find me

39. Vermentino

When Bucky came to Angela asking for a day off, she hesitated.

On one hand, this was a busy week and she expected a lot of work.

On the other hand, she had noticed the tiredness in his eyes, how sometimes his face contorted in pain when he lifted the heaviest crates. He never mentioned it, never once took more time on his break or asked for a second one. He never complained about anything. And so far he had proved to be reliable, responsible and honest; he worked hard, kept his head down and was kind to everyone he met. But most importantly, she had taken a liking to the American.

So she hadn't asked. About the faint bruises on his knuckles, the cuts on his face, the exhaustion in his eyes and the painful noises.

It wasn't her business.

But she had noticed. She could tell by the darkness of the circles under his eyes that it was more than just a pulled muscle that procured him pain. Those looked like many sleepless nights, like a kind of suffering that isn't just physical. He had a troubled history beneath those ocean blue eyes, and the tiredness in them was deep enough to see that.

She knew this man hadn't rested in a long time and if she was being honest, he didn't seem the type to even want to rest.

So when Bucky showed up in the morning asking to get the next day off, she was taken aback. She studied him for a moment, his hair and clothes soaking wet. Rain had been pouring like hell since the early hours, and apparently Bucky didn't own an umbrella. Small droplets fell from the short strands of hair framing his face, falling onto his skin and rolling down into the hem of his shirt, or missing his face completely and falling onto the wooden floor. He didn't seem phased by the fact. She thought it strange. Anyone would have tried to wipe the water off their face, wring their shirt off or brush their hair so that it'd dry faster. But not the man standing in front of her. He just stood there, his eyes like steel. His face determined. She realised he came in that day with a mission, and that mission was getting a day off. She found it almost amusing, as if she would have fought that hard to deprive him of a break. She smiled warmly, gave him a pat on the cheek, confusing him considerably, and told him to take the next day off, and then two more after that.

With a severe kind of warmth that only mothers know, told him he needed them.

Bucky spent the rest of the day wondering if it was so obvious how tired he was. It must have been, if even Angela had clocked it. She offered an umbrella at the end of the day, but he didn't take it.

He didn't mind the rain. Enjoyed it even. There was something soothing about it. Refreshing. He always thought he was meant to experience the rain, to feel it on his skin, the way it affected his breathing, the way it made him cold. Humans aren't the only animals that cover from the rain, all animals see bad weather as a threat, as danger. Long stretches of bad weather can be deadly for some. All animals in the wild try to take shelter when a bad storm comes around. And yet, safety wasn't the first instinct that Bucky had when a particularly violent storm happened. His instinct was to get out and feel it. To stand and brave it, head-on. It was freeing.

Before he got into the house, he stripped down on the porch. He wrung as much water as he could out of his wet clothes and then stepped in. He patted across the living room in only his underwear and left the drenched shirt and denims in the sink of the bathroom. Taking a shower was maybe too loud, he knew Natalie was probably already in bed, so he opted for only getting dry and changing. He discarded the towel and the underwear in the sink, then wore his sweatpants.