#pellucid-constellations

Westview - 1950~

Your home was quiet, the morning grey and lonely. Another day in your normal little home, although you couldn’t quite pinpoint the month.

What a peculiar thing, to wake up and not know what month it was.

It was summer, that much you were sure of. You were sure because it was your summer holiday from teaching. The break was well deserved, so much so that you felt you hadn’t even thought about the school in so long. So long that you could barely remember a thing from the last school year.

Anyway, it didn’t matter now. It was summer, and you were alone in the morning with only the sounds of some birds tweeting out the open window.

You weren’t fond of the way that despite the warm sun the world still felt grey. Maybe it’d been this way all along, or maybe just since you’d been alone.

You couldn’t pinpoint why you were alone. It was just a fact. As simple as that. Alone for the summer is just how it’s been and there was nothing much to do about it.

The morning schedule proceeded as usual. You enjoyed the openness of your home, the grand windows, and the open floor plan; being able to cook breakfast while the radio played. Maybe once there were people here, sitting on the lounge chairs as you cooked and entertained. Oh, how cozy the fireplace would be in the winter, the snow bright and beautiful in the windows behind.

You placed your hair in an updo, cursing yourself for not setting it in curlers the night before because now it just didn’t look right. Still, you fixed up your makeup, dressed as you should, and set forth for the day.

Just as you opened the front door to walk towards nothing in particular, the newspaper boy rode by on his bike, tossing the rolled-up paper your way. You waved and he smiled. Unrolling it, the day read Wednesday, August 23.

There wasn’t much you wanted to read on. You knew the war was continuing; a brief glance at a headline taught you that much, and your heart lurched, an ache deep within that you ignored for now.

The call of your name alerted you. Glancing around, you realized your neighbor, Dottie Jones, was smiling politely from her own front porch.

Even though you didn’t want to, you stepped down from your porch to walk toward the fence to greet her.

“Good morning, hon,” she smiled a bit too brightly, and you returned it best you could.

Mrs. Hart and her husband, Phil, were good neighbors to you and did a lot within the community. Her crisp white blonde hair was always styled perfectly, and you cringed at the thought of your own this morning.

Dottie worked at the school with you, and Phil worked in town but also taught piano, a sound you could hear coming from their home in the evenings if you opened the window. Nothing sounded wrong with them on the outside, but you knew how Dottie was quite judgmental and that her smile was usually ingenuine.

“Plans for the day?” She asked, tilting her head to the side in a manner that annoyed you. Perhaps you were just bitter and alone, but whatever.

“Not sure,” you admitted, smoothing your skirt, and squinting on the sunny day.

“Summer holiday treating you well? I feel as though I haven’t seen you out and about for

a while!” I’m out all the time, you thought defensively, although you couldn't quite place the last outing you really had. Gone to the library, perhaps?

You settled on saying, “Reading a lot.”

“Hm. Lovely.” It didn’t seem like she thought that was lovely. “Are you coming to the talent show in two days?”

“Oh?” You paused, trying to remember if you’d even heard. She’d be so critical if you said no, or if you admitted you didn’t even know it was happening, so you said, “Of course.”

“Brilliant!” She beamed, “Tickets are almost sold out, so I just would worry if you weren’t able to make it. It’s for the children, after all.”

“Right. For the children,” you tried to mimic her smile, but it felt unnatural.

She hummed again, an uncomfortable silence falling between you for a moment. “How’s your husband?”

It was at this question that you felt truly taken aback, almost frozen.

My husband, you thought questioningly, wondering why he hadn’t occurred to you all morning. The lonely feeling was there constantly, but you hadn’t realized you truly missed him until now.

“I haven’t heard from him lately,” you admitted, your mouth tight lipped in concern.

She looked as though she pitied you, “Oh, hon. Not a word? Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. The war’s a busy effort.”

The war, you recalled. Yes, that’s where he was. Off at war. It’s why the paper headline hurt, and it’s why you woke up alone.

The smile on your face was probably transparently uncomfortable, and you didn’t really care. “Well, Dottie,” you sighed, “I best be going. Errands to run.”

“Of course. I’ll see you later! Can’t wait for the talent show!”

“Me too. Good day, Dottie,” you waved before moving across the steps in the lawn, hoping that you’d remember to get the damn tickets for the show, otherwise you were sure she’d show up at your doorstep to ridicule you or something.

You walked down the street, unsure of exactly where you were headed, but a wave of panic was falling around you no matter how hard you pushed it away.

Images of a soldier flashed past your eyes, and you needed a moment. You found a bench, realizing you were already blocks from home, the town center just a short distance away. How had that movement gone so fast? Luckily nobody was around to see you place your face in your hands as you sat, wondering what on earth was wrong.

There was a soldier somewhere, his hat slightly crooked in your memory. Once upon a time the world wasn’t so grey. You once loved the color blue, and you missed it dearly although you couldn't place why. There was once a man with a charming smile and a laugh you couldn’t get enough of. There was friendship out there that you missed, and you swore you once felt the battle ground he was probably on now.

He hadn’t written, your husband. Why hadn’t he written?

Although there was no way it could be a real memory, you swore you could see the soldier, and more around him, a group of people you somehow felt connected to. He had to be okay. They all had to be.

But somewhere deep down you knew it wasn’t so. There was no way they were all going to come home.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Brooklyn, 2023

“She’s what?” Bucky sat up from where he lied on his makeshift bed in the living room, “What the hell are you even talking about, Sam?”

On the other end of the line, Sam huffed, “Listen, Buck, I don’t know. Just can you get to New Jersey? I can send for you–”

Bucky cut off with a disgusted groan, “Don’t call me that. Also, this has gotta be some sort of fluke. It’ll probably be fine tomorrow.”

“Quit bein’ like that. She isn’t the only one missing, there's another S.W.O.R.D. agent missing, and they all think Wanda is involved.”

“What the fuck is Sword?” Bucky grumbled and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Wilson, I’ve got court mandated therapy and–”

“Just do a zoom therapy meeting.”

“What the fuck is zoom?”

Sam chuckled and it made Bucky want to kick something. “Just get here. I’ll send a jet.”

“No, no, don’t waste a jet.”

“Listen, old man, stop arguing with me. You’re coming and they’d like you here asap.”

“Why me?”

Sam paused, and Bucky did too, instantly knowing he shouldn’t have asked. It was a stupid question, really.

Sam spoke more quietly, “Whatever you tell yourself, you’re one of the most important people to her. You know her better than any of us.”

“That’s bullshit. You know I haven’t even fuckin’ talked to her since–”

“Stop it, Buck.”

“Stop calling me that. And before this, I was gone. She was fine without me for five years–”

Once again, Sam cut him off. “I’m hanging up now. We need you. She needs you. I’ll text you flight details.” Before Bucky could protest even more, the line was cut.

Bucky cursed under his breath, a bit too much and a bit too harshly, as he stared at his blank phone screen.

It had only been three weeks since he’d been back, and the past five years before that didn't exist to him, as it didn’t exist for many other people on the planet. Half of the people, to be exact.

He knew you didn’t need him. You’d be fine on your own. There was nothing he could bring to the table.

Still, he got the transportation info from Sam, and he got up with a grunt to go get his stuff together.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Back in Westview, you spent the rest of your day avoiding thoughts of your husband. The idea, I have a husband, was enough to set you off your rocker, so avoiding it was naturally the best choice. You grabbed new books from the library, a few groceries, somehow purchased a ticket for the talent show, and then you came home. Cooking dinner for one was only slightly depressing, but you did your best to enjoy yourself. The sunlight outside came to an end, and you wondered all evening if there was a time you had more to your life.

Just as you were cleaning up, the shrill ringing of the telephone shook you enough that you dropped a fork.

“Ah, fudge,” you frowned, thankful that it wasn’t a plate you had dropped. You ran to the phone, which felt like it hadn’t been used in a long time and you answered just before the last ring. “Hello?”

A familiar feminine voice spoke your name on the other end.

Your brows furrowed, “Wanda?”

“Hi,” she responded. “Sorry for calling so late. I just had the peculiar feeling that I should.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, a warm feeling within you for the first time all day. There was comfort from the simple sound of her voice; she was familiar and whole and something you didn’t know you missed. “It's alright. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Yes,” she sounded just as confused as you’d felt all day, “Vision and I just had dinner with his boss. It was rather strange… Anyway, I wanted to update you with our new address!”

Vision, you thought. You could somehow recall his voice yet not his face, and you wondered why it felt so long since you’d last seen him. “I wasn’t aware you had moved?”

“Why, yes! We are just loving it here in Westview. We are home number two-eight-zero-zero. Write that down, dear. Two-eight-zero-zero.”

Although you were pretty sure you wouldn’t forget, you reached as far as you could to grab a pen on the coffee table, writing it on a notepad that was handy. “Got it. Lovely.”

“You truly shall visit. I miss you. I’m so glad to be so close to each other again.”

Your voice faltered, “It- It’s felt like years. I miss you too.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” There was hope in her voice. Her kindness was genuine, making you feel opposite from Dottie this morning.

“No clue,” you admitted.

“Oh, well then please do meet me for dinner?”

You glanced over to the sink, where your lonely dishes were, and did not even hesitate before saying, “I’d love to. Seven?”

“Perfect.”

You smiled, the warm feeling calming you.

“Oh!” her voice lit up momentarily before she asked in a softer manner, “Any word from James? Did he ever respond to your last letter?”

James.

The images from this morning were running through your mind again, but clearer now. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you took a seat on the arm of the couch.

His name didn’t feel right, but it was. You remembered the draft papers, his name written in bold, and you remembered the feel of the dog-tags he wore ever since, the engraving rough on your fingers.

“He hasn’t written back, no,” you admitted, your lip quivering as you were washed over with feelings unknown.

“Oh,” she hummed, “You know what? He’s okay.”

“You don't know that. I can’t even be sure that the letter even got to him,” you pressed your lips together, trying to hold back from crying.

“I know it,” she insisted. “I do. He’s okay. He just hasn’t found a way to get back to you yet.”

There wasn’t much more you could say to that. Partially since you felt like you were going to cry, and partially because you for some reason believed her. How could you argue against words that just felt so true? War is a busy effort.

Once again, she gently spoke your name.

“Yes?” You answered.

“You have a good night, okay? I will give you the biggest hug tomorrow.”

“You too, Wanda. Goodnight.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Above Brooklyn, 2023

Although no one had taught Bucky the term left on read, that’s definitely what he had done to you, and he felt a lump in his throat any time he thought about it.

It was a short flight to New Jersey, which felt wasteful to him. He could’ve just as easily taken a car for a couple hours to get there. He spent the drive to the airport being grumpy and cursing Shield or Stark or Sword or whatever damn collective was funding this flight, for being so wasteful over resources.

It wasn’t until Bucky sat on the jet, staring out the lonely window, where he processed that he was on his way to some sort of investigation. And it was for you. He had been called in to help you.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket, thoughts of you unable to be pushed away. All Sam had really explained was that you’d somehow disappeared into a town where it seemed all the residents were also missing. Just that morning, S.W.O.R.D. had discovered a forcefield around it all, and it seemed you were inside.

Too much was unknown about it all, and he hated the fact that he was walking into it with so little info.

His brows heavily furrowed, Bucky pulled out his phone. Luckily, he never deleted your text from weeks ago. So easily he could’ve done so out of spite, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, just like he couldn’t bring himself to really read past the first message in the thread, let alone reply.

Sam’s words were ringing through Bucky’s mind.

You know her better than any of us.

Due to lack of messages, Bucky found your texts easily. If you were missing, he supposed any information would help. So, reading the texts could be the least he could do, right?

Hey. Sam said this number still works for you, so i hope its fine that im texting? I know you didn’t want to talk much at the funeral but please reach out, I miss you.

I dont really know why you wont talk to me but thats okay. Just know i never stopped caring about you. I cant begin to imagine what youre going through. What happened is fucked up.

I know youre hurting over stark, even if you wont admit it. You were pardoned for a reason and i hope you know you deserve your freedom

I’m here for you, buck. I know that’s not enough but it’s all ive got.

Please call. I miss you.

The dimly lit used bookstore around you didn’t accommodate your need to be alert, and you felt your eyelids weigh in exhaustion. You’d stay up far too late the evening before, sexting some asshole you met at the club last weekend. You’d drank near a full bottle of wine, and the end of the conversation wasn’t even close to satisfying, but you were lonely and he started it.

With another creak of the door, you let out a groan and curved your back into a hunched stretch, waiting for the flow of breeze to hit you. When it didn’t come, you opened one eye to the elements and found a man had stumbled through the rickety door. A hulking man, well over six feet, with black gloves and a tattered jacket. A dark blue ball cap covered long, dark hair. You scrambled upright behind the counter, plastering on a fake smile amid the panic of being caught off guard.

“Good morning!” You greeted, seemingly startling the customer who rounded on you with his fists clenched. He wore a backpack, and a grim expression beneath the shadow of his cap, and alarm bells started going off in your mind to memorize the details of him should you need to call the police for shoplifting.

Blue hat, dark hair, khaki jacket, black stubble across a dimpled chin, massive build, baggy jeans, hiking boots.

“Can I help you find something today?” You asked, changing your tone from polite to less-than.

The man, rigid-shouldered, sucked his lower lip beneath his teeth and thought about it, head still lowered to hide his eyes. “Do you um… do you have a section on World War Two?”

You blinked back at him, tilting your head ever so to catch his gaze, but he adjusted as well. With narrowed eyes, you pointed to the far corner of the back alley store. “Aisle 5C. Here, I’ll walk with you.”

You waited for him to protest, but he just answered with a curt nod, and you led the way down winding stacks to a shelf of worn and torn volumes of history books and memoirs. “So, are you from DC or just visiting?” You asked, patting the butt pocket of your jeans to ensure you kept your phone on you.

The man lifted his gaze to the books then, and you noticed the chisel of his cheeks, the dark length of his eyelashes in profile. “Just visiting,” he responded gruffly. You watched his fingers, gloved in black leather, caress the spine of a volume highlighting the successes and loss of Captain America.

“Well it’s a good place to visit if you’re interested in American history.” You leaned against the shelf, turning on the small-talk charm, and you saw his eyes flick to your features, ocean blue and world-ending.

“Thank you.” He offered the weakest smile, jaw still clenched. It was a way to get you to leave. You showed him the books he needed, and now you could fuck off. Only you’d just breached the surface, and Blue Eyes over here, shoplifter or not, was more of a God than a mere mortal man like the idiot you’d spent your evening with. You wondered for a moment what sort of late night, drunken dick pic this Adonis would send over the air waves.

You sputtered when you realized your gaze had trailed the lengths of his abdomen to the crotch of his jeans, and you pushed off from the shelves pounding your fist against your rib cage to swallow the drool gathering in your mouth. Laughing to yourself, you started backing toward the register. “Right, sorry. Um…”

His polite smile furrowed into worried eyebrows, and he outstretched a hand, but you waved him off.

“I’m good. I’ll be fine.” And then, in a moment of panic, you shouted your name. Just your name, to the furrowed confusion of this gorgeous man in your store, who could be a shoplifter. And then to explain yourself, you had the audacity to hold two thumbs to your chest. “That’s me. So um… if you need me, just holler!”

He nodded and turned back to his shelf, pulling the Captain America book out to peruse.

Cursing under your breath, you scurried back to the counter to endure the cold breeze and chug the remainder of your ice cold latte milk.

—

Nearly a half hour later, after several panicked text messages to your best friend and your confidence waning, you stood from your spot to see if the Mystery Man had slipped by without your notice (impossible). You craned on tippy toe to see if you could make out the ball cap over one of the largest stacks, and were startled to see him rounding the corner, book in hand, several pages deep.

Your hand slapped to the desktop to maintain your balance, and his gaze flew to meet yours. You felt your fact heat, and you flashed him a polite smile. “Find everything okay?”

He nodded and approached you, one again biting down on those perfect, pink lips. “I uh… I don’t have the money to buy this right now, but I will be in tomorrow, I think. Is there a chance you could hold it for me?”

The spine closed with a light crack, and he placed it carefully on the countertop between you. You glanced from it to his apologetic gaze and back before setting a hand atop Steve Roger’s boyish grin and sliding it closer. You nodded, lifting a stack of sticky notes and a pen. “Sure, but my manager will be here tomorrow. Can I get a name for the hold?”

Mystery Man looked frantic at that, blue eyes carefully surveying your face and then the book resting at your waist and back. He licked his lips, and you cocked a brow, waiting for an answer. Finally he sputtered, “J.B.”

“J.B.” You smiled and scribbled the letters and the appropriate hold date onto the yellowed paper and peeled it to stick over the Star Spangled-Man. You could barely make out those white teeth through the initials.

“Thank you,” J.B. muttered your name, a dull rumble in his chest that sent chills through you, and your heart began to pitter patter as you looked up at him again. “You’ve been very helpful today.”

“Anytime,” you breathed a laugh, embarrassed at your full body reaction. A ding from beside you signaled the screeching encouragement of your best friend, and a bit of bravery kicked you right in the ass. “Actually, um… if you need me to hold it longer than tomorrow, or if maybe you need some company for coffee some time…” And you scribbled your own digits onto the pad beside your name. “I know you’re just visiting, but I’m always here so…” Dear God, stop the rambling.

You peeled the note off the top and his gloved fingertips met your outstretched palm to take the paper. The adhesive stuck to his middle and forefinger, and your mouth went dry as you waited for him to read and interpret the actual grenade you’d just thrown at him. His broad shoulders, ever-rigid, seemed to relax, and the corners of his pout upturned to expose a dimple on a scruffy cheek.

He reached to itch the back of his neck and he pocketed the sticky note. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks uh… thanks again.” And with an awkward wave, and the cool relief of winter air, he was gone.

—

Days, and several inappropriate daydreams later, with no word from J.B., the mystery man, you stumbled into work toe-first, arms full of hot latte and purse and bags of books from the donation bin out back. You managed to prop the door open with one boot, jiggling your keys from the ancient lock and you heaved the bags from your shoulders the moment the door rattled against the jam behind you.

You flicked on the lights and greeted the resident ghosts, hauling your own purse over the counter to boot up the practically DOS-system computer. While that turned on, screen buffering, you sipped your coffee and texted your friend that you’d arrived without being stabbed or taken by aliens, like she often worried you would be.

As well as the Mystery Man, you’d seemed to have been ghosted by the politician, shocker, making your sleeping schedule far better than you had hoped. You glanced over the sales goals paperwork and peaked to see if the store had received any action in the couple of days since you’d worked last. And there, on the clipboard, atop your manager’s chicken scrawl, was a sticky note with your name on it.

Sorry for the note. I’m leaving town and want to thank you for your kindness. I haven’t received generosity like yours in years, nor have I met someone as beautiful or as enticing. If only it had been in another life. I wish you well, and maybe our paths will cross again someday. All the best, J.B.B.

The scratch was capital letters only, everything slightly tilted to the right, and your stomach conflicted with butterflies and heartbreak. You peeled the note from the clipboard and folded it onto itself, adhesive sticking to its one back so you could slip in into your wallet past your frozen yogurt gift card, a safe space where it wouldn’t be found for years.

You sighed and sunk onto the rickety stool, staring wistfully at the rattling door, wondering now if you’d ever find true love again, surely not like the palpitations that hit the moment you saw his woeful blue eyes.