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Chapter Five: Open Door Policy

"Can you build computers?"

I jumped, my butt briefly lifted away from the vintage oak chair and staying airborne for a full three seconds, before landing back on the pillows cushioning the old seat. Something between a squawk and a yelp escaped my lips. My glasses were blackmailing me, trying to slip off my face.

"I swear to God, James, I'm going to put you in a jingle dress one of these days so I can hear your pasty-ass coming!" I cried, nearly hitting my computer with my flailing hands. I'd been so deeply in the zone, cranking out quality short story material, that I hadn't heard the whirring of the man's arm. I pushed my glasses back into place.

He looked at me blankly. "What's a jingle dress?"

I huffed. "A pow-wow dress. Basically, think basic conservative-cut dress, beautiful beadwork, and big cone-shaped bells sewn on everywhere. Now, what did you ask before?"

"Can you build computers? I'll pay for it like it's a commission," he said, offering. The man stood near the doorway of my bedroom, a few footsteps inside but barely three strides away from dashing out.

James had a way of speaking that could be both innocently blunt but subtly manipulative. I blamed that on the Soviets because I was probably right. And, well, Cold War-themed movies made me think of vodka and subtle power plays with stupid American secret agents. God, had James participated in the Cold War? Had he been forced to learn Russian?

"Err, yeah. I can build computers. Laptops, desktops, crazy video game monstrosities that nerds have wet dreams about," I rambled, trying not to think too long on the mental image of James dressed in a Cold War-era Russian military uniform, his metal hand glinting. "What do you need a computer for?"

James made a face. I wanted to say it was sheepish, maybe nervous, but the guilty look in his eyes contradicted that. Was the man who had once been the Winter Soldier, suspected assassin of Martin Luther King Jr. by leaked SHIELD files, embarrassed?

"I… I wanted to watch Star Trek," he said. "I went to the library, they have computers. I got a one month free trial for Netflix."

I was struck dumb, by surprise or the inability to compute, who knew. The Winter Soldier got a Netflix. James Buchanan Barnes knew out to use the internet well enough to sign up for a Netflix. The scruffy, ill-dressed trauma victim had listened to the suggestion I made when we first met and was watching Star Trek.

"Is that what you've been doing during the day? Camping out in one of the libraries here in Bucharest and watching Star Trek?" I was incredulous, but also in quiet awe.

The more I was learning about James, the more I just sort of… marveled. He was complex, just like any human being that walked this Earth, but his complexity spanned ninety-nine years compared to the mere twenty-nine he physically displayed. The Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, World War II, Korean War, the Lebanon Crisis, the Cold War, Vietnam, the Fabulous Fifties, the Swinging Sixties, the Seventies, the bizzarity and madness that was the Eighties, the millennial Nineties, the two-thousands. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, Sergeant James Barnes of the United States Army, Bucky Barnes as the sidekick to Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and James Buchanan Barnes again. By God, no wonder James couldn't keep a strong hold of his memories. How would he ever keep it in order? How does his brain function, if it's been so badly damaged? He thought of his present self as James, and his time as the Winter Soldier as Him. Where did that leave James from before? What happened to the James Barnes that Steve Rogers knew?

That made his best friend, Steve Rogers, have a very short evolution in comparison. Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, the leader of the Avengers known as Captain America. My thoughts continued wandering, finding stranger questions. Did Steve suffer from PTSD? He had to; he had experienced World War II firsthand, fought an alien invasion, terrorists, the entirety of corrupted SHIELD. Did Steve suffer from depersonalization disorder, an all-encompassing feeling of disconnect? Did he ever get lost in the past, feel like a relic that should have crumbled away? Did he ever find himself lost in the Captain America persona, not leaving enough Steve Rogers behind to be a functional civilian? Did he feel lonely? What did he think of my sister when they met at that academic conference?

"Yes," James said, breaking my downward spiral of internalized questions. "I like it. Bones is funny."

He appeared so pure in some bizarre fashion, just standing there close to the doorway. It was Monday, meaning he was wearing the outfit he usually wore on Mondays and Tuesdays. Plain moss green shirt, another black undershirt, well-worn hiking shoes, the ever-present black leather gloves, one of those damn Jamaican beanies clasped in his hands that made his hair look so greasy despite the fact he had bathed, same baggy jacket covered in pockets, generic blue jeans that had a rip on one knee. The man had been put through so much, had killed a lot of people, but there he stood.

"I don't want your money, buddy. The computer's on me."

"Who's Jimi Hendrix?"

I nearly lost my rhythm, falling face-first into the treadmill console in front of me and sending my earbuds flying out of my ears. And, possibly break my glasses. The choked squeak I made had James raise an eyebrow in mild concern and confusion.

"Screw jingle dress, I'm putting that fancy bell jewelry on you. You'll be both gold-shiny and extremely loud!" I ranted, holding onto the treadmill and trying to recapture my pace. "And how did you get in here? You need a membership at this gym to get in past the front desk."

"Staff entrances are security risks," he said. "Who's Jimi Hendrix?"

My daily routine, before James started taking root in my life like a buried acorn from a Sacramento heritage oak after a spring shower, was very free form. Some things stayed consistent, but mostly I just went with the flow of the day. Get up, make breakfast, swallow down some iron capsules, get ready for the day, go shopping at the street market, go home, put away purchases, do whatever, go to the gym, go home, rest, take more iron capsules, do whatever, make lunch, take more iron capsules, do whatever, make dinner, take more iron capsules, get ready for bed, sleep. Somewhere in the realm of 'do whatever,' I would either work on metal commissions, try and write, surf the web, dance around the house, clean the house, meticulously rearrange my clock collection, watch Romanian TV, or have tea with Mrs. Albescu.

Now, every single action had to be questioned with Can I hear that whirring that's completely unique to James' robotic arm? before I decided to pursue it. Just yesterday, James was hanging out with Mrs. Albescu, the sweet elderly Romanian woman who was close to the man's actual age, having tea and speaking rapid fire in her native tongue. Earlier this morning, James appeared out of nowhere at the street market to ask if I had breakfast yet, did I take my iron pills, it's not nice to lie to a pretty face, doll, and pulled an entire pill bottle full of my specific brand of iron capsules from one of his jacket pockets.

The established open door policy, one I instigated by telling him to keep the extra key to the apartment, was definitely being exploited.

"The greatest rock n' roll guitarist to ever walk this Earth," I said with more than a little eagerness. "I grew up listening to him in the car on the way to school because my mother loves her old music. Jimi was a definite go-to for her, along with her entire motown collection. Nobody can play the guitar like Jimi Hendrix could; Mom swears to this day that if the man didn't die from drug altercations, he probably would have created an entirely new genre of music."

"Ioana's daughter likes Jimi Hendrix's Are You Experienced," commented James. "The record was sitting on the coffee table. She said her daughter loved listening to American music when she was younger. Still does."

"Well then! I guess you need to experience it for yourself," I declared, grabbing my refurbished iPod. I promptly tracked down the Are You Experienced album, taking out my earbuds and offering them to James. He stared at them like they'd suck out his brains, inching slightly away from the treadmill I was occupying.

"They're earbuds, buddy. You saw me; you just shove him in your ears so you can listen to stuff. Think headphones but tiny."

"They look like earplugs on string."

I blinked. "Huh, never thought about it like that before. More like electronic earplugs on wire."

"I don't want to wear them," he said.

"Don't you want to know what Jimi Hendrix sounds like?"

"I don't want to wear them," he repeated.

"How about this," I proposed, "I wear one earbud, you wear the other. We can blast our ears with guitar solos together. I'll even get off the treadmill."

The idea seemed to tempt James. He looked like he really did want to know what Jimi Hendrix sounded like, and he did decide to run for me after apparently hanging out with Mrs. Albescu. Then again, I was finishing up the last few touches of the man's laptop and he apparently had been banned from the library he liked. The staff thought he was a troublemaking homeless person. They weren't entirely wrong.

"Okay," he said eventually. James still appeared nervous, but determined.

I got off the treadmill, I offered James the left earbud, I got the right, and then I hit play on the iPod.

The man jerked at the loud introduction of Jimi's Purple Haze, the driving power of the first guitar riff and pounding drums startling him. It was only after I thought about the lyrics of the song I wanted to punch myself in the face, glasses and all. The long dead guitarists' voice cried out in my right ear.

Purple haze, all in my brain! Lately things they don't seem the same! Actin' funny, but I don't know why! 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky…

James' reaction, however, was contradictory to my fears. He was feeling the music. I could see it in his face. When had the man last heard any kind of music? God, had he ever been the kind of person who listened to a select few songs because something about it just spoke to his soul? Part of me had a feeling he'd have some kind of miracle or cry if he ever heard Be Brave by My Brightest Diamond. That song was essentially written for him, wasn't it?

When the song ended, giving one final rip of the guitar, the man wordlessly took out the earbud from his left ear.

"Can I have his music on my computer?" His painfully open expression could convince me to murder somebody by way of electrocution in a millisecond.

"Of course, James. I'll make you a music player too, while I'm at it, so you can listen to music on the go."

"I didn't know you could dance, doll."

I stumbled and fell backwards, crashing my back into a distinctly hard chest. Two hands, mismatched, held my biceps loosely. Even with the gloves on, I could feel the hum of electricity cycling through the metallic arm. Nothing was in need of repair, thankfully, and the energy output was stable. It still strained James' body, but there wasn't much I could do with inferior alloys I got in the form of scrap metal and my nonexistent engineering knowledge. The man made me conscious of my height.

"Can I beg you to try and make some kind of noise? I know you know I can hear your arm whir from a good distance away, but you keep popping out of nowhere like a weasel."

Today was Thursday, and it was a good day. Not normal, which meant unabridged 1930's James Barnes charm and a thick Brooklyn accent. He wore his clothes for Wednesdays and Thursdays, the one that normally involved an indigo cap and a crimson shirt. Or was it a henley? The fabrics smelled recently laundered, and I could faintly pick up cheap ivory soap. His underlying musk was ironically akin to the musty smell of old books and inexpensive metal polish.

"I can't make any promises," he joked, turning me around. The man was honest-to-God smiling. He also shaved, so there was a very clean face framed by long brunette hair. The indigo cap was not on his head. "I didn't know anybody still played this kinda' music."

The speakers on my laptop were playing some of the 1930's holdovers, stuff like Louis Armstrong, Jack Teagarden, Ozzy Nelson for big band jazz, and crooning blues from the American south. I had taken band class during high school for a short time, and I could blame my music teacher for my appreciation for jazz and blues.

"Blame a guy named Mr. Murray who taught third period intermediate band. Before that, I thought rock and alternative music was all that really mattered music-wise," I said.

"Well, can a girl give a' fella a chance?"

I raised an eyebrow up at him. "A chance at what, you goof?"

"Haven't danced with'a dame in a good while," he remarked, his eyes mischievous. "Up fer' a spin, doll?"

I was wearing an extra large white graphic shirt and a pair of my father's boxers. The shirt was something my sister bought for my birthday; it was a picture of a Pepe meme and George W. Bush Jr., with 'DANK MEMES MAKE THE WORLD GO ROUND IT SEEMS JET FUEL CANT MELT STEEL BEAMS' written in capitalized comic font. The boxers were the comfortable cotton kind that didn't act like spandex and hugged every part of your body; they too were white, covered in cartoon penguins wearing santa hats. I was not wearing a bra or tank top, and it was cool in my apartment. I was barefoot. My glasses were somewhere, and I could only see James because he was close enough that I didn't have to squint and try to interpret the watercolor world I lived in when my glasses weren't on my face.

I had expected the man to be watching yet another episode of Star Trek on the laptop I'd made him, or listening to My Brightest Diamond on the music player I had also made him because he liked to drown in the feelings the music evoked in him. I should not have introduced James to that artist. One of these days, he'd have a bad day, Be Brave would start playing, and the man would have a very messy breakdown.

I had not expected to be confronted with a James having a good day. All charm, smiles, Brooklyn accent. It made it a little harder to deny that underneath all the trauma, lack of modern fashion sense, long hair, and scruff, there was a very attractive male with really nice muscles and a metal arm.

Thank God that I was of stronger will compared to a hormonal teenager.

"If you try to get handsy with me, James Barnes, I'm going to whoop your ass," I said, holding out my hands.

He actually laughed, which surprised the life out of me, and easily guided my hands where he wanted. One at his arm, another in his hand. The metal hand. His gloves were not on his hands. The hat was discarded on the couch.

"Ya' won't get any funny business from me, doll," he assured.

I remember reading accounts of James Barnes in my high school American history class, strangers regaling the interviewers with vivid memories of how ridiculously captivating the war hero had been, both personality-wise and in appearance, before going off to war. He had been a great dancer, apparently, never failing to "show a girl a good time" no matter how much he wanted to go steady with the woman in question. A trouble magnet, like some kind of old-fashioned version of a bad boy. A guy with a shadow named Steve Rogers, who eventually would become Captain America, and said shadow's best friend.

Finding myself guided around with a flesh hand on my hip, a metal hand in my own, and the guy leaning down a bit to make it all work, I could see it. Maybe I wasn't charmed, my irises not shaped like matching hot pink hearts as I looked at him, but he was fun. A good time didn't have to be wrapped in sultry looks, dancing chest-to-chest, and a poetic description of devotion dancing between locked gazes. The goofball who bought a pound of plums every Thursday was twirling me around, sending me all over the place. We ended up somehow managing to pull off a weird version of a Lindy Hop, and then back to an easy ballroom sway, before going about doing the Charleston.

"So she can dance!" he exclaimed, sending me twirling again.

"Shut up!" I laughed out. "I took dance classes with my sister, and we did ballet together! Mom says we used to be slightly bow-legged when we were little, and putting us in ballet classes straightened out our legs. Sis still does it."

"I'm dancin' with an expert, then," he said.

"Says the guy leading the show," I countered.

"Bet ya' I could do some kinda' liftin' move without breakin' a sweat!"

"Bet you I could turn your manly metal arm into a baby arm, so you can't do shit!"

"Whatever ya' say, Lottie."

My eyes narrowed. "You call me Lottie again, asshole, and I will turn that metal arm into scrap metal."

He chuckled, dipping me back. "Talk dirty to me," he said with a fake voice. He sounded like a prepubescent girl with strep throat.

"Oh god, you're not allowed on the internet anymore. I'm taking away your computer."