Hi! If you're still taking prompts: MCU, Bucky and anyone else you want having a drink :)
“I thought you couldn’t drink,” says a woman from behind him. “Jane said Thor said you were ‘unable to imbibe the spirits of this realm or any other.’” The woman comes around his chair and drops a heavy-looking bag on the table, sitting down so heavily opposite him that he half expects the thing to break under the weight of her cynicism. She makes a face; he wonders if it’s directed at him. “Which — I still don’t totally know what that means, like, did you go to some other realm? Did you too have to fight elves or aliens or frost giants or whatever?”
James isn’t sure why he doesn’t tense up; she isn’t familiar, dark hair and blue eyes and nice lipstick, and pretty girls have tried to kill him before. But there’s something about her that makes him think she’s too tired to try. “You might be thinking of Steve,” he says; it’s nice how he can say that name without feeling a punch to his gut anymore. “He couldn’t get drunk, usually said it was a waste of good booze to try. Best of my knowledge, he stayed on Earth, though.”
“Huh.” She says it the way everyone here — now — says it, inflectionless and uninterested, whatever curiosity she had assuaged. “Okay, I’m getting one too, then.”
She takes the bag with her, which at least answers the question of whether or not it’s a bomb. Probably. He fumbles for the pocket telephone, holding it carefully in his left hand while he pokes at it with his right, managing to connect a call on the first try.
“The whole point of going out for a beer and relaxing is that you go out for a beer,” Sam says when he answers the phone, “And relax.”
“I’m relaxed,” James says, getting distracted from the actual point of his phone call.
“I meant me. I wanted to go out for a beer and relax, and this is you cancelling on me, isn’t it?”
James can hear the gentle burble of city sounds around Sam as he talks; a car shushing close by on the street, snatches of conversation from passing folks on the sidewalk, the distant wail of a siren that’s oddly echoed; Sam can’t be more than a block away. “There’s a woman here. Who knows Thor. Or knows someone who knows Thor.”
“Short white girl, dark brown hair? Looks kinda old fashioned until she opens her mouth?”
James looks over at the bar, where the young woman is waving a plastic card at the bartender and arguing about something called an IPA. “Yeah, sort of,” he admits.
Sam laughs; there’s the jingle of the door opening, on Sam’s phone and in the bar, and Sam hangs up on him just as he sits next to James and steals his beer. “That’s Darcy,” he informs him, pulling a face at the glass — which is fair, James hasn’t mastered the art of ordering a non-shitty beer yet. “Think of her as a friend of the family.”
“Okay, losers,” Darcy announces, balancing a wooden beer flight in each hand, kicking her bag awkwardly across the floor as she approaches, “Operation Get Fucking Plastered is a go.”
