Freedom is Sweet

By the morning, James has written up the details of how exactly he broke into the compound on the stationary he found on the desk in the room, together with his two back up plans. Next to his life, this is all he has to offer, and Stark has made it clear he doesn’t want the former. James has spent most of his night trying to comprehend that fact, the lack of pain in his shoulder, and only towards the morning hours would his mind move past Starks mercy. So now that he’s past disbelief and reeling from Stark’s touch and kindness, he’s up to his neck in gratitude.

Mainly he’s so so so grateful for the silence. With every words the Colonel said, every movement new memories came flooding back, slotting back into place, and it’s overwhelming and disorienting. It’s a miracle he was able to keep up conversation enough to get him this bed for a night. A shower. 

He did a sweep of the room as soon as Stark closed the door, checking every drawer and behind ever door. More instinct than actual caution, made a delightful fun by the new ease with which the movements came to him. He uncovered nothing much, the paper, a few pens, some nondescript clothes. A fully stocked bathroom. And the shower of course.

James knew he didn’t look or smell good. He didn’t spend much of his time on the run in front of a mirror, but then again, he didn’t spend much of his time on the run coherent enough to recognise himself. Now that he did have time to look at his reflection, his first thought was satisfactions. He looked nothing like himself. Or rather, he looked nothing like Bucky Barnes. A very different thing from himself when he inspected the idea. He looked terrible, Stark had gotten that right, and he didn’t want to know the stench the mechanic had been putting up with for the hour and eight minutes he’d been close to James.

Still. James hesitated when he approached the shower. He was alone, no allies and no handler, in a place he didn’t know. Everything in him recoiled at the thoughts of undressing, making himself vulnerable like that. But then again, he knew the effort it had taken him to break in. He could think of a handful of people that might be able to do the same, names he adds to the stationary later in the morning. But only Natalia is in the country. And Stark already knows about Natalia.

In the end he gets over himself, and lets the scalding hot water scorch his skin pink. It stings against the inflamed skin on his arm, and the pain is comforting. In his delirious relief, James hadn’t been sure he could still feel pain, after whatever Stark did to him. He saved your life. Again.

James sighs. Again. And he has nothing to give in return. He doesn’t like being in debt, but he’s not even sure a man as rich in money, friends and power deals in debts. All he knows is that the precisely sketched plan of the compound before him is all he can give in return for a night of peace.

Well. A night of silence. Peace is a high bar to reach for someone buried as deep as James. He spends the nights remembering, sorting through information and emotions, thoughts and feelings that feel entirely foreign, but are still his.

He remembers Siberia and Germany. Two very different fights with Stark, one vivid and real and confusing, and one collection of facts, muscle memory and analysis, most of it in russian and none of it his. The Winter Soldier’s memories always come in later, so much later, and always like this. A film he was never in, movements he knows his body executed, but he doesn’t feel the executions. He watches his body fight and kill and raise the gun to shoot Stark right between the eyes. It makes him want to retch, but at this point he knows this so well he can stomach it. He’s not sure if that’s better.

He also remembers Romania. It almost makes him smile. It’s cruel but also comforting to know that he’s gone through all this once already. He’s done the remembering and piecing himself together once, he can go it again. That’s when he starts writing. He remembers the journal, the notes there, old things he wishes he hadn’t remembered and new things he doesn’t want to forget. He sits down at the desk and writes of sunshine and an apartment and the job at the cargo station he had to pay for it. He remembers what plums tastes like and feels hunger for the first time in five weeks.

James writes and writes all night. He doesn’t even consider sleep. He’s in another man’s house, clean by another man’s grace and wearing another man’s clothes. He can’t waste this chance.

When morning comes and the light of a cold dawn begins to filter through the window, James is looking at pages upon pages of himself. A lot of it are sensory reminders. The taste of plums. The feeling of falling into a river. The feeling of falling into a ravine. The difference between the summer and winter sun. The colour of the cat he fed in Romania. A lot of it is dates, names and numbers. The Winter Soldier’s memories are burned into him, imprints of bodies made clearly and irrevocably on his soul. He doesn’t need more than a few numbers to remember them.

The light spills into the room and James reaches out, lets it hit his foot clad in a new boot, lets it hit his hand, his skin. He feels more like himself than he can ever remember doing, whatever that might mean. It means a stack of paper, loose and war torn beside him. It means gratitude for this one night, this small break. And it means knowing he needs to leave. He likes Stark, to the best of his very fragmented ability. The man is kind, kind enough to be kind to him, sparing his life Again and helping with the pain. He does not deserve the bad luck charm that is James Barnes.

But apparently being himself also means being polite, so he does not vanish. He’s not sure if he could, with this Friday watching over him. Rather he writes down the plans on how to break into Stark’s sanctuary, writes down the names of the people who could do it, and watches the sun rise.

Eventually he thinks back to last night, to Stark’s explanations of the room, and being himself means curiosity. This is Howard Stark’s son after all. And once upon a time that might have meant a lot to him.

“Miss Friday?” He doesn’t know where to direct his question to, Stark didn’t look in any one direction when he spoke to her.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes.” Her polite voice comes from nowhere in particular, which doesn’t help with the direction issue.

“Am I allowed to leave the room?” He knows what Stark said last night, but still. He’d rather be sure.

“You are free to explore the compound as you wish,” Friday’s gentle voice answers. “You currently have a visitor status, granting you access to all the public areas of the compound. Areas with a need for a higher clearance will have scanners for an ID badge and will remain closed to you. Mr. Stark has scheduled your meeting with Colonel Rhodes at 11:00, it is currently 06:38.”

James decides that he likes her. The information is presented to him neatly parceled and handed out like bullets. He doesn’t want to know why he likes it that way, why this is comfortable and easy for him to understand it. If he wants to kid himself he could say it’s the sniper in him, the man with a far away gaze taking in one target at a time, one bit of the environment at a time, focusing on the most important bit. He knows that’s not what it is though. He’s been a hunter for so much longer than he has been a sniper. And now the way Friday gives him data is comfortable.

A memory of somewhere cold creeps through is mind like fog. Bullets pressed into his hand, four bullets for five targets. Four shots and one accident. There had been commands in chinese, and then walking freely into a landscape he’s never been to, but knows from maps. He shakes it off, running his hand down the seam of his new jeans, trying to ground himself in the present. He’s in another man’s house, in another man’s clothes. He’s here, talking to a voice that comes from everywhere.

“Miss Friday?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?” She sounds like she is smiling. It softens something in him, makes the breathing a little bit easier to know that someone is smiling while talking to him, although she doesn’t have a face.

“Could you help me with something else? I don’t want to take up your time.”

“I am an artificial intelligence, Mr. Barnes, and as such am designed to multitask. I am currently running 349 processes all around the compound, and compiling research and data for eighteen of Mr. Starks personal projects, as well as projects from other residents. I have plenty of capacity to spare for your questions. So ask me whatever you need.”

Whatever you need, darling.

James flinches, something in his body seizing and suddenly he is standing, his back to the wall beside the window, his knife in his hand.

“Mr. Barnes?”

His heart is racing, beating wildly against his ribs, and adrenaline is flooding his blood, too much, and panic is taking over.

“Mr. Barnes, please try to take a deep breath.”

James is watching with a cold distance as his body succumbs to it. His vision is greying at the edge, and he’s aware that he’s hyperventilating. He needs to breathe slower, follow Friday’s count. He knows he needs to drop the knife, because he’s losing control over his body and he’ll be more dangerous with a knife in his hand.

It’s not like he can do anything though.

“Mr. Barnes, I have contacted Mr. Stark to come to your assistance. He has experience with what you are experiencing and will be able to help you.”

James would smile if he could. He too has plenty of experience with what he’s experiencing, months and months of Romania with what he’s experiencing. That doesn’t mean he can help it. He just hopes the wall behind him can take a panicked Winter Soldier pressing against it. But then again, it’s Stark’s wall. That man doesn’t half ass things.

His vision is fully unreliable by now, his body tense like a piano string. He knows what that feels like, a piano string tense across his body, across his hands and his throat. He’s not sure if those are separate occurrences or the same memory. He is however horribly shure that he’ll figure that out eventually. The memories always come back.

Except for this here.

He’s distantly aware that the door to the room is open, Stark comes in. Instinct and training, all that remains when James goes. The knife moves in his hand, safety hold to attack hold, and Stark says something. Friday says something. James is sure he knows what they said, but he can’t think of it right now, can’t make sense of the sounds.

Something does seep through. Friday’s voice, close to him. “-- a panic attack, boss.”

He hasn’t heard those words before, but he instinctively knows that she’s right. In a way it’s comforting, knowing that this shit has a name. It’s not just his body that betrays him like this. James tries to breathe, tries to take control over his heart. If only he could.

“-- James? Can you hear me, James?”

James looks up. Stark is standing a safe distance away, one bed away to be exact, his brows drawn together with concern. Again that look. And again it’s his fault.

Upon seeing that James is listening, Stark keeps talking. “You need to breathe, James. I’ll count, follow my count. Doesn’t matter if you can’t make it all the way, just try.”

He starts counting. James can’t breathe, but his eyes are fixed on Stark’s eyes, on his lips, the rest of his vision still grey and fucked. He breathes more with the movements of Stark’s lips, blinks when he does, breathes when he does. Not what he’s supposed to be doing you’re getting it wrong, you will die if you get it wrong. Miss and you know what happens. You just remembered last time but in the end it helps, so it doesn’t really matter.

The grey at the edge of his vision slowly begins to fade and James becomes aware of the tension in his jaw. His hold around the knife. He let’s go and the blade drops onto the floor, getting stuck in the wooden floorboards. Stark’s gaze follows the weapon, and James knows he’ll have to apologise for the damage, will have to make up for it, pay for it, but for now the most important thing is that he’s disarmed. He can take whatever punishment will come of this. He cannot take a dead Tony Stark, cannot take the impression of another body on him. Especially not this body.

Seeing him calm down, Stark also slowly relaxes, shifting to once again analysing the display before him. The untouched bed. The stacks of paper, filled with his handwriting. The pile of discarded clothes in the corner. And of course the Winter Soldier, sliding to sit on the floor next to the window. The Winter Soldier that just had a panic attack. Stark looks at him, assessing him, trying to measure how dangerous it is to have him here. To be here. James sighs. It’s exhausting, always being a weapon first, person second.

“A flashback,” he offers, his throat working around the word. Stark nods, and James curses himself. Stark is Howard’s son, one of the smartest people alive. Of course he’d already known. James realises he’ll have to give more, and is surprised at how loathed he is to give up more of what little there is of him. But he owes Stark his life twice over and two parents on top of that. He claws inside himself to find more. “I don’t remember what it was though. My–” he falters, hand clenching into a fist in frustration. He immediately relaxes it. Not much more he can do to disarm himself. “My body remembered. I didn’t.”

That’s all he has, and he’s well aware what a meagre offering it is. And yet Stark looks down at him with something gentle in his eyes, the same gently kindness James has seen there last night. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in the face of that. Surely something as soft does not belong to him, with him.

“It’s alright if you can’t remember.”

“It’s not!” The words come out hard and fast, as fast as the frustrated anger in him, as fast as his hand is a fist again, his body tense again. Stark flinches away, a full step that drops him into a fighting stance James knows from the inside. 

“Fuck! Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Stark says at the same time. James looks up, what the hell does Stark have to be sorry for, and watches as Stark relaxes. Laughs and shakes his head. It’s a beautiful sight, the mechanics' perfectly shaved face pulling into something light and joyful.

James shakes his head, thoughts out of his head. He just shouted at the man. He groans, dropping his face into his hand, because at least he can’t do much damage there.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–” He stops himself, drops his hand into his lap and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what I meant. I’m sorry.” He tries to look at Stark as he says it, but having realised how beautiful the other man is, it’s hard to see anything else.

Stark is watching him with that same kind look again, his laughter from before now a smile on his lips. “Matters to me what you meant.” And then he waits. Leaves James sitting there in the aftershocks of his panic attack about something he doesn’t remember, looks at him with kind brown eyes, and waits.

James swallows, and tries to deal with the fact that Tony Stark is waiting to hear his thoughts. Strange new world. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he eventually gets out and Stark’s smile grows wider. James’ heart stumbles a little, and he wonders what he might do for that smile.

“Thanks for sharing with me. I didn’t mean to talk over you, I just generally talk too much.” James would beg to differ. “Tell my why it’s not alright.”

Again. He needs to do it again. Stark leans against the wall by the door, and James realises that he isn’t scared, he’s giving him space. He’s waiting for him to talk. To share what little there if of himself. And James realises that what he shares won’t be taken. He tries to breathe with that fact, tries to find words on his dry tongue.

“I– I always remember. Not immediately. Takes years sometimes. But I always remember.” He runs his hand over the seam of his jeans. Another man’s clothes. He’s here, in another man’s clothes. And the other man wants to know what this is like. “Sometimes my body remembers more than I do. When– with the trigger words. When I’m a weapon, a monster. Not a person. I know what happened. I just wasn’t there for it. But I remember. It’s– it’s never like this.” He feels the fear creeping up in him, manifesting in him as he puts it into words. “I don’t know what set me off. I don’t know how to avoid this. I can’t control this.”

He looks up at Stark, dares him to be kind now, dares him to be gentle with a man made of metal and a hundred ways to kill another person, more weapon than human. But Stark looks at him like he looked at his shoulder.

“Do you remember your time before the last five weeks? What happened in Wakanda?”

James realises that Stark is looking at him like a project. Something to fix, something he can work with. He’s not sure if he likes that more, but he is sure that that’s not his choice to make.

“I remember Steve stealing the Quinjet.” The term falls onto his tongue as the picture materialises in his brain. He didn’t remember before now, the cold only a slight effort away. James shivers. “I remember getting on. Steve tried to look at my shoulder, but didn’t really know what to do. Everything he did made it hurt worse, so he left it.”

Stark winces. “Sorry about that. I looked at the specs of your arm from the Hydra data dump Natasha did a while ago again. And… yeah, I’m sorry.”

James shrugs, the movement blissfully pain free. “It was a fight. You were hurt, and I was right there, also not thinking straight.” He’d been so scared then. Remedial fear, memories of the chair and the fights with the other Winter Soldiers running through him. “I’m gad it’s gone. Bastards owned enough of me,” he mutters, slipping into russian. It’s a strange thought that this is his homeland. He spoke english first, was american first. But he was a russian knife longer, and now he’s nothing.

Stark’s lip quirk up in a strained smile. “Glad I could be of assistance.” James’ gaze flies up to Stark. His russian is stilted, unused, but it doesn’t matter.

“You know russian.”

“I know a lot of things. Tell me what else you remember. You don’t have to, but it will make it easier for me to figure out how I can help you if I know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to help me.” James is going to vanish after 11:00 today. He doesn’t want to disappoint the man whose been so kind to him.

“I want to.”

“You shouldn’t”

Stark outright grins then. “I do a lot of things I shouldn’t do. Keep talking, soldier.” It’s not an order, much too gentle to be an order, and James finds himself smiling. Like it’s a long running joke between them. 

“We met up with the others. Falcon, Hawk, Witch. Natalia. Steve said he knew where to go, so we all let him. I don’t remember much of the way there. Well– I do, just– mostly just pain. Trying not to move. People talking to me that I didn’t know. I was glad when T’Challa offered the cryo chamber.” James laughs bitterly and looks up at Stark, who is pulling a face that’s somewhere between guilty and conflicted.

“Hey. I’m glad, remember?”

Stark nods, the expression going nowhere. “I know. I’m just– I’m sorry you had to go through that. And I regret that it was my fault. I wish Steve would have argued more, he normally does, with me at least.”

“Don’t remember much after that,” James continues, because he sure as fuck doesn’t know what else to say. He feels like he should apologise, the words already sitting in his mouth, but that would just lead to an apology spiral, and that’s not getting them anywhere. He’s in another man’s house after all. Using up another man’s time. “Steve talked to me. They had found a way to remove the triggers. Wasn’t fun, but it worked. And then he brought me to the witch. Even less fun. Same thing as now, sometimes my body knows more than me. She’s dangerous, don’t ask me why.” He tries to reach further, fingers running over seams. “Nothing after that. Just the witch. That’s all I got.”

Meagre offerings. But Stark nods, deep in thought, his eyes wandering over the untouched bed without seeing it. “Alright. A lot there to work with, goes with the second hypothesis.” He seems to be talking to himself, or Friday, although he didn’t call her name. But maybe she’s always listening to him.

“Hypothesis?” The word tickles something old out of him, something that once used to mean joy. Stark looks up as if he’s just remembered what room he’s in and pushes himself off the wall.

“Sorry, mind running a mile a minute. Just ideas so far, nothing I’m going to bother you with. Speaking of bothering, I’m gonna stop doing it. You seem fine, so I’ll leave you be. Just ask Friday if you need anything.” Stark turns to the door, turns to leave, and it feels like looking at the cryo tank.

“Stark.” The name slips from him before James can think, can stop himself, and then Stark turns around, curiosity and a polite smile on his face, and James can’t get himself to regret it. “Could I–” The words fail him, and Stark settles back into the room to wait. Again. In the end, James phrases it as plainly as he can. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” It sounds so stupid when he says it out loud. His fingers grip his shirt tightly, tight enough to tear, but it’s not his so he relaxes his hand.

A complicated series of looks rushes over Stark’s face, each one too fast for James to understand. The overall impression is concern. Sympathy. “You can come with me, if you want? I’m headed back to the workshop ‘till the meeting with Rhodey.” A smart idea. With all the suits around it will be easy taking him out. A comforting idea. “I can show you what I’m working on,” Stark says instead, the smile on his face suddenly a little more genuine. But then it dims down again. “Or you can just hang out on the couch and read or something. Keep writing, I don’t know. Like I said, I talk to much, you don’t have to listen to me.”

“I like listening to you,” James says by accident and Stark stops and stares. James swallows, and tries to continue. He can share without it being taken away. And right now he can be kind back. “It’s stable ground, keeps me here, and out of my head.”

Stark is still staring, and after an embarrassingly long moment, James realises that he’s looking at Tony Stark flustered. Just as he realises, Stark shakes himself out of it.

“Well in that case, let me give you the tour.”