sixthiterationlogs | [Locked] We are very sorry to inform you that we are entirely out of the fruit in question

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[Locked] We are very sorry to inform you that we are entirely out of the fruit in question

WHO: Liv Moore
WHERE: 6I inn kitchen
WHEN: 4 July, afternoon
OPEN TO: Bucky Barnes
WARNINGS: Embarrassment and innuendo are pretty much a given. Also, Janet Jackson.

I'm going to be up front here and say I really don't know if this is a date I have today. You would think that as an adult person who has dated a sufficient number and variety of men that I could figure this out, but apparently there are a lot more things about this place that are a little iffy than you think at first blush. Ravi has firmly put the kibosh on the level of fun I'm allowed to have, but you can have dates without that, right? That's a thing people do.

I'm cooking, and there is a guy coming to eat my food who last night was talking to me really emphatically about nailing things. But he also was surprisingly angry about the state of modern bananas, in the literal sense, so I just don't know anymore.

I'm playing this one by ear, is what I'm saying.

It also happens to be the Fourth of July, and I wouldn't be me without a little cooking on a theme. The Yankee Pot Roast is done, keeping warm in the blessedly electric oven as the last of the regular inn lunch is cleared away by the remaining few volunteers. Dessert is less impressive, just caramelized peaches, but I have set myself the dubious task of whipping cream for them from what's on hand.

With Janet Jackson playing on a loop in my head. Thank you, Kira.

Back to the door, giant bowl braced against my hip, I sure am singing painfully embarrassing lyrics while I work the whisk. Oh yeah.

"All my girls at the party, look at that body, shakin' that thing like you never did see, got a nice package alright, guess I'm gonna have to ride it tonight," and buddy let me tell you, it isn't loud but it's loud enough.

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Liv isn't alone in her concern; Bucky has no idea if he's agreed to a date or a casual dinner. He doesn't, by definition, date. He's not all there in the head for one, for two he's not sure that he should. There's a laundry list of shit going on in his past that he doesn't think a potential partner should have to stick around for, doesn't think anyone could possibly be willing to, so it's a hell of a lot easier to just... not.

But this isn't a wedding, or a commitment (despite their joking proposal.) This is just a... dinner. Just a thing that doesn't necessarily need to be made out to be anything more than what it is.

If he brushes his hair a little too much beforehand, well, nobody knows that but himself.

Fortunately, that's not the first embarrassing thing to come up between them. It's his own fault for not warning her, he lives on the first floor of the Inn, literally the second room. He's sure as hell not late; in fact, he arrives at the kitchen a few minutes early, silent in his footsteps out of sheer habit.

What he arrives to is a sight to behold.

He crosses his arms, dons a wry smirk, and settles against the doorframe to watch. Yup, no, he's not interrupting this, not a chance in hell. He'll wait for it to finish or wait to be noticed before he speaks up. God bless America, he loves this holiday.

I did not play sports in school. If you've ever seen me, it's not that difficult to see why — Horse jockying isn't a Division I sport, and that's about all I'm qualified for.

Why am I telling you this? Because I caught the bowl. When I turned and realized I had an audience — A very specific audience — up it went, no idea how. It was like I was practicing my Lucille Ball impersonation.

And I frickin caught it, not a drop spilled. Take that, Lebron.

After, though, I am definitely standing there half bent over, clasping the thing for dear life, staring and saying nothing. Nothing helpful, but also nothing mortifying, so maybe it's a wash.

Bucky's eyes track the upward path of the bowl with cool interest, a schooled expression, only traces of amusement spilling out of it. It comes back down, Liv snatches it from the air along with every lazy drop that follows gravity's path a second or two later than the bowl itself. Once securely in her hands he lets his lips pull back into something seemingly impressed.

"That an important part of the recipe?" He asks wryly, lips twitching, doing his best not to laugh.

This "date" is totally already worth it. God bless you, Liv.

"Obviously," I reply with a low snort, happy to seize the opportunity to slide right out of my current state of mortification. Don't get me wrong: It's still there. I will still be mortified hours, days, and possibly years into the future over this, depending on the reliability of my reminders. Which I am sure will be numerous, since if it was me in Bucky's shoes, I would work it into every conversation for the rest of our lives.

But for now, I can swallow all that down long enough to do a curtsy — Yes, thank you, I am impressive — and set the bowl safely down on the counter top.

"Why don't you take your smirk and your cute butt into the next room and sit down so I can bring you your meal? It's made entirely from genetically-altered bananas."

Don't worry, Liv. He's not the type to work it into every conversation. Maybe, just, like, one out of every five or so. Just enough time in between to let her think it's a distant memory. He'll let it die for now, do his best to stifle the smirk on his face. It's not exactly a hard feat, surprisingly, because Liv calls him cute butt and that's honest to god the first time he's ever heard the term let alone had something of it's kind applied to himself.

It draws an obvious befuddlement into his brow, they nearly knit together completely.

Wow.

Shake it off, Buck.

With a gentle back and forth sway of his hair he does just that. Pushes off of the door frame while muttering an amused sounding, "This is hands down the best date I've ever had."

And it's only been two minutes. Before he leaves, he adds, "I'd offer to help, but I can't juggle."

And with that, he'll slink out and pick a table for them.

Having seen the butt in nothing but very clingy and wet scrubs pants, I have to say that if anything, calling it cute is probably a monumental understatement. But I digress.

"You know the circus will never take you if you don't practice," I call after him, mostly because that's easier than thinking about the confirmation that this is indeed a date — A weird alternate reality creepy village date, but an actual date and not just me cooking and being ridiculous because that's what I do.

Best date he's ever had. I'm sure that's not a high bar at all.

The food I at least know will be good, even if I can't really taste it — When I'm cooking for other people these days, I always pull in whoever is around to confirm my awesome culinary skills. I'm feeling pretty confident as I fill two bowls with the pot roast and carry them out on a tray with a couple of glasses of water and some of Kate's weird Aussie flatbread.

"You're going to have to pretend that's wine," I say as I slide everything out onto the table. Are my hands steady? Hell yeah they are; I didn't get to be a surgeon by falling apart around perfect physical specimens who I absolutely cannot sleep with ever.

"Since you're pretending, make it something really expensive. Like, $20 a glass easy."

Her quip gets a muffled snort in turn, a dry little laugh that he can't quite stifle. She's fast, it's something he likes about her. Sharp minded and quick with some witty bullshit. What does it say about him that he admires qualities in women that remind him of Steve? Definitely not going to go down that route of thinking right now, he's on a god damn date.

She serves them, and he's got to admit he's impressed. It seems like everyone here's only capable of making some variation of soup lately, so pot roast is a welcome change. Something even he in his sad culinary experience can recognize from home.

He waits for her to sit before wrapping a hand around his "wine glass".

"You trying to buy me with the good stuff, doc?" He asks wryly, taking a sip. "Let it never be said you're a cheap date."

"I'm trying to get you drunk is what I'm doing," I reply with a casual lift of one shoulder. "So far, I'm not sure it's a very solid plan, but they say imagination can take you anywhere, so we'll see."

Picking up my fork, I realize I can't tell if I've got the correct bowl in front of me — The red salt's melted, whichever one it's in. I think I got it right, but a foolproof way to take a flirtation completely off the rails is by spiking your date's food with the condiment equivalent of a three-alarm fire.

"Wait," I blurt, holding out my hand. "Don't eat it yet, I need to check something really quick—" I scoop up a bit of meat, pop it in my mouth, and then give the thumbs-up as I swallow. "Okay, you're good. I was just trying to not melt your face off."

Jokes on you, Liv, he can hold his water with the best of them. It'll take more than a glass of it to get him drunk.

She catches him with his fork literally an inch from his mouth, lips parted, mid-air. He freezes solid there like he expects some kind of bomb to go off or something. The fork drops a few as she chews, and he can't help but glance between the two bowls skeptically. They look exactly the same.

He shoots her a suspicious look, something mock-accusatory, refraining from his bite. "You sure? I'm not gonna take a bite and wind up face down in an alley in Jersey, right?"

"Well, obviously that could still happen," I reply with a roll of my eyes. "Just not from the food. And you're safe from the red salt, which apparently only I like in face-melting quantities. You've got a nice face, it would be a real shame for it to slide off onto the floor. Then it's not even worth it to go to Jersey."

Honestly, Liv may be the most blatant flirt he's met in all his decades of flirting. She's not even coy about it, and it amuses the hell out of him. He can't help the way half of his mouth quirks up into a grin that just barely shows teeth.

"It's never worth it to go to Jersey," He corrects, points his fork at her, and then spears some meat again. And bites, and chews, and then his face screws up in surprise and- "Damn. This is... not even remotely banana flavored."

And he says that like it's the biggest compliment on the planet. It's good, it really is, she's a stellar damn cook.

"Obviously I've failed, then, because there's tons of them in there," I reply with a little shrug, but I can't help my indulgent little smile at his reaction. There's nothing better than a good meal made just for you, and I love feeding people. Hell, I love feeding myself, it's just a bit more complicated.

"I'm glad you like it," I add as I take my own bite. All I can really taste is the heat from the salt, but I'll take Bucky's word that it's good. "There's dessert, too, when you're ready for it. That's what was in the bowl— Part of it, anyway."

"Angel food cake?" He guesses, because, you know, the flying. Or, no- wait, he can do better than that- "Wait, was that the upside down part of pineapple upside-down cake?"

The food is good, the food is great, but the company is better. He settles back in his chair and studies her as he eats, but it doesn't get as much attention as it probably deserves considering the hard work she put into it. He hasn't done- this, whatever this is, in... so damn long.

He feels suddenly, ridiculously human. Feels like he's tapping into a person he's lost to time and circumstance.

What did I say? Never living it down.

"Oh, he's a comedian," I reply with a soft laugh and a shake of my head. "It is, actually, just grilled peaches. But also whipped cream, which took a lot of effort and bad acrobatics to make happen, I'll have you know. And those aren't moves a person learns overnight, either. It takes training and real dedication to look like that big of an idiot."

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[Locked] We are very sorry to inform you that we are entirely out of the fruit in question

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