Monster

Thirteen

Since Steve was over so often, it was normal for him to leave things behind. Though he hadn't left anything at all until Romanoff made the suggestion to allude to his false comfort with me. Bucky was slightly shorter and leaner than Steve, but it was better than what he currently had. So I found a few of his things and carried them back across the hall to the bathroom. The shower was running, so I knocked.

"Bucky? Are you covered? I'm going to get your clothes and leave clean ones for you, okay?" I asked.

"Okay."

I popped the door open and peeked to make sure the polka-dot shower curtain was shut. His clothes were lying on the floor. I set Steve's clean clothes on the counter and knelt to collect the dirty ones. Then the shower curtain ripped open, loudly clinging like bells, and I shouted "Oh!" before quickly turning to face the wall. Which didn't do any good because there was a mirror on it.

"I don't know how to wash my arm," he said.

"The stitches or the metal?"

"Was I not supposed to wash the stitches?"

"I took them out, so it's safe to wash."

"The metal then."

"How did they clean it before?"

"I don't remember."

"Okay, well. It's an arm. So I'm assuming they made it to be waterproof. If there are any issues, I might know someone who can give us some advice. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Okay. And uh–nudity, Bucky. That's not–you know–something we usually show off unless asked."

"Right." The curtain slid shut, and I ducked my head and left the bathroom, blushing so furiously that I was sure I'd turned tomato red.

I got his laundry going and then searched the cupboards for something to make for dinner. Unfortunately, despite my mother's insistence that I'd be good at maternal things, I was never any good at cooking. I could follow a recipe, and I'd taken kitchen duty like everyone else. So I wasn't even half as bad as Clara. But I only ever cooked for one person, and I'd only learned the basics. Like how not to overboil and burn things. There was a science to it that Tran and Jimenez understood better than the rest of us. We always ate well when one or both of them were on kitchen duty.

Clara and I were considered "miracle babies." More specifically, me. Our parents hadn't met until they were nearing forty and had trouble conceiving. So Clara was technically the "miracle" and I was the "where the hell did this one come from" baby. Since our parents were older than most people's parents growing up, they'd been raised differently too. Mom stayed home and spent the entirety of her day cooped up at home cooking and cleaning, and helping my dad with booking and numbers. Dad worked at his garage and really didn't do much else besides tinker with cars and plop his ass on his favorite chair in front of the TV.

I never wanted to be like that. I loved both of my parents dearly. But when I was told I was destined for motherhood, I felt incompetent and worthless. My parents enjoyed the life they built together, and it worked for them. It made them happy. And I respected that. But that wasn't the life I wanted for myself. Clara either. So we both hit the road running whenever we suspected Mom was brewing up a cooking lesson.

I wasn't entirely useless, though. My CO, Russell, wanted us to be able to take care of ourselves. And he'd always click his tongue and give me a disappointed face whenever I fumbled a meal. When Steve was over, we ordered take-out or made simple things. Steve was a worse cook than I was. And the rest of the week, I survived on frozen dinners, waffles, or whatever I brought home from the diner. Bucky probably hadn't had pizza in a long time, and that was the most delicious thing I could think of that wouldn't require my mediocre cooking skills.