Monster

Twenty-Eight

I was glad Bucky was going to stay the night again. We had the whole weekend to spend away from the diner. I had it all planned out in my head. I wanted it to be as boring and ordinary as possible, even though I'd argued with my sister that boring and normal just wasn't who I was. It wasn't because I enjoyed the lifestyle exactly, but because it was sometimes good to focus on ordinary things for a while. Bucky didn't have enough of that in his life. I also just didn't know what to do to keep busy without leaving the house. We were both more comfortable there.

I couldn't sleep again, though. The truth was just that I hated sleeping alone. That was one of the reasons I was so comfortable with Steve. It was why I allowed Oscar to start spending the night so soon. And okay, there were a few one-night stands due to not wanting to spend the night alone. But that's beside the point.

And it wasn't that I wanted Bucky to crawl into bed with me or anything. Or even that I wanted Steve for a night of platonic cuddling. I did like it when he was there, but we were both used to being alone.

There were a lot of trees between the window and the neighbor's porch light. The only time the room lit up at night was when something tripped the sensor. Then I'd see all those twisted shadows swaying across the walls. The light was bright, and I lay there for a long time staring at it. I couldn't fall asleep with it on, and the entire tree shook as a fat little silhouette scaled the branches. The raccoon thumped onto the roof and scuttled into the nest he made in the attic.

I really should have called someone to get him out. He was probably damaging the house, and it would be a pain in the ass when I inevitably had to sell it. But I'd made peace with the little guy. He made nights feel just a little less lonely, and he only caused problems when he dug in the trash and left a trail of garbage through the yard. But he didn't seem to like my trash much anyway. He preferred the neighbors, where a family of five produced enough litter to keep him fat and round all year long.

Maybe Clara was right. Maybe I was too nice and did have a strong mother-cat instinct. I let my attic and house suffer over a raccoon I named and almost considered a pet. And now I was potentially putting my own life at risk by taking in a trained assassin with memory loss and forcing him to cook crappy spaghetti. Maybe my mother was right too. Maybe it was just in my nature to care for things. Saying I was destined for motherhood was probably her way of saying I was destined to care for people. I just wished she'd worded it differently.

I lay there listening to the raccoon get comfortable in his nest until the sound of a muffled moan came from the other room. I sat up and strained to hear through the ringing in my ears. The doors were closed, but I could make out the sound of Bucky's subdued struggle. He was quiet and only spoke when he needed to. He had to go out of his way to make noise just so he didn't catch me by surprise. The fact that he was groaning in the guestroom made me think something was very wrong.

I couldn't just sit there and let him go through it alone. I knew how much it sucked to fight through a nightmare and wake up alone. They weren't as bad when someone was close by to bring me back. I wanted Bucky to feel that same comfort. So I climbed out of my bed and headed across the hall to the extra room.

I knocked gently on the door, but he didn't wake up or respond. So I pushed it open and looked inside. He was lying on the futon, shirtless and sweating, and seemed to be at war with the sheets.

"Bucky?" I said, cautiously stepping toward him. "Bucky, wake up. You're dreaming." I sat down at his side and pressed my hand against his cheek.

He shot back to life in an instant. His metal hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked it tightly away from me, so I flopped over his body. His teeth were gritted, and his eyes were cold and unforgiving as he sat up to face me. He looked just like the Winter Soldier in my nightmare. He was breathing hard and fast, and I cried out when pain cracked my wrist.

"Bucky!" I yelped. "You're hurting me! It's Jo! You were just dreaming! Let me go!" His senses snapped back into place, and he released my wrist. I pushed myself off of him and rubbed the pain from my bones.

"Jo," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't mean to. It's fine." I had my arm cradled against my chest, and my lips pinched. He reached out to pull my hand out, but much more gently.

"I didn't mean to. I didn't—I couldn't think. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I should have known better than to touch you while you were having a nightmare. I'm actually surprised you didn't wake up swinging. I've done that before."

"I don't know if it was a nightmare or a memory." He held my hand on his lap and gently rubbed the red marks on my wrist. He kept the other arm back as if he was afraid of scaring me with it. But his other hand was soft, and his fingers worked the ache from my wrist with the skilled precision of someone accustomed to aches and pains.

"Sometimes, it's both for me. It's hard to tell the difference, I know." He sat still for a moment, and his breathing returned to normal. I tried to keep my eyes on my wrist and not the fact that the trees in the yard were leaving twisted shadows on his bare skin.

"Will you—tell me—what happened to you?" he whispered. He looked away from my hand to where the scars were finally showing on my shoulder.

"I enlisted at eighteen," I said. "Hadn't even graduated high school yet. Guess I thought I had something to prove. My dad always talked about having boys. Got two girls instead. I guess I never really proved anything to him. But I wanted to show him that I was capable. They always kind of held me back, you know? Never let me join sports or teams or anything. So I made a choice they couldn't get me out of.

"I was a combat medic. I was good at it. Special Forces recruited me. I can't actually—remember most of it anymore. But my last mission—there was a threat called into a school. I can't remember where. They said it was probably nothing but sent us in anyway."

"What went wrong?"

"It was a setup. They were already waiting for us when we arrived. Started shooting as soon as we were on the ground. We couldn't fire back because they were using the kids as shields. Didn't matter anyway. The kids didn't make it. And when I finally got the chance—I just couldn't do it. There was a little girl. Took a bullet through the stomach. Hit her intestines. Probably a few other organs. No exit wound. She was going to bleed out before I could get her somewhere safe enough for surgery.

"Even if I had that luxury, her chances were slim. I did everything I could anyway because I didn't want her to have to die alone and afraid. There was a grenade blast. I came to about twenty feet away. She didn't survive the blast. I suppose it was a kinder death, but—she was so small. Couldn't have been more than seven."

"When were you shot?"

"Right after. He came around the corner after sending in the grenade to clear the area. I was all that was left in the courtyard. There was a moment when I could have fired first. But I hesitated. He hit me in the shoulder. He probably saved my life by doing that. He could have shot me in the face. I don't really believe he just had bad aim."

He lifted his hand and moved his fingers over the spider web of scars on my skin. He looked deep in thought, and I was worried my story might trigger something in him. But he seemed more thoughtful than bothered. Then he looked back into my eyes and asked the same question I'd asked myself a million times before.

"Why didn't you shoot?" I shook my head, and he held his palm to my shoulder. His hand was large enough that it actually managed to warm the chill out of my body.

"I don't know. I ask myself that all the time. I've come up with a million different reasons. None of them really explain what I was feeling. I guess I was just afraid. If I took his life, I'd never be able to give it back. And I guess I just felt like it wasn't my place. I don't know why—because I think if I'd done it—maybe I would have prevented a few more deaths. Maybe my friends would still be here."

"I think that makes you brave," he said.

"How?"

"You knew he would shoot you, and you still decided not to take his life. You had no way of knowing you would survive. Do you know how hard it's been for me to do that? To fight that urge?"

I shook my head and looked down at my lap. He'd let go of my wrist, so I twisted my fingers together. He still had his hand on my shoulder, and I wanted to lean forward and rest against him. Just to be held for a moment by someone who understood. It didn't have to be romantic, and if I thought Bucky's feelings were strictly platonic, I would have actually done it.

"Why do you fight it?" I asked.

"Because I know it's wrong." He said before that he wasn't sure what the difference between right and wrong was. So I looked back at him.

"How?"

"Something Steve said that night. Before you came out."

"What did he say?"

"He said that—whenever I need to know the difference between right and wrong—I should think of you."

"Me?"

"He said to imagine you in that situation. What if they took you, pulled you apart, took everything that made you who you are, and stuck someone else in your place? I can tell the difference just by imagining you in the situation. If I think it would be wrong to do to you—or I wouldn't want you to be hurt—then it's wrong." I looked down at the sheets still tangled around his legs.

"Why me?" I asked.

"You're innocent enough," he said with that hint of amusement. "And—I like you."

My wrist wasn't hurting anymore, so I leaned against it, but I had to put my arm on the other side of his legs to balance myself. We were sitting terribly close, but I was comfortable with him. And the urge to rest my head against his chest was still there. He moved his hand from my shoulder, leaving a cold chill in its wake.

"Do you regret it?" I asked. "Do you regret what they made you do?"

"I think that's why I can never be normal—like you want me to be. I don't think I deserve that kind of peace. I don't deserve you." I studied the ridges on his metal arm. They shifted when he moved, and sometimes I would hear the strange digital sounds it made when he moved quickly. Like when he grabbed my wrist.

"But you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it. I was following orders. I knew what I was doing even if I didn't know why."

"You didn't have a choice. They forced you."

"I still did it. And maybe the man who shot you didn't have a choice either." I pinched my eyes shut.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"They stripped you of everything you were and tried to turn you into a weapon. They made it so that you couldn't disobey. The man who shot me made a choice. If he's still alive now—he's going to wake up every morning knowing he made that choice and he's responsible for the deaths of children. You—you were not a killer, James Barnes. You were a kid from Brooklyn who got caught up in something dark and out of your control. You were a hero in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You think James Barnes never killed anyone? I was a sniper, Jo. I was good at it."

"And I was a combat medic who took out a building with a live grenade." I took a deep breath. "I froze with a gun—but I had other skills. I had other weapons. I don't think you killed because you wanted to."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I didn't want to. And I can see it. The way Steve talks about you. You were a good person, and they stole that from you. I know it's still in you. I want to help you find it again. Even if you think you don't deserve it."

"Why do you have so much faith in me?" he asked. He lifted a strand of my hair and studied it in the low light. The neighbor's light wasn't on now, and the room was mostly dark. But there was still enough illumination from the moon and nearby streetlights to make him visible through the moving shadows.

"Because I have to," I admitted. "I need to believe people can get better." He nodded slowly, and I refused to look at him. Instead, I focused on how he twisted my hair between his fingers.

"Not everyone is strong like you," he murmured.

"You think I'm strong?" I asked. "I sat at a desk for five years. I had to force myself to get out of bed every morning. I didn't always win. That doesn't make me strong. You think this is the life I wanted?"

"Then why do you do it?" I couldn't find an answer. My eyes suddenly began to sting, and I had to take a moment to fight the urge to cry.

"Because I don't think I'm cut out for anything else," I whispered. "When I joined the army, I thought I was doing something good. I was too young and stupid to realize how wrong I was. Everything we were doing was wrong. SHIELD was wrong. I contributed to so much—death."

"I still don't understand why you think you're not cut out for anything else."

I could fight the urge to cry, but not the desire to touch him. I moved forward and timidly touched my hands to either side of his face. I traced his cheekbones with my thumbs, hating myself for how badly I wanted to kiss him. Maybe I just wanted him to stop talking and picking apart my thoughts. Maybe it was just the moonlight and the shady trees. I didn't know, but the conversation was over the moment my lips touched his.

I wasn't sure, but I didn't think Bucky had kissed anyone in a long time. I knew about the girl he'd been with before shipping out. But Steve had told me a few stories about the things they'd got up to with the Commandos. But it was still a significant amount of time. He hadn't aged much since the last time Steve saw him. Which meant he'd spent more time in cryo than out. So I highly doubted he did any kissing in those brief times awake.

It was a gentle kiss, no tongue, and I pulled away before he could react. I was going to pretend it never happened, but then he finally responded. Our eyes only met for a moment before his hand was on my shoulder again. His fingers slipped into the hair at the back of my head, and he pulled me to his lips. The feel of solid metal slid down my back as he pulled me closer. My hands found their way to his shoulders, and then his neck and in his hair. The kiss was harder. My lips parted on instinct.

I was terrified that the only reason there was an attraction between us was because of some emotional imprinting. Which would mean it couldn't possibly be real. And I'd be lying if I said the attraction wasn't mutual, but I still hadn't ruled out loneliness. Or my tendency to flirt with danger.

But I hadn't felt anything for Steve. And he'd been right there in my bed night after night. He'd left kisses on my head and on my cheeks. But my heart never fluttered like it was right now.

I didn't know what it was, but the kiss had grown very quickly. His metal hand was growing warm on my back, and his fingers squeezed involuntarily. It made a thrill run up my spine, and I grasped my fingers into his hair. Even though he probably hadn't kissed anyone in a long time, he seemed comfortable with what he was doing. My heart was racing, and adrenaline coursed through my body. But then the strap of my shirt snapped under the pressure of his grip, and I pulled away with a gasp.

"I'm so sorry," I said, even though I hadn't moved my hands from his hair and his lips were still so tantalizingly close.

"For what?" he asked, glancing at my lips as if he wanted to kiss me again.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"I wasn't objecting."

"I know, but...." I moved my hands down his bare chest, using all of my will to force myself to stop. "I don't think either of us is ready for this," I decided. He lifted his hand to touch my face again, but I quickly moved out of his reach and left his room before I lost control.