#cornelia barnes

He is greeted at the threshold by the voices of John, Paul, George and Ringo. 

The Beatles were new to him - like online shopping and Nespresso machines. Maybe, if he’d gone home after ‘45, he’d have dragged Steve to one of their concerts or seen them at Ed Sullivan’s show. And his grandchildren would gawk at him and tell him how lucky he was to have seen the Beatles together.

Maybe.

He couldn’t help it sometimes - how his mind involuntarily drew intricate scenarios of “what ifs” and possibilities. Bucky supposed it was his curse for having lived so long and so hard. His atonement was the constant back and forth of then and now, dealing with the aftermath of everything he missed.

But at least he didn’t kill John Lennon.

The record player was a gift for his 102nd birthday. It resembled very little the one he had back home - his 1940s home. It was sleek, light and state-of-the-art, with that classic vintage look that people liked their electronics to have even if they were far from vintage. 

You’d been so nervous when you gave it to him you couldn’t even wait for the sun to be high in the sky and your lover to be out of the bed. Nervous hands twisted the duvet as Bucky opened the package, careful not to ruin the glitter wrapping paper. He loved it, even if it took him a while to learn how to use the record player. But, once he did, it made way for your favorite tradition: spring saturdays at the flea market, the one in DUMBO or maybe in Williamsburg, looking for old records.

The Beatles, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, Elvis Presley, The Doors, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Marvin Gaye and Queen to more recent acts: Nirvana, Guns and Roses, Pearl Jam, the pop groups from the early 2000’s and performers like Bruno Mars and Beyoncé.

Any decade, any rhythm - Bucky Barnes liked music. And you indulged him in his new-found passion, adding soundtrack to the most unexpected moments of his day and being his partner whenever he fancied a dance.

Like now. He found you in the kitchen counter, hips moving slowly as you chopped carrots for dinner.

“Hold me tight / And tell me I’m the only one / And then I might / Never be theAAAAAH” you yelled, half a scream, half a laugh when Bucky surprised you by tickling your sides.

“Holy shit, Barnes! I have a knife on my hands. I could’ve cut myself!” you exclaimed while Bucky doubled over with laughter. 

You threw the knife on the sink, fake pouting, as Bucky came over to you, laugh forgotten. He was all saunter and swagger now, hands reaching out to hold you hips.

“That would teach you not to make dinner while shaking this ass” as to qualify his point, he landed a sharp smack on your left butt cheek, causing you to jump. 

You narrowed your eyes, snark remark at the tip of your tongue when you noticed it.

Blue.

Light blue. Almost teal, but not quite, evenly spread across the expanse of his chest and arms. Blue like his eyes, like the sky on a summer day, like a perfect Caribbean sea.

Beautiful blue.

“Is that… new?” was all you could muster while your gaze roamed the cotton. Your hands left their resting place on the nape of his neck and slid down, as if they could grasp the magnificent color and cradle it.

“Yeah” Bucky said, confused by your reaction. “I bought it last week.”

Such a simple explanation for such a magnificent happenstance. You could picture him: self-conscious and a little overwhelmed as he browsed some fast-fashion looking for simple pieces that didn’t stand out much. Bucky stuck to the classic blacks, whites and grays. Their simplicity made him feel safe and your boyfriend’s comfort would always come before any fashion trend.

Oftentimes a navy color would make an appearance and the way it complimented his eyes made your heart speed up. But this blue... This blue was different. You couldn’t place what was so special about it – was it the shade? An almost exact match to his irises? Was it the contrast of índigo fabric and golden-black forearms?

Bucky watched with raised eyebrows and a confused frown as the tips of your fingers carefully roamed the expanse of his torso, as if you were touching a valuable art piece instead of a US$ 9.99 henley from H&M.

“You okay, doll?” he asked. 

“Yeah” you gawked. “I’m perfect, actually.”

Bucky liked to think he knew you better than he knew himself – your spontaneity, creativity and enthusiasm over the smallest things. Life with you was never dull: it was a collection of happy moments that pieced his broken soul back together. Bucky believed he was used to the spur-of-the-moment midnight walks or the impromptu dance offs in the kitchen, but apparently he wasn’t.

Not when you grabbed him by the collar of the blue henley and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, like the sweet pecks you usually showered him with when he arrived home.  And it wasn’t a violent kiss, like the ones he usually took from you, breath out of breath, in the sacred intimacy of your bedroom.

This kiss was urgent and needy, yet full of the same love he felt every time your mouth reached for his. It tasted like honey on his tongue and sounded like a symphony made of the tiny moans that escaped you when he pulled on your bottom lip with his teeth.

The hand on Bucky's collar moved to his hair. The silky soft brown strands were much shorter, but still long enough to grab them, making him to groan. You felt light-headed, your lungs burning for air and your calves worn out from the effort of standing on your tiptoes, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. The only thing that mattered was him and that blue shirt.

“What was that for?” Bucky whispered when you manage to disentangle yourself from him. Your breath was coming in short, uneven gasps that teased him to no end. His gaze involuntarily lowered from your flushed cheeks to your chest, and the rapid way it rose and fell made him uncomfortable in his pants.

“Nothing" you replied. “You just look really good.”

Bucky laughed - a deep, delicious sound deep from his stomach, echoing at the walls of your heart. You swore you could live in the crinkles of his eyes because Heaven couldn’t compare to this world whenever Bucky Barnes laughed.

Especially if he was wearing that blue henley.

Bucky’s laugh turned into a smirk when he tightened his hold on your hips - one hand was warm and the other a little colder, just the way you liked it and how you wanted it to be forever. Swiftly, he rose you on the counter and moved to stand between your legs. The familiarity and domesticity of it didn’t make it any less thrilling. On the contrary, knowing this love was a constant rather than a possibility caused the butterflies to flutter harder in the pit of your belly. 

His vibranium hand squeezed you thigh before hooking your leg around his waist. The friction of your sweatpants with his jeans was the torturous prelude before the chorus. Bucky grunted in your ear, low and deep and warm as his breath hit the shell of your ear, right before he sucked it.

Oh.

Your hand was twisted in the blue fabric, unsure if you wanted to rip if off him or be it - to hug him and envelop him so perfectly and never let him go. Your embrace was suffocating. A tangle of arms, legs and lips dancing to their own song, writing notes on your skin. It was so easy to get lost in him. To drown in the blissful feel of Bucky’s touch and ignore the revolving world around you

A loud noise startled you, pulling you both apart. Bucky quickly turned to the crash, shielding your body with his. There, in the corner of the living room, the record player - now silent - was on the floor. Standing above the wreckage, nonchalantly licking a white paw, was Alpine.

You sighed.

“Did you say hello to her when you arrived?"

“Nope” Bucky said, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. He chuckled.

You absentmindedly dragged your nails across the nape of his neck and he purred, much like his feline counterpart when he greeted her favorite human.

“That record player was so expensive” you grumbled, face tucked in the blissful blue henley. Damn Alpine for ruining the plans you had for that shirt.

“I know. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It’s yours, actually.”

“You know what else is mine?”

“Huh?”

“You are.”

You looked up to find him grinning, mischief on the corner of his lips and a twinkle in his gaze. You barely had time to squeal when Bucky lifted you from the counter and over his shoulder and moved to the bedroom, making sure to shut the door. 

“What about Alpine? She’ll destroy the apartment” you asked, body bouncing on the mattress. 

Bucky shrugged then tugged on his henley, tossing the blue to the floor.

Yeah. He looked much better without it.

“It’ll be worth it.”

There was a hole on Bucky Barnes's glove.

It was small one, nestled between his thumb and forefinger, a modest circle where the wool started to unravel. He wouldn't even have noticed it if it wasn't for the cold.

Soft specks of white fluttered lazily from the dark sky. The first snowfall of the new decade looked like cotton freshly plucked from Heaven's fields, softly making their descend to the dim-lit streets of Brooklyn.

It was far too late for a young woman such as yourself to be out with a man who was not your husband or relative and Bucky knew that. He'd get a lecture Ms. Roberts, the owner of your boarding house, who'd no doubt be awake ready to pounce on him as soon as you rounded the corner. 

You'd lost track of time. It had been packed at the speakeasy, forcing him to keep you closer to his body as you danced. The band was incredible, a wonderful jazz trio all the way from Chicago and Bucky wished cameras could be smaller just to he could record the memory of your smile as they played. He'd keep it in his wallet, right next to the blue ribbon you'd given to him on the third date.

When you left the club, wide-eyed and red-cheeked, your sweaty bodies shivered from the biting wind outside. Bucky huddled you in his arms, the joy from dancing keeping your spirits high as he escorted you home. At some point you stopped, hands going to your head:

"Is it snowing?" you asked, beautiful eyes sparkling with child-like glee.

Bucky lifted his left palm, only for an unexpected piece of ground ice to land on it. He briefly noticed a hole on his gloves.

You stood there, heads angled painfully as you gawked at the marvelous white. If someone passed by the deserted streets they might mistake you for two frozen lovers. But nature was a privilege in man-made Brooklyn, with its stone buildings and factory chimneys, and any small glimpse of it felt like true magic.

When Bucky looked down his face was slightly damp, but he felt peaceful. His eyes had closed yet he was oblivious, too lost on the feel of snow on his face and your hand in his, surrounding him in a love that took his breath away.

Looking over, he found you: His doll, his sugar, his baby girl, his sweetheart. All the prettiest names dripping honey from his lips. The moisture had ruined your careful hairstyle, with some of the fronts strands stuck to your forehead. He thought you still looked gorgeous, even with the strange way you were poking your tongue out of your mouth.

"Doll, waddya doin'?" he chuckled

Your eyelids fluttered open serenely and you smirked. For some miracle your lipstick was still perfect despite the snow and all the kissing before that, which drove Bucky insane. He was sure you kept retouching it just to tease him.

"Catching snowflakes with your tongue is harder than it looks" you answered simply. 

Bucky couldn't help it. He laughed, glee rumbling loud in his belly with the sound of his earlier excitement and his love for you, which never failed to catch him off guard in unexpected moments like this. 

He grabbed you by the waist, your giggles joining his as he spun you around, bodies swinging in a messy dance while the sky fell apart in snow. With absolutely no worries about the scolding he'll get from Mrs. Roberts tonight - or you tomorrow when you wake up with a sore throat - Bucky took your lips in a kiss, his wicked ones taking pleasure in smearing your lipstick again.

"Can't touch that up now, darlin'" he whispered in that lazy drawl that made you want to punch him then kiss it better.

When his fingers grew numb on the small of your back - ruined gloves and all - Bucky lead you to the boarding house. As expected, Mrs. Roberts opened the door as soon as you approached the front porch steps, a glower on her face and a reprimand at the ready. Before she could say anything, however, her gaze landed on your ruined looks, and the prospect of any neighbor witnessing this scandal - somehow more outrageous that missing curfew - was enough to restore her priorities and quickly usher you inside the house.

Bucky supposed he would live to see another day then.

He was returning to the arctic streets when your small body collided with his back, a pink fluffy towel wrapped around your body like a cape. It took all but three seconds for his surprise to make way to hands finding familiar curves and soft skin.

"I love you, James Barnes" you said as you returned to a scandalized Mrs. Roberts. "I really do."

He could only smile, dumb and dizzy with the size of his adoration and his luck on finding you.

"I love you too, doll. See you in sixteen hours."

Looking over your shoulder, messy hair and smudged makeup, you winked. Anyone would've missed it with the heavier snow, but not Bucky.

Christopher Beck, astronaut, renowned doctor and flight surgeon of the Ares III mission to Mars woke on the morning of December 13th to the loud sound of something big toppling to the ground.

He grumbled into his pillow before raising his head, a dark mop of chocolate curls shielding indigo eyes from the soft morning light. The digital clock on his night stand let him now it was a little past seven - way too early to be awake.

His bed was cold. One body was not enough to keep it cozy the way he liked it and he wondered where his bedmate could be at such an ungodly hour. Remembering the noise coming from the living room, Chris abandoned the last remnants of his slumber and rose.

He had a stupid grin on his face as he made his way down the stairs. After nearly three years in space and over a month of recovery therapy, he was finally home. His house, his bedroom, his clothes on the closet, his ring on his fiancée’s left hand. It had been four weeks and she would still find him playing with the magnets on the fridge debating whether he should order pizza from the place that opened while he was away or just go to Target again.

Chris Beck was, by definition, shy. He’d never been one to excel at socializing or enjoy crowded spaces. Now, after all the time he’s spend interacting with only five other people, he was making conversation with Mrs. Baldwin, his elderly neighbor or calling his distant cousin in Japan in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Even the cold couldn’t stop him when he just needed to go to the mall because “he missed so much on fashion”.

The joy of his life, however, would always be you.

And you were currently surrounded by an explosion of Christmas decorations.

A Christmas tree laid fallen halfway across the living room - so that was the source of the noise. A rich assortment of ornaments were strewn on the couch, lazily spilling to the floor: balls, pendants, ribbons, string lights and a beautiful gold star. A garland hung above the fireplace and, on the mantel, were two red stockings: one for Chris and one for you.

Scratching his head he yawned, taking in the mess. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy trying to get the tree to stand back up. Still in your pajamas, fuzzy pink socks on your feet, you were perfect to go back to bed and cuddle him until noon. Then you could start whatever decorating business you wanted.

“Baby?” he called for you, voice still a little hoarse from sleeping.

Chris’ voice startled you. You lost your grip on the Christmas tree and it fell again, a whoosh of fake leaves and metal clanking on the floor. Turning around, you were disheartened to find your fiancée awake and your Christmas surprise ruined.

“Oh no!” you exclaimed, running to him and covering his eyes with your hands. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“What…? Sweetheart, what the hell?”

Chris tried to free his gaze, but you were persistent, leading him back to the upper floor with one hand over his eyes and the other on his back, guiding him on the steps.

“I can’t believe you’re up so early. You absolutely cannot be here right now!”

“But why?” he whined as if he were a baby and not a 30-something man who’s been to actual space.

“It’s the first Christmas you’re spending at home in so long! I’ll be damned if it’s not perfect.”

You had reached your bedroom now. Yours - finally yours again rather than just your own. The air even smelled different, like it did when you first moved in to this house and you and Chris made it your home. Then he had to leave and it became too big for you and the loneliness that grew roots in his absence. You would never tell him how much you hated his job, and NASA and the over 900 days you slept in a bed without him, in a bedroom that was supposed to be his as well. However you would give him an unforgettable Christmas to celebrate his return, even if it mean leaving said bedroom early in the morning to set up the decorations.

Chris sat on his side of the bed. His t-shirt was rumpled and just the thought of snuggling to him under the covers, inhaling his scent on the soft cotton, brought butterflies to your stomach. A single ringlet of hair fell over his forehead - it was getting longer and shaggy now. Yesterday he jokingly said he was of thinking of letting it grow and asked if you'd still walk down the aisle to him if he looked like that guy from the Marvel movies.

You just laughed. He knew you'd marry him even if he was wearing his astronaut suit.

“Stay” Chris whispered, gently tugging on your pants.

You sighed, eyes fluttering shut. You knew if you looked at him - your soft lover, so at peace and at home - you’d cave, Christmas surprise be damned.

“I wanted to surprise you with the best Christmas ever.”

“It’s already the best one, sweetheart. I’m home.”

That sly motherfu-

You opened one eye and caught him grinning. Of course he was.

You huffed then threw yourself on the bed right on top of him. Life with Chris Beck had it’s assurances - you knew he could always trick you with more hours of sleep; he knew you would always give in to his charm; the universe knew you’d throw yourself at him and he’d catch you: warm hands under your shirt, swift arms rolling you over so he could kiss you better.

When Chris fell asleep again, he dreamed of a bright July morning, daisies blooming on the front porch and the clearest blue sky. The Christmas decorations would make way for white linen towels and champagne flutes, but the string lights would stay, hanging from the backyard trees lighting up the way for you, his bride. Even in his dreams, Christopher Beck longed for the summer, for your white gown and your new ring, finally on your right hand.