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It’s a lot like watching a target, although the comparison makes James sick to his stomach, but the way his eyes track people, the way his mind catalogues the details, it’s ingrained. On his good days, he can convince himself the habit is a remnant of his sniper days, but the truth is often less charitable. He may no longer be Hydra’s puppet, but he’s still a weapon with a lot of time on his hands, so he watches, studies, and learns.
There’s a lot to study in the 21st century, even more so when you have a pretty little badge that declares you the rightful resident of the Avengers Compound and allows you access to its many amenities.
Of course, James is only here thanks a convoluted political power play. Certain big-wigs up in Washington wanted to bring Captain America back out of exile and James came along as the broken spare.
He and Steve don’t talk much these days. Steve is heartbroken over it, hates that James refuses to resume their lives as if the last seven decades hadn’t happened, as if Hydra hadn’t torn Bucky Barnes right out of him and stuffed something else back inside.
Steve claims to love him anyways, broken parts and all, but James watches and learns and he knows—whenever Steve looks at him, he doesn’t see James. He looks right past him and keeps searching for Bucky and maybe that’s Steve’s destiny now, to keep looking for a dead man, but what remains of Bucky Barnes—who remains—is that same ghost story, half man, half machine, and all of him too tired to pretend to be someone else.
So he calls himself James and moves on, to search for a new purpose in this foreign world.
He watches, studies, and learns, and more often than not, he finds his favorite subject to be Tony Stark.
Part of it is Stark’s innate presence of course. He fills every space with his energy, walks into every room like he owns the place—he does—he smiles and snarks, flirts and dazzles, he’s brilliant and breathtaking when in control of his tech. You can’t help but look, can’t help but drink in every detail and hope that there’s more.
So Stark is Stark, which would be enough, but it’s also their past and all those regrets James will take to his grave and the fact that, for all the swagger and sass, the flashy sunglasses and dazzling grins, every time Stark steps into the Compound, he also looks inexplicably sad.
The Avengers meeting has just wrapped up and Stark has no choice but to stay behind, stuck talking to Steve. James maps out the tightness of Stark’s lips, the heavy shadows beneath his eyes, the way his left hand clenches where no one can see it—or so Stark thinks, but James knows how to look without being seen.
Stark doesn’t want to be here, it’s clear as day, he’s exhausted and stressed, and yet no one can see this, not when it’s hidden behind that sharp smile and the rapid-fire snark.
Rhodes probably could, so could Potts, but they’ve known Stark for years. They’re also not here to pull Stark away with a subtle request, to shield him from the others. Even Stark’s artificial intelligence program, Friday, isn’t installed within the Compound halls, relegated to monitoring the outside of the complex only. James met her once when he visited Stark Tower and he understands why Steve doesn’t want her here. An all-powerful AI with access to WIFI, the thermostat, and weapons—and who also loves Tony Stark above all else—has to be Steve’s worst nightmare, but James likes her—she’s sassy and unapologetic and she’s a computer with a goddamn soul, of course he likes her—and he wishes she were here to keep Stark company.
James reminds himself that Steve and the others aren’t so different, they’ve known Stark for years too, so maybe they just never cared enough to learn. He wishes, in the most selfish way, to be given the chances they’ve wasted.
Stark dismisses Steve with a roll of his eyes. They’re at a disagreement on how to handle the next mission and Stark has given up on beating his head against the proverbial wall. He strides towards the door, but when he passes James, his steps falter.
“Barnes,” he greets and maybe it’s James’ eager imagination, but that thin, plastic smile eases into something more authentic.
“Stark.”
“Behaving yourself?”
“No more than usual.”
Stark’s brows quirk and there’s that almost-smile again. This close however, James can also see all that stress sitting heavy on Stark’s shoulders.
“Gonna come down to the workshop for maintenance any time soon?” Stark asks and even now, he’s willing to think of others. James almost says not to bother, not to worry about his damn metal arm, to get some sleep, but maybe he’s selfish too and maybe he craves that little spark in Stark’s eye whenever he gets to play with the arm.
“Give me a time and day and I’ll be there.”
Stark nods and then, just like that, he’s gone and the room feels emptier and colder without him.
James knows he’s nothing more than a tragic, blood-stained footnote in Tony Stark’s life. His parents’ killer, the weapon of his parents’ killers, if he wants to be charitable.
There’s nothing James can do to make Tony Stark happy, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing.
It starts with the smallest gesture, something James thought was basic good manners.
He makes a fresh pot of coffee.
For all the chaos in Stark’s life, he has a strange, preternatural compulsion to show up in the kitchen for his coffee at 6:45AM on the dot whenever he stays at the Compound. James hangs out in the kitchen a lot—it’s warm, relatively secure, and he’s hungry all the time now that his metabolism knows it’s not on starvation rations—and while he can never tell if Stark has stayed up late or woken up early on any given day, like clockwork he’s in the kitchen fifteen minutes to seven.
So when James pours out the last of the coffee into his own mug, glances at the clock, and realizes there are only a few minutes before Stark comes in searching for his next caffeine hit, he starts a new pot. It’s simple, really, the machine does all the work, it’s a matter of feeding it the right coffee—and James knows all about Stark’s favorite coffee beans—and pushing a few buttons.
He cleans up the coffee grounds from the older batch, wipes down the counter, and with his own mug in hand, he heads out. The library sounds nice, he thinks. When he’s not people-watching, he reads, a lot, and if he’s lucky, he’ll run into Peter and get a pleasant chat out of it too. The kid is easy to talk to, even for amnesiac super soldiers with terrible pasts.
About three minutes off schedule, Stark rushes past him in the hall, nearly taking James out and it’s James’ quick reflexes that save them both as he dodges out of the way.
“Shit, sorry, Snowflake! My bad!” Stark flashes an apologetic grin as he spins. “A million meetings, you know how it is. No rest for the wicked!”
Stark dashes away and ducks into kitchen and James wants to smile because it’s rare to see Stark so disheveled. The smile falters however when he realizes Stark has so much on his plate that a simple cup of coffee throws him off schedule, but James tries not to fixate on that and keep walking.
He’s turning around the next minute after finding his cell phone missing from his pocket, but the sound of Stark’s voice stops him just before he reaches the kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost on the plane, alright? Just let me—” James hears him take a generous sip. “Ah, Jesus, that’s good. I don’t know who made a fresh pot for once, but I may owe them my life—Pep, you know I need coffee, don’t judge me—yes, I know there’s coffee on the plane, but it’s not the same. And oh, look, they even cleaned up after themselves, the miracles never cease—yes, okay, I’m on my way, I’m going, I’m going.”
James ducks out of view just before Stark leaves the kitchen and waits until Stark is gone to grab his cell phone sitting on the counter. He tries not to give the warm curl of pleased satisfaction much thought as he goes on with his day.
It’s early morning and James can’t sleep. It’s nothing new, the nightmares and the faded screams dragging him out of bed, but he’s lucky to have gotten the sleep that he did. The pull of exhaustion won’t be as bad today.
His slow pace through the mostly-empty Compound is familiar too. He prefers the outside—less chances to spook poor Compound employees in the early morning hours—but it’s raining today, so James is here, trailing his metal fingers over the rough texture of the walls. His fingers can feel texture now, after Stark implemented Princess Shuri’s latest upgrade. Another kindness, offered by people who have no reason to care, with James having nothing to give in return.
James enters the room where everyone usually gathers to watch movies and stops short. Stark is sprawled on the couch, legs akimbo, one arm hanging off the edge. His mouth is partly open, his breathing is slow, and he looks to be in deep sleep. His fingers barely brush the powered down Stark tablet that must’ve slipped out of his grasp when he lost the fight to his body’s exhaustion.
He does that, James has noticed, always pushes his limits—physical and otherwise.
The blanket is on the floor next to the tablet, useless against the chill of the Compound, and Stark shivers and curls on himself, obviously cold.
James is silent when he walks over, picks up the blanket, and drapes it carefully over Stark. He doesn’t tuck it in, but he can’t deny that it’s tempting. Stark makes for an endearing sight like this and maybe it’s his imagination again, but Stark’s features seem to soften now that he’s more comfortably protected against the air-conditioned chill.
The satisfaction curling sweet and slow in James’ chest is definitely not his imagination.
They’re arguing again, Stark and Steve, and this time James doesn’t even need to eavesdrop. Their angry voices carry from the other side of the room and all James has to do is sit innocently in his chair with his book to hear the whole thing.
Stark looks to be at the end of his rope and he’s not usually this cutting in his remarks, so there has to be something else weighing him down.
It could be Stark Industries business, personal affairs, lack of sleep or the flu, there’s something, but Steve is blind to it. He keeps pushing and pushing, which only makes Stark’s words colder and sharper.
It’s painful to watch because for all the snark, Stark looks miserable—unlike Steve, who’s never seen a fight he didn’t want to pick with gleeful obstinacy—and James can’t take it anymore.
They don’t notice him slip out of the room, too wrapped up in their shouting match.
With a resigned sigh, James takes out his cell phone.
Steve, need your help. Please, right now? I’m in my quarters.
He sends the text and hurries back to his room, using the short walk to make up an emergency and steel himself for hours of awkward small-talk and being watched like a hawk for hints of a dead man.
The coffee pot is always full of fresh, sweet-smelling coffee now.
The trails are lovely, especially in the morning, and people are more used to the sight of him and it’s nice, James thinks, to be acknowledged so casually, to get cheerful greetings instead of uneasy glances. He still doesn’t feel like he fits in, but he can’t deny being greeted with smiles isn’t a gift.
The earlier run helped work off all the excess energy and so he takes a leisurely stroll through the gardens on his way back. Although most of the acres are seeded with edible plants, there are flowers too and there’s a section decked out in bright reds and yellows that always draws his eyes. James has to wonder if the planter was an Iron Man fan and he doesn’t know the name of the flowers, but it’s a pretty arrangement of thick petals and before he can talk himself out of the ridiculous idea forming in his head, he plucks two, one gold and one red.
They look delicate and tiny in his metal fist and he’s carries them carefully with him. He doesn’t let himself think about what he wants to do with the flowers—it’s ridiculous is what it is, but when he walks by Stark’s office and finds it both open and empty, he gives in and admits he’s a sentimental fool.
He leaves the two flowers on the top of Stark’s tablet.
James has taken to spending a lot of time with Steve lately. Steve is ecstatic—at least until they inevitably get into a fight over something new and utterly inconsequential—and James needs a new name for the headaches that come with racking his brain to come up with new and inventive ways to keep Steve’s attention.
He tries not to text Steve every time there’s a confrontation, but he does it enough that the fights between Stark and Steve are now routinely shorter and less volatile and every headache is worth the sight of Stark walking through the Compound with his shoulders a little higher and his smile less brittle.
James nearly stabs Barton when he reaches for the last raspberry creme. The archer flips him off and curses under his breath, but takes a damn cruller and walks back to his seat.
There are always treats at every meeting and this is probably the least impactful thing James can do, but Barton always—always—picks out the ones Stark likes best and Stark is the strangest billionaire in existence who refuses to buy a whole box of raspberries and creme donuts and slap his name on it.
Hell, he could hire a bodyguard for the damn box. He could buy the damn bakery.
He doesn’t though and Barton always shoves every last one in his face and Stark comes by later and his shoulders always droop just a little, and he looks so resigned, like this is proof of these people’s outright contempt for him.
Unfortunately, it is proof, and Stark treats it as nothing unusual, but it’s ridiculous and it’s juvenile—
“Oh my god, yay.” Stark appears out of nowhere and plucks his little treasure of fried dough out of the box while James tries not to stare. “Is Barton sick or something?” Stark glances around and spots the archer talking to Maximoff in the back. “Huh, strange world. How are you, Snowflake?”
James pulls out his best friendly grin. “Living the dream.”
Stark huffs, takes a bite out of the donut, and proceeds to let out a moan so lewd, James feels heat crawl up the back of his neck. Apparently Stark’s living the dream too and James doesn’t know what that says about Stark’s life that the highlight of his day is getting to eat his donut of choice.
Stark licks away a spot of creme clinging to the corner of his lips and savors the next few bites while James tries hard not to think about that little hint of tongue, fights the urge to lean in and lick that raspberry and creme right out of Stark’s mouth.
It’s the first time he’s really thought of kissing Stark and it’s overwhelming in how badly he wants it.
“Oh, yeah, that hit the spot,” Stark says, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis James is trying to keep off his face. “Day made, I don’t even care if Steve ends up fighting me on every damn thing today.” His eyes dart to James. “You know what’s even better though? There’s this tiny bakery four blocks away from the Tower—best cheesecake in the city and I don’t say that lightly, this is New York. Anyways, if you’re ever at the Tower again, I should take you, you’ll love it.”
The offer sounds amazing, but James doesn’t get to respond beyond a simple “I’d like that,” before Colonel Rhodes strides in and the meeting begins.
Maximoff’s eyes linger too long on Stark as he walks away and it sets James’ teeth on edge, makes his skin crawl, the way she watches him. She doesn’t bother to hide her contempt and it only gets worse when Stark’s back is turned.
Having no desire to be in the room any longer now that Stark is gone, James gets out of his seat, but he takes the long way around and he savors her startled flinch when she realizes he’s stopped right behind her.
“Just remember that you’re being watched too.”
“What are you—” She tries to turn to look at him, but he clamps his metal hand on her shoulder.
“Think whatever nasty thoughts you want, I don’t care, but if you act on them—if you touch him—I’ll act on mine too.”
Threatening a witch with mind-bending powers is a stark contrast to leaving flowers on a man’s desk, but this threat has been a long time coming and it feels good—almost too good—to slip back into this skin, to be the Winter Soldier again for one fleeting moment.
She nods, clearly shaken, despite the poisonous glare she tries to throw over her shoulder. He’ll keep an eye on her, but it’s enough for today.
He’s getting bolder, he knows this, but there’s something intoxicating about this whole secret mission and maybe he’s enjoying himself too much. He knows it’ll never be enough—it’s only flowers and coffee and careful maneuvering of the Rogues to keep them out of Stark’s way—but it’s better than nothing.
The take-out boxes are warm in his hands as he carries them down the stairs and they should stay warm while they wait for Stark on the doorstep of his workshop. James thinks it shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. Stark’s just arrived from D.C. and he’ll be stopping by Rhodes’ office first, but then, inevitably he’ll make his way down here.
Secretly, James loves the workshop too. It’s science fiction come to life and it’s where Stark is in his element. It’s also where James gets to see him coo lovingly to his robots and to James’ arm. Sometimes, when Stark gets lost in the work, he sweet-talks the Vibranium components until they work as intended and James’ throat always goes dry when it happens. He always wishes Stark would look up and use that same dulcet tone on him.
So maybe the fantasies about kissing this man were a long time coming too, but James has gotten very good at ignoring his base desires. This crush is ill-advised and he’s already crossing lines by leaving Stark these small gifts, but James is addicted now.
The image of Stark proudly wearing a red flower behind his ear while Rhodes teases him over it as they walk by still keeps James warm at night and next thing on the agenda is to trade the secret treats he’s been picking up at Stark’s favorite bakery for something baked with his own two hands.
He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize he miscalculated, doesn’t pick up on the rapid staccato of footsteps hurrying down the stairs and by the time it all clicks, it’s too late.
He’s still crouched down by the door, the bag and the cup of coffee still in his hands, and there’s Stark at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other hovering cautiously at his side. His too-clever eyes are on James.
Bucky Barnes may have been able to flirt his way out of this. The Asset may have been able to lie his way out. James’ mind goes blank.
“Stark, it’s not— not what it looks like.” James doesn’t actually know what this looks like, but the suspicious look on Stark’s face makes his insides shrivel up. “It’s just food, I promise. I just… I was in town and I— I know you like the pasta from Maggie’s and—”
Stark’s eyes dart from James to the stack of boxes, then back to James, and there’s a dawning look of understanding. “Has it been you? With the, uh, the pastries and the coffee?”
James swallows and straightens out of his crouch, hates that Stark tracks his movements as if he’s a threat, and it’s what stops him from lying. “Yeah, that was me.”
Stark’s eyes narrow further. “The flowers?”
“That was… too much, probably, I’m sorry. I just— they were your colors and I thought of you.”
“What else?”
“I… may have been sending text messages to distract Steve every time you two have a fight.”
Suspicion is replaced by something else and for once James can’t read it. It’s like a mask, something calculating, something that shouldn’t be cold, but it cuts deep nonetheless.
He also notices the exhaustion etched into Stark’s body, the way he holds himself as if he’s uncomfortable in his own skin, which means his muscles are probably aching after a long day. His hand is gripping the banister unnecessarily hard.
“Huh, I was wondering why I’ve been having less migraines than usual,” Stark casually throws out, the tone a contrast to his body language. The doors open for him automatically as he walks by and before he enters the workshop, he gestures for the food and James obediently hands everything over.
It’s obvious Stark expects him to follow and James does, but he doesn’t know where to go from here. Breaking into apologies is his first instinct—he’s gotten very good at it—but then he’d be apologizing—for what? Leaving Stark fresh coffee in the morning? A handful of flowers? Take-out food?
He watches Stark place the boxes on his workbench and take a generous sip of the coffee. The satisfied ‘aah’ he lets out would’ve been another little sign of pleasure James could squirrel away into his memories, but the look Stark gives him is anything but reassuring.
“Alright, so what do you want?”
“Excuse me?”
Stark gestures airily at the food. “What do you want? Bigger stipend? Something to do with your apartment? If it’s arm upgrades, you might want to talk to with Shuri first, but I can do the installations. If it’s armor or weapons, I got that covered, of course.”
James knows he must look like an idiot, but for the life of him, he can’t figure out what the hell Stark is talking about. “What— what weapons? What upgrades?”
Tony certainly looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Barnes, come on, we’re both adults, no need to be coy about it. You want something and you’ve been trying to butter me up.” He shrugs easily, puts the coffee down, and begins rummaging through the take-out boxes, opening them one by one. He doesn’t even look at James when he adds, “Honestly, you didn’t do half bad. I mean, sure, for a while I thought I had an admirer or something, but I mean, the coffee and the food have been nice and the Steve thing, oh man, you can have whatever you want if you keep doing that. Hell, I might have to put you on my permanent payroll.”
He says it all so easily, casually, like it’s nothing more than friendly conversation. He even hums to himself when he opens the box with the pasta and takes a big inhale of the roasted tomato and garlic.
Meanwhile, James just stands there and feels vaguely sick.
“I don’t want anything.”
Stark actually rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, pull the other one.” He spares one glance for James, thoroughly unimpressed, and goes back to his explorations. “I told you, it’s all kosher. Just tell me what you want.”
“I told you—” There’s anger in his voice now. “I don’t want anything. Why is that the first thing you’d think?”
This time Stark actually looks at him for more than a second. “Enough, Barnes, this isn’t cute anymore. I think it because it’s true. This is what people do when they want something—if they can’t strong-arm me into it, of course, but you don’t seem to have the talent for it that Rogers does. So? Out with it.”
Stark cocks a challenging brow, but there’s something else here, a tightness to his body that has nothing to do with exhaustion, a hardness to his gaze that belies vulnerability. This has to have happened before, more than once, for Stark to assume that kindness of any kind automatically implies an agenda.
The realization sits sour in his throat. It burns and it hurts—and then doubt sets in again. Maybe it isn’t Stark, maybe it’s only James, who isn’t capable of kindness anyone would appreciate.
“I did these things because they were—nice. You’ve been sad,” he says lamely and feels like a complete fool and it’s impossible to ignore the disdain on Stark’s face. “I just wanted to help, wanted to make your time here at the Compound better. Easier.”
He falters, feels his stomach drop through the floor because that look on Stark’s face—if that’s not disgust, James doesn’t know what is. He hates himself and all the whispers in his head come rushing right back. He’s no good, he’s a broken—broken-down—monster who can never be good.
“That’s… real nice, Barnes, but I wasn’t born yesterday and I appreciate bullshit far less than I do bribery.”
James doesn’t bother correcting him again, doesn’t bother explaining that it’s not bribery, that he doesn’t want—Jesus, upgrade or money or anything Stark had mentioned.
He just wanted to see Stark smile.
James blinks away the sting of pathetic, pointless tears. He can’t look at Stark anymore, so he looks past him, at some shiny bauble in the background he doesn’t register.
“I’ll stop, I won’t… I won’t bother you anymore. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I just wanted—”
I just wanted to be good, to feel like I could make you happy.
“I’m sorry.”
He turns and he bolts and he doesn’t let his rapid steps falter until he’s in his room and the door is shut and he has the privacy he needs to slide down to the floor and curl in on himself.
There’s shame and embarrassment and the distinct taste of failure, but he rubs his eyes with his flesh hand, the pressure punishing, to wipe away any hints of his weakness.
James is nothing but a nuisance, an inconvenience, someone who thought themselves important enough to make an impact, but was woefully, terribly wrong.
James supposes things are exactly as they should be.
He doesn’t see Stark again, who takes off on another trip a day later, and it doesn’t make James feel any better, but at least there’s no awkwardness to deal with, no reminders, no more painful conversations.
James tries to move on. He still tries his hand at baking and the cupcakes don’t come out half-bad and maybe he saves a few out of habit, but he doesn’t place a sticky note with Stark’s name on them as he slides the three little cupcakes to the far corner of the refrigerator away from prying eyes.
Every golden yellow reaching out towards the sun in the gardens still reminds James of Stark’s suit, every flash of red makes James want to pluck it and compare the color. He resists, but he still spends his days here, tending and pruning and weeding. It’s a new hobby, but he likes the physicality of it, the knowledge that he’s helping something grow. Plants don’t tend to care about ulterior motives.
Bruce Banner comes back after a month-long trip of his own and he’s pleasantly surprised that his garden hasn’t descended into ruin and chaos, thanks mostly to James’ efforts. They end up spending a quiet afternoon that day over glasses of iced tea, chatting about the farmer’s market in the nearby town and dissecting the science fiction novel James has just finished.
He still stops and loses himself to the shadows when he hears the cacophony of Stark’s and Steve’s voices, rising higher and higher in their anger. Apparently Stark is back and of course it takes no time at all for him and Steve to find something to fight about.
James still pulls out his cell phone and sends a quick ‘I need help with the computer, Stevie’ before heading back to his quarters to decide which part of modern tech to be confused about this time.
Maybe he’ll just break the whole damn computer in two pieces and pretend to be terribly distraught.
The mission was grueling and James still isn’t used to being back in the field, but he’s finding his stride and there’s almost a peace to it, the weight of a gun in his hand, the mask over his eyes, the press of the stealth suit against his skin. He knows the steps to this dance and it helps that he’s usually paired with Natasha, who matches him closest in style and makes integration nearly seamless.
They made easy work of their assigned reconnaissance, but the success of their mission doesn’t make up for the three days spent trekking through the woods. It was draining and dirty and wet and James discovers a new pleasure in being able to march straight into his quarters, stand underneath the shower for as long as he wants, and collapse onto his bed in nothing but his towel.
It’s luxury, plain and simple, and it’s all due to Stark’s generosity and James can’t even thank the man properly, but for once, his mind is too tired to fixate on that particular spiral of self-flagellation and regrets.
He lets himself rest, eyes closed, muscles relaxing one by one, and he’s drifting in and out of sleep, but at some point, he turns on his stomach and his eyes spot something out of place and his mind is fully alert the next second.
There are books on his desk that weren’t there before and the second thing to catch his eye when he gets up to examine them is the bright orange note stuck to the book at the top of the stack.
STOP LISTENING TO BRUCE, THESE ARE BETTER
James blinks. This is… unexpected. Given the security of the Compound—that he independently checks on a regular basis and his paranoid habit is now sanctioned by Colonel Rhodes himself—this isn’t a trap or a bomb, which means it must be a gift from someone here.
He brushes his fingers over the covers, the spines, examines each book, taking the time to read the summaries at the back. Everything sounds interesting and there’s a kernel of excitement blossoming at the prospect of a well-deserved, lazy afternoon spent with his nose in a book.
The big, block letters of the note don’t give a hint as to whose writing this is and he refuses to let his suspicions lead him to hope. Hope hurts and for all he knows, this could be Sam or Peter or Sharon, all of whom have access to his quarters when he’s not in. Not everyone outright hates him here—in fact, no one does, which is the strangest thing of all—and Bruce does have some niche tastes in reading.
James picks a book at random, flops back on the bed, and lets himself get lost in a fictional world only slightly more fantastical than his own.
James almost trips over something, but it’s his fault for trying to navigate his quarters in pitch dark. He reaches for the light switch and this time it’s a basket sitting innocently at the threshold of his door in the foyer. James doesn’t hesitate to kneel down and examine his new gift, but the contents of this one are more confusing. There are bottles and containers, a wooden box with a beautiful straight razor inside—beauty products?
Another orange sticky note clashes with the soft pastels.
JUST SHAVE ALREADY, it says and James can’t help it, he laughs.
So maybe he has been letting himself go lately, but missions have been tough, he and Steve had another spectacular fight, Stark has been nowhere to be seen and James misses him. So instead of routinely shaving or brushing out his hair, he sits and he broods in his sweatpants and sweatshirt.
Apparently someone has noticed.
The blocky letters are the same and there is hope now, but he still doesn’t know what to do with it. For now, he lets those questions go and carries the whole basket into his bathroom, intent on giving every product a try.
A week later there’s another beautiful wooden box in the kitchen with his name carved into the side of the lid and when James opens it, there’s an assortment of teas inside, flavors he’s never even heard of. On the inside of the lid, a familiar orange note screams at him, COFFEE’S BETTER.
James bites his lip and tries not to smile, tries not to hope. After all, he doesn’t actually know what this meant yet.
It’s late, but James can’t sleep, so he wanders the halls as he always does, tries to gather himself, to put all the broken pieces back on their rickety shelves. It’s easier tonight and maybe it’s the tentative friendships he’s making here or the fact that this place is beginning to feel like a home. He’s not sure.
Maybe it’s the gifts from his not-so-mysterious benefactor. He can’t make head or tails of them, but he can’t help but covet them like a dragon covets gold.
A boiling hot kettle and a new flavor of tea sounds like his best bet tonight, but before James reaches the kitchen, he’s stopped short at the threshold of the entertainment room once again.
Tonight Stark isn’t sleeping though. He’s awake, his eyes on James, and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other since that night at the workshop. There’s no hostility here though and Stark smiles at him a little awkwardly.
“Can’t sleep either, huh?”
“Unfortunately. Some night are better than others.”
“Care to join me?”
Stark gestures at the couch and it’s only now that James notices a neatly folded package in Stark’s lap. Sitting next to him is a stack of orange notes and a marker.
“It’s a gorgeous, silk shirt, by the way,” Stark says. “Should look great on you. I just needed to come up with something clever to put on the note, but I think I’m running out of things to make fun of. Any ideas?”
The invitation is painfully obvious, cards laid out on the table—he knew it was Stark, he knew, but seeing him admit it so freely… Stark has been waiting for him and James is torn, scared, definitely ready to run, but he wants this so badly too, and before fear has the chance to change his mind, he’s already half-way to the couch.
He sits, leaving a respectable amount of space between him and Stark, and Stark hands over the package. James takes his time to unfold it and Stark’s right, the shirt is wonderful, a deep, rich purple with a shine that reflects the low lights around them.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He wants to run his fingers through the material, wants to put it on and wonder if Stark had thought about the way the silk would fall over his muscles, but now’s not the time.
The questions can’t wait any longer.
“Don’t get me wrong, these have been… nice, but why are you doing this? Is there something you want me to do for you?”
Stark has the good graces to look uneasy over the reminder.
“Yeah, okay, I totally deserve that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I acted like a complete ass, let’s just get that out of the way. That night, I should’ve said ‘thank you’ instead of— instead of whatever the hell I ended up saying.”
“So the gifts? They’re apologies then?”
“More or less. I tend to be pretty shitty with words—no surprise there, right? But gifts I can do—well, okay, sometimes. Be glad there’s no giant stuffed animal in your room right now. I was trying to work up the courage to apologize and uh, I thought it was only fair to reciprocate in the meantime.”
“Stark, you didn’t have to—”
“Tony. Please.” Stark’s shoulders draw up and he darts a glance at James. “Everyone else around here calls me Stark and I think it’s like Pavlov’s dog at this point, I expect a tirade and a passive-aggressive insult every time I hear it.”
“Tony, then.” It’s nice, the way the name feels on his tongue. “I guess that means you have to call me James.”
Stark—no, Tony, which is kinder and more approachable and suddenly James wants to keep saying it over and over—Tony grins and his posture loses some of that tension.
“Only if I still get to call you Snowflake. I like that though. In my experience, Jameses tend to be the best people. But yeah, these gifts are basically an apology. I was a dick and I’m sorry.”
Out of sheer habit, James waits for the “—but—” that usually follows the apologies he gets these days, but when none comes, he’s left without a simple response. He understands why Tony had taken the route of leaving gifts, so does he accept them and graciously forgive? Does he explain that the rejection and the misconceptions did hurt, but it’s no less than he deserves? That it’s only a fraction of the pain he’s inflicted on the world and maybe Tony shouldn’t be apologizing in the first place?
He’s still agonizing over his own insecurities when Tony speaks again.
“That night, you caught me at a really bad time. I know that’s a shitty excuse, but it’s the reality of it. The trip to D.C. was a shitshow. Rogers ended up tagging along at the last minute and I spent most of the day putting out the fires he caused. I know this is going to sound hypocritical as hell, but you can’t just fight your way through the entirety of Capitol Hill and think you can bludgeon them all into submission with your righteousness. Especially when you don’t have the charm to come out of it looking like the sympathetic party. Rogers is smart, but he’s got zero political savvy. You’d think he would’ve picked up something during his time with the USO!”
“You’re talking about the 90-pound asthmatic kid who got into a fight in every dirty alley in Brooklyn. Diplomacy isn’t exactly his tool of choice.”
“Yeah, no kidding. So you can imagine the mood I was in when I came back. We accomplished nothing, then I get back and Barton is whining about his weapons, Maximoff isn’t happy because immigration services dared to make her do paperwork, and then—”
“Then there was me, stalking your doorstep.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t my best moment. I saw you outside my lab, with the food, and things suddenly clicked—clicked the wrong way, obviously—but all I could think about was Rogers and the others and how any time they do anything decent, the next thing I know, they need something from me and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking the same about you.”
The guilt is impossible to miss and it twists James from the inside to see Tony like this and all he wants is to draw Tony into his arms, tell him there’s no need for these apologies. It’s fine, James has had worse.
And yet, James still appreciates that Stark is here, making himself vulnerable to rejection on purpose to make up for a handful of unkind words.
“It’s not an unwarranted assumption, given how you’re treated here.”
“Eh, doesn’t mean it’s fair. When I cooled off, it wasn’t hard to remember that you haven’t, in fact, been treating me like a bank account and I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat. I’m just… not used to that, you know? But thank you, really. Better late than never, right? I really did like the little chocolates and the flowers and every time you threw a blanket over my dumb ass so I wouldn’t freeze to death. Those were… just nice things to do, right?”
Tony still doubts James, but like this, with genuine curiosity on display, James doesn’t feel that cloying sense of shame anymore. This isn’t rejection and Tony does have a right to be curious. From the outside looking in, James Barnes has no reason to leave Tony Stark flowers and treats.
“Any time you stay at the Compound, you’re tense and you’re stressed. This used to be your home, but now you’re no longer comfortable here, you’re always on edge, ready for someone to attack you—verbally, if not physically—and it isn’t fair. You belong here far more than any of us. I just— I found myself hating seeing you so unhappy.”
Tony doesn’t seem to take the assessment personally. He chuckles and says, “So you decided to go rogue and treat me to freshly baked pastries?”
“One day, I just made a pot of coffee—because it was empty—and I overheard you on the phone with Miss Potts. You were delighted, and over something so trivial.”
“Trust me, fresh coffee, not trivial. Especially in a place full of assholes who leave the pot empty on purpose.
“It felt good, knowing I made your day a little brighter and I couldn’t help myself. I kept finding little ways to help and I never planned for you to find out it was me. I didn’t even plan on continuing for that long. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“James, no,” Tony shakes his head. “I mean, I did wonder who it could be—thought it might be Peter or Rhodey at first, they always harp on me to ‘practice self-care’, whatever the hell that means, but then I realized it was you and all my wires got crossed, and I made an ass out of myself and never got the chance to tell you that I’m glad it was you.
James startles, caught off-guard by the words. “Really?”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you ever since you got here. You know, once I realized you weren’t Steve’s good little side-kick and yes-man I expected you to be.”
“Never were his yes-man.”
“Right, no, you’re absolutely right. Just more faulty assumptions. When I saw that you weren’t what I expected, I wanted to see if we could— I dunno, start over, start fresh. Life kept getting in the way though. I’m always busy, you usually lurk in the shadows, and I couldn’t think of a way to approach you. Honestly, didn’t think you’d want a fresh start to begin with.”
“I hate to point out another faulty assumption,” James says without any bite to his words, “but a fresh start sounds perfect.”
“Yeah? Then how about we go out to dinner to honor that? Maybe tomorrow? We can go to Maggie’s and I can treat you to a few special things she only makes if we both ask really nicely.”
James is not blushing, he’s not, but there’s still heat skipping across his skin. “Is this— are you asking me on a date?”
Tony’s grin doesn’t falter, not even when he shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be, but I’m not opposed to the possibility.”
James is almost certain that this is it—his brain has given up on reality, he’s hallucinating all of this, but hell, what a way to go.
He throws the rest of his caution to the wind, licks his lips, and says, “Stress isn’t the only thing I’ve noticed about you, you know.”
“Really? What else did you notice, Snowflake?” Tony cocks a brow and it’s almost coy, the smile he gives James. He scoots closer and slides his hand over James’ metal one and aside from the Wakandan princess herself, Tony’s the only one who handles the metal arm with this much ease. There’s never any hesitation or fear, but there is a glint to his eyes now. “Please tell me it’s my ass because honestly, that’s my best asset.”
“It’s… on the list of things, yes.”
This is reckless, James knows this, but Tony is touching him, those clever fingers mapping out a line over the top of his hand, tracing the curve of his wrist, and James never wants Tony to stop.
But Tony’s smile does falter now.
“Don’t say ‘yes’ because you think you have to though, okay? Or because you feel bad that I’m stressed all the time.” Tony grimaces and looks down, traces his hand over the metal of James’ palm when he turns the hand over. “Only go with me because I am in fact the hottest piece of tail in this building.” He stops to let James huff good-naturedly. “And because you want to, because it’ll be fun to figure out who the hell we are these days and what we have in common, and maybe I can bribe you with cannoli and ice cream to distract Steve for me indefinitely.”
He’s rambling and it’s endearing and James is done being the passive party, so he weaves his fingers through Tony’s, clasps their hands together, and savors Tony’s little noise of surprise.
“I want to go.” I want to see you smile, to see the way you light up a room, to have you smiling at me, just like you are right now. “Besides, s’been a while since a handsome fella has taken me out for a night on the town.”
“God, you’re ridiculously cute. Why have I never known this before?”
“Didn’t think you’d care to know.” It’s new, being complimented, but James could get used to it.
“I like it, please keep it up.” There’s tension crackling between them now, pleasant and anticipatory. Tony leans in closer. “Are you sure you didn’t want anything in return for your good deeds? I’m in a much more of giving mood today.”
Tony plays it off as a tease, but James has watched him long enough to know how to spot the way Tony pushes and prods to unearth people’s true nature and motives. He’s pushing here too, seeing if he can get the truth out of James. He doesn’t trust him yet, not enough to take his words for what they are, but James finds himself okay with that. They’re almost strangers, but they have also seen each other at their worst and their most vulnerable, had thought about each other, had watched and wondered and wanted.
“There is something I want, actually.” He sticks with the truth and leans in closer. His whole body sings with nerves and with heat, but Tony doesn’t pull away and it’s James who falters at the last second, his kiss landing at the corner of Tony’s lips, just shy of where James wanted it. It’s a tender, barely-there touch, and he’s ready to pull away, to face the music, but there’s a gentle hand on James’ cheek that keeps him in place as Tony angles their faces and presses their lips together properly.
The kiss is tentative and this isn’t some magical, dramatic first kiss driven by wild desires you’d see in romantic films, but James doesn’t remember the last time something has felt this good.
Tony smiles when they break apart and James feels like he’s floating.
“Well, that was very nice too. I gotta say, I may like that more than the flowers, but I might need another one just to confirm.”
James obliges, because he likes to see Tony smile, because it’s his mission and he’s always good at his job, and already he’s getting addicted to the way Tony tastes.
He bets it’s even sweeter than the raspberries and creme.