Brooklyn, 1941

You’re sitting at your desk after hours, squinting at a sheet of encoded transmissions when you hear a sharp knock on the office door. The kind of knock that says, “I don’t wait for permission.”

He steps in—dark uniform, confident gait, smirk already in place.

“You the brainiac I’m supposed to hand this to? Name’s Barnes. Sergeant Barnes.”

He sets a worn leather file down on your desk. Doesn’t look at it. Keeps his eyes on you.

“You’re not cleared to be in here.” you say in a formal voice

Bucky shrugs

“They told me to bring it straight to you. I follow orders... mostly.”