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Bucky would call him a masochist, if he were here.
He isn’t. At least Bucky’s somewhere, Steve muses, alive, with a metal arm and stupid-looking hair and a lot of guyliner. Except he’s not really Bucky, because the Bucky he knows would not have stupid-looking hair if it killed him.
It’s the day after Thanksgiving. Sam and Steve had called a brief intermission in their Buckyhunt to celebrate--Sam in Virginia with his family and Steve in the Stark tower, watching Tony burn his eyebrows off trying to deep-fry a turkey. The embers were still smoking. It was actually pretty fun, in a watch-Tony-hurt-himself kind of way, but now it’s Black Friday, a concept Steve gets, thank you Tony, but doesn’t particularly want to immerse himself in.
So he walks. And apparently his feet takes him here.
The building’s still here. It’s the little things, he supposes--if he had turned the corner to see a laundromat or an empty lot or another damned Starbucks he doesn’t even know what he would’ve done. It still looks kind of the same, spare and battered, windows listlessly grimy. There’s kids playing in the alleyway, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost think himself back.
There’s a prickle of eyes on him and he turns. There’s a man watching him. He smiles politely and nods at him when he notices Steve’s look, but there’s a small undercurrent of distrust. He realizes what he looks like: a large, muscular man in a hoodie staring at a building. In his defense, he did use to live there, and the guy isn't much better: leather jacket, messy hair, sunglasses. He’s still focused on Steve; no, trained, the guy’s trained, checking him for weapons and weaknesses, even as he sips from his coffee.
With an internal sigh, Steve walks up to him. The man is armed, he notes with detachment, bracing for confrontation. A knife, probably.
“Hey, man.”
“Hiya,” says Sunglasses. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Cool building.”
“Yeah,” says Steve, a little thrown. “Hey, are you lost? I’m pretty familiar with this part of town--” or at least, he was “--and I can point you to wherever.”
Sunglasses gives him the once-over behind the shades. Then he pushes them up on his head, frowning.
“What are you? Like, a weird gym bunny boy scout?” Steve sticks his hands in his pockets and tries not to loom too much.
“Just not looking for trouble, man.”
The guy gives him another incredulous look--he reminds him of Tony with incredulous looks--and starts pulling something out of his pocket. Steve’s hands are up before he realizes.
“Whoa,” says the artist formerly known as Sunglasses in a soothing tone of voice. “Badge. Just reaching for my badge.” He holds it up, glinting in the sun, and Steve lets out a long sigh. Great. Now he’s nostalgic and embarrassed. “Detective Jake Peralta, NYPD. With the 99th.”
“What can I do for you, officer,” mumbles Steve.
“Oh, nothin'. I mean, unless you’re dealing or soliciting or you've murdered a guy.” Peralta gives him a searching look. Natasha once told him that his picture was in the dictionary right next to the word wholesomeness. “Yeah, no.”
“I used to live here,” he says, by way of explanation. “When I was a kid.”
Peralta brightens. “Hey, cool! So did I. Back in the, must've been late eighties. I don’t remember you, though. Hey, do you know Gina? I’m pretty sure everybody knows Gina.”
Steve doesn't know Gina. Also, he’s like, sixty years older than this guy.
A scream splits the air, they both turn at once. A guy in a bandana smashed the window of the jewelry store across the street. Steve gets there first, forgetting every lesson in staying covert SHIELD has ever taught him. A punch knocks the guy out cold. Peralta catches up two seconds later.
“Seriously, who are you?” he says as he hands him a zip tie.
“Hey, it’s Jakey Lady-hands!” says the guy in the getaway van.
“Oh, fuck,” mutters Jake. “And it’s my day off.” He takes something out of his pocket. It’s an asp, Steve realizes, not a knife.
“Hey, pig, gonna beat us with your nightstick?” cackles the guy riding shotgun. “I knew I smelled a little ham on you, squealer.”
“This is gonna get ugly,” remarks Jake to Steve, in a tone rather suggesting he's enjoying it. Steve shrugs. “Alright. Is that Harry? And Young Kevin? They let you drive now, Harry? How d’you reach the pedals with those little legs of yours--”
Harry pushes the door open, which doesn't connect as Peralta steps out of the way. The right cross to the nose does, and his hand goes to his belt for a gun but Peralta shoulders him into the van and hits him in the knee with the baton when he struggles. Meanwhile, Young Kevin, who is probably in his fifties, suddenly finds himself with a knee to the sternum and his gun being wrenched out of his hands by a slab of pure muscle.
SHIELD is gonna hate this, thinks Steve to himself. Peralta is zip tying Harry, who is clutching his knee and whimpering about police brutality. He frisks him efficiently, removing the gun, a knife and a Slinky.
“What happened to you, man,” Harry whines. “We Joeled together. We’re brothers.”
“I’m going to call this in,” says Peralta, frisking Young Kevin with the same efficiency. “Hey. If you want to skedaddle, I can put you down in my report as ‘mysterious yet handsome civilian’.
Civilian sounds good, thinks Steve, civilian sounds very good. He nods.
“But seriously, who are you?” He’s frowning in the way people get just before they put together one and one and get Men in Tights. Peralta seems pretty bright, and he’s a kid from Brooklyn, it won’t take him long.
Steve walks, and keeps walking. Three blocks away, he’s whistling.