The Winter Soldier never missed. He just didn't. And he didn't miss this time either. The target was unnamed but blond, tall, and muscular, dressed in a ridiculous uniform the Soldier found oddly... endearing. The target was at some kind of public event and there were a lot of people around. But the Soldier knew what to do; always knew what to do. Knew how to get to a good vantage point and how to disappear after taking the shot without getting noticed, even with this many witnesses. Except, this time was different. Because the bullet literally just bounced off the target's chest with a strangely cartoonish 'plink' that played only in his head.
The target didn't even notice.
After a momentary shock he adjusted slightly and tried again, this time aiming for the target's uncovered head because it was possible the man just had really good body armor. And again the bullet simply bounced off (without the insulting mentally added 'plink' sound). This time the target noticed it though, unsurprisingly considering the bullet should have gone through the center of the target's forehead. Even more disturbing was the way the target's eyes landed on him. Not near him. Without searching for him. The target looked directly at the scope and into his eyes like the distance between them was inches and not actual miles.
He fled. The Winter Soldier never fled, but he did now. He was packed up and down from his roost in under a minute. The people on the streets seemed confused, asking one another what was going on at the stage, but nobody questioned him. He slipped through the crowds without much hassle, kept his head down so his hair hid his face from any cameras, didn't run, and didn't fidget or look behind him no matter how tempting it was.
His hearing gave him some indication of what was happening. Someone, or more likely multiple someones, were coming in his direction. Or at least in the direction of where his roost had been. A block from the spot police cars blew past from the other way, heading for the same location. No one stopped him or even looked at him twice. And for the first time he was pretty sure ever, the Soldier actually felt relieved when the black car that had been waiting for him came into view.
The car door opened from the inside and he got in without even needing to pause his steps. Their driver, someone the Soldier could swear up and down he knew but didn't know how, pulled away from the curb and they were off down the street. The car was utterly silent aside from the others agents breathing and the natural sounds that came with driving. The Soldier could only call the feeling he had 'unease'. His fingers itched for a gun or knife, something familiar that he understood. A consistent he could trust.
But drawing weapons without the intent to use it on a target, clean it, or hand it over was forbidden while in the presence of agents or handlers. Especially handlers, but there wasn't one in the car with them. Nor was there one waiting at the designated safe-house. The Soldier was grateful that standard procedure after a mission was to let him clean up and take care of his weapons undisturbed.
The apartment had several rooms and one had been designated as his. He closed the door behind him, which might get him in trouble if any of the agents happened to mention it, but he needed the privacy to think. It was automatic for him to sit down on the ground and take apart the rifle, clean it, and put it away in its proper case rather than the disguised one he'd used for the mission. Though he hadn't used them he checked his other weapons too, every gun and knife on his person.
He took a breath and let it out slowly, his eyes closed. He felt more secure now, safer, but the unease had not totally faded. Taking another breath he thought back over what he'd been told of the mission. The target, who he'd been given a picture of, was classified as Level 10. Highly dangerous. Hence why he'd chosen a roost so far away. He'd been warned the target was enhanced not unlike himself, which meant he was stronger, faster, and had increased healing compared to the average human.
But could it account for the way the target had looked so directly at him? It would have helped, certainly. The Soldier could locate sounds from over two miles away with near pinpoint accuracy just by hearing them, but even he wouldn't have been able to instantly identify the origin of a silenced sniper shot from that far away like the target had. The target hadn't really seen him, that much he was sure. From the distance he'd been, at most the target might have seen movement. Maybe he could have noticed the reflection of sunlight on the gun, but the Soldier been careful to avoid letting that happen.
The Soldier's mind kept coming back to the target's eyes. Those brilliant blue eyes that had momentarily taken him aback when he'd first seen them. As he cataloged the man's expressions that he'd witnessed during the event he knew with a strange certainty that the target disliked public speaking, despite the brilliant smile the target had plastered on. He'd seen the way the man's expression changed from a political smile to battle-ready determination in an instant after the second shot. The way his eyes had lit up in excitement.
And why? Why had the bullets just bounced off? Maybe, maybe the Soldier could argue the target had worn body armor that could bounce his bullets off like it had. The man was certainly large enough for it to be hidden under his red, white, and blue suit. But his forehead? The helmet offered minimal protection at best and certainly couldn't have bounced the bullet off the way it had. Something else was going on.
Even as lost in his thoughts as he was he wasn't startled by the gentle knock on the door, having heard the agent's footsteps pause outside. ⸢⸢Солдат, есть еда.⸣⸣ The man offered. The Soldier stood and the man, the youngest of the team, jumped out of his way when he opened the door. The Soldier barely paid him a glance as he walked past and he knew the man had slumped in relief against the opposite wall.
It seemed distantly familiar, newcomers being frightened of him, but the Soldier had more pressing thoughts. The conversations in the living room quieted as he entered and the driver offered him a box with a fork on top. He took the offered container and returned to his room, sitting on the floor once again. He ate quickly, barely even tasted the noodles, and his body practically sighed in pleasure as the food reached his stomach. He hadn't eaten for hours and though the mission hadn't been physically taxing his body required more frequent nutrients than the average person.
Setting aside the Styrofoam container he quickly stripped out of the civilian clothes he'd been given for this mission and it took only a little longer to get all his holsters off, though he brought some of his weapons with him into the bathroom. He only felt truly naked without something nearby to protect himself, despite the metal arm that was a weapon all on its own. Today more than usual, the idea of being unarmed unsettled him. Showering, though, felt... fantastic. He always took his time when he could. He actually loved the process of it; of scrubbing the oil from his hair and even conditioning it. Of cleaning himself step by step, letting the water wash away the dirt, sweat, and often blood that collected on his skin. Of shaving, carefully making sure there was no stubble left that could be irritated by the mask. Keeping himself groomed and clean was therapeutic.
Hair soft, skin clean, and newly shaven he got out and dried off. His hair was still damp but no longer dripped when he stepped back into his room. A quick sweep with more than one of his senses confirmed no one had entered. He had not expected anyone to do so. In his duffel bag was a set of casual clothes not unlike those he had worn for the mission, but these were softer, all black, and modified to hide his weapons as well as give him protection ordinary clothes wouldn't. They also left his left arm fully exposed, for better range of motion. He put on his hidden holsters and weapons first, followed by the clothes, and a few more weapons on the outside.
After sweeping the room again, tucking his rifle under the bed where no one could get it without waking him, and checking the window, he knocked on his door twice with the metal knuckles. The sound was unmistakable and he heard the way the conversations from the living room paused but by the time he moved towards the bed they had resumed, slightly softer than before. He laid down on his stomach, the gun from his belt in his right hand which he tucked under the pillow.
The choice of position was instinctual, but familiar. He had seen the other agents sleeping on their backs and had tried it briefly their first night here, but the position had immediately sent an inexplicable icy fear through his veins. He didn't try it again. But even like this, on his stomach with a gun in his hand, the weight of his weapons comforting him, sleep urging him into its embrace, the room quiet and secure, and his eyes closed; that unease he'd felt since meeting the target's eyes lingered.