This Is What I Am
She’s been talking to JARVIS more than she has to anyone else since she moved upstairs. She thinks of him as an equal, unlike how she views the others, since JARVIS was made by man—how she thinks of herself.
“Yes,” he responds.
“Where can I go to break something?”
“There is a gym on the eleventh floor.”
“Good.”
She has been working out in her room—and it helps—but she feels like she needs to break something.
The gym takes up a whole floor, filled with treadmills, bicycles, speed bags, weights, and punching bags. She heads to the latter, not bothering with boxing gloves, immediately starting to hit it, working out a rhythm.
She’s so angry, her memories blocked by each other, hitting the boundary Hydra has put up to keep her compliant, a soldier, a plaything. Her fists pound faster, the bag leaping.
And now she has no worth to her former owners, kept in a tower with a bunch of superheroes who have done good, not what she has.
The punching bag breaks, loose sand exploding and crashing onto the floor, landing on her feet as she stares at the rip. The sound of footsteps alert her to someone approaching, and she quickly climbs the bag’s rope to prop herself up on the bar that holds it to the ceiling, sitting on the bar overhead as the man with the metal arm—Bucky—comes in, seeing the bag and its sand. She sees him pause, but then simply grabs the bag, shoves it to the side, and hangs another, starting to pummel the new one.
She watches as the Winter Soldier works out a rhythm, similar to her eventful exercise. She listens, watching the far wall as he continues to fight, breaking bags every now and then until dawn, when his mental exhaustion brings him to leave the room—after he sweeps the floor.
She follows soon after, going back to her own chambers.
After a shower, the woman heads for the kitchen, intending on grabbing an apple before anyone else wants breakfast, intending on keeping to herself, but she ends up walking right into Bucky, who holds a granola bar.
“Apologies” she says immediately.
“Sorry, it wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
She ducks past him, grabbing an apple, intending on going back to her room, but Bucky seems to have something to say.
“I, uh, have to apologize.”
“I believe that you just did.”
“Not for that. For yelling the other day. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“I am not one to shy away from loud voices.”
“You don’t deserve to be yelled at.”
“I was trained to be a soldier.”
"You don't have to be a soldier."
"This is what I am, James," she says. "Permission to be dismissed?"
Bucky nods, his jaw clenched as he watches her leave, surprised by her calling him James, and how she asked if she could be dismissed. She reminds himself of how he was just a few years ago, obeying orders from corrupt people. Bucky still has problems with keeping his head on straight, sleeping, his memories confusing him. What's right, and what's real. And now he wants her to get better, to think for herself.
As Stevie said, maybe he can help.
~
Movie night.
Tonight.
A dreaded thought in Bucky’s mind as he chews on his granola bar, checking for poison without thinking.
Movie night is filled with team-bonding, laughter, drinks, popcorn, and what bothers him.
Socializing with force.
The man is certainly not the most antisocial person in the world—he used to take out dames all the time, and with his eyes and charm, it didn’t take much for the women to accept his invitations to dance—but that was before. Bucky used to have charm, worry-free eyes—except for when Stevie was being a punk—an easy smile, and a will to get around.
Now he has PTSD, puppy-dog eyes that are usually surrounded by purple smudges from lack of sleep, a frown, and a murder strut.
Bucky was having a good day yesterday, up until it was time for bed. That’s when his blechness came and hit him in the stomach, his head reeling. There was no pain, but his brain was on hyper-drive, swimming in thoughts that compete with what should be there.
Bucky bumped into her—he really wants to call her something else, a real name that can be pinned to the face that is frozen in time—and his thoughts were on her, whether or not she was okay, and if she would forgive him for yelling at her. Bucky apologized, and then nodded when she asked to be dismissed.
Who does that? The man nodded. Why would he just nod at something that makes him want to yell again?
With a sigh, he realizes that his responses to aggravating things are a lot harder to deal with than he thought. Of course, that just makes him angrier, and he feels like Dr. Banner, and-
Time to go back to the gym.
~
She looks out the window—the sky is rather blue today, but it is often blue, but she’s so used to the cold, dark chambers, and the sky was rarely seen by the eyes that mirror the color now—and her thoughts are actually drifting. She’s used to being unconscious, or maybe in training, but this? This mindless thinking is actually quite nice.
A cloud opens up and pours out a metal beast—covered in what looks like blinking lights—flying slowly to the ground, the lights blinking fast.
And then, reaching the ground, shards of light and glass shoot out.
People scream, and her eyes dart to the door, only for her to turn back to the window, expecting to see nothing but the bleeding people.
Is that a glass beast?
The girl is out the door before she draws another breath.
~
“Cap, we’ve got a problem,” Tony says as he flies to the site.
“What kind of problem?”
“A… She’s running towards it, and she’s almost there...”
“She?”
“Uh, the woman. The- Ugh! You know!”
Stark sees her jump and land on the beast, glass shards digging into her skin.
It revolts, rolling over just as she springs off, but jumps right back on its back as it makes a sound of protest, glass pieces breaking, flying off and piercing her flesh. She doesn’t bleed very much, and her reflexes are fast enough that when the monster tries to stab her with a large shard, she lets it go into a tree, grabs it, and then pierces the eye of the metal monster with its own glass.
It howls—a grating noise—and flails as she slides off its back, takes hold of the closest weapon—which just happens to be a hot dog vendor’s umbrella stick—snaps it in half, and shoves it in its neck until it stops flailing, the other end now digging into the dirt.
A moment later, the Avengers have gathered around, pushing past the civilians that are already taking pictures and videos of the new warrior.
“What’s your name?” One woman shouts.
“I do not remember,” she answers.
“We need to get home,” Bucky says to her, as the other Avengers try to keep everyone from getting too close to her and the monster.
“How did you do that?”
“What do we call you?”
“Where do you come from?”
“Germany.”
“Don’t answer those,” Bucky tells her, pushing his way out of the crowd, leading her back to the Tower.
A news van pulls up—in the middle of a grassy part of the park—and a man and a woman jump out, the woman holding a camera, shoving it in her face.
“We’re here at Central Park with a woman who just slayed a metal monster,” the man says into a microphone. “How did you do it?”
Following Bucky and his instructions, she stays silent, heading towards the Tower, the crowd following.
“How did you do that?” The man asks, shoving his microphone in her face, staying closer than anyone else would like. “What is your name?”
“Hey,” Bucky growls out, shoving him off. “Leave her alone.”
“What’s your name?” The reporter yells at her, struggling to get past Bucky.
“Put the camera away,” Bucky orders, pushing the microphone towards the man. “Go home.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Run to the Tower,” Bucky says to her, and she immediately obeys, racing back to where she knows is safe.