( a gentle patter of rain has picked up against the city streets, almost as if coercing them sweetly to duck back indoors, to huddle beneath doorsteps or hurry their limbs to one or the other's apartment for when and if the sky decided to open it's mouth wider. it's nothing she shies against, despite the opaque taupe of her shirt, enjoying the ever so often pricks of cool droplets that tease her temple, adding a welcome, slight chill to the summer air that sticks to the back of her neck. she'd managed to drag him to a homey sort of theater β one that offered drinks throughout the film, worn and staticky at times.
it's an adaptation of a book she's read countless times over, and despite how enamored she remained throughout it's life, she's walked away a bit disappointed. books were never quite the same when they weren't just words. she figures a lot of things are that way.
she thinks to hook her hand at the crook of his arm beside her, yet despite the fact that they've grown familiar with one another's flesh, there's a hesitance there. something that can't be taken back once it's breached, that casual touch, the thoughtlessness of it β normal. instead she takes to holding her own ribs as they walk, none in a hurry and lazing side to side with their steps, almost as if neither of them are willing just yet to end the night. and so they walk, aimlessly at best; he'd mentioned the theater was closer to his place. the note of just that hums in the back of her mind, a careful reminder. prodding.
she sifts through her mind for an excuse to keep him just a bit longer. they were, in fact, walking the streets of a city that hardly slept. she thinks to suggest thai... takeout, perhaps? she'll chew on it a bit longer. )
It was just too... I don't know, gaudy. Like it was trying too hard to make you feel something rather than just letting you decide how to feel. You know? With a book, you can take it apart however you want to. You can't be wrong.
( bars chatter noisily as they make their way past various entrances, content to stay on the outskirts, a world for just them. a grin bears across her lips, feeling almost silly for how long she's dragged this out, but a sigh leaves her as if it's refused to let go of her. )
( sauntering along beside her, hands in the pockets of his worn leather coat, bucky snorts a small noise of amusement even while he sneaks another look at karen. it's a comfortable conversational patter, being able to talk about normal things like books and movies. like they're just any other couple (and that's a word that terrifies him, too, but they haven't named it and haven't defined whatever the hell they're doing here, and he's actually fine with that too) wandering the streets of new york, talking culture, without skeletons in their closet and blood on their hands. it's nice.
and he likes seeing her like this: talkative, opinionated. )
Maybe you could become an actual movie critic. Write up reviews for the Bulletin.
( he's teasing, but there's a fondness in his voice. he could watch her do this all night, animatedly talking through her opinions. it's a window into a world he thought had been closed off to him entirely. )
I think you're right, though. That fucking soundtrackβ it wanted to make you cry at certain scenes, and like, it wasn't being subtle about it and hadn't earned it. Kinda cheap. Manipulative.
β if you show me yours.
it's an adaptation of a book she's read countless times over, and despite how enamored she remained throughout it's life, she's walked away a bit disappointed. books were never quite the same when they weren't just words. she figures a lot of things are that way.
she thinks to hook her hand at the crook of his arm beside her, yet despite the fact that they've grown familiar with one another's flesh, there's a hesitance there. something that can't be taken back once it's breached, that casual touch, the thoughtlessness of it β normal. instead she takes to holding her own ribs as they walk, none in a hurry and lazing side to side with their steps, almost as if neither of them are willing just yet to end the night. and so they walk, aimlessly at best; he'd mentioned the theater was closer to his place. the note of just that hums in the back of her mind, a careful reminder. prodding.
she sifts through her mind for an excuse to keep him just a bit longer. they were, in fact, walking the streets of a city that hardly slept. she thinks to suggest thai... takeout, perhaps? she'll chew on it a bit longer. )
It was just too... I don't know, gaudy. Like it was trying too hard to make you feel something rather than just letting you decide how to feel. You know? With a book, you can take it apart however you want to. You can't be wrong.
( bars chatter noisily as they make their way past various entrances, content to stay on the outskirts, a world for just them. a grin bears across her lips, feeling almost silly for how long she's dragged this out, but a sigh leaves her as if it's refused to let go of her. )
Maybe I'm being too much of a critic.
no subject
and he likes seeing her like this: talkative, opinionated. )
Maybe you could become an actual movie critic. Write up reviews for the Bulletin.
( he's teasing, but there's a fondness in his voice. he could watch her do this all night, animatedly talking through her opinions. it's a window into a world he thought had been closed off to him entirely. )
I think you're right, though. That fucking soundtrackβ it wanted to make you cry at certain scenes, and like, it wasn't being subtle about it and hadn't earned it. Kinda cheap. Manipulative.