Friends with Fire // Bucky x Oc (Discontinued For Now)

• 19 •

After investigating the entirety of my room, including the massive walk-in closet, I take a brief shower and change into my pajamas. I also contact the company watching over my car and request that they send it over to America, which took quite some explaining since they pestered me with inquiries.

I look around again, trying to process all the things I’m feeling. I’m not very successful but I can tell that I’m tired, exhausted even. My head is throbbing gently, my stomach is upset about something, as usual, and I have these tiny pricks behind my eyes, making them want to water.

I blink a few times which only results in a few drops falling from my eyes. I’m shocked, realizing that they’re tears. With that epiphany, I finally understand the pricks behind my eyes are tears. I’m… crying? I think in disbelief.

Within seconds hot, wet tears are streaming down my face and silent sobs are rising and escaping from my lips. I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sound, which just results in my entire body shaking with each sob.

You’re safe, I say to myself, though it does little to cease the sobs forcing themselves out of me. I will relearn my emotions, I promise myself, carefully taking my glasses off and placing them on the nightstand beside me.

I lift the bottom of my shirt and use it to dry my face, even as more tears fall onto my cheeks. I go around, careful to not trip on anything, and turn off all the lamps before curling up on the bed, a pillow hugged to my chest, and don’t hold anything back.

At some point, I managed to fall asleep because the next conscious thought I have is that something bright is shining in my eyes. I groan as I slowly peel my eyes open, my eyelashes stuck together from my dried tears.

Somehow I feel even more tired than I did yesterday and, while trying to get out of bed, flop face-first onto the floor. “Ow,” I mumble into the fuzzy rug underneath me. I place my hands beside my shoulders and push up into a high plank before swinging my legs through my arms and sitting criss-cross.

I hold my head for a few minutes, my eyes closed, before using the bed to rise into a standing position. I stumble to the bathroom and run my hands under cold water before washing my face off, taking special care to get the dried tears out of my eyes.

After a few minutes of staring blankly into the sink, I grab my small toiletries bag from my backpack and brush my teeth and hair. Finally, feeling a bit more awake, I walk over to the windows and stare outside at the multi-colored trees, early morning fog obscuring the trees further off.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” I say hesitantly, unsure if anything will happen.

“How may I assist you?” the AI asks, sounding less loud than it did yesterday.

“Can you turn the thermostat down?” I ask.

“What temperature would you prefer? It is currently 68 degrees Fahrenheit in this room.”

I fumble, nearly saying the celsius before quickly converting it. “40 degrees Fahrenheit,” I say.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the AI asks.

“Is Steve Rogers awake yet?” I ask after a moment of thought.

“Currently, Mr. Rogers is in the gym. Would you like me to send him a message?”

“No thank you,” I respond. I stand in front of the window for a few more minutes before walking over to my bag. I take a few minutes to do some yoga, trying to wake up my tired body. Once done with that I change, taking my time with each item of clothing. I also stumble upon my contact lenses which had been hiding in the bottom of my bag.

Before putting my gloves on I put my hair into a carefully arranged french braid and make sure none of my earrings have fallen out. Satisfied with everything, I pull my gloves on and exit my room, walking to the stairs.

I go down one flight, stopping on the floor I haven’t been on yet. What I find is a sprawling library with tables, both big and small, scattered throughout the space. I’m curious and inclined to explore, but my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had a substantial meal in nearly two days.

Grudgingly I make my way down the second flight of stairs and walk down the hall and into the living room, both unnerved and oddly relaxed by the quiet. I can hear calming jazz issuing from the kitchen and hesitantly poke my head through the doorway.

I freeze, my eyes landing on Wanda Maximoff pouring herself a cup of coffee. I attempt to retreat, but she’s already spotted me. “Good morning,” she says pleasantly, a small smile on her face.

With a resigned sigh, I step into the kitchen, taking in the large space. “Morning,” I respond, not wanting to be impolite.

“Coffee?” she asks, motioning at the mostly full coffee pot.

“Uhm… is there any tea?” I ask, my stomach convulsing at the thought of having to ingest coffee again. The first time had gone very badly.

“All of the tea is in here,” Maximoff says, opening one of the many cupboards to reveal very precariously stacked tea boxes. After a few moments of deep contemplation, I select a spiced apple tea and turn to find Maximoff offering me a cup.

I cautiously take it, placing a teabag in it. Maximoff, momentarily forgetting her coffee, puts a kettle on the stove to boil. Once the water is done I pour it into my cup and walk over to the windows. I stand there, staring out at the reds and golds.