James Buchanan Barnes isn't a killer. He isn't merciless, or cunning, or evil.
But something in him is.
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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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For six hours I don't let a single muscle in my body fall lax.
Not as I watch a man clad in red and gold iron call down a carrier to lift two bodies from a compound floor.
Not as I stare out the open torso of a helicopter, hair drifting in the harshly biting wind of New York City.
Not as I watch two crisp white beds grow slick with glistening blood and muddy filth, twin to a third bed dampening not but three rooms down a hospital hall.
I keep my biceps curled, my abdomen stiff, and my chest just barely lifting enough to breathe.
I steel my shoulders into a hunch and coil the fingers of a metal hand through those of a torn and calloused one.
I don't let my eyes fall shut longer than a blink, not if darkness will bring forth memory and thought.
For six hours my ears grow deaf, my mouth falls mute, and my heart just damn near stops.
It's only when I hear those two brisk words that I will my senses to return.
It's only when I hear those two brisk words that I find it in me to listen.
