( they're both a little more shy and bashful in the warm light of day, with everything bared to view rather than puddled in the darkness of past midnight. it's paradoxically more intimate, somehow, when there's no hiding from it or each other — and with all those lingering kisses, karen's mouth against his neck and his lips, it would be so easy to get lost in this again. all that stretch of bare skin in front of him, where it would be simple to lean in and deepen that kiss even further, for his body to sprawl over hers again, for hands to go roaming.
but if they start up that machinery again, they're literally never getting out of this bed. so when karen regretfully pulls away to go take a shower, bucky chases her with just one last kiss before he lets her go. )
Got it. I will.
( and as she pads away, he just lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before he finally rolls out of the bed and goes padding through the apartment in bare feet and boxers — he sheepishly gathers up their scattered clothes along the way, the evidence of their particularly heated evening, and he makes two neat piles on the sofa before continuing to the kitchen. going through the motions, the disorienting act of poking through an unfamiliar place and trying to find where she's stashed everything. making himself at home, which feels like a subtle intrusion even when he knows he was invited. rummaging through the cabinets, he finds the ground coffee and french press, sets it steeping for a few minutes.
he could slip out. but of course he won't. bucky wends his way back to the bedroom instead — shower's still running — and settles himself back in bed. he's not one for phones, so instead of mucking around on his, he's nabbed a book from one of her many shelves. by the tome karen comes back, he's still there: buried in the sheets, book open on the covers as he reads, coffee mug balanced against his knee and cradled in his metal hand, uncaring of the heat. he glances up. )
no subject
but if they start up that machinery again, they're literally never getting out of this bed. so when karen regretfully pulls away to go take a shower, bucky chases her with just one last kiss before he lets her go. )
Got it. I will.
( and as she pads away, he just lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before he finally rolls out of the bed and goes padding through the apartment in bare feet and boxers — he sheepishly gathers up their scattered clothes along the way, the evidence of their particularly heated evening, and he makes two neat piles on the sofa before continuing to the kitchen. going through the motions, the disorienting act of poking through an unfamiliar place and trying to find where she's stashed everything. making himself at home, which feels like a subtle intrusion even when he knows he was invited. rummaging through the cabinets, he finds the ground coffee and french press, sets it steeping for a few minutes.
he could slip out. but of course he won't. bucky wends his way back to the bedroom instead — shower's still running — and settles himself back in bed. he's not one for phones, so instead of mucking around on his, he's nabbed a book from one of her many shelves. by the tome karen comes back, he's still there: buried in the sheets, book open on the covers as he reads, coffee mug balanced against his knee and cradled in his metal hand, uncaring of the heat. he glances up. )