Saturdays are easy.  Slow.  

Saturdays, she says, are for cleaning.  Housework.  Chores.  Routines.  

Saturdays are Bucky’s favorite day of the week.  Sure, he likes the routine.  Putting his muscles to work, building and repairing instead of breaking apart.  And, yes, smiling after every thankful kiss she places on his cheek when he’s fixed something that’s needed mending.

Saturdays are also for music.

She wakes mid-morning, yawning and stretching in the warm glow of the sunshine spilling through their bedroom windows, humming some happy tune already as she smothers him with hugs and the start of all her kisses.  She’s off before he can really get his hands on her, lush hips swaying, leaving a jaunty melody and him, hard as a rock, in her wake.

He lays there a long moment, slightly flustered and just this side of miffed,  listening to her moving about on the first floor.  When the radio cuts on, blasting some bright and upbeat pop song, he knows it’s time to get moving, hard cock be damned.

Downstairs, she’s already dancing around the living room, her hair tied up with one of those colorful scarves he likes so much and those wonderful hips swaying and bouncing as she dusts.  She smiles and winks at him.  Pauses long enough to blow him a kiss before he heads outside.

He can hear her singing, a voice that could rival the best he’s ever heard, as he lugs the lawnmower out of the shed.  Can still hear every note echoing in his head as he cuts the front yard.  

She brings him sweet tea and a sandwich when he finishes weeding.  Sits with him while he eats, her eyes on his left arm, humming again as she watches the sunlight dance and sparkle over the gleaming metal.    

When he’s finished, she ruffles his hair, uncaring of the sweat that’s making it curl slightly, and takes his empty glass and plate back into the house.  He waits until her long, brown legs are out of sight before he gets back to work.

She saves the bluegrass for the afternoon, when he’s fixing the sink in the guest bedroom.  He passes her on his way to the garage to get some tool she’s no doubt moved, and she’s there, in the kitchen, arms raised above her head, belting right along with the guitars and fiddles echoing through every corner of the house.  

She isn’t ashamed at being caught.  In fact, she plays it up even more, swaying and stomping her bare foot and stretching out her hands to him in invitation.  But, he only shakes his head, warmth flaring in his chest at her silliness.  Moves off to finish what he’d started.

Late evening brings soul music, sometimes sad and melancholy, heartbreaking and mournful.  Sometime upbeat and catchy, bouncing and rolling and shaking the walls, and he finds himself humming along as he showers the day’s work from his skin.

He tries to catch her again when she passes him on his way out, already bare and ready for her own shower.  But, she giggles and wiggles against him.  Elbows him playfully in the ribs.

“My turn to shower now, Barnes.”

“Can’t get any dirtier,” he throws back, nuzzling the soft spot below the hinge of her jaw.  

“So says you,” she says, executing an effortless and oddly graceful spin out of his grasp.  She’s singing again when she shuts the door in his face.

He doesn’t dare shut off the music.  He steps out onto the deck to return a few missed phone calls from Steve and Sam.  Promises to meet up for lunch with them later in the week.  Laughs along with them when they tease him about all the housework she’s got him doing, though they both know there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.

He looks up briefly when the music suddenly stops.  Bids Sam goodnight and turns to head back into the house.

She’s at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells warm and inviting.  Like home.  Like her.

She’s singing still as he slides the patio door shut, and he realizes it’s one of his favorites.  Her head is bowed and her left arm is folded behind her back and she’s staring down into the pot.  Her voice is low, full of all the emotion the song calls for and he merely stands staring at her, love filling up in his chest, making his heart pulse and throb.

Dear I thought I’d drop a line

The weather’s cool

The folks are fine

I’m in bed each night at nine

P.S. I love you

The song, her voice, winds through his brain.  Has him breathing out a long, slow breath as he leans a broad shoulder against the doorframe.

Yesterday we had some rain

But all in all

I can’t complain

Was it dusty on the train

P.S. I love you

There are memories floating around inside his head, though they aren’t the dark, savage ones to which he’s grown accustomed.  No, these ones are softer, lit with sunlight at their edges.  Warm and clear and brighter.

Write to the Browns just as soon as you're able

They came around to call

I burnt a hole in the dining room table

And, let me see, I guess that’s all

He hardly thinks about those times, the times before the war, when he’d been young and so very stupid; when there was no Hydra, no Soldier and hope and peace seemed tangible and real.  He wonders now what it would have been like to have a gal like this one waiting for him, a gal like this one to come home to, a gal like this one to sing him through his days and soothe him through his nights.  And, his heart aches sweetly at the thought.

Nothing else for me to say

And, so, I’ll close

Oh, by the way

Everybody’s thinking of you

P.S. I love you

She squeals when his arms wind around her waist, giggling and flinging a bit of whatever she’d been stirring across the stovetop.  He turns her around.  Takes her left hand in his right.  Uses his left arm to hold her flush to him.

“Don’t stop,” he says softly, aware of the catch in his words and the haze that’s taking over the edges of his vision.

She appears worried for a moment, dark eyes searching his face, but then she smiles.  Leans in and rests her head over his heart.  Picks up where she’d left off, her sweet and sultry voice vibrating through his chest.

Write to the Browns just as soon as you're able

They came around to call

And, I burnt a hole in the dining room table

And, let me think, I guess that’s all

Nothing else for me to say

And, so, I’ll close

Oh, by the way

Everybody’s thinking of you

P.S. I love you

Love you, love you…

Bucky is glad for those easy Saturdays drenched in sunlight and bursting with music.  Because when the darkness comes, as it inevitably does, leaving him feeling so heavy and worn, at least he has those days to lean on, and a soft, loving woman who’s arms are always open for him.  

She doesn't question it.  She’s grown accustomed to his brooding and often mercurial moods.   And when she feels he’s slipped just a tad bit too far, she's there with a laugh and cheesy grin.  Warm hands on his shoulders.  A kiss.  One on each cheek.  A third on his lips that lingers and tastes sweeter than sugar.  A song to soothe and settle.  

P.S. I love you...

As if he could ever forget.  She’s his light.  His sunshine amidst the murky shadows of memory and regret.  His hope and his promise. His will to keep moving.

She gives him music and laughter.  The warm press of her skin grounds him, keeps the pieces from falling apart.  

Sleep doesn't always come easy, but her soft breath on his neck, the weight of her arm curled over him, provides assurance enough.  

P.S. I love you…

“Is this… too much?” he asks one rough night when the dreams won't let him settle.  When they keep jerking him awake, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of her hips.

She shifts in his hold, leaning away to stare at him, and the look on her face says she thinks he’s actually finally lost it.   A flicker of moonlight waits in her eyes.

“Where do you think I’m going, Barnes?”

His gaze drops to her lips, uncertainty tinged with fear twining through his stomach like thick, dried out vines.  He doesn’t reply.  Can't give voice to the thought tumbling about inside his head. So, he simply shrugs.

“This can’t be easy for you,” he says instead.

She curls her tongue at the corner of her mouth, huffing air out through her nose.  

“You want me gone?”

His response is immediate and heartfelt. “No!”

One thin hand smooths up his flesh arm, sliding over his shoulder.  She twists her fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at the base of his skull the way he likes, the way that always soothes him.

“Please don't ask me that question ever again, Bucky,” she says,  firm and certain.  “I’m here.  I’ll be here.  That's all there is to it.”

P.S. I love you…

He asks her to marry him one cool fall evening, when they're relaxing after dinner on the deck.  

He realizes too late that he doesn’t even have a ring and that, maybe, she would have appreciated a much more grand gesture involving family and friends.

She doesn’t respond immediately. In fact,  she sits eerily still, her eyes on the shed.  He can hear the rhythm of her heart and its rapid pounding seems to echo in his ears.

Finally, she turns to him, eyes soft in the fading light and misty with tears.

"You mean that, Barnes?”

The hope in her voice tells him he isn't wrong, that he hasn't performed some irrevocable misstep, and he laughs lightly.  Relieved.  

“Yeah,” he sighs, nodding.  

He pushes out of his chair and drops to both knees in front of her.  Slides his rough palms up the tops of her bare thighs and curls his fingers over her hips.  

“I mean, that is, if you’ll have me.”

Her mouth falls open.  “If I'll have you? If I’ll have you?!?!” She lunges at him, linking her arms around his neck and hugging him close.  “Never wanted anything more in my life.”

He can't name every emotion churning through him as he hugs her to him, placing grateful kisses over the bare skin of her neck and shoulders.  But the one that’s certain, the one that’s the brightest, the fullest,  is joy.  

P.S. I love you…

The wedding, like the couple, is unconventional.  

The Avengers assemble.  

Steve and Sam walk her down the aisle, both grinning with pride.  Clint, whose list of accomplishments somehow include ‘Ordained Minister’ pronounces them husband and wife. She giggles and practically launches herself into his arms.  

He kisses her so long and deep on the steps of the little church he’s certain the building rocks on its foundation with all the hoots and hollers echoing around it.

She looks beautifully flustered when he finally releases her.  

“Gonna get us smited before we can even consummate the marriage, Barnes!” she giggles.  

“Worth it,” he replies, laughing when he pinches her ass and has to catch her before she topples down the steps.

P.S. I love you…

The reception is full of laughter and, of course, music.  Her beloved pop and bluegrass and soul.  And she shines so bright, so alive and real that he can hardly believe he’s here, that she’s agreed to spend the rest of her life holding together his broken pieces.  

A lifetime of Saturdays stretches out ahead of him.  Housework and routines.  Building and mending.  Mowing the lawn and easy nights watching the stars from the deck.  And maybe, just maybe, watching her stomach grow round and full with his children.

Nothing else for me to say

And, so, I’ll close

She sings to him while they dance, her head over his heart and her voice filling up the dark places in him, smooth and sweet and loving.

Oh, by the way

Everybody’s thinking of you

He holds her tight.  Feels her shiver and sigh when his metal fingers press her closer still.

P.S. I love you

Love you

Love you....

He’s getting her coffee started the morning she tells him she’s pregnant and he drops the entire can, the seal breaking on impact and spilling dark grinds across the floor.  

She stares at the mess a long moment, eyes wide and lips slightly parted before bringing her gaze back up to his.  

“I’m not cleanin’ that up,” she huffs, shifting her weight to one hip.  She brings her hands up to curl around the doorframe.

It’s a long time before Bucky finds his voice.  It’s low and rough and shredded at the edges.  Disbelieving.

 “...How?”

She pokes her bottom lip out, her thin brow furrowing.  “You see, when two people love each other very much ,” she says.  She’s joking but he can see her hands shaking, can see the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she tries to keep her breathing even.

P.S. I love you…

He’s moving before he’s even made the decision to do so, boots tracking through the mess of coffee and she squeals his name at the sight.  He doesn’t care.  He’s got her face cupped in his hands, tilting her head back to look at him.  He can feel his heart pounding in his chest,  blood rushing and making his neck and face feel overly warm.

“Are you sure,” he asks a bit more firmly than he intended.  There’s hope rising in him, swirling in the pit of his stomach, twisted up with a sliver of fear that he refuses to acknowledge at the moment.  

She smiles and it’s shaky.  Shrugs her shoulders.   “I mean, I’ll have to get a blood test to confirm, but the two tests I just took say ‘yes’.”

That's what she’d been doing.  She would have already been downstairs with him before now.  But she’d hung back… And it all makes sense now - her sudden lack of energy, the nausea, the aches and pains she’d been complaining about.

“Bucky, honey, you gotta say something. And, maybe, breathe while you’re at it? You’re freakin’ me out.”

P.S. I love you…

He pulls her in by her shoulders, wraps his arms around her.  Feels her own heart thundering against him through the thin material of her shirt.   He can’t believe it.  It all feels so surreal.  Children had never been a discussion between them, neither of them certain that it was even possible, yet terrified to find out otherwise.  

But, it’s real and true and he doesn't know what to say, what to do.  He knows he should worry, knows there are more things that need to be discussed.  But for now, at least, he’s happy to hold her in silence, inside the glow of early morning sunlight spilling in through the windows, with her fingers digging into his back and her tears wetting his shirt.

“I’m gonna be a dad…”

P.S. I love you…

The months seem to fly by.   For him, at least.  He watches in wonder and astonishment as her body changes, grows soft and round with the life growing inside her.  Can’t keep his hands off of her stomach, palms smoothing reverently over her dark flesh.  And she smiles at him.  Winks and kisses his face, her cheeks bulging with whatever junk food she’s been craving.

“All yours, Barnes,” she says as if to remind him. To ground him.

At night he pulls out his phone and replays the first sounds of his son’s heartbeat, amazed at the speed and strength of it.  Mesmerized by it.  Still disbelieving that his own bruised and broken body could have helped to create something so perfect and beautiful.

She talks him through his fears and worries.  Assures him.  Comforts him.

“You’re ready,” she whispers in his ear on the nights when he can’t sleep and fear winds through his brain.  “You're ready and you deserve it and you’re gonna be great.”

He sighs, twining his arms more tightly around her.  Feels her belly poking at him.  

P.S. I love you…

She goes into labor at five am on a Friday, two weeks early, and Bucky is surprised at how calm they both remain.  At least until they make it to the hospital.  Then, all hell breaks loose.

The labor pains escalate and she turns into a wild cat, hissing and cussing at everything that moves inside their little room.  

He laughs at one point, his own nerves getting the best of him, and she fires a pink bedpan at his head, swearing to all the Gods above that she’ll never let him touch her again.

“Fucking super soldier and your fucking super sperm,” she screeches, trembling hands clutching frantically at the sidebars of her hospital bed while she rocks from side to side. “Did I ask for this? Fuuuuuck ! No more, Barnes! No more babies for you! Who the fuck do I have to kill to get some pain meds around here?!?!?! ”

P.S. I love you…

There isn’t enough time for pain medication.  The contractions come fast and hard and before either of them is fully aware of what’s going on, her doctor is there and she’s telling her to push.  She’s got a grip on his metal hand and she’s squeezing so hard he thinks she’ll actually manage to break it.

But then it’s over.  There’s a pause while the nurses move to the side to clean off his kid, and then the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard fills the room - the first cries of his son, his boy, pitched high and frantic, almost angry, he thinks, and he laughs again, tears forming in his eyes and coasting down his cheeks.

He kisses his wife, kisses her damp forehead and trembling lips.  Thanks her over and over and over again.

A nurse brings his son to him and he freezes.  But then she’s settling him in his arms, smiling reassuringly at him, and he blinks in bewilderment at the tiny thing nestled against him.  He’s been swaddled in a soft blanket and all Bucky can see of him is his chubby tawny-colored face and a puff of black curls peeking out from beneath the little blue beanie they've put on him.  

He looks to his wife, a mess of words on his tongue, though none of which is he able to give voice.  She blinks tired eyes at him.  Smiles softly. Happily.

P.S. I love you…

His teammates filter in throughout the day to meet their newest addition and he stands by, every bit the proud Pop, smiling and shaking hands, accepting their gifts and flowers, and he thinks his wife has never been more beautiful than she is now.  Doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy.  Afraid still, of course, but more than that.  So much more.  

Complete. 

Whole.

Satisfied.

P.S. I Love You…