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 limbs aren't sore the next morning.
They never really are.
I slink from out of bed and throw on a tight black tee, and a pair of buckle-filled black jeans. Strolling through the halls, I find the kitchen I passed by yesterday in a scurry. Its counters are lined with polished black obsidian, matched with shelves of a chalky, ebony wood. Tools and appliances of every possible nature litter the space.
Honestly, I don't know what half of them are for.
In the corner of the display, huddled behind a rack of gleaming silver knives, stands a big, black coffee machine. I grin to myself as I approach it and brew a cup. I lean back against the counter and balk as its cold exterior shocks through the fabric of my shirt. I let the morning envelop me in a calm, restful silence. A different silence though, to that at the solitary compound.
"Morning, Buck." Steve calls. I turn my gaze up just enough to catch his obnoxious skin tight white shirt and navy jeans.
So much for the silence. And my eyes.
"Morning." I say with a rumble.
Throwing open the large black fridge, Steve takes out a deep purple plum and bites into it, somehow sparing himself of the juice leaking from its centre. "First impressions?" He asks through a mouthful.
I force down a scalding gulp of my morning liquid. "Not bad."
He cocks his head and motions with a hand.
I roll my eyes. "Banner's boring, Romanoff's scary, Stark's not half bad, and Mila's," I pause, forming the words. "Well I don't really know why she's here."
Steve barks a short laugh. "You think she's weak?"
Weak? Probably not, or she really wouldn'tbe here. Unimpressionable is more the word I'd use. That, and forgettable.
"I think there's at least ten in this city alone, just like her."
Steve takes another bite. I take another sip.
He looks down to his feet, arms crossed above his torso, plum in hand.
"Mila started her training with Romanoff from what I know. After some time she came here, and tried out combat with the others." Steve starts. He looks up at me with a small smile. "She's bested nearly every Avenger here at least once."
I glance at him over the rim of my cup. "Nearly?"
He smirks. "Hasn't beat me yet."
"Safe to say hardly anyone has, Steve."
He finishes his fruit with a smile and disposes of its pit. "I could say the same of you."
I don't nod, even though I know it's true. Somehow I think it's different with me than it is with Steve.
