Monster

Twenty-Three

I convinced Bucky to stay the night. Though I couldn't guarantee he'd still be there in the morning. Let alone by the time Steve got back. Either way, getting him to agree felt like a success all on its own. So I showed him to the extra room where I kept my laptop and all the other things I didn't use. I gave him a pair of Steve's sweatpants and pulled out the futon to make him a bed while he changed. When he was done, everything was ready to go.

"I hope it's comfortable," I said as I fluffed up a pillow. I didn't know why I was so worried about his comfort. Any vaguely horizontal surface was probably more comfortable than the ground. At least he'd be warm.

"It's fine," he replied.

I stood up to face him. He'd finally shaved and had his hair pulled back out of his face. It made him look more average–as average as someone who plays in a rock band could look. It was still better than a full beard and grimy skin. He looked like a normal person. Attractive and with a metal arm, yes. But still just a person.

"So um...." I didn't know what to say. I was weirdly nervous. The words just fell out of my mouth, and I had nothing to follow up with. I ended up just staring off at the cluttered desk on the other side of the room. It was dim, only lit by a single lamp. But the streetlights outside illuminated the blinds in the window, filling the room with stripes of light and shadow.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked to break the silence.

His speech was starting to sound more natural. In the beginning, everything he said was flat, emotionless. He usually only used one or two words to say the bare minimum. Straight to the point. Yes, no, fine. Now he seemed more comfortable speaking to me. His tone was natural, and every once in a while, I caught a hint of amusement. Even though I hadn't succeeded in getting him to laugh or smile. Not that I wasn't trying. But my nervousness probably just made me look awkward and weird instead of funny. And he wasn't the type to hand over an undeserved pity laugh.

"You can ask me whatever you want," I promised.

"You said something before–about him–that made me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"You said he doesn't love you like he loves me. That it's not serious." I couldn't remember saying that, but my memory wasn't great to begin with. I hesitated to explain.

"It's not–I just don't think it's special, is all."

"What do you mean?"

"It's circumstantial. He's been through a lot. And so have I. I care about his well-being but–it's more that it's just convenient, and we're both lonely people. He's my friend, but I don't think it will ever be more than that."

It was probably more than I should have said. I tossed the pillow back onto the bed and then hugged my arms to myself. My heart was racing, and I had to pull myself back. I couldn't explain why it hurt to do it. But I didn't like lying to him.

"Bucky," I said slowly. "There's something I should tell you."

"What's that?"

I sat on the edge of the futon and pulled my cardigan close. I didn't want him to get angry, but I didn't want him to hate me for lying either. I would rather he hear it from me than figure it out some other way. I wanted him to trust me, and the best way to do that was to lead with the truth. I just had to be as gentle about it as I could. He hadn't snapped since that first night, and I had no idea what might set him off.

"I'm not who you think I am," I admitted. He was staring blankly back at me. "I'm not Steve's girlfriend. I never have been. I used to work for SHIELD. We set this up to give Steve a reason to come to a safe place. They thought my house was a good meeting spot. I was just supposed to be an explanation for why he comes by so often. It's not real."

"I know," he said softly. Apparently not the least bit surprised.

"How?"

"You were a soldier. I can tell."

"I used to be. And then I got shot and they sent me home." He sat down beside me. The futon creaked under his weight. With as quiet as he could be, he was solid. And the arm added extra weight that made him swagger when he walked.

"He's in love with a woman in New York," he told me. He was staring off into the hallway again, blank but thoughtful. The blank expressions were just a mask for what was inside. He hid his thoughts, but he clearly had a lot of them. He did it to protect himself, because they'd wanted him to be a blank slate.

"How do you know that?"

"I see more than you think I do."

"How long have you known this was a setup?"

"I always knew. I just wasn't sure how you really felt about him. He does care about you, but not the way he cares about her."

"Why didn't you say anything?" He turned his blue eyes to me.

"Because I knew you'd tell me when you were ready."

"Then why did you come here if you knew it was a setup?"

"Because I can see the same darkness in you that's in me. Mine just grew into a monster, and yours hasn't." I shook my head and looked down at my twisted fingers.

"You really need to stop calling yourself that."

"I trust you, Jo. I didn't at first. But I do now," he said. It was the first time I'd ever heard him say my name. "And I know you trust me too. That's all I wanted. He–Steve–he doesn't trust me. He wants to, but he still expects me to–show my monster. You could have called for help when I attacked you. You could have had them lock me up. But you chose to help me instead. Not because you have to, but because you genuinely want to. You've helped me feel–human again."

"You've always been human. I just want you to be whoever you want to be. And whatever you think you feel for me, it's not real. No matter how much we might want it to be." His eyebrows creased as he frowned. I winced in embarrassment. What if I was wrong about this? What if he really was just naturally flirty and it never occurred to him that's what he was doing?

"How do you know what's real and what isn't?" he asked. I sighed. I'd asked myself that same question a thousand times under a thousand different circumstances.

"Because I think I'm the first person to treat you like a person in a very long time. And I don't want you to be confused, or distracted, or to get hurt. I want you to focus on getting better and regaining your life and identity. I don't want you to have to worry about me. Especially not–in that way." He nodded slowly. His eyes were still gazing off in the direction of the hallway, but I don't think he was really seeing it.

"I don't think you get to decide who I worry about." I flopped forward and buried my face in my hands.

"I know. I'm sorry. I know I don't get to make decisions for you either. I can't change anything. I just want you to know that–it's not the right time."

I lifted my head again to look up at him. He chewed on the inside of his lip, nodding softly. It was the most absently natural thing I'd ever seen him do. The more I got to know him, the more the masks slipped. He'd seemed so blank and emotionless at first. But I realized he never had been. They wouldn't have had to wipe his mind so often if it wasn't trying to heal itself.

"I know," he said. But his voice took on the mask again. He looked indifferent. Blank. And if I didn't know any better, I might have believed it.