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Bucky pulls his coat tighter around his neck as the wind picks up and manages to find every nook and cranny that exists between himself and his clothes.
There is light on in the old house but he sees no movement for one minute, then another. A large crack of thunder sounds and he glances behind himself, up at the sky. The air is cool but muggy, almost heavy. Pregnant with the weight of the incoming storm and he is not looking forward to being caught in it.
He knocks again, a little harder than before.
"Just hold on one minute!" He hears from deep inside the house. Bucky frowns, he's never been here and not found the place full. He doesn't hear multiple feet scurrying on the century-old wooden floors, no tv playing in the background, no arguing children.
A moment later the door springs open and Sarah is standing in front of him, clad in a long green sundress, the colour deep and pleasing against her skin, drawing the eye to how it falls off the strong line of her shoulders and bounces around her calves.
His mouth is suddenly dry. He clears his throat.
“Hey, Sarah.”
He watches the pleased excitement on her face transform into pleased confusion.
“Hey! I didn’t think you’d make it in.”
He frowns. “Why not?” His question is bracketed by the loud crack of thunder, followed by a deep roll. He can almost taste the water in the air.
“The storm-" She says looking over his shoulder. “Sam’s flight was grounded before he took off. Didn’t he tell you?”
Bucky feels his smile go a little stiff. “No, he didn’t,” he mutters as Sarah backs away from the door, letting him in. Bucky has to fight to keep his sigh in. Of course. Fucking Sam, getting his stupid flight delayed and leaving Bucky to deal with whatever gymnastics his heart does when he’s left alone with Sarah.
“Where are the boys?” he asks, aiming for casual.
“Put ‘em both in boy scouts this summer. They are 2 counties over in the bush somewhere, learning how to hunt their food.”
Bucky can’t help the little laugh that escapes his lips at her description. “That’s not what they do in the scouts.”
“What, don’t tell me, you were a boy scout too?”
He shrugs lightly, trying to convince his mouth to stop with the dopey smile. “It was what you did in the 30s.”
She shoots him a quick smile over her shoulder. “Ok no, that’s not what they’re doing, but it sounds better than glamping in a national park for a whole weekend.”
Bucky mouths the word ‘glamping’ to himself, debating whether to ask about it. He decides against it.
She stops at the kitchen door, spinning to face him. “I did up AJ’s room for you. He’ll bunk with his brother until you and Sam head out.”
“Thanks.” He says ducking his head and nodding. It has become almost routine now when he and Sam come down. He doesn’t move though, and neither does she. He looks back up at her, meeting her eyes and feels that undercurrent of electricity startup between them.
They both look away, with echoing nervous chuckles. He glances up the stairs, preparing to make an undignified retreat when she speaks.
“Are we ever gonna talk about this, or do anything about it?” She asks, gesturing between them and his heart stutters painfully. She’s looking at him plainly, almost curiously with no hint of whatever she is thinking showing through on her face. To be honest, he wasn’t completely convinced it wasn’t solely the invention of his very broken mind, so he doesn’t know what to say initially.
“What do you mean?” He finds his stupid mouth, saying stupidly. He tries not to grimace at himself.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to Bucky. I just wanted to know if we were.” Her tone is a little colder, a little more closed off.
“Come on, don’t call me that.” He says lightly.
Her sharp eyes flick up to his. “Why not, it’s what everyone calls you.”
There is something about her gaze that strips him down and leaves him feeling so exposed. He wonders if it’s something she has learned with her kids or if it was always a part of who she is.
“Not you. You call me James.” He says lowly and the electricity seems to spark again.
“See! That, that is what I’m talking about.” she huffs, crossing her arms.
He looks away from her again, needing to focus and sighs.
“Yeah, it’s just the last time I-” he almost chokes on the word ‘dated’, an image of the young woman with the tattoos from Brooklyn several months ago flashing through his head. He doesn’t think that counts, but still he wants to be as honest as he can. “-I showed an interest in someone, Churchill was in office. I just, I don’t know where or even how to start.” He says with a small, self-deprecating shrug.
She laughs a little, looking away and damn, but she’s beautiful when she laughs. He always forgets how captivating it is until he’s watching her again.
“Go ahead, laugh, but I used to be good at this if you can believe it.” He says lightly. She looks back at him, the hint of a smile still around her lips.
“How about we start with dinner?" She asks with a tilt of her head. "It’ll be a little while, but it’ll give us some time.”
He nods again. “I’d like that.”
***********************************
By the time he comes back downstairs the heavens have finally opened up and there is a constant drumbeat of the heavy rain buzzing in the back of his head.
Sarah has put on some music in the living room, turning it up loud enough to carry into the kitchen where she is gathering ingredients and singing to herself. He very nearly stops just to watch her. He’s seen her in several different moods since he’s met her but this is maybe the lightest he’s ever seen her. He wonders what the cause of her good mood is.
“There is beer in the fridge if you’d like.” She says with her back turned to him, already putting some pans on the stove.
He mutters his thanks, reaching for a cold Heineken and taking a seat at the breakfast bar.
“Do you need any help?” He asks.
“Do you know how to make beef brisket or beans and rice?” She replies.
He frowns. “I could probably do okay with the beans. US military was really into beans when I served.”
She shakes her head, still with that relaxed smile.
“I think I’ll manage.”
He chuckles lightly as she turns back to the stove. He takes a swig from the bottle, the crisp taste of the beer a welcome reprieve, the sense memory doing much more than the alcohol could to relax him. He glances around the room, taking in the changes since his last visit. His eye catches on AJs report card, stuck to the fridge with his As on prominent display. He makes a mental note to congratulate the kid, he’d been helping him work through some of his English lit questions. He doesn’t examine too much how it is starting to feel like this place is more of a home than his sparsely furnished apartment in Brooklyn.
He looks back over at her, shimmying slightly along with the music as she works. He wants so badly to be able to talk to her, really talk, but he doesn't know where to start.
“How was your day?” He asks, rather lamely. He makes a face at himself behind her back.
“It was good.” She says gamely. “Cleaned a little. Did a few chores. Went shopping. It’s not easy keeping 2 growing boys, whatever freak of nature Sam is and Mr. Super serum himself fed.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” He replies as she starts pulling vegetables out of their packaging. “Come on Sarah, let me help? It doesn’t seem right for me to sit here while you do all the work.”
She raises her eyebrows at him. “Ok, how are you with a knife?”
He grabs a steak knife from its wooden box and flips it in the air, catching it before it hits the counter and then rolls it in and out of each of his fingers. He throws it up once more and catches it behind his back. He looks up to find her staring rather wide-eyed at him.
He shrugs lightly. “I’m ok.”
She laughs again. “Ok show off. You can chop vegetables.” she hands him a few carrots, zucchini and 2 other greenish, pear-shaped vegetables.
He clears the counter a little, moving things out of his way to start chopping, trying not to stare at the quiet efficiency of her hands in motion.
Eyes turned way down low
And music soft and slow
With someone, you love so
That’s where it’s at
He watches her sing along under her breath, swaying lightly to the new song.
“You’re in a good mood.” He finally points out, leaving the statement open-ended, not wanting to force her into talking if she doesn’t want to.
“Well-,” She starts “We are three months into this crazy new business and we’re finally turning a profit, the boat hasn’t broken down in 2.5 weeks, I’ve had the house to myself for over 24 hours and…” another peal of thunder interrupts her and seems to shake the house. Her smile only widens. “I always liked the rain. A good old-fashioned thunderstorm… it reminds me of home, a simpler time you know.”
She grabs what looks like a very tiny branch of what must be an even tinier piece of shrubbery. It's probably some spice he doesn’t recognize, but she has to reach across him to get it, brushing against his shoulder and the front of his chest lightly. The close contact fills his nose with the scent of sweet coconut, he wonders if the scent clings to her hair or her skin.
She looks back at him, that smile she’s been intermittently wearing since he got there dancing around the corners of her lips still. He’s sure he’s just standing there staring at her slack-jawed, but it must be enough because she keeps talking.
“Well, when we were little, the thunderstorms would scare the living daylights out of us.” she continues. “So my grandmother would always put on these old records of hers’ and blast them until they were louder than the thunder. She’d turn the house into a dance party, and soon enough the summer thunderstorms became my favourite time.”
He focuses on finishing his chopping because supersoldier or not, he knows he’s gonna lose some fingers if he keeps staring at her like he wants to.
To say it’s time to go
And she says yes, I know
But just stay one minute more
That’s where it’s at
“Hence the oldies on the stereo to go with the storm,” he replies.
“Music also goes with cooking,” she adds.
He smiles at her. “Of course… I like it,” he says softly.
She shoots him that private smile that he has noticed only he seems to get. “That’s good.”
***********************************
Don’t know much about history,
Don’t know much biology
Don’t know much about a science book,
Don’t know much about the french I took,
The song starts smoothly. Bucky finds himself bobbing along to it as he watches Sarah load the vegetables into the oven. He has chopped and diced and sliced to her strict instructions, not much left now that he could possibly help with. He’s on his third beer and she’s on her second, still humming and occasionally singing along with the songs drifting in. The rain has only gotten worse since it started.
Sam did eventually call him to say he should be out sometime tomorrow afternoon barring no damage from the storm system. Bucky had told him not to sweat it, that he could keep himself busy. Sam did not ask for any specifics about how he planned to keep busy, which was good. Bucky isn’t sure he even knows himself.
“Who is this? I like him.” He asks as she turns to face him, taking a swig from her beer.
“You don’t know who this is? What has Sam been teaching you?” She gasps playfully.
“Mostly about Marvin Gaye.” He responds.
“Well, Mr. Gaye is deserving but we are doing a disservice to your education.” She pushes off from the counter, inclining her head for him to follow. He drains the dregs of his beer and follows her into the living room, watching as she opens a cabinet under the bookshelf.
“Oh wow, are those actual records?” He finds himself asking as he crowds in closer to her.
“Hate to break it to you grandpa but these are only the sleeves. The records got digitised ages ago, but this is the great Sam Cooke. He’s from just before Marvin Gaye.”
He reaches for the record sleeve, examining the tracklistings and the picture of the smiling young man on the cover, trying to ignore whatever his heart is doing because of her proximity.
What a wonderful world this would be
Don’t much about geography
Don’t know much trigonometry
“Man can sing.” he replies, handing the sleeve back to her. A sly smile graces her face.
“He can sing but… can you dance?” she asks, putting down the sleeve. He shakes his head, backing away from her slowly.
“ Oh no, no-no. That isn’t a question we need to be answered.”
"Oh come on. You can't be that bad." She says swaying in time to the music, eyes closed and hips moving smoothly in time with the bass.
He smiles. "I never said I was bad."
"Then come on. Put up or shut up."
But I do know 1 and 1 is 2
And if this one could be with you
What a wonderful world it would be.
He steps into her space, his right hand sliding around her waist while reaching for her hand with his metal one. Some part of him expects her to flinch at the touch of the metal. He isn’t even aware that he expects it until he lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he’s holding, but she doesn’t. He tries not to make it seem unusual. He is, after all, getting better at not startling at seeing a hunk of metal where his hand should be first thing in the morning. He is even getting better at thinking of the arm as his instead of as belonging to the winter soldier, something that improved with the new arm.
He sways with her, getting used to the beat, before spinning her out and back in. That prompts a giggle that makes her sound much younger than she is.
“What! The white boy can dance?!” she murmurs into his neck, her warm breath tickling the delicate hairs there.
He tries very hard not to smile at that, it will only encourage her.
“It’s funny, I know the last time I really did this was 80 years ago but…” He trails off, unsure if talking about his past, talking about how utterly screwed up his head is, will only scare her away. But she stays put, seemingly comfortable in his arms, looking up at him with more patience than he probably deserves.
“In a way-” he continues, “it feels like it was only 5 or 6 years ago.”
She hums noncommittally, he spins her again.
“I hope you don’t feel it’s an invasion or anything but… Sam mentioned you don’t remember much about… before.” She says it lightly but when he looks down at her, the mischief in her eyes is gone and she looks more serious than she’s been since he got in.
“It’s- it’s like watching a movie you’ve seen a hundred times before.” He says, surprised at himself for answering. “I know what happens, I know all the scenes by heart… but it still doesn’t feel like it’s me.”
She nods, not like she gets it, but like she’s listening deeply. It’s one of the things he likes the most about her. She doesn’t pretend to understand his past, doesn’t even try to, just seems to accept him as he is and listens to whatever he’s able to get out.
He’s still holding her close, swaying with the music and feeling her warmth seep into all the places they are touching. His eyes dart down to her full lips and he hears her take in a sharp breath. When he meets her eyes again he can feel the buzz of attraction skitter along each of his nerves. He should kiss her, this is probably the moment.
The song ends and almost simultaneously the alarm for the oven goes off. It startles them both back into reality. He drops his hands and steps back as she clears her throat.
“I’m just gonna check on dinner.” She whispers sliding past him.
He nods slightly, paying more attention to getting his racing heart under control.
“Real smooth Barnes,” he mutters to himself.
******************************************************************
I'm gonna wait till the stars come out
To see that twinkle in your eye
I’m gonna wait till the midnight hour
That's when my love begins to shine
"See this is it, this right there. Wait till the midnight hour for my love to come down? Come on, it's so… vulgar." He argues.
Her laugh sounds like the crack of a whip, beautiful and just as lethal.
"What? No, what? You know I'm right."
"I can't believe I'm arguing with you that the music of the 60s wasn't dirty. You realise if I tell Sam this, he'll never let you live it down." She replies.
He shrugs one shoulder. "Well yes, but I'm still right."
"Because the 40s were so much more decent." She grins at him over the top of her beer.
He nods his head, tipping his drink to her. "Yes, in fact, it was."
She stands up rounding the table to stir the stew again. Whatever she is making has moved on from the oven portion of the evening to the stovetop. It smells heavenly.
"Oh please, they were as raunchy then as they are today. Just used different words, dollface." She puts special emphasis on dollface and closes her sentence with a jaunty little hip swish.
"That is not true, it's not! It was about the innocence of love, holding hands, a glint in their eye."
She laughs again, full-throated with her head thrown back, her dark braids brushing the gentle curve of her lower back.
"So tell me, Sargent Barnes, you died a virgin?" The question shocks him on multiple levels. The lack of that instinctual pain whenever someone calls him Sargeant Barnes and the lack of anger at the mention of his death.
He looks back up to see her smirking at him over her shoulder and it hits him. He feels like himself when he's with her, like whoever he's on his way to being. That isn't as shocking as it should be.
He can't help the smug smile that curves his lips. " Well… no."
"Aha!" She yells brandishing a spatula at him.
"But, but, that should only serve as even more evidence that I used to be good at this." He's barely able to get the words out through his own laughter.
It takes a minute for them both to calm down. Her smile gets small and real.
"I dunno, you may not be doing as bad as you think," she says slyly, turning back to her pot.
He can't help that his smile gets wider. He takes another sip of his drink to hide it.
***********************************
"Is it almost done?" He asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.
"It'll be done when it's done." She mutters back at him. "You're worse than my boys."
"Well forgive me, it just smells amazing." He grumbles back.
She glances over at him and rolls her eyes. "Ok, you can taste."
She takes a small scoop of the gravy up on the side of her little plastic spatula and holds it out for him to taste. He ducks his head down, holding her eye as he takes a taste.
The groan he lets out is probably not fit for polite company but wholly deserved.
Her face lights up. "Good right?" She asks playfully.
"Better than good."
"What did you like eating when you were growing up?" She asks stirring the meat and the sauce a bit more.
"Hot dogs." He responds with very little thought.
"No! Not like that." She laughs. "Like real food."
His eyes can't help but trace the curve of her lips. "Well, I was born in 1917. World war 1 hadn't even ended yet. The great depression happened shortly after followed by the second world war. Spices weren't really that common, we boiled pretty much everything. Trust me, a hot dog from Coney Island was fine dining."
"Then am I overloading you with spices?" She asks, freezing midway to reaching back to him with the spatula for a second taste.
"Just cause I was deprived doesn't mean I don't recognize decadence." He mutters reaching for her hand and guiding the spatula back to his lips.
He closes his eyes, savouring the flavour and when he opens them she's staring at his mouth. He licks his lips on impulse and her eyes trace the movement.
“Sarah,” he whispers and her eyes flick back up to his.
Fuck it. He's not going to let a second opportunity pass him by. He reaches for her, tilting her face up to meet him. When her lips meet his, it’s like the moment before the rain, full of pregnant potential before the world re-orients itself. She moves her head slightly, opening under him and that’s it. His already battered mind simply gives up at the taste of her. He takes a step closer to her, crowding her back against the kitchen counter as his other hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. She reaches for him, wrapping her hands behind his neck and pressing her whole body flush against him.
It very nearly short circuits what little brain function he has. The last coherent thought he has for a while is that he’s glad kissing hasn’t really changed in the last 80 years.
************************************
“It’s not showing any sign of slowing down.” He yells back to her from the porch. The rain is still pouring, the episodic thunder and lightning have only decreased slightly. The little creek near the house no longer visible even to his enhanced eyesight in the dark. He heads back inside, closing the door behind him.
“It’s supposed to continue well into the morning.” She says distractedly, setting two wine glasses on the table. He raises an eyebrow at her.
“What? It’s a date. Dates involve wine.” She says, tucking her braids back behind her ear. It’s a nervous tick he noticed the last time he was down here and Sam talked them into playing poker.
“I think we’re on hour 4 or 5 of this date.” He points out, wondering back into her space.
She shoots him a quick grin as she plates the food. “Ok well, it’s a good date.”
He smiles back at her taking the seat opposite her at the end of the table. “This looks amazing.” He compliments.
“Well let’s hope it tastes as good as it looks. I won’t lie, I’m trying out a new recipe and you are going to be my guinea pig.”
“You won’t hear a single complaint from me,” he replies, taking the wine bottle she’s fighting with away from her and opening it himself. She glares at him. He drops an apologetic kiss on her cheek.
He waits for her to be finished with all her final touches before he sits with her, digging in after she does. He’s not disappointed. Everything she makes is mouthwatering. They eat in silence for a few minutes, the sound of a brass band piping through the house, mingling pleasantly with the sound of the rain.
“Hey, I know this one.” He lights up, recognising the chords.
She nods. “You should. It’s a big band cover for sexual healing, Marvin Gaye.”
He bobs along with it as a chorus starts to sing. “My education’s not all that lacking, see? You gotta give your brother a break.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The rest of the meal passes pleasantly, the conversation flowing more freely than any he’s had outside of Steve. When they’re both done, he stands, clearing the table and loading the sink.
Sarah watches him move, not saying anything, the hint of a smile still playing around her lips. It isn’t until he starts filling one side of the sink that she stands and starts putting away all the food. She starts humming again to the music, intermittently murmuring lyrics to herself as he starts washing.
When she’s done, she comes to help him dry, singing about how no mountains would be high enough to keep her from her babe and, later, that she’s got sunshine on cloudy days.
Working together, they have cleaned up in what may well be record time, especially without the boys here, arguing with each other and distracting them. She flutters around the house, ensuring everything is locked up as that Sam Cooke fella croons that his baby should bring her sweet loving home to him. He isn’t sure what to do with himself. A part of him thinks he should say good night and turn in, give her some space. They have, after all, spent the better part of the last 7 hours together. But another, much more stubborn, part of himself does not wish to deprive himself of any of her time or attention, especially when it is going to be at the minimum split, but possibly completely removed when Sam is back tomorrow.
He picks at the soggy label of his drink, trying to pull himself back from the thought of Sam, who is likely to be extremely displeased with whatever this new development with his sister is.
“You okay?” Sarah asks, walking up to where he is perched on the breakfast stool. She leans into him, reaching out and stroking his hair. He turns to face her, yet another small smile gracing his face. Her nails scrape along his scalp, simultaneously soothing and exciting him.
“I’m just thinking Sam is going to be very, very unhappy with me,” he replies, turning to face her fully, draping his hands around her waist.
She frowns but her hand doesn’t stop its movement. “You aren’t really worried about him, are you? Sam is full of bluster but I’m an adult. I make my own choices.”
Her answer settles something inside of him, but he can’t really leave it alone. “Are you sure this is the choice you want to make?” His voice doesn’t crack on the question but it does come out more uncertain than he’d like. The dress has some sort of delicate hoops on either side, for a belt she isn’t wearing, and his hand starts to pick at the right one. “A hundred-year-old World War II vet with more baggage than a freight train who spends more than 50% of his time with your brother?” He means it to come out as light and joking, but he misses the mark.
It won’t break him if she says no. It would have been a pleasant evening, no, more than that. A mind-bogglingly good evening, but still just one more memory that he would learn to live through.
She brings her other hand up and scrapes the nails of both hands through his hair, causing more of that calming, but not feeling to run down his neck and settle somewhere low in his abdomen. She tilts his head back up so he can meet her eyes.
“Yes,” she says simply with no further explanation. The knot sitting in his chest finally seems to unwind and he can do nothing but lean up to kiss her.
Fish in the sea, you know how I feel
River running free, you know how I feel
There is nothing timid in these kisses. She kisses him like she wants him, like it’s the last important thing she’ll ever do. He moans for her, pulling her almost fully into his lap as his hands drop low to cup her ass. She reaches for the overshirt he’s wearing, pushing it off his shoulders as she starts to grind down on him.
Jesus. H Christ, he’s about to go cross-eyed. He pulls back from her, breath coming out ragged as he stares at the refrigerator behind her, at the chipping crown moulding, at anything but her, trying to get himself under control.
“Sarah, we don’t... I mean nothing has to happen tonight,” he says struggling to find the words. She doesn’t stop, just takes the opportunity to leave, hot, wet open-mouthed kisses along his throat.
“James,” she starts and god but the way she says his name drives him wild. “You have been running around ‘training’ with my brother half-naked for months and by some miracle, both my children and my brother are out of the house. Yes, this does in fact need to happen.” she mutters into his skin. Her clever mouth finds a sweet spot low on his neck and he lets out a low groan. She comes back up to lick even more sounds directly from his mouth as she climbs off him, pulling him forward by his belt. He follows mindlessly, pulling his t-shirt off as she leads him to the staircase.
It’s a new dawn,
It’s a new day
It’s a new life for me
He reaches down and picks her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him as he navigates the stairs, the deep dark base of this new song seeming to penetrate into his very core.
“I like this. Who is it?” He groans as she decides to run her teeth along his collarbone, almost making him lose his step.
She chuckles, low and deep and sexy. “Oh, of course, you do. Everyone likes Ms. Simone,” she replies just as the song hits a crescendo.
Freedom is mine,
And I know how I feel
“Ms. Simone?” he pants as her hands finally get his belt off and he crosses the threshold into her bedroom.
“Nina Simone. Look her up, you won't be disappointed,” she replies, dropping his belt. He’ll take her word for it.
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good.