RAISON D'ÊTRE ( bucky barnes ) 一 under editing

TWENTIETH

RAISON D'ÊTRE
TWENTIETH

SUNLIGHT STREAMED DOWN IN THIN rays through the ratty curtains, followed by the sound of chirping birds and typical everyday life. It felt warm against her face, and she sighed happily into her pillow as the arm around her waist tightened gently. She adjusted herself slightly, nearly groaning in annoyance as she felt yet another lump in the mattress, but she quickly settled back on the bed. If one were to look at them, she'd think they like the typical idea of domestic bliss 一 two lovers curled beneath the sheets and within each others arms, soaking up each other's warmth. She liked thinking they were just like that, two normal people living in their little apartment and simply living their life. Nothing out of the ordinary, just simple life. 

Slowly, she craned her neck around to see Bucky still sleeping soundly, lips parted and eyes shut. Rome grinned and pressed a kiss to his cheek before sitting up, allowing his arm at her side to drop. The witch stretched her tired limbs, hearing the tiny crack as she moved her joints around, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Despite the tiny mattress that sat in the corner of the room on the floor, Rome and Bucky had managed to purchase plenty of blankets and pillows to make it look more homey and presentable. 

They'd done the same to the rest of their apartment. The creaky floorboards were covered with an intricately designed deep red rug, the cracked and chipped paint across the walls were either harshly repainted with a similar looking color or a picture was hung over it, and there were tiny little touches here and there in the kitchen. The whole place had a cluttered look to it and yet it looked empty, as if they could up and leave any time they so desire. And they could 一 this apartment didn't mean much to them, just a temporary place they could call home. Romania hadn't been their first choice, but they arrived there nonetheless. It was a country that neither of them had any connections to, and it helped that Bucky had mastered the language while in HYDRA's clutches. They'd spent most of their money on getting the tickets to the other side of the world, and the rest of their money spent on the apartment. While they did technically live in poverty, Rome nor Bucky complained about it. They understood their circumstances and as long as they had each other, they were fine. 

She reached into her bag and threw on a pair of thick socks. She headed over towards the kitchen, reaching for one of the grimoires and pulled it from the pile. A red bookmark stuck out between the pages and her fingers flipped through to open it to the correct page. It'd almost become a daily task for Rome 一 she'd wake up in Bucky's arm then spend however long it took for him to wake up searching and reading through the spells. She'd promised she'd help him and that's all she's found herself doing since. She contacted other witches, both living and dead (that last bit was always difficult and left her feeling exhausted for days), and read countless spells, trying them all. Not many of them helped and when one of them did, Rome would use it to the point her nose would bleed (another thing Bucky hated, but no amount of his complaining would stop her). 

One of her fingers trailed down the paper, and she pursed her lips. She'd been working with this newest grimoire for five months straight, keeping her focus solely on the memory spells, and the frustration was eating her alive. Picking up the discarded pen beside it, she started writing once again and taking notes. Any spell that had to do with a person's head and memories were always difficult, even more so when said-memories had been locked away behind vault after vault and so on. Rome had been trying to make her own spell in the hopes that maybe it'd do something, but those always took way too much time and the only person she could test it on was Bucky, and she was worried about any possible negative side effects. Of course, she knew exactly what she had signed up for, yet she hadn't realized specifically how frustrating this would all be. There'd be times where Bucky would get the occasional memory here and there, to which he'd write them all down in a journal she purchased for him months ago, but there wasn't much about who he truly was. Bucky had told her once that he remembered enough about his school days when he was a child, helping a young asthmatic Steve Rogers around and playing with him; he even told her about the dozens of girls he had flirted with, teasing Rome as she turned a frustrated red. But they always came in fragments. Nothing ever clear or complete. He didn't know if in that memory he was standing inside or outdoors, or if the sun was shining or if the clouds were a stormy gray, and so on.