James picks his way through the heavy underbrush, ducking under low-hanging branches and sliding through grass as high as his hips. This part of Roger’s quote-unquote "plan", at least, is rock solid. George Barnes didn’t raise no fool, and neither did the fathers of his superiors because they had enough sense to make him into a sniper the second his boots hit the dirt on base. He’s damn good at what he does. Rogers knows it too, though he'd argued with his friend forever about their parts in this mission. James’ ulcers have ulcers, and he’s sure he’s picking up some of his friend’s crazy because he’s letting the nutjob tromp around this fuckin' war with him. Nothin’ for it, though. Time to go to work. The spot he’d eyed from the ground on the hump up the trail turns out to be sharp as hell. Line of sight and cover are so near perfect he wants to cry. He’s on the crest, so no silhouette. Couldn’t be better. He settles in, making a nifty little nest in the wet loam and adjusting his scope from all the damn jostling around his baby’s been through. When he’s satisfied, he flips the tiny mirror in his hand once, twice; Dougan nods but doesn’t look his way as the rest of his team find their cover. James grins and relaxes for the wait. The waiting is what he does best.
The better part of six hours has passed, and the sun is dipping under the forest canopy inch by horrible, glaring inch. That goddamn clown outfit. He tenses his jaw and clicks the button on his radio twice, trying to get Roger’s attention. Steve's got good cover but damn them both if the dying light isn’t catching the one white patch of the Captain America uniform that hasn’t been dirtied up. Each moment the sun would catch on white, James would click at Rogers and Rogers would move his ass as quietly as he could. But this time Steve comes back with an immediate response instead of moving. James doesn't know how the hell three clicks - about to engage - could sound so enthusiastic and ominous. Damn Rogers. Damn his plans, damn the man, damn the war. He starts scanning for the HYDRA mooks and spots the lead man as he breaks through the branches criss-crossing the trail. James scowls and sends a pleading thought to whomever's listening that the enemy can't see the white patch in the leaves. No one freaks out. James lets out the breath he'd been holding and grins. So far, so good. The enemy has no idea they are lying in wait, not the way they’re just crashing through the place like it’s a parade. The grin turns feral. Welcome to the party. He’s relaxed, but his finger is at half-pressure on the trigger in case the trap has to be sprung early.
There’s suddenly tapping on the radio, barely audible where James stuffed it under his pack. He listens intently to the code. His asshole clenches as the ‘thing’ Dernier is frantically warning the rest of them about rolls into view. Oh, shit. That’s... It’s artillery. Maybe. He and Steve ran into that shit in Austria, at that factory. The plan had been to strike in the middle of the troops, get into a group and fight on all sides with James taking runners out one by one, but that fucking thing is right in the middle. They’ll have to let that pass, it’ll be harder to turn it around and fire backwards if he remembers correctly... Steve let it pass, let it pass…
It all happens real fast after that. One moment he is thinking about putting the rest of the pressure on his trigger. The next moment the mobile artillery blows to bits with a cacophany of noise. James catches a glimpse of Farnsworth in the bright fire-flash, another charge in his hand. His beret is gone. James snaps his eyes back and pulls the trigger on the man climbing out of the top of the flaming wreck. Then he’s doing his job as the shield flies past his position, taking out one, two, three men in one fell swoop. All three go down, broken marionettes, and Rogers leaps up and grips the shield in one hand, using momentum to send it flying again. James isn’t moving, just waiting for the shitfaces to run into his line of sight. He never loses track of how many rounds he has, and he does a quick magazine change as Rogers goes hand-to-hand with two men. After every damn alley fight they’ve ever found themselves in, James is still knocked sideways that his Stevie can now hold his own. But oh Jesus Christ there’s someone drawing a bead on his head - one second, four ounces of pressure, move move move - and James strokes the trigger once more, taking out the asshole. Rogers hears the shot - enhanced hearing, shit, he could hear someone shouting in London right now I betcha my rations - and turns to watch the body fall. Then he turns back around and tips his head, firing off a quick little thanks. On autopilot, just like in the alleyway, James nods back. Then, he freezes.
“Oh my god. Oh, no.” then curses because he can't believe what just happened. Steve didn't just do that. He couldn't have... “What the fuck are you -” He pushes to his knees, staying low and hoping he can back up like this because there’s just no way that anyone could have seen that jaunty little wave in the bloodbath down there. “Son of a bitch, you son of a bitch…” He’s still cursing when he backs against a tree and has to crouch even lower to avoid getting his head getting blown off. Splinters of wood rain down on his head and shoulders. “Damn it,” he hisses. They’ve got his position, damn it! He scrambles to his feet and dives into the underbrush as HYDRA really opens up. That son of a bitch is going to get an earful when I get out of this snafu.
Steve’s feeling good. They have a few new prisoners and what is left of the HYDRA tech in this area, at least he hopes. That should make the Colonel and Stark happy. He roots through the pockets of the first man he’d hit with the shield. Unlike his unconscious friends, he would not be a prisoner today. Not unless Morita can summon spirits as well as stop arterial spouting. Steve tries not to think of the dead people as he relieves them of their ammo, food rations and guns. No one’s eating what Schmidt is giving the poor bastards, but the chocolate is important for morale and goodwill. Maybe Bucky will want some, once he makes it back around. He stands back up and looks around. “Hey, anyone seen Buck? He was just over in that copse of trees a minute ago.”
Dum-Dum squints at him. “How did you know?”
"Because someone put me in charge of this outfit, and Buck told me where he was going to go to ground." Everyone’s staring at him now. He gets a feeling in his gut, one that he hates more than being helpless. It’s one he feels when he’s really messed up somehow. “He nailed someone who was sneaking up on me while I took out those two.” He waves his hand in the general direction of where he’d been standing. “Just like the old days. Felt good to know he’s got my back, despite everything.” He frowns. “So I thanked him.” His frown grows as his high-powered and overworked brain kicks into high gear.
“How’d you thank him, Cap?” Morita wipes at the sweat on his brow with bloody hands.
Steve groans as he realizes what he did, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Gave away his position. Shit.” He’s hit with a realization so sickening he nearly gags. “Shit! Bucky!” He whirls around and runs right into his friend. Steve’s not proud of the girlish squeal that erupts out of his chest, but it's better than sobbing with relief. He wraps his arms around Bucky and squeezes him, lifts him right off the ground and buries his face into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he mutters into his friend’s neck. “I’m an idiot. You smell like dirt and...I’m sorry.”
“Gitoffame, jerkface!” Bucky pushes at his shoulders and arms and finally knees him in the nuts when he refuses to let go, then kicks at his legs when he drops to the muddy ground. Now everyone’s laughing at their childish spectacle, except he messed up and nearly got his best friend killed. He really messed up if Bucky will give him one to the balls. He curls up and whimpers a little. Bucky hauls him back up to his feet by his star-spangled lapels and shakes him. “You jerk! Didn’t they teach you a fuckin’ thing at Lehigh? I had to hide in a fuckin’ pond, shithead! A pond! It’s cold as hell out here and I was in a pond! I have a leech on my goddamn ballsack because of you!” He's red-faced in anger, but there's a spark in his dark eyes.
Steve blinks at him. “A...a leech?”
“A leech!” Bucky shakes him again, like a naughty kitten. Now he's got a grin on his face. “And I'm gonna pull it off and slap it on your monstrosity of a nose for that little trick you pulled, you twat!"
"You...you can try," Steve mumbles. Bucky lets go of his lapels and lets him drop back to the ground, giving him a couple kicks for flavor.
"Dumbass. Gonna teach you some rules about warfare, since they didn't stick the first time." He turned his head and side-eyed the rest of the Commandos. "That wasn’t the best part. No, the best part is I ended up skirting this whole fuckin’ mess and you know what I found?”
“More leeches, Sarge?” Dum Dum pipes up, and Bucky turns a glare on him.
“If I did, they’d be going on your dick, you giant fuck. Get everyone together, we’re goin’ huntin’!” Bucky turns back to Steve and narrows his eyes even further, nudging his shoulder with a boot. “I know it was instinct,buddy, but I swear to the Lord above if you ever do that again I don’t care how big and strong you are I will light your ass on fire and throw you down a cliff, y’hear?”
Steve winces. "Loud and clear."
"Good." Bucky sticks out a hand to help him up.