Chapter Title: Tata
Author: Sam and Dani
Story: The Omega Trials: 07 of ?
Series: The Omega Rights (part two)
Settings: Setting: AU: February 28 thru March 10, 1934:
Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Note: This was a difficult chapter to write. Thank you for your patience as we sorted through the strong emotions and trauma.
WARNING: Death of a minor character and post traumatic stress. Please skip this if you cannot handle active death, funerals, or the grief related aftermath . Next chapter picks the regular mood back up again; and we are posting Chapter Eight at the same time to help relieve the pressure on our readers. Thank you.
xxx
Translations:
Goyim - Chosen Nation (Jewish) - spoken Yiddish or Hebrew
Gentiles - Other Nations (non-Jewish) - spoken Yiddish or Hebrew
"Tak, Tata, jesterm Jakub." - "Yes, Father, it's James." - Polish
"Zawsze, Tata." - "Always, Father." - Polish
Sczcepan - Steven - Polish
Leanbh - Baby - Irish Gaelic
Seamus - James - Irish Gaelic
Cariad - Love - Welsh
fy ngwdadwriaeth - my sweetheart - Welsh
xxx
Setting: AU: Wednesday, February 28, 1934: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Laughing at Bucky's latest absurd observation of some snooty rich man whose life seemed to have been spared by what the news sheets had coined 'The Great Depression,' Steve led the way into the butcher's shop. Sawdust coated the wooden floor, counters and cold boxes lined both sides of the room, and five men stood ready, waiting to serve the customers who could afford meat on any sort of basis, regular or otherwise. The smells of blood and raw meat filled the air, but something mixed with the wood shavings on the floor dampened any lingering odors . . . though Steve, whose nose had always been sensitive, could still detect the hint of decay from a side room. He stepped to Bucky's other side, away from the slaughter house or garbage room or whatever lay behind that solid-looking door.
Looking over the long, clean counter, Mr. Kratz, the owner, smiled at the two boys, stepping down the room to meet them; his other staff were currently busy with various customers, thus the master of the butcher shop moved to serve the teens. "Hello, hello," he called merrily in his accented English - - Bucky had told Steve some time ago that the man spoke a language called Yiddish. Calling merrily, Mr. Kratz continued "Ah, Missus Barnes wishes a flank of beef. I . . ."
A stern, pinched woman's voice interrupted. "Hello? I need service."
Mr. Kratz and both boys looked over at the woman dressed in some kind of fur coat and muff along with heeled shoes. She could have come from a fashion sheet with her stylish, new-looking outfit and furred hat. The shop owner offered her a smile. "Yes, Mrs. Fleischman. I'll be with you directly."
The woman eyed the two teens in their worn, plain clothing and drew her coat closer around her. "I am a regular, paying customer, Mr. Kratz, as you well know. My husband purchases only the most prime selection of meats. And . . ." she looked imperious. "I am too busy a woman to wait while a Goyim shop serves Gentiles."
A small, frustrated sigh escaped the butcher as Steve bristled at the woman's implied insult that the teens weren't worth the time to serve. Bucky smiled easily. "Go ahead. We'll wait," he murmured, to Mr. Kratz, and the shop owner sent the sixteen year old a thankful smile in return, hurrying off to tend to his rich, impatient client.
Neither friend spoke as they moved to watch one of the younger shop keeps serving a very pretty lass from school. Steve offered her a shy smile when she glanced over, but, like all the girls around the pair, she only seemed to notice Bucky - - who gave her his normal, everyday devastating smile in return. Privately Steve wondered when he'd hit his next growth spurt and shoot up like Bucky had when he'd been fifteen. The older boy stood at exactly six feet in height by then, while Steve remained precisely five foot four inches . . . an entire eight inches shorter than his best friend. The smaller height and delicate build of the skinny blond often fooled other people into the belief that Steve might be twelve or thirteen . . . still.
Before the pretty girl could encourage Bucky to flirt with her, as he inevitably would wind up doing if left near most females too long, Mr. Kratz returned to the teens. His rich customer held her bag extremely tight to her fur-coated body as she eased past the two young males, everything about her screaming that she felt the boys might try to rob her of her purchases and remaining money.
Waiting until after she left, Bucky snorted with amusement, pulling Steve into an answering grin. The tall brunet rolled his eyes to the butcher and said "I guess she's a bit upset that we non-Jewish people like your meat and service so much, we'd shop here." Mr. Kratz seemed to relax at the amused rather than annoyed reaction from the patient pair. "Mam called in an order," Bucky smoothly reminded the butcher. As if the man had never stopped waiting on them in the first place.
"Yes, a beef flank," the butcher replied and carefully selected a very prime cut before wrapping it in thick white paper and tying it with string. He beamed at the teens as he handed over the parcel, meeting Bucky's knowing eye - - that cut had been more valuable than Mam's order. With a grateful nod towards the door, as if that explained everything, the man pushed the parcel of meat into the near-seventeen year old boy's hands. "And thank you very much for your patience, young James. Oh!" He added, lifting one hand, "And happy birthday, isn't it?"
Bucky laughed. "In about two weeks, Sir, but thank you." He accepted the unspoken present of the better cut and slipped Tata's money on the counter. "It's all . . ."
". . . there," finished Mr. Kratz without even counting. "You may only come in around very special occasions, James Barnes, but you have always been honest and patient. I've no need to count your bill." And the man smiled heartily, tucking the money into the clunky register, and moved off to help another customer.
"Momma's always sayin' 'honey catches more flies than vinegar,' intoned Steve with a grin.
Bucky shot him an answering smirk, handing the package off to his friend. "Yeah, but who wants to catch vinegar or flies?" he quipped at the poorly structured old saying.
They laughed and walked from the shop into the freezing February air, snow crunching underfoot and just beginning to drift down in fat flakes.
Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, knowing Steve would refuse to give the meat back despite how cold his hand would be outside his own pocket, Bucky merely strode ahead, keeping an eye out in order to spot his father. "So, Steve, you and your Mam'll come for my birthday and help us eat this good beef, won't you?"
"Of course," Steve answered readily. "And we'll even come for the company."
Laughing, Bucky shunted his shoulder sideways into his smaller friend with an affectionate "punk."
"Jerk," Steve shot back as he shoved back against Bucky's sturdier frame. As always, the brunet let himself sway with Steve's effort - - not precisely stumbling but swaying in acknowledgement of Steve's weaker shove. They shared another grin.
Down the street, the pair caught sight of Tata limping towards them, using his thick wooden cane, coming from the warehouse he'd found yet another temporary job at, this one packing glassware inside straw-filled wooden boxes in preparation for spring shipments. The brown haired, grey eyed man raised a hand in greeting, smiling widely as he spotted the teens coming towards him. Picking up their pace to meet the Barnes Patriarch, neither youth paid attention to the chill wind, the crunching snow, or the jostling crowds on their own errands.
Suddenly, inexplicably to Steve, Tata's attention seemed drawn to the road right before he threw himself off the pavement and into the path of a fast moving delivery truck.
A scream tore from Bucky's throat, and he took off at a run towards the finally stopping vehicle and the gathering crowd. "Tata!"
Steve followed at a sprint, beginning to pant in the cold air. He knew the older boy had been clearly able to see the full accident and reason for it; Bucky's vantage from the far side of the sidewalk, plus his greater height, had given him a superb vantage point as a witness. Thus, Bucky would have actually seen the truck hit and drive over his father. Somewhat thankful, if feeling a little guilty, Steve could only be glad he'd been spared the gruesome sight - - he'd merely seen Mr. Barnes disappear before Bucky had screamed and the truck screeched to a sickening, thumping halt - - the blond managed to somewhat keep up with his larger friend's pace.
After pushing through the gathering crowd of onlookers, Bucky slid in the road slush to Tata's side. "Tata?" He reached out a hand to his broken, bleeding father, confusion and horror ranging through him. "Tata?"
The man's tense body seemed to relax slightly at his son's voice, and he tilted his oddly misshapen head, a large swelling already beginning to disfigure the man's normally good looks. As George's body canted to the side, he revealed a small dark-skinned girl of about seven curled protectively in the injured man's arms, shielded from the harsh impact of the truck by Tata's lean frame. The trembling, crying girl seemed scared but relatively unhurt.
Bucky gently took her hand and pulled her out of his father's broken embrace, just as a series of authoritative voices began to control the crowd.
Things blurred for Bucky at that point, but Steve would never forget the horrible differing opinions of the crowd stating "he should have let her get hit" versus "my Lord, the man's an angel!" As the policemen took Tata off to St. Mary's, hoping to treat him for his severe head wound and other various injuries, the little girl's mother arrived to, crying, whisk her daughter into a body-crushing embrace.
"Oh, my Lord! Emmajean, you scared two lives outta your Momma!" The woman, nicely dressed, obviously employed at one of the nicer colored establishments, turned to Bucky. "Oh, thank you!"
The sixteen year old, ever honest, shook his head. "I didn't do anything. My father Jerzy Barnes, saved her from the truck." He didn't question himself why he gave Tata's real, Polish birth name rather than the Americanized version everyone else used.
The woman nodded. "I'd like to thank your Papa for saving my baby. She's not too smart and . . ."
Suddenly reminded of his little sister Gracie, Bucky nodded. "My sister don't think too good, either, Ma'am." It felt right, saying such, but the brunet couldn't figure out why talking about what society deemed his 'retarded' sister would be necessary - - Tata needed him.
Steve suddenly cut in. "Bucky, we've gotta tell your Momma." His eyes darted to the woman and her crying, banged up daughter. Politely, the small blond offered, "Ma'am, you might wanna get your Emmajean to a doctor, in case she's hurt worse'n she looks. I'll tell Mr. Barnes of your thanks. He'd rather your little girl was seen than to be told he'd done what any good Christian shoulda done anyway."
"Thank you," the woman's eyes turned to Steve and he flushed, muttering.
"Uh, Steve Rogers, ma'am," though he doubted she heard as the worried mother stood up to move out of the road.
Steve grabbed Bucky's arm and tugged him, unresisting, from the street, the crowd, the horror and confusion. The small blond led his best friend home. Once beyond the front door of the main hall, Bucky listed sideways, right into the wall still painted with Gracie's fading blue line . . . a line Steve always followed with a gentle touch whenever he visited over the years. Helping the tall brunet up two flights of stairs and over to apartment 3F, Steve noted that Bucky barely seemed to function from the shock; this time the older boy's fingers traced the old guiding paint.
Apparently someone at the scene of the accident had kindly called Winifred Barnes with the news as she met the boys at the apartment door. All three girls stood bundled in their winter outerwear, and Mrs. Barnes tugged Bucky into a hug then followed it with one for Steve. She pulled the five children towards the steps.
Bucky shot Steve a hopelessly overwhelmed look as he drifted in the woman's wake.
xxx
Setting: AU: Friday, March 2, 1934: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Bucky lived in a haze through Wednesday and Thursday and into Friday, as he waited a desperate vigil at his father's bedside.
The sixteen year old had been vaguely aware that Sarah and Steve had moved into the Barnes's apartment shortly after Gracie visited the hospital: she'd begun screaming "I smell death!" until Winifred had removed her from the building, crying and whimpering. Fifteen year old Becca called Sarah Rogers to arrange for her help, and the nurse moved in that night, bringing clothes for her son, as well. WIthout a guest room, the living arrangements had been odd, at best. Gracie insisted on sleeping in with her mother, thus Sarah took Becca's bed and the teen shared Rosie's bed. Steve had been installed into Bucky's room as the only males in the household.
But the boys rarely saw each other over the days of Tata's stay in the hospital. Steve, Becca, and Rosie continued to attend school; Gracie was kept home as she seemed to be taking her father's injury very hard. Winifred had her hands full caring for the hysterical Gracie, and Sarah worked all day long. Thus, Bucky skipped school with his mother's permission, spending all day and the early evenings by his father's bedside. As a result, Bucky and Steve only saw each other at night, wrapped in darkness and each other's arms, as Steve held Bucky close while the older boy let the tears flow softly into his best friend's comforting embrace.
Friday had been no different.
Bucky sat at his father's bedside, watching Tata sleep . . . or 'struggle with consciousness' as the doctor had put it. Tata's head injury had been so severe that on Wednesday evening the surgeon relieved the building pressure by removing a wide piece of skull so the swelling brain would not compress. Since then Tata seemed to awaken sometimes, but he always looked confused and spoke in garbled Polish before drifting back into the restless unresponsive state. The doctors predicted that Tata would either die soon or would recover but live forever as an imbecile and need permanent hospitalization for his care; he'd have that soft area where the bone had been removed, forever a danger for the man.
Still, Bucky held out hope. He prayed constantly by his father's side, holding the man's limp, bruised hand in his own strong ones, caressing that once sturdy, scraped arm, softly talking to his father in English and Polish. If he could help his father break through the confusion and darkness, Bucky felt certain he could - - and would - - gladly take care of the man for the rest of Tata's life.
Bucky leaned closer and called softly, yet again, to his father. "Tata, I love you. Please, open your eyes."
And, as if by some miracle, the man did.
Hope surged through the sixteen year old. "Tata?" Bucky breathed, watching those wise grey eyes for recognition or even some lucidity. Bucky's vigil was at last rewarded.
The brown-haired man trailed his eyes over the room in confusion, his head held still between padded blocks, then he seemed to settle on the youth barely in his vision. Bucky sat straighter as those eyes tried to meet his. Tata's confusion appeared to change, more to uncertainty than lack of any recognition at all. The man blinked at the tall youth hovering over him and licked his lips. Hoarsely, in fluid Polish, he asked /"You are my son?"/
Tears welling, gratitude and love shining through his voice, Bucky replied "Tak, Tata, jesterm Jakub."
"Jakub?" Tata asked, sounding confused.
With a gentle nod and a stroke to that familiar, well worn hand, Bucky corrected "Bucky," though there was no Polish translation for the nickname.
Tata's face lit up in seeming recognition and he moved his left hand to cover Bucky's. The battered man smiled and said, /"Oh, Bucky, son, my love, my boy. You must take care of Steven. He is not so clever, yes, and will get in trouble without your love and protection."/
Stunned, Bucky nodded. "Zawaze, Tata." The boy tried to think of something else to say, but Tata sighed again, drawing the youth's complete attention.
Tata continued to smile, but his eyes glazed. His hand grew heavy on his son's arm, and his entire body seemed to sink a little bit against the bedding. Those beautiful, wide grey eyes remained open, looking at nothing, as they lost their shine.
Bucky pillowed his face on Tata's arm and cried . . .
. . . and that was how Steve found him almost an hour later.
xxx
Setting: AU: Monday, March 5, 1934: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
After Tata's death, Bucky took over almost all responsibilities dealing without outsiders. He spoke to hospital administrators, church officials, and staff members of the Daily Eagle. Dark bags, pale skin, and an intense, silent stare marked the change from almost carefree youth to responsible almost adult. He kept busy, took control, and let the girls and his mother grieve for their loss. In fact, Bucky began to work at a near feverish pace, always busy, always moving.
Only in the night, in Steve's embrace, did the sixteen year old let his tears out, shaking silently and quietly burrowing into the comfort of his best friend, who also grieved the loss of a man who had been as near to a father as the fifteen year old had ever had.
The day of the funeral arrived during a warm spell and the family went through the long funeral mass. Steve and Sarah Rogers had been asked, by Winifred, to sit in the family pew with them, and no one seemed surprised when the Rogers family joined the Barnes family as if a part of the small family. Jerzy 'George' Barnes may have been a devoted family man, avoiding drinking establishments and other nightly amusements, but he'd had many friends. The church filled to capacity with friends, colleagues, former co-workers, and an entire regiment of the 107th Infantry, to which George had been assigned as a Sergeant during the Great War. As a sign of respect, the former soldier had been clothed in his dress uniform for burial, and a military color guard stood ready to honor their fallen comrade.
Finally the pall bearers, Bucky among them, stood and lifted the casket, carrying it out to the hearse and sliding it carefully home. The funeral procession made their way to Holy Cross Cemetery where Bucky and the other bearers carried George's coffin to the graveside and carefully lowered it to the ground, placing it heavily on the straps arranged by the attendants to ease lowering it later on.
Shoulder of his Sunday suit still creased from the weight of his father's casket, Bucky stepped next to his mother and bowed his head. He solemnly listened to the Holy Father speaking his questionably comforting words of interment. Steve remained on the other side of his silent friend, listening to the words and trying not to cry . . . and failing. When the family placed flowers on the coffin, Winifred placed a deep red rose, Sarah a white rose, the Barnes girls all placed pink roses and Bucky slid a deep maroon rose onto the polished wood. Steve stepped forward and added his yellow rose to the group before stepping back to stand supportively beside Bucky once more.
When the service ended the mourners began to disperse, heading towards their vehicles or walking on foot, all intent on meeting at the large reception to share fond memories, good food, and mournful condolences. The family unit, including Sarah and her son, remained at the graveside, still silently communing their last thoughts and prayers and even regrets.
Finally, Winifred took her youngest daughter, ten year old Gracie, by the hand and nodded, silently signaling to the others that it was time to leave. As the group moved from the graveside, allowing the attendants to begin the final interment, the family moved slowly, one by one becoming aware of the only other group nearby.
A dark-skinned man, his wife, and their five children stood beyond where the circle of Caucasian mourners had been. The youngest was the only girl child and she had dressed in a pressed, white Sunday dress with her hair in pigtails and thick black bands encircling her waist and upper arm. When the Barnes and Rogers families noticed them, the dark-skinned woman lifted her daughter into her arms and walked over to Winifred. "I am so sorry, Ma'am, for your loss. He saved my little girl."
Bucky blinked, slowly, feeling as if he woke from a dream. Before anyone else could speak, the teen asked kindly "Hello, Emmajean, have your cuts healed?"
The girl nodded and her mother put her down then the child stepped carefully over to the tall boy. In a small voice, with just the bare hint of a remaining baby lisp, Emmajean said "yes, thank you, sir." Bucky knelt and the little girl held out a flower to him, carefully grasped all that time in order not to crush it. She offered the flower, a simple white daisy, again. "This is for your papa in Heaven."
A small sob came from Winifred, but she smiled at the girl's efforts, not frowned.
Bucky nodded, stood without touching the flower, and grasped the little girl's hand carefully. He led her back to the graveside, where the third family had not approach, and the attendants ceased their work, watching intently. Gently the teen nodded to the small child, saying, "you may give it to him, Emmajean. His name is Jerzy. That's Polish for George."
The tiny girl nodded and walked to the partially filled hole yawning in the ground, unafraid. She dropped the daisy as far over the edge as she could reach, so it landed on the one remaining blossom that had yet to be covered by dirt: Steve's yellow rose. "Thank you for my life, Mister Jerzy. You're with the rest of the angels now."
With that the little girl turned, Bucky took her hand, and the pair walked back to their three families. Before he let Emmajean's hand go, Bucky knelt by her. He took off his father's chain and cross he wore around his neck and gently placed it around the girl's. "He will always protect you now, Emmajean." She kissed his cheek and not one person remarked on the oddity of a black child kissing a white teen.
The rest of the day passed, once more, in a haze for Bucky, and he merely went through the motions of eating, only a small bit, responding to mourners, in a soft voice, and continually seeing to his family's needs. The hours seemed uncertain how long they should run, first dragging by then racing at a dizzying speed then dragging once more, until finally night fell.
Everyone else had long gone, and Winifred turned to the red-eyed, tear-streaked Steve. "Take him to bed, Szczepan. You both need rest."
Steve obeyed and took Bucky's arm, leading him, exhausted and emotionally drained, into the small bedroom, latching the door behind them.
Bucky stripped, still walking in a daze, hung up his Sunday suit, then crawled, completely nude, under the thick winter quilt and blankets. When Steve climbed in with him, worried about his friend's unnatural quiet, Bucky suddenly turned and curled around Steve. Their bodies pressed flush, skin to skin, and Bucky buried his face into Steve's shoulder and began to cry. The older boy's sobs came quietly, racking his body, the shaking almost the only indicator that Bucky had finally broken down.
Ten long minutes passed before, once again, Steve felt Bucky's body relax into a fitful sleep, as had happened every night since the Friday of Tata's death. The blond stroked his friend's soft brown hair and sighed, thankful to have pretty much cried himself out at the funeral and reception. Slowly, listening to the stuttering hitch shading Bucky's sleeping breath, Steve drifted off to sleep, still pressed securely against his best friend's body.
Two hours later, the entire house awoke to the sound of gut wrenching screams ripping chills down the spine.
Steve shook the thrashing Bucky awake, every scream tearing from his best friend's throat sending another soul rending jolt of worry through the smaller teen. As Bucky came awake, he shook so hard, he seemed to be convulsing. He clamped his arms around Steve and let out a long shuddering wail then began crying all over again. The blond had never seen his friend go through such a nightmarish reaction before.
The door flew open and Sarah ran in, carrying her purse and a large glass of water. Winifred held the trembling, whimpering Gracie in her arms, while Becca and Rosie tried to see around their mother. Becca's voice sounded stunned as she said "that's Jimmy? I thought it was Steve!" Winifred pulled the door shut, thankfully lending privacy to Sarah and the boys.
Mrs. Rogers sat on the foot of the bed, letting her son pet Bucky's hair and speak desperate nonsense to him. Quietly, she instructed "Leanbh, try to get the worry and fear out of your voice. He's picking up on your distress and he needs to feel calm, safe, which he is." She offered her son a tired smile.
Obeying his mother's instruction, Steve pushed his worry down deep and concentrated on trying to communicate love and safety to his friend, though Bucky seemed not to hear the words so lost in the aftermath of his horrible dream. It took almost half an hour before Bucky seemed to come to his senses, blinking at Steve with eyes dilated in lingering fear and grief.
Sarah nodded and handed the water glass to Steve, no longer clear but an odd greyish color. The fifteen year old looked at his mother, knowing she had slipped some kind of medicine into the water. She nodded her acceptance of her son's awareness. "Get him to drink it all, Leanbh. He needs the sleep without dreaming."
Nodding, Steve coaxed his best friend to drink the treated water and, without protest, a very exhausted Bucky obeyed instantly.
xxx
Setting: AU: Saturday, March 10, 1934: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Sarah kept Steve out of school all week as Bucky, plagued by regular nightmares, remained in a near constant state of nightly dosing and daily fits of frantic work. The taller boy seemed withdrawn, unsmiling, yet he cleaned and studied almost obsessively.
When Steve asked him why, Bucky shrugged and in his perfectly normal tone answered, "Gotta keep busy, Stevie." Bucky lost weight; Steve had noticed his friend didn't eat much and what the older boy managed to consume seemed to come back up within the hour.
At night, Bucky screamed and clung to Steve so much that he'd left marks where his nails had raked Steve's pale flesh. Thus, Sarah continued to give the older boy the narcotics she'd managed to get her supervisor to provide her. Sarah had explained to Steve on the second night that the medicine had actually been intended for Gracie, but the little girl didn't seem to need it; she seemed sad, but the funeral had apparently calmed her down.
Now it wasn't for Gracie that the Rogers family remained living with the Barnes family: it was for the oddly behaving Bucky.
Thus, shortly before lunch on the tenth of March, Sarah pulled Steve aside while Bucky used the bathroom. "Leanbh, Winifred and I agree that if Seamus doesn't start recovering from his daytime mania and night terrors," she paused and took a deep breath.
Steve leaned forward intently, sensing that the news would not be good. "What, Momma?"
With a sigh, Sarah said softly "He'll need to be institutionalized, Leanbh, so doctors can help him."
"No!" Steve glared at his mother. "Bucky's not crazy!"
The nurse grabbed her fifteen year old son by the arms and shook her head. "Not yet, Leanbh, but he could slip into madness if we can't break this cycle."
"But . . . how can we stop it?" Steve practically wailed in despair. 'Bucky in a mad house?' "He's not crazy," Steve insisted again.
Sarah wrapped her arms around her son. "I know, Leanbh, I know. We've got an idea we're going to try at lunch." She sighed. "We think it might break him from his confusion." Lifting Steve's face, Sarah said carefully, "we think it's because he actually saw his father's accident and then saw him die. That's a lot of . . ." the nurse seemed to search for a word then settled on "mental trauma for anyone to deal with."
Slowly, Steve nodded. He turned as Bucky came out of the bathroom, studying the leaner frame of his best friend. The blond suddenly realized why the woman were so worried: it wasn't just Bucky's obsessive need to keep busy or the nightmares. The most troublesome problem had to be Bucky's inability to eat or keep much down; the normally athletic brunet was slowly starving to death.
Grasping Bucky's hand, much to the slow surprise of the older boy, Steve pulled his friend into the boy's bedroom and shut the door.
"Whatcha need, Steve?" Bucky asked curiously. His body felt a sort of numbness, had been since the . . . Friday before. If he didn't constantly move, Bucky feared that numb feeling would take over and he would collapse in tears, unable to move or even think. His mind felt dull and he always felt so 'out of things.' He hoped whatever Steve needed would help keep the lethargy at bay.
Thus the older boy felt shock course through his sluggish body when Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck and pulled him into a searing kiss.
"I'm worried about ya', Buck," Steve whimpered into Bucky's answering kiss. "You're not eating an' you can't sleep an' you're tryin' ta work yourself to death!" The small blond burrowed his face into Bucky's neck, stretching up on his toes to do so.
Bucky slid his arms around Steve and pressed the other teen close, burying his face in the smaller boy's hair and breathing deeply. "Don't cry, Stevie. I'm okay," he tried to reassure his friend but it had little effect. Wanting to soothe the distress Steve seemed to give off in waves, Bucky scooped up the blond into his arms and carried him to the bed, sitting down with Steve firmly in his lap.
The blond turned and slid a leg to either side of Bucky's lean hips, pushing up close so that their clothed crotches seemed to mesh. "I don't wanna lose ya', Buck, but you aren't okay. And I don't know how ta make ya' better!" Steve whimpered again, feeling almost helpless in the face of the brunet's grief response and Sarah's worried threat.
As Steve renewed his desperate kisses, Bucky's dull senses seemed to be waking up. The numbness started to fade in favor of rising fear for the smaller teen's well being. "Hey," Bucky said between Steve's frantic kisses, "Hey, Stevie . . . Cariad, calm down. You're starting to scare me."
As Steve sealed his mouth over Bucky's in another desperate, lingering kiss, the bedroom door opened. The boys sprang apart, looking towards the door, and Winifred, who merely stood, a shocked look on her pretty, worn features, studied the flushing teens then cleared her throat. "Lunch time," she said, softly, and she left, shutting the door once more.
With a sigh, Bucky stood, helping Steve up from where he lay sprawled on the bed after leaping from Bucky's lap. "Sorry, Stevie. I think we finally got caught," he whispered, eyes worried. The blond nodded silently in agreement. Glumly dreading what their mothers would say now that they'd been caught doing 'queer' things, both teens walked into the dining area of the kitchen.
Neither woman reacted as if anything had occurred. Rather, Winifred placed a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder and offered a small smile, while Sarah guided Bucky to his traditional seat at the table. A steak dinner sat ready before them . . . the same beef the boys had picked up almost two weeks prior. Bucky swallowed a painful lump as Gracie crawled onto his lap.
"Happy birthday, Bucky," she said and hugged him.
The seventeen year old hugged her back and offered a small smile. "Thank you, fy ngwdadwriaeth."
Winifred nodded, letting the brother and sister stay as they were, serving each of the children then Sarah before taking her own food. The meal went by quickly as Gracie filled in all awkward silences with happy chatter about a bird she saw that morning. she repeated the same story three times, but nobody stopped her. The sweet sounds and happy girlish giggles were reasons enough to ignore the repetitive nature of the telling; the group needed some lightness after the past two weeks.
With Bucky's last bite of the wonderful lunch he could barely enjoy: he ate sparingly, afraid it would come up again shortly, Gracie suddenly slipped off her brother's lap and ran into her mother's bedroom. Sarah got up to clear the table, settling a hand on first Steve's shoulder then Bucky's to prevent either boy from rising from the table to help. Bucky looked over at his best friend, worried, wondering when the women would pin them for a discussion about their unacceptable behavior. The blond returned his worried glance.
At the sound of Gracie unaccountably stumbling from the other room, Winifred stood and blocked Bucky's sight of his youngest sister. Her voice carried to the group at the table. "Tata can't come down from Heaven to give you a gift, Bucky," she struggled into the dining area, whatever she carried causing her difficulty as she finished, "so Mam said I could give you the gift this year." Finally, the girl made it around the barrier of her mother. The little girl carried a rather large German Shepard puppy.
She toppled the puppy into Bucky's lap, who caught the dog before it could tumble to the ground and get hurt. Stunned, Bucky stroked the puppy's silken fur, staring wide-eyed at his family. A quick glance at Steve's shocked face let the seventeen year old know that his friend had not been in on the present. The puppy nuzzled the boy's hand and he lifted confused grey-blue eyes to his mother, who looked excited and hopeful; Bucky was instantly sure that the gift had been his mother's idea rather than a last present from his father. The youth also knew exactly what his mother had hoped for when she gave him a dog: she wanted to break him out of his grief, his numbness.
His mother needn't have worried, Bucky knew. The interminable confusion and depression broke the instant Steve began to kiss him, trembling in his lap, begging him to get better.
xxx
Continued in Chapter Eight: Stress Relief