"Figured everyone else got better shit to get up to, these days," comes out of his mouth unbidden. Yikes. Too many feelings there, scout. Time to reel it in.
Her words have him blinking again and then he re-collects himself, picking the bag back up and turning towards the kitchenette in the two-room studio apartment... if a space divided by half a wall could constitute the definitional value of two rooms. From Natasha's position on the couch she can see the entire space, barring the small bathroom with the door shut.
Either way, Bucky? Only half focused on the details that surround him, now that there's someone in his space. Someone he knows and remembers, from the life between the first and the current. It's a little weird. He figures it would be, even if his brain hadn't had to be completely reconstructed from the hot mess it was before.
Glasses, he has a pair of those, and there are also pastries from a spot at the eastern end of the street that opens in these pre-dawn hours every day. He doesn't go in there daily, but he has made it something of a habit.
He tells himself that he needs to be less paranoid. That having one favorite place to visit wherein he says nothing to the proprietors and makes all his decisions known to them via pointing one gloved hand and shaking his head or nodding probably won't get anyone killed.
Except the Black Widow is on his couch. Reading a 1980s science fiction novel. Or, was, he supposes. So, you know. Maybe paranoia is not that terrible. Or at least, not that without use.
He pours the glasses about 80% full, introduces a splash of orange juice to each, puts them on a plate. Puts the box of pastries under the plate. Carries the entire thing from kitchen to couch, setting it down on the trunk with a scarf draped over it that's currently passing for a coffee table. Sits down, picks up one of the glasses and holds it out to her.
Once she takes it, picks up his own and lifts it in toast. "Za nashe obshcheye zdorov'ye, nashe obshcheye proshloye, nashe obshcheye budushcheye." Drinks it all and doesn't wince, but doesn't sit the glass back down either. "What do you want me to call you, now?"
no subject
Her words have him blinking again and then he re-collects himself, picking the bag back up and turning towards the kitchenette in the two-room studio apartment... if a space divided by half a wall could constitute the definitional value of two rooms. From Natasha's position on the couch she can see the entire space, barring the small bathroom with the door shut.
Either way, Bucky? Only half focused on the details that surround him, now that there's someone in his space. Someone he knows and remembers, from the life between the first and the current. It's a little weird. He figures it would be, even if his brain hadn't had to be completely reconstructed from the hot mess it was before.
Glasses, he has a pair of those, and there are also pastries from a spot at the eastern end of the street that opens in these pre-dawn hours every day. He doesn't go in there daily, but he has made it something of a habit.
He tells himself that he needs to be less paranoid. That having one favorite place to visit wherein he says nothing to the proprietors and makes all his decisions known to them via pointing one gloved hand and shaking his head or nodding probably won't get anyone killed.
Except the Black Widow is on his couch. Reading a 1980s science fiction novel. Or, was, he supposes. So, you know. Maybe paranoia is not that terrible. Or at least, not that without use.
He pours the glasses about 80% full, introduces a splash of orange juice to each, puts them on a plate. Puts the box of pastries under the plate. Carries the entire thing from kitchen to couch, setting it down on the trunk with a scarf draped over it that's currently passing for a coffee table. Sits down, picks up one of the glasses and holds it out to her.
Once she takes it, picks up his own and lifts it in toast. "Za nashe obshcheye zdorov'ye, nashe obshcheye proshloye, nashe obshcheye budushcheye." Drinks it all and doesn't wince, but doesn't sit the glass back down either. "What do you want me to call you, now?"