[Bucky's smile widens when she greets him like that, an eyebrow rising slightly, her flirting emboldening him to tease her:]
Wow, already trying to butter me up, huh? [he says as he walks into her apartment, slipping the leather gloves off his hands, his coat following soon after while he kicks off his boots.
He's been in her apartment the night before, taking care of her drunken self, but this feels different. The intent of her inviting him over has been pretty clear moments before through their texting, and as much as he's nervous, James doesn't feel as uncomfortable as he's been before with other women on first dates. Not that this is a first date for them, but the fact that he trusts Natasha pretty deeply helps to ease his insecurities. There's no need to hide behind lies regarding his arm, his age, his past, and the thought of it is comforting. Freeing, even.
He moves to the living room, welcoming the warmth of the fire in the hearth: even if his internal temperature is hotter than most people because of the serum in his veins, he prefers by far being warm rather than cold. After decades in cryosleep and Siberia, if Bucky could never feel cold again, he would die a happy man.
He spots the glasses and bottle of wine on her coffee table, and he looks back at Nat before tilting his head slightly, amused:]
You sure you want to have wine after the night you had yesterday?
no subject
Wow, already trying to butter me up, huh? [he says as he walks into her apartment, slipping the leather gloves off his hands, his coat following soon after while he kicks off his boots.
He's been in her apartment the night before, taking care of her drunken self, but this feels different. The intent of her inviting him over has been pretty clear moments before through their texting, and as much as he's nervous, James doesn't feel as uncomfortable as he's been before with other women on first dates. Not that this is a first date for them, but the fact that he trusts Natasha pretty deeply helps to ease his insecurities. There's no need to hide behind lies regarding his arm, his age, his past, and the thought of it is comforting. Freeing, even.
He moves to the living room, welcoming the warmth of the fire in the hearth: even if his internal temperature is hotter than most people because of the serum in his veins, he prefers by far being warm rather than cold. After decades in cryosleep and Siberia, if Bucky could never feel cold again, he would die a happy man.
He spots the glasses and bottle of wine on her coffee table, and he looks back at Nat before tilting his head slightly, amused:]
You sure you want to have wine after the night you had yesterday?