Hazards

Protecting the President’s son was supposed to be a promotion, but Sam could tell it was just going to be more stress.  Higher pay, but not enough for the trouble.  Sam’s impressive conduct protecting Secretary Sharon Carter had gotten the attention of his superiors, and now that James Barnes was being discharged from the hospital he needed a new Secret Service detail.

Sam took a deep breath as he watched the elevator numbers.  He had been briefed extensively on the assignment.  Sergeant James Barnes was a decorated war hero, former prisoner of war, and the only son and oldest child of President Winnifred Barnes.  From what Sam knew, James was the difficult one.  The President is said to be a lovely woman, Rebecca plays it safe and is easy to protect, and James had a reputation in the Secret Service of being rude, short tempered, and volatile. From what Sam read in the magazines, James enjoyed nightclubs and frequent flings.  Still, he was America’s Sweetheart for what he sacrificed for his country.

Sam tried to keep that in mind.  James was only twenty five.  He had spent his entire adult life in the military, a year of which he was in enemy hands before he escaped.  Sam had his own military experience, he was willing to give James the benefit of the doubt, despite the reputation that preceded him.

The elevator doors opened and Sam started forward.  He didn’t need the room number to know which one it was, an agent waited outside of the door.  She looked relieved when Sam approached.

“About time,” Natasha said.

Sam smiled back at her.  “Any trouble?”

“Not particularly at the moment, but I can tell he’s getting agitated,” She said with a shrug.  “He’s about as ready to get out of here as I am, but I’m glad I’m missing whatever tantrum is coming.”

‘Tantrum’ was a common word used in James Barnes rumors around the Secret Service.  Like a toddler.  Sam had noticed, whenever he participated in the breakroom conversations or post-meeting gossip, that getting his security detail was like dealing with a spoiled child.

“Well, I’ll take it from here,” Sam said. Natasha was tired, he could tell.  

“I won’t argue.  Good luck, Wilson,” she said.  She let out a sigh, shoulders laxing as she did.  “He wasn’t as bad as they said, but maybe that’ll be different once he’s out of here.”

Natasha had been temporarily placed with James.  His former Secret Service detail had been fired, vaguely listed ‘Failure to Perform Duties’.  Sam wasn’t given more details than that, but it was suspicious.  Especially considering he was picking James up from the hospital.  Sam and Natasha shook hands, her responsibilities here now complete.

They said their goodbyes and Natasha made her escape.  Sam took a deep, cleansing breath before knocking on the door and entering.  His first look at Sergeant Barnes was on his back.  The man faced the window, peeking through the slits in the closed blinds.  He wore a cotton t-shirt, framing the muscles of his back in perfectly placed shadows.  He looked strong, still held himself like military.  James turned around when the door clicked shut, blue eyes met Sam’s, then drifted up and down to look Sam over.

“You’re new,” James said.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” Sam said in a calm tone.  He could feel himself being picked apart in James’ head. “We have a car waiting when you’re ready.”

James rolled his eyes. “Formal.  Let’s go.”

James picked up a duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.  He stepped around Sam on his way out the door.  No further introduction needed.  Sam followed two steps behind, eyes scanning the hallway in front of them to make sure James' path was clear.  Safe.  James had already been discharged, paperwork packed away, and now he was free to go wherever he desired with Sam in tow.

The car was waiting in the parking garage, a covered building, private.  James had been in the magazines enough the past few days, speculation on the ‘mysterious illness’ that landed him in the hospital.  The President would not want to see photos of her son leaving.  James tossed his duffel into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Sam nodded to the driver and then got in the back seat with James.

Barnes wrinkled his nose at Sam.  “Don’t you guys typically take the front?”

“I have orders to stay as close to you as possible.  At all times,” Sam said.

He was met with a disgusted grunt, James’ lip curled in displeasure. “I don’t need to be fucking babysat.”

“My job is to keep you alive, not happy,” Sam responded flatly.

James actually chuckled at that.  “At least you’re an honest one,” he said.  

He kept an eye on Sam even as the car pulled out of the parking garage.  The black tinted windows gave them a view out, but no one could see in.  There were a few news vans waiting, incase news came of Sergeant Barnes’ release or passing.  Not nearly as much press as last week when he was rushed into the Emergency Room.  As days passed, the paparazzi dispersed little by little.  Sam had seen the magazines, the talk shows Sarah had on sometimes.  People lost interest when it looked like he was going to live.

“Did they tell you why I was in there?” James asked, attention moving up and down Sam again.  Weighing him up.

“If they thought it was necessary for the assignment, they would have told me,” Sam stated.  When he first read the report, his previous head of security had been dismissed and an emergency trip to the hospital.  Sam had assumed James was attacked, injured, but right now he looked fine.  Not a scratch on him.  Just some dark circles under his eyes.  

“Good,” James said.  He leaned forward to tap on the partition.  “Starbucks.”

Sam frowned slightly, the corners of his lips tipped down.  Rude was a good word to describe him, Sam decided.  James had so far barked orders, not requests.  He hadn’t even bothered to ask Sam for his name.  But it wasn’t Sam’s job to make him a pleasant person, just to make sure he was alive at the end of Sam’s shift.  

The car pulled into the Starbucks parking lot, lingering until the other secret service car followed behind them.  Then the two cars went through the drive thru, protection in place behind them.

“Iced matcha latte with a pump of Raspberry syrup,” James said to the driver, plopping back into his seat.  

James pulled his phone out then, the screen illuminated and lit up his features.  The shadows of James’ face were more prominent then, tinged a deeper, sickly blue.  Sam’s eyes drifted over James’ cheekbones.  His features were sunken.  Shoulder slumped now.  Perhaps it was just an illness after all.  That just made Sam more curious about what Rumlow did to be dismissed from duty.

“Agent Wilson,” The driver said, catching Sam’s attention.  “Are you ordering a drink?”

“No thank you,” Sam said.

James scoffed.  “Get him a coffee.  And you, get you a coffee,” he said, leaning forward to pass over a credit card to the driver.  

“I don’t need a coffee,” Sam said.  

“Yes you do,” James said simply.  “You have to stay alert, right?  I have a busy day planned.”

“The orders were to take you directly home,” Sam said.

James narrowed his eyes at him.  His thumb lingering in the air above his phone screen. “I don’t care what your orders are.”

“On the orders of the Director, you are to return directly to your primary residence.  It’s already been prepared for you,” Sam said flatly.  Professionally.  

“Well the Director can shove his orders-“

“Sir, your order is ready,” The driver said, cutting in with a drink carrier extended out. One was a green drink with ice, the other a hot coffee, a handful of cream and sugars on the side, and James’ card rested on top of his drink.

Sam took the drink carrier and passed it along to James.  “Take us home,” he said to the driver.

“No,” James said.  He took his card and drink, leaving Sam holding the rest.  “Drink up, Wilson, we've got a long day.”

“A short one,” Sam said firmly.  He was already tired of the games.  He was only here for the pay increase.  “Because you’re going home.  The President is waiting.”

James raised an eyebrow, a half grin crawled up his face.  “Really?  I was wondering how long it would take.  Okay.  Home.”