Chapter Text
“Paris is the only city in the world where starving yourself is still considered an art.”
You snort, cigarette ash littering the yellowing pages of your book. You reread the line once more, the irony not lost on you considering black coffee and cigarettes are the staples of your diet. Wanda’s good to you, she places arrays of cheese and bread down when you frequent her wine bar. More often than not, she’s also sent groceries to your apartment, ignoring the many protests. Wanda is a diamond, a rare gem in all the city. Stubbing the cigarette out, you tuck your book under your arm and begin your walk along the River Seine, dodging tourists searching for padlocks across one of the many bridges.
A small price to pay. One that Paris is wholeheartedly worth. La vie en rose. Charm that has not yet waned, nor is it likely ever to. It’s been a little over six months, not that you're worried. You've come here to escape the constraints of time and societal constructs of success. Still, Paris isn’t the cheapest city in the world and the rent won’t pay itself.
Luckily, you've found a way to help pay bills that doesn’t involve selling your soul to a big corporation or some immoral businessman. There’s an academy of arts you once stumbled upon not far from your apartment and that’s where you're headed. It’s only a few hours of your time but they pay quite well, and you've negotiated use of their facilities, too. Your footsteps echo as you trot up the marble steps, taking the winding staircase to the second floor.
“Salut, Maria.” comes your greeting.
“You’re late.” Maria replies, raising an eyebrow.
“I know, I’m sorry,” an apology as you shrugs your jacket off. “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you always say,” she sighs. “Just, hurry up so we can get started.”
Steve’s mouth is moving, but Bucky has developed the unique skill of tuning out his best friend when he’s delivering one of his lectures. It must be one of his worser ones because he notes Steve’s ‘eyebrows of disappointment’. That all too discernible pinch between his brows. Concern etched in every line of his face. Unreserved emotion that’s inescapable. A look that is far too frequent. Bucky loves his best friend dearly, but their business conversations always end with Steve probing into his love life. Steve means well, he’s simply that kind of person, but he fails to understand Bucky isn’t ready to jump back into a relationship yet.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”
There’s a hint of accusation laced in Steve’s words but Bucky doesn’t even bother to look guilty. His head simply lolls to one side, his shoulders rising and falling in an unapologetic shrug. Leisured indifference as always. Steve sighs and studies his best friend, earning himself a groan.
“Steve, for the love of God, stop worryin’.”
“It’s been a year, Bucky. All you do is work.”
Bucky snorts and Steve raises an eyebrow. His look of disappointment simply deepens, earns an exasperated sigh that’s steamrolled over.
“Having lunch with me and Peggy on Sundays doesn’t count.”
Scoffing, Bucky is all too familiar with the feeling that arguing with Steve is a fruitless task so he scrapes his chair back loudly as he stands. An indication that the conversation is over. For now, at the very least. The time between each of these conversations seems to shorten more and more. Steve mimics him, following him to the door.
“Why don’t you join one of the art classes again?” Steve proposes.
“Don’t have the time.”
The excuse falls from Bucky’s lips all too easily, the two men walking down the empty corridor. Bucky’s hands are shoved in his pockets as he glances into the various classrooms. Rarely does much capture his attention. Only rarely.
A flurry of movement does catch his eye and he stops, feet rooted to the spot as he’s greeted by a periwinkle blue shirt sliding down a pair of shoulders. It’s happening in slow motion, smooth skin being revealed to him inch by inch and he knows he should look away, but he’s helpless to do anything except watch as a black lace bra joins the growing pile of clothes.
Bucky’s eyes are fixed on the woman’s small frame as she patters across the room, pulling aside a curtain and taking a seat on a small couch surrounded by students, all impatiently waiting with open sketchbooks and poised pencils. Confidence in the way she carries herself. The temptation to watch her every move far too great. Revised choreography in the way she settles. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, allowing him a glimpse of her face and his tongue darts out, licking his suddenly dry lips as he commits her beauty to his memory.
Her body is bare to him but his eyes only dance over her briefly before they flit back up to her face. She’s pretty enough. Not stunning and certainly not ethereal, but there’s something exquisite about her he can’t quite put his finger on. She has a natural kind of beauty about her; her face is free from make-up and it appears that fingers see her hair more than a brush does. There’s warmth in her eyes, sunlight gleaming in her irises. And that smile, it’s small, it’s coy and it makes Bucky wish he were the reason for it.
A chuckle shatters his bubble and composing himself, Bucky turns his head, rolling his eyes at the amusement on Steve’s face. Disappointment long gone, only to be replaced by mischief. It twinkles back at Bucky as he pauses, a moment to reflect on a decision.
“Sorry pal, but that view’s for students only.”
Bucky grunts as Steve claps a hand on his shoulder. Sneaking one more glance at the pretty woman, he rounds on his friend defiantly.
“Alright, where do I sign up?”