Hell Bound

My house was an unusually dull place. When I was on my own, I just watched a lot of TV and took naps in the middle of the day. Now I had two guests to entertain, and I didn't have the slightest idea about how to keep them busy. Thankfully, Graham seemed capable of keeping himself occupied. He ended up spending half the morning mowing the yard even though I insisted that he didn't need to. But Bucky wasn't as easy. Mostly because he couldn't sit still for very long. He followed me into the kitchen when I started on breakfast, and I had to give him a long lecture about ripped stitches just to make him sulk back to the couch. He looked miserable.

Then I remembered the conversation the night before. He'd asked about Russell's book. So while he was silently sulking on the couch, I went to the bookshelf to find it. It was the first one Graham picked up when he got there, and he'd shoved it back into place and abandoned it in favor of something else. I located it and tossed it onto the couch beside Bucky. Then minutes later, he asked for a pen and busied himself by reading and scribbling in a notebook for the rest of the day.

I didn't ask him what he was up to. I never even cracked the book open. I didn't even know what it was about or why it was interesting enough for him to take notes. If that's even what he was doing. Every time me or Graham walked into the living room, he would casually move the notebook out of sight and barely acknowledge us beyond brief eye contact or a nod. Or, in my case, a partial smile that seemed oddly suggestive.

After we finished dinner, I tried to get them to watch another movie with me. But Graham had gotten into whichever book he'd decided to read, and Bucky was busy with the one Russell gave me. So I sat on the couch beside him until it was late enough to attempt sleep.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," I said.

"Eh," Graham replied in acknowledgment. Bucky looked up like he'd lost track of time. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs again. He glanced between me, the book, and Graham.

"I need to talk to you," he told me. "Alone."

"We can talk later," I assured him. Because he knew as well as I did that I'd be back before the night was over.

"Where's that MP3 player at again?" Graham quietly muttered from the chair. He was stretched across it with his feet within Bucky's reach. He was either very trusting or not very bright. I shot him a glare even though he hadn't bothered to look up. He turned a page, and I wanted to chuck another pillow at his head.

"On the desk in your room," I growled. Then I turned to head up the stairs.

"Thank you," he called after me in a singsong voice.

"Bite me."

"I've never actually been into that."

"Oh, for the love of God."

"Ouch!" he yelped from below. "What was that for?"

"Show some respect," Bucky warned. Then I smiled to myself. Graham definitely learned his lesson about keeping his feet so close to Bucky's arm.

"Alright. Alright. Sorry. It was a joke."

"Disrespect her again, and I'll break your other kneecap."

"Alright, I get it. I'm sorry."

Once I was back in my room, I realized I didn't want to be there. At least not alone. I didn't really want to talk about whatever Bucky wanted to discuss with me. But I still wanted to talk to him. I spent half a year wondering where he was and if he was okay. Now he was downstairs on my couch, and I was in my room alone. I didn't want to invite him there either. But only because I didn't want to hear whatever stupid comment Graham was going to come up with next. Or even give him a chance to suggest I wanted Bucky there for anything other than talking.

Which, of course, wasn't entirely true. But I didn't want him to know that either.

So I got ready for bed, and then I laid there for a long time staring at the shadows and thinking. I almost wished I'd brought a book. Maybe I should give reading another chance. I wasn't even sure what I was waiting for. Just that it was troubling me enough to keep sleep away, and I couldn't sit in the living room watching TV. I was bored with my life in general.

I stared at the shadows until Graham walked up the stairs to his room. I wasn't sure if he'd actually gone to get the MP3 player, but I was hoping he'd be too distracted to hear me if I got up. I waited a few more minutes to give him a chance to get to bed. I didn't know how long it would take for him to fall asleep, but I was hoping he at least had headphones on.

I climbed out of bed and opened my bedroom door. I listened, but the house was silent. There was still a light on downstairs, so Bucky was definitely awake. I crept down the hall and turned to walk down, but then I paused. He was already on the stairs, clutching the banister at the landing as he tried to pull himself up.

"What are you doing?" I asked, rushing down to his side. "You shouldn't be moving."

"I needed to talk to you about the book," he told me, voice strained.

"Come on."

I wrapped my arm around his ribs and tried to help him up the stairs. I wasn't much help at all, but we managed to make it to the top, where he could walk the rest of the way on his own. When we reached my bedroom, I shut the door and turned to face him. He was looking around at the shadows on the walls. His eyebrows knitted, and his lips parted. Like he was deep in thought.

"Familiar?" I asked. He nodded slowly.

"I remember," he said.

"How much?" He shook his head.

"Just—flashes." He limped over to the bed and sat down with his back to the window as if blocking off the flood of memories. But it didn't work. He rubbed the exposed sheet between his fingers, studying them with that same thoughtful expression. "I slept here," he said. "On this side."

"Yeah."

"I remember your skin." I walked around the bed and stopped just in front of him.

"What about it?" He moved his hand out and gripped my wrist. He ran his thumb over my skin and focused on that with determination.

"It was warm." He moved to my waist and pulled me in closer. "And damp." His hand slid up the back of my shirt to the small of my back. My breathing hitched. The butterflies were doing a number in my chest and stomach. "Right here." My breathing was too ragged for me to get anything out. I had a distinct memory of the way he'd held onto my hips, sliding his fingers over my bare back, guiding me. I nodded quickly.

"Yeah—I guess so." His eyes moved back to my face, but then he seemed to snap back to attention. The memory slipped away.

"The book," he said. "I left it."

"We can look at it tomorrow. It's late. It's dark." I wanted him to remember more.

"The kid. I don't want him to overhear."

"We can stay up here. He won't question it." His eyebrows furrowed.

"He won't?" I shook my head slowly.

"We're all adults here. He's twenty-three, remember? We don't usually question why other adults are alone together."

"He'll think…." He stopped, and my eyes widened with expectation. The man had his hand on the bare skin of my back, telling me how he remembered me being damp and warm, and he was worried about what the kid would think. Then he stood up, but he kept his hand on my back, so I didn't move away. He stood over me, our faces just inches apart, and I was finding it very difficult to breathe.

"There's a code," he said in a low voice. "In the book." I was too distracted to think about codes. He had to know that.

"Can I ask you something?" He was staring into my eyes like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Like he was struggling against the urge to kiss me just as much as I was struggling to keep my hands off the heat of his chest.

"Yes."

"Graham said that—the other night he told you that he thought—that you looked at me like I was the most beautiful and important person in your life. He said you told him something. I want to know what you said—If you're willing to tell me." He studied my face for a moment as if he never wanted to forget a single part of me.

"Johanna." It was "Yo-honna" again. Not Jo. Which somehow felt even more personal than the nickname only used by my closest family and friends.

"He also said that we shouldn't…."

"Be dumb, I know. He said that I should be clear and honest. Just in case I don't get another chance." I nodded.

"Right."

"He said that I shouldn't keep it to myself. But it's not…."

"It's not what?"

"Either of us could die—tomorrow—without having said a word. But if I say it and that's what gets you killed, should I still do it?"

"What makes you think it would get me killed?"

"You already said you're not ready to let me go. You know I can't stay here. I've done—so many terrible things. I'm not just running from them anymore."

"I know, and I already know I can't go with you. But I want you to know that you have a place here. That you could always come back to—if that's ever an option for you."

"Is that really what you want? What if they never come for you and you stay here with your little house and your job and your friend? I wouldn't be able to come around. I wouldn't even be able to tell you if I'm alive. Are you gonna spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost?"

"I don't want that. I care about Graham and his safety, but I want him to not depend on me. I care about my job, but I'm just a fill-in for Sam until he comes back or they find a permanent replacement. I have nothing else tying me here. No goals. No future. Just a sad, empty little house."

"You'd have even less with me."

"I never asked you for anything. I just want…." I bit my lip and shook my head.

"What?" he prodded.

You, I thought. I just want you.

"To make the best of the time I still have with you before you disappear again," I said instead. He stepped closer and filled the space between us. I had no choice but to put my hands on his chest now. I could feel his heart beating, and his skin was so warm against mine. My head was swimming. I had to take a deep breath just to focus.

"And what happens when I'm well enough to leave? Are you going to defend yourself if they come for you? Are you going to wait around forever for me to come back if they don't?"

"I'll fight to the best of my ability, but I won't hide. And—I don't know if I can wait either. Steve will never stop fighting for you, and I'll be right beside him. Because I know you. Much more than you think I do. Much more than you remember."

"You'll get yourself killed."

"What's the alternative? Hide until Hydra loses interest or kills my friends or my sister to get to me? Should I let my friends fight all my battles for me? Stay here and have no purpose? I'll fight because it's the right thing to do. Not because I…." He moved his head lower, his nose barely brushing against mine. I had a feeling he was doing this on purpose. Using my undeniable attraction to him as a weapon.

"Promise me you won't fight because you…." I nodded quickly before he could finish the sentence. He didn't want to anyway. He knew what it would mean to say it out loud.

"I'll fight because you deserve so much more. Not because I don't want to lose you."

"What makes you think I deserve more?"

"Because I know you. I know what they did to you. What they made you do."

"And you think I didn't like it? That I didn't have a choice?" I moved my hands up over his shoulders and into his hair. It was so hard being this close to him without touching him. His hands stayed on my hips, pulling me against him until neither of us seemed capable of breathing.

"If you had a choice, they wouldn't have forced you to forget who you are," I reminded him. "They wouldn't have come up with so many ways to control you."

"But you think I didn't like it? All the killing and power and death?"

"Bucky."

"Does it make you uncomfortable? Because that's who you'd be fighting for. I liked killing, Johanna. That was when I felt the freest. The woman I told you about? The scientist? I remember her. I remember when she jumped off that bridge. I remember being angry at her for denying me the satisfaction of taking her life."

My breathing had gone ragged again, and I moved my hands back down onto his chest. I had to put space between us. I knew that's what he was trying to get me to do. His hands moved off of my hips and gripped both of my wrists, but we didn't move anymore. I didn't push him away, and he didn't try to make me go.

"I think I killed them," I admitted, looking at his chest instead of his face.

"Who?" he asked.

"My squad. I killed all of them." He shook his head, confused. "That's what I've been dreaming about. That's why I keep having nightmares. I see myself killing them."

"They died in battle."

"Maybe so. But—it was Russell who shot me. I spent the last six years of my life trying to figure out why he hadn't killed me. He aimed for my shoulder on purpose. Not to kill but to subdue. To stop me from killing anyone else."

"Why did you do it?"

"I don't know. I couldn't—control it. It was like something was in my head, telling me what to do."

Something seemed to click, and he finally moved away from me. He sat on the bed, and I stood there, working through the shock of admission. The dreams started up again after Hydra fell. I played with the idea of them being false. Sometimes they were unrealistic. I saw monsters and moving shadows and silly things like clowns and animals. But that didn't mean these dreams, the ones I was having now, were false too. The event with Hydra had triggered something. The dreams got more vivid. Moving from monsters to real people. Real moments. Real memories. It wasn't the guilt of a survivor but the guilt of a murderer.

I just wasn't sure why it took so long to make sense. Had I buried it subconsciously? Did I lie to myself about what happened only to spare myself this guilt? Is that why I couldn't stop dreaming about it now? Because I knew it was real, and my brain wanted me to remember? But my therapist had spent years feeding lies into my head. What had she buried there? Was this just one of those lies resurfacing? Or was it the truth she'd hidden from me?

I moved forward and took the seat beside him. I pulled his hand onto my lap and gripped his metal fingers between mine. I wasn't sure if he could even feel me, but I wanted him to know I was there for him either way. If he still thought he was a monster, then he had to know I was one too.

He turned to look me over. He still had that look of deep concentration on his face. He was looking at me differently now. Something made sense to him. He'd noticed, but he'd never been able to put his finger on it.

"You think you're the only person who's done terrible things?" I asked. I looked at our entwined fingers and the strange contrast of metal weaving through flesh and bone. "Maybe that's what you really saw in me when we met. You said you saw a familiar darkness in me. You knew I was a soldier too, but I don't think that's what it was. I think you knew I was a killer."

"It doesn't change anything. Even if it's true."

"I think it does. It means I understand. Maybe not entirely, but I understand enough. And all that matters is what we do here. I'm not saying those lives didn't matter. Just that we can't change what we've done. But we can change the present. And maybe the future too."

"What do you want me to do, Jo?" he asked. I liked it when he called me Johanna because it was intimately close. But when he called me Jo, it felt familiar and safe. I wondered if that's how he felt when I alternated between Bucky and James. One intimate, and one safe.

"I want you to choose for yourself," I told him honestly.

"And if I decided to go back to that life?"

"I'd trust that you'd know what you were getting into. You'd understand the consequences. I think you've earned the right to choose who you want to be."

"And if I went into the other room right now and murdered your friend?"

"Then you'd do it knowing I'd never forgive you."

He sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. I released his hand but leaned on my arm so I could look down at him. He shut his eyes and rubbed his face.

"I said, 'She is,'" he told me.

"What?"

"When he said that I looked at you like you were the most beautiful and important person in my life, I said, 'She is.'" He looked at me again, and I probably looked dumbfounded. Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't that.

"Why?" I questioned, shaking my head. "What about Steve?" He sat up again and leaned against his metal arm. The position probably pulled on his stitches and hurt, but he didn't move. He put himself at eye level with me.

"Steve is—important," he said. "I can feel it. He's important to all the parts of me who are still James Barnes. But I'm not just James Barnes anymore. I'm not—the Soldier anymore either. I'm someone new. Whoever I am—that's who you know. That's who you care for. Steve cares about Barnes. I care about him because Barnes does. But you never knew James Barnes. You care about me—because of me. You're important to me because I care. Not James Barnes or the Soldier. Me. And Steve—doesn't need me to look out for him anymore."

"And you think I do?"

"I know that you do."

I watched his face while he spoke. It was nice hearing him say Steve's name again. But he was right. He wasn't James Barnes or the Winter Soldier, but someone new. That's the man who reached out to me and the one I'd come to care so deeply for. I understood how that would stand out to him. The same way I wanted to be loved for who I was now and not who I was in the past.

It still didn't answer my question about whether or not he liked me because I was the first person he got to know after Hydra. But I guess that didn't really matter anymore. It was still me. I was never the sort of person who believed in fate or anything like that. It could have been anyone, and maybe he'd grow to like them too. Perhaps they would have cared about him as much as I did. But those were all what-ifs that didn't matter. It was me and not anyone else, and neither of us could change that. We could never know what would have happened if it hadn't been me. So I took another deep, steadying breath and put my hand on his chest again.

"James?" I started.

"Yes?"

"What do you want? I'm not asking what you think is the right thing or what you think you need. What do you want? Selfishly. Just for you." He shook his head and made that partial smile. Then he looked down at the sheets.

"I want you to be safe. To not need me to keep you safe. For them to forget who you are and what they ever wanted from you. So you can be happy." I almost laughed.

"I don't think that counts as selfish."

"Fine. I want to regain—something of a normal life. I want you safe, but I want you close by. So that I can be near you without putting your life in danger. Without being afraid of hurting you." I nodded slowly again.

"A little better," I admitted.

"And I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I hate sleeping on your couch." Then I really did laugh.

"I wasn't going to ask you to go back downstairs. And I wouldn't have made you sleep there at all if you weren't in so much pain every time you tried to move. Also, I'm sorry for hogging up all your space." He smiled and shook his head again. It was a full smile this time. Soft and real.

"I'm sorry I threw you into the coffee table." I put my hand on his cheek and tried not to kiss him on the lips.

"Don't be. Let's just get some sleep. There's plenty of room for both of us."

I moved to the other side of the bed so he could lie down. He got comfortable and then stretched his arm across the bed so I could rest on him even though we had more than enough pillows to share. I rested my head on his arm and put my hand on his chest. The arm came down to my back, and I decided I could live with all the things Graham would say. I wasn't going to let him sleep on the couch again.