FILL 2 (^that was #1, sorry): Steve/Bucky, any, god a/u
anonymous
August 20 2011, 08:28:46 UTC
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was known for two things.
The first and foremost was that, out of all the Allied powers, he was the best sniper there was.
The second was that he was the luckiest bastard alive.
"I cannot believe you survived that," Falsworth commented, shaking his head as he patched up the minor wounds Bucky had sustained during their most recent skirmish: a few scratches and bruises, but nothing serious. He'd been at the front of the squad when they were ambushed, directly in the line of fire, but despite it all had managed to make it out without a single bullet wound. The others hadn't been so lucky--Dugan was griping about a shoulder graze, and Jones was getting his side patched up by Morita.
"Gotta be good to be lucky, and all that," Bucky murmured.
"Can I call you Lucky Bucky?" Falsworth asked, his face absolutely straight.
Bucky smiled at him toothily.
"Only if you feel no particular attachment to your limbs."
"No sense of humor," Falsworth muttered.
Bucky snorted and stood up as soon as Falsworth was done, grabbing his canteen and waving it at the rest of his battered squad.
"I'm doing a water run, does anyone--"
He ducked hastily as five metal containers came flying towards his head.
The stream wasn't far away, close enough to cover a lot of their noise, and it was fresh and clear mountain water. He filled up the canteens first, laying them aside for a moment as he knelt on the rocks, cupping his hands and splashing the cold water on his face. Covert ops meant you were on your own in a small team with no camp amenities, and after a few days of hiking and fighting and crawling through the dirt, Bucky was ready to start to feel clean again. He rolled up his sleeves and sluiced the water over his arms, dunking his head under to scrub out the bits of leaves and dried mud.
A twig snapped behind him and Bucky spun around on his heels, pistol in his hand and aimed at the threat before he got a good look at what it was.
That being, a dog.
He blinked dumbfoundedly at the sleek golden labrador sitting in front of him, its head cocked curiously to the side. It seemed well-fed and groomed, not like a stray that had been living in the wild, but there weren't any towns nearby. Bucky slowly lowered his weapon as he took the dog in, looking it over for any planted devices that might mark it as an Axis scout or weapon.
The dog started forward and Bucky hastily scrambled back, raising an arm to defend himself. But instead of jaws sinking into the meat of his forearm or a grenade going off in his face, he instead got a warm tongue licking a stripe across his palm. Laughing blue eyes watched him as he slowly raised his head.
"I take it you're not trained to kill me, then?" he said bemusedly. The dog's tail thumped against his leg. Bucky shook his head, climbing to his feet. He reached down warily to pet the dog's head, scratching behind its ears when no bite came. "You'd better go back to your family," he murmured softly. "We can't take you where we're going."
The dog whined sadly, pressing its muzzle into Bucky's hand. It looked up at him with liquid eyes that begged him to reconsider and he had always been such a goddamn sucker for animals.
"Fine," he sighed. "You can stay in the camp for tonight."
The first and foremost was that, out of all the Allied powers, he was the best sniper there was.
The second was that he was the luckiest bastard alive.
"I cannot believe you survived that," Falsworth commented, shaking his head as he patched up the minor wounds Bucky had sustained during their most recent skirmish: a few scratches and bruises, but nothing serious. He'd been at the front of the squad when they were ambushed, directly in the line of fire, but despite it all had managed to make it out without a single bullet wound. The others hadn't been so lucky--Dugan was griping about a shoulder graze, and Jones was getting his side patched up by Morita.
"Gotta be good to be lucky, and all that," Bucky murmured.
"Can I call you Lucky Bucky?" Falsworth asked, his face absolutely straight.
Bucky smiled at him toothily.
"Only if you feel no particular attachment to your limbs."
"No sense of humor," Falsworth muttered.
Bucky snorted and stood up as soon as Falsworth was done, grabbing his canteen and waving it at the rest of his battered squad.
"I'm doing a water run, does anyone--"
He ducked hastily as five metal containers came flying towards his head.
The stream wasn't far away, close enough to cover a lot of their noise, and it was fresh and clear mountain water. He filled up the canteens first, laying them aside for a moment as he knelt on the rocks, cupping his hands and splashing the cold water on his face. Covert ops meant you were on your own in a small team with no camp amenities, and after a few days of hiking and fighting and crawling through the dirt, Bucky was ready to start to feel clean again. He rolled up his sleeves and sluiced the water over his arms, dunking his head under to scrub out the bits of leaves and dried mud.
A twig snapped behind him and Bucky spun around on his heels, pistol in his hand and aimed at the threat before he got a good look at what it was.
That being, a dog.
He blinked dumbfoundedly at the sleek golden labrador sitting in front of him, its head cocked curiously to the side. It seemed well-fed and groomed, not like a stray that had been living in the wild, but there weren't any towns nearby. Bucky slowly lowered his weapon as he took the dog in, looking it over for any planted devices that might mark it as an Axis scout or weapon.
The dog started forward and Bucky hastily scrambled back, raising an arm to defend himself. But instead of jaws sinking into the meat of his forearm or a grenade going off in his face, he instead got a warm tongue licking a stripe across his palm. Laughing blue eyes watched him as he slowly raised his head.
"I take it you're not trained to kill me, then?" he said bemusedly. The dog's tail thumped against his leg. Bucky shook his head, climbing to his feet. He reached down warily to pet the dog's head, scratching behind its ears when no bite came. "You'd better go back to your family," he murmured softly. "We can't take you where we're going."
The dog whined sadly, pressing its muzzle into Bucky's hand. It looked up at him with liquid eyes that begged him to reconsider and he had always been such a goddamn sucker for animals.
"Fine," he sighed. "You can stay in the camp for tonight."
He could have sworn the dog beamed at him.
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I love the world you are building here. Lucky Bucky, haha.
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But a Golden Retreiver is such a perfect choice for Steve!
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Anon, you have no idea how much I adore you for writing this! <3
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