Chapter Text
April 1943
Steve Rogers always was and always would be, as far as you were concerned, a perfect gentleman.
He pedalled vigorously down the street, just a few paces behind you, calling out directions as the two of you knocked off stops on your list of deliveries. That morning, you insisted you would be fine on your own, but when he saw you, arms full of carefully wrapped garments, he waltzed over the new telephone in the kitchen and called in sick.
Steve swore up and down that the telephone was a birthday present for Bucky, but you knew that he got a kick out of having the only line in the building. The argument that it was meant for Bucky didn’t hold much water while he was still away a basic training.
News travelled quickly through the building that Steve-and-Bucky had a landline. Suddenly, neighbours were knocking at the door at all hours of the day, sometimes when Steve wasn’t even home. Someone was always looking to phone up a relative or was in dire need to reach their doctor's office.
You had even managed to make a phone call to Amelia of all people, who had answered your very first missive with an excited squeal of “I’m having a baby!” Her voice was so shrill and piercing that you had to hold the sleek Bakelite receiver away from your ear to stand the sound of it.
“That’s amazing, Ames,” you said patiently, “Are you telling ma or should I?”
Though you couldn’t see your sister, you could hear the frown on her face.
“Don't you dare! We’re coming to the apartment next month to tell them, and I’ve already written Bill, Sam, and Tommy. Just need a few more tests to make sure the baby’s healthy and all,” she explained,
You huffed, “You’re no fun.”
Amelia laughed and you could hear Clarence faintly in the background asking what was so funny.
“When you have children you can tell ma and pa yourself,” she said with an air of smugness that made you miss your sister dearly.
“First, I have to find a man to get me pregnant,” you shot back. From the living room, you heard Steve sputter on a poorly timed sip of coffee. He pounded at his chest, gasping for air.
“Sorry Ames, Steve is dying, gotta run. Tell Clarence I say hello! Love you!” You placed the receiver back in its cradle tentatively and rushed over to Steve.
“Warn a guy next time, will ya?” Steve wheezed. You rolled your eyes.
“You don’t get to play prude around me, Steve Rogers,” you said.
“Maria is rubbing off on you and I’m not sure I like it,” he said jokingly, wiping a few pained tears from the corners of his eyes.
“You love it,” you laughed, planting a kiss on Steve’s cheek. It was nice to see him smiling.
Steve had had a hard go of the last few months. He had exhausted nearly every recruitment centre in Brooklyn, and though you insisted that the war effort at home was just as valuable, Steve’s drive to enlist had become a damn near obsession. If he wasn't grumbling about the half-baked efforts of the students in his life drawing class, he was moaning on about the war.
Even now, as the two of you peddled to the last and largest of the drop-offs, the conversation seemed to wander back to the subject.
“Do you think there’ll be any fellas I could talk to when we get to the Port of Embarkation? Maybe I could slip an enlistment form in between the folds of a few of the uniforms…” Steve shouted over your shoulder.
“You’re going to get yourself shot, Steve. Or worse, me shot, and then who’s going to be able to help out with work? You better learn how to sew a flat felled seam, I’ll tell you that much,” you yelled back.
The ride along the parkway was loud and full of people eager to drive its newest addition, so the two of you veered along Fourth Ave instead. Liquor stores and apartments dotted the road. A large line snaked around a particular block and you peered curiously, trying to parse what the big deal was.
Steve caught up to you then, leaning away from the handles and letting his hands fall to his sides. The breeze tousled his blond hair.
“Bucky’s coming home today,” he said casually.
You kept your eyes trained forward, dodging parked cars and jaywalking pedestrians.
The front of the line was coming into view and you could finally see what all the commotion was about: one of those new-fangled laundromats had popped up on the street and curious wives and children were stood waiting for a glimpse of the place.
Your mother had been talking about this new sort business incessantly, proclaiming it as the end of all things for 'sole proprietor laundresses like herself'. It was a meager distraction from your most pressing thoughts.
Steve hadn't needed to remind you of Bucky's arrival. The thought had invaded your dreams. You tossed and turned, imagining the scenarios that might play out, ranging from a full blown fight to the throes of passion.
It had been the first time in a long time that Bucky had been on your mind. In all honesty, you had been too busy to contemplate your heartache. It seemed that your letter had appeased Steve and, curiously enough, Bucky had never written back.
You tried not to take this as a slight. Instead, you chalked his silence up to busyness or, worse, indifference. You weren’t sure where that left the two of you–somewhere unmoored between friends and strangers surely–but the last few months had kept you sufficiently occupied. You kept pushing the problem away for a later time.
Your mother’s outwork seemed to be of a speed and quality that pleased the Quartermaster Corps and orders had doubled in the last month alone. It had forced your to cut your shifts at the Roseland down to just three a week, desperate to give your aching legs a break. With your brothers away at basic training and Amelia pulling extra shifts at the hospital to help pay for Clarence’s new car, that left you responsible for all deliveries.
This was how you had ended up here, thirty uniforms deep between yours and Steve’s Roadsters.
“What time does his train get into town?” you asked Steve, trying to sound casual.
Steve steadied himself once more on the handlebars and glanced down at this watch.
“Should’ve pulled into Penn Station an hour ago. I reckon he’ll be home by the time we wrap up,” he said.
The New York Port of Embarkation was a frenetic series of buildings and boats. Everywhere you turned, there were men in uniform marching off to other destinations, the same look of determination that seemed to be carved onto their faces. There was plenty of chatter, sure, and on a whole nothing seemed more dour than the odd stubbed toe, but nowhere did the shadow war grow longer than here.
You ordered Steve to stay put at the base of the stairs with your bikes while you heaved the bundles of uniforms up to the main reception hall. You hoped that his sense of duty and the fear of both of your bikes being stolen would keep Steve firmly planted where you left him, instead of wandering off to try and get himself enlisted for the umpteenth time.
“You sure you don’t want any help?” Steve asked hopefully.
“You’ve done plenty, Stevie. If anyone tries to steal our bikes, give them the old one-two,” you swung your hands in the closest approximation to a boxing technique, but the uniforms swayed precariously. You took this as your cue to send them along on their way and hurried up the rest of the stairs. A kind private (you were beginning to be able to tell them apart, having made so many uniforms at this point) held the door open for you and you nodded in thanks.
There were several women behind the front desk fielding lost looking gentlemen, jotting down notes, and answering phones with an ease you were unsure you’d ever master. You stood in line behind a rather hulking recruit who seemed eager to make your acquaintance. You feigned ignorance, pretending that the din of the busy hall was too loud to make out any small talk. He made a sour face in your direction that validated your choice.
How the hell were you supposed to fall in love in this city when half of the men seemed to want a wife to fuck and the other half wanted one to own?
“Sir, I suggest you speak to me in a more appropriate tone or I will be forced to break your fingers,” a voice ahead of you spoke. The man in line before you seemed to be accosting the poor woman working the desk.
She had a foreign accent, unmistakably from across the pond, which radiated authority. The man seemed to as she chastised him and he mumbled an apology before scurrying off to wherever he was headed.
“Idiot…” you heard the woman mutter after him as you dropped the stack of uniforms on the counter. You peered around the packaged drab wool to get a proper glance at her.
She had soft brown hair, neatly pinned and curled to keep the tresses from her eyes. Her suit set was smart–a beautiful deep mauve gabardine that you envied greatly. There were great, huge buttons that ran down the front, contrasted by a delicate broach at her lapel. She was beautiful.
“Hello. How can I be of assistance?” her distinct English tone cut through your wandering thoughts.
“I have some outwork to deliver. Uniforms. Thirty of them,” the woman nodded with efficiency and typed out a quick note at the typewriter in front of her. The clack of the keys was hypnotizing.
“Origin of the outwork?” she asked, her hands hovering in anticipation.
“9 4th Place, Brooklyn,” you responded. The carriage slid to one side of the typewriter and then back with ease.
“Thank you,” the woman said, pulling the sheet of paper free and waving it slightly so the ink wouldn’t smudge. She heaved the great stacks of garments to her side of the counter with ease and then dialed a number.
“Hello, yes? This is Margaret Carter speaking, from the front desk. I have a delivery of uniforms that need to make its way to the Quartermaster Corps building. Well, as fast as you can send someone preferably. No one wants to cross the Atlantic naked, I'm sure of that,” she winked your way as she said this and you grinned, “Thank you, yes thanks. And when do you think a cheque can be expected? Shall I just write one up myself then? Wonderful,” she hung up the phone with a resolute click.
From the desk, she pulled a neat stack of blank cheques and you watched as she signed off on thirty dollars worth of wages. You balked.
“I’m fairly sure it’s twenty-five dollars miss,” you stuttered. She gave you a small smile. “Us ladies, we’ve got to stick together through this war, don’t we?”
“And besides,” she slid the precious cargo towards you, “This country is spending enough money as it is--a few dollars won’t break the bank.”
You could’ve reached across the counter and kissed her. You thanked Margaret profusely and folded the cheque neatly into your wallet. You waved goodbye and hurried off to meet Steve.
“What was the hold up?” Steve asked, still valiantly gripping onto both your bikes.
“I just met an angel,” you said grinning, pulling your bike and hopping on. Steve looked at you incredulously.
“Do you think that angel could get me drafted?” Steve asked, only half-kidding. You rolled your eyes.
“C’mon, Stevie. Bucky’ll be waiting for you.”
Bucky wasn’t sure what had changed about the city when he came home, but something was different.
It hadn’t helped that a whole season had passed since he was last here–a blustery winter now tamed into submission by the beginning of spring. When the train pulled into Penn Station, he felt himself sloughing the feeling of strangeness from himself. He was home. Bucky found his groove quickly and shouldered through the rippling tide of people.
He jogged to make it through the closing doors of the subway like he always did and offered his seat to an elderly woman who was carrying too many groceries for his liking. He tucked his rucksack between his feet and stood for the rest of the train ride from Manhattan to Brooklyn.
He marvelled, perhaps for the first time in his life, at the delicate mosaics of the station's signs. Rich burgundys and carmines, old worn greens that were caked in grime, blues that rivalled the sky. Why had he never noticed how beautiful they were before? What was different about them now?
Bucky supposed he had been homesick.
He ruminated on the though for too long, before noticing that the train had stopped at the juncture where the New York City lines ended and the Brooklyn ones began. He hurried off the car and nodded at the man at the ticket booth like usual, his body moving by rote. Bucky had seen him every day for nearly seventeen years and had never asked his name. He chewed on his lip as he boarded for Red Hook, determined to ask for it the next time he saw him.
Something about the day made Bucky feel restless. The wool sweater he was wearing, the same one he had worn the day he left, was too tight around his chest and arms now. He tugged at the soft ribbed collar, trying to find relief.
He supposed he was anxious to be back. Though Steve had been consistent in his letter-writing and kept Bucky up to date as best as he could, Bucky couldn’t ignore the way the single, solitary letter from her burned a hole in his back pocket. The fellas at basic had made it a point to rib Bucky abouthis secret dame to such a degree that Bucky lost all nerve to write back.
He reached for it instinctively, as he had done for so many weeks now, thumbing over the ink. He knew the words by heart, but he liked to see her handwriting. The idea of her, at her desk in the room he could picture perfectly when he closed his eyes, had comforted Bucky more times than he was willing to admit.
He thought it was because her apartment felt like home,though it felt silly to say it aloud. He had a home after all. He had built a home out of the little shoe box that he and Steve shared. He liked having a room of his own, with a window he could chain smoke out of without getting grief from Rikki. He liked the routine that he and Steve had built.
But her place? It had been one of the few constants in his life from the time he was very young–even the house he had been born in was lost to him now, rotting somewhere in a field in Indiana.
The more he thought about it, the more Bucky became aware of just how familiar it all was to him: Bucky knew which of the floorboards in her bedroom creaked and knew how to shimmy the window open from the fire escape outside. He knew how her family kept their dishes in the cupboard and how they set the table. Bucky knew how long he could shower before the hot water ran out. He knew what time she came home from a long night of dancing; he listened for her footsteps coming up the stairs.
Bucky looked forward to being there. He thought of this as he half-jogged the few blocks to the walk-up. His pace quickened when the building came into view, bolstered by the sight. He was nearly sprinting as he made his way up the few exterior steps.
He heaved open the familiar wooden doors of the apartment complex, breathing in the stale air of the foyer as if it were a field of wildflowers. The chipped paint of the mailboxes felt like old friends; the worn varnish on the banister like a firm handshake. He took the stairs two and three at a time, eager to be home, to see Steve, to see her.
Bucky’s stomach did a little flip. That, too, was different than he remembered it. He suspected it had started during his last week of basic training, when the realization that he was days away from returning to Brooklyn became real. There was a present hum of anticipation just under the skin that made Bucky itch and he knew it had something to do with her. Something to do with that letter and home and the spell it seemed to have over him.
Alright, fine. I was really homesick, he thought to himself, as he neared the second floor landing.
He had spent too long getting an earful from Dugan at camp about the dopey grin that would grow on his face as he read and re-read her letter. As he passed the third floor landing, Bucky caught sight of his reflection in the window and had to admit that Dugan was right. But he was allowed to be a dope. He was home.
Steve was at work, he knew this at a quick glance to his watch, so he allowed himself to veer off to the other side of the hall. He made a beeline for her apartment. Before he knew it, he was knocking on the door.
The gesture felt foreign to him, but he had been gone for so long. He wasn’t sure if he could just waltz in like always. Another thing that felt different, Bucky thought to himself.
The wait was agonizing. He listened carefully for footfall and stepped back when he heard it. He smoothed a hand over his hair–just beginning to grow back to a length that he liked.
“Who’s there–oh!”
Bucky had not been expecting her mother to open the door. Somehow, she looked older.
She threw her arms around him tightly and squeezed. Bucky was startled for only a moment, before he let his rucksack fall to the floor and hugged her back. Had she always been this small? Bucky thought to himself. She had always seemed like a tour de force–the kind of mother who could make you wither with a glance.
“Welcome home, James,” she said. Her voice was watery and thin. She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and hurried into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that–” Bucky began, but he was summarily hushed and ushered into his usual seat at the kitchen table.
“Everyone’s gone for the day. Work, work, work! A war doesn’t stop folks from dirtying their clothes and with all the sewing I’ve been doing, we’ve had to start delivering uniforms too…” she chattered like this, at a mile a minute, and Bucky suspected she had been home alone for too long.
He graciously accepted her offer of coffee and biscuits, if only to make her happy.
“How are the boys?” Bucky asked, when she finally sat herself down and busied herself with some hand sewing.
A spot just in front of her on the table suddenly seemed to interest her greatly. She stared silent for a moment before breathing in sharply and smiling.
“They’re all well. The twins write scores and scores of letters–really I worry they’re spending their life savings on stamps. And Bill writes too at a, ah, much more sensible pace,” she said.
Bucky remembered the letter in his back pocket.
Bill is lord knows where. He hasn’t written. It makes me worried.
He reached out for her hand and held it gently. “They’ll be alright, Trust me, basic training was a cakewalk.”
Bucky grinned in a practiced, carefree way. He hoped he seemed reassuring enough to ease a few of the wrinkles from her brow. She smiled sadly at him and lay her other hand atop his, rubbing her thumb back and forth in a way that reminded him of Rikki. It made him feel young again, small.
“James, I know you mean well, sweetheart. But my husband served. It’s not the training I worry about,” she brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a small, but lingering kiss against his fingers.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
The two of them didn’t speak any more of the war. They chatted about mundane things: gossip Bucky had missed, the price of apples these days, the ways to prevent wool from itching.
Bucky wasn’t sure how long he stayed at their kitchen table chatting, but by the time he looked at his watch, he realized Steve would be making his way back from the city.
“I should probably make sure Steve is fed,” he said, standing with some reluctance. She tutted at him in a way that felt familiar.
“You fellas should come over for dinner. Steve’s been doing it a few nights a week,” she places a hand to her cheek in a fond gesture. “He humours me. It would really be no trouble at all,” she said.
“That’s alright Mrs--” but again she shushed him.
“How many times do I have to tell you boys? You two have been darkening my door for practically your whole lives. Just call me ma,” Bucky blushed at the reprimand.
She pressed a kiss to his cheek as she saw him to the door.
“Next time, you don’t need to knock, Bucky. Our door has always been open to you.”
“I just figured–”
“She’ll forgive you in her own time. I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
Bucky swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Mrs…” he trailed off, “Thanks, ma.”
When you finally arrived home, you pressed a long kiss to your mother’s forehead before slipping the cheque into her hand.
“We’re rich, ma,” you joked as you slid off your coat. Your mother rolled her eyes playfully.
The kitchen smelled divine, which was a sure giveaway that she was expecting guests. You knew who it would be without asking.
“You had a visitor this afternoon, sweetheart,” she said in sing-song voice.
“Let me guess, you invited him over for dinner?” you stood, one hand on your cocked hip. Your mother shrugged.
“Well, I thought since Bucky’d been gone so long, you’d like the opportunity to see him,” her innocent act was not working on you, “Seeing as you’re not over there right now.”
You shrugged. “I figured he and Steve would want some privacy first.”
You mother raised her eyebrows and made an “ah” sort of shape with her mouth,
“So you’re not avoiding him, then?” she asked. She had always been too perceptive.
“I’m…no, ma. I’m just trying to work it all out,” you sighed.
She lay the spoon she had stirring down gingerly, careful not to drip over the stove, and beckoned you into her arms.
“I know you’re upset, but I know it would be worse if you lost that boy forever. You’re allowed to be angry with him. You’re allowed to be heartbroken. But don’t let it make you bitter, darling. The world could use some softness nowadays. He means well, you know.”
She was right. You knew she was right. You nodded into her shoulder before stepping back and running your hands over the front of your skirt.
“Alright then. I better say hello,” you said.
Your mother smiled. “Usually welcoming committees are a bit cheerier than that,” she said.
You plastered on your widest, cheesiest grin. She laughed.
“Go on, then. Dinner will be ready in a few. Your father should be home in fifteen minutes.”
Hugging Steve was the best feeling in the world, Bucky had decided. He had forgotten what it was like to take his oldest friend in his arms, rest his head atop the mop of blond hair that sprouted wildly, and press with such force that he could feel Steve wheeze into him.
“Alright, alright!” Steve finally protested, “You’ve got a lot more muscle on you than you were when you left, Buck, I think I’m gunna bruise.”
Bucky relented. “You were always delicate,” he teased. That earned Bucky a swift punch to the arm.
“Ow! Talk about getting stronger. That hurt, punk,” Bucky rubbed at the sore spot.
“You know, no one called me a punk while you were gone. Was pretty nice,” Steve mumbled as he rolled his eyes.
“I missed you too, pal,” Bucky grinned. He waltzed over to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards for his favourite mug. The tap creaked in its familiar way; the squeal of rust and calcium build up creating a beautiful melody.
He had just put the kettle on to boil when the door swung open. She had not bothered to knock, which made Bucky feel a little foolish for his own, earlier hesitation.
Bucky knew instinctively that it was the kid. Well, not the kid. He was trying to be better about using that nickname around her after her insistence that she was a grown woman and ought to be treated as such.
And how could Bucky refute that point when she stood there, in all her glory, stocking-footed in a skirt and blouse that would’ve looked unremarkable on anyone else.On her it was effortless.
She waved a small hello at Steve before meeting Bucky’s gaze.
For the first time, perhaps, Bucky noticed how her cheeks ruddied at the sight of him.
“Who the hell are you and what did you do with Bucky Barnes?” she said finally, breaking the tension in the room. Bucky breathed out a sigh of relief. She sauntered around him, eyeing him up and down with a scrutiny that could have rivaled any drill sergeant.
She reached up to run her fingers through his hair, scrunching her nose as she found her fingers greased with pomade. She wiped it on Bucky’s sweater.
“Hey! This was clean!” Bucky protested.
“It doesn’t fit you anymore,” she said observantly. She pinched at his bicep, harder than he thought she would.
Bucky yelped. “Geez, is everyone trying to hurt me these days?”
“I thought you of all people could take a little pain, army man,” she joked.
She had ceased her pacing in front of him. Bucky scanned her face for any sign of what she might be thinking, but her expression betrayed nothing, save for how the light hit her eyes just so.
“Good to see you, Buck,” she finally said. She rubbed at the face of her watch, the one Bucky had given her, before reaching her hand out to shake his.
“Whatdya take me for, a business associate?” Bucky said.
He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close, closing his eyes as she tumbled into his arms.
If hugging Steve had been the best feeling in the world, holding her was a cosmic. He had missed Steve, he had missed home, but, by god, did he miss her.
Had it always been like this? Bucky thought to himself. His shoulders sagged of their own accord. From the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Steve turned away as if intruding on something more intimate than it was. It made him blush.
She was so warm.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered. He wasn’t sure which transgression to apologize for first. He hoped his sincerity was plain enough for her to understand.
“C’mon,” she said finally, her face still tucked into the crook of his neck. Bucky could feel her soft huffs of breath against his skin. “Ma’s nearly done dinner and she’s expecting you in top form.”
She leaned away from him then, her hands so lightly pressed to his chest that they nearly hovered. She looked soft, delicate, kissable.
The thought was sudden, almost sharp, and Bucky felt himself genuinely startled at the revelation. He had never thought of kissing her before.
Bucky stepped back, coughing to cover up his own stunned expression.
“Let me, uh, change into something less stained,” he stuttered.
“Toss me that,” she gestured at his sweater, “I’ll clean it up for you after dinner.” Bucky pulled the soft knit over his head and tossed it to her.
He shivered in his worn singlet. She stared for only a moment, before turning away pointedly.
“We’ll catch up,” Steve said, eyeing Bucky with curiosity. And then she was gone, just as quick as she had arrived.
“You alright, Buck?” Steve had an infuriating way of infusing concern into his voice.
“Has she always looked like that?” Bucky asked, still staring at the door in her wake.
“Uh…yeah? I don’t think she’d been to the hairdresser's recently,” Steve turned to see what had Bucky so fixated, but couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.
“She didn’t look different to you?” Bucky was reeling.
Steve held up two fingers in Bucky’s eyeline.
“How many fingers am I holding up, Buck?” he asked. Bucky swatted his hand away and turned to his room, determined to find something that still fit from his own wardrobe.
“Fuck off, Steve,” he muttered.
“I’m serious! You might’ve been concussed when they loaded you into the cargo hold with the rest of the livestock,” Steve wisecracked as he followed him.
Bucky swung his bedroom door shut before Steve could cross the threshold.
May 1942
It took far too much effort, you thought to yourself, but Amelia's announcement turned out wonderfully. She had insisted that the dinner would have to wait until all your brothers could be home so, as soon as Sam had written his last exam at UCLA, Clarence bought him a ticket bound for New York City.
It was comforting to see everyone together again. Sam’s train from Los Angeles had arrived early that morning and you accompanied Clarence and Tommy in Clarence’s shiny Studebaker.
Sam was still fresh out of basic training with his hair shorn shorter than you had ever seen it. Tommy ran his fingers through it before pulling his twin into a tight hug. It was the first time, you realized, you had ever seen them look distinguishable from one another.
Clarence noticed this too.
“I’ve never been able to tell them apart,” he stage-whispered in your direction.
“Sam has a birthmark the shape of a strawberry in a pretty indecent place,” you whispered back, “If you ever have any trouble, you can always pants one of them.” Clarence barked out a laugh that drew attention and both twins, in sync once more, turned their heads.
“Am I going to have to order you around to get a hug or what?” you hollered and Sam came rushing into your arms, squeezing you with a strength you didn’t know he possessed.
“Basic sure did a number on you,” you laughed. Sam buried his face into your shoulder. Though he tried to deny it, Sam would always be your youngest brother.
“Hi bubba,” you murmured into his hair.
“Hi, I missed you,” he mumbled into your shirt, “but don’t let that go to your head.”He added the latter part of the sentence in haste, blushing a little with embarrassment. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, leaving a faint smudge of lipstick that he wore as a badge of pride through the walk back to the car.
Your mother looked at ease for the first time in months, seeing everyone home. Sam got a real kick out of the service flag hung up in the boys' room and took to very carefully penciling in his name in the nicest stitched star.
“Why do you get the nice one?” Tommy asked as he snatched the pencil from his brother and pencilled his own name into the star next to Sam’s.
Tommy offered to pencil in Bill’s name but he declined, fixed on opening his trumpet case. He ran his hands over the instrument with the fondness one might greet an old friend. The brass seemed to shine brighter in his hands and the twins knew instinctively that this had been what their brother was waiting for.
“Go on then, play a tune,” Sam urged. He plopped onto his bed and pulled his brother down with him; a patient audience. You leaned against the doorway, Amelia’s head resting gently on your shoulder. Bill played.
Never, in your life, had you heard a more glorious sound.
“The warm and lovely world we knew has been struck by a bitter frost, but my sister and I recall with a sigh the world we knew and loved and lost,” Amelia began to croon. Her voice was sweet and high, worlds away from Jimmy Dorsey’s original tune. You felt her arm wrap around your waist and squeeze.
Soon, Tommy and Sam were warbling along, their voices near mirrors of each others:
“My sister and I remember still, a tulip garden by an old Dutch mill and the home that was all our own until…”
“…but we don't talk about that,” you completed, your own voice an approximation of a baritone. Bill continued to play as the rest of you laughed. It hadn’t felt like this for a long time.
“I missed this,” you whispered to Amelia. Pressed a kiss to your cheek, “Yeah, me too.”
Everyone quickly fell into their old routines, setting the table with the nice china, polishing the water-marked silverware until it shone. You eyed Amelia and Clarence the whole time, pondering how their might deliver the news to your parents.
Clarence was sweating profusely. You sauntered past him, carrying the good napkins from the closet. You made a big show of stumbling and dropped one in his lap. He looked up at you, confused, and you winked.
“Go get ‘em tiger,” you whispered.
This seemed to bolster Clarence’s spirits and he cleared his throat to the room, drawing immediate attention. Amelia balked; clearly this was not how she had envisioned the announcement, but it was too late. The locomotive had already barrelled out of the station.
“Amelia and I, um, have an announcement to make, if that’s alright with you,” he said, steeling himself to attention.
Tommy was arm deep in the oven, helping your mother heave the roast out, and you heard him swear in surprise as he scalded his forearm.
“Really? Kinda busy over here,” he stood, yanking off your mother’s padded oven mitts and running the reddening skin until the cool tap water.
Amelia sighed, “Do you have to do that this second, Tommy?”
“You’re a nurse! You’re supposed to be concerned about my injuries!” he whined back.
“Clarence is trying to say something very important–” Amelia said firmly.
“--Oh and my wounds are not important, my suffering–” Tommy overlapped.
Several things happened at once.
Your father immediately demanded a cease to the shouting, Amelia grabbed an abandoned oven mitt and lobbed it in Tommy’s direction, Bill sighed and pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his bare hands, pulling the roast out to little fanfare, and Clarence, rather loudly shouted:
“AMELIA AND I ARE PREGNANT!” He faltered at the silence that followed, “Or, well, Amelia is pregnant. I…helped…”
You had to clamp your hand over your mouth to contain your laughter. Bill’s face twisted into something akin to disgust. Sam and Tommy glanced at each other and both announced, in unison, “You HELPED.”
All this ruckus didn’t deter from the happy tears that streamed down your mother’s face as she pulled Amelia closed and peppered her face with kisses. Your father shook Clarence’s hand.
The second roast was slightly burnt, but you were sure Bucky and Steve wouldn’t mind.
Bucky and Steve could hear the raucous laughter from their side of the hall, but they stayed firmly planted on the couch in their living room as promised. Clarence had stopped by and invited them over for dinner, but they had insisted they would spare the family their presence if not for the concern of space alone.
The kid had insisted they ought to show up too, but in the end, the three of them had settled on her dropping by once the festivities had died down.
At 9:00 pm, the door swung open—she had arrived just as promised. Steve was wrestling with his tie in the back room, so Bucky stood to greet her, a measly bouquet in hand that Steve had tasked him with creating from flowers stolen from the gardens around the block.
“Alright, the circus show is over—” she began, but her eyes softened for a moment as she saw Bucky.
"Congratulations on becoming an aunt. Pretty big deal, I hear." Bucky held out the bouquet, which she admired graciously.
She took a quick breath and continued—“You boys ready for supper?”
The moment was nigh imperceptible, but now that Bucky knew to anticipate it, he spotted it every single time.
The last month had been different to say the least. Being home, falling back into the routine of work, helping with deliveries next door; that was familiar. Bucky found it harder to place the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he was doing something wrong, that he had lost something.
The feeling would catch him off-guard at unexpected moments. Just last week, the three of them had gone to the Hamilton Diner for the first time in ages and Bucky made it a point to smile suavely at the new waitress who had been covering Esther’s shift.
The girl, who had to be no older than twenty, blushed and dropped her pencil twice while she took their orders.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” Bucky drawled.
“Doris,” she replied, and Bucky nearly choked on the water he was sipping. For a moment, he thought he had heard her say Dolores. The waitress eyed him strangely and scurried away. Steve chuckled and patted him on the back.
“She’s had a name tag on, Buck. Did you forget how to read or something?” Steve joked.
“Nah,” the kid cut in, eyeing him cooly over her own drink, “He’s still caught up on Dottie Osmond is all.”
“I’m not,” Bucky insisted, glancing back and forth between his friends. They both seemed reluctant to agree with him.
“Well, how am I supposed to get over her if I don’t, you know, play my odds?” he said, slumping back into the booth.
She reached over the table and lay her hand over Bucky’s own. He hadn’t realized he was clenching it so tightly. The gesture was simple, but he couldn’t help but notice her restraint. He had thought she might lace her fingers through his, but her hand stayed there, unmoving.
“You’ll get over it. I did,” she smiled softly. He wasn’t sure why it felt like such a blow. He floundered, trying to find an appropriate response, but it didn’t come.
Even now, Bucky found it hard to speak while gazing at her. She was wearing a soft floral dress, nothing too fancy and likely of her own making, but Bucky was enraptured.
“I—uh—yeah—we’re starved,” he managed to sputter out. She laughed, “Come help me carry the roast over here—I made extra for you two.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly, once they were in the safety of the hallway between apartments. She shrugged. “You think I’d leave my best boys out of the fun?” She asked with a mirth in your voice that made Bucky grin. “Still the best, huh?” he asked with an eyebrow raised. Bucky got a kick out of watching the flush spread up her neck to her cheeks.
“Yeah, well, Steve’s a pretty decent kisser,” she quipped before slinging the door open.
Sam and Tommy were on dish duty that night and didn’t miss a beat nor raise their heads as they called “Hey Bucky!” in unison. It was nearly supernatural how good they were at doing that, though he supposed there were few people she brought home.
He stood at the kitchen table and watched as she edged her way past the sink, pressing quick kisses to her brothers’ cheeks as she passed. Each peck left a soft pink mark.
Tommy winced and tried to rid himself of the lipstick by raising his shoulder and rubbing back and forth, but he did little save for staining his shirt sleeve. He groaned. “Ann’s going to kill me if she spots this,” he gestured dramatically, spraying a generous amount of soap in the direction of his sleeve and his brother.
“Watch it, idiot,” Sam hissed, gesturing at the plates he was meticulously drying.
She clucked at the two of them as she produced a platter of roast and a separate one of mashed potatoes from the ice box. She rummaged through the cupboards for a suitable vase.
“Tell her I kissed you because I love my baby brothers very much and I’m so glad they’re home. If she doesn’t believe you, then I’ll pay her a visit myself!” she laughed.
“Or you could clean the shirt,” Tommy shot back, “That is your job,” he emphasized.
“Are you going to pay me for that work?” She raised an eyebrow with a smirk. Tommy rolled his eyes.
“And anyways, bubba, any girl who has issues with you will have issues with me.”
“You sound like Bill,” Bucky laughed, accepting the platter at her prompting.
“I spent years getting an earful from Bill about this one,” she jerked her thumb in Bucky’s direction, “and we never even dated.”
It rolled off her tongue easily, Bucky noted to himself. She met his gaze with a small, coy smile. The ease between them was back at last, but Bucky couldn’t help but feel that it was forced. He wasn’t sure if he was entirely forgiven, but she didn’t seem to be rushing to put him out.
Bucky missed the pointed look that the twins shared. Neither had to say a word to convey their disbelief. Tommy’s eyes widened slightly towards his brother as if to say “I can’t believe he’s this dense,” and Sam returned the look with a slight head tilt, as if to say “He might figure it out eventually.”
Tommy did not share his brother’s optimism—he was convinced that Bucky would never realize quite how in love he is with his sister—but he hoped for her sake nonetheless.
“Alright, well, good night bubbas,” she wound her way back around the sink, pressing two more kisses to the twins’ other cheeks in her wake. Tommy didn’t even bother to try to wipe it off this time, just rolled his eyes.
“‘G’night!” Sam and Tommy said in unison.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Tommy called, just as the front door began to shut behind the pair. Bucky caught it with his foot, “Everything you’ve done, I’ve done better,” he winked. Beyond the threshold, her birdsong laugh echoed in the hall.
Sam gave another communicative look to Tommy: “He’s a goner,” his eyes said.
Tommy nodded and spoke, this time outloud:
“Good. Maybe he’s got the sense to marry her after all.”
Steve was waiting patiently in the apartment, a pencil and sketchbook in hand as per usual.
“What’s this about me being a good kisser?” he laughed as his friends entered the room.
Bucky spun on his heel to give you a look, “I was wondering that too actually.”
You snorted. “Look, all I’m saying is, whoever ends up with Steve is going to land the catch of the century.”
Leaning over to fire up the oven, you could feel Bucky’s eyes following you around the kitchen.
“What did I miss while I was away?” he exclaimed, turning rapidly between yourself and Steve. Steve raised his hands in surrender.
“In my defense, this did not happen while you were at basic training,” he laughed. Bucky stared slack jawed.
“Am I living under a rock or something? No one bothered to inform good ol’ Buck that his pals were swapping spit?”
“Swapped,” you corrected, “Past tense. And it only happened once.”
“Well, twice technically. In the same afternoon,” Steve jumped in.
“Twice! Twice! You haven’t even kissed me once!” Bucky exclaimed. You nearly dropped the roast. The pan made a loud clatter against the oven rack.
“It didn’t seem particularly appropriate considering the circumstances, Bucky,” you said, trying to hold your composure together by tenuous threads.
“What circumstances?” he asked. He had the nerve to sound genuine.
“The fact that you were never without a girl on your arm for more than a few weeks at a time? When on earth would I have had the time to kiss you while you were making your way through every borough in the city?” Sarcasm dripped with every word.
Steve cleared his throat, painfully aware of the precipice the three of you stood on.
“Technically, I’ve never kissed you either, Buck,” he mused.
Bucky stared at you hard, daring you to be the first to break, but you refused. Finally, he deflated, all bravado gone from him as he turned to face Steve.
“Well. No time like the present,” he said, lunging towards him. You watched, still hot in the face with residual anger, as the two play-fought like they were children.
It was a close call.
Thankfully, the rest of the evening seemed to pass largely unremarkably, save for the large wad of mashed potatoes that had managed to stick to the ceiling.
Steve grumbled something to the effect of “That’s what you get for trying to juggle food,” at Bucky as he balanced precariously on the edge of the table to try and scrape it off.
“Hey, it made the two of you laugh, so it was worth it,” he said, as he stretched higher to reach it.His shirt rode up lazily and you forced yourself not to linger.
“Hey kid, can you–”
“--not a kid–”
“Right, yes, right, sorry. Can you please hold on to me? I’ve almost got all of it, but I’m worried if I lean too far, I’m going to topple off,” Bucky asked. You huffed in a petulant sort of way, but acquiesced.
Carefully, you lay your hands on his hips, grabbing tightly to his musculature underneath. The wool of his trousers, fine as it was, was slippery. It was also unmistakably too tight. You couldn’t decide where to look.
Bucky groaned a little as he finally wiped the ceiling clean. You screwed your eyes shut, trying to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, Chaucer, anything to keep your mind from the gutter. Bucky patted your head gently. “All good up here,” he said, his smile dopey and genuine.
You all but leapt away from him. “I should probably head to bed,” you muttered, glancing down at your watch. It was nearly half past midnight. As if rehearsed, Steve yawned and rubbed at this eyes.
“Let me help bring over the dishes,” he said, exhaustion thinly veiled in his tone of helpfulness. You shook your head.
“Just leave ‘em”, you insisted, “I’ll swing by tomorrow to pick them up.” Steve shrugged, defeated, and slung an arm around you. “Sweet dreams,” he muttered as he pressed a small kiss to your temple.
“That’s 3-nothing, Rogers,” Bucky joked half-heartedly as he waved his friend off to bed. He turned to you and gestured towards the door. Just before you reached the knob, he jogged ahead of you and held it open himself.
“Goodnight,” he said, a small smirk playing on his features. You sighed. You knew better than to lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, but you wanted to. By god, you wanted to.
“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said, as you had done hundreds of nights before.
You were halfway across the hall when he called out to you again.
“We were alright tonight, weren’t we?” Bucky asked. You furrowed your brow, trying to decipher what he meant. Surely he wasn’t trying to broach the landmine that lay between the two of you.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” you replied, trying to sound cheery through your own hesitancy.
“Don’t—” Bucky sighed looking back to the apartment and Steve’s closed door. He seemed to make a split second decision, retreating for only a moment to grab his coat.
“Let’s talk,” he said. You could feel your blood run cold, but you nodded, creaking your own apartment door just enough that you might be able to slip in and grab your jacket. It was slung over the arm of the couch where you had left it.
You could feel your thoughts race as you followed Bucky down the stairs and outside. You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and were surprised to find Maria’s cigarettes and lighter, squirrelled away within. You could only assume she had mistaken your jacket for hers in haste.
Fuck it, you thought, and withdrew a single cigarette as you had watched Maria do so many times. Carefully, you clenched it between your lips and lit its end.
“Since when do you smoke?” Bucky asked, eyeing you with a frown.
You took a long drag, transfixed by the glow of the cigarette’s end, and then coughed furiously. You could feel your eyes watering.
“I don’t. But Maria says it helps with stress so,” you threw your hands up in the air, “I guess I’m trying something new.”
Bucky waltzed over and plucked the cigarette from your mouth and placed it, with considerably more comfort, in his own. He took a long drag and looked appreciatively at the cigarette. “Maria’s got good taste at least,” he mumbled.
“What do you want to talk about that requires us being outside?” you jumped in, straight to the point. Your fingers found the face of your watch once more, anxious for something to do with your hands.
“I thought you said that nothing was going to change between us,” he said, blowing smoke up into the night sky.
You were taken aback.
“Nothing has changed between us,” you insisted. Bucky scoffed.
“Bullshit. If nothing is different between us, then tell me why you can hardly stand to be near me any more,” he said. Your eyes widened. You hadn’t thought Bucky would notice.
“I–maybe I’ve re-evaluated what is appropriate for us considering the circumstances. Between us,” you emphasized, “Really, it’s not very different than how we used to be and I hardly thought you’d notice.”
Bucky laughed and a cloud of smoke puffed between you.
“I notice plenty of things about you.” Bucky was looking at you now, analytical, as if to make a point.
“Like what?” You jutted your chin up to him, feigning a confidence you did not possess in the moment.
“Like that you tell your ma that your shift at the Roseland ends at eleven even though you usually get home at one or two.”
“How do you know that?” you asked.
He took another drag as he shrugged. “I can hear your footsteps in the hall when you come home, always have.”
“You can hear me walk up the stairs?” It had never occurred to you before that Bucky would be awake at that hour.
He nodded. “I listen for when you get home. To make sure you’ve made it back safely.”
“Since when?”
Another shrug. “Dunno. Since I got back from basic I suppose.”
“You worry too much. Fussing over the little things like you always do,” you sighed, rolling your eyes.
“I don’t! I just—I care about you.” It was surprising to hear this Bucky, though it was objectively true. You were far more used to rejection from his end than outright expressions of care.
“I…care about you too, Bucky. You know that. That’s why I’ve been easing off of—”
Bucky made a frustrated sound, somewhere between a shout and growl.
“No-no-I’ve been… Fuck.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose with the same hand he held the cigarette. You watch the embers dance awful close to the ends of his hair. He took a deep breathing, composing himself.
“Would you like to go dancing with me?” he said finally.
You furrowed your brow, puzzled. “Bucky, if you want tickets to the Roseland you can just ask me, you don’t–”
“Jeez, kid, I don’t want to dance with you like any John with two-bits he can rub together to make change,” he sighed, “I would like to take you out. On a date.”
You could not hold back the bark of laughter that bubbled up in your throat.
“Ha! C’mon Buck,” you stared at him, the breeze turning and sending a shiver down your spine.
“I’m serious, doll, I want to take you out proper.”
You snorted. That one was genuine.
He had never called you doll before. That was a nickname reserved for the uptown girls he would swing dizzy in circles because they couldn’t navigate their way through the jitterbug. That was a nickname for Dolores Osmond or Phyllis Marshall. You were not his doll, you weren’t anyone’s doll.
“What’s so funny about that?” Bucky asked and for a moment you swore that hurt flashed before his eyes.
“You can’t be serious,” you tried hard to look at anything besides his face, which felt so open in that moment you might’ve been staring into his very soul.
“Do you think I would joke about that?” This time, the hurt was plain in his voice.
“No,” you shook your head in disbelief, unsure if you wanted to laugh or cry, “No, you don’t get to ask that of me, Bucky. Not when I have been in love with you my whole life. You don’t get to just ask me on a date and call me ‘doll’ like I am just another one of those girls who trip over their feet when you walk into the room, because I’m not.”
Bucky seemed flabbergasted. You supposed he had never been rejected before.
“You said it yourself–you-you could never love me the way–” your breath hitched in your throat, “--and that was supposed to be fine. I was going to live the rest of my life knowing that I could have you here,” you stretched your arm out in front of you, as far as it would reach, “but not here.” You pulled your hand back, placing it with the gentlest touch over your heart.
“You can’t waltz back into my life after three months away–three blessed, three horrible months–when I didn’t have to think about you every minute of every hour of every day and decide I'm enough for you now. I thought–” you hiccuped slightly, unable to staunch your tears, “--I thought I had been rid of it. Of loving you.”
“But here you are, with the gall to ask me what’s so different about us? There is an ocean of difference between us and I am trying my hardest to keep the peace. To be your friend, like you wanted. Why not ask Diner Doris out to dance? Why me?”
“What’s the goal here: for me to run into your arms? Is that why you bothered with that stupid kissing Steve business? Do you see him as competition? I’m not here to be wooed over or won. I’m not next in line. This isn’t some MGM flick, Bucky. This is real life. It doesn’t work like that.”
“It could,” Bucky insisted. This was the hopeful part of Bucky talking, the fella that had started reading Shakespeare because he was enamored by Norma Shearer's Juliet. All the charm of his earlier proposition was gone, oozed into the concrete and dispelled into the night. It was just the two of you now, the sounds of cars distantly whizzing by in the background. His openness infuriated you.
“This should be hard for you! This sh-should be awful for you because it was awful for me!” Your face was wet now and you scrubbed furiously with the back of your arm, not caring if you ruined your makeup.
“Because I swallowed my pride every day watching you dance with other girls, watching you flirt with waitresses, watching you have your goddamned heart broken,” you were sure you were shouting at this point, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
“ I-I’m not going to be the girl you’re stuck with because you couldn’t marry the girl you loved. I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m not.”
Bucky cast his eyes to the ground, kicking at the concrete with the toe of his sneakers. “Love isn’t supposed to be hard; love is the easiest thing in the world. It’s like breathing,” he said finally.
You snorted in disbelief.
“Not from my experience,” you muttered.
The stars were out now and you turned your head up to them, desperate to tear your mind away from the mess of an evening this had become.
“Love is hard work. Love is staying with your imperfect, alcoholic husband because you loved the man he was before he was broken,”
“Love is letting the girl of your dreams marry the man whose father built a mansion on Fifth Ave because you’d never give her the life she deserves. Love is finding whatever joy you can dig out of your gut when your best friend shows you the ring he’s going to give another dame–”
Bucky seized your hand, stilling its desperate motion. “I didn’t know. I should’ve and I’m sorry.”
“You notice all these little things about me, but you couldn’t notice the only thing that ever mattered.” You tried to pull away, but his grip was too tight. “Let me go,” you whispered fiercely.
“When did you know you were in love with me?” he asked this softly, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal.
“Bucky, don’t make me–”
“Please,” he was nearly begging.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t put a finger on it, it just happened one day,” you floundered.
“Pick a day. The earliest you can remember,” Bucky insisted.
“When I was ten,” you sighed in defeat, "When you came home from Indiana and I had spent the whole summer waiting up for you. You were taller and your hair had started to go that silly dark brown when you’d been blond your whole childhood, and you wore this too-big t-shirt that made you look like you were drowning and all I could think about was how you were different then,” you remembered that day fondly, “How things were going to be different from that point on.”
Bucky nodded, a clarity to his countenance, as if you had answered some sort of pressing question for him.
“And how easy was it? To realize what that feeling was?”
He has a strange look in his eye. Bucky had never looked at you like that before. You couldn’t answer him. You couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction of being right.
“It was just some silly, childhood crush. I don’t even know if that was love anymore,” you shrugged, “Maybe I was never in love with you at all.” Even to your own ears, it sounded like a lie.
Bucky still held your hand. You had stopped trying to let go.
“Would you like to be?” Bucky asked.
You laughed, wiping away the last of your tears.
“Everyone wants to be in love,” you said, squeezing his hand before releasing it, “Some of us just aren’t that lucky.”
The urge to cup his cheek in your palm burned within you, but you decided that that was far more intimate than you could bear. You lay your hand on his shoulder instead.
“You should get some sleep, Bucky.”
He hummed a noncommittal response, but didn’t budge from where he stood. His eyes followed you, though. You could feel them boring holes into your back as the large wooden doors shut behind you.
You half expected to catch sight of them by the time you reached your bedroom window and peered out, but Bucky was gone.
October 2013
The солдат sat up ramrod straight in the bed that was much too small for his frame.
He was sweating. Just outside the bunker, the snow came down in curtains, but in here, he found no relief. He did not move. He simply waited as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, for the forms of the room to take shape.
He was not alone.
This was not unexpected to the солдат, but it was not welcomed either.
«Послушайте. Вы должны оставить меня здесь,» he said, firmly. She did not move from her spot. The солдат could not make out her face or hair; nothing about her was so distinguishable that he might be able to destroy it as he so desperately wished. As they so desperately wished.
She was simply a voice and a form in the darkness. The closest thing the солдат had to memory.
“You didn’t have to hurt the children,” she said, in that awful, American sound. Like rolling a marble down a staircase. A voice like rattling the bars of a cage.
«Это всегда лучше делать без свидетелей,» the солдат insisted. This was the first and most important rule of Красная комната.
“They were so young,” the voice said gently, “You could have let them sleep.”
The солдат scoffed. And let the infant die in its crib of starvation? Let the child crawl in the blood of her parents?
“We were children once too, you know.” She was closer now. The солдат did not feel her move, but her voice was pressed to his ear like a seashell, whispering the sound of the ocean—
The солдат, the soldat, the soldier,
Th e serg ea n t, the ma n, t he bbb b b boy, t he boy , bbbbB B–
–Bucky could almost smell the popcorn and cotton candy wafting from vendors to the boardwalk that stretched from…from…what was it called, HE KNEW THIS ONCE…from Steeplechase Park–
He swung hard to his right, but his fist met nothing but the concrete wall next to his bed. He examined his arm, the metal one, for damage. There was none. He swung again, more deliberately, with more force, with his right arm. He memorized the feeling of the shattering of his knuckles.
He wept now, openly, though the Winter Soldier knew this would earn him lashes. They might pluck his nails off one, by one; he remembered the last time she had visited and the peeled each square from the end of his fingers like stickers. That had be survivable. But this? The way he was haunted?
The soldier sat by the door waiting for his handlers to pull him from the room and strap him into the chair. To bring him peace.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.
The soldier spoke in English this time, that ugly language, his native tongue.
“Yes.”