[ With a shake of her head, she reaches out to set her right hand gently on his knee, just resting it there for the physical connection. That sort of thing is important when you're trying to make someone understand something as big as this. ]
You've learned how to hide it well. But Coulson was nervous about it in the early days. He even used humor to cope with it. [ She gives Bucky a very pointed look at that. ]
[ Bucky looks a little sheepish, shoulder tipping once more in a half-shrug at being so easily called out. At least her pseudo-dad gets it. It's already more relatability than Bucky's accustomed to getting — he doesn't personally know anyone else with a cybernetic limb, although he knows they're out there, scattered across the globe. ]
It's not just how people look at it. It's not just the arm by itself. [ His voice is slow, hesitant, not certain if he wants to open this particular can of worms. It's the darker underbelly he usually traipses right by. But she's brought it up and he's already plumbed so deep into her own damage, so... ]
It's the fact that I know exactly how many ounces of pressure it takes to crush a human skull. How much to snap a neck or a spine. It's so much easier with my left hand. On the occasions I had to snap a neck with my right arm, I really have to get good leverage and I have to pull. But with the left— people come apart like tissue paper. When they first installed it, I didn't know how to regulate that strength. I broke everything I touched.
[ Far from looking shattered, his face is just neutral. Still and motionless, like a waxen image. ]
I can crack an egg now, without spilling the yolk. I've practiced. I'm more careful. The fine-motor control is better on the vibranium arm. But I don't forget what it can do, when I want it to. And so it just feels weird to use it in everyday contexts, I guess. Shaking hands. [ A beat. ] Touching someone. I mean, talk about bringing a gun to a knife fight.
[ It's the way he says it that first clues her into this being big. Bucky's revealed so little about this part of his life while she's done more than one deep dive into her well of trauma, but she's never been bothered by it. He's been abused by the world and it takes a lot to come back from that enough to trust people and open up again. The fact that's he doing it now with her—
She listens like her life depends on it, cradling every word in her mind like the precious gift it is even as her heart aches with each one. He has no idea how much they truly have in common, even after all she's shared. Daisy's never been sure if fate really exists but she's seriously starting to wonder if the universe is having a good laugh at how they've been thrown together.
Taking a deep breath, she shifts on the mattress, moving just a little closer so she can reach up to carefully touch his face, pressing her hand to his cheek if he'll let her, the rough stubble prickling her skin. ]
And that's why I trust you, why I'm not the least bit worried about you hurting me with your strength or that incredible arm. [ A vulnerability fills her expression as she steps up to the edge of the precipice. ] Are you worried about me quaking your bones apart? Because I could. In the same time it would take you to snap someone's neck, I could do the same thing just as easily. Crush their skull, break every bone in their body...
I know what it is to have to work for control. To be ashamed of what you've done. To be afraid of doing it again. It takes a lot to get through that and carry it with you everyday.
[ As always, that unexpected understanding splinters something open inside him: a hollow ache beneath his ribcage which isn't just the broken bones, but more the realisation that once again, she gets it.
And he's not. Afraid of her powers, that is. Call it hubris or arrogance or a dumb blind faith in his own survivability, but it hadn't even crossed his mind. Bucky swallows, hard, and there's that perpetual balancing act between earnestness or being serious as a heart attack versus that defensive humour. When he finally finds the words, they're lighter than before: ]
Depends. Do you only lose control of your powers when in a fight, or— other times?
[ It's not that the wall is back up, but it's more like the humour is a reflex. A tic. He almost can't help it, that mischievous wink mingled with genuine curiosity, a half-salacious nod to all the different ways he'd like to distract her someday, actually. But a second later, he sobers. ]
Thank you.
[ Not for the first time, he considers how easy it would be to bridge the rest of that gap: knit his fingers in the neck of her shirt and haul her closer, cross that canyon of the couple feet between them in this bed, draw her mouth to his.
It would be easy, and the hardest thing. So instead he just reaches up, rests his right hand over hers over his cheek. ]
[ Look at him with that wink and that face. She knows exactly what he's doing, can see it coming a mile away, but it's okay. If he needs to toss some humor into the mix in order to weather this storm they've stumbled into, then that's what he has to do. She's not going to be someone who takes away his coping mechanism for when things get hard.
But things shift again and she smiles at those two simple words that have an ocean of meaning behind them. Even if he doesn't spell it out, she understands that meaning, just like she understands so many things about him. And it really would be so incredibly easy to lean in and capture his lips with hers so she could learn the taste and feel of him, satisfy the yearning in her very soul to be as close to this man as she possibly can be. He's not ready for that yet, though, and she's not sure she is either. ]
You're welcome. [ A beat, and then a hint of mischievous intent enters her voice. ] And I do, in fact, sometimes lose control at other times when I'm... distracted or emotional.
[ He doesn't even know if he might do the same in bed — he hasn't been with anyone since the arm was installed — and he can, too mortifyingly, picture a scene where he gets too distracted and grabs too hard, forgets his own strength, hurts the person he's with. More than enough to get anxious about. That's a bridge for the far future, though, and not something he has to worry about just yet.
So Bucky keeps it light, and makes himself relax. Exhales a long breath, tips his cheek into Daisy's hand — and then turns his head, brushes his lips against the line of her wrist in a glancing almost-kiss against her skin, before he withdraws. ]
I'm not afraid of you hurting me. For the record. Maybe because I'm an idiot who can survive having a building dropped on him, but the point stands.
[ Oh shit. That emotional whiplash just keeps coming, slamming back in when she least expects it. From fun and flirty to intimate and bordering on something more to words that take her breath away. Not being afraid of him hurting her is one thing; for him to feel the same about her is something else completely. That level of trust and confidence... Maybe it is the building thing, but maybe it isn't.
Shifting back to humor and flirtation seems like the best course of action considering how closely they keep dancing around things, but if he looks for the signs, they'll tell him that this is absolutely affecting her. ]
Wow. If this is how people used to flirt in the old days, 21st century guys have got nothing on you. [ Which is a pretty accurate statement in most regards. ]
It's just the truth. Not trying to make it a line. And I mean, strictly speaking, if we're going by the old days, then I should've met Coulson first and asked for permission to take you out now and then to get to know you better. We skipped a few steps.
This, too, [ Bucky gestures at their surroundings, her sitting in his bed, ] would be, like, wildly inappropriate. People would gossip if you stayed late, let alone spent the night. People found ways around it, sure, but it looks like things are a little easier these days.
[ It's somewhat safer to discuss antiquated dating in the abstract — like a miniature history lesson, talking about people and society as a whole, rather than enduring those seismic nerves which sink in when he thinks about dating in the specific, and one woman in specific. ]
[ Smiling in quiet amusement, Daisy captures that hand he gestures with, wrapping both of hers around it. Whether it's flesh or metal doesn't matter to her — it's Bucky all the same. ]
Well, I've never been one for following social convention, so I guess it's a good thing we're doing this now instead of back then. No one will really judge us for doing things our way.
[ Sorry, Bucky. She's taken things from abstract and historical to very much in the present about them. If he shies away from it, she won't push or chase after him. He's still setting the pace for this thing between them, Daisy's just never been that great at letting someone else completely take the lead. ]
[ Us, our. Those small words are a comfort, an unexpected fire to warm his bones by. It's nice to hear after he's been out in the cold so long, and when the two main people in his corner both came with a vibranium shield. Maybe they don't have to be the only ones— ]
I can't promise I'm any good at it.
[ He hadn't meant to say that. But as ever, Daisy has a way of sparking bare honesty out of him: right now, it has something to do with the feeling of both her hands around his, that slight weight and pressure, the companionable sensation. ]
It goes without saying that I'm beyond rusty, on top of things having changed over the decades. So, I dunno, I'm just... [ Bucky squeezes her fingers once. ] Just mentioning it, for when I inevitably fuck up.
[ It's almost comical at this point how alike they are. With a few contextual adjustments, that statement could have easily come from Daisy herself and been no less true than his own. He squeezes her fingers and she smiles softly in adoration of this broken hero beside her. ]
Betcha $5 I fuck up first.
[ She should be running, not making jokes. Bailing at the very idea of messing up this beautiful thing they might have going for them. But she wants this and somehow that has to be stronger than her fear of ruining it. ]
[ Bucky's voice is warm, bemused. They really are too similar, even if they don't know where all the edges align yet, and they're still excavating the details. Part of him still wants to panic and flee and jettison himself off the balcony, but he makes himself focus on this moment, on staying anchored in his body, on the enjoyment of Daisy holding his hand even if it's at war with his innate restlessness, his fidgeting unease as the idea of a relationship becomes more and more specific. The more real it becomes.
He picks up his coffee again with his free hand, metal fingers curling around the paper cup, unheeding of the heat as he balances it against his knee. ]
You know five bucks in the 1940s would be like a hundred bucks now?
And now you're lucky if five bucks buys you a cup of coffee.
[ With an amused grin, she disentangles one of her hands from his, still holding on to his warm fingers as she reaches for her own cup of caffeinated gold. It's still delightfully warm and soothes her soul like a metaphorical blanket as she takes a long sip. ]
Have you thought of getting a coffee maker for here? It's cheaper. Not that that stops anyone from buying a cup while they're out...
[ She's certainly guilty of that, but she's also guilty of sometimes (frequently) having far more coffee than she probably should in a day, so she's really not a shining example in any case. ]
I've thought of getting a lot of things, but never really committed.
[ No coffee maker, barely any cooking supplies, no couch, no dining table, no bed. He doesn't even know where to start. ]
So I know you live barebones too, but what would be on your housewarming list? Any recommendations? I mean— [ Bucky gestures with his metal hand to the mattress they're sitting on. ] Okay, I know a bedframe is probably top of the list, but. What do people get for their apartments, apart from coffee makers?
[ Committing can be a hard thing. To put down roots makes something real, and that can be a truly terrifying idea. Or depressing, depending on the circumstances.
Daisy glances around the apartment, pointedly noting the few things he does have. ] Well, you've got a TV, so that's a good start. And a chair. So... probably a table? So you can have somewhere to eat that's not sitting on your mattress or in the single chair? It doesn't have to be a big one, that wouldn't fit in here, but big enough for two seems good.
Yeah, you're like, my second friend. Big enough for two is enough. Don't think I'll be hosting any huge dinner parties anytime soon.
But okay, yeah, that's a good idea. It'll save me some of the crumbs on the mattress. [ A beat, and then a quote from Archer, because somehow that show had helped kill some of the late-night hours he'd been awake and couldn't sleep: ] That's how you get ants.
You're not wrong. [ She says it with a laugh in her voice and a grin on her lips, feeling lighter and happier than she has in days. Sure, she still physically feels like shit run over, but that doesn't seem to matter as much when the rest of her feels really damn good.
His hand is still warm in hers and she gives his fingers a gentle squeeze, not quite ready to let go just yet. ] So, a table. And chairs to go with it, I'm guessing. Do you want help with that?
[ The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. Half-teasing: ]
Haven't even had our first real date yet, and we're already talking about meeting your dad and picking out furniture together. Something tells me this really isn't how this sort of thing normally goes, huh?
[ Nudging his hip playfully with her knee, she can't help the laugh that bubbles out at that teasing. Is this really happening? It feels so strange to be this happy. ]
We're superheroes who help save the world on a weekly basis. You seriously expect our dating lives to be normal?
You're part-Inhuman and a SHIELD agent, I'm 107 years old and a former fugitive — I guess it wouldn't ever be normal. Not like I'd want that, anyway.
[ Maybe you'd think that after so long, he'd want a calm, peaceful, banal civilian life — but the truth is that Bucky just doesn't know what he'd do with it. After so many decades, he's been hardwired for a higher pace. It would probably take decades yet to teach him how to settle in and get accustomed to peace instead.
And in the meantime, he likes being around people who understand. Who get it. Who know that frantic pace and adrenaline and danger, and all the baggage that comes with it. ]
[ Though she doesn't mind the occasional vacation in the land of normalcy. A night out without any disasters interrupting or derailing the evening? That would be great. A boring 9-to-5 job pushing papers at a desk? There's no way she'd survive it. ]
And, by the way, you're not the only former fugitive in the room, so don't go thinking you're something special for it.
[ Bucky finally disentangles his flesh-and-blood hand from Daisy's palm, but it's in favour of shoving at her knee, mock-aggrieved. (And then, just for good measure, he leaves his hand on her knee, just because he can. Warm palm splayed against the fabric of her SHIELD-branded sweatpants.) ]
Jesus, you just gotta one-up me at every turn. I thought I at least had the fugitive thing on lock.
[ Her grin is bright enough to light up a room at his banter and that little shove. This is nice; she hopes they always have this, no matter what else happens. And while she immediately misses the feel of his hand in hers, the weight of it on her knee is more comforting than she ever could have imagined. ]
Nope. I've been a fugitive twice with SHIELD [ she holds up two fingers to be sure he heard her right ] at least, where we had to be on the run — and once on my own during my vigilante phase. I didn't try very hard at hiding that time, though, I'd just quake my way out every time the cops or military got too close.
[ Bucky counts off on his left hand to playfully mirror her, two vibranium fingers raised. ] Once from HYDRA, then I was on the run from them and the Avengers and a heap of international governments. But so I guess technically you've got one more on me.
[ He hesitates. Considers the instances Daisy had cited, and the stories that must be sitting behind each of them. He's curious. He's realising that he's always curious about her stories; she's got the most batshit, fascinating history he's ever encountered in anyone outside Steve's crew and the Avengers. ]
The two times with SHIELD. Was that when the HYDRA shit got blown open?
[ That hesitation has her itching to hold his hand again, part of her yearning to soothe and chase away whatever might be bothering him. It's only when he asks the question that she finally rests her hand on his on her knee, rubbing her thumb lightly over the back of his hand. ]
The first time was. The second involved a robot version of me shooting a high-profile general in the head on the orders of a homicidal AI who tried to trap us in a virtual reality. We didn't get out of that mess until after I stopped the world from ending almost a year later.
[ Most days, she doesn't even realize how completely insane her life is anymore. She's just so used to it all that it's not until someone like Bucky comes along and reminds her that it just hits her. Because, yeah, her life really is just a string of batshit stories, one after another. ]
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[ With a shake of her head, she reaches out to set her right hand gently on his knee, just resting it there for the physical connection. That sort of thing is important when you're trying to make someone understand something as big as this. ]
You've learned how to hide it well. But Coulson was nervous about it in the early days. He even used humor to cope with it. [ She gives Bucky a very pointed look at that. ]
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It's not just how people look at it. It's not just the arm by itself. [ His voice is slow, hesitant, not certain if he wants to open this particular can of worms. It's the darker underbelly he usually traipses right by. But she's brought it up and he's already plumbed so deep into her own damage, so... ]
It's the fact that I know exactly how many ounces of pressure it takes to crush a human skull. How much to snap a neck or a spine. It's so much easier with my left hand. On the occasions I had to snap a neck with my right arm, I really have to get good leverage and I have to pull. But with the left— people come apart like tissue paper. When they first installed it, I didn't know how to regulate that strength. I broke everything I touched.
[ Far from looking shattered, his face is just neutral. Still and motionless, like a waxen image. ]
I can crack an egg now, without spilling the yolk. I've practiced. I'm more careful. The fine-motor control is better on the vibranium arm. But I don't forget what it can do, when I want it to. And so it just feels weird to use it in everyday contexts, I guess. Shaking hands. [ A beat. ] Touching someone. I mean, talk about bringing a gun to a knife fight.
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She listens like her life depends on it, cradling every word in her mind like the precious gift it is even as her heart aches with each one. He has no idea how much they truly have in common, even after all she's shared. Daisy's never been sure if fate really exists but she's seriously starting to wonder if the universe is having a good laugh at how they've been thrown together.
Taking a deep breath, she shifts on the mattress, moving just a little closer so she can reach up to carefully touch his face, pressing her hand to his cheek if he'll let her, the rough stubble prickling her skin. ]
And that's why I trust you, why I'm not the least bit worried about you hurting me with your strength or that incredible arm. [ A vulnerability fills her expression as she steps up to the edge of the precipice. ] Are you worried about me quaking your bones apart? Because I could. In the same time it would take you to snap someone's neck, I could do the same thing just as easily. Crush their skull, break every bone in their body...
I know what it is to have to work for control. To be ashamed of what you've done. To be afraid of doing it again. It takes a lot to get through that and carry it with you everyday.
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And he's not. Afraid of her powers, that is. Call it hubris or arrogance or a dumb blind faith in his own survivability, but it hadn't even crossed his mind. Bucky swallows, hard, and there's that perpetual balancing act between earnestness or being serious as a heart attack versus that defensive humour. When he finally finds the words, they're lighter than before: ]
Depends. Do you only lose control of your powers when in a fight, or— other times?
[ It's not that the wall is back up, but it's more like the humour is a reflex. A tic. He almost can't help it, that mischievous wink mingled with genuine curiosity, a half-salacious nod to all the different ways he'd like to distract her someday, actually. But a second later, he sobers. ]
Thank you.
[ Not for the first time, he considers how easy it would be to bridge the rest of that gap: knit his fingers in the neck of her shirt and haul her closer, cross that canyon of the couple feet between them in this bed, draw her mouth to his.
It would be easy, and the hardest thing. So instead he just reaches up, rests his right hand over hers over his cheek. ]
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But things shift again and she smiles at those two simple words that have an ocean of meaning behind them. Even if he doesn't spell it out, she understands that meaning, just like she understands so many things about him. And it really would be so incredibly easy to lean in and capture his lips with hers so she could learn the taste and feel of him, satisfy the yearning in her very soul to be as close to this man as she possibly can be. He's not ready for that yet, though, and she's not sure she is either. ]
You're welcome. [ A beat, and then a hint of mischievous intent enters her voice. ] And I do, in fact, sometimes lose control at other times when I'm... distracted or emotional.
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[ He doesn't even know if he might do the same in bed — he hasn't been with anyone since the arm was installed — and he can, too mortifyingly, picture a scene where he gets too distracted and grabs too hard, forgets his own strength, hurts the person he's with. More than enough to get anxious about. That's a bridge for the far future, though, and not something he has to worry about just yet.
So Bucky keeps it light, and makes himself relax. Exhales a long breath, tips his cheek into Daisy's hand — and then turns his head, brushes his lips against the line of her wrist in a glancing almost-kiss against her skin, before he withdraws. ]
I'm not afraid of you hurting me. For the record. Maybe because I'm an idiot who can survive having a building dropped on him, but the point stands.
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Shifting back to humor and flirtation seems like the best course of action considering how closely they keep dancing around things, but if he looks for the signs, they'll tell him that this is absolutely affecting her. ]
Wow. If this is how people used to flirt in the old days, 21st century guys have got nothing on you. [ Which is a pretty accurate statement in most regards. ]
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It's just the truth. Not trying to make it a line. And I mean, strictly speaking, if we're going by the old days, then I should've met Coulson first and asked for permission to take you out now and then to get to know you better. We skipped a few steps.
This, too, [ Bucky gestures at their surroundings, her sitting in his bed, ] would be, like, wildly inappropriate. People would gossip if you stayed late, let alone spent the night. People found ways around it, sure, but it looks like things are a little easier these days.
[ It's somewhat safer to discuss antiquated dating in the abstract — like a miniature history lesson, talking about people and society as a whole, rather than enduring those seismic nerves which sink in when he thinks about dating in the specific, and one woman in specific. ]
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Well, I've never been one for following social convention, so I guess it's a good thing we're doing this now instead of back then. No one will really judge us for doing things our way.
[ Sorry, Bucky. She's taken things from abstract and historical to very much in the present about them. If he shies away from it, she won't push or chase after him. He's still setting the pace for this thing between them, Daisy's just never been that great at letting someone else completely take the lead. ]
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I can't promise I'm any good at it.
[ He hadn't meant to say that. But as ever, Daisy has a way of sparking bare honesty out of him: right now, it has something to do with the feeling of both her hands around his, that slight weight and pressure, the companionable sensation. ]
It goes without saying that I'm beyond rusty, on top of things having changed over the decades. So, I dunno, I'm just... [ Bucky squeezes her fingers once. ] Just mentioning it, for when I inevitably fuck up.
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Betcha $5 I fuck up first.
[ She should be running, not making jokes. Bailing at the very idea of messing up this beautiful thing they might have going for them. But she wants this and somehow that has to be stronger than her fear of ruining it. ]
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[ Bucky's voice is warm, bemused. They really are too similar, even if they don't know where all the edges align yet, and they're still excavating the details. Part of him still wants to panic and flee and jettison himself off the balcony, but he makes himself focus on this moment, on staying anchored in his body, on the enjoyment of Daisy holding his hand even if it's at war with his innate restlessness, his fidgeting unease as the idea of a relationship becomes more and more specific. The more real it becomes.
He picks up his coffee again with his free hand, metal fingers curling around the paper cup, unheeding of the heat as he balances it against his knee. ]
You know five bucks in the 1940s would be like a hundred bucks now?
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[ With an amused grin, she disentangles one of her hands from his, still holding on to his warm fingers as she reaches for her own cup of caffeinated gold. It's still delightfully warm and soothes her soul like a metaphorical blanket as she takes a long sip. ]
Have you thought of getting a coffee maker for here? It's cheaper. Not that that stops anyone from buying a cup while they're out...
[ She's certainly guilty of that, but she's also guilty of sometimes (frequently) having far more coffee than she probably should in a day, so she's really not a shining example in any case. ]
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[ No coffee maker, barely any cooking supplies, no couch, no dining table, no bed. He doesn't even know where to start. ]
So I know you live barebones too, but what would be on your housewarming list? Any recommendations? I mean— [ Bucky gestures with his metal hand to the mattress they're sitting on. ] Okay, I know a bedframe is probably top of the list, but. What do people get for their apartments, apart from coffee makers?
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Daisy glances around the apartment, pointedly noting the few things he does have. ] Well, you've got a TV, so that's a good start. And a chair. So... probably a table? So you can have somewhere to eat that's not sitting on your mattress or in the single chair? It doesn't have to be a big one, that wouldn't fit in here, but big enough for two seems good.
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But okay, yeah, that's a good idea. It'll save me some of the crumbs on the mattress. [ A beat, and then a quote from Archer, because somehow that show had helped kill some of the late-night hours he'd been awake and couldn't sleep: ] That's how you get ants.
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His hand is still warm in hers and she gives his fingers a gentle squeeze, not quite ready to let go just yet. ] So, a table. And chairs to go with it, I'm guessing. Do you want help with that?
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Haven't even had our first real date yet, and we're already talking about meeting your dad and picking out furniture together. Something tells me this really isn't how this sort of thing normally goes, huh?
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We're superheroes who help save the world on a weekly basis. You seriously expect our dating lives to be normal?
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[ Maybe you'd think that after so long, he'd want a calm, peaceful, banal civilian life — but the truth is that Bucky just doesn't know what he'd do with it. After so many decades, he's been hardwired for a higher pace. It would probably take decades yet to teach him how to settle in and get accustomed to peace instead.
And in the meantime, he likes being around people who understand. Who get it. Who know that frantic pace and adrenaline and danger, and all the baggage that comes with it. ]
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[ Though she doesn't mind the occasional vacation in the land of normalcy. A night out without any disasters interrupting or derailing the evening? That would be great. A boring 9-to-5 job pushing papers at a desk? There's no way she'd survive it. ]
And, by the way, you're not the only former fugitive in the room, so don't go thinking you're something special for it.
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[ Bucky finally disentangles his flesh-and-blood hand from Daisy's palm, but it's in favour of shoving at her knee, mock-aggrieved. (And then, just for good measure, he leaves his hand on her knee, just because he can. Warm palm splayed against the fabric of her SHIELD-branded sweatpants.) ]
Jesus, you just gotta one-up me at every turn. I thought I at least had the fugitive thing on lock.
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Nope. I've been a fugitive twice with SHIELD [ she holds up two fingers to be sure he heard her right ] at least, where we had to be on the run — and once on my own during my vigilante phase. I didn't try very hard at hiding that time, though, I'd just quake my way out every time the cops or military got too close.
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[ He hesitates. Considers the instances Daisy had cited, and the stories that must be sitting behind each of them. He's curious. He's realising that he's always curious about her stories; she's got the most batshit, fascinating history he's ever encountered in anyone outside Steve's crew and the Avengers. ]
The two times with SHIELD. Was that when the HYDRA shit got blown open?
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The first time was. The second involved a robot version of me shooting a high-profile general in the head on the orders of a homicidal AI who tried to trap us in a virtual reality. We didn't get out of that mess until after I stopped the world from ending almost a year later.
[ Most days, she doesn't even realize how completely insane her life is anymore. She's just so used to it all that it's not until someone like Bucky comes along and reminds her that it just hits her. Because, yeah, her life really is just a string of batshit stories, one after another. ]
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yrs to wrap?
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