I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Amelia Brings Home a Guy

Amelia Watson loved her apartment.

It was old and homey and fit her and Simon wonderfully.

She unlocked and opened the door, so ready for feel of smoothly worn wood . . .

"You can leave yours on if you want, Carl."

. . . on her bare feet.

And allowed the welcome feel of her sanctuary to envelope her.

Simon, of course, was ahead of her, headed straight for his closet nook.

Eager for the soothing, snug tranquility it offered him.

She set down her bag in the tiny kitchen.

Passed under the shelved archway where the majority of her few knickknacks and extraneous possessions were stored.

And over the beautiful carpet she and her uncle had spent the summer painting when she was twelve.

"Uncle Nick, not on the floor! We'll get in trouble!"

The short little man had grinned at her.

"Why? It's our floor!"

And at that heartily spoken statement, another piece of her world had opened up.

We can do something different? And we won't get into trouble?

Skirting the living space and into her tiny bedroom to finally catch up with Simon, already settling himself onto his cushioned pallet.

She had read autistics benefited from a safe cozy decompressing area and so the first thing she had done upon taking ownership of the apartment was reassign her bedroom closet space.

Applying Uncle Nick's painting philosophy to the needs of her child.

Removing the hanger bar, the shelving.

And in its place, arranging a low, narrow pallet, with shorter shelves at the foot.

Hanging her considerably reduced closet wardrobe on a free standing rack against the wall next to her bed. Shoes underneath.

Folded clothing and undergarments in closed plastic containers slid under her bed.

A few pieces of jewelry hanging from hooks and nails on the wall as decor.

She hardly ever wore any anyway. Simon tended to tear it off during his fits. Hurt her. Himself.

And that was an unnecessary hazard. Just for a bit of shine that didn't really matter.

So she had set it all in place and felt good about it.

Nice, easy, streamlined. Manageable.

And conformed to their needs, instead of them conforming to the norms of the world around them.

Simon had loved the closet nook.

He had slept there at night for months while adjusting to the new routines and lifestyle Amelia had been putting into place for them.

It was the first time since he had started manifesting markers of abnormality, that either of them had slept well for any length of time.

Close to his mother but in his own space.

And now it was just the spot he deferred to for daytime decompression.

"Simon?"

In the world out there, she more and more easily spoke Romanian and snippets of other languages with the people she encountered.

And Not-Carl, who clearly did not want to draw attention to himself in any way, even as a transplanted American.

But here, in her home, she naturally switched over to English.

Simon did not look at her as her shadow fell over him, darkening the tiny space.

He would not appreciate being touched right now. So she didn't. Knowing later would be a better time to kiss his forehead or draw him into a gentle hug.

"I'm going to sit in the kitchen and have some coffee with our guest."

But that was okay, she had not expected him to.

"You relax in here as long as you want, okay?"

Only choosing to communicate with him, offer the human connection that she devoutly believed had to be so important.

Whether he outwardly responded to it or not.

He turned away from her, facing the blank wall.

And she, after gazing upon her special boy for another moment, a faint ache squeezing her chest briefly, turned away.

And approached the dour man clearly ill at ease . . .

But I doubt you're really comfortable anywhere, are you, Not-Carl?

. . . in an unfamiliar environment.

She smiled sunnily at him, gave him a brief rundown of Simon's current whereabouts . . .

Did I put away the Tampax? Yeah, I put away the Tampax-

. . . and sent him off to the restroom.

While she made coffee.

"This is a nice apartment."

Hey, he speaks!

And she felt she had accomplished something.

"Thanks! It was my great uncle's."

Uncle Nick, quirky sweet little Romanian man managing to stay lighthearted and probably gay even through the communist state and the fall of it thereafter.

And then she had to decide . . .

". . . a few years after Jack died . . ."

. . . what she wanted to tell to this man who tried unsuccessfully to veil his eyes . . .

"I came out here for a break."

. . . and what she didn't.

"Just never went back."

Best simplest answer she could offer.

But there was so much more to it.

Jack had been her lifeline, her salvation from the suffocating boredom of the life she had been raised to lead.

Not a bad life, not an ugly one.

But boring as hell.

So she had fallen in love with a military guy and spent a few years following him as he was deployed to various corners of the world.

Only sucking it up and going home when Afghanistan wasn't a country a pregnant Army wife really should be setting foot.

And when they had shown up on her mother's doorstep with the news . . .

"Jack?"

"Army. Afghanistan."

. . . she had mentally and physically collapsed.

But that . . .

"So Carl, what do you do?"

. . . was a story for another time.

Amelia Watson did not invite many people into her little Bucharest apartment.

She did not invite men at all.

Anytime one of her few well-meaning friends (Ana, for instance, God bless her) tried to set her up to meet a man, it was out in public.

A cafe. Museum.

The Cismigiu.

People in Romanian culture didn't technically really date.

They met for coffee. Went on walks. Talked.

Do that more than three or four times and it was just kind of assumed you were 'dating'.

Other things were sort of assumed as well.

And so far, none of the men she had been introduced to had gotten any further than a second cup of joe for her.

Back in the States, she had lived in her parents' house after Jack had died and any romantic inclinations at all (save for one horrifying debacle) were the furthest thing from her exhausted, miserable mind.

And before that, Jack.

So to have a man sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee, using her bathroom, was weird.

Beyond weird.

Surreal.

It also didn't help . . .

Good grief, he's beautiful.

. . . that he was throughly attractive to her.

I bet he's hiding out 'cause he killed all the ladies.

Sitting there, still all covered up. Even his gloves.

I mean, that jawline.

Talking a little here and a little there.

That hair.

Mostly in response to her inquiry of his livelihood.

Those eyes.

Day laborer. Construction. Maintenance man.

Good lord, those eyes.

In the light of all that perfection though, glared one serious red flag.

Well, more than one.

He's lying to me about who he is.

And he's a freaky deaky trainwreck.

So she set in her mind that she was going to accept and assimilate his inherent hotness with everything else about him and keep it light and easy and platonic between them.

Because . . .

I don't get romantically involved with freaky deaky trainwrecks.

Not anymore.

Which would be alot easier if he would stop biting his lip and looking all pensive.

Oh my goodness, he just did it again.

Oh my gosh, he's not even trying, is he?

Some of you have expressed respect for Amelia's inner strength and her strong independent personality.

Hopefully her mini meltdown doesn't hurt that. But honestly. Bucky, ya'll.

And if that's not your type, surely you must have a swoon worthy type.

Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and Ruby Rosetta Red for reviewing! I'm glad you're so invested in Amelia and Simon! I'll try and make it a good read for you! :D

Next up, it's not a date. It's most definitely not a date. Not a date.