p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"Clockwork often is a ticking that seems to last forever. Time is an essence that drags to long, or lingers too much. The pitter patter of a heartbeat that echoes in a dead silent room. It's like a loud drum ringing, one that echoes and resonates throughout the room. Often times the simplest things in fate can change the clockwork, cause the echoes and shatters in it that are never realized until the chain of events happens./p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"And sometimes, sometimes the echoes create beautiful things or a double life that could never be imagined. One that was never thought of even imagined, and that alone brings the cold chill into the base of the spine. Brings that magic into the touch, the way that the heat travels into the core, which leaves a burning in the wake, the electric craving, the heat that is the restrained but also the acceptance of that searing marring feeling in the bones. br /br /The gasping of breath, the hitched incline of lungs. It's a wheeze and rush out of the lungs. The moment of waiting, the steady thump of the heartbeat. The slackened beat of the heart, the echo that is what life is. The beating of a war drum that is free and without a purpose for now. Oceanic eyes fluttering open upon them, a groggy look flickering across the eyes. Fingers still at first, body waking and trying to remove itself from a slumber./p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"The digits moving to brush his hair away from his eyes. Small movements from calloused hands moving to pull a hair tie from his wrist to pull his locks of brown hair away from his eyes and back. The pulling of his hair back is swift and fluid, and he blinks again to awaken more. Body bare but a blanket in his small studio apartment, a decent way of living. The apartment itself is on the third floor of the apartment complex but the floor is all to himself. One bathroom, one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. Basic but enough for him, but most of the living room has been taken and made into a makeshift studio. br /br /There's an easel and painting canvas's propped over things. Watercolor stains on the white couch- not that he actual cares. It needed the color anyway, it's stained with hues of purples, blues and faded pinks. There's a canvas on the easel, half finished, the inspiration having left him days ago. The background of the board white, and only a faint outline of the subject, he never was really good at starting things. He's lacked inspiration for months. He's been taking odd jobs to pay the bills, though he's also managed to keep a steady job writing for the paper, that's beside the point. Editing papers can be tiring, and exhausting at /br /None the less he sighs for a moment, blinking into focus now. Body chilled ever so slightly from not running the heat the night before. It's about mid-October, so the air is chilly enough for that hoodie perched on his chair in the kitchen, but not cold enough for a jacket. Not yet at least for him. The winter's he'd spent as an exchange student in Russia seem ages ago, but the winters were much much colder there compared the chilly air here. He's twenty-three still young. Still in the age that there's exploration and living of your life that needs to be done. A struggling artist that had left his teachings of a school system to find his style one that has paid rather well in the moments he can draw and paint. The paintings are just something almost like a hobby, a stress relief but also so much of him goes into the /br /His name scrawled in tiny smudge in the paintings, it's not really important to him. James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known to Bucky by his close friends, the ones who cared enough in Russia to come back over here to make a living. His small initials hidden in the bottom corner of his latest drawing, more than often he hides it in the most abnormal of places. None the less though, James stretches with a groggy look in his eyes, and begins to rise from his bed. Hair tied back to at least make himself look decent. Pooling the blanket at the edge of the bed, its event that he had been up last night. br /br /Paint smears evident across the skin, marking the flesh with hues and shades of dark and light color. Across his thighs and hipbones, jutting across the skin almost like bite-marks, an almost eye-catching display of color. He can smell the watercolors, the sharp scent, but it's not as strong as the lead paints he'd used once with a mask. No, those made his clothes reek for days. James sits upwards, yawning for only a moment before standing. The blanket now at last falling onto the sheets, leaving a clear view if anyone was to walk in, a view of his privates. Most night he sleeps naked, from the intoxication from the night before that is the sliding of fingers across heated skin. That draws the sound and sharp whimpers from his lips, which would be reserved to the ears of lovers. br /br /But he craves much more than a normal lover would ever span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"give/span. Even though he doesn't look like that type, he looks like someone that is just vanilla that would never touch anything like span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"that/span. James pauses for a moment as he stands. Fingers pulling the lose strands of hair away from his eyes, that aren't tied up in the hair tie and slowly walks over to dress. It's evident he's still tired from the night beforehand that had consisted of painting. He stretches trying to wake more before his fingers grab at fabrics that are reserved more than often for richer clients. People willing to pay him a damn good amount for his work, he has a lot of money saved, he just doesn't let it show. And suits quite frankly are the one thing that he doesn't really like to wear to places. And he's not going to waste any time washing the paint of his legs, no. It's not like its wet, and it's not like it's in places that would be seen by the person he's interviewing so it's all good for now. So he can afford to have dried paint on his skin. At least for now. None the less the fabric slides up his skin like silk, fluid and easy as it should /br /Playing the role he's supposed to be playing, he's not an artist. He's a reporter, he's a journalist. It's just an interview that he's headed to, just as simple as that. No strings attached, he's doing his job as he could be and how he always has intended to do it. None the less though, that doesn't stop the pause in his throat, the anxious nerves, the way that his breath hitches from his train of thought. The last time he had done something like this. Things had gotten much to complex. But that had been when he had been interviewing the cooperation of Hydra, that had been a few years ago when he had been nineteen, when he was still naïve to certain things. Certain matters and aspects of his life at least. He'd been taught things, shown things that had left a itching under his skin for more, things that others hadn't wanted exactly. James leaves his apartment dressed and dolled up nicely. He looks far too nice for a street artist, or even someone that made his living most of his days by painting on the streets. His transportation is merely a motorcycle, but it's kept in good shape mostly. br /br /The winters it spends inside, while he uses the bus system to get around or Natasha gives him rides to places with no charge. None the less though, the ride on the bike is brief, it always is to him. It never seems to last, that rush that he gets, it's one that always hides under his skin, and it's a craving he cannot beat. He never has been able to beat it. He exhales a breath in the cold air, he exhales a heavy breath. Stark Industries. A difference between this and Hydra, there would be a difference. There would be no mistakes like last time. He would not object himself to what happened in that place again, he didn't need things getting complex. As he steps inside the building, he's greeted by a young women. One with ginger hair and bright eyes and seems to smile talking among other people inside the building. br /br /"Oh you must be Barnes correct? I'll have to apologize, however because Mr. Stark isn't in, he's away on a trip, though he has someone covering him." The women says to him with a rather polite smile to him. "Top floor, however is the interview you're doing. There should be no problems even though Mr. Stark isn't in. Rogers takes care of almost everything when Mr. Stark is on trips like this." That's all that James needs to know. That's all that he needs to hear. Just were to go, and do his interview, it's easier that way. He mutters a small thank you to the women, and heads up to the upper floors using the elevator. An exhale leaving his lips, a heavy breath following it, and the echo of air through lungs in a quiet room. Okay, breathe. Breathe. I can do this. I've been doing this for four /br /He's not Alexander Pierce. He's not the same as Hydra scumbags. Everything will be fine. I'm just nervous because I'm overreacting. James has to pause when he pushes open the clear glass doors on the upper floor of the penthouse, a rush of breath escaping him again. The man behind the desk looks upwards, attention focused on the person that had just entered. James has to remember to remain professional by the look he receives from the man sitting behind what would be Mr. Stark's desk. Smoldering blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, lips drawn into a thin line. Blonde hair that almost seemed to be tussled or even ruffled slightly. br /br /Those eyes meet his own blue ones catching upon his for a moment, and the room is silent. span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"Oh so silent/span. "I presume you're Mr. Rogers?" There's a sound of a hitched breath in his throat. And James can feel the color coming to his face, the evident embarrassment evident in his features, or it could have been a blush as the man raises. Revealing a body fit to match the sharp cheekbones and oceanic eyes that aren't leaving James's frame at all. Rogers stands, well dressed as much as he is, suit and all but form fitting, and makes his way over, beckoning James to sit by a fireplace in the style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /br /But none the less he takes a seat, the small notebook in his hands, full of doodles but also stories. It's hard for him not to fidget when he's sitting here interviewing people, and not to mention with how this one looks. It's going to take everything to remain professional. He swallows again, trying to calm his nerves. And the other is nothing, nothing below charming when words escape his mouth. br /br /"You would assume correct. I take it Pepper told you Stark is out on leave for a trip?" His voice is smooth and fluid and right to the point. br /br /"Yes, she mentioned that. But none the less interviews are interviews." His voice is light, polite, refrained and quiet in the silence that is the office. And the interview goes as planned the questions mostly aimed towards Stark, so things don't get all that personal, not until after he's wrapping up, not until after he's done. When James is about to stand. When he's about to leave, and head out so he can get together with an editor to write this paper to get paid. When he's ready to stand a question is thrown towards him. A question that shouldn't be asked, that shouldn't even be /br /"But what are your interests?" He almost at once freezes at the question, eyes transfixed at the other man. Transfixed on Mr. Rogers as he's been told. Despite the interview and the man wanting to call him by the name of Steve, James remains professional. He always has or at least tried to remain that way. Azure eyes staring frozen at the man, a look that remains one of mixed feelings. Confliction evident in his eyes, confliction because he cannot let something happen like this again. Even though the last ride, had been willing maters on both sides, he won't survive another game like this. And it's event by the way that he trembles, the way that he breathes out, the way that he moves, that he cannot do this again. He can't afford to start over and move again. James cannot afford for things to get like they were again. br /br /"I'm really not all that interesting. Trust me on that." br /br /"One could argue that, I think you're here not because you want to be, but because you have to be." James lips pull into a thin line at the man. Fingers moving to rest on his own leg, fingers placing the notebook on his lap. Eyes staring at the other man. "And what makes you even think you know me?" Lips curve into a tilted smile from the other. It would have been charming if James's skin wasn't crawling right about now. If it wasn't for the fact this was in a business office, and that things really shouldn't be going like this right /br /"Doddles on your notebook, the way you fidget. There's more to you Barnes. Much more to you than just a reporter. The question is will you tell me some of your story?" Another breath leaves his lungs, and he feels like he's struggling for air. Struggling in a sense that he's used all of his up in a room, and he finds it hard to talk. He has to close his eyes to try to calm himself. The reminder of a ghost of a touch that once took place in office /br /"It doesn't concern you." This isn't the time or place to talk about that lifestyle. It doesn't matter. James swallows again once more, eyes fluttering open, but none the less the color looks drained on his features. He looks like he had seen something behind his eyes. He looks like he had seen something that he regrets or even there's something that leaves the other wondering. None the less though he raises not able to stay any longer. James speaks once more eyes glancing over towards /br /"Thank you for your cooperation. Now if you excuse me." There's a pause that is for seconds before the other speaks. Before Rogers ends up talking, his fingers almost smooth withdrawing a small card, a number. A personal number that makes James's skin crawl. The reasons behind the number are unknown, and why a man of this rank of power would choose to give him that, but he does. He does place it into James's fingers. And the slight mere brushing, the tiny movement of the fingers brushing against the pad of his hand makes him shiver. It's as if the electric current passed through his fingertips, the buzz that races through his skin is one that leaves his heart beating and his mind racing, the single touch leaves a wake of awaken nerves. And it scares the living hell out of him- because the last time this happened he ended up in the Red Rooms of a Hydra cooperative, and on his knees. It's a jolt of reality in that touch, and the fiery eyes seem to be almost amused towards his reaction. And the withdrawal of his fingertips from the other's hand as he takes the card, blood racing still. And that haunting smirk that is perched on Roger's features, and he turns away before the other can read his reactions. br /br /Before anything can be said. br /br /That night he goes home and paints. Splashes of red and brilliant shades of scarlet and purples across a canvas board that stain his fingers, his bare body, everything. Paint sticks and gets everywhere. And flashes of memory echo in his mind. Hot fingers dragging across skin, the familiar touch, craving under the surface. The electric burning current that laces in his heart, and mind. The drug that was sex, the pleasure that came with pain. br /br /The echoed memory of the whip striking across his back and leaving scars that left him bleeding and trembling, but his voice crying out at least for more. The jarring memory makes its way onto the page onto the board. Tainted with the darkened colors against the black that makes them almost seem to pop, the heavy colors swirling across the canvas. And he's shaking, near trembling when he finishes the piece, colors heavy and nothing about the picture is light it's darker desires. br /br /He closes his eyes, and wants to throw the number out, but instead his fingers dial on his cell phone and let the phone ring. br / /p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" Breath hitching when the phone is / /p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" "It took you long enough."/p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"And sometimes, sometimes the echoes create beautiful things or a double life that could never be imagined. One that was never thought of even imagined, and that alone brings the cold chill into the base of the spine. Brings that magic into the touch, the way that the heat travels into the core, which leaves a burning in the wake, the electric craving, the heat that is the restrained but also the acceptance of that searing marring feeling in the bones. br /br /The gasping of breath, the hitched incline of lungs. It's a wheeze and rush out of the lungs. The moment of waiting, the steady thump of the heartbeat. The slackened beat of the heart, the echo that is what life is. The beating of a war drum that is free and without a purpose for now. Oceanic eyes fluttering open upon them, a groggy look flickering across the eyes. Fingers still at first, body waking and trying to remove itself from a slumber./p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"The digits moving to brush his hair away from his eyes. Small movements from calloused hands moving to pull a hair tie from his wrist to pull his locks of brown hair away from his eyes and back. The pulling of his hair back is swift and fluid, and he blinks again to awaken more. Body bare but a blanket in his small studio apartment, a decent way of living. The apartment itself is on the third floor of the apartment complex but the floor is all to himself. One bathroom, one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. Basic but enough for him, but most of the living room has been taken and made into a makeshift studio. br /br /There's an easel and painting canvas's propped over things. Watercolor stains on the white couch- not that he actual cares. It needed the color anyway, it's stained with hues of purples, blues and faded pinks. There's a canvas on the easel, half finished, the inspiration having left him days ago. The background of the board white, and only a faint outline of the subject, he never was really good at starting things. He's lacked inspiration for months. He's been taking odd jobs to pay the bills, though he's also managed to keep a steady job writing for the paper, that's beside the point. Editing papers can be tiring, and exhausting at /br /None the less he sighs for a moment, blinking into focus now. Body chilled ever so slightly from not running the heat the night before. It's about mid-October, so the air is chilly enough for that hoodie perched on his chair in the kitchen, but not cold enough for a jacket. Not yet at least for him. The winter's he'd spent as an exchange student in Russia seem ages ago, but the winters were much much colder there compared the chilly air here. He's twenty-three still young. Still in the age that there's exploration and living of your life that needs to be done. A struggling artist that had left his teachings of a school system to find his style one that has paid rather well in the moments he can draw and paint. The paintings are just something almost like a hobby, a stress relief but also so much of him goes into the /br /His name scrawled in tiny smudge in the paintings, it's not really important to him. James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known to Bucky by his close friends, the ones who cared enough in Russia to come back over here to make a living. His small initials hidden in the bottom corner of his latest drawing, more than often he hides it in the most abnormal of places. None the less though, James stretches with a groggy look in his eyes, and begins to rise from his bed. Hair tied back to at least make himself look decent. Pooling the blanket at the edge of the bed, its event that he had been up last night. br /br /Paint smears evident across the skin, marking the flesh with hues and shades of dark and light color. Across his thighs and hipbones, jutting across the skin almost like bite-marks, an almost eye-catching display of color. He can smell the watercolors, the sharp scent, but it's not as strong as the lead paints he'd used once with a mask. No, those made his clothes reek for days. James sits upwards, yawning for only a moment before standing. The blanket now at last falling onto the sheets, leaving a clear view if anyone was to walk in, a view of his privates. Most night he sleeps naked, from the intoxication from the night before that is the sliding of fingers across heated skin. That draws the sound and sharp whimpers from his lips, which would be reserved to the ears of lovers. br /br /But he craves much more than a normal lover would ever span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"give/span. Even though he doesn't look like that type, he looks like someone that is just vanilla that would never touch anything like span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"that/span. James pauses for a moment as he stands. Fingers pulling the lose strands of hair away from his eyes, that aren't tied up in the hair tie and slowly walks over to dress. It's evident he's still tired from the night beforehand that had consisted of painting. He stretches trying to wake more before his fingers grab at fabrics that are reserved more than often for richer clients. People willing to pay him a damn good amount for his work, he has a lot of money saved, he just doesn't let it show. And suits quite frankly are the one thing that he doesn't really like to wear to places. And he's not going to waste any time washing the paint of his legs, no. It's not like its wet, and it's not like it's in places that would be seen by the person he's interviewing so it's all good for now. So he can afford to have dried paint on his skin. At least for now. None the less the fabric slides up his skin like silk, fluid and easy as it should /br /Playing the role he's supposed to be playing, he's not an artist. He's a reporter, he's a journalist. It's just an interview that he's headed to, just as simple as that. No strings attached, he's doing his job as he could be and how he always has intended to do it. None the less though, that doesn't stop the pause in his throat, the anxious nerves, the way that his breath hitches from his train of thought. The last time he had done something like this. Things had gotten much to complex. But that had been when he had been interviewing the cooperation of Hydra, that had been a few years ago when he had been nineteen, when he was still naïve to certain things. Certain matters and aspects of his life at least. He'd been taught things, shown things that had left a itching under his skin for more, things that others hadn't wanted exactly. James leaves his apartment dressed and dolled up nicely. He looks far too nice for a street artist, or even someone that made his living most of his days by painting on the streets. His transportation is merely a motorcycle, but it's kept in good shape mostly. br /br /The winters it spends inside, while he uses the bus system to get around or Natasha gives him rides to places with no charge. None the less though, the ride on the bike is brief, it always is to him. It never seems to last, that rush that he gets, it's one that always hides under his skin, and it's a craving he cannot beat. He never has been able to beat it. He exhales a breath in the cold air, he exhales a heavy breath. Stark Industries. A difference between this and Hydra, there would be a difference. There would be no mistakes like last time. He would not object himself to what happened in that place again, he didn't need things getting complex. As he steps inside the building, he's greeted by a young women. One with ginger hair and bright eyes and seems to smile talking among other people inside the building. br /br /"Oh you must be Barnes correct? I'll have to apologize, however because Mr. Stark isn't in, he's away on a trip, though he has someone covering him." The women says to him with a rather polite smile to him. "Top floor, however is the interview you're doing. There should be no problems even though Mr. Stark isn't in. Rogers takes care of almost everything when Mr. Stark is on trips like this." That's all that James needs to know. That's all that he needs to hear. Just were to go, and do his interview, it's easier that way. He mutters a small thank you to the women, and heads up to the upper floors using the elevator. An exhale leaving his lips, a heavy breath following it, and the echo of air through lungs in a quiet room. Okay, breathe. Breathe. I can do this. I've been doing this for four /br /He's not Alexander Pierce. He's not the same as Hydra scumbags. Everything will be fine. I'm just nervous because I'm overreacting. James has to pause when he pushes open the clear glass doors on the upper floor of the penthouse, a rush of breath escaping him again. The man behind the desk looks upwards, attention focused on the person that had just entered. James has to remember to remain professional by the look he receives from the man sitting behind what would be Mr. Stark's desk. Smoldering blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, lips drawn into a thin line. Blonde hair that almost seemed to be tussled or even ruffled slightly. br /br /Those eyes meet his own blue ones catching upon his for a moment, and the room is silent. span style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"Oh so silent/span. "I presume you're Mr. Rogers?" There's a sound of a hitched breath in his throat. And James can feel the color coming to his face, the evident embarrassment evident in his features, or it could have been a blush as the man raises. Revealing a body fit to match the sharp cheekbones and oceanic eyes that aren't leaving James's frame at all. Rogers stands, well dressed as much as he is, suit and all but form fitting, and makes his way over, beckoning James to sit by a fireplace in the style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: oblique; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /br /But none the less he takes a seat, the small notebook in his hands, full of doodles but also stories. It's hard for him not to fidget when he's sitting here interviewing people, and not to mention with how this one looks. It's going to take everything to remain professional. He swallows again, trying to calm his nerves. And the other is nothing, nothing below charming when words escape his mouth. br /br /"You would assume correct. I take it Pepper told you Stark is out on leave for a trip?" His voice is smooth and fluid and right to the point. br /br /"Yes, she mentioned that. But none the less interviews are interviews." His voice is light, polite, refrained and quiet in the silence that is the office. And the interview goes as planned the questions mostly aimed towards Stark, so things don't get all that personal, not until after he's wrapping up, not until after he's done. When James is about to stand. When he's about to leave, and head out so he can get together with an editor to write this paper to get paid. When he's ready to stand a question is thrown towards him. A question that shouldn't be asked, that shouldn't even be /br /"But what are your interests?" He almost at once freezes at the question, eyes transfixed at the other man. Transfixed on Mr. Rogers as he's been told. Despite the interview and the man wanting to call him by the name of Steve, James remains professional. He always has or at least tried to remain that way. Azure eyes staring frozen at the man, a look that remains one of mixed feelings. Confliction evident in his eyes, confliction because he cannot let something happen like this again. Even though the last ride, had been willing maters on both sides, he won't survive another game like this. And it's event by the way that he trembles, the way that he breathes out, the way that he moves, that he cannot do this again. He can't afford to start over and move again. James cannot afford for things to get like they were again. br /br /"I'm really not all that interesting. Trust me on that." br /br /"One could argue that, I think you're here not because you want to be, but because you have to be." James lips pull into a thin line at the man. Fingers moving to rest on his own leg, fingers placing the notebook on his lap. Eyes staring at the other man. "And what makes you even think you know me?" Lips curve into a tilted smile from the other. It would have been charming if James's skin wasn't crawling right about now. If it wasn't for the fact this was in a business office, and that things really shouldn't be going like this right /br /"Doddles on your notebook, the way you fidget. There's more to you Barnes. Much more to you than just a reporter. The question is will you tell me some of your story?" Another breath leaves his lungs, and he feels like he's struggling for air. Struggling in a sense that he's used all of his up in a room, and he finds it hard to talk. He has to close his eyes to try to calm himself. The reminder of a ghost of a touch that once took place in office /br /"It doesn't concern you." This isn't the time or place to talk about that lifestyle. It doesn't matter. James swallows again once more, eyes fluttering open, but none the less the color looks drained on his features. He looks like he had seen something behind his eyes. He looks like he had seen something that he regrets or even there's something that leaves the other wondering. None the less though he raises not able to stay any longer. James speaks once more eyes glancing over towards /br /"Thank you for your cooperation. Now if you excuse me." There's a pause that is for seconds before the other speaks. Before Rogers ends up talking, his fingers almost smooth withdrawing a small card, a number. A personal number that makes James's skin crawl. The reasons behind the number are unknown, and why a man of this rank of power would choose to give him that, but he does. He does place it into James's fingers. And the slight mere brushing, the tiny movement of the fingers brushing against the pad of his hand makes him shiver. It's as if the electric current passed through his fingertips, the buzz that races through his skin is one that leaves his heart beating and his mind racing, the single touch leaves a wake of awaken nerves. And it scares the living hell out of him- because the last time this happened he ended up in the Red Rooms of a Hydra cooperative, and on his knees. It's a jolt of reality in that touch, and the fiery eyes seem to be almost amused towards his reaction. And the withdrawal of his fingertips from the other's hand as he takes the card, blood racing still. And that haunting smirk that is perched on Roger's features, and he turns away before the other can read his reactions. br /br /Before anything can be said. br /br /That night he goes home and paints. Splashes of red and brilliant shades of scarlet and purples across a canvas board that stain his fingers, his bare body, everything. Paint sticks and gets everywhere. And flashes of memory echo in his mind. Hot fingers dragging across skin, the familiar touch, craving under the surface. The electric burning current that laces in his heart, and mind. The drug that was sex, the pleasure that came with pain. br /br /The echoed memory of the whip striking across his back and leaving scars that left him bleeding and trembling, but his voice crying out at least for more. The jarring memory makes its way onto the page onto the board. Tainted with the darkened colors against the black that makes them almost seem to pop, the heavy colors swirling across the canvas. And he's shaking, near trembling when he finishes the piece, colors heavy and nothing about the picture is light it's darker desires. br /br /He closes his eyes, and wants to throw the number out, but instead his fingers dial on his cell phone and let the phone ring. br / /p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" Breath hitching when the phone is / /p
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" "It took you long enough."/p