Steve Rogers wasn't an idiot.

He wasn't naive. He wasn't an innocent.

But for some reason, everyone around him had this impression that he hadn't learned a damned thing about tactics, much less overall strategy, despite having been born at the end of one World War and having 'died' in the second one. And that was without even mentioning the neighborhood where he'd grown up.

After the whole S.H.I.E.L.D. Civil War, he moved. His DC address was no longer secret, but that wasn't the point. He wasn't worried about fans swarming his door; that happened every time he went out without sunglasses and a hat. It was the surveillance. The bugs and cameras. The nice girl down the hall who turned out to be a crack shot and, oh, by the way, she was also Peggy's granddaughter.

To hell with that.

Washington DC had never been home. He couldn't go back to his Brooklyn, and New York was still being rebuilt. He finally let Natasha help him move some of his money into a numbered holding account, and he got one of Tony's lawyers to buy him a town home not too far from the old neighborhood, in Clinton Hill. The purchase was extravagant, but it wasn't as if Steve needed to save piles of money for the sake of having it. And having his own place, even one with shared walls on either side, would give him a measure of privacy.

Or so he thought. Because he hadn't lived there three days before he realized he was being tailed.

Being tailed was nothing new, but this was the first time he was free to act. Because this tail wasn't Fury's watchdog, sent to make sure Steve didn't react badly to some modern new experience. This wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. protecting an asset.

No. This was either someone trying to help him 'for his own good' — Natasha, maybe Clint — or an enemy.

He let the surveillance go apparently unnoticed for three days. On day four, he went out as usual, jogging generally south towards Prospect Park. Since moving here, he'd taken a different route every day — not for security, but simply because he was looking for the best views and least traffic. He kept his pace slow and easy so he wouldn't stand out any more than he already did, and because it gave him the excuse to pause at red lights and check reflections.

Twice, he thought he spotted the same person on his tail, hanging back almost out of sight. Male, he suspected, though that wasn't definite. Gray hoodie, no logo. Plain sweatpants. No visible weapons, but the hoodie could hide a lot underneath.

Time for Steve to take action. He didn't know the park very well, but he knew tactics. He knew how to lead an enemy to an ambush. He knew how to think on his feet. And today, he'd actually taken steps.

Casually, he left the sidewalks for the dirt trails that stretched between trees just starting to turn red and gold. At the heart of Prospect Park, the Ravine was a steep-sloped, overgrown wilderness preserve: the perfect trap. He turned for one of the bridges but diverted before crossing. The area was spiderwebbed with little dirt trails that wound around clusters of trees, any one of which would be ideal.

As he ran, he turned his head, listening for the sound of footfalls farther back on the trail. As soon as he heard a branch crack, he slapped his foot down and threw his weight to the side as if he'd tripped. His sneakers weren't the best for the sloping ground, but he wasn't scared of turning an ankle or twisting a knee — unintentionally. He went down in a forward roll that took him out of sight of the trail and hopefully looked painful, though he tucked and came to a stop with no damage.

This time, he heard nothing, but he caught sight of a shadow moving. He palmed the knife he never carried, a small, sharp blade that Natasha had given him almost two years ago, insisting that he should always have a knife on him. Today was the first time he'd ever taken her advice.

Senses alive, he could almost feel the shift in air pressure as someone stepped around the trees, trying to be silent. No "Hey, buddy, you okay?" or "Nasty fall. Need help?" or even the sound of mocking laughter.

Enemy, his battle-trained mind whispered.

He reached up as his enemy reached down. A sharp tug on a handful of the enemy's sweatshirt didn't drop the guy, which was just wrong, because nobody was that strong. He compensated and got a foot under him as his enemy pulled him to his feet, and he used their combined momentum to drive his enemy back into the trees. His fist came up, just as he saw bright blue eyes and a short brown beard and locks of too-long hair.

The knife's point scraped at the underside of Bucky's jaw, and Steve gasped out, "I could have killed you!"

Bucky didn't answer — not verbally. Steve felt a sharp pinprick of pain at the center of his chest, just below his sternum. He looked down and saw a knife in Bucky's fist. The point had barely pierced Steve's shirt.

He hadn't struck — hadn't driven the knife up and under Steve's ribs, point searching for his heart — but adrenaline still washed through Steve's system. He lowered his own weapon and gave Bucky what was probably a mad grin as he asked, "Well?"

Bucky's expression was unreadable. He didn't need that damned mask he'd worn as the Winter Soldier. Steve, who'd grown up practically living in Bucky's skin, had no way to know what he was thinking. Not anymore. The distance between them could be measured in inches, but it felt as if he'd never be able to reach across and get back his Bucky.

Then, Bucky lowered the knife.

Steve took a breath, though he had no idea what he was going to say. Bucky went tense, head jerking to the side, just as Steve heard footsteps rushing towards them in an even, fast cadence.

Another jogger on their trail, and the two of them were practically ready to kill one another.

He didn't think. Natasha's instructions flashed through his mind, and he crushed Bucky back against the tree. The knife skittered against Steve's hip, serrated edge catching on his sweatpants.

Before Bucky could say anything, Steve kissed him, draping himself against Bucky's familiar-yet-strange body, remembering how it felt to walk with a friendly arm thrown around each other's shoulders, to crouch huddled together over a campfire for warmth, to simply be together.

And contrary to what Natasha thought, Steve really was no innocent. He just didn't like to brag.

Laughter rang out as the jogger passed behind Steve. Bucky's hands twitched against Steve's hips, but he didn't push Steve away. He permitted the kiss, and if he didn't melt into it, he certainly didn't try to fight free.

Later, Steve would try to figure out why. For now, he gave himself a few precious seconds to imagine that it really was Bucky, his best friend, and not the Winter Soldier who he was kissing. And it was almost as good as the kisses they'd shared in his imagination all those decades ago, when he never would've had the guts to try.

Finally, he stepped back, heart racing, and met Bucky's eyes. Deliberately, he crouched and sheathed the little knife back in his sock, under his sweatpants.

"We good here?"

Bucky said nothing. His lips were just barely parted, and a hint of color showed in his cheeks.

"Okay, then," Steve said. He wasn't about to stick a hand down his sweats to adjust or to even call attention to himself. Instead, he turned his back on the assassin and started running again, slowly enough that he wouldn't catch up with the other jogger, at least until he had his body under control again.