Chapter Text
James Barnes hated the way the air smelled when the army recruiters came to Brooklyn. The stench of sweat and desperation clung to the back of his throat. He’d been avoiding this moment for weeks, but it was inevitable—too many men were getting drafted, too many young bodies sent off to die in foreign lands. His number had come up. And like every other unlucky bastard who hadn’t volunteered, he had no choice but to go.
He lit another cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him as he stared at the dusty street, trying to avoid thinking about what was coming.
He’d grown up in Brooklyn, rough around the edges, a product of his environment. He’d spent most of his life learning to fight, first in the streets, then in the ring. Boxing had been his way to channel the violence in his chest. He liked the brutality of it, the feeling of control it gave him over his own aggression. People respected him for it, and in Brooklyn, respect was hard to come by. He didn’t need friends; what he needed was a way to survive.
And then there was Steve Rogers.
The scrawny kid from the wrong side of the tracks. James had never really understood why Steve latched onto him the way he did. Maybe it was because Steve was always in fights, and James was never one to shy away from a good scrap. But it wasn’t like James cared for Steve—at least, not the way Steve cared for him.
No, James had other reasons for befriending Steve. Steve was easy to push around, easy to manipulate. James had learned that quickly. Stealing Steve’s medicine wasn’t something he was proud of, but it paid the rent when he needed it. And besides, Steve never noticed. He was too focused on the big picture, too busy dreaming of being a hero to notice the little things—like his pills going missing.
James had never intended to keep Steve around, but the kid was useful. He had a way of looking at the world that was… different. James could take advantage of that. So when Steve showed up at the local gym, all eager to box with James—thinking he had a shot at the title—James let him. Let him believe that he was a part of something, that they were in this together.
But now, with the draft papers in his hand and a world at war, James knew something was different. This wasn’t a fight for him anymore. It was a ticket out of Brooklyn, out of the streets that had been suffocating him. He didn’t care if it meant getting shot at in some foreign country. At least there, he’d have a chance to make something of himself, or at least survive.
The sound of boots echoed down the street, and James looked up. The recruiters were here. The others were already lined up, eager to sign away their futures. James lit one last cigarette, the cherry glowing bright against the gray backdrop of the city. His time had come.
_
Boot camp was everything James expected and more. It was a machine, a well-oiled contraption designed to break men down and remold them into something that fit into the military machine. But James wasn’t like the others. He didn’t need to be broken. He was already an instrument of violence, honed and polished by the streets of Brooklyn. What they didn’t expect, though, was how easily he’d slip into the role they wanted.
The physical part was easy. He was fast, strong, and precise. Sniping came naturally to him—the distance, the focus, the stillness—it all clicked. He could take down a target from three hundred yards like he was picking apples from a tree. He didn’t even have to try. The discipline, the structure, the never-ending orders from drill sergeants—now that, he didn’t like. He hated being told what to do. Hated having to follow rules just to keep his head down.
But he played the game. He always did.
He was a natural at everything else, too. Hand-to-hand combat, tactics, endurance—James excelled. He quickly earned the reputation as one of the best soldiers in the camp, despite his clear disdain for the rigid hierarchy. He didn’t need to show off; he didn’t need to prove himself. But he did anyway, just to make sure people remembered his name.
It wasn’t long before the captain of the 107th took notice.
Captain Rucker was a decent man by military standards—tall, well-groomed, with a sharp mind and sharper eyes. He had been around long enough to know how things worked. He saw James for what he was: a soldier who could be of use, someone who could be bent to his will if the right strings were pulled.
James had always known there would be someone like Rucker. The kind of man who liked the idea of power, but didn’t have the means to exert it unless he found a way to manipulate the right people. And James was no fool. He had the looks, the charm, and the cunning to get whatever he wanted. All he had to do was play the part.
It started with a few quiet conversations after hours, the kind that could be written off as friendly chats between officers and their best soldiers. But James could tell the captain was getting more comfortable, more open. There was something in the air, a kind of tension that told James this wouldn’t be a casual exchange of pleasantries for long.
One night, after a particularly grueling day of drills, the captain invited James to his quarters under the guise of discussing strategy. The invitation was clear enough.
James didn’t hesitate. He had no shame, no hesitation. He knew exactly what the captain wanted, and he was more than willing to play the part.
“Captain,” James said, leaning casually against the doorframe as the man opened it. His tone was smooth, practiced. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me alone for more than just a chat about strategy."
The captain froze, his eyes flicking up to James’ with a mix of surprise and something darker—appreciation. He’d probably assumed James would resist, maybe even make it difficult, but James wasn’t one to put up a fight. He let the silence stretch for just a moment too long before stepping inside, not waiting for an invitation.
“I’m a soldier, sir,” James continued, his voice low, easy, as he closed the door behind him. “But I’m not stupid. I know what this is about.”
Rucker’s expression softened, and a flicker of relief passed over his face. It was a game they both played. It was clear that James had a unique set of skills, skills Rucker found… appealing.
James leaned in closer, the tension thick in the air. “So, what do you need from me?”
The rest of the night played out as expected. James didn’t let his guard down, but he didn’t have to. He knew how to turn the captain’s need for control into something beneficial for both of them. By morning, Rucker had already made his decision.
-
James didn’t bother asking how the paperwork had gotten processed so fast. He didn’t need to.
A crisp salute, a few too many back-pats, and a shiny new stripe stitched onto his uniform—Sergeant James Barnes. It was official, and it was dirty, and he couldn't have cared less. Rank meant less oversight. It meant privacy. It meant he could move through the world just a little more freely, and for James, freedom was everything.
There was no ceremony, no great announcement. Just a folded slip shoved into his hand after drills one morning. Report to Captain Rucker. Immediate assignment changes. James had smirked all the way there.
A few days later, the army gave him a brief leave—an unexpected luxury—to say goodbye to Brooklyn before shipping out to London with the rest of the 107th Infantry the next morning. James wasn’t sentimental about Brooklyn. Not really. But he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to breathe in the city one more time...and maybe pocket a few things if he felt like it.
Which was how he found himself dragging Steve around the Stark Expo.
The place was alive with lights and sounds James could only describe as electric wonder. He didn't say it out loud—couldn't—but he was captivated. Here was the future humming and buzzing in real time, gleaming and shimmering like a promise of something better. Flying cars. Wireless energy. Metal monsters that could think.
James drifted from exhibit to exhibit, his sharp blue eyes drinking it all in. The way people marveled at it—their mouths hanging open, faces lit with naive hope—should have disgusted him. It should have.
But instead, James felt a twist of something unfamiliar: hunger.
Not for the glory these fools dreamed about.
For the power. The potential.
"Barnes! Over here!" Steve's voice cracked over the noise, waving him down near an exhibit of Howard Stark's latest invention.
James ambled over lazily, lighting a cigarette on the way. His new stripes caught the light. People noticed. A few women smiled at him. James gave them a lazy wink, already filing them away as possibilities. Options.
Steve was practically vibrating with excitement in front of Stark’s booth. "You seeing this, Buck? He made a car that can fly."
James watched Howard Stark wrestle with a sputtering prototype. The thing lifted a few feet before jerking down, much to the crowd’s disappointment. James exhaled smoke through his nose and smirked.
"Give it twenty years," he muttered. "Someone'll get it right."
Steve beamed at him, still thinking James meant it as encouragement, still too naive to see the way James’ gaze flicked—not to the spectacle—but to the hidden gears and oil-slick wiring underneath. James wasn’t interested in the show. He was interested in the guts of it. The control.
"You're not worried?" Steve asked, bumping his shoulder lightly against James'. "About tomorrow? About shipping out?"
James stubbed out his cigarette against a nearby railing. "Nah," he said. "We'll be fine."
He said it because it was what Steve needed to hear.
He said it because it was easier than the truth: that James was bored of Brooklyn, bored of this life, and some part of him was ready—eager—to see what war looked like up close. To carve his name into the world in blood and bullets.
The crowd roared as Howard Stark took another crack at the flying car. James barely heard it. His mind was already a thousand miles away, in a trench somewhere, rifle in hand, watching the future burn.
Tomorrow they'd ship out.
Tonight, James let himself pretend he belonged here.
-
The ship smelled like grease, steel, and men packed too close together. James leaned against the railing, a cigarette between his lips, watching the ocean churn black under the night sky. He barely heard the laughter and gambling behind him, soldiers burning through their nerves with dice and cheap liquor. He kept his back to them all.
Sergeant Barnes.
It still made him grin when he thought about it. The paperwork said he’d earned it for "distinguished performance during basic training." Sure.
The truth was warmer, more human.
Sweat-slick sheets, whispered promises in the dark, the captain’s desperate hands.
James had found a way to survive, like he always did. Like he always would.
He exhaled smoke, watching it drift toward the stars.
A clatter behind him. James flicked a glance over his shoulder. A skinny private stumbled out of the mass of bodies, face pale and eyes wide. He barely nodded at James before vomiting over the side.
James watched him without sympathy. War hadn’t even begun yet for these kids.
They’d all come here dreaming about medals, about glory.
James came for something else.
He didn’t know what yet.
He just knew that whatever it was, it wouldn't be found in Brooklyn.
They landed on English soil two days later, rattling in the backs of trucks across endless gray fields, past crumbling stone fences and rows of dead trees.
The world here felt smaller, tighter. James felt it pressing in around his ribs.
Their barracks in London were cramped and damp, but it didn’t matter. James wasn’t planning on spending much time sleeping anyway.
Training was brutal, relentless. James thrived.
He was the best shot in the 107th—no question. First day on the range, he picked up a rifle, sighted down the scope, and hit dead center five times in a row like he was born with it in his hands.
The instructors barked praise.
The other soldiers clapped him on the back, called him a natural.
James just smiled and took it.
The truth was, it wasn’t natural at all.
It was hunger.
It was the raw thrill of power in his chest every time he pulled the trigger and watched a target drop.
He outpaced them in hand-to-hand, demolitions, field tactics.
He kept his mouth shut and his smile ready.
He let them believe he was one of them.
At night, he didn’t return to the barracks.
He returned to Captain Rucker’s quarters.
It started with long glances during drills.
An order to stay behind after everyone else was dismissed.
A hand brushing too casually against his wrist.
James didn’t hesitate.
He knew the rules of this game.
The first night, he let Rucker kiss him like a drowning man.
The second night, he let Rucker whisper about promotions, about assignments, about looking out for each other.
By the end of the week, James was a ghost in the barracks and a fixture in Rucker’s tent.
By the end of the month, he was promoted to permanent Sergeant.
No one questioned it.
Why would they?
James had charm when he wanted it.
He had that smile that made people think he was harmless. Loyal.
Good ol’ Bucky Barnes.
It was almost funny how easy it was.
Almost.
In the rare moments he was alone, James found himself drifting back to the Expo, to the gleam of the machines and the hiss of artificial engines.
The future was coming.
He could feel it.
And he wasn’t going to be left behind.
No matter what he had to do.