Hell Bound

When we finished breakfast, I returned to the living room to check Bucky’s stitches while Graham cleaned up the kitchen. I knelt at his side and checked the ones on his face while he was comfortably smooshed into the pillow.

“How do you feel?” I asked as I moved to examine the ones on his chest.

“Mm,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant.

“You need to get cleaned up. You can either let me wrap you in plastic, and I can try to help you up the stairs to shower. Or I can clean you up with a washcloth in the downstairs bathroom.” He looked back at me, and I wasn’t exactly sure of the expression on his face. It was almost like he thought I was nuts.

“That’s a dumb question,” Graham said, coming back into the room to get Bucky’s plate. He picked it up and then turned back toward the kitchen, mocking my voice. “We can either drag you up the stairs and possibly rip out all your stitches, or I can give you a sponge bath. Hmm, what a difficult choice.” His voice carried down the hall. I sighed heavily and resisted the urge to throw something at him.

“I was at least going to give him the option,” I defended.

“I think I’d rather not go up the stairs,” Bucky said.

“See? He made a choice.” I stood up to help him get to his feet.

“Of course he chose THAT,” Graham yelled from the kitchen. I turned back to Bucky.

“I’m starting to reconsider,” I admitted.

“Reconsider what?” he asked, apparently confused. He had his hands on his knees and didn’t look like he wanted to stand up.

“Letting you stab him.”

“Just say the word.”

“Christ. I was kidding. Come on then.”

I wrapped my arm around him and helped him up. It took him a while to get moving again, just like the night before. But I finally managed to get him to the small bathroom down the hall. I shut us up inside and then took a deep breath. I didn’t want to stare at him standing there bare-chested and caked in dried blood.

“Alright, I’ll just….” I motioned toward the sink and pushed passed him to get a clean cloth.

“I can do it myself,” he informed me.

“You can’t clean your own back, Bucky. I’ll just clean up around your sutures and your back, and then you can take it from there. How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

“Then I can help you clean the blood out of your hair.”

“Okay.”

I turned the water on and waited for it to warm up. I could see him standing behind me in the mirror. It felt so weird to have him there again. I didn’t know what he knew about me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to jump up and down because he was in my house again and (mostly) okay. But he didn’t know me anymore, and I didn’t want to freak him out.

“Alright,” I said, turning around to face him. I held up the wet cloth. “Are you ready?”

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Right. I know you can.” I moved around to his other side to clean the blood from his back. There wasn’t much on him anymore since most of it flaked off in the night, but I also didn’t want to just start rubbing my hands all over his chest. I took a deep breath before I got started.

“Can you?” he asked, noticing me hesitate. I shot him a glare through the mirror.

“Believe it or not, this isn’t my first time.” He looked up and met my gaze through the reflection, and now the expression on his face leaned more toward sarcastic than anything else. Steve did warn me that he was a bit of a sarcastic little shit.

“Believe it or not, I already knew that,” he said.

And I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about cleaning blood off of people anymore. I was also sure that my cheeks turned at least three shades pinker. So I ducked behind him and ran the now cold rag over his skin. His body tensed, and he hissed.

“Cold?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. You deserved that.” I caught the hint of a smile in his reflection.

Once I was done with his back, I lifted his metal arm and slipped beneath it so I could work on his side. I set the arm on my shoulder and began to clean the blood caked to his skin between all the stitches. The metal plates shifted and moved on my shoulder as he adjusted his arm to be less heavy on me. I could see him watching me intently from the mirror.

“It doesn’t bother you,” he stated. I looked up at him.

“What doesn’t bother me?” He looked at his arm and then back at me. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he was confused by something. But he just shook his head and kept his thoughts to himself. So I went back to work.

I managed to clean most of the blood off of his chest and moved over to his other side. I ran the rag up the side of his neck and down his shoulder to his stomach before I remembered that I had told him he could do the rest on his own. But he made no complaints, and I said nothing until I’d cleaned up his torso. Then I stepped back and motioned toward his blood-matted hair.

“We should probably do something about that,” I said.

“I don’t know how to get it out without getting it wet.”

“I can probably do it if you just lean over the sink. Might be tricky. Might hurt.” I hopped onto the counter, and he leaned forward slowly. His hand pressed against his side, and he winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I had him turn his head to the side so I could clean out the mats of blood without getting the sutures wet. It wasn’t easy, but he still didn’t speak. “I hate doing this to you,” I said as swirls of red and pink filled the sink.

“Why?”

“Just—water freaks me out. I’d probably panic if I were in your place.” His metal fingers gripped the sink a little tighter, and I regretted thinking out loud. I just wanted to fill the silence. I had a good reason for being afraid of water. Now I was sure he did too.

“I think that’s it,” I said after a while. I shut the water off, and he stood back so I could slide off the counter. He looked much cleaner now. No longer caked in blood and sweat. But his skin was still paler than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The stitches were puffy and swollen.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help with the rest?” I asked. “You can barely move as it is.”

“All the more reason I should do it on my own,” he told me. He picked up the rag and wrung it out in the sink.

I shook my head, confused. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He gave me the same almost sarcastic look through the mirror, and I realized I wasn’t looking at the Winter Soldier anymore. This was Sergeant James Barnes. The man Steve referred to as a “smart ass” on more than one occasion. It occurred to me that he’d been like this since the night before. Even when he threatened Graham, he didn’t seem like the terrifying Asset any longer.

“I don’t think it would end well,” he said slowly. I shook my head again.

“I don’t know what you mean.” The corners of his lips turned up into my favorite almost smile. It made my stomach twist up in knots all over again. Then he looked down at the sink and focused on turning the water on.

“If you help me, I’ll definitely end up injured. Even if it’s just to my ego.”

Then I stared at him for a few seconds, blinking as my brain tried to comprehend what he was saying. Was he flirting with me? And then I remembered what else Steve said to describe his old friend. “Horrible flirt.” My eyes narrowed, and I put my hands on my hips.

“James Barnes,” I started, but I couldn’t get anything else to come out.

His expression was unreadable, and I wasn’t sure if he’d meant to flirt with me. Or if it was just one of those rare instances where James Barnes, the flirt, slipped through the cracks without him noticing. Or if I was just reading too much into it. So I opened the door to escape, but before I shut it again, I popped my head back in.

“For the record, James, I’ve never injured your ego.” Then I shut the door to give him privacy.