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 me. I wasn't sure what to make of his expression. Either he was looking for reassurance that he hadn't done anything wrong or was angry at himself for dropping it at all.

"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 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 wash the few dishes we'd used. I showed him where they went, and he worked without comment, only occasionally bending his elbow and flexing his fist.

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 in the pictures now. But a little older. And not that he'd aged much in the past seventy years. Just that a weariness hung around him now.

"Stay," I whispered. He clenched and unclenched his jaw but then slowly put the last cup back into the cupboard.

"What will you do if I hurt him?" he asked.

"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 in 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 for it. 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 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 anxious. 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. When we reached the kitchen, it was empty. The window above the sink was open, and I hadn't even heard Bucky make his escape. He must have panicked and left in a hurry. So I dropped my hands to my sides and sighed heavily.

"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 around to face him.

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

"I thought you didn't do laundry," he remarked once I got the machine 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 into the dark backyard. I knew it was probably wrong. 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 best friend Steve talked about. The one 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 and made it out to be a real possibility. It wasn't because they actually believed it, but just because they wanted to have hope. I wanted Bucky to be able to live again. I just wasn't sure if I really believed it was possible or if I wanted that hope. If he could do it, maybe I could too.

But I knew enough about trauma to know that even if he did remember who he was, he'd never be the same. And neither would I.