If Cupcakes Could Write

   “It's just one pampered rich guy! Get a hold of yourselves and take him down!” Someone shouted over the ruckus of their fellows' shouts. Tony couldn't even be insulted; the ‘pampered rich guy’ persona was a carefully crafted persona that worked wonders in allowing people to underestimate him. It really was too bad these guys weren’t very good at seeing the evidence of his prowess, even with their friends bleeding out beside them.      Three down. Fuck, these odds were not in Tony’s favor. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his lungs heaved uselessly. He coughed into his elbow, waiting for the rain of his enemy's fury to calm; they were wasting bullets if nothing, but who knew how many they had on them.      “We’ve got live fire! Go! Alpha team, go!” a voice echoed from the horde of radios these guys had, and Tony groaned. Great, more backup. Now, where the hell was Tony’s? It seemed like Barnes was very good at avoiding established plans—first the whole rooftop debacle, then this. Tony could only hope he had a good reason.      Anytime now, Barnes. He thought, but he wasn’t going to wait to be rescued, even if he was a jog away from passing out.      Tony shifted, standing and aiming over the top of the dumpster where he hoped no one suspected him of popping up. He had a couple of operatives in sight, mostly helmets visible, but there was one tall ass motherfucker running his way from where the Alpha team had no doubt been waiting. A bullet took out the giant of a man with ease, dropping him like a tree with a spray of red blood from the bullet going through and through.       Fuck me, I’m good. Tony thought. Even at his worst, he was better than these guys.

     “Focus, Tony. In…” Barnes said, drawing in a slow breath through his nose and exhaling through his mouth on the next word. “Out…” he breathed. He did this over and over until Tony started to follow along, his chest aching like fire. Tony closed his eyes on the sight of those baby blues, focusing on the rise and fall of Barnes' chest beneath his hand, the man’s body warmth like a beacon, calling him back from the edge.      “That’s good. Keep going.” Barnes said, and Tony felt Barnes place his hand back in his lap before he fell into silence for a moment, only the wheeze of Tony’s chest filling the air along with the annoying drip, drip, drip of rain. “Here, drink,” Barnes said, and Tony opened his eyes to see Barnes' hand cupped before his face, a pool of water gathered within.       It really wasn’t much, and maybe he might have been self-conscious about drinking from another person’s hand, especially with a still red wound on it, but Tony took it greedily. His chattering lips pressed to Barnes' palm, and he let Barnes tip his head back enough for the fluid to slide down the burning tube he called a throat.

     A giant rat squeaked as it raced along the edges of the building, and Tony wrinkled his nose, flicking his shoe toward it to get it to cross to the other side. That was when he heard it, a soft, yet familiar pfft! of sound, followed by shouting coming from the street where the enemy had taken up residence. That was a goddamned sniper rifle going off, and wasn’t that strange? Tony, well, he just so happened to be absent a sniper.      God fucking damn it! Barnes, you idiot. Tony cursed. He heard the rapid hail of return fire and the grinding of the tank as it began to move. Yanking his gun from his belt, Tony hunched down and scurried toward the end of the alley, his back to the wall. When he made it to the street, he realized Barnes just might have things in order. 

   “Come on, just eat it. You look like you’re gonna pass out, and I’m pretty sure you’ve lost some weight since the last time I saw you. Didn’t see it with the body armor.” Stark said, peeling the wrapper off his muffin.      James frowned a moment, glancing down at himself, and wrinkled his nose just a little. Stark was probably right. His clothes were a little baggier than normal, and he’d had to tighten his belt a notch when he’d dressed that morning. So he wasn’t the best at self-care. Who cared. He was honestly more surprised that Stark had noticed.      James bit into the muffin and hummed softly in surprise at the flavor, a sweet bit of raspberry popping against his tongue and a hint of something almost floral. The muffin was soft and moist, and it was probably the best thing he’d tried in…well, decades.       Despite being free, he wasn’t good at choosing meals. He blamed it on years of food being so hyper-controlled by his handlers as both a punishment and a reward. When he was fed, it was so regimented that it focused solely on nutritional value, often little more than sludge. Now, anytime he tried to make a decision where food was concerned, he was usually pulled into an anxiety attack from hell. 

     “Pretty sure you know this is some of the worst pain a person can go through. Open up and bite down on this. I think even your superhuman pain tolerance is gonna be tested here.” Stark said, sounding apologetic.       “You’re really making me feel better here, Stark. Where did you learn your bedside manner?” James snapped, heaving out a breath. Stark definitely wasn’t helping. James swallowed hard before he willingly bit down on the wood and took it from Stark. With a grumble of noise, he took up his previous position, dropping his forehead against the edge of the cool metal countertop with a thud.      “Hey, I work with what I have,” Stark said, and James was keenly aware of him shifting beside him, turning off the blowtorch by the sound of it.      Fuck, fuck, fuck. James thought, his breath hissing past the wood between his teeth. Panic was settling into his chest, making his muscles lock up tight. He tucked his right hand between his knees to keep himself from moving too much, while his left clung to the edge of the countertop. He was pretty sure he was shaking; there was no hiding it. Despite what Stark said, he did not, in fact, have a superhuman pain tolerance. He was just really fucking good at masking it.      Practice makes perfect and all that bullshit. James had a lot of practice. 

“Barnes?” Stark asked, regret twisting his gut when stormy grey-blue eyes flickered towards him before his gaze went skittering away. The super soldier clutched at his arm with his left, shaking his head and staring up at the clouds as if they were the ones to have stabbed him. Water streamed from the sky, plastering his hair to his face. “Yes!” Barnes said, grunting and dropping his chin to his chest. “Did you really just stab me?” he asked in surprise, maybe a little shock, before looking over his shoulder to the knife still buried in his muscle. “Uh…well, damn. I didn’t realize it was you. Thought I’d been captured.” Tony said his voice was absolutely wrecked, a bare rasp. His chest was still heaving, every breath an aching thing, and he swayed in place, the rush of adrenaline not enough to sustain his weak lungs. He widened his stance, redoing the safety on the gun and taking a moment to take in his surroundings.  They were on the street, surrounded by buildings that blocked out most of the sky. Clouds seethed and rolled above them, and they were caught in an absolute downpour. There was evidence of the fight they had been in, so Barnes had gotten them away from it. That was good, but where the hell was his suit? “You saved me?” he asked, his surprise evident. His gaze darkened with distrust, and he frowned. What the hell was this guy playing at? Tony couldn’t trust a damn thing coming out of Barnes’ mouth, but he had to admit that he was having a hard time reconciling the Winter Soldier's actions with what he knew about the other man. “Why would you save me?” he asked, voice heavy with disbelief and confusion. “What the hell kind of person do you think I am?” Barnes asked incredulously, his features wrinkling with confusion and…hurt? He recoiled from Tony as if he’d been punched, shaking his head. “Of course I did! We’re a goddamn team, and despite whatever you think of me, I’m not a monster, you dick.” 

  “Stop firing you idiots! Our orders are to take them in alive!” a man shouted, and the sound of gunfire stopped. Well, that was good to know; he had a bit of an upper hand then because frankly, James was just a little pissed at being shot at, and he didn’t have to take anyone in alive. James grinned, a bloodthirsty thing that was all teeth and confidence. He might not want to fight anymore, but he knew he was damned good at it.     He rolled his shoulders, the metal hydraulics of his arm hissing almost inaudibly as plates settled into place, and he threw his rifle strap back over his shoulder before he stood up. He pulled his submachine gun and his Glock free from the holsters on his hips and calmly lifted them into the air, walking toward the truck. Bullets from the submachine gun rained down upon the hidden men, and James’ metal arm easily counteracted the kickback from the weapon.     The men ducked down behind the truck, shouting in fear and anger, which was exactly what he needed. From behind him, he heard a scuff of sound, and the Winter Soldier pivoted, Glock pointed in the direction of the noise, while the other remained locked on the men hiding behind the truck. The rapid fire of his submachine gun never let up.     The woman was trying to sneak up behind him, assuming he was distracted—her mistake.

James circled the car, hopping over rubble and the fluids leaking from the vehicle. It didn’t look good, and he grimaced as he realized the amount of wall pinning it to the ground. The car was smashed nearly flat, the windows crushed down almost to the level of the ground, and it was tilted to one side. One wrong move and the whole damn thing could crumble and crush the kid inside. He had to be quick about this. “Stark, best bet is to just rip the door off,” Bucky relayed, pacing back around to the rear door. He dropped to a knee, peering through the gap between where the ground met the edge of the window frame. There was barely an inch of space to see into the black swath of shadows within. He couldn’t see the kid, but it sounded like he was on the opposite side of the car, which would be ideal, considering he was further away from any potential rubble fall. “Yeah, it's a fucking mess. Be careful.” Stark told him, and James flashed him a look of confusion. Be careful? What the fuck was that?  “If you aren’t careful, I might actually start to think you care,” he snorted under his breath. Stark did not respond, but James knew he’d heard him.  “Alright, everybody, step back,” James said, straightening. The men stepped back, but the mother stayed right where she was, giving him a look that dared him to ask again. Whatever. He reached up to shove at the rubble hanging over the edge of the vehicle. It went skittering down the opposite side with little effort on his part.  After he’d made it relatively safe, he made short work of the door. His bionic fingers crushed into the metal seam of it while his flesh hand supported the car to ensure he didn’t move it too much. With a grunt of effort, he wrenched it free using sheer strength.