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Story Notes:

I am ridiculously, hopelessly in love with one James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes, and have spent the past couple years in the dark hole of fanfiction.  A lot of these stories are crossposted from AO3.  I used post on Tumblr but I gave up on that shitshow some time ago.

 

Hope you enjoy!




Author's Chapter Notes:

Listening to a little Billie Holiday brought about this cute mess. Don't judge me.





Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


Saturdays are easy.  Slow.  

 

Saturdays, she says, are for cleaning.  Housework.  Chores.  Routines.  

 

Saturdays are Bucky’s favorite day of the week.  Sure, he likes the routine.  Putting his muscles to work, building and repairing instead of breaking apart.  And, yes, smiling after every thankful kiss she places on his cheek when he’s fixed something that’s needed mending.

 

Saturdays are also for music.

 

She wakes mid-morning, yawning and stretching in the warm glow of the sunshine spilling through their bedroom windows, humming some happy tune already as she smothers him with hugs and the start of all her kisses.  She’s off before he can really get his hands on her, lush hips swaying, leaving a jaunty melody and him, hard as a rock, in her wake.

 

He lays there a long moment, slightly flustered and just this side of miffed,  listening to her moving about on the first floor.  When the radio cuts on, blasting some bright and upbeat pop song, he knows it’s time to get moving, hard cock be damned.

 

Downstairs, she’s already dancing around the living room, her hair tied up with one of those colorful scarves he likes so much and those wonderful hips swaying and bouncing as she dusts.  She smiles and winks at him.  Pauses long enough to blow him a kiss before he heads outside.

 

He can hear her singing, a voice that could rival the best he’s ever heard, as he lugs the lawnmower out of the shed.  Can still hear every note echoing in his head as he cuts the front yard.  

 

She brings him sweet tea and a sandwich when he finishes weeding.  Sits with him while he eats, her eyes on his left arm, humming again as she watches the sunlight dance and sparkle over the gleaming metal.    

 

When he’s finished, she ruffles his hair, uncaring of the sweat that’s making it curl slightly, and takes his empty glass and plate back into the house.  He waits until her long, brown legs are out of sight before he gets back to work.

 

She saves the bluegrass for the afternoon, when he’s fixing the sink in the guest bedroom.  He passes her on his way to the garage to get some tool she’s no doubt moved, and she’s there, in the kitchen, arms raised above her head, belting right along with the guitars and fiddles echoing through every corner of the house.  

 

She isn’t ashamed at being caught.  In fact, she plays it up even more, swaying and stomping her bare foot and stretching out her hands to him in invitation.  But, he only shakes his head, warmth flaring in his chest at her silliness.  Moves off to finish what he’d started.

 

Late evening brings soul music, sometimes sad and melancholy, heartbreaking and mournful.  Sometime upbeat and catchy, bouncing and rolling and shaking the walls, and he finds himself humming along as he showers the day’s work from his skin.

 

He tries to catch her again when she passes him on his way out, already bare and ready for her own shower.  But, she giggles and wiggles against him.  Elbows him playfully in the ribs.

 

“My turn to shower now, Barnes.”

 

“Can’t get any dirtier,” he throws back, nuzzling the soft spot below the hinge of her jaw.  

 

“So says you,” she says, executing an effortless and oddly graceful spin out of his grasp.  She’s singing again when she shuts the door in his face.

 

He doesn’t dare shut off the music.  He steps out onto the deck to return a few missed phone calls from Steve and Sam.  Promises to meet up for lunch with them later in the week.  Laughs along with them when they tease him about all the housework she’s got him doing, though they both know there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.

 

He looks up briefly when the music suddenly stops.  Bids Sam goodnight and turns to head back into the house.

 

She’s at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells warm and inviting.  Like home.  Like her.

 

She’s singing still as he slides the patio door shut, and he realizes it’s one of his favorites.  Her head is bowed and her left arm is folded behind her back and she’s staring down into the pot.  Her voice is low, full of all the emotion the song calls for and he merely stands staring at her, love filling up in his chest, making his heart pulse and throb.

 

 

 

Dear I thought I’d drop a line

 

The weather’s cool

 

The folks are fine

 

I’m in bed each night at nine

 

P.S. I love you

 

 

 

The song, her voice, winds through his brain.  Has him breathing out a long, slow breath as he leans a broad shoulder against the doorframe.

 

 

 

Yesterday we had some rain

 

But all in all

 

I can’t complain

 

Was it dusty on the train

 

P.S. I love you

 

There are memories floating around inside his head, though they aren’t the dark, savage ones to which he’s grown accustomed.  No, these ones are softer, lit with sunlight at their edges.  Warm and clear and brighter.

 

 

 

Write to the Browns just as soon as you're able

 

They came around to call

 

I burnt a hole in the dining room table

 

And, let me see, I guess that’s all

 

 

 

He hardly thinks about those times, the times before the war, when he’d been young and so very stupid; when there was no Hydra, no Soldier and hope and peace seemed tangible and real.  He wonders now what it would have been like to have a gal like this one waiting for him, a gal like this one to come home to, a gal like this one to sing him through his days and soothe him through his nights.  And, his heart aches sweetly at the thought.

 

Nothing else for me to say

 

And, so, I’ll close

 

Oh, by the way

 

Everybody’s thinking of you

 

P.S. I love you

 

 

 

She squeals when his arms wind around her waist, giggling and flinging a bit of whatever she’d been stirring across the stovetop.  He turns her around.  Takes her left hand in his right.  Uses his left arm to hold her flush to him.

 

“Don’t stop,” he says softly, aware of the catch in his words and the haze that’s taking over the edges of his vision.

 

She appears worried for a moment, dark eyes searching his face, but then she smiles.  Leans in and rests her head over his heart.  Picks up where she’d left off, her sweet and sultry voice vibrating through his chest.

 

 

 

Write to the Browns just as soon as you're able

 

They came around to call

 

And, I burnt a hole in the dining room table

 

And, let me think, I guess that’s all

 

Nothing else for me to say

 

And, so, I’ll close

 

Oh, by the way

 

Everybody’s thinking of you

 

P.S. I love you

 

Love you, love you…

 

 






Chapter End Notes:

More to come.  Hope you enjoy the fluff







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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.