As perceptive as he is, he hasn't actually noticed the way the mist swirls around Steve's legs, around his presence like it's creating some kind of ghostly aura for him. He's so caught up in what's not there he hasn't managed to take in what is -- if only because he can't handle looking at that ghostly absence for long enough to pick it up.
There's no avoiding the sound of hooves, though, and he manages not to shoot Not-Steve an incredulous glance. "I was in assassin training, not cowboy camp."
What the hell does he know about horses?
Clop-clop. Clop-clop. Clop-clop.
It inches slowly but surely closer, and around the middle of the hallway, Barnes can begin to see it. The barreled chest, the long muzzle, a shoulder, a leg, a-
"...Someone's riding it," He murmurs, voice dropping an octave to a soft mutter. His bicep flexes beneath Steve's hands like he's at the ready, like somehow on instinct he knows this is a warhorse and the thing atop it isn't likely to come in peace.
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There's no avoiding the sound of hooves, though, and he manages not to shoot Not-Steve an incredulous glance. "I was in assassin training, not cowboy camp."
What the hell does he know about horses?
Clop-clop. Clop-clop. Clop-clop.
It inches slowly but surely closer, and around the middle of the hallway, Barnes can begin to see it. The barreled chest, the long muzzle, a shoulder, a leg, a-
"...Someone's riding it," He murmurs, voice dropping an octave to a soft mutter. His bicep flexes beneath Steve's hands like he's at the ready, like somehow on instinct he knows this is a warhorse and the thing atop it isn't likely to come in peace.