2012 - Washington D.C.
They end up having to retreat to Hanson's office for this, when the note-pad he's been toting thus far ends up in fact being nowhere near up to the task of absorbing the tidal-wave of stories and random factoids that flow out of Steve as he warms to his subject.
Steve finally accepts the proffered seat in front the curator's desk when it's offered again, this time with none of his earlier frosty edge. He waits while Hanson sets up what he calls a 'laptop', (apparently a miniature computer - he is in the future, Steve reminds himself again-) and fusses around with it for a few minutes.
"...Alright, there we are. You were just saying something about Sergeant Barnes' marksmanship?"
"Right, well Bucky was a sniper. The best damn sniper in the US Army, and I'm not the only one who'll tell you that. He always had a really sharp eye, even as a kid, and real steady hands. Could hit a fly at 100 yards - and he did a couple times, just to show up anybody that didn't think he could do it."
A rapid tempo of click-click-click-clack rises from the little flat keyboard across from him as the curator's fingers fly over it. Steve tunes out the noise, turning the memory over in his mind, examining it from every angle.
"Buck didn't think much of the Army's basic marksmanship training. Thought they glossed over too much, didn't teach you anything but which end to point at the enemy and how to pull a trigger without hurting yourself. He made us all practice with him when there was downtime, the stubborn bastard..." He hears the warm, well-worn affection seeping into his voice, and Hanson apparently does too, given the way the clicking slowly dies off and the hands still over the keyboard. There's a brief, heavy lag in the air between them. Steve just doesn't have the energy to push through it.
"He made you all practice?" the curator says at length, apparently just for something to say, resting his hands beside his computer thoughtfully. "Even though at least two members of your team outranked him?"
Steve chuckles just a little in spite of himself, and settles back in his seat. He finds he loves talking about Bucky, even if it hurts like a fish-hook is buried in his sternum, slowly tearing it out through the skin. He might still be a little messed up - but to be fair, it's been… what a couple weeks? A month? ...At least for him, it has been… He figures it's fair if the wound is still a little raw.
Steve keeps having to remind himself that his best friend has been dead for close on a century, and it's like a shot of ice-water in the face every time.
"Well... we were a little different than your average Army unit. We got the job done, and as long as we did, the brass pretty much left us alone. We ended up making a lot of our own rules. Technically I was in charge, but none of the guys let me get too full of myself. Bucky especially. He was stubborn to a fault, and the guy was a born leader, so we really didn't argue with him much. He said you were gonna practice sharpshooting? You picked up your gun and you practiced 'til he said you were done."
The clacking is back. "Did you improve?"
"Oh, yeah, of course. Practice definitely didn't hurt our skills any. None of us could ever match Buck for raw talent, but he worked us until we were as close as we could get. Christ, he loved being the best at something. Loved teasing me about it, too. Was nice to see him having a little fun..." He hears his own voice catch and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat that's threatening to choke him. "There… uh… there wasn't much chance to enjoy yourself in a war zone…"
And Steve honestly means to move on. He means to let this story drop and talk about something a little more neutral, but his brain is stuck on the memory now. The familiar scene suddenly stretches out before him like he was standing up to his knees in it.
It's 1944, cold and damp, deep in a forest in the backwoods of northern Austria. They've already blown a factory to hell down by Salzburg and rooted out every HYDRA agent for miles around them. Now it's just a matter of waiting for extraction. Stark is supposed to be picking them up by plane tomorrow morning, but at the moment they've got hours to kill and nothing productive to do. Naturally, Bucky's on him immediately to practice sniping, since they've got the time.
Steve peels himself up from his half-rotted log beside the campfire, muttering about slave-drivers while the other snicker behind their mugs of bitter, watered-down coffee. Bucky pops him lightly upside the head and tells him to quit bitching and move his super-powered ass before the sun goes down and they lose their light. The snickering grows into muffled chuckles, and Dugan's face is going red. There are tears in the big man's eyes from trying to hold back the booming laughter he's so notorious for.
Steve just rolls his eyes, picks up his rifle, and follows Buck off into the trees, still muttering.
"Jerk-ass…"
"Pansy." Bucky calls back cheerfully. He doesn't miss it when Steve flips him the bird, but the two of them tromp companionably through the sloppy mud for a ways more, until Bucky holds out an arm and signals him to stop.
"Yeah, this'll do just fine." He turns and points into the distance. "See that patch'a weeds down there? Aim for the big one in the middle."
"... That's 100 yards away, Buck."
Bucky smirks lazily, his own gun set casually against his shoulder. "What, you think Captain America can't make a nice, easy shot like that? Ain't even moving. It's not that hard, Steve-o."
Steve sighs and settles himself obediently into a low crouch, feeling the muck squelching around his boots as he steadies the rifle in his hands and sights the distant husk of plant stalk carefully.
He tries to do what Bucky keeps telling him to: fire between breaths, clear your mind, focus on nothing but your target until you make the shot. He squeezes the trigger and-
-misses entirely.
Bucky is falling all over himself laughing. Steve lines up his shot and tries again. The bullet vanishes into a mire of icy sludge and undergrowth. Steve pushes up to his feet, grumbling.
"C'mon, Buck, stop messing around. There's no way anybody could hit that-"
The top of the fragile stalk abruptly explodes into a powder of fibrous dust that drifts to earth like fluffy snowflakes, as Bucky straightens up and slings the rifle over his back again. He's grinning from ear to ear. Steve glares at him.
"S'ok, Steve. Can't be good at everything, I guess."
"Oh fuck you." Steve grumbles petulantly. Bucky just grins harder, sketching a mock salute. *
"Nice shootin' Cap!" Dugan's booming voice rings out from the trees nearby. Morita wolf-whistles not far beyond him, and yeah… that's definitely Dernier laughing his ass off behind that tree to their right. When he actually looks he can see Fallsworth and Jones struggling mightily not to bust a gut laughing as they lean on each other, shoulders shaking with mirth.
He had an audience…. Just fantastic… At least Bucky's an equal-opportunity jerk.
"Alright you clowns, get down here," he barks, waving them out of the trees. "Show me you're better shots than our fearless leader and I'll buy the booze next time we hit someplace civilized!"
"Sucker bet!" Morita calls back, but they all slowly file down out of the brush and take their turns. Dugan gets the closest, but none of them manages to actually make the shot. Bucky's laughing harder than he has in months. And when Steve thinks about it, honestly... Buck hasn't laughed at all in weeks-
The curator's chair squeaks and Steve snaps back to 2012 with a jolt, aware that he's smiling distantly. His expression falls away when he remembers.
Hanson is staring at him, and he looks a little worried. Steve's stomach abruptly bottoms out and the room feels suddenly very claustrophobic.
"Uh, Captain…?"
"I think that's about enough for today." Steve stands up sharply, feeling inexplicably cold all over.
"I'll-" he desperately needs some air and a little room to think; to clear his head- "I'll be back later." Steve Rogers pivots on his heel and all but bolts from the room.
He doesn't come back for close to two weeks.
* inspired by bonesbuckleup of tumblr, but I lost the link to the particular meta that inspired this flashback