Monster

Thirty

Romanoff mentioned the possibility of Barnes being linked to Tony's parents' deaths, so his revelation wasn't entirely a surprise. But it was hard to keep it out of my mind as I watched him mow the lawn. I couldn't blame him for what happened. He wasn't in his right mind when Tony's parents died, but I also knew this could cause problems for—well, everyone. My parents worshiped the Stark family, and my sister loved Tony. And Tony loved her back. So I couldn't imagine what would happen if I told one of the most dangerous men in the world found out that another one of the most dangerous men in the world killed his parents.

Howard Stark saved my grandparents' lives. If he hadn't happened across them in an alley one night, I might never have existed. And then I wouldn't be there to help Bucky in my own small way. It was all a big complicated mess. All I could do was pray that Tony never found out.

Bucky's hair was pulled back out of his face again. I thought about taking him to get it cut so that he'd look less like the Winter Soldier and more like an ordinary guy who happened to wear gloves a lot. But I couldn't bring myself to ask him. I figured I would ask if the situation got worse.

I'd already mowed the front yard and hated every second of it, so I asked him to do the back. It was smaller, and it was too hot for him to be outside with a hoodie and gloves on. So I gave him the backyard so he'd be free to expose his arm and not have to worry about neighbors calling the police.

He was wearing the tank top and sweatpants I got for him while we were out. I stuck with darker colors since Steve's lighter tones made him stand out. Plus, I knew he'd return to sneaking around in the dark. And if it wasn't for his arm reflecting sunlight and a big red star on the side, he would have looked like an average guy who didn't seem to know much about modern gas-powered lawnmowers.

It didn't require much effort to push, but he occasionally stopped to shake out his metal hand. It seemed to be bothering him more than the one in the wrist brace. Of course, he did swear it was completely healed, but the doctor in me wanted him to keep it for a little longer. The right hand was apparently dominant for general use, even when broken. The only time I'd ever really seen the left in action was when he used it as a weapon. Or when it gave out, and he dropped things. I could mend flesh and bone, but I didn't know the first thing about repairing a cybernetic arm.

He said he meant to hurt me that night in the kitchen. If he had complete control of his arm, he very well could have broken my collarbone. And when I woke him up from a nightmare, he could have crushed my wrist in his hand.

Maybe I was lucky it wasn't working. I didn't want him to hurt me, but I'd attributed his lack of any real damage to his desire to be a better person. I thought he didn't want to hurt me. But he'd never intended to be gentle with me at all. And those guys he hurt the night he came to me? They'd probably be dead.

I let him continue, even though he was struggling, just to get some time to think. He also seemed determined to get it where he wanted it to go. And he was muttering to himself. I thought that was a healthy sign. It meant his brain was focused on a menial task and not whatever horrors his mind churned up when he was still. The Winter Soldier was a silent killer who wore a restricting muzzle and rarely made a sound unless he was in physical or emotional distress. Bucky Barnes was pushing a lawnmower across my backyard in sweatpants, complaining about the heat and the machine not working. Like a grumpy old man with the body of an attractive thirty-year-old.

That had to mean progress, right?

Tony could probably get the arm working right very efficiently. In fact, he'd probably make it better than before. He could probably give Bucky more control over his own strength or ease some of the constant pain. Maybe he could make it less noticeable. But I couldn't risk Tony finding out what Hydra had made Bucky do.

Tony acted like nothing in the world bothered him, but I'd seen his face on Thanksgiving when he came to Ohio for dinner. We took him to meet our grandmother, and she'd sat in her bed telling him about how Howard had saved her life. Tony's face had gone blank. He didn't like talking about his father, and I didn't want to be there when he discovered the truth about his death.

Eventually, Bucky managed to get the lawn somewhat decent. I wasn't too meticulous about it anyway since I never usually cared at all. I just wanted to give him a task that could pass the time, and letting him do boringly normal things seemed to help. Plus, it might be easier to blend into society if he could do everyday civilian things. Even if that was never a legitimate option.

The rest of the day only included junk food and family-friendly television. Clara and I watched a lot of old reruns growing up because it was what our parents watched. So I turned on some reruns of the Andy Griffith Show, and we sat down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and some candy. Bucky still seemed out of place and anxious.

"This is a great episode," I told him. We were both sitting stiff and uncomfortable, and I wanted him to relax and let his mind focus on something else for once.

"I've never seen it," he admitted. His spine was straight, and he had his hands on his knees like he was waiting for an order. He didn't make a reach for popcorn or candy. And I regretted buying him a tank top because his right arm was close enough to brush up against me if he ever worked up the nerve to reach for the snacks.

"Well, it's good," I told him, fighting the awkwardness. "I mean—this is the episode where Andy learns a lesson on not acting like a sexist dick. Kind of ahead of its time. Which is funny—because it's after your time." He looked as if I was implying he was a sexist dick. But he didn't argue it. "It's my sister's favorite episode."

"What's your favorite episode?" I chewed on popcorn and thought it over.

"The one where Opie—the little boy—accidentally kills a bird."

"Why?"

"It makes me cry." I fiddled with the bag of M&M's so he could reach them if he wanted some, but he still didn't move.

"Is it normal to like things that make you cry?" I lifted the bag, and this time he finally stretched out a hand so I could pour some into his palm.

"Not necessarily. I guess I just like things that make me feel."

"Is that why you kissed me?" I almost choked on a piece of candy. He watched me cautiously, waiting to find out whether he should help or not. But I waved him away to buy time enough to answer. I sat there for a moment, watching Andy get his ass handed to him by a girl with a gun.

"Maybe," I finally said. "I guess that's why I kissed you."

"What did you feel?" he asked. I felt like a goddamn idiot.

"You ask a lot of difficult questions, you know that?" I didn't really want to answer. I'd been avoiding the conversation all day, and he hadn't said a word about it until now.

"Curious," he said. I inwardly groaned. I couldn't think of a single thing that might explain my actions.

"It made me feel—a lot of things," I admitted.

"Then how can you say it isn't real?" I exhaled slowly and focused on the TV screen. I could see him watching from the corner of my eye.

"I can't say it isn't real. If you feel it, then it must be real, right? I just don't think it's a good idea. Maybe. I don't know. There's just a lot more we have to worry about before getting caught up in something like that."

"You said sometimes it takes years to feel human again. The world isn't going to forgive me for what I've done. I'm never going to have a normal life. I have nothing to offer. But you said you like things that make you feel—That's something I can understand."

"It's not about—having something to offer. Or even feeling something. It's about knowing that you can't always have the things you want."

"You make me feel human," he muttered, popping candy into his mouth and turning to the TV.

I took a deep breath and turned to my side to face him. I tucked my feet under my legs. Since we started talking, he got more relaxed in his position. He'd leaned back onto the couch and stretched his arm out behind me. There was a whole couch to sit on, but he was right beside me. Almost close enough to touch but distant enough to not make it weird. The blinds were closed, but the room was still illuminated by a soft, warm glow. I felt like an asshole for how badly I still wanted to kiss him.

"What if that's just it, Bucky?" I asked. He turned blue eyes on me. Usually, they were cold in color. But the warm glow of the living room made them look vibrant and light. "What if that's the only reason there's anything at all? You know how baby ducks imprint on the first thing they see after they hatch? What if that's all this is?"

"Why does it have to fit specific criteria to be real?" he retorted.

"Because I know what it's like to find out something isn't—what you thought it was. And the signs were there, but you ignored them because you wanted it so badly. Or because you pushed for something you weren't ready for. Like when you have a really good dream and wake up to find that none of it actually happened. Or maybe it didn't happen the way you thought it did."

"All my good dreams are about you." I leaned on my elbows and rubbed my eyes. I focused my attention on my knees, pressed against the side of his leg, and my mismatched socks.

"It makes me feel—kind of like a bad person," I admitted.

"Why?"

"Because you've just gone through something traumatic. And I know you're trying really hard, but you're not there yet. I shouldn't encourage something that could be damaging. I don't want you to relapse because of me."

"You're the reason I've made it this far, you know. I don't want to disappoint you. I don't know—what it is. Maybe it's—imprinting like you said. I just know that being around you—being comfortable around you—helps me remember who I am. Or at least who I think I am. I know I'll never be normal, but you're the only person who's made me wish I could be." I leaned on my hand and looked at him. He still had his arm over the back of the couch; I could feel him just out of reach.

"I don't want to push you," he said. "That's not what I want. But honestly?" His voice was soft and his expression sincere. "I've lived long enough to know how valuable the truth is when you might not get another chance to tell it." I took another deep breath and let it go. This was a lot harder than I thought it would be.

"I understand. And I mean that. I know—I understand—how you're feeling. And the feeling—is mutual. I just feel awful for feeling that way because it's a selfish thing for me to want when you have so much going on in your life. It's not exactly like—we could go on a date."

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Jo. I said what I wanted to say. I don't expect anything in return."

But he was still looking at me. And he was so close. But he was also right. It wasn't about things as complicated as relationships or romance. Just telling the truth when you still had the chance. And sometimes, the truth meant that you just had to act on what you felt while it was still in front of you.

So I moved my hand to his cheek. He leaned forward just as I did, and our lips met. His hand moved from the back of the couch to tangle into my hair and pull me closer. But the kiss was soft, sweet, and over before it could go too far. I forced myself to pull away, ignoring the pounding of my heart and the desire to taste the sugar on his lips again. I turned and leaned against the back of the couch to face the TV. We didn't say another word, but he kept his hand on the back of the sofa, and whenever I shifted, I felt his fingers brush my skin.