Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

9: Secret Santa

           

Bucky's Turn

I step into the shower, groaning in bliss as the scalding water rinses off the blood and sweat of a post-mission appearance. Blindly I scrub at my scuffed cheeks as steam billows all around the white tiled bathroom. It's Christmas, if I remember correctly. The days just fly by now. Our mission was quick and relatively easy, but that didn't mean I came out unscathed. It'd been Wilson, Steve and myself this time—no one else. We'd hardly been at the Holiday party two hours before getting called out. Not that I was really complaining. Parties aren't my thing.

I squirt some musky smelling shampoo onto my palm, watching the little bubbles burst. For some reason, I think of Sadie.

She'd been the one thing at the party I had a hard time leaving. I'd seen her quite briefly—catching sight of her soft black tresses out of the corner of my eye. She'd styled them differently than normal, choosing to braid them in a long crown around her head instead of down and around her dainty shoulders like they normally fall. Her ruby red glasses were gone; replaced by contacts and shimmery gold eye makeup. The jade-green winter dress she wore was long sleeved and soft velvet, making the emerald color of her eyes pop bright against the darkness of her wide irises.

"Oh hi James," she said when she saw me. She blinked then smiled when I held out a glass of champagne towards her. She giggled softly, "Thank you. I'll try to stick to only one glass tonight."

"I don't know, it was pretty amusing last time," I commented. Her blush was impossible to miss as it spread across her soft, freckled cheeks.

"Then I'd hate to disappoint you," she commented. She took a small taste of the pinkish drink, eyes following me over the rim of the flute as I did the same. She noticed the way my gaze lingered a bit too long to be normal, but she didn't seem perturbed. If only she knew what I was really thinking when I saw her: the swirling, deafening thoughts of how utterly entrancing she was with all of her bright-eyed, sweet humored spirit.

I should've told her how beautiful she looked. I should've said something more than what I did, but I didn't. But maybe I shouldn't have. Perhaps it's best this way.

I saunter out of the shower with Sadie still circling around my mind. I tie a towel around my waist then grab another to run my obnoxiously long hair through—momentarily wondering what length Sadie would like it, and then cursing my damn stupidity. What the hell am I doing? Am I seriously starting to feel things for this girl? I didn't even know I could ever feel anything like this at all. But now it's clear; I might be broken, but part of me wants the green-eyed girl.

I pause just before leaving the bathroom. I can hear something deep inside of my apartment that makes my senses stand on edge. I pause before pushing out into the bedroom, grabbing the gun from beneath my pillow (I've got weapons hidden everywhere, actually).

Dripping with water I stealthily track the path from the bedroom to my living room. The noise grows louder.

It's music.

I drop my weapon. Breaking the threshold into the living room, I see that amongst the dark leather furniture and slate gray walls there's something brand new. Settled in the corner of the room between the TV and the bookshelf is a freestanding record player. I blink quickly, ears adjusting now to the smoothness of a Sinatra song, before glancing around the room. There's no one around—no traces of anyone managing to sneak in while I'd been cleaning.

Curiously I move closer to the record player. My fingers trace down the delicate arm of the needle. I watch the ebony ringing record spin 'round then make to turn up the volume a bit.

"You make me feel so young... You make me feel as though spring has sprung."

A lopsided grin spreads across my face. That's when I notice the unopened envelope angled on the box's lid. I pick it up and see the swirling print of my name on the front: James Barnes.

I pull the card out from its white paper casing. Inside is a vintage printed Christmas greeting card with faded ink in the nostalgic shape of a pine tree. Opening the delicate note, I see that it's been written inside in pretty penmanship.

Merry Christmas, James. I hope you'll listen to more music now; it's supposed to be quite calming, you know. Perhaps you'd be a bit less grumpy with some jazz in your life.

A little chuckle falls out of me.

I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Anyway, I hope you like it. And I hope you have a very happy holiday. You certainly deserve it.

Much love,

Sadie.

I fold the letter closed. I see that on the floor near the stand are two more records wrapped in bright red paper—the color of her thick rimmed spectacles. The bows are green like her eyes. I take them to the couch and can't help but smile again as Sinatra sings.

"And every time I see you grin, I'm such a happy individual."

Inside the wrappings are a Louis Armstrong album, pristine condition, and a more modern Michael Buble record. She's attached a note to the latter one; saying, "I didn't know if you liked Michael, but he's one of my favorites. Very Sinatra-esque, if you ask me."

My hand moves to try and wipe the stupid grin from my face. My fingers stop at my chin where I shake my head softly. I can imagine how she'd probably smiled to herself all sly and cute when she'd written the note—her pretty dimples showing on either side of her peachy pink pout just before the swift feminine arch of those high cheekbones. That sweet smile of hers... god, I've never seen a prettier sight. It's the only smile that really makes my face ache to do the same anymore. Her face is the only one that I'm looking forward to seeing when I step into a room. Her giggly laughter is like a lovely little tune whenever I hear it ring. Now as I stare down at her letter I can't get her out of my mind. She's rooted there, stuck in the cracks and crevices of every broken piece of me, and slowly seeping down further.

Son of a bitch.

This woman has me falling in love.