Monster

Four

The worst part about the mission wasn't the high possibility of being murdered by a super-soldier with a robotic arm. It was that I had to wait tables. Hill set up the job so I could establish a false identity at least one week before Rogers was scheduled to show up at my house and possibly bring along a trailing shadow.

Romanoff decided my house wasn't friendly enough and sent a group of movers over first thing the next morning. I left the house just as they were coming in and out with pots of flowers and cleaning supplies. They were already getting started on the lawn. I only mowed it when the kid down the street offered, or the neighbors put notes on my door.

Romanoff made it clear that I was supposed to come off as easy to approach. Or, as translated by me, a fairy princess. I wasn't the least bit surprised that my house didn't make the cut. I only really used it as a place to store my stuff, sleep, and shower. Which apparently wasn't exuding the "threat-free" façade Romanoff was looking for. So I was expecting to come home to a completely different house.

When I was in high school, I had one real job. Usually, I just made extra money by doing yard work for my grandparents or working at my dad's garage. But when I was a junior, and my parents couldn't afford the prom dress I wanted, I got a job and paid for it myself. I waited tables at a pancake restaurant, hated every second of prom, left early, and then lost my virginity in the backseat of a Bronco.

I loved that dress.

But I hated waiting tables. And I could feel all that raw hatred returning when I stepped into the diner. It was supposed to be 50s themed with celebrity portraits and old car studies on the walls. The diner's biggest seller was their old-fashioned malts in various flavors. I hadn't even heard of the place before Hill sent me the information, but I was already going to dislike all the greasy food. And I was sure I'd want to destroy the malt machine by the time my first shift ended. But I was grateful I didn't have to wear a uniform. Thank God for small miracles.

The dining area was small, with several booths along the wall under the windows and a bar with little, nonworking jukeboxes. When I walked in from the back, a girl was standing behind the counter making a milkshake. She was the only person in the dining area except for a man nursing a mug of coffee. As well as a sleepy mom with an energetic kid, bouncing on the seat as he waited for an early-morning milkshake.

The girl said her name was Marion, but she didn't have a nametag, and I forgot it quickly. She was a tall girl with short dark hair and chunky wedge sneakers. Her sweater seemed a tad too tight for a full range of motion, and she was already hopping from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with her choice of footwear.

I would be in training for only two days and then under probation for the rest of the week. I knew how to do the job and didn't have much trouble getting started. Apparently, the only suggestion Marion had for me was that I had to smile more and look less murderous whenever people ordered milkshakes. She refrained from using the term "resting bitch face," but it was implied.

I couldn't help it. I was miserable. I never wanted to go back to waiting tables, and I hated Hydra even more for forcing me to do it. Some people were cut out for that line of work, but I definitely wasn't one of them. My only consolation was that the double income would be enough to cover my piling bills. And that's what I reminded myself of whenever I had to plaster a fake smile on my face.

By the time my shift finished, everything below the waist hurt. My thighs ached, my calves felt like they were on fire, my knees, and especially my feet. I used to wake up every morning at 4AM to run laps, and I decided I'd rather go back to doing that every day than have to serve another milkshake. My head was pounding. I wanted to go home and never come back. So I hurried out of there before they could try and convince me to work overtime.

My house already felt different when I pulled my car into the driveway. The lawn was cut to even my father's meticulous standards. There were little boxes full of blooming flowers outside the living room window. And also a potted shrub by the door. They'd even left a cheery welcome mat with friendly little polka dots. I stepped inside, and the scent of cleaning supplies and air fresheners washed over me, making my house feel strangely unfamiliar.

It had been scrubbed from top to bottom. There were no longer any cobwebs on the ceiling fans or dead bugs in the light fixtures. There were decorative quilts and pillows on the couch. And when I went to the kitchen, I noticed a weathered patio set in the backyard I never set foot in. Like anyone would ever believe I was the kind of person who threw backyard barbecues.

I didn't like it.

The upstairs was in much the same condition. I didn't know why Barnes would examine the bathroom, but sure enough, there was a colorful new shower curtain with a matching set of soap dishes and rugs. My bed was made for the first time since middle school. My closet had been cleared of anything linking me to the military and SHIELD. Romanoff promised to put all my things in a storage unit, but I really hoped nothing happened to them.

It didn't feel like home anymore. I thought I wouldn't be bothered by it since I never spent much time there anyway. But the house was still mine. Even if nothing matched and there were no pictures on the walls. At least it reflected who I was. This house didn't feel like me at all.

I sat down on the bed and took off my shoes. Despite the new sheer curtains, the room was relatively dark. I hoped they hadn't called someone to get rid of the raccoon in the attic. I knew he was probably destroying my house and likely put my health at risk, but I felt kind of bad for the little guy. I didn't want him to be out on his own. The sound of his scurrying and chattering in the middle of the night was comforting. I liked how he made the tree shake when he shot out of the house like a rocket. Which is why I started calling him that in the first place.

My mom used to say that Clara was destined to be rich and never have any children. Or if she did, she'd hire a nanny. She said I was meant to be a mother. I didn't have a lot of experience with kids. We didn't have any cousins or close family, and I really did love my mother. I thought other moms were great too. But my mom was a housewife who'd never had a real job outside helping my dad with his business and raising two girls. I could never see myself living like that. I was restless, she said. And even though she claimed I had a big heart, I rejected that lifestyle.

I won't lie. Sometimes I craved it. I wanted to fall in love and have a big family and a nice welcoming home. But those were dreams that weren't possible. I was a walking disaster. How could I ever turn my life around enough to bring children into the world? I'd probably just ruin their lives like I did my own. I didn't think much of the future beyond the day I thought I would die. I just didn't have one. It felt like I wasn't supposed to.

Clara, on the other hand, knew where she wanted to go in life. She worked hard for what she had. And even though she'd never want for anything now that Tony Stark had fallen head-over-heels for her, his business still depended on her. The entire company needed her. And I think that's all I really, truly, selfishly wanted. To be useful to someone. To be wanted for no reason other than because I was me.

But my mom was right about me being a restless kid. I joined the military just out of high school to prove I could handle something more significant than what small-town Ohio had to offer. To prove to my father that my kindness and gentleness weren't weaknesses. I worked just as hard as Clara. I gave the military everything I had. I thought I was destined to do something useful with my life. I could help people, be a doctor, make a difference, and make my family proud. Then maybe someday, I'd be stable enough to have a spouse and children. Maybe even a couple of dogs. Or a cat.

But I failed. My squad was killed. I couldn't save a group of kids. I couldn't even pull a trigger to avenge them when I had the chance. Now I was futureless, waiting tables at a grimy diner so Captain America could use my house to find his friend. So that a potentially dangerous Hydra experiment didn't find me threatening.

I sighed in defeat and leaned back on the new floral sheets. Of course they chose me. I was so non-threatening that Colonel Talbot took one look at me and knew there was no possible way Hydra could have found me valuable. I was the least threatening SHIELD agent in the entire district. I wasn't destined for great things. I wasn't good enough for a dog, let alone children. I felt like a failure. And there was nothing more irritating to me than the feeling of being stuck.