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Chapter Text

     The asset woke to the incessant ringing of an alarm, his head pounding with each wailing ring. Wake up, wake up, wake up! It screamed at him, pulling him from the black dregs of sleep and into fear. He scrambled upright, his feet trapped in the fabric of a blanket, and pushed himself back against a wall, carpet burn itching his ass where his boxers rode down. 

     His vision was swamped in the red haze of panic that he dared not show on his face. He had to go. He had to move before they decided to make him move. He was on a mission. What mission? Kill Steve Rogers.

     No!

     With a surge of awareness, he dragged in a pained breath. Once, twice…and the red fog of fear retreated, even if the tight cords of tension around his lungs did not. His grey-blue eyes darted around the room, still caught up in the confusing mash-up of sleep and fear. A harsh, strangled gasp of sound slipped past his pale, chapped lips as his gaze was met, not with steel walls or dark shadows, but with the bright light of sunshine peeking in through sheer curtains. 

     He was surrounded by cream-colored walls, soft and warm, and a stray beam of sunlight warmed the carpet where he sat. The place was starkly bare and utterly lacking in personality, but he recognized it as his apartment. A bed took up the space to his left, and a small dresser with a television on top was tucked into the corner. The floor was a bit of a mess, his dirty clothes having decidedly not made it into the laundry basket beside his dresser for several days at the least.

     Fucking hell. Goddamn nightmares. Bucky thought, rubbing a hand over his mouth, the stubble on his jaw scratching his skin. He wasn’t in Hydra's clutches anymore. He was free, had been free for a while now, and he didn’t have any orders to follow.

     “I am not an asset…I am James Buchanan Barnes," he said, his voice deep and husky from sleep. He repeated it one more time as he scrubbed his hand over his watering eyes, pulling himself free of the entanglement of his blanket to find the source of the annoying ringing: his phone. It was on the charger, on the floor beside his pillow. Without looking at the caller ID, he reflexively hit the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear. There was only one person who would be calling him.

     “What do you want, Steve?” He asked, maybe a little grumpy. What could he say? He’d had a rough night's sleep. His stupid, broken mind was unable to rest even now in the safety of his own home. Not only a rough night, but hell, the past few weeks, he’d been tormented by his PTSD, the memories of trauma, and the nightmares strangling him. He hadn’t talked to Steve for equally as long. Not for Steve’s lack of trying, Bucky just didn’t have anything to say. 

     “Steve?” There was silence on the other end of the line, then the rapid sound of gunfire and screams of terror. The noise was enough to wake Bucky the rest of the way, and he straightened, staggering to his feet from his place on the floor beside his bed, his features drawing into a scowl. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a loose T-shirt, and he had a major case of bedhead, his hair a matted mess. “Steve!”

     What the hell is going on? Bucky thought, his bionic hand tap, tap, tapping against his thigh, even as he started to pace the floor nervously. 

     “Run that way, get to safety!” Steve shouted, his words obviously not directed at Bucky. Who was he talking to? Was Steve on a mission? Usually, the other man texted him before he left in case Bucky needed something. When Bucky glanced at the phone screen, he didn’t have any missed messages. 

     “Come on, Steve, you’re scaring me here!” Bucky shouted, hoping the extra volume would be enough to get Steve's attention. He began tugging on his boots to walk out of the house, then and there, dressed or not.

     “Shit! Dammit, sorry, Buck. We’re in the middle of an attack, and I need your help, bud.” Steve said quickly, and Bucky frowned, pacing across the floor, his untied boots loose on his feet. Was Steve serious?

     “ I-I can’t… Steve, I’m not doin- fuck…You said I didn’t have to anymore. You have a whole team of superheroes, Steve. Ask one of them.” Bucky croaked, his hand shaking around the tight grip on his phone. He wasn’t ready for this; he was already in the middle of a break, and he didn’t think he could add new trauma to the mix. He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t.

     Despite his own insistence, he found himself moving. Chewing his lower lip, the salty tang of blood coating his tongue, he paced over to the television and turned it on. Automatically, he muted it before scanning the channels until he came across one running the news. On the screen, he could see that Manhattan was under attack. Smoke and fire rose beneath the view of a helicopter camera. Hundreds of people were fleeing through the city streets toward safety, and there were half a dozen black-clad soldiers shooting carelessly into the crowds. Buildings were set aflame, and as he watched, one exploded in a rush of debris and fire that had the cameraman filming the thing flinching back.

     “I know! I know. I’m sorry, but I don’t have much of a choice here. We’re spread thin across the city; there are bombs going off everywhere, and the guys behind it have some heavy artillery. I’m already down, Clint, and Bruce is out of town. ‘Tasha is pretty banged up.” Steve said. Bucky grimaced with concern. He wasn’t close with anyone on the team, but he knew it took a lot to take their people down. Steve was probably drastically understating their current conditions.

     On the television, the camera cut to a new image, this time showing Captain America crouched behind a building with a dozen or so people hiding in the shadows behind him. There were children there, covered in blood and dust. Steve himself was carrying the limp body of a woman. The camera zoomed in on Steve; it was obviously not current footage, but Bucky could see the strain in his eyes, with dark circles rimming them. How long had they been at this?

     “We have no idea who the hell is behind this. I need backup, and everyone else is already in play. Have you got this, Sergeant?” the Captain asked, voice firm and giving Bucky little chance to argue. This was an order, an order from his commanding officer. The shitty thing was that Steve knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to a direct order, which really was kind of like deliberately taking advantage of one of Bucky’s weaknesses.

     No, no. Steve wouldn’t do that. Bucky tried to tell himself, but the Steve Rogers he knew as a friend, and his role as Captain America were two separate people. Captain America needed soldiers, and right now, that’s what Bucky had to be. He couldn’t even blame Steve for it; Bucky knew people were getting hurt. He knew they needed help. He just didn’t think he could be the person to do it right now, not with his head as fucked up as it was.

     I don’t have much choice. Those people need help. Bucky thought as he watched the scene on the screen change to a man carrying a child down the street, covered in white debris that made the blood seeping from both of their bodies stand out starkly. James' bionic fingers tapped with bruising force on his thigh. He was torn. So fucking torn, driven by an overwhelming need to help and also to hide away and let someone else deal with the problem.

     Fucking coward.

     “Ugh!” Bucky groaned. He knew what he had to do. Didn’t mean he had to like it. Mind made up, he bent at the waist to plop down face first into his bare mattress before screaming into it, the sound muffled by layers of plush fabric. His breath came in harsh, damp pants across his cheeks as he smothered his frustrations. 

     “You alright there, Buck?” Steve asked, his voice distracted but teasing. Bucky hated the hint of amusement he could hear in his voice.

     “What do you think?! This-this is the fucking last time, Captain. I can’t keep doing this. M-my head's not right.” Bucky hissed, rolling his head to the side enough to speak. He felt drained, utterly drained by less than a minute's conversation. 

     No time for that now. Get your ass moving. Bucky told himself. 

     “Last time, Buck,” the other man said, his words ringing hollow. 

Yeah…right. Growling to himself, he punched the abused mattress with his metal fist. It was the most attention the thing had seen since Bucky had moved into the place. He dragged himself gracelessly up from the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to calm down his racing heart.

     “I’ll come over when this is done. We’ll figure out what's going on. Together,” the Captain added, concern edging his voice, and James sighed guiltily. The man shouldn’t be worrying about Bucky right now. He had better things to do. Bucky had been functioning for decades without Steve, and he could keep doing it for as long as he needed.

     “Don’t worry about me,” James said under his breath with a heavy sigh. “It's fine, Cap. I’m on my way. I’m in Brooklyn, but I have my bike. Should get there soon.” Bucky told the other man. No doubt the traffic into Manhattan would be at a standstill, the bridges blocked by abandoned vehicles, but Bucky was sure he’d weave his way through.

     “No, Buck. I’ve already sent Tony to pick you up. We need you here, quick. Play nice,” the Captain added the last with a hint of mother hen coming through. Cap’s end of the line went quiet, not even giving Bucky the chance to protest. 

     Dammit Steve! I’m not the one who doesn’t ‘play nice,’ Bucky thought irritably, glaring at the phone as if it were the source of all of his problems. He dropped it on top of his dresser and flipped the television back off. He’d be up close and personal with the fight soon enough.

     Bucky couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by the Captain. He’d already had Stark en route to him before Bucky even accepted the assignment. Had Captain Rogers known from the beginning that Bucky would cave? Was he so damn predictable? And Stark? He’d sent Stark ? He knew things between Bucky and Stark were civil at best and a step away from blows at worst.

     The Avengers really must be in a tough spot if he’d risk pairing the two of them together. Dread assaulted Bucky’s gut, making it roll and twist, last night's can of unheated beef stew planning a resurgence. To say he and Stark did not exactly get along was an understatement. In fact, he was pretty sure Stark would be just fine if he died, and he never had to hear the name James Barnes again in his life. 

     Bucky couldn’t deny that Stark was a good person. He deserved some respect for his selfless actions and being a hero and all that bullshit. It didn’t change the fact that the man treated Bucky like he was less than dirt. Bucky had been walked all over for too fucking long, and he wasn’t about to let Stark continue the tradition, even if his feelings were perfectly valid. 

     Bucky at least had respect for Stark. Stark, on the other hand, couldn’t even offer him a bit of human decency, which was really all Bucky had ever hoped for, considering he’d killed the man's parents. Yeah…that was a pretty hard grudge to push aside. Bucky understood it. He really fucking did. There was only so much a man could do to make up for it, though, and dammit if Bucky wasn’t trying.

     Fighting the urge to just crawl under the bed and pretend the world didn't exist, Bucky undressed himself, kicked off his unlaced boots, and stalked into his bathroom. He needed a shower after being in a PTSD slump for the last week, but there wasn’t time for that. A brush through his tangled, lanky hair and a quick wash with a cloth on the important bits was all he spared himself. 

     He sniffed his underarms to make sure he wasn’t too rank and shrugged, not too bad. Stepping back into the bedroom, he smeared deodorant onto already sweat-stale pits, the smell of lavender covering up the lingering odor. At least he didn’t have to walk up to Stark smelling like ass. He tossed the container onto the bedding-less mattress, sighing irritably when it skittered across the surface to fall behind the headboard. Retrieving it was a problem for another time, or future him could just stink; he didn’t have anyone to impress.

     With a sigh of reluctance, Bucky pulled his uniform from his closet. He glared at the offending pieces of fabric and kind of regretted not having gotten rid of them the last time he’d been called in on an emergency. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this position if he’d just thrown the damn thing away. The thing was, somehow, he’d known, despite all of Steve's promises, that he would need it again. Captain Rogers was a hero; his mind couldn’t comprehend the idea of not helping. For him, there was no end to this life, and Bucky knew, he knew, there would always be a ‘last time.’

     Goddamn Bucky for not being strong enough to say no to the only person he had left in his life. Bucky would do anything for that man, to the detriment of his own mental and physical health. To the end of the line. Yup, their relationship was probably toeing the edge of unhealthy, but it was all Bucky had and he’d hold onto it tooth and nail. 

     The thing was, if Bucky kept pushing himself like this, the end of the line would happen sooner than Steve thought. The thought was dark and intrusive, something he didn’t voice for fear of acknowledging it. But… Sometimes, the idea of just ending this wretched life was a lot more appealing than knowing death and blood, and horror were all that it would ever be. 

     Numbly, he dressed in a black sleeveless top and a pair of armored leggings before dragging on his cargo pants and buckling his belt around his hips. Bucky began to strap his body into his gear automatically, his hands having long ago memorized the routine. The buckles and snaps of tactical gear clicked into place, the weight of his body armor oddly reassuring, easing the ragged touch to his breathing.

     “I’ve got this,” Bucky told himself. He tightened the straps even further as if the armor could keep his fraying psyche together. It was a lot to expect of a piece of fabric. He shoved back on his boots before he paced over to his weapons safe in the living room. Mechanically, he unlocked it and began to strap on enough guns and knives to supply a small squadron, pockets and harnesses growing heavy with spare magazines and weaponry. 

     This part of his apartment was just as sparsely furnished as the bedroom. Hell, it would have been entirely empty if not for Steve taking the initiative to order him some furniture. Transitioning into a life of his own was… difficult. He didn’t know what to do with his time without orders. There were too many options out there in this version of the world, an overwhelming amount, and he didn’t know what he liked. He didn’t even know how to choose what to eat, let alone how to interior decorate. He was working on it, but that didn’t make the adjustment any easier.

     On one wall, hanging crooked, was Bucky’s most recent attempt at regaining his individuality. He’d spotted it at a local flea market, and from the moment he had seen the painting, he’d been entranced by the lay of oil paints on canvas and the bright, abstract splashes of color. He hadn’t bought it the first time he’d seen it, or even the second, but when it had still been there three weeks later, he decided to take it home. 

     He took a moment to stare into the dappled colors, trying to erase the darkness from his mind and center himself. With one final breath, he turned off the part of his mind that was Bucky, who was fragile, scared, and alone. Bucky, who could barely handle leaving his apartment for fear of being taken. Bucky, who didn’t want to kill anymore. Bucky, who was free from Hydra but never truly free. 

     James Barnes, The Winter Soldier, had a mission to accomplish, and a mission always took priority over self.

     Like a hammer to a nail, a dull knock echoed through the apartment, muffled by the heavy, bulletproof door but still jolting James back to reality. How the hell had Stark gotten there so fast? James wrinkled his nose in one last moment of weakness.

     It was going to be a shit day.

Chapter Text

     James yanked the door to his apartment open, frowning when Stark stepped into the room without so much as an invitation or a greeting. He was dressed to impress as usual, his Italian leather shoes toeing at the carpet as if it were something foreign…or maybe just filthy. 

     The only evidence that Stark had been fighting was the damp sheen of sweat on his brow line. He didn’t smell of sweat like James did; instead, Stark’s cologne tickled his nose, subtle by most people's standards but strong for James. The scent would probably linger in the apartment for days. Otherwise, Stark wore a crisp gray suit that looked as if it had been tailored to him, hugging every curve. Beneath the suit jacket was a pale pink shirt and a tie that hung loosely around his neck. It was a style that was all classic Stark. James didn’t think he’d ever be able to pull off a pink shirt. He shooed away the silly thought absently.

     “Yeah, sure, come in,” James said irritably. Stark was probably used to walking into places as though he owned them. James watched Stark from beneath the fall of his hair, tamping down his own embarrassment as the other man’s gaze traversed the apartment, taking in the blank walls and the dirty dishes in the sink. Those dark, judgmental eyes lingered over the painting on the wall, his eyebrow raising for a moment before his expression closed off again. 

     James wanted to walk over to the painting and straighten it out, just so maybe Stark could see the beauty that James saw in it—a stupid thought. Tony went to fancy galleries and had thousand-dollar paintings all over his condo. An unframed fifty-dollar canvas from a flea market was nothing special in his eyes. 

     James crossed his arms over his chest, fighting down the urge to bounce his leg with the flood of anxiety that doused through him like a waterfall. He found himself keenly aware and oddly ashamed of the state of the place. He was by no means a slob, but his home was no mansion. Stark certainly didn’t belong here with his fancy silk shirts and his gold watch. 

     “I didn’t realize manners weren’t a thing anymore. Most people know how to say hello.” James said, his words clipped and the corners of his lips downturned, while the rest of his features remained closed off. “Are you done looking?”

     “Hmm.” Stark hummed dismissively. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty. You know, this place suits you. Empty and soulless.” Stark asked by way of greeting, his words painfully cruel and somehow totally expected. This was why James didn’t want Stark here in the first place. The guy didn’t even have to try to be a bastard. “Well, except for that. Trying your hand at being human?” Tony asked with a sly grin, gesturing vaguely to the painting. His words struck the spot in James’ heart that only Tony Stark seemed to be able to get to. It was as if the man had stabbed him that first day they met and was just waiting to twist the knife every time they came by each other. 

     “Yep, that’s me.” James smiled bitterly with a roll of his eyes. Let it begin. It wasn’t as if he didn’t tell himself the same thing every day. He found himself staring at the third button-down on Stark's shirt. The glow of his reactor was visible just beneath the white fabric, and it was a hell of a lot more interesting to watch than Stark’s judgmental gaze. “You know, Stark, you didn’t have to come inside. Figured this place was a little below your standards.”  

     “Hmm, well, I had to see where the beast lives. I’m slightly disappointed. I was expecting a dark cave, dripping walls, all that.” Stark said with a wiggle of his fingers. Well, he was really working at that knife today.

     “I only live in a cave on Tuesdays,” James said dryly, staring at Stark with a bored expression on his face. No need to let Stark know how easily he got under his skin. “Get out. I think we have better things to do than stand here chatting about my apartment.” James said, motioning Stark back out of the apartment. He shut the door behind himself, typing in the security code into the keypad on the frame to lock the place up.

     “Oh yeah, playing at being a billion-dollar taxi is definitely the most important thing on my mind today,” Stark said, already setting off down the hallway, his slightly shorter legs setting a quick pace that led them over to the elevator. The door dinged open at the press of a button, and James stepped into the enclosed box behind Stark with a sigh. He passed him to lean back against the metal wall, weapons clanking loudly against he metal as the machine worked its way down to the main floor. 

     “Next time, just send a jet, then you won’t have to go wasting your time,” James replied irritably. He could do without the constant bickering; he was just too damn tired, and it was too early. He rubbed a hand over eyes that burned, grateful Stark’s back was to him. The man was like a damn tiger; he could spot weakness from a mile away, and he knew how to take advantage of it. It was a quality that made an excellent businessman, but also a shit person. The elevator dinged as it reached the main floor, shuddering as the doors opened with a grating noise.

     “Ah, see, but that’s where you're wrong. Jets are for the good guys. I don’t think you qualify. Gotta keep close tabs on you.” Stark said with a shit-eating grin as he backed out of the elevator, hands flicking through the air as if to say he were sorry. James knew he wasn’t. 

     “Fuck. Can you just stop?” Barnes grunted, a barely there snarl curling his lips. He picked up his pace, walking past Stark and out of the front doors. It was a dreary day outside, the sky covered in grey clouds that rolled and boiled, much like Bucky’s attitude. Fitting. Not too far from the doors to the building was the Iron Man suit. It stood there, all regal lines and sharp symmetry, surrounded by people all vying for a selfie with the famous tech.

     “You see, I could, Barnes, but somebody's gotta remind you where you come from. Since I’m the only one that can see through your bullshit facade, I suppose it's gotta be me.” Stark said with a shark-like grin. James didn’t know it was possible to feel any lower than he already did, but Stark was certainly on a roll today. Any other time, James might not have been affected by the barbing, but today, Stark’s words were fracturing the tentative control James had over himself. He forced his gaze to remain vacant. 

     I am James Buchanan Barnes. I am James Buchanan Barnes. James repeated in a litany in his head, trying not to fall into the whirlpool of despair already threatening to overwhelm him. He already stood chest-deep within it, and he didn’t need to take the plunge. He was stronger than that. It took more than a few callous words to break him. Hydra tried for years, and they didn’t succeed. Stark was nothing in comparison to that. 

     There was nothing James could do to change Stark's mind about him—no amount of missions, and no amount of apologies. Stark would always think of him as having some nefarious motive, no matter what he did. He could save a bus full of kids from falling off a bridge, and somehow, Stark would twist him into being the villain. James had given up trying to change the man's mind; it just wasn’t worth the effort.

     James wasn’t expecting it when Stark suddenly caught up to him and threw his arm around his shoulders, making James flinch internally at the sudden, unfamiliar contact as they walked the final steps up toward the suit. His body went stiff as a statue, his breath hitching in his lungs. Close, to close. He felt frozen within his own mind, unsure of what to do, his brain short-circuiting.

     “Smile for the camera’s Buckaroo,” Stark whispered against James’ ear, his breath teasing against the long strands of hair as he started waving at the crowd with a grin. His words snapped James out of his own mind, and he shifted his gaze to glare menacingly at Stark, because, somehow, James couldn’t bring himself to play along. 

     “Get your arm off me.” Barnes hissed under his breath. Stark's arm felt like a live wire against his body, and he shrugged himself free of the contact. His gaze darkened with vexation at the phony display of camaraderie. People didn’t just touch him without permission, not even Steve. What a fucking asshole. Keeping himself together literally because of the many cameras pointed in their direction. So many eyes watching, all the damn time.

     “Alright, everybody, we’ve got places to be, people to save,” Stark said, ignoring Barnes' irritation, though he did release him with a clap to his shoulder.

     “You’ll need this,” Stark said, absent-mindedly holding out a small box for James to take before he sauntered away, acting as if he hadn’t even heard James’ words. Radiating an air of superiority, he waved the people away and stepped into the suit with casual ease, the metal closing in around him with the click of settling plates. 

     “Come on, princess.” Iron Man said with a crook of his hand, urging James closer. 

     James sighed, staring up at the clouds in hopes that they might offer him some patience. He opened the familiar box and pulled out a small earpiece that he tucked into his ear, giving himself a moment to calm down. He let out a breath and stepped into the crowd, throwing a small smile to his neighbor from across the hall and her son, who watched them with open-mouthed awe. 

     “Excuse me, Mrs. Laurel, Max,” he said with a grin. He dropped to a knee in front of Max to bump their fists together, like he’d done so many other times before, sure to rein in every ounce of his enhanced strength so as not to injure the boy's small hand. It was nice to see a couple of friendly faces. Max had been the first person to approach him after he’d moved in, and he’d never been afraid of James, even when the rumors had been everywhere after his pardon by the government. 

     “That’s Iron Man, Bucky!” Max squealed excitedly, not at all deterred by the practical armory's worth of weapons that James was wearing. James glanced up toward Stark, who looked down at him through his open mask with an eyebrow raised. James studiously avoided the other man’s gaze; it was a skill he’d perfected since they’d started ‘playing nice.’ If James didn’t know just exactly how much of an asshole Stark was, he might have been just as star-struck. Stark belonged in that suit, and he knew it. He was every inch the hero James wasn’t.

     “I know! Cool, huh? Tell you what, I’ll ask him to give you an autograph when I get back.” James tore his gaze away from the other man before ruffling the kid's curly hair gently. So, so gently.  

     “Mom! Did you hear that? I’m gonna get Iron Man’s autograph!!” the boy squealed, running back to his mom. James stood up, giving one last wave to his neighbors.

     “Where do you want me?” he asked, stepping up to Stark with uncertainty.  

     “Right side. You can hook your cyborg hand into the metal plates on the back. One foot over mine,” Stark said, pointing a thumb behind himself. “Don’t let your other leg get near the repulsors unless you feel like losing another limb.”

     James grunted his understanding non-verbally and stepped close to the cold suit of armor. He took a moment to adjust the rifle strapped to his back while he glanced behind Stark for a good handhold before he let himself duck under Iron Man’s arm. He hooked his hand into a gap in the armor and frowned when Stark shifted. It felt all kinds of wrong when that thick arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in close and maybe a little too tightly, those metal plates biting into anywhere not covered in armor.

     James immediately felt trapped, and his heart began to beat a rapid cadence against his ribs. Cold, irrational fear washed through his nervous system in a wave that threatened to consume him. It’s not the chair. Not the chair. He reminded himself. The feel of that cold, unyielding metal sent him back in time to when being restrained in metal straps was a precedent of nothing good. He could feel all of the blood rush from his limbs, his face going pale, and his head spinning dizzily. He almost tore out of the other man’s grasp.

     Run. His body screamed at him, fight or flight instincts threatening to go haywire. He managed to restrain himself, but this, this was a horrible idea. How could he be trusting a man, who hated him almost as much as he hated himself, with his life? Why the hell had Steve thought this was a good idea? He should have just ridden his bike. Calm the fuck down. Just get this over with. This is the last one. James told himself, the mask of indifference on his face unchanging despite his nerves. If there was anything James was good at, it was concealing his emotions.

     “If you drop me, I’m gonna haunt your armor for the rest of your life,” James said after a breath, casting a dead-eyed glare in Stark's direction. His words must have come off as a joke because the other man just laughed. That red and gold mask clicked closed and muffled the sound, turning it metallic and painfully sharp against James' sensitive ears.

     “Hope you skipped breakfast,” Stark said, his words the only warning James got before he heard the repulsors charge up. The crowd around them started cheering, waving toward them excitedly, and then, with a roar of sound, they were propelled into the air. James’ gut was left somewhere below while the wind tore at his clothing and hair, ruining the little effort he’d put into making himself presentable. He squeezed his eyes closed, jaw rigid as he clenched his teeth.

     “Fuck!” James breathed. The word was carried away on the wind as if it had never been. His muscles were rigid and aching with tension, and he held tight to the metal at Stark's back just in case Stark decided it might be nice just to drop him to his demise. Yup, one little slip-up and it was bye-bye James. He didn’t think even a super soldier could survive that kind of drop. Despite his grim view of life, he wasn’t ready to sign off just yet.

     James opened his eyes, dragging in a stabilizing breath as he looked down, down, down. The earth below was a patchwork quilt of greens and autumn gold, with stripes of road acting as stitching. The people were minuscule beneath them, and if he listened closely, he could hear the sound of the city past the rush of the wind in his ears. He couldn’t help but be awed by the sheer beauty of it.

     It wasn’t as if he hadn't flown before; he’d been in plenty of planes and had parachuted into too many places to remember. He’d never done it as James, though, always as a soldier or an asset. The soldier was too beaten by death and the tribulations of war to see the beauty within the horrors. While the asset had no comprehension of the world beyond the next set of orders, wiped clean of emotion and thought. Seeing it now and knowing that, despite all the evils in the world, life was still moving on was inspiring in its own right. 

     “You alright there, Barnes?” Iron Man asked, his metal fingers drumming against James’ side.

     “Are you asking cause you care or cause you don’t want me to vomit on your damned suit?” James shouted. He kind of wished he was even a little scared of heights. The idea of Stark having to clean up vomit from between the plates of his suit was almost enough to make him smile. Would he do it himself, or was that a project he would outsource? 

     “Definitely not because I care,” Stark said snappily, veering right a little, toward the Manhattan skyline. 

     “That’s what I thought,” James said sourly, not loud enough for Stark to hear. Why did the man even bother? They would get this done so much faster and easier if he would just shut the hell up and do the damn job.

     The pair of them fell into silence as they flew, a silence Barnes was relieved to have. He didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. Instead, he tilted his head back, content to let Stark do the flying as he enjoyed the fresh, mist-laden air dancing across his skin. He’d take the brief respite for what it was. The calm before the storm of shit they’d be walking into, given a few more minutes.

     Stark kept his flight path relatively low, and they were going fast, but not as fast as Iron Man would normally fly without a passenger. Still, for James, it was no worse than being on his bike, maybe even a little better since he didn’t have to worry about steering. He would say it was relaxing if not for the present company.

     “Don’t go falling asleep on me, Barnes,” Stark said. There it was.

     James' lips pursed thinly. He had known the quiet wouldn’t last all that long. James didn’t give Stark the satisfaction of a response, merely lifting his free hand to flip the other man off. 

Chapter Text

     As they neared Manhattan, beauty turned to horror as the brief moment of peace was washed away with the scent of burning things and the screams of the people down below. So many people in a state of utter panic, so many of them were injured, with others carrying who they could, and still more draped over makeshift stretchers. Above them, dark clouds were covered by even darker lines of smoke, and the acrid tang of burning buildings filled the air. 

     “Shit, this is bad,” Barnes said, his jaw setting tight with anger as he took in the damage. They were flying low now, maybe a few stories off the ground. It looked like the cities he’d seen during the war, rubble and smoke everywhere, and bodies, so many bodies. It was no wonder Steve had called him in. “What the hell is going on?”

     “Yeah, it ain’t pretty. These people are going for mass destruction. We don’t even know what the hell they want.” Stark admitted, fury tinging his voice as well, his flight path leading them further into the city. The deeper they flew, the quieter it got. The streets seemed to be mostly empty here, not a living person in sight, though cars still burned and buildings creaked and groaned threateningly over their current lack of integrity. “No one has made any demands. We’ve managed to capture a few groups, but they're not talking, and somehow, more of them just keep popping up. Like goddamn roaches.”

     “They’re organized and trained. Military?” James asked, thinking of the way the men had moved on the television. They had been in formation and seemed well-equipped.

     “Maybe a little too chaotic for that. Not Militia, though…Mercenaries?” Stark added his own thoughts.

     “Could be. It would make sense why there are so many.” James agreed. Until they got up close and personal, James wasn’t ready to make that evaluation yet. The real question was, who was paying for all those people? Big numbers meant big dollars, which cut down significantly on the number of organizations that would be funding them, which meant some very not good things. 

     One of the big guys had to be in play. James didn’t like that. 

     “We prep for aliens, and fucking robot army’s but who’d of thought its plain old humans that we underestimate,” Stark said sourly. 

     “It’s easier to hide in the masses when you look like them,” James said. Despite all the things they fought against, James knew full well, from experience, that humanity’s own worst enemy was itself.

     “We’re getting in range for communications. Don’t forget to turn your earpiece on,” Stark said somberly, no longer joking around. Good, James thought that their petty little rivalry was completely inappropriate, what with the carnage taking place below.

     “Got it.” James nodded and reached up to flip the tiny switch on the piece of plastic in his ear. There was a distant crackle and the wavering of voices, indistinguishable from the static of airwaves as of yet. He thought he could vaguely hear the Captain's voice, but he couldn’t understand a word of it. They flew on, deeper through the streets, and the sight of disaster soon numbed James’ mind. Good, being numb was an excellent coping mechanism in his book. 

     “Gonna take a tight curve here, I’ll need my arm. Hold tight,” Stark warned.

     “Go ahead,” James said, tightening his hold on the armor to keep himself stable. Stark only released James when he was sure he had a good grip. Without that iron belt of security on his waist, James felt vaguely nauseous, but at least Stark had warned him. It was almost pathetic how even such a small courtesy made the weight of James’ despair that much more manageable. He was desperate, searching for small crumbs of kindness among all the cruelty. 

     Gotta survive somehow. James thought, not entirely caring. He was still human, after all, and he’d take what little he could get, knowing full well he didn’t even deserve that much. Steve would probably scold him for thinking like that; he really wanted James to be able to see himself as separate from the actions of the Winter Soldier. For James, it was still too hard to come to terms with the fact that it was his hands that had done all that killing. Separating himself from it felt almost like doing a disservice to his victims.

     James shifted his weight as Stark took a sharp right turn, balancing himself carefully so as not to throw off the other man’s center of gravity. Flying like this really had him appreciating Stark's core strength. The man probably had a six-pack to rival James’. As they rounded the corner of the building, he was expecting to see nothing more than empty streets and abandoned vehicles, and by the way Iron Man stalled immediately in the air, so was he.

     Instead, they had arrived at a scene of despair. Partway down the street was a small group of people, and they were frantically trying to flip a smoking car over, struggling to get to someone trapped within. James flinched when he heard the ragged sobbing of a child, heartbreaking and scared. A kid! There was a kid trapped in there!

     “Do you hear that?” James asked, his body going stiff with worry.

     “I hear it. Switching to comms.” Stark said, his voice no longer coming from the suit itself. James preferred it. The raw, robotic sound of the suit was like nails on a chalkboard. Or maybe that was just Stark’s personality. “I think we’ve been noticed. Don’t go rushing in, Robocop.” Stark said warily, and he was right. At the sound of Iron Man’s repulsors, the group’s attention was turned toward them, and James could practically see the excitement and relief reflected in their gazes.

     Help had arrived!

     “Iron Man! It’s Iron Man!” a man shouted, pointing toward them. It didn’t hurt James’ feelings that they didn’t know who the hell he was. He always kept his role with the Avengers quiet. In and out. No press conferences, no autographs, and definitely none of those stupid action figures the others had. More often than not, he played the role of backup rather than acting as an actual member. A role he was just fine with.

     “Please! Help us! My son! My son!” a woman shouted as soon as she thought they were close enough. She waved her arm, jumping up and down to get their attention. She had blood spilling from a wound on her head, and one arm was slung up in a makeshift sling, maybe broken.

     “We have to help them.” James hissed, and he shifted in Stark's grasp, twisting to look down at the group and evaluate the situation. 

     The vehicle was on its back, relatively crushed beneath the remains of a building to their left. The brick wall had a massive hole through it, and it was remarkable that the building was still standing. There were only four people on the ground: the woman and three men. They were just normal people, no super soldiers here. They had little chance of flipping that car over on their own.

     "We shouldn’t. S.H.I.E.L.D. and the army are on evacuation patrol. We have bigger things to worry about. They’ll get here soon.” Stark said reluctantly as if he were trying to convince himself with his words, though he slowed, shifting into a hover a few hundred feet away. “I thought they already cleared this area.” The last bit was said almost absently.

     “All the more reason to help. They must have been missed.” James said with exasperation. “I thought you were the hero here, so let's play hero.” How was he not jumping into action? The kids' cries alone were pulling at James' heartstrings. James scowled, knocking on Iron Man's helmet as if he could knock a little sense into the other man's head. Those empty blue eye slits turned toward him, and James could feel the annoyance radiating at him from the man behind the mask. Still, they were here now. They had a responsibility to help. There was no way he was going to leave a kid trapped in a car, not for a moment longer.

     “Anyone ever tell you you’re annoying?” Stark asked with a resigned sigh. 

     “Nope, but I’m sure you're the expert in annoying. Let me down, I can flip it without your help,” James insisted with irritation. They were wasting time that could be used to help these people. He knew it would take no time at all to free the kid. Then, the refugees could make their way to the evacuation zone. They were in decent shape, and if they followed the same route James and Stark had used to get into the city, they shouldn’t encounter too many baddies.

     “Alright, let’s be quick. We can’t stick around.” Stark agreed, dropping down toward the ground. James didn’t let Stark change his mind, shifting his hold and leaping free from his grasp as soon as he was close enough to the road. He fell into a controlled roll, his weapons clinking where they hung and his rifle tucked up against his chest to keep it from punching him in the face or something equally as embarrassing. Without so much as a grunt of effort, James was bounding back to his feet and running toward the flipped car and the people on the ground. He swung the rifle to hang from his back.

     “Show off,” Stark said via the communicator in James’ ear. James hid a laugh. 

     “Well, all the torture and experimentation had to pay off somehow,” James said nonchalantly, just loud enough for Stark to hear. God forbid he actually used what he was trained for. 

     " You got me there, I’ll keep watch up here,” Stark added, hovering up above. It was the only smart thing to do. They were still in enemy territory, and they couldn’t let their guard down.

     “Got it,” James said, slowing his run as the woman came toward him, practically throwing herself into his arms. He staggered back a step so that she wouldn’t run into a solid wall of super soldier and hesitantly straightened, instincts forcing him to wrap his arms around her. He was stiff as a tree, and he couldn’t help but glance up at Stark unintentionally with a hint of confusion in his eyes.

     He wasn’t the superhero people hugged. Nothing about him was huggable, in fact, he was pretty sure his whole, ‘resting bitch face,’ as Clint had once put it so eloquently, was an excellent deterrent… or maybe it was the insane amount of weapons strapped to his body. Either way, this was a first. James didn’t like it.

     What the fuck am I supposed to do here? He thought desperately, and if he didn’t have better control of his mouth, he might have thought he said it out loud when Stark actually responded.

     “Just pat her shoulder all nice like Robo-boy. Tell her you're there to help.” Stark said via the communicator, his laughter more than a little annoying. Okay…okay, he could do that. James followed the order and gently patted her shoulder with his right hand as she wept into his chest armor.

     “I’m here to help,” he said stiffly, and gently eased his way out of the woman's grip. His heart was pounding with nerves, his skin shuddering like it could recoil from his muscles if given the option. He really did not like being touched. It had his fucked up instincts screaming. Danger! Danger! Danger! 

     “Oh, thank you, thank you! Please, you have to help us. My son is inside the car!” she said, oblivious to his discomfort. She grabbed his right hand, the touch making James’ skin crawl, before practically dragging him toward the flipped vehicle. 

     “I’m here to help,” James reassured her, tugging his hand free from her grip, his fingers curling tight against his palm reflexivity as if she might try for it again. 

     The crying of the small child within was metallic and hollow, muffled by the exterior of the car as James approached. The three men stepped back, making room for him with a chorus of gratitude. James nodded to them, looking them over warily, but so far as he could tell, they were unarmed and looked a little worse for wear. One man was in his late fifties, while the other two were younger and appeared to be siblings. There were burns on them, clothing seared, and skin red; they must have been caught near an explosion.

     James circled the car, hopping over rubble and the fluids leaking from the vehicle. It didn’t look good, and he grimaced as he realized the amount of wall pinning it to the ground. The car was smashed nearly flat, the windows crushed down almost to the level of the ground, and it was weighted to one side. One wrong move and the whole damn thing could crumble and crush the kid inside. He had to be quick about this.

     “Stark, best bet is to just rip the door off,” Bucky relayed, pacing back around to the rear door. He dropped to a knee, peering through the gap between where the ground met the edge of the window frame. There was barely an inch of space to see into the black swath of shadows within. He couldn’t see the kid, but it sounded like he was on the opposite side of the car, which would be ideal, considering he was further away from any potential rubble fall.

     “Yeah, it's a fucking mess. Be careful.” Stark told him, and James flashed him a look of confusion. Be careful? What the fuck was that? 

     “If you aren’t careful, I might actually start to think you care,” he snorted under his breath. Stark did not respond, but James knew he’d heard him. 

     “Alright, everybody, step back,” James said and straightened. The men stepped back, but the mother stayed right where she was, giving him a look that dared him to ask again. Whatever. He reached up to shove at the rubble hanging over the edge of the vehicle. It went skittering down the opposite side with little effort on his part. 

     After he’d made it relatively safe, he made short work of the door. His bionic fingers crushed into the metal seam of it while his flesh hand supported the car to ensure he didn’t move it too much. With a grunt of effort, he wrenched it free using sheer strength.

     The metal gave way with a horrid screech and the buckling of structures shifting beneath the weight of the rubble. The metal frame groaned in protest, threatening to collapse beneath the weight of the wall. He had to be quick. He tossed the door to the side and dropped to his knees into the short gap between the ground and the upside-down seats. He had to pull himself through by his elbows, his shoulders almost too broad to fit.

     Crushed glass scraped at his forearm, but he was halfway inside in a matter of breaths, his stormy gaze darting through the vehicle. He was startled when the first thing he saw was a woman… a very dead woman sitting suspended upside down by a seat belt in the driver's seat. Her arms hung lax in the air, bent at the elbow as she swayed with the movement of the vehicle. Her bloodied forearms scraped horrifically through broken glass and twisted metal . 

     Shhfff, Shhhff, Shhhf, the sound whispered against his ears. He was pretty sure that sound would haunt his dreams for at least a few days. With a force of habit, he dismissed the corpse, automatically excluding her from his concerns as soon as he saw she was dead. A small part of him was disgusted with himself for it, but compartmentalizing was a necessity.

     The sound of crying was still echoing through the cabin, and James immediately looked for the source within the shadowed confines of the backseat and found…nothing. There was no child, no screaming toddler. Instead, the sound came from a small, round lump among the rubble—a speaker. 

     James' eyes widened in realization. This was a trap, and they had walked right into it.

     “Shit!” James cursed. “Ambush Stark, it's a fucking am-” James tried to warn the other man, but it was too late. Outside, James heard a loud Fwump! of sound, followed by the wail of repulsor blasts. Stark’s rapid-fire cursing came over the comms as something happened beyond James' view. It all happened so fast that he was already scrambling out of the remains of the car when he heard the crash of metal hitting the pavement. James' hand went for his gun as he pivoted back to his feet, right into the muzzle of a pistol pointed straight at him.

     Behind the weapon, the once distraught mother was grinning, her expression radiating bloodlust and excitement. She held the gun with the arm he’d once thought broken. She’d used the sling to conceal it. Stupid, stupid mistake. He cursed his luck as she pulled the trigger.

     BANG!

Chapter Text

     BANG!
     It happened so fast that James had only a breath to react, and he narrowly dove to the side, out of the way of the oncoming projectile, which struck the car behind him with a hollow tink. He rolled across the ground, lifting his gun and firing as he followed the woman's trail while she bolted toward the side, taking cover behind a chunk of building. He needed to get to cover, too; there were too many variables out here in the open.
     He twisted around, quickly evaluating the situation even as he scrambled to conceal himself behind the remains of the car and its occupant beside him. He knew he had four people to watch out for, and he wouldn’t normally be worried about four to two odds, but when he finally caught sight of Stark, he quickly realized he was in a shit load more trouble than he originally thought. Stark was on the ground, down on one knee; he seemed to be immobilized by a massive net that pulsated with a greenish electricity.
     “How are you doing, Stark?” Barnes asked, adrenaline singing in his veins. He slung his rifle up into his arms and stretched his neck to try and rid himself of some of the tension coiling his muscles.
     “Oh, you know, been better. Keep an eye on the windows, someone is in the building. They got me from above. Fourth story up. To your nine.” Stark reported, and James lifted his scope to his eye, following Stark's direction. “I hit two of them, probably not dead. They're taking cover behind that black truck over there.”
     “Mmm.” James acknowledged, though he didn’t stop his search, his breathing was even and calm as he hunted.
     There!
     A hint of movement behind a curtain, and James didn’t wait for another sign, pulling the trigger. He braced for recoil as the echoing bang of the rifle bounced through the street. From the window came a scream, and James pulled the trigger one more time, aiming for the wall just below the window, where he hoped the person had taken refuge. This building wasn’t top quality and reeked of cheap materials and even cheaper landlords. Which meant it was probably little more than cardboard and sheetrock, nothing his armor-piercing bullets couldn’t handle.
     His next round tore through the wall with ease, yup, definitely cheap materials, and James’ sensitive ears picked up the sound of a grunt and the thud of a body hitting the floor. He tilted his head to the side, listening closely for any further movement. Nothing.
     “Target eliminated,” James said, hunching down as a volley of gunfire burst through the air toward his direction. Three guns were going off, one from his right, where the woman was hiding, and two from behind the truck. So much for them not being armed. They must have had the weapons hidden. They sounded like regular handguns, though, nothing too serious.
     “Good, now how about you take out the others and get me the hell out of under this thing? It has my systems shorting out, I won’t be any help until you get it off.” Stark stated, enunciating the last three words. James took a moment to glance toward Iron Man's crouched form. Stark hadn’t budged even an inch, totally immobilized. There was smoke rising from where the netting touched metal, and it smelled terrible, like chemicals and ozone.
     “What the hell kind of net could take you down?” James asked, grinning, maybe just a little. Even the great Tony Stark had to have his ego taken down now and again.
     “The kind with fucking nanites in it. Their eating through the goddamned metal like some kind of fucked up termites. Hurry up, asshole.” Stark scolded; he sounded nervous, and James couldn’t blame him. He was a red and gold target just screaming, ‘Shoot me!’ If their attackers got their act together, they actually might stand a chance at taking down one of Earth's greatest heroes. Lucky for Stark, they were hardly that organized. Also, as reluctant as their alliance might be, he had James on his side.
     “Yep,” James said as another volley of bullets ricocheted through the air, several pinging off the Iron Man suit, and even more piercing the car James hid behind.
     “Stop firing you idiots! Our orders are to take them in alive!” a man shouted, and the sound of gunfire stopped. Well, that was good to know; he had a bit of an upper hand then because frankly, James was just a little pissed at being shot at, and he didn’t have to take anyone in alive. James grinned a bloodthirsty thing that was all teeth and confidence. He might not want to fight anymore, but he knew he was damned good at it.
     He rolled his shoulders, the metal hydraulics of his arm hissing almost inaudibly as plates settled into place, and he threw his rifle strap back over his shoulder before he stood up. He pulled his submachine gun and his Glock free from the holsters on his hips and calmly lifted them into the air, walking toward the truck. Bullets from the submachine gun rained down upon the hidden men, and James’ metal arm easily counteracted and kickback from the weapon.
     They ducked down behind the truck, which was exactly what he needed. From behind him, he heard a scuff of sound, and the Winter Soldier pivoted, Glock pointed in the direction of the noise, while the other remained locked on the men hiding behind the truck, and the rapid fire of his submachine gun never letting up.
     The woman was trying to sneak up behind him, assuming he was distracted—her mistake.
     It only took one bullet to take her down. Her gun went off with the force of her deathgrip upon the trigger, too late to help her. It wasn’t aimed anywhere near him, the bullet ricocheting off concrete. That had been a stupid move, one that cost her her life.
     “Two down,” James said grimly, not even waiting for the body to hit the ground before taking the last few steps to the truck.
     “Not gonna lie, I’m just a little turned on by you right now,” Stark said, coughing into the microphone.
     “Shut up, Stark.” James hissed, his boots clicking on the asphalt. Stark really couldn’t just be a professional, could he?
     “Nothing like a man in uniform,” Stark added, not in the least bit apologetic. He was wheezing, though, his words ending in another coughing fit.
     James didn’t bother wasting time. If backup hadn’t already been called in, then these people were stupider than he thought. James stopped firing for long enough to leap up onto the roof of the truck. The vehicle shook beneath his weight, the roof denting in. He ignored the creak of metal and walked to the edge of the roof, ruthlessly pulling the trigger as three pairs of eyes looked up at him in shocked horror.
     Bang!
     Bang!
     Bang!
     Three shots, and it was done.
     In the aftermath of the fight, all Bucky could hear was the roar of his own blood pumping and the electronic wail of the speaker still screaming away. Bucky’s chest heaved as he looked down upon the bloodied remains of their attackers. Dead eyes stared back at him accusingly, blood and brain matter pooling from beneath their split skulls. His gaze flinched away from them. They hadn’t stood a chance; they weren't even wearing body armor.
     They chose their side. No time for empathy. Not yet. The Winter Soldier reminded himself. Shoving his feelings down, deep, deep down. He gave one more look around the area, ensuring he’d really gotten everyone before he holstered his weapons. On the ground, next to the hand of the oldest of the three men, a radio lay, and it crackled to life as he stood there.
     “Sector Eight, where are we with the takedown of the Soldier and Iron Man?” a staticed voice cut through the air, and James scowled. So they had been deliberately hunting them? Why and who the hell was this? Someone arrogant if they thought four minimally armed soldiers would be enough to take down both him and Stark. It had to be pure stupidity.
     James jumped down into the truck bed before vaulting over the edge to the ground. He grabbed the radio and tucked it into one of his pants pockets. It might come in handy later.
     “We’re clear,” James told Stark, moving into a short run as he approached the prone Iron Man. There was no response, and James frowned. Stark was quiet; the man was never quiet.
     “Stark?” James asked, cursing when he finally came close enough. The netting, whatever it was, was fizzling and sizzling over the red and gold metal, and smoke streaked from the gaps in Stark's armor. The metal beneath each thin line of rope was bubbling and glowing red hot. Combined with the green glow of the net itself, it took on a sickly brown hue. It dug through the armor like it was butter, cutting deep.
     From the earpiece, a garbled stream of static filled his ears, and he could barely make out Stark shouting from inside his armor. His system had to have been damaged, and a lot more would be if James couldn’t get him out of that suit. It was cooking him from the outside in.
     James didn’t have the time to think; he just acted, reaching out and grabbing the netting with both hands. He bit down on a sharp grunt, baring his teeth when his flesh hand wrapped around the searing heat of the webbing. The scent of James’ burning skin was horrid as it filled the air.
     “Nnng! Fuck!” James cursed, squeezing his eyes shut at the intentional assault. He blinked away tears and had to fight past the instinct to release the thing that was causing him pain. It took everything in him to turn off the part of his brain that registered it. Between one aching breath and the next, his features relaxed. His brain had been trained for this. It knew how to compartmentalize itself. It was just a matter of remembering that training.
He wasn’t processing the pain, but his flesh was still burning, and he had to act quickly. This was nothing that wouldn’t heal in a matter of hours. Stark did not have that ability.
     The webbing was surprisingly strong, but it had nothing on Barnes, and he tore it to shreds, the green glow only going out when he had rendered it in two. Strands of the netting had borne through the suit, cutting it in diamond shapes. Much longer, and it would have gone straight through, doing what it had to James’ hand to Stark’s whole body. He threw it to the side, tugging the strands still embedded in his palm free with a wince of disgust. That was going to scar.
     “Stark! Come on, you need to get out of the suit.” James instructed, reaching out to give the armor a little shake. With the creak of abused metal, the suit teetered and collapsed sideways, forcing James to grab it and ease Iron Man's stiff form to the ground. He squatted down beside the sprawled suit, tapping his metal fingertips against the pavement, hoping Stark would open up the suit and let himself out.
     After several moments, there was no response, not even a goddamned twitch. Was Stark hurt in there? The fumes alone could have killed him. James’ normally expressionless face wrinkled with concern, and he knocked on the helmet of the suit as if it might wake Stark up. It remained motionless.
     "Stark, you better not be fucking dead in there. Everyone will think I finally snapped, you asshole.” James hissed, sure Stark couldn’t really hear him. Out of habit, James tapped his communicator. “Winter Soldier reporting. Iron Man is down. I repeat, Iron Man is down. I could use a little help over here,” he announced, groaning when all he received back was static.
     “Just my goddamn luck. I think we’re on our own here, Stark, and you're probably gonna kill me for this, but I think it's time to say goodbye to the suit,” James muttered. If Stark couldn’t get out himself, he would have to do it for him. They needed to get moving before backup came around, or someone decided to find out why the group wasn’t checking in.
     There was something cathartic about tearing apart more than a billion dollars' worth of tech, and it was surprisingly easy. The durability of the metal seemed to have been absolutely compromised by the net, and some spots were nothing more than rust. He ripped the chest plate off first, and the rest quickly followed until a pile of shredded metal lay beside him. An unconscious and sweaty Stark was revealed. Lines of soot covered his skin, and he was breathing raggedly, his lungs wheezing from the smoke trapped within the suit.
     At least he’s still breathing. James told himself with relief. No matter how much he disliked the man, he didn’t actually want him dead. He smacked Stark's cheek lightly and pried open one eyelid to see those dark eyes completely unfocused. He was out.
     “Alright. I guess I can’t just leave you behind.” James said, bending to hook his arm beneath Stark's shoulders and prop him upright. Awkwardly, he pulled the man free from the cage of twisted scrap, wincing when Stark’s limp arm caught on a piece of metal, cutting through the fabric of his suit and right to the skin, leaving blood to soak through the material. Stark didn’t so much as flinch.
     “Yeah, sorry about that.” James hissed and hoisted Stark over his left shoulder in a fireman's carry. Stark let out a low moan but otherwise didn’t respond, his arms dangling down James’ back. James straightened with a grunt, adjusting his rifle on his side before hooking his bionic fingers into Stark's belt to keep him in place. The extra weight wasn’t enough to slow him down, but it did upset his balance. As long as they could avoid another fight, he’d be alright.
     With a sharp exhale, James looked up and down the street, trying to decide if he should head deeper into the warzone, towards the team, or back out, and hope he ran into the troops Stark had been talking about. The problem was that, without his suit, Stark was just another human. He didn’t have superpowers, well, unless you counted his brain. All it would take was a single stray bullet, and he’d be gone. James' focus right now had to be on keeping Stark safe. He was the new mission.
     If there was one group waiting for us, they had to have known we were coming this way. How the hell did they know? He found himself wondering. It wasn’t as if Stark had taken a designated flight path. Thinking about it, James doubted this was the only trap that had been laid. He had to be careful now; he didn’t know if they were being tracked or if there was some kind of rat in their midst, but no one could be trusted. Anyone they ran into could be working against them.
     It was just his luck that things would go so horribly wrong, and James decided not to push it by doing the predictable. Resolutely, he turned down the street, heading deeper into the city at a slow jog. He wove his way past the wreckage of the car that had started the whole thing, the wailing cries of a child still echoing from within, resounding through the empty street.
     His foot hit something small and metallic, and rolled across the road, tinking against a rock before it rolled to a stop next to the woman’s bloody corpse. He almost dismissed the noise, but it didn’t sound anything like a bullet casing or a piece of rubble. It sounded hollow and fluid-filled. He found his gaze tracking its path. When it came to a standstill, he frowned.
     What is that? He thought, spinning in a circle to check his surroundings before he walked over and nudged the unknown object with his booted foot. A tranq dart? He questioned with a frown, his gaze traveling up the woman's sprawled body. Sure enough, in her hand, she held a single-shot tranquilizing gun. Why the hell would she be trying to use a tranquilizer on a super soldier?
     The faraway sound of squealing tires had James jerking his head back down the street, and his gaze darkened.
     “Sector 8, we have backup headed your way. ETA, two minutes.” Came the sound of a small voice from the radio in James’ pocket.
     They were coming—no time to waste.

Chapter Text

     Drip. Drip. Drip.

     The slow, pitter-patter of rain drew Tony Stark from the depths of unconsciousness, and he slowly became aware of the world. His head hurt, pounding with one of the worst hangovers he’d ever had the pleasure of having. He felt weak, his lungs ached with each inhale, and his brain was moving sluggishly.

     What happened? He asked himself, stirring as rivulets of water dripped down the back of his neck and over his ears. The chill of the rainwater made him shiver, and he groaned, the sound covered by the resounding bang of thunder. The sudden noise was enough to wake Tony fully, and his bloodshot eyes blinked open, pupils dilating wide. 

     It took him a moment to realize he was hanging upside down, something hard and metallic digging into his gut and hooked around his waist. Then his wavering vision cleared, and he realized he was staring at someone's ass. Someone’s decidedly to perfect ass, wet pants formed to the curve of it, and down long, muscular legs.

     Maybe it was the way the rainwater trailed hypnotically, tantalizingly, downward over the fabric, stirring warmth in Tony’s stomach. Or it could have been the rumble of thunder in the sky, bouncing around like gunfire through the air. For whatever reason, that was when reality caught up with him. Suddenly, he remembered the invasion, the net, and gunfire. Smoke, and searing, burning heat.

     His mind flashed back to the terror of being unable to move, his suit crippled by the unknown tech pinning him down. Alarms had wailed in his ears, JARVIS detailing every failing system and pleading with him to find a way out. He’d been fucking helpless, trapped as his suit filled with a thick, toxic smoke that burned his lungs. Heart pounding against the reactor in his chest like a drumbeat, so loud he could barely hear over the noise of his own pulse. 

     He didn’t remember passing out, and he didn’t know who the hell had him captive now.

     Shit, shit, shit! We’re under fucking attack. Adrenaline flushed through Tony’s system in a breath and cleared the last of the confusion from his brain.  He’d been captured. He had to break free before he was taken by some new bad guy with a bone to pick and a taste for world domination—or torture or other villainous bullshit. It was positively inane how predictable they all were.

     This wasn’t Tony’s first time being caught, and it had certainly been a while, but in his line of work, he doubted it would be his last. He didn’t think his captor had noticed he was awake yet, and he thanked the roar of falling rain for that. He kept his breathing calm and even; he had to be quick and use the element of surprise in his favor. 

     With calculating eyes that burned like he’d lit them on fire, he evaluated his situation. The man carrying him was strapped with guns, all a little too far out of reach for Tony’s liking. There was, however, a knife sheathed on the other person's belt and very close at hand. 

     That’ll do, pig. Tony thought viciously, an almost feral grin curling his lips. He had the thing unsheathed and in hand in a matter of moments. He twisted in the grip that circumferenced his waist and immediately attacked the one part of the other person's body he could reach that was not covered in armor. With a wet squelch and a satisfying chink as it struck bone, his blade sank deep into the flesh on the back of the man's right arm.

     Stark snarled in satisfaction when he drew an aborted shout of pain from his captor. He took advantage of the surprise, kicking and writhing even as his left hand went for one of the guns in a holster on the man’s belt. He had the holster unlatched and the satisfying weight of a Glock in hand, and like that, he was armed. Now his very human ass had an actual chance of defending itself.

     Between one moment and the next, he was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, straight into a filthy puddle. Tony ignored the pain of his hip striking the pavement, scrambling to get his feet underneath him, and lifted the gun in his hand, aiming surely as he flipped the safety. He was ready to pull the trigger, but jerked his aim away when he recognized the tall, muscular form of a super soldier standing over him.

     “Fuck! Shit, what the hell, Stark! It’s me, goddammit!” James Fucking Barnes said, cursing furiously into the air. Well, Sergeant Barnes had a mouth on him, unlike his spangled counterpart, the good Captain. 

     “Barnes?” Stark asked, regret twisting his gut when stormy grey-blue eyes flickered towards him before his gaze went skittering away. The super soldier clutched at his arm with his left, shaking his head and staring up at the clouds as if they were the ones to have stabbed him. Water streamed from the sky, plastering his hair to his face.

     “Yes!” Barnes said, grunting and dropping his chin to his chest. “Did you really just stab me?” he asked in surprise, maybe a little shock, before looking over his shoulder to the knife still buried in his muscle.

     “Uh…well, damn. I didn’t realize it was you. Thought I’d been captured.” Tony said his voice was absolutely wrecked, a bare rasp. His chest was still heaving, every breath an aching thing, and he swayed in place, the rush of adrenaline not enough to sustain his weak lungs. He widened his stance, redoing the safety on the gun and taking a moment to take in his surroundings. 

     They were on the street, surrounded by buildings that blocked out most of the sky. Clouds seethed and rolled above them, and they were caught in an absolute downpour. There was evidence of the fight they had been in, so Barnes had gotten them away from it. That was good, but where the hell was his suit?

     “You saved me?” he asked, his surprise evident. His gaze darkened with distrust, and he frowned. What the hell was this guy playing at? Tony couldn’t trust a damn thing coming out of Barnes’ mouth, but he had to admit that he was having a hard time reconciling the Winter Soldier's actions with what he knew about the other man. “Why would you save me?” 

     “What the hell kind of person do you think I am?” Barnes asked incredulously, his features wrinkling with confusion and…hurt? He recoiled from Tony as if he’d been punched, shaking his head. “Of course I did! We’re a goddamn team, and despite whatever you think of me, I’m not a monster, you dick.” 

     “You are a monster!” Stark snarled, the rasp of his abused throat making the word positively cutting. He’d never been for trusting Barnes as part of the team. The man was a cold-blooded killer and a step away from crazy. If Tony had his way, he’d be locked the fuck up, or tossed away in an old-school asylum like he didn’t exist. “You might have everyone else believing you're some reformed saint, but not me.”

     “I thought you were supposed to be smart, Stark. When the hell is it going to get through your thick goddamn skull that I’m on your side.” Barnes hissed, turning away, those furious eyes not even looking at Tony. With a dismissive shake of his head, he walked across the street toward a nearby business.

     “If you want me to trust you, you’re gonna have to earn it.” Tony tried to shout as he scowled at  Barnes’ broad shoulders, watching as blood streamed down his right arm from the knife buried in his flesh, joining the rivulets of water that dripped down his muscled arm. Yeah, maybe that had been a dick move.

     “I guess saving your ass isn’t enough? You tell me what the hell else I’m supposed to do?” Barnes snarled furiously. Tony’s nose wrinkled in annoyance, but he had nothing to say to that. If he were honest, he didn’t think there was anything Barnes could do to change his mind. The man was no hero. He was a killer. “Goddamnit, if I’d known this was how it was gonna be, I would have just left your ungrateful ass behind! Ugh! Real fucking show of gratitude.” 

     “What happened to my suit?” Tony asked, huffing and setting off after the other man, his shoes clomping inelegantly through the puddling water.

     “Of course, you’re worried about your goddamn suit!” Barnes seethed, his words sharp. Tony was pretty sure this was the most he’d heard the man talk…ever. “Your stupid suit was compromised. I had to leave it behind.” 

     “Are you an idiot? If the bad guys get their hands on that, we’re in real goddamn trouble.” Stark snapped, worry twisting his gut. A lot of people would do a lot of killing to get their hands on his tech.

     “Don’t worry, pretty sure it's non-functional. I kind of tore it to pieces.” Barnes said casually, and Tony swore he heard a hint of amusement in his voice.

     “You-you what?” Tony asked in a mix of horrified stupefaction and confusion. Had Barnes really destroyed his billion- dollar suit? 

     “Technically, it was falling apart from that stupid fucking net before I got to it, but excuse me for thinking saving your ass was a little more important than some scrap metal,” Barnes said gruffly, mounting the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

     “Jesus Christ! Scrap metal? Is that what we’re calling it? Where the hell are you going?” Tony yelled after the other man’s back, his voice cutting off in a ragged cough as his lungs protested the overuse.

     “I need to take care of this,” Barnes jerked his head toward the knife in his arm. “Believe it or not, but it isn’t exactly comfortable. Follow me if you'd like, or go back and find your suit. I really don’t give a damn which.” 

     Oh, right. Stupid question. Tony thought, scowling as Barnes stepped through the broken pieces of a window frame and into the building just in front of him, disappearing from view. 

     Tony threw his arms in the air, scowling at the man’s back, and stood in the rain for a moment, glancing down the street. As much as he prided himself on being able to navigate the city, he actually had no idea where the hell they were, and the rain was making it impossible to see any nearby street signs.

     He supposed it was time to play nice. Pepper would be so proud of him. Letting out a sharp exhale of breath, Tony reluctantly followed after the super soldier, his shoes crunching over broken glass as he stepped through the open window frame and into a small bakery. 

     Other than the glass being blown out of the windows and the growing puddle on the floor, the place hadn’t been too badly destroyed. Pastries and cakes lay prettily upon little trays and behind glass displays, still waiting to be purchased. Barnes was nowhere in sight and as quiet as a ghost. Tony stepped behind the counter, entering the only other door in the room. 

     It was darker in there, the fluorescent light flickering despondently above, but it was enough to see by. The kitchen was completely undamaged, though left in disarray, abandoned cookies left mid-prep, and a half-decorated wedding cake was toppled over on a nearby table. It was a picture of everyday life cut short by a terror attack. Barnes was pacing around the room, opening drawers and looking into cupboards. 

     “What are we looking for?” Tony asked, arms crossed over his chest. Barnes’ stormy gaze flashed toward him before they were moving again. Tony swore he was surprised by his presence.

     “Decided to stick around?” Barnes asked with a tired sigh. For a breath, he looked absolutely exhausted, his shoulders slumped, his head drooping down, but it was only a moment before the man was straightening, spine stiff and features empty of emotion. Stark was pretty sure he’d imagined it.

     “For now,” Tony said, snagging a towel off a nearby countertop to wipe his dripping face and hair with. “What are we looking for?”

     “First aid kit. Kitchens always have one.” Barnes murmured, opening another cabinet only to jump back a step when a wave of to-go containers tumbled free, falling to the floor around him. Tony laughed a little. That was definitely funny, a super soldier startled by a bunch of pink pastry boxes.

     “Right. I’ll check in here.” Tony said when he spotted a closed door across the way, hoping it was an office. When the door swung open, he smiled, satisfied at the sight of a messy desk and dark computer screens. He gave the room a cursory search and grinned when he spotted a familiar white box tucked into the corner of a shelf behind the door. “Got it!” 

     Tony left the room behind, plopping first Barnes’ appropriated gun, and then the first aid kit, on a nearby counter that was free of flour. He returned to the office to drag out the chair sitting in front of the desk and waved Barnes closer as he approached. The other man seemed wary, glancing around the room with those dark brows of his drawn down. Nervous? Maybe. It was hard to tell with those empty eyes.

     “Come on, I put that thing in you, let me take it out.” Tony encouraged, patting the chair as he set it up beside the first aid kit. “Sit up here and relax. It’ll be like a spa day, and I won’t stab you again,” he said with a mischievous wiggle of his brows.

     Barnes let out a slow breath and shrugged, dropping into the chair. He ducked under the strap of his rifle, dropping it to the ground beside them before twisting it so he could rest his forehead against the metal countertop. The position gave Tony better access to examine his arm, and he winced as he looked down at it. Blood coated Barnes' lower arm, and the blade had definitely gone deep. Tony dropped down to a squat to get a closer look, carefully moving the limb so he could see it better in the minimal light. 

     “That knife is serrated. Don’t…wiggle it or anything. Pull it out as straight back as you can. It’s near some important veins. Who knows if you already hit one, so get ready to stop the bleeding.” Barnes warned clinically. As if it weren’t his own arm that Tony was looking at.

     “Yep. Got it. No wiggling, straight back.” Tony said, moving to dump out the half-empty kit on the counter. It was mostly stuff for burn care and minor cuts, but there was nothing for stitching other than some surgical tape. “There's already a lot of blood, and we’ve got a very minimal kit here. Think we’ll need to cauterize?” Barnes lifted his head for long enough to glance at the back of his arm. A small frown turned down the corners of his lips, and he peered at the wound consideringly before giving Tony a little nod.

     “Might be the safest bet… we could tourniquet, but that would put my arm out of use until my accelerated healing kicks in. We’re not safe yet, and I don’t like that idea…Do we have the tools for that?” he wondered aloud, moving to stand and look around. Stark plopped a hand down on Barnes’ shoulder, the other man practically jumping at the touch, and shoved him back into the chair.

     “Eh, stay down, Robo-boy. The stoves are gas, and the city would have already turned it off, but I think I saw some crème brûlée in the display case.” Tony said Barnes didn’t fight him. Tony’s sharp gaze darted around the shadows of the kitchen.

     “What does crème brûlée have to do with anything?” Barnes asked, confusion written on his brow.

     “What, you don’t like crème brûlée?” Tony asked, clapping his hands when he found what he was looking for. 

     “I-I don’t think I’ve ever tried it?” Barnes said, or more like asked. 

     “You haven’t lived enough, Barnes,” Tony said, grimacing when the words came out. That was brutal, even for Tony. Of course, the guy had never tried crème brûlée; he’d grown up in the depression, and he didn’t think Hydra was the type to let their soldiers try French desserts. Barnes let out a self-deprecating snort at that but did not deign to offer Tony a response.

     “Well, you’ll probably hate it after this,” Tony said, snagging a butane torch down from its place atop a nearby refrigerator. Tony grinned, shaking it triumphantly.

     “Why do I feel like you’re gonna enjoy this a little too much?” Barnes asked with a long-suffering sigh.

     Well…he wasn’t lying.

Chapter Text

     James' features remained blank even as his gut twisted with trepidation while he watched a butter knife, precariously balanced on a nearby stove atop a couple of pots and pans, begin to glow red hot beneath the onslaught of the butane torch. Stark was busy carefully setting the torch up so that the flame stayed in line with the knife, keeping it hot. James' fingertips tapped anxiously against his leg, wishing he could put this off.

     “Alright. Hopefully, we don’t need it, but we’re set up.” Stark said, coughing from the additional fumes of the torch. He sounded terrible, his lungs somehow dry and wet at the same time. They had moved the chair closer to the stove, and the things they could use from the first aid kit were laid out beside them. 

     “Let’s be quick. I don’t like how long we’ve been here.” Barnes said. He had not let his guard down and had been paying attention to the sounds coming from the world beyond the bakery, but it was almost too quiet. He was on edge, waiting to hear the squeal of tires or the piercing chitter of gunfire.

     “Alright. Ready?” Stark asked, and James drew in a slow breath as he felt the other man's hand close around his bicep, a wad of gauze in hand. James was keenly aware of the heat of it and resisted the urge to yank away from the touch.

     “Just do it,” James said, dropping his forehead down against the cool metal of the countertop in front of him. He kept his breathing even, focusing his mind to try and keep the pain separate from himself. He’d been doing a good job of it so far. He just needed to keep it going.

     “Deep breath, tongue away from your teeth,” Stark warned, and James nodded, clenching his jaw tight as he inhaled. Stark didn’t draw things out, and James couldn’t stop his body from jumping when he felt the other man’s hand close over the knife. “Steady,” Stark murmured, but the blade was like a live wire straight to James' nerves, and even though Stark's grip was firm and sure, that small movement wasn’t pleasant. 

     Before James could snark back at the other man that he wasn’t a scared animal or something, Stark was pulling the knife from Bucky’s arm in one hard motion. He dropped it to the counter in front of them before clamping his hands over the wound.

     James choked and swallowed convulsively, his breath freezing at the sudden agony while his vision whited out, and his ears rang. The air left his lungs in a sharp burst, and he inhaled heavily through his nose, struggling to maintain his composure. At least he hadn’t screamed. 

     Hurray, me. Barnes thought sarcastically.

     “Doing okay?” Stark asked, and James forced himself to lift his head, nodding, though he couldn’t quite talk yet.

     “Good, alright, let's just stay like this for a minute. Catch your breath,” Stark instructed. He seemed calm, but there was a small edge of panic in his voice. James was happy to do exactly that, his breathing ragged and way too fast. It took him a moment to register that Stark’s hands were around his bicep, a flat palm applying painful pressure to the stab wound.

     “Ok…I got it.” Barnes croaked after an indeterminate amount of time, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, but Stark seemed to understand.

     “Mmm-hmm. I’m just gonna take a little peek here, see if the pressure is slowing the bleeding.” Stark said, shifting James' arm back a little to get a better look before peeling away the gauze. James felt a rush of warmth dribble from the wound and ooze down his arm.

     “That doesn’t feel good,” he said with a harsh laugh while Stark hissed in surprise, before slapping the gauze back down.

     “Yeah, shit… so definitely hit an artery,” Stark said, and for some reason, he laughed with James. “Holy hell, I’m not good at this. Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, 'cause this is…worrisome.” 

     “Putting it mildly, there, Stark,” James said. Even a super soldier could bleed out in the right circumstances. Stark had better aim than he would have given him credit for, considering James had never seen him use a knife. It would have been impressive if it wasn’t so damn annoying.

     “Yep, just keeping it cool. Okay, so cauterizing it is. First time for everything, I guess. Just a little scoot this way.” Stark said, dragging James' chair across the floor to get a little closer to the torch. “Shit, wait…” Stark paused. James felt one hand leave his arm, and then Stark stretched across James' head and over the countertop, his chest pressing to James' back. For a moment, James could hear the rapid beating of the other man’s heart and the hum of the reactor in his chest. “Here.” Stark straightened up, holding a wooden spatula, which he tapped annoyingly against James’ lips. 

     “Pretty sure you know this is some of the worst pain a person can go through. Open up and bite down on this. I think even your superhuman pain tolerance is gonna be tested here.” Stark said, sounding apologetic. 

     “You’re really making me feel better here, Stark. Where did you learn your bedside manner?” James snapped, heaving out a breath. Stark definitely wasn’t helping. James swallowed hard before he willingly bit down on the wood and took it from Stark. With a grumble of noise, he took up his previous position, dropping his forehead against the edge of the cool metal countertop with a thud.

     “Hey, I work with what I have,” Stark said, and James was keenly aware of him shifting beside him, turning off the blowtorch by the sound of it.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck. James thought, his breath hissing past the wood between his teeth. Panic was settling into his chest, making his muscles lock up tight. He tucked his right hand between his knees to keep himself from moving too much, while his left clung to the edge of the countertop. He was pretty sure he was shaking; there was no hiding it. Despite what Stark said, he did not, in fact, have a superhuman pain tolerance. He was just really fucking good at masking it.

     Practice makes perfect and all that bullshit. James had a lot of practice. 

     “Here we go,” Stark murmured to himself. 

     James tried to keep himself centered, drawing up the image of the painting hanging on his apartment wall, its colors bright and beautiful. He had ever splatter and stroked memorized. He built each layer up in his mind, stroke after stroke. The familiar practice calmed his growing panic. Not for long.

     There was a clunk of sound that made James jump, and then the gauze was lifted from the open wound, hot blood immediately spilling forth. There was no preparing for what came next. He felt the heat of the knife moments before, and then it was on him, that red-hot metal touched his skin with the sizzle of burning blood and flesh. 

     James couldn’t stop himself from screaming this time, his cry muffled against the wooden handle clamped between his teeth. His muscles went rigid, spittle foaming at the corners of his lips as he nearly choked on his own tongue. No amount of focus helped him retain control of the pain, and his whole world narrowed down to the agony that lashed through him. With a whimpering cry, he tried to jerk away from the burn, but Stark's grip was surprisingly strong. 

     “Come on, Barnes, hold it! Just a moment more,” Stark hissed, grunting as he used his whole body to press down on James' back to keep him somewhat immobilized and keep up the knife's pressure on the wound. If James had been in his right mind, he would have broken that grip with ease. Instead, he couldn’t even think. He was lost in a tide of searing heat that turned his brain to putty.

     “Nnn, nnn, nnn.” Moans heaved past the thing in his mouth, and he choked on his own spit. God, did it hurt. When would it end? Surely, it couldn’t take this long! The torment only lasted seconds, but it felt like so much longer before Stark released him. The metal of the butterknife stuck horribly to his flesh before it peeled away with a wet schlik of sound , that horrid heat leaving his flesh throbbing and screaming in the humid air.

     “Alright! Alright! It’s done!” Stark said shakily, stepping back away from James as if he just might go after him in retaliation. Instead, James slumped forward, his chest heaving, the spatula falling past his lips and clattering to the floor as he panted. He wasn’t aware of the whimpering, pained noises slipping past his lips or the wet tears on his cheeks. 

     “Fuck, that was bad. That was bad,” James managed to say through gasping sobs, strings of spit dribbling from his lips. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, his face way too hot, and he swayed in the chair, the rickety thing wobbling in place. He pried his bionic hand from where it had crushed into the metal countertop, leaving behind five finger-shaped dimples, and clutched at his other arm.

     “I’m sorry, kid. It’s over now. Come on, sit on the floor before you fall out of the chair.” Stark said, gently, actually sounding legitimately concerned and remorseful.

     Did he just call me kid? James thought, unable to stop a little, frantic laugh that slipped past his lips. He probably sounded a little hysterical.

     “C-can’t. Gotta get moving.” Barnes said he couldn’t let himself slow them down; they were still in unknown trouble, without backup.

     “Yeah, you’re gonna pass out if you stand up. Just listen to me and sit the fuck down for a minute. Think of it as an order from your superior. Got that?” Stark scolded, tugging at James and urging him to the floor. 

     James nodded. He could do that. Obediently, he used Stark's help to get to the floor, curling into himself and dropping his head to his knees, his arms hanging down to the ground. He tried to calm his racing heart, breathing shallowly while tremors rocked his muscles.

     “You gonna be sick?” Stark asked, dropping to the floor beside him and sitting cross-legged, uncaring of the wet puddles and blood beneath their feet. 

     “No,” James said shortly. “Well…maybe,” he whispered through panting breaths, nausea twisting his gut. He didn’t have much inside him, so it wasn’t like it would matter. The smell, though, burning flesh and blood, just might do him in.

     “Keep your head down then,” Stark instructed, and wordlessly lifted James' arm to clean up the blood with a rag. There was a lot, and James was grateful that Stark had thought ahead, or they’d be in a boatload of trouble. 

     James watched Stark work from beneath the fall of his hair, wincing when the man began to treat the wound itself, which was a blackened, ugly thing. Stark dabbed at it with some burn cream from the kit before he began wrapping it tightly with a roll of gauze.

     “You don’t have to do that. It’ll heal on its own.” James said wearily, lifting his head to drop it back against the drawers behind him, his eyes shut. He didn’t pull away, though. Fuck he was tired. He was having a hard time getting a hold of his breathing, his lungs simultaneously starving for air and also unable to fill all the way. “You should probably use it for yourself,” he rasped, gesturing to the long cut that Stark had received when James had pulled him from the Iron Man suit. 

     “Meh, it's not bleeding anymore. Besides, this makes me feel a little better for having stabbed and burned you. You’re gonna have to slow down your breathing, or you’ll hyperventilate.” Stark ordered, and James gulped but tried to comply. 

     Orders, he knew them when he heard them.  

     Slow, slow, slow. Barnes told himself, his breath hissing out between his teeth. The ointment must have had a cooling effect because while he couldn’t say it numbed the pain, it definitely felt better with it than without. Tony was excruciatingly gentle, but it felt weird, having someone other than himself tend to his wounds. He wasn’t sure when the last time that had happened. During the war? 

     “What the fuck happened to your hand?” Stark asked suddenly, and James blinked open tired eyes, glancing down at his palm, where the lines from the netting still looked rather horrific, black burn stripes swollen and red, the wounds only partially healed. He wiggled his fingers; they were moving fine, and the wound shouldn’t impair him too badly.

     “The net, I had to get it off of you,” James said dismissively with a shrug.

     “Well, shit, yeah, that one's pretty nasty too,” Stark mumbled with a grimace. Wordlessly, he took James' flesh hand and started smearing burn cream over that wound, too. The touch made James tense up, a slow shiver running over his skin. Stark didn’t seem to notice, grabbing another spool of bandage tape to wrap up James' palm. James was confused, but he didn’t bother protesting the extra care; the cream actually felt nice, and for some reason, Stark's touch was soothing his jagged nerves, helping him level out and get his breathing under control. 

     “I wasn’t talking about this one, though. Take a peek at your prosthetic.” Stark instructed, pointing to James' left arm with his pinky as he tucked in the last of the gauze.

     “Hmm?” James questioned, brain muddled. His prosthetic? What could have possibly happened to his left hand? He lifted the offending limb into the dim light and frowned, eyes going wide. “Shit, what the hell?” he gasped, shoving himself up a little straighter because his left arm did not look good.

     The metal palm was…well, disintegrating, revealing the neural harness beneath and the hydraulics that kept the limb in motion. His left two fingers were curled tight against his palm, his smallest finger twitching as if jolts of energy were forcing it to contract. Maybe it had been the adrenaline from the fight or the pain of being goddamn stabbed, but he hadn’t even noticed it until now.

     Now that he was focusing on it, though, he could feel the radiating ache of his artificial nervous system, warning him of the impairment. Normally, it was protected by layers of vibranium, and while he could process sensations and pressure through the metal via the neural harness, it was never intended to register pain unless the internal systems were damaged. The fact that it was hurting at all was not a good sign.

     God fucking damn it. This mission was cursed. They were cursed.

     “Let me see,” Stark said, his brow furrowed as he held out his hand expectantly, motioning to James by opening and closing his hand in a grabbing motion.

     James shoved himself away from Stark, a spike of fear lancing through him, and shook his head. He didn’t want Stark touching his arm. Hell, he didn’t want anyone touching his arm, never again. Even the Wakandans had to sedate him to fix the limb after he lost it, and he nearly killed a couple of the doctors when they’d miscalculated the dosage and he'd unexpectedly come out of it.

     “No! No… It's fine.” Barnes said firmly and curled his left hand closed tight to hide it from view, ignoring the twinges radiating from it. Abruptly, he stood, forcing Stark to follow suit. When he was on his feet, he swayed in place and had to hold onto the counter for a moment, his face going bone pale and a thin sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin. 

     What he wouldn’t give for this day to be over already.

     “I can definitely see it’s not fine,” Stark said, holding out his hands complacently when James cast him a dark look, daring him to push the topic. “Alright, I get it, sore subject. Calm down, Roboboy, I won’t touch it.” Stark said, running his hand through wet hair that was starting to curl without its usual product to maintain it. The curls made him look younger, less severe.

     “We should get out of here,” James said by way of response, rubbing the remnants of tears from his eyes. He was able to ignore the pain a little better now that he wasn’t caught up in the middle of it, and he let the mask of indifference fall over his features once more, his gaze hollow and empty.

     “Yep. Here. Your gun.” Stark agreed, scooting the Glock he had stolen from James across the countertop toward James. 

     “No, keep it. I’ve got others, and you’re gonna need it.” James said and shook his head. He reached into one of his many pockets, pulling free a couple of spare magazines and handing them over. Stark frowned but nodded, hooking the gun into his belt and putting the magazines in his pocket. James gave the man a once-over and grimaced. He was not equipped for a fight. With a reluctant sigh, James began unbuckling his shoulder holsters so he could access the tactical vest, his bionic fingers spasming as he tried to get them to function over the delicate clips. 

     “Here, put this on,” James said after he managed to undo one side, slipping the vest out awkwardly from beneath the holster straps he hadn’t bothered removing, with a wince when he had to lift his injured arm. He mourned the comforting grip of the material as soon as it was gone, but held it out to Stark nonetheless. Stark looked like he was about to protest, and James just shoved it at him. “Come on, the blood will wash off in the rain. One bullet, and you're dead. I’m a little more durable.” 

     “You’re not some human sacrifice, Barnes,” Stark said, and somehow those words stung. What irony, especially coming from Stark's mouth, because that was exactly what James was. He was a weapon. Sometimes, a shield. Always disposable in the right circumstances. 

     “Nice sentiment. Just put it on.” James snapped. He rebuckled his shoulder holsters into place before snagging the strap of his rifle with a booted foot, lifting it to his hand so he wouldn’t have to bend. He shrugged it over his shoulder and grabbed the still blood-slick knife from the countertop to resheathe it before weaving his way through the counters and toward the front of the bakery.

     He heard a gusty sigh escape the other man, and when he glanced back, Stark was fitting the armor over his undershirt, adjusting the buckles to fit his broader chest before putting his suit jacket back on. God forbid he not look fashionable.

     James' boots crunched over broken glass, and he stepped out from behind the front counter to peek out of the busted window, searching the empty street keenly. It was still raining, though it was more of a foggy drizzle at the moment.  A chill cut through the autumn air, but it would at least provide good cover for the pair of them. There weren’t any signs of the enemy. Good, maybe they could squeak by for a bit before they joined the team.

Chapter Text

     “Barnes, catch,” Stark called from behind him, and James turned toward him reflexively, his bandaged hand snapping out when something came flying toward his face, and he snagged it from the air. He frowned in confusion, opening his palm to see… a muffin?

     When he glanced back at Stark, the man was digging through the bakery display, a muffin of his own hanging from his mouth before he came back around the counter and tossed James another. 

     “Don’t worry, I washed my hands. Eat up, Buttercup,” he said around a mouthful of muffin. “Wait…you’re not gluten-free, are you?” he asked, freezing mid-chew.

     “Gluten-free?” James asked with a frown of confusion. He had not washed his hands, but he didn’t really care. He’d eaten literal garbage before. A little blood wasn’t anything in comparison.

     “Forget about it. If you know, you know.” Stark said, glancing at Barnes one more time. James avoided his gaze as Stark looked him up and down, evaluating, then stepped back and grabbed another muffin. He walked over and tucked the third muffin into the crook of James' arm. “Supersoldier and all that,” he said as if it were explanation enough…which it was. James looked at him skeptically, twisting the muffin between his fingertips.

     “Come on, just eat it. You look like you’re gonna pass out, and I’m pretty sure you’ve lost some weight since the last time I saw you. Didn’t see it with the body armor.” Stark said, peeling the wrapper off his muffin.

     James frowned a moment, glancing down at himself, and wrinkled his nose just a little. Stark was probably right. His clothes were a little baggier than normal, and he’d had to tighten his belt a notch when he’d dressed that morning. So he wasn’t the best at self-care. Who cares. He was honestly more surprised that Stark had noticed.

     James bit into the muffin and hummed softly in surprise at the flavor, a sweet bit of raspberry popping against his tongue and a hint of something almost floral. The muffin was soft and moist, and it was probably the best thing he’d tried in…well, decades. 

     Despite being free, he wasn’t good at choosing meals. He blamed it on years of food being so hyper-controlled by his handlers as both a punishment and a reward. When he was fed, it was so regimented that it focused solely on nutritional value, often little more than sludge. Now, anytime he tried to make a decision where food was concerned, he was usually pulled into an anxiety attack from hell. 

     For both simplicity and sanity’s sake, he tended to stick to canned goods, randomly picked from the shelves. Unless Steve brought over some take-out, in that case, Steve would always choose what he ordered, and James never protested. Steve understood his issues with food and didn’t press James after the first few times they ate together. Stark had just unknowingly done the same thing, staunching any anxiety that may have come with choosing before it even happened.

     “What flavor is it?” James asked curiously after swallowing his first bite. He couldn’t quite place it.

     “Uhh, I think that's the raspberry-rose. The other two are orange-poppy seed and peach-blueberry. This place is fancy. I’ll have to get them on the payroll.” Stark said appreciatively, finishing the last bite of his snack before he took out his wallet. To James' surprise, he pulled free a couple hundred hundred-dollar bills and tucked them into a nearby tip jar. James' eyes widened in shock. This was probably the most expensive meal James had ever eaten. He hid his astonishment behind another bite.

     “I like it,” James murmured around the mouthful, surprising himself a little bit. Stark wouldn’t even know the significance of those words. When was the last time James had actually liked something? Was it weird that it was happening in the middle of a warzone with a man who, no doubt, was only keeping him around because he needed the protection? Yeah, probably weird.

     “Me too, the peach-blueberry is fantastic.” Stark agreed, watching the rain pour down outside, patiently waiting for James. 

     James was in a hurry, but he took the extra minute to finish his breakfast/lunch. He couldn’t deny he needed the strength. The peach-blueberry ended up being his favorite, too, with the raspberry-rose a close second. 

     Wordlessly, Stark handed him a half-drunk bottle of orange juice after he’d finished, and James downed that as well. Finished, he heaved out a breath and rubbed a hand over his forehead. He was surprised when he actually started to feel a little less like a dead man walking—the sugar was doing wonders for his shocky brain. For the first time in a while, he felt moderately full and a little more clear-headed. He could have probably eaten a couple more muffins if he were honest, but he didn’t want to press their luck.

     “Better?” Stark asked, taking the empty bottle and tossing it in a nearby bin before tucking his hands into his pockets.

     “Yeah,” James muttered after a moment of assessment. His arm still hurt like a bitch, but the food had been a good idea. Still, James was unsure of how to react. He ended up giving Stark‘s left shoulder a weak half-smile of appreciation that felt a little awkward before he tore his gaze away.

     “Holy shit, was that a smile? I think that was a smile. I didn’t know your face was capable of being anything but ‘bitchy.’” Stark said with a grin, waving his hands through the air in a self-aggrandizing bow.

     “You know, you have a way of ruining things,” James said with a small chuckle at the other man's antics. He was obviously trying to lighten the mood after what they’d just had to do.

     “Wait, what? Did I just make you laugh, too? You can’t say I don’t know how to treat a super soldier. Does this count as a date? I think it counts as a date.” Stark blabbed on, gesturing grandly toward the window. “After you.” 

     Stark was confusing, to say the least, but the sudden change in attitude was a relief. Barnes really didn’t need to feel like a sub-human piece of trash when he was trying to perform a mission. 

     James rolled his eyes and pulled his gun from its holster. His left hand felt empty, but he wasn’t honestly sure if he could trust it to grip a weapon; the last two fingers were twitching out of his control more than they had been earlier. That was a problem he didn’t want to have to think about, not yet. Nevertheless, he felt it was better to be safe than to depend on the bionic limb. He’d write it off as a weapon entirely unless he needed it. 

     James stepped over the window frame and out into the pouring rain, gun at the ready. When he glanced back, Stark was following his cue, his gaze watching the street critically, his own Glock palmed. He moved with the surety that only extensive training and pure confidence could offer, and James found it a little difficult to remember the man standing before him in his fancy suit was also the warrior in iron armor.

     “Now that you’re not bleeding to death, fill me in. You got a plan, or are we playing it by the moment?” Stark asked, following after James, his voice raised as high as he could manage with his weakened lungs so he could be heard over the rainfall. He had his free arm crossed over his chest, already shivering beneath the chilly onslaught. The temperature had dropped considerably since the rain had first started. James wasn’t affected by the cold the way Stark was; he tended to run hot with the help of the serum.

     “Eh…well, I’m hesitant to actually call it a plan,” Barnes said warily, leading them across the street. For some reason, it felt weird to be telling the Tony Stark what they were doing. It had been a long time since James Barnes had been a Sergeant in the army with a squad of his own. Nowadays, James was usually the one who followed orders. He rarely gave them. “It’s not like we have a lot of options, though. We go deeper, or we make our way out.”

     “I’m guessing you chose to go deep,” Stark said. He no doubt knew Manhattan better than James did, and there was no denying the direction they were heading.

     “Mmmhmm,” James grunted in agreement, shrugging his shoulder. “Choice was easy. I don’t like the idea of being in the thick of the evacuation. Too many unknowns. I’m damn sure we’re also being hunted, and I don’t like that.”

     “Makes sense. They were fully prepared to take me down, and I don’t think we should underestimate the way they set up that ambush.” Stark agreed, surprisingly. James thought he’d get a little fight out of the guy, even if it were just on principle. Usually, Stark was the team leader in these things.

     “Yeah, not letting that happen again. At least if we head deeper, we can guess anyone left is the enemy.” 

     “Gives us less of a chance of getting civilians involved,” Stark said, voice hushed and almost impossible to hear over the rain. He jerked his chin upward when James glanced back at him and pointed toward a window several stories high. James was quick on the uptake and lifted his gun, peering through the rain for movement, only to see a flapping piece of laundry hanging from a line. He shook his head mutely to let Stark know it was nothing and moved on.

     “Gotta tell ya, Barnes, we’re in shit shape if we run into anyone else. I think it’s best we get a hold of the rest of the team.” Stark said after they had walked for a couple of minutes.

     “I tried earlier. I’m not sure if it's the weather or something, but I wasn’t picking up anyone. I think we’re on our own.” Barnes told the other man. He had admittedly turned the communicator off after a while. The static was too distracting. “You want to try it?” he asked, plucking the piece of plastic from his ear to hold out to Stark, who took the earpiece wordlessly and flipped it back on before tucking it into his own ear.

     “This is Iron Man. Anyone picking me up?” he said into the chill air, his face turned down in a frown that told James more than enough.

     “That’s weird. It’s not my tech, though. I had short notice, and we had to go with S.H.I.E.L.D.S. Last time I’ll do that.” Stark mused, shoving a hand through his wet hair to get it out of his face. He didn’t turn the earpiece off, though; maybe he liked the sound of static, and Stark called him a monster.

     James led them down a side alley, grateful he had a spectacular sense of direction and a vague mental map of Manhattan. He would have taken to high ground if he didn’t have Stark with him, but instead, he stuck to the side streets, places that seemed less likely to be prepped for another ambush. 

     “Well, I think our best bet is to head toward the tower. At the very least, we’ll be able to get some functional tech. At the best, maybe all the drama’s been taken care of by the others, and we can crash out.” Stark said, though he didn’t sound too hopeful about that last scenario. None of the Avengers lived in the tower anymore, having moved on to the Compound, but Stark Industries still called the place headquarters after the place had been rebuilt and Tony had his R&D department still running there. 

     “The tower it is.” James agreed it would be a hell of a walk on foot, but they had a better chance of running into the others if they headed toward the tower. “Shit, here, there’s this too. Picked it up from the guys who attacked us.” James said, pausing to dig through his pocket, his brow creasing when his left hand didn’t move the way he wanted it to.

     Stark walked past him, keeping an eye on their surroundings as James paused. James took a moment to glance at his hand and swallowed hard. That's not good. James thought, clenching the prosthetic’s fingers through a quick mobility test. Whatever was happening was spreading like some kind of disease, and it looked all too familiar, exactly like Stark's armor as it disintegrated around the net. The metal-eating nanites must have rubbed off when he’d been removing the armor from Stark. Whatever it was, it was very good at eating metal, even vibranium. 

     The metal bent and crumbled when he rubbed his thumb over it, turning to metallic putty with the addition of the rain. He could see the fingertips were deteriorating, and when he dropped the walls he’d put in place to protect himself from the pain, he registered the intense ache radiating through the limb. A litany of curses rippled through his mind, and he felt a rise of panic at the sight. 

     Keep it together, Barnes. He told himself, forcing his breathing to remain calm. He was keenly aware of how vulnerable he was with his arm non-functional; he needed to let Stark in on the weakness, but it wasn’t something he wanted to admit just yet. The man was a genius, though; he was no doubt seeing through the facade with ease.

     “You alright?” Stark asked, pausing when Barnes fell behind.

     “Fine,” James answered shortly. He did his best to hide the defect, tucking his gun under his arm before digging in his pocket with the other hand for the radio and handing it over to Stark. 

     “Fan-fucking-tastic!” Stark grinned excitedly, taking it like James had just handed him a candy bar. 

     “I don’t know if it will do us any good; they seemed to switch channels after we escaped,” James said absently, forcing his left hand into a fist, the metal grating and grinding in protest, sticking as if someone had poured maple syrup into the mechanisms. 

     “You’d be surprised how stupid some goons can be. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and someone will start chatting,” Stark said, hooking the radio to his belt. “Damn, I wish I had my suit. We’d be out of here in no time.” Stark said, his teeth chattering with renewed vigor. 

     “If we had your suit, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” James said pointedly. Well, at least he hadn’t wasted his time with a shower that morning. He was probably the cleanest he’d been in a month. He paused, wiping uselessly at the rain streaming into his eyes with the back of his arm. It was an instinctual movement that left him wincing. Shit, moving hurt. His motion was definitely restricted, or he’d tear that wound right back on open. 

     They came to the end of the block, and James slowed, motioning for Stark to take cover behind him as they neared the edge of a wall. Stark listened, sticking close to his side. James kept his back to the wall and inched forward to peer around the corner. This street was several lanes wide, and he was hesitant for them to be out in the open. But the streets were eerily empty, only the distant wailing of a car alarm breaking the silence. He waited, eyeing both ends of the street, long enough that Stark nudged him with an elbow.

     “Alright, you go first. I’ll watch your back.” James said when he finally thought it looked clear, with no enemies hiding in the shadows. He jerked his head to the side, urging Stark to go ahead. Stark edged around James and glanced back and forth himself before he took to the road, running across without incident. 

     Stark was quick to turn around and offer cover for James to cross, even as he bent at the waist, seemingly having a hard time catching his breath. James was faster than Stark and ran the distance between them quickly, ducking into the shadowed safety of the alley on the other side. Stark was standing beneath an overhang that offered a brief respite from the rain.

     “R-running…not good.” Stark wheezed, water sputtering from his lips. James approached, and Stark straightened with his hands on his hips as his chest heaved and he coughed raggedly. 

     “Think you can walk it off?” James asked, eyeing the other man from the corner of his eye even as he searched for new threats. Stark was rubbing a hand under the tactical armor, over his heart, and was pale and soaked. The cold probably wasn’t doing him any favors in the breathing department. 

     “Yup,” Stark said with a grin that was purely for show. James didn’t question him, nodding before he took the lead again, setting a slower pace for long enough to allow Stark to recover. They lapsed into silence and made it several more blocks without seeing anyone, friend or foe. Their pace was not exactly ground-eating, but it would get them to the Tower in a few hours. 

Chapter Text

     Tony’s expensive shoes were not made for long walks in the rain. His feet were soaked through, probably all disgusting and pruny. The hard leather was rubbing against the waterlogged skin in all the wrong spots and leaving behind sores. Still, sores were the least of his problems. He had bigger worries, like catching pneumonia or the steady agony that was breathing and the rasp his lungs made with each inhale. His already compromised lung capacity was royally fucked. 

     That’s what happened when you had a goddamned tube of metal in your chest pressing into all the wrong organs. It was making it hard to keep up with Barnes' unending stamina, that was for fucking sure.

     Because James Barnes was a machine, in more ways than one, the water wasn’t slowing him down, and he didn’t have so much as a goosebump from the cold. Not even the massive blood loss or the pain of his wounds seemed to prove a problem. He was incredibly alert, urging them to hide now and again when he thought he saw or heard something, or dragging Tony into the shadows when they inevitably started running into the enemy. 

     Tony was envious as hell, and sure, he’d worked with Steve Rogers enough to see the absolute durability of a super soldier, but there was something about Barnes that set him apart. Probably the dead eyes and the expressionless face. Whereas Steve Rogers was an open book, and he could read and understand his emotions and actions. James Barnes was a brick wall, and Tony couldn’t get a read on him. Still, the man’s emotions occasionally peeked through in the gaps between stone and mortar, and Stark was catching onto itty bitty signs of humanity. 

     That in itself was unnerving. Tony had always assumed Barnes couldn’t feel anymore. Assumed that emotion had been wiped from his brain as thoroughly as his memories had been. Assumed that the mind behind that empty mask was equally as empty. Of course, he’d never spent much time with the man, completely by choice, mind you. Maybe that had been a mistake, know thy enemy, and all that bullshit.

     The events of that morning were a rude awakening to that. In less than an hour, he’d seen a record amount of cracks in Barnes' facade. Frustration, anger, and fear. Even appreciation, confusion, and surprise. For some reason, that made Tony angry, because if Barnes could feel, by all sense of logic, he was also human, and Tony didn’t want to see him as human. It felt like he was betraying his family by acknowledging such a thing.

     He killed my parents. Tony forced himself to remember, fanning the waning embers of that old anger that kept his hatred for the other man so strong. Beyond his own trauma, Tony had read files on the Winter Soldier’s missions. He knew he killed without thought, men, women, and children . Innocents. It didn’t matter who got in his way. Those actions were what made Barnes little more than a rabid beast that should be put down before he killed again.

     Everyone else said it hadn’t been him. Barnes had been brainwashed. Tony had to think that was bullshit. If Tony had been in the same situation, he would have turned the gun on his own head the very first time he was told to take someone else out. At least…that’s what he told himself. He didn’t want to acknowledge the little voice in the back of his head telling him differently. He was too determined to hold onto his self-righteous anger rather than remind himself of what the horrors of torture could do to a man's psyche.

     Needless to say, he was having a hell of a time reconciling these new revelations with his old assumptions. His brain was a fucking mess of questions. None of which he wanted to voice at the moment. 

     Lucky for him, James Barnes wasn’t the only one good at putting on a mask. Tony was pretty good at it, too. He’d figure his shit out later. Until then, he would play relatively nice. After all, it probably wasn’t a good idea to poke the beast when he was the only one on Tony’s side.

     If there even is a beast . A small voice in the back of Tony’s mind whispered. Tony groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ugh. This is why I should have turned Cap down when he wanted us to work together. He didn’t like being forced to acknowledge the prejudices he had against the other man. It made him feel like a piece of shit. He knew he should be better than this; he was a goddamned superhero after all.

     He gave in to rubbing his ice-cold fingertips against his wet pants uselessly, trying to get a little sensation back into them. Every goddamned inch of him was in equal stages of freezing, the rain was refusing to let up, and there was no relief in sight. 

     The walk to the tower was proving to take a hell of a lot longer than they expected. Hours had passed with minimal advancement and it seemed like no matter which way they went, they ran into some kind of barricade or enemy squadron. Every time, they were forced to backtrack and reroute. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so goddamned infuriating. Neither Tony nor Barnes were willing to engage with the enemy, choosing to evade detection rather than risk a full-blown shootout. Well, at least that’s what they had been doing. Now, they were running out of options.

     “I don’t like this,” Tony whispered, crouched down behind a stinking pile of black trash bags. He and Barnes were pressed up against the wall of a building, hidden well within the shadows. The street was just visible from their vantage point, and there were a half dozen or so uniformed people gathered together…and a tank. Yeah, they had a tank. 

     It looked like it had been commandeered from the army, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. They must have been in a recent skirmish because bodies still littered the ground, the greens and browns of army soldiers blending into puddles and rubble. How had they managed to steal a fucking tank? All he could think was that they had had more troops at some point in time, or someone on the inside.

     “Mmm,” Barnes grunted in agreement, his features unreadable as he surveyed the people before them. “I think it still might be our best way through… fewer soldiers. Who knows, maybe they’ll be a little overconfident with their big gun. Easier to take down.” Barnes added. 

     “Still, why so little? It feels like another setup to me. Every other group has had double the soldiers, and a hell of a lot more guns. It’s like we’ve been herded right into this.” Tony rasped and muffled a cough against the lapels of his shirt. His voice had gone downhill since the bakery, the cold air too harsh on his aching throat. He sounded like he’d gargled a mouth full of sand. 

     “I’m not exactly believing it either. There could be dozens of others hiding in these buildings. I don’t think we have much choice, though. We’re being squeezed in. One way or another, we’re going to have to make a move.” Barnes heaved out a breath and pointed back toward where they had come from, urging Tony to retreat. They didn’t need to be spotted just yet. Not until they had a plan in place.

     “Suppose it had to happen sooner or later.” Tony frowned and scuttled back, taking up position in the archway of a door, making room for Barnes beside him. The soldier's side was warm where it pressed against Tony’s. Lucky bastard. He was like a goddamned furnace. If Tony were a man of less self-worth, he might have shoved his popsicle hands up under that sleeveless shirt just to try and defrost his fingers.

     “How do you want to do this?” Barnes asked, tapping his boot against the ground, oblivious to Tony’s daydreaming.

     “I think we need more recon. Think you can get up there?” Tony asked, pointing toward a fire escape attached to a nearby building. It was pretty high off the ground, but super soldier high? Probably not. Barnes looked over to where Tony was pointing and nodded without so much as second-guessing himself.

     “Yeah. Definitely,” Barnes murmured, twisting his rifle so it hung from his back rather than his front. His sharp gaze flickered over the building, analyzing an approach. “I’ll go take a look up top. Unless you wanted to?” Barnes asked casually, and Tony thought he saw the hint of a mischievous grin at the corner of his lips.

     “Was that sarcasm? I think I’m rubbing off on you, Barnes,” Tony said with a mock gasp that was more of a wheeze. He chuckled when Barnes shot him a cocky little glance. Yeah, he was definitely teasing Tony. When the hell had the Winter Soldier learned to joke around? 

     “Take this off?” Barnes asked, holding out his right hand, palm up, the thick, wet bandage still in place. And yeah, maybe Tony should have told him to just do it himself, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been paying attention to the way Barnes was favoring his prosthetic. He’d already drawn his own conclusions on what was going on, but his insatiable curiosity made him want to get his hands on the bionic limb and figure it out. One thing Tony knew was that something had to be wrong with it if the other man was actually asking for help.

     “Can I get a please?” Tony asked Barnes coyly, drumming his fingertips against Barnes', who jerked them back with a scowl.

     “Please?” Barnes sighed irritably, glancing at Tony out of the corner of his eye, and yeah, Tony had noticed that, too. The soldier was very good at avoiding eye contact. 

     “Sure thing, Buttercup,” Tony said and tucked his gun into his belt. He took Barnes' hand up within his own, and plucked at the bandage until he had it untucked and could unwind the string of it. When the last of the bandage peeled away from the angry gouges, Barnes pulled his hand free, flexing it with a wince that he hid very well.

     “Do you think your wounds are up to it?” Tony asked, his features twisted in a grimace. Yeah, maybe he was starting to feel bad about this plan. The injury was healing, but not anywhere near Cap’s rate. Using the hand would be excruciating, and the stab wound hadn’t had nearly enough time to heal. All Barnes did was shrug. 

     “Be right back,” Barnes said. He stepped through the torrent of rain and jogged across the way. He paused for only a moment before he seemed to have come up with an approach. With a grace that was absolutely illogical, considering the man was all muscle and probably weighed a good two hundred and forty pounds, he jumped onto a nearby pillar before shoving off of it and leaping toward a hanging pipe that was definitely thick enough to take his weight.

     Barnes swung from the pipe for a moment before his momentum seemed to be what he needed, and then he let go, muscles coiled as he arched across the short distance toward the fire escape. Tony expected him to land with a hard shriek of metal, but Barnes was in complete control, snagging onto a support beam to slow his fall before scuttling up the railing in utter silence. 

     After that, Tony didn’t see him again. The man was a ghost and moved quickly, with only the occasional squeak letting Tony guess where he was, no doubt making his way to the rooftop. It was like Barnes was avoiding physics. Maybe that was how Super Soldiers became so badass, they didn’t have the measly laws of Earth to follow. 

     Not gonna lie…that was hot and pretty fucking terrifying. Tony thought, shoving dripping hair from his eyes. No wonder Barnes had made such a fantastic assassin. Tony knew he was there, and still, he was practically invisible. Oh, and he’d done it all one-handed. Yeah, that confirmed that the bionic arm was on the fritz.

     Minutes passed, filled only by the endless drip of rain and the annoying buzz of empty static coming from the useless earpiece tucked in Tony’s ear. With a sigh, he flipped the switch, blessed silence filling the air. It was practically pointless to keep it on, but Tony just kept hoping– On and off, on and off. It was like a nervous tic at this point. He should just throw it away… He’d check it again later.

     Tony took the time to take a piss in the alley before he leaned back into the alcove out of the rain, his hands stuffed under his armpits. He couldn’t see much, but that was alright because it meant no one could see him either. He didn’t turn his ears off, though, focusing on even the smallest noise. 

     A giant rat squeaked as it raced along the edges of the building, and Tony wrinkled his nose, flicking his shoe toward it to get it to cross to the other side. That was when he heard it, a soft, yet familiar pfft! of sound, followed by shouting coming from the street where the enemy had taken up residence. That was a goddamned sniper rifle going off, and wasn’t that strange? Tony, well, he just so happened to be absent a sniper.

     God fucking damn it! Barnes, you idiot. Tony cursed. He heard the rapid hail of return fire and the grinding of the tank as it began to move. Yanking his gun from his belt, Tony hunched down and scurried toward the end of the alley, his back to the wall. When he made it to the street, he realized Barnes just might have things in order. 

     Pfft! Headshot, a woman dropped to the ground limply. 

     Pfft! A man, stupidly standing on the side of the tank, was taken out, flying backward off the tank to the ground.

     Pfft! Another person dropped, though they were somehow still alive, crawling across the ground before… Pfft! Never mind, definitely dead now.

     The tank creaked as it began to move, the turret rising slowly and jerkily beneath the guidance of an inexperienced hand, toward the rooftop where Tony knew Barnes was. Tony didn’t think even a super soldier could take that kind of hit. Tony glanced around, and all of the remaining people were hiding where they could; their focus seemed to be on the rooftops. Good, no one was in his path.

     Fortunately for him, these people were also god damned idiots. The lid to the tank was wide open, which was about all Tony could ask for. He wasn’t sure how he was gonna shut down the tank, but he certainly was gonna try.

     Please don’t shoot me, Barnes. Stark thought as he made up his mind. With a sigh for his own stupidity, he darted toward the tank, his abused lungs protesting the extra movement. Before he could make it to the hulking chunk of machinery, a man darted out from behind its shadow, eyes going wide as he spotted Tony. His face twisted with something that could have been anger or fear, and he lifted his rifle. Tony didn’t let him get far; his reflexes were far faster.

     Bang! The gun went off, the bullet hitting the man in the shoulder. 

     A miss! 

     A fucking miss? 

     He blamed his popsicle fingers. 

     Pfft! Before Tony had a chance to pull the trigger again, the man’s head exploded with a wet thunk and a spray of blood and bone, and fuck was that close.

     Thanks, Barnes. Tony thought, fighting back the urge to gag because that was…well, horrible. Tony didn’t have time to waste. The tanker could tear down the whole building Barnes was atop in a matter of moments, and he needed to stop whoever was inside. He almost walked right on past the body on the ground, then he saw it, a riveted ball of steel tied to the man's waist—a grenade. 

     Oh, this was a dumb idea, a fucking idiotic and suicidal idea. Well…Pepper always told him he might be a genius, but that he was the stupidest genius she’d ever met.

     “Gonna have to do.” Tony rasped, unable to stop the vicious grin on his lips. He did love a good explosion. 

     It took only moments to relieve the man of the handheld bomb before he undid the belt on the body's waist and slunk it free. He had to buy himself a little extra time to get out of the way before the grenade went off, and he was pretty sure he knew just how to do it. Newfound weapon in hand, he scrambled up the tank's tracks before he mounted the metal runged ladder on its side. 

     He moved quickly. The pin was pulled from the grenade before he wound the belt around the safety lever tightly, loosely buckling it in place. Then Tony dropped it into the open belly of the tank. He heard shouts of surprise moments before they were cut off as he slammed the tank's lid shut. Tony slid down the wet metal siding, his pants tearing on a bit of corner, before dropping to the ground. 

     He was off before he had a chance to steady himself. Tony did not want to be near that tank when the grenade went off. It probably wouldn’t blow up, but the sound alone could burst his eardrums, and if the people inside got to the grenade first, well, he’d like to be as far away as possible when they chucked that fucker out.

     His lungs were screaming at him, but he didn’t have the time to catch his breath. The slow unwinding of the belt would buy him much-needed seconds, but not enough, not near enough because Tony was wrecked . 

     Running….again…not Tony’s forte. 

     “Behind you, Stark!” came Barnes' gruff voice, shouting at him. Sure enough, when Tony shot a look back, the other man was racing toward him, looking none the worse. He was fast, so much faster than Tony, and normally, Tony might complain later if someone ran up to him and snagged him up like he was little more than a toddler. This time, Tony wouldn’t. Barnes could manhandle him anytime.

     Barnes hooked his arm around Tony’s waist, putting on an extra burst of speed before dodging into the relative protection of a nearby alley.

     Just in time.

     BOOM!

Chapter Text

     The explosion was contained within the solid steel walls of the tank, but the sound, yeah, that was not. It was like someone slammed the world's largest tube of Pillsbury biscuits on the edge of a counter, but a thousand times louder. Oh, and the shockwave, that was fun too.

     Despite all his strength, even Barnes couldn’t fight the laws of physics, as the blast wind lifted them both and threw them several feet down the alley. Tony probably would have hit the ground first if not for the way Barnes shifted his grip around Tony’s waist, pulling Tony against his chest and twisting so that he’d take the brunt of the landing on his back. Tony heard the breath shove out from Barnes' lungs, and the other man's arms locked painfully tight around him in reflex. 

     Tony, on the other hand, had a solid wall of muscle to land against, which was moderately more squishy than the asphalt. Still, he was stunned, his breath ragged and wheezing. For a moment, all either of them seemed to be able to do was lie still, with Tony sagging against Barnes' chest, their legs tangled together like spaghetti noodles. 

     “Ahh…shit.” Barnes hissed, recovering before Tony did. His arms shifted around the breadth of Tony’s chest, loosening before he sat upright, taking Tony with him and untangling their legs. Tony ended up settling between two thick thighs, sitting with his ass in a puddle. What was it with him and falling in puddles today? Yeah, he was never wearing these underwear again. Wait…was he wearing underwear?

     “You alright, Stark?” Barnes asked, spitting a mouth full of blood to the side. Cheek, tongue? Whatever he’d injured, he’d definitely hit the ground hard, landing atop his rifle and the small horde of weapons, and without his tactical gear. Yeah, that probably hurt. He kept his hand on Tony’s shoulder, seeming unaware of it as he kept Tony from pitching sideways.

     “Just…Peachy.” Stark croaked, shaking his head to try and clear it and scrubbing a hand over his left ear. His palm came back bloody so much for saving his eardrums. Still, other than the ringing and a little dizziness, he’d not taken any damage that he could feel beneath the numbing effect of sheer adrenaline. “You?”

     “I’m fine,” Barnes said dismissively, which seemed to be his default response when it came to answering questions about his well-being. With a grunt, Barnes dragged himself away from Tony and clambered to his feet. Yeah… maybe he wasn’t that much of a machine because the man was moving just a little slower. That, or Tony was imagining it. “Come on, hurry up, we’ve gotta get out of here.” He said, watching the street they had come from as if he expected a pack of stormtroopers to appear.

     “Uh-huh,” Tony groaned, accepting Barnes' hand and letting him haul him to his feet. “If I recall…you’re the one who decided to get the show on the road early,” Tony complained. 

     “Didn’t feel like going up there twice,” Barnes explained dismissively, which was…well, as good an excuse as any. Still, Barnes was right. They had to get out of there. After all, they had just given their position away in an oh-so-spectacular way, and it was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate. Tell that to Tony’s legs. 

     “Shit.” Tony staggered and fell back to a knee, shaking his head as if it might clear the spinning world around him. It only made it worse. Yeah, that eardrum was not happy. Damn him and his fleshy, not metal body.

     “Nope. Up, Stark.” Barnes insisted as if he were talking to some naughty two-year-old who didn’t want to go to bed. “Come on, get your arm over my shoulder,” Barnes said, as he squatted down beside Tony and slunk his flesh arm under Tony’s and around his chest. “Unless you want me to carry you.” Barnes mock-threatened.

     “Uh-uh. Got it. Ain’t no princess. Ear’s just fucked.” Tony rasped. He refused to be carried like some damsel in distress. 

     Tony hooked his arm over Barnes' broad shoulders, and like that, Barnes stood, taking Tony with him. He was taller than Tony, so it was a bit of a stretch. Barnes gave him a moment to settle in, and it was hard not to bask in the other man's warmth as it radiated down his left side, giving him goosebumps.

     “Let's go,” Tony encouraged, smacking Barnes on his wet shoulder, his rings clinking on the metal. Barnes started moving right away, more keeping him balanced than actually supporting him. Barnes glanced back the way they had come, frowning, obviously hearing something Tony couldn’t.

     “What is it?” Tony asked, straining his own ears but mostly just getting ringing—ah, good old tinnitus. 

     “Vehicles. Three. From east and west.” Barnes said, and, without asking, urged them into a run. They were finally making it another block deeper into the city, and if they wanted to keep that momentum going, they needed to put their shoes to the pavement. 

     It took only a minute for Tony to regain his sense of balance, and he released Barnes, letting the other man take the lead and re-arm himself. Tony trailed behind but somehow managed to keep up with the pace, his lungs screaming like he’d inhaled acid. Damn, he was thirsty. Licking the water dripping down his lips really wasn’t helping. They set off to put space between themselves and the approaching enemy. Barnes alternated the pace between jogging and walking, always seeming to know when Tony hit his limit. They managed to put several blocks between them and the tank. Tony wasn’t sure how the hell he pulled it off, but he did. 

     Well…until he didn’t. Between one moment and the next, his lungs seized up and decided fuck this.  

     Oh, that doesn’t feel good. Tony thought as he stumbled to a stop, pressing a hand over the tac vest as if he could press his lungs into submission. His chest heaved, tiny little wheezing breaths that were so not gonna cut it. He bent at the waist, the hand holding his gun leaning against his knee, finger far from the trigger. For a moment, all he could do was gasp and struggle to catch his breath between bouts of lung-tearing coughing. 

     “Stark? You alright?” Barnes called, his booted feet coming into view of Tony’s sparkling vision. Tony shook his head, staggering back a step to put distance between himself and the other man. It was impossible to do anything else when he literally could not breathe. “Easy, easy. Here, gimme that.” Barnes said, reaching out and taking the gun from Tony’s numb fingers before he put it back in the holster at his side. 

     Before Tony had any other chance to react, Barnes was in his space, a hand on his chest over the body armor, pushing him backward and guiding him one step at a time until his back collided with a brick wall. Gratefully, Tony sagged back against the supportive structure, sinking down its rough surface until his ass landed on the ground.

     “Shit, your lips are going blue,” Barnes murmured, squatting beside Tony. He kept his metal hand curled up on Tony’s shoulder, leaning over him like a human umbrella to shield him from the falling rain. “Breathe, Stark, breathe.” 

     Yeah, I’m fucking trying . Tony wanted to snap back. 

     With Barnes stopping him from drowning in the downpour, Tony let his head drop back against the wall, eyes closed tight, and mouth parted as he desperately attempted to get himself under control, his muscles stuttering. Yeah, that was better, opened up his chest a bit. Still, the coughing wasn’t stopping. It was like now that it got going, his body suddenly realized just how damaged it really was. It was throwing a hissy fit at him for having the audacity to try and push himself.

     His chest felt too tight, like snakes of muscle, or maybe a robotic arm had wrapped around him and squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed. The body armor suddenly felt like cords itself, holding him in, stopping his lungs from filling. Desperately, Tony’s numb fingers scrambled at the water-slick buckles holding the tactical gear to his chest. He couldn’t get a grip on them. But the vest– it was too tight, stopping him from inhaling, and he couldn’t breathe! He had to get it off!

     “Off, off!” Tony managed to wheeze between gasping bursts of air. His frantic voice pleaded with Barnes, who thankfully seemed to understand.

     “Got it,” Barnes said and swatted his hands away from the buckles before he took over, shoving Tony’s suit jacket aside to reach the clasps on one side and undoing them one-handed with a speed only practice made possible. One, two, three buckles…why so many?! Then they were all undone, the armor sagging open loosely. 

     Thank fuck. Tony whimpered painfully as the snakes around his chest loosened. His lungs convulsed desperately, sucking in tiny little breaths, but he was finally able to get in that extra bit of air. 

     “Stark! Blah, blah, blah bl…” Barnes was talking to him, but his words were garbled and unintelligible.

     Bad, this is bad. Sobbing gasps left his lips, and he pressed his hand to the familiar cover of the arc reactor. It felt like every struggling breath was made all the worse by the hunk of metal, his ribs aching around it, his heart pounding against it. Breathing was torture, a chore he couldn’t stop even for the pain of it. He felt like he was slipping into darkness, and it was so, so tempting to just fall face-first into it.

     “ Blah, blah, blah… Tony!” Barnes shouted, and for some reason, that actually got his attention. Tony’s eyes opened, vision haloed in black, and he was staring straight into Bucky’s eyes. They flickered away from Tony’s, anxiously, before locking back in with resolution. “In through your nose, Tony, out through your mouth.” Barnes encouraged, hunched over Tony’s side, his hair hanging in dripping streamers over them.

     “Come on, follow me.” Barnes took the hand Tony had pressed to his chest and shifted it to rest against a muscular pectoral, just above his heart. Tony could feel Barnes' chest rising and falling, exaggerated and slow. Tony nodded and coughed before he tried to follow along, each ragged breath too fast, too painful. “Slowly, slowly.” Barnes urged, his brow wrinkled with concern. Holy shit, was that another expression coming from the bionic man?

     “Focus, Tony. In…” Barnes said, drawing in a slow breath through his nose and exhaling through his mouth on the next word. “Out…” he breathed. He did this over and over until Tony started to follow along, his chest aching like fire. Tony closed his eyes on the sight of those baby blues, focusing on the rise and fall of Barnes' chest beneath his hand, the man’s body warmth like a beacon, calling him back from the edge.

     “That’s good. Keep going.” Barnes said, and Tony felt Barnes place his hand back in his lap before he fell into silence for a moment, only the wheeze of Tony’s chest filling the air along with the annoying drip, drip, drip of rain. “Here, drink,” Barnes said, and Tony opened his eyes to see Barnes' hand cupped before his face, a pool of water gathered within. 

     It really wasn’t much, and maybe he might have been self-conscious about drinking from another person’s hand, especially with a still red wound on it, but Tony took it greedily. His chattering lips pressed to Barnes' palm, and he let Barnes tip his head back enough for the fluid to slide down the burning tube he called a throat.

     The cold water was a balm over raw flesh, and though he choked on it a little, it helped soothe the ache. Barnes filled up his palm a few more times, his face upturned toward the sky as if he could make the water fill his hand faster, before urging Tony to drink again. Which was fine, Tony would have downed a whole bottle of water if he could. Alas, there wasn’t a bottle in sight. 

     “Your hand is…looking better.” Tony wheezed after sucking down his last mouthful of water, breaking the silence.

     Barnes looked him over, evaluating, before he glanced at his palm and nodded. It was scabbed over now, instead of flayed open. Tony had to force himself out of his slumped position, his chest protesting the movement. He felt weak as wet cardboard, shivers wracking his body, and his teeth chattering incessantly.

     “Sorry…the other hand would be even more disgusting to drink from,” Barnes said with a shoulder shrug and a minute grimace as if he had just realized he had let Stark drink from his wounded palm.

     “It’s fine. Thanks… for helping.” Tony croaked. It wasn’t like he’d catch a disease from a super soldier, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Barnes didn’t seem to know what to do with the sign of gratitude, shrugging, and Tony was pretty sure he saw a little blush bloom across his stubbled cheeks. The other man was back to avoiding Tony’s eyes like they would shoot lasers at him or something. 

     Damn…I feel like a total asshole. Tony thought, scrubbing his trembling hand over his face. His big brain was finally starting to understand why Barnes wouldn’t look at him. Barnes was scared. Of Tony of all people! The Winter Soldier was scared of Iron Man. What the hell kind of irony was that? It was a revelation that felt like a stab to Tony’s gut. Was he the fucking bad guy here? It sure seemed like it.

     He’d not exactly been kind to Barnes, and yet, here the other man was, making sure he didn’t choke to death on his own lungs and saving him from explosions. The Winter Soldier had killed his parents; that was undeniable, but maybe Tony had been willfully blind when he refused to accept the man hadn’t changed. Because Barnes was actually…nice, that kindness was making it really fucking hard for Tony to hold onto the anger he held over the other man.

     Now isn’t the time for epiphanies. Tony tried to tell himself.

     “I hate to be the asshole here, but we need to get moving." Barnes said, tugging Tony from his reveries. “I can carry you if you can’t breathe. Not gonna judge you on it.” Tony glanced up at Barnes and knew he was telling the truth. He wouldn’t hold Tony’s weakness against him. Tony grimaced at the thought, but the man had a point. Tony was doing nothing but holding them back. They didn’t have the time to waste on his weakness.

     “I think you should… go on alone,” Tony said after a breath of thought, holding up a shaking finger to stop Barnes from interrupting. It was hard enough speaking between each aching breath. “I’m slowing… us down, and the… team doesn't… know where we are... You get out… come back with… help. I’ll…hole up somewhere.” Tony managed to get out, waving his hand vaguely. There were plenty of hiding places around them. 

     He coughed into his shoulder as he pushed himself onto his knees. The tac armor flopped about loosely beneath his jacket, but he wasn’t ready to put it back on. Barnes reached out his hand, holding it palm up for Tony to use to haul himself upright, which Tony did.

     “No. I won’t do that.” Barnes said matter-of-factly, actually surprising Tony. Tony straightened, releasing his hand. Tony wrapped the limb around his chest instead, glowering at Barnes curiously. He kind of expected the man to just take the out and leave his sorry ass behind. It wasn’t like Tony had endeared himself to Barnes. In fact, he’d kinda treated him like garbage. Tony scowled, about to open his mouth to argue once more, when Barnes gave Tony one of the itty-bitty little corner of the mouth smiles and shrugged. 

     “Just not gonna happen,” he pressed his hand to the small of Tony’s back, urging him to start walking, the touch there and gone.

     “Why…not? Makes sense.” Tony groaned and forced his aching self to move. He didn’t have the lung power to argue over this! 

     “Yeah, probably,” Barnes said thoughtfully, matching his pace to Tony’s and taking up position at his back. “Been left behind before…won’t do it to someone else,” he murmured absently. Tony glanced back at the other man, whose brow furrowed as he looked along the roofline.

     Oh…right. Tony thought, his heart twisting with…sympathy? Was it okay to sympathize with the past Bucky Barnes and still strongly dislike the man who had killed his family? To sympathize with the man who’d been good and selfless before he became evil and ruthless and all crazy town murdery. To sympathize with the man who had fallen to his death but probably hoped and prayed that someone would return for him…only to find himself alone, bleeding out, and scared. 

     Yeah…that was probably okay.

     But…Did Barnes actually remember that time? Goddamn, these were too many revelations for Tony. It was so much easier just to hate Barnes for what he had done.

     Suddenly interrupting Tony’s very confused thoughts, the radio on Tony’s belt came to life, a static-filled warble that shot through the air like it was electricity itself.

     “Did you hear that?” Tony asked, pulling free the radio and lifting it to his good ear.

     “Yeah, couldn’t make it out.” Barnes came up beside him, expression empty as he focused on listening. At first, it was quiet, and Tony thought they had just crossed wavelengths for a moment.

     “ Bzzrt…Charlie in position, Shhkkzzz… targ-... bzzshtt…caution.” The radio stuttered through the buzz of static. It definitely sounded like it was picking up another channel. They couldn’t make out full sentences, but it didn’t sound good. Tony looked up at Barnes, whose eyes were a more stormy grey than blue at the moment. 

     “I think we’re being watched,” Barnes whispered under his breath. “The rain is probably giving us cover, but also them.” Barnes shifted closer to Tony, moving as if to offer him support, while at the same time slipping Tony’s Glock into his belt, so casually even Tony wasn’t sure he would have caught the move. He was being cautious, maybe trying to make sure whoever was out there didn’t get all gun-happy.

     “Buckle your vest. Definitely catching something now.” Barnes added, his head dropped down, focusing on hearing through the downpour. Tony gave Barnes a glance of understanding and just as casually slinked his hand under his suit jacket, buckling the clasps that hung open on his side. A move that was easy to conceal since he’d been holding his chest this whole time. The added restriction didn’t feel good, but neither would a bullet.

     “Fuck, they’re blocking us in,” Barnes said. After a moment of tense silence, he withdrew from Tony’s side. 

     “Count?” Tony asked, his voice quiet, so quiet only a supersoldier would pick it up.

     “Six behind, eight ahead. Can’t get a count on the rooftops.” Barnes said after a moment in which Tony could practically hear his brain thinking.

     “Not good.” Tony hissed. He had two spare magazines, thirty bullets, probably another fourteen in the Glock itself unless Barnes had used it earlier… Yeah, he’d probably used it earlier. He’d just count whatever he had left in it as spares, but he didn’t like not having an accurate countdown.

     Swap the magazine first thing. Tony decided. After that, he’d have to moderate his bullet use, no shooting wild into the crowd. Aim and dispatch them one by one. Waste not, want not. 

     “Nope.” Barnes agreed. “I’ll take the front eight, you take the back six. Find cover behind the dumpsters. I’ll go high, split their focus.” Tony surveyed the area and glanced at the dumpsters Barnes mentioned. There was a small gap between them that would provide Tony with the best option for cover. They had several fire escapes along the shorter rooftops of a nearby apartment building, and some scaffolding was propped up along one building where it was under construction. What a nice playground for his new favorite murder monkey.

     “I like our odds,” Tony said, the rasp of his voice somehow cheery. Well, that was about as logical a plan as any, and what other options did they have? 

     “Not my worst,” Barnes whispered, and Tony detected a hint of amusement. Yeah, he wasn’t sure these guys were prepared for the Winter Soldier to be let loose upon them. Their fucking mistake. “On three.”

     One….

         Two…..

Chapter Text

     “Three!” James hissed, breaking apart from Stark. He could only spare a moment of thought for the other man, making sure he got to cover before he had to trust him to hold his own. 

     James ran in the opposite direction of the dumpsters, toward the brick wall. There was a perfectly placed ledge that started about four feet off the ground. He jumped onto it, using it to propel himself higher and snag the edge of a window frame with his fucked-up left hand while his feet found their balance on the ledge below.

     He had to be fast and didn’t stop there, scrambling across the ledge before leaping the gap between it and a fire escape effortlessly. He landed without a noise and didn’t bother climbing onto the stairwell that wound upward. Instead, he hung off the side, crouched on an overhanging bar, and lost himself within the shadows of a corner within a breath. He took a moment to shake out his right arm; the knife wound was protesting all the movement, seeping blood that tinted the wet gauze pink. Not enough to worry about, though.

     “Targets are on the move! I repeat– Targets are on the move," a voice echoed through multiple different radios, and also clearly from up above. There must have been an operations coordinator on the rooftop. Well…maybe he should be the first on James' list. With a shark-like grin, James scoped out a rough estimate of where the voice might be coming from.

     “Does anyone have eyes on the target?” another voice echoed through the airwaves, and oh yes, James definitely had his eyes on his target. There! His gaze caught a flicker of a reflection on the rooftop, binoculars, which were not even pointed in his direction. 

     Oh boy, they really brought their A-game today. Barnes thought sardonically. They had not, in fact, brought their A-game. Probably should have.

     The operator was across the alley on a fourth-story ledge, hidden in a nook between buildings. Easy. Well… it would have been easier if he had full use of both arms. He had minimal function of his left arm, what with the way the damned nanites had spread over his forearm, eating through the surface plates, ruining their integrity, and making their way through controlling cables and hydraulics. It was as if the damned things were multiplying, like some kind of cancer. 

     The two fingers on the left were locked in place now, sending shocks of misfiring electricity up his arm. Luckily, he at least had some use of the other three, even if they responded with a delay. It would have to do. His nerves were going to be overworked after this, and the arm was going to need some major reconstruction. Which…sucked. 

     No time for thinking about that now. James thought, biting his inner lip as he instead planned out his next moves. Rather than risk being spotted so early on, James elected to use stealth, no guns, not yet. Knives would be best, messy but efficient. He wanted to stay a ghost for as long as possible. Start with this guy, a quick slice across the throat, in and out, and move on to the next. The more people he could take out without being spotted, the better.

     “Target Two is between the dumpsters,” the operations coordinator said, and James didn’t like that. He glanced down and saw Stark ducked between the metal walls. There was a ledge of concrete directly overhead; they’d be forced to take him from the front. It was the best-case scenario. “No eyes on Target One. Non-lethal rounds, boys and girls. Take them down and get them out,” the operator seemed to remind, his voice audible on both the walkies and to James' ears.

     Well, at least he didn’t have to worry too much about Stark being caught in the crossfire…but, who the hell brought rubber bullets to take someone like him down? And why did they want them alive? It was a thought that would have to wait for later. He didn’t like it, though. James had been on the wrong side of captivity most of his life. Now, someone else wanted him? Well, fuck them. They could try, but these wouldn’t be the people to take him back in.

     Barnes shifted his weight on the rail of the stairwell. With a roll of his shoulders, he began to climb the side of the fire escape, keeping to the line of shadows he was already holed up in and spider-crawling across gaps from one level to the next. Up and up. 

     He reached the sixth story with ease and launched himself off the fire escape with a calculated burst of speed and muscle that propelled him through droplets of rain and across the gap of the alley, right toward the twin fire escape on the other side. Gravity predictably took him down a floor lower, bringing him to the fifth-story fire escape across the way. His muscles coiled in anticipation, and he adjusted his body accordingly, preventing the landing from making a squeak. James flitted his way back into the shadows, going entirely unnoticed.  

     “ Beta team, you have permission to approach the target. Alpha and Charlie teams, watch your backs for the Soldier,” the operator said, the radio echoing his voice, and the Soldier, well, he didn’t need permission to approach the target. He was already making his way across the decorative ledge of the building, his eye on said target while he slipped the knife Stark had stabbed him with from its sheath.  

____

__

     From his newly found hiding place, Tony heard the approach of several different people coming from his left, splashing their way inelegantly over the puddled asphalt. He didn’t like how close they were getting, and he’d never been one for claustrophobia, but this was pushing it a little.

     “Stark! We have you surrounded. No one gets hurt if you surrender,” a voice called from the rain, and Tony couldn’t help the bark of a laugh that slipped past his lips. 

     Yeah, right. Not the first time I’ve heard that. Tony thought. His gaze flickered over the other side of the alley, seeking out a flash of metal or the gleam of pale skin. Barnes was too good for that. Tony had lost sight of him before he’d even had a chance to settle into his new little hidey hole. 

     What a shit hidey hole it was. It smelled to high heaven, and there was a sludge he didn’t want to contemplate beneath his feet. Worst of all, Tony didn’t have a line of sight in either direction of the alley, not without putting the back of his head in line with a half dozen guns in either direction. 

     The bastards really did have them surrounded. 

     Tony scowled and shifted to sink further into the shadowed alcove, stepping over piles of trash. He really didn’t like that he was depending on Barnes to get them out of this shitty situation. Tony was just buying time while he let the other man do what he was good at and weaseled down the numbers. Without Barnes and in his current condition, he would have been forced to surrender to the enemy's demands and give himself up. Tony didn’t like surrendering.

     Reaching the far wall, Tony noted that the dumpster on his left didn’t quite meet up with the wall, with a human-sized gap in between. It looked wide enough to let him sneak up on the rear of the soldiers who were circling in. He did like a good surprise attack, but he’d only have one chance at it. It really was his only option if he wanted to get in a few shots. 

     With a mew of disgust, he shimmied his way behind the dumpster, the overwhelming odor of the stinking mess inside threatening to force Tony’s compromised lungs into another attack. His chest wheezed and protested, but he babied himself and moved slowly, unwilling to push his body again. The last thing he needed was to stop breathing in the middle of a gunfight.

     “We’ve got you surrounded. Ain’t no escaping!” the man yelled again. Where the hell was Barnes? They were getting a little too close for comfort. 

     He pressed his back against the brick wall behind him, quickly swapping the magazines of the Glock to start a fresh bullet count. He was blessedly hidden beneath an outcropping of concrete that shielded him from the rain, giving him a slight advantage over the others.

     Shuffling through the narrow gap toward the line of light on the other side, he peeked out of it, spotting the shadowed forms of the enemy, stepping through the fog and into his range of sight. His position was partially concealed by the slumped form of a mattress, which was about as good as it got. 

     He shifted when no one else seemed to be getting any closer, stepping out from his hiding place and crouching beneath the wet bow of the mattress. Glancing around the edge of the dumpster, Stark could see that the rain had slowed to a drizzle, while the fog swirled at knee height. It rippled around the legs of the six men who were converging on the gap between the dumpsters, three on either side. 

     Tony didn’t like killing people. It wasn’t a part of the job he relished, but it was a necessity in keeping himself and innocent civilians safe. Now wasn’t the time to pull his punches, and he drew in a wheezing breath, trying to steady his trembling hand as he took stock of the situation.

     This group was woefully under-protected. They were dressed in all black, with no identifying insignia or patches. They had vests on and helmets, but no other protective gear. These were the disposables then. It was almost insulting that a better team hadn’t been sent to collect him. Honestly, they were probably saving the best to take down the Soldier. Tony couldn’t blame them.

     There were a lot of ways to kill a man, and Barnes probably knew them all. Stark, though, was used to the big guns, big explosions, and big casualties. He was going to have to be more precise now, and maybe stabbing Barnes earlier had come in handy, because he knew exactly where a very important vein was on the back of the arm. 

     Tony’s first target took two bullets, one to the arm that threw him sideways and another to the shoulder, which would rip clean through his side and wreak absolute havoc as the bullet ricocheted through his body. That man dropped with a gurgling cry, and Tony didn’t have the time to question if he was down permanently. 

     His second target took a bullet to the face as he whirled toward the gunfire, too stupid to duck, and it was only a matter of moving millimeters to shoot the woman standing just behind him in the neck, one bullet flying wide, but the next striking true. 

     “ Manchester is hit! I need medical!” someone called over the radio, and he heard the scraping sound of movement as someone tried to move the body.

     "Randolf and Volkov are down! Deceased.” Another voice warbled.

     Ten bullets left in the magazine.

     “Take cover! Take cover!” a woman shouted. By then, the rest of the team had registered what was going on and broke apart, some hiding on the other side of the dumpsters, while others played it cool and just started shooting back at him. 

     Tony ducked back undercover, listening to the thuds of bullets striking metal. The sound was off, though, not like it was piercing the metal, but rather like it was being punched. 

     “It's just one pampered rich guy! Get a hold of yourselves and take him down!” Someone shouted over the ruckus of their fellows' shouts. Tony couldn't even be insulted; the ‘pampered rich guy’ persona was a carefully crafted facade that worked wonders in allowing people to underestimate him. It really was too bad these guys weren’t very good at seeing the evidence of his prowess, even with their friends bleeding out beside them.

     Three down. Fuck, these odds were not in Tony’s favor. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his lungs heaved uselessly. He coughed into his elbow, waiting for the rain of his enemy's fury to calm; they were wasting bullets if nothing, but who knew how many they had on them.

     “We’ve got live fire! Go! Alpha team, go!” a voice echoed from the horde of radios these guys had, and Tony groaned. Great, more backup. Now, where the hell was Tony’s? It seemed like Barnes was very good at avoiding established plans—first the whole rooftop debacle, then this. Tony could only hope he had a good reason.

     Anytime now, Barnes. He thought, but he wasn’t going to wait to be rescued, even if he was a jog away from passing out.

     Tony shifted, standing and aiming over the top of the dumpster where he hoped no one suspected him of popping up. He had a couple of operatives in sight, mostly helmets visible, but there was one tall ass motherfucker running his way from where the Alpha team had no doubt been waiting. A bullet took out the giant of a man with ease, dropping him like a tree with a spray of red blood from the bullet going through and through. 

     Fuck me, I’m good. Tony thought. Even at his worst, he was better than these guys. He ducked back down before a return volley could be fired, spotting several other enemies as they ran to join their comrades. These ones were lucky; they had shields for added protection. 

     That made Tony not so lucky.

     “Ugh, damn,” he breathed out a croak of annoyance, before crouching down and darting behind the protection of the dumpster once more. He inched his way back toward the original gap he’d taken cover in and peeked around the corner. There was only a leg and a shapely ass cheek in view, but Tony shrugged and took the shot anyway. Ass shots hurt, and by the scream of the man, that one definitely did.

     “He shot me? Did he just shoot me in the ass?!” the man shouted incredulously, jumping away from Tony’s line of sight. 

     Yes, yes, I did. Tony thought with a malicious little grin. Admittedly, it was kind of comical. It was a lot less funny when he saw a flash of metal peek out from around the edge of the dumpster. It gave him just enough time to jerk back behind the wall of metal as Ass Shot blind-fired into the gap.

     Bullets ricocheted off the wall beside Tony, and he grunted out a gasp of pain as one slammed into the side of his arm. He slapped his hand to the wound, but to his surprise, nothing was bleeding. There was no bullet hole in his jacket, and he might have thought he hadn’t been hit if not for the radiating pain that struck right to the humerus. 

     “What the fuck?” Tony croaked his words more rasp than anything. Were they using take-down rounds? He didn’t have the time to strip out of his jacket and check the wound, but he was sure he was going to have one hell of a bruise. Better than the alternative.

     Tony didn’t have time to think about that, not when there was the scrape of sound from the left side of the dumpster as the mattress was shoved aside, illuminating the dark shadows surrounding him. 

     Well…shit. Tony thought with a snarl, aiming his gun toward the noise, ready to fire off a shot as soon as he saw so much as a finger. They didn’t give him the chance. There was a chink of sound, and from around the corner, a rounded can of gas bounced and tumbled its way toward him. 

     Fuck! Tony thought, eyes going wide as he registered the smoke bomb.

     Oh, he was in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

     In front of Tony, the can clinked to a stop and began spewing forth a noxious white gas. Tony didn’t have time to think; he clamped his lips closed and held his breath as he scrambled to grab the can and chuck it back to where it came from. It tumbled through the air and bounced off the brick wall, ricocheting back toward its owners.

     “God dammit, get it out of here! Kick it!” someone on the other side shouted, and he heard a scramble as someone tried to do as they were commanded, and a chorus of choking when it didn’t happen fast enough. 

     “I’m seriously working with a bunch of morons! It’s one man! Get him out!” a man shouted irritably.

     Tony, meanwhile, couldn’t hold his breath much longer. He had gotten rid of the thing relatively fast, but it didn’t matter. The amount that had escaped the canister would be more than enough to take him out in the shape he was in. It floated in the air in a pale fog, and he cursed internally, flapping his hand at it like that might fucking help.

     Shit, shit, shit. I am not gonna survive more lung damage. Any time now, Barnes! Tony thought and covered his nose and mouth with his jacket, hoping it might filter out some of the fumes, even if it stood a better chance of waterboarding him with how wet it was. He was blocked in on either end, and fuck him…he had to breathe. With a sobbing exhale, his lungs gave in to the need, and without a choice, he sucked in the toxic air. 

     It hit Tony’s lungs like pouring salt into a wound, his suit jacket doing nothing to protect him. His lungs screamed, the air pushing out of them as he began to choke, desperately trying to breathe past the burn of it. His eyes watered, and he wheezed, crumpling forward onto his knees when he couldn’t get enough oxygen to maintain himself. 

     Oh god, that fucking burns! He thought, gagging with the effort his heaving diaphragm was making to expel the horrid shit. He was so dead. So, so fucking dead. Tony was too focused on trying to breathe to notice the person coming for him from the gap on his right. Tony yelped on the taste of blood and chemicals as he was abruptly grabbed from behind. Thick, meaty fingers twisted into the fabric of his suit jacket before dragging him like some sort of horror movie monster backward through the gap between the dumpsters and out toward the open.

     Motherfucker! Tony thought, his lungs wheezing but unable to stop the horrid hacking that wracked them. He twisted violently in their grasp, unwilling to just let this happen even as he held onto Barnes' gun tightly, his free hand clawing at the metal walls of the dumpster and the slimy ground to try in search of some way to escape or at least slow the fuckers down, but there was nothing to grab onto. His left hand brushed over something sharp and jagged, and his fingers instinctively closed over it, a sharp edge cutting over the calluses on his palm.

     “I’ve got Stark! Looks like sometimes the boss has just gotta step in and do the dirty work. You goddamned idiots!” said a squat, burly man with an ugly amount of muscle that put Barnes to shame: steroids, definitely steroids. The man threw Tony to the ground with a splash. Tony grunted as his forehead struck the ground with enough force to make him see stars. Dirty water splashed over Tony’s face, his knees scraping on the rubble-covered asphalt, and the useless earpiece he’d pretty much forgotten about fell to the ground. For a moment, all Tony could do was struggle to catch his breath, his burning lungs threatening to close up on him.

     He was so, so tempted just to let himself flop forward into the icy embrace of the puddle beneath him. Nope. Definite nope. He told himself, struggling up to his hands and knees while clutching his gun. He was sure to keep what he now knew was a transparent shard of glass hidden within the chilly water that was calling his name.

     “Well, looky here, if it ain’t our little tracker,” the big guy crowed, bending to pick up the little piece of plastic and holding it up between his fingers. He twisted the earpiece to and fro as if it were a diamond, looking down upon it with a grin. 

     What? Tony thought muddily, his head stuck somewhere in the stars as he struggled to make his lungs function. Still, understanding dawned upon him. He cursed internally. He should have fucking seen it. It made so much goddamn sense. This stupid piece of plastic was how they’d been able to herd the pair of them through the city, every barricade had been place knowing exactly where the fuck they were. 

     Tony’s mind was spinning a mile a minute, trying to evaluate the how of it all. How the hell had they arranged for him to pick it up? How had they even known he was going to use the SHIELD tech? It had been purely convenience that he’d even grabbed it for Barnes. If it wasn’t the earpiece, it would have been something else. Tony was sure of it. This was too planned out. They must have had backup plans in place. Possibly even in Tony’s own tech. How deep did this go?

     Goddamn it. He thought he needed to focus on the now. Figuring out the rest would have to come later.

     “The pair of ya had us going there for a bit, I’ll tell you that much. It was hell pinning you down, but you just couldn’t stop turning this thing back on. Could you?” Mr. Muscles continued, pocketing the earpiece and patting it as if to reassure the damned thing that it had done a good job. Which, technically, it had. 

     “What? Nothing to say, Stark? I've heard you're a man of many words,” the bastard continued, laughing at his own joke. Tony couldn’t have talked if he wanted to. Tony shrugged, but he just couldn’t stop coughing. Groaning, he spat bloodily on the ground, saliva dripping to join the puddles of blackened water. He wanted to puke.

     Well, at least he wasn’t stuck in that lethal cloud of smoke anymore. Silver linings and all that. Very, very thin silver linings. Because Tony was surrounded, like an ice cream truck on a hot day, only these people did not look happy to see him. His gaze was met with scowls and glares, and the occasional wicked amusement, each one of them armed with far too many guns pointed at his very vulnerable flesh for comfort. 

     I feel so welcome. Tony thought with a roll of his eyes, squinting as blood began to dribble into his eye from the gash across his brow, making his vision tinge pink. Funny how having a guy on his knees suddenly gave these idiots some bravado. He ignored their taunts and chatter, his fingers curling slowly around the grip of his gun, wondering if he might be able to take out the big guy. Mr. Muscles just looked like he was waiting for a bullet.

     At that moment, Muscles must have noticed he still had the weapon. He tsked like a disappointed babysitter, and the gun was kicked from Tony’s hand rudely. The blow made Tony hiss as it struck his popsicle fingers, and he rolled his eyes with annoyance, glaring up at Mr. Muscles, who was obviously their leader, judging by the incessant monologuing. The man laughed, grabbing him by his hair and pulling Tony painfully up onto his knees, twisting his head on his neck so he was forced to keep his eyes on that ugly mug. Tony glared defiantly up toward the man, his chest heaving in aborted little breaths. He refused to show any sign of fear, his bloodied teeth bared in anger.

     “Still fighting? I would think a genius like you would know when to give up. You’re not looking too hot, Stark, and I’m thinking the Soldier left your ass behind, eh?” he said. Tony glared resolutely up at the other man, unable to speak or really even breathe, but every inch of him radiated defiance. He twisted the shard of glass in his palm, situating the pointy bit so that he’d be able to use it if the moment came. “You’re not much without that suit, are ya?”

     You so sure about that? I’m thinking that guy over there might have pissed himself. Tony thought the words wouldn’t have been as snarky in a wheeze, so he kept them to himself. Couldn’t keep himself totally quiet, though…

     “Got..five of ya… tha’s pretty good,” he rasped between lips that were pale and bloodless, forcing a nonchalant shrug before he started coughing, every breath a struggle. Yeah, he’d done pretty fucking well for himself, all things considered. 

     His gaze darted toward the rooftops. Had Barnes left him behind? This situation was pretty goddamned dire. Tony wouldn’t have blamed him, even expected it. Still… Where are you, Barnes? He thought desperately. His little piece of glass wouldn’t be enough to get him out of this. Who would have thought he, Tony Stark, actually wanted to see the psychopathic cyborg bastard? Look at him, being all magnanimous. 

     "Been left behind before…won’t do it to someone else,” he remembered Barnes saying, not even minutes ago. He’d look so goddamned honest, and for once, Tony wanted to believe the man. Yeah, and maybe those words were all Tony had to hold on to considering the literal fuckton of trouble he was in, but he did. He did believe him. Tony hadn’t been left behind; the asshole was just taking his sweet time.

     “Fuck you, you rich bastard. You’re lucky you're worth more to us alive than you are dead. Cuff ‘em, Santiago.” Mr. Muscles ordered, and Tony could do nothing more than wheeze and sway as his arms were grabbed by a thin, bony man-woman-person whose gender was unidentifiable. Tony barely had a moment to slide his little weapon into the cuff of his sleeve for safekeeping before his wrists were being forced together, and Santiago was sliding a pair of flex cuffs over his hands, zipping them down tight. 

     “Jesus,” he grunted as the circulation was immediately cut off. Yup, that was tight. No escaping that without a metal arm. At least they hadn’t put them behind his back. 

     “You think they’ll mind if I break a finger, boss?” Santiago asked. Ah, so that's why they kept his hands out front. They looked down at him with a savage grin as they straitened…and were their fucking teeth sharpened? Who the hell sharpened their teeth? “Only fair. Bastard killed five of us.”

     “Be my guest.” Mr. Muscles said with an equally sadistic smile and a generous wave of his hand.

     Really? Goddamn it! Tony thought incredulously, trying to yank his hand free, but Santiago was a strong son of a bitch, and before he could do more than open his mouth to protest, the bastard wrenched back his right hand and in one fluid motion snapped his ring finger.

     “AHHH!” Tony couldn’t help but scream through the pain as his bone snapped like it was a piece of goddamned spaghetti. A white flash of agony ripped through him, and he bowed forward against his thighs, a wretched, wheezing sob tearing past his lips. Santiago released his arm with a laugh, and he yanked it away from them defensively. “You… mother… fucking fucker!” Tony rasped and whimpered, his chest heaving with sobbing breaths. He cradled his throbbing hand to his chest, his ring finger crooked to the left where the bone had been snapped in two. Oh, that wasn’t pretty.

     “Paybacks a bitch, Stark, and we’re just getting started,” Santiago said, stepping back and giving Mr. Muscles a little salute. Tony flipped them off with his good hand. For a moment, all he could do was rock in place and groan wordlessly, grateful for the rain for the first time that horrible fucking day, it was doing wonders, hiding the tears streaming down his cheeks.

     “Operations, do you copy? Lost five men, but we’ve got Stark, gonna need medical,” a woman called into her walkie-talkie. 

     Definitely need medical. Tony thought numbly, staring at his busted finger, his brain thrumming with shock.

     There was silence from the other end of the radio, and she frowned, stepping away from their little pow-wow.

     “Ops? I repeat– We have Stark,” she called again and received only static. The woman turned toward Mr. Muscles with a scowl, her gaze saying a hell of a lot. 

     There came a clatter of noise from up above, and Tony had the privilege of seeing its source first, his eyes widening in surprise and no small amount of horror as a body fell towards them from above. Mr. Muscles followed his gaze and shouted out a warning, too late. The body slammed into two men beside Tony before they could so much as twitch. It took them down with the sheer force of gravity, crushing bones and muscle, merging the three men into a literal flesh pancake. 

     Beneath the body, one of the men gurgled and moaned, but neither got back up. The body on top of them stared sightlessly up at the clouds, its neck slit nearly to the bone, and blood spilled over its front like a scarf of red, courtesy, no doubt, of the Winter Soldier. 

     “What the fuck! Is that Johnson?” someone asked in horror. The group had scattered, and they all had their weapons pointed upward, gazes turned into the rain. Searching, searching, searching for a ghost. “Where the hell did he come from?”

     “It’s gotta be the soldier!” Santiago hissed, glaring down at Tony like it was his damn fault they decided it would be a good day to go up against a goddamned legend.

     “Get the rest of Charlie on the radio!” Mr.Muscles snapped. He need not have worried, though, because so far as Tony could tell, the rest of Charlie Team was already headed toward them. 

     Oh, fuck. Tony thought in horror as more bodies began to fall, crunching audibly as they splatted onto the ground like overfilled water balloons. Well…if water balloons were filled with blood and guts. Cast-off fluids sprayed over Tony’s cheek, and he flinched away from the heat of it, like fire on his icy skin. Oh, that was disgusting.

     If human water balloons weren’t a Winter Soldier signature, they really should be. It was fucking terrifying, and it sent the whole group into a panic, flinching at every movement. Disorganized gunfire echoed through the alley, and panicked shouting filled the air.

     “Get a hold of yourselves! Darrell!” Mr. Muscles tried to regain control of his people, grabbing the nearest man, obviously Darrell, who was panic-shooting at another falling body. He shook him like a dog might a stuffed animal, and the man stopped firing. 

     “What the fuck, boss. What the actual fuck.” Darrell whimpered, staring at his boss with wide eyes. Yeah, if he made it out of this, he was gonna be traumatized for life. It might be a good time to reconsider his choice of lifestyle. Nothing said ‘drop a body on me from five stories up’ like being a villain's goddamn henchman.

     “Get the fuck up, Stark!” Mr. Muscles snarled and dragged him to his feet like he weighed nothing, pulling Tony back against his chest, a gun pressed to his head as he moved away from the landing pad their little area had become and further down the alley. Tony bared his teeth, struggling to keep his feet beneath himself, the arm around his chest the only reason he was even upright. Each movement jarred his injured finger, and he gritted his teeth, holding it in place with his other hand.

     “Holy fucking shit!” someone exclaimed, narrowly avoiding another body.

     “Fuck this. I’m not being paid enough,” a man shouted, staggering and falling over himself as he ran down the alley. A heavy limp made Tony suspect it was Ass Shot. 

     “Charlie Team is down! I repeat, we’re down Charlie!” the radio on Mr. Muscles' belt bleeped. 

     Yeah, no duh. Tony thought, grinning wickedly. Oh, Barnes had been a bad, bad boy while he was away. Tony was gonna have to give him a whole fucking basket full of muffins, maybe even some fancy new toys to play with. There was no reason someone with his level of ‘creativity’ should be running around with only guns and knives at his disposal.

     “Get yourselves together, everyone to me, and get into your goddamn formations!” Mr. Muscles shouted, coming to a standstill at the far end of the alley, closer to the scaffolding. With another shout, he fired his gun into the air to gather his team's rapidly disintegrating focus.

     “Times up.” Tony rasped. He couldn’t help the ragged laugh that left his lips, and he grinned viciously, looking utterly terrying himself, with his teeth coated in blood and his face covered in it.

      Here, soldier, soldier, soldier. He sing-songed to himself.

Chapter Text

     Mr. Muscle's goons were definitely pissing their boots, judging by the look on their faces. It probably had something to do with seeing so many goddamned bodies take a nosedive from the rooftops. In their situation, Tony probably would have done the same.

     “Maybe it's…. a good time to… run.” Tony huffed, grinning when one of the men seemed to take his words for the warning they were and backed up a step, his gaze darting around nervously.

     “Shut the fuck up, Stark. Don’t even think about it, Emerson.” Muscles grunted, glaring the man into freezing.

     “If anyone else runs, I’ll be the one to put a bullet in you myself. Got it! You know what we signed up for!” Santiago shouted, backing up their boss. The threat must have been equally as terrifying as facing the Soldier because Emerson actually nodded.

     “Yes, sir!” Emerson said, metaphorically pulling up his big boy pants and straightening in place like a good little soldier.

     Well, it had been worth a try.

     “Now, fall in and get yourselves together. It's one goddamned man.” Mr. Muscles’s forearm tightened around Tony’s throat, making him groan and wheeze. Fuck, why bother with the rubber bullets if Muscles was just going to strangle Tony to death? Tony fought against his bindings instinctively but only succeeded in digging the plastic strips into his flesh. 

     “Chen, get a hold of Command, let 'em know we need backup. Darrell, Williams, eyes on the rooftops to the left. Santiago, Emerson, take the right. Live rounds permitted. Shoot to incapacitate.” Muscles commanded. With a chorus of ascension, the remaining members of the crew circled in, guns facing out and up. Only six had made it out of the original fourteen. Totally fucking manageable if Tony wasn’t a goddamned hostage.

     “Command, Stark is captured, and we have eyes on the Soldier. Recovery team and backup requested. Medical to meet at rendezvous.” Chen called into the radio, the chirping echoes of her words bouncing around the alleyway through the communicators of the dead and living.

     Great, more backup. Tony thought that if they were going to escape, they needed to do it soon. Shit was starting to look dire.

     “Give yourself up, Soldier! Or Iron Man takes one to the temple!” Mr. Muscles shouted. No more bodies were dropping from above, and it was quiet. So fucking quiet. “I’m giving you until five to turn yourself in! Do you hear me?” Mr. Muscles shoved Tony back down onto his knees, his hand brutally tight on his shoulder as he lined up the gun on the back of Tony’s head, digging the barrel into his scalp. 

     Motherfucker. Make up your damn mind. Tony winced. All of this up-and-down shit was getting exhausting. He instinctively twisted his head away from the heat of the still-warm muzzle, glaring at Muscles from the corner of his eye. While Mr. Muscle’s gaze was focused elsewhere, Tony shook the piece of glass from the depths of his sleeve and back into his palm. Thankfully, it wasn’t his broken hand. His breath froze in his chest when he nearly dropped it, only the quick thinking of his other hand stopping it from falling. The jarring pain of movement was not enough to deter him; he had to wait for the opportune moment for it to be of any use.

     “Five!” Mr. Muscles started to count, his words were met silence, the rain pitter-pattering innocently, completely uncaring that Tony’s brains were soon gonna be sprayed all over the road like confetti. Disgusting, gloppy confetti.

     “Four!” Mr. Muscle’s growled, looking all around them expectantly. Tony would have laughed if he weren’t busy breathing. As if this man, of all people, would be able to spot the Winter Goddamn Soldier if he didn’t want to be seen.

     “Don’t think…he’s..gonna listen.” Tony slurred and spat bloody phlegm at the boot of the nearest soldier. “Probably shoulda…kidnapped someone...else... We ain’t that…. close.” The whole sentence was like agony to get out, but fuck if he’d ever been able to control his mouth. Keeping quiet was torture in its own right.

     “I told you to shut the fuck up!” Muscles snapped, and Tony shrugged. Yeah, he’d never been very good at being told what to do. Maybe it was because he was still stuck in his rebellious teen years. His father would be so disappointed. “Ya counting…. or wha?” Stark croaked, admittedly a little unintelligible. 

     He tilted his head back to give Mr. Muscles a grin, the move putting the gun right against his temple. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna be intimidated by a glorified security guard. The rain pouring down his face made the blood from a gash on his forehead spill over his left eye, his expression positively menacing. A tendon in Mr. Muscle's jaw twitched, his nose flaring with annoyance before he pressed the gun closer to Tony’s temple, forcing his neck to bend awkwardly.

     “Three!” he yelled, pulling back on the hammer, and yeah, Tony winced at that, his heartbeat growing maybe, just a little, panicked. “Two!” 

     Shit, shit, shit. He thought, closing his eyes and baring his teeth, even as he twisted his glass shard in his hand, determined to get in one more shot before his head was turned to putty.

     “One.” A familiar voice came from above, dark and savage and so very, very welcome. 

     Barnes dropped in from fucking nowhere like an avenging angel in black, sans wings. Tony watched with wide eyes as he landed with an almost silent splash of water just behind the bastard holding a gun to Tony’s head. Barnes was on Mr. Muscles in a breath, and Tony barely had a chance to duck out of the range of the pistol at his head before the man was brutally thrown off of him. Like he was little more than a child's toy, he flew through the air, a cry of shock cutting against Tony’s ears. He slammed into the backs of Darrell and Williams, taking them out like a bowling ball to pins. The man probably weighed a ton, and the three were gonna be a minute.

     About fucking time. Tony thought vindictively, grinning savagely up at Barnes, who was bloodied and bruised and altogether terrifying. Barnes' eyes were empty and hollow when they looked down upon him clinically. The look had Tony’s heart stuttering with a primal fear, his smile slipping. This wasn’t Barnes. This was the Winter Soldier, the killing machine responsible for the deaths of Tony’s parents. 

     It was almost shocking to see the difference in the other man. There wasn’t a hint of the Barnes who had hand-fed him water, no snark, and not an ounce of the gentle concern Tony had gotten to know earlier. Tony didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit, but he knew this was the part of James Barnes that they both needed to get out of here in one piece. 

     He’d worry about the other man’s sanity later. In the meantime, a soldier of death was exactly what Tony needed. The moment of evaluation passed as quickly as Tony drew in an inhale, and, as if they had come to a silent understanding, the soldier was back on the move. Every step was efficient and almost robotic as he moved, attacking Chen in a flurry of blows. The small woman kept up surprisingly well with the super soldier.

     Tony wasn’t about to let that avenging angel have all the fun; he had a little revenge to dole out himself. Without hesitation, Tony dragged his ragged ass off the ground and threw himself at the last goon that was currently standing, Santiago. Yeah, he was still angry that the bastard had broken his finger.

     Tony was on them before Santiago had a chance to raise their gun in retaliation, his sharp, tiny gem of a weapon clutched in his hands. The piece of glass plunged into the thick muscle of Santiago's shoulder, burying deep into tan skin as Tony’s body weight took them to the ground. Adrenaline coursed through him, effective as any drug, wiping out the pain of the glass cutting into his palm and the grate of his broken finger.

     The adrenaline crash in his future was gonna be a bitch.

     “Aggh! You fucking bastard!” Santiago shouted, breath forced from their lungs from the tackle. Tony might not have the muscle to match Barnes, and certainly not enough to match Mr. Muscles, but he was no snowflake. He used it to his advantage, straddling Santiago's chest and cracking his elbow across their jaw, the blow whipping their head sideways. They were probably regretting sharpening their teeth now, judging by the mouthful of blood oozing through their lips.

     “Yeah… paybacks…a bitch.” Tony snarled or wheezed, really. 

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     The Soldier watched Stark join the fight from the corner of his eye. The man was feral, considering he was a civilian. He threw himself into the battle with wild determination. Despite all his wounds and the odds stacked against him, he was still fighting, like a dog going after wolves. Stark would hold his own until the Soldier dealt with the woman before him; the Soldier had no doubt. He wasn’t sure anything short of a bullet would put Stark down.

     His savagery and determination were…intriguing, if not beautiful.

     “Well, if it isn’t the Winter Soldier. Thought you’d be taller,” the woman the Soldier was facing off against snarked, dodging out of reach of a kick he aimed her way and pulling a long knife from a sheath at her side.

     The Soldier didn’t bother with a response. It was a waste of time, even if there weren’t more assailants on their way. After all, his first three targets were only temporarily off his list. The Soldier monitored them solely by the sound of their breathing. Two were out cold, the other one stunned, where they lay in a limp pile of limbs and weapons. They might be down, but they were not nearly as dead as the Soldier needed them to be. 

Just a matter of time. The Soldier thought matter-of-factly. 

     Tick, tick, tick, tick. The Soldier could practically hear their clocks winding down. It wouldn’t take long. All of them were little more than walking corpses. They just didn’t know it yet.

     The woman ducked under a swipe of the Soldier’s knife with speed that spoke of substantial training, or mutant reflexes, before lashing out with a strike of her own. She was fast, the blade skipping against the Soldier’s side. It was poorly aimed, though, cutting through the black fabric on his left shoulder and scraping against metal before it jittered across his ribs in a downward arch.

     The pain didn’t faze the Soldier, and he kicked her in the chest, the force sending her reeling. He slashed his knife toward her throat with savage intent. Before the blow landed, she used the momentum of the Soldier’s kick to her advantage and twisted her body into a series of lithe backflips to put distance between the pair of them. 

     All of these people were so damn theatrical, and the Soldier was more irritated than impressed. The dramatics were wearing thin. Not that he could protest all that much. He had thrown half a dozen bodies off a roof just to promote fear in his targets— theatrics at their best. 

     Still, the Soldier stalked after the woman's retreating form, unhurried as he efficiently swapped his knife for his Beretta and took aim at the area he knew she would land in next. He pulled the trigger with effortless timing. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the alley, followed by the woman's scream. She dropped to the ground with a splash, mid-backflip, clutching her leg in surprise. He watched as she dragged herself upright, her face twisting with outrage and maybe indignation.

     Really? The Soldier’s head tilted to the side curiously, a sadistic grin hiding in the corner of his lips. Had she expected something else from him? She stared at him in horror, and yes, the Soldier thought, she must have. Maybe she thought she had a chance in a fair fight against him. Maybe she thought he would join her in a battle of flexibility versus brawn. Hell, maybe she expected to see the softer side of the Winter Soldier, poor, weak James.

     Yeah, the Soldier was so far beyond that now, his rational mind lost within the all-consuming tide of bloodlust. An ice-cold fire had been ignited in his veins, leaving him empty and hollow of burdensome emotions. These people had wanted the Winter Soldier, and they got him. 

     He aimed as he turned away from her wide, shocked eyes, his mind already moving on to his next target. The next shot was cold and efficient, without an ounce of regret. 

     BANG! The Soldier pulled the trigger. 

     He didn’t need to see her die. The sound of the wet cracking of bone and the spray of brain matter on pavement was more than enough. Her clock had run out. The fight was over before it had a chance to fully begin, so fast it was almost pitiful.

Four left. 

     His gaze found Stark on the losing end of his own fight. He may have had the element of surprise in the first moments of the attack, but no amount of stubborn wiles and tenacity would change that he was bound and his lungs compromised. The Soldier could hear the dry, grating sound even from a few feet away. Weakness: Stark wasn’t one to give in to it.

     Stark's attacker had him pinned to the ground with a harsh grip on his bound wrists. The right wrist and pointer finger were bent, and once-straight bones were twisted unnaturally. The damage did not deter Stark, and he snarled and bucked beneath the weight of the other person's body, all teeth and claws. The dog was cornered but not ready to give up.

     Tick, tick, tick… even Stark's time was running out. 

     The Soldier wouldn’t allow that. 

     Stark was not one of the walking corpses. 

     Stark was the mission. 

     Stark needed to be protected. 

     Maybe Stark’s assailant was stupid, or perhaps they were just caught up in their own world of bloodlust and rage. Either way, they never saw the Soldier coming. The Soldier tore the tall, lanky body off of Stark, his mostly useless metal arm wrapping around their neck in a brutal line that had their surprised cry choking off with a gurgle. The Soldier didn’t give them time to fight back, snapping their neck with a mere twist of his right hand. 

     Tick, tick, ti-. Done. Killing the pair had taken less than a minute. Easy, too easy. The Soldier tossed the body aside.

     Three left. 

     “Wha, what the hell.” One of the men was stirring, staggering to his feet. He saw the Soldier and held up his hands, backpedaling and shaking his head. “No! Don’t kill me, I’m leaving!” he said, staggering backward before he took off into a run. 

     The Soldier almost let him go…but mercy only left room for revenge. With a sigh of resignation, he took aim at the man's retreating back.

     BANG! 

     Two left.

     “Holy shit.” Stark wheezed, wide-eyed from his spot on the ground, his chest heaving, breaths turning to heavy coughs. The Soldier reached down, hauling Stark up onto his feet unceremoniously. The man swayed, off-balanced, and groaned but managed to stay standing. The Soldier nodded once before handing him the knife from his belt, bloodied and covered in gristle.

     “Get yourself free. I’ll finish off the rest,” the Soldier said, his voice empty of emotion. He ejected his now-empty magazine, swapping it out as he paced closer to the last of their attackers. Only one of them was awake, the large, bulky man who had held Stark captive earlier—the one who threatened to put a bullet in Stark's temple. 

     “Goddamn you.” The pathetic excuse for a soldier scrambled backward through the puddles, all bravado gone as he snarled up at the Soldier, his hand scrambling to release another gun from its holster. The Soldier could have ended it then and there. He didn’t, though, this one…he deserved his last moments to end in fear.

     The Soldier aimed his gun surely, the recoil snapping up his arm as he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck true, slamming into the man's hand just as he lifted his new gun. The man screamed with shock and pain, dropping the weapon to the ground with a clatter and cradling his hand to his chest. 

     “You mother fucking bastard! I’m gonna kill you!” the man snarled, staggering to his feet. The Soldier let it happen. Let him think he had a chance. 

     Tick…tick…tick. 

     “How does it feel, being on the other side of the barrel?” the Soldier drawled curiously, his head tilted to the side as he evaluated the other man's expression. “Are you scared to die?” Beside him, on the ground, the last of the soldiers shifted. The Soldier’s gun shifted incrementally.

     BANG! 

     “One left,” the Soldier said blankly, turning his gaze and his gun back up toward the other man. “I asked you a question. Are you scared?”

     “Fuck. You. You won’t win. You think you beat us. We’re just the beginning,” the man said with a hiss of false bravado even as he trembled like a scared bird, the smell of piss burning the Soldier’s nose. There it was, fear. “We’ll take you in, and when we do, you’ll wish for a bullet to end the world of pain you’re gonna be in.”

     “I’ll take that as a yes,” the Soldier said with a sigh, a small, pitying smile turning up the corner of his lip before he pulled the trigger.

     Tick..tick...

     BANG!

     Tic-

     The Soldier watched the body fall to the ground, watched the puddles beneath the man steep red with the mingled blood of the fallen. 

     “All targets eliminated,” the Soldier said mechanically.

Chapter Text

     Holy fuckin shit. Tony thought, his heart pounding in the aftermath of the fight. It was quiet now, so fucking quiet. His chest was heaving with residual fear and adrenaline, and he felt as if he were in a fog, his whole body on the verge of crashing. Tony was standing where the Soldier had left him, the knife still clenched in his hand. He hadn’t bothered freeing himself from the zip cuffs on his wrists, and he was cursing himself now. 

     Tony’s chest heaved as he watched the Soldier turn away from the slowly cooling corpse of his last victim. The rain was falling with renewed force, mist rolling over the ground and concealing the many bodies from view. He looked like a predator, his gaze calculating as it flickered over the area, evaluating and dismissing, before landing on Tony. Those eyes, a familiar blue, but utterly inhuman, locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt frozen in place. Because James, well, he was a master at avoiding eye contact. The Soldier, not so much. 

     Any other time, Tony’s horribly inappropriate danger kink might have had a field day with the look in that man’s eyes because it was undeniably fucking hot. Right now, though, he was beat to hell, and he wasn’t sure if Barnes was in his right mind and would still see him as an ally.

     Oh god, what if he kills me after all of this? Tony thought, his chest tightening with panic. If his lungs weren’t already struggling to breathe, he would have started hyperventilating. All of the near-death experiences caught up to him in a moment, and nausea surged in Tony’s gut, twisting it in knots. The Soldier had just killed more than a dozen able-bodied, fully armed men and women. Tony didn’t stand a chance against him if the man decided he was next.

     No danger kink was enough to make that ok.

     Tony backpedaled a couple of steps to put distance between himself and the Soldier. With a soft grunt of sound, he held up his bound hands, knife and all, his pointer finger raised as if to excuse himself or maybe just hold off his imminent death, and then politely turned away as the muffin from that morning made a resurgence, foul and sour. His jaw ached, and his abused body screamed in protest, but it was over quickly, leaving him panting.

     “Ugh, alrig.’ ‘M good.” Tony said, straightening up, his body swaying a little in place before he spit onto the ground to try and rid his mouth of the terrible flavor. What he wouldn’t do for some mouthwash. He was shivering with renewed vigor as he turned back to the Soldier and let out a surprised shout when he realized the man was close, too fucking close. He looked like some fantasy warrior come to life. Watered-down blood streamed down his muscular forearms, and he had a slightly different body language, his hips rolling with the casual ease of a predator. 

     The man hadn’t come out of the fight unscathed, but somehow that wasn’t even remotely comforting. The bastard had still managed to take out all of the people who’d dared to cross his path. A gash cut through the fabric of his shirt, over the ribs of his left side, but it was shallow and already healing. There was also the distinct shape of a stab wound on his stomach, the diamond shape of the material revealing a hole in his flesh. It was an injury that wouldn’t heal half as easily, but the Soldier didn’t seem to notice it.

     “We need to leave,” the Soldier said, oblivious to Tony’s discomfort as he stepped into Stark's space. So… maybe Tony wasn’t next.

     “Uhh…” Tony held his breath, a visible shudder of fear running through his body. Then the Soldier was holstering his gun before his warm hand took the knife still clutched in Tony’s palm and extracted it without a fight. Tony tensed up, but the knife didn’t plunge toward him. 

     Wordlessly, the taller man grabbed Tony’s arm, his touch firm and unyielding. He awkwardly cut the zip cuff from Tony’s left wrist one-handed with sharp efficiency, heedless of the pain the additional movement caused him. Tony didn’t complain as blood flowed back into his numb fingers in a rush, and he hissed, flexing his fingers back to life. The Soldier moved to grab his right hand next, and Tony winced, recoiling from the touch. 

     “Wait! Wait!” Tony croaked, putting several steps between them. He clutched his right arm to his chest, cradling it against the tac vest. The limb hung crookedly, and his wrist was twisted in the wrong direction. Thank god he was ambidextrous. Still, it hurt, so fucking bad, and he didn’t think he could handle the Soldier’s brutal touch. “Broken. Leave it,” he said by way of explanation. 

     “It will need to be set,” the Soldier said, his gaze calculating. Tony found himself wondering what the Soldier was seeing. Did he realize how much of a damn liability Tony was? Was he angry that Barnes hadn’t left Tony behind when he had the chance? 

     “Yeah, I’ll wait for your…gentler counterpart for that,” Tony said with a harsh laugh. Fuck, talking hurt. He swallowed convulsively, and his heart was still pounding. It felt like he was being stalked, those stormy eyes watching him clinically, before he nodded and abruptly turned, then started walking away.

     “Gotta check…You’re not…” he cleared his throat anxiously. “Gonna kill me, are you?” Stark asked, pretty sure of the answer. He’d be little more than a body among all the others if that were how the Soldier wanted to play it.

     “No. My mission is to protect you,” the Soldier said matter-of-factly, bending down to grab a gun from the holster of one of the corpses as he passed. 

     Huh. Tony hadn’t expected that. When the hell had Tony become the mission? 

     “Nice… feeling better already,” Tony croaked honestly. It was good to know his psycho murder monkey wanted him alive— it felt a little like handling a live bomb, but good.

     The Soldier checked that the magazine was full before handing it to Tony. The move was strikingly similar to when Barnes had given him the Glock. Tony took the weapon, tucking the gun in his waistband while keeping his injured hand pressed against his chest. Tony matched the Soldier's pace, walking a couple of feet behind him as they headed out of the death trap they had somehow survived. Tony really didn’t want to get separated again. 

     “Thanks,” Tony said, hugging his injured arm anxiously. The Soldier was so goddamned quiet, and they needed to reorganize themselves. Figure out where the hell to go from there. They were both in bad shape physically, and Barnes was in worse shape mentally. This thing with the Soldier mentality taking over couldn’t be a good sign. “So, how about… we bring…. James back now, yeah?”

____

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     The Soldier stopped walking so quickly that Stark stumbled into his back with a yelp of pain that couldn’t be heard through the sudden ringing in his ears. Between one breath and the next, it felt as if his whole world was wrenched sideways like he was trapped in an earthquake that only he could feel. He physically staggered, reaching up to clutch his head tight as pain lanced through his skull, electrifying and horrible.

     The Soldier wasn’t aware of his knees going out from under him, slamming onto the asphalt with a hard thud. His core muscles clenched tight, forcing him to curl into himself while his metal fingers spasmed uselessly as they tried to follow his brain's commands. His right hand had no such issue, and it twisted into the wet strands of his hair, pulling with ruthless force. 

     “Shit! Barnes?” Stark rasped, and his voice felt so far away, his words little more than shapes and noise that couldn’t be processed. “What's happening?”

     The Soldier had no way of responding, and a low whine of pain and confusion slipped past his clenched teeth. Words were lost to him, the bridge between brain and mouth absent. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing. 

     It was as if someone had taken the last however many minutes of his life and smeared it into a confusing mess. He was fractured, pieced together without glue or anything to hold his fraying sense of self together. Who was he? His mind asked, but he knew, he knew, he wasn’t anything. He was a soldier, he was a weapon, a cruel means to an end. He ground his teeth in a grimace of pain and confusion because that was wrong. He had to be someone, not just a weapon. 

     Who am I? Suddenly, emotion, hot and awful and wonderful at the same time, crashed down onto him. It wiped away the hollow emptiness that was the Soldier and flooded through him in an overwhelming, incomprehensible wave. Too much, it was all too much! 

     Fear and bloodlust and regret. Anger, worry, and hatred. These were not emotions the Soldier understood. The Soldier was a machine; there was no room for emotion within a machine. No, these were for James, only for James.

     “I am James Buchanan Barnes. I am James Buchanan Barnes,” he ground out between teeth that cut his cheeks. Now that he’d finally found his words, it was like he couldn’t stop them; they started out quiet and grew until he was yelling. Over and over and over again. The words were coming from somewhere that had been inaccessible moments before. Words he knew he needed to hold onto. Words he used to reclaim himself.

     “Fuck..Okay, okay.” Stark's voice made its way through the panic. Suddenly, there was a hand on his cheek, and he was being urged out of his hunched position by gentle pressure. The touch was unexpected, and rather than recoil from it like he normally would, he leaned in desperately, his frantic mantra cutting off. He needed to feel, needed to know he was himself again. His skin sang at the contact, buzzing with an unfamiliar electricity that James didn’t know he’d been craving.

     “Look at me, Barnes… that's an order!” a stern voice said when James didn’t move. James choked but nodded frantically.

     Orders, orders, orders. He could follow orders. His gaze darted toward the source of the words, focusing on pale lips that were bloodied and swollen.

     “You are James Buchanan Barnes,” Stark said forcefully, tipping James’ chin up to make their eyes lock. Those brown eyes were like finding a lighthouse in the dark, and James didn’t dare look away. “Say it.” 

     “I am James Buchanan Barnes.” James managed to get out through ragged panting breaths, and that was what he needed. Those words centered him and brought him back to himself—no longer a mantra of confusion or fear but a resounding truth.

     I am James Buchanan Barnes.

     “You’ve gotta focus…we’re still in danger,” Stark said firmly, his expression unreadable, but there was no anger or cruelty there, just the cold truth. “Pull yourself together…I promise you can fall…apart later. I’ll be right there… with you.” Stark’s ragged voice was hard to understand, but James clung to those words. 

     Later. He could fall apart later. 

     “Right now… I need you, James.” Stark murmured. His name on those bruised lips was like a balm over the raw, aching parts of James' mind that were still fighting for his identity. Stark's words made confusion twist in James' gut. Maybe he was delusional, but Stark actually sounded…sincere? Nice? He didn’t even hear a hint of Stark's usual biting sarcasm.. The hand cupping James' chin shifted, and he lightly tapped James' cheek as if trying to wake him up. 

     “Now, stand up,” Stark ordered, giving James a look that James didn’t understand before he released him. James listened to the order, dragging his aching body off the ground. He was shivering just as much as Stark was, but for a whole different reason. “Let’s go.” 

     James nodded robotically and forced one foot in front of the other. It felt as if he were functioning from a distance, not quite present in his own bones. The feeling was familiar; it used to happen every time he went into a fight or had a panic attack. Steve told him it was a defensive mechanism—a way to protect his mind and separate himself from trauma. The man was in the wrong career. He should have been a therapist.

     “I’m not doing good,” James mumbled, pressing his palm to his forehead. That was such an understatement. He’d known he wasn’t ready for a fight. He’d known he was one wrong word away from a mental break. He should have listened to his mind. 

     “I know… it’ll be alright. I’ll help.” Stark wheezed, interrupting James' thoughts. For some reason, those words helped. Stark pulled him back once; he could do it again, at least until James made it home and could hide away in his empty apartment to try and sort himself out.

     Fucking hell, how long had it been since he’d broken into the Soldier? Years. He’d thought he was over this. He’d gone through so much to make sure that that piece of himself was under control. It had taken years for James to keep himself from falling into ‘Winter Soldier Mode’ as Steve so aptly called it. It was not necessarily a secondary personality, but a physical manifestation of the training drilled into him for so many decades: no emotion, no pain, only the mission.

     He couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment he’d fractured. He’d been doing fan-fucking-tastic, taking the enemy down on his own. If he focused, he’d be able to make sense of the smudged memories, but that would have to wait until later. With a hard swallow, James gathered the remains of his control, draping it over himself like a ragged blanket, and squared his shoulders. Stark needed him, and James had to get his shit together. 

     “Let’s get out of here,” James said, glancing down at Stark, who offered him a grin and a sharp nod. The shorter man looked like he’d been through hell, he was already bruising and blood seeped over the side of his face, slow enough that James wasn’t to worried about it. Still, they would need to stop and set his broken bones and patch him up. Every step had to be agonizing, and Tony did not have the benefit of super soldier healing. “I still can’t figure out how they found us,” he said, trying to distract his aching head with logical thought.

     “The earpiece…They used it…to track us.” Stark rasped, coughing raggedly before quickening his pace to match James'. James didn’t like the sound of it. Stark needed a doctor. He shoved aside his worries; they couldn’t do anything about it now, and he focused on Stark's words. It made too much sense. They’d been hunted from the get-go. “We can lose ‘em now.” 

     “We need to change up what we’re doing. We’ll cut through the next few buildings, get off the streets so we're not easy to spot. James said uneasily. For some fucked up reason he wanted to protect Stark, even though the man was a walking advertisement on how to be a douchebag. It was a mission, though, and James needed a mission. “You’re not in any shape to get into another fight. We have to avoid that at all costs, even if we have to hide out until the others regain control.” 

     “Alright,” Stark said, and it was a testament to how he was feeling that he didn’t protest James' analysis. The man was running on empty; he could see it in the set of his shoulders and the pallor of his skin. He was covered in blood and filth, and no amount of cleaning would ever save the suit he was wearing. What really mattered, though, was that he was still on his feet, still fighting. It was impressive for a civilian.

     “Keep on my left. I’ll watch your right.” James said they both had messed-up arms, and they would need to compensate for one another's weakness. He didn’t miss the way Stark’s gaze slipped down to see his malfunctioning left arm. James knew it was a mess. The plates on his forearm had practically dissolved, and he could feel every drop of rain dripping down the exposed neural harness. It was jarring and overstimulated the exposed artificial nerves.

     “Gotcha,” Stark said, falling in beside James, who slowed his pace to match what Stark could manage without increasing the wheeze in his chest. When they were out of the area, James would offer to carry him again, but in the meantime, he needed his hand free. They reached the end of Death Alley, and James glanced up and down the street, ears perked for any noise. The street was clogged with abandoned vehicles, and the bodies of those who hadn’t made it out of this alive. This block had seen more than one showdown that day.

     James' heart pounded uneasily. He knew reinforcements were coming, but he didn’t know from what direction. He saw no hint of movement and only heard the roaring drone of rain on concrete. That didn’t mean shit, though. 

     Charlie team had been trained professionals, unlike the Alpha and Beta teams, and when James had gone to the rooftops, he had never expected the sheer number of combatants waiting for him. They’d put up a fight, but James' brutality won out in the end. For all he knew, these rooftops were infested with the enemy, but standing around and waiting wasn’t a good option either. It was a goddamned urban warzone; they would have to take the risk.

     There was an apartment complex across the street and a couple of buildings down. It would have multiple access points, whether windows or doors, and would get them across to the next block. James silently pointed to the building and motioned Stark forward to go first, since he would take longer to cross. The routine was getting old fast. Run, fight, run. He knew what it was like to be hunted. If they wanted to get out of this, they had no other choice but to keep up that routine.

     “Keep low. Use the cars as coverage. When you get there, get inside and keep walking. I’ll catch up.” James whispered. Stark opened his mouth as if to protest, a whole slew of emotions crossing his face before settling on annoyed acceptance. He sighed and nodded sharply before scrubbing his uninjured hand through his wet curls. 

     “Hurry up then,” Stark said, before flashing James his signature cocky grin; the expression looked forced. Meanwhile, his heartbeat told the truth. It thumped so loud that James could hear it – he was terrified. Hell, James was terrified, and he’d lived this life before. “Wouldn’t wanna leave… you behind,” he sounded like a forty-year smoker. 

     “Haha,” James said blandly. “Get going. We don’t have time to waste.” James encouraged him, nudging Stark forward and giving the man a gentle shove to get him moving. “You’ve got this, Stark.”

     Stark didn’t say anything back; instead, he pressed his broken hand to his chest with a groan of pain, holding it steady before crouching and running the distance to the nearest vehicle.

     Once he was on his way, James swung his rifle upright, balancing it on his bad hand. Only the thumb was willing to hold onto the forestock, but it was enough to keep the weapon from kicking back if he fired it. He surveyed the area through his scope, keeping an eye on both directions until he saw Stark make it across. He was slinking around the neighboring buildings now, heading toward the apartments, where he disappeared into the unlocked door.

     James heaved out a breath of relief, his shoulders rigid with tension and worry. Stark had made it through; now he just had to do the same.

Chapter Text

     James gave the street one last glance and decided that there would be no better time than now to move his ass. He straightened, swapping his rifle for a handgun. He deliberately took a slightly different path than Stark had chosen, sticking to the sidewalk before he decided to cross. From the shadows of one vehicle to the other, he moved across the four lanes, grateful for the cover of the heavy fog that he could crouch within. 

     He was one lane away from the building when he heard it, a soft Shftt! Of sound, followed by the sharp chink of something impacting the ground. It came from behind the red van he was currently hiding beside, and James barely had a chance to react before whatever it was started beeping.

     Oh, shit! James thought, snarling and turning to run. He knew the sound of a countdown well enough not to second-guess himself. He barely made it three steps before a bone-shaking explosion lit up the fogged air and sent it rippling away with the following shockwave. Heat lanced across James' back as he was blown off his feet and sent flying. He barely had a chance to protect his head before gravity slammed him down into the pavement with a splash of displaced water. The air was shoved from his lungs in a sharp rush that left them aching and protesting the abuse.

     Above him, there was the groan of abused metal, and James forced open his eyes in time to see the red van flipping rear over front, headed right toward him. He gasped in a sharp breath and forced his body to move through the breathless ache of his lungs. Skin scraping across pavement, his enhanced reflexes were the only reason he was able to roll to the side before the vehicle came crashing down upon him. 

     Even James' reflexes weren’t enough, though, and he let out an aborted cry as five thousand pounds of minivan crashed into the ground, right on top of James' left arm, the weight of it slamming his back to the pavement, his head smashing into the ground. 

     He saw stars, his vision going black with the force of the blow while the weight of the vehicle crushed the exposed neural harness of the prosthesis, grinding metal and cordage into the rubbled street as easily as a boot would an insect. Vulnerable artificial nerves, exposed by the deteriorated vibranium, didn’t stand a chance, absolutely pulverized beneath the excess weight. 

     There was no amount of disassociating he could do to override the pain that ripped through his prosthesis and into the flesh of his shoulder. It was hot like fire, overwhelming thought, and sanity. His back arched off the ground, eyes squeezed tight, and James couldn’t hold back the ragged scream of agony that tore past his vocal cords, fog whirling around his face on the exhale of breath. It didn’t last long, cutting off in a choked gurgle.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck. James groaned internally, the rain threatening to fill his open, panting mouth. He spat it out with a ragged breath, his body rolling onto its side, the water on the road bubbling around each breath. Hot blood oozed from a gash at the back of his head, tinging the water beneath him pink as he fumbled toward the agonizing pain. Shifting onto his side, the rifle still strapped on his back scraped loudly as it ground over concrete. His hand struck hard metal before he could reach the limb. Biting back a whine of confusion, James forced his bloodshot eyes open. 

     He was practically flush against the van, its undercarriage just inches away from his face, where it lay, flipped on its side. Miraculously, the still-intact vibranium of his shoulder and bicep had stopped the van from crushing his whole left side, leaving a few inches of tapering gap between himself and the rest of the vehicle.

     “Just my fucking luck.” James croaked, rubbing a hand over his face to try and center himself before he tried to get free. His flesh hand fumbled to try and get a grip on the van, and he ground his teeth together as he moved to shove the vehicle off of himself. The van screeched, budging a bare inch, and sending jolts of pain along the still live wiring chassis and exposed neural harness as it was ground between metal and pavement. Yeah, that didn’t feel good.

     “Nnng!” He shouted with effort through grinding teeth, fighting past the blinding ache. The van wobbled but otherwise didn’t budge.

     “Goddamn it,” he sputtered, refusing to give in. He tried to push at the vehicle one more time, shoving from underneath the gap this time and hoping he might be able to flip it off of himself. Instead, he barely managed to rock it in place. “Come on, come on,” he grunted between clenched teeth, but he had no room for leverage to remove it. With a shout of frustration, he beat his fist against the metal undercarriage, which had the predictable outcome of doing absolutely nothing.

     “Fucking useless,” he croaked, his chest heaving with aborted groans; he fought not to let the ceaseless pain, and the no doubt substantial concussion, drag him into unconsciousness. His vision was going black around the edges, even as he trembled with shock. He wasn’t aware of the way his body began to slump back onto his back, hand slipping to drop to his chest. 

     No, no, no. Gotta move. Get up, you bastard! He tried to tell himself, but he was quickly losing his hold on consciousness. In the back of his mind, he knew he was under attack, that they didn’t have the time for weakness. He was on a mission, and missions always took priority over self. Stark took priority over self, and he had no fucking idea if the guy had been smart enough to run after hearing the explosion, or if he, too, was under attack.

     He had to get up! Stark wasn’t in any condition to protect himself.

     GET UP! 

     James struggled to keep himself moving, struggled to figure out his next move analytically, even as this stupid, fucked up arm screamed for his attention like a toddler needing a nap. Giving in wasn’t an option, but even a super soldier could reach their limits, and James was stretching his. He just needed a moment…  

     Just gotta catch my breath. Then I’ll get to Stark. He told himself, his eyes fluttered closed as short, frenetic breaths shuddered through his chest. 

     The darkness behind his lids thrummed red with each pounding wave of pain, the sound of James' own heart beat moving in time to it. It would have been so easy to just succumb to the siren's call of rest, to let himself go willingly. Given even a few minutes of it, his enhanced healing would kick in, and while it could do nothing for the pain from the bionic arm, it would help with the concussion.

     A scrape of sound dragged James from the brink, the sound of a door opening to his right and the hard clomp of boots on the sidewalk, stomping through rain. James’ eyelids flew open, and he sucked in a breath of horrified surprise when his vision cleared enough to see who was approaching. 

     “Stark?” James slurred in confusion, his gaze taking in Stark's hunched form, his upper body curled around his broken arm, which he’d somehow managed to secure against his chest. He looked wild-eyed and panicked. “Idiot, you’re supposed to run,” James croaked, grimacing and pressing his hand to his aching shoulder. He somehow managed to pull off a scowling glare, despite being pinned by a two and a half ton family caravan.

     “Sorry. Couldn’t do it.” Stark said hoarsely with a weak little half-grin. James chose to think he was feeling guilty. Stark's gaze roamed over James keenly and seemed to take in everything. If there was anyone who could get him out from under this van, it was Tony Stark, but they didn’t have that kind of time. There was no point in both of them being caught. “You’re in… bad shape.” 

     “Don’t think about me. You gotta get your ass moving. They’re gonna be here any minute.” James hissed furiously, his head dropping back into the puddle beneath it. He was pissed, a low simmering anger twisting in his gut. Stark was smarter than this, and he barely even tolerated James. Why the hell would he come back for him?

     “About tha-” Stark started, only to have his words interrupted.

     “Now, now, Soldier. The time for fighting is over.” A woman's voice cut him off, and it was only then that James realized Stark wasn’t alone. Standing behind him, a hand clenching the nape of Stark's neck and a gun pointed to the back of Stark's head, was a woman. Now that James knew she was there, he realized just how bad the blow to his head must have been. He hadn’t even taken notice of her until now.

     Well, that explained why Stark hadn’t run. James’ lip curled in irritation, and he glanced at Stark, who was as calm as could be, as if he didn’t have an M9 pressed to his head. He was no longer armed, but he didn’t seem to be in worse shape than he was before. He had known better than to fight back.

     “We’ve got you pinned down, and the rest of my team is on its way.” The woman interrupted, obviously not happy at being ignored and still trying her hand at being intimidating. She kept her gun on Stark while she stared down the road, a radio in her other hand. She was obviously a sniper, maybe a scout. She must have been the one to blow up the van with that fancy launcher strapped to her back. 

     “New friend, eh? She treating you alright, Stark?” James croaked instead of acknowledging the woman. He let his features fall into a neutral mask of indifference as he shifted to try and take the strain off his pinned shoulder, the movement sending the world spinning and sparks of light dancing behind his eyelids. 

     “Mmm…Could be better,” Stark rasped with a cocky grin, glancing back at the woman with a raised eyebrow and then right back at James in a silent question that James would have a hard time interpreting on a good day. He still wasn’t great at picking up on emotions.

     “Yeah, she’s kind of a bitch,” James agreed with a bark of a laugh. He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye, even as his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing went ragged with a groan.

     He needed to come up with some kind of plan, needed to get Stark out of there before they were well and truly captured, but he could barely make his head function through the growing brain fog and the outright wall of pain radiating through his shoulder. 

     “Nngh. ‘M losing it, Stark.” James choked, swallowing convulsively.

     “Nope, stay awake, James,” Stark denied, his voice ravaged but somehow communicating his worry despite being almost unintelligible.

     “Workin' on it,” James mumbled, his eyes opening when he felt a nudge at his side where Stark had stretched out a foot to get his attention. The woman didn’t like that and smacked Stark across the back of his head with the butt of her gun, making him yelp hoarsely and dragging a fit of coughing from his throat. 

     “Shut up and don’t move,” she said. Stark stumbled when she jerked him back a step by his collar, the move making James' lip curled with outrage. 

     “Touch ‘im again and I’ll rip you’re fucking hand off.” James snarled, the fog of his brain clearing a little with the heat of rage. Yeah, James wanted to put a bullet in her head; he didn’t like her. Not one fucking bit. He held onto that rage, fanning the flames, hoping it would be enough to put off passing out. 

     “I’d like to see you try. Look at the scary Winter Soldier, all pinned down like a bug on display. You know I expected you to be bigger, the way they talked about you,” she said with an inelegant guffaw. James rolled his eyes, that wasn’t the first time James had heard that one today. “And this guy, he didn’t even put up a fight. Truly, it's hard to believe the pair of you took out a squadron.”

     “She’s kinda rude, ain’t she?” James asked Stark, who grinned and shrugged. 

     James could only imagine how difficult it was for the normally vocal man to keep quiet. James elected to go silent as well, letting his head drop to the side, maybe a little melodramatically; he really needed to play up on his current weakness, which wasn’t hard. He wanted to keep the woman off guard, and it was better that she continued to think he was too injured to fight back. 

     There was a reason James had survived his imprisonment with Hydra and emerged relatively sane on the other side.

     He just didn’t know when to give up.

     His mind was whirling through the fog of pain and exhaustion, trying to find a way out of this. He began running through scenarios and evaluating his current weapons inventory. His Beretta was lying in the gutter, too far away to be of use. His rifle was trapped behind his back and would have been useless in close quarters anyway, and he’d lost his submachine gun on the rooftops while fighting Charlie team. It was still back there, full magazine and all. Useless. That brought him down to his knives. He was good with knives.

     With deliberate slowness, he inched his hand toward the holster for his throwing knives that was still strapped across his chest, leaning on the hope that the fog would conceal most of his movements. If he could just slide one free, he could take out the woman in one shot. Sure, they would still have to get James out from under a fucking van, but it was a better plan than just waiting for their fate to be chosen for them.

     “Ah, ah, ah. Stop right there. I wouldn’t even think about touching your weapons, Soldier. If I see that hand move so much as twitch, and I’ll pull the trigger,” the woman said with a leer that her soft, round face couldn’t quite pull off. “Now, why don’t you stay down like good little boys?” she cooed, as if talking to a couple of kids. She shoved Stark down to his knees a little too hard, judging by the way Stark lurched forward with a sharp cry of pain. The other man’s weight fell against James' chest. 

     "Ugh, Motherfucker!" Stark choked, teeth bared as he clutched his broken wrist.

     “Stark?” James asked, reaching out to steady the other man with his free hand. 

     “‘M fine,” Stark grunted under his breath before turning to glance up at the woman irritably, still half draped over James' waist. His hand slid over James' side, the touch sending sparks of sensation over James' skin, before he managed to push himself back upright with James' help. “Ow, Dominatrix much? Anyone ever tell you you're a bitch?” Stark addressed her. That was when James saw it, a flash of silver in Stark’s hand.  Sure enough, the clip on James' knife holster was undone. Who’d of thought, Tony Stark, the pickpocket.

     “Both of you, shut up,” the woman said predictably with a bite of irritation, digging her gun into Stark's scalp as a reminder before dropping the muzzle back down.

     James glared up at her, the expression underwhelming considering the pallor of his skin and the mismatched size of his pupils, but elected to follow the command, locking his gaze with Stark’s beneath hooded eyes. The man gave him a wink and deliberately glanced at his hand and back at James several times, just in case James hadn’t caught his little act of thievery. Clever bastard. Now, James just had to get the knife from him. James had no way of letting Stark know he had caught on, but they had a plan now, a pretty shit plan but a plan nonetheless. 

     James groaned and let his eyes close, barely peeking out behind his lashes to keep track of Stark's hand. With a gasp of breath, he let his arm drop from Stark's shoulder to fall limply on Stark's bent knees. He let the mask slip from his features, allowing the pain to seep through before dramatically letting his eyes roll back into his head. He let his body fall completely limp, which was remarkably hard to pull off with the remains of his arm sending jolts of electricity through his muscles. 

     “James?” Stark asked, sounding appropriately worried, as he shuffled on his knees. James tapped his fingertips on Stark's knee, alerting him that he was still awake. Now he just needed Stark to get him the knife.

     “What happened?” The woman asked, shifting to step around Stark and get a closer look at James. 

     “Passed out,” Stark said, shifting with the woman, hunching forward to hide his hand as he carefully slipped the throwing knife into James' palm. His calloused fingertips shifted the knife subtly into the right position, and James' own hand closed around the blade. “He needs… a doctor,” Stark said, his voice sharp and demanding, still playing his part. 

     The woman grunted in response and stepped forward, nudging James with her foot. It was all the invitation James needed. Quick as a breath, he was moving, his eyes flashed open, and he saw a moment of surprised dismay pass through the woman's features. James didn’t give her time to react, the knife leaving his hand in a blur of motion, too fast to follow, thunking hollowly into the woman's neck. Well, he’d been aiming for her head, but that would do just fine. 

     Stark let out a squeak of surprised, his hand snapping forward quickly to start pulling another knife free from James’ belt, falling on his ass beside James as he whirled toward the woman, putting himself between the pair of them while his knife brandished through the air. James grabbed onto the back of Stark's shirt, holding him back, because there wasn’t any need to waste further energy on the woman. 

     “Wait…She’s dead, just not quite there yet.” James croaked when Stark shot him a look of outraged annoyance. James nodded back toward the woman, whose features rippled with confusion and horror, and her gun fell to the ground as she batted at her neck fruitlessly to try and stop the blood that was now dripping past the knife. 

     “H-how?” she managed with one last gurgle as blood filled her mouth. James watched as she dropped to the ground in a heap of twisted limbs as if her body was caught in slow motion.

     “I can’t believer that worked.” James gasped, his body shaking with renewed vigor, shock tickling at the back of his mind. Had they really just escaped another attack? 

     We are the luckiest unlucky bastards in the universe. James thought numbly, releasing his grip on Stark's shirt, his hand flopping to the ground with relief. 

Chapter Text

     Tony felt completely numb as he forced his surprised gaze away from the still twitching corpse of the woman who had ambushed them. She was by no means the only person who had died at their hands that day, and it was practically routine at this point. Killing the bad guys was how they were going to make it home at the end of the day. He didn’t have a choice in that, but those people did. They knew what they were getting into and chose to do it anyway, all for a few bucks. Knowing that didn't stop the sickness from surging in his gut. Guilt and horror sour on his tongue.

     Tony pried his eyes away from those last moments of life, entranced for a moment by the blood gurgling up through her lips. The horrors of the day were catching up to him, but nevertheless, he had to move quickly. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that backup would be on their way to collect them, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. They’d made it too goddamn far to give up now. He shuffled over to James on his knees, closing the short distance between them. 

     “You're a goddamn genius,” James said with a vicious little smile. The man looked like crap, shivering in the puddle of water beneath him, the fluid red from blood, though Tony wasn’t sure of its source yet. They needed to worry about getting James out first. Then he could patch him up.

     “I know,” Tony said, returning his grin with a wobbling one of his own. “You’re in a bit of a predicament here, soldier.” Tony ducked down to glance in the gap between the ground and the world's ugliest minivan. He couldn’t see beneath it worth a damn, but he could tell the vehicle was tilted at least; they could work that to their advantage. 

     “Ya think so?” James groaned sarcastically.

     “The sass on you, you taking notes from Birdboy?” Tony asked, clearing his throat and rubbing his aching arm as he formulated a plan.

     “Stop wasting time. You’ve gotta get moving.” 

     “Right, let's get… you out.” 

     “Nuh-uh. You get going, Stark. I can’t budge this thing. Get to the others and get help.” James said with a frown, shaking his head and twisting to look up and down the street as if to see if they were already surrounded. Tony raised an eyebrow at his words and shrugged. James Barnes, giving up? Didn’t sound like his style. Guy must have hit his head a little too hard. 

     “Did you hit your… head?” Tony asked bluntly, reaching out and pushing James' head to the side, he spied the blood matting his long hair and a deep gash several inches long. Yep, that was the source of the blood, a lot of blood. Tony grimaced, just as he thought. If James wasn’t enhanced, he might actually have died from such a blow.

     “That has nothing to do with it,” James said with an exhausted roll of his eyes, which were dilated all kinds of wrong now that Tony was looking. It must have been one hell of a hit to give a super soldier a concussion. “You gotta go, Stark.”

     “Would you stop…being so damn…selfless? I might start... liking you.” Tony said with a resigned roll of his eyes and a half-grin when James shot him a confused look. James didn’t seem to have his usual control over his features right now. “What? You’re not… all that bad.”

     “Stop messing around, would you?” James said with a weary groan, and Tony flinched when he saw a hint of hurt flash over his face, as if he had apparently decided Tony was just teasing him. “My arm is literally putty under this thing. It’s not gonna be any help.”

     “Actually…” Tony said with a thoughtful grunt —that was more helpful than James had thought. It was a lot easier to tear something free than it was to lift two thousand-plus pounds of dead weight. With the last look Tony had gotten of the arm, he knew the materials had been weakened. The outer panels of vibrainium had been eaten away until they resembled little more than overheated aluminum foil. A good amount of force, and they’d be coming apart like tissue paper…

     Hopefully…

         Probably….

             Maybe…

     “Please, just go.” James breathed through chattering teeth. He sounded utterly exhausted and close to defeat. That wouldn’t do. Tony pursed his lips, pretending to consider it for a moment. Truth was, Tony had decided that he wasn’t going to become another person in the long list of those who had let down one James Barnes. Tony might be an asshole, but he wasn’t that much of an asshole. They were a team. They would make it out of this together.

     “Not leaving… We’re in… this together.” Tony said resolutely. Oh, how he longed for his voice. Tony’s views on James had been on a roller coaster since the start of the day, but James had more than earned his trust now. James could have abandoned his slow ass self, or left him for dead in a dumpster a hundred different times, and he hadn’t. It was time for Tony to repay the favor. “Move it… soldier.”

     “Together…fuck. Goddamned heroes and their fucking self-sacrificing. You’re a goddamned idiot,” James muttered, and bared his teeth in annoyance. 

     “Takes one… to know one,” Tony rasped with a grin, receiving an askance glare in return. Yeah, James was pissed. Still, when Tony set his mind to something, he wasn’t the type to give up. James probably came to that conclusion pretty fast himself. 

     “Alright. You gotta plan?”

     “Yup. Roll on your side,” Tony agreed with a croak, standing up and staggering just a little; he liked to think he made the move look graceful, not at all like he was drunk off his ass. James did as he was told, hissing as he shifted, his arm so thoroughly pinned that it minimized his movements. The rifle strapped to his back scraped horribly and was probably all kinds of uncomfortable to be lying on. “Knees up. Feet…on the van.” Tony guided, kicking James' legs into position, and hoped that James had kept up with his Pilates. This was going to involve a little bit of contortion. 

     Tony took his own position, standing straddled across James' pinned arm, one foot wedged in the gap between James' knees and chest, the other just behind his head. He kept his broken hand tight across his chest, having tied it down thoroughly via the many velcro straps and loops on his commandeered tac vest when he’d gotten to the apartment building. With a roll of his shoulders, he pressed his back to the undercarriage of the van.

     “Pull back on three,” Tony said, hoping like hell this would work. James was still a goddamned super soldier; his arm wasn’t the only thing strong about him. He just needed the right kind of encouragement to get shit done. Tony was no lightweight himself; he might not have enhanced strength, but he worked out to keep himself in the best possible shape. Together, no ugly minivan would stand a chance. He hoped…

     “This is gonna suck.” James groaned, shoving his wet hair from his face, and Tony could see his chest rising and falling in panicked breaths. He looked scared, and it was an expression Tony didn’t like to see on the normally steadfast soldier's face. Tony was scared, too; the pair of them had at least one thing in common–they’d both been taken captive by crazy assholes before. He wasn’t afraid to admit that he was desperate for it to never happen again. Tony had no doubt James was in the same place. 

     “I think we’re cursed. This mission is cursed.” James whined under his breath, chewing his lip unhappily.

     “You’ve got this,” Tony said confidently, offering James a nod of encouragement when the other man glanced up at him, all pretty doe eyes. Why hadn’t Tony noticed how pretty his eyes were before? Maybe he was attracted to concussed jerks. “Buck up, Buckaroo,” he said with a forced grin, ignoring his sidetracked thoughts.

     “Jerk…Fuck…alright. One.” James groaned, inhaling deeply and bracing his boots against the van, his muscles tensing.

     “Two.” Tony rasped, wheezing as he leaned back against the van and planted his feet on the ground. His own wrist throbbed in protest, but the icy chill of the rain was helping to numb the wound, either that or he’d lost some serious circulation.

     “Three!” The last was said together, and Tony shoved backward with all his strength, even as James shoved the van with his legs, pulling his trapped arm at the same time. Tony’s lungs protested the strain, and he had to fight against giving in to the pain of his aching ribs, but he managed to avoid a coughing fit.

     James' body went rigid, his facial features twisting and muscles straining as he yanked backwards, his trapped arm stretched taut, his right hand tucked under his armpit to brace the limb. The metal of the arm crackled and groaned as he strained against it, and then, James screamed. A broken, ragged thing that cut through James' throat brutally. Tony flinched, his features twisting with concern when he realized that that horrible sound wasn’t caused by strain. It was agony, pure fucking agony.

     He can feel with that arm? Tony thought, horrified. It hadn’t even occurred to him. That type of prosthetic was years away from being feasible. Holy shit, holy shit. He thought in a panic, because it was the only thing that made sense. Stupid, stupid fucking mistake. This, what they were doing, had to be like self-imposed torture. 

     It was too late now, though. This was their only plan; they had to stick with it. Behind Tony, the van shifted, wobbling, a grating, wretched sound of metal on pavement cutting through the fog as it was shoved back an inch. It dropped with a clang, having slipped off the intact vibranium bicep and onto the crushed remains of James' elbow.

     The scream tapered out into whimpering pants and ragged grunts, and James stopped pushing at the van, his limbs sagging. He breathed rapidly through his nose, close to hyperventilating, and Tony could see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed over and over, fighting back nausea, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He looked like he was a gasp away from passing out.

     “Fuck.” James groaned, the word elongated as he moaned his way through it. He was shaking fiercely, full-bodied spasms that spoke of shock. He was emitting low, whimpering gasps that Tony was sure he wasn’t even aware of, the sound tearing at Tony. James was shockingly good at hiding his pain; to see him so open with it meant it was well beyond his limits. Tony could only imagine how horrendous it must have been for James to crack.

     “Breathe… keep going,” Tony encouraged sharply after catching his own breath for a moment, his gut twisting with guilt, but they had limited time, and Tony wasn’t going to let James give up. “C’mon, move.” Tony was unsure if his words were even heard until those eyes roved back up to his, a ragged grunt of a laugh working past James’ lips.

     “That an order?” James managed to get out, moaning out a long grunt of sound as he shifted on the ground and recentered his feet to give himself the best possible leverage. Yeah, James was a hell of a lot more flexible than his body type suggested.

     “Yup,” Tony said, offering James a nod and a shrug. If James was looking to him for orders to get through this, then Tony wasn’t about to deny him that. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to do it that day. Tony thought it was probably something residual from his years of being controlled. Maybe a certain comfort in being given a command. An uglier thought occurred to him that James' stressed mind was perceiving him as a handler, someone whose orders he couldn’t ignore, which was … not great. He knew James’ state of mind was in the trenches, but he wasn’t sure he liked his new place in the man's mental hierarchy. “Get to it... On three.”

     “Yes, sir,” James said, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. He spat on the ground before clenching his jaw and starting the countdown with words that shook with growing anticipation for the pain that was to come. “One…two… three!” 

     Tony shoved back against the van, his bruised body protesting the movement. His mouth twisted in a grimace as he prepared himself to hear the horrible sound of James' screams again. This time, James' cry was muffled by his teeth, and Tony felt like a monster for being grateful for it. They both heaved, muscles straining and bodies begging for relief.

     Tony wasn’t sure that the crushed metal of James’ arm would give at all, but then there was a grinding sound, and with one last wretch, the broken limb gave way. The wires and nanite-eaten metal tore free from their weakest points with a burst of sparks that quickly fizzled out as some sort of failsafe kicked in. The twisted remains that resisted stretched between James and the van, tethering them as if they were one machine. 

     The few remaining holdouts snapped, and James let out a ragged, animalistic shout as he was abruptly released, his body slumping to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His chest was heaving like he’d just run a dozen miles, his features pale as could be, and his teeth bared in pain. He kicked his head back against the asphalt, long throat straining as he fought for control. 

     Tony coughed and choked, trying to catch his breath from the exertion. He could taste blood on his tongue from his raw throat. He ignored it, and Tony dropped to a knee beside James. Still wheezing he patted James stubbled cheek, trying to keep him aware.

     “Nnngh,” James heaved a broken sob, features contorted in agony, but stayed exactly as he was, clutching his left shoulder, his nails digging into his flesh hard enough to break the skin. 

     “C’mon, kid…” Tony panted as he took to glancing up and down the alley for anyone who might have been drawn in by James’ screams. It felt like getting James free had taken so long, even though it had been mere minutes. Still, they had no time for James to recuperate. “Rest later..remember?” Tony tried to remind him, reaching down with a groan for his aching ribs, before moving to hook his good arm under James'.

     “Up, up, up.” He urged James to move, pulling at the other man for a moment before he began to follow his command. James seemed to hear him, shifting with aching slowness because Tony wouldn’t have been able to budge him at all otherwise. Carefully, he helped him sit upright, setting his hand on the back of James' neck to keep him from swaying. 

     “Mmm,” James grunted in agreement, obviously non-verbal, his lungs still working overtime. Tony bent to look at James' face with concern, and James gulped, avoiding Tony’s eyes as he blinked rapidly, tears mixing with raindrops, his features creased with pain and maybe a hint of…shame? What did he have to be ashamed of?
James pressed a hand to his forehead before he shook his head hard and inhaled sharply through his nose. Between one moment and the next, it was as if someone took an eraser to his emotions. Like that, his eyes went flat, his features relaxing into a mask of…nothing. Not a hint of pain or weakness showing.

     Ok…creepy. Tony thought warily.

     “You still with me, James?” Tony asked, worried the man had dissociated.

     “Yeah…” he said, his voice equally as flat but still raw from screaming. 

     Tony couldn’t help but wonder if the Soldier had shown up again. It didn’t seem like it, though. There was none of the almost scarily fluid movement that he had seen when Barnes’ alter-ego had made its first appearance. Tony hoped that this might just be his way of coping with so much pain. Probably not healthy, but it wasn’t like they had massive amounts of painkillers on them, and James needed to function. 

     “Good, alright,” Tony said, licking the raw edge of his swollen lip, worry biting at the edge of his mind. Being careful of his own injuries, he flopped James' arm over his shoulder before hooking his good arm around James' back. “Up, on your feet, soldier,” he ordered, and James shuffled to his knees, spitting bloody phlegm on the ground.

     Tony was surprised when the other man actually used his help to get upright. Well, they sort of ended up propping one another up, a team effort if you would. Finally standing, James staggered to the left, his heavy boots clomping against the ground. Tony was pretty sure that was the first time he’d ever actually heard James' footsteps. His balance was no doubt screwed by the combination of the weight of his arm having changed so drastically and the nasty headwound.

     “‘M good.” James rasped when he was stable, and Tony released him, arm held out just in case he needed to catch James. “Get her gun. Yours too, if she has it.” James told Tony after clearing his throat and scrubbing his hand over his face with the rainwater that dripped over it. 

     Tony gave James a thumbs up and bent to do as he was told, grabbing the M9 from the ground and tucking it into the waistband at the small of his back before retrieving James' Glock and spare magazines from the woman's corpse.

     James, meanwhile, walked unsteadily toward the gutter on the side of the street, rolling the shoulder with the half-limb hanging from it and grabbing his own weapon from the ground. Tony frowned as he watched the muscles of James' back jumped continuously as the remaining parts of the prosthetic continued to malfunction. Tony winced; it probably hurt like a bitch. Tony ached to get his hands on the thing. He didn’t like that James was in pain when he could do something about it.  

     I can fix it later. Tony told himself, the thought was becoming all too common. He walked quickly after James as the other man set off mutely, his footsteps weaving like he was dizzy. He was heading toward another building, no doubt deciding to stick to their earlier plan: Get off the streets and move from building to building, so that they wouldn’t be as easy to spot. It’s not like they had many options. 

     They walk quickly, but neither one of them seems to have it in themselves to run despite the growing fear of reinforcements popping up. They were exhausted, and how they were even standing was a miracle. Honestly, it was probably sheer stubborn willpower.

     Suddenly, James froze before grabbing Tony by the shirt with the crook of a finger and dragging him toward the shadowed overhang of a restaurant. Tony didn’t fight the move, trusting James' instincts and pressing into the shadows as James looked up and down the street.

     “Wha?” Tony breathed, gaze frantically searching.

     “Did you hear that?” James asked, head cocked to the side. Tony shook his head, listening closely, but he wasn’t exactly the person to ask; his ears were still fucked from the tank fiasco. 

     “Uh-uh.” Then he heard it —the screech of vehicle tires coming from the right side of the street, and then from the left, the roar of a large engine, probably a Humvee, judging by the sound of it.

     “I hear that,” Tony hissed, back stiffening. They were coming. Tony’s gut twisted with fear, and he glanced up and down the street; they couldn't see any yet. Tony backtracked a few steps to the restaurant's entrance and tugged the handle, which thankfully swung open without resistance. “Get inside,” he hissed, waving James to follow. The taller man didn’t question him, slipping past Tony.

     “These guys just don’t fucking stop.” James cursed under his breath, annoyance heavy in his voice, even as his features were still empty of emotion. James moved to lock the door behind them as if that was gonna keep a bunch of determined goons off their backs. “This place has to have a backdoor, right?” 

     “Mmhmm, if it's… up to code.” Tony said, coughing into his hand before taking the lead. He wove his way across tacky purple and red carpet and between tables covered in white cloth. This restaurant was really stuck in the past, circa 1987. Probably Italian. Probably had fantastic food. Too bad they weren’t there for the pasta.

     The place was illuminated only by the windows, but Tony could still see the abandoned meals and overturned chairs scattered everywhere, even a stroller. No bodies, though, and no signs of a fight. He hoped everyone here had made it out alive. Tony hurried past the mess, snagging a still-full glass of water off the server's area and downing it as he walked through the swinging doors of the kitchen with James tailing behind him. Without lights and no windows, it was as pitch-black as could be.

     “Dark,” Tony said breathlessly, after swallowing the last of the amazingly cool water. He felt a little guilty for not sharing, but his throat was on fire and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from drinking the whole thing.

     “I can see,” James croaked, his vocal cords wrecked from screaming. The man slipped past Tony in the tight space of the doorway.

     “Lucky,” Tony said with an envious sigh. He was more and more grateful for James being on his side with every passing minute. He knew he wouldn’t have made it this far without him. Squinting, he could make out the vague shadows of the kitchen's workstations. He set the glass down upon a metal surface as he passed, sticking close to James.

     “Over here,” James moved toward a door hidden in a darkened alcove, a weakly glowing EXIT sign floating above it. He took the lead, and Tony jumped when he felt a couple of James' fingers hooking awkwardly around Tony’s hand to guide him through the darkness, the cool metal of the gun’s handle in James' hand pressing against Tony’s skin. “Watch out for the mop bucket,” James murmured. 

     He only released Tony when they reached the door. With a huff of breath, he adjusted his grip on his sidearm before pressing his hip against the pushbar. They both stood there a moment, the sound of their ragged breathing and the buzz of James' arm was all Tony could hear. James had his head down, his fingertips bouncing against the grip of his gun.

     “We’re gonna get…out of this,” Tony told James confidently.

     “I hope so. We haven't exactly had luck on our side.” James said with a huff of contempt, and for a moment, he sounded so young and afraid. “Fuck, I’ve never had luck on my side,” he added under his breath, exhaling on a soft nasally noise of despair that made Tony’s heart ache to hear. 

     Tony didn’t know how to respond, but he had to believe that they had made it this far for a reason. They’d escaped trap after trap, and somehow it felt like, despite James’ words, that someone or maybe something was looking out for them. Tony wished he had the breath to say that to James, to explain that they weren’t unlucky, they were in fact the luckiest assholes in this goddamned fight. The bodies on the street proved his theory.

     “I’ll go first. Stay close. We can’t afford to split up.” James finally said after clearing his throat, the waver in his voice gone like it had never been there in the first place. Tony nodded; he was keenly aware of their new position. Even with James' arm half-functional, it had been an asset—an asset they no longer had.

     “Let’s go.” Tony urged and adjusted his own gun before he straightened.

     James eased the door open slowly, peeking around the frame. He must not have seen anything immediately dangerous because he went out into the alleyway, Tony close behind. Water poured from the rooftops in droves, concealing the world around them, but doing nothing to hide the stink of rotting garbage. James glanced back at Tony and jerked his head to the left to indicate where they were headed. He only made it five steps before Tony heard the sharp burst of gunfire cut through the air. 

     James didn’t stand a chance. 

     The man didn’t even get to raise his gun before he was struck. Once, twice… Oh fuck, far too many times! His body staggered back with the force of each hit. Tony backpeddled and cried out raggedly in horror, choking on his own lungs as the gunfire abruptly cut off, not a single bullet striking him. 

     It was as if time were moving in slow motion, Tony frozen in place, unable to move. James still stood, his head bent down, his body swaying. He didn’t lift his gun to fire back. Instead, it dropped numbly from his hand, falling to the ground with a clatter. The noise was what finally unfroze Tony, and he broke the gap between them, dropping his own gun and barely managing to catch James in time as the other man’s legs suddenly gave way. 

     “James!” Tony tried to shout as he was dragged to the ground. The super soldier's body was too heavy to hold upright, and he didn’t respond to his name, nor did he even seem to notice Tony at all. Dead weight sagged back against Tony, and he should have felt that, should have felt the screaming ache as his broken hand was crushed against his chest, and the protest of cracked ribs, but it couldn’t make it past the numbing wave of horror and fear.

     Oh god, oh god. Tony’s thought, scrambling to keep James from slumping to the ground with only one arm. He was forced to support him awkwardly, his back pressed to Tony’s chest, a knee propping James up from the side while James' head kicked back against the crook of Tony’s neck. 

     Please, this can’t be happening.

     But it was happening. 

     Pale gray blue eyes stared up unseeingly toward the sky, reflecting the roil and boil of the clouds above. James' mouth was parted, releasing slow, gasping breaths and whimpers, his lips moving as if he were trying to speak. Every inhale seemed to be a monumental task, every exhale a shuddering thing that seemed like the end, only for the whole process to start again. 

     “You’re okay…You’re okay.” Tony whispered raggedly, wishing he were speaking the truth. Because none of this was okay. Tony’s eyes were wide with shock, the threat of tears burning them, but he was so numb that not a single one fell. 

     Distantly, he heard the approach of footsteps. 

Chapter Text

     “James, come on… Fuck! Stay with me.” Tony gasped, forcing his frozen brain into action. He could hear his heart beat, pounding through his ears, his blood pressure thrumming and sending stabbing tension through his skull. He ignored his own body's screaming protests, focusing on James to keep himself from being overwhelmed.

     Tony needed to assess the damage James had sustained and apply pressure to the wounds. With as many times as he had been hit, he could already be bleeding out. Fumbling with James' heavy frame, he let the larger man sag against him, scooting back in his puddle so that James slipped down onto Tony’s lap. James’ left arm hung from his side, and even now the muscles in his shoulder jolted and twitched in response to misfiring nerves.

     Tony bit back a gasp of surprise when he was finally able to get a look, only to find that there wasn’t a single bullet wound on James' torso—instead, standing out from his muscles were a bunch of tranquilizer darts. The thin, two-inch vials riddled his chest and stomach, turning James into some kind of human pincushion.

     What the hell? Tony thought, his heart pounding with relief, because despite the fact that he’d been shot, James wasn’t riddled with bullet holes. This was probably just as bad, though. Drugs could be equally as deadly as a bullet in the right quantity, and whatever had been in these vials had to have been strong enough to take the Winter Soldier down. Tony really doubted these idiots had dosed the tranquilizers with the thought that said soldier would be hit with more than one, let alone the seven Tony could see. 

     Shit, shit, shit. Tony thought, jumping to start pulling the darts he could reach from James' body. The inch-long needles were buried deep and would no doubt leave behind some horrible bruising, but came free with relative ease. He threw them to the side, his mouth turned down with worry when he realized they were empty, every goddamned one of them. Not good, not fucking good. Tony wasn’t sure how much it would take to overdose a super soldier, but with the luck he and James had, he had probably been hit with too much.

     “Hey, can you… hear me?” Tony wheezed, shifting the other man's head so he could look into his eyes. Tony wasn’t surprised when James didn’t respond. He was higher than Tony after a rough night of partying. His pupils were completely blown out, not a bit of blue visible, and he was having trouble breathing, his body fighting the sheer amount of drugs in his system. “You gotta stay awake,” Tony told James, rubbing his hand hard over the other man's sternum to try and keep him from slipping into unconsciousness. James barely reacted, his eyes rolling sluggishly in their sockets.

     Tony was interrupted when, from both ends of the alleyway, a large group of mercenaries approached, the sound of their boots filling the air as they began to surround the pair of them. Tony struggled to tear his eyes away from Barnes', where they stared up towards the sky, unblinking. Tony’s gaze lit briefly upon James' gun lying just a couple of feet away. He didn’t bother to reach for it.

     His mind was whirling with how to get James the help he so desperately needed. Even if they weren’t surrounded by a squadron of enemies, Tony still wouldn’t have been able to get James to a hospital or even call in the team for help. They were backed into a corner, and all Tony could think of was to play along and escape another day. These people had already mentioned a medical unit. It wasn’t ideal, kind of like walking willingly into the enemy's arms and asking for a hug, but Tony wasn’t sure they had any other options. They were trapped, and James needed help, fast.

     “What did you do to him?” Tony snapped, unsure who he should address, his gaze slipping over the wall of unfriendly faces. They were as quiet as James was. It was goddamned infuriating. Slowly, his hand slipped up to rest against James' throat, his fingertips pressed to his pulse to make sure the other man stayed alive. It thumped rapidly against his fingertips, too fast, but it was still there. 

     Hold on, James. Tony thought desperately. 

     “You don’t get to ask questions. Stand up,” a tall blond with a heavy Swedish accent snapped as he walked forward, a shorter man at his side. He grabbed Tony by the back of his tac vest and started trying to drag him away from James. 

     “Fuck you.” Tony snarled and hooked his good arm under James' bicep, refusing to let go. His teeth sank into the arm of the bastard when the man tried stupidly to grab him from the front, and the Swede let out a shriek that was unseemly for a man of his girth. Tony felt hot blood on his mouth, foul and disgusting, as he broke through skin and only let go when the guy tore his arm free. 

     “He bit me! The bloody bastard bit me!” the man snarled, raising his arm as if to backhand Tony. Tony snarled and spat the coppery blood on the ground, his eyes challenging the man to try and hit him. He glared into the man’s eyes, watching his nose flare with aggravation, and then, they were interrupted. From the back of the alleyway came the loud sound of clapping, and everyone, including Tony, turned to look for its source. 

     “Enough. Leave them be,” a voice said as the wall of soldiers parted. “Tony Stark. Your reputation precedes you. I must say, your…tenacity is impressive.” The man continued, and from the breech stepped a tall, gaunt-looking man with dark skin and a piercing gaze. He was dressed from head to toe in a grey three-piece suit that was expensive but ill-fitting. Maybe he wanted to look like an elite, but honestly, he just looked like an asshole— like a man who was trying too hard. 

     A bug-eyed woman stood shivering beside him, holding a large umbrella over his head even as she herself was soaked in the downpour. “You must be…the leader,” Tony stated with a put-upon sigh. He managed to look utterly unimpressed, and despite his current appearance, he held himself with a confidence the other man could never hope to achieve. 

     “Tony Stark and his pet, captured at last. You gave us quite the chase. You can’t say that you didn’t try, but here we are,” the man said with an arrogant flick of his hands. He stopped a few feet away from James and Tony, his head inclined as he took in the scene. “Tell me, was fighting the inevitable worth it?”

     “Eh, we killed… a lot of your guys,” Tony said with an unconcerned shrug and a raise of his eyebrow. He wiped his bloodied mouth on his shoulder, grateful for the wet fabric that helped him remove the red stain. “Worth it?” he snapped back with a cocky grin. Let no one say Tony couldn’t put on a performance; he might be beaten, but he wasn’t going to let these bastards see an ounce of weakness.

     “Oh, they knew what they were getting into, and yes…it was very, very worth it. By the end of the day, we will all be rich men,” the man said with a haughty laugh. He was tall and lean, definitely not a fighter, possibly the money behind this whole attack. Maybe Tony should feel honored that Mr. Moneybags had decided to give them a visit in person. Nah.

     “My kinda rich, or like…middle class rich?” Tony asked sarcastically with a raised eyebrow, somehow managing to look nonchalant even as he shivered uncontrollably. Tony wasn’t about to let some second-class dumbass intimidate him. “'Cause I’m wondering… how much money makes it…worth bringing... the Avengers down on you?” He let his gaze drift over to the foot soldiers, grinning when a few glanced at one another, definitely questioning that themselves.

     “Ah. Not to worry, Mr. Stark. The other teams should be taking care of that. There won’t be anyone left to rescue you when we catch them all,” the man said with another maniacal laugh.

     “Did you practice that laugh… in a mirror? Not great.” Tony added, tsking and shaking his head in disappointment. His snark would have been better without all the ragged breaths in between, but hey, he worked with what he had. Turned out his voice wasn’t too fucked to mess with a wannabee villain. “And, what do you…think we are? Pokémon?” Tony interrupted incredulously, snorting at the audacity of the man, and maybe Mr. Moneybags thought he’d been intimidating, because his laughter cut off and his lips turned down in a frown of consternation that bordered on being a petulant pout. 

     Tony’s bravado was masking the whirling thoughts going through his mind at this new information. Was that what this whole goddamn attack was about? Capturing the Avengers? Had they killed hundreds and destroyed the city just to lure the team out? 

     “You’d best start minding your tongue, Stark. I’d hate to have to have it removed.” Mr. Moneybags snapped. 

     “Not the first…time I’ve heard that,” Tony said with a bobble of his head and a dismissive shrug. “I’ve got ten thousand for… any of you who punches…this asshole in the face.” Tony wheezed, raising an eyebrow in challenge and glancing over the gathered troops. One guy looked like he might want to take Tony up on the offer, but he remained in formation. “What? No takers?” he asked when no one else moved and shrugged. “Your loss.”

     “Enough wasting my time. Get them up. I want them in transport and on their way to the buyers.” The man said dismissively. His lackeys stepped forward to do his bidding, moving in on Tony and James. Tony stiffened defensively, the corner of his lip curling in a snarl of outrage.

     Did he just fucking say ‘buyers’? Are they selling us? Tony thought numbly. What the actual fuck was going on here? Tony’s hand clenched with trepidation. He wanted so desperately to grab James’ gun and just shoot these bastards in their gym bro faces. He tamped down the urge to fight back, reminding himself that if he wanted James to live, the fight would need to happen another day. It was a monumental effort to suppress his ego and his outrage, but a necessity.

     “Wait…” Tony interrupted the other man, taking a deep breath and turning his gaze to James, who hadn’t budged. His head had drooped down, and Tony couldn’t see his face anymore, but Tony could still feel his pulse fluttering like a hummingbird's wings beneath his fingertips. “I’ve got a proposition.” 

     “You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Stark.” The man said, though he still held up a hand to halt his people from moving forward. “I’m feeling generous, so I will hear you out anyway.”

     “James needs help…I won’t fight, but...only if he gets it…and you keep us together.” Tony bargained. He could only imagine how terrified the other man would be when he found out he’d been taken captive again. He couldn’t leave James alone in this. Tony swallowed down a surge of nausea, briefly wondering when he had started thinking of Barnes by his first name. Maybe when James had come out of Winter Soldier mode, the way he had repeated his name over and over obviously held a power over him.

     As if to prove his thoughts, James tried to move at the use of his name, a soft, unintelligible groan slipping past his lips, and his leg shifted before dropping lax again. He was shivering, the heat he’d been putting out earlier gone with the onset of shock and a no doubt substantial adrenaline dump. 

     “Shh, don’t move,” Tony whispered to James, running his thumb against the back of James' neck to try and soothe him. James made a soft noise of protest, his hand twitching, but he couldn’t have fought off the effects of the drugs if he wanted to.

     “Such a paltry offer. I’m disappointed, I thought you might try and throw money at me.” Mr. Moneybags paused, watching the pair of them consideringly. “Hmm, agreed. The Soldier will be easier to control with leverage anyway. Now, get moving,” the man said, snapping his fingers, and Tony was surprised that he didn’t argue further. Mr. Moneybags turned, stepping away with the woman holding the umbrella, hurrying after him. 

     “Carver, you and your team are still on transport. The rest of you, head out to join sectors four and six!” Moneybags shouted as he walked away, his words going unchallenged.

     “You heard the boss! Clear out!” A woman shouted, and the bulk of the soldiers began to extract themselves from the alley, one group staying behind to surround Tony and James.

     “On your toes, boys and girls!” A man, whom Tony assumed must be Carver, started barking orders. He looked more like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Fashion than a mercenary, but he carried a rifle as if he knew how to use it. “Keep your weapons on them, we aren’t going down like the other teams!” 

     We had to get the only competent bastard in this group to escort us. Tony thought wearily. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down his own frantically beating heart and watching from beneath dark lashes as the remaining members of the team took aim at them. Yeah, that was a lot of guns. 

     How the fuck are we gonna get out of this? Tony thought, fighting off a wave of despair that threatened to bow his shoulders. Tony turned his gaze down to James, whose eyes had drifted closed to mere slits. He was completely oblivious to what was happening to them. 

     “I want them both restrained! Lance, you’re on Stark. Vargas, get the stretcher. You, Merrick, and Rhett are on Soldier duty. Don’t fucking underestimate him! Garulo and Nevens: Finish clearing the street. Albertson, get the truck!” 

     “On your feet, Stark,” a bulky man, who looked like he could bench press James, said, his gun pointed away from Tony but close enough that he could take him out if needed. “I’m gonna take you at your word that you’re gonna come willingly, but I’m not afraid to use force.”

     Geeze, do they actually recruit at the gym or what? Tony thought. He grimaced. He didn’t want to move away from James. What if they tried to break the deal?

     “You must be Lance,” Tony said by way of greeting. He bent and shook James' shoulder, relieved when the other man’s eyes opened wider, mismatched pupils roaming as he tried to focus on Tony. “I’ll be right here. Stay awake…That’s an order.” Tony whispered, hoping James understood him and kinda hoping the part of James that functioned under orders would be more receptive than the man himself.

     “Move it,” Lance said, shaking out a pair of handcuffs and gesturing with his gun for Tony to stand.

     “Alright, honey…I’m moving.” Tony rasped, carefully slipping James from his lap and easing the other man’s head to the ground. He felt like an asshole, leaving James lying there in a literal puddle of garbage water, open wound landing right in the fluid. Tony gritted his teeth as he forced himself to stand. His body was stiff, aches and pains making it hard to move. “Ugh, damn.” He groaned, holding his aching hand in place as he nearly pitched forward. The adrenaline was leaving his body, and Tony could feel it. Yeah, he was too old for this.

     “Hands behind you,” Lance instructed, twisting Tony’s hand behind him before grabbing him by the back of his suit jacket and shoving him so he walked several feet away from James. Tony winced when two men moved in on James, one pressed a gun to his forehead like he might pop up and kill them all… which was, in fact, a valid concern. The other bent and shook him, making sure the other man was actually sedated before he started pulling metal restraints from a bag at his waist and set to securing the soldier.

     “Wrist is broken… Mr. Observant.” Tony said sourly when he was shaken for not responding fast enough. Lance grunted, but at least had half a brain cell, moving to look at Tony’s arm where it was strapped against his chest. With a put-upon sigh, he guided Tony over to a nearby brick wall, shoving him against it. 

     He began frisking Tony, pulling the M9 from the small of Tony’s back followed by the spare magazines. He jacked Tony’s wallet next, grinning when he opened it to see a wad of bills. Tony wondered if he would actually report the finding, but doubted it when the wallet quickly found its way into Lance’s pocket. 

     “Alright, I’ll leave your hands free, but you so much as twitch the wrong way and I’ll have them shoot your friend over there. You hear?” Lance said, releasing Tony’s hand, perhaps thinking of him as a non-threat. 

     “Heard,” Tony said with a frown, straightening up when he was released. Impending doom was a rumbling thing in Tony’s gut, and he couldn’t think of a way out of this. Tony glanced at the watch on his wrist. It read 12:37. Hours had passed since they were supposed to report in with the team. He could hold out hope that they would already be searching for them and that their stay with these deranged assholes would be a short one. 

     “Albertson, where are we with transpo?” Lance asked, touching a fingertip to the comlink in his ear, his gun still held out, just waiting for Tony to make a move. Tony wasn’t an idiot.

     “You can head over. Garulo is moving another car. I should be in position by the time you get here.” Albertson said over the radio, her voice a husky rasp that definitely suited her chosen career as a bad guy.

     “Move,” Lance said, shoving Tony in the right direction and pointing with his gun down toward the far side of the alley. 

     “What about James…Your boss agreed… We stay together.” Tony rasped, planting his feet and refusing to move. 

     “They’ll move him when they're ready. We’re ready now.” Lance said gruffly as the large man shoved Tony again. Tony winced when his gun dug into his back hard enough to bruise. With one last reluctant look at James, who now wore more chains than a 90s rapper, Tony started walking. Well, maybe walking was being generous; hobbled was more like it. It was a calculated move. He hadn’t actually hurt his ankles, but these guys didn’t know that. It was good to be underestimated, and he hoped to drag out the walk long enough for James’ team to catch up to them.

     As they neared a large white box truck that was backing onto a street crowded with abandoned vehicles, the sky above decided it would be the perfect time to stop pissing on them. He glanced up toward the clouds with a shake of his head and sighed with resigned annoyance. 

     Now it stops. Perfect, just fucking perfect. Tony thought, a shiver running through him as a breeze cut through the air. 

     James had been right; this whole mission was cursed. 

Chapter Text

     Tony slowed warily when they approached the truck. A short woman dropped out of the driver's side door, leaving the truck running as she jogged around toward the back to meet Tony and Lance , his babysitter. She gave them a once-over as she approached, pointedly ignoring Tony before moving to open the doors to the back of the truck. 

     “Wait here,” Lance said, tugging Tony to a stop by his collar like he was an unruly dog. Tony rolled his eyes, coming to a standstill.

     Tony wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe to see the truck had been rigged out for captives like one of the SHIELD vehicles, or maybe a mobile torture room—something to evoke fear in their captives. What Tony did not expect was to see the compartment filled with the odds and ends of furniture and moving boxes. The truck obviously wasn’t part of the team's equipment. In fact, it looked like they’d taken it from someone who had been in the middle of moving, and they were using it purely for convenience. 

     “This is what we’re transporting the Winter Soldier in?” Lance asked skeptically, and Tony definitely agreed. If James were in his right mind, he could probably walk through the thin sidewalls of aluminum with ease. 

     “It was the best we could find. We’ll transfer them to another vehicle later. Boss says to dose the soldier up again if he gets fussy.” Albertson said, and Tony frowned at that. Were they seriously thinking of giving more drugs to James? Did they want him to die, or were they just stupid enough to risk it? 

     “That is a moronic…fucking idea,” Tony wheezed incredulously, shaking his pounding head and throwing his hand up in the air. Both of the soldiers ignored him. Tony hoped they would let him stay close to James. He needed to keep the other man calm when he came out of his drug-induced stupor so that they wouldn’t drug him again.

     “Garulo! Nevens! Get your asses over here.” Albertson shouted, drawing the attention of a Hispanic man and his companion from where they worked, rearranging a car onto a nearby sidewalk to make room for the van to move. The two men abandoned their task without argument, jogging over to the truck. “Let's get some of this shit out of here. Just enough to make some room.” Albertson directed. 

     “Not exactly prepared…are you all?” Tony said with a disappointed shake of his head. He hadn’t precisely expected much more, considering the other teams they had taken down, but still… a moving truck? What happened to black SUVs and Humvees?

     “Quiet,” Lance said, giving Tony a shake and pulling a yelp from him when the move made his vest pull upon his broken wrist. Tony grimaced and pressed his hand to his rapidly swelling wrist to try and still it, and decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. That didn’t mean he had to stand there like an obedient little prisoner. Instead, he turned to look back behind them, checking on the progress James’ team had made. Lance scowled at him but didn’t make him turn back around. 

     The three men working on James had him loaded up onto a stretcher and were headed their way. The stretcher was small for the soldier, and his arm hung off the side, held suspended in the air by a cuff attached to his waist. His head was also bent awkwardly at the neck, dangling over the edge in a way no conscious person would allow. Tony’s gaze darkened. Had they knocked him out? Or worse yet, had they dosed him again?

     “We’re ready for you,” Albertson called as Nevens and Garulo leapt out of the truck bay and shuffled off to join Carver and the other unoccupied militants where they stood observing. Their conversation was too quiet for Tony to hear, but if it weren’t about James and himself, he would have been surprised. James’ team joined them, and Tony stepped toward the other man, needing to check on him. Lance grabbed him by the back of his collar before he could get too close. Damn, the man was grabby.

     “Load up the soldier first,” Albertson said, pulling Tony’s attention back toward the truck. They had managed to clear out some of the boxes but hadn’t bothered with the heavier furniture, leaving only a few feet in the front of the truck for their prisoners. The three men nodded and heaved James up onto the floorboards of the truck bed, before climbing in after him. The men managed to tuck James’ limp, now weaponless, form headfirst toward the corner, leaving him on the stretcher before they leapt down.

     “You’re turn, Stark,” Lance said, waving toward the dark interior expectantly. Tony’s lip twitched with disdain, but he had already accepted that this was his only plan. 

     “Gonna need… a hand up,” Tony said as he paced over the wet ground, keeping up the facade of weakness. Lance grunted in annoyance, but dragged a plastic tub closer to the back of the truck and gestured for Tony to use it as a step up. “Such a prince,” Tony said sarcastically before doing as he was told; he clambered up into the truckbed. Lance jumped up after him, unzipping a pack at his side as he did so. 

     “Over here,” he said, pointing toward the corner furthest from James as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. 

     “No…he needs me…I can keep him calm.” Tony said, raising an eyebrow and boldly stepping toward James. Lance’s overall pancake of a face turned down in a scowl, and without warning, the other man backhanded Tony across the face, sending Tony staggering backward into a solid wood dresser, and falling to a knee. Tony grunted in pain, barely stopping himself from sliding to the floor as his head spun dizzily in protest to yet another blow. Well, that had gone from one to one hundred really fast.

     Why do they always go for the head? Tony thought, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. Maybe they watched too many action movies to realize that a proper head blow could kill a guy.

     “You’re gonna have to learn to control that big mouth of yours, Stark,” Lance said with a growl of irritation. He ruthlessly grabbed the back of Tony’s suit jacket, dragging him toward the corner. Tony fought the hold on instinct, but he didn’t have a chance against the other man's strength. Those muscles were not just for show. “You’re not in charge here, and we’re not idiots,” he said, slapping one handcuff link over Tony’s good wrist. Lance shoved Tony down to the floor with his booted shoe and then tethered the other end of the cuffs to a security hook embedded in the floor before jumping down out of the truck. 

     “Lock it up, Albertson,” Lance said, not looking back as he walked out of Tony’s range of sight. Albertson began to close the doors, giving both of them one last look before they were latched into place. For a moment, Tony thought he saw a flash of sympathy in her eyes, there and gone.

     Darkness swallowed them, and Tony sagged to the ground with a groan, his head pounding incessantly as it dropped against the floor. With the doors closed, he couldn’t see a damn thing, and he shifted to try and get comfortable, stretching his legs out so that they reached toward James, letting them rest against the other man's, hopefully offering at least a little comfort that he wasn’t alone. As the truck's engine purred to life, Tony let his head slip to the side. They lurched forward, and Tony knew they were moving. 

     Where the hell are they taking us? Tony thought, closing his eyes as his head protested the movement, a surge of nausea twisting his gut. 

     It wasn’t any warmer in the back of the truck than it had been outside. His wet clothes were soaked through, and he shivered uncontrollably the longer he sat in them. Through his contact along James' side, he could feel the other man was doing the same, his body practically vibrating, though he remained unconscious. At this rate, they were both going to die of pneumonia. There had to be something in this truck to help them out. 

     Tony sighed and pursed his lips before shrugging. He supposed he’d waited long enough—time to get out of the cuffs. Shuffling in the darkness until his good hand could reach it, Tony felt for the Avengers pin on the lapel of his suit jacket. He undid the clasp with efficient fingers and slipped the long needle free of the fabric, hoping he didn’t drop the thing. He wasn’t sure he’d find it again in the darkness.

     Tony used the tension on the cuffs to his advantage and searched out the small keyhole, grinning when he found it. With practiced care and a touch used to handling delicate wiring and even more delicate circuitry, he slipped the needle into place, forcing the cheap metal to bend into the shape of a small L. 

     After that, it was easy peasy, just a twitch of his fingers, and he was free. The cuff dropped to the floor with a clank, and Tony shook out his hand to get the feeling back into his tingling fingertips. When he was done, he put the pin back into place on his lapel, hoping that whenever their captors came back to retrieve them, they wouldn’t put two and two together.

     “Tada!” Tony sang with mock enthusiasm under his breath. Free from his restraints, he moved, shifting upright with a grunt for his aching body. “Be right back, bud.” Tony said, reaching out to pat James’ restrained ankle. He wasn’t sure if James was awake or aware enough to hear him, but he didn’t want the other man to become even more terrified than he might be.

     Swaying with the motion of the vehicle, Tony got to his knees and shuffled toward where a dresser stood, using the mental image he’d stored away in his brain to begin searching. Idedic memory for the win! First, he slipped open the dresser drawers, checking them in case something had been stored within. They were empty, but Tony thought he had seen a couple of paintings behind the dresser with mover's blankets draped over them, wedged between a mattress and a refrigerator. Shoving the dresser forward enough to squeeze behind it, Tony ran his hands blindly over everything until he encountered fabric and a thin frame. 

     It took a little wrestling, and he was shaking and breathless by the time he finished, but he managed to tug free the first mover's blanket, tossing it over the dresser before retrieving the second. Perfect. He reversed himself out of the gap with his newfound bounty before shoving the dresser back again with his hip.

     With slow movements, he blindly made his way back to James and covered the other man with one of the blankets, the move made awkward with only one hand. Tony tucked it gently under James' chin, wishing he could see even a little bit so he could check in on him. 

     With nothing else he could do, Tony draped his own blanket over his shoulders and then eked his way around James until he could sit on the floor by James’ head. After a moment of consideration, he inched closer to James, carefully lifting his lolling head before resting it on his thigh. Sighing with relief that he was now within arm's reach of the other man, Tony tucked his own blanket around himself tightly before slipping his hand down to rest against James’ throat, where his pulse fluttered reassuringly.

     “It’s gonna be alright,” Tony whispered, exhaustion chasing his heels. He blinked slowly in the darkness, his mind wanted to stay awake, recognizing that it wasn’t safe here, but his body didn’t really have anything left in it. The adrenaline that had sustained him was gone, leaving him heavy-limbed and aching. 

     “Nnnn…” James moaned beside him, his head shifting in Tony’s lap.

     “Shh, shh. I’m here.”

“Stark?” James croaked, voice slurred. His pulse started to pound against Tony’s fingertips: thump, thump, thump. Tony could practically feel his fear.

     “Yup. Just rest.” Tony said, slouching closer to James so that he was partially curled around his shoulders. It was a little warmer like this. James let out a soft whimper of sound, but otherwise didn’t respond, his breathing going a little deeper, if uneven, as he succumbed to the drugs once more.

     Tony’s own eyes began to droop. He was so damn tired, and his body shook as shock set in. He fought it for as long as he could, but with a pounding head and his throbbing hand tearing at his endurance, he didn’t last long. 

     “Hey, James…I’m just gonna… pass out now.” Tony said unintelligibly, his breath whistling in his lungs. Weariness settled into his bones, heavy as lead, and then, the darkness swallowed him, taking with it the pain and stress and fear and bringing blissful unawareness.   

     Tony woke from his exhaustion-induced stupor an indeterminate time later, and at first, he couldn’t remember where he was, his brain operating like molasses. His eyes opened into darkness, and he shifted, realizing he was sitting upright. Between one breath and the next, it all came back to him in a rush, and he groaned, lifting a hand to press it against his head, which honestly felt worse now than it had before his little siesta. 

     “Uggh,” he groaned. His throat was dry and burned like fire, while his chest ached with every inhale. God, what he would give for a glass of water. He forced himself to sit upright and realized what had awoken him with a start. James’ body was rigid beside him, his head kicked back painfully against Tony’s thigh, gurgling gasps choking past his throat.

     Shit! Tony thought, his hand sliding over James' body to try and understand what was happening. Even without his sight, it was easy to tell, James was in a full-blown seizure. His muscles were convulsing, limbs straining against the confining grasp of his restraints, the remains of his metal arm scraping noisily against he floor. He was choking on his own saliva, his mouth covered in a thick foam. 

     Tony’s mind was a running litany of curses as he was suddenly very, very, awake. He moved faster than his abused body should have been able to respond, hurrying to grab James by the arm and heave his solid body onto his side to help him breathe. Tony wiped the foaming spit away from his mouth to clear his airway, and the gurgling turned into grunts and horrible gasping noises.

     Tony had to be careful with how he approached this to prevent James from accidentally hurting him. James was incredibly strong and had no control over his own body; it was a pretty goddamn dangerous situation. He kept James’ head in his lap so he wouldn’t hit it on the floor, bracketing him with his free arm to prevent James from falling onto his back again. The restraints were probably doing their own damage, but he found himself grateful for them; at least James couldn’t hit him by accident.

     Tony was already keeping track of the time in his head. He was so goddamned grateful for his insistence that he and the entire team be trained in first aid and were certified in a basic medic course. Every second felt like too long, and as minutes passed with James still tied in the seizure, Tony began to panic. He knew that after five minutes, serious damage could occur, at least for an unenhanced individual, but he didn’t know what that meant for James.

     Come on, James. Come on. Tony thought frantically as the internal clock ticked away. When it hit three minutes and showed no signs of stopping, Tony bared his teeth. He had to get the driver's attention. He had no voice to scream with, and wasn’t sure he would be heard even if he did. Instead, Tony hunched back and started kicking the door of the truck with both feet, banging as hard as he could.

     It took another minute and a half for the truck to roll to a stop, and Tony worked through a coughing fit as a wave of relief hit him. He didn’t lay off the ruckus, though, even as his lungs protested the overexertion. Finally, finally, there was a thunk of sound, and the door to the truck was thrown open. Tony winced in the light, squinting as it sent a sharp burst of pain through his skull, and dropped his feet back to the ground.

     “Would you shut the fuck up!” Albertson shouted, only to stumble back a step and frown when she took in the scene and, most importantly, that Tony was loose. She ripped her gun from her belt and took aim at Tony.

     “How did you get out?” she snarled, oblivious to what was happening.

     “He needs help.” Tony gasped breathlessly and ignored the question, his voice barely a whisper; he wasn’t sure if it was even understandable.

     “You, stay where you are.” She said, finally noticing the convulsing man beside Tony. Tony nodded in agreement. She stepped back from the truck, craning her head around the open door. “I need medical, ASAP!” she shouted toward the front of the vehicle, her voice echoing like they were in a large, empty room.

     Tony sagged back, struggling to catch his breath, his vision foggy from lack of oxygen. He could finally see James, and his heart pitched with worry as he took in his rolling eyes and the bloody foam on his pale lips. Tony wasn’t a religious man, but he hoped and he fucking prayed that they were going to get to him in time. He was in brain damage territory now, and Tony had to force his overactive brain not to think of what the outcome would be.

     Hurry, hurry, hurry. Tony thought desperately. He had to hope that James' enhancements made him strong enough to endure the extra time. There was a racket of noise, the sound of more vehicle doors opening and closing, and then an older man came running toward them, a medic bag in hand.

     “Seizure. Six minutes- thirteen seconds,” Tony wheezed immediately through gasping coughs, holding his hand up to show he was unarmed, even if it let James tip to the side. The medic didn’t question him, jumping into the back of the vehicle and unzipping his pack. He pulled free a portable oxygen tank and immediately began setting it up, handing a mask to Tony. 

     “Hook him up. Keep him on his side,” he told Tony. Tony grunted in acknowledgement and spared only a moment of thought for the ruin of James’ left arm, holding the mask between his teeth before he reached down and ran his fingers over the open wires and artificial nerves to ensure they weren’t sparking. It was probably a little late; any stray sparks would likely have already ignited the tank, but better safe than sorry.

     The man watched him out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise didn’t say anything. Reassured when he wasn’t zapped, Tony pushed the mask over James’ head one-handed before moving his arm to support James’ back once again, keeping his convulsing body in place.

     “Albertson, get Roarke. Tell him to bring his kit, another tank, and all the anti-convulsants we’ve got,” the man called, waving Albertson away when she started to protest. He dug through his kit, dragging out a pair of gloves, then motioned for Tony to back up before starting to evaluate James. 

     Skilled hands found the bloody laceration on the back of his head. It looked horrible in the dim light, almost three inches in length and deep enough that Tony could see bone. It was still bleeding sluggishly, but it seemed like James’s healing factor had slowed it down. The man frowned, sitting back.

     “Did he lose consciousness after the blow?” the man asked, and Tony shrugged, shaking his head.

     “Not that,” Tony gasped. Or at least, not only that. He mentally tacked on, breathing slowly through his nose to keep from breaking into a coughing fit. He had a hard time trying to speak through aching breaths, his voice barely there. He pointed to the head wound and shook his finger. “Overdose… Seven tranqs…” he managed to get out, and he had the privilege of seeing the medic balk.

     “Seven?! What the hell were they thinking?” he said, sounding outraged. Tony gestured his agreement with a flop of his hand, as if to say, ‘I know, right!’ Tony bounced his leg anxiously as the man fumbled in his bag, just as another medic rounded the corner. 

     “Roarke, the Soldier is overdosing. Hook up Stark to that tank, then help me out.” The man said. Tony didn’t argue, closing his eyes in relief. For once, it seemed he had someone on his side, even if they were probably just making sure James survived to ensure their payday. 

     “Got it, Ted,” Roarke said.

     The small oxygen tank clunked on the floor, and Roarke quickly put together a line, handing Tony a mask of his own. Tony slipped the mask over his mouth, inhaling gratefully, his lungs wheezing with the effort.

     Holy fuck. The pure oxygen was like heaven, filling his damaged lungs. Tony groaned and couldn't stop the way his body dropped to the side, sagging against the mass of furniture behind him, feeling positively lightheaded with relief. He knew his lungs were in bad shape, but it had been hard to put into perspective until that moment.

     He watched anxiously as the two medics worked, the heavier set man, Roarke, somehow managing to pin James down for long enough for them to administer several injections into the muscle of James’ arm. Tony shoved his hand through his still-damp hair and chewed on his lip as he waited with impatience. It felt like the drugs should be working faster than this. After several tense moments, James’ body stopped convulsing, his limbs going lax with only small tremors rocking through his muscles. Tony heaved out a shaking gasp and pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought to keep control of himself.

     You’re ok, you’re gonna be ok. Tony thought hopefully, wishing he could whisper the encouragement to James out loud. He dropped his hand down and began carding his fingers through James’ damp hair, hoping that would be enough to reassure him. James didn’t respond, desperate wet grunts slipping past his lips as he caught his breath.

     If anyone had told Tony at the start of this wretched day that he would be panicking over James Fucking Barnes, he never would have believed them. It was only now, after all they had been through together, that Tony actually had a peek at the real James, and that man had challenged everything Tony had thought he had assumed about him. He hated to admit it, but he was starting to give a damn about him.

     He’s a super soldier. He’s survived worse. Tony tried to reassure himself; his body slumped around James’ shoulders. He felt numb, uncomprehending as the two men continued to work, hooking James up to an IV and cutting his shirt off to apply electroid pads to his chest. Tony didn’t even react when Roarke moved on to helping him next, hooking him up to his own IV before addressing his wounds.

     Just push through, James. Then I’ll get you out of this. 

Chapter Text

     He floated in a fog of nothingness. His thoughts were sluggish, and when he tried to grab and hold onto them, they slipped through his fingers. He wasn’t sure who, or where he was, and he was fine with that. There was a vague awareness that wherever he had come from was bad. It was a place filled with pain and fear, and loneliness. It was a place that was cold, with evil lurking in the shadows. 

     This place wasn’t like that; it was soft and warm, enveloping him in a blanket of calm and detachment. James didn’t fight it, letting himself sink deeper into the glow of the fog. There was nothing here that was going to hurt him. 

     He didn’t know how long he drifted, the world coming back to him slowly.

     It started with sound. Voices that he couldn’t quite put together, jumbled and distorted. 

     Then came his sight, blurred and unfocused, the world little more than a smudge to his half open eyes.

     Finally, came the pain, surging over him in a tidal wave, digging into every joint and muscle, relentless. His left shoulder felt like it had been set on fire, nerves so sensitive that even movement sent them screaming. The pain washed away the last of that beautiful fog, and James came back to himself in a rush.

     “Hnng.” James found himself gasping sharply, the moan cut past his throat unintentionally. As he opened his heavy eyelids, a slow shudder rippled unpleasantly through his muscles. He sucked in a breath, holding it in his lungs while he pressed his face against something soft yet firm, practically smothering himself as he tried to understand what was happening. 

     Fucking hell. James thought, unable to bite back a whimper, overwhelmed as his body came back to itself. He hurt, god did he hurt, his veins felt like they were filled with molten metal, his muscles twisted with cramps. Every breath and movement was pure pain. Tremors began to wrack his body in response, but he couldn’t so much as shift to try and ease the deep ache. He panted, jaw trembling as tears burned his eyes. 

     “Shhh, shh…” A voice whispered to him, and James shuddered as he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He wanted to recoil from that touch, fear instinctively spiking through his gut, but his body was heavy, so damn heavy. The fear was impossible to hold on to, sucked back down beneath the surface. He rolled his face away from the smothering warmth beneath his head and struggled to open his eyes; they roved sightlessly as he blinked to clear them. 

     “Looks like he’s coming out of his post-ictal state.” A man said, and James frowned when someone unfamiliar came into focus. Who was that? More importantly, where was he?

     “When will they be ready to be moved?” Another voice asked, heavy with annoyance. James’ eyes were unable to find the second person, and he quickly gave up.

     “Seizure recovery isn’t predictable, Carver. As soon as he’s out of this episode fully, I’ll let you know. We’ll recheck his vitals and make sure he’s stable enough to complete the transfer,” the first voice said.

     Huh…seizure. That made sense. This was by no means James’ first time on the seizure train; lobotomies on the regular did that to a guy. It did explain why he was so confused and his extreme thirst, even some of the pain. 

     What had happened, and how had he ended up like this? The last thing he remembered was going to sleep in his apartment. No! He remembered talking to Steve. Something about a mission? Had something happened on a mission? Tugging on the strings of his memory proved to take too much effort, and the incessant thirst drove those thoughts from his mind. He swallowed dryly, the tip of his tongue touching dry lips. 

     “Wat’r?” James tried to get out, his voice slurred and ragged. His eyes drooped closed when the man stepped away, his form blurring. James struggled to keep himself awake, fighting the exhaustion dragging at him only because the need for something to drink was weighing heavier on him. There was no response, but the sound of someone shuffling about.

     “I’ll do it,” another voice said, sounding worse than James’ and actually familiar. He thought he should have recognized it.

     “Who?” James tried to ask, unable to form a full sentence.

     “It’s Tony,” the man said, and James found himself frowning. Tony? Tony Stark? Why would he be around James? The two barely spoke unless it was necessary for a mission.

     “Tony?” James mumbled, his mouth barely managing the ‘t’.

     “Uh-huh.” Tony agreed. “‘M here.” James swallowed harshly, a shiver running through his body and making him shudder bodily from the pain that followed.

     “Hurts.” James slurred with a low groan. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew he needed help. Tony might hate him, but he’d help, right? 

     “Shh…C’mon. Drink,” the whispering voice said, and James didn’t care that it was Tony who asked; that was the best damn idea the genius had ever had. James’ head wobbled as he tried to sit up, the neurons in his brain misfiring, making him impossibly uncoordinated. It didn’t help that his limbs felt like they were weighed down by a thousand pounds.

     “Nnn.” he croaked in frustration. In the end, the task was taken from him, as someone shifted his weight. A low whine graveled through his chest as he was adjusted and made to sit upright, every part of his being sending electric jolts of pain through James. His teeth started chattering in response, soft gasping pants hissing through them. Whoever was helping him move didn’t stop, and soon he found himself propped up against someone else’s body, their breathing loud in his ears, wet and rasping. His foggy head spun dizzily from the movement, his eyes rolling back in their sockets before he could pinch them closed.

     Shit, shit, shit…hurts so much. James thought, he was unable to translate the words audibly. His features twisted in response to the pain the fire in his veins stoked with each movement, tears slipping past his lids to drip down his cheeks. A little voice in the back of James’ mind screamed at him to get control of himself, fear churning his gut. Assets didn’t display their emotions. James shuddered with the memory. His head was all over the place, and he was so confused. Still, he thought there was something wrong with that train of thought. 

     Displays of weakness must be reprimanded with correctional punishment. A dark, cruel voice echoed in the recesses of James' mind. His handlers would be furious. A breath passed, waiting in anticipation, and then a second, before a gentle hand shook James’ shoulder, not harsh or intending to hurt him, merely dragging his waning attention back to reality.

     “Stay awake,” that same familiar voice interrupted James’ cascading thoughts; it was barely a whisper, too damaged to speak clearly. A moment later, he felt something tug away from his face, his mask, maybe the muzzle? When it was gone, it became a little harder to breathe, and it registered briefly that it must have been an oxygen mask. Yeah, something bad had happened to James for him to need an oxygen mask.

     “Here.” 

     After a long moment, James sluggishly opened his eyes and noticed the water bottle pressed close to his lips. He moaned desperately, lifting his head enough to take a drink. The water was wonderful, and he gulped it down messily, fluid slipping past his lips to dribble down his chin. He drank until the bottle was empty, his head drooping down when he finished, his chest heaving. 

     “Tir’d,” he mumbled, his eyes slipping closed again. He didn’t bother fighting off the exhaustion that swamped over him, desperate for the return of that pain-free oblivion.

     “Sleep,” that rasping voice encouraged against his ear, and James had the brief thought that it sounded kind. Not Tony Stark then? Did James know another Tony? With a mumbled sound of confusion, James let that thought go and listened to Tony. Succumbing to his body's demands.

___

__

     Thank god. Tony heaved out a wheezy breath of relief, carefully shifting James so he was lying back down on his side, half cradled against Tony. James was rigged up to two different IVs along with a nearby heart monitor that beep, beep, beeped in an irregular rhythm. The medics had bandaged most of his wounds and even stapled up the back of his head, crudely shaving long hair to get to the gash.

     He looked like halfway to dead, incredibly pale and covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. His chest and stomach were littered with fist-sized bruises from the tranquilizer darts, and it was worrying that they hadn’t even started to fade in color yet, instead darkening to a sickly purple. Even his wrist and ankles were ringed in bruises and abrasions from the strain of pulling against his restraints. 

     Tony only had one other super soldier to compare healing rates to, and he knew Steve’s body never allowed a bruise to stick around long enough to go dark like that. Tony hadn’t cared to brush up his knowledge on James’ limitations after he’d joined and been onboarded to the team. He had been too pissed about having his friends, his allies, dismiss his protests about having a bloodthirsty maniac join the Avengers. Up until today, he had insisted that he and James not work together. It hadn’t proven to be an issue until this catastrophic failure of a mission.

     I’m really starting to dislike myself. Tony thought, rubbing his good hand through his hair, skipping over a knot of swelling. It was somewhat disturbing to see how his self-righteous vendetta against James had blinded him. I should know this shit. He couldn’t help but wonder what else he had deliberately ignored. Even if he disliked James, he shouldn’t have let that get in the way of doing his goddamn job right.

     He’ll be able to clarify everything later. Tony told himself, hoping James hadn’t suffered too much brain damage from the prolonged seizure. Two minutes of barely mumbled words were hardly enough to judge what condition James’ head was in. Still, Tony was just hopeful that he wouldn’t have to bring Captain America’s best friend back to him as a vegetable. 

     Am I actually worried about my parents' murderer? What kind of fucked up person am I? Tony thought, a wave of confusing emotions rushed through his system, his heart and his brain at war with one another. His heart didn’t want to let go of the anger that it held tight like a shield, holding together the fragile, broken thing in his chest. His brain, on the other hand, only saw the evidence laid out for him, proof that all he assumed about James was utterly wrong. Tony swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what he would do without that driving fury.

     “He’s passed out. Let’s finish up your wrist,” a voice interrupted his thoughts, and Tony nodded absently, tossing the now-empty water bottle into the back of the truck. His throat hurt too much for chitchat. He’d barely even been able to talk to James, so he silently held out his hand toward the medic named Roarke. The man had tended to most of his wounds, and Tony might be pissed with their situation, but this — getting James, and by default himself, help — was the exact reason he was cooperating with the enemy.

     It wasn’t easy accepting the fact that the pair of them had been outmatched and outwitted by what amounted to a bunch of morons. It stung his ego.

     They were still in the back of the moving truck, which was parked in what he assumed was an underground garage, judging by what he could see around him. Other vehicles had driven up after their arrival, and more than a dozen men and women milled about, weapons drawn. It seemed the whole team was on hold while James and Tony were taken care of. 

     Roarke took Tony’s wrist in hand, and he winced as the man resumed wrapping the broken limb after they had been interrupted by James waking up. His wrist and finger had been splinted with a care that Tony wouldn’t expect from a hired mercenary. It had been absolutely fucking excruciating having his bones reset, but honestly, it felt so much better now. Still, his wrist throbbed with every heartbeat, and Tony would have loved to have even a single tablet of ibuprofen.

     The sound of shouting drew Tony’s attention, and Tony dragged his gaze away from James’ pinched features, pain visible on them even as he slept. Just a few feet away, the team leader, Carver, and Ted the medic stood arguing. 

     “We’re on a timeline here, Dr. Shaw, or would you like to inform our boss on why things are taking so long?” Carver asked the medic —or rather, Doctor — and Tony just might like Ted, maybe just a tiny little bit, when the man crossed his arms, his expression firm.

     “You tell him if he wants his package to make it to him alive, that he’ll let me do my job. They were supposed to use one goddamn tranq on the Soldier, not seven. What did they think would happen? He’s still a human!” Ted shouted, displaying every ounce of outrage Tony himself had for the situation.

     “That wasn’t my responsibility. My responsibility is to deliver these two ASAP!” Carver hollered right on back, sounding childishly petulant. Tony chuckled when Dr. Shaw threw up his arms in frustration and just walked away.

     “Be that as it may, Carver. They’re not leaving until I clear them.” Dr.Shaw shouted back, pacing back over to the truck.

     “You have thirty goddamn minutes, Shaw!” Carver retorted, turning away from them and practically stomping out of view. Tantrums were not appealing in a grown man.

     “Where are we at?” Shaw asked Roarke as he approached, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked Tony over. Tony’s suit jacket had been cut off along with the lower half of his shirt sleeve on his right arm, he still had on JAmes’ tac vest. Tony sat with one leg crossed beneath him, supporting James, while the other was pulled up, his good arm hanging over the knee and an IV was hooked up to Tony’s unbroken wrist. .

     “Hand is splinted. I’ve checked his pulse ox and blood pressure. He’s hypertensive.” Roarke responded, his words rolling out robotically. Yeah, that man was running on autopilot. He didn’t have the spice that the good Doctor did. Ted gave him a curt nod and swapped out his gloves. “Other than that, I've administered corticosteroids and albuterol, and I’m about to give him some painkillers.”

     Tony moaned appreciatively at that; he didn’t necessarily care about the rest of what the man was saying. Instead, he waved his good hand at the medic in the universal sign for ‘hurry the fuck up.’ Roarke didn’t keep him waiting, pulling free a pre-dosed syringe and twisting it into the port on the IV line. Tony hissed at the initial burn, which was quickly wiped out by a wave of relief. 

     Thank fuck. Tony heaved out a breath, muscles positively drooping as the pain relievers numbed his body from the results of hours of abuse. He dropped his forehead onto his knee, his good hand twisting into his hair, and just breathed for a moment. His lungs were spasming in small bursts, coughs racking through Tony’s throat as he regained some control over his rebelling body. When he opened his eyes, Roarke was watching him knowingly, and Tony raised his eyebrow, pointing at the now-empty syringe and then over to James, who would feel like absolute shit when he came to. 

     “Can’t risk it,” Roarke said with a seemingly honest frown of dismay, which was probably the most expression he had seen from the short, chubby little man. Tony huffed but nodded his agreement. The assessment was fair. Who knows what James had swimming about in his bloodstream. They didn’t need to encourage another overdose. 

     “Let’s get this vest off so I can listen to your heart and lungs, Dr. Stark.” Shaw hopped up into the cabin. Tony straightened, even though he wanted to sway sideways and maybe join James while he slept. If Tony wasn’t used to marathons of sleepless nights, he might have given in.

     “No.” His voice squeaked embarrassingly, and he shook his head. He pointed to James resolutely. James needed their help more than Tony did. 

     “Believe it or not, you’re actually in more need of medical care than the Soldier, Dr. Stark,” Shaw said, and bent to unbuckle Tony’s borrowed tac vest, ignoring Tony’s protests. “Short of inducing a coma, I’ve done what I can for your friend. All we can do is monitor him and keep him hydrated to flush out the excess drugs. He’s going to have to pull through on his own.You, on the other hand, are very likely to have your throat close off from inflammation if we don’t continue treating you.” 

     Tony scowled at the doctor, his gut telling him not to trust the man, but to be honest, he was surprisingly competent. Too bad he chose such a shit career path. The world was too short of good doctors right now for a man to just up and decide to go dark side.

     “You can’t help him if you don’t help yourself first,” the man added, his voice low enough that it felt like the words were meant for Tony and Tony alone. Somehow, the man was both impatient and patient at once, propping an elbow on his knee as he waited. Tony clenched his jaw. He hated that the doctor's explanation was horribly logical. 

     Yeah, alright, Baldy…I guess I can’t do anything else about it. Tony thought, muffling a cough against his shirt sleeve, before he motioned for the other man to continue doing as he pleased. It wasn’t like he couldn’t use the help. His lungs were barely managing to follow their biologically dictated function; they were damaged goods, a step away from catastrophic failure. Tony winced, his tired brain unhappy with the knowledge of his weakness.

     The next few minutes passed in a blur as the two men turned their focus on him. They stripped down his torso, the cold air making Tony shiver where he sat in still damp clothes. Afterward, they wrapped his chest tightly to support ribs bruised by the now-dead Santiago and their damned pointy boots. Wounds he didn’t even realize he had were patched up, the cut over his eyebrow stitched closed methodically. Tony grimaced; he’d have a lovely scar from that one—these men weren’t exactly plastic surgeons.

     Overall, he wasn’t in great shape, but minus the whole lung damage thing, he’d come out of battles in rougher condition.

     A loud knock on the side of the truck announced the arrival of Carver, the man pacing around the side of the vehicle, his boots clicking on the concrete with each step. He looked the four of them up and down with a scowl wrinkling his brow. If Carver wasn’t careful, that scowl would ruin his future modeling opportunities. Tony thought as he stared right on back at him, raising an eyebrow as he slowly twisted his arm from where it rested on his knee to casually flip the man off with his middle finger. 

     “Times up, doc,” Carver said, glowering at Tony but otherwise ignoring him. With a sneer, he crossed his arms over his chest as if he were expecting a fight. 

     “We’re done.” Dr. Shaw said, and curtly started packing away his kit; Roarke wordlessly followed his example. Shaw paused long enough to reach into his bag before he handed Tony an inhaler. “Keep that on you, use it as needed. These are for the Soldier if he has another seizure before we can respond. Don’t let it drag out. Give three through the IV port. I assume you can figure that out,” he added, giving Tony several syringes sans needle. 

     “Mmm,” Tony grunted in response, adding an eyeroll before pocketing everything. It didn’t take a genius to figure out how to use a syringe. The doctor began to unhook James from the heart monitor, leaving the leads attached. 

     “Leave these on.” He said, before casually leaning forward to help Tony back into his shirt, leaving the front hanging open, before he bent to grab a runaway roll of bandage tape, leaning in close to Tony.

     “You’re not alone,” the man whispered, so quietly Tony almost didn’t hear him. Tony kept his features neutral as the man pulled away, even as his mind whirled. Who was this guy? You’re not alone…What did he mean? The thought would have to wait until later, as Carver clapped his hands together.

     “Alright, enough babying the prisoners. Let’s get this show on the road! Vargas, Lance, Rhett, and Merrick! Back to your duties! Get them switched over. We roll out in five!” Carver called. 

     James’ team was the first to arrive, one of the men holding a gun at Tony, a vicious smile on his lips—like he just wanted an excuse to shoot him. What kind of idiot was this man, threatening Tony with a gun where there were two very flammable oxygen tanks just waiting for a spark to go BOOM BOOM? Tony raised both his hands in response, leaning back to give the men room to get James ready. They were anything but gentle, pushing James off of Tony’s lap so he lay back on the stretcher before manhandling him into position.

     “Is that piss? Did the Winter Soldier piss himself?” one man asked, with a guffaw of laughter that made him sound like a donkey. 

     You’ve got to be kidding me. Maybe you should have a go at having an almost seven fucking minute seizure. Oh, wait, you’d be dead. Tony wanted to snap at them, fury twisting his gut. The guy was a bottom-of-the-barrel shit head to find joy in someone else's misery.

     “Stop being ignorant, Merrick. Incontinence is common in seizures and is no laughing matter. You take a hard enough hit to the head, and this will be you.” Dr. Shaw snapped, practically speaking Tony’s thoughts.

     “Sorry, doc,” Merrick muttered, at least having the courtesy to look somewhat chagrined. 

     “The only one suffering from your idiocy is you. You may be a brute, but you can have some form of dignity.” Shaw berated the man like he was a small child, and Tony was there for it, not even bothering to hide an amused grin. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the man a mind reader with the way he took the words right out of his head. This guy just might be the anti-hero of the day. 

     Merrick looked absolutely pissed as the rest of the team laughed at his expense. Dr. Shaw must have had some sway in the group, considering none of the hotheads so much as offered to defend Merrick. Shaw grabbed James’ IV bags and rested them over James’ chest, before passing down the oxygen tank. 

     “Do not let these come unattached and watch the slack,” he told the men. With a grunt, the men finally heaved James out of the truck bed, the doctor ensuring he didn’t hit his head on the way down. 

     Lance had been standing to the side, and he motioned for Tony to get down without a word. Tony waved the other man off and hissed as he uncurled his body, scooting to the edge of the truck bed and hanging his legs off the ledge—Roarke, quiet, little gentleman that he was, held out a hand to help him down, steading Tony when he swayed in place, before handing the oxygen tank off to Lance and the IV bag to Tony.

     “Follow them,” Lance said, pointing at James’ team. Tony nodded, grabbing the two moving blankets from the truck bed where they had been discarded in the commotion and casting Lance a glare when the other man opened his mouth to protest. It was cold, and Tony was wearing only half a shirt, while James was bare-chested. Fortunately for the mercenary, Lance didn’t voice his opinion. Tony clutched the blankets to his chest, following after James and keeping up the slow, pained shuffle he’d manufactured earlier. 

     They were, in fact, in an underground parking garage. Tony tried to take in all the information he could, but there wasn’t much more to gain than he had before. Hostile faces met his roaming gaze, with many soldiers watching them with trigger fingers at the ready.

     Tony and James were loaded up into another vehicle, this time a white van with vinyl on the siding declaring it to be the property of Action 4 News, which was an admittedly clever disguise. Not many people would suspect a news van as being the transport for two kidnapped Avengers.

     Tony’s heart pounded with anxiety as he settled in beside James, where he rested on the floor of the van, which was decidedly empty of any useful equipment. They hadn’t decided to restrain Tony again, leaving him and James with only a single guard (Lance, obviously) to watch over them. 

     Tony’s gut twisted like it was filled with worms as he draped James in his blanket and tucked himself into his own. The thick material was all that stood between him and uncertainty and for a moment he let himself hide beneath its folds, blocking out their new reality like a child might use a security blanket to hide from monsters.

      Dragging in a unsteady breath he closed his eyes on the burning sting of tears dwelling in the corners of his eyes. Fear ate at his gut, no longer hidden beneath bravado and necessity. He was terrified for James' health, for himself, for what lay ahead of them. He didn't know what was going to happen, and that was the most terrifying thing of all.

Chapter Text

     When James next woke, awareness hit him like a freight train. Even with his head throbbing with a pulsating thrum, James instantly knew he wasn’t someplace familiar. He fought the instinct to react, to open his eyes and find out where the fuck he was. Instead, he slowed his breathing and released the tension from his muscles, keeping his features relaxed in a mask of sleep. 

     Where am I? James asked himself warily, taking stock of his surroundings. Which was hard, given how much his body wanted him to pay attention to it. His veins burned with a low simmering heat, and somehow James knew that it had been much, much worse the last time he’d been awake. 

     His memory was fickle, unable to piece things together quite yet, but his body told him enough of a story. It ached bone deep, while his muscles felt almost bruised. Meanwhile, his left shoulder was spasming uncontrollably, radiating an intense nerve pain that easily outweighed the rest of his body’s protests. The pain nearly made his lose his composure, flooring him for a moment before he was able to separate himself from the agony without giving himself away.

     What happened to my arm? James thought as a burst of panic surged through his veins. It took James only a moment to realize that he wasn’t actually getting any other feedback from his prosthesis. Not wanting to believe what his body already knew, he tried subtly to move his fingertips. He felt his heart practically skip a beat when there was no answering response from the limb, and he realized it was gone.

     For some reason, that acknowledgment was what brought memory crashing in around him with vivid clarity. He remembered the mission. Iron Man being taken down. Tony Stark fucking stabbing him. All of it, right up to those last moments in the restaurant, and Stark’s confident declaration that they would ‘make it out of the mess.’

     At the time, James had wanted to believe those words, had propped up his own waning hope with them so he could push on. With dawning trepidation churning in James’ empty stomach, James realized Stark had been wrong…so very, very wrong. They’d been captured.

     He couldn’t tell where they were. The air was stale, mixed with a nasty combination of sweat, urine, old blood, and sickness. It tasted of plastic, likely due to the unmistakable pressure of an oxygen mask pressed to his face.  

     No, no, no ,no, no. James thought frantically, fear jolting through him in an instant as he realized his worst goddamned nightmare had come to fruition. Panic surged through his body, hard and fast, and it was all James could do to rein it in. He couldn’t stop the full-bodied shudders that rippled through his muscles. Now wasn’t the time to freak out. He had bigger things to worry about, like where the hell Stark was? Had he been taken with James? 

     James didn’t have to worry long about that when he heard a soft scuff of movement, followed by the startling pressure of a hand pressed firmly against his chest, just over his heart, gentle and reassuring, if cold as fuck. Who the hell was that? James felt his heart stutter at the sudden contact. It didn’t feel threatening, but he didn’t think anyone had ever touched him like that…at least not in his admittedly shoddy memory. His demeanor didn’t exactly scream ‘hug me’.

     “C’mon, James. I thought we were over the seizures,” that someone murmured, his words raspy and almost a whisper. There was concern heavy in his voice and no small amount of exhaustion. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Buckaroo. I’m gonna have a heart attack. I swear it,” the man said wearily, and James knew unmistakably that it was Tony Stark. He was literally the only man who dared to call an international assassin ‘Buckaroo.’

     The relief that flooded through James at the words was so intense he almost felt dizzy. Stark was alive; they were somehow still together. James almost thought about keeping up his ruse of unconsciousness to gather more intel, but Stark sounded utterly despairing. James had to hope that he wouldn’t be speaking so openly if their captors were in hearing range, and there was only so much he could accomplish without using his eyes anyway. 

     “Stark?” James croaked, his vocal cords feeling strained. ‘Waking up’ was easier said than done. Despite his cognizance, James' body wasn’t in top form, and he suddenly realized just how weak he felt, like one good push would shove him back into unconsciousness. 

     “Holy shit! You’re awake and you’re not braindead!” Stark gasped in surprise, his voice much improved from the last time James remembered hearing him, still raw, but he was significantly less breathless. James half expected Stark to move his hand, but it remained on James’ chest, if anything, pressing him down a little more firmly. “Careful, you’ve been out a long time.” Stark urged. He shuffled a bit, and that was when James realized his head was cradled in the other man’s lap. He should do something about that; it felt highly inappropriate and intimate, but he couldn’t find the energy to care.

     James grunted in response, forcing his heavy lids open and flinching when the fluorescent lights above seared his retinas. He hissed with pain and squeezed them back closed with a grimace before he tried to move his arm to cover his eyes. There was the scraping sound of metal, and he was pulled to a stop before it was even a few inches from the ground. Belatedly, James realized he was restrained, his arm tethered to a chain around his waist connected to a heavy cuff around his wrist. 

     “Nghh, shit.” James groaned, dropping his hand back down. It hit the floor with a clunk. Curiously, he shuffled his legs and found that they, too, were tied together, chains dragging over the floor. “Thought this mighta been a nightmare,” James mumbled, his words not very clear, coming out slurred and just a little delayed, like there was a disconnect between his brain and his mouth.

     “Not with our luck…Don’t move too much. You’re pretty strapped down,” Stark said, shifting beneath James, and then he felt the other man lean over him, a shadow filtering out the red hue of James’ closed lids. “I’ve blocked out some of the light,” he added, having intuitively picked up on James' need. Smart bastard.

     “Thanks.” Cautiously, James opened his eyes again. They were dry and sticky, and he had to blink rapidly to try and clear the fog before him, unable to rub them into clarity. Stark had indeed done his best to hide James from the light, looking down at James as he hunched over him. There was a blue blanket draped over his shoulders, and it hung like curtains around James, shielding him.

     James searched the room habitually with a critical eye. He himself was covered with a blanket that was Stark’s twin. The air beyond it was frigid, cold enough to cloud their breath, though James couldn’t feel it beneath his boiling blood. The room was simple, with bare walls and only one door, which was closed and probably locked. At one time, it may have been a utility closet, but it was empty now. Three half-drained IV bags hung from hooks on the wall, lines weaving down toward them, while two oxygen tanks were tucked in the corner, rigged to support the pair. They were about the most dangerous things in the room, but rendered useless by their proximity.

     “Well, this sucks.” James breathed. When he finished his brief reconnaissance, taking in the empty space and finding nothing that would help them, he rolled his eyes back to Stark. They flashed over the other man analytically, but even now, James couldn’t meet his gaze. Stark looked like he’d been through hell…which they kind of had. 

     “Undeniably.” Stark agreed with a humourless smile. He had a nasal cannula rigged around his ears, and James’ ears picked up the quiet hiss of oxygen filtering through.

     “Do I smell like piss, or is that you?” James asked with a wince, flexing his fingers and toes to wake them up slowly.

     “That would be you, princess,” Stark said with a grimace of sympathy.

     “Hmm…not the first time,” James said nonchalantly with a tired shrug, his words still a little stilted as if his brain were trying to remember how to process speech. Stark chuckled weakly and shook his head. He wondered if he would be given the privilege of new clothes anytime soon; his were definitely…stiff. 

     “That is depressing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging you on it. Just happy you’re awake and talking.” Stark with a morose sigh, sounding sincere. James glanced up at him and received a grimacing half-smile in response. He flinched when Stark reached down, tipping his chin up to look into his eyes searchingly and tilting his head back and forth in the light to see better. James hummed a wordless question, squinting and shrugging Stark’s icy touch away with a shiver. 

     “Your eyes are still fucked, concussion must be pretty bad,” Stark responded to the unasked query, his features pensive and worried.

     “I’ll get over it, always do.” James breathed wearily. “What about you? Are you ok?” Stark didn’t look very good if he were honest; there was a dark bruise blooming over the right side of his face in an ugly blue-green color. His eyes were sunken, and the left was bloodshot with hemorrhaging, while his lips were cracked and swollen. Otherwise, James couldn’t see any damage that he didn’t remember being there from their flight through the city. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

     One thing James could say was that they had obviously been taken care of at some point. There were stitches over Stark’s eyebrow, and James could see bandages between the open flaps of his dirty shirt. Not to mention the oxygen and IVs. What kind of kidnappers gave their hostages medical attention? 

     The kind that want you alive for not good things.

     “Ehh…” Stark hummed, looking up at the roof as if analysing himself. 

     “Never mind. You look like shit,” James croaked after a moment. Stark’s lips twitched at that, and he laughed humorlessly, the sound growing frantic, bordering on hysterical. James grimaced in sympathy, the sound saying so much more about Stark’s state of mind than words ever could.

     “Not so good yourself, soldier,” Stark said, and for some reason, those words had his features twist in an emotion James was having a hard time placing, somehow pained and relieved at the same time. “I-I thought you weren’t going to wake up,” he gasped raggedly a moment later, his whole body shuddering with a tremor. He lifted his head, averting his gaze from James and staring straight ahead, still aware enough to keep James shielded from the lights. “It was bad…really bad. I don’t think you’d be alive if it weren’t for the serum.” Stark admitted, and he actually sounded scared, scared for James. That was confusing. 

     "Fuck..." James swallowed hard, tearing away his gaze from Stark, unable to handle the raw emotion rolling off of him. A lot had changed between them, and James was no longer sure where he stood with the man. They might have been forced into some kind of camaraderie in their flight through the city, but James had thought it temporary. He assumed Stark would probably be all too happy to read his obituary. Apparently not.

     “Seriously… Are you alright? They haven’t hurt you?” James questioned, shoving away his thoughts. It was better to focus on Stark than on himself; Stark was more important. James wasn’t good with emotions, but he was genuinely worried for Stark, that much at least he knew. He wasn’t sure how long the other man had been alone with their captors. 

     “Just peachy. The inevitable torture hasn’t started yet. We’re lucky. Our hosts even gave us medical attention.” Stark said, lifting his right arm to show off that it was splinted, wiggling his working fingers at James. Stark was watching him with an eyebrow raised, like he, too, was trying to puzzle out this new territory they both stood upon. James tipped his head to the side so his cheek pressed to the warmth of Stark’s thigh, avoiding the other man’s gaze.

     “That’s good. At least their not total assholes,” James said honestly with a gusty sigh of relief. Stark hadn’t been treated to badly, though he was probably right about their imminent torture. Oh joy! “I can’t remember what the fuck happened past the restaurant. Did they ambush us?” James asked, drawing his knees up with aching slowness so that he was no longer lying flat, his hips cracking into place audibly with the shift. 

     “Yup. They hit you seven times with some kind of Super Soldier Super Tranquilizer. Seven times.” Stark breathed, shaking his head and chewing his lip, he shifted to prop himself up in the corner, head hitting the metal wall.

     “I can’t believe that worked…I didn’t know we could be knocked out like that.” James muttered, frowning. The brain fog was lifting enough now that he could actually start to think. Was the tranquilizer why he felt so goddamn run down? Would the drug still be lingering in his blood even now? He’d taken beatings before, been shot and stabbed, even eviscerated on one horrible occasion, but he’d always been capable of functioning through even the worst wounds. It was literally trained into his core. He hadn’t felt this…resoundingly ill, well, ever. At least not in his functional memory.

     “Well, they did, and pretty fucking well, I might add…I thought they actually shot you at first. It looked like it. I was so fucking scared they killed you.” Stark continued, voice breaking as he swallowed hard, James could feel him physically shudder at the memory. 

     “Shit…”James flinched and shuddered with sympathy. Stark was a hero at heart; no matter what kind of animosity he had against James, he wasn’t going to find joy in James’ flat-out being gunned down. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” James whispered honestly, his hand tugging uselessly at the chain on his wrist. For some reason, he wanted to touch Stark, to try and soothe away that lingering terror. Even if his hand wasn’t tethered down, it was an instinct he would never act on.

     “You’re sorry? Fuck…what are you sorry for? You lived…we both lived. The drugs did a goddamn number on you, though. Overdosed.” Stark breathed hoarsely, his gaze going back to James, as if he still couldn’t believe that he was awake. 

     “Can’t remember the last time I was drugged, but I feel like goddamn roadkill,” James admitted, swallowing hard to try and moisturize his throat. Thinking about the condition of his body was not something he wanted to focus on. Given the opportunity, he could easily slip back into the tide of pain. So he shoved the thought aside. He had bigger things to focus on. “How long have I been out?”

     “It’s 8:52,” Stark said, glancing at his watch. James grimaced, but that wasn’t terrible. Maybe nine hours since they had been caught. If James could pull himself together, they might actually be able to get home before daylight. “In the morning.” Stark finished, and James blanched. Stark had picked him up for this mission a little before eight in the morning, yesterday. They had been in enemy hands for twenty-odd hours! 

     “What? You can’t be serious.” James gasped. His brain took only a moment to process just how bad that was. They could be on their way to anywhere after twenty hours, and they were certainly out of reach of a rescue attempt! They were alone… he was alone. James was unaware of the gasping whine that slipped past his lips. Fear and panic were flooding through James' body in a rush that threatened to swallow him whole. 

     “Come on, breathe, James. We’re gonna get out of this.” Stark urged, his words making their way through James ringing ears. Only then did James realize that he had somehow managed to shove himself back against Stark, his upper body practically in the other man's lap. Stark seemed to take it in stride, hooking his good arm around James to keep him upright and grunting only a little when James jarred his bruised ribs. “Breathe,” Stark said, his words sharp, commanding, and James hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath until he obeyed, air rushing from his lungs before he sucked it back in through clenched teeth.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck. James thought, realizing that he had let his fraying control slip and fear take over. He couldn’t do that, not with the situation they were currently in. He grabbed his emotions by their tails and shoved them down deep into a box in his brain before slamming the lid closed so sharply that he flinched. 

     Between one breath and the next, James regained control, and the shuddering terror that made him tremble and gasp was gone. His features were devoid of all expression; his gaze hollow and empty.

     “James?” Stark said slowly, sensing the change in the tension of his body. “Are you alright?”

     “‘M fine. Sorry. I’m better now.” James said blankly, pulling away from Stark. He was mostly upright now, and he took advantage of that, hunching awkwardly to get himself out of Stark’s lap, considering his limited use of his arm. The muscles in his abdomen protested the movement, sore and tender. He grunted, inhaling slowly to steady himself before batting at the blanket still draped over his chest with his busted prosthetic. Sharp metal edges yanked the blanket halfway down, making it a little easier to move. 

     It took an exhausting amount of effort, but he managed to awkwardly sidle along the floor to prop his back against the wall, caddy to Stark, their knees still touching. Just that small movement left him out of breath and trembling. It was terrifying how weak he was. He didn’t have the kind of energy it would take to put any more room between the two of them, let alone fight his way out of wherever they were being held.

     “You know…you don’t have to do that,” Stark said quietly, still watching him, his head tipped back against the wall while he drew his knees up and huddled beneath his own blanket with a shiver for the lack of James’ warmth.

     “What?” James asked. Backtracking as his brain analyzed his actions, trying to understand what he may have been doing wrong.

     “Hide…” Stark said under his breath, watching James with those dark eyes of his, radiating something akin to kindness. It was one word, one simple four-letter thing that shouldn’t have held as much meaning behind it as James thought there was. 

     James hated it. 

     Hated not fully being able to understand the man's motives. Hated that Stark had seen him so goddamn weak and pathetic. Hated not knowing where he stood or how long this tentative peace would last. It felt as though Stark was just watching him teeter over the edge of an abyss just so that he could be there for the inevitable fall, because that kindness couldn’t be real, certainly not when directed at him. James wanted it to be, god did he want it to be. His stupid brain craved being accepted enough to just be human after so many years of being a thing.

     Why is he doing this to me? James thought despairingly, the empty pit of his heart aching horribly. Because, despite the implied acceptance, that one word was nothing but a lie. He had to hide, hide his emotions, hide his pain, hide his fears. The consequences of showing them far outweighed any possible benefit. Weakness was punishable by pain. 

     James wasn’t sure what flipped the switch within him from despair to anger, but there it was. He was so goddamn angry that it twisted in his gut almost as hotly as the flames of pain burning through his bones. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or his fear, or the pain still nibbling away at him, but his control snapped.

     “I don’t understand why you're pretending you care?” James hissed, and he felt a sick sense of satisfaction when he saw Stark flinch, though he didn’t break eye contact with James' own fickle gaze, facing the accusation head-on. “I know where we stand, Stark. You can barely tolerate me, and I get it. This… shit show doesn’t change facts, and I won’t hold it against you. So just stop…please?” his voice cracked, and he shook his head, ducking it down so the fall of his hair shielded him from view. “It’s… gettin' really confusin’.” James’ last words drifted off, losing their vehemence and trailing out in a hushed whisper, his accent growing heavy.

     “No…you’re right,” Stark said, clearing his throat, the words somehow cooling the tumult of emotions in James’ gut. “I haven’t exactly been Mother Theresa.”

     “I’m really not expecting that of you,” James said wearily. Energy spent, he hunched in on himself despite the pain, or maybe because of the pain it caused, dropping his head to his knees. Pain was simple; he knew how to function under pain, but he didn’t know how to function with his emotions rolling like a storm within his broken mind. Why did it have to be so fucking difficult? He drew in a steadying breath; the overwhelming scent of his ammonia-soiled clothing was decidedly unpleasant, but he had nowhere else to hide in this godforsaken closet.

     “Alright…Hear me out." Stark said, waving away James’ words. James’s nose twitched with annoyance, ready for another lecture, but he reluctantly dropped his head to the side to watch Stark from beneath the fall of his hair, nodding to show he was listening. Stark nodded back, sitting upright. "If we’re gonna make it through this together, we have to clear the air. I’m just as confused as you are. I can’t say I don’t hate you…But I don’t want you dead.” Stark paused to catch his breath. 

     A slow shiver of disbelief coursed through James at Stark's candor. Well…that was progress. Progress James never honestly thought he’d see. What kind of upside-down world had he just stepped into?

     “We both know I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I can never repay you for that…You’re a good man. You’ve proven it.” Stark admitted, James bodily flinched at those words, turning to hide against his knees once more as tears threatened to spill, and where the fuck had those come from?

     I’m so goddamn pathetic. James thought, picking idly at an electropad that was sticking to his lower chest, the chain around his waist icy where it had rested on the floor. Those words hurt, almost more than his body did. It was as if there was a wound deep down in his soul, festering and infected, that had been lanced open to allow self-loathing, disappointment, and unending hopelessness to drain from the wound, and James let out a shuddering breath of disbelief.

     “D-don’t say that. I know what I am, Stark. You don’t have to do this,” James protested, his voice tight with barely withheld self-contempt.

     “You’re human…I didn’t see that before, but I do now. We both know your sins, and I’m not saying I can forgive them, but I can put that aside so we can get out of this.” Stark finished, rushing out the last words as he was forced into a short coughing fit. His good hand scrambled for his pocket and pulled out an inhaler, from which he quickly took a puff. James was surprised and grateful to see the medicine; the man would need it when they escaped. James waited until Stark regained control of his breathing before acknowledging his words.

     “I can handle that…” he breathed, unsure of what else to say. Inside his mind, that open pustule spilled grief and despair that wanted to overwhelm him. If he were home, he might have dissociated, just to stop the fierce ache, but somehow, knowing Stark actually saw him, even a little, made the painful emotions just a hair easier to handle. 

     “We’re good then. Try and rest. There isn’t anything we can do in our condition right now anyway.” Stark coughed against his arm before tugging his blanket closer around his shoulders. The pair fell into silence, lost in their respective thoughts, waiting for what would come next. James tried to plan, but his head pounded unrelentingly, and god was he tired…he gave up. It wasn’t like he had anything to work with anyway.

     I am James Buchanan Barnes. James found himself repeating over and over, inside his head. He didn’t know who had him, but they wouldn’t take his identity, not this time. The mantra lulled his exhausted mind into a numb stupor, and he was unaware as he found himself slumping back toward Stark. A gentle hand tugged him back down the rest of the way, urging him to lie on his side, his head once again cushioned on the other man's thigh.

     “‘M sorry,” James mumbled uncertainly, shuffling but unable to get his heavy body to move and give Stark more space.

     “Sleep,” Stark said simply, pulling James’ blanket up over his shoulders once more. 

     Stomachs growling and bladders full, they slept to drown out their bodies' needs, and minutes turned to hours…