There hadn't seemed to be a good reason to go home. His last words to her that morning had been hateful, far more than just the typical innuendoes that had morphed into insults, which had turned into venom. She was too old, she didn't give him what he wanted, she was too late, or too early, she controlled him, she wouldn't be controlled. Every sentence spun around in her brain as she walked, tears welling in her eyes, shock making her feel cold all the way through into her bones. Her heart was ice; it had turned that way months ago. A man who had been loving, attentive, intimate, who had been the first one to say 'I love you' had disappeared. A partnership had turned into a co-dependency, where she was the scapegoat for everything bad that happened in his life: but none of the good.
She knew the truth, it had been there all along but she had been too weak and too blind to see it. He had never valued her as a person; the signs had all been there. And as her love for him was washed away in the alcohol he drank and the drugs he drew into his body, his rage towards her grew. When he had put his hand through the drywall that morning she had packed up her bag for work, locked the door behind her, and knew that even though she only had a half-day of lectures that she wouldn't be home early as she normally was on Fridays. She had a decision to make: one that from the outside probably seemed very simple, but from the inside was still threatening tears.
There was a place she liked to walk, not terribly far from the university. Up on the hill were the Houses of Parliament; the grounds were beautiful no matter what time of year it was. There were tulips in the spring, manicured lawns in the summer and Christmas greenery just after Remembrance Day. And always there was the eternal flame. When she had only been a tourist to the city she had made a point to visit it on every trip, and when she had moved there it became a regular point in her week. It was a vast place, surrounded by the river on one side and centuries old buildings on the others. And it was a busy place, easy to blend in, even with downcast eyes and quivering lips. The fact was she looked the part of a parliamentarian; business attire, leather satchel, determined walk, and she moved as though she knew every part of the grounds, because she did; there was no lost tourist ambling about any longer. The majesty of the place had never failed to inspire her in all her visits, and she had been counting on it just then.
The phone in her pocket buzzed, she ignored it as she walked straight up to the center block. If he wondered why she wasn't home then he could just keep wondering. The thought of all those dinners she had started for him, all the effort to create and provide for him (as she had thought she had to), and the absent thanks and appreciation made her miss a step, and stumble just a little on her heel. Recovering, she took a deep breath to steady trembling legs. She had been such a fool in her youth; thinking no one would ever love her, convincing herself that she was worthless without him, despite her degrees and career. He'd chipped away at the minimal self-confidence that she had with criticisms of the way she dressed, her make up, when they ran out of things in the fridge, the fact that she didn't know how to use a coffee maker properly. (She'd always drunk tea). She wiped a tear away from her face with a vicious ferocity and turned right to walk towards the east block, around the sandstone to the circular exterior of the senate building and the view of the river. There was a marble memorial bench there, its back mostly to the vista, but possessed of an interesting secret. If one sat at one edge and whispered a secret to the marble, a person sitting at the other end, with their ear pressed to the semi circular formation, (an easy 20 feet away) would hear that secret with surprising clarity. For today, without a companion (and preferring it that way) there were no shared secrets, only a respite for tired feet. Dress shoes, while fine for the quick trips between her office and lecture halls had not been designed for the dozens of blocks between the campus and the hill. Kicking them off she rubbed sore heels, wondering if she would have angry blisters to deal with by nightfall. Thinking about such mundane things actually helped slow the tears and keep her calm. When she was calm the decisions she had to make could be made with logic and clarity, not emotions. Her phone hummed again which tossed logic to the side. She stood up and started walking again ignoring it.
The path she followed ran around to the west block. Dodging a little bit of scaffolding from ongoing cleaning of the external limestone, she made her way towards another access point; it wasted a bit more time. She knew she couldn't keep living as she had been, knew that it was slowly killing her. When she had last stood on the train platform, waiting for the high-speed vehicle, and had thought about how easy, how quick it would be to just step forward into the oncoming rush, then she knew. Something had to change, and it would not be him, no, her quiet and depression had only fed his vitriol. It was over but yet it wasn't, and still she kept walking, working her way down the serpentine path on the hill's face, down to the river. Her feet ached, but if she went home it would really be final. She wasn't there yet. The phone buzzed again. She considered turning it off but didn't.
When it started to get dark down by the riverbank and the water itself began to turn to shadow she decided that she needed to go somewhere, probably home, she admitted to herself. The trip back up the hill was cold, feet now beyond pain, tears ran freely because she was alone and in shadows, caught up by misery. Back up at the crest she kept her head low, hiding in the crowds who were making their way to the market area for dinner. Police cars cruised by, some with lights turning atop them; no sirens split the darkening night though. With each step back towards the university she felt her body getting stiffer. Her home, the one she rented, a privilege of tenure, was on campus, a century home that she had loved the first time she had seen it. It had a front porch with three steps, a screen door that squeaked when you opened it and an entranceway with a narrow staircase to the second floor, and a sitting room that arched into a dining room. At the very back was the compact kitchen, and beyond that a tiny backyard where squirrels and raccoons helped themselves to the birdseed. It was hardwood everywhere, plaster walls and ancient windows that didn't hold in a lot of heat but shimmered in the bright light, just distorting the views outdoors. Radiators creaked and banged occasionally in the winter, and she knew every sound from the staircase risers when you went upstairs. It would have been perfect, but for the fact that he hated her personalizing anything. There were no knickknacks, no family photos, no pictures from her nieces decorating the fridge. Her things had been packed up for the move, stored in plain cardboard boxes that were never reopened.
It took an hour to get to her street. The gaslight replicas were illuminated, casting circular pools of light around their bases. There was very little movement beyond them, but there was a noise, a car door opening then closing with a bit of force.
"Professor? Professor Carter?"
She knew the voice, had known it for years; knew the face that went with it. Angular, sharpish nose, dark black hair that fell to the level of his chin in strands that looked a little unkempt, but not so much so that he looked untidy, a mouth of amber hue and deep set blue eyes, icy blue eyes hidden in shadows until you came very close, that had bewitched more than a few freshmen; male and female alike. He'd appeared as a mature student (well a student over 25 years of age in his first year) in her introductory Classics course. Not that she'd noticed him at first, in a lecture theater of one hundred she only knew names, at least the ones that her teaching assistants pointed out. James Buchanan Barnes, a genius with words and with history. He had followed her into her upper level classes, and become her teaching assistant as soon as his undergraduate degree had been completed. She'd been the loudest voice in his favor when a position had come up in the department.
And he'd been there when she had left the office that afternoon, grading papers, using her collections to check references as he often did. She pulled her phone from her pocket finally and thumbed the screen to life.
'Professor Carter. Is everything okay?' the first text read.
'Professor, I tried calling you at home and your husband said you weren't there, are you okay?'
'Sharon. Please let me know you're okay. I know something's wrong, I'm worried.'
She turned around slowly.
"Bucky?"
"Don't go in there." He urged her, shaking his head, lips parted as if he wanted to say so much more but couldn't.
"What are you? What are you doing here?" It was hard to find room for confusion in her mind, so she stuttered out her response.
Of course he knew where she lived, he'd dropped off and picked up work more times than she could remember.
"I was scared something had happened to you. I just didn't know." He stumbled over his words, clenching his jaw with frustration. "Just don't go in the house."
"Why?" She turned away from him, back towards the front porch, visible in the entryway light even when she herself was still in shadow, a few houses down from it.
"Just don't."
The front door opened and her husband stepped out, she knew it was him, she'd seen his silhouette out there many nights, lighting up a cigarette, just as he did then, leaning against the rail, not looking at anything except the glowing end of the addiction. At least he didn't smoke in the house; it was perhaps the one concession he had made for her, more likely for the University Landlords who threatened penalties. Sharon made to take that first step forward when an arm lit on her shoulder, gently holding her in place. For some reason she let it and simply stared at the house. The door opened again from the inside, and a second person stepped forward. The shudder that ran up her spine was numbing.
It was a woman quite obviously, or perhaps better described as a girl, younger than Sharon, shorter skirt, longer hair, not drawn up in a knot or a clip like Sharon wore, and 'she' was running her hands across 'his' waist in a fashion that screamed of intimacy. He didn't seem to have eyes for anything else just then and pulled the woman into a long kiss, her body folding against his. Sharon's gut twisted horribly but she stayed silent and the shadow, watching, just barely aware of the hand that still rested on her shoulder. From somewhere there was a suitcase, Sharon hadn't noticed it before, but of course she hadn't been looking for it. He picked it up, flicking the butt of his spent cigarette into the flowerbed. It was loaded into the trunk of the car, their car, and the stranger joined her husband in the front seat with an immature giggle. The tears started again as the car pulled out of the drive and sped off. She took the step into the light of the streetlamp, making for her home.
"Don't." Bucky whispered into her ear, she didn't realize he'd gotten so close. "You can't stay there. There must be somewhere else you can go. A friend, some family?"
Sharon shook her head.
"No-one." She whispered.
"You can't be alone, come back to my place. It isn't much, but it's company."
"I just need to get some things." She spoke tonelessly, and moved away from his hold on her, walking up to the house.
OOOO
There was a suitcase in the upstairs closet, a little one she used when she had to be away overnight. (Which wasn't very often). She laid it down on the bed, the bed he hadn't even had the decency to make up after himself. The room smelled of sex and Sharon held back the urge to vomit as she gathered up a change of clothes. It was a blessing to leave it behind to go into the small bathroom in the hall and pack up her toiletries. Coming back down the creaking stairs Bucky rushed to take the case from her hands.
"I'm just down the street, I could bring the car over?" He told her, offering her a hand.
"I can walk, thanks." It was as if her own voice was an echo within her skull as she spoke, repeating with the pounding of her pulse in her ears.
Bucky exited the house first; Sharon switched off all the lights and bolted the door behind herself as she followed Bucky to his car. She was more than numb, watching him maneuver her case into the back seat then opening the passenger door with a metallic grunt so she could settle herself. The vinyl seats were cracked and cold, but she didn't actually feel it.
"I'm sorry about the car."
"There's nothing wrong with it." She whispered, eyes staring straight ahead at the aurora the lamplight projected through the windshield.
"Its old, I know." He started it up with a bit of a groan of the engine's part. Putting it into gear caused another note of annoyance from the transmission. "It's the car I drove onto campus with all those years ago." He apologized.
Bucky lived a few blocks off campus, in an older area of town, on the main floor of a walkup that had been converted to student housing in the sixties. The carport was a hastily constructed lean-to of sorts with a dilapidated corrugated fiberglass roof that mostly kept out the rain and snow. The whole drive over, that hadn't taken more than fifteen minutes, Sharon had been unable to keep a consistent thought in her head. Her marriage was over, that was obvious, and Bucky had been waiting for her at the house and had been looking for her all day, her husband hadn't been, he'd been with another woman in their house, and now her feet were really beginning to ache, and she wanted to cry, sob out loud and scream; but she didn't have the energy. She felt exhausted. Her legs felt like rubber when she tried to get out of the car after Bucky had parked. Somehow she managed to follow him to the front door; he having collected her little suitcase, she, still clinging to her satchel so tightly that she thought her knuckles might actually be white with the effort.
"I'm sorry about the condition of the place, I don't usually have company." He held the door open for her.
"You don't have to apologize Bucky." Her voice was flat, even though she sincerely meant every word she said; the condition of a bachelor's home was of absolutely no concern to her.
He flipped on the lights, put her case down and gasped as she slipped out of her heels.
"Professor. You're bleeding."
She looked down at her feet. He was right.
"Were you walking around all afternoon?"
"Yes. I suppose I was."
"Sit, please, I need to take care of that. Will you let me help you Professor?" Bucky motioned to the small couch that rested against the left-side wall. "You know I have first aid training right?"
"Yes, from the military, I remember."
She did remember. Bucky had been in the service for almost five years. He'd been injured, she never asked him exactly how, and nearly lost his left arm. He still did physiotherapy once a week, and Sharon could see the stand of hand weights beside the television set across from where she sat. The weakness was hardly noticeable any more; it had been more obvious when she had first met him, he'd barely been able to hold his coffee cup in that hand, now he brought her tea in the mornings, no sign of weakness. The memory of him coming into her office; a mug in each hand, made her eyes well up once again. She wiped the tears away with her fingers. Her vision was still blurry when she looked up to see him in the kitchen, filling a basin with water, a first aid kit tucked under his left arm. It was hard for her to understand what was happening, why it was happening, and she knew she needed to get a handle on her thoughts and her mind. Looking at her heels helped to focus her, they really were a mess, and when she concentrated she could feel the throbbing beginning.
Bucky returned, putting his supplies down on the coffee table, pushing it backwards with his leg for clearance as he knelt down in front of her and very carefully took her right leg in his hands and turned it gently. Her body followed, resting (perhaps collapsing) into the arm of the couch.
"Oh Professor."
He took a cloth a dipped it into the water, patting at the raw skin, Sharon winced.
"Does it hurt? I'm sorry."
"It's okay, it's not your fault, it's mine." She put her head down into her hands.
"I'll be as quick as I can." He whispered as he continued to pat her skin, and then applied an antibiotic cream, which actually cooled and numbed it a little. He dressed the one and then the other.
"We'll change the dressings in the morning." He told her, "and if you can just give me a minute I'll change the sheets on the bed so you have clean linens to sleep in."
"I can't take your bed Bucky."
"Of course you can, and you will. I've spent a lot of nights on this couch and it's perfectly comfortable."
"Then I'll stay here."
"Please Sharon." He reached out and took her hand, holding it within his two, which were warm and surprisingly soft. "Just let me look after you."
"Why are you doing this Bucky? Why are you being so kind to me?"
"You really don't know do you?" He got this sad little smile on his face, one where the corners of his mouth turned downwards as he pursed his lips together, and his eyes looked even more sunken. Sharon had seen it on his face before, often cast in her direction, but she thought it had just been pity.
"I come to your office to check references because you've been looking so sad and I didn't want you to be alone. I bring you tea in the morning in your special mug,"
"The one you brought back for me from the National Archaeological Museum." She interrupted.
"Because who else would carry a proper Euripides mug?" His eyes lit up a little. "I bring you tea because I know that you don't drink coffee and that no one else is making it for you in the mornings."
"You feel sorry for me?" That revelation made her fragile heart feel shattered. She hadn't wanted any of what was happening at home to translate to her work. It had been her refuge.
"I don't feel sorry for you Sharon." Bucky took a deep breath, pausing, seemingly building up his courage. "I'm in love with you."
The words hung in the air as the sad smile became even more plaintive on his face.
Bucky let her hand go and stood up.
"I know you don't feel the same way, but that's okay. I'll just go make up the bed alright?"
Not knowing what she should say she let him go.
OOOO
She hadn't really been thinking logically when she had packed her suitcase, a change of clothes, some toiletries but little else. Bucky seemed to understand that and said in a quiet voice when he reappeared from his housekeeping, that there were clean tee shirts and lounge pants in the top drawer that she was welcome to use. He disappeared to the kitchen again saying nothing else, giving her time to wash up and change with some privacy.
What she saw in the mirror in the bathroom was haunting; she was so careful to apply nice makeup in the morning, to brush out and knot up her hair so it looked tidy, and now, she was so pale and tired looking. Her eyes looked dark and her lips were still red and swollen from the tears. She looked as miserable as she felt; and not just for what she had seen in her house, but for what Bucky had revealed to her. She splashed water onto her face to break her fixated gaze, trying to wash away the person she was looking at, she pulled her hair down and combed through it till it looked as neat as it could across her shoulders. When she stepped out of the bathroom still feeling guilty for so many things, there was Bucky, leaning over his laptop in the corner of the living room, (really the dining room), now transformed into a workspace, a pile of papers beside him, glasses perched on his nose, seemingly transfixed on the screen. She closed the door to the bedroom quietly, changed into a well-worn, soft tee shirt and pair of drawstring plaid bottoms, (the ones at the top of the drawer), sat on the edge of the bed, and held onto the cup of chamomile tea he had left for her until it was cold.
OOOO
The house remained quiet, Sharon just thought she could make out the delicate tapping on Bucky's keyboard, but of course she could have just been imagining it, trying to make herself feel as if there was another presence around and she was not alone. Sleep was impossible. Her own heartbeat began to echo in her ears as she laid her head on the pillow, his pillow. If she closed her eyes all she saw was the tangled up bed sheets, the kiss, the embrace, the tail lights pulling away. It wasn't that she missed him, or missed her marriage. If she examined it a little more closely she actually found a sense of relief in what had happened. For the first time in a long time there was possibility; the chance for a new path, and with that opportunity there was the great fear of not knowing what to do next. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself, listening to herself breathe, trying to calm the fluttering in her heart and the anxiety that threatened to swallow her. She opened the bedroom door and peered out.
Bucky looked up at the noise and dimmed his computer's screen. He took off his glasses and set them carefully on top of his assignment pile.
"I'm so sorry, did I wake you?"
"No." She moved towards him, half a smile on her face. "I don't suppose that sleep is going to be easy to come by tonight."
"I suppose not." His words were so cautious it made her heart ache.
"Bucky?" She reached out for his hand; he let her take it, but could not look at her. "When?"
He didn't answer right away and she filled the uncomfortable silence.
"Please don't tell me that it was the first time you saw me, walking into my Classics 101 class all those years ago."
She could see the smile on his face bloom, even if it was downturned.
"No, not then." He finally looked up, and then stood up, still clutching her hand. His expression was so kind looking, his eyes so liquid and deep. "It was after my interview. When you waited for me in the atrium. You were more nervous than I was I think. I got the impression that you were prepared to storm in there if I told you it had gone badly."
"I would have. They'd have been fools not to hire you."
"You've always been in my corner Sharon."
"But I've been so self-centered, I didn't even realize,"
"Self-centered? No Sharon, you haven't been self-centered at all. With everything you have had to deal with?" Bucky's voice trailed off as he remembered something.
"You spoke about the first time I saw you? I recall that woman, standing in front of a packed lecture theatre, hand on a laser pointer, TA flipping power point slides of everything you were speaking of, statues, crumbling theatres, murals and masks from historic sights, all the places you'd been, all your slides and your stories. You didn't just read from the textbook to all of us. You'd lived it, and speaking about it, teaching us, gave you the aura of such energy, such passion. You made me change my major, just with your being there."
"It was a long time ago Bucky."
"But I never forgot it, or how beautiful you were; something I appreciated even more as we got to know each other. When I saw you waiting for me after that interview, that expectant look on your face, all I wanted to do was take you in my arms and kiss you."
"And now?"
"Now I want you even more."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, breathing audibly, wound like gunslingers in a dual, waiting for some twitch to trigger their next movement. Not that those movements would be as explosive as a quick draw, they were far more controlled and subtle. Bucky pulled at their clasped hands, Sharon stepped closer to his chest without resistance. With his free hand he touched her cheek tenderly, closing his eyes as he did so, breathing through parted lips. Without benefit of sight he leaned towards her and she to him, pressing her mouth to his, her body trembling as she did, but not scared enough to pull away.
His lips were soft against hers, his fingertips tender as they stroked down her face, curling underneath her chin, holding her more with will than pressure, to his kiss. After a few moments he pulled back with a ragged breath, eyes still closed. Sharon let her head fall to his shoulder, his arms now wrapping her body close. She could not remember the last time she felt such peace as she did just then. Her arms clung to it and to him as she looped them around his hips, clasping her fingers together at the small of his back, the two of them swaying just slightly with their hitched breathing.
"Are you okay Sharon? I haven't done something wrong have I?" Bucky whispered to her.
"No, you haven't done anything wrong." Her hands tightened around him, as if she feared that he was going to pull away.
"I don't ever want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable Sharon. I care about you too much."
"Thank you," she whispered into his shoulder, trying to keep her voice steady, distorted as it was with the tears that were soaking into his shirt.
"Please, don't cry Sharon." He rubbed a hand in slow circles on her back.
"I've ruined your shirt." She whimpered.
"No you haven't. See?" He leaned away from her, not leaving the circle of her arms, and tugged it off over his head with an indulgent smile. "No stains at all." He tossed it over to the couch where it landed in a heap. Now Sharon felt her hands on his bare skin and her insides quivered. It felt even better to press her cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.
"What do you want from me Bucky?"
"What do I want?"
"Yes."
He bent his lips to her ear, and brushed the very tip of it. She could feel his own hesitance in the pause he took before speaking. It made her very nervous.
"I want to undress you."
She gasped. His body had gone tense against hers; 'in for a penny' she supposed. Her heart was pounding.
"I want to touch you. I want to taste you." His tongue darted out and ran along her ear lobe. She couldn't stop the moan that escaped her throat.
"I want to make love to you."
Sharon closed her eyes, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. Bucky's arms tightened around her and he waited for whatever answer she would come up with, whatever action she would deem appropriate to his revelation. But she was beyond over-analyzing; beyond looking at anything outside the room they were standing in and that single moment and shared breath. She made her decision after only a few heartbeats, for that was where she let it come from: her heart. Pulling back from him, looking him straight in the eyes, she pressed her mouth to his, parting his lips with her own, surprising him by darting her tongue into his mouth, clutching him like he was oxygen itself. He was caught off guard and lost his balance for a moment, steadying himself with backward flung hands on the edge of his dinning room table. His moan was the next sound that echoed in the room.
"What do you want Sharon?" He reversed her question, his voice sounding as fragile as hers had.
"I don't know Bucky. I just know I don't want to be alone anymore." He leaned in to kiss her very softly. She could feel his stuttered breathing against her lips as he tried to speak and still kiss her.
"Oh Sharon, I'll be with you, if you'll have me. I'll make sure you never have to be alone."
His fingers curled under the hem of the borrowed tee shirt, looking for the ties of the pajama pants, likewise borrowed.
"I want you so much." He whispered into her shoulder.
A quick pull and Sharon felt the waist slacken. She did nothing as they slipped from her hips, puddling around her feet. His hands, warm and tender rested on her waist; her modesty still secured by the length of the shirt, as he pulled her towards himself again. She could feel the press of his desires against her skin.
"I should," She began, "we should, go." Uncertainty threatened her resolve.
"Invite me to your bed?" He asked in a whisper.
"It's your bed really." She said with a simple smile on her lips, drawing in a deep breath.
"Not tonight." He brushed his hands around to the small of her back.
"Then I want you to come with me Bucky."
His whole body shuddered, tears seeming to well in his eyes and he kissed her again, tenderly.
"Yes."
OOOO
The bedroom was dark, but neither of them worried about looking for a light switch. The glow from the antique chandelier in the dinning room gave them just enough light to see. Like a slow dance, minimal footwork brought them to the edge of the mattress, no headboard or footboard, just a pile of soft pillows and the pulled back quilt she had abandoned when she had gone out in search of him. Suddenly it seemed the safest, most comforting place she could be, an ease settling over her skin that dispelled the earlier anxiety. Her body sank into the masses of fabric as she sat, then lay back, he coming to hover over top her, never completely taking his fingertips from her skin or his eyes from hers.
His hand caressed her bent leg, beginning at her calf, brushing up to her knee and above it, curling inwards gently but never quite crossing the barrier of the tee shirt she wore, his eyes asking permission.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't hurt me." She whispered back to him.
"I just don't want this to be out of pity, for either of us."
"You feel pity for me Bucky?"
"No, I don't, you know how I feel for you. And maybe you pity me for that?"
"Oh Bucky." Sharon looped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled his face closer to hers so she could brush her lips across his. "I want this."
"God help me, so do I."
Pulling away from her, Bucky sat himself on the edge of the bed, trembling hands worked to undo the fastenings at his waist, slipping his trousers off, leaving them behind in the darkness as he pulled something from a bedside drawer and fumbled with it. He seemed so hesitant to return to her after completing that simple task that Sharon grew worried, sitting up and resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, fingers tracing the raised scars there.
"They don't hurt." He whispered to the dark.
"Mine do."
That was enough. Bucky turned back to her, clamping his mouth over hers, knocking her off balance so that she fell back onto the bed as he threw his body over hers. Before she even had a chance to take a breath he had driven himself within her body and she could do nothing but arch against the passions he brought to her. Every muscle under his skin was taut as she held him, stealing breaths when she was able: kisses when their mouths came together in the onslaught. For a few precious moments there was nothing but them, that room, and the electricity building in their bodies till it sparked and the resultant fire consumed them.
OOOO
He stroked her hair, pushing an errant strand out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.
"You are so beautiful Sharon."
She smiled, exhausted but happy and warm, tucked under the covers, pressed to his body, breathing slowly. She took a simple kiss from him, feeling his lips curl into a smile as she touched them.
"As beautiful as you look in my tee shirt." He whispered, "I would really like to hold you with nothing between us, if that's okay with you?" She nodded and began to shimmy her arms from the sleeves as he let his hands roam underneath the soft fabric, pushing it up in folds over her stomach and then her breasts, finally over her head.
"God, you are beautiful."
"You said that before." She said with a laugh, lips parting in a broad, playful smile.
"I will say it to you every day, every morning." Then he stopped, bit his lip, his hands pulling away from her skin. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I got carried away."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't shatter this moment, please. Dream with me."
"I'm good at dreaming."
"Then tell me a story Bucky, please, tell me a story."
As she closed her eyes she felt his fingertips brush across her cheek and over her lips, lingering as she breathed, warming his skin. Sensitive as she was she could feel the minute trembling of them. She pursed her lips together to just kiss them. He moaned very quietly, but in the silence of the room she heard it.
"I want to make love to you every night." He whispered, hesitantly testing, the words out loud to see if she would object to them. "I'm going to walk home from the Faculty offices with you, holding your hand, showing the whole world how proud I am to be with you. I'm going to hold doors for you, and open my home to you, I'm going to take your coat, and put your messenger bag beside mine on the dinning room table. Then I'm going to coax you into this room and lay you down on this bed." She felt his fingers slip down her throat to her collarbone. He kissed the hollow there; letting the tip of his tongue wet her skin.
"I am going to undress you slowly, kissing every inch of skin I expose until you beg me to stop."
"I will never ask you to stop."
It was his turn to laugh. His hands brushed down the center of her chest, his mouth following. Soft palms moved to cup her breasts; kisses were bestowed eliciting moans from her.
"I want you." Sharon heard her own ragged voice.
"But I'm not done my story." He teased, hands drifting further southward, resting on her belly for a few seconds before drawing inwards, fingers painting the canvas of her body, her body responding by relaxing into his touch.
"Please tell me more."
"We'll make a home together Sharon. We'll do laundry together and get groceries and wash dishes together. And I will make you tea every morning, and I will tell you every day how much I love you. And you will smile; you will always smile. I will never do anything to hurt you or make you cry."
"Unless it's tears of happiness." Sharon knew her eyes were welling up.
"Yeah, I guess that would be okay. If I can kiss them away."
"Yeah."
Sharon felt his body shift over hers, missing the warmth and weight of him for a moment, but then he returned, kissing her closed eyes tenderly before slipping his body within hers again and rocking against her with long, deep strokes, pausing between each, inhaling and exhaling in time.
"We're going to be happy Sharon; you and I. I promise."
Awash in bliss, his body wrapped in hers as tightly as she was wrapped in his, she believed him.
OOOO
When she awoke she was alone in the bed, but not alone in the house. As much as Bucky was trying to be quiet, old houses and their floorboards creaked with most every step and gust of wind, to say nothing of creaky cabinet doors and old faucets. Morning had arrived despite the respite of the dark and Bucky's story; told to keep her calm no doubt. She slipped back into the discarded tee shirt and opened the bedroom door to let in the daylight.
"Hi." Bucky seemed nearly as dejected at she felt. His voice was quiet, his eyes fixed on the mug he held rather than her face, his complexion pale, except for the circles under his eyes that put them into an even deeper shadow.
"Good morning." Her voice had no more strength to it. Regret began to gnaw at the inside of her gut.
"I'm sorry I woke you. I made some tea." Every word sounded like an apology unto itself.
"Thank you." Sadly, so did hers to her own ears. Her hand touched his as she reached for the mug he held out to her. When they did her eyes misted up again and she turned away.
"I should get dressed, go home."
"No." The hand he placed on her shoulder was trembling, just like his breath. Turning around she met his haunted gaze, he repeated himself. "No."
With a ferocity that Sharon had never seen in him, Bucky pulled her body into his, tea and mug spilling over them both as he forced his mouth over hers, pulling a breath from her lungs, crushing her lips and tasting her with a depth of passion that made her heart stop and her legs feel weak. She wrapped her arms around his naked back; afraid she would join the shattered mug on the floor if she didn't. His hands found their way underneath the borrowed tee shirt, kneading the muscles of her back, taking her curves, bending her to his desires. Sharon felt her body beginning to react to his obvious lusts and strengths. Bucky kept her crushed to his chest as they both caught their breaths when he finally gave up his hold on her mouth.
"Bucky?" She felt his hands continue to caress her, felt his warm breath against her neck and soft kisses he placed there.
"It wasn't a dream, what happened last night," he began, "it was real, as real as all the hell he's put you through, and I can't let you go back to that Sharon. You don't have to go back to that."
Tears rolled down her face.
"I don't know what to do." His grip on her back tightened.
"I do. I've been thinking, most of the night actually. If you'll let me help you?"
She gave her answer in a desperate kiss.
"I have some friends, from the service, I can call them, and we'll all go back to the house. It's only yours because you work at the University; he has no claim on it. The furniture?"
"Was all there when we moved in."
"Even easier. We'll get boxes; we'll pack up all his things. You can text him and tell him to collect them from the porch. We'll all wait with you till he does, or you can come back here and not have to see him at all, whatever you wish. I'll have facilities change the locks today."
"You have done a lot of thinking."
"I'm good at that. Shall we do it?"
"I don't know if it will work."
"You haven't met my friends yet. We weren't called the Howling Commandos for nothing."
FIN