Only if the cookies are homemade. I don't care if it's Pillsbury, it still counts. [ bucky clinks his ceramic mug against the edge of her glass, and then leans back against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other as he bemusedly watches her poke around like a nosy dog, metaphorically sniffing through his disaster of a kitchen. and just as promised, the license to grill apron is still hanging safely off a hook nearby — the only bit of homeyness in this whole place, so no wonder it was stolen.

he glances down at his drink, takes a deep swig of the amber liquid. ]

I do like beer for the flavour. Local brews. It's just kind of like juice to me, though; I can't get buzzed off it.

[ he could go through a bottle like it was water, unthinkingly, not even realising how quickly he was downing it. it really was the most annoying part about the metabolism. they'd talked about sleeping pills and how they didn't work for him, but he would've been reluctant to use them even if they did. he doesn't like something knocking him out where he isn't in control of when he wakes up. ]

How long are you stateside?