#oh and managing to avoid getting drafted into the Vietnam war

[janiedean]

fic, steve/bucky: a trotskyist baker in the rome of the seventies (light r, 100% crack)

....... OKAY GUYS I PROMISED @electricalice​ THIS DAMNED THING YEARS AGO AND I HAVE A FEELING NO ONE WHO DOESN’T HAVE AN IN-DEPTH KNOWLEDGE OF EITHER ITALIAN POLITICS/CULTURE OR NANNI MORETTI’S MOVIES WILL GET WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE so: if you wanna read a fic where bucky’s a trotskyist baker in rome in the seventies and steve is the local knife-sharpener this is your thing, if not... just skip. MARTINA I MADE YOU WAIT A LOT BUT I HOPE IT’S FUNNY AT LEAST XDDDD (rated r for light sexual content and horrible puns about cannoli.)

È arrivato l'arrotino! Arrota coltelli, forbici, forbicine, forbici da seta, coltelli da prosciutto!

Donne è arrivato l'arrotino e l'ombrellaio; aggiustiamo gli ombrelli; l'ombrellaio, donne -

“Oh, shit, I’m going to murder that son of a bitch,” Bucky groans as he sits up in his bed, not even trying to turn on his side and go back to sleep - there’s no way. He knows how that fucking business works. The motherfucker is going to circle his building some three times, because of course someone is going to want to have their kitchen knives sharpened at seven thirty in the fucking morning on August 15th in fucking Rome, as he does every damned time.

Damn it. Who the fuck is up in that trap of a car with a megaphone on a fucking Sunday morning? At seven thirty? Maybe if he had actually went to sleep at a reasonable hour he might have taken that a lot better, but he hasn’t.

Fine, fine, it’s also his fault because just an idiot could have stayed up baking pastries up until three in the morning just to realize that the following day was a national holiday, and he’s lived in this country for years by now, maybe he should have remembered it. Except that he had forgotten, so now he has a closed shop full of cakes and pastries half of which will spoil before tomorrow, he has barely slept three hours since he dragged himself back home, and now - now the fucking knife grinder is waking him up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday.

For the umpteenth time.

Fuck this, he decides, he’s going to go downstairs and if he manages to talk himself out of murdering the bastard he’ll give him a piece of his mind. After all ten years here did do wonders in teaching him a fair number of colorful insults, and while he’s been told his accent still shows, he’s sure he can do a plenty good job of terrorizing the idiot into going to some other area next week. Or at least into showing up at a normal time. Possibly not at seven thirty in the morning, for starters.

He puts on the old pair of jeans he had on yesterday evening and a pair of sandals he bought at the last festa dell’Unità, and he doesn’t even bother putting on his shirt. People are usually put off by the metal prosthesis, and sometimes he’s still fairly self-conscious about it even if it’s been years since he left the American military, good riddance, but he’s too angry to care. Also he wants the fucker to be put off, anyway.

Ripariamo cucine a gas: abbiamo i pezzi di ricambio per le cucine a gas. Se avete perdite di gas noi le aggiustiamo, se la cucina fa fumo noi togliamo il fumo della vostra cucina a gas.

For fuck’s sake, Bucky thinks as he grabs his keys, slams the door closed and runs down the stairs in a flurry of righteous rage, my kitchen is electric. It’s the seventies, goddammit, who even owns a gas kitchen anymore? Okay, fine, maybe in some small town, but this is hardly a small town, is it?

Good thing he lives on the second floor. He follows the sound - it’s pretty damn loud, so the guy has to have parked somewhere around. It takes him a moment to locate the car. Which is clearly parked in front of his shop - he thinks the universe is trying to tell him something today and he’s not sure he likes it.

Well then. He’s downstairs now, and he’s slammed the door on his way out, and he’s very glad to verify that the car is, in fact, really in front of his shop. He spares a moment to notice that the knife-grinder in question has to be really desperate, or he wouldn’t be driving some old red 126 Fiat that’s probably not been in production for years which is even more battered than Bucky’s own. And Bucky had thought that his thrice-used VAZ-2104 couldn’t be beaten when it came to cars that had seen better days. Never mind that no one with some sense of mind would use a fucking 126 to bring knife-sharpening tools. At least a small truck.

Whatever. The fact that this idiot can’t even grasp the basic of being a knife-sharpener isn’t his the point.

Now, the point is that he needs the idiot to understand once and for all that he’s not welcome (not at this time at least) and he’s been living in this city long enough to master quite some of the local swearing. Not half as much as he wishes he could - because he’s heard some seriously fine swears he still hasn’t been able to quite replicate in all the times he’s been here. Still, enough. He hasn’t completely lost his accent, but usually whenever he demonstrates his more than fairly accurate grasp of the art, locals tend to at least respect him some.

So he’s going to do just that, show this idiot how much this is not Bucky’s day and then he’s going to try and go to sleep again - yeah, fat chance of that.

“Ma all’anima de li mortacci tua, c’avevi proprio bisogno di buttare la gente giù dar letto alle sette de mattina o è che devi esse stronzo a tutti i costi?”

Now, Bucky’s angry, all right, and he knows he can’t be looking very friendly right now. Metal arm regardless, and face of someone-who-was-in-the-military regardless, he was just thrown out of bed earlier than nine in the morning on a festive day, he knows he must look murderous. That’s perfectly fine as far as he’s concerned. He did want to give the guy the scare of his life, which is why he had been striding towards the 126 without hiding his arm or the horrible state of his hair or his absolute lack of fashion - not that he’s that great at it, but when he’s just woken up and has barely dressed, it tends to show.

Too bad that the moment he’s face to face with the infamous arrotino, the one thing he can think of is, shit he’s cute.

For one, he definitely doesn’t look local -- not many people around here have natural blonde hair and blue eyes, but this guy does, and fine, he’s a good head shorter than Bucky and he’s kind of scrawny, it’s obvious from what he can see under the hoodie he’s wearing (with this weather? Who does that even?) over a pair of slacks that have seen better days. But, no one has ever said that Bucky was not into scrawny guys, even if the last time he hit on one he was still in Vietnam and still had an arm, and his rage kind of maybe melts a bit when the other man makes an apologetic face as Bucky comes his way, as if he knows that he’s in the wrong here.

And that makes Bucky stop dead in his tracks enough that he almost trips into the goddamned sampietrino under his feet -- he does love this city but damn if he doesn’t hate its streets’ pavement.

“Er,” the knife-grinder sputters, apologetically, “mi scusi, immagino che --”

“Wait a fucking moment,” Bucky interrupts him, immediately recognizing the accent. Like, he speaks Italian perfectly and without a hitch, but he can fucking hear an accent when he hears one, and this specific kind of is one he really can’t forget anytime soon, “are you from Brooklyn?”

The knife-grinder’s blue eyes go very, very wide.

“How - well, uh, sort of,” he says, “wait, are you?”

“I asked first and you woke me up,” Bucky says, feeling slightly calmer, and wait, how long had it been since he talked in English to anyone?

“Fair,” knife-grinder says. “Uh, I’m Steve. And like, I actually was born here, but my mother was from Brooklyn. She came here with the Red Cross during the war, fell for an Italian soldier and never quite left. Also, uh, let’s say my health’s never been the best, so she figured I was better off here. But I’ve been there a few times. And she taught me the language, obviously. I suppose it wasn’t your experience, was it?”

“Uh, no,” Bucky shakes his head. “I was born there, no fancy foreign parents. Then I got drafted to Vietnam, lost an arm, decided I was done with whoever decided to send me to get slaughtered even if sure as fuck the communists never forced me to go anywhere, picked somewhere at random to relocate and here I am. Well, fine, I figured I could do with some sun and decent food,” he shrugs. “Uh, I’m Bucky.”

“Short for what?”

He shrugs. “They named me James Buchanan, and everyone else was named James in elementary school. And anyway, that’s no car for knife-grinding.”

Steve shrugs sheepishly. “What can I say,” he answers, “it’s a living and I can’t do better right now. Also, sorry for waking you up, but these are the standard hours.”

“You know people would be more inclined to let you grind their knives if you didn’t wake them up at fuck in the morning?”

“... Yeah, well, fair enough, but I’m not my own boss. Not that going around now was a good idea in the first place.”

“How so? Because, oh, wait, it’s a vacation?”

He has the grace to look at least apologetic. “Yes. The boss isn’t exactly understanding, though. He surely isn’t not going to Ostia to drive around getting a sunstroke and offering knife-sharpening to people who aren’t even home.”

Bucky thinks he does like the edge to that tone. “And how is that knife-sharpening going for you?”

Steve shrugs. “Not too great. Then again, still better than trying to be an artist without having gone to the academy. But I do portraits in Piazza Navona once in a while.”

Bucky glances down at Steve’s hands. They have long fingers. They also look rough, and stained under the tips, but then again if he sharpens knives when he’s not drawing or painting or whatever, that’d be understandable.

“Anyway,” Steve says, “sorry for waking you up. Honest, if it was for me I’d have avoided this one trip, but what can I do.”

“Well,” Bucky says, “not like I’m going back to sleep anytime soon, but for what it’s worth, sorry for the outburst. I went to sleep late.”

“I get it,” Steve says, and then his stomach makes a noise.

“Am I wrong or you skipped breakfast?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs again. “I shouldn’t,” he says, “but I woke up early, I didn’t feel like it and now I’m regretting it, I guess.”

Bucky thinks, do I really want to ask him if --?

He hasn’t really done this for a very long time. But then again, he also tends to not mingle with anyone that’s not from the local PCI section, and Steve hasn’t run away at the sight of his very shirtless self when just having woken up, with hair not even combed and in his worst mood.

At worst he can make a friend, he supposes.

“Listen,” he says, “let’s say that having lived here for years I still forget most of the local holidays, which is the reason why I went to sleep at fucking three AM yesterday.”

“Wait, because you worked?”

Bucky nods toward the shop. Steve’s eyes go wide as he reads the sign. The rough translation would be equal pastries, but he figures Steve wouldn’t need it.

“You’re a --”

“Baker? Yeah,” Bucky shrugs. “I figured that I’d go into something that was the entire contrary of, y’know, being in the military. Anyway, I’ve got the shop full of pastries and no one’s eating them today, so if you want a not-so-late breakfast, since it’s fucking fifteen to eight AM, feel free.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment, but then he shrugs after checking his watch.

“You know what, fuck that noise. I’ll take the pastry. Let me just close this.” He locks the 126 up and follows Bucky towards the shop -

Just to crash into that same broken sampietrino that had almost killed Bucky before. Bucky reaches out and grabs his arm to avoid a fairly bad crash to the ground, steadying him on his feet. He can’t help noticing that scrawny as he is, Steve does have some muscle on him, and he tries to not let show that he did notice as he lets his arm go.

“Mind it,” he says. “Those things are a death trap.”

“I know,” Steve sighs. “Thanks. I love this city but don’t I hate them.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Bucky smirks, and grabs his keys. He tells Steve to wait for him to put on a shirt, runs upstairs, puts on the first tank top he can find in his closet (red, of course, but at least it doesn’t have any embarrassing print on it), and then he runs back downstairs after putting his hair in a bun, at least he looks somewhat more presentable.

“Right,” he says, “follow me.” He leads Steve to the back entrance of the shop and opens it, and he kind of can’t help grinning as he sees Steve’s blue eyes widen the moment he sees how many damned pastries he had baked the night before.

“Holy shit,” he says, “I see why you might have gone to bed late.”

“Yeah, well, I should’ve checked the calendar. Anyway, there’s pastries, there’s cakes, there’s more cannoli than I could have bothered with and those are definitely spoiling before tomorrow, just have your pick.”

“Hm,” Steve says, “maybe -”

Then he stops as he stares at the picture hung above Bucky’s cash machine.

“Let me guess,” Steve says, slowly. “This place is named equality pastries also because you’re the only baker in this town with a picture of Trotsky hung up on the wall, or am I wrong?”

Bucky can’t help grinning slightly as he puts his elbows on the counter right next to the machine, staring straight at Steve in the eyes. “Why,” he says, “do you have anything in common against the concept of permanent revolution?”

“Oh,” Steve says, “I see you also read Trotsky.”

“‘Course I did,” Bucky says. “Hey, I was born in the same country as McCarthy, doesn’t mean I have to agree with his extremely wrong takes on communism. And I think I’m done with not checking for myself anything first.”

“Fair,” Steve says, “but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a bit utopian.”

“What, the concept of permanent revolution?”

“Nice,” Steve replies, “but utopian. I mean, come on, Marx and Engels made pretty clear that communism can’t exactly work anywhere unless society is ripe for it, and if you ask me, nowhere actually is. Still, their analysis is still spot-on.”

“So what,” Bucky quips back, “you’re the purist kind of comrade?”

“It’s not being a purist,” Steve protests. “I’m just realistic. Though admittedly, if I had to pick one, your guy is almost the least bad choice.”

“Almost? Please don’t tell me that Stalin’s the least bad.”

“What? You fucking kidding me? Marx never advocated for that bullshit.”

“Hey, every other person ‘round here is on that side, especially at the local section. Can’t even try to argue about it.”

“Yeah, well, fair. Same in mine. What can we do, right?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, “but now other than telling me what you want to eat I’d like to know who is the least bad person who tried to make communism a reality and how can you even be around in a hoodie with this weather.”

“You know what,” Steve says, “I’ll go for the cannolo.”

“You can have two, you know,” Bucky says, taking a couple from the display cabinet and handing them over to Steve. Steve takes one and bites down on it, and a moment later he makes a sound that kind of sounds like a few porn movies Bucky’s seen recently.

Well, good to know his cannoli are appreciated.

“Fuck,” he says, “these are good.” He swallows another half, then puts the pastry on the counter. “Well, I’ll finish it in a moment, but let’s just say that I tend to feel cold. As a predisposition. And it was cold-ish this morning, when I left. That’s why I’m wearing the hoodie. About the least bad…” He grins, opens the hoodie and reveals a bright red t-shirt with Che Guevara’s face printed in black all over it. “I mean, at least he did try without profiting from the first victory,” he says, and then grabs the cannolo again, eating a third piece.

Bucky’s mouth has probably gone a lot drier just watching it happen.

Christ, he needs to get a grip here - he reaches out, grabs a cannolo for himself and takes a bite. Okay, right, this batch came out pretty good, but then again never say that Bucky Barnes couldn’t do anything he really set his mind to, including baking damn good pastries.

“I think,” he says, “I can compromise on your guy.” He can feel that some filling stayed on the corner of his mouth - he licks it off, noticing that Steve’s eyes are staring at his tongue.

Huh.

Maybe - maybe he could actually give it a go.

“Say,” he keeps on, “would your boss even care if you were late on schedule?”

Steve swallows the last of his cannolo, reaching for the second one. “My boss only knows when I come in and leave because he’s lending me the machinery to sharpen the damned things. Why?”

“Because you know that you won’t sharpen any knives today.”

“I knew that the moment I left home. Tell me something I don’t.”

“Well, my apartment is upstairs. Instead of standing here like two idiots, we could bring some of the other cannoli upstairs, share them while sitting down and if you wanna discuss why you don’t think permanent revolution is a feasible concept, I’m all ears to be convinced.”

“You know what,” Steve says, “suddenly the idea of sharing cannoli with you sounds good. And I think I have fairly good arguments as for why permanent revolution is not feasible whatsoever.”

Bucky grins at him, staring at the filling that is now staining Steve’s mouth.

“Then do follow me, comrade. Can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Turns out: the concept of discussing permanent revolution is very quickly abandoned in favor of Bucky licking that filling off Steve’s mouth.

Turns out, Steve might be scrawny but he definitely likes driving the show, which is Bucky’s favorite combination albeit more rare than he likes, which means that fifteen minutes later all his carefully crafted cannolis they brought upstairs have been eaten or are adorning Bucky’s bed or skin in various states of destruction.

Which is entirely fine with Bucky.

No, really, especially if Steve wants to eat that ricotta filling off his chest. He also doesn’t seem to mind the prosthesis at all, and by the time Bucky’s come thrice and Steve twice and they’re laying next to each other on the bed, the sheets dirtied with both cannoli remains and their own come, Steve breathing like he’s run a marathon with his cheeks flushed in a frankly adorable way, Bucky has decided that there’s no bloody way this is over here.

“Say,” Bucky breathes, “would you mind leaving me a number in case I need someone to, hm, sharpen my knives?”

Steve groans, hiding his face in the pillow before moving closer to him again, his arm going around Bucky’s waist as he uses his elbow for leverage and moves on top of him again. “I don’t know,” Steve says, “I just might, but I’d be devastated if you only needed me for my knife-sharpening skills.”

“Well,” Bucky retorts, “if you’re half as good as that as you are at sucking dick, I think you’d have half of this city outside your car.”

“Damn, and here I thought that my best skills were at convincing people of the uselessness of having a communist government if it’s just fascism in disguise.”

“Oh, you’re pretty good at that, too, but I still think I want to know more in details why you’re so against the concept of permanent revolution.”

“Do I get more pastries in exchange?”

Bucky doesn’t think he’s grinned at someone this hard in ages.

“You can have your fill downstairs. Unless you want more now.”

Steve licks his lips, his hand going to Bucky’s dick, which is still twitching in interest even if he’s completely spent, but hey, it’s been a hell of a long time.

“And what if I want both?”

“Take it,” Bucky tells him, and a moment later Steve’s moved downwards, his mouth taking him in again as Bucky grasps at the sheets.

Fuck. He’s definitely never ever complaining about the unholy times the kinfe-sharpener shows up, even if he has a feeling he’s never going to look for a different one.

And if Steve wants to go downstairs and try some more pastries, well, the shop is closed until tomorrow, after all.

End.