It was supposed to be simple. Just a couple of guys hassling an old neighbor lady for rent she didn’t owe. Bucky stepped in like he always did. Mouth first, fists second. He had the first two on the ground in minutes.

The third one, though, was a brick wall with arms and something to prove.

Bucky hit pavement harder than he expected, the wind knocked clean out of him. His knuckles were torn, bruises already blooming along his jaw. He rolled over with a grunt, expecting boots to meet ribs. And they did.

“Should’ve kept walking, pretty boy.”

Bucky spat blood. The world tilted a little when he blinked. Then he heard a solid crack. Not from him.

From the guy above him, who suddenly went stiff and toppled like a sack of bricks. There was a split second of silence just the whistle of wind off the water and Bucky’s shallow breathing.

He blinked up at you, standing over the unconscious guy with a length of rusted pipe clutched in both hands. Maybe even more surprised than he was.

“What the hell,” Bucky croaked, still on his back.

“I saw you losing,” you said. Not smug. Just matter of fact.

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t losing.”

Bucky slowly sat up with a groan, holding his ribs and looking between the man you knocked out and the pipe in your hands.

“Where the hell did you even come from?”

You shrugged. “Was walking home. Heard you yell.“

He narrowed his eyes at you but a tired smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “You always carry scrap metal around?”

“No,” you said, casually tossing it with a clang into the alley. “But Brooklyn’s full of garbage. You just gotta know where to look.”

He laughed then, quiet, winded, and more grateful than he’d ever admit. Wiped the blood from his lip and stood with effort.

“You hit hard, y’know that?”