armeyets | for secretare.

You and I both.

( they've made it this far, haven't they? underrated. )

You'd think it'd all come down to what you want, what the other person wants, and on and on it goes. It should be that way. Except everyone just dances around it because they have an idea what interest looks like.

Maybe none of us really know what we want.

ain't that the truth.

so what do you want?

( a second too late, bucky realises how blunt that sounds; how it's starting to nudge up against a line he hasn't crossed in too long to count. he's still not all that used to talking to people via text; the man prefers phonecalls. so, overthinking it, he pivots slightly and sends a quick followup: )

or put it this way, how'd you lose the bet?

( karen likes to think she's different from the countless bodies on those apps, all reaching for something, but how can she be so sure? the question leaves lips folding in on one another, mindlessly chewing at the thumb of her free hand. can she be so sure she knows what want looks like? that it didn't just disguise itself as a different suitor every night?

he deters her before she can put thoughts to words, but she lingers on it, still. )

I got too comfortable. In my defense, I think I was just being fed beers to throw off my judgment.

What's your excuse? ( she's toying, mostly. he doesn't need a bet or a reason to delve into the good ol' human experience, but she didn't exactly peg him as the tinder type. )

a ~~frie~~ teammate said i needed to "get out more" and "blow off some steam" and "not be such a grumpy weirdo all the time". he made the profile without me realizing, wrote that i liked underwater basket weaving, and then i found out when my phone started going off

had to fix my profile and then, i dunno. figured there wasn't much to lose in at least keeping it around.

And do you?

( enjoy underwater basketweaving or get out more, reader's choice. she'd gotten the impression when she'd found him in that alley that he was used to taking care of himself; preferred it, even. that's usually the sort that has the nudging friend insisting they find something 'more.' )

I have to say, I think the underwater basket weaving is a much more enticing introduction.

what, you don't like my bare-bones brooklyn introduction?

( he's bemused, sprawled at a comfortable lounge on his sofa and half-smiling at the phone. )

your bio actually says less about you than mine did about me, which is pretty impressive. nothing about long walks on the beach? piña coladas?

(i don't know how this works, can you tell.)

You leave plenty to the imaginination.

( it seems fitting, though. brooklyn and barebones. there's nothing of substance on her own, so she's mostly just giving him a hard time because she can. it's late and she slips into that natural banter easily, beer bottle idling on her thigh. )

Honestly I'm not even sure what I'd write if I were to try, so you got farther than me. Maybe I should be seeking advice from you rather than the other way around.

So tell me, James. What should my profile say?

( they're nosing up along the edge of that boundary again. her last question feels warm, teasing, and he has to wonder if he's imagining that touch of flirtation; if his instincts are so long-rusted that he's seeing things that aren't there, or if he's reading this correctly. he hesitates for a moment, phone sitting on his chest and foot restlessly bouncing against the floor, before he goes ahead and commits.

because. why not. carpe diem, right? )

cute strawberry-blonde. working knowledge of the best dive bars in nyc. believes the pen is mightier than the sword.

and you can call me bucky, karen.

( it's a meaningful distinction, a piece of permission that matters, granting that intimacy. he still grouches about even sam not having earned the nickname yet, and they've fought by each others' sides over and over (although, really, he doth protest too much; the other man's earned it, even if bucky doesn't like to admit it). )

( while that device idles in waiting within her palm she finds herself wondering where he is, right now. what sort of room is holding him, what's keeping him company—if he's trying to slip away from the bodies that may be surrounding him or imagining them there. it's the smaller details that give another away, and what she'd give to see him right now, see if there's a flit at the edge of his lips, if there's any tells to indicate that he's feeling any bit the way she's feeling right now.

there's a lightness, there—she doesn't know if she trusts herself to hold it. if her hands can be gentle enough. )

Bucky it is.

( she hums, tongue itching to form the name, familiarize the muscle, but her empty apartment glares back. )

Are you sure you're as out of practice as you think? You've gotten the hidden spots out of me, places in the city no one else would know to find me in. That's tough to compete with.

I'm starting to think you have an unfair advantage here. What am I going to tell all of these other eligible bachelors? ( that would require messaging them back in the first place, karen. )

( tone has always been the hardest part, in this day and age. figuring out all the little quirks and tics and slang (and emojis??) and what they mean. but he likes to think he's maybe getting a handle on it. )

i mean, we've both got an unfair advantage in that we recognized each other

which means we can skip right past the shitty small-talk of "so who are you, what do you do for a living, where did you grow up"

So where do you think that leaves us?

( maybe she's reaching, and she finds herself wishing she could retract the words once they're already scripted across the screen. it's a sharp knife in the form of a question, a roundabout way of asking him what it is he wants. bold of her, given she doesn't have a means to answer it herself. she's toeing an edge she hasn't in quite some time and she fights the urge to bury her phone beneath the pillow beside her, to fire off another message to soften it. )

( so what do you want?
so where do you think that leaves us?

in a way, he suspects they're both asking the same question and circling the same issue. bucky's still not entirely sure what the standards are for tinder specifically, if it's more for relationships or hookups — sam's knowing grin when he'd set up the account and teased him about it had maybe implied the latter — but.

what does he want?

—maybe just not to be alone for a night. )

two bored people with a free evening, from the looks of it.

you want any company, karen? it's okay if not.

( does she want company? without question, but could she rightfully invite him in when she wasn't sure where to put him? how he'd decorate the room with his presence, how he'd linger there even after he left. privacy was something she honored, it's why she gave such a curt tongue to matt when he slipped in unannounced, when he gave her no choice but to be 'on.'

is that what she wants, here with him? because the question wasn't as simple as whether she wanted something warm, but whether or not she wanted to be seen. )

Yeah. ( that coyness she so readily equips softens to something else, fingertips pressing to her brims. )

I'd like that, actually.

( and then, just a characteristic prod, because she can't help herself— ) Maybe avoid the alleys on your way.

( he hardly ever sleeps, so if the choice is between sitting with the anemic light of late-night television and infomercials, versus hanging out with karen page, it's an easy enough decision. something in his chest unclenches with nervous relief as he sees her answer, and he responds just as teasingly: )

i'll try my best but no promises

want me to bring something? you a wine, beer, or liquor kind of gal?

Whatever's on hand.

( she wasn't picky, even if she had her preferences. she'd spent enough nights at josies to get comfortable with the way different liquors felt saturating her tongue, the characteristic way they'd burn on the way down. only she wasn't chasing anything back, now. she's always got at least a partial six pack in the fridge and a bottle of something amber and promising tucked away, but she doesn't mind taking his lead. )

Surprise me.

deal.

( he knows the way back to karen's place, remembers the address even if she'd never actually sent it to him. even now, bucky wouldn't invite her back to his; he doesn't like anyone knowing where he lives, and there's that shameful self-consciousness of how unlivable it is anyway, the way it looks like he just moved in a day ago, despite the fact that he's been sleeping there for months.

he's not used to this. socialising. going to someone's place — let alone a pretty woman's — for anything more than sheer necessity, having her clean up his wounds, keep him alive. the expectations and parameters are different. these last few decades, it's always been so much easier when it was just a mission: when he knows what he has to do and when and to whom. clearly-delineated expectations from his handlers.

this, though, is off the map. uncharted territory.

bucky brings a bottle of i.w. harper bourbon; it's not the most popular these days, but he recognises it from shelves in the 1940s (along with a wince at how much it costs now; it had, once upon a time, been the blue-collar workhorse whiskey amongst his friends and soldiers). he makes it up to the front door of her building, rings her apartment, and after she buzzes him in, he heads for her floor. leans against the doorjamb and raps his gloved knuckles against her door, bottle dangling from his other hand. nerves starting to climb up his throat. it's been a long time since he did anything like this. far too long. )

( karen wasn't typically one to fuss over making an impression. he'd already been within her apartment, leaned over one of her dining room chairs as she'd carefully dug that shell from where it'd burrowed itself. even if it hadn't garnered his attention at the time, the place was still in a sort of lived-in disarray, bits and pieces of her things left scattered as if half in thought from when she'd had to walk away. fix a coffee, a drink, sometimes even snatch her keys and tuck up her coat for a walk through the brisk streets.

still, the notion that he's on his way leaves her restless, fingertips finding the clasp at the tight wrap of her skirt, abandoning that half-nursed beer bottle on the coffee table, changing out of her typical work attire into something more comfortable, hair half and lazily pulled up into a loose clip, mostly to keep the strands from falling across her brows, but it leaves golden tendrils amiss.

he's already gotten somewhat of a read on her she's sure, and what sort of journalist would she be having all of her shit together, anyway? she at least tries to tidy up the various folders, articles, photographs scattered across her counters, her table, just about every viable surface to make it all a little more presentable. she should probably be concerned about attorney client privilege being easily violated with all she left out, but he's not coming here to help with a case. he's not coming here on work, for an interview. there's no list of questions she's got thumbed in one of her worn moleskins, there's just the two of them.

two bored people with a free evening.

she even lights a candle, center on the coffee table, lifting up scarves of basil and sage, a hint of vanilla underlying it all before that telltale buzzer sounds. she's close by when that rap sounds, the sound of locks clicking from their place, and when the door opens to him her hair rustles a little, opening it a step or two before she's leaning against it, teeth capturing at her lips to keep them from furling to something full bloom.

head nods to the side, a subtle gesture in invitation. )

Glad to see you made it in one piece.

Edited 2021-04-17 19:28 (UTC)

Didn't want you to run out of gauze.

( bucky's gaze drifts over her shoulder to glance over their surroundings. much like before, her place is cluttered, but— that just makes it homey, comfortable, lived-in. even the scented candle elevates the space and makes it even nicer, more sophisticated. jesus, he really needs to do something about his own apartment.

he flourishes the bottle. )

Does it get the stamp of approval? Might be cheating since I can't really get drunk easily, but I'll drink faster to stay even.

( a flash of a slightly strained smile. it had felt wrong not addressing it; he didn't want to get karen drunk while he stayed clear-headed and sober. and he doesn't really know how to greet her — they're past handshakes but not yet at a kiss to the cheek — so instead he just presses the bottle into her hands and follows the tip of her head into the room, continuing past her and then gazing around him with that watchful stare.

he'd taken it in last time, so now he automatically notes the small details that have changed in the interim. a houseplant that changed location; a stack of books that had shrunk; a new scattering of paperwork on the dining table like a patch of growing weeds. the hour is late enough that they're already past dinnertime, now into those strange hours where there's only a select few reasons to invite a man over, but his insomniac schedule's already so fucked that he can't really tell. his nights are measured out in so many lonely hours beyond the time when people have already turned in.

he's standing a little awkwardly in the center of the room, hands plunged into the pockets of his jacket. there's a rip in the hardy leather which she'll recognise; it matches the wound in his side, now long-since-healed over. )

Were you working?

Edited 2021-04-17 21:00 (UTC)

( he gives a flare of that bottle and she catches the glint of it, like saturated honey, and she's left cradling it as he steps in behind her, the bitter new york air clinging to him and wafting in alongside that signature leather scent. she notes his steps receding behind her, further into the heart of that apartment, and she's trailing and ticking locks back into place on habit. upon his comment she's surveying the bottle, an artful raise of a brow as she reads it's title aloud; honestly, the notable attributes are that it's full and certainly not anything light. )

You know, I might venture to my being able to drink you under the table, but those bets having been boding for me too well as of late.

( not that she can say it hasn't worked out for her, now.

one of the windows is left cracked, flirting with the sheer curtains that tousle with each of the city's breaths let in. there's some sort of affirmation in the way he doesn't just make himself at home, recognizes he's somewhere that'd been put together long before she'd met him. there's no guidelines for any of this, fitting himself somewhere that wasn't his and her opening a door for him to see her written in hints around the apartment, but it's the endearing hesitancy that urges her to settle him a bit more.

steps pad quietly over towards the kitchen, pressing up onto her toes to pinch at the rims of two whiskey glasses as his question reaches her. ) Not really. ( it's muffled, given her back's to him, and when she twirls around again it's to set hollow glasses atop the island. she twists off the cap of that gifted bottle, pouring a hearty two-fingers worth for both of them before she draws nearer, one of the shares held out to him in offering, similar to the way he'd enticed it upon his entry. )

Sort of? ( her nose wrinkles a little, admittedly. ) Sometimes it seems feels like I always am. Hard to turn that off.

( a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something almost a smile that he hides behind the glass as he clinks it against hers in a cheers, and then takes a startlingly deep swig of the whiskey. savouring the burn, the warmth as it goes down his throat. even if he can't easily get hammered off it, he can at least enjoy the heat and the taste of it. )

So, uh... I might not have mentioned during the interview, but I've got one up on you here. The serum came with enhanced metabolism.

( four times faster than than normal, or thereabouts, or so the doctors claimed. bucky props his elbows against the other side of the island, his blue eyes watching karen as she drinks. he nudges a few piles of paperwork aside, moving them out of the way. if part of him desperately wants to read it just out of instinct, then he presses down the urge and doesn't give in to it. )

You do kinda seem like a workaholic.

( a pause, bucky realising how that might not have sounded the best. )

I don't mean that in a bad way. Most of the people I knew were, uh, extremely devoted to our work.

( sam was probably the best at juggling some kind of balance and maintaining a connection with his family, but the rest of them had been such lonely creatures. the team had been the family. steve. nat. wanda. people with a cause to fight for but nothing left to lose. he'd been the same, but now even the cause has been neatly sheared away from him, too, leaving him foundering. )

Of course it did.

( to think she might've been able to offer somewhat of a steep competition, otherwise. she supposes it's not necessarily something to be proud of, but it'd managed to get them past all of those introductory firsts she wasn't too privy on. she catches the glimmer on his lips like an afterthought of that bourbon, and she's mirroring his lean on the opposite side of that island, elbows at it's edge with bottle in hand. gaze levels with his while she tips that bottle once more, gauging by the sound of the glass filling when to stop. it'd be a shame to let them empty so soon.

she keeps herself there even when it's set to the side, twirling the aureate liquid in her own glass before she's downing a second, heartier sip.

the back of her wrist presses to her brims as it settles in her throat, creates a flume in her lungs, and after a beat she's offering a light shrug in response, teeth bearing amusedly over the rim of that glass. )

No offense taken. It's different when there's a divide. When you can leave work without it following after you. ( she sways a little conversationally, claiming her lower lip beneath pearled teeth, a thoughtful delay in their snare. )

Not very often I get a night off.

( he'd ploughed through his glass so quickly, but a gesture from him had indicated to give it a liberal refill anyway, a flick of his hand that translated in the universal language of bars everywhere as fill 'er up. any tilt of karen's eyebrow just leads to a sheepish shrug from him, a tilt of his shoulder. he really is gonna have to go double-time in order to keep up with her properly. if it means he obliterates the bottle just to get a regular buzz going, then so be it — he's already accepted that the whiskey's going to be the real casualty of the evening. )

Does it follow you? ( bucky asks, sounding genuinely surprised. he doesn't really know how any of this works, and he finds himself curious. )

I can see getting wrapped up in a story or researching or working on writing it in your off-hours. But I would've thought you still like... had a dayjob. You leave the office, you go home. Doesn't that count as clocking out?

( he hasn't held a regular job since before WWII. so sue him. )

( he gestures and she gives, pouring out another generous serving as she hangs on his words. there's a bemused note, because she wishes it was that compartmentalized. as if a story was something that only existed on paper, or with a cursor left blinking back at her. thing is, the story didn't stop once she closed her laptop, or tucked her pen inside a closed notebook, and it didn't keep the bruised corners of that city from growing darker. it would be as easy as clocking out if she didn't keep it all so close-knit, but it's why she'd found it so difficult to find her place at the bulletin to begin with.

she wasn't worried about writing the stories people wanted to hear. she was worried about the ones others were trying to hide. )

Maybe it should. ( count. ) I've heard it all. That it doesn't sell—or that I'm better off letting it go. The 'you're getting too close to this, Karen.' ( her sights drift down to the crystal rim of that glass, tracing it methodically with the tip of her pinky as the lower ridge of her jaw shifts sideward. the thought earns another drink, a bittersweet hum resonating alongside it. )

If I don't get too close, if it's just a day job I can turn off like everyone else, they get away with it.

( 'they.' she's purposefully vague, because decidedly, she's wagered the city could live without her for one night. it'd all be waiting for her just the same come morning. blue aligns with blue once more, and she's giving a playful shimmy of an emptied glass between them. it's as much of a request as the glint in her gaze suggests, a reversal of roles. )

( all of it sounds like something you could've heard from the mouths of vigilantes, people who faced the world and then committed themselves to make it better, brick-by-brick, day-by-day. he's well-familiar with that kind of glowing idealism and drive. the urge to do better. unfortunately, he also knows how it can burn you from the inside out.

karen's pinky finger circles the rim of the glass and he finds himself looking down, watching the delicate movement, entranced by the delicate flutter of her hands. when her now-empty glass slides across the counter towards him, bucky obligingly takes it, fills it up. one thumb, half the size of his own pour. which might normally look patronising otherwise, so he sounds apologetic when he says: )

Just don't want it to seem like I'm plying you with liquor to... take advantage of you, or anything. I'm really not kidding about the metabolism.

( but, hell, that liquid courage does help; it greases the wheels of this night, helps loosen them both up and make the words trip more easily from their tongues. (they're both so tightly-wound, so unaccustomed to... this. navigating the new boundaries of whatever-this-is.) his shoulders are taut where he's leaning against the island, and he seems to remember too-late that he's still wearing his jacket. he shrugs out of it so it seems less like he's about to bolt out of the apartment at any minute, and tosses it onto a nearby kitchen bench — and after a moment of hesitation, he tugs off his gloves and shoves them into the jacket pockets. he's dressed simply: skinny jeans, dog tags at his neck, a black t-shirt that hangs tight on his broad shoulders, a layer of long grey sleeves underneath to obscure his arm. she already knows what he's hiding beneath those layers, but old habits die hard. )

You've got a nice place. Don't think I got around to saying so before.

( there had been bigger things to worry about, then. )

Edited 2021-04-18 15:29 (UTC)

( she's not reading into it as much as he thinks. she might be able to handle her liquor, but comparatively she didn't want to end up under that heavy haze with him lingering too far behind. she knows that sweet spot, regardless, and she'll take no issue to slowing herself down when she knows she's teasing it—for now she gives an appreciative nod of the glass once it has some body to it once more. this seems to sort of be their thing, conversation that comes easier over the rim of a glass or the neck of a bottle, something to keep their hands busy. )

My self control might just surprise you.

( there aren't many pieces of her life that didn't embody recklessness to some degree, but alcohol was a handler she was familiar with. if he intended to take advantage of her with that bottle, well, he'd soon come to find there were much easier ways to soften her than that. she's not shy in the way she takes him in when he's shrugging out of that jacket, the way broad shoulders boast of their own accord, and she doesn't settle anywhere in particular so much as she does an appreciative, brief sweep. she's attentive enough to recognize that stint, how spine finds itself rigid if only for a beat—but if he's comfortable enough to have found himself here again, she'll take that for what it's worth.

her sights shift as if on cue, tongue crossing over her teeth as she gives her place a look, as if she hadn't been the one to spend the last few months making it feel as close to a home as possible. and almost in time with her exhale she's pressing upright. )

It's something.

It takes me awhile to get settled, but I'm getting there. ( for various reasons—what with vigilantes crawling in through her fire escape and dragging bloodied, beaten men through the front door, and all. )

Sometimes I think about what it'd be like, heading back to Vermont, or just... somewhere else. Getting a little home tucked away in the middle of nowhere. I'm not so sure the city lets go that easily, though.

for secretare.

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