Spinning

Bucky still was getting used to the house. 

The Wilson home was one of the nicest Bucky could remember being in. Better than his shitty series of apartments and better than bland hotel rooms. There was comfortable furniture, pictures on the walls, and toys on the floor. The kitchen and small dining room permanently smelled like food, garlic and onions and fresh bread. The blanket draped across his legs was worn, but still warm, still soft. Maybe that’s why he found himself here more often than not these days. 

The place was lived in, real, full of people who hadn’t done terrible things. Maybe he was one of those people, somehow. He had made amends, did everything the shrink had told him. In the house he wasn’t his past, he was Bucky. Doesn’t mean he didn’t think about all that shit sometimes. Doesn’t mean that he slept any more soundlessly than he had before. 

He rolled onto his side, looking into the darkness of the living room. There was some light coming in through the window, a strip of yellow on the floor. There was no noise from beyond the kitchen, the house silent and still. Everyone safe and sound. His eyes went from the TV to the recliner to the entry into the kitchen. There wasn't anything to see, nothing to fear. What the hell was he supposed to with that? 

He leaned his head back on the arm of the couch, letting his head hit it with a thud. The pillow had scooted below his shoulders, propping him up. He rubbed a hand over his face, a thin sheet of sweat coming with it. He wiped his hand on his shirt and again allowed himself to look around the room. His eyes landed on the furniture in the corner. 

It had been in his line of sight for a while now, untouched and looking pristine. A turntable, vintage and well kept on the table. Several shelves of records below, lined up neatly in their place. A box of 45s in an old baby blue case at its side, snapped shut and nearly begging him to come rummage through. He had avoided doing so, not wanting to intrude anymore than he already had, sure the collection was a relic from the Wilson siblings’ parents. He satisfied himself with the songs from Sarah’s kitchen radio or the speaker the kids carried around, the way they laughed and moved to the beats they played. 

But the records reminded him of dancing, laughing, of scouring the neighborhood for the one person  who could actually afford the vinyl.  And while he doubted there was a Mills Brother LP on the Wilson’s shelf, he longed to touch them all the same. To hear the pops and crackles under the music that played through the old speakers. To lift up the arm and set the needle down. 

Flipping the blanket off his legs he sat up. His socked feet hit the floor with a soft thud as he stood. Bucky shuffled quietly over to the corner. He clicked on a floor lamp, casting the corner in a dim glow. He kneeled, knees gently hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. He ran his fingers along the spines of the record sleeves. They were alphabetical, meticulously ordered and easy to find. He let his fingers wander until they landed on a familiar name. Marvin Gaye. 

He pulled the record out, gazing at the cover. The split blocks of color, black and tan and hard to see in the darkness of the room. And Marvin, with his tan suit and beard and long hair, seemed to be looking right through him. He traced the letters of the title, the all too familiar song immediately playing in his head, Sam’s annoying but also charming crooning echoing in his ears. Trouble Man. 

He smiled to himself, imagining a young Sam on his toes, lifting the needle to place it perfectly in the groove. Watching the record spin and spin and spin while he bobbed his head along. Sarah watching him from the couch, pretending she didn’t like the song as much as he did. He imagined Sam and Steve driving along, the aux cord in Sam’s phone, the speakers shaking with the bassline and the drums cracking through their horrible singing. His smile faded. 

He could hear steps approaching from the kitchen,  too light to be Sam’s, too heavy to be one of the kids. No light flipped on behind him, no shadow appeared, the culprit moving easily through the dark. The steps stopped. 

“Didn’t know you were a Marvin fan.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder, eyes meeting Sarah’s. She smiled at him, leaning against the doorframe. Her arms were crossed, head cocked to the side, wearing sweatpants and a shirt slightly too large. He ignored the sudden feeling of alertness that ran through his body. 

Sam said not to flirt, and while Bucky ascribed to the idea that Sam was wrong about most things, he was probably right about that. It wouldn’t end up well, not with him being who he is and Sarah being who she was and two kids running around.  

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye,” he looked back down at the cover, thumb running over the words yet again. “Or so your brother always tells me.” 

Sarah gave a light chuckle as she  walked into the room, “And you?”

Bucky shrugged, replacing the record back on the shelf. 

“I think he was talented,” he paused. 

“So Sam hasn’t bullied you into thinking that he’s the only artist to have ever existed?”

“He’s tried,”

“Keep fighting the good fight, Barnes.”

Bucky felt himself smile shyly, a small laugh escaping from his chest. Sarah came to kneel next to him, her shoulder brushing his metal arm as she settled. She didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as glance at it. He didn’t have to cover it here. No glove, no long sleeves in the hot Louisiana sun. No more hiding.  

Sarah repeated his earlier action, rubbing her fingers along the spines of the albums. He watched her, face soft and focused, a small smile as she looked at the records; oblivious to his gaze. So close he could smell whatever she had last put on her skin. Her braids pulled back and the small hairs along her forehead. Every detail makeing itself known. 

“Did he rub off on you?” Bucky asked, voice softer than he intended. 

Sarah repeated his earlier action, rubbing her fingers along the spine. 

“Marvin is great,” she turned to look at Bucky, nudging his shoulder, “But Sam is better,”

Bucky furrowed his brows, “You’re kidding.”

Sarah let out what he could only call a giggle. It was light, girlish, leading her to cover her mouth briefly with her hand. He felt his brows soften,  She bit her lip slightly to stifle her laugh as she turned back to the shelf and went straight to a record, knowing exactly what she was looking for, pulling it out seamlessly. 

“Sam Cooke” she said, emphasizing the last name and handing the record to him.

Bucky accepted it, the briefest brush of his fingers against his own. Ignoring the burning that seemed to ignite in every part of his body. It was bright yellow. A smiling young Black man on the cover. He was handsome, with dark eyes and perfect, straight teeth. “The Best of Sam Cooke” was  written in red lettering next to his head and the songs above in black. He imagined what it was like to smile that big, to look so full of hope. He wondered if that’s what others saw when the kids called for “Uncle Bucky” or Sarah brought him lunch. 

“He was my mom’s favorite,” she smiled as she looked over his shoulder at the cover then up to him,”Why Sam got his name.”

“But he idolizes Marvin Gaye?”

“We can’t all be perfect.” she chuckled, her breath against his cheek. He could feel her eyes on him, “Have you heard him?” 

He turned. Her face was a foot away from his own, but it felt like mere inches.He could see the eyelashes that brushed her cheek when she blinked, the small darker spots on her skin from being in the sun for so long. His fingers twitched. He shrugged and mumbled a “don’t know” quietly.

“Well,” she placed a hand in his shoulder, “you better put it on”.

Sarah pushed herself up, leaning her weight against him. He followed her body with his gaze as she moved across the room, sitting on the arm of the couch. She settled and crossed her arms across her chest. Her face was expectant, one of her eyebrows slightly raised. 

“I wasn’t joking.” 

He looked back at the record in his hand, fingers moving to the slit in the side. He pulled out the vinyl, slipping it out of the paper sleeve behind the cardboard. He looked at the dark material, his own face barely reflecting in its shine. He stood, allowing his metal hand to catch the other side of the disc.

He placed it on the turntable, a familiar feeling that he hadn’t even realized that he had missed. He went to the arm, lifting it and listening for the click that would start the hum of the belt turning. He set the needle down on the edge of the record, waiting in several minutes of anticipation for the sound that eventually made its way from the old speakers. 

Darling, you send me…

The voice was smooth, sweet, so effortless as it floated from the console. He watched as the record spun, the needle gliding over it. The song sounded familiar, comforting, like a memory that he couldn’t quite unlock. Sarah was humming along behind him, her low tones mixing into the music. Bucky looked down at the cover on the floor, gazing at the young man’s smiling face, the ends of his own mouth flicking upward. 

“Is that a smile, Barnes?” her voice seemed to fit the sweet melody. 

“Don’t tell Sam.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He went to sit next to her on his couch made bed. She held back a smile as she slid off the arm and onto the cushion. He sat close to her, much closer than was needed. Their shoulders brushed as they listened to the sweet voice filling the room. Bucky allowed himself to look over at Sarah who had relaxed next to him, eyes closed as she quietly hummed along. She looked happy, at ease; unafraid of the man sitting next to her. 

He allowed himself to sink back, mirroring Sarah’s position. He stared into the dimly lit room, Sam Cooke’s voice surrounding them in a sweet embrace. 

“Tomorrow, we are doing Jackie Wilson.” 

Bucky glanced at Sarah, “There’s a tomorrow?”

She opened her eyes and turned toward him. 

“We need to get you a musical education, James” she shifted, her arm now flush against his own, “And I don’t trust my brother to do it right.”

He smiled at her, aware of their closeness. Not really minding it. 

“I look forward to it,”