Being a mentor was a lot of nothing to do, and it was exhausting. Bucky didn't get how that worked, but it was anyway. He did what he could do - mingled during the days while Steve and the rest of the Tributes trained to remember how to kill each other. He slipped back and forth between Peggy and people that seemed likely to listen to them, not mentioning much but trying to leave himself open to conversations without putting too much out there. It was a narrow line and he had no fucking idea how to walk it, but he tried.
He remembered his own Games, how the evenings were mostly spent talking about what he'd seen in training, what strengths and weaknesses and strategies might work, what to do for his interview, how to smile for the cameras. Bucky remembered practicing his smile for Peggy, his walk for his Stylist. Steve didn't want to do any of that. Steve wanted to be close to one or both of them and he wanted to talk about a revolution that was probably doomed no matter what the hell happened. And he was going to die, so Bucky wasn't likely to argue. Which was strange in and of itself - they'd never not bickered, for the most part, as long as they were talking to each other at all. Just going along with Steve's stupid plans and ideals without protesting more felt foreign. But there wasn't time and there wasn't a point so all Bucky could do was nod and promise he'd try to keep things going when Steve was gone and then not put his hand through a wall when he was alone.
That last one he had slipped up on last night, but they had plenty of money to fix walls and it was his metal hand. No harm done.
Steve was with Peggy, going over something. (Or maybe, if he had any damn sense, using the drug Bucky gave him.) Bucky had slipped out early from the mixer he'd been hobnobbing at, and he didn't want to go back to 8's floor yet, in case Steve actually DID have sense and was taking some time with Peggy. So he headed down instead, out to the courtyard with its sculpted flowers and crisp air.
Once he spotted Natasha, Bucky stopped, and he almost smiled to himself. He hadn't planned this or thought about it - but maybe he should have. It felt fitting, in a morbid way. He walked over toward her, deliberately brushing up against a bush to rustle the leaves so he didn't seem like he was sneaking up on her. "I've got a coat, this time," Bucky said quietly. And she was the one who probably would have people watching her and bringing her back in soon. A full circle of stupid and fucked up.
Asking if she was all right was a stupid question. It was always a stupid question. So he didn't bother. "Cold?" he asked instead.