Monster

Seven

I bought my house right after I got the job with SHIELD and had more money than I knew what to do with. I thought it was what adults were supposed to do. And since I could afford it at the time, I thought it would be better than renting. In reality, I just didn't know how to survive in a civilian world. I was a soldier, and before that, I was just a kid. I'd never been given lessons about what to do with my life, and whatever college would have taught me—well, I skipped that. Clara seemed to have a decent grasp of adulthood, but I had gone off to the army and learned how to identify wounds and hit moving targets with knives.

The SHIELD recruitment was my lucky break. I was referred by a commanding officer and was one of many to apply for the job. I took pride in having a boringly average government job. I filed paperwork and wrote up reports, despite being trained in medicine. I knew how to shoot a gun, despite never being able to turn it on someone. I knew how to care for weapons, and it did bring me a thrill when I went in for weekly practice. I could hit the target on the mark every time. But shooting paper figures was utterly different. And I felt sick to my stomach every time I thought about having to use it on a living person.

The house was a split-moment decision. I thought it was the next step I was supposed to take after getting a job. It was what my parents had done when they finished school. Clara still rented when she wasn't with Stark, but that was in New York City, and it just made more sense for her lifestyle. So I bought the old thing and lived on my own with no pets or dates or even close acquaintances.

That was the main reason why Romanoff and Hill thought it would be best to keep me home. That, and the fact that they no longer had SHIELD funding, and people might question why I up and left my house for no good reason. I'd already established a life there. My neighbors were used to seeing me but never asked questions. No one would even notice if Captain America walked down the street in his star-spangled uniform.

Thankfully, he wasn't in the uniform. Instead, he was sitting at the kitchen table, picking at the wood grains stained by years of daily coffee spills. I stood across the kitchen, leaning against the counter. I watched him for a while. He hadn't spoken much since I handed him a glass of water. And I didn't know what else I was supposed to do. My mother always made sure all guests had a drink in their hands.

Steve was a large man. I'd only seen him a few times since he came to work in DC. I saw him stalking around the Triskelion from time to time. Still, we'd never officially met before our introduction the week before, and this was the first time we'd ever been alone together.

"So," I said slowly as I gripped the counter behind me and tried to appear more comfortable. He had his back to the wall in the seat that I usually took. He didn't seem the least bit relaxed. "Did I pass Wilson's inspection?" He gave a short laugh. Some of the tension seemed to drain from him for a moment. He was relieved I'd broken the ice.

"You passed just fine," he replied.

"Do you think I seem gentle enough? What was it Romanoff said? Fairy princess?"

"You look fine."

"I was just joking, Rogers. Sorry. Steve. I'm not used to being on a first-name basis with Captain America."

"Unfortunately, we're going to have to get used to it. Bucky will see right through us if you keep calling me Rogers."

"Unless I turn it into a cute pet name?" He only smiled.

"So what do you prefer to be called? Jo? Jo-hanna? Jo-anna? Or is it Yo-honna? Yo-hanna?"

"Try not to overthink it. I've been called all those things, and it doesn't bother me. My family calls me Yo-honna, but they're the only ones. Jo is fine. I think Romanoff settled on Jo."

"But what do you prefer?" I shrugged. Usually, people just pronounced it however they wanted and stuck with it. They were often wrong. Only a few people had ever gotten it right. And most didn't bother to ask.

"Doesn't matter. I think he'll see right through this whole setup anyway."

"Why do you say that?" His expression was concerned. He looked better than he had the week before. His hair wasn't as messy, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded. The cuts were still healing, but he didn't look as messed up.

"You're a soldier, Steve. You know what war does to people. Nothing is the same when you come home. Doesn't matter if it's four years or seventy. You can read it on people. You can just tell." He pressed his fingers against his chin and focused on the wood table again.

"I'm hoping he doesn't recognize it. War isn't the only thing that leaves a mark."

"I'm sure I could come up with a tragic enough backstory. If he bothers to ask."

"Just keep me informed. I don't want to be caught off guard." We smiled again, and I narrowed my eyes as I studied him.

"So why'd you send Wilson to come talk to me?" I asked. "He said he wanted to give me tips, but he gave me a watered-down version of your friendship and ate a bunch of French fries." He laughed.

"It's just—this mission isn't going to be easy," he explained, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in the chair. "And I don't know you well enough to know how you'll handle it. Sorry."

"It's fine."

"I just wanted to be sure you could do this delicately. I heard about your incident with the—the pink knife. I just don't think that would be the best approach with Bucky. And I don't know if it's just instinct or you just...." I shifted my feet and focused on them.

"You're actually worried that I'm dangerous?" I almost laughed at that idea.

"I'm worried it might set him off."

"It was instinct. That time. But it could have been worse. Remember, I had a gun on me too. It was self-defense. I handled it the best way I knew how." Steve watched me fidget from across the room. I was clearly uncomfortable by the turn in the conversation.

"I wasn't talking about Hydra," he said. "I meant the incident with Agent Harmon." I nodded slowly and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn't want to tell him any more, but he waited for an explanation, and I begrudged it.

"Agent Harmon was my boyfriend," I said. "And he was Hydra. I didn't attack him unprovoked. He shoved me into the fridge and—The knife was all I had on me. I mean—I could have kicked him out without using it, but I think it would have escalated. That time wasn't instinct. It was deliberate. I won't pull a knife on your friend. Not without a good reason." He smiled, but it fell quickly.

"What about when you were almost discharged?" he whispered. I blanched.

"It was a long time ago," is all I said on that matter. He decided to drop it.

"I don't know what will set Bucky off. He might get violent very quickly. If you come at him with a knife, even to defend yourself, he might kill you before letting you explain. It's not that I don't want you to defend yourself. I just want you to be cautious and read every situation. Alert Stark before you make a move." I nodded quickly, glad that he'd changed the subject.

"Understood. I'll keep the knife in check. I'm smart enough to know I can't go up against Robocop. I'll call for help like I'm supposed to." He didn't seem to find that funny, but he didn't say anything about it. I suspected he just didn't know what Robocop was. "Anyway, will you be comfortable sharing a bed with me? I was going to make you a bed on the couch, but Romanoff said...."

"I can sleep on the couch. It won't be an issue."

"I wasn't saying it's an issue. Romanoff thinks you'll blow our cover if you sleep on the couch. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable. We don't know each other."

"It's just a tense situation. I don't know if he'll come tonight. If he does at all. And I don't like the idea of putting someone else's life at risk for the sake of a lie." I bit my lip and looked down at my feet again. I wasn't wearing shoes, and it felt odd to be standing in front of him in such casual clothes.

"You must have really loved him if you're going through all this trouble," I noted.

"He was there for me when I had no one else. He's all I have left." I nodded slowly and chewed on my lip.

"What about your friends? Wilson and Romanoff. You guys seem pretty close."

"I'm ninety-five years old. I don't exactly 'fit in.'" Then I snorted. Entertained by the reminder that he was older than my grandparents. "He's my brother," he said when my laughter faded. "Not in blood but in every way that matters." I gave him a short nod.

"I understand. My sister had to pull me out of fights too—she did kill a Chitauri with a staple remover once, though." He nodded.

"I heard the story. Very impressive."

"Anyway—my point is that I understand.—You don't think Barnes will find out about her, do you?"

"No, your sister is with Stark. She's safe."

"Do you think this will actually work, or are we just wasting time?"

"I don't know. I don't think we'll contact Bucky unless he wants us to. I just have to hope that he does. Sometimes that's all you have. What about you?" I took a moment to answer the question, staring into the darkened hallway and chewing on my lip.

"I don't think I know either of you well enough to have an answer. All I know is that when I did—if I—were to lose my memory and not know who I was, I'd want to talk to the person who did." He nodded thoughtfully, and I decided to call it a night. I didn't care where he chose to sleep, but I didn't want to talk anymore. "I'm going to bed, Steve. It's small, but you probably weren't going to sleep well anyway. You don't strike me as the type." I pushed away from the counter as he nodded.

"Yeah," he said, staring into his cup. "Probably not."