Of Comfort No Man Speak
No matter where – of comfort no man speak.
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.
And yet not so – for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
William Shakespeare – Richard II, Act 3 Scene 2
Tony Stark, after fumbling around with two completely unrelated pieces of machinery at the same time and somehow managing not only not to blow himself up but also repair and improve them respectively, threw the tools he had been using carelessly on top of the cluttered mess that was his workbench. What to any other person would look like an extreme hardcore version of ‘Where’s Waldo’, except with various pieces of tools and machinery and potentially volatile materials was a source of familiarity to the genius inventor and he would later be able to retrieve the tools in question, or in fact any other piece, with astounding ease. Probably without even looking. Truthfully he hadn’t even been really paying attention to what he had been doing up until that point, a mixture of competence and muscle memory seeing him safely through while his mind was occupied with more pressing matters.
“Thanks, J. – now pull up the number of that DC research branch manager from Biomed.”
“I have been instructed by Miss Potts to relay the following message: ‘Tony, no. Absolutely not. Leave her alone.’” The engineer looked thoughtful for about five seconds after the recording ended.
“It’s important.” He tried justifying what he was attempting to accomplish. “Please? Why do I even have to beg like this? Who built you?”
“I feel the need to point out that it is 5:12 am on the morning of Monday August 25th.” The AI remarked, “Calling at such a time might be deemed impudent.”
“Jarvis,” Tony gasped in mock hurt, clutching his chest dramatically, “It’s like you don’t even know me at all!”
“In this case Miss Potts has impressed upon me that under absolutely no circumstances are the tabloids to be mentioned to Miss _________.” The AI concluded dryly.
Tony Stark did not call you immediately. Instead, because despite evidence often seeming to point to the contrary, he sensibly had a hot shower and a small breakfast that included copious amounts of caffeine, then took a half-hour power nap before returning to his lab space. By then it was a quarter past seven. Acceptable calling time on a work day, he thought and waited semi-patiently for the line to connect.
***
You started awake when an orange paw began swatting at your cheek.
“Hrrrmpf.” You said, articulately. You’d fallen asleep on the couch again and your neck wasn’t happy about it. You rolled your stiff shoulders, wondering when you’d fallen asleep. It had happened a few times over the past few weeks, which was ridiculous since it wasn’t like you had to wait up next to a landline in case (a certain) someone called. You swatted the cat away and stood, stretching and yawning before stooping down to check the time on your phone. A quarter to six in the morning. On a Monday, no less.
“I am appalled.” You grumbled at the cat, who was now lounging around on your discarded blanket, innocent as anything. She seemed to have gotten over her broken little kitten heart quite well. She wanted to be fed, but you let her wait in favor of a hot shower out of revenge for waking you at such an ungodly hour. After getting dressed, you fixed yourself and your feline companion some breakfast, mentally going through your meetings for the day ahead.
You almost choked on your coffee when the phone rang.
He fucked up. Everything had been going well up until –
He fucked up. Blood dripping down his fingers, running into the cracks between the metal plating. He’d had a glove at some point; he must have lost it. You fucked up. Blood, black in the night but actually pink from dilution. He shivered in his wet clothes. Gulping hard, the stooped to lift the body up on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. I fucked up.
Things had been going too well. He should have been suspicious. No, he had been suspicious. He should have been more suspicious, then. He should have acted on his suspicions instead of shoving them aside as the fancies of his paranoid mind. Maybe then…
Everything had been going well up until the moment it didn’t. The seller had met them at the specified location, looking appropriately nervous for someone who was facing HYDRA and acting appropriately greedy and morally bankrupt for someone who knew what they do and still went and sold them a deadly space rock. He had been a weedy man, ruddy-cheeked and in a suit that could have fit better, accompanied by two subtly armed guards whom James and Prescott (‘You can call me Owen, you know’) entered into a rather half-hearted staring match with for the duration of the meeting. The weedy man had counted the money rather sloppily, James had found, then handed over the briefcase containing the FDAT with a grimy smile. O’Malley had opened it and even, after pulling on a pair of gloves, inspected it from all sides. It was more of an obelisk or statue than a rock, silver and oblong with straight sides and precise edges. On its own, it looked foreign but not especially threatening. After she was satisfied, O’Malley nodded and exchanged briefcases and platitudes with the weedy man, who in turn called off his guards and left.
“That was really anti-climactic to be honest.” Skye’s voice had crackled over the comms as soon as the seller’s vehicle had disappeared into the distance, and James had released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“That’s a good thing, agent.” O’Malley had replied tensely, flowing into motion. The two men had followed and met up back up with Skye and Jana at the car parked outside, where O’Malley swapped the briefcase she’d received for a decoy. Jana took the one that contained the newly purchased FDAT and together the team left the location. They’d then dropped Jana off at the nearest train station. Her part in the mission was for all intents and purposes over, her only remaining task now being to bring the artifact to safety. So far, so smooth, all according to plan. He should have been suspicious. He should have seen it coming a mile away. He fucked up.
They drove to the second meeting point, a mansion near the river shore. James’ hair was standing up on the back of his neck, cold sweat beading between his tense shoulders. They met the HYDRA people out on a wooden veranda. There were sparse lights throughout the spacious garden while the house itself was largely dark. The veranda was illuminated by strategically placed lanterns. Again, O’Malley took the lead, Skye acting as her accomplice this time. Prescott functioned as the hired muscle again while James had broken off their little convoy earlier and was now slinking through the shadows, ready to strike. Should he need to in order to protect his team. The plan calls for scoping out the perimeter, for now. Just as well, the thought of bloodshed makes him queasy. Isn’t that the grandest thing? The deadliest assassin of the century, afraid of killing-
Well, if all goes according to plan he won’t have to.
The HYDRA representative wore an expensive tailored suit and a slick smile, his hair only just beginning to grey at the temples. Surrounding him were six heavily armed guards. James calculated how to best take out most of these while O’Malley played her role as perfectly as she had done with the actual seller earlier. And everything had been going well, so well. Too well. He should have noticed, instead he couldn’t even pinpoint the moment the tilt happened, when a successful mission shifted into utter mayhem. It didn’t look like mayhem at first. Failure is a slick smile on a vaguely familiar face. Familiar? The HYDRA man, with his fancy suit and greying temples. James should have known, should have remembered (he doesn’t remember even now, he only knows). The team walks away to the car, the exchange apparently concluded – just according to plan. James checked compulsively for the handgun at his side. They had a whopping total of two handguns and a rifle between the four of them. If push came to shove and he had to put it to use, would he hesitate?
He watched the unsettlingly familiar man saunter back into the house while the team seemingly drove away. Then there was the screeching of tires in the distance, followed by the sound of metal crashing. It echoed loudly in the dark, quiet night and James’ blood ran cold.
When he reached the car, its engine was already revving back up again. The hood was a mess and the windshield was cracked, but generally the thing wasn’t totaled, at least. They must not have been going at any dangerous speed yet. He yanked open the front passenger door only to find the remaining handgun aimed straight at his face.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s Barnes. It’s me. What happened? What-”
“Christ, mate, I could’ve shot you in the face!” Prescott yelped, lowering the gun. James hardly acknowledged it in favor of quickly checking the three people over for injuries. Luckily, they appeared to be mostly unharmed save for a few scrapes and bruises. The same would certainly not have been the case if they had been going any faster.
“What happened?” James reiterated urgently. Why had the car crashed? Had someone shot out the tires? All four of them were flat, he could see that much in the dark, but not much more. Potential threats might be around, hiding in the thick foliage of the dark forest where they would be basically invisible. He tried to tune in his hearing, but came up short over the sputtering of the engine. O’Malley turned off the ignition, apparently having come to a similar conclusion as him or simply realizing that they wouldn’t get all that far in it anyway. He heard nothing except the harsh panting of his teammates and the quiet gurgle of the river. Skye had already scrambled out of the backseat, rifle in hand. O’Malley and Prescott were struggling with their seat belts, until the latter let out an annoyed grunt and pulled a knife from a sheath underneath his sleeve, cutting them loose.
“A trap.” O’Malley eventually replied, spitting the words out harshly. “Spikes on the ground. They never meant to let us leave.”
“Well observed. Too bad your realization came too late to save you.” A voice rang out from the darkness behind the vehicle, and a man casually strolled closer, blinding them with the harsh glare of his flashlight. James squinted, raising his free hand to shield his eyes. Based on audio cues he could still make the shot, but there had to be more of them yet concealed in the darkness, just waiting to pounce. His hand shook, but he raised it anyway.
As if to confirm his train of thought, he heard more footsteps, then another voice. This one, he recognized instantly. He’d heard it not two hours before coming from the weedy man who’d posed as their seller.
“I admit that I do love it when a plan comes together like this, don’t you?” he asked his associate, who had by now slightly lowered his flashlight, illuminating the four agents who stood there helpless, like sitting ducks, rather than blinding them. O’Malley let out a snarl, Prescott a curse, and Skye had raised the rifle to her shoulder properly, struggling to decide at which of the men to aim first.
It had all been going so well.
It had been a set-up from the start.
James felt the panic flow through his veins, burning like ice. They weren’t gonna make it. It had been over a week since James had last heard your voice, much longer since he’d last seen you.
More men had emerged from the darkness, at least six men who were all as heavily armed as they had been standing on that veranda moments ago. They were effectively surrounded, and O’Malley was trapped on the opposite side of the car without a weapon of her own. The man with the flashlight and the greying temples was pointing a gun straight at her head while the weedy man grinned smugly. James reckoned that if he surrendered himself to his training, he might be able to take out the guards, most of them at least. He was only too painfully aware of the carnage he could wreak if he wanted - (Steve’s battered face flashed before his inner eye, overlaid with the many faces of previous targets, all bleeding into one) – he just wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself out of it. Skye had the two leaders in her crosshairs, Prescott finally joining her in putting up his weapon, as if he’d only just remembered he had it.
“Now, now, no reason to be so …stand-offish.” Weedy man sneered and James could swear he heard O’Malley groan in annoyance. Then, after a wave of his hand, the guards stood aside, leaving a wide opening.
“What the-“ Prescott began, confusion flashing across his face. “What sick game are you playing?”
“Ah, a game indeed. Lower your weapon, Buchholz.” The man with the greying temples did as instructed, smiling that slick smile again. James felt sick.
“A game indeed,” Weedy man started again, “Or a sport. In any case, I do love hunting.”
A beat of silence passed, stretching unnaturally as the meaning behind these words sank in. the guards raised their weapons again, casual and fingers not yet on the triggers. They were still outgunned seven to three.
“Run.” O’Malley ordered with surprising calm.
You picked up the phone as soon as you had swallowed your coffee, wondering who could possibly need to speak to you at this time.
“___________?”
The tone of voice immediately told you that something was very, very wrong. Instantly you were on high alert.
“What is it?” you inquired urgently, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
What happened? What happened? One moment he’d stood there, coiled like a spring.
“Run.” O’Malley had instructed, before launching herself bodily at the HYDRA men, knocking the gun out of Fancy Suit’s hand. Skye had reacted quickly, catching one guard in the shoulder and another in the gut before her rifle jammed, rendering it useless. He and Prescott had each given off a couple of shots, but in the sudden mayhem they hadn’t done as much damage as they should. In an act of spectacular insubordination, the three of them had vaulted over the crashed car in order to get to their SO, swinging around fists, feet, and rifle butts near indiscriminately.
The two men in suits were soft as butter or expensive leather, not an ounce of real fight in them, but their guards were more than capable of making up for it. And James fought them as much as himself, fought the ice running along his veins and the temptation to just give himself over. You’re holding back, a niggling little voice jeered from the back of his mind, you could rip them limb from limb with ease. You could, but you’re holding back. Stop holding back. But he did, and hesitated, and caught hits like raindrops. They were losing. Skye was slammed into the side of the car so hard that the window cracked, Prescott received a hit that sent him sprawling over the roof and O’Malley howled when one of the goons got a hold of his weapon and released a small volley of bullets into her leg. Another exploited James’ momentary distraction to land a solid left hook right on his jaw, then hauled him up by the shoulders and rammed his thick fat skull up into James’ face. He felt his nose crunch and crack, felt the hot flash of blinding pain and when the guard pulled away, his leering face was painted with James’ blood. He fell to his knees with ringing ears, wheezing with his vision swimming. The guard sneered on, drawing a handgun from a holster on his thigh and pointing it at James’ head smugly.
“You should have run, little rats.” James saw the guard’s finger tightening on the trigger; his spinning head making him see double and seemingly slowing time until his whole world was waiting for the hit, for darkness to fall.
A mighty thump later and the guard was falling sideways, the smug expression only slowly running into one of surprise. Skye stood there with the rifle poised to strike again, and dumbly James thought that this seemed familiar.
“Who’re you calling rat, squidward?” she spat, already dropping to one knee and slinging an arm under James’ shoulder in the futile attempt to move him up.
“Get it together!” she hissed when he barely budged, his head and mind still reeling, “Get up! Get UP!!!”
“Why couldn’t you damn brats just listen to me?” O’Malley was shouting to his right, being held up by Prescott. James shook himself and looked around, assessing the situation within split seconds. Wondrously, most of the guards were down for the count – for now. The two suited men, standing a little way back by now, looked slightly alarmed by this development, but already the first guards were stirring, and Weedy Man produced a phone from a pocket and started yelling for reinforcements into it. James started scrambling for the gun he’d dropped at some point, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t grip it. You are failing. You are failing the mission. You know what happens when you fail. What a disappointment you are.
Two shots rang out, almost simultaneously, and the suited HYDRA men dropped with pained groans.
“Dammit!” O’Malley bit out.
“We have to go!” Prescott urged, pulling her away when she went to re-aim. Apparently her shot had faltered because Weedy Man was already trying to push himself up again.
“We really gotta go!” Skye agreed, almost shouting into his ear.
“The bikes.” He muttered, finally managing to hoist himself up. “Gotta get to the bikes.”
They got up and ran while they could.
***
O’Malley’s steps faltered after mere meters, what with her maimed leg. Small wonder, but adrenaline is a miraculous substance. But even it can only do so much. The ominous stomping of heavily booted feet drew nearer, loud in the otherwise quiet night. James had not exactly performed well in the fight, but he still had his strength. O’Malley was holding them back, but she was a slight woman, wiry and sinewy and on the short side. Ignoring her protests, he and Prescott deposited her on his back. The going was easier that way. They still left a path like a herd of warthogs through the undergrowth, but at least this way they could actually put some distance between them and their pursuers. By the time they reached the place where the bikes were concealed O’Malley had stopped admonishing, and too much of her blood had seeped into James’ jacket. It was barely visible in the darkness – it had to be going on 2 am by now, too – but he smelt it all the same, felt the wet stickiness of it on his skin.
He deposited O’Malley on the seat of one of the machines as gently as he could while Prescott was already at hand with a makeshift compression bandage to stem the blood flow.
“Get her to a hospital as quickly as you can.” Prescott was saying to Skye as he tied the bandage. “Follow the main road back in the direction we came from. There must be one in the city. We only passed through on the edges. You’ll have to…”
“What’s hospital in German?” Skye asked, already taking her place and starting the engine. “There should be signs, right?”
“Krankenhaus.” James informed her. “There should be a symbol on street signs. A red cross. Follow that.”
“Like The Red Cross red cross?”
“Yeah, like that. Have them check you out, too. You took a few nasty hits.”
She nodded. “What about you?”
“We’ll be right behind you. Go!” Prescott urged, stepping away from the bike so she could drive unhindered. Skye’s eyes sought James’ for a moment, wide and fearful. She looked pretty banged up herself. There was shouting in the distance, the sounds of boots and the occasional glare of a flashlight.
“Go!” he mouthed, “We’ll meet you there. Go!”
“You better!” she half sobbed; the engine roared and the women took off towards the main road. The two men stood a moment, gazing after the retreating silhouette like in trance.
“We won’t be right behind them, will we?” he asked Prescott, who nodded absently before meeting his gaze.
“Go if you want. I’ll lead these squid twits on a wild goose chase.”
James scoffed. The first glint of a flashlight grazed over them.
“Let’s give’em hell, Owen.”
Owen smirked, even if it was cracked at the edges. “You know, I never got your first name, Agent Barnes.”
“I …James. My name is James.”
“Okay, James,” Owen threw a cautious glance over his shoulder, “Would you take point? My eyes haven’t been what they used to be since… oh well, that’s a longer story.”
***
Just when James thought that this damn forest would never end they came upon the water’s edge, the Hydra goons hot on their heels. There had to be at least ten, if not more. Owen drew his gun.
“We should split up, pick the wankers off one by one.” Owen muttered lowly while their pursuers drew closer, closer, closer. James nodded even though he knew he had only three bullets left.
“Crap, I’ve only got two bullets left. You?”
“Three.”
Owen’s mouth set in a thin line, then he handed James his gun. “Make each shot count.”
“What about you?”
Owen opened his jacket to reveal an array of knives. Some slots were already empty; he must have used them in the fight at the car.
A crack of dry wood to their left set them off in opposite directions. The night was surprisingly cold for August. James shivered as the sweat on his skin cooled in the night air, or at least he told himself it was the cold that made him shiver. He’d snared about half of the guards, leading them in a wide circle. At one point he managed to lose his tail for long enough to climb up on one of the numerous trees and onto a good vantage point. No one ever looks above for threats. Why did no one ever look up?
He could very faintly hear fighting in the distance, the singing and slicing of steel and the panting and groaning of wounded men, the odd death rattle. James had three bullets left and five pursuers. Three of whom were just now crossing beneath his perch. His hand still shook. Get it together. Clean shots, they won’t feel a thing. It’s not like they don’t deserve…
No! he thought vehemently, I don’t do that anymore. I don’t want…
It’s them or you, and yours. Three clean headshots. It would be more mercy than they deserve.
Maybe they’ll just go on, if I’m quiet enough, they’ll just walk away…
No, silly, silly asset. We don’t leave loose ends. You don’t want to fail your mission, do you?
James pressed his hands against his temples until the pressure numbed all other sensations.
James Buchanan Barnes, your name is James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557…32557… 038. 32557038038038. Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. Barnes Sergeant 32557038. BarnesSergeant32557038. Barnesseargeant32557038barnessergeant32557038barnesseargeant32557038barnessergeant32557…
A scream tore through the otherwise quiet night, jolting James from his mantra. A desperate, feral yowl. He knew that voice. Beneath his tree perch, all was clear. He landed softly, letting his joints absorb the impact, and took off running as soon as his feet connected with the ground. He made a sharp turn towards the river shore, or was it a lake at this point? There was so much water it became hard to keep track. He picked his way along the shore in any case. Progress was faster this way.
Owen fought back, or at least he was trying to even though it was clear that his uncoordinated and faltering attacks couldn’t hurt squash a resting fly. Three men were upon him, jeering, smug. Not the same ones who had pursued James; these were still unaccounted for. James jumped the biggest one first, vaulted onto his back and tightened his left arm around the man’s throat. It wasn’t an especially refined move. The guy clawed like a man drowning, tearing at James’ sleeve, ripping off his glove. James let him drop when he stopped struggling. The two remaining guards gaped at the glinting metal of his arm.
“Fuck.” One said, “Fuck, it’s him. It’s the Soldier!”
The second guard raised his gun with an evil grin. “Hail HYDRA.” He said, then quickly swerved and released a volley into Owen’s slumped form, one leg in the river, before swinging his weapon around again. He was interrupted quite abruptly in this movement by James’ foot, making him smash into his still gaping colleague and putting the both of them through a tree.
“Hail this you twats!” Owen cheered wetly, weakly. James dropped to his knees beside the other man, trying to stem the bleeding but there were too many wounds, too much blood staining the grass and dissolving lazily into the water.
“No. Nononono, come on! Come on!”
“I’m done, mate. I’m done. It’s okay, just get …just ge…”
Skye was worried, and tired, and exhausted. She hurt all over, and also she might have cried a bit out of pure frustration, and possibly a bit of shock. She had found the hospital alright, but it had taken almost half an hour to get there, even with how madly she had been speeding. Agent O’Malley was alive though, so that was good, right? Only the men hadn’t followed like they said they would, and she’d done the only thing she could think of and called May, who had then appeared not an hour later, just as the sun started to rise. Still no sign of either James or Owen Prescott. That is, until the window clicked in the private room May had organized somehow and then there he stood, bloody and tattered and broken-nosed, his face half purple and his eyes hollow. He took one look at the three women and then a heavy step towards the unoccupied bed, gently depositing Prescott’s lifeless frame on the mattress. He fixed May with a broken, weary look.
“You thought I was ready.” He said, gravelly and so softly Skye could barely make out the words even though she was not three feet away from him. May held his gaze.
“Yes.”
His eyes flitted down to the corpse on the bed in front of him. Something twisted in his expression before his face fell blank, empty.
“You were wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Skye’s voice sounded agitated, “He’s in a bad way, _______. Hasn’t said a word in almost four days now and he …we have these holding cells, for interrogation? All enforced walls and super-soundproofing and all that? He locked himself in one of those and he’s literally beating himself up in there. I don’t know what else to do-“
You swallowed hard, letting this sink in, trying to clamp down the turmoil of emotions started by those words. There was a sound in the background on Skye’s end, like a feral howling and screaming and sobbing. It was muted but it sounded barely human. It sounded like pure anguish.
“Are you… are you standing in front of that cell right now?” you asked cautiously, hoping against hope that the answer would be ‘no’, that this wasn’t James, your Jamie, you were hearing.
“Yes.” Skye said very softly. “He …we’ve tried everything and …and I was hoping that maybe you…”
You had no idea what you could possibly do in this situation, not even knowing what had triggered it, but that wouldn’t keep you from trying.
“Does that cell thing have some kind of speaker system you can put me on for now?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Okay, patch me through. And then after, we’ll talk about the fact that this went on for three whole days before you called me.”