AN: Just something I decided to whack out in an hour or so. Didn't want to put it in 'Gently' 'cause no-one prompted it, so it's a standalone. That, and it's Bucky's POV, which 'Gently' isn't, so go figure.

To get you in the mood: omgWinterSoldierisnearlyherewe'reallgonnasufferunderthefeelsaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

There. Now enjoy! :D

Rhythmic

Sometimes, missions go wrong. This is still a relatively new thing for Bucky, who never experienced true failure as the Winter Soldier, and so when the bad guy stays loose or a civilian gets hurt, Bucky gets angry. Not at the team – at himself.

The 'cure' is fairly simple: beat the crap out of a few punching bags until the anger evaporates or he becomes exhausted. Normally it's the latter. Other ways of 'ventilating', as Tony once put it, include a no-holds-barred sparring session with either Steve (if willing) or Natasha, and that works just as effectively as – sometimes better than – the punching bag routine. Neither method, however, is as good for him as when Clint shoves a rifle in his hands and pushes him down to the range.

The range is only saved for the kind of anger that curls deep inside Bucky's core for long after debriefing, the kind that makes him quiet and still and almost reverts him back to the Russians' masterpiece. And once he's taken up stance, once the target is in place and his shot lined up, he lets it. Bucky slips back into the numb efficiency of his training, bleeding his anger slowly into each bullet and focusing on the jerk of the gun against his shoulder. Time is ignored and he doesn't count how many shots he takes, but eventually he's aware of little more than the rhythm of shooting, and when he pauses to take stock of that, the sounds of Clint in the next lane are enough to make the pause a stop.

In extreme cases, like today, the rifle is no help either. Having emptied his supply of bullets methodically into various targets Bucky still felt the cold fury in his gut – only now it was hot and threatening to spill over. He dropped into a crouch, holding his head in his hands and taking several deep breaths as he tightened his fingers, pulling on his hair slightly to try and ground himself in something physical. When that proved not to be working, he quickly straightened and stalked to the back of the range, casting a brief glance at Clint as he passed. The archer was still going, leisurely notching and firing another arrow down the lane as if he hadn't just been out fighting to save the people of America. Bucky clenched his jaw. He made it look enviably easy.

Taking apart the rifle in sharp, agitated movements, Bucky left it on the table and sat down heavily on the back bench, switching to a lying down position a minute later. Throwing his right arm over his eyes he drew in a deep breath again, scrambling for anything he could occupy his mind with that might take away the anger building up inside him. To his left, he heard a soft 'thunk' as one of Clint's arrows found the target. A few seconds later he registered the faint creak of the string being pulled back, and two heartbeats after that the arrow was released, giving another 'thunk' as it too hit the target. The sounds began to repeat themselves, and Bucky was gently mesmerised by them – Clint did everything in exactly the same timings, from how long it took to nock and draw back to the two heartbeats wait before releasing, and it was only obvious any amount of time had passed when Bucky's arm started complaining.

With a sigh, Bucky eased himself upright. The range spun a little for a few seconds, but once it steadied he concentrated on how he felt. Exhausted, he discovered, and heavy. Not with anger, though – that was gone. He looked over to Clint, still with a handful of arrows yet to use, and achingly wondered how he could remain so calm for all this time. He stood up and made his way over to the lone archer as he sent another arrow flying, and loosely wrapped his arms around Clint's waist from behind. "Feeling better?" Clint asked.

"Don't know," he admitted. The anger was gone, of that he was sure, but now he was just… upset. Closing his eyes, he pressed his face into Clint's hair. "It was a child, Clint," he whispered.

"I know," was the soft response. "There was nothing we could do, Bucky."

He dropped his head onto Clint's shoulder. "I just don't understand why." Some left-over rage started bubbling inside him again, and he tightened his hold minutely.

"And you don't have to. Some people are just sick and twisted. It's not our job to understand why."

"Right, it's our job to save their victims."

Clint turned in his arms, forcing him to raise his head. "I already told you," he said firmly, "there was nothing we could do. Nothing anyone could've done. The bastard would've killed whoever he had regardless of who went after him." Bucky swallowed, turning his head away and blinking. "Hey," Clint murmured, encouraging him to turn back. "Nobody blames you, Buck. Nobody."

"The child's mother –"

"Has no right to. You tried to save her kid. If she isn't grateful for that, she's not worth your time."

Bucky finally looked Clint in the eye and found nothing but sincerity in his gaze. It was more than he deserved, he thought, even as he allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace. He closed his eyes once more, feeling each breath Clint took and letting the motion soothe him for a moment. "Tired," he mumbled.

"Alright. Let me pack up and we'll go."

Bucky slept as well as someone with his mental state could for a few hours. Each time he woke with a start, Clint was there to ease him back to sleep with a simple, calming gesture; then, later, with nothing but the sound of his heart.

AN: Hope that's enough Bucky-angst for you until the film is released. And, if you like this, drop me a prompt for 'Gently', or go read it if you haven't already! ;D