( bucky had run his fingers along the edges of the books on her shelves — some of them unread, but others with worn spines, which was a good sign — in the search for something to occupy him. he'd finally settled on something with bite-sized pieces that he could dip in and out of without needing to commit to a longer plot, something with a name he recognised even back in the day, and so he holds it up now for her inspection. the complete short stories of ernest hemingway.
even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
He did not want any consequences. He did not want any consequences ever again. He wanted to live along without consequences.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
no subject
even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
Is it okay if I use your shower, too?