Fun fact, I ended up reworking the tail end of this part and moved that section to part four. You won't know what that is until part four hits. 😌 Originally, this part was 4k and then I nitpicked at it. I can only hope you enjoy what a monster this turned out to be! Thank you again for all of your support and for enjoying this fic! You guys are making writing this story so enjoyable for me!
Please note that this part does include mentions of PTSD and mind control and references an eating disorder.
you came back as the underdog
part iii
Wanda continues to invite him inside of her house after that. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she opens her front or back door and lets him inside to sit at her kitchen table while she magically pours him his cereal with the bowl sitting in front of him. She enjoys the way he watches in amazement as his choice of cereal appears in his bowl and milk sloshes the sides before warming itself to the right temperature.
On the seventh afternoon since inviting him inside and into her kitchen, she finds him waiting on her back porch, hands in the side pockets of his jeans and his white singlet drenched with sweat. While Wanda has purposefully kept the weather at a nice lukewarm temperature, Sokovia's sun wants to blister today. She hasn't chosen to fix it, thinking that it doesn't need to be corrected.
She opens her back door, brows furrowed as she eyes him. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting," Bucky says with a grin. He ducks his head and brushes his hand through his short hair. "I didn't want to let myself in."
"It's okay," she says, gesturing for him to step inside. He toes off his dirtied boots before thanking her and crossing the threshold, his right hand brushing against her hip once more. It's become his silent gesture every time she lets him inside. Wanda hasn't been able to figure out what he's trying to tell her.
He sits down in his spot at the kitchen table in the chair placed in front of her side window. She thinks he likes it when the sun warms his back. He taps his fingers against the table, watching her with a smile. "So, what's on the menu today, chef?"
Wanda smiles, walking over to her kitchen island. It's cleared and spotless save for a small pot plant she's hidden away in the corner and a few pens and a notepad. She presses her hands against the countertop and looks at him with an arched brow. "What do you think of burgers?"
He grins lopsidedly. "Love 'em."
With a click of her fingers, burgers appear on the kitchen counter in front of her. Wanda purses her lips thoughtfully. "It's missing something…" And with another click of her fingers, ketchup, a packet of fries, and two soft drinks appear. She places them on a tray and walks them over to him, very similar to the first night she'd brought him burgers from America. (This time, they lack the burger wrapping.)
"You know, you're pretty spectacular," he says, smiling up at her as she places his meal in front of him. "I can't believe you can just make all this stuff appear."
Placing the tray down, she takes her seat opposite him. It makes her feel good to know she has a place at her table. She'd been sitting at every chair when she had been alone, wondering where she would sit if she had company. She slides the tray between them, keeping her gaze down as he openly watches her.
He picks up his burger and eyes it with a proud smile. "Have you always been able to do it?" Since their conversation on her back porch, he's asked her simple questions. Can she make fish appear in the lake? Can she make the grass grow? (He'd regretted that question right after, taking to the garage to pull out the lawnmower.)
"I think so," she says. She pops a fry into her mouth. "I made some things appear when I was at the Compound."
He sits back in his chair and eyes her curiously. "Really? You know I'm going to ask what, right?"
She laughs lightly. Mimicking him, she leans back in her seat and crosses her arms against her chest, tapping her finger against her chin. She's discovered Bucky enjoys it when she's a little theatrical. She thinks it has something to do with her guard slowly lowering.
She hums before she answers, "I made a chair appear at the table in my room… and my guitar. I also made some DVDs appear, too."
"And the DVDs were how you remembered them, right?" he asks, a little too excitedly. "Proper footage, great sound?" At her nod, he shakes his head incredulously. "Incredible."
Wanda's cheeks feel hot. She ducks her head and busies herself by opening her ketchup packet. "Oh!" With a click of her fingers, two plates appear, one beneath his burger and fries and another under hers.
Bucky laughs, shaking his head. He reaches out to touch the plate with his Vibranium fingers. He rubs his fingertips against the porcelain to check how steady and real it is; she's grateful it doesn't splinter beneath his touch. Not a lot does. "You are… no words, Maximoff. None."
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Two weeks pass and she continues to let him in. It's comfortable, this routine. She considers asking him if he wants to come in for brunch, but Bucky's made it clear what he thinks about that.
She lets him in through the back door once more. This time, his fingers are stained with cream-coloured paint. He's taken it upon himself to paint her gutters despite the fact there's nothing wrong with them. His fleshy fingers brush against her hip again as he crosses the threshold.
Bucky stands beside her at the kitchen island, watching her in amusement as she purses her lips and asks him what he wants to eat this time. Despite knowing anything literally means just that, he still asks for a menu. She gives him a list—pizza, burgers, a salad, a chicken schnitzel, steak—and he chuckles in response.
"A steak, yes?"
He nods. "Yeah, but—hang on, there, Snappy," he laughs. Bucky's quick to clasp her hands with his, trapping them like fish in a net. Wanda's breath catches in her throat as his hands gently squeeze hers. His metal hand is warm; she can feel the intricacy of his wires hum over her skin. "How about we cook this one ourselves? You got a barbecue out there?"
With a glance at her back door, she smiles. "I do now."
He smiles, chuckling gently. "Okay, if you can make the raw meat appear, I can cook us some steaks. How about that?"
Wanda nods. His hands squeeze hers, his metal thumb brushing over the back of her hand. She looks down at his parted lips, noticing how pink they are. His eyes are a brighter blue than Sokovia's clear sky as he watches her. He still smiles, although his gaze feels a little heavier now. "You do that," he says, "and I'll go warm up the grill."
Her hands are cold when he lets his fall away like water. Bucky gives her a lopsided smile, cheeks a little pink. She watches him as he walks out of the kitchen and onto the back porch.
As promised, he does find steaks ready for him to cook. She watches him from her back side window as he bends down and fiddles with a few knobs before bringing the grill to life. Her barbecue's lid is a bright red and its arms and legs are a deep silver. She thinks it's fitting, although she would've preferred highlights of blue to match his eyes. She'll fix that next time.
While he waits for the grill to warm up, she watches as he plucks his cellphone from the back pocket of his jeans. His light-grey shirt's wrinkled and stained with paint or oil on the side. It's one of the few times she's seen him carry it around. She wonders if he's waiting for a phone call. The paranoia within her wonders if he's waiting to make one.
Leaving him be for almost ten minutes, Wanda ventures outside with a large mojito pitcher with clinking ice and two chilled glasses. She's quick to make her way down the back porch steps without her shoes and out to the right-hand side of her house. She's decked it out with a rustic wooden outdoor table beneath a shady tree. Bucky's back is to her as he talks on the phone.
"It's a simple yes or no question, Sam," he says in frustration. Wanda slows down and watches his light-grey shirt stick to his back. His Vibranium hand gently holds a pair of silver tongs. "Jesus Christ, I don't need to hear your life story!"
Wanda smiles and makes herself quietly known by placing the pitcher and glasses down on the table's wooden surface. Bucky turns to glance at her, giving her a quick smile before he focuses on his phone call with Sam.
"Okay, okay, I know… that was…" He sighs, looking at Wanda. Rolling his eyes, he pulls a mock-angry face as he reluctantly admits, "That was mean of me. Yeah, I know. I value you and whatever. Yes! I'm sincere."
Taking a seat on her knees on the wooden bench, she watches quietly as Bucky nods and hums, listening to Sam as he easily clips the steaks within the mouth of the tongs. Noticing he lacks a clean plate, Wanda points her fingers and makes one appear on the side table of the barbecue and two appear on the wooden table behind her. Bucky gives her a small smile and appreciative nod.
"Okay, great. That's great, Sam. If you can get me that info sometime before you die, that'd be great. Thanks." Bucky stays at the barbecue, his shoulders sagging despite the frustration in his voice. It's clear to her that he enjoys talking to Sam. She wishes she could hear what he's saying on the other end, but Wanda doesn't even think of breaking Bucky's privacy. "No, I don't want you to record that Kardashians bullshit. For the last time, it's not my show."
Pulling his cellphone away from his ear, he quickly looks at it to confirm the screen is blank and pockets it. Placing the tongs on the side table, he picks up the plate with the steaks and crinkled aluminium foil wrapping around the potatoes she'd conjured for him, and walks over to Wanda.
"Sorry, Sam's needy."
She smiles, shaking her head. Twisting around so that she can face the table, she watches as he takes a seat on the bench opposite her. "He misses you."
Bucky shrugs a shoulder. "Jury's still out on that one." He preoccupies himself with serving up the steaks, taking care to centre them in the middle of the plates. She watches as his tongue pokes out as he uses his right hand. He uses his left hand to pick up the foil and peel it open to reveal slips of potato that he's cooked. Most of them look soft, but some of the edges are brown, promising a nice crunch.
She rubs her hands against her thighs. "Is he okay?"
Bucky nods as he uses the tongs to pick out bits of potato to place them on the side of the plates. "He's fine," he says. "He's done something to his boat that he can't fix and he refuses to tell Sarah, which means that either the boat's going to sink or Sarah's going to be pissed and he'll blame it on me."
She smiles, amused, and hopes that he doesn't notice her rubbing her thighs nervously. "Will she believe that you're at fault when you haven't been there for a while?" For months. Wanda doesn't say as much. Instead, she busies herself by pulling the glasses towards her to begin to pour the mojitos. He glances up, watching her with an upward curve to his lips, most likely amused that she hasn't chosen to use her magic, and then he begins to peel the potato slices stuck to the foil off with the tongs.
"No," Bucky says with a shake of his head. "But Sam will do his best to blame it on me."
"You miss them," she says gently. With a flick of her fingers, his glass slowly glides over towards him along the slats of the wooden table. A small fake and unopened umbrella the colour of red, silver and blue appears inside of it. When Bucky looks down at it, it begins to open up on its own.
He lifts the glass to his lips, taking an obvious moment of reprieve to not acknowledge her comment. Wanda easily makes knives, forks, napkins and a bottle of ketchup appear between them.
"It's okay to miss them," she says, purposefully looking down to busy herself with picking up her knife and fork.
She knows Bucky's watching her. She keeps her gaze down on purpose, not caring if it seems obvious she's avoiding him. "I miss them," he says after a moment. "But they need their time together. Sarah wasn't dusted like we were. She was left behind for five years with her kids and… I think she and Sam have some catching up they need to do."
Wanda looks up at him and gives him a small smile. "You don't want to intrude."
"No," he says, shaking his head. He reaches for the bottle of ketchup, twists it open easily with his left hand, and places it back on the table. "I was only meant to stay there for a night. I ended up staying for a week and a half."
"Sam's kind."
"He is," he nods. "Too kind. I started to wonder if he was using me as an excuse not to deal with the fact that he was gone for five years. That's a long time to miss out on."
All Wanda can do is nod. Where Sam and Bucky had missed out on five years of another's life, she knows she hadn't missed out on anything. How could she when he was dead? Feeling her smile wilt at the thought of Vision, she exhales heavily. She watches as he easily cuts into his steak, using his right hand to control his knife. She slowly follows suit, not quite interested in eating for the moment.
"It's hard…" he says. Bucky sighs heavily. She suspects this might be difficult for him. The Blip is the elephant in the room no one had seemed interested in talking about at Tony's funeral. At Steve's and Natasha's funerals, even though Steve was still alive. "We were all gone for five years. None of us chose it. Yet, we all get punished for it. He can't even take out a freaking loan."
Wanda's brows furrow together as she regards Bucky with an incredulous look. "I didn't realise he was having trouble."
"Me neither," he says, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. He looks up at the foliage hanging over them. He doesn't seem happy; the frustration radiates off of him hotter than the sun. "That's the problem with him," he says, looking at Wanda. "He's too proud to ask for help."
Narrowing her eyes playfully, she shakes her head. "I know you're speaking about me now."
"Am I?" Bucky's brows lift up as he smiles. "All I'm saying is… Those of us who are left, we're fucking hopeless."
Wanda laughs loudly. When she looks at him, she notices how his face brightens up beneath a proud smile. His cheeks are a little pink, too.
"I forget I have a fucking metal arm that can do almost anything," he says with a laugh. Bucky feels warmer than the sun now. His hot frustration gives way to something that's comfortable for her to be hit with. "You know, I was trying to pull up that panel on your back porch the other day with my right hand."
Wanda laughs, shifting on the bench. She keeps her knees tucked under her to elevate her and give her some height. She doesn't want to miss the way he smiles or his blue eyes brightening.
"You're not used to using your left hand for anything like that," she says kindly. Bucky makes it a point not to look at her, clearly embarrassed and a little uncomfortable. She thinks they're similar; she had been too afraid to use her powers for anything good while he had feared his left arm was a weapon of destruction.
She spears a slice of potato with her fork before she looks up at him. No longer feeling nervous at the idea of him being snatched away, she sits up a little taller on her knees. "Did you use your left hand in the end?" Bucky keeps his head bowed, smiling widely. She shakes her head incredulously. "Bucky…"
"I told you," he says, reaching over to tap the top of the fake umbrella in his drink. "Fucking hopeless."
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When Bucky cooks for her again, it's a week later. He insists on making her his niece's pasta dish. Wanda doesn't think to ask how many siblings he has and how many children they have or how he knows her recipe.
"I'm telling you, she's famous for it in Brooklyn!" He laughs, hands on her shoulders as he shoves her gently into her seat. His happiness is contagious; her stomach fills with butterflies, fluttering about from the warm press of his hands and the way he vibrantly burns around her. "Stay here," he says, squeezing her shoulders gently. She wriggles in her seat at her kitchen table and stills. "Relax your little witchy brain. But you're the fire warden, okay? If you see a wisp of smoke, you put it out?"
Intentionally, she leans back so the back of her head rests against his abdomen. She smiles up at him, arching her brow. "Will you call me Fire Captain Wanda?"
"'Course," he says, brows furrowing in disbelief. "Who do you think I am? Some disrespectful punk?"
With one last squeeze, his hands slide away from her. Wanda conjures up a glass of red wine for herself and a beer for him. She watches him from her kitchen table, resting her elbow over the back of her chair. He glides around her kitchen, easily finding what he's looking for. She conjures up the pasta, tomato paste, bacon, and fruit for a salad that he asks for, but she leaves them uncooked and uncut.
He's gentle with the way he handles the vegetables with his metal hand. Wanda hadn't expected him to be rough.
"Sam says hello, by the way," he says, head bowed as he dices the bacon.
While she had been amused by Bucky's one-sided conversation with Sam a week ago, she hadn't thought that Sam was aware that Bucky had found her. Her cellphone has remained quieter than it has in the last several months than it was in the first two weeks of being brought back from the abyss of the Blip. She'd thought that Sam had given up.
She takes a moment before she thinks to reply. "Oh."
He looks up at her, brows pinched in concern. "I need to tell him how I'm doing and remind him that I'm ghosting him and to stop calling me all the time. He can be really annoying if I don't answer him sometimes."
"It's okay," she says, lifting her hand up to dismiss him gently. He has someone who cares for him. Wanda's grateful he has a connection beyond Sokovia. "I understand. He's your friend and he cares about you."
"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. He smiles incredulously. "Don't know why."
Wanda smiles as he continues to dice the bacon, his hand expertly working the knife. He moves onto boiling water in her kettle and disappears from her view as he ducks down and rummages through her cupboards for the perfect pot.
"You can tell him I said hello," she says tentatively. "If you want."
"Of course," he says loudly. Pots clatter together until he's pulling out the one that he prefers. "He'd love to hear from you. He's the one who wanted me to find you, anyway." Wanda's brows furrow slightly at that. He comes off unsure despite the pool of unwavering sincerity he dips his voice into.
Bucky rises to his full height and points at her with the silver pot. "He'd enjoy the fact you're putting me to work."
Wanda laughs. "You should tell him."
"And lose more of my dignity to that guy? Pfft. Come on, Wanda. You're on my side."
Arching her brow, she laughs in amusement. "Am I?"
"Mhm." He puts the pot on the stove, working to light the gas. "You agreed to it when I mowed your lawn." Technically, he'd invited himself to mow her lawn. Wanda doesn't wish to remind him, liking the fact she's been chosen to be on his team.
Instead, she laughs. "I'll make sure to be on your team from now on. Would you like me to wear a shirt?"
He nods. "Yeah, that'd be great." He glances at her from over his shoulder, his smile big and toothy. His face brightens in a way that makes him look boyishly handsome. When he turns away from her to pour water from the kettle into the pot, she finds she misses the warmth of his smile. "He's now Captain America, so… I need a leg to stand on. Did you know that?"
"That he's Captain America?" She laughs softly. "Yes. I own a television."
Relief washes over him. She supposes he doesn't want to have to explain to her the ordeal of what had happened with John Walker. It'd been difficult to ignore it when the news had been so loud and vengeful and she had felt so guilty for leaving them alone. Unsurprisingly, they hadn't needed her at all.
"What do you think of it?" Bucky doesn't look at her. She doesn't need to sense his feelings to know he's nervous about her response. Her opinion matters to him. She doesn't think to ask him what he's asking about—Wanda knows. She'd known this question would exist in the universe the very moment she had learned of Steve's true decision.
She watches him for a moment. She already knows her answer—she'd known it the moment they had chosen to remember Steve with a toast and skipping stones across the surface of Tony's lake.
"I think it's a good idea, a good fit." His shoulders seem to tense. Wanda shakes her head as she says gently, "And no, I don't think you should have taken it. You don't want it. I don't think Steve ever wanted it for you, either. It was always Sam's and that's okay."
Bucky looks up at her, a small, grateful smile on his face. "Thank you," he says. He looks away, gathering himself. After a moment, he says loudly, "This is going to be the best damn pasta you've ever eaten."
Turns out, Bucky's not a liar.
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For the next few days, he insists on cooking every meal by hand. During breakfast, he gently smacks her hands away and even places her bread in the toaster. He refuses to let her so much as wave her hand or flick her fingers.
"Don't even think about wiggling your nose, Wanda," he says.
Wanda scrunches up her face and wiggles it for fun. Red tendrils of magic curve around the shell of his ear and up into his hair, brushing through it like a hand. He pulls his shoulders up and shivers. "Ticklish," he murmurs.
Her toast is burnt—she hadn't changed the settings since her breakdown over a toaster so many moons ago in a quiet and lonely house in Westview—but Bucky only informs her that it apparently adds a little seasoning to the meal. He changes the setting for her.
He serves up a breakfast of burnt toast, bacon and runny eggs. He pours himself orange juice from a carton she's conjured up and makes her a hot chocolate to enjoy her breakfast with. The milk's a little hot, but she enjoys how much chocolate he'd poured in, disregarding the steps of the recipe.
"Pietro used to give me too much chocolate," she says, cupping her hands around the mug. The warmth kisses her hands. She looks down at the small layer of foam covered in chocolate powder and smiles.
"Is that so?" Bucky's voice is just as warm as her hot chocolate. "Well, I'm glad that I followed Pietro's recipe."
She lifts the mug up to her face and gently blows on it. "Me too." She smiles over the rim.
She breaks her toast in half and dips it into her egg as he tells her a story about Steve. "He was smaller than you if you can believe it. A skinny little kid. The wind always looked like it'd knock him over."
She laughs. "And you? Were you a skinny thing the wind could knock over?"
He scrunches up his face and shakes his head. "Nah." Dropping his fork, he curls his right arm to show off his muscles of his non-metal arm. The sleeve of his short-sleeved shirt shifts up to his shoulder. "I was always taller and stronger. I made the wind afraid of me."
Wanda bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. "I'm sure it was terrified."
He smiles, keeping his gaze downward. He picks up his fork and pushes his bacon around his plate. "The wind knocked me on my ass a lot, too," he concedes. "But only because I let it, obviously."
Wanda smiles, "Obviously."
As she watches him eat and laughs at his jokes about a skinny, pint-sized Steve, she realises he's not afraid of her magic. She refills his juice with a flick of her wrist and he watches it like he hasn't watched her pour leaves into her gutters and pull up the wooden slat of her porch. When he has the tiniest bit of egg on his face, it's with a gentle press of her magic that it's gone. He flushes, ducking his head as he attempts to tell her a story about how Steve had fumbled in front of Peggy one too many times, but she notices the way his cheeks remain tinged a bright pink.
Wanda likes that he's not afraid of her.
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"I swear I didn't do this," Wanda says with a laugh. Standing at the far corner of her kitchen island, she watches as Bucky lies on his back with his upper body tucked within the cupboard under the sink and his legs spread outside. He's barefoot with a bruise forming on his left foot. He hasn't been forthcoming about how that happened; she easily surmises it had been something embarrassing.
"Uh-huh." Bucky pulls a face as he tugs on the pipe with the wrench. "Just want to keep me busy, don't you?"
Wanda smiles, watching him in amusement. She knows that he won't think much of her looking at him, but she notices the way his jean legs are a little bruised with dirt. His long-sleeve dark grey shirt is stained with paint and dirt from his attempts at painting the pipes alongside the first level of her house. Bucky looks dirtier than when he first stepped out onto the side of her lake. He looks lived-in.
Lifting her gaze to the window above the sink, she watches as the dark grey clouds continue to roll across the sky. Sokovia's darker than it has been in days. When it's rained, the sky had been either a bright light blue or a clean and happy looking grey.
"It's going to storm," Wanda says. "Did you want me to clean up out the back?"
He shakes his head. "Nah." His feet move as he presses them against the floor to firm up his grip. She notices that his left arm isn't being used. "I cleaned up. Don't worry. I'll be quick so I can get out of here."
Wanda looks down at him and bites her bottom lip, watching the way his knees bend tightly against his jeans. Clasping her hands, she pinches her fingers and twists them as she looks down at him. She wants to continue to maintain the privacy of her house, to keep him outside and her inside, and only allow him in during the times that they've both established without words. She doesn't want to think of what he'd say if he stumbled into her spare bedroom and found an astral projection of her floating in the top corner.
"Don't worry," she says. Heart in her throat, she brushes her fingers against the warming skin of her collarbones. "You can take the couch. I don't want you to walk out in the rain."
She feels his surprise as butterflies in her chest. He clears his throat. "You can't conjure me a nice patch of dry sky?" he jokes.
"I would," she says, sweeping her nails against the skin of her forearm. She eyes the darkening windows and shakes her head. "I don't want to manipulate the weather too much. It's bad energy."
"I get it." When she looks at him next, he's watching her, his right arm extended to wrap around the pipe. "I'm almost done. I can go to the garage."
She shakes her head. Tilting her chin up defiantly, she teases, "Try and the back door will not open for you."
Bucky smiles toothily. His shoulders relax and slump as he continues to manipulate the pipe. Wanda knows she could easily fix it, but Bucky's determined to keep his hands busy. She doesn't want to take away the purpose he's slowly built for himself here.
Her heart hammers in her chest as she looks down at his legs. Her house feels a little smaller now with him lingering inside of it. Realising that she's simply standing at the corner of her kitchen island looking at his chest, she clears her throat. "I'm going to close up the house. Let me know if you need anything… like for me to actually fix the pipe."
Bucky laughs. It's a sound that follows her as she quickly closes all of her windows with a flick of her fingers. They're quick to pull themselves down, her curtains tugging to cover the window frames. She ventures up her stairs and repeats the action with her fingers, the windows and curtains closing.
Lingering by a room with the name Billy stencilled on the door, she ensures to lock it and the room next to it with Tommy stained on the wood, and the room she's begun to project the Scarlet Witch inside since building her second floor. Triple-checking them to be closed, she allows her shoulders to slump as she makes her way down the stairs and back into her kitchen.
After another twenty minutes, Bucky does concede defeat with the pipe. He remains tucked inside of the cupboard as she fumbles in trying to squat outside of the cupboard door without falling on top of him. A part of her thinks he's enjoying the way she does her best not to touch him. Wanda easily fixes it with a brush of her fingers against the smooth surface, her leak disappearing and the grumbling of her sink quieting.
Dinner goes as it should: he insists on buttering the rolls while she stands at the long kitchen table and moves her hands as if she's a conductor of an orchestra. She knows he's watching her. Wanda quietly preens beneath his gaze as she makes plates, drinks filled to the brim, knives and forks, and lasagne appear. The lasagne's cut evenly—too evenly—and is hot as if it's come straight out of a restaurant's kitchen.
He takes his seat, back against the open window as the storm rages on. No stars peep out along the blanket of night. Wanda finds herself saddened by this; she had liked watching the stars with Bucky.
The storm rages on outside, thunder booming and briefly hugging the walls of her house. Her lights flicker once, but with a mere movement of her hand, they burn unwaveringly bright above them.
"I don't mind storms," he says with a shrug. He cuts into his lasagne, only a square half the size of her palm left on his plate. He's inhaled it like it's air, insisting that it's good—better than his favourite restaurant in Brooklyn, which surprisingly hasn't closed down over the last several decades like every other place he'd enjoyed as a kid—and even grumbles about possibly wanting fourths. (He hasn't even had his seconds yet.)
"I don't like them," Wanda admits a little shyly. She jumps when lightning strikes loudly overhead. Bucky chuckles low in his throat. "Pietro always liked them. He'd tell me that it was the gods playing bowling."
"Bowling, huh?" He arches his brow in amusement, shaking his head. "My mom used to tell me it was the world's way of reminding me that I wasn't alone… but I like bowling better. That sounds way more fun." Wanda feels a little pleased that he doesn't dismiss the childhood story she's clutched onto more tightly since Pietro's death.
"I like your mom's idea better," Wanda says. He smiles, ducking his head and shovelling the rest of the lasagne into his mouth. His knife and fork scrape his plate as he tries to gather up the crumbs and sauce. "Did you want—"
"No, no," Bucky shakes his head, dropping his knife and fork onto his plate with a clatter. He leans back in his chair and rubs his hands over his stomach. "Ever since I've come here, I feel like I've eaten a whole house."
"You look good." Wanda lifts her hands to her cheeks. She takes this as her invitation to give him a welcomed once-over. Since he's come to Sokovia, she's watched as the gauntness to his face and body has disappeared. "You've always looked good."
"Yeah?" He laughs softly. "I'm, uh… I'm finally eating again."
Wanda cuts into her lasagne, only glancing up at him once. His gaze is down on his plate, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. She knows more is coming; she doesn't need to skirt the boundaries of his mind to know.
"I didn't think it was a big deal, but my therapist said…" He lets out a breath and rests his palms against the edge of the table. He taps them lightly against the wood. "She told me it was normal to feel what I was feeling. The struggle of taking back my mind and the way I saw myself. But what's normal, you know?"
Impulsively, she sends warmth to him, a little flurry of butterflies to dance along his skin. She isn't quite sure what to say, and she doesn't know what he wants her to say, so all she does is send him a wave of warmth and happiness—and pride—at him confiding in her his secret.
"I don't know what's normal." She shakes her head. "I had the most normal life in Westview."
He smiles crookedly, brows lifting slightly. "Yeah?" At her nod, she's gently washed over with trepidation. Westview isn't something she speaks of a lot. A comment here, an anecdote there… It's mostly Bucky leading the conversations, taking her down memory lane in an easy, safe place in Brooklyn of the 1940s. "What was it like? If you don't mind—"
"I don't," she says. Looks down at her plate and the lasagne that's the size of his palm left. She drags the prongs of her fork gently along the edge of the plate. "It was… quiet. I liked that it was quiet. There weren't screams or bombs or… people begging for something to bring them comfort." Running her tongue along her teeth, she glances up at him and looks back down. He's watching her intently, but she knows it's not to scrutinise her.
"Sokovia's been loud my entire life," she says, drawing that fork back and forth. "It's been ringing in my ears ever since I was ten."
"Ten?"
She nods. Reluctantly, she lifts her gaze, knowing she looks uncomfortable. "My parents died. Explosion in our apartment."
"Shit." He exhales heavily, leaning back into his chair. His arms cross against his chest as he glances down. "Steve told me a little about Sokovia, that you were there and that he needed to make sure you were okay with him. He didn't… He didn't tell me any of that."
"He didn't know," she says, pressing her lips together with a lift of her shoulders. "I didn't want to burden Steve any more than I already had."
With a sharp furrow to his brows, Bucky shakes his head. "He was never burdened. When I was more myself and in Wakanda, he used to give me daily updates. Wanted to bore me with real-life stuff to remind me that I was a person. He told me a bit about what you guys were doing." He smiles. "Running off to Scotland, huh? Bet he really liked that."
She smiles sheepishly. "I wanted a moment of normalcy."
"And you deserved it," he says. Unwrapping his arms, he brushes his fingers against the edge of the table again. He glances down at it. "With… Vision, right?"
She nods. "We took moments."
"Moments are good." He reaches for his glass with his Vibranium hand, drawing it closer to him. He doesn't lift it to drink. She thinks he's using it as a focal point. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
Wanda presses her lips together, her hand stilling with her fork. She tries to rattle through her mind about the things people are meant to say at this moment. No, he doesn't mean anything to her anymore. She doesn't feel anything anymore—she can't; he's gone. Oh, thank you, he had meant the world to her. The sympathies she had heard expressed at Tony's secluded house hadn't been for her or Vision. It hadn't even been for Steve and Bucky or even Natasha.
"It's okay," he says quietly, his gaze still focused on her. "I'm one hundred and six, and the most important person to me is now gone. I'm a little lost with the whole goodbye thing, too."
Picking up her napkin, she gently wipes her hands with it. She smiles a little wetly, keeping her gaze down on her plate. She knows that if she lifts it, he'll see the tears in her eyes that she's done her best to control and keep at bay ever since he chose to circle her lake.
"'How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?' AJ, uh… he's Sam's nephew. He liked to read me books. He made it a point to read that one to me a lot. Thought I might like it for some reason," he chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his hands against the edge of the table nervously.
It's easy to decipher why he'd want to hear that quote. Wanda hadn't understood what had happened by Tony's lake house until after they'd said goodbye to Tony Stark. Steve was gone. Not dead, but a ghost that would linger over them all. She had stuck by Clint at the time, not wanting to overstay her welcome with Sam and Bucky. Maybe that had been a mistake.
She knows he's watching her. Wanda still doesn't look up at him despite smiling, feeling her heart plummet into her chest. She can sense him lean forward before pulling his arm and body back.
Intentionally, he pushes his chair loudly as he steps away from the table. "I'm going to clean up."
He gathers the plates and utensils, even taking hers from in front of her. Only once does he make a silent dismissive gesture with his hand when she makes a move to push her chair out. Wanda doesn't help him at the sink, sitting in her chair as she wipes the napkin beneath her wet eyes and watches his back.
After he finishes with the dishes, Bucky purposefully calls it an early night, even though she knows he's not tired at all. She can see the way his energy sparks off of him in silver threads. He's restless, a little jumpy. She sets him up downstairs on her couch, giving him a couple of blankets and thick and fluffy pillows. Placing the remote in the very centre of her clean coffee table, she reminds him for the fifth time that it's there and that if he presses the right button, it'll turn the television on.
Standing awkwardly by the end of her couch, she rubs her hands together. "If you need anything—"
"I know, ring the bell." He smiles as he sits down on her couch, resting his arms on his upper thighs. She looks down at him, noticing for the first time a silver chain wrapped around his neck. Whatever's on the end of it is tucked beneath the collar of his shirt.
With a click of her fingers, a little silver bell appears on the couch cushion beside him. Bucky laughs loudly, almost as loud as the rain sheathing down hard upon the roof of her house. "Cute."
Waving his hand dismissively in order to see stop hovering, Wanda reluctantly leaves him be. She checks all the windows of her house are locked and closed and turns off all the lights save for the one in her living room. It should be his choice when he's sheathed in darkness. She eyes the back of his head as he sits on the couch, no doubt listening to her, and she ascends her stairs to get herself ready for an early night.
Having the house filled with another presence is strange. She hadn't realised how much space she had within these four walls until he had started to venture inside and stay for a small handful of hours each day. Even upstairs, she can feel him. Bucky is a warm, big presence that doesn't try to overshadow her. His discomfort slithers up the stairs and into her room, but she finds it's not uncomfortable.
Eventually, she settles for the night. Forgoing reading the Darkhold, she tries to tune the rain out as much as possible. It hammers down, thunder striking the sky in a manner that makes her wonder if Thor's trying to inform them that he knows they're together. Bucky remains quiet downstairs. She can't even hear the television murmur.
Despite feeling a little on edge with his comforting presence strangely sitting in her house, she falls asleep. Wanda dreams of nothing, enveloped safely in the arms of a black abyss that's empty of anything. It's how she prefers it.
The pure black void of nothing begins to fill slowly. Her feet press into fluffy bright white snow. When she looks down, her heart leaps into her throat. All she can see is a never-ending white cliff of nothingness to fall into. Realising she's moving at a speed that used to be familiar, she looks to her right and spies the long length of a dark grey train. It noisily moves along a thin and windy track along a snow-covered cliffside.
Gunshots bang loudly in the distance. Her heart hammers in her chest as she hears the train slowly begin to screech and fall apart. Bolts pelt down against metal sheets. She can hear yelling—some words easy for her to grasp in German—and feels the train begin to vibrate where she clutches at the open doorframe.
Intending to move back into the train cart to investigate, she missteps and plummets forward. Wanda wakens with a jolt, her mind and chest feeling strange. Hair sticking to her forehead and her camisole clutching to her neck and stomach, her heart races too sharply. She feels another thump in her chest as if another heart has grown inside of it. When she forcibly clears her mind, she begins to see the tethers looping down her staircase.
Quickly climbing out of her bed, she readjusts her camisole and makes her way noisily down her stairs and to the living room. It's quiet and dark, save for the rain still falling outside. It sheathes down heavily, the thunder and lightning long gone.
His mind's too loud as it races around her. Gunshots reverberate around her. A shout—Steve's voice. Her skin feels hot like it's burning; her left arm's painfully on fire. Hearing a sharp intake of breath and noise of discomfort, she's quick to skid over to the couch.
Bucky's tangled up in his sheets on the floor. His eyes are still closed, his face tensed painfully. Wanda doesn't wait. She kneels beside him on the floor, ensuring to keep the distance between them. Hovering her hand over his head, she curls her fingers as if a puppeteer. Calling the nightmare out from his head, she watches as red streaks sweep through his hair and slip up to her fingertips, forming strings as if it truly is a marionette.
He continues to pant, his brows furrowing tightly. Her eyes glow red as she pulls it from him, taking that fear away as quick and harshly as possible before it can coil around him any sharper. His jaw tenses before his face relaxes, his breathing still heavy but less panicked.
He opens his eyes, lips parted. His bare chest is sweaty; his Vibranium arm glints as if it can sweat. Pushing himself up abruptly and uneasily, Wanda pulls her hand away. He leans heavily on his Vibranium hand as if it's his pillar of strength, his metal fingers pressing into the wooden floor so tightly they leave indents. He pants hard, his other hand on his bare chest.
He hasn't realised she's beside him yet. Wanda thinks to reach out and touch him, but she keeps her fingertips pressed to the wooden floor as his adrenaline and death slide up her arm before dispersing somewhere inside of her. All she can feel from his metal hand is fear—and the sensation of falling deeper and faster into something black and frighteningly hollow.
"Bucky," she says quietly.
His head shifts, but he continues to look straight ahead, breathing hard. Calming down. Coming back to himself in the only way he knows how: by himself. He counts loudly in his head to try and push the images and fear away from himself… and maybe away from her.
"Are you—"
Swallowing thickly, he nods, not looking at her. His skin's damp and his face is redder than she's ever seen it. Her chest and face mirror his, her camisole still sticking to her like a second skin and her cheeks feeling flushed like she's on fire. He clears his throat and says hoarsely, "Sorry."
Brows furrowing, she's quick to shake her head. "No, I am. I didn't mean to—"
He shakes his head. Brows furrowed, he looks at her strangely—uncertainly. For a moment she thinks he looks like that because of her, but then she feels him sharply try to untangle the confusion he's gripped in. He hadn't pulled himself out of that dream. His thoughts are loud as he looks down at her hand incredulously. Quietly, he exhales, "You pulled me out of it." Swallowing hard, he looks at her and gives her a small, tense smile. It barely brightens up his face. "I'm okay. Are you—"
Quickly, she nods. "I'm okay. You didn't hurt me." Settling back onto her heels, Wanda pulls her hand into a tight fist in the hopes of trapping any further fear from slipping from her fingertips and residing back onto him. She knows she can keep it from him; his fear—nightmare or memory—still tries to tug him back as he quickly works at resurfacing from it.
He nods, looking down at his hips. He rests his right hand against the wooden floor, fingers fanning out as he takes in heavy deep breaths. His heart begins to calm down. The air around him is still tense, but it begins to disperse from its tight netting around them. She feels him bat away the fear and the sharp realness of his dream.
"You're okay," she says quietly. Bucky bows his head and closes his eyes for a long moment. He begins to breathe through his nose, tugging in long and hard inhales to only push them out. "I can stay and take it away if you have one again."
Bucky's brows furrow tightly together as he shakes his head. He looks at her, blue eyes bright. He feels frazzled to her. "I don't want to be any trouble."
She shakes her head, smiling kindly at him. "It's the least I could do."
Licking his lips, he looks down at her hands on the wooden panels. Inhaling deeply, he lets it out, his shoulders slumping. He nods. "I'm going to stay on the floor."
Wanda tugs her legs out from beneath her and crosses them. Bucky pulls his pillows down from the couch to pile them on the floor. It's something she thinks gives him some comfort, a sense of power where he's still rendered powerless. He drops his head down on his pillows and lies on his back, keeping his blankets wrapped tight around his legs. He peers up at the ceiling and licks at his lips, still feeling frazzled to her.
Wanting to bring him some comfort and a distraction, she impulsively brushes her fingers against his shiny dog tags. Her knuckles press against the wet and hot skin of his chest. His gaze follows her fingers, but he doesn't bat her away. Gently, she takes one in her hands and angles it so she can read the engraving. James.
He's still looking at her as she brushes her fingers against his skin and gently lets the tag go. She pulls her hand into her lap.
"I promise I won't watch you sleep," she says with a smile. "That would be too creepy."
He smiles, a little brightly and like himself now. He nods. Still swarming with stress, he keeps his eyes open as he looks up at the ceiling. "Thanks," he says, glancing at her. He's still breathing heavily, a little fearful of what's to come when he closes his eyes.
"I can help you get back to sleep if you'd like," she says, curling her hands around her ankles nervously. "I promise you won't dream."
Bucky clears his throat and nods.
Brushing her fingers through his hair, red tendrils of magic slowly weave through the strands. Gently touching his skin, she watches as her magic slowly slides down the side of his face and neck to rest against his chest. His eyes remain wide open, his chest heaving a little too much for her liking. He watches her magic curl around his cheek from the corner of his eye; she spies the corners of his lips curve upward.
Wanda watches him quietly, her red magic curling into his hair as she brushes her fingers through it. She waits for him to calm down and to choose when he lets her in. She continues to brush her fingers through his hair as she had with Pietro and Billy so many times. It's the best spell she has in her arsenal of witchcraft, it being the one that her mother had taught her long before Wanda had forgotten what her touch felt like.
Eventually, Bucky closes his eyes. The tension in his body slowly seeps away as he relaxes and lets her slip into his mind. She keeps her fingers in his hair as she makes him fall asleep. Searching on the shallow surface of his mind for any nightmares, she does her best to pluck and pop them.
When his breathing evens out and his shoulders and neck no longer appear tense, Wanda slowly pulls her fingers away. She doesn't stand up to make her way back up her stairs and to bed. She lies down beside him, resting her elbow against the floor and watches him. He sleeps peacefully.
notes.
The scene described to be Bucky's nightmare is based heavily on his fall in Captain America with a few changes to it to make it stream more and appear choppily from the subconscious.
As I've gotten a few questions about this, I also wanted to let everyone know I intend to update on the weekends for various reasons (offline commitments, other creative writing commitments, and it's a nice carrot at the end of the stick for me after a full week of work). That doesn't mean I will be updating every weekend. I'm getting into the part of the story that I only have half-written and need some time to polish it up and connect it all together. (I do have an outline, so don't worry, this baby's getting finished because I have been desperate to write out what I have planned for the ending since I started writing this.)
Thanks for reading!