Cherry || b.barnes

15 || Suspicious

»Sam« I hear James repeat, a warning note in his voice that can only come from said man having shut up about his intention.

Shortly after, the super soldier slips his phone back into his pocket. It is still dark around us, merely his flashlight illuminating the cellar, but the mystical, almost romantical touch to it is gone. »What did you do?«

Raising an eyebrow in question, I shove myself a little further away from his body, to be able to properly look at him. His features have hardened in only a few seconds, like someone just wiped away all the ease out of his face. »I have done nothing.«

»Yeah, go bullshit someone else.« His gaze only intensifies linearly with the annoyance dripping from his voice, the blue of his eyes having fully retreated and leaving nothing but a cold shade of a raging storm in the far ocean. »Sam doesn't even know you. Where should he get interest in you from, if you haven't done yet another thing to annoy higher ranked agents?«

Scoffing, I shake my head in disbelief. The last tear of his warmth has left my body, and I fold my arms in front of my chest, tilting my head slightly. Despite the bad lighting situation, I'm still able to see every little detail of him, nothing slipping my intention. Not the pressed, rosy lips of his, speaking of his frustration as a result of worry for his friend. Not the squeezed eyes of his, the dark lashes surrounding the grey depths. Not his dominant jaw, clenched yet one more time and provoking me even more with the wish to stroke along it. »Well, maybe I'm just that good an agent myself that people talk and wanna meet up, exchange some advices. And, by the way, where would you know me from in the first place and one of your besties doesn't?«

In the next second, both of us are standing, tensed from head to toe, like a hunting, dangerous race of animal being awoken by a sudden, loud noise. Just that it is the atmosphere that changed in between us, no explosive sound.

We long ago stopped whispering, but we're still quiet enough for no one in the house to hear. At least, I hope so. »Well, my bestie didn't sound all too pleased when asking for you.« He comes closer, step by step, making me take each single one back, away from his intoxicating scent of whiskey, sandalwood and vintage cologne. James built himself up at some point, looking down at me, and for once in my life, the intimidation is not to push back. Maybe not to push back, but still, able to be covered. I will have time later to analyze exactly why James Buchanan Barnes, of all people, has the nerve and the ability to make me feel small, if no one else can. At least, not in my consciousness. 

I don't have to be a genius to hear the indirect question in his voice, written in capital letters in his eyes. It seems to make him desperate somehow to not be able to get answers out of me, and with my next withdrawn step, I feel the cool wood of the old wardrobe in my back. »You didn't answer my question.« I respond aggravated, holding my chin high and my crown up in front of him.

»You didn't answer mine, either, did you? And I asked first.« he states, crossing the last bit of distance in between us and standing merely thirty centimeters or so in my front. I recognize my comfort zone being intruded, my comfort zone being up again actually, and some part of me relaxes at the knowledge he didn't get it down entirely. 

»Yes, I did. I told you, I did nothing.«

»How come I don't believe you, then?« he presses through his teeth, the flashlight dropped to the ground. Breath coming in a flat, short rhythm, both of us seem more like we just ran a marathon with a chasing party in the eighteenth century by foot than having cuddled just a few moments ago.

I exhale deeply. »That sounds more like your problem and less like mine, does it?«

There's a ghost rushing over his eyes, and I know it all too well. Even though it has been merely for the fracture of a second, I know it. Because I felt what he feels often enough in my life. It's when your emotions are so short before taking over control, they already burst the wall you so carefully formed around you for protection, you so carefully created piece by piece, stone for stone. It is the spark that is a warning for everyone who sees it, a spark telling you to run as long as you still can. Just that his spark doesn't come from the flame of rage, but from the sharp blade of hurt. »Cherry« And the sound of my name out of his mouth is far from the sweet lullaby I'm so fond of, more a resembling of what keenly popped up in his eyes for the fracture of a second, »What did you do to him?«