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Bucky’s given up on the comms. Listening to Tony and Steve bitch back and forth about absolutely nothing is grating on the nerves, especially his. He wishes Steve would just punch the keyed-up bastard already. Lord knows he wants to. Hell, Bucky wants to, and he was never the kind of man to hit someone without a reason.
And the bird puns are getting ridiculous.
Fed up, he pulls the whole set-up out of his right ear and tosses it over the lip of the rooftop, trusting the garbage bin he’d seen below earlier is still there. He is only here tonight for backup, but he still has the Barrett in his hands and aimed at the third-story window glowing a faint yellow in the foggy night. He’s a mile away from where the action is going to be happening, and that’s just fine with him. Like Bird-brain always says, he sees better from a distance. Tony thinks he’s doing him a favor, keeping him in the background, away from the possible stress of the operation. He's probably thinking of Sam's speech about PTSD earlier that month, the first time Bucky had staggered into the Tower, skittish and flinching at everything as his brain did its damnedest to eat itself from the inside out. And in a convoluted and slightly misguided way, he is. But Bucky won’t tell him. The man’s ego’s already the size of a small country, according to Steve. No need to make it any bigger intentionally.
Bucky kicks his mind away from the stray thoughts and concentrates. His rifle feels as much a part of him as one of his limbs, and he doesn’t even think as he slides a magazine full of specialized rounds home. He no longer uses the non-rifled rounds he is used to unless he wants to make a statement to HYDRA. Since this isn’t a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, he’d rather not do that. He settles onto his stomach, making sure he is comfortable enough to stay that way for hours, and begins his pre-shot procedure. Breathing exercises to lower his heart rate, loosening his muscles, and all that jazz. Another part of this he doesn't even think about anymore. He lets his mind slip into a space reserved for the ultimate stillness that long-distance shoulder tapping requires. Before he can slide too far into that space, though, he feels the presence of someone else on the roof with him. Instantly, he’s on high alert, the stray thoughts about his new-found team disappearing in a storm of adrenaline and instinct. Nothing outwardly changes - he’s too over trained to allow that - but his eyes tighten in the darkness, narrow-minded focus on the intruder. He listens for the tell-tale crunch of boots on the rocky surface of the roof, unwilling to alert whomever it is that he knew they were behind him.
There is nothing.
Either his surprise roof-mate noticed him and froze, or they were gone. The buzzing at the back of his brain tells him the second option isn’t viable. They are still there. Not moving, then.
Something brushes his boot, and his heart kicks hard against his ribs. How the fuck did they get so damned close without him hearing? He reacts out of sheer self-preservation, rolling away from the Barrett and pulling the Sig out of its thigh holster, drawing a bead on -
An orange tabby crouches low to the pebbles, ears back and wide eyes gleaming in the light of the moon.
For a moment, a flicker in time, both cat and enhanced soldier are locked in stasis, neither moving or even breathing. Bucky knows his eyes are as wide and wild as the cat's; he probably scared it out of a few lives. The odds are extremely low that any one of his enemies - of which there are many - would be clever or loony enough to send a kitten assassin to kill him. In fact, the odds were extremely low that there is even such a thing as a kitten assassin, unless you count Steve. But he’s not an assassin.
Bucky lowers the pistol and slides it into its holster, nods once at the poor thing, and rolls back into position. The kitten is a non-issue. It wouldn't bother him as long as he didn't bother it. He takes a moment to be thankful for the blanket beneath him as his fleshy elbow digs painfully into the rooftop. The shooting blanket is a gift from Clint, heavy knit and waterproof. It's something Bucky covets, because it was given to him not as something to use, but as an act of friendship. Clint had started talking to him right from day one, starting with calm words exchanged at distance and evolving into sitting at a dive bar with too many shot glasses in front of them and laughing about something stupid Steve or Natasha or Thor had done. Friendship is something that -
Bucky blinks. The cat has moved. It is now sitting barely a foot away from his left ear, close enough to hear its breathing. Bucky steals a glance, not moving his head from where it hung just above the receiver to see through the scope clearly. The cat stares openly, a bemused expression on its thin furry face. Well, if it’s just going to sit there and stare, then Bucky is just going to sit here and ignore it. He focuses his attention back on the scene through the Leupold scope, and let his mind go. Director Coulson (and wasn’t that a treat, to see Steve nearly faint when the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. walked through the doors at the Tower) has been trying to get him to switch to a scope that is ‘more his speed’. Which means S.H.I.E.L.D. tech or Stark tech. Neither of which he wants for his rifle. He’s been using this particular scope for years, and it hasn’t let him down once. The damned cat is now three inches away, and it is purring in his ear.
Purring. In his ear.
“What do you want, cat?” Bucky growls, barely moving his mouth lest he throw off his aim.
The purring halts for a moment, and Bucky feels an unfamiliar urge to apologize to the thing. Then it starts purring again, and he can hear it settling down into the loaf shape that most cats seem to adore. It’s so close he can feel the heat of its little body radiating on his cheek. He attempts to ignore it. There’s movement in the room now, and he locks down any external distractions to focus on the mission. His mission, which is in the background, comfortably in the wings, waiting for the ball to drop. He has no target at the moment. There will be one soon, if Natasha does her job right -
“Meh.”
The sudden vocalization from the furry orange beast at his cheek nearly startles him right off the damned roof. He shoots it a dark stare. “If you are going to be my spotter, you need to shut the hell up, you hear? I can’t have you distracting me.” He watches for an acknowledgement, but only gets what he assumes is a half-blink.
Jesus, cats are fucking weird. And he's fucking weirder for talking to a cat like it can understand him.
“Alright. Fine.” He settles back in for the shot, and spots Mercer through the window. He’s got the blinds pulled full back, pressing one hand against the glass and talking to the AIM informant sitting on a plain wooden chair. None of that is important to him right now. What’s important is the target, who is making it ridiculously easy for him. He belatedly realizes the error of tossing the communication unit over the edge. Without his comms, he is going to have to rely on his gut to tell him when to make the shot. Good thing he's so good at this. Suddenly, everything skews sideways as a furry forehead connects with his cheekbone and pushes him off target. “What the -” The hell-beast head-butts him again and meows. He leans forward a tiny bit and hisses, “I’m in the middle of something here. Can’t it wait? Go off and do something… cat related. Whatever.”
“Miaow!” The tabby is very insistent on something. Bucky rolls his eyes and reaches out with his metal hand to scrub the cat over the head. The little thing is barely larger than his hand, but it bats at it anyway, attempting to get a game of wrestling going.
“No, no no. I’ve got…” He sneaks a glance into the scope again. Mercer is away from the window, letting him see Natasha in the room, sitting diagonal from the informant. “A job. Mission. Cats don’t understand missions. But I’ve got one, and I can’t play with you right now.” Bucky retracts his hand and winces. For all the hassle this little thing is being, he's starting to like it. “Sorry, buddy. Go off and find your brothers. You’re too small to be off on your own.”
The tabby ignores him to start cleaning itself. Thanks to his enhanced sight, Bucky can see that it is actually a she, and that she’s a dirty little string bean of a thing. A stray. Poor thing. He presses his lips together and once again focuses on the task at hand. Shifting into his quiet place, the place he likes to shoot from, is easy, even with the cat - not much more than a kitten, probably - suddenly deciding that his lower back would be a sharp place to take a nap. Bucky might have to say that the quiet place comes even easier with the animal settling into the dip of his back with sharp claws and kneading paws. The rumbling of her purring kept him in that place, and when he finally takes the shot, she doesn’t move a muscle. Yeah, he's screwed. He definitely likes a calm animal.
He disassembles the Barrett while still on his belly, not wanting to disturb her. He’s not sure if she sleeps well on the streets, or if she’s too afraid to rest most nights. He's not sure why she feels comfortable enough with him - trusts him enough - to fall asleep on him. The instinct to move, to get away from his position, wars with his wish to not wake her. The instincts win, though, and he carefully employs some of the yoga Natasha’s been teaching him in their downtime to maneuver the little cat around to his hands as he sits up, mindful of his profile against the lights of the city. She snuffles in his hands and burrows into his fleshy one, balled up into a puff of orange stripes. He slings the rifle bag over one shoulder and makes his way to street level, glad she picked his right hand to rest on. For obvious reasons, the left is much stronger.
It’s a hour until he reaches the relative safety of the Tower, and he’s soaked to the bone. A sudden rain shower had caught him unawares, and woke the poor thing in his hands. He’d stuck her inside his vest, against his chest, and she’d fallen back asleep. And he had to stop at a emergency vet to pick up formula and kitten kibbles and ask about shots, because he will be damned if he doesn’t keep her now. The man didn't appreciate being woken up at midnight, but one look at Bucky had him moving fast. A place for the little one to sleep is going to be a little tougher, but he’ll use one of his pullover sweatshirts as a temporary bed until he can get to a Pet Smart. Food is more important, and rest. Food and rest and a roof over their head. He pushes his personal code into the back door and waits for the retinal scan before strong-arming the door open and taking the stairs two at a time.
“Where have you been, Barnes?”
Bucky pauses at the side door leading to his and Steve’s floor, turning his head slightly to look at Natasha. “Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Things.”
She steps forward stiffly, still wary of him. Even if it’s only a ghost she’s afraid of. Bucky doesn’t blame her. “Good job tonight.”
“I’d say it was. Pretty easy.”
“I like easy.”
Bucky nods. “So do I. I also like privacy.”
“So do I.” Natasha comes closer, away from the door. As much as she’s heard and learned of the Winter Soldier, Bucky has heard and learned of the Black Widow. Even if it’s only a ghost he’s afraid of. He wills his heart to stay calm.
So of course, this would be the perfect time for the kitten to poke her head out of his vest and blink at her new life. The guarded expression Natasha wore so well melted almost immediately into something much softer. “Oh, Bucky. This is the ‘thing’ you were doing?” She raises a hand, then pauses. Her eyes snap up from the kitten to stare at him. “Can I -”
“Of course.” If finding a kitten - or rather, if a kitten finding him - would help him along in this new world, he wasn’t going to wait for a handwritten invite.