"Well. You were wearing water practically," Bucky said. He looked her over. It was the least put together he'd seen her, except for the morning at her house, he thought. He wondered how often she even got to just be imperfect. Probably not much. For all the ways they liked to dress him up or trot him out now and then, no one expected perfection quite the way they did for Natasha. "Don't know how I forgot that. Steep in drugs for two weeks and lose an arm and you forget your last kiss and a redhead wearing water."
She didn't ask, and Bucky didn't know if that was a no or not. But it was cold, and the thin fabric didn't do much. He could still fuck off and leave her be if she wanted - but he could still leave her the coat. Bucky shrugged out of it, and hesitated, then draped it over her shoulders, careful not to touch her with anything but fabric. "I've got more clothes on under it, still," he said.
He didn't really want a thank you, or to make her say it, or to make her think if she wanted to not say it. So he paused just a second too long, and then just talked. "You know the old bat who loves Barton? Got the name that starts with P and is a thousand years old? She's got little purple arrows dyed into her hair. But half of them are warped looking because it's all twisted up all over, so they look like little purple dicks. She's a dickhead, and she doesn't even know it," he said instead. It was nonsense, and probably not even true - they probably didn't look like dicks to anyone but Bucky, who had been desperately looking for something to distract him from dozens of old people laughing over the odds of which of his friends would die first. But it HAD looked like it to him, so he just said it. It had been distracting at least.