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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The next day's training wreaked of unspoken warmth, secrecy, and lust. With every brush of Mila's hips against my thighs, my heart lifted. With every inch that her face neared mine, my lips shuddered. With every coil of my arms around her neck, heat coursed through my centre.
It's a miracle either of us could swing straight at all.
Following a brisk shower on both our parts, we met back at the kitchen for a nine o'clock breakfast (Mila's breakfast, my morning dose of caffeine). Ever since she'd asked about my eating, Mila's been more and more insistent that I shove any and all food between my teeth. The second I refuse, I'm met with a whirlwind of a speech about something along the lines of, you're going to die Barnes,it's a miracle you haven't died yet Barnes, and I'm going to kill you if you keep going like this Barnes.
Needless to say I've taken the latter into consideration.
With one of our stomachs full and the other knotted and expectedly empty, the two of us figured that with nothing much else to do, we'd head back to the compound gym.
"Thor is definitely the older one." Mila says, forehead scrunched and lips pursed as she digs a small, silver spoon into a tub of what she explained was "everything free ice cream".
I crunch my jaw and extend my arms above me. My fingers grip the thick, metal rod of a dumbbell raised over my eyes, and the surface of the reclined stool cushions my spine.
I blow out an uneasy breath and lower the weight. "With that cape? No, it's definitely Loki." I extend again.
She trails the inner side of the spoon across her tongue. "Loki has horns." Her voice is drenched in satire.
"My best friend wears a spangled jumpsuit and carries a giant dinner plate." My jaw tightens as I lower and raise the bar another time. Sweat glistens and pools as the skin of my bare chest bends.
I glimpse Mila nod from the corner of an eye. "Fair point."
I scoff, and my elbows shake beneath the weight.
She paces at my side and taps the empty spoon on air. "Thor's the chosen one, so that would make him older. Isn't that how a royalty hierarchy works?"
My neck strains as I lower the dumbbell onto a large, iron rack above my head. My torso tugs as I sit myself up and drag my eyes to her. Mila's eyes flick to the skin of my abdomen quickly, before hastily shifting up to meet my stare.
I curve my mouth in a smirk.
"You don't know that Asgardians run things the same way humans do." I offer.
She slides a spoon of the desert between tight lips and pulls it out clean. "I can bet it's similar."
I shrug.
Her eyes narrow on something in the space far away and her brows knit in thought. I run a hand down the center of my face and grimace when it comes down soaked in sweat. Mila shovels down another chunk of ice cream.
