Hell Bound

Thirty-Two

I was already exhausted. It was probably the combination of constant cleaning and everything else that happened during the day. I just wanted to shut down. So after dinner, Graham went back to his book, and Bucky returned to his quest to decode Russell's book. But he set it on the arm of the couch, and when he noticed me looking sleepy, he motioned for me to lie down. I rested my head on his lap and shut my eyes.

"You should go to bed," he said since I didn't appear any closer to sleep.

"I would if I could shut my mind off," I explained. But then I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "I think I'll just take another shower or something. You can join me if you want."

"Gross," Graham muttered.

"Oh, shut up." Bucky glanced between the two of us.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," he decided.

"Do you need help up the stairs?"

"I think I can manage. It's getting easier." I stood up and headed toward the stairs.

"Should I get the MP3 player?" Graham muttered. I knew he was joking, but I shot him a glare anyway.

"Probably," I admitted. Then I headed up.

"Disgusting," he whispered.

I'd already taken a shower that morning, but I didn't want to just sit there and watch TV. I was too exhausted to keep cleaning. There was nothing else to do. Maybe I just wanted a few minutes alone. So I turned on the water and climbed in. Then I sat down on the shower floor and wrapped my arms around my knees.

I had to remember something.

Three days, Bucky said. Three days between the day I killed my squad and the day they operated on my shoulder. Waking up from surgery was a sharper memory. Russell was with me. He told me that no one else made it back. We were lucky to be alive. I didn't even know they were dead, let alone that I'd killed them.

My memories were still hazy. I could recall the memories I'd had before, but not with the same clarity. I knew I'd seen Jimenez take a bullet as he ran for me. Initially, I saw it strike him from the side. I saw his head snap in that direction. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

But now I remembered something different. I still saw him running for me. But this time, the bullet came from the front and hit him in the forehead. He fell forward from the momentum of his run. I didn't want that one to be real. If the bullet came from the front, it meant it was mine. But Bucky said there was no record of friendly fire at all. No record that I'd ever been taken into custody.

And what about the rest of the team? I'd only seen three of them die. But I was convinced I'd killed the others too. I just couldn't remember how or when. There was nothing passed the memory of shooting Jimenez.

I rested my head on my knees. The water hit me in the back, but it dripped into my face and made it hard to breathe. My instinct was to jerk back up, get away from the water, and spare my lungs. But it felt so familiar. And not the one memory. The one I knew for sure was real. The taste of dirt and soap. It was a different memory. A different taste. Something connected.

I remembered water in my lungs. The taste of blood in my mouth. Fear. Pain in my shoulder. Fingers gripping the hair at the back of my head.

Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped. My heart leaped, and I sat up but kept my arms around my knees, breathing in sharply. I had to remind myself that it wasn't real. I was okay. I was safe. No one was forcing my head underwater.

"You can come in," I said after a moment. I knew it was Bucky anyway. The door opened, but I couldn't see him behind the curtain.

"Are you sure you want me to join you?" he asked. The sound of his voice eased my anxiety more than I expected. I wanted his arms around me again.

"Yeah, it's fine."

The door shut, and a moment later, the curtain moved back. But he was still dressed. He looked down at me on the bottom of the shower.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I shook my head.

"I'm fine. But you can't get your stitches wet. I forgot."

"I didn't bring the plastic wrap." I laughed at the thought of him covered in plastic wrap.

"It's fine. I'll be done in a minute. I just needed some time to think." He didn't look like he wanted to leave me there, but he probably didn't want to go back down the stairs for the plastic wrap either.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I'm just—trying to remember." He nodded slowly again. This time, it seemed to make sense.

"I'll wait in your room."

"Okay." He hesitated but then shut the curtain and left the bathroom. I dropped my head again and pinched my eyes closed.

Nothing else was coming to me, and I was almost grateful for it. So after a few minutes, I turned the water off and climbed out. The mirror was foggy, but I hadn't been in there long enough to make it completely opaque. I caught a glimpse of myself and then leaned against the counter with my hands.

My reflection usually didn't bother me. I knew I didn't look great as of late. My eyes were always tired. Not innocent, like my mom said. Worn. Exhausted. My hair was always messy, and I hadn't got a trim in a long time. I was skinnier than I'd been in years. I used to train a lot when I worked for SHIELD. But now, my arms were thin. I could see my own ribs. Scars consumed both of my shoulders. One showed a clear entry mark and surgical line. The other looked like I'd been shredded.

"Whoever dug the bullet out either didn't know what the hell they were doing, or they were trying to make you suffer," that's what Bucky said.

Russell was there when I woke up from surgery. Three days after I'd been shot. The surgery wasn't to remove the bullet, I realized. It was to repair the damage. From being shredded. From being tortured.

I could still feel those fingers at the back of my head. Digging into my hair as they gripped me and forced my head still. So they could hold me under the water that tasted metallic with my own blood.

I understood why Bucky broke my mirror. If I could guarantee that I'd shatter it instead of my bones, I'd probably have done the same. I didn't want to look at myself anymore. I quickly dried off, wrapped myself in a towel, and headed down the hall to my bedroom.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of my bed, writing in his notebook. He lifted his head when I came in and watched me shut the door.

"Are you okay?" he repeated. I shook my head and went to the other side of the bed. I thought about finding another clean pair of sweats to wear. But instead, I just sat on the mattress. I could feel him shift behind me. "I shouldn't have come back here," he said.

"Don't say that," I told him. "I'm glad you're here. Even if it means I can't—avoid things anymore."

"Was it easier for you? When you could?"

"No." I took a deep breath and stared out the window. The neighbor's porch light was off. So I couldn't see any shadowy branches. "I always thought there was something wrong with me. When I got home, I believed I had no reason to feel the way I did. But I think I must have known something was missing. Whatever I saw there and whatever they made me forget. I could feel the hole it left behind. I also think that maybe I have a hard time remembering because I just don't want to."

"And you want to remember now?" I looked down at my hands and examined my fingers. I could still feel the memory of metal cuffs around my wrists, locking them behind my back so I couldn't fight whoever had me by the hair.

"I don't want to remember, but I think I have to. I think I owe them that much. I went to their funerals. I watched them get put in the ground. Talked to their parents and spouses and their children. I looked them in the eyes, and I didn't even know I was the reason they were all dead. If I can remember what I did to them. Or why...."

"The guilt will overwhelm you, Jo," he told me. "I know that better than anyone." I shook my head again.

"I know that. Maybe it's what I deserve."

He shifted again, moving across the bed to my side. His hand touched my back, and I turned to face him, but I couldn't meet his eyes.

"You don't deserve that," he assured me.

"If I can remember, maybe I can find a way to atone. To find—justice for them in some way."

"Guilt can cloud your objective. Justice won't set you free." I finally looked into his eyes.

"Is that why you're here? Because you feel guilty? Because you think this is your fault?" I asked. "You know you're at risk by being here."

"I'm here because I didn't have anywhere else to go. But I want to help you find out what they want from you because I feel guilty. I'll never be able to atone for everything I've done or the damage I've caused. But if I can do one good thing. If I can fix one mistake. Then maybe I can...." He didn't finish his sentence. I didn't think he knew what it would get him if he managed to do it. Because it was like he said. Justice wouldn't set him free. Helping me would never absolve him of that guilt.

"Do you think it was a mistake to come here?" I questioned. He didn't answer right away. But the look on his face told me enough. It was a mistake. "It's okay," I said. Then I moved back around and put my head in my hands. I didn't want to seem emotional, but the entire day had been too much. I didn't want to cry, but I wanted to scream. Or throw something. I did neither.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he spoke. "Because I'm here, and your life gets more complicated every day. I can't change that." I sat up and turned to face him again.

"It does matter what you think. Your thoughts matter. And it matters to me."

He studied me, realizing that he'd upset me. His eyebrows were furrowed again, and his eyes were wide. I could see what my mother meant by "innocent eyes." It looked to me like it never occurred to him that his thoughts mattered. Despite everything we'd gone through and talked about and how much of himself he was regaining. It was still hard for him to understand how someone cared enough to know what he thought. I wanted his opinion, even if I disagreed with it.

"I don't think it was a mistake to come here," he finally said. "Either time. Choosing to know you is one of the few good choices I've made in my life." He shook his head and looked away. "I wouldn't change it. But this is the first chance I've had to fix something that I've done. I hurt you. Even if I didn't mean to. I have to make it up to you." I sighed and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face in his neck and shut my eyes. His arm came around me.

"You didn't hurt me," I insisted. "You just made me see what was already there."

"I still have to fix it."

"We can fix it together." He dropped his head on my shoulder. The metal arm came around me too. He held me tightly, but he didn't say another word.