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( warning: depictions of self harm )
❝ why are you so full of rage? / because you are full of grief ❞
⎯ anne carson, grief lessons
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"WHY DIDN'T YOU tell me?"
Bucky sits up from where he's laying on the floor, a sweaty t-shirt clung to his chest as he bolts upright from his frenzied sleep. Outside, the distant buzz of car alarms and honking horns alert him that it's morning. He rubs a hand down his face and turns to see the muscled girl in a large red shirt standing in the middle of the room. Her hands are clenched to fists at her side, just like always.
Bucky shifts as Reine gets closer to him, falling to her knees. She hadn't come out of her room since they'd gotten home the previous day, not even when Bucky had offered her cereal for dinner, her favourite. She wouldn't listen to him as Bucky tried to explain why he didn't tell her about Yori's son. She was mad, he could tell, and when Reine got mad, the whole world seemed to bend to her will.
"Reine I—" but Bucky was cut short by his step-daughter's glare that could light him on fire if she stares long enough. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back onto her heels, big t-shirt falling past her knees. He remembers when she first came out of her room wearing that shirt. It was in Madrid, a year into staying with them, and Reine was a spunky eleven year old who thought her family was the center of the whole world.
Marina had bought him the shirt on her way home from volunteer work, thinking it would be cute as the shirt had a smiling man with a bottle of beer in his hands. It reminded her how Bucky was the complete opposite, she'd told him with a kiss. He'd worn it for her, but then stopped after Reine found it in the back of his dresser. She'd unironically claimed it as her own, and Marina had said with a laugh that it fit Reine's personality better than it did Bucky's.
