( it had been easy when they were with each other in-person; unexpectedly simple, even breezy, managing to accidentally tumble right past any last walls and barriers under the guise of banishing that loneliness and longing. the hours could have slid on and on and on. he could've stayed at karen's apartment all day long, if either of them had let themselves slip into it and indulge themselves. but in the end, they'd both cautiously retreated after breakfast, finally parted ways, finally had him leave and go back to his own empty apartment.
which just created another conundrum.
now, bucky's back to not knowing what the hell to do. because the order of operations is all wrong. he'd fooled around commitment-free in the forties, sure, but now the standard etiquette of dating and courting has been thrown right out the window, and he's not exactly sure what part comes next. he should've brought flowers the night before— why the hell hadn't he stopped by a midnight bodega to bring flowers? should he ask her out? is he supposed to text after getting home again? how soon is too soon to text? would he seem needy? also, how do you say thanks for a great evening of mindblowing sex?
also, he hates texting.
there's always too much lost between the lines, too many subtleties stripped down in the text, too much nuance to the smiley faces and emojis that he can't wrap his mind around. he has to keep resisting the automatic urge to include a signoff in every single message, like he's signing a letter. it's stupid. texts are stupid. they're simultaneously too fast and too slow; he hates that interminable wait, the pacing circles around the room waiting to see if someone's paying attention to their phone, if they're around to reply, ever-aware of the irony that he's been leaving sam people on read, too. he can be a hypocrite, okay, it's fine.
so. fuck it. it's much later that day after their breakfast together, now leaning into evening again, and it's too late to actually take her out anywhere — but the least they can do is figure something out for next time. if there is a next time. (god, he wants there to be a next time.)
so in the end he just picks up the phone, and he calls karen. )
→ date night.
which just created another conundrum.
now, bucky's back to not knowing what the hell to do. because the order of operations is all wrong. he'd fooled around commitment-free in the forties, sure, but now the standard etiquette of dating and courting has been thrown right out the window, and he's not exactly sure what part comes next. he should've brought flowers the night before— why the hell hadn't he stopped by a midnight bodega to bring flowers? should he ask her out? is he supposed to text after getting home again? how soon is too soon to text? would he seem needy? also, how do you say thanks for a great evening of mindblowing sex?
also, he hates texting.
there's always too much lost between the lines, too many subtleties stripped down in the text, too much nuance to the smiley faces and emojis that he can't wrap his mind around. he has to keep resisting the automatic urge to include a signoff in every single message, like he's signing a letter. it's stupid. texts are stupid. they're simultaneously too fast and too slow; he hates that interminable wait, the pacing circles around the room waiting to see if someone's paying attention to their phone, if they're around to reply, ever-aware of the irony that he's been leaving
sampeople on read, too. he can be a hypocrite, okay, it's fine.so. fuck it. it's much later that day after their breakfast together, now leaning into evening again, and it's too late to actually take her out anywhere — but the least they can do is figure something out for next time. if there is a next time. (god, he wants there to be a next time.)
so in the end he just picks up the phone, and he calls karen. )