#motifs

Sun pecking skin. Petticoats swishing—the Hopewell dances upon the sea. You disembark; beech heels clacking against oak.

The chorus of livestock. Yeomen baying. A child's jaw slackening at ‘The New World'. You inhale deeply; eyes fluttering—the tang of salt upon your lips.

“For ye.” His voice a caress amidst the tempest—lids snap open. “A comely damsel deserves beautiful posies.” Heat blooms.

“Thank ye.” Fingers brush flesh.

“I’m Steven.” A cough. Flaxen locks sway with each rasp. “H—” His throat clears. “He’s James.” Lips twitch. Eyes crinkle. Your nose skims a silky rose.

As always—you remember. Your loves forget. Vines entwine—the memory loops; transcending time.

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Time is without death... A shadow upon the sun dial; click-click-click—you wind granddaddy’s pocket watch... Death is the fulfilment of time.

Laughter—yeomen in a merry pin. Music—Goodman Banner gaily plays the fiddle. Blue adorns trees. “A country dance is an unseasonable revel. Since the Boston massacre, Pa believes war is inevitable.” Natalya toys with a ribbon waving against the oak.

“What cheer, cousin?” You flinch; palm covering your bosom. Cool metal—the pendant lying upon your breast. A beautiful gold rose.

“Pray, excuse me, cousin. To affright you was not my intent.” Clint withdraws a step. Fingers tapping the flap of his cocked hat. “My good friends simply wish for an introduction. May I present Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” He presses a fingertip against twitching lips.

Parchment crinkling—a snap of linen. Captain Rogers tugs at his hunting shirt; Sergeant Barnes cups your palm. Warmth; lips graze flesh.

“We hope for the pleasure of your company this evening.” James murmurs. —Life anew. Souls eternally bound. Once again, love blooms.

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“How do you do, dearest?” You haste; foot catching upon a hoop. Huffing. “This crinoline cage is of such sizeable girth, I fear I shan't fit through your parlour door.” The apples of Wanda's cheeks rise. She nods towards two sirs taking tea upon the veranda. Warmth blooms.

Heat—the whisper of breath. “Father's business partners. Yesterday's report in ‘The Herald’— Oh, it’s terrible.” She clasps your wrist. “Railroad stock values are declining. I dread—” Her voice breaks. Fingers squeeze tighter. “Losing the estate is simply a question of time.”

“Oh, sister.” You inhale sharply; corset biting your ribs. “The Mormon Rebellion destroys us all. Papa too, is facing bankruptcy.” Head shaking. “We must stem the tide together.” You sweep a glove-clad thumb beneath her eye; purple smudges crisp upon pale flesh.

Pebbles crunch; footfalls along the gravel pathway. “My dear child. Darling goddaughter.” He bows. “Pray join us.” Elbow linking Wanda’s—you follow. His rustic cane scritching stone—a musical melody of gravel dancing with oak.

Step. Step. Step. Lungs constricting; eyes drifting shut… Thrum. Thrum. Thrum—Stevie’s heart flutters beneath your ear. Click. Click. Click—James maps your jaw with gentle lips…

An introduction; cheeks flush. The gentlemen bow; warmth blossoms. You curtsy; butterfly wings ripple within the belly. Breath hitches—a hint of their Eau de Cologne, damask rose.

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Cutlery clanking against porcelain. “Hey!” Fingers snake your wrist. “We only serve payin’ customers. If table two keeps ordering dog soup, get rid.” A shove; you wince—the countertop jarring your spine. Children squeal—their chubby legs kicking chrome, the stools a bright rose.

Grasping a rag—knuckles translucent—you scrub the bar top; hips jerking. “I have their order, sir. Lemonade—” Fingering the coins in your apron pocket. “And two slices of war cake. Oh—” The cloth stills. “We should alter the menu. War cake, depression cake—it dampens one’s spirits. I use orange blossoms in the mix, so why not call it ‘orange blooms’.”

“Here’s an idea.” His finger jabs your breast. “I pay ya for bakin’.” He snatches up the rag. “And for waitressin’. Do ya job. And stop lettin’ people use my business as a damn soup kitchen.” A sting. Eyes watering—the cloth whips your flesh. “Now, get servin’, and zip ya lips.”

Hands yank on the boss’ shirt collar—the linen tawny with sweat stains. “A slice of ‘orange blooms’ sounds mouthwatering, doesn’t it, Stevie?” A spluttering cough; the boss’ jowls turning puce. “Offer the young lady an apology, and I won’t toss you into the trash cans out back… This time.”

The aging wood stove groans. Whoosh—your breath hitches. Hiss—the boss stutters an apology. Crackle—fingertips lightly graze your elbow. Pop—a chestful of the woodsy aroma, oak…

Burnt orange—embers winking. Snap; Steve drops an oak log into the hearth. Shadows dancing upon flesh; your fingers sketch patterns along smooth skin. Until… Their hands clasp yours. The flutter of warm breath in your ear—Steve… “Miss, are you all right?” You blink slowly. Once. Twice. “Miss. Do we— Have we met before?” Lips twitch. Cheeks lift. Flesh skims flesh.

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A snowy handkerchief—sopping with tears. Two sheets of acidic paper; the contents bubbling within your throat—a sob tears through you. “D-damn this war.” Hands crumple the yellow telegrams; another rip, more creases. The weight of its words heavy against flesh.

Tossing the papers—a light thunk—they ricochet upon checkerboard flooring. Smash. An earthenware cup—full with sweet tea—follows. Golden droplets trace the wall… Bucky’s thumbs blot the tears mapping your cheeks. “It’s my duty. Oh, please don’t cry, my beautiful rose.”

Hands reach out. Pit-a-pat—his heart beneath your palm. “How can I not cry?” A scoff—razor-sharp—bursts out. “Steve’s ‘Four-F’ status doesn’t deter him. The army’ll take him eventually, too. A-and—” An ache; the lump in your throat growing bigger. “S-soon all will remain of us is a worn photograph set in oak...”

Three rhythmic raps upon oak. A cry; palm clutching your breast. Tick-tock—a fourth knock. “Mrs. Rogers?” Feet shuffle. The crystal doorknob crisp within your grasp; timber groans... A stranger tips his bowler hat. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers.” Clearing his throat. “For you.” Eyes red, he proffers a bouquet of posies. “Cap ‘n’ Bucky always spoke of your love for wildflowers, so I thought I’d pick these blooms.”

“Thank. You—” A beautiful burst of color. Plum—the fruit preserve you often cook for Bucky. Tink. Tink. His spoon scraping the jar clean. Crimson—the roses Steve always gifts you. Kisses upon a soft jaw; his cheeks flushing. Gold—your trinity wedding ring; a band symbolizing each of you. You’ll meet them again… A sob. In time.

You press the flowers against your heart. Teardrops trailing along satiny petals. “Oh. To hell with propriety.” Arms—warm, sturdy—encircle you. “Name’s Timothy Dugan.” He gently rocks you. To. Fro. “But as your Cap ‘n’ Bucky’s girl, you call me ‘Dum Dum’. We’re gonna watch out for you now. Howling Commandos look after their own.” Sinking into the embrace; a keening cry tears past your lips.

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Dry leaves rustling—the flutter of pages. Book heavy in your palm—flesh grazes the spine; binding craggy with creases… Schliff—Bucky turns the page. Breathing life into Tolkien; his chest thrums beneath yours… The hum of the shopkeeper’s bell. “Welcome to ‘Hearts of O’—” A broken laugh—eyes welling. The book slips; fingers press against your lips.

“How?” His voice—no longer thin, but resonant. “Why?” His jaw—once soft, now chiseled—locks. “We thought—” Head shaking. “Is it truly you?” Mouth dry; you nod. “Then… Everything else is neither here nor there.” One blink; footsteps—two sets. Two blinks—warm skin, cool metal. A third blink—weightless in their arms; flesh caresses flesh.

“Our story began over a millennia ago. In the hub of Rome.” Palms cup their cheeks; one smooth, the other bristly. “Though together—peace within the noise. Until…” The pungent stench of rotting corpses… Your belly lurches. “The Eclipse Plague.” Eyes squeeze shut… Shouts on your heels. “Scelesta—wicked woman. Impura—unclean. Luppiter te disperdāt—may Jupiter utterly destroy you.” Lungs bursting; you run… Pressure upon your crown—Bucky’s chin. “With the plague claiming so many, Roma set about searching for scapegoats.” A sob. “Such stolen time.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Chests rising, falling—with each silent breath. “You fought for us…” Flagellorum sibilus—whips whistle. Thwack—metal tips bite gentle flesh… “Crimson wept upon linen...” Fingers slip beyond your grasp—Steven. A body slumps against you—Bucky… “My final breath; I clung onto our necklace—the garland of roses.”

“Rose—” Metal cooling your hot cheek; you lean into the delicate touch. “Always our beautiful rose.” Your hair fluttering; Bucky utters a broken chuff. “Flashes. Fragments Hydra couldn’t erase. The Althing—woolen cloaks with fur linings… Sunlight kissing our skin at a country jig…” His gaze shifts. “We found her, Stevie.” Lips peck your temple. “And she always blooms.”

Steve’s arms—not willowy, but broad—tighten. The hug—stalwart as always. “This bookstore—the name. It’s us, isn’t it?” You nod. His mouth claims Bucky’s… Then yours. Lips still soft. Woodsy scent—home. His whisper drifts through the hush. “‘Hearts of Oak’.”

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A gentle sigh—time breathes… Scritch—graphite brushes paper. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Silence—Steve’s pencil stills; Bucky’s brow puckers. “I can’t steer myself into your path. I’ve gotta trust it’ll happen organically—as fate intends.” Fingers interlace. Click—your lips graze Steve’s knuckles. A chill; mouth tingling—a kiss upon Bucky’s steel arm. “There’s beauty in trusting it, isn’t there?”

“I guess. Though—” Bed sheets rustling. A hint of oak—Bucky nuzzling your cheek. “I’m certain Stevie will agree, this curve—” Fingertips—featherlight—flutter along your hip; a squeal of laughter. You squirm. “Is where the true beauty lies. Whaddya say, Cap?” The prickle of whiskers; Bucky pressing kisses against your flesh.