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Shuri baby, come out tonight.
Bucky’s least favourite part of the day were the mornings. At least it used to be.
Until he watched the sunrise from their balcony, blanket across the skies in hues of berry purples and tangerine silhouettes, promising the coming day. Soon thereafter he found himself more akin to waking up earlier than he used to; even if only to watch the burning orb grace the clouds and all it touches with its rays.
The one other thing that changed his mind about mornings, was pulling out his favourite tunes. Well-loved and so missed were the scratching sounds of the stylus on grooved vinyl, he remembers Bing Crosby, Tommy Dorsey, The Mills Brothers and Miss Billie Holiday.
Only a few weeks into their new home, a record player made itself there. He frequented vinyl music stores at any chance he could find when he was needed back in America, now accounting for every collection he could find from Valaida Snow (of which he would never miss a chance to call ‘Miss Snow’ out of respect, bless his heart) to Louis Armstrong, to Miss Holiday (another artist he felt deserved that same reverence), Miss Simone to ones he would muse are what the kids are listening to. Needless to say, as timeless as his love for music and all things rag time and blues, so was his now love for mornings.
It had started from a small box, then turned into a rack, a bookshelf, and as he reminisces now a whole room littered with mood lights strewn about under the thatched roof, an industrial desk by the window, a plush couch by one wall and his precious record player in the corner. Posters carefully stuck on the sandstone mud coloured walls, and across the floor length windows, shelved his one thousand something assortment of his favourite tunes in whatever order he liked much to his wife’s dismay. He knew where each one was placed.
He carefully slips from the sleeping beauty, places a gentle kiss on her temple before slipping out of bed in search of pants. He moseys over to his carelessly thrown ones (usually by his counterpart) strewn carelessly by the door and slips it on, casting one last look over his shoulder to his beloved.
Joyfully he bounces down the steps, past the vast lounge room and by the office where in comparison to his spick and span music room was her albeit cluttered office, towards his ‘music room’, he strolls straight to Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons. He removes Tommy Dorsey and with intent caution, slips Frankie Valli on the slipmat before carefully pulling the headshell onto the vinyl grooves.
A round of hits of the acoustic drums and a plucked stringed instrument thrummed through the walls followed by soaring falsetto vocals in an ensemble arrangement of harmonies and the walking bass.
Meanwhile upstairs, Shuri notices a lost presence beside her as she catches Bucky slipping out of the bedroom in nothing but his pyjama pants. She moves on to her back and anticipates whatever tune he finds that morning to fill their home. She sits up and pulls the blankets off of her in pursuit of any item of clothing to cover herself. Even though she could very well walk around in her already bare state, the chill that shivers up her arms rivals her wish. So, she finds a baseball shirt that came halfway to her knees and follows the trail of music her husband left, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she knows exactly how he liked his eggs.
Shuri bops her head to the melodic moves of the tune and grabs a pan hanging above the stainless stove. Before prancing to the large built-in fridge, a pair of arms encircle around her midriff and she drops into the warmth of his chest, the pan and the eggs forgotten.
“Hi,” she shyly bites her lip and sways with him to the steady pace of 4-4 beats.
“Mmm… good morning,” Bucky replies as he pulls back with her left arm in his calculated right hand and swings her around to face him, offering a teasing smile and pulls her to turn back around and playfully dips her as a giggle escapes her sweet lips. As he pulls her back upright before him he couldn’t help but sing the words ‘Shuri’ instead of the licensed ‘Sherry’ Frankie initially wrote. It certainly was a good morning.
“Shu-u-ri,” he continues to sing over the tune and continues to swing his best gal in the sunrise lit kitchen of their home.
“I have to tell you something,” Shuri starts, and Bucky is too distracted with dancing that he keeps interrupting with the lyrics of the acclaimed song.
“Shuri baby,” Bucky dips her again.
“We’re having one,” she says.
Time stands still, and everything he had hoped before the war manifests more so before him as he looks to her eyes and pulls her back to stand before him, hands resting on her love handles. All that chooses to move now between the elevated beating in their hearts and the acoustic drums of the Four Season, was the love they valiantly shared and fought for growing in her belly.
“Are…” he pauses, takes a deep breath and sighs his next words, “you serious?”
His heart beats ever louder, ever heavier. His fingers tremble and breath become air when he forgets he needs to breathe.
Shuri nods her head with a smile stretched on her complexion and goes to lay her hands on his bearded cheeks, relieving any concern or worry dancing across his face.
In the Wakandan sunrise, the soft tunes of Frankie come to a close, as the record player whispers a happy ending to the deserving duo.