How long does it take for a proper dozen devil's food cupcakes to bake?

Precisely 18 minutes (this, for sure, I've tested religiously).

How long does it take for a girl, with neither super human abilities nor special qualities of any kind, to become an Avenger?

A week, apparently.

Its seven days of living in the Avengers' Tower when I find myself passing the last of the main courses onto the big communal dining table. The chandelier that hangs overhead is sleek and modern like the table itself—which is an utter work of art, might I add. It's a pristine glass fixture fixed with enough seats to house all the current Avengers (Thor included, but he's gone doing godly deeds in ungodly places).

Wanda Maximoff and Steve have both helped me to bring all of the dishes in from the kitchen across the way. It's Sunday at eight PM.  Apparently that means family dinner night at the Avengers' house. I must admit that it's rather strange to see all of earth's greatest heroes gathered in one space waiting to be fed. Antsy and quite sassy they talk amongst themselves while Wanda gives me a soft pat on the shoulder.

"This all looks beautiful, Sadie," she notes in that mysterious Sokovian accent. Her dark tresses are pulled down straight and the short sleeved shirt she wears is the same cocoa color of her eyes. She's been so incredibly nice to me since I've come, but everyone has. They've all been so welcoming... well, all but one that is. And his name is James Buchanan Barnes. Whatever the hell that man has against me, I've yet to discover. The other heroes seem plain ole jolly to have me there to cook and chat at their will, but Bucky has yet to use me for either of those accommodations. Honestly, I don't know what I could've possibly done to make him so impossibly peevish towards me.

"Yes, good job tonight, shorty," Tony's voice rings loudest from the head of the table. Leave it to Stark to save himself the most important seat.

"All 'part of the job," I laugh lightly. I step back just as Wanda and Steve take their respective seats at the big table. Suddenly I'm nervous as everyone's eyes glue onto me. Flanking Tony on either side are Pepper Potts and Peter Parker. Next to Peter, probably put there purposefully to keep the young teen from getting too riled up, is Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff (who's quickly become one of my favorite people to ever exist) is on Banner's other side. Next to Natasha is Clint Barton, of course, who is just as lovable as Santa Claus would be. Across from Nat and Clint are Vision and Wanda, who sits next to Sam then Steve then the silver haired Pietro. So that leaves Bucky Barnes to take the chair paralleled to the famous Captain Rogers—an empty seat to his left where the metal arm resides.

"I uh, hope you all enjoy," I awkwardly announce. Running a hand through my curly locks I make to exit the room as quickly as possible.

"Hold on now," Steve calls after me in that deep, fatherly tone. I grunt under my breath before turning back to face him.

"Did I forget something...?"

"This is family dinner Sunday," Steve says. He's smiling now as he gestures to the empty chair. "So I'd say you take a seat, kiddo."

My hands knot nervously in front of my stomach that's suddenly began to churn with unease. The smell of pork loin in the air is not helping to soothe my anxiety-driven nausea. "Umm..."

"You heard Capsicle," Tony pipes up from his lounging spot clear at the other end of the table. His dark haired head jerks towards that daunting, empty stool. "Go on and take a seat next to the Ice Queen down there. He won't bite." Tony shrugs a bit when Bucky turns to glare at him silently. "Well, maybe. Fifty-fifty chance."

I force myself to smile sheepishly before tucking a bit of hair away behind my ear. "Well, I mean... I guess I could do the clean up later."

Tony waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about the cleanup. I'll make Parker do it."

"Hey!" Peter yelps. "What the hell, man!?"

Tony shrugs. "You've been annoying me today."

"Isn't he always?" Clint jokes, earning a few scattered chuckles.

The conversation is suddenly no longer about me, which I'm very grateful for. But Steve Rogers is not about to let me escape. He points to me with a finger then drags it purposefully to the seat where I've been ordered to sit. Laughing inwardly, I follow his command. He's a very convincing man: persuasive enough to get me to stay beside Bucky Barnes for the duration of a meal.

I'm stiff as a board as I come to settle into my chair. It's not that the chair itself is uncomfortable. My proximity to Bucky Barnes is what bothers me. He's intriguing, I'll admit. I'm a bit too interested in him; more than I'd like to admit. But god dammit, he's given me nothing to appease my curiosities—only offering a cold shoulder as my welcome gift.

Steve must think I'm either stupid or blind to miss the words he silently mouths to his best friend across from him and next to me. He sternly tries to convince Bucky to talk to me somehow while the rest of the table gossips about other things I'm too overwhelmed to keep track of.

I also don't miss the way Bucky glares at Steve and ignores all of his prompts—only grinding his teeth together and clenching his metal fist beneath the table.

My mom's always told me that my biggest flaw is my inability to accept the fact that some people are just jerks. "Sometimes, honey, people won't want to be your friend. And that's okay. It's a part of life."

Well, dammit she was right. But that doesn't mean I'm going to try to change. I'm determined to get this Bucky character to like me as much as I want him to.

Huffing aloud, I turn to face Bucky Barnes completely. Wanda and Steve watch closely from across the way, but I don't pay them any mind.

"Cookies or cake?"

Bucky's mid-bite of scalloped potato when I've spoken my request. His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise at my eager quizzing. Momentarily he looks to Steve, almost as if to ask, "Is this girl serious right now?"

"Which do you prefer," I continue patiently. "Cookies or cake?" I purse my lips, urging him to go on.

"Uh," Bucky utters before clearing his throat in an uncomfortable way. "Cookies."

"Chocolate chip or snickerdoodle?"

Bucky blinks and I notice for the first time just how bright blue those eyes of his are. "Snickerdoodle."

"Crunchy or soft?"

"Soft." I'll be damned... there's a tug of a half-smile appearing on his stiff upper lip!

I have to pause as the bread bowl is passed to me. I take a roll before thrusting the basket towards Bucky's chest.

"Huh. I always pegged you as a cake guy," I note with a smirk.

"Don't like the frostin'," Bucky explains. His voice is quite low and rumbling, almost like gentle thunder. He takes three fresh lumps of bread before passing the bowl on. "It's too sweet."

"Funny, cuz you could use a bit of sweetness, Sargent."

Somehow the whole table has managed to overhear my quite sassy retort. Vision gawks in shock at the audacity while Sam chokes on snorted laughter.

Innocuously I shrug. I make a soft show of batting my eyes while smothering the white napkin on my skirted lap.

Seeming inspired by my banter, Bucky reacts in a thrilling way. "And I think you could do with a little less of it, sweetheart." Bucky smirks over his shoulder at me in a boyish manner.

Someone drops their fork—the metal colliding with a glass plate and making a loud clatter. I think I've heard Wanda gasp.

Appearing unfazed (but utterly frazzled on the inside) I pick up the decanter of red wine and help myself to a small splash. "I can be plenty salty when I want to be," I say.

"I'm sure you can."

My eyes dart down the length of the table bursting with badass and bulging muscles. My gaze is enough for them to all break theirs—each resuming their conversations from before they'd been eavesdropping on Barnes and me.

I'm mid-sip on a touch of wine when Bucky asks, "And you?"

I stop, looking to him blankly. "And I what?"

He sheds the smallest sliver of a smile. "Cookies or cake?"

"Depends," I answer. I begin to cut through a piece of meat before deciding I'm not entirely hungry enough to even begin.

"On...?" Bucky doesn't sound super intrigued, but he's interested enough to keep this stupid conversation going so I'm going to take that as a win in my book.

"On if I'm the one who has to make it or not," I explain.

A chuckle—a fucking chuckle—sounds from Bucky's pale pink pout. He's got a nice mouth: very symmetrical with a nice dimpled chin. His jaw though is the star of the show. It's sharp and smooth; masculine and rigid like it's carved of stone...

"Assuming you're not the one to make it then."

I have to give my head a soft shake to break my stare. Clearing my throat, I hope he hasn't noticed my interest in the niceness of his bone structure. "Cookies, probably. But preferably my mom's."

Bucky chews lethargically on some garlic asparagus. "Your mom cooks, too?"

"Only at home," I say. "Did yours?"

Bucky only appears surprised for a millisecond before composing himself enough to respond. "Uh, yes. She did."

"What'd she make?"

Bucky stares at his plate. Then, without looking back to me, he says, "Not a lot. She was never very good at it, actually. But she liked to bake banana cake."

I lean closer towards him without ever meaning to. He notices this, seeming to grow even stiffer if that's possible. "Banana cake?" I draw away slowly—hoping not to make a big deal of the gesture. I've gotten a whiff of his scent, might I add. He smells like clean metal and sage soap.

"Yeah. It's, uh, it's something she'd make when we didn't have a lot of money. I have no idea what's in it, so don't bother asking." He chuckles a bit after he's done.

We finish our meal with light conversation that mainly consists of me badgering Bucky with more questions. When I bring in dessert, I'm knee-deep in James Barnes trivia that seems to annoy yet amuse him equally.

"What's your favorite genre of music?"

Bucky wipes his mouth with a napkin after having taken a bite of apple pie a la mode. He eyes me, humor making the blues much more brilliant. "Take a guess."

A wide grin eagerly eats my face. I've yet to been met with this response yet. I'm excited, and he can tell. It makes a chuckle rumble out of his thick, buff chest.

"Oh! Oh, hmm..." I hum. The tip of my finger taps my chin for added effect. I make a show of narrowing my eyes at him, almost as if I can read the answer off of his face. Maybe this is just an excuse for me to admire his spectacularly handsome features—I'm not entirely sure.

"Jazz."

The quiet, cocky grin his pretty face once housed is now swept away by surprise. "Uh, yeah. That's it."

Happy with myself, I take another drink of wine.

"How'd you know?"

I smile. "It was easy. You're too stoic for anything pop, but you're softer than any of the hard rock Tony listens to." He frowns slightly at this, probably not appreciating being compared to Tony in any way that makes him "softer". "You're just a jazzy looking guy." I laugh as he carefully digests all that I'm saying. "Besides," I go on with a lopsided grin. "I noticed your foot tapping the ground when I'd stumbled on the jazz station in the kitchen earlier last week."

He blinks incredulously, probably trying to stir up the memory of sitting at the breakfast bar sipping a cup of coffee that I mention now.

"Huh." Bucky sets down his fork with defeat. "You got me there, doll."

My skin prickles with the use of this new nickname. Holy cannoli... how is it possible that his voice is so masculine and pleasant? I chalk that one up to the serum. Because damn, I've never heard anything else like it.

"And you like Taylor Swift."

"My friends would say it's more of an obsession, but yes." I circle the rim of my wine glass with my pinky. "I've been listening to her since I was 15."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "How old does that make you?"

I laugh, "Twenty-three."

A hot breath falls from Bucky's mouth. "Okay." He pushes around some soggy pie crust with the end of his knife, choosing to look at the plate rather than at me.

"Normally this is the part of the conversation that I would reiterate the things my mother always says about my "old soul", but it seems silly to say in your company." I pause and then go on—as if the first half isn't bad enough on its own. "You know, since you've got a good eight decades of life over me. I bet I probably look like a babbling toddler."

Bucky appears slightly taken back at my awkward word fumbling. But then he spends a brief moment analyzing my face. Here he must come to conclusion that I really mean to harm—I'm simply just stupid. So then he's laughing lightly and giving his head a soft shake.

"Oh good lord. I'm—yeah, I'm an idiot.  I'm sorry." I pick up my wine glass again and go to take a chug, only to discover it's been drained dry. Grunting, I make to say, "I should really learn to keep my mouth shut after a glass of wine."

Amusement glows behind Bucky's wide ebony irises. "Three."

My eyebrows fold closer together. "Pardon?"

Bucky gestures to the crystal I hold. "You've had three glasses."

I stare dazedly at the lipstick smudge on the cup. "Goddamn," I breathe. I set it far away from me before going on. "Well, that explains a lot." I laugh lightly. "I have a bad habit of throwing it back when I'm nervous." Bashfully I grin. "I'm real sorry about being such a—such a dweeb."

At this, Bucky lets out a sharp peal of laughter. His head falls back slightly and his reaction draws the attention of almost everyone at the table. Of course he's all I can see now though. I'm going to blame that on the wine.

"And I'm only making it worse for myself, clearly." I pinch the bridge of my nose from underneath my glasses. "So much for making good impressions," I think to myself.

"I dunno," Bucky notes in a curiously playful voice. "You made quite the impression on me."

I hadn't meant to say that last bit out loud, but it looks like the wine wanted to do some sharing.

Despite my embarrassment I feel a smile tugging away at my lips. Warmth floods my cheeks and I begin to toy with the frayed hemming of my skirt. "Well, uh, I hope it's a good one."

Bucky Barnes gives me a crooked little smile. "I'll tell you now; it's been pretty sweet."