April 2, 2023

He isn't sure he can think or feel or live.

Like a tv in black and white, it was all static. Bucky's bleak life becoming as horrendous as those old picture shows his ma used to force him to watch with his little sister, and it's suffocating.

His life had been far from easy, even after Thanos, but he had at least been able to feel. He could remember what it had been, how it had felt. How laughing with a skinny Steve would make his stomach burn, or the feeling of a girls hand in his would make his heart flutter.

There had been a goal in him, a want. Fuel to the fire that was his existence but now it burned him. After all the brain swapping, memory loss and aching pain, it withered at his soul, chipping at him, until he began to crack and splinter.

He hates it. Hates his existence, hates the new world he's supposed to understand. Hates Steve for leaving him alone in it. Hates Tony Stark for being lucky enough to die.

Around him, the heroes he fights side by side with continue living. They move on, get married, and he envies them for their ability to live.

He watches as Pepper Potts lets go, as she sends her beloved down the river bank and bravely takes her daughter by the hand, ready to lead their company into a reborn new wave of prosperity.

He cannot let go when he so desperately clings to the past. Now that he can, he clings to the memories of murder; the ones committed in-front of him, or by him. It's the echoing of screams that lulls him to sleep, and it's the ringing of sobs that jerk him awake.

There is nothing but the past for him, not a damn thing. With Steve gone, the Avengers became his family, and he tries to act on it, but he keeps them at a far distance.

Reliving is what keeps him going. Feeling the guilt crushing him, it's what gets him out of bed; it's kind enough to grant him a purpose.

He wants to be whole; to feel again. Knowing he'll never deserve it is punishment enough.

What is happiness exactly? He isn't sure he remembers.

He feels a great debt to the Wakandens for stripping him of the winter solider programing. At least with that, he knows he won't cause anymore harm.

The first time he remembers he's alive is when the love of her life dies.

They were both snapped, so when they both returned, she hadn't known Vision was dead until after the final fight. When Tony had breathed his last, everyone had been reverent, holding their breath in honor of him.

Expect her.

She'd been looking around wildly, burnt orange hair wiping back and forth, and she'd flown off while the rest of them mourned. He watched her leave, her chaos magic lifting her for miles until she was just a spray of red.

It wasn't until later that he found out what happened to Visions body, and that she couldn't have it back.

A part of him felt sorry for her, as she was now alone in the world, with her brother being dead and all. But then Steve had left, taking hope with him, and Bucky had been desperately alone too.

So, he stands here on Wilson's porch — clutching his glass hard enough it cracks — trying to act. Act like he's mourned and moved on, like the rest of them.

The music is pumping so loudly it thrums against his back. From inside he can hear them singing along terribly to music in an aroma of alcohol and happiness. It's like static to him.

He can't remember why he even comes to these damn things.

He doesn't really enjoy being around them, constantly feeling like an outsider. Being around Steve had made it easier, the transition not as bumpy. But now, he doesn't even know why he tries.

He had atoned for the majority of his sins, made amends with those that he could. He had thanked them, specifically Wilson, Banner, and T'challa for putting up with all his Winter Soldier bullshit, and they had been gracious as ever, accepting his mumbled apologies with ease.

After Wakanda, he had purchased a little one bed room apartment for himself, even though he never used the bedroom. He preferred the floor of the living room. He had just finished removing the last of the mattress frame when he got the email to the remembrance party. To honor those who died because thats what they would've wanted.

He thinks of Steve, how well-suited Captain America was for these types of things. His lips curl bitterly.

Keeping his face stony is how he keeps himself in check. He does this for them. He owes them that much.

He feels bitter leaning against the wall, hearing everyone have an amazing time, drinking to the memories of those they lost and he knocks back his glass. The alcohol doesn't burn, and he wished it did. Fishing in his pocket, he removes a flask of his special liquor, the one Thor concocted for him that would actually work on his super solider immune system.

He takes a slow sip, wincing slightly, wishing it was time for him to depart, but he'd only arrived an hour ago, and he had promised Sam he'd 'stay for a few', and as he listens to the happiness and the music and the memories, he wonders if maybe he can be redeemed.

Crossing his ankles, he stands on the corner of the porch, waiting until it is polite stretch of time to make his leave.

Pushing open the screen porch, she walks out the front door and gently sits on the steps, feet tucked beneath her. It's chilly, and she brushes a hand up her arm.

The wind howls furiously, rocking the boats that are docked steadily, the waves lapping up against the cement. She sighs, shrugs her coat off, blowing a raspberry. Bucky watches intently, eyeing her burnt-colored hair as wisps of it escape her braid.

He feels his old, asshole-self emerging before he can stop himself.

"Trying to get sick?"

She spins her head towards his voice, going still in light surprise when she recognizes him. And he's amazed as to how she looks so beautiful when surprised.

She studies him, eyes narrowed. Bucky is holding his Asgardian liquor in one hand, the other tucked into his jacket pocket. His now-short hair was tousled, the chopped strands unruly. He didn't know how to style it yet, and he looks borderline amused, eyes crinkling at the corners as she stares back.

She raises her brows.

"April isn't that cold."

"I can see your breath, so i'll take a wild guess and assume it's cold."

He isn't sure why he's talking to her, but as she gives him a scowling glare, he decides he enjoys watching the way her face contorts.

He chuckles under his breath, taking a sip, then pushes himself off of the wall he'd been hanging on. His steps are calculated, and she gives him no indication of noticing him until he sits beside her. He's large, their knees bumping as he settles, and she angels herself to the right so they don't touch.

Turning her head, she stares. She's close enough to count the faded scars and light freckles that scatter around her face and hands, her body heat exuding.

"Why aren't you celebrating?" he asks, genuinely curious. He never pictured Wanda to be the type that gets blasted at parties, but he didn't think her the type to sit them out too.

She's glaring again, and he avoids her eyes by taking a sip. Maybe she doesn't want him to speak to her, and while he understands, he just wanted to hear her voice. He'd only ever really heard her cry.

"They're moving on," she says after a while. "I can't."

Her voice is strong, but the volume low, and Bucky strains slightly to hear her. She shifts her feet, the old wood paneling squeaking with age.

It was a small statement but its meaning was loud, and on a personal level he understood.

He wants to tell her that he gets it, that while the fight has ended there's a war constantly playing in his mind and he knows it's echoing in hers too.

He turns away, squinting in the wind, eyeing the dock and the dark water. The silence stretches, aside from the wind and the sea, and Bucky finds himself feeling content.

Almost at peace.

"You're hurting," he says. "Which is good. The numbness would be worse." He knows the feeling all too well, the colorlessness. Knowing that Wanda is feeling that undoubtedly, makes him angry, because she of all people didn't deserve that empty existence.

She's glaring at him, he can feel it, her green eyes scorching into the side of his head. "What do you want, did you follow me?" She demands, avoiding his claim. He gets it, understands how she might not be aware that she's still hurting. Sometimes he's so numb he forgets it himself.

Perhaps its selfish, using her conversation like a lifeboat when she's so clearly drowning as well, but maybe it could help her too. They could both stay afloat.

He rolls his eyes, tongue clicking. "I was out here first, actually."

She rolls her eyes in response, her nose scrunched in a displeased manner, and she's adorable.

He glances at her again, and she stares back, hard, her nose a light pink and cheeks flushed with cold.

"There's a reason you don't want to forget?" He posses his assessment like a question, and she looks away.

"I just don't."

He can't see her face, and he panics that she's grouchy or worse, beginning to cry. He shuffles his feet, knee bumping hers but she doesn't react.

"Don't you know we won?" He tells her, eyes trained on his hands and the glass. His metal arm is covered, and the glass slides across the fabric easily.

She looks up, staring straight ahead as her fingers fiddle with one another. "Did we, though?"

The statement catches him off guard. "That's what the news reported." He counters, and she turns completely, her knee now pressed against his and her face a mix of angst and ferocity.

"Because the news is so reliable," she snaps, then lets out a sigh. "So many died. So many lost their chances at life, at happiness ."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she drops her head, chin wobbling slightly. Bucky wants to look away, give her a private moment to collect herself, but he can't. He wants to comfort her, to tell her its alright, that he won't judge, but he knows she'll recoil from his touch, so he keeps his hands wrapped around the glass.

"Families were torn apart, good people lost their lives, and we're supposed to be celebrating?" She scoffs with a watery laugh. "I can't."

He raises his glass, shifting and realizing he should probably slow down. The Asgardian liquor always did the trick.

"I think it's technically remembering."

She gives a large sigh, turning back to stare ahead. His skin burns through his jeans where their knees touched, and Bucky decides to take the plunge.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

He hadn't attended Vision's funeral because there hadn't been one. As far as he knew, SWORD had taken custody of the body and no one had seen it since. He'd like to think that, if there had been one, he would have attended. He would've shown up, stayed in the back, offer a slight apology towards the end then make an escape.

She turns to him and he pauses, cocking his head to the side. Tears were in her eyes, one escaping down the side of her confused face.

"I don't need your pity," she spat, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "I don't want it nor need it."

Anger finds his voice before wisdom does. "Not like you fucking deserve it."

He expects her to pale, to sob or become so angry that she hexes him into the water. What he doesn't expect is for her arms to drop from her chest, large eyes widening.

"I'm sorry that was...uncalled for." She swipes at her cheeks. "I just...I feel like an ocean keeps hitting me, over and over again, and no matter how hard I try I can't stand up. I hate it. I fucking hate it, and I need it to stop."

He's taken aback by her confession, thoroughly intrigued. Tapping the heel of his foot, he looks away.

"I hate it too."

They fall into silence, the wind moving around them in noisy wails, and he wishes they could stay on that porch forever.

"Steve's an asshole for leaving you behind." She whispers, standing with a brush of her hands against her denim. Bucky is shocked into silence, jumping slightly when the screen door shuts behind her.