[ when she implies he's as antisocial as they come, he furrows his brows and makes a show of looking over his shoulder as if he expects someone else to be in the room with them. he touches a hand to his chest, a "who, me?" even though they both know bucky's the only one in the room who doesn't like being around people. he's not used to it, yes… and he hates it. all the voices, all the talking, all the bullshit. were people always so full of shit? or were they simply better in 1940?

giving himself some time, he brings that wine bottle to his lips and downs some of it, narrowing his eyes in a wince as if he's never tasted wine before. it's a pity that it tastes so sweet and won't do a damn thing to him. he misses the buzz of alcohol; the taste isn't the same without what comes after. ]

If you're talking about me, you've got it all wrong. I'm a social butterfly.

[ his wings are so bright you just can't see them. he didn't cower in the corner or smile uncomfortably at all tonight (although, he did; bucky's a horrible actor, always wanting to wear his heart and discomfort on his sleeve). pretending had been fun until he had to be someone he hasn't been in a long time. bucky from 1944 would've gladly flirted and romanced and made up some bullshit, sweeping story to make himself appear bigger than he was.

impulsively, he reaches out to fix the strap of her dress, letting his blunt nails graze her skin. it's a nice look, the casual off-the-shoulder, but since natasha won't let him open any doors for her, he has to find his gentlemanly fix another way. ]

I had everyone wrapped around my metal little finger.

[ he did... but not because he was a social butterfly. ]