Hell Bound

Twenty-Six

I forgot that Bucky had trouble with the stairs until I was in the kitchen getting waffles ready. He didn't seem to have any problems with pain once I got him to relent and let me take over. So it didn't dawn on me until I got the waffle maker going, and he still hadn't appeared in the kitchen.

"Aw, crap," I said once I remembered. Then I hurried out of the kitchen and found him stuck on the landing, clutching the banister with his metal hand. His right hand was pressed tightly to his side. "They didn't rip, did they?"

"Just pulled," he said between clenched teeth.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot. Come sit down." I wrapped my arm around him and helped him hobble back to the couch. He sat down with a sigh, and I moved onto my knees to examine the stitches more carefully in the sunlight.

I was still prodding at the sutures when the front door opened. Bucky's hand quickly slid into the couch cushions for the gun, but it was just Graham.

"Goodness," he said, stepping inside and shutting the door. "Sock on the doorknob."

"Oh, shut up. I was just checking his stitches." He still had his head turned away dramatically, and Bucky still had his hand in the couch cushions. Graham waved some papers in our direction.

"Right, well. Gonna go fill these out." He hurried off down the hall to the kitchen, and I looked up at Bucky. He watched Graham leave and then moved his hand back into his lap. His eyes turned to mine.

"I told you he would think that," he remarked. I smiled and trailed my finger down his stomach, enjoying how it made him tense.

"Well, he wasn't wrong," I reminded him. He returned the smile and smoothed my hair out of my face. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from smiling like an idiot. I could see exactly what Graham meant by "starry-eyed," and I was pretty sure I had that look on my face right then.

"Um—are you cooking waffles?" Graham asked from the kitchen.

"Shit," I said, bolting away from the couch.

"You should really get a timer for that thing," Graham said. He was sitting at the table filling out applications while I jumped around the waffle maker, trying to salvage breakfast.

"Good idea. You can buy me one when you get hired." He groaned.

"If that ever happens."

"What makes you think it won't?"

"Burrito torpedo, remember?"

"Right. You might want to cut back on that."

"Well, Arbys seems promising. The guy seemed really enthusiastic when we talked." I went to get a plate from the cupboard, and he yelped from behind me again. "Christ Almighty," he whispered. "You really gotta stop doing that." I turned around, and Bucky was standing in the kitchen.

"I just wanted something to drink," he said.

"Oh jeez. Sorry. I'll get you some water," I told him.

"It's alright. I can do it myself." I knew he hated being helpless, so I stepped back as he went to get a glass from the cupboard. I glanced at Graham, who was staring down at his applications, his neck, and cheeks bright red from embarrassment. I looked back at Bucky and finally noticed the state he was in. He had red marks on one arm—his chest—and his neck. Marks that I had undoubtedly left behind without noticing. They would fade in a matter of minutes. But it was obvious what caused them. And what exactly I'd been doing when I caused them.