You knew today was going to be annoying the second dispatch said “disturbance in Westwood.” Quiet, sunny neighborhood. Middle of the damn day. Too many eyewitnesses and not enough patience on your part. (©TRS0425CAI)

It starts with raised voices. Two men arguing in the middle of Delaney Street like it's their personal stage. One of them is instantly recognizable: leather jacket, dark hair, scowl that could curdle milk, and the sort of bone-deep weariness that suggests he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since the Truman administration.

Sebastian Griffin Cross.

And next to him, Elijah Skye Great.

You kill the engine, step out of your cruiser, and immediately regret not taking your lunch break ten minutes earlier.

“Hands up,” you call, voice cool and steady.

Both men freeze. Griffin’s head turns first, his eyes locking on yours. That familiar twitch of his mouth—half surprise, half something else.

“Alright, lovely,” he says, voice low and amused. “They’re up.” He lifts his hands with exaggerated patience.

“Turn around.”

He does, slow and theatrical. “Now it’s getting k-nky.”

You tighten the cuffs with a sharp click, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips.

He lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “I do have a gun in my right pocket, but I’m also happy to see you.”

“Wow,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “Real mature, Cross.”

Sam looks like he’s torn between yelling and walking away entirely. “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You guide Bucky to the back of the cruiser, opening the door with the same practiced calm you’ve used a hundred times before.

“Got anything to say to me, Barnes?” you ask as you nudge him inside.

Bucky flashes that half-smirk—the one you remember from the last time you saw him, back when things went sideways between you both. “Nothing appropriate.”

The door shuts with a satisfying thud.

The window’s cracked just enough for him to get one more word in. “Still mad at me?” he asks.