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It was definitely windier than he’d anticipated, when he’d decided to sit outside. Bucky had misjudged the bright, sunny skies that morning and assumed ah, nice day! He’d missed the clouds blowing in on the horizon, but at least it wasn’t supposed to rain. As far as he knew.
Too late to change it now anyway. He’s already ordered a drink and Fubar, the giant service dog tucked impossibly small at his feet, was a people-watcher; so was Bucky, now, and it’d taken him a long time to reclaim the term as just mindless entertainment. Foobs’ harness clicked as he lifted his head and took interest in a couple of joggers across the street.
Bucky wasn’t watching people now, though; he was too absorbed in his book. Sam had lent it to him a few weeks ago and he was still deliberating on whether or not to actually give it back after this second read-through. Foobs would let him know if there was something he needed to pay attention to.
The wind was . . . a little annoying. There was a clear plastic barrier that blocked most of it, but the breeze that remained made his hair dance in front of his face. Extra annoying, given the arm situation - arm, singular, that is. The first few minutes had been a frustrating cycle of read a line, get poked in the eye by loose hair, put the book down, tuck his hair behind his ears, pick the book back up, read a line, get poked in the eye again before he’d finally succumbed and just let it happen. He should’ve brought a hat.
Foobs chuffs softly, and Bucky looks up to see the server - David? No nametag, damn - set his drink in front of him with a smile. It’s tall and bubbly, glass frosty like they store them in a mini-fridge. Bucky puts his book on the table pages down and grins, “Thanks.”
“Not a problem,” says David, or Marcus, maybe? Bucky’ll try harder to remember next time. The guys glances down to the mountain of brown and black fur at his feet, “You’ve got a good dog.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and gives Fubar a smile. A fluffy tail start smacking him repeatedly in the leg, because he knows who they’re talking about, “He’s alright.”
“Start without me?” Natasha’s stepping up from the street right in front of the cafe, like any gap in the traffic is as good as a crosswalk. A true city girl.
Fubar worms his way out from under the table and sits for her, tail pounding against the pavement. His lead is clipped into Bucky’s belt loops, but he knows Foobs won’t go too far.
“Hi, I’m Dante, I’m your server today. Can I get you something to drink?”
Slipping off her sunglasses, she says, “A glass of chianti, please? Mid-tier.”
“Of course,” Dante smiles and leaves. Bucky watches him go, because how the hell was he supposed to guess Dante?
When he glances back to her Natasha’s already in her seat because she’s the smoothest person Bucky knows. Fubar has snuck closer to her and set his big head on her thigh.
“Oh hello, you big bear,” she smiles down at him, using both hands to rub his head and behind his floppy ears. He loves it: his tail starts beating Bucky in the leg again. Natasha looks up at Bucky like she just noticed him, “And you too, I suppose.”
“Very funny,” Bucky grins and leans in to take a sip of his drink. It’s lemony and a little grainy, exactly what he wanted, “How was the Yukon?”
“Cold.” Fubar settles between them under the table, close enough to Natasha to keep getting pets but close enough to Bucky in case he’s needed.
“Any luck?”
“Not yet. Radler?” She raises her eyebrows at Bucky in an expression that is clearly admiration of his excellent taste.
“I like the zest,” he shrugs, “You know they make these things with no alcohol now?”
“And you still chose beer?”
“It’s only half beer. I’ve seen you buy Arnold Palmers in bulk, I know you can’t resist putting lemonade in things.”
Natasha’s laugh sounds like music and she gives him a fond smile, “I missed you.”
“It’s only been three days,” he chides, but he smiles back.
The wind blows again, a little stronger than before, and a piece of hair whips him right in the eye. Bucky tries to blink it away and fails. He has to set the beer down, pull it out of his face, and tuck it behind his ear again, even though he knows it’s useless.
“Why don’t you just use a hairband?”
“Because, Natasha, it’s not actually a problem,” he goes for another sip but the breeze thwarts him once again and nearly ruins the joke, “It’s pretty armless.”
Her face doesn’t so much as twitch into a smile, damned super spy. He chuckles though, because he’s hilarious. She plays it off and keeps it a cool neutral but her eyes sparkle as she leans in and says, “You know I’d be more than happy to lend you a hand.”
Bucky can’t help the full-bodied laugh that bubbles out of his chest. He leans back in his chair, where it takes his a few seconds to recover enough to speak. “Oh my god,” he says, still laughing, “That was horrible. I’m getting the check. C’mon pal, we’re leaving.”
Fubar knows better than to believe him. He’s a good dog.