Bucky looked at her and his eyebrows lifted. "Yeah, sure. You're always fine," he said dryly. "If you want to be, okay. You can be fine. But you don't have to be with me. I'm the guy who fell apart all over you, and you helped me. You don't have to be fine for me. You can be fine for you, if you want, though." If she didn't want to talk, if she wanted to just play pretend until she could get him the hell out of there. He'd get it. "I know it costs a lot more than it looks like it does."
Bucky had told her she didn't owe him, and he'd meant it. But he would also understand if she'd felt in debt anyway, and if that was why she'd helped. If she said it, he'd even take it.
But he really wouldn't believe it. They traded texts about filthy books, and she'd talked him down in a car, careful and caring. She'd brought him food when she didn't think he had any. If Natasha needed to give a reason that equaled tit for tat, Bucky would let it stand, because that kind of thing was easier in their world. But he didn't really think that was why she was doing any of it. He just thought she was kinder than she wanted to know she was.
She looked a little bit of a wreck. Hair falling down, curls messy, trace of make up still on her face. She was still beautiful because Bucky didn't think she could not be, but she looked human and fallible and tired. He knew not all of that was their fault - Barton's shit was hard on her, probably, and it had been a long night. But he still wished he hadn't heaped more shit on the pile. "You like scrambled, fried, or ... I could do omelets if you got cheese, or spinach, or peppers or onions or something to put in them," Bucky said.