Monster

After dinner Bucky helped me carry our plates to the sink. He stood up, balancing his plate and cup as he reached for mine. But then a plate slid from the grip of his metal hand and smashed against the floor. His eyes immediately cut to mine. I didn’t understand the expression. It was almost as if he needed reassurance that he hadn’t done anything wrong. Or maybe he was angry that he had dropped the plate at all.

“It’s alright,” I said as I reached for the broom inside the fridge. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I can do it,” he said. He put the remaining dishes in the sink and then bent down to scoop up the larger ceramic shards. I got the dust pan and brought it around to the other side of him. He had his metal arm balancing on the floor. It was shaking but I didn’t say anything about it. I helped him clear the pieces of my broken dish and then I guided him to the sink.

“I’ll wash, you put them away?” I suggested.

“Okay,” he replied with his usual one liner.

He stood at my side as I washed the few dishes that were left. Then I dried them and handed them over. I showed him where they went and he slid them into the cupboard with his right hand instead of his left. That one he kept at his side, bending his elbow and flexing his fist.

We were on the last cup when I heard Steve’s motorcycle rumble down the street. I saw his shoulders tense and he looked down at me. His eyes darkened again. His jaw was tight. His hair had dried and dark tendrils had fallen into his face. He looked almost exactly like the man in the file pictures now. But older. And not in a sense that he had aged a lot in the last 70 years. Just that you could see the weariness in his eyes. If only I could get him to remember how to smile.

“Stay,” I said softly. I saw him clench his jaw but he 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 replied. He knew I couldn’t physically stop him from doing anything, but I hoped he understood I was offering emotional support rather than resistance. He stared down at me until the engine stopped. “Let me talk to him first,” I suggested. “Just promise me that you won’t leave.”

He didn’t say anything but I patted his arm and walked out to the living room so I could greet Steve at the door. I wanted to prepare him, and give them both a minute to adjust before seeing each other again. I heard the lock click and the front door opened. He stepped into the room and looked up at me.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” he said. He always said that, even if it was only nine o’ clock at night. But then he glanced at my twisted fingers and concerned expression. His eyes met mine and I nodded once.

“He’s in the kitchen,” I whispered. He shut the door and I saw him stand ridged. “I convinced him to stay long enough to shower and eat. I let him borrow some of your clothes and I let him use your razor. I didn’t think you would mind. Just… be gentle. And… be careful. He’s still afraid that he’s going to kill you.” He kept his eyes on mine but his entire body was anxious. If I didn’t know any better I would say he wasn’t even breathing.

So I reached out and took his hand and pulled him gently toward the hallway. He responded and followed after me, but I couldn’t hear him breathing. However, when we reached the kitchen I found it empty. The window above the sink was open, even though I hadn’t heard it. That meant he left in a hurry. He probably panicked. I sighed heavily and dropped my hands to the side.

“I guess he wasn’t ready,” I said. Steve seemed to relax.

“I don’t know if he’ll ever be ready,” he told me. I turned around to face him.

“Well, there’s leftover pizza. If you want some. I’m just going to get his clothes in the dryer and then I’m going to bed.” He nodded slowly and watched as I went to the alcove and furiously stuffed the laundry into the dryer.

“I thought you didn’t do laundry,” he said. I turned the machine on and passed him.

“It’s different,” I decided. I climbed the stairs to my room and then stood at the window for a long time, just staring into my dark backyard.

I knew it was crazy. I hardly knew him and he didn’t even know himself. But I wanted him to stick around. I wanted him to talk to Steve and be that Bucky that Steve always talked about. The one with the easy smile and sarcastic nature. The man who was always the brother and friend that Steve needed. The man with the flirtatious attitude and bounce I his step.

That was the moment I finally figured out why everyone always made recovery out to be so easy. Why they said I wouldn’t be normal again or why they made it seem like it was a very real possibility. Because they wanted to believe it themselves. I wanted Bucky to get better. But I wasn’t sure if that was a real desire or if I just wanted to prove that if someone like him could do it, maybe I could too. But I knew enough about trauma to know that even if he did get his memories back, he would never be the same. And neither would I.

Notes

Sorry for the short chapter after not updating yesterday. I had every intention of doing so but then I watched a really crappy quality version of Cap 2 and I realized I made a mistake. It's not a huge mistake. Like you don't have to read previous chapters. But I forgot Steve broke Bucky's arm. So I had to go back and add that. There's a few chapters now where Jo mentions Bucky's arm is broken. When she's examining the gash he showed up with she sees his wrist and resets it for him before she stitches up the cut. Also in the scene where Bucky comes back and they talk on the couch, she examines his wrist and gives him a wrist brace. That's about it for edits, aside from the occasional mention. So no previous reading is required if you don't want to. Just know that from this point on she will mention that his arm was broken.

Also, there's a reason he dropped the plate. And he wasn't scared of her scolding him. I had my "beta" read that part and he thought Bucky was afraid of being reprimanded. He wasn't. It'll be explained later.