He could hear his heartbeat, thick and loud in his ears, and his hand didn’t drop from its hold as he followed Barnes about the room with it. He noticed the new arm, in some detached sort of way, and really he should give Cap a commendation for at least picking a new Sugar Daddy who had the money and resources for that.
“What kind of failed experiment are you?” He waved one hand behind him, motioning to the broken camera. “Do you want people to suspect Rogers of breaking in here for that footage? Because he’s got as much finesse as you apparently.”
Barnes’ words had him going cold all over.
“You’re right,” he said and he could feel his lip curling into a sneer, “you like the element of surprise, right? Empty roads and defenseless civilians are more your scene, yeah?” He, decidedly, did not lower his hand. “You think I’m stupid enough to give you an opening to finish off the last Stark? Stay the fuck away from me.”
Good god, Tony, shut the fuck up; if it came to it, by the time he called the suit (ultimately risking exposing himself) he’d already be dead. Supersoldier VS squishy human… yeah, doesn’t take a genius to know how that would end.
“I’m here to actually help.” Change the topic, move swiftly on, that was a better plan. “Unlike you, busting in here with a half-cocked plan, how the hell did you get off your leash anyway? Where’s your keeper?” Shut up, Tony, holy fucking shit that’s not changing the topic, do you have a death wish?
He was backing away and if asked, he’d say he wanted to get to the panel so he could start the debug program so he could finally get into Ross’ office, but that wasn’t quite the whole story.
Barnes could have the break out footage, he didn’t give a fuck. He wanted proof that his team was arrested and detained without due course; he wanted footage of them locked up, of Wanda’s dead eyes and Clint’s faux apathy. He wanted to have that splashed across every news outlet he could and he wanted Ross finally put in his place.
(But god, all he could think about was his mom’s face, Barnes looming over her and –
– stop, he didn’t have time for this–)
And he wouldn’t get any of that if he taunted an unstable super Soviet spy. “You, stay there and out of my lane. Unless security rock up, you’re to become part of the furniture; this is my gig and I’m not letting you crash it. Move, and I melt your face. You remember this, right?” He wiggled his wrist. “Not quite so PG-13 anymore. Understand?”
See, the thing about being an assassin-- the thing about having been an assassin was that the guilt never stopped haunting you. Was he able to pretend to be normal and answer vapid question such as the weather seems nice today and more dangerous ones such as hey do you remember when-- He could switch off the part of himself which functioned on raw human instinct. But it wasn’t as if he wasn’t every fucking second of his life about what he had done.
And as much as his arm twitched to punch that fake smug look off Stark’s face, the guilt crippled him to stay rooted in the chair. He took all the taunts with barely a changed expression, aware that Stark Junior had all the rights to throw them at him. A part of him wanted to question what he could possibly knew about being brainwashed but that part was quickly stifled by a nauseating combination of logic and shame.
He knew bloodlust - it was the one thing he was well programmed to detect. He knew how to spot a lying person through the constantly shifting eyes, the elevated heartbeat, the diluted pupils, the outstretched arm which was wavering slightly if you squinted. But James also knew that telling Stark hey you might be off your bonkers was a one-way ticket to six feet under.
“Your gig, huh?” It was a bad idea to return snark with equal snark but fuck him, no one gave him the right to be the biggest asshole in the room. “Should have checked with your schedule, is it?” Won’t happen again.
Don’t dig your grave any deeper, Barnes. Fine. Fine. His conscience was, as always, right.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said in as sincere a tone as he could get across, lifting up his metal arm alluding to surrender. “Just here to save Rogers’ ass for a few more months.” Here to repent. “I ain’t moving a muscle till you’re done with your gig.”
