( it had been easy when they were with each other in-person; unexpectedly simple, even breezy, managing to accidentally tumble right past any last walls and barriers under the guise of banishing that loneliness and longing. the hours could have slid on and on and on. he could've stayed at karen's apartment all day long, if either of them had let themselves slip into it and indulge themselves. but in the end, they'd both cautiously retreated after breakfast, finally parted ways, finally had him leave and go back to his own empty apartment.
which just created another conundrum.
now, bucky's back to not knowing what the hell to do. because the order of operations is all wrong. he'd fooled around commitment-free in the forties, sure, but now the standard etiquette of dating and courting has been thrown right out the window, and he's not exactly sure what part comes next. he should've brought flowers the night before— why the hell hadn't he stopped by a midnight bodega to bring flowers? should he ask her out? is he supposed to text after getting home again? how soon is too soon to text? would he seem needy? also, how do you say thanks for a great evening of mindblowing sex?
also, he hates texting.
there's always too much lost between the lines, too many subtleties stripped down in the text, too much nuance to the smiley faces and emojis that he can't wrap his mind around. he has to keep resisting the automatic urge to include a signoff in every single message, like he's signing a letter. it's stupid. texts are stupid. they're simultaneously too fast and too slow; he hates that interminable wait, the pacing circles around the room waiting to see if someone's paying attention to their phone, if they're around to reply, ever-aware of the irony that he's been leaving sam people on read, too. he can be a hypocrite, okay, it's fine.
so. fuck it. it's much later that day after their breakfast together, now leaning into evening again, and it's too late to actually take her out anywhere — but the least they can do is figure something out for next time. if there is a next time. (god, he wants there to be a next time.)
so in the end he just picks up the phone, and he calls karen. )
( herein lies the problem with letting another in — finding a way to get them out of your bones once they've left.
there'd been a lingering kiss at the door, the familiar scratch of his stubble along her chin leaving it slightly flushed as she'd shut the door, pressed the heart of both palms against it, almost as if she could will him back to her. how devastatingly she'd lost herself in him, how quickly she'd forgotten about the rest of the world that spun madly on around them — the cases, the city, none of it was there when his skin had met hers, electric from the moment he'd crossed over that island. and maybe this is why she doesn't date, because it makes the normal all the darker to return to, makes her question what it is she knows of softness anymore if it's not by another's hand.
karen manages to busy herself, but it's a frustratingly futile effort. he's left a swell of color at her pulse point, every so often reaching up to brush her thumb there before having to sharply avert her thoughts before a rich, tempting throb works its way through her inners. she finds herself checking her watch, scrolling a glaring screen at her desk before eventually it stares just as blankly back. she thinks to message him — if there's anything she detests about the modern dating world, it's the teetering game of who should reach out first, as if there's some guidebook to suggest what a text might mean 'x' minutes past when you'd seen them last. as if it was truly such a sacrifice to let another know you were thinking of them.
she hasn't stopped.
the sun burns across the city, painting her apartment in those ethereal golden hues by the time she makes it through the front door, and she's in her kitchen with heels kicked off, chewing the edge of her thumb while tossing back and forth the idea of putting dinner together or ordering in. her phone buzzes in the distance, and she has half a mind to ignore it, save that little spark that ignites in her chest — fittingly so the moment she sees his name written across the screen.
when she answers, an already-blossomed smile warms her tongue. )
You have impeccable timing. I'm having a bout of indecision, and the circumstances are getting more and more dire by the minute. ( a hand to her belly, grumbling at her miscare. )
( thank god she'd just launched right into it, the casual conversation, not leaving an opening for an awkward stuttering start to the call. it's a relief.
then again, what did he expect? conversation with karen had always come so much more easily than he thought. a slow smile grows on his face, and it loosens some of that knot of tension in his stomach as he paces the echoing empty space of his apartment. which she can hear, a little, in the tinny acoustics behind him — there's almost no furniture for his voice to bounce off. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ date night.
which just created another conundrum.
now, bucky's back to not knowing what the hell to do. because the order of operations is all wrong. he'd fooled around commitment-free in the forties, sure, but now the standard etiquette of dating and courting has been thrown right out the window, and he's not exactly sure what part comes next. he should've brought flowers the night before— why the hell hadn't he stopped by a midnight bodega to bring flowers? should he ask her out? is he supposed to text after getting home again? how soon is too soon to text? would he seem needy? also, how do you say thanks for a great evening of mindblowing sex?
also, he hates texting.
there's always too much lost between the lines, too many subtleties stripped down in the text, too much nuance to the smiley faces and emojis that he can't wrap his mind around. he has to keep resisting the automatic urge to include a signoff in every single message, like he's signing a letter. it's stupid. texts are stupid. they're simultaneously too fast and too slow; he hates that interminable wait, the pacing circles around the room waiting to see if someone's paying attention to their phone, if they're around to reply, ever-aware of the irony that he's been leaving
sampeople on read, too. he can be a hypocrite, okay, it's fine.so. fuck it. it's much later that day after their breakfast together, now leaning into evening again, and it's too late to actually take her out anywhere — but the least they can do is figure something out for next time. if there is a next time. (god, he wants there to be a next time.)
so in the end he just picks up the phone, and he calls karen. )
no subject
there'd been a lingering kiss at the door, the familiar scratch of his stubble along her chin leaving it slightly flushed as she'd shut the door, pressed the heart of both palms against it, almost as if she could will him back to her. how devastatingly she'd lost herself in him, how quickly she'd forgotten about the rest of the world that spun madly on around them — the cases, the city, none of it was there when his skin had met hers, electric from the moment he'd crossed over that island. and maybe this is why she doesn't date, because it makes the normal all the darker to return to, makes her question what it is she knows of softness anymore if it's not by another's hand.
karen manages to busy herself, but it's a frustratingly futile effort. he's left a swell of color at her pulse point, every so often reaching up to brush her thumb there before having to sharply avert her thoughts before a rich, tempting throb works its way through her inners. she finds herself checking her watch, scrolling a glaring screen at her desk before eventually it stares just as blankly back. she thinks to message him — if there's anything she detests about the modern dating world, it's the teetering game of who should reach out first, as if there's some guidebook to suggest what a text might mean 'x' minutes past when you'd seen them last. as if it was truly such a sacrifice to let another know you were thinking of them.
she hasn't stopped.
the sun burns across the city, painting her apartment in those ethereal golden hues by the time she makes it through the front door, and she's in her kitchen with heels kicked off, chewing the edge of her thumb while tossing back and forth the idea of putting dinner together or ordering in. her phone buzzes in the distance, and she has half a mind to ignore it, save that little spark that ignites in her chest — fittingly so the moment she sees his name written across the screen.
when she answers, an already-blossomed smile warms her tongue. )
You have impeccable timing. I'm having a bout of indecision, and the circumstances are getting more and more dire by the minute. ( a hand to her belly, grumbling at her miscare. )
no subject
then again, what did he expect? conversation with karen had always come so much more easily than he thought. a slow smile grows on his face, and it loosens some of that knot of tension in his stomach as he paces the echoing empty space of his apartment. which she can hear, a little, in the tinny acoustics behind him — there's almost no furniture for his voice to bounce off. )
Sounds like an emergency. What's up?