Chapter I
“Cap’n! There’s a ship starboard! Two o’ the clock!”
Captain Zemo scowled, snatching the spyglass out of the clutch of his first mate, casting his gaze to the directed position. His scowl deepened as he spied the ship mentioned travelling towards them, swift and menacing. She was small, but agile. A sparrow, compared to his heavy and lumbering Hemlut . “It’s The Vendicatore .” Dread settled heavy in his heart as he recognised her bow, solidifying into something slimy and tight as his gaze settled on her sails. They were blood red, just as he’d been told and foolishly dismissed. He remembered the whispered warnings whispered throughout the seas, warnings of the ship with the blood red sails that sunk and plundered with ruthless and merciless efficiency, proudly flying the flag of Stark; the ice blue material matched the sudden coolness of his blood, the strange, triangular shape as unique as the ship itself. He swallowed, terror turning his palms sweaty against the cool metal of the spyglass. Shoving it at the broad chest of his first mate, he repeated himself, louder and frantic. “It’s The Vendicatore. ” His voice was hoarse, panicked. “She’s come for us.” Every slave trader knew the name; captained by the ruthless and calculating Tony Stark, the man that bathed the decks of slave trading ships in the blood of the crew before sending them to the bottom of the ocean, the name had become a weapon in itself, striking fear into the hearts of any trader.
His first mate’s eyes widened in panic at his captain’s words. “Shall we ready the cannons, Captain?” The man, young, inexperienced and, most importantly, cheap , looked as scared as Zemo felt. It was writ across his face, obvious in the shake of his hands.
Zemo nodded once, squeezing his shaking hands into fists. “Aye. Bring her round to face them, boy. We won’t go easy,” he swore grimly. Uttering a quick prayer to a God he had long ago abandoned, he hurried to the bow of the ship, eyes unmoving from The Vendicatore . She moved with a deadly grace; smaller than his Helmut , she travelled spry and swift, easily maneuvered thanks to her innovative rigging and sails. Word had it that the Captain himself had engineered her; designed her for this deadly purpose.
To be the fastest ship in the water.
His first mate turned on his heels, bellowing at the crew to spin the ship ‘round to face The Vendicatore and ready the cannons. Over the sounds of the men scurrying round the deck, the cracking of the whip to spur his slaves at the oars, she turned in a wide arc, the sails only doing so much to increase her speed as they were raised further, billowing out in the wind. The clunking and thudding of the cannons being moved and loaded rose up through the decking to the captain, comforting and familiar. He had done this many a time, and had always come out the victor. This time would be no different, he told himself, for The Vendicatore was only a ship, and Stark only a man. And nothing was more fallible than a man. (Not Zemo, though- no, he was special . God, no matter his past, would favour him on this day, would see him victor of this battle)
No. He refused to die on this day, with the sun hanging high and bright in the sky, the ocean calm and blue. He refused.
He refused.
He died anyway.
The sun was shining as they drew closer to their prey; it beat down on them, warming Tony’s skin until he was sticky and uncomfortable with sweat, the familiar sensation calming him, abating his anger momentarily. The sea glittered, reflective and calm and beautiful- Tony had never fancied himself a poet, but the sight of the sun’s rays bouncing off the water as his ship cut through it, easy and swift, was a sight that deserved to be immortilised. It was truly a beautiful day to die, he thought absently as he gripped his sword, watching the destruction begin.
Cannons flew like dark ravens he used to admire as a child, as beautiful as they were deadly. They arced, sluggish and heavy, weighed down by inertia and gravity, smashing through The Helmut ’s hull and main deck, as wrathful as a slighted wife. The Helmut ’s own cannons were soon taken care of, leaving large, gaping holes in its side, vulnerable to the perilous ocean water. It seemed to writhe and dance with the cannons, splintered wooden planks falling into its grasp. The Helmut would soon sink like a stone, damning the men aboard to watery graves, and the realisation brought a cold, determined smile to Anthony Stark’s face. “Board!” He barked, voice snatched away by the howling wind, but his men didn’t need to hear the order. They knew what to do, and they were soon on board The Helmut , swords swinging and heads and hands flying. Screams drifted on the wind, as angry and pained as those that haunted Tony as soon as the sun sunk below the horizon and night fell. The deck was red and bloody by the time Tony himself stepped aboard, head held high and a swagger to his step. Carefully stepping over the corpses, he stopped in front of the kneeling captain, smiling easily. “Helmut Zemo himself.” He tutted, cocking his head to one side, looking the man over critically, obviously left wanting. “What a disappointment.” He sighed, shaking his head sadly as he rested the tip of his sword against the man’s throat. “I expected a bit more of a fight from you, Zemo. This was far too easy.” He tutted, cocking his head.
“That’s Cap’n Zemo,” he spat, saliva landing on Tony’s boot.
The pirate captain sighed. “And to think I was going to let you die swiftly and with at least some dignity.” His intelligent gaze turned sharp as he regarded the man. “Methinks my mind has been changed.”
The Captain snarled. “You may have saved these savages ,” Tony soft sigh went ignored, “But there’s more of ‘em that you’ll never get.” His grin was vicious and cruel; triumphant. They all started as defiant, Tony mused, but they never failed to beg soon enough.
Tony’s grin was as equally sharp. “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, however, you end up at the bottom of the ocean as nothing more than shark food. Maybe you’ll taste better than you look.” He nodded to his first mate, Rhodey- a man as equally ruthless and uncompromising as his Captain-, who tugged a set of keys from the dead man at his feet and stepped towards the lower deck, accompanied by Bruce, the ship’s doctor (more of a witchdoctor, from the amount of time spent on the slave continent) and disappeared below deck. His gaze flicked back to the man at his feet, the slave trader, and felt the fury settle in his heart. “Tie ‘im up and throw ‘im overboard.”
His vicious smile never faltered as Zemo’s wrists were tied behind his back and he was rested against the edge of the boat as his ankles were tied in a similar fashion. Not even when he lifted his ankles above his head and toppled him into the water and watched him sink. And certainly not when the begging and whimpering started.
Good riddance.
With a quick glance to where the man had sunk below the ocean’s surface, taken into her grasp, he jumped up, grabbing a rope. “Burn her, lads. Burn her to ashes and everyone on her. No mercy.”
And later, back on his beauty The Vendicatore , with the slaves safely stowed below deck with enough food and water to ease their aching stomachs and wounds wrapped and bandaged, Tony didn't think there was a prettier, more satisfying sight; smoke rose and billowed tall over the wreckage, as free and joyous in the breeze as the freshly freed slaves.
“Captain.”
Tony glanced up from the navigation map with a grin. “Now, now, Brucie, I recall quite clearly demanding you address me Tony. We are, after all, friends, are we not? No need for Cap’n on my ship when it’s just us, as you very well know.” His stern tone was belied by the twinkle of amusement in his eyes that had Bruce rolling his eyes.
Bruce offered a small, tired smile, his usually tenseness softened by the light flowing into the room, turned amber by the wooden planks. “Of course.” He hesitated, right thumb dancing across the pads of each finger on his hand. “There's a freed in a bad condition, Tony.” A pregnant pause, the silence swelling in Tony’s chambers until it almost became unbearable. “He's got the King’s Navy’s mark.”
“Shit.” He ran a hand through his hair, profanities spilling from his lips. “ Fuck that's not good.” The last thing the pirate needed was the Navy on his heels. They looked after their own, and if the freed had been taken and sold as a slave, there was almost definitely someone looking for him. “They cannot find him- not here on The Vendicatore, and not on the Great Southern Continent.” Drawing the Navy to where he and his men brought the slaves they freed would ruin everything- they'd spent years building a safe haven for freed slaves, away from the society that had plucked them from their lives and deemed them lesser. He would not jeopardise that; if required, he would leave the slave in the American colonies, or perhaps somewhere in Europe, where he would be able to recover but not draw the Navy’s attention to them.
“I know, Tony, I know , but we can't abandon him either. He'd die, Tony, he'd die .” Bruce spread his arms, helpless.
“Goddamnit!” The urge to give into the violence that always simmered just beneath the surface, close enough to always poke at him, nudge him, seduce him, to raise a fist and slam everything on his desk into the floor was almost irresistible. Clenching his jaw, Tony's fist clenched and relaxed over and over as his mind turned, running through idea after idea, calculating risk after risk at lightning speed. “Okay,” he breathed slowly, eyes meeting the doctor’s. “We haven't seen anything to do with the Navy when we gathered the information for this run.” He dragged a hand down his face. “They might not have realised he'd been on that ship, or even sold.” Bruce shrugged, but remained silent, allowing Tony to think. “So there's a high probability that we can get to the Continent without running into anyone we need to be worried about if he doesn’t recover his health enough for us to deliver him somewhere.” He slumped in his chair, chewing his lip. “And if we do…” he looked to Bruce. “We're just gonna have to take that risk. What's his condition?”
“Bad. He's got several dangerously infected wounds that I'm concerned about, and he might lost his arm. And even without that, he's malnourished and is going to be weak- very weak.” That was an understatement; the poor man had been screaming when Bruce had tried to examine him, passing out from the pain of his wounds.
Tony sighed. “Okay. Take me to him. I want to see him for myself. How long do you think until he recovers enough?.” His face settled into something hard and grim as the doctor merely shrugged, body straightening, shoulders tense and chin held high. “Time will tell then, methinks. If the Lord recognises our mission he should allow us to continue without being found out.”
“Yes, Captain.”
James woke to fear. A suffocating weight that curled right around his neck like a noose, laced with agony and tightening with each heaving breath, each thundering heartbeat that rattled his chest; thundering like the hooves of stampeding animals on the slave continent, leaving him tender and gasping for breath . His whole body ached and his arm burned with a white-hot agony that dominated his mind, leaving him unable to think, unable to breathe, his mind unable to process anything beyond the pain and primal fear; in that moment he was nothing more than a wild animal, driven by his instincts, the only part of his brain that was functioning, to attack.Danger, danger, they screamed.
His eyes had barely opened before he was lunging at the figure looming over him, panicked mind driving him back to a place where looming figures meant pain pain pain . His fist connected with a jaw with a heavy thud , followed by a grunt at they stumbled backwards, cursing a storm.
He landed on his feet, spinning to examine where he was, eyes wide and panicked. Breathing shallow, his body was ready to flee because he didn’t know where he was ; this wasn’t a cell, wasn’t an auction house and definitely wasn’t where he had been kept below deck on that damned ship. He was stopped from jumping after the figure by a sudden voice, slicing through his panic. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” The amusement in the voice jarred with the all-consuming fear, leaving James off-balanced and unsure.
Swallowing, he shifted slightly in his defensive stance, eyes flicking between the man he had struck, and the man that seemed to have just appeared at the doorway; he was the one that had spoken, with a rich, baritone voice that seemed to calm the feral beast within his head. “Where am I?” God, it hurt to speak; it felt like he’d swallowed shards of glass. His voice was as rough as he’d ever heard, not like the smoothness of the man’s at the doorway that seemed, somehow, at ease despite the other man having been punched. It was writ into every inch of his body, the easy sprawl against the wood of the ship (he knew he was on a ship- the rocking was unmistakable, even without being able to hear the slight sounds of the ocean), his friendly grin.
The man raised his hands in a peaceful gesture at his frantic tone. “Easy,” he placated, “Easy. You’re on my ship, The Vendicatore ,” James’ eyes widened then, as he took several steps backward in shock, looking around the room as if to confirm that he was actually on the ship he’d always thought a legend. Even in the Navy they'd heard of the ship that rescued trafficked slaves. He’d never allowed himself to hope though, not for a single second on that long, horrific journey. He couldn’t hope for anyone to save him, not even Stevie. For how could anyone even know where he was? He certainly didn’t. “We saved you, and the others on the ship. You needed medical attention, so Bruce, our healer, brought you here,” he gestured to the man he had struck who was eyeing him warily, “Took you in here so he could see to you. You were the one most gravely wounded, poor sod. Most of the others are only malnourished, luckily.”
James felt him relax ever so slightly at the news that most of the others were okay. He'd tried to look after the children as much as he could, especially little Rebecca, an orphan picked up from the streets to be sold into a life of slavery and abuse. He shifted, tensing as memories of his wounds being inflicted surfaced at their mention, the primal fear learned from his abuse seizing him, gripping him tight in its cold, cruel grasp. The man’s sharp gaze caught his fists clenching and unclenching, the pain it caused to shoot up his left arm grounding, and he tensed slightly, as if preparing for James to lose it again. Luckily the God-awful memories lurked just beneath the surface, buried deep within his mind, with only snatches actually clear enough to understand- he didn’t think he would be able to cope if he could remember everything they had done to him, spat at him. “What is your name? Who might you be?” It came out less aggressive than before, which he could see the man before him relax slightly at.
“Captain Anthony Stark.”
Shit , this was the famed Stark? The cruel and ruthless pirate who killed just as easy as he breathed? Who washed many-a ship in the blood of her crew? The vengeful man who’s fury burned bright and hot , just as magnificent as the ships he conquered and burned to ash? He didn’t look how he’d imagined; tall, muscular (like Steve), with a pirate’s lilt to the speech and bloodied fists. Anthony Stark ( Captain Anthony Stark- don’t annoy him, annoyance breeds pain pain pain don't antagonise ) was perhaps the antithesis of his expectations. He was slight, standing a head shorter than him and with a lithe build; less bulky, more slender. His speech was more proper than he had expected, and it definitely didn’t look like he’d just come out swinging from a brawl. He did, however, have a tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt, sprawling across the side of his throat, and he fancied he could see something dark covering the back of his hand, but he couldn't quite make any of it out. Part of him was, admittedly, curious as to how much of his skin was inked, covered with art.
A quirk of the lips. “You seem surprised.” He tilted his head, eyes shining with amusement. “Am I not what ye were expectin’? A scruffy, one-eyed scoundrel?” His speech changed, becoming more of a lazy drawl, mischievous glint in eye.
James hesitated before shaking his head, relaxing from his defensive position. If this truly was The Vendicatore , and that truly was Captain Stark, then he was safe. (As safe as he’d ever be).
The wary, wiry man that James had struck- Bruce, Tony provided when he noticed the direction of his gaze- relaxed too, snorting. “He never is,” he commented drily.
James was treated to a grin from the pirate that could only be described as wolfish. “I like to keep them on their toes,” he winked. “If they don’t know what I look like they can’t catch me, canne?”
James offered a weak smile in return. “James Barnes,” he offered cautiously, deciding that he may as well at least attempt to remain friendly with the Captain, especially as he was now, for the foreseeable future, stuck on his ship. First chance you get to reach out to Steve, take it, he told himself. You can’t trust anyone here.
“Pleasure.”
After Barnes had calmed down somewhat and grudgingly allowed Bruce to swiftly change the dressings on his wounds, Tony gave him a brief tour of his ship; his baby, really. She was a marvel that had gotten him and his crew out of more tight spots than he would care to admit. After showing him around the deck and below, he walked him to the crew’s quarters, relaxed and friendly. (He tried not to be discouraged that Barnes was yet to utter anything more than an acknowledging grunt since leaving Bruce’s quarters where there was an impromptu infirmary set up). “Normally I’d keep you down here with the rest of them, but Bruce said we need to keep an eye on you, and that would be easier done if you shared quarters with me, so you shan’t be sleeping here.” He paused then, considering the man before him. “I can set up a hammock for you to sleep on,” he offered, slightly apologetic. “It’s nothing special, but it should be comfortable enough.” At Barnes’ shrug, he sighed, straightening as he allowed his face to become more serious. “We're nearly at our destination, so I need to know if we're gonna run into a friend of yours from the King’s little band of sea rats.” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “None other than the people I've saved and the men on this ship know where the Haven is, and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep it that way.” His voice hardened with the threat, eyes narrowing. “We are on a schedule, so if you have no desire to join the Freed on the Haven you will have to wait until our journey’s end to make contact with anyone.”
James swallowed, offering a one-armed shrug (his left arm still sung with agony), clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking (he couldn't stop them, the sign of weakness). “I was in the Navy,” he agreed, slightly wistful. “Captain’s Lieutenant. He was my best friend, the Cap’n- known him since birth, and I suppose that I know him better than I know myself.” He sighed, gaze dropping to his feet. “He will be be lookin’ for me somethin’ fierce, yeah. Raising Hell, I would wager; doubt that he shall stop until he finds me.” As he spoke, his eyes shifted round the room Stark had brought him to, taking in the hammocks and bunks, the crates of rum, and noting the exits in an unfamiliar bought of paranoia (need to get out, need to be safe )
Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Aye, ‘tis what I feared.” He bit his lip, foot tapping as he thought. “He shan’t be likely to find us whilst we journey to the Haven, but I won't pretend that he remain ignorant to your liberators forever, and so I fear that he shall find my gal eventually.” He clucked his tongue, sharp gaze assessing Barnes. “All I ask of you in return for our care and hospitality is to wait until after we have reached the Haven before you send word to your Captain, should you so desire.”
He raised an eyebrow as he noticed Barnes sudden change in body language. Before, he'd been stood, shoulders drawn in, head bowed slightly, making himself as small of a target as possible (and, God, that hurt something deep in Tony’s heart to think about why, about what he'd suffered), but now his head shot up, eyes wide and frantic as he shook his head with enough vigour that Tony was tempted to clutch it between his hands to stop it flying off his neck before they narrowed in a heated glare. “No!” He practically snarled, breaths coming ragged and harsh; he looked for all the world like a cornered animal. “I will not be confined again, will not become a prisoner to be traded from owner to owner like some common Harlot. I am not owned and you will not order me to do anything. ”
Tony stepped back, scared that Barnes would attack, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “You are not a prisoner here, Barnes,” he promised, ignoring the sharp fury that grew at the idea of him owning anyone, of anyone assuming that he would take a slave of his own, after all that he had suffered. “But I need you to understand that I cannot drop you off somewhere before we reach the Haven, because then I shall miss the next slaver, and that is unacceptable .”
Barnes’ snarl lessened, but his stance was no less aggressive. “Next slaver?”
Tony nodded. “Yes! I can’t let that ship slip through my fingers, much as I wish to give you what you want.” Cautiously, he lowered his hands. “So, please, calm yourself, my friend.”
Barnes clenched his jaw, hands curling into a fist as he shifted his weight, narrowing his stance from the wide, aggressive thing it had been before. “I want to join you.”
Tony shook his head. “No. You are injured and a Naval officer. You have no business with us Pirates.”
Barnes scowled. “I have business with those who trade slaves, Pirate. I will see them punished, and you will help me.”
Tony sent him a scowl himself, frustrated. “Mister Barnes, I do not appreciate you demanding me about, showing no respect. Pirate I may be, but-”
“Please.” Barnes’ whole body shifted then, weary and pleading. “Please, Stark, I need to do this. I need to see them hurting as they hurt me.”
“A good man would tell you that revenge is hollow and vengeance more so,” Tony mused, sighing. Barnes looked to his feet, all fight draining out of him. “Lucky for you, I am not a good man.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as Barnes’ eyes flicked up to him, wide and disbelieving.
“You mean it?” Hope bled into his demand, into his eyes- eyes that were expressive and beautiful, even after all that he had been through- and Tony nodded once, feeling very strongly that he would soon regret it. “Thank you,” he all but whispered, offering a single nod. “I will not be a burden, I swear it. Thank you , for giving me this.”
Tony shrugged. “Needed an extra man, might as well be someone who knows what he's doing and is good in a fight.” He paused, halfway through turning to lead them back to his quarters where Barnes could rest. “You are good in a fight, I hope.”
Barnes huffed something that was almost a laugh. “I'm damn good,” he promised, and as he walked abreast Tony, his steps were lighter, like a weight had been lifted from him.
Maybe this was what he needed; maybe it was something that would help heal the scars of his mind while they helped heal his physical wounds.
Tony had never been able to deny fixing something that was broken.
Unfortunately, they were ambushed on the way by Clint (who insisted they call him ‘Hawk’ for whatever reason- he was sure there was a story he had probably heard when he was drunk off his face years ago). Tony sighed, waving a hand toward the approaching man. “Barnes, this is Cl-”
“Hawk, me name's Hawk. Pleasure, top of the mornin’, and all that. Who’s this fine lad, then, Cap’n?” Tony scowled at the interruption (he didn't know why he bothered- they could all tell there was no real heat in it.)
“Barnes, one of the ones we pulled from The Helmut . While you’re here, you wouldn’t mind terribly if I asked you to show him to my room, would you? I had better take the wheel, or I fear Rhodey-bear shall have my head.” He rolled his eyes good naturedly at Bucky. “Try and get some rest. I will check on you shortly. Alright?” When he received a small, slightly hesitant nod, he turned to Clint. “And you: behave. I don't want to hear from the others that you've been teasin’ the poor lad, you hear?”
Clint just shrugged, the ass, offering a grin and a wink. “Whatever you say Cap’n,” he sighed, sounding put-upon with a flourish and a bow. Tony just snorted, watching as he led Barnes away, chatting animatedly at the poor fellow.
Once they had disappeared into his quarters, he turned, making his way to the helm where he knew his Rhodey would be steering his baby girl, keeping her on path. He smiled at the sight, resting his hand on his friend's elbow. “I'll take over from here, my friend,” he said gently in lieu of a greeting, taking in the obvious signs of his friend's exhaustion. “Get some good food and rest, there's a good man.” He smiled, embracing his friend, closing his eyes as he revelled in the warmth and love of it before shooing the man away.
Eyes on the horizon, hands gripping the wheel and the freedom of the ocean and her winds whipping through his hair, Tony couldn't have been happier in that moment.
After his years as a slave, freedom was something he had vowed never to take for granted again.