That boy had a smile that'd knock a girl right outta her shoes, and other things, ifyouknowwhatImean.
Even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.
And if that ain't the last thing she needs.
The fact he was wasting it on her, should have been enough of a reason for her to tell him to hit the road. Not that, you know, she'd be adverse, exactly. Her figure was still good, better than most women her age around here, ones who'd had babies droppin' out of 'em every year since they were sixteen. And she was always considered sorta pretty, but she was coming up fast on fifty. This boy, he wasn't a boy, but she'd have been surprised if he was anywhere close to forty, although there was something tired around the eyes that made her think more than thirty, or more years crammed into those years than God intended. She had enough self-respect left-or too little libido-to not go chasin' a kid she couldda baby-sat when he was ten days old, (and some friends her own age couldda been nursin'), no matter how he smiled at her.
Reminded her of her brother, truth be told. Not in looks, both good looking, but Jamie, God rest his soul was a red-head with pale, freckled, Irish skin, but the good-looking kind. Red-headed men come in two types: those that just look wrong, man's features never taking hold on baby's skin or, and Jaimie was this later, looking like a red-headed devil and the finest angel on God's right-hand had a grown-man, fully formed, for a baby. Cleft in the chin, blue-eyes, high-cheekbones, arched light-brown eyebrows that bleached blond in the summer, and a shark's grin, little like Peter O'Toole. Last time she saw it was 1973, when he was waving back at her, heading for the plane that would take him half-way around the world, to a hot, little country of short, dark-haired people, where the US had no business being. He had the same eyes as this boy in the last photo he sent home, even down to the faded-blue. Photos never kept their color in those days.
"Please, ma'am, I'm not looking for a hand-out. I'm a very hard-worker, very-strong, work for whatever you can pay," the boy, the man, was still saying while she stood here forty-years in the past.
Well, she'd had a sign in the window. 'Wanted: someone to run the pumps in front of the diner.' She'd figured some teen-ager maybe, but they were out here between the interstate and a couple of indifferent towns. Not exactly easy biking distance for a kid, out and back after school, for all that they were a popular diner. The sign had lingered, leaving the pumps self-serve, pay inside. Taking the gas-fumed money, washing her hands raw in between.
He'd asked for a job application so politely, with a duck of the head, and a shy, "Ma'am," that she'd wondered if she was being punk'd, but then he seemed unable to fill it out.
He had a passport on the table with his picture in it and some Custom's stamps, but he looked at it like it was in a foreign language.
"You need this, don't you," he'd said when he first sat down, "to hire me?"
"Yeah, photo ID."
"It's…it's mine."
"I should hope so," she'd replied. She'd never had anyone use a passport before. Usually driver's or state ID with Social Security card. It made her nervous.
Instead of handing it over, he'd opened it in front of himself and carefully copied out the name and birthdate into the first spaces on the job application. That couldn't be a good sign.
Then he'd tapped the pen against his lips a few times (damn those lips), looked up at her and smiled.
"You new in town?" She sat down across from him.
He looked so grateful that her heart broke a little, "Yes, ma'am. Something like that. Just getting a place together."
"Uh-hunh. Go on and skip the address part until you find an apartment."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You got a phone, don't you? Gotta be able to reach you or if you need to call in."
"Yes." He scribbled in the digits. "But I won't miss a day of work, don't worry about that."
"Ya' got a school to fill in?"
He wrote—she struggled to read upside down—Brooklyn High School confidently, but then tapped his pen against the line that said college.
"This job doesn't exactly require a degree…"
He looked so sad, "Always wanted to go, took a few classes, but had to…stop because…because…"
"Don't worry about it. I only got a community college degree myself, and I own this place. The American dream, right?" She laughed roughly.
"Go on, put down a few job references, I'll give 'em a call, and we should be all set."
He gripped the pen so hard she thought he might break it. "I don't…"
Something about the stiffness of his posture, an awkwardness in the left arm that was still covered and gloved, "You were in the military?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Just put down your service record."
"I…I can't."
Oh, the alarm bells were going off now. Deserter, ex-con, dishonorably discharged for mental issues.
"It's secret. I don't know… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered…" He started to rise, reaching to crumple up the form.
Oh, damn it.
"It's ok. I support our veterans, ex-husband did two tours in Desert Storm. $7.50 an hour and…a free meal a day." Now why the hell was she throwing that in there? She didn't offer that to the waitresses or to Frank and Louie who worked the grill.
"Name's Mo," she said.
"Your name is MO?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Short for Margaret."
"I…I knew a Peggy once."
"Never liked the name Peggy."
"Neither did I."
"My name's…" he glanced back at the form beneath his hand, "uh, Roger."
"Ok, Roger—"
"Call me Bucky."
"Bucky?"
"Yeah, it's— it was a nickname, once. I like it."
"Bucky it is."
The girls oohed and ahhed, of course. College girls mostly, and a few middle-aged, empty-nesters, post-divorce. He was a good-looking boy. Jacket off, in a Henley that hinted at some fine definition underneath, that bad-boy pout, and sad eyes. They all flirted, even the ones who shoulda known better. Like herself. Sometimes he'd flirt back. When he did, it was like something heavy came off his shoulders. Those blue eyes would flash with mischief, wide grin with big, bright-white teeth—maybe he'd had buck teeth as a kid for the nickname?—jaunty cock of the head, shoulders back. Like a different person. He'd even twirl them down the aisle in the afternoons or late when the booths were empty. She kept an oldies station playing for the seniors who came in for dinner at four, and he would say, "Oh, I love this song," the way kids would say it about the latest top 40, only it was something fast by Glenn Miller or Bing Crosby. And he knew the moves, just like her granddad, spin 'em and dip 'em. Laugh even. And he never took advantage, never made rude jokes, or ogled when Linda wore a blouse a bit too tight, never copped a feel, or slapped the girls' asses like some had tried before Mo kicked 'em to the curb. Perfect gentleman.
But then that weight would descend again. Shoulders would hunch in, brooding sad-eyes. Like a different person. The girls learned to not bother him on nights like that, when he'd sit inside waiting for late night travelers, nursing a cup of coffee, gazing out the window into the dark. He never snapped at them, just withdrew, and it made them all ache to see it.
First time he pumped gas for a customer she almost ran out to stop him as he busied himself around the car. He put the nozzle in and locked it, cleaned all their windows from the bucket of soapy water she'd never remembered to fill, not just the front and back, but sides, putting elbow grease into working off some bird shit on the hood. The driver looked as flabbergasted as she was. Gave him two twenties for a twenty-eight-dollar fill-up. He brought the change in and offered it to her.
"That's yours, hun. Looks like you earned it. You know nobody expects that kinda service, right?"
He looked perplexed. "Really? I didn't do anything special. They didn't even want me to check their oil or water."
"Wow, you really…I thought that kind of service died out a long time ago."
He looked at a point over her shoulder, "Guess it did."
He kept doing it though.
He also checked air-pressure, even changed a tire for a woman who hadn't realized she had a slow leak. Looked under the hood for a few people who still had miles to go and were worried about an odd noise here or there.
In Mo's father's day the gas station had included a full-service garage. Jamie had worked there. But now it was mostly used for storage. It crossed her mind to open it back up—small repairs only, all the money to Bucky, but she wasn't sure how long he'd stay. He was always looking over his shoulder even when he wasn't.
And boy was he strong. He'd lug cases of soda in from the garage without using the dolly. She told him he'd hurt his back and she wasn't sure her insurance would cover it. He shrugged and said he'd done worse. She believed him.
Two and a half weeks in, as he sat munching a burger and counting his tips, she sat down across from him. "You ever find a place to stay?" He walked to work from the east and walked back home again the opposite way. She knew the nearest town in that direction was a good ten miles of field and highway away, but there were a couple of motels.
Sure enough he replied, "Uh…Motel…Six, I think?"
"You're staying in a motel? That must eat up your budget."
He looked embarrassed. "S'allright. I'll get by."
She tapped her fingers on the table. She still didn't know a damn thing about him. He could be a murderer. But if he wanted to slaughter her, he could have done it any time after hours when she was counting the money and putting it in the safe to deposit the next morning.
There's a room above the garage, you know. Bathroom too, with a shower. It had been her father's office and had remained unused since he'd died fifteen years before. Not much, but it's got heat, and it's big enough for a bed, a tv, small fridge.
He looked up at her startled. "I couldn't. I mean…it's too much."
"Oh, I'd take it out of your paycheck!" she said, even though it had crossed her mind to give it to him free. "But I bet it'd beat what you're paying now, and…I'd have some extra security. Out here. On my own." She had a shotgun and a handgun in her own house behind the diner, as well as one under the counter in the diner, but he didn't need to know that. Periodically she'd go to a range and check her aim. Her aim was just fine.
He looked at his hands spread on the table, the bare one and the one he always kept gloved. "Thank you," he said, almost too soft for her to hear.
"Yeah, well," she said, suddenly embarrassed. "You do good work. I'm…gonna go start closing out."
She fled to the register, and the closet that served as the diner's office. She was way too invested in this boy.
A month went by. She noticed an upswing in gas customers. Full-service gas, like in the old movies, at no extra charge. Word spread. Go to Shell and pump your own or come here and get treated like a king (or queen). And if a few other ladies thought it fun to see the man with the soft mouth, sweet grin, and dimpled chin pumping their gas, who was she to judge.
Bucky took his free meal, usually a hamburger with everything and extra fries at the end of the day, sometimes making it himself while Louie cleaned up. Bucky would help with that if there weren't any last-minute gas customers. Bucky would help with anything, busing and wiping tables, changing lightbulbs, even unclogging the sink.
Torrential rain for two days. Whole sky alight, and a boom that rattled the dishes. Almost no one in the diner except for some bedraggled salesmen on their rounds, grabbing it to go. Not even as many gas customers, but she figured more than the Shell down the road. They were self-serve, and Bucky went out and still gave full-service, rain or shine. He would come back in, squeezing the water out of his long, dark hair, and pulling it back into a rubber band.
He was making his last, lonely burger on the grill while he washed up, the girls, Frank, and Louie all rushing home to their families on this miserable night. The diner closed at seven on Sundays, and if no one was around, maybe a smidge earlier.
He packed his sandwich in foil and tucked it into a paper bag, shrugging into his jacket to trek out to the garage. The fries were going to be inedible, burger a soggy wreck.
"Hey, Bucky," she called when she came out of the little office and locked it behind her.
He looked up with those startled, haunted, blue eyes.
"That burger's gonna be sludge by the time you walk through this mess."
"S'okay. I don't wanna keep you."
She looked down at her foot and tapped it lightly on the ground. "Why don't you come up to my place for a decent meal."
Bucky looked at the bag in his hand. "Louie does fine."
"Sure he does, for a limited menu on an old grill. But…," she hesitated, "walk a lady to her door in the rain?" She didn't meet his eye. "'Sides, I get a little tired of eatin' on my own." That much was absolutely true.
Bucky looked at her, out at the rain, and down at the bag in his hand. "But…I already…"
"Oh, honey," she laughed. "It's just a burger and fries. Stick it in the fridge for tomorrow if it worries you." She'd throw it away in the morning when she came in. He didn't need to eat a day-old burger. Her budget could stretch to that.
"Come on," she wheedled.
Her house was actually further from the diner than the garage, but the garage was across open parking lot. The path to the house was at least sheltered by trees. They'd have wet feet either way, but their heads might be a little drier.
He held the door for her. He held the umbrella for her, letting himself get wet. A real gentleman out of time. She'd thought they didn't make them like that anymore. They giggled up the path, not sure if running would keep them drier, or just make them wetter as the umbrella bobbled. It was good to hear him laugh. And it was good to feel him jostle against her, un-self-conscious for once.
There'd been a farm to go with the farmhouse once, in her granddad's time. But the house was still a good one. A porch, four rooms downstairs and four bedrooms up. A big empty house for an unmarried woman with no kids.
He stood awkwardly in the foyer after taking off his jacket, wiping his feet carefully on the mat. He looked like he wanted to bolt out into the rain.
"Come in, come in," she waived her hands.
"But my shoes," he said.
"Don't worry about it," she replied. She'd already walked half-way down the hall in her muddy, nurse's shoes. "Take 'em off if you want. Your feet must be wrinkled up like you been swimmin' by now."
He kneeled and undid his boots, and carefully set them back on the mat. He started across the floor and his wet socks made a squelching noise that made him freeze again. She noticed there was a hole over the big toe in the left one.
"Wait here. I got something," she said.
She jogged up the stairs. In her room she kicked off her own wet shoes, peeled off her socks in a hurry and put on her slippers, conscious of him standing helplessly in the hall. She dug in a drawer for a moment, grabbed some towels from the linen closet, then jogged back down, toweling her own hair as she went.
"Here," she said, tossing some socks and a towel at him.
He wiped off his face and pulled the rubber band out of his hair to gently shake out the water, then he looked at the socks. "I don't want to stretch out your socks."
"Nah, they're one size fits all. Hospital kind. Got those little rubber bits on the bottom, so you don't slip."
"What'll they think of next," he murmured. It wasn't the first time he'd seemed surprised by everyday things. Not the big stuff, like phones and tablets, and gadgets, but little things, like the electric can-opener.
She left him to it and headed down the hall to the kitchen. "I got some catfish, I've been saving," she called over her shoulder, "some flavored rice, green beans."
"Please," he called, "I don't wanna take your good food." And softer, but she still heard it, "I ain't worth it." It just about broke her heart.
He followed her into the kitchen. "Can I help? Please don't go to any trouble on my part. Sandwich is fine. Whatever you'd usually make."
"Nah, go sit down. Make yourself at home." She waived back down the hall. "Nothin' much to do. And anyway, this fish has been sittin' in my freezer since summer, when Joe McGill caught it and gave it to me. Too much for me to eat alone, go to waste otherwise."
He smiled his soft smile that she seldom saw. "Ok. If you're sure it's no trouble. But let me do somethin'. Momma Barnes'd roll over in her grave if I didn't offer to help. She didn't raise no—" He cut off, and looked into space, frozen, as he realized what he'd said. Barnes sure wasn't the name on the passport. But that didn't mean anything. His mother coulda remarried, anything at all. Still, when he looked up at her his eyes were terrified.
"You ok with a little wine with dinner?" she said to break the tension. She'd never seen any sign of him drinking, but he might be recovering.
"Sure," he smiled again, and let his shoulders relax.
"Some red up on that shelf above the fridge, you can open that for me. Corkscrews in that drawer, you might have to dig."
She liked a glass every now and then, but like so many things, opening a bottle just for herself seemed like a waste. Or a temptation.
While he rummaged around in the drawer, she went to the fridge and pulled out the freezer-paper wrapped catfish, put it on a plate and stuck it in the microwave. She set water to boil for the rice, set the oven to pre-heat, and grabbed a can of green beans off the shelf. When she reached in the drawer for a can opener—her electric one had broken, and she'd never bothered to replace it—their hands brushed. She didn't pull back and for a few seconds, neither did he. Then he grabbed the corkscrew and the moment was gone.
"Wine glasses in that cabinet. You might want to rinse 'em first," she said as she opened the green beans and dumped them in a bowl. When she drank alone, she just poured it into a round bottomed juice glass. She wasn't fancy and didn't need one more dish to wash.
Waiting for the microwave to ding, she spread some foil on a baking pan, and poured the pilaf into the boiling water.
He offered her a glass of wine, and their fingers brushed again. Like she'd thought when she first saw him, she wasn't adverse…exactly…
"Nothin' much more to do," she said as she moved to unwrap the fish. "Go on, now. Have a seat in the family room. Remote's on the table if you wanna watch something."
She finished seasoning the fish, popped it in, and went out to join him.
He was looking at her shelves, her few books, knick-knacks. When she got there, he was just taking a picture frame off a glass shelf.
"Stevie…?"
She lunged across the room and snatched it from his hands. He recoiled, eyes huge, hands clutched to his chest, not to attack, but to try and protect. She'd seen that look before when she'd volunteered in a women's shelter. This man had been abused by someone, badly. Torture maybe. They hadn't talked about his service since she'd hired him. She mentally kicked herself and held up her hand in what she hoped was a soothing gesture.
"No," she managed to say, looking down at the picture, "his name is—was Jamie. He's my son. Was my son. I'm sorry, I just, well, I don't like…"
He looked at her, the fear gone, all kindness in his eyes, tender. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just touched it. It's just he reminds me of… What happened to him, your son?"
She reached around him to put the picture back on the shelf. "He was born sickly, weak heart, bad lungs, but the biggest soul, he just, he…he died, too good for this world. When he was eleven. My husband and I, well, we had different ways of dealin' with grief and we divorced a year later." She paused and looked at him, they were standing very close. "Stevie your brother?"
He smiled but moved away towards the couch. "Nah, but close as. Best friends since we were six. He was sickly too, asthma, heart-murmur. Caught cold like honey catches flies. Flu, pneumonia every winter. But toughest little scrapper. Pulled some other boys off him the first time I met him, and he glared at me. Told me he had 'em on the ropes. Little bit o'nothin standin' there with a bloody nose and a shiner forming. I knew I had to protect him, even from himself sometimes. Pulled 'im outta fights the rest of my life, his life. Never met a bully he could let pass."
"He die too?" she said gently.
"He…he got to grow up. It's kinda…I guess he did die."
"I'm sorry," she said. They stood there awkwardly, until she was mercifully saved by the oven timer.
When she came back with the plates, and he jumped up, apologizing for not helping, which she shushed, he had the tv on. He'd been flipping through the channels.
"Oh," he said suddenly, stopping his clicking, as she set the plates down, with her wine (she waited in the restaurant when her dad was still alive, juggling plates was easy).
She glanced up at the tv. It was "The Wizard of Oz" on TMC.
"Oh," she echoed. "I haven't watched this since I was a little girl."
He chuckled, "Steve LOVED this movie. Dragged me to see it five times, even though he was color-blind and could only see some of the colors when she gets to Oz. But he still gasped, every time. That and Snow White. Thought I'd never get those songs outta my head. But…I did…eventually." He was suddenly sad again. Thinking about Jamie, either of her Jamies, made her get like that too.
She wracked her brain trying to think when either of those movies would have been in the theaters. She thought they might have had special showings some places, but five times? Did they run it that many times in a day?
"Do you mind…" "Do you wanna—" they said in unison and then laughed.
"Sure," she said first.
So, they settled in, with their plates, to watch. They'd caught it just as Dorothy was about to sing her song, and they watched until the credits rolled, interrupted only by Bucky saying, "Oh, my God, this is amazing," as he bit into the fish, and making other appreciative noises with every other bite. They finished the bottle of wine.
"Let me," he offered, taking the plates up from the table before she could object. "Can I at least wash up for you?" he asked when she tried to take the plates out of his hands
"Just going to put 'em in the dishwasher, throw away the foil. Nothin' to do. You just stay here and relax."
"Mo?"
She paused at the door, "Thank you," he said. "That was delicious. Thank you for inviting me up, for giving me a job, for…for everything."
She ducked her head, embarrassed, the wine making her a little light-headed. "Please, no burden at all…" She turned and walked into the kitchen. There was a little heat flaring under her skin that she knew she should ignore.
He followed her anyway, and loaded the dishwasher for her, despite her protests.
He turned to the sink to wash his hands, and then froze again. "Do you, uh, have a washroom I could use?"
She realized, with a start, that he'd never taken his glove off during dinner. He'd been on her left, so she hadn't really noticed.
"It's ok, Bucky," she said, "you got some injury? From your time in the military? Scarring? When I was still married, when Jamie was little, I'd volunteer at the VA. Nothin' under that glove I haven't seen before." Then she flushed up again, cheeks heating, because maybe he really did need to use the bathroom and it had nothing to do with his hand.
He looked down, dark hair, still damp, obscuring his face. "Trust me, you've never seen anything like this."
"It's ok," she replied, "you don't gotta show me, bathroom's on the left. It's just…I just don't want you to think you need to hide anything, or anything. It's just…it's ok. But if you wanna talk, or need someone to…well, I'm here." She turned to wipe down the counter, desperate to do something, anything get out of this awkward mess she'd started.
"Mo," he said softly, surprising her.
She turned back. He was watching her intensely, eyes wary. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled the fingers of his glove off, one by one.
She tried not to gasp, but a little sound must have escaped as she looked at his silver covered fingers. Not, not covered. The fingers themselves, artificial, metal, articulated plates moving as he held out his hand.
She took it, trembling, in between her own. "It's a prosthetic? It's…it's amazing. Stark Tech?"
"You know about Stark Tech?"
"Just what I read online. I know there are some other big names out there, Oscorp, Rand Enterprises, but everyone says Stark Tech is the best. This seems like his thing, the suits, and all." She turned his hand over and traced the lines and grooves.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "I'd have never known. Can you feel things through it?"
"Some things, temperature, pressure. I know that you're holding my hand. That you're warm, and human. Soft, tender."
He reached up with his right hand, his human hand, and pushed a stray hair from her face. "Mo," he whispered, "you're…a very attractive woman…" He pulled his hand back, and her with it. She let him, and when he leaned in for the kiss, she met him.
Oh, this was a bad idea alright, because he was a good kisser, not too sloppy, not too hard, leading but gracefully, same way he danced. She was the older woman, his boss, she should stop it, but she really didn't want to.
He paused and rested his forehead against hers. "Mo, Mo…it's been a very long time since…anyone has been tender to me. Since I been able to be tender with someone. I don't know that I know how anymore."
"Bet it's been a long time since you been dancin' with someone too. Seems like you do just fine. Been a long time for me too, if that's any comfort."
He smiled, then tilted his head and kissed her again.
In the end she led him to the bedroom. He seemed in no hurry to get there, or to get any further than the kissing, and that was nice too. It left them both room to stop. She gave him room, and while he sometimes hesitated, he always leaned back into the kiss.
On the bed she paused. Her figure was good—in a bra, and a good pair of support briefs. She let him be the one to slide his hand up under her blouse, cup her breast in his big, strong hand. The flesh one she noticed. He pushed her top up to kiss her belly, and to her great surprise he had her bra undone-with the metal hand—almost before she realized.
"You're good at that," she gasped, as he worked his hand under the bra cup to caress a nipple.
He chuckled, low and filthy, with a promise of something wicked. "I was once, a long time ago. I think…I think I was known for it. Some things were different then, but some things never change, apparently."
"I can believe that. That you were known for it, I mean. Bet girls were lining up to fling their bras at you, no fiddling required." He'd kept one hand on her breast while kissing softly, at her throat, never firm enough to leave a mark that would show the next day.
That would show. Oh, Lord, she shouldn't be doing this.
"Bucky, you should… Oh, do that again." Her objections faded as he slid his palm along her groin, lightly, but with a promise of someone who knew what they were doing.
He fumbled with her shirt buttons, laying them open and then covered her breast with his mouth as his hand worked again at her pants. With what little was left of her reason, she managed to say, "You should be doin' this with someone your own age. Not wastin' time with me."
He pulled back, a confused frown on his beautiful features. "Do you want me to go. I'm sorry…I thought…"
"No, no, hun, you thought right. But you're a young man. You should be out with one of the girls. I can name at least two who wouldn't kick you outta bed for eatin' crackers. I'm an old lady."
"You're not old! And…I'm…older than I look."
Older than your passport says, she thought, but kept it to herself.
He went back to kissing her, just kissing her, stretched out side by side on her bed. Lazy and slow, the sound of the rain beating against her window.
She tugged on his shirt, let him roll partially over onto her. But when she went to push it up, he caught her wrist.
"I've seen prosthetics before, Bucky, maybe not like this one, not as beautiful and fine, but I told you, it's ok. You don't gotta be ashamed. You're seein' me, stretch marks, droopy in places. Just let me…"
He sat up, perched on the edge of the bed, and she could see he was working things out in his mind, so she left him alone, just watchin' his profile in the light from the hallway.
There was the softest exhalation of air, and he pulled the Henley over his head.
She tried not to gasp. She tried not to cry. She wasn't sure if she succeeded at either. The beauty of the arm gave way to such ugly scarring. If this was what Tony Stark did, then she wanted him charged with war crimes.
"Oh, Bucky…who did this to you? Was it Stark? Was it? I'll—"
"No, no, it wasn't…it isn't Stark Tech. Believe me… No, this was someone…something else."
"Does it hurt?" She ran her fingers softly along the seam, barely touching, down along a prominent scar, then let her fingers graze against his firm abs, the heat of his pectorals, such a contrast to the cold of the metal.
"Sometimes." He caught her hand and just held it to his chest. Then brought it up to rest it against his cheek.
This boy…this sad, beautiful, tortured, boy. She wasn't sure if she wanted to make-love to him or mother him.
"What do you want, tonight, Bucky? Tell me and you can have it."
"To forget. Is that alright? To make-love to a beautiful woman and forget everything else. Is that too much?"
And then, "What do you want, Mo? I can't give you much. Let me give you this. It's something I was good at, once, before the army, before…, long, long ago, much longer than I think you can imagine."
"Then give it to me, everything"
Oh, he was good. He peeled her out of her pants, and her panties, and slid himself down between her legs. Old insecurities, reared, was she clean enough, should she have kept herself trimmed up like the ladies in the magazine (who for?), her undies were old, her skin wasn't firm.
None of that seemed to bother him as he leaned in and just flicked at her sex with his tongue. She gave herself over to him, to his gentle, skilled ministrations, and found herself close, much faster than she expected.
"Bucky! Wait, want you…inside me. Make love to me."
He pulled back and shucked his jeans, and briefs in one smooth motion. The smooth, taut lines of his body, in such painful contrast to the brutal scars, and unforgiving metal. "Do you have…supplies? Because I could just finish you and…"
"Don't need any, Sugar. Nothin' working down there anymore. Now come here."
His love-making was achingly slow, as if he was savoring every brush of skin, every tasted kiss, every caress as she slid her hands down his back, sometimes going still and just clutching her tightly. She was the one to move it along at last, to urge him, with her hips, her knees around his waist, her fingers tugging lightly in his hair.
She expected him to go, even though she didn't want him to. Part of her expected him to go completely, his few belongings stripped out of the room above the garage when she opened up in the morning.
But he didn't, he rolled onto his back and pulled her to him, his right side, light and easy, as if they'd been doing this for ages, and not the first time. She drifted to sleep, lulled by the sound of the rain, his warm arm around her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
When she woke, she couldn't tell what time it was, the rain continuing, leaving the world in near night. It could have been two in the afternoon, but her internal clock told her it was the early hours, still a little time before she had to be down to open up for the early breakfast crowd.
They dressed in the sort of awkward silence that the morning always brings. She tugged on a robe over the nighty she'd thrown on. He had only the clothes he had on the night before.
At the door he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
"That was nice, Bucky. We should do it again sometime, dinner, a movie…all of it." She wanted it to be soothing. It wasn't.
He took a deep breath, "I shouldn't have taken advantage, I'm sorry."
"Taken advantage!" she exclaimed and resisted the urge to laugh. "I shouldn't have taken advantage of you! So, let's just agree that nobody took advantage of anybody. Just two lonely people who found a little happiness together for a night. I know I don't even have to ask, you're too much of a gentleman. You won't tell a soul. But Bucky, please…promise me one thing—"
"What, Mo?"
"Promise me…promise that when you need to move on, you let me know in advance. I know you aren't here for the long haul. And you shouldn't be! Knew that the day I first laid eyes on you. You're always looking down the road. And that's fine, that's…necessary. Just don't disappear. It's all I'll ask."
He smiled, so sadly. "I'll do what I can, Mo. But I won't…won't take a risk either. It's possible I won't get a chance to say good-bye."
"Promise you'll try."
"I promise."
In the end, he didn't have to leave. They came for him, in the quiet of the evening. It wasn't who she was expecting, and they weren't like she expected, even if she'd have been able to guess.
She thought she knew him when he walked in. New York was a long way away, but she saw the news. Those bluer-than-cloudless-sky eyes, corn silk hair, shoulders broad enough to lift buildings. But this quiet, sad, man in a baseball cap and glasses. That couldn't possibly be Captain America could it?
He took a booth at the back, ordered black coffee. Thanked her polite as anyone. Just like Bucky.
Bucky came in wiping his hands on a rag. The tall, blond man stood up. Bucky turned to run.
"Bucky, wait! Please."
Bucky glanced at Mo, and she smiled encouragingly. What else could she do. When Captain America asks you for something, how do you say no? The Captain—no, Steve Rogers, just a man named Steve Rogers who was born in 1918, and looked thirty-two in 2014—smiled at her, soft and sad. She thought of "Bucky," of a blurb in a history book, and felt like slapping herself—how blind could she have been! Jamie's favorite Howling Commando. Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers' best friend. Hard to find the movie-star handsome, clean-cut, Sargent under the long-haired, war-scarred, but still so beautiful man she'd taken to her bed, but now that she was looking for it, she could see it. She wondered again what Jamie would have been like, if he'd ever come home.
They talked for a long time.
She kept everyone squashed into the kitchen, but they all peered out the service window. "Is that…" "How does Bucky know HIM?"
Steve Rogers asked for blueberry pie. She personally refilled their coffee, catching bits of conversation.
"The bird and the spider outside?"
"The…bird is. I won't tell him you called him that. Spider's down the road. Doing intel. You're hard to find. But not impossible."
"Sure he heard it."
"No coms. See?" Steve turned his head so Bucky could see both ears.
And later:
"What do you want, Steve?"
Steve. Little, sickly Stevie. Who died, but didn't.
"Just to come with us. Come with me."
Steve's hand slid along the table. Bucky let his hand slide closer but didn't touch.
She slipped back to the kitchen. Neither man noticed.
At last they seemed to reach some sort of agreement. Steve touched Bucky's shoulder, and then turned it into a squeeze. They both came up to the register and she met them there.
"Mo, I…I guess I'm leaving. I'm sorry to leave you in the lurch." Bucky glanced back over at Steve, who kept a respectful distance. "But, I guess I gotta go now, he says I…"
To Steve, he said, "I'm just gonna go grab my things, tidy up a bit."
"Don't you worry about that, hun," Mo said. You cleaned it up nice when you moved in, and I bet it's still neat as a pin. And don't worry about leavin'. You gotta go. That's all. We were all happy to have you." The kitchen staff, who had been doing their best to look like statues, were all suddenly very busy. But when Mo said that it was Bucky's last night, they all crowded around, and said goodbye, and all the absurd things you say when a co-worker leaves—keep in touch, good luck, you were great. Couple of the girls reached up for a hug. Finally Mo did too.
"Thank you, Mo," Bucky whispered in her ear. "You made me…feel like a human again."
She was embarrassed and sad, and happy for him, all at the same time. "You know you always got a place here with us if you want it." With me, she thought, but didn't say.
As Bucky started out the door, Steve said, "Bucky…will you…"
Bucky smiled a tired smile. "Yes, Steve. You know, you and me…" He chuckled, "And the spider would have me down on the ground in seconds if I tried to run." He turned and went out the door.
Steve stepped up to the register. He was half-way between an awkward, embarrassed nobody, and the Captain from TV.
"He'll be ok?" she asked.
"I…don't know. I hope so. I have a lot of smart friends now. He'll be well taken care of, everything that can be done will be done."
"That's good. That's good, isn't it?
"He's…he's awfully broken. I mean, he's hurt, so hurt, but he's still a good man."
"He hasn't…been any…there hasn't been any trouble…? Because I'll gladly pay for…"
"No, NO, nothing like that. He's been a dream. Hard worker. Nice to everyone."
The Captain looked at her thoughtfully, then down at his feet.
"Do you have nice memories of his time here?"
"Nice...? Yes, yes, of course."
"I only ask…well, I only ask, because I know someone who could…she could make him easier to forget."
She looked at him, scared.
Steve held up his hands, "Only, only if you wanted. I just know that memories can be painful."
"Memories are all we have."
He smiled, as if understood all that she wasn't saying, "Of course, ma'am. Thank you for looking out for him.
"If there's anything you need, you just have to call, updates on Bucky…alien attack on the diner…" he chuckled and handed her a card. "Just call this number. It will get to me no matter where."
He smiled that hundred-watt smile, and then he was gone too. She watched them through the window, anonymous in a beat-up sedan. Good looking black man at the wheel. A red-head came out of nowhere and jumped in to the back seat. She could piece together who they were.