still friends

Chapter 7: Unlikely

May 2nd, 2027

They opted to not go to Sam's party this year. They both knew if they went, they'd just be awkward, nodding at the people they very, very loosely called friends.

They didn't get other people; but they could bask in the loneliness together.

He knew it wasn't healthy, the way they cooped with things. When she thought the windows were closed, he'd witnessed her sob in her car before coming into his apartment. There's been many panic attacks during odd times that she hasn't been there for, and he didn't tell her about them.

The pain was too hot to touch, burning anytime it was given any recognition, so they ignored it.

The ache of remembering was breaking her. She would go through days were it took her hours to merely leave the bed. On those days, Bucky would stay with her, hold her hand or just hang nearby. Sometimes she'd drag him into the bed with her, and beg him to fuck the pain away.

He'd never told her no, but sometimes he was worried it was doing more harm them good, her burying her grief in sex. He did the same though, he really wasn't the one to judge.

Bucky wished he could tell Rebecca about her. He knew his sister would like her, would give him grief for dating someone so extremely shorter than him, but she would have liked her all the same.

If you can call it dating.

He wondered if he needed to ask her out, to take that childish label and slap it on them. The thought was humorous. Wanda enjoyed watching black and white films, and she'd always point out the sappiest parts, noting how they lacked common sense or were just idiotic.

Opting not to, he realized they didn't need a label.

They had each other, and that was more than enough. Far more than he deserved.

"Let's skip the party this year."

She hadn't given him a reason. Just suggested it as she removed her toast from the oven, and he'd agreed. She had smiled at him, the skin around her eyes bruised and her irises bleak, and he knew she needed the break. A break from pretending to be ok around their peers. He gets it.

The day of, Wanda doesn't pick up her phone. He calls her when she doesn't show up for lunch like they planned. He paces, worried, but trying to remain calm. She's an adult for Christ's sake, she can do whatever she pleases. But when she shows up at his door at nearly 7pm, smelling of wine, he's beyond pissed.

"Where have you been?" He's seething, his jaw hard, but he's so relieved to see her that he grabs her to him, flush against his chest, quickly before releasing her. She gives him a glazed look, then shoves passed, dropping her purse on the floor. "Did you drive drunk?"

She snorts, plopping on the couch. "Is my car parked outside genius?" He glances out his front window to find her car is indeed not outside.

"You walked?" He pitches the bridge of his nose. "It's fucking miles, Wanda. And the highway, you could've been hit."

She laughs, her neck lolling to the side and she gives him an incredulous look. "I can take care of myself, dad."

"Wanda," he says, dropping beside her. She looks away. "You can't just get piss drunk and think that'll solve all your problems."

"Oh and I should what? Work out until my bones break like you?" She rounds on him, eyes watery. "Or what, go on runs so long that my shoes start to fall off?"

He's glad he was so worried about her safety; if he hadn't been, her words might've stung.

"You're no better than me, James." She whispers, leaning back against the couch. "So stop acting like you are."

He stares at her. Is that what she really thinks? That he believes himself to be better? The thought is so far from true it could be a joke.

"I just want to help you." He tries, reaching for her hand. She lets him touch her skin before yanking back.

"You can't help me." She cries, and her eyes are tearing. "You're not him, so stop acting like you are!"

He feels like he's been stabbed. He'd been stabbed before of course, a few times. It hurt more in the stomach than it did in the arm. But it hurt worse when she was the knife-wielder.

"What we have is..is nice," she hiccups, full-on crying now. "but you're trying to act like my husband and you're not. My husbands dead. Thanos killed him, and then SWORD took him, and I can never see him again." She's shaking, her arms wrapped around herself and he just wants to hold her. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"

He's silent, knowing his words cannot help, and lets her rant. "You look at me like I'm...redeemable. Like there's something worth saving in here." She bangs her fist on her chest. "but there isn't. I'm empty, Buck. I'm fucking empty."

It's quiet for a moment, and her sobs pierce the empty air.

He wishes he could be angry at her, but the animosity towards her random disappearing act had evaporated the moment she started to cry. Reaching out, he grips her hand. She holds it to her, pressing his palm flat against her chest.

Regret is mixing on her features. He opens his mouth to comfort her, to say he understands and won't hold it against her, even though the words might keep him awake at night.

"I'm sorry," she wheezes, looking up at him. She's even pretty when she cries, he doesn't know how she manages it. "I'm fucking selfish. That was...uncalled for. I should never compare you to Vision." Her voice is clearer now, stronger, and she's gasping for sobriety. "You two are completely different individuals. My therapist used to say...it's hard to move on when the past is always on your mind."

Bucky lets her speak, holds her hand while she tells him little things about her dead husband, and wonders if he'll ever be able to live up to him. She breathes heavily, and her grip is tight on him.

He sits back, pulling her with him into his side, arm wrapped around her shoulders. She leans in, her legs tucked beneath her. A moment of silence descends on them, his thumb brushing her arm, head leaning against his chest.

Wanda shifts, her head craning to look at him. Tears are on her cheeks, and he wonders if his eyes look anything like hers, wet and rimmed with red. He leans to wipe her cheek, and she cups his face, doing the same. She presses a kiss lightly to his lips, no tongue, and leans her forehead against his.

Their noses brush, lashes closing as they find their peace.