Monster

Fourteen

After dinner, Bucky helped carry the plates to the sink. He stood up, balancing his plate and cup as he reached for mine. But then the plate dropped from his metal hand and smashed against the floor. His eyes immediately darted to mine. I wasn't sure what to make of his expression. Either he was looking for reassurance that he hadn't done anything wrong, or he was angry at himself for dropping it in the first place.

"It's alright," I said, jumping up to get the broom. "I'll clean it up."

"I can do it," he said a little harshly.

He put the remaining dishes in the sink and bent to scoop up the larger shards of broken ceramic. He kept his metal hand on the floor to balance himself, but it was trembling. And since it wasn't flesh and blood, I doubted it was from adrenaline or fear. Especially since the rest of him wasn't shaking at all. There was something wrong with the arm, but he clearly didn't want me to know it. So I helped clean up the broken pieces and said nothing about it.

"I'll wash. You dry?" I suggested once everything was cleaned up.

"Okay," he replied in his usual one-liner.

He stood at my side and helped me wash the few dishes we'd used. I showed him which cupboards they went into and handed him a towel. He worked without comment, only occasionally bending his elbow and flexing his wrist when he thought I wasn't looking. I could just make out the reflection of him in the window above the sink. There was a concerned look on his face. But it was hard to tell if that was his natural expression or not.

We were working on the last cup when the sound of Steve's motorcycle rumbled down the street. Bucky tensed and looked down at me. His eyes went dark and guarded again. His jaw clenched with tension, and the strands of dark hair had fallen into his face from the ponytail. He looked almost exactly like the man from the pictures now. Just a little older. And not that he'd aged much in the past seventy years. Just that there was a weariness hanging around him now.

"Stay," I said. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, but then he slowly set the last cup into the cupboard beside the sink.

"What will you do if I hurt him?"

"I won't let you." I couldn't physically prevent him from doing anything, but I hoped he understood I was trying to offer emotional support. He stared down at me until the engine stopped out front of the house. "Let me talk to him first," I suggested. "Just promise me you won't leave."

He said nothing, but I patted his arm and walked out to greet Steve at the door. I wanted to give them both enough time to prepare themselves. The lock clicked, and the front door opened. He stepped into the room and found me standing in the hallway, twisting my fingers nervously.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," he said. He always said that. Even though it was only nine. "I just came by to pick up a few of my things." He glanced at my hands and concerned expression. His eyes moved back to mine, and I nodded.

"He's in the kitchen," I whispered. The door shut, and he stood ridged. "I convinced him to stay long enough to shower and eat. I let him borrow some of your clothes and your razor. I didn't think you'd mind. Just–be gentle with him. That seems to work. And–be careful. He's still afraid he's going to hurt you." His entire body seemed to be humming with anxiety. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he wasn't even breathing.

I reached for his hand, and he let me take it. Then I gently tugged him toward the hallway. He followed, but I still couldn't hear him breathing. Only when we reached the kitchen–it was empty. The window above the sink was open. The curtain fluttered in the chill breeze. I hadn't even heard him make his escape. He must have panicked and left in a hurry. I dropped my hands to my sides.

"I guess he wasn't ready," I said. The tension drained from Steve.

"I don't know if he'll ever be ready," he told me. I turned back to him.

"There's leftover pizza in the fridge if you want some. I'll just get his clothes into the dryer, and then I'm going to bed." He nodded and watched me stomp to the washing machine and furiously stuff Bucky's wet clothes into the dryer.

"I thought you didn't do laundry," he remarked once I got it going. I moved to pass him.

"It's different," I decided. Then I hurried up the stairs to my room.

I stood at the window for a while, looking down into the dark backyard. I knew it was probably wrong to feel the way I did. I barely knew the guy, and he didn't even know himself. But I wanted him to stick around and mend things with Steve. I wanted to see some sliver of the man Steve talked about. The one who he said was a "little shit" and had an easy smile and sarcastic nature. The man who was the brother and friend Steve still missed. With a flirtatious attitude and bounce in his step.

I understood why everyone lied about how easy recovery was. They said I'd be normal again someday. Made it out like it was a real, tangible thing I could claim. It wasn't because they actually believed it, but because it gave them hope. I wanted Bucky to be able to live again. I just wasn't sure if I really believed it or if I just wanted to hope. If he could do it, maybe I could too.

But I knew enough about trauma to know that even if he could remember who he was, he'd never be the same. And maybe I wouldn't either.