Bite Sized Bits of Fic

Kate's perfume smells like lilacs. Bucky isn't entirely sure, but he thinks it might be the same expensive french perfume as the girl he spent a week's leave with in Paris. She had given him a handkerchief dabbed with the scent when he had gone off to rejoin the Steve in the trenches. He doesn't remember how he lost it, probably it went the way of his uniform when the Russians fished him out of the water, but until then it had been a small token of civilization that he could carry with him. And in the long dark nights when all he could hear were bombs and all he could smell was dirt and blood and death, he would hold that scrap of cloth to his face, and picture the sun shining through lilacs to make dappled patterns on warm, soft skin.

He wants to ask Kate about her perfume, he wants to tell her about this half forgotten memory, but he can't think of a way to frame the words so that it doesn't sound like he's comparing her to a french whore. Because he's not, she's brave, and strong, and incredible, and if he was going to compare her to anyone it would be to Toro, or any of the other young soldiers he'd spent time with. Because she's more a comrade in arms than a distraction from battle. And when he smells lilacs, it's not the sun warmed skin of a girl who's name he can't remember that he's thinking of, but the sun warmed skin of a girl who'd shoot him full of arrows if she knew what he was thinking every time he caught her scent. So he tucks that memory away, and tries not to think about it too much. And he brings a bouquet of lilacs with him when he comes to ask her out to dinner.