She still hasn't said anything and it's my third week into these sessions Steve has convinced me to go to. All I know is her amber eyes and long curly brown hair, which reminds me of my coffee when I stare down into it and away from her, tilting my hat down further to try not to look like such a creep.
"James, you mind taking off that hat? It just feels like you're not really a part of this talk," Sam asks kindly. We don't usually sit in circles like this, but it's a Friday night, and someone's plastic chair creaks against the floor of the gymnasium as they get up to go use the bathroom.
"Oh—sorry," I mumble, pulling it off and brushing my hair back. I hope I don't look too scraggly. Steve had almost convinced me to get a haircut, but I hadn't wanted anything sharp near my face. I was still dealing with my demons inside, demons I couldn't fully discuss in front of all of these good people. These people are the real heroes. They didn't do anything wrong, not like me. They didn't murder in the name of Nazis, betray their own country, try to kill their best friend. I shake my head a moment, having clenched my fists so hard that I managed to smash the Styrofoam cup of Joe. I hadn't noticed the fluid burning my leg through my jeans.
"Napkins," someone says, and a hand flies at my feet to start cleaning up the mess.
"I'm sorry," I say blankly. I really just want to get up and leave, but these sessions are like an escape from my own torturous thoughts. I can't help but stay seated, eagerly waiting to hear amber eyes. She's one of only two women in this support group. I won't lie, the first session I sat through, I was surprised to see any women here. I couldn't stop staring as the older one talked about her Iraq tour. Back in my day, I was certain women were the nurses and the men fought the wars. Sam eyes me nervously a moment and I strut towards the table to grab some paper towels and help clean up my mess after throwing the cup away.
"Davine, we still haven't heard from you. Would you like to share anything?" Sam asks gently, "Anything at all—you could even tell everybody how your week went." So that's her name. She returns his smile shortly before tucking some hair behind one of her ears. I notice it then, the scar down her cheek. It starts near her temple and nearly meets her jaw. It doesn't rob her of beauty as I take my seat again and steal a long glance at her. She takes a deep breath.
"I…went to the movies on Wednesday. I didn't bring anybody, but…it was nice. I saw The Giver. I remember reading that book as a kid…movie didn't do it justice."
Her voice has a clear, fairy ring to it, like Dizzi Jig on a dulcimer, a pleasantly nauseating rhythm, which one would not have expected from the obvious strength in her arms as she leans forth with an elbow on her knee.
"I mean, when Jonas learns what violence is…"
She seems lost in her own thoughts as she continues, staring into space. I know there must be a story to that scar on her face, but she won't tell it tonight. In truth, I haven't been to each and every one of these veteran support group sessions. Sometimes I'd just go for a walk when Steve thinks I'm here sharing in the pain of these good people. All I've shared is the back story Sam helped me fabricate: I was in Iraq when I lost my arm in a shoot-out trying to protect civilians, the wounds got infected and the limb had to be amputated, but I happened upon some experimental division of the military which provided me with my prosthetic arm (which despite the back story, I usually keep hidden under long sleeves in the end of August heat), I had a wife who passed away from lymphoma, and I was currently living with a military friend I'd known since childhood. The bit about the wife is simply a parallel of my own (near) death. No one has to know the truth.
Davine shakes her head and doesn't finish her sentence. Everyone is quiet.
"I'm sorry," she says, sitting up straight and closing her eyes.
"No. That was good. That was great. No pressure here. No judgment. We're all sharing here. I'm just glad you finally spoke. Progress takes time," Sam reassures. Davine glances at him and nods with a quick smile. She then covers her mouth with a hand and closes her eyes tight for a minute. Someone else begins to talk and I can't help eying that scar. As far as I know, I'm no expert on women, but I have seen enough present-day soaps on television to know that this is something they do when they're about to cry. But no tears leave Davine's eyes. She removes the hand from her mouth, crosses her arms, and frosts her expression over like ice. Unaffected. I know this game. She's hardened, like a rock. War will do that to you.
I keep casually stealing glances every now and then. When the session is over, Davine stands up to leave, pulling her sweater right off the back of her seat without a second glance back at anyone. I start towards the door—but not too fast. I don't want it to look like I might try to talk to her. I'm convinced that everyone is wary of the quiet man with the metal hand. Sam places a hand on my shoulder, catching me by surprise for a moment.
"Man, you okay?" he asks kind of quietly.
"Sure. I didn't really feel like talking tonight. I'm just gonna head back to Steve's."
"You sure?" Wilson presses. I give his arm a friendly pat before starting towards the door. When I step out of the community centre, the night is young and quiet. I glance down the street to the left, and then to the right, where I catch a glimpse of someone walking away. I know it's Davine, despite the hood over her head. I know because of the curls of hair that drift after her like a set of almond wings. I know I probably shouldn't, but I start to follow her. I pause around a corner as she readies to cross the street. It becomes clear to me that she doesn't hear a thing going on around her; I watch one of her hands slip out of the sweater's pocket to flip through whatever it is she's listening to on her iPhone. I pull my cap on lower and continue on. She walks for a good twenty minutes without noticing me. She stops at a brick building, the one directly across from Steve's apartment complex. I start to wonder how I haven't noticed that Davine lives right next door. Usually I go to a bar after group therapy at the community centre. Davine always leaves before we finish, or so fast that I always get caught up talking to Sam before I have a chance to approach her.
I should stop following now. She'll no doubt see me. But just as I'm about to turn and back off, the gated door swings open and a woman excuses herself as she nearly nails Davine straight in the face. She starts into the building. The woman exiting holds the door for me. I grab it and nod. She hurriedly makes her way down the street and I simply stand there holding the door open for a bit, wondering what the hell I'm doing, really. I let the door close as the sound of an elevator dinging meets my ears. I'm being a stalker. That's creepy, James! I close my eyes for a moment and start around the corner. I make it to the other side of the street before walking into Steve's apartment complex, where someone is exiting. I don't know what I'm doing. Steve won't be home yet. I already know he's on a mission with Natasha. I'd practically begged him to let me come along one night, but he still thinks I need time to "figure myself out," whatever that means.
I know my name, I know that I've done some terrible things, I'm nearly a hundred years old, and that Steve and I used to be the best of friends. The latter had been difficult for me to believe at first. How could a monster like me have ever had friends? But I knew him…something felt so familiar when he started talking to me, when he found me, when he brought me into his home and let me stay. I sigh and take my hat off. Steve gave me this hat. He bought it at a mall when he took me to get some normal clothes. I have no idea who the Yankees are, but at least the cap keeps the sun out of my eyes during the day. Steve had looked so shocked when I asked him what Yankees meant. I shake my head. I go to the roof of the building, propping the door open with a brick that had been conveniently lying nearby.
I come up here to think sometimes. I can hear much less of the hustle and bustle of the street below. I sigh and inhale the fresh air. I scan the city night for a minute before focusing in on some of the lights coming out from apartments in the complex next door. I don't usually bother to look. Curtains are usually closed. But sometimes I'll see this woman feeding her toddler at a highchair, or a man staring out his window with a beer, a couple having an argument that starts to get physical, and it's just nice to forget for a while who I am and what I've done, and focus on someone else's life. And then I see her. I see Davine pulling back the curtain of a window. She stands there a moment, looking down. I clutch the ledge of the roof and get on my knees, ducking low for a moment. It isn't like I haven't followed people before, people I had to kill…I try not to think about it, tell myself to stop. When I rise slowly, I can still see her, but this time she's starting away from the window. I stare into the building with my perfect vision. She sits on a couch and stares in front of her, at something, probably a TV. She's wearing shorts and as she pulls her legs up and crosses them, I feel a strange excitement somewhere within.
I know I shouldn't be watching. I don't even know her. She doesn't know I can see her. But I can't stop. After a moment, she covers her eyes with both hands and they tremble slightly. She's crying. I can tell. The excitement wears off and I start to feel…not good. Why did I follow her home? I'd wanted to talk to her, I guess. I don't know why, but she intrigues me. So far as I know, I've never seen a woman look so strong and broken at the same time, and I start to realize that perhaps it's like looking into a mirror when I look at her. I watch only a moment longer before Davine disappears from the couch, retreating into her apartment where I can no longer see her. I lose interest in the fresh air, or at least that's what I tell myself. I start towards the door. By the time I make it down to Steve's apartment, I feel guilty and creepy for having done what I just did.
I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to hurt her. That's not why I followed her. I'm lost in thought when I turn the handle of Steve's front door. I step into the kitchen in time to find Natasha jumping away from Steve. She nearly drops the icepack in her hand as the two of them turn to look at me. I had closed the door so slowly that they hadn't heard me come in.
"Bucky," Steve says. His face looks a little bruised. Natasha looks away and maneuvers to the refrigerator to put the icepack back. Something tells me I've just interrupted something.
"You're back early," I explain, leaning in the doorway a moment.
"Yeah, it was a quick little mission. Didn't take long," Steve explains, almost nervously, scratching the back of his head. I hoped he didn't think I was an idiot. If he wanted to be alone with Natasha, all he had to do was tell me to scram for the night.
"How was the session?" Steve asks. I shrug.
"I'll see you next time," Natasha says, starting past him, patting his arm gently.
"Bucky," she nods casually.
"Sure," I mutter.
She's in a pair of jeans that are so tight, I wonder how Steve finds the power not to glance over at her suave stride on her way out of the apartment, heels clicking with tantalizing seduction. Steve grins at me and turns to wash something in the sink. I know he's probably just blushing and doesn't want me to see his face.
"Sam said you haven't been to more than five sessions," he begins. The therapy group meets three days a week.
"What, are you keeping tabs on me now? Last time I checked, I was a grown man."
"Bucky…I didn't mean anything by it."
"I know, I know. I'm fine, Steve. I just haven't been feeling up to going that frequently. Forgive me if I feel like a criminal in front of all of those good men and women."
Steve sighs and dries his hands with the dish towel. He faces me.
"Anyway, I'm tired. I'm just gonna go to bed early."
"You sure you're okay? You're not a criminal, Buck."
I nod and make my way to the bathroom to shower. For some reason, I can't get that scar on Davine's face out of my mind. I'm tired of sitting around on my ass at Steve's and wandering around the city every week. I'm going to find a way to talk to her.