( if they were playing poker, his hand's just been called.
it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
no subject
it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
Better?