Chapter 8
James tugged the collar of his tar-stained shirt over his head, basking, for a moment, in the warmth of the sun on his chest, before pulling the clean one on. As his hands, nimble as ever, thanks to Bruce’s care (he had regained full motion in his injured arm and hand, thank the Lord), moved absently in the familiar motion, his mind remained stuck upon his conversation with Steve; like an ant trapped in amber, forever preserved, he was helpless in its sticky clutches.
Running a hand through his ragged hair (it had grown so much, he’d need to get it cut soon), he sighed. Steve could be so… dense sometimes. And jealous. His lips curled slightly into a smirk as he huffed to himself, faint amusement simmering in his gut. Ah, Steve. If only he had learned the art of speaking, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
As he stepped towards the railing that encircled the deck, his eyes caught Tony, lithe body mouth-watering in its grace as he moved on the ropes, all fluid and feline and cutting sass. Beautiful. Catching his eye, he sent him a hesitant smile that sent James’ heart stumbling in his chest.
Smiling in return he jerked his head in a come hither motion, earning him a raised eyebrow.
“Can I help you, Bucky?” He teased, eyes glinting mischievously in the warm afternoon sun.
James just shrugged, tugging the pirate to his side, draping an arm over his shoulders. “I missed you,” he sighed. He scuffed his foot, resting his head on Tony's. “I talked to Steve,” he blurted, arm tightening momentarily.
Without even having to look down, he knew that Tony's eyebrow raised as he made a soft, inquiring hum. “Oh?” He tensed underneath James’ arm, and he hated it.
“He admitted that he acted rashly,” he elaborated. “Turns out he was a little… jealous.” He rolled his eyes. “The fool,” he mumbled under his breath, feeling Tony puff out a laugh against him.
“Of me?”
James considered. “A little, yes. But methinks his mind was clouded with doubts and insecurities- he was a sickly lad, short and as thin as a beanpole. None of the girls even gave him a second glance- compounded by the sight of us.”
Tony hummed, thoughtful. A hand moved to cover the one James had on his shoulder.
“I don't wish for you to think that I am defending him,” he added quickly. “I'm not, only… explaining where he was coming from. He upset you, and that's no excuse for his cruelty, but he is a good, kind man, if hot-headed and impulsive,” he grinned wryly. “You could not imagine the trouble he got us into when we were boys.”
Tony laughed. “I know,” he reassured him gently. “And… I'm glad that I can somewhat understand him,” he admitted. “I know how dark one’s mind can become, how great a burden self-doubts can be.” He squeezed James hand. "I've already forgiven him for what he said, it came from a place of truth and concern after all, but I fear he shall never warm to me,” he admitted.
James hummed, thumb moving in absent circles as he spoke. "I think that he could love you as fierce as only he can. He need only see you. The real you.”
Tony's lips curved into a sad smile. “You and dear Rhodey are the only ones that can, Sweeting,” he reminded gently. “Steve will never get over my past, what whispers he has heard.”
James moved his hand to the back of Tony's neck, frowning. “He will learn to,” he promised. “He can be a fool, but he learns swift enough.”
“Perhaps.”
Perhaps Steve would see through him, but Tony was sure that he wouldn't like what he saw. Wouldn't like his blackened heart, his wizened soul.
No.
Steve was never going to like Tony.
Not at all.
Steve mostly kept to himself as they travelled to intercept the Ultron. Bucky was still cool towards him as he remained adamant that an apology to the captain was unneeded, so he filled his days with shifts at the helm, or reading novels in the quarters he had been given access to.
He missed Bucky terribly, missed his smiles, his warmth, but he was so stubborn and refused to see how much Steve was willing to compromise. He said he was willing to give Stark a chance, was that not enough?
Irritated, he placed down the novel, too on edge to actually read it, and let loose an aggravated sigh. “This was a foolish idea,” he muttered to himself as he cast his mind to Bucky’s letter. “Imagining I could have him, that we could all be happy.”
Life wasn’t like that. Life was cruel, it was bitter. It took, and it took, and it gave crumbs in return. Happiness was an illusion, a fantasy conjured by the naive. And he had been naive, had been foolish, to believe that he could ever be happy. He had been, with Bucky by his side, his crew at his back, but then it had all fallen apart. God had decided he had too much, and had seen fit to take everything away from him.
Maybe it was a punishment.
Maybe it was just life.
He didn’t care, he was bitter and jaded either way. Tired; bone-deep exhaustion that slumber never eased.
He closed his eyes as he rested his head against the wall where he was sat on the bed, grimacing slightly at the smell of brine that assaulted his nose. No matter how long he spent at sea, he always hated the scent of the fish they caught and ate. But, he supposed, at least it meant they would be eating something fresh, free of rot and mould. His stomach, mercifully stronger than that of his youth, was still not iron-clad after all.
“Oi,” came the yell. “Get yer ass out here. You eat the fish, you help prepare it. Cook’s orders.” He scowled- bloody pirates- but obeyed, standing and opening the door.
“I’m coming,” he dismissed, stepping past where the men were seeing to the nets- cleaning and repairing them after the large catch- and towards the kitchen, where the cook was busy gutting the fish.
“Ah, good. Come here and give us a hand,” he greeted.
Steve nodded, grabbing a knife and getting to work on the small pile of fish at the man’s elbow. “I was a captain, you know, and now I’m reduced to being a cook’s assistant,” he sighed. “God, I hate this ship.”
The cook laughed. “Pride will get you nowhere,” he advised. “Steven.”
He jerked, nearly slicing his hand. “How the hell do you know my name?” He demanded in alarm.
He shot him a knowing grin as he worked. “I know everything about this ship and the people on it,” he shrugged. “It’s a, uh, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Rogers. I would shake your hand…”
Steve huffed. “Likewise, Mister…” He trailed off meaningfully.
“Vision. Mister Vision, you may call me.”
He rolled his eyes. “What is it with the names on this ship? Hawk? Vision? Next there’ll be a bloody fellow called Platypus onboard.”
Vision’s lips twitched. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “Captain Stark does enjoy… quirky names.”
Steve huffed as he moved onto the next fish, grimacing at the dirty work. He much preferred eating the food to preparing it.
“You dislike him.” It wasn’t a question, and Steve shifted uncomfortably.
“I do,” he hedged. “He possesses a sordid past, after all.” His shoulders hunched defensively.
“Ah,” Vision hummed. “Tell me something, Mister Rogers. What do you know about this past of his?”
Steve frowned. “He sold weapons that were meant to be for the King’s Navy to the Spanish. The result was the death of thousands of innocent men from England and her colonies. He attacks ships and slays the entire crew, innocent or not. He’s a pirate. He is promiscuous and immoral. He is the epitome of everything I despise in our society.”
“Ah, yes, the weapons,” Vision nodded, appropriately grave. “It is true, he was contracted by the king to create weapons to give fair Britannia an advantage over the Spaniards. It is also true that Stark Industries, the company in his father’s name that he had found himself in control of, sold to the Spaniards,” he conceded. “In that, you are correct. But, and I cannot stress this enough, Mister Rogers, it was not Mister Stark who sold these weapons.” He stopped midway through the fish to look him in the eyes. “I fear that you have misled.”
Steve scoffed. “It is you that has been misled,” he argued. “Stark controls the company, approves each and every expenditure. He would have known, hence he cannot be innocent.”
“No, on the contrary, Mister Stark only designed the weapons. It was his uncle in all but blood who ran the company, who ran the expenditures, who authorised the shipments. He had this power, and he abused it. He abused Mister Stark’s trust, betrayed him by double dealing to the Spaniards, and made sure Mister Stark would take the fall.”
Steve blinked. “I-what?”
Vision smiled. “It is easier to shift blame than you would think,” he shrugged. “Mister Stark has his reasons for being at sea, but do not doubt that he will not return to his company and wipe out the corrupt and vile infestation Stane introduced, that he will not return to burn down London’s underbelly that sends these ships we liberate.”
Steve frowned. “How do you know this is the truth, though? Surely he would not admit it to you if he were the one who did the deed.”
Vision shrugged. “I cannot make you believe me,” he agreed, “But I am secure in my belief that I know the truth.” He tilted his head, appraising the ex-captain. “Are you?”
Steve looked to his hands as he continued to prepare the fish, remaining silent.
Steve was eating his supper that evening when the man who had introduced himself as Hawk sat down next to him where he was sat watching Bucky and Stark. “Heard you got stuck with Vis.” He snorted when Steve nodded uncertainly. “Poor bugger,” he hummed good naturedly. “He’s… a real character, when you get to know him. Good man, though. Good man.”
Steve shrugged. “Seems very trusting.”
Hawk grinned knowingly, a sharp warning. “Set you straight on a few things, did he?”
“He told me I was wrong about Stark’s double dealing to the Spaniards,” he agreed. “Seems he believes Stark wasn’t to blame.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I believe that he believes what he said,” he shrugged. “Seems suspicious that Stark wouldn’t know, wouldn’t have anything to do with the company and its business.”
“Is it now?” Hawk inquired. “Even though his parents had just died and he was underage, too young to take control of the company? That his father had been taking advantage of his mind since he was a boy, had him hidden away and designing, far, far away from the actual business of the company, so when Stane was given temporary control it wasn’t suspicious in the slightest to Tony that he kept him in the same role?”
Steve scowled, about to speak, when he was cut off. “But that’s not really what’s bothering you, is it?” He gave him a flat look in the face of Steve’s protests, one that called bullshit. “His sordid past, you called it. You hate his past relations more than his past. His promiscuous nature, was it?”
“He’s a murderer and you think I care about past lovers?!” He was outraged; it felt like an attack to his character and he hated it.
“We’ve told you, you’re wrong about the weapons,” he groaned, frustrated.
“He kills the entire crew. All of them. At least when I kill it’s in King-sanctioned battle.”
“None of those men are innocent.” Hawk’s voice had hardened, but he wasn’t looking at Steve. His eyes clouded, haunted by memories only he could see. “Not the cook, who barely feeds them enough to stay alive, not the doctor who refuses to see to their wounds- trust me, we’ve tried getting some to- and not the captain. Not the cabin boy who brings them the food, not the greedy pigs you call men who man the ship. None of them.”
Steve spent the rest of the night with a strangely uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
“Ship ahead!” Came the yell, a week later. “Ship ahead! It’s the Ultron!”
Steve glanced up from the book he was reading and ducked his head out of the door to see the crew- Stark’s men- running past, yelling at the top of their lungs. It was chaos.
“Bring round the cannons!” Came the large brute’s cry; large, blond and spoke like he was from some Shakespearean tragedy. “Hawk! Keep watch of her path, there’s a good fellow.”
“Aye,” came the Captain’s grin, cheeky and at ease. “A jolly good fellow!”
Thor- that was his name, was it not?- laughed heartily, swinging his mighty broadsword in one hand, an axe in the other. “‘Tis been too long,” he complained, “A good battle has eluded us for too long, Stark!”
Stark nodded his agreement, his own sword in hand as he caught Steve’s eye. “Rogers,” he nodded, terse. “Don’t suppose you’re any good in a fight?”
Steve shrugged. “Give me a shield and a sword and I’ll be fine.” It would, after all, do him well not to allow them all to be boarded and slaughtered.
“You jest, surely?” Rodes, an ex-naval man himself (Steve recognised the posture, the weariness in the eyes), raised an eyebrow, planting his longsword in the soft wood of the deck, scowling. He crossed his arms, muscles bulging, as he shot Stark a stern, disapproving look. “He’s as likely to kill us, kill you, as he is to fight by our side!”
Steve glared, crossing his own arms. “I resent that. I am a man of my word, and I swore to protect Bucky. If he is fighting, I will fight alongside him. That’s the way it has always been, and is the way it always shall.” His voice was firm, as steely as his resolve. “I refuse to sit out and potentially let Bucky get hurt just because you fear me.” He didn’t sneer, but it was close.
(So he was being a dick; he knew that, but he would be damned if he let them walk all over him and stopped him from doing this.)
“The Ultron’s a mighty ship,” Stark warned. “She’s equipped to wallop, and she’ll obliterate us, given the chance. Her Captain’s a cruel man who hates me more than anything. He’ll play dirty, use everything he can to sink us.”
Steve shrugged. “He sounds like a bully. I dislike bullies.”
Stark shook his head. “He’s too much of a coward,” he muttered, glancing at Rhodes. “Where’s James? He can stay by his side the whole time. You know we can trust James, and if he’s with Rogers, here, I think we can trust him too. At least with this.”
Rhodes scowled. “Fine. Last I checked he was helping with the cannons.” He threw a glance at Steve. “You’d better get this one a sword. He’ll need it if he’s to be of use.”
Stark nodded. “Here.” He tossed his own sword, plain but well-made and balanced, in an easy arc. Steve snatched it out of the air easily enough, turning it in his hands.
“What about you?” He tilted his head. He would assume that it meant Stark would be sitting this one out, but something in his gut told him that Stark wasn’t that kind of man. That he craved this fight as much as Thor. It almost made him shiver.
Stark’s grin was a feral, dangerous thing. “I’ve got more where that came from,” he assured. “Go with Rhodey. I’ll see you on the Ultron.” Tossing a wink over his shoulder to Rhodes, he ambled away, assumedly to wherever he stored his weapons.
Doubtless he had countless contraptions that could destroy them all, and he’d use it all without blinking.
God, did he even lose a wink of sleep over what he had done? The innocents he had killed?
He ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the thought as he remembered his conversation with Bucky and Hawk and Vision. He had to give Tony a chance, see beyond the person he had created from the tales he had heard.
Turning on his heel, he followed Rhodes, hot on his heel, anticipation at the oncoming battle swirling within his gut. He knew the Ultron was a slaver, the one Bucky had told him about in the letter, and so he found a thread of excitement in amongst the other emotions battling within him.
God, these Pirates must be rubbing off on him, barbarians that they were.
James had heard the cry that they were close to intercepting the Ultron , captained by the man himself. If anyone were able to be called the Devil, it would be Justin Hammer. As soon as he heard, he had run below deck to ready the cannons, hustling along with the crew, pushing and heaving, sweat dripping down his brow by the time they were done.
"Barnes."
He looked up at Rhodey's voice with an inquiring grunt, swiping at the sweat beading on his forehead.
"This one insists he stay by your side. Keep an eye on him for us, will you?"
James raised an eyebrow as his eyes moved to Steve. “Stevie? ‘S goin’ on?”
Steve was scowling, sword in hand, as he shot an irritated look towards Rhodey. “He won’t let me fight unless it’s by your side,” he grumbled.
James huffed a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Of course,” he sighed. “Never one to bow down from a fight, were you, Stevie?” The fool had almost gotten himself killed more times than James cared to admit, or even think about, from his stubbornness and hot-headed nature. “Well come here, then, don’t dally. Make yourself useful, why don’t you!”
Steve grinned. “You know, I was your Captain, Skipper.”
James shot him a grin back, sharp and cheeky, feeling comforted by the familiar banter, the familiarity of having Steve’s back, and Steve having his. No matter what, they would always have each other’s backs when it came down to it, and they would always be able to trust each other. “Aye, but you’re on Tony’s ship now.”
Steve huffed, muscles straining as he helped prepare the final cannon. “Indeed. In amongst the beasts and rabbel; O’ how the mighty have fallen.” Faux horror coloured his tone, but his eyes were twinkling with the spark he only got when he was laughing.
“They’ll fall into the damned ocean if you don’t get moving,” Rhodey yelled over his shoulder, having made his way towards the steps up to the deck, doubtless to find Tony.
James laughed. “You heard the man. Get a move on, lad.”
Steve hadn’t always been tall. Muscled. Before his twentieth year, when he had begun to grow into manhood, he had been as short and slender as a woman; slight and sickly, he had found himself to be invisible. Easily dismissed. No one gave him a second glance, gave him a second of consideration. No. The only thing that had made people really look had been his fists; the sharp bite of bruises and tang of blood had been his old companions for as long as he could remember. He had been so angry. Angry at the world, angry at the treasonous lad down the street who was too full of ale was mouthing off about the King, angry at the girl who had laughed at him when he had tried to approach her, charm her. Anger, though, was an awful thing. It festered, rotted men from within until their souls were hardened with a jaded bitterness.
Steve had grown, though. Had fought and fought, until his height increased and shoulders broadened, and then joined the Navy with his best friend at his side. The anger had never quite left, had simply reduced to a low simmer, but the bitterness had already settled within his bones.
Now, women wouldn’t stop looking at him. Flirting with him, with their bitten lips, large, soft eyes, and soft touches. And at first he’d revelled in it, had let a smile and a small foot crawling up his calf ease that bitterness slightly. Had let it warm him in the darkness of the night, when the demons that swarmed him always seemed to be at their worst.
But they had never really seen him. Not really. They hadn’t wanted Steve Rogers, they’d wanted, lusted, Captain Rogers.
(Bucky had seen him, though. Had been by him since they were boys, had never left him, made him feel like he were less than.)
When the realisation had struck, it had left a bitter taste in his mouth that had really never left. The anger, the bitterness, had returned with a vengeance.
And then Bucky had been taken.
The anger had never run so hot, had never burned so strong. It was like a bonfire in his very veins, like every Guy Fawkes night at once.
And now, boarding the Ultron, sword swinging, ears ringing with his companions’ (temporary or no) bellows and cries as they swung across, metal slicing skin, he let that flame rise, let it guide his hand and fuel his limbs.
The Ultron was ill prepared, for all that Hammer boasted his superior security, and fell quickly. It was almost disappointing, Steve thought as he relieved one man of his head. Men fell, cowards soaked in blood and their own urine as the crew of The Vendicatore rained down Hell like avenging angels; without mercy or hesitation. They slew countless, until the deck was awash in the blood of the Ultron’s crew.
Cleaning his sword on one man’s coat, Steve stood erect, glancing to Bucky at his side. “That was easy,” he commented. “I was led to believe that they would provide at least some resistance.”
Bucky frowned, nodding in agreement. “They were meant to,” he conceded. He bit his lip, eyes roaming the dying fight before them. His frown deepened as he seemed to miss something. “Steve,” he asked, slow in a way that made Steve’s blood freeze. “That’s not Hammer.”
Steve frowned, spinning to view the man beside the captain on his knees before Stark’s second, a sword pointed at his throat. At closer inspection, whilst he bore a resemblance to images of the man he had seen in newspapers, it was not him. His blood ran cold; this was his ship, his trading route that he was so proud of. If he were making such a large, important trade he should be here. His own arrogance and vanity wouldn’t permit him to be absent, surely.
“Something’s wrong.”
Bucky nodded, clutching his sword so tight that Steve could see what little skin across his knuckles that wasn’t covered in blood turn white. “It feels that way,” he agreed. He caught Stark’s eye, who was lunging and parrying, spinning and playing with his opponent as if they were dancing. Watching him move so effortlessly, with such grace and danger, had something stirring low within Steve’s gut. Something electric and heavy. Bucky motioned him over with a jerk of his head, earning himself a concerned frown from the pirate captain, who simply slid his sword between his opponent’s ribs as easy as a warm knife through butter in a smooth motion that had Steve’s mouth turn dry. Good Lord, he had been toying the man.
Padding his way through the blood and bodies, Stark touched a hand to James’, searching him for obvious injuries. “Are you injured?” He asked, urgent and slightly panicked. “James?” he prompted, when the man simply blinked, almost in a daze.
“Uh, no. No,” he reassured, voice slightly rough. “I just- I- uh-”
“Hammer’s not here,” Steve interrupted when it was clear that Bucky wasn’t going to be much use. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes- Bucky had always been useless when his little pal took attention. Horny bastard.
(Not that he had any stones to throw at the moment. Good Lord, even the blood splattered on Stark’s cheek seemed to highlight his bone structure, adding a hint of danger that made Steve want to sink to his knees and beg; he may dislike the man, but he wasn’t blind. He was gorgeous, especially now, panting and thrumming with adrenaline.)
Stark frowned, mind obviously reaching the same conclusion as Steve and Bucky. “That’s not right,” he muttered, turning to search the deck. “Something’s not right.” His voice hardened, body straightening from the easy grace to a determined focus. “Get everybody-”
He didn’t get a chance to finish speaking before their world shook, propelling them into the air, ears ringing, skin burning in the sheer heat of the sudden explosion.
Bits of wooden planks battered into him as he fell, stomach swooping. Down and down he fell, like a stone threw by children, he sunk into the ocean’s cold embrace.
He plummeted down into the depths of the ocean, dragged down to its watery depths by the clutches of gravity, everything fading to black.
So this was how he was to die, he thought numbly; in a watery grave at the bottom of the ocean, destined to become fish food.
If he had air, and wasn’t falling unconscious, he would have scoffed.
You just had to follow the Pirates, didn’t you, Buck?