The Watcher
Title: The Watcher
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 296
Rating: T
Summary: Bucky keeps watch.
He remembers, one time, keeping watch like this, up in, back up against a tree and rifle in his arms, Steve stretched out, knocked out, swaddled like a grumpy infant in the thinnest blankets the Howlies have some twenty, thirty feet below and behind in the circle by the rocks.
Then, he sat on the branch in the tree until his legs went numb and hours after, the Howlies’ heaviest blanket draped around his shoulders, rifle steady in fingers that didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t tremble. Then as now in the night squirrels rabbit through underbrush and rabbits squirrel themselves underground and owls sit like him on trees and hoot and, suddenly, start and explode off their branches in a cacophony of crackling leaves and feathers forcing lumps of flesh and bone to rocket through the empty air.
Then and now, Bucky sits watch and sits, watching, patience itself, waiting for the tell-tale rustle of grass and leaves and twigs that don’t snap where they should, waiting for arrogance and cockiness to overcome training and care, for the dark shape that’s followed them for the better part of a day to convince itself that everything is safe and scurry out into the clearing between Bucky and the camp where Steve Rogers lies asleep.
Now, Bucky’s leg’s don’t grow numb, and he doesn’t need the blanket his friend lays around his shoulders with a worried grin before he climbs the tree with the rifle slung over his back, and the shadow that sweats and swears and steps into the sight of Bucky’s scope speaks and cries and curses in the same language the boys he used to cover, then, did.
But the end result is much the same.
(He aims and smiles and lets his hands give his hello.)
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 296
Rating: T
Summary: Bucky keeps watch.
He remembers, one time, keeping watch like this, up in, back up against a tree and rifle in his arms, Steve stretched out, knocked out, swaddled like a grumpy infant in the thinnest blankets the Howlies have some twenty, thirty feet below and behind in the circle by the rocks.
Then, he sat on the branch in the tree until his legs went numb and hours after, the Howlies’ heaviest blanket draped around his shoulders, rifle steady in fingers that didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t tremble. Then as now in the night squirrels rabbit through underbrush and rabbits squirrel themselves underground and owls sit like him on trees and hoot and, suddenly, start and explode off their branches in a cacophony of crackling leaves and feathers forcing lumps of flesh and bone to rocket through the empty air.
Then and now, Bucky sits watch and sits, watching, patience itself, waiting for the tell-tale rustle of grass and leaves and twigs that don’t snap where they should, waiting for arrogance and cockiness to overcome training and care, for the dark shape that’s followed them for the better part of a day to convince itself that everything is safe and scurry out into the clearing between Bucky and the camp where Steve Rogers lies asleep.
Now, Bucky’s leg’s don’t grow numb, and he doesn’t need the blanket his friend lays around his shoulders with a worried grin before he climbs the tree with the rifle slung over his back, and the shadow that sweats and swears and steps into the sight of Bucky’s scope speaks and cries and curses in the same language the boys he used to cover, then, did.
But the end result is much the same.
(He aims and smiles and lets his hands give his hello.)