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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I lurch from my bed with a scream in my throat. My left arm feels heavy against the soft, white sheets. Sweat pools in the small of my back, on my neck, all over. My breathing is rapid and unchecked as I slump my head back down on my pillow. Sticky, brown hair melds to the skin of my cheek, slick and sticky with moisture.
My head pounds. Not with heat or pain or injury, but with memory. Eyes pressed shut, I can't look away from the wailing, pale faces of men, women, and children, their bodies dead and dying. My head thrums with the weight of their anguish as a metal arm, my arm, encircles their throats. Snaps the trigger whose bullet barrels through their chests. Pulls the grenade pin that tumbles into the deceitful safety of their homes.
I press a palm over my eyes.
Sometimes I wish I could forget. Forget their faces, their screams... them. Maybe even forget myself. It'd be so damn simple to be wiped again and start all over again as someone new. I'd forget everything I was, everything I still may be. I wouldn't be Bucky anymore, and maybe... maybe that's as good a thing I can get at this point. Eyes drowning in sleep and restless anguish, I slug downstairs, skipping the kitchen.
I need air.
I brush on a small, gray cap and sling open the main compound doors. The bright morning sun blazes above the clearing, and I walk to stand beneath a metal overhang. The shade is little to none even beneath it, but I have a nagging feeling my legs would give out searching for any other place to stand.
I don't sit. Not even as fatigue slips itself around my frame with chilly iron hands.
"Morning."
Romanoff strolls in my direction, hands stuffed in the pockets of a pair of black, fanned out pants. Her hair rests perched on her head by a large, clear clip.
I nod and manage a polite, tight-lipped smile. She doesn't seem to return it.
The agent stands at my left, and the two of us look out towards the forest surrounding the compound. Trees shiver as a steady breeze blows by, and an electrical buzzing hugs the open space.
"How is it with Mila?" She asks, not turning to look at me.
I stare straight. "Decent."
"She's used to fighting very differently from what your particular skill set covers."
I look down, inching a foot over clean, gray stone. Romanoff curls her hands above her chest just as I shove mine into the pockets of my heavy jeans.
"Mila is under my protection." She starts, and I breathe in cautiously.
"I understand."
"She's not one to complain of anything to me, but if I'm made aware that she's in any sort of danger..." The agent turns to me, and I hesitantly lower my gaze to hers. "It's not as easy to wrap a hand around my throat, Barnes."
