Yeah? [He wouldn't know but considering how meticulous she's being, how it's not a five minute job, he's quietly relieved that she's willing to help him.]
I'm not-- HYDRA like that. [He's not connected to HYDRA anymore. Not right now, anyway, and he has no intention to go digging even deeper, even if it might bring him more peace of mind to try and eradicate every single trace he might be able to dig up. They haven't reached out to claim him or anything either.]
I just. Don't think I can stop being HYDRA, just because I walked away. [What Isaiah said - that he can't just decide he's not affiliated with his old handlers, burdened by his previous sins and try to make amends overnight on a whim, just because he said so - weighs heavily on his mind.]
[Natasha hums a note of agreement.] It kind of...seeped in. I could probably get Tony to make a compound to break it down if this happens again. [She'd like to say he probably won't encounter slime like this again. But Rocket is kind of a pain in the ass. If he knows that the slime works to reduce the functionality of Bucky's arm, it's absolutely something he'll make note of.
She takes a quick glance up at his face when he explains what he means. It makes sense. Sometimes she feels like she could run forever and the specter of the Red Room would still be right over her shoulder. Just a step behind, reminding her of all the things she's capable of.] Because even though you didn't have a choice in what you did, you still did it?
[Bucky almost pulls his arm back at the mention of Tony Stark. Eight parts guilty conscience, two parts feeling burdensome, one part distrust. She trusts him, and Steve too despite their differences, and that helps of course, but. Bucky finds it difficult to bridge the gap between them. And he doubts Tony wouldn't feel the same way about him.
He doesn't quite wrestle his arm away but he does bristle, and flinch.]
You won't ever not be a Widow. [Just as he won't ever not be HYDRA. Forged in their fire. Nurtured under their watchful eyes. Regardless of how he feels about what he did, HYDRA is dirty ink in his water. He will never be rid of them. Never be clean again.]
Thanks for your help. [She's done poking and prodding at his arm and at him, right?]
[She can fell the way he shies away a little when he mentions Tony, and she spares only a quick glance up when she does so. She's coming to the last of the slime.] I won't ask if you don't want me to. Or I can ask and not tell him the specifics. [She's flexible. And she knows there's a lot of...history between the two of them. Bruce could probably work on something too, but he's a little harder to pin down than Tony.
One shoulder lifts in a shrug when he points out she won't ever not be a Widow. It's true. And she could have chosen to take on a new moniker when she left the Red Room.] I'll always be a little something more, too. [Her mouth curls in a little smile as she says it. So will he, when he's ready.
Finally, she scrapes free the last of the slime and lets out a triumphant little 'ha!' Tossing the brush down on the paper, she flexes the hand she's been using to hold it.] Any time. You want a drink, or have you had enough of me for the day?
Don't worry about it. [Bucky doesn't want to say something unnecessarily dramatic like Tony doesn't want to have anything to do with him. They're not twelve year olds in the schoolyard. But he doesn't want to put her in a tough spot either. It's easier to just leave it.
He never said she was just a Widow. He thinks she's definitely a little something more. Not so easy to quantify what, exactly, but he does respect her in ways few others can appreciate. Maybe one day he can tell her as much, although. Often he doesn't have to say anything, and he thinks she knows anyway. She makes it easy for him to settle in his bad habits.]
I can stay for a beer. [He's relieved to be able to pull his curled metal hand into his lap, finally able to reclaim his limb and close his posture off back to his usual reserved state. It doesn't matter what he drinks, he won't feel it anyway, so. He might as well not waste any of her good stuff. But hey, he might even stay for two beers if she doesn't ask him too many prying questions.]
[Natasha does have a strong suspicion that he wouldn't even consider accepting her help if he didn't respect her. Being able to voice things is certainly an important step. But those actions have to come first. They're like putting a foot out on the ice first to make sure it's going to hold.] Good. Can you ball the paper up? I'll bring a bag back out to put it in.
[So it doesn't get all over the trash. She gets up off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Only gone for a moment, she returns with two bottles of beer in one hand, a tube of pringles in the crook of her arm, and a plastic bag in her other hand. She hands the bag off to him as she returns to her seat on the couch, passing his beer over once he's done with the bag.] Ever tried Fiery Sweet BBQ pringles? [She pops the lid off the tube and peels the seal back before tilting the canister towards him to offer a sample.]
Yeah. [He's careful wrapping up the papers, from the untouched ends and crushing inwards. He's been more reckless handling C4 and claymore mines than he is with this, which is probably unwarranted. It's just remnants of stubborn goop. But that's probably more indicative that he should be more careful around explosives.
She doesn't have to bribe him with treats for being a good boy, but he's not going to say no to a cold beer and some strange new flavour of Pringles. He doesn't want to shove his hand right up in there so he holds his hand out, signaling wordlessly to her to pour a few chips out into his palm.]
No, haven't tried it. [He inspects the small pile visually and resists the urge to sniff at it before popping one into his mouth. The burst of artificial flavours and salt is actually pretty good going hand in hand with the beer.] Not that fiery. [Not that he's complaining. He's too manly to even talk - he's definitely completely incapable of crying on her couch.]
[Don't worry, Bucky. She's not that unsubtle when she decides someone deserves a treat. It's just that beer is beer, and it always tastes better when you pair it with a salty snack. Maybe also that she figures he's probably been too preoccupied with goop to eat enough that day and this is a decent side door. Dutifully she shakes a few chips out into his hand before she takes a few out herself and pops one into her mouth. She lets out a hum of agreement.] Yeah, it's a nice balance. There's this place nearby I get wings from sometime. They've got about two dozen flavors. A couple of them have the hot/sweet combo like these. I like the Hawaiian BBQ ones best, though.
[She takes a sip of her beer, settling back on her couch cushion as she props the canister up on the seat between them.]
How is Hawaiian BBQ different from normal BBQ? [Does 'Hawaiian' just mean pineapple or...? Pineapple and wings. Hmm. Could be nice if it's mostly just sweet and juicy and not too tart or got that distinct overwhelming pineapple flavour.]
We should go out. For wings or. Pizza. [Apparently this is how Bucky asks people out. So much for needing to ease into it. Apparently with someone he's more familiar with, he doesn't fuck around and maybe doesn't really appreciate the value of being subtle or dragging out this kind of... courtship... game?
Anyway, he's thinking about food now, and more about filling his tummy and not particularly worried about getting pringle crumbs inside his hand, so. There's probably a bit of overlooking the necessary dance here.]
The sauce has a little bit of pineapple juice in it. And I think some ginger. It's a nice flavor. [Sweet but not sugary. Natasha is by no means a BBQ expert, but she likes American food. There's fond memories somewhere in her mind from her mission to Ohio - mac and cheese, hamburgers, potato chips and ice cream cake. Nothing they were ever allowed to eat in the Red Room. Every flavor a treat in its own way. When she finally defected, got settled in at SHIELD with a bank account, she'd enjoyed picking her way around the city's takeout menus.
Here's the good news, Bucky: the suggestion apparently doesn't strike her as strange. In fact, she looks over at him with a half smile. The pringles had been a side door, and he'd walked right on through it. Unfortunately, despite her keen powers of observation, she's not a mind reader. The suggestion is so focused that she doesn't pick up on the other meaning of going out. But her response is easy, agreeable. Pleased for the opportunity to get him to try something new.]
Yeah? We can walk to that wing place now if you're hungry. It's five, maybe ten minutes.
Yeah. No rush. [They should finish their beer first at least even if they might leave the pringles for later. Wings are another kind of food that comes in a variety of flavours, some more polarising than others, and bone in or boneless although he's pretty sure boneless wings aren't actually technically wings. Bucky isn't particularly fussy other than maybe a face he might make at blue cheese sauce.
He thought he would enjoy food more since leaving HYDRA. And it's not that he doesn't, but. He can also settle comfortably into self-neglect and go for days without eating, too. Doing wings together at least will hold him accountable for today, even if keeping a regular cadence to anything needs more work than it initially looks.]
Steve and I put a hundred wings away once. People still came up asking for photos even with buffalo sauce all over his face. [And she can bet Bucky gave him a lot of shit for it too.]
Just let me know when you're ready. [She's not in a hurry. Especially since they're talking about food, she figures it'll be a reminder of what's waiting for them a few blocks away. She can understand the temptation to fall into utilitarianism. In the Red Room, food had been about optimal nutrition. Not so much about flavor and enjoyment. And old habits are very, very hard to break.
She takes a sip of her beer, glancing over at him as she listens. When her bottle lowers, she's grinning.] Captain Buffalo Sauce reporting for duty. [It's good natured teasing - Steve is one of her closest friends.] How'd you manage to keep it off your face?
I tried to use a fork. He gave me shit for it, but. I've been an animal for eighty years. I don't have to be anymore. [Of course, that didn't stop buffalo sauce getting on his lips, but it was a much more controlled mess than trying to deal with excess sauce when there's already excess sauce all over his hands.]
You're not that famous are you? [He loves Steve, don't get him wrong. But being a world famous celebrity, it's stressful going out anywhere with him. There's always a crazy mob and Bucky finds the attention a bit overwhelming. He doesn't envy Steve at all - sometimes he sees that smile crack with the occasional twitch of frustration. But somehow he's never snapped - at least, when they're out together.
Right now he just wants to eat without all that fanfare.]
[Typically she'd say something like the dignity is in the choice. But when it comes to sauce smothered wings...yeah, the dignity kind of is in the fork. More people would probably be better off if they didn't try to go into a plate of wings without utensils.] It's a better solution than wet naps.
[His question earns a quick laugh, and she looks over at him with a smile.] Me? Nah. Maybe a little more before I dumped my service record on the internet, but never on Steve's level. [It's clear she doesn't regret it. The kind of work she does isn't suited for bright lights and parades.] People recognize me more when I'm in my tac gear. It's pretty easy to convince someone I'm just a random redhead otherwise.
We'll see. [He's joking of course. He trusts her. Bucky is fairly inconspicuous himself, despite the infamy. If he's relieved at all that it's going to a quiet kind of night out, he's doing his best not to let it show on his face. To be fair, it's New York - most people don't give a shit. They're either too caught up in their own world or too in a rush to get somewhere else that they'd only notice if someone was getting in their way.
He sits with the patience of a pup blissfully unaware that they're going to go out for a walk soon, aware that putting on makeup and getting dressed could take an hour or more. There's a chewtoy of a beer to keep his mouth busy. Someone's trained him well.]
Guess so. [Her mouth curls in a smile as she answers. She's content to lounge on the couch in relative silence, idly sipping her beer. Her posture is relaxed. Honestly, it's pretty far from the worst way she's ever passed the time.
However, at a certain point, it becomes obvious that he's...waiting. Patiently, to be fair. But she's not entirely sure what. So she shifts on the couch, one leg folded under the other on the cushion so she's facing him. There's a hint of warm humor in her voice, her expression curious and open.] It feels like you're waiting for something. What is it?
[Bucky manages a small smile and just shakes his head.] Nothing. [He's not trying to be dismissive or shut down an avenue of conversation. He just... maybe doesn't know how to exist in a world where he's not waiting. Maybe it's a military thing, just. Getting ready and waiting. Maybe a part of him will always be waiting - to be told he needs to be somewhere else doing something else, potentially be someone else. Or waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's had a strangely good run so far, so. Something must be terribly wrong.
Not to mention, he's been told time is supposed to heal all wounds, and one day this will all make sense, so. He's waiting for those things to come true too.]
[Natasha hums thoughtful. She can tell he means it. Maybe then it's more along the lines of not knowing what to do with himself. Which isn't even specifically a former Russian state agent thing so much as a human condition thing. She's seen plenty of people fidget and tap or glue themselves to their phones. Maybe it's the comparative stillness that's throwing her.]
Well, just let me know when you're ready to head out. I just have to put on shoes and grab a jacket. Or I can put something on the TV. Fair warning, it will be a James Bond movie.
You mean the spy documentary. [Because James Bond is real life and Natasha Romanoff clearly isn't, right? Where's all her gadgets and snarky men in their cushy offices backing her up and everything?]
I'm ready. [He'll just knock back the rest of his beer and go wash his hands before they head out.]
Oh, you've got jokes now? [There's something playfully teasing in her tone and she can't help but chuckle a little.] You won't be laughing when you realize I can quote the movies word for word. [What? They're like comedies for spies. They remind her that no matter how ridiculous her own life gets that she's never met someone named Octopussy.
She nods when he says he's ready and takes a final sip of her own beer.] Sounds good. [Getting up from the couch, she crosses the room to slide her feet into a pair of boots, bending down so she can lace them up.]
Yeah. If you break me in half I might give you a one-liner fortune too. [Please don't break him in half. He's a little doubtful that she's seen these movies enough times to know the script but he also doubts that she's lying, so he won't challenge her on it. Maybe the script really is so bad it's memorable.
He follows behind her and lingers by the door, letting his gaze wander around the entranceway. He doesn't touch anything because it's probably booby-trapped, but he seems to be admiring her shoes even if she might not have fifty pairs on display. There's more than three different types. It's clearly a bit of a novelty to him.]
Do I have to break you in half? That seems like a dangerous way to get a fortune, unless you turned into a cookie without me noticing.
[Which might not even be the weirdest thing that's happened in the last month. She really needs to carve out some time for recreational hobbies. Any recreational hobbies.
She casts a glance over at him as she straightens up, and smiles as she pulls her coat on. It's clear he's admiring the area the shoes are in, and she assumes its the shoe rack. There's more shoes up in her bedroom closet, but the ones she wears most often are down here. Along with her slippers.] I got the rack online. I can send you a link if you want a similar one.
Mm-mm. Don't need one. I have boots and sneakers. [She's got. A lot more than boots and sneakers. While he's still living like he'll put on his boots and shove his sneakers into each water bottle holder on either side of his go bag, ready to make a run for it when they come for him. Or when his past catches up to him. Either way, he hasn't really settled down the way she has. He's an ever transient wolf trying to stay ahead of trouble, not realising it's a wet leaf stuck to his hind paw that will always follow him no matter how paranoid or how mobile he tries to be.
If he needs a rack for anything maybe it's to display his knife collection. But they haven't sewn a red flag as big as Bucky Barnes since the one they lowered from the Kremlin in 1991. He really doesn't need to put all his knifes on display and make it worse.]
Online shopping. [Bucky scoffs.] I'm a hundred and six years old. Don't tell me what's 'online'.
[Natasha laughs. Sh grabs her keys from their spot, and then presses the button to set her alarm before leading the way out the front door and down the steps that lead up to it. When she reaches the sidewalk, she turns to look at him, hands tucking into her pockets so she can stash the keys away.]
Next thing I know you'll be telling me to get off your lawn. [Her head tips to the left, indicating the direction they'll get started in. Not something she typically does - and she half suspects he's already mapped out her neighborhood - but he's wary enough in his skin to warrant her broadcasting her moves more than she usually would.]
You might like online shopping. Anything you could want brought to your door. Even groceries.
Fancy people have lawns. I might have a doormat if you're lucky. [Although, she's probably welcome to stay on his doormat as long as she wants.
If he's scouted out her perimeter already - no, that's not a euphemism for anything - it doesn't show. He follows her directions and seems to be watching the people they pass by with an unhealthy amount of wariness before he looks back at her again.]
My therapist says I should get out more. [He has acquired lifelong bad habits that are near impossible to break, but at least she's trying, and he's begrudgingly taking life advice from a stranger who thinks she knows better.] Do you even trust people bringing you things?
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I'm not-- HYDRA like that. [He's not connected to HYDRA anymore. Not right now, anyway, and he has no intention to go digging even deeper, even if it might bring him more peace of mind to try and eradicate every single trace he might be able to dig up. They haven't reached out to claim him or anything either.]
I just. Don't think I can stop being HYDRA, just because I walked away. [What Isaiah said - that he can't just decide he's not affiliated with his old handlers, burdened by his previous sins and try to make amends overnight on a whim, just because he said so - weighs heavily on his mind.]
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She takes a quick glance up at his face when he explains what he means. It makes sense. Sometimes she feels like she could run forever and the specter of the Red Room would still be right over her shoulder. Just a step behind, reminding her of all the things she's capable of.] Because even though you didn't have a choice in what you did, you still did it?
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He doesn't quite wrestle his arm away but he does bristle, and flinch.]
You won't ever not be a Widow. [Just as he won't ever not be HYDRA. Forged in their fire. Nurtured under their watchful eyes. Regardless of how he feels about what he did, HYDRA is dirty ink in his water. He will never be rid of them. Never be clean again.]
Thanks for your help. [She's done poking and prodding at his arm and at him, right?]
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One shoulder lifts in a shrug when he points out she won't ever not be a Widow. It's true. And she could have chosen to take on a new moniker when she left the Red Room.] I'll always be a little something more, too. [Her mouth curls in a little smile as she says it. So will he, when he's ready.
Finally, she scrapes free the last of the slime and lets out a triumphant little 'ha!' Tossing the brush down on the paper, she flexes the hand she's been using to hold it.] Any time. You want a drink, or have you had enough of me for the day?
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He never said she was just a Widow. He thinks she's definitely a little something more. Not so easy to quantify what, exactly, but he does respect her in ways few others can appreciate. Maybe one day he can tell her as much, although. Often he doesn't have to say anything, and he thinks she knows anyway. She makes it easy for him to settle in his bad habits.]
I can stay for a beer. [He's relieved to be able to pull his curled metal hand into his lap, finally able to reclaim his limb and close his posture off back to his usual reserved state. It doesn't matter what he drinks, he won't feel it anyway, so. He might as well not waste any of her good stuff. But hey, he might even stay for two beers if she doesn't ask him too many prying questions.]
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[So it doesn't get all over the trash. She gets up off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Only gone for a moment, she returns with two bottles of beer in one hand, a tube of pringles in the crook of her arm, and a plastic bag in her other hand. She hands the bag off to him as she returns to her seat on the couch, passing his beer over once he's done with the bag.] Ever tried Fiery Sweet BBQ pringles? [She pops the lid off the tube and peels the seal back before tilting the canister towards him to offer a sample.]
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She doesn't have to bribe him with treats for being a good boy, but he's not going to say no to a cold beer and some strange new flavour of Pringles. He doesn't want to shove his hand right up in there so he holds his hand out, signaling wordlessly to her to pour a few chips out into his palm.]
No, haven't tried it. [He inspects the small pile visually and resists the urge to sniff at it before popping one into his mouth. The burst of artificial flavours and salt is actually pretty good going hand in hand with the beer.] Not that fiery. [Not that he's complaining. He's too manly to even talk - he's definitely completely incapable of crying on her couch.]
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[She takes a sip of her beer, settling back on her couch cushion as she props the canister up on the seat between them.]
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We should go out. For wings or. Pizza. [Apparently this is how Bucky asks people out. So much for needing to ease into it. Apparently with someone he's more familiar with, he doesn't fuck around and maybe doesn't really appreciate the value of being subtle or dragging out this kind of... courtship... game?
Anyway, he's thinking about food now, and more about filling his tummy and not particularly worried about getting pringle crumbs inside his hand, so. There's probably a bit of overlooking the necessary dance here.]
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Here's the good news, Bucky: the suggestion apparently doesn't strike her as strange. In fact, she looks over at him with a half smile. The pringles had been a side door, and he'd walked right on through it. Unfortunately, despite her keen powers of observation, she's not a mind reader. The suggestion is so focused that she doesn't pick up on the other meaning of going out. But her response is easy, agreeable. Pleased for the opportunity to get him to try something new.]
Yeah? We can walk to that wing place now if you're hungry. It's five, maybe ten minutes.
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He thought he would enjoy food more since leaving HYDRA. And it's not that he doesn't, but. He can also settle comfortably into self-neglect and go for days without eating, too. Doing wings together at least will hold him accountable for today, even if keeping a regular cadence to anything needs more work than it initially looks.]
Steve and I put a hundred wings away once. People still came up asking for photos even with buffalo sauce all over his face. [And she can bet Bucky gave him a lot of shit for it too.]
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She takes a sip of her beer, glancing over at him as she listens. When her bottle lowers, she's grinning.] Captain Buffalo Sauce reporting for duty. [It's good natured teasing - Steve is one of her closest friends.] How'd you manage to keep it off your face?
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You're not that famous are you? [He loves Steve, don't get him wrong. But being a world famous celebrity, it's stressful going out anywhere with him. There's always a crazy mob and Bucky finds the attention a bit overwhelming. He doesn't envy Steve at all - sometimes he sees that smile crack with the occasional twitch of frustration. But somehow he's never snapped - at least, when they're out together.
Right now he just wants to eat without all that fanfare.]
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[His question earns a quick laugh, and she looks over at him with a smile.] Me? Nah. Maybe a little more before I dumped my service record on the internet, but never on Steve's level. [It's clear she doesn't regret it. The kind of work she does isn't suited for bright lights and parades.] People recognize me more when I'm in my tac gear. It's pretty easy to convince someone I'm just a random redhead otherwise.
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He sits with the patience of a pup blissfully unaware that they're going to go out for a walk soon, aware that putting on makeup and getting dressed could take an hour or more. There's a chewtoy of a beer to keep his mouth busy. Someone's trained him well.]
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However, at a certain point, it becomes obvious that he's...waiting. Patiently, to be fair. But she's not entirely sure what. So she shifts on the couch, one leg folded under the other on the cushion so she's facing him. There's a hint of warm humor in her voice, her expression curious and open.] It feels like you're waiting for something. What is it?
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Not to mention, he's been told time is supposed to heal all wounds, and one day this will all make sense, so. He's waiting for those things to come true too.]
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Well, just let me know when you're ready to head out. I just have to put on shoes and grab a jacket. Or I can put something on the TV. Fair warning, it will be a James Bond movie.
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I'm ready. [He'll just knock back the rest of his beer and go wash his hands before they head out.]
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She nods when he says he's ready and takes a final sip of her own beer.] Sounds good. [Getting up from the couch, she crosses the room to slide her feet into a pair of boots, bending down so she can lace them up.]
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He follows behind her and lingers by the door, letting his gaze wander around the entranceway. He doesn't touch anything because it's probably booby-trapped, but he seems to be admiring her shoes even if she might not have fifty pairs on display. There's more than three different types. It's clearly a bit of a novelty to him.]
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[Which might not even be the weirdest thing that's happened in the last month. She really needs to carve out some time for recreational hobbies. Any recreational hobbies.
She casts a glance over at him as she straightens up, and smiles as she pulls her coat on. It's clear he's admiring the area the shoes are in, and she assumes its the shoe rack. There's more shoes up in her bedroom closet, but the ones she wears most often are down here. Along with her slippers.] I got the rack online. I can send you a link if you want a similar one.
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If he needs a rack for anything maybe it's to display his knife collection. But they haven't sewn a red flag as big as Bucky Barnes since the one they lowered from the Kremlin in 1991. He really doesn't need to put all his knifes on display and make it worse.]
Online shopping. [Bucky scoffs.] I'm a hundred and six years old. Don't tell me what's 'online'.
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Next thing I know you'll be telling me to get off your lawn. [Her head tips to the left, indicating the direction they'll get started in. Not something she typically does - and she half suspects he's already mapped out her neighborhood - but he's wary enough in his skin to warrant her broadcasting her moves more than she usually would.]
You might like online shopping. Anything you could want brought to your door. Even groceries.
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If he's scouted out her perimeter already - no, that's not a euphemism for anything - it doesn't show. He follows her directions and seems to be watching the people they pass by with an unhealthy amount of wariness before he looks back at her again.]
My therapist says I should get out more. [He has acquired lifelong bad habits that are near impossible to break, but at least she's trying, and he's begrudgingly taking life advice from a stranger who thinks she knows better.] Do you even trust people bringing you things?
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