#kimo|james barnes

Photograph...Picture Of...|| Accepting

She raises a brow and looks across the couch at James.

There’s so much irony in her living room that there’s almost no space for them to exist, because while yes, Beth might have been referring to the Shark Trip: Eat. Prey. Chum. segment of the documentary but in a lot of ways, she was also kind of talking about him. The fabled Winter Soldier. Veteran. POW. Augmented soldier. Superhero. Super-villain. And above and beyond all that, a good man. Her... friend.

“I mean. Like. Dat must be terrible ya know. Jus’ bein’ so small compare to some kine so...big. So...scary.”

She can’t keep a straight face after making the comment, and having done just that ~invading his personal space ~ by putting the tips of stretched out fingers along the dark metal of his arm. She is nearly an entire foot shorter than he is. And at ninety-six pounds soaking wet, Beth can’t even dream of being in nearly the same class as he is, even at his most stripped down. And much like her beloved sharks, James is so vastly misunderstood so much of the time, even by people who have known him far longer than the three years she has.

Beth tilted her head. “Nevah. Even wi’ all da...” She gestured vaguely at his arm, the one not made of flesh and bone. “I mean, call me a horrible person, but dat’s what I keep sayin’ happen. One time, ya heroically dove off a bay cruiser jus’ off Molokai t’ rescue dis girl’s bikini top dat jus’ defied gravity and sailed away, an’ had t’ fight ya way back t’rough a slew ‘a niuhi... ~man eaters, tiger ones~ jus’ t’ bring it back to her.”

Bloodshot eyes zoned out on the bloody spot, lost in the crimson gleam that slowly spread across his forearm. He could practically taste it in the back of his throat, swallowing as if that would get rid of the sensation. It hadn’t really hurt, just a tiny sting from the wound being exposed once more. Specs of blood smeared across his metal fingers as he stilled, stitches properly torn from the cut. How he wasn’t sure, but his poor attempt at stopping the bleeding landed him where he was at now.

Beth’s tones were always sweet, even in the rushed moment of a panic attack. She had subtle ways to reach him, cup his broken heart and still it in the heat of rage. James couldn’t really understand how they had gotten to that level of trust and intimacy, but he was grateful for it. Beth stood tall in his darkest times, that warm and welcoming light in his endless darkness. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if she wasn’t by his side.

“It doesn’t hurt,” His voice stopping just shy of a whisper. Wetting his lips as he tilted his head, eyes breaking from their haze to look at her. “But I may need your help again.” James slightly lifted his arm, blood weaving down through the hair, pooling onto his jeans.

She knew before she took more than three steps into the apartment. She could taste it rusty and cracked and a little like dark berries on the back of her tongue. It was in the air, as if it were water, and made her nostrils flare and she swallowed, as if savouring it. She set her backpack down just inside the door and slipped her shoes off. Dinner ~from that little Italian place down the block~ was abandoned on the first flat surface she passed, guided by years of instinct she focused on the scent and the man it came from.

She hovered in the frame of the bathroom door, watching his lack of motion, the absence of any real expression on his face. There were beads of sweat darkening his hair, his pupils were wide and dilated, and his shoulders shook imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t Beth.  Her heart ached. She didn’t know the whole story behind what was going on, but it was also not so unusual that she could do anything but sigh. There were days James was perfectly fine. Days that stretched into weeks that while he might not be a hundred percent, he was at least good enough to function. That she could see the dark coming, and could brace herself between it and him, take the brunt of it so he didn’t have to. But there were also times like this, where he was drowning and she could do nothing but to dive in and try to reach him before whatever it was carried him beyond the horizon. 

She hadn’t even realised he heard her until he answered, voice as thin as hoarfrost on winter windows. There was something impossibly young and something incredibly soft when he lifted his arm. His eyes pleaded with her though he didn’t let any of that enter into his voice.

And she didn’t ask. It was cowardly, but she knew if she did, James would answer her honestly. He always did and this time...she didn’t want to know. She had suspicions. Suspicions that lay faint against her own skin that they didn’t talk about either.

She crossed the tundra of beige tile and insinuated herself between the sink and his chest. A thumb swiped against the cold surface of his metal fingers, brought it up to her lips shook her head. But she didn’t touch the still living flesh of his other. Her hand lifted again and she ran the tips of fingers through his hair, then she cupped a cheek in her palm.

“Mm. Look like. Gonna be okay wi’ me fixin’ it?”