( bucky had run his fingers along the edges of the books on her shelves β some of them unread, but others with worn spines, which was a good sign β in the search for something to occupy him. he'd finally settled on something with bite-sized pieces that he could dip in and out of without needing to commit to a longer plot, something with a name he recognised even back in the day, and so he holds it up now for her inspection. the complete short stories of ernest hemingway.
even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
He did not want any consequences. He did not want any consequences ever again. He wanted to live along without consequences.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
( it speaks for itself, a living thing with a beating heart: that not only had he stayed, but he'd fixed a coffee, dug into one of the dozens of books on those shelves much like she would on a rare morning off. the used grounds from the french press still waft pungent scarves of espresso about the apartment, entice her to pour a cup of her own, but he arrests her attention entirely when he shifts from the mattress. her eyes roam, not with hunger but a soft appreciation; never once had he walked towards her in so little, she's only a woman, drunk off the sight of him while she can be.
he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum β a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there β but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking β he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )
Thanks. And yeah, that'd be great. ( he flashes her a smile. all of this is wandering into foreign territory, uncharted worlds on the map. not that he's used to fleeing, exactly, but he's not used to this part either: someone else's home, occupying space in it, making himself at home within it. but karen keeps inviting him to, so bucky rolls with it: pops back out into the living room, grabs his clothes and the towel, and then vanishes into the bathroom while she gets started on breakfast.
technically, maybe they could've shared the shower, maybe he could've joined her. but it had felt like it'd be asking for too much. so he just settles into it alone, letting it wash away the previous night. most of the hot water's already gone, the pipes whining as they try to keep up, but that's honestly fine with him; he'd had months shivering in the field during the war, and then even in his years as an assassin, it had been less luxury hotels, more shitty off-grid apartments in eastern europe. so he could do with a quick, bracing shower, and cold to tamp him down again, give him some chance of surviving the morning without just corralling karen again.
he's got eighty years to make up for, so sue him.
when bucky rejoins her in the living area, his hair and the neck of his shirt is still damp and his clothes rumpled from the evening before, but at least he feels refreshed. his hair smells like her women's shampoo, notes of coconut and vanilla, but he doesn't really seem to mind. he leans against the island to watch her work, elbows propped against its edge, and so it isn't entirely lost on him that they've accidentally drifted back into the positions that kicked off the whole evening. (the bottle's still on the counter. whoops.)
but, then, the first question from his lips is probably an unexpected one: )
( it's only once the familiar patter of her shower fills the apartment again that she realizes just how illy prepared her place was for visitors β books and case files left in a mindful scatter, thermostat low and hardly enough food in the fridge for her to make it mid way through the week. she's used to late night coffee runs and living off of the small, tucked away delis and cafes that keep a quiet company. she does, at least, have the basics: a loaf of bread, a few eggs left in the fridge and cinnamon tucked away somewhere in her cupboards, frequently sprinkled into tea. it affords something decent, carefully tended french toast for the pair of them, the last pair currently on the stove as the hum of the water ceases.
she doesn't need the water to tell her he's finished, she's learned every odd creak here and there about those floorboards to note his entry, and a brief glance up gives a quick study: the way the water clung what lingered of it's heat to his cheeks, how his skin was almost dew-like, eyes ever-more blue with the darkened slick of his hair. it's a childlike look, in a way, untouched if it weren't for the slight crumple she'd made of his shirt. lips tuck in beneath her teeth at the thought, focus shifting back to the pan.
it's something she's made often enough to know that the moment she let her attention stray elsewhere, the bread would burn, so as the question reaches over her shoulder from the island, she's giving a thoughtful hum, but doesn't turn to face him quite yet. unexpected, indeed β simple in a way that almost humors her. when had she last been asked something so light? )
That's a tough question.
( her moods shifted so readily, and honestly, she can't remember the last time she's even made it to a film. the last time she'd allowed herself to sit through one entirely without digging out a journal, or chewing the edge of her thumb near raw. she's not one for sitting still, but she sifts her memory nonetheless, stretching up onto her toes (calves giving a pleasureful little groan in protest) until fingers blindly find the small spice container. a sprinkle while it browns, and a beat later she's swiping the slices onto another plate, serving one from each hand atop the island. )
One's sort of a testament to being alone, the gift that it is, and the other's just... frenetic passion. The opposite of being alone. Having someone. Messy. ( she mulls her thoughts a moment, digging out a fork for each of them, syrup and butter already left atop the wood. )
Somehow, the way it's filmed manages to make them both feel exactly the same.
( there's a pause while he listens, taking it all in, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; karen's passion for the movie is undeniable, and it's endearing. getting to hear from someone who has so many thoughts about a film and how it's crafted. maybe part of him is always vicariously living through other people's passions this way (he doesn't have much of them himself), but it's nice. he's slowly filling in his own gaps anyway, building up that vocabulary too.
it was probably initially inscrutable as he reached for the jacket, but now it's pretty obvious what he's doing, as he closes the book again and taps the pen against the cover. )
I'm keeping a list of moves I've gotta watch. This sounds classier than most of the stuff people have been recommending, but I'm into it. You'd think I might have some insights about 1969, too, but I missed that year.
( the last thing he remembers from around then was 1963. the kennedy job. he'd been put back on ice afterward for a while.
karen's words are still lingering with him, even while he accepts a plate of french toast, starts to cut it into pieces. the opposite of being alone. two worlds divided by time but inherently the same. one foot in the past, one in the present. he's pretty sure he can relate. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
even in the first few pages, he'd quickly stumbled across something unexpected: karen's neat handwriting underlining a passage from the preface:
a fitting quote, for an investigative journalist. for someone who fought every day with the pen, and who meant to use it to have something to say.
while sipping at his coffee, he'd flipped through the short stories until he'd landed on "soldier's home", although the description of the WWI soldier's listless ennui settled too close-to-home, a prickling ache like a shard lodged in sergeant barnes' own heart.
he folds the book shut. he'd prefer for his gaze to drink in the sight of her. karen doesn't need lingerie or enticing clothing; just those long legs in the lounge shorts, the curves of her in that simple tee, is already enough to rev his engine again, and bucky presses down the thought like he's chiding some unruly animal. (down, boy.) they've opened a door, cracked open a box, nudged a snowball into motion, and he finds himself wondering how much he can ask for. how much he's allowed.
bucky hops back to his feet, crosses the room, and presses the half-empty coffee mug into her hands. )
Can I, uh, ( and he hesitates, mulling over how his mouth feels woolly and stale, and his body grimy from the night's activities. )
Is it okay if I use your shower, too?
no subject
he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum β a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there β but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking β he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )
no subject
technically, maybe they could've shared the shower, maybe he could've joined her. but it had felt like it'd be asking for too much. so he just settles into it alone, letting it wash away the previous night. most of the hot water's already gone, the pipes whining as they try to keep up, but that's honestly fine with him; he'd had months shivering in the field during the war, and then even in his years as an assassin, it had been less luxury hotels, more shitty off-grid apartments in eastern europe. so he could do with a quick, bracing shower, and cold to tamp him down again, give him some chance of surviving the morning without just corralling karen again.
he's got eighty years to make up for, so sue him.
when bucky rejoins her in the living area, his hair and the neck of his shirt is still damp and his clothes rumpled from the evening before, but at least he feels refreshed. his hair smells like her women's shampoo, notes of coconut and vanilla, but he doesn't really seem to mind. he leans against the island to watch her work, elbows propped against its edge, and so it isn't entirely lost on him that they've accidentally drifted back into the positions that kicked off the whole evening. (the bottle's still on the counter. whoops.)
but, then, the first question from his lips is probably an unexpected one: )
Hey. What's your favourite movie?
no subject
she doesn't need the water to tell her he's finished, she's learned every odd creak here and there about those floorboards to note his entry, and a brief glance up gives a quick study: the way the water clung what lingered of it's heat to his cheeks, how his skin was almost dew-like, eyes ever-more blue with the darkened slick of his hair. it's a childlike look, in a way, untouched if it weren't for the slight crumple she'd made of his shirt. lips tuck in beneath her teeth at the thought, focus shifting back to the pan.
it's something she's made often enough to know that the moment she let her attention stray elsewhere, the bread would burn, so as the question reaches over her shoulder from the island, she's giving a thoughtful hum, but doesn't turn to face him quite yet. unexpected, indeed β simple in a way that almost humors her. when had she last been asked something so light? )
That's a tough question.
( her moods shifted so readily, and honestly, she can't remember the last time she's even made it to a film. the last time she'd allowed herself to sit through one entirely without digging out a journal, or chewing the edge of her thumb near raw. she's not one for sitting still, but she sifts her memory nonetheless, stretching up onto her toes (calves giving a pleasureful little groan in protest) until fingers blindly find the small spice container. a sprinkle while it browns, and a beat later she's swiping the slices onto another plate, serving one from each hand atop the island. )
I'm not sure if there's one in particular, but... CafΓ© de Flore. ( it's not a definitive answer, but a wisp gathered before it slipped back into the dark. ) A french film. It shifts between 1969 and 2011, two entirely different worlds, different people, still strung together through time. They never meet, it'sβinstances. Small things connecting them.
One's sort of a testament to being alone, the gift that it is, and the other's just... frenetic passion. The opposite of being alone. Having someone. Messy. ( she mulls her thoughts a moment, digging out a fork for each of them, syrup and butter already left atop the wood. )
Somehow, the way it's filmed manages to make them both feel exactly the same.
no subject
when she finishes the description, bucky reaches for his jacket where it's still puddled on the bench, digs out a pocket-sized notebook and a pen, and he scribbles cafΓ© de flores on a new page. it's sitting alongside the other pop culture references scribbled on the opposite side: mad max, men in black, jurassic park.
it was probably initially inscrutable as he reached for the jacket, but now it's pretty obvious what he's doing, as he closes the book again and taps the pen against the cover. )
I'm keeping a list of moves I've gotta watch. This sounds classier than most of the stuff people have been recommending, but I'm into it. You'd think I might have some insights about 1969, too, but I missed that year.
( the last thing he remembers from around then was 1963. the kennedy job. he'd been put back on ice afterward for a while.
karen's words are still lingering with him, even while he accepts a plate of french toast, starts to cut it into pieces. the opposite of being alone. two worlds divided by time but inherently the same. one foot in the past, one in the present. he's pretty sure he can relate. )
This breakfast looks great.