Winterhawk. Mafia AU
“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit, Lang?” Bucky exclaims, stalking down the main staircase into the mansion’s foyer to keep Scott from leading the sloppily dressed blond any further inside. “Walking a goddamn nark right through the fucking front door?”
“What? No!” Scott’s hands spring up as he steps to the side leaving a good gap between him and his new friend, which is only to be expected, really. Guy’s seen exactly what Bucky can do, all up close and personal, like. “Steve said to get the guy, this is the guy!”
“Steve said to get the fucking nark guy?”
“The guy from the bar!” Scott hastens to explain. “The darts guy! You know, Luis heard about him from his cousin Gabriel, who got the intel from that busty bartender, who saw it–”
Bucky flings his arm out into the wall, his metal prosthetic leaving a sizable dent in the plaster. “Cut the shit, Lang! He’s a fucking nark!”
Which is of course when Stevie decides to join the party, leaning over the second floor banister to shout down at them, “The hell’s going on now?” Scott spins around to plead his case to the man on high, meanwhile his nark buddy is shoving his hand in his hoodie pocket and pulling something out, so naturally, Bucky whips his gun out of his shoulder holster and advances without issuing a warning, ‘cause that’s the gun’s job.
But the nark moves quick as anything, spinning in under Bucky’s guard and flipping his gun out of his grip, slapping his other hand down across the forearm of his prosthetic. There’s the subtle whir of the metal plates realigning as Bucky moves to punch the guy in his fool head, but with a sizzling pop, the arm refuses to respond to what his brain’s telling it all of the sudden.
Bucky’s still blinking down in befuddlement at the little silver disk stuck to his arm when the nark pivots again, catching Scott in the chest with a roundhouse and throwing a damned knife Stevie’s way where he’s barreling down the stairs before the guy has Bucky in a chokehold, holding him up as a meat shield with his own gun shoved up against his temple.
Bucky sees Steve flinch back, curling in over his hand as he drops his gun, the knife following after it, but he doesn’t really process it. He’s still stuck on who the flying fuck just waltzed up in here and pulled the damned Winter Soldier closer to himself while looking to threaten Bucky’s Captain.
“Assassin, actually,” the guy mutters–purrs more like, his words ghosting over the skin of Bucky’s neck. “But you’re in luck! I’m for hire. Pierce ain’t paying me near enough to take out someone as pretty as you.”