#at least I've been able to put in other job applications and tune up my resume while in queue | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dzpenumbra · 1 year

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12/8/22

Today was tricky. I don't have good words for it honestly.

I woke up late, meaning I slept in and caught up on sleep. Not gonna beat myself up over that, not healthy. I called the vet, they wouldn't prescribe the sedative for my cat until after my first visit... and my first visit was supposed to be a blood draw... but they were actually super nice about it and worked with me. I should get a call from my old vet tomorrow about this, hopefully they can call in a prescription, otherwise I'll have to bring her in for a routine visit and then do the blood draw at a different date. Either way, I'll get it worked out.

It was just a bit emotionally difficult because Max actually puked this morning. Not sure why, I'm afraid it's because she was really hungry because I was late feeding her, because I slept in. But I'm not a doctor. I just told myself that reasoning to protect myself from thinking about her potentially being sick. She looks fine and healthy, just... cats don't normally vomit, not like dogs. So yeah. That was a difficult start to the day. I'll mention it on my appointment.

I got one of my dumb chores out of the way - putting a label in my mailbox so that they know who lives here now. It was really easy and I got it done quick, while strolling through the hallways in a wife-beater, barefoot, smelling like exotic essential oils, eating an apple, in fucking mid-December. Because I'm totally a normal human being like all of you, I promise.

After that, I learned how to tune my djembe. I have never taken the time to do that, and that poor thing is ancient and has like... been out in the rain and left in cars and shit, I'm shocked it's in as good condition as it is. I tightened the skin a bit and I think it sounds better, I just don't really feel comfortable playing it to test it, I'm still nervous about upsetting neighbors.

This was my lead-in to working on a musical arrangement. I was really inspired to do an acoustic cover of an After the Burial song. I love their rhythmic grooves and I think they'd translate over to acoustic hand-drums pretty well. At least I hope, only way to tell is to try. I put a few hours into arrangement, splitting the drums into djembe, taiko and etc cymbals (still haven't gotten that figured out fully). Then arranged it for 2 acoustic guitars in Open C# and a bass. So... if all goes according to plan... I should be able to cover this myself, even if I have to do electric drums.

I got a decent chunk done, then I had to do my therapy appointment. And it was regrettably the first bad therapy appointment I've had with this guy. Not to his fault, he's great and he meant well the entire time. He was overwhelmed, and was very upfront about it. We got onto a topic that was difficult for me (but that I had brought up several days ago after the giant fight with my parents): work and money. It triggered me. And I didn't express it out loud. I just rode the wave, I guess. Tried to navigate the emotional rapids. I started tearing up like halfway through, which is like... really embarrassing to be a grown man who starts crying because he's afraid he's just not competent or well-equipped enough for another form of work other than what he currently does. Like... I'm sorry, I have years of experience here. I have been rejected for every single application I've put in, and most of them because I'm too creative, too emotionally in-touch or too overqualified. Ambition Snowskates (a dream job), a writing job for a company where they review places that you can bring your pets, an animal shelter, the list goes on and on.

Really what gets me is like... I go to people in social services, right? The sector of social work that focuses on helping people get the resources they need to make their life functional. At least, that's my understanding. I've gone to therapists, I've gone to life coaches, I've gone to vocational rehabilitation. All with a very clear vision of what I want to do. It's a very broad range of things I want to do - music, art, poetry, video, animation, podcasts, crafts, whatever creatively inspires me - but it's very clear that I want to have an environment where I am free to strike when the inspiration iron is hot. All I need help with is figuring out how to translate this into money. Because I do not care. Money fucking bores me, it stresses me out, it gets in the way, it's a barrier, not a goal for me. Not only does money not motivate me, it actually immobilizes me. It makes me freak out, it emotionally overwhelms me, which obfuscates my creative focus and puts me in a state where I actually have to take time away from work to recover. It's really detrimental. And my life has really been fucked because of this cycle. I think about money, and I freak out and get emotionally overwhelmed, then I get in a stupid fight about how I'm not making enough money, then I have to take time to emotionally recover, then I open my eyes and a week and a half have gone by and I've done no work, I'm not streaming anymore, the dishes are stacked up chest-high in the kitchen and my beard is 2 feet long. That last part is an exaggeration but you get my point.

No one has been able to help with this. And it's so goddamn hard for me to articulate why this is even a problem, or how it is, or like... how profoundly crippling it's been. But like... the worst part... I feel like I'm just whining. And they wouldn't say it to my face, but I guarantee a lot of people I've talked to about this want to say "wow, don't be so dramatic, just go get a fucking job." Like I'm making excuses to get out of my civic duty of being a laborer for someone else's company. Well, here's my chance to vent, so buckle up. Why the fuck do I want to be a laborer for someone else's company if that same person would not, under any circumstances, support my business even as a customer? Why do I owe it to someone else who decided to open a restaurant or something, who happened to have a social support system that actually believed in them... just because I was not so lucky. Because I have been surrounded by self-absorbed narcissists who don't give half a shit about my health or success, only what they can get out of me. Who just want free shit, or to show off, or to share their music that they like, or to get affirmations or compliments or reassurance, or to just have someone actually listen to them.

See, once I start pulling this money/work thread, I just start unravelling, it's just stitched into every fucking problem in my life. So I started emotionally breaking down during the session. He tried to help, he really did. He referred me to local art resources, pulled up the website and everything and I thanked him like he was on the fucking RMS Carpathia. I like... I know it's not in his job description. So... I just encouraged him to like... help me develop strategies to combat social anxiety so I'd be a little more confident and okay meeting people in my field.

I feel like I have the portfolio of someone fresh out of college or something. I'm 36. I've been working in multimedia art for over 15 years. I feel myself rabbit-holing, I don't need to do this. This, right here, this thought chain... this is impostor syndrome. So, this is me course correcting. I have a lot of diverse artistic talents, and a lot of knowledge from many, many diverse disciplines. Geology, mythology, ancient history, spirituality, music theory, illustration, painting, sculpture, animation, the list goes on and on. Because I have so many diverse influences and such a broad net of creative knowledge, it can make each specific part look... underdeveloped. Like... if I spent the past 15 years just playing guitar. 4 hours a day, every day, for 15 years. I'd be a phenomenal guitarist. But I spread that time out into different things. So that's why I feel like I don't have as much to show for it as others. But I need to remind myself that my diversity and perspective is my strength. It's what makes me unique, as a multimedia artist. But all of this can be hard to like... let someone know within the first 5 minutes of meeting them, and a lot of people want the TL;DR - and there really isn't one.

I've talked about this before and I honestly don't want to relive it right now. The big take-away here is that... I was so caught up in the emotional fog of this... that I didn't let him know that I had uncovered this ghost from my past. That I had unearthed my long-buried diagnosis with ADHD. Which I'm sure anyone who even glances at my MASSIVE several page journal entries would probably go "yeah dude, no shit you have ADHD", but in my eyes, it's still hard to fully process. And again, I still feel like an impostor. I still feel like I'm "tricking myself" into thinking I have ADHD, and I'm sorta like... method acting it. So frustrating.

So... I'm going to send him a message after this to clarify and pass that insight along, which may help him come up with some tools catered to helping someone with unmanaged ADHD regulate. It's a lot of the same tools as anxiety, from my understanding. Meditation, grounding, emotional regulation, but maybe brainstorming more executive functioning stuff. I've been coming up with some crafty life hacks that have been working pretty well, but I'd love to hear a professional's take on it, assuming he's well versed at all. Oh, also, probably a good tell that I have ADHD is that we go overtime like every fucking session because I'm talking the entire goddamn time and feeding him with that energy, and I have like zero perception of time, and he lets me lead. Might have something to do with it! XD

So yeah, after the meeting... I was super upset. Like... really emotional. And I called my mom, and warned her upfront that I was very emotional and it would be helpful if she could help process. She was very kind and did, and we talked about work stuff and she was very encouraging. She was very excited to see the piece I made for my sister-in-law, and to see the write-up I did with it too, telling that individual piece's story, and the science behind how smoky quartz gets smoky colored. I brainstormed doing videos documenting the process of my pieces - in short and long form, short for YouTube, long for Patreon - from finding sticks and stones in the woods to the final product, with me narrating the process and talking about all of the historic, geological, whatever context that goes behind it. To really show how fucking important these pieces are to me, how special they are. And to show my fascination, my obsession, my passion about all of the amazing things behind this.

The story that resonated with my mom was one I told her about a TEDx talk I watched the other day about one of the oldest ceremonial gravesites found in the world, it was like 35,000 years old. And they found like 4,000 carved mammoth tusk beads in there with the dude. And someone actually went through the process of recreating these beads from authentic mammoth ivory just to see how long it would take a skilled individual to make them, and it took him an hour each using primitive tools. Think about that. These were people who like... we don't even know if they had spoken language yet. And they sunk at least 4,000 hours into carving beads that were going to be buried in the ground. Like... That's absolutely fascinating to me. And it speaks to me about the power of making something for the sake of it being... precious. Valued. Sacred. None of these words seem right, and Holy seems really pompous... Special? I don't know, I can't find the right word. There is something so viscerally powerful to me about picking up a stick, carving it with unique designs (even if they aren't referentially meaningful, that's a bonus, honestly), and then... it's no longer "stick". It's "your stick". It's something engrained into our DNA at a primal level. It's something we have been doing for millennia before we were even painting on the walls of caves! And I am blessed to have the freedom to explore this.

Now, take someone who has the passion you just heard, the commitment to learn thousands of different techniques, the resiliency to fuck up a piece that I've sunk hundreds of hours into and to get back up and try again... and put that guy in a car delivering DoorDash for half the day instead of working on this stuff. Tell me that makes sense. Give me a reason that justifies that. Like... I should be teaching college-level classes. And the reason I need to put my time into "a job" to "make money"? So that I can pay my bills. So that I don't die. Not to better my future. Not to utilize my trained skills. So that I don't get evicted, and so that I have food in my cupboard. Call me melodramatic, but this seems like an egregious failing of social structure.

So... I'm gonna keep working on my art. I'm gonna try to get over my shit and post pictures on Instagram. And, most importantly (I think), I'm going to shop around for a mentor. I need to find an artist like me, a multimedia artist. I'm cool being an assistant or whatever. I just need someone connected to show me the ropes and help me find my place. That's really it, I think. I'm nervous, but I think it's excited nerves. Who cares if I fuck up somehow and embarrass myself, at least I tried, and I can try again.

I need to give Max her meds and my hand is actually sore from furiously typing this with no breaks. I need to go.

#diary #journal #online journal #stream of consciousness #stream of thoughts

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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Persephone's Symphony | Day One | Persephone

Hey lovelies— so as per my usual shenanigans I've decided this will have no schedule and that I will play god to my own creation because what is life without some chaos? The pros are you might not have to wait a week between updates, the cons are you might have to wait a week between updates. In all seriousness, please enjoy my lovelies!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Mentions of death, at times semi-graphic, eventual smut

Word count: 3.1k

Previous | Next

Master List

She can’t hear what the man in the truck says to him— the walls of this house are surprisingly thick. She supposes that’s a good thing. It means she will be able to go about her days normally while cooped up here. Well, as normal as possible. She doubts she’ll be able to get away with her three am rom-com marathons and ice-cream binges. She doubts she’ll get away with screaming in her sleep— and in the shower and at the breakfast table and when doing any, little thing that makes her remember that her life is one, constant nightmare.

It’s only three days— all she has to do is stay awake for three days.

While his head— her body guard’s head— is turned she leans against the kitchen sink, inching back the white lace curtain for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s like a little game at this point. She peeks at him, his eyes snap to hers, and she squeals and drops the curtain. Thank god the walls are thick. It’s almost unnerving how tuned he is to every little movement— not almost, it is unnerving but she supposes that is what makes him a good fit for this job. A good fit for keeping her alive. Like she has been doing for months now, she ignores the way her chest squeezes painfully.

Through the little strip of window that she allows for herself, she traces over his features one last time. Cropped black hair, a square jaw, at least two days worth of stubble. He looks like a bodyguard— rough, dangerous, manly— and that’s before taking into account the sheer size of the man. She is on her tiptoes, one hand pushing against the stainless steel below her for dear life, and she still has to crane her neck to properly see his face. She refuses to let her eyes wander any further than that— she had already glimpsed at the rest of him when he had made the short walk from the truck to the house. She already knows he’s massive.

His eyebrow twitches and she drops the curtain— she may not be as fast as he is but she’s a quick learner. Had she held the curtain open longer she is sure his eyes would have flicked to hers again. Those are the rules of the game, after all. She hears a muted thumping and the door handle jiggle from across the room, spinning towards the faded farmhouse door. She watches as the door handle turns, her throat tight, wondering where all the air in the room went— it was there a second ago.

The door pushes open and she jumps away from the sink, only just realizing what it’ll look like if he comes inside to her still hunched over the window. Of course, he’s already seen her but that’s beside the point. Part of the game is not talking about the game. A boot comes into view— the black, military grade kind— and it hits her like a punch to the gut that this is real— there really is someone out there trying to kill her. Now she really can’t breath. She can only force her lungs to expand to draw in some oxygen before her bodyguard finds her sprawled in an unconscious heap on the ground.

The boot is quickly followed by a leg, which is then, by default, followed by a torso and a head. A head that turns and watches her freeze, red handed like a bandit, in the middle of the kitchen. Gods, she should have just kept leaning against the sink— this is worse! Her hands are up and everything, shot out in front of her like she’s about to jump him or something. Yes, her— the girl currently in a hoodie that pools around her legs, displaying her knobby knees and bad posture— about to jump him— the man who had to practically duck to get through the doorway. She could laugh. In fact, she almost wishes he would laugh at her. She wishes he would do anything but look at her with that blank expression and those ice blue eyes.

“Uhm—” she blinks, trying to think of something to say other than holy shit you’re a giant— which, for the record, is what she wants to say— “hi?”

Are you serious, y/n?

He tilts his head at her and she almost cries. Not the same fear ridden, heartbroken, panicky cries of late. More so the awkward, why the fuck would you say that to the man charged with keeping you alive brand of cries. The normal kind. She drops her hands to her sides, slipping them into the pouch of her hoodie and tangling her fingers together. She can only allow herself to display one embarrassing thing at a time.

The man stays silent for a moment, each second of which makes her cheeks flame hotter and hotter, before finally opening his mouth. “Hi.”

Her chest deflates— some of the heat subsiding. He copied her. Whether purposefully or mockingly it alleviates some of the stupidity she’s feeling. She takes a few steps backwards, her bare feet pittering rather loudly over the worn hardwood. Well, that didn’t last long— there’s that embarrassment again.

“I’m y/n,” she squeaks out— gods, is Mickey Mouse in the building? “I guess you already know that though, huh?”

It was a stroke of genius putting her hands in her pocket— at least now he can’t see the way they shake furiously. She has to resist smashing her head against the sink. Nothing about this situation is optimal, to say the very least. Here she is making small talk with a man who could tear her in half. Her eyes drift to where his red henley pulls taut around his biceps— are they bigger than her head?

“James—” her eyes flick back up, face hotter than the sun, both from her blatant staring and the deep gravel of his voice— “but most people call me Bucky.”

Her eyes widen. She doesn’t know why, probably because she’s an idiot or because she isn’t expecting him to say more than three words. He seems like the strong, silent type. Maybe that is just the rom-coms though. Maybe her brain is just mush now.

“Okay,” she all but whispers, backing further into the sink. His piercing eyes have yet to leave her— something which makes her knees knock together and fingers clench. “Which should I call you?”

He tenses, his dark eyebrows pulling together, and she has to swallow the bile that rises in her throat. It’s day one and she’s already offending him. She pulls her lip between her teeth, biting down until the tangy, metallic taste that she has grown too familiar with these past months floods her mouth. She tells herself that she does it to keep from cursing. Lying to herself is another game she likes to play.

The longer he remains quiet, the more she regrets asking the question. His blue eyes are still latched on her, drifting over the space between her eyes and her busted lip, but somehow they also seem miles away. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her— seeing her— or if he’s seeing something else entirely. It isn’t until she pushes off the counter, taking a hesitant step forward, her foot slapping against the wood like it’s trying to embarrass her again, that he blinks. She pulls one of her hands from the puddle that is her hoodie, sliding it over her hair. Can he see the way it shakes?

Probably.

“Nevermind, forget I asked. It was a dumb ques—”

“Bucky,” the word is rushed out, falling over her own stuttered babbling. He slows after that, his face remaining stoic but his cheeks dusting with the slightest hint of pink. “Call me Bucky.”

She doesn’t point it out— she doesn’t have a death wish. Her being here right now, standing across from a literal giant, barefoot and shaking, is proof enough of that. Instead she nods gently, lowering her hand slowly. He’s not going to attack her— he isn’t a wolf— but still she takes the precaution. Better safe than sorry.

“Bucky it is then.”

He nods stiffly and she pretends like it doesn’t make her hands shake harder. She waits for him to speak, eyes drifting over the blue cupboards and the breakfast nook, taking in the applications of the home and trying not to scream. She feels so out of place, not used to the warmth in the room— the lingering smell of yeast and the flowers in the vase on the table. She used to bake all the time. Now she can barely bring herself to microwave frozen dinners. The sun that filters through the crack in the curtains and lands against her cheek feels like pure fire. She spends her days in the dark— she wouldn’t be surprised if she was allergic to the sun itself now. Allergic to all the things she used to enjoy.

The silence is too much— she has to speak to keep her throat from closing. If she doesn’t then it may not open again.

“So—” she draws the word out, her eyes flopping to the floor where her toe scuffs against a particularly worn board— “we just kinda follow each other around then?”

His face doesn’t change, his lips remaining in the same, expressionless line— a master of one trade. “Pretty much. I follow you.”

“And make sure I don’t die.” She fills the rest in— there’s no point not to. He’s definitely seen the pictures.

Finally his expression shifts, his lips pressing together tersely. It’s an answer in it’s own right— he pities her. He shifts his weight between his feet, the floorboards creaking below him. It could just be her but the sound slices through the room— loud and unforgiving— and she can’t stop the way she flinches. He freezes, obviously noticing her reaction. She almost slaps herself. Leave it to her to make an already tense situation worse. Is it going to be this awkward the entire time?

“You’re not going to die.” His voice is softer than his boots, barely reaching her ears as it cuts through the rigid atmosphere.

She doesn’t know what to say— how do she tell her bodyguard that she doesn’t believe him? He’s supposed to be the one saving her life. It feels risky to suggest that he wouldn’t be able to do that. Like telling the universe that she wants to die. She doesn’t want to die. It’s just hard not to think about death when it follows her everywhere she goes. For twenty-four years she was just y/n. Now look at her.

The queen of death.

She doesn’t know what to say so instead she changes the subject.

“Are you hungry?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She makes grilled cheese for lunch. It is nothing special but the smell of the butter alone makes the energy she has to scrape together to make them worth it. She can’t remember the last time she cooked like this— the last time she tasted anything but freezer burnt macaroni and lumpy gravy. A couple times she almost drops the spatula, her fingers not used to having to be so coordinated, but the promise of melted cheddar has her fighting through the tremors. That and the audience of one, standing next to her with his arms crossed like he’s judging her culinary skills rather than looking for snipers.

It’s all in her head. That’s what she tells herself at least.

“You want extra cheese?”

She can feel Bucky’s eyes on the side of her face— is there something on her cheek? “Sure.”

It’s all in her head.

She flips the sandwiches, watching as the fluffy white bread is replaced with a perfect, golden brown toast. Her stomach growls, the sound somehow louder than the sizzling pan in her hand. The scream bubbles in her throat again— fuck. Why must everything she does be so humiliating? Why can’t she just keep it together for three days!

“Bacon?” Cue the voice crack.

“Bacon?” He repeats the word back like he hasn’t the faintest clue what a pig is— like somehow he’s a giant of a man but has never touched a piece of meat in his entire life.

Like it’s the dumbest question he has ever been asked. She swallows— hard— her cheeks pooling with heat again. She’s starting to wonder if it ever even left. If he asks she’ll blame it on the steam rising off the pan or her hoodie or both. But he won’t ask— he won’t speak until he has to. It did not take her long to gather that fact.

“You’ve never had bacon on grilled cheese?” It feels like he’s glaring at her.

It’s all in her damn head.

The floorboards groan underneath Bucky again and instead of flinching this time she tries to imagine what they might be saying. Save me, he’s crushing me! She flicks her eyes down, glancing at those military grade boots and then at her own toes, tiny and feeble compared to the size of his gear. One wrong step and her foot would likely be broken. She isn’t too worried about that though— he seems careful. His movements thus far have been slow and calculated, skirting around her and leaving at least a few feet between them at all times. Maybe that isn’t to keep from stepping on her though— maybe he just doesn’t like her. She wouldn’t blame him.

“You say it like that’s unheard of.” He doesn’t say it angrily but there’s no exuberance in his voice either— just the monotone she’s come to expect. It’s been one hour and she can already see how the next seventy-one are going to play out.

“Where I’m from it is.”

There’s a pause— the sound of butter crackling against the pan and of the steady picking up of rain against the kitchen window as it eats away at the sunshine— and she’s expecting the conversation to drop there. He isn’t there to entertain her, after all. That’s what the TV is for— what Leonardo DiCaprio is for.

But then there’s an answer. “Where are you from?”

The corner of her mouth lifts— an action so foreign she can practically see the dust shedding from her rusty smile— and she turns from the frypan long enough to meet his icy eyes and to throw out an arm, putting the front of her hoodie on display for the stoic man.

“SoCal.”

Her mouth lifts higher when Bucky raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. He could be mocking her but she chooses to believe he’s interested. She chooses to believe that they are making progress and that she won’t have to spend three days talking to the walls. She turns back to the sandwiches, flipping them for the last time before laying down a few strips of bacon next to them.

She isn’t expecting him to keep going but she also isn’t complaining when his voice tickles her ears again. “Caltech, huh? S’that Pasadena?”

She tries to keep her smile from morphing into a full blown grin— she isn’t sure if her poor lips would be able to handle it. It’s been too long since she last used her mouth this much; both for smiling and talking. “Yes sir— born and raised.”

He hums and she watches from the corner of her eye as he leans to the window, peering out of it for a moment. There’s no one out there— at least she strongly doubts there is. This place is in the middle of nowhere. She hasn’t even heard a car since the truck that dropped Bucky off drove away. It’s supposed to be peaceful. She doesn’t see it. All she sees is the dreadful but necessary silence— at least hopefully that way they’ll hear someone coming.

“How about you? Where are you from—” she flips the bacon, pushing it around the pan, her mouth watering at the thought of the greasy, gooey goodness she’s about to consume— “You mind finding some plates?”

She hears him rummage through the cupboard above his head— well, above her head, in front of his— before two mismatched pieces of dishware appear before her nose. Grabbing them, she lets the corners of her lips tick up just the tiniest bit further.

“Indiana— but spent most of my time in Brooklyn.”

“It shows.” She muses, not turning to see whether or not he appreciates the comment.

It’s true regardless— she can hear some of the mannerisms of New York in his voice. Not many. He hasn’t said enough for her to truly gauge just how strong his accent is. Still it’s there, in the gruffness of his tone, just like she’s sure the SoCal shines through in her. At least it normally does— lately she hasn’t exactly been the picture of sunshine.

She removes the sandwiches from the pan, layering them carefully onto the plates. After staring at them for a moment she settles on the one that she wants, handing Bucky the bigger of the two. It’s only fair— he could probably eat at least four. She watches as the giant gives it a glance, rolling her eyes when he hesitantly lifts it to his lips, taking the smallest of bites. Is he afraid of a sandwich?

“I promise I’m not trying to poison you— I need you to stay alive, remember?”

He only grunts.

She has to turn away when he takes a bigger bite, her eyes refusing to detach themselves from his lips. Unprofessional and inappropriate. The orphan and the bodyguard. She takes a bite of her own sandwich, shoving the thought to the back of her mind and replacing it with the heavenly taste of gooey cheese, melted butter, and greasy bacon. She doesn’t have to dissect the thoughts of her delicious food like she would have to the other ones. Cheese doesn’t require a checklist about whether or not her grief quota is up to code. Clearly it’s not— clearly she’s just sick in the head. She takes another bite.

The two eat in silence for a couple minutes, the tension in the room melting for the first time since she introduced herself. Thank gods for cheese.

After a few more moments Bucky sets his plate down, turning back to the window. At first she thinks she is hearing things— like her mind is now also playing tricks on her as well as making her feel like a terrible person— but then it registers and she has to fight back another inappropriate smile.

“You were right about the bacon.”

Maybe three days won’t be so bad.

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Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license

#Bucky Barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic #bucky imagine #mcu fic #mcu imagine #marvel cinematic universe fic #marvel cinematic universe #Persephone's Symphony

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