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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Mila's phone buzzes against the tight pocket on her thigh, and I'm broken from my stupor. Her eyes dance like sparks over the dimly lit screen.
She scowls.
My forehead curls, and I extend a hand to brush the tightness of her shoulder. Her whole body tenses and shakes, but not beneath my touch.
"What is it?" I ask, voice cracking.
Mila shoves the phone into the open slit of her jeans. Her lips shudder. Her eyes burn. She folds her arms atop her chest and breathes out harshly through clenched teeth.
I step in closer to her, and only now notice the presence of a small, aged woman in the far corner by the entrance. The rich darkness of her skin crinkles in concern as she too beholds Mila's stature. I turn the both of us away from the woman's soft eyes.
"Mila, talk to me." My voice is low and tense. "Is something wrong?"
It's as if she doesn't even register the fact that I'm here. Her foot taps anxiously - angrily - on the fraying carpet floor, and her scowl deepens to the point where my own brows knit tighter together in worry.
"Mila-"
She passes almost through me and stomps across the expanse of the thin, shop walkway. I steal a glance at the stacks of shelves, breathe in a final bubble of aged air, and follow after her as she barrels her way through the door.
I'm almost sure the glass nearly cracks.
Wind tornadoes into me as my body meets the outside, and my eyes snap to slits. Mila's seething, mumbling form comes into view to my right, already marching in the direction of the compound. I call again to her as I near her heels, but she doesn't even notice my presence in her anger.
What on earth is going on?
I pump my arms harder and jog up to match her pace. I catch a few of her words, "... of all the insufferable, dis... ", and loop an arm through the crook of her elbow. Her body arches backwards at the strain, and I pull up two palms to rest on either of her shoulders.
"Mila!" I almost yell. Passersby take note of us and cringe away, so I edge her feet with mine into a small, cramped alleyway. The surrounding cobble reeks of moisture and moss.
My eyes trail over Mila's features, and the angry quiver of her lips strengthens.
I blow out a breath. "Who was it?"
"Natasha." Her voice slips off her tongue like tar.
Romanoff? What would Romanoff- "What did she want?" I ask hesitantly.
Was someone in danger? Did they find Loki? I squeeze her arms in question and she blinks up to me.
"To know where I was." Her teeth tighten as she talks darkly through them. "To know where you were."
