Hell Bound

I couldn't sleep. And not for the usual reason. The problem was that I couldn't even fall asleep, even though I was already so tired. I heard when the TV shut off later and the sound of Graham clunking up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. I waited a little longer, hoping to give him enough time to fall asleep. Then I left my bed and crept down the stairs.

Bucky was already pressed up against the back of the couch as if he anticipated me joining him. He looked like he was asleep, though, and I didn't want to bother him. I tried to lift the blanket and climb in next to him without waking him. But his arm instantly moved to give me a place to rest my head. He pulled the blanket up over my shoulders.

"We need to talk," he said in a low rumbly voice as I got comfortable against his chest.

"I know," I replied.

"You can't keep avoiding it." I sighed.

"I know. I just don't think it'll do any good." He rested his chin on the top of my head.

"Why won't you fight back?"

"Because my only options are to fight them head-on or hide behind my friends. I can't do either of those things."

"What makes you think you can't? You have powerful friends."

"Friends who would lock me up if it meant keeping me safe. Even if it made me miserable. Stark already crosses a line monitoring my house."

"They could teach you how to fight."

"And do what exactly? I can't shoot a gun without freezing. I can't even lift my arms up very far. I can't function most days without half a gallon of coffee. I can barely use a knife. I'd still just be one person against an entire organization."

"You have powerful friends," he repeated. And this time, I got the feeling he was lumping himself into that category.

"The more people who get involved, the more people who can wind up hurt. I'm not going to risk anyone else just to keep myself safe. Least of all, my sister. The farther from her I am, the safer she is. I already feel bad enough bringing you and Graham into this."

"I was already involved. It's my fault."

"It isn't your fault."

"You know that's not true." I leaned on my elbow so I could look down at him.

"Buck, what exactly do they want me for?" I asked. He shut his eyes again. He looked like he wanted to rub them in frustration. But his only free hand was made of metal, so it stayed firmly on my hip.

"As far as I can remember—there have only been two instances where they've asked me to bring someone in alive. You and a biological research engineer in nineteen-eighty-four. Her husband was a special ops soldier, and it took me a full year to track them down. When I finally located her, she jumped off a bridge to escape me. She knew what they wanted her for, and she chose to die instead. They never told me what it was. Not that I can remember. But they'd have no reason to anyway. I did what they asked, and I didn't question it."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because I have reason to believe her husband was Daryl Russell." He opened his eyes again and looked up at me. I shook my head slowly before moving off the couch to sit on the coffee table. My living room was dark, only lit by glowing stripes through the blinds.

"It's a fairly common name," I tried.

"Which would make it a good name for an alias. I wouldn't have told you if I had any reason to believe it was someone else."

"I just—don't know what to say." I stood up and headed toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. I wasn't thirsty, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but I needed a distraction until I could get him to stop talking.

It wasn't enough. I heard his hand on the hallway wall as he tried to balance himself on careful steps. When I turned back around, he was standing just behind me. Only inches away.

"Whatever they want," he started, "it had nothing to do with me. At first. Your records, your history, most of it is incomplete. I've been trying to put the pieces together, but there's just not enough. If I didn't know any better, I'd think Johanna Hayes is an alias too. Which makes me think that someone has already gone through the trouble of removing whatever's missing. All I know is that information only disappears when it's significant. And they've been doing this for a very long time. So it must mean that they've wanted you for just as long. They just didn't know who they were looking for. Until I walked into your life and shined a light on you. Which makes this my fault. If someone wanted you in hiding—then I should have kept you in hiding."

I was pushing to breathe through the heaviness in my chest. I didn't know what he was trying to say. Especially if this, whatever it was, went that far into my past. It was easy to believe they only wanted to use me against their precious Asset. But if it ran much deeper, it would be far more deadly. And hurt far more people.

I thought back to the last dream I had. My last memory of the day I was shot. I'd seen the shooter's face a thousand times in my head, but I'd never been able to recall it with exact likeness. As if my brain had just filled in the image of a generic cut-out. But now, I could see the image of Russell's face clearly in my mind. I knew the exact shade of his dark hair in the sunlight. The sweat and dirt and the spattering of Tran's blood on his face. The look caught between concern and hesitation. Right before he shot me.

Not a shot to kill, I reminded myself. Just to get me down. The one piece in the puzzle I'd never been able to make sense of. Why hadn't the shooter killed me? Why hadn't he aimed for my face? Because he was just trying to prevent me from killing anyone else.

"Why would…," I started as I looked back at Bucky. The neighbor's porchlight left a green glow on his bare skin. He had that emotionless but stern mask back on his face. "Why would Russell, if it is the same Russell, why would he deliberately tamper with my records?"

"To protect you." I moved passed him and turned back to the hallway. "Johanna?" he said when I reached the doorway. I paused but didn't look back at him. "Russell's history has as many holes as yours does. But his life didn't start until nineteen-eighty-six."

"What do you mean?"

"Daryl Russell is an alias. Whoever he was before then—I haven't been able to figure it out. So that's what I've been trying to do." I nodded slowly and then continued on my way.

"Let's get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning."

I could tell that Bucky wouldn't be able to make it up the stairs. He could barely walk down the hall without holding onto the walls for support. His face was emotionless, but his jaw tightened every time he moved. His steps were careful and cautious. And once he reached the couch, he nearly collapsed beside me. I stood to make room for him to lie down. I would have just gone back to bed to avoid talking, but I didn't want to spend the night without him. He didn't fit the couch very well, but he didn't complain. He pulled the blanket back over us, and I pressed my hand to the row of stitches on his stomach.

"What happened exactly? It was a government building, wasn't it? Was anyone hurt?" I inquired.

"It was dirty," he explained. "I was trying to find information. There were no casualties reported on the news."

"Information about what?"

"Russell and his wife." I nodded slowly and felt his arm come back around me. "He disappeared after you were discharged. No sign of him. Which means he's probably using another alias. He probably has a whole handful of them. He's good at hiding. And I don't have the same resources that I had before."

"I saw him maybe two years ago? At a funeral. He gave me a book."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yeah, it's on the shelf."

He sighed heavily. I couldn't see his face, but I was almost sure his eyes were closed. I'd never seen him so tired before. I knew he slept when he could, but he woke quickly and never needed caffeine to stay on his feet. Steve was like that too, so it wasn't unexpected. But now, Bucky seemed exhausted all the time. He'd fall asleep even when I was in the room. He limped around my house and lounged on the couch. He sighed. I'd never heard him sigh before. His pain must be worse than he was letting on.

"Hurts still, doesn't it?" I asked, moving my hand back up his chest. His skin tensed.

"Yes," he admitted.

"We'll look at the book in the morning. You need to rest. I can leave you alone if you want."

"I sleep better when you're here."

"Why?" He took a deep breath before answering.

"Because I wouldn't be able to get to you quickly if you were upstairs."

"Because you don't trust Graham."

"I don't trust anyone."

"But you trust me?"

"I trust my gut."

"And what is it telling you?"

"That you're keeping something from me. But you're not doing a very good job of it." I looked up at him, confused.

"What do you mean?" He opened his eyes and smiled lazily at me. His arm moved just enough for him to brush his fingers over my cheek. I shut my eyes in response. The butterflies danced back to life in my chest.

"You're here, aren't you?" he whispered. I guess I couldn't argue with that. So I just nuzzled in closer and kept my hand on his chest over his heart.