Thanksgiving at the Tower
This is...IDK. Thoughts rambling around while I cooked today. I'm not sure what to do with it, other than get it out of my head.
#
Tony discovered on Thanksgiving that having a previously brainwashed ex-assassin living in his tower wasn't such a horrible event after all, and in fact, had some upsides.
That wasn't the start to his morning though. The start to his morning was that Steve was once again a presumptuous asshat.
"What do you mean, Steve cancelled the caterer? He cancelled Chef Bernard?" he asked Jarvis. Standing in his bedroom, a towel wrapped around his damp body, Tony stared in his closet, trying to process how he'd gone from anticipating an incredibly delicious multi-course holiday meal to...nothing. Nothing, because Steve had cancelled the caterer several days ago.
"Captain Rogers instructed Bernard the meal could be shared among his staff. Or taken to a food kitchen if his staff had other plans."
"And did Steve tell Bernard what *we* were going to eat?" Tony asked, reaching into the closet for the first shirt that he could grab.
"Captain Rogers has made extensive plans, but I do not believe he discussed them with Chef Bernard."
And that was...weird. Not really that Steve was high-handed and hadn't discussed the holiday with Tony, because frankly, Tony had been doing his best to avoid Steve and his murderous buddy, but Steve? Planning a holiday meal?
"It is a holiday, sir," Jarvis noted, causing Tony to glance at the shirt he was holding. Black Sabbath, perhaps not the most appropriate band for a holiday. Or perhaps completely appropriate, since his mood right now was dark. Still, Tony found himself flicking through shirts, Jarvis' subtle comment making him remember Ana and Edwin Jarvis and the holidays of his youth. Meals with his parents were always elaborate and formal, often with Howard's business friends, the men dressed in suits, the women in elegant dresses, but on the rare occasions when he spent a holiday with the Jarvises, Ana only insisted he look nice. A rust-colored sweater and black trousers, classy but comfortable, Ana would have approved.
Dressed for battle, Tony asked Jarvis, "Where is Steve?"
Steve was in the Avengers communal kitchen, rolling pie crust, Bucky sitting at the kitchen island across from him, peeling sweet potatoes. "You cancelled the meal."
"Happy Thanksgiving to you too," Steve said mildly, because Steve was an asshat.
"You cancelled with Bernard, who Pepper reserved last year. Last year, Steve."
"Bucky wanted one of my mom's pies, so I figured we'd do it all."
Tony stared at Steve's hands, his big capable hands competently rolling out pie crust on a floured board. Again, he remembered Ana, and the excitement of watching her cook, knowing how delicious the food would be, and how loved he would feel, sharing as much of the day as he could with the Jarvises. Not that Steve looked anything like Ana, because Ana had been a lovely, middle-aged woman, while Steve was wearing one of those ridiculously tight white tshirts that showed his pecs to perfection, like he should be modeling for a line of undergarments. "You bake?" He glanced at Bucky. "And you peel?" Cooking was one of those skills that Tony could exercise when absolutely necessary, but mostly he stuck to restaurants and take-out.
"Yes, Tony, I bake. And cook. Mom taught me."
"You eat take-out all the time." All the Avengers did, the group keeping restaurants both near and far regularly busy.
"Good cooking takes time and I need to eat a lot." Steve shrugged. "Take-out is easy."
Tony wandered around the kitchen, trying to process this new vision of Steve. He was apparently on a second round of crust-making, because two pumpkin pies were already baking in the oven. A covered bowl had bread dough rising in it, again, a familiar sight in Ana's kitchen. Well, the Stark kitchen, but it was Ana's in Tony's opinion. Even the smells brought a wave of homesickness, pumpkin, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
Bucky continued to steadily work through the enormous mound of sweet potatoes, with an equally large stack of potatoes waiting to be peeled. He was looking good too, even if his tshirt wasn't quite as tight, his long hair pulled back into a man bun, a few strands artfully dangling from the sides.
"Where's the turkey? You are making turkey, aren't you?"
"Turkey and prime rib. We're using our kitchen and Bruce's. We thought we'd serve here."
Tony peeked into the dining room. The table wasn't set yet, but a stack of plates, silverware, napkins, and some festive decorations were waiting. "So this is what Thanksgiving dinner was like in the 30s?"
Bucky snorted. Tony arched a brow at him, and then at Steve.
"Ma and Mrs. Barnes did their best, but it was the depression. Food just wasn't as good or as plentiful."
"Your mom's pies though." Bucky's voice sounded like he was drooling.
"Yeah. They were delicious. Mom made great pies." Steve smiled at the memory, rolling the crust onto the rolling pin, shifting it into a pie pan, cutting off the excess and crimping the edges.
"So you know how to work that thing?" Bucky directed the question to Tony, jerking his chin at the espresso machine.
"I miniaturized an arc reactor and created the Iron Man suit in a cave in Afghanistan and you want to know if I can work an espresso machine?"
"I like those ones with chocolate."
"Mocha, Bucky likes a mocha. I'll take a latte."
"You cancelled my dinner and now you want to put me to work making beverages for you?"
"We're making a--well, I don't know if it'll be better, it might just be different--but we're making you a meal, Tony. I think it'll be good. I hope you like it." Steve's tone was patient and hopeful.
"And it's one of the rules our mas always had, you hang around, you're gonna be put to work," Bucky added.
"It's unlikely to be better," Tony grumbled, but he headed to the refrigerator, grabbing the full milk before looking for the chocolate powder and espresso beans, remembering how Ana used to give him chores while he sat watching her cook. Only small tasks, chop this, peel that, something to make him feel involved but easily stopped if Howard or mom drifted through. They both respected the Jarvises immensely, yet still looked askance at their heir doing servant's work.
Steve and Bucky cooking together, remembering their moms and their childhood, assuming he'd join them made him feel oddly warm. Like maybe he was wanted, his presence valued. And maybe...a little like he was at home?
#
Okay, IDK what that is, but it occupied my mind today. Wrote most at lunch, a little more after dinner, and finished up now. It was a good day, I made the fruit salad, pumpkin pies, sweet potatoes, fudge, cranberry-orange relish, and sautéed the celery and onions for the dressing. Tomorrow should be an easy day. If you are celebrating Thanksgiving, may you have a wonderful holiday. This entry was originally posted at https://elayna.dreamwidth.org/324455.html. Comment wherever you prefer.
#
Tony discovered on Thanksgiving that having a previously brainwashed ex-assassin living in his tower wasn't such a horrible event after all, and in fact, had some upsides.
That wasn't the start to his morning though. The start to his morning was that Steve was once again a presumptuous asshat.
"What do you mean, Steve cancelled the caterer? He cancelled Chef Bernard?" he asked Jarvis. Standing in his bedroom, a towel wrapped around his damp body, Tony stared in his closet, trying to process how he'd gone from anticipating an incredibly delicious multi-course holiday meal to...nothing. Nothing, because Steve had cancelled the caterer several days ago.
"Captain Rogers instructed Bernard the meal could be shared among his staff. Or taken to a food kitchen if his staff had other plans."
"And did Steve tell Bernard what *we* were going to eat?" Tony asked, reaching into the closet for the first shirt that he could grab.
"Captain Rogers has made extensive plans, but I do not believe he discussed them with Chef Bernard."
And that was...weird. Not really that Steve was high-handed and hadn't discussed the holiday with Tony, because frankly, Tony had been doing his best to avoid Steve and his murderous buddy, but Steve? Planning a holiday meal?
"It is a holiday, sir," Jarvis noted, causing Tony to glance at the shirt he was holding. Black Sabbath, perhaps not the most appropriate band for a holiday. Or perhaps completely appropriate, since his mood right now was dark. Still, Tony found himself flicking through shirts, Jarvis' subtle comment making him remember Ana and Edwin Jarvis and the holidays of his youth. Meals with his parents were always elaborate and formal, often with Howard's business friends, the men dressed in suits, the women in elegant dresses, but on the rare occasions when he spent a holiday with the Jarvises, Ana only insisted he look nice. A rust-colored sweater and black trousers, classy but comfortable, Ana would have approved.
Dressed for battle, Tony asked Jarvis, "Where is Steve?"
Steve was in the Avengers communal kitchen, rolling pie crust, Bucky sitting at the kitchen island across from him, peeling sweet potatoes. "You cancelled the meal."
"Happy Thanksgiving to you too," Steve said mildly, because Steve was an asshat.
"You cancelled with Bernard, who Pepper reserved last year. Last year, Steve."
"Bucky wanted one of my mom's pies, so I figured we'd do it all."
Tony stared at Steve's hands, his big capable hands competently rolling out pie crust on a floured board. Again, he remembered Ana, and the excitement of watching her cook, knowing how delicious the food would be, and how loved he would feel, sharing as much of the day as he could with the Jarvises. Not that Steve looked anything like Ana, because Ana had been a lovely, middle-aged woman, while Steve was wearing one of those ridiculously tight white tshirts that showed his pecs to perfection, like he should be modeling for a line of undergarments. "You bake?" He glanced at Bucky. "And you peel?" Cooking was one of those skills that Tony could exercise when absolutely necessary, but mostly he stuck to restaurants and take-out.
"Yes, Tony, I bake. And cook. Mom taught me."
"You eat take-out all the time." All the Avengers did, the group keeping restaurants both near and far regularly busy.
"Good cooking takes time and I need to eat a lot." Steve shrugged. "Take-out is easy."
Tony wandered around the kitchen, trying to process this new vision of Steve. He was apparently on a second round of crust-making, because two pumpkin pies were already baking in the oven. A covered bowl had bread dough rising in it, again, a familiar sight in Ana's kitchen. Well, the Stark kitchen, but it was Ana's in Tony's opinion. Even the smells brought a wave of homesickness, pumpkin, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
Bucky continued to steadily work through the enormous mound of sweet potatoes, with an equally large stack of potatoes waiting to be peeled. He was looking good too, even if his tshirt wasn't quite as tight, his long hair pulled back into a man bun, a few strands artfully dangling from the sides.
"Where's the turkey? You are making turkey, aren't you?"
"Turkey and prime rib. We're using our kitchen and Bruce's. We thought we'd serve here."
Tony peeked into the dining room. The table wasn't set yet, but a stack of plates, silverware, napkins, and some festive decorations were waiting. "So this is what Thanksgiving dinner was like in the 30s?"
Bucky snorted. Tony arched a brow at him, and then at Steve.
"Ma and Mrs. Barnes did their best, but it was the depression. Food just wasn't as good or as plentiful."
"Your mom's pies though." Bucky's voice sounded like he was drooling.
"Yeah. They were delicious. Mom made great pies." Steve smiled at the memory, rolling the crust onto the rolling pin, shifting it into a pie pan, cutting off the excess and crimping the edges.
"So you know how to work that thing?" Bucky directed the question to Tony, jerking his chin at the espresso machine.
"I miniaturized an arc reactor and created the Iron Man suit in a cave in Afghanistan and you want to know if I can work an espresso machine?"
"I like those ones with chocolate."
"Mocha, Bucky likes a mocha. I'll take a latte."
"You cancelled my dinner and now you want to put me to work making beverages for you?"
"We're making a--well, I don't know if it'll be better, it might just be different--but we're making you a meal, Tony. I think it'll be good. I hope you like it." Steve's tone was patient and hopeful.
"And it's one of the rules our mas always had, you hang around, you're gonna be put to work," Bucky added.
"It's unlikely to be better," Tony grumbled, but he headed to the refrigerator, grabbing the full milk before looking for the chocolate powder and espresso beans, remembering how Ana used to give him chores while he sat watching her cook. Only small tasks, chop this, peel that, something to make him feel involved but easily stopped if Howard or mom drifted through. They both respected the Jarvises immensely, yet still looked askance at their heir doing servant's work.
Steve and Bucky cooking together, remembering their moms and their childhood, assuming he'd join them made him feel oddly warm. Like maybe he was wanted, his presence valued. And maybe...a little like he was at home?
#
Okay, IDK what that is, but it occupied my mind today. Wrote most at lunch, a little more after dinner, and finished up now. It was a good day, I made the fruit salad, pumpkin pies, sweet potatoes, fudge, cranberry-orange relish, and sautéed the celery and onions for the dressing. Tomorrow should be an easy day. If you are celebrating Thanksgiving, may you have a wonderful holiday. This entry was originally posted at https://elayna.dreamwidth.org/324455.html. Comment wherever you prefer.