Your Ivy Grows

Chapter 43

Bucky stays on that couch with me, his limbs tangled with mine, while I urge air back into my lungs. He stays there till my heart rate slows down and my muscles feel steady enough for me to stand. But even then, he doesn't move; he continues to hold me.

Every so often, a smile will pull at the corners of my mouth unbidden. I try to hide it by burying my face deeper into Bucky's side, but I know he notices every single one because he reacts. His fingers that are gently stroking my exposed back will stop for the seconds right after each smile before resuming their movements.

There's no stopping those smiles, no matter how hard I try. My face betrays exactly how I'm feeling.

I'm happy.

It's a foreign feeling. After years of feeling like I've been living in a perpetual dark, I finally have a glimpse of the light. Lemar isn't just offering me an escape; he's giving me my life back. Giving me the chance at a future that I get to decide and no one else.

I still don't know what that future looks like, but I do know I want Bucky in it. It's an epiphany that should have hit me sooner, but it feels liberating to admit it to myself, even if I'm not quite ready to admit it to him.

Bucky, seeming to sense I'm ready to move, quickly drops a kiss to the very tip of my nose before jumping up to grab me one of his shirts to slip into. Then his large hand is covering mine as he leads me to the kitchen, as if I'd somehow get lost on my way there. It's about fifteen steps away from the couch—he's ridiculous.

"Let's eat first," he says to me over his shoulder, typing away on his phone for a moment before abandoning it on the counter and grabbing ingredients from the refrigerator and cupboards.

"Pizza?" I ask hopefully, eyeing up everything on the counter.

"Yeah." He nods. "I thought we could make our own."

I take another look at all the food on the counter and I note all my favourite toppings are there. It's clear his comment earlier about remembering everything I say to him wasn't an exaggeration. He meant it. I don't like what that knowledge does to me; it warms my chest and I have to duck to hide another smile.

I can't help but remember the time John couldn't make it home for my eighteenth birthday, so he'd sent a gift instead. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I'd opened it, expecting something heartfelt and meaningful, and found a garish, bright orange lingerie set with a note that read: Happy birthday! Wear this when I come home. John x.

Embarrassingly, I ended up doing what he asked, and he'd told me he knew I'd love it because, and I quote, "Orange is your favourite colour".

I was eighteen. Eighteen! He'd known me my entire fucking life, he'd been with me for five of them—sleeping with me no less—and he couldn't even remember my favourite colour. It hadn't changed the whole time he'd known me.

He'd been there for those three months when I was seven, where I'd refused to leave the house unless I was wearing at least one purple item of clothing. And somehow, he'd forgotten. I could've told you every detail about John's life, but he couldn't remember something as simple as that.

"That okay with you?"

I look up to find Bucky staring at me and I realise I've zoned out.

"It's perfect," I reassure him. "I never say no to pizza."

We make them together, standing side by side as we roll dough to form our bases. It gets messy, and Bucky laughs as he reaches over to wipe flour off my face.