armeyets | for secretare.

( so that first bloodied night getting patched up in karen page's apartment had been... an interesting way to meet someone.

they've stayed in touch in the couple months since. at first it was her wanting to interview him, the notorious winter soldier, and get his take on the legendary events that brought back half a world, and yet left the avengers disassembled and gutted and defunct. he'd shied away from it. he doesn't do interviews. but then he'd looked her up and found her work on the punisher, years ago. and some pieces had tumbled into place and he'd realised this knack that karen has, of prying beneath the outer walls of armour of a person; of seeing through to the man underneath; of painting a more sympathetic picture. one that isn't just a murderer.

he was still skittish about it, but in the end, he'd accepted, and talked — in halting sequence, omitting much, asking for other redactions — about steve rogers. about the avengers. he'd simply refused to discuss wakanda at all; the country valued its privacy too much. he'd opened up a lot about brooklyn in the 1940s, about the howling commandos, about captain america's earliest days. and then somewhere along the way, the recorder had been turned off and then it had simply become coffee between two people who knew each other, and liked talking to each other. coffee had turned into drinks, the conversation just drawing out longer and longer, until it had finally ended.

their dynamic isn't entirely professional — how can it be, when they met with her hands slick with his blood? — but it's straddling a strange and undefinable boundary, too. he's not sure if they're friends yet. bucky doesn't really have friends these days, but his therapist had teased him about another contact showing up on his phone, and he's eyed karen's name in his phonebook too many times — but he can't easily get drunk enough to work up some liquid courage to call her again. so he doesn't. thinks about it, but doesn't do it.

so it's a late night and he's absentmindedly browsing tinder (sam made a profile for him without him realising, and then bucky had simply admitted defeat and decided to roll with it). he always noses around, sees what's out there, then eventually panics and force-quits the app and has to go for a walk. he's not ready. he's not sure he'll ever be ready. even when he matches with someone, the conversation tends to peter out, the more he has to lie and lie and lie about who he is or what he does. walking circles around that giant elephant in the room.

but then, one night, he sees a familiar face. and he stops, surprised. and laughs, swipes right, and messages her: )

fancy seeing you here

( 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. )

you ever had a pet?

( a gentle patter of rain has picked up against the city streets, almost as if coercing them sweetly to duck back indoors, to huddle beneath doorsteps or hurry their limbs to one or the other's apartment for when and if the sky decided to open it's mouth wider. it's nothing she shies against, despite the opaque taupe of her shirt, enjoying the ever so often pricks of cool droplets that tease her temple, adding a welcome, slight chill to the summer air that sticks to the back of her neck. she'd managed to drag him to a homey sort of theater — one that offered drinks throughout the film, worn and staticky at times.

it's an adaptation of a book she's read countless times over, and despite how enamored she remained throughout it's life, she's walked away a bit disappointed. books were never quite the same when they weren't just words. she figures a lot of things are that way.

she thinks to hook her hand at the crook of his arm beside her, yet despite the fact that they've grown familiar with one another's flesh, there's a hesitance there. something that can't be taken back once it's breached, that casual touch, the thoughtlessness of it — normal. instead she takes to holding her own ribs as they walk, none in a hurry and lazing side to side with their steps, almost as if neither of them are willing just yet to end the night. and so they walk, aimlessly at best; he'd mentioned the theater was closer to his place. the note of just that hums in the back of her mind, a careful reminder. prodding.

she sifts through her mind for an excuse to keep him just a bit longer. they were, in fact, walking the streets of a city that hardly slept. she thinks to suggest thai... takeout, perhaps? she'll chew on it a bit longer. )

It was just too... I don't know, gaudy. Like it was trying too hard to make you feel something rather than just letting you decide how to feel. You know? With a book, you can take it apart however you want to. You can't be wrong.

( bars chatter noisily as they make their way past various entrances, content to stay on the outskirts, a world for just them. a grin bears across her lips, feeling almost silly for how long she's dragged this out, but a sigh leaves her as if it's refused to let go of her. )

Maybe I'm being too much of a critic.

for secretare.

→ tinder.

→ date night.

→ midnight texts.

→ if you show me yours.