"Just one," he murmurs in a wheedling voice close to his ear. "Or two? Two little pancakes. I don't even need syrup."

He nuzzles into his neck and gives a huff of warm breath against him. "Mn. Used to be a good cheap dinner, before the war. Whip up some pancakes with fruit and milk. Or chocolate chips, if we had 'em."

We being him and Bucky, when they were living together. "One of the few things I can reliably cook."