The elephant and her stake
“You know that thing about elephants, right?”
She’d heard him coming. She’d clicked the cuff shut when he was close enough to see. Natasha smiled. “That with a magic feather, they can fly?”
Bucky leaned against the door frame, hugging his elbows. “Never saw that one in theaters, I gotta say.”
She lets the slats in the headboard cup the back of her head. “You’re not here to save me from myself, are you?”
“Jesus, no.” He looked smaller outside his uniform, in a worn t-shirt and Ironettes pajama bottoms, only uneven if you knew where to look. When he padded toward the bed, he gave it a wide arc, to let her see him coming.
Natasha turned on her side, made room for him on the mattress. He settled in behind her, the wrist of his metal arm at her sternum’s hinge. “At least finish your metaphor,” she said. Her shoulder blade was already loose, the old trick.
“You know. Circus elephants. Get ‘em when they’re babies, tie 'em to a stake, stake won’t come up.”
“And the elephant grows up thinking it can’t rip up the stake. Yes, I’ve heard it.”
“I know you have,” said Bucky.
His smooth thumb swept back and forth over the cloth of her shirt.