Breathe

“Hey stranger.” The painting woman plopped down on the bench without asking his pardon this time, and looked up at the bright blue sky with a smile.

“Hey.” He found himself answering.

It had been three weeks since the last time she’d shared his bench and it was the first clear sky in days. Still, she wore warm looking boots and had brought a pair of fingerless gloves this time.

Bucky didn’t even flinch when she started arranging her materials, watching as she laid the sky down in quick simple strokes. Then pausing to let it dry, she spoke.

“So, do you come here every Sunday? Or have I just been interrupting your random visits to this here bench?”

Her eyes stayed on the sky and Bucky was surprised to find himself contemplating an answer.

“Uh, no, not exactly.” It was a pattern of nearly every day, and patterns were dangerous, strangers knowing his patterns were dangerous. But she, she didn’t spark the fear he expected. “I like this spot.”

“For the scenery or the security?”

“What?” a spike of anxiety rose out of his former calm.

“Well, its peaceful, we can’t even hear the street traffic from here, the trees are beautiful. And on the other hand, that wall” she motioned behind them to a ten-foot solid brick wall, “has your back covered, the sight lines are good from this spot and there are easy exits onto busier streets there, there and there.” She spoke casually, pointing out each of his escape plans with the end of her pencil.

“You know who…?”

“Who what?” she asked, turning to face him for the first time, surprise and confusion on her face.

There was no recognition in her eyes, no disguise, no fear.

“Who I am?” Bucky asked, his gloved hands curling into fists.

“No. Well, I know you’re a guy who sits on this bench sometimes. Look, I’m sorry if I struck a nerve, I just thought, well, assumed really, that you were a veteran.”

She looked back down at her work, and picked up the brush again, either oblivious to his internal struggle or well aware of it and offering him privacy to collect himself.

Somehow, he’d never though of himself that way. Soldier, commando, weapon, yes. But a veteran? Like Sam and Steve?

“I, uh. I am a vet.”

She hummed in acknowledgement of his answer, continuing to sketch. Ocean waves crashed against sharp rocks on the paper. The crooning voice in her left ear sang about feeling good and the gentle hum of distant voices and ducks filled the void of words.

“It’s both.” Bucky added finally.

“Hmm?” 

“I like the scenery, and I feel… safe here.”

“I do too.” She answered softly, smiling and tilting her head back to look at the sky again.

Silence enveloped them then, she didn’t seem to need to say more, and Bucky was questioning whether he’d already said too much.

She finished the piece and finally looked in his direction once the final layer had dried. “Would it bother you if I came back next week?”

He shook his head and tried for an easy smile.

“Thanks, and you can call me Elle, all my friends do.” She pronounced her name like the letter ‘L’ and with a little wave, she was melted away from sight.

That night his dreams began in the park, and ended with the Elle laying twisted and grey on the ground.

This is why he didn’t make friends, couldn’t afford to put new faces into his memory. Bucky stared at the ceiling, mapping the water damaged tiles for the thousandth time.

It was three am, he couldn’t go out there, not right now, that would be insane.

He was insane. He muttered the reproach to himself as he pulled the leather jacket over yesterdays t-shirt. The cool air sobered him, drying the sweat on his neck.

The bench sat alone in the dim glow of a streetlight on the other side of the wall.

Empty.

It wasn’t real. It was only a dream.