armeyets: fatws. (pic#14819791)
𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜. ([personal profile] armeyets) wrote in [personal profile] viuva 2021-07-21 08:54 pm (UTC)

the kitchen heist.

[ They'd joked about dance lessons in her kitchen, but it turns out it's hard to schedule sort-of-almost-dates when one of you is an ultra-paranoid former assassin mostly living off-grid. (And, sure, Bucky is an ultra-paranoid former assassin, too, but he's more rooted in NYC now that he's a recognisable face: obeying the terms of his pardon, cooperating with authorities, showing up on missions beside the newest Captain America.)

But it meant they wound up being ships in the night. When he happened to be in Yelena's neck of the woods, then Sam had called him about a job in London, and so Bucky had grabbed his bag and left before he could contact her. The next time he was back home with some time to kill, he'd sent a gently inquiring text, but messages went into a black hole and her answering machine. Off on another mission, then, probably extracting more former Widows. The work was long.

So they subsist on sporadic text messages for a while, whenever they happen to be close to the same timezone and awake at the same hours. Messages in a bottle. Idle flirtation from afar. He has no idea when they'll be in the same place next; doesn't really know what he'd do with himself even once they are.

Tonight, though, Bucky's on his way back from SHIELD headquarters — at least he hasn't had to fly commercial in ages, turns out Sam-as-Cap can pull strings and get them jets when they need transportation — with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a new bullet hole in the sleeve of his jacket, as he unlocks his studio apartment.

And it's standing there on the threshold, head cocked, that he instantly realises something feels off.

Blame the decades of training, always teaching him to have a hand on the gun and an eye out for trouble. Blame it on him being neurotic and paranoid. But that's exactly why he lives in a studio, where you can see all the angles, so when he steps over the creaky floorboard and slowly lets his eyesight adjust to the darkness, he gets a view of his place.

There isn't much of anywhere to hide: it's just the one open-plan room, kitchen and dining and living room and bedroom all combined. He wasn't kidding about the lack of furniture, either. It's still mostly just the one armchair, dining chair, TV on its stand, and one endtable (is everything just an inch off from where he left it?). But he has finally gotten a bed, which lives in the far corner beneath the window, the sheets tucked in with military precision.

But his apartment has a thin strip of balcony (was it so he could have an easier getaway versus clambering through windows onto fire escapes? maybe), and he can tell there's a figure standing out there.

Even when he recognises the blonde hair, he doesn't fully relax. Moves across the apartment, tugs open the balcony door and joins her outside, gun still held low by his side.
]

Guess I'm lucky you didn't jump out of the closet and shout boo.

Hey, Yelena.

[ Bucky's voice is dry and his demeanour neutral, as ever, but there's something to that unfazed greeting which isn't unwelcoming, either. He'd be far more irritated if it was, well, pretty much anyone else breaking into his home unannounced. ]

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