Hell Bound

Nine

When we finished breakfast, I returned to the living room to check Bucky's stitches while Graham cleaned up the kitchen. I knelt at his side and checked the ones on his face while he was comfortably smushed into the pillow.

"How do you feel?" I asked as I moved to examine the ones on his chest.

"Mm," he said. I didn't know what that indicated.

"You need to get cleaned up. You can either let me wrap you in plastic, and I can try and help you up the stairs to shower. Or I can clean you up with a washcloth in the downstairs bathroom." He looked back at me, and I couldn't tell what the expression on his face meant. He looked at me like I'd said something crazy.

"That's a dumb question," Graham said, coming back into the room to get Bucky's empty plate. He picked it up and then turned back to the kitchen, mocking my voice. "We can either drag you upstairs and pull out all your stitches, or you can get a sponge bath from the pretty girl. Hmm, what a difficult choice." His voice carried down the hall. I sighed heavily and resisted the urge to throw something at him.

"I was at least going to give him the option," I snapped back.

"I think I'd rather not go up the stairs," Bucky said.

"See? He made a choice." I stood up to help him get to his feet.

"Of course he chose THAT," Graham yelled from the kitchen. I turned back to Bucky.

"I'm starting to reconsider."

"Reconsider what?" he asked. He had his hands on his knees and looked like he didn't want to stand up.

"Letting you stab him."

"Just say the word."

"I was kidding, Jesus. Come on then."

I wrapped my arm around him and helped him up. It took him a minute to get moving again, just like the night before. But I finally managed to get him into the small bathroom down the hall. I shut us up inside and then took a deep breath. I didn't want to stare at him standing there bare-chested and caked in dried blood. He'd obviously just been through something traumatic. So I doubted Graham's suspicion was anywhere near the truth.

"Alright, I'll just..." I motioned toward the sink and pushed past him to get a clean cloth.

"I can do it myself."

"You can't clean your own back, Bucky. I'll just clean up around your sutures and your back, and then you can take it from there. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Then I can help you clean the blood out of your hair."

"Okay."

I turned the water on and waited for it to warm up. I could see him standing behind me in the mirror. It felt so weird to have him there again. I didn't know what he knew about me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to jump up and down because he was in my house again and (mostly) okay. But he didn't know me anymore. And he chose not to know me. And while I couldn't blame him for what happened, part of me couldn't get past it.

"Alright," I said, turning around to face him. I held up the wet cloth. "Are you ready?"

"I'm sure I can handle it."

"Right. I know you can." I moved around to his other side to clean the blood off his back. There wasn't much on him anymore since most of it flaked off in the night, but I also wasn't ready to just start rubbing my hands all over his chest. I took a deep breath before I got started.

"Can you?" he asked, noticing me hesitate. I shot him a glare through the mirror.

"Believe it or not, this isn't my first time." He looked up and met my gaze through the reflection, and now the expression on his face was leaning more sarcastic than anything else. Steve did warn me that he was a bit of a sarcastic little shit.

"Believe it or not, I already knew that," he said.

But the way he said it, and the way he was looking at me, made me think he wasn't talking about cleaning blood anymore. I was also sure my cheeks had turned at least several shades pinker. So I ducked behind him and ran the now cold rag over his skin. His body tensed, and he hissed.

"Cold?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Good. You deserved that." I caught a hint of a smile in his reflection.

Once I was done with his back, I lifted his metal arm and slipped beneath it so I could work on his side. I set the arm on my shoulder and began to clean the blood caked to his skin between all the stitches. The metal plates shifted and moved on my shoulder as he adjusted his arm to be less heavy on me. I could see him watching me intently in the mirror.

"It doesn't bother you," he stated. I looked up.

"What doesn't bother me?" He looked at his arm and then back at me. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he was confused by something. But he just shook his head and kept his thoughts to himself. So I went back to work.

I managed to clean most of the blood off his chest and moved over to his other side. I ran the rag up the side of his neck and down his shoulder to his stomach before I remembered that I had told him he could do the rest on his own. But he made no complaints, and I said nothing until I'd cleaned up his torso. Then I stepped back and motioned toward his blood-matted hair.

"We should probably do something with that," I said.

"I don't know how to get it out without getting it wet."

"I can help if you lean over the sink. It might be tricky and it might hurt." I hopped onto the counter, and he leaned forward slowly. His hand pressed against his side, and he winced. "Sorry."

"It's fine." I had him turn his head to the side so I could clean out the mats of blood without getting the sutures wet. It wasn't easy, but he still didn't speak. "I hate doing this to you," I said as swirls of red and pink filled the sink. My hands were beginning to shake.

"Why?"

"Just–water freaks me out. I'd probably panic if you tried to do this to me." His metal fingers gripped the sink a little tighter, and I regretted thinking it out loud. I just wanted to fill the silence. I had a good reason for being afraid of water. Now I was sure he did too.

"I think that's it," I said after a while. I shut the water off, and he stood back so I could slide off the counter. He looked cleaner now. No longer caked in blood, ash, and sweat. But his skin was still paler than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The stitches were puffy and swollen.

"Are you sure you don't need my help with the rest?" I asked. "You can barely move as it is."

"All the more reason I should do it on my own," he told me. He picked up the rag and wrung it out in the sink.

I shook my head. I didn't understand what he was trying to say. He gave me the same almost sarcastic look through the mirror, and I realized I was looking at Sergeant James Barnes. The man Steve referred to as a "smart ass" on more than one occasion. It occurred to me that he'd been like this the night before too. Even when he threatened Graham, it didn't seem like anything other than the empty threats of an irritated man.

"I just don't think it would end well," he said slowly. I shook my head again

"I don't know what you mean." The corners of his lips turned up into my favorite hint of a smile. It made my stomach twist up in knots all over again. I didn't know how much he remembered about me, but I remembered everything. And it felt like we were falling back into the patterns that had taken us time to build the last time. Then he looked down at the sink and focused on the water.

"If you help me, I'll end up injured. Even if it's just my ego."

Then I stared at him for a few more seconds, blinking as my brain tried to comprehend what he was trying to imply. Was he flirting with me? Then I remembered what else Steve said to describe him. "Horrible flirt." My eyes narrowed, and I put my hands on my hips.

"James Barnes," I started, but I ended up just scoffing because I couldn't get anything else to come out. He made me flustered.

His expression was unreadable, and I wasn't sure if he'd meant it to flirt with me or if I was just reading something that wasn't actually between the lines. So I opened the door to escape, but before I shut it again, I popped my head back in.

"For the record, James, I've never injured your ego." Then I shut the door to give him privacy.