Monster

Thirty-One

It was difficult to sleep again, even though I was exhausted. I lay in my bed for a long time staring at the ceiling, and when I finally did sleep, it didn't last long. The slightest noise woke me, and sometimes when there were no sounds at all, my mind forced me awake anyway. Then it would repeat in a seemingly endless cycle.

I didn't fall asleep truly until well after midnight. And then I found myself flat on my back on a bed of crumbled bricks, staring up at smoke on an otherwise cloudless blue sky.

The ringing in my ears was loud enough to ache, and it was blocked out by the growing pain in my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of my own blood as it spread out beneath me. I groaned and rolled to my side to get back on my feet. Under the ringing, I could still make out the distant pops and booms of gunfire. I pressed a hand against the blood on my shoulder and moved to sit up as another soldier ran through the courtyard, dropping just a few yards away from me. I could hear the screams of his pain over the ringing.

It was a struggle to get back on my feet. My legs weren't strong enough to carry my body, and it wouldn't be good to stand anyway. I could leave myself open. So I did a half crawl through the debris, cradling my injured arm against my body. I'd never formally met the man, but I knew him. He was Talbot. A Colonel. He'd followed us into the mission even though he could have stayed behind.

I couldn't let him die there, but my struggle took too long. They were going to fire again if I didn't hurry. I was bleeding profusely, and I could already feel my energy and focus slipping.

I was almost to his side when a grenade rolled into view. Talbot had watched my slow struggle to him, and both of us froze when we saw it. Then he began to shout. I couldn't make out the words, but I gathered enough from his gestures to know he was telling me to take cover. To use my chance to escape while I still could.

The grenade was either a dud or slow to react. I decided to change direction. I could go right toward him, but it would kill us both if it went off. And if I had enough time before detonation, I might be able to throw it. It was a risk I was willing to take. I could hear him screaming at me as I moved toward the grenade. His voice grew louder and more frantic as I reached for it. The metal was cold and heavy in my hands as I gripped it like a baseball. The men who'd thrown it were on the other side of the court, yelling and waving their weapons. They were out of ammo.

The throw sent pain rocking through my body, but I gave it my best shot. My dad used to say I had a good throwing arm, and I hated that he never let me join softball. The grenade flew across the courtyard for only a few seconds before it ignited. It burst open in the air like a firecracker and sprayed everyone in the area with chunks of broken metal and a rain of fire.

Aside from a few extra burns, Talbot seemed mostly unharmed. The metal pieces were burning through my clothes and searing my skin. But the pain still wasn't intense enough to overpower my shoulder. The group of men had been hiding in an alley, shielding themselves behind a building. The grenade took out half the balcony. The building crumbled around them, pouring an avalanche of concrete and plaster down on top of them.

Talbot stopped screaming at me but still clutched his bleeding leg in agony. There were a few extra burns on his clothes and face now. I moved back in his direction. Within a minute, I was at his side. He yelled at me as I scooted closer. I didn't have a medical pack anymore, but I pried his hands away from the wound on his thigh. He tried to push me away and shouted a few more unintelligible words. I slapped his hands. I'd probably get in trouble for it later, but I wasn't going to let him die over stubbornness. I stuck my fingers into the bullet hole in his cargo pants. I ripped them apart, exposing the gushing entry wound and making a pain drill into my shoulder. I bit my lip and blinked away the tears.

"I have to stop the bleeding," I informed him, even though I couldn't really hear my own voice. He was still yelling at me, but I decided to use my damaged eardrum as an excuse not to follow orders. "Your femoral artery might be damaged. I'll have to check. Then I'll know what to do." I looked at his face. He was staring at me with disbelief and shock. Maybe just extreme pain. "Bite something," I warned him.

Then I turned back to the wound and dug my fingers in. He screamed loud enough for me to hear it. His body tensed, and he fought the urge to throw me off. It wasn't the safest or cleanest environment for such an invasive procedure. Still, I needed to be sure the vital artery wasn't punctured or severed before deciding what to do. I would worry about infection later when we had access to antibiotics. When he was no longer running the risk of bleeding to death.

That was the worst part of my dream realities. It was exactly what I'd told Bucky the night before. Sometimes they were dreams, and sometimes they were memories. But they were worse than memories because they hit unexpectedly. And instead of the dull, fuzzy way people remember a previous event, I was hyper-aware of every sensation.

I could feel the heat of the sun and fire. Sweat dripped from beneath my helmet and down the back of my neck. His blood was warm beneath my hands, and the artery slipped between my fingers. Gunshots ricocheted off of bricks, and burns prickled my skin. I could feel blood slither out of my ear and down my neck. Worst of all, I could still make out the muted sound of screaming under the persistent ringing that just wouldn't stop.

Bucky saved me from the dream. The ringing was so loud I could barely hear at all. But through everything, I managed to make out the sound of my own name, even though I couldn't place where it was coming from. Talbot was still screaming, and gunfire crackled in the distance. And then, in an instant, the blinding sun was gone, and I was in a dark bedroom. He was sitting on the bed beside me, hovering with his hands on my arms to stop me from swinging at him.

"Johanna," he was saying. I blinked a few times and gasped for breath.

"Bucky," I replied, finally focusing on his face. He released my arms, and I reached up to touch him, just to be sure he was real. I was home. It was only a dream.

"You were dreaming."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" I didn't know. I hadn't expected a question. I was still hazy from sleep and the shock of an unwanted memory.

"Because I didn't want you to see me like that."

He nodded slowly and licked his lips. He was hovering over me, and I'd fought with the blankets and sheets enough that they were on the floor. The room was freezing compared to the heat I swore I'd just felt. Bucky's body was warm where it touched mine. His arms had me pinned like a cage, but it was comforting rather than restricting. A gentle reassurance that I was there in the present.

"I understand," he said. "At least you didn't try to kill me."

"Only because there isn't a knife within reach," I remarked.

Then I shut my eyes and put my hand over my heart. I counted the beats. One, two. Three, four. Bucky stayed where he was as I waited for my heartbeat to slow.

When he showed up in my kitchen that first night, he'd seemed so dark and frightening. He hid beneath a hood and a baseball cap. Now he appeared healthy and at ease. It was his expression that made him look so calm and relaxed. Like he could smile at any second. Like he wasn't suffering.

Clara had asked me what I expected to come of all this. Bucky could never live a normal life. He'd always be on the run from someone. The world might never forgive him. It didn't matter who his friends were or what they did to prove his innocence.

I lifted a hand and traced my thumb over his cheekbone. He didn't seem like that man to me. The one Hydra made. I'd seen glimpses of him, of course, but it seemed more like leftover programming. Maybe it really was possible for him to gain something of himself. Even if it wasn't the Bucky Barnes who'd fallen from a train.

"Bucky," I said, moving my hand back to his shoulder to drop it on my chest again. "What do you think is going to happen? With us?" He looked confused again. His eyes creased, but he kept them on me.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You said that—you don't think you can live a normal life. But is that even what you want?"

"You won't like my answer."

"Just tell me."

"A normal life isn't possible for people like us. Even when we want it."

"Like us?" He hesitated.

"I don't want—to be part of your life because I'm afraid that I—that I have no future. You do. But not like this," he explained. "Not the way you've been living." It wasn't the first time I'd heard that, but I didn't know what other options I had. I didn't want to work for Stark. There was nothing else for me to do.

I grasped his metal arm, not knowing if he could even feel me. He didn't even seem to notice me move, or at least he didn't focus his attention on it.

"Why do you think that?" I asked, running my fingers over the red star and feeling the plates and ridges.

"Because you're unhappy."

"And—what else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. I just know that you were meant to help people. Not serve food. Not even help me. Just—more."

"And you think you have no future?"

"Not the kind you deserve."

He looked up at the headboard but didn't move from his spot. He was still hovering, and I was having difficulty keeping my hands to myself when he was so close. But neither of us seemed uncomfortable with it.

Sometimes, even though Steve's presence was comforting, I could tell he didn't really want to be there. There was always space between us. Miles apart. Even when he let me steal his warmth.

Bucky seemed more comfortable. He'd admitted that he felt something. And I'd acknowledged that the feeling was mutual. He looked back down and hesitated again.

"It's not that I have no future," he explained. "It's just that—They've already come after you once. They may not have tried to kill you, but they kept you alive for a reason. It was a message. And it means they'll come back. There won't be any place to hide. And that's because of me."

"You think they're going to take you back?"

"I won't go without a fight."

"What if fighting isn't enough?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "Then I guess all I can do is try to hold onto everything I remember. And the new memories I've made."

"Do you think it'll be enough?" He took a moment to think of an answer as he looked around my dark bedroom.

"This one might be," he decided. I moved my hand back to his shoulder, where his skin met with metal in ribbons of pink scars.

"You know—Steve was right about you," I remarked. His eyes widened, but his lips hinted at the smile still just out of reach.

"What did he say?"

"He said you were kind of smooth with the ladies." Then he laughed. It was quick, short, and soft. But it was real—the kind of laugh you share with friends or meant for a peaceful moment in bed.

I didn't think I'd ever smiled so much in my whole life.

Bucky told me he knew the value of being honest while you still had the chance. He was still caught in the partial smile from laughing. So I moved my hand to his cheek and pulled him toward me. His lips came to mine as if he knew I'd wanted to kiss him the whole time.

"You have to cool it with the smooth talking," I whispered against his lips.

"Why? It worked, didn't it?"

"Was this your plan all along?"

"So what if it was?"

"Shut up."

I kissed him harder. His mouth was rough against mine, as expected from a person who hadn't practiced much in a while. But he was careful as if afraid he might hurt me. He was warming up quickly, though. The night before, he'd been cautious too, but I was so caught up in the moment I hadn't paid much attention to it. He really was trying to be gentle with me, despite what he said. Maybe he'd only denied it in some attempt to scare me away.

It apparently hadn't worked. And I wanted him to let go a little. I trusted that he wouldn't hurt me, even though he sometimes didn't understand his own strength. I knew he would stop if I asked him to, and I wanted to see him smile again. I wanted him to be happy. And God, I just didn't want to stop kissing him.

So I pulled him in closer, and his arm gave out. He stumbled onto me, and I realized it was the trouble with his arm.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"It's okay," he said, yanking the wrist brace off the other arm and tossing it onto the floor. The metal hand gripped my shoulder, and he leaned on his elbow. His body was partially stretched over mine. I didn't want him to leave.

"Will you stay here with me tonight?" I asked, moving a long strand of hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Do you really think you will?"

He kissed me again, harder this time, and after a moment, instinct seemed to kick in. His fingers twisted in my hair, and I adjusted my legs to center him between them.

He pulled away as if to speak but caught himself. He hesitated, and I lifted myself onto my elbows. Then he sat back and away from me. I sat up and put my hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" I asked. His eyes were much more vibrant and alert than when we met.

"How do you know it's real?" he asked.

"I don't," I admitted. "I don't know that it's real. It's just—being honest when you still have the chance."

"And what are you being honest about?"

I moved before him, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I skimmed my fingers over his cheek before reaching around my back for his right hand. He released his grip quickly as if he'd been caught, but I only moved it back around and pressed his palm flat against my chest. His fingers relaxed, and I reached out to touch his chest too. To feel his heart beating beneath his ribs.

"Can you feel that?" I asked.

"It's beating fast," he noted. "Are you afraid?" I shook my head.

"I'm not afraid. Yours is beating as fast as mine. Are you afraid?" He stretched out his fingers, laying his palm flat against my skin. His thumb grazed the skin beneath the hem of my shirt.

"No."

"Then—what if—it is real?" I whispered.

"You felt guilty." I moved my hand to his face again. I could see what Sam and Steve said about him looking at me differently. It had probably been there all along, and I hadn't even noticed it. It was clear now.

"You said this can't last. Maybe you're right. The farther you let something like this go—the more it hurts when it's over." He moved his hand to the crook of my neck. His touch was gentle, even though the hand had been made to cause pain.

"It doesn't have to be over now," he said. "This is the closest I've been to real—anything—that I can remember." His thumb moved over my neck, making my heart jump again. "So when it does end—I'll have something to hold onto."

I moved forward and pressed my lips against his again. It was the closest thing to genuine affection I'd heard from another person in a long time. I'd heard the words "I love you" but never felt like it meant anything. Not to the person who said it or to me. It was too soon to love Bucky. But whatever it was between us, it was as real as my heartbeat.

His hand went back to my waist and pulled me against him. I could feel his heart against my chest now, and I hoped it meant he could feel mine. But his lips broke away and came to rest on my chin.

"Promise?" I whispered. "That you'll hold onto it? You'll keep fighting?"

"Yes," he replied.

I moved my lips back to his, and his hands slid up my back and into my hair. He kissed me roughly and then pushed me back onto the mattress.

"Are you sure?" I asked, breaking away. "That this is what you want?"

"I am capable of making decisions for myself, Jo," he replied.

"I know that. I just want to know that you're sure."

"I can't remember ever wanting anything—as badly as I want you." I kissed him again, and our kissing had become more demanding and urgent. His hand moved to the space between my shirt and my pants. He pulled away again. "Now you. Same question."

"Yes," I said. "Same answer."

"Just promise me something."

"What?"

"Tell me if I hurt you. Or you want me to stop."

"I will. But you have to promise me the same." He almost smiled again, pausing as he hovered over me.

"You're afraid of hurting me?" he questioned. I ran my hands up and down his arms.

"Not necessarily. But just tell me—if you're overwhelmed or want to stop. I won't mind."

"I will." He leaned down to kiss me again. But neither of us stopped it.

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