Freedom is Sweet

Tony is silent as he leads the way back to the compound, and it’s unnerving. It’s leaving James entirely too much space to think about everything that just happened. About Natalia, Steve, the iron grip of sickening fear around his body. About Tony. His warm brown eyes, the concern in his voice, the way he allowed James to settled down without touching him. About I just want to see you not hurting. About I don’t want you to leave.

The thoughts crash and clatter in his mind, and next thing he knows they’re back in the workshop, Tony before him. He’s looking up at him with thoughtful brown eyes, and James knows that whatever had driven him to leave earlier, that strength is gone now.

“I need to work on Friday, or Rhodey is going to chew me out. Are you going to be okay here for a little bit longer?”

Which is stupid. The cuts are barely an annoyance, the rest even less so. But James nods because Tony is still looking at him, and then settles into himself to watch as the genius turns his attention to a holographic display of the compound. He talks to Friday, discussing sensors and inputs and electrical circuits, all things James knows he could follow and would normally be highly interested in, but not right now. Right now he is content to sit on one of the workshop tables, letting the soothing atmosphere of the place settle the last of his riled up nerves. Content to listen to Tony and Friday talk, their voice easily drowning out his own confused thoughts as a leaden tiredness begins to set in.

Strange that he is back here now. Invited, no - all but begged to return to Tony’s sanctuary, even after showing Tony all but the very worst of him. Although - Tony is a smart man, he can extrapolate. He’s seen James at his sharpest now, seen him running on nothing but instinct and training carved into him with ice and pain. James is sure Tony can make the jump from James’ behaviour earlier to the blood that is on his hands, beyond just his own. Tony has read his file after all. Tony flinched when James had thrown his parents back into his face, back in that fight that now seems a lifetime ago.

And still he is here now, sitting in Tony’s sanctuary. James gets to listen to the man talk, cursing something or other, Friday jabbing back, and he can’t believe his luck. Can’t believe Tony’s mercy. The sharper parts of him wonder how far that mercy carries. How much shit he can pull before he finally earns his bullet. But it’s a part of him he’s gotten good at ignoring. A part that he usually wishes gone. The soldier.

Only tonight he is so so thankful that that accursed weariness and caution is still in him. That he can last for a week without sleep and still win a bout with a Black Widow. That he can be wounded and still stop Captain America from hurting Tony. 

James lets out a deep breath shaky with nerves, running the mostly blood free back of his hand over his face. That had been so close, so horribly terribly close. He remembers how often he himself had forgotten about his new strength, how long - how many bones throats arms tracheas - it had taken him to master his new muscles and servos. And he had seen Steve forget about it.

He gets shaken out of a horrible spiral of almosts and what if’s when Tony rolls his chair in front of him with a sigh, his hair a ridiculous mess from often he’s run his hands through it.

“Did you fix it?” James asks, his voice rough from the silence. Tony shrugs.

“We found the evil doer, a virus on an intern's PC. Stupid and small and unavoidable. The real question is why it worked.”

And James can tell that Tony doesn’t know why. Can see the frustration in the crease between his brows. He almost wants to ask if he can stick around and watch Tony figure it out. Almost reaches out to smooth out that crease, almost touches Tony. But his hand is covered in his blood, and Tony keeps talking.

“But I’ll fix it later. For now Friday is up and running again. Papa Bear can go to bed, Vision can do whatever androids do at night, and we’re all safe again, protected by our benevolent AI overlord. So you don’t have to worry about that, I promise that you’re safe here.”

“I’m not worried,” James says softly, and looking at Tony it strikes him that that’s the truth. He’s not worried. Not afraid. Hell, he’s not even tense. Just content to watch Tony’s face filter through expressions as he talks.

Tony looks at him startled. “Oh. Well, uh, good. Great! How are you doing then?”

James lets the confusion show on his face. “Two cuts, some electrical burns,” he begins to list the injuries he knows he’s sustained. Most of them he can’t even really feel, but he knows where Natalia’s knives cut, where her boots hit. But Tony waves him off and jumps up.

“Right, yeah, medkit. But not what I meant. I was asking how you are doing. Seeing Steve is a pretty intense shock to your system right now, and I know that my panic attacks take it out of me like nothing else. So I guess I’m trying to gauge how long I have to patch you up before you crash on me.”

“You get panic attacks?” James asks while pulling his shirt off, a manoeuvre far less elegant than he’d like with just one arm. The fabric has already dried a little to the cut on his chest, and there is a short sting of pain as he pulls it off.

Tony turns around and freezes, a small metal box in his hand. James holds on to his shirt with an iron grip, trying to keep down his racing heart as he tries to sit still under Tony’s gaze. He knows he’s not much to look at. Whatever appeal his body once may have had is long lost under scars, the inflammation of his left arm, the wounds Natalia has now left him with and the mountain of bodies always in his shadow.

But Tony shuts his reaction down with a speed Natalia would be impressed with and swallows, wetting his lips as he clears the distance to the table James is sitting on.

“Yeah,” he whispers hoarsely, clearing his throat and trying again. “Yeah, I do. Started after New York, the whole business with the Chitauri. It’s better now, they’re rarer, especially now with the New Avengers, and I mostly know how to deal with them but– I know a little of what this is like, is all I’m saying.”

He shakes his head, opening the med kid and sorting through it’s contents.

“But lets get you looked at. Sorry.”

And then it seems Tony is looking everywhere but at him. James watches curiously as Tony sorts the med kit three times, removing what he needs and then some, then putting it all back, ordering it again. When he has finally settled on an antibacterial wipe he does look up as far as James’ chest, as far as the cut, and this time James knows he is not just imagining the blush on Tony’s tanned face.

“Wow,” he hears him whisper, and a few realisations click pleasantly into place. Maybe he’s read this wrong. Maybe this stupid blossoming crush on Tony hasn’t been entirely one sided. Maybe he hasn’t just been imagining Tony’s looks then, his attentions. Well, only one way to find out.

“What was that?” James asks softly, startling Tony out of his reverie.

“What? Oh, sorry, nothing. Uhm, are you okay if I touch you? Just to get the blood cleared up, see if this needs stitches?”

“Yes, please,” James all but purrs, biting back a grin when he can see Tony’s flush deepen. The engineer takes a deep breath before finally reaching up to do what he has been threatening to do for almost an hour now. 

The antiseptic stings when it comes into contact with the wound and James’ body responds, stiffening against the pain, but James barely notices it. 

“Sorry,” Tony murmurs, wincing in sympathy, carefully wiping over James’ chest to clear away the blood.

“It’s okay.”

A complex sequence of emotions shifts over Tony’s face, and James watches them intently, watches him go from frustration to hurt to self-flagellation back into forced neutrality. He wonders what the thoughts are that might go with such a complicated display, wonders at the speed of it. Mostly he wonders at the feeling of Tony’s fingers on his skin, separated by the thing synthetic fabric of the bacterial wipe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Tony eventually settles on, and oh what those words do to James. Tony’s voice is almost harsh, determination adding a hard set to his eyes, his mouth.

“And you haven’t,” James points out, setting Tony off on another cascade of emotions. Frustration is a major component, and James is about to ask what part of him offering the obvious is so infuriating to the genius, when Tony’s gaze settles on the network of inflammation and scars radiating out from James’ left shoulder. Tony has seen the damage of course, he’s fixed parts of it, but still… James has to call on all of his self control not to wither under Tony’s attention.

He knows it’s a disgusting mess to look at, and whatever part of him takes pride in the sheen of the metal, takes grim satisfaction in his scars as evidence of his survival are smothered with practised ease. He is dangerous enough without a weapon welded into his bones and nerves, without electricity running through his system. He most certainly doesn’t miss it. It’s better this way, off balance and off kilter, sitting here under Tony’s scrutiny.

“I’m sorry,” Tony mutters, tearing James out of his thoughts. Tony forces his attention back on James’ chest, cleaning up the blood there and inspecting the cut. “Doesn’t look like it will need stitches. If you’re in any way comparable to Steve this shouldn’t even leave much of a scar. I’ll tape it up and apply some antibacterial salve, and then this should be fine.”

He busies himself with the medkit and James is still stuck on the first words.

“What are you sorry for?”

Tony stops and looks up a little confused. “I didn’t mean to stare,” he says, gesturing at James’ shoulder by way of explanation.

“It’s hideous, so I get it,” James says with a shrug, trying to wave off Tony’s concern. But Tony shakes his head, putting down the package of tape stitches he was holding and coming to stand in front of James.

“Okay, no, absolutely not. No self degradation in my workshop unless it’s me. First of, nothing about you is hideous, James. I don’t think the word ever even glanced your way. Second, that’s not what I was thinking about, and I’d rather you not think of me that way. Kinda rude to be honest.”

James tenses, the familiar dread of having done something wrong, of having made a mistake running through him, washing out the sudden heat at Tony’s compliment, but Tony isn’t even done.

“It’s a wound James, in my mind it’s pretty much an unhealed open wound, and I was wondering whether it still hurts. Fuck, if it did, if you would even notice it.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” James cuts in, wanting to say anything that could maybe stop Tony from worrying.

“Yeah see, it’s not that I don’t trust you to tell me the truth, I just don’t believe it. I’m not a doctor, at least not in that sense, but I know an inflammation when I see one by now. And I don’t believe that that one doesn’t hurt you. I think you’re just so used to it you wouldn’t notice until it’s gone. I–” Tony sighs and looks around the shop, seemingly trying to collect his thoughts. Or collect the courage to express them.

“What?” James ignores the pleasant little thrill of Tony’s eyes landing back on him when he asks the question. 

“I’m worried you’re in pain and don’t even really notice it. I don’t want you to be in pain.” Tony swallows, clearly nervous, clearly uncertain.

“Because you like me,” James pushes. He knows he’s pushing, and some small part of him that once used to be young and once had first kissed a boy squirms and writhes in discomfort. But that part is mostly dead, a lot of him is mostly dead, and now he just watches Tony’s eyes widen, the flush bloom on his cheeks, his breath hitch. But he doesn’t step back. He looks caught, but he doesn’t step back.

“I mean yeah, of course I like you. Separated from the all American menace you’re actually a pretty funny guy, what’s not to like?”

James shrugs. “I don’t know, some people think that being an assassin with the mental stability of a pole cap is something no amount of puns can balance out.”

Tony’s laugh is a sound James knows he could spend the rest of his life chasing.

“See, hilarious. I can see why Steve wants to keep you around, you must be wonders for troop morale. But I see you’ve been catching up on your reading. Has Friday been helping you?”

James smiles, passing over the spike in his heart rate at the mention of Steve, an irrational reaction he still cannot place, and instead focuses on the memories of his many late night conversations with the AI.

“She has, yes, she’s been wonderful.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Barnes,” Friday chimes in, and Tony beams then, wide and open the way James has only ever seen him do here in his sanctuary.

“Glad my baby girl has been making herself useful. But speaking of useful, I don’t want you to catch your death sitting around here in all your unveiled glory. Will you let me look at the rest of the damage too?”

James isn’t quite sure what damage Tony is talking about, but he nods, happy to watch Tony’s hands work as he pastes the tape stitches over the cut on his chest, then moving on to inspecting the electrical burns from the Widow Bites. Friday gives them an update on her code review and of Colonel Rhodes’ complaints, and Tony banters with her easily as he works. That is, until Tony has applied some sort of salve to the last of James’ bruises on his chest, some cool, clean smelling ointment that immediately makes the ache fade. Aches that, like Tony feared, James hadn’t even noticed. He doesn’t tell him that.

Once he is finished, Tony steps in front of James again looking down at James’ hand, now flaking dried blood. He holds up another wipe in a silent offer, and James offers up his hand in return. Tony falters, and James is about to pedal back, take the wipe and clean his bloody mess up himself, but before he can move to reach out, Tony takes his hand into his own. And then it is James’ breath that falters, his heart that stumbles as Tony holds his hand, moving the cleaning wipe over the skin with gentle care. His caresses are soft and careful, steadily cleaning away the dried blood on his palm, his fingers, the back of his hand, his wrist. Neither of them speak, completely absorbed by the touch, the intimate movements of Tony’s hands over James’. Tony puts away the wipe he’s been using when it becomes too stained with brown and red and picks up a new one, the renewed cold moisture another sensation that mingles with the rest, threatening to overwhelm James.

Once he is done, the last of James’ blood cleaned away, Tony clears his throat.

“So, uhm. I think this is as far as my medical duties can take me, Snowflake. You good to take over from here?” He takes a step back, and James immediately feels the distance. Lovesick puppy, he chides himself. It might be fun to toy with Tony’s clear attraction to him, but pining like this, missing him, that is something entirely different.

“The cut on you leg,” Tony explains, clearly interpreting James’ silence as confusion. James glances down at his ruined pants, the blood there having dried skin and fabric together thoroughly. When he looks up, Tony is beet red again, and James has to control himself not to grin. Yeah, this is very fun.

“Yeah, I got it,” James answers, deciding to have mercy for once. He hops off the table, earning himself another pained and frustrated look from Tony before he takes the med kit. “You should catch some sleep, gorgeous. Sorry you had your night ruined for you like this.”

Tony swallows, relinquishing the med kit, before looking up at James, a breathtaking hint of defiance in the set of his eyes.

“I wouldn’t say it was ruined. But yes, eventful night. Try to catch some sleep, snowflake, I’ll do the same in a bit.”

James toys for a moment with the idea of pointing out that Tony can absolutely not be trusted to go to sleep unless his body forces it, but there are too many ways for that to be taken the wrong way. Flirting is fun and all, especially when Tony is reciprocating it like this, looking at him like this, but James knows his place.

So he smiles, holds on to the med kit and his bloodied shirt in his hand and heads towards the exit of the workshop. “Thanks for the patching up, Tony. Goodnight.”

***

It is not a good night. 

Once in his room, James dresses the rest of his injuries with an efficiency that feels almost brutal in contrast to Tony’s attentions. He does take the time to dissolve the bloody crusts keeping his pant leg stuck to the cut on his thigh with water, only because he knows how much it would upset Tony if he were to simply tear it off the way he wants to. But from there he is fast, applying a bandage and wiping away the blood. He does consider the salve Tony had used, the tape stitches, but in the end it just doesn’t matter that much to him. He wraps the cut in a bandage and leaves everything else clean, but as is. So what if he carries away another scar from this? His hand is smeared with his blood again, all of Tony’s gentle work undone, and that more than anything incites a fury in James’ chest that he doesn’t really know what to do with.

To distract himself he falls back on what he knows. Resourcefulness. He dumps the ruined pants into the sink and goes about un-ruining them. Washing out the blood is the easy part, scrubbing away at the fabric, careful not to break it, until the water in the sink stops running red. Natalia’s knives are sharp, and the cut she’s left is relatively clean. He’ll be able to repair this.

James doesn’t know where that judgement comes from. Is this something the Winter Soldier would need to know, or is this older? A skillset picked up by a boy that might not have known poverty himself but lived adjacent to it. What is learning how to mend clothes if it preserves his friend’s dignity?

He leaves the pants to dry over the shower. Now out of things to do, he hesitates. He should sleep. He knows he should. Sleep and rest and leave the night and it’s stressors behind him. Find his way back into the warm playful space he was in when he was with Tony. He’s not sure he can get back there himself.

With a deep breath, James turns around, turns to face himself in the mirror. Takes himself in, scrutinising and analysing his appearance for the parts of him, the pasts of him. Who is looking back now? The young man from brooklyn? The sniper who took to the trade faster than he was comfortable with? The Howling Commando? The Asset? The broken mess that was trying to assemble itself into something vaguely human shaped in Romania? Or something else entirely? Nothing at all?

James looks at himself in the mirror, looks at the stump of his arm. An open wound. Just an open wound. For the first time, James looks at the network of inflammation, metal, and scars that is his left side without a sickening twist of emotions. Tony's words echo in his mind, he can still feel his brown eyes on him, on his skin and the part of his body that exemplifies the worst of him. An open wound. And suddenly James can see it. He can look at his shoulder and just see an organ, a body part and a cruelly crafted prosthesis. In that moment he feels no disgust, no satisfaction, no sick sick sick pride. He only feels warmth and something like love for Tony, for opening his eyes like this. 

He has to thank him.

James realises immediately that he has no idea how. How would he even say that? ‘Hey Tony, what you said tonight opened my eyes and I was able to look at myself as a piece of meat rather than a monster that hasn’t ripped out enough of his teeth and claws yet for atonement. Thanks for that!’

No, absolutely not.

He turns from the mirror and heads towards the bedroom.

“Miss Friday?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?”

James sits down on the bed and falters, suddenly unsure of the propriety of his request. 

“Can you… If Tony asks, let him know that I’m okay? Patched up the cut, it’s stopped bleeding. He doesn’t have to worry.”

“Of course, Mr. Barnes,” she assures him, her voice warm. 

“Can you call me James?” The thought appears just after he’s voiced it. James Barnes has few friends, few people he’s comfortable giving his name out to. But Friday, through many long nights, many nightmares, and the comradery of not knowing how to deal with any of this and choosing efficiency and practicality over sentiment has become one of them.

“Of course, James.”

James smiles to himself, knowing that she’ll pick it up, feeling her artificial attention on him while they are talking.

“If I may,” Friday starts slowly after a moment of silence, “might I apologise for the events of tonight?”

She says it smoothly and easily, which makes sense. James wasn’t sure an AI could feel uncertainty.

“What for?”

“Well, for sending you into a dangerous situation without oversight and backup. I miscalculated the chance of risk, and thus chose convenience over your safety. You got hurt.”

James looks down at his sleep pants hiding the bandages on his leg. The shirt covering the tape stitches.

“I– I’m okay. I didn’t really get hurt, not badly, I heal fast. And Tony took care of me.”

“This does not reassure me, James. I must agree with Mr. Stark in this regard.”

James sighs. Sitting here in the darkness, with Friday an invisible entity that he knows has just as much trouble as he does at times navigating all of this, it is easier to admit the terrible truth of this. Of him.

“I didn’t mind getting hurt. I–” James swallows, unsure whether to continue.

“Everything you tell me I will not share with anyone, not even Mr. Stark unless it is to prevent harm to you or anyone else, James,” Friday reminds him, and James nods. His hand moves to trace the seam of his sleep pants, a habit he’s picked up from Tony.

“I’m glad you asked me to go. I know, you have the Vision, Warmachine, the bloody Hulk. Spider man, Iron Man. A bunch of people more qualified than a one armed assassin. But– I don’t know, that focus is like nothing else.” 

James shudders. He knows he’s not supposed to think like this. He’s a murderer, he’s not supposed to take pride in that. But Friday doesn’t tell, and Friday doesn’t judge. And here, alone in the darkness with one of his only true friends this side of hell, the truth spills out almost easily.

“It feels good to be good at something. Sure, sucks that what I’m good at is not being a person and murder, but still. Felt good to use that to protect Tony. Make sure everyone who’s been so kind to me is safe. The fucking fear, the little cuts, comes with the part. I don’t mind it, I could help for once.”

There is a moment of silence before Friday speak up again, and James takes the time to resign himself to her next words. You have to leave, Mr. Barnes.

“The Widow’s cuts expertly avoided your scar tissue and a major artery in your thigh, as I am sure you are aware. You could have been seriously injured, or even died had she been less careful.”

“I know,” James answers softly. Less cuts, more warnings. Small little insults to toy with him. Make him aware that she’s only been honing her edges since last they met.

“I understand that tonight must have been in part a return to methods and skills you are comfortable with. But I struggle to make this brief relief on your part make up for the fear I felt for you. The fear I sensed from Mr. Stark.”

James sighs, dropping his head back against the headboard to look up at the camera in the corner. “Fair. I’m sorry I worried you.”

“I’m sorry I sent you into a deadzone alone. And… I’m sorry I issued commands towards you, exploiting knowledge you’ve shared with me in private.”

James scoffs, trying to bite down the shame at the memory. That had been the first feeling to really return to his body once he found himself alone in the workshop. Shame. That once he’s out of his mind, once he’s nothing but instincts and trainings, he’s little more than a dog. Responding to commands like a good little dog, a good little soldier.

“It’s why I shared it in the first place. Figured you were in the best position here to actually use it to stop me if something happened.”

“I am aware,” Friday admits softly.

“Well, then don’t worry about it. You– You made sure I was safe and didn’t hurt anyway. Doesn’t matter how you did it.”

“I’d like to think it matters quite a bit. But I will keep this discussion for another night. The sun will rise soon. Don’t hesitate to call should you need anything. I will let Mr. Stark know that you are alright.”

“Thanks,” James sighs, burrowing under his sheets in what he knows will likely be a fruitless attempt at sleep. He is too keyed up still, remnants of adrenaline coasting on the paranoia and vigilance embedded into him, the super soldier serum in his blood supporting it all and preventing the whole system of collapsing into exhaustion.

But both Tony and Friday told him to try. Asked him to try. So James does. Closes his eyes and directs his mind towards the thoughts that have been the most reliable ones at getting him to calm the fuck down for once.

James thinks back to Tony. To the garden, the workshop, damn, the fucking corridor. Thinks of Tony’s warm brown eyes. The way his mouth moves, quirking up when he’s using humour to cover something else. James recalls in detail the feeling of Tony’s hand on his. His fingers on his skin, careful, like James is something precious. Not exactly delicate, but something to be handled with care. Tony’s touch had felt like worship, like reverence, and something deep in James’ chest aches as he thinks about it.

But it works. The ache is a bittersweet thing in his chest and James replays the moment over and over until this pain too is something he can easily ignore. Something he can easily sleep with.

***

It’s no murder this time. No blood, no cold, not even little girls, little dancers. James jolts awake silently, the feeling of hands on him almost physical, indistinguishable from the pressure of the blanket on him. He kicks it off with enough force to tear the sheets, the sound something like that ove ice covering glass. There are hands on him, holding him down, tearing him this way and that. Hands in his hair, hands on his jar, on his throat. Harsh and cold and then soft, so so so soft, gentle and never leaving, holding on to him no matter how much he screams. Gripping into his hair not matter how much he wants to pull away.

James makes it to the bathroom before he throws up. His stomach clenches painfully, and what little food he had been able to force down yesterday comes back up.

“Fuck,” he mutters once his body under his control again and he has collapsed against the cold glass of the shower. Too cold. 

He realises it a moment too late, the sensation already coursing through his body, stronger than it has any right to be, stronger than just this cold, than just this glass. Suddenly it is in his bones, he’s just stumbled out of cryo, the cold so deeply lodged in his core that he knows he’ll never be warm again. He doesn’t know who he is, where he is, only that he is being hurt and that he never will be warm again.

James bites down and instead of rubber his teeth meet flesh, taste blood. A part of him knows this is bad, that he needs help. But most of him is trying to shrink away from the cold, from the pain he knows is coming. From the hands on him, on his shoulder, his skin, caressing his skin, going to places he doesn’t want, doesn’t ever want them again, and he cannot move, can’t do anything to stop them.

“James?”

Friday’s voice barely makes it through the onslaught of sensation, and only because he’s been practising exactly this, hearing his friend’s calls through flashes of sound and sensation from lifetimes of another lifetime. 

“James, breathe with me, breathe to my count.”

A series of chimes follows, soothing electronic sounds unlike anything James has ever heard before. Friday changes it for him every time, always different, never growing familiar enough to associate with anything else. 

James tries and fails to match the pace Friday is setting, surprised to find his breathing racing away from him together with his heart. He wrestles his breath back by force, a quick ruthless shift of gear. Two cycles of Friday’s chimes and he can match her, even outpace her, breathe in deeper and slower than her sounds demand. His heart is still racing, his vision fading at the edges because of the mismatch, but James knows his body, and knows he can ride this out. Three more cycles and his body has gotten the memo, his heart slowing down. It’s not quite sniper’s pace, but it’s enough to be able to move. 

James hauls himself away from the cold tiles and the glass shower door and up into his bedroom. Here the fear spikes again, something about the sheets, torn and crumpled is setting him off. He doesn’t know what, he hates that he doesn’t know what, but before Friday can start up her count again, or god forbid, call for help, James is out of his room and out of the hallways, taking the emergency fire escape two steps at a time. 

The phone Tony is lending him for purposes of ‘look up whatever strikes your fancy and tickles the brain, snowflake’ is buzzing in the pocket of his sleep pants, Friday struggling against the silence setting, but James ignores her. He knows her advice - breathe, James, look around, ground yourself in the present - and he’s trying. His feet carry him out of the building and into the gardens without him, and only the shock of cold night air and the smell of rain and damp earth stop him in his tracks. That, and the sound of Tony’s voice, coming from his left.