When Winter Strikes

7. People and You

"I hurt someone last night."

"Who?"

James tilted his head to the left. Darcy wasn't looking at him, staring instead at the canopy above their heads. Swallowing, he opted to do the same. "You've probably heard already."

"I heard that some noble called Obadiah Stane died last night." Her tone was completely casual, as if she was discussing this with a friend, not some messed-up – not him.

"Do you know how?"

"No. But I don't really want details," she added quickly.

He was more than happy to miss them out, and swallowed thickly. "I didn't hesitate," he whispered. "Not until after… after I realised how easy it was. How easily I'd done it… And then I couldn't think why."

"Why what?"

Shaking his head, he tried to answer her question. "Why I agreed; why I found it so uncomplicated; why I took up killing again – take your pick."

Darcy nodded slowly, gaze still concentrated on the canopy. "So, you want some answers?"

"Yeah…"

She finally shifted, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand. Her teeth worked her bottom lip as she thought, and James began to doubt that she'd come up with anything that could console him. "There must be reasons," she said eventually, "otherwise you wouldn't have taken it in the first place. So what were those reasons?"

James frowned. "Stane, he was… The contractor was worried he was going to do something involving a weapons business and Khalidor. Said it would be better if he was dead."

"Better?" He nodded. "For who?"

"For everyone."

"So in killing this Stane guy, you saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. That's a pretty good reason to kill someone, I think."

It was, he knew that – and yet… "But his staff. They had nothing to do with this, and now they have nowhere to go. They've lost their jobs, and it's my faul-"

"Which is worse: thousands of people being killed an enslaved by an invading army, or a handful of servants losing their jobs?"

James deflated. "Okay. I got it."

"Great. One down, two to go."

They continued like this for the next half an hour, the subsequent questions linking back to James' past as the Winter Soldier, and thus requiring more discussion to unlock satisfactory answers. Darcy never pressed him for information he didn't want to share; she let him take his time, gently bringing him back if he drifted off into a memory and waiting patiently when he couldn't find the words. He thought she should be repulsed by him – he was a killer, a stone-cold killer, and he was openly talking about it as if it was an everyday occupation. He said as much once the final 'answer' had been found, and was astonished when she just laughed in response.

"Come on! Don't you remember what I told you last time?"

"You told me a lot of things," James reminded her a little wryly.

"Okay, good point – but I distinctly remember saying that you were one of the nicest people I'd ever met."

"Had in your room, actually." He hadn't expected her to practically beam at him after that comment, but that's exactly what Darcy did. "What?"

"That's the not-quite-a-noble I remember," she said. "You came close to smiling then. Admit it."

He stared at her. "Why should I?"

"Because smiling's good, both for the soul and the psyche. Lady Sif said so, anyway. Jess insists it's true as well, and I like it when you smile, so I guess it counts for something. But it has to be a genuine smile, otherwise you're just lying to yourself, and that's a major no-no too."

"You like it when I smile?"

Darcy suddenly turned a shade of pink. "Uh… Yeah. I mean, it's… People look… In general, that is – not that I'm saying you're general! You're very un-general… In a good way –"

"Anything else you like?" He was smirking now, and found she was right. His mood was lifting, all thoughts of killing and ruining lives being replaced by the desire to see how far he could push her until she launched into a random babble to make him stop.

To his surprise, the stammering stopped, and she met his lewd smile with one of her own. "Your ass looks pretty awesome," she declared. "And I seem to remember that under that shirt, you're kinda buff." He raised his eyebrows; she quirked one back. Next thing they knew James' shirt was on the floor – but although his scars were clearly on display her lingering gaze was appraising, and the flirty smirk stayed on his face. Darcy shifted closer, trailing her fingers lightly up his metal arm. "I like this," she murmured. "It's the perfect shape. Hard, but not uncomfortable. Shiny," she added, wiggling her eyebrows. "And it makes you unique."

'Unique'. It was a word that had been used to describe him before, but the sub-text beneath it then was entirely different; it had meant unparalleled, unstoppable, and alone. They told him he was 'unique' so that he wouldn't have fear, so that he knew the effects of his presence on his victims, knew his place in the world, his value as a weapon. The metal arm had been something of an emotional burden since his re-awakening, and he hadn't felt anything far from resent towards it. But the way Darcy said 'unique', she made it sound like… a good thing.

"Your turn."

James blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

Darcy grinned down at him. "Come on – I complimented you, now you compliment me. Are you or are you not a sort-of noble?"

She seemed so at ease with him it was almost unreal. Part of James wondered if it was just an act, that she made every man to enter her room feel like this – and then he wondered why that was important, told himself it wasn't, and shifted so he could lean on his metal elbow and 'study' her. "You have an extraordinary face," he said at length. "You could wear anything, and it wouldn't look at all wrong – just change people's first impressions from 'cute' to 'stunning', and everything in between… And I know you may have heard that from your clients already, but –"

"No," she cut him off softly. "None of them have ever…" Darcy shrugged one shoulder. "They've gushed about my body, told me I'm beautiful, gorgeous, or whatever, but no-one… I've never had my face complimented before."

There was a beat before they both suddenly started laughing. "It sounds stupid when you put it like that!" She agreed, unable to say anything through her laughter, and it was a few minutes before either of them could calm down. James flopped back down against the pillows, craning his neck to look at her as he tried to think of the last time he'd laughed like that. "I meant it, though."

"I know." She smiled down at him, hand coming to rest once again on his metal arm. "So did I."

When James finally presented himself to the Shinga and his hands, the first thing he received was an earful about the punctuality of reporting in when asked to do so. He didn't tell them where he'd been (and it came as a surprise that they didn't already know) and rattled off a bare-bones description of what had happened, leaving out the parts where he'd nearly broken down and hid in a stable. After a few more questions from Hill and Coulson he was handed his payment, which turned out to be enough to put more legitimacy to his status as a noble, and told he could go.

When Clint and Natasha found out, Clint declared his success had to be celebrated, and pulled him to some of the city's lesser-known taverns. It wasn't a shock to find that Clint knew many of the owners and patrons at these hangouts, and thus the drinks were often cheaper than normal and quicker-flowing than James realised. Both he and Clint were pretty far-gone by the time Natasha – sober as a saint still, how had she managed that? – insisted they go home. They staggered along the streets for a bit, Clint attempting to sing an old Friaki melody that he'd half made up before passing out mid-note.

"Shouldn't we help him?" James asked after he'd finished laughing.

Natasha gave a slight shake of her head. "I'll take you home then come back for him. He'll be alright until then."

"How are you not as bad as we are?" he slurred.

She smirked. "I'm used to Clint's antics regarding alcohol. That, and I'm very tolerant."

"Right. Like in Ymmur." James stopped in his tracks. Beside him, Natasha calmly tilted her head.

"Ymmur?"

He frowned, watching as the buildings around him alternated between the atrocity that was Cenarian architecture and an Ymmuri forest, the only constant being the red-haired woman next to him. "You… You were there," he said. There was no confirmation, but no denial either. "I had to take down a stalker. There was this woman, and she was – you were tracking the same guy. So we… worked together? And afterwards –" He stopped abruptly, feeling himself flush and look away. His body seemed to remember that night better than his mind.

"You were surprised by how much I could take," Natasha said (he decided to assume she was referring to alcohol), "and I was surprised that you were letting me live."

Something was telling him this was a conversation better had another day. "We had a common goal," he said, trying to sound casual about it. "You were skilled, and the stalker was a tricky bastard. Made sense."

She raised an eyebrow. "And the sex?"

"I knew it!"

Both of them jumped apart, whipping round to see none other than Wade Wilson grinning from ear to ear at them next to where Clint lay. James groaned as Natasha asked, "Wilson. What do you want?"

"Red, there are lots of things I want, but let's say that for now I want details."

"Details."

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Specifically: when, where, and why. I mean, don't get me wrong. You two together is a totally badass combination of almost unmatched skill with terrifying beauty – and that includes you too, Red – but I just can't imagine either of you getting all cuddly and lovey-dovey with anyone, let alone each other!"

"Nysos," James hissed, "is he serious?"

"Totally," Natasha murmured back.

"Come on, one of you spill the metaphorical beans already!"

"No, Wade."

Wade pouted. "Why not? You're a woman; women love to goss- Okay, you're something more than a woman, I get it, not asking again. Newbie?"

"Over my dead body." Truth be told, he didn't one-hundred per-cent remember the details himself, and not because of the Meisters' tampering.

Deadpool sighed. "Alright. Suit yourself." Reaching behind him he pulled out two katana blades, swinging them round so that the moonlight flashed along each one menacingly. "But it's going to be hard to tell me if you're dead."

"Oh, come on. Wade, I don't want to fight – shit!" The tip of a blade missed his mid-section by millimetres. If he hadn't reacted when he did, jumping backwards and out of reach, the katana would have made a fairly deep trench across his stomach. He landed on his feet but off-balance, and fell onto his back before his brain could catch up (and oh, why hadn't anyone ever thought to train him to fight intoxicated? Poisoned, sure, feverish, sure, but drunk? No, why would they need to do that?). Barely a second after he hit the ground he had to roll to avoid being cut in two, and as he manoeuvred himself back up to his feet his hand found the dagger he kept in his boot, metal fingers curling around the hilt comfortably.

"Ah, now that's more like it," Deadpool crooned, eyeing James up as he slipped into a ready position, knife raised. He grinned darkly. "I've been waiting for this."

On some kind of unspoken signal the two went at each other simultaneously. James' kick was blocked by a katana, the other one swinging round towards his head. It hit his raised metal arm, and as he pushed it off James used his momentum to try and get a high-placed roundhouse kick to Deadpool's head. It missed, and he found himself parrying a succession of rapid blows before he was able to put some space between the two of them and launch his own attack. They were very evenly matched – they parried each other's blows easily, ducked an equal amount, easily worked out what the other was trying to do, and even mimicked each other occasionally. The sound of clashing metal and feet scuffing the ground ought to have attracted attention, but James realised later he and Deadpool probably looked too scary for anybody to want to interfere.

He, at least, felt scary; this wasn't like the times he'd sparred with Clint or Natasha, using dulled weapons and going through pre-planned motions. Deadpool was wild – there was no recognisable style to his fighting apart from his preference for offence rather than defence. His eyes were bright between the sword-flashes, pure concentration on his face emphasised by his silence, but the slight grin on his lips and the multitude of scars on his skin (not self-inflicted like Clint's) made it clear that fighting and killing was something he lived for. James could associate with that: fighting with a blade in his hand felt natural. He could feel his whole body responding to the adrenaline – biological or not – and movements came fluidly and powerfully, sobering him up quicker than any hangover cure. The only difference between him and his adversary here was that James wasn't out to hurt –

"Come on, you're the Winter Soldier, aren't you?" Deadpool growled. "Show me how good a killer you really are!"

Screw it. The crazy bastard wanted to get hurt that badly, James would happily oblige. He stopped holding back, switching his knife to his flesh and bone hand, and going at Deadpool fast and hard, letting his past flow into his muscles. It quickly paid off – he got in a succession of punches that left the wetboy winded, and in the brief pause that followed James razed the knife across his chest. He blinked, breathing heavily; the conscious effort he'd used to not make it a fatal wound was enough to leave his mind reeling, and it took a long time for him to realise that Deadpool wasn't falling. He looked back, and blanched at what he saw.

"What?" Deadpool asked, the tear in his shirt showing a fast-disappearing line of blood on his chest. "You're not gonna stop holding back now, are you?" The cut was a thin scar by the time he'd finished the sentence. James stared, mouth open, as he tried to process what he'd just seen.

"That's enough, Wade." Natasha's voice was calm but authoritative, pulling James back to the circumstances of his fight with the other wetboy.

"Oh no – we're just getting started!"

"You're finishing."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

Deadpool laughed. "What? You the Shinga now, Natasha? Hope Fury agreed to that – for your sake."

"And how do you think Fury's going to react if he finds out the three of us have been slicing each other up?" she challenged, voice low and furious, face close to his. "I don't think he'd keep good on his word to you if you butchered two of his best in the middle of the streets. Do you?"

Though James didn't understand her meaning, Wade clearly did. He flipped his swords over his shoulders, suddenly smiling and offering James a hand up. "That was fun, Newbie. We should do it again some time. Maybe not over the intoxicated body of a co-worker with another stood close by in plain sight of children, but I know a few good locations –"

"What the fuck, Wilson?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. See ya!" And before James could say anything else, he was gone. Again.

"It's called a ka'kari," Natasha explained once they began walking again, Clint now hoisted between them. "We know almost nothing about it, except that it chooses someone to bond with and gifts them with innumerable powers and abilities."

James clicked on to what she was talking about. "Like healing?"

"Like healing."

"Why the fuck did it choose a psycho asshole like Wilson?"

Natasha shook her head. "We've no idea, and neither does he. He claims not to know what else it enables him to do, but Fury thinks he knows more than he's letting on."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Me neither. Regardless, it's a good thing he's on our side. For now."

They hauled Clint back to James' estate, where he insisted Natasha let him stay. She offered to talk more about the times they'd met ("Yes, we've met a few times before now,") and although James would have been more than happy to pass out in a similar manner to their friend, the desire to know more and the knowledge that sleep would probably evade him made him accept her offer. To say they were some of the best memories he'd recovered so far was something of an understatement.

Not long after his murder of Obadiah Stane, more contracts began coming in for James. Thankfully he was allowed to take his time with them (as long as it wasn't too long), and he didn't suffer from his guilt as much as he had done with his 'first kill'. Something akin to a routine built up: he'd take the job, get it done, then spend time with Darcy and Clint, if the latter was available. Wade continued to hang around at random intervals, and refused to stop setting traps in his house for him to wake up to, revealing that he extended the same courtesy to many other wetboys in the fold ("We think it's his way of saying he likes you," Clint said).

Returning from a contract one night, James was mildly surprised to see Coulson waiting for him outside his house. "Good hunting?" he asked by way of greeting.

James gave a one-sided shrug. "Wouldn't call Otto Octavius much of a hunt. Have I got another one already?"

Coulson shook his head, but held out a folded square anyway. "This is an invitation of a different sort. For Baron Barnes, not the Winter Soldier." He wasn't lying – it not-so-clearly said 'Baron J. B. Barnes' in extravagant, curled cursive. Accepting it, James turned it over, raising his eyebrows at what he saw.

"The King's seal?"

"You're aware of the time of year, aren't you?"

He glanced around him briefly. "Yeah, it's nearly autumn."

"King Odin is fond of his feasts," Coulson explained as the invitation was opened. "He holds annual celebrations at various points during the year. The next one is the Summer's End feast, one which all the nobility is invited to attend."

James squinted at the overly-decorative writing, eventually deciphering its content. "It's tomorrow."

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I have a proper outfit."

"We have someone who can help you with that." His words sounded ever so slightly ominous, and he left James with a deep sense of foreboding. An hour or so later, he still couldn't decide if Coulson's 'help' was a relief or cause for more worry.

"Good afternoon, James."

"Good afternoon, Lady Sif."

Lady Sif smiled brilliantly. "Still the charmer, I see," she mused. "Or are we merely practising for tomorrow night?" He stood there, mouth open like a fish, as he tried to come up with a response, but Lady Sif just laughed. "Don't look so frightened! If what Darcy says is true, then you'd fit right in at the King's court with or without formal noble garb."

"What does Darcy say?"

"Nothing you wouldn't want her to," Lady Sif assured him. "She's growing quite fond of you, James. Be careful." Her expression was still warm but steeled slightly, and it was like looking into the eyes of a mother lion protecting her cubs.

He swallowed. "I will."

For a moment neither of them moved, then Lady Sif blinked and the glamorous courtesan was all smiles again. "Would you like to follow me then, Lord Barnes?"

Hearing the title used properly for the first times, James felt his stomach roll as he followed her through the lounge area. "That's going to take some getting used to."

"Enjoy it, dear," she said over her shoulder, then beckoned to the girl coming in from outside. "Bobbi, come and help Lord Barnes find a suitable outfit for the feast tomorrow."

Grinning, Bobbi asked, "Can I go and find Darcy first?"

As James' eyes widened, Lady Sif smirked. "Go on, then."

The next hour (seriously, it took that long to choose a few clothes?) passed by in a whirlwind of fabrics, colours, cuts, tutting, giggling, and spinning in front of a long mirror. He was surprised at the amount of menswear the brothel had, and tried not to look put-off when Bobbi explained that each item had been picked up after noblemen had left them behind. Though he didn't want to wear filthy, second-hand garments, James refrained from protesting lest he spoil the obvious fun of Bobbi and Darcy, who were thoroughly taking advantage of having a life-sized doll to mix and match outfits for and obviously enjoying every second of his discomfort.

He almost escaped once they'd nodded their approval for a dark, subtly decorated shirt and trousers, but Clint of all people stuck his head into the backrooms and promptly started laughing. A stern telling-off from Bobbi got him to stop, but James was then forbidden from leaving without first having a drink. Several drinks later saw them still both in the lounge. The four of them had been content with each other's company until Lady Sif had directed Darcy to a client. James watched her go, something tight and unpleasant curling in his stomach.

"If you're gonna break that glass, you better be prepared to pay for it."

James blinked, glancing over at Bobbi, who was smirking softly at him, Clint's head on her shoulder. He sighed, setting the glass down on the coffee table. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You should've seen Clint the first time he remembered I wasn't exclusive."

He could imagine that – he'd seen enough evidence to suggest that, while Clint was fine seeing other girls at the brothel when directed to them, he held Bobbi in particularly high regard. "He still insists he loves you."

She rolled her eyes. "I know. Dummy." James didn't hear any malice in her tone, and noticed that she had the fingers of one hand carding through his hair repeatedly.

"I didn't think the feelings were mutual."

"They're not." She paused, eyes taking on the look of someone remembering something with deep fondness. "Once upon a time, yeah, they were. But Clint's problem is… Well, he got a little clingy. Troubled childhood and all that horseshit. He kept talking about starting a new life somewhere else where I wouldn't have to work the sheets. Didn't seem to understand that I couldn't just up and leave like he had done before, and when he turned up one evening with a plan to sell all he had to buy us a way out that I realised I had to break things off."

"How'd he take it?" he asked cautiously.

Bobbi snorted. "How d'you think he took it?" She shook her head. "He didn't speak to me for a few weeks. Started going to Jess instead of me, thinking I'd be bothered by it. It wasn't until I asked him to take care of…" She swallowed hard. "There was this guy. Slade. He didn't treat me particularly well, even after Lady Sif banned him. Clint put a stop to it, free of charge."

The way she spoke of him, how she held him, the look in her eyes as she did – James suspected Bobbi wasn't being completely truthful about her feelings. "You do love him."

She smiled ruefully. "You're right," she agreed. "But I don't think I could be in love with him again." On her shoulder, the passed-out Clint grunted and twitched for a second, and Bobbi raised her eyebrows. "Too much work." With a chuckle, James agreed.

Not wanting to wait around to see Darcy re-emerge with her client, he asked to leave Clint in Bobbi's care before taking his leave. He found himself cross-dreaming that night again, remembering his time with Natasha but seeing Darcy in her place, and he woke up grumpy and in no mood for Wade's latest game (if there wasn't the chance of being seriously hurt by ignoring it, he would have). His day was spent with Coulson brushing up on his knowledge of the King's court, including prominent noble families, correct etiquette, and plausible back-stories to explain his appearance as 'Bullseye' in the archery competition. Before long he found himself dressed in his new attire, invitation in hand, stood outside the doors to the castle, wondering what on earth he'd done to get himself here.

He was ushered in quickly, announced loudly, then left to defend himself as almost every pair of eyes in the room turned and zoned in on him. For a painfully short-but-long moment he stood frozen to the spot, smiling (and hoping it looked sincere) until a servant appeared by his side to show him where he would be sat. Afterwards, he was left to his own devices; a few lower nobles came up to him and expressed their pity at Rebecca's passing, and the ones who recognised him from the competition easily bought his cover story. It was probably half an hour since his arrival that he noticed an elegantly dressed lady stood on her own by the table, staring into space with a full drink in her hand. Normally James was the type to wait for people to approach him, but in this instance, he reckoned she needed someone to talk to.

"It's been a while since I've been to one of these events, but I'm fairly sure it was always considered a crime to leave a beautiful lady without company."

The beautiful lady in question (and she was beautiful) looked around at him as he approached, her interest clearly piqued. "And how would you address the guilty party then?"

James shrugged. "I figured if it was just you and I together, they'd get jealous, ma'am."

"Of course you did." A hint of a smile was forming at the corners of her lips, and he let a full smile grow on his own. "You're Baron Barnes, aren't you?"

He chuckled. "I have a reputation already, do I?"

She shook her head. "Not really. Your arrival was quite the point of interest, and my daughter has noticed you on many occasions." A delicate, gloved hand was raised in his direction. "Lady Margaret Rogers."

"It's an honour to meet you, My Lady," he returned, dropping a kiss to the back of her hand. "Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of meeting your daughter face-to-face sometime this evening?"

"Oh I'm sure she'll brave an acquaintance soon enough. She's almost old enough to marry, and is having no difficulty in picking out potential matches."

James raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Should she?"

He laughed. "I doubt I would be a suitable match for her, My Lady, as much as I regret saying so."

Lady Rogers smiled, and he was almost bowled over by the way it lit up her features. "If she disagreed, you would find yourself discussing dowries with my husband before you could decline. Sharon is… determined, and has had him wrapped around her little finger since she could walk."

"I see. He sounds like every young girl's ideal father, then."

She snorted. "He's far too soft. It's a wonder the King even gave him a position in the military." At James' enquiry, she explained further: "My husband, Count Rogers, is more commonly known as Captain Rogers. Everyone was shocked when he came close to begging King Odin to let him continue to serve. I don't see why, though – he's been military minded ever since I met him."

"Is he not here tonight then, My Lady?"

"He is, actually. If you asked me his exact whereabouts, however, I wouldn't be able to tell you." She rolled her eyes. "Probably lost in some discussion of tactics, or something of the like. But what about you, Lord Barnes? No other family besides poor Rebecca?"

James shook his head. "Afraid not, and we were only distantly related to begin with."

"I suppose the question on everyone's mind is: where on earth have you been, then?"

The lie was so familiar to him it might have been true (and for all he knew, it was). "My childhood wasn't spent in Cenaria like Rebecca's. I was born here, but I grew up in many places across Midcyru: Ceura, Modai, Gandu, Alitaera, even Ossein. Being so used to travel, I continued to live that way until word finally reached me of my cousin's death. I was in Alitaera at the time, visiting an old friend in Skone, and it took a while to return."

"As a commoner, if I recall." Lady Rogers seemed amused by the prospect, and James put on an embarrassed air.

"Yes, well, I had difficulty with some of my finances. I was mugged, you see, but the fools were distinctive enough that I could write to people with fairly accurate descriptions. Until my belongings were returned to me, I had no choice but to earn some money for myself."

"That's quite the tale, indeed," she mused. "I suppose you think you're rather… 'culturally diverse' after such a lifestyle. Or should I say myriad of lifestyles?"

"Extra cultural knowledge comes in handy, I cannot deny. But you needn't fear, My Lady – I've had my share of travel for now."

"I 'needn't fear'?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow; but before he could compose an adequate response a pretty young girl appeared at her elbow.

"So I finally managed to drag Papa away from Lady Danvers. Honestly, Mama, if he wasn't so head over heels for you, I'd say…" Her voice disappeared as she finally laid eyes on James. Lady Rogers smirked at him knowingly.

"Baron Barnes, may I introduce my daughter, The Lady Sharon Rogers. Sharon, I'm sure you know already, but this is Baron James Barnes."

Rapidly blinking, Sharon dropped a dainty curtsey, eyes barely leaving his face. "H-how do you do, My Lord."

James dipped his head in return. "Very well thank you, Lady Sharon."

"Ah, there you are – Lord Barnes," Lady Rogers said, drawing his attention to the blonde-haired man who had come to stand behind her, "this is my husband, Captain Steven Rogers. Steve, this is –"

"Bucky?"