Chapter Text
Bucky could not wrap his head around how bewitching you were in the autumnal twilight. The pink hue of the sun’s last rays set the skin of your arms in an alluring tone, made the color of your eyes even more pronounced. It wasn’t only your visage that was stunning, but your confidence behind the wheel of the cruiser. Freshly manicured fingers commanded the steering wheel with a grace that should not have taken him by surprise.
The 1941 Oldsmobile was a loan from Harvey. When you’d told him you were planning a visit home to Tarrytown he claimed he had a vehicle that needed test driving before it was detailed pending a sale. You and Bucky knew full well the car didn’t need any added travel time - Bucky being the mechanic who had repaired it in the first place. The train tickets had been easy enough to return, so the pair of you had taken the clandestine gift and revelled in the luxury of having a vehicle at your disposal.
With an ease that betrayed your years of experience, you navigated the road out of New York City and pointed the vehicle in the direction of your hometown. From his view sitting in the passenger seat, the thought crossed his mind that the woman seated next to him on the bench was a truly authentic you that his soul craved. No walls up, nothing to hide from the world - you behind the wheel cruising down the streets with a peaceful smile spreading to your cheeks. If Bucky had owned a camera he would’ve gladly spent a whole roll of film trying to capture this moment that was imprinting itself on his mind.
He could tell you knew he was watching you. Yet you didn’t shy away; didn’t admonish him for the way his eyes roved over you, nor the length of time they did. You merely continued to talk about your day like you would any other evening. Where you’d normally catch up over dinner and pie in a diner’s cozy booth, you did so in the comfort of the sedan as pavement moved steadily beneath you.
Bucky had expected you to be pleased earlier that evening when he picked you up from work in his Sunday-best; coveralls traded in for a dapper look after a long day working beneath the hood of this very vehicle. Instead, your eyebrows furrowed together, insisting he didn’t have to dress up to meet your parents. He’d waved off your protests with a cheeky “Can’t have your parents thinking I’m a hobo, right?” He bit off a comment about how despite your overtures, you were impeccably dressed. Hair coiffed in perfection, not a speck of makeup out of place - your immaculate appearance didn’t ring true for a reason he couldn’t identify, so he kept the observation to himself.
You had quickly slid back into your rightful place snug in his heart when you’d overruled him by climbing into the driver’s seat. Since he’d put in so much effort, you insisted he rest on the ride out to Tarrytown. Neither of you were fooled. You truly loved being at the helm of a car. With traffic to thank, the hour-long trip to Tarrytown was otherwise pleasant. When he wasn’t marvelling at you, he admired the green fields of the rolling countryside.
A roadside advertisement for “Tarrytown’s Best Antique Shop - 2 miles ahead!” prompts Bucky to say -
“So, this is it, huh?”
You slant your eyes to his for a moment before they’re back on the road, a smirk gracing your lips. “Almost.”
Where a moment ago you had been the picture of serenity, an undertow of unease now laces your tense jaw. Try as you might, those eyes couldn’t hide from him.
Before he can ascertain the cause behind the shift, your hand comes down to his knee with an excited squeeze. “Well - this is Tarrytown!”
With the sparkling Hudson River visible in the west, a quaint village looms up to meet the Oldsmobile. All was exactly as he’d expected based on your stories. The place had the charm of another time with buildings betraying architecture from another century, a different kind of world. Towering dogwoods filled with red leaves greet the pair of you everywhere he turns. The road curves past the stately Tarrytown Village Hall, proudly on display in the center of the community.
He whistles appreciatively, eyes definitely not on the town. “She’s a beaut.”
“You’ve barely seen her,” you tease.
“Don’t have to, I know she’s a keeper.” He winks.
Your eyes roll with all the fondness in the world.
Not too much farther into town you take a turn, and another turn, and then another turn. Bucky’s sense of direction is lost in the maze of picturesque homes nestled in the hilly streets. He’s grateful one of you knows where you’re going; he’s grateful that it’s you.
Sooner than expected you bring the car to a slow stop; shifting the gear and pulling the emergency brake before killing the ignition, plunging the cab into a descending quiet as the engine settles.
You, however, are not settled. His attention is drawn to the way you twist the ring on your right hand as your eyes lose focus somewhere in the direction of what he assumes to be your childhood home.
The concept of you being nervous with a home-field advantage puzzled him. When he had brought you home he was fully confident in his sisters and mother making you feel welcome, truly taking a shine to you. To his joy, he’d been right. His father was another story, but that was an unfortunate surprise.
There wasn’t a bit of self-assurance in your shoulders as you gazed through the front windshield. The ring takes another spin around your finger.
He says your name as a question and you snap back to the present, eyes locking with his. You feign a grin and open the driver’s door before he can figure out how to word his question.
Following your lead, he opens the trunk and retrieves the bags, playfully refusing to let you carry yours. “And let your folks think I’m anything other than a gentleman? Come on, you’ve gotta give me something to show off.”
This only pulls a small smile from you before you’re checking your reflection in the side mirror. You wipe a bit of stray lipstick from the side of your mouth, rub at a dark spot beneath your eye. Slow steps lead you to the porch, where you pause again. The nippy breeze sends a flutter through your hair and Bucky takes the moment to really study your face.
Clearly there’s a mix between anticipation and unease. You’d been ecstatic at the prospect of bringing him home just a week ago when you’d made the final plans, so what had happened in the intervening time? Mentally flipping through his past observations he searches for a sign of what lays on the other side of the front door.
He had only heard you speak fondly of home, but in the seconds he reviews your statements they all land on the side of vague. Your hometown was big on traditions, so he assumed your parents would be of the same mindset. From what he’d gleaned you spoke with your mother on the phone fairly regularly, but any calls he’d been within earshot of had sounded almost. . . polite. He’d noticed letters from your father on your home desk and in your purse, sometimes reading a new one on the subway if you hadn’t had time the night before.
Based on his own time around Harvey, Bucky recalled several stories about you and your father. Your mother remained enigmatic, aside from the picture in your apartment of you nestled between your parents.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
You avoid his eyes, blink one too many times. “Of course.”
Before he has the chance to press you’ve twisted the doorknob and stepped across the threshold.
“Mom? Dad? Anybody home?” You call out into the sparse foyer.
Bucky can’t help the involuntary tremor of muscles at the sound of a crash from the kitchen, followed by a clamor of voices. When he pulls air back into his lungs, you're smiling an apology. A reassuring hand touches his cheek before fixing an errant lock of hair that had fallen from the strict hold of Brylcreem. He should’ve remembered that as clearly as he can see you, you can also see him.
You raise your voice a fraction, “Everybody okay? We’re home! You can set the bags down there, Buck.” With a motion to the side Bucky obediently deposits the luggage next to the door. It looks incredibly conspicuous in the tidy home, where everything seemingly had a place and stayed there. Some interesting artwork hung on the walls, a few he recognized from Steve’s art books. He’d have to ask who the art connoisseur of the house was.
A deep, soothing voice sounds from the doorway to the left. “Should have known you’d bring trouble the second you walked into the door!” The sentence hit Bucky’s ears a moment before your father, tall and lanky, rounded the corner, assisted by his two forearm crutches. “Hey, Sassafras!”
A giggle escapes you as you wrap arms around your father’s middle. “Hi, Dad. Missed you too.” He squeezes you with a little extra force, prompting an “oomph” out of you before turning to Bucky.
“Sorry about all the noise, we’re trying to get the pumpkins decorated for the contest tonight. We had a little mishap, but everything’s just fine. I assume you’re the young man we’ve heard about.” He worms his right hand out of the crutch and offers it, which Bucky takes amiably. “Glad you could make the trip out, son.”
You had mentioned your father’s service in the Great War that night in the diner when he’d finally told you of his own service. That conversation felt like a lifetime ago, especially when Bucky was faced with the reality of the injury in front of him. Below the knee of his right leg, his pants hang loose without the limb to support them. Nearly 30 years of practice could make anyone deft with crutches but the way he carried himself drew attention away from the injury and to the warmth in his presence.
“James Barnes. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Do you prefer James?”
“Everyone who knows me calls me Bucky, but-”
Your father’s eyes shine with insight his tone belies. “Bucky it is, then. Come on in you two. Your mother is scrambling to get the last things together before the party, but we have a few minutes ‘til we need to leave.”
He tosses his head in the direction from which he came before offering an elbow to you. You tuck your hands into his elbow and kiss him on the cheek. Bucky trails behind the pair of you, noticing how you easily step in perfect time with each other.
“Your boss still giving you trouble?”
“Dad, it’s really okay,” Bucky hears you murmur.
In return you get a disapproving noise and he shifts to get a better look at you as they pass through the living room. “But if it’s not-“
Without an edge you state, “Not now, okay?”
“You’ll catch me up later?”
“Promise.” Crossing the threshold into the kitchen you quickly change the subject. “So how’s your pumpkin looking? What theme did you pick this year?”
Bucky isn’t sure he hears correctly when your father mentions something about dwarfs, but upon seeing the kitchen table he’s proven wrong.
Seven pumpkins sit in a row, each showing painted characteristics of Walt Disney’s cartoon variations of the fairytale dwarfs with background details carved to shine out from the candle burrowed in the pumpkin. The whole gang was there. Each pumpkin dwarf had its own colored hat; everyone’s beard a different shape and length.
A myriad of paints and brushes litter the table protected by a spare sheet that looks as if it had received much love over the years during arts and crafts time. Eyeing the paint stains on your father’s fingers, Bucky can make a fair wager as to who the artist in the house is.
Only one dwarf could have Grumpy’s sour expression, the one with the roses cheeks was not doubt Bashful; and who else could sport a grin that wide except for Happy?
A memory from 1939 surfaces fondly of Evelyn begging him to take her to the pictures to see it even though he told her he was too old. Her wide eyes eventually won him over and he dragged Steve along for the viewing.
Remnants of pumpkin entrails lay on the floor and the aforementioned mishap comes into focus. Bucky reaches for a rag to clean up the remaining spill but you snatch it first, quick to mop up and join your mother in the kitchen.
The most pristine-looking woman Bucky has ever seen in his life turns from the wastebasket in the corner, broom and dustpan in hand. Not a hair out of place, her pearl necklace looks as if it had just been polished.
“Oh,” the crease above her nose pinches, “I wish you hadn’t brought everyone back here, there’s so much clutter from this. . . project.”
“Dear, it’s just family.” Dad inclines his head toward Bucky. “Bucky, this is my lovely wife. Darling, this is Bucky.”
“Bucky? I’m so sorry, I was under the impression your name was James.”
“Oh, it is, Bucky is a childhood nickname that just stuck. But you can call me whatever is easiest for you.”
“Well, welcome to our home, James.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry the place is such a mess, it’s been a bit of a chaotic day.”
A few awkward beats pass before you approach your mother.
“Hello, dear,” her syrupy sweet voice contrasts the stiff kiss she leaves in the air above your cheek.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Have you been working long hours again?” She fixes a bobby pin that had begun to worm its way out of your hair. “Poor thing, the circles under your eyes are so dark, I knew this job would be hard on you. Have you been drinking enough water?”
You protest weakly, telling her it hasn’t been that bad and you must not have touched your makeup up good enough because you were resting just fine. Shoulders tighten slightly when she does a scan of you from head to toe - stopping to fix the collar of your dress that had crumpled when your father hugged you.
Some of the awkward tension breaks when your father clears his throat, drawing attention away from the mother-daughter reunion. “So what do you two think of the pumpkins?”
Immediately, your face softens. Joining your Dad to look over the assortment of pumpkins, you let out an appreciative whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself this year. Only one pumpkin required for entry and you bring six extra? The other contestants are going to hate you.”
“Probably,” your father replies with a chuckle. “Although the town already resents that I’ve won seven years in a row.”
“That’s quite an impressive reign.” Bucky runs a finger over the most prominent pumpkin, one that wasn't quite right. “But, I-uh, I think Doc is missing his glasses, sir.”
“Oh gosh, you’re right. He is supposed to have glasses. How did I miss that?” Leaning heavily into his crutches he groans. “And how do I get specs for a pumpkin on short notice?”
“You got a coupla paper clips around?”
With a puckered brow, your dad indicates to a drawer in the kitchen, from which you produce a handful of paper clips. After a minute or so of fiddling with the wire - using a glass to get a perfect round shape - he offers a pair of miniature spectacles fit for a gourd.
After examining the makeshift glasses your dad peers at Bucky, letting out a bark of laughter with a clap on his back to match. “Now we’re cooking with gas! Sweetheart, can you hand me some of that glue so I can pop these on?”
You proffer the pot of glue and help your father attach the glasses to Doc’s pumpkin.
The grandfather clock in the family room announcing the hour prompts your mother to sigh heavily. “Oh dear, we are running late. I told you we did not have time for these last minute additions. I warned you about leaving things until the last minute this year.”
“Ah, we all know they aren’t going to start without us, don't sweat it.” Dad waves a hand, not one to be rushed.
“You always think the best is going to happen.”
“And you always think the worst is going to happen.”
An unladylike humph passes from her lips before a bit of panic flashes across her eyes and she’s the picture of grace again. For a second, Bucky saw a shadow of you pass over her features. “Can you grab the boxes from the garage to help your father pack the pumpkins?”
A ‘yes ma’am’ rolls off your tongue before the sentence is finished, feet moving to carry out the request. Bucky lends a hand, following your dad’s instructions not to knock their hats askew.
As soon as your back is turned your mother slips in behind you, shifting a handful of the pumpkins you’d painstakingly placed. Despite her efforts, it doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I’m sorry to leave the place a mess, it’s a horrible first impression. I hope you can forgive us, James.” Your mother tugs on the strings of her apron, shaking it out before placing it on a designated peg.
“I don’t mind cleaning up, Mom.”
“Oh,” she shakes her head, patting you on the cheek, “don’t you worry about it. I’ll take care of it later. Do you two want to join us?”
You and Bucky each grab a box, following your parents to their vehicle to pack them in the trunk safely.
“No, we’re just going to take a walk around since we’ll be busy tomorrow night.”
Bucky casts a suspicious eye to you. “We’re busy tomorrow night?” he mutters under his breath.
“Mhmm,” you hum. “It’ll be fun, don’t worry about it.”
Again, your mother repeats her invitation.
Your dad exhales loudly after opening the passenger-side door. “Honey, let them be, no young couple wants to spend non-stop time with the parents. We’ll see them tomorrow.” Mom huffs. “Well, there are enough leftovers from dinner for both of you. We really need to get going.”
Dad leaves an obnoxious smooch to your cheek. “So happy you’re home, sweetie.” Then he turns his head to face Bucy. “Really really glad you’re here. Looking forward to getting to know you.”
“You two have fun!” Bucky catches a moment between you and your mother. She shimmies her eyebrows up and down a few times as you close the driver’s door. With a wink she pulls the car out of the drive without any response from you.
Slightly miffed, you walk back into the house with Bucky on your heels.
It’s not until you start scrubbing the table Bucky speaks. “I thought your mom said she’d clean up?”
You snort, tossing a rag in the sink. “She said that because our cleaning standards have never seen eye-to-eye. Anyway.” With a deep breath you start digging in the cabinets, pulling down a few snacks. “You wanna grab that bag on the coat rack so we can head out?”
Once the food and a picnic blanket are stashed in the bag, Bucky slings it over his shoulder and accompanies you outside.
The neighborhood is homey, even sweet, Bucky thinks. Everywhere he looks he’s met with greenery and actual white picket fences. He hadn’t been convinced they existed in real life until this stroll through your old stomping grounds.
“Where exactly are we going?”
Nonchalantly slipping your hand in the crook of his elbow you answer. “Tomorrow my mother will insist on taking us on a horribly boring and irrelevant tour of the town, so tonight you’re getting my tour.”
Someone across the street calls your name, interrupting your conversation. An elderly woman beneath an oversized straw hat straightens up from her garden.
Your smile is instant and full of sunshine when you return the older woman’s greeting. “Mrs. Robbins!” Leading Bucky across the empty street you meet her on the other side of her gate.
Her eyes crinkle kindly as she takes your hand in hers. “Oh, Sassafras, it is so good to see you again!”
You laugh and shake your head. “Good to see you too, ma’am.”
She tuts her tongue a few times before patting your hand. “Darling you’re old enough to call me Fiona, please do. And who is this handsome young man?” Dark eyes examine Bucky, keener than her feeble posture would suggest.
“This is my boyfriend, Bucky. Bucky, Mrs.-” you stop herself at her sharp look. “This is Fiona. A dear family friend and Harvey’s sister.”
Brown skin wrinkles around her softening lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”
“Nice to meet you too, ma’am. I work for your brother at the garage, he’s been more than kind to me.”
She titters at that, hand swiping through the air. “I should hope so! He better be payin’ it forward after he inherited the place from her grandfather. I’ve gotta warn you, kid. This one,” Fiona nods to you with no small amount of affection, “has always had moxie; done what she wants, what other people want be damned. She’s a brave girl. Sure you can keep up?”
Bucky beams down at you and you return it easily. “Probably be a step behind her most of the way, but I’m up for the chase.”
You bid her goodbye only after securing a promise to see her tomorrow night.
“And what exactly is tomorrow night?” Bucky’s question is drowned out by another neighbor exclaiming at your presence.
You seem to feel rather than see Bucky’s questioning gaze on you. “Babysat,” you nod to a young family pouring out of a vehicle and heading into their home who were waving at you like maniacs.
Next house down you offer another explanation. “Cat-sat.”
Ten more steps and you speak again. “Helped her tend her garden when her husband left for the war,” you wiggle your fingers at a pregnant woman checking her mailbox who was wearing a sparkling smile.
A car slows down to move alongside you; the mustachioed gentleman at the wheel asks, “You kids need a ride?”
Bending at the waist to make eye contact through the open window you say, “No, thank you, Mr. Quaid. We’re enjoying the evening walk.”
“Take care!” The car speeds up and is gone.
A little more solemnly you nod toward a couple sitting on their front porch, hands joined. “Their son was a few years younger than me, I tutored him in math. He ended up doing really well. . .” Your voice fades when you smile in their direction. Hand moving to grip his, you continue quieter, “He was drafted when he was 18. Died in the first battle he saw. They were devastated. I tried to visit and bring them food as often as I could.”
He squeezes your fingers, no words needed - the weight of loss heavy in his own heart. Seeking to lighten the mood, Bucky clears his throat. “You didn’t tell me you were a local celebrity.”
You scoff in a way your mother certainly would’ve labeled as undignified. “Oh, it’s just a few neighbors. Helps that I’ve got a dreamboat on my arm.”
Then it’s his turns to scoff. “Hardly. You’re the good-looking one of the pair, Sixth Floor.”
“Ah, but you’re the new one in town. The place will be buzzing with news of you by the time we’ve walked the neighborhood.”
Bucky isn’t quite sure how to feel about that, but before he can voice any concern you’ve arrived in the town square where volunteers were setting up decorations and festivities for the coming weekend.
He whistles at the splendor of the unfurled banners hanging above the streets, dozens of jack-o-lanterns hanging from light posts, and the fervor of the crowd orchestrating the perfect swoop of a swag of orange and black tinsel. “Man, you weren’t kidding about your town being into Halloween.”
“No, I was not,” you admit with a rueful laugh. “Everyone really got into it in an effort to lower kids’ interest in vandalism. What were your Halloweens like growing up?”
“Umm, usually pretty relaxed. The girls always dressed up; I put minimal effort into putting a costume together.”
“Party pooper.”
“I do remember this one Halloween when we were young. The ice cream store down the block would give you a free scoop if you showed up in a costume. It was more like a mob than a store, kids everywhere. The employees couldn’t keep up with how many cones to give out. Don’t think they ever did that again.”
“That is adorable, but I can’t blame the owner. I would’ve knocked down some doors for ice cream too.”
“I’m assuming your Halloweens were slightly more eventful than mine?”
“Slightly.”
“Yeah, that’s your lying tone.”
“I don’t have a lying tone!”
“That’s the same tone of voice you used when Steve and Peggy were arguing about which one of them was more likely to win a bear fight and you told them you didn’t have an opinion.”
You both chortle at the memory.
“Oh my god, how had I already forgotten about that? How could such a playful question escalate into them aggressively advocating for their individual tactical advantages over a bear ?”
“Alcohol is one way. Stubbornness is the other. And they both had loads that night.”
“I thought you said Steve couldn’t get drunk.”
“Fine, pure stubbornness on his part. Either way, you’re lying to me.”
You continue your walk through the downtown neighborhood in the direction of the river.
“Okay, my Halloweens were plenty eventful. Lots of dances and parties and festivals. We don’t know how not to take Halloween seriously. Spooky is literally woven into the fabric of our town.”
“Right, right, I remember you talking about the Headless Horseman poem.”
“Yep. The author lived not too far from our house. Rumor has it Walt Disney is doing a cartoon based off of the story.”
“That what inspired your dad to go with the dwarfs for pumpkins this year?”
The sparkle in your eye proves his theory. “Has anyone told you you’re very astute, Sergeant Barnes? Anyway, we’ve got loads of other stories. The cemetery is haunted; some of the statues have been seen getting up and walking around, visiting graves. The British head of intelligence during the Revolutionary War, John Andre, was captured in Tarrytown after meeting with Benedict Arnold to negotiate his defection - he was killed several days later. People still report seeing Major Andre wander the woods, along with the Headless Horseman, obviously. The Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship, has been spotted offshore in the Hudson too.”
The look on his face must have betrayed his fear that his girlfriend believed in ghosts, because you snicker. “It’s mostly all in good fun, but the legends leave plenty of room for the local kids to terrify everyone.”
“Don’t suppose you were ever involved in any of those pranks?”
“Me? Oh gosh no.” Your intense tone of innocence has his lips curling in disbelief. “Well. . . one night some friends and I scared some tourists who were walking around the cemetery. It’s funny how from a distance, lit jack-o-lanterns can look so realistic when being swung from a stick.”
“You tricked people into thinking heads were floating around in the fields?”
“We were just carrying our jack-o-lanterns around, I don’t know what you’re talking about. . .” Oh, mischief was a good color on you.
You turn down a worn road and Bucky takes a moment to admire your silhouette in the eventide.
Over your shoulder you call, “You coming?”
“Depends, you taking me into the woods to scare me with floating heads?”
Beguiling eyes twinkle. “Not yet. I wanna show you something.”
He takes your outstretched hand and lets you lead the way; your feet carrying you as if you’d walked this trail a hundred times before. Turns out, you had.
Not too many steps later, the smell of the river and a cooler breeze greets the pair as a huge building looms in the distance. Beginning to block the view of the Hudson the closer you get, Bucky can just make out the sign affixed in bold letters across the side.
“This your old factory?”
Your silence prompts Bucky to glance down where he finds you nodding. As if the words had suddenly been snatched from your throat, like your faculties were stripped down to remembering how to breathe. He looks at you closer.
There’s. . . pain. Not the physical type. The type that was beneath the skin, underneath the beat of your heart. A type of pain uncomfortably familiar to him.
The affliction etched into your brow is too close to how he feels when recalling his time overseas. Countless hours you had spent asking about and listening to his stories, holding him close when the memories were so vivid he almost couldn’t distinguish them from reality.
But there were moments he found himself yearning for pieces of that life, he must admit. The camaraderie among his unit, the steady sense of duty, the sharing of stories around the fire when Dugan wouldn’t shut the hell up, sharing a dance with a Red Cross girl on a rare night off in London. Yes, there was inarguable tragedy, trauma, and sacrifice. He was left with scars and loss.
Selfishly, he realizes, he had not spent a moment thinking about what you had lost.
Your tone is unintentionally forlorn as you share the names of your crewmates, what your days were like, a few anecdotes of your time there. A sadness that seemed a cousin to the dissatisfaction you’d had when clocking out of the corporate office every day seeps through the tension in the hand tucked into his.
Buried under the facts, he senses a void that aches more in this moment than he’s ever witnessed. The quiet charm of your hometown dampened by the war factory up the river. Tension in your household when you told your mother of your career plans. Knowledge and skills you excelled in. The team of women in your charge who you loved deeply, felt a responsibility to. Childhood playmates that hadn’t returned from the European theater. A sense of purpose and pride ripped away after the last Axis power surrendered.
You’d never stared mortality in the face like he had, but you’d fought battles, risked a lot. The course of your life changed forever because of the war. The troops were celebrated, at least publicly, upon their return. There was a reverence reserved for the uniformed troops.
But you. . . you were thrust aside to make room for men like him. You, thousands of yous, were told you were no longer needed. You could go home and sit. You were meant for something softer, something more domestic. Your expertise and fortitude were no longer needed, could be put in a memory box and forgotten about.
The awareness that this is the first he’s seen this side of you unnerves him. Had he ignored it? Could you be that adept at hiding these inner struggles? Were you concealing this on purpose? Did guilt haunt you into silencing this wound? Sure, you’d alluded to how you’d been unhappy being pushed out of your job at the factory, that the office job was a consolation prize. Although, could it be called a prize when you’d forced the hand that had given it?
Shame washes over him as you blink tears away. Why hadn’t he asked? How hadn’t he caught this earlier? He wants to ask now, desperately wants to know and hold you, but he can read you well enough to see the sign your eyes hold that screams ‘do not cross into this territory’.
It dawns on him that he doesn’t know what to do. Helpless had never been a good fit for him.
Minutes of silence pass as he continues to watch you stumble through the visceral memories whirling about.
Then the answer hits him like a ball cracking against a bat.
Follow your example.
He can listen. He can respect boundaries. He can gently nudge. He can be present. He can offer perspective. He can provide backup when you face the scary depths of your mind. He can love.
Wordlessly you turn your back on the factory, unknowingly desperate to put space between you and a home that is too dear, too. . . no longer yours.
He can relate.
So he falls in step as you walk away, lost in thought. Trusting that you subconsciously know your next destination, that you’ll feel it when you arrive.
Every step away from that spot, you’re cast in a new light in the pitch black of night. One that paints you in braver, more hallowed strokes than before. A new admiration, a new respect. . . a new love blooms in him for you. And again, he finds himself thankful that he dropped into your life.
Releasing your hand, he pulls you closer to him with an arm around your shoulders and presses a vow to your head with his lips. A promise to watch closer, to always give you the respect you’ve earned, to care about the safety of your heart as you do for his.
In that moment, he decides that you deserve the world. And he’s going to do whatever he can to deliver it right to your feet.
You’ve walked a mile or so when you break out of your reverie and survey your surroundings, angling further toward a clearing free from artificial light or people. Finding a satisfactory spot - by what standards, he’s unsure - you pull the blanket from the bag he’s been carrying and settle it over the lush green grass. While you make yourself comfortable on the checked picnic blanket, he watches you with what he’s sure is an obvious adoration.
Looking up, what you were going to say dies on your tongue. “What?” you ask uncertainly, dragging out the vowel.
“Nothin’,” he shrugs. “Just enjoying the view.”
The cock of your head says you don’t believe him but you don’t press the matter.
“Well, c’mere.” You motion to the blanket next to you.
Feeling playful he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Answer one question.”
You hum inquisitively.
“Did you bring me to the middle of the woods to scare the bejesus outta me in the spirit of Halloween?”
Laughter has never sounded so sweet in his whole life. The mirth in your cheeks tugs a dopey grin upon his face as he plops down next to you, shoulder to shoulder.
“Alright, what’re we doing out here, Sixth Floor?”
“Well, you’re always complaining about how the city has too much light to really see the stars, so. . .” You turn your face to the heavens, Bucky following in kind.
He had been so wrapped up in you he’d failed to notice the mantle of twinkling lights above his head. A steadying breath is necessary as a peace washes over him at the beautiful sight.
“Now that’s a view.”
“Go ahead, talk my ear off about them.”
Growing up in New York City, the area was notorious for blackouts. Gradually growing bored during a summer filled with lightless evenings he found himself crawling onto the roof of his childhood home and examining the sky. He had been slow to fall in love with the sky but it had persisted throughout his childhood.
During a sleepless night on the cold ground in Italy, he realized the constellations he was looking up at were different from the ones back home. Peggy had surreptitiously smuggled him an astronomy book after Steve had rescued the 107th from Azzano and he’d carried it in his pack until he’d returned home. The same book rested permanently on his nightstand, a faithful companion when a different kind of sleepless night plagued him.
He settles in, throwing an arm around your shoulders, rubbing you for extra warmth.
“Ooh ooh, Jupiter is right there.” He points out the planet.
“Where?”
“Right there.” He wags his finger in emphasis.
“I. . . I just see stars.”
“Here, lay down.” Bucky falls to his back, feeling you drop next to him. He circles the planet again with a finger, hoping it’ll help guide your line of sight.
“Oh. . . yeah, absolutely, wow.”
“You still can’t see it can you?”
Your move to roll into his shoulder to muffle your giggles and embarrassment is futile; there’s no way he can pass up the opportunity to tease you about it.
In a torrent of words he finds himself helpless to stop, he tells you all about the skies above. He waxes poetic about the solar eclipse he’d seen over the summer, explains the draconid meteor shower that had graced the atmosphere earlier that month, and indicates several constellations.
He’s still not convinced you can actually make out the constellations; Ursa Major and Cassiopeia being his two favorites that evening. At one point you sit up and he shuffles to rest his head in your lap, legs crossed at his ankles.
Although he usually preferred to observe from the wings, he finds himself drawn to your audience. He could count on one hand the number of people he was at ease enough with to speak unbridled. Granted, you were an easy audience. Even if you were indulging him. there was refuge in your company.
Your digits twine into his hair, looping through the beginnings of a curl at the ends, undoing the efforts of the hair cream. A touch so gentle he could not bring himself to care. His eyes slide shut and he focuses only on the feeling of you playing with his hair, fingernails pleasantly scratching his scalp every so often.
Eventually, he runs out of things to say and you both keep your faces turned up to the blanket of stars. A thousand questions cross his mind yet he struggles to find his footing in this unfamiliar emotional territory.
“So, your mom seems a little. . .”
Your fingers falter for a moment before slowly resuming their perusing of his hair. “Obstinate?”
The bitterness surrounding that one word tells him all he needs to know.
“Invested?” He offers as an alternative.
You only hum.
“She cares enough to go along with your dad’s ideas. Like helping with the pumpkins, even if it seemed to stress her out.”
“Guess that’s love for you.” He detects a hint of strain in your voice, as if the unexpected emotions of your hometown arrival had drained you.
He’s hesitant to push further and his newfound courage fails him.
The stillness that falls is peaceful. A cozy bubble that’s just the two of you and the stars.
You eventually squint to see your watch in the dark and declare its time to head back before your mother calls the cavalry.
“She’d call the cops?”
“If it’s so late she thinks we’ve gone missing. And the Chief is my uncle, so. . .” A docile mirth meets him as you pull him up from the blanket to join you on two feet. “Do you want to explain to my mother's brother what we were doing in the wilderness at night in solitude?”
Bucky opens his mouth but you cover it with your hand.
“No innuendo-laced sass, sir.”
In a moment of impulsivity he kisses your fingers and is enamored by the embarrassment you hide by looking away, clear desire visible in the starlight.
“Let’s go before you give us a reason to really be in trouble, Sergeant.”
Unsurprisingly, he finds himself awake well before the sun. Given the unfamiliar environment and his mind turning the events of last night over and over, he was already pacing the guest bedroom’s floor. After debating internally whether or not it was rude to make coffee in someone else’s kitchen, he settles for scrawling a few passages in the journal you’d gifted to settle his mind.
He opens the door to leave the bathroom in fresh clothes and a shaved face, only to come face-to-face with sleep-rumpled you; in your pajama set with a robe thrown over it. Your bare feet brush against his - per usual, your toes are freezing.
“Good morning,” he hums.
“G’morning,” you return, burying your face in his chest, arms securing around his middle.
Unable to contain his grin, he scratches the back of your neck with one hand, smoothing circles on your back with the other. “You sure are cute in the morning.” He catches something vaguely resembling a ‘stoooooop’. “I’m telling you, you look your best right after you’ve woken up.”
“Shhh, stop talking,” you slur into his shirt, seemingly attempting to rub the sleep from your eyes.
“I mean,” he half-shrugs, “we have spent a night together.”
Your hand presses firmly over his mouth before he could finish his sentence. “James Buchanan, if you utter another word about that you and I will be banned from this house for the rest of our lives.”
He tugs your wrist down to kiss your knuckles. “We literally just fell asleep on the same couch, babydoll.” If asked he would blame the morning hour, not the overwhelming sensation of having you close, responsible for the deep rasp of his voice.
“I promise my mother will not listen to that story long enough before she disowns me.”
Releasing you, he steps out of the bathroom to let you in. Nodding, he turns around to watch as you shuffle to the sink. “Rest of our lives, huh?” He tosses a smug grin which you volley with a scowl.
“Shut up and make me coffee.”
He knows you miss the wistful glance accompanying his laugh as you shut the door in his face. Not that he minds.
When you do emerge for your lovingly-prepared beverage you are dressed to the nines. A new dress, coordinated stockings, and hair in perfect rolls. . . Bucky was more than a little taken aback. Saturdays were when he was treated to your out-of-the-office look; the bare face, your overalls, the unmitigated sass. This was. . . different.
“What?” You eye him from beneath your heavy eye-liner, taking a cautious sip out of your mug.
“N-. . . nothing, doll. You look nice.”
Your rigid smile gives him pause, but it’s one of the only pauses he has for the day.
The rest of the morning and afternoon don’t leave him much time to mull over all he’s learned about you in the last 24 hours; your mother kept the four of you quite busy with her town tour. Bucky can practically feel you cringing from your place next to him on the backseat bench of your parents’ car as your mother drags you all over town.
He doesn’t completely understand the point of most of the stops. She makes sure to drive by the newly built gazebo, the lovely park adjacent to downtown where there was plenty of space for kids to run, and a new boutique that had opened that spring. The tour included lunch with the mayor and his family, tea and coffee with the neighbors, and a quick stroll around the block where your mother pointed out several wonderful houses for sale.
However, he did notice how quiet you were. Your commentary was nil in comparison to the night before. Choosing to listen to your mother rather than add on to her narration struck him as slightly odd. Was it born from weariness or a reluctance to start an argument?
As the day progressed, Bucky clocked a growing agitation in you. Without so much as a minute alone with you since that morning he couldn’t put a finger on the source of your turmoil. He ached to fix it for you. Since he didn’t know what was broken, he settled for grabbing your hand and squeezing it three times.
Squeeze. I. Squeeze. Love. Squeeze. You.
The scowl you were wearing diminishes slightly when you redirect your gaze from outside the window to him. You squeeze back:
I. Love. You. Too.
The time for supper approached quicker than your mother anticipated, landing you, your father, and Bucky in the family room while she prepared the meal alone. After your lacklustre attempt at offering help, which was quickly denied, you plop down onto the couch next to Bucky. He draws comfort from the way you nuzzle into his side, the way you rest your head on his shoulder for a few minutes. Your breathing evens out enough for Bucky to table his concern for a later time.
It isn’t until your dad shares a story about the time 10-year-old you had insisted a bead you were using to make necklaces was small enough to fit in your ear. It turns out you were correct, it was small enough to fit in your ear. After spending five hours at the doctor’s office with your father, the bead fell out the second the nurse had called your name to be seen by the doctor. It’s the first time that day Bucky hears you give a genuine laugh.
When the group sits down for dinner he can’t help but compare his family table to yours. Unlike being crowded into each other’s space in Brooklyn, he felt a world away from you at the formal dining table.
In between demure bites, your mother asks: “So James, we’ve been told you served, but haven’t heard many details.”
“For 1943 I served as a Sergeant with the 107th Infantry. I then became a part of a special operations combat unit.”
“Is it true you served with Captain America?”
“Mom.” If your mother could feel the waves of fury rolling off of you, she didn’t show it.
Feigning surprise, her shoulders raise in a shrug. “It’s a harmless question.”
Seeking to quell the simmer of anger bubbling in you, Bucky swoops in. “Yes ma’am, I did. Alongside a group of strong, fearless men.”
“And what was that like?”
“We dealt with a lot of classified information, so unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss much of it.”
A parroted line given to him by the SSR the moment he’d landed on American soil; a line that had saved him from this exact conversation a hundred times before.
Undeterred, your mother pats her lips daintily with her napkin. “Well, what is Captain America like? Have you met him, dear?”
After chewing on a forkful of the meal for a touch longer than necessary, you respond. “I’ve only known him as Bucky’s friend Steve. And he’s very kind, intelligent, thoughtful. He’s an artist, Dad. I’m sure you two would find a lot to talk about.”
“Well, James, thank you very much for your service. It’s an honor to have you at our table.”
“It was nothing, ma’am. I only did what other able-bodied men were willing to do, except I had the blessing of coming home.”
As if to stop whatever retort burning hot on your tongue, your father clears his throat. “We all do what needs to be done in times of war. Think all of us here can relate to that.”
“Oh yes,” your mother hums. “During the Great War, my husband, brother, and father were all off fighting. I took care of the household while everyone was gone instead of trying to find work. I felt that creating a stable home would be the most comforting for returning soldiers.”
Bucky does his best not to sputter around the food in his mouth, eyes going as wide as his dinner plate.
Your comeback to the obvious jab was a lifted chin and pursed lips. The line in your shoulders speaking to the countless times this conversation had happened before.
Without a rejoinder from you, the matriarch sighs. “But so many young people had a fervor for a more hands-on approach to war, as they are wont to do.”
“No need to mince words, Mom, we all know you weren’t a big fan of my factory work.”
“Thank goodness,” Bucky says amiably “or I wouldn’t have a job or career path. Your daughter has really steered me down a road where I feel a sense of purpose again, and I won’t ever be able to convey what that really means to me.”
The smile does not extend beyond your mouth - not when you catch how starry-eyed your mother looks. Undercurrents he doesn’t totally understand emanate from both women at the table. What he does catch is your father’s eyes flitting back and forth between the most prominent ladies in his life, measuring the same current Bucky feels.
The man opposite him shakes his head at his wife, who tsks quietly and pushes her food around her plate for another moment.
Head tilting toward you, your mother asks, “Will you help me clear the table and wash the dishes?”
“I don’t mind helping out, ma’am. Dinner was delicious and-” Before Bucky had fully risen out of his chair your mother was shaking her head.
“Oh no no no, you boys just relax while the two of us clean up.”
Probably a little heavier than intended, Bucky drops back into his seat. Discomfort knocks in his knee bouncing under the table as he watches you pile your arms full of dishware before joining your mother in the kitchen.
The fingers of his left hand fidget with the tablecloth. It had been several years since he’d been forced to sit unbusy for this long a stretch of time. Unsettled hands often led to unsettled thoughts. If he wasn’t careful-
A muffled grunt at his right jerks Bucky from his thoughts.
“You okay, sir?”
Jaw clenched, your father nods as he shifts in pain, taking a few deep breaths.
Blue eyes flit down to the older man’s right leg where he’s gripping what Bucky would guess to be the site of the amputation. It passes seconds later, the WWI vet relaxing once again. The moment didn’t appear to worry him; in fact, it seemed to be a regular occurrence.
“Has Sassafras told you about how I lost my leg?” The deep voice prompts Bucky’s eyes back up to your father’s face, one that is watching him thoughtfully. A pang of guilt twitches in his chest at his outright perusal of the man’s injury. But he didn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious. Just a soldier asking a question of a fellow GI.
“No, sir. She’s only mentioned it in passing. I didn’t want to overstep.”
“Ah,” your father waves a hand dismissively. “I was in the hospital recovering longer than I saw combat. Bullet hit just wrong enough in Saint-Miheil. I don’t remember it happening, but I can recall the ambulance ride to the field hospital. Once the surgeons did their work,” he nods to his leg, “I only had to wait to become stable enough to get shipped back here. The hospitals were crowded wall-to-wall. Staff was in a rush to move those of us who were deemed unfit for service to make room for more casualties.”
“Did you ever get a prosthetic?”
“I did, I did. Sure was an uncomfortable thing, though. We were rushed out of the amputee specialty hospital too. None of us were taught how to use them properly. I tried to make it work. Eventually, it wasn’t worth it. Only caused pain on top of pain. The limb found much better use as a makeshift shovel for a certain daughter of mine.”
Both men chuckle at the image of you shrunken down as a toddler, digging a hole in the backyard to bury your treasure with a wooden prosthetic.
“After a while, I stopped trying to get the pain treated. Spasms like what you just saw will come along every once in a while, but it’s manageable. I’m just thankful I got to come home.” His features mellow as he watches his wife and daughter moving in the kitchen in tandem.
Bucky observes the scene as well with a slightly more scrutinous eye. Your mother maintains a steady stream of chatter without any response from you. Eyes fixed on the plates you were lathering with soap, movements mechanical. Something unidentifiable has shifted.
Having caught a vulnerable glimpse of you the previous evening, a tide of protectiveness nearly moves him to his feet. To do what, he wasn’t sure.
Once again, your father’s voice pulls Bucky back to reality. “While not having part of my leg is a pain, tons of soldiers suffer from deeper wounds. My brother-in-law, for example, is still dealing with his shell shock.”
The hair on Bucky’s arms stands up, his blood chills. Briefly he reflects upon his first date with you - the episode he’d had when the busboy had dropped a tray of glassware. He wonders if you’d shared that with your father. If he knew.
As if he could read Bucky’s demeanor, he continues unprompted. “When he arrived home after the Treaty, he lived with us for a few years. I did everything I could for him. Through all my efforts, the most powerful was simply being present. Reassuring him that I was there, I was listening, that he was safe.
“Really, all I did was talk to him like he was human. Which is surprisingly rare with shell shock. Even my wife struggled not to treat him like he was breakable.” Again, the elder’s gaze shifts to where you’re now drying dishes. A wisp of sentiment curls his lips. “What never failed to make his day was his baby niece fearlessly crawling into his lap. She always brought a smile to his face with her kindness, her innocence. . . her belief that her uncle was just that. Not a fighter. Not damaged goods. Just her uncle.”
Ah. So that’s where you’d gotten the extra dose of tenderness.
“Time passed. He healed. Got back on his feet. Found a job in town that suited him; settled down, had a family. Every once in a while he gets that thousand-yard-stare that tells me he’s still fighting battles.”
The scars on Bucky’s chest and back from his time spent with captors in Azzano itch incessantly; he exercises all his self-control to stay still. A bead of sweat rolls down his back.
“In all the chaos and gore, I think the hardest thing to watch was the way men were treated differently in the hospitals. Those of us with life-altering injuries were treated with compassion. But the men with shell shock; the ones shaking uncontrollably, staring into the distance, screaming in their sleep. . . medical staff were unkind to them. Almost like my physical wound protected me from judgement or impatience.
“People who haven’t seen a second of action seem to think physical trauma is the only excuse for mental trauma. Like that can’t exist by itself. I never saw that at all. I know you and I both have seen our fair share of shit. The biggest difference? I was discharged. The shell-shocked were often sent right back into battle. The experts, doctors, nurses - it was obvious they believed treating the mind was an acknowledgement that there was a problem in the first place. Because they didn’t have a solution, they turned it into the soldier’s own problem. He was weak. Needed to buck up and get the job done.”
Frozen to the spot, Bucky regards your father as he takes a deep breath. Shifting forward ever-so-slightly he locks eyes with Bucky. Through all the combat the younger veteran had seen, he’d never felt more exposed than in this moment.
Fingers rubbing at his chin, the older veteran begins again. “The things all those doctors say, that certain men’s minds are fragile or it’s an excuse to go home. . . there’s no reason for someone to continue the behavior once they make it home. When you’re in a room by yourself and wake up from a nightmare and find trouble breathing - what audience benefits from that act? That’s not something anyone wishes for.”
Somehow sensing the trepidation across the table, he leans back in a relaxed, yet calculated posture. Gives a sheepish chuckle while Bucky tries to catch his breath.
“Not to prattle on like an old geezer, but all that to say; I’ve had first-hand experience with wounds that aren’t visible. Every man is different. Time moves differently for every one. There’s not a set recovery time. As long as a man has a support system and is honest with them, he’s going to be okay.”
A long pause stretches out, Bucky’s mind ticking as his knee bounces slower eventually stilling.
One whispered phrase floats across the table. “You’re going to be okay, son.”
Voice thick, every muscle straining to suppress a display of emotion, Bucky manages a, “Th. . . Thank you, sir.”
“Anytime.”
That one word, filled with a copious amount of conviction, did more to convince Bucky of his value than almost anything else he’d heard in the last year of his life.
Movement from the kitchen catches his eye again and momentarily, you glance over your shoulder and catch him looking. Bucky smiles, remembering a similar moment in his mother’s kitchen the night you’d all had dinner together. Instead of returning his grin you whirl back to the sink, spine tight.
He can’t imagine what has you so tense, what could have changed so drastically from the night before.
His only course of action is to hope you’ll shed light on it when he can steal a moment alone with you.