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Head guardian angel Fenwick "Wick" Guard, tore the back of his hand over his mouth, catching remaining blots of blood from when he had fell face first into the ground during his duel with Bucky Barnes. The malice he tried to subdue for so long was rattling feverishly, growling and crawling at the angel's mind as he burned a hole into the floor he stood upon. The shame - the embarrassment consumed him, devouring his sanity and balling the last shred of humanity the man possessed, throwing it out of the window.
That fucking demon was going to die; slowly and painfully. James 'Bucky' Barnes is going to feel the humiliation Wick was bathed in. The demon is going to have his entity ripped out of him, and Wick is going to do it personally. The demon and his two other friends; the demon who sat next to him when he had spoken to the demon, and Natasha - a powerhouse of a woman, someone fierce and consuming - she wasn't going to get as harsh of a punishment, but she'll have to be disciplined. 'She needs to be put in her place.' Wick concluded.
"Fenwick, sir-" The petite, skinny angel dropped their head when he caught his bosses gaze. "I've brought Ms Johnson."
The angels gaze snapped toward the double doors, situated in the front of the resort. Watching as the long legs of the woman he called peaked from the doors, allowing her fully body to emerge simultaneously. There was a sudden drop in negative emotion when Johnson walked into the room, her long legs had made their way over to one of the couches in the cabin, her brown eyes flicking between the mountain view and the man silently gaping at her. "You needed me, Wick?" Her voice resonated deeply within the walls, tone laced in confidence with a tad of huskiness.
The lightness that had entered his body swam gleefully over his head and wrapped around his brain. He made two initial steps before he saw her patronising glare and stopped indefinitely. "I've got a job for you, Johnson." His words tumbled out his mouth in the same tone she had used on him, her last name being uttered with a slight edge.
Johnson rose her plucked brows, shifting comfortably in her seat. "What? you want me to beat someone, who gave little ol' Wick a bloody mouth?" She teases, her words dripping with mockery.
Tilda Johnson was always centre of the room. No man - especially not Wick - could ever scare her. She was exceptionally smart, self-taught in a profusion in the scientific field. If anything, she abuses her ability to be a menace due to the fact she knows that people need her, desperately. She loved the idea of men on their feet, a weakness that makes her mouth water. She was dominant, she didn't like overzealous men - they bore her, needing to be at a constant stand. Always wanting to do something. She was the exact opposite, she took her time with things - doing them one-by-one - until she reach her goal.
"Barnes has the antichrist." This caused the smirk on Tilda's features to dim. Barnes, the name was familiar.
"How does he have the antichrist?" She proceeded to get up, walk over to the large glass-sliding doors looking out of the mountain view. "Isn't he supposed to be on house arrest? Causing the war and all."
