And who cares divine intervention
I wanna be praised from a new perspective
But leaving now would be a good idea
So catch me up on getting out of here
- "New Perspective" by Panic! at the Disco
Part One: You don't even care.
Bucky always drove with the top of his 1985 Buik Convertible down, even on cooler nights like this one. He was chain-smoking while he sped home to his condo.
The wind whipped at his face and he stopped at the traffic lights to see two women walking across, one of them nudging the other as they recognized him.
Bucky rose a hand in hello as they began gushing. Maybe he should have picked a different car, a different way to get home. Maybe even a different career entirely.
"I love you!" one of the women squealed. She was cute, a Kirsten Dunst type while her friend was more like Isla Fisher.
They watched him speed off again and Bucky gave a long exhale of smoke, glancing at them in his rear-view mirror. Usually that kind of stroke to his ego would have him picking them up without learning either of their names, but after the meeting he had with his agent that evening Bucky was in no mood to be spotted. His last movie was universally panned by critics and fans alike. It was a real blow to his resume, but the full impact of such a piece of shit movie was still to be realized.
He was sick of these movies. He got a call and he'd be up against the same eight or nine guys, each of them just as ordinary as him on paper. They were straight, under thirty-five and even around the same height. The movie itself was a dubious commitment and Bucky was sure it showed like it did in the dailies. The people around him should have told him he was phoning it in, because he was. The studio was just so determined to make another blockbuster like the last one he did. He still hadn't seen the piece of shit he spent the last nine months making, and he didn't plan to. He did hear he was likely to be nominated for a Razzie.
When he arrived home, he slammed his car door shut as he walked up the steps from the garage, letting himself in with a cigarette still in his mouth.
"Hey," he called out.
Rachel, who he fought with just before he left for dinner with his agent, was somewhere beyond the hallway. When she didn't reply, he went to find her in the bedroom in the middle of packing her bags.
"Oh," he said, taking his cigarette out and mashing it into an ashtray on his chest of drawers.
She was concentrating on emptying each drawer, and she looked like she'd been crying. Bucky felt something tighten in his chest and then loosen once more. She was done. She said as much a few hours ago, but he hadn't taken it seriously.
"I'm going," she murmured. She shoved underwear in a suitcase and then slammed it shut. "I called Ashley. She's picking me up."
"I'll drive you," Bucky murmured.
"Don't," she hissed. "Don't do that. I'm not a child."
He knew that. She seemed to have aged five years in about five months while knowing him. He needed to stop dating teenagers. He turned into their first real frustration with love, usually. He'd meet a girl not even old enough to drink at some premiere or party and then they'd fall head over heels for him, somehow forgetting he was an actor, a born liar.
"I know," he murmured. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."
"My therapist says that I'm in love with a version of you I have in my head," Rachel said. She moved onto stuffing jewelry into a case.
"You talk about me at therapy?" Bucky said, and Rachel narrowed her eyes at him in exasperation.
"Of course I do!" she snapped.
Bucky knew he'd missed her point entirely, but he'd done it deliberately. He didn't need someone to tell him he was a phony. He didn't need another girl to tell him he made her cry. He stood by, watching Rachel pack her things. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
She pushed past him and paused in the hallway.
"You don't even care."
Bucky did care, but not in the way she wanted him to. He cared that he was alone again, and that he'd managed to add another name to a list of people who would cross the road to avoid him. She wanted him to beg her to stay, to throw his arms around her and kiss her.
But he didn't love her. He never had, and a part of him knew he never would. He pushed off of the door frame, giving her a quick glance before turning his back on her and walking to the kitchen.
"Asshole," he heard her hiss, before the front door slammed.
Three weeks went by and Bucky had five scripts sent to him, each of them a part in some franchise he had no interest in. Not since The Winter Soldier years ago had a blockbuster really mattered to him, and he didn't want a repeat of the last shitstorm. His agent was starting to get antsy, so he dropped them.
Rachel moved on fast, dating a soccer player from Spain, but that was according to some soundbite Bucky almost moved past while flipping through channels.
Bucky's publicist's barely concealed alarm caused him to start shopping around. Agencies were a dime a dozen but Steve mentioned a friend from art school when Bucky managed to answer his friend's phone call for once.
Being on opposite sides of the country meant differences, but Bucky knew he and Steve lived in entirely separate worlds.
"Her name is Wanda. She's great," Steve said, and Bucky let out a sigh.
"Does she have experience?" he asked.
He was sitting on his couch with beer bottles littered all over his coffee table along with ashtrays full of cigarette butts. His maid was probably going to make some passive aggressive comment when he next saw her.
"She has a lot of heart," Steve replied.
Bucky made a face. "That doesn't mean much, Stevie."
"Jesus, how drunk are you?"
"Not nearly enough," Bucky mumbled.
The woman on TV was topless and jumping into a pool with her teenage neighbor. The premise of the entire movie was based around this weird relationship. Bucky forgot why he chose to watch it.
"I'll give her your number and you'll go meet her?"
"Sure," Bucky replied, just to make Steve shut up.
When he hung up, he watched the topless woman kiss the teenage boy. Bucky didn't even feel a vague stir of his cock, he was completely turned off. The next scene had the teenage boy's older sister walking into the kitchen and telling him that the topless neighbor was using him. The teenage boy was in obvious denial. The older sister was only there as a minuscule plot device – the writing was so lazy that Bucky rolled his eyes – but the second she was gone, he missed her.
She was a little brunette with curves and plush red lips and a wry smirk. Everything about her was better than the rest of the movie and she only had about five lines.
Bucky was definitely drunk. He rewound the movie and watched her scenes again, wondering who she was.
The next morning when he was hungover and squinting at his TiVo, he couldn't remember the rest of the movie and he didn't care to find out more about it. At least he passed on that one, whenever it was made. He was most likely offered the role of the topless woman's actual boyfriend who beat up the teenage boy at the climax of the movie.
Wanda Maximoff was younger than Bucky expected, and the realization made his heart sink a little. She seemed like a beautiful, smart young woman and he was about to dash her dreams of representing him when his eyes fell on her face for the first time.
"Wanda, hi," he said, taking her hand in his.
Her smile was contagious. "Hi, it's so good to meet you. Steve has told me so much."
He liked that she didn't say she was a fan of his right away. Usually people mentioned The Winter Soldier within the first ten seconds of meeting him, or if they wanted to stick out they'd mention something from ten or more years ago, some TV role or other that was his breakthrough.
Wanda's office was small and she didn't have a secretary. The place was made up of IKEA furniture and some movie posters. The one for Boogie Nights was behind her desk and Bucky stared at it for a few seconds longer than he'd usually allow. Most agencies had a Kubrick poster or something from the Golden Age.
"Only good things, surely," Bucky muttered, and Wanda smiled again.
"Mostly stuff about you guys growing up in Brooklyn," Wanda said, and they both sat down.
Wanda's fingers threaded together and Bucky could see her nails were short and black. Everything she had said or done so far intrigued him enough to stay until she had said everything she wanted to him. She owed her that much, even if all he did was pass her details on at a party for a kid starting out.
"I've got a role for you that's perfect."
"I hear that every day," Bucky said. "Or I used to until I fired my agent."
"You fired them because you didn't want to be typecast anymore," Wanda said.
She got to the point faster than Bucky expected. He thought he knew the game so well that he wished he didn't, but having someone be honest faster meant less time wasted for both of them.
Bucky put a hand in his jacket pocket, retrieving his pack of cigarettes.
Wanda's face changed, and she put up a hand. "I'd rather you didn't smoke in here."
Thank God. She passed his test. Bucky had no intention of smoking indoors, it was beyond rude – but anybody else would have let him light up, even if they had asthma.
Bucky smiled. "Thanks."
Wanda looked slightly confused before her face morphed back into a smile. "I definitely have the perfect role for you. It doesn't pay much but the work is good."
Bucky chuckled, surprised at the sound he made so easily. "Okay. What's the story?"
"It's about a guy whose descent into crime is stopped by love."
Bucky made a face. "That sounds vague enough to be practically anything. Who else is up for it?"
"No-one," Wanda said. "Director wants you, and only you."
"Who?"
"Stephen Strange," Wanda said, and Bucky scanned his memory for the name.
"Don't know him."
"He's English with some arthouse films. Did you see Ache and Bone?"
Bucky shook his head.
"That's okay," Wanda murmured, her shoulders drooping slightly. "No-one did."
Bucky wondered how some English guy knew Wanda. He wondered how Steve even knew Wanda.
"Why are you here?" Bucky asked, and Wanda seemed thrown but his directness. "Why are you in Los Angeles instead of in New York with Broadway and everything?"
Wanda looked around. "I want to make movies."
"You can make movies in New York."
They stared at one another and Wanda eventually gave a shrug.
"I wanted to make movies here," was the best answer she could give him. She sighed. "Look, I know you're going to say no, I just want to know if there's any pointers you can give me for the next guy I try to get."
Bucky licked his lips. "I'll meet him. Strange. I'll do that."
She blinked at him. "Seriously?"
Bucky didn't know what came first – the name or the behavior, but Stephen Strange was an odd guy. The industry encouraged weirdness so he was perfect to be a director.
Bucky met him at his bungalow. Strange answered the door in his robe like he was Hugh Hefner, and Bucky followed him out into the garden behind his house and they sat under a tree while his butler was off getting them drinks.
Bucky wore his sunglasses and felt Strange's eyes rove over him several times.
"I met Wanda," Bucky said. "She said you were asking for me."
"Is she representing you now?" Strange asked.
His accent was a weird mash, and Bucky couldn't predict which way it went as Strange spoke.
Bucky avoided answering the question because it was something he hadn't decided on Wanda. He hoped that after meeting Strange he'd call her with an answer.
"I watched Ache and Bone. I had to ask someone for a screener," Bucky said.
"Thoughts?" Strange asked, fingers steepling.
"It was intense," Bucky replied. That was an understatement. The film was an experience, an emotional journey through and through. Truth be told, Bucky couldn't stop thinking about it, and a part of him hoped that this new project was just like it, but directors didn't often have more than one movie like that, unless they were prolific. Bucky thought it was too early to tell with Strange.
"Good. You're not trying to kiss my ass," Strange said with a smile. The pronounced it 'arse', which made Bucky's lips quirk briefly. "I guess this is the part where I tell you you're like Montgomery Clift."
"Fuck, I hope not," Bucky said, taking out his cigarettes. He didn't ask if he could light up. He exhaled through his nose with smoke in his eyes and Strange stared at him intently.
"Well, you are like him. I just hope you don't have the same ending."
"Hmm," Bucky replied. He took a long drag. "So what's the story? Wanda said some bullshit about a moral fucking conundrum."
Strange began to laugh, long and loud. "My God. You are exactly as I hoped."
Bucky felt that stroke of his ego but tried best to ignore it. If he was so great, why hadn't he passed on the worst movie of the year, as the Internet put it? Where was his integrity? Where was his passion?
Maybe he just didn't have it anymore. He used to like his job, when he made no money and had two lines an episode in a period drama TV hit over ten years ago.
"No-one will see this movie," Strange warned, his laughter dying. "I hope you realize that."
Bucky didn't care if it meant winding back the clock to a time when he gave a shit about a character, instead of just learning lines.
"What's the story?" he asked again, his voice softer.
"It's called The Death of a Marriage. Two people fall in love, but he's a criminal. She thinks he can change but he doesn't," Strange said. "I wrote it after my last divorce but didn't want to touch it. Then I saw The Winter Soldier finally and I finally understood everything."
Bucky looked away, smoking.
"You never got nominated for that?" Strange asked, but Bucky had a feeling he knew that well enough and was just trying to make a point.
"No," Bucky replied. He blew out smoke from his lips that time, shaking his head. "But that's not why I did it in the first place."
"That, sir, is the right answer," Strange said, leaning forward in his chair. He smiled, and Bucky blinked at him from behind his sunglasses. His accent was entirely English when he spoke that time, and quite earnest.
"You were nominated for Ashes of Iwo Jima," he added, and Bucky nodded. "That was the film I actually gave a shit about. Not so much The Winter Soldier. Though both were good, obviously."
He spoke like he was talking to himself, and Bucky flicked ash onto the ground, wondering how best to move on. He hated always listing past achievements because compared to now there were large gaps in quality.
"I'll do it," Bucky said, his voice rough from smoke. "If it's anything like Ache and Bone. If I get some kind of creative control."
"Absolutely," Strange said immediately. "This will take a lot out of you, though. You must know that."
"Good," Bucky replied. It would be nice to have some of himself taken away for once.
The script read with the same cheeriness of a Nine Inch Nails song. Something about wiping away his entire self for a gritty drama with a tiny budget was refreshing to Bucky.
That just had to find the girl he was meant to fall in love with.
There were a lot of big names thrown around and Bucky knew some of them, even dated some of the names, but he kept wanting someone different. He liked that Strange was about as fussy as he was. Auditions for the role of Natalie to his Jack meant days of sifting through girls ranging from eighteen to twenty-five. None of them stood out, and Bucky hated sitting in on each audition.
"Who keeps sending these girls?" Strange muttered with his face in his hands. His assistant began to speak but he cut her off. "Rhetorical, Debra. Rhetorical. Good Lord."
Strange was an asshole, but Bucky had dealt with ten times worse. He liked that he didn't berate the girls who came in, he didn't make a pass at anyone, either.
The girls that came in were all white, all younger than Bucky by more than eight years, and they all had the same optimism. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be picked. But then Strange would look at Bucky and they'd share the same thought. No. They just weren't the right fit.
Strange did not compromise. When it was suggested by the casting director that they go back and revise some of the girls who'd already come in, he flew into a rage and left the building and Bucky looked toward the ceiling and sighed.
Debra, Strange's assistant, leaned close to Bucky and whispered, "They're all blonde."
Bucky knew that, but it seemed a creative choice integral to the story. But the more he thought about it, why were they all blonde?
"Like his ex-wife?" he said, and Debra nodded. "Then we should branch out."
Strange's divorce was expensive and maybe he didn't need to be reminded of his ex every time there was a new girl to audition. It would mean a pretty hostile working environment in between takes.
"Oh," was Strange's reply when Bucky called him to tell him about finding the right Natalie. It seemed it did not occur to him that he was subconsciously drawn to a certain type of girl.
"So… brunettes, at least?" Bucky added.
Darcy Lewis' name came up on the sheet one morning and Bucky didn't know it. He knew her face when she walked in, and by how she reacted to him, he knew she recognized him.
She shook Strange's hand.
"It's so nice to meet you," she said. She shook Bucky's hand and even Debra's. "All of you."
The script they handed her was from a scene she shared with Bucky. He knew the dialogue inside and out now, and he hoped they might cut it from the actual movie since it seemed to lose its passion the more he performed it.
She glanced at her papers. Once, then twice. When Strange called action she switched instantly.
"You think this is something we can come back from?" Bucky asked as Jack, his voice rough. He glanced at Darcy's lips and then her eyes, which were filled with tears.
She committed fast. "Why can't we?"
"You think I can forgive you for what you did?" Bucky asked. Darcy's eyes changed, her eyes flashing with fury.
Without warning, she smacked him across the face.
"How dare you?" she whispered. "After what you did to me? After what I went through with Parker –"
Instead of calling cut, Strange let it roll on, Bucky's face stinging from where she hit him.
Bucky grabbed her by the wrists and bore his eyes into hers, where angry tears were spilling over.
"I don't want to love you anymore," Darcy whispered.
Bucky was frozen. He couldn't remember the next line. She'd rendered him speechless.
"Okay, cut. Cut," Strange said, and Darcy blinked several times as Bucky let her go.
"Oh, my God," she whispered, hand going to her mouth. "I'm so sorry."
The fact that she hit him for real could mean blacklisting, but Strange was looking at her like he did when Bucky showed up at his house weeks ago. He was struck.
"You are brilliant, smack him all you want," he said to Darcy, how gave an unsure smile.
"I'm so sorry," she said again to Bucky. "Are you okay?"
Bucky felt himself blush for the first time in over a decade as all eyes were on him and his reddened cheek.
"Yeah," he murmured.
He respected her for doing it. No-one else would have because they were afraid of him. The most the girls had done when they came to audition was cry on his shoulder a little, and one even hung around his car afterward hoping to get his number.
Darcy was different in every way, and it was what they needed.
And then he remembered she was the older sister in that godawful teen movie he watched after Rachel dumped him.
When Darcy left, Bucky turned to Strange.
"If you don't hire her, I'm out."
Strange smirked. "I wasn't not going to hire her. She's perfect."
Bucky settled back in his chair, running over the script in his head. He was about to commit to screaming at this lovely woman, to simulating all sorts of things like passion and hatred. For the first time, he wondered if he had it in him. Darcy certainly had everything and more.
"We'll start shooting next month," Strange added.
Bucky couldn't get Darcy's tear stained face out of his mind. He nodded dumbly, wondering how he was meant to keep up with her.