Monster

Thirteen

Since Steve was over so often, it was normal for him to leave things behind. Though he hadn't actually left anything there 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 Steve's things and carried them back across the hall to the bathroom. The shower was running, so I knocked on the door.

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

"Okay," he replied from inside.

I popped the door open and quickly checked to ensure he was behind the shower curtain. His clothes were lying in a pile on the floor. I set Steve's clean clothes on the counter and knelt down for the dirty ones. Then the shower curtain was ripped open, and I shouted "Oh!" before quickly turning to face the wall.

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

"The stitches or the metal?"

"Metal."

"Um—well—how did they clean it before?"

"I don't remember."

"Okay, well, just—do your best to not get it too wet—if you can help it—and I'll try to help you dry it when you're done. If there are any problems, I might know someone who could give us some advice. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Okay. And uh—nudity, Bucky. That's not—you know—something we usually show off to one another. Unless asked."

"Right." The curtain closed, and I ducked my head and left the bathroom, blushing furiously.

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 recipes but rarely thought well enough in advance to plan them. And since I only ever cooked for one, I'd learned just the basics.

Clara and I were considered "miracle babies." More specifically me. Our parents hadn't met until they were well past thirty and had trouble conceiving. So Clara was technically the "miracle baby." I was the "where the hell did this one come from" baby. Since our parents were so much older than most kids' parents growing up, they'd been raised with different values. Mom stayed home and spent the entirety of her day cooped up at home cooking and cleaning. Dad worked and didn't do a whole lot else.

I never wanted to be like that. I loved my mother dearly, but when I was told I was only meant for motherhood, I felt incompetent and worthless. My parents enjoyed the lifestyle, and it worked for them. It brought them happiness. And I respected that. But it wasn't the life I wanted for myself. And so Clara and I usually hit the road running whenever we suspected our mom would give us a cooking lesson.

I wasn't entirely useless in the kitchen, though. But whenever Steve was over, we just ordered take-out. The rest of the week, I survived off 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 didn't require mediocre cooking skills.

So I ordered a pizza and sat down at the table to clean up the mess I'd made taking out his stitches. A few minutes later, the shower shut off, and I waited patiently for Bucky to come back down the stairs. I didn't hear him moving at first until he bumped into the wall in the hallway with his metal arm, which made an oddly hollow metallic noise. I had a feeling he'd done it on purpose to avoid startling me. Finally, he appeared in the shadowy archway, wearing Steve's clothes and holding my comb in two broken pieces.

"I broke it," he said, holding it out in two hands.

"Oh my gosh," I replied. I took the comb and tossed it into the trash. "Do you want me to help with the...?" I gestured toward his wet, matted hair. He was staring at me with one eye peeking out between the dripping strands. He nodded once.

"Please?"

"I'll go get a few things. Make yourself at home. I ordered a pizza." I went back upstairs to find what I needed and returned to find him sitting at the table. He was flexing his metal arm and trying to stretch it.

"How does it look? Should I call my friend?" I asked.

"I think it's fine," he replied. He put the brace back on his other wrist and then waited patiently for me to fix his messy hair.

I moved around to his back and looked at the tangled mess. It was long enough so that it brushed his shoulders. But it was clear it hadn't been washed or combed in a while. I sighed before spraying it down with a detangler. Bucky flinched.

"You're not going to make me as pretty as you, are you?" he asked. I froze with the bottle still raised in my hand. I'd grown to expect the short answers, confusion, and detached stares. I even anticipated anger. But not a flirty comment. I set the bottle down and reached for the brush.

"Steve told me you were a bit of a flirt," I remarked, combing through the mess. He held still and didn't indicate that I was causing him pain.

"I don't remember," he said.

"Maybe it's just in your nature then. Do you remember anything else besides falling from the train?"

"I remember one thing." He hesitated to continue.

"What's that?" I prodded.

"A woman. I don't remember her name. Just that she was like you. Kind."

"What do you remember about her?"

"I took her out. We drove—to a pier. I told her I was leaving. She said she'd wait for me." I brushed through the tangles and felt a heavy weight fall over my heart. The girl probably had waited. I wondered how long.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky," I said.

"You have no reason to be sorry for me," he muttered.

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Pieces. Some things are starting to become clearer. The train. The others. Commandos."

"You remember the Commandos?"

"Some things."

"Do you think it's because you're free now? Is that why you're starting to remember?"

"I think I always did after a while. And then they would...." He stopped, and I kept brushing.

"Did it hurt?" I asked after a long while.

"Yes," he replied.

"Do you think the memories will come back someday? All of them?"

"I don't know if I want them to. What about you? Did your memories come back eventually?" I paused for a second before running my fingers through his hair and securing it with another hair tie.

"Um," I finally managed to get out. "I don't know how it works. Like—memories sometimes just get pushed away. But I don't think they ever go away. Just fade sometimes. But no—not everything comes back. But it gets easier. I forgot my own name sometimes at first. I still feel like pieces are missing, and I just can't seem to grasp them. Like there's a screen over where the memories are. They're there. I just can't get to them.

"I forgot my family for a while. Sometimes my sister will tell me about things we did together, and I have no idea what she's talking about. I can see that it hurts her. That's part of the reason I moved so far away. The worst part isn't the memories, though. It's the nightmares."

"I know." I got the ponytail tied and then stepped away from him. I gathered up the supplies and kept my eyes averted. "I'm done. Let me get something on that cut, and then you can shave."

"Okay."

I returned the supplies to the upstairs bathroom and came back to find something for his cut. He was waiting right where I left him, so I took a seat on the extra chair and gently applied a salve to his arm. Neither of us spoke, and I could see him watching me. When I was finished, I gave him another smile.

"You can shave now if you want," I said, motioning toward the bathroom across the hall. "You do know how to do that, right? I mean, your wrist isn't going to be a problem?"

He stood slowly and didn't answer right away. He seemed a lot larger in Steve's brighter and cleaner clothes. Steve never seemed to wear shirts that fit, but they fit Bucky nicely. His arms were bare, and the fabric was tight over his chest. Aside from one arm being entirely metal, it was incredibly crafted. It acted almost as realistically as the other, except for his inability to judge his own strength. But I figured that was the purpose of it. To destroy.

He was also taller than I initially thought, but I supposed that's why he stuck with dark colors. He could hide in them and disappear into the shadows easier. The clothes he showed up in were dirty and dark, but they were chosen for a purpose. Now he was wearing khakis and a light blue shirt. He looked average. And slightly uncomfortable. With his face clean and his hair pulled back, he no longer looked like someone I picked up off the street. I still wanted to see him without the beard, though, just to get an impression of Sergeant James Barnes from the photographs.

"I think I'll manage," he decided after watching me give him a slightly intimidated once-over.

I headed into the living room to wait for the pizza while he finished. It came first. I was bringing it into the kitchen as he left the bathroom, clean-shaven and much more youthful and handsome than I expected.

"Pizza," I said, holding up the box. He seemed uncertain about the delivery guy. I set it down on the table and went to get the dishes. He took the seat against the wall. He examined the box but didn't speak or move until I set plates in front of him.

"I didn't realize your eyes were blue," I noted. He studied me curiously. As if he didn't realize they were blue either.

"Is flirting in your nature too?" he asked. His expression was stoic, but my cheeks blushed anyway. I looked away.

"Just making an observation. You've been hiding your eyes since you got here. I couldn't tell."

"You don't hide your eyes. They're—black?" I focused on opening the box, so I didn't have to look at him.

"Brown, actually," I informed him. "You've just never seen me in sunlight."

"I think I'd like to." I stayed quiet and put a slice of pizza on his plate. I slid it over and didn't look at him.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked but regretted it as soon as I said it. He was probably only ever given water. Just something necessary for survival. "How about soda? I think I still have some left in the fridge. Steve hates it. Say's 'it's not proper soda pop unless it's made with real sugar,'" I mocked his voice, and the corner of Bucky's lips twitched into an almost smile.

I brought him the soda without an answer. I set it down on the table and took my place before him. He hadn't picked up his pizza or his drink. He hadn't said a word at all as he watched me shuffle around the kitchen, looking for clean cups.

"Is everything alright?" I asked, finally looking at him. He was still watching, curious and confused all at once.

"Why are you kind to me?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I have difficulty trusting people who are kind to me for no reason."

I was almost offended that he'd taken so long to tell me that he thought my kindness was threatening. Maybe I was laying it on too thick. Perhaps he didn't really mean it when he said he wanted to see my eyes in the sunlight.

But then I realized why he was so untrusting of kindness. Hydra couldn't have been horrible to him all of the time. They were probably kind to him when they needed him to feel safe. As if what they were doing was in his best interest. It was a typical abuse tactic, and that's what he looked like to me—a survivor.

For a moment, I considered telling him the truth. Just to gain his trust. It was hard to lie to someone who'd been abused for so long. I took a deep breath and held my tongue.

"I think that's a risk you're going to have to take, Bucky," I said, reaching for my cup. He held his in his right hand, watching me behind narrow blue eyes.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," he replied. He lifted the glass toward his lips, and I raised mine in a gesture of cheers.

"To kindness and trust, I guess," I said. There was another almost smile, but he finally took a sip and masked it. The look on his face made me think he knew damn well I was lying about something.