wanda is now swinging her head between the two of them and wisely steps away to get back to her tart, but is no doubt listening to every word that is about to be said.
Bucky has made it all the way to the back right of the room (tent!) where Steve and Wanda are working and stops in front of Steve's side of the bench. Smile plastered back onto his face, but definitely no longer cheeky. It's soured now, not meeting his eyes.
'Hi,' he says, false cheer.
The camera, because this is Steve's life now, has followed him all the way down here and the boom operator is close enough to catch everything. That poor guy must have the arms of a god.
'Hey,' Steve says back. Sweating.
'What's happening back here?'
'Tarts,' Steve blurts out, and he can feel the blood rush into his cheeks, all the way up into his ears.
Wanda stifles a choking cough as she turns away.
'I can see that,' Bucky says back, false cheer, eyes narrowing at Steve.
And hang on a second, because Steve is no tart. Well, he may be, but he's certainly not the only tart in this scenario. Steve had only been innocently hamming it up on the dancefloor with M'Baku - making a fool of himself and blowing off steam. Wanda shouting it them to 'do it sexy!'. Bucky is the one who had been hiding in the corner, sidling up to Steve as he made his way through to the back of the pub, leaning in close and breathing into his ear, his voice low and smoky, telling Steve he'd been watching him, telling Steve he was beautiful. Dragging Steve into the bathroom and softly pushing Steve against the door as he locked it.
Bucky was the one asking Steve 'This okay?' as he unbuttoned Steve's shirt to run his hands down his chest, 'and this?' as he traced his fingers down and over the bulge in Steve's chinos. Steve nodding his head, 'yes, yes, yes,' like a mantra on his tongue.
Bucky was the one tugging Steve's hair and kissing his mouth, his jaw, his throat. Shoving his hand down Steve's pants and sliding his sweaty hand down Steve's very interested dick.
Steve had only hung on for dear life, this gorgeous stranger, tight white t-shirt and jeans that must have been painted on, basically ravishing him, so surprising, so fucking hot (and ohgodohgodohgod it felt so good) Steve could do nothing else but reach up to kiss the stranger, lick and suck into his mouth to help smother his own shout as he came.
Steve could only then spin them around and push uselessly up at the guy to lean him against the door. Get down on his knees and look up at the guy with heart eyes as he unzipped the fly of the his jeans and smiled as he watched him nod, felt him tug Steve's hair to push his mouth over him, marvel at the way the guy's knees went weak as Steve sucked and licked and slid his hands up and under his balls till he knew he was close enough that Steve could pull off and catch the release in his hand.
And Steve could do nothing but wash it off in the sink with an awkward smile, averting his eyes while the guy put himself to rights and then fly past him to make a run for it when someone starting banging on the door and shouting at them to 'get the fuck out'.
So really... this was all the guy, Bucky's, fault. If you think about it.
Steve's confused terror starts to morph into something a little colder, a little more resolved, as Bucky Barnes, lead singer of Hamunaptra, or Heimdall or whoever, God of Sex, raises one perfect eyebrow and stares him down.
'This is Steve,' Paul Hollywood says hurriedly as he hurries up to their bench, giving Bucky some side eye at the break from tradition in format, 'and Wanda,' Paul waves to Wanda, who busily pretends not to be fixated on Bucky and Steve's conversation. 'What are you making today, Steve?'
He swallows before he accidentally blurts out 'Tarts' again, and takes a breath before he manages to squeak out 'it's a brown butter, salted caramel tart.'
'Your looking a little limp there,' Prue offers magnanimously, as only Prue can, and Bucky jumps, squawking indignantly before realising that she's motioning to Steve's pastry.
'It's not liking the temperature in here,' Steve says desperately trying to get Paul's attention and send him the message to please go the fuck away via ESP.
And blissfully, the universe is finally on Steve's side, as Paul seems to get the idea, and moves them all over to Wanda's bench to ask about her overly plump raspberries.
Bucky is still standing in front of Steve though, face a mask of wary displeasure, as the camera and boom move over to get Wanda and the judges conversation.
'I swear to god,' Steve says, so low and so quiet Bucky has to lean in to hear him, 'This is just a crazy, insane coincidence.'
Bucky frowns, looks Steve up and down, no doubt rethinking his life choices now that he can see Steve in the light of day, flour in his hair and bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep, less graceful and more reedy than ever now that he's not on the dancefloor.
'I have to fix this,' Steve says, and for a second Bucky's face lightens, he looks contemplative, but then when Steve points down to his pastry, the mask slips back to Bucky's face and he nods and moves on. Not saying goodbye.
Not looking back.
***
The tart is not a disaster. By some miracle. It's definitely not his best, because how could it possibly be, when he's here and it actually means something, and not just at home with Clint and Nat and Bruce in their run down flat, snuggled under blankets because the heating is off again but the oven works fine and Bridgeton is on.
No, here where it means the difference between being a struggling pop up bakery for another two years or finally having the money, or the good grace to get himself a little shop and really make a go of this, here, he has the weather and the lights and camera crew and the cranky, famous, sex-god-of-a-one-night-stand-from-hell to distract him into mediocrity.
But at least its not a disaster.
And at least its M'Baku who takes first today, with his perfect, classic French Lemon tart, and not Brock and his peanut butter, bacon monstrosity (and stupid smarmy face).
The really unfortunate thing is having to see Bucky make that face - his sex face (Steve knows what that looks like - he was there, he put it there) - when he bites into Wanda's dark chocolate and Raspberry Tart, and not Steve's. He's polite, of course, says the meringue is cooked perfectly and the caramel is smooth - but the crust. Well the crust really never got over the whole 'limp' issue. And Bucky can tell. And the judges can tell. And Steve can tell. And its all so horribly underwhelming that he sort of wants to cry.
He doesn't.
He straightens his spine and gives Wanda's hand a squeeze when she offers it to him, and he kisses 'Bak on the cheek and tells him he's a delicious Tart, because it will make him laugh his deep delightful laugh, and because it gives Steve a thrill to see the way Bucky scowls at the exchange.
The spark of jealousy on Bucky's face sends that same lovely shiver down Steve's spine that Bucky had given him earlier today (that he had given him more than once last night), and gives him the courage to make his way over to where Bucky is leaning against the wall, checking his phone, having waved a casual dismissal at Pepper the producer at the need for an Uber back to the hotel.
Bucky is pretending not to watch Steve walk towards him, swiping up and down at the screen with his thumb. Cheeks delicately pink with a blush that may or may not be natural. Steve can tell that he's pretending because he can see the way Bucky's eyes are hooded, but focused up, away from his screen. Right at Steve. And then up and up as Steve gets closer, until Steve is close enough to touch and finally Bucky puts his phone down and stands up to his full height, enough to look down at Steve. Cross his arms over his chest and lift his chin just enough to imply he is prepared to listen to Steve, but he's not happy about it.
'Hi,' Steve says, teeth working at his bottom lip, hands moving apologetically into his back pockets.
When Bucky doesn't say anything Steve looks up at him from under his lashes, gives his best look-how-sweet-and-innocent-I-am eyes, the ones that never fail to get him out of trouble with his ma, and shrugs just slightly into his shoulders.
'Hey,' Bucky finally says back, but his expression has lost none of its suspicion.
It's not fair of him to be so gorgeous. All in Black, his hair still perfect after hours upon hours in a hot sweaty tent.
Steve had had just enough time between cooking and judging to grab his phone and google Bucky - his band Hydra - listen to their most streamed song and have to sit down at the sound of that low smoky voice, controlled and warm and the tone so buttery it crept under his skin. He pulled his hair back into its knot at the top of his head, let Wanda try and tuck his shirt into his jeans, and clean the sticky dough of his glasses.
He's a little self conscious, truth be told, standing here with no idea what he wants or what to do, but knowing he has to at least take that look off Bucky's face and leave with his own head held high.
So he says a prayer to the Mother Mary, Catholicism ever handily to be drawn on in times of crisis, and takes a step even closer. Until he's barely a handspan from Bucky's chest. And he sees the movement of Bucky's adams-apple as he swallows.
As Steve says, voice pitched low, 'I need to make this up to you.'
Bucky snaps his eyes to Steve's and the blue is much brighter up close, the grey just the hint of a storm in the distance.
'The Tart,' Steve clarifies. And Bucky's shoulders sag. 'That was not my best.'
'It's okay, Steve,' Bucky says, the first time he's actually said Steve's name. 'I understand.'
'No,' Steve shakes his head, 'I need you to know - I need to make it for you properly.'
'You what?'
'I need to make it for you properly, I need to do it right.'
'How... How are you going to do that?' Bucky is leaning in closer as he asks, his arms no longer crossed over his chest, one hand brushing his short hair back over his ear.
Steve has to steal his spine. Be smooth, be smooth, be smooth. 'Well I have an oven.' Okay not smooth.
But at least it gets a huffed laugh from Bucky, 'Oh you do?' He says, finally smiling again.
'I do, and ah... a fridge, a bar, a... a couch... among other things...'
'Okay,' Bucky smiles bigger, leaning even closer, 'I'm listening.'
'And my ah, roommate-' he looks over at Wanda and she winks back, probably thinking she's subtle, '-is out for the night.'
'Hmmm,' Bucky leans in so close his cheek is almost resting against Steve's and he whispers in his ear, 'Do you get to keep those aprons?'
Steve looks up at him sharply, at the way Bucky's smile has turned predatory, and has to force himself to remember to breathe. 'I have my own actually,' he says in a rush, 'Its um... frilly...'
And Bucky laughs a real laugh this time, deep and sweet and happy. 'Well, then I guess we should get going,' his eyes are alight and he brushes every part of himself along Steve's body as he passes him to lead the way.
Steve follows quickly behind, sending a glance over at Wanda and M'Baku as they wave him away with delighted finger waves.
'I um, can I just ask?' Steve asks, keeping up as Bucky moves towards a shiny black car that looks like it might bankrupt any sane person, a man at the drivers seat with an honest to go chauffer's hat.
Bucky turns to him with one eyebrow raised.
'Well I had, ah, I heard you were a ladies man...'
'Who told you that?' Bucky asks back, almost playful.
'Google, actually, about an hour ago.'
'Never believe what you read, Steve, it's bullshit.'
'Oh,' Steve says, his steps almost bouncing now, 'So the whole 'fan of tarts' thing is just a rumour?'
'Oh no, I do love a good tart.'
And the way Bucky is looking at Steve, like Steve is the tart (Steve is the tart), like he can't wait to get him alone and devour him, has that shiver down Steve's spine going absolutely beserk, going everywhere, all over him, all at once, and Steve may not have one single clue what he's doing or what's about to happen, but he's ready.
Maybe the universe actually loves him.