#widow-bites

Don't know where.

It was a miserable building, unloved, nestled between the brownstones like a sore, a blemish on New York's towering avenues. He could hear the rats in the rafters, in the walls, ear pressed against the cool curve of the rear scope ring, listening to Ната sing as they watched together. Captain America was perhaps the most interesting target he had had of late, and Bucky watched like a predator through broken windows, noting the precise shade of the Captain's hair, the way his shirt clung to him like an awkward lover, still out of time.

Bucky sneered, cold and bright, curling lips. He knew his orders. America himself, waltzing down the avenue below him, and Bucky could almost see the way his blood would spill, spatter, and his lips would twitch as though somehow he remembered what a smile was, and he would be gone again, silent and fatal.

Don't know when.

He readjusted, finger finding Ната's trigger, poised to squeeze, eye to the sight and tracing Steve's movements. Wait. Breathe. The Captain was laughing, pealing bells, and Bucky stared at him, at his heart, eyes narrowed as his finger pressed tight to the trigger. He squeezed and the recoil stung his shoulder, and the entire building shook in indignant anger with the force of the shot. "На здоровье...Captain."

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