#there's just something so hypnotic about watching christian kane beat people up

[girl-drink-drunk]

i think society is on to something whenever there's a show where christian kane gets to beat people up

[november-rising]

(Note)Books of Love

I watched this week’s Motherland: Fort Salem and Taylor Hickerson’s version of Book of Love hit me.  https://youtu.be/JcDAYyl9Y2Q. 

I’ve been in a low headspace and this song sparked something. This is a R-O-U-G-H draft. It’s in the same verse of It’s Just So Simple and it’s not a sequel. This will be edited and filled out further later. NOTE: I hear Bucky’s singing voice as a softer - more timid Eliot Spencer/Christian Kane voice.

I hope you enjoy.

Even in the afternoon, it was sticky out, the heat was an affront to his very being. He despised the cold for too many reasons. But damn. This heat was pushing all around him. 

There was the barely there breath of the kitchen oscillating fan that Ms. Grace kept on through the summer, throughout her cooking lessons with Bucky. Apparently, his knife skills were worth something - sometimes. 

Then there was the prize, the low hum of the window AC unit in her living room; it was so reminiscent of Sam’s nephews’ in-home COVID school room.The perspiring sweet tea that was more sweet and ice than tea and lemon was placed in front of his new friend, Ms. Grace. 

This was it.

Another peaceful day. Uneventful, boring even…

So many months and weeks. So many uneventful and boring weeks and months.  And he was safe. Bucky was safe.

Louisiana became home to this Brooklyn boy. It fit him - he was allowed to fit into this strip of land, sea and wood. The docks, the people, the weeping willows drifting leisurely.

That’s how it started a week prior. Out on the veranda with Ms. Grace’s twin grandchildren she fostered along the way, Denise and Denziel murmured, humming along to the chords of their guitars. 

Bucky smirked at the two while old memories (good old memories) flooded him with panging joy and a buzz through all limbs. 

And that’s what it was like before Bucky got the courage to approach the siblings during their creative session. 

The fan on it’s worn extension cord length stirred enough of a breeze that enticed everyone inside, pushing the AC unit air as best it could. 

“Any new songs, cuz?”  Another day. Another query. 

Could Bucky be ready?

After eating Ms. Grace’s lunch of Gullah cuisine (Bucky added this term to his new notebook. The notebook Steve started for this whole new world), Bucky smiled. Her family allowed him to learn and be accepted into their haphazard family; Bucky felt embraced. 

“Boy, just because we like you don’t mean you get to do whatever.”

“Ms. Grace, if I do whatever, without your permission, you can whip me good and hard.”

“Deal.”

Dishes cleaned and sorted, Bucky stood in the entryway of the living room. “What you got?”

Bucky entered the small, bright room, sitting across from the two young adults. He appreciated these two. These three…

Everyone. 

He appreciated everyone and he would never be able to fully convey what this town means to him. These people were the world to him. That one person is the world to him.

Denise smirked. “You listened to everything we sent.”

“Of course.” And some songs  were vulgar beyond recompense but he wouldn’t say anything about that. 

“And?” they said in unison.

Without missing a beat, Bucky went to his rucksack, pulling out notebooks, scattering them across the wood floor. 

The room went silent.

Denise smiled. “You think you can do this?”

Bucky’s fingers brushed against worn bounds, stark book fronts, and wrinkled leather.  These were his life. This was it. This was everything laid out. Scrawled in confusion, paper taunt with cheap yet faded ink. Marred with blood and deception 

Tilting his head up, Bucky responded,  “Yes.”

___

The party had wound down as few folks meandered around the bonfire. 

Warm, creaking and crickets.

Hypnotic and still. So very still. 

Sam was there.

Of course he was.

Sam was as constant as those notebooks. He was…

Bucky watched as Denziel chatted with others and Denise strummed on her guitar. 

The fire hues danced and melted. 

Orange, yellow, red, smoke. 

Orange, yellow, red, smoke. 

Orange, yellow, red, smoke. 

Looking across the fire, he was met with Sam’s eyes. A twinkle. 

Bucky was scared. He was genuinely scared.

Ms. Grace taught him so much. Her grandkids pushed his fearful ass into practicing guitar and singing. 

Rebecca used to say he could hold a tune. He had to do her justice. Bucky would make her proud. 

“You ready to wrap up? You do still wanna go on that early morning run?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up. So enthralled in the chords dancing in his head, Bucky didn’t sense Sam’s voice reaching across, coming so close. “Can you wait a few more minutes?”

Sam ducked his head before looked back at Bucky. “I got a few minutes to spare.”

This was dumb.

Sam’s smile was enough.

If this was as good as Buck got, it was more than he deserved. “Thanks,”

Denziel strode by, patting his arm, “You ready?”

The rest blurred for him. Bucky rose, took the guitar, made the adjustments the twins taught him, and took a deep breath. There was no preamble. There was no introduction or pomp and circumstance.

This, right now, was the reason why Bucky decided to try. 

With his sleeves rolled up as best they could, Bucky started to play the guitar.

___

Simplistic. 

Earnest.  

Thrumming with life. 

Easy and open. 

Vulnerable.

Sam was enthralled. 

Bucky may have started and stopped once to play in front of the community and…

Chestnut strands illuminated to orange, yellow, red and smoke.

This was not hesitation.

“The book of love is long and boring

No one can lift the damn thing

It’s full of charts and facts and figures

And instructions for dancing

But I

I love it when you read to me

And you 

You can read me anything

The book of love has music in it

In fact that where’s music comes from

Some of it’s just transcendental

Some of it’s just really dumb

But

I love it when you sing to me”

Sam couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to look away as Bucky leaned back over the guitar, crooning gently.

Ms. Grace, suddenly poised in the fold out chair next to him, nudged Sam. “Open it.” 

A rucksack was by Sam’s feet. He knew that was James’.  “Ma’am. Where did you get this?”

Sam knew. He had to play the game. He had to see what Bucky wanted him to see.

His books. Worn bounds, stark book fronts, and wrinkled leather. These were his life.

Sam loved reading.