Hell Bound

I didn't know many places where Graham might find a job. I almost considered taking him to the diner just because I was familiar with the woman who ran the place. But I couldn't picture him running around that place all day with a 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.

"Well, if they're hiring. But no. I just wanted to show you something," I told him.

Once we parked, he followed me out of the car, and I led him right to Steve's exhibit. He was quiet at first, and I guessed he was trying to figure out why the hell I'd brought him there. But he didn't ask until I brought him into the main room. Where a line of mannequins were all dressed up to resemble the famous Howling Commandos.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked. I was looking up at the painting of Bucky above the display. 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. It was sometimes hard to believe he was the same person. His face flashed across video screens. Images of him with Steve during the war. When they were close friends with their whole lives ahead of them. They laughed, joked around, and looked as close as Steve said they were. Graham didn't seem to piece it together. Or maybe Bucky's scowl was enough that Graham couldn't even see him in the man who'd appeared bloody and half dead in my kitchen the night before.

"This way," I instructed.

Then I headed into the hall through each display of every Commando. I stopped before Bucky's. There was a single photo of his young face and a brief description of his friendship with Steve and all his accomplishments. The voiceover went through the process of reading it to us, ending the story with his death.

"Bucky Barnes," Graham said from my side. I nodded slowly.

"Do you get it now?" I asked. 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 to go through the rest of the exhibit. Instead, we headed for the exit and stayed silent until we were safely in the car again.

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

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

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

"You know who James Barnes was?"

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

"I did say he was resilient."

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

"I won't go into specifics because it's not my story to tell. 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 should be dead," he repeated.

"And so should Steve." I took another deep breath. "Just—Bucky—what they did to him—it wasn't his fault, okay? He didn't volunteer like Steve did. They forced it on him. They forced him to do a lot of bad things. But he was a victim, and a lot of people are going to want somewhere to place the blame. That's why we couldn't take him to a hospital. That's why we can't tell anyone where he is. Not Stark, none of your friends, your family, your therapist. Not even Steve Rogers."

"What exactly did they make him do?"

"They made him forget who he was. And they—built him into a perfect weapon."

"And wouldn't Cap want to know he's okay?"

"I know that he would, but it's not our call to make. Bucky doesn't want him to know. As I said, there are a lot of people who want him dead. Contacting Steve now could potentially put his life in danger." I paused, and he didn't interject. "I never wanted you to get involved in all this. I didn't know he'd come back. I haven't seen him in months, and I didn't even think he knew who I was anymore."

"How could he not know you?"

"They did something to him. To make him forget. Everything. And I was just barely getting to know him when they made him forget me too. Does that make any sense?"

"None of this makes any sense."

"If you want to walk away, I'll completely understand. I can still help you because I promised I would. I can give you money to stay at a motel. I'll help you find a job. But you can't tell anyone about him. Not a whisper. Not ever. Promise me that you'll, at least, do that for me."

"Sure. I promise. Who would I tell anyway? You're the only person I ever talk to anymore."

"If you help me—in the future when this is all over, and we find a way to make things right—you'd have a lot of powerful allies, okay? Me, I'm not much. But I lack in skills I make up for in connections." He huffed.

"I'll say."

"My point is that once we get this figured out—Captain America will be really grateful. Sam by association. Bucky would never let anything happen to you. But he has to gain your trust first, understand?"

"I don't think I really have a use for powerful allies."

"Tony does throw really great parties, though."

"I got it. Yeah. No talking. What guy on the couch? I don't know any guy on the couch."

"Well, if Stark asks—I told him I have 'friends' staying over. I said a couple of guys from the meetings. Stark monitors my house. So he knows when there's more than one person there."

"He sounds kind of like a stalker." I laughed.

"Yeah, I've said that too. He's trying to protect me. For my sister."

"Well, with the kind of friends you make, I guess he'd have to. Can I ask like maybe one more question?"

"Shoot."

"He's not just a regular guy who happens to have a cyborg arm, is he?" he asked. I shook my head. "He's something more."

"So much more," I confirmed.

"Alright. I'm gonna get murdered by a hundred-year-old cyborg man. Could be worse ways to die, I suppose."

"I think he's ninety-seven or ninety-eight. And he's not going to murder you."

"Oh, ninety-seven. That makes all the difference."

"That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'I'm not a kid; I'm twenty-three."

"Totally different," he muttered. "I'm a legal adult. Bucky is old enough to qualify for senior discounts. Can I ask you one more thing then?"

"I guess."

"You said he can't remember. So then why is he here?" I shrugged.

"I don't know. I think he knows enough. And like I said, it was probably just a matter of convenience. He was here, and I was the closest person he thought was potentially trustworthy. Or at least, I was the closest person to give him medical care without turning him over."

"Does it bother you that he doesn't remember?"

"I don't think I'm allowed to be bothered by it."

"What does that even mean?" he asked.

"I imagine it's much harder to not remember the people who know you."

"That doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel anything, you doofus. I knew people who lost limbs, remember? In the same blast that almost took my leg. Just because they lost something and I didn't, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop taking my meds, or I'm not allowed to feel pain. Just because someone has it worse doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel." I took a deep breath and sighed.

"It hurts," I admitted.

"How much?"

"A lot." I took another shaky breath. "I hate that he doesn't remember me, alright? I hate that he asks so many questions. I hate that you think he looks at me like he cares, and I have no idea if it's true or not. I'm not sure if he remembers enough to know or if it's just a gut feeling. I hate that he flirts with me, and I can't tell if it's because he's just naturally flirty or because he actually feels something for me. I hate that he can't be alone with a mirror for ten minutes without shattering it, and I can't do anything to comfort him."

"What makes you think you can't?"

"Because I don't know how. He's been through so much worse than I can even imagine. I'm barely hanging on most days myself. How can I comfort someone who's gone through something so traumatic?"

"Maybe you should just tell him how you feel," he said, leaning on the window to gaze outside at the passing city streets. "Sometimes, all people really need is to just not be alone."

"I don't think it'll be enough."

"To what? Save him? You can't save everyone, Jo. But it's much easier for people to save themselves if they know they're loved."

I didn't have anything to say to that.