Hell Bound

Eleven

I didn't know of many places Graham could look for a job. I almost considered taking him to the diner because I was familiar with the woman who ran the place. But I couldn't picture him running around there all day with his bad knee. We made a few stops around the city before I took him to the Smithsonian. Steve's exhibit was still on display for a few more weeks.

"Don't tell me you want me to become a museum curator," he said in his usual cynical tone as I searched for a parking spot.

"Sure, because that's the only possible job you could do here, right? No, I just wanted to show you something."

Once we parked, he followed me out of the car, and I led him in, passing the other exhibits and heading right for Steve's. He was quiet at first, and I figured he was just trying to guess why the hell I'd brought him there in the first place. But he didn't ask until I brought him to the main room. Where a line of mannequins was all dressed up to resemble the famous Howling Commandos.

"Why'd you bring me here?" he asked. I was looking up at a mural with Bucky's face. Lovingly painted in my favorite scowl. The jacket on the mannequin was just a replica since he'd been wearing it the day he fell, and Bucky Barnes was lost forever.

He looked so different to me now. Even with the scowl on his painted face, there was something vibrant and alive in his eyes. It was sometimes hard to imagine they were the same person. His face flashed across video screens of Steve's history. There were images of them together during the war. When they were still childhood friends with their entire lives ahead of them. They laughed, joked around, and looked as close as Steve said they were. Graham still hadn't pieced it together. Maybe the difference between these men was so stark that he still couldn't recognize the man who'd appeared bloody and half dead in my kitchen the night before.

"This way," I told him.

Then I led him through the hall of Commandos. Each one had their own special display. I stopped before Bucky's. There was a single photo of his young face and a brief description of his life and friendship with Steve. A list of accomplishments that ended with his death.

"Bucky Barnes," Graham finally said to himself. I nodded slowly.

"Do you get it now?" He shook his head.

"Hell no. This just made everything a thousand times more complicated."

"I'll try to explain it in the car."

We didn't bother finishing the exhibit. We just headed right for the exit and stayed silent until we were back in the privacy of my car.

"Okay, so what the hell?" Graham burst out as soon as his seatbelt was buckled. I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into a half-assed explanation.

"What do you know about Captain America?" He shrugged.

"Enough. My dad hero-worshipped him, but I was young when he died. So I don't know anything more than what I learned in history class."

"Do you know who James Barnes is?"

"Well, I do NOW. He's supposed to be dead!"

"I did say he's resilient."

"Yeah, but what does that–Oh." I nodded slowly again.

"I won't go into specifics because he wouldn't like that. And he doesn't trust you enough to tell you himself. But the Bucky you saw in that exhibit is the same man you met last night."

"He's the other guy, isn't he? The one from the news when everything was happening with SHIELD?"

"Yes."