Monster

Eleven

I knew I'd scared Barnes away by suggesting he call the police. There was the possibility he'd never come back, and I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. Steve decided if a month went by without contact, we'd go our separate ways. He'd go back to hunting instead of playing house, and I'd have to find a new way to pay my mortgage. The first thing on my to-do list was to quit the job at the diner.

Romanoff told me to treat the mission like a vacation, but that wasn't easy. I hated waiting tables more than training in the heat and memorizing medical terms. But I had to keep up the charade that I was just a simple waitress who never did anything more exciting than have Captain America in my house a few nights a week.

A few days after Barnes showed up in the kitchen, Steve left early in the morning and told me he wouldn't be back for a while. He had to go to New York for some secret meeting with Tony. My nervousness about Barnes coming back had waned considerably over the week. So I didn't have the same reaction when I walked into the living room after work and found him leaning over the couch to shut the blinds. I stopped short in my tracks, and the movement was so abrupt that my sneakers squeaked against the floor. He only glanced at me before the blinds went shut and sent the room into shadow.

"You came back," I noted.

"Yes," he replied. But the tone suggested sarcasm. "Obviously," he was thinking.

"Can I check your arm?"

"Yes."

I motioned for him to sit down on the couch, and he sat straight-spined and eyes staring directly ahead. I cautiously sat beside him as he pulled his arm out of his coat. The wound was swollen and puffy now but healing. I'd given him enough stitches so that it would come back together on its own, but it might leave a scar. I wasn't sure how his healing worked. But it was more rapid than I'd expected. Each stitch was still long and frayed, the last one sticking out at the end where he'd apparently ripped it with something blunt.

"It looks okay," I told him. "It'd be better if you'd let me finish, but it doesn't look infected. Of course, I don't think you can get infections. But that's a good sign either way. I can take the sutures out if you come back in a few days." I wrapped my hand around his arm to pull the rest of it out of the coat sleeve. The bandage around his wrist was already dirty and falling apart. I unwrapped it and examined his swollen arm.

"You should have removed the bandage when it started to swell," I said, poking his arm again. "Or at least let it breathe when you were stationary. I would have told you that if you weren't in such a hurry to leave."

"I didn't know."

"Well, lucky for you, I got a few things just in case you came back." I stood up and went to the kitchen to find the bag. When I returned, he hadn't moved, but his eyes followed me as I took a seat beside him. "I had a wrist brace, but my wrists are smaller than yours. So I got you a new one." I ripped off the tag and pulled his arm onto my lap. I secured it around his wrist.

"If it starts to swell again, you should probably give it some breathing room and put some ice on it. But I don't think you'll have a problem. You can come here and get some ice if you need to." I let him go, and he pulled his arm back through his sleeve.

I looked over his face now that I could. He was still wearing the baseball cap, and his brown hair was secured at the nape of his neck with a cheap rubber band he'd probably stolen from a newspaper. Even though he'd closed the blinds, the room was bright enough for me to see his face. He had an almost full beard and looked tired and dirty. He kept his eyes off mine. He obviously didn't like eye contact, and I couldn't blame him for that.

"Will you tell me what happened?" It was a risk asking him again, but it was essential to making sure no one was dead or dying somewhere.

"I don't know your name," he said.

"Johanna. Most people just call me Jo. Now, will you tell me what happened, Bucky?"

"It was him. He broke it."

"Steve?" He nodded uncomfortably. "What about the cut?"

"I didn't kill them," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt them, but I didn't kill them."

"Were they seriously injured?"

"No."

"That's good then. Progress, right?" He turned his dark gaze to me.

"Progress toward what?"

"Do you want to kill people, Bucky?"

"I don't know." I took a deep breath.

"What do you remember? Do you remember anything from—before?"

"Sometimes. Falling. Snow. Faces. Voices."

"Steve told me that you fell from a train. Do you remember anything else? Anything concrete?"

"I remember—lying in the snow. Screaming." He said it with a flat voice, void of emotion. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but I didn't know how he'd feel about touching. I'd already made that mistake once before.

"If you remember that—then you'll probably remember more. Just give it time."

"He said we were friends. I saw—at the museum. I saw my face. He was telling the truth."

"He told me you were his brother. Not by blood but in every way that mattered. You were all each other had for a time. Probably still are."

"He has you." I was startled for a moment, forgetting that lie. Then I nodded quickly.

"Sometimes, I suppose. But it's not the same. I'm not family. I don't have any connection to that part of his life. He doesn't love me like he loves you." His eyes moved to mine again.

"Maybe he's afraid," he offered.

"I don't think there's any reason for him to be afraid."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No," I said. I was surprised at how easy it was to answer. He'd scared the wits out of me the other night when he'd shown up in the kitchen. But finally, sitting there talking to him and learning about him, I wasn't afraid anymore. Of course, he could still hurt me, but I didn't believe he wanted to.

"I'm a monster. You should be."

"You're not a monster."

His metal arm moved, and I froze. But his hand just gently brushed the sweater off of my shoulder, revealing the dark purple bruises he'd left on my skin.

"I hurt you," he observed, almost absently.

"You didn't mean it," I tried.

"Yes, I did. I wanted you to be afraid."

"You're hardly the first person to put bruises on me."

"I know that." He looked into my eyes again. They were dark, not in color but in expression. Sometimes they would slide out of focus, making him seem empty and unseeing. But they were focused now. Calculating despite the lack of expression. "I can see it," he said.

"You can see what exactly?"

"Darkness."

I reached for his metal hand, and he flinched away, but I wrapped my fingers around his and enveloped his hand in both of mine. I wasn't sure if he could feel me. I didn't know what kind of technology it was or how it registered pressure. But he used it like he could feel it, and regardless, he could see me holding his hand.

"Did I hurt you again?" he asked.

"No. Did you want to?"

"No."

"I think you just underestimate the strength of it. You're not used to using it gently, are you? You'll get there. And you won't hurt me again. Right?"

"I meant to hurt you. I wanted to."

"But you didn't want to kill me. You could have."

"I had no reason. You posed no real threat."

"You were told to kill Steve, and he was a real threat. But you didn't." His grip on my hands tightened. I winced but didn't let him go. "Why not?"

"I failed."

"You didn't fail. You made a choice. You did the right thing. And that's progress. Even if you don't know what you're progressing toward yet."

"You know what they did—what they made me. A monster." I pulled one of my hands free from his tight grip.

"Can I touch you?" I asked.

He nodded, so I reached out and held his cheek against the palm of my hand. Maybe they were right to want me to be gentle toward him. He must not have been close to someone in a long time. At least not someone who wouldn't hurt him. He couldn't go to Steve because his mind hadn't cleared enough for him to resist hurting his only friend. The familiarity might overwhelm him. He might lash out. He needed gentle warmth and kindness. I didn't want to think about his reaction when he found out who I really was. I was broken too, but he could already see it.

"You're not a monster," I insisted. His expression leaned more toward confused now as he searched my eyes. "What happened to you, what they did..." His grip tightened again, "...It was wrong. And right now, you might not know the difference. But your memories will start making sense again. They'll come back. Probably jumbled, but you'll eventually learn how to piece them together. And you can be Bucky again."

"Who has the right to say what's right and wrong?" he asked. "What if I'm not Bucky anymore?"

"Then you learn how to be who you want to be. Whether it's Bucky or someone else. You learn how to live, then decide for yourself what right and wrong mean to you."

"How do you know for sure?" I pulled my hand away and locked it around his metal one.

"Because I had to do it once too. Not exactly the same, but...." I reached up and pulled the other side of my sweater down to reveal the scars. His right hand moved and cupped my shoulder. He traced a thumb over the damaged skin. It was the first time in a long time that someone didn't seem to find the scars disgusting or frightening. No one ever looked at them with the same level of understanding. Not even Steve.

"I didn't go through what you went through, but I know what it's like to not know who you are. And to wonder if your memories are real or not. I know what it's like to feel detached from the person they say you are. And things will never be the same as they were. Maybe you'll never live a full life. But you'll live. And that's what's important. Do you want to live?"

He looked directly into my eyes again, like he'd never considered that before. I regretted asking him since he probably hadn't thought to put much value on his life. But he parted his lips, his eyes narrowed in thoughtful confusion. The word "Yes," came out in a whisper.

"Then it's progress."

He moved his hands away and flexed his fingers again. He wasn't hostile now but clearly confused. So I kept my distance and waited for him to speak.

"I have to go," he finally decided.

"You can stay here as long as you need," I told him. "I have an extra room, and you can take a shower."

"I can't." He stood up and walked toward the hallway. I hurried to keep up with him.

"Will you promise to come back?" He paused by the kitchen archway and turned around to face me, but he kept his eyes on the walls.

"I'll come back to have the stitches removed. I don't know how to do it myself."

"I can work with that."

"I have to go."

He turned and opened the back door as if he already knew the house from back to front. I wasn't surprised. It probably wasn't the first or second time he'd been there. He disappeared into the yard and left the door open. I followed him out into the growing darkness, but he was already gone once I stepped out into the yard. Nothing was there, and the neighbor's porchlight didn't come on. I had no idea where he'd disappeared to. So I shut the door and didn't turn the lock. I wanted him to know he was welcome to come back.