Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She didn't understand immediately. No, the realization was gradual, a slow dawn on her mind.

The first time they saw each other, no words passed between them, only curious glances. She had heard much about him, the one they called Soldier. She had been expecting a stoic creature: a man made of marble and cold, cold stone. But there was blue in his eyes, a light, forget-me-not blue, and behind those eyes she sensed a soul, pacing.

There was a hesitant gentleness about him, as if he was unused to the idea of being soft. It had taken her a while to adjust; no matter how much time she spent with the Avengers, she retained the habit of setting up walls. She craved safety but to her safety looked like solitude, like silence and chilled bones.

Above all she sensed a kindred spirit in him. She, settling into the role of monster, and him, breaking free of that same brand. They were both falling into this new territory, this possibility of being loved and cared for, even after all they had done.

After many battles they came together again: conscious, free, but still chained to the darkness in their minds. She called him Bucky and he called her Wanda, not witch, not soldier. Not monster—though both wore the word, tried to hide it from each other and from themselves. But, they could see. They sensed how the other still believed in their respective deadliness.

She met pieces of him in their shared conversations: rare talks, always hashed out when they were alone. Sometimes she would be talking to Sergeant James Barnes, a loyal friend and brave soldier. He was a man with no troubles and just enough swagger and sardonic faith in the world. Most often she spoke with Bucky, the mosaic of shattered memories, a mixture of the man the world thought him to be and of the man he truly was--broken heart and all.

It was only in the silence that she met the Soldier. He would reach out from the shadows. Wanda could always tell—the blue in Bucky's eyes would fade to grey. His mouth would set into a hard line. His muscles would tense. She waited for Barnes to regain control, the red in her hands at the ready, tendrils of energy weaving through her fingers. Just in case.

One night Bucky asks her to promise something.

"Promise me," he whispers. "Don't you ever look in my head." Anyone else would have heard a threat, but Wanda hears a warning, a plea: the last-request of a boy who had to grow up too fast. He makes her promise to never look in his head. He doesn't need to say why. She knows.

She doesn't see much of him, apart from their occasional midnight chats. If she gets up early enough they'll share the kitchen space while she brews a pot of coffee. He won't say much, but he'll smile at her, and she'll smile back, and that will be all.

The others of the team are only slightly aware. Natasha walks by the kitchen and sees Maximoff and Barnes at the breakfast table, sipping at their coffees in silence. Steve hears Bucky mention Wanda's name every once in awhile. Otherwise, there is static between the witch and the soldier, friction from their separate lives pressed together by the people sworn to protect them.

No one questions because there seems to be nothing to question.

Sometimes, she and Barnes will go days without seeing each other. Wanda finds herself looking up at every opened door, wondering if the man will appear. She'll pace herself at every corner in the halls, wondering if they'll happen to bump into each other. In time they come together naturally. He doesn't mention the gaps in their association, so she forgets them. Or tries to.

When he's not around, an ache forms in her chest. She waves it off as nothing. She won't admit the ache comes from missing him.

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She admires him, in many ways. Never mind the beast in his bones; the terror always lurking behind his eyelids. His survival is impressive enough. But, there are other traits she notices.

On occasion she’ll walk in on one of his training sessions. The fight room—as the team calls it—remains open, stocked with floor mats, punching bags, exercise equipment, and an arsenal of projected battle scenes Stark keeps tinkering with.

Bucky goes into himself when he fights, she observes. His concentration narrows, his instincts take over, and the punching bag, the practiced maneuvers, it all becomes an outlet: a play for him to perform. She watches him and wonders if it’s okay to consider such violent repetition as dancing.

He has never offered to spar with her, and she has never asked him for the opportunity. Both are too afraid of hurting the other. She with her blood-red ribbons, acting out the chaos poised in her fingertips, scarlet power glinting in her irises. He and his strength that always surprises him, this pent-up let-me-out cry rattling his ribcage… She does not see this, of course; neither does he see her as such a force of nature. But they are; they’re powerful and strange and unstable.

It’s not that she doesn’t recognize those qualities in him. No, she sees his rage, the storm that brews inside of him, threatening to spill over and flood his surroundings. She sees. But her focus is not on his destruction. She’s too busy marveling at his life, his vibrant energy that shimmers over him like an aura. His laughter cuts through the heavy sadness and guilt weighing on his shoulders. His smile shines despite how dark it is in his mind.

He tries so hard to be more than he is, every day. That is what she sees—that is what she loves, though she will not own up to it, not yet.

It has been too long since she has allowed herself to love. Her parents were snatched from her, what seems like lifetimes ago. She has trouble remembering their faces, the way they hugged her, scolded her, the stories they whispered to her at night. Pietro became her world: he protected her, made her laugh, and held her when she cried.

She had not been ready to lose him. Years later she will remember his cocky grin and the echo of his laughter will send pain shooting through her chest. She must bury all his pictures or the memories become too much. It still hurts to say his name, but the ache fades, slowly, and in that way she’s reassured of her own healing.

Pietro left a hole in her heart, a black abyss that demolished what was left of the beating organ. Or so she told herself.

She knew she had experienced affection since her brother’s death. Steve Rogers’ friendship was dear to her, the little bit of comfort they could offer each other. Natasha Romanoff, a woman who spoke Wanda’s language, had become like a sister to the Sokovian girl. She was especially close with Clint and his family—the Barton’s practically adopted the young woman—his kids calling Wanda ‘Auntie’ as they did with Natasha. Yes, Wanda knew she felt affection for these people, the Avengers, the ones who had opened their home and their arms for her, monster that she was.

But, love? Oh, no; love was impossible.

She stuck to this belief for so long that, when Bucky appeared, Wanda could not name the sensation creeping into her chest. She could not identify the warmth felt whenever Barnes was near, that trickle of hope and light that entered her mind when his name was on her tongue. She did not know what to call it, and she refused to label it love.

One afternoon she meets him outside, near one of her gardens.

These gardens are nothing more than clusters of neatly kept flowers, patches of color scattered over the premises. Wanda has been so used to death and loss that the possibility of bringing life and color into the world excites her. She doesn’t venture into the city, but she has to leave the compound, if only to avoid restlessness. In those instances, she gravitates to the grounds.

Her first visit discovered a bunch of roses that had begun to bloom. Day after day she would tend to those flowers, watering them and redistributing the soil, weeding and pruning. Working with the earth calms her. She returns to her gardens as a sort of routine, or when she needs something to occupy her shaking hands.

It is one of those times. A nightmare has sent her scrambling out of bed in the early hours of the morning, sweat beading at her forehead and her mouth trembling with hollow cries. She throws on the appropriate clothing and makes her way outside, intending to check on the rosebush that is still thriving.

When she arrives at the spot, Barnes is already standing there, his metallic hand gently cupping around a pink rose in full-bloom. There’s something like tenderness in his eyes, and Wanda is drawn closer, by an outside force she has no control over. Bucky startles at her appearance, releasing the rose and stepping back from the flowers. He mouths her name but can’t quite summon the sounds behind it. She tries a smile and hopes that will ease him.

“What are you doing out her?” She asks out of curiosity, careful to keep any semblance of an accusation from her tone. Wanda cannot help but be reminded of coaxing a stray animal to come near when she talks with Bucky. It is how she imagines other people are with her, always speaking in soft tones…

She’s shaken from her thoughts by Bucky’s hushed reply. “I don’t sleep much,” he says, though she knows this already. Of all the Avengers, he is awake the most. Sometimes she can hear him wandering the halls at night. She can sense his restlessness when the sun sets, how much he fears the idea of sleep and what awaits him in his dreams. Often she shares his apprehension.

“Natasha told me about the gardens out here,” he continues, eyes glancing at the flowers that line the walls, most of the buds still in shadow while the sun struggles to come over the horizon. “I haven’t given them a good look since I got here,” he admits, locking gazes with her once more. Even in the early morning darkness, his blue eyes seem to glow, always bright and burning, like embers. She loses herself in them for a moment.

Before he can form the words she knows what his question will be. “Why are you out here?”

She debates with herself, on whether to tell him, what to tell him. The truth? Or a twisted but brighter version of it?

No, she doesn’t want to lie to him. So out comes the truth, slipping from her lips before she can stop the words. “I had a nightmare,” she says, and recognition flashes across Bucky’s face. “I come out here when I need to. I help the flowers,” she explains, her voice shedding its’ callous strength. “They make me feel calm.”

He nods. She retrieves the watering can and gardening tools from the shed, getting to work on the latest cluster of carnations. Bucky joins her, and she tells him which plants need how much water and which flowers do best in the shade. She talks and works until the nightmare that plagued her that morning has faded.

They stick close to each other, hands covered in earth and minds finally attaining some peace.

Chapter Text

They each have their outlets—places to store the anger, sadness, and fear. It's far better than trapping such volatile contents in their own bodies, or worse, in someone else's hands. She goes to the garden or reads poetry. He goes to the fight room, or he writes.

Honor swells in Wanda's heart when Bucky says he wants to show his journals to her. His eyes do not meet hers, but a smile lingers around his mouth and she can sense his benevolent need, a kind of hunger that is not ravenous—he wants to share a piece of himself with her. He is braver than her, in that respect.

She follows him to the room that still looks bare, a dorm meant to be his sanctuary. She can tell he struggles not to view it as just another cell, another holding room for the Soldier. His bedsheets are ruffled and unmade. Wanda forces herself not to think about him tossing and turning in bed, trying to outrun a long dead memory, a nightmare that will not surrender to sleep. The scene is too familiar. Hasn't the witch's room become accustomed to her screams? Wanda is used to waking up in the morning, finding glass on the floor or books thrown from the shelves. The night commandeers her control. Her bad dreams are wolves that will not stop chasing her, not until the sun has risen.

Bucky leans over one of the nightstands, pulling a stack of leather-bound notebooks from the top drawer. He holds each one of them, as if weighing the words inside, before extending a small book to her, the pages rippling from heavy writing. She takes it from him, hesitant, but achingly curious. He has forbidden her from reaching into his mind in the usual way. The small book in her hands is a source, something intricately connected with him.

She opens to the first page, but pauses. Of course she's considered what might be written: fractured memories, a torrent of released-anguish in the words. Wanda wonders if she's ready for the kind of pain she might find in these bound journals. Her gaze flicks up to Barnes, who's watching her, observing. He's letting her in, and for that she cannot help but be grateful. 

Phrases flit past her vision, some written sloppily, in obvious haste; others, carefully recorded, as if to avoid tarnishing the emotions within the words. She sees the occasional sketch and smiles, pleasantly surprised. Without thinking, she lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, absorbed in the journal, ringed fingers turning page after page of the black book. She almost doesn't notice when Bucky sits down beside her. 

Almost.

A change in ink-color catches her attention: a bright red jotting on the left page.

There's always so much blood in my dreams, the words read, and Wanda's expression shifts, her brows drawing together in concentration. It's crimson and thick. It stains my hands; nothing will clean them. I have tried so often, to scrub off the red. Nothing works. 

The witch sucks in a breath as the soldier's haggard voice plays in her mind, the tone sending shivers down her spine. She has a terrible feeling that this passage will rip something from her—it will thunder without rain and she will be unprepared for the downpour.  

The dream was different, this time, the writing continues. 

I pulled the trigger of my gun... had to terminate the target... I remember him, though in the dream I can't identify the man.

His body lies limp on the street.

The sight is sickening, but I have to look, have to make sure he's dead, or they... HYDRA... they'll hurt me.

The metal fingers of my left hand press into his neck, unable to locate a pulse.

But suddenly he breathes and when I look at his face again it's not the same man, it's not even him anymore. But I recognize this face, I see...

The words are blurring together and Wanda has to struggle to make out the next few sentences.

It's that girl. The witch, Maximoff… Wanda.

she's screaming

so much pain

and all the red

ohgodohgodididthisitwasmeohgodoh

Wanda startles as the book is yanked from her grasp. Her gaze frantically searches Bucky's face, fear shining in his eyes, lips parted, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. His metal hand grips the book. 

"You're crying," he says, voice strangled.

Wanda raises a shaking hand to her cheeks. They're wet, tears still spilling. She inhales sharply, trying to regain her composure. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, but the words come out garbled. She presses her hands to her mouth. "Простите, У меня все хорошо," she whispers, under her breath.

"You're not fine," he says, moving closer to her. "I'm sorry. Простите," he repeats, trying to soothe her. His voice is soft, and he is so warm and close, but underneath the words she can hear him breaking, splitting at his seams. Their gazes meet and the sadness she feels is reflected on his face, in his hollow, blue eyes. She can’t explain why she’s crying, whether for him or for herself, but in this small moment tears seem okay, not weak or out of place.

It’s okay, Wanda swears she hears him say.

It’s then that she realizes his hand is resting on her knee in a gesture of comfort. Something about the air feels different—thinner, like she can fall through, fall into him—and she’s leaning forward and he’s leaning and Wanda tastes saltwater but not his lips because he has pulled back, an unreadable expression on his face. She wants nothing more than to tug him closer again, but there’s something like regret written in his eyes and with abrupt terror she feels it, too. Her thoughts flurry and she blinks, waking from a beautiful trance.

“Bucky,” she whispers, but she can’t meet his gaze, and her cheeks are burning, her body screams run run run and she hates that she doesn’t know what she is so afraid of.

After mumbled apologies and a hurried departure, Wanda retreats to her room. 

There is no soil that will hold her kind of grief, no flower that can bloom her aching. Tears make it a bit hard to read anything close to poetry. She is not angry, not upset, not hateful--in fact, she loves him more than ever, now--but she is vulnerable and open to all this pain as she has not been in a long time.

Behind a locked door and underneath cold bedsheets, the witch sobs herself to sleep.

A week passes and Wanda avoids Bucky at all costs. She confines herself to her bedroom in the evening, forces herself to ignore the tell-tale signs of the soldier, wandering, unable to sleep. She has not taken care of her gardens since that early morning with Bucky. She wonders if the flowers are wilting.

The team notices, of course, because now there's something to notice.

Steve confronts Bucky: "What did you do to her?" Nothing. Nothing. Natasha confronts Wanda: "Did he say something? What happened?" Nothing. Nothing. 

Rogers and Romanoff shake their heads, unsure of how much to push, if they should look further, or just leave the troubled souls alone like they ask. Eventually the questions stop but tension resides in the compound like thick fog. 

Wanda and Bucky walk into a room. One of them finds a way to leave. Silence hangs between them, and they hate it, they hate it, but they're scared. They aren't monsters but they aren't normal and like any beast caught in-between, they don't have a clue on how to love.

Chapter Text

The week passes and there’s a long day of heavy rain, grey skies and thunder booming in the distance. Wanda worries about her gardens, knowing most of the plants haven’t been rooted long enough to withstand a downpour. The day wears on and Wanda imagines all the blooms drowning.

When midnight arrives, the rain lets-up, and a light breeze journeys through the night air. Wanda creeps out of her bedroom, into the dimly-lit hallway, silent besides the witch’s bated breath and gentle footsteps. She makes her way outside, pulling up her collar against the cold, eyes squinting to make out the path in the darkness. She raises her hand like a torch, allowing a bit of red energy to glow in her palm.

Biting her lip, Wanda reaches the rosebush, wondering how much damage has been done. To her bewilderment, the buds are largely intact, the pink and red blooms sagging only with the weight of the rainwater. Wanda’s gaze takes in the flowers still holding to the soil, altogether unharmed and thriving.

Wanda hears a rustle and crunching footsteps off to her left. Her body swivels in that direction, the scarlet light in her hands growing brighter, her tired mind suddenly alert.

“Woah,” she hears a familiar voice say. “It’s me, Wanda; just me.” The individual steps closer and the witch recognizes the face. Her stance relaxes, hands lowering, red energy snuffing out.

“Bucky,” she says in acknowledgement. He nods, and for a moment Wanda can’t remember why she hasn’t spoken with him in so long. It hits her a split-second later, the itch to get away and hide sprouting in her chest.

“How are they doing?”

She registers his question a bit late, before she realizes he’s asking about the flowers. “Better than I would’ve thought,” she replies, softly. “I haven’t been out, in a while.”

“I’ve been, uh, taking care of them, for you,” he says, and she looks back at him, surprised. “I had to read up on some stuff,” Bucky admits, not meeting her gaze. “I’m not—not good with this sort of thing. But, I knew you weren’t coming out, so, I…” He trails off, giving in to the silence.

Wanda focuses on him, only able to perceive the outline of him in the darkness, his head bent and eyes staring at the ground. She wishes to hold him, to take this broken man into her arms and tell him that it’s alright, that she doesn’t know what more to say, either.

She reaches for him, fingers grazing his flesh arm and pulling away just as quickly. “Thank you,” she whispers. He looks up at her, and she hopes there is a smile on his face.

Over the next few days, there is less tension between them. They haven’t resumed their midnight chats; Bucky leaves the gardening to Wanda; there are no morning-coffee rendezvous, but they will say hello. Bucky is careful around her, gentle, giving her space and time. She appreciates his consideration. But there is still a wall of unsaid things between them and Wanda feels its looming pressure so acutely—even when he is close enough to touch, he seems worlds away, and her heart will not stop missing him.

One late afternoon there is a frantic knock on Wanda’s door. The witch pulls out her headphones and pushes herself off the bed, opening the door to Steve’s worried face.

“It’s Bucky,” he says bluntly, eyes wide and watching her. Wanda glimpses the 'sixteen year-old kid in Brooklyn' Steve had told her about, a boy scared for his friend. She nods in understanding, following Steve’s brisk pace down the hall, turning a corner to Bucky’s room. Natasha stands nearby with tense anxiety, her lips pressed together in a frown.

“He kicked me out,” she explains, worry shining in her hazel eyes. “I’ve never seen him like this,” she mumbles, flashing Wanda a warning look. “Be careful, okay?”
The witch nods, her gaze flitting to the blond man behind her. “I’ll do whatever I can to help him,” she assures Steve, gesturing for him to stay with Natasha. “I promise.” He steps back, and just as Wanda slips into Bucky’s room she catches sight of Natasha’s hand joining with Steve’s.

Latching the door behind her, Wanda gasps at the scene before her. The control panel on the corner wall has been punched through, sparks flying, explaining why the lights are out and the room feels frigid. The bed's been stripped, pillow stuffing littering the floor. The nightstands are tipped over, their drawers ripped out and smashed against the wall. Wanda steps forward, only to stop abruptly, picking up the broken binding of a journal, many of its' pages torn out. Her mouth trembles as she surveys the damage. She needs to find Bucky, to make sure he's okay...

In the darkness, Wanda hears a low voice, mumbling words in Russian. Soldat, she hears, and mentally translates. Soldier. The soldier is ready to comply. As she moves closer to the source the voice gets louder, and Wanda can't understand why she's surprised to see Bucky, standing in the corner, head bent, mouthing the words the voice supplies. 

The soldier listens, he continues, unaware of the witch's presence. The soldier obeys. The soldier does not—does not fail. The soldier is ready to comply. Wanda inches closer. Bucky's dark hair falls into his face, blocking her view of his eyes. His fists are clenched. Wanda shivers, seeing his bare skin, the gleam of sweat on his back, a latticework of scars framing his left shoulder.

"Bucky?" As soon as the name leaves her lips, the soldier lunges for Wanda. Her reflexes kick in, hands forming a scarlet hex, blocking him. He draws back, momentarily stunned. His glazed eyes stare her down, as he calculates another way of reaching her. "Bucky," she repeats, her breathing heavy, "Please, I—I don't want to hurt you."

"Maximoff," he declares, voice gravelly but emotionless. She stares at him in confusion. "Wanda. Baron Strucker's experiment #13," he continues, and the girl flinches at the all-too familiar name. "Property of HYDRA."

Wanda shakes her head. "No. Not anymore," she whispers. Her shaking hands reach out to Barnes, palms out, the red energy weaving over her fingers reflecting in Bucky's eyes.

"Property of HYDRA," the soldier insists—Wanda realizes, now—this is the Soldier, the one she was warned about, the one she had only shaken hands with in the silence. His blue eyes, the color of forget-me-nots, are clouded. Underneath the mask of a heartless assassin, Wanda glimpses a frightened boy, glimpses the man she knows and loves. He's struggling to resurface, she can tell. If she could just—

The soldier senses Wanda's shift in attention. He takes advantage, shoving her down. She hits the floor, the wind knocked out of her. Before she can defend herself, he drops to her level, the cold metal of his hand wrapping lethally around her neck. Her pale fingers pry at his grip, but she isn't strong enough. Blood rushes to her cheeks in attempt to supply oxygen, but already, Wanda's vision swims, blurring, fading...

The witch stops fighting, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, her irises gleam red. Her mind reaches out, connecting with the soldier. He releases his grip, startled at the mental intrusion, one he has no defenses for. But this isn't the man Wanda's looking for. As she struggles to breathe once more, she digs deeper into Barnes' mind. She's immersed in his thoughts, blackness and white noise swarming around her.

Wanda has gotten better at navigating mindscapes. She ignores the screams and laughter and distracting images, sorts through the information and searches for a key memory, something unmistakably human and belonging to James Buchanan Barnes, not the soldier. She reaches and her head feels like it's on fire but her body is so, so cold and she is still reaching. 

She tugs on a thread, which unravels a scene like a film at the movie theater. Wanda immediately recognizes the younger man, with blond hair and a half-hearted smile. I can get by on my own, he says. 

The thing is, you don't have to, another voice cuts in, and Wanda knows it's Bucky. I'm with you to the end of the line, pal. 

Wanda senses the shift in Bucky's mind, an awakening. Satisfied, she begins pulling out, until a sort of doorway catches her attention. She's drawn to it, the way it pulses with energy and white light. Her mind pulls her across the threshold.

She doesn't recognize the images, at first. They're memories of her, but from Bucky's point-of-view. It was like looking at someone else's photographs. There are flashes of her, in the garden, looking up at the sky. Bucky's thoughts in that moment bleed through. She's so beautiful. I don't think she even knows.

The images keep streaming by, snips of her laughter, echoes of their midnight conversations, her smile, his hand on her knee--fuzzy picture after picture. Sometimes Bucky's thoughts leak in, fused with fear and longing and something that feels warm and good. Tears gather in Wanda's eyes. 

Bucky's voice seems farther away, now, more distant. But the words are insistent. Wanda. Wanda, wake up. Please, Wanda. I know you're there. Please, please come back...

The witch withdraws, a hazy, ethereal feeling settling into her chest. She feels light, weightless. As if the earth holds no gravity, as if she could fly straight into the heavens. 

Her eyes flutter open, to Bucky's concerned and confused face. She can't help but laugh a bit at his expression, and he smiles, assured that she's okay. She can tell the Soldier has retreated, for now, at least. It takes Wanda a moment to realize that Bucky is holding her in his arms, supporting her.

"I'm so, so sorry," he begins, but she cuts him off, pressing her lips to his. Shocked, Barnes doesn't move until Wanda pulls away, worry flashing in her eyes. For a long moment, he just stares at her in wonderment. A blush creeps onto her cheeks. Before she can apologize Bucky pulls her back to him, and her surprised laugh is muted by his kiss, and she feels galaxies burning in her throat and wonders if it's okay to love someone this much and this completely and she is so, so happy. She didn't know it was possible to feel so much at once.

The two break apart once more when Steve and Natasha come bursting into the room, worried and wondering what's going on. Natasha sees Wanda and Bucky in each other's arms, Wanda blushing furiously and Bucky with and dopey grin on his face. The redhead mumbles something about how she predicted this and finally; the tension was killing me. Steve looks extremely embarrassed and confused, and when Natasha drags him out of the room, insisting that they're fine, they're better than fine, all Wanda and Bucky can do is laugh, their hearts bursting with happiness and, yes, love.

Chapter Text

Now, she understands. Dawn has broken over the horizon.

Her shoulders feel deliciously light, without the weight of denial, the insisted indifference and cold heart. She senses some change in the world, as if everything has fallen, slotting into place.

Wanda can't hide her smile when Bucky walks into the room--she tries, if only to avoid the teasing from the rest of the team, all of whom are extremely relieved to see things back-to-normal with her and Bucky.

They share coffee every morning, now, and their midnight chats have resumed. Now they don't have to search each other out; the two are together almost constantly, drifting to the other's side as if by instinct.

"I wanna do something for you," Bucky says, one early morning, the two of them side-by-side on the sofa, leaning into each other. Wanda tilts her head up at him in surprise.

"Like what?" she asks, and he smiles.

"I don't know; but, something." She returns the knowing smile, wondering at the haze of ideas seeming to unfold in his bright eyes. The conversation drifts into a different topic and Wanda thinks nothing more of it, until a few nights later.

Wanda enters her room to find a corner of the dorm lit by miniature electric candles, a dark blanket spread onto the hardwood. Bucky sits cross-legged in the middle of the set-up, his hands gripping his knees, a smile blooming on his face when he sees Wanda.

"What are you doing?" she asks, half-laughing, curiosity shimmering in her eyes as she sits opposite Bucky, mirroring his position. She swears a blush creeps onto Barnes' face.

"I, uh, got you something," he replies softly, retrieving a small, square-shaped box. Wanda takes it almost reverently, undoing the faded ribbon with care and opening the box. A smile peeks onto her lips as she pulls out a silvery chain. Her fingers clasp around the pendant: a simple, scarlet-red rosebud.

"It's beautiful," she whispers. Her smile grows wider as she looks up at Bucky. "Will you put it on for me?" Wanda shifts so her back is to him, offering up the chain with one hand. Bucky leans forward, onto his knees, taking the necklace from her grasp with shaking hands. He fumbles with the clasp for a moment, before lacing the chain upon her neck. Wanda lifts up her dark, uncombed hair, letting it fall over her chest as Bucky finishes the clasp. His hands linger near the back of her neck, warm and gentle, before pulling away.

Her cheeks feel flushed as she asks, "How does it look?" She turns to face Bucky again, a small smile adorning her face. His gaze doesn't leave her eyes, and again she finds herself admiring their color, a soft, forget-me-not blue.

"Beautiful," he says, echoing her words. Silence settles in the air, and Wanda can't help but wonder what he's thinking.

"Wanda," he whispers, and she smiles at the way he keeps the syllables of her name tender and malleable. "Can I kiss you?" Her heart beats a bit faster in her chest, thumping against the cold pendant that rests below her collar.

She nods yes and he smiles, too, leaning close. They meet with ease, a kiss morphing into smile-against-smile, happiness and anticipation fueling Wanda's trembling fingers. Her hands curl around Bucky's shoulders, traveling the curve of his neck up to his jaw, a bit of stubble scratching her skin. His right hand supports the small of her back, drawing her closer, closer--

Wanda hears the clink of glass and pulls away, Bucky's sigh billowing onto her neck. "What is that?" She grabs the object knocked onto the blanket: a heavy bottle of champagne, unopened. She holds it up, incredulous, on the brink of laughter. Bucky covers his eyes with one hand, a bashful smile lighting up his face.

"Um, yeah... that's from Nat," he says in explanation. "She insisted; I don't know why."

Wanda laughs, tossing the bottle to Bucky. "She wants us to get drunk on the first date, that's why."

He smirks at her wording. "So, this is officially a date, huh?"

Wanda blushes, shrugging her shoulders. "Maybe." Bucky's smile sheds some of its' teasing quality as he sets the bottle down.

Softly, he says: "Well. I guess a first date deserves some champagne, then." She grins at the concession. "I'll warn you, though," he continues, a light tone to his voice, "I don't think I can get drunk."

"How come?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"You know; the serum. Nothing's really strong enough to make a difference," he clarifies. A shadow of a thought crosses his expression, and for a moment, Wanda feels pity for him. If any man should want to drown his sorrows, it would be the Soldier. She pushes the idea away as his smile returns, his eyes shimmering with contentment in the glow of the artificial candlelight.

Wanda hops up from her seated position, a playful smile on her face. "Well, I, for one, would like to test that theory. Wait here while I get the glasses," she says enthusiastically, sprinting out of the room. Bucky laughs, shaking his head.

"Okay, doll," he calls after her, liking the way the familiar word settles on his lips.

Almost three hours later, the bottle is more than half-empty and Bucky remains sober. The late hour, combined with the pleasant ache of laughter and Wanda's drunken behavior have him light-headed, either way. FRIDAY, the compound's AI system, had to interrupt Wanda and Bucky's bouts of laughter on two occasions, the computerized voice relaying complaints from the other residents of the compound. FRIDAY had started on the third message before Wanda sent a bolt of scarlet energy at the panel on the wall, shutting out the electronic messages.

Bucky has never seen Wanda so relaxed, and so at ease with her abilities. He'd observed her in training sessions--she held back when it came to the red energy she wielded--and even with him, she was reserved in what she said and how she touched... She was practically cradling him now, her head resting on his shoulder, one arm around his neck and the other across his chest. When she wasn't laughing, she mumbled words in Sokovian and English, sometimes an unintelligble mix of the two. He had never been fluent in Wanda's mother-tongue, but the language was similar to Russian, so he could pick out some of her words. He heard happy, drink, and night, which made sense, considering their current situation, but sometimes she said what sounded like kitten or mouse. He couldn't make out what those words were for, but he laughed when she did and smiled or nodded along with whatever string of syllables left her mouth.

They talked, too, as much as they could in the few hours Wanda was still able to hold a coherent conversation. He learned so much about her: she used to have a black cat named Omen, which he found miraculous; she learned her English from Pietro first, who was adept with languages, and how one of her favorite places in Sokovia was the church and its' empty pews. He told her what he could about himself: his friendship with Steve, which started when they were kids in school, and how it felt being drafted into the army. She got hung up on the subject of his favorite color, which they laughed about.

She kissed him once, twice. He was counting. They were brief and sweet, never pushing; it always felt like she was giving him something, a silent thank-you against his lips.

Wanda, she has never felt so free. She's had alcohol before, but not champagne. The rich, fizzy liquid feels like sugar in her mouth. In Sokovia, she and Pietro couldn't afford the good liquors, only store-bought beers and the occasional cheap wine. They weren't heavy drinkers either way.

A flash of hazy memories runs through Wanda's mind. She remembers Pietro's daring smile, the excitement that burned her fingertips when they stole a few bottles from a dingy shop. She remembers the alleyways and the fire-escapes they frequented, leaning against brick walls or dangling their legs into the open air. Pietro said the stupidest things when he got drunk, and he laughed twice as much and just as loudly...

Bucky startles in surprise when Wanda starts sobbing, her bubbly demeanor shifting abruptly. "Wanda," he says," helping her sit-up, "What's wrong?"

"Pietro," she moans, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, god, Bucky, I miss him so much!"

His heart aches for her. A pretty girl like Wanda doesn't deserve tears. "Hey, darling," he whispers, desperate to soothe her. "Wanda, please don't cry." He wraps his arms around her, burying his head into her soft, tangled hair. She smells like sunshine and champagne, like the summer trips he took to the fair. Holding her shaking frame, he murmurs the most placating words he can think of, stringing the calming sounds into jumbled sentences, some in Russian, some in the little he knows of Sokovian. Slowly, she stops crying, though her body still shudders, and her hands still tremble against him.

Wanda falls asleep soon after, her makeup smudged but a smile resting on her face. It's dark outside, though Bucky hasn't the slightest idea what time it is. With the utmost care, he scoops the witch into his arms and moves her to the bed. He plans to gently pull away, leaving Wanda to sleep, but she rolls into an odd position, hugging his metal arm like a child would cuddle a teddy-bear. He smiles at how cute she looks, though he's surprised the cold surface doesn't repel her. He tugs ever so slightly to pull his hand away from her grasp, but she shifts again, tugging him back with equal force. He stifles an exasperated laugh, before giving in and getting comfortable beside her on the mattress. Bucky's beyond tired, but the possibility of having a nightmare with Wanda nearby keeps him wide-awake.

He's not sure how many minutes, or hours pass, when Wanda begins talking in her sleep. For a moment he wonders if she's waking up, but her eyes stay closed and her sleep-heavy words aren't complete.

"Bucky," she mumbles, and his head perks up as he grins.

He whispers: "Dreamin' of me, doll?" She snuggles closer, and he's overtaken by a feeling of pride, in awe that such a beautiful creature would want to be nearer to him.

"I love you," she says, so quietly he wonders if he only imagined it. But then she repeats the simple phrase.

"Are you even awake, Wanda?" She doesn't answer, her even breathing filling up the silence. "Well, you know something, mоя дорогая?" He kisses the top of her head. "I love you, too."

Chapter Text

How does she explain how much she loves him? Wanda doesn’t know how to measure this kind of love. It settles in her mouth and pops like sugar, like champagne and late-night conversations. She’s filled with love—it burns her fingertips, sets her body ablaze and brings light to her hazel eyes.

She thought it would be difficult, to say such a thrilling confession straight to his face. But, he makes it so easy. He makes it feel natural: stirring creamer into her coffee-cup and meeting his gaze from across the breakfast table, watching his smile glow in the early morning light, and there it is, “I love you.” Dirt on her hands and knees, the stain of a lily’s petals on her fingertips, and his warmth by her side, his shadow encasing her, and there it is, “I love you.”

Somehow the words never lose their magic, though the syllables have become more familiar to her tongue. Somehow the ache in her heart has faded, replaced by an echo of his kiss, like a promise engraved on her chest.

“What’re you smiling about?” he’ll ask, and she always replies, “You, Мой дорогой. You.” And he grins like she’s just handed him a starry night, a peaceful memory, like she’s brought him a light when he’s surrounded by darkness.

Nothing is perfect, of course.

She will mourn Pietro for years to come. Some days she will stay in bed and cry, body shaking and feeling hollow. He will try to comfort her and sometimes she will let him. But sometimes there will be too much chaos ravaging her ribcage and she cannot allow him near, and it will hurt, it will murder a bit of them both.

He will never quite be free of the Soldier. Some nights he will wake up screaming, tearing at the blankets, at himself. She will soothe him in whatever way she can, but she knows she can never heal him completely. He will always have nightmares, he will always have demons, and there will always be a part of him that cannot forgive and forget, and it will hurt, it will murder a bit of them both.

They don’t ask for perfect. He holds her when he can, gentle in ways he didn’t know he could still be. She makes him laugh; she sings him to sleep with an old Sokovian lullaby she doesn’t know the meaning of. They kiss each other’s scars.

She will leave the compound, but only with him. He loves to take walks with her, through the city streets, through gardens. He points to a bunch of flowers, asking, “What are they?”

“Gardenias,” she replies. He squeezes her hand.

“What about those?”

“Azaleas.”

“And those?”

“Those are roses, you idiot,” she replies, laughing.

“Just making sure you were paying attention,” he says with a smirk.

She is unbelievably happy. Even on the bad days, on the terrible nights, just knowing he is there, knowing their hearts are safe with each other—it keeps her light. The darkness no longer suffocates her. It presses, as shadows will do, but she has a protector, now, arms to hold her. Metal of his left hand on her neck, a cool touch, and calloused hand, skin on skin, against her cheeks, melting the saltwater tears.

Everyone can see, now. It’s obvious, laughingly so to the rest of the team. The pair is still quiet around everyone else, still reserved. There is no playful lover’s banter or excessive displays of affection, not out in the open, at least. But, to the watchful, discerning eye, it’s easy to tell: how their hands brush, Wanda’s rings rattling against Bucky’s steel fingers; how one of them is always gazing lovingly at the other; how when their gazes meet a smile lights up their face, happiness shimmering in their eyes.

Wanda chuckles to herself, thinking of how much she denied the pull of love, in those early days. How broken she thought herself to be, and maybe it’s still true, perhaps she will never be whole as she was before.

But he makes her feel complete. He makes the aches, the bruises of her past, fade until they are only a part of her memories. Of course she will never be as she was, but, as she is now, with him… she believes her heart beats best when it is beating for him, because of him.

It is a lazy afternoon when she finds the poem. Bucky stretches out beside her on the bed, his recently-cut hair curling against the pillow. He keeps one hand on Wanda’s hip, fingers pulling at the fringes of her sweater. She just smiles and continues reading her book, unspoken words filling up the comfortable silence.

“I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee! / And yet when thou art absent I am sad; / And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, / Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.”

She murmurs a laugh, shaking her head at the page, her eyes shining as if seeing an old friend for the first time in a long time.

“What’s funny, Wanda?” Bucky asks softly, a tired lilt to his voice. She closes the book, pushing its’ poems aside and curls into him, running her fingers through the fluff of his hair, smiling at the scruff on his jaw.

“Just the past,” she replies in a whisper. “And how much we change.” He musters a smile, pulling her closer, two souls in two bodies entwined.

“We don’t really change, you know,” he says. “I think we just grow.” And if her heart could, in that moment, nod yes, it would. She listens to his steady breathing, the static hum of his thoughts always floating around her head. Such a lullaby she could never recreate. Her body sighs against his, exhaling in contentment, in relief.

Yes, with love.