let's do it, cronkite

"Good lord, Kansas," came Lois's drawl from across the center aisle that separated their desks. "The sewage treatment plant story that exciting?"

"Actually, yeah, Lois, it is," said Clark, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose from where they'd slid down from his excitement. "Turns out the contractor has some sort of personal connection with the city councilor over public works—"

"A corruption case? Seriously? Let me take a look—" Lois started, but Clark just pushed ahead.

"—but that's not what I'm excited about."

Leaning over the top of her cubicle, Lois's eyes narrowed, and like a bloodhound tracing a scent across gentry land, she took the bait. "Okay. So what's got you so thrilled?"

Clark took a deep breath. "The Mighty Crabjoys are going back on tour."

Lois's eyes rolled back so quickly it looked like she might faint.

"Damnit, Kansas, I thought something important had happened."

"This is important!" said Clark. "They've been on a break for nearly a decade. This is a big deal! They're a foundational part of contemporary punk rock."

"The Mightycrab Joys are not punk rock," said Lois. "They're pop-punk at best. You want something real you gotta listen to—"

"They're absolutely punk rock," said Clark. "It's on their Wikipedia page."

"And that makes it credible?"

"Well, they can't just put it there if it's not true—"

"What's not true?" You'd sidled up to Clark's desk, hair and shoulders damp, mascara smudged underneath your lower lashes.

"Wikipedia," said Lois.

"I dunno, don't people edit Wikipedia for free?" you asked, shaking water from your hair and peppering the ground with droplets. "If you're doing something that tedious for the love the game, I'm inclined to trust it."

"Where were you?" asked Clark. "Outside? Didn't you have an umbrella?"

"Nah, forgot it at home this morning and was too close to here before it really started pouring," you said.

"You could've borrowed mine," said Clark, looking around for wherever he'd put his umbrella.

"I hadn't planned on staying out in the rain that long," you said, taking off your jacket and shaking it out. "I needed decent cell service and that stupid rotating planet on the roof interferes with my signal. But SeatFreak ticket lines are actually a circle of Dante's Inferno and made me miss my chance to eat, so now I'm hungry, wet, and ticketless." You turned to Jimmy. "You got any more of those weird protein bars?"

Jimmy opened a drawer and chucked a foil-wrapped square at you, which caught you square in the chest. Fumbling to keep a hold of it with your fingers damp with rain, you peered at the label. "Who the hell is Sergeant Snackers?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said with a shrug.

"Is he a compatriot to Captain Crunch? Hang on, what brand is this?"

"Wait, you were trying to get concert tickets too?" asked Lois. "Who else is gonna be in town?"

"What do you mean, 'who else?'" you asked as you took a wary bite of the protein bar.

"Well, Kansas over here spent his lunch break getting Mighty Crabjoy tickets—"

Your eyes widened and your mouth fell open, and a half-chewed piece of protein bar nearly escaped. You managed to catch the crumb, swallowed hastily, and then, in total disbelief, turned to Clark.

"You. Got. Tickets?"

"Uh, yeah?"

What came out was practically a scream, with just enough restraint to keep Cat from calling security. "You didn't!"

"Um, yeah? I did?" Clark admitted it like a quesiton.

You hucked the rest of the protein bar into a nearby trashcan—the Sergeant tasted terrible—and stalked over to Clark's desk to look at the confirmation page. "I have truly never been more jealous of anyone in my entire life," you breathed as you pulled his mouse towards you, scrolling down to look at his seats.

"Don't tell me you're a Crabjoy fan, too," said Lois, and you could hear the charmed exasperation in her voice without turning to look at her.

"Fan, lover, would-be roadie," you said, squinting at the screen. "China Hutch Promise was the first album I ever bought with my own money. I'm in it for life." You spotted where Clark's seats were and immediately groaned.

"You're practically front row at The Armory!" You turned to look at him, and Clark's face was so close you could see the beginnings of stubble growing out along his jawline. "That venue is incredible. I'm gonna kill you."

You turned back to the screen, scrolling up and down the page as an act of fantasy until Clark said simply, "Do you want to come with me?"

You turned back to him, eyes wide. "You bought two tickets," you said. "Don't you have someone in mind you wanted to go with?"

"No one in particular," he said. "You have to buy them in sets of two, and I figured I'd find someone or just resell the other one—"

"Are you serious?" you asked, almost breathless.

"Well, yeah," he said, a little confused. "I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't."

"Clark!" you screamed, and this time Cat did look around with a started glance from her desk as you clutched Clark's forearms in excitement. "Light of my life, purveyor of perfect music taste! Ugh, I'm so thrilled I could kiss you!" You missed the blush that bloomed across his cheeks and across the tops of his ears as you pulled out your phone. "I gotta text my brother and see if he still has the sweatshirt with their album cover on it."

"Hope you guys have fun," said Lois, dropping back into her chair. "Those guys suck, but happy you're happy."

Neither Clark nor you paid her any mind.

"How much do I owe you?" you asked, looking back up at Clark with an expression so utterly joyful he couldn't help but grin.

"My treat," he said, and something about his dimpled smile conjured a picture in your head you could see almost outlined in Sharpie—a younger version of him, awkward and not quite as filled out in a band tee shirt and too-short jeans listening to "Record Store Redux" on repeat. The kind of boy you would have liked to share headphones with while walking to fourth period, forced to stand too close to avoid the cord getting ripped out from under you. The kind of image that made your chest feel warm, and the realization that such a thought was probably best examined later.

"Then I'm buying you dinner," you said quickly. "And merch! Whatever you want—a tee shirt, a vinyl, a tee shirt and vinyl. Gentlewoman's agreement."

You stuck out your arm for a handshake and Clark took it, his fingers far more gentle than you'd thought they'd be given his massive size. You gave his hand a firm tug, nodding in your best impersonation of the Monopoly Man sans-top hat and Clark did the same.

"Alright—I'm gonna go get something somewhat edible out of the vending machine and get back to work," you said, turning towards the kitchen. "But as soon as I'm done with my next draft, we're talking details, Kent!"

When you were out of earshot, Jimmy shot a knowing glance at Clark before turning back to his computer.

"What?" asked Clark, catching his friend's particuarly smug expression.

"You're a terrible actor."

"What do you—"

"She's got a sticker with the lyrics to 'Street Light Serenade' at her desk," said Jimmy, flicking a glance over his shoulder to Clark. "Wasn't that one of their early singles?"

Clark's fading blush returned with a vengeance.

"Okay, I admit, I knew she liked them," said Clark. "But it wasn't a trick! I just figured she'd get tickets too, and then I could be like, 'Wow, I also got tickets, wouldn't it be neat if we went together—'"

"Clark!" said Jimmy, throwing up his hands. "It's all good! It was actually a really solid plan. Now you'll be standing next to her when they play that one song—what was it called? The one they used for all the slow dances in middle school—"

"'Lullabies for a Lonely Autumn,'" Clark said automatically.

"Yeah, that one," said Jimmy, his smirk growing wider. "And she said she could kiss you. Feel like you could really capitalize on that."

A shout from Perry's office crashed through the bullpen.

"Kent! You get a response from Councilwoman Haber's office?"

"No, not yet, sir!" called Clark.

"Then sit your ass down and get me a comment," he said before shutting his door once more.

Clark breathed out a sigh of relief and sank into his chair just as you came back from the kitchen. He caught the sound of you humming the bridge to one of China Hutch Promise's bonus tracks as you walked past him, crinkling your eyes in a smile as you headed back to your own desk, a rather sad looking turkey sandwich in your hand. He smiled back.

"My grandpa used to listen to baseball games when he worked in his garden," you said, attempting to sound nonchalant as you reviewed your to-do list, which had somehow gotten longer since you started this work session. "I wasn't a huge fan of vegetables, but he'd let me sit next to him while he weeded, so I guess I find it soothing now."

"And you're a Dodgers fan?"

"It was my grandpa's favorite team, so then it was mine," you said, and you could feel the weight of the memory making the edges of your voice go tender. "I got to keep his hat after he died—had to fight four of my cousins for it, but I won it in the end because I could name three seasons' worth of starting lineups and my dad and his sisters thought that earned me the right."

You looked up and your eyes met Bucky's again, but a softness that must've been a trick of the lamplight made you shrug and turn back to your planner in attempt to temper the fluttering in your stomach. How had you managed to double book yourself again?

Bucky was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, you glanced over to find him seated—actually seated—at the opposite end of the couch.

"Didn't know you were a baseball fan," he repeated."We should go to a Dodgers game. I used to watch 'em play all the time."

You could feel your eyes go wide, but Bucky's gaze was steady. He was serious.

"Yeah," you said, and you couldn't help but notice that your voice came out a little breathless. Hopefully he didn't. "That would be fun—"

But he stopped you mid-sentence, brow furrowed, his eyebrows crumpled as he worked something out inside his head.

"Is this a replay?"

You checked your watch, the smart screen glowing softly in the dim lighting of the great room. "No, pretty sure it's live," you said, still attempting to calm your heart rate at the idea of spending casual, non-work time with Bucky Barnes.

"When did they start playing baseball at midnight in New York?" he said.

Now it was your turn to look confused.

"Because they're not playing in New York," you said slowly.

Bucky's eyebrows didn't relax.

"Well, where else would they be?"

"Los Angeles," you said, still misunderstanding Bucky's frustration. The weight of the silence that followed could have crushed an anvil.

"What?"

"The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles back in '58," you said. "They've been there ever since."

Bucky ran his hands through his hair, the strands around his forehead sitting at a rather jaunty angle thanks to his distress. You tried very hard not to find this charming.

"You didn't know?" you pressed gently.

"Why would the Brooklyn Dodgers be playing in goddamn Los Angeles?"

"Franchises move all the time," you said. "Like the Jazz—they used to be in New Orleans, but now they're based in Utah. Makes no sense, but they kept the name, so now the Mormons root for a team that plays in Mardi Gras colors—"

"But the Brooklyn Dodgers—"

"Are now the Los Angeles Dodgers, yeah," you said.

Bucky glowered in the glow of your laptop screen. "At least the Giants—"

"—are also in California," you said, almost apologetically. "Moved the same year, but to San Francisco."

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out—only a low groan that could have been mistaken for the air conditioner if you weren't staring right at him.

"But don't worry! They're still rivals!" you blurted out.

Nothing in Bucky's face indicated this attempt at comfort had managed to land, but you couldn't stop yourself. This was the most you'd ever spoken since you started heading up media strategy for the New Avengers four months ago, and at this point, even silence was feedback if he continued to make eye contact.

"If it helps, they've won nine World Series, including two of 'em back to back," you continued. "And our starting pitcher is the only player in the past century who's actually giving Babe Ruth a run for his money."

You gave him a pointed look, doing your own run of historical mathematics in your brain. How old was Bucky, again? "Wait, were you there for Babe Ruth? Or was that before your time?"

"Was I there for—" Bucky huffed, but then he saw your sheepish expression and his tone softened almost instantly. "Yeah, I remember him," he said. "He was a once-in-a-lifetime kinda athlete. You've gotta respect that, even if he—" "—played for the Yankees," you said in unison, and you grinned at him. Bucky—well, he didn't quite grin, but his mouth shaped itself into something akin to a smile, and that counted.

There was a pause for a moment, a commercial playing low over the livestream.

"It must be weird," you said eventually, "having all this stuff you used to know just be. . . gone. Or, you know, moved across the country."

"Yeah," Bucky breathed. "You'd think after a decade it'd lose its punch, but—"

"It never really does," you said, pushing your work across the coffee table so you could curl into your corner of the sofa. "My hometown used to be covered in corn fields. Now it's all cookie cutter houses and 'farm-to-table' restaurants that serve overpriced burgers on dry buns. Don't really like going back there now."

Bucky glanced over at you, and this time, you were brave enough to hold his gaze.

"We haven't really talked much since you—" he started,

"There's no reason to," you said quickly. "You've got bigger stuff to handle—"

"But I've noticed you." Bucky's eyes held steady, and you could feel the corners of your own crinkle as you took him in.

"Oh?" you said, impressed that it sounded casual when the echos of it inside your chest indicated it was anything but.

"You're good," he said simply. "At your job. You're a noticer. You pick up on things, always have an exit strategy."

"You've got to when your paycheck's signed by Valentina," you said, a smile ticking up the edges of your mouth.

"Sure," said Bucky. "But I have a feeling you'd do that even if she didn't."

Your smile grew until it was fully formed. "Thanks," you said. "It means a lot, especially when being good at your job means going essentially undetected."

"I know what that's like," Bucky said quietly.

"You're good too, you know," you said just as quietly. The softness in his eyes had returned, and this time, it lingered. You felt a sudden impulse to kiss his nose and mentally chided yourself for the urge, hoping he hadn't sensed anything amiss.

Bucky's head cocked to the side as he continued to stare, but the moment broke a few seconds later as the announcer screamed, "And it's another home run for Ohtani!"

You both started, and Bucky moved to get up. "I've bothered you enough," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow for the think tank. . . thing."

"I've decided I'm done for tonight," you said, shutting your planner and shoving the papers you'd been organizing to the side of the table. "And the Dodgers have three more innings if you wanna listen to the end of the game."

You could see the muscles in his back tense as he decided whether to stay sitting. And then he relaxed, and closed his eyes.

"So, this guy that's supposedly a modern Babe Ruth—"