( 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 herselfβ ) 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?
( 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. )
( 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. )
( 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. )
( 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. )
( 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. )
( 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 sellβor 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. )
( 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 itβfor 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 beatβbut 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 reasonsβwhat 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.
Head out into suburbia, get a nice little house with a backyard and room to roam? A place with more than one bedroom? Seems impossible.
( the usual mordant humour about nyc real estate. he's trying to sound teasing — biting sarcasm has, in fact, become one of bucky barnes' trademarks — but truth be told, he also sounds a little wistful about the prospect. his sister had had a place like that out in indiana. and yet, brooklyn's got its claws into him and he's not sure he could ever leave. he's looking down at his right hand as he twists the whiskey glass back and forth on the island, skimming the condensation from the glass, his other arm tucked between him and the edge of the island as he leans against it. (if she looks, she can just catch a glimpse of sleek black metal, only just barely out of view.)
there's a thoughtful look on his face, a contemplative furrow between his brows as he digs up his next few words: )
I've thought for a while that people can be divided into groups: either you're a New York person or not. Not in a good or a bad way. Either you love this city and you stay and stick it out here, or you don't.
( a beat. there really was a reason it was the only thing he could think of putting into his bullshit dating profile. i'm just a kid from brooklyn, steve had famously said, once upon a time, and those words rang true for both of them. )
Me, I can't imagine living anywhere else. Although maybe it's 'cause it's the only place that looks familiar to me at all these days. Even if it's changed.
( she hums wistfully like it's a pipe dream, something sweet because of it's inability to be touched, and her eyes drift off like she's painting herself somewhere else while her body remained rooted there. she's had time in that quiet life, nothing but boundless trees surrounding her and dirt roads luring you to the foot of the mountains. she can still hear her brother's words, vining tightly about her chest, her throat, pressing tongue to the roof of her mouth: you've gotta get out of here, karen. she'd had the quiet, but it's not so welcoming to her anymore, not since she'd left it with a falsified police report, that last glimpse she'd gotten before they'd gone over the rail.
she can't get that back, can't take anything back. but it doesn't keep her from fruitlessly wishing for it just the same. )
Put a garden back there, build some little shed over the summer that just fills and fills with shit you don't really need, but it all makes you feel like you've made it, somehow.
( mindlessly she's giving a slow twirl of her glass, looking down at the way those honey-comb hues reflect against one another, like the sticky summers of vermont. )
You know, back then I always wanted to be somewhere else. That 'elsewhere' just happened to end up here. It doesn't really give you a choice; to love it. Even if you find out you don't want to, you can't take it back. You're already here.
( she finds his gaze across that island and for a long pause, she doesn't say anything. she sees new york in him. it's teeth, its summers, its winters. the distance between them suddenly burns with a vastness none to her liking. ) All those people and it still has a way of making you feel alone.
( the words are out before he's had a chance to consider it or rethink them. biting sarcasm and yet with a looming vein of truth to it — even as he cocks his head and surveys her over that kitchen island and he realises that, of course, it's because like recognises like. it sounds like she's talking about him because she's talking about herself.
bucky knows he's lonely. his only fucking friend left him, so what else is he supposed to be? even his therapist tells him he's lonely, that it's sad how few people he speaks to. he hadn't been expecting to spot it here, however: in karen page's pale eyes and faraway look and half-finished bottle of beer and stacks of paperwork and workaholism and the fact that she, too, was trawling a shitty phone app at this too-late hour, looking for some kind of connection.
he drains the last of his drink, hand trembling a bit before he sets it back down on the counter with a firm thud. maybe he really does want that courage delivered in amber liquid and a warmth burning its way down his throat before he looks up again, meets her eye, and says: )
( whether they're alone by their own devices or something far out of their control, it still felt the same at a certain hour of the night. her entire apartment is a gallery of things left unfinished, even the woman inhabiting it, and she teems with restlessness even when she's standing still. he looks up at her and she watches the way the heart of his throat lurches hungrily, eagerly lapping the bourbon he'd just fed it and she doesn't know if his words are just that β words, something to pass the time, something that seemed like the right thing to say, or if it's more than that.
something else. somewhere else.
she hasn't shifted from where she's perched and she's hasn't let go of his eyes, but that bourbon in her hands is suddenly long forgotten and tongue parched for something that burns a little different. there's a heat that branches to her chest at the suggestion, vague and kept to herself as it is, and when she finds her voice again it comes with a velvet undercurrent. a hand reaching out in the dark, just to see what it might come back with. you don't have to be. )
Easy to say when you're standing all the way over there.
( if they were playing poker, his hand's just been called.
it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
( if itβs been awhile then they both wear it familiarly, and as those boots pad decisively against the floorboards she thinks she can feel it in her chest, each of them narrowing closer until heβs not only standing beside her, but with her, a breath of a distance keeping their fronts from touching and he brings with him a scented rush. itβs a cocktail of leather and spices, the breath of a natural cologne that could only be ascribed as him. gone is the gunpowder and peroxide, the man thatβd wrought a war within himself just to give her so much as a glance. heβs still covered, but sheβll take it layer by layer, if he needs her to. run her fingertips along the fleshy and metal expanses of skin just the same. here, with her, he doesnβt need those hackles. and soon enough, she hopes, heβll learn to leave them at the door when he enters.
theyβd made it this far, hadnβt they?
heβs a lot broader up close like this, shoulders towering, and she can see the way fitful sleep rests beneath his eyes, the dusting of freckles trailing the bridge of his nose, feel the cloud of his breath warm against her cheek. her own seems to hold itself at the back of her throat as if she doesnβt trust it, canβt trust that it wonβt give her away, that it wonβt tremble on its way out. she doesnβt want to hide from him, not this, but itβs habit—yearning after something until it gets too close, as if to say are you sure? )
Better.
( itβs a word that typically trails with a βbutβ, leaves room for improvement, but thereβs no complaint to be found on her features as her hand raises, settles the heart of her palm against his sternum. his dog tags rest just above her fingertips, brushing her index across one of them like braille, gaze staying just long enough to make out his name in embedded lettering. )
You were saying? ( because it all sounds a little different, means a little more when she can taste the bourbon on his exhale. stamp of approval, indeed. )
( name, serial number, blood type, next-of-kin, religion. for all his secrecy, he's been wearing a guide to himself on a bare piece of metal, open for anyone to read if they ever got close enough (which, of course, they haven't). that serial number's worn into his memory just as it's worn into the grooves of the dog tag, staunchly memorised over and over and over for fear he'd forget who he was. so he's been carrying around this reminder of himself like an albatross around his neck — or perhaps a lodestone, something to anchor himself by. it's him in a nutshell, and karen's fingers are running over the tags.
come on, james, he goads himself, his heart in his throat, as he looks down at her. this man who once leapt onto a zipline over a moving train even back when he was fragile human flesh and blood—
and so what else is this but another yawning chasm to cross? although this one might swallow him whole, too. she's as good as written him an invitation. so while karen's hand flutters at the chain dangling over his heart, his own hand moves up to cup her cheek, bracketing the side of her face. fingers curled by her jaw while his thumb skims over the fragile bones of her cheek, her scattering of pale freckles. it would take so little to break her, even with his non-metal hand. he's ever-aware of that pent-up strength in his body and how he's unaccustomed to wielding it for anything except causing pain; inflicting as much damage as possible; shattering bone and taking bruising hits. he wonders, fleetingly, if steve ever got over that trepidation either. handling the others around them with kid gloves, lest they break.
into the breach, barnes.
so his grip tightens and he leans in: his right hand drawing her face closer, his left resting against the island, careful to not touch her with it. and bucky catches her lips with his— cautious at first, careful, like he's still trying to re-learn this language and shake off the dust, but as soon as karen's mouth moves against his, his lips part and he leans in further, the kiss turning hungrier. )
( she doesn't have many excuses β she doesn't do this much, doesn't really get out, doesn't have the time β except she does, and it's so often unkempt with article clippings and pinned up newspapers. they say it's what makes a journalist one of the best, the ability to get into the mind of their subject, but she's only ever there. scripting herself across the lives of the countless, endless bodies in that city so long as it wasn't her own and sometimes she doesn't know who she is without the harrowing late nights, without the whiskey and the mugs left abandoned, without phone left in her purse to defer any messages from the few that still stuck around to check in.
it's hard to know who she is, right here in front of him when that palm cups the entirety of her cheek, comes with it a heat she hasn't felt in too long and she can't help but to lean into the touch as he thumbs over her. blonde lashes flutter, gaze dropping to revel in that cupid's bow of his lips, how the lower pouts when he fixes on her and he does nothing but hold her there. hold her and see her, and what she'd give to be able to reach in, to draw out every little thing he's thinking and tuck it somewhere safe.
those fingers splayed at his chest ravel slowly, gather at the fabric of his henley just as his mouth seeks out her own, and the stillness that follows as their lips make amends leaves her heart echoing. calling. reaching. she's dizzied by it, and it's only a moment before she's responding in kind, before bones give a breath and that clasp at his shirt is used to tug him closer, yet.
that hidden exhale trembles as his mouth parts, as if she can hide it within it's hot cave, opposite palm lifting to find the column of his neck where fingertips fasten around the nape, shoulders pinching together and their fronts gravitate til they're flush together. her thumb presses beneath the ridge of his jaw, a silent message to stay as her crown tips, tongue giving a teasing curl only to retract, a ploy for his to follow. )
( girls in the forties were not, in fact, all as prim and prudish and demure as the world seems to have painted them in the years since — he'd bitten back a laugh sometimes, watching a movie set in the past — but this still feels new and overwhelming, and bucky answers in kind. a spark lit in a dark and empty room; a match striking a flame and feeding a desire that he hasn't felt in so long, and which he's purposefully smothered for so long. she nudges at the part of his lips, and bucky opens up further in response, his tongue slipping into her mouth. karen's dragged him closer by the fabric of his shirt and he's pressed up against her, their bodies desperate for contact, to be touching — and he realises a second later that he's accidentally crowded her up against the island, karen's back pressed against it with nowhere to go.
while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )
( there should be a name for this, she thinks, the first time i taste you.
and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him β and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
( her leg hooks around his waist and pulls him even closer, their hips now flush against each other, and that sends another electric jolt zigzagging through all his nerves and desire arrowing downwards. with them pressed so close against each other, she can feel he's already getting half-hard in his jeans. it doesn't take much; it's been a long time.
and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
( skin was different when it was offered. she'd had him shirtless and propped against that table none too far from them now, but she hadn't rid of all the layers herself. then it was blood that that left clothes falling in a hush to the side and now it would be need; the urgency felt the same. the moment the brisk air of the city let in through one of the too-many windows she keeps propped, even during the winter, bites at that hint of exposed, milky flesh, he seems to know it β moves as if to chase it away, to ensure he was the only one to touch her.
the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeahβ ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him β palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself β but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
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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 herselfβ ) Maybe avoid the alleys on your way.
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i'll try my best but no promises
want me to bring something? you a wine, beer, or liquor kind of gal?
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( 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.
β action.
( 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. )
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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.
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( 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?
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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.
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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. )
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( 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.
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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. )
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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 sellβor 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. )
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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. )
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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 beatβbut 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 reasonsβwhat 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.
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( the usual mordant humour about nyc real estate. he's trying to sound teasing — biting sarcasm has, in fact, become one of bucky barnes' trademarks — but truth be told, he also sounds a little wistful about the prospect. his sister had had a place like that out in indiana. and yet, brooklyn's got its claws into him and he's not sure he could ever leave. he's looking down at his right hand as he twists the whiskey glass back and forth on the island, skimming the condensation from the glass, his other arm tucked between him and the edge of the island as he leans against it. (if she looks, she can just catch a glimpse of sleek black metal, only just barely out of view.)
there's a thoughtful look on his face, a contemplative furrow between his brows as he digs up his next few words: )
I've thought for a while that people can be divided into groups: either you're a New York person or not. Not in a good or a bad way. Either you love this city and you stay and stick it out here, or you don't.
( a beat. there really was a reason it was the only thing he could think of putting into his bullshit dating profile. i'm just a kid from brooklyn, steve had famously said, once upon a time, and those words rang true for both of them. )
Me, I can't imagine living anywhere else. Although maybe it's 'cause it's the only place that looks familiar to me at all these days. Even if it's changed.
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she can't get that back, can't take anything back. but it doesn't keep her from fruitlessly wishing for it just the same. )
Put a garden back there, build some little shed over the summer that just fills and fills with shit you don't really need, but it all makes you feel like you've made it, somehow.
( mindlessly she's giving a slow twirl of her glass, looking down at the way those honey-comb hues reflect against one another, like the sticky summers of vermont. )
You know, back then I always wanted to be somewhere else. That 'elsewhere' just happened to end up here. It doesn't really give you a choice; to love it. Even if you find out you don't want to, you can't take it back. You're already here.
( she finds his gaze across that island and for a long pause, she doesn't say anything. she sees new york in him. it's teeth, its summers, its winters. the distance between them suddenly burns with a vastness none to her liking. ) All those people and it still has a way of making you feel alone.
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( the words are out before he's had a chance to consider it or rethink them. biting sarcasm and yet with a looming vein of truth to it — even as he cocks his head and surveys her over that kitchen island and he realises that, of course, it's because like recognises like. it sounds like she's talking about him because she's talking about herself.
bucky knows he's lonely. his only fucking friend left him, so what else is he supposed to be? even his therapist tells him he's lonely, that it's sad how few people he speaks to. he hadn't been expecting to spot it here, however: in karen page's pale eyes and faraway look and half-finished bottle of beer and stacks of paperwork and workaholism and the fact that she, too, was trawling a shitty phone app at this too-late hour, looking for some kind of connection.
he drains the last of his drink, hand trembling a bit before he sets it back down on the counter with a firm thud. maybe he really does want that courage delivered in amber liquid and a warmth burning its way down his throat before he looks up again, meets her eye, and says: )
You don't have to be.
Alone, I mean.
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( whether they're alone by their own devices or something far out of their control, it still felt the same at a certain hour of the night. her entire apartment is a gallery of things left unfinished, even the woman inhabiting it, and she teems with restlessness even when she's standing still. he looks up at her and she watches the way the heart of his throat lurches hungrily, eagerly lapping the bourbon he'd just fed it and she doesn't know if his words are just that β words, something to pass the time, something that seemed like the right thing to say, or if it's more than that.
something else. somewhere else.
she hasn't shifted from where she's perched and she's hasn't let go of his eyes, but that bourbon in her hands is suddenly long forgotten and tongue parched for something that burns a little different. there's a heat that branches to her chest at the suggestion, vague and kept to herself as it is, and when she finds her voice again it comes with a velvet undercurrent. a hand reaching out in the dark, just to see what it might come back with. you don't have to be. )
Easy to say when you're standing all the way over there.
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it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
Better?
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theyβd made it this far, hadnβt they?
heβs a lot broader up close like this, shoulders towering, and she can see the way fitful sleep rests beneath his eyes, the dusting of freckles trailing the bridge of his nose, feel the cloud of his breath warm against her cheek. her own seems to hold itself at the back of her throat as if she doesnβt trust it, canβt trust that it wonβt give her away, that it wonβt tremble on its way out. she doesnβt want to hide from him, not this, but itβs habit—yearning after something until it gets too close, as if to say are you sure? )
Better.
( itβs a word that typically trails with a βbutβ, leaves room for improvement, but thereβs no complaint to be found on her features as her hand raises, settles the heart of her palm against his sternum. his dog tags rest just above her fingertips, brushing her index across one of them like braille, gaze staying just long enough to make out his name in embedded lettering. )
You were saying? ( because it all sounds a little different, means a little more when she can taste the bourbon on his exhale. stamp of approval, indeed. )
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come on, james, he goads himself, his heart in his throat, as he looks down at her. this man who once leapt onto a zipline over a moving train even back when he was fragile human flesh and blood—
and so what else is this but another yawning chasm to cross? although this one might swallow him whole, too. she's as good as written him an invitation. so while karen's hand flutters at the chain dangling over his heart, his own hand moves up to cup her cheek, bracketing the side of her face. fingers curled by her jaw while his thumb skims over the fragile bones of her cheek, her scattering of pale freckles. it would take so little to break her, even with his non-metal hand. he's ever-aware of that pent-up strength in his body and how he's unaccustomed to wielding it for anything except causing pain; inflicting as much damage as possible; shattering bone and taking bruising hits. he wonders, fleetingly, if steve ever got over that trepidation either. handling the others around them with kid gloves, lest they break.
into the breach, barnes.
so his grip tightens and he leans in: his right hand drawing her face closer, his left resting against the island, careful to not touch her with it. and bucky catches her lips with his— cautious at first, careful, like he's still trying to re-learn this language and shake off the dust, but as soon as karen's mouth moves against his, his lips part and he leans in further, the kiss turning hungrier. )
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it's hard to know who she is, right here in front of him when that palm cups the entirety of her cheek, comes with it a heat she hasn't felt in too long and she can't help but to lean into the touch as he thumbs over her. blonde lashes flutter, gaze dropping to revel in that cupid's bow of his lips, how the lower pouts when he fixes on her and he does nothing but hold her there. hold her and see her, and what she'd give to be able to reach in, to draw out every little thing he's thinking and tuck it somewhere safe.
those fingers splayed at his chest ravel slowly, gather at the fabric of his henley just as his mouth seeks out her own, and the stillness that follows as their lips make amends leaves her heart echoing. calling. reaching. she's dizzied by it, and it's only a moment before she's responding in kind, before bones give a breath and that clasp at his shirt is used to tug him closer, yet.
that hidden exhale trembles as his mouth parts, as if she can hide it within it's hot cave, opposite palm lifting to find the column of his neck where fingertips fasten around the nape, shoulders pinching together and their fronts gravitate til they're flush together. her thumb presses beneath the ridge of his jaw, a silent message to stay as her crown tips, tongue giving a teasing curl only to retract, a ploy for his to follow. )
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while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )
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and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him β and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
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and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
Is this okay?
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the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeahβ ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him β palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself β but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
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