bucky
It is night outside when Bucky finally awakens. His throat is dry, neck twisted awkwardly on his pillow, and initially he has no recollection of what he had done earlier in the day.
As he gets up, a palm rubbing the back of his neck, he suddenly remembers – because how could he not.
Strolling with Wanda throughout the city. Them eating gelato. And then having a conversation that he hadn't expected. It had been a short one, but meaningful.
Steve had confided in him about her mental illness, so of course he had acted surprised when she mentioned it out of nowhere. Or tried, at the very least. Which in the end didn't matter because she had apparently seemed unbothered that he knew.
But what she had revealed... it left him deep in thought. Not just about the little bit of information she let slip about the condition of her mind, but her earnest in admitting that she, like him, also knew why he was in Florence.
She only said a few words regarding his situation, yet it made an impact. She was so insightful, it left him speechless. He hadn't known what to respond, but thinking back on it, his silence was his answer.
Somehow, she knew this, and didn't push furthermore. It was almost like she could read his mind.
Thankfully, she didn't. She'd be horrified by the things she would find there.
Shaking off those twisted, negative thoughts before they could emerge from the depths of whatever hell they were in, Bucky rises and stretches, groaning in content when he hears his bone pop and crack. Feeling hungry, he puts on a shirt hanging in his chair and heads to the door.
As he does this, he hears the faintest murmur of music. Opening the door and stepping into the hallway, the music grows a tad louder.
It's coming from Wanda's room.
He considers ignoring it. He should leave her alone, not intrude.
But her door is just slightly ajar, just enough that he can hear the music playing. Classical.
He carefully takes a couple steps across the wooden floor, until he's at a minimal distance from the entry. He peeks through the opening gap with one eye, and half-smiles as he's met with a pretty sight.
She's dancing across her room. Throwing her arms above her head, jumping in the air and coming down so elegantly, her lithe body spinning in circles. Her long dark brown hair is loose, cascading down her shoulders and back.
It's a very pretty, nearly hypnotizing, sight.
Not wanting to risk bothering her, Bucky retreats and heads for the bathroom.
After splashing his face in cold water, he trots down the stairs. Looking at his watch, he expects Steve and Natasha to be in bed since they had to be up early. But alas, he finds Natasha perched at the dinner table. Her laptop is on and there are several papers strewn across the surface.
"Hey, Nat. What you doin'?" he asks as he goes to the coffee maker. He shouldn't be drinking coffee at night, but it's not like he's going to asleep anytime soon. Not after he took a longer than intended nap.
"Oh, just grading some quizzes," she responds tiredly.
Waiting for the coffee to heat up, he takes a seat across from her. She has her short red hair tied back, wisps of curls hanging along her face. She's marking the papers with a quickness. The scene suddenly takes him back to high school, which was so, so long ago.
"I know I've said it already, but I still can't believe you're a teacher."
Nat chuckles, glancing at him for a moment. "You and me both. But what's even more surprising is that I'm liking it."
Bucky gestures unapprovingly to the work she is dealing with, as well as her weary appearance. "You like this?"
She scoffs and rolls her eyes as she flips from one exam to another. "What if I said I did?"
He hums, clearly not convinced.
She lightly clears her throat, putting the pen down to type in her laptop. "You know what I'm grading? It's a quiz about a book in our curriculum."
"What book?" he asks.
She turns off her laptop and starts gathering the papers, compiling them into one pile. When she's done, she looks up with a gentle smirk and lays back into her chair, arms crossing over her chest. There's dark circles under her eyes, and she looks like she's about to collapse and call it a night, yet there's still a sparkle in her teasing green eyes.
"Yours."
He tries to keep a neutral face but fails when he senses the right corner of his mouth tick upwards. "Are the students liking it?"
She nods, obviously pleased that she got a response from him, even if it is so little. "They are."
He gives in and smiles, because he's actually happy to hear it in person that people have enjoyed reading his novel. "Hmm... that's good."
Hearing the low rumble of the coffee maker, signifying it was done, he rises. He goes to a cabinet, takes a mug, and starts pouring hot coffee. It smells wonderful; he'll never tire of caffeine and its aroma.
"Have you thought of anything yet?" Nat asks. "For your next book?"
He catches sight of sugar, and he almost reaches for it, but ultimately decides against it. Instead he grabs a small spoon and gives the liquid a good swish. "No. I have some ideas just moving around my head. Nothing concrete yet."
"Do you have a deadline? Like, to turn in a rough draft?"
He turns around to face her and leans on the counter, taking a sip. "Not really. Though they did say it'd be nice if I could have it done in a year."
She lets out a snort. "A year? I think someone needs to tell 'em that you're not that kind of writer. Didn't it take you three years?"
"Yeah," he chuckles, looking down at his watch. Seeing how late it is sends a pang of guilt; he doesn't want to keep her up for too long. "I did. Well, I'm gonna head up. Get some rest, Nat."
"Oh, I will," she insists as she gets up and gathers her things. "I always get the best rests after grading quizzes."
They part after bidding each other goodnight. As Bucky walks back upstairs, he thinks about hitting the sheets as well. He needs to be well-rested to begin writing, but no matter how many times he tries to tell himself this, he's just not sleepy. He's tired, but not enough to fall back asleep. So once he's back in his bedroom, he goes straight for the balcony. He turns on the light fixture and sets his mug on the glass table, and then goes to retrieve his laptop.
He plops down on the seat, sighing through his nostrils as his laptop comes to life. He goes straight to his email, something he had avoided since leaving New York. When the screen pops up and asks him to write in his password, his fingers hesitate.
She's not gonna email you. Why in the hell would she email you?
His mind is all logic, but his heart is filled with mushy sentiment, and he absolutely hates it. He smacks his teeth in annoyance with himself and types in his password. A second later, his inbox loads, and he sees that he has 20 unread messages.
He does a quick eye scan of the "from" tab.
None are from her.
He sighs again, but he doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. Thankfully, he doesn't have to dwell too much in that mystery. An email from Maria Hill, his agent, that she had sent to him a day earlier catches his eye.
Hi Bucky,
Just wondering how you're settling in Florence so far. I know it's early, but have you thought of any ideas for your next book? If not, that's completely fine. I was able to cancel those last 2 book signings in Florida, told them you were dealing with family issues. So you're absolutely free from now on. Stay in Florence as long as you need to.
Sincerely,
Maria Hill
As Bucky is finishing his reply, telling Maria that he was alright, that he had not yet started drafting and planned to stay for only a week or two more in Florence, he turns his head when he hears the sound of a door sliding.
It's Wanda. She's wearing matching pajama shirt and shorts, a black kimono hanging loosely off her shoulders. Her long dark hair is messily plaited to the side, and her face is uncharacteristically pale under the moonlight.
She tosses a fast glance and smile his way as she takes a seat beside him, but the chair is not that close. "Trouble sleeping?"
"Yeah," he nods.
His eyes go to her hands. Her nails are still lacquered in black, and there's at least one ring in every finger. In her grasp is a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She takes one out and puts it into her mouth, lighting it. She puffs out the smoke and lays her back into the seat.
She raises a brow and gestures to the cigarette. "Want one?"
Bucky stares at the burning cigarette. Though he had dabbled in recreational use in his younger days, smoking is something that had never appealed to him. He especially hated that the stench would stick to his clothing. But at the moment, he's in a mood where he simply gives no fucks. He accepts her offer and lights up his own cigarette. Afterwards, he presses the "Send" button and shuts off his laptop.
They both sit there in silence, listening to the chirping of crickets and the distant sounds of cars and motorcycles.
"Where'd you learn how to dance?" he finally asks. It's only a moment later that he mentally kicks himself, because his question has just exposed him. Now she knows that he had seen her earlier.
"By myself. I do it to relax my mind. To ward off the voices in my mind that creep on me every and now then."
He's suddenly reminded of her mental illness. He had been bored, and realizing that he knew absolutely nothing about it other than what Steve had told him, he looked it up. What surprised him was that while there is treatment, it can't be cured. The causes are unknown, but once the signs are heeded, it's there for life. It's a fact that shakes him, because he knows what's it like for the doctor to tell you it's incurable. To forever be incapacitated, somehow, someway.
"I, uh, did some research about your condition," he says, taking another sip of the black coffee. "It's misunderstood 'cause it's, like, schizophrenia and bipolar disorder mixed together. It's very rare, so doctors are even more confused about it."
She nods twice, staring off into the distance. "Mm, you are correct. I have periods of hyperactivity and depression, and sometimes hallucinations. Or delusions," she shrugs. "However you want to call it."
As someone who had PTSD, a terrifying plague on his mind that nearly unsettled his sanity, Bucky looked on sympathetically.
"D'you know if your family has a history of mental illness?"
"My papa made it clear that his side of the family had no such history," her mouth is a sour line, which makes him feel like she doesn't like to talk about her father. "He made it sound like it came from my mom, but Natasha doesn't think it is true. But I don't care how from who I got it from. I have it and there's nothing I can do about it." She inhales the cigarette and puffs, the grey cloud hovering a second longer around her. "I am... abnormal."
He continues to watch her movements carefully. He notices she's now looking up at the moon, the circular shape of it being reflecting into her suddenly dark green orbs. With every passing moment, his compassion for her only grows and grows. He doesn't like that he has found many similarities in such a young girl whose almost half his age. It just doesn't seem fair.
"I don't think you're abnormal," he says after a beat. "You have problems, but so does everyone else. Some worse than others, but that's okay."
At last, Wanda looks at him. The slightest trace of a smile plays on her mouth, but it never materializes. Instead, her gratuity is brimming through her eyes.
"You are right. But I will never be sane," she says more softly. "Not truly. I will always need medication so I do not have my mania episodes."
Again, he's hit with nauseating memories of his behavior after he returned from the war. At least the ones he was able to remember, because sometimes he would black out. Those were so horrifying, because he had no control of his actions when that happened. He was the mercy of whatever devil had planted itself in his mind. So he understands what it feels like to be afraid of yourself, having to rely on a pill to keep you from crossing that invisible line. What made it worse was that it wasn't guaranteed. Rationality wasn't assured.
"Ya know, I, uh, had PTSD," he starts. He doesn't know why he is bringing this up. Or maybe he does. Despite them being nearly total strangers, he feels like he can divulge this part about him. He senses that she'll be able to relate. "After I came back from the war. I had nightmares. Was moody, insomniac. The smallest things would trigger flashbacks. But I didn't wanna talk about it, I just... couldn't. This went on for a year, until... my wife, she threatened to leave me if I didn't get help."
She keeps her gaze locked on him, curiosity beginning to show on her face. "Did you?"
He nods solemnly. "Yeah."
She puffs and smiles. "I'm glad you are better now."
Bucky wants to snort at this statement, because he's most definitely not better now. If anything, he dreads that the demon is hiding deep in his brain. He's feels it there, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. It wants to catch him off guard, so there won't be any walls to stop it. He isn't sure if he'll be able to build a defense this time, but he's trying, damn it, he's really trying. He doesn't want to burn again. No, he can't burn again. He's come too far to let it conquer.
Once more, Wanda's soft voice brings him back to the conversation.
"Have you started writing?" she asks.
"Uh," he stutters as he sees his cigarette burning halfway. He had only inhaled twice, or was it three times? He doesn't remember. "Not yet."
"Will the main character be female again?"
He takes one final puff, and then squishes it dead into the ashtray. "I don't rule it out."
From the corner of his eye, he can tell that she's peering at him. Usually this bothers him because it makes him feel self-conscious, but when she does it, he has recognized that it doesn't bother him. He wants to think it's because the little connection between them, that she must feel it too.
"You should sleep," she points out.
He chuckles, lightly crossing his right arm over his left on his lap. "Nah, I won't. Not after the nap I just took."
She smiles wider, causing her cheekbones to become a bit more pronounced. He thinks she should smile like that more often; she's very pretty when she does.
"Well, I will now," she announces. "I don't want to, but I should so I don't get irregular sleeping patterns."
Bucky finds himself intrigued by this, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he just tells her goodnight. He hangs still, sitting there, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. He buries his face on his right palm, rubbing his forehead as it will wipe away the stress. He sorely wishes it could happen.
Realizing that it's best for him to just go lie down where hopefully sleep will take him, he get's up. For some reason, as he does so, his eyes roam to Wanda's slide door. It's covered by a curtain, but it's a light brown color that makes it easy to see through. He can see her sitting on her bed, back facing him. She's untangling her plaid, letting it fall down her back like a dark wavy cascade. She then moves to remove her kimono, and then her long-sleeve shirt over her head. This motion brings up her hair for a moment, revealing her bare back to him.
Though the sight is alluring, a flustered Bucky immediately looks away. He grabs his laptop, turns off the balcony light, and returns to his own room. He stands there in the darkness, his shoulders dropping as he sighs. He rubs his forehead again, now not only praying that his stress would go away, but also to forget what he had just witnessed.