( all of it sounds like something you could've heard from the mouths of vigilantes, people who faced the world and then committed themselves to make it better, brick-by-brick, day-by-day. he's well-familiar with that kind of glowing idealism and drive. the urge to do better. unfortunately, he also knows how it can burn you from the inside out.

karen's pinky finger circles the rim of the glass and he finds himself looking down, watching the delicate movement, entranced by the delicate flutter of her hands. when her now-empty glass slides across the counter towards him, bucky obligingly takes it, fills it up. one thumb, half the size of his own pour. which might normally look patronising otherwise, so he sounds apologetic when he says: )

Just don't want it to seem like I'm plying you with liquor to... take advantage of you, or anything. I'm really not kidding about the metabolism.

( but, hell, that liquid courage does help; it greases the wheels of this night, helps loosen them both up and make the words trip more easily from their tongues. (they're both so tightly-wound, so unaccustomed to... this. navigating the new boundaries of whatever-this-is.) his shoulders are taut where he's leaning against the island, and he seems to remember too-late that he's still wearing his jacket. he shrugs out of it so it seems less like he's about to bolt out of the apartment at any minute, and tosses it onto a nearby kitchen bench — and after a moment of hesitation, he tugs off his gloves and shoves them into the jacket pockets. he's dressed simply: skinny jeans, dog tags at his neck, a black t-shirt that hangs tight on his broad shoulders, a layer of long grey sleeves underneath to obscure his arm. she already knows what he's hiding beneath those layers, but old habits die hard. )

You've got a nice place. Don't think I got around to saying so before.

( there had been bigger things to worry about, then. )