brushpass | threads

She can tell he's trying to make light of it. But it still comes out - just a little flat. Like maybe he's trying to make himself think it's funnier than it is.

"Have you had a chance to try Asgardian mead?" she asks as she pulls the door to the bar open so they can step inside.

It is, as she promised, an absolute dive. There's a fair number of people inside, but thankfully not too crowded.

Seems like the kind of place a person can disappear in. That makes it kind of comforting.

His fingers twitch to take the door from her, but he reminds himself that it's literally a new century. They can take turns with this.

"Haven't had the pleasure," he says, holding the door open once he's inside. Split the difference? "I haven't actually had much of a chance to hang out with Asgardians socially."

Or maybe he just hasn't hung out socially much.

"Maybe I should have asked on New Year's Eve?"

"They tend to be...boisterous when they drink." It's the nicest way she can think of to caution him. She likes Thor, she's enjoyed meeting Valkyrie, Loki is Loki. "I'll reach out and see if someone can send a bottle your way."

She's pretty sure the challenging part will be getting them to limit it to one bottle.

Slipping her coat off as she approaches the bar, she turns her head to look over at him with a smirk. "There's no secret top shelf whiskey here."

"I'd be more disappointed if there were." He follows her, trying not to loom. Or lurk. Or stalk. Or any of the other expressive verbs Sam likes to use for him when he's making people around him uncomfortable.

Luckily, no one here seems to be paying too much attention.

"Maybe that means it'll be a reasonable price." Then he adds, wincing. "Not that I'm cheap when I take a girl out."

Well, there is one person paying attention, but thankfully she just looks sort of fondly amused. Both when it becomes apparent that he's not entirely sure where to stand, and when he winces about seeming cheap.

"I'd allow it if you were. Generational differences and all," she points out, sparing him a quick look and a smile before she turns her head to flag down the bartender. "You can put your arm around me if you want. Or your hand on my back."

Her permission does get a smile out of him. It's somewhat rueful, but the warmth still reaches his eyes, crinkling their corners slightly.

Before he can think about it too about it too much, he moves his right hand to her back. It's a light touch, but reassuring and he likes the way his hand fits in the curve.

"You're sure this doesn't come off as possessive?"

"Do you care if it does?"

It's probably not fair to bat the question back at him that way. But she's curious enough to hear the answer that she does it anyway. If he'd done it without her prompting, she probably would have teased him about it a bit, lightly. Just another way of carefully prodding where those boundaries lay between them.

That's a hard question to answer. He wouldn't say he cares about it himself, exactly, but he does care that Natasha might care.

He smiles a little, awkward.

"I guess don't want to make it sound like you can't break wrists for yourself if someone gets too handsy."

She can't help but smile a little herself in response. It's weirdly charming, the way he clearly wants to make sure he's not compromising her agency.

She leans in toward him a bit, like they're conspiring together. Her voice is pitched low when she answers. "Well, since we already established that I'll break the wrist of someone that's being too handsy, I think you've got ample evidence that your hand is welcome."

That startles a laugh out of him, nearly soundless but enough to break some of the tension he's been carrying. Considering he has no less than a verbal invitation, Bucky leans closer, his hand settling lightly on the small of her back.

"Point taken," he says, a little self-deprecating but less nervy. "You haven't exactly been shy about letting me know what you want so far."

Natasha enjoys flirting, but in the same way that she enjoys most games. It's a fun way to feel out the other person, to get a sense of what they like and don't like. With Bucky, she's pretty sure that making her own parameters clear are just going to help him feel more comfortable in flirting himself.

"I could pretend to be shy," she suggests, though the smirk that lingers on her lips as she looks over at him makes it very clear that she doesn't mean it.

"Oh, then I'd know something was up." His smile matches hers, more confident as he relaxes. The fact they haven't been recognized yet helps put him at ease.

"You're a lot of things, but shy isn't one of them."

She can tell that he's starting to relax, which of course is the whole point of disappearing into a shitty little bar like this one. It's always nice to see when he just lets himself be in the moment.

"Oh yeah?" she answers with a quiet chuckle, holding her gaze on him as the smirk gives way to a smile. "What other things am I, then?" There's a playful ease to it that makes it clear that this is just a continuation of their banter. She's confident enough to know exactly what kind of things she is. Both good and bad.

"Determined?" he suggests, and there's humor in it but also respect. It's not every woman who'd throw herself straight at a super soldier. Even fewer who'd survive the encounter. "You strike me as someone who gets her way more often than not."

He flashes a smile. "Maybe a little too stubborn for her own good."

Maybe a little too forgiving for her own good, too, though he keeps that to himself.

The bartender drops off the whiskey she'd flagged him down for earlier, and she gives him a quick up nod of thanks. Glass in hand, she turns her attention back to Bucky. Her expression is pure mischief when he lands on his description, though she feigns a look of innocence when she says, "who, me?"

It's absolutely true, and so is the unspoken part about her being too forgiving of others. She's tough on herself. And she would still argue that she feels no qualms about absolving him of the guilt for shooting her.

She lifts her glass in his direction in a quick toast before taking a sip. It's perfectly mediocre. "I could point out that you shouldn't be throwing any stones in the stubborn glass houses."

Bucky raises his glass, taking half the whiskey in one pull. It burns in a way that's almost nostalgic. He's spent a lot more of his life drinking basically swill than the top shelf stuff he's been treated to since he came back to New York.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He smiles, not exactly convincing. These days, he doesn't feel all that stubborn. "You must have me confused with my friends. Seems like I'm drawn to the type of person who jumps headfirst into trouble."

There's something to be said for swill. Natasha likes a cocktail and expensive liquor as much as the next person. But when the chips are really down? She wants cheap beer or bottom shelf vodka. It reminds her of being on the run in the middle of nowhere in Eastern Europe. It tastes a little bit like freedom.

"Bullshit," she answers without hesitation, her smile matching his. "Isn't this coming from the guy that - what was it, ripped off the arm of his jacket and jumped out of a plane without a chute?" Oh yeah. Sam told her all about that.

Sam is a snitch.

"Oh, c'mon. That's nothing." He scoffs; it was definitely something when he hit the ground. "You have complaints about what I do with my sleeves now? Maybe not the best way to customize a jacket, but it was only going to get in the way in a fight."

"Nobody here's complaining," Natasha says, grinning over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip. Her eyes stay on him as he talks, and it's clear from the look on her face that she is absolutely enjoying his counter-argument.

"You're sort of making my point for me though," she answers with a chuckle. It's a light-hearted comment, just verging on flirtatious. There's more dimensions to him and she knows it. But it's still kind of funny that he pulled a Steve Special to get back on the ground faster.

"You don't lose many arguments, do you?" Bucky says, mock rueful as he finishes his glass and sets it down with a clack. He can't help but return her smile, though.

"Which is as close as I'm going to get to admitting you're right, by the way."

"Only when I want to." There's a hint of laughter in the way that she says it, because - of course she loses arguments now and then. Especially with her sister. But pretending that she only ever loses on purpose better fits the way that people tend to think of her. She's pretty sure he knows her well enough to see the joke in it.

"I'll take it. Want to try that game of darts?"

He does see the joke. He also knows himself well enough to know that she'd almost certainly be able to beat him, especially in the only half-serious, half-flirting arguments he's likely to actually start with her.

If it were something serious—making sure she takes care of herself—he might be more inclined to hold his ground.

"Why not?" he says, his gaze traveling to the board. "Seems like it should be pretty well matched."

Those particular arguments about taking care of herself, especially after a fight, do have a tendency to get...entrenched. She has an unsettling capacity for pain management that leads her to prioritize other people's injuries.

With any luck, that won't be on the menu tonight.

"Don't forget that I'm planning to fight dirty," she cautions him with a grin as she leans away from the bar to lead them over to the dart board.

"Which you're warning me about," he points out as he approaches the dartboard, pulling the darts out of the cork. "That's awful good sportsmanship."

"Maybe I'm trying to lure you into a false sense of security," she answers, smiling a little as she watches him take the darts out. "You want to go first or second?"

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