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.
[He swallows and shakes his head.] Rather not have a phone
at all. [Than have to deal with even more phones, especially. He
barely even uses his current one. If it wasn't absolutely necessary to stay
contactable - nevermind the fact that it's often one way contact with him -
he might not even bother.
Besides, it's far more important that she stocks up on those phones.
He imagines she deals with far more emergencies on a more regular basis.
He's quite content not getting too involved in everything and - for the
most part - being left alone to enjoy the quiet solitude. Or as quiet as
living in Brooklyn can be, anyway.]
This it? [They cross the last traffic light and come up to a
promising-looking place. There's a lot of mixed smells wafting past them
but nothing too off-putting at least.] You know a lot of these hole
in the wall places.
I get it. [The answer is easy, clearly not surprised or bothered by his lack of interest in the burner phones. He's still got a lot of catching up to do, and a lot of work in trying to feel comfortable with the way his life is now. Besides, there's something to be said for inviting trouble, and she can see how accepting burner phones would be somewhat akin to leaving the door wide open for that trouble.] Let me know about the flash drive. No expiration date.
[There's no rush. She takes a quick glance for passing traffic and then crosses the street. With a smile, she looks over to him and opens the door of the wing place so they can walk in. It's a small restaurant, not too busy at the counter this time of day, but the staff are still busily preparing pre-orders.] I like shopping local. It's a way to support the community I live in now.
Never used to know what that meant. [Shopping local was the only option back in the day. Before the big companies came in and either bought everyone out or pushed them out. Now it seems like there's an overwhelming amount of options, and yet everything is more or less the same. There might be more variations in cuisines, flavours, people and all that, but. Things somehow felt less... homogenous, before. A little more random. A good kind of not knowing what you're going to get. Now he kind of knows what's going to be on the menu in a place like this and roughly what it all is going to taste like before he even sets foot inside. Or maybe that's just grumpy old him talking, having tried a lot of different things throughout the years.]
Not many places left that were here since before the war. [If the alien invasion didn't take them out, the blip did. Somehow it feels simultaneously like the place he's always known, and completely foreign at the same time.
He follows her to an unoccupied corner and sits down quietly, checking over his shoulder to see what he's turning his back to before making himself comfortable.]
This is the most normal abnormal thing we've done. [Does it feel uncomfortable?]
It didn't used to have any meaning. [Well, there's always been at least the inherent sense of capitalism. Creeping in around the edges, nudging the world towards innovation. Bigger, better, quicker access. It's nice to find the little pockets like this.
She hums thoughtfully and takes a look around the restaurant. Though she doesn't know the full history of this place, she'd confident in saying that it sprung up after the alien invasion but before the blip. There's no commemorative newspaper articles framed on the walls from the invasion.] Have you been to any of the bars or restaurants that have been open since the 1800s? It's weird to be inside when it's quiet and see how busy it is out on the street. [Like a window through time.
She pulls two of the paper menus out from the holder on the table and hands him one, her eyes skimming the other. She glances up at him with a half smile at his question.] What's the most abnormal normal, then?
Been to a couple of pizza places Steve and I used to go to. [Bucky pulls the menu closer so that he can lift it up and basically hide behind it. She can either make eye contact with him or she can listen to him talk. Wanting both is going to need a lot more work.] Just not the same, going alone.
[Flipping the menu over, he feigns some interest in the various offerings although he's not really reading through everything. He has to think about their abnormal normal deeds, but the only one that really stands out is one that still stings a bit. He doesn't really want to talk about it but he's banking on both her wanting him to talk but also her not wanting to talk about it either. Hopefully they can change the subject after this. Or just stuff their faces with chicken so they don't have to talk.]
[It's clear she's not deterred by this - that she might have even offered him the menu specifically so he can hide behind it.] Well, I happen to like pizza. [It's more of a statement than an offer. A 'take it if you want, I won't be offended if you don't' bridge. Her eyes return to her own menu, a thoughtful expression on her face as she skims the options. She's not all that hungry but she suspects eating her way through a few wings is the best way to get him to eat too.
His answer causes her to glance up at him over the menus, a quick, sharp assessment of posture and tone, before her eyes are back on the list of sauces. It's not something she particularly likes to talk about, no. And not just because she hates to lose. Prefers to help people.
It really stings to feel like the cause of so much suffering on such a massive scale.]
[He tilts his head visibly although he doesn't quite lift his gaze. She doesn't have to invite herself along twice.] I'll take you then.
[It's a complicated world out there these days. Used to be the only aliens they really needed to worry about were the likes of the Red Skull. Most of their problems could be solved by a .45. And the problems that couldn't be solved by a .45 could be solved by taking the best bottle of whiskey down from the top shelf, walking on over and talking things through.
These days. Who even knows what the fuck is going on anymore?]
Just let me know when. I've been known to re-arrange my schedule for good pizza.
[Not really. But she's not exactly opposed to it either. Life has always been complicated, and that just seems to compound with every passing year. She figures as long as she can keep moving forward that she's at least in decent shape. One foot in front of the other. Which was another part of why all that loss had been so hard.]
Course not.
[The answer is delivered with easy conviction. Anyone else would have believed it - she's a natural born liar that was trained from her earliest memories. There's a good chance it won't fool him, but she's banking on him not calling her on it the same way he had when he broached the subject.]
Buffalo. With ranch. [He says it with the speed and conviction of somebody who's ordered the same thing over and over again since before she was born. He's not entirely unadventurous, but unless nudged or having it done for him, he isn't likely to take the plunge and try something different.
Although, apparently there are blue cheese people and there are ranch people. While he doesn't necessarily feel strongly one way or another, ranch seems like the safer, tamer option.]
...I'll try anything that doesn't have pineapple in it. [And that extends to pizza too, so. No pineapples with his pepperoni.]
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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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[He swallows and shakes his head.] Rather not have a phone at all. [Than have to deal with even more phones, especially. He barely even uses his current one. If it wasn't absolutely necessary to stay contactable - nevermind the fact that it's often one way contact with him - he might not even bother.
Besides, it's far more important that she stocks up on those phones. He imagines she deals with far more emergencies on a more regular basis. He's quite content not getting too involved in everything and - for the most part - being left alone to enjoy the quiet solitude. Or as quiet as living in Brooklyn can be, anyway.]
This it? [They cross the last traffic light and come up to a promising-looking place. There's a lot of mixed smells wafting past them but nothing too off-putting at least.] You know a lot of these hole in the wall places.
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[There's no rush. She takes a quick glance for passing traffic and then crosses the street. With a smile, she looks over to him and opens the door of the wing place so they can walk in. It's a small restaurant, not too busy at the counter this time of day, but the staff are still busily preparing pre-orders.] I like shopping local. It's a way to support the community I live in now.
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Not many places left that were here since before the war. [If the alien invasion didn't take them out, the blip did. Somehow it feels simultaneously like the place he's always known, and completely foreign at the same time.
He follows her to an unoccupied corner and sits down quietly, checking over his shoulder to see what he's turning his back to before making himself comfortable.]
This is the most normal abnormal thing we've done. [Does it feel uncomfortable?]
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She hums thoughtfully and takes a look around the restaurant. Though she doesn't know the full history of this place, she'd confident in saying that it sprung up after the alien invasion but before the blip. There's no commemorative newspaper articles framed on the walls from the invasion.] Have you been to any of the bars or restaurants that have been open since the 1800s? It's weird to be inside when it's quiet and see how busy it is out on the street. [Like a window through time.
She pulls two of the paper menus out from the holder on the table and hands him one, her eyes skimming the other. She glances up at him with a half smile at his question.] What's the most abnormal normal, then?
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[Flipping the menu over, he feigns some interest in the various offerings although he's not really reading through everything. He has to think about their abnormal normal deeds, but the only one that really stands out is one that still stings a bit. He doesn't really want to talk about it but he's banking on both her wanting him to talk but also her not wanting to talk about it either. Hopefully they can change the subject after this. Or just stuff their faces with chicken so they don't have to talk.]
Shooting aliens and letting everyone down anyway.
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His answer causes her to glance up at him over the menus, a quick, sharp assessment of posture and tone, before her eyes are back on the list of sauces. It's not something she particularly likes to talk about, no. And not just because she hates to lose. Prefers to help people.
It really stings to feel like the cause of so much suffering on such a massive scale.]
Not really one of the finer moments for teamwork.
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[It's a complicated world out there these days. Used to be the only aliens they really needed to worry about were the likes of the Red Skull. Most of their problems could be solved by a .45. And the problems that couldn't be solved by a .45 could be solved by taking the best bottle of whiskey down from the top shelf, walking on over and talking things through.
These days. Who even knows what the fuck is going on anymore?]
Yeah. It was a shitshow. But it wasn't on anyone.
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[Not really. But she's not exactly opposed to it either. Life has always been complicated, and that just seems to compound with every passing year. She figures as long as she can keep moving forward that she's at least in decent shape. One foot in front of the other. Which was another part of why all that loss had been so hard.]
Course not.
[The answer is delivered with easy conviction. Anyone else would have believed it - she's a natural born liar that was trained from her earliest memories. There's a good chance it won't fool him, but she's banking on him not calling her on it the same way he had when he broached the subject.]
So, what are you thinking on flavors?
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Although, apparently there are blue cheese people and there are ranch people. While he doesn't necessarily feel strongly one way or another, ranch seems like the safer, tamer option.]
...I'll try anything that doesn't have pineapple in it. [And that extends to pizza too, so. No pineapples with his pepperoni.]
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