James Buchanan Barnes isn't a killer. He isn't merciless, or cunning, or evil.
But something in him is.
*****
A wrapper crinkles, fabric shifts, and a small, open hand jerks in front of my face. The smell of powdery chocolate and oats meets my nos...
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My bed's the same in the upstate compound. The walls too, painted a light, smoky gray. It's simple. Plain.
Slightly irritating.
"How are we doing this? One by one?" Steve asks from the doorway, an arm braced on its upper edge.
I throw my backpack onto the bed and the sheets crinkle. "Doesn't matter."
He sighs, and taps the door frame with a palm. I quiet the pounding of my heavy boots on the dark wooden floor. The weight of my arm suddenly bears against my shoulder, and with a grunt I swing it again. Steve watches me with an unreadable expression.
"Alright then." He says, turning to leave. "Main foyer, 3 minutes."
I tip my head silently, and the Captain jogs out. In the silence I go over their names in my head.
Stark. Natasha. Banner. Mila.
First names or last names? Does it matter?
I shake my head, eyes blurring. Memories of Washington come to mind in a flood. Memories of what I'd done. Bombs and gunshots and fire and falling. Noise and screaming and blood. My heart rate picks up and I run my tongue angrily over closed lips. I press my eyes shut and let out harsh breaths.
"Vibranium?"
I glare at the doorway - at the slim man stood beneath it, fit in an unbelievably rich black suit and horribly jarring glasses.
Stark.
He fills my silence with his own voice. "I'd assumed that initially. Hypothesized. However, now that I see it up close and, luckily, not swinging at my face over a table," I lower my gaze, "it's too heavy to be vibranium."
I rotate my wrist, feeling suddenly bare.
"An alloy?"
I don't move to speak.
"No, don't tell me." I frown. "Couldn't be brass, it'd be gone by now. Gold? Platinum-gold."
He snaps his fingers and points at me expectedly. "Final guess. I'm right, aren't I?"
I don't have time to respond.
"I always am." He says, brushing off an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his suit. The fabric gleams like a midnight metal, and Stark extends his hand to me.
I stand frozen at the bedside.
His head cocks quickly. "It's a handshake."
I quirk a brow in my stupor, and the inside of my cheek pinches inwards. I notice his eyes haze at the expression.
"Is it the left arm, is that it?" He asks, switching his extended hand to his right. "Did you forget to charge it this morning?"
