Harmless (Bucky Barnes)

(i)

Bucky Barnes, for all intents and purposes, is edgy.

His SHIELD salary is definitely enough to afford him a simple beanie, gloves even if he's that eager. His long hair, though a spectacle in itself, isn't as good at keeping away the cold as he claims it to be.

It's a personal choice, a fashion statement even, to be roaming the streets in a long flimsy t-shirt that does nothing to accentuate his broad shoulders, and tactical pants that look a little too comfortable.

It's cold. He says he likes it, to appease his blond-haired best friend who insisted that he wear a cardigan at least. He won't like it in a while, but he would never admit it.

The bike ride to the other side of town for a minor mission takes longer than he expected. The wind rushing by gets his adrenaline racing.

Official missions are long and gruelling, and oftentimes not fun. But it gives him a purpose.

It's easy, therefore, to find him brooding when he's not on one.

No one wants their room to be on the receiving end of Bucky's stress-cleaning sessions. His baking is more appreciated.

So when there's news of a small time villain creating havoc again, it made sense that he volunteered to go sort it out. No one else wanted the job. They'd all been at it before.

SHIELD didn't seem particularly bothered either.

"It's not that serious, Barnes."

"I'm going."

"Just stop her from doing whatever dumb plan she has today. She seems to have a new one every week."

"Can I-"

"This is not an assassination mission."

"Fine. Can I-"

"No."

"Fine."

He didn't know what to expect. He had an idea of how they should be. Smaller villains tended to be more aggressive, vicious to prove their point. They were here to stay.

He wears his regular gear. Enough knives to make a butcher look away in shame, and guns including, but not limited to, his biceps.

He finally pulls the bike to a stop a few metres away, leaving it out of reach in case things got too out of hand. He didn't want to have to walk back to the Tower, and his friends, as much as they loved him, would never go out of their way to pick him up. Little shits.

The address is a dingy, plain concrete house near an old construction site. It was flat and felt more like an afterthought than an actual building. It looked more like an abandoned Walmart than an actual villain lair.

The only entrance is the door in the front. He counts to three, lifting his leg to kick it down.

It falls down ungracefully, loud and creaky like it was bound to the doorframe by rust.

The only light source inside is a green light. All the way at the other end on an elevated platform is a desk and a chair facing away from him. He can't see much other than that.

Someone's laughter comes back loud and booming. He raises his gun, feet apart in a defensive stance.

"I've been expecti-" the voice pauses mid-sentence- "Did you just kick down my door?"

He looks behind him to where the wooden piece is on the floor. He certainly did.

He can finally see you as you stand up, green light illuminating your face. You reach over to the side, pressing a few switches.