Hell Bound

Thirteen

When we got home, I hurried into the house to see if Bucky was still there and okay. But when I busted through the front door, the living room was empty. Graham came in behind me and set the box on the floor.

"Damn it," I said. He shut the door and looked around at the evidence Bucky had left in his wake. The TV was still on, and the blankets were messy from use. But the water bottles and snacks I'd left were gone. So was the bottle of ibuprofen.

"This is something he does a lot, huh?" Graham asked. He jumped right into cleaning out the box.

"Ugh," was my response. I headed right for the stairs. "It's my least favorite trait!"

I went to my room to change and be alone while I sulked. But when I reached the room, I found Bucky sitting on the edge of my bed. He was facing the window with his back to me. I almost jumped.

"Shit," I said, clutching my chest. "I thought you left." He turned to glance at me. His skin was still pale. Stubble had taken over his chin and jaw, and the circles under his eyes were glaringly dark. He looked exhausted.

"I tried," he admitted, turning back to the window. "Didn't get very far." I approached the bed and sat down on his other side. The blinds were open, but the room was dim thanks to the tree that shaded the leaves from the slowly setting sun. I could just make out the sky beyond the dying leaves.

"What are you doing up here?" I asked after a long moment. He shook his head slowly. His blue eyes were still focused on the window as if he was deep in thought.

"Trying to remember. I didn't want you to find me up here. I just..."

"Couldn't get back down the stairs?" His jaw tightened as if he hated admitting he was in too much pain to move. He didn't like feeling vulnerable. But then he nodded, and I knew he was only admitting it because he trusted me enough to know I wouldn't use it against him. Or at least, he was giving me the chance to prove it.

"This isn't the first time I've been injured," he explained. "But they always had ways to make it stop. I've never had to deal with it on my own before." I reached out to take his hand. It was warm and callused. He looked like he hadn't expected me to touch him.

"You're not on your own." He glanced at me quickly before turning back to the window. I kept my grip on his hand, and he didn't try to pull away. "Did it work? Have you remembered anything?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I have something–but then it slips away."

"Like what?" He stayed silent for a moment, studying the shadows the trees left on the walls. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, but he seemed at peace. Whatever chaos that caused him to break my mirror this morning was now subdued, if not gone. At least for the moment.

"Not memories," he finally said. "Just–familiar. Like I know things, but I don't–I don't know why or how I know them."

"What exactly feels familiar to you?"

"The shadows." He motioned his free hand toward the walls. The shadows swayed lightly in a silent breeze. "I feel like–like I've seen this before."

"My house is familiar to you?"

"Parts of it." He moved his metal hand over my comforter. It was the same boring floral pattern Romanoff picked out when she redecorated my house. "I feel like I've seen this before. I know what the sheets feel like, but I can't recall a specific memory."

"It'll come back to you. It did before." He turned to look at me again. This time, his expression relaxed as his blue eyes examined my face. Then he reached out to touch a metal thumb to my lip. He was gentle, and the metal was smooth and cold.

"Every time–I feel like I lose more and more of myself. I feel like there's less of him now than there was when I was here before."

"Less of who?" I asked, even though I was pretty sure I understood.

"James Barnes." I nodded slowly. "That's why I broke the mirror. I was gripping the frame, and I held on too tight."

"I understand."

"But I feel safe here," he continued. "It's the first time in," he paused to shake his head, "it feels like the first time I can remember feeling safe. And I know there has to be a reason." I moved my hand up his arm, feeling the ridges and plates of metal, all the way to where my fingers grazed scarred skin.

"Some part of you must remember something," I said.

"I've been in this room before," he stated. I nodded.

"Yeah, you have."

"I slept in this room." I nodded again.

"Yes."

"You were with me."

"I was."

"You were..." I wanted to hear what he was going to say, but he stopped and turned his head to the side. As if he could hear something I couldn't. Then, a moment later, I heard a clumsy footstep on the landing.

We immediately put space between us. Like we were two teenagers almost caught kissing in the dark. But he kept his hand on mine, and I didn't take it back. I didn't want us to lose our connection entirely. Graham appeared in the doorway and peeked inside.

"Oh, you're still here," he noticed.

The switch flipped. Bucky's shoulders tensed. His spine went straight, pulling at the many stitches on his chest and stomach. His expression darkened, and he looked toward the door.

"So are you," he said. But his voice had gone from soft and gentle right back to vaguely threatening. I let go of his hand and stood up.

"We should get you back downstairs while we have the chance," I told him. "I was thinking of getting pizza for dinner. If that's cool with everyone. But I need to check your sutures and get the towels out of the dryer."

"Yeah, alright. I'll help," Graham said. "If that's okay." He sent a sarcastic look at Bucky. Bucky gave me a dark look. I didn't want him to hurt my friend for being a smart ass. So I sent the look right back. Bucky stood slowly and then nodded in his effort to be polite.

"I'd appreciate it," he said, but it sounded forced.

I wrapped my arm around his waist, and his came to rest over my shoulder. He was still having trouble moving his feet, and I wondered how long it took him to get up the stairs in the first place. He didn't accept Graham's offer of help until we reached the top of the stairs. Then his metal arm went over the kid's shoulders, and I knew he was either in serious pain or trying to inflict it. Probably both. Because by the time we reached the bottom floor, his face had gone several shades paler, he began to sweat, and Graham was grimacing. Like he'd just been slowly tortured with five pieces of blunt metal.

I took it from there. Bucky dropped his arm from Graham's shoulder, and the kid immediately began to rub the place where his fingers had been. I helped Bucky limp back to the couch, and he sat down with an irritated sigh. He looked up at me as I fussed over him with the blanket and pillow.

"Give him a chance," I whispered when I caught him staring at me.

"I am giving him a chance. He'd be dead if I wasn't."

"Then try to refrain from digging your fingers into his shoulder blades. He's just a kid."

"Twenty-three," Graham reminded me from the hallway.

"And stop eavesdropping!" I snapped, but Graham disappeared into the kitchens, snickering to himself. When I turned back, there was a hint of a smile on the corners of Bucky's lips. Maybe their shared joy at needling me would bond them.

"I'll stop," he said. I smiled back, satisfied.

"Good."

"But only for you."

"Ugh." I rolled my eyes and headed toward the hallway.