A love that never leaves

Chapter 5: I'll always wait

*****

Early January 1944
Somewhere in France

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He's fucking pissed.

"You piece of shit fucking asshole!" he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve Rogers, Gabe Jones, and Timmy Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well. Patiently might be a lie.

"Barnes, I'm hungry," Dugan calls up. "Thought you were a god damn sniper. It's not that hard, just point and fuckin' shoot."

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

"Maybe it's time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I'm fuckin' working on it."

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

"Anything?"

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

"OUCH! Fucking ouch! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker, fuck you," he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

There.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There's a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like shit.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

"You owe me a smoke. Jackass."

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.