Bucky has decided that he hates these kinds of assignments. The waiting ones. The lying on a cold roof watching other people party ones. The ‘It’s midnight and snowing and he’s wearing a goddamn unlined suit jacket’ ones.
His finger doesn’t shift on the trigger when he full-body shivers, because he’s a professional.
Through his scope, he can tell that the party’s already in full swing, despite the fact that Stark’s known for wild nights that last well until the next sundown. Bucky’s been lying here, freezing his fingers and less-dexterous bits off since well before noon, and if his mark doesn’t show up soon there’s a real chance Bucky’ll have to call it off for fear of irreversible hypothermia.















