Came In Like a Wrecking Ball

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Bucky was in hot pursuit—boots pounding pavement, lungs burning—after a target the Avengers had been tracking for months. The perp had been stealing black market Stark tech and using it to enhance metahuman abilities, leaving a trail of chaos across three boroughs. But what Bucky hadn’t accounted for was the split-second decision to dropkick the bastard square in the back mid-leap—sending them both crashing through an apartment window and obliterating someone’s living room on impact.

Stark’s cleanup team would handle the damages—top to bottom, like it never happened. That wasn’t the part that stuck with Bucky. It was the look on the civilian’s face. The frozen fear. The shock.

That stayed with him.

So, a few days later, he slipped away from the compound and went back—not just to “inspect the repairs,” like he told himself—but to see if they were alright. To make sure they weren’t still afraid of him.

Afraid of what he was.

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Bucky’s boots slapped against the wet concrete, each stride echoing like a war drum in his ears. Night air burned in his lungs—thick with rain, oil, and the faint metallic sting of adrenaline. The perp was fast—enhanced, definitely. No one outran Barnes for this long without a little chemical help.

He vaulted a dumpster without slowing, metal hand catching the edge of a fire escape ladder mid-swing. The structure groaned under his weight, but he climbed fast, breathing sharp, the scrape of metal-on-metal ringing in his ear.

Sam’s voice crackled over the comms: “Barnes—hold position. North perimeter’s locked. We’ve got ‘em boxed.”

“No time,” Bucky muttered. “Target’s two seconds from breaching grid. I’ve got visual.”

Above him, the perp cleared the rooftop and sprinted across it—head low, form tight, purposeful. Bucky followed, boots hammering against the tarred roof. One misstep and it’d be a long fall to the pavement, but he didn’t flinch. Focus narrowed. The skyline bled into blurred geometry—antennae, chimneys, lightning rods. All noise. All distraction.

The target leapt the final rooftop gap.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He pushed off with full force, springing across the divide—and mid-air, spotted the angle. The target hadn’t stuck the landing clean. Off-balance. Just a little. Just enough.

Both boots connected square in the center of the perp’s back.

CRASH.

They smashed through a window.

Glass exploded inward, catching the lamplight as it scattered like shrapnel. Bucky rode the momentum, twisting in the air, shifting his weight to stay on top as they tore through a coffee table. Wood splintered beneath them. The perp groaned—stunned, maybe concussed. Didn’t matter. Bucky moved fast, clean, practiced.

Left elbow slammed into the jaw. Knee drove into the ribs. Metal hand caught the wrist and twisted—one fluid movement—and the perp was face-down on the ground with their arms cuffed behind their back. His breathing harsh. Target secured.

Then... silence.

No fight. No gunfire. No shouting.

Only the soft hum of a wall lamp. A clock ticking somewhere.

Bucky finally looked up—and took in where he was. Shattered glass, splintered furniture, and a fine haze of dust still drifting through the air before settling onto the carpeted floor.

A person stood against the far wall—civilian, frozen. Wide-eyed. Silent. Not a word, not a step, not even a flinch. Their gaze was locked on him—on the unconscious perp pinned beneath Bucky, his hands still securing the restraints like the fight hadn’t stopped yet.

Shit.

The apartment was wrecked. A splatter of glass and furniture debris radiated from the point of impact. One curtain hung off the rail. A couch had been shoved half a foot from where it probably lived. The broken coffee table sat like a corpse in the middle of it all.

“Target detained,” Bucky said into his comm, voice low, steady but tight. “Midtown. Civilian residence. I—” He paused. Glanced back at the person, still rooted to the wall. “Send cleanup. Full repair and compensation.”

“On it,” came Natasha’s voice. “Team’s two minutes out.”

Bucky didn’t say another word. Just stood there in the wreckage, watching as the wind cut through the jagged hole where a window used to be.

The civilian stayed silent. He hadn’t expected anything different.

He didn’t know their name. Didn’t know anything about them.

But that look on their face? He wouldn’t forget it.

 _________________________________________________

Three days later, Bucky stood in the same hallway—this time on the right side of the door—with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a vague feeling of unease creeping into his chest.

He’d thought about leaving it alone. Stark’s people had the place fixed up in less than twelve hours. Window replaced, furnishings replaced, even the damn curtain rod re-centered. But that wasn’t the part that stuck in his head.

It was the silence.

The shock.

It was the look that wouldn’t leave him. The one they had on their face as he crash-landed a full-blown takedown into their living room. They hadn’t asked for that kind of chaos. Hadn’t signed up to be collateral damage. And that expression—wide-eyed, frozen—kept playing on a loop in his head. Even his damn therapist had said if it was eating at him that much, maybe he should try apologizing. In person.

He knocked twice. Not too loud. Not too soft. Then waited, a heavy sigh escaping him.

When the door opened, he kept his stance relaxed. Eyes up, steady. Quick scan—nothing off, no signs of injury. He shifted on his feet, voice low.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry to bother you.” He cleared his throat and glanced briefly down the hall. “I was the one who... came through your window the other night.” Not exactly poetic. But it got the job done.

Bucky gestured toward the inside.

 “Wanted to make sure the repairs were handled properly. Stark said everything was covered, but... I figured I should check for myself. Just in case anything got missed.”

They said nothing, but the door opened wider.

He stepped in.

It looked untouched. Repaired, yes—but untouched in the sense that it had returned to what it must’ve been before he detonated it like a human missile. The window was new. Reinforced. He stepped closer and tested the frame with his metal fingertips. Solid. Seamless. No drafts.

The curtains and blinds had been replaced—softer material. Probably higher thread count. Stark didn’t do anything cheap. Bucky crouched down briefly to inspect the seal on the pane, then stood, satisfied. His eyes flicked across the room.

New table. Same shape. Better wood. Lamp replaced. Couch, brand new, shifted back into place.

He turned toward them.

“I know that was probably... a hell of a thing to witness,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. His voice stayed low. No edge, no aggression. Just honest. “You didn’t sign up to be part of that. Shouldn’t’ve happened.”

He hesitated. Left hand drifted to the back of his neck. A nervous tick. Then:

“I was gonna leave it at the repairs, but... I owe you more than that. Scared the hell outta you. Broke half your stuff.” He glanced at the new table again, lips tightening slightly. “So I figured maybe dinner. On me.”

He didn’t try to smile. That never came out right anyway.

“I’m not great at this,” he added, eyes on the floor for half a second before meeting theirs again. “But I figured it was worth offering. If not, that’s fine.”

His voice didn’t change, but something in his stance softened. He looked to the window again, nodding toward it.

“Either way... they did a good job.” He took a small step back, not leaving yet—but not pressing either.

Just waiting.

“Shit, told you I’m bad at stuff like this. I’m Bucky by the way, Bucky Barnes.”