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The Winter soldier never missed -- he’d made shots into speeding cars, across miles of lush, green fields in the middle of a hurricane, through the stomach of the redhead currently flanking The Target and into the man he’d been sent to kill-- it was why he was the left arm, the ghost.
But he missed The Man on The Bridge, he missed him by a mile and there was no good goddamn reason for it. The Man was the size of a tank and was making no attempt to shield himself even though he was holding a shield and for some reason that, more than anything is what had The Soldier incensed.
The complete lack of self-preservation. What kind of punk ass--
The Soldier fired again.
Again he missed.
Was his weapon functional? A quick check, a test shot fired towards the redhead that sunk into the meat of her left shoulder, revealed that yes , yes it was. Also, his aim was perfect.
What the Lenin loving fuck.
Barking orders towards his strike team to take care of the dark-skinned man, The Soldier leapt from the overpass, landing a scant few feet from The Man, knife already in hand.
He lashed out, once, twice, The Man blocking him at every turn, the shield flying towards his face at an alarming speed, no punches pulled (this pleased The Soldier for reasons he didn’t understand).
The metal arm caught the shield like he’d been doing it for years. Flung it back. Embedded it in the backend of a truck.
The Man shot forward, fists flying, and The Soldier reacted accordingly, raising the knife.
The knife.
Did nothing.
It glanced off The Man’s bicep like it was made of plastic, rather than galvanized steel, and everything skid to a grinding halt. Both men staring at The Man’s arm, then at the knife, then at each other.
The Man, The Target, looked gutted. His every emotion swirling behind crystal eyes that had never been good at closing their gates.
With a trembling hand, he curled his fingers around The Soldier’s mask, ripping it free. The Soldier let him. The Soldier shouldn’t have let him. The Soldier was going to be punished. Wiped. Sent back into the ice.
But.
But the sun warm breeze of spring blew past, sent the overlong strands of his hair dancing across his face. He wanted to close his eyes and bask in it.
The Man’s expression crumpled further. He reached for the metal arm, it’s fingers still curled around the hilt of the knife. The world around them seemed to have stopped.
Then, then The Man shoved himself forward, impaling himself on the knife still held in The Soldier’s hand.
He didn’t make a conscious decision to scream, his body just did it. He jerked back, dropping the knife onto the concrete with a clatter, flesh hand reaching up to cover the wound-- the wound-- the wound that wasn’t there .
The Soldier froze.
“Bucky,” The Man whispered on an exhale, like a prayer, like it was salvation.
“Who the hell is Bucky?” The Soldier rasped, eyes still glued to the pristine body under his palm. Not even the shirt was torn.
That knife had once stabbed a woman through the metal of her car door. That knife should have taken The Man down. Should have finished the mission, then and there. Should have sliced clean through the flesh of his arm and again through his sternum.
“Why can’t I kill you?”
The Man laughed, and The Soldier recognized the sound. He recognized the warm hands that wrapped around his wrist. He recognized the heart that beat under his palm, though he thinks that it may have once been weaker.
Steve.
“Bucky,” he said again, stronger this time, finding The Soldier’s eyes and holding them, “your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”
A pause, long enough that empires could have risen and fallen in its heavy span. Then The Soldier --
Then Bucky Barnes opened his mouth, trying to work past the desert in his throat and the iron in his chest.
“Steve?”