[ she smiles at him, and bucky feels it like a hook lodging in his sternum and easily leading him around, falling right into every one of her traps, but— y'know, he doesn't mind one bit. instead, he flashes a quick and fleeting smile at her as he gestures at the door, and then just turns and leads the way, ducking back into the apartment. ]

Alright. D'you want a drink, Belova? Come inside.

[ said so offhand, casually, as if he does this all the time— except that this is the first person who's ever seen the inside of his apartment, because bucky is notoriously guarded. he lives out on mission, or visiting the wilsons in delacroix, or stopping over by the new avengers compound as it's being slowly rebuilt. people don't come here. it's a box to sleep in, and little else.

as he re-enters the apartment, he toes off his own boots and deposits them by the front door. flicks on the one hanging kitchen light, and starts rummaging through the cabinets. they are, unsurprisingly and just like she called it, just as empty as a bachelor's depressing apartment: a single set of plates and cutlery, few supplies, even fewer glasses, and so when he reaches for the whiskey he winds up pouring his into a clean coffee mug while setting aside the tumbler for her.

(the fridge might be perpetually-empty or full of expired takeout, but he does keep alcohol around. enough to try dulling himself to sleep at night, but it never really works, that metabolism chewing its way through the liquor faster than he'd like to keep up. so in terms of coping mechanisms for the nightmares, he's still never found a good one.) ]

No absinthe or vodka. If you give me more headsup next time, I can stock something you like.

[ next time, and those two little words are a nervous flutter in his chest, even as he tries to sound nonchalant about it. be cool, barnes!! ]