verb. fail to remember
~
She was forgotten.
He forgot.
She didn't mean to. Neither did he.
They were both dragged in. They both fought out. Surviving is hard. Living is harder.
~
~Based on characters and events of the MCU, I only take credit for my...
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May 2015
'Do you feel like a croissant or pancakes? I think I'm gonna have smashed avocado.'
'Lilith, it's lunchtime.'
'Even better!'
Bucky's answering smile was soft, a small knee-melting twitch of his lips that I wouldn't mind staring at for the rest of my life.
We were at a small café right underneath the place we were staying in Bucharest, Romania. It wasn't exactly a five-star restaurant with caviar and sparkling white wine, but it was quaint, with red booths and a karaoke stand in the corner and a disco ball precariously hanging from the roof by a string. It was perfect, because the only other people in the café was a large group of four— three rambunctious women and a man with glittery eyeliner. None of them gave us a second glance.
'Why don't you just get nachos?' Bucky suggested, probably preventing me from staring at the group long enough to look creepy.
I gasped and snatched the laminated menu out of his hands. 'There are nachos?' Let me tell you, there is nothing better than nachos. Not in Paris, not in Germany, not in London, not anywhere. One day, a few years in the future maybe, I wanted to go to Mexico, the motherland of nachos.
We had been staying in Bucharest for about three weeks. Bucky had been quietly amazed by everything he had seen, and when I asked him about it, it turned out that he had ancestors from Romania. He wouldn't let me do one of those "find-out-your-family-tree" DNA things, though.
Distracted, I ended up watching Bucky watch strangers hurry past the little café, doing their own little thing in lives that couldn't be more different to ours. Since our little moment in Warsaw, I slipped into this habit a lot. Even with my eyes closed, I could see the exact way his eyes, bluer than a cloudless sky, widened slightly whenever he spotted someone doing something even slightly futuristic, like crossing the road at the green-man symbol. I could see his hands, one metal, one flesh, both covered by black leather gloves tracing shapes on the table subconsciously. I could see his hair, long enough brush his stubble dusted jaw, but shorter than it had been before I cut it last week.
And then he was shaking, hard enough that his form blurred.
Wait, no, he wasn't shaking. Everything was shaking. The table in front of me bounced high, knocking the salt and pepper over. The disco ball went flying, and faster than I thought possible, Bucky leapt out of his seat to pull me out of the way, just as the shimmery object smashed into a million diamond shards right where I had been seconds before.
He pulled me to his chest, both hands gripping my shirt as if he relaxed his hold for even a second, I would disappear forever. We crouched together, our breaths heavy, waiting for disaster to come.
Then as soon as it started, it stopped.
Well, the shaking stopped.
Screams echoed—in the café, down the street, through every suburb that had felt the deafening tremors. Cars went off, mixing with the fruitless barks of every dog in the park in a cacophonous symphony.
