[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?
They do make doormats that say 'go away.' [Something in her tone seems to say 'but you know that won't work on me. She turns so they can start to make their way down the sidewalk. If she makes note of his wary attention to the others they pass, she doesn't remark on it. That's not a glass house she can throw stones in since she makes a quick visual assessment of her own. Looking over her shoulder has been second nature for years now.]
I don't disagree with your therapist. But I think there's something to be said for meeting someone half way. [Like trying out online shopping in addition to getting outside of the comfort zone. She shrugs in agreement at his question.] I check the things I have delivered. And it's not like I'm ordering anything delivered to Black Widow.
That only works on people who don't come in through the window. Or
skylight. [Or hidden trap doors that Bucky doesn't know about. To be
fair, so far, most people seem to either know or at least believe that
unexpected appearances might set him off in some uncomfortable way, so they
do either call ahead or plan to meet somewhere else or come through the
front door. ]
You have to use your real name though, don't you? [Assuming Nat is
her real name, which. He thinks so, and all the records that were dumped
online probably confirm that, but you can never really be sure.]
Maybe I'll. Try my next cleaning supplies run online. [That seems
like a safer and easier thing to find inside the amazon than going straight
to having someone else rub his oranges and squeeze his velveeta. (Are they
still talking about groceries?)]
Yeah, they make weapons for the people that come in through windows. [Is that humor too dark? Eh, maybe. It's still comparatively G rated when held up to some of the shit they've both been through. A smirk lingers on her lips as she comes to a stop at the end of the block long enough to check for traffic. And then she just jaywalks right across the street to the other side.
She hums her agreement to his question.] If someone's going to come after me, they're not going to want to do it through the mail. [Practically impossible to confirm the damage that way. No, anyone out there that still has a vendetta against her is going to want to see the look in her eyes when they come for her.
Look, for all her talk about getting back on the road to normal, normal is still a malleable concept when the start of the path is 'exhaustively trained Russian state agents.' With her brow arched, her head tips so she can flash him a little grin.] Is your internet connection secure?
Or cat doors. [Would cat doors in windows actually help? He's not
sure. They're probably a little bit more practical for those that would
prefer to exit via the window without accidentally defenestrating
themselves, than those trying to come in through the window. But maybe
they'll just have to put one to the test to see.]
I don't know? I don't think so. [He's no networking or cybersecurity
expert. Easy to snoop around, glance over the shoulder, watch the
neighbours just that little bit too closely. Not so easy to figure out
anything beyond the black box with the flashing lights or the touchscreen
he struggles to use with his vibranium hand.]
I mean. Nothing's really secure. [He'll barely get targeted or
scammed if he barely uses his phone, right?] Do you trust
the internet?
In a window? [Her expression is thoughtful as she tries to picture it. It mostly seems like a good way to accidentally on purpose adopt a stray cat.] The big challenge would be to install it without creating weak points in the glass. If you wanted it as a quick exit point, it might work to do a window that tilts out but can't be opened from the outside.
[She lapses into silence to listen to him as they walk. The restaurant is just two blocks up ahead on the other side of the street. She flashes him a quick smile at his question.] No one should trust the internet. It's a necessary evil. If you want, I can give you a flash drive before you leave with some security protocols on it. I have a couple of spare untraceable burner phones too if that would be helpful.
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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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I don't disagree with your therapist. But I think there's something to be said for meeting someone half way. [Like trying out online shopping in addition to getting outside of the comfort zone. She shrugs in agreement at his question.] I check the things I have delivered. And it's not like I'm ordering anything delivered to Black Widow.
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That only works on people who don't come in through the window. Or skylight. [Or hidden trap doors that Bucky doesn't know about. To be fair, so far, most people seem to either know or at least believe that unexpected appearances might set him off in some uncomfortable way, so they do either call ahead or plan to meet somewhere else or come through the front door. ]
You have to use your real name though, don't you? [Assuming Nat is her real name, which. He thinks so, and all the records that were dumped online probably confirm that, but you can never really be sure.]
Maybe I'll. Try my next cleaning supplies run online. [That seems like a safer and easier thing to find inside the amazon than going straight to having someone else rub his oranges and squeeze his velveeta. (Are they still talking about groceries?)]
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She hums her agreement to his question.] If someone's going to come after me, they're not going to want to do it through the mail. [Practically impossible to confirm the damage that way. No, anyone out there that still has a vendetta against her is going to want to see the look in her eyes when they come for her.
Look, for all her talk about getting back on the road to normal, normal is still a malleable concept when the start of the path is 'exhaustively trained Russian state agents.' With her brow arched, her head tips so she can flash him a little grin.] Is your internet connection secure?
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Or cat doors. [Would cat doors in windows actually help? He's not sure. They're probably a little bit more practical for those that would prefer to exit via the window without accidentally defenestrating themselves, than those trying to come in through the window. But maybe they'll just have to put one to the test to see.]
I don't know? I don't think so. [He's no networking or cybersecurity expert. Easy to snoop around, glance over the shoulder, watch the neighbours just that little bit too closely. Not so easy to figure out anything beyond the black box with the flashing lights or the touchscreen he struggles to use with his vibranium hand.]
I mean. Nothing's really secure. [He'll barely get targeted or scammed if he barely uses his phone, right?] Do you trust the internet?
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[She lapses into silence to listen to him as they walk. The restaurant is just two blocks up ahead on the other side of the street. She flashes him a quick smile at his question.] No one should trust the internet. It's a necessary evil. If you want, I can give you a flash drive before you leave with some security protocols on it. I have a couple of spare untraceable burner phones too if that would be helpful.
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