December // A Winter Soldier Story

10

ｄｅｃｅｍｂｅｒ ２０ｔｈ， ２０１３

２３°

ℒℯ𝒶

It is hours later. She watches him, his fascination with everything in the room. He is hesitant to touch anything, and when he does touch something, he touches it gingerly, as if it might break if he handles it wrong. His eyes never stop moving. They scan every available surface, then scan it again. He looks out of the window and analyzes the woods for any sign of danger nearly every minute.

He is nervous, that much is clear. He's trying to calm down -- she can tell by the way he keeps taking deep breaths and muttering to himself -- but the anxiety continues to come back. Each time he picks something up, his hands are shaking even more. She has a feeling his hands are perfectly steady when they need to be, but when he is not fighting, the shaking is ever present — clear evidence of his trauma.

She is washing dishes from dinner as he roams around her living room, but she has so many questions burning on the end of her tongue that she can hardly focus on scrubbing the utensils before her. She notices that he is not limping at all, despite his injury. In fact, he looks perfectly healthy, so long as you ignore the scars littering his skin and ignore the trembling of his hands.

The picture frame hanging to the right of the TV catches his attention, and keeps it for long enough that she notices him staring at it. She knows the photo well. It is a picture of her and her mom. In the photo, they are standing on a pier at the beach, smiling in front of the sunset.

"Who is this?" He asks, his voice startling her. It is so deep and rough that it sounds like it hurts for him to speak. She focuses her gaze on his piercing eyes.

"That's my mom," she says quietly. He stares at the photo again, seemingly deep in thought. Her answer seems to perplex him. She wonders why.

Looking down, she realizes she is almost done cleaning off the last plate. She hurries and scrubs it hard so she can talk to Bucky again.

He's hardly said anything since he woke up this morning, and the only time he sat down was when he ate. He has spent all other hours of the day pacing. Lea wants to sit him down, talk to him, and find out what she can do to bring him some peace.

She wipes her hands on a towel and puts the last of the dishes away not a minute later, and when she looks over at Bucky, he has hardly moved an inch. She walks over to him, being careful not to approach him from behind. She needs to be sure he feels safe here.

He still doesn't move when she steps closer, but his eyes flit to hers. His gaze is heavy.

"Bucky?" She prods gently, his name falling lightly from her lips. He's never heard something pertaining to him sound so soft. At least not that he can remember.

He looks at her questioningly, but stays silent, as she's noticed he tends to do.

"Let's sit down, ok? You've been pacing all day," she coaxes, and he stands still for several moments, considering whether to sit or not. Finally, he nods, and follows her to the couch.

He sits down slowly on the edge, muscles tense and guarded. She sits a little ways away so as not to crowd him. He is analyzing the room again, straining his eyes to see into the now-dark woods. Double checking the perimeter, triple checking. He seems to be waiting for some kind of fight.

"Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?" She starts, and he automatically tenses even more. She rushes to amend her words. "Nothing too intense, I promise. Just some basic information so I can help you better. If I ask something that's too much, you don't have to answer."