#pinwheelsandparachutes

[theloveablesociopath]

Pinwheels and Parachutes: Part 1

Drabble series sorta

Part one: Park Bench

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Bucky’s POV)

Notes: I really wanted to write something different, something that presented itself like an actual novel. I wanted a lot of description and poetic feel, basically as if Bucky where to write a book and pour his heart and soul into describing every detail to the finest thread. (Feed back is extremely appreciated and makes me beyond happy, as I am very proud of this but not sure how well it will be accepted.)

Summary: The rest of the team couldn’t quite understand who (y/n) is. She’s a silent, childlike woman. A strange person, who said nothing to no one, yet told them every story they wanted to hear. But there’s one thing they did know, she’s Bucky’s parachute.

Word count: 860

Warnings: none (slow burn but eventually its romantic)

(if anyone wants to make me a cover photo feel free)

 As our lives progress, a rapidly growing feeling of obligation weighs upon our shoulders.

Stand tall, act normal, be polite.

Make sure your clothing stays subtle, don’t speak before you think.

Don’t be too loud, don’t look too excited, don’t feel too much.

And we weave them into our daily life like threads in blankets.

We are poised, we are normal, we are plain.

I knew I was a bit on the other side of this spectrum. A little too much gunpowder and way too much scruff. I’m the look that turns too sour, and the past that’s just too rough.

But I see the city dwellers. The walkers. The talkers. The people.

And they move like one large collective wave. They blend into one big blur. They talk like a single voice. They feel like no feeling at all.

And I don’t like it.

I want too, after the life I have lived, normal should be a yearning, a calling, a need. But its not, it brings no appeal, no push or pull of gravity. I do not orbit around it, and it does not orbit around me.

More than anything I try my best to drift away. I’m done with death, with murder with evil, but I still find no appeal in being like everyone else.

I thought that maybe I was the only one, sure people had their differences, people where interesting, and daring and fun. But from the naked eye they were all gray. I didn’t know them. I didn’t have to.

Then, there was a pinwheel.

She was a child, a women, an adult, but a child. She let her body guide her with all the carelessness and confidence as the wind. She was daring, but not dangerous, the kind of daring you imagined a drag queen would be.

A vibrancy that disrupted the color scheme of society.

She walked with a skip to her step, but one so imperfect it was like a stumble. She sat like a bean bag chair, and that sounds strange, but it was true. She plopped herself down where ever she deemed fit, and let her body relax and mold into whatever shape it wanted.

And that day she sat on a bench.

She wore clothes that where authentic to her. Things that screamed her personality without even stuttering. Ripped, cuffed blue jeans, and the strangest orange and white stripped shirt I had seen, one that had openings in the shoulders.

Her scuffed and worn black sneakers left untied and dangled from her folded feet on the bench. And on her right wrist, she wore three watches, all different colors.

And in her hands, sat a pinwheel. A multitude of spinning colors in nimble fingers. Catching the wind with a silent ‘whoosh’ and then slowing as it settled.

She was violently, radioactively, beautiful. But she wasn’t the kind from runway shows or magazines.

She was the kind of beautiful you could stare at all day and still not be able to draw perfectly. Her skin was not baby smooth or airbrushed, it held a certain blemished beauty to it. Her hair sat on her head like a natural flowing waterfall, and when it stopped, it stopped then scattered in twists and turns, and in no way formed a single straight line.

She would blow on the colorful plastic when the wind decided to stop giving, and it would spin again. It would spin and capture her pigment stained eyes and hold them there.

Then she would smile, and its as if she only knew of that one item. As if the dog that ran past her was a subject of wind, and the elderly man that sat beside her was a product of fallen leaves. For she did not see them, she saw no one, no thing, but that pinwheel. But I suppose it was the same for me, I saw no one else but her, and while she stared at her pinwheel I stared at someone just as mesmerizing as it.

Eventually it stopped spinning, it stilled but she didn’t blow gently on it. She lowered it from her face, sat up straighter, as she let one leg dangle off the bench, and locked eyes with me.

For a second I wanted to run. Because I had been staring so long im sure she felt it. I wanted to run, but mostly because she was now staring at me.

There was no smile, no nod, nor turn, nor frown. She merely stared, straightened her posture, fixed her legs, sat the pinwheel down, and got up.

And she left.

She walked away and didn’t look back.

That day I waited for her for two hours. It sounds extensive, and crazy, but I waited and watched the bench where the pinwheel sat. But she never returned.

It was odd. The way she once looked at that simple little object as if it held her soul, than left it on a lone park bench and never came back for it.

So when the evening came to a close, I walked over, picked up the colorful plastic toy, and went home.

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