All Hands On Deck
I dried my tears and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears
-The Angel, William Blake
James blinked once in surprise.
“Me???” Whatever could they possibly need him for? “I don’t have clearance for fieldwork.” He added lamely. Agent Coulson had been very specific about that point and he hadn’t argued. May levelled an impatient look at them that caused Trip to take off with an excuse, no doubt in search of his gear. Right, James didn’t even have gear. His Winter Soldier outfit had gone down a hospital garbage chute in scraps, not that he had any desire to put on the confining material again. Ever. God, he hated turtlenecks almost as much as spam.
“You’re not going into the field. We just need you for target confirmation.” Her look told him that she did not relish standing here and dealing with his confusion when she could be preparing for the mission. In which case, James thought, he probably shouldn’t have been accosted in the middle of the night without warning, though he didn’t say that part out loud.
“I probably won’t even remember who or whatever you want me to identify.” He protested weakly, but May was like a rubber wall. Everything bounced right off of her.
“We’re willing to take that risk.” She said curtly, already turning. “Be at the Bus at 4 and bring a coat.”
“What kind of coat?” It’s July, and it’s not like he had a wide wardrobe to choose from. “Where are we going?” July. There was something significant about July, a memory nudging at the surface of his subconscious but unable to break through. He’d deal with that later.
“Argentina.” May stated and vanished behind the next corner. James huffed, then got going.
Luckily, the plane had a decently equipped kitchen and some good soul had seen to it being stocked sufficiently. Since the flight would take several hours he took a little catnap (which was significantly more difficult to do without an actual cat), then busied himself with whipping up some breakfast for the team when they came filing in at a less ungodly hour.
“I feel like I need to mention that you didn’t have to do this,” May began.
“But we’re really glad you did, even if you’re shamelessly stealing _______’s recipes.” Skye added around a mouthful of egg.
“Well, most HYDRA recipes require a side of cyanide and I couldn’t find any of that anywhere, so…” he flinched as soon as the words left his mouth. Feeling the gazes from the three women – May, Skye as well as another female agent named Reyes had come with while Trip was currently piloting the plane – he ducked his head, suddenly very interested in his coffee.
“Was that …was that supposed to be a joke?” Skye chanced intrepidly, “Coz’ you have this whole ‘blank expression’ thing going on. It’s hard to tell. Not that we have a frame of reference, really.”
“I think it was, yeah.” He mumbled into the mug.
“Supposedly humor is a coping mechanism.” Agent Reyes supplied kindly, polishing off the rest of her bacon. James sent the woman a small, grateful nod before she went to relieve Trip of his flying duties so they could be briefed.
The mission itself, while rather straightforward, would have probably required at least one more agent, two if one really wanted to be safe. It struck James that he was still so used to planning for a team of seven, even after everything. Absently, he picked at some scratches on the plating of his arm as he listened to May detailing the parameters. The target was really the crux of the matter, a retired KBG officer with many names and no one left alive who knew what he looked like. No one save James, hopefully. No pressure.
“From what we could find out, he was high up in the Winter Soldier program. He must have at least known of HYDRA, if he wasn’t actually part of it himself.”
“That seems unlikely.” James threw in. HYDRA was more one of those ‘members only’ places. Then again the allegiance of those members was subject to expedience in more cases than one would probably assume.
Well, first they’d need to find the man. According to the sources, the Russian embassy was the way to go. They concealed the Bus in the river delta that formed the wilderness between Argentina and Uruguay, trekked to a small town named Campana and from there made their way into Buenos Aires, setting up in a safe house organized by Agent Reyes.
The worst part of that kind of mission was usually the waiting, but for James it was not being able to talk to you while they were there. All communication with the States was banned unless it was an emergency for fear of being tracked.
James scratched at his thickening stubble absently. He and Skye were sitting in a café with a good view of the street that led to the embassy’s front entrance, waiting. They had been doing this for a handful of days now, doing observation under the guise of whiling away the hours. Skye typed away on a laptop while he pretended to be going through miles of financial reports and the like. The beard was to conceal his face – the same reason he now wore plastic-rimmed glasses – but damn, it itched. They could do this for maybe two more days until it became suspicious. Maybe the target had already walked past them several times and James simply hadn’t recognized him. Maybe his brain had been damaged too badly and they were only wasting their time here. He took another sip of his tepid coffee and grimaced.
“Hey Stitch, Funk says new candidate at 10 o’clock.” Skye said casually, but lowly enough that only James could hear, equally as casually using her earpiece that was concealed under her long hair. James nodded lowly and let his gaze sweep over the street outside the window, where an elderly man with a distinct limp was making his way along the street, cane tapping along on the pavement. The man was just too bundled up to clearly make out his face, scarf wrapped around his face under his nose and a hat shadowing his eyes, but that limp was instantly familiar. James frowned over his coffee cup.
“I’m not sure…” he said vaguely, and Skye relayed his response to the rest of the team. The man stopped before he had fully neared the embassy building, standing and consulting his watch, waiting. Within five minutes, he was approached by another man, whose back was bent with age. They greeted each other curtly, talking closely among themselves for a moment. Their possible target leaned on his cane, nodding jerkily to what he was being told while the other man, shorter and slighter in stature, gesticulated urgently. When his acquaintance was finished he took off his hat, wiping his forehead with a tissue before pulling down the scarf to blow his nose.
“Kalyagin.” James said decidedly before his mind had even articulated the thought fully. He was older but he definitely recognized that face, the sharp eyes and the strict pull of the mouth. In the background, he vaguely heard Skye tell the other agents to stand by while she confirmed.
“You sure?” she demanded lowly of him. James nodded, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. There was the distinct prickle of cold sweat starting to form between his shoulder blades.
“I don’t know whether that’s the guy we want, but I know I knew him.” He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, willing his heart to slow, then cast another discerning glance over the two elderly men who were just now saying their goodbyes. “The other one, too.”
“Did you get that?” Skye whispered into her earpiece, receiving instructions in return as James watched the two old men part ways at the street corner.
It was an observation mission, essentially. The theory was that Kalyagin was if not active at least still involved to some degree in HYDRA’s affairs, even if it was just staying up to date. In any case, the agents trailed him back to his house, spent the next two days observing the man’s schedule and bugging his place to the moon and back while he was out. They’d even put trackers and bugs in several coats, hats and walking sticks in order not to miss anything. And then, like shadows in the night, they vanished back north. Coulson was pleased about the successful mission and James was slightly busier now in sifting through endless hours of recordings that were coming in. most of it was negligible, but at least he got to practice his Spanish (which he again had no idea when he’d learnt it).
He was just going through with the translation of the mysterious Red Army files, simultaneously listening to the live-stream from Kalyagin’s sitting room with half an ear, when a door clicked, followed closely by a second voice. James knew without thinking or doubt that the voice belonged to the man with the bent back he’d thought he recognized on that street in Buenos Aires.
He quickly grabbed hold of a note and scribbled some words down on it, then slid it over the table towards Trip with an apologetic look, still listening in on Kalyagin and his guest, who have switched to a strange language mixture that is sometimes comprised of more Russian, sometimes predominantly German. The rapid shifts are wearisome, but he’ll manage. Trip studied the note a moment, then met eyes with James before rising and walking to an adjoining archive room. He returns some minutes later with an old mission log from the war. Kalyagin and the yet nameless man are still exchanging platitudes, complaining about their decreasing health and the like. James flips through the file until he happens upon a photo that looks like a mugshot in most respects – a HYDRA officer they managed to capture back then with the Commandos. Praske, the name reads. The photo is old, of course, but displays the same pinched lips and weasely eyes that had struck so familiar on the old man on the street in Buenos Aires. He’d been young, but relatively high-ranking within HYDRA back then, responsible for logistics. Broke down easily under interrogation, but then again Peggy Carter could put the fear of God in bigger and meaner men. Praske had also provided them with the intel that had set them on the mission to capture Zola. He gestures at the photo, then vaguely in the direction of the speakers, and Trip nods in understanding, pulling the file towards himself a James listens. It seems they’ve finally moved past the pleasantries as he hears the clinking of cups and the creaking of old furniture and old bones.
“The old channels are busy again these days.” Kalyagin opens, sounding disdainful but that might just be his default tone. Praske hummed non-committally.
“Yes, yes, I know, I just like to stay on top of things. They’ve made a right old mess of it and what happened in Washington was just the tip of the iceberg. They are scrambling, now, only just gaining some ground again.”
“Americans…” Praske tutted. Trip slid the folder back over, pointing at a passage that said that the SSR had handed Praske over to the Russians in the fall of ’45. He nodded in acknowledgement.
“First they steal the asset, and then they lose him.” Kalyagin griped, making a noise of disapproval that pinged around James’ skull like a bullet in a pinball machine. The sensation left him reeling so hard he took a moment to realize they were now talking about him. “Also Novakov never stopped searching.”
“He didn’t buy the Department’s tale? Why wasn’t he taken care of?”
“The good doctor is a funny case, my friend. Smart enough to keep his bases covered, but not smart enough to come so close that he became a threat. And well liked wherever he went, easily inspiring loyalty. A very irritating trait when found in other people.”
Praske hummed thoughtfully.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? He’s gone, the morons lost him.”
“They lost him, yes. The programming was always fickle, starting to break down as soon as he was woken from cryostasis. Even Zola’s methods couldn’t really, not indefinitely…” Kalyagin faltered, looking for words that seemed to evade him in either language before giving in with a sigh. “You know what I mean, you were there after all.” James could almost picture the other man’s nod. At some point he’d grabbed another sheet of paper, scribbling down notes and names that fell during the conversation. He’d done it in Cyrillic script automatically.
“It was easier at first, when the amnesia was still …naturally occurring, for lack of a better word. And with Ivchenko. All that machinery was making him unstable, erratic.”
“They only moved Insight up because the asset wouldn’t have made it until then with the original timeline, and then what? Probably why it was so horrifically botched, in the end.”
More thoughtful humming, but the rest of the conversation didn’t reveal any more of value. James looked down at his notes and then set to converting it into Latin letters. Kalyagin. Praske. Department (X? he doesn’t know how he knows the letter, since he doesn’t even know whether it means the Latin or the Cyrillic one, or whether it’s supposed to stand for the Roman numeral). Doctor Novakov. Ivchenko.
“Fucking damn it.” He swears softly under his breath, frustrated at all those names in his direct history that he can make neither heads nor tails of. Trip looks at him with an expression of mock scandal, gasp and all.
“What? Didn’t your grandfather ever swear in front of you? If memory serves he wasn’t quite as shy back in the day.” A swear jar would have bled the Commandos dry, if he can trust his own head at all. They were in the army after all (though a few of them had drawn the line at blasphemy. Well, most of the time, anyway.)
Trip just grins.
Really, this place was a veritable pigsty. You'd think a bunch of spies would be sensible enough to make a rota concerning the chores rather than let the dirt collect and turn to mold on their dishes, but they seemed to be favoring the ‘whoever breaks down first in the face of overwhelming stains’ approach. Maybe he was just being too sensitive, he thought as he regarded the pile of used mugs in the sink with a look of disdain. Sensitive and stir-crazy. He'd always helped his mother with the dishes when he was little, and she'd passed the responsibility off to him completely as soon as his younger siblings turned old enough to do their share. With a small sigh and a look of determination, James set to work, filling the other sink with hot water and dish soap, and pulling on a pair of rubber gloves after he'd rolled up his sleeves. It was easy enough work, mechanical yet productive, and it allowed him to let his thoughts wander, going over the assorted pieces of his shadowed past. There were only scraps and bits, nothing to fill in the large blanks of his fractured history between his fall and the events of this year’s spring. He thought if only he could get a lead, start somewhere and start to unravel it all from that point onward …preferably someone who hadn’t been complicit in turning him into the Winter Soldier, but those people weren’t exactly in abundance.
He was just scrubbing a particularly stubborn tea stain from a mug that showed an owl and said 'Harry Potter' in spiky yellow letters when he heard movement behind him. Someone had entered the kitchen, but apparently frozen in spot after seeing him there. From the sound of the steps he guessed male, but not of heavy build. The noise level suggested that the person was not a trained field agent. All these deductions already made, he turned around to verify them, and was met with the young Scotsman Leo Fitz standing awkwardly in the doorframe. James managed a small smile that he hoped came across as reassuring and threw a simple 'Hello' over his shoulder.
"You don't have to do that, Sergeant Barnes." Fitz commented warily, his fingernails clinking quietly against his own mug clutched in his hands. James shrugged, grinning to himself as the statement reminded him of you.
"Seems like no one else will, and since I'm not really allowed to do much else here I might as well." he placed the now clean owl mug on the drying rack and placed the next few dishes in the water to soak. Fitz was still standing in the doorway when James faced him again. He nodded at the younger man and his mug, motioning for him to place it with the rest of the dirty dishes waiting to be cleaned, then at the drying rack that was already filled to more than full capacity.
"Grab a towel and help me with these, will you?"
Fitz moved as if in trance, letting his mug slip in the water, which wasn't as scalding hot anymore by now, and beginning to dry those dishes on the rack. They worked in silence for a while, but James noticed the younger man sneaking surreptitious glances at the exposed metal of his arm between the hems of glove and sleeve.
"You're the engineer here, right?" he remarked after some time, having just placed the final pieces of crockery into the water. It was just as well. Normally he didn't like people staring at the arm, but Fitz's expression was one of complete enthrallment rather than the looks of fear or pity most commonly evoked. Besides, it had been giving him some trouble lately, the circuitry allowing him some semblance of feeling having apparently clocked out partially, so that he felt a continuous dull ache in his elbow while most of his lower arm was almost completely numb to any sensory information. It was rather grating on his nerves, that. He supposed that some of the Potomac's salty water had gotten inside the casing after all and eventually worn through some wiring or other. The arm was supposed to be waterproof, but the casing had been damaged slightly on the Helicarrier and subsequently must have allowed some droplets to seep in. That paired with the fact that he'd not had regular maintenance for it in some time now had led to this unfortunate situation. If that was the case the repairs would have to be considerable and pretty invasive, too, seeing as the outer plating would have to be removed to get to the inner mechanics of the arm. It wouldn't be pleasant, exactly, seeing as the arm wasn't detachable either, grafted to his bones and fused to his nerve endings as it was. He told Fitz as much, and the other man nodded along thoughtfully, not attempting to hide his stares anymore.
James hissed slightly as placing the very last mug on the drying rack sent a sharper than usual pulse of discomfort up his arm and into his shoulder, mechanics translating the sensation into flesh with added smarting.
"We could, I mean, I could, if you're okay with that I could take a look at it right now." Fitz mumbled, letting the dishtowel drop without second thought. "It's probably to do with the ...the ...the ..." he started stuttering, and trembling, the frustration evident on his face when the term he needed eluded him. James had observed the young engineer struggle in this way before, and he could empathize with the feeling of knowing you were supposed to know something but being unable to grasp it - he often felt the same with his memories. He gently placed a hand (the warm, flesh-and-blood one) on Fitz's shoulder.
"Either which way, we won't know until we take a look." he said kindly, squeezing a bit, "Lead the way, doc."
When they arrive at the lab, Jemma is nowhere in sight and a small sigh of relief passes between Fitz’ lips, though he is quick to stifle it. James wisely chose to observe – quietly – over commenting on the fact that he has noticed, either this small gesture or the fact that there is a rift growing between the two young scientists that obviously didn’t use to be there. They almost died together when SHIELD fell; that is all he has been able to glean so far. Fitz was hurt in the process, had only been out of full time medical care for a few weeks when James arrived on the base. There is brain damage that affects him obviously and invasively, but no external scars. He will get to the bottom of this eventually, but for the moment he has more pressing matters to attend to, like taking steps to keep his arm operational and not suffer a breakdown in the process.
Fitz’ very obvious apprehension helped when it should have probably made him worry. He was about to let the man (boy, really, but then again his perspective was skewed) at and into his arm without knowing what might await the two of them there, but the trembling hands and nervous lip-licking of the other man only served to set him apart from the myriad HYDRA technicians and their cool detachment, their perverse fascination, their dispassionate working away on some lifeless tool.
“You, um …you’ll have to take that off, even if it’s your girlfriend’s and looks really comfy.” Fitz said, reddening and studiously pretending to arrange his tools. Right, he was standing in the middle of the lab like a total tool, wearing your MIT sweater (which, for the record, is really comfy).
“She’s not my girlfriend.” He huffs somewhat indignantly as he wriggles out of the sweater with reluctance. At least he can keep on the t-shirt. The technicians always made him strip down. He breathes deeply and sits down across from Fitz, gingerly placing the arm on the workbench between them. The fingers twitch involuntarily and he grimaces.
“Yes, right, okay ummm… if it hurts, you tell me. Or…or if you need me to stop.” The young engineer’s eyes are already scanning the limb, mentally creating a layout as well as a plan of attack. James hums non-committally.
“I mean it!”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
Not two weeks later he’s on another mission. Not exactly because he’s supposed to be. It’s more of an accident. He had just, accidentally, entirely by chance, been on the plane when it took off (basically without warning, but Mack had needed another pair of hands to hold some clunky and frankly heavy pieces while he mended them, had just quickly gone for a tool, and the next thing he knew the engines revved to life and he got away from the exposed wires ASAP because he’d had enough electro shocks to last him several lifetimes.)
“First off, I swear I did not plan this.” He’ll start later (later meaning when it’s actually too late to turn around, for which he will blame the large and confusing layout of the plane, but he really did not plan to be there) and May will give him an unimpressed look and Trip and Skye and Jemma will look secretly delighted in the background.
“You might as well make yourself useful then.” May will state and that is how James went on his second mission. Without field clearance, still. Being pushed to the very edges of legitimacy will do things to the observance of bureaucracy. And because he likes being useful notwithstanding the fact that this is how HYDRA baited him. Your work has been a gift to mankind… it’s different when gets to make that call himself.
And that was how he landed himself in a nondescript van outside the target location, doing mission control. Skye had hacked the building’s security feeds so he’s diligently scanning the live footage being projected onto the screens in the back of the van and all the agents’ earpieces feed back to this little command center, too.
It’s an extraction mission for data. The building does not belong directly to HYDRA, but to an affiliated cover company. One with intel on highly specialized experiments on their servers. Apparently the science is so advanced that they needed Jemma to come along personally, which is why the young English doctor is currently standing with Skye in a largely dark server room while Skye hacks into the systems. Security is low, but well trained. Not as well trained as Agent May, who has taken out four men at once in an impressive twirl of limbs though.
All seems quiet so far, with May watching the perimeter on the inside while James kept watch on the outside, frequently checking in with each other. Meanwhile he hears the steady murmurs of Jemma and Skye sifting through the data while Trip guards them. It’s too quiet, and he doesn’t like it.
“All clear?” May’s voice rings out quietly and James checks the screens again. Status quo: eight guards total, eight guards down, data is downloading, building is rigged with explosives. May is on the other side of the building from the three younger agents, her quadrant is clear. The middle quadrant is clear. The last quadrant is also clear. The eight guards have been knocked out and stored a safe distance from the expected blast. May continues her round, once through the building. By the time she’s back where she started the download is almost complete. It’s still too quiet. It’s your paranoia, the little voice in his head says, you’ve lost all faith in things just going well for once. He snorts derisively. No, he thinks as his eyes pick up on a sliver of movement on the edges of his vision, just experience.
“North wing, third floor.” He says through the earpieces. The man moves quietly and surely, using the shadows as he stalks towards the server room. He carries himself with the deadly fluidity of a trained killer. The armed guards couldn’t hold a candle to him if they teamed up. May is too far away to intervene.
“I suggest you haul ass out of there immediately. They’ve got a runner on you.”
“We can take him…”
“There’s three of us!” the youngsters protest.
“I’ll meet you at the door.” May commands, leaving no room for argument.
“You really can’t.” James seconds, eyes still glued to the man and his progress through the dim hallways. “Run. Spread out. Zig-zag. It’ll make it harder for him to shoot you.”
The runner is almost at the server room, just one floor away. May has to round the whole building; she’ll never make it in time. The download is on its agonizing last two percent because of course it is; it’s like they’re in any action movie ever.
“Get the fuck out of there!” is the last thing he yells before propelling himself out of the van, jumping the gate and rushing into the building. He can hear the first shots being fired in the distance, the thumping of feet, and moves towards it. He rounds another corner, takes stock of his surroundings, and formulates a plan on the go.
Nonsensically, the tune to that song from Disney’s Tangled worms its way into her consciousness as they tear down the dark hallway, zig-zagging like they’ve been told. It seems to work since Trip has only been grazed instead of shot. Mother knows best, listen to your mommy – really, it’s the most nonsensical thing.
Another bullet whizzes past Skye’s head as she ducks into the next hallway, but at least the guy hasn’t thrown any grenades at them yet. He definitely had some strapped to his belt. It’s the small mercies. Then again he’s been steadily gaining on them, so close she can almost feel his heated breath on her neck, but that’s probably the adrenaline.
Then, suddenly, there’s a tremendous ‘Bang’, the ringing sound of something solid hitting something else with considerable speed. Despite her better judgement (or what other people would probably consider better judgement; she doesn’t really seem to possess it), Skye turns around, and the sight makes her stumble with surprise. She comes to a screeching halt, skidding along the wall for a few steps.
“Sarge?” she manages between gulping breaths. He’s standing a few feet behind her, bracing a door she hadn’t even seen in her mad dash. On the other side of the door, which seems to be metal, their pursuer lies sprawled if the lone leg poking out is anything to go by.
James shoots her an unimpressed look.
“Next time, when someone tells you to run, you do so instantly.” He admonishes, stooping to disarm the guy, whose face looks like he ran straight into a brick wall (because he did, silly – well, kinda), in the same motion.
“Get a move on!” James urges while tying the guy’s wrists and ankles with his own belts, then hauling the limp form over his shoulder, taking off at a brisk jog. Skye is still staring, only startled back into action when she hears May’s voice call from the exit.
Within minutes, they all find themselves back in their van, the runner deposited with the guards and May wearing a scowl of epic proportions of disapproval. She doesn’t even need to say anything; her meaning could not be clearer. Skye cleared her throat awkwardly, then slid the flash drive across to her S.O., avoiding eye contact. May scowls some more, lips pursed, before telling them clippedly to buckle up and climbing into the driver’s seat, setting the car in motion. She detonated the explosives she and Trip set earlier when they’re well clear of the blast radius, then turns to James in the passenger seat.
“And as far you’re concerned…”
“Me? What did I do?” he sputters, affronted and rather more panicked than he’d like to admit. Old habits are hard to shake.
“You were supposed to stay in the van.” She states blankly. James feels his hackles rise. He hasn’t done anything wrong, he doesn’t think.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be here in the first place.” He objects hotly. At this, May’s face softens just a fraction.
“We’ll talk it over with Coulson as soon as we get back.”
In the end, he gets a commendation for his quick thinking, tempered with a reminder not to neglect communications, and is upgraded to a restricted field clearance, which places him as back-up/mission control/getaway driver if the need arises. All of this should he wish to (he does) with the possibility to opt out if he doesn’t feel up to it mentally (strongly encouraged and just as strongly refused, though he doesn’t say that last part out loud.)